When the night is dark, the hope of morning arises. Man too is a dark night—and in him as well, the hope of dawn can be cherished. If a plant is full of thorns, even then flowers can bloom upon it. Man too is a plant bristling with thorns—yet the hope of a flower is still possible. Where there is a seed, sprouting and growth are possible. Man too is a seed—and in him, dreams of growth may be dreamed.
But ordinarily man remains a seed and never becomes a tree. Ordinarily man remains a thorny plant and the flowers never open. Ordinarily man remains a night, and daybreak never happens. He remains a dream—and never becomes the truth.
Therefore, before every human being a question stands: What is the way? How shall we reach that, upon becoming which no further becoming remains to be desired? How to attain that, upon attaining which nothing remains yet to be attained? Where is that temple in which we can be available to our whole being, become that for which we were born? Where is the path? Which path is it?
The greatest difficulty is this: life is like the sky, not like the earth. If only life were like the earth—then Mahavira walks, Buddha walks, Krishna walks, Christ walks—paths would have been laid down; footprints would have been left! Millions have walked and arrived—foot-tracks would have formed. And there would be no reason why we could not have constructed a paved highway to that temple.
But this has not been possible, because life is like the sky; in the sky birds fly, and no footprints are left. The bird flies away, no trace remains behind. The bird arrives; the path does not crystalize. And when another bird must fly, it must begin anew—not along a laid trail. The sky remains empty again.
This is both misfortune and blessing. Misfortune—because there is no fixed road. Blessing—because if a fixed road existed, all the joy of reaching that temple would be destroyed; for the joy is less in arriving and more in the pilgrimage itself. The beauty of that temple is born out of the very search for it. The realization of truth is received through the labor-pain of giving birth to it within oneself.
To my vision it would have been misfortune had a road been made; fixed tracks, like railway lines, would have carried us to the doors of God—of truth, beauty, love. But then that temple would have become stale and borrowed. Its freshness and newness would be lost.
It is the great grace of Paramatma that life is not like the earth but like the sky, where no footprints remain.
Yet man yearns for the path! How to reach? And the moment one begins to think, life appears meaningless. No sense seems to be anywhere. Everywhere darkness—no light visible. Why are we living? Why were we born? No reason seems to be behind it. Meaningless, absurd; no meaning, no congruence. Whoever begins to think finds it so.
It is natural then to ask: Is there any way?
For thousands of years man has reflected upon three ways. Within those three, all the world’s paths can be subsumed. We too have heard their names. Why did only three become so important? Because they exist? No; because the human mind is divided in three layers, has three centers, three circles.
If we enter the human mind, its first periphery is that of action—karma. To remain without work is very difficult. The mind does not want to live even a single moment without doing. So if there is no work, man will invent useless work. Sometimes, traveling, with a lone passenger beside me—I see he has already read the newspaper twice, and he begins reading it a third time! Why a third time? Because the mind cannot live a single instant without something to do. It needs occupation.
Though we all think how good it would be to be free of work, if we were truly freed from it, we would fall into troubles far worse than work ever brought. We would then have to invent vain occupations. Man will play cards—and if he finds no partner he will play alone, from both sides! He moves the cards from the opponent’s hand that is not there, and from his own hand as well. Some activity is needed.
The outermost rim of mind demands work: give me work. Hence one path became the path of karma. It is the mind’s demand. So we have invented ritual—karmakanda: worship, austerities, postures, yoga. We devised twenty-five kinds of occupations—for reaching Paramatma. But no occupation can take one to the Divine, because all occupations merely gratify the mind’s cravings—all of them! And unless one rises beyond the mind, no one can reach truth or God. The mind says—give me work!
We have heard tales that if you befriend a ghost, it demands work. It needs tasks. I have heard of a man who awakened a spirit. As the spirit rose, he bound him with a condition: I need work, I cannot remain without work. If ghosts indeed exist, surely this would be their condition—for a ghost has lost the body; only mind remains. It needs no rest now; only activity.
The body needs rest; the mind does not. So even when the body sleeps at night, the mind keeps working in dreams. Dreams are the mind’s world of work. When the body has dropped with fatigue, the mind does not tire. Then it begins to dream. And whatever work was left undone by day, it finishes at night in dream.
By seeing a man’s dreams at night we could tell which activities he denied himself in the day. If someone fasted, it will be evident in his dream—he will feast at night. If someone practiced continence, at night he will indulge. If someone repressed anger in the day, at night he will rage. When the body rests, the mind completes the demands it had raised during the day and that were inhibited for some reason.
A ghost has only mind. If it demands, do not be surprised! It says: give me work. The man who had awakened the spirit said: Work is exactly why we have awakened you; we will give you plenty. But the tasks finished very quickly, because the spirit accomplished them in an instant! By evening he returned demanding more. By dusk the man grew frightened, for he had nothing left to give!
We too would panic if no work remained.
We too would panic if no work remained! The spirit found himself in trouble as well: You awakened me! I was fine sleeping, now awake I need work. The man was anxious—no work remained.
He said: Wait; there is a fakir in the village, I shall ask him. Whenever I get into trouble, he helps me. Today a new kind of trouble has come. Until now the trouble was always how to solve some work. Today the trouble is how to remain without it!
America is approaching that state. Technology has awakened a spirit that will free man from work. The American thinker today worries about only one thing: that in twenty or twenty-five years technology will relieve every person from labor—then what? Man will say: give us work. We will have none. We will say: take food, clothes, shelter—but do not ask for work! The one who agrees not to work will get a higher wage! Twenty-five years hence, the person who insists “I must have work” will be paid less—because he asks for both, wages and work! Both cannot be given.
That man faced the same difficulty and went to the fakir. He said: I am in great trouble. I awakened a spirit in the morning; by evening all tasks were done. I have none left—and he will take my life!
The fakir said: Do one thing. Take that pot lying there.
The man asked: What shall I do with it?
The fakir said: Tell the spirit to keep filling it. The pot had no bottom. It was bottomless.
The man said: There is no bottom to this pot—how will the poor fellow fill it?
The fakir replied: If he manages to fill it, then your trouble will begin again. Let him fill; this pot will never fill. He will keep pouring and pouring and he will keep getting work. The man took the pot and gave it to the spirit. From that day the spirit has never come back to ask for tasks—because that work is still not complete!
When man runs out of meaningful work, he chooses such work as can never be completed. He begins to fill bottomless pots.
So the moment a person’s ordinary needs are met, the greatest question before him becomes: fetch such a pot as never fills. He enters the race for positions—it will never end. However high he climbs, a higher post will appear. The pot has no bottom. He enters the race for wealth—no matter how much he earns, he remains poor, because more still remains to be earned.
Andrew Carnegie died—an American billionaire. At death he had a billion dollars, yet he was very sad. A friend said: You should not be dejected. You have achieved what you desired—perhaps you are the richest man on earth! You leave behind a billion.
Carnegie said: Don’t talk like that; don’t wound my heart. Only a billion—how depressing! My intention was to leave a hundred billion. Death has come too soon. I die a poor man—for my desire was a hundred, and I managed only ten. By ninety I am poor. I lack ninety billion that should have been there.
And remember, had he gotten a hundred, nothing would change—for numbers do not end at a hundred. They run on—to a thousand billions, a million billions...
No matter how much you get, it makes no difference. Man chooses wealth, rank, fame—when his world of useful work is fulfilled, he then chooses tasks with no bottom. He keeps on filling. He becomes a small minister, then a big minister; from there he moves toward Delhi; then bigger and bigger he becomes. And the race is endless. There is no finish line. All this he chooses because the mind needs work.
The mind says: If I don’t get work, I will die. And one who wants to seek truth must let the mind die for truth to be found. The mind must die, because what can die cannot be truth. What remains after the mind dies—and does not die—that is truth, and that is the nectar within.
But the death-ridden mind clamors for work to save itself!
Thus one way men have sought is the path of karma—religious action, ritual. A man performs a fire-offering, one turns a rosary, another waves a lamp before God. Those were the old rites—yajnas, havans, worship, recitations. These were the activities through which man thought to attain truth, to attain bliss.
But through activities truth can never be attained. They only gratify the mind and nothing else. That was the old world of karma. But man tires of the old. All occupations eventually stale. Then he invents new occupations. Service—seva—is the new ritual.
One says: Through serving the poor, truth will be found. Another says: By massaging the leper’s limbs, truth will be found. Another: By giving bread to the hungry, truth will be found. No—giving bread to the hungry is very good; massaging a leper’s feet is very good; serving the poor is very good—but truth will not be found thereby. Even the leper has not found truth; how will massaging his feet make you find it? Otherwise the leper would already have it—he has done a far greater work. Good work indeed—better than the ancient rites which were utterly futile: waving a plate before a stone image was sheer madness. Now at least you carry the plate to one who is hungry—there is some intelligence in that. But truth will not come from it. The mind is demanding work; it will be gratified by this too.
