Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #5

Before we enter the story, understand a few things.

First: The Jews believe that God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh; therefore the seventh day is holy, and no work should be done on it. Since God Himself did not work that day, no one should work on the seventh day.

As with all rules, this one became mechanical. “No work on the seventh day” was grabbed like a blind man clutching a rut in the road and trudging along it—because he has no eyes of his own. The Jews seized it just so: whoever works on the seventh day is a sinner and should be punished. But the meaning of the seventh day was precious. Later Jesus said: the Sabbath, the holy day, is made for man; man is not made for the Sabbath. Rules exist for man, not man for rules. But often rules become more important than man. Even if man must be sacrificed, the rule must be fulfilled.

Rules are made to serve man, yet quickly they climb onto man’s chest and he becomes their servant. Whenever that happens, rules turn suicidal.

Jesus broke the Sabbath rule because the rule had mounted the chest of man.

Those who are truly religious do not follow rules; rules follow them. The irreligious person follows rules; rules do not follow him. He fulfils something because it is required. Its arising is not from his inner consciousness. Rules remain external.

Jesus said: if you are to be religious, your truth must be deeper than the truth of the so‑called religious; your conduct must be deeper than the conduct of the so‑called religious.

The so‑called religious person obeys rules—on the outside. Inside, he is in rebellion.

The Sabbath arrives—the seventh day, the holy day—and you stop work. But does your mind stop? Perhaps that day it works even more. On the other days your energy is spent in work; on that day your energy wanders in the mind. You make plans, you dream. You are waiting for tomorrow, when work returns and your craving can engage itself in it.

The so‑called religious is religious outwardly. The truly religious is religious within.

The so‑called religious Jews accepted only this rule: do not work on the seventh day. Whoever works should be seized and punished. But what is the inner meaning of God resting on the seventh day? Without understanding the inner meaning, the rule is futile. The inner meaning is that the consummation of work is in desirelessness.

Six days He worked—preparation; on the seventh He rested—completion. Work is complete only when it flowers into desirelessness. You may run your whole life—work and strive—but if you do not arrive at non‑doing, if your running does not reach a point of stillness, you go without fruit. Your journey is fruitless.

Work is a means; desirelessness is the end. We are so immersed in action only so that we may come to nonaction; then action has meaning.

This is an upside‑down thing: work, so that man can be desireless. Run with desire, so that desirelessness can arrive. Run, so that you can stop. Toil, so that you can rest. The end is the opposite—there lies fulfilment.

You walk only to arrive. No one walks for the sake of walking. And the one who only keeps walking for the sake of walking is mad. One walks to arrive. Arrival means: there you will stop; the walking will cease.

When the end is fulfilled, the means are dissolved.

God created the world in six days so that the seventh—the holy day—could flower. That day there is no work.

Let your life not end in six days; reach the seventh. Do labor, but let the essence of all your labor be rest at the end. Let your mind think, but let the final fruit of thinking be that you descend into no-thought, into meditation.

Action is the world; nonaction is liberation. Six days God created the world; on the seventh He entered liberation. So it is not enough merely to cease outer work on the seventh day. On the seventh, desirelessness should flower. Six days you are in the marketplace—in hustling and bustling, this work and that work, a vast web of entanglement. On the seventh day, be outside all entanglement. No shop, no world, no wife, no father, no mother. The whole show is silent. You are outside it. That is the holy day.

And if this holy day can be realized, then even during the six days you will remain outside the world while being in it. For the one who understands the seventh day, doing continues but he knows himself as a non‑doer. He may run, yet he understands: I am still. He may toil, yet he will not carry tension. He will be in the family and yet outside; in the world, but the world will not be within him. This will be an inner matter. Externally, it is only this: leave work on the seventh day and sit.

Second, understand this too: whoever has understood the essence of desirelessness has a touch that is magical. Whoever is desireless—if he touches the dead, they become alive; even birds made of clay will fly. And one who lives out of craving—if he touches the living, they become dead. Living birds will drop as lumps of clay.

The essence of the tale cannot be in words. Words are only pointers. If you have noticed that whatever you touch dies, you will understand the story of Jesus.

Wherever you touch, death flowers there. Whatever comes into your hands—dies. Your touch turns living persons into objects. You fall in love with a woman, and she begins to become a thing. Today or tomorrow, as wife she will become a decoration of the house.

