Samadhi Ke Dwar Par #6

This question is very important. It may also be a little difficult to understand.

First, without the seeker and his means it will not be attained; and second, immediately, that it cannot be attained by the seeker’s means alone. It is not attained by effort—and it is also not attained if the seeker makes no effort. The seeker strives, and striving and striving he becomes tired, defeated, finished; and in that very striving, the ego too—“I can attain”—breaks down. When effort reaches the point where effort itself appears futile, and the seeker’s ego—“I will be able to get it”—has disappeared, in that very instant it becomes available. Its attainment is at the failure of effort. And that is why, whenever anyone attains, it feels exactly as if it has come by His grace, His prasad: “I tried and tried, I was exhausted—and I could not get it.”

But the other statement is also wrong: it is not that it comes by His grace—if by grace you mean He gives to some and not to others. That would mean that God has attachment toward some and is very indifferent to others; that He gives to some and withholds from others. No—at that door such discrimination is not possible. When we say “It comes by His grace,” it does not mean it comes by His grace in that sense. His grace is available to all. In His grace there is no partiality toward anyone—there cannot be. So when a seeker says, “I received it by His grace,” he is actually saying: “When I had done all I could, it did not happen. And now it has happened when I was doing nothing.” What should the seeker say? It appears to him that it has been received only by His grace—because it did not come through my effort.

Do you understand me? This is the seeker’s dilemma. It did not come through his effort, so how can he say, “I attained through my effort”? And yet it has happened—what should he say now? He says, “It happened by His grace.”

But this too is the seeker’s mistake. His grace is equally available to everyone. The trouble is that our doors are shut to His grace. Our doors open only when our ego is no more. The ego of the doer is the subtlest ego; and the ego of spiritual practice is the last ego. To drop the ego of wealth is easy; the ego of fame is not too difficult either. But the ego of austerity, of penance, of renunciation, of discipline, of spiritual practice, of prayer, of religion, of yoga—this is the hardest to drop. Because deeply hidden in that ego is the conviction: “I will attain.” And that “I” is the obstacle.

Let me explain with a small incident.

Buddha practiced austerities for six years. Whatever anyone suggested, he did. Someone said, “Fast,” and he fasted for long periods. Someone said, “Do headstands,” and he did headstands. Someone said, “Chant the Name,” and he chanted. Whatever anyone said, he kept doing. After six years of relentless effort, he had reached nowhere—he was where he had started. He went to bathe in the Niranjana River. His body had become weak from long fasting. The current was strong; he did not have the strength even to get out of the river. Somehow he clung to a root of a tree and stayed there.

Holding that root, a thought arose in his mind: “I have become so weak I cannot even cross this river—how will I cross the great river of life? And six years have passed; I have done all that could be done. Now I no longer even have the strength to do anything. What will happen? I have done everything sincerely, and yet there has been no vision.”

He had left wealth, he had left fame, he had left his kingdom. On that bank of the Niranjana River, the last ego also became useless—the ego that by my effort I will attain.

Somehow he came out and sat to rest beneath a nearby tree. That evening he also left spiritual practice—or better, spiritual practice dropped away. Everything dropped. Even the idea “I will attain” dropped. Six years of failure had shown—this too is not possible. That night, it is difficult for us to imagine the state of Buddha’s mind. That night his mind was in no condition to do anything. There was no race for wealth, no race for fame—and now not even a race for truth. Because the very thought “by running I will attain” had ended. That night he was utterly carefree. There was no concern—not even religious concern. There was no thought of attaining God. There was no thought at all; there was nothing left to gain; there was no strength left in his legs. Utterly helpless, defeated, destitute, that night he fell asleep. It was the first night he slept completely—because now there was nothing to do; everything had proved futile; doing itself had proved futile; and the doer had died.

Near five in the morning his eyes opened. The last star was setting. He opened his eyes and saw that last star sinking. Today it was beyond his understanding what he would do. “What will I do upon rising? Doing has come to an end. The race for wealth had ended before; the race for fame had ended before; last night the race for religion also ended. What now will I do?” He was in a void; even doing did not occur to him. He was utterly empty. And suddenly he felt—the one I was seeking has arrived; it has arisen from within. In that silent moment, when all the ripples of the lake had stilled—the last ripple that had been stirring even for religion had also stilled—in that moment he knew: “That which I was seeking—has been found.”

When people asked him, “How did you attain?” he would say, “So long as there was a how and I had some method, there was no attainment. When all my methods were lost, I saw that that which I was seeking was present within me.”

In truth, that which we are seeking is present within; and in the search we become so occupied that we get no news of what is within. Even the search has to be lost; the search must also dissolve. Only then is there a glimpse of that which is within—because where will we go then?

