Sadhana Sutra #8

People ask: If Paramatma is everyone’s very nature, what need is there for the world? And if Atman is already given to all, then what is the cause of this falling into ignorance? What is the purpose of so much entanglement? If within everything is simple and true, why is there so much tumult without? And if, in the end, we are to attain that which is already ours, then all this wandering in between, this long journey in between, seems meaningless! If Brahman is the nature, the very form of all, then why is there samsara?

Many attempts have been made to answer this question. Yet almost all attempts fail, for however you try to explain it, the root question remains untouched. Someone says, ‘You are wandering because of your past lives.’ But this answer is childish. Past lives may explain the wandering of this life, but what of the first life? For this flaw some say, ‘There was no first life; you have been wandering from the beginningless.’

This is the Jains’ view: you have been wandering from the beginningless, anadi. But even then the question stands where it was—why has the Atman been wandering from the beginningless? Why does the soul fall into nigod? What is the cause of beginningless wandering? If you say it is causeless, then there can be no method to moksha. If the wandering is without cause, what cause will you cut to be free? If there is no cause, there is no remedy. If there is a cause, it can be broken—then release is possible, freedom can be.

Some say, ‘It is the lila of Paramatma.’ But such a lila seems harsh. It seems a tasteless joke. What kind of lila is this that man suffers needlessly, causelessly, through birth after birth? That Paramatma would appear a sadist, cruel, deriving some relish in torment. Otherwise what purpose is served by sending so many beings on so long a journey of wandering and suffering? And if he is all-powerful, he could grant liberation just so. Why such a long and painful path? He must, then, enjoy people’s misery. Such a lila is like children catching a frog and torturing it. To catch man by the neck and torment him—what purpose is there in that?

Some say, ‘All this that appears is dreamlike, maya.’ Yet those who call it maya also make immense effort to be free of it! If it truly is but a dream, why the need to be free? From what will you escape if it is only dreamlike? What is there to fear in a dream? But those who say ‘maya’—they run from the world! Surely it, too, feels real to them; otherwise why run? If it is not, then where will you run from it? And if the world is maya, renunciation is pointless—for what will you renounce? Can the false be renounced? Can a dream be renounced? If it never is, what will you renounce?

If the world is maya, then sannyas is pointless; what meaning remains? Only if the world is real does sannyas have value. And if the world is maya, then moksha too becomes maya. For if bondage is maya, how will liberation be true and meaningful? If my prison itself is false, how can my release be true? Release depends on the prison being true. If the prison is false, my liberation will also be false.

Thus many answers have been given, but none touches. With each answer, a snag arises. Each answer, at the foundation, feels like an attempt to explain, not truth itself. And so it is. This sutra offers an answer which, to me, comes closest to the truth. It gives a scientific answer, not a philosophical one.

This sutra says that all experiences of life depend on the opposite. It brings no God in between, no maya in between; it hides behind no philosophical thesis. It says: all experiences depend upon their opposites.

If you are to experience peace, then, scientifically, passing through restlessness is necessary; otherwise there will be no sense of peace. You may be peaceful, yet you will taste peace only when you have passed through unrest. If you have never known restlessness, how will you know peace? There is no way. Restlessness must be the background from which peace arises.

If life is to be experienced, death is indispensable. Not because of the lila of some God. Death is indispensable because life cannot emerge without the ground of death. Death is the soil. Life sprouts in the soil of death. Death does not destroy life; it gives birth to it. Without the opposite, no experience is possible. If there were no words, how would you know silence?

This sutra says: If there were no world, there could be no experience of Paramatma. So the world is not a lila; it is the process of experiencing Paramatma—and an indispensable process. You may already be in Paramatma. You were, you are; you can never be outside Paramatma. But being hurled into the world is necessary so that you may come to know that you are in Paramatma.

