Samadhi Kamal #4

We have heard this metaphor many times—that the lotus is born in water and out of mud. But for the lotus to be born it has to move away from the mud, and it has to rise above the water. If it remains submerged in the mud, the lotus will never be born. It arises from the mud, but it is only by being away from the mud that it can come into being. Its roots are in the mud, but it is not in the mud. The farther it goes, the more it blooms, the more it attains perfection.

I maintain that there is no question of running away from the ordinary situations of life. No one can really run away from life. The solitude we seek—the aloneness we look for, the special situations we create for practice—has another purpose. Its purpose is not that you will be cut off from life. I say that only through it will you relate to life for the very first time.

You may think you are in a home, in family life. You are mistaken. You are nowhere except within yourself. You appear to be in the household, but you are not there; you are encircled only by yourself. This very morning I said: those you think you love—you do not really love them. You love no one but yourself. You are enclosed within yourself. So I am not taking you away from house and home; I am taking you away from this enclosure within. In truth, on this earth no person really loves anyone, nor truly has a family, until he knows himself. People usually say that those who knew themselves left their families. I say: those who knew themselves found that the whole world became their family.

We saw that Mahavira left his family, and we stopped there; we did not see that then the whole world became his family. Small households are not broken in opposition to households; they are absorbed into a great household. It is not a question of fleeing the world. The point is to break the wall of your self-occupation, that twenty-four-hour inner busyness in which you are entangled. Break that wall, and for the first time you will see the world. For the first time you will see who and what is around you. Right now you are not even seeing what is around you. You are so occupied within that you cannot see the surroundings.

So here, in solitude, we are not going away from the world. Properly understood, we are stepping back from our busyness, from our occupied mind, from our continually entangled brain; we are creating a way to empty it. We choose, as means, whatever can help in this. If even once it becomes empty, and if even once you experience what is behind it, then losing that experience becomes impossible. Wherever you go, that experience will not be lost. The utility of this aloneness, of coming into solitude, is only this: the incessant inner stream of the mind gets interrupted a little, broken a little. If even once you can peep behind it, then what you glimpse cannot be forgotten. Once truth is known, it is not forgotten. Truth is not forgotten; knowledge, once attained, cannot be lost. It is impossible to lose it.

So, by arranging for it, we try to know it in solitude, in aloneness. And in the meantime we keep a little distance from whatever goes against that effort.

An unbusy mind—this unoccupied mind—this mind becoming empty like the open sky—will lead you to the experience of what is within you. Then I do not tell you that you will be cut off from the world. Only then will you, like the lotus, be in the water. Only then! Only then will you be among all and yet be alone. Only then will you do everything, and yet there will be no attachment and infatuation in your doing. Then you will live in the whole of life, and yet all the time you will know that real life is something else. Then, in the midst of doing everything in the world, you will not be possessed and bound by your doing.

There was a sage, Chuang Tzu. His wife died. The emperor of China in those days greatly respected him. He came to Chuang Tzu’s home to offer respect and condolences. The burial had taken place that morning; around noon the emperor arrived, himself coming to the house of an extremely poor man. The whole village gathered to watch. But when the emperor arrived, he was astonished to see Chuang Tzu sitting under a tree, tapping a pot and singing a song. He was taken aback. His wife had died in the morning and he was playing a pot and singing. It seemed most improper. The emperor said, “My friend, not to grieve is already quite improper, but to sing—this does not seem right to me.”

Chuang Tzu said, “If I did not sing on my wife’s death, then understand that I had never loved her.” He said something wonderful. “If I did not sing on my wife’s death, then understand that I had never loved her. And if Chuang Tzu were not found singing at his wife’s death, the world would say Chuang Tzu knew nothing. My song will be the sign that I loved her. And this song will be the sign that I know that no one dies.”

What Chuang Tzu said—that the world would say Chuang Tzu did not know—means: If you know, you see death; I see my wife’s liberation. You see death, so you think to weep. I would certainly weep—if it had been her death. It was not her death; it was her liberation. I would weep for those for whom there is only death, and I would sing for those who attain liberation. And he said, “I loved her so much that our one lifelong longing was that there be no death, that there be liberation. And she loved me so much that her lifelong longing was the same—for me as well.”

If you love someone, you will not fear their death; you will fear their not attaining liberation. If you love someone, it will be impossible for you to ensnare them in attachment and drag them down into infatuation. To do so would be a sign of lovelessness. This needs to be understood. To be the cause of someone you love falling into infatuation is impossible. You will be the cause of their freedom from infatuation. To bind the one you love is impossible. You will become a collaborator in their liberation. This will be the sign of love. The more the experience of life, peace, bliss, and inner light arises within you, the more you will find you are able to love all. And that love will have only one meaning: you become a helper in their lives so they may attain the Supreme Life.

Right now we are collaborators in pushing each other into hell—and we call this love! Right now we are collaborators in how to send each other to hell—and we call it love!

Love will mean: how to pull each other out of hell. And if your inner experience begins even a little, the fruit of your love will be that just as you have risen from the mud to become a lotus, so too will others become lotuses—whether near to you or far. In that state no actions in your life will become null, as if you had run away leaving everything. The question of running arises only when you are afraid of what you are doing.

This morning I said: someone went to a monk; he placed money before him and the monk turned his face away. Someone said to me, “How non-attached that monk must be—he turned his face away from money.” I said, “He may not be non-attached yet.” One person, when you put money before him, drools to have it. Another person turns his face away. Why does he turn his face away? He is afraid he will drool. What other purpose is there in turning away? Only one: that if his eyes remain on the money, it will pull him. That is not nonattachment; that is running away from the world.

Those who flee the world are those whose minds are very full of the world, very deep in it. Those who run away are afraid of the world. The point is not to flee the world, but to transform and change yourself. And if you transform yourself, you will not need to avert your eyes from wealth. You will see wealth, but it will not seize you. The question is not to renounce wealth; the question is that wealth does not hold you. The question is not that you leave your house and go out; the question is that the house does not enter you.

