Sakshi Ki Sadhana #6

We spoke a little about freedom from belief and the awakening of discernment. The moment one is freed of belief, the mind becomes unbound; the ground is prepared for the awakening of vivek. Without being free of belief there is no reason at all for discernment to awaken. When discernment awakens, a most intense, most radiant intelligence is born. Thought flowers; a deeply thoughtful vision of life begins. Without that, Samadhi cannot be attained.

In today’s third stage, we shall contemplate how the arrival of Samadhi happens.

Samadhi cannot be achieved, but it can arrive. This is the first thing to know. Samadhi cannot be achieved; it can arrive. You cannot tie sunlight in bundles and carry it into your room, but if you leave the door open, the light can come in. It cannot be brought—yet it can come. So in the coming of Samadhi, what we have to do is like opening the door. It is utterly negative. Only the obstacles need to be removed—and Samadhi will come.

Let me try to explain with a small incident.

Rabindranath was traveling on a barge. Many nights of his life were spent on rivers and boats. Perhaps this is why the resonance of nature in his poetry is so rare. The murmur of streams, the imprint of cool and pure breezes—few songs carry such a fragrance. Most people write in closed rooms; their songs too carry the air of a prison. Or they write by a kerosene lamp; how strange if the smell of kerosene enters the literature!

Rabindranath lived long in communion with nature. It was a moonlit night; he was on the barge. He had lit a small candle and read a scripture till late. Around two at night he blew out the candle to lie down, but could not; he rose again, stepped out on the boat, and that night he wrote a song. In it he said: I never knew this truth till today. I was sitting in the cabin with a candle lit while the full moon was outside. Yet the very moonlight remained outside. It did not enter through the windows and doors; that tiny candle’s glow was the obstruction. As soon as I blew the candle out, instantaneously the moon’s wondrous rays entered through every crevice, through the door, through the windows—from all sides the moon came within. Then I knew: the pale light of my little candle was the great barrier. Moonlight stood at the threshold, but lingered there—unable to enter. The moment the candle was extinguished, it poured in.

Within us too there are obstructions that hold back the light of Paramatma. The light is waiting at the door. The bliss of Samadhi is nearby, all around—but in us some barriers restrain it. We are not to bring it; it cannot be brought. Merely remove the obstructions, and it will come of itself, naturally. And whatever is truly significant in life—love, or Paramatma, or the sense of beauty, or the realization of Truth—none of these can be brought. We only set aside the hindrances—and they arrive. For anything that we can bring will never be greater than us.

Remember this! Whatever the human mind can bring cannot be greater than the human mind; it will be smaller. And the human mind itself is petty; so whatever it brings will be utterly petty. Whatever man makes or fetches will be petty—because it is man who brings and makes it.

The experience of Samadhi or of Paramatma is not an experience brought by man.

What can man do?

Man can only give a door. Man can only leave a path open. Man can only set aside the hindrances—the hurdles can be put away. Then something will come that is vaster than man, more immense than man, something so great that it transcends man entirely.

So first, with regard to Samadhi, it is essential to know: Samadhi cannot be achieved, it can arrive. The human mind can do nothing to grasp Samadhi. Yes, by removing the obstacles one can wait. But when the barriers fall, the door opens—there is no need to wait. Hence the whole sadhana for Samadhi is negative. Certain things have to be removed from the way; the road must be cleared. Then someone will come, then something will happen. And that something will no longer be in our hands; it will be far larger than us. It will sweep us away; we shall dissolve in it.

This must be understood at the very outset. Otherwise seekers, those who turn toward religion, remain under the illusion that they will practice and achieve—they will practice Samadhi, they will do this, they will do that, they will behold Paramatma. All of this is full of ego—“I will attain Moksha, I will find God, I will master yoga, I will conquer meditation”—all ego-laden. These are utter foolishnesses.

