In yesterday’s morning and evening talks we spoke of the first step to the Lord’s gate. I called that first step the fragrance of wonder. Not the rigidity of knowledge, but the fluidity of wonder is needed. Not the burden of knowledge, but the unburdened state of wonder is needed. Not the ego of knowledge, but the innocent simplicity of wonder is needed. On this I spoke to you yesterday. Today I must speak to you about the second sutra.
I would like to begin it with a small story.
In a vast metropolis a new temple was being built. Hundreds of craftsmen were cutting stone, carving images, raising walls. A stranger passed by. He asked a laborer who was breaking stones, “My friend, what are you doing?”
The laborer lifted his eyes, filled with anger—sparks seemed to fly out of them. With great irritation he said, “Are you blind? Have you no eyes? Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m breaking stones.” And he went back to his stone—breaking less stone, it seemed, and venting more rage.
The traveler moved on and asked another stone—breaker, “My friend, what are you doing?”
That man looked at the traveler with utterly sad eyes—as if there were no feeling left in them at all. Eyes so dull, so dejected, so indifferent, they seemed not the eyes of the living but of the dead. In a slow, weeping voice he said, “I’m earning bread for my children.” And with the same lethargy he returned to his work.
The traveler went further and on the temple steps asked a third craftsman breaking stones, “My friend, what are you doing?”
This craftsman was breaking stones and humming a song. There was a sparkle of joy in his eyes, an aura of delight in his being. He lifted his eyes and looked at the traveler as one looks at one’s beloved, and said, “My friend, I am building God’s temple.” Then he went back to his song and to breaking stones.
The traveler was astonished. All three were breaking stones, all doing the same work. Yet one was filled with anger and saw only stones being broken. The second was sunk in sadness—no living feeling, neither anger nor sorrow nor joy—like someone who has lain down by the roadside and given up hope. “I’m earning bread for my children,” he had said, weeping softly. He too was breaking stones. But the third spoke as if he were crafting the image of his beloved: “I am building God’s temple.” There was joy in his eyes, song in his breath; around him the air held a different glow—a different dance, a different sound, a different prayer. As if the incense of worship were spreading around him. And yet, all three were breaking stones. Only their vision—the way they looked at life—was different.
Life becomes exactly what our vision makes of it. Those who would enter the temple of truth need the vision of joy.
Wonder is the first sutra.
The second sutra is: the vision of joy.
With the vision of sorrow no one can enter the temple of life. To look through sorrow is to gouge out your own eyes. To look through sorrow is to cut off your own wings. To look through sorrow is to break your own legs. Then no journey is possible—no eyes remain, no wings, no feet. One is left lying in the puddle of sorrow, in the pit of sorrow, in the dark night of sorrow—in the prison of sorrow—and cannot rise beyond it.
On this earth, no prison is stronger than sorrow. All other chains are small, and can be broken. All other walls are weak, and can be brought down. All other dependencies—one can easily be freed of them. But the fetter of sorrow, the wall of sorrow, the bondage of sorrow is very deep. And the wonder of wonders is that man himself builds that wall—choosing and laying each brick. He forges the links of sorrow himself, strengthens them, waters them with his blood; then locked within the prison of sorrow, he ends.
If those imprisoned in sorrow cannot see the sun of light, there is nothing to be surprised about.
So in this second sutra I want to tell you: What is this vision of sorrow, and how have we manufactured it? Can it not be transformed into the vision of joy? And it will surprise you to know that the so—called religious traditions have played the most basic part in cultivating this sorrowful outlook toward life. For about three thousand years, all over the world, life has been condemned—life called evil, life called sin, life declared to be renounced. Life is vanity, life is suffering, life is pain, life is anxiety—so we have been told. And the religious man has but one task: somehow to be liberated from the cycle of life and death. This outlook is so poisonous that it has sucked out the very juice of life from man. If life is suffering and pain and anxiety, if birth itself is gained through sin—and the virtuous go far from life, do not return to it—then those who come into life must be traveling some dark path. This stream of teaching, flowing for thousands of years, has drained the sap from our being, robbed our eyes of their gladness, snapped the strings of our life—veena—one by one.
Understand first: the religious man is not the one who declares life to be sorrow. The religious man is the one who understands life as the supreme grace of the Lord, as the gift of joy. The religious man does not run away from life; the religious man lives life in its fullness.
Religion is not the way of runners, of escapists. Religion is the path of vibrant genius, of consciousness overflowing with joy—of those who have resolved to drink the wine of life to the brim. But up to now, the situation has been just the reverse.
If we begin by believing that life is sorrow, that life is evil; if we start our journey seeing life as thorny, full of pricks, then it will be no surprise that in the end we find only thorns, only darkness, only pain and suffering. The seeds we sow are the fruits we reap. Life molds itself according to the preparation of our vision. That is the key, that is the gate—our very preparation with which we look at life.
And life can be seen in innumerable ways. What you are seeing is not life—it is your way of seeing.
I remember a small village. Early morning—the sun had just risen, winter days. An ox—cart halted, and the rider asked an old man sitting by the village gate, “How are the people of this village? I wish to settle here.”
The old man looked him up and down and said, “Before I tell you how the people here are, I want to know: how were the people of the village you have left? Without knowing that, I am unable to tell you anything about this village.”
The man was puzzled. “What has that village to do with this one? And don’t even remind me of those people. Because of those scoundrels I had to leave. There are no worse people on earth than in that village. And God help me, if I ever get the power, I will crush every brick of that place, make each man taste the fruit of driving me out.”
The old man said, “Friend, climb back into your cart. I have lived in this village seventy years. From my experience I tell you, you will find these people worse than those. There are none worse on earth. Look for another village.”
When the cart had moved on a little, the old man added, “And remember the old man’s advice—don’t ask in any other village how the people there are, otherwise you may not find a place to stay anywhere. Quietly settle wherever you will.”
I don’t know if the man understood. His cart had hardly gone when a horseman rode up and asked the same question, “I want to become a resident here. Baba, can you tell me how the people are?”
The old man said, “Strange! Another asked the same just now. But I must ask you in turn: how were the people in the village you left?”
The man laughed. “Rightly do you ask. For unless I tell you about that village, how could you tell me about yours? The people there were so lovely that though I have left, my heart remains behind. All my life I shall carry the longing that if ever I get the chance, I shall return. Those people were so dear—it was a heaven on earth. But misfortune and trouble compelled me to seek shelter elsewhere. So I had to leave.”
The old man said, “Son, dismount. I have been here seventy years. I assure you, you will find the people of this village even better than those. There are no kinder folk on earth.”
What happened? What was the old man’s understanding?
