Upasana Ke Kshan #1

No matter how gripping the anxiety seems, keep quietly watching. Do not assume the attitude “I am becoming anxious,” because that is cooperation beginning again. Hold only this attitude: “I am seeing that there is anxiety.” Do not even entertain the thought “I am anxious.” That very thought is cooperation again.
Non-cooperation means I keep a separation, a distinction, between the anxiety and myself, between the thought and myself. Between what is happening and the one who is seeing it, I maintain a distinction. One has to keep cultivating precisely this distinction: whatever is happening within me, I am different from it; whatever is happening outside me, I am different from it. Keep cultivating this awareness. Then a point will come when all that from which I am different will dissolve, and ultimately only that will remain with which I am non-separate. When the different has dissolved, what is non-different remains; the experience of that remaining being is self-experience.
So do not identify with it in any way; do not form any connection with it.
It is a small matter, not a big one. We don’t do it, that’s why it appears so big. The matter is really quite simple.

Yes, in the beginning there will be duality. In the beginning there will be duality. In the end there will not be duality. From the very start, the awareness will be there that “this is not a thought; it is awareness.” Sit within, silently, and you will see the movement of thought. It is awareness itself that knows, “This thought that is moving and I are different.” That is not a thought. Only later, when we discuss it, does it appear as if these are thoughts.

(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)

No, it’s nothing else—just that thought is moving and we are watching. When this movement of thought stops, and only we keep watching and nothing appears, there are only two possibilities: we are seeing and something is seen, or we are seeing and nothing is seen. For now, whenever we look within, something will appear. Whatever appears—that is thought. Whatever appears—that is thought. A point will come, with continued seeing, when we keep on watching and nothing appears. When nothing appears, the experience then is not of thought but of consciousness, because now nothing is appearing there. When nothing is appearing, the very capacity to see—the power of knowing—which until now had some object to look at, has no content left to perceive. Since there is no one or nothing there to be seen, it has no path left except to see itself.

So, with the knowing we have, we must take away its objects, so that it has nothing left to look at. When there is nothing left to see, the capacity to see still remains. And when there is nothing to see, whom will that capacity see? In that final moment, when consciousness finds nothing to perceive, it perceives itself. This seeing of oneself is what is called self-knowledge.

There is only one practice: somehow keep stripping your consciousness of its objects—the contents of consciousness—keep thinning them out, keep dissolving them. A point will come when there will be no content, only consciousness. As long as there is some content, consciousness is directed toward the other. And when there is no content, consciousness becomes self-consciousness. As long as we are seeing something, we are not seeing ourselves. And when nothing at all remains to be seen, that which is seen is our very self.

We are the makers of these; it is we who are keeping them in place. For example, when we sit idle, some thought or other is running. Those thoughts are not running on their own; we are the ones running them. Without our cooperation they cannot move; underneath them is our support.
When I am angry at someone, I am the one propelling the anger. Somewhere my cooperation is there. If I withdraw my cooperation, the anger cannot continue; it will collapse then and there.
So, withdraw your cooperation from whatever thoughts are running—nothing else, just this. Understand this as samayik; understand this as meditation.

In truth, both these words of ours—“individual” and “cosmic”—belong to thought. What remains is neither individual nor cosmic; it is hard to say what it is. Because it is impossible to give it any concept; we have set aside all concepts. These two are merely ideas. On that level no thought has meaning. You cannot say it is personal, nor can you say it is impersonal. At that boundary, whatever is, cannot be named by any word.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
This is inherent in all our thinking—if we try to think about it, this is bound to happen. Even calling it “cosmic” introduces a limitation.

(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
No. In truth, this notion of our individuality—that “I am a person”—exists because of our thoughts. If all thoughts dissolve, then in you there will be no ego and no person. You will know only being—only being will be known. In that there will be no distinction such as “I am an individual” or “I am the collective.” Only being itself will remain. Mere existence will remain—pure existence. It is because of the thoughts we have piled upon that pure existence that we appear to be an individual.

Even now, any day, close your eyes and quietly descend within; you will not find that the one into whom you descended was “Mr. Patel.” Do you follow? This sense that I am “A,” you are “B,” you are “C”—these labels we have stuck on are only within the realm of thought. Names work there; they are useful. Beyond thought, no name has any meaning. There remains a nameless, utterly anonymous presence. In that presence it is not possible, even in the least, to decide “whose” it is; it is simply presence.

I had just begun to say: when we say, “I will be liberated,” it is not quite right. In truth, I will be free of the “I.” In “I will be liberated,” there is the notion that even after liberation the “I” will remain—as an “I.” Not so. The liberation of the “I” is freedom from the “I” as well. In what remains, you cannot even find anything like this “I.” Because this “I”—this ego, this sense of being a person—was only due to the amassed cluster of thoughts. As those thoughts slip away one by one, the “I” slips away.

There was a Buddhist monk, Nagasena. There is a Buddhist scripture, the Milindapanho. He was an extraordinary monk, and the story is very sweet. A Greek ruler named Menander—whom Alexander had left in India—invited Nagasena to the court for discussion. He was very keen on religious dialogue. He sent his chariot and people to welcome him outside the village.

