My beloved Atman! I went to a garden. The earth of that garden was one. The sky above that garden was one. The rays of the same sun were raining down. The same winds were blowing. There was one gardener. The same water fell. And yet, in that garden, flowers bloomed all differently. I fell into deep wonder. Perhaps it has happened to you too, that upon entering some garden such a thought has arisen within. The earth is one, the sky one, the sun’s rays one, the winds one, the water one, the gardener one. But the rose bears rosy blossoms, jasmine bears white. The fragrances differ. How is it that from the same earth, under the same sky, from the same sun-rays, these diverse flowers draw different colors, different fragrances, different ways of being? I began to ask the gardener. He said: All that is one—but the seeds that draw are different. What can such a tiny seed be drawing? A seed so small—yet it flings aside this vast sky and this vast earth and this great sun and all these winds, and draws only the color of its own longing! It pushes aside the whole world and draws its own chosen fragrance! A little seed’s sankalpa is vaster than sky, vaster than earth! And a seed becomes exactly that which it longs to be! What could be hidden within a tiny seed? Each seed has its own desire, its own will, its own sankalpa. That little seed draws precisely what it wishes to draw, and leaves the rest untouched. The rose becomes a rose; the jasmine becomes jasmine. Side by side, jasmine has become jasmine; side by side, rose has become rose. Both have drawn strength from the same soil. The fragrance of rose is distinct, that of jasmine distinct; their hues and ways, all different. Life holds infinite possibilities. But we become that which, from among those possibilities, we draw within ourselves. Around us there is an expanse of infinite thoughts, waves of thought unending. But only those thoughts come near us for which there is capacity, magnetism, receptivity within us. In this very world one man becomes a Buddha; in this very world one man becomes a Jesus; in this very world one man becomes a Krishna; and in this very world we become nothing at all—become nothing and vanish, and are finished. And the source from which everything is drawn is utterly one—the same sky, the same earth, the same winds all around; the same sun, moon, stars—all one—then how does each person become so different? Even our faces seem similar, our bodies seem alike, our bones, flesh, marrow appear the same. Where does the difference arise? Where does the human personality diverge? How does one man become a Buddha? How does one remain standing in darkness while another rises into light? It is essential to understand what I said yesterday. Yesterday I said: in the human personality there are seven centers, seven chakras. And whichever center becomes active draws everything from around it that is in accord with itself. A center becomes a receptivity, a clienthood. If the center of anger is active, that man will absorb all the waves of anger around him. If the center of love is active, then streams of love will begin to run toward him from every side. If the sex-center is active, then sex-impulses will race toward him from all around. He becomes like a pit, and the streams flow toward him with that which he has asked for. Paramatma gives to each exactly what we ask. Never, even by mistake, say to Paramatma: how did you give me what I did not ask for? Till today, no one has received what he did not want. But we do not even know what it is we want. We desire in great darkness, and it is exactly that which keeps happening. Then we lay blame. If the seed of jasmine were to blame Paramatma: Why did you give me white flowers? I was mad for crimson blossoms!—then jasmine would be in the wrong. For its seed never longed for crimson flowers. We are what our wanting has made of us. What we have asked for has been drawn from all around us and gathered near. What we have become is that which our seed has desired, has called for. Then one man lives in anger, in restlessness, in greed, in fear, in lust—and then he asks: Where is Ishwar? Where is Paramatma? Nowhere to be seen! When Khrushchev’s first cosmonauts brought back photographs from near the moon, in a speech Khrushchev said: I am happy to announce to the world that my astronauts have been near the moon; they did not find any kind of God there. It is hard to answer Khrushchev. For those who think they will find God on the moon or on some star or planet should understand well: if not today, then tomorrow—if not by Khrushchev, then by someone else—this declaration will be made: all the moons and stars have been seen; there is no God anywhere there. And the strange thing is—there have been people who, on this very earth, come to see God. And there are people who, even upon reaching the stars and the moon, do not see God at all. Sow jasmine on the moon or on earth—it will not turn into a rose. It will see only that which it can be; it will become only that which it can become. Wherever we go in this world, we will be what we have been. For there too we will draw the same, see the same, experience the same—as much as we can draw. The eye draws light. Come as near the eye as you like and play the sitar—the eye will not hear the music. And light as many lamps as you like near the ear—the ear will not know that outside there is light and the lamps are lit. And the ear will keep saying: where is the light? Nothing can be heard. Is light ever heard? And the eye will say: where is the veena playing? I can see nothing; where is the music? Music is not seen! Through whatever instrument we approach life to recognize and see, that alone becomes available to us. This world becomes exactly what we are. And, as I said yesterday, we have seven centers. The first and last, the first and the seventh, are reservoirs of energy. They do not do anything; they are simply abodes of energy, museums of shakti. Energy is stored there—at the first and the seventh centers. The second center is a center of expulsion of energy. The sex center is the point from which energy is thrown outward. It is an exit; there, energies spill out. Therefore the one who lives at that center throughout life becomes continuously weak, ever more depleted. Slowly all his energy drains away and he becomes energyless, powerless. The sixth center, which I called Ajna—within the brain, at the brow between the two eyes—is exactly the opposite of the sex center; it is the entrance, the gateway. Through it energies enter within. From the sex center energies are flung out; through Ajna energies enter in. Therefore the nearer a man lives to vasana, to lust, the less will be his strength of sankalpa, because he will be farthest from the Ajna center. The one who lives close to Ajna, whose attention abides there—without his even knowing it, lust will slowly grow thin in his consciousness and gradually dissolve. For Ajna is the inviter of energies, the summoner, the absorber—the one who drinks them in. And the more energy is drunk at the Ajna center, the stronger and more powerful the personality becomes—vigorous, potent, and full of resolve. These two centers—the sex center as the expeller of energy, the Ajna center as the inviter of energy. Between these two lie three centers from navel to throat—navel, heart, and throat. These three are centers of internal interaction; they keep the inner functions of the body in motion. A precise understanding of these seven centers is indispensable for the seeker. People say: God does not appear! The Atman is not seen! The center through which a connection with Paramatma can be made is the seventh center. As soon as that center becomes active, the world begins to dissolve and Paramatma appears. It is not that the world ceases to be; rather, the world remains—but not as world: it remains as Paramatma. Rabia was a fakir woman, a Sufi. In her scripture she read: hate the devil! She crossed out that line in her book. A friend, the fakir Hasan, was a guest in her house. Early in the morning he opened her scripture and saw that someone had corrected the scripture. He asked Rabia: Are you mad? Have you made this correction? Can a scripture be corrected? Rabia said: I was compelled, so I had to correct it. Since the day Paramatma began to appear to me, the devil no longer appears at all. And in this book it is written: hate the devil! The devil does not appear to me; now, whatever appears is Paramatma. Even if the devil were to stand before me, I would only see Paramatma. This is one difficulty. The second is that since only Paramatma appears, nothing but love remains within me; hatred no longer remains. How can I hate? First, the devil does not appear; second, within me there is no hatred—so I crossed out the line; for me it had become impractical. The day the seventh center becomes active, all that which had never appeared begins to be experienced. But why does it happen? A small child is born; he has no notion yet of sex-impulse. That center is not yet active. When that center becomes active, suddenly the world seems to change. The world takes a form that was never there before. A center within became active, and the outer world began to change. The world was the same yesterday, and is the same today. Where has the change occurred? Not in the world; within that person a sleeping center became active. Exactly so—on the day the seventh center, the Brahma-center, becomes active, even then the world remains as it is—but something entirely new begins to appear. We receive within only what we have the capacity to receive. Everything is present. What Buddha received in this very world is present even today. And today there is no difficulty in becoming a Buddha. No difficulty in becoming a Mahavira. No difficulty in becoming a Ram or a Krishna. All that they received is present. But within us that center must become active which can receive it. Yet we ask the question reversed. We ask: Where is Paramatma? We do not ask: Where is that center, the activation of which gives the experience of Paramatma, and whose inactivation makes us miss Him? Around us is an infinite expanse—of infinite experiences, infinite knowings, infinite thoughts. These thoughts revolve around us twenty-four hours a day. The thoughts that we give place within and the center that we activate—thoughts harmonious with that begin to run toward us, seize us, encircle us. This is worth understanding. If in the morning you become angry, you will be surprised to see that throughout that day countless occasions for anger arise. What happens on that day? You will say: Since morning something has gone wrong; my luck is bad. Luck is not bad; the tendency that became active since morning keeps attracting events of its own kind from all around. It keeps drawing the entire day. Therefore those who know say: fall asleep at night in a state of deep awareness, so that the night as well... even the whole night thoughts are attracted toward you, even if you remain asleep. All night you dream. And dreams are formed from the thoughts you draw from all around. Your neighbor sleeping next to you may dream of being a monk, while you, sleeping in the same neighborhood, may dream of being a thief. Do not think: both of us are dreaming—what value have dreams? But one man next to you dreams of being a monk; you dream of being a thief. You are dreaming exactly what the active mind can pull from around it. The one who sleeps in meditation at night will attract thoughts throughout the night in accord with meditation, with peace. And upon waking