We had sat for meditation. By meditation I mean a state of consciousness in which no distress, no question, no curiosity remains. We are continually asking something or other regarding the truth of life. It is hard to find a person who carries no curiosity about the truth of life. Neither do we have any knowledge of who we are, nor do we know what this world spread all around us is. We find ourselves in the midst of life without any answer, without any solution. Questions on every side—and in their midst man finds himself surrounded.
Among these questions, some pertain to the very foundations of life. For example—why am I? Why does my being exist? What necessity is there for my existence? What inevitability? And then—who am I? And why this whole business of birth and death and life? This curiosity, these questions arise in every person’s mind—whether he is born in any religion or in any country.
There can be two ways to resolve this curiosity. One way is that of philosophy, of metaphysics—that we think and reflect: who are we? For what are we? And that, through contemplation upon life’s riddle, we search out some solution.
Any solution thus found will be intellectual. We will decide by thinking. The West took such a path. In the West, the birth of philosophy happened through the effort to know truth by contemplation, by thought.
In India nothing like philosophy came to birth. Those who call Indian darshan philosophy are speaking in perfect error. The words are not synonymous. Philosophy and darshan are not synonyms.
In the West they thought that by thought they would reach some conclusion about truth. In the last two and a half millennia they have not reached any conclusion. One thinker does not agree with another. What one affirms in youth, he himself changes in old age. What is said today is altered tomorrow. Contemplation could not lead to the eternal and the everlasting truth.
In fact thought cannot lead there at all. Thought means: we are thinking about that which is unknown, unknowable to us, of which we have no experience. As I like to say—if a blind man were to think about light, what would he think? One who has no eyes has no means to think about light. He cannot form any notion, any conception of light. His contemplation will become a groping in the dark.
Perhaps you imagine that at least a blind man must see darkness! He may think that whatever is the opposite of darkness must be light. But let me remind you: a blind man does not even see darkness. He does not see darkness either, because to see darkness eyes are also needed. He knows neither darkness nor light. He does not even know the opposite, therefore he has no facility to form any conception about light.
With regard to the truth of life, we are almost blind. Whatever we think, whatever we contemplate, will not lead us to any solution. Therefore India attempted a wholly new outlook, tried to open a wholly new door. That door is not of contemplation but of darshan. It is not of philosophy but of darshan.
Darshan means: we do not wish to think about truth, we wish to see truth. Thinking and seeing—these two are very different things. We do not wish to think truth—we cannot think it—we wish to see truth. If we wish to see, then the very role of the question will change. Then logic will not be the ally. Logic is the ally of contemplation, of thought. And if it is darshan, seeing, then logic will not be the ally; then the ally will be yoga. Therefore in the East yoga developed alongside darshan, while in the West logic developed alongside philosophy. Logic is the background of contemplation; yoga is the background of darshan. If at seeing the question gets stuck, then the issue is not whether there is something like God or Atman there; the issue is whether I have the eye sensitive to That or not. The real question then becomes not of truth but of the eye. If I have eyes, whatever is, I shall be able to see. And if I have no eyes, then whatever may be, for me it will remain unknown. Therefore Indian darshan became centered on the development of the inner eye within man.
There is a mention in the life of Buddha. A young man named Malunkyaputta went to Buddha and asked eleven questions. In those eleven questions all the questions of life find place. In those eleven questions come all the problems which metaphysical contemplation ponders. A very sweet dialogue took place. Malunkyaputta asked his questions. Buddha said: Will you listen to a word of mine? Can you stay for six months, for a year? Can you wait for a year? It would be good if you stayed with me for a year. Ask me after a year. I will give you the answers.
Malunkyaputta said: If you know the answers, give them now. And if you do not know them, then clearly accept your ignorance and I shall return. Will you have to contemplate for a year and then you will answer?
Buddha said: Before coming to me had you asked these questions of anyone else?
Malunkyaputta said: Of many. But all of them gave immediate answers; none of them said, "Stay for so many days."
Buddha said: If those answers were answers, then why do you still go on asking the same questions? If those answers had truly become answers for you, there would be no need to ask the same questions again. This much is certain—that you are asking them again. The answers that were given to you have not proved to be answers. I too can give you immediate answers, but such answers will be futile. In truth, any answers given by another are futile. Answers must be born within you. Therefore I say to you: remain for a year. And if you ask after a year, I shall answer.
Buddha had a disciple, Ananda; hearing this he began to laugh. He said to Malunkyaputta: Do not be taken in by his words. I have been near him for some twenty years. Many people have come, and those many people have asked many kinds of questions. Buddha says the same to all: Stay for a year, stay for two years. I have waited, thinking that after a year, after two years they will ask and we shall come to know Buddha’s answers. But who knows what happens—after a year or two they do not ask, and what Buddha’s answers are, this has not become known till today. Therefore if you are to ask, ask now; it is certain that after a year you will not ask.
Buddha said: I shall abide by my word. If you ask, I will answer. If you ask not, that is another matter.
Malunkyaputta stayed for a year. After a year Buddha said: Do you wish to ask?
