From a small incident I would like to speak to you today.
A very great emperor had died. His bier was being taken out. Hundreds of thousands had gathered along the roads to see it. There was a strange sight: from the bier, both hands of the corpse were protruding outside. Whoever saw it felt the question arise within — never had they seen a bier where the dead man's hands were left outside. And it was not some ordinary person who had died, it was an emperor. Everyone began to ask: What is the matter? Why are the hands outside the bier?
Then slowly it became known that at the time of dying that emperor — whose name you all have heard: Alexander the Great, Sikandar — had said, Let my hands be kept outside the bier so that everyone may see that even my fists are empty.
Many years have passed since Alexander died. Neither before him nor after him have anyone’s hands been left outside a bier. But hands — whether left outside or kept within — after an entire life remain empty. And whether those hands belong to an emperor or to a beggar makes no difference. In life one may be a beggar and another an emperor — but death, death makes all equal. And that equality is the equality of empty hands. Everyone’s hands are equally empty.
I wished to tell you this to remind you of something: whomsoever death finds with empty hands must have been empty in life as well. It is impossible that one be full in life and death find his hands empty — for death is the very completion of life. As we live, so we die. Death is the announcement of the whole life — of what the life was. So if death finds empty hands, someone was living in illusion who thought himself full. He too was empty in life.
A few rare ones begin to see within their very lifetime that their hands are empty. Those who see that their hands are empty stop running after the world — after wealth and fame, position and prestige. But even they fall into a new race — to attain the Divine, to attain Moksha. And I wish to say to you over these three days: whoever runs remains always empty, whether he runs after God or after gold. Therefore not only emperors die with empty hands, and not only beggars — many sannyasins too die with empty hands.
Whatever is worth attaining in life cannot be attained by running. Life’s beauty, life’s truth, life’s music is not somewhere outside that one may run and grasp it. Whatever is outside requires a journey, movement, travel. But whosoever undertakes a journey to attain what is within will go astray — because if I have to reach you, I must walk and then I can arrive. But if I have to reach my own self, how can I arrive by walking? The more I walk, the farther I go away. If I am to arrive at myself, I will have to drop all walking, drop all running — then perhaps I may arrive.
So there is one path that goes outward, upon which one must walk, labor, reach. And there is another path upon which one need not walk — and whoever walks on it never arrives; upon it one must stop. And whoever stops, arrives. This may appear very upside-down. For till now we have known only this: that one who seeks finds; one who walks arrives; and the stronger one walks the sooner he reaches; the harder one runs the quicker he arrives. But in these three days I shall submit: whoever walks never arrives; and the more forcefully he walks, the more forcefully he goes far from himself.
Let me tell another small story.
At dusk two monks got off a boat at a riverbank as the sun was setting. One was young and one was old. They asked the boatman, Will we be able to reach that village wall shining in the setting sun before the sun goes down? There was a village nearby, surrounded by a fort wall, and the rule was that with sunset the gate would be closed. So they asked if they could reach before the sun dipped.
The old boatman said, If you go slowly you will reach; if you go in haste, reaching will be very difficult.
Both monks thought the man mad. Who would consider sensible one who says, If you walk slowly you will reach, and if you go fast you won’t? Anyone would think him insane. The whole world would, you too would. For in the world we only know running, we know haste. What is this? They did not tarry to hear more; it was not worth hearing. His first sentence itself was disturbing. They ran — which seemed proper. Logic says so, the intellect says so: If you must reach, run. And the sun is sinking, evening is coming, night will fall, the gates will close, reaching will be hard and you will have to stay outside. So they ran, with all the strength they had.
Soon the old monk fell. He had not the strength to run; on his head was a bundle of scriptures; the bundle fell, the scriptures scattered and their pages flew. Behind them the boatman had tied up his boat and was coming slowly with his oar. The young monk was cleaning the blood from the elder’s feet and bandaging him. The boatman came and said, Friends, I had told you: if you go gently, you will reach; if you go hard, you will not. Then it dawned on them that going slowly too is an art.
But he had said, If you go slowly, you will reach. In these three days I am here to say something even more mad. I am here to say: If you go at all, you will never reach. When even slow walking is taken as madness and speed seems intelligence, how will my words sound?
Yet there are reasons why I say so. Those reasons I will make clear slowly in these three days. Today, at the beginning, it is necessary to say a few things in seed form which in three days may become clear to you.
The very first thing is this: within man there is something. And whoever, without knowing that inner truth, searches for anything in life, searches in vain. If I do not even know what I am and who I am, what meaning can my whole search have? Whether the search be for wealth or position or fame — or for God or for Moksha — my whole search will be futile. For what I was, I never knew. And to know what I am — where shall one run? where go? what do?
To know this, all running must be dropped. To know this, all seeking must be let go and one must stop. For the mind that seeks becomes agitated, tense, restless. If I can drop all seeking and stop — no search in the mind, no idea of reaching anywhere, no place to go — what will happen? Where there is no agitation, no running, no seeking, an astonishing peace descends. A silence begins to come, a stillness begins to arise. For one who is not in the idea of running becomes instantly tranquil. And in that peace, the vision arises of what I am.
Therefore no one has ever found himself by seeking — only by stopping, by becoming still. We will talk about that in the coming days. But what will be found? If by dropping all seeking we become capable of knowing ourselves, what will be found?
This will be found: that the hands are not empty — it will be known. Now it seems to us that the hands are empty, therefore the urge to fill. Therefore we run and seek — somehow may we attain fullness, fulfillment. Because this emptiness frightens. It feels like poverty, like wretchedness — that I am nothing, I have nothing. We run, we rush. But no one has ever, by running and rushing, attained that fullness which is sought. Even those in whom everything gets accumulated remain inwardly poor. The beggar within them does not end. The one who asks within does not finish. He goes on asking and asking. His running too never ends.
A fakir named Farid once went to meet Akbar. The people of his village had told him: Pray to Akbar, your friend, to open a small school in the village. Farid went. He thought, Akbar has such power — will he refuse a school? He arrived very early in the morning. Akbar was doing his dawn namaz, his prayer. Farid stood behind. Akbar completed the namaz, folded his hands, and said, O God, increase my wealth! Expand my kingdom! Broaden my frontiers! Farid heard this and turned back. Akbar rose and saw Farid going down the steps, his back visible. He ran, stopped Farid, and asked, How come you came — and are going back?
Farid said, I thought I was going to an emperor. Here I found yet another beggar. I thought I would ask you for something for the village, but I saw that you yourself are asking. I was greatly mistaken. And now, if I must beg, I will beg of the One from whom you were begging — what need is there to take you as an intermediary? But one illusion of mine broke — that I thought the beggar within an emperor dies. That illusion broke. The garments become imperial; the soul remains a beggar.
In the world there are two kinds of beggars: some whose clothes are those of beggars, and some whose clothes are those of emperors. But as far as the soul is concerned, rarely is there an emperor. Almost all are beggars. The asking does not stop — one goes on asking.
Why does one go on asking? Why, even when everything is obtained, does the begging not end?
