Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #10

Hansa, in this world everything else takes time to happen, but meditation is timeless. It doesn’t even take a moment. The gap between two moments—that is the realm of meditation. When meditation happens, it happens in such a way that not even a moment is needed. Meditation is not a process in time. Meditation has no steps. Meditation is revolution, not evolution.

And why is it so? Because the whole arrangement of the mind is fundamentally an arrangement of time. Mind means: past and future—with a tiny present squeezed in between. The mind lives in the past, in what has already happened; it keeps digging there, searching there, rummaging through memories. Or it lives in their reflections, the echoes projected into the future: what happened yesterday should happen again tomorrow—it was sweet, it was delightful; or what happened yesterday was very bitter—let it never happen again. The mind wants to repeat the past in the future—in its most beautified form; it wants to decorate the past as the future. The future is only the extension of the past. And the wonder is that the mind lives in the past, which is no more, and in the future, which is not yet. The mind lives in two absences, two emptinesses. Hence the mind has no real attainment. And what the mind calls the present is a kind of no-thing; it is only the process of the past becoming the future—a very thin line! You cannot catch hold of the present. By the time you grasp it, it is already past; until you grasp it, it is still future. So small, such a false present.

Only one who has come to meditation knows the present—the eternal present.

Meditation means becoming free of the mind. To be free of the mind is to be free of past and future. It happens in a single instant—just as a gust of wind comes and blows away the dust; as if someone wiped the mirror and it became clear!

Hansa, what happened to you is exactly right. The first glimpse of meditation is like this. When meditation descends for the first time, it leaves one so awestruck and wonderstruck that it hardly seems believable. Because we had thought meditation is gained only through austerities that last for ages and ages.

Meditation is not attained by austerity; through austerity you attain only the ascetic’s ego. And ego is an obstacle to meditation. Meditation is not attained through toil; you may attain everything else—wealth, position—but not meditation. Meditation is a moment of relaxation, not of effort. And meditation is neither austerity nor renunciation. Meditation is the supreme enjoyment, the ultimate celebration, the ultimate bliss.

Nor is meditation something that comes to us from the outside; if it came, it would take time. Nor is it something we go to; if we went, it would take time, there would be a journey. Either meditation would travel to us, or we would travel to meditation. Meditation is our very nature. We are born with meditation; we are born as meditation. Meditation is our soul. Therefore, the question of time does not arise. The treasure lies within; the moment the eyes turn inward, the meeting with the Master happens.

You say: “What happened in a moment!”
Certainly, when it happens for the first time one can scarcely believe it. For centuries we have been taught: You are sinners; first wash away your sins! The sins of many lifetimes—only after washing for many lifetimes will they at last be cleansed.

We have been taught that man is a sinner, a culprit. I want to remind you that all your sins are like dust on a mirror; a gust of wind will blow them away. The mirror is never destroyed by dust—at most it gets covered, reflections get distorted or don’t appear if layers of dust pile up. But beneath those layers the mirror is exactly as pure as it always was. There is no way to make a mirror impure. And there is no way to make you impure either.

Firoz, drop this madness that says, “I am a sinner—can meditation happen to me?” Firoz has come from Pakistan. In his mind sit the sermons of mullahs and maulvis: man is a culprit—seek forgiveness, do penance, burn yourself in austerities! No—none of this is needed. The divine is within you; just turn your gaze inward. Meditation is simply the turning of the eye within—not penance, not effort. And the moment the eye turns and you have even once the vision of your own nature, then sin will no longer be possible.

I am telling you something quite different. You’ve been taught that once you stop sinning, then meditation will happen. I say: when meditation happens, then sin cannot happen. You’ve been told, “When darkness is removed, there will be light.” Those who taught this were blind—and by believing them you too have remained blind for centuries. I tell you: when light appears, darkness is not.

And what I am saying is absolutely scientific. You are fighting darkness. What is sin? Darkness. Does it have any existence of its own? It is stupor, unconsciousness—mere absence of awareness. Just as darkness is the absence of light.

A house may have been dark for thousands of years; if you light a small lamp, will the darkness protest, “Hey lamp, you’ve only just been lit; you have no strength. We are ancient—we’ve been here for centuries. Even if you burn for ages, you will not so much as ruffle a hair of ours”? Could darkness say such a thing? No. The lamp is lit here, and darkness is gone there. Even to say “gone” is a mistake of language. Darkness was never there—it was only the name for the absence of the lamp. Darkness had no objective reality. The lamp is lit and we discover there is no darkness, because presence and absence cannot coexist. When light arrives, darkness is not. And this is exactly the revolution that happens within. Meditation is light; it is awakening. Once awake, sin does not happen.

I want to completely change your arithmetic. That is why the pundits and priests are angry with me. Their arithmetic says: first remove the darkness. And they keep you tangled exactly there. The darkness never goes, the riddle is never solved, and you can never escape the priest’s net. The entire business of your so-called holy men rests on a basic trick: they have set you to a task that cannot be solved.

You must have heard the story of a man walking along the seashore who found a bottle. Curious, he opened it—as you too would have—to see what was inside. A great puff of smoke arose, and a genie appeared. And the genie said, “You are blessed, for I am no ordinary spirit—I am the emperor of spirits. I was under punishment and waiting for the day someone would free me. You have freed me. I will do whatever you command—only one condition: I need work twenty-four hours a day. I cannot sit idle for even a moment.”

The man was delighted. “What could be better! Come, I have plenty of work. Why should you sit idle? I have many desires, many cravings—go fulfill them.” He ordered, “Build a palace!” No sooner said than done; the genie stood there again. The man grew uneasy—if things happen this fast, his list will soon be exhausted. “Bring wealth, diamonds and jewels, gold and silver!” The genie fulfilled every command instantly. By noon the desires that had seemed endless were finished, and the genie said, “Remember, I cannot sit idle. Give me work—or I’ll wring your neck.”

