Prem Nadi Ke Teera #2

Your inspiration must be yours, it must be. Only then will you be able to move; otherwise you will not move at all—rather, you will get entangled in new complications. In fact, we all are moving on someone else’s inspiration. And this is where the difficulty arises—this is how the whole matter has become.

Just now a gentleman came to me with his wife. The wife is perfectly fine, healthy. But whenever she reads the description of some illness in any magazine, in any book, she immediately gets that very illness.

The suggestion grips her.

In the magazine Dharm-Yug, whenever an issue appears with something related to medicine, she reads it. And whatever is written there—if it says that in this disease there is pain in the stomach—then her stomach starts hurting. They have been harried, going from doctor to doctor. The doctors are prescribing medicines. You said there is stomach pain—then take medicine for pain.

But she does not have stomach pain at all. The stomach pain is only suggested pain. And the medicine will only give more trouble. Because if a medicine matches the disease, it cures; if it does not, it creates disease. So they brought her to me. He said, I am in a fix—what is to become of her now?

I told him: Nothing is happening to her. This is a common experience in medical colleges—that in the first-year classes, whichever disease is taught at the beginning, thirty percent of the boys and girls begin to “have” that very disease. This is common experience. Because the whole description is given: in stomach pain, such-and-such happens. And immediately the mind runs to one’s own stomach—Could this be happening to me? And, of course, a little something is always happening in the stomach. Then imagination gives it room; then the suggestion takes hold.

Many illnesses in the world are illnesses of our fancy. I am saying this because, in the same way, many of our inspirations are of our fancy.

A man reads the Gita. It could be he was traveling on a train; there was nothing else to do, so he read the Gita. There he read that from attaining God the greatest bliss arises. So he felt he should attain God—because bliss is obtained. He has no concern with God; his concern is with bliss. His concern is with bliss. Until now he was searching for bliss—sometimes in alcohol, sometimes in the cinema, sometimes in sex. He read in that book that it comes from God.

Now he stops speaking of bliss; he goes around asking people, How can God be attained? A completely false disease has gripped him. This is how it is—now the poor fellow will fall into great difficulty. Because within him there is nowhere the source of the search for Ishwar. Therefore, even if he asks, he will do nothing; even if he does something, he will reach nowhere. Because he will never be able to be totally in it, and he will get caught in a whirl.

My own understanding is that such inspirations put us into many kinds of wrong circles. The greatest entanglement in a human being is this: you do not move according to your own understanding at all. Someone else is giving you understanding. The father is pouring it into the son; the mother is pouring it into the daughter; the school is pouring; the college is pouring; guru, sadhu, sannyasi—everyone is at you—busy “improving” you. And together they spoil you. Because they give so many, so many inspirations that you no longer even know what your own inspiration was—whether you had any of your own at all.

So I say this too: just as one must be on guard with the scriptures, so also be on guard with inspiration. So that your own inspiration can become clear to you—what is the inspiration of your own life? What do you want? Today, if we ask any boy what he wants, it is not certain that what he says is what he truly wants. It could be that what he says is what his father wants. He says, I want to become an engineer—this is what his father wants. The poor fellow is trapped. And his whole life will be caught in a trap. Because the father wanted him to become an engineer, and he mistook it for his own inspiration.

This whole difficulty deforms man; it does not make him healthy. My own understanding is that you should not read the scriptures as inspiration either. Read scripture only as introduction. As an introduction, as acquaintance. What does the Gita say?—and don’t quickly turn it into inspiration. In fact, don’t make it inspiration at all. It is a great joy to discover this: that I must find my inspiration from within myself—what is it that I want to attain? Many times it happens that you want a pebble, and you set out to search for a diamond. If the diamond is found you will not be fulfilled. Because what you needed was a pebble—and if that is not found, dissatisfaction will remain. And a pebble will never be found, because you never set out to find it.

In life, whatever it is that you feel you want to attain—search for it within. Be on guard with the father, be on guard with the mother, be on guard with the guru, be on guard with the scripture—and search for this: I too... apart from guru, father, mother, school, college—do I not have an existence of my own? And for what am I here in this world? Am I here to attain something—or am I here for nothing at all? Am I merely the sum of other people’s desires and the sum of other people’s advice? Then I am not a man—I have become a bundle, with nothing inside. So I should undertake my own search. And the very moment you come to know your own inspiration—Here is my source—just so, a brightness begins in your life. Because it was your search.

Search, in truth, happens not through paths. It happens through the spontaneous inspiration within you. As, for example, in our country—whomever you see, everyone is religious. This is impossible! Go to France, to Paris—whomever you see, everyone is a painter. This is impossible!

But in Paris there is a climate of painting. So anyone who is cultured—if he says, I don’t know painting—then he is uncultured. So whoever has even a little itch to be cultured, he is painting something or other. In Hindustan, whoever feels, Let me be a good man, he begins to turn into a sannyasi.