There was a monk. A king loved him very much—so much that one day he said, “If you would come and live in my palace, it would be great kindness. I cannot bear to see you in this hut, under a tree.”

The monk said, “As you wish. I sleep here; I will sleep there.”

When the king brought him back in a chariot, he began to have doubts. If he were truly a fakir, truly a monk, what kind of monk is ready to go to a royal palace? He should have refused: “I have kicked the palace; I won’t go.” Then the king would have understood he is a monk. The king grew suspicious. The monk did not even refuse to sit in the chariot; he reclined comfortably on the cushion. He agreed to go to the palace; he never once said, “No, I cannot go.” The king thought, “Surely something is wrong; this monk does not seem genuine.” But now that he had brought him, he took him. He lodged him in the finest quarters; the monk settled in happily. He gave him the finest foods; he ate them. The king was astonished. In two days he understood he had brought the wrong man. All reverence turned into doubt. He gave him the finest bed; the monk slept soundly. The king’s suspicion grew; all his faith shattered into doubt. For his faith had not been in the monk; it had been in the tree, the hut, the hungry, half-naked man. His faith had been in begging—not in the monk. Now he begged no more; he did not sit under a tree; he was not naked. So what was there to revere?

You too, till now, may hardly have ever had faith in a monk. Remember: you may never even have known a monk. You have had faith in few clothes, in little food, in the half-naked man, in the leaving of home. You may not yet have known the monk.

One morning the king came to the monk and said, “Forgive me. A doubt is troubling me greatly. Until you came to my palace I felt reverence for you. Since you came, I am so perplexed; please resolve my doubt. My nights’ sleep has become difficult. Since you came, one thought grips me: there is no difference between you and me. Now I am certain. As I live, you live; as I sleep, you sleep; what I eat, you eat. Then what is the difference between us?”

The monk said, “If you really want to know the difference, we must walk a little outside the town.”

The king said, “I want to know; I will go.”

They rose early and went outside the town. When the river line ended, the king said, “Now tell me.” The monk said, “Let us go a little further; it may be that simply going further will itself give the answer.” The king did not understand. They went further. Again the king asked. He said, “A little further.” When noon was thick, the king said, “It is very late; now give me the answer.” The monk said, “My answer is this: I am going on ahead now. Are you coming?” The king said, “How can I go? My kingdom, my palace, my wife, my children—everything of mine is behind.”

The fakir said, “There is nothing behind me. So I am going. That I was in your palace gave you the illusion that your palace was within me. I went into your palace, but I did not take your palace into me. I am going.”

The king caught his feet and said, “Don’t go. I am deeply pained; I have understood. Come back.”

The monk said, “I could come back now too—but then once again doubt will seize you. So I am not refraining from going back because I have any difficulty. For the one to whom there is still a difference between hut and palace is not yet a monk. The one to whom hut and palace are still different is not yet a monk. I could go back now, but you will be troubled again; doubt will catch you again. So, so that doubt does not seize you, let me go now.”

You will be surprised: truly, those who are monks are not under trees because living in palaces is any hardship. They stay under trees so that you will not be seized by doubt, worry, and trouble. Otherwise, it makes no difference to them. To one in whom a little life and inner experience has begun, it makes no difference where he is, what he is doing, or what he has to do. Amid all doing and being, he remains continuously unattached. That is what we call karma-yoga. He will act, but there will be no attachment or infatuation in his action.

But if someone thinks, “Then fine: I will remain in house and home and keep no attachment,” you are mistaken. Before self-knowledge, non-attachment cannot be. You say, “We will remain householders and act without attachment; let us be like a lotus in water right where we are.” This argument is merely an excuse to do nothing; it is only a device to remain in the household. It is false; it is self-deception. You think you will not be attached while remaining where you are. Impossible. Attachment can go only when a few inner glimpses are attained. There is attachment because I know myself as the body; therefore there is attraction to another’s body, attachment to another’s body. As long as I know myself as the body, there will be attachment to wealth. As long as I know myself as the body, there will be attachment to the house. My being the body is itself my attachment to the house, to my own body, to another’s body, to wealth. As long as I know myself as matter, my attachment to matter cannot dissolve. The day I know I am not matter but consciousness, that day my attachment to all that is matter will dissolve. It is not that there is attachment to things; it is self-ignorance, the sense of being the body—that is attachment.

So if someone thinks, “I will remain at home and not be attached,” he is mistaken; he is deceiving himself. And in this world deceiving another is not as bad as deceiving oneself.

For self-realization it is necessary to step a little aside from our everyday situation. It is necessary to look at oneself a little apart. In that density you will not be able to see yourself. In that busyness you do not have the leisure, the time to see yourself. Therefore it is good that for a few days in a year you go into some solitude—in a forest region, a jungle. Not because you must live in the forest, but because, by living in the forest, it will be easier to see the town. A little distance is needed—a little distance for perspective is needed. A bit of space is needed to see anything. So for a fortnight, for a month, move aside into the forest so that you can see: What is house and home? What is the town? What is that world in which I have been living? Then, whatever understanding arises there—come back. And then live according to that understanding. Then someday the event will happen that you will become like a lotus in water. Otherwise, no one becomes like a lotus in water. Only afterward is it possible.

Only after self-knowledge is non-delusion possible; when non-delusion is there, non-attachment flowers. But do not fall into the self-deception that “We are already householders; let us comfortably remain where we are—non-delusion will arise here, non-attachment will arise here. And like that fakir I spoke of, who lived in palaces, we too will live in palaces—no harm.” Do not give yourself this cheat. He lived in palaces—but his way of living was utterly unique. He was living in the palace just as he had lived under the trees. Perhaps for him there was no palace at all; perhaps he was still under a tree. It made no difference to him. If that inner vision happens in you, then live anywhere. But do not deceive yourself. Do not set up arrangements for deceiving yourself. We have made many such arrangements. And these fine words—karma-yoga, the yoga of non-attachment, sannyas while remaining in the home, non-doing in doing—these fine words are very poisonous, very deadly. Millions drown and destroy themselves in the deception of these words.

