Shunya Samadhi #5

A few things are helpful to understand here. First: the attainment of Advaita is not a philosophy, not an acquisition of metaphysical concepts. So by sitting at home and reading Vedanta and speculative treatises, not a single step is taken in that direction—nor can it be. Advaita can become possible only by moving toward a particular kind of lived experience—toward direct, vibrant experiencing. What will be the first step toward that living experience? How will it be? How do we break the first boundary of duality and move toward non-duality?

The first contact with Advaita comes in the presence of nature. Not in the presence of scriptures, not of doctrines, not of words. The very first taste of non-duality happens in the nearness of nature. To the extent man has gone far from nature, he has gone just as far from Advaita.

So as a practical sutra, first understand this: how can we come closer and closer to nature? It is not necessary to be by nature twenty‑four hours a day. But those moments by nature are the very moments of meditation. In those moments, for the first time, glimpses begin of that which we are—our vast form, our infinite expanse, our boundlessness.

Yet perhaps we don’t even lift our eyes toward the direction where it can be found. Have you ever looked at the sky? Surely you have. We all “know” the sky, and yet hardly anyone truly knows what the sky is—and how to look at it. A thing does not reveal itself just because the eye falls upon it. Only when something enters into the breath of your very being does its experience, its vision, happen. Has it ever happened in some solitary, silent moment that you entered the sky and the sky entered you? That the infinite emptiness of the sky erased the boundary between you and it, and for a moment you were one? If this has not happened, you have not seen the sky. Standing by trees, has it ever happened that you felt, “I too am a tree”? If not, then you have seen trees, but you have not yet seen trees.

Immanuel Kant lived for years in the same house. Daily he would stand at the window and gaze for hours into the sky. Whoever saw him looking at the sky was bewildered—“Is the man conscious?” His eyes seemed empty. For the sky leaves no image upon the eyes—it is pure emptiness—so what image could there be? His eyes were empty, his face empty, expressionless—utterly silent. People felt he had become a stone statue. Then one day, new neighbors built a wall that blocked that window. Kant fell ill that very day. Every treatment was tried. Physicians were puzzled—there was no illness to treat.

Six months passed and Kant’s condition worsened. His servant told the doctors: “As I understand it, the window is blocked, and Kant’s connection with the sky has been cut—hence he has fallen ill. Could we request the neighbors to break the wall?” They did. The next day Kant stood again at the window; the color returned to his face, his eyes changed; within fifteen days he was well.

Someone asked Kant, “What happened?” He said: “In nearness to the sky I first tasted relationship with, and recognition of, my vaster self. When the wall came up, I felt shut in—as if imprisoned—like something precious was lost. I could hardly comprehend it until I recovered—near the sky—then I knew what I had lost.”

Today all of humanity is ill. We have raised walls all around nature and sit enclosed within them. We will not be healthy until we bring down those walls and reconnect with nature.

The first relationship with the divine arises as the nearness of nature. What direct relationship can there be with God? How can we directly “reach” the infinite? What hands can grasp it, what feet can walk there? But the near, the ever-present around us—between it and us, we can bring down the walls. Between it and us, doors can open, windows can be unlatched. They are not. And nature’s companionship is not costly; it is utterly free. Yet we have abandoned it, forgotten it. Hence our souls have grown sick.

And when we go in search of God, we merely leave one building to enter another—calling it temple, mosque, shrine. One wall we leave only to stand before another. Meanwhile the vast temple of the divine spread on all sides doesn’t even occur to us.

One who wants to move into the realization of non-duality must take the first step into the presence of nature.

Go near nature—closer and closer. But merely seeing a tree or the sky or the sun won’t do. There is a state of feeling, a tuning of consciousness, a particular inner poise in which the truths hidden all around in nature reveal themselves. They don’t appear in every state.

Once in an emperor’s court, a great gloom had descended. The emperor was sad; the courtiers too were sad. In the capital lived a supreme musician—said to be the greatest on earth. The emperor ordered him to come at once—he wanted to hear his vina.

The musician smiled. He asked, “Was it an order or an invitation? If an order, I can come—but they won’t meet the musician they wish to meet. If an invitation, that’s different. I will wait for the right moment, and then our meeting may be possible.”

The vizier didn’t understand. “What difference does it make,” he said, “between invitation and order?”

