Sadhana Sutra #3

As man has become more civilized, as he has become more educated, cultured, so he has grown more anxious, restless, and troubled. What is the reason? As man’s intellect grows, why does suffering grow?
Suffering grows because the entire development of intellect depends on duality.
Intellect breaks, separates, analyzes. Intellect draws boundaries, makes definitions.
The heart joins, breaks the boundaries. Definitions end, mystery is born. And the more heart there is in life, the less anxiety there is. The more intellect, the more anxiety.
The very process of intellect is a process of fragmenting. As with a glass prism—let a sunray pass through it and instantly it breaks into seven parts; seven colors appear. The same ray was white before the prism; the same ray, having passed through, is divided into seven parts and becomes seven-hued.
In the rains a rainbow arises in the sky because raindrops work as prisms: they break the ray and distribute it into seven colors. Intellect works just like a prism. Wherever you look through intellect, things will break apart, become separate. This is both the danger of intellect and its utility. Because if a boundary has to be drawn around anything, if you want to know precisely what it is, you must break it down. Otherwise nothing at all can be known, for in this universe everything is joined to everything else.
If in truth you want to know even one thing, it can be known only when all is known. And that appears impossible. A tiny fragment of pebble is also connected with the whole of existence. In the being of that fragment the entire existence has participated: the sun has given, the sky has given space, the earth has given substance—out of all these the piece of stone is formed. The Infinite has given it life in infinite ways. So unless we understand all, we shall not be able to understand even that fragment of stone.
But that is extremely difficult. Must we wait until all is known? And how will we ever know all, for the whole is so vast! And here, to know even one, the rest must be known. This would mean that ignorance will be eternal, we will never know.
Intellect helps in knowing. It helps because it breaks, makes fragments. It says, it is not necessary to know the whole; one can know even by dividing a fragment. Science can stand by the support of intellect. But there is a danger. And the danger is that what is indivisible in itself, intellect divides. What is intrinsically whole, it cuts into pieces. Therefore whatever is known through intellect can never be supreme knowing. It will remain incomplete, for many parts remain unknown, many essential things remain unsearched. Hence science says that all its information is provisional; it can never be final. Thus science has to change its knowledge every day. Knowledge keeps changing.
Religion says: what is the value of such knowledge that changes every day? What is the value of impermanent knowledge? That would mean that what was knowledge yesterday and has become ignorance today was actually ignorance yesterday too—we just did not know it. What is knowledge today will become ignorance tomorrow. That would mean that even today it is ignorance—we just do not know it. As awareness grows, our knowledge keeps turning into ignorance. Then what is knowledge?
Religion says: until we know the Whole as the Whole, we will remain ignorant.
There is deception in knowing the Whole by breaking it. It has utility, but it is a deception. And deceptions can be useful. Science is such a deception—very useful. But religion seeks another kind of knowing, which is truly knowledge; and once it is known it can never again become ignorance, for it is eternal.
What must be done for this eternal knowing?
Just as science breaks, if we are to attain eternal knowing we must learn the art of joining. This sutra points toward that art.
This sutra says, ‘Remove the sense of duality in its totality.’
Let no twoness remain, let nothing be two—only the One remain. And the day there is no gap between you and existence, no distance remains; you will not even feel that you are the knower and that which is the world is being known; that it is the known. The day even the distance between the knower and the known disappears; the day all dualities break, all boundaries fall, and you become one with existence—as a dewdrop slips from the lotus leaf and becomes one with the lake—the day that union with existence happens, that very day that which is to be known is known. From that day there is no possibility of losing what is known. From that day what is known brings liberation.
Science can give power, but not liberation. Because science can give useful facts, but not eternal truth. There is only one process to find the eternal truth—and that is the experience of oneness.
But it is very difficult. Because our entire way of seeing depends upon intellect. Whichever way we look, things become two.
