Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #15

The glory of silence is immeasurable. Nothing is more glorious. Whoever attains it finds that nothing remains to be attained. For in the moment of silence it is known—you are the divine.

What is meant by “the divine”? That nothing remains to be gained; that all is already attained. That there is nowhere to go; one is seated at one’s destination. That whatever is, one is utterly content with it; no discontent, no desire; no thirst, no hunger; no demand, no prayer. The day prayer disappears, that day you become divine. The day demand is gone, that day whatever is worthy of attainment, whatever can be attained, is yours. But this is known only in silence. Without silence you remain a stranger to yourself.

Understand this on many levels. Then this story will open—as if a locked door opens; as if in darkness someone suddenly lights a lamp and everything is illumined.

First: you speak—of course. Because there is no other way to relate to the other. But when you are alone, when there is no other, why do you go on speaking? Why do you go on chattering inside? To speak to another is a medium; to speak to oneself is madness.

A man walking on the road—his feet move. But if you sit and keep shaking your legs, and can’t stop, and someone asks, “Why are you shaking your legs? You’re not going anywhere. Legs are for walking. Sitting—why shake? Even in sleep—why do your legs twitch?” And you say, “What can I do? They just won’t stop!”—then your body is unwell, you’ve lost control; you’re not the master. This is the condition of your mind.

Speaking to another—understandable. But why speak to yourself? Why this inner talk? And can you stop the mind the moment you wish? Will it stop when you say, “Stop”? It won’t. The mind won’t listen. The mind has become the master. Your ownership is ignored; the mind has taken all control. You have no hold.

What is the meaning of “mad”? Simply this: one who has no control over himself. Whatever is happening—happens; he cannot change it. Whatever is not happening—will not happen; he cannot do it. His mastery is lost. In this sense we are all mad—only in degrees; more or less. But mad—every one.

Language and words are needed to speak to another. To speak to oneself, neither language nor words are needed. If you must speak with yourself, you need silence. To know matter, words are needed. Science cannot live without words.

Consider: if all libraries burn, all scriptures are destroyed, science would be finished—but religion would not. Because religion has nothing essential to do with scriptures. Whether they are there or not, it makes no difference. If all scientific literature burns, you cannot produce another Einstein today. It would take thousands of years again to collect the necessary “scripture” before an Einstein appears. But if all the world’s scriptures burn, you can produce a Buddha today.

It is a great wonder that people think religion is tradition; religion is not. Science is tradition. People think religion is bound within scripture; it is not—science is. Therefore science can be taught; religion cannot. If you grasp a science book, little remains to grasp. But read religious books as much as you like—everything remains to be understood.

To know matter, words are the instrument. To know the divine, emptiness is the instrument. You must arrive in utter quiet. If you go talking, you will miss. The one who is speaking is so full of his own words, so gross, that how will the subtle be grasped?

You carry the marketplace’s clamor within. Your temples too have become part of the marketplace; your mosques too. They’re shops—full of noise. A temple ought to be silent. Going there should mean you’ve left the bazaar behind. There should be hush. Where you leave your shoes, you should also leave your words. What is the meaning of taking words into a temple? And what staler than words?

How many times have you used the same word! What is filthier? A shoe is not as dirty as words have become. Yet you go on using words. Observe and you’ll find you don’t use more than three hundred words—day and night. Three hundred—if you’re a master of vocabulary! Learning a new language shouldn’t be hard—learn three hundred words and the language is yours. For who uses more? Those same old words—stale, rotten—have become soiled passing through your lips.

Like a coin grows dirty and worn in circulation, your words have worn out. They aren’t even silver—just dirty paper notes. With these you enter the temple. Leave them outside—only then is your entry real. Enter in silence. Truly, one who has become silent is in the temple. And one who keeps talking—even if seated in a temple—is in a shop. Where you are matters not; what is within you is all that matters.

But our temples and mosques have become parts of the bazaar. They could not change you; you have changed them.

A very rich man, Rothschild, was troubled. Salesmen of every kind—insurance agents, a thousand peddlers—knocked daily at his door. One ad salesman had been coming for months. He had him thrown out many times, yet he returned. He wanted an advertisement placed in the papers. Finally Rothschild said, “I’ve been in business forty years—without advertising. You see how much I’ve made. Whatever I produce sells. I don’t need advertising. Ads are for those whose goods don’t sell. I’ve told you a thousand times—don’t come back.”

