Shiv Sutra #7

The disciples asked Jesus, What is the kingdom of the Lord like? What is its form, its name? And Jesus said, The kingdom of the Lord is like a seed. He is speaking of that very seed of which we shall speak today.

Meditation is that seed. A seed in itself has no fulfillment. A seed is a means. A seed is the possibility of a tree. The seed is not a state; it is a journey. Just as a seed succeeds when it becomes a tree—because then flowers and fruits appear; that is success—so too, when the seed of meditation becomes a tree and flowers and fruits appear—that is the Divine.

So it is necessary to understand the state of the seed rightly. You go on asking about God. Such inquiry is futile; for what is the point of inquiring about the tree when you have not cared for the seed! And without sowing the seed how will you ever see the tree? The Divine is not some outer event that you may simply see; it is your refined state; it is your own growth. You cannot see another’s God. Only when the seed hidden within you breaks and becomes a tree will you see.

Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Shiva, even if they tried a thousand ways, could not show you the Divine. Because your Divine is hidden within you. And as yet it is a seed, not a tree; nothing can be seen in a seed. When the seed breaks, develops, you will unfold, you will blossom, your lamp will be lit—then you will know that the Divine is.

Hence it is very difficult to defeat the atheist. In fact, no one has ever defeated an atheist. Not because the atheist is right, but because he asks the wrong question. Whatever answers are given will be useless. He asks, Show me God! Where is God?

God is hidden in you. God is hidden in the very one who asks. And another’s God cannot be shown; it is an inner happening. Only when your seed breaks will you know.

Right now you are like a seed. But you have not understood this; you are searching outside. And as long as you keep searching outside, your seed will lie within, un-sprouted. For a seed needs water, earth, light, love—just as a small child does. When you turn your eyes within, when your attention showers within, when your life-energy turns inward, then the seed receives life-breath; then the seed becomes alive and begins to sprout.

Meditation is the seed.

People come to me. They ask, There is restlessness; how can we be at peace?

One morning Mulla Nasruddin came. Just seeing him I was about to speak, but before I could, he asked his question. He said, This time you must help me. I asked, What is the problem? He said, It is very complex. Ten, twenty, twenty-five times a day—sometimes even more—I feel a fierce urge to bathe. I am going mad. This obsession rides me. Help me! So I asked, When did you last bathe? He said, As far back as I can remember, I never got into the hassle of bathing at all.

If you do not bathe, and the urge to bathe possesses you, the problem is not bathing; the problem is you. You are restless; you do not know that you have never meditated. You have never entered that so-called hassle. And you want to remove restlessness; but without the inner bath of meditation it will never go; it is a thirst.

Meditation is the inner bath. As the body becomes fresh after a bath, dust and rubbish are washed away and cleanliness comes, so meditation is the bath of the within, of the inner being. And when inside everything becomes fresh, what restlessness can remain? What sorrow, what anxiety? Then you feel thrilled, exuberant! Anklets ring on your feet! Your life becomes a dance! Before that you are sad, tired, harassed. And if you think the causes of your restlessness are outside, you are in delusion.

There is only one cause of your restlessness—you have not grown the seed of meditation into a tree. You will try a thousand things—if money comes, restlessness will vanish; if a son is born, if fame comes, if prestige comes, good health, a good body, long life—everything else may happen, but restlessness will not go. In fact, the more these things come, the more you will find that restlessness appears denser, more evident.

The poor man is less restless. The rich man becomes more restless. Why does wealth increase restlessness? It actually does not; the poor too are restless, but so much energy is consumed in satisfying the body’s hunger that there is not even the strength left to see their inner restlessness. When the rich man’s outer needs are fulfilled, all the energy is left over and the inner need comes to mind. The poor are just as restless, but they have no convenience to know it. For the rich, restlessness pricks like a thorn; it alone is seen.

The day you fulfill all needs, you will suddenly find the one real need was meditation; all the rest were the body’s needs, not yours.

This sutra says: Meditation is the seed.

In your great journey, in the search for life, in reaching the temple of Truth—meditation is the seed. And what is meditation, that it has such value? If it blossoms, you become Divine! If it rots, you will live a hellish life! What is meditation?

Meditation is the state of thought-free awareness; where awareness is total and thoughts are not; you remain, but mind does not. The death of mind is meditation. Right now you are not; only the mind is. Let it turn the other way—let only you remain and the mind be no more. At present the mind is drinking all your energy. Whatever life-force you have, the mind sucks it away.

Have you seen the dodder-vine? It clings to trees. Then the tree begins to wither, and the vine thrives and spreads. And that vine is very interesting! It is exactly like the mind. It has no roots of its own. It needs no root; it lives by exploiting another. It makes the tree dry and itself lives. And rightly, Hindus gave it a good name—Amarbel, the immortal vine. It does not die. As long as exploitation goes on, it can live for eternity.

Such is your mind—an immortal vine. It does not die; it can pursue you for lifetimes upon lifetimes. And the strange thing is, it has no root, no seed. Its existence is rootless. It should die this very moment, but it does not; it lives by exploitation.

And your mind encircles you from all sides. You have been pressed down in this immortal vine. The mind takes all life-energy; nothing is left. You live poor and withered. The mind allows you to live only as much as is useful to the mind. The vine too does not kill the tree completely; if it kills it completely, it will die itself. It keeps it alive just enough. A master too does not kill a slave; he gives just enough food for the slave to survive.

