Shiv Sutra #2

Turya is the fourth state. The meaning of Turyavastha is supreme knowing. Turyavastha means that no kind of darkness remains within, everything turns luminous; not even the smallest corner of the inner being remains dark; nothing is left inside of which we have not become aware; outside and inside, on all sides the light of awakening spreads.

Where we are now, either we are awake, or we are in dream, or we are in deep sleep—Sushupti. Of the fourth we know nothing at all. When we are awake, the outer world is seen, but we ourselves are in darkness; things are visible, but there is no sense of oneself; the world is visible, but there is no experience of the Atman. This is a half-awake state. What we call awakening when we get up in the morning—that is an incomplete awakening. And what is incomplete is not valuable; for the futile is seen and the essential is not. Trash is seen; diamonds are lost in darkness. We ourselves are not seen—who we are—yet the whole world is seen.

The second state is dream—Swapna. In dream, even we are not really seen, the outer world is lost. Only reflections made of the world float in the mind. We know and look at those reflections—as if someone were looking at the moon in a mirror, or at the stars reflected on the surface of a lake. In the morning, awake, we see objects directly; in dream we see only the reflections of objects; the objects themselves are not seen.

And the third state—with which we are familiar—is where the outer world is lost; the world of objects becomes dark; even reflections are not seen, dreams vanish; then we fall into a deep darkness—that we call Sushupti, dreamless sleep. In Sushupti there is neither knowledge of the outer nor of the inner. In waking there is knowledge of the outer. Between waking and deep sleep there is a middle link—dream—in which there is no knowledge of the outer, but the reflections formed from outer objects drift in our mind and those alone are known.

The fourth state is Turya. That is the state of fulfillment. All effort is for this alone. All meditation, all yoga are means to attain Turyavastha. Turyavastha means: knowledge of both the inner and the outer; no darkness anywhere—neither outside nor inside; total awakening. What we have called Buddhahood, what Mahavira called Jinahood—there is no darkness outside, none inside; all around there is light. We know things and we know ourselves. How to attain this fourth state—these are the very sutras for that.

The first sutra is: “By knowing waking, dream and deep sleep—these three states—separately, the knowledge of Turyavastha happens.”

Right now we do know them, but we do not know them separately. When we are in dream, we do not come to know that ‘I am seeing a dream’; then we become one with the dream. Only in the morning do we see that at night a dream was seen. But by then that state has gone. When the state is present, we do not know it separately; identification happens. In dream it feels as if we have become the dream. In the morning we feel we are no longer the dream. But now our identification shifts to the waking. We say, “Now I am awake.” But have you ever thought that at night you will again go to sleep and this identification too will be forgotten! Then a dream will come and you will become one with the dream! Whatever comes upon your eye, you become one with it, whereas you are separate from all.

It is as if the rains come and you begin to think, “I have become the rain”; then the heat arrives and you think, “I have become heat”; then the cold comes and you think, “I have become cold.” But these three seasons are around you; you are separate from all three. In childhood you thought, “I am a child.” When you became young you thought, “I am young.” When you became old you will think, “I am old.” But you are beyond all three. If you were not beyond, how could the child become young? Within you there is something that could leave childhood and become youth. That something is separate from both childhood and youth.

In dream you get lost. Awake, you feel the dream was false. There is within you a certain element of consciousness that travels. Dream, deep sleep, waking are halting places on your journey; they are not you. And as soon as you understand that you are separate, distinct, the birth of the fourth begins. That separateness itself is the fourth.

Mahavira has used a most precious word for this: Bhed-Vijnan. He says the whole science of spirituality lies in clearly discerning the difference. That is the very meaning of this Shiva Sutra—that you should come to see that the three states are separate from each other. As soon as you know the three states separately, you will also know: I am separate from all three—you have learned the art of discrimination.

Our present psychology is such that whatever stands before us, we become one with it. Someone abuses you—anger arises; in that moment you become one with anger. You completely forget that a moment before there was no anger—and yet you were. A moment later anger will go—and still you will remain. Anger is smoke appearing in between. However much it surrounds you, it is not your nature. Worry comes and a cloud of worry gathers; the sun is hidden. You completely forget that I am separate. Happiness comes and you start dancing. Sorrow comes and you start crying. Whatever happens, you become one with it. You have no sense of your separateness.

This has to be learned—slowly—to separate. In every situation you must learn to separate. While eating, know that the one who is eating is the body. When hunger comes, know that the one who is hungry is the body. I am only the knower. Consciousness cannot be hungry. If there is heat and sweat flows, know that it is happening to the body. This does not mean you should sit in the heat and let the sweat pour. Move away, make things comfortable; but know that the comfort is being made for the body only; you are only the knower.

Slowly, slowly, with every event that envelops you, keep separating yourself from it. Separation is difficult, because the distance is very subtle; the boundary line is not clear; because through infinite lives you have learned only to identify, not to disidentify. You have always learned to join yourself to situations; you have forgotten the art of breaking. That very habit is called unconsciousness—this habit of becoming attached.

One morning Mulla Nasruddin is sitting in the hospital with a friend. The friend opens his eyes and says, “Nasruddin, what happened? I remember nothing.” Nasruddin says, “Last night you drank a little too much, then you climbed onto the window. You said, ‘I can fly.’ And you flew. You were on the third floor. The result is obvious. All your bones and ribs are broken.”

The friend tries to sit up and says, “Nasruddin, and you were there? And you let this happen? What kind of friend are you?”

Nasruddin says, “Now don’t bring that up. At that time I too felt that you could do it. Not only that—if the knot of my pajamas had not been a little loose I would have come with you. But I thought, ‘Where will I manage my pajamas while flying?’ So I stayed—and was saved. You were not the only one who drank, I drank too.”

Unconsciousness means: whatever state arises in the mind, you become one with it. The drunkard gets a thought that he can fly, and now he cannot discriminate. There is no space left for thinking. No opportunity for awareness. He becomes one with it!

Your life is like this drunkard’s. Granted you do not fly out of windows, granted you are not found in the hospital with broken bones—but if you look carefully, you will see you are in a hospital and all your bones are broken. Because your whole life is a disease. And in that disease nothing comes into your hands except suffering and pain. Everywhere you have fallen. Everywhere you have broken yourself. And behind all these breakings there is one formula of stupor—that whatever happens, you cannot create a distance from it.

