Samadhi Ke Sapat Dwar #6

O disciple, fear slays resolve and postpones all endeavor. If shila, the fragrance of virtue, is absent, the traveler’s feet falter, and on the rocky trail the stones of karma wound them till they bleed.

O seeker, steady your feet. Bathe your Atman in the sattva of Kshanti—patience—for you are arriving at the very gate that bears its name: the door of strength and patience.

Do not close your eyes, and do not turn your gaze away from the Dorje, the vajra of protection. The arrows of lust pierce the one who has not attained virag—dispassion.

Beware the trembling! When you fall beneath the breath of fear, rust gathers upon the key of patience—and a rusted key will not open the lock.

The farther you go, the more your feet must face chasms and gullies. And the path that leads on is illumined by only one fire—the fire of courage burning in the seeker’s heart. The more one dares, the more one receives. And the more one fears, the more that flame wanes. And only that flame can guide. That heart-flame is like the last ray of the sun flashing on a high mountain peak; when it extinguishes, the dark night descends. When that light too goes out, a black and frightening shadow will fall from your own heart upon the path and bind your fear-trembling feet to the ground.

This sutra holds many precious things for the seeker.

‘O disciple, fear slays resolve and postpones all endeavor.’

Fear is perhaps among the greatest difficulties on the inner path—and not the kind of fear we know in the world; it is of another order. There are two kinds of fear. One is fear whose cause stands manifest before you. Someone stands with a dagger at your chest—you become afraid. The cause is clear, in front of you. And there is another fear.

This first dimension of fear has causes. The causes are outside; you tremble within. Even these causes do not create fear; they only awaken the fear that is already sleeping within, bring forth what is hidden inside. If someone stands before your chest with a knife, the fear is not born of the knife. Fear is within; the knife makes it appear. But the cause is obvious.

The second fear is deeper still: it is not provoked by a knife or any outer situation; rather, it seems to arise from the very vibrations of the fear lying within you. It appears causeless. On the spiritual path that causeless fear is the obstacle. As one withdraws one’s gaze from the world, outer causes dissolve—and one’s own fear begins to quiver of itself. There is now no external shaker; only one’s fear remains.

It is easier to be free of fear that has a cause; the cause can be blocked, you can defend against it. If someone comes with a knife, you can stand with a sword. You can build a wall of safety around you. If you fall ill, medicines can be arranged. For outer causes, opposite outer measures can be created—and you feel protected. But when you discover the causeless fear—that fear is not coming from outside, no one is awakening it; fear is in me, in my very Atman; I am trembling from myself—then what to do? How to erase this fear? What defense can there be?

No arrangement will help. Worldly fear is easy to avoid. We all have arranged our lives to guard against worldly fears. Our whole social structure is our defense against them—police, courts, law, state—all our safeguards against outer fear. But what shall one do against the fear within? And unless that fear dissolves, there can be no entry into the spiritual realm—for that realm is inner; there is nothing outside there to arrange, to defend against. There you will be alone—and your fear will be causeless.

A tree trembles in the wind; the wind can be stopped. But if a tree trembles because the vibration lies in its very roots, then what can be done? It is this fear that is being spoken of. And this fear slays resolve.

The more the inner trembling, the less you can be steadfast. With inner quivering you cannot trust your own word. You know that even as you speak, you tremble. Even as you decide, you tremble. You know your resolve is always incomplete—and an incomplete resolve is no resolve at all. To say, “I am half ready,” is meaningless. Readiness is either total, or it is absent. If you say, “I am half ready to leap,” how will you leap? One foot ready, the other not—half of you clinging to the ground, half wanting to jump. How can the jump happen? It happens only when readiness is total. Even a trace of contrary mood within, and the leap is impossible. And in one who trembles with fear, the contrary mood remains. He cannot trust himself.

Thus Mahavira called fearlessness the first step for the seeker. And rightly so, for until fearlessness is attained, nothing can happen. A revealing incident is told about Mahavira: he said that until you attain fearlessness, you cannot be non-violent. Man is violent precisely because he is afraid. Violence is a defense against fear: lest someone kill me, I am ready to kill first. In order to save oneself, it seems wise to strike before being struck—for the one who initiates the attack gains the advantage. Violence so besieges our minds because we are inwardly afraid. We are frightened; therefore we want to frighten others.

