Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #14

I certainly do emphasize experience. But there are experiences—and then there are “experiences.” Experience can also be mere acting. Outwardly it looks as if one has gone through something, yet inwardly nothing has happened.

You can pass through empty gestures. You can smile while there is no smile in the heart. Then you feel you’ve had the “experience” of smiling—but there will be no fragrance in your hands. You can even cry. Haven’t you seen actors weep on stage? Tears can roll down, torrents of tears, and it will look like the experience of crying—but if the tears are not arising from your heart, you have not passed through the experience. Very often we go through hollow procedures and mistake them for experience. Then of course nothing comes of it.

I have heard of a remarkable man, a great grammarian. He turned sixty. His father—now eighty—would remind him every day: “Now at least remember Rama. Remember the Lord. When will you go to the temple? You too are nearing old age; you’ve completed sixty.” The grammarian always said the same thing: “Why repeat Rama’s name again and again? You know I am a scholar of grammar. Whether you utter Rama’s name repeatedly, or take it once in the plural, it amounts to the same. One day I’ll go and take the Name totally, once for all.”

On his sixtieth birthday, while people were celebrating, his father reminded him again: “Go to the temple today, remember the Lord!” The son said, “I’ve been watching you go to the temple all your life—remembering the Lord, doing worship—and nothing seems to happen. I’d only go and come back the same. What’s the point of these trips? I will go one day. And if you insist I go today, I’ll go today. But if I go, don’t wait for me. I will take the Name once.” The father didn’t understand what he meant, took it as a joke, and said, “Go, take the Name.”

The son went to the temple and it is said he took Rama’s name once—and the moment he took it, he fell and was gone.

That grammarian’s name was Bhattoji Dikshita. He took the Name once! That is what is called experience. But he must have taken it in totality. Every hair must have joined. Every cell must have called. Every breath must have filled with remembrance. He must have staked everything. He had said, “I will take the Name once; don’t wait for me. Now that I go to Rama, what is there to return to in the world of work?” The father thought it was a joke—because the father had been taking the Name all his life.

So I tell you, there is a difference between experiences. The father too had the “experience” of worshiping in the temple, of praying. He went every day and came back every day—unchanged. Nothing new happened. Nothing even touched him. Not even the dust was shaken off.

Keep this difference in mind.

And when I emphasize experience, I mean the Bhattoji Dikshita kind of experience. These hollow procedures won’t do—going to the temple, ringing a bell, doing a puja; or making it a formality to sit every day in a corner after a bath and chant Rama’s name. Nothing will come of it. Something happens only when you pour yourself out in totality. Rama’s Name is not the point; the real point is pouring yourself out totally. Then whether you call Rama or Krishna or Rahim—whom you call doesn’t matter. All those names are secondary. The Divine has no name. But if you call in totality, the thing happens.

You say, “I’ve done everything—worship and ritual, yoga and meditation, vows and fasting—and for some years lived as a sadhu.”

You have done nothing. You are Bhattoji Dikshita’s father. You have neither worshiped nor recited; neither practiced yoga nor meditated; neither vowed nor fasted—you have done nothing. Had you done, it could not be that your hands remained empty. That has never happened. Put your hand in fire and it will burn. Drink water and you will be quenched. If someone says, “I put my hand in fire and it didn’t burn,” only one thing is clear: he must have put his hand into a picture of fire, not into fire. A picture of fire looks like fire, but it is not fire. He may have written the word “fire” on paper and held it in his hand; but the word “fire” on paper does not become an ember.

You have been playing with words and scriptures. Experience doesn’t happen that way. You may have become a pundit, but wisdom is not born that way. Wisdom is costly. Punditry is cheap, worth two pennies; you can buy it in the market. Nothing in the world is cheaper than being a pundit, because the pundit plays with the word “fire,” only the word. He becomes wealthy in words, gathers all the information about them. He knows the etymology of “fire,” from which root it is derived, its linguistic history—through which languages it has passed, which shades of meaning and nuances it has taken on—he knows it all, but he has no acquaintance with fire.

I have heard of a young man who was in love with a young woman—madly in love. But the woman paid him no attention. After chasing her for many days and getting nowhere, utterly despairing, one day he decided to speak plainly. He gathered courage and said, “Heartless, stone-hearted one, now I have only one question. Will you answer it?” “Ask,” the woman said carelessly. “Tell me, do you even know what love is? Have you ever loved anyone?” In reply the woman opened a large trunk and said, “This whole trunk is full of love letters. It contains photos of many men—men like you, flirts. And there are about a dozen rings too, gifts given to me.” Then she asked the young man, “Now you tell me—who knows more about love, you or I? Who is more experienced—you or I?”

You too say your trunk is full—worship and ritual, yoga and meditation, vows and fasting, saintliness. But something was missing; a fundamental mistake was made; somewhere you slipped at the first step. You traveled far, but your direction was wrong. You walked a lot—and reached nowhere. Because for me there is only one proof of walking: reaching. Reaching is the proof. The tree is tested by its fruit—no other test. If you say, “I planted a mango and got a neem,” only one thing is proven—you planted neem, though you may have thought it was a mango. Bitter fruit belong to neem, not to the mango plant. The fruit reveals the tree.

You say, “I did all this, passed through so many experiences—nothing happened; yet you emphasize experience.”

Your “experience” is not experience; it is hollow, sterile. Go back and reconsider. Did you truly worship—can you recall? When did you worship? How did you worship? Where were your feelings in that moment? When you bowed to the deity in the temple, were you really there? Truly there? Or were you in the market? Or at your shop? Haggling with customers? Were you there when you bowed—or were you stealing glances at a beautiful woman standing nearby? Were you there when you bowed—or was your mind stuck on the sandals you left outside, fearing someone might steal them? Often when people bow in the temple their mind is on their shoes: “May no one take them!” In this respect the Muslims are better; they keep their shoes with them. Have you seen the photos of Muslims in namaz? Each keeps his shoes in front of him—and bows his head to those shoes, thinking he is worshiping God!

Your worship is worship only when your heart bows, your feeling bows—when you truly bow down, wholly bow down. When you are there, and apart from that moment you have no existence anywhere else—when you are totally present there—there is worship in that presence. Then which flowers you offer is secondary. Whether you offer them or not is secondary. Whether the lamp on the plate is lit or not is also secondary. When the lamp of the heart is lit, the lamp on the plate is no longer important. But you pay no heed to the heart’s lamp; the plate’s lamp is burning, and your aarti is performed. Naturally you think, “I’ve done aarti so many times—what’s the point? Let’s do something else.” You remain the same. The way you did aarti, you will do meditation. The way you meditated, you will do yoga—you remain the same. The objects in your hand keep changing; you don’t. You will pass through all “experiences” and remain empty. And another nuisance will settle in your head: “Nothing happens; I’ve tried everything.”

You say, “I even lived as a sadhu for a few years.”

Does anyone “live as a sadhu” for a few years? Then saintliness did not fruit. It did not sprout naturally. It must have been a pretense, a facade. You accepted the outer garb. You thought, “Let’s try this too. I’ve tried everything—what’s the harm in trying this? If nothing comes of it, I’ll go back home.”

And then you did go back home.

