Having found the key of giving, love and compassion, you will stand secure at the gate of giving. This is the entry-gate to the Path.
O joyful pilgrim, look: the gate you see is lofty and vast, and seems easy to enter. And the path that goes through it is straight and smooth and green. In the depths of the dark forest it is like a illumined forest-track—a place reflecting the heaven of Amitabha; there the birds with shining wings, nightingales of hope, sitting in emerald bowers, sing songs of success for the fearless traveler. They sing of the five virtues of the Bodhisattva, which are the five sources of awakening-power; and they sing of the seven stages of knowledge.
Move on—for you have brought the key, you are safe.
And there is a second gate: its path too is verdant, but it climbs, and goes upward. Yes, look at its rocky brow. Over its rugged and stony peaks brown mists will hang, and beyond them all is filled with darkness. As one ascends, the song of hope in the pilgrim’s heart grows ever more faint. Now the burden of doubt is upon him, and his steps grow unsteady.
O seeker, beware of this. Beware of that fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight, between the moonlight of your soul and your great far-flung destination.
Mountain peaks mantled with light seem very near to one who is not upon the journey; to the one who walks, it is discovered that peaks which appeared so near are not near, but very far. And the one who walks also discovers that the way is not easy. The closer the summit draws, the harder the way becomes. The final moments of arrival are moments of utmost difficulty. Each step grows heavy. The farther we are from the goal, the easier it appears. There are many reasons for this.
First: the summit is visible; the path is not. The summit attracts; the end, the destination calls—but from seeing the summit no guess can be made of the broken, rough ways between. Drawn by that allure one may indeed reach the summit; yet as one walks, the difficulty is felt more and more.
Naturally, only those who walk will know the hardship. Those who sit have no difficulty. But those who sit will attain nothing. And those who sit—save for losing—no other event will befall their lives. Certainly those who sit never err; they never stray from the path either—how can one stray from a path upon which one never set foot? Those who walk do err, and it becomes possible for them to wander from the way.
And the nearer the summit, the more the abysses encircle from all sides. Wandering multiplies when one is close to the peak. On the level plain, even if one loses the way, what harm? But on the high ridges of the mountains, when one wanders, life is in danger; there each step may be death.
Keeping all this in mind, this sutra begins. The road’s difficulties are many. First, this journey is utterly alone—no companion on the way. One leans upon one’s own courage, one’s own strength, one’s own trust. Then, upon this road there are no ready-made tracks. The way is made by walking. Before one walks, there is no predetermined path for you to take.
The spiritual journey is like birds flying in the sky. The birds’ feet leave no footprints that those who come after might follow. Birds fly in the heavens, but the path behind them is lost as they fly. Spirituality is not a journey upon the ground. Surely, the higher we go, the more sky-like the journey becomes. On the earth, footprints are made; the soil holds those prints and we can follow them. In the travel of the ground there is a way to go upon the lines of those who went before. In the journey of the sky there is no way to tread upon their path, for the way does not remain, no footprints are left.
And spirituality is more void than the sky. There no trace remains at all. There are not even milestones by the roadside to give news. There, walking and the arising of the path happen simultaneously. There, as much as we walk, so much of a way appears. And hence the difficulty greatly increases.
There is no map in the hand, for what map could there be of the Vast? The petty can be mapped; the Vast has no map that we might carry and consult to check whether the way is right or not. It is a mapless journey. There is no arrangement to indicate the destination or inform the directions. There is no instrument to tell whether we are moving east, or south, or west, or north. Why? Because spirituality is the eleventh direction. There are means to measure ten directions. We know eight quarters—add one downward and one upward, and there are ten directions.
Spirituality is the eleventh direction—neither going east nor west; neither south nor north; neither toward the in-betweens; neither upward nor downward. Spirituality goes within. In geography there is no direction called within. Of this inner direction there is no instrument to indicate. And in this inner direction there is only shunya—emptiness. There is no east there, no north, no south; no above, no below.
So nothing can be told. There is no compass to say where we are going. And where we are going, inch by inch, with such labor we are moving—so much labor, so much courage and strength—where is it? In which direction? Are our feet falling rightly or wrongly? These are the complexities. Holding these complexities in view, let us try to understand this sutra.
“Having found the key of giving, love and compassion, you will stand secure at the gate of giving. This is the entry-gate to the Path.”
Giving is the first key. And the first key, in the eyes of spiritual seekers, is the simplest; in the eyes of worldly people, the most difficult. For difficulty and ease are matters of comparison. The whole regulation of the world is the opposite of giving. The entire arrangement of the world is of grabbing and snatching, not of giving. Giving is unworldly. To give is not part of the world. Therefore giving is called a gate, the entry-gate of the path. Because with giving, that which is not of the world begins to enter you. With giving you do something that does not belong to the world. You begin to be outside the world. Hence giving is called the gate.
Understand giving well, and many things will be clarified. In the world we live to get. Giving is not the world’s language. Even when we give, we give in order to get. Getting is never out of the picture. We never use giving as the end, only as a means. If we give love to someone, we give in order to get love. If we make friendship, we extend friendship in order to receive friendship. The wish to get is first in our mind; the giving follows behind it.
And we keep accounts even in giving—whether consciously or unconsciously; knowingly or not—that whatever we give, we should get back more; otherwise the bargain is a loss. So we show that we give more than we do. And whatever we take, we always show as less than it is. That is the language of the shopkeeper.
I have heard: a Jewish fakir came to a strange town and went to a Jewish shopkeeper. And Jewish—because there is no shopkeeper better than a Jew. Here in India, the Jains are akin to the Jews. Seeing the Jew’s shop the fakir expressed great relief: at last, someone of my religion, my race, my land—he will not cheat me. But the fakir did not know that people make you “their own” precisely so they can plunder you more easily. What is the use of making someone your own otherwise? Seeing him, the shopkeeper said, “Happy fortune! You are of my country, my race, my faith. What do you wish to buy?”
The fakir wanted to purchase something. The Jewish shopkeeper said, “Since you are one of us: the price is a hundred, but from you I will not take a hundred, only ninety; and then, you are a fakir—I won’t even take ninety, only eighty.” The fakir said, “Had you not been a Jew, I would have given fifty for this. Since you are a Jew, I will not give fifty, only forty. And you are being so affectionate toward me—so even forty I will not give; I will give thirty. I do not bargain.”
This is our common language. Knowingly or unknowingly we keep trying to take, to snatch, from one another. And we call that one clever who snatches more, who grabs more; and we call that one foolish who loses in the bargain.
This whole world is a scramble to snatch. Every man’s hand is in another man’s pocket. The very skillful remove things with invisible hands; the unskillful, the foolish, thrust their hands straight in and get caught. But the intent is to pull, to exploit. Exploitation is the way of the world.
What relation has giving with this world?
Therefore Mahavira, Buddha, the Vedas, the Upanishads sang so greatly of giving. Understand the meaning of that praise: giving stands contrary to the world’s arrangement. It is called the great religion only for this reason—that the very feeling of giving is almost impossible. But we are more clever than the Vedas—and we even deceive Krishna and Buddha. We have made giving into a strategy—for getting something else! We said, “All right; but why give? Give so that we may get reward in heaven. Give so that merit accrues to us, and after this body falls we may stand before God and say, ‘I have given so much—now I want the return.’” We even turned giving into the world’s language! Then, though we give, it is not giving.
