Shiv Sutra #6

Before we enter the sutras, understand a few things.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said somewhere, “I can believe only in that God who can dance.” To believe in a gloomy God is only the symptom of a sick man.

There is truth in it. You mold your God in your own image. If you are sad, your God will be sad. If you are joyous, your God will be joyous. If you can dance, your God too will be able to dance. As you are, so existence appears to you. The expanse of your vision is your creation. And until you can trust in a dancing God, know well that your health has not yet returned. The notion of a sad, weeping, diseased God is but the indicator of your own pathology.

The first sutra today is: “The Atman is the dancer.”

Understand a few more things about dance. Dance is the one act in which the doer and the deed become utterly one. If a man paints, the painter and the painting are separate. If a man composes a poem, the poet and the poem are separate. If a man sculpts, the sculptor and the sculpture are separate. Only in dance are dancer and dance one; they cannot be separated. If the dancer is gone, the dance is gone. If the dance is lost, to call the man whose dance has vanished a dancer has no meaning. They are conjoined.

Hence it is meaningful to call the Divine the dancer. This creation is not other than him. It is his dance. It is not his crafted product. It is not some statue he made and then stepped aside from. The Divine is present within it at every moment. If he were to become separate, the dance would stop.

And remember: if the dance stops, God too is lost; he cannot remain. In each flower, every leaf, every particle, he is manifesting. Creation did not happen once in the past and finish; it is happening every moment. The act of creation is continuous. Therefore everything is ever-new. God is dancing — without and within.

“The Atman is the dancer” means: whatever you have done, whatever you are doing and will do, is not other than you. It is your own play. If you are suffering, it is your own choice. If you are blissful, that too is your choice; no one else is responsible.

I was a professor in a college. I was new there. The college was far from the town. All the professors brought their lunches, and at noon we would gather around one table. By coincidence, the man beside me opened his tiffin, peeped inside, and said, “Again the same potato curry and chapatis!” I felt perhaps he did not like potato curry and chapatis. But being new, I said nothing. The next day it happened again. He opened his box and said, “Again the same potato curry and chapatis!” So I said to him, “If you don’t like potato curry and chapatis, ask your wife to make something else.” He said, “Wife? Where a wife? I cook for myself.”

This is your life. There is no one else. If you laugh, you are laughing; if you weep, you are weeping; no one else is responsible. It may be that long weeping has become your habit and you have forgotten how to laugh. It may be you have wept so much that now you cannot do anything else — it has become your practice. It may be you have forgotten altogether, that from so many births of weeping you no longer remember that once you yourself chose to weep. But by your forgetting, truth does not become untruth. You chose it. You are the master. Therefore, the moment you decide otherwise, in that very moment the weeping will stop.

To be filled with this understanding — that I alone am the master, I alone am the creator, I alone am responsible for whatever I am doing — is the revolution in life. As long as you hold another responsible, revolution is impossible; for then you will remain dependent. You think others are making you unhappy — then how will you be happy? It is impossible! Because changing others is not in your hands. Only changing yourself is in your hands.

If you think fate is the cause of your misery, then it is outside your hands. How will you change fate? Fate is above you. And if you think that what is happening was written by the Maker in your destiny, then you become a dependent mechanism, you will not remain a self.

The very meaning of Atman is that you are free; and whatever pain you are suffering, it is the fruit of your own decisions. And the day you change the decision, that very day life changes.

Then everything depends on the way you look at life.

I was a guest at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. In the morning, while walking in the garden, I suddenly saw his wife throw a cup toward Nasruddin’s head. It did not hit him, it struck the wall and shattered. Nasruddin too saw that I had seen. He came out and said, “Forgive me! Don’t get wrong ideas! We are very happy. Occasionally my wife throws things, but it makes no difference to our happiness.” I was a little surprised. I asked, “Explain a little more.” He said, “If her aim hits, she is happy; if she misses, I am happy. So our happiness remains unaffected. Sometimes the aim hits, sometimes it misses. Both of us are happy.”

It depends on the way you look at life. You make it yourself; you see it yourself; you interpret it yourself. You are absolutely alone. No one else ever enters your world. Nor can anyone enter. And even if someone does, it is because you have permitted it.

This brings a difficulty, and so you forget it. The difficulty is: if you experience that you alone are responsible, then you will not be able to be miserable. And if you want to be miserable, you will no longer be able to complain. In both, there is much juice. There is great sweetness even in being miserable; because when you are miserable, you become a martyr. Martyrdom has great relish. When you are miserable, you demand sympathy. There is great taste in sympathy.

That is why people go on telling one another exaggerated tales of their suffering. What is the reason that people talk so much of their misery? No one even wants to hear it. Who is interested in your misery? And listening to misery makes the other gloomy; flowers are not going to bloom in his life by hearing it. Yet you go on telling. And the other listens only as long as he has hope you will also listen to his. Otherwise he will slip away. The people you call bores are those who never let you speak. So there is a compromise — you bore us, we will bore you. You harass us with your tales of woe; we will harass you with ours, and we’re even.

Why does man talk so much of misery? What is the cause?

He expects sympathy. If he speaks of suffering, someone will pat him, caress him; someone will say, “How unhappy you are.” Through misery you are begging for another’s love. Hence, you have a large investment in misery. You have put much of your wealth into it. Whenever you are miserable, you get a little hope from all sides. People seem to support you, to show sympathy. Love you have not found in life — and sympathy is rubbish; but it is the nearest substitute for love. He who has not found real gold makes do with imitation gold.

Sympathy is counterfeit love. The longing was for love; but love has to be earned — because love comes only to one who can give love. Love is the fruit of giving. You are unable to give; you only want to receive. You are a beggar, not an emperor. And when you beg, the more miserable you appear, the easier it becomes.

Watch a beggar on the road! He has painted fake wounds upon his body. They are not real. The pus is applied from above. But when he looks utterly filled with misery, even for you it becomes difficult to say no; you feel guilty, your ego is hurt: how can you refuse a man so miserable?

