My beloved Atman! What is humanity? What is man? A thirst, a call, a longing! Life itself is a call. Life itself is a longing. Life itself is an aspiration. But aspiration can be of hell or of heaven. The call can be for darkness or for light. The longing can be for truth or for untruth. Whether we know it or not, if we have called for darkness, we will go on becoming more and more restless. If we have desired the untrue, we will go on becoming more and more restless. If we have desired the wrong, it is impossible to be at peace. Peace is a shadow—it is born of the longing for the right. From a right, samyak longing, peace is born. A seed wants to sprout. If it sprouts, it will be filled with joy; if it cannot sprout, it will feel restlessness and pain. A river wants to become ocean. If it reaches the ocean, meets the boundless, it will become still. If it does not reach, if it wanders and is lost in deserts, it will become restless, sorrowful, afflicted. Some Rishi has sung: O Paramatma! Lead us from darkness to light! From death to deathlessness! From untruth to truth! That is also the aspiration in the life-breath of all humanity; that is the call. And if, in life, we are becoming more and more peaceful, we should understand that we are moving toward that call which is hidden in the deepest core of life’s being. And if we are becoming restless, we should know that we are going in the wrong direction, in the reverse direction. Restlessness and peace are not goals, they are only indicators, only symptoms. A peaceful mind gives the news that the direction in which we are moving is the direction of life. A restless mind gives the news that where we are going is not a place to go; the destination we are heading toward is not our destination. Where we are arriving, we were not born to arrive. Restlessness and peace are symptoms—whether our life’s growth has found a right direction or a wrong one. Peace is not the goal. And those who make peace their direct goal never become peaceful. Restlessness also cannot be eradicated directly. The person who gets busy trying to eliminate restlessness itself becomes more and more restless. Restlessness is information—life is moving in a direction for which it was not born. And peace is the news that we have started walking toward that temple which is the goal of life. A man has a fever; the body is heated, hot. The body’s heat is not the disease; the body’s heat is only the news that there is some disease within. If the body is not hot, the news is that there is no disease within. Heat itself is not the disease, only the news of the disease. The absence of heat is not health either; it is only a sign that life is running in a healthy direction within. And if someone starts trying forcibly to cool the fever of his body, he will not be free of the disease; he may die. No; the body’s fever is not to be removed. Fever is a friend, it gives the news that there is illness within; it brings the tidings of disease. If the body were not to become heated while disease remained within, a man would not know—when he became ill, when it ended. Restlessness is a fever, a heat that descends on the mind and gives the news: you are taking your life-energy to where it does not belong. Peace is the fever’s disappearance and the news that the life-energy has begun to move in the direction for which it was born. It is necessary to understand this first of all; then the journey of the coming four days, the “search for peace,” can become crystal clear. Do not desire peace, and do not try to eliminate restlessness. Understand restlessness and change life. The transformation of life becomes the spontaneous arrival of peace. As when a man goes for a walk toward a garden—on nearing the garden, cool breezes begin to surround him, the fragrance of flowers begins to hover around, the songs of birds begin to be heard. He becomes certain: I am approaching the garden. Birds have begun to sing, cool breezes have begun to blow, the fragrance of flowers has begun to come. Peace is the news of approaching Paramatma. It is the fragrance of flowers that hover near the garden of Paramatma. And restlessness is the news of walking with one’s back turned toward Paramatma. Therefore, fundamentally, those reasons a man understands to be the causes of his restlessness are not the causes of restlessness at all. If someone thinks, “I am restless because I have no wealth,” he is mistaken. Wealth will be gained and restlessness will remain. If someone thinks, “I am restless because I do not have a large house,” the house will be obtained and restlessness will remain, indeed it will increase a little. Because as long as there was no house, no wealth, there was at least the consolation: I am restless because there is no house, no wealth. Once house and wealth are obtained, even that consolation will be snatched away. The house will be gained, wealth will be gained—and restlessness will remain where it is. And then the life-energy becomes even more uneasy. Hence the poor man’s uneasiness is never as much as the uneasiness of the prosperous. The poor can never truly recognize the rich man’s suffering. Without becoming rich, recognition is difficult. Because the rich man no longer even has the poor man’s contentment, “I am restless because I am poor.” At least one cause is known: I am restless for this reason. Some day poverty will end and peace will arrive. But to this day no one has ever become peaceful by eliminating poverty. Poverty goes; peace does not come—restlessness increases. Because for the first time it becomes evident that the coming of wealth bears no relationship to the breaking of restlessness. Then even the hope breaks that with wealth I shall become peaceful. That is why, the richer a society grows, the more restless it becomes. Today perhaps there is no society more restless than America. And the prosperity that America has—no society and no country in human history has ever had. It is surprising: you have so much; then why are you restless? If we are restless, it is understandable—we have nothing. But having or not having bears no relationship to peace and restlessness. In human life there is the body, the mind, the soul. The body has needs. If they are not fulfilled life becomes full of suffering. The body has needs—food, clothing, shelter—if these are not given to the body, life becomes a journey of suffering. The body will give the news all the time: I am hungry, I am naked, there is no medicine, I am thirsty, there is no water, there is no bread. The body will continuously give the news of lack. And the news of lack fills life with suffering. Remember: not with restlessness—with suffering! It can be that a man be in suffering and yet not be restless. And it can also be that a man be without any suffering and yet be restless. In fact, it is often so. The one who is suffering has no idea of restlessness. Suffering entangles him so much that there is neither convenience nor leisure to pay attention to restlessness. When all sufferings are gone, for the first time attention comes: restlessness is also inside. The poor man lives in suffering. The wealthy man lives in restlessness. There are pains at the level of the body, and when the body’s needs are fulfilled there is an absence of bodily pain. But at the level of the body there is never any experience of happiness. This too must be understood. There can be pain in the body, but happiness never resides in the body. Yes, if pain is absent—if there is no pain—we take that to be happiness. If a thorn is stuck in the foot there is trouble, and if there is no thorn in the foot there is no special joy—no one goes around the neighborhood announcing, “Today there is no thorn in my foot; I am in great bliss!” Or, “Today I have no headache; therefore I am very happy!” When the head aches, we are in pain; when it does not, we are not in happiness. Understand well with the body: at the bodily plane there is no such thing as happiness; there is pain and the absence of pain. People take the absence of pain to be happiness. The body can give pain, it can remove pain; it can never bestow happiness. Therefore those who live only at the bodily level never come to know happiness. They come to know pain and they come to know how to avoid pain. Hunger arises—there is suffering; hunger is appeased—the suffering vanishes. The body stops at just this much. Beyond the body, within the body, is the mind. The condition there is the opposite. The mind too has needs, demands, hunger and thirst. Literature, art, philosophy, music—all these are the aspirations of the mind, the hunger and thirst of the mind. They are the food of the mind. But if one has never read Kalidasa’s poetry, no suffering arises from that. Or if one has never heard a great musician’s sitar, there is no suffering caused by that. Otherwise one would die at once from the suffering—there are so many things in the world of the mind we know nothing at all about! In the realm of mind, that which you do not know, have not experienced, causes no suffering; but if you do come to know, there is certainly joy. If you hear the sitar, joy happens. When you had not heard it, there was no suffering. If you do not understand poetry—have not heard it, have not understood it—there is no suffering. But if you do hear it, joy certainly happens. At the level of mind there is happiness. Once happiness begins to be tasted and then is not available, its absence is felt—and people take the absence of happiness to be the mind’s suffering. At the bodily plane there is no happiness, only the absence of pain. At the mental plane there is happiness and its absence—there is no such thing as suffering there. But there is another peculiarity of the mind. The happinesses at the level of mind are only for a moment—never more than that. Because the happiness the mind tasted once cannot be tasted again by repetition. If today you listen to a veena-player’s veena and tomorrow he plays the very same piece, the joy you had today will not be there tomorrow. And if he plays the day after, there will be still less. And if you have to listen for ten or fifteen days, that from which joy was born on the first day will begin to create the sensation of suffering. And if you have to listen for two or four months, you will want to smash your head and run away—“I don’t want to hear this anymore!” At the mental plane the mind desires a new happiness each time. The body always desires the old happiness, never the new. If you give the body newness every day, it falls into difficulty. If the body sleeps every night at ten, it wants to sleep at ten every night. If it eats at eleven in the morning, it wants to eat exactly at eleven. The body is like a mechanism; it desires repetition every day and does not want even the slightest alteration. The man whose body has to make changes every day suffers greatly. Modern civilization has harmed the body for exactly this reason: it insists that the body be new every day. And the poor body wants to remain old. Hence villagers look healthier than city-dwellers. The city man’s body has to follow new needs, new arrangements, new rules every day; the body gets into trouble. The body has no understanding enabling it to prepare itself to be new daily; it keeps demanding the old. The mind—mind demands the new every day; it refuses to be pleased with the old even a little. Let a thing be slightly old, and the mind says, “Enough!” It wants a new house every day, a new car every day; if it had its way, a new wife every day, a new husband every day. Therefore, in those civilizations that have slowly constructed life on the basis of mind, divorce must increase. No civilization that lives on the basis of mind can be stable. The old Eastern countries have lived on the basis of body. The new Western countries have begun to live on the basis of mind. Mind demands novelty daily. I have heard that in America an actress married thirty-two times in her life. Beyond our imagination! In our country a wife prays to God that in the next birth too she may have the same husband. If an American wife prays—though she won’t—if she does, it will be: “At least see to it that I do not get this man again!” And since the next birth is uncertain, the wife is alert—she wants to change him in this very life. That actress who married thirty-two times, when she married the thirty-first time, fifteen days later it was discovered that this man too had already been her husband once! The changes were so rapid in those ten or fifteen days—where was the leisure to recognize who was who? Our country’s wife will catch hold of the man’s hand even after ten or five births: “Have you forgotten?” She will keep recognizing across births. The mind’s desire is for the ever-new, moment to moment. Hence the mind gets bored and panics with the old. If a beloved meets you and you press him to your breast, in the first moment there is a great thrill of joy. But if that friend is too loving and is not ready to release, then after two, three, four minutes an uneasiness begins. The thrill is lost. And if the man is completely mad—as lovers are—and holds you for half an hour, you will become eager to throttle his or your own neck. What happened? The man who came and clung to your heart felt so delightful—what went wrong? What is this panic? The mind is bored. The body never gets bored; the mind always gets bored. Hence you will be surprised to know that boredom exists in no animal other than man! You have never seen a buffalo bored, nor a crow, nor a dog in a state of boredom. No; other than man, no creature gets bored. They cannot get bored because all animals live on the bodily plane. At the bodily level there is no boredom; boredom happens on the mental plane. And the more developed the mind becomes, the more boredom increases. Thus Eastern countries are not as bored as Western ones. And when boredom grows, new sensations must be sought daily—to shatter boredom. You will also be surprised to know: man is the only creature who gets bored and the only creature who laughs. No other animal laughs! If a donkey laughs on the road as you pass, you will never sleep again from fear. We do not expect any animal to laugh. One who does not get bored does not laugh either. Laughter is a device to dissolve boredom. Therefore, when you are bored, you want a friend to meet you, to share a few jokes—to cut boredom a little. So many means of entertainment are needed because man gets so bored during the day he needs entertainment. Then when entertainment also begins to bore, new forms of entertainment are required. When boredom spreads everywhere, war is needed. War breaks boredom a little. You have seen—when India and China fought, or India and Pakistan, how much sparkle came on people’s faces! How bright the eyes were! How fresh and alive people seemed! Why? Life is so bored that when a little bustle arises, some disturbance, some riot somewhere—then there is a glimmer in life, a little shine; sleep breaks a little—it feels as if there is still something to happen, to be seen. Otherwise, everything is seen, everything done; the same repeats; the mind gets bored and panics. Remember also—no animal is bored, no animal