The person who goes with the thought of returning, returns. The one who has kept the back stairs ready, will climb down. What was your sainthood? The same as your worship, as your fasting.

I want to tell you: experience does not mean external treatments. Experience means an inner experience, inner realization, inner ecstasy. Nothing has happened to you yet. Drop the illusion that you have experienced—otherwise it will block you. If I say, “Enter meditation,” you will say, “I’ve tried it all.” If I advise worship, you will say, “I’ve done it all.” And you have done nothing. There has been no gain; in fact there has been a loss—now you are no longer eager to do anything else.

Let this sink deep in your heart: you have not done anything yet; all your doing has gone to dust. Start now, from ABC. Begin on a blank slate. Understand afresh; begin afresh. Don’t bring in your knowledge in the middle—for you have none. Take yourself to be like a small child, in whom the urge to seek truth has arisen again. Drop the curtain on the past. Forget it. You have nothing to do with it. Those days were wasted; at least don’t let the days to come be wasted too.

Learn again. And this time, do not stress outer methods; emphasize the inner method. I am not telling you to go bow in a temple. I am telling you: wherever the feeling to bow arises, bow there. Then whether it is a temple or a mosque, a church or a gurudwara, a market or a shop, a tree before you or the open sky—wherever the feeling to bow arises, bow.

Does the feeling to bow never arise in you? Seeing the sun rise in the morning, does bowing not arise? The sun is rising here—and you are walking toward a temple! Where will you find a bigger temple than this? Where is a brighter temple than this? Such vast light is appearing—and you are not overwhelmed? No thrill arises within? On seeing the rising sun, does nothing rise in you? Then what will happen in a man-made temple! What will you find in houses built by men? The night is studded with stars, the sky’s cover is sequined with them—and you don’t feel like bowing before this wonder, this mystery, to drink it in? Doesn’t the urge to fold your hands arise? To salute the stars? To whisper with them a little? To commune? To exchange a word or two? To say, “Jai Ram ji ki”? If you don’t bow at the stars, and yet you bow before the Gita? Before a book printed in a human press? The boundless book of the sky is open, and every mark there is God’s signature—these planets and stars are His handwriting. Read them, savor them!

I tell you: take care of feeling. Many moments of feeling come. In the span of twenty-four hours, at least once or twice a moment arises when an inner feeling surges—bow then! How wondrous is this world! A sense of ah! arises, a feeling of gratitude, a desire to say thank you—to whom, we don’t know. Who created this mystery? He has no name. Even if you were to write Him a letter, there is no address.

What does it mean to bow? It means: we don’t know where You are; we don’t know Your name; we don’t know Your abode; we don’t even know whether You are—but what is visible is so full of wonder that You surely must be. You must be! This music of Yours that is resounding, this expanse of Yours that spreads, this finely ordered universe—meaningful, coherent, rhythmic—this dance, this celebration, You must be hiding somewhere in it. We bow to You, the Unknown; to You, the Nameless. When you bow like this, there is worship. That bell you ring in the temple—that is not worship; that is a sham of worship. When the moment of worship comes, where will you go looking for a bell? The moment of worship is not a fixed, scheduled moment—get up in the morning, bathe, go to the temple at seven to do puja. The Divine is eternal; time has nothing to do with Him. And the Divine is natural; only those who are natural can meet Him. So wait. Whenever a moment of spontaneous prayer arises—bow.

Moses was passing through a forest and saw a man bowed. It was evening; the sun was setting. The man was a shepherd. His sheep grazed around him, bleating, and he sat among them, absorbed in prayer—hands raised to the sky, talking in great abandon. Moses stopped behind him to listen—and was horrified. “Is this a prayer?”

The man was saying, “O Lord, You must be very lonely there. I know—sometimes when I am alone at night, I feel such fear. Don’t You get scared? You must be getting scared. I am ready to come to You—call me. I will always be with You, become Your shadow. And sometimes You must feel hungry, and there is no one to give You food. I’ll cook for You too—I know how to cook. And I will bathe You well, wash You clean—who knows if anyone has bathed You? You may have lice—my sheep get them. But see how I keep each of my sheep clean! At night I’ll press Your feet; You must be tired—Your vast expanse is so huge; inspecting it all You must tire. I’ll press Your feet at night. I’ll wash Your clothes. Whatever You say, I’ll do. Take me up; call me.”

Moses could not bear it—especially when he said, “I’ll pick Your lice.” Moses burst in: “Stop, fool! What kind of prayer is this? I’ve heard many prayers—where did you learn this? From whom?” The simple man was frightened: “Forgive me, I know nothing. I didn’t learn it; I made it myself. You know I am a shepherd; I am unlettered. What do I know of scriptures and refinements? I made it myself. I talk to my sheep; that is my language. I refined that a little and speak to God. You teach me.” So Moses taught him the proper Jewish prayers. Moses was pleased, thinking he had brought a lost man to the path.

But as he left the man and walked on, alone for a moment, a voice thundered from the sky: “Moses! I sent you to bring people to Me; you have begun to take them away. My beloved—you have stolen his prayer! Words are not heard; feeling is heard. Go back; ask his forgiveness! Learn prayer from him!” Moses trembled, ran back, found the shepherd, fell at his feet: “Forgive me, brother! I take back what I said. In God’s eyes your prayer has been accepted; ours has not yet been. Do as you wish. Forgive me. I made a great mistake.”

This story is sweet, delightful, unique. Spontaneous and natural—that is when the experience of worship happens. As of now your worship is so petty!

I have heard: in a town some men built a temple. “Whose image should we install?” After much discussion the trustees decided to install Rama. They did. A few people who revered Rama began to come. But those who were devoted to Krishna did not. So they decided to remove Rama’s image and install Krishna’s. When they did, the followers of Rama stopped coming; the Krishna devotees started. Then they thought of installing Shiva. In this way they changed the image every year, and the visitors changed every year. But the numbers remained the same—small.

Then they thought, “Let’s remove the image and turn the temple into a mosque.” They did. The Hindus stopped coming; the Muslims came. But the numbers were the same. They were exasperated. They wanted the whole village to come—everyone. They asked an elderly wise man for advice. He said, “Open a hotel.” They opened a hotel—and everyone came.

Such a funny world! There is quarrel between temple and mosque, but everyone goes to the hotel. Perhaps they opened a nightclub, added a swimming pool—everyone came. Hindus came, Muslims came, Christians, Sikhs, Parsis, Jains, Buddhists—everyone. Who bothers about Rama or Krishna then? In the false, all agree; in the true, great disputes arise. In untruth everyone is a companion; in truth there are many sects and schisms. To create a disturbance, everyone gathers; to remember the Lord, no one gathers.

