Knowledge is not the path. Knowledge itself holds you back, keeps you stalled. The weight of knowledge makes the mind so heavy that even the journey to truth becomes arduous. Those whose boats are tied to the bank of knowledge will not be able to sail the ocean of truth. I had said a few things about this yesterday morning. Naturally, if knowledge is not the way, another alternative has been offered through the centuries. The other alternative is devotion—imagination, feeling, surrender. If knowledge is not the gate to truth, then devotion is; surrender is; feeling is; imagination is. The second alternative, set up against knowledge, is bhakti. This morning I want to say to you: devotion is not the path either. If knowledge is not the path, imagination certainly cannot be. If knowledge is not a gate, then dreams are even less of a gate. Knowledge is logic; devotion is dream. Knowledge is thought; devotion is imagination. The human mind knows how to reason—science is born of reason. And the human mind knows how to imagine—poetry is born of imagination. But neither poetry is religion, nor science is religion. The human mind has the capacity to see dreams that are not real. In fact, it even has a way to fulfill what it wants to see but cannot see in reality: it sees it in dreams, it lives it in imagination. What it fails to gain in life, it attains in sleep. We all dream. And we know that what is not available in the sunlight of day becomes available in the night’s darkness and the lap of sleep. Dreams are substitutions, substitutes. Whatever reality withholds, dreams complete. So the truth that could not be discovered by knowledge and thought—we thought, perhaps we will find it through dreams, imagination, feeling. But whatever the mind imagines will be a creation of the mind, a mental creation. Imagination is not to be truth. For truth, imagination is not required; rather, the one who drops every kind of imagination and simply sees, arrives at truth. Our mind is immensely powerful in imagining—so powerful that it can set up before us, as if present, precisely what we imagine. What suggestion settles in the mind and we strive for, can begin to appear. Let me begin today with a small incident. In a university, all the research scholars had gathered—about a hundred of them—in the hall where they met for discussion. A young man entered, came to the table, placed a very beautiful bottle upon it, and said, “If you can grant me five minutes, I request your kindness. I am conducting an experiment. I have created a fragrance—rose—and I want to know how fast it travels across a room and how long it lingers. I will open this bottle; whoever begins to receive the fragrance, kindly raise your hand.” He opened the bottle. Those hundred scholars were thoughtful, rational, investigative, devotees of scientific method. He opened the bottle; they waited eagerly. Then one person stood up and said, “I got the fragrance.” Then another, then a third; slowly many rose and declared, “We have received the fragrance.” The young man closed the bottle and said, “Forgive me. The bottle is empty; there is no fragrance within. I am not experimenting on scent—I am experimenting on suggestion. The bottle is empty, and you are all thoughtful, rational, working and researching by scientific method—how did you smell fragrance?” Imagination and suggestion had joined—imagination and suggestion fused. They had imagination; a suggestion was given; the two married—and a dream of fragrance was created. But that dream had seemed utterly real; they were not asleep. They knew fragrance, recognized it, felt they had received it. They were not asleep, not children; not primitive, superstitious people—they were university research scholars. How did it happen? Alexandre Dumas had shifted his residence. In the old neighborhood people had come to know him and his habits. He moved to a new quarter. There, a commotion arose at midnight; the neighbors awoke and heard in Dumas’s room a fierce fight between two persons, perhaps swords clashing, loud voices—someone striking, someone being struck. They panicked; a new man in the neighborhood—and what is this happening? They informed the police. The police gathered, forced the door open with great effort. Dumas was standing alone in the room. “Where is the other man?” they asked. For a moment Dumas stood silent. He was a great writer, a dramatist, a thoughtful man. Then he began to laugh and said, “Pardon me; you will not be able to see the other person.” “Why?” they asked. “He is a character from my new play. I was conversing with him. And whenever my characters are born, I myself forget whether they are true or false. The dispute escalated so much I even drew a sword. But there was no one here. A quarrel indeed arose, yet no one is.” They thought perhaps he was mad. But Dumas was famous and discerning. In his autobiography he wrote: the madman, the poet, and the man of letters can meet and see their own characters. A man as capable and wise as Tolstoy once climbed a narrow staircase in a library. Beside him, accompanying him, walked a female character from one of his novels. She was nowhere—only in his mind. Yet she was walking with him. He was speaking with her as he slowly ascended. There was space for two. A third man came down from above. Lest the lady be jostled, Tolstoy moved aside. There was no space; he slipped, fell, and broke his leg. The other man asked, “There was space enough for two—why did you move? For whom?” Tolstoy said, “We were not two—we were three. One of my characters, a woman, was walking with me. I moved away so she would not be shoved.” The other man said, “I don’t see anyone here—no woman at all.” Tolstoy said, “She will not be visible to you.” But Tolstoy moved; in that instant he experienced with complete naturalness that a woman was beside him. Only when the leg broke did he realize he had been dreaming. The human capacity for imagination is vast. We all imagine; we all speak with absent friends. This power of imagination can be trained. Some have it in abundance naturally—more in women than in men, more in children than in adults, more in poets and painters than in ordinary folk. But if it is trained, it can be developed in anyone; and in those who already have it, it can be developed so far that whatsoever we imagine begins to appear, to be felt, to be present. The visions of God that devotees have had are not different from this imagination. It is not accidental that the devotee is often a poet—that is not by chance. The poet’s capacity to imagine is greater. Some strayed poets become devotees—then they do not merely see characters; they begin to see God. As we imagine God, and if we train our imagination rightly—there are methods; that is what bhakti-yoga is—the methods are: constant remembrance of the same image, holding the same form in waking and in sleep, living and moving with it, its contemplation, its reflection. Whatever we think of, long for, wait for, ceaselessly—whatever form and shape we install in our life-breath—at some moment that form begins to take form. The idol begins to seem alive. It is our life we have poured into it, our imagination that has breathed life. Slowly, slowly, we can arrive at a state where this real world begins to look false, and that imaginary idol begins to seem true. Certainly peace will come from this; a sort of pleasure will arise, because a kind of stupor will descend. The real life becomes Maya, and the dream that is like Maya becomes truth. Then all the anxieties of real life dissolve, sorrows thin out, miseries recede from sight, and a dream-world of wish and mind-creation stands before us—and in it we begin to live. In America they have recently conducted great experiments