Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #12

The greatest riddle of life is this: that which has never happened, appears to have happened. You never slept, and yet every night you seem to have slept. You never died, and in every life you appear to have died. You were never born, and yet how many times you have taken birth. You did not wander even for a moment, and from beginningless births you seem to have strayed.

The greatest riddle of life is that what never was, seems to be.

The Hindus grasped this secret with great depth and said that this whole play is a profound joke. If the Divine is anywhere, His laughter must never cease. He must be laughing on and on. What a deep jest it is! Whatever the Buddha has attained, he had always had. Someone asked Buddha when enlightenment happened: “What did you gain?” Buddha said: “I gained nothing; remembrance returned of that which had always been. That which was never lost, I recognized.” Like a man carrying a treasure and begging on the road, and someone shocks him awake: “You—begging? Have you gone mad? You are an emperor!” Suddenly he remembers. God is simply a matter of remembering.

God is nowhere else; your very being is God. You are God.

And what greater riddle could there be than that God sets out to find God. If then God is not found, what is surprising in that? You will never find Him, because you are that.

It is like what I have heard: a man was searching for fire—inside the house. It was dark, so of course he took a lamp to search for fire. He needed fire badly. With a lamp he was searching for fire. The neighbor began laughing and said: “You are mad! The fire is in your hand—what need is there to search? From this very lamp, whatever fire you need can be brought forth.” Then he remembered.

Many times such things happen to you too: you wear your spectacles—and search for the spectacles with the spectacles themselves. Otherwise how would you search? Often it happens with those who write and read—clerks, teachers, writers—they tuck the pen behind their ear and then begin searching for it. What is stuck on the ear will not be found by searching.

The tale is told of Mulla Nasruddin: he was racing through the market on his donkey—great hurry. People asked: “Nasruddin, where in such haste?” He said: “Don’t stop me now, I’ll tell you when I return.” On his way back they asked: “What was the hurry?” He said: “I had to go to the other village; I was going to search for my donkey. Only outside the village I remembered that I was sitting on the donkey! Well, I am dull—granted. But you idiots, you should have told me. I couldn’t see the donkey because I was sitting on him and my eyes were fixed ahead. But you could see him!” The people of the market said: “When did you give us the chance! We even asked, ‘Nasruddin, where are you going?’” Nasruddin said: “At that time I was in a hurry.”

This experience must have happened to you sometime; if it has, it will be easier to understand.

When you search for something that is with you, it means there is a possibility in consciousness—of forgetfulness. Forgetfulness is the world, remembrance is Moksha.

If you are searching for something and you have truly lost it, then it cannot be your nature. Nature cannot be lost; at most it can be forgotten.

This wealth is not something you can abandon and forget and then it gets stolen. This wealth is you yourself.

As fire cannot lose its heat, so you cannot lose your consciousness. As water does not lose its coolness, so you cannot lose your satchidananda.

Yet it has happened. The impossibility has happened—you have forgotten. And you have been forgetful so long, so many layers of forgetting have accumulated in between, that unless you break them, the spring of remembrance cannot be found again.

Mulla Nasruddin’s landlord said to him: “Nasruddin, you borrowed money—have you completely forgotten? Today it has been six months; there is no sign of repayment!” Nasruddin said: “Good sir, give me a little time—surely I will forget. You keep reminding me every month; you just don’t let me forget. Give me a little time.”

A little time is needed—to forget; nothing else—just a little time. Ash settles; the dust of the road sits upon your mind. Time gathers dust. Then forgetting is not difficult. Only the interval of time—collects forgettings.

And the great wonder is this: the deeper your memories become regarding the world, the deeper becomes your forgetfulness of your own self. In knowing you—whatever you have come to know—that itself becomes the obstacle. In self-knowledge, all that you have known becomes the barrier.

You know so much that a crust of knowing has formed, and through it to reach self-knowledge becomes difficult. Hence the wise have said: abandon ignorance, of course; but you will have to abandon knowledge too—only then will self-knowledge be.

Unless your “information” is erased, unless you forget all that you have learned—unless there is an unlearning of the futile, the worldly, the outer—self-remembrance will not arise, surati will not awaken.

You will have to become empty. To be empty means only this: remove whatever you have gathered in the interval of time. And you will find a murmuring spring flowing within you. That spring is Paramatma.

You are seeking “Him” elsewhere. And you will not find Him anywhere, because He is hidden within you. You are searching outside the house, and He is resting within. This is the riddle of life.

Keep this riddle in mind, then this little Zen story will become comprehensible.

A Zen story has many facets, many layers. All religious stories have many facets and many layers. Stories are a precious technique. What cannot be said in tomes of scripture can be said in a small story. For in a story, images arise; it is not merely words, images are formed.

When I read this story, try to let the images form, so that you can “see” it—not merely hear it. For only if you can see will you catch its secret. The beauty of a story is that it can be seen; thinking is not necessary; it can be beheld.

This is the only kinship between truth and story. Truth cannot be thought, it can be seen. A story too need not be thought; you can see it. It is pictorial; an image emerges. And when the image arises, what you see and understand, you would never grasp from words alone.