The man ran to a fakir, the one he always went to whenever he was entangled. The fakir said, “Here is a ladder. Take it. Fix it up and tell the genie: first climb up, then come down; then up again, then down again. Keep him climbing and descending. You won’t even have to keep repeating the order—say it once: up-down, up-down.” The man said, “How did I miss such a simple trick!” Then he asked, “Master, have you ever had to deal with such a ghost? You answered so quickly!” The fakir laughed, “This is our very trade. We set people to climbing such ladders. People stay entangled; resolution never comes. Because it never comes, they keep coming to us for resolution.”

Ninety-nine percent of your entanglements have been created by your pundits and priests; they are not really yours. Your actual difficulties are few and can be solved with a small revolution—a small spark of meditation, and your sins are reduced to ashes. But the priest teaches you a task that cannot be done, not in countless births: “Fight the darkness.” “Fight the bad.” “Fight the inauspicious, fight sin”—this is their teaching.

Now, however much a person fights darkness—even if he is Gama the great wrestler or Muhammad Ali—he will only exhaust himself; the darkness will not be defeated. Push the darkness, tie it into bundles, throw them outside—the bundles will go flying, the darkness will remain where it was. You cannot move darkness an inch.

Spend your life like this and, inevitably, an inferiority complex will arise: “What a great sinner I am that I cannot be free of such a small thing! I am chained by lust—what a sinner!” And all your religious leaders keep telling you, “Fight lust and you will be free!” You don’t even notice they’ve been saying this for thousands of years—at least five thousand in the written record, and before that as well. They have kept you fighting for five thousand years; has lust been solved? It has increased, not decreased.

Your fighting has made you weak, not strong. Your fighting has made you poor in spirit, inferior. Repeated failures breed gloom. Repeated failures breed self-contempt and disgust, the feeling of your own helplessness. Man has lost his self-trust because he has been told to do things that cannot be done.

It is as if someone told you to square a circle. If you square it, it is no longer a circle. If you keep it a circle, it cannot be square. Someone has trapped you in a snare. Now you are stuck—neither will the circle ever become square, nor will you get out of the net. And naturally, the more stuck you get, the more you go to ask for help. You don’t realize that those you go to are themselves trapped; someone else trapped them. The entanglements are ancient, with long traditions.

I am giving you the straight key. I say: do not fight darkness; do not fight sin. There is light within—turn your eyes toward it. You are standing with your back to it; you do not even need to light it—just turn. This turning can happen in a single instant. It will happen in a single instant. Will it take many lifetimes just to turn? It happens in a flash. Close your eyes here, and there it is. The moment you see the light, darkness is gone. After that, even if you want to commit sin, you will not be able to.

Firoz, no matter how many sins you have committed—what sins could they be! The divine compassion is far greater than your sins. Think: what can you do that would not be swept away in the flood of God’s grace? Everything will be carried away. Your question is like asking, “Can a sick man also be treated?”

If not the sick, who else? If a physician were to say, “I only treat the healthy,” what would you call him—a physician or a madman?

That you call yourself a sinner is actually a good sign. The illness is recognized; now treatment is possible. Diagnosis has happened; now medicine is needed. Do you think medicine works only on the healthy? Then what sort of medicine is that! Medicine works on illness. And you don’t have to drop the illness first; you take the medicine first—then the illness drops. Meditation is the medicine.

Buddha said again and again, “I am a physician.” Nanak too said, “I am a vaid, a healer.” They spoke rightly—physician, healer— not preacher.

I too tell you, I am a physician, not a preacher. If I were a preacher, life would be easy; the whole country would honor and welcome me, because I would be aligned with the dead beliefs of this land. I am a physician. And you have many cancerous knots within; they must be cut. Cutting them is painful. And you have so far taken these very knots to be precious as diamonds and jewels. You have decorated them, worshiped them. And I tell you: you are entangled in those very things, and because of them the fragrance of worship cannot arise in your life.

Hansa, good—this happens in a split second. It is revolution, not evolution. It has no steps; it is a leap.

You ask, “What happened in a single moment!” Of course it doesn’t make sense when it happens the first time. How could it? Understanding has no footing here—no prior concepts, no precedents. Understanding can only grasp what it has grasped before. This is so new, so fresh, so utterly original—just bathed, as if it has descended from the sky! Understanding cannot understand it.

It is not a matter to be understood. It is a matter to be danced. It is a matter for singing, for being lost in ecstasy, for the flute to play—not for analysis. You will not “understand” it. This event fills you with such wonder, such mystery, that the mystery never gets exhausted. As the depth of this light increases—this is only the beginning, only the first ray has descended—soon whole suns will descend, sun after sun will descend!

Kabir has said: As if a thousand thousand suns were to rise at once—such is the event that happens in samadhi!

You say, “In a single instant, what happened—that ‘I’ was gone, the mind was gone!” It vanishes in one stroke, because neither the “I” has any real existence—the “I” is a lie, the biggest lie—nor does the mind. What is the mind? Past and future, absence. The very center of that absence is what we call “I.” Hence the “I” is the greatest untruth. You are not; the divine is. But as long as you cling to this “I,” there will be obstruction.

People do all kinds of things—leave the world and flee to the mountains—but the “I” does not fall away. How will it fall that way? Here they were householders, there they become ascetics. Here they were indulgers, there they become yogis. The “I” sheds the clothes of indulgence and puts on the clothes of yoga—what difference does that make? The “I” leaves wealth and puts on the ornaments of renunciation—what does that change? In truth, the ego of the renunciate is greater than the ego of the worldly. Of course it is: the rich and the indulgent are many, the renunciate is rare. How can an ordinary man be so egoistic? He knows he is ordinary. But the one who has taken vows and fasts, practiced yoga, mastered postures, pranayama, withdrawal of the senses, studied the scriptures, memorized the Vedas—his ego is adorned with new treasures every day. That is why your so-called holy men have an ego unmatched by ordinary people. It is hard even to seat two of them on the same platform.

