Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #3

There are three ways to live. Either you live out of fear—then life will be misery, anguish, torment. In such a life there can be no flowerings of joy, no possibility of peace. The fearful will keep trembling, balance will be hard to keep, and a fearful person will wish he had never been born.

The second way is greed—living through ambition. The race to get something, the dream of achievement drives you on. Then your condition is a little better than that of the fearful, but not much, because there will be a thin ray of hope in your life. You will sometimes be able to smile. But even behind that smile there will be sorrow. Your smile will be false; it cannot be true. Every laughter of yours will only be a way to hide tears. Because greed is just the other face of fear.

Fear is bound to the past; greed to the future. Fear is about what has already happened. Greed is about what should happen. In both fear and greed you are not here, not in the present. The greedy man is also agitated, because all his heavens are going to happen “tomorrow,” not now. There is no peace, no rest, no pause in his life; he is pushed by the race. The greedy lives in a fever.

There is a third way of living too, available only to very few—those who are neither tormented by fear nor attracted by greed, who have seen the truth of life. And the truth of life is here and now. Neither in the past nor in the future.

Here there is nothing to fear, because there is nothing to lose. What is there to be afraid of? What can you lose? You never even consider that there is nothing to lose, and yet you tremble so. Your condition is like that of a beggar who stays awake all night lest someone steal from him—though he has nothing that can be stolen. Or like the naked man who would not bathe, saying, “If I bathe, where will I dry my clothes?”—and he had no clothes!

What are you afraid of? If you had something, fear of losing it would be understandable. But you have nothing. Yet those who have nothing still imagine they have “something,” and so fear persists. At least fear gives the false comfort that we do possess something.

One who has seen the truth also sees his own emptiness: I have nothing. There can be no theft, no snatching, no looting. I possess nothing. There is no way for me to go bankrupt. I am afraid for nothing.

And the day you know you have nothing, that same day you also know that in this world there is no way to get anything. Otherwise by now you would have got it.

For how many births have you been running—driven by greedy longing! Afraid of losing that which you do not have; and craving to gain that which you will never have—because nothing can ever be yours other than “you.” You alone can be your treasure. That “you” is here, right now. There is no need to wait till tomorrow to attain it.

Fear and greed are two sides of the same coin. Fear presumes there is something—let it not be lost. Greed presumes there is nothing—let something be gained. But you have nothing to lose, and you will gain nothing. This is the fact. You are empty, and you will remain empty. Emptiness is your nature.

One who has known the fact, who has seen the truth, is freed from both fear and greed. And in the empty sky, Kabir says, the nectar rains.

The day you know there is nothing to lose and nothing to gain, that day fear is gone, greed is gone. The thrill that enters your life that day, the dance of emptiness that arises—that is the state of the meditative saint, the enlightened.

That day you dance, not because you have gained something, but because there is no way to lose anything and nothing to gain. “I worried for nothing; worry was my delusion.” Even to say, “You dance that day,” is not quite right—on that day, it is emptiness that dances.

What is the peace in which the Buddha sits beneath the Bodhi tree? The dissolution of greed and fear. That is why Buddha even said: Do not ask me, “If we do good, what will we get?” You will get nothing. Do not ask me, “If we do bad, what will we lose?” You will lose nothing.

Neither your merits will bring you anything, nor will your sins make you lose anything. As you are, so you will remain. Understand this rightly, and the background of this story will be prepared.

This story is of great value. Christians never even mentioned this story in Jesus’ life. It’s a curious thing. The followers of Jesus never mentioned it in his life; it was the Muslims, the Sufis, who preserved it. Why would the followers of Jesus leave it out?

Because the story is dangerous. It implies that neither the greed for heaven nor the fear of hell has meaning. If this is true, the whole foundation of organized Christianity collapses—because it stands on the fear of hell and the greed for heaven. You are threatened: if you do evil, you will rot in hell.

