Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #16

What is the very first condition, the first prerequisite, for one who wants to know truth? The first step on the journey to truth is to be true to yourself.
You will know that which you seek only by becoming like it. If you are untrue to yourself—false about your own being—if there is inauthenticity within you, how will your relationship with truth ever be established? How will it be determined?
Many people go out to search for truth, but very few try to be authentic. Those who go looking for truth will never find it; those who endeavor to be true, always find it.
There is nowhere to go to find truth; the search is simply to save yourself from being untrue.
Truth is not hiding anywhere—in mountains or caves. You are untrue; that’s why you cannot see. How can the eyes of untruth see truth? Become true, and you will know it. Every pore is being touched by it. In every breath its music resounds. It surrounds you on all sides. But you have drawn a thin line of untruth and stand inside it. You have covered yourself with untruth. Truth is uncovered; you are covered. There is no need to unveil truth; it is you who are closed. Please understand this distance, this difference, clearly.
You have nothing to do with truth itself. Whatever is to be done is to be done with yourself. And the first need is to become capable of accepting whatever is true about you.
You are dishonest and you will seek honesty? How can that happen? A dishonest person’s search will carry dishonesty in it; he will deceive even in the search.
I have heard: A man hadn’t paid rent for eight months. The landlord was fed up and came early one morning: “Enough. If you can’t pay, vacate the house.” The man said, “Leave without paying eight months of rent? Never! Even if it takes me eight years, I will pay and then leave. What do you take me for?” On the surface it sounds very upright, but deep inside he has arranged eight years of free lodging. After eight years he will say, “Even if it takes eighty years, not without paying the rent! What do you take me for?” He knows exactly what he is doing. Even his attempt to be upright is riddled with duplicity.
Whatever an inauthentic person does carries inauthenticity. He will speak truth only when truth can be used like a lie; he will tell the truth only when by it he can harm others. Remember: many times you tell the truth only when it can injure someone.
A violent person uses even truth as a weapon—it is natural. If your personality is violent, then even your practice of nonviolence will be infiltrated by violence. Who is practicing? If an angry man practices non-anger, the force behind his practice is still anger.
First understand well: there is no direct shortcut by which the dishonest can become honest. First the dishonest person must accept his dishonesty. In that very acceptance half the dishonesty dissolves; it loses its strength.
The dishonest always deny: “I—dishonest? What do you take me for?” In this denial lies the power of dishonesty. The denial is the fortress of dishonesty. And he doesn’t deny only before you—he denies before himself too: “Me, dishonest? Sometimes circumstances force me to do such things; otherwise I am honest.” The dishonest mind too refuses to accept: “I am dishonest.” He believes himself to be honest; only occasionally, due to conditions or chance, he becomes dishonest.
An angry man never thinks, “I am angry by nature.” He thinks, “Sometimes circumstances arise where anger must be shown. I am not angry.” And if a man believes he is not angry, how will he transform anger? Who will change it?
The first thing is essential: accept, without judgment, whatever you are—good or bad. The moment you judge, rejection begins. Don’t judge; simply inquire into the facts: what is? Am I dishonest? A thief? A liar?
If you say even this much, “Lying is bad,” you won’t be able to accept fully, because how will you accept what you have already labeled bad? If you condemn dishonesty as sin, you won’t be able to accept it. How can anyone accept sin? Do not judge or condemn. First, just investigate the facts: “What is?” Then accept whatever is. Don’t rush to change it; the urge to change is a trick to escape.
The dishonest man tries all his life to become honest and dies dishonest. The violent have tried for lives to become nonviolent and still have not become so—and never will. Because they missed the first step. Miss the first step, and how will the goal arrive? The journey has not even begun.
The first step is authentic acceptance. Its first part is: do not condemn; do not decide about good or bad. First find out “what is.” See your picture naked. Don’t quickly say, “This is bad,” because whatever you call bad you will begin to hide—not only from others but from yourself. And when you start hiding from yourself, you become inauthentic. Your authenticity is lost. And when you are not authentic, how can there be any relationship with truth? The doors of truth will remain closed to you—because you yourself are closed to truth.
The second thing to understand: whatever you accept within yourself, also make it known to others. Disclosure is a great art. When you accept it yourself, half its power is gone. If you accept, “I am dishonest,” you’ll find half the strength of dishonesty is lost. It is no longer so easy to be dishonest. But half the power still remains, because others don’t know. Reveal it to others too: that you are dishonest.