And we know only one taste of fearlessness—when someone else fears us. It is comparative. If you can make someone afraid, you feel a strange delight: “Good. I am not the one who fears; I am the one who frightens.” Seeing another quake more than you, you gain confidence that you tremble less—or you forget your own trembling.

What is the intoxication of being a ruler? The thrill of power is the thrill of violence. The one in power can make you tremble—the one with weapons can make you shudder; the one with wealth can unnerve you. Those around whom all tremble feel assured that they are not the quivering ones, they are the shakers.

One of Hitler’s closest confidants wrote in a letter that whenever Hitler had someone killed, he would be very pleased. Often, after having someone shot before him, as the victim writhed and fell silent, a wave of peace and joy would wash over his face. The confidant asked, “Why do you become so happy when someone dies?” Hitler replied, “It convinces me I am not the one who dies; I am the one who kills. Death can do nothing to me. When I kill, I become the master of death.”

What delight Nadir, Timur, Genghis, Napoleon, Alexander, Hitler, Stalin, Mao found in destroying others is this: if I can destroy, who can destroy me? In comparison, seeing others more afraid, we feel bigger. Thus everyone bullies someone weaker nearby. In an office, the owner frightens the manager; the manager bullies the head clerk; the head clerk dominates the clerk; the clerk threatens the peon; the peon goes home and bullies his wife; the wife terrifies the children. And so it goes. The child, failing to find anyone else, breaks the leg of his doll—and rejoices.

Society is layered with fear. If the husband does not frighten the wife, the wife frightens the husband. It is rare to find a home where neither terrifies the other. Should such a home be found, know that it is truly a home; the rest are hierarchies of harassment—mechanisms to torment one another.

We seek those weaker than ourselves, for before them we seem powerful; we seek the poor, for beside them we seem rich; we seek the dull, for beside them we seem wise. But if we look rightly, all such relationships are diseased and built on fear. Fear does not vanish by frightening others; it only hides. And we have been hiding it for lifetimes, yet have not erased even a grain of it. In truth, the more we hide it, the harder it becomes to erase—for by hiding it we cast it into such darkness that even we cannot see where it is.

The sutra says: ‘O disciple, fear slays resolve and postpones all endeavor.’

We think endlessly of doing—and never do. A thousand times we dream of lifting a foot—never once do we lift it. We go on thinking of doing. But thinking is no journey. How often one decides to change oneself—yet never begins. Always we postpone: “Tomorrow I will start.” And tomorrow never comes.

Tomorrow the mind postpones again. Postponement is our supreme trick. It keeps both our faces intact: we are not left with the feeling that we are doing nothing to change—how could we be? We will do it tomorrow; we are planning. Thus the mind feels we are moving towards change—while we never move. What fear stops us? Not a fear with an external cause—the state of being fearful itself is what stops us.

Søren Kierkegaard said that the more he understood man, the more he found man to be a trembling—just a trembling. Everything within quivers.

So first, experience this: the causes of fear are not outside; fear is within. Causes only reveal it—make it manifest. If someone plunges a knife into your hand, a stream of blood flows. The knife does not create the stream; the blood was already there—the knife only reveals it. So too, the stream of fear flows within; when someone stands before you with a knife, that stream bursts forth. It is within you, like blood. Blood is visible; fear is not, and so you do not think of it. When someone sharpens a blade in your presence, the surge that rises within is not coming from the blade; the blade only reminds you. What was repressed becomes articulate; what you had hidden begins to move; what you had forgotten you are forced to remember.

Buddha would tell his bhikkhus: Go to the cremation ground and meditate on death for months. When a corpse is brought, sit quietly and watch with one-pointed awareness. When the pyre is laid, continue to observe—do not think, only see what happens in death. When the body burns to ash and the mourners depart weeping, remain by the smoldering embers. What was present just now is no longer. By and by you will begin to see your own corpse there. Today or tomorrow it will dawn on you: someone too is carrying you to the cremation ground; your dear ones will gather and lay you on the pyre, and you too will be ash. Then great fear will seize you. Do not flee the cremation ground—remain rooted.

People say, “Do not go to the cremation ground—there are ghosts.” There are no ghosts there; your fear appears there. But man always projects outward. Because of fear in the cremation ground, ghosts seem to be there; ghosts do not cause the fear. Ghosts have plenty of places to dwell—and ghosts would not choose the cremation ground either, because you yourself will be a ghost someday. Ghosts too fear cremation grounds as much as you do! The fear there is not of ghosts. Because of fear, ghosts are experienced. The cremation ground is death—its symbol. Approaching it, what is hidden within begins to ripple. The lake of your inner fear is stirred. In that trembling state you begin to see ghosts; it is projection—your fear spreads out and appears outside.

