My beloved Atman! Witnessing is meditation. Meditation of what? people ask. Meditation of no one and nothing. Rather, whatever occurs in the chitta and around the chitta—everything—is to be taken in attentively. Meditation has no relation to any object, any subject, any idol, any image, any name, any word. But we have been taught that meditation must be done on something. The moment it becomes “on something,” it is no longer meditation; it becomes concentration. And yesterday I said: concentration is not meditation. I told someone: Love. He asked, whom should I love? I said: it is not a question of whom—near or far, who comes close or never comes near at all. The question is to be loving toward all. “Whom should I love?” is a wrong question. “Loving?”—that is the right question. In the same way, “On what should I meditate?” is not to be asked. Whatever I live, whatever I think, whatever I reflect upon, whatever happens on my chitta—toward all of that I must be attentive. Attentiveness should be the state of my chitta, just as lovingness should be the state of my chitta. To be filled with attention—attentiveness—means: witnessing. Whatever happens, I know it, I see it; it happens in awareness, not in stupor. I do not live half-asleep, I live awake-awake. This is the meaning of meditation. But we live asleep. We live as if in a deep slumber. Within, the chitta is not alert; we do not know what is happening—within us, even what is taking place in our own interior, we have no remembrance, no sense, no awareness of it. To awaken to all the movements of one’s own chitta—that is called meditation. Understand this a little. Stand for a while on the roadside and look carefully at the people passing by. You will see many as if walking in sleep. Someone is talking to himself, another’s lips are trembling—thought is moving in him. If you look closely you will find they have no sense of the road, of what is happening around them. They go wrapped in themselves, asleep. If, while walking on the road, you suddenly stop and look within—am I walking awake or asleep?—you may discover that all are walking asleep. Buddha was passing along a road with a bhikshu. Buddha was speaking with him. A fly came and sat on Buddha’s head. He kept speaking and drove the fly away. Then he stopped, stood still, again lifted his hand to where the fly had sat—and now there was no fly—and he brushed it away. The monk asked, What are you doing? The fly had already flown; now you are shooing it away. What is this? Buddha said: The first time I brushed the fly away in a sleepy, stupefied state—not attentively. Now I raise my hand as it should have been raised. Now I am brushing the fly away attentively, as it should have been done. Do you see the difference? The fly sits, you are talking, the hand moves like a machine. Neither are you aware of the hand rising, nor of the fly being brushed away. The hand moves; you are elsewhere; the fly is gone. This was an unconscious act—done without meditation, non-meditatively. Then, when we brush the fly away attentively, if the hand is raised, we are fully aware of raising it. If we brush away the fly, we are aware of that. The entire act is suffused with awareness—not sleep. Then the act becomes meditative. You are eating—we all eat—but who eats attentively? While eating, we do a thousand other things. Eating is going on here; the mind is elsewhere. The act is on one side; the mind is on the other. If the mind is absent, the act will be asleep. Almost all our acts are asleep. Which means: where the act is, our chitta is not present. The act will be somnambulant. If the chitta is absent, the act cannot be aware. Whatever we do, let the chitta be present there. Let there be full presence. Whatever we do, let us be wholly there. Bathe—walk—eat—love—be angry—whatever we do; whether we think, or do not think—let whatever happens be conscious, be mindful. Then meditation will enter life; we shall become available to the action of meditation. The results of meditation are wondrous. The very moment the meditative state is established, the nonessential begins to drop. Anger, for instance, will disappear. No one has ever been able to be angry attentively—and no one ever can be. It is an impossibility. Napoleon says: nothing is impossible. He is wrong. Much is impossible. For example: anger, done attentively. No one, being aware, can do the wrong. To do the wrong, sleep, stupor, unconsciousness are utterly necessary. A bhikshu passed through a village—his name was Nagarjuna. He was naked, with a wooden begging bowl in his hand. The queen of the village had invited him for alms. Touching his feet, she said: give me that begging bowl; I will keep it as your remembrance. I have had a golden bowl made; I will give that to you. Nagarjuna said: As you wish. Any other monk would have said: Gold! I do not touch gold; I consider gold to be dust! But if you consider gold to be dust, why are you afraid to touch it? The queen too became a little puzzled that Nagarjuna was saying nothing about taking a golden bowl. She brought it—inlaid with precious jewels, worth lakhs. Nagarjuna took it. The queen had thought he would say, No, no—what will I do with a golden bowl? I do not touch gold. I am a bhikshu, a sannyasin. But Nagarjuna said nothing. He must have been a true bhikshu; whether the bowl is of clay, or wood, or gold—he makes no difference. The queen must have been startled. Queens are pleased only when you say, No, no—I will not take gold. The wealthy give money to those who keep proclaiming, Money? No, no—we do not take money! It is a tactic for getting money: if you want to receive, say that you don’t. The queen became very uneasy. Nagarjuna took the bowl and returned along the road. A naked man, with a golden bowl, glittering with gems—the whole village must have watched. There was a great thief in the village; he started trailing Nagarjuna. He thought: how long can this naked man protect such a bowl? Someone will take it anyway. So why give another the chance? Let me take it. He followed. Nagarjuna heard the footsteps behind, and understood: no one ever follows me—someone is following the bowl. At the cremation ground outside the village he stopped, in a ruined building. He went inside—no door, no gate. The thief hid near a window outside. Nagarjuna thought: It is my midday; the time to sleep. If I sleep, that man sitting outside will surely take the bowl. Why give him the chance to become a thief? Why take upon myself the responsibility of making him a thief? Better to throw the bowl away. Otherwise he will sit a long time in the sun and then steal. He threw the bowl out of the window. It fell at the thief’s feet. The thief was stunned! Such a precious bowl—thrown! He felt like thanking him. He stood up and said to the naked monk: I thank you. Amazing—what I came to steal, you threw away! The monk said: I am not prepared to take the responsibility of making you a thief. Besides, you would have waited there long in the heat; and you would have taken it anyway, because it is my time to sleep. I will sleep now. Go—take it. The thief said: It would be great kindness if you allowed me to come inside for a moment. I wish to sit for a little while near such a wondrous man. Nagarjuna said: I threw the bowl out so that you could come in. Come. The thief sat down and said: I feel envy—when will such a day come in my life that I too can throw a golden bowl as if it were dust? Nagarjuna said: It can come today—now. The thief said: Tell me how. But one condition: whenever I go to sadhus and sannyasins and ask, When will my mind find peace, when joy, when will the door of the Lord open?