It is understandable if you say: I will build a house, I will open a shop, I will become a minister, or something else. These are understandable, because they are trifles; the human mind is competent in such things. But when one starts thinking, “I will find Paramatma, I will gain Moksha, I will master the Atman,” he goes astray. He desires to do, to accomplish by himself, that which is far beyond him. He is in delusion. Those things can indeed happen—but not by him, rather by his disappearance; not because of him, but because he is dissolved; not by his power, but by his emptiness.

This must be grasped very deeply. Otherwise the basic mistake in religious seeking takes root right here. And this is why the one we call a sannyasi, a sadhu, often becomes more egoistic. You build a house—how big will your ego be? You conquer a kingdom—how big can your ego be? But he has set out to conquer Paramatma. His aggression is colossal. He is out to win God, to win heaven, to win Moksha—his ego becomes very powerful. Hence the vanity of the sannyasi is so predictable; his egoism so natural. You are set to conquer the world; he is set to conquer Truth itself—and not this insubstantial world, but the essential. You search in the petty realm of things; he marches to conquer Paramatma.

This journey of conquest is deluded. Paramatma cannot be conquered; no attack on Paramatma is possible. For the very mind that wishes to attack and to win is so petty; the very impulse to attack is petty, the desire to conquer—petty. And to desire to conquer God! To wish to win Moksha!

In Mahavira’s time, a great king, Shrenik, came to him. Shrenik said: I have conquered many kingdoms; I have extended my borders. I have amassed immense wealth—too much to be accounted; there is neither the means nor the time to count it. If I sat to count, my whole life would be spent—so counting is pointless. I have won all this. And now I have heard that without realizing the Atman nothing is achieved. Therefore I now wish to conquer the Atman. He told Mahavira: I want to conquer the Atman. If there is a God—I want to conquer Him too.

Mahavira said: Go back! Whoever comes with the spirit of conquest—his defeat is certain. For the spirit of conquest is the spirit of ego. Here, only he wins who is willing to lose.

There are two kinds of realms. One is the realm of matter that we know—there, he wins who wins. There is another realm—there, he wins who loses.

Samadhi is attained by losing, not by winning. As you lose, it draws nearer; when you are not at all, that very day it is found.

Thus first understand: you cannot practice and capture Truth or Samadhi. Yes, you can efface yourself, you can melt. No drop can capture the ocean—but it can lose itself in the ocean. And in losing itself it becomes the ocean. But if a drop entertains the notion of conquering the ocean, it is mistaken; in the heat of conquest it will evaporate and be lost. If, instead, a drop is ready to be lost in the ocean, consenting to vanish—then the moment it falls, dissolves, it is the ocean. The ocean is attained by dissolving. The way of attaining Truth is the way of disappearing. It is not your achievement; it is your death, your effacement.

Therefore I call Samadhi: the self-chosen disappearance. The acceptance of one’s own death by one’s own hands. A readiness to lose one’s drop by one’s own hands.

By what sutras can we disappear? Those sutras we shall speak of. Those very sutras will open the door for the arrival of Samadhi—they will become the path. By which sutras can we efface ourselves? If Paramatma is to be allowed to happen, we must disappear. Do not remain in the notion that you will meet God. As long as you are, there can be no meeting. So long as you are, you alone remain—Paramatma cannot be. The day you are not, the day you are absent—Paramatma is.

Kabir has said: His lane is very narrow; two cannot pass there. His lane is so narrow—two cannot be contained. Either He or you.

Rumi wrote a song, a Sufi song. A lover came to his beloved’s door and knocked. From inside a voice asked: Who is there? He said: It is I, your lover. There was no further sound within. He kept knocking, cried and called: What has happened? Such silence! It seems the house is empty. From within came the reply: For the one who still says “I,” the doors of love cannot open. It is the “I” that holds them shut.

The lover returned. Many moons rose and set; many days and nights passed, while he sought how the “I” might die. Years later, he came again to that door and knocked. Again the question from within: Who is there? Always, at the temple of love, this has been asked: Who is there? And always, from within the temple of God, the same—Who is there? The house asked: Who is there? This time he said: No one is left—now only You are. And the doors opened. Perhaps they had always been open; the blind eyes of “I” could not see them open. But now they opened.

