Samadhi Kamal #6

This is absolutely untrue. “Great men” may—those whom we ordinarily call great—but not the truly righteous, the enlightened ones (satpurush). Great men may: Stalin may, Lenin may, Marx may, Nehru may; but Mahavira, Buddha, and Christ do not. There is a difference between a great man (mahapurush) and a true man (satpurush). Mahavira and Buddha are not great men; they are satpurush.

A great man is one who possesses many powers, much accumulation in many forms—far above ordinary people. A satpurush is not above ordinary people. He is distinct from both the ordinary and the extraordinary; he stands outside those categories altogether. You cannot think of Mahavira as merely a bigger version of you. There is no scale by which to measure him against you. In the sense in which you are a “man,” Mahavira is not; and if Mahavira is a man, then you are no longer one. These are different categories. The satpurush is not a “special person” among common folk; he has transcended the very boundary where the common and the special exist. He belongs to a different order.

If someone thinks Mahavira drew inspiration from the twenty-three Tirthankaras before him, he is wholly mistaken. Mahavira dropped all impressions that came from outside—all impacts, all imprints; that is what we call sanskars (impressions). Every impact and inspiration from outside is a sanskar, an inflow (ashrava). Mahavira abandoned all external influences; when he became utterly unaffected—when nothing of the outside remained within—then that awakened which is knowledge.

Knowledge is original; thoughts are always borrowed. Therefore each Tirthankara finds it by himself; he takes from no one. Every satpurush attains it on his own; he borrows from no one. Whoever borrows may become a great man, but he cannot be a satpurush.

When all influence falls away, when the shedding (nirjara) of every external impression is complete, what remains—and when the covers of thought are removed, when those clouds disperse—then the sun that remains, which did not come from outside and has always been within, though veiled by what came from without, its experience is knowledge. That knowledge is original—always original. That is to say, when it happens to you, it will be original; when it happens to another, it will be original. Knowledge is never borrowed; it is original for each one. Thoughts are never original; they are borrowed by everyone. Thoughts create sects (sampradaya); knowledge creates religion (dharma).

In this context, consider too what I have said regarding scriptures. The influence that comes from scripture is also influence from outside. It too is a covering; it will also envelop you. In that sense I call it “harmful” (ghatak). Mind my words; do not misunderstand them. It will cover you; in that sense it is harmful. It too comes from outside; remember at least that much—that it comes from outside. However wholesome it may seem, any influence coming from outside is harmful to self-cultivation.

Dress me in a coat of iron, or in a coat of gold, or in a coat studded with diamonds—each will bind me. Bad influences bind me; in the same sense Mahavira says, bad karmas bind and so do virtuous karmas. Understand this rightly: bad thoughts bind, and good thoughts also bind. With bad thoughts one becomes a bad man; with good thoughts, a great man; and when both dissolve, one becomes a satpurush. A bad man wears a bad covering—imagine the iron wall of his prison. A good man wears a fine covering—the golden wall of his prison. Satpurush are those who have no walls—neither golden nor iron.

Try to understand me. It is necessary. And that is why I have called it harmful. An iron wall we can easily see as harmful; a golden wall is harder to see as harmful. We are greatly enamored of gold. That is why I say: the golden wall can be even more harmful than the iron one—because an iron wall you may be eager to break, while a golden wall is harder to break; the charm of gold clings to you.

Bad influences appear bad, so there is an eagerness to break them. Good influences appear good, so we feel reluctant to break them. And that very reluctance makes them even more harmful.

My whole point is this: whatever influence comes from outside is a cover; it will obstruct your own truth, your own knowledge; it will not allow it to be revealed.

You will ask: then what did Mahavira and Buddha teach? If all external influences are harmful, what were they teaching?

Mahavira and Buddha were teaching precisely this: that outside influences are harmful and must be shed. And we are so foolish that out of love and reverence we made their words into scriptures, their presence into influence, and loaded ourselves with them. Buddha said, “Do not worship me,” for there is nothing outside worthy of worship. Yet there are more statues of Buddha on this earth than of anyone else. And the word but in Urdu and Arabic, meaning idol, is an apabhramsha of Buddha. There were so many Buddha statues that when Arabs first encountered them and asked, “What is this?” people said, “Buddha.” From that, in their language, came the word but. And Buddha had said, “Do not make any image and worship it; there is no one outside to be worshiped.” Today his very name has become synonymous with “idol.”