—I am an obvious thief. They say, first stop stealing. There everything gets stuck. Neither does the stealing stop, nor do I move on. You will not tell me to stop stealing, will you? Nagarjuna said: That means you never reached true sadhus; what concern has a sadhu with your stealing or not stealing? You must have reached thieves. What have I to do with your theft? Your theft is your affair. I will tell you something else—do that. He said: Then we can agree. The agreement happened when you threw the bowl out. What is the way? Nagarjuna said: Do whatever you do—but do it with awareness. Even if you steal, steal with total alertness. Stay awake, know that you are stealing. You are opening the safe, taking out the money—let it not happen in sleep; let your mind not be elsewhere; let it be fully here, in the act of stealing. I say no more than this. I do not forbid stealing; I only say: steal attentively. The thief said: Then it can work. I will do attentively. Fifteen days later he returned, fell at Nagarjuna’s feet, and said: You have put me in great difficulty. When I go to steal and try to do it consciously, my hands will not move; the theft stops. When theft happens, awareness does not stay; unconsciousness descends. Last night I entered the royal palace—after years such an opportunity. I opened the safe; before my eyes lay precious jewels and gold coins. I reach out with awareness—and laughter arises, and the hand stops. If I pick up the coins, it is in stupor; then I drop them, because I have decided to be aware. I labored all night and returned empty-handed. Theft cannot be done attentively. You turned out to be very cunning—you have tricked me! Nagarjuna said: I have nothing to do with your theft. Am I a thief? Your theft is your own affair. Remember only this: do everything attentively. And what cannot be done attentively—know that it is not worth doing. What can be done attentively—that alone is worth doing. Sin means: that which cannot be done in awareness. Punya means: that which can only be done in awareness. Whatever can be done attentively is virtue; what cannot, is sin. Therefore the question is not of renouncing sin and doing virtue; the question is to do everything attentively. The more attentive a person becomes, the more his life turns into dharma and virtue; sin vanishes. Meditation means: each act of mine becomes aware, full of wakefulness, not sleepy. This is the third step—by which we arrive right at the door, and enter the doorway. But meditation takes us only to where Paramatma resides; it does not take us to where only Paramatma is—to His very heart. We reach the temple, yet remain outside Paramatma. Because even in meditation two remain: I—the one who is meditating, awake; and that which I am awake toward. The two still remain. In meditation, the two do not dissolve; duality remains. So, ultimately, meditation too will have to go. Meditation too must be dropped. Duality must be dropped. In the end, I too must be lost; let there not remain even the notion that I am the witness; that too is a residue. Let even “I am Atman” not remain. Let it not remain that I am the knower, the seer. The last line of the “I” must not remain. Therefore today the fourth point is: go beyond meditation as well. To go beyond meditation is Samadhi. Going beyond meditation is like a river entering the ocean. Then the river has gone beyond herself—she is no longer a river; she becomes the ocean. Meditation too is a thin stream, of the person, of personality. When meditation meets the ocean, even the thought “I am, thou art” dissolves—no thought remains at all. A small story of Rumi. A lover knocks at his beloved’s door. From inside she asks: Who are you? He says: Have you not recognized me by my voice? It is I—your lover. She falls silent. He knocks and knocks; at last one sentence comes from within: Go back. This house of love is very small; two cannot be contained in it. I am already here—and now you too have come. Two “I’s” will not fit into this tiny house. There will be great quarrel. Wherever there are two “I’s,” there is conflict. All our houses are small, and everywhere two “I’s” have squeezed in—hence the quarrels. The lover says: I am your lover—open the door! She says: As long as you are, what kind of lover are you? The door will not open. The door of love does not open for the I. The lover returns. Years pass. He melts his “I,” dissolves it, empties it, burns it to ashes, throws it away. After years he returns, on a full-moon night, and knocks again. From within: Who are you? The lover says: Who? There is no me now—only you are. Rumi says: the door opens. I think Rumi opened the door a little too soon. The door cannot open yet. Because the lover says: I am not; only you are. Where “you” is seen, the “I” has not utterly died; in its most subtle form it still lives. Without the I, even the thou cannot be. Where there is no I, how can there be thou? The sense of thou is but a reflection of the I. Rumi opens the door too quickly. I am not ready to open it there. If I could find Rumi—which is difficult now—I would say: The poem is incomplete. The lover should return once more. Let me carry the poem further. The beloved speaks again from within: You still know of “you”? Then your I remains. Go back; two cannot be here. And the lover goes back. Then he never returns. The beloved herself must seek him now—because how can he come back? There is no “I” left. Now even “thou” is not. Where can he return? To whom can he go? He goes nowhere. The beloved must seek him. Now he is hard to find—because now he is everywhere. One whose “I” has dissolved cannot be confined to any small place. He becomes all-pervading. As one rises beyond meditation, Paramatma need not be sought. We vanish; Paramatma comes seeking. No one, seeking Paramatma, has ever reached the very within of Paramatma—he can reach up to Paramatma, not into Him. The moment one is gone, Paramatma descends. In the end, Paramatma finds us. We empty ourselves; He fills. We become shunya; He enters. One night Rabindranath was traveling by barge. Midnight, a moonlit night—the full moon above. He sat reading a book on the barge, with a small candle lit. In that flickering, feeble, yellow light he read on. The barge was filled with that sickly light. Near midnight he grew tired, closed the book, blew out the candle—and suddenly, as if a closed door had opened; as if an eye had been given to a blind man; as if the vina’s music began to ring in a deaf ear; as if thorns had blossomed into flowers—Rabindranath startled, stood up. The candle went out, and from the doors, the windows, from every crevice of the barge, the moon’s rays poured in. The room was filled with moonlight. Rabindranath began to dance. That night he wrote in his diary: A wondrous experience! While the little candle burned, the moon could not enter—he remained outside. So great a moon, and such a tiny candle; yet so long as the tiny candle burned within, the moon stayed outside, halted at the door. The candle went out—and waves of moonlight entered. Its rays began dancing within; they wove their net. How foolish I was—sitting in that stale, yellow, dirty, old light, while the moon showered outside and I kept my candle lit! That day Rabindranath wrote: Is it not so that as long as the candle of “I” burns, Paramatma remains outside? And when the feeble light of I goes out, He enters within? It is so. It is exactly so. As long as the wick of I burns, right up to its final thread, no matter how near we come—we cannot become That. Between That and us the distance of I remains. We must go beyond even meditation—because the meditator still knows of I. We must go beyond meditation—because the meditator still says: I am the witness, the knower, I am. Those who cannot rise beyond meditation cannot rise beyond Atman. Hence many meditators will tell you: beyond Atman there is no Paramatma. They have stopped at the I—the final I. They have stopped at the last boundary. Let the I go; let meditation go; let witnessing go; let everything be erased; save nothing; break, scatter. Where there is shunya, the Purna descends. Here the candle goes out—there His light enters within. Ultimately even the I must be broken. First uproot belief so thought can arise; when thought arises, throw that too, so meditation can arise; when meditation arises, set that aside too, so that all can dissolve—then there remains nothing even to be dissolved. As long as there remains something to be dissolved, there is not full entry into the temple of the Lord. When nothing remains to be dropped—not even the sense “I am,” not even “I am doing sadhana,” “I am a sadhaka,” “I am meditating.” A young man, in search of meditation, of the Lord, of Truth, went to an ashram. From morning till evening he sat in meditation. His master would come again and again and ask: What has happened? He would say: Meditation is happening—I am becoming a witness. The master would laugh and go away. Years passed. Again and again the master asked: Anything happened? He would say: Much has happened—I have become very peaceful, very blissful. The master laughed and went away. The disciple was perplexed. The master never gave approval—never signed “It has happened.” Again the master laughed and went away. He came again and asked; the disciple said: I am liberated. But the “I” does not leave. The “I” was there when there was sorrow; it is there now when there is peace; sorrow changed, restlessness changed—but the “I” remains. The “I” does not go. One day he sat with eyes closed. The day passed; evening came. The master arrived, picked up a brick lying before him, and began to grind it hard against a stone. The disciple sat behind with eyes closed; in front, his master kept grinding the brick. The scraping sound shattered his meditation. He cried out: What madness are you doing? In old age, what children’s play is this? Why are you grinding that brick? Why are you disturbing my meditation? The master said: I am not disturbing anyone. I want to make a mirror out of this brick. By grinding and grinding I will make it a mirror. The young man said: Have you gone mad in your old age? Have you ever heard that by grinding a brick it becomes a mirror? The old man said: Have you ever heard that by grinding the “I” it becomes meditation? Ever heard that the I remains—and vision happens? Ever heard that the I becomes a mirror? A brick might become a mirror—but the I can never become a mirror. He threw the brick away and left. For the first time the seeker realized: everything has changed, but the I—the wall—remains within. The I can never be made into a mirror. Therefore, ultimately, one must rise beyond Yoga as well—beyond meditation. Beyond meditation. Beyond Yoga. Whoever stops at Yoga stops at ego. Whoever stops at meditation stops at the subtlest movement of ego. One must go beyond this. Beyond everything—beyond and beyond. And go to that where there is no beyond. Where there is no further shore. There is the Lord—beyond whom there is nothing. How will this I go? We have become witnesses; we have become peaceful; we have become blissful; it seems I am only the seer and everything else is happening. Now even this seer must be bid farewell. Say: Enough—the feeling “I am the seer” too I leave. The feeling “I am” too I leave. Then only being will remain—only existence. I leave the I; now there is only being. Look a little within—you will not find “I am” there; there is only “am-ness.” There is is-ness; there is being. There is no one saying “I am.” Peek within—beyond the breath—no one is saying “I.” There is only being—just being—only existence. Leaves are trembling, the river flows, the moon has risen, flowers open, breath goes on… where is the I? The I is purely an illusion. The I is the fundamental illusion, the basic maya—the greatest lie, the greatest magic, the deepest hypnosis. Where is the I? I have heard: near a royal palace a heap of stones lay. A child came playing, picked up a stone, and hurled it toward the palace. As the stone rose upward, it said to the stones below: I am going on a journey to the sky! It had been thrown. But the stone believed: I am going to the sky. What could the stones below say? They knew: it was thrown. But would that stone accept? It felt: I am going. Thrown—yet thinking, I am going. A small mistake—but what a vast mistake! It said, I am going. It went—struck the glass window of the palace. The glass shattered. When a stone strikes glass, the glass shatters; the stone does not do it. The stone has no duty to shatter glass—it is simply the nature of stone and glass: the stone survives; the glass shatters. The stone does not shatter it. But when the glass broke, the stone said: Foolish glass! How many times have I not warned—do not come in my way, else I will smash you! Now the pieces of glass could not speak—they were shattered. What can the defeated say? The stone fell inside. Iranian carpets lay spread. The stone took a breath, relaxed, and said: The people of this house seem very hospitable. It seems news of my coming had reached them; they have spread out carpets. Good people—cultured. After all, I am no ordinary stone—I am a sky-flying stone. Hearing the noise, the palace gatekeeper came running, picked up the stone to throw it back. In its own language the stone cried: Thank you, thank you—many thanks! It seems the lord of the house himself is welcoming me with his own hands! It was thrown back. While returning, the stone did not say: I am being thrown back. It said: Keep your palace; keep your mansion—however great it may be. What joy equals being under the sky with one’s friends, companions, beloved ones? I feel homesick—I am going home. Many who are hurled out of Delhi return thus: home-sickness. Whoever is thrown from anywhere says: I am going. The stone falls down, and says to the stones around it: I have returned. Who knows how many enemies I have destroyed; who knows in how many palaces I was welcomed! But no—I missed you all very much. I have come back. That stone got the delusion of “I.” Thrown, it said: I am going. The glass broke, it said: I broke it. The carpets were spread—not at all for the stone; those who spread them knew nothing of the stone—but the stone said: they are spread for me. Thrown back—it said: I am returning. The stone had created the illusion of “I.” We too are surrounded by just such an I. Birth happens—we say: my birth! Youth comes—we say: my youth! Breath moves—and we say: I breathe! No one has ever breathed. Breath happens. No one takes it. If we take breath, then when death knocks at the door and sits outside ringing the bell, and we keep breathing—keep breathing—if we never stop, then death will grow tired and go away! But we know—death comes. One breath goes out and does not return—then we cannot bring it back. Gone is gone. The truth is: the breath that went out—“we” are not in there either; we too are gone. Inside, none remains to bring breath back in. We too have departed, lost, gone somewhere. We do not take breath; breath moves. But we say: I am breathing. We do not think; thoughts move; yet we say: we think. Life moves; we say: we live. Life happens; we say: we live. We go on strengthening the I—wrapping layer upon layer around an empty void. So many layers gather that it seems there must be something inside. As if someone peels an onion—it seems something will be within. Keep peeling—and within there is nothing. Only layers upon layers. Such is the I. Layer upon layer we bind: I am doing this, I am doing that. The layers accumulate, and it seems there will be something in the knot. The last layer of the knot is witnessing. The last layer is meditation. Uproot that too. Do not say: I am meditating. Do not say: I am the witness. Look within—there is no I. There is empty space—vast shunya. And the moment the I drops—the jump, the leap happens. The turning arrives—from which everything changes, another world begins. There where I am not—that is the abode of the Lord. There we are not merely in the temple; we enter the very life of the temple, the very deity, the very essence that is the Lord. There no two remain—not I and He. There no existence-and-I—only existence. Knowing that pure Existence, one sees: I had been lost in a dream. Knowing That, one sees: I had been lost in a dream. A man sleeps one night and dreams: I have reached Tokyo; I have reached Timbuktu. All night he is disturbed: how far is Timbuktu from Ahmedabad! Such trouble—how shall I return? Where is the airport? Do I have money? Will I get a ticket? How shall I go back home? My boy was sick; I had to bring medicine—and I have come to Timbuktu. What a mess! What shall I do? Restless in the dream, he runs around searching for the airport, the ticket—and in the morning sleep breaks. He finds: he never went to Timbuktu; he is lying where he was, in Ahmedabad, in his own house. In the dream he had gone—and it felt as if he had reached. No one has gone anywhere. The day one merges with Existence, one finds: What wonder! From that which we had never been separate, we seemed to have been separated. What wonder! That which we never lost—we seemed to have lost. What wonder! That which we ourselves are—we were seeking. What wonder! Paramatma was continually with us; we were That—yet That seemed far, unfindable. In anger we denied Him—He is not; in love we carved idols—He is. The idol was false; the denial was false. We ourselves were That. But we were lost in a dream. On the day Buddha attained enlightenment, people gathered and asked: What have you gained? Buddha said: I have gained nothing; that which was already gained—I have come to know it. I have gained nothing; that which already was—I have recognized. Someone asked: Have you become free? Have you attained liberation? Buddha said: Liberation? Liberation of whom? That which was free—only in dream it seemed bound. The dream broke; the ever-free is free—this is known. A story comes to mind. A fakir, during the days of Ramadan, passed by a road. Thirsty, he went to a well and peeped in. Quiet well, deep water—and the moon reflected within. The fakir thought: Ah! What trouble—the moon has fallen into the well! The moon is stuck; there is no one around to rescue it. Ramadan month—if the moon remains trapped, people will be in difficulty: when will they break the fast? The moon is caught here; no one knows that in this forest well the moon has fallen. The fakir said: I must do something. He found a rope somewhere, made a noose to pull the moon out. The rope went in and got caught on a rock. The