In searching, the mind runs outward somewhere. When we will not search anywhere, we will return to ourselves. Then there remains no other path. In that moment it will be found. And when it is found in that moment, how can one say, “I attained it”?

The Upanishads are right when they say—only when He himself puts the wedding garland around your neck, only then is it attained. But the Upanishads are also wrong. Because it is not as if He does not put the garland on anyone’s neck. He stands holding the garland at the neck of all. As long as we keep our neck away, what can He do? When we lower our neck, the garland falls. He stands with the garland at the neck of each one of us. But the neck must bow! How will it bow? The seeker’s neck does not bow. The seeker remains very stiff. The seeker lives in great ego—very sattvic, very refined, very subtle—a sugar-sweet egoist. The seeker is a “holy egoist.” But what difference does it make if ego is holy? Ego is ego. What does “holy poison” mean? It means nothing. “Holy poison” only means even more concentrated, even more pure. “Unholy poison” holds some adulteration in it; “holy poison” means pure poison—nothing mixed in it. The holy person’s ego is pure poison with nothing mixed in. The sinner’s ego still has other things mixed into it. The virtuous person’s ego is pure poison, unmixed.

So the seeker cannot attain—because ego cannot attain. But also, without being a seeker no one can attain. Why not without being a seeker? Because unless one becomes a seeker, how will one come to know that even being a seeker is useless?

Krishnamurti says, “I am fortunate that I did not read the scriptures.” I say, “I am fortunate that I did read the scriptures—and by reading I came to know that through scriptures it cannot be attained.”

But the one who has not read the scriptures may still retain a doubt somewhere within. Only by reading the scriptures is it known that “It is not to be found here, not to be found here.” Only by doing spiritual practice is it known—“It was wasted, wasted; I did not get it, I did not get it.” The one who runs everywhere, searches everywhere, looks into every corner and, tired, sits down: “Not found, not found”—when it does not come, the last moment arrives; he becomes helpless, sits down—and then, amazed, he discovers: “A wonder! What I used to search for by running—I have found by sitting.”

In truth, without sitting it is not found. But the searcher cannot sit; he keeps running and running. If he sits, he finds: “It was here with me.”

So if someone says, “He put the garland on me; I received it by His grace,” its total meaning is only this: “I did not get it by my effort.” But His grace is equal on all. His grace is raining on everyone. Those who are like empty pots will be filled; those already full will remain empty. The rain will keep falling, but they will not fill. Remember, to call God “compassionate” or “gracious” is very wrong. We can call one compassionate only if he sometimes also shows lack of compassion. And we can call one “graceful” only if he sometimes withholds grace. No—God is not gracious; God is grace itself. That is, the absence of grace has no possibility there.

We say God is omnipotent. But in certain matters He is not powerful at all. For example, if He wanted to show non-grace, He is utterly impotent—He cannot. If He wanted to be wicked, He cannot. There He is completely without power—He can do nothing.

It is His nature; He stands everywhere around. When will we bow our necks—only then.

I have heard about Sarmad. There is a Muslim ayat: “There is only one God; there is no god other than Him.” This is their special statement. Sarmad used to leave out the first part, and would go around saying only: “There is no God, there is no God.” The mullahs and the scholars became troubled.

Priests are always troubled by a religious man. Priests are owners of shops of irreligion. They always get into difficulty. They are collectors of stale words. And when fresh truth is born, they are in trouble—because their stale truth suddenly looks stale.

Sarmad kept saying: “There is no God.” He left the first half—“There is only one God; there is no god other than Him.” He kept saying only the latter bit: “There is no God.”

People went and told Aurangzeb, “This is great irreligion.” And millions worshiped Sarmad. Sarmad was summoned and asked, “What is your statement?” He said, “There is no God.” Aurangzeb said, “That is atheism.” Sarmad said, “So far I have known only this much—that there is no God. Until I know that there is a God, how can I say so? I have not known; I will not say. When I know, I will say. Until I know, how can I speak? And if I speak falsely, then God will later ask me, ‘How did you say it without knowing?’ What answer will I give Him?”

Aurangzeb ordered him to be executed—that this man deserves to be killed. His head was severed. The story is astonishing; even if it is not factually true, it is meaningful. The day his head was cut off in the Delhi mosque, as the head rolled down the steps, it is said a voice came from the head: “There is only one God; there is no god other than Him.” The crowd of thousands said, “Madman—he should have said so a little earlier! What is the use of saying it after the head is cut?” Sarmad said, “How could it be known without the head being cut? When the head fell—when I was gone—then it was known: Yes, He is; there is none other than Him. Otherwise, without the head falling, it could not be known.” People said, “He is crazy. If he had said it a little earlier, he would have been saved.” Sarmad said, “If I had been saved, I could never have said it. Because if I had been saved, then I would have remained—and He would not have happened.”