Right now I am speaking, you are listening. The event is one. Here the speaker is one end, there the listener is the other end—the event is one. Only one event is happening: speaking, listening. These are not two things. From one end speaking is happening, on the other end listening is happening—two corners of the same experience. The event is one, but the moment we think about it, the speaker becomes separate, the listener separate. In the moment of listening, when your mind is not doing any work, when it is silently listening, there are not two. In the moment of speaking, when the mind is not working, not thinking, where pure speaking and pure listening meet, only one remains. There is neither a listener nor a speaker. That is where understanding arises, and that is where dialogue happens. Where the listener is separate and the speaker separate, there is dispute. Within, contention continues.
In truth, the deeper we go, the more unity is revealed. But the moment we return to thinking, it seems things have been divided, have become two, become separate: the listener separate, the speaker separate.
When two people are in deep love, or in deep friendship, there are not two in their love. In their love only love remains. The lover is lost, the beloved is lost. And only when this losing happens is love born. Until this losing happens, love is not born. But when we think about love, the lover becomes separate and the beloved separate.
When the devotee is in his total absorption, there is no distance between Bhagavan and the devotee. If distance remains, devotion is incomplete—there is no devotion. There the devotee is effaced and Bhagavan is effaced; between the two only the presence of the One remains. These two ends dissolve and a single existence remains. But when we think about devotion, God is separate and the devotee is separate.
Leave it! Perhaps you have no experience of love either, for even the experience of love has become very difficult. And of devotion, it will be still less—almost impossible. In a society where even the experience of love becomes difficult, the experience of devotion does not remain possible. Those who do not know love—how will they know bhakti?
Love is the ladder of the world by which a person can rise to the temple of devotion. But those who have never loved in life will never understand the nectar of bhakti. This does not mean that love is bhakti; it only means that love is the training for bhakti. It only means that in this world the event closest to bhakti is the love of two persons.
Why? Because even in the deep love of two persons a glimpse of advaita is available. Only a glimpse, but even a glimpse is enough. And when there is dense darkness all around, the flash of a single lightning bolt clears so much. Then it is lost again, the lightning is lost again. Lightning is not a lamp in your hand with which you can search out the path. But on a dark road in a dark night if lightning flashes—if only once a glimpse of the path appears—your vision changes, your fear changes. You know there is a path; you know you have seen the path; now you are unafraid; now you can search, now you can feel your way. Now even if there is error, even if there is wandering, trust will not be lost, for you have had a glimpse of the path—there is a path. In the dark you may err, you may wander, it may take time, but the destination will be reached—because there is a path! Now a trust arises.
In the lives of those in whom the event of love happens, the possibility of bhakti begins. A trust arises. The two can melt—at least there has been one experience. There can be a moment when two are not—such a moment also came, it flashed like lightning and was gone—but it was seen that there were not two—there was One. Then the possibility between God and devotee becomes worthy of trust. Then faith can be brought in, then reliance is possible.
Therefore I say the possibility of bhakti has become very difficult, because the possibility of love itself has become exceedingly hard. But one thing must be understood: to understand the event of the dissolving of two. Then let us reflect from other angles; perhaps at some moment you too have felt as if you were lost.
However that moment was available, from wherever it was available, if there has been any such moment in your life—some experience of beauty: you were sitting near a flower, and while gazing at the flower you disappeared and the flower too disappeared, and only the fragrance of the flower, only the beauty of the flower remained; both ends vanished and a mere awareness of transparent beauty remained—then you can have a sense of what this sutra indicates. Or while listening to music, the musician was forgotten and you too were forgotten—only music remained. Then you can sense what the taste of nonduality would be.
What the final taste will be will be known only when it is experienced. But if ever there has been any moment in your life—of beauty, of love, of some aesthetic relish—where it felt that the knower and the known were no longer two, subject and object vanished, and only a wave of experience remained—a ripple in which both ends were lost and only the middle remained—if such a taste has ever happened to you, this sutra will be easy to understand.
If such a taste has not occurred, there is a device in meditation to bring it about. In meditation, try to drown in such a way that even meditation does not remain. Let not even the idea remain that ‘I am meditating’. Let not even the thought remain that ‘I am meditating upon someone’. Become so blissfully absorbed that the two disappear.