If I say, “The morning is very beautiful,” and you have never seen the morning, you will hear the words, but no image will arise. And what can words say about the morning—that “the morning is very beautiful”? Such words are insipid. One who has seen the morning knows—the morning is multi-dimensional. That freshness, that air, the trees, the fragrance of flowers, the songs of birds, the sun’s rising, the breaking of darkness, the sky filling with new life, the thrill everywhere, the Ah! everywhere, bliss—how to say that?

Saying merely, “Morning is beautiful,” what becomes known? But the one who has seen the morning and has not forgotten the art of evoking images—as soon as he hears “Morning is beautiful,” the words vanish, the morning arises. Trees everywhere, greenery, the fresh breath of dawn, the earthy scent, birdsong, the rising resonance of morning, the sun climbing, casting a net of light across the whole earth—he sees it all.

Image is multi-dimensional. Word is one-dimensional. Life is multi-dimensional. Hence until you see something, a true glimpse does not arise within you. This is why Buddha, Jesus, the Zen and Sufi masters have spoken the greatest truths through small stories. Because the story turns into an image. And if you know the art of seeing images, you can live the story—understanding is not necessary. And what is understood by living—its flavor is altogether different.

Try to live this story. Forget for a moment this place, forget your presence for a moment; carry yourself there where Riko is sitting with his master Nansen.

Nansen is a true master, a Buddha. Only a few such people have walked the earth—and Nansen is among them. A very unique man.

Riko is sitting before his master and he says: “Master, please explain the problem of the fish in the bottle!”

This is an old koan of Zen. Zen masters give koans for meditation, not mantras. This is the difference.

Zen masters give a koan to meditate upon, and the koan is such that it cannot be solved. For the Zen master says: “A koan that can be solved cannot become meditation.” Your intellect would settle it. You would solve it and the matter would end.

The koan must be such that it cannot be solved; in trying to solve it your intellect becomes tired; in trying to solve it your ego collapses; you go on trying, and trying, and still you cannot do it, and every time you crash into a wall—no door found anywhere—and you become so afflicted that you scream: “This will not be solved. This is beyond the capacity of my intellect.” Where your intellect tires and falls and cries, “This is beyond my limit”—there the door opens.

Because whatever the intellect resolves, the possibility of going deeper in it ends. Where the intellect cannot resolve, there the heart is invoked. What the intellect cannot resolve, there your whole being becomes engaged. When the intellect fails, then you gather yourself wholly—not with intellect alone. What the intellect resolves, you file it away—the problem is intellectually solved—but your total being is not challenged.

A Zen koan is not an ordinary riddle. An ordinary riddle is solvable. Think a little here and there, work from this corner and that, an ordinary riddle is solved. This koan is such that it cannot be solved. It is absurd; it is illogical. If it were solved, how would you meditate? Meditation means: where the intellect no longer is.

A mantra cannot become meditation, because the mantra is repeated by the intellect. Repetition is done by mind. Thus all mantras increase the power of the intellect—not of meditation. The intellect is strengthened, not dissolved. Your thinking becomes sharpened—logical, argumentative. Mantras will hone your mind; they will not erase it.

And until your intellect dissolves, until you become innocent—like a child—the mystery of this cosmos will not open. Existence reveals its mystery to the guileless. And intellect is never guileless. Intellect is cunning; it cannot be innocent. It is always engaged in thought.

All thinking is cunning. Behind all thinking is doubt—not trust. And behind all thinking you are trying to prove yourself more intelligent than existence. There is a struggle in thinking—as if you want to force open the lock of nature’s mystery.

Intellect is like a hammer. But the more you beat the lock with the hammer, the more difficult it becomes to open. Then even the key may not fit. Even if the key is found, it may not work—because you have battered the lock so much with the hammer! Hence it often happens: people who think too much—even when they turn to meditation—cannot settle into meditation. Even with the key in hand the lock does not open. Because they have hammered the lock badly. Thus for the great thinkers, meditation becomes very difficult.

Understand meditation clearly. Meditation means: where your intellect, your ego—your everything—is exhausted; where your cleverness fails and you have to fold your hands and say, “This is beyond me.” Where you become helpless—help-less—there all doors open. So long as you believe “I alone am enough,” God does not come running.

You have read a small children’s story. From the religious view it is upside down—though it seems religious. In all children’s books the story appears: a cart-driver is crossing a path; his cart gets stuck in a ditch, the wheels jam. He sits and begins to pray. But no help from God comes.

A fakir passes by and says: “This prayer won’t work. Come, put your shoulder to the wheel; I will too.” Both push; the cart comes out of the ditch. The fakir says: “Now our prayer worked.” But the cart-driver says: “What prayer! We ourselves pulled the cart out!” The fakir says: “When you put your total strength into it—then God hears your prayer.”

Ordinarily the story seems religious—but it is not. Because God’s power becomes available to you only when you fall completely helpless—not when you wallow in laziness. Yes, you put in your whole effort. But God’s help does not come from your effort; it comes when your effort is exhausted.

You try with your whole strength; still the thing does not resolve; you are tired; you say: “Now I cannot.” Your trust in your ego falls away. Understand this well.

So long as you trust your ego, your prayer cannot be true; you are still saying: “I will do it.” Even prayer—you are doing. And how can prayer be true—where “you” are?

Prayer begins where you are not—where you cry like a helpless child; where you weep, entreat and say: “Now nothing can be done by me. If You want to do something—do.”