Understand it thus: you are a fish of the ocean. Once, you must be taken out of the ocean and thrown upon the shore—only then will you know the ocean. You are in the ocean; you were born in the ocean—you are a fish. Never having peeped outside, never having been outside, you will not know the ocean. It is so near, so joined to you, you have not taken a single breath without it—so you will not know it. It sounds paradoxical, and yet it is so: when the fish lies for the first time on the sand at the shore, only then does it come to know the ocean. That throbbing restlessness on the shore, that pain of being torn from the ocean—this very pain becomes the bliss of union again. And the fish that once fell into the fisherman’s net and came out, when she returns to the ocean—she is not the same fish as before. Now the ocean is a joy. Now she knows that the ocean is her very life. Now she knows what a mystery this ocean is. Now she knows what the ocean is! Its meaning now lives in her experience.

So Paramatma is not a pessimist who torments you. Paramatma is doing nothing at all.

But the inevitability of life is this, the law of life is this: without passing through the opposite, no experience happens.

Moksha and samsara are opposites of each other. The taste of moksha is attained by passing through samsara. You arrive where you already were—but you arrive transformed. You attain what was already given—but you attain it by losing it. And this losing in between is very significant; without it, no experience is possible. Therefore the world is training—and indispensable training.

And it is a law like a scientific law. The scientist says: when hydrogen and oxygen meet, water is formed. And when two atoms of hydrogen and one atom of oxygen combine, water comes into being. Ask him, ‘But why so? If there were three atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen, why would water not form?’ The scientist will say, ‘There is no question of why. We only say what happens. It so happens that two of hydrogen and one of oxygen make water. Why is not asked—it is so.’

Science does not answer ‘why’; it answers ‘what.’ It does not say why it is thus; it says only that it is thus. That is why science never departs from fact. Philosophy, however, dissolves in the answers to ‘why.’ Why!

These sutras are very scientific, and their grip is on the ‘what,’ not on the ‘why.’ The sutra does not say why it is so; it says it is so.

Without the experience of the opposite, no experience is.

Take this to heart, understand well this great law of the opposite, and your whole vision of life will change. Then even in suffering you will be able to be joyful, because you will know that without suffering there can be no taste of joy. You will be able to be peaceful in unrest, because you will know that unrest is the training for peace. You will accept death with delight, because you will know that the flower of life blossoms only in the soil of death. You will bear depression gratefully, because without it there is no benediction. You will accept insult laughingly, because you will know that the same door opens to honor. You will not flee from ignorance, you will not be frightened; rather, you will stand in ignorance with eyes fully open—because standing with open eyes in ignorance is the key to entering the temple of knowledge. Then the opposites of life will not unbalance you. Then even the opposites will be felt as leading you toward a meaningful end.

Nothing is meaningless. Nothing can be meaningless. Perhaps you do not know the meaning—that is another matter. But whatever is, has meaning. And its meaning is that it leads to its opposite. Now let us understand the sutra.

‘After a terrible storm, when a deep stillness descends, wait there for the flowering of the blossom, not before.’

The storm is necessary for stillness. He who wants no storm, only stillness—his stillness will be dead, it will have no life. It is a strange thing: the life of stillness is also in the storm. Stillness by itself is barren unless storms surround it. The storm breathes life into it, makes it alive, brings joy into it. The storm, which seems the opposite—if you have lived it consciously—yields, after it passes, a stillness incomparable.

But it may also happen that you are so harassed by the storm that you miss the stillness that follows. You may not even notice it. You may be so troubled by the storm that, even when stillness comes, you continue to be troubled. The sequence of the storm goes on and you miss.

The fresh taste of joy that comes after sorrow—you miss it. The breeze of health that flows after illness—you do not notice. You remain so clouded by the old illness, which has already gone, that what is happening now is missed. The flavor of joy that comes after sorrow cannot be had in any other way.

But we become so full of sorrow, so harassed by sorrow, that when sorrow is already gone we remain absorbed in it; and that delicate moment after sorrow—when the taste of joy could have been savored, when the doors of heaven open for a moment—we miss. Our eyes remain entangled in the old sorrow.

