Shiv Sutra #9

Prayer, you say? It does not depend on what you say to Him; it depends on what you are. Puja is not related to what you perform; it is related to what you are. Religion pertains not to doing but to being. If there is love at the center within you, there will be prayer on your circumference. If there is day-and-night peace at your inner center, there will be meditation around you. If there is moment-to-moment awareness at your inner center, your whole life will be tapascharya.

Not the other way round. By changing the circumference, the center does not change. When the center changes, the circumference changes of its own accord; for the circumference is your shadow. No one can change himself by changing the shadow; but if the self changes, the shadow changes on its own.

This is essential to know. For most people waste their lives trying to change the circumference; they stake everything in trying to change their behavior. Even if behavior changes, nothing really changes. However much you change your conduct, you will remain you. You were stealing; you become a sadhu. You were hoarding money; you start distributing it. But you remain you. And the value of money in your eyes remains the same; the value you gave it while stealing will remain the value you give it while donating. While stealing you believed money is supremely precious; while giving in charity you will still believe money is supremely precious. Money has not become dust. Otherwise, who gives dust in charity!

If money has truly become dust, will you go to hand your garbage to someone? And if someone accepts your money, will you imagine you have obliged him? Will you want him to return and thank you? If money has truly become worthless, then the one who accepts your money will have obliged you. You will feel blessed that this man took away the junk, did not refuse it.

But the donor does not think like this. Even if he gives a single penny, he seeks a return.

A Marwari died. He went straight to the gate of heaven and knocked. He was utterly sure the gate would open, for he had given in charity. The gate did open; the gatekeeper looked him up and down. In heaven deeds are not recognized; persons are seen directly. The gatekeeper asked, “Perhaps you have knocked here by mistake. Knock at the door in front—that is hell.”

The Marwari was offended. He said, “Has the news not reached you? Only yesterday I gave two paisa to an old woman. And the day before that I gave one paisa to a blind newspaper boy.”

Since a claim of charity was made, the gatekeeper had to open the register. He told his assistant to look it up. There indeed were three paisa recorded under the Marwari’s name. The gatekeeper was perplexed. He asked, “Anything else you ever did?” The Marwari said, “Right now nothing else comes to mind.” Had he done more and not remembered? The one who remembers three paisa—could he have done more and not remembered! The books were searched, only those three paisa were recorded. On the strength of those three paisa he had swaggered to heaven’s door and knocked.

The gatekeeper asked his companion, “What shall we do with him?” The companion pulled three paisa out of his pocket and said, “Give these to him and tell him to knock on the door opposite.”

Has any gate of heaven ever opened with coins! Whether you clutch money or renounce it, in both cases its valuation does not transform. Whether you remain in the world or run away from it, the world’s value remains the same. Whether you turn your back or face it, in the journey little difference is made—until you change from the center.

Not conduct, an inner revolution is needed. And the moment the within changes, everything changes. These sutras are sutras of inner revolution. Try to understand each sutra with deepest attention. If even a particle of them falls within you, it will be like a spark. And if even a little dry gunpowder lies within you, it will catch fire. But if you have soaked all your powder, sparks fall and die.

Your difficulty is not that truth does not reach your ears. You are skilled at extinguishing truth as well. All your powder is wet inside. Even if a live coal were to fall, the coal dies out, the powder does not ignite. And how have you made your powder wet? The more “knowledge” you possess, the wetter your powder is. The more you think “I know,” the wetter your powder is. Because of that very “knowing,” you extinguish the spark of knowing as well. Your knowledge does not allow the spark of wisdom to enter; it stands at the door. It refuses from the outside.

You are intoxicated by your knowledge. And remember, it is hard to find a stronger wine than knowledge; for nothing else gives such a subtle ego. Wealth cannot give so much pride. For wealth can be stolen, governments can change, communists may come—anything can happen. Wealth has no surety. But knowledge cannot be stolen, none can snatch it away. Even if you are thrown into prison, your knowledge will go with you. Therefore even the rich do not strut as much as the pundit does. And that strut keeps your powder wet. Drop that arrogance—your powder will dry. Then even one spark is enough to transform you; for not much fire is needed. If it is gunpowder, a single spark will do. If it can burn, one spark suffices. If it cannot burn, even a blaze will not ignite it.

These sutras are like sparks. Try to understand them by putting your “knowledge” aside; for if you try to understand through knowledge, you will not understand at all.

The first sutra is: “Katha japa.”

Those who have become Shiva-like—the last sutra we explored—those who have become Shiva-like, whatever they speak, that alone is japa. The question is not what they speak. Whatever they utter, it is japa. Because in their heart the world is no more, craving is no more, darkness is no more—their heart is a light. From such a heart whatever comes forth is japa. Something other than japa cannot arise from it. How can darkness come out of light! How can hatred arise out of love! How can anger spring out of compassion! Now, whatever arises from within them is japa.

Jesus has a famous saying: It is not what you put into your mouth that brings the kingdom of heaven; it is what comes out of your mouth that brings it. What you take in does not decide anything; what flows out from within announces who you are.

One who has become Shiva-like will not “do” japa. Japa is no longer needed; for whatever he does will be japa.

Kabir has said: Whether I rise or sit, it is parikrama.

Someone asked Kabir, “We never see you doing japa! When do you worship? When do you pray? People call you a great bhakta, but when do you practice devotion? We see you engaged in work; you weave cloth, you go to market to sell. But we never see you in meditation, worship, temple!”

Kabir said, “Whatever I do—that is my parikrama; whatever I speak—that is my japa; my very being is my meditation.”