The very day a person becomes capable of knowing, “I am not,” that very day Samadhi enters; the doors swing wide; the path becomes free of thorns. The hindrances are of our own making. Each obstruction must be slid aside, one by one. Then you will discover that perhaps Samadhi was not outside at all—it was within. Truth was present; Paramatma was present—but because of our own obstructions we could not see.

What are the obstructions? How are they removed?

I want to speak of three sutras.

The first sutra: a spontaneous life.

Our life is very unnatural—artificial, false, deceptive. Not that we only deceive others—we go on deceiving ourselves. Lie upon lie, until it becomes difficult even to recall that we ever deceived. If a lie is told relentlessly, it becomes difficult.

A man had committed murder. He was caught; a case was tried. His advocate argued so powerfully in his defense that after months of trial the murderer was acquitted. After his release, the lawyer visited him at home and asked: Now can you tell me the truth—did you commit the murder or not?

He replied: At first I thought I had. But hearing your arguments, I grew doubtful. Now I’m not sure whether I did or did not! Had the case gone on a few more months, it would have become certain that I had not. At first I felt I had done it, but listening to you, doubt has arisen whether I did it at all!

What we go on showing others, day after day—slowly we ourselves begin to believe that we are that. Life becomes utterly artificial and false. Our love false, our character false, our personality false, our mind false, even our very prana false. With such an unnatural personality, a barrier inevitably rises. Where all is false, a wall immediately stands.

What is true in our personality? What is spontaneous in us? Almost everything is contrived. Even the way we speak is contrived; our gait is contrived. Have you ever noticed? When you walk alone on the road, you walk one way; let four people come toward you, you walk another way. In your bathroom, alone—you are a different man; in your drawing room, seated—you are altogether different. What kind of personality is this that changes by the eyes of others? If those four happen to be “important” people, you change even more. As if we have many masks within, and wear whichever is needed.

Slowly, losing ourselves among masks, we forget we had a face of our own—the original face, erected in the expectation of no one. Your original face—do you know it? We have crafted many faces; and with every person the face changes. In the morning we are something, an hour later something else, at noon another, at night another; before the wife—one face; before a friend—another; before the son—one; before the father—another; before the servant and the boss—others. With such acting—day and night, lifelong—layers upon layers accumulate. One thing is lost: the original face. The essential being is lost, and false personalities stand on all sides.

These false personalities are the greatest barrier to the nearness of Paramatma.

A man goes to the temple at dawn—look at his face there. Is he the same man who just stood in his shop? The same who was at the office? Is this the same man now standing in church with folded hands?

Once Leo Tolstoy went one winter morning to a church. It was dark. The richest man of the village was there confessing before God: I am very dishonest, a thief; I have committed many sins. God, forgive me!

Tolstoy heard all this in the dark. When the man came out, Tolstoy followed. As the sun rose and they reached the crossroad, Tolstoy shouted: Stop! Shall I tell everyone what you just said in church?

The man said: Hold your tongue—or before evening you’ll be behind bars!

Tolstoy said: But you were just saying in church that you are a sinner, a cheat?

He said: Enough! I didn’t know you were there. I thought only God was present. What is said before God is not to be said before people. If you spread it, I’ll sue you for defamation.

Tolstoy wrote in his diary: Today I learned that what is said in solitude before God cannot be said before men.

These are our faces. With such faces, do we think we will realize Truth? The realization of Truth is far away—we ourselves are not true; how will Truth reveal itself?

For the realization of Truth, one’s own personality must be true. As we are—good and bad, small and great, whatever we are—we must know that thus we are. And from that very center of our suchness we must live. Then simplicity will come; duplicity will dissolve.

What prevents us from being simple? Something must, otherwise why is the whole of humanity so unnatural? It is the idea of being special that obstructs—the urge to be somebody. Everyone harbors the delusion that he is special. To fulfill it, he manufactures a special image; he strives to appear exceptional—though he knows that the exceptional and the ordinary all turn to dust alike.