And the Christian hell is very dangerous—more than anyone’s. Hindus, Muslims—everyone has a hell; but beware of the Christian hell. Go anywhere else; it won’t be as risky. Because the Christian hell is eternal.

The Hindu hell is a matter of arithmetic: as much sin as you have committed, so much suffering. But the Christian hell is not proportional to your sin. The question is not how much you sinned; if you sinned, you will rot in hell for eternity.

The Christian God does not seem like a judge of justice; he seems to take revenge. You sinned; you became his enemy. Now it is not a question of justice—how much punishment fits the crime—it is enmity: you will be tormented in hell.

There is a striking Jewish tale. Someone asked a Jewish fakir, “Wouldn’t one hell have been enough?” (The Jews envisioned seven hells; the Jains too have seven.) The fakir said, “No, one won’t do.” The man said, “If the point is to give pain, one could do the job. Why seven?” The fakir said, “Because if there were only one, after a while you would get used to it; the pain would no longer be felt. As soon as you got used to one, you’d be transferred to the next—there the types of suffering are new. The old habit breaks, and you suffer again.”

So there are seven hells, to keep rotating you so you never become habituated and able to bear the pain. Habit forms—hell changes.

The Jewish and Christian God seems to retaliate. You are not punished according to what and how much you did; you denied, you opposed, you did not follow God or accept his prophet—therefore hostility is enacted.

Christians left this story out. Of all the stories in Jesus’ life, this is the sweetest—yet they didn’t include it, because if they do, the basis of the Church collapses.

The story is dangerous and revolutionary. It says that if you are afflicted by the greed for heaven, you are worldly. If you give charity for the sake of reward in heaven, you are a shopkeeper—you are bargaining. If you avert your eyes at a prostitute’s door only because you fear hell, you have already visited her house. If you refrain from killing only because you fear being boiled in the cauldrons of hell, then you have already committed the murder: you do not oppose killing, you are afraid of its consequences. You are not religious—you are a businessman.

Your way of thinking is cunning, not simple. If you were assured there is no hell, you would suddenly find your feet moving toward the prostitute’s house. If you got word that whoremongers are now entering heaven—the law has changed, the opposition party is in power—how long would it take you to turn your temples into brothels? Not even a moment.

If you are religious out of fear, your religiosity is not real. If out of greed, it is not real either.

A religious person is one who, even if his simplicity were to land him in hell, would accept hell but could not drop his simplicity. A religious person is one who, even if his goodness meant suffering forever, would be ready to suffer but would not abandon goodness. Then the intrinsic value of goodness—its inner worth—shines.

Someone asked Edmund Burke, “You never go to church, no one has seen you pray. Aren’t you afraid? Not concerned about the future?” Burke said, “Whatever is good, that I am doing. If good leads to good results—fine. If good leads to bad results—also fine. Because I am not concerned about results. I am getting such joy from doing the good that no further result is needed. It is enough.”

For a religious person, the means themselves are the end; the journey itself is the destination. Walking is so blissful—who worries about arrival? The path is so dear—who dreams of the goal? For such a person, this very place becomes the destination. What is a destination other than a place of rest? He rests here. For him, every step is the destination. He has nowhere to reach; he is already arrived.

But the irreligious mind always thinks in the language of greed and fear. Churches, temples, mosques exploit your fear and your greed; therefore they have nothing to do with religion. Not a single true temple of religion exists on earth. No church is of religion—because you are shopkeepers. All churches are yours, all temples yours. You made them; priests maintain them; their foundation-stones are fear or greed.

In English there is the term “God-fearing.” In Hindi too: Ishwar-bhiru, one who fears God. It is a nonsensical term. If you must fear even God, where will you ever be fearless? If you must keep fear of God, then you will be afraid in this world and in the next, because God is everywhere. When will you be without fear? And until you are fearless, how will the spring of life burst forth? Until you become fearless, how will the flowers of your soul bloom?