Whomever you touch, wherever you touch, personhood is lost, the life‑breath shrivels, wings close. You are left with stones in your hands. Life is lost. For life can be where there is desirelessness. Desire is poison—killing. Desirelessness is nectar—life‑giving.

Near a desireless person you will find yourself more alive. Your flame of life blazes forth. In the presence of a Buddha the ash falls away from your ember. With the ignorant your ember—your ignorance, the ember of your life—is smothered by more ash. Keep this indication in mind.

Another pointer: whenever one who has attained desirelessness does something, we see only his act—what he does. We do not see what he is. This story points there too. Our eyes cannot see beyond the act; they stop at action; they do not see the within. Until we see the desireless one himself, we cannot recognize him. That is why Jesus was crucified; there lies the reason.

People saw his deeds, but it is difficult to see a deed rightly because its interpretation is hard.

Someone will interpret: those birds that flew—Jesus could not have made them; how could flying birds be made? Someone will say: it is a trick, we are being deceived. Jesus is claiming what cannot be. Another will say: keep such incidents out of books. Either such things never happened or, if they did, there was some fraud behind them—some trick. And if they really happened, they are so mysterious that to write them is dangerous; they would mislead people. Books are meant to clear the path, not to lead into mystery. Books are for explanations.

Now let us enter the story and try to understand it step by step. It is a Sufi parable, a Sufi teaching episode:

“Jesus, son of Mary, one day in his childhood was sitting by a pond making birds out of clay. The other children, who could not do so, were filled with jealousy and went to the elders to complain about Jesus.”

This too needs a little understanding.

Often you do not condemn another because he is doing wrong. Often you condemn because you are filled with jealousy. You cannot do, and he can. Look into your mind and see whether in your criticism, in your complaint, there is jealousy.

A man drinks wine. A man goes to a prostitute. You are going toward the temple. Great disgust arises in your mind; you condemn. But truly, is your condemnation because the man is doing wrong? Or is there deep jealousy? Jealousy that you cannot go to a prostitute, you cannot drink. You are weak, afraid, so you go toward the temple.

People sitting in temples condemn others’ sins. Under the condemnation lies deep jealousy. For if one becomes truly religious, condemnation dissolves. No complaint remains in his mind.

Go to your so‑called saints and monks: you will find little besides condemnation and complaint. Stand before them and they look at you as if you are a great sinner. In their eyes toward you there is no other feeling but condemnation. You are despicable. That condemnation shows they are jealous of you. They too wanted palaces like yours. They too wanted to enjoy beautiful women as you do. They too wanted the vast spread of worldliness that you have. But they proved weak. They could not sustain the race. It was tough. They were unfit. Dropped out. And note: whoever drops out of the race becomes, naturally, a critic.

Writers know: in literature, those who become critics are the ones who cannot create literature. They wanted to be Kalidasa, Shakespeare. They could not. Because to be a Kalidasa is not easy; to be a Shakespeare is not easy. Then there is only one way: step off the road and start criticizing those who could be Shakespeare. It is very easy. Nothing is cheaper in the world than being a critic.

Chekhov has a little story. In a village there was a great fool. Everyone laughed at him, mocked him. A wise man came to the village. The fool said: show me a way; I am tormented. Wherever I go, I am ridiculed. The wise man said: No problem. A small thing. Listen in your ear. Start tomorrow. Within fifteen days you will be known as wise. And in fifteen days the great fool became a sage. People praised him. Whoever saw him was overawed and said, “A great wise man.”

What formula did the wise man give the fool? He said: Do one thing—learn to criticize. If you hear people say, “See, how beautiful the moon is,” shout, “What is the beauty in it? Prove it!” An ordinary moon is up—you talk nonsense. It rises every day. Where is the beauty? Define beauty! People will be intimidated, for who can define beauty? It is hard to prove. If people praise a poem, say, “It’s only rhyming. Where is poetry?” Who can prove it is poetry? If people admire a painting, say, “What is this? Child’s play—colors smeared. Not worth two pennies. What masterpiece?” Just don’t do anything—if you do, you’re trapped. Only criticize, condemn. Wherever anyone calls something superior, you call it inferior. People will be cowed. Soon you’ll be accepted.

And so it happened. Within two weeks the great fool was called wise. People said his understanding is deep. We ordinary folk said it is poetry; he said it is rhyming. No one could prove it is poetry. We said the moon is beautiful; he said, “Who says so? Where is the beauty?” No one could prove where beauty is. He began to rule.