Giving means: where getting is not the goal, where giving itself is the goal; where there is no hope to receive, no expectation; where the very talk of getting is absent; where giving itself is the end, the destination; where the joy is in the giving itself; where we feel grateful to the one who accepts—that by accepting he gave us the chance to give. If, having given, it happens that someone even says “thank you,” the matter is spoiled. For even a “thank you” is quite a bargain. And those who have plenty feel delighted even upon receiving thanks. Those who have the capacity to give find a subtle relish in making others feel obliged toward them; the ego gets very well gratified by this too.
Hence in this land we evolved a unique gesture. But everything gets spoiled—because man, as he is, whatever you place in his hand, he distorts. To the one to whom we gave, we also gave dakshina. It is a delightful thing. Dakshina means “thank you,” that you accepted the gift. To the one who received the gift, we then gave dakshina: “Thank you for accepting our giving. Where does one find someone who will accept a gift!” We wanted to give and be delighted in the giving. You accepted it—so accept also the dakshina, our thanks.
Let there be no thought of taking in the giver’s mind; not even so much as a desire that someone should say “thank you”—only then giving can be. This means giving is a complete act in itself; its joy is hidden within it, not outside it. There is no fruit of giving—giving is its own fruit. If there is any fruit to giving, then giving is no longer giving, because hope for a fruit has arisen. In giving there is completeness. This alone is the gate—the gate that leads out of this world.
The first gate of entry into spirituality is giving.
Learn to give.
The question is not “what to give.” That is not very important. The question is that the feeling of giving remain. And when you give, be delighted in the giving, and let no hope of fruit, anywhere, even subtly, be allowed to congeal.
Blavatsky says this gate is the simplest among the gates that follow. For us, this very gate appears the hardest—for the gates yet to come we know nothing of; but we are familiar with the marketplace in which we stand. And this gate does not seem simple, it seems exceedingly difficult.
But understand one more thing—and perhaps its simplicity will come into view. The strange miracle is: the more we want to get, the more unhappy we become. And even if we get what we want, we remain unhappy. Do not think that our misery comes only from the failure of our desires. Fulfilled desires also bring misery—because by the time we get what we wanted, our demand has multiplied a thousandfold. Our demand goes on increasing. If you want ten million, some day you may get it; but the day you get ten million, by then your demand for ten million will have become a billion. The mind that asks does not stop; its begging bowl only grows larger. If you have ten rupees, you will be unhappy because your demand is ten thousand. If you have ten thousand, your demand leaps ahead by the same proportion.
The ratio of misery remains equal. The ratio never changes. If your demand is tenfold, it will always be tenfold. Whatever you have, multiplied by ten becomes your desire. Then, if that too is obtained, multiplied by ten becomes your desire again. But you always ask for ten times what you have. And compared to what you ask, you are always ten times poorer, afflicted; always poor, always destitute.
Even the mightiest emperors remain destitute. They have more wealth; a beggar has less; but in ratio their demands are almost equal. And it is the ratio that brings suffering, that brings pain.
What do we get after spending a whole life in asking? After sucking and hoarding, what is obtained? If destitution does not vanish, nothing is obtained.
By giving, destitution dissolves; by asking, destitution grows.
And sometimes it has happened that we have seen people like Mahavira—naked, with nothing left, all given away—everything given, even the last cloth was given. Yet a sovereign like Mahavira is hard to find. There is not a trace of destitution. Destitution never catches the giver. Even if the giver becomes a naked fakir, he remains the master.
Those who know say: until you are able to give a thing, you are not its master. This is a very upside-down statement. If I can give a thing, only then am I its master. If I cannot give it, if I hesitate to give, I am its slave. And if someone snatches it away and I am perturbed, clearly it was my bondage.
The day we can give a thing, that very day we become its master.
No one becomes a master by getting; one becomes a master by giving.
If you can give love, you become the master of love. If you can give compassion, you become the master of compassion. If you can give wealth, you become the master of wealth. Whatever you can give, you become the master of it. If you can give your whole life, you attain to amrita. You become the master of life. Then no one can snatch life from you.
What you give, that alone remains with you. This arithmetic is a little strange. What you clutch is not yours. What you give, that remains with you. Whoever learns this reverse arithmetic, the key of giving comes into his hand.
Look a little into your own life—if ever a ray of happiness has visited you, search a little: when did it come? You will always find that close to that ray there was some act of giving. If you observe rightly, you will surely discover that whenever you felt a little joy, near it there was an act of giving. Search—this rule is eternal. At some moment you will have given something spontaneously; there will have been no demand behind it, no bargain. The heart overflows with gladness.
And note as well: whenever you sink into dense sorrow, the same truth applies. Either you have snatched something, or you restrained yourself from giving what you could have given. Some miserliness. Whatever the plane or dimension of that miserliness, you hesitated in giving.
By giving a man expands.
By taking, by snatching, by hoarding, by not giving, he contracts.
Contraction is suffering; expansion is bliss.
Therefore we called Brahman, ananda—bliss. Brahman means that which goes on expanding. Brahman and “expansion” spring from the same root. That which becomes ever more vast—that is Brahman. Therefore we called it bliss. That which goes on contracting, becoming petty, knotted—that is suffering.
Have you ever noticed? When you are unhappy, you want to meet no one; you want to sit alone, shut the door. But when you are filled with joy? Then you do not want to close the door. Then you want to gather your beloved ones, your friends—even strangers! When you are brimming with joy you want to share, to spread. You want others to become companions in your celebration of joy.
In joy there is an expansion. Expand, and joy comes. When joy comes, you expand. In sorrow there is contraction. A sorrowful man locks himself within a room. If a sorrowful man commits suicide, his suicide is the final device to be absolutely separate from others. A joyous man has never committed suicide. A joyous man cannot commit suicide; for a joyous man wants to be linked with others, to become one with the Vast.
A delightful fact: Buddha and Mahavira, or Christ and Mohammed—whosoever has ever walked this path—when they were miserable, they fled to the forests; and when they were filled with joy, they returned to the marketplace! When they were unhappy, they went into aloneness; when the fruit of joy ripened in them, they could no longer remain alone—they came back to share.
It is true from both sides. When joy is found, you share. If you learn to share, joy is found. Begin anywhere—they are two ends of the same thing.
“You will stand secure at the gate of giving if the key of giving is in your hand.”
It is a very playful sutra. If the key of giving is not in your hand, then standing at the gate of giving you will be very insecure—for the occasion has come for all your possessions to be looted. Many times when the gate of giving comes near, we run away, because we are afraid.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was the mullah of a mosque whose wall had collapsed and the mosque was near ruin. He went to the rich man of the village. The wealthy are always afraid: whether it be mullah, fakir, sadhu, sannyasin—the rich man starts at the sight, because danger approaches. The gate of giving is approaching. What will this Nasruddin come to take? So the rich make arrangements. Peeking from the window, the rich man saw Nasruddin coming—surely the mosque is in trouble. He sent his servant to the door. Meanwhile Nasruddin had seen the rich man’s turban and head in the window. He asked the servant, “Is your master at home?” The servant said, “No, the master has gone out.” The servant had been instructed: if someone appears who might ask for something, send him away. Nasruddin said, “No harm—he has gone out, that is good. I offer one piece of advice for free: next time, when he goes out, tell him not to leave his head in the window. Someone might steal it, some trouble might arise, and later he will have to regret it. This is my advice—free. There is no charge.”