No, a religious person does not fear God. There is simply no question of fear. And note this well: how can you love the one you fear? The one you fear you can only hate, not love. If your prayer is born of fear, deep in your heart there will be hatred toward God—because whoever frightens you is an enemy, not a friend.

Whom we love, we do not fear at all—that is the sign of love. In the presence of the beloved, fear vanishes; not a grain of fear remains. Before the beloved we can be naked; we can open our heart completely; we need not hide anything. He is so much ours that hiding is meaningless. But the religious establishment—the temple, the priest—knows that such a truly religious person is rare, and if he exists, he will not seek a temple; wherever he is, that is a temple.

Those who seek temples are shopkeepers—they are calculating. And the priest tells them: fear. Fear God! The priest instructs them: beware; however alone you may be, God is watching. Do not sin even in solitude, for His eyes are on you. God becomes a cosmic detective, dogging your steps from all sides. Whatever you do, He knows; your sins and merits are being recorded in His ledger. In the end you will have to settle accounts.

This is the shopkeeper’s view of life. And no view is more wrong. Does a shopkeeper even have a vision? He is forever busy accumulating—money, capital—and arranging that it not be lost. He loses life itself—to coins. Then he expands those coins into other forms: merit becomes a coin that works even in heaven—a promissory note accepted by the bank above. He amasses coins of merit. He fears sin.

Hence such ghastly paintings of hell have been made—to terrify you. And such seductive pictures of heaven—designed to inflame your lust. It is astonishing!

All religions say: be free of lust. But ask them what you will get in heaven, and their true poverty is exposed. In heaven they promise you exactly those things they ask you to renounce here. Strange indeed.

Here they say: do not look at women; in heaven: there will be apsaras, heavenly nymphs. Here they say: avoid women. What is the fruit? You will get apsaras. Women here are nothing compared to apsaras. The age of apsaras remains fixed at sixteen; it never advances. Women do try to stop at sixteen—but the attempt does not succeed.

I have heard: three women were chatting on a bench in a train. One was around sixty; she claimed to be forty. Encouraged by her boldness, the second—around forty—declared herself twenty. The third—thirty—seeing their pluck, said she was sixteen. Mulla Nasruddin, listening from the upper berth, could bear it no longer; he jumped down. The women said, “Where did you spring from?” He said, “I was just born. Hearing you, my courage rose too!”

Women try—but don’t succeed. Apsaras have succeeded; they are forever sixteen; their bodies are golden and don’t sweat. All that you desire in women here and don’t get—everything is arranged in heaven.

Islam has even arranged fountains of wine. Here Islam says to leave wine—it is a sin. What is the fruit? In heaven, streams of wine flow—don’t just drink, bathe and swim!

When Islam arose and its myths formed, in those lands—Arabia, Iran—homosexuality was widespread. Young boys were bought and sold for sex. So, astonishingly, in the Islamic paradise there is provision for that too. Houris will be there—and ghilman as well, beautiful young boys.

What a kind of religious vision is this? Fountains of wine! Here you are a saint if you renounce wine; and what will you get? You drop a bottle; you receive a river. You give up an ordinary woman—who sweats, grows old, falls ill, and eventually becomes ugly; whose beauty is a fleeting deception, which vanishes on coming close—and in return you get apsaras.

So in heaven we have provided for the fulfilment of all human greed.

Hindus are even more skillful—as befits the oldest shop. They did not go into items; they installed the wish-fulfilling tree, the Kalpavriksha. They said: how will you keep account of each desire? Infinite are the greeds, infinite the desires. So in heaven there are Kalpavrikshas. Sit beneath them: the moment a desire arises in your mind, it is fulfilled—no delay of time. Not a second is lost.

The greatest pain in the world is time. So the Hindus cut it off—in moksha. Time is the greatest pain.

