Look, O aspirant of divine wisdom, what is it that you see before your eyes? A veil of darkness lies upon the ocean of matter, and within it I am struggling. In the shadow of my own seeing it grows deeper, and in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn apart. Like the spreading slough of a snake, a shadow becomes mobile… it increases, swells, expands, and dissolves into the dark. This is your own shadow, outside the Path—woven of the darkness of your own sins. Yes, Lord, I see your Path. Its base is in the mire, and its summit is crowned with the divine and glorious light of Nirvana. And now I also see the ever-narrowing gates upon the hard and thorn-strewn path of knowledge. O Lanoo (disciple), you see rightly. These gates carry the Mumukshu across the river to the other shore—in Nirvana. Each gate has a golden key that opens it. These keys are: 1. Dana: the key of generosity and immortal love. 2. Shila: the key of harmony between word and deed, which balances the law of cause and effect and ends karmic bondage. 3. Kshanti: sweet patience, which nothing can disturb. 4. Vairagya: indifference toward pleasure and pain, victory over delusion, the vision of truth alone. 5. Virya: that indomitable energy which struggles from the swamp of worldly untruths toward the summit of Truth. 6. Dhyana: whose golden gate, once opened, leads the Narjol (saint or siddha) into the realm of the Eternal Truth and its constant remembrance. 7. Prajna: whose key makes man divine—and a Bodhisattva as well. Bodhisattvahood is the daughter of Dhyana. Such are the golden keys of those gates. O weaver of your own liberation, before reaching the last gate you must travel the difficult road and gain mastery over these Paramitas of perfection—which are supramundane qualities, counted as six and as ten. Much is not said in these sutras—only hinted at. And of much there is not even a hint. Let us hope that even without hints it can be understood. As I told you last night, the very decision that I am ready to enter that river which will take me to the ocean—to let go, to resolve to flow, to surrender—this very decision makes one a Srotapanna. And with this decision itself the transformations begin—not after the decision, but with it. It is not that you decide and later the changes will happen. The decision itself becomes transformative. With this decision you are no longer the same man who decided; you are another who has passed through decision. This decision brings into you the first glimpse of that vision without which there is no way to move upon the Path. We live in indecision. Our mind is always wavering. We want this and we want that; we want even the opposite at the same time. And we are divided into innumerable fragments. Among these fragments there is no inner harmony. With decision your fragments come together. One thread, one sutra, binds you. You cease to be a crowd broken into pieces; you become an individual. If ever you have made even a small decision, you must have felt the concentration that flowers within it, the lightness and freshness that arise within you with that decision. Even with ordinary decisions the smoke disperses, the clouds move, the sunlight breaks through. With decision you are outside the fog. But great decisions are revolutionary. After them you cannot remain the same—and to return becomes impossible. Such is the decision to be a seeker. With this decision the inner eye opens for the first time—the eyelid lifts for the first time. So the lid has lifted, the eye has opened, and the Master says to the disciple: “Look, O aspirant of divine wisdom, what is it that you see before your eyes?” With the concentration flowering out of this decision, what is revealed to you? This is not about the two eyes that see outwardly. It is about the third eye that opens within with decision. Look—what is happening before your inner gaze? And what the seeker beholds is one of the profoundest discoveries of the human mind. When you too enter within, the first encounter you will have is not with your Atman. The first encounter is with your shadow, not your Atman. And till now we have lived taking shadow to be the self. Naturally, our first meeting will be with it. This shadow within—which psychology later, especially Gustav Jung, valued greatly and named the shadow—this is not the shadow you see cast in the sun. It is what you have created within through your ignorance and your mistake—your self-identity, your ego—it follows you. Even when there is no sunlight, that shadow follows. And in that shadow you live. You even accept that shadow as “I.” And around that shadow you build a world. The moment the eye of decision opens, the first encounter is with that very shadow, that mind-body of darkness. The disciple said, “I see a veil of darkness spread upon the ocean of matter—and within it I am struggling.” … I also see… “In the shadow of my gaze it deepens.” As I look, that darkness grows denser; by my very gaze it seems thicker. “And in the shadow of your moving hand I see it disintegrating. Like the spreading slough of a snake, a shadow becomes mobile… it grows, swells, spreads, and dissolves into darkness.” Many precious things are contained in these few words—greatly useful in a seeker’s life. “I see the veil of darkness upon the ocean of matter…” When one begins to enter within, he does not meet light directly—nor will he, because light is hidden very deep. Between us and our own light lies a thick layer of darkness. At first, upon closing the eyes, there is darkness. Do not be afraid of that darkness, and do not manufacture any imagined light within it. Keep entering that darkness till the inner light itself is found. Imagined light can also be created—but by that imaginary light you will never find the real light. Many practices begin with imagining light; they do not take you beyond this darkness. There is a light we think is in us. We can try to see it with closed eyes—and if we try, we will succeed; a light will appear. But that light will be even more false than the darkness, for you have created it. It is born of your own mind; it is your offspring. From it the darkness will not be cut away; yes, consolation can be had in the dark. There is another light we do not manufacture. We keep entering the dark, and one day it is found. We do not think of it, we do not desire it, we have no map—yet searching in the dark, one day the layer of darkness breaks and we enter the realm of light. The true seeker’s first encounter is with darkness; the false seeker’s first encounter may be with “light.” This seeker says, I see the veil of darkness upon the ocean of matter. And I see that within it I am struggling. In that darkness I grope and search. In that darkness are my desires, my lusts, my longings. In that darkness is my world—this too I see. And along with it I see something wondrous: that in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn apart, and by my looking it grows denser. The Master cannot give you light, but he can take away your darkness. Understand this well. We think both are the same thing—they are not. No physician can give you health, but he can remove your disease. When disease is absent, the possibility of health increases. Still, it is not guaranteed you will be healthy—but the possibility is greater. One thing is certain: with disease, health is difficult. When disease is removed, health can manifest. Like a spring held down by stones: remove the stones, and it appears. But the spring does not arise because the stones were removed; it was always there, only covered, veiled. So no Master can give you knowledge. Knowledge is your nature—hidden. But the Master can shatter your darkness. And when the darkness is shattered, great events happen within. Your world is shattered with it. What you saw till yesterday you can no longer see; what you thought till yesterday you can no longer think. You are torn apart. With the tearing of your darkness your roots are shaken. Your false world collapses; its walls fall. You become a ruin. The disciple sees that “in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn asunder, breaks into pieces, recedes. But when I focus upon it, it grows dense. When I concentrate my gaze on it, it becomes very thick.” Remember: just as night grows darkest before dawn, so when one looks inward with concentration, the immense darkness we have gathered through births condenses. If one truly inquires, a precise image of you forms in the darkness—your own shadow, your own negative. You will see yourself standing there. If one keeps looking attentively, that shadow, becoming denser, begins to