Whenever you become eager for meditation, what do you do? You give a small corner of your world of actions to meditation. But meditation is not an act. You run a shop, you go to the market. You will have to do it. Work and daily routine move on the outer circumference. On that same circumference you allot one corner to meditation. You think, “Before going to the market, let me stop by the temple for a couple of moments.”

Mark the difference. You simply add meditation to what you are already doing; among twenty-five chores, one more task is meditation. Your world is filled with a thousand engagements; amidst them, God becomes one more engagement. Then you will miss the Divine. God cannot be on the circumference. Where your shop is, your market is, your work is—He is unrelated to that. God is your innermost, where you are. He is not in the world of doing. Where all your doings rest and only you remain; where no doer remains, where only the witness remains—that is His home.

God will not occupy a part of you; He is vast, infinite; only when you are surrounded entirely by Him will He surround you. If you say, “I will give You also a little time,” you will go astray. The day you give your whole being! This does not mean you will be unable to work. You will be able to work even more beautifully. But then, in each of your acts the tune of God will begin to play. Then He will be within you—like breathing goes on. When you go to the market, you do not stop breathing. When you sit in the shop, you do not stop breathing. When you speak to someone, you do not stop breathing. Breath is not a part of your doing. You do everything; within, breathing continues. Likewise, when the Paramatman becomes your inner element, you will do everything and His stream will flow within you day and night. Your doing has no competition with Him. He is not part of the world. By doing, the world is created. By action, the world is born.

Hence we say: so long as one is bound to karma, one remains in the world; when one attains to akarma, one attains the Paramatman. Akarma means your very being—where doing is no question; where you simply are; connect from there.

One who has become Shiva-like—whatever he speaks is japa. You will not find him praying; for now there is no need to pray separately. You will not find him performing puja; for puja is no longer a compartment. Now he himself is puja. Therefore, if you watch closely, whatever he does, everywhere you will find worship. If he even breathes, it is japa. If he raises a hand, it is puja. If he rises or sits, it is parikrama.

The entire conduct of one who has become Shiva-like becomes sadhana. He need not “practice,” because whatever needs to be practiced can never be natural. And whatever needs to be practiced will one day tire you. Tired, you will want to rest. Rest will mean—falling into the opposite.

Therefore if you have cultivated your saintliness, you will practice six days and on the seventh you will have to rest. That day you will become un-saintly. Thus, there will be moments of un-saintliness in the lives of your saints. For saintliness too will exhaust you. One day you will have to take a holiday. No act can be continuous; it brings fatigue. Thus the saint too goes on vacation. And if he never takes a vacation, the tension will become too great.

Hence in a saint’s life there are moments of un-saintliness; and in an un-saint’s life there are moments of saintliness. You will not find such a sinner whose life has not a single moment of virtue; because he too gets tired of sin and must rest in its opposite. And you will not find such a virtuous man whose life has not a single moment of sin; he too gets tired of virtue and must rest in its opposite. One has to dip into the opposite so that the mind may become light.

We call him a saint whose saintliness is not cultivated; whose saintliness is his effortless nature. Then there is no rest. You never rest from breathing. You never rest from being. Unless Shiva-ness enters your innermost, everything will remain on the surface. As if you have put on fine clothes while inside there is filth; how long will fine clothes hide it? Or as if you have sprinkled perfume while stench rises from within; how will you hide that foulness? Perhaps you may hide it from others; but how will you hide it from yourself?

Therefore your saints do not look blissful, they do not look ecstatic. To others they appear saintly; to themselves they go on appearing un-saintly. Dance does not come into their lives. There is no real change in their anger. Within, they keep burning. They may hide it from you, for you see only the garments. But the one who himself is hiding—how can he be saved! He sees it. That very seeing pricks like a thorn. And unless a saint can dance, know that his saintliness is maintained, managed. What is managed is false; what becomes effortless is true.

Therefore Kabir keeps saying: O seeker, the Sahaj Samadhi is best!

Sahaj Samadhi means—that which need not be maintained. If you must maintain, you will tire. If not today, then tomorrow it will become a burden. But when will such an event happen that Sahaj Samadhi dawns? When Shiva-ness arises from within; when you become Shiva-like.

And remember, this is not some ideal of the future. If you can understand, it can happen this very moment. In doing, time is needed. If you must do, time is required. This is a leap. This is not an act. This is awakening. It needs no doing—only seeing. It is as if a man has a diamond in his pocket and does not know it; he begs on the street. Suddenly someone reminds him, “Why are you begging, madman? Rays seem to be coming from your pocket—it looks like a diamond is there!” He puts his hand in his pocket and brings out the diamond. It is just like that.

Shiva-ness is seated within you. It is your eternal treasure. To gain it you need not delay; you only need to turn the eye and see. If it were somewhere in the future, then difficulty indeed—time would be needed, births upon births to reach. But it is within you. Hence Shiva-ness is not to be attained, it is to be uncovered; only unveiled. As one peels the skins of an onion. What happens? As one skin is removed, another appears. Keep on peeling, keep on peeling. A moment will come when all skins are removed and only emptiness is found in the hand. So it is with man’s coverings. And Shiva-ness is like shunya.

If we understand these peels a little, the unveiling becomes easy; then your life too becomes like Shiva; then your speech too becomes japa.

