Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #20

The Buddha is you, and the old woman is you as well. Only then could both be born together, in the same village, on the same day. Only then could the old woman go on fearing to “see” the Buddha—because to “see” means death.

Within you there is an element that is mortal. If it beholds the immortal, it will dissolve. It will tremble, it will be terrified of looking at the nectar. Within you there is an element which, if it sees the Buddha, will find no path but to be lost. Like a river that nears the ocean—what can it do then? Nothing but to fall. Even the Ganga has no way to return to Gangotri; if the ocean comes before it, it has to fall. As long as the Ganga stays far from the ocean, only then does it appear preserved.

Buddhahood is the emptiness within you. And the old woman is your mind—your thoughts. You can be only one of the two. So long as you hold the old woman’s hand, you cannot be a Buddha. For the old woman will keep shooing you away. If the Buddha is in this village, she will take you to another. If he is here, she will not let you stay here. But the day you drop the company of the mind—that old woman—your Buddhahood will be revealed that very day. Because Buddhahood is not an attainment; you were born with it. It is your birthright, your very nature. It is you.

It is not that the Buddha is merely a historical person. That happening dawned in Gautam Siddhartha, and therefore he became a Buddha. That happening can occur in you as well. Buddhahood is an event; it is not somebody’s name. It happened to Gautam Siddhartha because the “old woman” came face to face. It has not yet happened to you because the old woman is clever and has not yet been cornered.

The mind is called the old woman. And why “old woman”?

Before we go into the story, we need a few definitions. The mind is always old; it never becomes young. The mind is forever aged, because it is always the past. There is no such thing as a “new mind.” Whatever you know has already passed. The mind is the memory of the past, the brooding over the past. The mind is that dust the traveler gathers on his clothes along the road. The mind means conditioning, samskara. Experience—what has been known, heard—has all piled up. The mind has no future. The mind has no present either. It is only the past.

What has gone is what you know. What has happened is what you know. How could you know what has not yet happened? What is happening now, you cannot know either; you will know only when it has happened. The mind grasps only when something has died.

The mind is of the nature of death; that is why it is called the old woman. It is never young. Even a small child’s mind is old. Only so long as the child has no mind is he innocent. But such a moment never really exists, because even the small child hides behind him infinite births. That entire mind, journeying on, has come along.

When you leave the body, only the body is dropped; the mind goes with you. The mind is dropped only when the Buddha and the old woman come face to face. But then there is no further birth. Which means all births are the mind’s; you yourself are unborn. You were never born, you can never die, because that which is born will die.

The mind is what is born, the mind is what dies. You, perhaps, are the witness of this drama; you are the seer, not a participant. You are not a fragment in this play; you stand outside—forever outside. But if you take the mind to be yourself—if you become one with the old woman—then the witness is lost; you become the doer. That is suffering, that is ignorance, that is the world.

The mind is always old. The child’s mind is old; the old man’s mind is old. The old man’s will be a little older, the child’s a little less old. But oldness admits no real difference. And the very moment you can look with the mind put aside, in that very moment you will discover that you are freshly young. Then your greenness is such it will never wither. Then you will discover there is no way you can ever grow old. You are life—fresh, forever fresh; staleness never enters there.

But this is known only when the mind is set aside. And the mind fears being set aside; it is terrified. Its fear is also natural—for who does not fear death? Who does not fear dissolution?

The death of the body does not frighten the mind as much, because the mind knows: I will survive. But when the Buddha appears, it trembles; for then there is no chance, no space to survive.

You fear the Buddha within; you also fear meeting a Buddha outside. If ever there is a Buddha outside—a true master, a sadguru—you will avoid him too. If by some mistake you happen to reach him, you do not really listen. You keep your ears deaf, your eyes blind. Even if you do hear, you do not understand; for you sense danger in understanding.

What you hear, you mix your own trash into. You turn gold into ashes. Your interpretations save you. Your explanations put you back into your old world.

You fear meeting a true master because he is death too. The scriptures have called the master death. And a master who cannot be your death is no master at all. If you can escape from a master, either he was no master, or you never really went to him. If you go near and he is a master, you will not be able to return. Your death is certain. For what does a master do? He simply brings your old woman face to face with your inner Buddha.

Nothing else is needed. Just a small inner event has to be precipitated: your mind brought before your consciousness, your witness beholding your thoughts. The clouds of your mind confronted by the inner sun. That’s all.