shrink. In the end, only a point of darkness remains. And the day that point dissolves, the gate of light opens. The more one-pointed the concentration upon the form of darkness, the smaller it becomes. The less the concentration, the vaster the darkness. Meaning: when the capacity for meditation grows, darkness begins to be limited; when there is no capacity, darkness expands. In the absence of meditation there is a vast spread of the dark; with meditation the dark begins to shrink. A moment comes when darkness becomes void-like, becomes nothing. In that very instant there is the opportunity for light to manifest. Thus Dhyana accomplishes two things: it makes darkness small, and it prepares the opening of the gate of light. “Like a snake’s sloughed skin, that shadow is mobile; it grows, it swells, it spreads—and dissolves into the dark.” At certain moments, says the seeker, I see it condense. But it is very changeful—like trying to hold quicksilver in the hand, it scatters. Nothing stays in the grip. At times it seems to be there, and at times it is lost in the dark. So it is with the realm of our ignorance. Nothing is graspable there. As you close your fist, what you try to grasp has slipped away. Which desire can be held? Which longing can be held? Which craving can be held? It stays far; as you draw near, it vanishes. Some moments it seems you have it—and when you open your hand, there is nothing but smoke. What you went seeking appears again far ahead. The composite of these desires is that inner shadow. To be free of it is essential. The one not free of this shadow will never know his Atman. Shankara gave a way of seeing existence worth pondering—and through it this shadow is easy to understand. Shankara said: Brahman is the center of this world, and this whole expanse of the world is Maya—the dream of that Brahman. Likewise, if we take you as Atman, then the small world of desires that forms around you is your Maya, your shadow. And if every person is Brahman—and he is—then there is also an expanse of his Maya around him. That Maya this seeker calls shadow. Know a few qualities of shadow, and understanding will be easy. First, a shadow is not—and yet appears. When you walk in sunlight and your shadow falls, what is happening? There is no substance in shadow, no stuff. Shadow is only absence. Rays of light fall upon you and you become an obstruction; where you obstruct, light cannot fall, a shadow appears. Shadow is only the absence of light; it is nothing. Hence you cannot cut it with a knife, nor burn it with fire. If you wish to destroy it, there is no way—because what is not cannot be destroyed. If you fight with a shadow, you will be defeated; you cannot win. How will you win over what is not? Many people begin fighting with their shadow—and gain nothing but defeat. He who fights desires will be defeated. He who fights the world will be defeated. The way to win here is not through fighting, but through understanding. He who understands that the shadow is not—he does not “win” it, he goes free of it. Once known, the shadow is not—an absence, a non-presence—the matter is over. Your inner desires are the absence of the experience of the Atman hidden within you. Until that experience happens, shadow will form. Just as the absence of the sun’s rays creates shadow, wherever you block the rays of your Atman, your shadow is being produced. Wherever the inner light stops against some wall, there the shadow is formed. Fighting the shadow is futile; expanding the inner light is meaningful. The shadow will vanish. Hence we have created a sweet story: The Jains say that the Tirthankaras cast no shadow. When Mahavira walks, there is no shadow. Factually this is not so—if a body walks, a shadow will form. But the meaning is deep and clear. I call such truths “poetic truths.” If you went to Mahavira, you would be in trouble—his outer shadow would form. The story is about the inner shadow. Within, Mahavira casts no shadow. The shadow-personality is gone. Now he is alone, only the Atman; around it no sheath of shadow. This is what the story conveys. But people quarrel in their minds: then debates arise whether Mahavira’s outer shadow formed or not. If it did not, he is a Tirthankara; if it did, he is ordinary. Outer shadow will form—there is no way to avoid it. Inner shadow can be dropped. That inner shadow is what the seeker has seen—from which Mahavira is free. The Master said, “It is your own shadow outside the Path—woven of the darkness of your sins.” “Yes, Lord, I see the Path. Its base is in the mire, and its crest is filled with the divine, glory-laden light of Nirvana. And now I see, upon the arduous and thorn-filled way of wisdom, the gates that become ever narrower.” There is something of great value here: “Yes, Lord, I see the Path. Its base is in the mire of earth, and its summit is saturated with the radiance of Nirvana.” If you have ever seen the lotus being born—its roots are in the mire, in the mud; its petals open in the sun-filled world of light. On one side it is joined to the mud of the earth, on the other to the realm of light. The journey of the lotus is the journey of man. And the lotus must be born in the mire, in the dirty mud. A great transmutation, a great alchemy happens. Where there was rotting mud—now the tender petals of a lotus. Who could have imagined such petals arising from mud? Where there was water and muck—now petals upon which even water cannot leave a trace. Where it lay buried in refuse—now it rises toward the sky. If one looked at the mud, no sense of beauty would arise. Now, seeing the lotus, it becomes the very symbol of beauty. Hence we have placed the lotus at the feet of Mahavira, Buddha, Vishnu. The lotus is a symbol. The world is mire—but there is no need to be hostile to it. If the lotus becomes hostile to its soil, it cannot rise. It rises by the very support of that soil. From it, it draws strength; that mud is its life. It draws the essence, leaves the non-essential. From that very mud emerges what we call the image of beauty. All rubbish drops away; poetry filters out; the useless is left; the full rasa of beauty, living dance, appears. Around man too there is mud and mire. The seeker says, I see that this Path begins in the mire—in the very earth—and its summit is Nirvana, crowned with light. On one end is the world, on the other liberation. On one end is the body, on the other the Atman. On one end what we call Maya, on the other the supreme realization of Brahman. There is no contradiction in existence. If contradiction seems, it is because we fail to join these two vast poles—our limitation, our short vision. When we look at the world, we cannot see liberation; when we raise our eyes toward liberation, we cannot see the world. He who sees the whole Path will say: what was darkness at one end has become light at the other; what were chains at one end are freedom at the other. Only such a one can see the whole Path. “Now I see the gates upon the hard and thorn-strewn path of wisdom becoming continuously narrower.” I also see that the first gate is very large, the second smaller, the third still smaller—the gates keep narrowing. The last gate becomes utterly narrow. When I say utterly narrow, it means that if even a little of you remains, you cannot pass. Jesus said: a camel can pass through the eye of a needle, but the rich cannot pass through the gate of my liberation. A camel can pass through the needle’s eye; those who are rich will not enter the gate of my salvation. It is extremely narrow. And who is not rich? Have you seen a truly poor man? Even one who has nothing thinks he has something. There are those who even make a wealth of their poverty. If a man takes pride in his renunciation, it means he has made poverty his possession. He will stand at the gate stiff with pride: I am no ordinary man—I have renounced so much! He has turned even renunciation into a bank balance—and brought it along! I have heard: an emperor was praying in a church. It was a great holy day; all had come to pray. The emperor too came. In fervor, as we all do, he went a little too far, and said: O Lord, I am the very dust of dust at your feet; I am nothing, a nobody, a non-entity. As he said this, he noticed a simple man nearby praying, saying the same: I too am nothing, a nobody. The emperor said, Who is this competing with me? Remember: in my kingdom no one is more nothing than I am! We can turn even our non-being into wealth. The emperor cannot tolerate that anyone else in his realm should claim to be “more nothing.” He must be supreme even there. By “rich,” Jesus does not mean those who have money. He