They brought the monk Nagasena in the chariot; five hundred monks came along. Outside the palace Menander bowed to him. Nagasena descended from the chariot. Menander said, “We welcome the monk Nagasena.”

Nagasena said, “We accept your welcome, although there is no such person as the monk Nagasena! We accept your welcome, although there is no such one as the monk Nagasena.”

Menander said, “What are you saying? Then who accepts it?”

Nagasena said, “It is a convenience, so you are not offended—but truly there is no such one as the monk Nagasena.”

Menander said, “Then who has come? You have come; you stand before me—who are you?”

Nagasena said something marvelous. He asked, “This is a chariot, is it not?”

Menander said, “Certainly, it is a chariot.”

Nagasena said, “If we remove its wheels and then ask you, ‘Is this the chariot?’ what will you say?” He would say, “This is not the chariot; these are wheels.” “If we take off each part and ask you, ‘What is this?’ what will you say?” He would say, “These are wheels, this is the front pole, this is the rear pole,” and so on. “If we remove all the parts, and you do not call any of them the chariot, then where is the chariot?” Nagasena said, “The chariot is only a conjunction, an assemblage. If all the parts are taken away, no conjunction remains. The chariot is only an assemblage.”

“In the same way,” said Nagasena, “the person named Nagasena is only an assemblage. When the parts are gone, Nagasena will not remain. What remains, it is difficult to call that ‘Nagasena.’ What remains—it is difficult to call it ‘Nagasena’!”

The Jains called this the dissolution of ego and the realization of the self. That self is not a person, not an ego. The Buddhists called it anatta—non-self. They said there is no self. And there is no difference between the two. To imprint the stamp of “I” on what remains is ignorance.

The more I walk within, the more the “I” dissolves. This is something to be understood. The more I walk outward, the more the “I” thickens; it gets strengthened. So, the more you move within, the more the “I” becomes rarefied. The farther a person has gone outside himself, the stronger you will find his “I.” And the farther a person has gone within, the less “I” you will find in him. And if you observe closely, our going outward is only for the pleasure of strengthening the “I”; there is no other pleasure in it.

One builds a grand mansion and takes pleasure in it; one conquers a vast kingdom and takes pleasure in it; one amasses great wealth; one acquires erudition—or becomes a great saint—and takes pleasure in that. All that pleasure is the pleasure of the “I.” The more we accumulate these things, the more the “I” fills up and becomes weighty. One begins to feel like one is “something.” Then we can say, “I am no ordinary man.” Then we can say, “I am no ordinary man!” The “I” becomes that much more solid and heavy.

So in the world there are only two races, two kinds of people: one race to strengthen the “I,” and one race to dissolve the “I.” One kind of person walks in the direction where the “I” becomes denser and denser. The denser the “I,” the greater the distance from the soul. The more intense the sense of “I,” the farther we go from the soul.

Rightly understood, the intensity of the “I” is the instrument for measuring distance from the soul. And the more the “I” becomes rare, the closer we come to ourselves. And the moment we come completely into our own being, we find there is no “I.” That is, upon attaining the real “I,” the one we have been calling “I” will no longer remain.

What you have asked—this very thing many thinkers now say—your question is very meaningful. Across the world, this is the current thought. Some people say that within man there is nothing except matter and the energy produced by matter; there is no soul. There is no such thing as a soul: it’s all chemical transformations, a compound of matter and chemistry. If you separate all these things, there is no one there like a soul. This idea has taken a strong hold. It cannot be dismissed out of hand.

The difficulty is simply this: among those who propound this view, not one has undertaken the disciplines by which the soul can be known. They have not passed through its experiments. It is—as Marx himself would call it—a purely theoretical statement said without experiment, without any scientific practice; by thought alone they decide “this is how it is.”

To say that no one has seen the soul is not right. It is not that the soul has never been seen. Those who have seen it are the very ones who have reported it. It is not a notion some people hatched by thinking, concluding, “There ought to be a soul.”

You too can experience that reality within yourself. There are methods and experiments. And when you experience full consciousness, you will know, plainly and distinctly, that this whole body is separate, and I—the point of consciousness that I am—am utterly separate. You won’t find even a trace of connection between the two. Go a little deeper and you can stand apart, entirely distinct from the body, and see the body lying there. With enough courage, you can even draw this point of consciousness out of the body.

Along with this, our notion that the point of soul, this point of consciousness, will be found by becoming unconscious—that is where you misunderstand Krishnamurti. It is found by becoming perfectly aware. Through unconsciousness it is lost; it is lost in unconsciousness! The more unconscious we are, the less we can know it.

In unconsciousness only the body is known, because the body is so gross that it does not require much awareness to know it. The grosser a thing is, the less awareness is needed to notice it.

If a drunkard walks out of here in a stupor, he will still notice the stones he stumbles over: “There’s a stone here; the path is blocked there.” But the subtler things in this room will be harder and harder for him to detect.

So the more unconscious we are, the more only coarse and gross things are known. Right now, searching within, we notice only that there is a body. That is a state of our unconsciousness and unawareness. As our awareness grows, as consciousness and watchfulness increase, we begin to sense subtler layers within. The day we are perfectly aware, we come to know that which is only pure consciousness. In perfect awareness we discover that which is pure knowing. The process of entering that perfect knowing is the dissolution of the mind.