A leaf stirs in the wind—and you hear footsteps. A leaf falls—a slight rustle—and you run. By running you only magnify your fear. What was small becomes large—now you can tremble even more; you become ensnared in your own web of fear. Then anything can happen; you can see anything—and it will appear so concrete that you will never agree it was false.

But the mistake is this: what appears on the screen is not on the screen—it is in the projector. In a cinema the projector is behind your back—no one looks there. Through two small apertures the machine throws images; you look at the screen. The screen is before, the projector behind. What appears on the screen is not in the screen—it only appears there. That which appears is hidden in the machine that projects.

When you see a ghost, turn back within and look—fear is there. Whatever ghosts produce fear seize our attention upon the screen—and we forget we ourselves are casting them; those shadows stand outside having emerged from within us. All the so-called outer causes of fear are our own creations. We raise such commotion around us—and it has a convenience: it is easy to believe someone else is frightening us. Responsibility shifts elsewhere. If you are running, you are not running—some ghost drives you. The burden is the ghost’s—you escape responsibility. But it is you who are running—and if you stand firm, the ghost starts running.

Vivekananda wrote—and often told—how, upon first arriving in Kashi as a sannyasin, he was harried by monkeys. He was meditating under a tree; monkeys gathered, began to intimidate him. He tried to avoid them—as one does when frightened. But when you try to avoid, you embolden the one who threatens. He edged away; the monkeys came closer. He thought to run; the monkeys sprang. He ran—and more monkeys descended. Suddenly it struck him, “This will be trouble; they may even kill me. Perhaps seeing my fear has made them so bold.” He turned and stood still. The monkeys halted. Vivekananda moved toward them—they fled up the trees. Later he would say, “That day I understood the essence of fear.”

Whatever you fear will pursue you. Pursue it—and it will defend itself. Stand firm—be not afraid—and all the world’s causes to frighten you evaporate.

Fear is within. The causes are mere pretexts, not more than a screen. And fear destroys resolve. You cannot collect yourself; you sway and postpone. Postponement too is fear.

‘If shila is lacking, the traveler’s feet falter, and on the rocky trail the stones of karma wound them till they bleed.’

What then is to be done to escape fear?

Shila is the means.

Understand shila. When you speak untruth, your inner trembling increases. The liar trembles; the truthful one does not. We have devices now that catch lies instantly, for your trembling betrays you—making a graph that shows you are shaking, and how much.

In Western courts they have begun to use lie detectors—you cannot elude them. They pose questions. “What time is it?” The clock is in the courtroom—no cause to lie. You say, “Twelve o’clock.” The machine below begins to register, “The man is not trembling.” They ask, “What is the color of this cloth?” You answer, “Blue.” Still no tremor. They ask several questions where you cannot lie.

Then they ask, “Did you steal?” A jolt hits the chest—and the instrument registers the jolt. Within you know you stole—and outwardly you say, “I did not.” You are divided—no longer together. You can lie to the world, but how will you lie to yourself? Within you know you stole; outside you deny it. Your currents split; the graph cuts sharply; your heart rate rises; electrical currents in your limbs race. Now you tremble. You know you may be caught; a witness may appear; this is false—you seek defense. The instrument catches it.

When you speak untruth, you tremble. The more you tremble, the more power you give fear—for fear is trembling. When you are angry, you tremble. When you hate, you tremble. You are feeding fear. Thus the one full of hatred, anger, malice, jealousy—he is feeding fear. These are the foods of fear.

Shila means: refrain from feeding fear. Refrain from those acts and thoughts that increase trembling, so that the vibration subsides.

And the reverse is also true. Some things increase trembling; some decrease it. If hatred increases it, love decreases it. Hence, in deep love fear does not grasp you. Lovers are not afraid. And where mutual fear exists, the flower of love never blooms. There is no way, for fear and love have no kinship. All are deceived here. In hatred your every hair trembles; you can feel the vibration—no instrument needed. In anger you shake; the vibration spreads through the body’s electrical current. In love you become still.