Which temple did you go to? Where did you worship? Which mosque did you go to? Where did you pray? These are all games made by men. Don’t mistake their nets for experience. If you want to connect with the Divine, connect a little with nature. That alone is the temple. That alone is the real mosque. If you want to recognize the Divine, let His creation move your heart, let it converse with you. Let the melody of the wind begin to play within you; let the greenness of the trees descend; let the flush of flowers arise; let the light of the moon and stars be kindled inside. Then you will know what worship is. I am talking about that experience. I am not talking about your “experience.” Your plates of worship are futile and false. The words from your lips are learned by rote. Have you ever bowed before the Divine and spoken plainly—like that shepherd? Straight talk, face to face? No—your talk is borrowed.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. He used to write her a love letter every day. The woman was amazed—such wonderful letters! When the affair ended, she returned the ring Mulla had given her. Mulla said, “And if it’s not a trouble, please return my love letters too.” The woman asked, “But what will you do with love letters?” Mulla replied, “Don’t ask that. My life didn’t end with you! I’ll need to write them again. Now that it’s over, I can tell you: I didn’t write them myself; a scholar wrote them for me. I had to pay for them; they weren’t free! I’ll have to spend again. Give them back; I’ll send them under another name, a third name. These letters will last me a lifetime. With these we can have not just one love, but who knows how many.”

But if you get a pundit to write your love letters, won’t it be false?

You learned prayer from a pundit. That too became false. Do your own feelings never arise—or are you a desert within? Is there no oasis of feeling in you? No spring that flows? Did you learn prayer from the Vedas? From the Quran? These prayers won’t do. They won’t lead you to real experience. You will have to give birth to your own prayer. You will have to become your prayer. When you become your own prayer, it will be heard—then there will be experience.

So it is with all your other things.

You say, “I have done yoga and meditation, vows and fasts.”

You have done nothing. Do you even know what fasting is? Fasting—upavas—means to dwell near, to sit close to the Divine. It does not mean starving. Yes, it often happens that sitting close to Him you forget food; you forget to eat. In real fasting, food is not in the focus—God is; and God is so much in focus that you forget the body. Then food does not come to mind: that is fasting. When you fast, the exact opposite happens. What you do should not be called upavas; that is why we have another word—anashan, a hunger strike. You go on a hunger strike: “Today I will not eat.”

But have you seen what a man does when he decides to fast? “Tomorrow I mustn’t eat”—so tonight he stuffs himself. He makes up for tomorrow today. Is that fasting? And what will you do tomorrow all day? You will only remember food. What else can a hungry man do? How will hunger help you sit near the Divine? Sitting near the Divine, food is sometimes forgotten; but by leaving food no one reaches the Divine. See how straightforward this is—and how man has turned it upside down. Yes, Mahavira fasted, because he was lost in meditation; he had entered the inner abode; he had reached inside; he remembered nothing outside—when the day came and went, he did not know; when morning came and evening came, he knew not. He was drunk with the inner, drowned; how would he know when hunger or thirst arose? Days passed—that is fasting.

But the imitators—the copycats—saw that Mahavira did not eat that day. They sit around watching what others do not do. “Mahavira ate nothing, and he looks so blissful.” They concluded: “The bliss is coming from not eating.” Here is the fallacy of logic. It looks right on the surface: “Today Mahavira is in ecstasy and he has not eaten; therefore ecstasy is due to not eating.” So they too said, “We will fast—we want that ecstasy.” You will fast—but ecstasy won’t come. Whatever little ecstasy you had will also fade. How can a hungry man be ecstatic? Ecstatic—how? Ecstasy can bring fasting; fasting is secondary, ecstasy is primary. But fasting cannot bring ecstasy.

Mahavira became nude. That happened out of ecstasy. He became so simple, so innocent—like a small child—that he didn’t even know when the clothes fell. Who knows when he became like the trees and the birds and animals—natural, spontaneous, one with existence! The garments slipped. If you understand rightly, no one can produce such nudity by effort—because in effort you cannot be innocent. And yet that is what is happening: Jain monks become naked—but with great effort. They have five steps. Someone should ask: when did Mahavira complete these five steps? First, keep so many clothes … limit your possessions; then keep only a loincloth; then keep just one; gradually, slowly, by practice, one day you will drop all garments. A lifetime passes in this practice.

Do you think this practiced nakedness is synonymous with Mahavira’s innocence-born nakedness? Then you are utterly blind. Mahavira experienced sky-cladness—digambarata.

The word “digambar” is lovely: it means the sky itself has become one’s garment. But these gentlemen who practice are shrunken, contracted. They have learned a circus trick. In a circus, by trying, a man can learn to walk a rope; then nakedness is no great feat.

You say, “I became a sadhu.”

As if saintliness is something to become. And then “un-become”! As if it’s something to drape on and throw off: “If it suits me, I’ll wear it; if not, I’ll take it off.” Saintliness is the inner being. How will you put it on and take it off? This is not a dye that can be washed out. This is not a cheap color. When it takes, it takes. Yes, if you paint yourself on the surface, how long will you keep it up? In a few days you will feel, “Nothing substantial is happening. I’ve even become a sadhu! Where is the goddess of liberation?” The Jain scriptures say: “When liberation’s goddess comes…” You sit eyes closed, but your eyes are slightly open—peeking: “Now the goddess of liberation will be coming.” “She hasn’t come yet! Where are the apsaras? The scriptures say when you become a sadhu and sit in the forest, celestial maidens will come and dance. They haven’t come! They’re taking so long! Where are the delights of heaven? Not a single ray has descended yet!”

Is this saintliness? You have gone into business. You want to buy from God too. At least keep some things outside the marketplace! Leave some things unbuyable—things for which life must be staked. All the lessons you learned till yesterday were wrong—parrot talk. We teach parrots to chant “Rama,” and the parrot repeats “Rama, Rama.” It’s rote. There is no Rama in the parrot’s heart.

I have heard: a parrot lived with a pundit. It chanted “Rama, Rama” all day—very devout parrot. Next door lived a woman who kept a parrot that swore and abused. She was distressed. She asked the pundit, “What should I do? I brought home such a wretched thing. It looked pretty so I bought it, and it spits abuses. And it does so at the worst moments—when guests are in the house it never misses; it spoils everything. I beg it to chant ‘Rama, Rama’—it abuses me instead. Far from chanting, it talks back.” The pundit said, “Do one thing. My parrot is very devout; I’ve never seen such a parrot. He rises at Brahmamuhurta and cries ‘Rama, Rama,’ waking the whole house, the neighbors too. He must be a great devotee from his past birth. Bring your parrot here. Satsang works! Keep them together for some days; satsang will set it right. This one is wise; he will reform yours.”

The pundit’s parrot was male; the woman’s parrot was female. They were put in one cage. Next day the female parrot did not abuse. But the male parrot also did not chant “Rama.” The pundit was puzzled. He asked, “What happened, devotee?” The male parrot said, “Why chant ‘Rama’ now? We chanted only for this—for a female.” He asked the female, “Why are you quiet?” She said, “We abused only for this—for a male.” Neither had anything to do with Rama or with abusing. Once their needs were met, both saints were no longer saints.

When you remember Rama for some ulterior motive, you are false. If there is any reason in you, you are false. Only causeless remembrance is worship, chanting, prayer. Causeless remembrance! For no other reason—only out of ecstasy. What other reason is there to link to the Divine? His very Name is bliss enough. And you recite learned words! Let those learned words go. And that saintliness you “took on”—you took it out of greed: “I’ve tried everything; now let’s try being a sadhu.” In such greed do not take sannyas here, or you will miss this chance too. Here, let sannyas come out of joy—then drown. And don’t begin to meditate here out of the same greed, or you will miss even here. This door, which is open, will remain closed for you. It depends on you. Don’t be in a hurry—old habits die hard. Sit here. Let those who meditate, meditate; let those who dance, dance. You just sit. Wait a little. Don’t jump up to dance—otherwise your dance will be on the surface. Sit, savor, listen. Watch the dancers’ gestures and moods. A moment will surely come when you find a dance has arisen within you—a ripple, a surge, a wave. Rise in that wave and dance. Then, for the first time, you will experience the experience I am talking about.