What is the first layer? The first layer is of the body. Most people live identified only with this first layer. They are like those who sit on the steps of a palace and make those steps their home. They do not know the steps are not the house; they are only a means to reach the house. There they eat, drink, cook, marry, beget children. And their children will never even come to know of the palace, for they will be born on the steps; that will be their home, they will stay there. They never turn back to see—these are steps and we are spending our life in the porch; the palace is behind. They never knock at the door. For births upon births they have not knocked. The door has become almost jammed. Perhaps the door has begun to look like a wall. Now one cannot even tell where the door is.

The first layer is of the body. And you live only in the body. There is an identification by which it feels, “I am the body.”

The body is mine, not me; and what is mine can never be “I.” Whatever is mine can be held in my hand, but it is not me. If someone cuts off your leg, you are not cut—the leg is. If you were the body, then when a leg is cut, you would feel, “I have become less; one leg cut off—so much of me lost.” But the leg may be cut, eyes may go, ears may be lost, hands may break—your wholeness does not change one bit. The body becomes crippled, but you remain whole.

Perhaps this is why even the ugliest person cannot accept that he is ugly; for within you are beautiful. Perhaps this is why the worst sinner cannot agree that he is a sinner. The worst man remains filled with an inner glimpse: I am auspicious. Even the worst man, if you observe closely, will say, “A mistake happened—but I am not a bad man. An error occurred—but I am not a bad man.” He may consider the act wrong, but he cannot consider himself wrong. And this is right. He does not know why it seems so.

Around you—in your family, neighborhood, village—people die; yet it never strikes you that you too will die. There must be some deep reason, for the event occurs so often; that the feeling does not settle that “I will die”—this is astonishing. When all are dying, even then the wound does not settle in your mind that “I too will die.” If someone explains, you may think, “Perhaps.” But within a ceaseless sound echoes that others will die; I will not die. Otherwise living would become difficult. Where death happens so loudly, where every person is standing in a queue to die, where you too stand in the queue—there too you live so blithely as if life were eternal. There is some inner cause.

And the cause is that what is within will never die. However much you are attached to the body, you do not become the body. That inner truth, however much you deny it, cannot be false. However drunk, within the voice—the voice of truth—goes on resounding.

One morning I saw Mulla Nasruddin sitting outside his house, bursting into laughter—very delighted, exhilarated. I asked, “What happened, Nasruddin? Never have I seen you this happy!” He said, “Something amazing has happened. But you will not understand unless I tell the whole story.” I said, “Then tell the whole story.” He said, “We were two brothers. We were born twins. Our faces were identical. No one could tell who was who. All my life I suffered for it. At school, my brother would stone someone and I would be punished. He would steal, I would be caught. It was like this at home too. He would create mischief, the neighbors would seize me. And finally the biggest mischief was that the girl I loved, he ran away with her.”

I said, “Why then are you so delighted?” Nasruddin said, “But seven days ago all accounts were settled. I died—and they buried him.”

No one is so unconscious. However identical, such a mistake is not possible. Nasruddin was terribly drunk.

You too have been drinking great wine for many births; still never so much that your awareness is drowned completely. Your awareness keeps surfacing. Somewhere within you know you will not die. All facts say death will happen. Yet you keep trusting that you will not die.

You live as if you are to live here forever. Therefore many mistakes happen. You build strong houses as if you will live here forever. Even in your mistakes there must be some glimmer of truth—otherwise these errors would cease. You build houses as if to live forever. You raise strong walls, build stone foundations—and you do not know that tomorrow you must die. And all die; that you too will die is straightforward arithmetic. Yet because something eternal is within you, that glimmer of the eternal appears in all your states.

Your body is yours—you are not the body. You are in the body, but the body is not you. The body is the first layer with which there is identification. You have lived with it for long, there is a bonding; you are twins, born together. Hence you too are confused about who is who; you cannot recognize the face. And this mistake is supported, for those who look from outside see only your body, not you. They take the face of your body to be your face. They take the shape of your body to be your shape. And they are many; you are alone. They all take your body to be you. Their perception also impacts you. If your body is ugly, they say you are ugly. If the body is beautiful, they say you are beautiful. If the body is old, they say you are old. If the body is young, they say you are young. They are many; you are alone. Their collective perception deepens your feeling that you are the body. None among them sees your soul.

In the ancient Upanishads there is a story: Emperor Janaka convened a great assembly of pundits; invitations were sent to all the self-knowers. He wished that something might be revealed about the Supreme Truth. And whoever would reveal the Supreme Truth—he had arranged to offer him immense wealth. But the invitations reached only those who were renowned—naturally—those with thousands of disciples; those known by the people; those who had written scriptures; those whose scholarship was discussed; those skilled in debate—such people received the invitations. One man did not. Perhaps deliberately left out. His name was Ashtavakra. His body was crooked in eight places. Merely to look at him was unpleasant, repulsive. In such a body—could a self-knower be!

Ashtavakra’s father had been invited. Some work came up, so Ashtavakra went to call on Janaka’s court in his father’s stead. As he entered, seeing that big gathering of pundits, all burst into laughter. He was laughable. His body was certainly ugly—crooked in eight places. When he walked it seemed as if he were performing a joke. When he spoke it seemed as if he were making a satire. He was a cartoon, not a man. He could have fit as a joker in a circus. But when all began to laugh seeing him—his gait, his ways—a man like a camel—he too burst out laughing.

His ringing laughter silenced everyone. All were amazed—why is he laughing! Janaka asked, “Why these people laughed, that I understand, Ashtavakra—but why did you laugh?” Ashtavakra said, “I laughed because you have mistaken an assembly of cobblers for an assembly of pundits. They are all cobblers. They see only skin. I, who am the straightest man here, appear to them as Ashtavakra—crooked in eight places. And they all are askew! If you expect knowledge from them, Janaka, you are trying to squeeze oil from sand. If you want knowledge, come to me!”