We can all see his eye, his insight. But is our insight like that? Have we ever thought that a village appears as we are? Have we ever thought that our neighbors seem as we are? Have we ever thought that day and night become what we are? Have we ever seen that life’s journey proceeds along the path of our vision? Each person carries his own world with him. And then we ask, “Where is God? Where is Atman? Where is joy? Where is meaning, the purpose of life?”
Do not ask that. Ask whether your vision is such that it cannot see joy, cannot see truth, cannot see Paramatma—cannot glimpse the light and the nectar. Are you not standing with your eyes closed? Is not your eye distorted? But none of us asks this. We always say, “Outside, something is wrong.” Never do we ask whether the outside is only the projection of the inside. Whatever is within—may it not be exactly what is appearing without? I tell you: no man is able to see what is not already within him. Only what is within can be seen without.
So do not search outside. Outside, there is always the vision of what is inside—what is behind. In a cinema we see pictures moving on the screen, but they are projected from behind. We don’t even look up to see it. The projector is set behind, hidden behind the wall. The life of those images is there; they appear on the screen in front, but they come from behind.
All of life is a play appearing on a screen. The projector is always within and behind—behind the wall—it cannot be seen. And if we wish to change the pictures on the screen, to have other images appear there, what must we do? Shall we change the screen? Shall we change the pictures? Or shall we change the projector—or the film running on it? What shall we do? If, like madmen, we set about changing the screen, will anything essential change? Yet the whole world keeps busy changing the screen, and no one thinks of the projector. We can tear the screen, we can paint it—yet the images will not change. The same images will keep appearing that the inner projector throws.
Let a sorrowful man move from a hut to a palace—he has changed the screen. Where there was a hut on the screen, now there is a palace. But if he was miserable in the hut, remember, he will be miserable in the palace. The projector of sorrow will go on doing its work. His sorrow had nothing to do with the hut. The hut was one screen, the palace another. But the picture of sorrow within—once cast upon the hut—will now be cast upon the palace. In fact, the picture may not have been so clear on the uneven wall of a hut; on the smooth, polished walls of a palace, it becomes sharper and more distinct.
It makes no difference what we change outside. External changes are never fundamental. They do not change the experience of life. The experience of life is always born of the angle from which we see—of where we see from, not of what we see. Not objective—subjective. The whole play of life unfolds within, in the inner being. If the point of vision there, the angle there, is steeped in sorrow, nothing can make a difference. Yet man is easily deceived.
I have heard: a poor man bought a very expensive cow—one that had come from a royal palace. She was used to the best grass and finest fodder. He brought her home, but had only dry straw to give. He placed it before her; she turned away. She would not even look at it. The poor farmer was in trouble. He had sold all his ornaments to buy that cow. Long had he dreamt of owning the finest breed in his courtyard. But he had forgotten to ask: what will I feed her? No green grass at hand, only dry straw—and the cow refused. He tried every way to persuade her—she did not understand. She stood dejected.
He went to a village sadhu, an old wise man. He touched his feet and said, “What shall I do? I have no grass, only straw. The cow refuses to eat. I have tried everything—she won’t listen. I tell her, ‘You are our sacred mother, listen. See how we run movements for you in Delhi, risk our lives—and you won’t grant your sons this small favor?’ She doesn’t agree. What can I do?”
The sannyasin said, “Do one thing—buy a pair of green spectacles and put them on the cow.”
He bought green glasses and set them on the cow. She began to eat—dry straw now looked green.
He was delighted and went to thank the sannyasin. “You are amazing,” he said. “What a trick! You know so much about cows!”
The sannyasin said, “I know nothing about cows—I know men. Men change their spectacles and think everything has changed.”
A deception. We change the screen, we repaint the picture, we change the color above—and remain the same within. Then we eat straw, mistaking it for grass. Men eat it—what to say of the poor cow! She is bound to be deceived.
This is the whole story of our sorrow. Whatever changes we make on the surface, they amount to deception. The fundamental transformation must occur in the inner being—not above. It is not a question of changing glasses, or clothes, or houses, or things. Deep in the foundation the question is to transform that inner soul from where we stand, the ground on which we stand to see life, from where our life lifts its eyes toward the world—there, a change is needed. And there we are filled with sorrow. Our fundamental outlook is of sorrow. How did this enter man? Who taught us sorrow? How did the stream of life’s juice within run dry, leaving us laden with grief? Remember, it is not difficult to condemn every joy of life, to denounce every flavor of life, to dismiss every delight as vain. There are secrets, tricks, devices for that.
I once went to see a waterfall. A beautiful full—moon night, the lonely hills, and a friend took me there. From far we could hear the roar—the air turned cool, the invitation, the call began to be felt. We left the car and started walking. I said, “Call your driver—let him come too.” My friend laughed. I called the driver myself: “Friend, come along.” He said, “What on earth will I do there? What’s there to see? Some rocks lying around and water falling! What else?” He went on, “I am always amazed—what do people go mad about, coming to see such things? Stones—and falling water! What is there?”
I told him, “My friend, you are wasting your life driving. You could become a religious teacher. Give up this job. You have found the formula for condemning life—you have the secret. You can denounce anything. You are fit for a great mission.”
On the way my friend asked, “Why did you say that?” I said, “Because this is the formula by which all of man’s sorrow has been manufactured—by which darkness has been poured into the human heart.”
Everything can be analyzed. Dissect anything and say, ‘What is there in it?’ A beautiful body, a lovely eye, a blossom, a waterfall—we analyze and say, ‘What is it?’ Take a man’s body to a physiologist: he will say, this much aluminum, this much iron, this much copper. Scientists say the total material in a human body is not worth more than a few rupees. Then he will say, ‘What beauty? This much iron, this much copper, this much calcium—this and that. These are four rupees and twelve annas of stuff. You are going mad calling it beautiful. There is nothing in it. Go to the market, buy these ingredients instead of loving a person. Tie them together in a bundle and love that. What more is in a man?’ In a waterfall? Stones and water. In a man? What?” You cannot defeat the analyst—he will prove in the laboratory that he is right.
A poet sings before a flower, dances, rejoices, says he saw God in the blossom. If a chemist, a botanist, happens by, he will at once seize the poet by the neck: “Gone mad? Where is beauty? Come to my lab—I will test and show you. Beauty has never been found in a laboratory. Some chemicals, some plant matter, some minerals—that is all a flower is. Your brain is damaged.”
And the poet will have to be silent. Poetry has been losing to those who lack the vision of joy and possess only the method of analysis. In the world, poetry has lost and science has won. Those who could see life with joy have lost; those with no capacity for joy have won. Slowly the human spirit has grown like dead stone.