The musician replied: “A great deal. Small, petty things can be summoned by order; the vast comes by invitation. If ordered, I am just a petty subject—I can come and mechanically play, because I have to. But if called in love’s invitation, I will come at a moment when my heart is ready, when the song has ripened, when music is flowing from my life-breath—then I will come. But such a moment can’t be put on a clock.”

The vizier repeated this to the emperor. The emperor, not one for subtleties, said, “What nonsense! Bring him by force. We want to hear the music now.”

So they dragged him in. He played the vina and sang—but the emperor said, “People say he is the greatest—this seems mediocre.”

The musician wept. “You are foolish,” he said. “I am not mediocre. But a ground is needed, a tuning of the heart, your preparedness. You send an order—there is no preparedness. Preparation sends an invitation; it does not command.”

If you get up and go stand to “look at the sky” for half an hour—as a task, as a routine, as an order—no connection with nature will happen. Preparation is needed.

The musician departed, but the emperor felt an emptiness—sad that he had missed the music he longed to hear. The music the emperor wanted wasn’t in the musician’s power to give; it depended upon the emperor’s receptivity. The emperor had none. Restless, he asked for help. A beggar at the gate sang for alms, playing his own vina. The emperor sent for him: “Perhaps he can show a way. I want to hear that nectar-like music.”

The beggar said, “Come with me now. Your mistake was to summon the musician. Whatever is vast cannot be summoned—you must go to it. You cannot drag it to you—you must carry yourself to it. This is no coin to be seized by soldiers, no stone to be hauled away. This is a musician: he cannot be called; you must go.”

The emperor agreed. He donned his robes and crown. The beggar said, “Leave the crown, shed the royal garments. If the king’s trappings go, it might look as if you have gone, but you have not. To go requires humility. Only the humble go; the egoist calls.”

If you go to nature and stand there like an egoist—“Where is nature? I want to see it”—you will return blind and deaf. You must go as the humble, like a beggar, thirsty, with a crying, asking heart.

The emperor agreed, put on a beggar’s clothes; they went to the musician’s door near dusk and knocked. From inside came a voice: “Do not knock. I have no wish to sing today, nor to play the vina—my door is closed. Go away, friends; come some other time.” The beggar whispered, “Sit on the steps. Don’t leave so quickly. A refusal is not always a refusal; perhaps it is a test—the first test. We’ll wait; later we’ll knock again. The night is long; if refused again, we’ll wait longer, and knock again. Let’s see whether our patience wins or these closed doors.”

We go once to nature, look, get nothing, and say, “What’s the use?” It does not happen so quickly. Deeper waiting is needed.

They waited. The beggar then began to play a melody on his vina—the very melody dearest to the musician—but deliberately played a few phrases wrong. The emperor, no connoisseur, started swaying and dancing, moved by the tune. The doors burst open. The musician rushed out: “Who plays—who plays it wrong?” The beggar said, “What do we know of playing? We only thump at an instrument. But we are thirsty; we do want to learn.”

The musician sat with the two beggars, took the vina, and played through the night—the melody that made him the greatest musician on earth. At dawn, the emperor thanked him and said, “Perhaps you didn’t recognize me—I am the one who summoned you.” The musician laughed: “Now you see the difference between order and invitation. This beggar has won; the emperor has lost. He struck at the right place, at the right moment!”

So too at the doors of nature—knock at the right moment, in the right way—with patience, with forbearance—and then from rivers the message of Advaita begins to flow; from mountain peaks, floating clouds, stars, the sun—music comes from everywhere when we strike rightly. For that we need preparation, worthiness, receptivity.

For Advaita one needs receptivity. What kind with nature? We do not even meet people with receptivity. In the morning you fold hands to someone on the road: have you ever noticed whether those hands are false? Merely formal? The hands are false—empty, like a machine—they join and drop; no life-breath speaks behind them. Touching the father’s feet—formal. Embracing someone—formal. Praising—formal. Our whole life is formal. A person entangled in formalities—how will he reach nature? Those reach nature who are informal, heartfelt.

