Sadhana Sutra #6

First of all, it is necessary to understand the difference between desire and abhipsa. In the dictionary the same meaning is given. But in the lexicon of life there is a great difference. Desire and abhipsa both look like wants. For a short distance they seem similar—and then they diverge. In English there is no word for abhipsa. Hence Mabel Collins used “desire” for both.
To find a word like abhipsa in another language is very difficult—because the happening of such a desire has occurred very rarely in those languages.
Desire means: we want something. Abhipsa also means: we want something. But desire is the wanting of what we do not have; abhipsa is the wanting of what already is within us. Desire contains a demand, and with the demand, restlessness. Until it is attained there is sorrow. Abhipsa also contains a demand, but along with it there is great contentment. Even if it is not attained, there is no restlessness. If a “cool desire” could be, its name would be abhipsa. It sounds paradoxical—like cool fire. For desire carries restlessness; it means: I am discontented. Whatever is, I am not reconciled to it. Something else must happen, then I will be satisfied.
Abhipsa means: if something more happens, I will be even more satisfied—but with what is, I am content.
Understand this difference.
In desire I am discontented; until the demand is fulfilled, I will remain discontented. When it is fulfilled, there will be contentment—so my contentment is conditional. Fulfill the condition and I will be satisfied. Therefore a man filled with desire is never satisfied. His condition is never really fulfilled, because by the time one desire is fulfilled, twenty-five new ones have been born. The fulfillment of every desire gives birth to new desires.
The person of abhipsa becomes content, because he already is content. There is no way to make him discontented. From his contentment a request arises—remember, from contentment—to know an even deeper contentment. When that request is fulfilled, he will be even more content.
Another difference must be noted: desire is never fulfilled; abhipsa is fulfilled. For as soon as a desire is fulfilled, it begets ten new children. Desire is prolific. Abhipsa is barren—it bears no children. When abhipsa is fulfilled, no progeny arises from it.
Understand one more difference: desire is always a pull outward—to objects, to means, to wealth, to fame, to position. Something outside me is pulling me. Hence outward running is born of desire. Abhipsa too is a pull, but inward. It is a running as well, but not one that takes you away from yourself; it brings you closer to yourself.
In the dictionary, both have one meaning; in the lexicon of life they have very different meanings. Bharat found a word like abhipsa because here we did not only make ordinary desires, we made some extraordinary desires—opposite to desire itself. Hence we had to coin a new word—abhipsa.
The aphorism says: "Make an intense abhipsa for power."
An intense abhipsa for power... So secondly, it is necessary to understand power.
One kind of power is obtained from instruments and means. If you have wealth, you are powerful. If there is a sword in your hand, you are powerful. If your body has strength, you are powerful. With wealth you can buy, with the sword you can make someone bend. But you yourself are not powerful—the power is in the sword; if the sword breaks, you become impotent. The power is in wealth; if it is lost, you become weak. A politician’s power consists in people giving him their votes; if tomorrow they do not, his power will vanish.
So one kind of power is that which is derived from means. But that is not real power—because you remain weak. Power is spread around you; you remain weak within. And this power can be snatched away any day. A man seated on a throne can become a beggar in a moment. Those whose names the newspapers emblazon day and night—once they leave their posts, no one knows if they are even alive or dead. No news remains. How many politicians disappear silently! Only once again, in a small note, will news come—on the day they die. Then you will realize: oh, he was still alive! Meanwhile everything evaporated. And while they sit in power, it seems the press has nothing else to print except their names.
This means that the power obtained through means does not remove your inner weakness, it only hides it. It merely covers it—hangs a curtain all around. The curtain is painted and polished, but you—you remain as feeble as you were.
That is why the one who once reaches a position does not want to leave it. He clings with all his might. Because now he knows—he has tasted power while remaining inwardly weak. If this chair slips away, he will again be weak. And this second experience of weakness will sting more than the first—because earlier he had not tasted power; now he has. Earlier he never knew how weak he was; now he will know how utterly weak he is.