Your mind gives you only enough that you continue; otherwise it drinks ninety-nine percent. One percent is you; ninety-nine percent is mind—this is the state of non-meditation. When ninety-nine percent becomes you and one percent mind remains—that is the state of meditation. And if one hundred percent becomes you and mind becomes zero—that is the state of Samadhi. You are free; the seed has become a full tree; nothing remains to be attained; whatever could be attained has been attained. All possibilities have become truth. Whatever was hidden has become revealed. Then existence is filled with your fragrance. Then your dance is heard far, to the very moon and stars. Then not only you are thrilled, the whole current of life in the universe thrills with you. Then an ecstasy descends upon existence. Whenever a Buddha is born, the whole existence fills with festivity; for all existence longs to bring your seed to treehood.

Meditation means: the mind reduced to nearly nothing. Samadhi means: the mind becomes absolutely zero; only you remain.

And Shiva’s sutra says: Meditation is the seed.

Therefore one must begin with meditation.

Right now, half-aware, half-unaware, waking and sleeping, the mind holds you. At night dreams flow, in the day thoughts flow. Standing, sitting, the mind’s turmoil goes on. And the most astonishing thing is—there is nothing of substance in it. However long this turmoil continues, nothing is gained from the mind. Have you gained anything? After so much thinking, where have you reached? Think this too! Turn your attention also to this—that after so long a journey, which destination has been reached? By thinking and thinking, what have you got?

There was a great philosopher—Immanuel Kant. One evening he was returning home. A small boy stopped him on the road and said, Uncle, I went to your house. We are going on a picnic tomorrow. I went to borrow your camera. You had gone out, the servant was there. He refused outright. Is it proper that a servant should refuse?

The child was angry. Kant said, Entirely improper. While I am here, who is the servant to refuse? Come with me!

The child was delighted. They reached home. Kant scolded the servant thoroughly. The child kept glowing with delight. He said, While I am here, who are you to refuse? He even said to the child, You tell him too—while I am here, who is the servant to refuse? The child said, Of course not, uncle. And this man rudely refused. Then Immanuel Kant said to the child, Now I must tell you—the camera is not with me.

All the child’s joy, all his thrill, all his hope, the whole noise—and in the end it turns out the camera is not there!

This is your mind’s condition. All your life you will run, shout, hope, toil, and in the end the mind will say, That which you were seeking is not with me. The mind has always said so. It never had it. Therefore the mind always promises. And the mind always says—Not today, tomorrow; tomorrow for sure. None assures like the mind. And you are fools! If the mind had it, it would give it today. It speaks of tomorrow and you believe. And how many times have you believed! Each time tomorrow comes and the mind postpones it again to tomorrow.

But this has become your unconscious habit. Even in sleep, in dreams at night, the mind keeps putting you off till tomorrow.

Mulla Nasruddin was ill. His wife sent word and I went to his house. He was in heavy delirium, with a high fever—one hundred and five, perhaps one hundred and six degrees. Completely unconscious, burning with fire. I asked, Since when? The wife said, Just an hour or so. I said, Put a thermometer in his mouth. As they placed it, even in that unconscious state, what did he say! He murmured, Matchbox, please!

A chain-smoker! Lighting one cigarette from another, always smoking. Even at one hundred and five, with no awareness of anything, the moment the thermometer went into the mouth he remembered the cigarette—Matchbox, please!

Even as you are dying, this will be your state—Matchbox, please! Your mind, by old habit, keeps weaving its threads even in its unconsciousness. At the moment of death too you will be full of mind. You may worship, you may pray, you may go to temples, go on pilgrimage—the mind goes with you. And wherever the mind goes with you, your connection with religion cannot happen.

There was a Muslim fakir, Haji Mohammed—a saintly man. One night he dreamt that he had died and stood at a crossroads. From there one road went to heaven, one to hell; one road returned to earth, one to Liberation. At the crossing stood an angel, sending each person on his path according to his deeds.

Haji Mohammed did not worry; he had been pious all his life. Five times a day he had said his namaz. He had gone on the hajj sixty times; thus his name had become Haji Mohammed. He swaggered to the gate and stood before the angel. The angel asked, Your name? He said, Haji Mohammed! The angel pointed to hell: That road! Haji Mohammed said, Perhaps you have not understood. Some mistake is being made. I have done the pilgrimage sixty times!

The angel said, All that was wasted; for whenever anyone asked your name, you said, Haji Mohammed! You took the entire benefit on earth. You became conceited because of it. What else have you done?

Haji Mohammed’s feet wobbled. When sixty pilgrimages were in vain, hope began to fail. He said, Yes, every day I offered the five prayers fully.

The angel said, That too was wasted; for when someone was watching, you prolonged your prayer a bit. When no one was there, you finished quickly. Your gaze was not on God, but on onlookers. Once some guests came to your house, and you went on praying for a long time. That prayer was false. Your attention was not on God, but on those people—that people might see and know that I am religious, that I am Haji Mohammed. So that was useless. What else have you done?

By now Haji Mohammed was frightened, and in his fright he awoke. With the dream, his life changed. From that day he stopped using Haji with his name. He began to pray in secret; no one should even know. In the village the news spread—Haji Mohammed is no longer religious. They say he has stopped even the namaz! In old age he has gone senile. But he did not refute it. He prayed secretly. That prayer began to bear fruit. They say that when he died, Haji Mohammed went to heaven.

Your mind will even pray, and yet it will not allow prayer to happen. The mind will fill even prayer with ego. Do not discuss your meditation; hide it. Guard it as you would a precious diamond—you bury treasure, you do not flaunt it. In the same way, bury your meditation. Do not talk of it. Do not let ego fill from it. Otherwise the mind’s vine will reach there too and suck it dry. And where the mind reaches, there is no religion. Where mind does not reach, there is religion. The mind is extrovert; its attention is on the other, not on oneself. Meditation is introversion.