Yet each wants to be special. The tension and strain of this desire makes life unnatural. We start displaying what we are not; we express what is not within; we wrap ourselves in what is borrowed.

We cannot accept ourselves as we are, because we are driven by the urge to appear otherwise. But whoever looks with open eyes will discover something simple: as one is, so one is—and other than that one can neither be, nor is there any real possibility. One can try to appear and live in illusion, but cannot be otherwise. A rose is a rose; a champa is a champa. There is no reason for champa to pretend to be a rose. No reason for a neem to strive to become a mango. There are small plants and great trees; small stars and large stars. If, throughout existence, each accepts where and what it is with a relaxed heart—there will be a revolution in life. Then something begins to happen, to develop—not around the center of ego, but as if Paramatma Himself is working within.

At present we try to make things happen from the center of ego. Whatever is done from there cannot be more than a false personality. Remember: whatever arises from ego constructs a false persona; whatever arises when ego is absent becomes an intensely spiritual formation.

So first: to strive from the ego-center is deluded. That is what Alexander does, Napoleon does, the politician does, the rich man does; and so too the so-called virtuous, the moral, the gentleman, the sadhu—he too does the same. He works from ego.

Yesterday someone told me: I want to become a very good man.

I asked: But why? What need has arisen to become a very good man? If someone wants to be very rich we call him mad; but if someone wishes to become a very good man, a mahatma—we call him noble. Yet the race is the same—ego at the center. None accepts being simply natural and ordinary as one is. One wants to stand in a very fine suit; another wants to don a very fine character. But why? To belittle others? To leave others behind? To enjoy making others suffer?

The ego’s sole joy is in making others feel low. A man builds a big house—he is not happy because he built a big house; he is happy because he made others’ houses small. Let a bigger house be built next to his, and he becomes miserable. His house is the same—why the sorrow? Another has made it small. You are not happy in fine clothes per se; you are happy when others’ clothes look poor.

Why is there so much poverty and pain? Because no one knows a way to be happy without making others unhappy. Even the so-called virtuous take their pleasure not in virtue itself, but in proving others vicious. If everyone became equally virtuous, they would be in great trouble—their pleasure is in keeping others down. By any means, to keep others lower.

Ego knows only one joy: making others small. The soul knows only one joy: not to make anyone lower or higher, but to reveal and express what is hidden within oneself. Yet movement from the center of the soul is possible only when movement from the center of ego ceases. We rush blindly to that center, never noticing how many have run there, and where they arrived. And what justification is there for human ego? What reason? Yet man is terribly egoistic.

Someone asked Bernard Shaw: Do you accept that the earth circles the sun?

Shaw said: I could never accept that.

The man said: What question is there of your accepting or not? It is proven—the earth goes around the sun.

Shaw said: Then there must be some mistake. The earth on which Bernard Shaw lives will circle the sun? The sun must be circling the earth!

He spoke in jest—but there is meaning. Look into man’s books: man is the supreme creation of God. Who told you this? Or have you told it to yourselves? Above all animals and birds, specially made by God—who says?

Only yesterday I was saying: a husband told his friends, “No one is more beautiful than my wife.”

They asked: Who told you?

He said: My wife herself told me.

People laughed. Yet for thousands of years, man has repeated, “We are the supreme creation”—and no one laughs, because all men agree.

Who said so? Who informed you?

There is no limit to human ego. Our power is negligible—we control neither life nor death. If one breath goes in and does not return, we are helpless. A little rise in heat or a little fall in cold—and we are finished. If the earth cracks, if the sun cools—we are finished. And in this vast universe, no announcement will be made. No newspaper will carry the news that on a tiny earth, a small species called humans has vanished. There will be no ripple anywhere, no assembly of condolence, no resolutions of grief—nothing at all.

