Prem Nadi Ke Teera #11

Yes?

No...

It is not a matter of doing it for twenty-four hours. Even if you can enter perfect thoughtlessness for ten minutes, then gradually you will find that while doing all your work—there is no need to be lying down—the inner void will remain established even as you do, talk, speak. To begin with, carve out a little time—half an hour, even fifteen minutes out of the twenty-four hours. In those fifteen minutes, first of all drop every activity and go into the void. And once the experience of the void happens even once, then you can remain in the void even amidst activities. You do not have to lie there for twenty-four hours. Half an hour you should lie down—in the beginning.

This is because if we are very busy with work, at the outset it will be difficult to drop thoughts. Dropping thought itself is difficult; and if you are busy in work—and because of work thoughts keep running—then dropping them will be hard. Therefore, in the beginning one should do half an hour of passive meditation. You are doing no action. You are lying quietly. And you are simply intending to nullify thought, to lead thought into emptiness.

When half an hour of passive meditation settles, when passive emptiness comes, then one should do active meditation. Then you are acting, and at the same time you also keep the consciousness empty. You are walking on the road—you are walking, and you also keep the consciousness empty. You are eating—you are eating, and you also keep the consciousness empty. Then slowly, what was attained in passivity has to be applied in activity. And when it becomes complete even in active form, know that it has become stable. When it remains continuous for twenty-four hours—getting up and sitting down, sleeping and waking, that state keeps on remaining—then know that active meditation has been attained. And when active meditation is attained, an extraordinary bliss will be experienced in life.

That is precisely the practice of active meditation: awareness. Awareness is the very means of going into emptiness in relation to all actions, to the movements of the mind as well. For example, if you lie there for half an hour—what will you do? In that half hour, whatever thoughts are moving in your mind, you are to be simply aware of them. Simply a witness—what else will you do? Just become a witness. Keep silently watching; let them move. But obstacles arise in our seeing. We become absorbed. We fail to remain a witness. We don’t even notice when we have become one with those very thoughts. That sense of awareness fades; a kind of stupor, a moorchha, comes in.

A thought comes, a memory arises, and we stop being the watcher. We become part of that thought and of its flow. That is moorchha. And the opposite is awareness: we are not becoming part of it. A thought is coming, and we are just watching it as if on a screen, as we watch a film on a screen. We watch quietly. We are not identifying with it. We are not linking ourselves to it. We stand apart, and we watch.

With a few days’ practice, this standing apart becomes easier. Right now it is difficult. For a moment we stand apart, and then suddenly we realize: “Ah, I’ve become involved in it again.” By using this method every day for half an hour, in just a few days you will be able to remain clearly aware for the whole half hour. And if you can remain aware for half an hour, then its developed application follows: gradually awareness begins to be present in actions as well as in reactions.

When Vinoba first went to Gandhi, he had this particular trait: whatever work he did, he paid attention to perfecting it—complete skill in every task. When he began spinning, he made such good pooni—the cotton roll—that Gandhi was amazed. He said, “We have no one here who makes better pooni than this.” Then Vinoba made so many improvements in the charkha itself that Gandhi was astonished again. Then he began to spin yarn so fine that Gandhi said, “He is a master of spinning.” Despite all this, one day Vinoba asked Gandhi, “I’ve arranged everything in the best way. My charkha has become better than yours, my pooni is better than yours, and I’ve attained skill in spinning, yet my thread keeps breaking. And yours doesn’t break even with inferior pooni. Why?”

Gandhi said: “That has nothing to do with the charkha; it has to do with the mind. Remember, the moment you lapse into unawareness, the thread will break. You are guiding the thread, but your mind has wandered elsewhere—the thread will break. I spin without lapsing into moorchha. When I am spinning, there is no other thought in the mind. Only awareness of the act of spinning remains—and I spin. The mind is not thinking; there is no ideation; no memory comes; no imagining of the future is forming—except for the thread being spun on the charkha, there is nothing in my mind at that moment. Only the thread is being spun, and I am; the thread goes down, and I am; the thread comes up, and I am. I have remained only a watcher. The action proceeds, and inside there is awareness; therefore the thread does not break.” Later Gandhi began calling his spinning “prayer,” “meditation.” He would say, “My meditation happens in spinning.”

If we understand Buddha or Mahavira, we will be amazed: their twenty-four hours of activity were in meditation. Whatever they were doing, they were in meditation. Action is happening; the mind is utterly quiet and aware. Our life is the very opposite of such meditation. For twenty-four hours we are in search of a stupor. Twenty-four hours we look for some kind of intoxicant—whether we look for it in the cinema, or while listening to songs, or by reading scriptures, or by going to the temple for bhajans and kirtans—we are searching all day long for some way to forget ourselves. And we even call this “happiness.”

Wherever we forget ourselves, we say, “Great joy came.” In truth, the remembrance of ourselves is very painful to us. Our being, our very existence, feels like suffering. So we have been seeking escape for twenty-five years—whatever the pathways may be. Wherever for a little while absorption comes and we forget ourselves, there we feel pleasure. The path of meditation is exactly the opposite. Meditation says: wherever there is absorption, there you are in moorchha, in unawareness. Do not be absorbed in anything. Be aware—aware of the whole.

If you understand it rightly, being totally absorbed in an activity and being aware are two utterly different things. If you are completely absorbed in some work—utterly absorbed—you will become oblivious to the rest of the world. A man’s house has caught fire and he is running toward it; someone greets him on the way—he neither sees nor hears. In truth, he is absorbed in one thing: “My house is on fire,” and he is rushing there. His consciousness is absent everywhere else and present only there.

Awareness is a totally different phenomenon. Awareness means the consciousness is equally present everywhere. The mind has not awakened at one center while falling asleep everywhere else. It is simply awake—whatever the center may be. We value absorption in life because our lack of absorption turns into clumsiness in action. For example, a man is doing some work but his mind is engaged elsewhere; we say, “He is not absorbed.” In fact, he is absorbed—just somewhere else. If we understand correctly, we should not say he is not absorbed; we should say he is absorbed in something other than what he is doing. Hence we advise, “Be absorbed in your work.”

So there is, first, the person who is doing one thing but is absorbed elsewhere. Second, the person who is doing something and is absorbed right there—absent everywhere else. And third, the person who is simply aware while doing the work. He is not absorbed anywhere. Such a person, not absorbed in any object and simply aware of the world, will be absorbed in himself. Understand? If he does not allow that capacity for absorption to be caught by anything outside, that very capacity will turn inward and become absorption in oneself. And absorption in oneself is bliss; absorption in the other is pleasure.