it is essential to meditate, so that your day’s journey can go on drawing only those thoughts toward you with which you began the journey. But people usually begin their mornings in very wrong ways, and they go to sleep at night in very wrong ways. These two times are most deserving of meditation. The moment of falling asleep at night should be spent immersed in deep awareness, silence, peace, bliss, and prayer. Then the six or eight hours of night will draw a new world, a new light, new thoughts within you. And the first hour upon waking should again be spent in meditation, so that for twenty-four hours, the waking day, your entire journey keeps drawing again what is auspicious, beautiful, and true. Whoever can guard these two hours can guard the full twenty-four. Therefore the method of meditation I am asking of you—do it at night as you fall asleep, and again upon waking. Let waking begin with meditation; let sleep begin with meditation. If these two thresholds can be properly guarded, peace and revolution will begin to descend upon the personality. And remember—as I said—the ocean of thought is surging around us. Before the invention of radio, we had no idea that what is spoken in Moscow also passes through Matunga. Those in Moscow likely had no idea that what is spoken in Matunga passes through Moscow. But now we know. We are sitting here right now; we do not hear what Moscow or Peking or New York is saying. But if we place a radio before us, the catching begins. The radio does not bring sound here; the sound is passing here—the radio only catches it. Much is present all around us. What we can catch is caught; what we cannot, is missed. And we catch exactly on the level, the wavelength, the tuning upon which our chakra is functioning. Then that alone begins to come into our grasp, that alone we begin to see and hear; it begins to surround us from every side. This infinite web of thought all around... Remember: no word ever dies. In this cosmos nothing ever dies. What I am speaking now—this will never die; there is no way for it to die. Once spoken, it has become eternal and everlasting. Its resonance will go on circling through the whole cosmos for all time—ever, ever. It will never end. Once the resonance is born, it continues to echo without end in infinite realms. Scientists consider it very possible that one day instruments may be invented that could catch what Krishna said to Arjuna on Kurukshetra. Very possible that what Jesus said could be caught. What Mahavira said in Bihar could be caught—because that sound must be echoing somewhere even today. But whether scientists can one day build such instruments or not is another matter. Those who can activate the seventh center, even today—without any instrument—can catch whatever sublime waves have ever arisen in the world. The finest wealth of this world in the form of waves—they become capable of receiving it. To live in those waves is an altogether different experience. Nietzsche has said: there came a moment when I felt I was living thousands of miles above time. Thousands of miles above time? How can anyone stand miles above time? Those who have had even a little taste upon that plane will feel that the whole world has remained wandering in some trench, some ditch, some valley—while we stand living on some Everest. That experience of standing at heights, of living at heights—begins with the activation of our highest, ultimate chakra. That chakra can be activated. How? Without the activation of that chakra there is no entry into the inner life, the true life, the temple of the Lord. That chakra will be activated only through sankalpa. And before sankalpa, the Ajna chakra will be activated. Then deeper and deeper sankalpa—its ultimate depth sets even the final chakra into motion. The meditation process I have given—take it as deep as you can—into the ultimate, the peak depth—only then will you be able to activate the final chakra. And remember, it does not activate by accident; it happens only if we do. Yes, perhaps someday it will happen by itself. After millions of years, in the natural process of evolution, one day it may activate spontaneously. But until then you must wait. The sole meaning of sadhana is this: what nature accomplishes in millions of years, the seeker completes swiftly, intensely, in little time. The state that came to Buddha, to Mahavira—it is entirely possible that after billions upon billions of years, every man might be born already in that state. But nature’s process is very long, very slow, very gradual. Whoever wishes to give it acceleration will have to do something. He will have to become active himself; he will have to act. But we are doing nothing. Our condition is as if we are drifting in a river; wherever the river takes us, we go. We do nothing. And this non-doing, this drifting, this lazy, quiet going along in the current of nature—this, if understood rightly, is the fundamental formula of life’s futility. If you wish to break this futility, you will have to do something. What must be done? Go to temples and perform worship? Clutch at the feet of gurus? Apply tilak and tika? Perform yajna and havan? We have found a way to avoid doing the real thing. What must be done is not this. This will do nothing. This only creates the deception that we are doing something. Better the earlier condition—just drifting along. At least there was no deception that we were doing anything. At least the mind might someday have felt the urge to do something. But these things people begin to do—turning the rosary, going to the temple to worship—these people fall into the delusion that they are doing. Because of this delusion, even the urge that might have arisen sometime—to do the real—never arises. Therefore the amount of harm done to humanity by the ritualistic routines paraded in the name of religion—no one else has done so much damage. And the brokers of these rituals have harmed the human race more than anyone. Those whose feet people touch and whom they worship—those very people have tightened their hands around man’s neck. They are the takers of his very breath. But this is not seen. They have diverted us from the essential—any sadhana that awakens sankalpa—and thrust some hollow businesses into our hands. By doing these neither does sankalpa develop, nor does any inner strength awaken; by such exertions no center becomes active, nor does any new movement arise in the inner life-breath. Yet thousands upon thousands of such actions are going on in the world in the name of religion. In the name of religion, a substitute religion—pseudo-religion—has developed everywhere. This false religion has blocked man from becoming religious. Because man feels—“I have done it; I have been to the temple.” There is another temple—within—where one had to go. But the clever, the cunning, have constructed a temple outside. There he goes, returns home, and says: I have visited the temple. He does not even know where the temple is. He does not know that one who truly enters the temple never returns from it—he begins to live in the temple. It is the point of no return; no one ever comes back from there. But to this outer temple we go in the morning and return. In truth, how can we even go there? We are exactly what we were when we left home. We enter that temple as we are and return as we were. Where has the going to the temple happened? To go to the temple means: to reach a space where we do not remain what we were—then we have gone into the temple; otherwise we have not. What does going to the temple mean? That a man leaves his house and enters some house called A or B and returns—has he visited the temple? Man seems marvelously skilled at deceiving himself. To go to the temple means: inner conversion. It means to enter a state of consciousness in which we become something we were not before we went. And remember, after returning from that state, we can never again be what we once were. It is impossible. No one has ever returned from the temple. Or if one returns, the temple returns with him. Then he lives in the temple. But we do not know the temple. We have built it outside. We have arranged the temple outwardly. We worship it, pray there, and return. No, the temple is not there. The seventh chakra I am speaking of—this is the temple. To reach this seventh chakra is to enter the temple. But the outer temple too—those who know would know—was built by hearing the talk of those who had spoken of the inner temple. In the temple you go within. There are outer walls, but within there is the garbhagriha, the sanctum where the deity is established. Around that sanctum is the path of circumambulation. You circle it seven times and return. But have you ever wondered: why seven rounds? Have you wondered: what are we circling? Why is the deity established at the center of the circle? Why do we call it the garbhagriha—the “womb-house”? Why is it round? Why is the dome of the temple round? What is all this? Those who spoke of the inner temple—we heard them and built an outer replica. The dome you see atop the temple is a symbol of the human head—within which, somewhere within, is the abode of Paramatma. But that abode lies in the midst of some circular circuit. Those who knew must have said something like this: only upon moving round and completing the circumambulation does the inner become experienced. We made an outer installation. We circle it and return home. And sadhus and saints—those we call mahatmas—half of them at best—encourage us: Go to the temple! One must go to the temple! They too have been repeating for thousands of years: one must go to the temple. I also say: one must go to the temple. But the temple toward which they point is not the temple; the temple is elsewhere—within yourself. I have heard a story. In a certain house there were small children. When they were very young, in a boat accident both father and mother died. The children thought: our parents are dead, but what they used to do, we should continue. Who knows what secret was hidden in their doing? The children were small. They had seen that before and after eating, the father used to go to a shelf and take some stick of wood and do something—who knows what. He used to clean his teeth after meals with a little wooden toothpick kept on that shelf. The boys did not know; they were small. Nor did their teeth require cleaning with a stick. The reason was not there. But they knew this much: a toothpick was kept on a shelf, and he went regularly there twice a day. They thought: there must be some connection between eating and going to that shelf. Surely there is some secret in this stick. So they kept a stick there. Not knowing what to do, they would go every day, join their hands, and before and after meals bow to that stick. It became a regular rite. They grew up. They built a new house. They said: why keep this small stick? Make a good sandalwood stick—since we bow to it every day. They had a fine carved sandalwood piece made; in the new house, instead of a shelf, they made a pretty little shrine—a temple—and installed the fine sandalwood pillar. Morning and evening, before and after eating, they bowed to it. Generations passed. Their sons were born, who built bigger houses—sons make bigger houses. The little shelf gradually became a big temple. The small stick gradually turned into a full pillar. Someone once asked them: what is it you do? They said: this has always been done in our house. It is a religious act. Whoever does not do it is very irreligious. Some boys in our house have gone astray; they do not accept it, they