Meditation means—attention on oneself, not on the other. Mind means—attention on the other.

Even if you give a poor man two coins, you look around to see if someone is watching. You build a temple and place a large stone carved with your name. You give charity and get the news printed in the newspaper. All goes to waste. Being Haji Mohammed you will not reach. Keep no inventory of how many fasts you have done, how many vows you have observed. The realm of God is not a shopkeeper’s world; accounts do not work there. If you go with accounts, you will lose. Accounts are useful in the world.

But look: Jain monks publish each year how many fasts they have done, how many days they remained hungry in the rains, how many vows they took. They are keeping accounts. These are shopkeepers sitting in temples. Their minds are yet bound to arithmetic. Their meditation, their fasting, all goes to waste. They are becoming Haji Mohammeds.

No, do not worry about the outside—whether others consider you religious or not. What others say is not worth considering; for your relation with others is of the mind, not of you at all. The day the mind ends, the day you become unattached, that day you will be unbound. It is the mind that ties you to others. And as long as the mind ties you to the world, you will remain cut off from God. The day you break from the world and the mind disappears, that very day you will be joined to God. Here, detachment; there, union. Here, an eye is closed; there, it opens.

Meditation is the seed.

And meditation means: thought-free awareness.

The second sutra is: The one seated in posture sinks easily into the lake of conscious Self.

This sutra is revolutionary; simple, and yet difficult. One who is seated in posture sinks into the lake of consciousness, he drowns.

In Japan, the Zen tradition says—if you ask, What should we do for meditation? they say, Do nothing, just sit. Remember, when they say do nothing, they mean do absolutely nothing; just sit. Do only this much: sit—and do nothing. Because the moment you do anything, the mind arrives. It looks simple, but it is very difficult. This is the trouble—that even sitting is difficult. Close your eyes, and work begins—running begins. The body appears seated; the mind is running.

If you can just sit and do nothing, that is meditation. If you become established in posture—just sitting—no Ram-name is going on, no praise of Krishna is going on, nothing is being done; not even a wave of thought, for that too is a doing. If you do nothing, if you are not even trying to stop thought, for that too is an act, another thought; if you neither remember God nor the world, for all that is thought; if you are not repeating within, I am the Self, Aham Brahmasmi, I am Brahman—this is all nonsense. Repeating it will do nothing, this is all thought. You are doing nothing; you have just sat, as if you are a rock, with nothing happening within, nothing happening without. This state is called established in posture.

In Japan they call this zazen—just sitting. Zen masters use this method. Sometimes it takes twenty years, thirty years, before a person can arrive at this state—just sitting.

It looks simple; the sutra is difficult. In this world the simplest things are the most difficult. Tell someone to do something and you will climb the Himalayas. There will not be so many obstacles. There will be sweat and fatigue—but you will climb. Tell someone, Do not do; and trouble begins. Though you are being asked only this much: sit, do nothing.

If you sit silently, what will happen? As soon as you sit, you will find movements beginning in the body. Somewhere in the leg it feels as if needles are pricking. Somewhere in the body itching begins. Somewhere it seems the back aches. Somewhere there is pain in the neck. And a moment before there was none of this; you were perfectly fine. Suddenly the body rebels on all sides. It says, Do something; if not something, then at least scratch—but do something. If nothing else, change the posture; place the leg like this, then like that; lie down. Do something. Because life in this world is sustained by doing. The moment you go empty of doing, this world is lost. As soon as you wish to sit quiet, the body says, Do something.

People tell me, Otherwise we never notice any pain or anything, but whenever we sit to meditate—the trouble begins. Cough will come. You were sitting fine; never before came a cough. The moment you sit empty, the body starts its business.

Watch this. Do not listen to the body. You are the master. If you do not listen, in a few days the body will become quiet. How long can it shout? You give it attention, you feed it. Say to it, Whatever happens, in this one hour I will do nothing. If itching is there, it will continue; what can be harmed?

Have you noticed—if you gather a little courage for two or three minutes, the itch goes by itself. Has any itch ever gone by scratching? It grows!

If you decide firmly that the body is a servant and must obey my command, I will not obey it, you will suddenly find the throat becomes fine, the cough disappears. For a few days you must declare your mastery. You have long made this servant the master; so when its lordship is taken away, it obstructs. It calls you back—This will not be allowed; I am on the throne!

If you have decided to sit empty for one hour, what is the harm? The leg will itch, let it itch. No life is going out, only itching is going on. In a little while you will find that when you hold steady, the leg drops its obstinacy. It was only a trick to bend you. If you had obeyed, the itch would have started at another place; if you do not, where the itch was will fall silent. When the house is empty, the beggar shouts a little and goes away. But if you so much as tell him, Go to another house; there is no one here—then he stands. You gave a response, you answered; then he will say something.

A beggar was asking at a Marwari’s door—he had reached the wrong place. He said, Give two rotis. The Marwari said, Roti! There is no bread here. Move on! Then he said, Give two coins. The Marwari said, There is no money here. We neither give nor take here. Then he said, Give anything, even a rag of cloth. The Marwari said, Did I not tell you there is nothing here! Then the beggar said, Why not come with us then? What are you doing sitting here? If there is no cloth, no bread, no money, then let us go begging together.

If you answer, you are trapped. You answered—meaning you are present and you consent. Even a reaction is enough.