So remember: do not lie in the water like mud; to be like a lotus in the water is a very great thing, a revolutionary thing. Before that, the lotus must move that far away from the mud. The lotus throws its stalk far from the mud; and when it has crossed the mud, it crosses the water too—then it stands. It crosses two layers: the layer of mud from which it is born. From what are you born? You are born of the body—of two bodies. When you go as far away from the body as the lotus throws its stalk away from the mud—and then you cross the water.

And what is the water?
The circumstances around you—what becomes available to you after the body. A child is born of mother and father; then what does he get? Whatever is around—that is the world. When the lotus breaks its seed and rises above the mud, it first meets the water. Having crossed the mud, it encounters the water. Then it crosses the water and rises above.

So you have to cross two things. Transcend the body, from which you are born—that is your mud. And transcend the world that surrounds you, so its enclosure does not remain upon you, so its imprisonment does not hold you—go beyond it. Then you will be in the state of the lotus; not before.

So do not get lost and forget yourself in these fine words. Otherwise a man is very clever at deceiving himself—very clever, extremely clever. He can deceive himself for a whole life, for many lives.

I believe you have understood what I have said.

I used the word “artificial” very deliberately. Consider this: a man sees something in a dream. What he sees in the dream is false—an appearance. If you shake him awake, the appearance breaks. When the appearance breaks, what remains is the truth.

Through meditation we do not attain some new truth; we only break the appearances. We have not lost the soul; we merely think we have lost it. This is our delusion. So meditation does not give you the soul; it only shatters the delusion.

And the method used to break a falsehood will be as false as the falsehood. If you erase something inside a dream, can that erasing be called real? When the dream itself is unreal, how can erasing within it be real? My point is: do not think of meditation as a means to “obtain” the soul. I may speak that way, but only to indicate that when the delusion breaks, the soul reveals itself. In truth, meditation is not a means to gain the soul; it is a means to dissolve delusion. That is why I called it artificial. A device to break an illusion can only be a device—it cannot be the real. Illusion breaks illusion; appearance undoes appearance.

We have gone far into an appearance: we take ourselves to be the body. Now, to erase that appearance, we must employ another appearance: “I am not the body.” The second is as false as the first. The two negate each other, and what remains is your soul—your factuality.

Do you understand me? Meditation is not a direct means to obtain the soul; it is a means for the dissolution of error. If the soul were attained through meditation, then when meditation ceased the soul would be lost again. What is gained by some practice cannot be your own. If it is an acquisition, an achievement, it cannot be your nature. Your nature means that which you have never lost. We are simply under a spell, an appearance. When that is broken, what was always yours becomes evident.

Understand it this way: religion gives nothing; it only takes your ignorance away. All yoga is not a means of attaining knowledge but of dissolving ignorance. When ignorance dissolves, the knowledge that was veiled shines forth. It is already present—already present! It may look as if yoga gave you knowledge, but yoga did not give knowledge; it only removed ignorance. Knowledge is your nature—without it you could not be. The soul is your nature: that without which you never were and never will be.

So I called meditation artificial. Artificial because it breaks another artificiality. It does not give you truth; it is one device cutting another device.

Vivekananda was in America. Someone said to him, “This meditation you talk about is a kind of hypnotism.” Just this morning someone said to me, “What you spoke last night is a kind of hypnotism.” What did Vivekananda reply? He said, “Certainly—it is a kind of hypnotism, but it is de-hypnotism.” He used the phrase “de-hypnosis.” We are under a certain hypnosis, a trance, a stupor; to break that, we have no recourse but to use another hypnosis. One hypnosis cuts another, and what remains is our truth. Do you follow? One illusion is shattered by another illusion, and then what remains is our being, our reality.

Therefore, do not take meditation to be the real. Otherwise one clings to meditation as if it were everything—and that is another bind. There are such people who cling to meditation that way.

There was a monk, mad about meditation, doing it for years, twenty-four hours absorbed in it. His master heard that the disciple was in unbroken meditation and went to see him. The disciple spoke to no one, looked at no one; if someone came by, he closed his eyes—he would not permit any interruption. The master sat outside, brought a brick, and began rubbing it on the doorstep—rubbing and rubbing. An hour, two, three went by. The disciple said nothing, remained in meditation. The master kept polishing—noon passed, evening came. Finally the meditator became irritated: “Forgive me, but why are you rubbing that brick? What is the purpose? Since morning you have been at it!”

The master said, “I want to make a mirror out of it.”

The disciple exclaimed, “In your old age you have gone mad! By polishing a brick will you make a mirror?”

The master replied, “I am not mad. I came only to tell you that by polishing the mind you will not find the soul. Wake up from the mind! You can keep rubbing the mind; you will not get the soul—that is like polishing a brick. Wake up from the mind!”

If you grasp meditation that way, it becomes brick-polishing. You just keep rubbing; nothing happens. One has to awaken! That is why I called it artificial. Every ladder is artificial. Why? Because if you truly wish to reach above, at one time you must put your foot on the ladder, and at another you must let it go.

The day before yesterday, as I was leaving, a friend said, “First you explained meditation so much, and then you said it too must be dropped. Then why take it up at all?” It is like telling you at the edge of a terrace, “If you want to get to the roof, climb the ladder.” When you are standing up on it, I say, “Now let go of it so you can step onto the roof.” You say, “If I had to let it go anyway, why did you tell me to climb? I could have stayed below.”

A ladder can take you there, but two things are required: climb it, and then leave it. If you do not climb, you won’t arrive; if you climb and cling to it, you still won’t arrive.

Do you understand? The ladder takes you there on the condition that you do two things—first climb, then release. Otherwise the ladder will block you in two ways: if you do not climb, it blocks you; if you climb and cling, it blocks you. To reach the roof, climbing is necessary; to reach the roof, letting go is necessary. Whoever is on the ladder is not on the roof.

I called meditation artificial so that you won’t mistake it for truth and clutch it. No means is the truth. I called it artificial to keep in mind that at the beginning you must take it up, and then you must set it down. Its value lies in being used and then dropped.