Do we notice when one ant dies in the house? Do we notice when a blade of grass withers? Not much more would be noticed if all of humanity vanished. Even now, none are noticed. There, all around, is an eternal silence. As far as our vision reaches, we find how small we are.

Once, we felt very big. As our understanding grew, we shrank. The earth is nothing; man is less than nothing. The sun is sixty thousand times bigger than the earth—and this sun is among the smallest. We have discerned perhaps twenty million suns; beyond them, unending vastness. And beyond, who knows how many suns. There can be no boundary to the universe, for a boundary always implies a beyond. Where your field ends, another begins. Boundary is between two; hence the universe cannot have a boundary—otherwise another would begin, and then a third, and so on.

In this boundless cosmos—tiny dots of earths and suns, and between them infinite gulfs of nothingness—here is a tiny man whose ego knows no measure. He raises flags on poles and shouts, and kills and dies for those flags. His vanity has no bounds.

There is no reason for vanity. For a leaf there is none; for a drop there is none; for you or me—none. If we open our eyes, we will see: there is no reason for ego. And yet our power is so meager—we control neither life nor death. Things happen within us, and in delusion we say, “I am doing.”

Love happens to you, and you say, “I am loving.” Has anyone ever “done” love? Love happens. Anger arises, and you say, “I am getting angry.” Has anyone ever “done” anger? Anger happens. You say, “My birthday.” Is there any birthday of yours? Did you decide it? Did anyone ask you? No one’s birthday, no one’s death day—life comes and goes. On the ocean, waves rise and subside. If waves were conscious, the rising would be a birthday, the fall a death day. Those that rose a little higher would build marble graves; some would write autobiographies; about some there would be quarrels, “They were special incarnations of God.” But beyond waves there is nothing in life. Leaves sprout and fall in autumn; man is born and dissolves.

If you look at life with open eyes, without prejudice—and man carries many prejudices, countless illusions about himself—you will see: there is no reason for ego. Life has unfolded a branch within me; any day it may be withdrawn. Within you, life has opened a petal; any day it may close, wither, and fall.

Where are you? There is life—the life-force. Where am I? If a leaf were conscious, it would shout, “I am something!” The leaf on the top branch would say to the lower, “You are a shudra; I am a brahmin—or a kshatriya.” Madness takes many forms. But the lower leaf flowers from Paramatma as the upper does. In God’s world there is no higher, no lower—because higher and lower are only where boundaries exist. Where there is no boundary, how measure high and low? If your roof is above, you can place a small and a high chair; the one nearer the roof is higher. But where there is no roof, who is higher, who lower? Where there is no edge, who is ahead, who behind? These notions are our impositions.

A pebble is as much an expression of God—just as unique. A bird is as unique a creation. In a plant, a unique personhood arises—as in you, or in Krishna, or Rama, or Buddha, or Mahavira. There is no higher or lower. The life-force expresses in infinite forms, subsides and rises. Where are you? Where am I?

But we have condensed ourselves into a solid “I am.” This insistence makes us unnatural; it does not allow us to accept the simplicity of life.

There was a fakir, Nanin, in Japan a thousand years ago. The emperor went to meet him. Nanin was digging holes in his garden. The emperor had imagined a great sage with a halo around his head—sages always have such halos; photographers are told in advance to add them. In ancient days, painters did the same. He expected a luminous face. He asked the man digging outside: I wish to meet the great Master Nanin.

The man said: No great Master lives here—only a man named Nanin.

The emperor thought him rude. Where is he?

The man replied: I know nothing of any great Master; I know Nanin. Shall I call him?

Where is he?

He said: I am he.

The emperor was bewildered. He thought, “This mad fellow? How could this be Nanin—digging holes at the door, saying no great Master lives here; I’ve lived here for years.” The vizier said, “I have seen him before—he seems to be the one.” A loincloth, digging. The emperor was surprised and thought, “It is not proper to have come.” But since he had, he would talk a little.

He asked Nanin: What is your sadhana?