Hence those who serve—if prevented from serving—would go insane. Someone is on a padayatra; stop him and he will fall into trouble. Through walking he is discharging the frenzy for doing that has possessed him. Were the world to have no poor and no lepers, some people would be in great distress—for whom would they serve? They would be in great difficulty.
I have heard: A father was instructing his son—God has made you so that you may serve all. The son said: That I understand; but for what has God made the others? To serve me? Or only so that others may serve them?
The son placed the father in a dilemma. Parents are safe only so long as children do not ask questions. Once they begin, the trouble starts.
The boy asked: I understand that I have been made to serve others, but for what were others made? To serve me? And if everyone is made for service, then whose service will be done?
And if service is merit, then making others serve becomes sin. And what merit can that be which depends on someone else’s sin? The old rites have ended; new rituals are born.
But the grip of karma arises from a deep need in the mind. Hence one set of ways has always emphasized action. And for those among us who are extroverts—who cannot look within but only without, whose lives can be lived only outwardly—for all such, the path of karma seems appealing, attractive.
Those who serve, who perform havans and yajnas, are extroverts. They cannot look within. Their eyes see only outward; they need outward happenings. If nothing happens outside they fall into great difficulty, for they have no tendency to turn inward. The extroverts formulated notions like karmayoga.
Second, the inner layer—after karma—is that of thought. Man thinks the whole time—planning, reflecting, brooding. This too is a need of mind. It cannot live without thinking; it needs thought.
Jnana-yoga—the path of knowledge—fulfills this second demand of the mind. Scriptures: the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible; gurus, the learned—gather thoughts from everywhere and ruminate upon them. The mind says: Keep ruminating constantly. Keep thinking something or other. Do not fall empty—for if the mind becomes free of thinking even for a single instant, if thinking stops even for a moment, an interval opens—the doorway through which one can slip out of mind. So the mind does not allow even a single instant without thought.
Even if you say: No, I must go beyond thinking—then it will say: Think about how to go beyond thinking. But keep thinking. If you must be thought-free, then let us think about thoughtlessness—but thinking must continue. Do not shut the thought engine off.
If you are tired of worldly thinking, then think of religion. If the earth no longer attracts, think of heaven. If human faces seem unworthy of thought, fabricate faces in your mind—of God, of Krishna, of Rama, of Buddha. Think about them—but keep thinking. The mind says: one cannot live without thought.
So for those who want to avoid action, the mind gives the path of thinking. The energy that would have gone into action is diverted into thinking. Hence those who do much cannot think much, and those who think much do not do much.
The thinker is not of the world of action, and the man of action is seldom a thinker—because energy is limited. If it flows into action, it cannot flow into thought; if it flows into thought, it cannot flow into action. But the mind’s demand is met, for thought—subtly—is also a form of action, a doing, a subtle activity.
One thinks of wealth, of house, of friends, of relatives. Then he tires of this and thinks of Paramatma, of Atman, of moksha. Thinking continues.
Remember, to fulfill this second need of mind there is jnana-yoga. It is not a path to truth. It is the mind’s food—a way to gratify the mind. Through it, no one has arrived anywhere. Yes, the mind can be sent wandering on a long journey.
These paths that have arisen were not born from arriving at truth; they were invented to gratify our mental appetites.
Neither by karma has anyone arrived, nor by jnana has anyone arrived.
Yet jnana holds great sway. For it is easy to concede that action cannot bring you there. If a man turns a rosary, how will turning beads take him anywhere? However many rounds he does, how will he arrive by twirling a mala? If a man waves a plate before an idol, how will he reach? Even our common sense can grasp this. But it is harder to grasp that thinking, too, will not take you there.
This must be pondered a little.
What can thought do? About that which we do not know, thought cannot think. It can only think about what we already know.
Thought cannot truly think the new. Regarding the unknown, thought has no wings. Have you ever thought of a thing you do not know? You cannot. Perhaps you say: I can imagine a horse made of gold, with wings, flying in the sky. Yes—but that is nothing new. It is merely a combination of five or six old elements: you have seen wings on a bird, you have seen gold, you have seen a horse—combine the three. In thought you can make a golden horse, attach wings, let him fly. But it is just a mixture of stale, worn pieces. There is nothing original in it.
Thought cannot conceive the new; thought is inherently stale, borrowed.
There is nothing like an original thought. What we call an “original thought” does not exist. No thought can be original—by its very nature it cannot. Thought is always secondhand, taken from somewhere. Yes, you can break ten or five old thoughts and reassemble them into a new configuration. It will not take you to truth.
Truth is the unknown, the unfamiliar, the uncharted. How will you know it by thinking? How will you think that of which you have no inkling? There is no way. Truth cannot be thought.
Yet people sit with eyes closed saying: We contemplate truth! You will be thinking—but not truth. When all thoughts are exhausted, what remains is truth. Even the wall of thought does not let you touch truth—whether the thoughts are gathered from scriptures, from a guru, or from your own experience. The layer of thought is also a fundamental barrier between us and truth.
The jnani will condemn karma: What will action do? Think! But thinking is a subtle form of action. In essence, what is the difference between action and thinking? In action the body participates; in thinking only the mind. Thinking is the mind’s activity. If in a task you use the body, it becomes karma; if you use only the mind, it becomes thinking. If I eat with the body, that is action; if I sit with eyes closed and think of eating, that is thought—still an activity, only mental.
What we call jnana-yoga—where can it take you? Nowhere. It satisfies one deep layer of the mind. That is why a second “way,” jnana-yoga, has existed—but it too is no way.
The third is the path of feeling—bhava. It is the central power of the mind—emotion. It is the subtlest.
Karma is outermost, then thought, then feeling.
Feeling is so subtle it is hard to detect. Until it becomes thought, we hardly recognize it; and until it becomes action, others cannot perceive it. When feeling turns into thought, we can recognize it; when it becomes action, others can recognize it. Feeling is the ultra-subtle mind.
Some say: Not through thought, not through logic, not through reasoning—but through feeling, through devotion. They say: Drop thinking, drop doing; dissolve in feeling.
But feeling too is a deep layer of mind. Whether it is love or anger; friendship or enmity; surrender—still it is my mind in a state of feeling. It is my mind that feels.
From these feelings, bhakti was born: We shall emote. By feeling we can create illusions; by feeling we can generate great delusions. Through feeling, any inward dream can seem real.
Feeling has great power. If one feels with his whole mind, whatsoever he feels becomes his reality.
This is what happens in hypnosis. If a person under hypnosis is told: You are no longer a man—you have become a dog—the state of hypnosis suspends action and thought; only feeling remains. Thought could create a little obstruction—protesting: Who says I am a dog? I am a man! But thought is also put to sleep. Only feeling is left.
Feeling is utterly blind. If only feeling remains, and the suggestion is given—You are a dog—and then he is asked to speak, he will not speak; he will begin to bark! He has grasped the feeling: I am a dog.
Recently in an American university a strange incident occurred; thereafter legal restrictions had to be placed upon hypnosis. Four students in a hostel were reading a book on hypnotism. The book said: Whatever is felt intensely can become reality. One of the four concluded: Impossible—it cannot be. Yet let us experiment. They laid a student down in a room, closed the door, and three of them kept giving suggestions: You are unconscious, you are unconscious... For half an hour they continued. Gradually they saw the student had gone unconscious. In jest, one of them said: Good—he is unconscious. Another joked: You are dead. The student never returned. His breath stopped.
There was a trial, but the offense was unintended. No one wanted to kill him. But if the whole mind grips a feeling—“I am dead”—no power in the world can save him. If feeling becomes that intense, the connection with the body snaps at once. Such is the strength of feeling—but it is the mind’s strength. If we choose to experiment with feeling, many things can be done.
A devotee of Christ can see Christ. In Europe there are Christian mystics, even today, in whose bodies the stigmata appear. Jesus was crucified—nails were hammered through his hands—on a Friday. To this day, on Fridays, there are mystics who sit with their arms outstretched. Thousands gather to see. At the very hour when the nails were driven into the hands of Jesus, holes open in their hands and blood begins to flow. They identify so completely, become one with Jesus in feeling. And they do not think: Nails are piercing Jesus—they feel: Nails are piercing me; I am Jesus, son of Mary! Nails are being driven through my hands.
If this is felt with totality, nails are driven into the hands! People even walk on fire—it is a matter of feeling. If feeling has determined utterly that fire will not burn, it is very difficult for fire to burn.