The weak become critics. The powerful are creators. The impotent are full of condemnation. Wherever you find condemnation, understand that deep impotence hides behind it.

Those other children too wanted to make birds, but they could not. They had no real issue with Jesus making clay birds on the Sabbath. They too wanted to make them, but their birds would not take shape; Jesus’ birds looked alive.

Filled with jealousy they went to the elders: “On the Sabbath, the holy day, Jesus is at work—making birds.” Even this was wrong—play is not work. Work means: there is a desire for a result.

Even if Jesus was making clay birds, it was play, not work. There was no desire for fruit. From the outside it looked like work—he was engaged in activity. From within it was play—not work.

You are going to the office. I go out for a walk—on the same road. Our feet move; we both travel. From the outside one might say: both are walking. But I will tell you: you are walking, I am not. I am only taking a morning stroll. I have nowhere to reach. I can return from anywhere. I can stop anywhere. I have no destination. But you can neither return from anywhere nor stop; you must reach the office. Outwardly the acts look the same. Inwardly, one is play, the other is work.

Work and play differ greatly. Hindus say God did not “make” the world—it is His play. In the Christian story, God made the world in six days and rested on the seventh. The Hindu God is ever at rest—because it is play; it does not tire.

You have experienced it: a man returns exhausted in the evening and says, “I’m going to play badminton to remove the fatigue.” A wonder: the man is tired and if he plays, he will be more tired! But no—play does not tire; play revives. Play returns energy. Play is rejuvenation.

The Christian God must be tired after six days, for six days of work would tire even God—what to say of you! Work tires. But the Hindu God has not tired, will never tire; there is no cause. So in Hindu tales there is no mention that He rested. He is resting—because play does not tire.

Hindus say this world is God’s lila, His play. But if you cannot come upon play even one day out of seven, how will you find it all seven?

Jesus was “playing.” The children gave a wrong report and the elders accepted it, for there is little difference between our children and our elders. Their intelligence is of one kind—childish. Otherwise they would have said: play is not work. Jesus is playing—let him play.

Children do not work; they play. Hence rules cannot be applied to children. Nor to saints, because they become children again. Rules apply only in the middle—to the “sensible.” Children are naive. Saints become naive again. Rules do not apply to them.

Even courts let children off—they are not yet of age. Trouble begins with coming of age. The trouble is in being “adult,” because the ego has ripened, hardened. Now you cannot play; now you only work.

Even when you play, it is work. You have seen it: people play cards and swords come out; they play chess and it ends in wrestling. Even play is not play—it is work. Something is to be gained behind it—victory/defeat.

But a child—Jesus is making clay toys. What defeat, what victory? No one will take them to market to sell and make money. After a while he will leave them there and go home, not even looking back.

Buddha said: walking along a path I saw children on the riverbank building houses of sand. Great quarrelling too—someone’s sand house fell by someone’s push. Great dispute. The children were very upset. Then evening came. Someone called from the shore: run, your mothers are calling you. Those who were building houses of sand—with effort and zeal, for which there was dispute and struggle—began to jump on their own houses. They mixed the sand back into the sand and laughing went home. Buddha said: so is the sannyasin.

Where the worldly are building big houses, deeply attached—immersed in toil, in disputes, in litigation—the sannyasin remembers home, that the Mother is calling. He remembers the Source; evening has come. And trampling his own houses with his own feet, laughing, dancing, he returns.

Jesus was playing. The children complained from jealousy. The elders accepted the complaint out of ignorance. There is little difference between children and elders; both have small, petty intelligence. Otherwise the elders would have said: play is play. Rules don’t apply to play. Children may play. Rules don’t apply to children.

The Hindu sutras are clear. Hindus place the sannyasin outside rules. They say: no social rule applies to the renunciate, for one who has become childlike has gone beyond rules.

You know Hindus speak of four varnas. The sannyasin has no varna. A shudra may become a sannyasin, a brahmin may become a sannyasin—once sannyas happens, varna ends, because varna belonged to society’s rules. That was the world of work. Once one renounces—what work?

But your mind persists; difficulties remain.

Vivekananda was a shudra—Kayastha. “Kayastha” literally means “one situated in the body, bound to the body,” hence grouped among shudras. Yet upon sannyas, even a brahmin would touch his feet. With sannyas, the matter ends: Who is he? The question no longer remains.

Ramakrishna was a brahmin—before sannyas. Vivekananda a shudra—before sannyas. After sannyas there is no brahmin, no shudra.