If he were healthy and robust, you would say, “You strong fellow! Do something, earn something — you can.” But before a miserable man your tongue fails. You must show sympathy, even if false.

So you cling to misery because you have not found love. He who has found love will be joyful; he will cling to bliss, not to misery. Misery is not worth clinging to.

Then there is a convenience in complaining. When you say others make you unhappy, the burden of responsibility drops from you. And when I tell you — as all the scriptures tell you, as all the awakened ones have always said — that you alone are responsible, no one else, it feels like a great weight. The heaviest weight is that now you cannot throw your complaint on anyone. Even a heavier weight arises: if you yourself are responsible, from whom will you ask sympathy?

A deeper difficulty arises: if you are responsible, then transformation is possible. And transformation is a revolution — it is to pass through a transmutation. You have old habits — they all have to be broken. You have an old structure — it is all wrong. The house you have built up to now is sheer hell — even if you have built it very big. It will have to be razed to the ground. All the labor of the past seems wasted. Therefore you try to avoid this truth. But the more you avoid it, the more you go astray.

So first understand this: you are the center of your own existence; no one else is responsible. However heavy it may feel, if you accept this truth — that you alone are responsible — then soon all misery will vanish. Because once it is clear that I alone am arranging my game, how long does it take to erase it? Then there is no one else. And if you still want to relish misery, that is your choice! But then there is no ground for complaint. If you want to wander in the world, your whim! If you want to go to hell, your choice! But then no complaint. Then live in misery with a smile.

These sutras are precious in this very sense. The first sutra is: “The Atman is the dancer.”

Your acts and your being are not separate. Your actions arise out of your very being, as dance arises out of the dancer. And if the dancer begins to cry out, “I am harassed by this dance, I don’t want to do it,” what will you say? You will say, “Stop! Be still! Who is telling you to dance? You are dancing by yourself. Stop, if it is all futile and gives you no relish, no love.” And if you are suffering, then stop, be still! The dance will dissolve.

“The Atman is the dancer” means: whatever you have done, you have done — it has arisen from you. As leaves arise from a tree, so your actions arise from your being. Stop, and the actions fall away.

And grasp the second point — “The Atman is the dancer.” If you bring to a halt your dance of misery, this life filled with gloom and grief, the dance as such will not stop, its form will change. For the dance cannot stop; it is intrinsic to your life, it is your nature. You will go on dancing — but then there will be no tears, there will be a smile. Then in your dance there will be a song, a thrill, a bliss, an ecstasy, a drunkenness. Now your dance is infernal; then it will be celestial.

There was a Muslim fakir — Ibrahim. Once an emperor, he became a mendicant. He came to India. He saw a sadhu and asked him — for the sadhu looked gloomy. Usually sadhus look gloomy; because the juice of their life was in their householding. They know no other juice. When they leave the householder’s life, all relish is lost. If not pained, they are at least sad.

There is a slight difference between pain and sadness. Pain means: there is an intensity in sadness; even sadness has a certain fervor; a flood. There are two kinds of floods — one when you are so full of sadness that tears overflow; another when you are so full of joy that tears overflow — both are floods.

When a man escapes the world because he feels there is pain here, then here the joy also is left behind. He becomes merely sad; no flood comes — neither of joy, nor of sorrow.

Go and look at your monks and renunciates. They are dead — as if dead while yet alive; as if the dance has stopped. They fled from suffering, and joy also slipped away — for the joy was seen in the very same place. Their hope was: once they escape sorrow, only joy will remain. Here is the mistake. In the world there is pain; there is also pleasure. You want to save the pleasure and leave the pain. When you flee from pain, pleasure also drops.

That sadhu was sad — an ordinary sadhu. For the true sadhu leaves both pleasure and pain. He does not want to save pleasure; he drops both. As soon as both are dropped, sadness disappears — for sadness is the midpoint between the two. When both ends are gone, the middle point is also lost. Then begins a journey into a new dimension — of ananda, peace, nirvana — name it as you will.

In ananda there is no flood; ananda is a cool ray, a cool light — there is no flood there. In one sense, ananda resembles sadness. Sadness is between pleasure and pain. Ananda is beyond pleasure and pain. Sadness is a state of darkness where everything has gone slack; of death, where everything is in torpor. Ananda is a vibrant state of awakening — but where there is neither pleasure nor pain. In this, ananda is like sadness — there is neither pleasure nor pain. There is light, but not the light of pleasure; pleasure’s light too has intensity and brings sweat.

People get tired even of pleasure. You cannot remain in pleasure long; it will fatigue you. It has haste, heat, fever. If you were to win the lottery every day, you would die, you would not survive. Once or twice is fine. But every day would create such tension that you could not sleep. Your heart would pound so much you could not rest. The excitement, the stimulation would become your murder. So pleasure can be borne only in homeopathic doses. Allopathic doses you cannot bear. A little packet of pleasure — a lot of pain, a little pleasure — that much you can bear. Because pleasure too is tension — it has heat, fever.

Pain is tension, pleasure is tension. Both are excitations. Ananda is the state of unexcited consciousness. There is light, but no heat. There is dance, but no excitement. There is a silent dance, where there is no noise. There is a dance in emptiness that brings no fatigue. It is not of the body. Pleasure and pain belong to the body; ananda belongs to the Atman. It is another kind of dance.

That sadhu was an ordinary sadhu, as you will find everywhere. Ibrahim was surprised to see him sad; for Ibrahim’s understanding was that a sadhu should be blissful. So he asked, “What is the mark of a sadhu?” Ibrahim asked, “What defines a sadhu?”

The sadhu said, “If bread is available, accept it; if not, be content.”

Ibrahim said, “That is the mark of a dog. Where is the mark of a sadhu in it? The dog too does the same — if food is available, good; if not, he is alright.”

The sadhu was startled. He asked, “Then how do you define a sadhu?”