do not bow to it. Those who bow are very religious. Almost this has happened—and is happening. The inner truths of life can only be spoken in symbols. The symbol gets into our hands; we sit clutching it. Worship of the symbols begins. We forget that the symbols pointed elsewhere; they are not truth—they point toward it. The seventh chakra I mentioned—this is the temple one must enter. Its door is the Ajna chakra—through which you enter. How to work at this Ajna? What is to be done? By what means shall we make this chakra alive, active, in full bloom—its flowering complete? Three small sutras must be understood. First: the more sankalpa there is in life, the more this door will open. What is sankalpa? Sankalpa means—whatever is to be done, one’s total energy should be put into it; there should be no fragmentation within. It should not be that half the mind says do, and half says don’t. If the mind is split into pieces—disintegrated—then the pieces will fight among themselves and the sankalpa will be destroyed. And our minds are split into pieces—even in trivial things, beyond counting. Neither a straight yes is within, nor a straight no; both are together. We want neither to go left nor right; we want to go both ways at once. Then little by little all sankalpa is weakened. Our mind is like a bullock-cart to which oxen are yoked on all sides. They pull in four directions. The cart goes nowhere; only its joints loosen. Such turmoil arises that the oxen, too, slowly become exhausted and bewildered at what is happening. If you look at your life, you will find oxen yoked to your cart on all sides. There is no one resolve within—twenty-five resolves are there together. You may never have noticed that altogether opposite resolves coexist. The one you love is the one you hate. It will seem startling. But notice: the friend of one moment becomes the enemy in the next. Just now there was such love—how did such hatred arise in a moment? Just beneath that love, hatred was sitting—waiting: let love move aside and I shall appear. Hence there is less danger from enemies than from friends. For if an enemy can become anything, he can become a friend; a friend is hidden within him. And if a friend can become anything, there is only one possibility—that he become an enemy; an enemy is hidden within him. Therefore from the enemy there is some hope; from the friend there is none. The one you revere—within you complete irreverence toward him also exists. Disrespect waits for an occasion to reveal itself—let something be found out, and I shall come forth. Let reverence be flung aside and irreverence arise. Therefore be very cautious of those who “revere.” Within they are preparing for irreverence. Our inner condition is full of conflict. We are something on the surface, something else within; at the very moment we are something else again. When you take someone’s hand and say: I love you very much—look within a little: what is the mind saying at that very moment? The mind will be saying: what lies you speak! Why are you saying such things? The mind will be speaking right then. There was a fakir—Mulla Nasruddin. He was in love with the king’s wife in his village. One night he was taking leave of her. At parting he said to her: There is no woman more beautiful than you! And I have never loved anyone as I love you—ah! such love I have never given, nor can I ever give. You are extraordinary! As men say to women—and women are pleased. She was very pleased, very pleased. She said: Truly? Seeing her so pleased—Nasruddin was a very truthful man—he said: Wait! Let me tell you what has been going on within me too. When I said there is no woman more beautiful than you—inside I said: what are you saying to this ordinary woman! There are many women. My mind was saying this. And when I said I love you very much, I have never loved anyone more—my mind laughed within: this I have said to other women before as well. Exactly this I have said. Man’s mind is full of inner contradictions, full of inner conflict. While there is inner conflict, sankalpa will never be born. Sankalpa means: one mind. Sankalpa means: one mind—an integration. Sankalpa means: one voice. Sankalpa means: one tone. And we are full, twenty-four hours, of opposing tones. This must be understood—our opposing tones should gradually cease. When we say we have firm faith, then certainly doubt is present within. Strange! We say one thing; within, exactly the opposite is present. That opposite negates what we say, cuts it off. Then our whole personality gets entangled in these oppositions and is finished. Can it be that the conflicts of our consciousness diminish gradually? It can be. First, we must be aware not to nurture conflicts. I keep saying this: do not “believe,” so that you won’t have to disbelieve. Do not “have faith,” so that you will not have to doubt. Do not become a friend, otherwise the race to become an enemy will begin; it cannot be avoided, it will go on. Do not become a disciple, otherwise the race to become a guru will begin; it cannot be avoided, it will go on. As for opposites—try to avoid both, so that a state of non-opposition in consciousness may arise. Do not take sides. Do not say of yourself: I am a theist. Because the moment you say you are a theist, half your mind will immediately become atheist. Find the greatest theist—you will find an atheist within him; the atheist cannot die—he will only be suppressed. Bring the greatest atheist—you will find a theist within him; the theist will not die. Be neither theist nor atheist. Let opposition pass; do not divide yourself. The more deeply one understands this and avoids oppositions, a wondrous state of peace and equanimity begins to arise—non-opposition, unbroken; not fractured into pieces, not divided; undivided—a collected mind begins. The name of that state is sankalpa. And the more that state grows, the more our inward entry begins. But no—we always divide. We say: either we will be friends or enemies; we cannot be in the middle. We do not know that being in the middle is the real being. We say: either we will revere, or we will be irreverent; either we will respect, or we will disrespect. We will choose one of the two. But whoever chooses one of the two will continue to choose the other also. The sides will keep changing—as the pendulum of a clock moves from one end to the other. Remember, it goes to that end only so that it may return to this one. It will keep moving. When it is going to the other side, remember it has already begun to come to this side. The same momentum that takes it there will bring it back. Therefore those who truly know life—when someone says to them, “I am your friend,” they smile; when someone says, “I am your enemy,” they smile as well. Those who know life—when someone places his head at their feet, they smile; and when someone throws a shoe at their head, they smile. For this pendulum of man keeps swinging; it does not hold much meaning. But the smile arises because man does not know what he is doing—he is merely swinging. The state of a one-pointed, unified, integrated mind is called sankalpa. And whatever happens in that state of sankalpa leads into the temple. If we understand it rightly, sankalpa is the key—the key that opens the chakra I am calling the Brahma-center. But we do not possess the key of sankalpa at all. I have heard—In a very ancient noble family, a young son was to go away for education. He was only seven. His father said to him: From our house, whosoever has gone to study has never returned without completing his education. And it is our family’s custom and discipline that even a small child, when bid farewell to the gurukul, never looks back. We are great enemies of looking back. When we send a child from the house for education—when my father sent me—he said: Let not tears come to your eyes. For if tears come, then this house is no longer yours; you will not be able to return. We do not admit crying people into the house. I say the same to you—tomorrow at four in the morning you will be sent to the gurukul. A servant will seat you on a horse and take you. A mile away there is a turn; up to there the house will remain visible. But do not look back. We will be standing on the roof watching whether you look back. For there is no trusting one who looks back. Do not look back! A small boy of seven! He was very frightened. His mother said to him at night: Do not be afraid. This has always been the way. And we have heard that once someone looked back—then this house was no longer his. Do not look back! The seven-year-old boy could not sleep all night—he would not look back at his mother and father! He would not look back at his home! No tears must come to his eyes, he must not look back. Is such a thing expected of a seven-year-old? We would say: How hard they were, how cruel. We would have pampered him, fed him chocolates; we would weep, make him weep, and show great love. That is not love; that destroys sankalpa from the child’s personality. Today this is the thinking the world over—dance around the child. Show yourself more childish than the child. In such a child no solid thing can be built that should be built; no spine can form in his soul. At four he departed. At four, neither his mother nor father came to see him off at the door. Hard people, surely cruel. The child was seated on the horse. Dark night at four, silence; the cool winds of morning. The servant with him said: Son, do not look back! Looking back is forbidden. You are no longer small; we expect much from you. And what hope can there be from one who looks back? Your father is watching from above; how joyful he will be when his son passes the turn without looking back. Imagine the child’s state! How much the mind must be drawn to look back again and again! A little seven-year-old! But without turning, without looking, he passed the turn. That child later wrote: a wondrous bliss I knew—when one mile had passed and I had not looked back! He reached the gurukul at dawn. The monk at that gurukul who would initiate him met him at the door and said: There are rules for entry. Not everyone is admitted. Close your eyes at the door and sit. Until I return and ask you myself, do not open your eyes and do not get up. If in between you open your eyes or come inside or glance here and there, you will be sent back on the horse; your servant waits outside. And remember—from the house from which you come, no child has ever returned! This is the entrance test. A small child of seven was made to sit at the door. No one asked him whether his mother might be sad—“Come, son, let us make arrangements for you.” No one asked. His belongings were set aside; his horse was tied outside; his servant was waiting. The child was made to sit at the door with eyes closed. The teachers must have been very hard and cruel—but those who know will know that no one was more compassionate than those parents and those teachers. The child sat. Other children came to school; someone pushed him, someone threw pebbles—children are children—someone teased him. But he had to keep his eyes closed, whatever happened. Because if the eyes did not stay closed he would have to return. With what face would he stand before his father—that he had come back? No one had ever returned to that house. That little child. The morning sun rose; flies swarmed around him; the children who passed by kept jostling him. He kept his eyes closed. Hunger grew sharp, thirst came, but he must neither open his eyes nor rise. Noon came; the sun was overhead. Who knew what was happening? No one came; no one