Through absorption in the other we forget ourselves. If all absorption in the other breaks, and only awareness remains toward the other—only sheer alertness—then the capacity in us to be absorbed, which surely exists, will, when not allowed to go outward, turn upon itself and become absorption in the self. Such a person will be healthy; he will be established in himself. He will stand in his own being. He is not drowned anywhere else; he will drown in himself. Such a person will do everything in the world—because he is aware, not benumbed. And all his actions will be skillful, because he will do whatever he does with total awareness.

Along with this, something wondrous will happen: even while engaging with every object and performing every action, he will not be distracted from himself. He will not be dislodged from his center. He will remain standing in himself—steadfast. Such a person the Gita calls sthitaprajna—one whose wisdom is utterly steady. And they chose a beautiful word: whose knowing has completely settled in itself.

For our knowing to settle in our own being, practice emptiness and awareness. There isn’t much difference between the two: awareness is the process; emptiness is the result. We will practice becoming aware, and as a result, emptiness will be attained. At first it will be passive; then it has to be made active.

And when it becomes unbroken—twenty-four hours a day—such a person is a sannyasin. Where he lives is of no concern to me. How he lives is of no concern.

Night is very good. When everything becomes quiet, sit for half an hour and do the experiment. And if that is not possible, morning is good, especially if you feel too tired at night. After the whole day’s work, if sitting longer or getting up and doing the half-hour experiment isn’t possible, then in the morning, as soon as you wake up, just sit on the bed. Do half an hour then—or whenever suits you.

No, no—just as comfortably as you can. It’s not about posture; comfort is what’s important. There’s no need to give importance to anything else. Give importance only to doing it in the way that feels pleasant to you. If lying down feels pleasant, you can do it lying down. Because whether you are lying down, sitting, or standing—the soul is in the same state. Your lying down, getting up, or sitting makes no difference. The only point of posture is that your body’s position should be such that it does not itself become a disturbance. Keeping only this in mind, do the experiment at any time. In just a few days you will have very wondrous experiences. Very wondrous!

Nothing in particular, nothing in particular.

No, there is no difficulty in that. Not doing the experiment—that alone is the difficulty. In my seeing, in my knowing, there is only one difficulty: that we do not experiment. Otherwise, there is no difficulty.

Yes, thoughtless.

There is an episode from Buddha’s life—I think I mentioned it last time. He was passing through a forest with his monk Ananda. They stopped under a tree. He felt thirsty and told Ananda, Go and bring some water from nearby. Ananda said, I know this path; a little mountain stream is a furlong or two ahead—shall I fetch water from there? Or shall I go back three miles to the river we crossed and bring it from there? Buddha said, Bring it from the stream.

He went to the stream, but just before he arrived, five or seven bullock carts had forded it. The water had turned muddy and was full of debris. Fallen leaves were crushed and spread on the surface. It was a small stream. Thinking the water unfit to drink, he returned. He said to Buddha, That water isn’t drinkable; I’ll go back to the river behind us. Buddha said, In this midday heat, don’t go back; bring the water from that stream. He couldn’t disobey Buddha and went again. But again he didn’t have the heart to carry that water, nor to offer it for the Master to drink, and he returned. The difficulty was that they were resting right between the two sources. He came back and said, Forgive me, I don’t have the courage to bring that water. Buddha said, Trust me—bring that very water. He was bewildered. He knew that if he returned empty-handed, he would have to go yet again, so he pleaded. But Buddha said, If you bring, bring from there; otherwise, don’t bring. He was compelled to go.

When he reached the stream, he was astonished. The leaves had floated away, the muck had settled at the bottom, and the water had become crystal clear. He filled the pot and brought it back, amazed. He told Buddha, A wonderful thing happened: the leaves all floated off, the debris settled, and the water became absolutely pure. Buddha said, This is the very formula for calming the mind. Sit on the bank, and let the thoughts that flow, flow; let those that settle, settle. You sit quietly on the bank—do not meddle. If you can just sit and watch, in a little while you will find that all the leaves have floated away and all the silt has settled. But if you jump into the stream to still it, it will not become still; what was pressed down will be churned up, the settled leaves will rise again, and quietness will become difficult.

The experiment of neutral, witnessing awareness toward the mind is meaningful only then: there is nothing to do. But after hearing all the sermons, we feel as if we must do something. That very “doing something” becomes fatal. There is nothing to do. The illusion of doing is our real illusion. In truth we are only the seer, the witness. So we can only look. And if we make just a little use of pure seeing, we will suddenly find that the mind has gone—flowed away. But we start trying to remove it; in removal, no path opens. In removal you get entangled.

The harder you thrash about, the more tightly you get entangled. Then you cook up twenty-five explanations—perhaps it’s old karmas, this, that. You find twenty-five such reasons: it’s not happening because some karma hasn’t ripened yet, and so on. All this is nothing more than a way to hide the foolishness of what you are doing. These are not explanations worth accepting.

No—someone who doesn’t know how to repair a clock sits down to fix it, makes it worse, and then starts thinking it’s the fruit of past karma, because the clock keeps getting worse. And what do we say? The karma hasn’t ripened yet for the clock to be fixed. The whole point is simply that he doesn’t understand the technique by which the clock can be set right. Meditation is entirely a matter of technique—not of doing, but of understanding. Try it for a few days. Our impatience is so great that we don’t even allow the experiment to happen—that’s where the trouble begins.

Just watch a little—it will be very amazing. Very amazing!

No, in my understanding it is not helpful. That is why I deny every so‑called support. If I grant even a little, you will find in a few days that the support has become primary—you will start worrying about the support itself, and that becomes the whole work. No supports. I want to keep just one small point before your eyes: let nothing else come in between. No support. Otherwise, then everything in life becomes a support—eating and drinking, sleeping and waking, sitting—everything.

Pranayama can be helpful for health. It is useful for health. But even that needs great care and understanding; otherwise it can also be useful in bringing ill‑health. About life and the body my view is: let them be lived very naturally, spontaneously. The more naturally and spontaneously you live them, the less you meddle, the better. Pranayama is not as valuable as simply allowing clean air to reach the body. If you sit for an hour in an open, clean space and take gentle, slightly deeper breaths, the body will benefit. And the rhythm of breathing becomes a support in quieting the mind.