You have heard of Mark Twain—the extraordinary humorist. One of his friends, a church preacher, said, “Come hear me preach sometime.” Mark Twain went. The sermons were famous; there was magic in his speaking, a song in his words, a music—some truth resounded. People listened spellbound for an hour. When the preacher came out, he asked Mark Twain, “How was it?” Mark Twain said, “Don’t ask. It will sadden you. There was nothing in it but words—and stale, borrowed words at that. I have a book I read last night by chance—in it every single word you spoke is printed.”
The preacher was shocked. “What are you saying? Impossible! I spoke without reading, without preparation. How could every single word be in a book?”
Mark Twain said, “Shall we bet?” They bet a hundred rupees. “Tomorrow morning I will send you the book in which every word you spoke is written. You are cheating, deceiving people.” The preacher was stunned. Coincidence of a sentence here or there—possible. But an hour’s worth, word for word? Mark Twain won; the priest had to pay. Next morning a dictionary arrived. “Every single word you spoke is here,” Mark Twain said. He had won his bet. In a dictionary, indeed, every word is written.
This is the secret. Whatever mystery a thing holds, whatever beauty, whatever life—can be evaporated in a moment. Nothing will be left behind.
Whoever understands the chemistry of analysis understands the root cause of man’s sorrow: why man is so miserable. One can say of anything, ‘There is nothing in it’—in love nothing, in family nothing, in the world nothing—about every single thing. And for three thousand years this great mantra has been resounding on man’s chest: There is nothing anywhere—everything is vain, meaningless—leave all, escape.
There is nothing in life; beyond death lies everything. This vision has turned all of life death—like. If any conspiracy against the Divine has been greater, it is this. If the enemies of Paramatma have organized anything bigger, it is this.
An American millionaire commissioned Picasso to paint his portrait. He thought, ‘Why bargain? At most he will ask a couple of thousand rupees.’ Six months later he sent a message: “Why so long? Isn’t it done yet?” Picasso said, “Wait a little. Even God takes at least nine months to make a man. I am no God. I am trying.” A year later the news came: “It is ready, come take it.” The millionaire went. The painting was beautiful. “What is the price?” he asked. “Five thousand dollars,” Picasso said. The man said, “Are you joking? A small piece of canvas with some colors smeared—and you say twenty—five thousand rupees! What is in it? A bit of canvas and some paint—ten or fifteen rupees of stuff—and you ask so much! Are you making fun of me?” He didn’t know what Picasso would say.
Picasso told his assistant, “Take the painting inside. This man has no capacity to see a painting. Bring out a bigger piece of canvas and a full tube of color—give it to him, for whatever he wishes to pay.”
A large canvas and full tubes of paint were placed before him. Picasso said, “Now pay whatever you like—two or ten rupees. Or if you don’t wish to pay, take it free; we are not so poor.”
The millionaire said, “What will I do with the canvas and colors? I want the painting.”
“Then remember,” said Picasso, “a painting is not merely the sum of canvas and color. It is something more than that sum. And the price is for that ‘something’—its value is there. A painting is something more than canvas plus paint—whatever that ‘something’ is, that is the painting.”
Ask a scientist, and he will say, “A painting is canvas and colors, nothing more. In a laboratory nothing beyond that can be found.” That is why the laboratory cannot go beyond the body. The analyst cannot cross the body.
The so—called religious have also been body—bound, and the scientists too are body—bound. Otherwise there is so much joy in life—immeasurable. So much beauty—boundless. So much meaning—ineffable. But it cannot be seen by those who break things apart by analysis. Then nothing remains. Break a man—bone, flesh, marrow remain. Break a painting—colors and canvas. Break a flower—chemical and mineral residues. Break a poem—only words and grammar. Then anyone can say, “What is there?” This process of analysis has robbed human life of its sap. Man became miserable—utterly miserable. And once this sorrowful outlook takes hold, do you know what one begins to see?
Stand such a man in a garden and ask, “Do you see the rose?” He will say, “Rose? Nonsense. Thousands of thorns are there; with difficulty a small flower has bloomed. Is this a world? Thorns everywhere. The flower is a hoax—thorns are reality. The flower is bait. Because of the flower man is lured to walk upon thorns. In the hope of the flower he endures the thorns. Life is thorns. The flower is deception, enticement, a dream, untrue. Beware the thorns!” So speaks the sorrow—sighted. But one with the vision of joy will dance at the sight of the flower and say, “Marvelous! In the midst of so many thorns, a flower can bloom. Wonderful is this world—full of wonder! Among thorns a flower is born—what a miracle!” And for the one who can see this miracle, the day is not far when even the thorns behind the flower begin to appear as flowers. And the one who sees only thorns—very soon even the flower will seem a thorn.
Ask a sorrow—sighted man, “How is life?” He will say, “What is there in life? Two dark nights come, and then a small day somehow arrives. The day passes quickly; the night drags.” But ask through the vision of joy and it will say, “Wondrous is this world—between two radiant days there comes a little dark night.”
It is all in the seeing—how we look. There are nights and days; there are flowers and thorns. How do we look? Remember, for the one who looks at flowers, slowly even thorns turn into flowers. For the one who looks at the day, the dawn, slowly even the dark nights become illumined. For the one who looks at the sun, even the new—moon night becomes the sun’s night. Darkness dissolves—darkness too begins to borrow light. It is all in the seeing. A small difference—and earth and heaven part. A small difference—and earth becomes hell. A small difference—and earth becomes heaven. A small difference—perhaps only a slight shift of angle—and everything changes.
Two Jewish monks had entered a Master’s ashram. Both young. They had gone to learn of the Lord, to understand the gate that leads to God. But both had the habit of smoking—cigarettes. “How to smoke in the Master’s ashram?” They were worried. They learned that every day they were allowed to walk for an hour outside in the garden—but even that hour was meant for remembrance of God. They thought, “Who will see us in the garden? While contemplating God we will also smoke.” Then they felt it wasn’t right to begin with untruth. “Let’s ask the Master, take permission.”
One youth went. He returned seething. The Master had refused. “No, you cannot smoke,” he had said. Returning, he saw his companion sitting in the garden, smoking. He was shaken. “What is this trick? Are you disobeying?” The youth said, “No—the Master gave me permission.”
Then the first was filled with anger and resentment. “What injustice! What partiality! He refused me, and allowed you? What did you ask him?”
The smoking youth asked, “What did you ask?”
“What was there to ask? I asked, ‘May I smoke while contemplating God?’ He said, ‘No—absolutely not.’ What did you ask?”
The other laughed. “I asked, ‘May I contemplate God while smoking?’ He said, ‘Yes, certainly.’”