It is like passing on a dark road at night—you feel your way. Suddenly a car with glaring headlights goes by; for a moment there is light. When it has passed, you find the road darker than before—nothing is visible.
The man who has reached the seat and then loses it stands on such a road—darker than before. That brief flash did not give light; it only brought more blindness. Thus the one who reaches a post does not want to leave it—at any cost he wants to stick there. It is amusing—first people spend their lives to get to a post; then they spend their lives to remain on it. And if you must hold on, there is only one way: keep striving for a higher post. The only way to stand still in your place is to keep running forward, because from below people are pulling your legs. Hundreds are trying to climb onto the same seat.
Politics is the quest of the weak, the journey of the impotent. The more inner impotence there is, the more the mind wants to arrange power from the outside. Remember, I call “politics” all those ways by which you get power from without—whether through wealth, or through scriptural learning borrowed from books. You remain weak. You can memorize the Gita, and when needed you can recite it—but you are not Krishna. That Gita is not your inner fragrance; it has been stuffed in from the outside, it is not flowing out from within. Only what flows from within makes you powerful. If you imagine yourself empowered by stuffing things in from the outside, then it is an illusion of power.
This aphorism says: "Make an intense abhipsa for power."
For what power? Certainly not for that which comes through wealth, position, scriptures, or borrowed knowledge. Make an intense abhipsa for that power which does not come from anyone, which is born of you; which cannot be obtained but must be born. There is no marketplace from which it can be bought; it is the effulgence of your Atman. It is born within you—and moves from within to the without, not from without to within. Then you will understand why abhipsa and power are linked here.
Abhipsa means an inner aspiration. And power too is hidden within; it arises from there. Only then will you truly be powerful. That is why we called Vardhaman “Mahavira.” It is not that he could have defeated Gama the wrestler—nothing like that. And yet we cannot call Gama a Mahavira. Because the body is powerful, but the inner Atman remains weak—and how long does the body last? Gama died of tuberculosis; his last days were full of great suffering.
It may surprise you: wrestlers generally die of dangerous diseases, and their last days are often very tragic. Because whatever power they had was of the body, and they mistook bodily power for their own. When the body begins to wither, they feel cheated. And the body will wither. A wrestler’s body withers sooner because he has used force against it. All that we call exercise is not labor, it is compulsion—violence against the body.
The wrestler coerces the body; his muscles will bulge because he forces so much blood into them, strains them so violently that they swell. Therefore wrestlers rarely live long; they die early. A body that could have served for sixty years now serves only forty—you have violently spent twenty years’ worth of energy in advance.
Wrestlers die early. And their last days are pitiable and sad; as soon as old age begins, they realize they were always weak. The illusion of power was of the body.
We called Vardhaman “Mahavira” because a source of virya, of inner energy, arose from a place that cannot be snatched. It is an inner arising, the awakening of power independent of any means—not dependent on wealth, position, or even the body. It is free, one’s very own; we call it Atma-shakti, the power of the Atman. Whatever comes from the other, whatever requires the support of the other, is a deception of power.
"Make an intense abhipsa for power."
Make an intense abhipsa for this power—and withdraw attention from all the rest. To give attention to them means this power will not develop. As long as you remain dependent on others, you will find yourself growing weaker day by day. All dependent people become weak—dependence of any kind brings weakness.
We are all dependent—and we have devised many ways to remain in the illusion of power through dependence. Dependence is a cheat; it gives a semblance of power, but power never becomes available.
There is only one power of which you are the master—and which no outer instrument can diminish or increase; which no one can snatch from you or erase. Even if the body ends, your power will not be affected in the least. Your inner flame will go on burning as it is; the inner light will remain aflame; the stream of life within will not be weakened at all—no one can dry it up. That stream of life is beginningless and endless. The search for that sanatan source is the meaning of an intense abhipsa for power.
And there is something very amusing: the power that comes from outside is, by nature, displayed on the outside. Within you remain weak, but others’ eyes are bedazzled. When you become a president, everyone bows at your feet; everyone chants your glory; everyone concludes that you have power. You know within you that there is none—but the world sees power because that power is given by them. You are merely a mirror reflecting back to them what they projected. What they have given they can also see, for it is their own.