Ashtavakra spoke truly. But this is how it goes; the outer eye can only see the outer. You too are harassed by the outer eye, for all around there are eyes—and they all see your body. If the body is beautiful, you are beautiful; if ugly, you are ugly. And their clamor is loud all around; their notion is strong—for they are the majority. You are always the minority, a single unit; they are many. If you are defeated by them, it is no surprise. If you accept that you are the body, it is no surprise. The surprise is when you can escape their eyes and recognize: I am not the body.

This is the meaning of being free of society. Being free of society does not mean going to the Himalayas. Being free of society means to be free of the effect that the crowd’s eyes create on you. This is very difficult. For when everyone repeats the same thing, by constant repetition even untruth begins to appear as truth. However healthy you are, if the whole village decides to repeat that you are ill, and wherever you pass people say you are ill—you will soon become ill. For this will become a great mantra, a suggestion. So many are saying it—then to be saved is very difficult.

The whole world says you are the body. Not only people—pebbles, stones, earth, sky—all seem to say you are the body. A thorn pricks—not the Atman, the body. If someone throws a stone, blood does not flow from the soul; it flows from the body. Pebbles, stones, thorns, earth, sky—all say you are the body. To shatter such a massive reiteration is very difficult!

And you are alone; against all, you are alone. For only you are within; all else is outside you. They are not mistaken either; for they can only see your body, this layer. Your neighbors can see the fence around your house; they cannot see the inner chamber. They think the fence is your house.

Their thinking is understandable. But when you also accept it, then delusion happens.

To be free of society means: to be free of the influence the eyes outside cast upon you. One who becomes free of society’s eyes will clearly begin to see: I am within the body—but I am not the body.

Begin to break the first layer. Slowly deepen this remembrance: I am not the body. Bring it into experience—not mere repetition. When a thorn pricks, remember: the thorn pricked the foot; the pain is in the foot; I am the witness. The thorn cannot prick me. Pain cannot happen in me. I am only the light that knows.

Hence, when you become unconscious, even a thorn’s prick is not felt. If a doctor must operate, he gives anesthesia—he makes you unconscious. Then he may cut the leg, the hand, the whole body to pieces—you will not know. If you were the body, you would know. But you are not the body; you are awareness. And the doctor breaks the link between awareness and body. He makes you unconscious. Now whatever is done to the body, you remain unaware.

Those who have made deep experiments concerning life and death have found—and I bear witness to their finding—that when you die it takes two to three days before you certainly realize that you have died. Generally, three days are needed to recognize that you are dead. Because death happens in unconsciousness; the outer body falls away. But there is an inner body that matches exactly the form of the physical—the subtle mental body—it remains with you. At least three days are needed, sometimes more, then slowly it begins to dawn upon you that you have died. Otherwise you wander around your house, around your friends, your wife and children.

For three days the soul lingers nearby. It is bewildered—what has happened! No one sees me! No one recognizes me! You stand at the door and your wife goes out weeping. You cannot understand—what has happened? What is this matter? For you are whole and complete; nothing is lacking. The falling away of the body makes no difference—like clothes being taken off and set aside. But if clothes are removed, you stand naked—what has changed? You remain the same. And a subtler body remains with you—same form, same recognition—time is needed. Immediately after death you will not know you have died.

In Tibet there are processes called Bardo. When someone is dying, Buddhist bhikshus perform the Bardo process for him. As he is dying they keep giving him all the suggestions: “Look, now your body is leaving. Fill yourself with remembrance: your body is leaving now. This body will slip away. Remember. Die consciously that now the body with you is not the gross body, it is the subtle body. You have left the body. Now choices are before you—what kind of womb you will take.” Such suggestions are given to the dying in the Bardo process.

No other people have probed death as deeply as Tibetans did. A person is dying and the bhikshu keeps suggesting. Till the last moment, as the body falls away, he continues to hear the bhikshu. Here, a man will die and the bhikshu will keep speaking. You will say, “To whom are you speaking now? Stop! The man has died.” But the bhikshu will keep speaking; for though to you the man has died, to the bhikshu he has not died. And that man still hears, for it makes no difference that the body has dropped; he is still hearing.

And his next birth can be influenced—what sort of womb he takes. He can be freed from the clinging and attachments of this life. And in these moments he can be fully reminded that you are not the body—a reminder which is very difficult to give at any other time. For now he will find: I am and the body lies apart. And the bhikshu will say, “Look, now you are above and the body lies below; look carefully! With this very body you had assumed yourself to be one. Now your friends and dear ones will carry this body to the cremation ground; follow them. There you will see it burn. There it will turn to ash, yet your being is not diminished even a jot. Remember this for the onward journey. Do not become entangled with the body again. In the next birth, from the very first moment, remember you are not the body. All will say you are the body, but do not lose your memory. Do not allow your remembrance to be veiled by their suggestions.”

If only you could throw away people’s suggestions, self-knowledge would not be far.

Picasso became a great painter—unmatched in this century. But advisers still reached even him. There is no shortage of advice-givers. In truth, unsolicited advice is given only by the foolish. To receive the counsel of the wise you must labor greatly, ask for it, earn it. Only the foolish give advice unasked. And it is good that people do not follow each other’s advice—otherwise the trouble would be immense. The most given thing in the world is advice; and the least taken thing—advice again.