It does not end because even though everything is obtained, the inner emptiness, the inner void, does not fill. Outwardly, wealth accumulates; inwardly, the emptiness remains where it is. No difference is made — and cannot be made — because the wealth is outside and the emptiness is inside. How will outer wealth fill the inner void? There is no way. How will coins lying outside fill the inner hollowness? The outer goods will remain outside. Heaps will collect, and the inner pit will remain within. There is no meeting point between the two. They are separate domains. The inner poverty cannot be removed by outer prosperity because they never meet; they have no relationship.
But can there be an inner prosperity?
Some think there can. So they take to hymns, to worship, to prayer. They think, If wealth does not work, let us do bhajan; if the household does not work, if the world does not work, let us become sannyasins. They think, If position does not satisfy, let us attain God. But their God too remains outside, their bhajans are outside, their temple is outside. Wealth was outside, office was outside — this God too is outside. The One to whom they fold their hands and pray is outside. The God before whom they bow will be somewhere in the sky, somewhere else. The One to whom they pray will also be outside. For whom they sing songs and bhajans is also outside.
So if one leaves the outer world, an outer God is grasped instead. But still the within is not entered. For as many outer houses as there are, there are outer temples as well. The thing changes; the situation remains the same. Hence a man prays his whole life and still finds the inner emptiness where it was. It has not gone anywhere. He sings bhajans all his life and in the end finds that the words flew into the winds, and the inside that was empty is still empty.
In truth, the strange thing is that we set out to fill something that is already full! So neither wealth will fill it nor religion will fill it. Nothing can fill it. But if we agree to look directly into that emptiness, we will find that it seemed empty only because we had never looked toward it. There everything was already full.
Once a beggar died. And the patch of ground on which, in the marketplace, he had sat and begged all his life — after he died, thirty years later, the villagers removed his corpse, and as he had sat there for thirty years spreading his rags and filth, it was necessary to clean that place. They cleaned it and dug the earth a little. He had sat there thirty years. They dug a little and were astonished — beneath lay an inexhaustible treasure. And then they began to laugh: How strange! The beggar sat on the very treasure and begged! He lived thirty years in rags, died hungry, and died. And on the very spot where he sat, a treasure was buried!
When the people of that village told me the news, I said to them, You laugh at that beggar — and when you die others will laugh at you.
They asked, Why?
I said, Every person, exactly where he stands, a treasure is buried. But he begs his whole life and never knows that where I stand there is a treasure.
Wherever each one is, there is the treasure. And the God whom we seek is where we are. Therefore if we go searching somewhere we will never find Him. And the fame, the wealth, the property we seek — it is where we are. So we can search and search and perish, we will never find it. It is our own nature we are seeking. And as long as we go on seeking, there can be no recognition of the nature. One who drops seeking and simply stands — he sees who he is.
A man is running — running. One who is running cannot possibly know who he is. Let him stop, be still; let a little running cease, let the mind’s racing cease — then perhaps he will see who he is. And the moment he sees who he is, he finds he was never empty.
Buddha attained Samadhi. People came and asked him, You have attained enlightenment — what did you gain in enlightenment?
Buddha smiled and said, I gained nothing — rather, something was lost.
They were surprised and said, We have always heard that when enlightenment happens, something is gained.
Buddha said, No, nothing was gained. For as soon as the eyes opened, it was seen that that which I thought was lost had never been lost. I found only that which had always been found. So I cannot call it gaining. Yes, something was lost — the illusion that I had nothing.
This race of ours is not to be changed from one object to another. If we drop one thing and begin to run after another, nothing changes — nothing at all. As long as we run, we will not attain.
How are we to stop, how are we to still ourselves — is there any device, any path by which we may become still? Is there a vision at which we halt? We shall speak of that in these three days. But to prepare you so that you can see what I will say, I want to give you a few sutras. If for three days you live a little with them, then perhaps what I say may be visible to you.
For important is not that I say something. What is the importance of my saying? The question is whether it becomes visible to you. It may happen that I go on speaking and you do not see — then my saying has no purpose, no meaning. So what I say is not so important; far more important is how you listen.
So in these three days, if you experiment with a few sutras, then perhaps what I say may communicate. It may reach you, my word may reach you. It is very difficult for someone’s word to reach another. It is not enough that I speak and it reaches you. Within you there must be some readiness to be joined to that word — only then can it be seen. Otherwise the opposite may happen. The opposite is this: I say something, you hear something else. Usually this is what happens — usually it is so. For while I am speaking here, you will also be speaking within yourself.
Two newly admitted madmen were brought for treatment to a great psychologist’s clinic. Both were university professors. And as often happens, if a teacher remains only a teacher, the danger of his going mad increases — because he stops learning and only teaches, only teaches. Slowly he forgets that he too has something to learn. And the man who forgets that he has to learn and only has to teach — what else will happen but madness? These two teachers met that misfortune, and it is befalling nearly all teachers in the world. They both went mad. Both were admitted. The psychologist watched them secretly from a window to study what they did.
They did something very strange. One would start speaking and go on speaking and speaking; the other would sit absolutely silent and listen. When the first stopped, the second would begin. But where the second started had no connection with where the first had left off. The psychologist was puzzled. There was no connection between them; what one said had nothing to do with the other. But the second would keep quiet while the first spoke.
He went and asked them, My friends, this is very surprising! There is no relation between your speeches — then why do you stop when the other speaks?
One of the madmen said, We know how to have a conversation. It is the rule of conversation that when one is speaking the other should remain silent. So we keep quiet. And when he tires, we begin; then he must remain silent.
I read this incident and thought: this is very true. People everywhere converse exactly like this. While I am speaking, you are also talking within yourselves. What relation can there be between what I am saying and what you are saying inside? None. True, we are not so mad — we let the other finish before beginning; and we are not so mad as to begin utterly irrelevant talk. So when the other finishes we pick up some pretext from where he stopped and begin our own talk. That pretext is just a peg to hang our coat on. Then our talk begins. We are all habituated to converse thus.
Here I will not converse with you over these three days. So if, while I am speaking, you are also speaking within, do not remain in the illusion that you have heard what I said. You will not hear it. In truth you have never heard it. And you have experienced this all your life.
If you are a husband you must have experienced that what I told my wife has no relation with the reply she gives. If you are a wife you must have experienced that what you tell your husband, who knows what meaning he takes — and a quarrel erupts. That is not what I had said, that was not my meaning, not my intent. Children know that what they told their parents was not their purpose — the parents took some other meaning. Parents know that what we told the children, who knows what meaning they took!
We all keep taking meanings. No one understands. Hence quarrel arises twenty-four hours a day. For what is said we do not hear; we hear something else. We will hear something else because within us many things are already going on. And in the smoke of those thoughts someone else’s word comes and is distorted; its meanings are lost.
So for these three days I will request just this — not only here for an hour, but throughout these three days, whenever you are talking to anyone at all, kindly keep a little watchfulness: when you are hearing, your own inner conversation should not be going on. If it is, then you cannot understand even ordinary conversation.
Who understands whom? Does a wife understand her husband? Wrong. Does a husband understand his wife? Do friends understand friends? They do not. Those with whom we live a whole life we do not understand — because we have never learned to listen! We never knew how to listen to another.
The first sutra of listening is this: when someone is speaking, our inner talk should not run; inside, everything should be silent. We should listen with great attentiveness, with great peacefulness, with great silence, in utter tranquility, in utter emptiness. Only when heard in emptiness, heard in silence, is it truly heard. Otherwise, never.