with mescaline and lysergic acid. Mescaline is an herb, like hemp, found in Mexico. For thousands of years Mexican devotees have been getting intoxicated on that herb and seeing visions of God. Scientists later studied this plant and produced injections from it. With a shot of mescaline, for six hours you too will become a devotee; and for six hours you can see whatever you wish to see. If a Christian devotee takes mescaline, he will meet Christ. If a devotee of Krishna takes mescaline, he will meet Krishna. Now there is no need for great labor—science has offered a device. The darshan of God has become easier. The greatest names in America—from Aldous Huxley onward—have been taking mescaline injections and entering the world of the devotee. The old ways took years; five or ten years might pass before a man had a vision of God. But times have changed; we no longer travel by bullock cart. We fly fast by airplane; we can go to the moon by rocket. So science has also found a way for the devotee to reach God sooner. Drugs have been found that intensify our imagination—so much that what you might realize after years of effort, you can realize here, now. Imagination accelerates, gains momentum. Under the intoxication of the drug, the capacity for thought and reason weakens. When reason and thought sleep, imagination moves with full force. Hence the devotees are against reason and thought; where there is reason and thought, imagination cannot become intense. Devotees say: through reasoning and thinking nothing happens. It happens through surrender, through devotion, through feeling. Drop reason, drop thought—nothing comes from them. Because where reason and doubt reside, the mind cannot run madly into imagination; obstacles arise. That is why devotees are opposed to doubt, opposed to thought. This is the other current that, for thousands of years, has obstructed humanity’s advent into religion. No—imagination is not the gate either. For who will imagine? I will. My imagination cannot be greater than me. You will imagine—how will your imagination surpass you? Imagination is your creation, the creation of your mind; it cannot go beyond you. So when a Hindu imagines God, the God resembles a Hindu—facial features like a Hindu’s. When a Negro imagines God, the God resembles a Negro—thick lips, curly hair. When a Chinese imagines God, the complexion is yellow, cheekbones protruding, nose flat. In our own imagination we will fashion our God. Whatever we make in imagination cannot transcend us; it cannot rise above us. Whatever we consider beautiful, we will add to God. Whatever we find pleasing, we will attach. Whatever forms we love, we will graft onto Him. Do you know—of all the gods men have made till today, none grows a beard or a moustache. Why? Because in the mind of man, the image of beauty is woman; therefore he makes his gods feminine in face. Neither Krishna grows a beard or a moustache, nor Mahavira, nor Buddha, nor Rama—none. Strange, is it not? Why do they not grow? The male imagination of beauty is the feminine image. If ever women make gods, their gods will certainly grow beards and moustaches—inevitably, necessarily. Not only has man made beardless, moustache-less gods; he has also shaved off his own beard and moustache for the same reason. His image of beauty is without beard and moustache, so he has cleared his own. Perhaps he does not know the feminine ideal is different. These idols we make—we ourselves make them. They are a complete reflection of our mind. Then, having made them, we worship them, we craft prayers. We intoxicate ourselves through them and imagine that we are on the path to truth or to God. But we are journeying in imagination, not seeking truth. The farther we go in imagination, remember, the farther we go from truth. For the mind that travels by imagination grows weak in discrimination, in awakening, in awareness. It only dreams, and only dreams. Yes, there is happiness in dreams. When we see a pleasant dream, we too feel happy. The devotee sees a very pleasant dream—of meeting God, of being near God. If in such a pleasant dream happiness arises, it is no wonder. But even a pleasant dream does not become truth. And this dream must be kept carefully nurtured, for there is always the possibility of its disappearance. If sleep breaks, the dream vanishes. The devotee therefore guards it from all sides, builds walls, pushes doubt away, fills himself with faith upon faith, lest the dream fade. But I do not call this constructed dream-world religion. It is not religion. It is a kind of intoxication. Many things can assist this intoxication. Music can assist—music is a wondrous means to lull, to induce stupor. Hence devotees take support of music—song, chant, dance. Anything that leads our mind into drowsiness, stupor, hypnosis—a kind of self-hypnosis—has been used as support. Once, in the court of Wajid Ali in Lucknow, a musician arrived. He said, “I will play the sitar, but on one condition: among my listeners, no one should nod his head. If a single head nods, I will not play.” Wajid Ali—you know—was a madcap. Often kings are mad; what sensible man would like to be a king? He too was mad. He said, “So be it! Do not even think of moving your head. I will issue an announcement: if anyone’s head nods, it shall be cut off.” The news went out in the city: those who come must be alert; if any head nods, it will be severed. Thousands would have come to hear such a master, but now only two or three hundred came—ascetic, self-controlled souls, who believed they could command their heads. For fifteen or twenty minutes all sat motionless like statues—no one wished to lose life. Time passed, the night deepened. Slowly two or four heads began to move, then ten or twelve. By night’s end about twenty were caught whose heads had nodded. Wajid Ali had them gathered and asked the musician, “Shall we have their heads severed?” The musician said, “No. But tomorrow let no one else come. Only these twenty should come—I will play for them alone. Only before such people is there any joy in playing.” Wajid Ali asked the twenty, “How mad are you? Death was certain—why did you nod?” They said, “No—while we were present, we did not nod. When we were lost, when we were unconscious, when we were carried away by the music, then perhaps the heads moved. We did not move our heads—the heads must have moved. When the heads moved, we were not there; while we were there, we did not move. We are not at fault—we had no hand in it.” A trance can arise in which self is forgotten. It can happen in music; it happens in sex; it can also happen in devotion. One can so drown oneself in something—the devotee calls it absorption—that one forgets oneself. If in anything one becomes so absorbed that self-forgetfulness appears, there will be great pleasure. For with the memory of the self all sorrow is bound—all anxiety, all pain. That is why so many means are prevalent in the world by which man tries to lose himself. One man throws himself into service of the nation like a madman—he forgets himself; great delight comes. One man drowns himself in service of society—identifies with it—he forgets himself. One becomes crazed to defend Islam; another to defend Hinduism. All that is needed is a way to forget oneself—if only I can lose myself, an amazing intoxication arises; in that intoxication, I will not remember myself; and when I do not remember, sorrow is not. The devotee too seeks self-forgetfulness—seeks to drown himself at the feet of an imagined God, to lose himself. When he completely forgets himself, is erased, and only his imagined God remains, then he experiences great happiness. This happiness is utterly false. Self-forgetfulness is not religion; religion is perfect