Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #9

Life can be a song, it can also be a sob. Because life in itself is nothing at all—it is a blank sheet of paper. Whatever we write on it, that is what life becomes. Life is our handwriting. Our vision, our way of seeing, our thinking process—these determine the meaning of life.

There is no meaning in life; whatever we put into it is what comes out of it. That is why Hindus called life “maya.” Understand this word—it is very precious.

“Maya” means magic. You have seen a magician: he pulls a pigeon out of an empty basket! A snake appears from an empty basket. But you know very well that a pigeon or a snake cannot come out of an empty basket; it must have been put there first. Whatever was put in is what is taken out. The basket is not empty—only appears so. The whole art lies in that appearing. What has been put in is taken out.

Hindus have called this entire life, this world, maya. Maya means: in this life too, whatever you put in, that is what comes out. This too is a magic show. In a magician’s show someone else deceives you; in this show you deceive yourself.

If life had any inherent meaning, then man could not be free. Then man would be dependent—bound by that meaning. There is no meaning in life—there is absolute freedom. You can draw whatever meaning you wish. All meanings are your interpretations.

Nietzsche has a very famous saying: “There are no facts in the world; only interpretations.”

A flower—you say, “It is beautiful.” Is that a fact or an interpretation? You say, “It is beautiful.” Standing next to you is someone to whom the flower does not appear at all—to whom beauty means nothing. Even if he hears you call the flower beautiful, he hears it like a deaf man. And if no one were on the earth, would the flower be beautiful or not? If no one were here, the flower would be—but it would be neither beautiful nor ugly. “Being” would remain empty.

“Being” is a blank sheet. You write the meaning. All meanings are your signatures. We must understand this correctly; much depends on it.

In the modern West, almost all thinkers are deeply troubled by one thing—that life appears meaningless. They start searching. And the more you search, the more you find there is no meaning.

The searcher will never find meaning in life; there is none there. Meaning has to be put in—not sought. If you want to weep, then put in meanings that turn life into melancholy. If you want to laugh, put in meanings that turn life into laughter. And if you want to be free, then do not put any meaning into life at all; agree to its meaninglessness.

That fourth point is not in the story. The fourth cannot enter a story. The story contains three points; we will understand those. The fourth is not there. The fourth is such that it is difficult to put it into a story.

There are three laborers. The sun is the same; it is the same noontime. All three are breaking stones; even the stone-breaking is the same. But their visions are different.

When the first one is asked, he replies with sadness and sorrow, “I am breaking stones.” There must also be anger in it. This sadness is aggressive. He is working very unwillingly. He is forced to do it. He is doing it in slavery. He has to break stones, and he is very troubled by it. It is a compulsion—as if someone were breaking stones in a prison.

He has to break stones; there is no longing, no desire, no relish in it. So he is angry with the one who asked. He says, “I’m breaking stones. Can’t you see? Are you blind? It’s obvious I’m breaking stones. What else is there to ask?”

Sadness has two modes. One is a positive, active mode—then sadness turns into anger. The other is negative, passive—inactive—then sadness becomes only heaviness, a kind of indifference, a passivity. Then anger does not arise; only lethargy descends.

Anger is the aggressive face of sadness; sadness is the non-aggressive face of anger. Those who can attack become angry; those who cannot attack cry and become sad.

The second laborer’s sadness is non-aggressive. He does not say, “I’m breaking stones; are you blind?” He says, “I’m earning a livelihood.” He too is compelled. But it is as if no one else has imposed this compulsion; he has chosen it with his own hands. It is a prison too, but no one pushed him into it; he came on his own. One has to earn a livelihood. One must earn bread. There are children; there is a wife. The web one has woven with one’s own hands—its duties must be fulfilled.

The first laborer is breaking stones. The second is earning his bread.

And the third laborer, pausing his humming, says, “I am building a temple.” He too is breaking stones.

In the outer fact there is no difference at all—not a hair’s breadth. The sun is the same. The labor of breaking stones is the same. The sweat runs on all three. But the first is aggressively sad, miserable. The second is non-aggressively sad—melancholy.

The third is joyous. He is not breaking stones; he is building a temple. His act is linked with something vast. He is not doing some small task. A great temple is rising; he is a participant, a maker, a creator of it. Without his stones the temple could not be built. His hand is in the making of this temple.