So for these three days make one experiment. You will be conversing anyway — so when you are listening to someone, let nothing run inside. Become total attentiveness. Let your whole attention be in listening; within, let nothing move. If for three days you experiment a little with this, perhaps what I say at certain moments of the day may also be heard. Because it cannot be that you hear me but do not hear your friend — only if you can hear him will you be able to hear me. These are not two separate things. The birds here will call — listen to their voices with the same peace. A child may begin to cry — listen to that cry with the same peace. The winds may stir the trees and there may be sound in them — listen with the same peace. The art of listening.
We all know the art of speaking; none knows the art of listening. Hence everything has become so strange in the world. All are speaking; no one is listening. The world has become almost a madhouse where people are speaking and no one listens. In such a state we can never come near the intent and meaning of truth.
So first: the art of listening. Practice it a little over these three days. Along with it, a second thing related to listening: one who goes on speaking trivialities all day will never be capable of understanding what is essential. And we speak trivialities all day. If we reflect a little on what we speak through the twenty-four hours we will find that if we had cut out ninety-eight percent of it nothing would have been lost.
In speaking we should be telegraphic. We should keep the same care in speech as we keep when sending a telegram: we cut every word, for each word costs money. But in speaking we have no care; we think, It costs nothing — say anything.
But you do not know: money has no value compared to life. In speaking we are losing life. Each word is taking our life-force and energy. And a single word spoken wrongly, spoken in sleep, goes into the vast world and creates what upheavals — we have no idea.
So it is necessary to be conscious about each word: What am I speaking?
Remember an incident of Lao Tzu in China. A friend of Lao Tzu used to walk with him every morning. This went on for years. They would walk for two hours through miles of hills. The sum total of their talk was this much: the friend would say, Greetings; and Lao Tzu would say, Greetings. That was all. This went on for years.
One day that friend’s friend was a guest at his house, so he brought his guest also to walk with Lao Tzu. When the three returned from the walk, Lao Tzu whispered in his friend’s ear, Brother, from tomorrow do not bring your friend — he seems very talkative. And what was the matter of being talkative? All that had happened was that along the way the friend’s friend had said, Today the weather is very fine.
The friend asked, For such a small remark you call him talkative?
Lao Tzu said, Utterly useless words — because the weather was visible to me, to you, and to him. It was absurd, meaningless; it had no meaning. I was alive there, you were there, he was there. All three were seeing. What need was there to say it?
If even such a remark is meaningless, what of all that we go on saying for twenty-four hours? In these three days keep a little watch — do not speak the meaningless. If you want to understand the meaningful, do not speak the meaningless. One who speaks the meaningless cannot understand the meaningful. If the intelligence to understand the meaningful arises in him, he will not be able to speak the meaningless. These two do not go together.
So in these three days keep a little care that we do not speak the meaningless, the futile.
How much we speak in vain! How much we speak in vain — all day long! What remains unsaid during waking, we complete by speaking in sleep. We speak through the night, we speak through the day. What are we saying? What do we want to say to the world? Reflect a little, sift it a little, let it pass consciously. There is no point in forcibly sitting silent — because if one forcibly sits silent, inside he will go on talking, smoldering, boiling. That will make no difference. So I am not advocating a forced silence. I am saying, understand the futility of speaking. And as speaking is seen to be futile, what is futile will drop away. Then a real silence will grow within. That silence cannot be forced — Monday-silence, Sunday-silence — has silence ever come through that? The one who is intelligent enough to be silent on Sunday — will he become unintelligent again on Monday? That silence is imposed, forced.
Silence is not the point; the futility of speaking should become visible. Then what is futile will fall away; meaningful speech will remain. Meaningful speech is very rare. And the remaining intervals will become silence. And it is a great secret that speech arising from silence is altogether different; the value of such words is something else. And the talk that comes from continuous chatter has no value — it is part of our derangement, part of our madness.
If you think you are speaking because a friend is present — you are mistaken. If you think you must speak because the matter is very necessary — you are mistaken. You do not know — these are excuses for speaking. If you were locked alone in a room, after two or three days you would begin to converse alone. Experiments have been done. These are our excuses — that it was necessary, hence we spoke. The necessary matter only works as a peg on which we hang our coat. Within, we are boiling; within, an uproar is going on; within, a deranged race is running — that has to be hung somewhere. So we pick up any excuse, like a peg, and hang it.
So it is necessary to be awake to what is happening within. If in these three days a little awareness comes toward futile speech, then the capacity to hear the meaningful will also arise. So for these three days do not speak the meaningless here.
It was just said here that there is great care for cleanliness here — do not throw things around, do not spread filth.
No worry — if you spread a little physical filth, the organizers of Sharda Gram will clean it later. But do not spread filth in another’s mind — for that no organizer will ever be able to clean. And whenever we speak wrongly we are throwing garbage into another’s mind. The trash that torments us, we throw upon the other. In this way we have all become collaborators in one another’s misery. Then what else will the world become but mad? We are dumping trash in each other’s heads.
If I come and throw garbage into your house, a quarrel will erupt. If you throw garbage into mine, I will inform the police. But from the morning I come and say, Have you heard the news? You ask, Which? And I begin to dump trash. And neither do you inform the police nor does anyone care that I am throwing rubbish into your mind.
We are all dumping trash in each other’s minds. And whenever we speak in vain, naturally trash is thrown.
So when you feel a matter is truly essential — not out of the compulsion that it is boiling within me and therefore I must say it, but because you feel life has asked for it, a need has arisen — then fine. Otherwise, keep it to yourself — even that will be a great kindness. That disease will not become infectious and spread to all.
The disease of conversation has been growing in the world; silence has been utterly lost — utterly lost. Even if we are made to sit in solitude, our inward conversation continues. In imagination we converse with someone — a dialogue goes on; someone is present in fancy and with him we talk.
So here we will sit to meditate; and if you have such a habit, then forget meditation — you will close your eyes and continue your conversation with some imaginary friend or enemy. That will be of no use, no meaning. From the outside it will appear that you are sitting with closed eyes; inside, the old work will continue.
So the second request is this: become a little aware of this disease of conversation. Experiment a little over these three days. And about that which you become aware of, it is not very difficult — our only difficulty is that we are unaware. So just watch that futile conversation does not happen. If someone else begins to pour trash into you, gently caution him too: Please, at least in these three days, let us watch for a certain cleanliness of the mind.
Roads should be clean, houses should be clean — certainly. Why are they unclean? Because inside the mind is full of filth. That filth spreads onto the roads, it spreads into the houses. So even if by some effort we clean houses and streets and even make a habit of it, not much changes — our soul remains as it was. There, the change should be.
So I have told you, first, to experiment regarding listening. Second, regarding speaking — let words become fewer, let the futile drop, and let silence deepen; then listening becomes possible. These are two sutras.
The third sutra: to listen in peace is necessary, to speak meaningfully is necessary — and to live in acceptance is necessary.
We live in non-acceptance, in resistance. In everything we have resistance.
A friend said, If eight or ten people stay in one room, it will be very difficult. Had we known, we would not have come here.
Now if this idea has arisen that if eight or ten are staying in one room, how can I stay there, then certainly those eight or ten will become a hindrance — certainly. The mind has raised a wall of resistance, a protest.