What will an outer master do? He will arrange inside you that which you keep avoiding. And you will keep dodging outwardly as well as inwardly until you remember that what you are saving is your misery, and what you are avoiding is your bliss. But how will you know without tasting?

You are familiar only with sorrow. So the mind says: it is enough if sorrow is forgotten; a little pleasure will do.

What we call pleasure is the forgetting of pain. You drink alcohol; you lose yourself in dance and song; you go to a prostitute’s door. For a little while the mind sinks; it does not die. For a little while worry is forgotten. We call that pleasure.

What you call pleasure is only the forgetting of pain. Like a small child is crying and his mother puts a toy in his hand; he gets absorbed with the toy and forgets his crying—the cause. That is why children’s toys often rattle and jingle; they must make a sound because the sound startles the child. Startled, he forgets what was going on. As soon as he forgets what was happening, he thinks: the tears have dried, happiness has come.

All your pleasures are children’s rattles; hence they do not last long. The child will jingle it a while and then throw the toy away. For a thing can make you forget only briefly. How can anything make you forget forever?

Forgetting, unconsciousness, can only be for a moment. Then the memory returns, because suffering is real. Until it is uprooted, how will you keep forgetting it forever? Even if you intoxicate yourself, the intoxication will wear off. You drink—how long will the oblivion last?

This oblivion cannot be permanent. Hence Kabir has said: “This intoxication—the one we drink—never wears off; such a wine has touched that will never break.” We are lost in that intoxication which is not momentary but eternal. But that eternal intoxication is only of Buddhahood.

The old woman only forgets for a little while—at most. So your mind knows pain; and when for a little while it forgets pain, it knows what it calls pleasure. Your pleasure is not bliss. In fact your pleasure is not even pleasure; it is merely the forgetting of pain—like a toy placed in your hand.

Soon you will get bored with the “toy” and throw it away. That is why a new wife seems pleasing; the old wife is forgotten, the “toy” is thrown. You buy a new car; for a few days there is much delight; then it becomes old. You buy a new house, a new position; for a few days the rattle jingles, then… you become sad again.

Your toys are big, expensive, but toys nonetheless. And the mind can do only two things: either pain—or the forgetting of pain. It calls the latter pleasure. Bliss comes only in the face of Buddhahood.

And if this Buddhahood were somewhere outside, perhaps there would still be a barrier; but this Buddhahood is within you—hidden in the depths of your own mind. Yet your very mind won’t let you stay in the village where the Buddha is; it won’t let you remain in the place where he is.

You sit to meditate, the mind takes you elsewhere. You sit to worship, the mind takes you elsewhere. Wherever there is the risk that the Buddha might be met face to face, that there might be a direct seeing—right there you bolt.

People come to me and say: when we go to the temple, more thoughts arise than even in the marketplace. Of course they do. For in the market there is no possibility of encountering Buddhahood. The mind is at ease. What is there to fear from customers? But when you go to a temple, the mind starts fearing; because here is danger—in the silence of the temple, in its emptiness, in its atmosphere—what if the inner Buddha is met! Instantly the mind takes you elsewhere; it becomes lost in big dreams.

When you meditate, the mind will harass you as never before. Because there is the fear of death; there the mind gets terrified.

Keep these things in mind. Now the story will be utterly simple. And it is necessary to understand each single word. When Zen, Sufi, or Hasid fakirs craft a story, they do so out of the experience of thousands of Buddhas. It is no ordinary story. These are not the words of some writer or storyteller.

This story is the essence of thousands of Buddhas. What many Buddhas have known within has been placed in this tale. It is not a story; it is the greatest truth of your life. Therefore, understand each word carefully.

“They say there was an old woman—in the time of Lord Buddha. She was born in the very village where the Buddha was born, and on the very day of his birth.”

Your mind is born on your very birthday. And your mind, before you awaken to who you are, will capture you. Before awareness comes, you become possessed by the mind. The child is not yet born—he has not yet even cried his first cry—and the mind has been born. Mind is “experience.”

Psychologists will likely say—indeed their research already hints—that the mind is born even before birth. For when the child is in the womb, experiences occur. If the mother falls, the baby in the womb senses shock—not clearly, faintly, but senses it. If the mother is ill, the baby is also weakened; he experiences illness within. If the mother is healthy, happy, the child experiences her happiness. Where experience begins, there the mind begins.