In twenty‑four hours, learn to live so that your living is heartful—authentic, genuine. If you fold hands to someone, don’t let only the hands join; let your whole being join. If it cannot, better not to fold hands—pass by; at least that is nearer to truth. Don’t bend to your father’s feet, if it is false; it is nearer to truth. Don’t hug your beloved, if it is a futile gesture; nearer to truth. Surrounded by such truths, you may realize you are losing life’s warmth in this hardness—then perhaps a spring will burst from your heart. In a formal life, no spring bursts. We have substituted false formal acts for living acts of the heart. Our human relationships have broken; how then will we relate to the non-human world?

To move toward nature, loosen formal relationships—live informally, truthfully, heartfully. Our actions rarely engage our whole heart; if we cannot pour ourselves out near people, how will we pour ourselves out near nature?

But those we call “religious” become even more formal, ritualistic—tilak on the forehead, sacred thread on the shoulder, rosary in hand; standing before a stone idol—seeing no God there—hands folded, saying, “Oh God!” All false. For one who can see God in a stone image—will any place remain where God is not seen? Impossible. One who can see God even in stone—where will he not? Yet the man runs to the temple daily, saying, “I go to see God.” And all that surrounds the temple—what is that then? If God is in the temple, what is this world? No—he does not see God even in the temple; he has only taken a second step in formalism—religious formalism. Human life is formal, and now between himself and God he has also built formal relationships.

Ramakrishna first got the post of priest at the Dakshineswar temple—surely an error by the committee, for he was utterly unfit to be a priest. Within days they realized their mistake. Ramakrishna would smell the flowers before offering. “Flowers offered to God must not be smelled first!” they protested. He would taste the food before offering; that too “defiled” the offering.

Called before the committee, they scolded: “Are you mad? Is this worship?” Ramakrishna said: “How can I offer flowers I don’t trust are fragrant? How can I offer food not known to be well made? Even my mother would taste before feeding me. I cannot offer without tasting. Keep me if you like; otherwise I shall go.”

For such a man, the idol is not stone; it carries a living feeling—like his mother’s feeling for him. If such a person sees God in a stone, the credit is not the idol’s or the temple’s; it is his receptivity, his un-formal, heartful innocence. His sight then begins to see everywhere; ritual ceases. Days would pass without formal worship. When the committee complained, Ramakrishna said: “What do you think I do all day? Worship and recitation go on—but you cannot recognize it. God comes in many forms; I worship in whatever form he appears. How long can I be bound to one form? My two hands are few; his forms are many—how and where can I worship all?”

His religiousness was his informality. Meanwhile everywhere around, priests with folded hands recite formal prayers—false through and through. And the religion that stands around such falsehood is itself false.

First: an informal vision. This concerns our daily life—from morning to night. Have you ever seen informally? You may say informality is impractical; we must be practical. But this is our trick to avoid changing. Tell me—have any been more “practical” than those who were informal? Who attained life’s joy and abundance more? Who found more peace, fulfillment, blessedness? You think you are practical! You are not; you hide behind such words.

Informal means heartful: is our heart involved in what we do?

A renunciate returned from Africa to India, going on pilgrimage to Badrinath-Kedarnath. One hot noon, steep ascent, blazing sun, rocks heated—sweat pouring; his shoulder laden with belongings and scriptures. On the path he met a young girl—about fourteen—carrying a sturdy toddler, likely her little brother, bound to her back. She climbed too, drenched in sweat. Compassion arose in the monk—rare for monks, for to become a monk often one hardens the heart. Perhaps a slip, perhaps a mistake—compassion came. He said, “Child, that must feel heavy, quite a load.”

The girl was astonished. She looked him up and down and said, “Swamiji, you are carrying a load; this is my little brother! The burden is on your shoulder; this is my little brother! Who said I’m carrying a burden?”

Like a lamp lit in darkness before the monk—suddenly he realized: a little brother has no weight. On a scale there is weight—whether you weigh a sack or a brother the scale knows no difference. But on the scale of that little girl’s heart, a brother is no burden. She was amazed the monk didn’t know that a little brother doesn’t weigh!

Informal, heartful relationships are weightless, burdenless. The more weightless our relationships, the more we enter a state of lightness—our burdens fall, our wings open, we can fly in the sky of Advaita.

So make life heartful—this is the first point of being religious. We have, however, deceived ourselves with strange notions of religiosity—forms that have no relation to life. We have used them to avoid true religion. We deem “religious” the oddest things: wearing special clothes—this is a masquerade, not religion. Changing clothes from householder to monk—then back again—what has that to do with religion? A man goes daily to the temple; we call him religious because he goes! But what measure have we of his heart’s depth? Such “religious” people have created the world’s indifference to religion. That apathy—who is responsible? Those who invented hollow, false religiosity.