The third is joyous because he is connected to something greater than himself. He is happy, delighted, because something meaningful is happening.

To earn bread is not a great meaning. You see ninety-nine out of a hundred people in life unhappy, because they are all earning bread. They go to the office, the shop; they work; they earn—but they are only earning bread.

A mind that only earns bread cannot be very cheerful. The belly must be filled somehow; they wish that if only there were no belly, how good that would be. They wait for death as if it will bring release.

Two shopkeepers were partners. The business was going badly. In fact business never really goes well, because desires are always excessive. Every enterprise falls behind. Earnings are always less than the craving. Business always goes badly. Earn as much as you will, the “belly” is never filled! There is no way to fill it.

So both kept lamenting that business was bad. Customers were nowhere to be seen. One became so depressed he said, “It would have been better if I had never been born. If this life had never happened, it would have been good. Better if I had not been born at all. In what unfortunate moment was I born!”

The other said, “Let it be—nobody has that kind of luck. Very few are so fortunate as never to be born. Who has it? Don’t bring it up. Who is so fortunate as not to be born! That is a very great stroke of luck.”

To be born will be; misfortune has begun. The belly must be filled. Bread must be earned. Work must be done.

The mind becomes sad because what you are doing seems so small. And even after doing and doing, nothing meaningful emerges, no essence comes out of it.

Every day you will get up, go to the office, come back. The next day you will get up again, go again, return again. Life becomes a fixed track. Like freight wagons endlessly shunting back and forth—meaningless; such is life. Shop–market, home–market; the shunting goes on. One day you die; no destination is ever reached!

The third laborer said, “I am building a temple.” There is a meaningfulness in his act. He will perish, but the temple will remain. He will not remain, but his deed will endure. In the stream of time he will be lost, but something is being made that is more lasting; thousands will worship there.

Whenever you see joyfulness in someone’s life, know at once that he is building a “temple.” Whether the temple is true or false is not the point. Which temple is true?

But whenever you see a person cheerful and radiant, understand that he is building some temple. He is engaged in an act larger than himself. Whether he is serving the nation, bringing socialism, running a campaign for freedom, preparing to be a martyr, resolving to eradicate poverty—you will find a sparkle in his eyes, a buoyancy.

Bhagat Singh is as delighted on the gallows as you are not at your shop. And scientists say a martyr’s weight increases at the time of hanging—a very strange phenomenon. Bhagat Singh’s weight increased by a pound. Exactly the day before, the weight was one thing; exactly an hour before, it was another. He became so thrilled on the gallows that his weight increased by a pound. He had eaten nothing. Not even drunk water. There is no material basis for weight to increase. But when someone is deeply joyous, it is as if something of the vast, energy-filled sky all around enters him. He is thrilled even while hungry.

When you are sad, even if you eat, your weight does not increase. People say the angry, the sorrowful, become emaciated. However much food and comfort they have—it yields little fruit. The weight keeps dropping.

You have perhaps seen—children especially notice it; grown-ups deny it… Sometimes you too—when you sit quietly under the open sky—you see tiny points of light floating in the air. If you lower your gaze, they come down; raise it, they go up. Children see them a lot. Scientists say that is life-energy. Hindus called that element prana. It pervades everywhere. And when a person becomes very joyful, those tiny points of light all around—the particles of energy—enter his body. His weight increases. And when someone becomes very sad, the stored points of light within him—the particles of energy—escape into the sky. He becomes depleted. His weight decreases.

Bhagat Singh is so happy climbing the gallows; you are not so happy climbing to your shop. Your shop seems worse than a gallows. Jesus is not unhappy on the cross. You are unhappy even on your bed. What is the matter?

Jesus is building a vast temple. A very meaningful occurrence is happening all around. Through his hands an act of value is taking place—greater in value than Jesus himself. Bhagat Singh is fulfilling a dream of freedom. He will perish—no worry. But something greater will remain, will unfold. He becomes a vehicle in the orchestration of the Vast.

Whenever someone joins with something greater than himself, only then does he become joyous. You have often seen that people get exhilarated in a crowd. A mob is moving. There is a Hindu–Muslim riot. You will find Hindus in the mob exhilarated, Muslims too. They were never exhilarated before. They are the same ordinary people who used to go daily to office and shop, and today there is a sparkle in their eyes, a spring in their step. Usually they dragged their feet, and today they are running. Today these small people have become part of a big crowd. Hinduism, Islam—some large goal has possessed them. This is why upheavals often occur in the world.