spoke. He sat with his eyes closed, sat. He did not open them—not even a blink. Toward evening the sun began to set. He was writhing with hunger. The guru, with ten or fifteen monks, came and raised him up: You have passed the entrance. You possess sankalpa. Now anything can happen. Come within. When he became a youth he wrote later: Today I remember those who seemed so harsh; today I know their compassion was unique. Our compassion is unique in another way. Our compassion loosens everything, makes everything impotent. We are this loose with others and this loose with ourselves. Thus sankalpa does not arise. For sankalpa to arise something must be done—stakes must be taken—decisions must be made; one must stop somewhere, stand somewhere. Only under that pressure does sankalpa awaken. Here I say: meditate. Fifteen minutes become so difficult that I must end in ten. You do not sit for fifteen minutes—do not delude yourselves. Seeing your condition I have to end in ten. In fifteen minutes—how many times you open your eyes, do you know? Will sankalpa be born like this? A man cannot sit with eyes closed for fifteen minutes—can there be any state weaker, more flaccid, more impotent? Fifteen minutes—and you cannot keep the eyes closed. You want to see what is happening near the neighbor—what is going on there? What is happening behind? Someone’s breath is loud—what is happening to him? You are concerned with what is happening to everyone. You have no concern that you cannot keep your eyes closed for fifteen minutes—what is happening to you? No concern. We have no idea that we have lost the state called sankalpa. In Pompeii a volcano erupted and the whole city burned. A soldier who stood at the crossroads on night duty was to have his shift changed at six in the morning. The whole city fled—at two in the night the volcano burst; the city trembled; fire spewed forth; the town burned; people fled. Fleeing, they said to the soldier: Why are you standing here? He said: At six in the morning my duty changes. How can I move before that? They said: Are you mad? Now there is no question of duty—you will die! Six will never strike; the town is aflame. He said: That may be. But this is the very time to know whether I am a soldier or not. How can I leave before six? If I live till six, I shall hand over my post; if not—God knows. Then it is not my fault. It is said that soldier burned to death standing at that spot. The whole city fled. In memory of those who fled there is no statue. For that soldier, a statue had to be raised right there. In that town there was only one man worthy of being called “man,” one with some strength within, some mind that could stand. But we! Where Pompeii? If someone lights a cigarette next door, our eyes open. If someone coughs, our eyes open. What kind of personality is this? With such a personality, what temple do you hope to enter? No temple will open. It could—there is no obstacle except ourselves. A little sankalpa, a little strength, a little courage; the effort to truly do whatever I do. Every day people come to me and say: I meditated one day—nothing happened. Such amusing talk! Astonishing! They are remarkable folk. “I meditated one day”—such grace upon God! It must be written in His book—you have laid Him under great debt. “Nothing has happened yet—no vision, no meeting with God.” Because you sat with eyes closed for fifteen minutes—opened them fifteen times—and nothing happened! That call, that voice—in our personality it is not there. Without it, there can be no progress on the path of religion. So I say: sankalpa is the first fundamental sutra. Second: it is not necessary to understand what sankalpa is—what is necessary is to experiment in the direction of sankalpa. Only by experimenting will it develop; otherwise, never. If you wait for tomorrow, it will never develop. Begin today—begin now—then growth will happen. So the second sutra: whether you possess sankalpa or not, begin experiments toward it. It will grow—slowly it will grow. A man standing on the riverbank says: I want to learn to swim. The teacher says: Come, get into the river. He says: Until I learn to swim I will not get in. Who will take the risk? Once I learn, I will agree to enter. Until then I cannot get in. Now teaching becomes very difficult. For to teach, one must get in. And the first time you must get in without knowing how to swim! For only by getting in will swimming develop. Swimming is not something that falls from the sky. It happens because we swim—it is the result of swimming. We must flail arms and legs—only then it is learned. People ask: Let meditation be given! Let Samadhi be given! How will it be given? Is it lying somewhere that you will go and receive it? It is not kept anywhere—it is the creation of your own sustained effort. Try, and it will happen. Today flail a little; tomorrow there will be more movement; the day after, more. The time will draw near when you will feel that the flailing of arms and legs has changed—it has taken the form of swimming. What is swimming? The same flailing—only a little skillfully, a little in order. On the first day too, if you throw a man into water, he will flail—only in disorder. The same, done daily, becomes ordered. Sit today—your sankalpa will be disordered. Sit tomorrow—it will move forward. Sit the day after—it will advance. Then why such hurry? Why such anxiety that it must happen today? For paltry things of life we wait for years. First: sankalpa. Second: sankalpa comes not by understanding, but by doing. Third: in the development of sankalpa, waiting is the greatest thing. You will desire—and it will not happen. Deep waiting—and patience! The greater the patience, the sooner it happens. The greater the impatience, the more difficult it becomes. For impatience announces that sankalpa is not being formed. Impatience tells that on its ground nothing is ever built. I have heard: In Korea, two monks crossed a river by boat. They disembarked. The sun was about to set. The village was far. Between them lay a wild path, hills. They had to reach before sunset. They asked the boatman tying his boat—the two monks, one old, one young—carrying many scriptures: We must reach the village before sunset. We have heard that at sunset its gate is closed. Then there is danger in the forest at night. Will we reach? Slowly, gently, the boatman said: You will certainly reach—but go slowly. If you go in haste, I do not know whether you will reach or not. They said: What madman are we asking! He advises: go slowly and you will reach; go quickly and I do not know if you will. They ran. The sun was near setting. As they ran, the boatman said again: Friends—do not hurry! I have never seen the hasty arrive. Hearing this, they ran faster. Such is man’s mind. They felt: he is a very odd fellow, telling us to go slowly. They ran. Not far along, with dusk falling and darkness gathering, the old monk stumbled on a rock; both knees broke; the pages of scriptures scattered; winds blew them away. The young man ran about collecting them. Then the boatman, singing softly, with his pole on his shoulder, passed by along the bank and said: Ah, what I said has happened. Why such impatience? I warned you: do not hurry—the path is mountainous; do not be impatient; then you might make it. This happens often. People come daily and ask how to reach quickly. I tell them; they do not heed; they fall. The old monk said: At that time we did not think. Great waiting and great patience are needed to go within. Infinite patience—because this is the search for the infinite. It is not some trinket to be bought in the market—run and obtain. It does happen, and can happen—today and now. But the one who insists on today and now will not move at all. With utmost patience! But what is patience? Patience does not mean that intensity should diminish. Patience does not mean a weakening of energy. Let energy be total, let intensity be full—but let waiting be infinite. Be ready to wait—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after; if not then, then whenever—We shall wait. Small children sometimes sow a mango seed. Within the hour they will dig it up to see whether a sprout has come. Great restlessness. How to pass even an hour? Then after an hour they dig again—still nothing? Great disappointment. It will never happen. It will not—because to sprout it must lie in the soil. It must remain quietly in deep darkness—so that it can break itself and burst forth. Ours is the same condition as these small children. For two or three minutes we say: Who am I? Who am I? Then we think: Ah, still nothing has happened. We dig the seed out of the soil. Then seeing others are still at it and have not left—we do it again for two or three minutes. Then think: still it is not happening; it is taking so long. Then it will not happen, cannot happen. Keep these three in mind: sankalpa is needed; for sankalpa, doing is needed; for doing, waiting is needed. If these three are complete, there is no reason to consider the goal far. The goal is always near. If there is skill in the traveler—today and now he can arrive. Without skill, one may wander for lifetimes and not arrive. I have said these few things. Now we shall sit for the experiment. Remember two or three things. Friends who remain standing must understand—they carry greater responsibility toward those who sit. Since yesterday a few friends have increased. Two or so more is not much. Two friends sit close together and chatter—this is a little unbecoming, a little improper. If you do not wish to participate, do not; but do not err in ways that obstruct others. Perhaps some new friends are here; let me tell them two things. To sit for this experiment—first sit with the spine erect. Second, interlock the five fingers of one hand into the five of the other. Lock the hands and let them rest in the lap. As intensity rises within, the fingers will tighten and begin to tremble. Keep the spine straight; then close the eyes; seal the lips; and, in your mind with great intensity, with deep sankalpa, with one voice, with one tone—ask: Who am I? What is the use of this asking? As we go on asking—Who am I?—and the intensity deepens—this question “Who am I?” penetrates deeper and deeper within. We do not even know who we are. But since we are, the center of our life-breath must know who we are. The day this question reaches the innermost, that day the answer will be available—Who am I. But do not answer yourself in between. Do not ask “Who am I?” and then say “I am Brahman.” The boy yesterday spoke better. A boy sitting here said: “I am a ghost.” He was speaking more rightly. Man’s being Brahman is doubtful; his being a ghost is certain. Do not give any answer—whether ghost or Brahman. You have only to ask: Who am I? And let this inquiry, this question, be driven ever deeper. The more intense it is, the deeper it will go. The deeper it goes, the greater the intensity, the greater the sankalpa, the more the mind will attain an extraordinary peace. As the mind collects itself, it becomes silent. Bring the entire mind to focus upon this one question. It is a simple thing—but only if you do it. If you do not, nothing is simple.
Osho's Commentary
I went to a garden. The earth of that garden was one. The sky above that garden was one. The rays of the same sun were raining down. The same winds were blowing. There was one gardener. The same water fell. And yet, in that garden, flowers bloomed all differently. I fell into deep wonder. Perhaps it has happened to you too, that upon entering some garden such a thought has arisen within.