fakir said: Great difficulty—the moon is heavy; alone I may not be able to pull it. But I must try. There is no one else. He pulled with great force. The rope was cheap, rotten; the rock strong—the noose broke. The fakir fell flat. In the shock his eyes closed; he was hurt; water splashed; the rope flew up. He opened his eyes—looked up: the moon had come out. He said: Ah! It is out! Poor thing—saved. It was stuck badly. I got a small hurt—no matter. The moon is out; now the people of Ramadan will not be troubled. Those who fast think more about breaking the fast than about the fast itself. The fast runs little; the thought of breaking runs more. They are freed now; they will be spared the hassle. Good—no worry. I have a little injury—but the moon is saved. The fakir, proud, walked on—chest out, thinking he had rescued the moon. As the moon seems to be caught in a well—so are we. The moon is always outside; we too are always outside. What is trapped is only the reflection. But badly trapped. And we have forgotten we are anything more than a reflection. In the search for meditation we begin to come out of the reflection. We begin to emerge; but ultimately, even the effort to emerge is ignorance. Because that which is not trapped—how will you pull it out? Even the effort to be a witness is, in the ultimate sense, ignorance. For when there are not two, who will be the witness? And when the moon is not trapped in the well, by what rope will you pull it out? By the rope of meditation? We are trying to pull out with the rope of meditation that which was never trapped. In the end it must be known: the rope is false, the well false, the trapped one false; That which is—is always outside, rushing across the sky, knowing nothing of any well or bondage. As one becomes clear and deep in meditation, at the end one finds: meditation too is a barrier. Drop this too; be free of this too; leap where nothing remains. A small story—and I will complete my talk. A man set out to find the end of the world. Some people worry less about themselves and more about the world. He did not even know where he begins and where he ends—that did not concern him. He was anxious to know where the world begins and where it ends. I will find the world’s end. Many tried to stop him: this quest has never been fulfilled. The world never ends. He said: But whatever exists must end somewhere. I will find it. The more people tried to stop him, the more obstinate he became. Opposition feeds stubbornness. If there is someone at home who wants to become a sannyasin and you want to make him one—then all of you should begin to stop him. He will surely become a sannyasin. If someone does not want to marry and you want him to remain unmarried—keep persuading him to marry; he will never marry. His stubbornness grew. People everywhere said: Are you mad? Has anyone ever found the end of the world? The more they said so, the more he felt: since none has found it, I will. Ego began to taste great sweetness. No one has climbed Everest—I will. No one has descended to the bottom of the Pacific—I will. No one has reached the moon—I will. No one has found the end of the world—I will. Ego, more and more intoxicated, ran on—and, astonishingly, one day he reached a place, in the last moments of his life, in old age, where a signboard stood: Here ends the world. A little ahead, the world ended. It was the last station. The last warning: Do not go further. Beware! Ahead the world ends. But the man said: I will go. I have come for this. He went a few steps further—and after ten or twenty steps the world ended. Everything ended. Whatever begins ends. Whatever is born dies. Whatever has a beginning has an end. What is—will become not. The world ended. There was an infinite abyss—an eternal void. No bottom below, no limit above, no measure of the emptiness ahead. He trembled. His head swam. He peered down—have you ever looked down from a great mountain? But this was beyond any mountain; there was no bottom at all—below was emptiness, emptiness, emptiness; beneath emptiness, great emptiness; above too, all around, the same. His head reeled. He ran back, crying: Save me! I have found the world’s end—but I do not want to end. He ran back to the signboard; from there to the last temple on the way. Its priest had met him and warned: Do not go. Whoever goes returns; there is great panic there; it is dangerous to go further. He had not listened. Now he fell on the temple steps. The priest fanned him, sprinkled water. He came to. The priest asked: So—you returned? He said: O God! What did you see? He said: Everything ends; I ran back. The priest said: Alas—had you taken just one step more! The man said: Are you mad? It was already too much. One step more—and how would I return? Then all would be finished. The priest said: You do not know—you lost your courage. Now births upon births will be needed before you reach that signboard again. It is very difficult to reach there. Did you read the back of that signboard? On this side it said: Here ends the world. Did you look at the other side? He said: In my panic I did not look—ran straight back. The priest said: On the other side was written: Here begins God. If on this side of the board it says, “The state of Gujarat ends,” then on the other side Rajasthan must begin! Did you read the other side? No—panic. He said: Then seek again. On the other side it was written: Here begins Paramatma. Had you leapt, the world would have ended—but Paramatma would have begun. A leap into emptiness. Ego is the last boundary. Here ends the world. That ego—that “I”—is the last signboard on which it is written: Here ends the world. Beyond it begins the Lord. Beyond it begins Paramatma. But we return from there. The wealthy return from there; the famous return from there—but they can be forgiven. The wealthy return—how far can wealth take them? The famous, the ambitious return—how far can ambition take them? But the meditator too gets stuck at the same place; the yogi too gets stuck there. That last subtle line of I—I am the witness, I am the seer, Aham Brahmasmi, I am Brahman—he gets stuck there. One leap—one step more—and only this remains: I am not. That one leap—and there is entry into the Lord. He who is ready to be shunya becomes eligible to be Purna. He who is willing to die becomes worthy of Being. When the seed breaks and disappears, the tree is born. When the drop dissolves, it becomes the ocean. And when this tiny drop of I, this seed of I, breaks, dissolves, disappears, evaporates—then only That remains, which is—ever is—never goes anywhere—is where it always is. Upon whom many dreams come and go—but who is outside the dream. The moon is in the sky, not stuck in the well. We are trying hard to pull it out—by belief it does not come out; by thought it does not come out; by meditation…it seems to come out and yet does not. Then we disappear into emptiness—and find it had always been out. It was never trapped; it is always outside. One must be lost in Existence—utterly. But only he can be lost who realizes the nothingness of his own I, his own non-being. Beyond that point there is nothing more to say. Beyond that point no word functions; no meaning, no philosophy. Beyond that—no scripture. Scriptures are only up to where Paramatma is not. Words are up to where He is not. Theories are up to where He is not. Theories, scriptures, words—all lie within the boundary of ego. And He is outside—beyond the realm of dream. For His search I have said these four things. Ultimately, the one who gathers the courage to drop everything—everything, including himself—attains Him. To attain Him is nectar. Upon attaining Him—no birth, no death. To attain Him is bliss. Upon attaining Him—no pleasure, no pain, but bliss. Upon attaining Him—nothing remains to be attained; nothing remains to be known. Blessed are they who disappear—for they attain Him. Unfortunate are they who become hard knots, remain drowned in sleep, and never come into any relation with Truth. May the Lord grant that you can disappear, so that you can attain the Lord. I am deeply obliged for the peace and love with which you have heard my words. And in the end I bow down to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Witnessing is meditation. Meditation of what? people ask. Meditation of no one and nothing. Rather, whatever occurs in the chitta and around the chitta—everything—is to be taken in attentively. Meditation has no relation to any object, any subject, any idol, any image, any name, any word. But we have been taught that meditation must be done on something. The moment it becomes “on something,” it is no longer meditation; it becomes concentration. And yesterday I said: concentration is not meditation.
