Shiksha Main Kranti #21

Man has constantly been thinking how life can be transformed from the roots. There are reasons for such thinking: as life is, there seems to be nothing in it but sorrow, pain, restlessness, struggle and strife. This tragic face of life itself has created the urge to transform it. Rarely is there a moment when man attains bliss. The hope of bliss remains—tomorrow it will come—and today, in that hope, we pass our time in misery. And when tomorrow comes, it proves as miserable as today. Hope moves on. Thus a man lives his whole life in the hope of happiness and finds continuous suffering. Because of hope he even endures suffering. But bliss does not appear in this so‑called life. Either it may be that there is no bliss in life at all, that the search for bliss is wrong; or it may be that in life as it is, there is no bliss—therefore the search to transform life is meaningful.

Then there are two options for transforming life. Either we change life outside us so that bliss happens; or it may be that even if the whole outer life is changed, bliss may still not be, because we remain as we are. So the second option is: if we change our very being, then where sorrow appears, perhaps bliss will be. From all these directions man has tried and tried. Those who conclude that bliss does not exist at all appear to be utter pessimists. The facts of life seem to support them. Yet in the lives of a few individuals bliss has happened—it still happens. There are a few witnesses against the big statistics of life. And those testimonies have come from such true men that they cannot be dismissed. If we look only at ordinary life, the pessimist seems right: life is suffering; perhaps nothing but suffering is visible. If we only gather statistics, the pessimist seems to be proved correct.

But once in a while a single person is born—some Krishna, some Buddha—in whose life the flowers of bliss are seen blooming; he becomes a testimony, a witness. These events are extraordinary. They occur rarely; they do not seem to be the norm, they seem exceptions for now. Yet they give birth to hope and remove the ground for despair. For if bliss can happen in one human being’s life, then why not in everyone’s life? It begins to appear that there is some mistake somewhere in our very being, because of which the doors of bliss do not open. If one human being in the world has stood in the light, then our darkness must be of our own making. Perhaps we are sitting with our doors closed in the dark, though the sun is out. If music has happened in one person’s life, the probability is that we are sitting deaf, with ears closed. For that music exists—this is proven even by its happening in a single life. It is not that only if it happens in everyone’s life will it be proven. If even in one life the notes of bliss arise, then the possibility opens that they can arise in all.

Therefore I do not agree with the pessimist, because the deepest meaning of pessimism is nothing but suicide. If life is nothing but suffering, and there are no means of transformation, then life is not worth living. Then it would be right to drop this meaningless, absurd, futile life. Then only cowards will live on; the brave will leave. Those who cannot gather the courage to die will crawl like worms; those who can will immediately step out of this life.

But I do not agree. I do not agree also because of my own experience. I myself see that there are infinite doors to bliss, infinite possibilities of light. Life can be such a joy that not even a ripple of sorrow can ever reach it. I too am a testimony—a witness. If only Buddha were a witness, perhaps I would not be able to say it with such courage; but the pessimist is fundamentally wrong, even though all the facts of life seem to support him. Yet nothing is decided by the support of facts. Facts are not truth. It may be that the facts appear to be of suffering, but the truth is of bliss, and we are not able to find truth. Often, lost in the crowd of facts, the search for truth itself becomes difficult. I do not agree with the pessimist, because to agree would mean there is no path of transformation, no method.

Then there are others who say life is sorrowful because life as it is, is not right—their approach is objective. Their grip is on changing things: changing the social order, changing the body, improving health, removing disease, building good houses, providing good clothes. There is some truth in this. If the whole arrangement of life becomes painful, it becomes extremely difficult to experience bliss. So I accept that the outer arrangement of life should be such that it supports, and does not oppose, the happening of inner bliss. Yet I do not accept that the outer arrangement itself will become bliss. It can only become an opportunity.

We sow a seed; the sprout emerges from the seed, but the dew nearby, the falling rain, the sunrays create the occasion. They only give the opportunity for the sprout to emerge. The sprout does not come from them; it comes from the seed. And if, in place of a seed, a pebble is put in the soil, then the best earth, the best water, the best sunrays and the most skillful gardener will still not be able to bring a sprout. The other point is also true: even the finest seed, if it does not get good soil, if it is thrown on a rock, if it gets no water and no sun, if it does not meet the gardener’s skillful hands, will die—no sprout will emerge.