What do we do? Those who try to free us from external influence—we, out of devotion, clutch at them, and adopt their influence upon ourselves.

If one understands Mahavira rightly, he will be free from all—and free of Mahavira too. Otherwise he has not understood rightly. Understand me: see their compassion. A true master (sadguru) is one who frees you from all, yet does not bind you to himself. Otherwise bondage begins again. If Mahavira were to say, “Leave everything and take refuge in me,” then nothing has been left—because that refuge is outside. Are Mahavira’s feet inside you? Whatever can be grasped is outside.

Mahavira is a true master in this sense: he frees you from everything outside and reminds you not to cling even to him, otherwise the same cycle begins anew. A true master is one who frees you from all, and does not bind you even to himself. A false master frees you from all and then says, “Now hold fast to my feet.” That is a false master.

I say this because the influences that appear auspicious to you—I am not calling them inauspicious; I am calling them harmful. Inauspicious and auspicious are different, but both are harmful. They are harmful in the sense that they cover you; they block you from within. Toward them cultivate non-possession (aparigraha). In the world of thought, be non-possessive toward thoughts. However pleasant or auspicious a thought may seem, know, “It is not mine.” Remember consciously: “It is not mine.” Then, when you move toward calming the mind, it will be easier for foreign thoughts to drop, because you will not be holding them. Otherwise, on the one hand we wish thoughts to become silent, and on the other we clutch at auspicious thoughts—then it becomes very difficult. How will they become silent if we deem them lofty, noble, necessary, precious? How will one let go of precious things? Before a man can fling diamonds and jewels from his fist, he must first see that they are not diamonds and jewels but mere stones and pebbles; otherwise he cannot release them. He will open the fist and hold them tighter again.

So I am telling you: understand thoughts as borrowed. However exalted the person they came from, they are not yours—remember that. Remember: coming from outside, they are ashrava. Before the shedding (nirjara) of that ashrava—nirjara will happen through meditation—this attitude of non-possession will be a support. Thus, on the plane of thought the first thing is: non-possession toward thoughts.

The second aphorism: non-possession toward thoughts that have already entered; and neutrality (tatasthata) toward those not yet in but still outside.

Two thoughts stand before you—maintain neutrality toward them. Choose none; do not grab any option.

One clings to Jainism, another to Islam, another to Christianity. Whoever is clinging to Christianity cannot even listen—literally cannot—when a Jain text, word, or idea is being spoken. He has already taken a side; he is prejudiced. He cannot hear the other thought, cannot understand it. We are so prejudiced, so surrounded by partiality, that we cannot even hear the other side. Understanding is far away; we cannot even hear. The moment a contrary word reaches the ear, our prejudice rises up in between.

Just this morning I was talking to a friend. I spoke to him, but he was not listening. I finished, and he started another question which had no relation to the first. I told him, “While I was speaking, you must have been thinking what you are now saying.” He said, “Yes, I was thinking that.” “Then how could you be listening to me? Listening and thinking cannot happen together.”

But we all “listen” while simultaneously thinking. That thinking is the absence of neutrality. Even if you stand before Mahavira, you will not be able to listen to him—because you will be thinking. Mahavira called a shravak one who, while listening, does not think—he only listens. You may be a hearer (shrota), but you are not a shravak. To know truth one must become a shravak: neutral, without partisanship, simply listening. While listening there is neither acceptance nor rejection. Acceptance brings a side; rejection brings a side. There is no acceptance, no rejection—just listening, just understanding.

If you cultivate this much capacity on the plane of thought, you will be amazed: the whole world will be freed of sectarianism and filled with religion. If there is neutrality on the plane of thought, then disputes end and dialogue begins. That is the difference between dispute (vivad) and dialogue (samvad). If you are not neutral, thought brings dispute; if you are neutral, thought brings dialogue.

This morning I narrated an incident. Jung, the psychologist, was studying some madmen. Two such patients—well-educated, college teachers—were lodged in his home for observation. One morning he saw them seated in their room, deeply engaged in discussion. Jung listened from the window. He was astonished: they were speaking of things that had no relation to each other! One spoke of something, the other of something entirely different—no connection at all. That much was understandable—they were mad. But he noticed another strange thing: when one spoke, the other kept quiet. He listened silently; when the first stopped, then the second began—but still with no connection to what had been said.