I told someone: Love. He asked, whom should I love? I said: it is not a question of whom—near or far, who comes close or never comes near at all. The question is to be loving toward all. “Whom should I love?” is a wrong question. “Loving?”—that is the right question. In the same way, “On what should I meditate?” is not to be asked. Whatever I live, whatever I think, whatever I reflect upon, whatever happens on my chitta—toward all of that I must be attentive. Attentiveness should be the state of my chitta, just as lovingness should be the state of my chitta. To be filled with attention—attentiveness—means: witnessing. Whatever happens, I know it, I see it; it happens in awareness, not in stupor. I do not live half-asleep, I live awake-awake. This is the meaning of meditation.
But we live asleep. We live as if in a deep slumber. Within, the chitta is not alert; we do not know what is happening—within us, even what is taking place in our own interior, we have no remembrance, no sense, no awareness of it.
To awaken to all the movements of one’s own chitta—that is called meditation. Understand this a little.
Stand for a while on the roadside and look carefully at the people passing by. You will see many as if walking in sleep. Someone is talking to himself, another’s lips are trembling—thought is moving in him. If you look closely you will find they have no sense of the road, of what is happening around them. They go wrapped in themselves, asleep. If, while walking on the road, you suddenly stop and look within—am I walking awake or asleep?—you may discover that all are walking asleep.
Buddha was passing along a road with a bhikshu. Buddha was speaking with him. A fly came and sat on Buddha’s head. He kept speaking and drove the fly away. Then he stopped, stood still, again lifted his hand to where the fly had sat—and now there was no fly—and he brushed it away. The monk asked, What are you doing? The fly had already flown; now you are shooing it away. What is this? Buddha said: The first time I brushed the fly away in a sleepy, stupefied state—not attentively. Now I raise my hand as it should have been raised. Now I am brushing the fly away attentively, as it should have been done. Do you see the difference? The fly sits, you are talking, the hand moves like a machine. Neither are you aware of the hand rising, nor of the fly being brushed away. The hand moves; you are elsewhere; the fly is gone. This was an unconscious act—done without meditation, non-meditatively. Then, when we brush the fly away attentively, if the hand is raised, we are fully aware of raising it. If we brush away the fly, we are aware of that. The entire act is suffused with awareness—not sleep. Then the act becomes meditative.
You are eating—we all eat—but who eats attentively? While eating, we do a thousand other things. Eating is going on here; the mind is elsewhere. The act is on one side; the mind is on the other. If the mind is absent, the act will be asleep.
Almost all our acts are asleep. Which means: where the act is, our chitta is not present. The act will be somnambulant. If the chitta is absent, the act cannot be aware. Whatever we do, let the chitta be present there. Let there be full presence. Whatever we do, let us be wholly there. Bathe—walk—eat—love—be angry—whatever we do; whether we think, or do not think—let whatever happens be conscious, be mindful. Then meditation will enter life; we shall become available to the action of meditation. The results of meditation are wondrous. The very moment the meditative state is established, the nonessential begins to drop. Anger, for instance, will disappear. No one has ever been able to be angry attentively—and no one ever can be. It is an impossibility.
Napoleon says: nothing is impossible. He is wrong. Much is impossible. For example: anger, done attentively. No one, being aware, can do the wrong. To do the wrong, sleep, stupor, unconsciousness are utterly necessary.
A bhikshu passed through a village—his name was Nagarjuna. He was naked, with a wooden begging bowl in his hand. The queen of the village had invited him for alms. Touching his feet, she said: give me that begging bowl; I will keep it as your remembrance. I have had a golden bowl made; I will give that to you. Nagarjuna said: As you wish. Any other monk would have said: Gold! I do not touch gold; I consider gold to be dust! But if you consider gold to be dust, why are you afraid to touch it? The queen too became a little puzzled that Nagarjuna was saying nothing about taking a golden bowl. She brought it—inlaid with precious jewels, worth lakhs. Nagarjuna took it.
The queen had thought he would say, No, no—what will I do with a golden bowl? I do not touch gold. I am a bhikshu, a sannyasin. But Nagarjuna said nothing. He must have been a true bhikshu; whether the bowl is of clay, or wood, or gold—he makes no difference. The queen must have been startled. Queens are pleased only when you say, No, no—I will not take gold. The wealthy give money to those who keep proclaiming, Money? No, no—we do not take money! It is a tactic for getting money: if you want to receive, say that you don’t.
The queen became very uneasy. Nagarjuna took the bowl and returned along the road. A naked man, with a golden bowl, glittering with gems—the whole village must have watched. There was a great thief in the village; he started trailing Nagarjuna. He thought: how long can this naked man protect such a bowl? Someone will take it anyway. So why give another the chance? Let me take it. He followed. Nagarjuna heard the footsteps behind, and understood: no one ever follows me—someone is following the bowl.
At the cremation ground outside the village he stopped, in a ruined building. He went inside—no door, no gate. The thief hid near a window outside. Nagarjuna thought: It is my midday; the time to sleep. If I sleep, that man sitting outside will surely take the bowl. Why give him the chance to become a thief? Why take upon myself the responsibility of making him a thief? Better to throw the bowl away. Otherwise he will sit a long time in the sun and then steal. He threw the bowl out of the window. It fell at the thief’s feet. The thief was stunned! Such a precious bowl—thrown! He felt like thanking him. He stood up and said to the naked monk: I thank you. Amazing—what I came to steal, you threw away!
The monk said: I am not prepared to take the responsibility of making you a thief. Besides, you would have waited there long in the heat; and you would have taken it anyway, because it is my time to sleep. I will sleep now. Go—take it. The thief said: It would be great kindness if you allowed me to come inside for a moment. I wish to sit for a little while near such a wondrous man.
Nagarjuna said: I threw the bowl out so that you could come in. Come. The thief sat down and said: I feel envy—when will such a day come in my life that I too can throw a golden bowl as if it were dust? Nagarjuna said: It can come today—now. The thief said: Tell me how. But one condition: whenever I go to sadhus and sannyasins and ask, When will my mind find peace, when joy, when will the door of the Lord open?—I am an obvious thief. They say, first stop stealing. There everything gets stuck. Neither does the stealing stop, nor do I move on. You will not tell me to stop stealing, will you? Nagarjuna said: That means you never reached true sadhus; what concern has a sadhu with your stealing or not stealing? You must have reached thieves. What have I to do with your theft? Your theft is your affair. I will tell you something else—do that. He said: Then we can agree. The agreement happened when you threw the bowl out. What is the way? Nagarjuna said: Do whatever you do—but do it with awareness. Even if you steal, steal with total alertness. Stay awake, know that you are stealing. You are opening the safe, taking out the money—let it not happen in sleep; let your mind not be elsewhere; let it be fully here, in the act of stealing. I say no more than this. I do not forbid stealing; I only say: steal attentively.