By the time the child is born, he is already old. He comes with some experiences. Some conditioning has been formed. And now he will live based on these conditioning. A prison has been built; the soul is not free.

Rousseau said man is born free and dies in chains. That is wrong. Man is born in bondage, and generally dies in bondage. A few are born bound and die free; those are the Buddhas.

All are born in bondage, because experience is bondage. What you know encircles the sky of your soul. Your knowledge becomes your limitation, because you think: “This is me.”

Every experience of yours makes you smaller. Every experience gives you the delusion that you know. And the moment you feel “I know,” you have become small.

Old people shrink. As the heap of their experiences grows, the sky of their soul contracts. On one side the pile grows—“I know so much”—and on the other, their inner sky narrows. That is why you hardly find a vast soul in an old person. The old are narrow. Their prejudices are firm. Their beliefs become hard as stone. Their heart is no longer fluid; it turns solid. Because they “know”; they have experience.

A small child’s inner sky is fluid; the walls are not yet clear. Where do I end, where do you begin—this is not yet definite to the child. Things are still fluid; boundaries are flowing. Not yet stone walls.

As experience hardens, the soul becomes smaller. Therefore, the greatest event in the world is this: if your experience grows and your soul does not shrink, you are a seeker. If your experience grows and your sky gets smaller—your courtyard of consciousness shrinks—then when you die, you will be a heap of experiences with none inside worthy of saving. Usually, the old man dies thus. Hence a certain ugliness arises in old age—less related to the body, more to the narrowness of your vision. You are a Hindu, you are a Muslim, you are a Jain; you are this, you are that; you know everything!

A small child is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain. He can be delighted before a mosque as well as in a temple. Distances have not yet arisen. His “courtyard” is big; that is his beauty.

When an old man too keeps within him the possibility of a large courtyard, a vast sky—childlike—then a beauty appears in old age that even youth cannot have. For youth’s beauty carries tension, excitation; the pull of desire, the race. Youth’s beauty is shallow; it cannot be very deep.

In the child’s beauty there is innocence, but also a touch of foolishness; because there is no experience. In his innocence there may be some stupidity; understanding has not yet ripened. The expanse is large, but in that largeness there may be naiveté.

Youth is beautiful, but the beauty is of the body. In a desire-filled mind, very deep beauty cannot arise. But if the old one is truly ripe—matured through life—a certain development has happened, and the soul has not shrunk; experience has increased, knowledge has grown, yet humility remains—childlike innocence remains despite experience; passions have ebbed away, their storms and tempests disappeared; now there is no grip of youth, no pull; no greed for wealth, no attachment to body. The mind is like a silent lake. Then the beauty that appears in old age has no comparison. But it is rare. Yet whenever it happens, it is the ultimate beauty in this world—like pure white snow on Himalayan peaks. Likewise, in the white hair of a truly ripened elder, a Himalayan beauty appears. But this usually does not happen—now and then a Buddha, a Mahavira…

Ordinarily, we are born in bondage and die in deeper bondage. We are born in a prison and die in a more dangerous prison. We arrive with chains and go on adding more. Our accumulation, our knowledge—everything becomes the weight of chains. One day we are finished; only the chains remain.

“They say there was an old woman—in the time of Lord Buddha. She was born in the very village where the Buddha was born, and on the very day of his birth.” She was born within the Buddha himself. Why call her a woman? Why not a man?

Those who know the mind call it feminine. The soul they call masculine. The reason: the soul is like a tree; the mind like a vine. A vine cannot stand without a tree; the tree can stand without vines. Your soul can be without the mind; your mind cannot be without the soul.

The soul can be without the mind. We know Buddhas who had the soul—without the mind. But never has there been anyone known who had a mind without a soul. Therefore it is feminine. Feminine here does not mean woman; feminine means dependent. It has no independent existence. It is like a shadow. It is like a vine. It needs the support of the “man”—the purusha.

Another meaning to remember: so long as you lend support, the mind is. The day you withdraw support, the mind is lost. Do not ask, “How to destroy the mind?” Ask only, “How to withdraw support?”

Without you, the mind cannot remain. And you do something strange: with one hand you try to destroy it, with the other you go on building it. With one hand you support, with the other you pull bricks out. With one hand you build the house, with the other you want to demolish it. This house will never be demolished. It will remain as it is.