Recently I was a guest in a small rest house. It was a small village and all the village dogs had gathered around the rest house at night. A friend was with me. He began to toss and turn and said, It is very hard to sleep. Hard to sleep. The dogs have gathered here and are making a racket. Twice he even went out to shoo them away. But whomever we drive away returns very quickly. Those dogs did not even come inside and returned. Perhaps they thought, Surely something important is happening here; leaving is not right. Wherever we push things away from, they return there. Dogs are no less understanding than man — they too returned. My friend was troubled and said, They have ruined my sleep.
I told him, The dogs do not even know that you are staying here. What relation have they with you? Why would they want to ruin your sleep? They have no idea about you. Even after you go they will gather here and bark. They have no relation with you. Yes, you have created a relation with them — of resistance, of protest. The dogs have no idea that you are here; from their side there is no relationship with you. But from your side a relationship has arisen — the idea has created the whole trouble: As long as these dogs are barking, how can I sleep? I told him, In place of this thought another thought is also possible.
He asked, What?
I said, Lie down — and listen peacefully to the dogs barking. Do not resist. Dogs are barking — fine. What power have we over it? Stars have come out in the sky, plants have sprouted from the earth, birds fly, dogs bark — this is happening. It is part of the vast existence. Listen to it peacefully; drop the resistance toward it. And I told him, You will be astonished — the barking will not only fail to break your sleep; it will become a kind of music and will bring sleep.
He lay for about fifteen minutes with eyes closed. Then sleep must have come. In the morning he awoke and said, This was very strange! The moment I dropped resisting and began to listen to their sound — surely, who am I to resist? On the earth I am, dogs are — the dogs’ being is as meaningful as mine. Fine — I began to listen to their sound. And as soon as I began to listen, the resistance within broke. I found that the sound came and went, but within me no tension, no disturbance was arising from it. Soon their sound, in a wondrous way, took the form of music — and I fell asleep.
From whatever we hold a resistance toward in life, discord is born. And one who becomes filled with resistance toward the whole of life — his life becomes entirely sorrow, pain, and restlessness, becomes hell. The meaning of hell is only this: the attitude of resistance toward everything. The meaning of heaven is: the attitude of acceptance toward everything.
So for these three days you will live a life of simple acceptance.
The organizers just said some small inconveniences may occur. I will request them: give some small inconveniences deliberately. If they happen by chance it is not as fun — make some effort and give a few troubles. And then let there be the attitude of acceptance. As things are, if we take an accepting attitude, you will find that their pain dissolves.
One night a nun wished to stay in a village. But the people of that village belonged to another religion; they shut their doors to that nun. They said, Not here — go on to the next village. Night was falling. She was a woman alone — the road passed through forest — how could she go? But religious people are very hard. They did not open their doors.
This much is certain: had religious people not been so hard on this earth, what a better world it would have been! How would Hindu and Muslim have been born? They are born of our hardness. How would mosque and temple stand opposed? They have arisen from our hardness. They were hard people too — religious people — they said, We do not accept this religion. You are a nun of another religion. Now go there — there is no place to stay here.
The nun had to go outside the village. She had to spend the night beneath a tree. In the middle of the night the blossoms on the tree began to crack open and her sleep broke. She looked up — a full moon was above; on the tree flowers were opening with little cracking sounds; small clouds drifted in the sky. She rose — never had she known such beauty in her life. Never had she seen flowers opening while speaking to the sky. She had never seen such a moon. She had never seen such little clouds. In truth, she had never slept in the open night and alone in the forest. She had always been within the walls built by man. The first opportunity came because man, through hardness and mistake, had put her outside the wall.
She began to dance. And at midnight she returned to the village. She knocked loudly on the very doors that had refused her. People woke and came out. The nun said, Thank you! Had you let me stay, I would have been deprived of a supernatural bliss. My friends, thank you! It was your grace that you did not let me stay. What I came to know and to see tonight I had never known or seen.
The villagers were astonished — this was beyond their imagination.
This is the attitude of acceptance. Had the nun gone to sleep under that tree full of anger, what would have happened?
The first thing — that night the moon would not have risen; the flowers would not have bloomed; the clouds would not have drifted. Not that the moon would not rise and the flowers would not bloom — the moon would rise and the flowers would bloom. But has one who is filled with anger ever seen flowers bloom? Has he ever seen the moon rise? Has he ever seen clouds floating in the sky?
No — because to see, a non-resistant mind is required. Only one who is without protest can see what is true and beautiful in life.
So in these three days, experiment with non-resistance, with the absence of protest. Perhaps then this camp will bear fruit. Otherwise, no results come. So for these three days I request these three sutras:
First: become a little aware regarding the art of listening.
Second: regarding speaking, be conscious of what is futile.
And third: within us, twenty-four hours a day, the resistance that goes on toward everything — become a little loose and relaxed toward it; let it go. Tonight, sleep as if you have no protest against the world. Everything is acceptable to you. As it is, what is — the whole of it is acceptable to you. This acceptance I call theism; this total acceptance I call trust.
So tonight sleep just so — as if everything is accepted. And see — the sleep will be something else. In the morning you will awaken like another person. And if everything is accepted, then you will be able to see. Just now you say that this is a very beautiful place — there are trees, shade, flowers, plants, cleanliness — very beautiful, you say. But it may not yet have appeared so to your eyes. It is not easy to see. If it comes to be seen, you yourself will become a beautiful person. But for now we merely say such things — these are learned words. We have read them in books. We have read in poetry that where there are many trees there is great beauty. We have not known it, we have not seen it. Because what is necessary in order to see it is not within us. That is a non-resistant mind — a mind, a consciousness in which there is no protest.
So tonight sleep as if you have no protest against this world — at no level any protest. In the morning you will experience something altogether different. And from tomorrow morning, keep the other two sutras in mind as well. If you keep these three sutras even a little, then some heart-things I have to tell you may perhaps reach you. And if they reach, you will not have to do anything about them — if they reach, they begin to do their own work within you.
With truth there is this wondrous thing: if truth comes into your awareness, then you need do nothing; truth itself begins to work within. And when truth begins to work within, then fullness begins to come into life; a sense of fulfillment arises; it feels as if we have arrived somewhere, as if something has been found, as if the hands are full.
So I pray to the Divine in this opening talk that your death may not find your hands empty. And that can happen only if your life sees your hands full. And this depends on no one else — only on you, utterly on you — that your hands become full. The hands are full — but we do not have the eye to see them.
In these three days we shall work a little toward that seeing. You have gathered here from far and wide. I welcome you — and invite you to a larger life, to the threshold of a greater life. May the Divine grant that in your life that be found without which life is futile, and having which life becomes benediction and gratitude.
So over these three days I have much to say to you — but less to say, more to do — that which is beyond and outside words. That I call meditation. But by meditation I do not mean what is commonly meant. What I call meditation we shall begin tomorrow morning. For now, tonight go and sleep with a feeling of total acceptance. And as you leave here, begin the experiment already — do not begin chattering. Even as you go to sleep, go without inner conversation. See — without your conversation the world will suffer no harm, no loss. May the Divine fulfill the aspiration for which you have come.
You have listened to my words with such peace and patience — for that I am deeply obliged. I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
From a small incident I would like to speak to you today.
