Sadhana Sutra #9

Do not take bliss to be complete until you have also learned how to share it. The search for bliss, as such, still belongs to greed. The desire for bliss is ego-centered—'for me.' As long as even this much of the 'me' remains—that I want bliss only for myself—bliss will remain incomplete. Along with that bliss, a thin line of darkness will run. Alongside that bliss, a shadow of sorrow will persist. Because as long as I am, total freedom from sorrow is impossible. I may receive a glimpse of bliss, but it will be only a glimpse. And pain, in one form or another, will always be linked with me—for I myself am pain.

The day a second event also happens—the sharing of bliss—that day I ceases to be important; the other becomes important; you become important. That day the seeker does not ask for bliss; that day he gives bliss; that day he shares bliss. And until bliss begins to be shared, it is never complete. When bliss is received, it is partial. When bliss is shared, it becomes whole.

Understand it this way: there is a breath that comes in, and a breath that goes out. The incoming breath is half, and you cannot live on the incoming breath alone. If you try to hold the incoming breath inside, that very breath—which is the basis of life—becomes the cause of death. If breath comes in, it must also be released. Only when the breath also goes out does the circle complete. The incoming breath is half; the outgoing breath is half. Together they make a whole. They are the two steps by which life walks.

When bliss enters you, it is like the incoming breath—half. When bliss goes out from you—when it is shared, scattered, spread, extended across worlds upon worlds—then the other half is fulfilled.

Remember: the more powerfully you can throw the breath out, the more deeply you can draw the breath in. If one properly exhales, to the extent one exhales, to that extent the capacity to inhale grows. One who pours out will receive even more. Receiving more, he pours out more—and receives yet more. Then this chain becomes infinite.

Grasp this well: what you truly have is only that which you are able to give. If you are unable to give it, understand—You have not yet received it. The very moment you receive, sharing begins.

One more point: when sorrow befalls, man shrinks, closes. He wishes no one would come near; he longs to sit alone, somewhere in a distant cave, to shut his doors and windows. The sorrowful man wants to surround himself and seal every opening. Sorrow is contraction, a shrinking. In sorrow you do not wish anyone to speak; even sympathy becomes an intrusion. When you are truly in grief, the sympathizer too feels like a thorn. Your beloved has passed away, dense clouds of grief have enveloped you; someone comes to console, to advise. His consolation, his advisings, all sound hollow. Even his wisdom—'The soul is immortal; do not fear; none dies'—sounds like words of an enemy. Sorrow wants to close itself like a seed, to shrink into a tight kernel.

Exactly the opposite happens with bliss. As man shrinks in sorrow, so he expands in bliss. Then he longs to go—far and wide—wherever the winds travel, wherever the sky stretches—to spread what he has found. As a flower blossoms and its fragrance wafts afar, as a lamp is lit and its rays spread far—so when the event of bliss happens, sharing begins. If your bliss remains cramped within you, know: it is not bliss. For the intrinsic nature of bliss is to be shared, to expand.

Therefore we have called the supreme form of the Divine, Brahman. Brahman means that which goes on expanding. In the very word Brahman is the root of expansion, of the vast. Brahman means that which keeps spreading, whose expansion knows no end. No boundary appears where it stops—it only goes on expanding.

Only in this century have physics, astronomy, explorers of space said that the universe is expanding. In the West this thought was absent. The Western notion was that however large the universe might be, it is boundaried, not expanding. But after Einstein, a new vision was born, one that comes very close to Brahman.

Einstein said the cosmos is not finite; it is expanding—like your chest expands when you inhale. The universe goes on spreading. Its expansion seems to have no end. With immense speed, the cosmos is growing.

But in India, this insight is ancient. For the ultimate truth we chose the name Brahman—meaning, infinitely expanding, without end, without a halt in its unfolding. And we have called the nature of Brahman, Ananda—bliss. Bliss is an ever-expanding phenomenon. Bliss itself is Brahman.

So the day bliss happens in your life, you will not remain a miser. Only the sorrowful are miserly. Mark this—it is true in every sense.

