O Upadhyaya, the decision is made, I am thirsty to attain knowledge. Now you have lifted the veil from the secret path and given me the teaching of Mahayana as well. Your servant stands ready for your guidance. Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone. The Master can only indicate the way. The path is one for all, yet the means by which travelers reach the goal will differ. O unconquered heart, what do you choose? The Samten of the Eye-Doctrine, that is, the fourfold Dhyana? Or will you cut your way through the Six Paramitas, those holy gates of virtue that open into Bodhi and Prajna, the seventh step of wisdom? The rugged road of the fourfold Dhyana is mountainous... three times great is the one who surpasses its lofty summits. The summits of the Paramitas are won by a path more arduous still. You must pass through seven gates. These seven are like the citadels of seven fierce and cunning powers, the forts of potent desires. O disciple, be of good cheer, and remember this golden rule. Once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna—Srotapanna, the one who has entered the Stream that flows toward Nirvana—once your feet, in this life or another, have touched the depths of that river of Nirvana, then, O resolute one, only seven births remain for you. Whatever is truly known in this world is never lost. There is no way to lose knowledge. Not only do scriptures preserve it; on deeper, more secret planes, codes and safeguards for knowledge are also formed. Scriptures can be lost; and if truth were only in scriptures, it could not be eternal. Scriptures themselves are momentary. Therefore scriptures are not the living canon. Understand this rightly; only then will Blavatsky’s book of aphorisms become intelligible. Ancient India also knew this. We held that the Veda is not the name of compiled books, not the name of scriptures; rather, Veda is the name of that knowing which becomes preserved in the ether, in the Akasha—which is imprinted into the innermost depths of existence itself. And so it must be. If Buddha speaks and it is only written in books, how long will it last? And if the word of Buddha does not merge into the very breath of existence, then existence has not accepted it. In millions upon millions of years, someone attains Buddhahood. What he knows is the deepest knowing in this world, the mystery, the ultimate experience of existence. The whole of existence holds it in trust. That experience suffuses the depth of every particle, becomes absorbed into it. This is the meaning of saying: the Veda is not written in books; it is written in the sky. Not in words, but when the truth happens in the life-breath of a one like Buddha, simultaneously its resonance spreads through every corner of Akasha. And whenever anyone begins to draw near to Buddhahood, then what the ancient Buddhas knew can echo again within his being, through the sky. Blavatsky’s book is no ordinary book. She did not write it; she heard and saw it. It is not her creation; it is a reflection of the imprint left in Akasha by innumerable Buddhas. Blavatsky said: what I am saying has come to me from the Akashic canon. Thus have I received and known from the Akasha. By Akasha I mean: that which surrounds us on all sides—within and without. That which is in our every breath, without which we cannot be; which was when we were not, and will remain when we are no more. Akasha means the Supreme Existence. Blavatsky said: that very Supreme Existence told me, and that is what I have gathered in this book. She is not the author, only the collector. This is exactly what the seers of the Veda declared: we have heard this Word. We have written it with our hands, yes—but through our hands, Another caused it to be written. Jesus said the same: the voice may be mine, but what is spoken through it belongs to God. Mohammed also said: I heard the Quran; it was a revelation; an inspiration came to me. A mysterious Power called me and said, Read. And with Mohammed the story is especially sweet, because he did not know how to read—he was unlettered. When, for the first time, a voice sounded within: Read—Mohammed said: I am unlettered; how can I read? Nor was there any book before his eyes to read. There was something else before his inner sight, which even the unlettered can read; which Kabir also could read. Something that does not require reading—because it is directly seen. Something unrelated to these eyes; related to some other eye within. Mohammed thought: how can I read with these eyes—I am uneducated. But another eye within could read—and thus the Quran was born. Blavatsky’s The Seven Portals of Samadhi stands in the same dignity as the Veda, the Bible, the Quran; as the words of Mahavira and Buddha. It too was experienced in Akasha. Let us note a few points before we enter the book. First: an ordinary person can write—and sometimes very noble things too. But such things are products of imagination, crafted by thought. They are unrelated to direct experience. An unseeing man can sing a song about light—he has heard about light, understood something about it, but has not seen. However right his words may seem, they cannot be true, because their very root of truth is absent—vision. This book is the word of one with eyes. It is not born of cogitation, fantasy, or any play of mind. Such a voice is born only when the mind has become utterly silent. And the silence of mind has but one meaning: when mind is not. For whenever mind is, it is unrest. Mind is the name of unrest. And whenever we say the mind has become silent, we mean the mind is no more. Only where mind disappears do the mysteries of Akasha begin to unveil. So long as there is mind, we move by our own understanding. When mind is not, the understanding of the Divine begins to manifest through us. Then we are not—or if we are, we are only as an instrument, a medium, a vehicle. As a gust of wind comes to you and pours the fragrance of flowers upon you. The wind only carries the fragrance. So when the mind is gone, you too become a gust of wind. The fragrance of the Infinite, filling you, begins to spread. Riding on you, it can travel far and wide. Such is Blavatsky’s book. Blavatsky is a gust of wind. Some power vast and immeasurably greater possessed her, and that gust carried the fragrance to us. I have chosen this book knowingly. In the last two hundred years there are hardly any works of the stature of the Veda, the Quran, the Bible. Among those rare few is The Seven Portals of Samadhi. I chose it also because Blavatsky has made hardly a slip in reading the canon of Akasha. As precisely as the human world can receive that faraway truth, so precisely has she received it. The reflection is as clear as a reflection can be. This book can become for you an absolute revolution in life. Moreover, it belongs to no religion. That too is why I chose it. It is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. It is a book of pure religion. And religion is here revealed in the most impersonal, non-sectarian way possible. Man searches only for one thing: that a point may come into life where all running ceases; that the moment arrive when desire is