It is possible in the midday kirtan. If you are totally absorbed in the dance, the dancer will vanish, the outer world will be lost, the inner egoity will be lost; only a single act will remain—a pure act—a celebration of dance, of joy, a great festival. In that moment, at a certain height, the entire sense of two is destroyed and only the One remains. That One is vast; all is contained in that One. The trees standing nearby will be participants in it, the sky will participate, the earth will participate—this whole existence participates. Then nothing remains outside that experience; everything is absorbed in it.
Such a taste is what is called meditation. And when such a taste becomes so deep that it is never lost—whatever you do, it remains; whether you walk or rise, sit or eat or drink; whether you are in the world or in sannyas, in the shop or in the temple—when there remains no way for this taste to be lost, that taste of meditation becomes Samadhi.
It is on this pilgrimage to Samadhi that we have set out. Hence this sutra needs to be understood very rightly. The sutra says—
‘Remove the sense of duality in its totality. Do not think that you can keep away from the evil man or the foolish man. They are your own forms. Though they be your forms somewhat less than your friends or your Master, yet they are your forms. Remember: the sin of the whole world and its shame is your own shame, your own sin. You are a limb of the world and your karmic fruits are inextricably connected with that great karmic fruit. And before attaining knowledge you must pass through all places alike—impure and pure—one and the same.’
Many things are said here, and deeply worth pondering. If it is true that existence is one, and I am not separate from existence, that I am not an island, that my boundaries are provisional, that I do not end at any boundary—then there is no other. Then what is happening with ‘the other’ is happening with me. At a little distance, yes—but with me it is happening.
If Mahavira said, ‘Do not kill even an ant,’ it is in this sense. The entire vision of ahimsa rests upon this sense of nonduality. ‘Do not kill an ant’ does not mean have pity on the ant, nor that pity can be done. It simply means this: whenever you inflict hurt on another, cause pain or kill, know that you are engaged in self-destruction.
All violence is suicide. If all life is one with me, then wherever I inflict hurt, I am hurting myself. Keep this in mind: whenever you hurt anyone, whether you know it or not, you too are hurt—because the other is not separate from you. There may be a gap, there may be a distance, and the journey in between may be long, but we are connected and conjoined. Therefore, if you make anyone suffer, you will have to suffer. You cannot successfully make another suffer without suffering yourself. There is no way.
Try making anyone unhappy, and you will become unhappy. And the reverse is also true. Make someone happy and you will find a happiness resounding in your heart in countless forms. Remove even a small thorn from someone’s path and many thorns are removed from your own path. Place even a small flower on someone’s path and a bed of flowers is laid on your path. Because whatever you do, its reverberation becomes infinite all around. And its reverberation reaches to the infinite because you are connected, you are conjoined.
When even a small thought arises within you, the whole existence hears it. When even a slight feeling arises in your heart, its resonance is heard in the whole existence. And not only today; its resonance will be heard to eternity. Your present form will be lost, your body will fall, your name will be effaced, and it will be difficult to find any trace of you—but what you desired, what you did, what you thought, what feeling you fostered, will continue to echo in this existence. Because even if you disappear from here, you will appear elsewhere. You will be lost here, but somewhere else your seed will sprout again.
Whatever we do is not lost. And whatever we are is not lost. Because we are parts of the Vast. The wave disappears, the ocean remains. And the water of that wave which has disappeared still remains in the ocean.
Understand this in many ways, because it will have a widespread impact on your life, your conduct, your future. If this is kept well in mind, you will become a different person. The basic foundation of the way you have built your life is that ‘I am separate’. And therefore man is so anxious, so sad, so troubled. Because you are not separate, all your efforts to be separate fail; in the end you find that you have failed.
What is death? Nothing but this: the illusion you carried that ‘I am separate’—death shatters that illusion. Death brings you back into nonduality. If only you yourself could return to nonduality, then death would never happen to you. But for you death is absolutely necessary, because you do not aspire to return to nonduality on your own.