A very great emperor had died. His bier was being taken out. Hundreds of thousands had gathered along the roads to see it. There was a strange sight: from the bier, both hands of the corpse were protruding outside. Whoever saw it felt the question arise within — never had they seen a bier where the dead man's hands were left outside. And it was not some ordinary person who had died, it was an emperor. Everyone began to ask: What is the matter? Why are the hands outside the bier?
Then slowly it became known that at the time of dying that emperor — whose name you all have heard: Alexander the Great, Sikandar — had said, Let my hands be kept outside the bier so that everyone may see that even my fists are empty.
Many years have passed since Alexander died. Neither before him nor after him have anyone’s hands been left outside a bier. But hands — whether left outside or kept within — after an entire life remain empty. And whether those hands belong to an emperor or to a beggar makes no difference. In life one may be a beggar and another an emperor — but death, death makes all equal. And that equality is the equality of empty hands. Everyone’s hands are equally empty.
I wished to tell you this to remind you of something: whomsoever death finds with empty hands must have been empty in life as well. It is impossible that one be full in life and death find his hands empty — for death is the very completion of life. As we live, so we die. Death is the announcement of the whole life — of what the life was. So if death finds empty hands, someone was living in illusion who thought himself full. He too was empty in life.
A few rare ones begin to see within their very lifetime that their hands are empty. Those who see that their hands are empty stop running after the world — after wealth and fame, position and prestige. But even they fall into a new race — to attain the Divine, to attain Moksha. And I wish to say to you over these three days: whoever runs remains always empty, whether he runs after God or after gold. Therefore not only emperors die with empty hands, and not only beggars — many sannyasins too die with empty hands.
Whatever is worth attaining in life cannot be attained by running. Life’s beauty, life’s truth, life’s music is not somewhere outside that one may run and grasp it. Whatever is outside requires a journey, movement, travel. But whosoever undertakes a journey to attain what is within will go astray — because if I have to reach you, I must walk and then I can arrive. But if I have to reach my own self, how can I arrive by walking? The more I walk, the farther I go away. If I am to arrive at myself, I will have to drop all walking, drop all running — then perhaps I may arrive.
So there is one path that goes outward, upon which one must walk, labor, reach. And there is another path upon which one need not walk — and whoever walks on it never arrives; upon it one must stop. And whoever stops, arrives. This may appear very upside-down. For till now we have known only this: that one who seeks finds; one who walks arrives; and the stronger one walks the sooner he reaches; the harder one runs the quicker he arrives. But in these three days I shall submit: whoever walks never arrives; and the more forcefully he walks, the more forcefully he goes far from himself.
Let me tell another small story.
At dusk two monks got off a boat at a riverbank as the sun was setting. One was young and one was old. They asked the boatman, Will we be able to reach that village wall shining in the setting sun before the sun goes down? There was a village nearby, surrounded by a fort wall, and the rule was that with sunset the gate would be closed. So they asked if they could reach before the sun dipped.
The old boatman said, If you go slowly you will reach; if you go in haste, reaching will be very difficult.
Both monks thought the man mad. Who would consider sensible one who says, If you walk slowly you will reach, and if you go fast you won’t? Anyone would think him insane. The whole world would, you too would. For in the world we only know running, we know haste. What is this? They did not tarry to hear more; it was not worth hearing. His first sentence itself was disturbing. They ran — which seemed proper. Logic says so, the intellect says so: If you must reach, run. And the sun is sinking, evening is coming, night will fall, the gates will close, reaching will be hard and you will have to stay outside. So they ran, with all the strength they had.
Soon the old monk fell. He had not the strength to run; on his head was a bundle of scriptures; the bundle fell, the scriptures scattered and their pages flew. Behind them the boatman had tied up his boat and was coming slowly with his oar. The young monk was cleaning the blood from the elder’s feet and bandaging him. The boatman came and said, Friends, I had told you: if you go gently, you will reach; if you go hard, you will not. Then it dawned on them that going slowly too is an art.
But he had said, If you go slowly, you will reach. In these three days I am here to say something even more mad. I am here to say: If you go at all, you will never reach. When even slow walking is taken as madness and speed seems intelligence, how will my words sound?
Yet there are reasons why I say so. Those reasons I will make clear slowly in these three days. Today, at the beginning, it is necessary to say a few things in seed form which in three days may become clear to you.
The very first thing is this: within man there is something. And whoever, without knowing that inner truth, searches for anything in life, searches in vain. If I do not even know what I am and who I am, what meaning can my whole search have? Whether the search be for wealth or position or fame — or for God or for Moksha — my whole search will be futile. For what I was, I never knew. And to know what I am — where shall one run? where go? what do?
To know this, all running must be dropped. To know this, all seeking must be let go and one must stop. For the mind that seeks becomes agitated, tense, restless. If I can drop all seeking and stop — no search in the mind, no idea of reaching anywhere, no place to go — what will happen? Where there is no agitation, no running, no seeking, an astonishing peace descends. A silence begins to come, a stillness begins to arise. For one who is not in the idea of running becomes instantly tranquil. And in that peace, the vision arises of what I am.
Therefore no one has ever found himself by seeking — only by stopping, by becoming still. We will talk about that in the coming days. But what will be found? If by dropping all seeking we become capable of knowing ourselves, what will be found?
This will be found: that the hands are not empty — it will be known. Now it seems to us that the hands are empty, therefore the urge to fill. Therefore we run and seek — somehow may we attain fullness, fulfillment. Because this emptiness frightens. It feels like poverty, like wretchedness — that I am nothing, I have nothing. We run, we rush. But no one has ever, by running and rushing, attained that fullness which is sought. Even those in whom everything gets accumulated remain inwardly poor. The beggar within them does not end. The one who asks within does not finish. He goes on asking and asking. His running too never ends.
A fakir named Farid once went to meet Akbar. The people of his village had told him: Pray to Akbar, your friend, to open a small school in the village. Farid went. He thought, Akbar has such power — will he refuse a school? He arrived very early in the morning. Akbar was doing his dawn namaz, his prayer. Farid stood behind. Akbar completed the namaz, folded his hands, and said, O God, increase my wealth! Expand my kingdom! Broaden my frontiers! Farid heard this and turned back. Akbar rose and saw Farid going down the steps, his back visible. He ran, stopped Farid, and asked, How come you came — and are going back?
Farid said, I thought I was going to an emperor. Here I found yet another beggar. I thought I would ask you for something for the village, but I saw that you yourself are asking. I was greatly mistaken. And now, if I must beg, I will beg of the One from whom you were begging — what need is there to take you as an intermediary? But one illusion of mine broke — that I thought the beggar within an emperor dies. That illusion broke. The garments become imperial; the soul remains a beggar.
In the world there are two kinds of beggars: some whose clothes are those of beggars, and some whose clothes are those of emperors. But as far as the soul is concerned, rarely is there an emperor. Almost all are beggars. The asking does not stop — one goes on asking.
Why does one go on asking? Why, even when everything is obtained, does the begging not end?