Many people grab such things so tightly that they become their very life-breath; they spend a lifetime clutching. They spoil it. They hold on to the ladder and never reach the roof. My point is: anything you arrange artificially cannot be your nature. Not even meditation is your nature. Meditation is merely a device to separate what has overlaid you. If you cling to it, you make a great mistake.

Suppose a man digs a well with a pickaxe. He uses the pickaxe to cut through layers of soil. Do you think the pickaxe is the well? When the well is dug, will he carry the pickaxe on his head? He will throw it away. The pickaxe was only a means to remove the soil, not to “bring” the water—if you understand precisely. Water does not come because of the pickaxe; the pickaxe only removes the earth. The water was already there. Once the soil is removed, the pickaxe too must be set aside. If you now clutch the pickaxe, you will not get the water. Before, you clutched the soil; now you clutch the tool.

Buddha said some foolish people ferry across the river and then walk around town carrying the boat on their heads: “It carried us across!” Many religious people are like that—they do not regard religion as a boat but as a burden. The day religion drops from you, know you have crossed the river and left the boat behind. Why carry it? What we call sadhana—practice—is like a ladder, a boat, a pickaxe—it must become useless. That is why I call it artificial. If I called it real, you would never be able to drop it.

Remember: whatever you practice is artificial. Its usefulness is only this much—that it will cut the artificiality that has covered you. No more. The day that artificiality falls away, the means is exactly as superfluous as the thing it cut. At that very moment, drop it too. If it appears real and you feel you must hold on to it, it becomes an obstacle. We walk on a path to reach the destination; on reaching, the path should be superfluous. If the path is not superfluous then, you have not arrived. Therefore I say all paths are artificial. All paths are artificial—especially in the inner life. They are artificial in order to cut the artificial, so that when the artificial dissolves, the real is revealed.

And understand this: in ignorance, whatever you do will be artificial. There are only two kinds of artificiality—one that thickens ignorance and one that thins it.

This morning someone asked me, “You call meditation thoughtlessness, but we keep thinking—‘thoughtlessness is happening,’ or ‘we are watching the breath.’ Isn’t that thinking?” I said: suppose we are in a room and must go outside. I tell you, “To get out, go to where the room ends.” You say, “But you also tell me, ‘Walk in the room.’” Walking in the room can be of two kinds. One person walks in circles and remains inside. Another walks straight to the door and goes out. Both are walking in the room. One kind of walking keeps you in; the other takes you out. Inside the room you can walk in circles or walk straight.

In this artificial life of ignorance, man can act in two ways: in ways that keep the artificiality going in circles, or in ways that break it. When artificiality breaks, you will realize: meditation was also artificial, practice was artificial, austerity was artificial. Taking up and letting go—both were artificial. When the real is revealed, you will see everything was artificial—but some artificialities were helpful in taking you out, while others were hindrances that took you further in.

That is why I called it artificial. Do not take “artificial” to mean useless—that nothing need be done. By “artificial” I mean: when the day comes that it has become useless, do not mistake it for the real and cling to it. But if by “artificial” you conclude, “Then why take it up at all?”—everything is lost.

As I said the day before yesterday: we teach a child, “ga—for Ganesh.” It is utterly false—purely artificial. What connection does the sound ga have with Ganesh? And if there is any connection, then ga could be equally “for donkey.” What connection? But we teach an artificial cue so that the child can grasp the letter. If he keeps it forever and, whenever he reads, first says, “ga—for Ganesh,” then reads ga, you will say, “This child’s mind is stuck.” A device that was once helpful has become an obstacle because he clings to it. The device was useful for learning but should drop away as learning happens. Once the thing is found, drop the pointers. In this sense I called it artificial.

Not in the sense that it should not be taken up, but in the sense that once taken up, remember to let it go. Otherwise meditation itself becomes your grip, your bondage; it turns into a mental habit and loses meaning.

We must keep dropping whatever we are holding, until we reach that moment when That is found which we did not hold—which holds us. That which holds us is what we have called dharma. Whatever we hold cannot be dharma—whether meditation, temple-going, hymn or kirtan. These are things you hold; they cannot be the real. That which holds you is dharma. When you stand without the garments you have put on, you will know That which you did not put on, which has always been available, which is yours, which is your nature.

Even meditation you are holding, peace you are holding, practice you are holding, austerity you are holding. What you hold is not truth; it is only the opposition of the untruth you already hold. Two untruths cancel each other, and what remains is meaningful, real.

To keep your remembrance turned toward that real, I have called meditation artificial.

The other day I told you that before enlightenment, scriptures are meaningless. Because whatever you read in them will be your own meaning—not the meaning of those whose utterances are preserved in the scriptures. Whatever you read, you will be reading yourself; you will not be reading those texts. In fact, you cannot. To read them you need the same state of consciousness that must have been present in the one from whom those words arose.

Whenever our states of consciousness are not the same, we do not understand one another. If you live under the illusion that in this world we understand each other, you are mistaken. None of us really understands another. Our planes of consciousness are so different that true understanding does not become possible. We try to explain to one another, but has it ever occurred to you that anyone actually understands anyone? No one understands anyone. No one can. And even if you think you have understood, don’t remain in the illusion that you have understood the other—you will only have understood something on your own level.

That is why I said: if you read the Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Samayasara, do not fall into the illusion that because the Samayasara was written by Kundakunda, what you are understanding is what Kundakunda must have said. You cannot understand what Kundakunda wrote until Kundakunda’s state of consciousness arises within you. You will understand only what you can; it will be your understanding, your reading of Kundakunda—not Kundakunda’s understanding, not Krishna’s understanding.

So I said: you cannot understand scriptures until there is enlightenment; and when enlightenment happens to you, you will be able to understand the scriptures. Then it is also absolutely true that there will no longer be any need to understand scripture. Once realization has arisen, what need remains for scripture? None at all. There will be no need for you to understand scripture. But I also said: then scriptures can be read. For what? For only one reason. What has become available to you has been available to many others; you are not alone in that dimension, that realm, that province. Your experience is not solitary. Many have walked that path; many have had that experience. Their utterances and words, wherever available, will indicate it. Your arrival there is not solitary—many have arrived there. And now, in their testimony and witness, your words will be included.