Standing at the gate of giving—if our tendency to clutch and hoard is intense, and the key of giving is not in our hand—we will surely fall into great insecurity. There is danger there—the fear that everything will be snatched. That gate of giving may snatch everything from us. Therefore we avoid that gate. And if by mistake we arrive there, it is dangerous.
This sutra says: if the key of giving is in your hand, then at the gate of giving you will stand secure. Now nothing can be snatched from you.
And a very strange event happens: who is the one from whom nothing can be snatched? Not the one who has much—for from him it can surely be taken! The one from whom nothing can be taken is he who is ready to give all. There is no way to snatch from him. Such a man cannot be robbed. He cannot be looted. Nothing can be taken from him. He has no clutch—so there is no means of snatching. Even at the gate of giving such a man will only receive; nothing of his will be lost. The one who is ready to give all—he will receive all that is in this world.
“O joyful pilgrim…” therefore the sutra says: “If you have the key of giving, you will be filled with gladness at the gate of giving. Otherwise you will be heavy with sorrow and pain—for there everything will be taken away.”
A very wealthy man, Nicodemus, came to Jesus and said: “I hear talk of the kingdom of your Lord; I too feel greed arise—can I enter?” Jesus said, “What are your qualifications?” Nicodemus said, “I neither steal nor commit adultery; I do not drink wine; I do not eat meat—and what more is needed? Whatever virtues are praised in the scriptures, all are in me.” Jesus said, “These will not do. Go and distribute all your wealth.”
Nicodemus said, “Then I must think it over.” He said, “I do not eat meat, I do not drink; I do not commit adultery; I study the scriptures regularly; I pray and worship; I go to church, to temple; I join in every festival—what more is needed?” Jesus said, “None of this will do. What wealth you have, go and give it all.” Nicodemus said, “Then it is very difficult.”
And had any of us been in Nicodemus’ place, we would have said the same. We too practice cheap religions. We do not eat meat; we do not drink. These are cheap religions. Not doing them solves nothing; doing them creates harm. Not doing them brings no gain.
Understand it rightly.
Doing them brings harm. In doing them there is sin; in not doing them there is absolutely no virtue. If you fall into a pit, your leg breaks. But if you do not fall into a pit, nothing is attained. If you say, “I have not fallen into any pit—good enough!”—then where is the gate of heaven? Falling into a pit, the leg breaks; one has to bear the pain. Not falling into a pit brings no attainment. No quality, no worthiness is created. It is negative. If someone eats meat, he incurs harm; if he drinks, he incurs harm—but by not drinking there is no benefit.
So if someone is fulfilling these cheap religious observances, let him understand: he will be saved from harm; he will gain absolutely nothing. Saved from harm—is that not something? It is; but ask not for more than that.
Jesus said, “Leave what you have and come.” For whatever you try to save will be snatched; and from the one who has left everything, there is no way to snatch. “I am showing you the path to true wealth. But you are poor by your own hand—you are holding on.” Nicodemus went back. It was not in his capacity.
If the key of giving is not understood, you will stand at religion’s gate very dejected, full of anguish—as though you are about to be robbed, everything is being lost.
“O joyful pilgrim, look: the gate you see is lofty and vast, and seems easy to enter. And the path that goes through it is straight and smooth and green. In the depths of the dark forest it is like an illumined forest-track—a place reflecting the heaven of Amitabha. There the birds with shining wings, the nightingales of hope, sitting in emerald bowers, sing songs of success for fearless travelers. They sing of the five virtues of the Bodhisattva, which are the five sources of awakening-power, and they sing of the seven stages of knowledge.”
After entering the gate of giving, the path that appears will be lush, very enticing, very pleasant—green shade, and birdsong, and everything beautiful.
The one who had always snatched—when he gives, instantly everything before him becomes beautiful. In snatching, all was ugly. Snatching is ugliness. Snatching is violence. And the one who snatches finds himself surrounded by skeletons. Those from whom he has snatched—their ghosts, their bones—stand all around him. The one who has snatched begins to live in a nightmare—a sorrow-dream—because of the snatching. The sighs of all those from whom he has snatched accumulate and begin to bite from all sides; they become thorns, they begin to torment.
But as soon as one becomes ready to give, this sutra speaks a truly precious truth—that at once, as if in darkness, an illumined path opens before him. This path is full of shade, cooled by the shadows of green trees. And birds sing. And their songs are not ordinary—they sing the virtues of the Bodhisattvas. As though the words of the Buddhas have entered the birds’ songs. Certainly, he who comes from the world of snatching into the world of giving finds all ugliness dissolve and the gates of beauty open.
“Move on—for you have brought the key, you are safe.”
You need not fear; nothing can be snatched from you. Nor will you be seized by that fear which whispers, “Who knows—these sweet bird-songs—perhaps there is some hidden purpose! Such a beautiful path—surely bandits are hiding somewhere. Such shady trees—surely someone planted them in order to rob travelers who sleep beneath their shade. Otherwise, who plants shade-giving trees? And why should birds sing? Surely there is some political trick behind these birds, and the conspiracy will be revealed in a while.”
One who clutches is afraid of everything. He fears even beauty. Everywhere, the thief within, the robber within, appears before his eyes. He is frightened of his own shadow—“Who is following me?” He hears his own footsteps on a lonely road and starts running—“Whose footsteps are these?” One who clutches lives frightened. One who has no clutch can move on along this path of pilgrimage—“For you have brought the key, you are safe.”
“And the second gate—its path too is verdant, but it climbs and goes upward. Yes, look at its rocky brow. Over its rugged and stony peaks brown mists hang, and beyond them all is filled with darkness. As one climbs, the song of hope in the pilgrim’s heart grows ever more faint. And now the burden of doubt is upon him, and his steps grow unsteady.”
This sutra is very strange.
Only those who have known can speak in this way. It is necessary to understand. It is based upon the deep psyche of man. We live in the world of plundering; therefore the world of giving instantly fills us with comfort, peace and beauty. This beauty, this peace, this thrill of joy arises from the dissolving of the malice, cruelty, violence in which our life had been lived until now. But it will not last long. After a short while the world will be forgotten. It is like this: a thorn had lodged in your foot; when you remove the thorn, there is relief. But how long will that relief last, which came from removing the thorn? It was because the thorn was hurting—now the hurting is gone, so there is relief.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin walked the road, cursing someone, and walking with such distress that anyone who saw him felt pity and asked, “Mulla, what is the matter? Whom are you cursing?” Mulla said, “My shoes are too tight. My foot is caught in such a way I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it off. The shoes are biting.” Everyone said, “Is that all? Don’t wear them then—take them off.” Mulla said, “This is my only relief—you want to snatch that too? All day long, tired and tormented, when I reach home, my wife speaks words as though she has steeped them in poison all day. The children scream and shout. There is no money; my business is failing. Even a loaf of bread tonight—no certainty. Whether I sleep hungry or after eating—no certainty. Debts are increasing; creditors stand at my door morning and evening; because of them I come out to the bazaar—there is no work in the bazaar either. So when, at night, wearied from the day and harassed by these shoes, I reach home and fling off a shoe, I say, ‘O God, thank you!’ Such relief comes from taking off a shoe. This is my only relief—would you take this away too?”