The first true religious sutra: heartful, informal relationships—first with people, then with animals, with plants, with nature. As this heartfulness spreads—consider a flower: you find it beautiful and quickly pluck it. If you loved the flower, could you tear it? Plucking is an act of violence, of lovelessness. Yet a man says he loves the rose, plucks it, pins it to his coat, and says, “I love roses.”

You love a child—do you break his neck and keep it in a vase? If you did, the police would seize you. But there is no police to protect the flower; that is the only reason.

In my garden I put a sign: “For any use you may pluck—except for worship. Plucking for God is forbidden.” At least do not link this sin with God. Pluck for your beloved’s hair if you must, but don’t bring God into it. The flower is already offering itself where it stands—at the feet of the divine. Everything stands where it is, already offered.

We have strange relationships—absurd ones. With these absurd relationships you want a relationship with Advaita? It cannot be. There is no way. But it can be—if you dare to examine all your capacities and relationships. Let this remembrance arise—then slowly some door may open within and you may see what relationship is possible with nature.

Have you ever lain quietly by a lake, even for half an hour? Leave lakes—too far. Have you ever lain naked on bare earth, all garments aside, quietly for a while, as in a mother’s lap? Perhaps not. Then you have remained unacquainted with the very mother who holds you every moment beneath your feet.

I tell you: do not read the Vedas, the Gita, or the Koran; lie quietly a while on the earth—in solitude, chest to chest with the earth—and unknown energies will begin to enter; something within will tremble and change; a deep connection will draw you; some gravitation will start running between; some electricity—and for the first time you will feel: I am one with this—the dust from which I am born, by which I am made, into which I shall dissolve. What is my body today was earth yesterday and will be earth tomorrow. The knower knows it is earth even now; he has never been away from it. Mysterious relationships bind earth and body—because the same atoms that are in the earth are in the body. The moon pulls the ocean, and on the full moon the sea rises to the sky. The earth constantly pulls the body toward herself; we constantly resist. This resistance is the greatest tension in our psyche—the greatest anxiety. Like a child angry, hiding behind a bush, refusing his mother—thirsty, hungry, missing her, peeking, yet saying, “I won’t go.” Tears flowing, restless, all because he doesn’t know he would be fine if he returned to her lap. In his mother’s arms, immediately he is calm; tears dry; he laughs; his tension dissolves; he is at peace—surrendered into someone’s hands.

This ground beneath your feet—man is her child. Yet he flees from her day and night and never goes close. We have built firm cement roads so the earth may not touch us; we wear thick leather shoes so the dust won’t reach our feet; lest that mother’s hand touch the body—we arrange everything. Then we ask how to be established in Advaita!

The child first tastes non-duality in his mother’s lap. As he goes away from the mother, duality increases. Hence we remember childhood—what was so wondrous in childhood? Can you list what you miss? Nothing tangible—only that non-dual experience near the mother that never again occurred. The distance widened—no more Advaita. That memory remains, a hidden thirst behind the breath. The earth is an even greater mother than the one who birthed you—she is the mother of your mother. Draw near her, dropping all resistance, like a small child—lie on the earth, forget everything, dissolve into that remembrance: yesterday I was part of this earth, tomorrow I will be again; even today I am, though I know it not. Then something breaks between you and earth—some wall falls, some flow begins between the two.

I have given one example; likewise connect with the sky, with trees, with lakes—form living, heartful relationships. Then Advaita will no longer remain mere talk—as it has become: everyone repeats memorized sutras, but there is no relationship. The living, experiential Advaita is something else; for that, experiments are needed—experiments in larger life.

Let me remind you how we usually pass by and miss. Once an emperor, moved by a minister’s misfortune, wanted to favor him; others said: “We have become richer and richer; this minister grows poorer and poorer—what to do?” The emperor said: “I did not give him less—I gave him the most! Yet he remains poor! And he is so reserved that if you offer directly, he refuses.”

“Try once more,” they said.