You ask, “What should I do now?”

Here, wait. Listen to me, understand me, sit close. Sit near those who meditate. Allow the flavor of this place to enter you. Don’t hurry. Don’t be in a hurry to do. This time, let it happen—don’t do it. This time, if meditation happens, let it happen. If sannyas happens, let it happen. Don’t block it—but don’t “do” it either. Give me a chance.

This is a laboratory. Everything needed to transform you is being made available here. You only need to be present with an open heart. Nothing more is expected. In an open heart, everything happens by itself.

What you understand by the words fasting and worship is not what I mean. To sit near the master—that is upasana. The sun is rising—become absorbed near that rising sun—that is upasana. Birds are singing—close your eyes and be immersed, drowned in their song—that is upasana. Wherever beauty, truth, and shivam (the auspicious) manifest, sit there; open the doors of your heart there; extend an invitation to the divine and wait. Upasana is passive waiting, non-aggressive waiting. It is actionless action. Upasana is a wondrous alchemy.

There are things that will not, cannot, happen through your effort. Their very nature is such that they cannot be forced. If, at night, sleep is not coming, whatever efforts you make will hinder sleep rather than help it—because sleep never comes through effort. All efforts break sleep. Someone tells you: count from one to a hundred, then from a hundred back down to one, then up again—you will go up and down all night, and even the little drowsiness you had will be lost. Because counting up and down demands more alertness. That is a device for meditation, not for sleep. It is a method of attention.

So what will you do?
Whatever you do will be a hindrance, because doing and sleep are opposed. Sleep does not come by doing or by activity. Just lie on the bed limp, do nothing; lie there—when it has to come, it will come. It is not in your hands; you cannot drag sleep to you. It is not in your fist. It is beyond your reach. When it comes, it comes. Yes, you can do only this much: do not defend yourself against it. Leave yourself in that situation where sleep can catch hold of you. To create this situation we make arrangements.

What are our arrangements?
We sleep in the room that is quietest in the house. We draw the curtains so that it becomes dark; in darkness the coming of sleep is eased. Sleep is very shy; it does not come in the light. When there is complete darkness, it comes quietly. If there is even a little noise, it does not come. When there is silence, it comes. Then you have stretched out on the bed—the bed we also make comfortable, because if there is any discomfort, sleep does not come. In discomfort the mind stays awake. If a thorn is pricking, the mind stays awake. If the head aches, the mind stays awake. So we lie down, pull up the blanket, draw the curtains, it is dark, there is silence, no noise, the doors and windows are closed. But these are not methods to bring sleep. They only give sleep a friendly welcome.

Exactly so is upasana. The divine cannot be brought; it comes. It comes of its own accord. It is already coming; we just do not make the arrangement called upasana. As you arrange for sleep, arrange for upasana. Simply leave yourself empty, free, quiet, without thought, loose—let a pause happen.

Then, where you leave yourself does not matter. There is no place the divine cannot reach. There is no particular need to go to a temple or a mosque. Yes, going to a temple or mosque can have one usefulness if you cannot find a quiet place elsewhere. That is why temples and mosques were built. The sole basis was this: the marketplace is crowded, there is no peace; create a place where one can go and be quiet—like there is a room for sleep, so a house for upasana. People will go there cleansed and fresh, bathed; there will be peace there, not the bustle of the bazaar; people will not be talking loudly; there will be more ease for someone to halt in repose, to sit.

Upasana means: sit quietly. Spread your mat, sit. Extend the invitation: “Lord, You come!” He cannot be tugged and dragged. You cannot seize the edge of his garment and pull him. But this much is enough: if you invite, he comes by himself. He wants to come. You are eager, but the divine is more eager to meet you than you are to meet him. Your eagerness is hardly anything—just token, lukewarm. The divine is eager every moment. He wants to surround you from all sides, to clasp you to his heart—but you do not give him the chance. And even if he clasps you to his heart, you slip away.

Only leave yourself loose, leave yourself quiet—anywhere! These birds are calling; sit under a tree and leave yourself loose. The sunlight falling on your head, the breath of wind coming, the birds speaking—this is all the arrival of the divine, his footfalls, his signals.

“Upasana” is a very lovely word. In Japan, what zazen means is what upasana means. Zazen means: sit, and do nothing. Upasana means exactly that: sit, and do nothing. Because of doing, worries arise in the mind. Because of doing, indecision begins. Because of doing, waves rise. And when there is nothing to do, all waves settle.

So do not take upasana to be a doing; it is non-doing. Do not take it as effort; it is effortlessness. Upasana is not a desire to get something; it is only to leave yourself in the hands of the divine. As someone lets himself float in a stream, and the stream carries him along—so to let yourself be carried by the current of life is called upasana. There is no great need to say anything. No great need to speak. Yes, if sometimes speech rises on its own, let it rise. But spontaneous speech! And you will be amazed to know it need not carry meaning. Sometimes only a sound may arise from within. As when you have seen classical musicians begin with an alaap—such a sound may arise.

Among Christians there is a small sect. They have a process—glossolalia. It is a very important process. Whoever wishes to understand upasana should understand glossolalia. A small sect, very few follow it, because it looks like madness. One who follows it sits quietly and waits. Then from within some sound begins to arise—on its own; not that you make it arise—Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram or Om-Om—no. You wait for something to arise from within—“Aaah…,” anything arises, nonsensical, you let it arise, you begin to speak. Disconnected, meaningless sounds are produced. It will look like madness. Anyone who sees will say: What kind of prayer is this? Have you gone mad? Is this a Hindu prayer, or a Muslim’s, or a Christian’s? It is no one’s.

I call this devavani—divine speech. It is a special meditation. And an ecstasy begins to descend. You do not speak; someone speaks through you. You become only a medium. The body begins to sway, you are filled with intoxication, a great inebriation comes. Hours pass; you do not know where time has gone. But it requires only one courage: people will think you are mad. This will be spontaneous utterance. People will certainly think you are crazy. They will think the mind has gone. What are you doing? But if you can find a place of solitude for yourself, then I tell you—this is true upasana.

And you will be astonished. After an hour of devavani you will feel as though you have bathed after lifetimes. You will be so fresh, so light—as if you could fly, as if wings had sprouted. As if the earth held no pull. You will walk and feel no weight. The mind will become utterly quiet—and not just quiet, cool as well. A dense coolness within. You will find how much burden has fallen from the head. How many useless things that used to run in the head are not running today. Today there will be no rushing. Today every step will have a dignity, a grace.

