If a building is on fire and we sit within it to think, then the hesitation that will arise about thinking — that very hesitation should arise today in placing any thoughts before modern man and modern humanity. Man is in great peril. And perhaps it is not so much the time to think as it is the time to do something. As if we all are surrounded in the midst of a great burning house. And if something is not done very swiftly, perhaps the possibility of man’s survival will no longer remain. This is why — wherever the question of Dharma arises — I consider it meaningless to talk of God, of Atman, of heaven and hell.
Today, for Dharma, the most worthy of contemplation is man. And after man, something else may be contemplated. Not God, not Atman, not Moksha; man today is the most worthy of consideration. Never before in the whole history of man has man himself become such a crisis and such a problem. The situation man faces today has never been like this. And many among us perhaps do not see it — because eyes are needed even to see problems. Solutions even the blind can memorize, but to see the problem, very clear eyes are needed.
In the world at this moment there are very few who can see the problems. There are many who are prepared to offer solutions. Solutions are remembered by all. But remember this too: yesterday’s solutions do not serve today’s needs. And remember this as well: as time changes, solutions must become ever new. The life-force of a solution may be ancient, yet all its forms and lines must be fresh.
In our present condition and crisis the greatest misfortune is this: the solutions are old, the problems are new. And everyone remembers the solutions, but very few possess the eyes to see the problems. What is the problem before man today — even that is not clearly visible.
Some think the problems are political; find a political remedy and everything will be resolved. They are mistaken. Man’s problems are not fundamentally political. Some think the problems are economic; if those are solved, man’s life will be filled with peace. They too are deluded. Mere abundance of wealth, the conveniences of riches — none of these dissolve sorrow, anguish, and inner torment from man’s consciousness.
Man’s basic problem is spiritual, somewhere very deep — related to the innermost core of his being. And to see it, eyes of that very depth are needed — eyes that are absent. We look shallowly, on the surface, and do not enter the depths. Perhaps this is why we do not wish to see deeply; for to see deep requires courage. And not only courage — one must also accept the possibility that the problem may be such that it admits of no solution. Only upon accepting this possibility does anyone dare to look profoundly within man.
Shallow intelligence, without even seeing the problem, immediately clutches at a solution. Because it lacks the courage — and lacks the guts to accept that the problem may be such that it has no solution at all. Fearing that an insoluble situation may stand before us, we go on repeating timeworn solutions. Thus man’s discriminating intelligence is always borrowed from the past, while the problems belong to the present; no harmony between the two can be found. Those who think based on the past will never be able to resolve any entanglement of the present.
If the problems are today’s, then our immediate, fresh discernment must awaken today. If the trouble stands here and now, then here and now the awakening of intelligence within us should arise to meet it. Thoughts from the past will not serve. Solutions obtained from tradition cannot cooperate — this I wish to say to you first of all. For today the greatest confusion and difficulty lies precisely here.
Ask anyone — scriptures are on the tip of the tongue: the Gita, the Quran, the Bible are all memorized. Instantly one brings forth some remembered sayings as solutions. They will not work.
Just as life becomes new each instant, so truth too reveals itself in ever-new forms. Truth too transforms its expressions. And if the new revelation of truth cannot dawn within you, humanity’s crisis will not be averted.
I am not saying that truth is new or old. Truth is eternal and beginningless. But in every age, the expression of truth, its illumination, takes a new form in the psychology of that age.
I am saying that just as each person must find his life by himself — a mother’s and father’s life, the life of bygone generations, is given to no one; you must breathe your own breath, no one else can breathe for you — in the same way I must discover my own truth. No one else — Mahavira or Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ — can breathe for me; they cannot become truth for me. The moment I discover my truth, it is certain it will be the very truth of Krishna, of Christ, of Buddha and Mahavira — but it cannot be borrowed from them. Its advent must occur in me. When it awakens and I know, they become only witnesses to my truth.
Krishna and Christ can only be witnesses to the truth that arises within me; they cannot be donors of truth to me. In this world no man has ever given truth to another, nor will he ever be able to. And that is auspicious. If someone else could give truth, then someone else could also take it away. Truths given by another have no value. Truth must be attained by the energy of one’s own life, by one’s own nirvana.
And therefore I say this too: truth is not something far from us, to be fetched from somewhere. It is the refinement and polishing of the self itself. It is the ultimate purification of one’s own life-breath.
Ultimately, when one’s life-breath becomes utterly pure, then the experience that arises in that purest state is called truth. Truth cannot be an achievement outside. Truth is not an acquisition to be found out there. Truth is self-purification.
So I say to you: in this crisis of the age, the most significant point for contemplation is this — our truths are borrowed, our problems are our own. If our truths are handed down by Krishna, Christ, and Mahavira, while the problems are ours, no accord will be possible. The medicines are old, the diseases new; between the two there is no fit.
Thus man has fallen into a great inner obstruction. This is precisely why — so many temples, so many mosques, so many sects and denominations, so much talk of religions; yet on the ground, religion will not be found even if you search. So much discourse, so much publication, so much literature, so many sermons — yet religion is found nowhere. The cause is this: religion is never in sermons, thoughts, books, shastras, temples or mosques. It must be discovered by each person in his own private being. And when found there, it begins to appear everywhere.
On a road where there is sun upon sun, if darkness lives within me, the whole road will be darkness for me. And on a road of dense new-moon night, where all is dark, if a small lamp burns within me, however long the road may be, it will be luminous for me. There will be darkness in the world if there is darkness in man’s private being; there will be light in the world if there is light in man’s private being.