It was evening. The bells of a church on a nearby hill rang. The ad man said, “May I ask—how old is that church on the hill?” Rothschild said, “Perhaps five hundred years.” The man replied, “And still, every evening the church rings its bells to announce, ‘I am here.’ You’ve been in business only forty years. That one’s been in business five hundred—and hasn’t stopped advertising! The day it stops ringing, people will stop coming. People will forget there is a church.”

They say Rothschild was impressed and began to advertise. He felt even God’s shop needs advertising—the bell must be rung!

The bell is an ancient advertisement. It rings so that you remember: there is a temple. A call—come! If temples stopped their bells, you would forget them.

Your temples and mosques too run by the rules of the marketplace. But you will be changed by them only when you understand the glory of silence.

Third: when a child is born, he is silent. When he dies, he becomes silent again. Before the near shore of life—silence; after the far shore—silence. From silence you arise; into silence you disappear. Words are the play in-between—the domain of life, society, civilization, relation with the other. But in your utterly aloneness you have always been silent—at birth and at death.

Talking with the other is useful, but it will not reveal your nature. Your nature reveals only when you forget “the other” entirely.

To forget “word” is to forget the other. To drop words is to drop society. When words go, language goes, all you learned goes.

For without words you have learned nothing. All teaching is inscribed upon words. Drop words and all teaching drops—learning, scholarship, knowledge—all gone. You remain utterly innocent—as you were before birth, and as you will be after death. If you take even one dip in this source, this original spring, you will laugh. You will say: there is neither birth nor death. I have always been and will always be. I am eternal.

This stream flows incessantly. It flowed before your birth—hidden perhaps. Like the Nile in Egypt flows underground for hundreds of miles—unseen—then suddenly emerges. But what emerges cannot arise out of nothing. Whatever appears must have been unmanifest before. So one day your birth “suddenly” happens—the river that was subterranean manifests. Then one day you disappear underground again—death swallows you.

Know that which was before birth and after death—that is religion, that is meditation. But you spend your whole time lost in society. You expend your whole energy in words. You are wasting yourself talking and thinking.

Nothing is more anti-society than meditation—because meditation means you drop the whole society. Drop words—the society goes. You step outside.

The art of stepping out of words is the art of stepping outside society. No need to go to the Himalayas. Those who don’t know this art go to the Himalayas—and even there they won’t step out.

You know this: if you are left alone, first you will slowly talk to yourself. Then you’ll begin to talk loudly. Then you’ll talk to trees and mountains. If no one is found, you’ll start a conversation with God—you will talk and you will answer! You will manufacture “the other” through imagination.

Going to the Himalayas won’t do anything. Those go who don’t know. Those who have learned the small art of stepping out of the boat of words can, right here in the marketplace, whenever they wish, find the Himalaya within. The moment they close the door of words and become silent, they are out.

From every place in the world there is a door to go beyond the world. A key is needed. That key is silence. To be quiet is the greatest art in this world. All other arts depend on words.

When a child is born, we teach him words. The sooner a child speaks, the happier the parents. And note well: the sooner a child speaks, the more intelligent he proves—because all arts are learned through words. The later a child speaks, the more of a dullard he proves. If he remains without speech till five, seven, eight, ten years, hope fades.

The earlier he speaks, the more it signals talent. And in society, who are considered most talented? Those who are skillful craftsmen of words—leaders, scientists, gurus. The more skillfully one can use words, the greater he is in your world.

Your whole game is of words. One who can speak well can sell anything. The art of speaking is the basis of worldly arts.

Writers, poets, musicians—all use word and sound. Here, if someone remains perfectly quiet, you will think him inert, a fool. So parents hurry to have the child learn.

Earlier children went to school at seven; now at two and a half, three they are in Montessori. In Russia they worry how to educate a child in the womb—some conditioning can be done there too; they will soon find a way. Results are coming; experiments are succeeding—many things can be taught in the womb. Why wait! We are in a hurry to teach.

What do we teach? Words. And through words—everything. But one thing cannot be taught through words—your nature, the depth of your being. It precedes words. There is no way to teach it through words. If it is to be learned, then you must learn to forget whatever you have learned. Hence Ramana repeats: the art of religion is unlearning.

On one side are all worldly arts—call them learning. Against all of them, on the other scale, is the art of religion—call it unlearning. Memory is useful in the world; forgetfulness is useful in religion.

Note well: the more your memory fills with the world, the more the divine is forgotten. The more you forget the world, the more remembrance of the divine arises—space is freed.