An inch of difference—and heaven and hell part. An inch—and you receive yes or no. An inch—and the same life becomes affirmation, or the same life becomes denial. An inch—and the same life becomes a stream of joy, or a pit of sorrow. A slight difference of vision.
The analytical outlook gives man sorrow. The synthetic outlook—the total view—gathers life together. The atomic attitude, the breaking into bits, the habit of taking apart, destroys the sap and the greenness of life—the juices dry up, the poetry dissolves. The atomistic eye, the disintegrating gaze—analysis—steals all flavor, all song.
The total view, the integral vision—the capacity to gather things together—becomes the descent of that which is more than colors and canvas. It becomes the birth of a song that is more than the sum of words. It becomes the news of a music that is more than the blend of notes. And Paramatma—the experience of Paramatma—comes only to those who have the vision that joins. When one can see the whole of life together, in its totality, then in that joining, in that wholeness, appears that which is above and beyond the sum.
Science will never reach Paramatma. The logician will never reach. The magician of analysis, the scientist—never. Their fundamental lens is to break, to divide, to analyze. Only those reach who are capable of seeing life’s complete poetry in its wholeness, its perfection, its togetherness.
The vision of joy means: the capacity to see life in its togetherness—and the capacity to find that point from which joy can spark. Standing by a rosebush, the capacity to see the rose—so much so that its petals grow vast, surround your very breath, and the thorns disappear from notice. Slowly only the rose remains; the thorns grow faint and dissolve. The no of thorns fades, the yes of the rose remains.
An inch of distance—and yes and no part. Every moment—sitting, rising, waking, sleeping, eating, drinking—at the shop, at home, in the market, in the temple, in the crowd, in solitude—seek that which is the sum of all, the glimmer that is light, the remembrance that is joy. And wherever sorrow arises within, inquire: is this sorrow being born of my analysis? Bid farewell to the analytical tendency in looking at life. Then Paramatma is nearer than anything else. Except for this wall, there is no other wall between man and the universal consciousness.
So the second sutra: at every moment, while breaking stones, the formula for building the temple of God. You can be that laborer who is only breaking stones; or the one earning bread; or the one who sings and knows he is building the temple of God.
Life can be a worship if it overflows with joy. Life becomes a prayer. Each moment of life attains a certain sacredness when it is offered upon the altar of joy. Seek joy. See joy. And there cannot be any man, nor any situation, any conjunction of events, any circumstance, any fate or destiny in which joy cannot be sought. There is no situation in which the search for joy is impossible—no such possibility. Joy can be seen. And once joy begins to be seen, it grows and grows.
At first sight it is a small stream—like the Ganga emerging at Gangotri. Around is darkness; there is a slight ray of joy. But even a single ray is more powerful than thousands of miles of dense night. A gentle stream is stronger than the hard rocks of the Himalayas. It will break the stones and flow; the ray will pierce the darkness and advance. Once the key is in your hand—the small ray, the small stream of joy—very soon it grows vast. It becomes the Ganga on the plains. Flowing and flowing, it reaches the ocean of bliss.
But we do not have that first ray, that first step, that first descent at Gangotri. Therefore we wander all life long and never reach the ocean.
So the second sutra: practice the search for joy in life. Do not go to temples—no one ever became religious by going to temples. Do not go to mosques—those who have gone there have done all manner of things that can only be called irreligious. What sanctity have those who gather in churches and Shiva—shrines given to the earth? Do not go there. Wherever you go, go seeking joy—and you will find: wherever joy is found, there is the temple, there the mosque, there the Shiva—shrine. Wherever you go, go in search of joy. Wherever you go, let your eyes seek, your hands grope, your breath listen—“Any tidings of joy? Any footprints?” If you become alert, they can be heard every moment. If you remain asleep, they can never be heard.
One small incident, and I will complete this morning’s talk.
A man prayed in temples all his life, listened to religious discourses, gave charity, did pious works, performed rituals. The whole world revered him as very religious, very worthy. But no one knew that all this was done for the sake of being revered. When he died, he ran straight to the gate of heaven—for he felt entitled: he had done so much virtue, and had brought certificates from world—teachers stating that no obstacle should stand at the gate for him. “I have performed so many sacrifices, so many rituals, burned so much ghee, so much grain, recited so many mantras, fed so many priests.” With all his ledgers he arrived at heaven’s door. But the gate was closed. He knocked loudly. From within a voice said, “Who is making this disturbance? This gate opens only once in a hundred years. Wait. Even in a hundred years it opens rarely—hardly does anyone become worthy. Sit outside and wait. And remain ever alert—eyes open, sit with awareness, for it opens and closes in a single instant; miss it, and you miss for another hundred years.”
The man was astonished. But he thought, “So religious, so many rituals, so many recitations—even if I caused so many students to fail their exams, even if patients died because of my loudspeakers blaring all night ‘Ram—Ram,’ I can surely remain alert!” But he grew restless. A few moments passed, and there was no social work to do—no land donation, no opening of schools, no orphanage to run, no sacrifices, no scriptures to recite, nothing to occupy himself. He became uneasy. There was nothing to do but sleep. A drowsiness overcame him. Just as he nodded off, a thunder—like sound came. He opened his eyes. The gate had opened—and was closing. Terrified, he beat upon the door. “What are you doing? You said it opens once in a hundred years—and it just opened.” The gatekeeper said, “I did not say ‘after’ a hundred years—I said ‘once in’ a hundred years. It can open at any time. Sit alert.”
The man began to cry and shout. “To remain alert is difficult.” The gatekeeper laughed within. “Fool,” he said, “for one who remains alert, heaven’s gate opens before death—here and now. For the alert, the gate opens every moment. He need not come this far. For him, the gate opens in a single flower, in the ray of the moon, in two loving eyes, in a wayside blade of grass, in a bird’s song, in a stir of the breeze, in a ripple upon water—the gates of heaven open all around, every instant. But one must be alert, attentive, awake.”
I don’t know—people say that man still sits there. The gate has opened and closed many times. But whenever it opens, he is dozing. The sound of it opening and closing wakes him. Then he weeps and shouts—and goes back to sit with eyes closed.
May it not be that this man is you. Do not think I am telling stories about someone else. The story could be about you. Therefore, with vigilance, seek joy in life—alert, aware. Then the gate opens every moment, opens daily. Who says it opens once in a hundred years? It opens every moment. But for those whose eyes are closed, it does not open even in a hundred years. Let the search for the gate of joy continue each moment of life—this is the second sutra for the seeker.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. In the end I bow down to the Paramatma dwelling within you.