Behind every event its opposite comes. Behind every event its opposite stands present. For in this world nothing is without its opposite. Wait for it. When sorrow surrounds you, do not become overly agitated by sorrow. Be sorrowful, but do not be unhinged. Understand the meaning of agitation.

Sorrow is sorrow enough; we are naturally pained by it. Then we become pained again because of the sorrow. These are two different things. To be pained by sorrow is pure. Then we are pained because we are pained! We are pained because the world contains sorrow! We are pained because sorrow should not be! This second sorrow is philosophical and dangerous. Avoid this second sorrow; it is untrue. Because this second sorrow will drown the ray of joy that follows the sorrow.

See how man entangles himself! You are disturbed—nothing wrong. Then you are disturbed by your disturbance—that is very wrong. You are restless—nothing wrong; it is part of the schooling. Then you are restless about your restlessness—now you are in danger, entering a circle without end. It is infinite. Infinite—because you can go on becoming restless about being restless, and from this restlessness no peace will ever arise.

Understand it thus: I am restless, then I am restless about why I am restless. I can be even more restless about why I am restless now. As I say to you: do not be restless about the restlessness. You can continue the old and add my teaching on top. Then you are restless; then, out of habit, restless about being restless; then you have heard me, and now you generate a third restlessness that one should not be restless about restlessness. Now this is the third restlessness. This is infinite. You can go on endlessly—and no glimpse of joy, no moment of peace will come out of it.

Behind actual restlessness, there is a moment of peace. Behind imagined restlessness, there is no peace at all. Because imagination is not fact; the laws of the world do not apply to it. It is only a game of your mind. Therefore remember: real sorrow is not bad; even imaginary joy is bad, because you are roaming in dreams. Real sorrow has a certain delight, for behind it a real moment of joy will certainly come; it is inevitable, it cannot be otherwise.

But if you fall into the second and third sorrows—false sorrows—if, because of sorrow, you raise new mental sorrows, you will drown in them so much, be so encircled by clouds, that when the ray of joy is born—as it always is—you will miss it. After the dark night, there is morning. But if you are so frightened of the night, so tormented by darkness, that you keep your eyes shut—‘It is so dark, what is the use of opening them?’—you will miss the morning that comes after the night.

The experience of stillness has the storm as its background.

‘After a terrible storm, when a deep stillness descends, wait there for the flowering of the blossom, not before.’

We can obtain peace in two ways. One that flowers naturally after the storm. The other that is imposed by effort without the storm.

People keep asking me: ‘We have never seen meditation like yours! People who meditate usually sit silently in padmasana with closed eyes. What kind of meditation is this in which people dance, jump, go crazy?’ I tell them: this stillness is the stillness after the storm. Those who sit cross-legged with eyes closed are avoiding the storm. And without the storm there is no experience of stillness. If they manage some experience of stillness while avoiding the storm, it will be hollow, empty, lifeless, only on the surface. Inside, the storm will continue to boil. Throw the storm out; jump into the storm; become the storm; what is the fear? Live the storm; it will pass. After it, there will be a moment—if we are awake in that moment, the door of the eternal opens.

So peace can be of two kinds: cultivated, imposed—you can sit like a stone statue, you can practice it.

Remember, you see Buddha seated beneath the Bodhi tree. But you forget that before that there were six years of terrible storm. We have no sculpture of that, because the uncomprehending made the statues. The first image should have been of the storm in Buddha. For six years Buddha lived in a terrible storm. That part we drop! We catch only the final image, when Buddha has become silent.

What do we do? We sit from the very beginning like Buddha beneath a tree!