Anything feeling adopts intensely becomes possible. But it is a projection of our own mind. It is we who create it.
One may have darshan of Krishna, play with flute-bearing Krishna, join his leela. But that Krishna is only a reflection of our own mind, our own feeling.
Hence the devotee says: Do not doubt—for with doubt, feeling cannot become total. He says: Do not think, for thought may bring counter-thoughts. He says: Surrender yourself completely to God.
And who is God? He too is a feeling of my mind. If we knew Him, that would be different. We do not. Surrender totally to a feeling of your own mind! Then, as our imagination shapes, so things begin to happen.
Tulsidas said: As one imagines his deity, so are his visions of Him. Not visions of Him—as he imagines, so he has visions of his own imagination! We can behold our own imaginings. But the vision of imagination does not lead to truth.
Therefore the more endowed one is with imagination, the easier bhakti seems. It is easier for women than for men. Hence in temples, in kirtans, the crowds are more of women than men—because their power of feeling is more intense. Thus two thousand years ago devotion was easier than today—feeling was more accessible; ten thousand years ago it was easier still.
Ten thousand years ago the gods and goddesses did not have to remain very far; they dwelt upon the earth itself. Now they must remain far away, because man has begun to think too much and a gap has come between man and gods. Then gods came down, accepted offerings; there was conversation, communion—even love affairs between gods and human women, and children born of them. All that happened.
Gods were close, because man had little reason and much feeling. He possessed the capacity to create deities of any kind through feeling. That capacity has receded. No loss—for those gods were nothing but our imaginings, day-dreams we ourselves had dreamt. They vanished because they were our dreams. We awoke—and they disappeared.
In the coming world, the devotee has very little chance to survive, because feeling cannot live without reason; reason intrudes. When reason stands in the way, feeling cannot become total; imagination shatters. If even the slightest doubt arises—Perhaps this is my imagination—the whole thing collapses. With so little suspicion, feeling departs.
Feeling demands totality. It says: Give yourself entirely—do not save even an inch. But neither through feeling, nor through knowledge, nor through action does man rise above the mind.
To go beyond the mind, one must go beyond all three—beyond karma, beyond jnana, beyond bhava. All kinds of imaginings must be dropped. All kinds of thoughts must be dropped. All inner activities must be dropped.
This does not mean one will do nothing. No. By doing, one comes to know that by doing truth is not attained. By doing, objects can be attained. If I walk, I can arrive at Rajkot—not at moksha. Walking does not reach moksha; walking reaches Rajkot.
This does not mean one should give up thinking. Much can be known by thought. All science is the search of thought. But science does not arrive at truth; it arrives at approximate truths—always almost-truth, never truth itself.
And remember, “almost truth” has no meaning. Does “almost truth” mean anything? If I tell you, I almost love you—does it mean anything? Or if I say, My statement is almost true—it means false. There is no such thing as approximate truth. Either it is truth, or it is false. However close to truth, until it is truth, it is false.
Therefore science is always approximate. Newton was approximate; Einstein was approximate. Those who come later will also be approximate. No one can ever say, Here is truth. At most he says: From what we presently know, it appears this is true. Tomorrow we come to know more, and it appears it is not true; then more—and again it is not true. Today it is difficult even to write a large book of science, for it takes two years and in two years all “truths” change; science moves on.
Science is never near truth; it always moves around it. The vicinity has no meaning—and it will never reach.
Yet thought has its use. Science has its power, its potency. I do not say: Abandon thinking. I say: Thought leads to the near-truths of science, not to the truths of religion.
And action? Action will not carry you to the temple of Paramatma. Yes, if you must reach human houses, you will need action. And going to human houses has its own meaning. Therefore I do not say: Renounce action. If the belly must be filled, bread earned, action is needed. But if truth is to be brought into the soul, action has no relevance. Action has its utility, its dimension. There it has meaning.
So I do not say: Flee from action. I say only: Do not attempt to go to truth by action. Where action can take you—go there by action. Where thought can take you—let thought take you there.
For example: If I try to hear with my eyes, there will be trouble. The eyes are not instruments for hearing. If I tell you: You cannot hear with the eyes—it does not mean I say you cannot see with them. With eyes you can see. So for seeing—use eyes; for hearing—do not use eyes. To hear, use ears.
The instruments of the mind have their uses and utilities. By action man relates to the outer world. All constructions and destructions of the outer world are action. By thought man comes to understand the laws, the causality behind the world—and through that understanding, his power to act increases. Hence Bacon said: Knowledge is power. He spoke rightly—knowledge is power. But not truth. Knowledge is power. What will you do with power? You will put it into action—for the sole use of power is to act. The more knowledge increases, the more action increases.
What will you do with knowledge? Its use is that action grows. Therefore in the East action is less; in the West it is more—so much more that one has no leisure even to stand still. If he goes to see a waterfall, he looks while rushing past in the car and moves on. If he goes to see a country, he sees it from the airplane above and moves on. He is running so hard! Because thought has given power to action; and power transforms into action—otherwise it becomes a danger. Power demands: Give me work! Give me tasks—or trouble will come. So power asks for work and becomes action.
Feeling has its own use in life. If you relate to your wife, you relate through feeling—but you cannot relate to Paramatma through feeling. With your child you relate through feeling; with a friend, through feeling—not with the Divine. And if you massage a leper’s feet, you do it with feeling. If you serve the poor—you do it with feeling. But this has nothing to do with Paramatma. Feeling has its sphere.
And a man without feeling is very incomplete. A man without thought is also incomplete. A man without action is incomplete. Each has its dimension. But truth is not available in any of these dimensions.
Through feeling you attain the world of feeling; through thought, the world of thought; through action, the world of action.
And there is a world that is beyond these three—beyond, transcending them. Where neither feeling remains, nor thought, nor action. Where only Existence remains.
Existence has three branches. From the seed of Existence three branches have sprouted—karma, bhava, jnana. But if we wander along these branches, we never come to know the root of Existence. We must climb down from the branches to the root. Paramatma, or truth, is Existence. To descend there, all three must be left.
These three are not paths; they are deviations. By them we can wander—but not arrive. And if arrival is desired, one must step aside from all three. In the coming three days I will speak about this—why they are deviations. I want to speak deeply on each—why the deviation, and how it happens.
Surely you will ask: Then what way? A fourth way? Not a fourth, not a fifth. In truth there is no way. And when a man steps down from all ways, he reaches there where he must reach.
No path can take you there. There are reasons. Let me say a few things.
First: Had He been far from us, any path could have taken us to Him. But He is not far; therefore every path will take us far away. If I must reach you, I need a road. But if I must reach myself, how can there be a road? If I choose a road to reach myself, I have gone astray—because how can there be a road to where I already am? I am already with myself. So long as I remain on roads, I will go on imagining myself far. The day I step off the road, I will find I was here all along.
The day Buddha became enlightened, people asked him: You have arrived? You have attained? Buddha said: Do not ask such things now—how shall I say “I attained”? That which was always the case has been recognized today. Not attained—recognized.
By which path did you reach? He was asked. Buddha said: No path could have taken me, for every path led to where I was not. And here I had to reach where I already was. Roads can take us to where we are not; if I am here already, what need of a road? There is no way—because we are there already.
Suppose in Rajkot I fall asleep and dream I am in Calcutta, and in the dream become anxious—by morning I must be in Rajkot! Great difficulty—how shall I return? Where is the road? I begin to ask: Tell me the way—train, plane, bullock cart, on foot—what shall I do to reach Rajkot?
If someone tells me a route and I start walking upon it, do you think I will reach Rajkot? By whatever path and whatever vehicle, I shall not reach Rajkot—because I am already there. How will I reach Rajkot?
In the morning when my sleep breaks—when I wake—and someone asks: Have you reached Rajkot? I will say: Hard to say “reached”—I was here. The wonder is: While being here, how did I go astray? Where did I wander? How did I come to imagine I had gone from Rajkot to far-off Calcutta?
Paramatma is where we are. Truth is where we have always been. Truth is that from which separation is not possible.
People ask me: How to search for God? I ask them: How did you lose Him? If you can tell me how you lost, I will tell you how you will find.
They say: We do not know how we lost Him. Then I say: That which has not been lost—of which you do not even know the losing—why enter the madness of seeking it? Do not seek. Drop all seeking.
Lao Tzu has said two or three small aphorisms. One is: Seek, and you will not find. Do not seek—and find. Upside-down words—but whosoever knows has inevitably spoken the contrary.
Because if, in your dream, you ask me: How shall I reach Rajkot? I will tell you: Stop reaching—you are in Rajkot. Do not ask for a road.
But you say: Without a guru how shall I arrive? Give me a guru, give me a path, give me a way so that I can reach.
