Saravsar Upanishad #5

Waking is the first state, dream is the second, and the third is sushupti.
Sushupti means: there is no awareness of the outer world, no experience of objects, and no appearance of the forms constructed by objects—no imprints stored in the mind, and no dreams formed out of them—consciousness has completely gone to sleep; no cognition at all remains... consciousness exists but there is no knowing; life is there but utterly dormant—no kind of appearance takes place; the person becomes as if inert—alive, yet like the insentient.
We have understood two states... Eyes open and the outer world is seen; eyes are closed and yet what was seen outside returns within as dream—something or other keeps appearing—if the world is not present, the shapes born of the world again and again begin to run across the screen of the mind. But some scene remains formed.
Where all scenes are lost, that state is called sushupti. Neither the outer objects are known, nor the inner thoughts—all the flow of images stops; the screen becomes blank; it turns into a void; no cognition remains—such a state is called sushupti.
Now a few things must be understood here. The first thing to understand is that we have no awareness of ourselves. If we had any awareness of ourselves, then even if the world disappeared and the dream disappeared, at least one cognition would remain—the cognition that I am—even if moon, stars, sun were not seen; even if the eyes were closed; even if no dream were running, still I am. But we have no awareness of ourselves; all our awareness is other-centered; we know the other, we do not know our own.
So when all others are lost, awareness too will be lost, wakefulness too will be lost. Whatever wakefulness we have belongs to the other; we have no wakefulness of our own. A stone hits the foot and we come to know the stone, and we also come to know the sensation of pain formed in the mind, but we come to know nothing of the one to whom it occurs; we come to know nothing of the knower.
I am speaking now; you are listening; you come to know my words, and you come to know the resonance formed upon your ear, but the one hidden within all this—the listener—you do not come to know. So if the speaking stops, and the words falling on the ear are lost, and no sound arises within, you will have no awareness left.
Therefore some thinkers even say—and their saying is true in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred—there is no such thing as consciousness; only a counter-sensation to other present things—that alone is consciousness.
This third state of becoming unconscious, of becoming asleep, opens very deep mysteries. First, it opens this mystery: that we are in a great illusion thinking we possess consciousness; we do not possess consciousness. Hence when you become empty, at once sleep seizes you. To remain awake in emptiness seems very difficult. If you are not occupied, immediately sleep begins to descend. Therefore it is necessary to be occupied. And the second consequence is this: when you are very busy, then try as you may, sleep does not come. It is night, you lie in bed, but thoughts keep coming, so sleep does not come; because when thoughts keep coming you have to remain conscious, you cannot sleep; an object is present—even if not outer.
If someone is playing a brass band near you, you cannot sleep. Why? Because the blows of the band keep you conscious; they do not allow you to go into sleep. But even if no band is playing, you lie with eyes closed, yet if great thoughts are running in your mind, great dreams are running, then too sleep does not come. Even if the thought of bringing sleep is running, sleep will not come. If the thought is running—how shall sleep come, what shall I do for sleep to come—then also sleep does not come; because as long as some object, some content remains, you remain conscious. Let the objects be lost, you immediately sink into unconsciousness.
Thus our so-called consciousness depends upon objects; we are not its masters. Properly understood, this is bondage... at the depth. This is the bondage. If someone keeps us aroused, we can remain awake; if no one arouses us, we will at once become unconscious. Therefore man searches every day for new sensations; otherwise life starts falling into stupor.
One wife only!—then life starts becoming unconscious; the man wants to change wives. One house only!—then life starts becoming unconscious; the man wants to change houses. One kind of food only!—then life starts becoming unconscious; the man wants to change his food every day. This change is so that we remain awake; otherwise we will sleep—if there were no change at all we would go to sleep. Therefore all the devices for sleeping employ one device, one method.
All the methods for sleep—those to whom sleep does not come—an easy remedy is that they go on repeating some one thing, and in a little while boredom sets in; because nothing new happens, there remains no reason to remain awake. So if you keep repeating Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, even then sleep will come. That is why those who do japa fall asleep, those who worship and pray in temples fall asleep; the reason is that in the same word, because there is no newness, no challenge remains; there is no reason to stay awake.
A mother gives a child a soft pat on the forehead—again and again—the same pat... the same pat... the child goes to sleep. There is nothing else in the pat—he gets bored; there is no newness in it; he falls asleep.
