Teachers are many, but the Supreme Master is one—the one called Alaya, the World-Soul. Live in that Supreme just as its ray lives within you. And live among all creatures as if they live in that Supreme. Before you stand upon the threshold of the Path, before you cross the last gate, you must immerse both into one, and renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being. And thus the road that lies between the two—the one called antahkarana—has to be destroyed. You must answer to Dharma, to that austere law which will ask you upon your very first step: O Lanoo, have you obeyed all the rules? Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all humankind? As in the roar of the sacred river all the voices of nature are echoed, so too must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and every thought of all who live and breathe in the world. The disciple can be compared to a veena that sets the heart humming, humanity to its resonance, and the hand that plays to the rhythmic breath of the Mahavishvatman. The string that refuses to vibrate in sweet accord with the singer’s touch snaps and is cast aside. So it is with the collective minds of disciples and shravakas: they must harmonize with the Upadhyaya’s mind—one with Paramatman—otherwise they will break off from the Path. So do they act who are brothers to the shadow—self-slayers of the soul—those known as the Dugpas. O seeker of light, have you made your being one with the great suffering of humanity? Have you done so?... Then you may enter. Yet it is good, before setting foot on the arduous road of sorrow, to understand its rises and falls, its difficulties. There is much to understand. As on a full-moon night one moon is mirrored in countless lakes; each lake holds its own reflection, each reflection its own personality—and yet all are of the one moon. He who is entangled in the reflection may perhaps forget the moon of which it is a reflection. And he who lifts his eyes from the reflections will glimpse the original moon. For reflections are but its images. The Guru is one; teachers are many. That which is the truth of life is one; but its teachings are many. That which is the temple of mystery is one; but its doors are many. Infinite are the paths that lead to it; yet upon arriving, only the One remains. The goal is one. And even in the teachers, the glimpse that shines out is of that One alone. All teachers are like lakes; in them it is the one Mahaguru that appears. It can be that teachers stand opposed to one another—and yet what manifests through them is one. Buddha appears opposite to Mahavira. Mahavira appears opposite to Krishna. What harmony could there be between Krishna and Christ? To imagine Muhammad and Mahavira together is difficult. Teachers are many—not only many, but they may even appear contrary to one another. Yet the Mahaguru is one. That which flashed in Mahavira, that which flashed in Muhammad, that of which Krishna and Christ became reflections—that is one. The reflections are bound to be different. For the reflection absorbs the personality of the lake in which it appears. And that there will be contradictions among reflections is certain, because the personalities are different, even opposed. Meera can dance; to envision Mahavira dancing is hard. To think of Mahavira dancing is almost impossible. And to seat Meera in Buddha-like silence is just as difficult. Meera’s personality can dance; when the ray of truth strikes that personality, it dances. Mahavira’s personality can be silent like stone; when that ray of truth falls upon this personality, it becomes stone-like silence. Have you seen the stone images of Mahavira? As silent as they are—he was more silent than that. No movement at all. Place Mahavira and Meera side by side and it becomes difficult: they seem opposite. One has sat utterly silent; one has resounded completely, has burst into song. This is the difference of personality. Meera is prepared to dance; when truth is realized it expresses as dance—because what expresses can only express in the way it is prepared. Consider: a painter, a poet, a musician, and a dancer go to the same nearby lake. The lake is one. But when its beauty touches the poet, a song is born. When its beauty touches the painter, not a song but a painting is born. When its beauty touches the dancer, the sound of anklets is heard. And when the soul of the lake touches the musician, the strings of the veena begin to shimmer. The lake is one, but those who approach have their own personalities; and that personality will be the vehicle of expression. The realization of truth is one; expressions are many. Therefore the sutra says: teachers are many, but the Mahaguru is one. And in whichever teacher you catch the fragrance of that One, a glimpse of that One—he is the door for you. Then leave worrying about other teachers. Why? Because the reason you feel the fragrance in a particular teacher is not that truth is in him and not in others; rather, his expression accords with your personality. That is why the Guru appears to you through that teacher. Between his expression and your personality there is a certain harmony. Thus Mahavira and Buddha may arise from the same village; yet some are drawn to Buddha’s magnet, some to Mahavira’s. There are those who cannot even be touched by Mahavira; they have no rapport with him. Not only that—they may even move opposite to Mahavira, and the very same person is drawn to Buddha and is caught by Buddha’s magic. Another in the same village remains untouched by Buddha. When your personality attunes to someone and you taste the same flavor that Mahavira tasted—if your tongue is of that kind, able to receive that flavor—only then can Mahavira draw you. The teacher who draws you says something about himself, but even more about you. With whomever you are drawn, with him is your harmony, your inner affinity. You are for him, and he is for you. Lovers often say to each other: it seems you were made for me; it seems I was wandering the whole earth in search of you—and until you were found, a sense of incompleteness lingered. Deeper still—because that is the harmony of two bodies, or if love goes very deep, the harmony of two minds—deeper than this is what happens between disciple and Guru: a meeting of souls. Hence we have given it a different name: shraddha, trust. It is love’s ultimate peak. Beyond it love cannot go—there where two souls feel one fragrance, one taste, one note; where the veenas of two souls vibrate together and begin to play as one. So the teacher whose touch makes the strings of your heart ring—he becomes the Guru for you. Not all teachers are your Guru. And it is necessary to be very alert about this. In our divided minds we can wander among twenty-five teachers and gather within us many contrary voices. Then the birth of music in us is hindered; needless conflicts accumulate within. Therefore it is right to sift thoroughly—and remember, do not sift the Guru; sift to see with whom you harmonize. This is quite different. We investigate to find which Guru is true. That is not valuable. How will you know who is true? What touchstone of truth do you have? Who has it? It is better to search for the one with whom my heart’s strings match. Whether he is true or not, do not worry. If your heart’s strings are in tune, then whoever he may be, he becomes a door to the Mahaguru for you. Sometimes crooked, unhewn stones become his doorway, and sometimes very beautiful statues do not. The question is not the statue or the stone—hewn or unhewn—but of harmony arising between you and him. And as love is blind, so is shraddha. Blind does not mean without eyes; it means a different kind of eye—not the eye of logic. No one can find his beloved through logic—and whoever sets out to find her logically will remain without a beloved. Nor can anyone find his Guru through logic—that too is a matter of love. And if you feel some Guru’s logic matches you, and for that reason you choose him, know that even this is not logic’s search; it is still your inner veena’s tone seeking its accord. Your very rationality is beyond reason; you cannot justify it by logic. That someone’s arguments appear appealing and you choose him—this too is an unreasoned liking, as blind as any other. Keep one thing in mind: wherever your rhythm settles, wherever attunement happens, there lies the doorway to the Mahaguru for you. Thus sometimes an ordinary person can be your Guru, and an extraordinary one may not. His being your Guru depends much on you. Your heart should begin to resound; you should feel a vastness touching you; the sense that this is the one through whom entry is possible. And very soon that person will be left behind—for all Gurus are frames. He is not the picture; he is only the frame within which the picture is set. The picture is always of the Mahaguru. The teacher is the frame. Our first recognition, however, is through the frame. When harmony is established with the frame, only then does the picture hidden within begin to be revealed. Teachers are many, but the Supreme Master is one—the one called Alaya, the World-Soul. Live in that Supreme just as its ray lives within you. And live among all beings as if they live in that Supreme. Before you stand upon the threshold of the Path, before crossing the final gate, you must immerse both into one and renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being. And the road that lies between the two, called antahkarana, must be destroyed. This sutra is immensely revolutionary. It says: before crossing the last gate, immerse both into one. Renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being. As yet we are personal beings; our existence is atomic. Like a small atom—we are encircled, confined within a tiny boundary. There is a ring within which we live. At its center a small flickering flame—our asmita, our ego: ‘I am.’ As long as this ‘I’ is the center from which we live, as long as our center is made of the ‘I’ within our shadow, the vastness surrounding us from every side each moment cannot meet us. My being a ‘me’ is my opposition to the Vast. So long as I say ‘I,’ I am other than the Vast; there is a deep conflict, a fight. The tone of ego is the tone of struggle, of battle; I am trying to flow upstream. Consider an ice-cube floating in water. It is water—but frozen. Because it is frozen it has boundary. The surrounding water is of its very nature, of its very essence—just the same. But the ice-cube has frozen; it has made its boundary. It floats in the river, yet apart from the river. It could become one—if it melts its boundary is lost. What is separate today can be one tomorrow. The ice-cube is the personal boundary, the personal existence; if the ice melts there remains no boundary—river or ocean, it becomes one. One who lives in ego is a frozen man. The more frozen, the more hard; the more stone-like; the more petty, for he is missing the chance to be vast. With the river he could flow as one—needlessly he collides. With the river he could have known the experience of the boundless—he is frightened it may become his death. The ice-cube fears: this river may melt me, may absorb me! Our fear of death is just this. Life all around wants to absorb us. What is fear of death?—that I may be erased! Therefore Buddha has said: one who fears death can never be religious. He has even said: only if you are ready to die utterly should you step toward religion—utterly. We feel: the body will die, the soul will remain. Let everything die, but this inner essence of mine will stay. Buddha said: be prepared to let even this go—only then move toward religion. The day you are ready to go out like a lamp, so that the flame has no trace—only then. When the lamp goes out, where does the flame vanish? It becomes one with the Vast. Now there is no individual being. It becomes one with the being of all. It both dies and does not die. It dies as a flame; it does not die—as it becomes one with the great mass of light spread throughout existence. When the ice melts, it dies and yet it does not. It dies as the individual; it remains as the ocean. In our dying lies the possibility of our true being. Jesus said: unless you fall into the earth as a seed and rot, decay, disappear—there is no future for you. Fall, die, be finished. It sounds upside-down that only in dying is our being. In non-being the Supreme being is revealed. This sutra says: die as a personal existence, as a personal being, so that you may be one with the Supreme Being. Die in your smallness so that you may be one with the Vast. It is a cheap bargain—and yet very difficult. The bargain is: leave the petty and gain the immense. But it is difficult, for we have become so one with the petty that it seems the death of the petty is our death. If the seed could think, it would think that to decay is death. How would it know that a tree will be born, rising into the sky, branches spreading wide; it will dance in the wind, in rain, in sun; it will be delighted, flowers will blossom; the hidden treasure of fragrance will spread across the horizon. It knows nothing. And one seed will die and a million seeds will be born—this too it cannot know. The dying seed knows only: I am dying. What will be—nothing is known. Therefore if the dying seed trembles and begs, ‘O Lord, do not let me die,’ it is no surprise. But it does not know that in saving itself it is praying for its death. Its survival is death; its dying is life. Man too is a seed. If he dies, the Vast is born within him. If he protects himself, he shrivels, becomes small. In this saving-and-saving, slowly he contracts. For the Supreme Being the personal being must be renounced... We can leave wealth, house, wife, children—there is nothing very deep in leaving these. They are not even worth leaving—for were they ever yours? Is your wife yours? After fifty years together did trust arise that she is yours? Or the husband yours? Wealth yours? The house yours? That which you abandon was never yours. How amusing! We try to renounce what is not ours. What should be renounced is you. Not husband, not wife, not son; not house, not wealth—all that must be renounced is you. But that we protect. In truth, for its sake we leave even wife—that we may attain moksha, the soul. I should be saved and enter supreme bliss—so we leave home and wealth. We protect the very one who should be dropped. And the day someone lets go that one, there remains in this world nothing to bind him. No burden remains—because the burden-bearer has died. We drop the loads, but save the bearer. The bearer cannot live without loads; he manufactures new ones. Drop the bearer himself. Buddha said: do not worry about dropping suffering—you will not be able to. It is you who manufactures suffering. Drop the one who manufactures it. On the day of his enlightenment Buddha spoke a most wondrous utterance: O builder of my house, now you are finished; there will be no more building of houses for me—because the one who lived in those houses is no more. Many times I broke the houses, but he who within was the house-builder went on building anew. This time I have demolished the builder himself. Now no house need be built again. And the road between these two—the personal and the Supreme—called antahkarana, must be destroyed. This is a difficult statement. We give great value to antahkarana—conscience. We say: so-and-so has no conscience; one should have it. The sutra says: this antahkarana is to be extinguished, this conscience destroyed. Understand a few things. Morality is built upon antahkarana; religion is built upon the destruction of antahkarana. If you want to make a person moral, give him a conscience. So every child is given a conscience. Children are not born with it; we plant it in them. Thus a Muslim’s conscience is of one kind, a Hindu’s of another, a Christian’s of another, a Jain’s of yet another—because conscience is not inborn; society manufactures it. A Jain’s conscience has no room for meat-eating. Since childhood he has heard it is sin; this has gone deep into the mind. Whether it is sin or not is not my concern—I point to how deeply it sinks. It reaches so deep into the unconscious that erasing it becomes nearly impossible. If a Jain eats meat today, it is likely he will vomit at once. If he suppresses the vomiting through practice, steels himself, and continues to eat, the physical trouble will pass—because the body adapts—but inner guilt will remain: I am committing a crime. This guilt is the shadow of socially-given conscience. A Muslim, a meat-eater, has no trouble; he eats meat with the same ease others eat vegetables. It is possible to produce a conscience even against vegetables. For example, Western vegetarians often eat eggs—calling them vegetarian food, for until life forms within, all is ‘vegetable.’ But they do not drink milk or take curd, calling milk an animal food. For a Western vegetarian, milk is difficult. Our rishis have called milk pure, the purest food, and here one who lives on milk alone is taken for a sadhu. In the West, milk is called non-vegetarian, for milk is blood. Indeed it is—the extract of blood; hence it becomes blood easily. It is a complete food—pure blood, so no other nourishment is needed; a child grows on milk alone. If from childhood one thinks in such language, to drink milk becomes difficult. Once a strict vegetarian stayed in my home. In the morning I asked: will you take tea, coffee, milk? He was startled: milk! Do you take milk? He asked as though asking if I ate meat. He was frightened. If the idea is put in from childhood, to touch milk becomes difficult. Conscience can be created for anything. Conscience means a feeling has been planted in your mind. It is planted at a time when you have no discerning intelligence. If conscience is to be created it must be done before seven; later it becomes difficult. Hence religions everywhere grip the necks of children. If they are left free till seven, later it is hard to bring them into any fold. The body too builds certain things only in a certain age; later it is difficult. Conscience too is built before seven—and the earlier, the deeper. Then the foundations of the unconscious are being laid; later the house will stand on that foundation. It can happen that later you change your religion, but not your conscience. Thus you see: a Hindu becomes a Christian—however Christian he becomes on the surface, within his conscience remains Hindu. Sooner or later he will relate to Christ as he related to Rama. He cannot differ much; the inner conscience does not change easily. Therefore conversions are largely superficial. Yes, their children, after two or three generations, will have a different conscience. But those who convert carry the conscience that was given. Conscience is like mother’s milk—it has entered the bones; flesh and marrow have been formed out of it. This sutra says: if you are to be religious, if you are to be absorbed in the Supreme and the personal being is to be dissolved, then antahkarana must be destroyed. Understand this well. If conscience is created by society, it is an obstruction to union with the Supreme. One must go beyond society. Hence the sannyasin was called asocial. Sannyas means: he goes beyond society. It means he denies the foundations society has laid. This does not mean he goes into opposition; there is no need to be contrary. Remember: one who goes into opposition is not free; he still carries the same conscience—he only moves to its opposite. If you are born in a Jain home and begin to eat meat, your meat-eating will never be healthy. Either you will eat with guilt, or if you remove the guilt, you will eat with pride—feeling you are doing something great. It will never be natural. That conscience will operate. If you go opposite, it becomes pride; if you do not and still eat, it is guilt. But never will it be simple, like just eating food. A thorn will remain; that inner conscience will pursue you. To go opposite is easy; to be