Our Buddhahood is utterly false and counterfeit, circus-like. It cannot be real, because its genuine, precious beginning is missing—the initial portion out of which this Buddha was born. This silent consciousness beneath the Bodhi tree, this unwavering flame, this silence, the great silence, this immense descent of light—where is the storm that preceded it? Those six years of wandering like a madman—knocking on each and every door, laying his head at the feet of one teacher after another, trying countless paths, suffering every kind of grief, every kind of distress—where is that? You have sat directly beneath the Bodhi tree—nothing will happen. You are a hollow Buddha. You can sit; by practice, what is not possible? You can practice sitting absolutely still—but inside! Inside there will be no peace.

It may also happen that inside, by much practice, a kind of sleep will occur—which is not peace. A kind of auto-hypnosis will happen; you will be self-hypnotized—but you will be lost in sleep. That sleep may be pleasant, because it gives rest—but it is not spiritual peace. There is no life in that sleep. It is only rest, and imposed at that, born of practice. It is not a flowering; it is not peace arising from within; it is a peace plastered on from without. Such false peace can be produced.

But then there will be no joy in your life, no dance, no beauty. There will be no freshness like the morning dew. There will be no silence like the stars of the night. No flowers will bloom in your eyes the way they blossom on trees. That will not be. You will become inert, like a stone statue. You will not move, you will not be restless—but neither will you be peaceful.

Remember, in the indispensable process of life nothing can be left out. In the experience of life you cannot skip anything. Whatever you skip, you will have to return to it. There are no shortcuts here by which you can leave some things and go ahead. If you leave the storm, the stillness that comes after the storm will never be yours.

The sutra says, ‘Wait there for the flowering of the blossom, not before.’

Because if you force a flower to bloom before, it will be of paper, not of the soul, not real. You can make a flower of paper; it is available in the market. Today plastic ones are available; they last even longer. Buy once and have forever. The flowers taken from scriptures are such paper flowers. You can pin them to your chest and sit beneath a tree like a Buddha. But no flower has bloomed within you. That flower never blooms without the storm. The very power of the gale gives birth to it; in the energy of the storm comes the energy of the flower. When the storm has passed, the energy born of the storm remains—that very energy becomes the real flower.

Do not be in haste. Do not escape the tempest, do not run from the world—only then will the authentic flower of moksha blossom. It sounds upside down. Hence my teaching can easily be misunderstood. But I say it is not upside down. It is the very core-law of life.

Do not run from the world. If you seek true moksha, do not run from the prison; pass through the experience of the prison. For the bonds of the prison will pain you; the deeper the pain, the deeper the joy when those bonds fall. Suffer the entire misery of the prison. That misery refines, polishes, bathes you. Passing through it, you become pure gold; the dross burns away and only the gold remains. When you come out of the prison, the touch of liberation you will know cannot be known by the one who escaped the prison—because he avoided it. He may be outside, without fetters, but he will not know the taste of freedom. He will have to return to the prison.

Those who keep running from the world to attain moksha have to come back to the world again and again. One basic reason you return again and again is that again and again you tried to avoid experience. You are like children who avoid the process of arithmetic and memorize the answers printed at the back of the book. The answer is perfectly right—but for you it is utterly wrong. There is no fault in the answer; the knowers wrote it after solving the problem. But because you did not pass through the process of arithmetic, even a right answer is false for you—paper-thin. Only the answer that arises through the process is true; the peace that comes after the storm, the moksha that comes by passing through the world, the sannyas that flowers through experience—only that is real. But like thieving children we do the same—steal the answers from the scriptures and think they are ours! And it is true: the answers are right—yet not right for you. Your answer must come through your own experience; only then is it right.

I am not saying the scriptures are wrong. The answers printed at the back of the math book are exactly right. Scriptures are just that right. But they are right for the one who does not relate directly to the answer, who relates directly to the process, the method, passes through the arithmetic, and then arrives at the answer. The day you get your own answer, it is very meaningful to open the book—because then you receive assurance that what you have discovered is truth—the scripture bears witness. When you have your experience and then you read the scripture, you will feel, ‘Fine. The path I am on is right; others have found the same; the scripture testifies.’ But do not steal from scriptures; do not memorize them; otherwise the whole thing is wasted.