Do it and see. This I call experience. I cannot tell it to you. And when I said “Aaah…,” do not start doing exactly that because I said “Aaah….” Whatever comes, let that come. Sometimes meaningful words will emerge. Sometimes meaningless. But do not be their controller. Let them rise from the deep unconscious. At first even you will be startled when they arise; you will be afraid; a fear will spread—What is happening? Finished! Will it stop or not? Should this be allowed to continue or not? This is a natural fear: it is rising, we are not making it rise—what if it goes on and on? What if the wife comes and stands before me and it doesn’t stop—then what? So one tries to suppress it, to sit on it: Better not get into such trouble; this is pure insanity.

You are sitting on many insanities. Because you have suppressed them, you are insane. Let them out. Let them fly into the air. Free them. And you will find that, for the first time, there is a taste of health within. If someone sits an hour in natural upasana—just sits, does nothing, and lets whatever happens, happen—

So, one: glossolalia is an important process for upasana. The second process is in Indonesia—latihan. That too is important. In glossolalia the emphasis is on letting sound come; in latihan, on letting gestures come.

In latihan one stands; one does not sit—so that the gestures can happen correctly. One simply stands silently. One leaves oneself in the hands of the divine. One loosens oneself from all sides. One says, “Let Your will be done.” Suddenly one finds a hand rising… To see your own hand rising—without your raising it—is startling… a gesture begins to form, or the body begins to sway. As if the flute has begun to play and the snake has begun to dance. A dance is born, gestures form, the head begins to whirl, one starts to reel—anything can happen; everything is possible. One begins to jump, to leap—or perhaps nothing happens at all; one just stands silently; that too can happen.

An hour of latihan, and you will find that wherever there were blocks in your energy, they have melted and begun to flow. After an hour you will find your body is not solid, it is fluid. You have passed through an amazing dance. But here too people will think you are mad—What is this?

That is why those who come here to watch from outside think that everything is madness—What is going on here? What kind of meditation is this? What kind of worship, what kind of prayer? They have fixed molds. They come imagining something else—that Baba Murdānand will be sitting, fingering his rosary. There are no Baba Murdānands here. Here there is life, in its full surge, in its full ecstasy, in its full delight. People come imagining that folks will be sitting under their shrubs, dried up, shriveled, from whom life has gone, whose springs have dried. Such people are called mahatmas. And when the faces of these mahatmas turn completely yellow, like brass, they say: Look, what a golden aura has appeared! When these mahatmas dry up to skin and bone, they say: This is renunciation, austerity! This is glory!

You yourselves are fools; because of your foolishness your mahatmas are fools. They follow behind you. Whatever you praise, that is what they begin to do.

Here we are not to gratify anyone’s notions. Here we are experimenting with life. Here we are giving what is natural and spontaneous the ease to manifest.

That is what upasana means to me—let what happens happen; you become fluid. Become a puppet—and leave all the strings in his hands. If he makes you dance, dance; if he makes you weep, weep; if he makes you sing, sing; whatever he makes you do, do that. And if he makes you do nothing, seats you like an idol, then sit like an idol. Do not do anything from your side. I repeat again and again: from your side, do nothing. Because you are such deceivers that you can do all this from your side.

In latihan someone’s hands and feet are moving into gestures; you are standing, watching; you think, What is this? Why am I just standing? Something is happening to everyone else—what will people say, that nothing is happening to me? You too begin to wave your hands and feet, to sway—at that very moment you miss. Sounds are rising from within others; you see that if you sit quietly you will look stupid; and when among madmen, it seems wise to go mad—you too begin to raise sound; you have missed. And to those watching from outside, both look the same, because from outside no distinction is possible. Who is acting and who is experiencing cannot be known from the outside. But within yourself you will know clearly whether this is experience or acting. If it is acting, drop it immediately. No one has ever reached the divine through acting, nor can anyone. One reaches through experience.

“Ram” is a word older than Dasharatha’s son—indeed, that is why he was given the name Ram. He is one expression of Ram. Krishna is an expression of Ram. Christ is an expression of Ram. So first let it be absolutely clear in your mind: by “Ram” I mean only the Divine, Allah.

Ram is a beloved word. But don’t set him standing there with bow and arrow. He must be tired—how many days can one keep standing! Ask him now to put down the bow and arrow; let him go to rest. Do not give Ram any form. The moment you give a form, you have missed. Give a form and the mind’s play begins. Give a shape and you go astray. Let Ram remain formless—that is the first thing. If you want to see Ram everywhere, let him remain formless. If you give a form, then you will only be able to see that form, not everywhere. Therefore, the one who accepts only the archer Rama as Ram becomes opposed to Krishna—then he will not accept Krishna, for he has clutched one form. But Krishna is an altogether different form: here there is a flute, not a bow. How will he accept Christ then? That goes even farther afield. And how will he accept Muhammad? The gap grows wider. He gets fettered. He has made a concept of Ram and is bound in it. That concept becomes his prison, his chain. That is the first point.

If you wish to see Ram everywhere, give no form, no color. Otherwise how will you see him in the tree? The poor tree is helpless—it cannot lift a bow and arrow. The peacock will dance—how will you see Ram there? Should the peacock dance or should it lift a bow? You will be in a fix. And the Rama who once lifted a bow has long since vanished. Now you will find him only in the temple—in a stone idol. That is why the stone idol becomes so important. You fixed upon a form; the only thing that can meet you in that chosen form is a stone idol. The idol too is of your making, and the form is of your making. Bound by the notion of a false Ram—indeed, all notions are false. In no-notion, Ram is realized.

You ask: “Tell us a way to purify the eye. How can Ram be seen everywhere?”

First, cultivate the sense of the formless. The very moment you do, all around is only Ram—there is no question of “appearing”; he alone is. Besides him there is no other. All forms are his. “Formless” means: all forms are his. All figures are his. You are that. All else is that. But if this remains a theory, it is of no use; it must become an experience. And for experience, the eye must indeed be cleansed.

The simple way to cleanse the eye is tears filled with love. Weep. There is no more lovely process than weeping. Do not weep out of sorrow. One who weeps out of sorrow has not known the glory of tears. Weep out of joy—tears of bliss. The eye begins to grow pure through the tears of bliss. Not only the outer eye is cleansed; the inner eye too is purified. Vision becomes clear. Otherwise, the Divine stands right in front of us and we cannot see. So much dust has gathered on our eyes.

What station is this, O passion of longing—
He stands before me, and yet my gaze is restless.

God stands right before us and we go on searching. Our gaze is restless, and we ask, “Where is he?” Often it has happened that you have asked God himself, “Where are you?” Who else will tell you? The one who tells is he. Where will you seek him?—the seeker too is he.

The eye must certainly be made pure—your question is important.

Learn to weep! Weeping is a great art. Not everyone knows it. Men, especially, have completely forgotten. They don’t remember at all. They have suppressed the whole process of crying. Their eyes have grown dull, stony. The luster has left their eyes. Their eyes have gone blind. Their eyes are filled with ego. To be filled with ego, they have deprived their eyes of tears. For if tears keep flowing, the ego will flow away. That is why we teach every child: “You are a man, don’t cry; crying is for women. You are not a girl, remember.”