But the power that arises from within is ordinarily not visible to others; it can be seen only by those who have some taste of the within. Otherwise, people do not see it.
If Mahavira were to pass by you, do not think you would recognize him. If Gama passes, you will recognize him immediately. If an emperor passes, you will recognize him at once. If a Buddha passes, you will not recognize him—because the source of Buddha’s power is of a kind for which you have no eyes. The opposite will happen: when a Buddha passes, you will feel he is a nobody. It will be very difficult for you to recognize him—and to recognize would mean your life must be transformed; only then will you recognize.
Therefore recognizing a Buddha is not cheap. To recognize him, you must change. Before you can recognize, you must become new—only then will you recognize. But who bothers with such trouble? Why recognize a Buddha if we must change? As we are, a Buddha will not be recognized; we will miss.
Yes, we will recognize politicians, tycoons, generals—just as we are, they will be recognized. Between them and us there is no essential difference; we are limbs of the same world. Our language is one; our being is one. And what they possess is our donation; therefore we recognize it well—it is our own property reflected.
Hence the aphorism says: "Make an intense abhipsa for power. And the power the disciple longs for will be such that it will make him appear as a nothing in the eyes of people."
Understand this well.
If you feel you are aspiring to spirituality but secretly relish the idea that when people recognize you they will bow at your feet—you are mistaken. If this flavor is inside, then in a monk’s garb you are a politician. Your orientation is political. If you think, “The day I become a man of the Atman, a jnani, people will witness my miracles,” if anywhere the idea of showing miracles to people is hidden, then you are mistakenly walking on religion. Better go into politics—then things will be clear and honest.
I look around: I see monks, sannyasins—their quest is fundamentally political. Their relish is that people should come to know they have power. The relish is not that power should be attained, but that people should know! Even if there is no power, if people just believe it, they will feel satisfied.
When real power is born, very few recognize it. Whether they recognize it or not is not part of the seeker’s longing. If they recognize, it is their good; if they do not, it is their loss. For the self-seeker it makes no difference. His quest is that he become powerful. What image of me appears in another’s eyes—the other’s eyes will decide. That is his problem, not mine. If this awareness remains, the self-seeker will become like a zero—people outside will not recognize him. For what the world can recognize will not be present in him.
What can people recognize? If money flows from your hand, people recognize. Some come to me and say: at such-and-such saint’s place, there is never any lack of money; even if thousands come, food goes on; even if hundreds of thousands come, food goes on. Such a person has not been impressed by the saint—he has been impressed by wealth.
Some say: when we go to such-and-such saint, talismans materialize in his hand, ash appears. They have been impressed by a juggler, not by spirituality. The saint who materializes ash or amulets—his inner longing too is not spiritual. Those who are impressed are also not moved by dharma; they are moved by a show of power. If by a saint’s touch a sick person gets well, and we are impressed—this is not spirituality; it is something else. The outer language is what we understand.
But we will not recognize one like Buddha. Neither by his touch do the sick become well, nor does he touch to heal; and even if something like that happens, Buddha will not say, “I did it.” He will say, “It must be coincidence—your karmas had ripened.” He will say, “It has happened; do not pay it much attention.” No wealth, no post, no miracle—how will you recognize Buddha? All your avenues of recognition are closed.
I was on a journey. In my compartment there was one gentleman—only the two of us. Naturally, he found it difficult to remain silent and tried to start a conversation. But I answered yes and no, so it did not go far. Then he took out betel and offered me a pan; I said I do not take pan. Then he offered a cigarette; I said I do not smoke. He said: then tell me if there is any way to make friends with you—if I had offered pan, friendship would have formed; if a cigarette, friendship would have formed. I asked him: besides pan and cigarette, do you know any other way to make friends? His language ended. When the means he knew were exhausted, it seemed no relationship could be formed.