Once I was invited to a meeting where three hundred mahatmas had gathered. A “conference of all religions” was being held; representatives of every faith were invited. The stage was built large enough to seat all three hundred. Yet they spoke one by one, because none would agree to sit together. What was the obstacle? Who would sit higher and who lower. The Shankaracharya of Puri was there; he would sit only on his throne. If he sat on a throne, Karpatri Maharaj could not sit below him—he too needed a throne, equally high. And so on and so on. If one sits on a throne, how can another sit lower? In the end, each spoke alone from the stage; the three hundred could not be seated together.

Do you see that ego? Do you see the derangement? And such deranged people set out to heal others.

I have heard of a farmer who fell into a mental illness: he came to believe he was an ox. He walked like oxen and lowed like them. His family and friends were distraught. A pundit happened to come to the village, reputed also for exorcisms. The family took the farmer to him. The farmer’s wife wept and told the whole story. The pundit said, “Don’t worry, daughter; this is a very minor ailment. In my youth I myself suffered from it. I not only walked and lowed like oxen; I even began to eat grass, straw, and oilcake. I’ll give him a herb I tested on myself; I can guarantee the illness will be cured—mine was cured by this very herb.” He gave a mantra-charmed herb with great confidence and instructed, “Tie it in a black cloth with seven knots and place it on the patient’s belly at exactly midnight on the new moon. The disease will vanish at once.” The wife asked timidly, “Master, wouldn’t it be better to place the bundle on his head instead of his belly, because the illness is in the mind?” The pundit flared up, “If you’re wiser than I, why come to me at all? Foolish woman, if you go to put it on his head, won’t he gore you with his horns?”

The pundit may believe the illness is cured—but it isn’t. He is just as sick as ever; his delusion remains intact.

Become a renunciate from a sensualist, an ignorant man into a scholar, a worldly man into a monk—shift from the marketplace to the cremation ground, shed clothes and go naked—none of it makes a real difference. The ego will take new forms. The ego dissolves only in a single moment—when you look within and find there is no “I.” And remember: the ego cannot be destroyed by trying to destroy it. The one who sets out to destroy the ego has already accepted that it exists—that very assumption is the mistake. The mistake becomes the foundation; nothing true can be built on it. The first step is wrong.

It is enough to know that the ego does not exist. And I am not telling you to believe that the ego does not exist—belief will do nothing. Belief is impotent. Knowing has strength and potency. The moment you look within, the ego is not found, because there is no ego there—only the open sky of consciousness. Seeing that open sky, you are astonished: there is no “I”-sense there. Being is there, existence is there—but no “I.” The one who has known the absence of the “I” has opened the doors for the divine.

You say, Hansa: “The ‘I’ went, the mind went!” “My scarf says, listen, O wind—this time the monsoon has come, my beloved!” Indeed, all other monsoons are false; only when the monsoon of meditation comes is it truly the monsoon! For only then do clouds rain the nectar. Before that, life is mere futile hustle and bustle.

Hansa, the first ray has arisen—dance! Rejoice! Do not try to understand this ray, because understanding is too small. These mysteries are not for understanding; they are for living. Blessed are you—be intoxicated, be lost in it!

Mukesh, there is no topsy‑turvy at all; there is just a slight slip in your thinking, so it appears inverted. The slip is very small—perhaps not visible at once; look through a little magnifying glass and you’ll see it.

One has to bow before truth; you don’t have to bow before untruth—untruth bows before you. That is why befriending untruth is easy: untruth bows to you. And befriending truth is hard: before truth you have to bow. A blind man can befriend darkness, because darkness doesn’t demand eyes. But the blind cannot befriend light, because to befriend light you first need eyes. The blind can merge with the new‑moon night, but will be restless with the full‑moon night. The full‑moon night will remind him of his blindness; the new‑moon night will help him forget it.

You say, “In every dimension of life it is difficult to bow before truth.”
That is true, because to bow to truth means to dissolve the ego.

But your second point is not true—that it is simple to bow before untruth.
You don’t have to bow before untruth at all; untruth is very obsequious. Untruth always stands bowed at your feet. Untruth is a slave.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was a servant to a Nawab of Lucknow. He started in a small position, but being skilled—in the art of flattery—soon became very intimate with the Nawab. A “flunkey” means: adept at lying. A “flunkey” means: a master of the craft of untruth. A “flunkey” means: he calls a blind man “delight of the eyes,” or a blind man “sage and seer.” A “flunkey” means: he confers the glory of beauty on the ugly; sings songs for someone not even worth curses.

Mulla climbed the steps fast, and very soon became the Nawab’s closest companion—so close that the Nawab would neither rise nor sit without him; so close that if the Nawab slept at night, Mulla slept in the same room. One day both sat to eat, and the Nawab liked the vegetable very much. Okra had been cooked—fresh, just‑arrived okra. The Nawab said to Mulla, “Okra is quite a marvel!” Mulla said, “Why wouldn’t it be? The scriptures mention okra in such terms—okra is nectar; a single medicine for a thousand diseases; the old eat it and become young; there are stories that even the dead ate it and came alive!” He told every lie possible in praise of okra. The cook heard: okra is wonderful, and the Nawab agreed. The cook began to make okra every day.

One day okra is fine, second day you can tolerate it, the third day it becomes difficult. When on the seventh day okra appeared again, the Nawab threw his plate. “What is this nonsense? Are you trying to kill me? Okra, okra, okra!”

Mulla Nasruddin flared up too and threw his plate. “This cook is mad! Okra is poison! The scriptures clearly say: if the young eat it, they become old; and if the old eat it, they die. Children have eaten it and their hair has turned white.”

The Nawab said, “Arrey, Nasruddin—seven days ago you said the opposite!”

Nasruddin replied, “Master, I am your servant, not okra’s. I draw my salary from you, not from okra. What have I to do with okra? Whatever pleases you pleases me.”