He began to laugh; he said: There is no need to ask.
India’s entire grasp, its whole approach to truth, is not to obtain answers from without, but to open a door within. When that door opens, it is not that particular answers are obtained—rather, the questions drop. Getting answers to questions is one thing; the dropping of the questions is a matter of an altogether different dimension. The important thing is not the obtaining of answers; the important thing is the dropping of questions. The long yogic experiments of our land have yielded certain conclusions. One conclusion among them is this: questions are the offspring of our unquiet mind. If the mind becomes quiet, the question does not arise. All questions are born of our disturbed, agitated mind. Concerning God, concerning birth, concerning death—all questions are merely the progeny of an unquiet mind. Let the mind grow quiet, and they are dissolved.
To become questionless is to become available to knowledge. To obtain answers to questions is to become available to erudition; to become questionless is to become available to wisdom. To memorize many answers is intellectual; the dissolution of questions is spiritual.
What I am calling meditation will not give special answers to questions; gradually, slowly, the questions will be dissolved. A state of a questionless mind will be formed—that is the solution, that is Samadhi. Where no question arises even if sought for, where no curiosity about life is awakened, where there is no agitation, where nothing seems unknown, where no excitement remains that I still have something to know—in that very moment—in that state of fearless, doubtless dropping of questions—one comes to a direct seeing of truth. While questions are, truth cannot be sought; when questions fall, truth reveals itself.
That is why we call Samadhi the solution. The very meaning of Samadhi is solution. This solution no one else can give to anyone; if someone says so, he is a deceiver, he is deceiving. If someone claims that this solution another can give to you, he is exploiting your ignorance. Whoever makes such a claim—some prophet, some Tirthankara, some Avatar—if he claims, "I can give you this knowledge," then he is speaking a deceit. He is only exploiting your ignorance; he has no knowledge of truth.
Therefore no Tirthankara, no Avatar, no prophet makes the claim that "I can give you knowledge." He can only say this much: how knowledge became available to me, I can discuss its method. Whoever finds it right may use it. Knowledge cannot be given; how I reached knowledge can be discussed. Truth cannot be given; how the inner direct seeing of truth happened—that "how" can be answered. Not the answer to "What is truth?"; the answer to "How did truth become directly seen?" Those who answer the "what" are philosophers, are thinkers. Those who answer the "how" are yogis.
Yoga is the answer to "how"—how can the inner eye open? and how can we stand face to face with whatever Reality is? How can there be an encounter with that Reality? How can there be direct seeing of that Reality?
If this is understood, then the direction of searching for questions and answers will become futile. Then the direction of dissolving the question will be meaningful. What I am calling meditation is the direction to dissolve questions. There are questions because there are thoughts; there are questions because thoughts are in the mind; if thoughts cease, questions too will not remain. In a thoughtless mind what question will arise? How will it arise? The very structure of the question is bound up with thought. If thoughts become zero in the mind, no question will arise, no curiosity will awaken. In that silent moment, where no curiosity, no question is arising, something will be experienced. As long as thought remains, the commencement of experience does not occur. Where thoughts are exhausted, there the awakening of feeling happens, there the beginning of darshan occurs.
Thoughts have surrounded our mind like a screen. We are so absorbed in them, so occupied, so busy—so busy in thought—that the interval to see that which stands behind thought, the empty space to see That, is not found. Being extremely occupied, extremely busy, extremely involved in thought, one’s whole life passes in being anxious within them; who stood beyond them—we do not get even a glimpse.
Therefore the meaning of meditation is: to become utterly unoccupied. The meaning of meditation is: to become completely free of busyness.
So if we remember "Arihant, Arihant," "Ram, Ram," that is occupation; that becomes another busyness, it becomes another work. If we remember the image of Krishna or the image of Mahavira, remember their form—that too becomes busyness; that is not meditation. Any name, any form, any idol that we establish in the mind—that too is thought. For apart from thought nothing else remains steady in the mind. Whether the thought is of God or of ordinary work, it makes no difference; the mind fills with thought. To leave the mind thought-free, to leave the mind unoccupied—that is meditation.
I may have told you last time, when I came, about a Japanese monk. In Japan there was a monk named Rinzai. The emperor of Japan once went to see his monastery. It was a large monastery; there were some five hundred bhikshus in it. Showing it, that monk walked him around: here the monks eat; here the monks reside; here the monks study. In the very center of the whole monastery there was a very large building—the most beautiful, the most silent, the most spacious. The king kept asking again and again: And what do the monks do here?
He went on saying: We will speak about that later.
The garden, the library, the study rooms—he showed all that. The king kept asking again and again: And what do the monks do here—this central building?
The monk said: Wait a little; we will speak about it later.
When the whole monastery had been seen and the king was about to return, he asked again: That central building was left out altogether—what do the monks do there?
The head of the monastery said: I had delayed telling you about it because there the monks do nothing; there the monks leave themselves in the state of non-doing. That is the meditation hall—there the monks leave themselves in the state of non-doing; there, nothing is done. In the rest of the monastery work is done; there, work is abandoned. In the rest of the monastery activities take place; there, activity is not undertaken. When someone has to drop activity, he goes there; leaving all activities, he becomes silent.