People would come to Picasso’s home. Those who did not even know their A B C of painting still told him, “Had you used a different color here! Had you drawn the picture a little like this! If only the background were another color!” Picasso got tired of conversing with these fools. So what did he do? Do the same. He made a beautiful box and wrote upon it: Suggestion Box. And above it he wrote: Kindly write whatever suggestions you have and drop them here. Up to here it was fine—but there was no bottom to the box, and beneath it he had placed a wastebasket. People, very pleased that their suggestions had great value, would drop them into Picasso’s box—and they went straight into the trash. He never even read them. Do the same.

If you want to be free of society—and that is the meaning of sannyas—then be free of people’s suggestions. For they are outside; all their suggestions will be outward—and they will hinder inner knowing. Do not listen to them. If you want to listen to the inner Paramatman, then beware of society. If you want to hear the inner voice, close the doors to the voices outside completely. Otherwise the outer voices are so huge, so loud, that the inner’s soft, gentle voice will be lost; you will not hear it. It resounds moment to moment; but you stand in the marketplace—there is great clamor.

The first layer is the body. And there is one key; call it the master key, for it opens all the locks—because the locks are of the same kind. The key is to fill with awareness regarding the body. When you walk, see that the body is walking—not I. When hunger arises, see that hunger is in the body—not in me. When thirst comes, see that thirst is in the body—not in me. Keep this awareness.

Slowly you will find this awareness begins to create a gulf between you and the body. As awareness intensifies, the distance grows. And infinite distance lies between you and the body—an endless gap. As your awareness deepens, the bridge between breaks, relationship is severed. One day you will see profoundly that the body is only a shell; you are life, the body is death; the body is matter, you are consciousness. The body is a game of atoms, a heap of atoms; today it is, tomorrow it will not be, it is changeful. You are no one’s heap; you are indivisible consciousness; ever were, ever will be.

As soon as the first onion-skin of the body is peeled, the second skin comes up. The second is your mind. That illness is deeper; because the body is fairly far, the mind is quite near. If the body is a heap of atoms, the mind is a heap of thoughts. If the body is matter, the mind is subtle matter. Thoughts are subtle sounds. Sound is matter. But thoughts are even closer. You are possessed by them—not like clothes; if the body is like clothing, thoughts are like skin. Your skin is closer than clothing—so are thoughts. And to be free of them is even harder; for you have always been under the illusion that these thoughts are yours.

You often fight that “this is my thought!” You try to prove your thought to be right—right or wrong—try to establish it. For you fear that if your thought is wrong, then you are wrong.

Your identification with the body is not as deep as it is with thought. Tell someone, “Your body is ill, go to a physician,” and he will not mind. But tell someone, “Your mind is sick, go to a psychiatrist,” and he will at once be angry. Call someone ill—no harm; call someone mad—and there will be a quarrel. For there is some distance with the body; with the mind identification is very deep. When someone says, “You are mad,” we feel, “I am mad? What are you saying?” No madman can agree that “I am mad.” “You are mad!” he will tell you. For thought’s smoke surrounds you on all sides. So long as thoughts enclose you, your eyes remain blind.

Thus the second hard practice, a rigorous tapascharya, is to be awake regarding thought: that any thought—any thought—pleasant or unpleasant; true or false; scriptural or non-scriptural; traditional or untraditional—is not me. Thoughts too are borrowed. All thoughts are borrowed. Society has given them to you. They have come to you from others. You learned them. You are that which has arrived within unlearned. You are consciousness itself, not thoughts. Thoughts are waves upon you; like trash floating on the river—so are thoughts. You are the river. You are the stream of consciousness.

Then slowly peel off the layer of thoughts. And when any thought catches you, remember: this is not me; this too is dust from outside. As dust settles on a mirror, so thoughts have settled upon you. Do not own a thought so deeply that you are ready to fight for it. If people severed their identity with thought, all wars in the world would cease. All war, all turmoil, all violence is due to identification with thought. Someone is a communist, someone a socialist, someone of the Jan Sangh; someone a Hindu, someone a Muslim, someone a Jain—all have identified with thoughts.

You are only the Paramatman; you are not a Hindu, not a Jain, not a Buddhist, not a Muslim. Your purity is Shiva-ness. But you get entangled cheaply. You feel that being a Hindu is more precious than being the Paramatman; being a Muslim is more precious. And by your being Hindu or Muslim only temples and mosques fight; this earth is emptied of religion, not filled. All religions cause fighting; for all become thoughts. Religion is only one—and that is your Shiva-ness. You yourself are the Paramatman. That alone is religion. That will never cause disputes. For where there are no thoughts, how can there be a fight? How partiality? How opposition?

The body has separated you from others; thought has separated you even more. Understand one thing—very paradoxical: that which has torn you from yourself has also torn you from others. The body has torn you from yourself; the body has torn you from others as well. Thought has torn you from yourself even more badly; it has torn you from others even more badly. And the day you become established in your own nature—neither body nor thought; both layers peeled and thrown away—you become without a casing, a pure life remains; that day you will find you are one with all—for the Paramatman is not two. That day the Paramatman within you and the Paramatman without are one. That day ghata-akasha and akasha are one. That day the sky hidden within the pot and the sky spread outside become one—the pot has fallen. Identification is the pot.

As you peel away layers... A layer means identity, identification. To take yourself to be one with that which you are not is identification. And to end identification with all that you are not—that is dhyana. And dhyana is the key. Slowly only that remains which you are. All the onion-skins peel away, and emptiness comes into the hand. This emptiness is your sovereignty, your Shiva-ness.