That is why sleep comes quickly in your own room, and in another's room it takes longer; because the other room is a little new. You fall asleep quickly on your own pillow, your own bed; on another's bed, another's pillow, sleep does not come quickly; there is something new which keeps you alert. Therefore everyone has a ritual for sleeping, a little rite.
A small child is restless; he simply takes his thumb into his mouth. In a little while he gets bored of it, there is nothing new, and he goes to sleep. There is not much difference between little children and grown people. Someone is such that at night, until he smokes a cigarette, he cannot sleep. So he smokes—it's a substitute for sucking the thumb; then sleep comes. Then sleep comes! A regular sequence—habit makes it boring quickly. In a new place, among new people, in a new house, sleep comes with difficulty, because there is much present all around that keeps you awake—it says, look at me, be awake; there is something new.
The reason sleep has broken down in the West is that the West is changing so forcefully that something new happens there every day. The East is still happy in terms of sleep—not for many days more.
A villager sleeps deeply; a city-dweller cannot sleep that deeply. There is no other reason: the villager lives in the old, lives already bored; nothing new happens that would awaken him. For the city-dweller, every day everything is new—new films are shown, new newspapers are printed, new people are met, new goods arrive in the markets, new things hang in the shop windows, new fashions arise—every day is new. Because of this newness, alertness becomes constant; sleep becomes difficult. In the village everything is old—the same village, the same road—everything the same; the same people.
I go to my village sometimes after a year, two years, everything is as it was. As I enter the village I know which porter I will see on the station—he is the same—there is only one porter; then which tonga driver I shall meet, and what that tonga driver will say to me; because for years, whenever I have come, he has said the same things. As the tonga goes through the village streets I know which man will be coughing lying outside his house... What is happening in the village is predictable; I know beforehand that this will be happening; there is next to no difference in it. Sometimes an event occurs: someone dies, someone is born—sometimes; the rest goes on as it is.
The East was very happy regarding sleep, because everything was still. The West got into difficulty regarding sleep; everything is changing—so forcefully changing that after five years, standing in the same village, it is difficult to say that it is the same village; everything has changed. So sleep is broken. Sleep... if no object stimulates you, then it naturally happens; and if some stimulation remains outside, you remain awake.
This exposition of sushupti is very wondrous; it says that we have no self-cognition; we have no such thing as self-consciousness... We have consciousness of others. Others awaken us, so we remain awake; others pull us, so we remain awake; others challenge us, confront us, so we remain awake. If no one awakens us, we immediately fall asleep, get lost in the deep.
I was staying in a village; a man had been bitten by a snake. There was no physician in the village, and he had to be taken to another village, so the elders advised: do not let him fall asleep, keep him awake; because if he goes to sleep, perhaps returning will be difficult. So people were taking him to the other village, keeping him awake. They were keeping him awake... not letting him sleep, sprinkling water on him, making him sit up, shaking him so that he does not fall asleep.
That day I travelled a little way with them in the cart, and then it suddenly struck me: this man is snake-bitten, but our condition is the same. If people were not around us to keep us awake, we too would get lost and go to sleep. All the time someone keeps us awake. If we get some new excitement, a little sparkle appears. That is why when war breaks out, there is more shine in people’s eyes; freshness appears on faces! A new event is happening! Every morning a new newspaper! Those who never get up at the Brahmamuhurt, get up at the Brahmamuhurt and wait for the newspaper! What is happening? Strange—war should bring sadness, but war brings happiness; war should bring pain, but war brings freshness! Nations half-dead too begin to look alive—that they are alive... some blood is running! Why?
Psychologists say: given the man as he is, we will have to keep wars going; otherwise he becomes utterly dull... then he does not feel good! Somewhere something must continue to happen—some upheaval—otherwise we will go to sleep. We are snake-bitten.
This third state—sushupti—means: when no object remains to stir us—neither outside nor inside; neither in the world of objects nor in the world of thought—then the situation that results is called sushupti in India—we remain alive but unconscious.
The name of the fourth state is Turiya. When someone breaks through this third... and even if the entire world dissolves, even if no thing remains, he can yet remain awake—moon and stars go out, the ground is lost, everything is destroyed, nothing at all remains, only I remain—and yet I remain awake, I remain aware... emptiness spreads all around, everything becomes void, hollow... I alone remain, nothing remains to be known, only the knower remains; no object of knowledge remains, only the knower; no word is heard, only the hearing remains; no scene is seen, only the capacity to see remains—if at that time too I remain aware, then Indian insight says: that fourth state alone is the real state; that alone is Turiya. He who attains it attains all; he who has not attained it only goes on collecting objects or thoughts... and remains deluded, remains deluded that he knows who he is. Take away his objects, take away his thoughts... and he is lost in sleep and nothing else remains with him.