Without your support, the house is not. Without your support, the mind is not. It exists because you build it. Hence it is feminine.

Feminine means: that which cannot be without support; like a vine; which will place a hand upon the man’s shoulder—will lean—to be. The old woman was born within the Buddha. Understand “village” rightly. It is not the outward village we see.

Hindus are wondrous, and their stories have meaning in every single word. We call the soul purusha. Purusha comes from the root pur—“city.” And purusha means: the one at the center of the city.

Pur means: you are a city. And if we understand rightly, you truly are a city. Some seven hundred million living cells are within you. No city—not London, not Tokyo—is so large. The largest cities have perhaps ten million people.

Your body has seven hundred million living cells. Vast is your life-system. And among these seven hundred million, not one knows that “you” are. Such a huge crowd within you! Hindus have called this pur, the city. And you—hidden within it—are called purusha. Purusha means the one hidden at the center of the city.

“In that same village, on that same birthday…” With the Buddha, the Buddha’s mind is born.

The mind is feminine; it needs support; without support it withers and is lost. And if you give too much support, it becomes dangerous; for if a vine is given too much support, it dries the tree, sucks it. Gradually the vine spreads over the whole tree. The tree becomes invisible—covered. The very tree on whose support the vine stands becomes hidden, smothered.

If you support the mind, gradually it will cover you. You will disappear; only the mind will be seen.

“But that woman was always afraid to come before the Buddha.” Born together, in the same village, in the same house, in the same body—yet she was afraid to come face to face with the Buddha. Always afraid—from the time she was little. She was not old then—she was small. She became young—still afraid. She grew old—fear remained.

The mind has one fear: meditation. Meditation is the death of the mind. And meditation means coming face to face with yourself. As if one stands before a mirror and sees oneself—so, if one stands exactly before the mind, not allowing it to move even an inch, a great miracle happens. If the mind comes exactly before you, it vanishes instantly. Your seeing is enough for its death.

You have heard the story: the god of desire (Kamadeva) tried to arouse Shiva; Shiva opened his third eye and looked at Kama, and Kama was reduced to ashes; hence he is Ananga—bodiless. Meditation is the third eye. And if you look at lust through the third eye, through meditation, it becomes ashes.

What is the mind? The total of all desires. At the root of mind lies sexual desire. That is why so much emphasis has been placed on brahmacharya (celibacy). If sexual desire disappears, the rest of the desires drop by themselves. Because if there is no lust, what greed can remain?

As long as sex is in your mind, there will be greed. As long as there is greed, there will be anger. As long as there is anger, there will be pride and jealousy. All are linked. But the deepest link is sexual desire.

A small child seems so innocent because the deepest link has not yet manifested; the body is not ready. It will take about fourteen years; then the body will be ready, and the first link of sex will appear. Then all the other desires come lining up in support of it.

What meaning has greed if you are not lustful? If there is no lust, how will you rage? If there is no lust, what point is there in proclaiming ego? Then you can live as if you are not. And then whether you have anything or not makes little difference. You may conquer the whole world—with a thousand thrones—and even if everything is lost, your sleep will not be disturbed. You will remain as you are, as if all events are happening outside.

But if lust is inside, then there will be difference. For if you sit on a throne, you can have beautiful women. If the throne is lost, the entire realm of beauty is lost. If you are wealthy, you can buy gratification. If you are poor, what will you buy? What capacity does the poor man have to purchase? So man accumulates wealth also for “sex.”

Then if anyone obstructs your desire, anger arises. Hence we say a saint will be free of anger, because he has no desires. What obstruction can you place? He asks for nothing. What hindrance will you create? Non-anger becomes natural.

Sex is the center of all craving. Mind is the spread of craving.

The mind fears meditation because meditation is the third eye. Its fire is fierce. If you truly look head-on, the mind becomes ashes.

That woman always feared coming before the Buddha. She was small, then young, then old—but the fear remained. People explained to her that “the Buddha is supremely pure, a saint, a siddha; there is no reason to fear him. His darshan is auspicious, a blessing.” But the old woman could not understand anything. If by mistake she ever came onto the Buddha’s path, she would run away. First of all, if the Buddha was in that village, she would go to another.