self-remembering—not self-forgetfulness. It is not to forget oneself; it is to know oneself in totality. It is not to drown oneself in another; it is to recognize oneself in one’s wholeness. These are opposite directions—utterly contrary. The devotee drowns himself. Religion is the search for oneself. Religion is not absorption in something else, not being lost in someone, not becoming one with another. Rather, it is to know what is within in its totality, to recognize it in its completeness, to fill with full awareness of it. And when a man knows himself completely, he finds no opposition between self and the All—no difference, no wall. They are joined—they are one. This he does not experience through imagination. The devotee imagines, “I shall unite with God, I shall become one”—he tries and tries. Even if he becomes one, that unity is imagined, fictitious. The direction of religion is to know oneself utterly. When one knows oneself utterly, no distance remains between self and the All, no difference, no gap. He finds that whatever is within is the same in all. He does not lose himself—but one day he discovers there is no self at all. He does not drown himself in another—but seeking, he finds that the self has vanished; what remains is the All. I am gone; that remains—that, the Divine. He does not try to lose himself—yet one day he finds the self is not. And then the union with the Whole that is known—like a drop falling into the ocean knows it has become ocean—so does he know. But this is knowing—it is not imagination. And this knowing will be available only when we are ready to drop all imagining. Imagination must be dropped, because it is mine and cannot take me beyond me. Being mine, at most I can drown—but I cannot be erased. How can my own imagination erase me? I will remain, I will remain. I will constantly remain. I will lay my head at God’s feet, but I will remain greater than God—greater in my unconscious—for that God is my own making. A great devotee was taken to the temple of Rama. He folded his hands, bowed at the feet. Then he was taken to Krishna’s temple. He said, “I will not fold my hands. I bow only to the God who carries a bow; I do not accept the flute-player. O Krishna—if you want me to lay my head at your feet, first take up bow and arrow.” The devotee chooses even God—he has choice. God is his decision: who is God, who is not. How will the chooser be erased? He cannot be. The one who chooses is greater than the chosen. Tomorrow he may refuse; he may tell even the archer, “Now you are not God.” What can the archer do? The chooser is always available to deny. And as for surrender—what we call surrender, that the devotee offers at God’s feet—the one who surrenders is always available to take it back. Tomorrow he can say, “I withdraw my surrender.” The “I” cannot be erased—whether you drown it or lose it. For a little while it may be stupefied; it will return. Then its pain returns—and again you drown it. It is like the condition of a drunkard—he drinks, for a while forgets everything. When he sobers, worries return, sorrows return. Then he needs wine again—daily wine, continuous wine, always in stupor. Whenever he awakens, sorrow begins again. If one drowns himself in God, the result is of the same kind as an intoxicant. The moment he comes out of his immersion, out of bhajan and kirtan, sorrow begins; he runs again toward the temple. Slowly he says, “I shall remain in bhajan twenty-four hours; I cannot be without it. When I am outside bhajan, I am in suffering. In worship there is great delight; in prayer, great delight. Outside—only sorrow.” If delight is attained, it will be everywhere. But if it is the pleasure of intoxication, it will be only in intoxication. If a spring of bliss bursts within, there will be bliss in the temple and in the mosque, on the road and in the shop—in your whole life. For that bliss is not a narcotic; it is a spring flowing from within. But if bliss is found somewhere and not elsewhere, know it is not bliss; it is pleasure arising from stupor. Life is a seamless flow, a continuity. If love is within me, it is impossible that in one place love flows from me and in another it does not. If bliss is within me, it is impossible that I sit here and am blissful, and leaving here bliss departs. If bliss is my nature and has blossomed, it will be with me wherever I am—like breath, like the heartbeat. But we do not know bliss—we know only pleasure, which is a stupor. It is found somewhere, not elsewhere; with someone, not with another. I love someone—when he is near, I feel pleasure. Why? For a while I can forget myself; for a while I become one with him. Another person hates me—sitting near him I feel suffering. Because with one who hates me, union is difficult; his hatred stands like a wall, it does not let me merge, does not let me forget. Hence near the enemy there is pain; near the friend there is pleasure. The friend acts like a narcotic; the enemy cannot become a narcotic. The same tendency grows: then at God’s feet one begins to find pleasure—pleasure in His nearness, in His satsang. This is not bliss. It is merely the relief of sorrow through a drowsiness that comes by drowning and forgetting. Religion’s search is not for forgetting—it is for awakening. So imagination too has to be dropped. And where there is no knowledge and no imagination—what then? I will speak of that tomorrow—what can be where knowledge is not and imagination is not. There a certain explosion happens, a revolution; an extinguished fire flames up; in a dark room a lamp is lit—something happens. But two things must be dropped: borrowed knowledge, and the dreams and imaginings of the mind. In the search for truth, in the search for oneself, these two renunciations are essential—these two negations are indispensable. One who cannot make these two negations will not find truth. And if he does find something, it will be truth made at home—home-made. His own fabrication—not truth. We will be its masters and creators; it will be our toy. Such a truth cannot liberate. Only that truth liberates which is beginningless and endless. And it can enter only when I remove myself from its path. We stand in its doorway in two ways—either with our knowledge and scriptures, or with our imagination and devotion. These are the two sorts who block the door—either with devotion, or with knowledge. In both cases walls arise. Both must go. It is easy to drop scriptures and move to devotion. Moving from one extreme to the other is always easy. But the question is to stop in the middle. The question is not to go from one extreme to the opposite. Confucius went to a village. Before he entered, some friends from that village met him and said, “You have come to our village—we welcome you. We request that you meet a very great wise man of our village.” Confucius said, “Tell me something special about this wise man; then I will consider whether to meet him.” They said, “He is very great. Before doing anything, he thinks at least three times.” Confucius said, “I will not meet him.” They asked, “Why?” Confucius said, “Thinking once is too little; thinking three times is too much. Two times are enough.” He said, “Thinking once is less; thinking three times is excessive—he has gone from one extreme to another. Two are sufficient—stopping in the middle is sufficient. One who can stand in the middle—that one is wise; that one will know; that one can seek and find.” A prince took initiation with Buddha—became a bhikshu. Even as prince he was no ordinary prince; he had known the final extreme of indulgence. He had never descended from beneath velvet cushions. Even on the road, carpets were laid out for his steps. The most beautiful women of the kingdom he had gathered