A group of Western psychologists experimented on infant monkeys. Their results are precious. They built two dummy mothers. One was a mother of wire, with breasts that gave milk; a metal frame. The other gave no milk, but was made of soft wool; inside her a heater glowed—warmth. The infants went to the wire mother to drink—and immediately left, clinging thereafter to the warm wool mother.

If the infants were frightened, they would not even go to drink; they went hungry—but remained by the warm mother, clinging. Near the wire mother they trembled; near the wool mother they became calm. A mere warmth—yet reassurance, a sense of love’s comfort, stilled their vibrations.

They then raised some infants only with the wire mother, some only with the wool mother. Those with the wool mother were less afraid; those with the wire mother remained fearful, ever trembling.

In love’s moments fear recedes. The subtle bliss you feel in love is the waning of fear. If love flowers to its depth, even death does not frighten the lover. Even if death stands before him, no fear alights upon his mind. He can go in peace.

Thus hatred is the opposite of shila; love is shila. Anger is the contrary of shila; non-anger, forgiveness—shila. Observe for yourself: whatever increases your trembling is not shila; whatever diminishes it, and thins your fear, is shila. If Mahavira and Buddha are fearless, it is not that a dagger could not kill them; it could. Not that poison could not slay them; it would. They are fearless because all the sources that produced inner trembling have been dried up. Fear too needs food. We hoard fear—and feed it!

People come to me and say, “We want to be free of fear.” But if I say, “Then you must be free of anger, hatred, jealousy,” they hesitate. You cannot drop fear directly. If you wish to be rid of fear and continue to collect all its foods, how will it happen? You work against yourself.

Buddha called shila a protection. In shila all is included—truth, love, compassion, forgiveness. All those qualities that dismiss fear from within you.

‘If shila is lacking, the traveler’s feet falter, and on the rocky trail the stones of karma wound them till they bleed.’

Know, for dharma the value of shila is not the value of social morality. Not “Speak truth because lies harm others”—that has nothing to do with dharma. Not “Do not be angry because others are hurt”—that too is not the concern of dharma. These belong to ethics. Dharma uses the same words but for another purpose.

Dharma says: Do not lie—because when you lie, you tremble, and when you tremble, the journey ahead becomes impossible. It is not about the other. The other may benefit; but that is not the aim. If you speak untruth, you tremble—and with trembling feet you cannot climb that mountain peak which is the supreme experience; without it, life remains hell. Yes, anger harms others; if you do not anger, others benefit. But this is not the purpose for dharma; it is secondary, a by-product. One sows wheat to harvest wheat; straw also grows, but no one sows for straw. Ethics, for dharma, is like straw—it appears, but it is not the goal. You are the goal. Then dharma becomes a scientific arrangement. The matter becomes clear.

Thus we do not say, “Do not be angry because causing pain is bad, and you will go to hell.” No. Do not be angry because anger makes you live in hell now. “You will go”—this is nonsense. It is another trick of the mind: if hell is in the future, there is time to manage—express some anger and later apologize; before hell we will seek forgiveness, take vows, do some charity, go on pilgrimage. Before being thrown into hell, if time is given, we will arrange. But I say: there is no time. None at all. Anger—and you are in hell. There is not even a moment in between. Love—and you are in heaven. No gap exists.

For the seeker the focus must remain on this: in the quest that takes one beyond sorrow—what will strengthen his feet? What will make them firm? That is shila—that is the discipline.

‘O seeker, steady your feet. Bathe your Atman in the sattva of Kshanti (patience), for you are arriving at the gate that bears its name—the door of strength and patience.’

‘Steady your feet.’

It means: do nothing that makes you tremble. Do that which ends your trembling, that you may be still and stand. Strength in the feet here is not physical—this power to stand upon this path is spiritual. It comes when the trembling Atman becomes untrembling—when within, like a lamp in a windless room, the flame burns unmoving. Only then will there be strength in your steps.

For the world’s road not much is needed. With trembling feet one can walk well. In fact, on that road, the more you tremble the easier the journey—because that whole road is trembling; there is no way to plant steady feet there. There the running man makes progress; the still man does not.

But beyond the world—to truth, to liberation, to Paramatman—call it what you will—one needs unmoving feet.

How will they be unmoving?

Through patience.

Why do we tremble so soon?

A great lack of patience. We cannot wait even a grain.