laughs—and note, no animal commits suicide either; only man. Man can get so bored with life that he ends it. And even in ending there can be a novelty. Ending can also be a thrill, a sensation. In Sweden a man was tried. Sitting on the seashore behind an unknown man, he stabbed him in the back. In court he was asked, “Did you have any quarrel with this man?” He said, “A quarrel? I had never even seen him! And before stabbing I did not even see his face! Because I stabbed from behind.” The judge asked, “Are you mad? Then why did you stab?” He said, “I was so bored that something should happen in life. And I want no defense. If I can be hanged, I am ready to watch hanging with joy. There is nothing left worth seeing in life—everything is seen. Only death is a new thing. And I had never done a murder; that too was something to see—what happens!” Murders are increasing in the West, suicide is increasing, crime is increasing. Not because the West is becoming criminal, but because there is so much weariness and boredom that without committing crimes no other device is seen to break it. Recently I heard they have invented a new game in America. It is dangerous. When civilizations get too bored they invent such games. In it two cars are driven at full speed with their wheels kept on the center line of the road—one from this side, one from that. Whoever swerves first for fear of collision loses; the one who does not swerve wins. Now, if two cars are rushing at a hundred or a hundred and twenty miles per hour and their wheels run on the same line, life is in great danger. Who will pull aside first? The one who pulls aside loses. Civilization has reached great boredom. No flavor is felt unless life is staked. Thus, when civilization begins to be bored, gambling appears, alcohol appears, wagers appear. When a society gambles a lot, know that the society is bored. Without staking, without danger, it sees no way by which the possibility of something new can arise. In the world of mind, things become boring daily. And the mind cannot experience any happiness for more than a moment. One moment passes—and happiness turns into unhappiness. At the bodily plane there is no unhappiness or happiness—there is an absence of pain. At the mental plane there are happinesses, but utterly momentary; in one moment they are drowned and gone. That is why, that for which we go mad—“I will stake everything, let it come into my hand!”—as soon as it is attained, we become suddenly dejected. You want to buy a grand house. You buy—and suddenly find everything is finished. The thrill, the rush, the joy of the chase—it vanished the moment of attainment. Whatever you wanted—on attaining it you will be disappointed. Because in attaining there is one moment of joy; after that, everything becomes old, and you are back again where you were. At the level of mind there is happiness, but it is momentary. And the one who lives only between body and mind will always live in restlessness. Because one who has never glimpsed eternal bliss—how can he be peaceful? And at the planes of body and mind no glimpse of the eternal can be had. Yet those who live at the bodily plane will seem peaceful in one sense—dead-peaceful. There are two kinds of peace: one living, alive; one dead, lifeless. Go to the cremation ground—there too is a peace. But it is the peace of graves. That peace exists because there is no one there who can be restless. Buddha was staying outside a village with ten thousand bhikkhus. The king of that village was told by his friends: Buddha has arrived—do come! Ten thousand monks have come with him. The king went to see Buddha. Evening had fallen; darkness gathered on the road. They reached near the mango grove where Buddha and his ten thousand bhikkhus were staying. Suddenly the king drew his sword and said to his friends, “It seems you want to deceive me! Where ten thousand people are camped—we have come so near—there is no sound! It feels so silent there! Are you not taking me into a trap?” His friends said, “You are not acquainted with Buddha and his companions. You have seen the peace of the cremation ground; now see living peace. Ten thousand men are in that garden—come, do not doubt.” Yet the king trembled at every step—perhaps they were leading him into a trap in the dark! But his friends said, “Do not be frightened; truly there are ten thousand men.” Ten thousand—and such profound silence as if no one were there! When he came to Buddha he placed his head at his feet and said, “I am astonished—ten thousand men! Ten thousand under the trees, and there is a perfect stillness as if there were none!” Buddha said, “It seems you recognize only the peace of the cremation ground. There is also a living peace.” Those who live on the bodily plane are peaceful in one sense. Animals are peaceful; animals are not restless. Some men too, living only at the bodily plane, will be peaceful. They will eat, clothe themselves, sleep; then eat again, dress again, sleep again. But such contentment is not peace; it is only the absence of consciousness. There is no awareness inside. As if there is the condition of a corpse within—a dead man’s state. Someone said to Socrates, “You are so restless, Socrates—better you be a pig. What is the use of being Socrates? Pigs roam the village outskirts, lie in puddles, eat anything—and how content and peaceful they look!” Socrates said, “I would prefer to be a dissatisfied Socrates rather than a satisfied pig. A pig is satisfied only because there is no thirst, no call in its life beyond the body. In one sense it does not exist. I am dissatisfied because a call pulls me. Above there is a peace calling me; until I attain it I shall remain dissatisfied. But I choose this dissatisfaction—I count it my good fortune.” Those among us who are satisfied at the bodily plane—our state can be no different from that of animals. Animal means: to be satisfied at the bodily plane, to be peaceful there. Man means: to be restless at the plane of mind. And deva means: to become peaceful at the plane of the soul—Atman. Between body and Atman is mind. In the world of mind one gets a glimpse of happiness for a moment. From where does this momentary glimpse arise? Even this momentary glimpse comes from the Atman. If the mind becomes silent for a moment, from the soul a taste of bliss descends for a moment. In that silence the peace flashes—like lightning on a dark night where for an instant there is light, then dense darkness again. The mind is darkness; but in any instant, if for a single moment mind falls silent, the light of the hidden Atman descends. A beloved meets you; for a moment the heartbeat stops; for a moment thoughts cease—you embrace. For a moment everything stops and the glimpse of the soul enters within. But only for a moment. Then the mind resumes work, begins to run, thoughts return, the world starts again. You are back where you were. And the one who is in your arms becomes boring—you want to move away. That momentary glimpse of peace and joy on meeting the beloved did not come from the beloved; the beloved was only an occasion—the glimpse came from within you. Listening to music, if for a moment the mind becomes silent, the descent begins from within. And if you think that peace is coming from the sitar, you are mistaken. The sitar only created an occasion by which mind became unbound and fell silent. When mind is silent, peace descends from within. Peace always descends from within; bliss always descends from within. But if the mind finds an outer occasion for a moment, it can fall silent. In this condition of silence the descent begins. Mind goes quiet and something from within comes down. That is why it is only for a moment; then all is lost. But behind the mind is the soul—the Atman. And the direction of the Atman, the path to attain the Atman, the state of consciousness by which we enter the Atman—that is what makes bliss, peace, and light available. How are we to enter this direction? Let me try to explain through a small incident. I was born in a small village. Very small. Near it flows a small river. Ordinarily it is ordinary; but in the rains it becomes very alive. A mountain river, in the rains much water comes, it spreads to about a mile and flows with great roar. Crossing it in the rains is very difficult. But since childhood I loved that river and always longed to cross it even in the rains. I was fifteen or sixteen. With friends I had often crossed it in the rains; but one day the idea arose to cross it alone at night in darkness. It is very dangerous! The current is very strong! On a dark night at two I went to cross. The greater the danger, the greater the attraction. I entered it. How I labored to reach the other bank—was carried downstream perhaps two miles—did everything. But it began to feel as if there were no other shore at all. In darkness, the bank cannot even be seen. I grew tired. It felt difficult to survive. One last effort I made. The waves are fierce, the night is dark; the opposite bank is not visible. The first bank is now far behind. There is no point in returning—perhaps the far shore is nearer and the first is even farther now. And the river is carrying me swiftly—perhaps two or three miles I have been swept down. I tried one last time. The more I tried, the less attainable it seemed. Then there came a moment—it felt death had arrived; hands and feet gave way; the eyes closed; I felt I was dying; I understood the story was over. Two hours later I opened my eyes—I was lying on the bank, across. But in those two hours something happened—that I want to say. As if a new birth occurred. As if I died and returned. The moment I felt I was dying and death had come, I thought: since death has come, let me watch it peacefully—what is it? Closing my eyes, I let go my hands and feet. As if—outside there was pitch darkness—inside too I entered some very pitch-dark cave. Never had I seen such deep darkness! Outside there is darkness, but not absolute. Outside there is light too, but not absolute. Outer darkness is pale; outer light is pale. For the first time I saw what that darkness might be for which the Rishis prayed: O Paramatma, lead us from darkness to light! Until then I used to think the darkness which gathers outside—that must be the darkness the Rishis prayed to be led out of. But then I thought: this darkness can be dispelled by switching on electricity—what need to bother Paramatma? I often wondered the Rishis must have been naïve. A lamp would do—why call on God? Unscientific; lacking intelligence. Light a lamp and finish the job—why pray to God to remove darkness? But that day, for the first time, I came to know there is a darkness which cannot be dispelled by a lamp, where a lamp cannot be taken. For the first time I understood the darkness for which the life-breath prays. That darkness I had never known. So dense a darkness that it is hard even to imagine. No painter has a color so dark. Outside there is always some light. If there is no moon, there are stars. If the sun has set and clouds cover the sky, even then the sun’s rays filter through. The truth is: outer darkness is relative; not absolute. What is absolute darkness? What is total night? For the first time a hint came. Such panic I felt in that darkness! Then I understood why outer darkness frightens man so much. There is no danger in outer darkness. Why does the dark night so frighten? And why has man worshiped fire for thousands of years? I felt perhaps outer darkness faintly reminds one of the inner darkness; otherwise there is no cause for fear in outer darkness. And perhaps lighting lamps, lighting fires, and worshiping fire are all part of a search for an inner fire. For the first time I saw darkness. I walked within it at great speed—it grew thicker and thicker—and my whole being was writhing. It must have been a moment; not long. Because the measures of time are also different. When you are awake, time is measured by the watch. That too is not a precise measure. If you are happy, the hands of the clock fly; if you are unhappy, they crawl. If someone at home is dying and you sit by his cot—then see how dead the clock runs! It seems the hands have stopped; they stand still. The night lengthens; it feels as if it will never end! The clock is running by its own pace; what does it know of your dying? Yet it feels long. If a long-lost beloved meets you, the clock leaps; seconds do not tick—hours jump. The night passes as if, “Just now it was evening, already it is morning? So soon? How?” It feels even the clock is an obstacle to love. The whole world is an obstacle—and the clock too. The night passes too quickly. Even outwardly, in happiness and sorrow the pace of the clock seems different. The greater the sorrow, the longer the clock appears to run. The greater the happiness, the slower it seems. If sorrow were total, the hands would stand still forever! If happiness were total, even then the hands would whirl and you would not know. When you look, they appear where they were before. And between the outer and inner, time differs again. You pass twenty-four hours. For a moment a nap touches you—you dream your marriage is happening; children are born; the daughter grows; you set out to find a husband for her; you find one; you are marrying your daughter—and suddenly sleep breaks. You look at the clock—barely a minute has passed! A minute’s nap; in a minute such a long process—your marriage, a daughter born and grown, her marriage, the band playing—and suddenly you wake! One minute has passed outside; inside such a long journey happened! In the dream the measure of time is different; in waking, different. That day it became clear. So rapidly I began to go within—so swiftly—that perhaps no time was passing at all. And the life-breath was struggling: how to get out of this darkness? How to get out, how to get out? That day for the first time a complete thirst took hold in my heart: O Paramatma, take me beyond the darkness! Unless the inner darkness is encountered face to face, this thirst does not ripen. In the days to come we will try to have a glimpse of the inner darkness. One who has not known the inner darkness will never cry, never scream, never call for the inner light. How long I went in that darkness! Then I reached a door and began to beat my head on it. Today, when I say it, it seems very long. I was pounding hard: “Open the door! Open the door!” I was not saying it in words—no words inside—but my life-breath was calling. Nothing was spoken within: “Open the door.” Yet every hair of my being was saying, “Open the door—let me out!” I have heard a saying of Jesus: Knock, and the door shall be opened. I used to think—can it be so cheap? Knock—and the doors will open? And this being said of the doors of Paramatma! A little tap and the doors will open? If it were so, who would not tap while passing by? But that day I learned what knock means. When the whole being, the whole breath, every hair begins to cry out—not in words, in feeling—when the whole soul begins to hammer the door, the doors do open. They opened—and there was another vaster… until now it was like a tunnel, a narrow cave from which the life-breath struggled to get out; now