Long ago, a monk took a visiting monk, his guest, to the river for a boat ride. It was night. They both sat in the boat. As soon as they sat, the host monk took the oars in his hands. The guest said: Forgive me, no one can take another’s oars in his hands. Give me my oars.
So it happened, and the oars were handed over.
A few days later, when the guest was departing, the night was dark. He said: The night is dark; how shall I go? The road is dark and deserted, there is no companion. The host said: I will walk you a little way. And I will light a lamp for you; carry it, the path will be illumined. He lit a lamp and placed it in the departing guest’s hand. They had not yet descended the steps of the ashram when the very one who lit the lamp blew it out before the steps were even left behind. The guest, holding the extinguished lamp, exclaimed: What are you doing? The monk said: When no one else can row your boat, how can anyone else light the lamp for your way? And when you yourself must row your boat, who can be your companion in this darkness? There too, you will have to journey alone.
The journey to truth is utterly alone. There is no companion there. Where there is company and companionship, that very name is the world. And where there is no company, no companionship, that very name is Dharma.
The journey of Dharma is utterly alone.
Let no one remain in the delusion that anyone can be a companion there. In that world there can be no companion, no ally. Hence Dharma is the supreme purushartha — the supreme endeavor. Only those of supreme courage are ready to go alone. Into the unknown realm of truth, the unknown realm of the self, only they can enter who can set sail alone upon the ocean — an ocean whose shores are unknown, whose end is unknown. A solitary voyage — it demands supreme courage, supreme purushartha.
In the search for truth, in the search for Dharma, no company and no support can be found — neither of shastras nor of teachers. But whenever we become interested in Dharma, by mistake we become interested not in Dharma but in religious scriptures. There is a difference between Dharma and religious scriptures. And when we become interested in Dharma, we become interested not in Dharma but in sects. There is a difference between Dharma and sects. And when we become interested in Dharma, we become interested not in Dharma but in spiritual masters. There is a difference between Dharma and spiritual masters.
Neither scriptures are Dharma, nor sects are Dharma, nor master or teacher is Dharma. Dharma is attained within one’s own private being. Scriptures are outside, sects are outside, gurus are outside. From what is outside, nothing of the inner world can be discovered. What is outside must be known outside; what is inside must be known inside and then one must abide in it — only then does the realization of Dharma dawn. And such realization is the ultimate revolution. It transforms the whole personality, the whole direction of life.
How can we experience the Dharma of which I speak — the Dharma that will not be found in scriptures, teachers or sects? I wish to say a few things about this. And let me also say: if such realization becomes available, man’s crisis can be averted. If even a few people attain such realization, our age can find vision and eyes. And perhaps we may be able to save all of humanity.
People say to you that the atheists and the scientists are responsible for severing man’s connection from such Dharma — those who said there is no God, no Atman, no Moksha; who denied everything and said only matter exists. The religious preachers and priests will tell you these atheists, these scientists, these materialists have driven man away from religion. This is utterly wrong.
It is as wrong as if I were to say on seeing darkness in my home: lamps were burning here, but the darkness came and extinguished them. It is just as wrong as saying: there was light everywhere in my house, but darkness came and snuffed my lamps out.
No darkness can blow out a lamp. And no materialism can wipe out Dharma. Dharma is a great blazing flame — an eternal flame. To extinguish it is beyond the power of materialism. The truth is exactly the opposite. When the lamps go out, darkness enters. When Dharma becomes feeble, materialism enters.
Those who say that because of materialism religion has become empty — they are wrong. The truth is: because religion became empty, materialism could become powerful. The opposite is the case. And I say this because those who claim that materialism weakened Dharma consider the power of materialism greater than that of Dharma. And if it is true that materialism weakened religion, then since materialism is continually advancing, what will become of Dharma?
If this is true, then it will also become true that materialism will one day annihilate religion. Because the investigation into matter keeps expanding, our intellect becomes more and more scientific, our patterns of thought become established upon the analysis of matter — then what of Dharma?
I do not see it so. The power of Dharma is creative. No atheism, no materialism can destroy that creative force. The reverse has happened. But the so-called followers and preachers of religions, to hide their own shame — that religion has fallen because of them — throw all blame upon materialists and scientists. The reason religion has become severed from man lies in the so-called religious people. All that is being propagated in the name of religion has placed the roots of religion out of the soil.
Such religion as is visible on all sides — no intelligent person can accept it. In the name of such religion there are many stains. The greatest stain is this: the very religion that claims to unite man with the Divine — that religion cuts man off from man. And what cuts man off from man cannot become a bridge to unite him with the Divine.
For where will the Divine be? The Divine is not a person sitting somewhere in the sky; Paramatma is the name for the consciousness pervading all. And any religion that erects walls between one consciousness and another cannot unite us with the all-inclusive consciousness.
Yesterday I was in Calcutta. Someone asked me there: Which religion do you belong to? I said: The very moment someone asks, 'which religion', he is not speaking of religion. One who is religious is simply religious — there is no way for him to belong to a religion. Between Dharma and Dharma there can be no walls. In truth, there cannot be two Dharmas. Wherever two religions appear, there, surely, in some form or other, irreligion is standing under the name of religion. This much can be understood.