In fact, all rhythm brings peace. Any rhythm, any kind of regularity, brings peace. In Burma and in some other countries they even consider creating rhythm in the breath essential for meditation. Sit for half an hour and watch the in‑and‑out of the breath. When the breath goes in, let it go in mindfully; when it goes out, let it go out mindfully. Again it goes in—mindfully. Use awareness. There will be a twofold benefit: within a short while the breath will catch a rhythm; that rhythm benefits health. And second, the awareness I am speaking of will begin to develop through the medium of breath. The same awareness that develops in relation to breath can then be applied to the mind, to thought. In truth, if you become aware even with regard to health, thoughts in the mind will drop. Breath and thought are linked. If you sit for five minutes and simply watch the breath going in and out, you will suddenly find the mind has become empty.

In fact, if you apply awareness to anything, the mind becomes empty. Move this hand from here to here with watchfulness, and you will find the mind has become empty. Walk on the road and keep awareness with every step—left foot lifted and placed, right foot lifted and placed—keep total watchfulness; after five minutes you will find you are walking and the mind is empty. Wherever awareness is applied, there the mind becomes empty.

Unconsciousness is mind; awareness is mindlessness. Do not accept anything as an auxiliary. Otherwise, the strange results that religion has produced in the world have largely arisen because of telling people about auxiliaries. And then slowly those auxiliaries become so important for us.

So I have simply stopped talking about them regularly. A little help can certainly come, but I have stopped speaking of it. Otherwise people ask me: which diet is supportive? what clothes are supportive? which this, which that? Sure, some support can be there. But these things have been discussed so much that some people spend their whole lives fixing their diet. Some spend their whole lives deciding how to dress.

Take the Jains, for example—so far they have spent twenty‑five hundred years on correcting diet. Their two‑and‑a‑half‑millennia history is a history of dietary purity. It has had no relation to the soul. It was a very minor point from which a little support could be obtained. But it became so out of proportion, so important—who cooked it? how was it cooked? who touched it? who did not?—that our monk now spends the larger part of his life researching food, not researching the soul. It became more important than everything else.

Likewise pranayama and other such practices have become excessively important in some sects. Then it happens that some poor monks spend day and night doing exercises, not searching for the soul. And our mind is so deceptive, so cunning, that if you hand it anything, rather than going to the root—because it does not want to go to the root; to go to the root is its death—if it finds even a small by‑path to avoid the essential, it grabs it at once. It thinks, “Let me finish this first, then we’ll do the real thing.” But since this is never finished, the real thing never arises.

Therefore I have decided strictly: no auxiliaries. Speak only this much, and only this much is to be done. My experience is that if this is practiced, then whatever is auxiliary will gradually come on its own. If this is practiced rightly, in a few days you will notice your way of breathing has changed; in a few days you will notice your way of sleeping has changed; in a few days you will notice your way of eating has changed. It will be discovered suddenly. As the mind becomes quiet, all the things connected to the mind’s restlessness will begin to dissolve.

Our diet is related to the restlessness of the mind. The more restless the mind, the more intoxicating, stimulating foods are preferred. We think this preference is some mistake; actually, with mental restlessness, intoxicants and stimulants will be preferred. If someone changes diet without changing the mind, it will feel like great renunciation, great suffering. But if the mind becomes calm, diet changes completely—of itself.

A Bengali woman has been coming to me—a spinster. Her mother came to me and said: among us Bengalis, if an unmarried girl gives up meat and fish it is considered inauspicious, because widows give them up. She said, “She has stopped eating meat and fish; it’s become a big problem for us. There will be disgrace in society. We have come to request you to tell her to eat.” I said, “I never told her not to eat, so I’m not going to tell her to eat. She comes to meditate; this is a result of meditation.” I asked the girl, “Why did you stop?” She said, “There is no question of stopping. I’m amazed that I ate it for so long. As the mind has grown quiet, it has begun to feel utterly pointless. The question is: how to eat it at all? The question of eating or not eating doesn’t even arise.”

Many such events occur. Those who have experimented a little with meditation find differences beginning in their conduct and behavior, in dozens of things. Our breath becomes non‑rhythmic again and again because of the mind’s restlessness. You must have noticed: in anger, the rhythm of breath breaks; in intense lust, the rhythm breaks; in any excitement, the rhythm breaks. The breath trembles, comes in jerks, becomes long and short; its regularity, its lilt, dissolves; it becomes disharmonious.

In twenty‑four hours we are excited so many times that the breath becomes disharmonious again and again and harms the body. As a countermeasure to this, there is pranayama—to give rhythm to the breath. That is, it is a remedy for this illness. But if the mind becomes calm, this illness does not arise; then there is no question of doing pranayama. When you are ill you must take medicine for health; if you are healthy, medicine is useless.

In meditation, grasp only the root—and keep the experiment on that going. Gradually what is secondary will reveal itself; the supportive elements will become visible and begin their work. Whoever first concentrates on supports will not reach the root. So my whole emphasis—knowingly—I do not talk to you about other supports. Otherwise, such a grand fuss is made about supports that in its smoke the essential gets lost.

There are so many scriptures. I am amazed—hundreds of books have been written on Jain philosophy; not a single chapter on meditation. I was astonished: a book on philosophy and religion without even a chapter on meditation! In one book of a thousand pages I saw two pages somewhere on meditation. The rest is all auxiliaries—so over‑expanded, so much dispute, so much turmoil—that the one fundamental thing has become secondary.

Meditation itself is austerity. I spoke about this either this morning or last night. We’ve caught a very crude meaning of austerity; we grasp gross meanings very quickly. For instance, I was just somewhere people were talking about Mahavira’s fasts, Mahavira’s austerities—“Mahavira practiced austerity for twelve and a half years.” To us it looks like he “did” austerity; to me it looks like austerity “happened.” And I make a great distinction between “did” and “happened.”

A monk once told me, “I do great fasts.” I said, “As long as you ‘do’ a fast, it is not austerity. When a fast happens, that is austerity.” He replied, “How can it happen? If we don’t do it, how will it happen? It will happen only if we do it.” I told him, “Experiment a little with meditation. Sometimes you will suddenly find a fast has happened.” Six months later he came back—he was a Hindu monk—and said, “For the first time in my life, a fast happened. I sat for meditation at five in the morning; it was still dark. When I opened my eyes I thought, ‘Has morning not come yet?’ On asking, I learned it was night. The whole day had passed—I was aware of neither time nor anything else. That day there was no meal.” He said to me, “One fast happened.”