Jung said, “They are mad; their talk is nonsense—that is understandable. But this keeping quiet shows great cleverness!” He went in and asked, “Why, when one speaks, does the other keep quiet?” They replied, “We know the rule of conversation: when one speaks, the other keeps silent; when he is done, the second begins. We know that perfectly.”

Do you think what you do is different? When someone speaks, you sit quiet merely because of the rule of conversation—“It is not proper to speak over another.” But you are not truly silent; you are preparing what you will say as soon as he finishes. While he is speaking, you are getting ready to speak—not listening. You are not completely mad; therefore, when he ends you will not speak pure nonsense—you will catch some word or phrase from his last lines as a hook, as a pretext, so that a connection appears. But in truth there is no connection; there cannot be.

This is conversation, not communication. This is dispute, not dialogue. Dialogue happens when there is non-possession toward one’s accumulated thoughts and neutrality toward the thought presently before you—no partiality, no prior decision that “this is wrong” or “this is certainly right.”

Say to a theist, “God does not exist.” He cannot listen. The very words agitate him; at once he begins preparing how to prove that God exists. Say to an atheist, “God exists.” He cannot listen either; the word falls on his ear and he begins preparing how to prove that God does not exist. Both are not listening; both are deaf. And whoever is deaf on the plane of thought brings great unreason into the world.

We are filled with unreason because we are deaf on the plane of thought. Almost completely deaf, not listening to anyone. Look within and you will see: perhaps you have never truly listened to anyone. It may be an illusion that you have listened to many. To listen, neutrality is necessary: when you listen, be utterly neutral—no stake, no side, no prejudice.

First: non-possession. Deepen non-possession and a second thing will begin to arise by itself—neutrality. If you accept and deepen neutrality, what will be the result? An inner discerning vision will arise in you by which you will see what is right and what is wrong. The third thing: first non-possession, second neutrality, and third—freedom (swatantrata).

Freedom means: until my own knowing arises, I will not become dependent on any circle of thought—no matter whose it is, mine or anyone else’s. Until my knowledge is born, it is harmful to adopt any pattern, any framework of thought. To be bound in a pattern is to raise a wall with one’s own hands. I will not be bound by any mental enclosure. I will know all thoughts, understand them, listen with neutrality, maintain non-possession even when they arrive in my mind—but I will not become dependent on any ideological circle.

There is no greater slavery in this world than what may be called mental imprisonment. We are all prisoners of one jail or another. The world is divided into many jails of the mind, and we are all locked in them—by birth, by tradition, by schooling—so that we are sealed within one prison or another. This is disastrous dependence. Dependence means: to adopt others’ thoughts as if they were one’s own. Let a freedom remain in your consciousness, with the remembrance that only my own knowing will become my sky. Let no thought—not even the noblest—become my mold, the framework of my mind.

Our education and initiation do not teach freedom; they teach conformity. They teach: conform to tradition, to parents, to this one and that—follow completely. They teach following, not freedom. From childhood we begin to cast the child’s mind into a mold—lest he become free, lest he break out of the circle in which we ourselves were imprisoned, lest he break the walls we inhabited. The whole society tries to ensure that no one becomes free. Thus all education and initiation make man dependent. The more dependent he is on the plane of thought, the less dangerous he is to society—not dangerous at all.

Machines are not dangerous. The convenience with a machine is that it neither thinks nor is free; it does what it is told. And the more man becomes like a machine, the more society honors him. All nations, states, governments desire that man become a machine: when we say “run,” he runs; when we press the button “stop,” he stops. A fan never says, “Just now I intend to run; I will run when I choose.” A machine is very convenient. Societies, organizations, governments all want man to be purely mechanical—no freedom, no thinking. Thinking is dangerous: one might say something that disturbs the fixed pattern, the established order.

Any thinker who has generated knowing from his own experience becomes dangerous. Do you think Mahavira was not dangerous? Buddha not dangerous? Christ not dangerous? Socrates not dangerous? Had they not been dangerous, they could not have known truth. Their freedom led them into danger and into opposition with society.

Mahavira is being beaten; nails are hammered into his ears. Will anyone hammer nails into your ears? You go to the temple every day, you worship the deity every day—who will hammer nails into your ears? You never say anything for which someone would do that. You conform. You are less a man, more a machine—doing as you were taught. If Mahavira had done the same, would anyone hammer nails into his ears? People would have taken out processions, seated him in a palanquin, shouted his glory, presented him a commemorative volume from the prime minister. Would anyone have given Socrates hemlock? Or hung Jesus on a cross?