Untruth will always stand before you with folded hands. Before untruth you need not bend at all; untruth is already bent. Untruth seduces you, spreads as much butter over you as it can, worships you as much as it can—only then does it manage to win you. Otherwise who would consent to untruth? Who would walk with it?

Untruth comes draped in beautiful garments, wearing a handsome face, carrying the support of scriptures. There’s a saying: the devil quotes scripture. Untruth is afraid that if anyone looks closely and lifts the garment, the hollow inside will be seen. So untruth arranges everything so that you never see its falsity. Untruth presses your feet; untruth is a great servant.

Mukesh, that’s why friendship with untruth is easy: untruth never asks to transform you. Untruth says you already are what you should be—indeed, you are even better. It builds bridges of praise for you. It gives you great consolation. And how many lies we have fabricated! So many that if you start searching, you will be shaken. Truth is one; lies are endless. Just as health is one and diseases are many, so truth is one.

And truth will not flatter you; it will not cajole you. Truth will seem bitter, because you have become addicted to the sweetness of lies. Lies come sugar‑coated. Truth is as it is—naked. Those addicted to lies will avert their eyes from truth; truth will not go down on their tongues. Truth will taste very astringent, very bitter.

Remember, we live by habit. I have heard: on a road at high noon a man fell and fainted. It was the perfumers’ street. From the shop opposite, the owner brought his most precious perfume. He had heard that if this perfume is made to be smelt by the unconscious, they revive. He held it under the man’s nose. The man began to writhe like a fish. Until then he was lying still; now he thrashed like a fish thrown on the sand in the sun. The perfumer was puzzled. With his hands, the fainted man gestured, “Move it away! Take it away!”

In the crowd stood another man. He said, “You will kill him. Remove this perfume! I’ll arrange something.” He had a basket with an old, rotten cloth in it. He sprinkled water on the cloth and placed it over the man’s face. Instantly the man came to. He said, “Brother, who saved me? Someone was trying to take my life! Though I was unconscious, a pain so sharp arose that I knew even in my faintness someone was killing me—my breath began to choke. What a stench someone was making me smell! Who are you who filled my nostrils with the fragrance of fish?”

The man said, “I am a fisherman like you. I too had come to sell fish. I know a fisherman recognizes only one fragrance—the fish. I had no fish left, but this cloth with which I always wrap and carry them—this old cloth was with me. It is soaked through with fish‑smell. I sprinkled a little water and put it to your nose—you came to. And I know this perfumer would have killed you.”

The crowd in the perfumers’ lane was astonished. Naturally, to one for whom the fish smells fragrant, perfume will stink. When you become very friendly with untruth—and we have befriended so many lies! From childhood we are fed lies. In the milk—in the mother’s milk—we are fed lies. When you are born, you are not a Hindu, not a Muslim, not a Christian, not a Jain. But a lie is fed: you are a Jain, a Hindu, a Christian. Then lies upon lies: not only a Jain—you are not Digambara, you are Shvetambara. Then lies upon lies upon lies: and among Shvetambaras you are not Sthanakvasi, you are Terapanthi. That you were born in the meritorious land of India—as if all other lands are lands of sin, only India is meritorious! The earth is one, nowhere divided; there is no line on the earth.

It’s amusing: before 1947 Lahore was holy land, Karachi too, Dhaka too. And now? Now not holy, because on the map Pakistan separated. Where is holy land? Either the whole earth is holy, or none of it is. But lies…

Germans were taught that they are the superior race, born to rule the world. Even a people as intelligent as the Germans were fooled by a dull‑witted man like Adolf Hitler—quite an ordinary talent, with no real qualification. He could befool even a very thoughtful nation. Why? Because he spoke a lie that pleased everyone. He spoke a lie that no one cared to deny: “You are Aryans—pure Aryans! You alone are born to rule the world.”

Who would deny it? If someone tells you, “You are a pure Aryan—only you are pure; the rest of the world has become impure; the world’s hope rests upon you,” then even if at first it seems a blatant lie—that you are a “pure Aryan,” born to rule—still the mind will be ready to accept. The mind will say, “It must be true; otherwise who would say such a thing?” And when an entire people is told such a thing, the poison spreads fiercely. When the crowd begins to believe, not only the crowd believes—even the most intelligent begin to believe.

Germany’s greatest thinker, Martin Heidegger—one of the greatest thinkers of this century—accepted Adolf Hitler. Because no matter how great a thinker you are, the same lies sit within you as within others. And when someone coaxes and inflates your ego like a balloon, you agree at once. The German nation agreed they were born to rule—and would rule. “God has placed a special responsibility upon us.”

Jews have always believed they are God’s chosen people. Because of this false belief, they have been persecuted for centuries; yet they won’t drop it. The more they were persecuted, the more tightly they held on—“Surely we are God’s chosen.” For their ancient scriptures say: whomever God chooses must pass through great trials; great challenges come—trial by fire.

An old Jew was praying: “O Father, your grace has always been upon us!” He prayed thus for years. One day the voice of God resounded from the sky, “You have prayed so much—ask for something.” He said, “Only one thing: you have chosen us long enough; now choose someone else. Choose another nation now. Let the Jews go! Because ever since you chose us, for three thousand years we’ve been persecuted—exams and only exams. No sign of ever being declared ‘passed.’”

Not only people—animals too suffer the same delusion.

You must have heard Aesop’s story: one morning a fox planted a doubt in a lion. The fox said, “People say the lion is king—but what is the proof? Have you taken a vote? The days of monarchy are over—this is democracy. There should be a fresh vote.”

The lion said, “I’ll go and ask.” He asked a jackal. The jackal said, “Is this even a question? Majesty, you are the emperor!” He asked a cat. The cat said, “Is that even a thing to ask? God himself made you emperor.” The lion swelled and swelled. He kept asking and swelling. Then he asked an elephant. The elephant wrapped him in his trunk and flung him fifty paces. He fell, bones rattled; he dusted himself off, stood up and said, “Brother, if you didn’t know the right answer, you could have said so. What was the need for such rough‑and‑tumble? You could have simply said you didn’t know.”