Those who wish to “remember” God—mere repetition of Rama’s name won’t do—they must learn to forget the world. First, make space.

Where is the emptiness where the divine can be invited? Where in your house is the guest-room where He might be hosted? You are stuffed—badly stuffed—with junk. This junk must be cleared. Clear it once and you will laugh: what we gathered as knowledge was trash—of no value.

Thus the Upanishads called whatever can be learned through words avidya—non-knowledge. Astonishing people! They did not call it vidya; they called it avidya—whatever can be learned by words. So whatever you have learned so far is all avidya. And your universities are avidyalayas—not vidyalayas. Because there everything is taught through words.

Uddalaka’s son Shvetaketu returned from the guru’s house after study. His father asked, “Did you learn that, knowing which, all is known?” The son said, “Guru never spoke of that! Otherwise I have learned everything that can be learned.” The father said, “Go back. The essential has been missed. Did you learn that which, once known, everything is known?” But that cannot be learned through words.

When Shvetaketu returned and said, “My father is sad and angry. He said, ‘What rubbish have you brought! This is avidya!’” And the boy had mastered the Vedas; whatever could be known he had by heart. The guru said, “Your father is right. But if you now want to learn that, knowing which all is known, it is beyond my capacity; no one can teach it.”

He sent him into the forest with cows: “For years, become like the cows—silent. Don’t speak, don’t think. Do everything else, but not those two. Get up, sit down, when hungry—eat, when thirsty—drink, but don’t let words form inside. If thirsty, don’t let the thought ‘I am thirsty’ form. Get up and go to the lake. Drink. When thirst is quenched, don’t form the thought ‘My thirst is quenched.’ Let thirst arise and be quenched, but don’t bring words in. Morning—when the sun rises—see it, but don’t say, ‘It is morning.’ Evening—see it, but don’t say, ‘It is night.’ Don’t say, don’t speak, don’t think—be like a cow.”

For years Shvetaketu stayed with the cows. Slowly, slowly, words fell away. There was no need for them. No point in talking to cows. All his scholarship shed like old bark. Memory of the world and of words dissolved. He became silent.

When he returned years later, the guru said, “There is no need to come closer, Shvetaketu! From afar I see—you have known that by knowing which all is known. Now return home.” Shvetaketu touched his feet—and even to give thanks he did not speak.

Touching the feet is deeply meaningful—it is speaking without words. India discovered this art. Outside India there is no such thing as touching the feet. Westerners don’t understand the secret. It is to say thank you without words. Had thanks been possible in words, words would have been used. But how to thank in words one from whom the wordless has been learned!

So bowing—without saying anything—Shvetaketu left. As he neared home, his father saw him from the window and exclaimed, “He returns knowing the One! His dignity, his radiance...!” The father slipped out the back window and ran away. He said to his wife, “I’ll go. I have not yet known this One. It would not be right for Shvetaketu to touch the feet of an ignorant man. I will return only when I too have known the One.” Even what he had told Shvetaketu—“Know the One by knowing which all is known”—he had read in the scriptures; he did not know it. He had not thought the boy would accomplish it—this impossible made possible. Now it would not be right. I will return only after I know.

Now let us try to understand this little story. It is the glory of silence.

“A Zen master, Soichi—from the day he began teaching at Tofuku Temple, that temple was transformed.”

When you go into a temple, the temple is transformed—because the temple is a receptivity. In that temple, if Ravana enters, it becomes Ravana-like. If Rama enters, it becomes Rama-like.

A temple is receptivity, passivity. If you understand rightly, you can make wherever you are into a temple. Then stone walls are meaningless. Your being surrounds you. If your being is distorted, what will you do going to a temple? You will distort the temple. If you are ill, your illness will touch the temple. If you are full of sorrow, the temple will be drowned in sorrow.

The temple does not change you; you change the temple. When one like Soichi enters a temple, the temple becomes like Soichi; transformation begins.

The temples standing all over the earth—the tirthas—Mecca, Medina, Kashi, Jerusalem—why have we preserved them? There is a reason. At some time one like Soichi entered them, and the majesty that manifested with him—we have not been able to forget. So we preserved the places, though now only the story remains—Soichi-like people are not found every day.

When Mohammed was in Mecca or Medina, the grace of those days is unforgettable. Hence in a Muslim’s life—once in his life—he must perform the Hajj. He must go once to the place that once knew Mohammed’s glory. Perhaps that place still hums a little; perhaps the winds and stones still say something. It is only memory. But the day Mohammed entered the Kaaba, the Kaaba changed; it was transformed.