Ibrahim said, “If food is available, eat and share; if not, dance in gratitude to God that he has given you an opportunity for tapas.”

The definition of a sadhu: if you get something, share it. Whatever comes, share — that is a sadhu. If he clutches and hoards, he is a householder. If he saves, he is a householder; if he shares, he is a sadhu. Whether it is joy or knowledge — anything — even meditation. Whatever comes, share it. For there is this strange thing in the world: worldly things decrease by sharing. Therefore people clutch. If you share your locker, it will not last long. In the world, everything is limited — share it, and it goes. Hence in the world one must hold on to the limited. But do not carry this habit into the realm of the Atman; there all wealth is infinite. There, the more you share, the more it grows; the more you pour out, the more the new wells up. The ocean is boundless!

Ibrahim is right: if it comes, eat and share; do not eat alone, share. If it does not come, then dance in gratitude — contentment is not enough, for contentment contains sadness.

People often say, “The contented are always happy.” They are mistaken. The contented are not happy; the contented merely pretend happiness; deep within they are sad. But they can do nothing; they are helpless, so they adopt contentment. No, not contentment. Contentment is a part of sadness. He endured it; he did not make a noise, did not complain — it is the sign of a dead consciousness.

Ibrahim said: If it does not come, then dance in gratitude that you have been given an opportunity for tapas. Today is a fast. If it comes, gratitude — because you shared and distributed. If it does not come, gratitude.

A sadhu’s bliss cannot be destroyed. And your misery — even if it is destroyed — yields at most sadness. You may somehow drop misery and become merely sad. Even misery keeps you engaged, keeps you occupied. You have not noticed — if all your miseries were snatched away, you would commit suicide! For what would you do then? Nothing would remain to do.

A father is busy because the sons must be educated, married. Suppose all their marriages and tasks were finished immediately — what would the father do? Life would seem futile. You are engaged in useless things. It gives you the feeling you are doing something, important, necessary; the world will not move without you; what will become of the son, the wife! This props up your ego that you are essential; that things run because of you. Though everything runs without you. Before you, it ran; after you, it will run. But for a while you dream of your own indispensability.

So at most, if you drop misery, you can manage contentment. In contentment, misery is hidden. Contentment is on the surface; within, the wound of sorrow remains. It is a bandage, not a cure.

No, the sadhu is not contented; the sadhu is blissful. Whatever the situation — if it comes, he shares and rejoices; if it does not, he dances and rejoices.

The nature of the Atman is dance, and the Atman can dance in two ways. It can dance in such a way that a net of suffering arises around, sadness spreads, darkness is created. Or it can dance in such a way that rays begin to dance all around, and flowers bloom on every side.

Sannyas is the dance of bliss, and householding is the dance of sorrow! Hell is nowhere else. Do not sit hoping hell is elsewhere. Hell is your wrong way of dancing that creates suffering. Heaven too is nowhere else. Heaven is your right way of dancing — wherever you are, heaven flowers there. Heaven is a quality of your dance. Hell too is a quality of your dance.

You do not know how to dance; yet you go on blaming the courtyard — “It is uneven, therefore the dance goes wrong.” The courtyard is not crooked at all. And one who knows how to dance, even a crooked courtyard is fine; it makes no difference. And one who does not know how to dance — even a courtyard constructed with exact geometry and right angles will not bring dance.

I have heard: A man went for an eye operation. Before the operation he asked the doctor, “I can’t see at all; will I be able to see?” The doctor examined and said, “Certainly.” The man asked, “Will I be able to read?” The doctor said, “Certainly.”

After the operation, his eyes were fine; he could see. One day, very irritated, he reached the doctor’s home and said, “You lied! I still can’t read.” The doctor said, “You can see everything; why can’t you read?” He said, “I don’t know how to read.”

Even if the eyes are fine, if you do not know how to read, how will reading happen? However straight the courtyard, if you do not know how to dance, how will dance depend on the courtyard? It will have to be learned. And remember: no one else can teach it to you. You are utterly alone. The awakened ones can give hints, but learning you must do yourself. No one can hold your hand and teach you. The dance of life is so inner, so deep, that no outer hand can reach there. There, none but you can enter. There you are utterly alone. All the rest is outside.

“The Atman is the dancer.”

Suffering and joy — in two ways the Atman can dance. If you are miserable, you have learned the wrong ways of dancing. Change the way. Blame no one. Do not complain. As long as you complain, you will continue to dance wrongly; because it will never occur to you that the error is yours — the error will always be the other’s. Stop complaining. Look within. And wherever misery arises, look carefully — you will find its causes within. Drop those causes. If they only yield poisonous fruit, what is the point in sowing them? Why sow those seeds year after year? It is better not to sow at all. Even if the field remains fallow, it is not bad. And better still — let it remain fallow for a while, so all the old seeds are burnt, so that you can sow the new.

Why are you afraid of lying fallow? Meditation is the empty interval in between. Dhyana is like a farmer leaving his field fallow for a year or two, sowing nothing — such is meditation, the middle state; the empty space between the seeds of hell and the seeds of heaven. Leave it for a while, sow nothing. One lesson remember well: better not to do than to do wrongly. For a time, stop — do nothing. Until you learn what is right, not-doing is better. Because every wrong act breeds a chain of wrong acts. That is what we call the web of karma.

You keep on doing something or other. You simply cannot sit empty; you will do something. Sit empty — that is meditation — so the old habit drops, and in that emptiness you begin to see clearly. You are so busy that you have neither the leisure nor the opportunity to see, no time. Meditation simply means: sit in silence for an hour, two, three — as long as you can — do nothing, only watch. So that gradually your eyes become sharp and deep, and you begin to see that whatever has happened in my life, I alone was its cause. As soon as this realization dawns, the sowing of the futile stops. Then a meaningful dance is born.