exhausted and nothing remains to be attained. For as long as something remains to be attained, there will remain anguish, anxiety, pain, sorrow. As long as there is something to attain, bliss is impossible. Bliss is the name of that moment when one has reached where there is no farther to go. Where no tension of beyond remains, where there is no future, where time is lost, and this very instant—here and now—becomes the whole of existence; all is contained in this moment. The name of that throbbing is bliss; the name of that throbbing is the experience of the Divine—or call it Moksha, or Nirvana. These are differences of words only. If each aphorism of this book is applied with understanding, desire will fall away from life as dust falls away from one who, coming caked with it, bathes and is cleansed; or as a weary traveler rests under the shade of a tree and all fatigue dissolves. So too can something like this happen to you, under the shade of this book, in the bath of this book. But do not try to grasp it by intellect. Try to receive it by the heart. What is the difference? To understand by intellect means: we will think, deliberate—whether this is right or wrong. But if we already knew what is right and what is wrong, there would be no need of this book. We do not know what is right. That is precisely our quest. How can the intellect decide what is right and what is wrong? For decision, prior knowing is needed. If it is already known, there is no need to search; and if we are searching, then we do not know. Hence the intellect is futile here. In such a quest one must descend by the heart. To descend by the heart means: we will not think first about right and wrong. We will do and see. We will experiment. And to experiment means: we will descend with our whole being, wholeheartedly, and find out where this book leads. We will walk with it, travel with it, flow in this river. We will move toward the ocean to which it gives assurance. And I tell you, this river does lead to the ocean. This river can be trusted. But only trust can be offered from your side. The name of that trust is shraddha. The intellect doubts; the heart trusts. If you walk with this book, walk by the heart. And if you use the intellect at all, let it serve only as a helper in walking—strengthening trust, deepening shraddha. And if it seems the intellect breaks shraddha, then leave the intellect aside and walk on. Once you have the experience, then test it with your full intellect; then there is no danger. Our trouble is this: we have no gold, but we do have the touchstone. And we begin to test clay upon it. Clay is clay—and slowly, by rubbing clay upon it, the touchstone itself seems like clay. Gold can be tested on a touchstone only when there is gold. The intellect is a touchstone; but you do not possess the gold—and a touchstone does not produce gold. Remember this. It can only test it. Gold must be there first. From the heart the gold is born—that is the mine. Once the gold is in your hand, test it as much as you like. Our misery is that we have the touchstone, not the gold. We go on testing anything and everything, and everything turns out wrong. Then gradually we conclude that all is false, nothing is true. First the gold of experience is needed; then make full use of the touchstone of reason. So keep this preliminary point in view. In this camp we have gathered to experiment by the heart. We are in search of gold. When gold is found, the touchstone is with us—we will test it. But if the gold is not in hand, we will not waste the touchstone by rubbing it upon every random thing. If we proceed in this spirit, something can happen. Surely the gold can come into your hand, for it is not far. And the mine we seek—if it were somewhere outside, there might be room for doubt—but it is within you. Therefore I say, and I give you my assurance, it can be found; you have never truly lost it. But the first condition is to seek it by the heart; then later assay it by the mind, by reason, use the touchstone—but only when the experience is in your hand. Now I will begin to speak to you on these aphorisms. 'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made, I am thirsty to attain knowledge. Now you have lifted the veil from the secret path and given the teaching of Mahayana as well. Your servant stands ready for your guidance.' The seeker, the aspirant, speaks to his Master: 'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made'... I have decided that I am ready—take me wherever you will. This decision turns the curious into a practitioner. That alone is the difference between an inquirer and a sadhaka. But it is a vast difference—beyond measure. For the inquirer goes on asking, goes on questioning, and reaches nowhere. His hunt is for answers, not resolution. He asks a question so that an answer may be had. One answer is found—and from it ten new questions arise. He sets out to find answers for the ten. Suppose he succeeds—even then ten thousand more questions will arise from those answers. The questioner does not disappear because answers are given; the asker remains within, the very source of questions. We remove the question; the questioner stands inside. As when a branch of a tree is cut and ten new shoots appear, because the root that feeds the branches lies hidden in the earth. The inquirer plucks leaves and lops branches: he discards questions, receives answers—and new questions are produced because the maker of questions is within. The inquirer never attains resolution. From inquirers, philosophy is born. Therefore philosophy reaches no decision. If the decision is not at the beginning, it will not be at the end. And only if it is at the beginning will there be decision at the end. At the end that alone unfolds which was present, concealed, at the beginning. What is in the seed appears in the tree. What is not in the seed cannot appear in the tree. The inquirer asks, gets answers, but not solution. For solution one must change oneself. When this inquirer says 'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made'... he is saying: now I am ready to become a practitioner. Now I do not merely want to ask; now I do not merely want answers. I want to change myself; I want resolution. And resolution belongs to the one who attains Samadhi. The solution is his who resolves the inner dualities and brings such a moment within that no question arises. Only then does the real answer become available. 'It is decided, and I am thirsty to attain knowledge.' We too say we are thirsty for knowledge. But if someone says, Here is the lake—walk ten steps—are we ready to walk even ten steps? Then it is clear that the thirst is false. For the thirsty is ready to walk ten thousand steps. Thirst means: if water is not found now, I will die. What does thirst mean? It means life is at stake—either water or death. Either I find the lake, the source—or I perish, my breath chokes, each moment is hard to live. We also say we are thirsty for truth; but if we are not ready to walk even ten steps, our thirst is revealed. It is not thirst—we have not understood the word. We should say: we too have a desire for philosophy, for truth, for religion, for God—not thirst. By desire I mean: a want for what is not essential. If it is granted, there will be joy; if not, we are not troubled. Our life is not imperiled by its absence. If it is attained, we will be pleased, because our ego will gain one more support—now I have attained truth, now God is in my fist, now liberation too is my acquisition. Even that becomes a desire for luxury. Thirst means life is on the line. 