there is a larger cave, where there is dim light. The mind got some relief. But on opening my eyes to that dim light—there is a huge bustle there, a great commotion. Variegated forms are swirling, running, racing. As I advance there—it is like a vast bazaar, a great crowd, so many kinds of beings—such unique things as I had never seen. It is said Plato in Greece declared: things are outside, and the forms of things are within. I had heard that in the mind’s world are the forms. You are visible to me outside. If I close my eyes, you are still visible. You have been shut out; you remain outside. Then who is visible within? Some form of you has remained inside, some ideal form, some idea-image. So many idea-images—a fair of them—running, chasing, surrounding from all directions. Such a clamor! On the first plane there was dense darkness—no clamor. On the second plane, dim light—yet a terrible clamor. The ears begin to split; the sounds are so loud—so loud that one must escape them, or one will go mad. Later it occurred to me that the first plane of darkness must have been the plane of the body. The second plane, the plane of the mind. At the bodily plane there is dense darkness. At the mental plane there are dense sounds. The body is a tunnel, a small cave. The mind is an expanse. But in the expanse there is a huge crowd—many colors, many sounds, many fragrances. Whatever has been known, whatever has been lived—it is all there; nothing dies there. Across endless births, whatever has been known, lived, it is all present. The mind is a wondrous museum of all births. All those who were friends, all those who were enemies, all that was heard, all that was spoken, all the events that passed, whatever happened in life—all is gathered there. A vast expanse with a vast crowd, full of sound, full of voices. That too is agitating, maddening. Is this the untruth—this which surrounds on all sides and drives one insane? And again the same call: further, further, further! The run continues. Again a door; again to bang the head; again to cry out; again the door opens. And a third world—where there is no boundary; where there is no darkness; where there is no sound; where there is no light. Where there is neither darkness nor light. For the light we know is also a form of darkness, and the darkness we know also a form of light. There is something here which even to call light makes the mind tremble, because in front of it light is nothing. But for a moment—a wave of bliss flooded the whole being—and then the return; and I opened my eyes and I was lying on the bank. For a moment it felt as if I had seen a dream. I could not believe that what happened had happened. I pondered much, but there was nothing in hand—perhaps it was a dream. But that dream then began to pursue me. By and by, through much effort, the search for that dream continued. And slowly, that which had happened suddenly in the moment of death began to become natural again. In the next three days I want to take you on the same journey. The first journey—on the plane of the body. The second—on the plane of the mind. And the third entry, the third journey—on the plane of the Atman. If even a single ray of that realm is glimpsed—just once—it is never forgotten. It becomes the nucleus; then the whole life begins to transform around it. Once a ray from there descends, life becomes different; a new birth happens. And once a ray descends, peace pervades the whole life. Then no matter what calamities fall on life—someone may stab you in the chest, someone may cut off your head, someone may burn you, someone may insult you, someone may honor you, someone may shower abuses, someone may place garlands of flowers—then none of this makes any difference. It is as if all happenings are in a dream. At that inner plane of peace, no news reaches. There, peace, there, bliss—what is there remains undivided, unmoving, unshaken. The experience of arriving there pervades life; the name of that experience is peace. Peace is not a mental event. All the Western psychologists are fundamentally mistaken here. Western psychology is trying to make man peaceful through his mind. They will never succeed. Peace is not a mental event. At the most, at the plane of mind, adjustment can happen, rearrangement can happen. Peace—never. Peace is a spiritual event, the shadow of spiritual attainment. Hence the West has no inkling of what peace is. Today countless efforts are on to understand the mind, its illnesses, its thoughts, its tendencies, the entire state of mind, and then to counsel the mind, to organize it. But those efforts will not lead to peace. Peace is attained by transcending mind—going beyond mind, being beyond mind. There is no peace at the plane of mind. Therefore, no matter how much you organize mind, at most it can happen that a man becomes capable of tolerating restlessness—but never peaceful. To become able to tolerate restlessness is one thing; to become peaceful is altogether another. To become healthy is one thing; to become merely able to endure illness is wholly different. As much as psychology strives today, it can at most make man more capable of tolerating restlessness—but cannot make him peaceful. One becomes peaceful on the third plane—the plane of the Atman. And why does one become peaceful there? As I said, the body’s hunger is: bread. The mind’s hunger is: happiness. In the same way, the soul’s hunger is: Paramatma. Paramatma is the food of the Atman. And on the very day entry happens to the third plane, that which is called Paramatma is found. With that meeting, an unprecedented peace pervades the whole life. And its meeting is not something that can then be lost. In truth, it is not lost even now; only we do not know that it is not lost. It can never be lost. It always is—within. As if in someone’s house a treasure is lying and he roams outside—and roams, and roams. And the more he roams, the more he forgets the way back within. Roaming becomes a habit, becomes a rut; only the outer path is visible and he keeps roaming there—again and again. Slowly he forgets so totally that there was a treasure within. And because of roaming outside he goes about asking the whole world, “Where is the treasure? What am I searching for? What do I want to search? I do not know!” And he keeps roaming around the very treasure. Man is in almost such a state—and that is why he is restless. What is his does not come to him. What is available to him, he does not know. What he is, that too does not come to his notice. Life is wasted wandering outside. Restlessness means: wandering outside. Peace means: entering within. But how can this entry within happen? It can happen with great simplicity. But simplicity does not mean cheapness! Simplicity does not mean it is inexpensive. In truth, there is nothing more arduous than simplicity. Being simple is the most arduous thing. To be difficult is easy; to be simple is difficult. Because in being simple the ego finds no gratification; in being difficult the ego is very gratified. In being simple the ego dies—no gratification is found. I have heard that Eckhart has said somewhere: to be ordinary is the most arduous thing. To be ordinary is the hardest. And when Eckhart died someone said: he was a very extraordinary man—very exceptional. Someone asked, “Why?” He said, “He was very ordinary.” So extraordinary because he was absolutely ordinary. To be that ordinary is very difficult. It sounds strange to call a man extraordinary because he is utterly ordinary. In the same way, it will sound extraordinary and difficult when I say: it is very simple. But do not take simple to mean cheap. It is simple because what is our nature cannot be difficult to attain. What is already within cannot be hard to obtain. What we ourselves are cannot be hard to find. Yet it has become very difficult—because for many births we have been walking on a path which bears no relation to it. That journey has become strong—birth after birth—the habit has become so strong that to turn our necks toward ourselves has become difficult; it is as if paralysis has set into the neck. As if someone’s neck has been paralyzed, and we say to him, “Look back!” He says, “Very hard.” We say, “What is hard—turn your neck and see!” He says, “You say so, but my neck has become stiff; it does not turn back. Unless I turn completely, the neck does not turn; the neck alone does not turn.” And man wants to turn only his neck and look back; hence he never returns. The whole man has to turn—the total man. Then returning happens. Therefore, religion is the transformation of one’s whole life. Religion is not turning the neck. It is not, as poets have said, “I slightly bowed the head and saw!” There is no picture waiting within that by bowing the head you will see. The neck does not bow; the whole man has to bow. It is a total turning, a complete conversion. There not one hand or foot bends—the whole man turns. And how can that whole turning happen? I will speak of that. But before that—because we will sit here each night for meditation. Today also we will sit for fifteen minutes—so let me say a little about meditation. From tomorrow I will try to explain how the journey can happen step by step. But understanding is not as important as experimenting with what I say. We will experiment now; I will explain the experiment. We will begin a meditation experiment now. It is very simple. It is an experiment to awaken the sleeping parts within. Naturally, if someone is asleep, we call him. If we know his name, we call by name. If we do not know the name, what shall we do? And within we know nothing of who is asleep, nothing of his name. So we can only do one thing: with our whole life-breath we ask, “Who am I?” And if this is asked with total strength—“Who am I?”—then slowly the sleeping layers within begin to awaken. And on the day this question reaches the innermost, to the third door—“Who am I?”—from there the answer begins to come: who are you. Those who have said, Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!—they did not copy it from a library book. They asked themselves: Who am I? Who am I? They kept asking, submerged their whole being in this inquiry—Who am I? Some day this arrow pierced within, and from there the answer came: who I am. But we are very clever people! We say, “Why should we make the effort? It is written in the book that we are Brahman—we will memorize it; why get into trouble? We will learn it by heart. If the question arises we will say, ‘I am Brahman! I am Atman!’” These are false answers—not because those who gave the answers were false, but because the answers are not yours! Whatever is not your own is false! We have learned from books who we are—and we know nothing! No; for Paramatma you must ask yourself—and discover yourself. On the day your own answer comes, that is the answer. With the coming of that answer, everything becomes different—everything. As if a blind man’s eyes are given to him—that is one thing. And a blind man hearing from others that “there is light” and repeating “there is light”—that is something entirely different; it has no relation. So we will ask within. And asking cannot be dead, like lifelessly asking, “Who am I?” It will not happen that way. Because the layers are deep where the voice must reach. If in a forest you get lost on a dark night, with no companions—would you ask under some bush in a feeble voice, “Is anyone there?” No—you would call with your whole being, “Is anyone here? I have lost my way!” so that each plant of the forest trembles, each hill echoes, each valley asks, “Is anyone here?” You will put your whole strength. Even greater is the lostness than in a forest. In a forest, how long can one be lost? By morning you will return home—even without asking. The sun will rise anyway. But the forest we are lost in is of many births. Who knows for how many births we have been lost! Yet we ask so slowly—“Is there some way?”—that our asking itself shows we have no urgency. No—it can be asked totally. Not partial; not in fragments; not small—total. And the assurance is this: the man who asks with total strength—even today, this very moment—the answer can come. Why wait for tomorrow? But we have never truly asked! We have never searched! We live in the hope of borrowing something from somewhere. No; in the direction of truth nothing can be borrowed; in the direction of bliss nothing can be gotten from another. Only your own effort, your own resolve, your own strength! That alone is the criterion that our asking is authentic, that what we ask, we are worthy to ask. There is only one qualification in this search: to stand with your whole being in the search. Meditation has only this one condition: not slowly, not lazily, not in a makeshift manner—but totally, as if it were the question of our life-breath. Perhaps a moment later we may not be! Perhaps a moment later breath may not return! Then it should not be that we went back without knowing ourselves. Such is the situation. Mahavira has said: like a drop of dew on a blade of grass in the morning—not known when a gust of wind will knock it off. Such is man’s life. A drop of dew on a grass-blade! A slight breeze—and it will fall. Such is man’s life—so insecure, so unsafe, in such danger. There is no guarantee of a single moment. And when a man enters his search, he goes so slowly—as if there is no urgency. No; it cannot go that way. In these three days when we will meditate here, I will carry the hope that you will be total—that you will throw your whole being in, a total commitment of breath, of heartbeat, of body, of mind, total! The more totally you jump in, the deeper you will enter. The more completely you leap, the farther within you will go. And what has to be done? Not much—only a small thing. We will all sit; sit comfortably, and interlock all the fingers of both hands, so that we can ask with total strength. And as the pressure in the hands increases, you will know how much strength you are putting into asking. The hands will become stones. Interlock all ten fingers, place them in your lap, sit at ease. Then we will close the eyes. With eyes closed, the attention should remain between the two eyes. Why there? I will try to explain in the coming days—what its meaning is, its consequences. Both eyes will remain closed, but as if we are looking within—between the two eyes. Hands locked. The spine straight. The body relaxed. First sit thus. Lock the hands; keep the spine straight. The spine must be straight because the straighter it is, the more forcefully you will be able to ask. You have noticed: whenever passion arises, the spine straightens of its own accord. In a quarrel you will see—no one quarrels with a bent spine; it straightens on its own. When the call of the whole being arises, the spine straightens. So—spine straight. Hands locked. And those hands will serve as your gauge. The more forcefully you ask, the more rigid the hands will become. It will be difficult to unlock them. They will become completely locked—as if there is no strength to open them. The eyes remain closed, and attention in the mid-point between the two lids—where the nose begins between the eyes, at the root of the nose—let the eyes be turned within. Then within—the lips closed, the tongue will touch the palate. When the lips are closed, the tongue will adhere to the palate—meaning the mouth is completely closed. We are not to call with the mouth; we are to call with the life-breath within. And we are to ask within: Who am I? With such speed that there be no gap between two “Who am I?” Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—continuously, with total strength, so that no strength remains unused within. It can happen that the body begins to tremble. It can happen that tears begin to flow. It can happen that sobbing arises. When the body participates with total energy, such things can happen. Do not stop anything. Let whatever happens, happen. Keep only one awareness—that I go on asking, I go on asking. My whole life is at stake; I will ask, and I want to know what is within. We will experiment for fifteen minutes. And after this experiment our sitting will end. Now please sit. Friends standing above, kindly sit wherever you are. There is no harm—if a little clothing gets dirty, no harm—sit. Because anyone standing will be a disturbance; please sit. Keep silent. No talking. And take care that you do not cause the slightest disturbance to anyone else. Good—straighten the spine. Lock the hands. Close the eyes. Bring your attention between the eyes—as if, with closed eyes, you are looking within toward the space between the two eyes. Good! Lips are closed. Now begin within with total strength—ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—fast, swift, intense, with total strength. Keep asking; let your whole strength be engaged; increase it… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—not slowly, with total strength. And as you ask with total strength, the descent will begin within… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—ask with intensity, with force, with total force… let the heartbeat ask, let the breath ask. The hands will lock more and more, the spine will grow straighter, the body may tremble, tears may flow—pour your total strength… and as strength increases, so will peace. A deep peace will begin to arise within… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… No, not slowly—totally… Who am I? Who am I?… Later do not come and say to me nothing happened. With total strength… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—ask, ask… deeper, deeper… let the sound become like an arrow—within, within, within… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Let the whole body begin to shake—Who am I? Put in total strength—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… A deep peace will begin to descend… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—with total strength, total strength… let a storm arise… let this whole atmosphere begin to ask—Who am I? So many souls asking together—and there be no result!… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… With total strength… let whatever happens, happen… Who am I?… Do not think of anyone else—your own: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Each breath, each heartbeat—nothing remains remembered, only one question remains—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… More within, more within… a deep peace will descend. The more forcefully you ask, the more peace you will feel behind. The deeper you ask, the deeper peace will be experienced by the mind… Who am I?… Shake your whole personality—shake it… let your whole being be shaken—Who am I?… As one shakes a tree and its roots are shaken—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… To know, to recognize, to arrive—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Ask, ask, ask… let there remain only one question—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Lost in darkness, asking, “Who am I?” The path is lost, I do not know myself… Who am I? It must be discovered, discovered… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Five minutes more—with total strength—Who am I? Who am I?… Put in your whole power… Who am I?… Let nothing remain behind—do not feel you are doing it half-heartedly. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… One knock upon the door—Who am I? Who am I?… As a blow upon a closed door—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… There is deep darkness… Who am I? Who am I?… The more intensely you ask, the more the mind will become quiet… Who am I?… One single resonance—Who am I?… Who am I?… Last two minutes—total strength… total strength… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… The last minute… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… The mind will grow silent; a deep peace will spread within—as after a storm everything becomes still… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… For the last time—Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Bring it to the highest peak and leave it—Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Let go… completely let go… become silent… let go. Slowly open the eyes… sit silently a little while… slowly open the eyes… then slowly unlock the hands… slowly open the eyes… I have three small notices to give; I will give them, then we will rise. The first: while I come and go, no one should touch my feet. I am nobody’s guru—nor do I accept that anyone should be anyone’s guru or anyone’s disciple. So do not touch my feet. I am not a sadhu-saint or a mahatma either. The attempt to be a sadhu-saint or a mahatma seems to me very childish. So there is no need to give me respect, reverence, or honor. This much respect is enough for me—that you listen to what I say. There is no need even to believe it. Think, experiment. If it proves true, it will stay; if it proves false, it will drop. Second: it is my nature to give love to whoever comes to me. Those who are afraid of love should not come near me. My condition is almost like Plotinus when he had grown old—his whole life he had taken love to be prayer. In old age leprosy came upon his body. Even then, when people came to him he would embrace them. People were afraid—who wishes to embrace a leprous body! People stopped coming. Plotinus asked, “Do people not come now?” Who would tell him out of embarrassment! Some friends took courage and said, “Your body has leprosy. You take people’s hands in your hands, you embrace them, you kiss their foreheads. People have begun to be afraid.” Plotinus said, “Ah yes, I simply forget that I also am a body. I do not even remember that there is leprosy in the body.” Come less to me as well, because I do not know that I am a body—whose body, whether male or not, I do not know. When men come close there is not much trouble; when women come near there is much trouble. So keep in mind—do not come close to me; that is good. It seems difficult that I will change my nature. But you can have compassion on me—remain a little distant from me. As I arrived here I came to know. A Member of Parliament from Baroda made a statement. I learned of it and understood he speaks rightly. A sister had come from Delhi. Not less intelligent than a Member of Parliament—she is a university professor. She came and stayed near me and entreated very fervently: it would be my great fortune to stay with you. I have waited for years to get two days to live with you. I said, “You are mad—you could have come any time.” She stayed with me. I did not know her staying would cause much difficulty and trouble. If someone had told me that her staying would be a difficulty, I would not have caused them pain—or I would have said to them, “You also come—sleep here as well; you also stay.” They did not say anything to me. I went to a meeting. The next day they took all the belongings of that sister and threw them out. When I came, she was standing there weeping. She said, “I have been gravely insulted; very rude words were said to me.” I said, “How astonishing!” Those friends said, “When you arrived, this sister embraced you. And it is a great impropriety that a sister should embrace you.” I said to them, “It would have been good to tell me; to throw out her belongings or say rude things is very wrong, discourteous.” Now I have come to know—they have given statements to the newspapers. So let me also request you: I keep no account of who comes near me—male or female. Therefore, it is better to be careful before coming near me. In the future I might be able to keep account—it seems difficult. So keep a little distance from me; that is good. One should not trouble Members of Parliament. They attempt to keep the nation’s conduct pure. It is thanks to them the country’s conduct and character are so good—otherwise it would have deteriorated long ago. People like me have always been those who spoil conduct. So it is better to remain a little distant from such people. So, the second request: offer greeting to me from a little distance. To meet me personally—come thoughtfully. Actually, you should not come at all. Because whatever I have to say, I say here; there is nothing to ask me separately. But I know there may be some things to ask separately. Yet the Members of Parliament do not wish that anyone should speak to me privately. If it is limited to men, it is still okay. If women come to speak privately, it becomes very difficult. So women should not come to speak to me privately at all. In this there is no fault of mine—perhaps their being women is at fault, or their being born in India—let them decide. And if anyone comes to meet me alone, he should come thoughtfully: you go to a man whose character is not proper—think and consider. Because there will be difficulties for people, pains, troubles… And troubles arise according to one’s own mind. In those whose minds are full of lust, nothing other than lust is visible anywhere in the whole world. It cannot be seen. Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia wrote a book. In it he asks a question: when Buddha went to Vaishali, the city’s courtesan, the prostitute Amrapali, came, fell at Buddha’s feet, and said, “Give me initiation.” Dr. Lohia raises the question: I wonder what kind of tremor, what kind of ripple must have arisen in Buddha’s mind on seeing that beautiful woman? How amusing! It occurs to Dr. Lohia to imagine what tremor, what ripple might have arisen in Buddha’s mind. But Dr. Lohia too was a Member of Parliament, and Members of Parliament should worry. They absolutely should. The nation’s character depends on them.
When Vivekananda came to India, the arrival of Sister Nivedita became a cause of trouble in Bengal. A monk, and a woman with him! They didn’t understand that the very meaning of sannyasin is one for whom “man” and “woman” no longer exist. Still, it became a difficulty, a hindrance, a nuisance.
A woman, Mary Magdalene, came to Jesus Christ, clutched his feet, and washed them with her tears. From that day the trouble began. Why did he let a prostitute touch his feet! For Jesus too is anyone a prostitute? For Jesus too is there man and woman? But Jesus is in the wrong; Members of Parliament know better. And the MPs of those days had Jesus hung on the cross.
Socrates was charged with lack of character—that he corrupted the boys.
When Vivekananda went to Ramakrishna Paramhansa, Vivekananda was a handsome young man. Rumors were spread that Ramakrishna loved beautiful boys. Luckily there was no Member of Parliament in Dakshineswar; otherwise Ramakrishna would have learned what trouble could arise.
So it is proper—no fault of theirs. They did well; they said the right thing; they ought to say such things. I had told him right there that I would speak openly. He said, no, speaking openly isn’t right. But now he himself feels it should be talked about openly. I will go to Baroda at his election time and tell the people, “Be sure to vote for him, or the nation’s character will be ruined. Keep voting for him; otherwise there’s no hope for the nation’s character.”
The whole country’s mind has been made sex-obsessed, and all the talk is of character. Lust has entered so deeply that it has become impossible, even for a moment, to forget who is woman and who is man. But those are other matters—people like me, the wrong sort, talk about such things; good people don’t.
People should be cautious. Why, what need is there to come to me? None at all. No need to write me letters either, because I write very mischievous letters. So my third request to you is: don’t write me letters. And with women it is a big trouble: if you don’t answer their letters, right on the heels of the first, another arrives; if you do answer, the difficulty begins. So don’t write to me. Whatever you want to ask, ask here.
And if someone simply must meet me—men don’t have so much trouble—but if women must meet me, then if they are young they should bring their father; he serves as protector. If older, bring the husband; he is a protector. If older still, bring the son; he is a protector. But never come alone. Coming alone is not right at all—because I can only be loving.
Now, here is Himmatbhai Joshi—he must be sitting here somewhere. His wife, Jasu, went with me; Jasu came with me to Indore. I put her in the room next to mine. In the evening she came and said, “I’ll sleep in your room.” I said, “The room is big—go ahead, sleep.” It didn’t even occur to me that I was telling a woman to sleep there; there might be Members of Parliament around Indore! As it happens, the MP from Indore seems to be a sleepy sort—he has no concern for character. So the people of Indore should not vote for him: “You’re the wrong man! You should find out who sleeps where, who does what—and who slept with a troublesome fellow like me, and what happened!” Anyway, I said, “All right.” She slept. She must have been delighted. By good fortune no MP found out; otherwise trouble would have ensued.
These people—often vultures fly in the sky; don’t assume from that that they belong to the sky. They fly in the sky, but their gaze is fixed on the lumps of rotting meat on the rubbish heaps below. Don’t think that just because they soar, they are of the sky; their eyes are on the earth, on filthy places. Where your gaze is—that is where you are. Sitting in parliament makes no difference. Where is the gaze?
But it’s not their fault; the poor fellows did it all in the public interest. In the public interest, such things must be done. Still, I request you: there is no need to come and go to me. And there is no need to form any love relationship with me. And with me, love seems to happen with anyone—that is the mistake. It is love that is the mistake.
So this is my third request to you. And regarding these three days, and the conversations before, whatever questions you have, submit them in writing so that in the final meeting I can discuss them all.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—for that I am deeply obliged. In the end, I bow to the God seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
What is humanity? What is man? A thirst, a call, a longing!
Life itself is a call. Life itself is a longing. Life itself is an aspiration.
But aspiration can be of hell or of heaven. The call can be for darkness or for light. The longing can be for truth or for untruth.