Religion is supreme ecstasy. It is not the melancholy of renunciation; it is the celebration of existence. It is to join the Great Enjoyment. It is to become one with the dance of existence. Do not think of religion in the language of renunciation and sadness. That is false religion, which thinks in the language of renunciation and gloom. True religion is always dance. It is of joy. True religion is always a flute in song.

“The Atman is the dancer. The inner being is the stage.”

And this dance that is happening is not happening somewhere outside; it is going on within you. This world is not the stage; your inner being is the stage. However much you think you have gone out, no one can go out. How will you go out? You will remain within. There, the whole play is going on. There the play happens; outside, only its effects are seen. Just as when you go to a cinema hall — the play appears on the screen, but actually the play is running behind you in the projector; the screen only shows it. The screen is not the real stage. But your eyes get fixed on the screen and you forget — you do forget — that the real thing is happening behind. The whole web of film is behind; the screen is only the reflection.

“The inner being is the stage.”

The projector is within. The seeds of the play begin within; outside you only hear the news, the echoes. And if there is misery outside, know that within you are holding the wrong film. And if whatever you do outside goes wrong, that means whatever you are sending out from within is all wrong. You can do nothing by changing the screen. You may smear and polish the screen endlessly, it will make no difference. If the wrong film is coming from within, the screen will go on repeating the same story.

And you are not only film; you are like a broken record that repeats one line over and over again.

Have you ever examined your skull within? You will find the same things repeating — a broken record! You go on repeating the same. Nothing new happens there. And whatever you repeat there, its reflections are heard all around, projected on the screen of the world around you.

One day Mulla Nasruddin went to a film with his wife and child. And a child of Mulla Nasruddin! How could he be well-behaved? If within all is disorder, outside too all will be disorder. The child was crying, yelling, making a commotion. The manager had to come at least seven times: “Brother, take your money back and go — or quiet the child.” But why would he become quiet! Again and again the manager came. Nasruddin listened and sat silently. When the film was nearing its end he asked his wife, “What do you think — is the film good or bad?” The wife said, “Absolutely worthless.” He said, “Then don’t delay. Pinch the boy so he screams, so we get the money back and go home.”

You have been watching a long time! Many births you have watched — all wrong! When will you pinch yourself? You will have to do it; there is no one else here. When will you wake up and return? What is the need to go on watching this wrong which fills you with pain, gives you burden and torment, from which nothing arises but suffering and dreams? You can leave this house. You are staying here because of yourself. Why delay? Are you not yet fed up? If you are not fed up, then why get entangled in the babble of Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Shivas, Jesuses? If you are not fed up, do not listen to them; keep away, guard yourself. Because they are meaningful only for those whose hearts are full and who have watched enough film; who are bored and nauseated; in whom a longing for a heavenly dance has arisen; whose yearning now is for the Divine.

But your mind-state is such that you want to ride two boats. That increases your suffering even more. You want to enjoy this world too. However much suffering is here, a little hope remains that pleasure will be — almost now, just about to be. Hope keeps you tied. And your experience tells you it is not going to be; you have hoped many times and always failed. Experience supports the Buddhas; hope is against them. And you are filled with both. Two boats. So you keep one foot on the boat of hope: “Perhaps just a little more. If not happiness with this woman, then with another! If not joy from this son, then from another! If not success in this business, then in another!” You keep changing the surroundings. “If not comfort in this house, then in another! This locker is small, let it be bigger.” You go on changing the periphery — you keep changing the screen. But the story within is the same; the same story is projected on the screen.

Everywhere you meet sorrow. Experience is of sorrow, hope is of pleasure — two boats. When you listen to Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna — they speak the language of experience. They say, “Get off the boat of hope, step into the boat of experience.” You also listen — you cannot deny them. Seeing them gives you trust that what we have not found, it seems they have found; for their race has come to an end. Yet trust does not become total — who knows, they may be deceiving! Who knows, they did not reach, and we will reach! They say the grapes are sour. Perhaps they could not reach the grapes, and we will!

Thus hope does not leave. You cannot easily call your experience false either. So you are split. This split is your derangement. And the two boats go on different journeys. Mount one completely. No hurry — even mount the boat of the world completely. You will soon be bored. But your one foot on the Buddhas’ boat does not allow you the full experience of the world either. You go half-heartedly there too; because the idea of the Buddhas holds your half leg. You try to manage the temple and the shop both; neither the shop is managed, nor the temple.

They cannot be managed together. Go wholly to the shop. Forget that there ever was a Buddha, or a Mahavira, Krishna, Shiva. Forget! Forget the scriptures. Let accounts and ledgers be all. Once you are wholly in it, you will soon come out. Your own experience will tell you, it is all futile.

That too does not happen; and you cannot fully board the Buddhas’ boat either — your mind keeps saying, “Do not hurry; much time remains! At your age? These are for old age. When one leg is in the grave, then place the other foot in the Buddhas’ boat! Where is the hurry now!”

So people think religion is for old age. When death nears, then they need Ganga-water. When dying, someone should chant the sacred mantra into their ear. But when all has proved futile, when no energy remains for the journey — then you prepare for the journey. No — you will again fall back into the world! You will again board that boat! You have done this endless times.

“The Atman is the dancer. The inner being is the stage.”

Remember: whatever appears outside is what you have projected from within. You only see in life what you pour into it. And many opportunities come in life too.

I have heard: In a travelers’ inn three men met. One was sixty, one forty-five, one about thirty. They began to talk. The thirty-year-old said, “Last night I spent with such a woman — there cannot be another so beautiful in the world. And the joy I had — indescribable!”

The forty-five-year-old said, “Drop this nonsense! I have seen many women. Those indescribable joys are not indescribable, and they are not joys. I knew joy last night. I was invited to a royal feast. Such delicious food I have never known.”

The old man said, “That too is nonsense. Ask me the real thing. This morning I had such a diarrhea — the belly so thoroughly cleansed — such bliss I have never known; indescribable!”

All the world’s pleasures are like that. They change with age; but you forget.