That, I call a fast. What we do is “no-food”—that is not a fast; that is simply not eating. Upavasa, a fast, literally means “to dwell near.” It is dwelling near the Self. In that nearness, the thought of food does not arise—then a fast happens. And there is anāhāra—deciding not to eat—in which the mind keeps remembering food and only food. That is a “done” austerity. True austerity happens on its own.

To say, “Mahavira did austerity”—this very statement is mistaken. Does anyone ever “do” austerity? Only the ignorant do austerity; in the wise, austerity happens. “Happens” means their life, their whole consciousness, is engaged somewhere such that many things that occupy our minds don’t even occur to them. We think they are renouncing; for them, those things don’t even come to mind. We think they have left priceless things; we think they have suffered greatly. The divergence is in valuation—ours and theirs are different.

What Mahavira finds meaningful, we consider meaningless; what he considers meaningless, we find meaningful. So when we see him leaving what we deem meaningful, we think, “How much he is suffering! What austerity he is doing!” For him the situation is entirely different: what is worthless simply keeps falling away.

Mahavira left home—yes, but it was dropping away naturally. There is nothing to “do” in austerity; only awaken awareness. As awareness awakens, whatever is useless will keep dropping. Others will see you as practicing austerity; you will see yourself becoming available to greater and greater bliss. Others will see, “He is enduring great hardship”; you will see, “I am becoming available to great joy.” Gradually you will see, “I am attaining bliss;” others are the ones suffering. And they will see you as suffering, touch your feet, and bow to you, saying you are doing something tremendous.

Austerity is what others see; for oneself, there is only joy. And if one sees austerity in oneself, that is ignorance—nothing else. Then one is being foolish. If he also thinks, “I am doing great tapas, great austerity, great difficulty,” he is simply insane—troubling himself for nothing. From it only vanity will grow; self-knowledge will not be attained.

Whoever “does” austerity is vain, egoistic. His ego is nourished when he hears, “He did thirty fasts,” and people stand around with garlands. The pleasure he gets is from the garlands, the respect, the honor—being called an ascetic. And where austerity truly happens, the person doesn’t even know he has done anything. If you go to honor him, he is only puzzled: “What has happened to you?” He has no sense of having practiced austerity.

In my view there is only one austerity: create awareness. Break the stupor. Dissolve the mind’s whirl and alternatives. Bring about unmodified, thought-free samadhi. And as a consequence, the changes that come will be visible to others as “austerity.”

Take Mahavira, for example. People beat him, struck him, tormented him. We think, “How much he endured! What an ascetic!” We imagine because we put ourselves in his place: if people beat us and we had to refrain from striking back, how hard it would be—what austerity! As for Mahavira, he would only be astonished: “What pain must these poor souls be in that they have become bent on beating?”

There was a monk in Uttar Pradesh whom many people revered; great kings would serve him. A certain king gifted him many golden vessels—an entire sackful. The hut had not even a latch. At night a thief came to carry it off. Devharwa Baba was his name. He lived naked in that hut. In the dark he saw someone trying to take the sack, and tears came to his eyes: “Poor fellow—coming so late at night; he must be in trouble. Had he come in the daytime! He surely must be in great difficulty; otherwise who would cross a cold night, ford a mountain stream, climb these hills? In the dark he must have been afraid, troubled.” The sack was heavy and the man was weak. He tried to lift it but could not raise it fully. His attachment to the wealth prevented him from leaving some behind. Baba felt deep pain: “Poor fellow is weak, and the sack is heavy. I had told that king earlier: give fewer—what will I do with so many? Had he given fewer, this man could have carried it easily. And this fool does not know to work within his strength. Come again—what is the hurry?” Baba even thought of getting up to help him, but worried the thief might be startled and run. Also, one should not obstruct another’s work. But he could not bear it; he rose, and as the thief was lifting from behind, Baba placed his hands and helped, and took him up to the door. Outside he said, “Brother, beyond this I cannot go. Now you take it. But remember one thing—” The thief, hearing his voice, panicked and dropped the sack, and stood with folded hands. Baba said, “Remember one thing only: always work according to your strength. Understand? The sack is big, and your strength is small. Drink some milk and cream, become a bit stronger; then lift big sacks. For now, lift small ones.” The thief fell at his feet. The sack was not stolen; the thief became his devotee. But the incident is very significant: how does it look to such a person? His valuation is different.

Those who went to beat Mahavira—what would he have seen? He would have seen, “They are agitated, very troubled. Otherwise why would they come to beat me?” Something inside them is disturbed and is erupting as violence. Only compassion would arise—no other question. We think he suffered greatly; he would have felt, “The one who has come to hit is in great pain.”

Words like tapas, suffering, pain, endurance—all are wrong. A human being acts according to what brings him joy. We act according to what we take as joy; they act according to what they take as joy. And between their sense of joy and ours there is the distance of earth and sky. So what we call austerity is their bliss; and what we call bliss is, for them, ignorance. They are filled with compassion toward us, seeing our foolishness—what trifles we are wasting our lives on. And we are filled with reverence toward them, thinking how great they are—renouncing so much!

Even he, if he uses a little understanding, will see that austerity is strengthening the ego, that it is producing ignorance. It won’t take long. And it will show in his entire behavior. As for sadhus, they are among the most egoistic people in this world—except perhaps one or two percent who are truly saintly—you won’t find another type so full of ego. This is visible to the people around them too, to those who are present there. But with twenty-five explanations they manage to rationalize it.

Recently I went to a big yajna in Allahabad. They had invited sadhus from all sects. They built such a large platform that a hundred sadhus could sit together on it. The organizer made countless efforts, pleaded with folded hands, asking all the sadhus to sit together on the stage just once. Not even two sadhus agreed to sit together, because no one could sit lower than another. Two Shankaracharyas were present, but neither agreed to sit, because each wanted his throne to be higher than the other’s. In the end, on that hundred-person platform, that platform for a hundred speakers, they had to have one person speak at a time. The others couldn’t even sit and listen, because he would go to his camp... the one who spoke went back to his camp. Another sadhu spoke; they escorted him back to his camp. No two sadhus could sit together on the stage. So you would be surprised—what is the matter?