'I am thirsty to attain knowledge. You have removed the veil from the secret path and given me the teaching of that supreme vehicle, Mahayana'... you have shown me what the truth is, what the path is. Now I am ready to walk—now take me as well, lead me that way. 'Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone.' The Master said: 'Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone. The Master can only indicate the way. The path is one for all, yet the means by which travelers reach the goal will differ.' The Master said: blessed are your dedication and decision. Your resolve is welcome, worthy of greeting. But prepare—this journey is alone. No other can walk with you. There is no way to take another along. This is not a road for crowds, not a way for friends and companions. Here one goes alone. Meditation is like death. At death you go alone—you cannot then say, Let someone come with me. All companions belong to life; at death there is no companion. And meditation is a kind of death. Here too, you go alone. It might even be that someone agrees to die with you, to commit suicide by your side—though even in death, companionship is only apparent in life; at the moment of death both will be utterly alone. All companions belong to the body; with the body gone, no companionship remains. Yet it may happen that two persons agree to die together—two lovers leap into Niagara together; it has happened. But even this is not possible in meditation—that two should leap together. For meditation has even less to do with the body. Death has some relation to body; meditation is a purely inner journey. Meditation begins precisely where the body ends. At the boundary of the body, the journey of meditation begins. There, no companion is. Therefore the Master said: prepare, for you will have to travel alone. And what is preparation? The readiness to be alone—this is the preparation. We are deeply afraid of aloneness. From this fear we have built so much family, world, arrangement. The fear of being alone is great. We fear death because it will make us alone. Perhaps that is why we long for meditation and fear it as well. Deep within, there is a fear that becomes the obstacle, because meditation too will make us alone. The fear of aloneness is our barrier to God. And we even speak of God so that, when none is with us, at least God will be there. We seek even Him as a companion. That is why, when we are alone, in darkness, lost in a forest, we remember God. That remembrance too is an effort to escape aloneness. Even there we imagine an Other: someone is with me. If no one else, at least God. But we want a companion. So long as we want a companion, none with God is possible. Only one who is ready to be utterly alone moves toward Him. The Master said: prepare, for you will have to travel alone. And the Master can only indicate the way. I can show it, he said: here is the path; but I cannot walk with you. I can point: here is the way; but I cannot drag you upon it. No coercion is possible in the world of truth. No pushing is possible. None can be pulled onto that journey. The path is one for all; yet because each person is different, each one’s means upon that one path will be different. One walks on foot, one runs, one takes an ox-cart, another finds some other means. The road is one; but everyone’s means will differ. 'O unconquered heart, what do you choose?...' What means will you choose? What will be your provision for that way? What will you choose? How will you walk? 'Will you choose the Samten of the Eye-Doctrine, namely the fourfold Dhyana; or will you make your way through the Six Paramitas...' Two ways are clearly divided. One is the way of meditation—pure meditation. The other is the way of the Paramitas—of the good, of discipline, of Dharma. The way of meditation means: a direct effort to dissolve one’s mind—straightforward. The way of the Paramitas means: to purify the mind slowly, gradually. It will dissolve, but after becoming wholly pure. Meditation is a leap. The mind is impure—yet from that very impure mind one can leap directly into meditation. The Paramitas mean: first purify this mind—refine it, strengthen it, make it luminous—and when it becomes perfectly pure, then take the leap, then jump. So the Master asks: what will you choose? Will you choose Dhyana? Or will you choose Shila—conduct? '...the holy gates of virtue that open into Bodhi and Prajna, the seventh step of wisdom?' These are the two ways. 'Rugged is the road of the fourfold Dhyana...' Steep is the ascent of meditation, arduous, mountainous. 'Three times great is he who attains its highest peak.' It is not enough to say once: great. The Master says: 'Three times great is he who attains its highest peak.' Meditation means: just as we are, so the leap. As we are, without first changing anything outside—character may be bad, there may be no discipline, no virtues—without concern for any of that—let anything be outside. There may be sin, the burden of karma—just as we are, from right here there is a straight ascent to that mountain. We can leap directly. Why? Because meditation holds this foremost: that what we call the outer world is no more than a dream. This is its primary principle: what we call the outside is but dreamlike. One man dreams he is a thief, a sinner, a murderer; another man dreams he is a saint, a mahatma, a virtuous one. Meditation says: what difference does it make what you are dreaming—whether of being a thief or a saint—both are dreams. And what you must do to awaken from the dream of being a thief is exactly what is needed to awaken from the dream of being a saint. You can awaken now. Do not first worry: I will change the thief-dream into a saint-dream, and then I will awaken. Meditation says: there is no need to be entangled in this. If both are dreams, then you can awaken from either. Every dream can lead to awakening. Dreams are not good or bad. Hence meditators have called the world maya—dreamlike. Understand this: if it becomes clear that all is dream, then to try to change a dream while still dreaming is futile. Then the right effort is to wake up. Thus the Master said: three times great is he who reaches its high peak. But do not think from this that the way of conduct is easy—that the Paramitas are easy. The way of meditation is difficult. That does not mean the other is simple. It too is difficult. If awakening from a dream is difficult, changing one dream into another is not easier. In truth it may often appear simpler to wake up than to change a dream. You have awakened many times from dreams—but can you change a dream while dreaming? Have you ever tried: a dream is running that I am a thief; I will change it now and be a saint? You will find that even harder. Better, then, to set an alarm and wake up. Better to use some device and break the sleep, rather than to change the dream. And if someone can change the dream, what obstacle remains for him to awaken? For changing a dream means you are awake within—recognizing it as a dream, seeing it as bad, and now changing it into a good one. One so capable of wakefulness will simply awaken—why change the dream? So do not think the other way is simple. 