Do not ask for false respect. What is the worth of false respect? Trash. Say what you are. If you receive insult, condemnation—accept it. That is your fate. That is the destiny of dishonesty. If you quietly accept—openly—what you are, the remaining power also disappears. Such acceptance is revolutionary. Suddenly you will find yourself strong. Now there is no longer any need to be dishonest. Suddenly you will sense a new seed breaking open within—a new sprout that was hidden in the earth until now; under the rain of this acceptance it germinates. You will find the plant of honesty beginning to grow. Dishonesty drops away.
What you hide, survives. You hide sin; therefore sin survives. Jesus called this process confession—acceptance. Accept yourself as you are. But we search for arguments, devices, escape routes; we rationalize: “I am a good man, but the situation forced me to act badly. Had I not acted so, others would have been harmed.”
You are an angry man; you beat your child, yet you explain to yourself: “I am a father and I love him. I beat him for his own good. If I don’t, he will be spoiled.” All history shows that not a single father has ever saved a child by beating him. But you are blind—to history... You repeat the same argument every father has given! And fathers have spoiled their sons.
Has anyone ever changed through anger? Has any revolution ever happened through wickedness? Anger only arouses the child’s ego. The child decides within: “All right—hit me, beat me. But you will not change me.” And he does the opposite of what you want—he must. If he doesn’t resist, he cannot stand on his own feet. If he does not rebel, where will his selfhood stand? Where will his ego survive? But the father insists, “I do it for the child’s welfare.” These are tricks—to save the inner falsity, dishonesty, and anger. Break these tricks, and you will become authentic. And there is no virtue greater than authenticity.
Remember: authenticity has nothing to do with your being honest in the moralistic sense; nothing to do with your being a non-thief, nonviolent, etc. Authenticity means: whatever you are—good or bad, thief or non-thief, saint or sinner—you accept it; you don’t hide it. You don’t veil yourself in garments. You stand naked. As you are, you open yourself.
Such a person is authentic. And for such a one there is no need to go anywhere to search for truth; truth comes searching for him. In the life of an authentic man such a fire burns that all rubbish is consumed. Authenticity is fire. All dishonesty, all theft, all lies are burned away. What arises is a simple, gentle, humble life—the one we call “religious.”
Now let us try to understand this story. It is among the sweetest tales.
When the Upanishads were first translated in the West, Western thinkers felt the Upanishads do not teach morality. There are no commandments like the Ten Commandments: do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not lie, do not covet your neighbor’s wife. No such injunctions in the Upanishads. The West knew only the Bible, the sole scripture they recognized. If the Bible is the model of scripture, then the Upanishads could hardly be called scripture—because where are the commands? Though no one actually follows those commandments, on that basis the Bible seems religious. Then what to call the Upanishads, where nothing is said about what you must do? They speak of Brahman, but not of giving up dishonesty. Because the Upanishads hold: the question is not about dishonesty but about authenticity.
Even an “honest” man can be inauthentic. Honesty can become a bargain. You may be honest because you desire heaven; then deep down you are dishonest—you are trying to buy heaven. You may speak truth so that you can attain God. Then you are using truth like coins to purchase God. A religious person is not going to buy God; he will not throw coins at God’s door demanding the kingdom of heaven. That is worldly style.
Your morality can become worldly currency—and has. That is why the West cannot believe how someone like Buddha or Mahavira can be religious—since for Buddha there is no moksha, no God, no afterlife, no heaven to be gained. Yet Buddha is honest, nonviolent, filled with compassion. The West cannot understand the inner worth of Buddha. They think: people collect such coins only to buy heaven. If there is no heaven, why collect coins?
Buddha says: the joy of truth is in truth itself; its heaven is in itself. There is no heaven beyond it. Truth is not a means by which, having spoken truth, you enter heaven. It is not a coin. The honest one knows the bliss that is heaven—within honesty itself. Honesty is not a ledger: you were honest first, and then you present yourself at heaven’s gate and say, “Here is my honesty.”
I have heard: A man died; he was very rich—and very miserly, as often happens. In fact it is hard to become rich without being miserly—how else will you accumulate? Throughout his life he never gave in charity—except once he gave a poor old woman a single coin.