Right now the whole country has this difficulty: if two sadhus meet, who should bow first—that is the problem. So two sadhus don’t want to meet at all, for fear of who will bow first. Two sadhus also don’t want to meet because of the question: who should go to meet whom? Did you go to meet them, or did they come to meet you? This is very important. We don’t see it; otherwise, the so-called sadhu is occupied with such things. He nourishes such vanity as cannot be measured.

All that is not very important to ponder. It is not important how it came and what happened; what matters is to know how it can come. Only two things are important: first, that we exist; and second, that we are full of suffering—full of ignorance. This much is worth considering: that we are steeped in suffering and ignorance. Whether we have come through many births or not—these are all hypotheses, our beliefs. There are beliefs of twenty-five kinds: someone believes we have not come before; someone believes this is the first birth; someone believes there are fifty births—none of this has anything to do with it. The essential facts are those about which we need not think at all—what is present. Where we do not have to hypothesize—what is immediate.

In the present, the simple fact is that you and I exist, and we are full of suffering; and we are not satisfied with the state we are in. This is a fact about which people of any religion need not think differently; it is a real fact. The rest is merely the mind’s elaboration. It is a real fact that I am filled with suffering. It is also a real fact that I do not agree with this suffering—I want to rise above it. Then only one inquiry remains: how can the rising happen? The rest is secondary, and does not have much value. For even if you think about it, what will you do? What difference will it make? Only these few things are important. That is, out of our vast thinking we should grasp only those few things that are truly essential.

That... question... For some it will happen after six months, for some after a year. This world will remain—when you are no longer here, when I am no longer here, even then it will remain. Even then, some will begin, and some will not. But what will I gain by worrying about this? Of what use is it to me to worry: who is six months behind? who six months later? who a thousand years earlier, who a thousand years later? Of what use will it be to me?

Is it not possible that I am searching for some device, some excuse, so that I don’t have to begin? No... but the great secret is that we often find excuses even behind very fine ideas. For example, if I don’t begin today I will think, “The time hasn’t yet dawned.” When the right time dawns, only then will it happen. What is in my hands now? Right now it hasn’t dawned for me; the one for whom it has dawned will do it now. For whom it dawns after six months, he will do it after six months. Perhaps this whole notion of “the right time” is only a way of hiding the fact that I am not doing.

Yes, it is within our capacity to do it. We can. If we could not, the very longing to become silent would never arise in us. The longing that “I should be silent” is the hidden indication that we can be. The longing that “bliss should be attained” is the sign that bliss can be attained. Otherwise there would be no thirst, no longing. Whatever we do—do or do not do—at some center within us this longing remains. That longing is a message from a sleeping inner endeavor. And if we make the effort, that inner endeavor can awaken, and the longing can be fulfilled. It is asleep somewhere within us. There are many ways to awaken it; religious people have devised them—but we manage to misuse every device.

There is a story. In the very beginning, when Buddha attained enlightenment, he came to Kashi. He stayed under a tree outside the city, alone. At that time there was no crowd, no sangha, no one who knew him. He had not yet given any teachings. But enlightenment had happened, and its diffused light had begun to be visible around him. People could feel that something had happened. One evening the king of Kashi drove his chariot outside the city. He was deeply worried, burdened with many affairs of state. He stopped suddenly and said to the charioteer, “Stop! Who is this man lying under the tree?” At sunset, Buddha was sitting, leaning against a tree. “Stop,” the king said, “who is this man lying under the tree—so blissful, so peaceful? And there seems to be nothing with him. Let me meet him for a moment.” He got down and said to Buddha, “You appear to have nothing, yet you lie here so peaceful and carefree. I have everything, and I have neither carefreeness nor peace.” Buddha said, “One day I too was in the very state you are in. And today, the state I am in—if you wish—you can be in it right now. I have passed through both states; you have passed through only one. If you look at me, your inner endeavor can awaken. If, on seeing me, you feel humiliated, your inner endeavor can awaken. And you can let out a lion’s roar: I too shall become this.”

In my understanding, if we feel humiliated on seeing Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Jesus, our inner endeavor will awaken. But we are so clever that we never feel humiliated; instead, we honor them and go home. We bow at their feet. In truth, seeing them, we should feel humiliated. Something within us should be stirred: if it became possible for them, then I… But to avoid the awakening of our own endeavor, we say, “They are God, they are Tirthankaras, they are avatars; it can happen to them. We are ordinary folk—how can it happen to us?” These are our tricks. This is our way of escaping: by calling them avatars, Tirthankaras, gods, we wriggle out—“You are special, you can do it; how will we?”

And thus we lose a most precious opportunity for the awakening of our inner endeavor by calling them Tirthankaras. We need to regard them as utterly ordinary, like us. But that will hurt us. It will cause deep self-reproach. If we consider even Mahavira utterly ordinary, just like us, then we will be pierced by the question: what are we doing with our lives? If he, being like us, could attain this state, then what are we doing sitting here? To avoid this self-reproach, we say, “You are a Tirthankara, you are God, and we are ordinary people. We can only worship; we can do nothing else.” This is our self-deceptive mind; it has invented all these theories—of Tirthankaras, avatars, gods, and so on. The truth is, they are exactly like us—one day. And then, one day, they are suddenly no longer like us. The revolution that happens in them can happen in us too, if we take them as ordinary and make the effort. Mahavira and Buddha tried their best to be taken as ordinary men; that is why they denied God and denied avatarhood. But we are very clever—we found new words: if not avatar, then Tirthankara; if not Tirthankara, then at least a Buddha—but be divine; we will worship you.

The sum and substance of the awakening of inner endeavor is simply this: something lies dormant in us, a certain energy. If it can awaken—if we can call to it—that energy can bring about this revolution within us. If we do not call it, life goes on. It just goes on…

As for explanations, I have no interest in seeking them. Let us grasp the actual facts before us. We are unhappy—that is a fact. Whether there was a past birth or whether there will be a future birth is not a fact for us now. The fact is: I am unhappy. And another fact is: I have the longing to rise above unhappiness. Then only one thing remains: I am unhappy, and I long to rise above it—so let me seek the way out of unhappiness. Beyond this there is nothing meaningful. Beyond this is punditry: many scriptures to read, much study to do, and plenty of monks ready to explain their commentaries. And with all that, life goes on as it is; nothing happens.