Truth has not two forms; it has not fifty varieties. Truth is one, Dharma is one. But in the name of Dharma this multiplicity — these sects, these traditions trailing behind — their condition has become like leprosy, so decayed and rotten that because of them it is no surprise if intelligent, thoughtful people stand opposed to religion. The very forms of these so-called religions, in their decline, have estranged man from Dharma. If man can be reunited with Dharma, his crisis can be resolved.
Whoever becomes separated from Dharma will inevitably be filled with unrest and anguish. Dharma is man’s inner health. Religion is not a superstition, not merely a belief; it is the inner ecology of health. The more one is joined to Dharma, the more one is healthy within. And health means peace. Health means beauty. Health means auspiciousness. Health means bliss.
And when bliss, peace, and health gather within, only in that harmony, in that silence, do man’s eyes become capable of seeing the Divine beyond matter.
The restless one cannot see beyond matter. The one who is quiet — his eyes penetrate from matter into the Divine. When someone asks me: Is there God? Is there Atman? I do not say: there is, or there isn’t. I ask: Have you the eyes to see Atman, to see the Divine — or do you lack them? The question is always of the eyes.
And the more restless a man is, the more vibrations he carries within, the more tensions, the more conflicts, the more his eyes are blurred. Conflict covers the eyes like smoke. The more conflict, the more tension, the more unrest — the more the eyes fill with smoke, and even seeing what is near becomes difficult. We have become incapable of seeing what is nearest. We are so entangled and busy within that the question of opening the eyes does not arise.
I have heard of a man — the tale is surely not factual, but whoever told it thought deeply. A man died; after dying he realized he had been alive — because in life he never had the leisure to know life. So busy, so surrounded, that the remembrance never arose that he was alive. Only when he died, and the peace of death dissolved all tension, in that darkness, in that silence, it dawned on him: What happened? So many days I lived, and I had no inkling.
Most of us do not know that we are alive. Most of us do not know what is around us. Our eyes are closed by our inner conflict — that ceaseless inner strife. Because of that closure, nothing beyond matter can be seen. Matter is the grossest reality, so even the blind collide with it and come to know it is there. But the subtler the reality, the subtler must be the vision. And the subtler the entry one wishes to make, the subtler one must become oneself. Only then can one move further in. A blind man will stumble upon a wall — to see a wall, eyes are not necessary; collision is enough.
Remember this: the world seems material because to know matter no inner vision is required — collision suffices. We know only those things with which we collide. The rest of existence remains unknown to us because to know it eyes are required; collision is not enough.
We become aware of matter because it touches us. Our senses collide with it; from that collision we infer that something is. Where there is no collision, we think there is nothing. But the truth is: precisely where we do not collide, there is that whose being is meaningful. And where we collide, that is not a real being.
For that subtler vision the inner smoke and unrest must be removed. What is smoke? What is unrest? How can it be cleared? I will speak of three sutras. If life is shaped upon these three, one attains eyes to enter the subtle. The smoke clears, the eyes open, and capacities arise to see what otherwise remains hidden.
God or Atman are not anyone’s speculative ideas, not logical conclusions that some thinkers reached and then declared: God is. As the so-called theists do — question them and they argue as if God were the result of argument. They say: The world exists, therefore a creator must be; that creator is God. In this mathematical manner they posit God. Know well: those who argue for God’s existence have no inkling of it.
The question of God is not a question of argument. It is a question of experience. If some subtle center of sensitivity awakens within, some receptivity, some refined susceptibility, then in this very world where only gross matter is now visible, the circulation of a subtle energy begins to be felt. The experience of that subtle energy flowing through all — the name of that experience is God. For that experience, the eyes must be free of smoke, free of conflict, free of struggle; the eyes must be free of tension. If within there is perfect silence, like a lake without ripples, then the mysteries of existence open.
Therefore the question is not of the mysteries of the world; the question is of perfect silent receptivity within man. That silent receptivity — if it is, the world is new. If it is, life is transformed. If it is, a revolution happens. How to give birth to this silent receptivity? I wish to speak of three brief sutras. These three are the central essence of all religions.
The first sutra is: love.
Whoever has ever known life — or whenever anyone will know — one priceless, invaluable sutra will be revealed: if I can love the whole, all my conflicts with the world will dissolve. My strife with another begins where my love for the other falls short. Whenever I relate to the world in any way other than love, the world becomes disturbance, conflict, quarrel. Whenever I relate by any path other than love, those relations will produce many dualities, many heats, many quarrels, many mental conflicts and tensions. Nothing creates more inner smoke than hatred, violence, anger.
For those who wish to know truth, to realize their own being, to be established in the experience of the invisible beyond matter, there is no path other than love.
Love means: to be related to the world in peace, in non-conflict. Only love liberates. Ordinarily we think that love binds. What binds is not love — it is attachment. And let me tell you: attachment is but a form of hatred; it is not its opposite. Therefore, it often turns into hatred.
Let circumstances change a little, and the very person to whom you were attached — which you mistook for love — that attachment can become hatred. Let conditions shift slightly, and the one you thought you loved — you may become eager to take his life. If attachment changes into hatred with a small reversal of conditions, know that beneath the thin veneer of attachment, hatred was always present. When that thin layer tears, hatred appears. Attachment is a form of hatred.
Love is a very different thing. Love means: such a relationship, towards the whole or towards anyone, in which there is no possibility of it turning into hatred.
One morning a man came and spat on Gautam Buddha. He was angry — Buddha’s vision of revolution disturbed him. In fury he spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped it with his robe and said to the man: Have you anything more to say? The man said: Do you think by spitting I have said something? Buddha said: Certainly you have said something. Perhaps you were so angry that words could not carry it, so you spoke by spitting. But you said, and I understood. Have you more to say? The man must have been stunned. He went away silent that day.