Hitler made Germany cheerful, because he gave a dream, an ideal, a vision of the future. People became so delighted with that vision—the dreams became so palpable, a temple started to rise—that they were ready to do anything, to commit any sin.

What was Hitler’s hypnosis? Only this: you were confined in your pettiness; there was no meaning in your work; he gave meaning to your life. You began to hum.

Whenever even a glimpse of meaning comes into life, humming begins, a song arises. Whoever you see happy, know he is building a “temple.”

That third person was singing. He paused to answer, then said, “Look—I’m building a temple.” Then sweat is no longer sweat. The sun is no longer sun. Breaking stone is no longer labor; it has become worship—prayer—a great temple is being built. I too, though small, am becoming meaningful.

Whenever you link your smallness with some vastness, you begin to feel meaningful. When you are alone, you are utterly petty; when you are connected to anything, you become cheerful.

Modern man is not as cheerful as people in the past. Because people of the past built many temples. Today’s man does not build temples at all. He does build huge buildings—skyscraping. All temples pale beside them; yet they are still buildings—not temples. Hundred-story towers pierce the sky, clouds drift beneath them. No temple is so high. Still, they are “houses.” You build them for your own living; there is no invitation in them for the vast.

Little huts that were temples—hardly houses—under a tree perhaps, a few stones piled to make a small shrine, a tiny Shiva-temple. There were no carved idols—stones daubed with color became Hanuman or Shiva. And even such images made man joyous.

People of the past were happy, joyous, because God felt very near. True or false—that is not the point. Their interpretation of life was beautiful. Whatever they did was not vanishing into emptiness. It had a fruition, a logical completion.

Whenever you fall in love, you get a small glimpse. A young man falls in love today; his gait today and yesterday are different. Yesterday he walked as if stones were tied to his feet. Today he walks as if wings have grown on his feet. Yesterday he changed his clothes; today he also has changed them. But today the clothes are different. Yesterday he washed his face; today again. But today everything is different. Today he is getting ready for someone—some young woman waits for him.

Beyond his smallness a connection has formed with another person. Some eyes will see him as beautiful. In those eyes he will find meaning. Till yesterday he only saw his own face; it had little significance. Today someone else will praise him. Someone else will be delighted. He has become bigger.

Think a little: when one person, falling in love, becomes so happy, then how great must the happiness be of the person who falls into prayer! Because love is a relationship between two persons. Prayer is the name of your relationship with the whole existence.

This third laborer was certainly blissful, happy; he was building a temple—the abode of the Beloved. This was not stone-breaking; it was service. The sweat falling under the sun—this was worship. He was renouncing; he was happy.

But these are three states. There is a fourth state, when the person becomes silent—neither unhappy, nor sad, nor happy; only silent.

Imagine Buddha among these three, also breaking stones. A fourth laborer—Gautam Buddha—is breaking stones. If the storyteller had asked him too—what would Buddha have said? Buddha would remain silent. Buddha does not hum, because if sadness is an interpretation, then joy is also an interpretation. If you are sad, it is because of your own reasons; if you are cheerful, again it is because of your own reasons. If sadness is an illusion, joy too is an illusion.

Buddha adds no meaning to life; he sees it as it is—blank. He adds nothing to it. He is content with the blankness. From this blankness neither sadness arises—for sadness comes only if you add it—nor joy arises, because joy too comes only if you add it.

Buddha neither breaks stones, nor earns a livelihood, nor builds a temple. Buddha adds nothing; as it is, that is what Buddha calls truth. He is content with it. From this contentment a peace happens.

Sadness is a restlessness, joy also is a restlessness. That is why if you remain sad too long, you will get tired; if you remain cheerful too long, you will also get tired.

Have you ever laughed for a very long time? Then fatigue begins to come. Then you want to be free. Now you don’t want to have to laugh anymore. The lips get tired. The mouth is stretched, tense.

Laugh too long and even laughter becomes futile. How long will you hum? Humming too makes you tired. In the end humming also becomes sad; dust settles on it. Songs too grow stale. The more you repeat them, the more dead they become. Love too becomes stale. Prayer too becomes a repetition.