How will you form a relationship with Buddha? The entire language of power is useless. If only you could take nothingness also as power! Know that for one to become like a zero is the greatest miracle in this world. To become a nothing is the supreme event—for even the most petty person believes “I am something.” For even the meanest believes “I am something”; thus to believe “I am something” is ordinary. But to know “I am a nothing, I am like a zero” is the greatest miracle.
There was a Jewish fakir, the founder of Hasidic mysticism—Baal Shem. Someone came to his village and asked: in our village we too have a rabbi, he is very miraculous; you revere Baal Shem so much—what is his miracle? The villagers said: first let us define miracle. Will you call it a miracle if our Baal Shem tells God to do something and God must do it on the spot? They said: certainly—that is a miracle. That is what our rabbi is—whatever he says, God fulfills it. The villagers said: our Baal Shem too is miraculous, but his miracle is a bit reversed—whatever God says, Baal Shem does. Baal Shem never says anything to God. If you can call this a miracle, then ours is miraculous. Whatever God says, whenever He says, he does it. And he has never said anything to God—so we know nothing of the other matter. And when we ask him, he says: who am I to command God? I am a nothing. If His command is fulfilled, that is enough.
The power a spiritual seeker is searching for is the power of shunyata—of emptiness. The power you seek in the outer world is not the power of emptiness; it is the power of matter, of objects, of wealth, of position—dependent on means. And when one is ready to be a nothing, then in the feeling-state of this nothingness a seed cracks open—one’s own Atman—and a sprout appears. Make an intense abhipsa for that power.
The eleventh aphorism: "Make an indomitable abhipsa for peace."
Right after power he has joined the abhipsa for peace—because whatever power comes from the outside brings unrest. Wealth gives power, but brings unrest along with it. To find a wealthy man who is peaceful is difficult. A poor man may sometimes be found peaceful—but a rich man never. Those who wished to be peaceful abandoned wealth and became poor. A man who stands in a political post is never at peace—he cannot be. Power from outside carries the shadow of unrest. If you want peace, you will not be able to connect with outer power.
A friend of mine—a state minister—now wants to become chief minister. He always comes to me and says: tell me some method of peace. I tell him: first become chief minister. For now ask for a method of unrest. Do not ask for peace now—otherwise, if I give you a method of peace, one thing is certain: you will not become chief minister. Make it certain first that you will not become CM, then I will give you a method of peace. Otherwise later do not complain that I have ruined your life—first become CM. And when you are thoroughly restless, then the thirst for peace will arise. When one labors rightly, hunger comes; so when one is rightly restless, the hunger for peace comes. As yet, I said, your hunger is not authentic. Even your hunger you have read about in books; even for peace you are greedy; you want to become CM and be peaceful too.
And I asked him: if you search deeply, you will find that even your desire for peace is so that you may more easily become CM. He said: how did you see it? That is the fact. There is so much running about that if the mind were a little peaceful, I could succeed. The mind gets so disturbed that I cannot sleep; I fall sick; others go ahead of me. They have no insomnia, no illness; at dawn they are fresh again and running; I am exhausted. Therefore I came to you—give me some method so I too may be peaceful and take the competition head-on.
Now we want to employ peace in the service of unrest! We want peace so that we can be efficiently restless; so that our restlessness becomes more skillful. We want peace to gain power. But power brings unrest.
Use this as a criterion: the power that brings unrest is outer, and is not worthy of abhipsa. The power from which peace is born is inner and worthy of abhipsa. Outer power equals unrest; inner power equals peace.
That is why, right after power, the aphorism says: "Make an indomitable abhipsa for peace."
If you seek only power, there is danger: you can deceive yourself and think, “I am making an abhipsa for inner power,” while it may still be for outer power—another race, another competition. Perhaps someone else attained self-knowledge and you want to put him down: “How can someone become enlightened while I am around? I will become enlightened and show him.”
A great rich man once came to Mahavira—a city seth. He said: I wish to buy samayik, to buy meditation—and whatever price you say, I am ready to pay. Mahavira said: impossible—meditation cannot be bought. The very mind that wants to buy cannot understand meditation; attaining it is far away. All your wealth cannot buy it. The rich man said: perhaps you do not know how much wealth I have! Tell me a price—I will pay double. Just say how much it will take.