A sorrowful person is miserly; he cannot give. He clutches at everything, grasps everything, hoards everything in his breast. He cannot release anything. You might be surprised to learn—psychologists say the miser does not even breathe deeply. For to breathe in deeply, one must exhale deeply; and he cannot release. Psychologists say the miser inevitably becomes constipated—he cannot even evacuate the bowels; he holds that back too. They go so far as to say constipation could not exist unless, in the deep unconscious, there was miserliness. There is no reason to withhold feces. The body naturally releases it. But the mind restrains.

Remember, many become keen on Brahmacharya for this very reason—that they are miserly. Their enthusiasm for Brahmacharya is not truly a search for the ultimate. Their enthusiasm is a part of miserliness: 'Let the power of semen not go out.' Only a very few are drawn to Brahmacharya with understanding. Most, because of stinginess. 'Whatever is, let it remain inside; let nothing go out.' Therefore a miser cannot love. You will not find a stingy person capable of love, because love includes giving—love itself is giving. One who cannot give—how can he love? Hence whoever is a miser cannot be a lover. The converse is equally true: whoever is a lover cannot be a miser. For one who has given his heart in love will be able to give all. Bliss has no kinship with miserliness; only sorrow does.

The day bliss truly happens to you, that day you become a giver. Your beggarhood drops. For the first time, you are capable of sharing. And you discover a source that increases by giving; it does not diminish.

Distribute wealth, and it decreases. It must, for wealth is based on sorrow, not on bliss. In one way or another, wealth stands upon someone’s suffering. Somewhere, hidden within money, human pain is embedded. So even if you accumulate wealth, it is sorrow you collect. And if you give it away, it lessens. For wealth is not an inner state; it is a stock of objects. When objects are shared, they reduce.

I have heard: a fakir begged alms from a housewife. She gave generously—filled his bowl, then added clothes and some rupees. The beggar was very handsome; he seemed to be from a fine family. His clothes were torn and old, but there was a sparkle in his eyes, a radiance on his face, a noble bearing, a graceful body. The housewife could not help asking, 'Looking at you one feels you came from a great family—how did you come to this condition?' The fakir said, 'By doing exactly what you just did—by giving. The state I am in will soon be yours too.'

Wealth has limits—if given, it becomes less. Bliss has no limit—if shared, it grows. And its source is within. The more you draw it out, the more fresh springs arise.

Understand it like this as well: we dig a well. We draw water from it, and springs keep replenishing the water. Have you ever wondered where these springs come from? They are linked to distant oceans; they never run dry. A well can become stagnant if not drawn from. But if you keep drawing, it will be fresh and new each day—for the springs are joined to the endless sea.

Remember, when the event of bliss happens within and we begin to draw it out, only then do we come to know that the springs of bliss are connected to Brahman. However much we draw, they do not end. We are only a well; the springs are linked to the far-off ocean. That ocean is Brahman. Bliss grows by sharing. And only by sharing does it become whole.

Now let us understand the sutra.

'In silence, which is peace itself, a resounding voice will appear. And that voice will say: This is not good—you have already reaped; now you must sow.'

It is quite the opposite of the common way. People first sow, then reap.

This sutra says: 'You have already reaped; now you must sow.'

In the world, we sow first and reap later. In the spiritual, we reap first and sow later. The relation of the world and the spiritual is entirely reversed. Whatever is the rule here, the reverse is the rule there. If we invert all the worldly rules, they become the rules of the spiritual.

Consider: a man stands by a lake. Fish in the lake see his reflection. To them, his feet appear above and his head below—because the reflection in the water is inverted. If a fish leaps out and sees the man above the water, she will be astonished: 'This man must be standing upside down! In the water his head was below and feet above; now the feet are below and the head above.' She returns and tells her companions: 'On land, men stand upside down.'

The world is a reflection of the spiritual. The true reflects here. Whatever seems straight here is not straight—though within the world it appears so. The day you rise above the lake of thoughts, you will see that everything is reversed. The real is there; the straight is there. What was seen in the mirror of thoughts, in the shadow of mind, that was inverted—that was only reflection.

There, you must first reap, then sow. Why? Because bliss is gained first—meaning, you have harvested. You first inhale, then you exhale. You have cut the harvest of bliss; the second part is to sow its seeds to the far horizon, that others too may reap. Another had sown—you reaped his harvest.

Buddha sows, Mahavira sows, Krishna sows, Christ sows, Mohammed sows—whoever attains bliss, sows. He reaps first, then sows. For you can sow only when you have already reaped. You must have something to sow. If there is nothing, what will you sow? If there is no bliss with you, what will you give?