The earth is one, the sky one, the sun’s rays one, the winds one, the water one, the gardener one. But the rose bears rosy blossoms, jasmine bears white. The fragrances differ. How is it that from the same earth, under the same sky, from the same sun-rays, these diverse flowers draw different colors, different fragrances, different ways of being?
I began to ask the gardener. He said: All that is one—but the seeds that draw are different.
What can such a tiny seed be drawing?
A seed so small—yet it flings aside this vast sky and this vast earth and this great sun and all these winds, and draws only the color of its own longing! It pushes aside the whole world and draws its own chosen fragrance! A little seed’s sankalpa is vaster than sky, vaster than earth! And a seed becomes exactly that which it longs to be! What could be hidden within a tiny seed?
Each seed has its own desire, its own will, its own sankalpa. That little seed draws precisely what it wishes to draw, and leaves the rest untouched. The rose becomes a rose; the jasmine becomes jasmine. Side by side, jasmine has become jasmine; side by side, rose has become rose. Both have drawn strength from the same soil. The fragrance of rose is distinct, that of jasmine distinct; their hues and ways, all different.
Life holds infinite possibilities. But we become that which, from among those possibilities, we draw within ourselves. Around us there is an expanse of infinite thoughts, waves of thought unending. But only those thoughts come near us for which there is capacity, magnetism, receptivity within us.
In this very world one man becomes a Buddha; in this very world one man becomes a Jesus; in this very world one man becomes a Krishna; and in this very world we become nothing at all—become nothing and vanish, and are finished. And the source from which everything is drawn is utterly one—the same sky, the same earth, the same winds all around; the same sun, moon, stars—all one—then how does each person become so different? Even our faces seem similar, our bodies seem alike, our bones, flesh, marrow appear the same. Where does the difference arise? Where does the human personality diverge? How does one man become a Buddha? How does one remain standing in darkness while another rises into light?
It is essential to understand what I said yesterday. Yesterday I said: in the human personality there are seven centers, seven chakras. And whichever center becomes active draws everything from around it that is in accord with itself. A center becomes a receptivity, a clienthood. If the center of anger is active, that man will absorb all the waves of anger around him. If the center of love is active, then streams of love will begin to run toward him from every side. If the sex-center is active, then sex-impulses will race toward him from all around. He becomes like a pit, and the streams flow toward him with that which he has asked for.
Paramatma gives to each exactly what we ask. Never, even by mistake, say to Paramatma: how did you give me what I did not ask for? Till today, no one has received what he did not want. But we do not even know what it is we want. We desire in great darkness, and it is exactly that which keeps happening. Then we lay blame.
If the seed of jasmine were to blame Paramatma: Why did you give me white flowers? I was mad for crimson blossoms!—then jasmine would be in the wrong. For its seed never longed for crimson flowers. We are what our wanting has made of us. What we have asked for has been drawn from all around us and gathered near. What we have become is that which our seed has desired, has called for.
Then one man lives in anger, in restlessness, in greed, in fear, in lust—and then he asks: Where is Ishwar? Where is Paramatma? Nowhere to be seen!
When Khrushchev’s first cosmonauts brought back photographs from near the moon, in a speech Khrushchev said: I am happy to announce to the world that my astronauts have been near the moon; they did not find any kind of God there.
It is hard to answer Khrushchev. For those who think they will find God on the moon or on some star or planet should understand well: if not today, then tomorrow—if not by Khrushchev, then by someone else—this declaration will be made: all the moons and stars have been seen; there is no God anywhere there. And the strange thing is—there have been people who, on this very earth, come to see God. And there are people who, even upon reaching the stars and the moon, do not see God at all.
Sow jasmine on the moon or on earth—it will not turn into a rose. It will see only that which it can be; it will become only that which it can become. Wherever we go in this world, we will be what we have been. For there too we will draw the same, see the same, experience the same—as much as we can draw. The eye draws light. Come as near the eye as you like and play the sitar—the eye will not hear the music. And light as many lamps as you like near the ear—the ear will not know that outside there is light and the lamps are lit. And the ear will keep saying: where is the light? Nothing can be heard. Is light ever heard? And the eye will say: where is the veena playing? I can see nothing; where is the music? Music is not seen!
Through whatever instrument we approach life to recognize and see, that alone becomes available to us.
This world becomes exactly what we are. And, as I said yesterday, we have seven centers. The first and last, the first and the seventh, are reservoirs of energy. They do not do anything; they are simply abodes of energy, museums of shakti. Energy is stored there—at the first and the seventh centers. The second center is a center of expulsion of energy. The sex center is the point from which energy is thrown outward. It is an exit; there, energies spill out. Therefore the one who lives at that center throughout life becomes continuously weak, ever more depleted. Slowly all his energy drains away and he becomes energyless, powerless.
The sixth center, which I called Ajna—within the brain, at the brow between the two eyes—is exactly the opposite of the sex center; it is the entrance, the gateway. Through it energies enter within. From the sex center energies are flung out; through Ajna energies enter in.
Therefore the nearer a man lives to vasana, to lust, the less will be his strength of sankalpa, because he will be farthest from the Ajna center. The one who lives close to Ajna, whose attention abides there—without his even knowing it, lust will slowly grow thin in his consciousness and gradually dissolve. For Ajna is the inviter of energies, the summoner, the absorber—the one who drinks them in. And the more energy is drunk at the Ajna center, the stronger and more powerful the personality becomes—vigorous, potent, and full of resolve.
These two centers—the sex center as the expeller of energy, the Ajna center as the inviter of energy. Between these two lie three centers from navel to throat—navel, heart, and throat. These three are centers of internal interaction; they keep the inner functions of the body in motion.
A precise understanding of these seven centers is indispensable for the seeker. People say: God does not appear! The Atman is not seen! The center through which a connection with Paramatma can be made is the seventh center. As soon as that center becomes active, the world begins to dissolve and Paramatma appears. It is not that the world ceases to be; rather, the world remains—but not as world: it remains as Paramatma.
Rabia was a fakir woman, a Sufi. In her scripture she read: hate the devil! She crossed out that line in her book. A friend, the fakir Hasan, was a guest in her house. Early in the morning he opened her scripture and saw that someone had corrected the scripture. He asked Rabia: Are you mad? Have you made this correction? Can a scripture be corrected?
Rabia said: I was compelled, so I had to correct it. Since the day Paramatma began to appear to me, the devil no longer appears at all. And in this book it is written: hate the devil! The devil does not appear to me; now, whatever appears is Paramatma. Even if the devil were to stand before me, I would only see Paramatma. This is one difficulty. The second is that since only Paramatma appears, nothing but love remains within me; hatred no longer remains. How can I hate? First, the devil does not appear; second, within me there is no hatred—so I crossed out the line; for me it had become impractical.
The day the seventh center becomes active, all that which had never appeared begins to be experienced.
But why does it happen?
A small child is born; he has no notion yet of sex-impulse. That center is not yet active. When that center becomes active, suddenly the world seems to change. The world takes a form that was never there before. A center within became active, and the outer world began to change. The world was the same yesterday, and is the same today. Where has the change occurred? Not in the world; within that person a sleeping center became active.
Exactly so—on the day the seventh center, the Brahma-center, becomes active, even then the world remains as it is—but something entirely new begins to appear. We receive within only what we have the capacity to receive. Everything is present. What Buddha received in this very world is present even today. And today there is no difficulty in becoming a Buddha. No difficulty in becoming a Mahavira. No difficulty in becoming a Ram or a Krishna. All that they received is present. But within us that center must become active which can receive it.
Yet we ask the question reversed. We ask: Where is Paramatma? We do not ask: Where is that center, the activation of which gives the experience of Paramatma, and whose inactivation makes us miss Him?
Around us is an infinite expanse—of infinite experiences, infinite knowings, infinite thoughts. These thoughts revolve around us twenty-four hours a day. The thoughts that we give place within and the center that we activate—thoughts harmonious with that begin to run toward us, seize us, encircle us.
This is worth understanding. If in the morning you become angry, you will be surprised to see that throughout that day countless occasions for anger arise. What happens on that day? You will say: Since morning something has gone wrong; my luck is bad. Luck is not bad; the tendency that became active since morning keeps attracting events of its own kind from all around. It keeps drawing the entire day.
Therefore those who know say: fall asleep at night in a state of deep awareness, so that the night as well... even the whole night thoughts are attracted toward you, even if you remain asleep. All night you dream. And dreams are formed from the thoughts you draw from all around.
Your neighbor sleeping next to you may dream of being a monk, while you, sleeping in the same neighborhood, may dream of being a thief. Do not think: both of us are dreaming—what value have dreams? But one man next to you dreams of being a monk; you dream of being a thief. You are dreaming exactly what the active mind can pull from around it.