Understand this. People would explain: “The Buddha is supremely pure, a saint, a siddha. Who could be a greater holy man! Why fear? There is no reason to fear him. His darshan is auspicious, a boon.” All this is correct—but it does not make sense to the mind. He may be auspicious, a blessing—the Buddha is a showering benediction—granted. But the mind cannot grasp it, because this auspiciousness cannot be for the mind; for the mind he is death.

The mind will explain to you in every way: do not come face to face with the Buddha. And the mind argues with great skill. First it will say: nothing of this sort really happens; has anyone ever attained meditation? It is all imagination. Poets’ web. Mere poetry. Meditation has never happened. Why get into this hassle?

“God and liberation—these are all dreams.” And the mind offers heavy arguments for this. That is why even if Buddhas are born, so few can avail themselves of them! So few come to quench their thirst at their lake! Why is it that so many who run after gold do not run after Buddhahood?

Those who chase wealth—why do they not chase Buddhahood? The Buddhas themselves have to wander village to village seeking people. No one wanders seeking the Buddha! What is the matter?

People explain to their mind: it’s all talk. There is not much substance in it. Don’t waste time. Life is short; it won’t come again. Who knows about the beyond? Enjoy what is in hand; do not let go what is in your fist. The mind’s logic is profound.

“But the old woman could not understand anything. If by mistake she ever came onto the Buddha’s path, she would run away.” Sometimes it happens accidentally that you are sitting empty, and suddenly the mind is face to face—instantly the mind bolts; instantly it grabs some form, some thought; catches a stream of thought and runs somewhere.

Sometimes, under an open night sky, sitting by a riverbank, hearing the babble of a mountain brook, absorbing the greenness of trees, hearing a bird’s call—suddenly a silence descends. Sometimes on hearing a true master’s word, in his presence a fragrance enters within—as if suddenly someone has lit incense. But the mind instantly becomes restless and takes you elsewhere. Instantly it suggests paths by which you may escape.

This happens every day; it happens in every life. Such moments come when you are close to confronting yourself. But the mind always finds a road; it devises something; it wants to save itself. Everyone seeks self-protection: the mind too.

“If the Buddha was in the village, she would go to another.” This is your mind’s well-known device.

You are listening to me here; but your mind may have gone to another village. Then you will think you are listening. You are deceiving yourself. Only your body is here; the mind has gone somewhere. And the body need not go anywhere; the mind can go anywhere without the body—even to the moon and stars.

You are sitting here and your shop, your market, your wife, home and doorway, friends and foes—a thousand problems, the courts, the cases—you can go into them. And while you sit here, you will usually go away, because here there is danger. And the mind recognizes danger quickly—like a horse pricking up its ears at threat. A mile or two away—danger. A dog picks up a scent two miles away. Your mind, like a radar, keeps revolving around with fear twenty-four hours—sensing where danger may be. There is a reason.

The mind’s whole utility in nature is to guard against danger; it is a radar. Before danger arrives, you should know. Otherwise the danger may arrive and only then you find out; then nothing can be done. If the house has caught fire and only then you know, it is difficult to save. When the first smoke rises, the mind should become alert. Then water can be poured; fire can be extinguished.

So the mind is a radar. It circles you twenty-four hours, sensitive to whether any danger is near. Hence it often happens that those who live in danger develop very sharp minds. Those who live with no danger, their minds become dull. That is why the children of the wealthy are seldom born with great brilliance.

If there is no danger, the radar rusts; there is no need for it. The world’s men and women of intellect and talent are usually not born in the homes of the rich, but among the poor—where danger is on all sides.

You have also seen that the moments in a nation’s life that are most perilous are the moments when great men are born. You will not easily be able to give birth again to a Gandhi, nor to a Rabindranath, nor to a Raja Rammohan Roy, nor to a Subhas, nor to a Nehru—now you are producing junk. Why? There is no danger.

Whenever there is danger in a nation’s life, the mind becomes sharp. Great men are born of mind. They are not Buddhas; they are minds’ geniuses.

You have also noticed: when there is danger, a certain flash appears in your mind’s talent. When there is no danger, the mind sleeps—no need, no purpose. If you are chased and told to run with all your strength—you run with all your strength. You don’t even imagine any force remains unused. Then you are put in a competition where many run; you run with double strength. Where did this new energy come from? Now there is danger; there is fear of defeat. But even that is nothing. If a man chases you with a gun, you will run as no one ever has; you will run with your total velocity.

When danger is there—energy awakens.