It is the relief of absence. It comes when, after sorrow and pain, you come out; when after illness, you become healthy. But how long will it last? The world is a disease. When we step out of it all at once, a great lightness comes—the load falls away. But how long will it last?
It is negative, privative; it will not last long. As soon as we are out from under it, the climbs begin. Around these mountains thick mists hang. These mountains will break our courage to climb. Hope will begin to fade; the burden of doubt will grow: the world has slipped from our hands, and what ought to be attained seems very far. The gate of giving was very large; we passed through. The light relief that came from the removal of the world’s burden is also now lost.
“And a darkness encircles…”
A dense darkness surrounds. It will surround. Before our real eyes open, our false eyes must close. The very energy we used in our false eyes will enter the real and activate them. Before the true light is revealed to us, our false lights must all dissolve.
“A dense darkness encircles…”
For this reason it encircles. It is a very auspicious sign—for those who know. Otherwise the seeker becomes frightened and turns back.
Many do not proceed beyond giving; many stop at giving—and remain there for many lives. For even in giving, the world’s language is somewhat understandable. There was snatching; here there is giving. Opposite, yet the language is akin, near, comprehensible.
When both are lost—both taking and giving—the world’s duality is lost. The eyes we had, the light we had—all dissolves.
“A deep darkness encircles…”
In this darkness it is natural for doubt to arise. What was—has been lost. The shore that was near—the boat moves away from it. We have unmoored all chains, and the other shore is not yet visible. Feet begin to tremble, to waver.
“O seeker, beware of this. Beware of that fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight, between the moonlight of your soul and your great far-flung destination.”
By moving away from the world, spirituality is not attained at once. After turning from the world there is an interval, an empty space, when we are nowhere—like Trishanku, suspended. Neither here nor there; the boat is midstream. Having left one shore, the other is not at once found—we are in mid-current. In that midstream the mind teeters. The wish to return arises: let us go back. At least there was a shore. There was sorrow—no matter; it was familiar, known. And we were not alone. Even if we were unhappy, we were with many—there was a crowd, a family, friends, loved ones, our own people. We shared sympathy in one another’s sorrows. Now we are alone; the old shore is gone; the familiar people gone; no one remains to console. In this aloneness, in this midstream, fear seizes.
The sutra says: “O seeker, beware. Beware of this fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight between the moonlight of your soul and your far-flung great destination.”
Fear seizes every seeker. Not worldly fear; a more existential fear. In these moments the seeker begins to be frightened: I am stuck in between—now what? Nor can one go back to the world. For in this world there is no road backward. How can one go back? What has been known cannot be un-known. What has been seen cannot be un-seen. What has come into experience—how can one go behind it? When it had not come into experience—that was different. There is no way to recede from experience. One cannot go back; the far shore is not seen. To see the far shore will take time. New eyes are needed, and a new balance of the eyes.
What we are used to seeing, we can see; what we are not used to seeing, we cannot see. What we have been hearing, we hear; what we have not been hearing, we cannot hear.
Our habits, our arrangements, our patterns—all belong to this shore. Before we can see, recognize, understand that shore, all this structure will be removed. And as the old structure falls, the new does not arise at once. The new will be born; it will grow. It will take time. The interval of this time will be darkness. And a most intense fear will seize the mind. The fear will be: perhaps I have been foolish. I was sitting on a good shore. What mistake have I made—to descend into midstream? And now it seems even to return to the old shore is not possible. And no news of the new—hope will dim. When hope goes utterly empty, doubt takes hold. Then not only the soul, the whole existence begins to tremble. The seeker arrives at this trembling state. And for this trembling state, it is very necessary to be forewarned.
When you go within yourselves in meditation, such a moment arrives when you begin to be afraid: now it does not seem right to go further. Friends come to me and say, “This seems a dangerous moment. It feels within that if I go a little further I will either go mad—or perhaps death will happen.” It seems within as if perhaps now I am falling into an inner well; will I be able to return or not? In that moment courage is needed. For that moment is precious and revolutionary. If you panic then, you miss. And if you panic then, that fear will sit in your soul and trouble you always. You cannot go back. Had you gone forward, even the fear would have vanished. You cannot go back; you did not go forward—you will remain frightened.
Kierkegaard has said that such a moment comes—he wrote a book called “Either/Or”—this or that, this shore or that shore. Between both, such a moment comes when the whole existence seems to tremble, as if a storm has seized a tree. If you come to this side, the storm passes; if you go to that side, the storm passes; but if you remain caught in between, the storm becomes your life. Many get entangled in this storm.
And so the worldly man fears going toward religion, toward meditation, toward yoga. That fear too is born of experience—very ancient. The world has seen many people get caught in the storm; has seen many go deranged, mad; so fear has arisen. As soon as you hear someone has taken sannyas, a fear arises within: what has he done? Sannyas! It means he has decided to leave the shore—he is going into danger, into the unknown! It is better to walk upon familiar, known roads—why get into trouble? This too is born of experience.
Many times it has happened: a seeker, caught in the middle, cannot return, cannot go forward—because of fear—and great entanglement results. A pathological, diseased condition sets in. Therefore this caution is necessary.
This is certain: if, in that moment, you hold steady and do not lose courage, you will soon go beyond fear and become fearless forever. Then no fear of the world will ever catch you. He who goes beyond the fear of spirituality—no fear in the world can catch him. He whom even this moment cannot shake, cannot frighten—no power can frighten him. Not even death can ruffle a single hair—for this danger is greater than death. In death the body only perishes; in this moment it seems my very life-breath is breaking. I am nowhere now. I will become pure nothingness. As if one has fallen into an endless abyss whose bottom is never found. And there is no way to climb upward. And one falls, and falls—and no bottom appears—just such is the feeling.
But receive that vision with rejoicing, with gladness, with gratitude—knowing it is the grace of the Divine that such a moment has arrived. For just after this moment is revolution; just after this moment is transformation. If with this understanding you move ahead, fear vanishes forever. Night is erased forever. Darkness is lost forever.
Sri Aurobindo has said: what I used to call light yesterday—before the light I know today—that light seems darkness. And what I used to call life—before the life I know today—that life seems worse than death.
But this will come after the moment of fear. It is worth remembering: “O seeker, beware! Beware of this fear.” If this mindfulness remains—whenever fear seizes you, remember: it is an auspicious sign; we are nearing that abyss, and if we are willing to fall into it, the old will be erased and the new will be born. Sorrow will be dissolved, and a ray of joy will break forth. Sunrise is near.
The denser the night, the nearer the dawn. Let this feeling be held in the heart.
Therefore the Master becomes helpful—and very helpful to those who may be filled with fear. For then he can speak of the roads he has traveled. He can give news of the fears that seized him. He can tell where, in which moments and places, obstructions arise, trouble may happen, where a man may be caught. Once these are clearly understood, crossing becomes easy.