What can stones do to change you? You will change them. If you trust that stones will change you, you are worse than stones. Will walls change you? The tolling of a bell? The installed stone idols? What are you then—pebbles? They cannot change you. You will change them.

You carry your temple with you. Your temple is the manner of your being. Therefore, when one like Soichi enters a temple, it is the temple’s good fortune.

The temple changed; from that very day it was transformed. “Day came, day went; night came, night went; but Tofuku Temple stood in silence.”

Soichi overshadowed the temple. The stone walls could not change him; he changed the temple. And as Soichi was quiet, silent, so the temple became silent. His quality descended upon it. The temple became an extension of Soichi.

“Day came and day went; night came and night went; but Tofuku Temple stood in deep hush. It became a profound stillness. No sound arose anywhere. Soichi even stopped the chanting of sutras. The temple bells slept forever. For Soichi’s disciples had nothing to do but meditate.”

It is said the Buddha came near a capital. The king was Ajatashatru. His ministers told him, “Buddha is worthy of a visit.” Though his name meant “one whose enemies are not yet born,” he feared his enemies. He said, “Buddha has come—but is it safe to go there?” The ministers said, “What danger is there?” He said, “Still, a military escort should accompany me.” They replied, “That would look absurd—to go with troops and swords to a man like Buddha. There is no danger—Buddha will not attack you!” He said, “Then fine—let the escort come partway.” They went along the road, and at the garden where Buddha stayed the ministers asked him to leave the escort outside. Frightened, he went in. After a little walk he halted: “I am suspicious. You said ten thousand monks are with Buddha—and it is so silent. Are you leading me into trouble? Is there a conspiracy? You say just beyond this line of trees ten thousand monks are resting? Ten thousand! Where ten thousand gather there must be noise!” The ministers laughed: “You worry for nothing. They are not ‘men’; not a single ‘man’ is there—they are monks. Meditation is their only act. They rise and sit in silence. This is no bazaar.”

He went—fearful, trembling. And was astonished—he could not believe it—that ten thousand sat beneath the trees and there was a hush as if no one were there.

As silence deepens within you, your “humanity” disappears and divinity appears. For you are “human” because of language—remember this definition.

Animals are animals because they cannot speak. Man is man because he can. Gods are gods because they have gone beyond speech. Man is in-between—between animals and the divine—where the chain of language lies. You must go beyond humanity if your divinity is to descend.

As Soichi came to the temple, transformation began. Hush abided. Bells stopped ringing. Because whoever is to come will come by himself—what need of invitation? And whoever comes through invitation—how could he come? This is not a social feast to invite people to. This is a temple—only those who are thirsty will come. And if lakes don’t ring bells to invite the thirsty, why should a temple?

Soichi said, “Stop the bells. We have no desire to bring those who are not ready. Those who must come will come—seeking. And gathering a crowd of those who shouldn’t come is dangerous, for amid that crowd, those whose time has come will be lost, crushed, destroyed.”

So the bells were silenced. Even the daily chanting of sutras ceased. No more Buddha’s words recited. That temple for the first time became a temple.

Even scripture was set aside. Soichi stopped the chanting of sutras. People must have said, “He is a heretic.”

In this world, those who are supremely theistic are always thought atheists. Small theists are recognized as theists; great theists appear like atheists.

The trustees of the temple—imagine their faces! “The temple has been corrupted! No worship, no prayer. All rituals stopped!”

People said, “These monks do nothing—idle good-for-nothings! At least do some work!”

The whole web of ritual—clamor—Soichi stopped it.

Zen’s basic process is to learn to sit in silence. Thus Zen requires every seeker to sit at least six hours daily—doing nothing. This is the most difficult act in the world.

Doing something is no trouble; you are habituated. Habits are mechanical; they don’t require thought. Habits make you act. So deep are habits that “you” are not needed—without you they continue.

You have noticed: when did your hand take a cigarette out of the pack and put it to your lips; when did you light it; when did you start drawing in smoke? As if you were not needed—habit does it. Suddenly you catch yourself smoking.

You drive a car—when do you turn left or right? No need to think—habit’s mesh causes it.

Those who have looked deeply into mind say: all else drops, but habits chase you into another birth. One who is born gloomy dies gloomy; born gloomy again. The last condition of mind—distillate of life-long habit—follows. That is why children differ at birth—differences of habit.