At thirty, sex seems great joy. At forty-five, food becomes more pleasurable — which is why people begin to grow fat around that time. At sixty, there is no charm in food either; if the bowels are clean, the Samadhi of bliss seems in nothing else. All three are right; worldly pleasures are just like this. And for these we have spent so many lives! Even if you get them, what do you really get? What can be gained?

“The inner being is the stage.”

Outside you see only what you send from within. Through the young man’s eyes lust goes outward. His whole body is filled with the elements of lust. Wherever he looks, he sees woman. Lust catches him on all sides.

When Mulla Nasruddin was young, he went with his wife to an exhibition of paintings. The marriage was new; they had the idea to see places. There were many precious paintings. Nasruddin stopped before one and stood there long. He forgot that his wife was with him. The painting was of a nude woman — exquisitely beautiful! Her nudity was covered with just a few leaves. The painting was titled: Spring. He stood there dumbstruck. Finally his wife shook his hand and said, “Waiting for autumn?”

Such is the mind of man. The wife recognized it well. Wives often do.

Whatever surges within you, that becomes your world; you color it. We have a most precious word in our language, hard to find an equal in other tongues — raga. Raga means attachment, and it also means color. All your attachments are the result of the colors thrown by your eyes. You color things. Those you color, raga catches there. Raga means: you have colored.

Woman is not beautiful; if the color of lust is within you, woman appears beautiful. A small child has no concern; his color of lust is not yet ripe. An old man’s color has faded — he laughs at your foolishness; though he too did the same. You will laugh too. But he who recognizes and understands while still in foolishness — he awakens. To laugh after the color of foolishness has faded is of little value — then anyone laughs. But while foolishness still grips and the color is strong, even then to awaken and recognize that all the inner play is appearing outside; that outside there is nothing — just a blank screen — this is the seeing. The inner being is the stage; there is the projector; from there we spread it all.

“By bringing the buddhi under mastery, sattva is perfected.”

And this play will continue and you will remain lost in it as long as the buddhi is not mastered. By mastery over buddhi, sattva is attained. As soon as you remember that the whole play is running from within, you drop trying to master the world; it has never been mastered by anyone. There is nothing there. It is only a screen. Master your buddhi, and the whole world is mastered. As soon as you remember that the play you are watching — I am the maker, I am the actor, I am the playwright, I am everything, I am the stage — at once you lose interest in changing the outside. Then you set about attaining the ownership that is within — the mastery of buddhi.

You are not the master of your buddhi. Your thoughts are not your slaves. You are the slave of your thoughts. Wherever they take you, you go; wherever you wish to take them, they do not go. Try to bend even a small thought — it refuses. Tell a small thought to be quiet — it rebels. You never pay attention to this; for it is too painful to see that I am not even my own master! And you go on trying to be the master of the world. One who is not even his own master — how will he be master of anything else?

Observe your mind carefully; inspect it. First you will see that the master has become the mind, not the Atman, not you. The mind says do this — and you have to do it. If you don’t, the mind creates trouble. If you don’t, the mind becomes sad; its sadness becomes your sadness. If you do, you reach nowhere; for the mind is blind. By following it, where can you reach! Mind is unconsciousness; it is sleep. Listening to it, you will go nowhere.

You have heard: if the blind follow the blind, they fall into ditches. That is what everyone is doing. Your mind is utterly blind; it knows nothing. And you follow it! As the shadow follows your body, you follow the mind. You have forgotten that you are the master! With slaves, after long association, this often happens: gradually the slaves become masters. The more you depend on them, the more their mastery is established. All sadhana is only this: break the mastery of the mind.

What will you do to break the mastery of the mind?

First: to break the mind’s mastery, break identification with it. A thought arises in the mind; do not join with it, do not become one with it. It gets energy from your becoming one with it. Stand apart. Watch as you would watch people walking on the road; you stand at the side and watch. Watch as clouds wander in the sky while you stand on the earth and watch. Do not connect yourself with the thought. Do not say, “This is my thought.” The moment you say “mine,” you have joined. By joining, your power flows into the thought. That very power enslaves you. The power is yours. Do not join. The more you stand apart, separate, detached, the more the thought becomes lifeless, impotent. It gets no energy.

Your trouble is: you want to extinguish the lamp’s flame but you pour the oil yourself. Here you blow, there you pour oil. First stop pouring oil — the first thing. The old oil will not last long; stop pouring new oil.

What is the oil? Whenever a thought seizes you — anger catches you — you instantly become one with it. You say, “I am angry.” But the truth is: you became so one with anger that your whole energy is given to it. You have become the shadow, it the master. When anger arises, stand apart and watch. Let anger arise, let it spread through the body — it will encircle you like smoke — let it. Just remember: I am not anger. And do not rush to act. Action makes return difficult. Watch the anger. Firmly decide: the one who provoked me — who insulted me — even if I have to reply, I will do so only after the anger is gone, not before.

Hard in the beginning — for great alertness is needed — but gradually it becomes simple. Keep the mouth closed — reply only when the anger is quiet. And this is right; only in a silent moment will the response be appropriate. In anger, how can it be appropriate? It is like answering while drunk.

When sexual desire seizes the mind, stand at a distance and observe. Create distance. The greater the distance between you and your thought, the more your mastery is established. You have stood so close that you have forgotten there is space between the two.

Begin this today. Results will not come quickly; for the closeness is of many births. It cannot be broken in a day. The relationship is very old; it will take time. But if you make a little effort, it will break — because the relationship is false. If it were real, it would not break. It is only an idea — “I am one with it.” That very idea creates the trouble.

When hungry, do not say, “I am hungry”; say instead, “I see the body is hungry.” And this is the truth. You are the seer. Hunger happens to the body. Consciousness can never be hungry. Food goes into the body. The body needs blood and flesh. The body tires; consciousness never tires. Consciousness is a lamp that burns without wick and without oil. No food, no fuel is needed there, nor has it ever been wanted.