Osho's Commentary
In yesterday’s morning and evening talks we spoke of the first step to the Lord’s gate. I called that first step the fragrance of wonder. Not the rigidity of knowledge, but the fluidity of wonder is needed. Not the burden of knowledge, but the unburdened state of wonder is needed. Not the ego of knowledge, but the innocent simplicity of wonder is needed. On this I spoke to you yesterday. Today I must speak to you about the second sutra.
I would like to begin it with a small story.
In a vast metropolis a new temple was being built. Hundreds of craftsmen were cutting stone, carving images, raising walls. A stranger passed by. He asked a laborer who was breaking stones, “My friend, what are you doing?”
The laborer lifted his eyes, filled with anger—sparks seemed to fly out of them. With great irritation he said, “Are you blind? Have you no eyes? Can’t you see what I’m doing? I’m breaking stones.” And he went back to his stone—breaking less stone, it seemed, and venting more rage.
The traveler moved on and asked another stone—breaker, “My friend, what are you doing?”
That man looked at the traveler with utterly sad eyes—as if there were no feeling left in them at all. Eyes so dull, so dejected, so indifferent, they seemed not the eyes of the living but of the dead. In a slow, weeping voice he said, “I’m earning bread for my children.” And with the same lethargy he returned to his work.
The traveler went further and on the temple steps asked a third craftsman breaking stones, “My friend, what are you doing?”
This craftsman was breaking stones and humming a song. There was a sparkle of joy in his eyes, an aura of delight in his being. He lifted his eyes and looked at the traveler as one looks at one’s beloved, and said, “My friend, I am building God’s temple.” Then he went back to his song and to breaking stones.
The traveler was astonished. All three were breaking stones, all doing the same work. Yet one was filled with anger and saw only stones being broken. The second was sunk in sadness—no living feeling, neither anger nor sorrow nor joy—like someone who has lain down by the roadside and given up hope. “I’m earning bread for my children,” he had said, weeping softly. He too was breaking stones. But the third spoke as if he were crafting the image of his beloved: “I am building God’s temple.” There was joy in his eyes, song in his breath; around him the air held a different glow—a different dance, a different sound, a different prayer. As if the incense of worship were spreading around him. And yet, all three were breaking stones. Only their vision—the way they looked at life—was different.
Life becomes exactly what our vision makes of it. Those who would enter the temple of truth need the vision of joy.
Wonder is the first sutra.
The second sutra is: the vision of joy.
With the vision of sorrow no one can enter the temple of life. To look through sorrow is to gouge out your own eyes. To look through sorrow is to cut off your own wings. To look through sorrow is to break your own legs. Then no journey is possible—no eyes remain, no wings, no feet. One is left lying in the puddle of sorrow, in the pit of sorrow, in the dark night of sorrow—in the prison of sorrow—and cannot rise beyond it.
On this earth, no prison is stronger than sorrow. All other chains are small, and can be broken. All other walls are weak, and can be brought down. All other dependencies—one can easily be freed of them. But the fetter of sorrow, the wall of sorrow, the bondage of sorrow is very deep. And the wonder of wonders is that man himself builds that wall—choosing and laying each brick. He forges the links of sorrow himself, strengthens them, waters them with his blood; then locked within the prison of sorrow, he ends.
If those imprisoned in sorrow cannot see the sun of light, there is nothing to be surprised about.
So in this second sutra I want to tell you: What is this vision of sorrow, and how have we manufactured it? Can it not be transformed into the vision of joy? And it will surprise you to know that the so—called religious traditions have played the most basic part in cultivating this sorrowful outlook toward life. For about three thousand years, all over the world, life has been condemned—life called evil, life called sin, life declared to be renounced. Life is vanity, life is suffering, life is pain, life is anxiety—so we have been told. And the religious man has but one task: somehow to be liberated from the cycle of life and death. This outlook is so poisonous that it has sucked out the very juice of life from man. If life is suffering and pain and anxiety, if birth itself is gained through sin—and the virtuous go far from life, do not return to it—then those who come into life must be traveling some dark path. This stream of teaching, flowing for thousands of years, has drained the sap from our being, robbed our eyes of their gladness, snapped the strings of our life—veena—one by one.
Understand first: the religious man is not the one who declares life to be sorrow. The religious man is the one who understands life as the supreme grace of the Lord, as the gift of joy. The religious man does not run away from life; the religious man lives life in its fullness.
Religion is not the way of runners, of escapists. Religion is the path of vibrant genius, of consciousness overflowing with joy—of those who have resolved to drink the wine of life to the brim. But up to now, the situation has been just the reverse.
If we begin by believing that life is sorrow, that life is evil; if we start our journey seeing life as thorny, full of pricks, then it will be no surprise that in the end we find only thorns, only darkness, only pain and suffering. The seeds we sow are the fruits we reap. Life molds itself according to the preparation of our vision. That is the key, that is the gate—our very preparation with which we look at life.
And life can be seen in innumerable ways. What you are seeing is not life—it is your way of seeing.
I remember a small village. Early morning—the sun had just risen, winter days. An ox—cart halted, and the rider asked an old man sitting by the village gate, “How are the people of this village? I wish to settle here.”
The old man looked him up and down and said, “Before I tell you how the people here are, I want to know: how were the people of the village you have left? Without knowing that, I am unable to tell you anything about this village.”
The man was puzzled. “What has that village to do with this one? And don’t even remind me of those people. Because of those scoundrels I had to leave. There are no worse people on earth than in that village. And God help me, if I ever get the power, I will crush every brick of that place, make each man taste the fruit of driving me out.”
The old man said, “Friend, climb back into your cart. I have lived in this village seventy years. From my experience I tell you, you will find these people worse than those. There are none worse on earth. Look for another village.”
When the cart had moved on a little, the old man added, “And remember the old man’s advice—don’t ask in any other village how the people there are, otherwise you may not find a place to stay anywhere. Quietly settle wherever you will.”
I don’t know if the man understood. His cart had hardly gone when a horseman rode up and asked the same question, “I want to become a resident here. Baba, can you tell me how the people are?”
The old man said, “Strange! Another asked the same just now. But I must ask you in turn: how were the people in the village you left?”
The man laughed. “Rightly do you ask. For unless I tell you about that village, how could you tell me about yours? The people there were so lovely that though I have left, my heart remains behind. All my life I shall carry the longing that if ever I get the chance, I shall return. Those people were so dear—it was a heaven on earth. But misfortune and trouble compelled me to seek shelter elsewhere. So I had to leave.”
The old man said, “Son, dismount. I have been here seventy years. I assure you, you will find the people of this village even better than those. There are no kinder folk on earth.”
What happened? What was the old man’s understanding?