“This time,” said the emperor, “I shall arrange it so you will see how he misses wealth standing by his side.” He invited the minister at six in the evening. To reach the palace one crossed a small bridge over a river reserved for royal guests. The emperor had large pots filled with gold coins placed all along the bridge. The minister arrived; the emperor and courtiers hid to watch. The minister came with eyes closed—sliding carefully, step by step, across the bridge—then opened his eyes and entered. They asked, “Why did you come with eyes closed?”

“I saw a blind man,” he said, “and wondered—if ever I go blind, how will I walk? So I thought I would try. I crossed the entire bridge with eyes shut!”

What can we do? All along our path lie urns of gold, and we choose to cross with eyes closed. We cross the bridge of life blind. We do not see the golden dust flying, the sweet pollen scattered on the breeze, the joys, the beauty raining through the sky, the music everywhere—because we move with eyes shut. Then we ask: how can non-duality happen? It cannot.

So first—attain the nearness of nature. For that we need the worthiness of heartful relationship. Cultivate it, expand it, deepen it, and slowly you will find something breaking, something changing—the first point.

The second: the feeling of grace—gratitude. Only those related to Advaita who can feel grateful. Ultimately, nothing is a deeper religious quality than gratitude.

What do I mean by gratitude?

A Muslim emperor went hunting with his faithful attendant. In a garden, the emperor plucked the only fruit from a tree. As was his habit—he treated his servant as a friend—he cut a slice and gave it to him. The servant tasted it; joy spread across his face. “Master, one slice is not enough—the fruit is marvelous—please, one more.” He ate another, “Still not enough, one more.” He kept taking slice after slice until only one remained. “Are you mad?” the emperor said, “Won’t you let me taste even one?” The servant snatched even that. “This is too much!” the emperor cried. “You ate the whole fruit and won’t give me even a slice? Return it!” The servant refused. The emperor wrested it and bit—bitter as poison! Astonished, he said, “Fool, it’s pure poison! You ate it all and didn’t complain?” The servant replied: “Master, from these hands I have eaten so many sweet fruits all my life—should I complain about one bitter fruit? Do you think me so ungrateful that I cannot accept one bitter fruit from the hands that gave me so many sweet ones?”

Life gives us many sweet fruits—but we keep no account of them; we maintain only a list of the bitter ones. Everyone has grievances; no one says, “I have a word of thanks for life.” I have not met such a person—if you meet one, tell me.

Without gratitude, there can be no movement into Advaita. You may think I speak oddly: Should I tell you to read Brahma-sutras, Gita commentaries, chant Om—that these lead to Advaita? But those with eyes and ears will understand that only what I am saying bears upon movement into non-duality.

Gratitude is needed. What lack is there in life that we cannot find reasons to be grateful? So much has been given—but we don’t notice that; we only grieve over what is not ours, what others have. We have no joy in what is.

A Jewish fakir once prayed: “Enough! I am tired of complaining; my sorrows never end. Today I ask only this: give me anyone else’s sorrow and give mine to them.” That night he dreamt: a voice thundered, “Let all people gather—sorrows will be exchanged.” He ran with his bundle of woes. He thought few would come, for all seemed happy. But on the way he saw everyone rushing—the king too, the prime minister—each with bundles no smaller than his own. Even monks ran—with saffron-colored bundles. In a hall hung millions of pegs; everyone hung their bundles. A second announcement: “Quickly choose any bundle you wish; what you take will be yours.” The fakir raced—not to take another’s, but to reclaim his own lest someone else take it. He thought, “Mine is smaller; at least it is familiar. Who knows what unknown suffering lies in another’s.”

He awoke. When will you awake? Looking at others breeds complaint; looking at oneself breeds gratitude. Count what others have—you rebel; count what you have—you give thanks. What worthiness did you have to deserve even one person’s love? Yet someone embraced you—what was your merit? You have friends—what merit secured them? You have lived, breathed; you have eyes and ears—capable of hearing life’s music as well as its noise; this heart can hate and can love. Infinite possibility, infinite potential—what did you pay to receive this life? Yet you have it. But gratitude does not arise because we don’t see it.

Look. Search. Slowly you will find what you have is vast—more than vast. No claim was mine—yet it was given. No right—yet it was given. Then, if gratitude arises at the feet of the infinite, what surprise? That very gratitude bends you at the feet of the whole. That bowing is entry into Advaita. That surrender opens its door. So gratitude is essential.