When an itch arises in the body, watch; do not answer. Soon you will be amazed—the itch is gone. Pain arises; keep watching; the pain goes too. It takes about six months to make the body seated in posture. Choose any posture, a comfortable one, in which you can sit long. Do not choose some odd, contorted posture that creates unnecessary difficulty. Hence sukhasana—a posture of ease. Sit at ease. Do not knowingly torture the body—placing stones and pebbles and sitting on them; laying thorns. The body will give you enough trouble; there is no need to create new ones.

Sit in a comfortable posture. But once you have sat and decided to sit for an hour, then for that hour do not listen to the body. You will be astonished—within a few days, within three weeks, if you have kept courage and not bent, the body will stop calling. And when the body stops calling, then turn attention to the mind. Do not attend to the mind before that. First let the body settle. The day you find the body no longer creates disturbance, it agrees to sit—half the journey is complete; more than half. For the mind is also part of the body. If the whole body agrees to sit, this part cannot rebel for long. It is the most rebellious, but still a part of the body. When the whole body is established in posture, the mind cannot wander too long. It too will sit.

To establish the body in posture means: all bodily disturbance is pacified. Then you sit as though disembodied; as if there is no body at all; there is no sense of body; you are simply sitting. Now attend to the mind. And the mind’s process is the same: whatever the mind says, do not listen. Do not react. Thoughts arise—watch as if you are uninvolved; as if it has nothing to do with you; as if these thoughts are arising in someone else’s mind, very far from you; as if there is noise on the road, or clouds move in the sky—nothing to do with you. With indifference, keep watching.

First let the body become quiet; then slowly—about three months for the mind, roughly—more or less, depending on your intensity. But within about six months you will find the state of posture has arrived. Neither does the body act, nor the mind.

Do not fight the mind. Do not try to suppress—No more thoughts! Remember, that too is a thought. If you support even that much thought, the mind will continue. The mind can create endless commotions. Do not fight; for fighting means you have agreed to react, you could not be indifferent. Indifference is the key. Keep watching. Say nothing.

It will be difficult, old habits are there—of reacting, conversing, answering. Slowly, only watching, watching, watching—one day you arrive at that moment where you are just sitting and nothing is happening. No movement in the body, no movement in the mind. The day both movements are silent, that state is asanastha—established in posture.

So asana does not mean mastering big yogic postures. If you practice yogasanas, it may help; your capacity to sit long will increase. But it is not necessary, not obligatory. If you simply learn to sit and only to sit, that is the supreme posture. No need to sit on the ground; you may sit on a chair. Only keep one thing in mind—the posture in which you sit, stay in that posture.

Sit comfortably, so the body has nothing to complain—You are giving me needless pain. Sit comfortably. Make arrangements for comfort. If it is cold, take a blanket. If it is hot, turn on a fan. Arrange comfort. Do not delight in torturing the body; that is wickedness. Whether you torture your body or another’s, both are violence. And no one reaches God through violence. This body too is His. There is no need to hurt it. Arrange all comforts. But once you sit, then whatever the body says, do not listen; remain seated. And toward the mind, maintain indifference.

At first the mind will raise a turmoil, a din such as never before.

Hence people come to me saying, When we did not meditate, the mind was not so restless; now it has increased; now there is a great uproar.

The uproar was always there; you did not know, because you never attended to it. You were entangled outside; inside, the same anarchy existed; for your sitting cannot increase anarchy—it can only reduce it. How would it increase?

But you were so entangled outside—your attention extroverted in market, shop, money—you never had a chance to look within to see what upheaval was there. Now that you have closed your eyes to the outside, all your attention, your focus, your light, falls within. Because of this inner light you know for the first time what chaos rages.

But indifference! Keep only this in mind—drop all expectations from the mind. If you keep expectations, you cannot be indifferent. Drop expectation; keep no hope. Sit in indifference, be neutral. However hard it is, it will become simple if you keep sitting. Today it may not happen; tomorrow it will. If not tomorrow, the day after. Do not worry about when; for the more you hurry, the more delay will be caused. Hurry is the mind’s nature. If you hurry, the mind will defeat you. If you keep patience and are willing to wait—No hurry; whenever it happens, we are not concerned; we will keep sitting—you will find that in about six months the mind is also quiet.

To be established in posture means: the body has no action, the mind has no thought. And this sutra of Shiva is revolutionary. It says, When you are established in posture, you sink effortlessly into the lake of conscious Self. That lake is within. When all movement on the body is stilled, energy cannot go outward. When all movement of the mind stops, all holes for the escape of energy are sealed; your bucket for the first time becomes without holes; all the cracks are closed; now no outlet remains. Now the whole life-energy flows within. And within is the great lake. As this energy falls inward, it unites with that great lake. You, your drop, begins to drown in the inner ocean. Immersion in the lake of consciousness happens effortlessly. That is the Divine.

Going outward you have wandered; going inward the goal will be found. You are seeking outside that which is hidden within. You are seeking that which you are; hence you cannot find it. This is the difficulty. This is the complexity. Where you should look you do not; where you do look, it is not. So you go on wandering.

One evening Mulla Nasruddin was outside his house, at dusk, searching for something by the light of a lamp. People gathered. They asked, What are you looking for? He said, My needle is lost. They joined in. After a while one asked, The road is vast—where did you lose it? And a needle is small. Nasruddin said, Do not ask that. Do not touch that wound. They were startled. They said, What do you mean? Nasruddin said, The needle was lost inside the house; but there is no light there. It is dark—terribly dark—and I am afraid to go inside. I spend the night outside. In the day I sometimes go, but never at night. Now night has come, so I search outside. People said, You are crazy, Nasruddin! If it was lost inside, how will you find it outside? Nasruddin burst into laughter and said, All are doing what I am doing. What is lost within, people are seeking without. And none of them are mad—only I?