We can all see his eye, his insight. But is our insight like that? Have we ever thought that a village appears as we are? Have we ever thought that our neighbors seem as we are? Have we ever thought that day and night become what we are? Have we ever seen that life’s journey proceeds along the path of our vision? Each person carries his own world with him. And then we ask, “Where is God? Where is Atman? Where is joy? Where is meaning, the purpose of life?”
Do not ask that. Ask whether your vision is such that it cannot see joy, cannot see truth, cannot see Paramatma—cannot glimpse the light and the nectar. Are you not standing with your eyes closed? Is not your eye distorted? But none of us asks this. We always say, “Outside, something is wrong.” Never do we ask whether the outside is only the projection of the inside. Whatever is within—may it not be exactly what is appearing without? I tell you: no man is able to see what is not already within him. Only what is within can be seen without.
So do not search outside. Outside, there is always the vision of what is inside—what is behind. In a cinema we see pictures moving on the screen, but they are projected from behind. We don’t even look up to see it. The projector is set behind, hidden behind the wall. The life of those images is there; they appear on the screen in front, but they come from behind.
All of life is a play appearing on a screen. The projector is always within and behind—behind the wall—it cannot be seen. And if we wish to change the pictures on the screen, to have other images appear there, what must we do? Shall we change the screen? Shall we change the pictures? Or shall we change the projector—or the film running on it? What shall we do? If, like madmen, we set about changing the screen, will anything essential change? Yet the whole world keeps busy changing the screen, and no one thinks of the projector. We can tear the screen, we can paint it—yet the images will not change. The same images will keep appearing that the inner projector throws.
Let a sorrowful man move from a hut to a palace—he has changed the screen. Where there was a hut on the screen, now there is a palace. But if he was miserable in the hut, remember, he will be miserable in the palace. The projector of sorrow will go on doing its work. His sorrow had nothing to do with the hut. The hut was one screen, the palace another. But the picture of sorrow within—once cast upon the hut—will now be cast upon the palace. In fact, the picture may not have been so clear on the uneven wall of a hut; on the smooth, polished walls of a palace, it becomes sharper and more distinct.
It makes no difference what we change outside. External changes are never fundamental. They do not change the experience of life. The experience of life is always born of the angle from which we see—of where we see from, not of what we see. Not objective—subjective. The whole play of life unfolds within, in the inner being. If the point of vision there, the angle there, is steeped in sorrow, nothing can make a difference. Yet man is easily deceived.
I have heard: a poor man bought a very expensive cow—one that had come from a royal palace. She was used to the best grass and finest fodder. He brought her home, but had only dry straw to give. He placed it before her; she turned away. She would not even look at it. The poor farmer was in trouble. He had sold all his ornaments to buy that cow. Long had he dreamt of owning the finest breed in his courtyard. But he had forgotten to ask: what will I feed her? No green grass at hand, only dry straw—and the cow refused. He tried every way to persuade her—she did not understand. She stood dejected.
He went to a village sadhu, an old wise man. He touched his feet and said, “What shall I do? I have no grass, only straw. The cow refuses to eat. I have tried everything—she won’t listen. I tell her, ‘You are our sacred mother, listen. See how we run movements for you in Delhi, risk our lives—and you won’t grant your sons this small favor?’ She doesn’t agree. What can I do?”
The sannyasin said, “Do one thing—buy a pair of green spectacles and put them on the cow.”
He bought green glasses and set them on the cow. She began to eat—dry straw now looked green.
He was delighted and went to thank the sannyasin. “You are amazing,” he said. “What a trick! You know so much about cows!”
The sannyasin said, “I know nothing about cows—I know men. Men change their spectacles and think everything has changed.”
A deception. We change the screen, we repaint the picture, we change the color above—and remain the same within. Then we eat straw, mistaking it for grass. Men eat it—what to say of the poor cow! She is bound to be deceived.
This is the whole story of our sorrow. Whatever changes we make on the surface, they amount to deception. The fundamental transformation must occur in the inner being—not above. It is not a question of changing glasses, or clothes, or houses, or things. Deep in the foundation the question is to transform that inner soul from where we stand, the ground on which we stand to see life, from where our life lifts its eyes toward the world—there, a change is needed. And there we are filled with sorrow. Our fundamental outlook is of sorrow. How did this enter man? Who taught us sorrow? How did the stream of life’s juice within run dry, leaving us laden with grief? Remember, it is not difficult to condemn every joy of life, to denounce every flavor of life, to dismiss every delight as vain. There are secrets, tricks, devices for that.
I once went to see a waterfall. A beautiful full—moon night, the lonely hills, and a friend took me there. From far we could hear the roar—the air turned cool, the invitation, the call began to be felt. We left the car and started walking. I said, “Call your driver—let him come too.” My friend laughed. I called the driver myself: “Friend, come along.” He said, “What on earth will I do there? What’s there to see? Some rocks lying around and water falling! What else?” He went on, “I am always amazed—what do people go mad about, coming to see such things? Stones—and falling water! What is there?”
I told him, “My friend, you are wasting your life driving. You could become a religious teacher. Give up this job. You have found the formula for condemning life—you have the secret. You can denounce anything. You are fit for a great mission.”
On the way my friend asked, “Why did you say that?” I said, “Because this is the formula by which all of man’s sorrow has been manufactured—by which darkness has been poured into the human heart.”
Everything can be analyzed. Dissect anything and say, ‘What is there in it?’ A beautiful body, a lovely eye, a blossom, a waterfall—we analyze and say, ‘What is it?’ Take a man’s body to a physiologist: he will say, this much aluminum, this much iron, this much copper. Scientists say the total material in a human body is not worth more than a few rupees. Then he will say, ‘What beauty? This much iron, this much copper, this much calcium—this and that. These are four rupees and twelve annas of stuff. You are going mad calling it beautiful. There is nothing in it. Go to the market, buy these ingredients instead of loving a person. Tie them together in a bundle and love that. What more is in a man?’ In a waterfall? Stones and water. In a man? What?” You cannot defeat the analyst—he will prove in the laboratory that he is right.
A poet sings before a flower, dances, rejoices, says he saw God in the blossom. If a chemist, a botanist, happens by, he will at once seize the poet by the neck: “Gone mad? Where is beauty? Come to my lab—I will test and show you. Beauty has never been found in a laboratory. Some chemicals, some plant matter, some minerals—that is all a flower is. Your brain is damaged.”
And the poet will have to be silent. Poetry has been losing to those who lack the vision of joy and possess only the method of analysis. In the world, poetry has lost and science has won. Those who could see life with joy have lost; those with no capacity for joy have won. Slowly the human spirit has grown like dead stone.