A man has great wealth; when we take away his wealth, the pain he feels is not only the pain of wealth being taken; along with the taking of wealth, his soul too is taken; for he had no soul of his own; it existed only in relation to wealth. When we take from a man his palace, not only does the palace go, his soul goes too; because he had no soul of his own; the larger his palace, the larger his illusion of soul. The palace is taken away, the soul in the same measure is taken away.
Therefore sannyas performed a wondrous experiment... Over thousands of years upon this earth, in this land, a unique experiment of sannyas happened; I mention it to you in this context. In truth, it is not a matter of renunciation; in truth it is an attempt to see whether a person, having left everything, still remains or not.
The question is not that the world is evil therefore leave it; and the question is not that the home is evil therefore leave it; and the question is not that the wife is sin therefore leave her; the unique experiment of sannyas, in its primary form, was this endeavor: do I remain even if I leave all? If I do not remain, then I never was—I was in delusion. If I can remain even after leaving all—wife not mine, son not mine, friends not mine, house not mine, wealth not mine—utterly naked, I stand alone on the road—do I still remain? If I can remain, only then do I have Atman; if I do not remain, I should search for Atman.
It was not leaving because things are bad; it was leaving because while living with things it is difficult for the notion to arise—am I, too, or am I only the sum-total of things?
The seeker left for the forest, not because the city is something evil; and not because truth cannot be found in the village; and not because Paramatman is somehow afraid to come into the village. He could come there too. He went into solitude only for this: do I remain even when alone, or do I fall asleep? Even when alone do I remain aware, or do I get lost? When I leave everyone, am I still there or not? If I am, then only do I have some small wealth of the soul; otherwise I do not. If I do not, then I must set out upon the search; if I do, then I must enlarge it.
Therefore when Buddha or Mahavira attain their Atman, they return to the village; now there is no great fear; now there is no worry; now they know that they are.
We are not at all; therefore we have such attachment to things; that attachment is not to things—they are our souls. When someone takes your shirt from you, he is not taking your shirt, he is taking your life-breath. It is not merely a shirt! If it were only a shirt, there would be no cause for such distress.
Jesus said to his disciples: if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt as well—who knows, he may be in need and out of modesty not take it. Not for that alone, but so that you do not cling so tightly to the shirt that it seems as if it were your soul. And if someone tells you to carry a load for one mile, then carry it for the second mile too—only so that you can say: I do not regard this body as mine alone; it is as much yours.
Chaitanya is born by breaking sushupti.
I mentioned Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff used to tell his seekers: keep your eyes on your watch—the second hand is moving; do a small experiment—remember the second hand and keep observing that it is moving—and at the same time also remember that I am remembering it. It is only a small thing, but not so small. If you do it you will find it very difficult. Climbing Everest is easy; this very small experiment is very arduous! This second hand is moving, it will complete one circle of a minute in sixty seconds. Gurdjieff used to say: if you can remember this for a full minute, then I will say you have a little soul. Just this much—one minute—that the moving hand remains in remembrance, and that it also remains in remembrance that I am remembering it—double-arrowed consciousness; two arrows—on one side keep watching the hand, and on the other yourself, that I am watching. And you will be amazed: three or four seconds do not even pass before there is a lapse! Three or four seconds do not pass—either the hand is forgotten or you are forgotten—one of the two is forgotten.
To remember for one minute that I am is difficult. Then sushupti must be very deep. If the hand is forgotten, even then you have gone to sleep... When does the hand get forgotten? The hand gets forgotten when some other thought comes in between and attention is pulled there—the hand is forgotten. If the hand is not forgotten and you forcibly keep attention on it, then from within the attention slips away from the fact that I am attending.
Man’s condition seems extremely pitiable—that he cannot remember for even one minute that I am! But there is a reason. And the reason is: we have never touched the current of sushupti; we are asleep deep within. There is a slight fretfulness outside... A man is sleeping; you pull his leg and he turns over, opens his eyes a little, mumbles something, and again goes to sleep—that is exactly our wakefulness.
It is compulsion—hunger comes, so in the morning one has to get up. It is compulsion—one has to do a job, arrange food for the children—so one has to go to the office. We go on dragged, as if someone were pulling our leg out of sleep. And as soon as there is leisure, the man lets go and sleeps.