'But the summits of the Paramitas are won by a path more arduous still. You must pass through seven gates. These seven are like the forts of seven cruel and cunning powers, the strongholds of lustful cravings.' Spirituality has one inescapable feature: whatever is there is difficult. There is nothing easy. Those who say it is easy are tempting you—perhaps for your own good—but still a lure. Nothing is easy there. This does not mean spirituality is complicated in itself. It means you are so complicated, so entangled, that going toward spirituality seems complicated to you. Those who reach, feel the world was complicated and the spirit simple. Those in the world feel spirituality is complicated. You are expert at weaving entanglements. You spin such a net around yourself—perhaps to trap another—and are caught yourself. The habit is so deep that even when you think: How to escape this net?—you weave a new net. Weaving is your habit—so spirituality also becomes a net. People renounce the world, become sannyasins, and then weave a net of sannyas. Sannyas means: I am weary of weaving nets; I will weave no more. Better to stand in the old net and not weave a new one. Stop weaving. Nets do not bind you—the habit of weaving does. You go on weaving around yourself, whatever the pretext. That is the difficulty. 'O disciple, be of good cheer and remember this golden rule. Once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna—Srotapanna, the one who has entered the stream that flows toward Nirvana—and once, in this life or another, your feet have touched the depths of that river, then, O resolute one, only seven births remain.' 'Srotapanna' is a very significant word. And the Master says: O disciple, be glad, and remember this golden rule: once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna, only seven births remain for you. Srotapanna means: one who has entered the stream. One enters the stream through decision. When someone decides: come what may, I will enter the mystery of life; I will pay any price; I will not postpone. Even if I must lose everything—even myself—I am ready for this leap. With this decision one enters the current, becomes Srotapanna. After such decision the Master says: no more than seven births remain. It seems a severe measure. How many births remain for you? For even after decision, the Master says: at most seven births remain. 'Be glad...' Be glad, for you have become a Srotapanna; at most you will fall into turmoil seven times more. After decision, at most seven times. And without decision? Without decision, no number can be given—how many upheavals may befall us. We will fall into turmoil again and again without end. We stand on the bank and talk of the ocean. We do not move an inch from the shore, and yet we wish to reach the ocean. The river is flowing into the ocean; no special journey is needed to reach the ocean—only to abandon oneself to the river; it will take you. This relinquishing of oneself into the river is decision. It will sound paradoxical, for ordinarily our decisions are of the ego. One says: I will build a house—come what may. Another says: I will marry this person—at any cost. Another: I will attain that office—whatever happens. These decisions bind us to the shore, to the earth. There is another decision—not of the I—but of surrender: I have made many decisions and achieved many stations, and found nothing. I sought much wealth and grasped dust. I made many relationships and wove only nets and hell. I have searched everywhere and my thirst is not quenched. I have run in all directions and that goal is nowhere in sight. I have done all I could. Now I drop myself and immerse my decision into the current of existence. I make but one resolve: I will flow with this existence, in this river. I leave myself in the stream of life. Wherever this current leads, I will trust. The name of this trust is shraddha: wherever the river goes. If it flows east, I go east; if west, I go west. And if, in the middle, doubt arises—just now it flowed east, now it turns and flows west—even then I will trust. East or west, the river goes to the ocean. However winding and serpentine the course, the river is going to the sea. With this river I abandon myself. Buddha used the word 'Srotapanna'. One who has decided to let go. Therefore those who came to Buddha made a threefold declaration: I go for refuge to Buddha; I go for refuge to Dharma; I go for refuge to Sangha. This was their proclamation of entering the river. Buddha is the name of that river; Sangha too is the name of that river; Dharma also. They decide: I leave myself... now I will flow in existence. I will no longer create obstructions by my ego. And if ever it seems the river is going wrong, I will understand that I am going wrong. After such decision, only seven births remain. Very few, for otherwise the possibilities are endless. Let this feeling of being Srotapanna sink deep in your mind. For tomorrow morning we will desire to jump into that river. If you save yourself, you will remain standing on the shore. And there are a thousand tricks to save oneself. We are so clever at saving ourselves—and we find such rational pretexts—that it looks as if we are doing the right thing by saving ourselves. The one who seems to have jumped and is flowing looks to us a fool—he may drown. We, sitting on the bank, are already drowned—and found nothing there. Yet to jump into the river seems frightening—unknown, unfamiliar. Then the one who jumps appears careless, lacking understanding. We are the 'understanding' ones. Keep that shore-wisdom on the shore. To jump into the river needs the capacity for adventure, for audacity: come what may—the shore I have seen, examined, enough—now I will test and see the river. If such courage to leap arises in your heart, these eight days this river can carry you very far. This is my assurance: it can carry you far indeed. But one who stands on the shore—the river is powerless; it can do nothing. And some even jump into the river, but begin to swim upstream—against the current, upward, in opposition to the river—then the river cannot take them to the ocean. And such people, fighting the river, may uselessly be broken, exhausted, and distressed. My arrangement of meditation is such: you are not to swim, but to float. It is a current. Do not go even a little against it—cooperate with it. Even if it takes you into death, be willing. And if you are willing even to go into death, you will surely attain the deathless nectar.
Osho's Commentary
Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone. The Master can only indicate the way. The path is one for all, yet the means by which travelers reach the goal will differ.