You have seen—Shiva’s linga that we have fashioned is shunya-formed. We have made it knowingly so. Shiva has no face. There is no statue as beautiful as that—for it has no face. It is only the form of emptiness. And the day you descend within, within, within—you will find that shunya-form appearing within you too; you approach Shiva. The day you remain only as the emptiness of light—a flame, formless, nameless—that day whatever you speak will be japa.

Right now whatever you speak is a deception. Right now even if you do “religion,” it is irreligion. You can do nothing else yet. If you try to escape one mistake, you will gather a thousand. For the present, the best is to do nothing—only break identifications; be awake; do not do. Otherwise, in saving yourself from one mistake you grasp another.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting by the sea. Nearby a man was very upset. At last he could not hold back and said to Nasruddin, “Brother! Is this your boy who is throwing sand on my clothes?” He was furious. Nasruddin said very lovingly, “No, brother; this is my nephew. My son—he broke your umbrella and has now gone to fill your shoes with water.”

You manage here, it falls apart there. The excuses you offer to save yourself from your mistakes become bigger mistakes. Ancient emperors kept a royal fool in their courts—so that he may remind them that man’s cleverness is not very clever.

One emperor kept such a grand fool. One day, the emperor stood before a mirror; the fool came, jumped, and kicked him on the back so that he toppled onto the mirror. Things shattered. The mirror broke. He was bloodied. The emperor said, “Enough! I have seen fools before, but none like you. And what have you done! If you cannot give a reason whose foolishness is even greater than what you did, I will have you hanged.” He said, “Huzoor, I thought the queen was standing there.” That was his reason! “I did not understand it was you; I thought the queen was standing.” The emperor had to let him go; for the reason he gave was even more dangerous.

Where you stand—you stand in darkness. You make one mistake; to manage it, whatever reason you find becomes another mistake. A circle of mistakes has formed. To be saved from the shop, you go to the temple; but you never reach the temple—the temple becomes an even bigger shop. You save here and get trapped there; for the cause is not outside, the cause is within. You are in darkness; wherever you go, trouble will arise there.

Once Mulla Nasruddin was caught and jailed. I went to see him. Old acquaintance; I thought it necessary to visit. I asked, “Nasruddin, being so smart, how did you get caught?” He said, “What to say—I got trapped in a theft, but due to my own mistake.” I asked, “What mistake?” He said, “In whose house I entered, I had spent three months befriending his dog. And when I went in, my foot landed on the cat.”

You spend your whole life befriending the dog—your foot lands on the cat. You have no eyes. You grope here and there in the dark. The real question is not to search; the real question is that there be light. By groping in the dark you will never reach. If there is light, you will at once see the door and walk out.

One who is set on changing his conduct gropes in the dark. Yesterday he ate too much; today he fasts. But he is groping still. He remains stuck with eating. Fasting is also a manner of eating. It is still bound to eating. But nothing changes. What he did yesterday he will do the opposite today at most. He searched in this direction and did not find; now he searches in the opposite. But the eyes were closed there and will be closed here. You are not lost because your direction is wrong; you are lost because your eyes are closed.

The eye must open. By “eye” I mean awareness. Unconsciousness must break. Awareness must grow. Do not walk in sleep—wake up. The moment you awaken, you become Shiva-like.

“And whatever they speak is japa. And self-knowledge alone is their gift.”

They do not give wealth—for wealth is trash; to give it has no meaning. What they have themselves discarded—what is the point of giving that! What they have found to be futile—what worth is there in distributing it! They do not serve your body. They can give you only one thing that is worthy of giving—self-knowledge. That alone is their dan.

But look—you keep account of what is not essential. Ask the Jains—they keep Mahavira’s accounts: how many horses, how many elephants, how many chariots, how many gems he donated. And they have exaggerated the numbers immensely; he never even had so many. For he was lord of a small state, not a great empire—no bigger than a tehsil. In it there could not have been as many elephants and horses as the Jains record. From the numbers it seems he was a universal emperor. Completely wrong. He was of the rank of Sikkim’s chogyal—just that much; no more. At that time there were two thousand kingdoms in India. So you can imagine—he had the status of a deputy collector.

But why inflate the numbers so? Because Jains feel that if the charity appears small, how can he be such a great Tirthankara! Enlarge the numbers, expand the arithmetic—lakhs of elephants and horses; millions upon millions in gems—so that renunciation appears great. But those blind ones have no idea that that renunciation has no relation. The real diamond Mahavira gave was self-knowledge. That is not even added.

You see only where your desire is. Wherever your relish is—that alone you notice. Self-knowledge! That word seems of no value. If I hold self-knowledge in one hand and the Kohinoor diamond in the other, ask your mind—what will you take? You will say, “Self-knowledge will happen anyway—what is the hurry! And what hurry indeed—there are births upon births available. The Kohinoor may never be found again.” You will choose the Kohinoor. Because you savor that which is futile. You are blind.

One who has become Shiva-like has only one dan—self-knowledge. He gives what he has found. He gives you the taste he has tasted. He gives his very self. He does not distribute property; he distributes himself. He makes you a sharer in his inner wealth. Outer wealth has become worth two cowries—of no value. Whether you die poor or rich makes no great difference. Whether you die after eating well on a good bed, or hungry on the road—no difference. Difference is only in one thing: that you live awake and die awake. On that hangs everything. Upon that depends the destination of your whole life. That alone will decide the conclusion. Nothing else has any value.

“Self-knowledge is his gift—he who is the master of inner powers and the cause of knowledge.”