Nanin said: Sadhana? I’ve never even heard the word. I have never practiced anything. You have come by mistake. Go elsewhere—to some saint. What sadhana and all that!

Still, what do you do?

He said: When I feel hungry, I try to eat; when sleep comes, I sleep; when it ends, I rise. Nothing else have I done.

The emperor said: But we do this too.

Nanin said: As far as I can see, you do not. Otherwise why would you come to me?

He who has taken life so simply—hunger and food, sleep and waking—who has not imposed any “should” upon life, who has become so sahaj. For imposition is the act of ego. It says: rise at the Brahma-muhurta, whether sleep has ended or not. Ego says: eat only so much; fast like this; chant this mantra; read that scripture; wear this mark, that rosary…

Ego does not accept life’s natural flow; it interferes, prunes, reshapes. It will not let life develop from within in its own spontaneity. Thus is born a crippled, ugly personality—hammered, bound into a mold. Then comes restlessness and sorrow; and then we go to the Himalayas seeking peace; or to a guru for blessings. We do not see that suffering and unrest come because life is made unnatural.

No tree is unhappy; no bird is unhappy. Man is very unhappy. Man has imposed patterns upon life—thousands of patterns. He binds and manages himself in so many ways that all these efforts stand against the living current within, resisting its flow.

A river flows, simply moving wherever slope invites. If rivers began to decide which route to take, how to flow, by which soil to pass, by which mountain to avoid—no river would reach the ocean. But all rivers reach the ocean. Wherever their living energy finds a path, they go silently.

He who wishes to reach the ocean of Paramatma must become like rivers—not like trains running on laid tracks. We lay the rails first and then force the train upon them. Not so—be like rivers, with no route predetermined; wherever the living energy finds a path, it moves with utter naturalness.

But our lives are like trains racing on fixed tracks. Whoever runs on laid tracks becomes unnatural. Hearing me, you may fear: If we become wholly natural, we will be animals. If we become wholly spontaneous, everything will go wrong—how will we remain human? Certainly—if wholly spontaneous, you will not remain human; you will not be animals either—you will be divine. The animal’s spontaneity lacks awareness; yours will be suffused with awareness—with consciousness. Where life’s spontaneity is accepted in total wakefulness, life begins to move by itself toward the highest directions—directions we could never force by any effort.

I call one who has embraced a wholly spontaneous life a sadhu. One who accepts life’s spontaneity, who frees himself from the pruning and blockages of ego; who has agreed that what is to happen is to be allowed to happen.

We will be afraid, because our traditions of thousands of years say this is dangerous. But try it—an hour, a day or two; go into solitude for a month or two and live as simple as a creature, as a bird, as a plant—try it. You will find amazing realms of peace opening within you.

And the great wonder is: the more spontaneous and peaceful the person, the less do what we call vices arise. In such a one, they do not arise at all. They arise only in the unnatural person.

To understand the spontaneous—utterly spontaneous—life, to know it, to let it move, is the first sutra for the coming of Paramatma.

The second sutra: advandva—non-conflict.

Let there be no conflict in consciousness—no inner war. No contrary voices within.

In us, many clashing voices sound. One voice says one thing, another says something else; they fight. And when both are mine—what resolution can there be? If both my hands fight, what will happen? Will one win, one lose? No. The fight may go on lifelong; there will be no victory, no defeat. One thing will surely happen: in the fight of the two hands, I will be exhausted. Since both are mine, my energy is consumed on both sides.

We have raised many inner conflicts—of good and evil, virtue and vice; this is moral, that immoral; this is sin, that merit—and we fight twenty-four hours a day. Remember: the fighting mind is the only sin. The mind that has dissolved all inner fight is the only virtue.