We begin to pour the poison of ego into the smallest child. We tell him that being a man is something special. “It’s fine if women cry; what value do they have? Who counts them? Let them cry; it keeps them busy. But you! Great tasks lie before you in life. Don’t cry. You must fight, struggle, compete. How will it do if you cry? If you stand in the marketplace and start crying, it will be a disgrace. Even if you lose, smile; even if you break, smile; even if you die, smile—but don’t cry. That is the mark of a man. Break, but do not bend.”

And how would crying befit the egoist? Crying is the very opposite of ego. We have taught men ego. The result is that a fundamental human capacity has been lost: he cannot cry. And you will be amazed to know that nature has made no distinction here. Behind a woman’s eyes are tear-glands in the same measure as behind a man’s. Both have an equal capacity for tears. Nature gave no rule that men must not weep. Had it given such a rule, there would be no tear-glands behind a man’s eyes. Only women would have tear-glands. Nature gives organs to those who need them: since men do not bear children, they were not given a womb; women were. But behind a man’s eyes there are as many tear-glands as behind a woman’s. Therefore nature intended both to weep, both to learn the art of weeping.

So men are in great difficulty.

Psychologists say that among human beings one fundamental cause of men’s suffering is precisely their inability to weep. They simply cannot. So they cannot become light. You must have noticed: if you have wept, you become lighter; some burden flows away. Twice as many men go insane as women. Because women weep—and they go a little mad in retail. A small thing happens, they shout, they flare up, they cry. Men go mad wholesale: they keep accumulating, accumulating, accumulating, and then a moment comes when it is impossible to keep control. Twice as many men go insane. And men commit suicide twice as often. Though women issue many threats, they do not usually carry them out. They say, “We will die, we will do this, we will do that,” but seldom do they actually do it. If they ever take sleeping pills, they count the dose so they do not die.

Such madness does not collect in women—because of their weeping. But men take their own lives. And more terrible than suicide is this: men spend their whole lives arranging to kill others. That is why there are so many wars in the world. Wars go on. Any excuse to fight—man does not miss it. Give him a chance to kill, grant him a pretext for murder, and he will get down to killing. He gives lofty names for it: for the nation, for the motherland, for religion, for Hinduism, for Islam—grand words; but the matter behind it is simply this: to kill. If you must kill, then be honest: “Our heart can no longer bear it; now we will kill someone.” But to begin killing directly creates a fuss, so first raise the flag high, and find other devices. “Sare jahan se achha Hindustan hamara!” You have gone mad. All suffer from the same delusion: find some good excuse. But the meaning behind it stays the same: to kill. For if a man does not kill another, he is then tempted to kill himself.

Understand: killing another and killing oneself are not fundamentally different; they are two faces of the same energy. If one gets a chance to kill the other, one does not kill oneself. But if there is no chance at all to kill another, then the energy that was ready to kill the other turns back upon oneself. One becomes self-destructive. You will be astonished to know: whenever a big war breaks out in the world, the number of suicides suddenly drops. In the First World War, suicides fell sharply; psychologists could not believe what war had to do with it. Why did it happen? In the Second World War, the number fell even more. You will be further surprised to know: when war is on, fewer people go mad, fewer robberies occur, fewer murders happen, fewer crimes are committed. There is no need for further crime—war itself is such a huge crime, and it happens with such pomp! When killings proceed so openly, why do private, petty arrangements? National arrangements are underway. Work is being done on a grand scale—why do small-time deeds? Groups are being massacred, countries laid to waste—why kill one or two?

This is a significant secret of the world. Before 1947 in India, Hindus and Muslims fought; so Hindus did not fight among themselves. If the thrill of fighting was obtained with Muslims, why fight among themselves? Muslims did not fight among themselves. Then India and Pakistan were divided; that thrill was gone. Hindus began to fight Hindus; Muslims began to fight Muslims. You saw Bangladesh and Pakistan go to war—Muslims killing Muslims; terrible slaughter. Hindus fight over trifles: whether this district belongs to Maharashtra or to Karnataka—fight, stab. Should Hindi be the national language or not—stab. Stab somebody; find any excuse! Language and such are secondary matters: the quarrel of North and South, quarrels over language.

As big quarrels subside, small quarrels spread. But the total quantity of human mischief remains the same—the grand sum remains as it is. Let a big quarrel arise and the small ones stop at once. When China attacked, there was no Gujarati–Marathi quarrel—finished! If there is a struggle with China, why kill your own people nearby? If India–Pakistan clash, Pakistan becomes united; if there is no external fight, fights begin within Pakistan.

Man is eager to fight man. Somewhere a fight must go on. Behind all this fighting is one fundamental reason: we have taught men ego, and we have snatched tears from their eyes. Tears humble. Tears purify. Tears lighten.

Weep! Learn the art of weeping! Sometimes weep without cause. Weep just for the joy of weeping. Sit quietly at times and let tears come. You will think, “How will they come? Some cause is needed. How will they come just like that?” I tell you: just wait seated some day. You will be amazed—they come. For causes have existed all your life; you have sat blocking your tears. How many occasions came and went—you did not weep. Each time tears had gathered and wanted to flow; you built dams against them. Let the dam break.

Sit and weep. Behold the beauty of God—and weep. Listen to God’s music—and weep. Weep in ecstasy. Weep and dance. Dance will purify your body. Tears will purify your eyes. But people keep doing the very opposite.

When the days were made for laughter, we wept around the clock;
Now that the time to weep has come, we have forgotten how to shed tears.

In this tempestuous age, O Vamik, we saved so many ships—
And forgot to save our own shattered boat from the waves.

Here people busy themselves saving others and drown themselves. They manage to save so many boats, and forget that their own skiff is splintering—about to sink. People offer advice to others and do not apply it to themselves.

When the days were made for laughter, we wept around the clock;
Now that the time to weep has come, we have forgotten how to shed tears.

You ask: “A way to cleanse the eye!”

You yourself could have guessed—the remedy is linked with the eye: tears. But perhaps the process of tears has been forgotten. Life has turned hard, stony; it has dried the heart; the stream of rasa does not flow. Stir that stream. Let it flow again. Let the tears come. Let the eyes grow wet. When the eyes are wet, the heart too will be moist. A moist heart draws near to God; a dry heart moves far away.

Devotees did not weep for nothing. They understood that weeping is the deepest process of worship. When feeling is drenched, what can words ever say that tears cannot? And you have noticed: whenever feeling exceeds its bounds, tears come—whether the feeling be sorrow or joy, bliss or any emotion. When feeling floods, it flows as tears.

Listen to music—and weep. Watch the sunset—and let the tears flow.

Experience this unparalleled world. The wonder of our being—how wondrous it is that we are! Our being is not necessary; there is no inevitability about it. Without us the world would go on quite well; no obstacle would arise. Our being is such a vast miracle! You do not look at this miracle—and you go about seeking petty miracles, chasing conjurers! Someone produces ash from his hand—ah! And yet the greatest miracle has happened: that you are, that there is consciousness, love, life. That which need not have been, for which there is no reason—simply is. You did not earn it, you did not deserve it. It is not your right—it is a gift, prasada, grace. Weep in that grace.

The winds sang the songs of youth—but you did not come.
The shadows of my tresses grew fragrant—but you did not come.

I listen for your footfall within my breath—
Where have you hidden your smile?

I stand with the veil of my eyelids lifted—but you did not come.