At heaven’s gate—according to the Christian notion—Saint Peter stopped him: “Wait. We must decide—study your accounts to see where you go. Did you ever do any meritorious act?” He said, “Yes. Once I gave a coin to an old woman.” Saint Peter was surprised. This man had billions, and his one good deed is giving a single coin! “Anything else?” “Nothing I recall.” Saint Peter asked his assistant, “What should we do?” He replied, “Return his coin and send him to hell. If he wants interest, give that too, and send him off.” The man wanted to buy heaven with a single coin!
But the whole notion is of currency. Then the question is: if one coin seems too little to buy heaven, is a million enough? If he had said, “I donated a million, built a hospital, a rest house,” would that qualify him? If one coin is small, a million is not truly big either—it is just an extension of the same coin. If heaven cannot be bought with one coin, how with a million?
The very idea of price is foolish. Nothing real can be bought. Whatever can be bought belongs to this world. In the other, no coins pass. You enter that realm by your authenticity, not by your coins. And authenticity does not postpone. Heaven is not tomorrow; heaven is now.
Thus the Upanishads seemed “immoral” to the West—beyond morality. There appears to be no morality in them. And this story is astonishing. Only a Rishi of the Upanishads would dare such a thing—they were very courageous. Let us understand it.
A youth came to the ashram of the Rishi Haridrumat Gautama. He sought truth—he had a thirst for Brahman. He placed his head at the master’s feet: “Master, I have come to search for truth. Bless me with the knowledge of Brahman. I am blind and I seek eyes.”
In those days—and even today, and always it will be so—the rule was that only a brahmin could be given Brahmavidya. But “brahmin” did not mean what you think. No one is born a brahmin. Indian insight says all are born shudra. Then, through acts and the refinement of life, one rises. Those who do not rise remain shudra.
A brahmin does not take birth in a brahmin’s home either; all are born shudra. We are all born with shudratva—grossness. Brahminhood has to be attained; it is an achievement.
So there is no division by birth; division is by life. The rule was—and rightly—that only a brahmin is eligible for Brahmavidya. Brahmin means: one whose longing is for Brahman. Mere curiosity won’t do; curiosity is childish.
People come to me and ask, “What is God?” But there is no life in their question. They ask as if they do not even wish to ask. Having come to me, they feel obliged to ask something. The question floats on the surface—on the skull—no depth.
I read a striking story. A scientist was trying to turn stones into diamonds. He had found almost all the principles; only one small formula was missing. If found, mountains of rock would become diamonds. Everything else known, this minor key missing made the rest useless. They told him: in Tibet lives a woman who has attained Buddhahood; ask her—under meditation the last link will fall into place. He packed up and after eight arduous years reached Tibet. He knocked at her door. On entering he was stunned—the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He said, “I have suffered eight years to get here. Somehow I have arrived.” She said, “Remember, I have one rule: I answer only one question. Think well, ask carefully. For a second question I give no answer. My husband is away; I am free today. Ask—however great the question—one only.” And you will be amazed—what did the scientist ask? “When will your husband be back?”
Seeing the beautiful woman he forgot the quest of a lifetime. His search was not deep. Before a woman who had realized Brahman, he asked, “When will your husband return?” Deep within was lust; the rest was shallow curiosity.
You ask about God, but there is no life in it. We call one a brahmin whose thirst for God is so deep that he is ready to lose his life but gain Brahman—one who will stake his life for truth. Only he can be entrusted with the keys.
What is to be found can be given only to one ready to wager his life. This gamble is vast. Nothing is gained here without spending oneself—not coins but your very being. The bargain is not from your pocket; it is from your life-breath. You must put yourself on the line. Nothing less will do.
A brahmin is one ready to die for Brahman. Only he can be given the keys.
The boy’s name was Satyakama. The Rishi asked, “Child, what is your gotra? Who is your father? What is his name?” This too must be understood.
“What is your gotra—your lineage, your caste? Are you brahmin, shudra, vaishya—who?” Because the vaishya’s search is for wealth. The shudra’s search is for comfort; his mark is laziness. He wants everything without doing anything. Thus he accepts the meanest work—so long as the belly is filled. No vast ambition. His life is like that of insects—just dragging on.