Meditation is non-action. It is not an action. If we think it is some work—that we are sitting and doing a work—if work is being done, then it is not meditation. Meditation means that the continuous work going on in the mind is given a rest. Do no work; leave the mind absolutely actionless. In the mind’s actionless state what will happen? In the mind’s actionless state, only darshan will remain, only seeing will remain. In the mind’s actionless state, what is our nature—that alone will remain.
Seeing, knowing is our nature. We can leave everything, but we cannot leave knowing and seeing. A continuous, unbroken current of knowing accompanies us twenty-four hours. When we sleep in deep sleep, even then we know the dream; when the dream too is dissolved and sushupti happens, even then we know this much—that the night was very blissful. In the morning we say, the night passed with great joy. Someone within us is awake even then, is knowing even then. Someone within us is conscious even then. Sitting, standing, sleeping, waking, working or not working—within us there remains a continuous, unbroken flow of knowing. Leaving all activities, there remains only the unbroken flow of knowing. Only this: I am knowing, I am only being; the mere awareness of being, the mere awareness of existence remains.
To leap into that very awareness, into that very beingness, is religion. To jump into That—into that existence—is religion. And the experience that happens there frees one from life’s bondage, from life’s attachment, from life’s misery. Because going there it becomes known that that inner being seated within is ever free of sin, of sorrow, of pain. Not even for a single moment has any stain of sin, of pain, of sorrow ever touched That. That consciousness is eternally tranquil, eternally free. That consciousness is eternally in Brahman-state. In that consciousness no defilement has ever occurred, nor is there any possibility of defilement.
As soon as this darshan happens, life becomes oriented toward an otherworldly plane of the experience of bliss. I call this orientation meditation and Samadhi.
I have said two things: unoccupied and non-doing. In truth both mean the same. If both are said in one word—perfect emptiness is meditation. If a person wishes to bring this perfect emptiness, then, as I understand it, he must make his experiments upon three limbs. Primarily upon his body. If he is to go into non-action, into inactivity, then he must leave the body inactive. He must leave the body utterly inactive—as in death—so that all the tensions in the body, all the stresses, all melt into silence.
You must have experienced: if anywhere in the body there is tension—if there is pain in the foot—the mind, again and again, will go toward that pain. If nowhere in the body there is any tension, the mind does not go toward the body at all. You have experienced this: you become aware only of those parts in your body which are ill. Of those parts which are healthy, you do not become aware. If there is pain in your head, you will know you have a head; and if there is no pain in the head, you will not notice the head. Wherever the body becomes tension-ridden, there alone it is felt. If the body becomes completely tensionless, the body will not be noticed.
Therefore the body must be left so relaxed that all tensions dissolve; in a little while body-awareness is dissolved. In a little while even the thought—whether the body is or is not—is dissolved. In only a few days of experiment, body-awareness is dissolved. The body’s complete freedom from tension is a means of becoming free of the body. Therefore, in the first stage of meditation we let the body go loose.
Today, when we sit for the experiment, leave the body utterly loose—as if it has become a corpse, as if there is no life in it. No hardness, no tension, no stiffness, no holding is to be maintained—let everything go. Leave it so loose as if it were a clod of earth—there is no grip of ours upon it, there is no life in it. Leave your own body exactly like a dead man’s.
When you have left the body utterly relaxed, after that, for two minutes I will give you suggestions for your support—I will give suggestions that your body is becoming relaxed. For two minutes, as I keep saying that the body is becoming relaxed, you are to feel that the body is becoming relaxed. Only to feel this—merely to feel that the body is becoming relaxed.
You will be astonished—feeling has such power—that if you feel with great resolve, even the prana can be released from the body. What in India is called iccha-mrityu, death by will, is only feeling. If you feel rightly, the body will become just so.
There is a mention concerning Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna practiced the disciplines of all religions. In this way he was the first monk in the world to do so. There are many other monks in the world; they practice their own religion and attain truth. Ramakrishna felt: Do the disciplines of other religions also lead to truth, or not? So he practiced the disciplines of all religions and he found that the discipline of every religion leads to truth.
In Bengal there is a sect in vogue—the Radha-sect. He practiced that too. The belief of the Radha-sect is that only the Supreme Brahman is male; all others are women, all are Radhas. Even a man of that sect accepts himself as the wife of that Supreme Consciousness, that Supreme Brahman. He maintains this very feeling—that he is the consort of the Supreme Consciousness.
Ramakrishna practiced that as well. You will be surprised: for three days he maintained the feeling that he was Radha, and all the signs of womanhood manifested in him. His voice changed, his way of speaking changed, even changes came in his limbs. Hundreds of thousands saw this with their eyes. People were astonished: What happened? There are countless people in the Radha-sect; they too repeat it. But in Ramakrishna, for the first time people witnessed directly that all the signs of a woman had appeared in him. The continuous three-day state of feeling that he was Radha gave him Radha’s fruition. It took six months for those signs to pass away.