I have heard: a man died. He had been a waiter in a hotel for thirty years. Guests loved him—such service, humility, ever running, eager to do the best. His table was always crowded; often a queue for it.

He died. His wife was distraught and went to a medium. Much effort to call his spirit—but it didn’t come. The medium asked, “What did your husband do?” She said, “Waiter in the same hotel for thirty years.” The medium said, “Then to call him here is hard. Better we go to the hotel. Likely the soul wanders there—old habit, thirty years.”

They went to the hotel, sat in a corner, tried. Instantly a voice answered, “Yes, I am here,” very softly. The hotel was loud. The wife said joyfully, “I’m glad you’re here. Tell me of there—but speak louder.” He replied, “I cannot speak louder; there is too much noise—how can I?” She said, “Why don’t you come closer?” He said, “I’m far from you.” “Come nearer.” “I cannot—that’s not my table.” He lingered near “his” table!

Even after death, sanskar—habits—remain. The deepest habit is to stay entangled in activity—occupied. Work changes across births—you’ve done countless tasks. But one habit remains: doing something—busy, occupied.

So switching tasks is easy—you can drop the newspaper and turn on the radio; turn it off and clean the car. But being without task—you cannot. Moving from one act to another is no trouble because busyness continues.

Zen says: the entire art of religion is to be unoccupied. Hence the industrious consider Zen monks lazy; “They just sit—idle—doing nothing!” In Japan too they have been criticized. In India too.

Wherever religion appears, the art of sitting empty begins. Sannyas means the art of sitting empty. Society begins to criticize: “Do something—at least serve! So many poor—serve them. So many sick—serve; go to the hospital. What will sitting empty do!”

But service is also busyness. You left the shop and went to the hospital. You left your trade and took up “service.” Business continues. You are occupied—this continues. True service is possible only for one who has first learned to be unoccupied.

If you only switch from one work to another, you will never arrive at meditation. For meditation, an interval is needed. Leave all work and sit utterly without work. In this state if no restlessness arises, slowly the mind’s racing contracts; its net shrinks; you disconnect from the world; your roots are pulled up; you turn from this world toward another.

If you are utterly unoccupied, where will your life-energy go? It settles into itself. That settling is meditation.

Six hours—Zen says everyone should just sit. If you have been to Bodh Gaya and seen the Bodhi tree, beside it is a small walking path called Buddha’s charyapath—where he strolled. Buddha would sit six, eight hours; the legs would go numb; he would walk a little so blood flowed, the body refreshed, then return to sit under the tree.

Sitting—Buddha attained Buddhahood. No one attained it by pacing. He walked a little only to be able to sit again. And you, if you ever sit for a little, it is only so you can get back to walking. That is the fundamental difference. If you rest at night, it is to get to work in the morning. Even rest is harnessed to work.

Buddha’s only “work” was: after four or six hours, walk ten or fifty steps—only so the body can sit again. The whole process is reversed. He breathes, walks, begs for alms, drinks water—only so he can sit empty, unoccupied. Thus very little activity remains—minimal, only what is essential. With such minimal activity and a willingness to be unoccupied, the flower of meditation blooms.

At Tofuku Temple Soichi stopped the chanting. The bells slept. The disciples did nothing but meditate. Years passed. People forgot there was a temple next door. They would—for temples are not recognized by silence but by noise. Silence is what we forget.

If someone in your house becomes utterly silent, within days you will forget he is there. Because he neither speaks nor causes disturbance. Disturbance reveals presence. Speaking interferes—puts himself in others’ way. If he does not speak, he steps aside from the path. If someone at home becomes perfectly silent, he will remain and you will forget him—as if he is not. We recognize presence by language.

People forgot the temple. Hundreds of monks were there. Lamps of self-knowing were lit; blossoms of samadhi bloomed. Yet people did not know there was a temple. Because the lamp of self-knowing is not visible to you, nor the fragrance of samadhi accessible. You hear only noise. You understand nothing but madness. Therefore the mad are most visible—and there is a reason.

You recognize only what you are. Our understanding never exceeds ourselves. You read a book and grasp only what you already know. You take that knowledge from the book which you had. How will you recognize the new? How will you assimilate the new? The new will not register—only noise perhaps.

In this world we see only what we are. We recognize only according to our recognition. This world is bounded by our limits.