For self-knowledge alone makes you the master of your inner powers. And self-knowledge alone fills your life with light, with knowing, with illumination. And the day you can know, can awaken—you will find you are the eternal emperor. You will laugh—how did I take myself to be a beggar! You will be amazed how you were crushed beneath a nightmare of sorrow.

You have seen many nightmares. Your whole life is just like that. Sometimes it happens at night—you sleep, your hand falls upon your chest. If you sleep on your back and the hand lies on the chest, you will dream that someone has climbed onto your chest. Nothing is there—only your own hand. But that you will learn upon waking. In sleep it will seem that someone sits on your chest; that a rock has been placed there by someone; that you are being thrown from a mountain. You sweat, you tremble. In that shock you awaken. Then you are startled—your own hand is on your chest! There is no rock. But in dream how greatly things exaggerate! Dream is exaggeration! Your own hand becomes mountain and rock! Or your hand dangles off the bed—and you feel you are falling into a ravine.

Try an experiment. One can induce dreams in another. A man sleeps; bring a little warmth to his feet. Soon he will dream he is walking in a desert—dying of thirst, drenched in sweat. Or touch a bit of ice to his feet—and he will think he has reached Everest; his feet are freezing, he is dying of cold. Place a pillow on his chest—the devil is sitting there. Entangle his hand in his neck—he is being hanged. But this you will know upon waking. Dream exaggerates immensely! When he awakens, he will laugh, “How troubled I was! Troubled for nothing. There was nothing there.” A slight hint—and the mind runs away, weaving who knows how many imaginations.

In life you never suffer as much as you imagine. The illnesses you anticipate never come. The sorrows you dread never befall you. Ninety percent of your life’s misery is your mind’s imagination; ten percent is true. But because of the ninety percent, you cannot resolve the ten. If that ninety percent vanished—the lie removed—whatever sorrow remains, real sorrow, can be dealt with. There is a way out of it. You are always greater than it. You can place your foot upon it and make it a step. But you inflate sorrow so greatly that it becomes huge and you become small. Then you tremble; then you can do nothing.

As soon as the ray of inner knowing dawns, the lamp is lit—you become the master of your powers. And that alone is the cause of knowledge. And knowledge is the ultimate event. Knowledge means the inner eye, the capacity to see, the capacity to see through. Then there is no sorrow in life. There is only bliss. Because of your blindness there is sorrow. Because of your sleep your dream has become nightmarish. Awareness knows no sorrow. Awareness knows only bliss.

“The unfolding of one’s own energy—meaning an unceasing delight—is its universe.”

One who attains to knowing lives in a constant inner festivity; in constant maha-sukha. The unfolding of one’s own energy! His very energy within keeps giving birth to immeasurable bliss. Moment to moment there, bliss happens. As a spring flows ceaselessly, so the stream of happiness flows there without break.

Within you, moment to moment, infinite springs of bliss are ready to flow—but your back is turned. And remember, religion is no renunciation; religion is supreme luxury. The Paramatman is not sitting somewhere weeping—He is dancing. Do not seek a weeping God—you will not find Him anywhere. Whoever you find will be one from among you acting as God. God is dancing. This whole life is a festival of joy. This life knows no sorrow. Sorrow is your imagination. You have created sorrow. Sorrow is your thought. Sorrow is your own production. And a blind man can do nothing else; wherever he goes he will collide. But he thinks the entire world is ready to collide with him.

Who is eager to collide with you? What concern has a wall, what concern has a door? The blind man—wherever he goes—sometimes he stumbles upon a wall, sometimes upon a door. And he thinks the whole world sits ready to collide with him. No one collides with one who has eyes. Certainly no one sits ready to collide with you. You are blind—you collide. You blame others; the guilty one is yourself. You throw your responsibility upon others; none other bears responsibility but you.

Mark this saying: “The unfolding of one’s own energy—meaning an unceasing delight—is his world.”

When such a state of knowledge arrives, bliss bears fruit moment to moment. There only flowers bloom, not thorns. There only nectar showers, no death enters. There not a single ray of sorrow can penetrate.

Within you is the kingdom of maha-sukha. That alone you seek. But you go on seeking outside. The seeking is right—the direction is wrong. The self-knower gives you direction; that alone is his gift. He takes you in that direction. Where he found, there he leads you. The self-knower does not “explain,” for there is no way to explain; he takes your hand and leads you there.

But you are so afraid that you fear to take anyone’s hand. You cannot surrender, cannot have shraddha, cannot trust anyone. Your fears have made you so insecure that the one who would take you out of misery—you think perhaps he will lead you into another entanglement. You have been in so many entanglements that now you see only entanglements.

If you are not willing to hold the hand of the self-knower, there is no way for him to give you his gift. You must open your hand. You must be willing to receive. If you stand with fists clenched and are unwilling to accept, even the self-knower will return from your door without giving.

“The unfolding of one’s own energy—meaning an unceasing delight—is its universe.”

And there, ceaseless delight is flowing—while you live in ceaseless sorrow.

“And he abides and dissolves by his own will.”

This is difficult to grasp; because only through experience can it be understood—without it, not at all. Still, let a small trust arise—it will help someday.

The moment someone becomes capable of knowing himself, an unparalleled power, the greatest power in this world—no miracle beyond it—becomes available. And that miracle is: when he wishes, he is; when he wishes, he is not. When he wishes, he comes into being; when he wishes, he dissolves into shunya. As you wake and sleep.

But even that in you is not by your will. If morning comes and sleep breaks, what can you do? You cannot sleep again. At night when sleep comes, you cannot remain awake.