The vaishya runs after wealth. If piles of gold and Brahman stand before him, he will choose wealth: “We’ll look at Brahman later. With wealth at hand, we can buy it any time.” His grip is always on the means; the goal can be purchased later. But there are goals that no means can buy. The highest values of life cannot be bought with money: soul, God, love, prayer. Hence the vaishya misses the precious. He can buy women, not love. He can line up women, but will a woman bought by money love you?
He can build temples; he has money. He can hire priests, not buy prayer. What will you pay to purchase prayer? Priests you’ll get—and those you can buy will be worthless. How will you buy a priest who has attained prayer? Impossible.
He will buy everything buyable and miss everything worth having. The vaishya’s sorrow is the greatest—today’s America bears this sorrow, the sorrow of a successful merchant civilization. He wants to buy everything with money. He thinks if he has money, he has all. That is his pain: he has money now, yet nothing of real worth is purchasable. A deep melancholy fills America—that of the successful vaishya.
Then the kshatriya. He wants to obtain by force. He is aggressive. Sword in hand, he would enter the kingdom of heaven. He trusts seizure.
The shudra believes in labor—his goal is rest: work a little and rest. The vaishya believes in deceit and exploitation; without cheating and sucking others dry, wealth cannot be amassed. The kshatriya believes in violence, the sword, in power. He builds kingdoms on earth by the sword and wants to go to the other world likewise—sword at God’s gate: “Open—or I’ll break the door!”
None of these three is eligible for Brahman. The brahmin is. He is neither lazy nor content with a little life gained by labor. Such a life he will call dead, lifeless.
That is why the shudra is called untouchable. It doesn’t mean a person born into a caste is untouchable. Shudra means a life with no search. Such a life is not even worth touching—it is as if it existed or not. It is a stagnant pond, not a river flowing to the ocean. It dries, rots, becomes foul—a long disease that will end one day. As long as your life is like a stagnant pool, know you are a shudra. When you become a river—seeking the ocean—you are no longer a shudra.
The vaishya is placed a little above the shudra because at least he has ambition. Wrong ambition, but ambition nonetheless; it can be redirected. A vaishya can become religious; a shudra’s possibility is near zero. The day the vaishya is tired of money, he turns religious. That is why in America today there is such a storm of spirituality; swarms of sannyasins and sages from the East have descended like locusts—because the vaishya, having attained wealth, is filled with its melancholy; his ambition turns toward religion. But his style remains that of a vaishya—he tries to buy there too. The buying mentality must die; then he becomes a brahmin.
We place the kshatriya above the vaishya. He despises buying; he is ready to stake himself. The violent man who carries a sword prepares not only to kill but also to die. He can risk himself; yet his approach is worldly. He must stake himself—utterly defenseless, with no safety—then he becomes a brahmin.
From shudra to brahmin is a long journey; from vaishya shorter; from kshatriya, very near. Hence a kshatriya can easily become a brahmin. He has no grip on money; he has the courage to stake himself.
Who is a brahmin? One with no ambition in this world; who lives here humble and poor; a beggar in this world, but his eyes fixed on a distant star. He seeks Brahma-knowledge—knowing which nothing remains to be known—reaching where there is no further journey, only ultimate rest.
So it was necessary to ask the truth-seeker, “What is your gotra—your caste?” And also: “Who is your father?” Indian insight is deep here. You are not born to a mother and father accidentally. Your connection to them is not accidental. The soul chooses. It goes into a womb where its aspiration can be fulfilled. Thus, generally, a brahmin soul seeks a brahmin home; a shudra soul seeks a shudra womb. Exceptions occur: a shudra may become a brahmin through effort; then a brahmin soul may choose his home. But the general rule is that the soul seeks a womb suitable to its longing.
So the house you were born into is not accidental—you chose it. Knowing your father gives information about you.
Thus the master’s question was not some office formality. He asked with a reason. If you chose the wrong father, you may not be able to choose the right master—there is less possibility; more work will be needed. If you chose the right father, you can easily find the right master—because the master gives a new birth; he is a new father. Hence, “Who is your father? What is his name?”
The boy knew neither father nor gotra. He went to his mother and returned with her answer. He told the Rishi what she had said.
He said, “Lord, I do not know my gotra. I do not even know who my father is. My mother also does not know. When I asked her, she said that in her youth she moved among many noble men and pleased them. She does not know from whom I was born. My mother’s name is Jabali; therefore I am Satyakama Jabala. She told me to tell you exactly this.”