The sannyasin is beyond rules. We do not apply rules to him. Children too are beyond rules. Only the ego falls within rules—and must fall within, for it is the source of trouble. For the ego we must post police and courts; the ego is a dangerous poison, a seed of venom.

Yet the elders accepted the children’s complaint. They went to the pond and demanded to see Jesus’ birds. Jesus pointed to his birds and they flew away. “If one like Jesus touches even clay, life enters.” That is the whole meaning of the story. If one like Jesus shapes birds in play, even those birds fly. You, in play, will lock a bird in a cage.

Many are fond of parrots and keep them caged. Your “play” is killing them. For you it is play; you have stolen their sky. Your play is full of cruelty.

If a man is ignorant, even his play will contain violence. If a man is ignorant, even his play will spawn war. If a man is wise, then even birds of clay will take to the sky.

This is sweet and worth understanding. Do not take it literally that the birds truly flew. How will clay birds fly? Real birds struggle so much to fly; you wish to fly and cannot. How would clay birds fly? But the meaning is clear: wherever one like Jesus stands, sits, walks—there life gains momentum, dormant life awakens, the hidden becomes manifest. And even in matter, in clay, the divine is hidden.

Not only did these birds fly, but “birds” flew out of those we call humans—many “birds.” They too were clay. Before meeting Jesus they too were dead.

There are many tales that Jesus raised the dead: he touched a corpse and said, “Arise,” and the dead man sat up. He took away people’s illnesses; he touched the blind and they began to see; he touched the deaf and they began to hear. If you take these literally, Jesus appears a magician—a miracle‑worker. But people like Jesus are not miracle‑mongers; their whole life is a miracle—they are not “miracle‑doers.”

And the greatest miracle is not that by touching a blind man’s eyes he sees. For even with eyes, do you see? Even with ears, do you hear? The great miracle is that you truly “hear.” The great miracle is that you truly “see.”

Thus Jesus prefaces his sayings with: “He who has ears, let him hear. He who has eyes, let him see.” Had Jesus given eyes to the blind, that would be a miracle. But he gave “eyes” to those who already had eyes—that is the great miracle. Had he given ears to the deaf, that would be writ in medical history: he was a great physician with deep methods. But that would not make Jesus God. And giving sight to the blind or hearing to the deaf—medicine is doing such things; there is no need for Jesus to intervene.

Jesus gave “eyes” to the seeing, “ears” to the hearing, “heart” to those who had hearts. He gave “life” to the living—who had nearly assumed themselves dead, blind, and deaf.

The elders went to Jesus and demanded to see the birds. Jesus pointed to the birds he had made, and they flew. One elder said, “Flying birds cannot be made; therefore there is no breach of the Sabbath.”

Answers of the intellect! Elders mean intellect. The experienced. Experience understands nothing of life’s mystery. What is your age? How much have you known? It has no relation to wisdom. Often elders neither see nor understand; their experience itself becomes the obstacle. They know so much that they cannot even hear.

One elder said, “Flying birds cannot be made; therefore no breach of the Sabbath has occurred. The children gave a false report. Those birds were not made of clay.” Another said, “I want to learn this art.”

Experience first denies the mysterious. Hence elders’ lives have no mystery. Around children mystery dances. A butterfly flutters—so much mystery. A flower blooms—so much mystery. Children keep asking, “Why is this happening?”—not because they want answers, but because they are awestruck, expressing their wonder. Everywhere they see astonishment. Do not silence them with answers. They are not asking for answers; they want to make you a partner in the mystery they are experiencing, in the fairy‑world spread all around. A small shadow moves under a tree—you see nothing; for the child, countless worlds stir, countless dreams are born.

A child lives as pure poetry all around. There are no answers anywhere—only questions, everywhere curiosity. But an old man’s curiosity dies. He knows everything! In his rising and sitting he announces: “I know.” You cannot surprise an old man—that is the sign of old age. You cannot surprise him. Do what you will—he says, “I know.”

I have heard: a man was forcing a horse into his house. Two men passing by helped, for the horse would not enter. But when he began to take the horse upstairs, they said, “What on earth are you doing? Where are you taking the horse?” He said, “Help if you will; don’t talk. I’ll tell you upstairs.” With great difficulty he took the horse up, led it into a bathroom, shut the door. The two men asked, “Now tell us the secret—you have astonished us!” He said, “I have an old friend. Whatever you tell him, he says: ‘I know.’ He is coming today. I want to surprise him just once—hear him exclaim, ‘What is this!’ Just once in life.” But the man was mistaken.