means those whose mind carries the feeling “I am something.” Such a person will not pass through that gate. The seeker says: I see each gate becoming narrower. Therefore the ego must be dropped; the clinging must be dropped. All the loads we have gathered must be dropped—because the gates narrow. We must become smaller. The final gate is shunya. Only one who becomes shunya can pass. The last gate is not even a gate, one may say—for a gate implies some passage. The last is like a wall; only he passes for whom even a wall cannot be a barrier—who is utterly nothing. “O Lanoo, …” “Lanoo” is a Tibetan word meaning disciple—but not merely disciple. That is why Blavatsky used Lanoo—just as no language quite has the word “Guru.” Teacher, master—do not touch the majesty of Guru. From them we learn something. From the Guru we become something. Guru means the one through whom we become, through whom we are transformed; not one by whom our information increases, but by whom our very being is transmuted. By whom we are reborn. No other language carries a word with the flavor of “Guru”; nor does it quite carry “Lanoo.” Lanoo means disciple the way Guru means teacher—and beyond. Lanoo is the one who is now ready to disappear; who has not come to learn, but to be dissolved. Not to collect knowledge, but to be changed. One who is ready for anything. If the Guru says, Leap from this cliff, he will leap. He will not ask, Why? A disciple may ask, Why?—for he has come to learn. Lanoo is one who has surrendered totally; why, what, questions have left his mind. Questionless, he has come to the Master’s feet. Whatever the Guru says, he will do—even if it lead to hell, he will not ask, Why? He will not ask at all. Hence Blavatsky uses the Tibetan word Lanoo. “O Lanoo, you see rightly. These gates carry the Mumukshu across the river to the other shore—into Nirvana. Each gate has a golden key that opens it.” The other shore… On this shore we are; on that shore is the realm of our longing. To go to the other shore, one must enter the river. But many people—Kabir has said—are otherwise. Kabir says: “Those who sought have found—by diving into the deep. I, foolish, went to seek, and sat upon the shore.” Those who found are the ones who entered the deep waters. I too went to seek—but foolish me, I sat on the bank. There is safety at the bank; in the river there is danger—danger of drowning, of disappearing. On the bank is our property, our possessions. In the river we step into the unknown where we have no possessions. This shore is certain; the other shore—who knows if it exists? It is not even visible. Perhaps only when this shore vanishes from sight will that one begin to appear. The courage to go so far—where even one’s familiar bank disappears—he alone is Lanoo, the disciple. “O Lanoo, you see rightly….” And the Lanoo always sees rightly—because what blocked vision has been dropped: the lack of courage, the attachment to security, the will to save oneself. Now nothing hinders his sight; it becomes clear and straight. He sees far. What will be tomorrow begins to be seen today; the future draws near and is contained in his present. His present includes the future. “O Lanoo, you see rightly. On the other shore, in the realm of Nirvana, each gate has a golden key.” These golden keys are seven. “Dana” is the first golden key: “the key of generosity and immortal love.” Let us understand each key a little. If you keep them in your mind and allow a small glimmer of them into your life, your lotus too will begin to rise out of the mud. Dana means the spirit of giving. Giving then follows of itself—but the spirit of giving. Remember: the act of giving is not as important as the spirit of giving. The act will follow. Often we give, but the spirit is absent; then charity is false. We give, but only when we want something in return—merit, heaven, God’s reward. The eye is on getting; then giving is a bargain. That is not Dana. Dana is joy in giving. Giving itself is the joy; beyond it there is no desire to take. Will you receive? Abundantly. In truth, he who gives in the spirit of giving, without bargaining, receives infinitely. But this receiving must not be the goal. It must not be in our sight, not our craving. It is a natural outcome. The sun rises—flowers bloom. The sun does not rise to make them bloom. If one day it did so, there is doubt whether flowers would bloom. If the sun tried to open each flower by hand, by evening it would be exhausted forever. Flowers bloom simply because the sun has risen. In Dana all is received. What is given is little; what comes is much. But if the mind holds the notion of receiving, Dana cannot happen. Giving must be pure. And when does giving become pure? When giving itself is delight. Dana is generosity and love—the spirit of giving. The second key is “Shila: harmony of word and deed.” What we say, what we think—let it echo in our actions and our presence. Let our personality not be at odds—let there be one rhythm, one music. It matters less what you think; what matters is that what you think and say casts its shadow in your being. Or else, let what you are be what you think and say. Even a thief can attain Shila—if he does not hide his thieving. Let theft be his thought, his word, his act—one harmonious whole. The great surprise is: if a thief becomes that harmonious, thieving becomes impossible. With such music, the very idea of harming another cannot arise. Do not tell the thief, Do not steal. Tell him: If you must, then own it fully—think it, speak it, do not hide, be in harmony with it. Theft will become impossible. Shila means that within and without there is one music. If you cannot shape the outer to reflect your inner, then shape the inner to fit the outer—wherever you see contradiction, remove it, bring in harmony. Only a harmonious being can enter the world of sadhana. Our personality is a riot. It is not merely that we do not do what we think—we do not even truly think what we think. There are layers—unconscious layers. We do not even think what we imagine we think. We do not say what we think; we often say what we never wished to say; what we do is far away. Each person is a crowd. Meet him in the morning—he is someone; at noon—someone else; by evening—another. You never meet the same man; faces change through the day. How can peace arise in such a crowd? Unify word and deed—not for another’s sake, but for your own. We all seek bliss. Without fundamental harmony, bliss is impossible. The Rosicrucians, a secret order of seekers, gave the disciple a name: “Harmonium.” Until a seeker becomes a harmonium, they say, there is no way to proceed. The third key is “Kshanti.” “Kshanti” is a Buddhist word—patience. But there is a nuance. If someone is killing you, Buddha says, it is easy to be patient. The greater the calamity, the easier the patience. If someone places a noose around your neck, it is easy to be patient; but let an ant bite your foot, and patience is hard. Buddha says: patience in small things is difficult; in great things it is easy. For in great things the ego is gratified; in small things it is not. Kshanti means patience in small things—very small things. A mountain may fall upon you; you can bear it—it is no small pleasure that such a great mountain chose you to fall upon. But if a pot is hung above your head and a drop falls upon it continually—like they tease Shiva—drip, drip, drip—you will go mad. In China they used this to torture prisoners: a jar over the head, a drop falling for twenty-four hours. Harder than cutting the neck—because the neck is cut in a moment; the drop can fall a lifetime. While the drop goes on tapping, the patience you can maintain—that is Kshanti. In small things—because great patience is possible for the ego; small patience is not. “Kshanti: sweet patience, which nothing can disturb.” And a condition is added—sweetness. You can be patient by becoming hard. Then the essence is lost. Hard patience is easy—because hardness builds a wall around you. But sweet! Do not harden, do not defend—and yet be patient; keep a loving friendliness toward what is happening. If a drop is falling upon your head, you may stiffen like a rock and endure—but Kshanti’s core is lost. Buddha says: let there be love even toward the drop—sweetness, maitri. Let it even feel pleasant. That is patience. The fourth is “Vairagya: indifference toward pleasure and pain, victory over delusion, seeing only truth.” Usually a mistake is made with Vairagya. People think it means indifference to pleasure alone. But this sutra says: indifference to pleasure and pain both. Choosing one of two is always easy, for the mind