I lived for twenty years in Jabalpur, a city named after Jabali—in memory of Satyakama Jabala. Earlier it was Jabalipur; it became Jabalpur.
Satyakama Jabala is a historical person, not just a tale. But what courage in such a youth! And even more courageous—his mother. She said, “In my youth I pleased many noble men. I was a prostitute.”
Even a prostitute wants to hide herself. She could have invented any story, give any name. No Rishi was going to investigate; no police inquiry would be set up. She could have said, “This is your father’s name; he is dead.” But she said, “In my youth I moved among many men, pleased them. I am a prostitute. I do not know who fathered you. Go and tell your master: there is no name or gotra to attach after yours. You may call me Jabali; call him Satyakama—my son. This is my identity; this is his.”
For a woman, the most difficult confession is this—being a prostitute. There is no greater inner shame for a woman. For a man, being promiscuous is not as hard; man’s mind is inherently promiscuous—he wants to change partners; love is a play—fun—for him. Throughout nature there is no phenomenon like “fatherhood.” Father is man’s invention. In nature only the mother is known. Fatherhood is invented; it is not in male nature. So a man’s tendency is to change women; for him love is one among many pursuits. For a woman, love is her whole life. She wants to be with one. She prays for births that the same beloved may return. A man prays, “Let many women come.” No man prays for the same wife next life; if he does, it is only: “Let anyone come—just not this one.”
Mulla Nasruddin’s friend said, “My wife is a goddess.” Mulla said, “You are lucky. Mine is still alive!”
Man’s natural tendency is restless, flighty; love is not meditation for him. For woman, love is not a task; it is her very heart, her life. Thus, for a woman, being a prostitute is deeply painful—full of guilt. Yet this woman told her son, “Go and say that when I was young, I was a prostitute—many men enjoyed me. You were born, but who your father is I do not know. What gotra, what caste, what father! My name is Jabali; yours is Satyakama. Go tell the master everything. Ask him to call you Satyakama Jabala.”
The son repeated exactly what she said. This is even more difficult. First, the woman’s acceptance—very hard. Harder still—the son’s acceptance: “My mother is a prostitute.” For a son, the mother is the holiest. If the source of the mother becomes impure, the son’s shame knows no limit. A son can accept a dead mother, but not a prostitute-mother. To think “My mother is impure; she lay with many men; my mother is a public well where many bathe; she is public, with no privacy”—this is unbearable.
For the mother to accept was very hard; harder for the son to accept; and hardest—to declare it publicly. To accept within is one thing; to disclose is far harder. But Satyakama told the master everything!
Certainly the master was a knower. If he had been merely a ritual teacher, he would have thrown the boy out: “You son of a prostitute! You have defiled the ashram.” But Haridrumat Gautama must have been a wise man, a buddha.
Haridrumat was moved by such simple truth. He took the boy to his heart and said, “My beloved, you are certainly a brahmin.”
Such a sweet story. “You are certainly a brahmin. You may not know your father, but I say your father must have been a brahmin. You are a brahmin; because the hallmark of a brahmin is acceptance of truth. You accept truth with such simplicity that I cannot believe your source was anything but brahmin. Your mother may not know, you may not know—I know: your father is a brahmin. You are a brahmin.
“Such faith in truth is the sign of a brahmin. You will surely attain Brahman. For one who dares to be true to himself, truth itself comes seeking at his door.”
Only a knower—not a pundit—could say this. The pundit is bound by rules and lines. He is a stickler; he cannot accept exceptions. The knower has no fixed lines; he has eyes filled with light. He sees. He does not bow to rules; he recognizes exceptions too. When you can recognize the exception, you have knowledge; when you recognize only the rule, you are ignorant.
Gautama could see the person—not measure him by any rulebook. He saw directly this simple youth who says, “I am the son of a prostitute,” and declared him a brahmin.
Being a prostitute’s son is no obstacle to brahminhood. And don’t imagine that because you are not a prostitute’s son, you are a brahmin. Your parents may be brahmin by rule, married properly, never straying, and still it is not certain you are a brahmin—because it may be that the relationship is only formal, social, without inner love. Only a structure continues. Your home may be an institution that doesn’t violate rules—yet that does not make you a brahmin.