Now in the West, and in many countries of the East, much work is being done upon this. As we feel, so do the consequences occur in the body.
So if we feel rightly that the body is becoming relaxed—if we feel with a complete and total mind that the body is becoming relaxed—within two minutes you will find that the body has become dead. There is no life in it. In such a state, if the body begins to fall, do not stop it. It is better not to check it even a little—when the body begins to fall, let it fall completely. After that, for two minutes feel that the breath is becoming quiet. I will repeat that the breath is becoming quiet; for two minutes you are to feel that the breath is becoming quiet. If we are to go into perfect emptiness, then the relaxation of the body is essential, the quieting of the breath is essential. In two minutes of feeling the breath becomes quiet. After that, for two minutes I shall say that the mind is becoming silent, thoughts are becoming zero. In two minutes of feeling, thoughts become zero.
And in this small process of six minutes, suddenly you will find that entry has happened into a space, into an opening, into a void. The mind will fall silent. The arising of inner speech and words will dissolve. Within, an empty space will remain, a vacant place where nothing is—no thought, no form, no figure, no fragrance, no sound—where there is nothing at all; only you remain alone. In that aloneness, that loneliness where I remain utterly alone, surrounded on all sides by empty sky—in that very aloneness the experience of that Self arises which Mahavira called Atman, which Shankara called Brahman, or to which others have given other names. The experience of that truth happens in that supremely solitary state.
We search for aloneness by going into forests, by fleeing to woods, by fleeing to mountains. But aloneness is not related to place; it is related to state. Aloneness cannot be found by going into the jungle. There will be animals and birds; companionship will arise even with them. Aloneness is found by going into oneself, where everything becomes empty and I remain utterly alone. In that solitary state, in that absolute seclusion where only the pulsation of being remains, something is experienced that brings a revolution to life. For that there is a very, very simple, small experiment. The experiment is so small that many times it may seem: how can inner realization happen through such a small experiment?
But seeds are always small; in the result the tree becomes vast. One who, considering the seed small, takes the attitude, "What tree can arise from this?" will be deprived of the tree. Seeds are always small; in fruition the vast becomes available. By sowing the extremely subtle seed of meditation, one can reap the harvest of a vast experience.
You must have understood my words. We will now sit for meditation in three stages. At that time all will sit at a distance, so that falling is easy. Everyone sit a little apart and carefully see that there is room to fall. Yesterday there was some inconvenience.
Close your eyes. Join both hands and make a resolve... Now release your hands, and as I suggest, feel. First we will feel the body becoming relaxed, then we will feel the breath becoming quiet, and after this we will feel the mind becoming silent. In the end, for ten minutes we shall go into perfect rest. (The meditation experiment took place in three stages, for which the audio recording is not available. After that Osho begins to speak again.) There is a very ancient anecdote; by telling it I will complete today’s program. It is a completely fictitious tale, yet it seems to me full of meaning.
The tale is: Narada was going to Vaikuntha. On the way he met an old ascetic sitting under a tree. He said to Narada, “Please ask the Lord: how much longer until my liberation? When will I attain moksha?”
Narada said, “Certainly—I will ask on my return.”
Nearby, a fakir newly initiated that very day was dancing with his tambura. Narada, jokingly, said to him as well, “Do you want me to ask for you too?”
The fakir said nothing.
When Narada returned, he went to the old ascetic and said, “I asked. God said it will still take three more births.”
The ascetic threw down his rosary and cried, “Three more births! Injustice! How long must I keep patience!”
Narada went on. Under that tree the newly initiated fakir was still dancing. Narada said, “Listen! I asked about you as well. The Lord said: the tree under which he is dancing—he will need as many births in practice as there are leaves on that tree; only then will liberation be attained.”
The fakir said, “Only as many leaves? Then I have won! How many leaves there are in the world! On this tree there are so few!” He started dancing again. And the tale says: he was liberated in that very instant.
I find this most delightful. He was liberated that very instant. Such patience! He said, “Only so many leaves! Only so many births! Then I have won.” One who has such patience attains in this very moment.
Impatience is the obstacle. Impatience lengthens the journey. If, with infinite patience, I become silent even for a single moment, in that very moment all happens. So if one lets go of a little impatience—drops the immediate, absolute craving for results and purpose—and undertakes the experiment, it is very certain that within a few days something will begin to be seen, something will begin to happen. And if such a thing happens, nothing is more valuable.
I hope that a few people, to whom this feels appealing, will experiment. If you experiment and keep patience, the result is certain. Because, apart from becoming silent—perfectly silent—there is no way for a human being to know the truth of the world and the truth of oneself. What no scripture can give will become available by descending within.
There is only one path to attain the immortal, the infinite, the eternally conscious—and that is this: somehow, the eyes that are looking at the outer world begin to look within. The event of the eye seeing within happens in the void. As soon as thought becomes empty, there remains nothing to see outside. When there is nothing left to see outside, the power of seeing—the faculty of vision that was entangled outwardly—finding no support outside, inevitably becomes self-supported. Deprived of outer anchorage, it becomes self-anchored. Outside, consciousness finds no place to abide; inevitably it abides in itself.