You see a beautiful woman passing—the desire arises: if only you could fulfil it right now! But it cannot happen. Time will be required—search, making a path, removing obstacles. She will be someone’s wife, someone’s daughter. It will be a long journey.

You see a palace; you want to live in it, but you cannot now. There is a guard at the gate. Much struggle will be needed—earning wealth, thefts and cheats and plunder—then perhaps you may hope, and even then it isn’t certain. So much time will pass before you reach the palace. And almost always by the time you arrive you are so tired by the journey that the palace becomes your tomb. You enjoy nothing. Time sucks you dry. Someday you may get the woman, but by then both of you will be only bones.

So the Hindus cut off time in heaven, because time is the greatest pain.

The mind wants “now,” but there is delay. In delay everything turns stale. Under the Kalpavriksha there is no delay. Here a desire arises; there it is fulfilled—instantaneously.

I have heard: once a man, by mistake, reached the Kalpavriksha. He did not know where he was. He was very hungry, exhausted, and had stopped to rest under the tree. “If only I could get some food now…”—no sooner had the thought arisen than trays descended all around. The hunger was so great there was no time to think; he ate quickly. Then he felt, “But who will bring water?”—and at that very thought, pitchers of water appeared all around.

Now with his belly full and thirst quenched, thoughts began to arise. He felt uneasy: “What is this? Could there be ghosts here?” Ghosts and goblins appeared on all sides. He said, “Now I’m done for!”—and he was dead. Not a moment’s gap.

The Hindus did not go into details—they are a seasoned, old shop. They said: how will you keep track of each desire? Infinite desires—who will list them? You can even set rivers of wine flowing, and it won’t help—one wants whisky, another brandy, another something else. A thousand kinds of liquors—how will you provide for all?

So the Hindus made a scientific arrangement: they created the Kalpavriksha. Sit beneath it and all desires will be fulfilled the moment you desire—time will offer no obstruction.

How many become “religious” because of such greed?

But there are many who cannot be lured by greed—the very cunning ones. They say, “We’ll see. The future? Not yet. Better half the bread in hand today than a whole loaf in the future. Let us drink the bottle we have now. The fountain we’ll see when it comes; it’s far away—who knows if it even exists?”

And then Omar Khayyam says: if there truly is a fountain there, then keep a friendship with the bottle here—otherwise, if the habit dies, what will you do with a fountain? Keep a little taste alive—otherwise even if a fountain stands before you, what will you do? You’ll sit like a sage! Keep the relish for women alive; else by the time the apsaras arrive, your sap will have dried up. Keep yourselves green, leaves sprouting—otherwise when the rains come, if the roots are dry, how will you turn green? So Omar Khayyam says: here we are simply practicing, in small measure, that which God will give there—keep practicing.

The cunning one will not fall for greed. He will say: finish what is in hand now; tomorrow we’ll see. For him you need fear to frighten him. Greed is not enough to entice him.

The cunning fears fear. He must be terrorized—by the hells. Fires burning, cauldrons boiling with oil, you being thrown in and pulled out. And the joke is—you will be thrown, but you will not die. For if you die, you will get peace. So there is no death in hell—remember.

Here there is death; in hell there is none. Death is a great peace—you will learn that in hell. Life there is so hard you will crave the refuge of death. But no one can commit suicide in hell. It just does not occur. Fall from a mountain; bones will break, but you will not die. Burn in fire; you will char and fester, but you will not die. Your body will be pierced—worms will crawl through the holes—but you will not die. Such grotesque pictures of hell have been painted.

The cunning man, if he is not lured by heaven, must be made to tremble by fear, to think, “Watch your step—if you slip…!”

There are two ways to pry the bottle of wine from his hand. One: if you miss your step, drink too much and stagger—beneath you is hell—fear will restrain you. And ahead is heaven; if you drop your indulgence now, there are fountains of wine there.