In my vision, objective and subjective are two forms of a single, larger whole. They are interconnected. Therefore those who insist that merely setting the outer order right will make man blissful seem to me to be in delusion; and equally deluded are those who think only the inner man need change and nothing is to be done outside. Both have accepted halves; not the whole of life. Both are wrong in their incompleteness. And both are right in that fragment of truth by which life can be made more agreeable.

Thus, those who laid stress only on the outer life tried to develop science. Science is essentially the arrangement for changing outer life. They developed a certain materialistic, hedonistic outlook. Hedonism, materialism, is a religion of changing the outside.

In my view there is no objection to materialism. The objection begins where materialism denies everything beyond itself. Materialism is absolutely true—as far as it goes; but where it cannot go at all, it begins to deny—and there it becomes wrong. Materialism, science, are the search, in outer life, for that opportunity within which the inner seed of bliss can blossom.

Religion, yoga, are the search to awaken and raise that inner seed. But I do not agree with those religionists who believe that religion is sufficient, who think that something happening within is enough and who stand in denial of the outer. I say they are like the materialists—just standing upside down. Their grasp is also incomplete. And remember: a half-truth can be more dangerous than an untruth. Because it looks like truth and yet is not. Hence a half-truth misleads man more than untruth ever can. Untruth cannot mislead for long, because its illusion breaks quickly. It has no gilding of truth upon it, no outline of truth; when searched, no truth is found in it anywhere. Therefore it is difficult to hold on to untruth; but it is very easy to hold on to a half-truth. For in it there is a portion of truth that gives you a grip, and the portion that is untrue you manage to keep out of sight.

The amusing thing is like this: if I hold a coin in my hand, I can never see the whole coin at once. At any moment I can see only half. If the face on the upper side is visible, the lower side disappears. And if I look at the lower side, the upper disappears. To see the whole coin is very difficult; only half is visible. That is why seeing the whole truth is arduous; only a half appears. Seeing the half, one clings to it, and the other half—hidden right behind it, without which this half could not even be—is eclipsed, not only eclipsed but denied.

Materialism is a half-truth; science is a half-truth, half a coin. Religion and yoga are half-truths, the other half of the same coin. But those who see their own half are unwilling to accept the other half, because it is not in their eyes. Yet the half they deny is the very foundation of the half they accept. By denying that, even this half will vanish—it cannot stand.

I stand for the whole truth. And whole truth absorbs all opposites; it contains all contradictions within itself. In whole truth nothing is negated. In whole truth those pairs which seemed utterly opposed—religion and science, soul and body, outer and inner, matter and God, life and death—are all included. In whole truth all opposites meet. In fact, whole truth is the experience of the harmony born between opposites.

The music that arises among all opposites—that experience is what we call whole truth. Religion is a half; science is a half. I reject both in their incompleteness. Science has made a great effort; its effort is praiseworthy. It has arranged many comforts for man—but only the arrangement! It does not have the seed from which the sprout can come. The seed in which the sprout of bliss can arise is not with it. So it has arranged the field, the irrigation, the sun, the gardener—and the waiting goes on; but the sprout does not appear. The West sits with all the opportunities gathered—without the sprout.

The materialist has made every arrangement—without the seed—and is now in trouble: where is the seed? He had assumed that once the arrangements were complete, everything would be fine. The arrangements have come close to completion. Hence such frustration in the West—whether in America, Russia or England—such melancholy! The melancholy is because all the labor was done in the hope that when the arrangement is complete, all will be well. The arrangement is complete and yet something is missing, something that never gets completed. There is a missing link; the connection won’t fit. They keep deepening the arrangement itself. Slowly, slowly, the arrangement drew nearer. Now the whole setup is in place.

As you say: clothes are fine, houses are fine, roads are fine; all kinds of instruments have been developed by which man’s senses have become a hundred million times more mobile. After all, it is our legs that have become mobile in the sputnik; our hands that have reached to the stars; our ears that have become the radio; our voice that can be heard today across the whole earth. Every arrangement has been made for man’s comfort. But man himself seems lost. The one for whose happiness all the arrangements were made—there is no trace of him! The preparations are complete, and in our busyness with preparations we forgot the very guest for whom the house was decorated—sofas placed, paintings hung, music arranged, flowers set, fragrance sprayed. Always so busy with the event that we forgot to ask where the guest is. Now that the event is ready, the search has begun: where is the guest? There is no sign of him. All the arrangement is turning futile. Science has worked hard, but it has come to a standstill where there is no way ahead.