around him. All kinds of intoxications, all kinds of pleasures—he had arranged them all. On the stairways, instead of railings of wood or marble, he stood naked women along the sides; placing his hands on their shoulders, he would climb. Then he became a monk. You might ask how such a man becomes a monk. I say—such a man often does. It is easy to jump from one extreme to the other. The mind swings like the pendulum of a clock—from one edge to the other—never halting in the middle. That is why those who are libertines become yogis—all too often. It is no wonder; they go from one sickness to another. Stopping in the middle is arduous—very arduous. The mind says, “We are bored with this—go there.” The mind always thinks in antithesis. Tired of this, it runs to its opposite, thinking, “Perhaps there something will be found.” That indulgent prince must have been bored. Extremes bore anyone. From overeating one is bored, then one begins to fast. A man tired of overeating is alarmed by its pains, by the diseases it brings—so now he says, “I will fast; fasting is religion.” First overeating was religion; now fasting is religion. But right eating never becomes religion—either starving is religion, or eating till life becomes hard and death easy; the middle is never religion. The indulgent prince became a yogi. He came to Buddha and said, “I want to become a monk.” Ananda asked Buddha, “He is an extreme voluptuary—how has he turned?” Buddha said, “The mind works so. Now bored of that extreme, he is going to its opponent. Now he will fight it. A moment ago he was running to women; now he will vow brahmacharya. Now he will flee from women. Wherever he sees a woman he will run to the forest. A moment ago he ran wherever women were; now he will run when he sees a woman. He has moved to the other extreme.” Buddha initiated him. And so it happened. After initiation he started the second extreme. He stopped looking at women; at the sight of a woman he closed his eyes. He stopped touching money. He left his clothes—became naked. In blazing sun he would not sit in the shade, but in the sunlight. In deep cold he would not sleep indoors, but outside. When the monks went for alms, others walked the smooth road; he walked by the thorns at the roadside. In every way he became the reverse. In three months he withered to skin and bone; eyes bulged out; feet blistered and bled. Buddha went to him and said, “My friend, I want to ask you something. I have heard that when you were a prince, you were very skillful at playing the vina. Tell me—when the strings are too loose, does music arise?” He said, “No. If the strings are loose, how will music arise? You cannot even strike them.” “And when the strings are too tight, does music arise?” Buddha asked. The monk said, “No, then too. The strings snap; music does not arise.” “When then does music arise?” Buddha asked. The monk said, “When the strings are neither loose nor tight. There is a place of the strings where you cannot say they are loose, nor say they are tight—then music arises.” Buddha said, “I go—that is all I came to say. Remember: the rule of the vina is the rule of life. Music arises only when life’s strings are neither loose nor tight. There is a point in life too where neither extreme is, where the middle is—and from that middle, music arises.” I want to submit to you: neither the excess of logic, scripture, knowledge, nor the excess of unreason, belief, imagination, devotion, surrender—truth’s music does not arise from either extreme. It arises from the middle—from halting there. What is that halting in the middle? I will speak of it tomorrow. For now, consider these few things. Understand the possibility of imagination within you. If you understand it, dropping it will not be difficult. Do not imagine God, if you want to know God. Do not dream of God, if you truly want to awaken to God. He who imagines God will meet his own God—not God. He who imagines truth will meet his own imagination—not truth. To reach truth, all imaginings and assumptions must be left. All dreams, all our manufactured thoughts and concepts must be bid farewell. All images of God must be dismissed. What remains is an empty mind, an empty consciousness. In that emptiness, something can happen. Where one is free of knowledge and imagination—there, something can be; there, something definite can be. There is the point, the middle point, where an event can happen. Now we will sit for the morning meditation. Sit a little apart, so no one touches another. Two things about meditation, and then we will sit. Tradition has regarded meditation and sadhana as labor, effort, practice. We have heard these things; so when we sit for meditation, our mind carries a sense of effort: we are meditating—we must do it rightly. Such attitudes create tension. Because of them, meditation becomes impossible; meditation requires a mind empty of tension. But whenever you are filled with the idea of doing something, tension is created. We consider sadhana, meditation to be a heavy, serious work—that too creates tension. No; I request you to take meditation as one would take a game. Do not take it very seriously, very sternly, with much effort. Take it as if you are sitting in your own joy—simply, peacefully, without tension. You are not doing any great work. The religious have spread the notion that one who sits with closed eyes is doing a tremendous task. This satisfies the ego: “I am doing something great—look, I have sat with a straight spine for half an hour.” Someone stands on his head and says, “I am doing something great—see, I am in shirshasana.” Religion is no circus—you are not doing something big. And the mind of a circus performer is not right for religion. You are not doing anything special. Sit in your joy, in peace, in delight—light-hearted. Not very seriously—very lightly, very simply—like little children at play. So do not load sadhana and meditation with excessive seriousness. Sit in great ease—then tension will not come. Otherwise tension appears. You are not doing anything; for a while you are doing nothing—sitting in non-doing. Then sounds will be heard—listen to them without resistance, with non-resistance. Do not oppose: Why is this crow calling? Why did this child cry? Why did someone cough? No—nothing. Whatever happens, allow it to pass through from within. It will come, resound, and go. Watch it silently, peacefully. For thousands of years we have also been taught that in meditation nothing should be heard—only then is it meditation; nothing around should be known—only then is it meditation. Those are concentrations, stupors. If you are stupefied, you will know nothing. But when you are awake, you will know more. When you are stupefied, nothing is known—you could set the house on fire, drop a bomb, and nothing would be known if you are in stupor, asleep. But when there is complete awakening within, even a needle falling will be heard. The quieter the mind, the more awake the mind, the more sensitive it becomes. Everything will be heard—the rustle of a single leaf, the movement of the breeze. So do not keep in mind, “Ah, all this is being heard!” It should be heard. And the more aware you become, the subtler the sounds you will hear—right now tiny crickets may be singing—they are not noticed now; sitting quietly, they will be. Slowly a music of sounds on all sides will begin to resound. Do not get lost in that music; do not drown in it. Stay awake to it, filled with awareness. If you drown, that is absorption—that is a kind of bhakti, a kind of hypnosis. But if you do not drown—if you remain aware—that is meditation. Now we will sit for the morning meditation. Leave the body utterly relaxed and at ease; keep no tension anywhere in the body.