loves choosing; it runs from one extreme to the other. You may like pleasure and dislike pain; you may choose pain and then dislike pleasure—some so-called ascetics do this. Nothing changes. You move from one point to the other; your way of being remains old. One man loves a soft mattress; another loves to sleep upon thorns. Put the thorn-sleeper on a mattress—he will hurt as much as the other upon thorns, perhaps more. No difference. Vairagya means: neither this way nor that—no clinging to either. Indifference toward pleasure and pain both. Acceptance of whatsoever happens. As it is, so let it be. Such acceptance takes one very deep—for such a one cannot be disturbed from outside; he becomes steady at his inner point. The fifth is “Virya: that indomitable energy which struggles from the swamp of worldly untruths toward the summit of Truth.” Virya is the name of life-energy by which you were born. You are a leap of Virya. Virya is life’s synonym. The energy that gave you birth, by which each particle of your body is made, which is your very body—stored within you—eager to take a new leap. Hence the grip of sex is so strong—compelling. When sex grips, all sense is lost. Why such compulsion? Because sex is the source of your birth. You are a wave of Virya. This wave wants to leap—had it not leapt, you would not be here. It seeks another leap. You will die; the wave wishes to continue. Two ways: One, suppress it by force—the mistaken notion of Brahmacharya. In suppression the leap does not stop; it becomes perverted. Like a spring broken into twenty-five streams, lost off-course. Two, do not stop the leap—change its direction. Let it leap. Virya wants to leap into new life. Either a child is born—or you are reborn. If it moves outward, new life is born. If it moves inward, you are new. Such a person is called dvija—twice-born—whose Virya has begun to leap within. “Virya is the indomitable energy…” By this very energy one can go within—or without; wherever one goes, it is Virya that moves. “From the mire of worldly untruths to the summit of Truth, this energy struggles.” The journey from swamp to lotus is with Virya. Keep these in mind: Do not fight this energy. Do not make it your enemy. It is your power. Ride upon it—do not fight it. He who fights his own strength is destroyed. Make this power your vehicle. Virya wants to leap—two kinds of leap are possible, but leap it must. Energy seeks to burst—spring to gush, seed to crack. Always it seeks explosion. Two kinds of explosion: explosion and implosion. Outward explosion—explosion. Inward explosion—implosion. The spread of life in the world is explosion. How great can it be? One man holds enough Virya to people the whole earth. There are three billion people—one man could beget as many. So much Virya-energy is born with him. Hence the Biblical story is charming: God made one man—Adam. Why not ten or five? No need; one is enough. This is the pointer: for this vast explosion one man suffices. In a single act so many sperm leap that ten hundred million men could be born. And a man can have intercourse at least four thousand times in a life—at least. Four billion men one man could beget if all sperm were used. They are not. This outward explosion can become inward—implosion. What now leaps outward from your center can leap toward the center. The day it turns inward, Virya becomes the spiritual. That day you do not give birth outside; you give birth to yourself. The sixth is “Dhyana: whose golden gate, once opened, leads the Narjol (saint or siddha) to the realm of the Eternal Truth and to its continuous remembrance.” Dhyana is the state of mind in which there is no thought. As long as there is thought you move outward. Thought is the road outward. All thoughts are outer; there is no inner thought. Whenever you think, you are outside; when you do not think, you are within. Dhyana is the state of no-thinking. He who knows no-thinking knows all. We teach thinking. It is necessary; before no-thinking, thinking is needed. What is not in your possession—how will you drop it? To renounce what you do not have is impossible. So thinking is necessary—but not enough. There is another art beyond thinking—the art of no-thinking. Do not think—simply be. In that moment there is constant remembrance—not of thought, but of being. Continual remembrance of the divine; the doors of the Eternal Truth appear open. In that no-mind is the gate to the Eternal. The seventh is “Prajna: whose key makes man divine….” Dhyana is his seeing; Prajna is oneness with him. “…makes man divine—and a Bodhisattva too. Bodhisattvahood is the daughter of Dhyana.” From Dhyana one attains Prajna. “Prajna” is a unique word—hard to translate. Other languages offer “knowledge.” Prajna is not knowing truth—it is becoming truth. Knowing leaves a distance—the knower and the known. Seeing, recognizing, knowing—there is still separation. Prajna is where even this gap of subject and object disappears—no distance between knower and known. Where unity dawns—that is Prajna, whose key makes man divine. Man is divine; only the key is missing. Divinity is as if locked—needing to be opened. “And a Bodhisattva too.” “Bodhisattva” also needs to be understood. A Bodhisattva is a Buddha who, standing at the gate of Prajna, turns his face toward the world. Let it be seen thus: There is a story in Buddha’s life: he attained the ultimate state—Buddhahood. Sweet story: he reached the gate of Nirvana. But he turned his back. The gatekeeper said—these are symbols—Enter. For ages this gate has awaited you. Buddha said: behind me are many others. If I enter this great void, I will no longer be able to help them. I will wait at this gate until they all enter. I wish to be the last to enter. This great compassion is called Bodhisattvahood. Bodhisattva means: one who is a Buddha, yet does not dissolve—out of compassion. Our relation with the world can be of two kinds—of desire or of compassion. Desire keeps us in the world because we want something from it. A Buddha can also be in the world—because he wants to give something to it. This urge to give—karuna—makes one a Bodhisattva. Hence Buddhism has two vehicles: Hinayana and Mahayana. Hinayana holds that the Buddha dissolved into Mahaparinirvana. Mahayana holds that he waited—became a vehicle, a boatman; until the whole world is ferried across, he will not himself cross. He will come again and again to this shore, fill his boat, send people over—yet not himself cross. For once across, there is no way back—there, one is lost. Out of this great compassion. So Mahayana says: even greater than Buddhahood is Bodhisattvahood. To be lost in that supreme realm is natural; to be in this world out of desire is natural. To renounce the bliss of that realm, the joy of dissolving—and bring one’s boat to this shore—is supremely arduous. Hence greater than Buddhahood is Bodhisattvahood. It is natural to wish to be lost there in the great realm—for no bliss is greater. Buddha called it mahasukh—the great bliss. To restrain oneself from that, and return here—that is harder than thought. As if freed from prison—chains broken, under the open sky—and yet, because of those still in prison, you sneak back in to show them the way out. Hard to even imagine—harder still is Bodhisattvahood. Yet it happens. If there is a miracle in this world, to me it is this: the presence here of one who is not here out of desire. One miracle. It happens. Such a one is hard to comprehend, for we know only the language of taking. That one may be here only to give is beyond us. But Prajna gives birth even to Bodhisattvahood. Among millions there is one Buddha; among millions of Buddhas there is one Bodhisattva. To go from this shore to that is very difficult; to return from that to this is harder. If it is so hard to renounce suffering, how hard must it be to renounce bliss! If I ask you to drop suffering, you cannot. To drop bliss and return—an impossible event. Yet it happens. Such are the golden keys of those gates. “O weaver of your own liberation, before reaching the last gate you must, by traveling the arduous road, gain mastery over these Paramitas of perfection—supramundane qualities counted as six and as ten.” You must master these seven. For him in whom the longing for Moksha has arisen, these seven are the keys.
Osho's Commentary
A veil of darkness lies upon the ocean of matter, and within it I am struggling. In the shadow of my own seeing it grows deeper, and in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn apart. Like the spreading slough of a snake, a shadow becomes mobile… it increases, swells, expands, and dissolves into the dark.