And I tell you: If you find a guru, you will be in trouble. Gurus put you in trouble—because they give you a path. They say: Here is the road; walk thus, from here you will arrive. The guru says: There is a way.
When a guru says “There is a way,” he says implicitly: That which we seek has been lost. He says: Where we must reach, we are not. He says: There is a distance between us and Paramatma to be covered by a path. All gurus are enemies of God—for Paramatma is where we are.
Paramatma is our very nature. We cannot lose Him. There is no way to lose Him. Wherever we run, He is with us. He is what we are. It is He who breathes, who is conscious, who looks through the eyes, who speaks, who hears. We cannot lose Him. If we sleep, He sleeps; if we wake, He wakes.
There is no possibility of a path. But man has made paths—because the mind that creates all wandering also creates the paths. The mind manufactures gurus, disciplines, yogas—everything. And so long as the mind keeps manufacturing, we remain in dream. The mind is dream. The mind is sleep. And if we are to awaken from sleep, we must stop feeding the mind. If even for a single instant the mind receives no food—no fuel...
Consider a car: you supply fuel—petrol—and it runs. If I say, Let it get no fuel for one minute, you say: What difference will a minute make? I say: Even one minute without fuel—and the car will stop. Yes, if you listen to the salesmen, you are in trouble.
I have heard: In a Ford showroom an agent was selling cars. He took a man out in the car, drove five or seven miles to show him the ride, hoping he would like it. The car stalled. The customer said: A new car—and this happens?
The agent said: It seems I forgot to put petrol. See—the tank is empty; I came without fuel.
The man asked: Then how did we come seven miles without petrol?
The agent said: So much it can go just on the name of Ford. For that much, petrol is not needed!
Salesmen talk differently—the ones who run without fuel: whether Ford’s agents, or the agents of Rama, of Mahavira, of Krishna—it makes no difference. Vendors and agents talk differently. They will make it run: They say—On the name of Rama alone it will go, what else is needed! If it runs on the name of Rama, why not on the name of Ford? It can!
But let the car be without petrol for a minute, and it will stop where it is.
If the mind gets no fuel even for a minute, it collapses. If it collapses even for a second, you get a glimpse—of the beyond of mind. If, for one minute, sleep breaks, you come to know another world which you never knew in your sleep.
So I do not say: Flee your actions. I do not say: Stop thinking. I do not say: Do not feel. I say: Understand the entire process of these three—and if, even for a single instant in twenty-four hours, the triad of feeling, action, and thought falls silent—then in that instant you will be amazed: Whom am I seeking? The one I seek—I am that. What am I in search of? The seeker himself is the sought. Where do I want to go? Where I want to go—I have always been standing.
And if even for a moment this illumination happens, you are a different man. Thereafter do what you will—within you you know there is something that does not do. Thereafter you may think, yet you know there is something outside thought. Then you may love—and even in the deepest moment of love, you know someone is witnessing, someone is watching even the act of loving. Thereafter, whatever you do in this world—you are nothing more than an actor.
Recently a new actor came to me. He said: Please write a line in my diary that will help me. I am new in the world of acting. I am working in two films, but I have no real understanding yet. I have come to you—hope you will not mind—for advice on acting.
I said: No need to worry; I am advising everyone about this only. I wrote a sentence in his diary. I would like you to write it in your diary as well.
I wrote: If you want to be a good actor, act as if it is life. And if you want to live rightly, live as if it is acting.
If an actor acts as though it were life, he succeeds. And if someone can live in life seeing that it is acting, he attains the secret of life and truth.
For me there is no path—because I see you only in a dream. Nowhere have you wandered—you have only fallen asleep.
In these three days I shall try to break the three paths. If all three break, you will be left without a path. Blessed is he who has no path—for then there is no way left to go. Then he will stand still. What will he do? There is no road—he must stand. And the one who stands still comes to see that which is ever-present.
But we are running, we are racing, we are inventing new roads; we do not see that which surrounds us on all sides. To see it, at least for a moment, you must stand still.
If you insist upon the language of paths, then I will say: To drop all paths is the path; to stop running is the path; to halt is the path; to be still is the path. But no path ever tells you to be still. A path is for going.
The path says: Move!
Religion says: Be still! Therefore religion can have no path.
The path says: Walk! Run! Run fast! And it says: Do not take the other road, or you will go astray. This is my right way! Thus all path-makers mislead; all sectarians mislead.
Religion has no path, no sect. Religion says: Be still. Religion says: Stop. Religion says: Do not run.
But is there a “path” for not running? Is there a path for standing still? Is there a path to halting? No—the very meaning of halting is: there is no path. Only when you realize there is no path will you stop; otherwise you will keep running.
You will tire of one path and catch another. A Christian becomes a Hindu; Hindus are becoming Christians. Someone shifts from the Koran to the Gita; someone from the Gita to the Koran. Someone leaves this guru for that guru, and from that guru to another.
When will the day come when you say: No guru, no path, no scripture? The moment this dawns, there will be no way left to move—you will stop. The moment you stand still, that very moment the revolution happens which is called religion.
In these three days I will try to shatter all three paths—and I will hope that when I leave on the fourth day you will have no path, and you will remain standing.
Remember, Paramatma is seeking you greatly—but you are never found. You are running so much that by the time He arrives you have gone further ahead. However fast He runs, you run faster, and go on ahead. By the time He locates where you are, He finds you on yet another path. Thus the meeting never happens.
Man does not have to seek God. God is continuously seeking man. But at least be found at home. Whenever He comes and knocks at your door, it turns out you are elsewhere. By the time He reaches there, you have gone somewhere else. Hence the meeting does not occur.
One small story, and I will finish.
I have heard of a very suspicious man. All men are suspicious in some measure. When he locked his house, he would shake the lock four times and keep returning to check whether he had locked it or not—lest he might have forgotten! One morning he went to a barber for a shave. The barber shaved him; he paid a rupee. The barber said: Eight annas. The man said: I have no change—come tomorrow for the remaining eight annas.
He thought: Tomorrow who knows, this fellow may change. Such rapid changes are happening in the world—no one can be trusted where or what he will be tomorrow. Today he is a barber; tomorrow he may become a brahmin! Today he runs this shop; tomorrow he may change it. Nothing is certain. He thought: Better make it sure, else he will change. He thought to read the shop-sign properly; then he thought: What is the use—the board changes in two minutes. A Congressman turns Communist, a Communist becomes a Congressman—nothing is certain. He thought to memorize the man’s face; then: Faces change too—a householder becomes a sannyasin. The whole appearance changes—in a night, in a moment. He decided: Let me arrange something he cannot change, something that he won’t even know of. He made an arrangement and left.
Next morning he arrived and caught the shopkeeper by the neck: This is exactly what I had expected!
A buffalo was sitting outside the barbershop; he saw it and left. He thought: The buffalo will not know—wherever the buffalo sits tomorrow, there I will catch him at once. The buffalo moved away in the night. Can you trust a buffalo when you cannot trust a man? The buffalo moved.
Next morning she was sitting in front of a sweet-shop. He went and grabbed the sweet-seller by the neck: Well done! Over eight annas you changed so much! You could have just said you won’t pay. You must have taken such trouble and changed everything! But I, too, had made a sure arrangement. I had left the buffalo outside—and there she is, exactly where I left her. Everything changed—but the buffalo is still there.
Even if Paramatma is seeking us, how will He find us? Everything changes daily. The one we were in the morning is gone by evening; the one we are in the evening will not be there tomorrow morning. Everything changes. We are not where we were. All runs, all races—and very fast.
If for a single instant we stand still, nothing hinders our meeting with Him. He is present everywhere. He is only waiting for our standing still. Paramatma waits for the one who stops. The one who stops—becomes available.
There is no road, no path, no creed. There is no guru. There is you—and there is Paramatma.
And you too exist only so long as you are running; if you stop, you disappear at once—and only Paramatma remains.
So long as you run, there is “you” and there is “God,” because running creates the illusion “I am.” When the running ceases, when the mind is unfueled and goes—then what remains is Paramatma alone.
May the Divine grant that we can dissolve, and only He remain. He alone is. Our being is utterly false. Yet this falsehood has conceived the idea that it will meet the truth! How shall the false meet truth? We say: I want vision—of God. I—and I will see Him! How shall I see Him? This “I” is itself false. If I am not, then vision happens. But I say: I will attain vision! I shall merge with Him! I shall search and find! And in this searching and reaching the “I” grows stronger—and becomes the obstacle.
One by one—tomorrow on jnana, then on bhakti, then on karma—I will speak. Completely negative, destructive, shattering. When the roads are shattered, He stands at the door.