That man knew only one language—the language of money. He had bought everything with money, so he is forgiven. He had bought all: a beautiful woman—with money; a grand palace—with money; the best physician—with money. What cannot be bought? He had bought everything—so he thought, what is this meditation that cannot be bought? If everything is bought by money, this too will be.
But his difficulty was not really to attain meditation. In his village a poor man had become meditative—and Mahavira had said that he had attained. That was the thorn. Mahavira saw where the rich man’s difficulty lay.
Mahavira said: do this—there is a poor man in your village who has attained meditation; go and buy it from him. He is poor—perhaps he will fall to greed. Buy it—he may sell. The rich man said: what difficulty is there? Easy. If he does not sell meditation, I can buy the whole poor man himself. No obstacle.
His language is logical—if you can buy the whole poor man, what is meditation? But even if you buy the poor man and chain him in your house, meditation will not be chained. Language is the trouble—he understands only money.
He went to the poor man and said: ask what you want—I will give everything, but give me meditation. And if you do not, I have soldiers—they will take you. The poor man said: take me—that is easy. But how can I give you meditation? Is meditation an object that I can hand over? Meditation is an experience. You must have your own.
One kind of power can be given by others; another kind comes only by one’s own experience. What is given by others will be accompanied by fear—because what is given can be taken. And what is given by others is not mine—whether I stole it, begged it, received it as charity, or took it by force—it is not mine, it belongs to another. What belongs to another remains the other’s; hence fear lingers behind. Fear produces unrest. Whatever can be snatched creates anxiety. And the more outer power is amassed, the more, in proportion, inner weakness is revealed—this produces unrest.
Therefore a poor man never experiences the kind of poverty a rich man can experience—if he has a little intelligence. If he is foolish, he will not know. With a little intelligence, the kind of poverty a rich man sees inside, a poor man cannot. Because there is no contrast, no comparison. The rich man has heaps of wealth, and inside he sees a beggar’s bowl—empty. The poor man holds a beggar’s bowl in his hand and within too—there is no contradiction. He does not see how poor he really is. How poor man is is known only by becoming rich.
Thus when Mahavira leaves an empire and becomes poor, when Buddha steps down from the imperial throne and becomes a road beggar, they experience a poverty that no other beggar can. Their poverty has a great hand of richness in it; it is royal poverty, with the memory of being emperor within. As emperors they knew: even this does not remove inner poverty—rather, it reveals it starkly.
The more outer power is accumulated, the more inner weakness is revealed—thus anxiety arises. Hence note: the poor man is not as anxious as the rich man.
If today America is the most anxious, its cause is not a moral downfall. The sole cause is that America is the wealthiest. Anxiety in America is natural. And you too are striving that our nation become rich—and it should—but note: that entire anxiety will be yours too. With wealth, anxiety will come. In poverty there is a kind of carefreeness—for poverty has no worry of loss.
I am not telling you to remain poor. I say: good—know wealth, so that spirituality is born. I say: to become rich is indispensable for religion. The more prosperous a society, the greater the possibility of vast religion being born.
A poor society cannot be religious—there is no way. Even in a poor man’s religion, the craving is for the power of the outer. He prays for wealth; he worships for wealth. In the worship and prayer of the poor, demand remains for objects. The rich have objects; their demand has no place—they already have. There is no point in adding more. From this arises a great anxiety, a deep anguish: now what? Therefore no nation is as neurotic today as America—but this is a blessing. Because neurosis means: wealth reveals poverty; power reveals weakness; education exposes inner ignorance.
Whatever we gain on the outside, the opposite appears within—tension is created, torment is born. Whatever we achieve outwardly will give birth to unrest. Therefore, along with the abhipsa for power, keep an indomitable abhipsa for peace. Only then will your power become inner.