This is your own shadow, outside the Path—woven of the darkness of your own sins.
Yes, Lord, I see your Path. Its base is in the mire, and its summit is crowned with the divine and glorious light of Nirvana. And now I also see the ever-narrowing gates upon the hard and thorn-strewn path of knowledge.
O Lanoo (disciple), you see rightly. These gates carry the Mumukshu across the river to the other shore—in Nirvana. Each gate has a golden key that opens it. These keys are:
1. Dana: the key of generosity and immortal love.
2. Shila: the key of harmony between word and deed, which balances the law of cause and effect and ends karmic bondage.
3. Kshanti: sweet patience, which nothing can disturb.
4. Vairagya: indifference toward pleasure and pain, victory over delusion, the vision of truth alone.
5. Virya: that indomitable energy which struggles from the swamp of worldly untruths toward the summit of Truth.
6. Dhyana: whose golden gate, once opened, leads the Narjol (saint or siddha) into the realm of the Eternal Truth and its constant remembrance.
7. Prajna: whose key makes man divine—and a Bodhisattva as well. Bodhisattvahood is the daughter of Dhyana.
Such are the golden keys of those gates.
O weaver of your own liberation, before reaching the last gate you must travel the difficult road and gain mastery over these Paramitas of perfection—which are supramundane qualities, counted as six and as ten.
Much is not said in these sutras—only hinted at. And of much there is not even a hint. Let us hope that even without hints it can be understood.
As I told you last night, the very decision that I am ready to enter that river which will take me to the ocean—to let go, to resolve to flow, to surrender—this very decision makes one a Srotapanna. And with this decision itself the transformations begin—not after the decision, but with it. It is not that you decide and later the changes will happen. The decision itself becomes transformative. With this decision you are no longer the same man who decided; you are another who has passed through decision. This decision brings into you the first glimpse of that vision without which there is no way to move upon the Path.
We live in indecision. Our mind is always wavering. We want this and we want that; we want even the opposite at the same time. And we are divided into innumerable fragments. Among these fragments there is no inner harmony. With decision your fragments come together. One thread, one sutra, binds you. You cease to be a crowd broken into pieces; you become an individual.
If ever you have made even a small decision, you must have felt the concentration that flowers within it, the lightness and freshness that arise within you with that decision. Even with ordinary decisions the smoke disperses, the clouds move, the sunlight breaks through. With decision you are outside the fog. But great decisions are revolutionary. After them you cannot remain the same—and to return becomes impossible. Such is the decision to be a seeker. With this decision the inner eye opens for the first time—the eyelid lifts for the first time. So the lid has lifted, the eye has opened, and the Master says to the disciple:
“Look, O aspirant of divine wisdom, what is it that you see before your eyes?”
With the concentration flowering out of this decision, what is revealed to you? This is not about the two eyes that see outwardly. It is about the third eye that opens within with decision. Look—what is happening before your inner gaze? And what the seeker beholds is one of the profoundest discoveries of the human mind.
When you too enter within, the first encounter you will have is not with your Atman. The first encounter is with your shadow, not your Atman. And till now we have lived taking shadow to be the self. Naturally, our first meeting will be with it. This shadow within—which psychology later, especially Gustav Jung, valued greatly and named the shadow—this is not the shadow you see cast in the sun. It is what you have created within through your ignorance and your mistake—your self-identity, your ego—it follows you. Even when there is no sunlight, that shadow follows. And in that shadow you live. You even accept that shadow as “I.” And around that shadow you build a world. The moment the eye of decision opens, the first encounter is with that very shadow, that mind-body of darkness.
The disciple said, “I see a veil of darkness spread upon the ocean of matter—and within it I am struggling.” … I also see… “In the shadow of my gaze it deepens.”
As I look, that darkness grows denser; by my very gaze it seems thicker.
“And in the shadow of your moving hand I see it disintegrating. Like the spreading slough of a snake, a shadow becomes mobile… it grows, swells, spreads, and dissolves into darkness.”
Many precious things are contained in these few words—greatly useful in a seeker’s life.
“I see the veil of darkness upon the ocean of matter…”
When one begins to enter within, he does not meet light directly—nor will he, because light is hidden very deep. Between us and our own light lies a thick layer of darkness. At first, upon closing the eyes, there is darkness. Do not be afraid of that darkness, and do not manufacture any imagined light within it. Keep entering that darkness till the inner light itself is found. Imagined light can also be created—but by that imaginary light you will never find the real light.
Many practices begin with imagining light; they do not take you beyond this darkness. There is a light we think is in us. We can try to see it with closed eyes—and if we try, we will succeed; a light will appear. But that light will be even more false than the darkness, for you have created it. It is born of your own mind; it is your offspring. From it the darkness will not be cut away; yes, consolation can be had in the dark.
There is another light we do not manufacture. We keep entering the dark, and one day it is found. We do not think of it, we do not desire it, we have no map—yet searching in the dark, one day the layer of darkness breaks and we enter the realm of light.
The true seeker’s first encounter is with darkness; the false seeker’s first encounter may be with “light.”
This seeker says, I see the veil of darkness upon the ocean of matter. And I see that within it I am struggling. In that darkness I grope and search. In that darkness are my desires, my lusts, my longings. In that darkness is my world—this too I see. And along with it I see something wondrous: that in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn apart, and by my looking it grows denser.
The Master cannot give you light, but he can take away your darkness.
Understand this well. We think both are the same thing—they are not. No physician can give you health, but he can remove your disease. When disease is absent, the possibility of health increases. Still, it is not guaranteed you will be healthy—but the possibility is greater. One thing is certain: with disease, health is difficult. When disease is removed, health can manifest. Like a spring held down by stones: remove the stones, and it appears. But the spring does not arise because the stones were removed; it was always there, only covered, veiled.
So no Master can give you knowledge. Knowledge is your nature—hidden. But the Master can shatter your darkness. And when the darkness is shattered, great events happen within. Your world is shattered with it. What you saw till yesterday you can no longer see; what you thought till yesterday you can no longer think. You are torn apart. With the tearing of your darkness your roots are shaken. Your false world collapses; its walls fall. You become a ruin.
The disciple sees that “in the shadow of your moving hand it is torn asunder, breaks into pieces, recedes. But when I focus upon it, it grows dense. When I concentrate my gaze on it, it becomes very thick.”
Remember: just as night grows darkest before dawn, so when one looks inward with concentration, the immense darkness we have gathered through births condenses. If one truly inquires, a precise image of you forms in the darkness—your own shadow, your own negative. You will see yourself standing there. If one keeps looking attentively, that shadow, becoming denser, begins to shrink. In the end, only a point of darkness remains. And the day that point dissolves, the gate of light opens.
The more one-pointed the concentration upon the form of darkness, the smaller it becomes. The less the concentration, the vaster the darkness. Meaning: when the capacity for meditation grows, darkness begins to be limited; when there is no capacity, darkness expands. In the absence of meditation there is a vast spread of the dark; with meditation the dark begins to shrink. A moment comes when darkness becomes void-like, becomes nothing. In that very instant there is the opportunity for light to manifest.