We are all making this mistake, and thus the world is in great confusion. We try to give one another bliss without asking whether bliss is with us. The result? We all want to give bliss—and end up giving sorrow. No one succeeds in giving bliss.

The husband tries hard to give bliss to his wife—and the wife becomes miserable. The wife tries hard to give bliss to her husband—and he thinks, 'What a tangle I have fallen into; how can I escape?' The father tries to give bliss to the son—and the son thinks, 'When will I find a chance to flee this net?' The sons try to give bliss to the father—and the father laments, 'What wicked sons were born in this house!'

We all try to give bliss to each other. It is not that we do not try—we do. There is no doubt about our trying. But we try without understanding that we cannot give what we do not have. The wife is herself unhappy and tries to give bliss to the husband. The husband is himself unhappy and tries to give bliss to the wife. The father is unhappy and tries to make the son happy. This is sheer madness. What arithmetic is this? What I do not have, I cannot give you.

Along with this, there is another side: since I do not have bliss, I try to take it from others. But those from whom I try to take it are also trying to take it from me. When you try to take bliss from someone, and that someone is trying to take bliss from you, your situation is like two beggars standing face to face, bowls held out, each waiting for alms. How will alms happen? Both are bound to be unhappy. Both will fail, and each will think the other deceived me—he could have given but did not. If one could have given, he would have given.

Bliss is such a thing that by giving it increases. Therefore, the one who can give will give—he cannot withhold. If he withholds, it decays, diminishes, is lost. When a thing grows by giving, who will not give? All want to give—but they have nothing. All want to receive—but those they approach have themselves come to receive!

Thus a world of beggars makes one another deeply miserable. Everywhere at first there seems to be happiness; slowly, sorrow dawns. It looks like happiness only so long as hope remains that 'it will come.' When hope begins to break, root by root is cut, and sorrow pervades.

Bliss must first be reaped, then its seeds sown. Then another will harvest. What we harvest is also what someone else had sown. Though Buddha is not here today, we reap what he sowed. Jesus is not here, but we harvest what he sowed. This expansion is infinite, beginningless. Humanity is one single current.

This sutra says: when, after the storm, you have become quiet—when the storm has passed, the wind has died, and silence, supreme peace, arises within you, and the flower of life blossoms—then from that silence you will hear a resounding voice.

As soon as one becomes silent, immediately this realization begins.

'And that voice will say: This is not good—you have already reaped; now you must sow.'

You have received—now distribute. You have been given—now lavish it. You have become a master, but your mastery is not yet complete. Give—and then you will be the complete master.

Have you ever noticed? We are master only of that which we can give. It sounds paradoxical, but only that which we can give truly belongs to us. In giving, mastery is revealed. If you cannot give, if you cling and think giving is difficult—you are not the master; the thing is the master. When you can give, then you are the master. The master can give; what can the slave give?

And the day we can give bliss, that day we gain true mastery over bliss.

Sorrow—we give that, and we give plenty—unknowingly. We do not even know by which word, which gesture, which glance, we wound another. We go on spreading the poison of sorrow simply by our movements, our presence—for it is filled within us. Even if we try to stop it, it is in vain. Build walls if you like; it will find another outlet and flow. Springs cannot be dammed.

So we do give sorrow. Our life itself is the distribution of sorrow. If only we would recognize that we are spreading sorrow! No one admits this. Give as much sorrow as you may, and if someone points it out, you will refuse to accept it: 'You are mistaken. I am giving happiness.' Others say the same to you when they hurt you: 'We only give happiness. If you feel hurt, it is your fault.' Everyone claims to give happiness, and no one gets it—and yet no one realizes that there must be a fundamental mistake here.

Keep one sutra in mind: you can only give what you have—there is no other way. Naturally, we give sorrow and receive sorrow—and condense sorrow further. This will continue until a storm snatches your sorrow away.

Why throw it at people? Raise a storm—and let all the streams of sorrow be carried away. This will continue until you learn the art of dissolving sorrow into the sky. Until then you will dissolve it onto someone or other.