I have heard: one cold morning an elephant is sunning himself. A mouse pops out of his hole to bask as well, near the elephant. He wants the elephant to notice him, but the elephant doesn’t. So he squeaks and circles, advertises as much as he can. Finally the elephant becomes aware—some squeaking, even a nip at his foot. He looks down carefully—tiny eyes—and sees a little mouse. It is winter, leisure time, warm sun, nothing pressing. The elephant says, “Brother, you exist? So small! I never even thought—or dreamt—that such a small creature could be!” The mouse stiffens and says, “I’m not small. Actually, I’ve been ill for three months.”

Not only humans, animals too…

“India, the land of merit!” “The land of rishis and sages!” “Hinduism, the great religion!” “Islam, the great religion!” “Christianity is the only religion whose door opens to heaven! Only Christians will enter; the rest will rot in hell!” Thus lies upon lies are taught. In Russia one set of lies is taught: communism is the only future. In America another set; in India a third. It makes no difference. Lies are lies. And they all puff you up, massage you, fortify your ego.

Therefore, Mukesh, accepting lies is easy—indeed, pleasant, agreeable. To accept truth needs courage. Not just courage—audacity! To accept truth, one needs the guts to risk. That’s why no one bows before truth. To bow is required! Who wants to bow? No one.

Whoever is ready to bow before truth, he is the religious one. I call only such a person a sannyasin. But one can bow before truth only when a ray of meditation has entered within and one has seen: “I am not.” Only in the absence of that “I” does bowing happen. Bowing is not a deed. It is not your resolve. If it is an act, a resolve, the doer is recreated; ego returns. A new ego will arise within you: “See how humble I am—how I bow here, there; none more humble than I!”

Four men decided to sit in a cave, meditate, and keep silence—until enlightenment, until nirvikalpa samadhi. Hardly five to seven minutes passed when the first said, “Oh—did I turn off the electricity at home or not? I left at five—hope I didn’t leave the lights on.”

The second said, “We agreed to be silent—and you spoke.”

The third said, “Brother, you too have spoken.”

The fourth said, “Only we two are fine—we haven’t spoken yet.”

Meditation is the most precious phenomenon in this world. Because meditation means silence. Meditation means no‑thought. Meditation means a state of empty awareness—awareness full and bright, but without an object, without a thought; sheer awareness. In that moment you know: you are not—God is. That is bowing. Without knowing this, if you bow, your bowing too will be a lie—merely formal. Then a new ego begins in you: the ego of the “humble” person.

I have heard—this is one of life’s important understandings—get it clear: the ways of ego are so subtle that unless you are very alert, you throw ego out one door, it enters by another. Ego is so clever it can return wearing the cloak of humility. There is even the ego of humility in this world. There are those puffed up that “none is more humble than I.” The language remains the same—the language of ego—nothing changes. The stiffness remains, the foolishness remains.

All religions have honored egolessness as fundamental. But be careful: egolessness! What you are taught is humility; not egolessness, not ego‑zero, but “humility.” In the dictionary both words mean the same. Humility and egolessness—dictionaries equate them. Great confusions spread via dictionaries, because lexicographers may know language, not life. The language of life is different, and the life of language is different. Language is a game of words and grammar; life is something else—there are no words there, no grammar. In the language of life, if you want to understand existentially: humility is a form of ego; humility is not egolessness.

That is why on the face of the “humble” you will find great conceit, great rigidity. He may stand with folded hands; he may touch your feet; he may say, “I am the dust of your feet.” But from the corner of his eye he is watching: will you praise him—“Ah, never have we seen one so humble!” And naturally, whoever says to you, “I am the dust of your feet,” you will praise him—because he is filling your ego; you fill his. This is the mutual give‑and‑take—social etiquette.

Once a man came to me—a Muslim fakir brought by people who said, “He is very humble. He touches everyone’s feet—any passerby’s. We want you to meet him.” I said, “By all means, bring him.”

He came and instantly fell prostrate at my feet—full prostration. He took the dust from beneath my feet and marked his forehead. He said, “I am the dust of your feet.” I said, “Certainly! You speak exactly right. Only the dust of the feet!”

He was startled, glared at me with anger. I said, “You spoke truly; that is my understanding too. Seeing you I understood—you are nothing more than the dust of the feet.”

He said, “What kind of man are you! I have touched the feet of so many great saints—but no one ever spoke so harshly.”

I said, “Harsh? I am merely agreeing with you.”

But he did not want me to agree; he wanted to hear: “Ah, this is virtue, this is piety!” Then he would have been pleased. He had made “I am the dust of your feet” a formula for manufacturing his ego. But ego doesn’t go so easily; without inner seeing it doesn’t go. No matter how much you play the game of renunciation or austerity—ego digests it all.

Nasruddin’s son asked him, “Papa, my teacher says the world is round. But it looks flat to me. Dabboo‑ji’s boy says it’s neither round nor flat; the earth is square. Papa, you’re a great thinker—what do you say?”

Nasruddin closed his eyes. Since the son said “great thinker,” he had to act the part—eyes closed, hand on chin—like Rodin’s The Thinker. He sat for a while. Though no thoughts came—his head was full of “Which movie should I see today? What to do?” The son said, “Papa, it’s been long—have you still not found out? Is the world round, flat or square?”

Nasruddin said, “Son, neither round, nor flat, nor square—the world is four‑two‑zero.”

No matter how much you think—what will you think with? Your thinking cannot go beyond you. Your humility cannot go beyond you either. Your humility will become the servant of your ego. All these lies and their entanglements are what we are taught.

Before untruth, Mukesh, you do not need to bow. Untruth bows first; it clutches your feet. It says, “Master, accept me as your servant. I will serve you in every way, protect you on every side. Truth will land you in difficulties; I will save you from difficulties. Truth will create hassles for you.”