Those who make this distinction—I am not giving my own view—say: mere knowledge has been attained by many. But among those who attain only knowledge, the ones who set a tirth in motion, who reestablish the whole dharma so that through that path others too can reach that state of pure knowing—those are different. By attaining only knowledge, they themselves are liberated. By attaining only knowledge and then inaugurating a tirth, reestablishing the religion—such restorers, in their reckoning, are twenty-four. They are the restorers of dharma. The idea is: once a Tirthankara establishes the path, after some years it dissolves; the way becomes obstructed again, and the one who reestablishes it is a keval-jnani Tirthankara. They have even devised twenty-five explanations: that in a past birth he binds the karma of becoming a Tirthankara; then he can be a Tirthankara. One who does not bind such karma will not be a Tirthankara. But these are not my positions.

My view is that whoever comes to true dharma and speaks about it is a Tirthankara. I am stating my own understanding. Whoever comes to true dharma and does not speak of it is not a Tirthankara; he is simply one who has attained—only a knower. As for this speaking or not speaking: to me, thinking in this way, there are millions of Tirthankaras in the world—there always have been, and always will be. I include all those who, having realized truth, have ever said anything to anyone about it, pointed in that direction—even if to just one person—then he sets a tirth in motion.

And even this is not something he does as a doing. As realization happens, a very natural, spontaneous urge arises to share that experience with others. There is nothing contrived—no effort, calculation, or plan to tell someone. It is almost like this: if my heart is filled with perfect love, if for twenty-four hours my consciousness is saturated with love, then whoever comes near me I will be able to give him nothing but love.

There was a Muslim Sufi mystic woman named Rabia. Somewhere in the Quran there is a saying about hating Satan. Rabia crossed that verse out. To alter the Quran in any way is considered a grave impropriety, a great sin—and to strike out a verse is the limit of sin. A fakir named Bayazid stayed at her house. Early in the morning he asked for the Quran to read. Seeing that a verse had been crossed out, he was astonished. He said, “Who has made this correction? Who is the fool who edits the Quran?” Rabia said, “I myself have.” Bayazid was shocked: “You are mad!” Rabia said, “Since my heart became quiet, there is no hatred in it—so how can I hate Satan? Even if Satan were to stand before me, I could love him as much as I can love God. Because he no longer remains within me. Now I do not love and hate; I am filled with love—so only love happens.” One who is filled with knowing will spontaneously radiate knowing.

We too disseminate ignorance. If we understand this, we will also understand the knower’s radiating of knowledge. We may not even know what the soul is, and yet we will certainly find someone to tell—and we will tell him, “The soul is this, and religion is that.” We spread ignorance. In the same way, when the state of knowing is attained, just as effortlessly as we spread ignorance, one begins to spread knowledge. So there is nothing contrived in it. All the people in the world who, having attained dharma, have indicated anything about it to anyone—these are all Tirthankaras for me. This is my own view. As for the traditional Jain thinking, their reckoning is as they say.

So I come to know two things: the known and knowledge. The knower does not come into view. This is one state of knowledge. And there is another state of knowledge in which there is no known at all—there is knowledge, and the knower is evident. There are these three points, aren’t there—the known, knowledge, and the knower. We notice the known, and we notice knowledge; we do not notice the knower. This is false knowledge. The one who is knowing is not noticed; only that which is being known is noticed. If the known is not, and the knower remains along with knowledge, that is right knowledge. When the knower is apparent and the capacity to know is apparent, that is right knowledge. There will be a shift from false knowledge to right knowledge.

If you understand this correctly, then when the known is no longer found, the knower too will not be found—because they were interrelated. There was a known, therefore we called it a knower. When there is no known at all, we will not even call it a knower. Then there will be the experience of knowledge alone. One will experience that only knowledge is. The experience of that knowledge-only has been called only knowledge. There will be awareness only of the power to know. No one is knowing, nothing is being known—only the pulsation of knowing remains. Only pure consciousness remains. It is not consciousness of anything. There is no one who is conscious; only pure consciousness remains.

This pure consciousness is also experienced in samadhi. But in samadhi it remains for a short while and dissolves. If it begins to be experienced continuously, twenty-four hours a day, it becomes only knowledge. The initial glimpses of only knowledge begin to be had in samadhi; and when samadhi spreads over the full twenty-four hours, that will be only knowledge.

For knowledge alone to remain is for both the knower and the known to disappear. Right now it is difficult for us to grasp how knowledge alone could remain, because at present, whenever we know knowledge, we are knowing something. For now I can only say this much. But if the experiment of meditation goes on, some day in samadhi it will seem that I alone remained—only knowledge remained. No one was knowing, nothing was being known—there was only knowledge. Only a bare consciousness remained. In that moment the first taste will be known; it will give the indication of what it means for knowledge alone to remain.

There are some things that words can convey only when accompanied by experience. And the truth is that even in ordinary life, words tell us something only when there is experience. For example, I say “door.” My word can give you some information because you too know a door. If you did not know a door, my word would resound in your ear—“door”—but there would be no sense of meaning. The word does not give meaning; meaning comes from one’s own, direct familiarity with the thing. I say “door,” and if you are familiar with a door, my word becomes meaningful. If you are not, my word remains only a sound, with no meaning in it.

So even in ordinary life, words are meaningful only when there is ordinary experience behind them. In religious life the difficulty is that there the words go on resounding. I say “soul”—it is a sound, not meaning. Until there too there is experience, it remains only a sound. From it nothing is understood—what? In one ear the word resonates, “soul,” and then it fades. Meaning will come only when a little experience arises on the other side.

A Muslim fakir, Farid, met Kabir. Farid was on a journey. Kabir lived near Maghar, close to Kashi, in those days. When he was passing nearby, Kabir’s devotees said, “Let us hold Farid for two days. If the two of you have a discussion, we will greatly enjoy it.” Kabir said, “You may hold him if you wish, and enjoy yourselves if you like; a discussion is unlikely.” They thought he was joking. Farid’s disciples too, who were traveling with him, said, “It would be good if Kabir’s ashram comes on the way; let us stay there. You will have a discussion; we will enjoy it.” He said, “You may stay if you wish, and perhaps you will enjoy it, but a discussion is unlikely.” When the devotees met, they told each other what had been said. The two met, they embraced, they laughed heartily. They stayed together two days, but the astonishing thing is that neither of them spoke. After two days, Kabir even escorted Farid to the edge of the village; they embraced again—but the conversation never happened. Both groups of devotees were very troubled and, returning, asked, “We waited these two days—couldn’t they at least speak?” Kabir said, “Speak what? What he knows, I know.” Farid too said, “What he knows, I know.” Their experience is exactly the same—there is nothing to say.