Power plus peace—let this be your quest. Wherever you find that your power goes against peace, know it is the wrong power. Drop it. Keep peace as the base. Wherever your power begins to violate peace, let go of power and hold to peace. Make peace your touchstone—your assay—measure by it. Whatever power stands pure on the scale of peace—know, that is gold. Whatever does not—take it as clay and drop it. Do not keep it near for even a moment.
If this sense of peace remains, you will never go astray. Peace functions like a compass. Wherever peace points, know that is the direction. Wherever its needle does not point, that is not the destination—withdraw yourself. So that power does not deceive you, keep peace in remembrance.
"The peace you will long for will be so pure that no one will be able to disturb it. And in the atmosphere of that peace the soul will develop just as a pure lotus develops in a still lake."
The peace you long for will be such a pure peace that no one will be able to disturb it. Note well: if someone can disturb it, it is not peace. This must be understood.
People often say: someone disturbed my peace. But if another can disturb your peace, then that peace is given by another—because we can disturb only what is given; otherwise we cannot disturb. If you are sitting peacefully and a child is making a clamor, and you say he is disturbing you, it means: if the child sits quietly he grants you peace; if he frolics he snatches it. That peace is not yours; it belongs to the child. You say: in the marketplace my meditation is disturbed by noise. Then there is no meditation—because what the market can corrupt, what worth is that? Not worth two pennies. That is a donation of the market. You say: in the forest my meditation goes deep. That is not meditation; it is a gift of the forest. What the forest gives is not yours; what the market snatches is not yours.
So you may sit for years in the forest or on a mountain—you are deluded; when you descend, you will find you are restless again—more restless than ever before. If anyone can put a wedge into it, it is not yours.
Seek that peace which no one can disturb. This means: do not seek by avoiding disturbance—seek in the very midst of disturbance. Even if a child is not making noise, gather the neighborhood children and tell them: make noise while I meditate. And the day you find that children are clamoring and your meditation flows, then know—it is yours. Do not seek the Himalayas—sit in the heart of the bazaar and meditate. Mountains can deceive; mountains grant peace—hence they can deceive. Avoid the mountains; search for peace in the marketplace. The day you find peace in the market, no one will be able to snatch it—because you attained it amidst those very forces that could have snatched it.
Therefore do not run away from home. If, remaining a householder, you become a sannyasin, only then is sannyas true. If you leave home, wife, children, money—and then become a sannyasin—your sannyas is imposed, false, conditional. If the wife is returned to you, in a single night she will snatch away your sannyas—quickly.
Hence the so-called sannyasin remains very afraid—lest a woman touch him. Why so frightened? What will such a fearful sannyas lead to? Will such feeble sannyas bring any result? Has the Atman grown stronger or weaker? We never even think.
A man is afraid to touch a woman—and we think he is very spiritual! He says a woman is only a heap of bones and flesh—and yet he is afraid to touch! His words are only devices to persuade himself; the relish is there within. If he touches, relish will arise; when it arises, he will feel he has fallen.
But no woman produces relish in a man, nor any man in a woman. If the relish is there, it is drawn outward—woman serves as a mirror, a diagnosis, revealing what is within you. Why run from diagnosis? Keep it near—so you can keep seeing what is within. And if in the presence of a woman lust disappears, then brahmacharya is attained—then power, inner power, is attained.
If you manage life by running from the opposite, it will be managed like a hothouse plant. You can build a glasshouse, air-condition it; any plant can be kept. But do not ever take it into sun, light, wind—it will die. Your sannyasins are hothouse plants. They have arrangements; within those arrangements they are sannyasins. Bring them a little out into the natural world—they will prove to be clay. They are tigers of clay—a little water and they are washed away. So afraid of water—how can they be real tigers? A real tiger will enjoy the water, be exhilarated, be strengthened.
The art must be learned—to be enriched by the opposite. To avoid the opposite is weakness.
Therefore do not even desire a peace that can be disturbed. It is of no use; it will be more trouble. In truth it will be a new cause of unrest.