O unconquered heart, what do you choose? The Samten of the Eye-Doctrine, that is, the fourfold Dhyana? Or will you cut your way through the Six Paramitas, those holy gates of virtue that open into Bodhi and Prajna, the seventh step of wisdom?
The rugged road of the fourfold Dhyana is mountainous... three times great is the one who surpasses its lofty summits.
The summits of the Paramitas are won by a path more arduous still. You must pass through seven gates. These seven are like the citadels of seven fierce and cunning powers, the forts of potent desires.
O disciple, be of good cheer, and remember this golden rule. Once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna—Srotapanna, the one who has entered the Stream that flows toward Nirvana—once your feet, in this life or another, have touched the depths of that river of Nirvana, then, O resolute one, only seven births remain for you.
Whatever is truly known in this world is never lost.
There is no way to lose knowledge. Not only do scriptures preserve it; on deeper, more secret planes, codes and safeguards for knowledge are also formed. Scriptures can be lost; and if truth were only in scriptures, it could not be eternal. Scriptures themselves are momentary. Therefore scriptures are not the living canon. Understand this rightly; only then will Blavatsky’s book of aphorisms become intelligible.
Ancient India also knew this. We held that the Veda is not the name of compiled books, not the name of scriptures; rather, Veda is the name of that knowing which becomes preserved in the ether, in the Akasha—which is imprinted into the innermost depths of existence itself. And so it must be. If Buddha speaks and it is only written in books, how long will it last? And if the word of Buddha does not merge into the very breath of existence, then existence has not accepted it.
In millions upon millions of years, someone attains Buddhahood. What he knows is the deepest knowing in this world, the mystery, the ultimate experience of existence. The whole of existence holds it in trust. That experience suffuses the depth of every particle, becomes absorbed into it. This is the meaning of saying: the Veda is not written in books; it is written in the sky. Not in words, but when the truth happens in the life-breath of a one like Buddha, simultaneously its resonance spreads through every corner of Akasha. And whenever anyone begins to draw near to Buddhahood, then what the ancient Buddhas knew can echo again within his being, through the sky.
Blavatsky’s book is no ordinary book. She did not write it; she heard and saw it. It is not her creation; it is a reflection of the imprint left in Akasha by innumerable Buddhas. Blavatsky said: what I am saying has come to me from the Akashic canon. Thus have I received and known from the Akasha.
By Akasha I mean: that which surrounds us on all sides—within and without. That which is in our every breath, without which we cannot be; which was when we were not, and will remain when we are no more. Akasha means the Supreme Existence. Blavatsky said: that very Supreme Existence told me, and that is what I have gathered in this book. She is not the author, only the collector.
This is exactly what the seers of the Veda declared: we have heard this Word. We have written it with our hands, yes—but through our hands, Another caused it to be written. Jesus said the same: the voice may be mine, but what is spoken through it belongs to God. Mohammed also said: I heard the Quran; it was a revelation; an inspiration came to me. A mysterious Power called me and said, Read.
And with Mohammed the story is especially sweet, because he did not know how to read—he was unlettered. When, for the first time, a voice sounded within: Read—Mohammed said: I am unlettered; how can I read? Nor was there any book before his eyes to read. There was something else before his inner sight, which even the unlettered can read; which Kabir also could read. Something that does not require reading—because it is directly seen. Something unrelated to these eyes; related to some other eye within. Mohammed thought: how can I read with these eyes—I am uneducated. But another eye within could read—and thus the Quran was born.
Blavatsky’s The Seven Portals of Samadhi stands in the same dignity as the Veda, the Bible, the Quran; as the words of Mahavira and Buddha. It too was experienced in Akasha. Let us note a few points before we enter the book.
First: an ordinary person can write—and sometimes very noble things too. But such things are products of imagination, crafted by thought. They are unrelated to direct experience. An unseeing man can sing a song about light—he has heard about light, understood something about it, but has not seen. However right his words may seem, they cannot be true, because their very root of truth is absent—vision.
This book is the word of one with eyes. It is not born of cogitation, fantasy, or any play of mind. Such a voice is born only when the mind has become utterly silent. And the silence of mind has but one meaning: when mind is not. For whenever mind is, it is unrest.
Mind is the name of unrest.
And whenever we say the mind has become silent, we mean the mind is no more. Only where mind disappears do the mysteries of Akasha begin to unveil.
So long as there is mind, we move by our own understanding. When mind is not, the understanding of the Divine begins to manifest through us. Then we are not—or if we are, we are only as an instrument, a medium, a vehicle. As a gust of wind comes to you and pours the fragrance of flowers upon you. The wind only carries the fragrance. So when the mind is gone, you too become a gust of wind. The fragrance of the Infinite, filling you, begins to spread. Riding on you, it can travel far and wide.
Such is Blavatsky’s book. Blavatsky is a gust of wind. Some power vast and immeasurably greater possessed her, and that gust carried the fragrance to us.
I have chosen this book knowingly. In the last two hundred years there are hardly any works of the stature of the Veda, the Quran, the Bible. Among those rare few is The Seven Portals of Samadhi. I chose it also because Blavatsky has made hardly a slip in reading the canon of Akasha. As precisely as the human world can receive that faraway truth, so precisely has she received it. The reflection is as clear as a reflection can be. This book can become for you an absolute revolution in life. Moreover, it belongs to no religion. That too is why I chose it. It is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. It is a book of pure religion. And religion is here revealed in the most impersonal, non-sectarian way possible.
Man searches only for one thing: that a point may come into life where all running ceases; that the moment arrive when desire is exhausted and nothing remains to be attained. For as long as something remains to be attained, there will remain anguish, anxiety, pain, sorrow. As long as there is something to attain, bliss is impossible.