But until we see that on both sides it is only “me,” the fight cannot cease. When anger arises, whose energy feeds it? Yours. And when remorse over anger arises, whose energy goes there? Yours. In anger you are depleted; in fighting anger you are depleted. Has anyone ever ended anger by fighting it? We never consider that the mind that fights anger is an angry mind; otherwise, with no anger, with what would it fight? Fighting your anger is itself a function of anger. There is greed, and you fight it to cultivate non-greed. There is falsehood; you fight it to cultivate truth. But whose are these? Yours. And who fights? You. How strange! With whom are you fighting? In such a fight, what can be resolved? It is like locking yourself in a room and swinging swords at yourself—by morning you will be maimed. Whom will you defeat? There is no other present. You are alone—whom do you fight?

Know this fact: I am alone in my life—whom, then, am I fighting? Whatever I fight must be a part of me, a fragment of me. Thus every fight fragments the personality—disintegrates it. One becomes many within. And everyone has become many. When this multiplies too far, one goes insane—he is many persons. One should be one—not many. This multi-psyche is the danger; it weakens and breaks life.

What to do? First, know that I am alone inside, so whom shall I fight? Drop the very idea of fighting.

Then fear arises: does this mean that if anger comes, we indulge it; if greed comes, we indulge it?

No. It means: if anger comes, know it—do not fight. If greed comes, know it—do not fight. It is my greed, my anger—I shall know it, recognize it. Why fight? I was given two eyes, two hands—and anger, too. Surely nature has some purpose; nothing is given without cause. If I have greed, it must have meaning; if I have fear, it must serve life’s protection and growth. Why fight? Let me understand it, and discover its energy.

The great surprise is: one who sets out to know his anger will find within that very anger the energy that becomes compassion. One who understands greed finds within greed the energy that becomes non-greed, becomes generosity.

When we sow a seed for a flower, a hard shell encloses the inner life. That hard shell protects the delicate life-thread within. Seeing the shell, if we say, “What has a hard shell to do with a flower?” and we destroy it, the seed dies. We know the shell has a purpose—protecting the tender life. The more delicate the life-thread, the harder the shell. We plant it in the soil; when the life within begins to grow, the hard shell cracks and dissolves, and the life emerges as a sprout, a plant, and flowers.

So I say: within the shell of your greed, within the shell of your anger, subtler life-threads are hidden. If you fight only the shell, you will never allow those threads to develop. Do not fight the shell—understand it. Whatever is in life is not without reason; it has utility, value. False morality, so-called ethics and education, deny this utility—and we begin to fight. We start fighting the shell, and then life becomes difficult; conflict ensues.

Seek into anger—anger is wondrous energy. Much is hidden within. But if you turn away at the door, seeing only the shell, you will never know what is contained in the palace of anger. Anger was a mechanism to keep something inside concealed until ready.

Do you know? Where there is no anger, there is no personality. Where there is no fear, there is idiocy. Such a one dies—he cannot live. There can be no protection. A snake approaches and he stands still; the house collapses and he remains seated; the house is aflame and he sleeps on. If there were no fear—fear is a protection. But if we enter into fear and try to understand it, we will see that fear is a device for the preservation of life. The more we enter and understand, the more we become fearless. He who understands fear becomes fearless. He who fights fear creates new fears.

There was a fakir in China who waged war on fear to attain fearlessness. He left the towns and lived deep in the jungle among wild beasts—bears and wolves, lions and tigers—where there were snakes. He said: If fear is to be dropped, let me practice fearlessness. He did attain a kind of fearlessness: his fame spread throughout China. A snake could coil round his neck and he did not tremble; a wolf could nudge him from behind and he would not turn; lions roared and his eyelids did not flicker. He became so fearless.

A young monk came to meet him. While they spoke near a rock, a wild beast roared behind. The young monk jumped up, startled.

The elder said: Afraid? If you fear, remember—you will never know God, never know Truth. The fearful—how can they attain?

The youth said: I am much frightened. I suddenly feel thirsty—please bring me some water.

The elder went into his hut. While he was gone, the youth wrote with a stone on the rock where he sat—“Namo Buddhaya.” When the elder came out with water, his foot moved to step on the rock; it trembled, and he withdrew. He said: What have you done?