Move a little aside! One step at a time—it is a long journey; because what has been created through thousands of lives will not be easy to erase. But the breaking will happen—because that is truth. Whatever you have assembled is untrue. That is why the Hindu calls it Maya. Maya means that the world you live in is false. It does not mean that the tree outside is false, or the mountain is false, or the moon and stars in the sky are false. No, it only means that your identification is false. And it is by that identification that you live. That is your world.

How to break identification? Begin first with waking—because there a small ray of awakening is present. How will you begin with dream? It will be difficult. And you have no knowledge of deep sleep at all—there all awareness is lost. Begin with waking. Sadhana begins with waking. That is the first step. The second step is dream. The third step is deep sleep. And the day you complete all three steps, the fourth step happens by itself. That fourth step is Turyavastha—the fulfilled state.

Begin with waking—because that is the way. That is why it is called waking; though in truth it is not really awakening. What kind of awakening is it, when you are lost in objects and have no awareness of yourself! How can this be called awakening; it is awakening only in name. But it is called waking. True awakening we have reserved for the Buddhas. Still, this waking bears a small possibility of awakening.

So first begin with waking. When hunger arises, give food—but keep the remembrance alive that hunger belongs to the body, not to me. If the foot is hurt, apply medicine, bandage it, go to the hospital, take treatment—but inwardly keep one awareness: the injury is to the body, not to me. Simply by keeping this much remembrance you will find that ninety-nine percent of the pain vanishes. Ninety-nine percent of suffering disappears by holding this much awareness—that the hurt is not to me. Even this much understanding dissolves your suffering instantly. One percent will remain—because this understanding is not yet complete. The day it becomes complete, that day all suffering is dissolved.

Buddha has said: the suffering of the awakened ceases. You cannot give him suffering. You can cut off his hands and feet; you can kill him; you can burn him in fire—but you cannot give him suffering. Because every moment, whatever occurs, is separate from him.

So begin to awaken. Walk on the road, certainly—but remember that you are not walking; only the body walks. You have never walked. How will you walk? Does the Atman have feet that it could walk? Does the Atman have a stomach that it could feel hunger?

The Atman has no desires. All desires belong to the body. The Atman is desireless; therefore it does not walk, nor can it. Only your body is walking. Keep this awareness as much as possible. Slowly, slowly, an extraordinary and blissful experience will happen—that while walking on the road, some day suddenly you will find that within you there are two parts—one is walking and one is not; one is eating and one is not.

The Upanishads say: on one tree sit two birds. The upper bird is silent—neither moves nor stirs; neither cries nor laughs; neither comes nor goes; simply sits in stillness. The lower bird is very restless; it hops from this branch to that. It grabs this fruit, then that. It dreams great dreams. It runs about greatly.

Those two birds are within you. You are that tree. There is a bird within you that never stirs, that only sits and sees. We have called that bird the witness—the Sakshi.

Jesus has said: upon one bed you sleep; upon it one is dead and one is forever alive. And one is dead from the very beginning and one will live forever.

That bed is you. When at night you sleep on the bed, one there is a corpse and one there is eternal consciousness. But to distinguish, to create a gap—this requires arduous effort, enterprise.

So first make the effort in the day. In the morning, as you arise, as the first ray of awareness dawns, from that very moment begin your practice. A thousand attempts you will make, and only then will one attempt succeed. But even if one succeeds, you will find that to have labored for a thousand years was not costly. Because if even for a single moment you know that that which walks is not you; that which is still is you; that which is filled with desire is not you; that which is forever desireless is you; that which is mortal is not you; that which is the source of nectar is you—if even for a single moment this is known, then even for that single moment you become a Mahavira or a Buddha, you touch Shivahood—you have opened the doors to great treasure. After that, the journey is easy. After the taste, the journey becomes very simple. All the difficulty is before the taste.

Begin with the day; and if you begin with the day, slowly you will succeed also in dream. Gurdjieff—one of the great masters of this century—he first used to teach his disciples awareness during the day. Then he taught them awareness in dream. His method was that as you are about to sleep, keep one thing in remembrance: “This is a dream.” The dream has not yet started. You are still awake; from now on begin to repeat within: “Whatever I am seeing, this is a dream.” Look all around the room and deepen the feeling within that “Whatever I am seeing is a dream.” Touch the bed and deepen the feeling “What I am touching is a dream.” With your own hand touch your own hand and feel “What I am touching is a dream.” While holding this feeling, fall asleep. This continuous stream of feeling will remain within you.

In just a few days you will find that in the middle of a dream suddenly you remember “This is a dream.” And the moment you remember, the dream breaks that very instant. Because for a dream to continue, stupor is necessary; without stupor the dream cannot go on. In the middle of a dream you will remember “This is a dream,” and the dream will break. And such joy will fill you—a joy you have never known. Sleep will shatter, the dream will scatter and a deep light will surround you.

The dreams of the knower disappear; because even in sleep he can retain the remembrance: “This is a dream.”

India has made very unique experiments about this. In Shankara Vedanta, the whole conception of the world as Maya is one such experiment. The sannyasin has to keep remembrance twenty-four hours that “Whatever is happening is all a dream.” Even while awake, walking on the road, sitting in the marketplace, he has to remember “Whatever is, is a dream.” Why? It is an experiment, a process, a method. If for eight hours in the waking day you keep the remembrance that “Whatever is happening is a dream,” that remembrance will become so deep that when at night a dream begins, then too you will be able to remember. There too you will be able to remember “This is a dream.”

Presently you cannot remember. If you understand rightly, even now you are doing the same thing in reverse. For twenty-four hours, when you are awake, you assume that whatever you see is true. Because of this belief, when at night you see a dream, you take it to be true. Because that assumption becomes deep.

What could be more false than a dream! And how many times have you not found on waking each morning that the dream was false, futile. But again you sleep and the same mistake recurs. Why does the mistake recur? There must be a very deep reason behind it. The reason is that in waking, whatever you see, you take to be true. When everything seen is taken as true, then at night when you see the dream, how will you take that as untrue? You take that too as true.

The experiment of Maya reverses this. Whatever you see, remember through the day that it is untrue. You will forget again and again, and again you will bring remembrance back; again and again you will recall “This is untrue.” All that I see all around is a great drama and I am no more than the spectator. I am not the enjoyer, not the doer; I am only the witness.

If you maintain this feeling, a stream forms within. Then the night’s dream collapses. And for the one whose dream has collapsed, it is a great attainment. When the dream collapses, the third step can be taken. When the dream collapses, then the step of remaining aware in deep sleep can be taken. But this will be very difficult for you right now. It is not possible to do this experiment directly; you must take one step at a time.