The next day he came to ask forgiveness. He said: Forgive me. Buddha asked: Why do you seek forgiveness? The man spoke what is worth pondering: He said, Because I have always received love from you. And when I went back yesterday, I felt that perhaps now it will no longer be possible for you to love me. I myself have ended the love I always received. Buddha laughed and said: Do you think I loved you because you did not spit on me? If I had loved you for that, then love could break.
Remember: love that has a cause can become hatred any day. Love that has a condition can be transformed into hate any day. Love that rests upon reasons will sometimes be, sometimes not. Therefore, love with a reason is attachment; love without reason alone is love — with no condition, no cause behind it.
So Buddha said: I shall love you still, because I am compelled to love. I can do nothing else. Do not think I loved you because of you. I love because of me. I am compelled to love; there is no other way for me. Whatever you do — good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious, for me or against me — cannot alter my love. You cannot change my love. Why? Because I did not love you for any reason of yours.
Love flows from me as light flows from a lamp. Whether a friend passes or an enemy — it makes no difference. Whether a good man passes or a bad man — no difference. Whether one of my own or a stranger — no difference. The lamp’s light falls upon whoever passes. Even if no one passes and the room is deserted, still the lamp’s light is.
Buddha said: I call that love which falls without the consideration of upon whom it falls, without the consideration of why it falls, without the consideration of whether someone is present or not. Let goodwill rain upon the whole like light — that is its very outcome. Such a person becomes free of conflict with the world. And when conflict with the world ceases, the inner conflicts begin to fade. The smoke that arises within begins to dissolve.
Those sages who spoke of love, of ahimsa, of compassion, of mercy — do not remain under the impression that these are social moralities. They are central elements of sadhana. Without love no one can ever become quiet within. Without love one cannot create within the state necessary to know the Divine.
Therefore Christ said: If someone insists that I define God, I will say — love is God. This little sutra is invaluable. If someone insisted with Mahavira — what is Dharma? He would say — ahimsa is Dharma. Ahimsa means nothing but love. If one asked Buddha — what is Dharma? He would say — maitri, loving-kindness, is Dharma. Maitri, ahimsa, love — they are synonyms. There is no difference.
Whoever wishes to experience the Divine must climb the first step within — love. Not by argument, but by the flowering of love will the Divine be known. Love must be cultivated.
So the first sutra is: the expansion of love.
Causeless, unmotivated, unconditional circulation of love towards the whole. Waking or sleeping, in presence or absence, towards birds and plants, trees and the stars — from the eyes let nothing be thrown but love.
I have heard about Madame Blavatsky. She came from a small village in Russia. Someone there once asked her something. Later, she passed through a village in Tibet — someone asked the same thing. Then in India, again the same was asked. Thrice the same question, for the same reason; and she responded the same way each time.
Whenever she traveled, she carried a large bag with many flower seeds. Sitting in the carriage she would scatter seeds along the wayside. People asked: What is this? Why do you throw them? She always said: I am scattering a few flower seeds along the road, so that flowers may bloom here. When the rains come, seeds will sprout, and there will be flowers.
People asked: But is there any likelihood that you will pass this way again? Will you be able to see those flowers?
Blavatsky said: I, perhaps not — but with thousands of eyes, it will be I who will see them. She said: I, perhaps not — but with thousands of eyes, I shall see. Their joy will be my joy.
I do not ask you to carry flower seeds and scatter them on roads. But I do say this: there are only two kinds of people in the world — those who throw flowers on others’ paths, and those who throw thorns. Only two. And let me quickly add: do not forget — those who do not make it their nature to cast flowers on others’ paths, whether they know it or not, whether they wish it or not, inevitably scatter thorns.
So long as we live, we will be casting something. Life means: to cast forth. So long as we live, we will be pouring out something. Life means: a pouring. So long as we live, something will radiate from us. Life means: radiation.
Therefore, whoever does not scatter flowers — remember — knowingly or unknowingly, he scatters thorns. Whoever does not radiate light — remember — knowingly or unknowingly, he radiates darkness. Whoever does not emit benediction from within toward others — remember — in some form he is sending messages of death, sorrow, and pain. Every human being either blesses or curses. There is no third alternative. A third kind cannot live.
And this expansion of love — the scattering of flowers on others’ roads — is not costly. And remember: do not think that by what you scatter, others will be benefited; in the very moment of scattering, your own benefit happens. Whether others are helped or not, you are uplifted then and there.
When someone throws love from the heart, it is not necessary that the one toward whom it is directed will receive it — his doors may be closed, he may be unfortunate, his eyes may be shut, the message may not reach. But the one who casts love upwardly raises his own life instantly. In the very act of loving, he rises. For when love moves outward, peace condenses within.
When love moves from within to without, peace thickens within. When hatred moves outward, unrest thickens within. Hatred leaves unrest inside as its shadow, love leaves peace as its shadow. Love spreads outward; its shadow, peace, remains within. Hatred spreads outward; its shadow, unrest, remains within.
Whoever wishes to purify the eyes should spread love on all sides — goodwill toward all, kindness, ahimsa. The more love expands, the more one becomes free of the world. There is no other liberation than love. Hatred binds; love frees. And that attachment which binds stands allied with hatred. Love is freedom. Whom I love, I am freed from. And if I can love the whole, I am freed from the whole.