Before birth you were in nonduality, and after death you reach back into nonduality. In between, for a little while, a wave; for a little while the clamor of the wave; for a little while the wave rises, dances in the sunrays; for a little while the wave too gets the idea ‘I also am’. And every wave must feel that it is separate from the ocean—there will be reasons for it too.
If a wave had logic, if it had intellect, it would think, ‘How can I be one with other waves? Some waves are very small, I am so big. I am very small, another is as big as a mountain. We are all different; how can we be one?’ And then the thought will come: one wave is falling while I am just being born, I am rising—how can I be one with a falling wave? If I were one with the falling, I would fall with it. If the falling wave were one with me, it would rise with me.
You see someone dying. You are young, someone is old; someone is a child—how can you be one? If you were one, then when you die all would die with you.
But we know: one wave is rising, another is falling; yet the waves are one, connected below, underneath. The water from which this wave is rising is the very water into which the falling one is returning. At their base there is no distance between them. It is the play of one ocean. For a little while a wave assumes a form, then the form is lost and the formless remains.
We are nothing more than waves. Everything in this world is wave-like. A tree is a wave, a bird is a wave, a stone is a wave, a man is a wave. If we are waves of one ocean, there will be vast consequences.
Those consequences are in this sutra:
‘Do not think you can keep away from the evil man or the foolish man.’
Do not think the evil man is evil and you are good. Because the evil is also connected with you. And the truth is, if the evil were eliminated from the world, the good would be eliminated the same day. If there were no devil in the world, if there were no immoral, no thief, murderer, cheat—then saints too would vanish with them. How could the saint exist without the sinner? He is the other side of the same coin. The ‘good’ man, the virtuous, the moral, the religious—he too lives by the support of the immoral. Without the immoral, he could not live.
Without Ravan, there is no way for Ram to be. Nor is there any way for Ravan to be without Ram. Those who look on the surface think there is great enmity between Ram and Ravan. Those who look within find it hard to discover a friendship deeper than theirs. For the one without whom we cannot even be—will you call him an enemy? The one without whom we cannot be, he is our friend. The one without whom our very existence would not be possible, who is our support—will you call him enemy? Then the whole definition of enemy has to change. The enemy becomes even closer than a friend.
Could Ram exist without Ravan? Have you ever thought?
Cut Ravan out of the story of Ram and the whole tale becomes flat and futile. It is because of Ravan that the entire flavor is there. Because of the presence of Ravan shines all the glory of Ram. The auspiciousness of Ram emerges only against the backdrop of Ravan’s inauspiciousness.
Without Ravan, Ram would be like white letters without a blackboard. Remove the blackboard and the white letters are lost. The letters stood out not only because they were white, but because they were written on a black slate. In their whiteness was the hand of the black slate. It was because of the black slate that they looked so pure. Remove the black slate and the white letters vanish.
It is quite amusing that if the wishes of saints were fulfilled and the whole world became saintly, the very first thing to disappear would be the existence of saints. Saints keep working to eliminate themselves—and have not succeeded so far; they never will. Because they cannot be without the sinners. As day cannot be without night, as light cannot be without darkness, as birth cannot be without death, so all opposites are joined together.
Let no wise man think that he is separate from the foolish. Let no beautiful person think that he is separate from the ugly. Let no healthy person think he is other than the sick. We are all connected. We are all joined in depth.
If this connectedness is kept in view, the ego of the intelligent will fall. For what is the intelligent man’s ego doing? It is only claiming, ‘I am not a fool.’ But he cannot be without the fool; he stands only upon the basis of the fool. What strength has ego? Is there anything more impotent in the world than ego? The intelligent man’s ego is only this: ‘I am not a fool.’ But he stands on the strength of the fool.
The leader thinks, ‘I am not a follower.’ But can a leader exist without followers? It is due to followers that he is a leader. Great men think they are great—then they are not great. For they forget that they appear great only because of petty people. A great man will also remember, ‘I appear great because of petty people.’ Then greatness becomes petty. For what greatness is left in that greatness which needs the wall of smallness to lean on? The truth holds both ways.