Do not avoid the opposite. This does not mean remain forever in the opposite. It is said so that you may go beyond the opposite.

‘After a terrible storm, when a deep stillness descends, wait there for the flowering of the blossom.’

Wait! You have nothing to do. You have to pass rightly through the storm—and when the storm has gone, drop concern for the storm. Let the past be past. And then you have nothing to do. In the hush that follows the storm, only waiting is enough—and the flower will bloom.

Therefore the meditation process I give here is contained in this sutra. For thirty minutes pass through a terrible storm. Be as mad as you can be. And after thirty minutes, do nothing at all—just silent waiting. If for thirty minutes you have truly created a tempest, the peace that follows will be unprecedented. If your tempest was impotent and weak, the peace will be of the same order. If your tempest was false, half-hearted, the peace will also be false and half-hearted. The silence that comes after depends wholly on the storm you generate.

A friend sent me word about someone: he must have come like a spectator—he left out the first thirty minutes; he stood quietly, watching—people were in a tempest. Then when all closed their eyes, he also closed his. Then he sent me the message: he kept his eyes closed for ten minutes, but nothing happened. Who told him that closing the eyes for ten minutes would do anything? What was happening was in those thirty minutes of the storm. How authentic the inner storm is—just so deep will be the stillness. The higher you rise in the storm, the deeper you will descend into the valley of silence. The proportion remains equal.

So it depends on you. A little miserliness in those thirty minutes spoils everything. I see you even moving as if it would be better if you didn’t move at all. Had I ordered you not to move at all, that would be better! But even that you would not obey. When I say, ‘Do not move at all,’ then a cough arises, a twitch arises, the urge to do something arises. That arises because the storm did not fully come out in the thirty minutes; it is still left. When it is time to bring it out, you hold it; when it is not to be let out, you begin letting it out.

What a dilemma you create for yourselves! When I say: for thirty minutes jump, leap, do whatsoever—then do it; then do not hold back. Let every hair of your body dance; let every particle go wild. The stillness that comes after—you do not have to bring it; it is the inevitable outcome of the storm, its very shadow. And in that stillness, only one thing is needed: just waiting. In that waiting the flower opens—not before.

‘So long as the storm goes on, so long as the battle is raging, it will sprout, it will grow, branches and buds will break forth.’

While you are passing through the storm, do not think the storm is the enemy of the flower.

‘So long as the storm goes on, so long as the battle is raging, it will sprout.’

Then the seed of peace is germinating. It will not happen suddenly. Even in this moment of the storm the seed is swelling.

‘It will sprout, it will grow, branches and buds will break forth. But till the whole bodily sense dissolves and melts away, till the whole inner nature yields utterly to its higher self and comes under its sway, the flower cannot open.’

Even in the storm the seed is shifting. Hidden in darkness, in the womb of the earth, it cracks, it sprouts, it rises towards the sky, leaves come out, branches grow. But the flower will only open when the storm has churned you utterly. When the storm has shaken you completely. When the storm has—carrying away every disease in you, every gloom, every anger, all violence—swept your dust clean. Whatever in you was sickly melts and is destroyed in the storm. Then, in the last moment, the flower opens. In this storm you are not destroyed; only your lower self is shed and destroyed. In this storm your soul is not destroyed; your ego is destroyed. And it is the ego that obstructs the storm.

Take note: when you think, ‘I am a university professor, or I am a minister, or I am a great doctor, or a big industrialist—how can I dance? I have prestige; how can I cry aloud? This is children’s play; how can a man like me, so intelligent, do this? Such antics are for madmen; a respectable person like me cannot.’ Who is hindering?

The ego hinders the coming of the storm. Why? Because the ego is afraid; the storm will burn it. You will not be lost; the ego will be lost. Prestige, respect, position—your decorations, your titles—all will fall away in the storm.