As you sleep and wake, so the self-knower goes into shunya and comes into fullness by his own will. It is his will. He is not dependent in it. If he decides to lose himself into shunya, he dissolves. If he decides to remain in the full, he remains.

It is mentioned in Buddha’s life that he reached the gate of heaven; the gatekeeper opened the gates, but he turned his back and stood there. He said, “Until the last person is liberated, I will stay at the gate. The day the last person enters the great bliss of heaven, that day I will enter behind him.”

This story is very endearing. Its meaning is that there are two kinds of self-knowers in the world. All religions have understood these two kinds. One kind, upon self-knowing, dissolves into shunya; and the other, even after self-knowing, remains in existence to help others.

The Jains have called the first kind Kevalya Jnani. Infinite Kevalya Jnanis there are. They dissolve into shunya; they have attained their goal. They enter—do not stand at the gate. The Jains have called twenty-four Tirthankaras. Tirthankaras are those Kevalya Jnanis who stand at the gate; who show the path to others.

The Buddhists too accepted two kinds of self-knowers. One they call Bodhisattva and one Arhat. The Bodhisattva is the self-knower who remains for others. The Arhat is the self-knower who, having attained his own, dissolves.

All religions recognized two kinds of self-knowers—because two kinds exist. When you reach that supreme state, either in your mind, in your prana, one desire will remain—even this must be called desire: to help others. Or if even this desire does not remain, you will disappear. Therefore the Sadguru, among his disciples, tries to make Bodhisattvas or Tirthankaras of those in whom the element of karuna is greater. Two elements remain in the end—karuna and prajna. Prajna means wisdom; karuna means compassion. There are two types of persons—those in whom karuna is dominant and those in whom prajna is dominant. In those with dominant prajna, they will simply dissolve into shunya. They cannot be made gurus. They remain disciples; and the day they attain knowledge, they vanish. They will never be gurus. Those whose life-substance is more of karuna can become gurus, Tirthankaras, Bodhisattvas.

Thus it depends on the guru to prepare his disciples. In those in whom he sees the element of karuna, of love, of service—he prepares them so that the desire of karuna remains until the end. When their knowledge bears fruit, one desire may remain within them—of compassion. When their boat is ready to cast off, one peg remains to which the rope stays tied—that peg is karuna. If within them there is no element of karuna—if there is dry prajna—then there is no need to save any peg. When their boat is ready, they embark at once, lost in the great shunya.

One who has attained to Shiva-ness abides or dissolves by his own will.

Either he can remain in existence for the sake of service, or he can lose himself in shunya—this is his will. And remember, only he has will; you have none. You do not even have a self—how will you have a will! You say, “I am doing this by my own will”—but that is false; you act under the pressure of some desire. What will is there in you? Will would be that someone abuses you and you do not become angry. It may happen that you do not express anger; but the moment an insult is hurled, anger arises within. Will would be that when someone abuses you, you stand as though no abuse has been given. Will would be that when someone praises you, you stand as though no praise has been given; as though nothing has happened—you remain as you were before; not a fraction of difference. Then you are your own master, then you are the lord. And such lordship receives its final decision in the last moment.

Thus the Buddhists split into two paths on this very basis. One path is Hinayana; the other is Mahayana. Hinayana means the small boat—only one passenger can ride; no more. It is the Arhat’s boat. He sits and departs on his journey. Mahayana means the great boat. It is the Bodhisattva’s boat. He may sit in the boat, yet he waits so that others may also board; then his boat departs.

Hard to say which of the two is right or wrong. In that state even deciding right and wrong is difficult. Whichever accords with one’s nature! Those with a feminine heart will become Bodhisattvas; those with a masculine heart will become Arhats. And there are two kinds of hearts. Therefore even in the last moment, two kinds of hearts will be decisive. Either you have the heart of a man—dry prajna; or the heart of a woman—moist karuna. Either you are loveful or you are knowledgeful. Either you are a jnani or a bhakta. Opposites together make the world—darkness and light, woman and man, birth and death—so too karuna and prajna. Even in the last moment these two elements will stay on the shore. Whichever is stronger will decide.

But then will must be exercised. Then will is yours, for the liberated man is in no bondage. It is his own choice. For the first time choice is born; for the first time resolve is born. Only the self-knower resolves; you flow in desires. He will decide. And there is only one decisive state—before it there is none. Before that you drift—you are not decisive.

Someone asked Gurdjieff, “Tell me what I should do.” Gurdjieff said, “If only you could do something—I would tell you. Right now you can do nothing. You are in a blind flow. Right now you are like a blade of grass bobbing upon the waves; wherever the waves take it, there it goes. Where are you?”

Someone asked Buddha, “I want to serve people.” Buddha looked deeply and with compassion said, “You are not even there—how will you serve?”

Decision comes into your hand only at the last moment. After self-knowledge, the decisive power is yours; for you have become Shiva-like. Then you are no longer creation—you are the Creator. Then you are not a part of this world—you are the Paramatman Himself. Now the whole play is in your hands. Now you are the ordainer. Then the final decision is in your hands—and it is this: either you will choose to stay, to take others aboard your boat—then you become a Tirthankara; or you will not bother—such a thought will not even touch you. You will think, “Each finds his own path; each reaches by his own way; who boards whose boat!” You will let go of your boat.

“And he abides and dissolves by his own will.”

Keep this in mind, for even by hearing it a thought will begin to arise within you: if you were given the chance to decide, what would you do? It will arise instantly. And its arising is useful; because in the last moment that very seed will grow into a tree.

Enough for today.