free is difficult. Freedom means: neither for nor against. Freedom means the social game becomes, for you, only a game—not serious. Understand this well: just a game. There is no need to spoil the game. Let those who are playing play. What joy is there in disturbing it? And if necessary, so as not to disturb the game by your stepping aside, by being contrary or otherwise, you may remain in it—and yet know within that it is a game, that conscience is merely social arrangement. You may observe it outwardly, knowing it is only social; neither for it nor against it. Within you know it is an acting to be completed; then you are free. Conscience is destroyed only when social life becomes acting. There is no need to marry your sister because your conscience says not to; nor will your conscience dissolve by marrying. What is needed is to know: this is a game, a social arrangement—neither sin nor virtue. To live peacefully in a society, its rules are convenient. But within there is no sting. And if in another society someone marries his sister, no thought arises in you that it is a crime. Understand: it is that society’s game. Its people have their rules. As it is fitting for you to follow yours for convenience, so it is fitting for them to follow theirs. Creating inconvenience is no great revolution. Some enjoy creating inconvenience; they are only egoists—enjoying making trouble for themselves too. Conscience is a rule for those living together; without it the game could not be played. Even to play kabaddi rules are made. All rules are formal; none ultimate. Kabaddi’s rules have nothing to do with the universe. If you play volleyball or cricket you make rules. There is no necessity in the rules; cricket could be played by other rules. The only essential is that all who play agree; if ten players follow ten different rules, play is impossible. There is no difficulty in agreeing; if all agree, rules can be changed and the game will be the same. The day you see your conscience as only the arrangement of the social game into which you were born... Today the whole world is in confusion because different societies have for the first time come face to face. Until now everyone lived in his own well; it seemed conscience was some absolute law. But as walls fell and waters mingled, we discovered our rules had no relation to cosmic rules—they were our own games. This discovery has created disorder. It would not have, had we known our rules were only games; but we took them as ultimate truth, and now know they are not. In Africa there is a tribe that marries even their mothers. You feel a shock just hearing this. It is not you who is shocked; your conscience is. If one tells that tribe there are people whose father dies and the mother sits widowed in the house and refuses to marry, they are equally shocked: how ungrateful! She who gave you birth is left widowed! She is old and will not find a young man; the son should sacrifice. They call this sacrifice—and it is. He could have sought a young girl; he gives up that for his mother. If we tell them our way, they feel as we do about theirs. But all this is game. A sannyasin is one who sees the game as game. Neither for nor against the arrangement of conscience; accepting the rules where he is, playing along, he becomes free of conscience. And one who is free of society can enter the Vast, because society has drawn boundaries on every side. The day it is seen that all arrangements made by man are imagined, that day we enter the arrangement that is not imagined—the real. It is difficult, and very revolutionary. The road between the two—called antahkarana—must be destroyed. You must answer to Dharma, to that austere law which will ask upon your first step. You must answer to Dharma... not to morality. Moralities are many; Dharma is one. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—these are moral codes, arrangements; they are not Dharma. Dharma is one. Dharma will ask you on the very first step. You must answer that austere law. It is austere because it does not accept human fantasies. It will not be caught in your imaginings; it shatters your beliefs, hopes, assurances. It does not take you into account. Consider: when Galileo invented the telescope he invited the learned of his university to look at the heavens through it. They refused. They said: what our eyes see is truth; there must be trickery in this instrument—for what our eyes do not see appears in it; it is magical, the devil’s device. They refused to look. What could not be found in the Bible could not exist. The telescope was false. Any who peered into it were called atheists. Through the telescope things became visible that were not in the scriptures; society could not accept them. The day one looks beyond conscience, many things become visible that are not in society’s rules. They cannot be, for society’s rules are those of the blind—those without self-awareness. In truth, rules are needed because people are so ignorant they cannot walk without them. Only the wise can be without rules. The ignorant without rules will fall into pits and push others too. Rules are necessary for the ignorant. What need has the wise of rules? A blind man walks with a stick, probing. One with eyes need not carry a stick. He can be excused from it. But the blind cannot be excused; he must carry one. If a blind man’s eyes open and still he clings to the stick, we say he is attached to the useless. Now he has something better than a stick—sight; he does not need the stick. The day a glimpse of the soul arises, antahkarana is no longer needed. It was needed because what we could not do by self-knowing, society forced upon us. Now we will do it through self-knowing. Hence we kept the sannyasin outside rules—not that by taking sannyas one is instantly beyond rules; that is fantasy. We place no rules on him because we assume he has come to know the Supreme Rule. What need have we to bind him? If he knows Paramatman’s law, he need not be bound by society’s. Nor does the sannyasin go about breaking society’s rules. If someone’s eyes open, he does not need a stick, but to snatch the sticks of the blind would be a little excessive. Sticks will drop upon the coming of sight; a stick is only a provisional arrangement—this understanding must remain within. Dharma’s laws are austere. You must answer that austere law which will ask upon your first step: O Lanoo, have you obeyed all the rules? Dharma’s rules, not society’s. Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all humankind? These are Dharma’s rules: Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all? Just as in the roar of the sacred river all the voices of nature are echoed, so too must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and every thought of all who live and breathe. Dharma’s rule is the sense of oneness with the Vast—that which is present everywhere, of which we are a part, from which we are born and into which we shall dissolve—its oneness felt here and now, moment to moment. Therefore I say: Hindu, Muslim, Christian cannot be religion; how will a Hindu feel one with a Muslim? How will a temple-worshiper be one with the worship of a mosque? The religious goes beyond all sects. It is not necessary that he stop going to the temple; but then he knows the mosque is a temple too. Not necessary that he stop reading the Vedas; but he knows the Quran is Veda too—for someone else it will be beloved, helpful. His oppositions fall. As his boundary melts, the heart and mind become attuned with all humanity. That day he becomes worthy of being called human. But there is a great difficulty to be noted. We all seek bliss; we all are in pain and seek joy. The problem is deep: joy is available only the day no boundary remains in us. As long as there is boundary, joy will not be found. We are all seeking joy; we want to escape sorrow—but sorrow is our state. What shall we do? How to break this sorrow? We want to leap directly from sorrow to bliss—but how? This sutra is precious. It says: first become one with the Vast sorrow. From where you are it is difficult to jump. You are in pain; the whole world is in pain. You are not alone—pain is in every heart. To be infinite in joy is difficult now; be infinite in sorrow first. You cannot yet laugh in the Vast festival—but you can weep in humanity’s sorrow. You are already weeping in your own; at least one thing you can do—enlarge your weeping. By enlarging it you will learn the art of widening. A strange happening occurs: as long as you are sorrowing in your own sorrow, you remain sorrowful. Being bound to oneself is the root of sorrow. The moment you begin to be one with the Vast sorrow, the pain of others begins to touch you—you start melting. And the day the sighs of humanity stir your heart, you have begun to disappear. Suddenly one day you will find: only the sorrow of others remains—you have forgotten your own. One day you will find: your sorrow is no more, only the sorrow of others remains. In this oneness with sorrow you have melted, and you have created the possibility where joy can descend. It looks upside-down, but it is not. The root cause of sorrow is our being tied to ourselves—thinking only of ourselves. We are blind to the immense suffering around us. We see others’ happiness and our own sorrow—that is our logic. You see someone in a palace and think: how happy he must be—his happiness is visible. You see a man with a beautiful woman and think: how happy he must be. You see the surface. The sorrow given by a beautiful woman is known to her husband; the sorrows of the palace are known to its resident. Ask the palace-dweller—he speaks his sorrow; ask the husband—he speaks his sorrow. You see others’ joys because you see their outer wrappings—the faces, the clothes. You do not see the heart. If you could, you would see their sorrow. As long as you see others’ joy, you will see your own sorrow. The day you begin to see others’ sorrow, you will begin to see your own joy. The whole vision