You will have to lose—ultimately lose so totally that nothing remains to which “mine” can cling. Even this—“I am making effort, I am doing practice, I am meditating, I am attaining samadhi, I am doing yoga”—in this too the “I” grows strong. Even that must not remain to be said. The day all my “I” is cut—how will it be cut? It is cut by failure. It is cut by being defeated on all sides. It is cut by discovering the futility of effort on every front. The only value of spiritual practice is that ultimately it becomes clear: not even by this is it attained. And when no door or window remains, no way to attain remains, and one stands dumbfounded, seeing there is nothing left to do—at that very instant it is attained. It was always attained. It is not seen by the mind that is a doer, because the mind of the doer keeps running.

The mind of the doer is like a photographer running miles per hour with his camera. Later when he opens his camera, no picture is formed—because his speed was so great that whatever passed through the lens could not be caught. But if he stops, the picture is made. A still camera catches the image; a running camera cannot catch anything. That is why we must also take care that the camera does not shake. But we are running in every direction—and shaking. The lens of the mind, the camera of the mind, cannot catch anything.

God is present everywhere. And we, carrying our camera—our mind—are running, running, shouting, making noise, beating drums, singing Ram’s name, doing bhajans and kirtans—doing everything while running. But we are not becoming still. If we become still, His picture is caught at once.

Naturally, when, after running and failing to catch His picture, we at last stand and the picture is caught, the photographer may feel: “It was only by His grace that it was captured. I ran a lot and did not get it. But now that I stood still, the picture formed. That clearly means it did not happen by my effort; it happened by His grace.” Although He was always standing at the door with His grace—but you were never at home. Even if He came to find you, you were never at home; you were always elsewhere.

So this statement of the Upanishads is both right and wrong. And let me tell you, all religious aphorisms are such that in one sense they are right and in another sense they are wrong. Therefore, every aphorism can be refuted and every aphorism can be supported. Religion is so mysterious that it contains all opposites.

Thus we can also say: the seeker attains by his own effort; there is no grace of God. Because even if it comes upon the exhaustion of effort, that exhaustion too is the final fruit of the seeker’s own doing. The Jains and the Buddhists hold exactly this—that one attains by one’s own effort, even if by getting tired; the getting tired is also one’s own. They are not wrong. The Upanishadic seers, the followers of Jesus, the Christians, the Muslims—they all hold that it is attained by His grace. They too are not wrong—because it comes when we are tired. Both speak rightly, and both speak wrongly—because the matter is such that it can be seen both ways.

Therefore I said it is necessary to understand this well. Let me state the essence and the final word on this: Do make effort—make it with your whole strength—so that you get tired quickly and effort drops as futile. Run fully—so that tiredness comes and there is a collapse. Do not stop halfway because someone told you, “All right, it won’t come by effort; He will put the garland on your neck—so why run?” If you stop halfway, your mind will keep running; you will not be able to stop. It is essential to run fully and fall, to become tired. The very meaning of running must be lost from the mind.

Therefore I say: read the scriptures—so that it becomes clear that scriptures are futile. Do spiritual practice—so that it becomes clear that practice is useless. Search—so that it becomes clear that searching does not bring it. The day all this has happened, that day suddenly you will find that the One you went elsewhere to seek had been sitting at your door all along. He was watching: “How long will you keep running? When you return, I will place the garland on your neck.” The garland is always ready; the neck is not ready to bow. The neck that bows is the one ready to be cut off, ready to be erased, ready to be broken. That is why I say: samadhi, in one sense, is death—the dying of the “I.”

If, in the feeling of aloneness, you start chanting Ram-Ram, how are you still alone? You have called Ram in for help; you are no longer alone—there are two: you and Ram. If you begin to chant Om, again there are two. In two there is relief; the mind’s habit is of twoness. A little while ago you were humming a film song—then too there were two; now you say Ram-Ram—still two. The work is the same; only the words have changed. The mind’s old habit continues. A moment ago you were thinking about a friend, a loved one; now, instead of that, you think of the form of Ram. The mind’s activity goes on. The mind agrees to this; it says, this is fine. Because nothing has really changed—only the object changed; the subject-matter changed; the mind’s old work continued. Now one lover is thinking of his beloved from head to toe, and a devotee is thinking of his god from head to toe. There is no difference; both minds are doing the same thing. The mind is pleased.

No, when I say, the feeling of aloneness, I mean: do not leave any space for the entry of the other—only then will the mind die. The mind wants the other; the mind wants duality. The mind lives only in duality. If duality goes, the mind goes.