A person’s private inspiration is the real thing. Be saved even from the inspiration of others. Although others enjoy immensely giving you inspiration. They enjoy it very much. Because, in my understanding, the pleasure in giving inspiration to another is a kind of pleasure in violence—violence of a subtle sort.

When we start trying to make a man into something—We will make him like this—then we begin to play a game of toys with him. We have bound him in our fist. We do not see this. A father says, I will certainly make my son good. Then he will fashion a mold. If the son’s hands are a little long, he will trim them; if the feet are a little large, he will cut them to size. And thus, clipping and trimming, he will stand the son ready-made. He will be a proof of the father’s will, but he will not remain a living man. In this very making, he will have died.

Therefore, this making is a very subtle violence of our mind.

And in this world, to refrain from plunging a knife into someone’s chest is very easy. Generally no one stabs. But to refrain from plunging advice into another’s chest is very difficult. Because it is not seen. Yet that too becomes a dagger. After all, that the other should become as we want him to be—this very notion is absurd. Let the other become what he himself wants to be. But we have not yet agreed to this in the world. That is why a good world has not been born. No one is willing to let people be themselves. Everyone is busy making others. The wife is making the husband; the husband is making the wife. Everyone is making. Everyone is busy making one another. One must set him right. Those many women who say, If we do not set our husbands right, then they go astray...

I say, Even if he goes astray, he remains alive; now he is utterly deadened. And a wayward, living man is better than a made-up, dead one. He has become a gobar-Ganesh—a dull, cow-dung idol. He has been made, finished, packaged. He has become completely obedient—his very life has gone into that. So you got your satisfaction that you made him perfectly—but has the man even remained alive or not? This slips beyond our awareness.

Mahatmas are there, sadhus are there, sannyasis are there—the delight they take is the delight of great violence. So I do not say: take inspiration. I say only this: find your own inspiration. And if you find your own inspiration, then with however many inspirations there are in this world that are commensurate with yours, a harmony will arise. That is quite another matter. But first your inspiration must be—so that harmony can happen. If your search is for music, then a harmony with some Ravi Shankar will arise—this is another matter.

But there is no search for music at all. You saw Ravi Shankar playing the sitar—became inspired—brought home a sitar and began to play. Now in this, one sitar got spoiled; you too got spoiled. And what you could have become—you will not become that either. And a world of sorrow has begun. So this is our entire difficulty: inspiration too is a great difficulty. And there is a need to be saved from it—and also to be saved from giving inspiration to another.

It may seem so; there is no contradiction. In fact, we cannot help breaking things into two parts. We look at things by splitting them into two opposing halves. We say: this is darkness, and that is light. But in life, darkness and light are not two things. In life they are the gradations of one and the same thing—degrees of one thing, not two. Yes, degrees of the same thing. What we call light is the dense degree of that very thing; what we call darkness is its rarefied degree. Darkness and light are not two hostile opposites. In the same way, action and nonaction are not enemies. Travel from either side and you arrive at the same place, because deep down the two are one.

So when I say nonaction—the path of nonaction—if one can drop all action and become inactive, and drop all thought and become thought-free, one will reach samadhi. But you can neither drop thought nor drop action. From my experience I have found that perhaps one in a thousand is barely to be found who can go straight into nonaction.

No, no—if you can, by all means do it; that is not the point. That is not the point. If it is possible, do it and move on from it. What I am saying is this: hardly one in a thousand can go straight into non-doing. Then I had to consider, what is the difficulty? It had never occurred to me, because for me going into non-doing is so simple that going into doing is not that simple. So I found myself in this difficulty: what is going on? I make a thousand people do it; sometimes one, two go deep. The remaining nine hundred and ninety-eight remain empty.

So it occurred to me that these nine hundred and ninety-nine people cannot go straight into non-doing. First they have to be taken into the full tension of doing. When they reach the full climax of doing, then, by letting go from there, they are compelled to move into non-doing on their own.

It’s like this: suppose this is my hand, and you tell me, “Relax it.” I will ask, “How do I relax it?” All right, I let it go—but nothing really changes; it is as it was. Then it occurred to me: clench the fist tight—tighten it with all your strength; put your whole force into it until you have no strength left. When it is fully tensed, then I say to you, “Relax.” Now, immediately… because of these two extremes, a movement happens at once.

I have found that with this experiment I am having you do, it will be possible for about sixty percent of people—sixty out of a hundred. When they go into intense doing—because the aim is to lead into non-doing—the last phase I lead into non-doing.… Yes, those three stages are to bring intensity to doing. Let it become so intense that you yourself begin to feel, “Now quickly say, ‘Let go.’” That is, I need not say, “Drop the doing”; you yourself start looking for the way: “Now two minutes remain—how will this drop so I can move into ease?” When you go fully into tension, moving into non-tension becomes absolutely natural for you.

And if someone can go directly, then there is no need to do this at all. Yet even then, try it once—because the depth you received directly need not necessarily be very deep; it could be shallow. And if this gives you more depth than that, then it is useful. Some friends who were experimenting with that method, when they did this, said their depth increased a lot. There are reasons for that.