If the intelligent can see that stupidity is the other side of the same coin, his contempt and depreciation of the fool will vanish. A fraternal feeling will arise toward the fool. If the saint can see that the sinner is the other side of his coin, his condemnation of the sinner will end. A deep friendship and love will arise toward the sinner. And until such compassion arises in a saint, know that he knows nothing of nonduality.
The moment nonduality is known, the opposite too becomes my own part. Then the virtuous knows that his other half is a sinner. And the virtuous also knows that so long as sin is happening on the earth, I too am a participant.
This is a little intricate; it must be understood.
So long as sin is happening on the earth, I am a participant, whether I sin or I do not. If I sin, of course I am a participant; if I do not sin, still—since I am a part of this world-consciousness, and this consciousness sins, I am a participant.
Buddha has said somewhere: so long as even a single person is in the bondage of ignorance, how can anyone be free? If even one wave of the ocean is dirty, how can another wave be pure? This could only happen if the waves were separate—then one could be pure and another impure. But if the waves are part of one ocean, we must drop the duality of purity and impurity, we must drop the distinction of merit and sin. We must know that both exist together. And the one who understands and sees that both coexist goes beyond both. The one who goes beyond both is the saint.
Let us take this to heart. Opposite the virtuous is the vicious; opposite the vicious is the virtuous. Opposite the saint there is none! Therefore we keep Buddhahood apart from knowledge. Opposite the knower is the ignorant; but the one who understands knowledge and ignorance as one, who sees they are linked—of him we say, he has attained Buddhahood, prajna.
Real knowing is not the opposite of ignorance; it is freedom from both knowledge and ignorance.
This is a bit difficult. We can understand ‘being free of ignorance and becoming knowledgeable’. We can understand ‘leaving sin and becoming virtuous’. We can understand ‘leaving vice and becoming virtuous’. But this understanding stands upon duality. It has nothing to do with deeper religion. It is childish; it is full of unawareness. It appears like understanding on the surface, but inside it is utter foolishness. Because these two things appear opposite, but are linked within.
This also means—Gurdjieff used to say—that the more you increase character in the world, the more you will increase lack of character. It appears obstructive to understand—but Gurdjieff is right. Because the ratio of both will always remain the same. Therefore, as much as morality increases in the world, immorality increases by the same measure.
Usually people think there was an age when there was only morality. Wrong—no such age is possible. The only possibility would be that morality was so little that immorality was also very little; hence we do not notice that immorality existed. Today both have grown huge. Today if morality is there, it is on a peak; if immorality is there, it too is on a peak. Therefore both are seen very clearly. Today the gap appears obvious because both have reached extremes. Both arise and grow together.
Understand it like this: if you want a hill to remain small, a shallow valley will form beside it. If you want a mountain to be very high, touching the sky, a valley equally deep will form beside it. If you think the mountain should be very high and there should be no valley, you are naïve—this cannot be.
Nietzsche has said: the tree that longs to touch the sky must send its roots down to the netherworld.
As the tree rises higher, its roots go deeper. If you think the tree should touch the sky and its roots should not go down, you are mad. A seasonal plant cannot touch the sky—its roots are not capable. The higher you want to rise, the deeper you must go down. This is the proportion of life.
So if you want society to become very virtuous, you should be prepared for equally unvirtuous people to appear. If you want society to become very intelligent, then in exactly the same ratio the non-intelligent will arise. If you want great intelligent ones, you must accept great fools. There is no escape. The mathematics of life is such. If you want very beautiful people, you must tolerate very ugly people. Because beauty can be only against ugliness; the knowledgeable only against the ignorant—there is no other way.
And if you want there to be no sin in the world, you must be ready to give up merit too. Then sins cannot be. If you want no ugliness in the world, then you should break all standards of beauty; you should drop the very talk of beauty. Then none will be ugly—because without the measure of beauty, how will you find the ugly? If you want there to be no stupidity in the world, you must finish off the intelligent. If you want there to be no sinners, you must salute the saints farewell. The opposites come together. All opposites come together.
But there is a way—do not choose among opposites.