So the mind says, create some kind of duality—make it god-and-devotee, lover-and-beloved, mother-and-child, friend-and-foe; just create duality, and the mind is satisfied. For the mind says, duality is my life. Create any sort of twoness and then the mind will no longer make trouble; it says, all right, I am content. But if you do not create duality at all and you say, I am alone, completely alone; there is no other—no Ram, no god, no one—then the mind begins to writhe. In that aloneness, as the restlessness arises, the mind will run to catch hold of some thought. It will say, how can one be alone? Let me think of something—bring some image, some memory.

No, this restlessness of the mind is the news that the mind is afraid of dying and is arranging for its survival. It wants some support. It cannot live without duality. You can live without duality; your mind cannot. The mind’s existence demands two. Without two the mind cannot be at ease at all. It needs the other in some form. If the two are not there, the mind gets into difficulty.

So when I say, the feeling of being alone—totally alone—this is what I mean: let the tendency toward duality fall. If the mind says, I need two, do not grant it.

And then we have even found respectable dualities. We say, all right, don’t sing the film song—that’s a bad thing—so chant Ram-dhun. But it is the same thing, there is not the slightest difference. Whether you say Ram-Ram or you say Coca-Cola, there is no difference. What the mind says is: keep doing something, keep saying something; anything you say will do—the mind’s work will go on—but don’t stop; produce the other. As long as some other is present, the mind is content. And if one is to enter samadhi, the other has to be removed so that the mind is dissolved. The formula for the death of the mind is: withdraw your inclination from duality; be free of the other. Otherwise, a taste for the other gets established; it makes no real difference what or who the other is.

Therefore when I say aloneness, it means nonduality—there is no other. Do not take the support of any kind of other. There will be trouble, there will be difficulty—let it be. Whenever anything dies there is great difficulty. The mind is ancient—of many births. The body is quite new; it changes each time. The mind is very old—of hundreds of thousands, millions of years. As old as the human race is, so old is the mind. That old mind will make every arrangement to survive; it will resort to its last strategies. And the mind’s last strategies are very clever. If you do not agree, it says, good—on your own terms we agree; by your method! You want to say Ram-Ram? Say Ram-Ram. But say something at least; keep speaking; keep the other in place—then we too will be saved. Thus it establishes the other. The mind cannot live without the other; without the other it dies instantly.

The death of the mind is the door to samadhi.

Therefore let the mind writhe. Say, all right, writhe—but I am alone. And now I will not take the support of the other. The other is only a prop of my imagination.

The greatest power of the mind is that instantly, in whatever form of support you wish, it supplies that very support. At night you dream. If you have remained hungry all day, at night the mind says, come, let us eat—and it shows you the dream of food; it makes you eat in imagination. From this the mind gains a great advantage: your sleep does not break; sleep continues. The dream is a device to save sleep, a safety measure. If there were no dreams, it would be hard for you to sleep, because all that you have left unfulfilled through the day would trouble you through the night. The mind says, come, produce it—fulfill it in imagination.

You have set an alarm to get up at four in the morning. The alarm rings, and the mind says, the temple bell is ringing; ah, worship has begun. It denies the alarm; it says, that is a temple bell—what alarm! And you happily slip into the dream again. The bell rings and then stops; you keep sleeping happily, for what has a temple bell to do with getting up? The mind has invented a trick: it said, do not break the sleep; save the sleep. So it turned the alarm bell into the gong of the temple.

The mind is inventing all the time so that sleep may not be broken. At night it provides dreams so that sleep is saved; in the day it provides fantasies so that sleep is saved. And when you go to break the fantasies, it gives you new fantasies. It says, if the fantasy of a husband does not feel right, then imagine Krishna as your husband—that is very good. If the company of a man does not feel good—no worry—keep the company of God in the mind; construct his form and image; live with him—that is very good. But what is the difference?

Just as it produces dreams at night, the mind produces dreams in the day too. Dreams are devices to protect sleep. There are two kinds of sleep: one is the sleep we go into every night; the other is the sleep in which we have been lying since birth.

If sleep is to be broken, you will have to be alert to the mind’s devices. You will have to understand that you must not feed the mind. The mind hungers for duality.

As I said, all such visions are dreams of the mind. Therefore, as long as visions are happening, understand that the mind is still present and you are not yet out of its whirl. Whoever may appear! One has to be free of visions themselves—only then will you come to know the one to whom the vision was occurring, the seer.

They are all illusions—beautiful illusions, very sweet dreams. If Krishna were to appear playing his flute—what a lovely dream! But remember: sweet dreams are worse than bad ones, because bad dreams, by virtue of being bad, break quickly; sweet dreams, being sweet, you don’t want them to break—you want them to go on and on. You’ve seen: when a pleasant dream comes at night, you want to keep watching it; if someone wakes you in the middle, he feels like an enemy. Somehow the day’s beggary had been wiped away; by night you had become an emperor—why wake me! Another hour as emperor—what harm!