This is how a religious tradition is formed—not by reading a scripture and, just like that, a tradition is born. A religious tradition is formed when you bear witness to those before you. Your own realization becomes a testimony to Mahavira, to Buddha, to Confucius: “Yes! I have known—and what I am knowing, they too knew.” You give testimony. And that testimony is valuable because, as a result of it, millions begin to receive a sense of truth, a hint of truth, a finger pointing toward truth.

Such witnesses have grown few in our century. That is why Mahavira begins to seem false to you, why Buddha begins to seem false. You keep professing faith, but doubt starts arising—were they really there at all?

A Christian monk, after living for some days near Gandhi, wrote: “For the first time, staying near Gandhi, I experienced that Christ must have been. Otherwise I had my doubts.” We have heard that when Christ was crucified, when nails were driven through his hands, he prayed to God: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” We doubt that any man being crucified would say such a thing.

But if we know Gandhi, we receive the witness that this is right—such a man has indeed been. And if such a man has been, then for those who are not yet in that state, the possibility begins to bear fruit that such an event can also happen within us. A possibility of truth, a seed possibility, begins to ripen—and nothing more is needed.

So one who attains realization can look at the scriptures only in this sense: that he may be able to testify to the tradition behind him—that what has been said in the tradition is not false, that what has been known is not false. He can give testimony, be a witness to the endless tradition behind. He can revive that tradition through himself. When someone attains realization, and if he is familiar with Mahavira’s utterance, then through that realized person Mahavira’s utterance will come alive again. And that renewed life will be meaningful. That living presence will be the real meaning of knowing scripture and the Agamas.

Thus I said: the Agamas cannot be known, scriptures cannot be known, in ignorance. They can be known in knowing. But for himself, in realization there is no utility in knowing any scripture; for others—those near him, those around him—he becomes testimony and witness. The utility of scripture is as witness, not as material for study.

If you understand me, you will see: the fewer witnesses we have, the more our tradition becomes fragmented, tarnished, and hazy.

Do you truly have firm faith that Mahavira existed? If you search within, you will find doubt: how can such a person be? That people beat him, that people drove nails into his ears, and nothing happened to him! Consider yourself: if someone drove nails into your ears and beat you, would nothing happen? You will feel—how can this be?

Then there are only two ways to falsify Mahavira. One is to say he was God. That too is a way of falsifying him: he was not an ordinary man, therefore perhaps it did not affect him. Or say his body was very special—Tirthankaras have a different kind of body, blows do not register; it was an iron body, or something else. These are devices to falsify. You cannot accept him as an ordinary man. And because you cannot accept…

One way is to say: he was God, a Tirthankara, an avatar, had a special body—devices to falsify. The second is to say: he was not a historical person at all; these are all imaginings, stories. These are the two angles. In one way the so‑called religious person falsifies him; in another way the irreligious person falsifies him. Both falsify. But if it truly seems to you that he was a man of flesh and bone just like us, then doubt will arise. That doubt can be removed only when some people living in your own century—alive, flesh and blood—give witness by their lives. Then your doubt can dissolve. Meaning: religion is not something born once and finished; it must be revived again and again in different people. Then it becomes clear, then it becomes known, then it is alive.

So after realization the scripture has only one use: that a person can say, “What I am saying, what I am knowing, the words I am giving—these words have been given before.” And if you read their utterances, Mahavira does not say, “I am knowing”; Mahavira says, “That which has been known before, I am knowing.” Krishna says, “That which has been said before, I am saying.” Buddha says, “What innumerable Buddhas have said, I am saying.” They all say: what has been said before… If you read the Upanishads you will find again and again: “What was known before, what has been known from the eternal, that we are saying.”

There is meaning in their saying so. Through themselves they are reviving the entire tradition. And through themselves they are joining you to the innumerable awakened ones who were before and who have now become hazy for you.

That is the use; otherwise, for himself, there is no use. That use is for you. The scripture is dead; through him it will become alive. And what the scripture could not tell you, could not make you understand, will be revealed to you through that living person.

You understand this, don’t you? Understanding Mahavira’s words is one thing; being in Mahavira’s presence is altogether different. What words cannot say, presence can say—because presence shows something that words can never show.

When Buddha first attained enlightenment, he came to Kashi. He stayed under a tree outside the city. No one knew him then, no one recognized him. He was an insignificant, unknown, unfamiliar beggar—a bhikkhu. The king of Kashi, much troubled and anxious one evening, went out in his chariot for some air. As he left the town, the sun’s rays were slanting; Buddha was sitting, leaning against a tree, sunlight on his face. The king said to his charioteer, “Stop, stop! This man is something extraordinary—so luminous, so peaceful! I have never seen eyes so full of music, so full of joy! Stop; let me go near him a little.”

As when you pass a garden brimming with fragrance and you feel like pausing a while; or when, parched by the sun, you come under the shade of a great banyan and feel to rest awhile—so it happened to that king: let me stop a little by this man. He was scorched with worry.

He went to Buddha and said, “I am so full of anxiety, and I have everything; and you seem to have nothing, yet you sit with such peace and joy! May I ask how this is possible? I have everything, and for three days I have been thinking of ending my life. You seem to have nothing, and you sit so untroubled that even if you had to live for countless births, you would sit and live just like this. For me, living has become a burden; I want to finish myself.”

Buddha said, “Once I too had everything, but within I had nothing. Today within I have something; outwardly I have nothing. Through what I found within, whatever I ‘lost,’ I did not lose at all—I gained all. Once I was in your condition; today I am in this condition. You are in this condition now; if you wish, tomorrow you can be in this.”

He looked at Buddha for a moment. In what Buddha was saying there was testimony; he himself was the witness to what he was saying. He called the charioteer, handed him his crown and clothes, and said, “Go home and inform them that I have set out in search of a far greater treasure.”

Had Buddha said anything more? He was simply sitting on his path. Did Buddha call out, “Listen, let me explain”? The king looked at Buddha—and he understood something.