Thus Dhyana accomplishes two things: it makes darkness small, and it prepares the opening of the gate of light.
“Like a snake’s sloughed skin, that shadow is mobile; it grows, it swells, it spreads—and dissolves into the dark.”
At certain moments, says the seeker, I see it condense. But it is very changeful—like trying to hold quicksilver in the hand, it scatters. Nothing stays in the grip. At times it seems to be there, and at times it is lost in the dark.
So it is with the realm of our ignorance. Nothing is graspable there. As you close your fist, what you try to grasp has slipped away.
Which desire can be held? Which longing can be held? Which craving can be held?
It stays far; as you draw near, it vanishes. Some moments it seems you have it—and when you open your hand, there is nothing but smoke. What you went seeking appears again far ahead. The composite of these desires is that inner shadow. To be free of it is essential. The one not free of this shadow will never know his Atman.
Shankara gave a way of seeing existence worth pondering—and through it this shadow is easy to understand. Shankara said: Brahman is the center of this world, and this whole expanse of the world is Maya—the dream of that Brahman.
Likewise, if we take you as Atman, then the small world of desires that forms around you is your Maya, your shadow. And if every person is Brahman—and he is—then there is also an expanse of his Maya around him. That Maya this seeker calls shadow.
Know a few qualities of shadow, and understanding will be easy. First, a shadow is not—and yet appears. When you walk in sunlight and your shadow falls, what is happening? There is no substance in shadow, no stuff. Shadow is only absence. Rays of light fall upon you and you become an obstruction; where you obstruct, light cannot fall, a shadow appears. Shadow is only the absence of light; it is nothing. Hence you cannot cut it with a knife, nor burn it with fire. If you wish to destroy it, there is no way—because what is not cannot be destroyed. If you fight with a shadow, you will be defeated; you cannot win. How will you win over what is not?
Many people begin fighting with their shadow—and gain nothing but defeat. He who fights desires will be defeated. He who fights the world will be defeated. The way to win here is not through fighting, but through understanding. He who understands that the shadow is not—he does not “win” it, he goes free of it. Once known, the shadow is not—an absence, a non-presence—the matter is over.
Your inner desires are the absence of the experience of the Atman hidden within you. Until that experience happens, shadow will form. Just as the absence of the sun’s rays creates shadow, wherever you block the rays of your Atman, your shadow is being produced. Wherever the inner light stops against some wall, there the shadow is formed. Fighting the shadow is futile; expanding the inner light is meaningful. The shadow will vanish. Hence we have created a sweet story:
The Jains say that the Tirthankaras cast no shadow. When Mahavira walks, there is no shadow. Factually this is not so—if a body walks, a shadow will form. But the meaning is deep and clear. I call such truths “poetic truths.” If you went to Mahavira, you would be in trouble—his outer shadow would form. The story is about the inner shadow. Within, Mahavira casts no shadow. The shadow-personality is gone. Now he is alone, only the Atman; around it no sheath of shadow. This is what the story conveys.
But people quarrel in their minds: then debates arise whether Mahavira’s outer shadow formed or not. If it did not, he is a Tirthankara; if it did, he is ordinary. Outer shadow will form—there is no way to avoid it. Inner shadow can be dropped. That inner shadow is what the seeker has seen—from which Mahavira is free.
The Master said, “It is your own shadow outside the Path—woven of the darkness of your sins.”
“Yes, Lord, I see the Path. Its base is in the mire, and its crest is filled with the divine, glory-laden light of Nirvana. And now I see, upon the arduous and thorn-filled way of wisdom, the gates that become ever narrower.”
There is something of great value here: “Yes, Lord, I see the Path. Its base is in the mire of earth, and its summit is saturated with the radiance of Nirvana.” If you have ever seen the lotus being born—its roots are in the mire, in the mud; its petals open in the sun-filled world of light. On one side it is joined to the mud of the earth, on the other to the realm of light.
The journey of the lotus is the journey of man. And the lotus must be born in the mire, in the dirty mud. A great transmutation, a great alchemy happens. Where there was rotting mud—now the tender petals of a lotus. Who could have imagined such petals arising from mud? Where there was water and muck—now petals upon which even water cannot leave a trace. Where it lay buried in refuse—now it rises toward the sky. If one looked at the mud, no sense of beauty would arise. Now, seeing the lotus, it becomes the very symbol of beauty. Hence we have placed the lotus at the feet of Mahavira, Buddha, Vishnu.
The lotus is a symbol. The world is mire—but there is no need to be hostile to it. If the lotus becomes hostile to its soil, it cannot rise. It rises by the very support of that soil. From it, it draws strength; that mud is its life. It draws the essence, leaves the non-essential. From that very mud emerges what we call the image of beauty. All rubbish drops away; poetry filters out; the useless is left; the full rasa of beauty, living dance, appears.
Around man too there is mud and mire. The seeker says, I see that this Path begins in the mire—in the very earth—and its summit is Nirvana, crowned with light. On one end is the world, on the other liberation. On one end is the body, on the other the Atman. On one end what we call Maya, on the other the supreme realization of Brahman. There is no contradiction in existence. If contradiction seems, it is because we fail to join these two vast poles—our limitation, our short vision. When we look at the world, we cannot see liberation; when we raise our eyes toward liberation, we cannot see the world. He who sees the whole Path will say: what was darkness at one end has become light at the other; what were chains at one end are freedom at the other. Only such a one can see the whole Path.
“Now I see the gates upon the hard and thorn-strewn path of wisdom becoming continuously narrower.”
I also see that the first gate is very large, the second smaller, the third still smaller—the gates keep narrowing. The last gate becomes utterly narrow. When I say utterly narrow, it means that if even a little of you remains, you cannot pass.
Jesus said: a camel can pass through the eye of a needle, but the rich cannot pass through the gate of my liberation. A camel can pass through the needle’s eye; those who are rich will not enter the gate of my salvation. It is extremely narrow. And who is not rich? Have you seen a truly poor man? Even one who has nothing thinks he has something. There are those who even make a wealth of their poverty. If a man takes pride in his renunciation, it means he has made poverty his possession. He will stand at the gate stiff with pride: I am no ordinary man—I have renounced so much! He has turned even renunciation into a bank balance—and brought it along!
I have heard: an emperor was praying in a church. It was a great holy day; all had come to pray. The emperor too came. In fervor, as we all do, he went a little too far, and said: O Lord, I am the very dust of dust at your feet; I am nothing, a nobody, a non-entity. As he said this, he noticed a simple man nearby praying, saying the same: I too am nothing, a nobody. The emperor said, Who is this competing with me? Remember: in my kingdom no one is more nothing than I am!
We can turn even our non-being into wealth. The emperor cannot tolerate that anyone else in his realm should claim to be “more nothing.” He must be supreme even there.
By “rich,” Jesus does not mean those who have money. He means those whose mind carries the feeling “I am something.” Such a person will not pass through that gate.
The seeker says: I see each gate becoming narrower. Therefore the ego must be dropped; the clinging must be dropped. All the loads we have gathered must be dropped—because the gates narrow. We must become smaller. The final gate is shunya. Only one who becomes shunya can pass. The last gate is not even a gate, one may say—for a gate implies some passage. The last is like a wall; only he passes for whom even a wall cannot be a barrier—who is utterly nothing.