We have a tendency to preserve pleasant dreams. Painful dreams can break quickly; pleasant ones do not. These are all pleasant dreams. And the mind has a power—indeed its only power—to produce dreams: a dream-creating force. Mind means: the faculty that fabricates dreams. It can generate dreams of any kind; and if you proceed methodically, you can produce any sort of dream. We have discovered the “methods.”

If your belly is full, your capacity to dream decreases; if your stomach is empty, it increases. Hence for those who want to get into such visions, fasting is a panacea. Fast for thirty days and your dream-producing capacity becomes intense. If you’ve ever had a fever and had to stop eating and drinking—had to undergo privation—you will know: you begin to see all sorts of things never seen before. Sometimes the cot flies; sometimes you roam the sky; sometimes deities appear; sometimes ghosts and goblins. Everything begins to happen. Why does this happen to a sick person under privation? What is the reason?

As the body’s energy diminishes, the mind’s energy increases; the body’s control over the mind weakens and the mind runs wild. That is why you cannot dream as much in the day as at night: at night the tired body falls, the mind is freed—see whatever you like.

There is an arrangement for dreaming, a system. In that system, fasting is highly effective. Anyone who wants to see such dreams—of gods and goddesses, ghosts and spirits—will benefit greatly by remaining hungry for long periods.

Solitude is also very useful. In a crowd, dreaming is difficult because the presence of others obstructs; in solitude, dreams become easy. So flee to the forest, hide in some cave—there dreams are easy. If you’ve ever stayed alone, you’ll know: if the house is out on the edge of the village and everyone has gone, a leaf rustles and it seems someone has come! The mind’s dream-capacity has sharpened—he hears a footfall in the rustle of a leaf. In the morning you hung your loincloth to dry; at night it looks like someone stands with arms outstretched. You yourself hung it, but it seems someone stands there.

The other’s presence obstructs our dreaming—because what will the other say! The presence of others keeps our intelligence somewhat steady. Hence those who relish dreaming run away from society. Here in Poona it is hard to dream; go to some solitude in the Himalayas—there dreaming is easy.

Stay hungry; go into solitude. Sexual suppression too is a remarkable trick for dream-production. If someone strongly suppresses his sex-energy, his dream-power becomes like a compressed spring that hurls things back with force. Sexually suppressive people dream more; those who have repressed the sex-drive find their nights filled with dreams. Long ago it was understood: if you want to dream “properly,” suppress sex.

And remember: one who suppresses sex ends up with a dream-capacity beyond calculation.

Now, of the people confined in asylums, ninety out of a hundred are mad because of sexual repression. What does madness mean? He dreams so much that he now sees even with open eyes—no need to close them. When you want to dream, you have to shut your eyes; he no longer needs to—he sees with eyes open. Your dream breaks on opening the eyes; his does not.

You will see a madman sitting and chatting with someone who isn’t there; you’ll call him mad. But if a devotee is chatting with God, you’ll touch his feet. Both are in the same state. Yes, a small difference: the madman chatting with “someone” might be dangerous; the devotee chatting with God will not be socially dangerous. That’s the only difference. The first we lock up in an asylum. As for the one talking with God—he isn’t socially dangerous, so we cleverly confine him in another kind of asylum: sit him in a temple, seat him on a platform, hail him, and erect a wall—a distance—between society and him: please don’t come this way, and we won’t go that way. We’ll worship, we’ll offer flowers, but the distance will remain. Temples and such—we have arranged to imprison these “good-quality” madmen. Ashrams and asylums! We even build ashrams outside the village: please, not too much of this within the village. If ever we feel an itch for a little madness, we’ll go there; please don’t you come here. One asylum where we lock the dangerous types.

Madness simply means a person no longer sees things as they are; he begins to see what he wants to see.

If we lock ten devotees in the same room—one a devotee of Jesus will chat with Jesus all night; one a devotee of Krishna will chat with Krishna; one a devotee of Rama will keep seeing bow-bearing Rama. And none of the three will see the other’s god. In the morning there might even be a quarrel: Who says bow-bearing Rama was here! Jesus was here—Rama wasn’t! Krishna was here—who says Jesus was here! They will fight in the morning, because their god appears only to them.

Remember: a dream has one unmistakable quality—it is private. Dreams are always private; they can never be collective. This stick we are looking at—we all see it: that is collective. But if I am seeing a dream, I cannot make you a partner in it. No devotee can make anyone else a partner in his dream; no madman can make anyone else a partner in his madness. All are private. So be a little cautious with what is strictly private; there is a danger—that it may be only a dream, something imagined by us. And we are imagining it.

No, spirituality has nothing to do with seeing gods and goddesses; nor with seeing Rama, Krishna, Buddha. None of that. It has to do with something else entirely: to see that which is seeing everyone—to see the seer, not the seen. Spirituality is not about generating newer and newer “scenes”; it is about bidding all scenes goodbye and seeing the one who has always been seeing.