When the dream collapses, no object remains. During the day your eyes are open and you walk. However much you take it that what you see is Maya, still the scene remains. However much Shankara may say it is Maya, you will not pass through a wall; you will go through the door. However much you say all is Maya, you will not eat stones and pebbles; you will eat food. However much you say it is Maya, still only if you are there will you speak; if you are not there you will not speak.

Therefore, however much you deepen the notion “It is Maya,” the outer world remains; it does not vanish. If someone throws a stone, the head will split, blood will flow. You will not be unhappy; you will not take the suffering; you will say, “All is Maya”; you will keep yourself distant. But still the event will happen. In dream there is a unique possibility—it is purely Maya. Hence there a unique experiment becomes possible. As soon as you understand the dream to be Maya, the dream is lost, the scene dissolves. And when the scene dissolves, only then can the eye turn toward the seer. As long as scenes are present, you go on looking outward; because the scene keeps attracting. When the scene vanishes, the screen becomes empty; the screen itself is gone; then you are left alone. This is why the meditator closes his eyes to meditate; because to call this world Maya is one method.

This world is real. It does not depend on your thinking. Even if it is a dream, it is Brahman’s dream; it is not your dream. But you have private dreams; they happen at night.

Therefore the truly revolutionary event happens when you break the private dream. The sky becomes empty. There remains nothing to look at. The play is over. Time to go home has come. What will you do sitting there! In that moment suddenly the eye turns—because outside there is nothing left to seek, nothing left to see, nothing left to think. No scene remains. Then the energy that was going toward the scene turns toward the self.

The energy turning toward the self is meditation. And as soon as it turns toward the self, then you can remain aware even in Sushupti. Because you remain! The world is not present in Sushupti, dream is not present in Sushupti; before, you were hooked in seeing both, therefore in Sushupti there was unconsciousness. Now your hook has broken. Now you have no relation with the seen. Now you can be without scenes. Now the lamp is lit; the lamp cares not whether anyone passes in its light or not. Now your life will turn inward. Then you will be awake in Sushupti too.

The experiment to do when the dream breaks is this: as soon as the dream breaks, do not open your eyes; because if you open the eyes, the world outside is present, again a scene will be found. When the dream breaks, do not open your eyes; go on watching the emptiness attentively. The dream is gone; where the dream was, there the dream is no more. Keep watching that void with care. In watching that void you will find that your consciousness starts turning inward, becomes introvert. Then you will remain awake even in Sushupti.

This is what Krishna has said in the Gita: when all sleep, even then the yogi is awake. What is sleep for all is not sleep for the yogi. He is awake even in deep sleep.

And when you see the three separately, then you become the fourth—automatically the fourth. Turya means the fourth, the Fourth. The word has no other meaning. Nor is there any need to give it any other meaning; simply “the fourth” is enough. Because all meanings will confine it, all words will bind it; only the hint is enough. Because it is infinite and boundless.

The moment you are outside the three, you are Paramatman. Entered into these three, you have become constricted. It is as if from the open sky you enter into a tunnel, and the tunnel becomes narrower and narrower. By the time you come to the senses you are altogether constricted. You must return. As you return, your sky becomes vast again. The moment you see yourself beyond the three, that day you are the great sky, that day you are Paramatman.

It is like a person looking at the sky through a telescope. The small hole of the telescope—he puts his whole eye on it. When he takes his eye away from the telescope, then he knows, “I am not the telescope.” You too are not the eye; but for many births you have been stuck on the eye. You are not the ear; but for many births you have been hearing through the ear. You are not the hand; but for many births you have been touching through the hand. You are simply bound to the telescope. Your condition has become like a scientist whose telescope got bound to him; now he roams with the telescope tied to his eye. However much you tell him, “Take off the telescope; this is not you,” he can only see through the telescope—and he has forgotten. This forgetfulness is the stupor. The process to break this forgetfulness is—begin with waking and let it be completed in deep sleep.

“By knowing waking, dream and deep sleep—these three states—separately, the knowledge of Turyavastha happens.”

Begin this—and go on progressing slowly. The day you remain aware in deep sleep, know this: between you and Buddha and Mahavira and Shiva, no difference remains.

But you are doing the reverse. You are not truly awake even in waking—so how will you be awake in deep sleep! Here too you are asleep. Your waking is only in name. You are deluded into believing that you are awake because you manage your routine affairs. You can ride a bicycle—you think you are awake; you can drive a car—you think you are awake.

But have you ever noticed: all this has become automatic, mechanical! The one riding a bicycle does not even think, “Now I must turn left, now right.” He remains busy in his mind. The bicycle turns left, turns right; he reaches home. There is no need to think or to ride with awareness; everything has become mechanical, habit. He reaches home anyway. The one driving a car keeps driving; there is no need for him to be awake.

All our lives begin to run on a routine, on fixed tracks. As the ox moves around the oil-press, so we start moving. Upon the same track we walk every day. Someone’s track is a little longer, someone’s a little shorter; someone’s a little beautiful, someone’s a little ugly—but there is no difference in being a track. Your life is like an ox at the oil-press. You get up in the morning, one stream begins; you sleep at night, a circle is completed. Then in the morning you get up—again the same, again the same. You have repeated all this so many times that there is no need to keep awareness; it all happens in sleep. Hunger comes at the right time. Sleep comes at the right time. At the right time you get up and go to the market. You are spending your entire life in a circle, asleep. When will you awaken? When will you give yourself a jolt? When will you step off this track? When will you say, “I refuse to be an ox at the oil-press”?

The day the thought of giving a jolt arises, on that day the journey to God begins. Going to a temple does not make you religious; because that too is part of your oil-press track. You go there too because you always have; because your parents have gone; their parents have gone to the same temple. You keep reading the same scriptures, so you go on reading. But this is the track of the oil-press. Have you ever gone consciously to a temple?

If you can go consciously, there will be no need to go to a temple. Where awareness happens, there you will find the temple. Awareness is the temple. But the Christian is going to the church; the Sikh toward the gurudwara; the Hindu toward the temple—each bound to his own track. This drowsy state of yours, no one except you can break it.

So first know that your waking is also asleep, and the yogi’s deep sleep is awake. You are exactly the reverse of a yogi. And the day you become the opposite of this, on that day the essential formula of life will come into your hands. Know the three separately and the knower of the three becomes separate from them. You are pure knowing, nothing else. You are mere awareness. But separate yourself from all three.