The gait with which you went to the temple the first day will not remain the same day after day. Slowly the temple also becomes routine—part of daily ritual.

The wings you had in your feet on the first day of love will not be there every day. In a few days you will stop seeing that woman altogether. In a few days you will get used to her. In a few days you will stop caring what she thinks or not. In a few days you will just forget; she will sit near you and you will remain alone—you closed within yourself, she closed within herself. Some years later perhaps you will not even see one another. Even seeing will stop. Your pace, those wings, that jubilation, that humming—everything will stop.

There is also a fourth laborer who does not appear in the story. Because it is very hard to show the fourth laborer. He lives—and he lives having accepted life’s meaninglessness; he adds no meaning to it. The moment you add meaning, maya begins.

The three are worldly modes; the fourth is the non-worldly mode—the way of the sannyasin. So do not think the third is a sannyasin; the third is also worldly. And if you must be worldly, then be like the third. If you must choose, choose humming—why choose sadness! If you must accept a falsehood, accept a song; why accept tears!

In this story all three are worldly. But there is a fourth type too, who is not worldly—who does not say there is meaning in life. Who does not ask whether life has a purpose; who accepts it as it is. He looks at the flower but does not say it is beautiful or ugly. A beautiful woman passes: he does not say “beautiful,” nor does he say “ugly.” He sees, and lets the blank page remain blank; he writes nothing on it. He has no interpretation. He is without interpretation. He lets the fact remain a fact; he adds nothing to it. He agrees not to alter anything. He says, “As it is—so it is. And I am content with it.” This contentment is called “tathata”—suchness. But such a man you will neither find sad, nor humming songs.

No one has seen Buddha sad. No one has seen Buddha humming songs either. Buddha is neither happy nor unhappy, because those are two sides of the same coin.

And remember: whoever laughs will also have to be sad sometime. Whoever is sad will also laugh sometime. Because one taste cannot be stretched too long; the taste has to change. And in life all things change; nothing is fixed.

The story does come to completion, but if you track it in life—the one you found humming outside the temple because he was building a temple—if you follow him, you will soon find him in tears somewhere. At some point you will also find him sad. Because how long can you build a temple? You cannot build temples twenty-four hours a day.

Even in the lives of martyrs there are moments of sadness. In the lives of renunciates there are moments of indulgence; the opposite enters. The one who prays becomes filled with desire. If he has to keep going to the temple every day, then sometimes he will have to go and knock at the door of a brothel! Then the temple becomes flavorful again.

In the West, psychologists suggest that a husband who wants to keep up his interest in his wife should sometimes fall in love with other women too. Then the wife again becomes meaningful. That is why there is a movement to swap wives in the West. Friends exchange wives—for a day or two each week. And those who have tried such experiments say there is a benefit: interest in the wife returns. The taste changes. The wife regains interest in the husband.

Because the mind always wants the new. The mind is not satisfied with the old. It wants fresh sensation, a fresh wound, a new song.

The temple too will become old. How will you build new temples every day? How will you find a new lover every day? That is why everything becomes stale and everything brings sadness.

And the person breaking stones in anger—if you follow him too, you will find him laughing somewhere. Because a person cannot remain angry for twenty-four hours! To remain steadily in one state for twenty-four hours—that is the capacity of a great yogi.

If you want to remain angry for twenty-four hours… Have you ever thought—can you remain angry for twenty-four hours? It will be impossible to hold. That is the capacity of a great yogi—to remain in one state for twenty-four hours. An ordinary man cannot remain in one state even for a moment. No sooner has anger come than it is gone. No sooner has laughter come than it has slipped away. The two doors are very close. A gust of wind enters from one corner and leaves from the other. This angry man too you will find somewhere chuckling. He too will be laughing.

And the man sitting utterly dejected, saying, “I am earning a livelihood”—well, in the evening he will return home after earning his bread. Watch him at the chessboard, and you will find he is not sad. See him playing cards—you will find he is not sad.

If you follow these three men through life, you will find: they all change. The one who laughs, cries. The one who laughs becomes sad. The one who is sad laughs. The one who is angry sometimes hums a song.

Life is continual change, a flow. There is a fourth man—who stands beyond the flow; he alone is the goal. The fourth man remains as he is. Since he adds no meaning, change never enters. You will always find Buddha the same.