Osho's Commentary
Naturally, if knowledge is not the way, another alternative has been offered through the centuries. The other alternative is devotion—imagination, feeling, surrender. If knowledge is not the gate to truth, then devotion is; surrender is; feeling is; imagination is. The second alternative, set up against knowledge, is bhakti.
This morning I want to say to you: devotion is not the path either. If knowledge is not the path, imagination certainly cannot be. If knowledge is not a gate, then dreams are even less of a gate. Knowledge is logic; devotion is dream. Knowledge is thought; devotion is imagination. The human mind knows how to reason—science is born of reason. And the human mind knows how to imagine—poetry is born of imagination. But neither poetry is religion, nor science is religion.
The human mind has the capacity to see dreams that are not real. In fact, it even has a way to fulfill what it wants to see but cannot see in reality: it sees it in dreams, it lives it in imagination. What it fails to gain in life, it attains in sleep. We all dream. And we know that what is not available in the sunlight of day becomes available in the night’s darkness and the lap of sleep. Dreams are substitutions, substitutes. Whatever reality withholds, dreams complete.
So the truth that could not be discovered by knowledge and thought—we thought, perhaps we will find it through dreams, imagination, feeling. But whatever the mind imagines will be a creation of the mind, a mental creation. Imagination is not to be truth. For truth, imagination is not required; rather, the one who drops every kind of imagination and simply sees, arrives at truth.
Our mind is immensely powerful in imagining—so powerful that it can set up before us, as if present, precisely what we imagine. What suggestion settles in the mind and we strive for, can begin to appear.
Let me begin today with a small incident.
In a university, all the research scholars had gathered—about a hundred of them—in the hall where they met for discussion. A young man entered, came to the table, placed a very beautiful bottle upon it, and said, “If you can grant me five minutes, I request your kindness. I am conducting an experiment. I have created a fragrance—rose—and I want to know how fast it travels across a room and how long it lingers. I will open this bottle; whoever begins to receive the fragrance, kindly raise your hand.” He opened the bottle. Those hundred scholars were thoughtful, rational, investigative, devotees of scientific method. He opened the bottle; they waited eagerly. Then one person stood up and said, “I got the fragrance.” Then another, then a third; slowly many rose and declared, “We have received the fragrance.”
The young man closed the bottle and said, “Forgive me. The bottle is empty; there is no fragrance within. I am not experimenting on scent—I am experimenting on suggestion. The bottle is empty, and you are all thoughtful, rational, working and researching by scientific method—how did you smell fragrance?”
Imagination and suggestion had joined—imagination and suggestion fused. They had imagination; a suggestion was given; the two married—and a dream of fragrance was created. But that dream had seemed utterly real; they were not asleep. They knew fragrance, recognized it, felt they had received it. They were not asleep, not children; not primitive, superstitious people—they were university research scholars.
How did it happen?
Alexandre Dumas had shifted his residence. In the old neighborhood people had come to know him and his habits. He moved to a new quarter. There, a commotion arose at midnight; the neighbors awoke and heard in Dumas’s room a fierce fight between two persons, perhaps swords clashing, loud voices—someone striking, someone being struck. They panicked; a new man in the neighborhood—and what is this happening? They informed the police. The police gathered, forced the door open with great effort. Dumas was standing alone in the room. “Where is the other man?” they asked. For a moment Dumas stood silent. He was a great writer, a dramatist, a thoughtful man. Then he began to laugh and said, “Pardon me; you will not be able to see the other person.”
“Why?” they asked.
“He is a character from my new play. I was conversing with him. And whenever my characters are born, I myself forget whether they are true or false. The dispute escalated so much I even drew a sword. But there was no one here. A quarrel indeed arose, yet no one is.”
They thought perhaps he was mad. But Dumas was famous and discerning. In his autobiography he wrote: the madman, the poet, and the man of letters can meet and see their own characters.
A man as capable and wise as Tolstoy once climbed a narrow staircase in a library. Beside him, accompanying him, walked a female character from one of his novels. She was nowhere—only in his mind. Yet she was walking with him. He was speaking with her as he slowly ascended. There was space for two. A third man came down from above. Lest the lady be jostled, Tolstoy moved aside. There was no space; he slipped, fell, and broke his leg.
The other man asked, “There was space enough for two—why did you move? For whom?”
Tolstoy said, “We were not two—we were three. One of my characters, a woman, was walking with me. I moved away so she would not be shoved.”
The other man said, “I don’t see anyone here—no woman at all.”
Tolstoy said, “She will not be visible to you.”
But Tolstoy moved; in that instant he experienced with complete naturalness that a woman was beside him. Only when the leg broke did he realize he had been dreaming.
The human capacity for imagination is vast. We all imagine; we all speak with absent friends. This power of imagination can be trained. Some have it in abundance naturally—more in women than in men, more in children than in adults, more in poets and painters than in ordinary folk. But if it is trained, it can be developed in anyone; and in those who already have it, it can be developed so far that whatsoever we imagine begins to appear, to be felt, to be present.
The visions of God that devotees have had are not different from this imagination. It is not accidental that the devotee is often a poet—that is not by chance. The poet’s capacity to imagine is greater. Some strayed poets become devotees—then they do not merely see characters; they begin to see God.
As we imagine God, and if we train our imagination rightly—there are methods; that is what bhakti-yoga is—the methods are: constant remembrance of the same image, holding the same form in waking and in sleep, living and moving with it, its contemplation, its reflection. Whatever we think of, long for, wait for, ceaselessly—whatever form and shape we install in our life-breath—at some moment that form begins to take form. The idol begins to seem alive. It is our life we have poured into it, our imagination that has breathed life. Slowly, slowly, we can arrive at a state where this real world begins to look false, and that imaginary idol begins to seem true.
Certainly peace will come from this; a sort of pleasure will arise, because a kind of stupor will descend. The real life becomes Maya, and the dream that is like Maya becomes truth. Then all the anxieties of real life dissolve, sorrows thin out, miseries recede from sight, and a dream-world of wish and mind-creation stands before us—and in it we begin to live.
In America they have recently conducted great experiments with mescaline and lysergic acid. Mescaline is an herb, like hemp, found in Mexico. For thousands of years Mexican devotees have been getting intoxicated on that herb and seeing visions of God. Scientists later studied this plant and produced injections from it. With a shot of mescaline, for six hours you too will become a devotee; and for six hours you can see whatever you wish to see. If a Christian devotee takes mescaline, he will meet Christ. If a devotee of Krishna takes mescaline, he will meet Krishna.