I was reading about a Sufi fakir—about Junnaid. If someone abused him, he would say, “Come tomorrow and I will answer.” The next day he would say, “Now there is no need to answer.” The man asked, “Yesterday I abused you; why did you not answer then? You are a strange person. If you abuse someone, he answers on the spot; he does not wait even for a moment.” Junnaid said, “My master has said that if you are in a hurry, stupor happens. Give a little time. If someone abuses you and you answer at once, the answer will be given in stupor; because the abuse will be encircling you, its heat will be seizing you, its smoke will still be in your eyes. Let the cloud pass a little. Give twenty-four hours; then answer.”

And Junnaid says, “My master was very cunning; because since then I have never been able to answer. If one waits twenty-four hours to be angry, do you think he can be angry? If one waits even twenty-four minutes, anger is impossible. If one waits twenty-four seconds, anger is impossible. The truth is, if even for a single second one waits and sees, anger is impossible.”

But you do not wait at all. There, someone abuses you; as if someone has pressed an electric button—here, your fan begins to move. There is not a hair’s breadth of distance. There is not even the slightest gap. And you think you are very aware. You are not even your own master. An unconscious person cannot be his own master. Anyone presses a button and makes you run. Someone comes and flatters you—and you blossom, you are overwhelmed. Someone insults you—and you are filled with tears. Are you your own master? Or is everyone running you? And those who run you are not their own masters either. You are slaves of slaves. And the great joke is that everyone is expert at making someone else run—and not one among them is in awareness. No greater insult to the soul can be than that everyone runs you.

Mulla Nasruddin worked in an office. Everyone was displeased with his work; because he hardly worked. Either he slept or he dozed. Finally people got so fed up that they began to tell him. The owner too scolded him; but nothing changed. With so much humiliation and all the commotion he resigned. Changing was difficult; resigning was easy. Many people who run away from the world toward sannyas are resigning. Changing is difficult; resigning is always easy.

He resigned. The entire office was pleased with the resignation. They were so happy that the owner said, “Now that he is going by himself, it is appropriate to hold a farewell.” And because we were so troubled by him and he is leaving—and we had no way to get rid of him; he had become a burden—so, truly happy, they organized a very good farewell—sweets, food and drink; everyone gathered. Nasruddin was astonished. And everyone also said a few words in his praise; because at a farewell… Nasruddin stood up—overwhelmed. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He said, “I withdraw my resignation. I had no idea you all love me so much. Now in this life there is no reason to leave here.”

We are being run. And it often happens that the whole world, everyone, is running each person. And seasons are changing all around, there are thousands of kinds of people; therefore inside you there is a deep confusion. It has to be so; because you are not being run by one. Only he is run by one who is awake within. In his life there will be clarity, cloudlessness. In his life there will be cleanliness, decisiveness. In his life there will be a direction. In your life there can be no direction. You are like a person being pushed in a crowd. He is not even walking; the crowd pushes so much that he cannot even stand still. Someone pushes left—he goes left; someone pushes right—he goes right. Your whole life moves in the crowd. Look closely and you will understand. Someone says something—you do it. Then someone else says something—you do that. Then within you so many contradictions gather.

A certain man I know had been injured; a small injury—the rickshaw had overturned. He was discharged from the hospital too. Six months passed. He was healthy again. Still he kept his crutch… I asked him, “When will you let go of this crutch?” He said, “I also want to let go. My doctor says it is unnecessary. But my lawyer says, ‘Keep it until the case is decided.’ So whom should I listen to?”

Your lawyer says something, your doctor says something; the wife says something, the husband says something; the son says one thing, the father another. All around are owners who run you—millions of owners and you alone! And you listen to everyone. Whichever one presses you, to him you listen. Then within you all the cracks open up; the personality becomes fragmented. Until you listen to the inner voice, you cannot be whole.

I call him a sannyasin who has begun to listen to the inner voice—and who is ready to stake everything on that inner voice.

But the inner voice will not be understood by you as long as you are unconscious. Until then, even if you think you have understood the inner voice, it will not be inner; it will also be a voice from outside. How would an unconscious person know the inner voice! Otherwise, all politicians sitting in Delhi talk about the voice of conscience. “The voice of conscience”—how could a sleeping person know it? Which voice is of the inner, how will you know? Whichever voice seems to gratify your desires—the voice of inner-desire—you call that the voice of the inner.

Only in the awakened does any inner voice arise. And when that voice is found, all that is impure in your life—the commotion, the thousand insane notes, that you have become a crowd and not an individual; you are like a marketplace where everything is going on; you are the Bombay stock exchange, where everything is happening—a newcomer could never understand what you are. Someone is shouting one thing; someone another. All kinds of voices are there. Your voice has been utterly lost.

Turyavastha means to recognize the Atman. And you can recognize the Atman only by breaking your identification with these three. Begin with small experiments. When anger comes, wait—what is the hurry! When hatred arises, wait a little; a small interval is needed. Give the answer only when you come into awareness. Before that, do not answer. And you will find that sin begins to drop from your life; the wrong starts dissolving on its own. You will suddenly find there is no need to answer anger at all. It may even happen that the one who insulted you—you may go to thank him; because he too has done you a favor, given you an opportunity to awaken.

Kabir has said: “Keep the critic near; give him a hut in your courtyard.”

The one who condemns you—keep him close, arrange a place for him at home; because he will give you a chance to awaken. Whatever gives you the chance to become stupefied—if you wish, the same occasions you can turn into steps of awakening. Life is like a big stone lying on the path. The unwise see the stone and turn back. They say, “The road is closed.” The wise climb upon the stone—they make it a step. And as soon as they make it a step, higher paths open.

A seeker has to remember only one thing—that every moment of life be used for awakening. Whether it is hunger, whether anger, whether sex, whether greed—every situation must be used for awakening. Bit by bit, gathering awakening in this way, fuel will accumulate within you. From that fuel the flame that arises—you will find that you are neither waking, nor dream, nor deep sleep; you are separate, beyond all three.

“Continuity of knowing is waking.”

The continuity of knowledge of outer objects is the waking state.

“Options, alternatives—the vikalpa—are dreams.”

The web of thoughts in the mind, of options and imaginations, is dream.

“A-viveka—absence of self-knowing—is Sushupti.”