The one who sleeps in meditation at night will attract thoughts throughout the night in accord with meditation, with peace. And upon waking it is essential to meditate, so that your day’s journey can go on drawing only those thoughts toward you with which you began the journey. But people usually begin their mornings in very wrong ways, and they go to sleep at night in very wrong ways. These two times are most deserving of meditation. The moment of falling asleep at night should be spent immersed in deep awareness, silence, peace, bliss, and prayer. Then the six or eight hours of night will draw a new world, a new light, new thoughts within you. And the first hour upon waking should again be spent in meditation, so that for twenty-four hours, the waking day, your entire journey keeps drawing again what is auspicious, beautiful, and true. Whoever can guard these two hours can guard the full twenty-four.
Therefore the method of meditation I am asking of you—do it at night as you fall asleep, and again upon waking. Let waking begin with meditation; let sleep begin with meditation. If these two thresholds can be properly guarded, peace and revolution will begin to descend upon the personality.
And remember—as I said—the ocean of thought is surging around us. Before the invention of radio, we had no idea that what is spoken in Moscow also passes through Matunga. Those in Moscow likely had no idea that what is spoken in Matunga passes through Moscow. But now we know. We are sitting here right now; we do not hear what Moscow or Peking or New York is saying. But if we place a radio before us, the catching begins. The radio does not bring sound here; the sound is passing here—the radio only catches it.
Much is present all around us. What we can catch is caught; what we cannot, is missed. And we catch exactly on the level, the wavelength, the tuning upon which our chakra is functioning. Then that alone begins to come into our grasp, that alone we begin to see and hear; it begins to surround us from every side.
This infinite web of thought all around... Remember: no word ever dies. In this cosmos nothing ever dies. What I am speaking now—this will never die; there is no way for it to die. Once spoken, it has become eternal and everlasting. Its resonance will go on circling through the whole cosmos for all time—ever, ever. It will never end. Once the resonance is born, it continues to echo without end in infinite realms.
Scientists consider it very possible that one day instruments may be invented that could catch what Krishna said to Arjuna on Kurukshetra. Very possible that what Jesus said could be caught. What Mahavira said in Bihar could be caught—because that sound must be echoing somewhere even today.
But whether scientists can one day build such instruments or not is another matter. Those who can activate the seventh center, even today—without any instrument—can catch whatever sublime waves have ever arisen in the world. The finest wealth of this world in the form of waves—they become capable of receiving it. To live in those waves is an altogether different experience.
Nietzsche has said: there came a moment when I felt I was living thousands of miles above time.
Thousands of miles above time? How can anyone stand miles above time? Those who have had even a little taste upon that plane will feel that the whole world has remained wandering in some trench, some ditch, some valley—while we stand living on some Everest.
That experience of standing at heights, of living at heights—begins with the activation of our highest, ultimate chakra. That chakra can be activated. How? Without the activation of that chakra there is no entry into the inner life, the true life, the temple of the Lord. That chakra will be activated only through sankalpa. And before sankalpa, the Ajna chakra will be activated. Then deeper and deeper sankalpa—its ultimate depth sets even the final chakra into motion.
The meditation process I have given—take it as deep as you can—into the ultimate, the peak depth—only then will you be able to activate the final chakra. And remember, it does not activate by accident; it happens only if we do.
Yes, perhaps someday it will happen by itself. After millions of years, in the natural process of evolution, one day it may activate spontaneously. But until then you must wait. The sole meaning of sadhana is this: what nature accomplishes in millions of years, the seeker completes swiftly, intensely, in little time. The state that came to Buddha, to Mahavira—it is entirely possible that after billions upon billions of years, every man might be born already in that state. But nature’s process is very long, very slow, very gradual. Whoever wishes to give it acceleration will have to do something. He will have to become active himself; he will have to act.
But we are doing nothing. Our condition is as if we are drifting in a river; wherever the river takes us, we go. We do nothing. And this non-doing, this drifting, this lazy, quiet going along in the current of nature—this, if understood rightly, is the fundamental formula of life’s futility. If you wish to break this futility, you will have to do something.
What must be done? Go to temples and perform worship? Clutch at the feet of gurus? Apply tilak and tika? Perform yajna and havan?
We have found a way to avoid doing the real thing. What must be done is not this. This will do nothing. This only creates the deception that we are doing something. Better the earlier condition—just drifting along. At least there was no deception that we were doing anything. At least the mind might someday have felt the urge to do something.
But these things people begin to do—turning the rosary, going to the temple to worship—these people fall into the delusion that they are doing. Because of this delusion, even the urge that might have arisen sometime—to do the real—never arises.
Therefore the amount of harm done to humanity by the ritualistic routines paraded in the name of religion—no one else has done so much damage. And the brokers of these rituals have harmed the human race more than anyone. Those whose feet people touch and whom they worship—those very people have tightened their hands around man’s neck. They are the takers of his very breath.
But this is not seen. They have diverted us from the essential—any sadhana that awakens sankalpa—and thrust some hollow businesses into our hands. By doing these neither does sankalpa develop, nor does any inner strength awaken; by such exertions no center becomes active, nor does any new movement arise in the inner life-breath. Yet thousands upon thousands of such actions are going on in the world in the name of religion.
In the name of religion, a substitute religion—pseudo-religion—has developed everywhere. This false religion has blocked man from becoming religious. Because man feels—“I have done it; I have been to the temple.”
There is another temple—within—where one had to go.
But the clever, the cunning, have constructed a temple outside. There he goes, returns home, and says: I have visited the temple. He does not even know where the temple is. He does not know that one who truly enters the temple never returns from it—he begins to live in the temple. It is the point of no return; no one ever comes back from there.
But to this outer temple we go in the morning and return. In truth, how can we even go there? We are exactly what we were when we left home. We enter that temple as we are and return as we were. Where has the going to the temple happened?
To go to the temple means: to reach a space where we do not remain what we were—then we have gone into the temple; otherwise we have not. What does going to the temple mean? That a man leaves his house and enters some house called A or B and returns—has he visited the temple? Man seems marvelously skilled at deceiving himself.
To go to the temple means: inner conversion. It means to enter a state of consciousness in which we become something we were not before we went. And remember, after returning from that state, we can never again be what we once were. It is impossible. No one has ever returned from the temple. Or if one returns, the temple returns with him. Then he lives in the temple.
But we do not know the temple. We have built it outside. We have arranged the temple outwardly. We worship it, pray there, and return.
No, the temple is not there. The seventh chakra I am speaking of—this is the temple. To reach this seventh chakra is to enter the temple.
But the outer temple too—those who know would know—was built by hearing the talk of those who had spoken of the inner temple. In the temple you go within. There are outer walls, but within there is the garbhagriha, the sanctum where the deity is established. Around that sanctum is the path of circumambulation. You circle it seven times and return. But have you ever wondered: why seven rounds? Have you wondered: what are we circling? Why is the deity established at the center of the circle? Why do we call it the garbhagriha—the “womb-house”? Why is it round? Why is the dome of the temple round? What is all this?
Those who spoke of the inner temple—we heard them and built an outer replica. The dome you see atop the temple is a symbol of the human head—within which, somewhere within, is the abode of Paramatma. But that abode lies in the midst of some circular circuit. Those who knew must have said something like this: only upon moving round and completing the circumambulation does the inner become experienced. We made an outer installation. We circle it and return home. And sadhus and saints—those we call mahatmas—half of them at best—encourage us: Go to the temple! One must go to the temple!
They too have been repeating for thousands of years: one must go to the temple. I also say: one must go to the temple. But the temple toward which they point is not the temple; the temple is elsewhere—within yourself.
I have heard a story. In a certain house there were small children. When they were very young, in a boat accident both father and mother died. The children thought: our parents are dead, but what they used to do, we should continue. Who knows what secret was hidden in their doing? The children were small. They had seen that before and after eating, the father used to go to a shelf and take some stick of wood and do something—who knows what.
He used to clean his teeth after meals with a little wooden toothpick kept on that shelf. The boys did not know; they were small. Nor did their teeth require cleaning with a stick. The reason was not there. But they knew this much: a toothpick was kept on a shelf, and he went regularly there twice a day.
They thought: there must be some connection between eating and going to that shelf. Surely there is some secret in this stick. So they kept a stick there. Not knowing what to do, they would go every day, join their hands, and before and after meals bow to that stick. It became a regular rite.
They grew up. They built a new house. They said: why keep this small stick? Make a good sandalwood stick—since we bow to it every day. They had a fine carved sandalwood piece made; in the new house, instead of a shelf, they made a pretty little shrine—a temple—and installed the fine sandalwood pillar. Morning and evening, before and after eating, they bowed to it.
Generations passed. Their sons were born, who built bigger houses—sons make bigger houses. The little shelf gradually became a big temple. The small stick gradually turned into a full pillar. Someone once asked them: what is it you do?
They said: this has always been done in our house. It is a religious act. Whoever does not do it is very irreligious. Some boys in our house have gone astray; they do not accept it, they do not bow to it. Those who bow are very religious.
Almost this has happened—and is happening. The inner truths of life can only be spoken in symbols. The symbol gets into our hands; we sit clutching it. Worship of the symbols begins. We forget that the symbols pointed elsewhere; they are not truth—they point toward it.