changes. And the day one becomes one with the Vast sorrow he forgets his own. It becomes so petty, of no value. It no longer occurs to him that he too has sorrow. In this ocean of sorrow what is mine? The Vast sorrow diminishes yours, as if a huge line has been drawn next to your little line of pain. I have heard of a Hasidic master, the Baal Shem. One morning a villager came: I am in great misery—wretched, poor. I have one small room; wife, father, mother, seven children—we all live in that one room. It is hell; I think of suicide. Any remedy? The Baal Shem asked: only so many in your house? No goats? He said: two goats. The master said: take them into the room as well. The man cried: are you mad? I came asking how to make the small room bigger—you make it smaller! The Baal Shem insisted. He obeyed. From that day the house became a great hell. After a week he returned: save me—at least take the goats out. The master asked: what else do you have? Four hens. He said: take them in too. The man: do you want my death? The master said: do it; come in seven days. In seven days he came—half of him left; he could neither sleep nor eat. The master said: take the goats out. He sighed with relief: such grace! Then: take the hens out too. The man fell at his feet with tears of joy: it feels I am returning to heaven. It was the same house—but great sorrow can make small sorrow feel like joy. If you bring into your house all the world’s sorrows, all its hens and goats, where is your sorrow? It disappears—and with it, you disappear. Thus there is a method of sadhana: identity with humanity’s pain. In it you will melt. And on the day you melt, suddenly the ocean of joy will descend. You had gone to become one with sorrow—and joy arrives. We all are busy removing sorrow, and sorrow increases. As in the roar of the sacred river all the echoes of nature resound, so must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and thought of all who live and breathe. The disciple can be compared to a veena that sets the heart humming; humanity to its resonance; the hand that plays to the World-Soul, Paramatman. But the string that refuses to vibrate in sweet accord with the singer’s touch snaps and is thrown away. So it is with the minds of disciples and shravakas: they must be attuned to the Upadhyaya’s mind, which is one with Paramatman; otherwise they fall from the Path, break, are separated. The veena—the sutra says—the disciple’s heart may be compared with it. Humanity may be compared to its resonance. The strings are limited, but the resonance is boundless. The sound sleeps in the strings; waking, it is free of the strings. Even if the veena breaks, the resonance continues to travel endlessly. The resonance is greater than the veena. It is born of the veena and greater than it, for the veena is limited and asleep; the resonance is awake and vast. And the hand that plays may be compared to the World-Soul, to Paramatman. The string that refuses the singer’s touch, that refuses sweet rhythm, is broken and thrown away. We too break and are thrown aside because we refuse to play with the World-Soul. We want to beat our own little drum, to have our own song, our own veena, our own hand. We want to create a separate world. Therein lies our misery; therein we are broken, uprooted, cut off. It feels this world is not our home and we are exiled. Such are the minds of disciples and shravakas. They must harmonize with the Upadhyaya’s mind—one with Paramatman—or they will fall away. And as yet we do not know Paramatman in any clear way; we do not feel his touch. He is here, very near, but we do not know the art of touching. Therefore if a seeker, a disciple, hears even an echo of him in someone—catches a little news of him in someone’s eyes, in someone’s way of sitting and rising, in someone’s voice, in someone’s silence—if some hint is received, a footfall... As one waiting at night for the beloved—when dry leaves rustle he starts up: perhaps she has come. The wind crosses the trees, there is a murmur; he hears the beloved’s approach and starts up again. A gust knocks on the door; he hears the beloved’s knock. One who seeks the Lord must first learn to hear the footfall. When you hear it in someone, know that you have found your Guru. For you, the Guru is the Lord’s footfall. That is why we have called the Guru God. Kabir asked when both—Guru and Govind—stood before him: Guru Govind dono khade, kake lagu paon? Whose feet should I touch? Kabir touched the Guru’s feet and said: Balihari Guru aapne, Govind diyo batay. I bow to the Guru first, who showed me Govind. The Guru at once pointed: touch the Lord’s feet. Kabir asked: whose shall I touch? The Guru said: touch the Lord’s. But Kabir touched the Guru first: first I touch yours, for you point to him. He placed Govind second, the Guru first! Wherever the Lord’s footfall is found, then bring your breath into rhythm with that person. The Guru has already come into rhythm—he has surrendered his veena into the hands of the Lord; his strings are tuned by the hands of Paramatman. Perhaps your veena cannot yet be directly in the Lord’s hands; then let it be in the Guru’s hands. In this indirect way, through the Guru, you come under the Lord’s hand. The Guru is tuned to Paramatman; you begin to tune to the Guru—your tuning with Paramatman has begun. The day you are completely tuned, suddenly you will find the Guru has stepped aside. The Guru who remains in-between is no Guru. That is why the Guru pointed: touch the Lord’s feet; I am no longer the issue. I was needed until you could not see directly. Now you see both. Till now you saw only me—Paramatman stood always by me, playing my veena, and what you heard from my veena was news of his hands. Now you see both—Guru and Govind together—now I am not needed; touch his feet, be united directly. It is a deep grace that Kabir said: I will first touch your feet. It is the last chance; after this perhaps the Guru will not even be seen—he will vanish. Jesus had taken initiation from John the Baptist. The day John initiated Jesus he was seen no more. People searched for him but found no trace. The old disciples said: he always said, ‘I am waiting for one man; the note I know—when the one comes who can sing it, I will step away; I am tired.’ When Jesus came, John disappeared. The Guru will step away the moment the Mahaguru is seen. So do the true ones. Those who cannot attune themselves with the Guru, or with the Lord, will be broken and cast aside. So do they act who are brothers to the shadow—self-slayers—called the Dugpas. This is a Tibetan sect that became very adept at cultivating the shadow-personality and lives by it—torturing others through it—because the shadow has its own science: black magic. If one learns the arts of the shadow-personality, they can be as dangerous as knowledge of the atom bomb. With the atom bomb we can destroy bodies. With knowledge of the dark shadow, knowing its laws, we can torment and trouble people greatly. You have heard, but may not have believed, that with knowledge of your dark shadow one can kill you without touching you. Through that shadow any message can be sent to you; you can be made to do anything; you can be destroyed. But those who enter this world of the dark shadow go far from the music of the Lord. They become like snapped strings removed from the veena. For births upon births their mischief may continue. It is hard for the Singer to set them again. They must prepare themselves, purify themselves in every way, abandon the entire apparatus of the dark shadow. Until they go through catharsis and are free of all their diseases, they will not be accepted again to be fixed into the veena. O seeker of light, have you made your being one with the great sorrow of humanity? If you have... then you may enter. Yet it is good, before you set foot upon the difficult road of sorrow, to understand its highs and lows, its hardships. This is a deep warning. We all seek joy; we yearn for great bliss. But before great bliss we must become one with great sorrow. For in the world no mountain peak exists without deep valleys by its side. Small happiness has a small hollow beside it. Great bliss—then great chasms of sorrow lie near. Do not think that Buddha is only on the peak of great bliss. He is—but around that peak are deep trenches of great pain. Certainly they are not his own—they are others’—that is why he could become a peak. Yet the pain is there; the suffering of all humanity touches him. Not only humanity—of all living beings. If Mahavira places his feet with great care for fear of ants, do not think it is calculated—do not think: by saving ants I will gain heaven and moksha. Those who follow behind think in such calculations—they are of the merchant caste; they keep accounts: how many ants saved? How much water strained? They will demand a return from God: see, I committed so little violence—what is the fruit? No—Mahavira does not act for reward. He who has become one with great life has everyone’s suffering as his own. Now the ant crushed under his foot is not an ant, but another Mahavira crushed under this Mahavira’s step. Beside great bliss are great chasms of sorrow. But they are not his own—this is the difference. The petty man’s joy is his own, his sorrow is his own. The great being’s sorrow is not his, his joy is not his. Those great chasms are others’, and those peaks are only others’ future possibilities. Now Buddha has neither joy nor sorrow. Hence Buddha did not say there will be joy in nirvana—he said there will be supreme peace: neither joy nor sorrow. All remains of others; nothing remains of oneself. And when nothing of the self remains, the self too is gone. Then only the All remains.
Osho's Commentary
Before you stand upon the threshold of the Path, before you cross the last gate, you must immerse both into one, and renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being. And thus the road that lies between the two—the one called antahkarana—has to be destroyed.