The thief said: Then it can work. I will do attentively. Fifteen days later he returned, fell at Nagarjuna’s feet, and said: You have put me in great difficulty. When I go to steal and try to do it consciously, my hands will not move; the theft stops. When theft happens, awareness does not stay; unconsciousness descends. Last night I entered the royal palace—after years such an opportunity. I opened the safe; before my eyes lay precious jewels and gold coins. I reach out with awareness—and laughter arises, and the hand stops. If I pick up the coins, it is in stupor; then I drop them, because I have decided to be aware. I labored all night and returned empty-handed. Theft cannot be done attentively. You turned out to be very cunning—you have tricked me!
Nagarjuna said: I have nothing to do with your theft. Am I a thief? Your theft is your own affair. Remember only this: do everything attentively. And what cannot be done attentively—know that it is not worth doing. What can be done attentively—that alone is worth doing. Sin means: that which cannot be done in awareness. Punya means: that which can only be done in awareness. Whatever can be done attentively is virtue; what cannot, is sin. Therefore the question is not of renouncing sin and doing virtue; the question is to do everything attentively. The more attentive a person becomes, the more his life turns into dharma and virtue; sin vanishes. Meditation means: each act of mine becomes aware, full of wakefulness, not sleepy. This is the third step—by which we arrive right at the door, and enter the doorway.
But meditation takes us only to where Paramatma resides; it does not take us to where only Paramatma is—to His very heart. We reach the temple, yet remain outside Paramatma. Because even in meditation two remain: I—the one who is meditating, awake; and that which I am awake toward. The two still remain. In meditation, the two do not dissolve; duality remains.
So, ultimately, meditation too will have to go. Meditation too must be dropped. Duality must be dropped. In the end, I too must be lost; let there not remain even the notion that I am the witness; that too is a residue. Let even “I am Atman” not remain. Let it not remain that I am the knower, the seer. The last line of the “I” must not remain. Therefore today the fourth point is: go beyond meditation as well.
To go beyond meditation is Samadhi. Going beyond meditation is like a river entering the ocean. Then the river has gone beyond herself—she is no longer a river; she becomes the ocean. Meditation too is a thin stream, of the person, of personality. When meditation meets the ocean, even the thought “I am, thou art” dissolves—no thought remains at all.
A small story of Rumi. A lover knocks at his beloved’s door. From inside she asks: Who are you? He says: Have you not recognized me by my voice? It is I—your lover. She falls silent. He knocks and knocks; at last one sentence comes from within: Go back. This house of love is very small; two cannot be contained in it. I am already here—and now you too have come. Two “I’s” will not fit into this tiny house. There will be great quarrel.
Wherever there are two “I’s,” there is conflict. All our houses are small, and everywhere two “I’s” have squeezed in—hence the quarrels. The lover says: I am your lover—open the door! She says: As long as you are, what kind of lover are you? The door will not open. The door of love does not open for the I.
The lover returns. Years pass. He melts his “I,” dissolves it, empties it, burns it to ashes, throws it away. After years he returns, on a full-moon night, and knocks again. From within: Who are you? The lover says: Who? There is no me now—only you are. Rumi says: the door opens.
I think Rumi opened the door a little too soon. The door cannot open yet. Because the lover says: I am not; only you are. Where “you” is seen, the “I” has not utterly died; in its most subtle form it still lives. Without the I, even the thou cannot be. Where there is no I, how can there be thou? The sense of thou is but a reflection of the I.
Rumi opens the door too quickly. I am not ready to open it there. If I could find Rumi—which is difficult now—I would say: The poem is incomplete. The lover should return once more. Let me carry the poem further. The beloved speaks again from within: You still know of “you”? Then your I remains. Go back; two cannot be here. And the lover goes back. Then he never returns. The beloved herself must seek him now—because how can he come back? There is no “I” left. Now even “thou” is not. Where can he return? To whom can he go? He goes nowhere. The beloved must seek him. Now he is hard to find—because now he is everywhere. One whose “I” has dissolved cannot be confined to any small place. He becomes all-pervading.
As one rises beyond meditation, Paramatma need not be sought. We vanish; Paramatma comes seeking. No one, seeking Paramatma, has ever reached the very within of Paramatma—he can reach up to Paramatma, not into Him. The moment one is gone, Paramatma descends. In the end, Paramatma finds us. We empty ourselves; He fills. We become shunya; He enters.
One night Rabindranath was traveling by barge. Midnight, a moonlit night—the full moon above. He sat reading a book on the barge, with a small candle lit. In that flickering, feeble, yellow light he read on. The barge was filled with that sickly light. Near midnight he grew tired, closed the book, blew out the candle—and suddenly, as if a closed door had opened; as if an eye had been given to a blind man; as if the vina’s music began to ring in a deaf ear; as if thorns had blossomed into flowers—Rabindranath startled, stood up. The candle went out, and from the doors, the windows, from every crevice of the barge, the moon’s rays poured in. The room was filled with moonlight. Rabindranath began to dance. That night he wrote in his diary: A wondrous experience! While the little candle burned, the moon could not enter—he remained outside. So great a moon, and such a tiny candle; yet so long as the tiny candle burned within, the moon stayed outside, halted at the door. The candle went out—and waves of moonlight entered. Its rays began dancing within; they wove their net. How foolish I was—sitting in that stale, yellow, dirty, old light, while the moon showered outside and I kept my candle lit!
That day Rabindranath wrote: Is it not so that as long as the candle of “I” burns, Paramatma remains outside? And when the feeble light of I goes out, He enters within?
It is so. It is exactly so. As long as the wick of I burns, right up to its final thread, no matter how near we come—we cannot become That. Between That and us the distance of I remains. We must go beyond even meditation—because the meditator still knows of I. We must go beyond meditation—because the meditator still says: I am the witness, the knower, I am. Those who cannot rise beyond meditation cannot rise beyond Atman. Hence many meditators will tell you: beyond Atman there is no Paramatma. They have stopped at the I—the final I. They have stopped at the last boundary.
Let the I go; let meditation go; let witnessing go; let everything be erased; save nothing; break, scatter. Where there is shunya, the Purna descends. Here the candle goes out—there His light enters within. Ultimately even the I must be broken. First uproot belief so thought can arise; when thought arises, throw that too, so meditation can arise; when meditation arises, set that aside too, so that all can dissolve—then there remains nothing even to be dissolved. As long as there remains something to be dissolved, there is not full entry into the temple of the Lord. When nothing remains to be dropped—not even the sense “I am,” not even “I am doing sadhana,” “I am a sadhaka,” “I am meditating.”
A young man, in search of meditation, of the Lord, of Truth, went to an ashram. From morning till evening he sat in meditation. His master would come again and again and ask: What has happened? He would say: Meditation is happening—I am becoming a witness. The master would laugh and go away. Years passed. Again and again the master asked: Anything happened? He would say: Much has happened—I have become very peaceful, very blissful. The master laughed and went away. The disciple was perplexed. The master never gave approval—never signed “It has happened.” Again the master laughed and went away. He came again and asked; the disciple said: I am liberated. But the “I” does not leave. The “I” was there when there was sorrow; it is there now when there is peace; sorrow changed, restlessness changed—but the “I” remains. The “I” does not go.