This was the consequence of freedom. Because they touched truth, and truth always runs contrary to the broken, decrepit social order we drag along. Truth never runs contrary to truth. If I speak truth, it is not against Mahavira; it may be against you. Truth is never against truth. But it does go against society’s structures.

Therefore, whoever would experience truth must be free of society.

A shallow meaning has been taken from this: leave home and go to the forest. How will that free you from society? The one who goes to the forest is still bound by society. Sitting there he repeats the same scriptures society taught him, performs the same rituals. He has fled society, but social mental slavery accompanies him; he continues as before.

To be free of society means: do not adopt the pattern society gives you. It is an insult to the soul to adopt another’s mold and be confined within it. I must at least preserve freedom on the plane of thought. There, after all, there is no outer inconvenience. True, I wear clothes, and if I went naked it would be improper; it would inconvenience you. But at least inwardly, where I cause you no inconvenience, I should not adopt any mold. There I should strive to keep the inner lamp of freedom burning. Only freedom, independent seeking, ultimately brings one near to truth. Dependence cannot.

So third, on the plane of thought I tell you: the spirit of freedom.

Non-possession, neutrality, and independent knowing—if these three are present on the plane of thought, then go ahead and read the scriptures; I have no objection.

People ask me again and again, “Should we not read the scriptures?” Someone asked me today, “You read them—why do you tell us not to?”

I told him, “He is saying it rightly.” A swimmer is in the river and says to you, “Don’t jump in.” You say, “You keep jumping in and you tell me not to!” He will only say, “If you know how to swim, come; if not, wait a bit.”

The question is not whether to swim or not; the question is whether you know how. These are the three elements on the plane of thought: if you have them, then dive into the scriptures—no scripture can harm you; they will all become allies. If you do not, then please wait. You are not yet qualified to enter. If you can keep non-possession toward thought, no one’s thought can harm you. If you can remain neutral, no sect or tradition can become your prejudice. If you can remain free, no framework of thought can enslave you.

If these three are within you, scripture cannot harm you. Truth will not be obtained from scripture—but if these three are within, scripture will not be harmful. The harmfulness I spoke of is the covering; if these three are present, scripture cannot cover you. Therefore, before studying scripture, one must pass through a certain discipline; only then can scripture be meaningful—otherwise it is pointless.

If you understand this, tell me: did Mahavira or Buddha send people to study scriptures? Is there any mention that people came to Mahavira and he said, “Go study the texts”? Do you remember any instance where Mahavira taught, “Study the scriptures first, memorize the principles, then something can happen”? Or Buddha? Or Christ? Christ explicitly warned: “Beware of the scriptures! For even the devil can quote scripture.”

That is the point: the devil, too, can quote scripture. In fact, more often than not, it is the devil who quotes scripture—because where you are weak, there you use quotations. Wherever you understand nothing, immediately you begin quoting scripture. The greater the ignorance, the greater the quoting. Such people will chant the couplets of the Ramayana like parrots—they themselves understand nothing; they merely repeat by rote.

What I am saying is: scripture will not be harmful if these three elements are present on the plane of thought. And if these three are present, you will be qualified to enter into shunya dhyan—the meditation of emptiness.

Thus I have presented nine points in three tiers. On the level of the body: right food, right exercise, right sleep. On the level of feeling: friendliness toward all beings, non-attachment toward actions, and equanimity toward sensations. And on the level of thought: neutrality, non-possession, and freedom. If these nine remain in your remembrance, they will create that wondrous foundation, and if, joined to this foundation, you experiment with the three meditations I am speaking of, then there is no reason—no reason at all—why truth should not be attained to you.

Naturally! It is natural that we should ask: when people like Kabir and Meera, weeping and weeping, say that God is not found and the path is very hard, very arduous—like walking on the edge of a sword—then how will we ordinary, straightforward people ever attain him?

Such a question can be useful, provided it is not merely an escape. Provided it is not simply a defense—using the names of Meera and Kabir to save your own skin: “If even Meera and Kabir did not find, what will we get? So why make the effort to seek?”