Now there is no need for great labor—science has offered a device. The darshan of God has become easier. The greatest names in America—from Aldous Huxley onward—have been taking mescaline injections and entering the world of the devotee. The old ways took years; five or ten years might pass before a man had a vision of God. But times have changed; we no longer travel by bullock cart. We fly fast by airplane; we can go to the moon by rocket. So science has also found a way for the devotee to reach God sooner.
Drugs have been found that intensify our imagination—so much that what you might realize after years of effort, you can realize here, now. Imagination accelerates, gains momentum. Under the intoxication of the drug, the capacity for thought and reason weakens. When reason and thought sleep, imagination moves with full force.
Hence the devotees are against reason and thought; where there is reason and thought, imagination cannot become intense. Devotees say: through reasoning and thinking nothing happens. It happens through surrender, through devotion, through feeling. Drop reason, drop thought—nothing comes from them. Because where reason and doubt reside, the mind cannot run madly into imagination; obstacles arise. That is why devotees are opposed to doubt, opposed to thought.
This is the other current that, for thousands of years, has obstructed humanity’s advent into religion.
No—imagination is not the gate either. For who will imagine? I will. My imagination cannot be greater than me. You will imagine—how will your imagination surpass you? Imagination is your creation, the creation of your mind; it cannot go beyond you.
So when a Hindu imagines God, the God resembles a Hindu—facial features like a Hindu’s. When a Negro imagines God, the God resembles a Negro—thick lips, curly hair. When a Chinese imagines God, the complexion is yellow, cheekbones protruding, nose flat. In our own imagination we will fashion our God. Whatever we make in imagination cannot transcend us; it cannot rise above us.
Whatever we consider beautiful, we will add to God. Whatever we find pleasing, we will attach. Whatever forms we love, we will graft onto Him.
Do you know—of all the gods men have made till today, none grows a beard or a moustache. Why? Because in the mind of man, the image of beauty is woman; therefore he makes his gods feminine in face. Neither Krishna grows a beard or a moustache, nor Mahavira, nor Buddha, nor Rama—none. Strange, is it not? Why do they not grow? The male imagination of beauty is the feminine image. If ever women make gods, their gods will certainly grow beards and moustaches—inevitably, necessarily.
Not only has man made beardless, moustache-less gods; he has also shaved off his own beard and moustache for the same reason. His image of beauty is without beard and moustache, so he has cleared his own. Perhaps he does not know the feminine ideal is different.
These idols we make—we ourselves make them. They are a complete reflection of our mind. Then, having made them, we worship them, we craft prayers. We intoxicate ourselves through them and imagine that we are on the path to truth or to God.
But we are journeying in imagination, not seeking truth. The farther we go in imagination, remember, the farther we go from truth. For the mind that travels by imagination grows weak in discrimination, in awakening, in awareness. It only dreams, and only dreams.
Yes, there is happiness in dreams. When we see a pleasant dream, we too feel happy. The devotee sees a very pleasant dream—of meeting God, of being near God. If in such a pleasant dream happiness arises, it is no wonder. But even a pleasant dream does not become truth. And this dream must be kept carefully nurtured, for there is always the possibility of its disappearance. If sleep breaks, the dream vanishes. The devotee therefore guards it from all sides, builds walls, pushes doubt away, fills himself with faith upon faith, lest the dream fade.
But I do not call this constructed dream-world religion. It is not religion. It is a kind of intoxication. Many things can assist this intoxication. Music can assist—music is a wondrous means to lull, to induce stupor. Hence devotees take support of music—song, chant, dance. Anything that leads our mind into drowsiness, stupor, hypnosis—a kind of self-hypnosis—has been used as support.
Once, in the court of Wajid Ali in Lucknow, a musician arrived. He said, “I will play the sitar, but on one condition: among my listeners, no one should nod his head. If a single head nods, I will not play.” Wajid Ali—you know—was a madcap. Often kings are mad; what sensible man would like to be a king? He too was mad. He said, “So be it! Do not even think of moving your head. I will issue an announcement: if anyone’s head nods, it shall be cut off.”
The news went out in the city: those who come must be alert; if any head nods, it will be severed. Thousands would have come to hear such a master, but now only two or three hundred came—ascetic, self-controlled souls, who believed they could command their heads. For fifteen or twenty minutes all sat motionless like statues—no one wished to lose life. Time passed, the night deepened. Slowly two or four heads began to move, then ten or twelve. By night’s end about twenty were caught whose heads had nodded. Wajid Ali had them gathered and asked the musician, “Shall we have their heads severed?”
The musician said, “No. But tomorrow let no one else come. Only these twenty should come—I will play for them alone. Only before such people is there any joy in playing.”
Wajid Ali asked the twenty, “How mad are you? Death was certain—why did you nod?”
They said, “No—while we were present, we did not nod. When we were lost, when we were unconscious, when we were carried away by the music, then perhaps the heads moved. We did not move our heads—the heads must have moved. When the heads moved, we were not there; while we were there, we did not move. We are not at fault—we had no hand in it.”
A trance can arise in which self is forgotten. It can happen in music; it happens in sex; it can also happen in devotion. One can so drown oneself in something—the devotee calls it absorption—that one forgets oneself. If in anything one becomes so absorbed that self-forgetfulness appears, there will be great pleasure. For with the memory of the self all sorrow is bound—all anxiety, all pain. That is why so many means are prevalent in the world by which man tries to lose himself.
One man throws himself into service of the nation like a madman—he forgets himself; great delight comes. One man drowns himself in service of society—identifies with it—he forgets himself. One becomes crazed to defend Islam; another to defend Hinduism. All that is needed is a way to forget oneself—if only I can lose myself, an amazing intoxication arises; in that intoxication, I will not remember myself; and when I do not remember, sorrow is not.
The devotee too seeks self-forgetfulness—seeks to drown himself at the feet of an imagined God, to lose himself. When he completely forgets himself, is erased, and only his imagined God remains, then he experiences great happiness.
This happiness is utterly false. Self-forgetfulness is not religion; religion is perfect self-remembering—not self-forgetfulness. It is not to forget oneself; it is to know oneself in totality. It is not to drown oneself in another; it is to recognize oneself in one’s wholeness. These are opposite directions—utterly contrary.