The dissolution of mind is not the dissolution of the soul. With the dissolution of mind, the knowing of the soul begins. By “mind” I mean thoughts, the heap of them, the thought-process. When all thoughts are dissolved... At present we—or Marx, or anyone who thinks along those lines—see only two things: the body and thoughts.

If you examine within yourself, you too will find only two things. First, this body—chemical processes, the chemistry at work in the organism. Go a little inward, and you find the thought-process. Only two things appear.

This talk of “killing the mind” is for this reason: when thought ceases, you will discover a third thing within, which you had not found before. Then you will discover consciousness—the consciousness that knew, “There is a body in me, and there are thoughts in me.”

After all, who is it that knows, “This is my body”?
Who is it that knows, “These are my thoughts”?

If someone knows “my body, my thoughts,” then certainly beyond body and thought there must be something else that sees and knows both. That point behind both, which knows and recognizes both—when these two are perfectly quiet, or as good as absent, that is when it is realized. Hence in the old yoga there are essentially two disciplines: asana and dhyana.

Through asana, all the activities of the body are stilled. Through dhyana, the activities of thought are stilled. Through asana, the body is rendered inert; through meditation, thought is rendered inert. When the body becomes inert and thought becomes inert, still it is known: I am. When all the body’s activities are almost zero and the mind too is almost zero, still it is known: I am. And then it becomes so clear: here lies the body; here lie the dead thoughts—I stand apart.

That ultimate sense of apartness, that realization—those who have known it have spoken of it. The statements of those who oppose it have little weight, because none of them are making the experiment.

Marx’s statement has little value in this matter—not because he said something false, but because right at the crucial point he is not scientific, despite his claim. To claim to be scientific can mean only this: whatever I affirm or deny, I have known by experiment.

So a scientist can say only, “With the experiments we currently conduct, we do not find the soul.” He cannot say, “Our experiments show the soul does not exist.” That would be unscientific—speaking beyond experiment. The scientific assertion is: “With our experiments we do not find the soul.” If he says, “We experimented and established that the soul is not,” that becomes unscientific—because he has stepped outside experiment.

Mahavira, Buddha, and those like them say there is a soul not because it is a theory, but because through experiment they know it is. And the astonishing thing is this: whoever has experienced it is willing to go so far as to say that perhaps the world may not be—but that is. They will even call the world maya, illusion; but they will not deny That. What we struggle to accept and cannot bring ourselves to deny is exactly reversed for them: they accept only what they have experienced, and what we so readily accept, they say, “Even if it were not, it would make no difference—it is as good as nothing.”

It is more or less like this: we are asleep and dreaming, and we see the dream. While we are in the dream, the dream is everything. When we wake, we say that what is seen in wakefulness is everything; the dream was nothing. But within the dream, certainly the dream is everything. Therefore the testimony of those who have seen only the dream is not meaningful; the testimony of those who have awakened as well is meaningful. Those who have seen both—dream and wakefulness—who have passed through both states: their testimony, their witnessing, is significant. Those who are seeing only within the dream and pronounce judgments about wakefulness—what they say in the dream has no value beyond that.

So my single difficulty thus far is this: why has no materialist, or a thinker of that kind, had the courage to try to know a little through yoga as well? One who claims such scientificity should at least test this too. And you will be surprised: till today, no one who has tested has denied it—categorically, without exception.

(The recording of the question is unclear.)
Yes, yes—this is exactly what I am saying: without testing it. They are not materialists in the true sense either, because it is testing, experiment alone, that decides what is and what is not.

Since Marx, in the last hundred years, much has changed. The scientist is no longer a crude materialist as he was, because some astonishing events have occurred. First: what in Marx’s time was called “matter” has evaporated; now there is no such thing as matter. First they denied that there is anything like the soul, saying “only matter is all.” Then, through the search into matter, it gradually became clear there is no matter. At the ultimate level—where electrons and neutrons remain—there is no matter; there are only electrical particles. And these electrical particles are not material; they have no weight, they cannot be weighed or measured—there is no way.

Science fell into a strange difficulty: having already denied the soul, it then denied matter too. Now it has nothing to say about what is. The most contemporary scientist cannot say what is.

So I have begun to say something else: science can say nothing about truth; science can speak only about utility. There is a difference between truth and utility. Science can tell you how to run a fan on electricity; it cannot tell you what electricity is. Even now it does not. Even now it tells you how a fan can run and how a machine can run. Science delivers the utility of electricity; it has not delivered what electricity is.

So to me it now appears thus: science is the search for utility; religion is the search for truth. There is a difference between the two.

It is happening continuously.

No, no. The point is this… In fact, what is it that you really explain through language? I say, “This is a door.” You understand. Why? Is it because I made you understand through language? No. Apart from language you already know it. When I say, “This is a door,” you already know from before that it is a door; therefore my saying it manages to convey something.

Language gives only words. The experience must be present. When I utter a word, I cannot create meaning within you; I can only give the echo of the word. The meaning has to be in you.

For example, when I say, “This is a house,” the word “house” carries meaning for you. When I say, “This is the soul,” the word “soul” remains empty; it gives no meaning. You know a house, so it means something. You do not know the soul, so it does not.