You must answer to Dharma, to that austere law which will ask you upon your very first step:
O Lanoo, have you obeyed all the rules?
Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all humankind? As in the roar of the sacred river all the voices of nature are echoed, so too must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and every thought of all who live and breathe in the world.
The disciple can be compared to a veena that sets the heart humming, humanity to its resonance, and the hand that plays to the rhythmic breath of the Mahavishvatman. The string that refuses to vibrate in sweet accord with the singer’s touch snaps and is cast aside. So it is with the collective minds of disciples and shravakas: they must harmonize with the Upadhyaya’s mind—one with Paramatman—otherwise they will break off from the Path.
So do they act who are brothers to the shadow—self-slayers of the soul—those known as the Dugpas.
O seeker of light, have you made your being one with the great suffering of humanity?
Have you done so?... Then you may enter. Yet it is good, before setting foot on the arduous road of sorrow, to understand its rises and falls, its difficulties.
There is much to understand.
As on a full-moon night one moon is mirrored in countless lakes; each lake holds its own reflection, each reflection its own personality—and yet all are of the one moon. He who is entangled in the reflection may perhaps forget the moon of which it is a reflection. And he who lifts his eyes from the reflections will glimpse the original moon. For reflections are but its images.
The Guru is one; teachers are many.
That which is the truth of life is one; but its teachings are many.
That which is the temple of mystery is one; but its doors are many.
Infinite are the paths that lead to it; yet upon arriving, only the One remains.
The goal is one.
And even in the teachers, the glimpse that shines out is of that One alone. All teachers are like lakes; in them it is the one Mahaguru that appears. It can be that teachers stand opposed to one another—and yet what manifests through them is one.
Buddha appears opposite to Mahavira. Mahavira appears opposite to Krishna. What harmony could there be between Krishna and Christ? To imagine Muhammad and Mahavira together is difficult.
Teachers are many—not only many, but they may even appear contrary to one another. Yet the Mahaguru is one. That which flashed in Mahavira, that which flashed in Muhammad, that of which Krishna and Christ became reflections—that is one. The reflections are bound to be different. For the reflection absorbs the personality of the lake in which it appears. And that there will be contradictions among reflections is certain, because the personalities are different, even opposed.
Meera can dance; to envision Mahavira dancing is hard. To think of Mahavira dancing is almost impossible. And to seat Meera in Buddha-like silence is just as difficult. Meera’s personality can dance; when the ray of truth strikes that personality, it dances. Mahavira’s personality can be silent like stone; when that ray of truth falls upon this personality, it becomes stone-like silence. Have you seen the stone images of Mahavira? As silent as they are—he was more silent than that. No movement at all.
Place Mahavira and Meera side by side and it becomes difficult: they seem opposite. One has sat utterly silent; one has resounded completely, has burst into song. This is the difference of personality. Meera is prepared to dance; when truth is realized it expresses as dance—because what expresses can only express in the way it is prepared.
Consider: a painter, a poet, a musician, and a dancer go to the same nearby lake. The lake is one. But when its beauty touches the poet, a song is born. When its beauty touches the painter, not a song but a painting is born. When its beauty touches the dancer, the sound of anklets is heard. And when the soul of the lake touches the musician, the strings of the veena begin to shimmer. The lake is one, but those who approach have their own personalities; and that personality will be the vehicle of expression.
The realization of truth is one; expressions are many.
Therefore the sutra says: teachers are many, but the Mahaguru is one. And in whichever teacher you catch the fragrance of that One, a glimpse of that One—he is the door for you. Then leave worrying about other teachers. Why? Because the reason you feel the fragrance in a particular teacher is not that truth is in him and not in others; rather, his expression accords with your personality. That is why the Guru appears to you through that teacher. Between his expression and your personality there is a certain harmony.
Thus Mahavira and Buddha may arise from the same village; yet some are drawn to Buddha’s magnet, some to Mahavira’s. There are those who cannot even be touched by Mahavira; they have no rapport with him. Not only that—they may even move opposite to Mahavira, and the very same person is drawn to Buddha and is caught by Buddha’s magic. Another in the same village remains untouched by Buddha. When your personality attunes to someone and you taste the same flavor that Mahavira tasted—if your tongue is of that kind, able to receive that flavor—only then can Mahavira draw you. The teacher who draws you says something about himself, but even more about you. With whomever you are drawn, with him is your harmony, your inner affinity. You are for him, and he is for you.
Lovers often say to each other: it seems you were made for me; it seems I was wandering the whole earth in search of you—and until you were found, a sense of incompleteness lingered. Deeper still—because that is the harmony of two bodies, or if love goes very deep, the harmony of two minds—deeper than this is what happens between disciple and Guru: a meeting of souls. Hence we have given it a different name: shraddha, trust. It is love’s ultimate peak. Beyond it love cannot go—there where two souls feel one fragrance, one taste, one note; where the veenas of two souls vibrate together and begin to play as one.
So the teacher whose touch makes the strings of your heart ring—he becomes the Guru for you.
Not all teachers are your Guru. And it is necessary to be very alert about this. In our divided minds we can wander among twenty-five teachers and gather within us many contrary voices. Then the birth of music in us is hindered; needless conflicts accumulate within. Therefore it is right to sift thoroughly—and remember, do not sift the Guru; sift to see with whom you harmonize. This is quite different. We investigate to find which Guru is true. That is not valuable. How will you know who is true? What touchstone of truth do you have? Who has it? It is better to search for the one with whom my heart’s strings match. Whether he is true or not, do not worry. If your heart’s strings are in tune, then whoever he may be, he becomes a door to the Mahaguru for you. Sometimes crooked, unhewn stones become his doorway, and sometimes very beautiful statues do not. The question is not the statue or the stone—hewn or unhewn—but of harmony arising between you and him.
And as love is blind, so is shraddha. Blind does not mean without eyes; it means a different kind of eye—not the eye of logic. No one can find his beloved through logic—and whoever sets out to find her logically will remain without a beloved. Nor can anyone find his Guru through logic—that too is a matter of love. And if you feel some Guru’s logic matches you, and for that reason you choose him, know that even this is not logic’s search; it is still your inner veena’s tone seeking its accord. Your very rationality is beyond reason; you cannot justify it by logic. That someone’s arguments appear appealing and you choose him—this too is an unreasoned liking, as blind as any other. Keep one thing in mind: wherever your rhythm settles, wherever attunement happens, there lies the doorway to the Mahaguru for you.
Thus sometimes an ordinary person can be your Guru, and an extraordinary one may not. His being your Guru depends much on you. Your heart should begin to resound; you should feel a vastness touching you; the sense that this is the one through whom entry is possible. And very soon that person will be left behind—for all Gurus are frames. He is not the picture; he is only the frame within which the picture is set. The picture is always of the Mahaguru. The teacher is the frame. Our first recognition, however, is through the frame. When harmony is established with the frame, only then does the picture hidden within begin to be revealed.
Teachers are many, but the Supreme Master is one—the one called Alaya, the World-Soul. Live in that Supreme just as its ray lives within you. And live among all beings as if they live in that Supreme.
Before you stand upon the threshold of the Path, before crossing the final gate, you must immerse both into one and renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being. And the road that lies between the two, called antahkarana, must be destroyed.
This sutra is immensely revolutionary.
It says: before crossing the last gate, immerse both into one. Renounce the personal being for the Supreme Being.
As yet we are personal beings; our existence is atomic. Like a small atom—we are encircled, confined within a tiny boundary. There is a ring within which we live. At its center a small flickering flame—our asmita, our ego: ‘I am.’ As long as this ‘I’ is the center from which we live, as long as our center is made of the ‘I’ within our shadow, the vastness surrounding us from every side each moment cannot meet us. My being a ‘me’ is my opposition to the Vast.
So long as I say ‘I,’ I am other than the Vast; there is a deep conflict, a fight. The tone of ego is the tone of struggle, of battle; I am trying to flow upstream.