When the old man came and opened the bathroom door, he was not surprised at all. He said nothing, came back down. The friend waited for some remark, but he said nothing. Finally the friend had to ask, “Anything…?” The old man said, “I have seen so many things in life and horses in so many places that there is nothing to be surprised at. It could be a coincidence.”

You cannot surprise the old. The day you cease to be surprised, know that you have become old. The day wonder dies, know you are old. As long as you can be surprised, as long as something can startle you, as long as you can ask, “What is this?”—as long as something remains new and mysterious—you are a child, you are pure, simple, your life is innocent.

One elder said, “Impossible. Flying birds cannot be made; so the matter is meaningless. No Sabbath was broken.”

Even seeing such a miracle, the elder remained blind. Fly even clay birds and you still cannot awaken the experienced. Do miracles and he will still find a way out. He will say, “There is nothing special here.” He found a neat way: “Flying birds cannot be made; therefore no breach. He did nothing.”

Another said, “I want to learn this art.” He too is an elder. One way of the old is to deny that there is any miracle, any mystery. The second way is to think: if there is a miracle, it must be external; inside there is a method one can learn—a trick, a technique. No mystery—only a technique we do not yet know.

This second one too denies the mystery: “Teach us the art. You know; we do not. That’s the only difference. We will learn.”

Remember: a mystery is that which cannot be learned, which no one can teach. There is no key to it. You cannot turn mystery into a technique. And whatever can become technique is not mystery.

The second is killing the mystery too—he is a bit scientific: surely there is a trick; you did it, so you know how. Tell us. I want to learn.

And a third said, “It is not art; it is merely deception.”

These are the three stances old age takes. One: direct denial—nothing happened. Eyes shut. He answers from his experience and rejects the mystery. Second: something must be there which I do not know, but can be known. There is nothing unknowable—only unknown. If I learn, it will become known.

The second views life through the lens of art. The first through common sense. The third says, “It’s a trick; no art either.” He views life through science.

These are the three lenses: the common man’s, the scientist’s, and the artist’s.

The third said, “It’s a trick.” Because it cannot happen. It violates scientific law; there is no art here—only deception. Like a conjurer pulling a pigeon from a hat—no art, only trickery. The pigeons were hidden earlier; the secret is in hiding, not in creating. How he hid them is another matter—but it’s a trick. There is no key to it.

Case closed. A great miracle occurred—clay birds flew into the sky; the elders closed the case.

When I was small, if my grandfather caught me meditating, he would say: “Stop this fraud—trying to sleep under the name of meditation.” He could never accept that one can meditate. He thought I was sleeping with closed eyes and calling my sleep “meditation.”

He was experienced. He had known life. And from knowing life he had concluded that there is no such thing as meditation.

The old mind knows all answers; you cannot surprise it. Raise the dead, make clay birds fly—still you cannot shake him. He is dead within; the energy that startles is gone.

Closed. But then the next day… Again, one day the same boy sat in his father Joseph’s workshop—Jesus in his carpenter father’s shop. A plank turned out a bit short; he stretched it and made it longer. When people heard this, some said, “This is a miracle; therefore the boy will be a saint.” Others said, “We do not believe. Do it again.” A third group said, “It cannot be true—keep it out of the book.”

In the father’s shop… Jesus is a carpenter’s son. News went through the village: the plank was short; he stretched it and made it long. Not credible. How can you stretch a wooden plank and make it longer? Wood doesn’t obey anyone.

The laws of life are blind and without exception—that is our belief. But it is not true. And to tell you this, such small stories exist.

Life too makes exceptions. Life too sometimes suspends its rules. Nature too sometimes steps off its road. When a Buddha or a Jesus or a Mahavira happens, nature becomes humble and occasionally lets go of a rule.

It is not that such a person wants the rules to be broken; he does not think of rules at all. He is so simple, as if he knows nothing of rules. In his simplicity rules sometimes break. In his trust rules sometimes break.

Jesus’ old friend Lazarus died. Jesus went and said, “Lazarus, arise!” and they say Lazarus arose. Either we say it is imagination, a tale, a lie, a trick: Lazarus was lying as if dead, the village was told he had died—this was a device. He lay there, and when Jesus came and called, he sat up. A partnership between Lazarus and Jesus. That way the matter is settled; we escape the miracle and are saved from surprise. But those who search deeply say: it is possible. Life is unfamiliar with death. Even when Lazarus “dies,” no one dies; only consciousness leaves the body. But why can’t the one who left the house return to it? If someone calls from the heart, consciousness can return—if it is true that the body is only a house. You go out, your wife calls from within, “Listen!”—you return.