The devotee drowns himself. Religion is the search for oneself. Religion is not absorption in something else, not being lost in someone, not becoming one with another. Rather, it is to know what is within in its totality, to recognize it in its completeness, to fill with full awareness of it. And when a man knows himself completely, he finds no opposition between self and the All—no difference, no wall. They are joined—they are one. This he does not experience through imagination.
The devotee imagines, “I shall unite with God, I shall become one”—he tries and tries. Even if he becomes one, that unity is imagined, fictitious.
The direction of religion is to know oneself utterly. When one knows oneself utterly, no distance remains between self and the All, no difference, no gap. He finds that whatever is within is the same in all. He does not lose himself—but one day he discovers there is no self at all. He does not drown himself in another—but seeking, he finds that the self has vanished; what remains is the All. I am gone; that remains—that, the Divine. He does not try to lose himself—yet one day he finds the self is not. And then the union with the Whole that is known—like a drop falling into the ocean knows it has become ocean—so does he know.
But this is knowing—it is not imagination. And this knowing will be available only when we are ready to drop all imagining.
Imagination must be dropped, because it is mine and cannot take me beyond me. Being mine, at most I can drown—but I cannot be erased. How can my own imagination erase me? I will remain, I will remain. I will constantly remain. I will lay my head at God’s feet, but I will remain greater than God—greater in my unconscious—for that God is my own making.
A great devotee was taken to the temple of Rama. He folded his hands, bowed at the feet. Then he was taken to Krishna’s temple. He said, “I will not fold my hands. I bow only to the God who carries a bow; I do not accept the flute-player. O Krishna—if you want me to lay my head at your feet, first take up bow and arrow.”
The devotee chooses even God—he has choice. God is his decision: who is God, who is not. How will the chooser be erased? He cannot be. The one who chooses is greater than the chosen. Tomorrow he may refuse; he may tell even the archer, “Now you are not God.” What can the archer do? The chooser is always available to deny. And as for surrender—what we call surrender, that the devotee offers at God’s feet—the one who surrenders is always available to take it back. Tomorrow he can say, “I withdraw my surrender.” The “I” cannot be erased—whether you drown it or lose it. For a little while it may be stupefied; it will return. Then its pain returns—and again you drown it.
It is like the condition of a drunkard—he drinks, for a while forgets everything. When he sobers, worries return, sorrows return. Then he needs wine again—daily wine, continuous wine, always in stupor. Whenever he awakens, sorrow begins again.
If one drowns himself in God, the result is of the same kind as an intoxicant. The moment he comes out of his immersion, out of bhajan and kirtan, sorrow begins; he runs again toward the temple. Slowly he says, “I shall remain in bhajan twenty-four hours; I cannot be without it. When I am outside bhajan, I am in suffering. In worship there is great delight; in prayer, great delight. Outside—only sorrow.”
If delight is attained, it will be everywhere. But if it is the pleasure of intoxication, it will be only in intoxication. If a spring of bliss bursts within, there will be bliss in the temple and in the mosque, on the road and in the shop—in your whole life. For that bliss is not a narcotic; it is a spring flowing from within. But if bliss is found somewhere and not elsewhere, know it is not bliss; it is pleasure arising from stupor.
Life is a seamless flow, a continuity. If love is within me, it is impossible that in one place love flows from me and in another it does not. If bliss is within me, it is impossible that I sit here and am blissful, and leaving here bliss departs. If bliss is my nature and has blossomed, it will be with me wherever I am—like breath, like the heartbeat.
But we do not know bliss—we know only pleasure, which is a stupor. It is found somewhere, not elsewhere; with someone, not with another.
I love someone—when he is near, I feel pleasure. Why? For a while I can forget myself; for a while I become one with him. Another person hates me—sitting near him I feel suffering. Because with one who hates me, union is difficult; his hatred stands like a wall, it does not let me merge, does not let me forget. Hence near the enemy there is pain; near the friend there is pleasure. The friend acts like a narcotic; the enemy cannot become a narcotic. The same tendency grows: then at God’s feet one begins to find pleasure—pleasure in His nearness, in His satsang.
This is not bliss. It is merely the relief of sorrow through a drowsiness that comes by drowning and forgetting.
Religion’s search is not for forgetting—it is for awakening. So imagination too has to be dropped. And where there is no knowledge and no imagination—what then?
I will speak of that tomorrow—what can be where knowledge is not and imagination is not. There a certain explosion happens, a revolution; an extinguished fire flames up; in a dark room a lamp is lit—something happens.
But two things must be dropped: borrowed knowledge, and the dreams and imaginings of the mind. In the search for truth, in the search for oneself, these two renunciations are essential—these two negations are indispensable. One who cannot make these two negations will not find truth. And if he does find something, it will be truth made at home—home-made. His own fabrication—not truth. We will be its masters and creators; it will be our toy. Such a truth cannot liberate. Only that truth liberates which is beginningless and endless. And it can enter only when I remove myself from its path. We stand in its doorway in two ways—either with our knowledge and scriptures, or with our imagination and devotion. These are the two sorts who block the door—either with devotion, or with knowledge. In both cases walls arise. Both must go.
It is easy to drop scriptures and move to devotion. Moving from one extreme to the other is always easy. But the question is to stop in the middle. The question is not to go from one extreme to the opposite.
Confucius went to a village. Before he entered, some friends from that village met him and said, “You have come to our village—we welcome you. We request that you meet a very great wise man of our village.”
Confucius said, “Tell me something special about this wise man; then I will consider whether to meet him.”
They said, “He is very great. Before doing anything, he thinks at least three times.”
Confucius said, “I will not meet him.”
They asked, “Why?”
Confucius said, “Thinking once is too little; thinking three times is too much. Two times are enough.” He said, “Thinking once is less; thinking three times is excessive—he has gone from one extreme to another. Two are sufficient—stopping in the middle is sufficient. One who can stand in the middle—that one is wise; that one will know; that one can seek and find.”
A prince took initiation with Buddha—became a bhikshu. Even as prince he was no ordinary prince; he had known the final extreme of indulgence. He had never descended from beneath velvet cushions. Even on the road, carpets were laid out for his steps. The most beautiful women of the kingdom he had gathered around him. All kinds of intoxications, all kinds of pleasures—he had arranged them all. On the stairways, instead of railings of wood or marble, he stood naked women along the sides; placing his hands on their shoulders, he would climb. Then he became a monk.