Buddha has said, “I am like the water of the ocean. Taste me from anywhere; you will find me salty.”

He has spoken rightly. Buddha’s taste remains the same; taste him from anywhere. Wake him from sleep, you will find him the same. Because the one who has added no meaning of his own—his life becomes eternal.

If you were to raise Bhagat Singh from his grave, you would find him sad. Because the freedom for which the poor fellow gave his life turned out to be worth two pennies. Raise the martyrs from their graves and ask them, “Was it for this freedom you died, for which you were so delighted? Was it to hand over power to these politicians that you sacrificed?” Bhagat Singh will beat his chest and weep, “How could we have known the future?”

Gandhi was alive—freedom came. And after freedom Gandhi began beating his chest. He kept saying, “No one listens to me. I have become a counterfeit coin. I have no currency.” Gandhi was unhappy.

Gandhi thought he would live a hundred and twenty-five years. But a few months after freedom he said, “I no longer have any desire to live a hundred and twenty-five years.”

This is very surprising.

Raise Lenin from his tomb and ask, “Was it for this Soviet Russia that you lived and died?” Raise Sun Yat-sen and ask, “Is this the China for which you sacrificed your life?” You will find them all unhappy. Wherever they are, they will be beating their chests and weeping.

Though fairs may be held upon the pyres of martyrs, within those pyres there will be tears! Because whatever you do, the result never seems to come. Something opposite happens.

Nothing truly changes. Life keeps going in the same gait. White skins are replaced with black skins. They are not better than the white—often worse. Every revolution takes us into a ditch. All change proves a few days of agitation; then things settle and go on as before.

The man rejoicing in building a temple does not know that priests will seize that temple. People will turn it into a shop. The temple will become a place of exploitation!

The temple you are building—when does it become God’s temple? Whatever you build, man seizes it! He is happy now because he does not know.

Buddha said, “After my death, no temples should be built; no idols should be made. Because the more idols and temples, the more man has been exploited.” But what difference does that make! More temples of Buddha were built than of anyone else, and more idols of Buddha exist on earth today than of any other person.

Jesus fought the Judaic priesthood so that the kingdom of God might be established on earth. The kingdom of God did not come—the kingdom of the pope came! And the pope is worse than the priest against whom Jesus fought. Names change; men remain the same. Faces change; the play goes on. Exploitation continues.

These three are ordinary people. Pay attention to the fourth. He is not in the story because it is very hard to see him; he is invisible. And the day you see the fourth, that very day the inner revolution begins in your life.

Can you not be content with “life as it is” without becoming sad? Is sadness necessary? Can you not be content with life as it is without adding any imagination? Because imagination makes you cheerful. Can you not stand with the fact—without adding a dream? Will you add a dream anyway—good or bad? Will you interpret anyway? Can you be without interpretation? If you can, you become a Buddha. Then you are neither sad, nor angry, nor delighted; you are simply silent—utterly silent—utterly empty. And that very emptiness is the true attainment.

Not “meaning”—“emptiness” is the worthy attainment. Meanings are all added. And as long as you add meaning—maya will continue. Whatever you put in, you will take out.

First you put in, then you take out. First you say of a person, “How beautiful!” Then you become infatuated with that beauty. First you say, “How great!” Then you become mad for that greatness. You put it in, you take it out. You become bound in your own interpretation.

Is a life without interpretation not possible? Is it not possible to stop with the fact alone?—It is. Those who have stopped have attained the ultimate of life—the secret of life—the emptiness.

There is no meaning in life. Life is; there is no “meaning.” Life is not going anywhere. It has no destination. Life will remain as it is. What your eyes declare makes no difference. Whatever color of spectacles you put on—the color of life does not change. Only the curtain over your eyes changes.

All three men have a veil over their eyes.

The world means: a crowd of people with veils over their eyes! Then whatever the veil is, that alone is seen. A man in pursuit of money sees money everywhere. He sees nothing else. Even when he makes a friend, he sees a mine of money in the friend—then he makes the friendship. Even when he bows to someone on the road, it is because he hears the jingle of coins; then he bows. His world is veiled by money.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin sat on a riverbank. It was the rainy season—the river was in flood. Ten blind men came; they wanted to cross. Nasruddin said, “I will carry you across.” This is an old-time story. He said, “I will take one coin from each blind man.” They agreed.