We are sitting in a cinema; behind is the screen. A film runs upon it—a bad film, a murderer’s story—on the screen. Then a “good” film runs—the life of a saint—still, on the screen. In both cases you are only the watcher and the story runs on the screen—good or bad; drinking or renunciation; but it’s on the screen—the scene grips you.

No: spirituality is not about removing a bad story and replacing it with a good one; it is about removing the story altogether and leaving the screen bare—so that, with nothing left to look at, you turn back to yourself and can see the one who has only ever been seeing, and has never yet recognized: Who am I? Who is this that sees?

No, what is important is not that Rama appears; what is important is: Who is it to whom Rama appears? And if he is to be seen, then even to Rama we will have to fold our hands and say: please pick up your bow and arrows and go; do not obstruct. If Buddha stands in the way, we must say: it has been long enough—now please go. If Jesus insists on remaining on the cross and keeps hanging there, say to him: enough—now take your cross and go. I want to know the one that I am. I am no longer interested in scenes.

But our minds are childish—they only change the scene. So there are people who look at irreligious scenes, and people who look at “religious” scenes—but there is no difference: they remain entangled in the seen. The question is of this revolution: the attention withdraws from the seen and arrives at the seer—the one who is seeing. What will appear there? Rama? Buddha? Mahavira? No—there, only I will appear.

And the wonder is this: the day I know what I am, that day I will know Rama, Buddha, Krishna, Mohammed—all of them. Because what I am—the deepest nature of me—is what they are. You cannot know Rama and Krishna as objects placed before you; you can only know them by experiencing your own seer-nature. Otherwise, you cannot know.

Zarathustra was descending a mountain; his disciples said, Give us a final message, because he was taking leave. He said, Now, disciples, leave me—I am going.

A time must come when a master has the courage to say to his disciples: Please, now leave me; I go. And the disciple must have the courage one day to say to the master: Please, now leave me; I go.

But neither masters nor disciples have such courage; they cling to and bind each other—and drown themselves and drown the other.

Zarathustra said to the disciples: Please turn back now; let me go.

The disciples said, Come a little farther with us.

Zarathustra said, No. And I request this too: forget me. For as long as you remember me, how will you remember yourself?

This Zarathustra must have been a courageous man—to say to someone: forget me, erase me. I am dangerous, he said, because if you hold on to me, when will you recognize yourself? Let me go; you drop me and I drop you.

There was a Zen mystic—Bokuju. He used to tell his friends: Beware of the Buddha!

They would ask: What do you mean?

He would say: Be a little careful about the Buddha. Because when everything else has dropped, then the Buddha will appear—and then you will get stuck in him. Don’t stick anywhere. If you stick anywhere, you are stuck—what does it matter whether the peg is iron or gold? Break the pegs. So he would say: Beware of the Buddha. And if the Buddha comes in the way, give him a little shove aside: Please move from the path; let me reach myself; do not come between me and me.

And the joy is: the day you reach yourself, that day you reach the Buddha, Rama and Krishna as well. Until you remain entangled in scenes, it is not possible.

No: do not dream—not even beautiful dreams. Enough dreams. See the truth. And truth is the one that is seeing; truth is not what is being seen. The seer is true; all visions and scenes are dreams.

Therefore I do not say: worry about gods and goddesses—visualize Kali, adorn her in the mind, stand with folded hands within, and sing her praises. Nothing will happen; there is no meaning, no purpose. And it has gone on too long; for centuries the human mind has been doing this, and has gone nowhere. No—dreams will have to be left; you will have to know yourself.

But this is difficult—because we get lost in dreams. When a film plays, we forget that what is moving on the screen is nothing. A beautiful woman appears and your back leaves the chair and leans forward. You must have seen this in the hall! And what is that beautiful woman on the screen? Nothing—only a play of light and shadow; a trick of more-or-less light. Where a little more light falls, where a little less—and a play is made. Your spine moves; you sit up straight: a beautiful woman has appeared. If someone dies, tears come to your eyes. That is why darkness in the hall is a great accomplice—you can quickly wipe your eyes with a handkerchief and glance sideways to see if anyone saw.

Even if no one saw, you saw. The screen deceived you. A story ran and you laughed, you cried, you were troubled—and there was nothing. Only a bare screen; on it a play of light and shade. At a deeper level, the whole of life too is a screen and this play of light and shade. But there too we are weeping and wailing.

There was a very reflective man—Vidyasagar. He once went to see a play. He was very sattvic, could not bear to see evil—what we would call a saintly man. He sat right in front. The drama unfolded: a character is harassing a woman—he goes on tormenting her. The story reaches its climax: in a forest, in a lonely night, he catches hold of her and wants to violate her. Vidyasagar forgot himself—he leapt onto the stage, took off his shoe and began to beat the man.