It does not end because even though everything is obtained, the inner emptiness, the inner void, does not fill. Outwardly, wealth accumulates; inwardly, the emptiness remains where it is. No difference is made — and cannot be made — because the wealth is outside and the emptiness is inside. How will outer wealth fill the inner void? There is no way. How will coins lying outside fill the inner hollowness? The outer goods will remain outside. Heaps will collect, and the inner pit will remain within. There is no meeting point between the two. They are separate domains. The inner poverty cannot be removed by outer prosperity because they never meet; they have no relationship.
But can there be an inner prosperity?
Some think there can. So they take to hymns, to worship, to prayer. They think, If wealth does not work, let us do bhajan; if the household does not work, if the world does not work, let us become sannyasins. They think, If position does not satisfy, let us attain God. But their God too remains outside, their bhajans are outside, their temple is outside. Wealth was outside, office was outside — this God too is outside. The One to whom they fold their hands and pray is outside. The God before whom they bow will be somewhere in the sky, somewhere else. The One to whom they pray will also be outside. For whom they sing songs and bhajans is also outside.
So if one leaves the outer world, an outer God is grasped instead. But still the within is not entered. For as many outer houses as there are, there are outer temples as well. The thing changes; the situation remains the same. Hence a man prays his whole life and still finds the inner emptiness where it was. It has not gone anywhere. He sings bhajans all his life and in the end finds that the words flew into the winds, and the inside that was empty is still empty.
In truth, the strange thing is that we set out to fill something that is already full! So neither wealth will fill it nor religion will fill it. Nothing can fill it. But if we agree to look directly into that emptiness, we will find that it seemed empty only because we had never looked toward it. There everything was already full.
Once a beggar died. And the patch of ground on which, in the marketplace, he had sat and begged all his life — after he died, thirty years later, the villagers removed his corpse, and as he had sat there for thirty years spreading his rags and filth, it was necessary to clean that place. They cleaned it and dug the earth a little. He had sat there thirty years. They dug a little and were astonished — beneath lay an inexhaustible treasure. And then they began to laugh: How strange! The beggar sat on the very treasure and begged! He lived thirty years in rags, died hungry, and died. And on the very spot where he sat, a treasure was buried!
When the people of that village told me the news, I said to them, You laugh at that beggar — and when you die others will laugh at you.
They asked, Why?
I said, Every person, exactly where he stands, a treasure is buried. But he begs his whole life and never knows that where I stand there is a treasure.
Wherever each one is, there is the treasure. And the God whom we seek is where we are. Therefore if we go searching somewhere we will never find Him. And the fame, the wealth, the property we seek — it is where we are. So we can search and search and perish, we will never find it. It is our own nature we are seeking. And as long as we go on seeking, there can be no recognition of the nature. One who drops seeking and simply stands — he sees who he is.
A man is running — running. One who is running cannot possibly know who he is. Let him stop, be still; let a little running cease, let the mind’s racing cease — then perhaps he will see who he is. And the moment he sees who he is, he finds he was never empty.
Buddha attained Samadhi. People came and asked him, You have attained enlightenment — what did you gain in enlightenment?
Buddha smiled and said, I gained nothing — rather, something was lost.
They were surprised and said, We have always heard that when enlightenment happens, something is gained.
Buddha said, No, nothing was gained. For as soon as the eyes opened, it was seen that that which I thought was lost had never been lost. I found only that which had always been found. So I cannot call it gaining. Yes, something was lost — the illusion that I had nothing.
This race of ours is not to be changed from one object to another. If we drop one thing and begin to run after another, nothing changes — nothing at all. As long as we run, we will not attain.
How are we to stop, how are we to still ourselves — is there any device, any path by which we may become still? Is there a vision at which we halt? We shall speak of that in these three days. But to prepare you so that you can see what I will say, I want to give you a few sutras. If for three days you live a little with them, then perhaps what I say may be visible to you.
For important is not that I say something. What is the importance of my saying? The question is whether it becomes visible to you. It may happen that I go on speaking and you do not see — then my saying has no purpose, no meaning. So what I say is not so important; far more important is how you listen.
So in these three days, if you experiment with a few sutras, then perhaps what I say may communicate. It may reach you, my word may reach you. It is very difficult for someone’s word to reach another. It is not enough that I speak and it reaches you. Within you there must be some readiness to be joined to that word — only then can it be seen. Otherwise the opposite may happen. The opposite is this: I say something, you hear something else. Usually this is what happens — usually it is so. For while I am speaking here, you will also be speaking within yourself.
Two newly admitted madmen were brought for treatment to a great psychologist’s clinic. Both were university professors. And as often happens, if a teacher remains only a teacher, the danger of his going mad increases — because he stops learning and only teaches, only teaches. Slowly he forgets that he too has something to learn. And the man who forgets that he has to learn and only has to teach — what else will happen but madness? These two teachers met that misfortune, and it is befalling nearly all teachers in the world. They both went mad. Both were admitted. The psychologist watched them secretly from a window to study what they did.
They did something very strange. One would start speaking and go on speaking and speaking; the other would sit absolutely silent and listen. When the first stopped, the second would begin. But where the second started had no connection with where the first had left off. The psychologist was puzzled. There was no connection between them; what one said had nothing to do with the other. But the second would keep quiet while the first spoke.
He went and asked them, My friends, this is very surprising! There is no relation between your speeches — then why do you stop when the other speaks?
One of the madmen said, We know how to have a conversation. It is the rule of conversation that when one is speaking the other should remain silent. So we keep quiet. And when he tires, we begin; then he must remain silent.
I read this incident and thought: this is very true. People everywhere converse exactly like this. While I am speaking, you are also talking within yourselves. What relation can there be between what I am saying and what you are saying inside? None. True, we are not so mad — we let the other finish before beginning; and we are not so mad as to begin utterly irrelevant talk. So when the other finishes we pick up some pretext from where he stopped and begin our own talk. That pretext is just a peg to hang our coat on. Then our talk begins. We are all habituated to converse thus.
Here I will not converse with you over these three days. So if, while I am speaking, you are also speaking within, do not remain in the illusion that you have heard what I said. You will not hear it. In truth you have never heard it. And you have experienced this all your life.
If you are a husband you must have experienced that what I told my wife has no relation with the reply she gives. If you are a wife you must have experienced that what you tell your husband, who knows what meaning he takes — and a quarrel erupts. That is not what I had said, that was not my meaning, not my intent. Children know that what they told their parents was not their purpose — the parents took some other meaning. Parents know that what we told the children, who knows what meaning they took!
We all keep taking meanings. No one understands. Hence quarrel arises twenty-four hours a day. For what is said we do not hear; we hear something else. We will hear something else because within us many things are already going on. And in the smoke of those thoughts someone else’s word comes and is distorted; its meanings are lost.
So for these three days I will request just this — not only here for an hour, but throughout these three days, whenever you are talking to anyone at all, kindly keep a little watchfulness: when you are hearing, your own inner conversation should not be going on. If it is, then you cannot understand even ordinary conversation.
Who understands whom? Does a wife understand her husband? Wrong. Does a husband understand his wife? Do friends understand friends? They do not. Those with whom we live a whole life we do not understand — because we have never learned to listen! We never knew how to listen to another.
The first sutra of listening is this: when someone is speaking, our inner talk should not run; inside, everything should be silent. We should listen with great attentiveness, with great peacefulness, with great silence, in utter tranquility, in utter emptiness. Only when heard in emptiness, heard in silence, is it truly heard. Otherwise, never.