We are like little children. A child plants a mango seed—and every hour he digs it up to see if the sprout has come. It will never sprout; ten times a day it is pulled up. It could have sprouted—with a month or two of waiting. Water was needed; concealment in the womb of the earth was needed. To pull it up again and again is dangerous. In the spiritual world we are all children.

People come and say, “Three days we have meditated—nothing has happened.” This is pulling up the seed. You are making sure it will never happen. It could even happen in three days—but then great patience is needed. In three lifetimes it may not happen if patience is lacking.

Patience gives depth to effort; impatience makes it shallow.

Because of impatience we remain on the surface. Patience gives intensity—and the possibility to descend into depth.

Mahakashyapa came to Buddha. He asked, “How long will it take? When will the hour come when I too become a Buddha?” Buddha said, “If you ask again, it will take a long time. Then even I cannot help you. Now you are excusable—you are new, first time here. Ask no more—and it can happen soon.”

There are only two mentions of Mahakashyapa in Buddha’s life—and he became the most precious disciple. One is this; the other occurs some forty years later. One day Buddha came and sat silent on the dais. A lotus in his hand, he gazed at it. Thousands had gathered to hear—but he sat silent, only looking at the flower. Such a thing had never happened. At last someone cried, “How long will this go on? We have come to listen from afar, and you are silent.” Buddha said, “What I could say in words I have said many times. Today I am saying what cannot be said in words. If anyone understands, let him indicate.” Silence fell over the thousands. If words are not understood, how will the wordless be?

But a ripple of laughter sounded in the crowd. Buddha said, “That must be Mahakashyapa—catch him lest he escape.” He said, “Mahakashyapa, why do you laugh? What has happened?” Mahakashyapa replied, “What I had waited for has happened—not through your words, but through your silence.” Buddha gave him the flower and said, “What I could give in words I gave to all; what I could not give in words, I give to Mahakashyapa.”

From him a separate lineage arose—the silent transmission. In it there were twenty-eight great masters in India. The disciple received the gift only when he arrived at the state of patience—years of Kshanti, of waiting—without a trace of impatience, without the question “When?” Even if it never happens, so be it. When a disciple came to this state, he received the thread of Mahakashyapa’s lineage.

Bodhidharma was the twenty-eighth master. It is said he wandered all over India but could not find one person patient enough to whom he could say the wordless—and so he went to China. There six masters followed; a seventh could not be found. The flower Buddha gave Mahakashyapa was a great reward for lifelong silence and patience—quiet waiting.

On this great path the traveler must bathe his soul in the sattva of patience; he must prepare for infinite waiting. Not that he will have to wait infinitely—here is the paradox: if you are prepared for infinite waiting, it can happen in a moment; if you strive to have it this instant, it may not happen in eternity. The way to happening is: “I am willing to wait.” The way to hinder it is: “Now!” Whatever is great in life has no relation with impatience. To be worthy of the great, an equally great waiting is required. We want Paramatman as if we had gone to the market to buy a commodity!

Paramatman is not an object—it is a state of being. Infinite patience gives birth within you to that state we call Paramatman. No one comes from outside; in silent waiting you become divine.

Haste—“now, now”—keeps uproar within; storms rage. In patience, the storms dissolve by themselves.

Buddha and Mahavira placed immense emphasis on patience. No spiritual stream in the world has failed to do so. If you have asked, “When?” know it will never be. If you remain silent—without that question—it can be now, even this very moment. In waiting, you become another man; your very quality changes.

‘Bathe your Atman in the sattva of patience...’

For twenty-four hours, wherever possible, in whatever you can, remain patient. And if you taste even a little of patience, you will never be impatient again. In truth, by impatience we spoil everything. When we spoil things, we think, “Even with so much hurry it failed; had I waited, nothing would have happened—so let me be more impatient.”

Seasonal flowers might grow with impatience. But if you wish to plant trees that are eternal, evergreen, ever-youthful, ever-flowering—then the mind that plants seasonal blooms will not suffice. You must be free of it.

The soil must be of patience; only then do the seeds of the eternal sprout.

The sutra says: ‘Do not close your eyes, and do not turn your gaze away from the Dorje (the vajra of protection). The arrows of lust pierce the one who has not attained virag.’

Dorje is a Tibetan word—and a precious Tibetan process. Literally it means vajra, indestructible protection. Just as a wall of stone around you can keep bullets from touching you, a coat of mail can keep arrows from piercing you—so too, in the spiritual sense, a protection can be woven around your inner essence. The alchemy of this inner protection is called Dorje.