Consider an ice-cube floating in water. It is water—but frozen. Because it is frozen it has boundary. The surrounding water is of its very nature, of its very essence—just the same. But the ice-cube has frozen; it has made its boundary. It floats in the river, yet apart from the river. It could become one—if it melts its boundary is lost. What is separate today can be one tomorrow. The ice-cube is the personal boundary, the personal existence; if the ice melts there remains no boundary—river or ocean, it becomes one.
One who lives in ego is a frozen man. The more frozen, the more hard; the more stone-like; the more petty, for he is missing the chance to be vast. With the river he could flow as one—needlessly he collides. With the river he could have known the experience of the boundless—he is frightened it may become his death. The ice-cube fears: this river may melt me, may absorb me! Our fear of death is just this. Life all around wants to absorb us. What is fear of death?—that I may be erased!
Therefore Buddha has said: one who fears death can never be religious. He has even said: only if you are ready to die utterly should you step toward religion—utterly. We feel: the body will die, the soul will remain. Let everything die, but this inner essence of mine will stay. Buddha said: be prepared to let even this go—only then move toward religion. The day you are ready to go out like a lamp, so that the flame has no trace—only then.
When the lamp goes out, where does the flame vanish?
It becomes one with the Vast. Now there is no individual being. It becomes one with the being of all. It both dies and does not die. It dies as a flame; it does not die—as it becomes one with the great mass of light spread throughout existence. When the ice melts, it dies and yet it does not. It dies as the individual; it remains as the ocean. In our dying lies the possibility of our true being.
Jesus said: unless you fall into the earth as a seed and rot, decay, disappear—there is no future for you. Fall, die, be finished. It sounds upside-down that only in dying is our being. In non-being the Supreme being is revealed.
This sutra says: die as a personal existence, as a personal being, so that you may be one with the Supreme Being. Die in your smallness so that you may be one with the Vast.
It is a cheap bargain—and yet very difficult. The bargain is: leave the petty and gain the immense.
But it is difficult, for we have become so one with the petty that it seems the death of the petty is our death. If the seed could think, it would think that to decay is death. How would it know that a tree will be born, rising into the sky, branches spreading wide; it will dance in the wind, in rain, in sun; it will be delighted, flowers will blossom; the hidden treasure of fragrance will spread across the horizon. It knows nothing. And one seed will die and a million seeds will be born—this too it cannot know. The dying seed knows only: I am dying. What will be—nothing is known.
Therefore if the dying seed trembles and begs, ‘O Lord, do not let me die,’ it is no surprise. But it does not know that in saving itself it is praying for its death. Its survival is death; its dying is life.
Man too is a seed. If he dies, the Vast is born within him. If he protects himself, he shrivels, becomes small. In this saving-and-saving, slowly he contracts.
For the Supreme Being the personal being must be renounced...
We can leave wealth, house, wife, children—there is nothing very deep in leaving these. They are not even worth leaving—for were they ever yours? Is your wife yours? After fifty years together did trust arise that she is yours? Or the husband yours? Wealth yours? The house yours? That which you abandon was never yours. How amusing! We try to renounce what is not ours.
What should be renounced is you. Not husband, not wife, not son; not house, not wealth—all that must be renounced is you. But that we protect. In truth, for its sake we leave even wife—that we may attain moksha, the soul. I should be saved and enter supreme bliss—so we leave home and wealth. We protect the very one who should be dropped. And the day someone lets go that one, there remains in this world nothing to bind him. No burden remains—because the burden-bearer has died.
We drop the loads, but save the bearer. The bearer cannot live without loads; he manufactures new ones. Drop the bearer himself.
Buddha said: do not worry about dropping suffering—you will not be able to. It is you who manufactures suffering. Drop the one who manufactures it.
On the day of his enlightenment Buddha spoke a most wondrous utterance: O builder of my house, now you are finished; there will be no more building of houses for me—because the one who lived in those houses is no more. Many times I broke the houses, but he who within was the house-builder went on building anew. This time I have demolished the builder himself. Now no house need be built again.
And the road between these two—the personal and the Supreme—called antahkarana, must be destroyed.
This is a difficult statement. We give great value to antahkarana—conscience. We say: so-and-so has no conscience; one should have it. The sutra says: this antahkarana is to be extinguished, this conscience destroyed.
Understand a few things.
Morality is built upon antahkarana; religion is built upon the destruction of antahkarana. If you want to make a person moral, give him a conscience. So every child is given a conscience. Children are not born with it; we plant it in them. Thus a Muslim’s conscience is of one kind, a Hindu’s of another, a Christian’s of another, a Jain’s of yet another—because conscience is not inborn; society manufactures it.
A Jain’s conscience has no room for meat-eating. Since childhood he has heard it is sin; this has gone deep into the mind. Whether it is sin or not is not my concern—I point to how deeply it sinks. It reaches so deep into the unconscious that erasing it becomes nearly impossible. If a Jain eats meat today, it is likely he will vomit at once. If he suppresses the vomiting through practice, steels himself, and continues to eat, the physical trouble will pass—because the body adapts—but inner guilt will remain: I am committing a crime. This guilt is the shadow of socially-given conscience.
A Muslim, a meat-eater, has no trouble; he eats meat with the same ease others eat vegetables. It is possible to produce a conscience even against vegetables.
For example, Western vegetarians often eat eggs—calling them vegetarian food, for until life forms within, all is ‘vegetable.’ But they do not drink milk or take curd, calling milk an animal food. For a Western vegetarian, milk is difficult. Our rishis have called milk pure, the purest food, and here one who lives on milk alone is taken for a sadhu. In the West, milk is called non-vegetarian, for milk is blood. Indeed it is—the extract of blood; hence it becomes blood easily. It is a complete food—pure blood, so no other nourishment is needed; a child grows on milk alone. If from childhood one thinks in such language, to drink milk becomes difficult.
Once a strict vegetarian stayed in my home. In the morning I asked: will you take tea, coffee, milk? He was startled: milk! Do you take milk? He asked as though asking if I ate meat. He was frightened. If the idea is put in from childhood, to touch milk becomes difficult.
Conscience can be created for anything. Conscience means a feeling has been planted in your mind. It is planted at a time when you have no discerning intelligence. If conscience is to be created it must be done before seven; later it becomes difficult.
Hence religions everywhere grip the necks of children. If they are left free till seven, later it is hard to bring them into any fold. The body too builds certain things only in a certain age; later it is difficult. Conscience too is built before seven—and the earlier, the deeper. Then the foundations of the unconscious are being laid; later the house will stand on that foundation.
It can happen that later you change your religion, but not your conscience. Thus you see: a Hindu becomes a Christian—however Christian he becomes on the surface, within his conscience remains Hindu. Sooner or later he will relate to Christ as he related to Rama. He cannot differ much; the inner conscience does not change easily.
Therefore conversions are largely superficial. Yes, their children, after two or three generations, will have a different conscience. But those who convert carry the conscience that was given. Conscience is like mother’s milk—it has entered the bones; flesh and marrow have been formed out of it.
This sutra says: if you are to be religious, if you are to be absorbed in the Supreme and the personal being is to be dissolved, then antahkarana must be destroyed.
Understand this well.
If conscience is created by society, it is an obstruction to union with the Supreme. One must go beyond society.
Hence the sannyasin was called asocial. Sannyas means: he goes beyond society. It means he denies the foundations society has laid. This does not mean he goes into opposition; there is no need to be contrary. Remember: one who goes into opposition is not free; he still carries the same conscience—he only moves to its opposite.
If you are born in a Jain home and begin to eat meat, your meat-eating will never be healthy. Either you will eat with guilt, or if you remove the guilt, you will eat with pride—feeling you are doing something great. It will never be natural. That conscience will operate. If you go opposite, it becomes pride; if you do not and still eat, it is guilt. But never will it be simple, like just eating food. A thorn will remain; that inner conscience will pursue you.
To go opposite is easy; to be free is difficult.
Freedom means: neither for nor against.
Freedom means the social game becomes, for you, only a game—not serious.