What are you seeking? You are seeking—of that there is no doubt. What are you seeking? If the essence of all your search be extracted, you are seeking bliss. Someone seeks wealth—but through it seeks bliss. Someone seeks love—but through it seeks bliss. Someone seeks fame—but through it seeks bliss. Whatever names your search may carry, within there is one thread—bliss. You are seeking bliss. The one who goes to the tavern and the one who goes to the temple—their search is one—both seek bliss. The one who does virtue and the one who does sin—their search is one—both seek bliss. Bad and good, both are engaged in the same search.

But have you asked where you lost bliss? Search where it was lost. You are searching where it was not lost. Surely you did not lose it outside. Somewhere within there was a taste. And you know that taste.

Psychologists say something very significant—that the child in the mother’s womb is in a state of supreme bliss. And so it should be—for there is no anxiety, no responsibility, no worry for food, no worry of heat or cold; within the mother a uniform temperature is maintained. Outside it rains or it is cold or hot—no difference to the child. In the mother’s womb a single, unvarying warmth remains; not a hair’s breadth of change. No discomfort comes from the change of seasons. The mother may be drenched in sweat, but for the child there is neither heat nor cold nor rain. Even if the mother is hungry, the child is never hungry. What passes for the mother does not matter—the child is perfectly safe. And the child goes on floating.

Have you seen Vishnu floating upon the ocean of milk? That is the child’s state—the state of every child in the womb. As Vishnu reclines in bliss upon the milk ocean, so every child reclines. That picture of Vishnu is in truth the picture of the child in the womb. As a flower blooms from the navel, so the child is joined to the mother by the navel. From there all life flows. And the water that is in the ocean is exactly mirrored in the womb. The same proportion of salt exists in the mother’s womb as in the ocean. Therefore when a woman conceives, she feels a great urge to eat salty things, because the salt of the body is being drawn into the womb. She can even eat earth if there is a taste of salt in it. The salt of her whole body goes into the womb.

Exactly that proportion is found—scientists say—the salt-proportion of the sea is the same as in the mother’s womb. And in that water the child floats—uniform warmth, floating in ease. No worry, no responsibility, not even the need to cry. Before hunger arises, food arrives. The child does not even breathe on his own; he breathes through the mother’s breath. The child is joined; he is not yet separate. He does not yet have ego to say, I am. Not even that much does he know. He is, but immersed in existence. The taste of bliss he knows in those moments—that alone is what he seeks all his life.

Psychologists say: the search of life is in truth a search for the womb again. And we make a thousand arrangements. If you observe, they are the same arrangements. You want a good bed to sleep on. It is good only when its temperature is close to that of the mother’s womb. When you sleep, you curl up on the bed almost as you did in the womb. Those who sleep well sleep curled like a child. Again they become children.

All your effort is that no responsibility remain, no worry remain. That is why you seek wealth—if there is money at hand, there will be no worry, no fear of tomorrow. You seek friends all around, you seek love, so that those friends and lovers may become your womb and you become safe among them. Alone you feel fear, because around is unknown, unfamiliar, hostile. Among friends you feel good. You make your home; within it you build your world. If you look closely, you have recreated the womb—building walls all around, you are safe within.

The child has a taste of bliss in the mother’s womb—every child! And then he seeks it all his life. Therefore whenever you get again a moment somewhat like it, even a slight glimpse, you are happy. All your happinesses are glimpses of that. Psychologists say the search for Liberation is in truth the search for the womb. The day the whole existence becomes like a womb for you; the day you again immerse in it; your ego dissolves; there remains no worry, no anxiety—that day you will attain bliss once again. That bliss is within you; you have lost it. And you are searching outside; therefore you do not find it.

In the posture-established state, in meditation, your own body becomes your womb. In the posture-established state, when all action is silent, all thoughts lost, your body and mind become a periphery. Within it you again enter the womb. Therefore we call the meditator dwija—the twice-born. He is born again. He has passed through his own womb. One birth is from mother and father; the other you must give to yourself. That birth makes you dwija.

Established in posture—self-established—one sinks easily into the lake of conscious Self.

And then there is an ocean of consciousness. If there is so much nectar in the ocean of the body, how much more in the ocean of consciousness! You cannot calculate. It is infinitely, infinitely more. It has no limit. The little taste of womb-bliss you knew in the mother was immersion in the body. The day you immerse in the Self, the bliss you will know—that is Bliss itself. That is the supreme nectar. Hindus have called it Brahman. There is no taste like it. It is Satchidananda.

And one attains self-creation—dwija-hood.

As soon as immersion happens in the inner ocean, one becomes twice-born; for the first time the Atman is born. As yet your Atman is hidden in the seed—present, yet not; present like a seed, not like a tree. Right now you are only a possibility, a hope that you may one day be. You have not yet happened. This is your anguish. This is your pain. From this you tremble and worry.

If you understand rightly, all this pain is the pain of birth. Until your second birth happens, this pain will continue. And for the one whose second birth has happened, the first birth ends; it is no longer needed. Otherwise you will be born again and again into the body. If you become twice-born, there is no need to return.

We call a Brahmin dwija. Better we call the dwija a Brahmin; for not all Brahmins are twice-born, but all twice-born are Brahmins. One does not become Brahmin by being born in a Brahmin’s house. Until one is born of Brahman, one is not a Brahmin; until one is immersed in Brahman, one is not a Brahmin.