Remember: that which frees is love. The measure of freedom is the measure of love. And that which frees utterly — that is perfect love. The name of perfect love is ahimsa. This is the first sutra for inner purity, for dispelling smoke.
The first sutra: the expansion of love.
The second sutra is: the contraction of possession.
It is a strange truth that the more one expands possession, the smaller one becomes. The more one becomes engaged in accumulating things, the more one falls — grows heavy. The burden of possessions weighs upon him, and he sinks.
An Indian monk, abroad, stood before a building in flames. Tongues of fire were leaping. People were carrying things out. All the goods were saved. The owner, nearly unconscious, tears flowing, stood by. He could not even remember what was happening. People asked: The house is about to burn completely. The flames have reached the lower floors; we can go in once more — tell us if anything remains to be saved. He said: I can remember nothing; go in once more and look. Each time they had gone in earlier, they came out laughing — they had brought out some valuable item. The last time they returned weeping, though they had brought something. A crowd gathered, asking: Why are you weeping? They said: We made a mistake. We were busy saving things, but the owner’s only son was asleep inside — he died. We were saving the goods, and the lone owner perished meanwhile.
The Indian monk who witnessed this wrote in his diary: What I saw among those flames that day, I see in every life. Most people busy themselves saving things, while the owner slowly dies. A day comes when the goods are saved and the owner is dead.
Whoever is engaged in saving things is irreligious. Irreligion has no meaning beyond this. One who saves goods forgetting the owner — himself — is irreligious.
The meaning of being religious is only this: the orientation changes from things to the self. The self becomes primary; things become secondary. Then religion begins. The more one is occupied in saving things, the more the self fades. One day he becomes nearly a part of the goods. Nearly a thing among things. And this urge to expand possession makes man ever more a beggar. Those whom we see as emperors — those who have eyes see them as beggars. And those we call beggars — those who have eyes see them as emperors.
Buddha was about to leave a town. The king wondered whether to go to receive him or not. A beggar is entering the town — should a king go to receive a beggar? He asked his ministers: Is it proper that I go? Should a king go outside the town to receive a beggar? An old minister said: Forgive me — if you had eyes, you would see that the one who comes is an emperor, and you are the beggar. The king said: What are you saying? How am I a beggar? The old minister replied: He whose desires are endless has endless beggardom within. He in whom no desire remains — he has become the master. He who asks for nothing — only he is emperor. He who asks — asking itself makes him a beggar.
Another memory: the Muslim fakir Farid. People of his village said to him: Akbar honors you greatly; go to him and ask that he open a school for our village. Farid said: I have never asked anything of anyone. I am a beggar; I never ask. Yet since you all insist, I will go. He thought to go early in the morning, when Akbar finishes his namaz; there he would speak. He reached the mosque; Akbar’s prayer was ending. At the end Akbar raised his hands: O God, grant me more wealth, more riches; expand the borders of my realm; grant me more fame and glory; let my boundaries double day by day. As soon as Akbar rose, he saw Farid’s back, descending the steps, returning. He ran and asked: How is it you are leaving? Farid said: I came thinking you were an emperor; I leave seeing you are a beggar. I saw you also ask. I saw your asking has no end. You ask for more and more.
The more one seeks to possess, the more a beggar one becomes. And in this universe, the Divine is not available to beggars; it is available to masters, to emperors. Those who are not masters of themselves cannot behold the master of this universe, the inner essence of existence. Therefore possession is the greatest obstacle. Non-possession — aparigraha — is the greatest support, the greatest path, the greatest bridge.
So whoever wishes to find himself must gradually thin and contract possession — to the point of being utterly alone, with nothing.
What does 'nothing' mean? It means there is no demand within. No longing to get anything. As desires diminish, Atman grows. As desires increase, Atman declines. Desire and the self are opposed. Desire is the doorway to the world; whoever turns back from desire arrives at the doorway of the self.
I have said: let love expand and possession contract. Let love spread, let possession shrink. And remember: the more love expands, the more it helps possession to shrink. The more possession shrinks, the more love can expand. Whoever has much possession has a very small love. The more the possession, the narrower and smaller the love becomes.
Unfortunate are those whose possession becomes vast and whose love becomes void. Blessed are those whose possession becomes void and whose love becomes full. They grow together — love advances, possession recedes; possession recedes, love advances further. They are linked sutras: the expansion of love and the contraction of possession.
These two I have said in relation to the outer world. In the outer world our relation to consciousness arises through love; our relation to matter diminishes through contraction of possession. Two sutras for the outer world: love and non-possession.
For the inner world, whoever practices these two finds that the smoke before the eyes gradually thins. Tensions begin to cease. Conflicts reduce within. As aspiration for possession diminishes, the inner quarrels lessen; oppositions lessen; the races and tensions lessen. Great stillness arises within. And as love grows, great peace arises. Love brings peace; non-possession brings stillness. And the third sutra is: abide in the life of life.
First: the expansion of love.
Second: the contraction of possession.
Third: abiding in the life of life.
When such peace is condensed and such stillness obtained — peace by love, stillness by non-possession — then one should inquire within: What is the life of my life? Where, in my ultimate being, am I — beyond which I cannot go?
We can step back from the body, for I see: this is my body. The seer of the body is other than the body. The experiencer of the body is other than the body. If my hand is cut, I experience that my hand is cut — so the one who experiences is other than the hand.