Bliss is the name of that moment when one has reached where there is no farther to go. Where no tension of beyond remains, where there is no future, where time is lost, and this very instant—here and now—becomes the whole of existence; all is contained in this moment. The name of that throbbing is bliss; the name of that throbbing is the experience of the Divine—or call it Moksha, or Nirvana. These are differences of words only.
If each aphorism of this book is applied with understanding, desire will fall away from life as dust falls away from one who, coming caked with it, bathes and is cleansed; or as a weary traveler rests under the shade of a tree and all fatigue dissolves. So too can something like this happen to you, under the shade of this book, in the bath of this book. But do not try to grasp it by intellect. Try to receive it by the heart. What is the difference?
To understand by intellect means: we will think, deliberate—whether this is right or wrong. But if we already knew what is right and what is wrong, there would be no need of this book. We do not know what is right. That is precisely our quest. How can the intellect decide what is right and what is wrong? For decision, prior knowing is needed. If it is already known, there is no need to search; and if we are searching, then we do not know. Hence the intellect is futile here. In such a quest one must descend by the heart.
To descend by the heart means: we will not think first about right and wrong. We will do and see. We will experiment. And to experiment means: we will descend with our whole being, wholeheartedly, and find out where this book leads. We will walk with it, travel with it, flow in this river. We will move toward the ocean to which it gives assurance. And I tell you, this river does lead to the ocean. This river can be trusted. But only trust can be offered from your side. The name of that trust is shraddha.
The intellect doubts; the heart trusts.
If you walk with this book, walk by the heart. And if you use the intellect at all, let it serve only as a helper in walking—strengthening trust, deepening shraddha. And if it seems the intellect breaks shraddha, then leave the intellect aside and walk on. Once you have the experience, then test it with your full intellect; then there is no danger.
Our trouble is this: we have no gold, but we do have the touchstone. And we begin to test clay upon it. Clay is clay—and slowly, by rubbing clay upon it, the touchstone itself seems like clay. Gold can be tested on a touchstone only when there is gold.
The intellect is a touchstone; but you do not possess the gold—and a touchstone does not produce gold. Remember this. It can only test it. Gold must be there first.
From the heart the gold is born—that is the mine. Once the gold is in your hand, test it as much as you like. Our misery is that we have the touchstone, not the gold. We go on testing anything and everything, and everything turns out wrong. Then gradually we conclude that all is false, nothing is true. First the gold of experience is needed; then make full use of the touchstone of reason. So keep this preliminary point in view.
In this camp we have gathered to experiment by the heart. We are in search of gold. When gold is found, the touchstone is with us—we will test it. But if the gold is not in hand, we will not waste the touchstone by rubbing it upon every random thing. If we proceed in this spirit, something can happen. Surely the gold can come into your hand, for it is not far. And the mine we seek—if it were somewhere outside, there might be room for doubt—but it is within you. Therefore I say, and I give you my assurance, it can be found; you have never truly lost it. But the first condition is to seek it by the heart; then later assay it by the mind, by reason, use the touchstone—but only when the experience is in your hand.
Now I will begin to speak to you on these aphorisms.
'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made, I am thirsty to attain knowledge. Now you have lifted the veil from the secret path and given the teaching of Mahayana as well. Your servant stands ready for your guidance.'
The seeker, the aspirant, speaks to his Master: 'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made'... I have decided that I am ready—take me wherever you will. This decision turns the curious into a practitioner. That alone is the difference between an inquirer and a sadhaka. But it is a vast difference—beyond measure. For the inquirer goes on asking, goes on questioning, and reaches nowhere. His hunt is for answers, not resolution. He asks a question so that an answer may be had. One answer is found—and from it ten new questions arise. He sets out to find answers for the ten. Suppose he succeeds—even then ten thousand more questions will arise from those answers. The questioner does not disappear because answers are given; the asker remains within, the very source of questions. We remove the question; the questioner stands inside.
As when a branch of a tree is cut and ten new shoots appear, because the root that feeds the branches lies hidden in the earth. The inquirer plucks leaves and lops branches: he discards questions, receives answers—and new questions are produced because the maker of questions is within.
The inquirer never attains resolution.
From inquirers, philosophy is born. Therefore philosophy reaches no decision.
If the decision is not at the beginning, it will not be at the end. And only if it is at the beginning will there be decision at the end. At the end that alone unfolds which was present, concealed, at the beginning. What is in the seed appears in the tree. What is not in the seed cannot appear in the tree.
The inquirer asks, gets answers, but not solution. For solution one must change oneself.
When this inquirer says 'O Upadhyaya, the decision is made'... he is saying: now I am ready to become a practitioner. Now I do not merely want to ask; now I do not merely want answers. I want to change myself; I want resolution.
And resolution belongs to the one who attains Samadhi.
The solution is his who resolves the inner dualities and brings such a moment within that no question arises. Only then does the real answer become available.
'It is decided, and I am thirsty to attain knowledge.'
We too say we are thirsty for knowledge. But if someone says, Here is the lake—walk ten steps—are we ready to walk even ten steps? Then it is clear that the thirst is false. For the thirsty is ready to walk ten thousand steps. Thirst means: if water is not found now, I will die. What does thirst mean? It means life is at stake—either water or death. Either I find the lake, the source—or I perish, my breath chokes, each moment is hard to live.
We also say we are thirsty for truth; but if we are not ready to walk even ten steps, our thirst is revealed. It is not thirst—we have not understood the word. We should say: we too have a desire for philosophy, for truth, for religion, for God—not thirst.