Meaningfulness does not come from the speaker; it arises on the side of the listener. From the speaker only words arrive; the listener supplies the meaning. So language is meaningful only up to the level of your experience. Beyond the level where your experience does not reach, language remains mere words.

But even on that level there is a kind of meaningfulness: where words do not make sense to you because you lack the experience, there the words do not give meaning—they begin to give thirst.

Do you see what I am saying?

That is to say, when I say, “There is a soul,” you do not understand what it is. But if at least you understand that “I do not understand what the soul is,” then a thirst has begun in you. I have not been able to tell you the soul; but perhaps the first transmission of how you will come to know the soul has happened within you.

I said this to you this morning as well: Mahavira, or anyone of that stature, cannot give you the truth; they can only give you thirst. The experience they speak of will not make sense to you—cannot make sense. But this man is speaking. In him you sense something—that what he is saying is in fact beyond saying—so it appears that something must be visible to him which is not visible to us, that he is experiencing something we are not. He is speaking of an unknown direction that is not known to us. And then a trembling will begin in your very life-breath. That trembling will carry you toward that unknown direction.

In truth, words have a twofold significance:
- Concerning what is known to you, words give recognition.
- Concerning what is unknown to you, words give thirst.

Do you understand? They give recognition to the known, and thirst for the unknown. So, if I put it rightly, the words that give you recognition are not of great value. The meaningful words are those that give you thirst, because they lift you beyond your circle of the known and draw you toward the unknown.

All these words—God, soul, Paramatman—hover over us as mere words. They have no content for us. Yet they still pull us. And they pull us because the people from whom these words come pull us. Then within us a process begins: that the known is not all, what I know is not the end—there is more yet to be known. There is more yet to be known!

Until you attain the supreme bliss, remember: there is still much to be known. For whatever remains unknown is the cause of my suffering, because it lies outside my control. In fact, if we understand rightly, the attainment of perfect bliss is the indication that there is no element left within that is unknown—nothing that can disturb it.

What has it to do with the body?

In truth, the soul is only the power of pure awareness. It gives awareness. To have awareness is one thing; to be afflicted by what one is aware of is quite another. If this foot is injured, to be aware that there is an injury is one thing; to be tormented by the pain of the injury is quite another. Awareness will not occur to one who is unconscious. Awareness will not occur to one who is unconscious! Full awareness happens to the one who is conscious. But being aware that there is pain in the foot and being aware that “I am unhappy” are two different things.

Even if a thorn were to prick Mahavira while walking on the road, he would know that a thorn has pricked—only that much: a thorn has pricked. Just as it would be evident to you if a thorn pricked you. If you were walking beside him and a thorn pricked your foot, he would say, “Look, a thorn has pricked your foot.” In the same way it is evident to him, and he would say, “Look, a thorn has pricked my foot.” But this does not disturb his consciousness in the least. It is mere awareness.

Do you understand?

A breeze comes from here and I become aware that a breeze has come from here. This awareness is not suffering. Pain, awareness—whatever it may be—when it becomes conjoined with “I,” that conjunction is suffering. For example, I become aware that there is pain in the foot; but it does not remain merely “there is pain in the foot”—it becomes “there is pain in me.”

Do you understand the distinction I am making?
If I become aware that the money is mine, there is a feeling of happiness; then tomorrow I become aware that the money which was mine has been stolen, and there is sorrow. “The money was mine” was giving happiness; “the money is no longer mine” is giving sorrow.
Bliss and happiness are not the same. Bliss is the name of that state where even “the money is mine”—that happiness—I do not take as mine; and where “my money is gone”—that sorrow—I also do not take as mine. Where utterly only I remain and I acknowledge no relation with anything else, where my state is nonattachment—whatever is in that state, that is bliss.

Yes. About what you ask—“one who can experience self-bliss”—such a person has no awareness at all that “the body is mine.” Whether your body is healthy or ill, whether the pain is noticed by you or not, it has nothing to do with self-bliss. If even a little taste of self-bliss happens, that very little taste will make it clear to you that you are not the body. Then your notions about this body will become like the notions you have about someone else’s body. Your relation to this body will be almost like an actor’s relation to his role in a play.

Just as when Sita of Rama was abducted—that was one thing. Valmiki writes that he went from tree to tree, weeping, asking, “Where is my Sita?” Even today in the theater, Sita of Rama is carried off, and this stage-Rama too goes from tree to tree asking, “Where is my Sita?” But there is a difference between his asking and Rama’s asking. He asks, “Where is my Sita?” and it may be that he acts even more intensely than Rama. But it is acting, and he knows it fully. He will go behind the curtain and sleep soundly all night. He has nothing to do with that Sita about whom he said on stage, “She has been stolen.” He knows the Sita who is being stolen is not his. He knows that the body which is crying and shouting that Sita is being stolen is also only acting.

As soon as a person moves toward self-knowledge, ordinary life begins to take the form of acting. For now, even if you try to act, it turns into reality for you. The difficulty at present is that if you act somewhere, within a short while you get entangled in it.