If someone gave you a chance to sleep for twenty-four hours, would you choose to be awake? If there were an arrangement—sleep for twenty-four hours—would you choose to be awake? Being awake is a compulsion. Therefore those who have facilities begin to drink and fall asleep; because now there is no need to be awake. Those who have more facilities—there is LSD, marijuana, mescaline—they drown in them.
Whenever a society gathers a little facility, the first expenditure is on alcohol. Leave society aside—even a man, when he gathers a little facility, the first expenditure he makes is on alcohol. Why? Why such a longing to be unconscious? Is wakefulness so painful? The wakefulness we know is very painful—it is as if someone forcefully keeps you awake, and when you get the chance, you immediately get lost in sleep and fall.
The layer of sushupti is filled within us; sleep is filled within us. This is the third state, and the seeker must know it rightly; for without breaking it there is no way to reach the fourth.
The Rishi has said: When all the senses have become quiet, when there is no special knowledge, when objects are not apprehended—then the state of the Atman at that time is called sushupti.
And he who knows the origin and dissolution of these three states, and himself remains forever beyond origin and dissolution—such an eternal witnessing Chaitanya—that alone is Turiya.
These are the three states: waking, dream, sushupti; but whose states are these? Who is it that moves through these three? Who is it that wakes, and who is it that dreams, and who is it that sleeps? Certainly he must be separate. Certainly he must be separate!
I pass one station, then I pass the second station, then I pass the third station—these are the three stations; surely the traveler is separate. I am not the station—otherwise how would I reach the second station! I am not the second station either, for I reach the third; and I am not the third either, for I return again to the second, to the first.
A man wakes, he dreams; he sleeps, then he sleeps, then wakes, then dreams—he keeps rocking among the three. Therefore the Rishis say: he who keeps rocking among these three must be the fourth; he can be none of the three.
What to do? How will it be possible? How will we break this sushupti? Sleep encircles from all sides. We walk asleep, we rise asleep, we sit asleep... Whatever we do, we do asleep.
Buddha was passing along a road. It was before he became Buddha. A friend was with him; a fly came and sat upon Buddha’s shoulder. Buddha continued talking with this friend, kept walking along the path, and with his hand brushed the fly away... Then he stopped short and stood. The friend asked: did the fly bite? But Buddha closed his eyes. He gave no answer to the friend; he raised his hand, brought it back to the place where the fly had been a moment before—now it was not there—and brushed away the fly that was no longer there, and brought his hand down again.
The friend said: Have you gone mad? The fly flew away at the first flick—what are you brushing now?
Buddha said: Now I brush it away in the way I should have brushed it away earlier; before, I brushed it away in unconsciousness. This hand rose as if in sleep... I did not come to know; I remained engaged in talking with you; the hand rose, the fly flew away—then I came to know that I had brushed off the fly and I did not even know that I was doing it. That was sleep. To break that, now I have tried to see how I should have brushed away the fly. This hand rose, together with it awareness arose; this hand went consciously to the shoulder, it brushed away the fly. When I brushed away this fly I knew what I was doing. Then I also knew that I knew what I was doing. This is double-arrowed consciousness; this is the twofold arrow of awareness. Buddha said: If the fly sits again, I will brush it away thus. I practiced it a little; let us go on.
If we think in this way, all our... all our actions will appear to be done in sleep. Now one who cannot even brush away a fly without unconsciousness—will he be able to be angry? Will he be able to abuse? Will he be able to be jealous? Will he be able to be hateful? Everything happens in sleep; with awareness, it begins to fall.
Ananda was with Buddha for years. One day Ananda asked Buddha: everything else is fine, but one thing I do not understand—do you sleep at night or not? Buddha said: every day you know that I sleep. Ananda said: that I also see, but where you place your feet, there they remain all night; and where you place your hands, there they remain. Last night I sat up all night to see whether this man moves his hands and feet, changes sides or not! The hands remained where they were placed; do you sleep all night keeping yourself so controlled? Then can you sleep at all! How can you sleep?
Buddha said: Only once in my life did it happen... that I turned over and I did not know. After that day I have not changed sides; since that day I left changing sides. Why keep friendship with such things! I sleep, awake. Where the hand is placed, there it should remain; the hand is mine; and if it moves without my permission, I become a slave; I am not the master.
So we must begin to wake in what we call waking... we must begin to awaken in waking. Keep trying... keep trying... and awaken. Then little by little when waking is awakened within waking, you can move to the other side. One who has awakened in waking, suddenly in sleep begins to know dreams—that here is the dream. And as soon as this is known, dreams disappear; because dreams cannot be with awareness; for dreams, unconsciousness is necessary.