Sigmund Freud has written—and he is right—that if everyone on earth decided for twenty‑four hours to speak only truth—only truth and nothing else—there would not remain even four friends. All husbands and wives would divorce. If for twenty‑four hours people decided to speak only truth, pure truth, all relationships would break.

When Freud says something, there is deep research in it—experience of a lifetime. For forty years he peered into minds with rare capacity. On that basis he says this. People do not say what is. They say something else. They think one thing, say another. Inside is one thing, outside another. Our relationships stand on lies.

A wife says to her husband, “I am the maidservant of your feet.” But the reality is different—she believes he is the servant at her feet. For twenty‑four hours she proves it; yet in letters writes, “Your maidservant at your feet.” That’s for the letter only. And yet when the “servant at her feet” receives that letter, he puffs up with pride.

Which wife believes her husband has any sense? Which husband believes his wife is beautiful? But one must say so—one must flatter. It’s not just people—books have been written with such suggestions.

In the West, Dale Carnegie is very famous. One of his books has sold so much that after the Bible it is number two: How to Win Friends and Influence People. The formulas he gives are formulas of lies. He says: whenever you come home, never forget to express love to your wife. Whether there is love or not is irrelevant. Say some sweet words; whether they exist inside or not is irrelevant. What is inside you—who cares? Your wife hears what you say. Say daily, “O beloved, there is no beauty like you in the world.” Think whatever you like—but say this, and you’ll win—naturally.

What Dale Carnegie says is the experience of centuries. If people speak only truth for twenty‑four hours, the earth will become desolate—great trouble will arise.

A man, in some heated exchange, told the village leader the truth: “You son of an owl—idiot!” Now call a leader “son of an owl”—he won’t let it pass. He filed a defamation suit. Nasruddin stood near the leader, so he was brought as a witness. Since the leader called him, he couldn’t refuse. He agreed with the leader anyway—and why miss the chance? If the leader is pleased, it’s good; someday he’ll help, get a license, resolve a quarrel. So he went to court.

The accused said to the magistrate, “There were at least fifty people in the hotel. Yes, I used the words ‘son of an owl’—but I didn’t name anyone. I could have said it to someone else. How can the leader prove I said it to him?”

The leader said, “I can prove it. I have witnesses.”

Nasruddin was called. The magistrate asked, “Do you testify that this man pointed to the leader and said, ‘son of an owl’?” Nasruddin said, “Certainly—one hundred percent certain that he said it to the leader.” The magistrate asked, “How can you be so certain? There were fifty people there, and he didn’t name anyone.” Nasruddin said, “Whether he named or not, whether fifty or five hundred were present—there was only one ‘son of an owl’ there, and that was the leader! He said it to him—I swear by my son. There was no other there—who else could he have meant?”

How long will you hide? Outwardly we keep hiding, but inside a stream runs. On top there is a heavy load of lies; within, a ray of truth is also present.

Mukesh, the day you know the ego is not, that day you won’t have to bow—you will find yourself bowed, suddenly bowed! To find yourself bowed is prayer, is worship. If you bow by effort, it is not worship. If bowing happens in effortlessness, it is worship. If prayer is said, it is not prayer; if prayer arises, it is.

But that incomparable moment comes only as it happened to Hans: the mind went, the “I” went; and the breeze came and whispered, “The monsoon has arrived.”

Enter meditation, Mukesh. Do not, for now, even worry about true and false. Whom will you call truth? Whom false?

In a famous cinema hall of a city, a man entered the manager’s office, very angry: “Listen, sir, my wife is here in this hall with her lover. Tell her to go home quietly—or there will be a big scandal. I will create a storm here.”

The manager said, “Calm down, sit. We’ll make an announcement.”

He announced in the hall: “Ladies and gentlemen, any woman who has come to watch the picture with her lover is requested to go home. This is her husband’s order. We are turning off the lights for two minutes; any woman here with her lover is requested to return home. It is a matter of her—and our—honor. We shall switch off the lights so that no one sees or recognizes them.”

He turned off the lights for two minutes. When the lights came on, the manager and the audience were astonished: not a single woman remained in the hall.

There is one life you live; another life you display. One life as it should be; another as you have made it. Come out of these lies. But you won’t come out by effort. Only if the taste of truth arises within will you come out.

Let me repeat: revolution moves from within to without, not from without to within. First revolution happens at the center, then it spreads to the circumference. There is no revolution on the circumference. If something happens on the circumference, it is not revolution—it is only a false show of revolution. The revolution of the circumference is what people call conduct. Society insists: improve conduct, improve conduct. All efforts to improve your conduct only make you false—hollow, hypocritical.

I want your inner being to be alert. If conduct ever changes, let it change because of the inner. The inner does not change because of conduct; conduct only creates hypocrites. Not conduct—inner being! Keep this formula in your heart. Conduct will surely change, but conduct is the shadow of the inner. Do not keep trying to change the shadow; changing the shadow does not change the source. When the source changes, the shadow changes of itself.

That is why I do not tell my sannyasins, “Make your conduct this way or that; eat this, don’t eat that; get up at this hour, not that.” I tell my sannyasins only one thing, one medicine: enter meditation. Meditation will place you face to face with truth; then revolution will begin in your life—not something you do, but something that happens. And that has a different beauty—when your conduct changes on its own, when a radiance comes of itself! Conduct imposed from above—by pressure, discipline, patching—is hypocrisy.

But for centuries hypocrisy has been taught to you in the name of religion, in the name of morality. So when I ask you to drop that hypocrisy, the so‑called moralists turn against me, the so‑called religious people oppose me. Their opposition is understandable; I am trying to break their age‑old notion. But it has to be broken, because centuries have passed and man has not changed. Centuries have passed and man has only gone on rotting.

It is already very late—wake up now! Let us inaugurate a new religion; call to God in a new way; give prayer a new gesture; life a new path. That path is meditation—that path is the inner journey.

Girishchandra, such a question can arise only when you are very afraid of death. Why is there any need to conquer death? Death is rest. Is there any need to conquer rest? Are we never to rest? Must we go on running, go on panting?