You have heard of Mark Twain—the extraordinary humorist. One of his friends, a church preacher, said, “Come hear me preach sometime.” Mark Twain went. The sermons were famous; there was magic in his speaking, a song in his words, a music—some truth resounded. People listened spellbound for an hour. When the preacher came out, he asked Mark Twain, “How was it?” Mark Twain said, “Don’t ask. It will sadden you. There was nothing in it but words—and stale, borrowed words at that. I have a book I read last night by chance—in it every single word you spoke is printed.”
The preacher was shocked. “What are you saying? Impossible! I spoke without reading, without preparation. How could every single word be in a book?”
Mark Twain said, “Shall we bet?” They bet a hundred rupees. “Tomorrow morning I will send you the book in which every word you spoke is written. You are cheating, deceiving people.” The preacher was stunned. Coincidence of a sentence here or there—possible. But an hour’s worth, word for word? Mark Twain won; the priest had to pay. Next morning a dictionary arrived. “Every single word you spoke is here,” Mark Twain said. He had won his bet. In a dictionary, indeed, every word is written.
This is the secret. Whatever mystery a thing holds, whatever beauty, whatever life—can be evaporated in a moment. Nothing will be left behind.
Whoever understands the chemistry of analysis understands the root cause of man’s sorrow: why man is so miserable. One can say of anything, ‘There is nothing in it’—in love nothing, in family nothing, in the world nothing—about every single thing. And for three thousand years this great mantra has been resounding on man’s chest: There is nothing anywhere—everything is vain, meaningless—leave all, escape.
There is nothing in life; beyond death lies everything. This vision has turned all of life death—like. If any conspiracy against the Divine has been greater, it is this. If the enemies of Paramatma have organized anything bigger, it is this.
An American millionaire commissioned Picasso to paint his portrait. He thought, ‘Why bargain? At most he will ask a couple of thousand rupees.’ Six months later he sent a message: “Why so long? Isn’t it done yet?” Picasso said, “Wait a little. Even God takes at least nine months to make a man. I am no God. I am trying.” A year later the news came: “It is ready, come take it.” The millionaire went. The painting was beautiful. “What is the price?” he asked. “Five thousand dollars,” Picasso said. The man said, “Are you joking? A small piece of canvas with some colors smeared—and you say twenty—five thousand rupees! What is in it? A bit of canvas and some paint—ten or fifteen rupees of stuff—and you ask so much! Are you making fun of me?” He didn’t know what Picasso would say.
Picasso told his assistant, “Take the painting inside. This man has no capacity to see a painting. Bring out a bigger piece of canvas and a full tube of color—give it to him, for whatever he wishes to pay.”
A large canvas and full tubes of paint were placed before him. Picasso said, “Now pay whatever you like—two or ten rupees. Or if you don’t wish to pay, take it free; we are not so poor.”
The millionaire said, “What will I do with the canvas and colors? I want the painting.”
“Then remember,” said Picasso, “a painting is not merely the sum of canvas and color. It is something more than that sum. And the price is for that ‘something’—its value is there. A painting is something more than canvas plus paint—whatever that ‘something’ is, that is the painting.”
Ask a scientist, and he will say, “A painting is canvas and colors, nothing more. In a laboratory nothing beyond that can be found.” That is why the laboratory cannot go beyond the body. The analyst cannot cross the body.
The so—called religious have also been body—bound, and the scientists too are body—bound. Otherwise there is so much joy in life—immeasurable. So much beauty—boundless. So much meaning—ineffable. But it cannot be seen by those who break things apart by analysis. Then nothing remains. Break a man—bone, flesh, marrow remain. Break a painting—colors and canvas. Break a flower—chemical and mineral residues. Break a poem—only words and grammar. Then anyone can say, “What is there?” This process of analysis has robbed human life of its sap. Man became miserable—utterly miserable. And once this sorrowful outlook takes hold, do you know what one begins to see?
Stand such a man in a garden and ask, “Do you see the rose?” He will say, “Rose? Nonsense. Thousands of thorns are there; with difficulty a small flower has bloomed. Is this a world? Thorns everywhere. The flower is a hoax—thorns are reality. The flower is bait. Because of the flower man is lured to walk upon thorns. In the hope of the flower he endures the thorns. Life is thorns. The flower is deception, enticement, a dream, untrue. Beware the thorns!” So speaks the sorrow—sighted. But one with the vision of joy will dance at the sight of the flower and say, “Marvelous! In the midst of so many thorns, a flower can bloom. Wonderful is this world—full of wonder! Among thorns a flower is born—what a miracle!” And for the one who can see this miracle, the day is not far when even the thorns behind the flower begin to appear as flowers. And the one who sees only thorns—very soon even the flower will seem a thorn.
Ask a sorrow—sighted man, “How is life?” He will say, “What is there in life? Two dark nights come, and then a small day somehow arrives. The day passes quickly; the night drags.” But ask through the vision of joy and it will say, “Wondrous is this world—between two radiant days there comes a little dark night.”
It is all in the seeing—how we look. There are nights and days; there are flowers and thorns. How do we look? Remember, for the one who looks at flowers, slowly even thorns turn into flowers. For the one who looks at the day, the dawn, slowly even the dark nights become illumined. For the one who looks at the sun, even the new—moon night becomes the sun’s night. Darkness dissolves—darkness too begins to borrow light. It is all in the seeing. A small difference—and earth and heaven part. A small difference—and earth becomes hell. A small difference—and earth becomes heaven. A small difference—perhaps only a slight shift of angle—and everything changes.
Two Jewish monks had entered a Master’s ashram. Both young. They had gone to learn of the Lord, to understand the gate that leads to God. But both had the habit of smoking—cigarettes. “How to smoke in the Master’s ashram?” They were worried. They learned that every day they were allowed to walk for an hour outside in the garden—but even that hour was meant for remembrance of God. They thought, “Who will see us in the garden? While contemplating God we will also smoke.” Then they felt it wasn’t right to begin with untruth. “Let’s ask the Master, take permission.”
One youth went. He returned seething. The Master had refused. “No, you cannot smoke,” he had said. Returning, he saw his companion sitting in the garden, smoking. He was shaken. “What is this trick? Are you disobeying?” The youth said, “No—the Master gave me permission.”
Then the first was filled with anger and resentment. “What injustice! What partiality! He refused me, and allowed you? What did you ask him?”
The smoking youth asked, “What did you ask?”
“What was there to ask? I asked, ‘May I smoke while contemplating God?’ He said, ‘No—absolutely not.’ What did you ask?”
The other laughed. “I asked, ‘May I contemplate God while smoking?’ He said, ‘Yes, certainly.’”