I have heard: one evening Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychologist—worried and distressed. He said, “Enough. Something must be done. I’ve delayed too long.” The psychologist asked, “What is the trouble?” Mulla said, “Not my trouble—my wife’s. She’s got a delusion that she is a refrigerator. It happens to crazies.” The psychologist consoled, “No need to panic. It’s a harmless delusion. What’s the harm?” Nasruddin said, “You don’t understand—the harm is that at night she sleeps with her mouth open, and that little refrigerator light stays on all night—how can I sleep?”

The man himself is mad. But he sees his madness in the other.

Every person is a mirror—we see our own face in him. Mirrors differ a little—some Belgian, some crude—but essentially the face remains yours.

Change one friend for another; one wife for another; one house for another; one job for another—not much will change. Everywhere is a mirror; you will see your own face.

Hence a miserable man who moves from hut to palace remains miserable. A happy man who moves from palace to hut remains happy. The question isn’t the mirror; the face is yours. Mirror small or large, costly or cheap, cracked—your face you will see. Everywhere we see ourselves. We recognize only what resembles us. If we are mad, we recognize madness.

Soichi’s temple became so quiet that people forgot it existed. They would pass by. Monks came and went for alms—utterly silent. Meditation their only way of life. People saw them and yet could not see—because one can see only one’s own face. The temple might be seen, yet not seen. The image might form on the eye, but recognition did not arise within. That is why it has often happened—in fact always—that those who mattered in the realm of meditation almost slipped out of history.

Many ask: what historical proof is there for Buddha? For Mahavira? In history, almost none. Because these “temples” were so full of hush that we never even knew they were there.

In history we write what we recognize. History is carefully filled with stories of lunatics—Hitler, Tamerlane, Genghis, Napoleon, Alexander—history has them in detail. All history is crammed with “madmen.”

Your newspaper—does it ever carry news that someone is sitting silently under a tree? A Buddha will be outside newspapers. But in Delhi, where all the mad gather—if one hurts his finger, someone loses a shoe, someone sneezes—it is news. Today’s news is tomorrow’s history. Buddhas will not be found there. Only those who made noise and caused trouble.

Even if a Buddha stands near you, you won’t see him—how will you recognize? Understand this well: our desire, our craving, recognizes. What you lust for, that you recognize. If you are searching for a house, you will notice along the road every “To Let” or “For Sale” sign. When you read the paper, you’ll notice the housing ads. If you don’t need a house, all that disappears.

You are driven by cravings. What you crave is what you see. Unless the craving for Buddhahood arises in you, how will Buddhas be visible? The day the thirst awakens, you will find the world has always been full of Buddhas—never empty. Always there have been those who have known. The day your thirst arises, suddenly you will see them.

People come to me and say, “There are no enlightened ones now.” I tell them: whenever you lived, you would have said the same.

I studied at a university. The vice-chancellor was a distinguished historian of international renown. On Buddha Jayanti he spoke, “Many times I have felt how fortunate it would have been if I had been born in Buddha’s time—to sit at his feet.” I stood up and said, “Please take those words back. I am certain you were there—and you did not go. And I tell you, there are enlightened ones now—and you are not going to them either.” He thought a while and said, “Perhaps this too is true. As I am, maybe I would not have gone then either.”

Your thirst, your being, will take you. If you are thirsty, you will see temples everywhere. If not thirsty, you may find brothels. The thirsty see water. The unthirsty do not.

One day people suddenly heard the temple bells ring again. Then they remembered—there is a temple! There had been such a gap. Sutras were being chanted again. Then they realized, “We had forgotten the temple next door.” They ran.

For so long they had not gone to the temple—when it was truly a temple, they missed it. Now that the temple’s life had flown, now that it was empty, they ran.

This often happens—always. Sadly, it will always be so.

When enlightened ones are lost, then you hear. When they drop the body, you remember. Then you weep, beat your chest. When they were alive, you did not see. Or if you met them, you avoided them—found strategies and arguments to protect yourself.

Very few reach a living master. When they die, then you hear. Then you remember—“Ah, there was something.” But then the essence is gone.

People ran to the temple. They remembered: we’ve not gone for so long. Temple-going was a daily routine. But the bells had stopped; without noise the temple was forgotten. They went in and heard sutras chanted. They felt the temple is alive again!

That day the temple had died. But they felt it was alive! Inside they saw: Soichi had left the world. His body lay there. On his corpse sutras were being read and bells were ringing. And the moment one like Soichi leaves the body, immediately the opposite of what he wanted begins to happen.