Tibet laid great stress on Dorje. Tibet discovered priceless sutras for keeping the inner being from being pierced by those things that ordinarily wound us. Is there a way?

There is. Let us see by example.

You walk along a road, a beautiful woman or a handsome man appears—and instantly you tremble; lust arises; an arrow slips in. You are no longer who you were a moment ago—you are possessed by desire. Is there a way that the beauty be seen, yet the attraction not enter you?

There is. Buddha said: see the body in its totality. When beauty appears, inquire, “What is beauty, and where?” Bones, flesh, marrow—where is beauty? Keep this remembrance, deepen it—and a protective armor will arise within against the stream of attraction that would otherwise surge in at the sight of beauty. Then, at the sight of a beautiful woman, nothing will stir within. Buddha said: see through the body. If wealth attracts, look at wealth with awareness: what has it given to anyone? What can it give? If greed seizes, if anger seizes—whatever seizes—watch it with awareness: what has it yielded; what can it yield; what will you gain? If this insight, this observation continues, virag is born.

Virag is Dorje. Virag is a scientific process of building a protective wall around the mind. In Tibet, whenever a seeker wished to go into deep sadhana, the master would ask, “Have you attained Dorje? If so, proceed; without it, there is danger.”

The ordinary man is not in such danger as the seeker. An ordinary citizen does not need armor; a soldier on the battlefield does. The ordinary man is pierced by desires and goes on. But the seeker is on a great journey; if his energy is squandered in petty things, the journey becomes impossible—and there is danger of falling from the heights. One can walk on the plains; but in the mountains, beware. Thus Tibet says: before you go, acquire the armor—Dorje, vajra-protection. An entire Buddhist vehicle is named after it—Vajrayana—built upon the making of this vajra. And it can be made.

Earlier we might have dismissed this as fanciful; now science affords measurement. Instruments can be placed near you that register your electrical waves: they show anger, they show love. If a beautiful woman passes, the instrument shows whether you were affected. If a diamond lies before you, it registers whether you lusted—because when you lust, your electrical energy begins to flow toward the diamond. If you do not lust, no current flows; the diamond lies there, you are here—no relation between the two. This state is called virag.

A story is told of Bhartrihari. He renounced his kingdom. He was extraordinary, for he knew passion as few ever have—he knew indulgence as few ever have. Naturally, one who knows indulgence so deeply will slip out of it. Bondage is in ignorance.

Bhartrihari indulged so much he became weary. He wrote the Shringara Shataka—songs praising beauty, enjoyment, passion—the world in its supreme sense. None have spoken so in praise of it. But it proved futile. He left. Later he wrote Vairagya Shataka—the Century of Dispassion.

One day, seated in the forest behind a tree, meditating, a strange event occurred. A horseman raced by. As his eyes fell upon the ground, Bhartrihari’s eyes fell there too—a large diamond lay on the road. In a moment it all happened. From the other side another rider came; both drew their swords—the diamond had caught both eyes. Bhartrihari too saw it. Both planted their swords by the gem. “My eyes fell first; I am the owner,” each claimed. In a little while there was bloodshed. Swords lodged in their chests. In moments two corpses lay there; blood was everywhere. The diamond lay as it was.

Bhartrihari laughed. “Amazing! Those who sought ownership are dead; the diamond remains. The diamond does not even know what has happened on its account.” All owners die; diamonds remain. New owners go on battling; diamonds remain.

Had we measured then, two men, their souls leaping out, would have been clinging to the diamond. That is why one is ready to give his very life; the gem sucked the very essence of their being—not that the diamond pulled them; the diamond is not to blame; it knows nothing. They were unprotected; they had no Dorje.

Another man sat there—Bhartrihari—and he laughed, for in that small scene life’s whole uproar was revealed—individual combat, social conflict, wars of nations—all in miniature. That for which we fight remains lying there; we are destroyed.

Bhartrihari closed his eyes. He was in Dorje. The diamond lay there; Bhartrihari sat here—and no relation formed between them. He did not set forth toward the diamond.

The more one looks at life with awareness, the more desire wanes and virag is born.