There is a distinction between I and mine. It appears: my body — thus, I am behind the body; the body cannot be my life. Enter further within.
Is breath my life? I witness the breath. Breath comes in — I see; breath goes out — I see. If I wish, I can hold it. It comes, it goes — I experience it. The experiencer of breath is behind breath. Breath is not the life. Are thoughts my life?
Look at the mind: thoughts are also seen. Anger arises — we know; attachment arises — we know; a chain of thoughts arises — we know. The consciousness that knows thoughts is behind thoughts.
Thus, step by step, entering within in that silence and stillness, the inward journey becomes easy. The body is seen as separate; the breath is seen as separate; thoughts are seen as separate. And then where nothing remains that can be set apart — only pure consciousness remains, not conscious of anything.
For whatever we were conscious of, we set aside; from all that we distinguished ourselves. When only consciousness remains and nothing remains to be known — only knowing remains and there is no known; only awareness remains, not of anything — in that sheer privacy of awareness, in that aloneness, in that solitary moment — one abides in the life of life. That abiding lifts the veils from the whole mystery of existence. In that abiding the eyes open and it is seen: where we had known matter, there is the Divine; where we had known persons, there is the ocean of all-inclusive consciousness; where we had known body, there is Atman.
Within oneself, Atman; within the whole, Paramatma — this is experienced. In that experience, all shastras become true. In that experience, all true masters are verified. They become witnesses, saying: that which happened in Mahavira, in Buddha, in Krishna, in Christ — has happened within you. What has happened in infinite awakened consciousnesses has happened in you.
For this realization, all scriptures, all true gurus, all teachers become witnesses. Before that, they are of no use. Before that, they are meaningless — only a net of words. No truth is there. When the inner experience is attained, the words dissolve and the truth within them becomes visible.
By experiencing the advent of truth within, one experiences truth throughout existence. By knowing Atman within, one recognizes its light in the whole. Such realization ends one’s personal crisis. Such realization reveals: before birth, I was; after death, I will be. It reveals: this consciousness has never been hurt by sorrow, nor can it be — there is no possibility. Beyond sorrow, established in bliss; beyond darkness, illumined in light — the experience of this consciousness uproots all problems.
If even a few in today’s world attain such light, a new kind of illumination can be felt across the earth. A new radiance can be born. And only in that radiance will the future of humanity be safeguarded; otherwise, saving man will be difficult.
Man will commit suicide by his own hand. Man will commit suicide through his hatred. Man will commit suicide through his possessiveness. Man will commit suicide by being severed from the life of his life. Establish man in love; establish him in non-possession; establish him at the center of his life-breath — then a new man can be born, and with him a new humanity. Thus, through Dharma, a revolution of life is possible.
These few things I have said to you. I can hope that perhaps some word has touched some string in your heart; perhaps a thirst arises within you; perhaps some dissatisfaction thickens and a longing is born — that I too may know myself and know truth; that I may transcend the crisis that arises in each life. Then I shall feel my prayer has succeeded — the prayer I have offered to your hearts all this while. May such longing and thirst arise within you. And may you become capable of knowing that, without which life is futile — and knowing which, life turns into benediction.
Thank you for listening to my words with such love. I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Accept my pranams.
Osho's Commentary
Today, for Dharma, the most worthy of contemplation is man. And after man, something else may be contemplated. Not God, not Atman, not Moksha; man today is the most worthy of consideration. Never before in the whole history of man has man himself become such a crisis and such a problem. The situation man faces today has never been like this. And many among us perhaps do not see it — because eyes are needed even to see problems. Solutions even the blind can memorize, but to see the problem, very clear eyes are needed.
In the world at this moment there are very few who can see the problems. There are many who are prepared to offer solutions. Solutions are remembered by all. But remember this too: yesterday’s solutions do not serve today’s needs. And remember this as well: as time changes, solutions must become ever new. The life-force of a solution may be ancient, yet all its forms and lines must be fresh.
In our present condition and crisis the greatest misfortune is this: the solutions are old, the problems are new. And everyone remembers the solutions, but very few possess the eyes to see the problems. What is the problem before man today — even that is not clearly visible.
Some think the problems are political; find a political remedy and everything will be resolved. They are mistaken. Man’s problems are not fundamentally political. Some think the problems are economic; if those are solved, man’s life will be filled with peace. They too are deluded. Mere abundance of wealth, the conveniences of riches — none of these dissolve sorrow, anguish, and inner torment from man’s consciousness.
Man’s basic problem is spiritual, somewhere very deep — related to the innermost core of his being. And to see it, eyes of that very depth are needed — eyes that are absent. We look shallowly, on the surface, and do not enter the depths. Perhaps this is why we do not wish to see deeply; for to see deep requires courage. And not only courage — one must also accept the possibility that the problem may be such that it admits of no solution. Only upon accepting this possibility does anyone dare to look profoundly within man.
Shallow intelligence, without even seeing the problem, immediately clutches at a solution. Because it lacks the courage — and lacks the guts to accept that the problem may be such that it has no solution at all. Fearing that an insoluble situation may stand before us, we go on repeating timeworn solutions. Thus man’s discriminating intelligence is always borrowed from the past, while the problems belong to the present; no harmony between the two can be found. Those who think based on the past will never be able to resolve any entanglement of the present.
If the problems are today’s, then our immediate, fresh discernment must awaken today. If the trouble stands here and now, then here and now the awakening of intelligence within us should arise to meet it. Thoughts from the past will not serve. Solutions obtained from tradition cannot cooperate — this I wish to say to you first of all. For today the greatest confusion and difficulty lies precisely here.