First let me tell you: Meera and Kabir are not very different from you. Never fall into the illusion that they are different. Nothing is different. What is the difference? And why do you accept the illusion that you are far below Meera and Kabir, and they are somewhere above?

There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who know, and those who do not know. There is no third kind. And among those who do not know, there is no higher or lower as far as not-knowing goes. Two kinds only: the knowers and the non-knowers. Among the non-knowers, all are equal on the plane of ignorance. Yes, it may be that you cannot sing as Meera sang—but what has singing to do with finding God? It may be that you are not as intelligent as Kabir—but what has intelligence to do with finding God? The capacity to realize God is equal in every person. In that, there is no difference between Meera and Kabir and you.

Where does the difference begin? As I told you yesterday—it is a difference of thirst. Not of capacity, of thirst. If that thirst deepens in you, you will become Meera; you will become Kabir.

And if to someone it seems that truth is very difficult to attain, then several things become worth considering.

Suppose a lock is on this house. I come and start smashing the lock with a hammer, and the lock does not break. Then I shout to people, “It is so difficult to enter this house; this lock just won’t open.” Is entry difficult—or is it that I don’t know how to open the lock? And it may well be that because I have been pounding it with a hammer, later, even if I find the key, it will not work. And then I say, “Even with the key, it is very difficult.”

Most of us mishandle the lock on the door of truth. And then all the trouble begins. Someone imagines truth as husband, someone as father, someone as mother. We are applying to truth and to the divine the relationships we know in our families, and we set out to search with those same relationships projected. The same relational patterns we have with people we impose upon God, and then we go in search.

If you want to realize the divine, you have to become relationless; you have to drop the whole feeling of attachment. You are hammering at the lock. Meera is in search of a husband: for her, the divine is the beloved husband. She is searching for him. This is Meera’s imagination. God cannot be “husband-form.” No relationship of ours can exist with God—because if a relationship could exist, he would become part of the world. God becomes available to us when every sense of relationship has dissolved from our minds. When we become asanga—relationless—God is available. In relationlessness the divine is realized; in the imagination of relationship, the divine is not realized.

So yes, Meera’s songs are exquisite—who would deny them? But I cannot advise you that if you start searching for God as the divine husband and he does not appear, you should conclude that his attainment is difficult. You are in your own error. You are hammering the lock in vain. Desire is functioning within you even in the search for God; you are only making desire stronger, whereas he is available only in desirelessness. You have gone in the opposite direction—what can anyone do? So if Meera finds it very difficult, the fault is not God’s, nor is it in the path to God. If there is a fault, it will be Meera’s.

My point is: God is the one thing in this world that is the simplest to attain, because we say he is our very nature. Anything in the world may be hard to get, but God cannot be hard to get. And till this day, on this earth, no one has ever truly gotten any thing of the world—ever. If anyone has attained anything, it is only God.

What is it you think you have attained in the world? Anything? In the entire history of humanity, no one has been able to truly get anything of the world. The world cannot be possessed.

In truth, the other cannot be possessed; it cannot be gotten. You can be under the illusion of having gotten, but you do not get it. Death shatters your illusion, showing that it was never gotten. Those loved ones you thought you had—death breaks the illusion: you did not have them. The wealth you thought you had—death breaks the illusion. The empires that Alexanders and Napoleons thought they had—death made it clear: nothing was attained. You were imagining, you were deluded that you had won; death shakes you awake. That which death can snatch away—what kind of attainment is that? That cannot be attainment at all; you were deceived. Death is the examiner. Death is the test: have you attained anything or not? Whatever death can take away, you did not attain; you were in illusion. Whatever death cannot take away—that you have attained.

So I say to you: to attain the world is impossible—not just difficult, impossible. And to attain God is entirely possible and utterly simple—not difficult at all. And whenever anyone has attained, it has only been God; there is nothing else worthy of attainment, and nothing else can be attained.

But then the whole issue is the key. If you understand rightly the experiment I am speaking about, you will be amazed: it can be attained. There is no difficulty in it—not the least.

Remove from your mind this notion that it is difficult, difficult. This is our trick. We want to escape. We do not want to attain, so we think, “It is very hard,” and we drop it. There is another thing: the so-called sadhus and pundits keep repeating that it is very difficult. There is a meaning in this repetition. If the sadhus and pundits say it is absolutely simple, you will stop giving them respect—completely. If the thing is simple, then what is special? You give respect to those to whom the divine has become available because you believe they have climbed a very arduous ascent—like reaching Everest—while you still stand on the plain.