Virag is not enmity toward passion; it is the absence of it. Do not mistake the renunciate who flees as viragi. He could have seen the diamond and fled, “A diamond lies here; I must not remain.” That would mean passion still exists; Dorje is lacking. Those who run from the world are not viragi; otherwise there is no need to run. They run out of fear—if they tarry, the diamond will win; they will lose. So do not stop—flee. But in fleeing you have confessed your journey is toward the diamond. It is no longer a stone—it has become a diamond, and desire has entered. Otherwise, it is only a stone.

He who runs from the world is not a man of dispassion; he is passion inverted—standing on his head. Where your feet belong, he has put his head. I would say: where the feet belonged, the feet were fine—why place your head on a diamond?

Virag means: that which used to pull no longer pulls—because I am protected, because I have seen the futility of raga.

Understand the difference. Passion is affirmed in both states—if I grasp the diamond, and if I flee from it. In both cases the diamond is heavy; I am weak. Either it draws me to itself or repels me. The diamond remains; I am in motion. I tremble; the stone does not. Either way, the stone wins—I lose. The diamond has set you moving—has created samsara.

This mind set in motion is the world.

There is another state: the diamond lies there; you are here; nothing moves within—nothing flows toward, nothing away. Nothing happens—the diamond lies as any stone. Diamond and pebble are stone. The value is man’s gift.

Throw a Kohinoor and a pebble into the river—the pebble will feel no shame before the Kohinoor; it will not once pray to the divine, “Make me a Kohinoor.” Nor will the Kohinoor strut, “I am special.” Stone is stone.

If man were not upon the earth, what difference would there be between Kohinoor and pebble? None. Man made the difference. For man the Kohinoor is not stone. Why? The sparkle he sees is his own desire’s glitter. What appears in the gem is a mood within. Man pours himself into the Kohinoor—and what he sees is his own sleeping energy.

If one understands raga rightly, one attains virag. Virag is the vajra. And when the wall of virag stands around you, you live outside the world even in the midst of it. Then you may sit in the marketplace and be on the Himalayas.

‘Do not close your eyes, and do not turn your gaze away from the Dorje.’

Do not close your eyes to the world; closing will not help—then the world will stand inside the eyes. If you must do something, do not shut them—turn them from the world and fix them on the Dorje. Let virag become your entire seeing.

‘The arrows of lust pierce the one who has not attained virag.’

‘Beware the trembling! Beneath fear’s breath, rust gathers upon the key of patience—and a rusted key will not open the lock.’

To obtain the key is hard enough. And even if obtained, we let it rust—in trembling, in fear.

‘The farther you go, the more your feet must face chasms. And the path that goes there is illumined by only one fire—the fire of courage burning in the seeker’s heart.’

No outer lamp will accompany you there. There is no external light on that path. It is dark. If you go relying on outer light, you will not reach—for that darkness is of another kind; your lamps cannot dispel it. There is only one lamp to dispel it: the fire of courage burning within the seeker’s heart.

Fear is the obstacle; courage the step.

What is courage? It is to strive for that which has not yet happened, which has not yet appeared—to venture into the unknown.

What is fear? To cling to the known.

One foot stands on the ground. When you lift it, you step into the unknown—set it down upon land you do not yet know. If you are a fearful man, you cling to the ground where you stand. If you are courageous, you leave what is known.

Remember: fear is holding; courage is letting go.

Leave what you have known. You have recognized it and found nothing in it—what is there to lose? At worst, the ground beneath one foot is lost; but you have known and lived it—what is its essence? The new land is a risk—perhaps there may be no land. For this risk, courage is needed. Dharma’s journey is a ceaseless move from the known to the unknown.

What we know is the world; what we do not know is Paramatman. To move into the unknown demands courage. First remove fear; then give birth to courage.

‘That path is illumined by only one fire—the fire of courage burning in the seeker’s heart. The more one dares, the more one receives. The more one fears, the more the flame dims.’

As an outer lamp burns by oxygen and is put out by nitrogen—so with the inner lamp. Cover a lamp with a glass to protect it from the storm—it may not be the storm but the covering that suffocates it, for within the glass oxygen is little; quickly spent—the nitrogen remains, and the flame dies.

For the inner lamp, fear is nitrogen and courage is oxygen. It burns by courage; it dies by fear. As nitrogen and oxygen have their own chemistry, so too does the inner lamp. By all means, increase courage; by all means, lessen fear. Only then will the guiding flame burn.