This is what the sutra says—do not choose among opposites. Know that both are one. Beauty and ugliness are both due to one measuring rod. The intelligent and the stupid—both arise due to one measure. Rise beyond both. The one who rises beyond both is what we call a saint, a paramhansa. The one who rises beyond both—we call him the supreme knower. Only he will know what Truth is. Whoever is entangled anywhere in the two—here or there—will never know Truth. Because Truth includes both.
And whoever chooses, chooses one and cuts off the other. Where will the other go? The other is also there. You say Paramatma is light—then what of darkness? You like light, so you call Paramatma light. This only tells of your preference—but then what of darkness? Darkness exists too. And if Paramatma is only light, it means there will be two Gods in the world—there will also be a God of darkness. And then much trouble will arise. And these two Gods will keep fighting; neither can win. The conflict will be endless and futile. And the conflict will be false. Because for light to be, darkness is needed; for darkness to be, light is needed. So this conflict will be false, a mock-fight.
As wrestlers often fight: they are all in league within; only a show is made and great noise is raised. A great wrestling match happens; spectators are impressed, moved. But the deal is done; everything is decided behind the scenes: who will win is decided; who will lose this time is decided. One wins once, in the next bout the other wins; in the third town’s bout, then again the other wins. All is partnership.
Between darkness and light there is just such a partnership. There is no fight between them. Those to whom a fight appears are excited and troubled for nothing. But one can rise beyond both. Beyond both, both are included. Paramatma is both—and beyond both. He is neither light nor darkness. He is both. And when He is both, we cannot call Him light, nor can we call Him darkness. He is transcendent of the dual. He is beyond—beyond both.
This sutra says, ‘Do not think you can keep away from the evil man or the foolish man—they are your own forms. Though they be your forms somewhat less than your friend or Teacher, yet they are your forms.’
Just think: those who are closest to you are not that close—but however far others may be, all distance is only a form of nearness. The converse is also true. However near you may be to someone, all nearness too is only another name for distance. However near—press your chests together—even then distance remains. The nearest too is only a form of distance. It may be small distance, but what is the difference between small and great distance? Distance is distance. Whether the gap between me and you is a mile or an inch—gap is gap.
The near is also far; the far is also near. Because both distance and nearness are measured on the same scale—gap. Both are names of that gap. Nearness and farness are both names of distance. A friend will be near, an enemy far. What is dear to you will feel near, what is not dear will feel far. But if you search a little deeper, you will find these are all relations. And all relations exist between distances. When your nearness to someone becomes so great that the gap is no more, then your relationship with him is no more. Relationship needs distance. You say, this is my wife, my beloved, my son, my father—these are all names of distance. Relationship is determined only in distance.
If the two banks of a river were to come so near, so near that there remained no gap, there would be no need to build a bridge. And if they came so near that there were no distance at all, the river would disappear and the two banks would no longer be banks—they would become a single bank.
Our relationships are names for distances—or tricks to hide distances. When we give names to relationships, we are deluded as if the distance has ended. You call someone your wife and it feels as if the distance has gone. But husband and wife are at just as much distance as anyone can be. The gap does not vanish. In this world, the gap cannot vanish. Gaps will remain here. Yes, the one who raises his consciousness above this world suddenly finds that all distances have disappeared. Then the river becomes the bank, the bank becomes the river. Then there is no difference. Then the boat becomes the river, the river the boat. Then all distances fall away, because even between opposites the experience of the One is there.
This experience of the One amidst opposites may come to mind—therefore these rules and these sutras.
‘Remember, the sin of the entire world and its shame is your own shame, your own sin.’
If anyone in this world takes pride in being a saint, understand he has not yet understood saintliness. And if anyone says, ‘I am virtuous and you are sinners,’ know that he is in great delusion and great ignorance. Whoever has even a slight taste of the truth of life will immediately see that wherever anything is happening, I am a participant in it. If there is war in Vietnam, where people are being butchered; if there is war in Bangladesh, where people are being butchered; if there is starvation somewhere, murder somewhere, violence, plunder somewhere—I am a participant.