The body needs fuel — food and water. The body is an instrument; the Atman is not an instrument. Let the body be fed. Remember only this much: the body is hungry; I am watching. If thirsty, give it water. It is necessary — the instrument must be maintained. He is mad who says, “This body is not me, so I will not give it water.”

You are seated in a car — if you don’t fill petrol, what will you do? Then get out of the car. It will not move. Sit inside and try to drive and say, “I will not give petrol!” It is enough that you do not become one with the car. Remain the master. Fulfill the needs of the car.

Fulfill the needs of the body; it is an instrument. And its use is great — for it is the ladder both to hell and to heaven. The nature of a ladder is that one end rests on the earth and the other in the sky. By it you can go down; by it you can climb up. Through the body you have come to hell; through the body you will go to heaven. Through the body you can also reach liberation. It is a medium. Keep it well. Fulfill its needs. But there is no reason to become one with the medium. Let the instrument remain the instrument. You write with a fountain pen, but you are not the fountain pen. You walk with your legs, but you are not the legs.

The body is an instrument; take care of it. It is precious; do not ruin it. There are two kinds of people who ruin it. Some ruin it in indulgence; others in renunciation. Both are enemies and both are unwise. Some ruin it in the prostitute’s house, some ruin it by overeating. On the other extreme, madmen ruin it by fasting. Either you fill so much petrol there is no room left inside, or you do not fill at all. You walk between two extremes. Give what is needed. Even a servant’s welfare must be looked after. But by looking after him, the servant does not become the master.

“By mastery over buddhi, sattva is perfected.”

As your buddhi comes under mastery — as you become a witness — you will find that the inner sattva, your Atman, your true being, begins to be established. By the corruption of buddhi — samsara; by the mastery of buddhi — the Atman. If buddhi is master — samsara; if buddhi becomes a slave — Paramatma.

Buddhi is a ladder. It is not necessary to descend it; you can ascend. But upward only the master can go. The slave descends — more and more. And the slavery of buddhi is dangerous; it is not slavery to one. Buddhi is a crowd. Now it says, “Be angry”; a moment later, “Repent.” One thought says, “Enjoy the world”; another says, “Seek moksha.” One says, “Gather wealth, even by stealing”; another says, “That is sin.” Thoughts without end. Their sum total is buddhi.

If buddhi were one thought, still there might be peace. But it is not a single thought — it is a bazaar. Buddhi is like a school classroom — when the teacher is present, children sit quietly and study.

The teacher steps out — and there is uproar. Fighting begins. Books are thrown. Slates are broken. Tables overturned. Obscenities scribbled on the board. Abuses shouted. These children — now they have no master, no watcher.

The teacher re-enters — instantly, silence. Books return to their places. The boys’ eyes drop. They engage with their work.

As soon as your mastery appears within, buddhi instantly falls into line. As soon as your mastery is lost, buddhi is an uproar, anarchy. To live by this anarchy is very difficult; it can bring you nowhere. There is no single voice there — countless voices.

Mahavira has said: man is multimental. There is not one mind; there are many minds. Modern psychology supports Mahavira — man is poly-psychic. Not one mind, infinite minds. As if there is one servant and infinite masters, and all giving commands — the servant goes mad — whom to obey! Thus you have gone mad.

Find the One — so the teacher returns to the class. Find the One — so the many slaves sit each in his place. If there is one master, your life gains direction; sattva is established. You will know yourself.

“And from this — from the perfection of sattva — sahaj freedom flowers.”

As long as you have made buddhi the master, you remain a slave. As soon as sattva is established, sahaj freedom blossoms.

Understand what sahaj freedom is. Why not say simply freedom? Why sahaj?

It is subtle. There are two kinds of freedom. One is a freedom that is against something. When freedom is against, it becomes licentiousness. It is not true freedom. Then you begin to go in opposition. For example, the mind says, “Be angry,” so you go in reverse — “Mind says be angry — I will forgive.” The mind says, “Kill him”; you say, “I will not kill; I will put my neck before him — you kill me.” Whatever the mind says, you do the opposite. As monks usually do. The mind says, “Go seek a woman”; the monk runs to the forest. The mind says, “Go seek wealth”; the monk won’t touch wealth; if he touches it, it feels like snakes and scorpions. The mind says, “Rest, relax”; the monk stands in the sun, makes a bed of thorns. This is not true freedom; for the one you are opposing — you are still listening to him. He is still the master.

Understand this — it is a little intricate. Because your fight continues. If you become master, the fight ends. Why fight the slave!

You have a slave in the house who has become master. He says, “Sit down,” you sit. He says, “Stand up,” you stand. You decide to go against him; still he remains your master. Now when he says, “Sit,” you stand. You do not obey him — yet you are obeying him, for he is the one moving you. And if the slave is a little clever, when he wants you to sit, he will say, “Stand!” and you will sit. You cannot escape.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son was creating great mischief. Nasruddin told him many times, “Sit quiet!” He made even more noise. “Go out!” — he came in. Finally, Nasruddin was exasperated. There were guests in the house — and before guests, children create more mischief, because it is a question of proving who is the real master — the father or the son, you or me. So, seeing the guests, the child raised the trouble.

At last Nasruddin said, “Look! Do whatever you like — now let me see how you disobey my command! Do whatever you like — now let me see how you break my order!”

The child must have been in a real dilemma.

If you go against the mind, sahaj freedom will not flower. A freedom will arise that is not freedom — it is rebellion. But the one we rebel against — to him we remain bound. The one we fight — to him we remain related. We are not yet masters. The signal still comes from there. We do the opposite — but the signal is from there.

So you may practice celibacy — it makes no difference; your celibacy is only rebellion, it is not sahaj. The mind was saying sex; you said, “I will fight.” This is a fight. Who fights the slave? And he who fights the slave is still accepting the slave as master. The fight is with the master — why with a slave! Therefore, your monks — though opposite to you — are not different from you. They go in reverse to you, but as far as the mastery of the mind is concerned, not an atom of difference.