Therefore, apart from emptiness there is no other meditation. I hope you will experiment a little with this.
Osho's Commentary
Among these questions, some pertain to the very foundations of life. For example—why am I? Why does my being exist? What necessity is there for my existence? What inevitability? And then—who am I? And why this whole business of birth and death and life? This curiosity, these questions arise in every person’s mind—whether he is born in any religion or in any country.
There can be two ways to resolve this curiosity. One way is that of philosophy, of metaphysics—that we think and reflect: who are we? For what are we? And that, through contemplation upon life’s riddle, we search out some solution.
Any solution thus found will be intellectual. We will decide by thinking. The West took such a path. In the West, the birth of philosophy happened through the effort to know truth by contemplation, by thought.
In India nothing like philosophy came to birth. Those who call Indian darshan philosophy are speaking in perfect error. The words are not synonymous. Philosophy and darshan are not synonyms.
In the West they thought that by thought they would reach some conclusion about truth. In the last two and a half millennia they have not reached any conclusion. One thinker does not agree with another. What one affirms in youth, he himself changes in old age. What is said today is altered tomorrow. Contemplation could not lead to the eternal and the everlasting truth.
In fact thought cannot lead there at all. Thought means: we are thinking about that which is unknown, unknowable to us, of which we have no experience. As I like to say—if a blind man were to think about light, what would he think? One who has no eyes has no means to think about light. He cannot form any notion, any conception of light. His contemplation will become a groping in the dark.
Perhaps you imagine that at least a blind man must see darkness! He may think that whatever is the opposite of darkness must be light. But let me remind you: a blind man does not even see darkness. He does not see darkness either, because to see darkness eyes are also needed. He knows neither darkness nor light. He does not even know the opposite, therefore he has no facility to form any conception about light.
With regard to the truth of life, we are almost blind. Whatever we think, whatever we contemplate, will not lead us to any solution. Therefore India attempted a wholly new outlook, tried to open a wholly new door. That door is not of contemplation but of darshan. It is not of philosophy but of darshan.
Darshan means: we do not wish to think about truth, we wish to see truth. Thinking and seeing—these two are very different things. We do not wish to think truth—we cannot think it—we wish to see truth. If we wish to see, then the very role of the question will change. Then logic will not be the ally. Logic is the ally of contemplation, of thought. And if it is darshan, seeing, then logic will not be the ally; then the ally will be yoga. Therefore in the East yoga developed alongside darshan, while in the West logic developed alongside philosophy. Logic is the background of contemplation; yoga is the background of darshan. If at seeing the question gets stuck, then the issue is not whether there is something like God or Atman there; the issue is whether I have the eye sensitive to That or not. The real question then becomes not of truth but of the eye. If I have eyes, whatever is, I shall be able to see. And if I have no eyes, then whatever may be, for me it will remain unknown. Therefore Indian darshan became centered on the development of the inner eye within man.
There is a mention in the life of Buddha. A young man named Malunkyaputta went to Buddha and asked eleven questions. In those eleven questions all the questions of life find place. In those eleven questions come all the problems which metaphysical contemplation ponders. A very sweet dialogue took place. Malunkyaputta asked his questions. Buddha said: Will you listen to a word of mine? Can you stay for six months, for a year? Can you wait for a year? It would be good if you stayed with me for a year. Ask me after a year. I will give you the answers.
Malunkyaputta said: If you know the answers, give them now. And if you do not know them, then clearly accept your ignorance and I shall return. Will you have to contemplate for a year and then you will answer?
Buddha said: Before coming to me had you asked these questions of anyone else?
Malunkyaputta said: Of many. But all of them gave immediate answers; none of them said, "Stay for so many days."
Buddha said: If those answers were answers, then why do you still go on asking the same questions? If those answers had truly become answers for you, there would be no need to ask the same questions again. This much is certain—that you are asking them again. The answers that were given to you have not proved to be answers. I too can give you immediate answers, but such answers will be futile. In truth, any answers given by another are futile. Answers must be born within you. Therefore I say to you: remain for a year. And if you ask after a year, I shall answer.
Buddha had a disciple, Ananda; hearing this he began to laugh. He said to Malunkyaputta: Do not be taken in by his words. I have been near him for some twenty years. Many people have come, and those many people have asked many kinds of questions. Buddha says the same to all: Stay for a year, stay for two years. I have waited, thinking that after a year, after two years they will ask and we shall come to know Buddha’s answers. But who knows what happens—after a year or two they do not ask, and what Buddha’s answers are, this has not become known till today. Therefore if you are to ask, ask now; it is certain that after a year you will not ask.
Buddha said: I shall abide by my word. If you ask, I will answer. If you ask not, that is another matter.
Malunkyaputta stayed for a year. After a year Buddha said: Do you wish to ask?
He began to laugh; he said: There is no need to ask.