A young man came to me. He had fled from America—and with reason. Psychoanalysis had found that he was eager to kill his father. He, too, recognized it as true. A single image recurred in his mind: 'Kill the father!' He had suffered under him. Then his mother left. Then the father married again. He had endured every kind of pain. A deep hatred for his father had filled him. When the therapists told him this idea possessed him and might erupt, he became afraid. He came to India so that he would be far from the father and the danger minimized.

He came to me. I told him: 'Run wherever you like—the day you have to kill your father, you will find your way to him. You can run from your father, but how will you run from yourself? The impulse to murder is within you; it will go with you and only thicken.' He asked, 'What should I do?' I said, 'Kill your father.' He exclaimed, 'What are you saying! Are you in your senses? I have never seen anyone like you. I came for peace, and you say, kill the father!'

So I said, 'No need to kill the actual father. There is a pillow in my room—take it. Treat it as your father. Write his name on it; paste his picture on it. Then go to the market and buy a knife.' He said, 'Are you making fun of me?' But I saw a sparkle in his eyes, a delight. His sad face lit up. I said, 'Every day, kill him without worry. Why only a day? Make a half-hour ritual of it—first thing in the morning: kill the father.' He said, 'But where is the relish in that?' I said, 'Begin. Tell me after seven days.'

Seven days later he came and said, 'What have you done to me? Half an hour does not satisfy me. Sometimes I beat him for an hour, an hour and a half, then stab him too. Afterwards, such peace descends.' And he added, 'In the last two days a new thing has happened: I feel compassion for my father. The hatred has been released; now compassion comes.'

I said, 'Continue for three weeks.' In the third week he returned and said, 'Forgive me, bless me to go and place my head at my father’s feet and ask his forgiveness. The hatred has left me completely. Now I feel my father was not at fault—circumstances were such. Now I feel only compassion. And I even feel remorse for how I treated my father these three weeks!' I asked, and he said, 'After three days, the pillow was gone—my father himself was there. The projection was complete.'

What a year of psychotherapy could not do, a storm could—in three weeks.

Whatever is within you—sorrow, pain, anguish—needs the strength to be released into the open sky; then you will be free of sorrow.

There is no need to throw it on persons. Even when you throw it at persons, what do you accomplish? People are only pegs. When the vast sky is available as a great peg, why seek small pegs? And everyone is already burdened with sorrow; why load them with more? Your wife is already crushed and dying; your husband is already broken. Why throw more sorrow on them? Why more anger? This open sky is spacious enough. Let your sorrow fly into it. No trace of it will remain; it will be absorbed.

Everything dissolves into the sky. You too will dissolve—what to say of your sorrow? Yesterday you were not; from this very sky you emerged. Tomorrow you will be no more; into this sky you will vanish again. Earths are formed and dissolve, suns burn and exhaust, stars are born and scatter, universes come and subside—the sky swallows all. Your sorrow is nothing—offer it to the sky; it will drink it up.

Raise the storm and let sorrow be carried away. After that, the glimpse of bliss will begin. In this emptiness, in this silence that comes after the storm, you will begin to experience continuously, unceasingly:

'It is not good—you have already reaped; now you must sow. And knowing that the voice itself is silence, you will obey it.'

One cannot escape this command, for it does not come from without. It is the voice of your own inner Atman. It is your own command. You have given it to yourself—and thus you cannot escape it.

Remember, the command from another becomes a burden. We want to slip out of it. If we fulfill it, we do so as duty. Duty is an ugly word. It means: 'I have to do it; there is no joy.' Someone says, 'I serve my mother because it is my duty.' I say: do not serve. If you say it is duty, you mean there is no love in your heart. Whoever uses the word duty is saying: love is not mine.

Where there is love, there is no duty—there is delight. Say: 'She is my mother; I serve because I love.' It is no question of duty. 'I do it because I should'—then the whole thing is meaningless.

There is a difference. Duty’s command comes from outside. Love’s command wells up from within. The order of love is your own, therefore fulfilling it is delightful. Duty's order belongs to someone else—the scripture, society, the guru, tradition, the system—somewhere else the order arises; you must fulfill it. You fulfill it, but your heart is not in it. You merely dispose of it, carry the load somehow.