Ask anyone — scriptures are on the tip of the tongue: the Gita, the Quran, the Bible are all memorized. Instantly one brings forth some remembered sayings as solutions. They will not work.
Just as life becomes new each instant, so truth too reveals itself in ever-new forms. Truth too transforms its expressions. And if the new revelation of truth cannot dawn within you, humanity’s crisis will not be averted.
I am not saying that truth is new or old. Truth is eternal and beginningless. But in every age, the expression of truth, its illumination, takes a new form in the psychology of that age.
I am saying that just as each person must find his life by himself — a mother’s and father’s life, the life of bygone generations, is given to no one; you must breathe your own breath, no one else can breathe for you — in the same way I must discover my own truth. No one else — Mahavira or Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ — can breathe for me; they cannot become truth for me. The moment I discover my truth, it is certain it will be the very truth of Krishna, of Christ, of Buddha and Mahavira — but it cannot be borrowed from them. Its advent must occur in me. When it awakens and I know, they become only witnesses to my truth.
Krishna and Christ can only be witnesses to the truth that arises within me; they cannot be donors of truth to me. In this world no man has ever given truth to another, nor will he ever be able to. And that is auspicious. If someone else could give truth, then someone else could also take it away. Truths given by another have no value. Truth must be attained by the energy of one’s own life, by one’s own nirvana.
And therefore I say this too: truth is not something far from us, to be fetched from somewhere. It is the refinement and polishing of the self itself. It is the ultimate purification of one’s own life-breath.
Ultimately, when one’s life-breath becomes utterly pure, then the experience that arises in that purest state is called truth. Truth cannot be an achievement outside. Truth is not an acquisition to be found out there. Truth is self-purification.
So I say to you: in this crisis of the age, the most significant point for contemplation is this — our truths are borrowed, our problems are our own. If our truths are handed down by Krishna, Christ, and Mahavira, while the problems are ours, no accord will be possible. The medicines are old, the diseases new; between the two there is no fit.
Thus man has fallen into a great inner obstruction. This is precisely why — so many temples, so many mosques, so many sects and denominations, so much talk of religions; yet on the ground, religion will not be found even if you search. So much discourse, so much publication, so much literature, so many sermons — yet religion is found nowhere. The cause is this: religion is never in sermons, thoughts, books, shastras, temples or mosques. It must be discovered by each person in his own private being. And when found there, it begins to appear everywhere.
On a road where there is sun upon sun, if darkness lives within me, the whole road will be darkness for me. And on a road of dense new-moon night, where all is dark, if a small lamp burns within me, however long the road may be, it will be luminous for me. There will be darkness in the world if there is darkness in man’s private being; there will be light in the world if there is light in man’s private being.
Long ago, a monk took a visiting monk, his guest, to the river for a boat ride. It was night. They both sat in the boat. As soon as they sat, the host monk took the oars in his hands. The guest said: Forgive me, no one can take another’s oars in his hands. Give me my oars.
So it happened, and the oars were handed over.
A few days later, when the guest was departing, the night was dark. He said: The night is dark; how shall I go? The road is dark and deserted, there is no companion. The host said: I will walk you a little way. And I will light a lamp for you; carry it, the path will be illumined. He lit a lamp and placed it in the departing guest’s hand. They had not yet descended the steps of the ashram when the very one who lit the lamp blew it out before the steps were even left behind. The guest, holding the extinguished lamp, exclaimed: What are you doing? The monk said: When no one else can row your boat, how can anyone else light the lamp for your way? And when you yourself must row your boat, who can be your companion in this darkness? There too, you will have to journey alone.
The journey to truth is utterly alone. There is no companion there. Where there is company and companionship, that very name is the world. And where there is no company, no companionship, that very name is Dharma.
The journey of Dharma is utterly alone.
Let no one remain in the delusion that anyone can be a companion there. In that world there can be no companion, no ally. Hence Dharma is the supreme purushartha — the supreme endeavor. Only those of supreme courage are ready to go alone. Into the unknown realm of truth, the unknown realm of the self, only they can enter who can set sail alone upon the ocean — an ocean whose shores are unknown, whose end is unknown. A solitary voyage — it demands supreme courage, supreme purushartha.
In the search for truth, in the search for Dharma, no company and no support can be found — neither of shastras nor of teachers. But whenever we become interested in Dharma, by mistake we become interested not in Dharma but in religious scriptures. There is a difference between Dharma and religious scriptures. And when we become interested in Dharma, we become interested not in Dharma but in sects. There is a difference between Dharma and sects. And when we become interested in Dharma, we become interested not in Dharma but in spiritual masters. There is a difference between Dharma and spiritual masters.
Neither scriptures are Dharma, nor sects are Dharma, nor master or teacher is Dharma. Dharma is attained within one’s own private being. Scriptures are outside, sects are outside, gurus are outside. From what is outside, nothing of the inner world can be discovered. What is outside must be known outside; what is inside must be known inside and then one must abide in it — only then does the realization of Dharma dawn. And such realization is the ultimate revolution. It transforms the whole personality, the whole direction of life.
How can we experience the Dharma of which I speak — the Dharma that will not be found in scriptures, teachers or sects? I wish to say a few things about this. And let me also say: if such realization becomes available, man’s crisis can be averted. If even a few people attain such realization, our age can find vision and eyes. And perhaps we may be able to save all of humanity.