Whether we know it or not, if we have called for darkness, we will go on becoming more and more restless. If we have desired the untrue, we will go on becoming more and more restless. If we have desired the wrong, it is impossible to be at peace. Peace is a shadow—it is born of the longing for the right. From a right, samyak longing, peace is born.
A seed wants to sprout. If it sprouts, it will be filled with joy; if it cannot sprout, it will feel restlessness and pain. A river wants to become ocean. If it reaches the ocean, meets the boundless, it will become still. If it does not reach, if it wanders and is lost in deserts, it will become restless, sorrowful, afflicted.
Some Rishi has sung: O Paramatma! Lead us from darkness to light! From death to deathlessness! From untruth to truth! That is also the aspiration in the life-breath of all humanity; that is the call. And if, in life, we are becoming more and more peaceful, we should understand that we are moving toward that call which is hidden in the deepest core of life’s being. And if we are becoming restless, we should know that we are going in the wrong direction, in the reverse direction.
Restlessness and peace are not goals, they are only indicators, only symptoms. A peaceful mind gives the news that the direction in which we are moving is the direction of life. A restless mind gives the news that where we are going is not a place to go; the destination we are heading toward is not our destination. Where we are arriving, we were not born to arrive.
Restlessness and peace are symptoms—whether our life’s growth has found a right direction or a wrong one. Peace is not the goal. And those who make peace their direct goal never become peaceful. Restlessness also cannot be eradicated directly. The person who gets busy trying to eliminate restlessness itself becomes more and more restless. Restlessness is information—life is moving in a direction for which it was not born. And peace is the news that we have started walking toward that temple which is the goal of life.
A man has a fever; the body is heated, hot. The body’s heat is not the disease; the body’s heat is only the news that there is some disease within. If the body is not hot, the news is that there is no disease within. Heat itself is not the disease, only the news of the disease. The absence of heat is not health either; it is only a sign that life is running in a healthy direction within. And if someone starts trying forcibly to cool the fever of his body, he will not be free of the disease; he may die.
No; the body’s fever is not to be removed. Fever is a friend, it gives the news that there is illness within; it brings the tidings of disease. If the body were not to become heated while disease remained within, a man would not know—when he became ill, when it ended.
Restlessness is a fever, a heat that descends on the mind and gives the news: you are taking your life-energy to where it does not belong. Peace is the fever’s disappearance and the news that the life-energy has begun to move in the direction for which it was born. It is necessary to understand this first of all; then the journey of the coming four days, the “search for peace,” can become crystal clear.
Do not desire peace, and do not try to eliminate restlessness. Understand restlessness and change life. The transformation of life becomes the spontaneous arrival of peace.
As when a man goes for a walk toward a garden—on nearing the garden, cool breezes begin to surround him, the fragrance of flowers begins to hover around, the songs of birds begin to be heard. He becomes certain: I am approaching the garden. Birds have begun to sing, cool breezes have begun to blow, the fragrance of flowers has begun to come.
Peace is the news of approaching Paramatma. It is the fragrance of flowers that hover near the garden of Paramatma. And restlessness is the news of walking with one’s back turned toward Paramatma. Therefore, fundamentally, those reasons a man understands to be the causes of his restlessness are not the causes of restlessness at all.
If someone thinks, “I am restless because I have no wealth,” he is mistaken. Wealth will be gained and restlessness will remain. If someone thinks, “I am restless because I do not have a large house,” the house will be obtained and restlessness will remain, indeed it will increase a little. Because as long as there was no house, no wealth, there was at least the consolation: I am restless because there is no house, no wealth. Once house and wealth are obtained, even that consolation will be snatched away. The house will be gained, wealth will be gained—and restlessness will remain where it is. And then the life-energy becomes even more uneasy.
Hence the poor man’s uneasiness is never as much as the uneasiness of the prosperous. The poor can never truly recognize the rich man’s suffering. Without becoming rich, recognition is difficult. Because the rich man no longer even has the poor man’s contentment, “I am restless because I am poor.” At least one cause is known: I am restless for this reason. Some day poverty will end and peace will arrive.
But to this day no one has ever become peaceful by eliminating poverty. Poverty goes; peace does not come—restlessness increases. Because for the first time it becomes evident that the coming of wealth bears no relationship to the breaking of restlessness. Then even the hope breaks that with wealth I shall become peaceful.
That is why, the richer a society grows, the more restless it becomes. Today perhaps there is no society more restless than America. And the prosperity that America has—no society and no country in human history has ever had. It is surprising: you have so much; then why are you restless? If we are restless, it is understandable—we have nothing.
But having or not having bears no relationship to peace and restlessness.
In human life there is the body, the mind, the soul. The body has needs. If they are not fulfilled life becomes full of suffering. The body has needs—food, clothing, shelter—if these are not given to the body, life becomes a journey of suffering. The body will give the news all the time: I am hungry, I am naked, there is no medicine, I am thirsty, there is no water, there is no bread. The body will continuously give the news of lack. And the news of lack fills life with suffering. Remember: not with restlessness—with suffering!
It can be that a man be in suffering and yet not be restless. And it can also be that a man be without any suffering and yet be restless. In fact, it is often so. The one who is suffering has no idea of restlessness. Suffering entangles him so much that there is neither convenience nor leisure to pay attention to restlessness. When all sufferings are gone, for the first time attention comes: restlessness is also inside.
The poor man lives in suffering. The wealthy man lives in restlessness.
There are pains at the level of the body, and when the body’s needs are fulfilled there is an absence of bodily pain. But at the level of the body there is never any experience of happiness. This too must be understood. There can be pain in the body, but happiness never resides in the body. Yes, if pain is absent—if there is no pain—we take that to be happiness.
If a thorn is stuck in the foot there is trouble, and if there is no thorn in the foot there is no special joy—no one goes around the neighborhood announcing, “Today there is no thorn in my foot; I am in great bliss!” Or, “Today I have no headache; therefore I am very happy!” When the head aches, we are in pain; when it does not, we are not in happiness. Understand well with the body: at the bodily plane there is no such thing as happiness; there is pain and the absence of pain. People take the absence of pain to be happiness. The body can give pain, it can remove pain; it can never bestow happiness.
Therefore those who live only at the bodily level never come to know happiness. They come to know pain and they come to know how to avoid pain. Hunger arises—there is suffering; hunger is appeased—the suffering vanishes. The body stops at just this much.
Beyond the body, within the body, is the mind. The condition there is the opposite. The mind too has needs, demands, hunger and thirst. Literature, art, philosophy, music—all these are the aspirations of the mind, the hunger and thirst of the mind. They are the food of the mind. But if one has never read Kalidasa’s poetry, no suffering arises from that. Or if one has never heard a great musician’s sitar, there is no suffering caused by that. Otherwise one would die at once from the suffering—there are so many things in the world of the mind we know nothing at all about!
In the realm of mind, that which you do not know, have not experienced, causes no suffering; but if you do come to know, there is certainly joy. If you hear the sitar, joy happens. When you had not heard it, there was no suffering. If you do not understand poetry—have not heard it, have not understood it—there is no suffering. But if you do hear it, joy certainly happens.
At the level of mind there is happiness. Once happiness begins to be tasted and then is not available, its absence is felt—and people take the absence of happiness to be the mind’s suffering. At the bodily plane there is no happiness, only the absence of pain. At the mental plane there is happiness and its absence—there is no such thing as suffering there.
But there is another peculiarity of the mind. The happinesses at the level of mind are only for a moment—never more than that. Because the happiness the mind tasted once cannot be tasted again by repetition.
If today you listen to a veena-player’s veena and tomorrow he plays the very same piece, the joy you had today will not be there tomorrow. And if he plays the day after, there will be still less. And if you have to listen for ten or fifteen days, that from which joy was born on the first day will begin to create the sensation of suffering. And if you have to listen for two or four months, you will want to smash your head and run away—“I don’t want to hear this anymore!”
At the mental plane the mind desires a new happiness each time. The body always desires the old happiness, never the new. If you give the body newness every day, it falls into difficulty. If the body sleeps every night at ten, it wants to sleep at ten every night. If it eats at eleven in the morning, it wants to eat exactly at eleven. The body is like a mechanism; it desires repetition every day and does not want even the slightest alteration. The man whose body has to make changes every day suffers greatly.
Modern civilization has harmed the body for exactly this reason: it insists that the body be new every day. And the poor body wants to remain old. Hence villagers look healthier than city-dwellers. The city man’s body has to follow new needs, new arrangements, new rules every day; the body gets into trouble. The body has no understanding enabling it to prepare itself to be new daily; it keeps demanding the old.
The mind—mind demands the new every day; it refuses to be pleased with the old even a little. Let a thing be slightly old, and the mind says, “Enough!” It wants a new house every day, a new car every day; if it had its way, a new wife every day, a new husband every day. Therefore, in those civilizations that have slowly constructed life on the basis of mind, divorce must increase. No civilization that lives on the basis of mind can be stable. The old Eastern countries have lived on the basis of body. The new Western countries have begun to live on the basis of mind. Mind demands novelty daily.
I have heard that in America an actress married thirty-two times in her life. Beyond our imagination! In our country a wife prays to God that in the next birth too she may have the same husband. If an American wife prays—though she won’t—if she does, it will be: “At least see to it that I do not get this man again!” And since the next birth is uncertain, the wife is alert—she wants to change him in this very life.
That actress who married thirty-two times, when she married the thirty-first time, fifteen days later it was discovered that this man too had already been her husband once! The changes were so rapid in those ten or fifteen days—where was the leisure to recognize who was who?
Our country’s wife will catch hold of the man’s hand even after ten or five births: “Have you forgotten?” She will keep recognizing across births.
The mind’s desire is for the ever-new, moment to moment. Hence the mind gets bored and panics with the old. If a beloved meets you and you press him to your breast, in the first moment there is a great thrill of joy. But if that friend is too loving and is not ready to release, then after two, three, four minutes an uneasiness begins. The thrill is lost. And if the man is completely mad—as lovers are—and holds you for half an hour, you will become eager to throttle his or your own neck. What happened? The man who came and clung to your heart felt so delightful—what went wrong? What is this panic? The mind is bored. The body never gets bored; the mind always gets bored.
Hence you will be surprised to know that boredom exists in no animal other than man! You have never seen a buffalo bored, nor a crow, nor a dog in a state of boredom. No; other than man, no creature gets bored. They cannot get bored because all animals live on the bodily plane. At the bodily level there is no boredom; boredom happens on the mental plane. And the more developed the mind becomes, the more boredom increases.
Thus Eastern countries are not as bored as Western ones. And when boredom grows, new sensations must be sought daily—to shatter boredom.
You will also be surprised to know: man is the only creature who gets bored and the only creature who laughs. No other animal laughs! If a donkey laughs on the road as you pass, you will never sleep again from fear. We do not expect any animal to laugh. One who does not get bored does not laugh either. Laughter is a device to dissolve boredom.
Therefore, when you are bored, you want a friend to meet you, to share a few jokes—to cut boredom a little. So many means of entertainment are needed because man gets so bored during the day he needs entertainment. Then when entertainment also begins to bore, new forms of entertainment are required. When boredom spreads everywhere, war is needed. War breaks boredom a little.
You have seen—when India and China fought, or India and Pakistan, how much sparkle came on people’s faces! How bright the eyes were! How fresh and alive people seemed!
Why? Life is so bored that when a little bustle arises, some disturbance, some riot somewhere—then there is a glimmer in life, a little shine; sleep breaks a little—it feels as if there is still something to happen, to be seen. Otherwise, everything is seen, everything done; the same repeats; the mind gets bored and panics.
Remember also—no animal is bored, no animal laughs—and note, no animal commits suicide either; only man. Man can get so bored with life that he ends it. And even in ending there can be a novelty. Ending can also be a thrill, a sensation.