So for these three days make one experiment. You will be conversing anyway — so when you are listening to someone, let nothing run inside. Become total attentiveness. Let your whole attention be in listening; within, let nothing move. If for three days you experiment a little with this, perhaps what I say at certain moments of the day may also be heard. Because it cannot be that you hear me but do not hear your friend — only if you can hear him will you be able to hear me. These are not two separate things. The birds here will call — listen to their voices with the same peace. A child may begin to cry — listen to that cry with the same peace. The winds may stir the trees and there may be sound in them — listen with the same peace. The art of listening.
We all know the art of speaking; none knows the art of listening. Hence everything has become so strange in the world. All are speaking; no one is listening. The world has become almost a madhouse where people are speaking and no one listens. In such a state we can never come near the intent and meaning of truth.
So first: the art of listening. Practice it a little over these three days. Along with it, a second thing related to listening: one who goes on speaking trivialities all day will never be capable of understanding what is essential. And we speak trivialities all day. If we reflect a little on what we speak through the twenty-four hours we will find that if we had cut out ninety-eight percent of it nothing would have been lost.
In speaking we should be telegraphic. We should keep the same care in speech as we keep when sending a telegram: we cut every word, for each word costs money. But in speaking we have no care; we think, It costs nothing — say anything.
But you do not know: money has no value compared to life. In speaking we are losing life. Each word is taking our life-force and energy. And a single word spoken wrongly, spoken in sleep, goes into the vast world and creates what upheavals — we have no idea.
So it is necessary to be conscious about each word: What am I speaking?
Remember an incident of Lao Tzu in China. A friend of Lao Tzu used to walk with him every morning. This went on for years. They would walk for two hours through miles of hills. The sum total of their talk was this much: the friend would say, Greetings; and Lao Tzu would say, Greetings. That was all. This went on for years.
One day that friend’s friend was a guest at his house, so he brought his guest also to walk with Lao Tzu. When the three returned from the walk, Lao Tzu whispered in his friend’s ear, Brother, from tomorrow do not bring your friend — he seems very talkative. And what was the matter of being talkative? All that had happened was that along the way the friend’s friend had said, Today the weather is very fine.
The friend asked, For such a small remark you call him talkative?
Lao Tzu said, Utterly useless words — because the weather was visible to me, to you, and to him. It was absurd, meaningless; it had no meaning. I was alive there, you were there, he was there. All three were seeing. What need was there to say it?
If even such a remark is meaningless, what of all that we go on saying for twenty-four hours? In these three days keep a little watch — do not speak the meaningless. If you want to understand the meaningful, do not speak the meaningless. One who speaks the meaningless cannot understand the meaningful. If the intelligence to understand the meaningful arises in him, he will not be able to speak the meaningless. These two do not go together.
So in these three days keep a little care that we do not speak the meaningless, the futile.
How much we speak in vain! How much we speak in vain — all day long! What remains unsaid during waking, we complete by speaking in sleep. We speak through the night, we speak through the day. What are we saying? What do we want to say to the world? Reflect a little, sift it a little, let it pass consciously. There is no point in forcibly sitting silent — because if one forcibly sits silent, inside he will go on talking, smoldering, boiling. That will make no difference. So I am not advocating a forced silence. I am saying, understand the futility of speaking. And as speaking is seen to be futile, what is futile will drop away. Then a real silence will grow within. That silence cannot be forced — Monday-silence, Sunday-silence — has silence ever come through that? The one who is intelligent enough to be silent on Sunday — will he become unintelligent again on Monday? That silence is imposed, forced.
Silence is not the point; the futility of speaking should become visible. Then what is futile will fall away; meaningful speech will remain. Meaningful speech is very rare. And the remaining intervals will become silence. And it is a great secret that speech arising from silence is altogether different; the value of such words is something else. And the talk that comes from continuous chatter has no value — it is part of our derangement, part of our madness.
If you think you are speaking because a friend is present — you are mistaken. If you think you must speak because the matter is very necessary — you are mistaken. You do not know — these are excuses for speaking. If you were locked alone in a room, after two or three days you would begin to converse alone. Experiments have been done. These are our excuses — that it was necessary, hence we spoke. The necessary matter only works as a peg on which we hang our coat. Within, we are boiling; within, an uproar is going on; within, a deranged race is running — that has to be hung somewhere. So we pick up any excuse, like a peg, and hang it.
So it is necessary to be awake to what is happening within. If in these three days a little awareness comes toward futile speech, then the capacity to hear the meaningful will also arise. So for these three days do not speak the meaningless here.
It was just said here that there is great care for cleanliness here — do not throw things around, do not spread filth.
No worry — if you spread a little physical filth, the organizers of Sharda Gram will clean it later. But do not spread filth in another’s mind — for that no organizer will ever be able to clean. And whenever we speak wrongly we are throwing garbage into another’s mind. The trash that torments us, we throw upon the other. In this way we have all become collaborators in one another’s misery. Then what else will the world become but mad? We are dumping trash in each other’s heads.
If I come and throw garbage into your house, a quarrel will erupt. If you throw garbage into mine, I will inform the police. But from the morning I come and say, Have you heard the news? You ask, Which? And I begin to dump trash. And neither do you inform the police nor does anyone care that I am throwing rubbish into your mind.
We are all dumping trash in each other’s minds. And whenever we speak in vain, naturally trash is thrown.
So when you feel a matter is truly essential — not out of the compulsion that it is boiling within me and therefore I must say it, but because you feel life has asked for it, a need has arisen — then fine. Otherwise, keep it to yourself — even that will be a great kindness. That disease will not become infectious and spread to all.
The disease of conversation has been growing in the world; silence has been utterly lost — utterly lost. Even if we are made to sit in solitude, our inward conversation continues. In imagination we converse with someone — a dialogue goes on; someone is present in fancy and with him we talk.
So here we will sit to meditate; and if you have such a habit, then forget meditation — you will close your eyes and continue your conversation with some imaginary friend or enemy. That will be of no use, no meaning. From the outside it will appear that you are sitting with closed eyes; inside, the old work will continue.
So the second request is this: become a little aware of this disease of conversation. Experiment a little over these three days. And about that which you become aware of, it is not very difficult — our only difficulty is that we are unaware. So just watch that futile conversation does not happen. If someone else begins to pour trash into you, gently caution him too: Please, at least in these three days, let us watch for a certain cleanliness of the mind.
Roads should be clean, houses should be clean — certainly. Why are they unclean? Because inside the mind is full of filth. That filth spreads onto the roads, it spreads into the houses. So even if by some effort we clean houses and streets and even make a habit of it, not much changes — our soul remains as it was. There, the change should be.
So I have told you, first, to experiment regarding listening. Second, regarding speaking — let words become fewer, let the futile drop, and let silence deepen; then listening becomes possible. These are two sutras.
The third sutra: to listen in peace is necessary, to speak meaningfully is necessary — and to live in acceptance is necessary.
We live in non-acceptance, in resistance. In everything we have resistance.
A friend said, If eight or ten people stay in one room, it will be very difficult. Had we known, we would not have come here.
Now if this idea has arisen that if eight or ten are staying in one room, how can I stay there, then certainly those eight or ten will become a hindrance — certainly. The mind has raised a wall of resistance, a protest.