Your mind assesses danger. And what is the greatest danger whose scent makes the mind bolt and never go that way again—the horse balks—then it finds a thousand excuses, but will not go there?

The greatest danger is self-realization, self-knowledge. Because the moment self-knowledge happens, the mind is no longer needed. And the mind knows there is a moment of awakening where its need ends; where it will be lifted and thrown away—like garbage.

“If the Buddha was in the village, she would go to another. But one day a certain mistake occurred. Absorbed in her own ‘tune,’ she was passing along the road when suddenly the Buddha came before her. There was no time to run. And seeing the Buddha face to face, she became so frightened that her legs refused to run.”

Understand this well. It will happen in your life sometime; the sooner the better.

“…One day a certain mistake occurred.” It is delightful that you awaken by “mistake.” You are not going to awaken by cleverness, because cleverness is the mind’s. You will awaken through some slip of the mind; not by its skill. A moment will awaken you where the mind’s cleverness doesn’t work.

You will become a Buddha by “accident”—not by practice. Because practice will be of the mind. Your mind will study Patanjali and practice yama and niyama. Then the mind has no fear. But by some accident you will awaken.

Therefore the ancient scriptures say: without a master you will not awaken. Because whatever you do will be “practice.” “Accident” can only be arranged by the master. A foreign element can bring in the accident; from outside it can be created.

You are sleeping. You must be awakened. If left to yourself, the mind is so skillful—there is no artist like it—that it can dream in sleep that it has awakened! It can dream of awakening. Then it becomes very difficult. What will you do? You are dreaming you are awake. Then an alarm has to be set.

An alarm is an accident; it comes from outside. But the mind is clever. A time or two you may wake from the alarm. Slowly the mind will weave the alarm into the dream. It will dream of a temple with bells ringing. It will drown the alarm. Then you need a living person who can devise a new trick every day—around whom you cannot weave a dream.

The meaning of “master” is just this: that he creates an accident from the outside. He pushes you into such a fix that you have no way to escape. He brings you to a corner from which there is no way out. He brings you to a place from where, whichever way you go, you are annihilated. If you turn back—you die; if you go forward—you die.

Master means accident. It means: he creates a situation totally different from and beyond all your knowledge, skill, and cleverness.

“One day a mistake occurred. Absorbed in her tune, she was passing along the road.” And the mistake will happen only when you are absorbed in some tune. That is why all masters give you a tune. Someone gives you a mantra; the mantra is just a tune—to keep the mind engaged so it cannot run. And many times in twenty-four hours you come to that place where the Buddha is in front of you.

If the mind is absorbed in its tune, perhaps the accident will happen, the mistake occur. If the mind goes on in its tune, it may not see in advance that the “Buddha” is ahead. It won’t find a side lane to flee. The Buddha will come exactly face to face—only then will the tune break. If he stands exactly before you and then the tune breaks, you won’t be able to run, because your legs will be paralyzed.

If fear is too great, you cannot run. You do not understand anything; for a moment you remain so startled—so dumbfounded—that there is no chance to think of running. Who will run? Where to run? There is no chance for any of that.

“…Absorbed in her tune, she was passing along the road.” The mind must be given a tune—a mantra, a tantra, a yantra: these are all tunes.

When I give you sannyas, that is a tune. I hand you a tune so that wherever you go, sitting or standing—you remember, and others remind you too, that you are a sannyasin. Let this be a continuous tune. Let this “flute” keep playing within: I am a sannyasin.

A friend came to me. Before taking sannyas, he said he had one problem: he drinks alcohol—what should he do? I said: don’t worry. First take sannyas; we’ll see afterward. He took sannyas and came back eight days later: “You’ve created a mess. Now when I walk toward the liquor-house, my legs stop. These ochre robes! You trapped me well. Even drunkards, old acquaintances, look at me as if I’m a criminal! They say: ‘Being a sannyasin…?’ And a great shame arises in me. I take the bottle in my hand, then think twenty-five times: shall I drink or not? Perhaps it is no longer appropriate.”

A tune has taken hold. Until a tune catches you—until the mind becomes so absorbed in something that it forgets where it stands… That moment comes many times in twenty-four hours when you stand before the “Buddha,” but only if there is tune.

People have devised a thousand devices. Someone is turning beads—but it must be a tune. If you turn beads mechanically, like a corpse, while the mind is engaged elsewhere, it is useless. While turning the beads, if turning alone becomes everything—becomes the tune—then any moment suddenly you will find the “mistake” has happened: you are standing before that before which there is no way to run. You are standing before yourself. The ocean has arrived; the river must dissolve.