Only in such a depth of helplessness does your ego scatter, break, dissolve. For the first time you open. And the moment you open, the energy of God becomes available.

It is an ancient Zen koan—as old as Zen itself. The story is this; Zen masters have given it to their disciples for centuries: a fish is placed inside a bottle; it is fed. The bottle remains the same size; the fish keeps growing. At last the time arrives when the fish has grown so large there is not a grain of space left in the bottle. Now the fish will die if it is not taken out—there is no space left.

And remember: where growth ceases, death begins. So long as there is room to grow, there is life. So long as you are growing, there is life. Life is the very name of growth. The day you have no dimension left to grow—all space is filled—on that very day you die.

So mark it: the day you stopped growing, that day you have died. Your bottle is finished. Perhaps you have not yet been buried in the grave—that is another matter.

People die—and a long time passes before they are buried. Between dying and burial there is often a gap of thirty or forty years. But the inner event of death happens the very day you cease to grow. Growth means: the day the birth of the new in you stops, that day you died; death is complete. Now you are futile. Now whether you are or are not—what is the difference?

Has anything grown between yesterday and today? If something has grown, you were alive. If nothing has grown, you died yesterday. What was the harm if you had died yesterday? If these twenty-four hours have not enlarged you, what was the harm in dying yesterday? What difference would it make?

Think: on what day did your growth stop? After that day you have not lived. The space in the bottle finished that day. You are rotting in it.

Only the one who is born each day lives. The art of living belongs to the one who is reborn every moment. His bottle is like the sky—never exhausted. His empty sky always remains; he goes on growing—goes on growing.

All bottles become exhausted—only the sky is never exhausted. Therefore whoever chooses any dimension smaller than the sky will die one day or another. So we say: choose nothing less than God. If you choose less, you have chosen some small bottle. However big, sooner or later it will be full.

Choose only God, for He alone is infinite—without limits. God is not a person; He is the name of the infinite, the formless, the great sky. Choose “That,” so that you go on growing forever, go on being born forever. And let this process of birth be endless. Let your river flow, flow on. Only in God can the river flow forever.

This is the bottle story. Riko asks his master: I have heard this old story—explain its secret to me. The problem is: the fish is locked in the bottle; it has grown so large it can neither come out nor grow within. And the difficulty is increased because you are not allowed to break the bottle. They say: the bottle is valuable too. Do not break the bottle; take the fish out. No way seems visible.

The way is clear.

If you ask the intellect, what are the options? Intellect has two. First: break the bottle—to save the fish. Second: if you want to save the bottle, let the fish die.

The intellect’s options are clear, superficial. Zen says: Is this any way? If the bottle is broken, what kind of solution is that? If the fish dies, what kind of solution? Find such a device that neither the bottle breaks, nor the fish dies. There the intellect is in trouble.

For the intellect it is easy to choose one of the opposites. But if both opposites are to be saved together, the intellect is confounded. This is the subtle secret of this koan. The intellect says: either the fish or the bottle—either/or. The intellect says: either this or that; both cannot be. The intellect says: you cannot have laddus in both hands. And this is the difference between intellect and meditation.

Meditation says: Why not? The bottle can be saved, the fish can be saved, and laddus can be eaten with both hands. The secret of meditation is precisely this: you can both eat the sweet and keep it.

The intellect says: if you eat the sweet, it will not be saved; if you want to save it, you cannot eat it. Therefore the intellect does not understand meditation at all. Meditation seems absurd. Because meditation says: opposites can be together. You can both eat the sweet and keep it.

Meditation says: you are blind—that is why you cannot see. The opposites are already happening together. The very moment you are dying, in that very moment you are living. The very moment you are living, in that very moment you are dying. Life and death are not two events—they are two wheels of one cart, happening together.

You became young; have you ever noticed that the child within was dying? Otherwise how could youth come? You look one-sidedly—that youth is happening. You do not see that childhood is dying. Every moment childhood is dying and every moment youth is being born. That is why you became young. Then old age comes—old age is born and youth is dying.

The past is dying, the future is being born. And in the middle, you are. Both hold you; between them you are like a bridge. Both shores are yours.

But the intellect has made you believe birth happened seventy years ago, now death is happening—both are separate. Have you ever thought: if the two are so separate, how can they be? If both are so apart, how do you travel from one to the other?

If you can reach from birth to death, then birth and death must be joined within, a bridge must be there; otherwise how will you reach? How does life reach death? How will you go that far?

You have come from down to up—climbing, because there are steps in between. You have come here from your home because the road connects. If you reach from birth to death, then somewhere birth and death are joined within. They cannot be different—they must be inseparable. Birth and death must be two ends of the same thing.

It is happening; in existence the opposites are happening together. Life and death are happening together. Love and hate are happening together. Marriage and divorce are happening together. But the intellect analyzes, splits. The intellect sees one half, closes its eyes to the other.

The intellect’s way of seeing is incomplete; it sees only the half. It can only see half; it misses the whole. Therefore whoever wants to see the whole must go beyond intellect.

Riko asked: “What is the problem?” The problem is this: can opposites coexist, or must we choose? This is the problem—of the fish and the bottle.