An ordinary ignorant person, even while acting, gets entangled; a wise person, even while living fully in life, knows it as acting and does not get entangled. Life will go on, life will go on; as long as there is life, it will go on. There are only two points: for the one in whom self-awareness begins, all actions become mere acting. Therefore all his actions become very skillful as well. Pain and sorrow do not belong to acting; only the appearance remains.

If this understanding begins to deepen in you—that I am something else—then all the differences begin. Pain in the body will be as it was before; perhaps earlier you did not notice it so much, now you will notice it more, because now consciousness is perfectly still. Now everything will be known; even the slightest tick will be noticed. But in a perfectly quiet consciousness, though everything will be noticed, the faculty of identification with whatever is known will not remain; the identity will not remain. We will know that this is happening—that will be our knowing, our knowledge. But the sense that we are joined to it, or that it is happening within us, will dissolve. It is happening somewhere, and we are the knower of it. Gradually we will come to know only this: my connection is only with the power of knowing, and with nothing else. Gradually it will be seen: I am pure knowing alone, and whatever becomes known to me is outside of me.

In truth, even if we were to know how many elements there are, what difference would it make? Even if I were to tell you, “There are this many elements,” what difference would it make? Practically, whatever number I speak will make no difference to you. If I say one, two, ten, fifty—you will only hear a number; it won’t have any special meaning.

The moment we ask how many elements there are, we have begun to ask in numbers—whether we say one, two, or ten. In fact, if you become perfectly still and experience what is, nothing will be known in numbers—not one, not two, not three, not four. You will not even know that there is anything other than you. You will know only the fact of being, a bare awareness that “I am.” You will be aware of pure existence. Roughly, people call it “one.”

But there is no scope there to call it “one,” because the moment you say “one,” two have already appeared—whoever says it is instantly separate from that of which he speaks. Say “one” and two are born. There, there is no scope for saying how many. In truth, there is no scope to say anything at all. There there is only knowing. And the knowing is that whatever is does not appear as one, or two, or three—in any word. That being in which there is no division into numbers—when we look at it through the intellect and a restless mind—appears split into many. Those divisions are not in being; they are divisions of the mind.

A madman may enter this very room, and a serene man may pass through this very room. The room will be the same. Whether the madman passes or the serene man passes, it remains the same room. Yet their experiences of the room will be different. Who knows what the madman will see here! The room is the same, but their experiences differ—because their minds are in different states.

As long as we are seeing through the mind, all our judgments are wrong—whether we say one, two, or four. When we see the same without the mind, then whatever we say, all our statements are right. But at that time, no one says anything. So the trouble is: those who see through the mind, speak—and those who see through the mind see wrongly. Those who do not see through the mind do not speak—and those who see without the mind, whatever they see, they see rightly.

So I do not say how many elements there are. I only say there are two ways to see what is. One is the way of the mind, through which everything appears in many forms. And the other is the way of no-mind—one of mind and one of no-mind; one of a restless mind and one of a perfectly still mind where even mind is not. There is a way of seeing the world through waves—waves that break everything apart—and there is a way of seeing through a perfectly silent lake. This much I can tell you: those who have looked in silence have not spoken of any number; those who have looked in disturbance have counted numbers in dozens of ways.

So I do not say how many elements there are; I say only that there are two ways to see the essence. There are two ways to see the essence! One of these ways you already know.

(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)

He who sees through the mind never attains fulfillment. And whatever he “knows,” doubt and questions remain within it. Through the mind it seems as though one is knowing, but one never really knows. It seems, “I am knowing,” but one does not know. Not knowing, pain and trouble persist—and the mind goes on raising questions day after day.

All your life you may try to know through the mind, and the questions will remain just as they were on the first day you began to ask. The mind will never lead you to a questionless state. Not reaching a questionless state means the mind will be agitated, afflicted, troubled. For a mind filled with questions will be in pain. A mind with questions will be in pain! Questions are indicators of suffering. They are signs that somewhere inside there is an ache. All that information is searching, hoping for a path. No path is found.

Through the mind no path is found. The mind only gives questions; it gives no answers. Till now, the mind has given only questions, not answers. So if you only want questions, the mind can supply them. If the questions are few, you will manage to get by. If they become too many and you can’t tie up their loose ends, you will go mad.

The mind gives questions; the final outcome of mind is derangement. The movement of mind breeds questions. And when the movements become so many that they are hard to manage, you become insane. That is to say, the full development of mind is madness. The complete development of mind is madness.

Therefore, that the great thinkers of the world—especially of the West—have gone mad is not accidental, not without cause. A great thinker will go mad.

But among those we speak of in India, none went mad. They are not really thinkers. Mahavira, Buddha, and the like are not thinkers; they are seers. They are not thinkers.

The final culmination of thought is insanity, and the final culmination of no-thought is liberation.

Thought will give you questions, not answers. In no-thought the questions disappear; only the answer remains.

So if you want the answer, move into no-thought. And if you want to keep arousing questions, one after another, move with thought. The more questions there are, the more anguish and pain. The fewer the questions, the denser the peace. The day the mind becomes questionless, that day perfect peace will be experienced.

Thought cannot lead to bliss, because thought cannot lead to the answer.
No-thought will lead to bliss, because no-thought will lead to the answer.

There are only two directions: either look at the world through thought—the mind—or look through no-thought, the no-mind.