There was a sadhu in Tibet. He died at the age of ninety. All his life, hundreds of people came to him saying, “Please make me your disciple.” He would say, “I could, but you are not yet qualified; you are unfit.” Hundreds came, and he declared all of them unworthy. Because he called people unfit, others became all the more eager for him. He was remarkable—he seemed very quiet, he seemed to be in great bliss. So people would climb to the top of his mountain looking for him and ask to be accepted as disciples. He would say, “I could accept you, but you are not yet a fit vessel. If a worthy one comes, I will accept him.” In his lifetime, not a single worthy one came—because he considered no one worthy.

Three days before his death, a young man who had been staying with him was told, “Listen, I will drop the body in three days. Go down the mountain and call whomever wishes to become a disciple, because I cannot remain much longer.” The young man asked, “Whom shall I bring?” Because he knew from experience that everyone was unfit. The old man said, “Bring anyone at all.”

The young man went down and told the villagers, “Now he is ready to make disciples—whoever wishes, come.” Ten or fifteen people who were free, who had no work, in a way already dead to the world, all went. One was unemployed, on leave from his job; one was retired; and so on—they all went. They were astonished. On the way they asked the young man again and again, “Will he really make us disciples? Great seekers had come earlier—great sadhus—and he refused them.”

Anyway, they went. The sadhu said, “First, let me take an interview, one by one.” The young man who had brought them said, “The effort has been wasted. We went down, brought them, and these are not even fit to be interviewed! On the way itself it seemed to me they were unworthy. They gossiped of the world the whole way; not one of them mentioned God or the soul. We walked for hours on mountain paths and they talked of worldly affairs, argued and quarreled. How can these be worthy! But I have brought them now.” The sadhu told the young man, “You sit here and tell me who is worthy.” He seated him beside him. Then he asked each one: “Why do you want to realize God?”

One said, “I have no work; all the work I had to do is done. Now I am completely free of duties—so I thought I might get God.”

The old man asked the youth, “Is this one worthy?” The youth lowered his head: “What madness! To treat God as a frivolous item, something to do because there is nothing else...”

He asked the second. He said, “I was unemployed; for some days I have had no job. It is the rainy season; I was sitting idle, the mind was listless—so I thought I might as well go for an outing, and perhaps something might come of it.”

Such were their answers. He went on asking one after another. The young man was drenched in sweat, exhausted. He thought, “All this effort for nothing! If this interview was all, you should have told me earlier—I wouldn’t have brought them.” Finally, the old man asked the youth, “Tell me—whom shall I accept as a disciple?” The youth said, “None of these is qualified—what can I say to you!”

But the elder said, “I am going to accept all of them as disciples.” The youth asked, “I am astonished: you will accept these, and you sent away so many others!” The elder said, “In fact, then I was not capable of giving—so I fobbed them off by calling them unfit. Now I have something to give; now however unfit a person may be, he is fit.” He said, “Then I had nothing, so I put them off by calling them unworthy. Today I have something to give. However they may be, they are fit—because what I give will make them worthy. Then I had nothing, so I deferred them.”

I tell you: this talk of difficulty is not true. Either it is said by those who have not known and who protect themselves by calling it difficult; or it is said by those who have not wanted to know, who have merely read scriptures and found a way to protect themselves by saying, “It is difficult.”

To attain the divine is not difficult. Which does not mean... Someone asked me the day before yesterday: “You say it is not difficult and that it can be found here and now—then why haven’t I gotten it right now?” My words create this confusion: if it is not difficult and can be had here and now, why not carry it back with us from Matheran?

So let me tell you: it is not difficult—drop that illusion. It is not that truth is difficult to realize; it is that you are very difficult, therefore you do not realize it. Understand this well: truth is not difficult at all to realize; you are very difficult. You are very complex and tangled. He is utterly simple—nothing is simpler than that. You are complex, complicated, knotted. The difficulty lies in your knots, not in the realization of truth. Time is spent in untying these knots, not in attaining truth. The day you open these knots and stand up—all the time and the sadhana goes into untying—truth is received in a flash. It is sudden enlightenment; it happens at once.

Like heating water: the water becomes hotter and hotter—at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. The becoming steam happens suddenly; that is not difficult. The heating takes some time. The difficulty is not in water becoming steam; the difficulty is in the heating of the water.