Disciples often return to the master and say: this is absurd, foolish. The bottle must be broken. If the bottle is very precious, then the fish must die. There is no other way.

The intellect has no path that passes between the opposites. For the intellect functions according to mathematics. Mathematics does not accept opposites together.

The rule of mathematics is: if it is night, then day cannot be. If it is day, then night cannot be. If you are rich, how can you be poor at the same time? But we know, you know, the rich can be poor. And conversely, the poor can be rich. We have seen a beggar like Buddha—where will you find a richer emperor? Emperors pale before him. Emperors feel ashamed before him.

Buddha was sitting outside Kashi under a tree, resting. The king of Kashi, on his chariot, had gone out of the city to commit suicide. He was frightened—palace, wealth, problems, entanglements; no way out; he had resolved to die.

Emperors are always hanging from the gallows. You do not see their gallows! You think it is a throne because you are far away; from there you see nothing. Ask the emperors—the throne becomes a gallows.

He was going toward the jungle, toward the mountain from where he could fall and die.

Evening time—the sun setting, its last rays falling on Buddha. Suddenly, in that grief-stricken king’s eyes, the figure under the tree shone. For a moment he was enchanted; he forgot he had set out to die. He said to the charioteer: “Stop. Who is this man? He does not look like a man! As if the god of the tree were sitting there! Such a beautiful body I have never seen. He seems to be a beggar! A begging bowl is by his side. His garments are torn and old. But what is peeking from within is so majestic. Stop. Perhaps this man has found the secret of life—which I am about to throw away. It seems this man has found something in life. He is so fulfilled, so bliss-intoxicated, as if there is nowhere to go, nothing to attain. As if he has no desire, no craving. As if he has arrived—at the goal. Who is he?”

The king stepped down and said to Buddha: “I am going to commit suicide. I am the king of Kashi, but more wretched and beggarly than me you will not find. And you have created difficulty for me. You seem utterly opposite! You are entirely a beggar—the bowl is there, your clothes are torn, patched—but on your face, as this setting sun throws its rays, such glory is seen! What is the secret of life?”

Buddha opened his eyes and said: “As you are now, so once was I. And as I am now, so can you be.”

Buddha too was once a king and equally wretched. And Buddha says to him: however wretched you are, you can become the emperor that I am today.

“I speak from experience,” Buddha says. “For where you are passing, I too have passed. Those dark nights—I have known them—when the urge to kill oneself arises; when everything appears dark; when life appears nothing but anxiety. No flowers bloom; only thorns prick everywhere. I too have known anxiety, intense pain.”

If you look into life, you will find beggars who are emperors. But ask mathematics—it will say: when it is night, it is night; when day, day. Poor is poor; rich is rich. Mathematics is clear. It divides things into two.

But life is a riddle. Life holds everything together; all is interconnected. Therefore here, those who lost, they attained. And those who tried to save, they lost.

This is what Jesus says to Nicodemus: “Nicodemus, he who will save his life will lose it; and he who will lose it will save it.” Jesus is uttering the very secret of the fish-and-bottle story to Nicodemus.

What is the secret? The intellect says—one can be saved only by dropping the other.

Opposites cannot be saved together—this is the conclusion of intellect. And life is made of opposites. So one who follows the intellect will squander life. If you can see that life is woven of opposites, of polar pairs, you will be ready to put intellect aside. For life is supremely precious. What is the value of intellect? A little clamor—inside you.

Riko asked Master Nansen: “Please explain the problem of the fish in the bottle.” For centuries we have heard this story—what is its inner secret?

Riko said: “If someone were to place a little fish inside a bottle and feed it through the neck of the bottle, the fish would keep growing until there was no space left inside for it to grow. In that condition how will that man take the fish out so that the fish does not die and the bottle does not break?”

This is the story.

As soon as he finished, Nansen called out loudly: “Riko!” He shouted. The story must have been shaken out of Riko’s mind—at that sound. It was so sudden.

Remember: only the sudden can take you for a little while beyond the intellect—abruptly. For the intellect cannot establish any continuity.

If ever you are driving and suddenly you see an accident almost about to happen—just about to happen—at that moment the mind loses its continuity. You just see; there is no way to think.

Wherever you find the sudden, there thinking is not possible. Where things are ordered, not sudden—bound in cause and effect—there thinking is possible. Because thinking requires time.

Thinking cannot happen without time. Thinking needs space. Without space, thinking cannot happen. And thinking needs continuity with the past—tradition, a thread. Without the thread, there can be no thinking.

What did the master do? He did not explain the story. He did not speak a word about it. Suddenly, on hearing the story, he did something which seems senseless. For on hearing the story he should have spoken about the story. Riko would have understood, thought.

Nansen shouted: “Riko!” as if suddenly the house had caught fire. The story is useless now; it is not the time for story. As if the master were suddenly dying; his breath choked; a heart attack. As if something is happening—for which talk of the story must stop now.

He shouted: “Riko!” Nansen shouted—and he clapped loudly—not only shouted, he clapped both hands loudly.

He must have startled Riko. Clap suddenly and a bird dozing on a branch starts; so too the intelligence of one submerged in story will be startled.

He called: “Riko!” And Riko had never thought that after the story the master would call his name. Had he thought so, there would have been no difficulty.