These are the three states through which we pass. But when we pass through one, we become one with it. When we reach the second, we become one with the second. When we reach the third, we become one with the third. Therefore we cannot see the three separately. To see separately, a little distance is needed, a perspective. To see separately, a little space is needed. Between you and what you see there must be a little emptiness. Even in a mirror, if you stand with your head pressed to it, you will not see your reflection; a little distance is needed. And you stand so near—to waking, to dream, to deep sleep—that you become absolutely one with each. You are colored in their colors. And our habit of being colored in the color of the other has become so deep that we do not even notice—and it is exploited.

If you are a Hindu and someone says to you, “There stands a mosque—set it on fire!”—a thousand times you would think, you would consider, “Is this right? That, too, is dedicated to the same God. The method will be different, the color of the steps different, the arrangement of the path different; but the goal is the same.” But if a crowd of Hindus is going to burn a mosque, and you are in that crowd, then you do not think—because you are colored by the crowd. Then you will burn the mosque. And later, if someone asks, “How could you do this?” even you will wonder and say, “It is a surprise—how did I do it!” Alone you could not have done it. Why did you get lost in the crowd? Because your habit is to get lost.

No Muslim is as bad alone as he becomes with a crowd. No Hindu is as bad alone as he becomes with a crowd. No single person has committed as many sins as crowds have committed. Why? Because the crowd colors you. You become one with the crowd’s color. If the crowd is full of anger, suddenly you find anger arising within you. If the crowd is crying, shrieking, you begin to cry and shriek. If the crowd is happy, you forget your sorrow and become happy.

Consider: you go to someone’s house; someone has died; many people are weeping there. Suddenly you find a sob rising within you. Perhaps you think you are very compassionate. Perhaps you think you are a person full of kindness and love. Perhaps you think these tears are coming from sympathy. Then you are mistaken. Because at home too you had heard the news that the man died. Then nothing happened to you—because you were alone. Then you probably thought, “All right, dying and living always go on.” Instead of being saddened by the man’s death, the nuisance for you was, “Now I will have to go and offer condolences. I had twenty-five other things to do; this one more trouble has come in between. And the man was such that he died at a wrong time! Was there any need to die today!” These were your thoughts. But when you reach the house and see people crying there, when the crowd is drowning in sorrow, suddenly you find great feelings arising within you. These feelings are of two-paisa value—and dangerous; because the crowd is coloring you. Protect yourself. Such sympathy is of no use which comes from the crowd and not from your heart.

You have seen that even unhappy, troubled people look very delighted in the hooliganism of Holi! They too start singing and dancing, throwing colors. Those in whose life there is no color at all and in whose life no happiness or song has ever been seen, suddenly are throwing color on the streets. What has happened to them? The same person who yesterday was going dead on his feet, whose life was like Sushupti—and today that very person is dancing! The crowd has colored him.

A seeker should be alert about crowds. Find your own voice, your own tone. The crowd is always pushing you. And you become whatever the crowd makes you. Why is this possible? Because you do not experience your separateness and wherever you get an opportunity to lose it, you lose it instantly. You are ever ready to drown anywhere. Sleep comes—you drown in sleep. Waking comes—you drown in waking. Dream comes—you drown in dream. People are unhappy—you become unhappy. People are happy—you become happy. Are you? Or are you only a point of drowning? Do you have an existence? Do you have a center?

The name of that center is the Atman. Awaken your being. Save yourself from drowning. That is why all religions are against alcohol. There is nothing inherently wrong in alcohol. But all religions oppose it. The only reason is that it is a path to drowning. All religions are in favor of awakening. And the one who drinks is drowning. Whatever things drown you—through which you become even more stupefied—you are already stupefied enough, you have only a tiny ray of awareness; even that you are eager to lose.

And the surprising thing is that whenever you lose it, you become happy. You are a kind of fool that cannot be found elsewhere; because when you lose it you say there is great joy. Why? Because that tiny ray of awareness helps you see the problems of life. It makes you conscious toward life and fills you with anxiety. It fills you with the awareness that you are not aware. That little ray in you reveals your vast darkness. You want to extinguish even that ray—“If there is no flute, there will be no flute-music”—if there is no ray, there will be no knowledge of darkness. Because due to that ray the darkness is known—remove the ray, drink wine, drown yourself in any commotion of the crowd, in politics, in this or that—engage yourself anywhere, so that you can forget yourself.

Western psychologists tell people that only if you can forget yourself will you remain healthy. The gurus of the East have said that only if you can remember yourself will you be healthy. These are very opposite statements. But both have their meaning. The Western psychologist accepts you as you are. He helps you to remain as you are and somehow manage to live. He speaks rightly. He says, “Somehow forget yourself. Too much awareness is dangerous; because then you will be filled with anxiety; then you will begin to see everything.” And nothing in this life is all right; everything is messed up. So better close your eyes and be happy. What need is there to see the whole problem!

But the gurus of the East do not accept you. They say you are sick. You are already deranged. You do not need peace first. It is no matter if anxiety increases and restlessness arises; because only through that will you change; only then will there be revolution.

This is like a man who has cancer; and we can do nothing—so we give him morphia so he can at least lie down in comfort.

But the gurus of the East say: no revolution of life happens through morphia. Awaken! Transformation is possible. And man as he is, is not his final state. It is not even his first state. He is still standing outside the journey—at the door. He has not even entered within. There is the possibility of great bliss. But as you are—asleep—there will be no great bliss.

Understand the difference between pleasure and bliss. Pleasure is the name of that state in which the small ray that has awakened in you also falls asleep. Then you do not come to know sorrow. Bliss is the name of the state in which that little ray becomes a great sun and the darkness disappears totally. Pleasure is negative—the not-knowing of pain.

You have a headache; the aspirin tablet is pleasure—not bliss. Because the aspirin only prevents you from knowing the pain. It gives you numbness. You are sick, you are troubled, life is full of anxiety—you drink wine, and then all is well. The unhappy drunkard goes to the bar; he returns singing and dancing. By losing the little ray of light you purchase pleasure. From that you will never get bliss. Because pleasure is only forgetfulness of pain; and bliss is remembrance of the soul. It is not forgetting; it is total memory. Kabir has called it surati—remembrance.

These sutras will take you toward total remembrance. So beware of all that makes you unconscious. And the means to become unconscious are so easy that you don’t even know; you are so entangled in them that you have no idea.

One person is mad after eating. He keeps eating. You do not realize that he is using food as alcohol. Excess food brings sleep. Excess food gives Sushupti. Therefore, if some day you fast you will not be able to sleep at night; because food has its own stupor. So the one who is engaged twenty-four hours in eating seeks unconsciousness through food.