A pang of the heart has become my constant voice;
My defeated gaze has turned to supplication.

A hundred thousand lamps of hope flickered—but you did not come.

At times I took refuge in the evening of sorrow,
At times I wept, taking your name,
At times I spread my prostrations along the pathways—
But you did not come.

Weep—crying is prostration.

At times I wept, taking your name,
At times I spread my prostrations along the pathways—
But you did not come.

Weep—weep in separation; weep because God has not yet been found. And when he is found, then weep because God has been found. Tears serve in both times—when he is absent and when he is present.

Do not be afraid; do not be alarmed. Man is living by intellect, and within the grip of intellect tears do not come. Tears belong to another realm; they have nothing to do with intellect. Tears come from the heart. So when you weep, others will think you are in pain, in suffering. They will advise you, console you. Tell them you are not weeping out of sorrow. For even the separation from God is deeply blissful. Blessed are those who burn in his separation, for to them union will come. The hours spent in his remembrance are precious. The moments lived in his waiting are invaluable.

The night of separation has somehow been passed;
How it was passed—this is another tale.

They came at the waning of night,
As if a flame had kindled in water.

The tears the eyes could not shed
Fell, at dawn, like pearls.

The night of separation does pass. How it passes is hard to say; words cannot say it. Songs descend only in tears. And one who has wept in separation—just so much has he drawn union close. If you can weep with your whole being, union can happen this very moment. God is not far—he stands right before you. But your eyes are full of dust.

If you can weep, nothing is more beautiful. That alone is your worship. If you cannot weep, then other devices must be sought. Weeping is the method of love, the method of devotion. If weeping cannot happen, then meditate. Meditation is a devotionless method, a loveless method. It is second in rank. For those who have become so deprived of love that no way opens for them, meditation is the method.

But those whose hearts are still brimming with love should leave meditation aside for now. Be lost in it. Miss no opportunity to be enraptured. A thousand opportunities come every day; they keep coming—you need only to recognize them. A flower blooms in the garden—dance, sing, weep. Flowers are blooming out of stone—what a miracle! A dewdrop slides down a blade of grass and the whole sun glitters in it; rays burst forth, a rainbow forms around it—dance, sing, weep. If you seek, you will find something in every moment. Nature is brimming, overflowing with God. Listen to the ocean’s roar; merge with its thunder. Soon clouds will come, lightning will flash, the sky will fill with clouds—float with those clouds across the sky. Begin to join your being to the mysterious realm of the Divine. This is his temple.

Here, many times laughter will come, many times tears will come. And there will be moments when tears will flow and laughter will bloom together. When laughter and weeping happen together, a most mysterious recognition arises. A great state of feeling descends.

Chinmay! Meditation is not to be promoted or propagated. It is precisely through propaganda and publicity that everything has turned false. People have become parrots. Meditation is only to be lived, to be practiced. Propaganda and publicity follow behind practice like a shadow.

I do not tell you to go and promote meditation; I tell you—go and live meditation. The emphasis is on living. In that living, whatever comes to you—whatever fragrance arises from you—if that becomes propaganda, let it be so; but no propaganda is to be done deliberately. Otherwise, what often happens is that people completely forget that they have to meditate; they begin to enjoy propagating meditation. In fact, to propagandize is so cheap and easy, while meditation seems difficult. They even forget whether their own meditation has happened or not. There is such pleasure in giving knowledge to others—because in giving knowledge your ego is greatly gratified: “Look, I am the knower and you are ignorant.” Whenever you give knowledge to someone, you are the knower and he the ignorant.

So people get busy propagating meditation, not practicing it. This danger has occurred many times. How many Christian missionaries there are in the world! There are a million Christian priests in the whole world. They have forgotten that they have to become Christ. They are engaged only in the propagation of Christ. They have forgotten that Christ has to be invited within. Where is the leisure? Where is the time? If only one could be saved from propaganda! Then huge propaganda campaigns are organized. Then a whole science of propaganda has to be manufactured.

I once received an invitation from a Christian college where they train priests, where they prepare pastors and priests. They showed me around; I was astonished. There they teach every little thing. The Western approach goes into detail about everything—making everything skillful. So in one room I saw they were teaching the priests: when you read this verse of the Bible, on which word to put more emphasis and on which less; which word to speak loudly and which softly; when to raise the hands; what gesture to display. This too is being taught! If, while speaking the words of Jesus, light does not come upon your face, then it has to be taught that when you speak this saying of Jesus, you must put on a show.

I have heard, in some such class the teacher was instructing the would-be priests: when you read this saying of Jesus, become exhilarated; let a smile spread over your face, let your eyes shine. When you describe heaven—the description of the kingdom of God… Jesus has described the kingdom of heaven in many places—when you describe it, you should at once enter a supernatural state; come into an emotional posture; let your eyes roll upwards. And when you describe hell—one priest stood up and asked—then? Then your ordinary face as it is will do. Nothing needs to be done; this face is just right.

When propaganda becomes primary, then these things become important. Then people become anxious about how to make someone a Christian, how to make someone an Arya Samaji—how to make this, how to make that. They become restless only with such worries.

No—be careful.

“Missionary” is, for me, a dirty word. Let no one here become a missionary. Beware! Live—live meditation. Meditation is contagious. If you live meditation, you will suddenly find that people begin to ask you, “What has happened to you?” If you live meditation, you will find that as you pass by people, they look at you for a moment intently—“What has happened to you? You seem somehow different.” The vibration around you seems different. You seem attuned to some other rhythm. If people ask, then gently offer it—do not preach. Because in propaganda there is the ambition to turn the other quickly into your follower—somehow persuade him, by tempting or by frightening, and make him your follower. No, do not make any such effort at all. There is no need to make anyone a follower. If your joy touches him and he becomes eager, then share with him the method of your joy. This is not propaganda; it is only making him a participant in your bliss. Let there be no deliberate or inadvertent effort within you to make him belong to your ideology. Because meditation is not an ideology. Meditation is freedom from all ideologies—from all thought.

Why? Do you think earlier human beings didn’t need it and only now it has become necessary? The need for meditation has always been there. The need for meditation is eternal—just as the need for health has always been there. What is meditation? Spiritual health, inner health. It is needed forever.

Every society, in every age, believes its own century to be supremely important—“Never was there a time like this! Crisis has come! A great revolution is happening!” But know this: people have always felt exactly the same. Pick up old books and see—each century thought no other century had ever been like it: great crisis, great revolution!

I have heard that when Adam and Eve were expelled from paradise, the very first words Adam spoke were, “We are passing through a very critical and revolutionary time.” The first words of the first man! And ever since, man has kept saying the same—every moment, every era. Future generations will say just what you are saying now. Human needs are always the same. How could they be different? Plants needed water before; they still do. Man needed health before; he still does—and will need it tomorrow as well. Nothing basic has changed. Our fundamental needs remain what they have always been, and they will remain so.

It is also our ego that makes us exaggerate our own times. We forget that such exaggerations have always been made. When we do it, we don’t notice; when others do it, we do. Then it seems they are blowing things out of proportion. But to satisfy their egos, people exaggerate everything.