Between heaven and hell—between greed and fear—man is squeezed. That is why you bow your head in temples; look carefully—sometimes from fear, sometimes from greed. You salute a saint—sometimes from fear, sometimes from greed.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was climbing a tall tree to get the ripe berries. Before climbing he said, “God, keep an eye on me. If I reach the berries safely, I’ll offer four annas at the mosque today.” When he reached halfway, he said, “Four annas are too much for these berries—you must agree, God. We’re doing the labor, and four annas will go to you? Some beggar will enjoy them. Two annas is right.” When he was nearly at the berries, he said, “Best to be honest: these berries aren’t worth more than one anna.” When he began to pluck, he thought, “Why am I getting into this nonsense? No one is asking, no one is demanding—why trap myself with my own hand?” Instantly the branch snapped, and he fell, bones shattered. Getting up, he said, “This is too much! A little patience, and I would have offered something. What was the hurry?”

You bow sometimes from fear, sometimes from greed; and as long as you bow from fear and greed, you have not reached the temple’s threshold.

Christians did not include this story, because once it is, the empire of Rome cannot stand—the empire of the Pope collapses. The priest’s power lives by fear and greed. And Christians have the largest class of priests. You will be stunned to know—one million Catholic priests; then Protestants besides; and then many smaller sects. There are thousands of colleges on earth that produce nothing but priests. There are hundreds of thousands of churches. In sheer size, the Pope’s empire is unmatched. And this whole empire stands on fear and greed.

Now, try to understand the story.

This story concerns Jesus—not “Christianity.” And note well: the religion founded after a master bears little relation to religion. The source—the original spring—has a relation: Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha, Christ have a relation to truth; “Hindu,” “Jain,” “Buddhist,” “Christian” do not. They are shops, parts of your marketplace. They are created to satisfy you. They follow the law of economics: if there is demand, there will be supply. You are fearful, you are greedy—someone will supply. Someone hands you heaven, someone hands you hell. But Jesus, Krishna, Buddha, Rama, Mahavira want to snatch both hell and heaven from you. They want to make you fearless and free of greed. Because the day there is neither fear nor greed, on that day supreme light dawns in your life.

“Jesus, son of Mary, was passing through a village. He saw some people sitting by the roadside, faces long with deep anguish.”

Jesus asked them, “How did you get into this state? Why the long faces? Why such gloom? What disaster has befallen you?”

Go and look in temples, mosques, churches—you will find people sitting with long faces. You will never find a laughing man there. And if someone laughs, they will think an ignoramus has entered. If someone laughs in church, they will say, “Out! Leave!” This is a temple; here laughter is a sin. If you laugh in a temple, they will think you have insulted it. There, sorrow is the rule. There, gloom is the proof that you are religious. The more dead you sit, the more they will believe you have progressed.

But Jesus asked, “Why are you sitting with long faces, in anguish? How did you get into this condition? Who put you in this grief?”

They said, “The fear of hell has made us like this. We are afraid. Hell is near.”

And note: in India there is the convenience of many births—birth after birth, an extended journey. Jews, Christians, Muslims accept only one birth. Thus the fear becomes terrible. Every death is the last death. After that, nothing can be done. Whatever you can do must be done now, and it will be decisive. A Muslim or Christian can fear in a way a Hindu cannot—because the Hindu says, “No hurry. If we sin now, we’ll do virtue next birth. The accounts will balance. And we can always bathe in the Ganges.” No such fear. And the journey is long—birth after birth. No account is being settled in a day.

And Hindus have no Judgment Day, no Qayamat, no final day of decision. They say: an endless journey; there is no last day when you are judged. But Muslims and Christians believe in a last day. They believe you will be raised from the grave, and that there is only one life. So what you did is final; it cannot be changed. You cannot return to say, “Forgive me; it was a mistake; I’ll never do it again.” What is done is engraved in stone; there is no way to erase it. Therefore fear can arise in a Muslim or Christian to a degree a Hindu will not feel.