Understand this well: just a game. There is no need to spoil the game. Let those who are playing play. What joy is there in disturbing it? And if necessary, so as not to disturb the game by your stepping aside, by being contrary or otherwise, you may remain in it—and yet know within that it is a game, that conscience is merely social arrangement. You may observe it outwardly, knowing it is only social; neither for it nor against it. Within you know it is an acting to be completed; then you are free.
Conscience is destroyed only when social life becomes acting.
There is no need to marry your sister because your conscience says not to; nor will your conscience dissolve by marrying. What is needed is to know: this is a game, a social arrangement—neither sin nor virtue. To live peacefully in a society, its rules are convenient. But within there is no sting.
And if in another society someone marries his sister, no thought arises in you that it is a crime. Understand: it is that society’s game. Its people have their rules. As it is fitting for you to follow yours for convenience, so it is fitting for them to follow theirs.
Creating inconvenience is no great revolution. Some enjoy creating inconvenience; they are only egoists—enjoying making trouble for themselves too. Conscience is a rule for those living together; without it the game could not be played. Even to play kabaddi rules are made.
All rules are formal; none ultimate.
Kabaddi’s rules have nothing to do with the universe. If you play volleyball or cricket you make rules. There is no necessity in the rules; cricket could be played by other rules. The only essential is that all who play agree; if ten players follow ten different rules, play is impossible. There is no difficulty in agreeing; if all agree, rules can be changed and the game will be the same. The day you see your conscience as only the arrangement of the social game into which you were born...
Today the whole world is in confusion because different societies have for the first time come face to face. Until now everyone lived in his own well; it seemed conscience was some absolute law. But as walls fell and waters mingled, we discovered our rules had no relation to cosmic rules—they were our own games. This discovery has created disorder. It would not have, had we known our rules were only games; but we took them as ultimate truth, and now know they are not.
In Africa there is a tribe that marries even their mothers. You feel a shock just hearing this. It is not you who is shocked; your conscience is. If one tells that tribe there are people whose father dies and the mother sits widowed in the house and refuses to marry, they are equally shocked: how ungrateful! She who gave you birth is left widowed! She is old and will not find a young man; the son should sacrifice. They call this sacrifice—and it is. He could have sought a young girl; he gives up that for his mother. If we tell them our way, they feel as we do about theirs. But all this is game.
A sannyasin is one who sees the game as game. Neither for nor against the arrangement of conscience; accepting the rules where he is, playing along, he becomes free of conscience. And one who is free of society can enter the Vast, because society has drawn boundaries on every side.
The day it is seen that all arrangements made by man are imagined, that day we enter the arrangement that is not imagined—the real. It is difficult, and very revolutionary.
The road between the two—called antahkarana—must be destroyed. You must answer to Dharma, to that austere law which will ask upon your first step.
You must answer to Dharma... not to morality. Moralities are many; Dharma is one. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—these are moral codes, arrangements; they are not Dharma. Dharma is one.
Dharma will ask you on the very first step. You must answer that austere law.
It is austere because it does not accept human fantasies. It will not be caught in your imaginings; it shatters your beliefs, hopes, assurances. It does not take you into account.
Consider: when Galileo invented the telescope he invited the learned of his university to look at the heavens through it. They refused. They said: what our eyes see is truth; there must be trickery in this instrument—for what our eyes do not see appears in it; it is magical, the devil’s device. They refused to look. What could not be found in the Bible could not exist. The telescope was false. Any who peered into it were called atheists. Through the telescope things became visible that were not in the scriptures; society could not accept them.
The day one looks beyond conscience, many things become visible that are not in society’s rules. They cannot be, for society’s rules are those of the blind—those without self-awareness. In truth, rules are needed because people are so ignorant they cannot walk without them. Only the wise can be without rules. The ignorant without rules will fall into pits and push others too. Rules are necessary for the ignorant. What need has the wise of rules?
A blind man walks with a stick, probing. One with eyes need not carry a stick. He can be excused from it. But the blind cannot be excused; he must carry one. If a blind man’s eyes open and still he clings to the stick, we say he is attached to the useless. Now he has something better than a stick—sight; he does not need the stick.
The day a glimpse of the soul arises, antahkarana is no longer needed. It was needed because what we could not do by self-knowing, society forced upon us. Now we will do it through self-knowing.
Hence we kept the sannyasin outside rules—not that by taking sannyas one is instantly beyond rules; that is fantasy. We place no rules on him because we assume he has come to know the Supreme Rule. What need have we to bind him? If he knows Paramatman’s law, he need not be bound by society’s.
Nor does the sannyasin go about breaking society’s rules. If someone’s eyes open, he does not need a stick, but to snatch the sticks of the blind would be a little excessive. Sticks will drop upon the coming of sight; a stick is only a provisional arrangement—this understanding must remain within.
Dharma’s laws are austere. You must answer that austere law which will ask upon your first step: O Lanoo, have you obeyed all the rules?
Dharma’s rules, not society’s.
Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all humankind?
These are Dharma’s rules:
Have you attuned your heart and mind with the great heart and mind of all? Just as in the roar of the sacred river all the voices of nature are echoed, so too must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and every thought of all who live and breathe.
Dharma’s rule is the sense of oneness with the Vast—that which is present everywhere, of which we are a part, from which we are born and into which we shall dissolve—its oneness felt here and now, moment to moment. Therefore I say: Hindu, Muslim, Christian cannot be religion; how will a Hindu feel one with a Muslim? How will a temple-worshiper be one with the worship of a mosque?
The religious goes beyond all sects. It is not necessary that he stop going to the temple; but then he knows the mosque is a temple too. Not necessary that he stop reading the Vedas; but he knows the Quran is Veda too—for someone else it will be beloved, helpful. His oppositions fall. As his boundary melts, the heart and mind become attuned with all humanity. That day he becomes worthy of being called human.
But there is a great difficulty to be noted. We all seek bliss; we all are in pain and seek joy. The problem is deep: joy is available only the day no boundary remains in us. As long as there is boundary, joy will not be found. We are all seeking joy; we want to escape sorrow—but sorrow is our state. What shall we do? How to break this sorrow? We want to leap directly from sorrow to bliss—but how?
This sutra is precious. It says: first become one with the Vast sorrow. From where you are it is difficult to jump. You are in pain; the whole world is in pain. You are not alone—pain is in every heart. To be infinite in joy is difficult now; be infinite in sorrow first. You cannot yet laugh in the Vast festival—but you can weep in humanity’s sorrow. You are already weeping in your own; at least one thing you can do—enlarge your weeping. By enlarging it you will learn the art of widening.
A strange happening occurs: as long as you are sorrowing in your own sorrow, you remain sorrowful. Being bound to oneself is the root of sorrow. The moment you begin to be one with the Vast sorrow, the pain of others begins to touch you—you start melting. And the day the sighs of humanity stir your heart, you have begun to disappear. Suddenly one day you will find: only the sorrow of others remains—you have forgotten your own. One day you will find: your sorrow is no more, only the sorrow of others remains. In this oneness with sorrow you have melted, and you have created the possibility where joy can descend.
It looks upside-down, but it is not. The root cause of sorrow is our being tied to ourselves—thinking only of ourselves. We are blind to the immense suffering around us. We see others’ happiness and our own sorrow—that is our logic.
You see someone in a palace and think: how happy he must be—his happiness is visible. You see a man with a beautiful woman and think: how happy he must be. You see the surface. The sorrow given by a beautiful woman is known to her husband; the sorrows of the palace are known to its resident. Ask the palace-dweller—he speaks his sorrow; ask the husband—he speaks his sorrow.
You see others’ joys because you see their outer wrappings—the faces, the clothes. You do not see the heart. If you could, you would see their sorrow. As long as you see others’ joy, you will see your own sorrow. The day you begin to see others’ sorrow, you will begin to see your own joy. The whole vision changes.
And the day one becomes one with the Vast sorrow he forgets his own. It becomes so petty, of no value. It no longer occurs to him that he too has sorrow. In this ocean of sorrow what is mine? The Vast sorrow diminishes yours, as if a huge line has been drawn next to your little line of pain.