What scriptures cannot say, presence says. That is why, when living truth becomes available to someone, those who stand around him, inspired by his life—in them true religion happens. After his death, those who gather because of his words—this becomes dead religion. Then religion dies; life leaves it. Then it becomes word‑based, not truth‑based. The experience of truth is possible in the living presence of a realized one.

So I do not consider scripture of any use for the ordinary; in fact, I consider it harmful—it can damage, not benefit. The scripture is a great testament in this sense: when you know, then you will recognize that in that province you are not alone. Then you will recognize that you have not entered a deserted forest. Before you there is a tradition of many living, awakened people, and you will come to recognize their footprints. Scripture is no more than a means of recognizing their footprints. But you cannot understand this by reading scripture; you can understand it by reading yourself, by descending into yourself.

Someone may feel that I do not have much reverence for scriptures; someone may feel that I am trying to take you against scriptures.

I want to take you against scriptures so that someday you may reach the place from which scriptures are born—where scriptures take shape. So that you reach that consciousness in which scriptures are born. Then you will be able to understand them; before that you will not. My reverence is very deep—it is not a reverence like yours; it is far deeper. And out of that reverence I say to you: have no reverence at all for scriptures; have reverence for yourself. Through that, someday you will reach the place where scriptures are born. Do not remain mere readers of scriptures; become their begetters. This is possible.

This is valuable. It is very important that when we say, “there is vision of the soul,” we ask: who will do the seeing? Vision always requires two. It needs a seer and something seen. So when we say “vision of the soul,” who is there to see, and what is there to be seen? There, only one remains. The one who sees is the very one that is. Then who will appear? How will vision happen?

This is significant. Truly, even the word “vision” is false here. In fact, all our words are false, because they are made for two. “Knowledge” too is false, because knowledge requires two—the known and the knower. “Experience” too requires two—the experiencer and the experienced. Our entire language is made for duality, because our worldly life is woven of two. And there, only the One remains. So all language forged for two is utterly inadequate there. Completely inadequate. Therefore, if one were to speak perfectly about That, nothing at all could be said. Regarding that Self-experience, if we were to be exact, nothing can be said. All our words will be partial and untrue. No word can fully reveal it. Hence those who have known have said: about That we cannot say anything. Yet if it cannot be said, how to point towards it? We try to manage with these very words, to place in them that which cannot be said.

So we call it “vision,” but with the proviso that there is no object there. We use the word “vision” with the condition that there is no seen; only the seer remains. And that seer is not seeing anything—for who is there to be seen? That pure seer is not seeing anyone. Nothing appears. Only the One remains. The capacity to see, to know, to be aware, to experience—that capacity is present; it hasn’t gone anywhere. But that capacity is now not knowing anything other than itself. What happens then within?

Consider: a lamp is lit here. When a lamp burns, its light falls on the walls; the walls become visible. If it falls on trees, trees are seen. But do you think that if the trees and walls were to disappear, the lamp would go out? A lamp burns here: its light falls on the walls, the walls are seen; on the trees, the trees are seen. Now imagine there are no trees or walls. Will the lamp be extinguished? Was the lamp burning because there were trees and walls? What relation has the lamp’s burning to the existence of trees and walls? When trees and walls are present, they are seen in the lamp’s light. If they are not, what happens? The lamp burns alone. It illuminates nothing else; it simply remains luminous. Nothing appears in it, but there is no darkness. Do you see the difference? Nothing is seen, yet it is not dark—the lamp burns. When nothing is being illumined, what then? The lamp remains self-luminous. That is, even when nothing is illumined, the lamp still shines.

Just so, the Self, when it knows nothing else, simply illumines itself. The word “knowing” here is not quite right—no word is. But it remains alone, self-illumining. Therefore we call it svapara-prakāśaka: that which illumines both itself and others. Through it, other things are seen; when no “other” remains, it knows itself. Understand “knowing itself” rightly: not in the sense in which we know other things, but in this sense—that when there is nothing left to know, still knowing remains as a shining. The lamp of knowing remains.

You can give that to which words fail any name you like—experience, realization, directness, immediacy—since all words are false, there is this one convenience. Any word will do; they are makeshift, indicative, symbolic. All the pointers of religions are “false” in this sense—because they are cast in words, and no word can truly reveal That. Yet you can understand the indication. If you cling to the word, you won’t understand. If you read the gesture behind the word, the word will drop and the pointing will be seen.

Religion is symbolic. Hence it speaks in parables, metaphors, stories. There is no way to say it straight.

As I just said, that lamp is a symbol: a lamp burns, things are seen. When things are not present, what of the lamp? It burns. Then only the lamp is visible there; nothing else. Likewise, the Self knows others. When it knows no other at all, what becomes of its knowing? The lamp of knowing remains lit. The taste of that lamp’s shining has no path of words. Yet something unprecedented is there. For that which could know the other—how can it be that it would not know itself? That which could see the other—how can it fail to see itself? For if one could not know oneself, how could one know anything else?

Therefore in that moment there is an occurrence of a knowing in which knower and known are one, not two; of a seeing in which seer and seen are one, not two. In that instant there is no word—there is directness. In that instant there is no word—there is felt realization.

So, someone else asked me just now: What is the soul? I think its answer is contained here. There is no way to say it. Whatever can be said is not the soul; it is only a pointer. It can be known; it cannot be said. And if you come to know, then the pointers of those who have spoken will make sense to you. If you do not know, their words will be in your grasp, but nothing will be known thereby.

Another question:
Is it true that to know Brahman is to become Brahman?
I think you have understood. It cannot be known without becoming it. That is the one reality that cannot be known apart from being. There, knowing and being are one. There can be no gap between being and knowing.

Another question:
If self-knowledge is not difficult, why have so few attained it? Why can’t an ordinary person attain it?
That the Self is easy to attain does not mean that everyone will attain it. It only means that whoever truly wants to, will certainly attain it. Until we want it, no one will force that knowing upon us. Commonly we want other things. We want everything else; thus we remain busy gaining those and do not gain the Self. But whoever turns in that direction attains. “Easy” means: if you turn that way, if you orient yourself, it is not hard, it is not impossible. And the few who have known are witnesses that others can know. If even one person has ever known the Self on this earth, then any other can. For though there are differences of capacity between people, they are not vast—and for that Truth there is no difference at all, because it is equally available to all.