You have heard the story—and if you go to Nansen and ask: “What is the secret of the fish in the bottle?” and you tell the story—and Nansen says: “Riko!”—nothing will happen to you.

You know the story. You will say: “Yes?” But that “yes” will come from the intellect; it will be false; it will be part of the story. Not authentic. You will be repeating the drama. You will be a part of the play—not genuine.

But for Riko it happened the first time. He didn’t know what Nansen would do. Whatever he could think, he had not thought of this. He could think Nansen would say something—explain.

Nansen only called out his name. Not only that—he clapped loudly. A moment’s sleep must have broken; he must have been shocked. The thread of the story broke within. In that moment a gap must have come. He heard—“Riko!”—and the clap. The answer that arose could not come from intellect. It came from the gap, from the empty space. He said: “Yes, Master!” Riko cried out.

This was not part of the story—at all. It had no link to the story. It was entirely outside the thread.

Therefore remember: a true master will keep discovering new devices to take you out of continuity. All old devices become useless. The mind is so clever it learns the old devices. It says: I am accomplished. Make me do it—I am ready. Make me chant—Rama-Rama—I will chant. Make me do asanas—headstand—I will do it. I know all this. I have read all the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali.

People ask me: Why do you invent new methods? Will the old not work? The old will not work—because whatever the mind knows, it renders useless. Therefore whenever a Patanjali is born, he must make a new arrangement; he must write the Yoga Sutras anew. The old will not work. You have become knowledgeable. You know well: Yam, Niyam—the Ashtanga path—you know. Before Patanjali speaks, you will say: We know this.

Whatever you can say, “I know”—that has become useless. Your “knowing” is your mischief. Your ignorance must be lifted; the answer should not come from your “knowledge.” You must be startled so utterly that your intellect scatters, and from within—the answer comes from your life-energy.

Riko heard: a loud call, the clap. He said: “Yes, Master!” He cried out, as if an accident were about to happen. “Look!” said Nansen. “The fish is out!”

Whenever you can respond out of shock—whenever you can answer from beyond the intellect—the fish is out of the bottle.

The bottle is the bottle of the mind. It does not break—it simply opens. There is no need to break it.

But whenever an answer comes from within you suddenly, it does not come from the intellect. From the intellect nothing new can ever come. The mind is always the past; only the old comes from it. The mind is repetition; it is mechanical. From it the new cannot arise. From it comes only what you have put in. What you have not put in, cannot come out.

Someone asks you: Is God? Mind immediately answers—yes or no. That is your stored answer; it has no value. Say “I am a theist”—worth two pennies. Say “I am an atheist”—worth two pennies. The answer came from mind; it has no relation to you. But where the mind hesitates, where no answer comes from mind, where your past does not speak, where your dead experience does not speak; where “you” speak—here and now; where the answer is alive, effortless, spontaneous, self-sprung—then the bottle has opened. There is no need to break it. For a little while the clouds dispersed and the sun came out.

Clouds surround the sun. There is no need to break the clouds—only to scatter them. And once you have the taste, then you are free even within the clouds.

The sun knows well which clouds can surround him. What power do clouds have? Therefore the knower begins to use thought as well. The bottle too becomes a tool. It no longer binds; it becomes an instrument.

“Look,” said Nansen, “the fish is out!”

This created more trouble—more startling. It broke the doze a second time. For the first time Riko must have thought something like a mishap had happened—Nansen had forgotten the story. He cried “Riko!” as if someone were drowning! The story was forgotten. Mind did not answer. His life-energy spoke: “Yes, Master!” And Nansen rejoined the story again: “Look, the fish is out.” That too is sudden.

This story has two planes. On one plane everything moved straight. Then a pit, a jolt: when Nansen said “Riko!” and clapped—continuity with the past broke. When Riko answered, and Nansen said: “Look, the fish is out!”—he again connected everything.

For Riko this again is sudden. For explaining the story there was no need to shout so loudly or clap. No need to startle. It could have been told while he slept. But Nansen inserted the story into Riko’s experience. Now Riko knows from within that for a moment the fish was out—no doubt. He has tasted it.

Masters do not explain—they show. As if I take you to a window and say: look outside. Open the window and point out: look, the sun has risen.

What can be explained? All explanation is just coaxing you to the window.

All explanation is like giving sweets to little children to lead them somewhere. For the love of sweets they come along. The window opens. Their eyes are on the candy—but when the window opens, they must also look out.

All that the masters have ever explained is only to bring you to the window. Then suddenly they will call: “Riko!” So that you are startled, your sleep breaks, the thread of mind breaks. You may glance out for a moment—even for a moment—and the fish is out of the bottle. The bottle does not break, it simply opens.

Riko must have been more troubled. The story was solved, and not a word was said about the story. Life’s story too is solved just like this.

People ask me: “These methods of meditation—people shout, cry, roar, dance, weep, sing—what is all this?” It is to break the stream of intellect inside you. You have never done this. Even as you do it, deep inside you wonder: what am I doing? You don’t wonder; your mind says: what are you doing! What will people say! You have never done this; you have respectability, status—you are ruining it all! What will people say—you are crying? What will people say—you are dancing, jumping, screaming—like the mad!

Intellect considers life a kind of madness. Why? Because in life opposites are joined; therefore to intellect life looks like madness.