India’s entire grasp, its whole approach to truth, is not to obtain answers from without, but to open a door within. When that door opens, it is not that particular answers are obtained—rather, the questions drop. Getting answers to questions is one thing; the dropping of the questions is a matter of an altogether different dimension. The important thing is not the obtaining of answers; the important thing is the dropping of questions. The long yogic experiments of our land have yielded certain conclusions. One conclusion among them is this: questions are the offspring of our unquiet mind. If the mind becomes quiet, the question does not arise. All questions are born of our disturbed, agitated mind. Concerning God, concerning birth, concerning death—all questions are merely the progeny of an unquiet mind. Let the mind grow quiet, and they are dissolved.
To become questionless is to become available to knowledge. To obtain answers to questions is to become available to erudition; to become questionless is to become available to wisdom. To memorize many answers is intellectual; the dissolution of questions is spiritual.
What I am calling meditation will not give special answers to questions; gradually, slowly, the questions will be dissolved. A state of a questionless mind will be formed—that is the solution, that is Samadhi. Where no question arises even if sought for, where no curiosity about life is awakened, where there is no agitation, where nothing seems unknown, where no excitement remains that I still have something to know—in that very moment—in that state of fearless, doubtless dropping of questions—one comes to a direct seeing of truth. While questions are, truth cannot be sought; when questions fall, truth reveals itself.
That is why we call Samadhi the solution. The very meaning of Samadhi is solution. This solution no one else can give to anyone; if someone says so, he is a deceiver, he is deceiving. If someone claims that this solution another can give to you, he is exploiting your ignorance. Whoever makes such a claim—some prophet, some Tirthankara, some Avatar—if he claims, "I can give you this knowledge," then he is speaking a deceit. He is only exploiting your ignorance; he has no knowledge of truth.
Therefore no Tirthankara, no Avatar, no prophet makes the claim that "I can give you knowledge." He can only say this much: how knowledge became available to me, I can discuss its method. Whoever finds it right may use it. Knowledge cannot be given; how I reached knowledge can be discussed. Truth cannot be given; how the inner direct seeing of truth happened—that "how" can be answered. Not the answer to "What is truth?"; the answer to "How did truth become directly seen?" Those who answer the "what" are philosophers, are thinkers. Those who answer the "how" are yogis.
Yoga is the answer to "how"—how can the inner eye open? and how can we stand face to face with whatever Reality is? How can there be an encounter with that Reality? How can there be direct seeing of that Reality?
If this is understood, then the direction of searching for questions and answers will become futile. Then the direction of dissolving the question will be meaningful. What I am calling meditation is the direction to dissolve questions. There are questions because there are thoughts; there are questions because thoughts are in the mind; if thoughts cease, questions too will not remain. In a thoughtless mind what question will arise? How will it arise? The very structure of the question is bound up with thought. If thoughts become zero in the mind, no question will arise, no curiosity will awaken. In that silent moment, where no curiosity, no question is arising, something will be experienced. As long as thought remains, the commencement of experience does not occur. Where thoughts are exhausted, there the awakening of feeling happens, there the beginning of darshan occurs.
Thoughts have surrounded our mind like a screen. We are so absorbed in them, so occupied, so busy—so busy in thought—that the interval to see that which stands behind thought, the empty space to see That, is not found. Being extremely occupied, extremely busy, extremely involved in thought, one’s whole life passes in being anxious within them; who stood beyond them—we do not get even a glimpse.
Therefore the meaning of meditation is: to become utterly unoccupied. The meaning of meditation is: to become completely free of busyness.
So if we remember "Arihant, Arihant," "Ram, Ram," that is occupation; that becomes another busyness, it becomes another work. If we remember the image of Krishna or the image of Mahavira, remember their form—that too becomes busyness; that is not meditation. Any name, any form, any idol that we establish in the mind—that too is thought. For apart from thought nothing else remains steady in the mind. Whether the thought is of God or of ordinary work, it makes no difference; the mind fills with thought. To leave the mind thought-free, to leave the mind unoccupied—that is meditation.
I may have told you last time, when I came, about a Japanese monk. In Japan there was a monk named Rinzai. The emperor of Japan once went to see his monastery. It was a large monastery; there were some five hundred bhikshus in it. Showing it, that monk walked him around: here the monks eat; here the monks reside; here the monks study. In the very center of the whole monastery there was a very large building—the most beautiful, the most silent, the most spacious. The king kept asking again and again: And what do the monks do here?
He went on saying: We will speak about that later.
The garden, the library, the study rooms—he showed all that. The king kept asking again and again: And what do the monks do here—this central building?
The monk said: Wait a little; we will speak about it later.
When the whole monastery had been seen and the king was about to return, he asked again: That central building was left out altogether—what do the monks do there?
The head of the monastery said: I had delayed telling you about it because there the monks do nothing; there the monks leave themselves in the state of non-doing. That is the meditation hall—there the monks leave themselves in the state of non-doing; there, nothing is done. In the rest of the monastery work is done; there, work is abandoned. In the rest of the monastery activities take place; there, activity is not undertaken. When someone has to drop activity, he goes there; leaving all activities, he becomes silent.