You say, “By becoming thought-free one will attain bliss. If the hand breaks, will it heal or not?”
The moment a person attains bliss, he comes to know: nothing that is truly mine within me can break. And whatever is not mine is already broken. Whether the hand is broken or healed, it has no real significance.

You will be surprised: when your hand breaks, the idea arises that it should heal; when someone else’s breaks, that idea hardly arises—that it should be all right. If your eye is damaged, you feel the urge for it to be cured; if someone else’s is damaged, it’s “all right.” Or, if that “other” happens to be someone with whom you have some connection, then you wish for theirs to be healed too. That too is “us”—somewhere, there is our own connection in it.

No, no—I am not asking you to think at all. This is not a matter for thinking. Do not think. No—do not think. Do not think. I am not telling you to think. Do not think. Sit quietly with your eyes closed and think nothing; and whatever thoughts arise, just watch them silently. Do not think anything from your side. Whatever thoughts move, keep watching them. Do not give them your cooperation. Otherwise you are setting them in motion with your own hand—that is cooperation with thought. Whatever thoughts come, they come on their own; just watch them silently. With eyes closed, only watch. Do not meddle. Do not even try to push them away. If they come, let them come; if they do not, let them not. If they come, just keep watching.

For fifteen days, sit like this for half an hour—only watch and do nothing else. Within fifteen days you will see that for a day or two—perhaps two, three, four days—it will seem as if they are increasing, coming more and more. Do not be frightened; let them come. If you do not get frightened and allow them, gradually you will find that to the same extent they had increased, to that extent they begin to decrease. In a fifteen-day experiment you will find their number has become very small. Sometimes they come; sometimes there is an empty space. Sometimes they come; sometimes there is an empty space!

In that empty space you will, of your own accord, experience that the soul is separate from the body. As the empty space grows larger, you will experience for longer stretches that the soul is separate from the body. This is not for you to think; it will be experienced. Do you understand? And when this interval—this interlude—becomes quite long, so that one thought comes and the next does not come for a long time, then in that empty gap you will get a glimpse on your own: I am separate.

“That the soul is separate” is not to be thought; it will be seen. Let thoughts recede, and there will be a seeing of it.

So do not think; there is no benefit in thinking. There is no point in thinking. Even if by thinking you conclude that the soul is separate, it is useless. The day you stop thinking, that conclusion will slip away again. That is only imagination.

A blind man sits here and keeps thinking, “The room is full of light, full of light.” No matter how much he thinks, will his eyes be healed by thinking? The moment he stops thinking, he will find he has bumped into something—there was darkness—and he has fallen again. A blind man, by thinking again and again that there is light, solves nothing. “There is light” is not something for a blind person to think; he must take steps to cure his eyes. The day the eyes are cured, that day, without thinking, it will be seen that there is light. You do not think there is light—you see it.

The soul is not thought about; it is beheld. This is the difference between thought and vision.

In all that I am discussing right now, this is the very difference between thought and vision. We have to have the vision of the soul, not thoughts about it. Whoever goes on thinking will never find the soul. He will only keep repeating what others have said about the soul. You will reach nowhere with that. Watch thought silently, and sit totally relaxed and still.

Utterly false. All -isms are false. Because truth has nothing to do with -isms. I am not saying this -ism is right and that -ism is wrong; -isms as such are untrue, because they are merely games of the intellect, they have nothing to do with truth. That which is known is known absolutely beyond dispute. There is no argumentation in it. The day the whole mind falls silent and knows, that knowing is utterly indisputable. There, no argument and no counterargument exist.

No. What you say—yes, you say it well. You ask very good questions.
You ask, “If everyone delights in the soul, then grain will not be produced in the world.”

As though it is the mad and deranged who are producing the grain! I am telling you: the suffering that exists in the world—if everyone were to attain peace of mind, that suffering would dissolve. Perhaps the grain would be better. Because a peaceful person can grow better grain than a disturbed and deranged person ever could.

Peace is not opposed to action. Unrest is opposed to action. Whatever an unquiet man does will be unskilled, because his unrest will obstruct his work. Whatever a peaceful man does will become skillful, because peace collaborates with action.

In my view, if peaceful people increase in the world, the world’s efficiency will increase. Even if that peaceful man stitches shoes—like Kabir, who wove cloth—then about Kabir it is said that no weaver ever wove such cloth. And when he would take his cloth to market, people would rush like mad to buy it. Buying Kabir’s cloth itself was a joy. People would say to Kabir, “No one has ever woven cloth like this.” Kabir would say, “No one has woven for God with such peace—what can I do? I do not weave for you; I weave for God. Because I know the God within you—He will wear it. And for Him, no wrong thing can be woven. And when I weave, I am filled with God. So there is no room for mistake.” Kabir made cloth that had meaning—a different kind altogether.

There was Gora, a potter—he too was a fakir. The pots he made were wondrous. And…

Whatever work of true worth has been done in this world has been done by the peaceful, not by the unpeaceful. It is because of the unpeaceful that there is trouble; because of them grain fails. Because of the peaceful, grain will flourish.

Just remember this much: the notion that has lodged in our minds—that peaceful people run away and renounce—is wrong. In truth, it is the unpeaceful who run away, in their agitation and panic. The peaceful return.