And when dreams are lost, waking enters the third stage; then the arrow of waking pierces sushupti. And then the person knows: I am sleeping. And that means he knows that the body is resting—only that. Such a person’s sleep is a rest; and your sleep is also a labor.
Watch a man sleeping—then you will see that he is doing more labor in sleep than he did the whole day—he is striking his hands, he is striking his head, he is making faces—who knows what all he is doing! Films have now been taken of sleeping persons and shown to them, and they say: what is this? Do I do this? This cannot be; there is some trickery, some hoax.
If your film were taken all night, and then shown to you in the morning, then you would know that you yourself kept doing it. So much... so much disturbance even in sleep! No peace there either?
Our sleep is also a labor. And such persons’ waking is also a rest. Such persons’ waking is also a rest; our sleep is also a labor. We arise even after sleep tired; because so much labor is done at night that there is no account of it. I am not wrong in saying: even after sleep we arise terribly tired. And this is the routine every day: tired from the day we sleep at night; tired from the night we rise in the morning. Our life is one long fatigue. A load that we go on carrying. If death did not come, there would be no relief from this load. Death comes and the load is forcibly taken away. But we are so full of craving, and our attachment to the load is so great, that no sooner do we die than our consciousness sets out on the journey of a new birth—in search of a new load, in search of new illnesses, new disturbances...
As soon as the arrow of awareness enters sushupti and passes through profound sleep, then sleep remains only the body’s rest.
Krishna has said in the Gita that the yogi—though asleep—does not sleep. He has not said that he stands with open eyes all night—like some mad people stand. That is madness. That is the other madness. Some mad people cannot sleep even with closed eyes; some mad people stand with open eyes lest sleep come; because Krishna has said: the yogi—sleeping—does not sleep... But they did not understand the words ‘though sleeping.’ He has not said to stand with open eyes. There are such people...
Just now I went to a village; there is a Khadeshri Baba there. People came and asked me—do you know about Khadeshri Baba? What happened... I asked: what has happened to him? He has been standing for ten years—that is why his name is Khadeshri Baba. I said: get his brain treated—what else shall I do? Somehow make him sit, somehow make him sleep. But now he cannot be made to sit; the legs have become like elephant-legs. The legs are full of blood, all the veins are cramped; now he cannot even sit. I told the people: do anything, make him Bateshri—Sitteshri. Do not delay. The intelligence has become utterly diminished... It must, because all the blood has gone to the legs, nothing remains for the intelligence. Look at the eyes—they have become glazed. This man is standing in a living death.
But if you ask—why is he standing? Man can do anything for ego. People are placing their heads at his feet, offering flowers, laying down money, temples are being erected! The bargain is not expensive; the deal is cheap. So many temples, so many flowers, so many heads! As the man appears to me—utterly mindless—if he tried for fifty births he would not be able to build a single temple. The deal is not expensive. And now the habit has become strong; now to reverse the habit will require a great massage. Very difficult. Perhaps his legs will not bend again. He stands like a log. But what...
If there is a meeting with Krishna somewhere they will prosecute him—for why did he say in the Gita that the yogi—though sleeping—does not sleep? Krishna himself slept well; he never stood! Then the thought of the Gita does not arise. No wise man has stood thus. Those who place their heads at his feet do not ask either—Buddha did not practice such a thing; Christ did not practice such a thing; Krishna did not practice such a thing—are you going beyond them as well?
But it does not occur to us. This ‘though sleeping—does not sleep’ means: the body goes to sleep, the tissues, the nerves go to sleep—everything sleeps; and within, the lamp of awareness remains lit. Clouds gather on all sides and the sun remains present in its own light.
When this sushupti is crossed, the fourth, Turiya, becomes available. ‘State’ is said only for the sake of expression; it is not a state—it is our nature; that is what we are. And it is not that when we fall into delusion we are changed. No. Our delusion is exactly like putting a straight stick into water: as soon as it enters the water the straight stick appears bent. It does not become bent, it cannot become bent—it only appears bent; take it out and again it appears straight—it does not become straight, it was straight already. When it appeared bent, even then it was straight. When we take it out, it appears straight. Water only creates an illusion in seeing, not in being.