Osho's Commentary
O joyful pilgrim, look: the gate you see is lofty and vast, and seems easy to enter. And the path that goes through it is straight and smooth and green. In the depths of the dark forest it is like a illumined forest-track—a place reflecting the heaven of Amitabha; there the birds with shining wings, nightingales of hope, sitting in emerald bowers, sing songs of success for the fearless traveler. They sing of the five virtues of the Bodhisattva, which are the five sources of awakening-power; and they sing of the seven stages of knowledge.
Move on—for you have brought the key, you are safe.
And there is a second gate: its path too is verdant, but it climbs, and goes upward. Yes, look at its rocky brow. Over its rugged and stony peaks brown mists will hang, and beyond them all is filled with darkness. As one ascends, the song of hope in the pilgrim’s heart grows ever more faint. Now the burden of doubt is upon him, and his steps grow unsteady.
O seeker, beware of this. Beware of that fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight, between the moonlight of your soul and your great far-flung destination.
Mountain peaks mantled with light seem very near to one who is not upon the journey; to the one who walks, it is discovered that peaks which appeared so near are not near, but very far. And the one who walks also discovers that the way is not easy. The closer the summit draws, the harder the way becomes. The final moments of arrival are moments of utmost difficulty. Each step grows heavy. The farther we are from the goal, the easier it appears. There are many reasons for this.
First: the summit is visible; the path is not. The summit attracts; the end, the destination calls—but from seeing the summit no guess can be made of the broken, rough ways between. Drawn by that allure one may indeed reach the summit; yet as one walks, the difficulty is felt more and more.
Naturally, only those who walk will know the hardship. Those who sit have no difficulty. But those who sit will attain nothing. And those who sit—save for losing—no other event will befall their lives. Certainly those who sit never err; they never stray from the path either—how can one stray from a path upon which one never set foot? Those who walk do err, and it becomes possible for them to wander from the way.
And the nearer the summit, the more the abysses encircle from all sides. Wandering multiplies when one is close to the peak. On the level plain, even if one loses the way, what harm? But on the high ridges of the mountains, when one wanders, life is in danger; there each step may be death.
Keeping all this in mind, this sutra begins. The road’s difficulties are many. First, this journey is utterly alone—no companion on the way. One leans upon one’s own courage, one’s own strength, one’s own trust. Then, upon this road there are no ready-made tracks. The way is made by walking. Before one walks, there is no predetermined path for you to take.
The spiritual journey is like birds flying in the sky. The birds’ feet leave no footprints that those who come after might follow. Birds fly in the heavens, but the path behind them is lost as they fly. Spirituality is not a journey upon the ground. Surely, the higher we go, the more sky-like the journey becomes. On the earth, footprints are made; the soil holds those prints and we can follow them. In the travel of the ground there is a way to go upon the lines of those who went before. In the journey of the sky there is no way to tread upon their path, for the way does not remain, no footprints are left.
And spirituality is more void than the sky. There no trace remains at all. There are not even milestones by the roadside to give news. There, walking and the arising of the path happen simultaneously. There, as much as we walk, so much of a way appears. And hence the difficulty greatly increases.
There is no map in the hand, for what map could there be of the Vast? The petty can be mapped; the Vast has no map that we might carry and consult to check whether the way is right or not. It is a mapless journey. There is no arrangement to indicate the destination or inform the directions. There is no instrument to tell whether we are moving east, or south, or west, or north. Why? Because spirituality is the eleventh direction. There are means to measure ten directions. We know eight quarters—add one downward and one upward, and there are ten directions.
Spirituality is the eleventh direction—neither going east nor west; neither south nor north; neither toward the in-betweens; neither upward nor downward. Spirituality goes within. In geography there is no direction called within. Of this inner direction there is no instrument to indicate. And in this inner direction there is only shunya—emptiness. There is no east there, no north, no south; no above, no below.
So nothing can be told. There is no compass to say where we are going. And where we are going, inch by inch, with such labor we are moving—so much labor, so much courage and strength—where is it? In which direction? Are our feet falling rightly or wrongly? These are the complexities. Holding these complexities in view, let us try to understand this sutra.
“Having found the key of giving, love and compassion, you will stand secure at the gate of giving. This is the entry-gate to the Path.”
Giving is the first key. And the first key, in the eyes of spiritual seekers, is the simplest; in the eyes of worldly people, the most difficult. For difficulty and ease are matters of comparison. The whole regulation of the world is the opposite of giving. The entire arrangement of the world is of grabbing and snatching, not of giving. Giving is unworldly. To give is not part of the world. Therefore giving is called a gate, the entry-gate of the path. Because with giving, that which is not of the world begins to enter you. With giving you do something that does not belong to the world. You begin to be outside the world. Hence giving is called the gate.
Understand giving well, and many things will be clarified. In the world we live to get. Giving is not the world’s language. Even when we give, we give in order to get. Getting is never out of the picture. We never use giving as the end, only as a means. If we give love to someone, we give in order to get love. If we make friendship, we extend friendship in order to receive friendship. The wish to get is first in our mind; the giving follows behind it.
And we keep accounts even in giving—whether consciously or unconsciously; knowingly or not—that whatever we give, we should get back more; otherwise the bargain is a loss. So we show that we give more than we do. And whatever we take, we always show as less than it is. That is the language of the shopkeeper.
I have heard: a Jewish fakir came to a strange town and went to a Jewish shopkeeper. And Jewish—because there is no shopkeeper better than a Jew. Here in India, the Jains are akin to the Jews. Seeing the Jew’s shop the fakir expressed great relief: at last, someone of my religion, my race, my land—he will not cheat me. But the fakir did not know that people make you “their own” precisely so they can plunder you more easily. What is the use of making someone your own otherwise? Seeing him, the shopkeeper said, “Happy fortune! You are of my country, my race, my faith. What do you wish to buy?”
The fakir wanted to purchase something. The Jewish shopkeeper said, “Since you are one of us: the price is a hundred, but from you I will not take a hundred, only ninety; and then, you are a fakir—I won’t even take ninety, only eighty.” The fakir said, “Had you not been a Jew, I would have given fifty for this. Since you are a Jew, I will not give fifty, only forty. And you are being so affectionate toward me—so even forty I will not give; I will give thirty. I do not bargain.”
This is our common language. Knowingly or unknowingly we keep trying to take, to snatch, from one another. And we call that one clever who snatches more, who grabs more; and we call that one foolish who loses in the bargain.
This whole world is a scramble to snatch. Every man’s hand is in another man’s pocket. The very skillful remove things with invisible hands; the unskillful, the foolish, thrust their hands straight in and get caught. But the intent is to pull, to exploit. Exploitation is the way of the world.
What relation has giving with this world?
Therefore Mahavira, Buddha, the Vedas, the Upanishads sang so greatly of giving. Understand the meaning of that praise: giving stands contrary to the world’s arrangement. It is called the great religion only for this reason—that the very feeling of giving is almost impossible. But we are more clever than the Vedas—and we even deceive Krishna and Buddha. We have made giving into a strategy—for getting something else! We said, “All right; but why give? Give so that we may get reward in heaven. Give so that merit accrues to us, and after this body falls we may stand before God and say, ‘I have given so much—now I want the return.’” We even turned giving into the world’s language! Then, though we give, it is not giving.