A seeker was leaving his master’s house. It was a dark night. He said, “Master, let me stay till morning—the night is dark, the path unknown, and there is no companion.” The master said, “I will give you a lamp—go with it.” He lit a lamp and gave it. As the disciple descended the last step, the master called, “Wait,” and blew the lamp out. The disciple cried, “What play is this?”

The master said, “For this dark road I could give you a lamp; but how shall I give you a lamp for that other dark path? Walk even this dark road without a lamp—by the light of your own feet. At least learn that one can walk even in the dark—let your courage grow. On the true path, whose traveler you are, I will not be able to give you any lamp. Suddenly this occurred to me—so I blew it out. If on the real path I cannot give you a lamp, what is the point of giving you a false one here? By giving you a lamp I encourage your fear; by extinguishing it I encourage your courage. Go down into the dark; search— a path will be found. Search—and the darkness will thin. No darkness is eternal. And look—the storm howls outside. What trust can you place in a lamp that my single breath extinguished? What the breath quenches, the storm will surely put out. If I cannot give you a lamp that never goes out, there is no point in giving you one that can.”

This is a teaching of great value: on that road the inner flame alone will serve. If fear is strong, your inner lamp cannot burn. If courage is there, it can.

‘That heart-light is like the last ray of the sun shining on a high mountain peak; when it dies, the dark night arrives. When that too goes out, a black and terrifying shadow, arising from your own heart, will fall upon the path—and bind your fear-trembling feet to the earth.’

When the inner lamp burns, light falls without; you are encircled by a field of radiance. When the inner lamp goes out, your path fills with your own darkness. As your light falls outside you, so too does your darkness. Whatever is within surrounds you. If you are wrapped in much darkness, do not think it is the path’s darkness. The path is neither dark nor bright. It looks dark because our lamp is not alight and our shadow falls all around.

The laws of this world and the divine world are opposite. Stand by a lake; if fish could see, your reflection would appear inverted—head below, feet above—and they would think you stand upside down. How could fish know that outside the lake the rules are reversed? What we call the world is the world within the lake—there the rules are opposite.

I say this so you may understand the sutra: here, your shadow exists only when there is light around you; there, shadow appears when there is no light. Here, in darkness, no shadow is cast; there, shadow is cast only by lack of light—and when light is, the shadow dissolves. If darkness gathers about you, lessen fear and increase courage. Our meditations too are methods to lessen fear and increase courage. It can happen in a thousand ways—even little things help.

An Indian woman once said to me, “Foreign women become nude; we do not have such courage. Will nothing happen without nudity?” Nudity has nothing to do with happening; what matters is fear and courage. One who stands nude easily has dropped much fear. It may seem trivial: what can happen by dropping clothes? But it is not clothing that is dropped; with it, the fear hidden in clothing is also dropped.

People ask me, “What will happen by dropping clothes?” There is no talk here of nakedness—but why cling to clothes? If nothing happens by shedding them, what will happen by clinging? That clinging is fear. We rationalize our fear, justify it. One who stands naked drops a fear and does an act of courage. Perhaps his body is ugly—what will people say? For millennia we have hidden the body; we ourselves have not seen it, how shall others? What will they say? What will they think? To show the body naked is to lay oneself bare to the crowd. They will call me mad, immoral, irreligious—what will they not say? He holds all this fear; dropping the garment, sometimes that inner fear falls too—sometimes courage is born.

I recall an incident. An American poet, Ginsberg, at a poetry reading in California, used words we call obscene. He says: those words are called obscene because we call certain body parts obscene—and yet those parts are. However much we condemn, how will that free us from what is? He uses such words naturally. People were enraged. Someone stood and said, “Do you think that by using obscene words in poetry you have shown great courage?”

Ginsberg replied, “Since courage is the issue, come up on the stage and stand naked—or I will.” The man was flustered; he had not thought it would come to this. Ginsberg took off his clothes and stood naked. “What I am saying in poetry I am not merely saying in poetry—I accept man in his total reality. There is no condemnation in me.” However many garments you layer upon him, man is naked within. The clinging to clothes is fear.

So I told the woman: do not worry—dropping clothes is not necessary. Meditation happens with or without clothes; it has happened to many. Buddha never shed his garments—and meditation happened. Mahavira did—and meditation happened. She was pleased: “Then all is well.”

What is well? What has been made well? Under the pretext of meditation, fear escaped. Such is the mind’s complexity. Drop even small fears. Do small acts of courage. Step by step, the journey of a thousand miles is completed.