In Sweden a man was tried. Sitting on the seashore behind an unknown man, he stabbed him in the back. In court he was asked, “Did you have any quarrel with this man?”
He said, “A quarrel? I had never even seen him! And before stabbing I did not even see his face! Because I stabbed from behind.”
The judge asked, “Are you mad? Then why did you stab?”
He said, “I was so bored that something should happen in life. And I want no defense. If I can be hanged, I am ready to watch hanging with joy. There is nothing left worth seeing in life—everything is seen. Only death is a new thing. And I had never done a murder; that too was something to see—what happens!”
Murders are increasing in the West, suicide is increasing, crime is increasing. Not because the West is becoming criminal, but because there is so much weariness and boredom that without committing crimes no other device is seen to break it.
Recently I heard they have invented a new game in America. It is dangerous. When civilizations get too bored they invent such games. In it two cars are driven at full speed with their wheels kept on the center line of the road—one from this side, one from that. Whoever swerves first for fear of collision loses; the one who does not swerve wins.
Now, if two cars are rushing at a hundred or a hundred and twenty miles per hour and their wheels run on the same line, life is in great danger. Who will pull aside first? The one who pulls aside loses. Civilization has reached great boredom. No flavor is felt unless life is staked.
Thus, when civilization begins to be bored, gambling appears, alcohol appears, wagers appear. When a society gambles a lot, know that the society is bored. Without staking, without danger, it sees no way by which the possibility of something new can arise.
In the world of mind, things become boring daily. And the mind cannot experience any happiness for more than a moment. One moment passes—and happiness turns into unhappiness. At the bodily plane there is no unhappiness or happiness—there is an absence of pain. At the mental plane there are happinesses, but utterly momentary; in one moment they are drowned and gone. That is why, that for which we go mad—“I will stake everything, let it come into my hand!”—as soon as it is attained, we become suddenly dejected.
You want to buy a grand house. You buy—and suddenly find everything is finished. The thrill, the rush, the joy of the chase—it vanished the moment of attainment. Whatever you wanted—on attaining it you will be disappointed. Because in attaining there is one moment of joy; after that, everything becomes old, and you are back again where you were.
At the level of mind there is happiness, but it is momentary. And the one who lives only between body and mind will always live in restlessness. Because one who has never glimpsed eternal bliss—how can he be peaceful? And at the planes of body and mind no glimpse of the eternal can be had.
Yet those who live at the bodily plane will seem peaceful in one sense—dead-peaceful.
There are two kinds of peace: one living, alive; one dead, lifeless. Go to the cremation ground—there too is a peace. But it is the peace of graves. That peace exists because there is no one there who can be restless.
Buddha was staying outside a village with ten thousand bhikkhus. The king of that village was told by his friends: Buddha has arrived—do come! Ten thousand monks have come with him.
The king went to see Buddha. Evening had fallen; darkness gathered on the road. They reached near the mango grove where Buddha and his ten thousand bhikkhus were staying. Suddenly the king drew his sword and said to his friends, “It seems you want to deceive me! Where ten thousand people are camped—we have come so near—there is no sound! It feels so silent there! Are you not taking me into a trap?” His friends said, “You are not acquainted with Buddha and his companions. You have seen the peace of the cremation ground; now see living peace. Ten thousand men are in that garden—come, do not doubt.”
Yet the king trembled at every step—perhaps they were leading him into a trap in the dark! But his friends said, “Do not be frightened; truly there are ten thousand men.” Ten thousand—and such profound silence as if no one were there!
When he came to Buddha he placed his head at his feet and said, “I am astonished—ten thousand men! Ten thousand under the trees, and there is a perfect stillness as if there were none!”
Buddha said, “It seems you recognize only the peace of the cremation ground. There is also a living peace.”
Those who live on the bodily plane are peaceful in one sense. Animals are peaceful; animals are not restless. Some men too, living only at the bodily plane, will be peaceful. They will eat, clothe themselves, sleep; then eat again, dress again, sleep again. But such contentment is not peace; it is only the absence of consciousness. There is no awareness inside. As if there is the condition of a corpse within—a dead man’s state.
Someone said to Socrates, “You are so restless, Socrates—better you be a pig. What is the use of being Socrates? Pigs roam the village outskirts, lie in puddles, eat anything—and how content and peaceful they look!”
Socrates said, “I would prefer to be a dissatisfied Socrates rather than a satisfied pig. A pig is satisfied only because there is no thirst, no call in its life beyond the body. In one sense it does not exist. I am dissatisfied because a call pulls me. Above there is a peace calling me; until I attain it I shall remain dissatisfied. But I choose this dissatisfaction—I count it my good fortune.”
Those among us who are satisfied at the bodily plane—our state can be no different from that of animals.
Animal means: to be satisfied at the bodily plane, to be peaceful there.
Man means: to be restless at the plane of mind. And deva means: to become peaceful at the plane of the soul—Atman.
Between body and Atman is mind. In the world of mind one gets a glimpse of happiness for a moment. From where does this momentary glimpse arise? Even this momentary glimpse comes from the Atman. If the mind becomes silent for a moment, from the soul a taste of bliss descends for a moment. In that silence the peace flashes—like lightning on a dark night where for an instant there is light, then dense darkness again. The mind is darkness; but in any instant, if for a single moment mind falls silent, the light of the hidden Atman descends.
A beloved meets you; for a moment the heartbeat stops; for a moment thoughts cease—you embrace. For a moment everything stops and the glimpse of the soul enters within. But only for a moment. Then the mind resumes work, begins to run, thoughts return, the world starts again. You are back where you were. And the one who is in your arms becomes boring—you want to move away. That momentary glimpse of peace and joy on meeting the beloved did not come from the beloved; the beloved was only an occasion—the glimpse came from within you.
Listening to music, if for a moment the mind becomes silent, the descent begins from within. And if you think that peace is coming from the sitar, you are mistaken. The sitar only created an occasion by which mind became unbound and fell silent. When mind is silent, peace descends from within. Peace always descends from within; bliss always descends from within. But if the mind finds an outer occasion for a moment, it can fall silent. In this condition of silence the descent begins. Mind goes quiet and something from within comes down. That is why it is only for a moment; then all is lost.
But behind the mind is the soul—the Atman. And the direction of the Atman, the path to attain the Atman, the state of consciousness by which we enter the Atman—that is what makes bliss, peace, and light available.
How are we to enter this direction?
Let me try to explain through a small incident.
I was born in a small village. Very small. Near it flows a small river. Ordinarily it is ordinary; but in the rains it becomes very alive. A mountain river, in the rains much water comes, it spreads to about a mile and flows with great roar. Crossing it in the rains is very difficult. But since childhood I loved that river and always longed to cross it even in the rains.
I was fifteen or sixteen. With friends I had often crossed it in the rains; but one day the idea arose to cross it alone at night in darkness. It is very dangerous! The current is very strong! On a dark night at two I went to cross. The greater the danger, the greater the attraction. I entered it. How I labored to reach the other bank—was carried downstream perhaps two miles—did everything. But it began to feel as if there were no other shore at all. In darkness, the bank cannot even be seen.
I grew tired. It felt difficult to survive. One last effort I made. The waves are fierce, the night is dark; the opposite bank is not visible. The first bank is now far behind. There is no point in returning—perhaps the far shore is nearer and the first is even farther now. And the river is carrying me swiftly—perhaps two or three miles I have been swept down. I tried one last time. The more I tried, the less attainable it seemed. Then there came a moment—it felt death had arrived; hands and feet gave way; the eyes closed; I felt I was dying; I understood the story was over.
Two hours later I opened my eyes—I was lying on the bank, across. But in those two hours something happened—that I want to say. As if a new birth occurred. As if I died and returned. The moment I felt I was dying and death had come, I thought: since death has come, let me watch it peacefully—what is it?
Closing my eyes, I let go my hands and feet. As if—outside there was pitch darkness—inside too I entered some very pitch-dark cave. Never had I seen such deep darkness!
Outside there is darkness, but not absolute. Outside there is light too, but not absolute. Outer darkness is pale; outer light is pale. For the first time I saw what that darkness might be for which the Rishis prayed: O Paramatma, lead us from darkness to light! Until then I used to think the darkness which gathers outside—that must be the darkness the Rishis prayed to be led out of. But then I thought: this darkness can be dispelled by switching on electricity—what need to bother Paramatma? I often wondered the Rishis must have been naïve. A lamp would do—why call on God? Unscientific; lacking intelligence. Light a lamp and finish the job—why pray to God to remove darkness?
But that day, for the first time, I came to know there is a darkness which cannot be dispelled by a lamp, where a lamp cannot be taken. For the first time I understood the darkness for which the life-breath prays. That darkness I had never known. So dense a darkness that it is hard even to imagine. No painter has a color so dark. Outside there is always some light. If there is no moon, there are stars. If the sun has set and clouds cover the sky, even then the sun’s rays filter through. The truth is: outer darkness is relative; not absolute. What is absolute darkness? What is total night? For the first time a hint came.
Such panic I felt in that darkness!
Then I understood why outer darkness frightens man so much. There is no danger in outer darkness. Why does the dark night so frighten? And why has man worshiped fire for thousands of years? I felt perhaps outer darkness faintly reminds one of the inner darkness; otherwise there is no cause for fear in outer darkness. And perhaps lighting lamps, lighting fires, and worshiping fire are all part of a search for an inner fire.
For the first time I saw darkness. I walked within it at great speed—it grew thicker and thicker—and my whole being was writhing. It must have been a moment; not long. Because the measures of time are also different.
When you are awake, time is measured by the watch. That too is not a precise measure. If you are happy, the hands of the clock fly; if you are unhappy, they crawl. If someone at home is dying and you sit by his cot—then see how dead the clock runs! It seems the hands have stopped; they stand still. The night lengthens; it feels as if it will never end!
The clock is running by its own pace; what does it know of your dying? Yet it feels long.
If a long-lost beloved meets you, the clock leaps; seconds do not tick—hours jump. The night passes as if, “Just now it was evening, already it is morning? So soon? How?” It feels even the clock is an obstacle to love. The whole world is an obstacle—and the clock too. The night passes too quickly.
Even outwardly, in happiness and sorrow the pace of the clock seems different. The greater the sorrow, the longer the clock appears to run. The greater the happiness, the slower it seems. If sorrow were total, the hands would stand still forever! If happiness were total, even then the hands would whirl and you would not know. When you look, they appear where they were before.
And between the outer and inner, time differs again. You pass twenty-four hours. For a moment a nap touches you—you dream your marriage is happening; children are born; the daughter grows; you set out to find a husband for her; you find one; you are marrying your daughter—and suddenly sleep breaks. You look at the clock—barely a minute has passed! A minute’s nap; in a minute such a long process—your marriage, a daughter born and grown, her marriage, the band playing—and suddenly you wake! One minute has passed outside; inside such a long journey happened!
In the dream the measure of time is different; in waking, different. That day it became clear. So rapidly I began to go within—so swiftly—that perhaps no time was passing at all. And the life-breath was struggling: how to get out of this darkness? How to get out, how to get out? That day for the first time a complete thirst took hold in my heart: O Paramatma, take me beyond the darkness!
Unless the inner darkness is encountered face to face, this thirst does not ripen. In the days to come we will try to have a glimpse of the inner darkness. One who has not known the inner darkness will never cry, never scream, never call for the inner light.
How long I went in that darkness! Then I reached a door and began to beat my head on it. Today, when I say it, it seems very long. I was pounding hard: “Open the door! Open the door!” I was not saying it in words—no words inside—but my life-breath was calling. Nothing was spoken within: “Open the door.” Yet every hair of my being was saying, “Open the door—let me out!”
I have heard a saying of Jesus: Knock, and the door shall be opened.
I used to think—can it be so cheap? Knock—and the doors will open? And this being said of the doors of Paramatma! A little tap and the doors will open? If it were so, who would not tap while passing by? But that day I learned what knock means.