“…There was not even time to run.” To be dumbstruck means just this: there is no time to do anything. You were walking in your bliss and suddenly someone placed a gun to your chest; there was not even time to run; not even time to think. And where there is no time, there you will come before the “Buddha.” Because as soon as time is there, the mind thinks. As soon as there is time, the mind begins its journey. As soon as there is time, there is space to move away. With time, you can reach another village.

Without time, the mind cannot be—like a fish cannot be without water. Throw a fish on the bank—without water it will flop and die. Throw the mind outside time—it dies instantly; it won’t even flop. The fish will flop a little while; the mind, outside time, is dead—there is not even life to flop.

Time is the mind’s life-breath. Hence all the wise ones say: meditation is beyond time—timeless.

“…There was no time. And seeing the Buddha face to face, she became so frightened that her legs refused to run.” Paralysis struck. She stopped. It seemed to her as if death itself had come before her. She could not run; but she certainly closed her eyes. That much the mind managed to do.

Whenever you cannot run, you close your eyes. The mind thinks, “Better to do something than do nothing.”

“…She could not run, but she certainly closed her eyes. But what is this! With closed eyes the Buddha is still seen.” In the world, this trick works: if you cannot flee, close your eyes, for worldly things are outside; close the eyes and the connection is broken. But this Buddha is within. By closing the eyes he appears even more clearly.

A mistake—the great mistake. By her own device the old woman got into trouble. Her old trick was: whatever you want to avoid, close your eyes. She used the same trick. And what else could she do? We use only what we know.

“She closed her eyes. With closed eyes she found that the Buddha was seen. His face, golden with radiance in ochre robes, is before her. Then she covered her eyes with both hands. But, wonder of wonders, the miracle began to occur: the more she covered her eyes, the more clearly the Buddha appeared.”

That is why in meditation we close the eyes; because it is a meeting with oneself—eyes need not be open. To see the other, the eyes must be open. To see oneself, the eyes must be closed. With closed eyes you cannot see the other. With open eyes, seeing yourself is very difficult. Therefore meditation says: close your eyes.

As the eyes were closed, the miracle began to be felt: astonishing—Buddha is becoming clearer. Ah! The more she covers her eyes, the more the Buddha seems to come inside. Now there is nowhere left to run. Legs are transfixed. The known device of closing the eyes—familiar—has failed. Resistance breaks.

“No, now there is no escape.” And the moment the mind senses—“there is no escape now”—surrender happens. As long as it feels there is some escape, it tries.

“Death is certain.” And with this realization, the old woman disappears. Only the Buddha remains.

Understand something very significant: about anything you know to be certain, your struggle ceases. As long as you think there can be some change, you fight; the mind struggles. The moment it is sure—now it is fixed, nothing can be done, not a grain of difference—the matter ends.

On the battlefield soldiers lose fear. All soldiers report: before going to war, there is great fear. They try all devices to avoid—someone tries to feign illness, someone brings a doctor’s certificate, someone says there is work at home. They try twenty-five tricks. But when nothing works and one must go to the field, psychologists have studied that as soon as a soldier reaches the field, his fear disappears. Because when you are there and there is no way to avoid it, and the matter is certain, the mind drops struggle. Then shells burst nearby, showers of bullets fly, companions lie dead close by—and the soldier sits calmly doing his work. He eats, he smokes, he listens to the radio, reads the newspaper—as if life is this, everything is normal, nothing abnormal is happening.

When death is certain, acceptance arises.

Until you come face to face with yourself, you will keep defending. The day you stand before yourself and feel there is no way—your arms will drop.

“There is no escape now; death is certain.” With this realization the old woman is gone; only the Buddha remains.

The old woman is the circumference woven around your soul. As soon as you realize yourself, the circumference drops; the center alone remains.

“And the Zen fakirs have been asking for centuries: Tell us, who is that old woman?”

You are that old woman; you are that Buddha. But as yet you know nothing of the Buddha, and you do not recognize the old woman either. The old woman is what you are now; the Buddha too is what you are now. But the Buddha is hidden in darkness, the old woman is in the light. And since you do not know the Buddha, your situation is like that of a beggar who has no idea of his own treasure and goes on begging with his bowl. Until you get a glimpse of your treasure, you will go on begging and suffering.