It is afraid. Your lower self is afraid of the storm. The lower self says, ‘Sit quietly like this and force the flower to bloom.’ The lower self knows that the flower never blooms like that, however long you sit. However long you sit, it never blooms. For that flower, the lower self must be staked—it is the obstacle.

The storm carries away all that is false in you. After the storm, only that which is the best, the eternal, remains. Its remaining is the flowering of the blossom.

‘Then a peace will arise such as descends upon tropical lands after heavy rains. And in that deep and hushed peace, that mysterious event will happen which proves that the path has been found.’

Such peace will arise as descends upon hot lands after a great rain. And in that deep and silent peace, that mysterious event will occur which proves that the path has been attained. There is no other way to prove that event, save that it happens.

People come and ask me, ‘If we attain the experience, how will we know that it has happened? If siddhi occurs, if sadhana matures and is fulfilled, if self-knowledge dawns—how will we know that it has happened?’

I tell them: when a thorn pricks your foot, how do you know it has pricked? They say, ‘It hurts.’ Do you then go ask someone whether a thorn has pricked your foot? Your very pain is the testimony.

As a thorn entering the foot gives pain, and its removal frees you from pain—both experiences are intimate and only yours. Exactly so, when that event happens within, all the pain of life disappears, all burden drops away; wings sprout, you are weightless; no past remains, no future; no anxiety, no ache—pure being. You will not need to ask anyone whether it has happened. When it happens, you know instantly it has happened. Then even if the whole world says it has not, you can laugh at the whole world.

Keshab Chandra came to Ramakrishna. Keshab argued much against God—he was intelligent, devoted to logic. Ramakrishna kept laughing. He said, ‘What you say is entirely logical. But what shall I do? I have experienced him. Had I not experienced, I would say you are right—and even now, as far as logic goes, you are right. But I am in great trouble: I have experienced him. I am an uneducated man; I cannot even refute your arguments. I too once stood where you stand. I too once doubted whether he is or not. And that day, all your arguments would have seemed right to me. But my great difficulty, Keshab Chandra,’ Ramakrishna said, ‘my great difficulty is that I have experienced him—now what shall I do? However much you say—even if the whole world says—I cannot deny my experience: it has happened to me—he is. Now there is only one way: you too must move toward experience.’ When Keshab rose to leave, Ramakrishna said, ‘One thing is certain: today or tomorrow, you will surely move toward experience. For how long will a man as intelligent as you remain entangled in words and arguments?’

Keshab has written in his memoirs that he could never forget this one sentence—Ramakrishna saying, ‘How long will a man as intelligent as you remain entangled in arguments! You will certainly come to experience.’ His saying this, Keshab writes, spoiled all my arguments. He neither refuted nor rejected me; he accepted me with his whole heart. And he also said, ‘Seeing you increases my trust in God—such intelligence cannot bloom without him. You, who speak against God—seeing you, my trust in him increases. Without him, how could such a flower of intelligence blossom?’

He who has the experience does not need to ask. Experience is self-evident; it reveals itself. The day this kind of silent peace descends, that day the door of the supreme mystery opens. And it is proved that the path has been found.

‘The moment of flowering is of great importance. It is the moment when receptivity awakens. With this awakening, trust, understanding, and certainty are also obtained.’

Flowering means a trust. Look at the flower. The sun rises in the morning and the flower opens. Why does the flower open in the morning? To drink the sun completely—the bud is closed, it cannot drink—to absorb the sun into itself, to open the heart’s door to the sun. The flower opens to take the sun within.

The bud is closed; the flower is open. The heart within the bud, the innermost core—it exposes it to the sun. Its opening is a deep faith, a trust, that you are life; that if you enter me, Supreme Life enters; that without you my heart is darkness; that without you I am closed, dead; that you will become my dance, my fragrance; that you will take me far beyond myself; that in you I shall dissolve. My perishable body will be lost, but the imperishable fragrance will expand into the winds and touch the infinite.