Another is engaged in the journey of ambition. He says, “Until I have ten million rupees I will not stop.” Until then he is obsessed like a madman—morning, night, day, darkness, light—no worry; in his mind one calculation goes on—ten million! He is dedicated to that one calculation. No worry grips him. There is only one worry—ten million! Worry will seize him the day he succeeds in getting ten million. Suddenly he will find he has wasted himself; now what to do!

I have heard—there were three men in a madhouse—in one cell; because they had gone mad together and were old friends. They must have colored each other. A psychologist came to study them. He asked the doctor, “What is the trouble with number one?” He said, “Number one was trying to untie a knot in a rope and could not untie it—he went mad doing that.”

“And what was the second doing?”

“He too was untying a knot in a rope—and succeeded—and went mad for that reason.”

The psychologist was a little surprised. He asked, “And who is this third gentleman?”

He said, “This is the gentleman who tied the knot.”

Someone is tying knots, someone is untying them; someone succeeds, someone fails—it makes no difference; all go mad.

But why are people entangled in tying and untying knots?

To escape from themselves. Devices to escape oneself! Otherwise you will have to face yourself. No ambition, no Delhi to reach, no politics to play, no election to fight, no madness to earn money—then how will you escape yourself? Then somewhere you will have to meet yourself. There is fear that you may meet yourself! At that thought, your hands and feet tremble.

You hear much—“Know the soul”—but if you understand yourself, you will make every effort to avoid knowing the soul. The awakened say that by knowing the soul a great shower of joy happens, nectar rains. Kabir says clouds thunder with nectar, and nectar showers. But that event happens at the very end; before that you must pass through great suffering. Because all the deceptions you have done in life, in infinite births, all those deceits will have to be broken. And in breaking each deception there is pain. Each deception gives a certain sweetness, a sleep, an unconsciousness, and now you have to break it! Without breaking them you cannot reach that place where the sky fills with clouds of nectar and where the rain of bliss happens. The path in-between is tapascharya, austerity.

Begin your tapas with waking; then take it into dream; then take it into deep sleep.

“Options are dreams.”

The mind being full of options is the state of dream. So do not think you dream only at night—you keep dreaming in the day too. It is not necessary that if you are sitting here then you are here; it may be that you are hearing me and also dreaming. Within you, twenty-four hours, an undercurrent of dream goes on. Even while awake an inner dream keeps enveloping you; something goes on all the time. Close your eyes at any moment and you will find that something is going on within.

The situation is like this: at night stars are visible in the sky; in the day they are not seen, because the light of the sun covers them. Do not think they are lost; they are where they are. Where will they go! Go down into a deep well and look at the sky from within in the daytime—you will see stars in the sky even in the day. To see stars, darkness is needed. Because of the sun’s light, stars are not visible.

It is the same with dreams. It is not that dreams are visible only at night. But night’s darkness is required; when the eyes are closed they are seen. In the day the eyes are open, there are twenty-five other necessary tasks. Dreams remain within, they are not seen. If in the day you sit in an easy chair and close your eyes, immediately the day-dream begins. It was going on anyway. It keeps running within; it has an inner thread.

Breaking this inner thread is very necessary; because if you can break it during the day, you will break it at night. If you cannot break it in the day, how will you break it at night! All mantras are used to break this inner thread. For example, a master gives a mantra to a man: “Do your work, go to the market, buy and sell; but within, let the inner sound ‘Ram, Ram, Ram’ go on.”

What is this? If while working you let the inner sound of Ram go on, then the very energy that was becoming dream within, that stream of dream, becomes the stream of Ram. It is the same energy that becomes dream within. So within you create your own dream—Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram. Outside you do all your work and within you remember Ram. That very energy that used to lie idle and dream becomes remembrance of Ram. From this, Ram does not “happen” to you; but it helps in breaking the dream. And the day you find that in the night too, in sleep, the dream is not running, rather the stream of Ram is going on—know that in the day the dream has broken.

So the success of the mantra is known in sleep, not in the day. How will you know in the day! If all day you have been repeating Ram, then when you fall asleep at night the dream will not arise, the stream of Ram will run. This stream can become so dense you cannot even imagine. Swami Ram kept repeating “Ram, Ram.” One night he stayed with a friend in the Himalayas—Sardar Puran Singh. They were in a solitary hut. For miles there was no one near. Puran Singh could not sleep—there were mosquitoes, there was some heat. He was astonished that a voice of “Ram, Ram, Ram” was going on in the hut. Swami Ram had fallen asleep. He got up, a little afraid; there was no third person. He took a lamp around, looked everywhere outside—no one. When he came back into the room he was even more puzzled: outside the sound was less, inside it was more. As he approached Ram’s cot the sound became stronger.

He looked with the lamp to see whether Ram was awake and remembering Ram. But he was in deep sleep and even snoring. Puran Singh was astonished. He sat close and put his ear near—out of every pore of the body the sound of Ram was coming.

If remembrance becomes very deep, such an event happens; because tremendous energy is being wasted in dreams. Your dreams are not free of cost. There is nothing in them, yet you have paid a great price for them—because all night you dream.

Now there is great scientific research on dream. Scientists say that every night each person—an ordinarily healthy person—at least eight dreams are seen. The interval of one dream is about fifteen minutes. One dream of fifteen minutes; so eight dreams mean that for at least two hours in the night dreams are being seen. And this is the absolutely normal, healthy man in whom there is no mental disturbance! It is difficult to find such a person. The common man, in the eight hours of night sleep, dreams for about six hours. These six hours in which the continuous stream of dream runs within—your energy is being destroyed. It is not free. You are buying it with your life.

Mantra gathers this energy into Ram—or into Krishna, or Christ, or Omkar—any word will work. There is no need that it be God’s name; even your own name, if you repeat it, will do.

There was the English poet—Tennyson. He has written in his memoirs: “From childhood, I don’t know how it happened that when I could not sleep I would say to myself loudly: ‘Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson.’ And I would fall asleep. Then I found a device that whenever I was anxious I would say within: ‘Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson.’ My anxiety would go. Then I made it my mantra.”

Even if you use your own name, the benefit can be the same—though it will not be, because you cannot have so much trust in your own name. Otherwise there is no difference. Say Ram, say Rahim—it makes no difference. Any name, it makes no difference. The question is not the name; all words are alike. And all names belong to God—even your name. If any one word is seized and repeated, a music arises within, a sound arises. Into that sound the energy of dream dissolves.