Death is not an enemy to be conquered; death is a great friend. After all the turmoil, all the hustle and bustle of life, death is your moment of repose. Death will give you a new body, a new life. If you have learned a few lessons from the old life, you can use them in the new one. Death gives you a chance to drop old habits, to drop the old body, to drop the old patterns and structures. Death is a great opportunity.

I have heard: when Alexander came on his journey to India, he had heard a story. He took it as a story; he had never imagined it might be true. He had heard that somewhere along the way, in the deserts, there is a spring whose water makes a person immortal. When he came, he had instructed his soldiers to keep watch wherever they passed, to find out where that spring was. And at last the day came when the spring was found. Alexander posted guards all around it and went to the spring alone. It was in a small crevice, a little cave. He entered. The water was crystal clear—such as he had never seen! He had heard of the clarity of crystal, but had never seen it; for the first time he saw it that day. Who can hold back on seeing the nectar right before him? He quickly cupped his hands to drink when a voice resounded, Stop! He looked around the cave to see who it was.

A crow was sitting there. The crow said, Stop—listen to me. Hear my tale, my tale of sorrow, then drink. If you wait for a moment it will do you no harm.

A crow—and it spoke! His cupped hands fell open. Alexander was startled and asked, What have you to say? The crow said, I want to tell you that just as you are Alexander among men, so I am Alexander among crows. I too had heard the story and set out in search. Eventually I found this spring and I drank my fill. Centuries have passed since. Now I want to die and I cannot. I dash my head against rocks—no injury comes. I leap from mountains and remain alive. I go into fire—my wings do not burn. I drink poison—it has no effect. And now I want to die. I am tired—so tired! How long am I to go on living? For what am I to live? Now life feels like a great burden. If you know of any place where there is a remedy, an antidote to cut the effect of this nectar, tell me. And even after hearing my story, if you still want to drink, then drink—but think well; after that you will not be able to die.

They say Alexander thought for a couple of moments, and then he ran from there—ran so that in some moment of temptation he might not drink after all—ran in such a way that he did not look back. If ever anyone even brought up the subject of that spring, he refused to speak; he would say, Do not talk about it. I do not even want to hear of that spring.

Girishchandra, you ask: “Can death not be conquered?”

What will you do by conquering death? Death is not the opposite of life; it is the arrangement by which life is made ever new. By passing through death, life becomes fresh again and again. Death is not the end of life. Life is eternal. Know life, and you will know its eternity. Life is nectar already; no other nectar is needed. And by conquering death, what will you gain?

But man is frightened of death, and out of fear he wants to conquer it. For centuries man has tried. One foolish attempt after another has been made. Right now in America a new attempt is underway, because in America the means are available. So some people, when they die, leave a will that their body be preserved. Preserving the body is a very expensive affair; it costs ten thousand dollars a day—one lakh rupees a day. If the body is not to decay, if it is to remain exactly as it is, the temperature has to be dropped far below freezing, far below ice, and the body has to be embedded in blocks of ice. If even for a single moment a little warmth reaches it, decay will begin. And this has to be done within minutes of death.

At present in America some ten corpses are being kept in this way. Why? They are the corpses of millionaires. As they died, they wrote in their wills that their bodies be preserved. In what hope? Because scientists say that within ten or fifteen years we will find the method to revive the dead. So it is just a question of ten or fifteen years. If the body can be preserved that long and the method discovered, the dead will be awakened, and these dead will awake too. A hundred thousand rupees a day! Some four billion rupees per year! But those who have the means can arrange for fifteen or twenty years.

Suppose that twenty years from now a man is brought back to life in that way—then what will he do? What had he done before? He was alive before too; what had he done then? He will do the same mischief he did before; no intelligence will have arrived, no awareness will suddenly be born. And even if the body is preserved, it will still be old, decayed. What will you do with it? And suppose that today or tomorrow all your bones, flesh, marrow could be replaced and made new—what then?

I have heard: a man grew old. He was very wealthy. In old age he married. Now, an old man’s marriage—his own age ninety, the girl’s nineteen. He said to the doctors, Do something. What can doctors do? Yet doctors cannot refuse, either. The specialist has one problem—he cannot say, I don’t know, or his ignorance will be exposed. So he said, Don’t worry. He replaced the entire sexual apparatus. By operating on a monkey...

You know, Indian monkeys are being exported to America! It’s a big export. We have nothing much else to export; all right, export the descendants of Hanuman. That will also spread religion; when these monkeys go, they will carry the Hanuman Chalisa with them. And these are no ordinary monkeys—they served Lord Rama. In this way Hinduism will spread.

So they cut out the entire sexual apparatus of a monkey, operated on the man, and fitted him with the monkey’s apparatus. The old man was delighted. He began to feel young again. Nine months later his wife gave birth. The old man sat outside—extremely excited. Excited like a monkey! He could not sit; again and again he sprang to his feet. The doctors said, Sit down, man; it will take time—the child will be born when he is born. But he kept jumping up, opening the door and shutting it, opening the newspaper and shutting it—monkey-like! At last the doctor came out. He asked, What happened?

The doctor said, Just wait a bit! Your child has first climbed onto the chandelier. Once he comes down, we’ll tell you what has happened. He just won’t come down from the chandelier.

Now if you fit a monkey’s apparatus, what do you expect the child to be? Yet this is the kind of effort going on—to change a man’s apparatus, to change his bones, flesh, and marrow. Even that will be done. But what is the point of all this?

The real question is not how to conquer death; the real question is how to live. What a futile question to ask! You are alive right now—ask how this life can be used, how it can be used rightly. Ask something about how to live this life so totally that you need not be born into a body again. Ask how to live so completely that you need not return to the examinations of this earth.
This is what the knowers have asked, and what the knowers have explained and indicated. The Upanishads ask this, Buddha asks this. Buddha explains this, the Upanishads explain this. What are the Quran and the Bible ultimately explaining? The very same thing: that to be in the body is to confine an infinite soul within a very narrow space. This is a prison. Do you want the prison to become eternal? To never step beyond these bars?
O swan, will you not fly toward Mansarovar? O swan, fly to that land! Will you not seek that other country, will you remain forever on this shore? And what have you found on this shore? Only loss.