So what is to be done so that you come to know your treasure?

All means, all yoga, all meditation, all worship-prayer-adoration—every device is only for this: that you look within once; that you come face to face with yourself.

What is to be done? Just this: do not give the mind a chance to run to another village. Do not give it the convenience of thinking; do not give it time. Not even for a moment should you go to another village. If even for a single moment the stream of thought stops, if even for a moment no ripples arise—the Buddha will appear.

With thinking, you get lost. Without thinking, there is meeting.

Now in this direction you will have to work hard; because the mind is caught in the net of old habits.

Mulla Nasruddin was addicted to alcohol. His wife would daily bring some evidence against drinking: a newspaper cutting, a book—“Look!” One day it was the statement of internationally renowned doctors: that these diseases result from alcohol. She brought it to Nasruddin, “See.” Nasruddin said: all nonsense, all talk, all propaganda. I myself have been drinking for so long and nothing has happened. From experience I say this is all nonsense. His wife said: they say ten years will be cut off your life. Nasruddin said: death is far off; when it comes, we’ll deal with it then. And he added: stop bringing these things to me. Until I die, I am not going to stop drinking. His wife said: you are certain you will stop even after dying? Your habit is such that I doubt you will drink even after death.

Habit follows. And you become so identified with habit that you cannot even think that habit and you are different. You become habit; you become one with it.

The mind’s whole strength is this: it is the sum of all your habits. And you have become one with it. You have assumed that you are the old woman. This assumption has to be broken. There is only one way to break it: engage yourself in effort. Do not go to another village. If earlier you wandered ten miles, with effort you will wander nine, then eight, then one.

Keep trying. And create a “tune” so the mind is absorbed in a song, a rhythm. And sometimes accident also happens. Suddenly, you will find yourself face to face. If the mind is absorbed, this story will happen.

It happens just like this: the mind absorbed—an inadvertent mistake—you come face to face; there is no place left to run; no way to think; death is certain; you lay down your arms. And with surrender, everything happens.

The river fears—needlessly. It believes, “I will be lost in the ocean”—that is her delusion. The river remains. For nothing that is ever truly is lost. She becomes the ocean. Until now she was petty, bound within banks. Now there will be no banks; now there will be identity with the vast.

The river does not vanish; she becomes the ocean. But this is known only to the river that dissolves. The river tied to her banks is afraid. She is frightened: my form, my identity, my name will be lost, my banks gone.

The mind fears too. The mind is the river; Buddhahood is the ocean.

A little glimpse—of losing—and then you will become fearless. Then strength will come into your legs; then you will be able to leap.

Create a tune—by any excuse. The tune can be anything, but genuine. If it is only on the surface, it has no value. You can go on chanting “Ram-Ram” on the outside while the market goes on within—no use. The tune should be such that you become absorbed in it. The tune should be such that even if someone operates on you while you are absorbed in it, you do not notice the operation.

The king of Kashi had an operation in 1910. He had vowed never to take intoxicants; this created great difficulty because operations could not be done without anesthesia. It was an appendix operation; long and dangerous; pain was inevitable. The king said: do not worry about me. Just give me my Gita. I will hum the Gita and you can operate.

The doctors did not believe him. Appendix—his whole abdomen would have to be opened. An hour, two hours—who knows? The man’s tune might break. He says so, but what experience does he have? He has never had an operation. So they began with experiments: they pricked him with pins, stuck knives into his hands and feet; they tried all sorts of pain to see whether the tune would break. It did not. He kept reading his Gita as if he was not aware.

This happens also in ordinary life. It is no miracle. A child is playing hockey; he gets a wound, blood is flowing, and he runs on. He does not even know it. He is absorbed in his tune.

When there is tune, there is no awareness of the body or the world. Tune means: all is forgotten. You are so absorbed in one thing that nothing remains but that one thing. Then that is mantra.

They operated, and the operation was successful. He kept reading his Gita. It was the first operation without any anesthesia.

What was the art? Only this: he was absorbed in his Gita.

When all attention is absorbed somewhere—with nowhere else left to go—then tune… Create such a tune, and one day suddenly you will find that you have come before the “Buddha.” The “old woman” can no longer run. And when there is no way, the “old woman” surrenders.

And surrender is the doorway to truth.

Enough for today.