All his life Soichi had silenced the bells. The chanting had stopped. With his death it all resumed! Whatever enlightened ones do in life, after their death we immediately begin the opposite. Because after death the whole business falls into our hands. The dead Soichi cannot say, “Don’t ring the bells.” The dead cannot say, “Why are you chanting? Stop.” He cannot stop your noise.

All religions are built this way. Under all religions lie the corpses of men like Soichi. And whatever they said, exactly the opposite has resulted.

Buddha said: “Do not make my statue.” Buddha statues were made—and worshiped. Buddha said: “Do not memorize my words.” He famously said, “Do not believe what I say because I am enlightened. Do not believe because scripture supports it. Do not believe because I argue logically. Believe only when you have experienced. Apart from your experience there is no proof.”

Yet people memorize his words and repeat them—without any need to know their meaning—beginning a dead process that leads in the opposite direction.

If you want to understand religions correctly, invert them as they are. Then perhaps you’ll see rightly. If sutras are being chanted, understand: the temple’s real connection is with stopping the chants. If bells ring, understand: the temple’s purpose is with bells silenced. Whatever is happening, the opposite is likely true. What is happening—is not right.

But this is natural—sad, but natural. Because after the enlightened one departs, the business falls into the hands of the unenlightened. There is no way to avoid this. The enlightened comes but rarely; we are always here to manage. While he lives, we try to arrange everything—don’t succeed. After he is gone, we arrange fully—and our arrangements will certainly be the opposite. It isn’t even our fault—it is straightforward that the opposite will happen.

Buddha said: the Vedas are futile. Mahavira said: there is nothing in the Vedas. But Mahavira’s followers worship Mahavira’s words like Vedas. They understood: “The Vedas (of Hindus) are futile; but Mahavira’s words are our Vedas.” What difference? When Mahavira said the Vedas are futile, he was saying knowledge, words, scripture are futile. But the Jains thought: the Hindu’s Veda is futile; our scripture—Mahavira’s words—how can they be futile? Yet Hindu Vedas too contain the words of enlightened ones. If those are futile, your enlightened one’s words don’t become meaningful. But attachment blinds us.

So we can throw away the Vedas—but we place the words of the one who told us to throw them away in the Vedas’ place and start worshiping.

The ignorant man’s great difficulty is this: as a straight stick appears bent in water, so when the words of enlightened ones enter the ignorant, they immediately become crooked—indeed inverted—standing on their heads.

Soichi was silent in life. His temple was silent; his disciples silent. Words were dropped. The game of language ended. No debates, no doctrines. Suddenly, on his corpse, all doctrines returned; scripture revived. Soichi died—and words came alive. Soichi died—and the bells began to ring!

This happens continually. Remember it—and as far as possible, do not let it happen again. Keep it in mind as long as you can. But it is very difficult—almost impossible—because it runs counter to the mind’s process. Mind wants to grasp. Silence cannot be grasped; words can.

When Soichi dies, the mind wants to put something in his place—emptiness offends. It will put Soichi’s words there. It will make sutras, recite, memorize—while missing meditation. Even if the sutra says, “Meditate, meditate, meditate,” they will recite it and never meditate—because repetition is a barrier to meditation.

A young man has just come from Japan—sincere, simple. From America he went to Japan to learn Zen. Now even in Japan, Zen is hard to find. Meditation is hard to find anywhere. It is such an impossible flower—sometimes it blooms, then is lost; seeds fall but don’t sprout again for long.

Now in Japan too, the name “Zen” has become a business.

He went to a monastery and took initiation. He had read in books: all books are useless—the primary Zen dictum is that scriptures and words are useless, and emptiness is the only process. But in the monastery, upon initiation, he was given to memorize Buddha’s words. He was puzzled, yet thought: “Let me do what they say.” Six months, a year passed—he memorized an entire sutra of Buddha in Japanese. He didn’t even know the meaning—like a parrot he could repeat it.

He came to me; I asked, “What did you learn?” He said, “The Lotus Sutra. I memorized it.” “Do you know its meaning?” “How could I? It’s in Japanese.” I said, “Recite it.” Immediately he stood, closed his eyes, and rattled off the whole Lotus Sutra—no idea of words or meaning, but by heart.

I said, “Good. I lead a meditation—gibberish—it will be useful. Meaningless babble. And you’ll be amazed—in this whole sutra Buddha keeps saying: ‘There is nothing in sutras, nothing in words. Drop them. Don’t cling.’ And someone has made you cling to it!”

That’s the joke. We can memorize even the phrase “Meditate, meditate, meditate”—and then every morning sit and chant, “Meditate, meditate, meditate!”—and never meditate. The repetition itself blocks meditation.