Hindus have a unique doctrine: All are born shudras; a few attain Brahminhood. Be one born in a Brahmin’s home or a shudra’s—by birth all are shudras. Therefore we invest Brahmin children with the sacred thread; it is only a formality—a notice that Now you are no longer a shudra; now you are a Brahmin. By birth you were a shudra; now we place the thread upon your neck—now you are a Brahmin.

But it is not so cheap—Brahminhood. You do not become a Brahmin by hanging a string around the neck. Brahminhood is the most arduous process in existence; it happens through immersion in the Self. The one who gives birth to himself is dwija—the twice-born. Now he himself is his father and himself his mother; now he is not born of another. Now his connection with the world is broken. Now his connection is with Brahman.

This sutra says: Meditation is the seed. One who is established in posture, established in meditation, immerses in the Self. From this immersion the Atman is born; one attains dwija-hood.

Do not get caught in cheap things. Do not cling to the sacred thread. Would that becoming a Brahmin were that cheap and easy! But we always find cheap tricks to console the mind. How long will you console the mind? Consolation will not deliver truth. Drop all false hopes. Break all sacred threads and cords. They will do nothing. A real birth is needed. The real birth happens when you become your own womb. A posture-established body and a meditation-established mind create the womb.

Nicodemus asked Jesus, When shall I attain your Lord’s kingdom?

Jesus said, When you die and are born again. As you are, you must pass; and as you can be, you must be born anew; only then will you enter my Lord’s kingdom.

It is utterly clear—die like the seed and be as the tree. As you are now—only a dream, a hope, a possibility that one day the Divine may fructify in you, but has not yet—bury this possibility like a seed in the soil.

What is the fear? The seed fears that it will be lost. And the seed’s trouble is understandable. It has no way to know whether the tree will be or not. And the seed will never see the tree; for only when it perishes will the tree be. The seed will never meet the tree; it has never happened. How, then, can the seed be certain that if it dies the vast will be born? All it sees is that whatever it is will be lost. And who can be certain that the vast will be?

This is your pain too. Before Buddhas, before Mahaviras, before Shivas—this is your pain. You ask the same: What I have—what if I lose it! And what you say—what if it does not happen!

Fear is natural. Therefore, before a true master, fear arises. And the master in whose presence fear does not arise is worth two pennies. Leave at once; because only before a true master will fear arise. He will frighten you; he will feel like death. He will efface you. And as soon as you begin to be effaced, the mind says, Run from here. Wherever the mind says, Run, do not run. And where the mind says, Stay, what a sweet satsang is going on, run from there. Where the mind is afraid, know something is going to happen. For the seed fears only where it is about to die; before that it does not fear.

Hence you are not afraid of priests. You are not afraid of temples. In Kashi you feel no fear—walk freely without fear. In Bodh Gaya there is no one left to erase you; nor in Girnar, nor in Shikharji, nor in Kaba, nor in Jerusalem—you can go there at ease. Your pilgrimages are dead; they do die, for there is no life in tirthas; life is in tirthankaras. When the tirthankara is gone, you make a tirtha. That tirtha is dead; it is a corpse. It cannot efface you. No dead guru can efface you. Therefore the mind worships dead gurus with gusto. You take great relish in worshiping Mahavira; for you know well—what can a stone image do! You bought it yourself; it is under your control; the day you wish, you can uproot and throw it away.

Hindus are clever. They even make; and that is why they make of clay—because after two or three weeks they can immerse it in the river. One thing is sure—we are the makers, and we are the finishers too. What can you do to us! We worship too—but at our pleasure. You are our playthings. No more value than dolls. That is the truth.

When Mahavira, Rama, Krishna are alive no one worships them. When the person is alive you fear him. The tirthankara creates fear; the tirtha creates great hope, great joy. See—at the Kumbha Mela millions gather! Did millions ever gather around Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna? Never. The Kumbha will not come to your home; you will go to the Kumbha. Buddha and Mahavira even knock at your doors, and still they find them shut. They create fear; for these men are dangerous. They say, Die like the seed so you may be like the tree.

Therefore faith—shraddha—has value. If you go by logic, logic will say, First get firm assurance and guarantee of what you can become. It is right too—let there be a firm guarantee of what you can become, only then leave what you are. Let not the real in hand be lost for a false hope. Logic always says, Half a loaf in hand is better than the whole loaf in hope. At least half is, agreed; but it is. And you should leave the half only when the whole is in hand. If you follow logic—and logic is perfectly right.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to learn swimming. He caught hold of a teacher in the village. Teach me to swim, he said. The teacher said, Come, I am going to the river now.

But by chance Nasruddin slipped on the steps. He took a few gulps. He ran out. The teacher ran after him—Where are you going? You came to learn! Nasruddin said, Teach me first, then I will put my foot in the water. Until I learn to swim, I am not going to set foot in the water. The teacher said, This is difficult—without entering the water, how will you learn? Nasruddin said, Not now. That mistake happened once; not again in this life.

When you argue, your logic says the same; and logic is right. Nasruddin too is right—Now I will enter water only when I have learned swimming; this is dangerous. I took gulps; I survived by chance—what if I had not! So first let me learn properly, then!

One day I saw Nasruddin standing by the roadside. His wife was in the car. He was teaching her to drive. For a while I watched: he ran alongside the car at the edge saying, Left! Press the clutch when you change gear! I said, Nasruddin, I have seen many learning and teaching to drive, but never anyone teaching from outside. He said, The car has insurance; I do not. I will not sit inside.