Certainly I have not done anything directly—I have not gone to fight in Vietnam, nor have I murdered anyone in Bangladesh. Straightaway it seems: what responsibility would be mine? What relation would I have? But whatever is happening in this world at this moment—I am a part of this world. And whatever is manifesting anywhere in this world—my hand is in it. Because I am in this world—my being is participation. By mere being, I have become a participant. And certainly, knowingly or unknowingly I must be doing such things which, though far away, bear their result there.
If I say I am a Hindu and not a Muslim, I am creating conflict in the world. Perhaps I will not participate in Hindu–Muslim riots. And when riots happen, I may even go to negotiate peace; sing that Allah and Ishwar are Thy names; try to create brotherhood. But I say I am Hindu, the other is Muslim—we are different. I may not participate in the riot, yet my hand is in it. I do not go to fight in Vietnam or China or Bangladesh or elsewhere. But if I believe I am Indian, I divide the world; I see the earth in fragments. And when I see the earth in fragments, I become a participant in war. Whatever is happening in world politics—either my hand will be there indirectly or directly. There is no escape.
Sartre has said somewhere that man cannot escape, whatever he may do.
It may be that in your village two people stand for election and you vote for neither. But do not think you have escaped, because your not voting is as decisive as your voting. It may be that by your not voting one man wins; had you voted, the other would have won. If you vote, someone wins; if you do not vote, someone wins. You cannot escape; you cannot run away. You cannot say, ‘By not voting I am not a participant,’ because by your not voting someone’s victory may happen—then you are a participant. If you keep silent, say nothing, you may still be a participant. Your silence may become support. While alive, there is no way to escape the world.
The one who experiences in this way that ‘I am connected in the world; all the world’s sin and merit are mine’—only he is evolving toward saintliness. Then there is no condemnation of anyone in his mind, because condemnation of anyone is condemnation of oneself. And then there is no praise of anyone in his mind, because praising anyone is praising oneself. Then, beyond praise and blame, the capacity to see life apart from duality arises. Then a person becomes available to witnessing.
When I experience that in the world of my doings there is no way for me to be free, only then does one become free of doership and become a witness. Witnessing means: I am only the seer, and in whatever is happening I too am a participant—because I am. Therefore I will not say ‘you are sinners,’ because I too am. Nor will I say ‘you are virtuous,’ because these distances are superficial, deceptive, dangerous. I will only say: whether sin or merit, good or bad, war or peace—I am the witness between both, I am the seer of both.
And the one who gives birth to witnessing enters into nonduality.
‘You are a limb of the world and your karmic fruits are inextricably connected with that great karmic fruit. And before attaining knowledge you must pass through all places alike—impure and pure—one and the same.’
In this world, whether bad or good—both are schooling for the seeker. Whether sin or merit, you must pass through both and refine yourself. Even sin must be used, and merit too, to go beyond. Make sin a step and merit too, to cross over.
If some evil is within you, it too has a creative use. Something can be learned from it. By suffering its pain and its sorrow, a refinement will come to you—you will awaken. You will burn, there will be pain, but even that pain will help you awaken. That very pain will keep you from committing the same mistake again. In this world everything can be used. The very understanding of such use is called sadhana.
Sadhana does not mean ‘drop evil and hold on to good’. Sadhana means ‘rise toward truth through evil and through good’. Do not choose between evil and good; extract the essence of experience from both and become mature through both. Let your understanding deepen through both, your heart become vast. Between the two, let your boat, your river, flow—so that it can reach the ocean. Let sin and merit become your banks.
Do not choose. If you choose sin, you will choose a bank and will not be able to flow in the river. If you choose merit, you will choose a bank and will not be able to flow. Banks, whether of sin or of merit, stay where they are; they do not reach the ocean. It is the river that reaches the ocean, which flows between the two and uses both. If there is any evil in your life, use it too. Do not be frightened of it—use it too.