The youth said: You too are afraid. I was afraid of a lion—that was real. And here I only wrote “Namo Buddhaya,” the name of Buddha—and you fear to step there? He who fears—how shall he attain Moksha?

This man has not attained fearlessness—he has only transferred the fear. Now he fears Buddha, he fears Rama, fears God. But to fear God, Rama, Buddha is entirely imaginary; to fear a lion is real. Fear of lions protects life; fear of Rama does not. Yet the fear remains. By fighting fear, he created another fear. That fear is unseen—someone is afraid of hell, someone of something else, and becomes “virtuous.” We do not notice that it is fear at work.

I say to you: by fighting fear, no one becomes fearless. By knowing fear, one does. When we become conscious of fear—utterly aware—there is no need to fight. As you know fear, its uselessness dissolves and its meaningful part becomes a helper to life. Buddha too, when he walks, avoids the thorn—why? It is natural; it is life’s protection. If you serve Buddha food in a plate, he eats the food and leaves the plate—he does not eat the plate. It is life’s protection.

He who is conscious with fear retains whatever in fear protects life; all else dissolves. He who is conscious with anger retains what in anger protects life; the rest fades. Then anger becomes sharpness, radiance. Where there is no anger at all, there is no radiance; such a one is impotent—spineless, without force.

Whatever is in life, I take it as manure. Pile manure in the house—it will stink. But the wise spread it in the garden and sow seeds; fragrance arises from flowers. The very stench becomes perfume—transformation.

What we call bad or evil, against which we fight—it is not evil. From that very so-called evil, transformation and revolution happen. What is foul becomes fragrant. The alchemy of this change—the secret—is not fighting, but right knowing. Whatever is in life, know it rightly. The fighter never knows that which he fights. One can know only that with which one is in friendship, in love.

Therefore do not decide in haste which of your energies are good or bad. Whatever is within man must contain some good. Whatever is within man comes from Paramatma. Whatever is within man has a fruition to come, a journey to complete, a hidden potential in the seed. Do not panic. Do not rush into battle. If you do, you will be halted and broken.

Know it—recognize it—develop a conscious understanding toward it.

Let there be no conflict in the mind; let there be the knowledge of advandva—non-conflict.

But those who are eager for knowledge ask: What is God like? We want to know. They do not ask: What is anger? We want to know. They ask: What is heaven like? Not: What is the fear within us like? We want to know.

Countless come to me—one asks if God is a Trinity; another asks how many heads He has, how many hands. But none asks: How many heads has my own mind? How many hands? Whatever has to happen will happen through the mind. Religion is not metaphysics. Religion is not idle speculation and philosophizing. Religion is a total psychological mutation—a complete turning and transformation of consciousness. The revolution is in the very mind—so we must know the mind to let it be transformed.

There was a time when lightning flashed in the sky and killed people. Today I am speaking through that very electricity; fans turn in your homes, machines run. The same electricity that once fell and killed—today saves countless lives. What happened? We came to know electricity—its secret. In knowledge, the obstacle becomes an ally; in ignorance, it was a hindrance.

Within, anger is a power like electricity. Not knowing it, we are broken and burned. Knowing it, that very anger gives unknown momentum to life.

So I say: there is nothing bad in life. It is our not knowing that makes it bad. In ignorance, it turns against us.

Put a sword in a child’s hand—there is danger. The sword is power; in a child’s hand, peril. Today, children hold swords within—that is why the world grows perilous. In the hand of one who understands, the sword becomes an ally—a strength, a support for life.

Blessed are those who can be angry! But they fall into hell, because they know nothing of anger. Powers have been given to us, but we are ignorant of them—and in ignorance we begin to fight. And in ignorance, we pick up absurd moral teachings and start the war. Then life breaks, worsens—it does not bloom.

The sutra of life’s growth is: right knowledge of life’s energies.

Engage in knowing whatever is hidden within you. And you will see: as you know, the very forces that seemed harmful become helpful; stones that blocked your path become steps; that which hindered begins to carry you forward. This can only happen through knowing…