No, do not take death to be the enemy. Death has two uses. Even for the one who has lived like a blind man, without awareness, death is a friend—because it will give him a new body, a new childhood, new freshness, new intelligence, so that he can experience life again; he missed this time, perhaps next time he will not. In this hope, the Divine gives another chance. And for the one who has lived totally, attentively, who has transformed life into samadhi—what of him? For him, there will be no other body. For him there will be the opportunity to be immersed in the Divine. He will be absorbed into its vast sky, as the Ganga falls into the ocean and is dissolved. He will taste the bliss of that dissolution. That bliss is eternal—sat-chit-ananda. There is truth, there is consciousness, there is bliss. There will be no body, only pure awareness, pure consciousness. And if you are to come back here again and again, then why be afraid?

If death does not halt, where does birth halt!
If one moment is here, the next moment is something else;
form, changing every instant, becomes something else and yet something else.
This unbroken ordinance of the world—where does it bend even a hair’s breadth!
If death does not halt, where does birth halt!
If breath still lives in your chest, your arms are filled with strength,
draw on the waves of Time’s river a pure picture of motion.
Know the ocean in the drop—how could it be exhausted in the drop!
If death does not halt, where does birth halt!
If sorrow alone is truth, then what else is there?
What then is this life, watered by tears yet thrilled with laughter?
The price of life is not paid merely by death!
If death does not halt, where does birth halt!

Girishchandra, why be so frightened? Neither death stops, nor birth. Death and birth are two sides of the same coin: here you die, there you are born. If there is birth, there will be death; if there is death, there will be birth—except for those few who die awake. Those who die awake neither are born nor die; they attain the Eternal that has no birth and no death. The very name of that Eternal is God.

Girishchandra, realize the Divine. By conquering death, what will you do? What will you gain? Whether life is seventy years or seven hundred, seven hundred or seven thousand—what then? You will go on repeating the same things, won’t you! Even after so much repetition you do not understand! You will keep falling into the same pits, making the same mistakes again and again.

No, it is not death you have to conquer, it is life. And who attains victory over life? The one who comes to know life. We live as strangers to ourselves; we don’t even know who we are—and we want to conquer death! Dive into this: Who am I? Ask one question continuously—Who am I? And find its answer.

And remember, the answer must not be borrowed. My answer is of no use to you; nor Buddha’s, nor Mahavira’s, nor Krishna’s, nor Christ’s—no one’s answer will do for you. You must find your own answer. Only one’s own truth liberates; the truths of others turn into doctrines, into sects. The truths of others become bondage.

Neelam, when the “I” is effaced, then there is nothing but miracle upon miracle. As long as the “I” is, there is nothing but sorrow upon sorrow.
What is happening here—it is not right to say that I am doing it; it is happening because I am not. What is being spoken through me, I am not speaking; someone else is speaking. In this continuous happening, I am like a dry leaf in the hands of the Divine, wherever the winds carry me! Now I have neither any personal goal nor any destination. If I am not, then what goal, what destination! If the Divine takes me to the East, then East; if to the West, then West. If He lifts me into the sky, fine; if He throws me into the dust, fine. As He wills!
Slowly, stop seeing me as a person. Forget that anyone is here. Think of me as a hollow bamboo reed. A flute’s song is never its own! It only comes through the flute. Yes, if any mistake or slip happens, it belongs to the flute—but the song is not the flute’s. If I make the song off-key, that discord will be of my bamboo; but if there is any sweetness in the song, that sweetness always belongs to the Divine. If there is any truth, it is always His; if there is anything untrue, surely the bamboo has added it. Because of the bamboo, the song does not remain quite so free; it has to pass through the bamboo’s narrow passage—it becomes narrow.
Forgive me for my mistakes. But if any truth comes to you through me, do not thank me for it.
Neelam, remember! I am just as, when the sun rises, light spreads. Now the lotus does not say, “The sun came and its rays came and opened my petals.” The sun rises, and the lotus opens. Night falls, the sky fills with stars. Flowers blossom, fragrance spreads. Now the rains are about to come; clouds will gather; as the clouds gather, rain will fall, and the thirsty earth will be satisfied. All this is happening. I too am only a part of this great happening.
And I wish, Neelam, that you too become just such a part. I wish each of my sannyasins becomes a part of this great current. Let there be no sense at all of one’s own being; the sense of the Divine’s being is enough—what more is needed!

From the mountain the cascade falls!
The gurgling music resounds through the lovely valley!
Striking rocks again and again,
falling, rising, climbing once more,
with strings of foamy pearls,
leaping, it fills its own heart,
daily, in a moment, it lifts the weariness
from every traveler’s body and mind!
From the mountain the cascade falls!

It takes on so many lovely forms—
now like liquid gold,
now adorned with moon and stars,
now dyed in the crimson of dawn—
it makes even a rock-strewn valley fertile!
From the mountain the cascade falls!

The moments of life it is given,
it spends by flowing on ceaselessly;
it does not know where
the bustle of life will carry it,
yet every instant, with a joyous heart,
it moves forward on its own path!
From the mountain the cascade falls!

Think of me in just this way—like a waterfall tumbling from a mountain, like birds singing in the morning! Forget me. The more you forget my person, the nearer you come to me. The day I no longer appear to you as a person at all, that day you will be utterly united with me—you will become one.
That very moment is the moment of the meeting of master and disciple—neither does the master remain a master, nor the disciple a disciple. One remains; two are lost. And in the losing of the two, there is a shower of nectar, the gates of bliss open, and there is entry into the temple of the Lord! And that is my message: Celebration is my caste; bliss is my lineage!
That’s all for today.