I have heard of a Hasidic master, the Baal Shem. One morning a villager came: I am in great misery—wretched, poor. I have one small room; wife, father, mother, seven children—we all live in that one room. It is hell; I think of suicide. Any remedy?
The Baal Shem asked: only so many in your house? No goats? He said: two goats. The master said: take them into the room as well. The man cried: are you mad? I came asking how to make the small room bigger—you make it smaller! The Baal Shem insisted. He obeyed. From that day the house became a great hell. After a week he returned: save me—at least take the goats out. The master asked: what else do you have? Four hens. He said: take them in too. The man: do you want my death? The master said: do it; come in seven days.
In seven days he came—half of him left; he could neither sleep nor eat. The master said: take the goats out. He sighed with relief: such grace! Then: take the hens out too. The man fell at his feet with tears of joy: it feels I am returning to heaven. It was the same house—but great sorrow can make small sorrow feel like joy.
If you bring into your house all the world’s sorrows, all its hens and goats, where is your sorrow? It disappears—and with it, you disappear.
Thus there is a method of sadhana: identity with humanity’s pain. In it you will melt. And on the day you melt, suddenly the ocean of joy will descend. You had gone to become one with sorrow—and joy arrives. We all are busy removing sorrow, and sorrow increases.
As in the roar of the sacred river all the echoes of nature resound, so must the heart of the srotapanna—who enters the river—echo every sigh and thought of all who live and breathe.
The disciple can be compared to a veena that sets the heart humming; humanity to its resonance; the hand that plays to the World-Soul, Paramatman. But the string that refuses to vibrate in sweet accord with the singer’s touch snaps and is thrown away. So it is with the minds of disciples and shravakas: they must be attuned to the Upadhyaya’s mind, which is one with Paramatman; otherwise they fall from the Path, break, are separated.
The veena—the sutra says—the disciple’s heart may be compared with it. Humanity may be compared to its resonance. The strings are limited, but the resonance is boundless. The sound sleeps in the strings; waking, it is free of the strings. Even if the veena breaks, the resonance continues to travel endlessly. The resonance is greater than the veena. It is born of the veena and greater than it, for the veena is limited and asleep; the resonance is awake and vast.
And the hand that plays may be compared to the World-Soul, to Paramatman. The string that refuses the singer’s touch, that refuses sweet rhythm, is broken and thrown away.
We too break and are thrown aside because we refuse to play with the World-Soul. We want to beat our own little drum, to have our own song, our own veena, our own hand. We want to create a separate world. Therein lies our misery; therein we are broken, uprooted, cut off. It feels this world is not our home and we are exiled.
Such are the minds of disciples and shravakas. They must harmonize with the Upadhyaya’s mind—one with Paramatman—or they will fall away.
And as yet we do not know Paramatman in any clear way; we do not feel his touch. He is here, very near, but we do not know the art of touching.
Therefore if a seeker, a disciple, hears even an echo of him in someone—catches a little news of him in someone’s eyes, in someone’s way of sitting and rising, in someone’s voice, in someone’s silence—if some hint is received, a footfall...
As one waiting at night for the beloved—when dry leaves rustle he starts up: perhaps she has come. The wind crosses the trees, there is a murmur; he hears the beloved’s approach and starts up again. A gust knocks on the door; he hears the beloved’s knock.
One who seeks the Lord must first learn to hear the footfall. When you hear it in someone, know that you have found your Guru. For you, the Guru is the Lord’s footfall. That is why we have called the Guru God.
Kabir asked when both—Guru and Govind—stood before him:
Guru Govind dono khade, kake lagu paon?
Whose feet should I touch? Kabir touched the Guru’s feet and said:
Balihari Guru aapne, Govind diyo batay.
I bow to the Guru first, who showed me Govind. The Guru at once pointed: touch the Lord’s feet. Kabir asked: whose shall I touch? The Guru said: touch the Lord’s. But Kabir touched the Guru first: first I touch yours, for you point to him. He placed Govind second, the Guru first!
Wherever the Lord’s footfall is found, then bring your breath into rhythm with that person. The Guru has already come into rhythm—he has surrendered his veena into the hands of the Lord; his strings are tuned by the hands of Paramatman.
Perhaps your veena cannot yet be directly in the Lord’s hands; then let it be in the Guru’s hands. In this indirect way, through the Guru, you come under the Lord’s hand. The Guru is tuned to Paramatman; you begin to tune to the Guru—your tuning with Paramatman has begun.
The day you are completely tuned, suddenly you will find the Guru has stepped aside. The Guru who remains in-between is no Guru. That is why the Guru pointed: touch the Lord’s feet; I am no longer the issue. I was needed until you could not see directly. Now you see both. Till now you saw only me—Paramatman stood always by me, playing my veena, and what you heard from my veena was news of his hands. Now you see both—Guru and Govind together—now I am not needed; touch his feet, be united directly.
It is a deep grace that Kabir said: I will first touch your feet. It is the last chance; after this perhaps the Guru will not even be seen—he will vanish.
Jesus had taken initiation from John the Baptist. The day John initiated Jesus he was seen no more. People searched for him but found no trace. The old disciples said: he always said, ‘I am waiting for one man; the note I know—when the one comes who can sing it, I will step away; I am tired.’ When Jesus came, John disappeared.
The Guru will step away the moment the Mahaguru is seen. So do the true ones. Those who cannot attune themselves with the Guru, or with the Lord, will be broken and cast aside.
So do they act who are brothers to the shadow—self-slayers—called the Dugpas.
This is a Tibetan sect that became very adept at cultivating the shadow-personality and lives by it—torturing others through it—because the shadow has its own science: black magic. If one learns the arts of the shadow-personality, they can be as dangerous as knowledge of the atom bomb. With the atom bomb we can destroy bodies. With knowledge of the dark shadow, knowing its laws, we can torment and trouble people greatly.
You have heard, but may not have believed, that with knowledge of your dark shadow one can kill you without touching you. Through that shadow any message can be sent to you; you can be made to do anything; you can be destroyed.
But those who enter this world of the dark shadow go far from the music of the Lord. They become like snapped strings removed from the veena. For births upon births their mischief may continue. It is hard for the Singer to set them again. They must prepare themselves, purify themselves in every way, abandon the entire apparatus of the dark shadow. Until they go through catharsis and are free of all their diseases, they will not be accepted again to be fixed into the veena.
O seeker of light, have you made your being one with the great sorrow of humanity?
If you have... then you may enter. Yet it is good, before you set foot upon the difficult road of sorrow, to understand its highs and lows, its hardships.
This is a deep warning. We all seek joy; we yearn for great bliss. But before great bliss we must become one with great sorrow. For in the world no mountain peak exists without deep valleys by its side. Small happiness has a small hollow beside it. Great bliss—then great chasms of sorrow lie near.
Do not think that Buddha is only on the peak of great bliss. He is—but around that peak are deep trenches of great pain. Certainly they are not his own—they are others’—that is why he could become a peak. Yet the pain is there; the suffering of all humanity touches him. Not only humanity—of all living beings.
If Mahavira places his feet with great care for fear of ants, do not think it is calculated—do not think: by saving ants I will gain heaven and moksha. Those who follow behind think in such calculations—they are of the merchant caste; they keep accounts: how many ants saved? How much water strained? They will demand a return from God: see, I committed so little violence—what is the fruit?
No—Mahavira does not act for reward. He who has become one with great life has everyone’s suffering as his own. Now the ant crushed under his foot is not an ant, but another Mahavira crushed under this Mahavira’s step.
Beside great bliss are great chasms of sorrow. But they are not his own—this is the difference. The petty man’s joy is his own, his sorrow is his own. The great being’s sorrow is not his, his joy is not his. Those great chasms are others’, and those peaks are only others’ future possibilities.
Now Buddha has neither joy nor sorrow. Hence Buddha did not say there will be joy in nirvana—he said there will be supreme peace: neither joy nor sorrow.
All remains of others; nothing remains of oneself. And when nothing of the self remains, the self too is gone. Then only the All remains.