A mother said to her son—because the boy ran in and cried, “Mother, mother, look, there’s a lion walking outside the window”—the mother replied, “There you go exaggerating again! I can see it’s a cat. And I’ve told you a million times not to exaggerate, but you keep doing it—a million times!” Now this is the fruit of Mother’s own teaching. The good son is only following her. She scolded him thoroughly and said, “Go upstairs, pray to God, and ask forgiveness, promising you will never exaggerate again.” The boy went up and came back after a while. The mother asked, “Did you ask forgiveness?” He said, “I did, but God told me that the first time He saw the cat, He also thought a lion was coming.”

Man extends his exaggerations all the way to God. He carries his untruths up to God.

Don’t get anxious about all this. Meditation has always been necessary. It will always be necessary—because man has always been anxious. Even now he is anxious. It isn’t that modern man is more anxious. These are illusions. The anxiety is the same; only its objects have changed. A thousand years ago no one lay awake worrying about buying a Fiat car—how could he, there were no Fiats! So we imagine people must have slept peacefully because there was no Fiat to worry about. But there was the bullock cart! What difference does it make? One wanted a fine horse. You think, “If only I had an Impala,” and that man thought, “If only I had a horse.” The night was filled with just as much anxiety over a horse as yours is over an Impala. It makes no difference.

Do you think there is any real difference between the anxieties of the rich and the poor? There isn’t. The anxiety is the same; only the props differ. The causes vary, but the anxiety is the same.

In every age man has been anxious, because until meditation flowers, anxiety remains. When meditation flowers, anxiety disappears. Then horses go, bullock carts go—everything goes. When meditation arrives, all anxieties go. If the rich meditates, anxieties go; if the poor meditates, anxieties go. Meditation is freedom from anxiety—because it is freedom from thought, freedom from mind.

“The worldwide propagation and spread of meditation has become extremely necessary.”
Chinmay, you are asking a dangerous thing. You are saying: it must be done! It has become extremely necessary! People must be changed! This is what has always gone on in the world. When Islam arose, Muslims said the whole world must be made Muslim—nothing less would do. Mind you, their aspiration too was noble in their eyes: without Islam, where is salvation? The ignorant are wandering—some Hindu, some Christian, some Jewish—these ignorants must all be brought to the right path. Look at their compassion! And if the ignorant do not come on their own, still they must be brought—even by the sword, if needed. See their mercy! They even took up the sword to bring the ignorant onto the path of knowledge. If you won’t come alive, then dead—but you must be brought! Consider their benevolence! They would bring you, one way or the other. Behind fine ideals, very dangerous intentions can hide.

Islam is a good, beautiful sentiment. Yet the sword was raised. The word “Islam” means peace—and from peace, the sword was drawn. Man is so astonishing—if he can draw a sword out of peace, he can draw one out of meditation too. “We must make people meditate—alive if possible, dead if necessary; but meditate they must! Alive or dead, but they must be changed!”

Christians too are engaged in the same anxiety: the whole world must be made Christian, because whoever is not Christian will go to hell. Look at their love! Test their love: since non-Christians will go to hell, there is only one way to send you to heaven—become Christian; there is only one door. So even forcibly, you must be sent! However much you protest, “I don’t want to go to heaven,” they say, “We will send you.” When heaven becomes compulsory, it turns into hell. Freedom is heaven; compulsion is hell.

Do not think in this language of “extremely necessary,” because it creates danger. It raises within you the feeling that since it is extremely necessary, now stake everything—“We will make people meditate!”

I once taught for a while at a Sanskrit school. When I first arrived, it was an old-style institution, and hardly anyone studies Sanskrit these days, so all the students were on scholarships. They were there only because of the scholarship; otherwise, who would study Sanskrit, and why? A hundred rupees a month brought them in. And once you get a scholarship, then you can be made to do whatever is required—otherwise the scholarship will be cut. So they had to get up at three in the morning. Old gurukul routine—bathe, pray, worship. Three in the morning, in winter! When I arrived… the principal himself slept—he wasn’t a scholarship student! The professors all slept. I got up just to see what the students were going through. They were at the well, bathing in the cold, cursing as they poured water over themselves—from the principal all the way up to God. Because when prayer becomes compulsory, and you must rise at three and bathe, is that an easy matter? I was new; they didn’t recognize me—I had only arrived the day before. I sat by the well of the Sanskrit college and listened. I was delighted. Everything was exactly as it should be!

I told the principal, “You are turning these students into enemies of God. Once they leave this college, they will never again take God’s name—even by mistake. They are abusing God. This is coercion.” He said, “But they must be taught to pray. Prayer is a good thing.” I asked, “Where were you at three?” He said, “Well, I’m a bit older now, and my work keeps me up late at night—getting up at three is difficult.” I said, “And no professor was there either. Is prayer mandatory only for these poor scholarship boys?” “No,” he said, “you’re exaggerating—most do it voluntarily.” I said, “All right then, I’ll put a notice on the board: tomorrow morning whoever wants to do it voluntarily may come; whoever doesn’t, need not.”

I posted the notice. Not a single student came. Only the principal and I stood there. I said, “Well, sir? Where are the students?”

Things have been imposed on the world. And those who imposed them did not necessarily do so for bad reasons—their reasons may have been noble—but the imposition itself is wrong.

So there is to be no propaganda, no campaign—only live meditation. Let your living exude a fragrance; if someone catches it and walks with you, good. But let that be secondary, indirect.

The essential needs no promotion. Promotion is not a good thing at all. How will you promote sannyas? That is exactly what happened in the first question I answered—the gentleman who said, “I became a sadhu.” He must have become one through promotion. Through promotion a person turns into something he is not. Man lives by promotion. Keep repeating something day after day and people begin to feel they simply must do it.

Every day you read in the newspaper that a new toothpaste has come to the market. You keep reading, keep reading… The first time, nothing special catches your attention; you move on. Then a second time, a third time. After two months, when you go to the shop to buy toothpaste, suddenly the very name comes to mind that has been drummed into you for two months. From the radio—Binaca! In the newspaper—Binaca! In the marketplace—Binaca! Beauties are standing there whose very faces seem to radiate the fragrance of Binaca! The Binaca Geetmala is playing. Everywhere, Binaca! Your head is filled with Binaca. Now, try whatever you may, only “Binaca” pops out. You go to the shop and say, “Binaca!” You think you are choosing out of your own free will. You are not choosing. This is coercion—a very subtle coercion.

In just this way people become sadhus, become sannyasins; become meditators, ritualists—but it is all false.

Not through promotion! Let the lamp of your life be lit. If the ecstasy of the sannyas that has come into your life enchants someone, good—let its joy bewitch someone, that is enough.

No campaigns! No organizing! Throughout human history there have been endless programs to make man “good,” and all have failed. Now do not launch any program to make people good. Man is good as he is. If you can become better, then become better. It is from your becoming better that the process of revolution begins, a chain reaction starts. From one lamp another is lit, from the second a third. And we can hope that if real lamps keep burning, someday this whole earth may become a festival of lights. But no force, no compulsion.

Promotion is compulsion. It is a very subtle way of imposing upon people. No—do not impose, neither meditation nor sannyas. Let there be an arising. Let it come on its own.

Only what is spontaneous is beautiful, is true, is godliness.

That’s all for today.