Our mind finds it very easy to change at the extremes—very easy. For example, we tell a child, “Sit quietly in the corner.” Even if he sits, he will still fidget in the same way—because we told him to sit, so he sits in the corner; what he used to do roaming the whole room, he will now do there. One way is to tell him, “First run fifty laps around the house.” He runs those fifty laps, and he says, “I’ve done twenty-five; may I stop now?” We say, “No, complete all fifty.” Again and again he says, “Now it’s too much; may I stop?” We say, “No—first complete fifty.” And then we don’t even need to tell him to sit in the corner: the moment fifty are done, he himself goes and sits in the corner.

Now the sitting that happens is basically different. The difference is this: the inner movement has itself become ready to relax. And in this relaxation, greater depth is possible. But if it happens from the first experiment…

(Question recording unclear.)

No, it doesn’t; it doesn’t. What I am telling you—this experiment has never been prescribed. There are reasons. This is not the aim of yogasana; the aims of yogasana are quite the opposite—very different. What I am saying should be called an experiment in tension. It is a process of tension—so much tension that you would go absolutely mad.

But there is one delight in it: since the madness is intentional—because you yourself are creating it—you can drop it any second. And the moment you drop it, it departs. One kind of madness is that which comes over you; if it comes, it is beyond your hands to drop it. This is a madness we create ourselves. And because we are creating it ourselves, in one sense we are always outside it. Even if we create it in every possible way, within, by one thread, we stand outside—and we know that (inaudible…) it too becomes you. Because (inaudible…) we have created all of it; it is intentional, voluntary.

And since it is voluntary, it has twofold advantages. First, we remain separate and the madness remains separate. Even when your body is dancing, you can remain separate and see: my body is dancing—or I am crying. There is another kind of crying: your wife has died and you are crying—then you cannot remain separate, seeing, “Someone else is crying and I am watching.” Then separation is impossible, because you are the one doing the act. And if you want to stop the crying right then, you cannot—because it did not come from your own hand.

Since this comes from your own hand, you remain outside the whole time; therefore the experience of witnessing happens very easily. And the second thing is: because it can be ended at any moment, you experience tension, and immediately alongside it, non-tension as well. So in comparison, the distances become clear to you—in contrast. When you relax directly, you do not even know what has happened.

It is like writing with white letters on a black sheet. If you prepare the black sheet in thirty minutes and then the white letters in ten minutes—both will appear completely clear to you: these are my two extremes; this mind of mine can do two things—it can go into this much tension and into this much peace. These two poles stand very clearly before you. And the benefits are astonishing—because once you become capable of producing voluntary madness, of producing tension, then gradually you will stand outside the non-voluntary as well.

Gurdjieff was a fakir. If someone went to him saying, “I get very angry”—if someone came to me today and said, “I get very angry”—if he had gone to Gurdjieff, he would do something: he would say, “Stay here for fifteen days, and whenever you get a chance, be as angry as you can.” Then he would arrange a thousand opportunities. And he would make him do voluntary anger—“Do full anger. If anger comes, do it fully—don’t hold it back. If you have to thrash about, thrash. If you have to break things, break them—do it completely.”

But when someone does anger voluntarily, he immediately becomes a witness. The moment witnessing happens, he sees, “What am I doing?” And because it is his own doing, he can stop it right then. Once you learn to turn anger on and off, you can turn real anger on and off too—because there is no difference; it is the same thing. Only the button was unknown—that it can be on-off.

So with this experiment in tension, if you do it, you can switch off any tension at once—“Let me see what its experience is”—any tension. My own understanding is this—and we are even arranging it—that if a mad person can be made to do this experiment, then in twenty-one days he can be brought out of madness—provided there is enough awareness in him to agree to do the experiment, that’s all. He can be brought completely out—because we can take him to the full tension of madness. And when he himself sees that madness can be brought and taken away, that it is a matter of his own hand, then he will no longer remain in the hands of madness.

Whatever is in our hands does not take us into its hands. Therefore I believe that rather than goodness being in our hands, it should be clearly known that our “badness” is in our hands—then we do not remain victims in its hands, no. And I change the meditation method in every camp. The reason is: if one method seems right to you, you go straight on with it; but these others did not find that method right—why should I keep them stuck in it? I give them another method. That one fits them; they move along with it.

There are one hundred and twelve meditation experiments possible, and all are effective. My difficulty is that even in running a single experiment, there are so many troubles beyond measure. But all the experiments can be run. And with those one hundred and twelve experiments in total, not a single person will remain for whom some experiment will not work. So when we feel, “It doesn’t happen for me,” the main reason is that the technique does not suit us. There can be no other reason. It is not a question of your past lives; nor that you drink alcohol; nor that you smoke. These are all meaningless things—irrelevant. The real, deeper issue is simply that the techniques we are using do not suit you—there is no other reason.

So take the technique that suits you. Therefore do not bring contradiction into it. There are many differences among them, but no opposition. At the foundation, the point is to take you to the same place.