When the whole being, the whole breath, every hair begins to cry out—not in words, in feeling—when the whole soul begins to hammer the door, the doors do open. They opened—and there was another vaster… until now it was like a tunnel, a narrow cave from which the life-breath struggled to get out; now there is a larger cave, where there is dim light. The mind got some relief.
But on opening my eyes to that dim light—there is a huge bustle there, a great commotion. Variegated forms are swirling, running, racing. As I advance there—it is like a vast bazaar, a great crowd, so many kinds of beings—such unique things as I had never seen.
It is said Plato in Greece declared: things are outside, and the forms of things are within. I had heard that in the mind’s world are the forms.
You are visible to me outside. If I close my eyes, you are still visible. You have been shut out; you remain outside. Then who is visible within? Some form of you has remained inside, some ideal form, some idea-image.
So many idea-images—a fair of them—running, chasing, surrounding from all directions. Such a clamor! On the first plane there was dense darkness—no clamor. On the second plane, dim light—yet a terrible clamor. The ears begin to split; the sounds are so loud—so loud that one must escape them, or one will go mad.
Later it occurred to me that the first plane of darkness must have been the plane of the body. The second plane, the plane of the mind. At the bodily plane there is dense darkness. At the mental plane there are dense sounds. The body is a tunnel, a small cave. The mind is an expanse. But in the expanse there is a huge crowd—many colors, many sounds, many fragrances. Whatever has been known, whatever has been lived—it is all there; nothing dies there. Across endless births, whatever has been known, lived, it is all present. The mind is a wondrous museum of all births. All those who were friends, all those who were enemies, all that was heard, all that was spoken, all the events that passed, whatever happened in life—all is gathered there. A vast expanse with a vast crowd, full of sound, full of voices. That too is agitating, maddening.
Is this the untruth—this which surrounds on all sides and drives one insane? And again the same call: further, further, further! The run continues. Again a door; again to bang the head; again to cry out; again the door opens.
And a third world—where there is no boundary; where there is no darkness; where there is no sound; where there is no light. Where there is neither darkness nor light. For the light we know is also a form of darkness, and the darkness we know also a form of light. There is something here which even to call light makes the mind tremble, because in front of it light is nothing.
But for a moment—a wave of bliss flooded the whole being—and then the return; and I opened my eyes and I was lying on the bank. For a moment it felt as if I had seen a dream. I could not believe that what happened had happened. I pondered much, but there was nothing in hand—perhaps it was a dream. But that dream then began to pursue me. By and by, through much effort, the search for that dream continued. And slowly, that which had happened suddenly in the moment of death began to become natural again.
In the next three days I want to take you on the same journey.
The first journey—on the plane of the body.
The second—on the plane of the mind.
And the third entry, the third journey—on the plane of the Atman.
If even a single ray of that realm is glimpsed—just once—it is never forgotten. It becomes the nucleus; then the whole life begins to transform around it. Once a ray from there descends, life becomes different; a new birth happens. And once a ray descends, peace pervades the whole life. Then no matter what calamities fall on life—someone may stab you in the chest, someone may cut off your head, someone may burn you, someone may insult you, someone may honor you, someone may shower abuses, someone may place garlands of flowers—then none of this makes any difference. It is as if all happenings are in a dream. At that inner plane of peace, no news reaches. There, peace, there, bliss—what is there remains undivided, unmoving, unshaken. The experience of arriving there pervades life; the name of that experience is peace.
Peace is not a mental event.
All the Western psychologists are fundamentally mistaken here. Western psychology is trying to make man peaceful through his mind. They will never succeed. Peace is not a mental event. At the most, at the plane of mind, adjustment can happen, rearrangement can happen. Peace—never. Peace is a spiritual event, the shadow of spiritual attainment.
Hence the West has no inkling of what peace is. Today countless efforts are on to understand the mind, its illnesses, its thoughts, its tendencies, the entire state of mind, and then to counsel the mind, to organize it. But those efforts will not lead to peace. Peace is attained by transcending mind—going beyond mind, being beyond mind.
There is no peace at the plane of mind. Therefore, no matter how much you organize mind, at most it can happen that a man becomes capable of tolerating restlessness—but never peaceful. To become able to tolerate restlessness is one thing; to become peaceful is altogether another. To become healthy is one thing; to become merely able to endure illness is wholly different.
As much as psychology strives today, it can at most make man more capable of tolerating restlessness—but cannot make him peaceful. One becomes peaceful on the third plane—the plane of the Atman. And why does one become peaceful there?
As I said, the body’s hunger is: bread. The mind’s hunger is: happiness. In the same way, the soul’s hunger is: Paramatma. Paramatma is the food of the Atman. And on the very day entry happens to the third plane, that which is called Paramatma is found. With that meeting, an unprecedented peace pervades the whole life. And its meeting is not something that can then be lost. In truth, it is not lost even now; only we do not know that it is not lost. It can never be lost. It always is—within.
As if in someone’s house a treasure is lying and he roams outside—and roams, and roams. And the more he roams, the more he forgets the way back within. Roaming becomes a habit, becomes a rut; only the outer path is visible and he keeps roaming there—again and again. Slowly he forgets so totally that there was a treasure within. And because of roaming outside he goes about asking the whole world, “Where is the treasure? What am I searching for? What do I want to search? I do not know!” And he keeps roaming around the very treasure. Man is in almost such a state—and that is why he is restless. What is his does not come to him. What is available to him, he does not know. What he is, that too does not come to his notice. Life is wasted wandering outside.
Restlessness means: wandering outside.
Peace means: entering within.
But how can this entry within happen? It can happen with great simplicity. But simplicity does not mean cheapness! Simplicity does not mean it is inexpensive. In truth, there is nothing more arduous than simplicity. Being simple is the most arduous thing. To be difficult is easy; to be simple is difficult. Because in being simple the ego finds no gratification; in being difficult the ego is very gratified. In being simple the ego dies—no gratification is found.
I have heard that Eckhart has said somewhere: to be ordinary is the most arduous thing. To be ordinary is the hardest. And when Eckhart died someone said: he was a very extraordinary man—very exceptional. Someone asked, “Why?” He said, “He was very ordinary.” So extraordinary because he was absolutely ordinary. To be that ordinary is very difficult. It sounds strange to call a man extraordinary because he is utterly ordinary.
In the same way, it will sound extraordinary and difficult when I say: it is very simple. But do not take simple to mean cheap. It is simple because what is our nature cannot be difficult to attain. What is already within cannot be hard to obtain. What we ourselves are cannot be hard to find.
Yet it has become very difficult—because for many births we have been walking on a path which bears no relation to it. That journey has become strong—birth after birth—the habit has become so strong that to turn our necks toward ourselves has become difficult; it is as if paralysis has set into the neck. As if someone’s neck has been paralyzed, and we say to him, “Look back!” He says, “Very hard.” We say, “What is hard—turn your neck and see!” He says, “You say so, but my neck has become stiff; it does not turn back. Unless I turn completely, the neck does not turn; the neck alone does not turn.” And man wants to turn only his neck and look back; hence he never returns. The whole man has to turn—the total man. Then returning happens.
Therefore, religion is the transformation of one’s whole life. Religion is not turning the neck. It is not, as poets have said, “I slightly bowed the head and saw!” There is no picture waiting within that by bowing the head you will see. The neck does not bow; the whole man has to bow. It is a total turning, a complete conversion. There not one hand or foot bends—the whole man turns. And how can that whole turning happen? I will speak of that.
But before that—because we will sit here each night for meditation. Today also we will sit for fifteen minutes—so let me say a little about meditation. From tomorrow I will try to explain how the journey can happen step by step. But understanding is not as important as experimenting with what I say. We will experiment now; I will explain the experiment.
We will begin a meditation experiment now. It is very simple. It is an experiment to awaken the sleeping parts within. Naturally, if someone is asleep, we call him. If we know his name, we call by name. If we do not know the name, what shall we do? And within we know nothing of who is asleep, nothing of his name. So we can only do one thing: with our whole life-breath we ask, “Who am I?” And if this is asked with total strength—“Who am I?”—then slowly the sleeping layers within begin to awaken. And on the day this question reaches the innermost, to the third door—“Who am I?”—from there the answer begins to come: who are you.
Those who have said, Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!—they did not copy it from a library book. They asked themselves: Who am I? Who am I? They kept asking, submerged their whole being in this inquiry—Who am I? Some day this arrow pierced within, and from there the answer came: who I am.
But we are very clever people! We say, “Why should we make the effort? It is written in the book that we are Brahman—we will memorize it; why get into trouble? We will learn it by heart. If the question arises we will say, ‘I am Brahman! I am Atman!’” These are false answers—not because those who gave the answers were false, but because the answers are not yours! Whatever is not your own is false! We have learned from books who we are—and we know nothing!
No; for Paramatma you must ask yourself—and discover yourself. On the day your own answer comes, that is the answer. With the coming of that answer, everything becomes different—everything. As if a blind man’s eyes are given to him—that is one thing. And a blind man hearing from others that “there is light” and repeating “there is light”—that is something entirely different; it has no relation.
So we will ask within. And asking cannot be dead, like lifelessly asking, “Who am I?” It will not happen that way. Because the layers are deep where the voice must reach.
If in a forest you get lost on a dark night, with no companions—would you ask under some bush in a feeble voice, “Is anyone there?” No—you would call with your whole being, “Is anyone here? I have lost my way!” so that each plant of the forest trembles, each hill echoes, each valley asks, “Is anyone here?” You will put your whole strength.
Even greater is the lostness than in a forest. In a forest, how long can one be lost? By morning you will return home—even without asking. The sun will rise anyway. But the forest we are lost in is of many births. Who knows for how many births we have been lost! Yet we ask so slowly—“Is there some way?”—that our asking itself shows we have no urgency.
No—it can be asked totally. Not partial; not in fragments; not small—total. And the assurance is this: the man who asks with total strength—even today, this very moment—the answer can come. Why wait for tomorrow? But we have never truly asked! We have never searched! We live in the hope of borrowing something from somewhere.
No; in the direction of truth nothing can be borrowed; in the direction of bliss nothing can be gotten from another. Only your own effort, your own resolve, your own strength! That alone is the criterion that our asking is authentic, that what we ask, we are worthy to ask. There is only one qualification in this search: to stand with your whole being in the search. Meditation has only this one condition: not slowly, not lazily, not in a makeshift manner—but totally, as if it were the question of our life-breath. Perhaps a moment later we may not be! Perhaps a moment later breath may not return! Then it should not be that we went back without knowing ourselves. Such is the situation.
Mahavira has said: like a drop of dew on a blade of grass in the morning—not known when a gust of wind will knock it off. Such is man’s life. A drop of dew on a grass-blade! A slight breeze—and it will fall. Such is man’s life—so insecure, so unsafe, in such danger. There is no guarantee of a single moment. And when a man enters his search, he goes so slowly—as if there is no urgency.
No; it cannot go that way. In these three days when we will meditate here, I will carry the hope that you will be total—that you will throw your whole being in, a total commitment of breath, of heartbeat, of body, of mind, total! The more totally you jump in, the deeper you will enter. The more completely you leap, the farther within you will go. And what has to be done? Not much—only a small thing.
We will all sit; sit comfortably, and interlock all the fingers of both hands, so that we can ask with total strength. And as the pressure in the hands increases, you will know how much strength you are putting into asking. The hands will become stones. Interlock all ten fingers, place them in your lap, sit at ease. Then we will close the eyes. With eyes closed, the attention should remain between the two eyes. Why there? I will try to explain in the coming days—what its meaning is, its consequences. Both eyes will remain closed, but as if we are looking within—between the two eyes. Hands locked. The spine straight. The body relaxed.
First sit thus. Lock the hands; keep the spine straight. The spine must be straight because the straighter it is, the more forcefully you will be able to ask.