You have listened to my words with such silence and love; for that I am grateful. In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Kindly accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
When the night is dark, the hope of morning arises. Man too is a dark night—and in him as well, the hope of dawn can be cherished. If a plant is full of thorns, even then flowers can bloom upon it. Man too is a plant bristling with thorns—yet the hope of a flower is still possible. Where there is a seed, sprouting and growth are possible. Man too is a seed—and in him, dreams of growth may be dreamed.
But ordinarily man remains a seed and never becomes a tree. Ordinarily man remains a thorny plant and the flowers never open. Ordinarily man remains a night, and daybreak never happens. He remains a dream—and never becomes the truth.
Therefore, before every human being a question stands: What is the way? How shall we reach that, upon becoming which no further becoming remains to be desired? How to attain that, upon attaining which nothing remains yet to be attained? Where is that temple in which we can be available to our whole being, become that for which we were born? Where is the path? Which path is it?
The greatest difficulty is this: life is like the sky, not like the earth. If only life were like the earth—then Mahavira walks, Buddha walks, Krishna walks, Christ walks—paths would have been laid down; footprints would have been left! Millions have walked and arrived—foot-tracks would have formed. And there would be no reason why we could not have constructed a paved highway to that temple.
But this has not been possible, because life is like the sky; in the sky birds fly, and no footprints are left. The bird flies away, no trace remains behind. The bird arrives; the path does not crystalize. And when another bird must fly, it must begin anew—not along a laid trail. The sky remains empty again.
This is both misfortune and blessing. Misfortune—because there is no fixed road. Blessing—because if a fixed road existed, all the joy of reaching that temple would be destroyed; for the joy is less in arriving and more in the pilgrimage itself. The beauty of that temple is born out of the very search for it. The realization of truth is received through the labor-pain of giving birth to it within oneself.
To my vision it would have been misfortune had a road been made; fixed tracks, like railway lines, would have carried us to the doors of God—of truth, beauty, love. But then that temple would have become stale and borrowed. Its freshness and newness would be lost.
It is the great grace of Paramatma that life is not like the earth but like the sky, where no footprints remain.
Yet man yearns for the path! How to reach? And the moment one begins to think, life appears meaningless. No sense seems to be anywhere. Everywhere darkness—no light visible. Why are we living? Why were we born? No reason seems to be behind it. Meaningless, absurd; no meaning, no congruence. Whoever begins to think finds it so.
It is natural then to ask: Is there any way?
For thousands of years man has reflected upon three ways. Within those three, all the world’s paths can be subsumed. We too have heard their names. Why did only three become so important? Because they exist? No; because the human mind is divided in three layers, has three centers, three circles.
If we enter the human mind, its first periphery is that of action—karma. To remain without work is very difficult. The mind does not want to live even a single moment without doing. So if there is no work, man will invent useless work. Sometimes, traveling, with a lone passenger beside me—I see he has already read the newspaper twice, and he begins reading it a third time! Why a third time? Because the mind cannot live a single instant without something to do. It needs occupation.
Though we all think how good it would be to be free of work, if we were truly freed from it, we would fall into troubles far worse than work ever brought. We would then have to invent vain occupations. Man will play cards—and if he finds no partner he will play alone, from both sides! He moves the cards from the opponent’s hand that is not there, and from his own hand as well. Some activity is needed.
The outermost rim of mind demands work: give me work. Hence one path became the path of karma. It is the mind’s demand. So we have invented ritual—karmakanda: worship, austerities, postures, yoga. We devised twenty-five kinds of occupations—for reaching Paramatma. But no occupation can take one to the Divine, because all occupations merely gratify the mind’s cravings—all of them! And unless one rises beyond the mind, no one can reach truth or God. The mind says—give me work!
We have heard tales that if you befriend a ghost, it demands work. It needs tasks. I have heard of a man who awakened a spirit. As the spirit rose, he bound him with a condition: I need work, I cannot remain without work. If ghosts indeed exist, surely this would be their condition—for a ghost has lost the body; only mind remains. It needs no rest now; only activity.
The body needs rest; the mind does not. So even when the body sleeps at night, the mind keeps working in dreams. Dreams are the mind’s world of work. When the body has dropped with fatigue, the mind does not tire. Then it begins to dream. And whatever work was left undone by day, it finishes at night in dream.
By seeing a man’s dreams at night we could tell which activities he denied himself in the day. If someone fasted, it will be evident in his dream—he will feast at night. If someone practiced continence, at night he will indulge. If someone repressed anger in the day, at night he will rage. When the body rests, the mind completes the demands it had raised during the day and that were inhibited for some reason.
A ghost has only mind. If it demands, do not be surprised! It says: give me work. The man who had awakened the spirit said: Work is exactly why we have awakened you; we will give you plenty. But the tasks finished very quickly, because the spirit accomplished them in an instant! By evening he returned demanding more. By dusk the man grew frightened, for he had nothing left to give!
We too would panic if no work remained.
We too would panic if no work remained! The spirit found himself in trouble as well: You awakened me! I was fine sleeping, now awake I need work. The man was anxious—no work remained.
He said: Wait; there is a fakir in the village, I shall ask him. Whenever I get into trouble, he helps me. Today a new kind of trouble has come. Until now the trouble was always how to solve some work. Today the trouble is how to remain without it!
America is approaching that state. Technology has awakened a spirit that will free man from work. The American thinker today worries about only one thing: that in twenty or twenty-five years technology will relieve every person from labor—then what? Man will say: give us work. We will have none. We will say: take food, clothes, shelter—but do not ask for work! The one who agrees not to work will get a higher wage! Twenty-five years hence, the person who insists “I must have work” will be paid less—because he asks for both, wages and work! Both cannot be given.
That man faced the same difficulty and went to the fakir. He said: I am in great trouble. I awakened a spirit in the morning; by evening all tasks were done. I have none left—and he will take my life!
The fakir said: Do one thing. Take that pot lying there.
The man asked: What shall I do with it?
The fakir said: Tell the spirit to keep filling it. The pot had no bottom. It was bottomless.
The man said: There is no bottom to this pot—how will the poor fellow fill it?
The fakir replied: If he manages to fill it, then your trouble will begin again. Let him fill; this pot will never fill. He will keep pouring and pouring and he will keep getting work. The man took the pot and gave it to the spirit. From that day the spirit has never come back to ask for tasks—because that work is still not complete!
When man runs out of meaningful work, he chooses such work as can never be completed. He begins to fill bottomless pots.
So the moment a person’s ordinary needs are met, the greatest question before him becomes: fetch such a pot as never fills. He enters the race for positions—it will never end. However high he climbs, a higher post will appear. The pot has no bottom. He enters the race for wealth—no matter how much he earns, he remains poor, because more still remains to be earned.
Andrew Carnegie died—an American billionaire. At death he had a billion dollars, yet he was very sad. A friend said: You should not be dejected. You have achieved what you desired—perhaps you are the richest man on earth! You leave behind a billion.
Carnegie said: Don’t talk like that; don’t wound my heart. Only a billion—how depressing! My intention was to leave a hundred billion. Death has come too soon. I die a poor man—for my desire was a hundred, and I managed only ten. By ninety I am poor. I lack ninety billion that should have been there.
And remember, had he gotten a hundred, nothing would change—for numbers do not end at a hundred. They run on—to a thousand billions, a million billions...
No matter how much you get, it makes no difference. Man chooses wealth, rank, fame—when his world of useful work is fulfilled, he then chooses tasks with no bottom. He keeps on filling. He becomes a small minister, then a big minister; from there he moves toward Delhi; then bigger and bigger he becomes. And the race is endless. There is no finish line. All this he chooses because the mind needs work.
The mind says: If I don’t get work, I will die. And one who wants to seek truth must let the mind die for truth to be found. The mind must die, because what can die cannot be truth. What remains after the mind dies—and does not die—that is truth, and that is the nectar within.
But the death-ridden mind clamors for work to save itself!
Thus one way men have sought is the path of karma—religious action, ritual. A man performs a fire-offering, one turns a rosary, another waves a lamp before God. Those were the old rites—yajnas, havans, worship, recitations. These were the activities through which man thought to attain truth, to attain bliss.
But through activities truth can never be attained. They only gratify the mind and nothing else. That was the old world of karma. But man tires of the old. All occupations eventually stale. Then he invents new occupations. Service—seva—is the new ritual.
One says: Through serving the poor, truth will be found. Another says: By massaging the leper’s limbs, truth will be found. Another: By giving bread to the hungry, truth will be found. No—giving bread to the hungry is very good; massaging a leper’s feet is very good; serving the poor is very good—but truth will not be found thereby. Even the leper has not found truth; how will massaging his feet make you find it? Otherwise the leper would already have it—he has done a far greater work. Good work indeed—better than the ancient rites which were utterly futile: waving a plate before a stone image was sheer madness. Now at least you carry the plate to one who is hungry—there is some intelligence in that. But truth will not come from it. The mind is demanding work; it will be gratified by this too.