Giving means: where getting is not the goal, where giving itself is the goal; where there is no hope to receive, no expectation; where the very talk of getting is absent; where giving itself is the end, the destination; where the joy is in the giving itself; where we feel grateful to the one who accepts—that by accepting he gave us the chance to give. If, having given, it happens that someone even says “thank you,” the matter is spoiled. For even a “thank you” is quite a bargain. And those who have plenty feel delighted even upon receiving thanks. Those who have the capacity to give find a subtle relish in making others feel obliged toward them; the ego gets very well gratified by this too.
Hence in this land we evolved a unique gesture. But everything gets spoiled—because man, as he is, whatever you place in his hand, he distorts. To the one to whom we gave, we also gave dakshina. It is a delightful thing. Dakshina means “thank you,” that you accepted the gift. To the one who received the gift, we then gave dakshina: “Thank you for accepting our giving. Where does one find someone who will accept a gift!” We wanted to give and be delighted in the giving. You accepted it—so accept also the dakshina, our thanks.
Let there be no thought of taking in the giver’s mind; not even so much as a desire that someone should say “thank you”—only then giving can be. This means giving is a complete act in itself; its joy is hidden within it, not outside it. There is no fruit of giving—giving is its own fruit. If there is any fruit to giving, then giving is no longer giving, because hope for a fruit has arisen. In giving there is completeness. This alone is the gate—the gate that leads out of this world.
The first gate of entry into spirituality is giving.
Learn to give.
The question is not “what to give.” That is not very important. The question is that the feeling of giving remain. And when you give, be delighted in the giving, and let no hope of fruit, anywhere, even subtly, be allowed to congeal.
Blavatsky says this gate is the simplest among the gates that follow. For us, this very gate appears the hardest—for the gates yet to come we know nothing of; but we are familiar with the marketplace in which we stand. And this gate does not seem simple, it seems exceedingly difficult.
But understand one more thing—and perhaps its simplicity will come into view. The strange miracle is: the more we want to get, the more unhappy we become. And even if we get what we want, we remain unhappy. Do not think that our misery comes only from the failure of our desires. Fulfilled desires also bring misery—because by the time we get what we wanted, our demand has multiplied a thousandfold. Our demand goes on increasing. If you want ten million, some day you may get it; but the day you get ten million, by then your demand for ten million will have become a billion. The mind that asks does not stop; its begging bowl only grows larger. If you have ten rupees, you will be unhappy because your demand is ten thousand. If you have ten thousand, your demand leaps ahead by the same proportion.
The ratio of misery remains equal. The ratio never changes. If your demand is tenfold, it will always be tenfold. Whatever you have, multiplied by ten becomes your desire. Then, if that too is obtained, multiplied by ten becomes your desire again. But you always ask for ten times what you have. And compared to what you ask, you are always ten times poorer, afflicted; always poor, always destitute.
Even the mightiest emperors remain destitute. They have more wealth; a beggar has less; but in ratio their demands are almost equal. And it is the ratio that brings suffering, that brings pain.
What do we get after spending a whole life in asking? After sucking and hoarding, what is obtained? If destitution does not vanish, nothing is obtained.
By giving, destitution dissolves; by asking, destitution grows.
And sometimes it has happened that we have seen people like Mahavira—naked, with nothing left, all given away—everything given, even the last cloth was given. Yet a sovereign like Mahavira is hard to find. There is not a trace of destitution. Destitution never catches the giver. Even if the giver becomes a naked fakir, he remains the master.
Those who know say: until you are able to give a thing, you are not its master. This is a very upside-down statement. If I can give a thing, only then am I its master. If I cannot give it, if I hesitate to give, I am its slave. And if someone snatches it away and I am perturbed, clearly it was my bondage.
The day we can give a thing, that very day we become its master.
No one becomes a master by getting; one becomes a master by giving.
If you can give love, you become the master of love. If you can give compassion, you become the master of compassion. If you can give wealth, you become the master of wealth. Whatever you can give, you become the master of it. If you can give your whole life, you attain to amrita. You become the master of life. Then no one can snatch life from you.
What you give, that alone remains with you. This arithmetic is a little strange. What you clutch is not yours. What you give, that remains with you. Whoever learns this reverse arithmetic, the key of giving comes into his hand.
Look a little into your own life—if ever a ray of happiness has visited you, search a little: when did it come? You will always find that close to that ray there was some act of giving. If you observe rightly, you will surely discover that whenever you felt a little joy, near it there was an act of giving. Search—this rule is eternal. At some moment you will have given something spontaneously; there will have been no demand behind it, no bargain. The heart overflows with gladness.
And note as well: whenever you sink into dense sorrow, the same truth applies. Either you have snatched something, or you restrained yourself from giving what you could have given. Some miserliness. Whatever the plane or dimension of that miserliness, you hesitated in giving.
By giving a man expands.
By taking, by snatching, by hoarding, by not giving, he contracts.
Contraction is suffering; expansion is bliss.
Therefore we called Brahman, ananda—bliss. Brahman means that which goes on expanding. Brahman and “expansion” spring from the same root. That which becomes ever more vast—that is Brahman. Therefore we called it bliss. That which goes on contracting, becoming petty, knotted—that is suffering.
Have you ever noticed? When you are unhappy, you want to meet no one; you want to sit alone, shut the door. But when you are filled with joy? Then you do not want to close the door. Then you want to gather your beloved ones, your friends—even strangers! When you are brimming with joy you want to share, to spread. You want others to become companions in your celebration of joy.
In joy there is an expansion. Expand, and joy comes. When joy comes, you expand. In sorrow there is contraction. A sorrowful man locks himself within a room. If a sorrowful man commits suicide, his suicide is the final device to be absolutely separate from others. A joyous man has never committed suicide. A joyous man cannot commit suicide; for a joyous man wants to be linked with others, to become one with the Vast.
A delightful fact: Buddha and Mahavira, or Christ and Mohammed—whosoever has ever walked this path—when they were miserable, they fled to the forests; and when they were filled with joy, they returned to the marketplace! When they were unhappy, they went into aloneness; when the fruit of joy ripened in them, they could no longer remain alone—they came back to share.
It is true from both sides. When joy is found, you share. If you learn to share, joy is found. Begin anywhere—they are two ends of the same thing.
“You will stand secure at the gate of giving if the key of giving is in your hand.”
It is a very playful sutra. If the key of giving is not in your hand, then standing at the gate of giving you will be very insecure—for the occasion has come for all your possessions to be looted. Many times when the gate of giving comes near, we run away, because we are afraid.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was the mullah of a mosque whose wall had collapsed and the mosque was near ruin. He went to the rich man of the village. The wealthy are always afraid: whether it be mullah, fakir, sadhu, sannyasin—the rich man starts at the sight, because danger approaches. The gate of giving is approaching. What will this Nasruddin come to take? So the rich make arrangements. Peeking from the window, the rich man saw Nasruddin coming—surely the mosque is in trouble. He sent his servant to the door. Meanwhile Nasruddin had seen the rich man’s turban and head in the window. He asked the servant, “Is your master at home?” The servant said, “No, the master has gone out.” The servant had been instructed: if someone appears who might ask for something, send him away. Nasruddin said, “No harm—he has gone out, that is good. I offer one piece of advice for free: next time, when he goes out, tell him not to leave his head in the window. Someone might steal it, some trouble might arise, and later he will have to regret it. This is my advice—free. There is no charge.”