This is the wondrous thing about the religious life: if the inner experience becomes exactly the same, there is nothing left to speak. And until the experience is the same, whatever is spoken carries no meaning. One can go on speaking, but there is no meaning; and when the experience becomes one, there is nothing to speak—only then can meaning be shared. That is what we call only knowledge. A few things can be explained; yet it is not clear that much understanding arises from explanation. That is why we so often feel unsatisfied after “understanding” the point. Satisfaction will not come. It will come the day there is even a slight glimpse of that state in which only knowledge remains.

This has been my experience, and gradually I began to say: the scriptures—those of religion—if read after practice, will give some joy; if read before practice, they will give no joy. With a little practice, many words become so meaningful that practice opens their meaning. Then each word will seem to open your experience. My view is somewhat contrary: I hold that the yogic scriptures are not for the seeker to read; they are for the accomplished one. Although by then there is no need to read at all—read or don’t read. But they are for the accomplished one, only for recognition: “What names did the sages of old give to what has come to me?” Beyond that they have no great significance.

Every tradition gives words—the Jains, the Buddhists, the Hindus, the Yogis; each tradition gives words. When for the first time a seeker has the experience of samadhi, nothing occurs to him—what shall I call this? There are simply no words. Suppose I enter a house and, for the first time, see some thing placed in the room. I will certainly see it, I will experience it; but what word shall I give it? Words are given by tradition. So when a person first realizes the Self, he does not know what word to give it. If he has grown up in the Buddhist tradition, their scriptures will tell him what name to give it. If in the Jain tradition, their scriptures will tell him what to call that experience. Their texts give the characteristics as well as the names. The characteristics will inform him that exactly this has happened, and he will receive a name.

Traditions give only names; they do not give knowledge. Knowledge comes from experience; the names come from tradition. Our situation is the reverse: we first read the names. Knowledge never comes—we just learn the names; and then from them we go on asking questions and remain entangled our whole lives—“What is that? What is this?” Nothing is resolved by that. Drop all concern for names, words, doctrines—do not worry about them. Let there be only one concern: that something should happen within me.

You are saying that it would be useful to understand the knower and the known a little more deeply. Whenever I am knowing an object—any object—the known leaves an effect upon me. I see you; a reflection, an impression remains inside me. When I see you again tomorrow, I will not see you directly; I will see you through that reflection. That reflection will come in between—“I saw him yesterday; it is the same person”—and through it I will look at you. It may be that the night has changed you completely. You may have become a totally different person. Yesterday you may have come in anger; today you may have come in love. But my knowledge of yesterday will stand before me; it will be my memory. Through that I will know you.

In truth, through the twenty-four hours, whatever we claim to know, we are not knowing the real. We interpret it through the accumulation of memory. Through this memory we interpret what is “to be known.” Hence, we do not truly know the known either: there is a veil of memory in between. If yesterday you abused me and today you come again, I think, “Where has this wretch come from?” It may be you have come to ask forgiveness, to say, “Yesterday was a mistake; I was not conscious, I was drunk.” But I am thinking, “Where has this gentleman come from?” The curtain of yesterday stands between us. I will not see the face that is present now; first I will see the face that was present yesterday.

Memory always stands between the knower and the known. Therefore we do not know the known, and the accumulation of memory is what we take to be the knower. This is the confusion: we cannot know the known because memory intervenes; and the heap, the accumulation of memory, we take to be the one who knows.

If someone asks you, “Who are you?” what will you say? You will offer some memories: “I am so-and-so’s son”—that is a memory. “In thirty years I have had these experiences”—you will narrate some of them. “I have studied this much; I work there; I am this, I am that”—all are your memories of thirty years. Their accumulation is what you call “I.” Sometimes, when due to injury memory dissolves, and such a person is asked, “Who are you?” he stands there, blank; no memory comes.

Imagine for a moment that your memory is wiped clean and then you are asked, “Who are you?” You will simply stand there. No answer will occur, because every answer you give comes from memory. The collection of memory—that is what we take ourselves to be.

Memory does not allow the known to be known; the stockpile of memory does not allow the knower to be known. Behind memory the knower is hidden; before memory the known is seated. In between flows the stream of memory: on that side, the known; on this side, the knower; in the middle, memory. Memory allows neither the known to be known nor the knower to be known. If memory is dissolved, I will see the known for the first time—and for the first time, instantaneously.

This will not happen as two separate events, because the knower and the known will be known together. The moment I see the known, in that very moment the knower too is seen. They will not be known separately, but together—as a single experience. And that togetherness will be so deep that I will no longer feel the known is separate and the knower is separate; I will, in truth, experience knowing itself. I will experience only consciousness. If memory dissolves, there is only the experience of knowing—pure consciousness.

When we say Mahavira, or others, became free of all past karmas, I see that karma is, in essence, nothing but memory. Bondage to karma means bondage to memory. It is not karma that sticks; only memory sticks—memory of what has been done, the world of what has been done.

What Mahavira calls nirjara is, in essence, de-memorization—the shedding of memory. Call them impressions, samskaras, or memory. We call “memory” what we consciously remember, but many impressions exist in us that we do not consciously recall; yet they are present in the unconscious and can all be brought to remembrance. If I work with you, even your past lives can be recalled. A whole stream of memory can become available; layer by layer can be uncovered, and it will all run like a film—this happened, then this, then this.

If your entire memory is laid bare, you will be astonished: once an impression is stamped on consciousness, it remains. All impressions are memory. If I ask you right now, “What did you do on January 1, 1950?” you will say you don’t remember—that it’s forgotten. It has not been forgotten; it is still present. If I hypnotize you and ask, you can recount that single day as if seeing it now.

For some time I used to experiment, and I was amazed—people hardly forget anything. Then I worried: perhaps on a given date they didn’t actually do what they are saying; perhaps, under hypnosis, they are babbling. So with a few people I kept regular notes: I met them today; I noted what we spoke; what they were doing. Six months later, under hypnosis, I asked; they would tell me, “You met me at two o’clock and said such-and-such.” In their waking state they had no idea whether we had even met that day. Gradually I experimented with previous births too. You will be astonished: even the impressions formed in the mother’s womb can be recalled. The moment of conception in the mother’s belly can be recalled. Then gently further back—the impressions from the previous birth can also be recalled. The entire stories of birth and death can return to memory. They are all memory.