Across the earth such stories exist: Savitri pursued the messengers of Death and brought Satyavan back. Jesus called, “Lazarus, arise,” and Lazarus arose—as if he had just stepped outside, standing at the door, able to hear. But the call must be from the heart, for mind is cut off as soon as one leaves the body. If you call with the intellect, it cannot be heard—the links are broken. But the heart goes along; the heart is not part of the body. Hence scientists cannot find the heart. They say: there are lungs; there is nothing like “heart.” The pump is there—where is the heart? The heart is part of the soul. Even when you leave this house, your heart remains. The heartbeat is part of the body; the Heart is something else—your state of feeling.

When Jesus said, “Lazarus, arise,” it was said from the Heart; the Heart hears it. It is entirely possible that the one who has gone out returns in. If someone like Jesus calls and one does not return—that is impossible. The dead can arise.

Can a piece of wood be stretched and made longer? Our trouble is that for us the laws of science are everything; the deeper laws beyond science mean nothing.

In Russia there is a woman alive even today who can call objects by voice. When she calls, a pot placed afar is pulled toward her. Many tests have been done; each time she has succeeded. All sorts of scientific scrutiny—Russia believes neither in God nor in the soul. Yet she passed all tests; no fraud. Then one option remains: some deeper law is being used. Plants are alive; they too can hear, be drawn, be called.

Research on plants is proceeding. It is being found that plants have a simpler, deeper heart than you; their hearts can be moved.

With Ravi Shankar’s sitar they did experiments on plants in Canada. Seeds were planted in some pots where Ravi Shankar played the sitar; the same seeds, soil, water, sunlight, and manure were used in identical pots placed at a distance, where no sitar played. Some pots were on his left, some on his right, some farther away. When the seedlings sprouted, there was a surprise: those near the sitar grew leaning toward it, as if, being hard of hearing, you turn your ear to listen. All leaned toward the sitar. Those on the left leaned right; those on the right leaned left. But those far away, where the sitar could not be heard, grew straight.

Plants listen.

Religion’s vision is that the whole universe is living energy. There is nothing dead. That which appears dead—such is your seeing, for you cannot recognize life.

It could be that the plank had just been brought from the forest and life’s current was still flowing full in it—and it was stretched. There is no obstacle to this. It is possible.

Thousands of such “miracles” happen daily on earth—of this sort too. But the same kinds of reactions that came to these miracles came to them as well.

Some elders said, “This is a miracle; this boy will be a saint.” They too gave an explanation; case closed. They did not even feel wonder. Curiously, even miracles don’t make the old wonder. They find an explanation: “It’s a miracle; the boy will be a saint.” End of chapter. They have read in scriptures that such miracles occur, and those who do them become saints. Finished.

The old mind doesn’t even wonder at a miracle; it explains. Then they go back to work. They never think again about what happened. You too often speak statements you do not know. You give answers that are dead, and you think the matter is closed.

A truly inquisitive person prefers to live with the question rather than give a hollow answer. A question may open a door; an answer closes it.

Those elders perhaps did not even go to see Jesus. They already “know.” And those who know—why go look? They “know” the boy will be a saint. Finished. A rule—they turned even the miracle into a rule.

For one who knows, all rules are miracles. For one who does not, even miracles become rules. Rules are dead.

Some others said, “We do not believe; do it again.” This is important. In life, whatever is truly important—miraculous—cannot be repeated. Only that which is routine, regular, can be repeated. We can repeat that which follows general rules. Miracles happen only now and then—outside rules. We all say, “Do it again.”

Such incidents occur in East and West. Scientists hear and say, “Do it again; only then we will believe.” They too are right in their way; science accepts laws only after repeated testing. But a miracle cannot be made to happen again. The meaning of miracle is that it happened when you did not know.

Suppose Jesus’ father said: the plank is short; we need a longer one—what now? Jesus was sitting silently, as he would have been—meditative. He rose, without thinking, without knowing, without any idea; he stretched the plank. It stretched and became longer.

If you then tell this boy to do it again, that same state cannot arise. This time he will do it knowing. Now the innocence is gone. Now he is clever. The calculus is clear. If the event happened because of innocence, it cannot happen now.