One day he sat with eyes closed. The day passed; evening came. The master arrived, picked up a brick lying before him, and began to grind it hard against a stone. The disciple sat behind with eyes closed; in front, his master kept grinding the brick. The scraping sound shattered his meditation. He cried out: What madness are you doing? In old age, what children’s play is this? Why are you grinding that brick? Why are you disturbing my meditation? The master said: I am not disturbing anyone. I want to make a mirror out of this brick. By grinding and grinding I will make it a mirror. The young man said: Have you gone mad in your old age? Have you ever heard that by grinding a brick it becomes a mirror? The old man said: Have you ever heard that by grinding the “I” it becomes meditation? Ever heard that the I remains—and vision happens? Ever heard that the I becomes a mirror? A brick might become a mirror—but the I can never become a mirror. He threw the brick away and left. For the first time the seeker realized: everything has changed, but the I—the wall—remains within.
The I can never be made into a mirror. Therefore, ultimately, one must rise beyond Yoga as well—beyond meditation. Beyond meditation. Beyond Yoga. Whoever stops at Yoga stops at ego. Whoever stops at meditation stops at the subtlest movement of ego. One must go beyond this. Beyond everything—beyond and beyond. And go to that where there is no beyond. Where there is no further shore. There is the Lord—beyond whom there is nothing.
How will this I go? We have become witnesses; we have become peaceful; we have become blissful; it seems I am only the seer and everything else is happening. Now even this seer must be bid farewell. Say: Enough—the feeling “I am the seer” too I leave. The feeling “I am” too I leave. Then only being will remain—only existence. I leave the I; now there is only being. Look a little within—you will not find “I am” there; there is only “am-ness.” There is is-ness; there is being. There is no one saying “I am.” Peek within—beyond the breath—no one is saying “I.” There is only being—just being—only existence. Leaves are trembling, the river flows, the moon has risen, flowers open, breath goes on… where is the I? The I is purely an illusion. The I is the fundamental illusion, the basic maya—the greatest lie, the greatest magic, the deepest hypnosis. Where is the I?
I have heard: near a royal palace a heap of stones lay. A child came playing, picked up a stone, and hurled it toward the palace. As the stone rose upward, it said to the stones below: I am going on a journey to the sky! It had been thrown. But the stone believed: I am going to the sky. What could the stones below say? They knew: it was thrown. But would that stone accept? It felt: I am going. Thrown—yet thinking, I am going. A small mistake—but what a vast mistake! It said, I am going. It went—struck the glass window of the palace. The glass shattered. When a stone strikes glass, the glass shatters; the stone does not do it. The stone has no duty to shatter glass—it is simply the nature of stone and glass: the stone survives; the glass shatters. The stone does not shatter it. But when the glass broke, the stone said: Foolish glass! How many times have I not warned—do not come in my way, else I will smash you! Now the pieces of glass could not speak—they were shattered. What can the defeated say?
The stone fell inside. Iranian carpets lay spread. The stone took a breath, relaxed, and said: The people of this house seem very hospitable. It seems news of my coming had reached them; they have spread out carpets. Good people—cultured. After all, I am no ordinary stone—I am a sky-flying stone. Hearing the noise, the palace gatekeeper came running, picked up the stone to throw it back. In its own language the stone cried: Thank you, thank you—many thanks! It seems the lord of the house himself is welcoming me with his own hands! It was thrown back. While returning, the stone did not say: I am being thrown back. It said: Keep your palace; keep your mansion—however great it may be. What joy equals being under the sky with one’s friends, companions, beloved ones? I feel homesick—I am going home.
Many who are hurled out of Delhi return thus: home-sickness. Whoever is thrown from anywhere says: I am going. The stone falls down, and says to the stones around it: I have returned. Who knows how many enemies I have destroyed; who knows in how many palaces I was welcomed! But no—I missed you all very much. I have come back.
That stone got the delusion of “I.” Thrown, it said: I am going. The glass broke, it said: I broke it. The carpets were spread—not at all for the stone; those who spread them knew nothing of the stone—but the stone said: they are spread for me. Thrown back—it said: I am returning. The stone had created the illusion of “I.”
We too are surrounded by just such an I. Birth happens—we say: my birth! Youth comes—we say: my youth! Breath moves—and we say: I breathe! No one has ever breathed. Breath happens. No one takes it. If we take breath, then when death knocks at the door and sits outside ringing the bell, and we keep breathing—keep breathing—if we never stop, then death will grow tired and go away! But we know—death comes. One breath goes out and does not return—then we cannot bring it back. Gone is gone. The truth is: the breath that went out—“we” are not in there either; we too are gone. Inside, none remains to bring breath back in. We too have departed, lost, gone somewhere. We do not take breath; breath moves. But we say: I am breathing. We do not think; thoughts move; yet we say: we think. Life moves; we say: we live. Life happens; we say: we live. We go on strengthening the I—wrapping layer upon layer around an empty void. So many layers gather that it seems there must be something inside. As if someone peels an onion—it seems something will be within. Keep peeling—and within there is nothing. Only layers upon layers. Such is the I. Layer upon layer we bind: I am doing this, I am doing that. The layers accumulate, and it seems there will be something in the knot. The last layer of the knot is witnessing. The last layer is meditation. Uproot that too. Do not say: I am meditating. Do not say: I am the witness. Look within—there is no I. There is empty space—vast shunya. And the moment the I drops—the jump, the leap happens. The turning arrives—from which everything changes, another world begins.
There where I am not—that is the abode of the Lord. There we are not merely in the temple; we enter the very life of the temple, the very deity, the very essence that is the Lord. There no two remain—not I and He. There no existence-and-I—only existence. Knowing that pure Existence, one sees: I had been lost in a dream. Knowing That, one sees: I had been lost in a dream.
A man sleeps one night and dreams: I have reached Tokyo; I have reached Timbuktu. All night he is disturbed: how far is Timbuktu from Ahmedabad! Such trouble—how shall I return? Where is the airport? Do I have money? Will I get a ticket? How shall I go back home? My boy was sick; I had to bring medicine—and I have come to Timbuktu. What a mess! What shall I do? Restless in the dream, he runs around searching for the airport, the ticket—and in the morning sleep breaks. He finds: he never went to Timbuktu; he is lying where he was, in Ahmedabad, in his own house. In the dream he had gone—and it felt as if he had reached.
No one has gone anywhere. The day one merges with Existence, one finds: What wonder! From that which we had never been separate, we seemed to have been separated. What wonder! That which we never lost—we seemed to have lost. What wonder! That which we ourselves are—we were seeking. What wonder! Paramatma was continually with us; we were That—yet That seemed far, unfindable. In anger we denied Him—He is not; in love we carved idols—He is. The idol was false; the denial was false. We ourselves were That. But we were lost in a dream.
On the day Buddha attained enlightenment, people gathered and asked: What have you gained? Buddha said: I have gained nothing; that which was already gained—I have come to know it. I have gained nothing; that which already was—I have recognized. Someone asked: Have you become free? Have you attained liberation? Buddha said: Liberation? Liberation of whom? That which was free—only in dream it seemed bound. The dream broke; the ever-free is free—this is known.