If intellect had its way, it would persuade you to die at once. It would say: this life does not proceed by mathematics; better you die. A dead man behaves exactly mathematically. Life goes absurdly, mysteriously.

Often the so-called intellectual kills himself slowly. He becomes bottled up.

Somehow you must be startled.

In Zen, when disciples meditate, the master moves about with a staff. He strikes. At any moment his stick may land on someone’s head. But he strikes in those moments where he sees the bottle is very strong within, thoughts very thick—or someone has fallen totally asleep in thoughts. Then he strikes. In that stroke, for a moment the bottle opens.

Those who have only read about Zen and have no experience are amazed: what wicked masters! They are not wicked—they are supremely compassionate.

If you get even one glimpse, once the flavor is known—of the fish outside the bottle—then you will find your way. For you know now—the treasure is within—within yourself. There is nowhere else to seek.

The bottle is yours, the fish is you. The bottle is of thoughts. It has to be set aside. Now nothing is difficult. No need to go to some Himalaya. Now simply close your eyes and widen this bottle. Thin these clouds.

Sometimes a Zen master even throws a disciple out the window, which seems utterly outrageous. Nansen’s master threw him out the window. He had gone to ask: “What is Buddhahood? How is it attained?” The master suddenly went wild—he grabbed him by the neck.

He was frightened: “I only asked a question!” But the master would not listen. He lifted him—he was strong—and threw him out the window. When he crashed to the ground—thud—the master looked out and said: “Understood? Come back in and ask again.”

Had it been you—you would have run away; never returned to that door. Nansen came in again. He bowed, touched the master’s feet, and said: “I had a little glimpse.”

How could a glimpse arise from falling out a window? But when someone suddenly throws you—such an incongruous act—because you had asked a straight question: what is Buddhahood? There was no quarrel; no wrestling was involved—and this man suddenly threw you! The thread breaks; the mind reels; thought has nothing left.

If Nansen had listened to the mind after falling, he would have left. He would have thought: this man is mad. I made a mistake coming here. He would have told others: never go to him; he misbehaved with me. Or he would have gone to the police, filed a case in court.

But when Nansen fell, the master peered from the window: “Nansen, do you see? Has anything become clear?” At that moment thoughts had not returned; there was a gap. In that gap the master’s face at the window was the face of Buddha. In that interval Nansen saw the eye that was the eye of Buddha. He saw the compassion which had thrown him—inside, for a moment there were no thoughts; the fish was out; the bottle was open.

He returned through the door, touched the master’s feet and said: “I understand. Now shower your grace on me always. Whenever I ask, do not give an answer—throw me out the window. Many have given answers—no answer reached me.”

If you are truly in search, answers cannot be given in words. The sudden event will open you.

And here lies the difficulty: in thousands of years thousands of such events have happened, thousands of stories have been made—and you are familiar with them. Therefore every day something new must be invented—of which you have no accounting—that startles you and drops you into the gap.

They say Nansen awakened many. But the grace belonged to his master, who threw Nansen out the window.

Sometimes Zen masters may appear very cruel.

A disciple came to ask Nansen something. As he was stepping through the door, Nansen slammed it shut. His hand was caught, crushed; blood gushed.

The hand is caught inside; Nansen holds the door shut. Outside the disciple is screaming. Nansen says: “Stop screaming. Leave the hand. Look within. This moment is passing. You are looking at your hand, the door, the blood. The moment is passing. We can think about all this later. What is the hurry? There is much time. Look within now. Because only when such an event happens does the bottle open for a little while. You can miss.”

And if you have the knack, there is no need for Nansen to shut the door, for the master to throw you outside. Life gives many chances. A bicycle accident happens; a car accident happens; you’re lying by the roadside. Don’t miss that opportunity. God Himself has thrown you—given you a chance for the fish to be outside the bottle.

Therefore the wise have said: accidents too are fortunate—if you have intelligence! If you have none, you can turn good fortune into misfortune—you are so skilled.

Even in accidents a glimpse can be had. But don’t start crying, shouting. A gap has opened—you are lying by the roadside. For a moment the mind is disarrayed—anarchy inside. All clouds have broken; you are empty; nothing comes to think. Just then, look within.

Life gives many opportunities—but you are skilled at missing. You never pay attention to the interval. Whenever the two thoughts in the mind are far apart and there is empty space in between, you engage yourself in something else. Perhaps you are afraid—afraid of meeting yourself. Drop this fear.

Even in meditation, as soon as a gap comes, people get afraid. They come to me and say they feel great fear. Whenever you feel fear, know you are near the right place. For the mind is reassured only so long as its continuity continues. As soon as the thread breaks, the mind is afraid. It says: now we are entering the unknown. Do not trust me; return. The familiar path is good. Walk the path of the oil-press bull we have always walked. There everything is known; there is no danger; no accidents happen there.

The mind is afraid precisely where it feels an accident may happen; the unknown is approaching. Seeing the unfamiliar, the mind becomes restless.

Whenever restlessness comes in your meditation, whenever fear arises—thank God. The right moment is approaching. Soon God will throw you out the window. The stick will fall on your head. Or your master will call “Riko!” clap his hands—and in a single moment the fish can be out of the bottle.