A prostitute’s son can be a brahmin—because brahminhood is an inner event, proof of authenticity. Only a brahmin can have the courage to be so truthful, to say it straight. If this youth were not seeking Brahman, he would have hidden it.
Hide, and Brahman cannot be found.
People come to me; I see clearly they are hiding, even about small things. I ask, “How is your meditation?” “Perfectly fine.” And I see it is not fine. They hide even this, fearful that their prestige is at stake. They blur whatever they say. If you cannot open before me, where will you open?
You are like a patient hiding his illness from the physician. How will diagnosis happen? How will treatment happen? Then you complain no change occurs, no revolution—while you are the cause.
Satyakama would have missed if he had hidden. He could have said, “I am the son of a famous brahmin—from a noble family; a long lineage of sages,” and would have missed. Before a buddha there is no way to hide; you are naked before him. He sees that your hiding is foolish and that, by it, you are depriving yourself.
He opened himself simply. The master saw: the boy is exactly as he presents himself—not a hair’s breadth of difference. This is the test of a brahmin. Before a true master you appear as you are—and you present yourself as you are, without the slightest adjustment.
It would not have been hard for Haridrumat to know he was a prostitute’s son. Nothing can be hidden by hiding; hiding reveals what is hidden. What you cover, you draw attention to. The master reads not only body language but the language of your soul. Even if by practice you deceive with the body, it makes no difference. A true master cannot be deceived. And if you deceive at the first step, relationship with the master never happens.
Satyakama did not miss. He uncovered himself—good or bad—without covering anything.
By this uncovering not only was Satyakama revealed; the Rishi Gautama was revealed too. If a pundit had heard this, Satyakama would have been thrown out. But this was a true master—one established in knowledge—who could see through the exception, who looked at the person, not at societal rules. No scripture says that without knowing one’s father one can be a brahmin.
Hindus made four varnas in scripture, and a fifth—antyaja—for those who fit none of the four. This boy was, by rule, an antyaja—lower than shudra. The shudra lives at the village periphery; the antyaja outside the village altogether. He serves the shudras, has no right to enter the village. By rule he had no place in a master’s ashram. Yet a knower of truth called him a brahmin.
The Rishis of the Upanishads were men of great courage. When the Upanishads were alive, the Hindus were alive. The day they lost the courage of the Upanishadic seers, Hinduism died; now it is a rotting corpse—moving by rules; it has scriptures, not truth.
When Gautama said, “You are a brahmin,” and embraced Satyakama, he added: “Such faith in truth is the sign of a brahmin. Where you were born, from whom—irrelevant. That you are a brahmin is certain—because I see you.”
One way is to trace from your birth to know who you are; the other is to see who you are and know what source you must have come from. The first is the pundit’s way; the second, the knower’s.
“I see who you are; by you, your source is honored too. Wherever you have come from, it is from a noble source.”
Not a trace of condemnation arose in the Rishi’s mind that your mother is a prostitute—a sinner. If a so-called sadhu’s mind condemns, know he is not a knower. If, before someone, you feel afraid to reveal your sin—afraid he will condemn you, that hatred will arise in his eyes, that you will be judged fallen—know that he is not a knower. Before the knower, only your authenticity is valued. What you did or didn’t do has no value—only your acceptance of truth.
Satyakama not only proved himself; he revealed the master. A true disciple reveals the true master; without a true disciple, how would the true master be known?
“In one who dares to be true to himself, truth comes seeking at his door.”
A brahmin need not go anywhere to search. It is enough that he is a brahmin—thirsty for Brahman, filled with longing and mumuksha. This suffices. Truth will come to him. Truth is in search of you.
Judaism has a precious insight found in no other religion, yet it should be everywhere. They say: how can man search for God? We do not know his address—no name, no form, no path. How can we search? You can search only for something that is somewhere, with a name and an address. Whom will you ask?
The Jews say: man cannot search for God; man can only be ready. God searches for man. It is very true. Only God can search for man; he knows our address, where and how we are. The day we are ready, he comes himself. Where could we go to find him?
Like a small child lost in a market—how will he search for his mother? The more he searches, the more he will wander. If the child is intelligent, he will stand and cry exactly where he lost her. He will not move—because movement is risky. If the mother comes searching, she will come to that very place. If the child goes to find her, meeting becomes very difficult.