People come to me: “The taste that came in meditation the first day did not come the second.” Often it is so. The first taste does not come the second day. “What to do?” The second day you have become clever; the first day you were simple. The first day you knew nothing of what would happen; now you know. The first day you were a blank page—going into the unknown, with no map, with no expectation, simply doing. Suddenly, it happened. Today you move by a rule; today you expect; today you want it to happen. That is a new element. Yesterday there was no expectation; today there is. Your mind is not as it was.

If someone says to Jesus, “Do it again,” that very demand prevents it.

In your life too, sometimes something happens that is like a miracle. But if someone says, “Do it again,” you will miss; it will not happen. That is why the wise say: the first love is never repeated. The first love is altogether different; its flavor is different—experience‑less. You don’t know what is happening; something greater than you is happening. Second love cannot be like that; now you know. Now you step carefully. Now you are in control. By the third, it becomes ordinary; by the fourth, it is part of business. Therefore old religions opposed divorce: they said marriage happens only once. That sprouting of love happens only once. Try to do it again and it becomes stale. It cannot be repeated.

Whatever you demand to be repeated you bring under the rules of ordinary things. The miraculous does not fall under rules. Thus the difficulty: many times it has happened.

Some years ago, across the land a yogi named Rao loudly proclaimed he would walk on water. He had prepared for months, years; in solitude he had walked on water, so he claimed. Such claims trap you. You will meet failure. The whole country was advertised to; thousands gathered. He seemed assured—not mad; there was no sign of insanity. All arrangements were made: a pool, expenses. He took the first step—and sank.

What happened? Everyone assumed fraud. But think: if one intends to cheat, will he choose a deception in which being caught is certain? If you were to cheat, would you attempt to walk on water? He could have tricked us to the last moment and run away—but he did not. Great cameras were set up to film a historic event; the world’s press was present. He could have backed out a moment earlier—then we would say deception. But he did not. He came. Had he said, “I cannot; I made a false claim; forgive me,” that too would fit. He walked—assured, relying on some experience—that he could. But he sank.

No one studied what really happened. The matter is only this: some events cannot be reproduced because your state of mind changes.

This man, in some innocent moment, walked upon water. His mistake was to think that because he could do it alone, he could do it before all. But in public, the situation changed. Now he was full of self‑consciousness, arranging to walk—controlling. Miracles do not occur under control. Whoever has tried to reproduce miracles has failed. Then people say: fraud—because where is the proof?

The very meaning of miracle is that it cannot be reproduced at will. There is no way to make it happen again, because the inner state in which it happens cannot be recreated on command. Hence whatever is reproducible is not a miracle.

If Sathya Sai Baba produces vibhuti from his hand every day, it is not a miracle, for miracles are not by nature repeatable. If talismans are pulled from the hand daily, it is not a miracle. If Swiss watches are produced daily, search a little and you will find them in the suitcases. That is not a miracle.

A miracle can never be “done again.” It may happen again—once in a while—when the inner state happens again. But you are not its master. Whatever you can master is science; whatever you cannot master is religion.

Some elders said, “Do it again, then we will believe.” Jesus did not “do it again.” It cannot be done again. What happened—happened. If it is to happen again, it will happen. You are not its controller. You are only the field in which it happens—not the master who makes it happen.

And a third group said, “It cannot be true. Keep it out of the book.” How can it be true? It is outside our experience. And whatever is outside our experience—how can it be true?

Every man makes his experience the boundary of truth. How small is your experience; truth is surely larger than your experience. Truth is vast. How much can you experience? Even then, much remains beyond. Hence anyone with a little awareness will never weigh truth by his own experience. He will say, “It has not happened to me, but it may happen. My experience is not all. Infinite experiences remain. There are paths I have never trod—on those paths such flowers may bloom. On the paths I have walked, such flowers may not have bloomed.”

Paths are infinite; flowers are infinite; experience has no shore. But everyone makes his experience the boundary: “If it accords with what I know, it happened; otherwise it did not.” As if you are truth—and you define it. Where you end, truth ends? When you were not, was truth not? If your experiences are erased, will truth vanish? No—truth is not so small.

But the third group said, “It cannot be true; keep it out of the book.”

Only that should enter the book which can be repeated. Only that which conforms to law. Only that which can be proven by evidence and experiment. Hence many events occur daily and remain outside the books. The most precious events stay outside, for there is no way to reproduce them. Even if you have seen with your own eyes, you cannot reproduce them. You may beat your chest and shout, “It is my experience; I have seen,” but others will say, “How can we accept it?”