“Easy” means: it is attainable; it is a simple possibility. That many do not attain is another matter altogether. The moon rises every night—how many notice? The moon rises nightly; how many look? Yet seeing the moon is not difficult. If you argue that moon-seeing must be difficult because in a town of half a million, not even five look—what shall I say? I will say: seeing the moon is easy; that you are looking elsewhere is another matter.

Yesterday we went to the lake. We were sitting there. It is not necessary that because we were by the lake, we saw the lake. Many among us did not. They were on the lake, yet they did not see it. They were talking, thinking, discussing; they were not there at all. Physically present, inwardly absent—off in Bombay or elsewhere. They did not see the lake.

A friend of mine—once I took him to show him a beautiful spot. We took a boat. He talked about Switzerland; he had stayed there some days—about the lakes of Switzerland. I listened. Then about the lakes of Kashmir. I listened. He did not see the lake we were on at all. Returning, he said to me on the way, “What a beautiful lake that was.” I said, I have said nothing to you till now, but please don’t tell this lie. Whether that lake was beautiful or not—what has that to do with you? You did not even see it. You were not there! Perhaps you were in Switzerland or Kashmir—but not on the lake where I was with you; not beside me. You were not in the boat we sat in. You were absent. And I now also know that when you were in Switzerland or Kashmir, you too would not have been present there either—because I have seen you just now. So please understand: your opinions about those lakes must be false too. You did not see them.

Seeing was simple, yet few will see—not because it is difficult, but because they do not want to see; they are looking elsewhere.

Truly, if you want to see, there is absolutely no difficulty. If you want to see completely, it can happen this instant. For who hinders you there except yourself? There is no one. Some things require a distance to be covered. If I have to go to Bombay, I cannot go this instant—time will be needed. But to know myself—there is no reason for a lapse of time, because I am present here. If I want to know with total intensity, I can know now.

But when do we want to know? You are often under the illusion that you want to know the Self. You do not want to know the Self at all.

I was once somewhere. A sadhu was teaching people: “This wealth of yours—one day death will come, it will be snatched away. There is no substance in it; before you die it will all be taken—transient. So know the soul; that will remain with you.” When his devotees feel a desire to know the soul upon hearing this, do you think they want the soul? Not at all. They want a kind of property that will remain even after death. The same pattern of accumulation they pursued all their lives—they now want a permanent asset that will accompany them beyond death. They do not want the soul. You hear sadhus say, “The soul is immortal.” You feel, “Let me know it.” Not because you want the soul; only because you fear death. Frightened of death, you want some trick not to die. You will do much for the body, but you know it will die; you see it dying daily, yet you continue your efforts. Finally you think: let me also know the soul; at least that might save me from dying.

You don’t want the soul; you are only afraid of death. That fear gives rise to a desire for the soul—false, unreal. The real desire is to be saved from death. But the soul is known only by one who is willing to die. Here lies the rub. Your so-called desire to know the soul arises out of fear of death; the soul is realized by one who consents to die. And you want it because your property will fail you.

I spoke just after that sadhu. I said, suppose your property could accompany you—would you still need the soul? You would say, “Then what need?” And if I told you your body could be made immortal, would any of you want the soul? You would say, “Then why this fuss?”

What do you really want? Property… The less greedy make do with the property here. The more greedy want a kind that will go with them. The less frightened of death settle for this body. Those more frightened want the soul as well. You have no real concern with the soul.

So the apparent desire in people to know the soul is not a desire to know the soul—understand this clearly. It is an escape from other things. You are not seekers of Truth; you are seekers of security. You are looking for safety. “It would be good to have the soul.” The same person who sought safety in a bank balance now seeks it in merit (punya). No difference. He who thought, “If I deposit much money there, I’ll be fine,” now also worries, “Let me deposit some merit; there may be trouble otherwise.” The same person who deposited money in the bank now wants to deposit virtue in heaven’s ledger. The very same tendency. It has nothing to do with knowing the soul.

Self-knowledge does not happen from such motives. The thirst for it arises for an entirely different reason. It is not your shield or refuge. It is the awakening that everything around you, everything you are doing, is utterly meaningless. When from birth to death the whole 24-hour cycle feels pointless, when no significance is seen anywhere—then, amidst that futility, amidst suffering and anguish, something arises within: either end this life, which is worthless, or discover That in which there is meaning. The one who, terrified by life, comes to the boundary where he could commit suicide—only he can enter into sadhana. The point where suicide occurs is the very point where sādhanā begins. At that point, where life’s meaninglessness is so total that everything is vain, he engages in the quest of the Self. Then a thirst arises: if there is something within that has meaning, let it be known; otherwise, end it. Not before that.

You want to prolong this very life; therefore you “seek” the soul. He who has known this life to be utterly futile, he realizes the soul. You want to prolong this life.

I just left a village. A lady offered me a book. On its cover it said: If you have no house, arrangements for a house are available. If you have no gardens, arrangements for gardens are available. I was astonished—what is this? The title inside said: In the Kingdom of the Lord… It was a Christian tract: In the Kingdom of God there are beautiful gardens, fine houses, robust health—no illness, no problems. If you want such a life, accept Lord Jesus. This is aimed at those who lack houses, or whose houses are not good enough, or who want better still—people who want to continue this life beyond death. To continue this same life further. Anyone who goes to “religion” with such a longing can never be religious.

For whom this life has become meaningless, suffering—who finds no meaning from here to there—an insight seizes him: either let me know if there is any inner meaning, or let me break this thread…

In a novel by Dostoevsky, a character says to God: “O God, I do not know whether You exist. But if You do, I have heard You are omnipotent; grant me this grace—take me back from life. If You are, and omnipotent, I want to see Your omnipotence in this one thing: take me back from life.” This life is pure absurdity; there is no meaning anywhere. The day you see this directly—not the wish to prolong life, not to be saved after death, but that life is so futile that if death is to come tomorrow, why not today? Where is the meaning? The day you feel that death could come this moment and nothing would be lost—on that day you will stand at the point where, for the first time, the thirst for meaning arises—the quest for significance. Meaning itself is the soul; that meaning is the soul. Then you will enter within.