Thus in some homes, if a man unfortunately becomes “religious,” he becomes the cause of unrest for the whole house—and he himself creates much disturbance. You start meditating—and a calamity befalls the family. You will employ your meditation to condemn everyone. The smallest things will make you restless—and you will blame others: why did the vessel fall so noisily? why did the child shout? why did someone turn on the radio? You set out to be peaceful and arranged the world’s unrest yourself.
Radios will play; children will cry and laugh; vessels will slip and fall—there must be a deep acceptance of all this. Amid it you must be peaceful. Do not be frightened of disturbances; take them as your field of practice. The peace that will then be available will be yours—you can rely on it. If you truly become religious, peace will increase in your home. If you become a fake religious person—as in this land everywhere—every house will become restless. One man can drive a whole family mad.
A lady came to me and said: save me somehow; my husband has become religious—we are all in trouble. Moreover he was no ordinary husband—he was a Sardar. I asked: what is he doing? What trouble? She said: he gets up at two in the night and starts kirtan; no one can sleep. The children’s exams are near; they are beating their heads. But he is religious—he sings from two in the night.
I called the husband. I asked: what are you doing? He said: I sing in brahma-muhurta. Two in the night—brahma-muhurta! He said: everyone should rise in brahma-muhurta—what question of obstacle is there? He told me: do not listen to them; they are irreligious, wicked—they put obstacles in religious work.
Now he condemns the whole house. And whoever says, “Sing in brahma-muhurta,” no one dares tell him to stop—for who wants to be labeled irreligious? I told him: do this—do not stop; just slide brahma-muhurta a little down. Two is a bit too much—make it three. Then slide to four; then to five. He said: what are you saying? How far will this slide? I said: I call it brahma-muhurta when the eye of the Brahman hidden within you opens. I do not call any outer method brahma-muhurta. Sleep—and when it opens by itself. Right now you rise by an alarm—that is not brahma-muhurta, it is alarm-muhurta. Stop this. When the Brahman hidden within you awakens, then call it brahma-muhurta. He said: you will corrupt me! Then I will not be able to rise before nine. I said: if you cannot, consider the children a little. The search for spirituality has arisen in you—not in them—why trouble them? Because of you they will become alert against spirituality forever. They will never turn to religion—even by mistake. You will be responsible—you are spoiling their lives. Whenever anyone speaks of religion, they will remember two a.m. brahma-muhurta—and avoid it.
This so-called religiosity attracts almost the neurotic—because behind the mask of religion it is so easy to hide pathology. A thousand kinds of sickness are hidden behind religiosity. If you enjoy filth—and psychologists say some do have a lust for bodily dirt—choose a path accordingly: become a Jain monk, where bathing is prohibited. Then what delight you will take in filth! If a clean man comes near, you can despise him: he bathes—he is lustful, he decorates the body. To bathe is decoration; to be filthy is merit!
Such craziness exists. In the West they treat it. Here people find some trick and become “religious.” In the West, if someone behaves so, he is taken to a doctor, a psychologist—it is a disorder. Here there is no disorder—we accept him.
Jung said: there are fewer madmen in India because here there are other ways for madmen—they can remain mad without it showing.
If someone eats and defecates at the same time, we call him a paramahansa. Anywhere else, they will put him in jail immediately. We say: he has realized non-duality—he is a paramahansa—there is no distinction. The man is deranged; he needs treatment; he has lost his mind—not gone beyond it but fallen below it. Yet we honor him!
Remember: false religion will promote your inner unrest, your neurosis. And false religion always blames others. You are always right; the others always at fault. True religion blames no one. Others are as they are; they have the right to be so, the freedom to be so.
A child has the right to sing, to dance—it is his right to be a child. Your need is to meditate; his need is to dance, to shout. You meditate happily. The child does not say to you: you disturb me by meditating; your meditation obstructs my play. Why do you say: your play obstructs my meditation? Let the child play; you meditate. Drop the idea that anyone can obstruct your meditation. When this idea drops, you will start moving in the right direction. And whenever you feel someone is disturbing you, know immediately: you are making a mistake—otherwise no disturbance is possible.