You have noticed: whenever passion arises, the spine straightens of its own accord. In a quarrel you will see—no one quarrels with a bent spine; it straightens on its own. When the call of the whole being arises, the spine straightens.
So—spine straight. Hands locked. And those hands will serve as your gauge. The more forcefully you ask, the more rigid the hands will become. It will be difficult to unlock them. They will become completely locked—as if there is no strength to open them. The eyes remain closed, and attention in the mid-point between the two lids—where the nose begins between the eyes, at the root of the nose—let the eyes be turned within.
Then within—the lips closed, the tongue will touch the palate. When the lips are closed, the tongue will adhere to the palate—meaning the mouth is completely closed. We are not to call with the mouth; we are to call with the life-breath within. And we are to ask within: Who am I? With such speed that there be no gap between two “Who am I?” Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—continuously, with total strength, so that no strength remains unused within.
It can happen that the body begins to tremble. It can happen that tears begin to flow. It can happen that sobbing arises. When the body participates with total energy, such things can happen. Do not stop anything. Let whatever happens, happen. Keep only one awareness—that I go on asking, I go on asking. My whole life is at stake; I will ask, and I want to know what is within. We will experiment for fifteen minutes. And after this experiment our sitting will end.
Now please sit. Friends standing above, kindly sit wherever you are. There is no harm—if a little clothing gets dirty, no harm—sit. Because anyone standing will be a disturbance; please sit. Keep silent. No talking. And take care that you do not cause the slightest disturbance to anyone else.
Good—straighten the spine. Lock the hands. Close the eyes. Bring your attention between the eyes—as if, with closed eyes, you are looking within toward the space between the two eyes. Good! Lips are closed. Now begin within with total strength—ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—fast, swift, intense, with total strength. Keep asking; let your whole strength be engaged; increase it… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—not slowly, with total strength. And as you ask with total strength, the descent will begin within…
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—ask with intensity, with force, with total force… let the heartbeat ask, let the breath ask. The hands will lock more and more, the spine will grow straighter, the body may tremble, tears may flow—pour your total strength… and as strength increases, so will peace. A deep peace will begin to arise within… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?…
No, not slowly—totally… Who am I? Who am I?… Later do not come and say to me nothing happened. With total strength… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—ask, ask… deeper, deeper… let the sound become like an arrow—within, within, within… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Let the whole body begin to shake—Who am I? Put in total strength—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?…
A deep peace will begin to descend… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?—with total strength, total strength… let a storm arise… let this whole atmosphere begin to ask—Who am I? So many souls asking together—and there be no result!… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… With total strength… let whatever happens, happen…
Who am I?… Do not think of anyone else—your own: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Each breath, each heartbeat—nothing remains remembered, only one question remains—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… More within, more within… a deep peace will descend. The more forcefully you ask, the more peace you will feel behind. The deeper you ask, the deeper peace will be experienced by the mind…
Who am I?… Shake your whole personality—shake it… let your whole being be shaken—Who am I?… As one shakes a tree and its roots are shaken—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… To know, to recognize, to arrive—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Ask, ask, ask… let there remain only one question—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Lost in darkness, asking, “Who am I?” The path is lost, I do not know myself…
Who am I? It must be discovered, discovered… Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… Five minutes more—with total strength—Who am I? Who am I?… Put in your whole power… Who am I?… Let nothing remain behind—do not feel you are doing it half-heartedly. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… One knock upon the door—Who am I? Who am I?… As a blow upon a closed door—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?… There is deep darkness… Who am I? Who am I?…
The more intensely you ask, the more the mind will become quiet… Who am I?… One single resonance—Who am I?… Who am I?… Last two minutes—total strength… total strength… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?…
The last minute… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?…
The mind will grow silent; a deep peace will spread within—as after a storm everything becomes still… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… For the last time—Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Bring it to the highest peak and leave it—Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?… Who am I?…
Let go… completely let go… become silent… let go. Slowly open the eyes… sit silently a little while… slowly open the eyes… then slowly unlock the hands… slowly open the eyes…
I have three small notices to give; I will give them, then we will rise.
The first: while I come and go, no one should touch my feet. I am nobody’s guru—nor do I accept that anyone should be anyone’s guru or anyone’s disciple. So do not touch my feet. I am not a sadhu-saint or a mahatma either. The attempt to be a sadhu-saint or a mahatma seems to me very childish. So there is no need to give me respect, reverence, or honor. This much respect is enough for me—that you listen to what I say. There is no need even to believe it. Think, experiment. If it proves true, it will stay; if it proves false, it will drop.
Second: it is my nature to give love to whoever comes to me. Those who are afraid of love should not come near me. My condition is almost like Plotinus when he had grown old—his whole life he had taken love to be prayer. In old age leprosy came upon his body. Even then, when people came to him he would embrace them. People were afraid—who wishes to embrace a leprous body! People stopped coming. Plotinus asked, “Do people not come now?” Who would tell him out of embarrassment! Some friends took courage and said, “Your body has leprosy. You take people’s hands in your hands, you embrace them, you kiss their foreheads. People have begun to be afraid.” Plotinus said, “Ah yes, I simply forget that I also am a body. I do not even remember that there is leprosy in the body.”
Come less to me as well, because I do not know that I am a body—whose body, whether male or not, I do not know. When men come close there is not much trouble; when women come near there is much trouble. So keep in mind—do not come close to me; that is good. It seems difficult that I will change my nature. But you can have compassion on me—remain a little distant from me.
As I arrived here I came to know. A Member of Parliament from Baroda made a statement. I learned of it and understood he speaks rightly. A sister had come from Delhi. Not less intelligent than a Member of Parliament—she is a university professor. She came and stayed near me and entreated very fervently: it would be my great fortune to stay with you. I have waited for years to get two days to live with you.
I said, “You are mad—you could have come any time.”
She stayed with me. I did not know her staying would cause much difficulty and trouble. If someone had told me that her staying would be a difficulty, I would not have caused them pain—or I would have said to them, “You also come—sleep here as well; you also stay.” They did not say anything to me. I went to a meeting. The next day they took all the belongings of that sister and threw them out.
When I came, she was standing there weeping. She said, “I have been gravely insulted; very rude words were said to me.” I said, “How astonishing!” Those friends said, “When you arrived, this sister embraced you. And it is a great impropriety that a sister should embrace you.” I said to them, “It would have been good to tell me; to throw out her belongings or say rude things is very wrong, discourteous.”
Now I have come to know—they have given statements to the newspapers. So let me also request you: I keep no account of who comes near me—male or female. Therefore, it is better to be careful before coming near me. In the future I might be able to keep account—it seems difficult. So keep a little distance from me; that is good. One should not trouble Members of Parliament. They attempt to keep the nation’s conduct pure. It is thanks to them the country’s conduct and character are so good—otherwise it would have deteriorated long ago. People like me have always been those who spoil conduct. So it is better to remain a little distant from such people.
So, the second request: offer greeting to me from a little distance. To meet me personally—come thoughtfully. Actually, you should not come at all. Because whatever I have to say, I say here; there is nothing to ask me separately.
But I know there may be some things to ask separately. Yet the Members of Parliament do not wish that anyone should speak to me privately. If it is limited to men, it is still okay. If women come to speak privately, it becomes very difficult. So women should not come to speak to me privately at all. In this there is no fault of mine—perhaps their being women is at fault, or their being born in India—let them decide.
And if anyone comes to meet me alone, he should come thoughtfully: you go to a man whose character is not proper—think and consider. Because there will be difficulties for people, pains, troubles…
And troubles arise according to one’s own mind. In those whose minds are full of lust, nothing other than lust is visible anywhere in the whole world. It cannot be seen.
Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia wrote a book. In it he asks a question: when Buddha went to Vaishali, the city’s courtesan, the prostitute Amrapali, came, fell at Buddha’s feet, and said, “Give me initiation.” Dr. Lohia raises the question: I wonder what kind of tremor, what kind of ripple must have arisen in Buddha’s mind on seeing that beautiful woman?
How amusing! It occurs to Dr. Lohia to imagine what tremor, what ripple might have arisen in Buddha’s mind. But Dr. Lohia too was a Member of Parliament, and Members of Parliament should worry. They absolutely should. The nation’s character depends on them.
When Vivekananda came to India, the arrival of Sister Nivedita became a cause of trouble in Bengal. A monk, and a woman with him! They didn’t understand that the very meaning of sannyasin is one for whom “man” and “woman” no longer exist. Still, it became a difficulty, a hindrance, a nuisance.
A woman, Mary Magdalene, came to Jesus Christ, clutched his feet, and washed them with her tears. From that day the trouble began. Why did he let a prostitute touch his feet! For Jesus too is anyone a prostitute? For Jesus too is there man and woman? But Jesus is in the wrong; Members of Parliament know better. And the MPs of those days had Jesus hung on the cross.
Socrates was charged with lack of character—that he corrupted the boys.
When Vivekananda went to Ramakrishna Paramhansa, Vivekananda was a handsome young man. Rumors were spread that Ramakrishna loved beautiful boys. Luckily there was no Member of Parliament in Dakshineswar; otherwise Ramakrishna would have learned what trouble could arise.
So it is proper—no fault of theirs. They did well; they said the right thing; they ought to say such things. I had told him right there that I would speak openly. He said, no, speaking openly isn’t right. But now he himself feels it should be talked about openly. I will go to Baroda at his election time and tell the people, “Be sure to vote for him, or the nation’s character will be ruined. Keep voting for him; otherwise there’s no hope for the nation’s character.”
The whole country’s mind has been made sex-obsessed, and all the talk is of character. Lust has entered so deeply that it has become impossible, even for a moment, to forget who is woman and who is man. But those are other matters—people like me, the wrong sort, talk about such things; good people don’t.
People should be cautious. Why, what need is there to come to me? None at all. No need to write me letters either, because I write very mischievous letters. So my third request to you is: don’t write me letters. And with women it is a big trouble: if you don’t answer their letters, right on the heels of the first, another arrives; if you do answer, the difficulty begins. So don’t write to me. Whatever you want to ask, ask here.
And if someone simply must meet me—men don’t have so much trouble—but if women must meet me, then if they are young they should bring their father; he serves as protector. If older, bring the husband; he is a protector. If older still, bring the son; he is a protector. But never come alone. Coming alone is not right at all—because I can only be loving.
Now, here is Himmatbhai Joshi—he must be sitting here somewhere. His wife, Jasu, went with me; Jasu came with me to Indore. I put her in the room next to mine. In the evening she came and said, “I’ll sleep in your room.” I said, “The room is big—go ahead, sleep.” It didn’t even occur to me that I was telling a woman to sleep there; there might be Members of Parliament around Indore! As it happens, the MP from Indore seems to be a sleepy sort—he has no concern for character. So the people of Indore should not vote for him: “You’re the wrong man! You should find out who sleeps where, who does what—and who slept with a troublesome fellow like me, and what happened!” Anyway, I said, “All right.” She slept. She must have been delighted. By good fortune no MP found out; otherwise trouble would have ensued.
These people—often vultures fly in the sky; don’t assume from that that they belong to the sky. They fly in the sky, but their gaze is fixed on the lumps of rotting meat on the rubbish heaps below. Don’t think that just because they soar, they are of the sky; their eyes are on the earth, on filthy places. Where your gaze is—that is where you are. Sitting in parliament makes no difference. Where is the gaze?
But it’s not their fault; the poor fellows did it all in the public interest. In the public interest, such things must be done. Still, I request you: there is no need to come and go to me. And there is no need to form any love relationship with me. And with me, love seems to happen with anyone—that is the mistake. It is love that is the mistake.
So this is my third request to you. And regarding these three days, and the conversations before, whatever questions you have, submit them in writing so that in the final meeting I can discuss them all.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—for that I am deeply obliged. In the end, I bow to the God seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.