“O Lanoo, …”
“Lanoo” is a Tibetan word meaning disciple—but not merely disciple. That is why Blavatsky used Lanoo—just as no language quite has the word “Guru.” Teacher, master—do not touch the majesty of Guru. From them we learn something. From the Guru we become something. Guru means the one through whom we become, through whom we are transformed; not one by whom our information increases, but by whom our very being is transmuted. By whom we are reborn. No other language carries a word with the flavor of “Guru”; nor does it quite carry “Lanoo.”
Lanoo means disciple the way Guru means teacher—and beyond. Lanoo is the one who is now ready to disappear; who has not come to learn, but to be dissolved. Not to collect knowledge, but to be changed. One who is ready for anything. If the Guru says, Leap from this cliff, he will leap. He will not ask, Why? A disciple may ask, Why?—for he has come to learn.
Lanoo is one who has surrendered totally; why, what, questions have left his mind. Questionless, he has come to the Master’s feet. Whatever the Guru says, he will do—even if it lead to hell, he will not ask, Why? He will not ask at all. Hence Blavatsky uses the Tibetan word Lanoo.
“O Lanoo, you see rightly. These gates carry the Mumukshu across the river to the other shore—into Nirvana. Each gate has a golden key that opens it.”
The other shore…
On this shore we are; on that shore is the realm of our longing. To go to the other shore, one must enter the river. But many people—Kabir has said—are otherwise. Kabir says:
“Those who sought have found—by diving into the deep.
I, foolish, went to seek, and sat upon the shore.”
Those who found are the ones who entered the deep waters. I too went to seek—but foolish me, I sat on the bank.
There is safety at the bank; in the river there is danger—danger of drowning, of disappearing. On the bank is our property, our possessions. In the river we step into the unknown where we have no possessions. This shore is certain; the other shore—who knows if it exists? It is not even visible. Perhaps only when this shore vanishes from sight will that one begin to appear. The courage to go so far—where even one’s familiar bank disappears—he alone is Lanoo, the disciple.
“O Lanoo, you see rightly….”
And the Lanoo always sees rightly—because what blocked vision has been dropped: the lack of courage, the attachment to security, the will to save oneself. Now nothing hinders his sight; it becomes clear and straight. He sees far. What will be tomorrow begins to be seen today; the future draws near and is contained in his present. His present includes the future.
“O Lanoo, you see rightly. On the other shore, in the realm of Nirvana, each gate has a golden key.”
These golden keys are seven.
“Dana” is the first golden key: “the key of generosity and immortal love.”
Let us understand each key a little.
If you keep them in your mind and allow a small glimmer of them into your life, your lotus too will begin to rise out of the mud.
Dana means the spirit of giving.
Giving then follows of itself—but the spirit of giving. Remember: the act of giving is not as important as the spirit of giving. The act will follow. Often we give, but the spirit is absent; then charity is false. We give, but only when we want something in return—merit, heaven, God’s reward. The eye is on getting; then giving is a bargain. That is not Dana.
Dana is joy in giving.
Giving itself is the joy; beyond it there is no desire to take. Will you receive? Abundantly. In truth, he who gives in the spirit of giving, without bargaining, receives infinitely. But this receiving must not be the goal. It must not be in our sight, not our craving. It is a natural outcome.
The sun rises—flowers bloom. The sun does not rise to make them bloom. If one day it did so, there is doubt whether flowers would bloom. If the sun tried to open each flower by hand, by evening it would be exhausted forever. Flowers bloom simply because the sun has risen.
In Dana all is received. What is given is little; what comes is much. But if the mind holds the notion of receiving, Dana cannot happen. Giving must be pure. And when does giving become pure? When giving itself is delight.
Dana is generosity and love—the spirit of giving.
The second key is “Shila: harmony of word and deed.”
What we say, what we think—let it echo in our actions and our presence. Let our personality not be at odds—let there be one rhythm, one music. It matters less what you think; what matters is that what you think and say casts its shadow in your being. Or else, let what you are be what you think and say.
Even a thief can attain Shila—if he does not hide his thieving. Let theft be his thought, his word, his act—one harmonious whole. The great surprise is: if a thief becomes that harmonious, thieving becomes impossible. With such music, the very idea of harming another cannot arise. Do not tell the thief, Do not steal. Tell him: If you must, then own it fully—think it, speak it, do not hide, be in harmony with it. Theft will become impossible.
Shila means that within and without there is one music.
If you cannot shape the outer to reflect your inner, then shape the inner to fit the outer—wherever you see contradiction, remove it, bring in harmony.
Only a harmonious being can enter the world of sadhana.
Our personality is a riot. It is not merely that we do not do what we think—we do not even truly think what we think. There are layers—unconscious layers. We do not even think what we imagine we think. We do not say what we think; we often say what we never wished to say; what we do is far away.
Each person is a crowd. Meet him in the morning—he is someone; at noon—someone else; by evening—another. You never meet the same man; faces change through the day. How can peace arise in such a crowd?
Unify word and deed—not for another’s sake, but for your own. We all seek bliss. Without fundamental harmony, bliss is impossible.
The Rosicrucians, a secret order of seekers, gave the disciple a name: “Harmonium.” Until a seeker becomes a harmonium, they say, there is no way to proceed.
The third key is “Kshanti.”
“Kshanti” is a Buddhist word—patience. But there is a nuance. If someone is killing you, Buddha says, it is easy to be patient. The greater the calamity, the easier the patience. If someone places a noose around your neck, it is easy to be patient; but let an ant bite your foot, and patience is hard. Buddha says: patience in small things is difficult; in great things it is easy. For in great things the ego is gratified; in small things it is not.
Kshanti means patience in small things—very small things.
A mountain may fall upon you; you can bear it—it is no small pleasure that such a great mountain chose you to fall upon. But if a pot is hung above your head and a drop falls upon it continually—like they tease Shiva—drip, drip, drip—you will go mad.
In China they used this to torture prisoners: a jar over the head, a drop falling for twenty-four hours. Harder than cutting the neck—because the neck is cut in a moment; the drop can fall a lifetime. While the drop goes on tapping, the patience you can maintain—that is Kshanti. In small things—because great patience is possible for the ego; small patience is not.
“Kshanti: sweet patience, which nothing can disturb.”
And a condition is added—sweetness. You can be patient by becoming hard. Then the essence is lost. Hard patience is easy—because hardness builds a wall around you. But sweet! Do not harden, do not defend—and yet be patient; keep a loving friendliness toward what is happening.
If a drop is falling upon your head, you may stiffen like a rock and endure—but Kshanti’s core is lost. Buddha says: let there be love even toward the drop—sweetness, maitri. Let it even feel pleasant. That is patience.
The fourth is “Vairagya: indifference toward pleasure and pain, victory over delusion, seeing only truth.”
Usually a mistake is made with Vairagya. People think it means indifference to pleasure alone. But this sutra says: indifference to pleasure and pain both. Choosing one of two is always easy, for the mind loves choosing; it runs from one extreme to the other. You may like pleasure and dislike pain; you may choose pain and then dislike pleasure—some so-called ascetics do this. Nothing changes. You move from one point to the other; your way of being remains old.