As long as you think there is hope of happiness outside, you will not thirst to know the soul. As long as you feel that in the outer chase happiness may be found—here, or in heaven, or in liberation—you will not seek the Self. The day it becomes utterly clear that there is no happiness outside—not on this earth, not in heaven, not even in moksha as an external state—when the very notion of “outside” collapses, that day you will be so filled with thirst that you will find it; it is within.

Knowing the soul is easy; wanting the soul is a little difficult. Let me end by saying: knowing the soul is very easy; wanting the soul is difficult. Knowing happens in a single instant; the wanting ripens over lifetimes. Those who “get it” do not do so because they labored hard to know, or journeyed far to reach; it is that longing, that ardor, that thirst. If we are not thirsty, nothing will happen—we will walk and talk, but it will not be found. If we are thirsty, it will happen this very moment.

Attaining is simple, knowing is simple—only decide whether the longing is in you or not. No one else can decide this. Mahavira can say: It is easy—your very nature. Buddha can say: It is easy—your very nature. Christ can say: The Kingdom is at hand—stretch out your hand and take it. But that is all they can say. They cannot do anything if you do not want it. I mean: one can tell you, “Here is water; if you wish, drink—it is easy.” One can bring you to the water, but no one can produce thirst in you. One can even dunk you in water, but no one can create thirst. You must create thirst; the water is near. Without thirst you can stand on its bank and it will be infinitely far. The greater the thirst, the nearer the water. The lesser the thirst, the farther it seems. If the thirst is complete, fulfillment is instantaneous. So distance may appear—but remember, it is not difficult.

(The recording of the question is unclear.)
The very meaning of samadhi is: that in which all the restlessness of mind is resolved. What they “induce” is not samadhi; it is only inert stupor. Anything that can be “put on” is not samadhi; it is mere torpor. It is a trick of self-anaesthetization. They may have learned a trick—no more. If that trick is learned, anyone can remain unconscious for a time, unaware for a while. Even if you bury him in the ground, he may not know; breath may stop and conscious functions suspend.

People mistake that for samadhi. They think it is; and others too think it is. Under the name of samadhi, a false, inert state has become prevalent—having nothing to do with samadhi or with religion. It is pure showmanship. Samadhi is not something you enter and come out of. If samadhi arises, it becomes your nature. Therefore you can neither “put it on,” nor go out of it, nor go into it at will.

Samadhi is not a thing of entering and exiting. Like health. If you are healthy, do you say, “I will be healthy for an hour, then unhealthy again. I will put on health, then take it off”? Health is of the body; samadhi is the inner health of consciousness. Once true health is attained, it abides; you cannot be outside it. Into samadhi one can enter, but out of samadhi one never comes. No one has ever come “out” of samadhi.

But what we commonly call samadhi has both going in and coming out. That coming and going is nothing—only stupor. You become unconscious, then return to consciousness. You will find nothing transformed in a person who “does” it for seventy-two hours or however long. Nothing in his life will have changed. From samadhi we have slid into the pursuit of miracles and turned it into a circus. That is not the mark of samadhi.

A Christian fakir, a monk, was traveling with his disciple. On the way they came upon water in the dark night and lost their path. He asked his disciple—his name was Leo—“Leo, what do you think is supreme attainment? To touch the sick and heal them? To place a hand on the blind and open their eyes? To touch the dead and revive them—do you consider that siddhi?” Leo said, “It seems so.” The master said, “I do not consider that siddhi.”

We, however, consider exactly that to be attainment. We value Jesus because he touched a blind man’s eyes and restored sight, touched a corpse and raised it. If these are not siddhis, what value remains in Jesus?

The master said, “When the time comes, I will tell you what siddhi is.”

At two in the morning they reached a village and knocked at an inn. Two fakirs—barefoot, tattered, muddied, drenched—knocking at that hour. The watchman peered out and said, “Beggars! Be off! At this hour there is no place.” Leo flared up: “Beggars? We are sadhus!” The master stood silently. The watchman shut the door. They knocked again: “Forgive us, let us stay the night. Whom shall we wake at this hour?” He shouted, “Get away, or I’ll bring a stick! Don’t disturb the night.” But the rain lashed down—they knocked a third time. He came with a stick and struck them both—Leo and the master. Leo seized the stick. The master was struck on the head; blood flowed. He said, “Leo, look—now I am in samadhi, now I am in siddhi. If, when this man insults you, no insult arises within; if, when he strikes you, no inner wound is felt; if, when he drives you away, no ripple stirs in you—then that is siddhi. You may heal the blind and raise the dead; that has nothing to do with religion.”

That may have to do with science. The “samadhi” you speak of may have to do with science. Today or tomorrow psychology will understand it all. It is a trick of the brain; tomorrow psychology will map it: do this and that, and such a state results. But it has nothing to do with the spiritual. Religion and samadhi have to do with this: within you such a resolution of consciousness arises that no external ripple can disturb it.

The greatest miracle is the person whom you strike from outside, yet no hurt reaches within. The greatest miracle is the one whom you may even kill outwardly, yet within him not even the feeling of death arises. That is what happens as the fruit of samadhi.

Samadhi is a state, not a performance you enter and exit. It is a state of the mind’s resolution. If this is understood, well and good; otherwise, these goings-on all over the land—this showmanship—have brought India’s religions and yoga into disrepute the world over. And Westerners who come see such things and go back thinking this is spirituality, and they also imagine that Mahavira and Buddha must have been such showmen.

If India is to safeguard her religions and give them new life, then these so-called falsehoods—having no relation to samadhi, yoga, or dharma—must stop. They are all circus tricks; they have nothing to do with the real.

Some of your remaining questions we will consider tomorrow.