You need go nowhere. Stay where you are. Right where you are, call. Right where you are, give birth to prayer and meditation. Do not leave your house, your door; do not run to the Himalayas. Go nowhere. Where you are, God will come searching for you. The day you are ready, he knocks.
Rightly did Rishi Gautama say: “You are a brahmin. You are true and authentic toward yourself—now there is no great difficulty. I will give you the keys. You are worthy; you are a vessel.”
You seek keys, but never consider whether you are a vessel or not.
People come and ask questions—without considering whether they are ready. If they are not answered, they are annoyed; if answered, the answers are useless because they are not prepared. They ask, “Is there God?” Do you know what you are asking? This is not history or geography or mathematics; it is the ultimate question of life. Are you ready to ask it? Are you worthy to bring such words to your lips? Yet you want answers! Even if an answer is given, you will not receive it. One not ready even to ask—how will he be ready to receive?
Remember: if you are ready to ask, the answer will arise within you; there is no need to go anywhere. He who can truly ask will receive the answer.
Your preparedness is the real thing. And the first step of readiness is authenticity. Understand this word well. Authenticity does not mean first become morally honest, non-thief, nonviolent. Authenticity means: accept exactly what you are—as you are: crooked, limping, one-eyed—whatever you are. Hide it neither from yourself nor from others. Drop the fear of condemnation. People will condemn—so be it; those who know will call you a brahmin. What will you do with praise from those who do not know? The value lies in the vision of those who know. If their eyes bless you, everything is attained.
Open yourself. Let people say what they will; let them think what they will. If they abuse you, call you sinner, do not fear; accept. In that very moment brahminhood is born—and from there your journey begins.
And when you are a brahmin, remember: Brahman will search for you. Brahman is not far—somewhere near your own house. As your readiness grows, he draws near. The day you are ready, you will suddenly find he has arisen within you—his epiphany within. He is the lamp burning in your own life-breath.
For the authentic person, samadhi is very natural. That is what Kabir means by “O seeker, simple samadhi is best.” This simplicity arises when you first drop lies about yourself. But man is so dishonest that he brings dishonesty even into the opposite direction.
Psychologists say Tolstoy, Rousseau, Augustine, Gandhi—some great figures—confessed their sins in their autobiographies. But psychologists suspect they even confessed sins they had never committed! This is the other excess—and again it goes astray.
If your mother was not a prostitute, do not go and say so. If you know your father, do not tell the master “No father known—my mother consorted with many men.” That too is false and inauthentic. And note: for that you will not be embraced by the master.
There is suspicion that Tolstoy mentioned sins he never did—believing that if you accept yourself as the worst sinner, God will come. But being “the worst sinner” does not mean invent more sins you never did!
Man goes to extremes. Either you proclaim, “None as virtuous as I,” or, “None as sinful as I.” Both are ego. Authenticity comes when ego melts. Protect the ego, and there is no authenticity.
Become exactly what you are—and accept exactly that: not a grain more, not a grain less. If you move even a bit from the middle, you miss. You are in the exact center where there is no exaggeration.
Exaggeration works both ways. Go to a prison: inmates boast. One who stole a few rupees says he committed a million-rupee heist—ego again. One who struck with a stick claims he murdered. Those with short sentences have no respect there—only those with twenty, thirty, forty years, or life-term. A newcomer asked his cellmate, “How long is your sentence?” The old-timer, lying on his cot, said, “Not much—only fifteen years.” The old one replied, “Then stay near the door; I have thirty years. You’ll leave first—so keep to the doorway!” In jail the great men are different.
Go to temples: one who fasted thirty days is great; one who fasted fifteen, stay by the door. The arithmetic is the same. The ego is the same.
You can boast of sin too; if boasting arises, know you have erred. Accepting sin should bring humility—not pride. Doing virtue should bring humility—not pride; otherwise there is no difference between sin and virtue—both feed ego.
When ego dissolves, a person becomes authentic. When Haridrumat Gautama said, “You are a brahmin,” he said it because the boy was egoless. He hid nothing, protected nothing; he opened himself without worrying what the master would think. He knew well only brahmins are admitted into the ashram, only they are given the keys to Brahmavidya, and yet he declared, “I am a prostitute’s son,” knowing the scorn of society—still he said it simply. He was egoless.
Egolessness is the quality of a brahmin. And how long can Brahman keep away from one who is egoless? There is no need to go searching; sit at home—he must come. He always does.
Enough for today.