The fish has always been outside the bottle. You are a great artist—how you managed to put it inside! In truth the fish is always outside; you have constructed a bottle around it. But the bottle has grown strong and now you are writhing. Now you cry: I want freedom, Moksha; how to get out of this bondage? And you cannot get out. And the bottle is of your own making!

What is the essence of this story in one word? When Nansen shouted “Riko!” and clapped—what happened? For a moment, awareness arose in Riko. In the moment of awareness the fish is outside the bottle.

In the moment you are aware, you are God. In that moment there is nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nowhere to go. In that moment you are fulfilled. In that moment you are on the touchstone. But then the moment will be lost; you will have to seek it again and again. And the more you seek, the more assured you become. The more often you taste, the deeper the taste grows. The more often you recognize, the deeper the pratyabhijna becomes, the stronger the surati. And a day comes when you see the bottle never was; the fish has always been free.

The fish is outside—even now. See, the fish is outside. Just a little interval.

Where is the problem? It is fabricated. Hence it cannot be solved—because the problem is false. There is no problem—only a manufactured one. The fish is outside. Wake up—and the fish is outside.

These koans are not for thinking—they are for awakening. Not for brooding—but for filling with awareness. These stories are to startle you. To stop the flow of intellect within you.

This can happen within you too. There is no obstacle. If you will, it can happen this very moment. No one is stopping you. There is no one other than you. If you will, you can stop it; if you will, you can let it happen.

A single clap can do it. And it can also happen that for births upon births you keep headstanding and doing Hatha Yoga and it does not happen. With a clap Riko was startled—and it happened.

Awakening makes it happen. You can keep sleeping even while in postures. Then even asanas become part of your sleep—then asanas too become a bottle. You do them every day—and the bottle grows stronger.

Gurdjieff used a unique experiment—no other master has done such a thing. And so a new master is always difficult to understand. Remember: only a new master can awaken you; the old masters have become part of your intellect.

I say to you: with me you can awaken; sometimes your fish can be outside the bottle—because your intellect still cannot calculate me.

In India there are hundreds of masters; go to them—I say: your fish will not come out of the bottle. It will not—because your intellect and their intellect have no difference. You are parts of the same continuity. They cannot startle you. Whatever they say, your head will nod: exactly right; that is what we too believe. They will explain scriptures; you will say: exactly right; our interpretation too. They cannot startle—so cannot awaken. Your intellects tally—because they are traditional.

Gurdjieff did very unique experiments. One was: whoever came to him, the first thing he did was change his food. If he was vegetarian, he made him non-vegetarian. If non-vegetarian, he made him vegetarian. The whole body chemistry went into turmoil. Not a matter of one day. The body is built over a lifetime.

A Jain, who has never eaten meat or fish, is made to eat meat—fish! A club to the skull. More dangerous than being thrown out a window. In being thrown out, the body chemistry gets a small jolt—not much. What happens—some scrapes—you put ointment, it heals. No great risk.

But if Gurdjieff tells a vegetarian to eat meat—if you have never eaten meat, even thinking of it creates unrest; every hair trembles. Your intellect will say: run from this man. What kind of fool is he? Have masters ever told anyone to eat meat? True masters have always taught vegetarianism—and this man is teaching meat.

If someone had never drunk alcohol, Gurdjieff would make him drink so much that even a habitual drinker would go mad. A non-drinker would be utterly deranged for two-three days. A jolt.

To a brahmachari he would say: sex! To a whoremonger he would say: Brahmacharya. He would snatch liquor from a drinker. He would throw them all into disorder.

His rule was simple: if you go on as you have gone on—in the same groove—you will never arrive.

You must be shaken from your moorings. You must be thrown so badly—out the window—that the bones and ribs of your inner structure get dislocated.

Thus people often ran away from Gurdjieff—they could not understand. Neither was he interested in liquor, nor in meat. He was saying nothing about them. His point was straightforward: you must be startled. If you move in the same continuity in which you are, your delusion will increase; you will not be shocked. Your bottle will keep strengthening; the fish will not come out.

Those who were lazy and slothful he made work for hours—from six in the morning to six in the evening. Those who were workaholics he put to bed: rest absolutely. Rules were tailored to the person.

A lazy man came; he put him to work in the morning. He was stubborn: “If you say so, I will.” He worked from morning to evening. In the evening as he was returning, Gurdjieff came out again and said: “Come, a little more work.” The man was utterly broken. He had never done this; he had never worked twelve hours. Not twelve minutes! His feet were raw, hands with blisters—he had chopped wood all day.

And Gurdjieff took him back. They were building a hall for meditation and prayer; some beams needed to be fixed. He was sent up. If he fell from there, his life was in danger. He was so exhausted he could not even stay awake. He was asleep while awake. And while fixing the beam he fell asleep—so tired—fast asleep. And when he slept, Gurdjieff shouted.

Perhaps Riko heard just such a shout, for the story was going on. And this man, exhausted twelve hours, this is not ordinary sleep—this is the deepest sleep. He is so tired; even though his life is in danger, sleep came.

And when Gurdjieff shouted and he opened his eyes, he could not understand where he was, who he was, what this is. All forms, all recognition vanished—all identity gone. He only saw. He could not understand who this shouting man was, what this place was.