Only last night I was saying: Mahavira and Buddha fled to the forests when they were unpeaceful. When they became peaceful, they returned. Have you ever heard of anyone who, upon becoming peaceful, did not return to the village? The unpeaceful fled the village for the jungle. But when they became peaceful, where did they go? They came back to the village. And afterward, did they sit idle? They did so much that we cannot even conceive of it.

After his attainment, Mahavira was continuously active for forty years. The Buddha was active until the very moment of his death. At the hour of death, in his final moments, he said to his disciples, “Now I will leave the body.” Ananda said, “Then we will not let anyone come in now. We will keep everyone outside; no one should enter.”

He was sinking into samadhi, and just then a young man came running from afar. He said to Ananda, “But then when will I ever meet the Tathagata, if I miss this moment? Let me go in. I must hear a word from him that will change my life.”

Ananda said, “Now it is too late.” His name was Subhadra. He said, “Subhadra, now it is too late. He is entering the final absorption; he has already descended one stage. He is leaving the body; within moments the body will fall.”

But Subhadra said, “What you say is true—but then in what birth will I find such a man again?”

So the Buddha said from within, “Do not stop Subhadra. Let him come. Let no one say that a stain of sin remained on the Tathagata—that Subhadra stood saying, ‘I am thirsty, give me,’ and he did not give. I can delay a few moments. Let Subhadra come in.” In the hour of death—the man is dying—and yet he is telling Subhadra how peace and bliss can be found!

It was from the hands of a blacksmith that the Buddha’s death came. He had been invited to a meal at the blacksmith’s house. In Bihar—those mushrooms that spring up in the rains—poor people dry them and later cook them as a vegetable. The blacksmith was poor. He cooked them and served the Buddha. Sometimes they are poisonous; they spring up anywhere. From that poison pain spread through the Buddha’s body.

When he returned home—from there to his lodging—he saw that venom was spreading in the body. He said, “Go, tell that blacksmith: you are exceedingly blessed that the Tathagata accepted his last meal from you. Go tell him he is exceedingly blessed that the Tathagata accepted his final food from him! Such good fortune is very hard to obtain. So go say this—and beat the drum throughout the village—that no one should trouble him after my passing. Tell Ananda: after my death, let no one harass him saying, ‘Because of his food he died.’ Go and proclaim to all that the man is blessed, that the Tathagata accepted his last meal from him. Such fortune comes to someone perhaps once in aeons.”

This is the mark of a peaceful man—that after his own death no one should be troubled needlessly. He has no concern about his own dying. He is dying from what he has eaten at that man’s house—yet he has no concern for that. His concern is that after his death people might harass that man, saying, “Because of your food he died.” This peaceful man arranges that even after his death no one should be blamed and troubled on his account. A restless man arranges the opposite!

I have read a story: An old man was dying. He had seven grown sons. He called them and said, “I have something special to say. If you promise, I will say it.”
The elder sons did not get up; the youngest boy was naive. He went to his father—dying father calling—and he was amazed the elder brothers would not go. They even stopped him: “Don’t go.” But he was bewildered: a dying father!
The dying father said, “I am dying, and you do not have even this much in you—that you keep one request of mine!”
The youngest went. The father whispered in his ear, “I have only one prayer, do just this much. I am dying anyway. When I die, throw pieces of my corpse into the neighbor’s house. Then when I see the king’s men grabbing them and dragging them to jail—my soul will see it—I will be very satisfied. I am dying anyway; at least they will be punished!” He said to the boy, “I am dying anyway. But when I die, throw pieces of my corpse into the neighbor’s house—my soul will be satisfied when I see the officials binding them and taking them to prison.” The boy was astonished: a dying father—and this is what occurs to him!

I ask you: the same would occur to you. This is the final… All through life this is what occupies you: how to ensnare someone so that the heart may feel gratified.

Unrest generates unrest all around. Peace generates peace all around. From a peaceful person, any harm to this world is impossible—only benefit. From an unpeaceful person, any benefit is impossible—only harm.

So I do not see spiritual practice as opposed to the world. In spiritual practice alone I see the world’s welfare and fulfillment.

So I do not think grain will diminish. It has diminished, perhaps, because of unrest. If there is peace, perhaps there will be order. Peaceful people will be able to set everything in order.

You are saying it rightly: one should understand that such a person is not a sadhu. I do not regard such a person as a sadhu. Such a person is not even at peace.

(Recording of the question is unclear.)

Only one verdict comes, only one result comes. In what they say there may be differences, because languages differ. The personal ideas they gathered before knowing are different. But the experience up to now is one and the same.

She is asking a very good question: when A and B have the same experience—when the whole religious experience is one, and only if it is one is it scientific—why does it not sound one in their speaking? One appears to be saying this, another appears to be saying that.

It does seem so, doesn’t it—Buddha seems to say one thing, Mahavira another, Christ another. If you look very carefully, all these people say at least one thing in common: what we are saying cannot express what we are knowing. This much they all say. They all say that what we are saying is not able to reveal what we are knowing. Then what they say is only an artificial device. That which has been experienced cannot be said. And yet remaining entirely silent about it also seems very difficult.