The seventh chakra I mentioned—this is the temple one must enter. Its door is the Ajna chakra—through which you enter. How to work at this Ajna? What is to be done? By what means shall we make this chakra alive, active, in full bloom—its flowering complete?
Three small sutras must be understood. First: the more sankalpa there is in life, the more this door will open. What is sankalpa? Sankalpa means—whatever is to be done, one’s total energy should be put into it; there should be no fragmentation within. It should not be that half the mind says do, and half says don’t. If the mind is split into pieces—disintegrated—then the pieces will fight among themselves and the sankalpa will be destroyed. And our minds are split into pieces—even in trivial things, beyond counting. Neither a straight yes is within, nor a straight no; both are together. We want neither to go left nor right; we want to go both ways at once. Then little by little all sankalpa is weakened.
Our mind is like a bullock-cart to which oxen are yoked on all sides. They pull in four directions. The cart goes nowhere; only its joints loosen. Such turmoil arises that the oxen, too, slowly become exhausted and bewildered at what is happening.
If you look at your life, you will find oxen yoked to your cart on all sides. There is no one resolve within—twenty-five resolves are there together. You may never have noticed that altogether opposite resolves coexist. The one you love is the one you hate.
It will seem startling. But notice: the friend of one moment becomes the enemy in the next. Just now there was such love—how did such hatred arise in a moment? Just beneath that love, hatred was sitting—waiting: let love move aside and I shall appear.
Hence there is less danger from enemies than from friends. For if an enemy can become anything, he can become a friend; a friend is hidden within him. And if a friend can become anything, there is only one possibility—that he become an enemy; an enemy is hidden within him. Therefore from the enemy there is some hope; from the friend there is none.
The one you revere—within you complete irreverence toward him also exists. Disrespect waits for an occasion to reveal itself—let something be found out, and I shall come forth. Let reverence be flung aside and irreverence arise.
Therefore be very cautious of those who “revere.” Within they are preparing for irreverence.
Our inner condition is full of conflict. We are something on the surface, something else within; at the very moment we are something else again. When you take someone’s hand and say: I love you very much—look within a little: what is the mind saying at that very moment? The mind will be saying: what lies you speak! Why are you saying such things? The mind will be speaking right then.
There was a fakir—Mulla Nasruddin. He was in love with the king’s wife in his village. One night he was taking leave of her. At parting he said to her: There is no woman more beautiful than you! And I have never loved anyone as I love you—ah! such love I have never given, nor can I ever give. You are extraordinary!
As men say to women—and women are pleased. She was very pleased, very pleased. She said: Truly?
Seeing her so pleased—Nasruddin was a very truthful man—he said: Wait! Let me tell you what has been going on within me too. When I said there is no woman more beautiful than you—inside I said: what are you saying to this ordinary woman! There are many women. My mind was saying this. And when I said I love you very much, I have never loved anyone more—my mind laughed within: this I have said to other women before as well. Exactly this I have said.
Man’s mind is full of inner contradictions, full of inner conflict. While there is inner conflict, sankalpa will never be born. Sankalpa means: one mind. Sankalpa means: one mind—an integration. Sankalpa means: one voice. Sankalpa means: one tone.
And we are full, twenty-four hours, of opposing tones. This must be understood—our opposing tones should gradually cease. When we say we have firm faith, then certainly doubt is present within. Strange! We say one thing; within, exactly the opposite is present. That opposite negates what we say, cuts it off. Then our whole personality gets entangled in these oppositions and is finished.
Can it be that the conflicts of our consciousness diminish gradually?
It can be. First, we must be aware not to nurture conflicts. I keep saying this: do not “believe,” so that you won’t have to disbelieve. Do not “have faith,” so that you will not have to doubt. Do not become a friend, otherwise the race to become an enemy will begin; it cannot be avoided, it will go on. Do not become a disciple, otherwise the race to become a guru will begin; it cannot be avoided, it will go on.
As for opposites—try to avoid both, so that a state of non-opposition in consciousness may arise. Do not take sides. Do not say of yourself: I am a theist. Because the moment you say you are a theist, half your mind will immediately become atheist. Find the greatest theist—you will find an atheist within him; the atheist cannot die—he will only be suppressed. Bring the greatest atheist—you will find a theist within him; the theist will not die.
Be neither theist nor atheist. Let opposition pass; do not divide yourself. The more deeply one understands this and avoids oppositions, a wondrous state of peace and equanimity begins to arise—non-opposition, unbroken; not fractured into pieces, not divided; undivided—a collected mind begins. The name of that state is sankalpa. And the more that state grows, the more our inward entry begins.
But no—we always divide. We say: either we will be friends or enemies; we cannot be in the middle. We do not know that being in the middle is the real being. We say: either we will revere, or we will be irreverent; either we will respect, or we will disrespect. We will choose one of the two. But whoever chooses one of the two will continue to choose the other also. The sides will keep changing—as the pendulum of a clock moves from one end to the other.
Remember, it goes to that end only so that it may return to this one. It will keep moving. When it is going to the other side, remember it has already begun to come to this side. The same momentum that takes it there will bring it back. Therefore those who truly know life—when someone says to them, “I am your friend,” they smile; when someone says, “I am your enemy,” they smile as well. Those who know life—when someone places his head at their feet, they smile; and when someone throws a shoe at their head, they smile. For this pendulum of man keeps swinging; it does not hold much meaning. But the smile arises because man does not know what he is doing—he is merely swinging.
The state of a one-pointed, unified, integrated mind is called sankalpa. And whatever happens in that state of sankalpa leads into the temple. If we understand it rightly, sankalpa is the key—the key that opens the chakra I am calling the Brahma-center. But we do not possess the key of sankalpa at all.
I have heard—In a very ancient noble family, a young son was to go away for education. He was only seven. His father said to him: From our house, whosoever has gone to study has never returned without completing his education. And it is our family’s custom and discipline that even a small child, when bid farewell to the gurukul, never looks back. We are great enemies of looking back. When we send a child from the house for education—when my father sent me—he said: Let not tears come to your eyes. For if tears come, then this house is no longer yours; you will not be able to return. We do not admit crying people into the house. I say the same to you—tomorrow at four in the morning you will be sent to the gurukul. A servant will seat you on a horse and take you. A mile away there is a turn; up to there the house will remain visible. But do not look back. We will be standing on the roof watching whether you look back. For there is no trusting one who looks back. Do not look back!
A small boy of seven! He was very frightened. His mother said to him at night: Do not be afraid. This has always been the way. And we have heard that once someone looked back—then this house was no longer his. Do not look back!
The seven-year-old boy could not sleep all night—he would not look back at his mother and father! He would not look back at his home! No tears must come to his eyes, he must not look back. Is such a thing expected of a seven-year-old? We would say: How hard they were, how cruel. We would have pampered him, fed him chocolates; we would weep, make him weep, and show great love.
That is not love; that destroys sankalpa from the child’s personality.
Today this is the thinking the world over—dance around the child. Show yourself more childish than the child. In such a child no solid thing can be built that should be built; no spine can form in his soul.
At four he departed. At four, neither his mother nor father came to see him off at the door. Hard people, surely cruel. The child was seated on the horse. Dark night at four, silence; the cool winds of morning. The servant with him said: Son, do not look back! Looking back is forbidden. You are no longer small; we expect much from you. And what hope can there be from one who looks back? Your father is watching from above; how joyful he will be when his son passes the turn without looking back.
Imagine the child’s state! How much the mind must be drawn to look back again and again! A little seven-year-old! But without turning, without looking, he passed the turn.
That child later wrote: a wondrous bliss I knew—when one mile had passed and I had not looked back!
He reached the gurukul at dawn. The monk at that gurukul who would initiate him met him at the door and said: There are rules for entry. Not everyone is admitted. Close your eyes at the door and sit. Until I return and ask you myself, do not open your eyes and do not get up. If in between you open your eyes or come inside or glance here and there, you will be sent back on the horse; your servant waits outside. And remember—from the house from which you come, no child has ever returned! This is the entrance test.
A small child of seven was made to sit at the door. No one asked him whether his mother might be sad—“Come, son, let us make arrangements for you.” No one asked. His belongings were set aside; his horse was tied outside; his servant was waiting. The child was made to sit at the door with eyes closed. The teachers must have been very hard and cruel—but those who know will know that no one was more compassionate than those parents and those teachers.
The child sat. Other children came to school; someone pushed him, someone threw pebbles—children are children—someone teased him. But he had to keep his eyes closed, whatever happened. Because if the eyes did not stay closed he would have to return. With what face would he stand before his father—that he had come back? No one had ever returned to that house.
That little child. The morning sun rose; flies swarmed around him; the children who passed by kept jostling him. He kept his eyes closed. Hunger grew sharp, thirst came, but he must neither open his eyes nor rise. Noon came; the sun was overhead. Who knew what was happening? No one came; no one spoke. He sat with his eyes closed, sat. He did not open them—not even a blink.