Sahaj freedom is altogether different. Sahaj freedom means: I am the master; therefore the question of following or not following the mind does not arise. To go for or against the mind does not arise. Now I give orders to the mind; I do not obey. There are two ways of obeying — to obey, or to go in opposition; both are ways of obeying.

When buddhi becomes the master, its mastery can be of two kinds — negative and positive. You may be a householder if you wish; you may be a monk if you wish. It makes no difference. Your monks are inverted images of the householder — doing headstands. There is no difference. They suffer more; for standing on the feet is easy, on the head is certainly harder. If it were not, nature would have created you standing on your head. You do one thing; they do the reverse. You accumulate; they renounce. You secure the body; they leave it insecure. You make a soft bed; they gather thorns and pebbles. Just the opposite of you! You savor food; they fast and starve. You dress in fine clothes; they become naked. This is not sahaj freedom. This is a state of tension. There is no naturalness in it.

Therefore the sutra says: “By mastery over buddhi, sattva is perfected — dheevashat sattva-siddhih. And from this, sahaj freedom flowers.”

Then you are free. You no longer look to the mind: what is it saying — what should I do, what not do. You do not look toward the mind at all. Your action becomes natural. Then you are truly free of the mind. Then you alone are the decider; mind follows behind you. But this can only happen when you become the master. Mastery happens when you become the witness.

Do not fight the mind — otherwise sahaj freedom will never come. If you fight, you have accepted the mind as your equal. Whomever you fight, you grant equal rights. Once a friend, now an enemy — but you stand on equal footing. The master is not equal. The master is in the sky; the servant on the earth. When mastery comes, freedom comes — and that freedom is natural. And sahaj freedom is utterly unique!

I have heard: A Muslim fakir — Bayazid — went on the pilgrimage to the Haj. He had decided to fast for forty days. Five days had passed, and he reached a village. About a hundred disciples were with him. He was a renowned sage; his fame spread far. When they reached the village, people came to say: “Bayazid, one of your devotees has gone beyond himself. He is very poor — has nothing but a hut. He has sold his hut. He had some cows and buffaloes — sold them too. He sold whatever he had, and today he has invited the whole village to a feast in your honor.”

Bayazid was fasting — vowed to forty days. The disciples too were fasting. No stress touched Bayazid; the disciples were very tense. Still, they knew they ought not to eat. They reached; Bayazid sat down at the platter. The disciples became very uneasy. When the master sat, they too sat — with great guilt. They thought: Has Bayazid forgotten? So soon he lost remembrance? Or did he get tempted by food? He should have refused. We are under a forty-day vow of fasting — until we reach Mecca. There we will break our fast. And what has happened — the fast taken, broken in five days!

But in the crowd they could say nothing. They ate — with great guilt and much pain. Bayazid — to their surprise — ate with great joy, no anxiety, no discomfort.

In the night, when people had left, the disciples attacked the master. “This is too much! We could not eat. And since you ate, we also had to.”

Bayazid said, “Why are you so troubled? He had prepared with such love that it was worth breaking the fast. The harm in breaking his love would be greater; no harm has come in breaking the fast. We will fast five more days. We intended forty — we will do forty-five. His love would have been broken; that we could never mend. His heart would have been hurt; there would be no remedy. A fast is only a fast — forget these five days; from tomorrow we will do forty again.”

The difference! The disciples’ freedom is not sahaj. They felt troubled because: “Ah — the mind was saying, eat! We were fighting not to eat. And now we listened to the mind! Slavery has returned!” Bayazid is the master. It is in his hands to fast or break the fast. There is no rebellion against the mind, no opposition, no obedience. We are the master. If we want to fast, we will; if not, we will not. The decision is ours.

Both were fasting, but their fasts were radically different. Bayazid’s freedom is sahaj. He can stay in a palace with complete ease. He can stand in a hut with ease. But Bayazid’s disciples — if they have to stay in a palace, they are in trouble — “This is indulgence!” It is a strange thing: sometimes a palace holds you, sometimes a hut holds you — but holding is holding. Bayazid can go both ways. His freedom is sahaj. Nothing can stop him. The decision will be of his own soul. The decider is the Atman.

Sahaj freedom flowers only when sattva is established. Before that, all freedoms are false.

“Because of his free nature he can go outside himself, and while remaining outside, he can remain within.”

This is a precious sutra: “Because of his free nature he can go outside himself.”

Kabir went on weaving cloth — he was a weaver and remained a weaver. The disciples said many times, “It no longer befits you to weave cloth, to go to the market to sell. You are not a householder.” Kabir laughed: “All this is his play. Outside and inside are one.”

This is beyond our understanding, because we are held by the outside — gripped so hard that how can outside and inside be one?

Zen masters have said: samsara and moksha are one.

We are aghast — how can that be? Samsara binds us, pains us. Moksha is the opposite — where we will be free, at peace, blissful; where there will be no sorrow. Our moksha is imagined as the opposite of our samsara.

But when one is truly free, there remains no opposition in the world; all opposites dissolve. When one is free, the distance between outside and inside is lost; because the entire distance is the wall of ego. What outside, what inside? The ego stands between as the wall. As if we take a clay pot into the river and fill it with water. We then say, “This water is inside the pot; that water is the river outside.” But what is the separation? Only a wall of clay! If that wall breaks, what outside, what inside? That which is outside is inside; that which is inside is outside.

Hence Kabir says: “My getting up and sitting down is my worship. My walking about is my adoration.” Kabir does not go to the temple now; for there is no gap between the shop and the temple. Kabir no longer runs from the market to the Himalayas; there is no gap between the market and the Himalayas. Kabir does not leave his house; there is no gap between mine and thine. Where can you run?

With the fall of ego, all distances fall. There is then neither matter nor God — the two are one. That is advaita — where all becomes one and all boundaries dissolve.