Within too—hence we have chosen the metaphor of the flower again and again—within too, when the unprecedented event of peace happens, the peace that comes after the storm, the heart’s flower opens. Toward that Paramatma, that Great Sun, with a trust: now enter me. With a trust that now there is no need to remain closed. Now I will receive you; now I will become your womb. Now come into me. Now I will keep no corner of the heart empty of you.

For long I lived in darkness, for long I lived closed. And the closing was from fear—lest some accident happen. If the inner sanctum be left open, someone may harm, someone may destroy, something wrong may enter. So all doors were kept shut, walls were raised, and I kept myself inside.

But now the moment has come when I can open completely. Receptivity—the openness—means this. That now I will not save myself even a little; now I am utterly naked before you. In this nakedness of my heart, enter. Come into my inner home; now I am eager to become a temple for you.

‘When the disciple becomes fit to learn, he is accepted; he is recognized as a disciple, and the Master receives him. This must be so, for he has lit his lamp, and the flame of the lamp cannot remain hidden.’

‘When the disciple becomes fit to learn…’

This is the supreme capacity to learn. Opening is the capacity to learn. To become utterly receptive is the capacity to learn. To break down all the doors of the heart and accept openness—this willingness is discipleship. And the day it happens, the day you bloom like a flower, that day the Supreme Master accepts you. Paramatma himself is the Supreme Master.

Therefore those who have seen Paramatma in the Master—there is meaning in their vision. There is meaning in seeing Paramatma in the Guru, because ultimately Paramatma is the Master. One begins by seeing Paramatma in the Guru, and one day ends by finding the Guru in Paramatma. In that very moment, the Supreme Master accepts you.

‘This must be so…’

It cannot be otherwise. For the day you are open and willing, that day Paramatma is ready to give. Only as long as you are closed are his hands incapable of giving. His hands are always eager to give—but your closedness leaves no way. The day you open, that day his giving begins.

The Master accepts, for the disciple has lit his lamp, and its flame cannot be hidden.

You will be surprised to know—within the esoteric science of the spirit—this has many meanings. If you are truly surrendered to the Master, truly receptive, your whole aura changes—at once it changes.

People come to me, asking for diksha, initiation into sannyas. But very few among them are truly receptive. Then the aura around their faces is different. The light in their eyes is different—as if a lamp is burning within.

Some come for other reasons to take initiation. They have no light within, no radiance. There is no aura around them. Even if I give them initiation, it is futile; their hands are not open to receive. I still give it—no harm. A desire to take initiation has arisen; the reasons are wrong now, but it is not right to disappoint them. Perhaps tomorrow they may understand; the wrong reason may drop and initiation become real. In any case, there is no harm. For if a man is wrong, even after initiation he will remain as wrong as before. He will not become worse than he was—he remains what he is. No harm at all. But a possibility opens that perhaps he may be transformed.

But the person who truly comes full of the feeling to receive—he is already initiated. Giving him initiation is only a formality—only an acknowledgment that will make him rejoice; an acknowledgment that will strengthen him; an acknowledgment that will deepen his trust and increase his self-confidence. But he has been initiated already. Receptivity is initiation.

And as soon as one becomes receptive, light begins to spread around him. That light can actually be seen. If you sit quietly near a receptive person, you can sense his radiance. The Master senses it effortlessly. It is simply visible. The one who comes brings with him either his light or his darkness.

A closed man, whose bud is utterly closed, who is unwilling to bow—around him runs a circle of darkness. An open man, whose flame has appeared—around him runs an atmosphere of light, of joy. And when there is darkness around you, your head feels burdened. When there is light around you, your head is weightless.

‘The above rules are among the first of those written on the walls of the Temple of Param-Prajna. Those who ask shall receive. Those who wish to read shall read. Those who wish to learn shall learn. Peace be unto you.’

Engrave this in the heart: those who ask shall receive.

‘Those who ask shall receive. Those who wish to read shall read. Those who wish to learn shall learn.’