“‘The fear of hell has made us like this,’ they said.” Jesus listened and walked on. Farther along he saw others by the roadside, sitting in various postures and poses, practicing assorted techniques, very forlorn. Jesus asked, “What is your trouble?” They said, “The desire for heaven has made us like this.”

Go to Jain temples or monasteries; the first kind will be found—those who are afraid. Hence the Jain monk’s face can seem like a statue of fear. He trembles; everything is sin. He fears everything. If he drinks water, fear; if he breathes, fear; in the night, if he is thirsty—hell; do not eat this, do not eat that; do not wear this; do not sit thus; do not stand so—utterly frightened. Hell around him on all sides, and he stands, somehow balancing himself in the middle. His legs tremble; if ever drowsiness comes, fear arises—any slip, and it is hell.

The first kind you will find in Jain temples—frightened by fear. The second kind you will find in Hindu ashrams. Someone doing headstands, someone twisted into odd postures, someone holding his nose, someone with ears plugged, someone fasting, someone standing only.

I met a man who has been standing for ten years. They call him “Khadeshri Baba”—the “Standing Saint.” He does not sit. He will not sit until heaven is attained. He has vowed. Ask him, “Saint Standing, who put you in this condition? Who told you to stand?” God gave legs to bend and sit—how did you decide this? He will say, “This hardship? The desire for heaven made me like this. Heaven will not come free. One must pay the price. One must earn it.” He is busy earning heaven.

Jesus went further in the same village. And remember, it is your village—not somewhere else. Every village is that village. The whole earth is that village—there dwell three kinds of people. Then he saw some others. Seeing them he felt they had borne much and experienced much. There was a maturity to them—a refinement. Like gold that is purified in fire—they had that sheen, that glint that says, “We have passed through the flames.” They too had endured suffering and sorrow. But suffering and sorrow did not wither them; they made them seasoned. Their hair had not turned white in the sun; they had ripened through life’s process. They had borne much, but they were joyous. Sorrows had come, storms had risen, tempests had blown. They had faced desires; they had known the fruits of pleasure and pain. Their feet bore the marks of the road; thorns had pricked them. They had breathed the fragrance of flowers, and yet they were blissful. Life had ripened them; life had integrated them. Within, they seemed one. Life had centered them. It looked as if they had not been defeated by life—they had won. They were in joy.

When asked, they said: “We have seen the reality; we have seen the truth. All other destinations were forgotten.”

One who sees the reality forgets everything else.

What is that reality? What is the truth?

The truth is: there is nothing to fear. The truth is: there is nothing to be greedy for. The truth is: whatever I can be, I am.

As you are, you are complete. As you are, you are whole. There is not a hair’s need for improvement. And you have nothing that can be snatched away. Or, whatever you do have, there is no way to take it from you. It is yours; it is your nature. Just as no one can take heat from fire, no one can take your nature from you. As water flows downward—no one can take that away—so what you are cannot be taken. Nor can anything be added to you. This is the reality—and it is a hard one.

It means: as you are, so being is your destiny. This is your destiny. “We have seen the reality,” they said. “All other destinations were forgotten. We no longer want to go to heaven; we no longer care to escape hell. We have nowhere to reach, nothing to renounce. From this seeing, we are rejoicing.”

You too will not rejoice until there is something you must renounce. So long as there is a place to avoid, fear will remain, and fear will shrink you. So long as there is something to gain, desire will remain, greed will drive you.

The day you have nothing to gain and nothing to lose—no heaven, no hell; you are neither asking God to save you nor begging anything of Him—all destinations disappeared that day; only that day will the rain of joy fall in your life for the first time.

But when there is no destination at all, you become like a zero. Then what are you? You are like an empty sky. The sky neither comes nor goes. Winds come and go; trees sprout and fall; men are born and die; desires arise, ripen, and wither—but the sky is where it is, neither coming nor going—because the sky is empty.