He carried each blind man across on his shoulders. He ferried nine; by then he was tired, and the tenth was a bit heavy; his foot slipped and the tenth blind man slipped from his hands. The flood was strong; it swept the tenth away.

Hearing the noise and tumult, the nine blind men were startled. “What happened, Nasruddin?” Nasruddin said, “Nothing at all; this is in your favor—you will have to pay one coin less.”

“That a man has died”—that does not register—for one whose eyes are on money. “We will have to pay one coin less!” He is sad that he will get only nine coins! If he had ferried ten, he would get ten!

Those whose eyes are blinded by money see money everywhere. Their whole life is arranged around money.

Those possessed by ambition for status—everything around them becomes a ladder for prestige. They can step on you and climb; that is your only value. For them, all people are means, and the end is their status—their throne.

Immanuel Kant wrote a very valuable sentence. He wrote that a moral person is one who does not use another person as a means. Then it is very difficult to find a moral person. Because everyone uses everyone else as a means.

A politician comes to your door. He praises you greatly. But he is persuading you—to be a step so that you bend your shoulder, he can put his foot and climb up. Once he climbs, he will forget you. He will not even recognize you. Who recognizes the staircase? Not only that—once people climb up they begin to remove the stairs. Because the stairs they used can be used by others too. So as soon as a politician reaches the top, he removes the stairs. The very stairs he climbed are the first he removes. Because those are the dangerous stairs: through them one can reach here. Others can reach here the same way.

Whom you exploit, your friendship toward them is a deception. You are actually an enemy.

And exploitation goes on everywhere. In the name of all relationships, exploitation goes on. Even your love is exploitation. You love not because the other is valuable. The Upanishads said, “A husband does not love his wife because she is valuable. He loves her for his own sake—for his own pleasure.” The wife gives pleasure, therefore he loves her; the day she ceases to give pleasure, love will be finished that very day.

Your love, your relationships, your friendships—all are stairways. And if using another as a means is immoral, then it is very hard to find a moral person in this world who does not use you.

Whatever intoxication sits on our eyes—of wealth, office, prestige, fame, ego—by that we see. The whole world appears colored in that hue, and truth cannot be seen as long as any “glasses” are on our eyes.

Therefore the wise have said: as long as you have desire (vasana), you will not be able to see truth. Because you will color it; your desire will dye it.

The Sanskrit word for desire is very valuable: “raga.” And raga also means “color.”

As long as there is raga in your mind, there is color in your eyes. Dispassion (vairagya) is the result only for the one whose eyes have lost all color.

Vairagya means colorless, without hue. As long as there is any desire in your eye—that is the color of your eye. You see through that.

Have you ever noticed: if you have fasted and you pass through the market, that day restaurants, hotels, food stalls and sweet shops will stand out in excess. They were always there. But you used to pass by with a full belly. Then you never paid attention. You did not pick them out. Now they stand out. They seem to be many more. The shops in between vanish. Shoe shops, cloth shops—they all disappear from your view. The whole market seems to be of sweets. Because you are fasting; your eyes are colored by food.

A celibate walks the street—men do not appear, only women. There is a color on his eyes. Whatever color you carry in your eye, that color is projected around you. This we have called maya.

To see the fact dyed by a color is maya. To see the fact as fact is Brahman. Then you pass through the market with empty eyes. Then you do not select. Then “what is,” that alone appears to you. Then you pour nothing onto the world. You are only a witness.

These three laborers—all three are colored by raga. And if you have to choose within raga, choose the third. If you must fall ill, choose the religious person’s illness. If you must go somewhere, go toward the temple. At least you will hum! At least you will be cheerful! That too is delusion; it is not real. But if you must dream, then dream well. Why dream badly? If you must dream, why dream of a beggar? Dream of an emperor. But even dreams are not in your hands.

You cannot even change your dream. Try a thousand tricks to dream of being an emperor—what difference does it make? You have no control over dreams. Dreams are controlled by those who have control over their desires. Then they are the masters of their dreams; and the one who is the master of his dreams does not dream at all. Why would he dream? Because he knows that being an emperor in a dream is as futile as being a beggar in a dream. If you are breaking stones before a temple, then being unhappy is futile, being sad is futile, being cheerful is also futile.