So when consciousness descends into the three states—into sushupti, into dream, into waking—it seems to be lost; it is not lost, not the least. When it returns, it seems to be found; it is not found, it was already there. But this illusion certainly arises. Without breaking this illusion, no glimpse of bliss is available in life; without breaking this illusion, no taste of nectar is obtained; without breaking this illusion, there is no glimpse of truth.
To break this illusion, understanding alone is not enough—understanding is necessary, not sufficient; understanding is essential, not adequate. One must walk, one must journey; one journey we have made—we must return. We have come far from home; we must seek home again. There can be a thousand means for this search. Hold even any one and reaching happens. But I often see three kinds of people—
First, those who, out of the fear that they might have to do something, say: these are all matters of madness; they do not exist. They simply do not exist! I know many such people who therefore deny God—not because they have any enmity with God; not because they know that God does not exist; not because they are atheists—but only because they are filled with extreme laziness. If God is, then the journey will begin, then the hassle will begin. Better to deny in advance that none of this exists. That keeps one at ease. In that, we remain delighted in our laziness. Why go to search for that which is not? If it is, then even if you do not go searching, restlessness will begin. If it is, then even if you remain lying on your bed at home, restlessness will begin—some call within will begin: search for that which is.
Therefore I often see that many religious people keep a covering of irreligion—only so that they do not have to set out, do not have to go anywhere, do not have to do anything. Their laziness becomes their atheism.
Second, those who do not turn their laziness into atheism—they are even more skillful; they turn their laziness into theism. They remain lying where they are, and keep discussing Brahman.
To become skilled in Brahman-discussion is very easy. To become so skilled in any other discussion is not easy, because you will get into trouble. If you make a statement about a stone, you will have to prove it in the laboratory. About Brahman—say whatever fancy arises; no one can prove you, nor disprove you. There is no way to show you wrong—or right either. Therefore Brahman-discussion is such a delightful discussion that a fool can surpass a Buddha. So those who do nothing else begin to discuss Brahman—those who can do nothing else.
If they make a statement about the earth, they will get into fifty hassles; about Brahmaloka—no hassle. If you make a map of Matheran, you will have to prove it, to measure it, to labor a thousand labors. Why get into hassles! Make a map of the realm of truth, make a map of Brahmaloka; no one in the world can challenge you, because you are completely beyond challenge. Therefore people sit on their cots and discuss Brahman! They do not move from there. They think themselves theists—they are not.
Theism is not satisfied by discussion; theism demands experience.
So one kind says: these things do not exist—so where to go? Another kind says: these things do exist but we already know everything—so where to go? What need is there to go? Whatever there is is already written in the scriptures. The Rishis have already said it; there is no need for us to search now.
Remember, there is a fundamental difference between science and religion: in science, once a thing is discovered, another need not discover it; but in religion, once a thing is discovered, let no one be in the illusion that now it is discovered forever and you need not discover it. Religion is a personal discovery; each must discover it again and again. And this is its joy. Therefore religion is ever fresh; it does not become stale. Science becomes stale. Newton is utterly stale today, but this essence is fresh even today; because one must seek again and again.
Religion is like love. You do not say: look, Majnun has loved so much, Farhad has loved so much—why should we get into the hassle? Everything about love is written and kept—we will read, we will learn, we will rhyme—why get into the hassle of love?
No—however much someone has loved, however much Farhad may have done—you will not accept; you too will do; without doing you will not be content. Love is personal. Even if millions have done, it makes no difference; it does not become stale. You do it again. And only when you do it do you know; before that you do not know.
There is no way to know from Farhad; there is no way to know even from Buddha. This matter of the Divine is exactly like love; it has to be sought again.
This fourth, from which the three are born—profound sleep becomes dense, dreams are formed, wakefulness arises; and again the three return and dissolve into it. This fourth is neither born from anything nor dissolves into anything; it is the eternal principle of life; it is the ground of life—its beginning and its end. And he who has not known it only wanders in the circumambulations of the middle.
Enough for today.
Now let us prepare for the experiment. I will say two or three things to you for the experiment. Yesterday the dust troubled you a lot, so today those who want to do it vigorously will stay up on the stage; those who want to do it a little slowly will spread out below.
In this experiment very revolutionary results can come, but it is necessary that you put your whole energy into it. Therefore it has been kept at night. The morning experiment, the afternoon experiment will increase your capacity and courage, so that in the last experiment at night you can stake everything. And then you have only to go to sleep, so do not fear getting tired. You will get tired—that is all; nothing is going wrong. Sleep will come deep—and nothing more. It is necessary to put in your total strength.