Then the service born of duty turns poisonous. You think you are serving greatly, while the one you 'serve' feels you do nothing—because if your heart is not present in what you do, the other knows it. Even small children know it—when a father dutifully pats their back or smiles. A child senses the smile is false, the pat was only a hand—no heart. They know: the heart is absent. We recognize one another. Deception is not possible. When the heart is present, its juice is tangibly felt. When it is absent, dryness is felt.

But you will obey this command—because it is the command of your own inner being.

'You who are now a disciple…'

You who have become capable of learning, who have emptied your heart, bowed it utterly—

'You can now stand on your own feet.'

It is a beautiful paradox: the one who is ready to bow can stand on his own feet. The one who will not bow remains dependent on others. It seems reversed, yet it is so. One who can bow invites the strength of the whole existence to flow toward him. One who stands stiff wastes his own strength; the strength of the whole does not reach him.

Lao Tzu used to say: when the storm comes, great trees stiffen and are blown down. Small plants bend with the storm; the storm passes. The roots of the great trees are torn up, and they lie fallen; the small plants stand again. The storm gives life to the small plants. It destroys the stiff, arrogant trees. The same storm! The weak survive; the strong are broken.

Strange indeed: the big tree was strong—that is why it stood in pride. It had declared: 'Let the storm come; we will not bend. We may break, but we will not bend.' The tiny plants neither showed pride nor took up battle; they played with the storm. When it bent them, they bent—as if a lover bends his beloved. There was no enmity; it was a play of love. The storm bathed them, shook off their dust, made them fresh, dropped their dried leaves. The storm passed, and they stood again—more laughing than before, more alive, more radiant—their heads lifted to the sky.

They were weak—but in another language, the inverted language I am speaking of—they proved strong. And those who were 'strong' in the worldly tongue proved weak, lying on the ground, roots torn. Their own ego destroyed them—not the storm. If the storm had destroyed, the small plants would also have gone. The storm did nothing but pass. They acted—and thus were destroyed. The small plants acted—and thus survived.

What we call strength in the world is weakness in the spiritual. What we call weakness in the world is strength in the spiritual. To bend is weakness in the world: 'Never bend—no matter what!' In the language of the spirit, to bend is an invitation to strength. The one who bends is filled from all sides. The power of the whole runs toward him. He becomes like a hollow—his invitation is heard everywhere. The stiff man becomes like a mountain peak. Rain falls there too—but it cannot stay. The peak is too rigid. The rain goes and gathers in the lakes. Lakes are empty, lowered. The rain falls on the peak, but the lake drinks it—because the lake is empty, so it fills. The peak is already 'full'—so it remains empty.

This sutra says: you who are now a disciple—capable of bending, humble, surrendered—can stand on your own feet.

Now there is strength in your feet. Not the strength of ego—but of humility. Not yours—but the strength of the whole. The total existence gives you power.

'You can hear…'

Ego is gone—the barrier to hearing. The inner reverberation of pride that prevented listening has ceased.

I see it often—scholars come to me; they cannot listen. I watch clearly: I am speaking, but they are not listening. Even while I speak, they are thinking what they will say after I finish. Even while I speak, within they are arranging their arithmetic: what is right in what I say, what is wrong, whether it fits the scripture or not, whether their view will stand. They are arranging. From their faces I know—they are not listening; they are preparing. And when I fall silent, they begin from somewhere that is not where I stopped. As if they did not hear what I said at all—as if my words never touched their ears. They start from another realm.

Observe yourself: when you listen to someone, do you really listen? Or do you keep talking within? If you talk within, you do not listen—for speaking and listening cannot happen together. If you are speaking inside, you are not listening. Yes, a faint hint may reach you; on that hint you will begin to talk as soon as the other stops. But the one who spoke will be amazed: 'I did not say what you have understood.' And if he too is speaking within while you speak, then this 'conversation' is between two madmen. No meaning can arise—only fruitless quarrel, wasted noise thrown at one another. Not dialogue.

This sutra says: now you can listen—because within, the ego’s echo has stopped.

'You can see, you can speak.'

Only one who can listen, can speak. Only one who can see, can speak. The art of listening must come before speech. Your words will have meaning only when you have become empty enough to listen. What is worth speaking is heard in emptiness. One who has not mastered silence—his words have no value. One who has not learned the art of stillness—his words are futile.

There are two types of speaking. One reads the scriptures and speaks—that too is speaking. Another descends into deep meditation, becomes silent, empty, and then speaks—that too is speaking. But between the two there lies the distance of earth and sky.