All temples stand upon Soichi’s corpses. All scriptures lie upon his body.

Understand this little story well—and imitate the living Soichi, the living Buddha. Avoid the web woven around them after their deaths. That web is Hinduism, Jainism, Christianity. Tear the web. Grasp Jesus himself, seek Soichi, seek Buddha. Then you will find that apart from silence, there is no message.

Let all the bells of your mind fall silent; let all the scriptural recitations within cease—only then will the temple arise within you. Only then will the blossoms of samadhi bloom within. Only then will the lamps of self-knowing light within. That lamp is already lit; that flower is already blooming. You have no remembrance of it—you are lost in recitation.

Ramatirtha told a story. A lover waits for his beloved. For years he had moved away; neither she could come to his village nor he return. Only letters connected them—words. The beloved far like the divine far—and there is an exchange of letters. He writes, letters come. What do letters convey? Can love happen through letters? Can its peak, its ecstasy arrive through letters? But letters keep the mind entangled, filled.

He waits for a letter; he writes a reply. Years pass. He no longer even remembers her face. He fears: if he goes, will she recognize him? And another fear: the letters he writes are not true. He writes pretty things that occur to him—but they aren’t true.

He writes, “Without you it is impossible to live even a moment”—but he is living; nothing is impossible. He writes, “You fill my dreams”—but he sees he cannot even recall her face clearly—how will she fill dreams? A fear grips him: perhaps the letters she writes are the same—perhaps her situation is like his!

Words become false. With words you need not intend to lie—the falsity is in the nature of words. You can weave poetry and then be hypnotized by it.

One day he is writing—writing long—and the beloved arrives. She opens the door—it is stuck. She sees him immersed in writing by the lamp and sits at the threshold, thinking, “Let him finish; then I will interrupt.”

He is writing to the beloved—and she is sitting before the door. He doesn’t look up. Lovers’ letters grow longer and longer. After ten or twelve pages he raises his eyes—and cannot believe it. He squints and still cannot believe it. “What?” He trembles—he had not expected she would come. She says, “Why so frightened? You didn’t recognize me? I am here! You could not come; I grew tired and I have come.”

The lover bursts into tears and says, “Why didn’t you startle me sooner? You have been sitting for hours—and I have been writing to you!”

Ramatirtha used to say: in front of the divine, when we stand with words, our state is the same. He is present—not for hours, but forever. He sits at the door, and we go on praying!

Prayer is like letter-writing; meditation is like looking at the beloved. Meditation means: stop the babble of words. Look directly. He is at the door—always present—never left. And you raise such a clamor—ring bells, burn incense, long prayers—and because of them you miss and cannot see. And you are delighted that you are writing love letters to God!

These letters of love are your obstruction. Be kind—drop your busyness. Stop the bell-ringing. Remove these rituals—and look: He is right there. He has always been there.

This is the difference between prayer and meditation. Prayer is still repetition of words; meditation is dropping words. Therefore religions based on prayer cannot understand meditation. And those based on meditation are amazed that anyone could arrive through prayer! Christianity, Hinduism, Judaism—stand on prayer. Jains, Buddhists, Sufis, Hasids—stand on meditation. There is a great gulf between them.

But when I say Jains, Buddhists, Sufis, Hasids stand on meditation, don’t think today’s Jains are meditating. They stand before Mahavira praying—the one who taught them meditation. Buddhists—before Buddha with a plate doing aarti—the one who said, “Meditate.” They say, “You did a great thing teaching us meditation—we cannot repay you. We pray to you.”

And when I say Hindus, Muslims, Christians are religions of prayer, don’t think Krishna, Christ, or Mohammed were men of prayer. They were men of meditation. They knew the divine through silence. And once they knew, their prayer was thanksgiving. They expressed in gratitude what they had known in silence. They danced, rejoiced, exulted and thanked existence.

Buddha and Mahavira don’t even thank—they remain meditative. Their very meditation is gratitude. They don’t even use that much word. But Christ, Zoroaster, Mohammed, Moses—give thanks.

It depends on the person. You may give thanks—or not. The divine has no expectation. Your meditation itself becomes gratitude. Or you can pray to offer thanks. But don’t make prayer into meditation. Prayer cannot become meditation. Only through emptiness is one reached.

Seek Soichi’s temple. If there is bell-ringing and chanting of scripture, know that Soichi has died. Then look for some other living temple.

Enough for today.