Logic always asks for insurance; it asks for a guarantee. The seed too asks, What is the guarantee a tree will be? How to convince the seed!

Hence the value of shraddha. There is no way to convince. Shraddha is a leap into the dark. Therefore the faithful reach, the rational never do. Intellect misleads; the heart arrives. When you love, you do not listen to the intellect. When you pray, you will only be able to, if you do not listen to the intellect. If you listen to the intellect, everything seems correct—one hundred percent correct—for intellect moves by logic; but in the end all is futile. The seed remains a seed and keeps rotting.

Attend to one thing: What do you really have? What does a seed have? Do not ask whether there will be a tree or not. Ask what the seed has that you fear losing. What do you have that you are afraid to lose—ask this. Shraddha always asks this. Shraddha asks, What do I have that I should fear to lose? Do you have anything which, if lost, would feel like a loss? Nothing at all. There will be worries, sorrow, suffering, gloom. But what fear is there in losing these? Do you have any joy that, if lost, you would be deprived, impoverished? You have nothing. You are like that naked man who did not bathe because he said, If I wash my clothes, where will I dry them? He had no clothes; there was no question of washing. Yet the worry of drying had seized his mind.

You have nothing to lose—and everything to gain. This is shraddha. Shraddha always looks at what is. Logic always looks at what will be. Logic is future-oriented. Shraddha looks in the present—What is with me?

People come to me. I say to them, Take the leap into sannyas! They say, One year more. As if I am snatching something from them; as if they will gather courage in a year. They say, Wait a bit; it is difficult now. As if I am asking them to renounce something. They have nothing— not a bit. There is no wealth in the name of wealth; except poverty and beggary, nothing is with them. I want to give them the glory of sannyas. I am not taking anything away; I am giving. For I do not call sannyas renunciation but the doorway to supreme enjoyment. As a sannyasin, for the first time you become an emperor.

But you mistake your beggary for wealth. Whenever I say, Take the leap into sannyas, the person looks at me as if I am taking something away. I am amazed. Would that you had something—then even that would be right! You have nothing. Not even trash. What you have are snakes and scorpions; not even trash. Except sorrow, anxiety and pain, you have nothing. Even that, you do not leave; you clutch it. Why?

You never look this way. You ask, What will be gained?

People ask me, What will be gained by meditation? There you err. I want them to ask, What has been gained by not meditating? What will be—is uncertain; for the future is unknown, and the seed never meets the tree. The seed remains a seed. How to bring the seed together with its future! The seed will die—then the tree will be. And when the tree is, the seed will not be. How will we show it to you then—See, this is what you got? This is the great difficulty. How to show the seed—This is what you will get? As long as you are a seed, you are a seed; when you are a tree, you are a tree. These two never meet. Yet you ask for a guarantee of the future. To whom can it be given? This seed will not remain; you will not remain as you are.

No—the man of faith asks, What do I have? He looks and finds—nothing. I am naked, yet I fear to wring out. If only this insight dawns—that I have nothing—then you are ready to journey into the unknown; there remains no fear of losing. If something is gained—good; if nothing—still good; there is nothing to lose. You cannot be worse than you are. Or do you think you can be? There are those who always fear that it may become worse than this.

Mulla Nasruddin had a catchphrase: It could have been worse. Whatever happened, he would say, It could have been worse. People were tired. There was nothing in which he would not say, It could have been worse. At last one day an event occurred in the neighborhood; they said, Now we will trap him. Now he will not be able to utter his catchphrase.

It happened that Nasruddin’s neighbor returned from a trip two days early, suddenly reaching home. He found a stranger in the house—his wife in love with him. He picked up a gun and killed both. In the morning, when Nasruddin came out, the neighbors surrounded him—Listen, now there is no way for your phrase. Both are dead! Nasruddin said, It could have been worse. People were astonished—What could be worse than this? Nasruddin said, If he had returned a day earlier, I would have been dead.

But I tell you—there cannot be worse than this. Drop this catchphrase. As you are, this is the worst state; what worse can there be?

Shraddha always thinks, What do I have? What does the seed have? A shell. The seed has nothing. There may be something—but only when the shell breaks. You are a shell; let it break. Then all becomes possible. The Divine becomes possible within you.

Therefore Shiva says: Meditation is the seed. And when the seed dies, you attain dwija-hood.

Where knowledge is undying, birth is destroyed.

And the day dwija-hood fructifies within you, the second birth happens—then knowledge never perishes within you; the stream of knowing flows continuously; you become a current of knowing. Your everything becomes knowing, becomes chaitanya. When the seed of meditation breaks, then within you only consciousness remains. You are transformed into a single awareness, a single witnessing. And where knowledge is undying—where it does not perish…

As yet your awareness is next to nothing. You live as if asleep. Even what you do, you do without awareness.

Someone was sitting before Buddha, wagging his big toe. Buddha said, My brother, why is this toe wagging? The moment Buddha asked, it stopped. The man said, I do not know myself. You have put me in difficulty by asking. I was not wagging it knowingly; it was just wagging. Buddha said, Your whole life is like this.

What have you done knowingly? Did you get angry knowingly? Love knowingly? Covet knowingly? Delude knowingly? Have you done anything knowingly? Just as the toe wags in unconsciousness, so your whole life wags. You built a home, you have a family, you had children—what have you done knowingly? All is happening. You are mechanically trapped in that happening. What have you done with awareness in life? Is there any act that you have done with awareness—that has arisen from your consciousness?

No—you will not be able to name even one act done with awareness.