Standing at the gate of giving—if our tendency to clutch and hoard is intense, and the key of giving is not in our hand—we will surely fall into great insecurity. There is danger there—the fear that everything will be snatched. That gate of giving may snatch everything from us. Therefore we avoid that gate. And if by mistake we arrive there, it is dangerous.
This sutra says: if the key of giving is in your hand, then at the gate of giving you will stand secure. Now nothing can be snatched from you.
And a very strange event happens: who is the one from whom nothing can be snatched? Not the one who has much—for from him it can surely be taken! The one from whom nothing can be taken is he who is ready to give all. There is no way to snatch from him. Such a man cannot be robbed. He cannot be looted. Nothing can be taken from him. He has no clutch—so there is no means of snatching. Even at the gate of giving such a man will only receive; nothing of his will be lost. The one who is ready to give all—he will receive all that is in this world.
“O joyful pilgrim…” therefore the sutra says: “If you have the key of giving, you will be filled with gladness at the gate of giving. Otherwise you will be heavy with sorrow and pain—for there everything will be taken away.”
A very wealthy man, Nicodemus, came to Jesus and said: “I hear talk of the kingdom of your Lord; I too feel greed arise—can I enter?” Jesus said, “What are your qualifications?” Nicodemus said, “I neither steal nor commit adultery; I do not drink wine; I do not eat meat—and what more is needed? Whatever virtues are praised in the scriptures, all are in me.” Jesus said, “These will not do. Go and distribute all your wealth.”
Nicodemus said, “Then I must think it over.” He said, “I do not eat meat, I do not drink; I do not commit adultery; I study the scriptures regularly; I pray and worship; I go to church, to temple; I join in every festival—what more is needed?” Jesus said, “None of this will do. What wealth you have, go and give it all.” Nicodemus said, “Then it is very difficult.”
And had any of us been in Nicodemus’ place, we would have said the same. We too practice cheap religions. We do not eat meat; we do not drink. These are cheap religions. Not doing them solves nothing; doing them creates harm. Not doing them brings no gain.
Understand it rightly.
Doing them brings harm. In doing them there is sin; in not doing them there is absolutely no virtue. If you fall into a pit, your leg breaks. But if you do not fall into a pit, nothing is attained. If you say, “I have not fallen into any pit—good enough!”—then where is the gate of heaven? Falling into a pit, the leg breaks; one has to bear the pain. Not falling into a pit brings no attainment. No quality, no worthiness is created. It is negative. If someone eats meat, he incurs harm; if he drinks, he incurs harm—but by not drinking there is no benefit.
So if someone is fulfilling these cheap religious observances, let him understand: he will be saved from harm; he will gain absolutely nothing. Saved from harm—is that not something? It is; but ask not for more than that.
Jesus said, “Leave what you have and come.” For whatever you try to save will be snatched; and from the one who has left everything, there is no way to snatch. “I am showing you the path to true wealth. But you are poor by your own hand—you are holding on.” Nicodemus went back. It was not in his capacity.
If the key of giving is not understood, you will stand at religion’s gate very dejected, full of anguish—as though you are about to be robbed, everything is being lost.
“O joyful pilgrim, look: the gate you see is lofty and vast, and seems easy to enter. And the path that goes through it is straight and smooth and green. In the depths of the dark forest it is like an illumined forest-track—a place reflecting the heaven of Amitabha. There the birds with shining wings, the nightingales of hope, sitting in emerald bowers, sing songs of success for fearless travelers. They sing of the five virtues of the Bodhisattva, which are the five sources of awakening-power, and they sing of the seven stages of knowledge.”
After entering the gate of giving, the path that appears will be lush, very enticing, very pleasant—green shade, and birdsong, and everything beautiful.
The one who had always snatched—when he gives, instantly everything before him becomes beautiful. In snatching, all was ugly. Snatching is ugliness. Snatching is violence. And the one who snatches finds himself surrounded by skeletons. Those from whom he has snatched—their ghosts, their bones—stand all around him. The one who has snatched begins to live in a nightmare—a sorrow-dream—because of the snatching. The sighs of all those from whom he has snatched accumulate and begin to bite from all sides; they become thorns, they begin to torment.
But as soon as one becomes ready to give, this sutra speaks a truly precious truth—that at once, as if in darkness, an illumined path opens before him. This path is full of shade, cooled by the shadows of green trees. And birds sing. And their songs are not ordinary—they sing the virtues of the Bodhisattvas. As though the words of the Buddhas have entered the birds’ songs. Certainly, he who comes from the world of snatching into the world of giving finds all ugliness dissolve and the gates of beauty open.
“Move on—for you have brought the key, you are safe.”
You need not fear; nothing can be snatched from you. Nor will you be seized by that fear which whispers, “Who knows—these sweet bird-songs—perhaps there is some hidden purpose! Such a beautiful path—surely bandits are hiding somewhere. Such shady trees—surely someone planted them in order to rob travelers who sleep beneath their shade. Otherwise, who plants shade-giving trees? And why should birds sing? Surely there is some political trick behind these birds, and the conspiracy will be revealed in a while.”
One who clutches is afraid of everything. He fears even beauty. Everywhere, the thief within, the robber within, appears before his eyes. He is frightened of his own shadow—“Who is following me?” He hears his own footsteps on a lonely road and starts running—“Whose footsteps are these?” One who clutches lives frightened. One who has no clutch can move on along this path of pilgrimage—“For you have brought the key, you are safe.”
“And the second gate—its path too is verdant, but it climbs and goes upward. Yes, look at its rocky brow. Over its rugged and stony peaks brown mists hang, and beyond them all is filled with darkness. As one climbs, the song of hope in the pilgrim’s heart grows ever more faint. And now the burden of doubt is upon him, and his steps grow unsteady.”
This sutra is very strange.
Only those who have known can speak in this way. It is necessary to understand. It is based upon the deep psyche of man. We live in the world of plundering; therefore the world of giving instantly fills us with comfort, peace and beauty. This beauty, this peace, this thrill of joy arises from the dissolving of the malice, cruelty, violence in which our life had been lived until now. But it will not last long. After a short while the world will be forgotten. It is like this: a thorn had lodged in your foot; when you remove the thorn, there is relief. But how long will that relief last, which came from removing the thorn? It was because the thorn was hurting—now the hurting is gone, so there is relief.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin walked the road, cursing someone, and walking with such distress that anyone who saw him felt pity and asked, “Mulla, what is the matter? Whom are you cursing?” Mulla said, “My shoes are too tight. My foot is caught in such a way I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it off. The shoes are biting.” Everyone said, “Is that all? Don’t wear them then—take them off.” Mulla said, “This is my only relief—you want to snatch that too? All day long, tired and tormented, when I reach home, my wife speaks words as though she has steeped them in poison all day. The children scream and shout. There is no money; my business is failing. Even a loaf of bread tonight—no certainty. Whether I sleep hungry or after eating—no certainty. Debts are increasing; creditors stand at my door morning and evening; because of them I come out to the bazaar—there is no work in the bazaar either. So when, at night, wearied from the day and harassed by these shoes, I reach home and fling off a shoe, I say, ‘O God, thank you!’ Such relief comes from taking off a shoe. This is my only relief—would you take this away too?”