One is the speech of the pundit; the other, of the knower. The pundit’s speech may be skillful, technically elegant, clear, logical—but it cannot be truth, for truth is not his experience. The speech that arises from experience—and experience arises in emptiness, in silence, in utter stillness, in the hush that comes after the storm—only that one is capable of true speech.

Mahavira remained silent for twelve years. Many asked him to speak. He did not. After twelve years, he began to speak. Only when it became utterly clear that total emptiness, total silence had descended, did speaking have any meaning. What to speak? To whom? If we have not heard the voice of that inner sky, what will we speak?

'Now you can speak—you who have conquered desires, attained self-knowledge, seen your Atman in its unfolded state and recognized it, and heard the Nada of silence. Go now into that temple of knowledge which is the temple of Param-Prajna, and read what is written there for you.'

This is a symbol. When one becomes perfectly silent, empty, peaceful, the mystery of existence opens before him. The secret scripture of this existence, the keys to the wisdom hidden within—imagine that in the deep interior of the cosmos there is a temple of Prajna—its doors are opened to you.

This sutra says: this inner voice will tell you, silence will tell you: you are ready now—go to the temple of Param-Prajna. Read what is written there for you.

'To hear the voice of silence is to understand that the only guidance comes from within.'

Until you become silent, your Atman cannot guide you. Until then, you will need the refuge of a guru from without. That refuge is needed because you are unable to hear the guru-voice hidden within. You are so full of noise that the inner voice—very subtle, very fine, very delicate—gets lost in your inner clamor, your tumult, your hubbub, in the crowd of your mind. It cannot be heard. Hence the need for an outer guru—to give you commands, directions, the path. Otherwise, there is no need. Your guru resides within you. But because you cannot understand the inner voice, you seek a guru outside. That search is useful—and necessary until you can listen to the inner guru. The day you hear the inner guru, the outer guru has no more significance.

This does not mean you become disobedient to the outer guru. On the contrary, only then do you feel total gratitude, because it was he who introduced you to your inner guru.

Kabir has said: 'Guru and Govind both are standing—whose feet should I touch?' The outer guru is standing, and now Govind has appeared—the inner guru has manifested. Kabir asks, 'I am in a dilemma; both stand before me: guru and Govind—whose feet should I touch?' And Kabir says: 'I touched the feet of the guru—for blessed am I by you, O guru, who showed me Govind. Without you I would not have known him.' The outer guru takes leave only after showing you the inner guru. Thereafter, the journey is utterly inward—there, none exists but oneself.

'To hear the voice of silence is to understand that the only guidance comes from within. To enter the temple of Prajna is to enter the state where knowledge is possible. Then for you there will be many words written there, in flaming letters, so that you may read easily. For when the disciple is ready, Sri Gurudev also is ready.'

That inner supreme guru—when you, the disciple, become fully ready, he becomes available. But this apprenticeship of discipleship must first be learned with an outer guru. Once you are thoroughly ripened in discipleship, the outer guru bows out; the inner guru appears. The inner guru is always ready; he waits only for your readiness. The day you are ready—he was ready already. Once you have heard this inner voice, there is no longer any wandering. No mistake remains possible—for the one who walks and the one who makes walk are now one.

Understand this well.

Now the disciple and the guru are one. As long as the guru was outside and you the disciple, a distance had to remain. However intimate, however deep the trust, however close, however faithful—distance remains, for outside there can only be relations of distance. Even nearness is a kind of distance. Keep reducing this gap. A point comes when there remains nothing more to reduce. The day it feels that between the outer guru and me nothing is left to lessen, that very day you will find the outer guru has dissolved—and the inner guru has appeared.

As at one hundred degrees water suddenly becomes vapor, so approaching the guru has a critical degree. There is a limit to how near one can come to the outer guru. A moment arrives when even if the guru were to say, 'Leap and die,' only 'Yes' would arise from within. In that instant the outer guru will dissolve, and the inner guru appear. As long as you can say 'no' to the outer guru in any sense, the gap persists. Until then, the voice of the inner guru cannot be heard.

This is the meaning of shraddha—an absolute 'yes.'

The day this happens, the need for outer support ends. You have attained the trust in which the inner guru can manifest.