Hence those who serve—if prevented from serving—would go insane. Someone is on a padayatra; stop him and he will fall into trouble. Through walking he is discharging the frenzy for doing that has possessed him. Were the world to have no poor and no lepers, some people would be in great distress—for whom would they serve? They would be in great difficulty.
I have heard: A father was instructing his son—God has made you so that you may serve all. The son said: That I understand; but for what has God made the others? To serve me? Or only so that others may serve them?
The son placed the father in a dilemma. Parents are safe only so long as children do not ask questions. Once they begin, the trouble starts.
The boy asked: I understand that I have been made to serve others, but for what were others made? To serve me? And if everyone is made for service, then whose service will be done?
And if service is merit, then making others serve becomes sin. And what merit can that be which depends on someone else’s sin? The old rites have ended; new rituals are born.
But the grip of karma arises from a deep need in the mind. Hence one set of ways has always emphasized action. And for those among us who are extroverts—who cannot look within but only without, whose lives can be lived only outwardly—for all such, the path of karma seems appealing, attractive.
Those who serve, who perform havans and yajnas, are extroverts. They cannot look within. Their eyes see only outward; they need outward happenings. If nothing happens outside they fall into great difficulty, for they have no tendency to turn inward. The extroverts formulated notions like karmayoga.
Second, the inner layer—after karma—is that of thought. Man thinks the whole time—planning, reflecting, brooding. This too is a need of mind. It cannot live without thinking; it needs thought.
Jnana-yoga—the path of knowledge—fulfills this second demand of the mind. Scriptures: the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible; gurus, the learned—gather thoughts from everywhere and ruminate upon them. The mind says: Keep ruminating constantly. Keep thinking something or other. Do not fall empty—for if the mind becomes free of thinking even for a single instant, if thinking stops even for a moment, an interval opens—the doorway through which one can slip out of mind. So the mind does not allow even a single instant without thought.
Even if you say: No, I must go beyond thinking—then it will say: Think about how to go beyond thinking. But keep thinking. If you must be thought-free, then let us think about thoughtlessness—but thinking must continue. Do not shut the thought engine off.
If you are tired of worldly thinking, then think of religion. If the earth no longer attracts, think of heaven. If human faces seem unworthy of thought, fabricate faces in your mind—of God, of Krishna, of Rama, of Buddha. Think about them—but keep thinking. The mind says: one cannot live without thought.
So for those who want to avoid action, the mind gives the path of thinking. The energy that would have gone into action is diverted into thinking. Hence those who do much cannot think much, and those who think much do not do much.
The thinker is not of the world of action, and the man of action is seldom a thinker—because energy is limited. If it flows into action, it cannot flow into thought; if it flows into thought, it cannot flow into action. But the mind’s demand is met, for thought—subtly—is also a form of action, a doing, a subtle activity.
One thinks of wealth, of house, of friends, of relatives. Then he tires of this and thinks of Paramatma, of Atman, of moksha. Thinking continues.
Remember, to fulfill this second need of mind there is jnana-yoga. It is not a path to truth. It is the mind’s food—a way to gratify the mind. Through it, no one has arrived anywhere. Yes, the mind can be sent wandering on a long journey.
These paths that have arisen were not born from arriving at truth; they were invented to gratify our mental appetites.
Neither by karma has anyone arrived, nor by jnana has anyone arrived.
Yet jnana holds great sway. For it is easy to concede that action cannot bring you there. If a man turns a rosary, how will turning beads take him anywhere? However many rounds he does, how will he arrive by twirling a mala? If a man waves a plate before an idol, how will he reach? Even our common sense can grasp this. But it is harder to grasp that thinking, too, will not take you there.
This must be pondered a little.
What can thought do? About that which we do not know, thought cannot think. It can only think about what we already know.
Thought cannot truly think the new. Regarding the unknown, thought has no wings. Have you ever thought of a thing you do not know? You cannot. Perhaps you say: I can imagine a horse made of gold, with wings, flying in the sky. Yes—but that is nothing new. It is merely a combination of five or six old elements: you have seen wings on a bird, you have seen gold, you have seen a horse—combine the three. In thought you can make a golden horse, attach wings, let him fly. But it is just a mixture of stale, worn pieces. There is nothing original in it.
Thought cannot conceive the new; thought is inherently stale, borrowed.
There is nothing like an original thought. What we call an “original thought” does not exist. No thought can be original—by its very nature it cannot. Thought is always secondhand, taken from somewhere. Yes, you can break ten or five old thoughts and reassemble them into a new configuration. It will not take you to truth.
Truth is the unknown, the unfamiliar, the uncharted. How will you know it by thinking? How will you think that of which you have no inkling? There is no way. Truth cannot be thought.
Yet people sit with eyes closed saying: We contemplate truth! You will be thinking—but not truth. When all thoughts are exhausted, what remains is truth. Even the wall of thought does not let you touch truth—whether the thoughts are gathered from scriptures, from a guru, or from your own experience. The layer of thought is also a fundamental barrier between us and truth.
The jnani will condemn karma: What will action do? Think! But thinking is a subtle form of action. In essence, what is the difference between action and thinking? In action the body participates; in thinking only the mind. Thinking is the mind’s activity. If in a task you use the body, it becomes karma; if you use only the mind, it becomes thinking. If I eat with the body, that is action; if I sit with eyes closed and think of eating, that is thought—still an activity, only mental.
What we call jnana-yoga—where can it take you? Nowhere. It satisfies one deep layer of the mind. That is why a second “way,” jnana-yoga, has existed—but it too is no way.
The third is the path of feeling—bhava. It is the central power of the mind—emotion. It is the subtlest.
Karma is outermost, then thought, then feeling.
Feeling is so subtle it is hard to detect. Until it becomes thought, we hardly recognize it; and until it becomes action, others cannot perceive it. When feeling turns into thought, we can recognize it; when it becomes action, others can recognize it. Feeling is the ultra-subtle mind.
Some say: Not through thought, not through logic, not through reasoning—but through feeling, through devotion. They say: Drop thinking, drop doing; dissolve in feeling.
But feeling too is a deep layer of mind. Whether it is love or anger; friendship or enmity; surrender—still it is my mind in a state of feeling. It is my mind that feels.
From these feelings, bhakti was born: We shall emote. By feeling we can create illusions; by feeling we can generate great delusions. Through feeling, any inward dream can seem real.
Feeling has great power. If one feels with his whole mind, whatsoever he feels becomes his reality.
This is what happens in hypnosis. If a person under hypnosis is told: You are no longer a man—you have become a dog—the state of hypnosis suspends action and thought; only feeling remains. Thought could create a little obstruction—protesting: Who says I am a dog? I am a man! But thought is also put to sleep. Only feeling is left.
Feeling is utterly blind. If only feeling remains, and the suggestion is given—You are a dog—and then he is asked to speak, he will not speak; he will begin to bark! He has grasped the feeling: I am a dog.
Recently in an American university a strange incident occurred; thereafter legal restrictions had to be placed upon hypnosis. Four students in a hostel were reading a book on hypnotism. The book said: Whatever is felt intensely can become reality. One of the four concluded: Impossible—it cannot be. Yet let us experiment. They laid a student down in a room, closed the door, and three of them kept giving suggestions: You are unconscious, you are unconscious... For half an hour they continued. Gradually they saw the student had gone unconscious. In jest, one of them said: Good—he is unconscious. Another joked: You are dead. The student never returned. His breath stopped.
There was a trial, but the offense was unintended. No one wanted to kill him. But if the whole mind grips a feeling—“I am dead”—no power in the world can save him. If feeling becomes that intense, the connection with the body snaps at once. Such is the strength of feeling—but it is the mind’s strength. If we choose to experiment with feeling, many things can be done.
A devotee of Christ can see Christ. In Europe there are Christian mystics, even today, in whose bodies the stigmata appear. Jesus was crucified—nails were hammered through his hands—on a Friday. To this day, on Fridays, there are mystics who sit with their arms outstretched. Thousands gather to see. At the very hour when the nails were driven into the hands of Jesus, holes open in their hands and blood begins to flow. They identify so completely, become one with Jesus in feeling. And they do not think: Nails are piercing Jesus—they feel: Nails are piercing me; I am Jesus, son of Mary! Nails are being driven through my hands.
If this is felt with totality, nails are driven into the hands! People even walk on fire—it is a matter of feeling. If feeling has determined utterly that fire will not burn, it is very difficult for fire to burn.