This had to happen—sooner or later—because half-truths inevitably lead to a cul‑de‑sac, a place where the road ends. Religion, standing on such half-truths, has also collapsed. Religion, too, worked hard—no less than science, perhaps more. Yoga labored immensely—no less, even more. Millions labored to discover who it is within that can be blissful. That discovery was made. It became known what the element is within man, what soul it is, what seed it is that can be blissful. That too was found—but outside there was no occasion for its bliss, no opportunity. In searching for the guest we forgot so much that we forgot to make a house for him, to place the sofas, to put flowers, to light incense, to cook food, to arrange music. All this arrangement is needed. We caught hold of the guest, but there is no house, no flowers, no aarti prepared—nothing! The guest stands before us, and there is no arrangement whatsoever. That mistake, too, has happened. It seems to me religion found the guest but could not make the arrangement for the guest.

Thus both incomplete experiments have been tried—and both have failed. The East lost with religion; the West lost with science. And now there is a danger. In defeat there is always the danger of rushing to the opposite extreme. Now there is the danger that the East, defeated with religion, will grab science, and the West, defeated with science, will grab religion—and the same foolishness will start again.

This danger must be avoided. It is already upon us. The thinking man in the East is becoming materialist, atheist, scientific. The thinking man in the West has set out in search of the Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, Sufis, Zen, Buddha, Mahavira. The thinking man of the West is becoming religious; the thinking man of the East is becoming materialist. The same accidents are happening again—the same circle humanity has been through will continue once more.

It is like what I heard happened in a village: there were two scholars, one theist and one atheist. The whole village was troubled; who was right? They said, You both debate one night and settle it. On a full-moon night the debate was held; the market square was full. The theist argued for God, the atheist argued against. Each refuted the other and supported his own side. Both were powerful, both logical. By the end of the night something happened the village had never imagined—the theist became an atheist, the atheist became a theist. Each convinced the other. And the village’s trouble remained exactly where it was, for there was still one atheist and one theist; only the labels had swapped. The village remained in the same confusion.

Exactly this is happening in the world. Humanity will get into trouble again. In my vision, transformation is possible only when the totality of life is accepted. This is the first sutra for transformation, for a revolution in life: the acceptance of life in its wholeness, its totality—from the grossest to the subtlest, from the lowest to the highest.

This too is true—up to a point, up to a point! In fact, we only accept another order of life when we are dissatisfied with the one we live in. That is what I am saying. It is not the question of one or two persons. By now, the whole of the Eastern society has been defeated by religion—tried and tried and failed. Bliss could not be attained. Once in a while one or two individuals tasted it, but the society did not. The Western society, striving to perfect outer systems, has failed too. There also, once in a while one or two individuals found bliss even through that arrangement—but society as a whole did not.

That one or two in the East, and one or two in the West, did attain bliss had the same reason: in them, in some way, both dimensions got fulfilled. For example, Buddha could attain bliss because his outer needs had been completed. The outer world was satiated. He had discovered the inner guest after the outer arrangements were already complete. In the West it happened similarly, as with Epicurus—Epicurus had already met the inner guest, and then he organized the outer life; even in that outer order he could find bliss.

I accept that Epicurus is a materialist and Buddha a spiritualist—but both arrived at the same bliss. In the heights and depths of Epicurus and Buddha, there is no difference. This is hard to understand. Buddha found the inner guest later because the outer arrangement was there first—he found the soul afterward. Epicurus had already found the soul and then created the outer order.

Therefore Epicurus says: If the outer order is complete, everything is complete. He can say this, but he does not see that this won’t work for others. If the inner has not yet developed, the outer arrangement will give them nothing. Buddha says: If you find the inner guest, everything is found; the outer is nothing. Buddha does not see that for one who has received nothing of the outer, this statement will not apply.

These happenings are unconscious. Neither Buddha saw it clearly, nor Epicurus. Looking back now, we can see more clearly. So exceptions happened in the West and exceptions happened in the East. But the East failed in its attempt; society did not become blissful, humanity did not blossom. The West failed in its attempt as well.