By desire I mean: a want for what is not essential. If it is granted, there will be joy; if not, we are not troubled. Our life is not imperiled by its absence. If it is attained, we will be pleased, because our ego will gain one more support—now I have attained truth, now God is in my fist, now liberation too is my acquisition. Even that becomes a desire for luxury.
Thirst means life is on the line.
'I am thirsty to attain knowledge. You have removed the veil from the secret path and given me the teaching of that supreme vehicle, Mahayana'... you have shown me what the truth is, what the path is. Now I am ready to walk—now take me as well, lead me that way.
'Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone.'
The Master said: 'Blessed is this, O Shravaka; make ready, for you will have to travel alone. The Master can only indicate the way. The path is one for all, yet the means by which travelers reach the goal will differ.'
The Master said: blessed are your dedication and decision. Your resolve is welcome, worthy of greeting. But prepare—this journey is alone. No other can walk with you. There is no way to take another along. This is not a road for crowds, not a way for friends and companions. Here one goes alone.
Meditation is like death.
At death you go alone—you cannot then say, Let someone come with me. All companions belong to life; at death there is no companion. And meditation is a kind of death. Here too, you go alone. It might even be that someone agrees to die with you, to commit suicide by your side—though even in death, companionship is only apparent in life; at the moment of death both will be utterly alone. All companions belong to the body; with the body gone, no companionship remains.
Yet it may happen that two persons agree to die together—two lovers leap into Niagara together; it has happened. But even this is not possible in meditation—that two should leap together. For meditation has even less to do with the body. Death has some relation to body; meditation is a purely inner journey. Meditation begins precisely where the body ends. At the boundary of the body, the journey of meditation begins. There, no companion is.
Therefore the Master said: prepare, for you will have to travel alone. And what is preparation? The readiness to be alone—this is the preparation. We are deeply afraid of aloneness. From this fear we have built so much family, world, arrangement. The fear of being alone is great. We fear death because it will make us alone. Perhaps that is why we long for meditation and fear it as well. Deep within, there is a fear that becomes the obstacle, because meditation too will make us alone.
The fear of aloneness is our barrier to God. And we even speak of God so that, when none is with us, at least God will be there. We seek even Him as a companion. That is why, when we are alone, in darkness, lost in a forest, we remember God. That remembrance too is an effort to escape aloneness. Even there we imagine an Other: someone is with me. If no one else, at least God. But we want a companion. So long as we want a companion, none with God is possible. Only one who is ready to be utterly alone moves toward Him.
The Master said: prepare, for you will have to travel alone. And the Master can only indicate the way. I can show it, he said: here is the path; but I cannot walk with you. I can point: here is the way; but I cannot drag you upon it. No coercion is possible in the world of truth. No pushing is possible. None can be pulled onto that journey. The path is one for all; yet because each person is different, each one’s means upon that one path will be different. One walks on foot, one runs, one takes an ox-cart, another finds some other means. The road is one; but everyone’s means will differ.
'O unconquered heart, what do you choose?...'
What means will you choose? What will be your provision for that way? What will you choose? How will you walk?
'Will you choose the Samten of the Eye-Doctrine, namely the fourfold Dhyana; or will you make your way through the Six Paramitas...'
Two ways are clearly divided. One is the way of meditation—pure meditation. The other is the way of the Paramitas—of the good, of discipline, of Dharma.
The way of meditation means: a direct effort to dissolve one’s mind—straightforward.
The way of the Paramitas means: to purify the mind slowly, gradually. It will dissolve, but after becoming wholly pure.
Meditation is a leap. The mind is impure—yet from that very impure mind one can leap directly into meditation. The Paramitas mean: first purify this mind—refine it, strengthen it, make it luminous—and when it becomes perfectly pure, then take the leap, then jump.
So the Master asks: what will you choose? Will you choose Dhyana? Or will you choose Shila—conduct?
'...the holy gates of virtue that open into Bodhi and Prajna, the seventh step of wisdom?'
These are the two ways.
'Rugged is the road of the fourfold Dhyana...'
Steep is the ascent of meditation, arduous, mountainous.
'Three times great is he who attains its highest peak.'
It is not enough to say once: great. The Master says: 'Three times great is he who attains its highest peak.'
Meditation means: just as we are, so the leap. As we are, without first changing anything outside—character may be bad, there may be no discipline, no virtues—without concern for any of that—let anything be outside. There may be sin, the burden of karma—just as we are, from right here there is a straight ascent to that mountain. We can leap directly.
Why?
Because meditation holds this foremost: that what we call the outer world is no more than a dream. This is its primary principle: what we call the outside is but dreamlike.
One man dreams he is a thief, a sinner, a murderer; another man dreams he is a saint, a mahatma, a virtuous one. Meditation says: what difference does it make what you are dreaming—whether of being a thief or a saint—both are dreams.
And what you must do to awaken from the dream of being a thief is exactly what is needed to awaken from the dream of being a saint. You can awaken now. Do not first worry: I will change the thief-dream into a saint-dream, and then I will awaken.
Meditation says: there is no need to be entangled in this. If both are dreams, then you can awaken from either. Every dream can lead to awakening. Dreams are not good or bad.
Hence meditators have called the world maya—dreamlike. Understand this: if it becomes clear that all is dream, then to try to change a dream while still dreaming is futile. Then the right effort is to wake up. Thus the Master said: three times great is he who reaches its high peak.
But do not think from this that the way of conduct is easy—that the Paramitas are easy. The way of meditation is difficult. That does not mean the other is simple. It too is difficult. If awakening from a dream is difficult, changing one dream into another is not easier. In truth it may often appear simpler to wake up than to change a dream. You have awakened many times from dreams—but can you change a dream while dreaming? Have you ever tried: a dream is running that I am a thief; I will change it now and be a saint? You will find that even harder.