Meditation is non-action. It is not an action. If we think it is some work—that we are sitting and doing a work—if work is being done, then it is not meditation. Meditation means that the continuous work going on in the mind is given a rest. Do no work; leave the mind absolutely actionless. In the mind’s actionless state what will happen? In the mind’s actionless state, only darshan will remain, only seeing will remain. In the mind’s actionless state, what is our nature—that alone will remain.
Seeing, knowing is our nature. We can leave everything, but we cannot leave knowing and seeing. A continuous, unbroken current of knowing accompanies us twenty-four hours. When we sleep in deep sleep, even then we know the dream; when the dream too is dissolved and sushupti happens, even then we know this much—that the night was very blissful. In the morning we say, the night passed with great joy. Someone within us is awake even then, is knowing even then. Someone within us is conscious even then. Sitting, standing, sleeping, waking, working or not working—within us there remains a continuous, unbroken flow of knowing. Leaving all activities, there remains only the unbroken flow of knowing. Only this: I am knowing, I am only being; the mere awareness of being, the mere awareness of existence remains.
To leap into that very awareness, into that very beingness, is religion. To jump into That—into that existence—is religion. And the experience that happens there frees one from life’s bondage, from life’s attachment, from life’s misery. Because going there it becomes known that that inner being seated within is ever free of sin, of sorrow, of pain. Not even for a single moment has any stain of sin, of pain, of sorrow ever touched That. That consciousness is eternally tranquil, eternally free. That consciousness is eternally in Brahman-state. In that consciousness no defilement has ever occurred, nor is there any possibility of defilement.
As soon as this darshan happens, life becomes oriented toward an otherworldly plane of the experience of bliss. I call this orientation meditation and Samadhi.
I have said two things: unoccupied and non-doing. In truth both mean the same. If both are said in one word—perfect emptiness is meditation. If a person wishes to bring this perfect emptiness, then, as I understand it, he must make his experiments upon three limbs. Primarily upon his body. If he is to go into non-action, into inactivity, then he must leave the body inactive. He must leave the body utterly inactive—as in death—so that all the tensions in the body, all the stresses, all melt into silence.
You must have experienced: if anywhere in the body there is tension—if there is pain in the foot—the mind, again and again, will go toward that pain. If nowhere in the body there is any tension, the mind does not go toward the body at all. You have experienced this: you become aware only of those parts in your body which are ill. Of those parts which are healthy, you do not become aware. If there is pain in your head, you will know you have a head; and if there is no pain in the head, you will not notice the head. Wherever the body becomes tension-ridden, there alone it is felt. If the body becomes completely tensionless, the body will not be noticed.
Therefore the body must be left so relaxed that all tensions dissolve; in a little while body-awareness is dissolved. In a little while even the thought—whether the body is or is not—is dissolved. In only a few days of experiment, body-awareness is dissolved. The body’s complete freedom from tension is a means of becoming free of the body. Therefore, in the first stage of meditation we let the body go loose.
Today, when we sit for the experiment, leave the body utterly loose—as if it has become a corpse, as if there is no life in it. No hardness, no tension, no stiffness, no holding is to be maintained—let everything go. Leave it so loose as if it were a clod of earth—there is no grip of ours upon it, there is no life in it. Leave your own body exactly like a dead man’s.
When you have left the body utterly relaxed, after that, for two minutes I will give you suggestions for your support—I will give suggestions that your body is becoming relaxed. For two minutes, as I keep saying that the body is becoming relaxed, you are to feel that the body is becoming relaxed. Only to feel this—merely to feel that the body is becoming relaxed.
You will be astonished—feeling has such power—that if you feel with great resolve, even the prana can be released from the body. What in India is called iccha-mrityu, death by will, is only feeling. If you feel rightly, the body will become just so.
There is a mention concerning Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna practiced the disciplines of all religions. In this way he was the first monk in the world to do so. There are many other monks in the world; they practice their own religion and attain truth. Ramakrishna felt: Do the disciplines of other religions also lead to truth, or not? So he practiced the disciplines of all religions and he found that the discipline of every religion leads to truth.
In Bengal there is a sect in vogue—the Radha-sect. He practiced that too. The belief of the Radha-sect is that only the Supreme Brahman is male; all others are women, all are Radhas. Even a man of that sect accepts himself as the wife of that Supreme Consciousness, that Supreme Brahman. He maintains this very feeling—that he is the consort of the Supreme Consciousness.
Ramakrishna practiced that as well. You will be surprised: for three days he maintained the feeling that he was Radha, and all the signs of womanhood manifested in him. His voice changed, his way of speaking changed, even changes came in his limbs. Hundreds of thousands saw this with their eyes. People were astonished: What happened? There are countless people in the Radha-sect; they too repeat it. But in Ramakrishna, for the first time people witnessed directly that all the signs of a woman had appeared in him. The continuous three-day state of feeling that he was Radha gave him Radha’s fruition. It took six months for those signs to pass away.
Now in the West, and in many countries of the East, much work is being done upon this. As we feel, so do the consequences occur in the body.