Facts neither make you sad, nor unhappy, nor cheerful. Facts only make you quiet. And quiet is a very different state. It is a state beyond excitation. Then you are exactly balanced. You are not tilted here—to sadness, misery. Nor tilted there—to cheerfulness, pleasure. You are not tilted at all; you stand in the middle; you are balanced. This is what the Gita calls sthitaprajna—steadfast wisdom.

Your consciousness becomes as still as a lamp whose flame becomes motionless in a room where no wind ever enters.

That fourth man is not in this story; I add him. But if the fourth does not come within your understanding, then choose the third. If the third seems too difficult, choose the second. And the first is not to be chosen at all. That is you.

Your life is a rage; an aggressive violence. It is not that you are sometimes angry—you are in anger. You rise, sit, walk—but you are angry. You are filled with rage against the whole of life, filled with vengeance, as if you have to take revenge. As if to be born was a great injustice done to you! You are full of complaint.

Dostoevsky has a famous novel, The Brothers Karamazov. There are few novels on this earth like it. If someone asked me to put one novel at number one, I would choose Karamazov. It is a scripture of the value of the Bible, the Gita. In it a character says to God, “If I meet you, there is no question of thanking you. Not even of complaining. Life is so futile—what to complain about! Even complaint presupposes the thought that perhaps it could be better. I do not even have the desire to complain. I only want to return the ticket you gave me to enter this world. Keep it. Put me outside—of existence.”

You are enraged, unhappy, aggressive—the state of the first laborer is yours. You are breaking stones. If nothing else is possible, at least slide toward the second. Turn stone-breaking into earning bread. Soften anger into non-aggression. You will remain sad, heavy, but at least you will not attack others. You will suffer but not make others suffer. That too is something. But if you have a bit more courage, go toward the third.

If stones must be broken, what is the harm in humming a song? And if stones must be broken, then break them humming. The stones will break better and you will be spared from breaking. Think: I am building a temple.

Make life into a beautiful dream. But if you take my word, these three are the same. Their differences are very superficial. Within, there is no great difference.

Society would like you to become the third stone-breaker. So that you break stones, hum songs, and raise no obstacles.

Psychologists say: beyond the second, going further is impossible. At most you can avoid anger; you can become melancholy. Freud’s life-long conclusion was that man cannot be happy. It is not his destiny. His nature is such that at most he can become less unhappy—happy he cannot be.

Psychologists stop at the second. But the ordinary man does not move beyond the first at all.

The first man is the ordinary man—as found everywhere in the world. The second is a bit of a psychological thinker—concerned a little with the mind. The third is religious. The fourth is spiritual.

There is a great difference between religion and spirituality. Religion has temples; spirituality has no temple. Religion has scriptures; spirituality has none.

At the third, all religions end; all temples, mosques, gurudwaras—end at the third man. And the real man is the fourth—the Fourth. That which is turiya—the fourth—that Buddha-man—seek him. He is the ultimate goal. There you remain as you are. The world remains as it is—two blank mirrors.

Someone asked Rinzai, “What did you feel when you attained enlightenment?” He said, “As if one mirror were placed before another mirror, and one mirror reflects the purity of the other; the other reflects the purity of the first. And purity multiplies to infinity. Because before one mirror another mirror—no image forms; only purity is reflected.”

The day you become the fourth man—you as a mirror, blank; this world also a mirror, blank. And these two mirrors reflect each other—keep reflecting. Innocence, purity, multiplied infinitely—limitless. No form arises, no figure is made. This infinitely multiplied purity becomes formless.

Seek the fourth; that alone is the search; that is the ultimate goal. But if you find the fourth impossible, do not settle for the first.

Even the temple must be transcended. The temple is not a destination. But if from home you reach the temple, that is also much. Then the temple too must be left behind.

Let me retell the story:

Somewhere a temple was being built. Three laborers sat in the sun breaking stones. A traveler passed by; he asked them one by one, “What are you doing?”

He asked the first. He said, “I am breaking stones.” There was great pain in his voice; his tone was heavy.

He asked the second. He said, “I am earning a livelihood.” He was not angry, but his sadness was no less heavy.

The stranger went to the third and asked the same question. This man was singing, his eyes were bright, he was blissful. Stopping his song he said, “I am building a temple.” And then he started humming again.