A story comes to mind. A fakir, during the days of Ramadan, passed by a road. Thirsty, he went to a well and peeped in. Quiet well, deep water—and the moon reflected within. The fakir thought: Ah! What trouble—the moon has fallen into the well! The moon is stuck; there is no one around to rescue it. Ramadan month—if the moon remains trapped, people will be in difficulty: when will they break the fast? The moon is caught here; no one knows that in this forest well the moon has fallen. The fakir said: I must do something. He found a rope somewhere, made a noose to pull the moon out. The rope went in and got caught on a rock. The fakir said: Great difficulty—the moon is heavy; alone I may not be able to pull it. But I must try. There is no one else. He pulled with great force. The rope was cheap, rotten; the rock strong—the noose broke. The fakir fell flat. In the shock his eyes closed; he was hurt; water splashed; the rope flew up. He opened his eyes—looked up: the moon had come out. He said: Ah! It is out! Poor thing—saved. It was stuck badly. I got a small hurt—no matter. The moon is out; now the people of Ramadan will not be troubled. Those who fast think more about breaking the fast than about the fast itself. The fast runs little; the thought of breaking runs more. They are freed now; they will be spared the hassle. Good—no worry. I have a little injury—but the moon is saved. The fakir, proud, walked on—chest out, thinking he had rescued the moon.
As the moon seems to be caught in a well—so are we. The moon is always outside; we too are always outside. What is trapped is only the reflection. But badly trapped. And we have forgotten we are anything more than a reflection.
In the search for meditation we begin to come out of the reflection. We begin to emerge; but ultimately, even the effort to emerge is ignorance. Because that which is not trapped—how will you pull it out? Even the effort to be a witness is, in the ultimate sense, ignorance. For when there are not two, who will be the witness? And when the moon is not trapped in the well, by what rope will you pull it out? By the rope of meditation? We are trying to pull out with the rope of meditation that which was never trapped. In the end it must be known: the rope is false, the well false, the trapped one false; That which is—is always outside, rushing across the sky, knowing nothing of any well or bondage.
As one becomes clear and deep in meditation, at the end one finds: meditation too is a barrier. Drop this too; be free of this too; leap where nothing remains.
A small story—and I will complete my talk.
A man set out to find the end of the world. Some people worry less about themselves and more about the world. He did not even know where he begins and where he ends—that did not concern him. He was anxious to know where the world begins and where it ends. I will find the world’s end. Many tried to stop him: this quest has never been fulfilled. The world never ends. He said: But whatever exists must end somewhere. I will find it. The more people tried to stop him, the more obstinate he became. Opposition feeds stubbornness. If there is someone at home who wants to become a sannyasin and you want to make him one—then all of you should begin to stop him. He will surely become a sannyasin. If someone does not want to marry and you want him to remain unmarried—keep persuading him to marry; he will never marry.
His stubbornness grew. People everywhere said: Are you mad? Has anyone ever found the end of the world? The more they said so, the more he felt: since none has found it, I will. Ego began to taste great sweetness. No one has climbed Everest—I will. No one has descended to the bottom of the Pacific—I will. No one has reached the moon—I will. No one has found the end of the world—I will. Ego, more and more intoxicated, ran on—and, astonishingly, one day he reached a place, in the last moments of his life, in old age, where a signboard stood: Here ends the world. A little ahead, the world ended. It was the last station. The last warning: Do not go further. Beware! Ahead the world ends.
But the man said: I will go. I have come for this. He went a few steps further—and after ten or twenty steps the world ended. Everything ended. Whatever begins ends. Whatever is born dies. Whatever has a beginning has an end. What is—will become not. The world ended. There was an infinite abyss—an eternal void. No bottom below, no limit above, no measure of the emptiness ahead. He trembled. His head swam. He peered down—have you ever looked down from a great mountain? But this was beyond any mountain; there was no bottom at all—below was emptiness, emptiness, emptiness; beneath emptiness, great emptiness; above too, all around, the same. His head reeled. He ran back, crying: Save me! I have found the world’s end—but I do not want to end. He ran back to the signboard; from there to the last temple on the way. Its priest had met him and warned: Do not go. Whoever goes returns; there is great panic there; it is dangerous to go further. He had not listened. Now he fell on the temple steps. The priest fanned him, sprinkled water. He came to. The priest asked: So—you returned? He said: O God! What did you see? He said: Everything ends; I ran back. The priest said: Alas—had you taken just one step more! The man said: Are you mad? It was already too much. One step more—and how would I return? Then all would be finished.
The priest said: You do not know—you lost your courage. Now births upon births will be needed before you reach that signboard again. It is very difficult to reach there. Did you read the back of that signboard? On this side it said: Here ends the world. Did you look at the other side? He said: In my panic I did not look—ran straight back. The priest said: On the other side was written: Here begins God. If on this side of the board it says, “The state of Gujarat ends,” then on the other side Rajasthan must begin! Did you read the other side? No—panic. He said: Then seek again. On the other side it was written: Here begins Paramatma. Had you leapt, the world would have ended—but Paramatma would have begun.
A leap into emptiness. Ego is the last boundary. Here ends the world. That ego—that “I”—is the last signboard on which it is written: Here ends the world. Beyond it begins the Lord. Beyond it begins Paramatma. But we return from there. The wealthy return from there; the famous return from there—but they can be forgiven. The wealthy return—how far can wealth take them? The famous, the ambitious return—how far can ambition take them? But the meditator too gets stuck at the same place; the yogi too gets stuck there. That last subtle line of I—I am the witness, I am the seer, Aham Brahmasmi, I am Brahman—he gets stuck there.
One leap—one step more—and only this remains: I am not. That one leap—and there is entry into the Lord. He who is ready to be shunya becomes eligible to be Purna. He who is willing to die becomes worthy of Being. When the seed breaks and disappears, the tree is born. When the drop dissolves, it becomes the ocean. And when this tiny drop of I, this seed of I, breaks, dissolves, disappears, evaporates—then only That remains, which is—ever is—never goes anywhere—is where it always is. Upon whom many dreams come and go—but who is outside the dream. The moon is in the sky, not stuck in the well. We are trying hard to pull it out—by belief it does not come out; by thought it does not come out; by meditation…it seems to come out and yet does not. Then we disappear into emptiness—and find it had always been out.
It was never trapped; it is always outside. One must be lost in Existence—utterly. But only he can be lost who realizes the nothingness of his own I, his own non-being. Beyond that point there is nothing more to say. Beyond that point no word functions; no meaning, no philosophy. Beyond that—no scripture. Scriptures are only up to where Paramatma is not. Words are up to where He is not. Theories are up to where He is not. Theories, scriptures, words—all lie within the boundary of ego. And He is outside—beyond the realm of dream.
For His search I have said these four things. Ultimately, the one who gathers the courage to drop everything—everything, including himself—attains Him. To attain Him is nectar. Upon attaining Him—no birth, no death. To attain Him is bliss. Upon attaining Him—no pleasure, no pain, but bliss. Upon attaining Him—nothing remains to be attained; nothing remains to be known. Blessed are they who disappear—for they attain Him. Unfortunate are they who become hard knots, remain drowned in sleep, and never come into any relation with Truth. May the Lord grant that you can disappear, so that you can attain the Lord.
I am deeply obliged for the peace and love with which you have heard my words. And in the end I bow down to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.