So if we feel rightly that the body is becoming relaxed—if we feel with a complete and total mind that the body is becoming relaxed—within two minutes you will find that the body has become dead. There is no life in it. In such a state, if the body begins to fall, do not stop it. It is better not to check it even a little—when the body begins to fall, let it fall completely. After that, for two minutes feel that the breath is becoming quiet. I will repeat that the breath is becoming quiet; for two minutes you are to feel that the breath is becoming quiet. If we are to go into perfect emptiness, then the relaxation of the body is essential, the quieting of the breath is essential. In two minutes of feeling the breath becomes quiet. After that, for two minutes I shall say that the mind is becoming silent, thoughts are becoming zero. In two minutes of feeling, thoughts become zero.
And in this small process of six minutes, suddenly you will find that entry has happened into a space, into an opening, into a void. The mind will fall silent. The arising of inner speech and words will dissolve. Within, an empty space will remain, a vacant place where nothing is—no thought, no form, no figure, no fragrance, no sound—where there is nothing at all; only you remain alone. In that aloneness, that loneliness where I remain utterly alone, surrounded on all sides by empty sky—in that very aloneness the experience of that Self arises which Mahavira called Atman, which Shankara called Brahman, or to which others have given other names. The experience of that truth happens in that supremely solitary state.
We search for aloneness by going into forests, by fleeing to woods, by fleeing to mountains. But aloneness is not related to place; it is related to state. Aloneness cannot be found by going into the jungle. There will be animals and birds; companionship will arise even with them. Aloneness is found by going into oneself, where everything becomes empty and I remain utterly alone. In that solitary state, in that absolute seclusion where only the pulsation of being remains, something is experienced that brings a revolution to life. For that there is a very, very simple, small experiment. The experiment is so small that many times it may seem: how can inner realization happen through such a small experiment?
But seeds are always small; in the result the tree becomes vast. One who, considering the seed small, takes the attitude, "What tree can arise from this?" will be deprived of the tree. Seeds are always small; in fruition the vast becomes available. By sowing the extremely subtle seed of meditation, one can reap the harvest of a vast experience.
You must have understood my words. We will now sit for meditation in three stages. At that time all will sit at a distance, so that falling is easy. Everyone sit a little apart and carefully see that there is room to fall. Yesterday there was some inconvenience.
Close your eyes. Join both hands and make a resolve... Now release your hands, and as I suggest, feel. First we will feel the body becoming relaxed, then we will feel the breath becoming quiet, and after this we will feel the mind becoming silent. In the end, for ten minutes we shall go into perfect rest.
(The meditation experiment took place in three stages, for which the audio recording is not available. After that Osho begins to speak again.)
There is a very ancient anecdote; by telling it I will complete today’s program. It is a completely fictitious tale, yet it seems to me full of meaning.
The tale is: Narada was going to Vaikuntha. On the way he met an old ascetic sitting under a tree. He said to Narada, “Please ask the Lord: how much longer until my liberation? When will I attain moksha?”
Narada said, “Certainly—I will ask on my return.”
Nearby, a fakir newly initiated that very day was dancing with his tambura. Narada, jokingly, said to him as well, “Do you want me to ask for you too?”
The fakir said nothing.
When Narada returned, he went to the old ascetic and said, “I asked. God said it will still take three more births.”
The ascetic threw down his rosary and cried, “Three more births! Injustice! How long must I keep patience!”
Narada went on. Under that tree the newly initiated fakir was still dancing. Narada said, “Listen! I asked about you as well. The Lord said: the tree under which he is dancing—he will need as many births in practice as there are leaves on that tree; only then will liberation be attained.”
The fakir said, “Only as many leaves? Then I have won! How many leaves there are in the world! On this tree there are so few!” He started dancing again. And the tale says: he was liberated in that very instant.
I find this most delightful. He was liberated that very instant. Such patience! He said, “Only so many leaves! Only so many births! Then I have won.” One who has such patience attains in this very moment.
Impatience is the obstacle. Impatience lengthens the journey. If, with infinite patience, I become silent even for a single moment, in that very moment all happens. So if one lets go of a little impatience—drops the immediate, absolute craving for results and purpose—and undertakes the experiment, it is very certain that within a few days something will begin to be seen, something will begin to happen. And if such a thing happens, nothing is more valuable.
I hope that a few people, to whom this feels appealing, will experiment. If you experiment and keep patience, the result is certain. Because, apart from becoming silent—perfectly silent—there is no way for a human being to know the truth of the world and the truth of oneself. What no scripture can give will become available by descending within.
There is only one path to attain the immortal, the infinite, the eternally conscious—and that is this: somehow, the eyes that are looking at the outer world begin to look within. The event of the eye seeing within happens in the void. As soon as thought becomes empty, there remains nothing to see outside. When there is nothing left to see outside, the power of seeing—the faculty of vision that was entangled outwardly—finding no support outside, inevitably becomes self-supported. Deprived of outer anchorage, it becomes self-anchored. Outside, consciousness finds no place to abide; inevitably it abides in itself.
Therefore, apart from emptiness there is no other meditation. I hope you will experiment a little with this.