Miracles happen every day. It is hard to find a person in whose life nothing has happened outside the rules—because life is free of rules. However dead you may be, sometimes life finds a gap and breaks in.

You sit in your room; suddenly a friend comes to mind whom you have not thought of for ten years. You open your eyes—he stands at the door. You say: coincidence—and keep it out of the book. You cannot imagine that for ten years you never thought of him, and today suddenly he came to mind; the memory and his arrival must be linked. Before his coming you received a telegraphic, telepathic message. But you say: coincidence—and put it outside the rule.

It happened to Sigmund Freud: he sat in his room; his leading disciple Jung sat opposite. They were in the library. Freud was a scientific mind; Jung a religious mind. They had great conflicts, which later surfaced. That day—the day of this incident—their conflict began. Freud said: I admit no miracles; no exceptions. Jung said, “Listen!” Suddenly there was a loud crack in the bookcase. Freud too was startled. Jung said, “This has happened to me many times: whenever such a crack is about to happen, I feel a tension in my stomach. And when the tension comes, I can say there will be a loud crack nearby.” Freud said, “Repeat it so I can understand—otherwise it could be coincidence: your stomach did something and you said so, and a crack occurred.” They talked on. There was no “method” to repeat. Half an hour later Jung again said, “Listen!”—and again the crack sounded. He said, “I felt the same pull in my stomach.” Jung wrote in his memoirs: Freud looked at me as if I were some ghost—and from that day our relationship deteriorated, for Freud could not accept this within his “book.” Freud did not record it; Jung did. But people think Jung is a bit unhinged; his words are unreliable. And how could one trust such things?

One of my friends once went out of town. At two in the night, in the hotel where he stayed, he heard loud knocking and someone called, “Munna!” He was astonished, because only his father called him “Munna.” He is elderly—a renowned professor and writer—no one else calls him that. The voice sounded so clear that he opened the door; outside there was nothing but wind hissing. A dark rainy night, drizzle. No one. He closed the door, thought, “Some notion—my mind. Or another sound I misheard—a dream.” Again, half an hour later, knocking and “Munna!”—so clear he opened again: no one. He phoned the manager: “What is happening? I hear knocking.” The manager said, “No one is here; no reason for anyone to call.” At 4:30 a.m. the call came: his father had died at 2:30. The first call he heard at exactly 2:30.

When he told me, he said, “Don’t tell anyone; people will think me mad. I tell you because to you one can speak heart matters. I myself don’t believe it—some delusion.” How will you reproduce such a thing? How prove it in a lab? Yet such things happen again and again—daily across the earth. A beloved dies; a knock comes to your door; sometimes even his image appears. But we keep it out of the book because it doesn’t fit our ledgers. We cannot repeat it. If you tell someone, he says, “You’re mad.” If someone tells you, you say, “You’re mad—deluded.”

So the third group said, “Keep it out of the book.” Life is not the name of fixed rules. Fixed rules are what we have found—to run life. Life is much bigger than them. As if there is a dense forest and we have cleared a little ground, cut trees, built our house. But just beyond is a thick jungle. We cleared a small patch. Similarly we have cleared a small part of life, which we call science. Beyond lies the vast forest—its own mysteries, its swaying miraculous shadows, its amazing laws. Sometimes you wander into that forest, leaving your tidy house—and you quickly return, frightened. Sometimes that forest sends news to your house—but then you shut the door, ignore it, keep it out of the book.

And if that jungle were only outside, it would be easy. It is inside you as well. You have tidied a small part of your consciousness—the conscious mind. Beneath it stretches the vast jungle of the unconscious. From that unconscious many things bubble up into consciousness; you push them back because they don’t fit the market, arithmetic, logic. But miracles surround you.

Life entire is a miracle!

Do not behave like those elders. Do not shut the doors on the miraculous. Do not say, “Do it again and we will believe.” Do not turn what you hear into “unheard.” In the book of your heart, record even that which happens only once and cannot be repeated. And do not say, “What I know is the boundary of truth.” What do you know? The infinite forever remains to be known.

Do not look for cheap explanations; do not say, “It is a miracle, so the boy will be a saint.” Do not be trapped in easy explanations. Keep the inquiry of life open and unbound. And whoever keeps his inquiry open and unbound—if not today, then tomorrow—the Divine will knock at his door.

That is all for today.