A man once lodged in a village. He had a fine horse that was stolen at night. It was precious—kings had tried to buy it for any price, but the old man refused: “Love has no price; this horse I love; no price can buy it.” The horse was stolen. The villagers gathered: “Old fool, too bad! If you had sold it, better.” The old man sat quietly, gazing at the sky. He laughed softly: “Do not say ‘bad.’ We don’t know. Just say: ‘Last night the horse was in the stable; today it is not.’ Say no more. More than this becomes a complaint against God.”

The villagers said, “What complaint? Clearly the horse is gone—loss!” He said, “Just say it is not there; as to good or bad, only the Lord knows.”

They thought him deranged. But fifteen days later the horse returned—having run to the forest—and brought along fifteen or twenty wild horses. The villagers cheered, “Old man, you were right—wonderful! We’ll tame them—great profit!” The old man said, “Enough—do not go farther. Today you say ‘good’; tomorrow you will get a chance to say ‘bad.’ Forgive me—just say: the horse returned, and wild horses came with it. We don’t know what is hidden behind.”

Eight days later their tune changed. The old man’s only son—his sole support—broke both legs while training a wild horse. The villagers lamented, “Very bad! Misfortune came with the horses—your son is crippled; what of your old age?” The old man said, “Again you speak too much. Just say: yesterday his legs were whole; today they are broken. Good or bad—we do not know. He who breaks, who makes—knows. There must be a reason.”

They were angry. But fifteen days later war came; the king conscripted all young men—except the old man’s son. The villagers returned: “You are clever! Our boys are gone; yours, though lame, is at home.” The old man said, “You never stop. We do not know. Only this much: your sons are gone; mine is not. Whether good or bad—we do not know.” And his hands folded toward the sky in gratitude.

Gratitude observes the fact and remains silent—does not judge. The religious man does not judge; he states the fact and falls silent. Because each fact is bound to infinite facts—an infinite past behind it, an infinite future ahead. What is truly good or bad—no one can say. We can only offer thanks in silence—for whatever is.

As I said in the morning: there is an unbroken interconnectedness—a continuity. Things are linked—parts of a greater whole. What that whole is—we do not know. Do not complain. Do not judge. Be silent—and grateful for what is, for what has been given. One who can find gratitude in every situation transcends limitation and connects with the limitless. His journey into Advaita reaches great depths.

This is the second sutra. The third and last: silence.

Live life as a silence—as a silent music. Let there be no clamor, no noise, no commotion, no frenzy—let life be like a quiet spring, a silent waterfall. Do you know—except for man, nowhere is there noise? Except for man, nowhere is disturbance. Without man, an extraordinary hush would envelop the earth. Nature’s sounds do not break silence; they deepen it. A bird sings; crickets call all night—night’s hush does not shatter—it deepens. Nature’s voices belong to silence.

Man has invented noise—and ever more of it: streets, markets, homes full of noise. Two people meet—and talk; ten meet—and babble. Shops, hotels, clubs, radios, loudspeakers—if they could, they would fill the sky with uninterrupted din. The more “civilized” a land, the louder its noise. Measure “civilization” by decibels. Uncivilized villages were submerged in silence.

Outside Shravasti, Buddha’s sangha camped—ten thousand monks. The king’s friends urged him to visit. He hesitated—suspicious minds always suspect plots. He went with his sword. “There,” they said, “that mango grove.” He froze and drew his sword. “Impossible,” he said, “we are so near and not a sound—how can ten thousand monks be there?” He went in, sword in hand—and saw them: ten thousand, yet a hush. Each within himself; no chatter, no dispute, no quarrel—so utterly alone that he felt as if each were solitary. He asked Buddha, “Are they mute?” Buddha said, “Not mute—but they do not speak. They are immersed in a deeper music, a silence. To enter life’s depths, one must leave the surface—like diving below the rough, noisy waves into the quiet deep. There, sun’s rays don’t reach—utter hush. So it is in the depths of Advaita.”

But we rise and race like mad: “Where is the newspaper?”—the hunt for noise begins. Switch on the radio, “Bhajans not started yet?” Wake the wife—begin the daily bickering. Harass the children to study. Not even risen, and the search for noise is on. Then we ask about Advaita. Impossible. Connect with radio, newspaper, spouse, child—but not with the One.