An inch of difference—and heaven and hell part. An inch—and you receive yes or no. An inch—and the same life becomes affirmation, or the same life becomes denial. An inch—and the same life becomes a stream of joy, or a pit of sorrow. A slight difference of vision.
The analytical outlook gives man sorrow. The synthetic outlook—the total view—gathers life together. The atomic attitude, the breaking into bits, the habit of taking apart, destroys the sap and the greenness of life—the juices dry up, the poetry dissolves. The atomistic eye, the disintegrating gaze—analysis—steals all flavor, all song.
The total view, the integral vision—the capacity to gather things together—becomes the descent of that which is more than colors and canvas. It becomes the birth of a song that is more than the sum of words. It becomes the news of a music that is more than the blend of notes. And Paramatma—the experience of Paramatma—comes only to those who have the vision that joins. When one can see the whole of life together, in its totality, then in that joining, in that wholeness, appears that which is above and beyond the sum.
Science will never reach Paramatma. The logician will never reach. The magician of analysis, the scientist—never. Their fundamental lens is to break, to divide, to analyze. Only those reach who are capable of seeing life’s complete poetry in its wholeness, its perfection, its togetherness.
The vision of joy means: the capacity to see life in its togetherness—and the capacity to find that point from which joy can spark. Standing by a rosebush, the capacity to see the rose—so much so that its petals grow vast, surround your very breath, and the thorns disappear from notice. Slowly only the rose remains; the thorns grow faint and dissolve. The no of thorns fades, the yes of the rose remains.
An inch of distance—and yes and no part. Every moment—sitting, rising, waking, sleeping, eating, drinking—at the shop, at home, in the market, in the temple, in the crowd, in solitude—seek that which is the sum of all, the glimmer that is light, the remembrance that is joy. And wherever sorrow arises within, inquire: is this sorrow being born of my analysis? Bid farewell to the analytical tendency in looking at life. Then Paramatma is nearer than anything else. Except for this wall, there is no other wall between man and the universal consciousness.
So the second sutra: at every moment, while breaking stones, the formula for building the temple of God. You can be that laborer who is only breaking stones; or the one earning bread; or the one who sings and knows he is building the temple of God.
Life can be a worship if it overflows with joy. Life becomes a prayer. Each moment of life attains a certain sacredness when it is offered upon the altar of joy. Seek joy. See joy. And there cannot be any man, nor any situation, any conjunction of events, any circumstance, any fate or destiny in which joy cannot be sought. There is no situation in which the search for joy is impossible—no such possibility. Joy can be seen. And once joy begins to be seen, it grows and grows.
At first sight it is a small stream—like the Ganga emerging at Gangotri. Around is darkness; there is a slight ray of joy. But even a single ray is more powerful than thousands of miles of dense night. A gentle stream is stronger than the hard rocks of the Himalayas. It will break the stones and flow; the ray will pierce the darkness and advance. Once the key is in your hand—the small ray, the small stream of joy—very soon it grows vast. It becomes the Ganga on the plains. Flowing and flowing, it reaches the ocean of bliss.
But we do not have that first ray, that first step, that first descent at Gangotri. Therefore we wander all life long and never reach the ocean.
So the second sutra: practice the search for joy in life. Do not go to temples—no one ever became religious by going to temples. Do not go to mosques—those who have gone there have done all manner of things that can only be called irreligious. What sanctity have those who gather in churches and Shiva—shrines given to the earth? Do not go there. Wherever you go, go seeking joy—and you will find: wherever joy is found, there is the temple, there the mosque, there the Shiva—shrine. Wherever you go, go in search of joy. Wherever you go, let your eyes seek, your hands grope, your breath listen—“Any tidings of joy? Any footprints?” If you become alert, they can be heard every moment. If you remain asleep, they can never be heard.
One small incident, and I will complete this morning’s talk.
A man prayed in temples all his life, listened to religious discourses, gave charity, did pious works, performed rituals. The whole world revered him as very religious, very worthy. But no one knew that all this was done for the sake of being revered. When he died, he ran straight to the gate of heaven—for he felt entitled: he had done so much virtue, and had brought certificates from world—teachers stating that no obstacle should stand at the gate for him. “I have performed so many sacrifices, so many rituals, burned so much ghee, so much grain, recited so many mantras, fed so many priests.” With all his ledgers he arrived at heaven’s door. But the gate was closed. He knocked loudly. From within a voice said, “Who is making this disturbance? This gate opens only once in a hundred years. Wait. Even in a hundred years it opens rarely—hardly does anyone become worthy. Sit outside and wait. And remain ever alert—eyes open, sit with awareness, for it opens and closes in a single instant; miss it, and you miss for another hundred years.”
The man was astonished. But he thought, “So religious, so many rituals, so many recitations—even if I caused so many students to fail their exams, even if patients died because of my loudspeakers blaring all night ‘Ram—Ram,’ I can surely remain alert!” But he grew restless. A few moments passed, and there was no social work to do—no land donation, no opening of schools, no orphanage to run, no sacrifices, no scriptures to recite, nothing to occupy himself. He became uneasy. There was nothing to do but sleep. A drowsiness overcame him. Just as he nodded off, a thunder—like sound came. He opened his eyes. The gate had opened—and was closing. Terrified, he beat upon the door. “What are you doing? You said it opens once in a hundred years—and it just opened.” The gatekeeper said, “I did not say ‘after’ a hundred years—I said ‘once in’ a hundred years. It can open at any time. Sit alert.”
The man began to cry and shout. “To remain alert is difficult.” The gatekeeper laughed within. “Fool,” he said, “for one who remains alert, heaven’s gate opens before death—here and now. For the alert, the gate opens every moment. He need not come this far. For him, the gate opens in a single flower, in the ray of the moon, in two loving eyes, in a wayside blade of grass, in a bird’s song, in a stir of the breeze, in a ripple upon water—the gates of heaven open all around, every instant. But one must be alert, attentive, awake.”
I don’t know—people say that man still sits there. The gate has opened and closed many times. But whenever it opens, he is dozing. The sound of it opening and closing wakes him. Then he weeps and shouts—and goes back to sit with eyes closed.
May it not be that this man is you. Do not think I am telling stories about someone else. The story could be about you. Therefore, with vigilance, seek joy in life—alert, aware. Then the gate opens every moment, opens daily. Who says it opens once in a hundred years? It opens every moment. But for those whose eyes are closed, it does not open even in a hundred years. Let the search for the gate of joy continue each moment of life—this is the second sutra for the seeker.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. In the end I bow down to the Paramatma dwelling within you.
Accept my pranam.