You must have noticed: if someone wakes you from deep sleep, for a moment you cannot figure out who you are, where you are, what is happening. A minute or two pass before the mind gets back on track.

And this man was terribly tired. They say: in that very moment he attained satori. Sitting right there on the beam he began to laugh and said to Gurdjieff: “Wonderful! What I had been seeking all my life—has happened.” He was startled.

Startling is the key. Therefore seek a man who can startle you.

Very often I want to say things to you that I never wanted to say. Their truth or falsity is not the question. Their rightness or wrongness is irrelevant. They are said only to startle you. If you are startled, they are meaningful. If you are not startled and begin to think about them, they are wasted.

Do not calculate about the sayings of people like Gurdjieff—what is their purpose. Their purposes are very different. If he says to you: “Eat meat,” it does not mean he is the enemy of Mahavira and wants to make you meat-eaters. If he says: “Be vegetarian,” don’t think he is a follower of Mahavira. His purpose is different.

And when Mahavira told people to be vegetarian, his purpose too was the same. Mahavira was born in a Kshatriya house where meat-eating was the way of life. Those among whom Mahavira moved were all non-vegetarian. Suddenly, amongst them, this man spoke of vegetarianism—he changed their life chemistry. He broke their inner chemistry. And when the old chemistry breaks, the old mind breaks. Because all is interconnected.

By changing the inner chemical process, the process of mind is disrupted.

Thus there was benefit. But now Jains gain nothing from vegetarianism. Because now their chemistry does not break by vegetarian diet. Now if someone were to put a fish in their mouth—perhaps it would break. Because now their drowse is deep; now they are vegetarian every day! And they are in exactly the state in which Mahavira found the non-vegetarians. Now they are vegetarians; vegetarianism has become part of the mind.

Whatever becomes a part of mind becomes useless. Because it then sustains mind.

Tell a monk: go and steal. One who has never stolen—just think what a sadhana it would be when he goes to steal! Will the mind work there? Not at all. The mind will say: go back. Where are you going? What are you doing? It is immoral! If he goes on, the mind will be left behind; it will not go with him. It will say: you have gone mad. Go where you want, I am not coming. You will repent later—I tell you. But if he has courage and goes to steal, all the threads of mind will break. It may be that in the very act of stealing Samadhi flowers.

Life is very mysterious. Your continuity must break. How it will break—it is difficult to say. But one thing is certain: when it breaks, only then will you awaken. If it does not break, you cannot awaken.

True masters have used many devices—made for those among whom they lived. No device is eternal. Every device is useful sometime, and sometime becomes useless. It depends on the person.

If a master keeps throwing you out the window every day, you will become habituated. You will think it is exercise. You will stand by the window every day: “Throw me again.” You have made it useless. Because this was not a matter of practice. In practice no one can be startled. Whatever is practiced becomes a part of mind.

That is why Kabir says: “Sadhos, sahaja Samadhi is best.” If you practice, you will go astray. Sahaja means: that which does not come by practice—that which is spontaneous, which happens outside practice. Kabir says: I do not shave my head; I do not do topsy-turvy asanas; I do no means, no effort—for effort becomes practice. Practice becomes a part of mind. Understand this well.

Whatever you have mastered becomes part of mind. It will not startle you. Only the unmastered—what startles, what lies beyond effort, beyond your understanding, your methods and practice—only that will startle you; only that will break your sleep. Only that is the voice from outside your prison.

Kabir is right. Samadhi can only be sahaja; the Samadhi that is “mastered” will not be Samadhi.

Patanjali knows this too, so he divided Samadhi into two: savikalpa Samadhi and nirvikalpa Samadhi.

Whatever you achieve by practice will bring savikalpa Samadhi. It is not real Samadhi. It is a counterfeit—chosen and produced by you. It is the shadow of Samadhi—not Samadhi itself. Real Samadhi is nirvikalpa; it will not come by your practice. It comes when “you” are not present. When you disappear in some moment—then it comes. Whenever it finds you are not at home, it arrives.

The first Samadhi comes when you are there; the more you are there, the more it comes. The first comes by practicing, by striving, by training.

The second happens; it is not in your hands. You cannot bring it. You can only wait. And let your waiting become so deep that gradually you even forget the one who is waiting—who was waiting. Then suddenly you will find it has descended. It is not your doing; it is grace. It is not in your fist.

Whatever is in your fist cannot be greater than you; it will be smaller. Whatever you can bring will be smaller than you—petty. It will be your projection. That which comes uninvited, without your bringing—that alone will be vast.

Therefore by practicing and practicing whatever you bring—only the shadow comes. The day you drop even practice, that day the event of fulfillment happens. The day you drop even meditation—doing, doing, doing—by doing only the shadow is made, nothing else—you drop it. You practice and practice—and you get tired—and even that you drop. A moment comes when you do nothing. You simply are. In that very moment nirvikalpa Samadhi descends. That is what Kabir means: “Sadhos, sahaja Samadhi is best.”

And such sahaja Samadhi must have happened to Riko when the master simply shouted, clapped—and Riko was startled. In that startling it happened.

The fish came out of the bottle. Riko knew it—experienced it.

Only experience will reveal the meaning. Without experience everything is commentary. Commentary is useless; there is no substance in it—it is not alive.

Enough for today.