These are the three. Even the third is very hard—to find. Even the second is not easy to find. The first is common; he is everywhere. That is you. Your family is that. Your society is that.

The first is utterly ordinary. Do not be content with him. From the first—lift your foot toward the second.

The rage you feel toward everyone—do not make it aggressive toward all. Give up violence. If you must be unhappy, be unhappy because of yourself. Anger means: the other is responsible. Sorrow means: I am responsible. Understand this difference.

Anger always says, “The other is responsible. You did this; therefore I am upset.” Sadness always says, “I am sad because of myself: I am responsible.” Anger breaks stones. Sadness earns bread. The responsibility is mine. There is a wife, children. I have built this house and world. Now I must fulfill it.

At least move from the “other” to the “self.” That too is a big step. To move from violent to non-violent is a big step. To stop attacking the other and be content with oneself—that too is great.

Those whom you see sitting in temples—in Jain sthanas and Buddhist viharas—those you find there are second-type people. They have left society because they have stopped giving responsibility to the other. Now they have taken all sorrow upon themselves.

Therefore you will not find a Jain monk cheerful; you will find him sad. He is the second type. He has left the home because he removed responsibility from the other. Now he sits with the whole burden on his own head. He is sad.

This too is not a goal. Because flowers will not bloom in his life either. He hangs like Trishanku—suspended. The earth has slipped away; the sky has not been found! The world is gone, and liberation has not arrived. His monastery, his vihara, his temple—all are stuck in between.

The third type you will find sometimes in a mosque, sometimes in a Hindu temple—singing, worshiping, dancing. Note this difference.

Hindus have built temples upon the foundation of the third man. Jains have built theirs upon the foundation of the second. Therefore a Jain monk appears sad. A Hindu sadhu appears cheerful.

To a Jain monk the Hindu sadhu’s cheerfulness looks wrong. Because a sadhu should be sad! Sadhu means: dispassion from the world. What cheerfulness can there be in that? In the Hindu sadhu’s cheerfulness it seems there is still a little attachment to the world—he is still savoring.

Vaishnavas are devotees: they walk on the foundation of the third man. They sing, they dance, they are cheerful.

If you can, become the third type of man. If you must remain in this ignorance, then remain singing. If you must cross this road, cross it humming. What is the use of crossing it weeping? You cannot escape the road by weeping—then pass laughing.

But remember, my choice is not among the three. For me, the three are equal. I tell you this only if you must choose… It is like someone saying, “If I must choose an illness, I will choose this one.” But illness is illness. Why choose illness at all? Why not choose health! If the choice is between health and illness, then these three are illnesses.

Around the fourth man, no religion can be constructed. Around Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu—no religion can truly be constructed. All religions take shape around the three somewhere.

The fourth man is like the formless. Even if you understand him, you still cannot grasp him. He will not fit into your fist. He is utterly free. But keep your attention on him. One must become such that there is neither sadness nor anger nor cheerfulness—where all these diseases drop. Where no ripple arises. Neither tears flow nor does laughter happen. Where there is profound silence, emptiness, peace—that is samyakta, the even state. There you are wholly balanced. There balance arrives. In that moment you are outside this world.

The moment you become balanced, quiet, your eyes empty, no desire remains, no color remains, no interpretation remains—truth reveals itself.

The day you are without interpretation, on that day truth will be revealed. That is why Krishnamurti keeps repeating: do not go to truth carrying any doctrine of truth. Do not go with any doctrine, because doctrine will distort truth. Do not interpret. Go to it bare, naked, empty.

This fourth alone is the very idea of meditation. This fourth alone is the art of entering samadhi.

This story is about you.

And you must go beyond this story—only then will your essence, the quintessence of life, the flower, the fragrance—arise. Only then will your lamp be lit.

If you ask me, drop all three; seek the fourth.

And remember, however simple these three may appear, they are very difficult. Because all three are false. Nothing is harder than falsehood. And however difficult the fourth may appear, it is very simple, natural; because nature alone can be simple. What Kabir hums—“Sahajo samadhi bhali”—that fourth is the natural man. These three are unnatural.

Natural means: the way your nature is—adding nothing. The moment you add, it becomes unnatural. The moment you paint, it becomes unnatural. As you are in your nakedness—your digamberness, your nudity—that very naturalness is samadhi.

Ponder this story and try to go beyond it.

That’s all for today.