Recently I was a guest in a small rest house. It was a small village and all the village dogs had gathered around the rest house at night. A friend was with me. He began to toss and turn and said, It is very hard to sleep. Hard to sleep. The dogs have gathered here and are making a racket. Twice he even went out to shoo them away. But whomever we drive away returns very quickly. Those dogs did not even come inside and returned. Perhaps they thought, Surely something important is happening here; leaving is not right. Wherever we push things away from, they return there. Dogs are no less understanding than man — they too returned. My friend was troubled and said, They have ruined my sleep.
I told him, The dogs do not even know that you are staying here. What relation have they with you? Why would they want to ruin your sleep? They have no idea about you. Even after you go they will gather here and bark. They have no relation with you. Yes, you have created a relation with them — of resistance, of protest. The dogs have no idea that you are here; from their side there is no relationship with you. But from your side a relationship has arisen — the idea has created the whole trouble: As long as these dogs are barking, how can I sleep? I told him, In place of this thought another thought is also possible.
He asked, What?
I said, Lie down — and listen peacefully to the dogs barking. Do not resist. Dogs are barking — fine. What power have we over it? Stars have come out in the sky, plants have sprouted from the earth, birds fly, dogs bark — this is happening. It is part of the vast existence. Listen to it peacefully; drop the resistance toward it. And I told him, You will be astonished — the barking will not only fail to break your sleep; it will become a kind of music and will bring sleep.
He lay for about fifteen minutes with eyes closed. Then sleep must have come. In the morning he awoke and said, This was very strange! The moment I dropped resisting and began to listen to their sound — surely, who am I to resist? On the earth I am, dogs are — the dogs’ being is as meaningful as mine. Fine — I began to listen to their sound. And as soon as I began to listen, the resistance within broke. I found that the sound came and went, but within me no tension, no disturbance was arising from it. Soon their sound, in a wondrous way, took the form of music — and I fell asleep.
From whatever we hold a resistance toward in life, discord is born. And one who becomes filled with resistance toward the whole of life — his life becomes entirely sorrow, pain, and restlessness, becomes hell. The meaning of hell is only this: the attitude of resistance toward everything. The meaning of heaven is: the attitude of acceptance toward everything.
So for these three days you will live a life of simple acceptance.
The organizers just said some small inconveniences may occur. I will request them: give some small inconveniences deliberately. If they happen by chance it is not as fun — make some effort and give a few troubles. And then let there be the attitude of acceptance. As things are, if we take an accepting attitude, you will find that their pain dissolves.
One night a nun wished to stay in a village. But the people of that village belonged to another religion; they shut their doors to that nun. They said, Not here — go on to the next village. Night was falling. She was a woman alone — the road passed through forest — how could she go? But religious people are very hard. They did not open their doors.
This much is certain: had religious people not been so hard on this earth, what a better world it would have been! How would Hindu and Muslim have been born? They are born of our hardness. How would mosque and temple stand opposed? They have arisen from our hardness. They were hard people too — religious people — they said, We do not accept this religion. You are a nun of another religion. Now go there — there is no place to stay here.
The nun had to go outside the village. She had to spend the night beneath a tree. In the middle of the night the blossoms on the tree began to crack open and her sleep broke. She looked up — a full moon was above; on the tree flowers were opening with little cracking sounds; small clouds drifted in the sky. She rose — never had she known such beauty in her life. Never had she seen flowers opening while speaking to the sky. She had never seen such a moon. She had never seen such little clouds. In truth, she had never slept in the open night and alone in the forest. She had always been within the walls built by man. The first opportunity came because man, through hardness and mistake, had put her outside the wall.
She began to dance. And at midnight she returned to the village. She knocked loudly on the very doors that had refused her. People woke and came out. The nun said, Thank you! Had you let me stay, I would have been deprived of a supernatural bliss. My friends, thank you! It was your grace that you did not let me stay. What I came to know and to see tonight I had never known or seen.
The villagers were astonished — this was beyond their imagination.
This is the attitude of acceptance. Had the nun gone to sleep under that tree full of anger, what would have happened?
The first thing — that night the moon would not have risen; the flowers would not have bloomed; the clouds would not have drifted. Not that the moon would not rise and the flowers would not bloom — the moon would rise and the flowers would bloom. But has one who is filled with anger ever seen flowers bloom? Has he ever seen the moon rise? Has he ever seen clouds floating in the sky?
No — because to see, a non-resistant mind is required. Only one who is without protest can see what is true and beautiful in life.
So in these three days, experiment with non-resistance, with the absence of protest. Perhaps then this camp will bear fruit. Otherwise, no results come. So for these three days I request these three sutras:
First: become a little aware regarding the art of listening.
Second: regarding speaking, be conscious of what is futile.
And third: within us, twenty-four hours a day, the resistance that goes on toward everything — become a little loose and relaxed toward it; let it go. Tonight, sleep as if you have no protest against the world. Everything is acceptable to you. As it is, what is — the whole of it is acceptable to you. This acceptance I call theism; this total acceptance I call trust.
So tonight sleep just so — as if everything is accepted. And see — the sleep will be something else. In the morning you will awaken like another person. And if everything is accepted, then you will be able to see. Just now you say that this is a very beautiful place — there are trees, shade, flowers, plants, cleanliness — very beautiful, you say. But it may not yet have appeared so to your eyes. It is not easy to see. If it comes to be seen, you yourself will become a beautiful person. But for now we merely say such things — these are learned words. We have read them in books. We have read in poetry that where there are many trees there is great beauty. We have not known it, we have not seen it. Because what is necessary in order to see it is not within us. That is a non-resistant mind — a mind, a consciousness in which there is no protest.
So tonight sleep as if you have no protest against this world — at no level any protest. In the morning you will experience something altogether different. And from tomorrow morning, keep the other two sutras in mind as well. If you keep these three sutras even a little, then some heart-things I have to tell you may perhaps reach you. And if they reach, you will not have to do anything about them — if they reach, they begin to do their own work within you.
With truth there is this wondrous thing: if truth comes into your awareness, then you need do nothing; truth itself begins to work within. And when truth begins to work within, then fullness begins to come into life; a sense of fulfillment arises; it feels as if we have arrived somewhere, as if something has been found, as if the hands are full.
So I pray to the Divine in this opening talk that your death may not find your hands empty. And that can happen only if your life sees your hands full. And this depends on no one else — only on you, utterly on you — that your hands become full. The hands are full — but we do not have the eye to see them.
In these three days we shall work a little toward that seeing. You have gathered here from far and wide. I welcome you — and invite you to a larger life, to the threshold of a greater life. May the Divine grant that in your life that be found without which life is futile, and having which life becomes benediction and gratitude.
So over these three days I have much to say to you — but less to say, more to do — that which is beyond and outside words. That I call meditation. But by meditation I do not mean what is commonly meant. What I call meditation we shall begin tomorrow morning. For now, tonight go and sleep with a feeling of total acceptance. And as you leave here, begin the experiment already — do not begin chattering. Even as you go to sleep, go without inner conversation. See — without your conversation the world will suffer no harm, no loss. May the Divine fulfill the aspiration for which you have come.
You have listened to my words with such peace and patience — for that I am deeply obliged. I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.