Mantras are devices for destroying dreams. Through them no one attains God. But destroying dreams is a big step on the path to attaining God. A mantra is a process, a method, a tool, a hammer with which we shatter dreams.

And what are dreams? They are words! Therefore the hammer of words can shatter them. There is no need to take any iron hammer within. The disease is false; a false medicine will do. For a false disease, a real medicine is always dangerous. For a false disease a false medicine is appropriate; because that alone can destroy it.

What are dreams? Vikalpa—options! And what is mantra? Mantra is sankalpa—one focused resolve. That too is a form of vikalpa. But dreams are changing, momentary; the mantra is continuous and one. Slowly, slowly, the energy of all dreams dissolves into the mantra. And the day even in sleep the dream does not come, the mantra runs—understand that you have conquered dream. Understand that your dream has broken; truth has begun. After that, entry into Sushupti becomes possible.

But you are doing the reverse. You go on giving energy to vikalpas. Useless thoughts run within and you support them. Sitting idle you begin to think, “Shall I stand in the next election?” Then the dream starts. “It will not do short of becoming president.” Then you become president in your dream; welcomes are being thrown—and you relish all of it. You never think what foolishness this is! What are you doing! You are giving energy to a useless option, supporting it. And your mind is full of such useless options.

If we investigate a man’s life, ninety-nine percent is lost in such dreams—dreams of wealth, dreams of empire, dreams of power. Even if you achieve them—what will you get?

There was a very famous American president—Calvin Coolidge. He was a very silent man. By mistake he became president; because such a silent man cannot reach such a restless place. To reach there you need a mad race. The more mad, the more he crushes smaller madmen and goes ahead. How Coolidge reached is a miracle. Absolutely silent—neither talking nor moving. They say some days would pass when he would not speak more than ten or five words. When the time came for the next election, friends said, “Stand again.” He said, “No.” They asked, “What is the matter? The whole country is ready to make you president again.” He said, “No more. One mistake was enough; upon reaching I found there was nothing to be gained. I will not waste another five years. And after being president, there is no further promotion. If there were somewhere to go beyond, perhaps the dream would have remained.”

Therefore you do not know—those who succeed in dreams are the most unsuccessful. Because on the last edge of success they find that for which they ran and struggled—having attained it—there is nothing. Though, to hide their foolishness, they keep smiling at those still running behind; they keep waving their hands, displaying the symbol of victory. They have lost and they keep displaying victory—for those behind, still foolish, who go on running.

If all the successful people of the world would honestly say that they got nothing from their success, many fruitless races of dreaming would stop. But it is against their ego to say they got nothing. From behind they keep telling that they attained supreme bliss. The one whose tail has been cut off tries to arrange that others’ tails be cut off. Otherwise, if only one is tailless, there will be great shame—let everyone be so.

Whenever the stream of dream runs within, then wake up a little and see—what are you doing! Children read stories of Sheikh Chilli; all those stories are about you. The mind is Sheikh Chilli. And as long as you dream you remain Sheikh Chilli. Sheikh Chilli means—he is seeing useless dreams and taking them as true. God forbid those dreams come true; because to make them true you will have to spend immense energy and when they become true you will find nothing is gained. The hand always comes back with ash. All the successes of this world turn into ash. But by the time the ash comes into your hand, life has slipped away; there is no way to return. And then only one thing remains—to hide from people that your life has not been wasted; to pretend you have become meaningful, that you have attained something.

“Options are dreams.”

Do not give energy to these options. And when the dream begins within, then shake yourself awake and break the dream as soon as possible. A mantra can be useful in breaking the dream. We shall consider later how a mantra can be effective. Certainly, the mantra breaks the dream.

“And a-viveka—absence of self-knowing—is Sushupti.”

And where everything is lost, no discrimination remains, no awareness remains—neither awareness of the outer nor of the inner—where you become like a rock, in deep stupor. But then consider what a commotion your life must be! Because whenever you fall into deep stupor, only then in the morning you say, “I had a very pleasant sleep.” Think a little—what hell your life must be that only in sleep you find happiness. Only in unconscious stupor do you find happiness; the rest of your life is sheer sorrow! If good sleep comes you say, “Enough.” And sleep means unconsciousness.

But for you it is justified—“enough”—because your whole life is nothing but anxiety, tension and restlessness! In that at least you can relax a little, so you feel you have attained all. While there is nothing there. Sleep means where there is nothing; no outer world, no inner world; where all is lost in darkness. Yes, but you get rest. But what will you do with rest! In the morning you will again be engaged in the same race. The energy you get from rest you will put into making new tensions, you will cast new anxieties. Every day you rest and every day you cast new anxieties.

If only you understand this little point—that if in sleep such joy is found, if in unconscious stupor such joy is found—why? Because there is no tension there, no anxiety there; you have forgotten all commotion. If in unconsciousness, by forgetting the commotion, such joy is found—then think: the day commotions truly disappear and you remain in awareness, what joy will be available to you! We have called that Moksha; that is Nirvana, that is Brahmananda. In sleep so much is gained merely because commotions are not visible; then when commotions truly disappear, when tensions truly dissolve, and you remain in such rest for twenty-four hours as sometimes a person reaches in deep sleep, when for twenty-four hours continuously that serenity remains—how will you not experience the kingdom of bliss! Think a little. Because Samadhi is like Sushupti; only one difference is there—that there is awareness. Turyavastha is like Sushupti; only one difference—that there is light, and in Sushupti there is darkness.

Suppose you are brought on a stretcher into this garden in an unconscious state. The sun’s rays will touch you—because the sun’s rays are not unconscious; you are. The gusts of wind will pass over you and tap you gently—because they are not unconscious; you are. The fragrance from a flower’s petals will come to your nostrils—because the flower is not unconscious; you are. The freshness of the morning’s dew will touch you—because the dew is not unconscious; you are. All will happen.

But you will know nothing. Two hours later when you come to, you will say, “Great rest.” In that rest, there will also be the gift of dew, the flower’s fragrance, the sun’s rays, the gusts of wind—but you will know nothing of them. You were unconscious. Even then when you return to awareness you say, “Great pleasure.”