Anything feeling adopts intensely becomes possible. But it is a projection of our own mind. It is we who create it.
One may have darshan of Krishna, play with flute-bearing Krishna, join his leela. But that Krishna is only a reflection of our own mind, our own feeling.
Hence the devotee says: Do not doubt—for with doubt, feeling cannot become total. He says: Do not think, for thought may bring counter-thoughts. He says: Surrender yourself completely to God.
And who is God? He too is a feeling of my mind. If we knew Him, that would be different. We do not. Surrender totally to a feeling of your own mind! Then, as our imagination shapes, so things begin to happen.
Tulsidas said: As one imagines his deity, so are his visions of Him. Not visions of Him—as he imagines, so he has visions of his own imagination! We can behold our own imaginings. But the vision of imagination does not lead to truth.
Therefore the more endowed one is with imagination, the easier bhakti seems. It is easier for women than for men. Hence in temples, in kirtans, the crowds are more of women than men—because their power of feeling is more intense. Thus two thousand years ago devotion was easier than today—feeling was more accessible; ten thousand years ago it was easier still.
Ten thousand years ago the gods and goddesses did not have to remain very far; they dwelt upon the earth itself. Now they must remain far away, because man has begun to think too much and a gap has come between man and gods. Then gods came down, accepted offerings; there was conversation, communion—even love affairs between gods and human women, and children born of them. All that happened.
Gods were close, because man had little reason and much feeling. He possessed the capacity to create deities of any kind through feeling. That capacity has receded. No loss—for those gods were nothing but our imaginings, day-dreams we ourselves had dreamt. They vanished because they were our dreams. We awoke—and they disappeared.
In the coming world, the devotee has very little chance to survive, because feeling cannot live without reason; reason intrudes. When reason stands in the way, feeling cannot become total; imagination shatters. If even the slightest doubt arises—Perhaps this is my imagination—the whole thing collapses. With so little suspicion, feeling departs.
Feeling demands totality. It says: Give yourself entirely—do not save even an inch. But neither through feeling, nor through knowledge, nor through action does man rise above the mind.
To go beyond the mind, one must go beyond all three—beyond karma, beyond jnana, beyond bhava. All kinds of imaginings must be dropped. All kinds of thoughts must be dropped. All inner activities must be dropped.
This does not mean one will do nothing. No. By doing, one comes to know that by doing truth is not attained. By doing, objects can be attained. If I walk, I can arrive at Rajkot—not at moksha. Walking does not reach moksha; walking reaches Rajkot.
This does not mean one should give up thinking. Much can be known by thought. All science is the search of thought. But science does not arrive at truth; it arrives at approximate truths—always almost-truth, never truth itself.
And remember, “almost truth” has no meaning. Does “almost truth” mean anything? If I tell you, I almost love you—does it mean anything? Or if I say, My statement is almost true—it means false. There is no such thing as approximate truth. Either it is truth, or it is false. However close to truth, until it is truth, it is false.
Therefore science is always approximate. Newton was approximate; Einstein was approximate. Those who come later will also be approximate. No one can ever say, Here is truth. At most he says: From what we presently know, it appears this is true. Tomorrow we come to know more, and it appears it is not true; then more—and again it is not true. Today it is difficult even to write a large book of science, for it takes two years and in two years all “truths” change; science moves on.
Science is never near truth; it always moves around it. The vicinity has no meaning—and it will never reach.
Yet thought has its use. Science has its power, its potency. I do not say: Abandon thinking. I say: Thought leads to the near-truths of science, not to the truths of religion.
And action? Action will not carry you to the temple of Paramatma. Yes, if you must reach human houses, you will need action. And going to human houses has its own meaning. Therefore I do not say: Renounce action. If the belly must be filled, bread earned, action is needed. But if truth is to be brought into the soul, action has no relevance. Action has its utility, its dimension. There it has meaning.
So I do not say: Flee from action. I say only: Do not attempt to go to truth by action. Where action can take you—go there by action. Where thought can take you—let thought take you there.
For example: If I try to hear with my eyes, there will be trouble. The eyes are not instruments for hearing. If I tell you: You cannot hear with the eyes—it does not mean I say you cannot see with them. With eyes you can see. So for seeing—use eyes; for hearing—do not use eyes. To hear, use ears.
The instruments of the mind have their uses and utilities. By action man relates to the outer world. All constructions and destructions of the outer world are action. By thought man comes to understand the laws, the causality behind the world—and through that understanding, his power to act increases. Hence Bacon said: Knowledge is power. He spoke rightly—knowledge is power. But not truth. Knowledge is power. What will you do with power? You will put it into action—for the sole use of power is to act. The more knowledge increases, the more action increases.
What will you do with knowledge? Its use is that action grows. Therefore in the East action is less; in the West it is more—so much more that one has no leisure even to stand still. If he goes to see a waterfall, he looks while rushing past in the car and moves on. If he goes to see a country, he sees it from the airplane above and moves on. He is running so hard! Because thought has given power to action; and power transforms into action—otherwise it becomes a danger. Power demands: Give me work! Give me tasks—or trouble will come. So power asks for work and becomes action.
Feeling has its own use in life. If you relate to your wife, you relate through feeling—but you cannot relate to Paramatma through feeling. With your child you relate through feeling; with a friend, through feeling—not with the Divine. And if you massage a leper’s feet, you do it with feeling. If you serve the poor—you do it with feeling. But this has nothing to do with Paramatma. Feeling has its sphere.
And a man without feeling is very incomplete. A man without thought is also incomplete. A man without action is incomplete. Each has its dimension. But truth is not available in any of these dimensions.
Through feeling you attain the world of feeling; through thought, the world of thought; through action, the world of action.
And there is a world that is beyond these three—beyond, transcending them. Where neither feeling remains, nor thought, nor action. Where only Existence remains.
Existence has three branches. From the seed of Existence three branches have sprouted—karma, bhava, jnana. But if we wander along these branches, we never come to know the root of Existence. We must climb down from the branches to the root. Paramatma, or truth, is Existence. To descend there, all three must be left.
These three are not paths; they are deviations. By them we can wander—but not arrive. And if arrival is desired, one must step aside from all three. In the coming three days I will speak about this—why they are deviations. I want to speak deeply on each—why the deviation, and how it happens.
Surely you will ask: Then what way? A fourth way? Not a fourth, not a fifth. In truth there is no way. And when a man steps down from all ways, he reaches there where he must reach.
No path can take you there. There are reasons. Let me say a few things.
First: Had He been far from us, any path could have taken us to Him. But He is not far; therefore every path will take us far away. If I must reach you, I need a road. But if I must reach myself, how can there be a road? If I choose a road to reach myself, I have gone astray—because how can there be a road to where I already am? I am already with myself. So long as I remain on roads, I will go on imagining myself far. The day I step off the road, I will find I was here all along.
The day Buddha became enlightened, people asked him: You have arrived? You have attained? Buddha said: Do not ask such things now—how shall I say “I attained”? That which was always the case has been recognized today. Not attained—recognized.
By which path did you reach? He was asked. Buddha said: No path could have taken me, for every path led to where I was not. And here I had to reach where I already was. Roads can take us to where we are not; if I am here already, what need of a road? There is no way—because we are there already.
Suppose in Rajkot I fall asleep and dream I am in Calcutta, and in the dream become anxious—by morning I must be in Rajkot! Great difficulty—how shall I return? Where is the road? I begin to ask: Tell me the way—train, plane, bullock cart, on foot—what shall I do to reach Rajkot?
If someone tells me a route and I start walking upon it, do you think I will reach Rajkot? By whatever path and whatever vehicle, I shall not reach Rajkot—because I am already there. How will I reach Rajkot?
In the morning when my sleep breaks—when I wake—and someone asks: Have you reached Rajkot? I will say: Hard to say “reached”—I was here. The wonder is: While being here, how did I go astray? Where did I wander? How did I come to imagine I had gone from Rajkot to far-off Calcutta?
Paramatma is where we are. Truth is where we have always been. Truth is that from which separation is not possible.
People ask me: How to search for God? I ask them: How did you lose Him? If you can tell me how you lost, I will tell you how you will find.
They say: We do not know how we lost Him. Then I say: That which has not been lost—of which you do not even know the losing—why enter the madness of seeking it? Do not seek. Drop all seeking.
Lao Tzu has said two or three small aphorisms. One is: Seek, and you will not find. Do not seek—and find. Upside-down words—but whosoever knows has inevitably spoken the contrary.
Because if, in your dream, you ask me: How shall I reach Rajkot? I will tell you: Stop reaching—you are in Rajkot. Do not ask for a road.
But you say: Without a guru how shall I arrive? Give me a guru, give me a path, give me a way so that I can reach.