It is the relief of absence. It comes when, after sorrow and pain, you come out; when after illness, you become healthy. But how long will it last? The world is a disease. When we step out of it all at once, a great lightness comes—the load falls away. But how long will it last?
It is negative, privative; it will not last long. As soon as we are out from under it, the climbs begin. Around these mountains thick mists hang. These mountains will break our courage to climb. Hope will begin to fade; the burden of doubt will grow: the world has slipped from our hands, and what ought to be attained seems very far. The gate of giving was very large; we passed through. The light relief that came from the removal of the world’s burden is also now lost.
“And a darkness encircles…”
A dense darkness surrounds. It will surround. Before our real eyes open, our false eyes must close. The very energy we used in our false eyes will enter the real and activate them. Before the true light is revealed to us, our false lights must all dissolve.
“A dense darkness encircles…”
For this reason it encircles. It is a very auspicious sign—for those who know. Otherwise the seeker becomes frightened and turns back.
Many do not proceed beyond giving; many stop at giving—and remain there for many lives. For even in giving, the world’s language is somewhat understandable. There was snatching; here there is giving. Opposite, yet the language is akin, near, comprehensible.
When both are lost—both taking and giving—the world’s duality is lost. The eyes we had, the light we had—all dissolves.
“A deep darkness encircles…”
In this darkness it is natural for doubt to arise. What was—has been lost. The shore that was near—the boat moves away from it. We have unmoored all chains, and the other shore is not yet visible. Feet begin to tremble, to waver.
“O seeker, beware of this. Beware of that fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight, between the moonlight of your soul and your great far-flung destination.”
By moving away from the world, spirituality is not attained at once. After turning from the world there is an interval, an empty space, when we are nowhere—like Trishanku, suspended. Neither here nor there; the boat is midstream. Having left one shore, the other is not at once found—we are in mid-current. In that midstream the mind teeters. The wish to return arises: let us go back. At least there was a shore. There was sorrow—no matter; it was familiar, known. And we were not alone. Even if we were unhappy, we were with many—there was a crowd, a family, friends, loved ones, our own people. We shared sympathy in one another’s sorrows. Now we are alone; the old shore is gone; the familiar people gone; no one remains to console. In this aloneness, in this midstream, fear seizes.
The sutra says: “O seeker, beware. Beware of this fear which spreads like the black and soundless wings of a bat at midnight between the moonlight of your soul and your far-flung great destination.”
Fear seizes every seeker. Not worldly fear; a more existential fear. In these moments the seeker begins to be frightened: I am stuck in between—now what? Nor can one go back to the world. For in this world there is no road backward. How can one go back? What has been known cannot be un-known. What has been seen cannot be un-seen. What has come into experience—how can one go behind it? When it had not come into experience—that was different. There is no way to recede from experience. One cannot go back; the far shore is not seen. To see the far shore will take time. New eyes are needed, and a new balance of the eyes.
What we are used to seeing, we can see; what we are not used to seeing, we cannot see. What we have been hearing, we hear; what we have not been hearing, we cannot hear.
Our habits, our arrangements, our patterns—all belong to this shore. Before we can see, recognize, understand that shore, all this structure will be removed. And as the old structure falls, the new does not arise at once. The new will be born; it will grow. It will take time. The interval of this time will be darkness. And a most intense fear will seize the mind. The fear will be: perhaps I have been foolish. I was sitting on a good shore. What mistake have I made—to descend into midstream? And now it seems even to return to the old shore is not possible. And no news of the new—hope will dim. When hope goes utterly empty, doubt takes hold. Then not only the soul, the whole existence begins to tremble. The seeker arrives at this trembling state. And for this trembling state, it is very necessary to be forewarned.
When you go within yourselves in meditation, such a moment arrives when you begin to be afraid: now it does not seem right to go further. Friends come to me and say, “This seems a dangerous moment. It feels within that if I go a little further I will either go mad—or perhaps death will happen.” It seems within as if perhaps now I am falling into an inner well; will I be able to return or not? In that moment courage is needed. For that moment is precious and revolutionary. If you panic then, you miss. And if you panic then, that fear will sit in your soul and trouble you always. You cannot go back. Had you gone forward, even the fear would have vanished. You cannot go back; you did not go forward—you will remain frightened.
Kierkegaard has said that such a moment comes—he wrote a book called “Either/Or”—this or that, this shore or that shore. Between both, such a moment comes when the whole existence seems to tremble, as if a storm has seized a tree. If you come to this side, the storm passes; if you go to that side, the storm passes; but if you remain caught in between, the storm becomes your life. Many get entangled in this storm.
And so the worldly man fears going toward religion, toward meditation, toward yoga. That fear too is born of experience—very ancient. The world has seen many people get caught in the storm; has seen many go deranged, mad; so fear has arisen. As soon as you hear someone has taken sannyas, a fear arises within: what has he done? Sannyas! It means he has decided to leave the shore—he is going into danger, into the unknown! It is better to walk upon familiar, known roads—why get into trouble? This too is born of experience.
Many times it has happened: a seeker, caught in the middle, cannot return, cannot go forward—because of fear—and great entanglement results. A pathological, diseased condition sets in. Therefore this caution is necessary.
This is certain: if, in that moment, you hold steady and do not lose courage, you will soon go beyond fear and become fearless forever. Then no fear of the world will ever catch you. He who goes beyond the fear of spirituality—no fear in the world can catch him. He whom even this moment cannot shake, cannot frighten—no power can frighten him. Not even death can ruffle a single hair—for this danger is greater than death. In death the body only perishes; in this moment it seems my very life-breath is breaking. I am nowhere now. I will become pure nothingness. As if one has fallen into an endless abyss whose bottom is never found. And there is no way to climb upward. And one falls, and falls—and no bottom appears—just such is the feeling.
But receive that vision with rejoicing, with gladness, with gratitude—knowing it is the grace of the Divine that such a moment has arrived. For just after this moment is revolution; just after this moment is transformation. If with this understanding you move ahead, fear vanishes forever. Night is erased forever. Darkness is lost forever.
Sri Aurobindo has said: what I used to call light yesterday—before the light I know today—that light seems darkness. And what I used to call life—before the life I know today—that life seems worse than death.
But this will come after the moment of fear. It is worth remembering: “O seeker, beware! Beware of this fear.” If this mindfulness remains—whenever fear seizes you, remember: it is an auspicious sign; we are nearing that abyss, and if we are willing to fall into it, the old will be erased and the new will be born. Sorrow will be dissolved, and a ray of joy will break forth. Sunrise is near.
The denser the night, the nearer the dawn. Let this feeling be held in the heart.
Therefore the Master becomes helpful—and very helpful to those who may be filled with fear. For then he can speak of the roads he has traveled. He can give news of the fears that seized him. He can tell where, in which moments and places, obstructions arise, trouble may happen, where a man may be caught. Once these are clearly understood, crossing becomes easy.