Love happened with someone—it happened; you did not do it. Quarrel happened—it happened; you did not do it. You see people and at the very sight you decide—someone seems good, someone bad. But who is good, who is bad—have you seen with awareness?

Whatever you have become in life feels like a chance accident. You have not moved with awareness. Events are happening; you, unconscious, are being carried along. You are like a straw floating in a river; wherever the waves take you, you go. Though the straw must think, I am traveling. So do you—You think you are doing something. How can you be a doer when there is no awareness?

This sutra says: Where knowledge is undying—only when the seed of meditation breaks and within you there remains an unbroken shimmering of consciousness. Sleeping or waking—you never sleep. Standing or sitting—you never sleep. Within you awareness remains. If you love, it will be with awareness. If you eat, it will be with awareness. If you arise and move, it will be with awareness. Your whole life becomes an expansion of awareness. This we call Buddhahood. Buddhahood means: one who lives awakened.

Undying knowledge! Now knowledge does not fade. The inner lamp does not grow dim. It burns continuously, steady, unwavering. When this happens—when the seed of meditation breaks and becomes undying knowledge; when a continuous chaitanya begins to flow within you—then birth is destroyed. Then you are not born again. Then you do not return to the body.

You return to the body as if in a faint. You are asleep; therefore you come again and again into the body. Descent into the body is due to your unconsciousness. The day your awareness becomes continuous, the journey into body ceases. Then you will not descend into this narrow body. For it is a prison; no one willingly enters it. It is a bondage. These are chains wrapped around your hands by yourself. This is captivity, slavery. Why would you knowingly enter it! Unknowingly you entered—in darkness you strayed. The day your eyes are filled with light, descent into body ceases.

Where then will you be? You will become part of the vast, bodyless. We call it Brahman. Some call it God, some Nirvana, some Moksha. Give it any word; it matters not. Among religions there is difference mainly of words. And all words are right, for each names some attribute of that ultimate state.

Nirvana means: the extinguishing of the lamp. Buddha loved this word. He said, As a lamp is extinguished, if you ask where the flame has gone—what will you say? Where has it gone? You cannot point anywhere. It must be somewhere; for nothing that is can be annihilated in existence. What is, is; what is not, is not. What is not cannot be made to be; what is cannot be made not to be. It must be somewhere. You blew out the lamp; the flame has not been lost—where would it go? It has merged into the vast. Till now it had form; now it is formless. It is freed from the lamp. This does not mean it has vanished.

The lamp was of clay; the flame was entirely other. What relation does clay have with flame! The lamp had not made the flame; the lamp was only the body. You blew out the lamp’s link with fuel; the flame merged into the vast, became part of the great Light. Hence Buddha calls the ultimate Nirvana—just as the lamp here is extinguished and merges into the supreme sun. Mahavira calls it Kaivalya—aloneness. He says, When your delusion ends, darkness goes, avidya ends, ignorance falls away—then only you remain, only consciousness remains, with no shore or limit.

Mahavira does not speak of a God. He says, The soul becomes the Supreme Soul. It is the same thing. Either say the drop is lost in the ocean, or say the ocean is lost in the drop—what is the difference! The drop fell into the ocean. The Hindu says, The drop is lost in the ocean. Mahavira says, The ocean is lost in the drop. It is the same; a matter of saying. Mahavira prefers this and says, Kaivalya—only you remain; no other remains; only pure consciousness remains.

The Hindu calls it Moksha—liberation. For the body is a prison; you are freed. Jesus called it the Kingdom of the Lord. For you are no longer poor; you are an emperor. Words differ; the core is one—when the seed breaks, you become a tree.

Gather courage! Great courage is needed! There is no greater courage in the world. There is no adventure greater than religion. Do not think the weak are religious. The weak cannot be religious; only the supremely strong are. And where you see the weak being religious, there is no religion. In temples and mosques, those you see kneeling are not religious. They kneel from weakness. They are worldly. The greatest adventure is religion.

What is adventure? The leap of the seed, the readiness to efface oneself, only in the hope, without any guarantee, that the tree will be; the dissolution of the known for the unknown; leaving the familiar path for the vast forest, choosing the trackless path that has no sign, no map; leaving the world to seek Brahman, entering a mapless world. There is no map to carry; no guide. No printed book will help. All books will be left behind, for all books belong to this world. The guru too will not go with you there. The guru will push you—and stand on the bank.

When someone teaches another to swim, what does he do? He gives a push! You think the guru is standing there; so you jump without fear. Swimming is within you. On the first day you will flail your arms and legs—that too is swimming—awkward. In two or three days you will understand how to move arms and legs; it was within you. If there were courage, you could jump alone. But alone there is some fear. Someone stands on the shore; there is trust that if I sink, if danger arises, someone is on the bank. That is all the guru is—standing on the shore for trust; he will do nothing; there is nothing to do. Everything is hidden within you and is to manifest within you. But the guru’s presence gives trust—There is no danger. There is someone; if I call, someone will hear. And he says, I am here; jump carefree.

Once you jump, you fling arms and legs. At first, in fear; that too becomes swimming. What is the difference between flailing and swimming? Only a little experience. Two or three days of flailing and experience comes. You will stop flinging wrongly and begin to move rightly. And as success comes, self-confidence grows. After a few days the guru will say, Now there is no need for me to stand on the bank. Now you could teach another too if you will.

In meditation the guru does only this—he gives you a push. And if you have shraddha, the seed within you will break and the tree will be born. If you are filled with logic, you will wander in vain. Faith is the door.

Enough for today.