But that happens only when sahaj freedom flowers in life. Such a person, because of his free nature, can go outside himself; and while outside, he remains inside. Nothing hinders him. In a palace he remains a sannyasin; as a sannyasin on the road he is in a palace. If crores are piled beside him, he is non-possessive; and if he has nothing, there is none more possessing than he — for the whole existence is his.

But it is hard for us to recognize, because we know only one side — the water inside the pot. The water outside seems different. That which is hidden within you is the same that is without. The sky within you is the same sky outside. And your body is no more than a clay pot that creates a seeming separation.

Samsara and sannyas are not two. They appear two because you know only one — samsara — not sannyas. So you imagine sannyas based on samsara. You call that one a sannyasin who is the exact opposite of you. “See how great a sannyasin! He walks barefoot, goes naked, stands in the sun, bears the rain, sleeps on grass — what a sannyasin!”

Your notion of sannyas too is based on your samsara. For you, Janaka cannot be a sannyasin — how could he be, he is in a palace. For you, Krishna cannot be a sannyasin — how could he be, he wears a peacock plume and plays the flute. No, for you, they cannot be sannyasins.

But when the slavery of buddhi ends and your inner sattva is free, you will know that moksha is everywhere; a shop is no barrier to it; a kingdom is no barrier. Liberation is your state of experiencing. When you are free, the world drops from all sides. Outside and inside become one. Worship and shop are equal. Then one accepts life as it is; there remains not the slightest need to discriminate. So it has happened that butchers have attained Brahma-knowledge; it has happened that consummate householders have attained it. And it happens that one who has left all and fled as a monk goes on wandering, yet does not attain Brahma-knowledge.

This sutra is ultimate: “Because of his free nature he can go outside himself; and while remaining outside, he can remain within.”

Now he is free. He has no definition. If you define him, you will miss him. He is indefinable. He has no marks now. It is difficult to say where you will find him. He can be anywhere.

It happened: before the rains, a bhikshu of Buddha went to a town and a courtesan fell in love with him. He was handsome; besides, a monk has a beauty of his own which the ordinary cannot have. One who has dropped the futile, an aura begins to manifest around him; the essential flowers in him; a majesty appears not ordinarily seen.

Seeing that dancing, blissful monk, it was natural the courtesan was enchanted. She was of great beauty. Emperors knocked at her door. Not everyone could meet her. One moment with her was precious. She herself ran out to the road and invited the monk: “Accept my invitation for the rainy season. Stay in my house this season.”

The monk said, “I will ask my master — as he commands.” He did not say yes or no. He said, “I will ask my master.”

Next morning he asked Buddha, “I have received an invitation from a courtesan. What should I do?”

Buddha said, “If the courtesan was not afraid of you, why should you be afraid of the courtesan? Is my monk so weak he is afraid of a courtesan? Go. You have received an invitation — stay.”

The other monks became very uneasy; many had seen that courtesan passing on the road. She was beautiful; lust had risen in many. Many would have liked to receive the invitation themselves.

One monk stood and said, “This is not right. A monk staying in a courtesan’s house is not good. There is a danger of corruption.”

Buddha said, “If the invitation had come to you, my permission would not have been given. There is fear in your case, because you still divide outside and inside. But the one I am sending — I send knowingly. Whether he stays outside or inside, it makes no difference.”

Even so, the monks were unconvinced. “You are making a mistake. A wrong precedent will begin; decorum will be broken.”

Buddha said, “Wait. Let the rainy season pass. Then we shall see.”

Every day monks brought news: he has become corrupt. Someone would say, “We saw him watching the dance — there were dances all night and he was sitting.” Someone would say, “He sat on a cushion of velvet.” Someone would say, “He has changed his clothes.” Someone brought some report, someone another. One said, “We saw them in an embrace.”

Buddha said, “Let the rains pass. What is the hurry? Why bring rumors? What is your purpose? You are not being corrupted. If someone is being corrupted, he will return after the rains.”

After the rainy season the monk returned — and the courtesan came behind him. She said to Buddha, “Make me a bhikkhuni. The monk has won; I have lost. I tried every device — he did not obstruct any device. If I embraced him, he did not move away. If I seated him on a velvet cushion, he did not say, ‘How can I, a monk, sit on velvet!’ If I offered him the most delicious foods, he did not say, ‘I cannot eat, it will arouse lust.’ I offered all invitations; he never said no. Whatever happened, he sat silently as if nothing were happening. I am shaken by him. The joy he has attained, in which outside and inside are lost; the joy no one can obstruct — I too long for that joy.”

Buddha said to the monks, “Look! One whose outside-inside is gone — even if he stays with a courtesan, the courtesan becomes a nun. If you had gone to the courtesan, you would have become her shadow.”

The good man who fears the bad is not of great value. The sadhu fears the unsaintly. The saint does not fear the unsaintly; he has gone beyond both. A saint is one whom no situation can change now. Even while outside, he remains within. Even in the world, the world does not enter him.

Buddha has said: the supreme state of sannyas is that you pass through the river and not even water touches your feet. If you fear to enter the river, that is not supreme; that is fear.

Remember three sutras. Break the mastery of the mind. It will break by the witnessing attitude — distance will be created. Establish your own mastery — not by going in opposition, but by rising above. Freedom will come — if it comes by opposition it will be false. In such freedom there will be tension and trouble; it will not be calm, not sahaj. By rising higher, by becoming the witness — not by fighting. In religion there is no place for the warrior. In religion one only rises higher. Do not fight; for whomever you fight, you will remain on the same plane. Do not make the mind an enemy; go beyond it — transcend.

And the sutra for going beyond the mind is: witnessing. As you rise above, sahaj freedom — spontaneous freedom — will happen; liberation will happen. And such freedom has no opposition to anything. In such freedom you reach a state where whether you remain outside yourself or within, it makes no difference; for the very distance of outside and inside has fallen. Samsara and moksha are one. All dualities have ended, all conflict gone; the state is of the non-dual, the unconflicted.

Enough for today.