Jesus has said: ‘Knock, and the doors shall be thrown open unto you. Ask, and it shall be given unto you.’

But we are so poor in spirit that we do not even knock! We are so poor that even when we do ask, we ask for trifles—not for the touch of the vast! We go to the door of Paramatma carrying petty desires. We ask for things that could have been obtained in the world—no need to go to the door of the Divine for that. And the one who goes to Paramatma’s door asking for worldly things never arrives at that door. For him the temple is also a marketplace, a shop, the same world. In name only he goes to the temple; he remains in his world.

But if someone asks for Paramatma himself, he is granted at once. Yet to ask, a preparation is needed. And there must be space in the heart for what is being asked—if he comes, is there room within? Receptivity is needed.

Hence, following these sutras, comes this sutra: the one who, like a flower, opens in the stillness that comes after the storm—he can ask. Whatever he asks will be given. And for him ‘asking’ means only one thing: he will ask for the supreme wisdom, Param-Prajna; he will ask for supreme freedom; he will ask for the Supreme Lord. He will ask for that which is ultimate in life, the last, the final—beyond which nothing remains to be asked.

Even framing that asking in words is unnecessary. In the moment of opening, his very heart is the asking. His flower, by blooming, is itself asking: enter me. No need for words. Words have fallen with the storm; this is a silent thirst. This is the yearning of his whole being. He will wish to read what is written upon life’s supreme temple, at life’s ultimate summit where all the keys to its mysteries are inscribed. This is a metaphor. If he wishes to read, he will read. If he wishes to learn the final secrets of life, he will learn.

In this moment, the moment of flowering—whatever the heart’s thirst is, it will be fulfilled. In this moment of the flowering you are beneath the kalpavriksha; whatever the feeling is, it will instantly become reality, embodied.

But only after the tempest has passed. If even a little of the tempest remains within, your askings will be petty—and they will be fulfilled. Your askings will be useless—and they will be fulfilled.

Tolstoy has written a small story. A man pleased a spirit. It took many years, but once pleased, the spirit said, ‘Ask three boons.’ The man said, ‘Just now I cannot decide; if you will grant three boons, I will ask them later when the right time comes.’ The spirit agreed, but warned, ‘Remember—only three, not a fourth.’ The man thought three are enough—by three the whole world can be had.

He returned home thinking what to ask so that nothing is missed. He quarreled with his wife upon entering the house and, in anger, asked his first boon: ‘Finish her!’ The wife died. At once he panicked: what about the children? The neighbors will learn of it. And she did love him, though she quarreled. He remembered that to marry again at this age would be trouble. He had crossed sixty—what girl would he get? He thought he had blundered. He asked the spirit to bring his wife back to life. She returned. Two boons were gone. Now he was in great difficulty—only one remained. He became so anxious about what to ask that he could not sleep at night; his mind began to go mad—this or that? And only one was left. Now a new fear arose: in some upset moment he might again blurt out something—she may die, or something else—there would be no way to bring her back. Within three days he was so tormented that he begged the spirit, ‘Take back the third boon—make it so that I do not have to ask it. I will die; nothing comes to me.’ The third was withdrawn.

If pettiness remains within, even if you are granted boons—what will you do? That pettiness will come out.

The storm must pass completely. Unfortunate are those who arrive at that moment—when whatsoever you ask is fulfilled—carrying a bit of storm within. It is dangerous. Hence I insist: throw out the storm by every means. Then only one asking remains.

Even calling it ‘asking’ is not right—it is thirst. Even calling it thirst is not right, for there will be no self-awareness about it. It is not that you are thirsty and you know you are thirsty. It will be that you have become thirst itself. Not separate—you are now the longing. Then those who ask shall receive. Those who wish to read shall read. Those who wish to learn shall learn.

‘Peace be unto you.’

But the basis of all this is: Peace be unto you. Without that, none of this has meaning. All is then a web of imagination. And without peace, no journey in that direction is possible.