A defeated culture immediately swings to its opposite. Hence today the West comes seeking the East; Eastern students go seeking the West. The thinking man in the East has his eyes on the West; the thinking man in the West comes to Tibet, to India, to the Himalayas. And this creates great confusion—great confusion! Seeing Westerners come here, Indians feel: perhaps we are making a mistake by leaving religion—look, Western people are coming here. They do not see that the Westerners are coming for a different reason. Westerners are surprised: perhaps we are wrong to condemn science—look, Eastern youth run to the West. They do not see that the reasons are entirely different.

In my view, the first formula for transformation, for changing man totally, is this: the acceptance of the whole man—uncondemned, without any denunciation. Whatever is in human life—outer to the farthest circumference and inner to the innermost point—both are accepted.

The second thing: within this acceptance, what is to be done? In this total acceptance, bring total awakening—awareness. That is what I call meditation. That is the deep point of transformation—total acceptance! Of the whole, inner and outer, and then awakening within that acceptance of outer and inner.

Even within acceptance there can be stupor: “All is accepted,” and a man goes on living in a daze—eats in a daze, worships in a daze, dresses in a daze, even meditates in a daze. If acceptance carries stupor, nothing will happen. At most the sting of suffering will diminish. Bliss will not be attained. It may even happen that suffering becomes very faint—still, bliss will not arise. Because bliss does not simply mean the absence of suffering. Bliss is a positive attainment. It is not merely the negation of pain. “I am not unhappy”—and yet there may be no joy. That is a neutral, seed-like state.

So one who accepts everything will no longer stay miserable; because he accepts even suffering, its bite vanishes. But if he is in stupor, only suffering will be negated; bliss will not be born. Yes, bliss will be born if he awakens.

Hence my first formula: total acceptance. That dissolves suffering and brings equanimity—pain and pleasure become equal because all is accepted.

The second formula: awareness, non-stupor, wakefulness, consciousness. It is astonishing that ordinarily we awaken only in suffering, and when we are happy we fall completely asleep. Only when a thorn pricks the foot do we become aware of the foot. If there is no thorn, we are utterly unconscious of it. If the head aches, we know the head; if there is no pain, the head disappears. In suffering we are forced to awaken a little. That awakening is by compulsion—without it, we can do nothing with our pain.

Nature therefore wakes us when there is suffering, but that awakening is non-voluntary. It is not of our intention or choice; it belongs to our predicament. The moment the suffering goes, we fall asleep again.

What I am talking about is voluntary awareness. Understand this difference. In pain we awaken, but not by our own will—we are made to awaken. In sadhana the awakening I speak of is not compulsion; it is our voluntarily chosen mode. We are awake by our own decision. This is a fundamental difference: when we awaken by our own will, the capacity for awareness develops within us; when we awaken by compulsion, as soon as the occasion passes, sleep captures us again. That awakening lasts but a moment.

Hold a knife to a man’s chest—he will awaken for a second. Perhaps never in his life has he been so awake. For a moment all stupor breaks; he enters the very moment to which a meditator should arrive. Perfectly alert, thoughts vanish, worries drop. A moment ago he was thinking of his lawsuit—gone. He was running to fetch medicine for his ailing wife—wife and medicine disappear. He was going to the temple to pray—no temple, no prayer remains. The thousand alternatives in the mind dissolve. The blade tears a crack inside—through that fissure he stands utterly present: no thought, no anxiety, no turbulence. For one instant this condition compels him to awaken—but only for an instant.

In danger, man awakens. In suffering, man awakens. In crises, man awakens. But that awakening is natural, instinctive; its function is merely to enable him to cope with the situation. Once it passes, he returns to his world—same sleep, same dreams, same thoughts, same worries. An arrow of awareness enters for a moment, then withdraws. He awakens for a moment, then sleeps.

What is needed is awakening by one’s own will, without pressure—natural. Eating, he should be as awake as if a knife were at his chest. Dressing, as alert as if a thousand thorns were piercing him. In pleasure too, as awake as if surrounded by suffering. Then it becomes self-remembering, the axiom of remembrance of oneself. If a person lives twenty-four hours awake—no moment in which you can call him asleep—angry yet awake within, loving yet awake within, as the depth of this awakening grows, transformation happens. A new person is born who has never been there before.

The asleep person is never what the awakened person will be. What the sleeper does, the awakened can never do. What the sleeper suffers, the awakened never suffers. Throw stones, hurl abuses, strip naked—he will say, “Are you mad? How could I do such a thing—I’m no lunatic!” The same man did all that yesterday evening. In the morning he says, “How could I do that? Perhaps I didn’t. If I did, it must have been under intoxication. It wasn’t really me.” As the behavior of a drunkard is one thing and, when the alcohol wears off, the same person behaves entirely differently, the behavior of the stupefied and the awakened are altogether opposite. The stupefied man wants happiness, but whatever he does produces suffering.