Hence this aphorism says: "The peace you will long for will be such a pure peace that no one will be able to disturb it. And in the atmosphere of that peace the soul will develop just as a pure lotus develops in a still lake."
And only in that still state of meditation will the lotus of your soul bloom—just as the lotus blooms in a still lake. Then you will not have to make it bloom—it will begin to open. Peace free from the outer; power free from the outer—these two are indispensable. Then the lotus of your life will begin to bloom.
The twelfth aphorism: "Make an unprecedented abhipsa for ownership. But let these possessions be only of the pure soul; therefore all pure souls be equally masters of them—and thus they be the property of all (when all are united)."
"Make an unprecedented abhipsa for ownership."
Ownership! That is why Hindu sannyasins chose the name “Swami.” But what kind of ownership? Ownership of houses, money, shops? No—for that is only a cheat. You become the slave, while imagining you are the master! You become a servant and think you have become an emperor!
I have heard: the Muslim fakir Farid was passing through a village. A man was leading a cow with a rope, taking her home. Farid stopped—as was his habit. He said to his disciples: surround this man and this cow—I have to give you a lesson. The man was startled: why surround me? Farid said: be quiet—we have nothing to do with you; I just have to teach my disciples. Farid asked: tell me, who is the master among these two—the cow or this man? The disciples said: what a question! Obviously the man is the master—the cow is his property and he has put a noose around her neck. Farid said: let me ask a second question. If we cut the rope between them and the cow runs away, will this man run after the cow, or will the cow run after the man? They said: certainly the man will run after the cow. Then the cow will not search for the man? The man will search for the cow? Then who is the master? Farid said: the rope you see around the cow’s neck is around the man’s neck.
Things tighten the noose around our throats. Whatever we think we own—owns us. Whomever you become master of—you become slave to it.
Consider this: in our land a husband calls himself swami—master. Can you find a bigger slave? The wife writes letters addressing him as swami and signs: your dasi—your slave. Everyone knows who is master and who is slave—no one has any doubt. Women are clever—they agree: we will sign as slave; fine. But in reality who is the master? The husband will remain a slave as long as he clings to being master. As long as he insists on being the wife’s master, he will remain “swami” in words—but slave in reality.
Whoever tries to be master over another becomes a slave. All kinds of ownership in the outer world bring bondage.
So toward what ownership is the pointing?
Toward inner ownership. You can only be master of yourself. You cannot be master of another—do not fall into that illusion. Outer ownership is impossible—there is only deception. Whenever you fall into that deception, you will find in the end that you have become a slave, not a master. The mansion of ownership you built became a prison—you are trapped within.
Only one ownership is possible—your own. And note: the one who is not master of himself—how can he be master of another? How? Only there is a way—to be master of oneself. And the one who wants to be his own master drops the idea of owning others.
This aphorism says: make an unprecedented abhipsa for ownership—so that you do not be satisfied with a trick. Make an abhipsa for real ownership. Do not be satisfied with counterfeits; do not think you have become a master while you are not. Until you become your own master—let the abhipsa continue.
It looks paradoxical: those who have left everything and taken the garb of beggars on the roads—we have called them “Swami.” Only Buddha did not call his renunciates “Swami”—he called them bhikkhu. He did so deliberately. Both moves are meaningful.
Hindus called sannyasins “Swami” because they have left all outer ownership and now strive to establish ownership only in one place—over their own Atman. He is master of himself—hence “Swami.”
Buddha called his sannyasins “bhikkhu”—the opposite. He said: in this world everyone thinks himself a master—one of this, one of that. The word has become soiled. I will call you bhikkhu—because here the situation is inverted; all beggars call themselves masters, so I will call the master a beggar.
Buddha said: since in this world everything is upside down and people are standing on their heads, I will set you on your feet. Here beggars call themselves masters; if I call you “Swami,” great confusion will arise—so I will call you bhikkhu. Because you are masters of yourselves, and beggars are calling themselves masters, therefore it is fitting that masters call themselves beggars.
But the meaning is one; the intention is one: that inner ownership be attained.
"Make an unprecedented abhipsa for ownership."