If someone becomes utterly free of memory, that is nirjara. If all these memories fall away, if one becomes separate from them and knows, “I am not in these memories; I am outside them, other than them,” and if the conditioning born of memory dissolves—that is liberation. To be free of memory is moksha; to revolve within memory is the world. In the dissolution of memory, whatever is, is seen. In the dissolution of memory, consciousness awakens.

The preliminary experiments begin with the dissolution of thought, because memory is only the tail end of the stream of thought—nothing particularly special.

No, there is no question of first and second. In fact, first and second arise only in memory. For example, I am sitting here and I begin looking from this side. Naturally, I see someone first, someone second, someone third. But while I am looking at the first, the second is fully present at that very moment; when I am looking at the third, the other two are still present. We are all here simultaneously. Yet when I look and later remember, in my memory I will have seen one first, then another, then the third.

In existence, everything is simultaneous. Only in memory are there past, present, and future. In the world itself they are nowhere. In the world there is no past, in the world there is no future; there is a continuous present. Nowhere in the world is any past stored up; nowhere is any future waiting to open.

The world is an eternal now—an eternity, moment to moment. The actual world is a continuous flow. Yes, in our memory there are past, present, and future. Therefore time—what you call time—is only something born of memory. Time is nowhere. Past, present, and future are parts of memory, nothing else. Hence, one whose memory disappears enters timelessness; for him there is no sense of time.

That is why it has been said: samadhi is beyond time, timeless; it is outside of time. In samadhi there is no time, no temporal sequence, no spatial field—there is only pure being. The sequence that exists in memory—some things before, some after, some ahead—out of that sequence, time is made.

If all memory were to dissolve—just understand it for a moment—if all your memories dissolved, you could not know that first you were born and later you died. It will sound very strange: if all memories dissolved, you could not even say your birth came first and death later. Perhaps in that memoryless state these so-called events have not happened at all. You would not know when you were born or when you died, because “when”—the relation of before and after—belongs to memory.

When memory dissolves, the “before–after” dissolves, the sequence dissolves. Hence a very wondrous thing becomes visible to me: Mahavira was liberated twenty-five hundred years ago, and if you become liberated now, we think you became free twenty-five hundred years after him. But in the realm of consciousness, both are being liberated simultaneously—at one and the same time. Outwardly this will look strange; it won’t seem acceptable. It is our memory that does the twenty-five-hundred-years of before and after. In the world of consciousness all are being liberated together, and bound together. There is no time there, no before and after. Yes, it all adjusts together.

Yes—when a person goes mad, only memory is left of the man. He has no awareness of his own self at all; only memory remains. You will be surprised: from the day he becomes mad, he retains no memory of anything after that day. All the memories from before remain. If a person went mad this morning, whatever he talks about will be from before this morning; he will say nothing of after this morning. No memory of what happens after this morning is being formed. Now only the memories from before this morning are there; he will keep repeating them. He will speak them, babble them, go on with the same things. He has completely lost awareness. And from the very moment he lost awareness, the memories up to that moment will go on repeating. That is why he appears mad to us: he will always be incongruent, out of tune. Nothing of the present can affect him; only the impressions of the past remain upon him.

Therefore, between the madman and the liberated, at the level of direct experience, certain things seem similar. In the madman only past experiences remain; no experiences of the present are being born. He looks mad because he has no harmony with the present. And the liberated, the realized, too will appear somewhat mad to us, because in him there remain no memories of the past, nor of the future, nor of the present. In him, too, we sense a faint flavor of madness.

Hence, no matter how much respect we offer to monks and saints, a small doubt persists in us: are they not a bit mad? Our feeling, somewhere, keeps a suspicion about their madness; at some edge they seem close to the mad. In their eyes you will see the same vacuum that you see in a madman’s eyes—the same vacuum: as if, while looking at you, they are not really seeing you; as if, while speaking to you, they are not really speaking to you; as if, while being right beside you, they are far away. In the eyes there seems a vacuum, as if no reflection of you is forming there; they are not catching any memory of you.

So when you gaze into the eyes of the greatest siddha, the first impression you will have will be of the mad. There is a slight kinship between the two. In both, their relationship with memory has become alike. In one, memories have shattered because of disturbance; whatever had formed earlier floats within him in agitation. His whole life has become incoherent. In the other, memories have fallen away because of undisturbed peace; in him, too, no waves arise. In one, everything has broken into fragments through turmoil; in the other, everything has dissolved through peace. They stand at utterly opposite poles, yet in one respect there is a certain resemblance between them. That is why devotees take the one they are devoted to as a sadhu, a siddha; and non-devotees keep taking him to be mad—and it makes no difference.

Samadhi is an event that happens by oneself. An event done through another brings you no benefit—perhaps harm. You get no benefit. He may make you perform certain psychic feats, but you gain nothing; rather, you are harmed. The rhythm and harmony of your psychic body will be damaged by such experiments; there will be obstruction. And when, through your own practice, you naturally move out of the body, there is no harm; instead, you experience some secrets and mysteries within. Hypnosis is unconsciousness—something happens in you while you are unconscious. Samadhi is complete awareness—something happens in awareness.
When something happens within you in awareness, you become acquainted with new facts of the mystery of your world and your life. That acquaintance supports you in self-cultivation. In hypnosis you do not become acquainted—you are unconscious. You gain no benefit, though the event that occurs is almost the same.

Yes, that is possible; that is possible.

It happens by force.

A hypnotist? Yes. One can even auto-hypnotize oneself. One can auto-hypnotize too. That can be done as well.

It is nothing but hypnosis.

Yes—there is no way without hypnosis. If old memories are to be awakened, there is no way without hypnosis. Or else... if one hypnotizes oneself, then there is a way. In this land the use of hypnosis is very ancient. But it has never been used in the way they are using it in the West. Here, hypnosis too was used in support of sadhana (spiritual practice). Through hypnosis many helps can be given to a person in sadhana. Those helps were provided through it. No other use of hypnosis was ever made. In the West they have begun other uses, because they have no connection with self-sadhana. So there harmful results have begun to appear. That is why there, in America, they are even considering making a law against hypnosis—because it can have very harmful consequences. Others can be caused a great deal of harm.

Yes, that too; that benefit can also be transmitted.