Stupor attracts suffering. In my view, stupor is receptivity to pain. The more asleep one is, the more suffering gathers around him. Close a room—doors and windows shut—and soon a stale stench begins to form. No sunrays to save from rot, no fresh air to prevent foulness. In that dark closed room, creatures that live only in darkness begin to crawl; they flee from the light. Spiders weave, vermin breed, snakes and scorpions gather. That dark house becomes a dwelling of many dark things—even ghosts collect there, who can only live in darkness. Flowers cannot bloom there, seeds cannot sprout. Only what thrives in darkness is attracted. Open the doors and windows—let fresh air blow, sunlight pour in, moonlight peer through—the very character of the room begins to change. Those that lived in the dark will leave; the ones that come only in light will arrive.

Just so, stupor in man is a certain kind of receptivity. Into that receptivity come anger, disgust, hostility, enmity, jealousy, ambition, ego, greed, attachment, lust—these are drawn to stupor. And the man thinks, “I am doing this.” He is not doing; he is simply living in darkness, therefore it all happens. The day he awakens, fills with light, he will find, “I never did any of that. It all happened because my state of being was such that only this could occur—this is what I attracted.”

Then there is an awakened consciousness, which attracts a new kind of qualities—virtues—because it is tuned on another plane. Darkness was one tuning: it called in its kin. Light is another tuning: it calls in something else—what we call qualities, virtues.

In my view there is only one sin: to be asleep. And only one virtue: to be awake. Because in sleep all sins are invited—it is an invitation. And when one is awake, all virtues come rushing—it is an invitation to the sun, where flowers open, closed buds unfurl, hidden fragrance overflows, birds sing, even those who soar in the sky make their nests. It is a new world altogether.

Therefore I say, the single deep formula for transformation, revolution, change, transmutation, for a radical change of personality, is this: to live continuously awake—to live each moment in awareness. Whatever we are doing, do it awake. See to it that nothing is done by us while asleep. Keep constant remembrance: not a single step should fall, not a hand rise, not an eyelid blink, in sleep. See nothing as we see in sleep; hear nothing as we hear in sleep. Not even a gesture be unconscious. Let everything be awake. This unremitting effort, this continuous practice, takes a person from stupor to awakening, from the unconscious to the conscious.

As a person awakens, the unconscious diminishes, dissolves. As he sleeps, he sinks into it. Within us the unconscious is very deep. If we divide the mind into ten parts, nine are unconscious and one is conscious. When we drink alcohol, even that one becomes unconscious. At night in sleep, it too goes unconscious. In lust and passion, the conscious falls asleep: now we are the whole block of the unconscious. When we awaken, the conscious expands. And when we live twenty-four hours awake, consciousness deepens.

The day the whole mind becomes conscious—no corner left unconscious; nothing within that I do not know, nothing outside my awareness; I do not do a single thing about which I must say, “It happened unawares; I didn’t know;” I do not utter a single word that I did not speak consciously—then a revolution begins. A new being is born. And such a person attracts bliss. He invites bliss. Whatever he does, bliss comes. Whatever he does, love flows. Goodwill arises. Fragrance spreads. And remember: what flows out of us is what flows into us.

How can a miserable heart accept God—how can it even concede that God may be? Misery denies. Misery says: there is nothing. Misery says: the auspicious is impossible. Misery says: truth cannot be; the misery is so great—how can there be any harmony with God? Stupor denies the divine. The moment a person awakens, only God remains; he begins to be seen in every particle. One who is receiving joy from every side, who lives surrounded by bliss, whose every cell dances, whose every breath is in rhythm—how can he accept that this world is only matter, only clay and stone, air and water? He cannot. The thrill of joy itself tells him that at the very depth of this existence there must be a source of bliss.