The difficulty is not in your becoming available to truth; the difficulty is in your preparation. And that difficulty is your complexity. And the complexity is made by us—no one else. In this world no one else is creating anyone’s complexity; we create it.

So I have given these nine sutras—understand them mindfully. If any of them becomes clear to you, practice it. And along with them, practice the meditations. Then you will find: truth is not what is found; rather, you go on becoming simpler. One day, when you are no longer complex at all—utterly innocent, simple, guileless—then everything is found. Truth is present; because of our complexity we cannot see it. Truth is near; because of our complexity we have turned our backs to it. The issue is not with truth at all; the issue is entirely ours.

Man is difficult; therefore there is trouble in realizing truth. The farther back you go, the more quickly truth could be realized. What was the reason? The reason was: man was simpler. Truth is just the same—yesterday as today as tomorrow. Truth has no problem; it is as it is; time does not affect it. But man is becoming more and more complex. What we call civilization is complexity. What we call civilization is not civilization at all; it is only complexity, in which our entanglements and tensions grow denser and denser. They are becoming so dense, we are becoming so complex...

William James, who studied the insane and the mentally ill extensively, wrote: “When I first went to an asylum I was very astonished and said, what a strange thing—that so many people have gone mad! Then I studied them for twenty years, and now, on my deathbed, I want to say: those who went mad—that is understandable; what is miraculous is that those who did not go mad—why did they not?” In other words, the world is so complex, tensions are so great, that those who have gone mad—that is fine, it seems natural; those who have not become mad are astonishing!

Civilization is slowly leading us toward madness. You know, the numbers of the mentally ill are increasing daily. And you know that nearly each of us stands on the brink of madness—just a slight push, and one can go mad; just a slight push. His house falls, he may go mad. His wife dies, he may go mad. His shop collapses, he may go mad. Standing right at the edge—one small shove, and you are insane.

In America, every day one and a half million people go to hospitals for treatment of the mind. And this is a very small number; they estimate that three times as many do not go. This will be so the world over. On the personal level, madness is thickening because complexity is intense. And on the collective level too, we go mad every so often: riots, disturbances, conflicts, wars. We fought two wars and killed a hundred million people. Is such a thing possible for a healthy mind—that within fifty years we fought two wars and slaughtered a hundred million human beings?

The day Hiroshima was bombed, the next morning journalists asked Truman, “Did you sleep well at night?” Truman said, “Last night I slept very peacefully for the first time. One thorn has been removed.” A hundred thousand people died, and one man says, “I slept well.” Will you call this man conscious? The order to kill a hundred thousand people is his. At ten or eleven at night he was informed that Hiroshima was turning to ash. He ate his dinner with relish, loved his children, and went to sleep. Do you think he loved his children? Can this man love children? Among those hundred thousand there must have been twenty thousand children. Among them fifty thousand women. Can he love his wife? He is deceiving. And he slept soundly. Will you call this sanity? Is this man mad or sane? And if he is mad, are you sane?

It is a thoroughly mad world, growing more insane day by day. And the ultimate result could be that one day we annihilate each other completely—which is entirely possible. If religion is not revived in the world, it is entirely possible that the whole world goes mad and we finish ourselves off. We are moving close to that—individually and collectively. The complexity in us has increased so much that it is driving us mad.

The madman and the sage are opposites. You usually think the bad man and the sage are opposites. I do not think so. Understand me well. You usually think: the bad man, the immoral, the depraved—these are opposite to the sage. I do not think so. The sage and the madman are opposites. The opposite of the immoral and depraved is the decent man, who does not commit immorality or depravity. The opposite of the immoral, the indecent, is the gentleman. The opposite of the madman is the sage. Both the depraved and the decent can be mad—they are simply in different grades of madness. Those who are mad, or can go mad, are merely in different categories of madness. A sage cannot be mad. All the complexity of mind by which a person can go mad has dissolved in him.

Mahavira or Buddha are in a place where madness has become impossible—where insanity cannot be. They alone are sane, the only ones who are not deranged. I say, the liberated and the deranged are opposites. The less deranged you become, the more liberated you become. As your consciousness moves from complexity to simplicity, you become a sage. These few sutras I have explained—they are merely a groundwork for meditation. The real thing is to sow the seeds of meditation into that groundwork.

Now let us sit for the morning experiment.