The learned are often not very wise. Vidyasagar he was, but great avidya overtook him. The actor showed more intelligence. In truth, if an actor acts well, he becomes very intelligent, because acting means he knows: what I am doing is false, false. Gradually he even begins to see: what I do “outside” is also false. In the film he says: I love you very much—and knows he doesn’t at all. Next day when he says to his wife: I love you very much—he knows again: I don’t; a long acting is going on. That actor proved very wise: he took Vidyasagar’s shoe, touched it to his head and said to the audience: I have never received a greater award in my life. That my acting could seem so real—even to Vidyasagar! I will not return this shoe!

Vidyasagar must have been in great difficulty—how did he get down from the stage, return to his seat, what restlessness he must have felt! In one instant he forgot.

We all forget. A play runs on the screen and it captures us. The scene has gripped us so much that our whole life passes in scenes—dreaming by day, dreaming by night. And we never get a clue to the seer, the one who is seeing. The day we come to know the one who sees, all scenes will be dreams. Not only gods and goddesses—the world spread around us will also be part of a dream. Not only Kali and Rama and Krishna—husband and wife, friend and foe—will all become parts of a grand play around us.

When I was small I used to go watch the Ramleela in my village. I was always intrigued: what happens behind the back curtain, in the green-room? Because everyone comes from there—Rama comes from there and Ravana comes from there—through the same door! I was always anxious: what secret lies behind that door? Rama comes from there, Ravana comes from there; the one who steals Sita comes from there; the one who rescues her comes from there; Sita herself comes from there—and all three go back through there. What happens in that room?

I lifted the back curtain and slipped into the green-room. I was astonished: Rama and Ravana who were waging a great battle on the stage were both sitting there smoking—chatting! I said: this is most astonishing! On the stage they draw their bows, stamp their feet and speak in thunder; here they are smoking! From then on the thought has stayed with me: behind life’s curtain it would be no surprise if Rama and Ravana sit together smoking. Not very surprising. Because on life’s screen too we all come from one place and return to one place; the green-room is the same. Appearances on the screen keep happening, but behind, coming and going is by the same path—we come from the same darkness of birth and return into the same darkness of death. Behind the curtain there is not much difference between Rama and Ravana.

Hence those who know call this world a leela, a play. But it becomes a leela only when we have a little sense of the seer; otherwise the leela itself becomes the truth—the play becomes the truth, the dream becomes the truth.

Have you noticed: in a dream you never realize you are dreaming. How many times have you dreamt in life! Every morning you get up and say, It was a dream. Then at night you sleep and dream again—but in the dream it does not occur to you that what you are seeing is a dream; the dream catches you again. In the morning again you say, It was all a dream. Night comes again and the dream catches you. The grip of dreaming seems very deep—despite a thousand experiences, when a dream comes it seizes you instantly; the dream becomes true.

Remember: when the dream becomes true, you become false—immediately. Only one of two can be true: either the seen, or the seer. When the seen becomes true, the seer becomes false—you don’t even know he is. When the seer returns, the seen becomes false. In the morning when you awaken and look as the seer, you realize: it was a dream, false. At night when you sleep, the seer sleeps, the dream becomes true, the scene becomes reality.

There are only two kinds of people in the world: those for whom the vision, the seen, is true; and those for whom the seer is true. Both cannot be true together; they never have been. Thus when sages say the world is maya, they mean nothing else: it is a dream; it is the seen. And the one who sees is, in depth, the truth—substantial, essential is the one who sees. What is seen is here now and gone now—just formed and in a moment lost. But the one who sees?

At night when I dream, I am still there—otherwise who remembers in the morning? The dream vanishes; I remain. All day long I dream; at night the day’s dream is lost again, and I remain again. As a child I dreamt the dream of childhood; I was. Now I dream the dream of youth; I am. When old, I will dream the dream of old age; I will be. The dream changes—childhood, youth, old age—but the watcher is the same, the same, the same.

One is that which is changing, and one is that unchanging which sees.

Religion, spirituality is the search for the one who sees; the world is the search for what is seen. He who undertakes the search for what is seen goes astray—because the seen is changing every moment; how will you ever grasp it? By the time you get there, all has changed.

A small story, and I will complete my point.

In a village there was a man—very clever, very shrewd. When villagers had problems they would go to him for counsel. He was so careful that even when he locked his door he would return two or three times to shake it to be sure it was locked. One day he went to the barber’s to get a haircut. He had his hair cut, paid a rupee; eight annas were due back. The barber had no change. He pocketed the rupee and said, Come tomorrow to the market and take the remaining eight annas.