One man loves a soft mattress; another loves to sleep upon thorns. Put the thorn-sleeper on a mattress—he will hurt as much as the other upon thorns, perhaps more. No difference.
Vairagya means: neither this way nor that—no clinging to either. Indifference toward pleasure and pain both.
Acceptance of whatsoever happens.
As it is, so let it be.
Such acceptance takes one very deep—for such a one cannot be disturbed from outside; he becomes steady at his inner point.
The fifth is “Virya: that indomitable energy which struggles from the swamp of worldly untruths toward the summit of Truth.”
Virya is the name of life-energy by which you were born. You are a leap of Virya. Virya is life’s synonym. The energy that gave you birth, by which each particle of your body is made, which is your very body—stored within you—eager to take a new leap. Hence the grip of sex is so strong—compelling. When sex grips, all sense is lost.
Why such compulsion?
Because sex is the source of your birth. You are a wave of Virya. This wave wants to leap—had it not leapt, you would not be here. It seeks another leap. You will die; the wave wishes to continue.
Two ways:
One, suppress it by force—the mistaken notion of Brahmacharya. In suppression the leap does not stop; it becomes perverted. Like a spring broken into twenty-five streams, lost off-course.
Two, do not stop the leap—change its direction. Let it leap. Virya wants to leap into new life. Either a child is born—or you are reborn.
If it moves outward, new life is born. If it moves inward, you are new. Such a person is called dvija—twice-born—whose Virya has begun to leap within.
“Virya is the indomitable energy…”
By this very energy one can go within—or without; wherever one goes, it is Virya that moves.
“From the mire of worldly untruths to the summit of Truth, this energy struggles.”
The journey from swamp to lotus is with Virya.
Keep these in mind:
Do not fight this energy. Do not make it your enemy. It is your power. Ride upon it—do not fight it. He who fights his own strength is destroyed. Make this power your vehicle. Virya wants to leap—two kinds of leap are possible, but leap it must. Energy seeks to burst—spring to gush, seed to crack. Always it seeks explosion.
Two kinds of explosion: explosion and implosion.
Outward explosion—explosion. Inward explosion—implosion.
The spread of life in the world is explosion. How great can it be? One man holds enough Virya to people the whole earth. There are three billion people—one man could beget as many. So much Virya-energy is born with him.
Hence the Biblical story is charming: God made one man—Adam. Why not ten or five? No need; one is enough. This is the pointer: for this vast explosion one man suffices. In a single act so many sperm leap that ten hundred million men could be born. And a man can have intercourse at least four thousand times in a life—at least. Four billion men one man could beget if all sperm were used. They are not.
This outward explosion can become inward—implosion. What now leaps outward from your center can leap toward the center. The day it turns inward, Virya becomes the spiritual. That day you do not give birth outside; you give birth to yourself.
The sixth is “Dhyana: whose golden gate, once opened, leads the Narjol (saint or siddha) to the realm of the Eternal Truth and to its continuous remembrance.”
Dhyana is the state of mind in which there is no thought. As long as there is thought you move outward. Thought is the road outward. All thoughts are outer; there is no inner thought. Whenever you think, you are outside; when you do not think, you are within.
Dhyana is the state of no-thinking.
He who knows no-thinking knows all.
We teach thinking. It is necessary; before no-thinking, thinking is needed. What is not in your possession—how will you drop it? To renounce what you do not have is impossible. So thinking is necessary—but not enough.
There is another art beyond thinking—the art of no-thinking. Do not think—simply be. In that moment there is constant remembrance—not of thought, but of being. Continual remembrance of the divine; the doors of the Eternal Truth appear open. In that no-mind is the gate to the Eternal.
The seventh is “Prajna: whose key makes man divine….”
Dhyana is his seeing; Prajna is oneness with him.
“…makes man divine—and a Bodhisattva too. Bodhisattvahood is the daughter of Dhyana.”
From Dhyana one attains Prajna.
“Prajna” is a unique word—hard to translate. Other languages offer “knowledge.”
Prajna is not knowing truth—it is becoming truth. Knowing leaves a distance—the knower and the known. Seeing, recognizing, knowing—there is still separation. Prajna is where even this gap of subject and object disappears—no distance between knower and known. Where unity dawns—that is Prajna, whose key makes man divine.
Man is divine; only the key is missing. Divinity is as if locked—needing to be opened.
“And a Bodhisattva too.”
“Bodhisattva” also needs to be understood. A Bodhisattva is a Buddha who, standing at the gate of Prajna, turns his face toward the world. Let it be seen thus:
There is a story in Buddha’s life: he attained the ultimate state—Buddhahood. Sweet story: he reached the gate of Nirvana. But he turned his back. The gatekeeper said—these are symbols—Enter. For ages this gate has awaited you. Buddha said: behind me are many others. If I enter this great void, I will no longer be able to help them. I will wait at this gate until they all enter. I wish to be the last to enter. This great compassion is called Bodhisattvahood.
Bodhisattva means: one who is a Buddha, yet does not dissolve—out of compassion.
Our relation with the world can be of two kinds—of desire or of compassion. Desire keeps us in the world because we want something from it. A Buddha can also be in the world—because he wants to give something to it. This urge to give—karuna—makes one a Bodhisattva.
Hence Buddhism has two vehicles: Hinayana and Mahayana. Hinayana holds that the Buddha dissolved into Mahaparinirvana. Mahayana holds that he waited—became a vehicle, a boatman; until the whole world is ferried across, he will not himself cross. He will come again and again to this shore, fill his boat, send people over—yet not himself cross. For once across, there is no way back—there, one is lost. Out of this great compassion.
So Mahayana says: even greater than Buddhahood is Bodhisattvahood. To be lost in that supreme realm is natural; to be in this world out of desire is natural. To renounce the bliss of that realm, the joy of dissolving—and bring one’s boat to this shore—is supremely arduous. Hence greater than Buddhahood is Bodhisattvahood.
It is natural to wish to be lost there in the great realm—for no bliss is greater. Buddha called it mahasukh—the great bliss. To restrain oneself from that, and return here—that is harder than thought. As if freed from prison—chains broken, under the open sky—and yet, because of those still in prison, you sneak back in to show them the way out. Hard to even imagine—harder still is Bodhisattvahood.
Yet it happens. If there is a miracle in this world, to me it is this: the presence here of one who is not here out of desire. One miracle. It happens. Such a one is hard to comprehend, for we know only the language of taking. That one may be here only to give is beyond us. But Prajna gives birth even to Bodhisattvahood.
Among millions there is one Buddha; among millions of Buddhas there is one Bodhisattva. To go from this shore to that is very difficult; to return from that to this is harder. If it is so hard to renounce suffering, how hard must it be to renounce bliss! If I ask you to drop suffering, you cannot. To drop bliss and return—an impossible event. Yet it happens.
Such are the golden keys of those gates.
“O weaver of your own liberation, before reaching the last gate you must, by traveling the arduous road, gain mastery over these Paramitas of perfection—supramundane qualities counted as six and as ten.”
You must master these seven. For him in whom the longing for Moksha has arisen, these seven are the keys.