Sink a little somewhere—and allow others to sink too. Neither do we dive, nor allow them to. What have our homes become? Is there a single corner of quiet, of solitude? Do family members sit silently together for ten minutes in the dark sometimes? No. If the husband sits silently for ten minutes, the wife will seize his neck: “Why are you silent? What’s the matter? What do you want?” Silence is dangerous here; you must keep talking.

The very thread of silence has evaporated from life. Nothing is greater than silence. The doorway to religion opens from the temple of silence. Beyond limits, words cannot take you—only emptiness. Conversation cannot carry you—only losing yourself in silence.

So the third point: create gaps of silence in your life. Sometimes be utterly quiet; sometimes for a day or two. When the chance comes, don’t miss this wondrous journey. Reduce speech as much as possible—make it telegraphic, as though every word cost money. When you send a telegram, you cut out all the fluff—one word too many and the price rises. Do the same with speech. You don’t realize that for every word you pay with life—not money. You are losing life in that time. Practice speaking only what is necessary. A friend of mine tried this. In a week he said, “A great problem has arisen. When I speak only what is necessary, there is no need to speak at all. Now I see that everything I was saying was unnecessary.”

And you know—by useless talk you harm yourself and the other. Consciousness is a system; we are all linked. When I throw a word, its undercurrents begin to work in many minds; they vibrate. If my word arises from inner emptiness, from silence—then entering you it will create silence. Whatever arises from where—returns to where. If my word comes from sickness, from madness—entering you it will create the same. We have arranged a mutual madness. All are mad, and all fling their madness at one another. Every day millions slide to the edge—suicides mount; in America each day, millions seek psychiatric help. The numbers swell. Silence brings health; noise brings disease.

So the third point for Advaita: silence. As much as possible, grow the capacity to be quiet. The day your inner silence is ready, that “musician” I spoke of—the real one—will open his door and say, “Now you are ready. I will play the vina; you listen.” When the receptivity of silence is ready, the divine musician comes to your door and plays. That is the realization of truth.

Join these three to what I said earlier, and it will be clear how to take step by step on the path of Advaita. In truth, only the first steps need be told. Take one, and the second becomes visible; take the second, and the third appears. Only those fail who never take the first step. Those who do—win. The first step, and half the journey is done—because with it comes a freshness and joy that pulls your feet onward, and onward.

Over these three days I have said a few things about this journey. Even saying “I have said” is not quite right. As I said this morning: “Because there is the sun, a blade of grass flowers”—but I also say, “Perhaps because the blade flowers, the sun is.” Such is the interrelatedness. I could not have said what I did had even one of you not been present. Impossible. Something else would have been said. You, the situation, the meeting—made something speak through me. Neither am I the sole speaker, nor you only the listeners. I, too, listened; you, too, spoke. Our consciousnesses created an atmosphere, a net of rays; from that heat and light, a word arose. It came through me, but it is not mine. It is the collective result of us all. No single speaker, no sole listener—we all spoke; we all listened.

If this sinks deep into your being—and if you wish, you can carry it—there is no reason anyone cannot know the truth that is already near. But we will not open our eyes. There is no reason anyone should remain a beggar and not become a sovereign. Each is entitled. The seed is hidden within all—only a little effort.

Let me end with a small parable.

A river had water; near it was a salt mine; in a field nearby grew wheat. A man came. He harvested the wheat and ground it into flour; he brought salt from the mine and purified it; he drew water from the river. He gathered all three—raw materials. But after gathering, he sat. His guru had said: “Collect the three—and you will find a way to fill your belly.” He gathered—and waited. Days passed; no food. He ran to his guru: “I have brought water, salt, flour—but no meal results.” The guru said, “Fool, after gathering, cook!” He went back, mixed them, made bread—and sat again. “Now it is ready,” he thought. Days passed—hunger raged. He ran back: “I have bread, yet hunger remains.” The guru said, “Fool—eat!”

Religion too has three stages. In life, truths lie scattered: water in the river, salt in the mine, wheat in the field. Most perish in this scattered state. Some gather them and perish. Some even cook—and perish. A few eat.

In these three days, we fetched water, gathered wheat, brought salt—some will stop there; we milled flour, purified salt, filtered water—some will stop there; we even made bread—some will stop there. Who among you will eat that bread? Ask yourself.

For three days you listened with such love and peace; for that I am deeply grateful. And in the end, I bow to the divine seated within each of you. Please accept my salutations.