The man said, Who knows whether this fellow will still be a barber tomorrow! Times are bad: tomorrow he may write “Sharma” instead of “Verma”—there’s no certainty. Change the name, change the caste, change the shop—everything is changing. Here nothing is certain. Just now a man is chief minister; next moment he is a peon. Just now a peon; the next moment he’s chief minister. Where nothing is fixed, where everything is topsy-turvy—what guarantee that this barber will give me eight annas tomorrow? Let me make an arrangement that will surely identify the place. How long does it take to change a signboard? In a moment it is changed. A man is a Congressman; in a minute he becomes anti-Congress. So the sign can change. He could change his sign and tomorrow there would be confusion—and eight annas lost. This man who shakes the lock three times was no ordinary fellow. He said, Let me arrange something he cannot change. He made an arrangement. A buffalo was sitting in front of the barber’s shop. He said, Fine—what does he know that this buffalo is sitting here? Wherever the buffalo sits tomorrow, I will catch him at once: change what you will…

Next day he came relaxed. The buffalo was indeed sitting somewhere; she was sitting today too. He saw her and said, Good that I tied it to the buffalo. Enough! The signboard has already been changed: yesterday where “Barber” was written, today “Sweets” is written. Yesterday where there was a barber’s shop, today sweets are being sold. He said, This is too much! And good that I kept the buffalo in mind—had I relied on the signboard I would have been trapped. Going inside he grabbed the confectioner by the neck: You’ve gone to extremes! For eight annas you had to change so much! The sweet-seller said, What are you talking about? He said, Don’t try to trick me—I’ve made a sure arrangement. The buffalo is still sitting right outside!

Is there any guarantee that the buffalo will be sitting in the same place?

All our lives we run after scenes. Is there any guarantee the scenes will stay put? Can you see the same dream tonight that you saw last night? Try. However you try, seeing the same one twice is very difficult—exactly the same. The wife you met yesterday—can you meet the same wife again today? You hope so—and that is where trouble begins. The woman of yesterday—where is she today? Much water has flowed in the Ganges. Yesterday she loved you; today she may abuse you. Then the mind is in difficulty: What inconsistency! Yesterday this woman spoke of love; today she abuses me!

You too identified the buffalo and went home. What you grabbed was the changing. The woman will change; the son will change. A mother says to her son: How you have changed since marriage! Till yesterday you rested your head in my lap; now you don’t even look at me! She grabbed the buffalo—and got into difficulty. Now the son rests his head in another woman’s lap—how long could he rest in yours! Clutching the changing, we are in perpetual trouble; and the changing keeps changing—there’s no remedy. And it’s not only that the other is changing; we are changing too. In the realm of the seen, everything is changing; nothing is reliable.

So he who runs after the seen will live in pain and trouble all his life. And it’s not only we who run—the “very wise” run too. Rama himself ran after the golden deer! Even we might think once: does a golden deer even exist? And yet Rama runs when he sees a golden deer. Sita too longs: bring me that golden deer! Do even Ramas run after a golden deer? Does gold have deer? And yet Rama runs.

We too are running. In truth, it is Rama within us who is running. Who will run? Golden deer are appearing; we run and run—who knows for how many aeons we have been running after the seen.

But how long will you go on running? Haven’t you run enough? Has not the time come to know the one who is running? To know the one who is seeing?

If the time has come to know him, then do not create new runs—of gods and goddesses, this and that. No new runs now. Now the running must come to rest. And we must see the one who has always watched all running. Samadhi is his door.

Tonight, only those friends will come for the experiment in samadhi who have been coming these three days, or who have come at least one of the three days, because tonight there is to be one hour of silent discourse—silent communication.

I try to say by words what cannot be said; thus I get into difficulty, and so do you. I say by words what cannot be said at all. You hear by words what cannot be heard by words. Difficulties are natural.

Tonight for an hour I will sit silently among you and try to say something through silence. You just try to listen in silence—do nothing else. Who knows—what cannot be said in words may reach you wordlessly. It can. Words are not the only conduit; in truth, words are no conduit at all. Because we cannot be silent, we have to speak. If only we could be silent, there would be no need of words—what is to be said can be said without saying.

So those friends who come—let no new friend come today; only those who have come at least one day in these past three days. Otherwise that hour will be beyond his understanding—what is happening? Those who come will bathe, put on fresh clothes, and start from home already in silence. Everyone must arrive before eight-thirty, and sit quietly in your place. I will come and sit and remain with you silently for an hour. If in that time anyone feels to come close to me—only if you feel—then quietly get up, come and sit by me for two minutes—no more than two minutes—then get up and return. No one should come because another has come. And if the urge arises, do not refrain out of shyness—simply get up, come, sit, and return. Let us see—perhaps in silence that communion can happen which cannot through words.

I am obliged by the peace and love with which you have listened to my words. And in the end I bow to the Lord seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.