How can a stupefied person believe that there is consciousness in the world—that a conscious force envelops life, that there is Brahman? Being himself in stupor, he can only believe that all is matter. In fact, stupor cannot admit consciousness anywhere; it will insist everything is material. But when someone awakens, he finds that matter is nowhere. What we call matter, in its depths, is conscious. Nothing here is truly unconscious; “matter” is not. Matter is untrue; consciousness alone is true. Where it is very asleep, it appears as matter. Where it has awakened a little, it appears as man. Where it is fully awake, it appears as the divine. The differences in existence are differences of sleeping and waking. Therefore every transformation is a passage from stupor into awakening; the very meaning of transformation is: how to live awake, how not to remain asleep. And if one can awaken by day, gradually he awakens by night as well. Krishna says rightly in the Gita: when all others sleep, the yogi is awake; when night covers all, it is day for him. He is right—this is the meaning. One who has lived awake through the day, slowly, even in the night, sleeps awake.

We awaken asleep. We seem awake, but inside we are asleep. We walk the road, work in the office—everything goes on while within we sleep. One who has awakened will also sleep at night, go to bed, close his eyes—but inside he remains awake. He even knows, “I am sleeping.” Such a person will not dream; dreams will dissolve. Waves of thought will not surround him; they will vanish. Thought becomes for him only a means of expression: when he needs to communicate, he will employ thought. Thought becomes an instrument for dialogue, not for thinking. When he is not communicating, he will be silent. Thoughts disappear, dreams disappear.

And when thought and dream disappear from within, the mind itself disappears. The awakened person reaches the state of no-mind. When there is no mind, only then do we know the soul. Only then do we know that which sits in our very depths—where no sorrow ever reached, no ripple ever came, no wave ever arrived, no death ever entered—where there is eternal, infinite life. Know it once, and the same life is seen everywhere. Recognize once what the deathless is, what the soul is, and it begins to appear in all. Because we do not recognize it, it appears nowhere. Then nothing is a greater lie than death. Matter and death are the two great untruths; God and deathlessness are the two great truths. But in a sleeping life, matter and death are the greatest truths; in an awakened life, God and deathlessness become the greatest truths.

And remember, this small path that takes us from sleep into awakening is religion in the fundamental sense—this small path! Neither temples, nor rituals, nor sacrifices have anything to do with it. All this is meaningless. These are the devices of sleeping people. Temples, prayers, fire rituals, chanting mantras, repeating “Ram, Ram”—these are the creations of the sleeping.

A sleeping man also manufactures a kind of religion—and then it becomes the cause of quarrels: Hindu, Muslim, Christian. These are differences of ritual, not of religion. One sleeping man builds one kind of temple—he doesn’t know what a temple is; he is building it himself. Ten other sleeping men build a mosque; ten more build a church. Then the three fight: ours is the true temple; whoever does not come to our temple will go to hell.

Sleeping men also coin doctrines, create systems. They try to explain. But the explanations of sleeping men have no meaning; nor their religions, nor their scriptures, nor their temples—for the act of a sleeping man has no meaning at all.

The issue is that a man is asleep! Whatever he does or does not do is the same. Whether he prays or not—no difference! The real question is not what the sleeping man should do or not do; the real question is that he should not remain asleep. Understand this well. Otherwise, in the name of transformation, a thousand insanities go on. Statues are erected, people stand with folded hands, prayers are mumbled, clarified butter and grain are thrown into fires, temples of fire are built where the flame is never allowed to die. A thousand devices go on. But a sleeping man can do nothing. Whatever he does will be the act of his sleep. No act done in sleep can turn into awakening.

No—we have to break sleep itself. Directly break sleep. Doing anything while asleep is pointless; sleep itself must go. And there is one way: whatever we do can be done in two ways. We are walking on the road: we can walk in such a way that we are unaware of walking; or we can walk in such a way that we know each step—alert, aware. We eat as a machine eats—that is how we eat now. The hand by habit makes the morsel, the mouth by habit swallows; the whole thing is done mechanically. We bathe and pour water like a machine.

Whatever we do—the smallest or the greatest—how to do it with awareness: that is the essential point. If we begin to do this, slowly, slowly sleep breaks and awakening comes. And one day it happens that we become fully awake. Because of this awakening, Siddhartha Gautama was given the name Buddha. Buddha means: the Awakened One—the one who has awakened.

As soon as one awakens, one enters a new world: a world of peace, of bliss, of love, of benediction, of truth, of light. Call that whole world what you will—moksha, nirvana, God, Brahman—any name will do, for it has no name. But the world of sleeping men fights over names, fights over rituals, fights over rites.

In my view there is only one religion—the religion of awakening. The process of transformation is to live awake. This is what I call sadhana—this is yoga.