Toward evening the sun began to set. He was writhing with hunger. The guru, with ten or fifteen monks, came and raised him up: You have passed the entrance. You possess sankalpa. Now anything can happen. Come within.
When he became a youth he wrote later: Today I remember those who seemed so harsh; today I know their compassion was unique.
Our compassion is unique in another way. Our compassion loosens everything, makes everything impotent. We are this loose with others and this loose with ourselves. Thus sankalpa does not arise. For sankalpa to arise something must be done—stakes must be taken—decisions must be made; one must stop somewhere, stand somewhere. Only under that pressure does sankalpa awaken.
Here I say: meditate. Fifteen minutes become so difficult that I must end in ten. You do not sit for fifteen minutes—do not delude yourselves. Seeing your condition I have to end in ten. In fifteen minutes—how many times you open your eyes, do you know? Will sankalpa be born like this? A man cannot sit with eyes closed for fifteen minutes—can there be any state weaker, more flaccid, more impotent? Fifteen minutes—and you cannot keep the eyes closed.
You want to see what is happening near the neighbor—what is going on there? What is happening behind? Someone’s breath is loud—what is happening to him? You are concerned with what is happening to everyone. You have no concern that you cannot keep your eyes closed for fifteen minutes—what is happening to you? No concern. We have no idea that we have lost the state called sankalpa.
In Pompeii a volcano erupted and the whole city burned. A soldier who stood at the crossroads on night duty was to have his shift changed at six in the morning. The whole city fled—at two in the night the volcano burst; the city trembled; fire spewed forth; the town burned; people fled. Fleeing, they said to the soldier: Why are you standing here? He said: At six in the morning my duty changes. How can I move before that?
They said: Are you mad? Now there is no question of duty—you will die! Six will never strike; the town is aflame.
He said: That may be. But this is the very time to know whether I am a soldier or not. How can I leave before six? If I live till six, I shall hand over my post; if not—God knows. Then it is not my fault.
It is said that soldier burned to death standing at that spot. The whole city fled. In memory of those who fled there is no statue. For that soldier, a statue had to be raised right there. In that town there was only one man worthy of being called “man,” one with some strength within, some mind that could stand.
But we! Where Pompeii? If someone lights a cigarette next door, our eyes open. If someone coughs, our eyes open. What kind of personality is this? With such a personality, what temple do you hope to enter?
No temple will open. It could—there is no obstacle except ourselves. A little sankalpa, a little strength, a little courage; the effort to truly do whatever I do.
Every day people come to me and say: I meditated one day—nothing happened. Such amusing talk! Astonishing! They are remarkable folk. “I meditated one day”—such grace upon God! It must be written in His book—you have laid Him under great debt. “Nothing has happened yet—no vision, no meeting with God.” Because you sat with eyes closed for fifteen minutes—opened them fifteen times—and nothing happened!
That call, that voice—in our personality it is not there. Without it, there can be no progress on the path of religion.
So I say: sankalpa is the first fundamental sutra. Second: it is not necessary to understand what sankalpa is—what is necessary is to experiment in the direction of sankalpa. Only by experimenting will it develop; otherwise, never. If you wait for tomorrow, it will never develop. Begin today—begin now—then growth will happen.
So the second sutra: whether you possess sankalpa or not, begin experiments toward it. It will grow—slowly it will grow.
A man standing on the riverbank says: I want to learn to swim. The teacher says: Come, get into the river. He says: Until I learn to swim I will not get in. Who will take the risk? Once I learn, I will agree to enter. Until then I cannot get in.
Now teaching becomes very difficult. For to teach, one must get in. And the first time you must get in without knowing how to swim! For only by getting in will swimming develop. Swimming is not something that falls from the sky. It happens because we swim—it is the result of swimming. We must flail arms and legs—only then it is learned.
People ask: Let meditation be given! Let Samadhi be given!
How will it be given? Is it lying somewhere that you will go and receive it? It is not kept anywhere—it is the creation of your own sustained effort. Try, and it will happen. Today flail a little; tomorrow there will be more movement; the day after, more. The time will draw near when you will feel that the flailing of arms and legs has changed—it has taken the form of swimming. What is swimming? The same flailing—only a little skillfully, a little in order. On the first day too, if you throw a man into water, he will flail—only in disorder. The same, done daily, becomes ordered.
Sit today—your sankalpa will be disordered. Sit tomorrow—it will move forward. Sit the day after—it will advance. Then why such hurry? Why such anxiety that it must happen today? For paltry things of life we wait for years.
First: sankalpa.
Second: sankalpa comes not by understanding, but by doing.
Third: in the development of sankalpa, waiting is the greatest thing. You will desire—and it will not happen. Deep waiting—and patience!
The greater the patience, the sooner it happens. The greater the impatience, the more difficult it becomes. For impatience announces that sankalpa is not being formed. Impatience tells that on its ground nothing is ever built.
I have heard: In Korea, two monks crossed a river by boat. They disembarked. The sun was about to set. The village was far. Between them lay a wild path, hills. They had to reach before sunset. They asked the boatman tying his boat—the two monks, one old, one young—carrying many scriptures: We must reach the village before sunset. We have heard that at sunset its gate is closed. Then there is danger in the forest at night. Will we reach?
Slowly, gently, the boatman said: You will certainly reach—but go slowly. If you go in haste, I do not know whether you will reach or not.
They said: What madman are we asking! He advises: go slowly and you will reach; go quickly and I do not know if you will.
They ran. The sun was near setting. As they ran, the boatman said again: Friends—do not hurry! I have never seen the hasty arrive. Hearing this, they ran faster. Such is man’s mind. They felt: he is a very odd fellow, telling us to go slowly. They ran. Not far along, with dusk falling and darkness gathering, the old monk stumbled on a rock; both knees broke; the pages of scriptures scattered; winds blew them away. The young man ran about collecting them.
Then the boatman, singing softly, with his pole on his shoulder, passed by along the bank and said: Ah, what I said has happened. Why such impatience? I warned you: do not hurry—the path is mountainous; do not be impatient; then you might make it. This happens often. People come daily and ask how to reach quickly. I tell them; they do not heed; they fall.
The old monk said: At that time we did not think.
Great waiting and great patience are needed to go within. Infinite patience—because this is the search for the infinite. It is not some trinket to be bought in the market—run and obtain. It does happen, and can happen—today and now. But the one who insists on today and now will not move at all. With utmost patience!
But what is patience? Patience does not mean that intensity should diminish. Patience does not mean a weakening of energy. Let energy be total, let intensity be full—but let waiting be infinite. Be ready to wait—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after; if not then, then whenever—We shall wait.
Small children sometimes sow a mango seed. Within the hour they will dig it up to see whether a sprout has come. Great restlessness. How to pass even an hour? Then after an hour they dig again—still nothing? Great disappointment. It will never happen. It will not—because to sprout it must lie in the soil. It must remain quietly in deep darkness—so that it can break itself and burst forth.
Ours is the same condition as these small children. For two or three minutes we say: Who am I? Who am I? Then we think: Ah, still nothing has happened. We dig the seed out of the soil. Then seeing others are still at it and have not left—we do it again for two or three minutes. Then think: still it is not happening; it is taking so long. Then it will not happen, cannot happen.
Keep these three in mind: sankalpa is needed; for sankalpa, doing is needed; for doing, waiting is needed. If these three are complete, there is no reason to consider the goal far. The goal is always near. If there is skill in the traveler—today and now he can arrive. Without skill, one may wander for lifetimes and not arrive.
I have said these few things. Now we shall sit for the experiment.
Remember two or three things. Friends who remain standing must understand—they carry greater responsibility toward those who sit. Since yesterday a few friends have increased. Two or so more is not much. Two friends sit close together and chatter—this is a little unbecoming, a little improper. If you do not wish to participate, do not; but do not err in ways that obstruct others. Perhaps some new friends are here; let me tell them two things.
To sit for this experiment—first sit with the spine erect. Second, interlock the five fingers of one hand into the five of the other. Lock the hands and let them rest in the lap. As intensity rises within, the fingers will tighten and begin to tremble. Keep the spine straight; then close the eyes; seal the lips; and, in your mind with great intensity, with deep sankalpa, with one voice, with one tone—ask: Who am I?
What is the use of this asking? As we go on asking—Who am I?—and the intensity deepens—this question “Who am I?” penetrates deeper and deeper within. We do not even know who we are. But since we are, the center of our life-breath must know who we are. The day this question reaches the innermost, that day the answer will be available—Who am I. But do not answer yourself in between. Do not ask “Who am I?” and then say “I am Brahman.” The boy yesterday spoke better. A boy sitting here said: “I am a ghost.” He was speaking more rightly. Man’s being Brahman is doubtful; his being a ghost is certain. Do not give any answer—whether ghost or Brahman. You have only to ask: Who am I? And let this inquiry, this question, be driven ever deeper. The more intense it is, the deeper it will go. The deeper it goes, the greater the intensity, the greater the sankalpa, the more the mind will attain an extraordinary peace. As the mind collects itself, it becomes silent. Bring the entire mind to focus upon this one question. It is a simple thing—but only if you do it. If you do not, nothing is simple.