And I tell you: If you find a guru, you will be in trouble. Gurus put you in trouble—because they give you a path. They say: Here is the road; walk thus, from here you will arrive. The guru says: There is a way.
When a guru says “There is a way,” he says implicitly: That which we seek has been lost. He says: Where we must reach, we are not. He says: There is a distance between us and Paramatma to be covered by a path. All gurus are enemies of God—for Paramatma is where we are.
Paramatma is our very nature. We cannot lose Him. There is no way to lose Him. Wherever we run, He is with us. He is what we are. It is He who breathes, who is conscious, who looks through the eyes, who speaks, who hears. We cannot lose Him. If we sleep, He sleeps; if we wake, He wakes.
There is no possibility of a path. But man has made paths—because the mind that creates all wandering also creates the paths. The mind manufactures gurus, disciplines, yogas—everything. And so long as the mind keeps manufacturing, we remain in dream. The mind is dream. The mind is sleep. And if we are to awaken from sleep, we must stop feeding the mind. If even for a single instant the mind receives no food—no fuel...
Consider a car: you supply fuel—petrol—and it runs. If I say, Let it get no fuel for one minute, you say: What difference will a minute make? I say: Even one minute without fuel—and the car will stop. Yes, if you listen to the salesmen, you are in trouble.
I have heard: In a Ford showroom an agent was selling cars. He took a man out in the car, drove five or seven miles to show him the ride, hoping he would like it. The car stalled. The customer said: A new car—and this happens?
The agent said: It seems I forgot to put petrol. See—the tank is empty; I came without fuel.
The man asked: Then how did we come seven miles without petrol?
The agent said: So much it can go just on the name of Ford. For that much, petrol is not needed!
Salesmen talk differently—the ones who run without fuel: whether Ford’s agents, or the agents of Rama, of Mahavira, of Krishna—it makes no difference. Vendors and agents talk differently. They will make it run: They say—On the name of Rama alone it will go, what else is needed! If it runs on the name of Rama, why not on the name of Ford? It can!
But let the car be without petrol for a minute, and it will stop where it is.
If the mind gets no fuel even for a minute, it collapses. If it collapses even for a second, you get a glimpse—of the beyond of mind. If, for one minute, sleep breaks, you come to know another world which you never knew in your sleep.
So I do not say: Flee your actions. I do not say: Stop thinking. I do not say: Do not feel. I say: Understand the entire process of these three—and if, even for a single instant in twenty-four hours, the triad of feeling, action, and thought falls silent—then in that instant you will be amazed: Whom am I seeking? The one I seek—I am that. What am I in search of? The seeker himself is the sought. Where do I want to go? Where I want to go—I have always been standing.
And if even for a moment this illumination happens, you are a different man. Thereafter do what you will—within you you know there is something that does not do. Thereafter you may think, yet you know there is something outside thought. Then you may love—and even in the deepest moment of love, you know someone is witnessing, someone is watching even the act of loving. Thereafter, whatever you do in this world—you are nothing more than an actor.
Recently a new actor came to me. He said: Please write a line in my diary that will help me. I am new in the world of acting. I am working in two films, but I have no real understanding yet. I have come to you—hope you will not mind—for advice on acting.
I said: No need to worry; I am advising everyone about this only. I wrote a sentence in his diary. I would like you to write it in your diary as well.
I wrote: If you want to be a good actor, act as if it is life. And if you want to live rightly, live as if it is acting.
If an actor acts as though it were life, he succeeds. And if someone can live in life seeing that it is acting, he attains the secret of life and truth.
For me there is no path—because I see you only in a dream. Nowhere have you wandered—you have only fallen asleep.
In these three days I shall try to break the three paths. If all three break, you will be left without a path. Blessed is he who has no path—for then there is no way left to go. Then he will stand still. What will he do? There is no road—he must stand. And the one who stands still comes to see that which is ever-present.
But we are running, we are racing, we are inventing new roads; we do not see that which surrounds us on all sides. To see it, at least for a moment, you must stand still.
If you insist upon the language of paths, then I will say: To drop all paths is the path; to stop running is the path; to halt is the path; to be still is the path. But no path ever tells you to be still. A path is for going.
The path says: Move!
Religion says: Be still! Therefore religion can have no path.
The path says: Walk! Run! Run fast! And it says: Do not take the other road, or you will go astray. This is my right way! Thus all path-makers mislead; all sectarians mislead.
Religion has no path, no sect. Religion says: Be still. Religion says: Stop. Religion says: Do not run.
But is there a “path” for not running? Is there a path for standing still? Is there a path to halting? No—the very meaning of halting is: there is no path. Only when you realize there is no path will you stop; otherwise you will keep running.
You will tire of one path and catch another. A Christian becomes a Hindu; Hindus are becoming Christians. Someone shifts from the Koran to the Gita; someone from the Gita to the Koran. Someone leaves this guru for that guru, and from that guru to another.
When will the day come when you say: No guru, no path, no scripture? The moment this dawns, there will be no way left to move—you will stop. The moment you stand still, that very moment the revolution happens which is called religion.
In these three days I will try to shatter all three paths—and I will hope that when I leave on the fourth day you will have no path, and you will remain standing.
Remember, Paramatma is seeking you greatly—but you are never found. You are running so much that by the time He arrives you have gone further ahead. However fast He runs, you run faster, and go on ahead. By the time He locates where you are, He finds you on yet another path. Thus the meeting never happens.
Man does not have to seek God. God is continuously seeking man. But at least be found at home. Whenever He comes and knocks at your door, it turns out you are elsewhere. By the time He reaches there, you have gone somewhere else. Hence the meeting does not occur.
One small story, and I will finish.
I have heard of a very suspicious man. All men are suspicious in some measure. When he locked his house, he would shake the lock four times and keep returning to check whether he had locked it or not—lest he might have forgotten! One morning he went to a barber for a shave. The barber shaved him; he paid a rupee. The barber said: Eight annas. The man said: I have no change—come tomorrow for the remaining eight annas.
He thought: Tomorrow who knows, this fellow may change. Such rapid changes are happening in the world—no one can be trusted where or what he will be tomorrow. Today he is a barber; tomorrow he may become a brahmin! Today he runs this shop; tomorrow he may change it. Nothing is certain. He thought: Better make it sure, else he will change. He thought to read the shop-sign properly; then he thought: What is the use—the board changes in two minutes. A Congressman turns Communist, a Communist becomes a Congressman—nothing is certain. He thought to memorize the man’s face; then: Faces change too—a householder becomes a sannyasin. The whole appearance changes—in a night, in a moment. He decided: Let me arrange something he cannot change, something that he won’t even know of. He made an arrangement and left.
Next morning he arrived and caught the shopkeeper by the neck: This is exactly what I had expected!
A buffalo was sitting outside the barbershop; he saw it and left. He thought: The buffalo will not know—wherever the buffalo sits tomorrow, there I will catch him at once. The buffalo moved away in the night. Can you trust a buffalo when you cannot trust a man? The buffalo moved.
Next morning she was sitting in front of a sweet-shop. He went and grabbed the sweet-seller by the neck: Well done! Over eight annas you changed so much! You could have just said you won’t pay. You must have taken such trouble and changed everything! But I, too, had made a sure arrangement. I had left the buffalo outside—and there she is, exactly where I left her. Everything changed—but the buffalo is still there.
Even if Paramatma is seeking us, how will He find us? Everything changes daily. The one we were in the morning is gone by evening; the one we are in the evening will not be there tomorrow morning. Everything changes. We are not where we were. All runs, all races—and very fast.
If for a single instant we stand still, nothing hinders our meeting with Him. He is present everywhere. He is only waiting for our standing still. Paramatma waits for the one who stops. The one who stops—becomes available.
There is no road, no path, no creed. There is no guru. There is you—and there is Paramatma.
And you too exist only so long as you are running; if you stop, you disappear at once—and only Paramatma remains.
So long as you run, there is “you” and there is “God,” because running creates the illusion “I am.” When the running ceases, when the mind is unfueled and goes—then what remains is Paramatma alone.
May the Divine grant that we can dissolve, and only He remain. He alone is. Our being is utterly false. Yet this falsehood has conceived the idea that it will meet the truth! How shall the false meet truth? We say: I want vision—of God. I—and I will see Him! How shall I see Him? This “I” is itself false. If I am not, then vision happens. But I say: I will attain vision! I shall merge with Him! I shall search and find! And in this searching and reaching the “I” grows stronger—and becomes the obstacle.
One by one—tomorrow on jnana, then on bhakti, then on karma—I will speak. Completely negative, destructive, shattering. When the roads are shattered, He stands at the door.
You have listened to my words with such silence and love; for that I am grateful. In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Kindly accept my pranam.