What has been experienced cannot be said, and yet not saying it is also difficult. So there is only one way: they create some artificial arrangement to indicate it. These coded arrangements for indicating are different for each—and naturally so. Hence the Jains speak in one way; the Christians in another; the Muslims in yet another.

These are all artificial devices. They look different. From this a whole controversy arises in the world: if all these people have known the same truth, why do they speak differently? And then blind followers face the difficulty of insisting, “Only our truth is true; the rest are all wrong.” Because if everyone is saying something different, they must be wrong—since truth can only be one.

Whereas the fact is that none of these forms is truth. Whatever can be said is not the truth.

The experience is the same for all—that which is not being said. But the arrangements they have made to point toward that unsayable are each their own artificial, imaginary constructions. All philosophical systems are imaginary. In them the truth has not been revealed; in them the truth does not get revealed. But moving through them, if one goes on, some day the truth may be revealed. Do you understand what I am saying?

(Recording of the question is unclear.)

No, there is no need—no need at all. He does not even need meditation.

(Recording of the question is unclear.)

Yes, yes—both are needed to bring it about; once it has arrived, neither is needed. In the beginning they are useful. They are useful; they provide support. Why? Because you will have observed that all the states of our mind get tied to the habits of our body. For example, you will observe: some worry comes, and you start scratching your head. Why are you scratching your head? If you hold such a person’s hand, he will not be able to solve his problem.

I had a vice-chancellor at Sagar University, Dr. Gore. He had a habit: whenever he argued a case he would keep rotating a button of his coat. Whenever he had some worry or a particular difficulty, he would start twirling it and say something.

He was in a case before the Privy Council. It was obvious that when he twirled it, he was surely working out some trick. His opposing lawyer had his servant break off that button from the coat. He put on his coat and went. At the crucial point he reached for the button—absent. The button was missing; he panicked. It was his habit; there was an association—his thinking ran along with the habit. The moment he twirled that button, his mind would also start working in that direction.

Some people, if they sit smoking, their thinking will run. You will be surprised: if you sit in a particular way, a particular kind of thinking starts. If you want to do that same thinking sitting in another posture, you will not be able to. You will be surprised that in almost all your states of thinking the body assumes a particular posture. It becomes a habit.

Yes, yes, there is a relationship. This posture is meant to break your routine habit. As you sit, you hardly notice that you don’t remain still even for a moment. Sometimes you move your legs, sometimes your hands, sometimes you nod your head, move your neck, lift your arms—something or other you are always doing. This habit of the body’s restlessness has, through years of habit, become joined with the restlessness of the mind. If you sit for a while leaving the body completely relaxed, you will be surprised how strong the urge will be to move it. But if you do not move, you will find that, along with the body’s restless habits, the mind’s restless habit also begins to change.

If you can sit without moving the body for five minutes—absolutely without moving—you will suddenly find the mind has become very quiet. It has become a mechanical routine. So the body, too, can be used: if it is left totally quiet, relaxed—like a corpse—you will find the mind begins to grow quiet.

Yes, yes—it does. It does. And then, as for the mind... in truth, it is the mind that has to be stilled; the body becomes the groundwork for it. Quiet the body and the groundwork is laid. Then quiet the mind, and the groundwork is laid for going further within.

There is only one prelude to becoming silent.
Then there are some personal questions; let me address them.
(The recording of the question is not clear.)
You said that if someone goes into direct samadhi, he will not talk much. If the mind’s thinking continues, he will talk. The mind’s thinking does not give truth. But it does provide the means for expressing truth; it gives expressions. Many in the world have attained samadhi, but of those who have attained it, not many have spoken about truth—only a few have.

Thought is not a means to take you to truth, but if truth happens, it is certainly a medium to convey it to others. It has its utility—not in reaching truth, but in communicating it once the truth is experienced. In knowing truth, thought has no use; yet if you have strength and capacity in thought, then when truth is experienced, thought is useful in saying it to others. It has that utility.

Therefore I am not against thought. I am against considering it a means for knowing truth. I set no value on the one who is dull-minded and does not think. I do not say that because someone is obtuse and does not think, therefore he knows truth. The one who thinks—and can drop thought—can know truth. The one who does not think at all will not be able to know truth.

Are you following me?
That is, thinking is very useful up to a point; beyond that point it becomes harmful. It is very useful in arousing thirst; it becomes harmful in knowing truth. Thought will awaken thirst; thought will intensify the thirst.

Remember this much: that which is intensifying thirst is not water. There is a difference between thirst and water, isn’t there! Water will have to be sought elsewhere. The one who starts searching for water within thirst itself is unintelligent. If I am thirsty, water cannot be looked for inside the thirst. Thirst is only the urge to search for water.

So thought raises questions in you; thought creates curiosity in you; thought thickens the thirst in you. But those who begin to search for water within thought are unintelligent. Thought’s capacity is only this much: it can intensify thirst; it cannot give water. For water you must go even deeper—where there are no thoughts—there it will be found. But if there has been a training in thought, then when truth is found there will be ease in expressing it. Otherwise, it cannot be said.

One has to.

That too has to be transcended.

Where the process no longer remains—that is where one has to arrive. You have understood correctly. You are right. One has to go beyond everything.

They are not different; they only appear so. They are not.