You might ask how such a man becomes a monk. I say—such a man often does. It is easy to jump from one extreme to the other. The mind swings like the pendulum of a clock—from one edge to the other—never halting in the middle. That is why those who are libertines become yogis—all too often. It is no wonder; they go from one sickness to another. Stopping in the middle is arduous—very arduous. The mind says, “We are bored with this—go there.” The mind always thinks in antithesis. Tired of this, it runs to its opposite, thinking, “Perhaps there something will be found.”
That indulgent prince must have been bored. Extremes bore anyone. From overeating one is bored, then one begins to fast. A man tired of overeating is alarmed by its pains, by the diseases it brings—so now he says, “I will fast; fasting is religion.” First overeating was religion; now fasting is religion. But right eating never becomes religion—either starving is religion, or eating till life becomes hard and death easy; the middle is never religion.
The indulgent prince became a yogi. He came to Buddha and said, “I want to become a monk.” Ananda asked Buddha, “He is an extreme voluptuary—how has he turned?” Buddha said, “The mind works so. Now bored of that extreme, he is going to its opponent. Now he will fight it. A moment ago he was running to women; now he will vow brahmacharya. Now he will flee from women. Wherever he sees a woman he will run to the forest. A moment ago he ran wherever women were; now he will run when he sees a woman. He has moved to the other extreme.”
Buddha initiated him. And so it happened. After initiation he started the second extreme. He stopped looking at women; at the sight of a woman he closed his eyes. He stopped touching money. He left his clothes—became naked. In blazing sun he would not sit in the shade, but in the sunlight. In deep cold he would not sleep indoors, but outside. When the monks went for alms, others walked the smooth road; he walked by the thorns at the roadside. In every way he became the reverse.
In three months he withered to skin and bone; eyes bulged out; feet blistered and bled.
Buddha went to him and said, “My friend, I want to ask you something. I have heard that when you were a prince, you were very skillful at playing the vina. Tell me—when the strings are too loose, does music arise?”
He said, “No. If the strings are loose, how will music arise? You cannot even strike them.”
“And when the strings are too tight, does music arise?” Buddha asked.
The monk said, “No, then too. The strings snap; music does not arise.”
“When then does music arise?” Buddha asked.
The monk said, “When the strings are neither loose nor tight. There is a place of the strings where you cannot say they are loose, nor say they are tight—then music arises.”
Buddha said, “I go—that is all I came to say. Remember: the rule of the vina is the rule of life. Music arises only when life’s strings are neither loose nor tight. There is a point in life too where neither extreme is, where the middle is—and from that middle, music arises.”
I want to submit to you: neither the excess of logic, scripture, knowledge, nor the excess of unreason, belief, imagination, devotion, surrender—truth’s music does not arise from either extreme. It arises from the middle—from halting there. What is that halting in the middle? I will speak of it tomorrow. For now, consider these few things. Understand the possibility of imagination within you. If you understand it, dropping it will not be difficult. Do not imagine God, if you want to know God. Do not dream of God, if you truly want to awaken to God. He who imagines God will meet his own God—not God. He who imagines truth will meet his own imagination—not truth. To reach truth, all imaginings and assumptions must be left. All dreams, all our manufactured thoughts and concepts must be bid farewell. All images of God must be dismissed. What remains is an empty mind, an empty consciousness. In that emptiness, something can happen.
Where one is free of knowledge and imagination—there, something can be; there, something definite can be. There is the point, the middle point, where an event can happen.
Now we will sit for the morning meditation. Sit a little apart, so no one touches another. Two things about meditation, and then we will sit.
Tradition has regarded meditation and sadhana as labor, effort, practice. We have heard these things; so when we sit for meditation, our mind carries a sense of effort: we are meditating—we must do it rightly. Such attitudes create tension. Because of them, meditation becomes impossible; meditation requires a mind empty of tension. But whenever you are filled with the idea of doing something, tension is created. We consider sadhana, meditation to be a heavy, serious work—that too creates tension.
No; I request you to take meditation as one would take a game. Do not take it very seriously, very sternly, with much effort. Take it as if you are sitting in your own joy—simply, peacefully, without tension. You are not doing any great work.
The religious have spread the notion that one who sits with closed eyes is doing a tremendous task. This satisfies the ego: “I am doing something great—look, I have sat with a straight spine for half an hour.” Someone stands on his head and says, “I am doing something great—see, I am in shirshasana.”
Religion is no circus—you are not doing something big. And the mind of a circus performer is not right for religion. You are not doing anything special. Sit in your joy, in peace, in delight—light-hearted. Not very seriously—very lightly, very simply—like little children at play.
So do not load sadhana and meditation with excessive seriousness. Sit in great ease—then tension will not come. Otherwise tension appears. You are not doing anything; for a while you are doing nothing—sitting in non-doing. Then sounds will be heard—listen to them without resistance, with non-resistance. Do not oppose: Why is this crow calling? Why did this child cry? Why did someone cough? No—nothing. Whatever happens, allow it to pass through from within. It will come, resound, and go. Watch it silently, peacefully.
For thousands of years we have also been taught that in meditation nothing should be heard—only then is it meditation; nothing around should be known—only then is it meditation.
Those are concentrations, stupors. If you are stupefied, you will know nothing. But when you are awake, you will know more. When you are stupefied, nothing is known—you could set the house on fire, drop a bomb, and nothing would be known if you are in stupor, asleep. But when there is complete awakening within, even a needle falling will be heard. The quieter the mind, the more awake the mind, the more sensitive it becomes. Everything will be heard—the rustle of a single leaf, the movement of the breeze.
So do not keep in mind, “Ah, all this is being heard!” It should be heard. And the more aware you become, the subtler the sounds you will hear—right now tiny crickets may be singing—they are not noticed now; sitting quietly, they will be. Slowly a music of sounds on all sides will begin to resound. Do not get lost in that music; do not drown in it. Stay awake to it, filled with awareness. If you drown, that is absorption—that is a kind of bhakti, a kind of hypnosis. But if you do not drown—if you remain aware—that is meditation.
Now we will sit for the morning meditation.
Leave the body utterly relaxed and at ease; keep no tension anywhere in the body.