Imagine for a moment that you are sitting here in awareness—the flower’s fragrance is showering, the sun’s rays are showering, the dew has made everything fresh and new; the gusts of wind create songs in the trees—you are filled with awareness! Then your bliss…

In Sushupti you arrive at the place where Buddha and Mahavira and Shiva arrive in waking awareness. Even in sleep you bring back a little news in the morning—“Great joy”—though you cannot clarify what joy, you can say nothing, no description, no taste can be reported. In deep sleep—with no awareness—yet you bring a little freshness in the morning. On the face of one who has slept deeply at night there is a small glimpse of Buddhahood. Especially small children who truly sleep deeply—because as your anxieties increase, deep sleep too becomes difficult—look at small children when they wake in the morning; before their sleep breaks, look at their faces; there is the freshness of Buddhahood upon them. Somewhere within, an event of bliss is happening, of which they have no awareness; but the event is happening.

In Sushupti all tensions are gone, but there is no discrimination. And in Samadhi, in Turyavastha, all tensions are gone and discrimination is present. Viveka plus Sushupti equals Samadhi.

“And the enjoyer of the three is called Viresh.”

The one who enjoys all three—waking, dream, deep sleep—who is separate from all three, other than all three; who passes through all three, who experiences them, yet does not identify; who goes beyond all three yet holds himself as other; who is different from the three—that one is Viresh.

Viresh means: the bravest among the brave, the great-hero. Viresh is a name of Shiva. We have called those persons Mahavira who have attained Samadhi. We do not call Mahavira one who has climbed Mount Everest. All right, he has shown courage; but Everest is not the ultimate height. We do not call Mahavira even the one who has reached the moon. He has shown courage; but reaching the moon is not the final goal. We call Viresh, Mahavira, the one who has known the Atman, who has known the Paramatman. For beyond the Paramatman where is Everest! Beyond the Paramatman where is any destination! He who has attained the ultimate—we call only him Mahavira. We are not content with less. Because what will happen reaching the moon? Reaching the moon only opens roads to go further; then you must reach Mars. Reaching Mars, what will happen? The expanse is infinite!

We call Mahavira the one who reached where there is no further to go. And why do we call him Mahavira? Because there is no greater audacity than this. There is no adventure greater than to know oneself. Because upon that path the difficulties are greater than on any other. To reach there you must pass through austerity greater than any other.

The journey to oneself is the most arduous journey. It is the razor’s edge. Perhaps that is why you have fled from yourself and entangled yourself in the world here and there. Perhaps that is why, though the talk of self-knowledge catches the mind, even then you do not gather courage. Somewhere some fear seizes you.

It is difficult! You will have to go alone! The greatest difficulty is this—that everywhere in the world you can go with someone; only one place is there where you must go alone. There the wife will not be with you, the brother will not be with you, the friend will not be with you; even the guru cannot be with you there—he can only indicate.

Buddha has said: the Buddha points the way; you must go.

And in being alone there is fear. And all around there are so many people, so many dreams! Among the dreams some are very sweet. There is great juice in them. To break all those, to pull down the net of dreams, only a few rare ones set out on the journey to truth. Even among them, many return halfway. Among millions, one goes on that journey—because it is very difficult. And among the millions who go, perhaps one reaches. Therefore we have called that state Viresh.

Beyond the three the fourth is hidden within you—there is your Everest; there you have to reach. And the way to reach is this: in waking, awaken more. Right now you are lukewarm. Become a flaming fire of awakening—so that this flame enters into dream. Awaken even in dream—so that dreams break. Be so awake in dream that a ray of awakening reaches Sushupti too. That’s all—on the day you reach deep sleep carrying a lamp, you have opened the door to being Viresh. You have knocked for the first time upon the temple.

Infinite bliss is there. But the path in-between must be walked; the price must be paid. The greater the bliss to be attained, the greater the price to be paid. There can be no cheap bargain.

Many try for a cheap bargain. Many search for shortcuts. Exploitative gurus also are found for them, who say that just this much will do; “Tie this talisman”; “Just trust in me”; “Give charity, do merit”; “Build a temple.” These are cheap talks. Nothing is going to be solved by them. Only you get deceived. The journey will have to be done.

Then there are even cheaper paths. Someone smokes ganja and thinks Samadhi has happened; someone takes bhang and thinks knowledge has arisen. Thousands of sadhus and sannyasins are using ganja, opium, bhang. In the West their influence has increased greatly; because there even better intoxicants have been discovered—hashish, marijuana, LSD—more scientific chemicals; take one injection and you are in Samadhi! Take one pill and Samadhi is available! As instant coffee can be prepared, so instant Samadhi too can be prepared.

If only it were so cheap! And if by getting lost in intoxication someone could attain knowledge—the whole world would have attained long ago. It is not so cheap. But the mind desires the cheap. The mind wants to cut the middle path somehow and from where we are, enter directly into liberation. The middle path cannot be cut; because it is by passing through this path that your liberation will come. For the path is not only a path; the path is your growth as well.

That is the difficulty. Outside, it is possible. A plane takes off from London and lands in Bombay directly—the middle path cut. But the man who boarded in London will land the same man in Bombay; no other man can land. There was no growth in him. That is the outer journey. But from where you are, to land in Moksha—there can be no air-journey. And whoever says there can be, deceives you. Because this journey is not a journey from one point to another; it is entry from one state of life into another. The middle path must be traversed; because in traversing it you will be refined, you will burn, you will change. Through the pain of passing you will grow. That pain is indispensable. Without going through that pain, no one reaches there. And if you search for a shortcut, you only deceive yourself.

In the West there is a great search for shortcuts. Therefore people like Mahesh Yogi have great influence. The sole reason for that influence is that they say what they say is jet-speed. “What we teach—this small mantra—by doing it for only fifteen minutes a day you will reach directly. There is nothing else to be done. You need not change your conduct, need not change your life; you need not lose anything in the outer world; nothing to do at all. Just sit for fifteen minutes in rest and repeat this mantra. This mantra is everything.”

The mantra is a precious thing—but it is not everything. And by the mantra dreams can be cut, truth is not found. Cutting the dream is a part of the path on which truth is found. But if someone repeats only the mantra and thinks all is done; if someone thinks by turning a rosary all is done—he is childish. He is not yet worthy even to understand—reaching is far away.

The path is arduous. You must pass through that arduousness. Hence this sutra says—enterprise is needed. Such a great desire to make the supreme effort is needed—such an ardor—that you put your whole self at stake. Liberation can be bought—but only when you put your whole self on the stake; less than that will not do. If you give something else, that is not giving; you have not paid the price. When you give your whole self, then the price is paid and the attainment happens.

Enough for today.