Better, then, to set an alarm and wake up. Better to use some device and break the sleep, rather than to change the dream.
And if someone can change the dream, what obstacle remains for him to awaken? For changing a dream means you are awake within—recognizing it as a dream, seeing it as bad, and now changing it into a good one. One so capable of wakefulness will simply awaken—why change the dream? So do not think the other way is simple.
'But the summits of the Paramitas are won by a path more arduous still. You must pass through seven gates. These seven are like the forts of seven cruel and cunning powers, the strongholds of lustful cravings.'
Spirituality has one inescapable feature: whatever is there is difficult. There is nothing easy. Those who say it is easy are tempting you—perhaps for your own good—but still a lure. Nothing is easy there.
This does not mean spirituality is complicated in itself. It means you are so complicated, so entangled, that going toward spirituality seems complicated to you.
Those who reach, feel the world was complicated and the spirit simple. Those in the world feel spirituality is complicated.
You are expert at weaving entanglements. You spin such a net around yourself—perhaps to trap another—and are caught yourself. The habit is so deep that even when you think: How to escape this net?—you weave a new net. Weaving is your habit—so spirituality also becomes a net. People renounce the world, become sannyasins, and then weave a net of sannyas.
Sannyas means: I am weary of weaving nets; I will weave no more. Better to stand in the old net and not weave a new one. Stop weaving. Nets do not bind you—the habit of weaving does. You go on weaving around yourself, whatever the pretext. That is the difficulty.
'O disciple, be of good cheer and remember this golden rule. Once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna—Srotapanna, the one who has entered the stream that flows toward Nirvana—and once, in this life or another, your feet have touched the depths of that river, then, O resolute one, only seven births remain.'
'Srotapanna' is a very significant word.
And the Master says: O disciple, be glad, and remember this golden rule: once you have crossed the gate of Srotapanna, only seven births remain for you.
Srotapanna means: one who has entered the stream.
One enters the stream through decision. When someone decides: come what may, I will enter the mystery of life; I will pay any price; I will not postpone. Even if I must lose everything—even myself—I am ready for this leap. With this decision one enters the current, becomes Srotapanna.
After such decision the Master says: no more than seven births remain.
It seems a severe measure. How many births remain for you? For even after decision, the Master says: at most seven births remain.
'Be glad...'
Be glad, for you have become a Srotapanna; at most you will fall into turmoil seven times more. After decision, at most seven times. And without decision? Without decision, no number can be given—how many upheavals may befall us. We will fall into turmoil again and again without end. We stand on the bank and talk of the ocean. We do not move an inch from the shore, and yet we wish to reach the ocean. The river is flowing into the ocean; no special journey is needed to reach the ocean—only to abandon oneself to the river; it will take you.
This relinquishing of oneself into the river is decision. It will sound paradoxical, for ordinarily our decisions are of the ego. One says: I will build a house—come what may. Another says: I will marry this person—at any cost. Another: I will attain that office—whatever happens. These decisions bind us to the shore, to the earth.
There is another decision—not of the I—but of surrender: I have made many decisions and achieved many stations, and found nothing. I sought much wealth and grasped dust. I made many relationships and wove only nets and hell. I have searched everywhere and my thirst is not quenched. I have run in all directions and that goal is nowhere in sight. I have done all I could. Now I drop myself and immerse my decision into the current of existence. I make but one resolve: I will flow with this existence, in this river. I leave myself in the stream of life. Wherever this current leads, I will trust.
The name of this trust is shraddha: wherever the river goes. If it flows east, I go east; if west, I go west. And if, in the middle, doubt arises—just now it flowed east, now it turns and flows west—even then I will trust. East or west, the river goes to the ocean. However winding and serpentine the course, the river is going to the sea. With this river I abandon myself.
Buddha used the word 'Srotapanna'. One who has decided to let go. Therefore those who came to Buddha made a threefold declaration: I go for refuge to Buddha; I go for refuge to Dharma; I go for refuge to Sangha. This was their proclamation of entering the river. Buddha is the name of that river; Sangha too is the name of that river; Dharma also. They decide: I leave myself... now I will flow in existence. I will no longer create obstructions by my ego. And if ever it seems the river is going wrong, I will understand that I am going wrong. After such decision, only seven births remain. Very few, for otherwise the possibilities are endless.
Let this feeling of being Srotapanna sink deep in your mind. For tomorrow morning we will desire to jump into that river. If you save yourself, you will remain standing on the shore. And there are a thousand tricks to save oneself. We are so clever at saving ourselves—and we find such rational pretexts—that it looks as if we are doing the right thing by saving ourselves. The one who seems to have jumped and is flowing looks to us a fool—he may drown. We, sitting on the bank, are already drowned—and found nothing there. Yet to jump into the river seems frightening—unknown, unfamiliar. Then the one who jumps appears careless, lacking understanding. We are the 'understanding' ones. Keep that shore-wisdom on the shore. To jump into the river needs the capacity for adventure, for audacity: come what may—the shore I have seen, examined, enough—now I will test and see the river.
If such courage to leap arises in your heart, these eight days this river can carry you very far. This is my assurance: it can carry you far indeed.
But one who stands on the shore—the river is powerless; it can do nothing. And some even jump into the river, but begin to swim upstream—against the current, upward, in opposition to the river—then the river cannot take them to the ocean. And such people, fighting the river, may uselessly be broken, exhausted, and distressed.
My arrangement of meditation is such: you are not to swim, but to float. It is a current. Do not go even a little against it—cooperate with it. Even if it takes you into death, be willing. And if you are willing even to go into death, you will surely attain the deathless nectar.