The wise have called the soul the inner sky. As there is sky outside, so there is sky within. That sky is what you are. One who has seen that has seen reality. And one who has seen it begins to dance. Then his flute never falls silent. Then the anklets on his feet keep ringing. Then there is an unending sound. An eternal music. The resonance of Om goes on resounding. Not for a single moment is there any separation from this truth.

You are cut off from it because you are either seeing the enemy whom you fear, or searching for the friend whom you desire. One who is seeing an enemy will not be able to see himself; one who is seeing a friend will not be able to see himself either. And one who wants to see himself must forget both friend and foe, so that he can look at himself in utter carefreeness.

One who has seen himself has seen the reality.

Jesus has passed through your village. He has seen some of you sitting on the wall, weeping, in anguish, afraid of hell. In the same village he has seen others in a courtyard, busy with odd devices.

Have you ever thought how childish some of these things are? Someone thinks that by breathing through one nostril he will attain Brahma-knowledge. Is Brahma-knowledge so cheap? Dependent on your breathing through one nostril? Are you children? You are talking more foolishly than children. Children would laugh: if knowledge of Brahman comes by breathing through one nostril, then by breathing through two, it will be double! You stand on your head, and you think samadhi will happen? If only it were so easy, the whole earth would stand on its head. And when samadhi didn’t happen standing on your feet, how will it happen standing on your head? No—what attracts you is the difficult, because what others cannot do, when you do it, it gratifies your ego.

You say: look at me, I stand on my head; you cannot. People stand for hours on their heads; no liberation comes of it—only the delicate fibers in the brain are damaged. You will not find intelligent people among long-time head-standers. Not one of them ever gets a Nobel Prize; it cannot happen. Not one becomes a great scientist; no Picasso, no Einstein is born from that crowd. How many days have you been doing headstands? You will find the dull-witted among the head-standers. Naturally so, because scientists say if too much blood goes to the brain, its subtle fibers break; they cannot bear such a flood. And the more delicate the fibers, the more intelligence develops. Animals lag behind in intelligence for this very reason—more blood goes to their head than to yours; the delicate fibers cannot develop.

If you ever visit an asylum, you will see idiots always sit with their heads hanging, bent between their knees. They won’t sit with heads upright. The idiot’s posture is that. Sit like that yourself and you may feel a false calm. The mind is not becoming peaceful; only intelligence is being dulled.

By topsy-turvy practices God is not found. To speak truly, no method is needed to find God—because He is already found. He is the beat of your heart, the breath of your breath. From within He sees, from within He hears. Within you He walks, He sleeps. But you will see this only when there is neither fear nor greed.

“They said: we have seen the reality; all other destinations were forgotten.”

You, too, if you see reality, will forget destinations—one way. Or, if you forget destinations, you will see reality—the other way. They are two sides of one thing. Where do you begin? You can begin from either side.

See reality: what do you have to lose? Why fear? Even in hell, what suffering could be given to you that you are not already getting? What fear is there of hell? And if a bottle could not give you joy, how will a fountain? And if a woman, beautiful for a moment, could not give joy and only brought suffering, then beware of apsaras. A woman who was beautiful for a moment gave such trouble—by simple arithmetic, one who is forever sixteen will become a noose. At least here there was a way to escape; there, there will be none. Here you could run away; there—where will you run?

When pleasures here failed to be pleasure, the grand pleasures of heaven will not be pleasure either. When in small pleasure you found pain, in great pleasure you will find great pain.

Look rightly and the reality is clear. There is no veil on truth—only a veil on your eyes. Truth lies open; only you sit with eyes closed. Open them. Or, if seeing this reality feels too hard, too painful, then only two roads remain for you: join those on the first wall—many already have; or join those in the second courtyard—many are there too. That is easy. But do not think that the easy takes anyone to truth.

Fearing hell is easy. Being lured by heaven is easy. Knowing reality is difficult. But only one who knows reality is freed.

That’s all for today.