A friend once came to me. He said, ‘How can meditation happen for me? I am a drunkard, and the habit has caught me so much that it is difficult to leave it in this lifetime. I will have to wait till the next. I have tried many ways to leave it; all go in vain. Now I have even given up trying, because gradually the resolve has drained away. So much failure in hand that I no longer have trust that any decision I take can be fulfilled. Therefore do not tell me to leave alcohol. If there is any way to meditate while drinking, then tell me.’
I told him, ‘You are drinking for meditation too.’ He was startled. He said, ‘People say you are a dangerous man; I should not have come! I had thought you would certainly suggest some trick, give me courage, and get me to leave alcohol. You say alcohol too is meditation!’ I said to him, ‘Try to understand. And if you can understand that alcohol too is meditation, alcohol may drop! After all, why do you drink? Forget alcohol—why do you drink?’
He said, ‘To forget myself I drink.’ I said, ‘The longing to forget is the longing for meditation. The longing to lose, to drown, is the longing for meditation. You are drinking mistakenly. You want to drink meditation and you are drinking alcohol! So I will not tell you to drop alcohol. I will tell you to learn from alcohol—the art of forgetting, the art of drowning. If you learn the art of drowning, of forgetting, then it will not be difficult to leave the support of alcohol. If without alcohol you can drown and forget, alcohol will drop by itself. Because I tell you, you are not a drunkard—you are a meditator, but doing meditation in the wrong way.’
He then said to me, ‘Then I will come to meditation—but I will keep drinking there too!’ I said, ‘Do not talk to me about alcohol at all. I will give you a new wine—drink that. If its flavor grips you, the old will become tasteless. And unless the taste of the new is loved, it is neither intelligent nor sensible to drop the old. First have a proper taste of the new. If there is power in the new—and if meditation does not have even that much power that it can make alcohol drop, then do not fall into the illusion that meditation can unite you with God. If even such a small thing does not drop, then meditation is weak and alcohol is strong. And one should always choose strong friends—why choose a weak one?’
He came. He had no trust, but he could drown in meditation to a depth that is difficult for those who have never tasted alcohol. Because he already knew how to drown. Those who have never tasted alcohol do not know how to drown.
I am not saying start drinking. It is not necessary; one can go into meditation without tasting it. But if you have tasted it, it is right to make use of it.
It is not right to leave any experience of life unused; you must extract its essence.
He dived deep into meditation and alcohol disappeared. Now he comes and says, ‘You deceived me. Had you said this at the beginning I would never have come. You did not even speak of leaving alcohol. I fell into the illusion that this man is fine—he does not make one drop alcohol, he gets one to meditate; there is no personal loss either. But now such a relish has arisen in meditation that…’
But you will be surprised—his wife came to meet me and said, ‘What have you done! He was better off as a drunkard.’ Life is strange. The wife says he was better as a drunkard, for at least he was afraid of me then. Now he has become a meditator; now he is afraid of no one. When he drank he feared me; he entered the house trembling, felt guilty, and always begged forgiveness. Now the situation is reversed. And because he drank, I could bend him on a thousand points—he had to accept what I said. Now I have to bend and accept what he says.’
Do not be too sure that when a wife says ‘leave alcohol’ she really wants you to leave it. Or when a father says to his son ‘do not steal’—that he really wants him not to steal. Life is complex. Let him leave—then it becomes clear. Then the entire arrangement around you falls into crisis.
In this world, all say, ‘Become good.’ But they say it precisely because you do not become good. Saying ‘be good’ they put you down and dominate you. It is a trick to dominate one another. If you really become good, those who wished to make you good will be the first to be dissatisfied with you. Because their ownership will be lost and the man who was pressed under their hands will be free.
So as many as say ‘be good’—know that there is power-politics inside it. No one really wants to see anyone good. Because to see someone good makes oneself small and the other big. It is the web of life.
But one thing must be kept in mind: whoever you are, wherever you are—from there the path to Paramatma comes. There is no place from which His path does not go. Therefore use every place and turn every experience in His direction.
The worst of experiences can be turned toward Him. And the most sin-laden experience too, as soon as it turns toward Him, becomes merit. But all this is easy to do if one thing remains in view: that in this world we are not separate—we are parts of one consciousness, waves of a single great ocean.