People say to you that the atheists and the scientists are responsible for severing man’s connection from such Dharma — those who said there is no God, no Atman, no Moksha; who denied everything and said only matter exists. The religious preachers and priests will tell you these atheists, these scientists, these materialists have driven man away from religion. This is utterly wrong.
It is as wrong as if I were to say on seeing darkness in my home: lamps were burning here, but the darkness came and extinguished them. It is just as wrong as saying: there was light everywhere in my house, but darkness came and snuffed my lamps out.
No darkness can blow out a lamp. And no materialism can wipe out Dharma. Dharma is a great blazing flame — an eternal flame. To extinguish it is beyond the power of materialism. The truth is exactly the opposite. When the lamps go out, darkness enters. When Dharma becomes feeble, materialism enters.
Those who say that because of materialism religion has become empty — they are wrong. The truth is: because religion became empty, materialism could become powerful. The opposite is the case. And I say this because those who claim that materialism weakened Dharma consider the power of materialism greater than that of Dharma. And if it is true that materialism weakened religion, then since materialism is continually advancing, what will become of Dharma?
If this is true, then it will also become true that materialism will one day annihilate religion. Because the investigation into matter keeps expanding, our intellect becomes more and more scientific, our patterns of thought become established upon the analysis of matter — then what of Dharma?
I do not see it so. The power of Dharma is creative. No atheism, no materialism can destroy that creative force. The reverse has happened. But the so-called followers and preachers of religions, to hide their own shame — that religion has fallen because of them — throw all blame upon materialists and scientists. The reason religion has become severed from man lies in the so-called religious people. All that is being propagated in the name of religion has placed the roots of religion out of the soil.
Such religion as is visible on all sides — no intelligent person can accept it. In the name of such religion there are many stains. The greatest stain is this: the very religion that claims to unite man with the Divine — that religion cuts man off from man. And what cuts man off from man cannot become a bridge to unite him with the Divine.
For where will the Divine be? The Divine is not a person sitting somewhere in the sky; Paramatma is the name for the consciousness pervading all. And any religion that erects walls between one consciousness and another cannot unite us with the all-inclusive consciousness.
Yesterday I was in Calcutta. Someone asked me there: Which religion do you belong to? I said: The very moment someone asks, 'which religion', he is not speaking of religion. One who is religious is simply religious — there is no way for him to belong to a religion. Between Dharma and Dharma there can be no walls. In truth, there cannot be two Dharmas. Wherever two religions appear, there, surely, in some form or other, irreligion is standing under the name of religion. This much can be understood.
Truth has not two forms; it has not fifty varieties. Truth is one, Dharma is one. But in the name of Dharma this multiplicity — these sects, these traditions trailing behind — their condition has become like leprosy, so decayed and rotten that because of them it is no surprise if intelligent, thoughtful people stand opposed to religion. The very forms of these so-called religions, in their decline, have estranged man from Dharma. If man can be reunited with Dharma, his crisis can be resolved.
Whoever becomes separated from Dharma will inevitably be filled with unrest and anguish. Dharma is man’s inner health. Religion is not a superstition, not merely a belief; it is the inner ecology of health. The more one is joined to Dharma, the more one is healthy within. And health means peace. Health means beauty. Health means auspiciousness. Health means bliss.
And when bliss, peace, and health gather within, only in that harmony, in that silence, do man’s eyes become capable of seeing the Divine beyond matter.
The restless one cannot see beyond matter. The one who is quiet — his eyes penetrate from matter into the Divine. When someone asks me: Is there God? Is there Atman? I do not say: there is, or there isn’t. I ask: Have you the eyes to see Atman, to see the Divine — or do you lack them? The question is always of the eyes.
And the more restless a man is, the more vibrations he carries within, the more tensions, the more conflicts, the more his eyes are blurred. Conflict covers the eyes like smoke. The more conflict, the more tension, the more unrest — the more the eyes fill with smoke, and even seeing what is near becomes difficult. We have become incapable of seeing what is nearest. We are so entangled and busy within that the question of opening the eyes does not arise.
I have heard of a man — the tale is surely not factual, but whoever told it thought deeply. A man died; after dying he realized he had been alive — because in life he never had the leisure to know life. So busy, so surrounded, that the remembrance never arose that he was alive. Only when he died, and the peace of death dissolved all tension, in that darkness, in that silence, it dawned on him: What happened? So many days I lived, and I had no inkling.
Most of us do not know that we are alive. Most of us do not know what is around us. Our eyes are closed by our inner conflict — that ceaseless inner strife. Because of that closure, nothing beyond matter can be seen. Matter is the grossest reality, so even the blind collide with it and come to know it is there. But the subtler the reality, the subtler must be the vision. And the subtler the entry one wishes to make, the subtler one must become oneself. Only then can one move further in. A blind man will stumble upon a wall — to see a wall, eyes are not necessary; collision is enough.
Remember this: the world seems material because to know matter no inner vision is required — collision suffices. We know only those things with which we collide. The rest of existence remains unknown to us because to know it eyes are required; collision is not enough.
We become aware of matter because it touches us. Our senses collide with it; from that collision we infer that something is. Where there is no collision, we think there is nothing. But the truth is: precisely where we do not collide, there is that whose being is meaningful. And where we collide, that is not a real being.
For that subtler vision the inner smoke and unrest must be removed. What is smoke? What is unrest? How can it be cleared? I will speak of three sutras. If life is shaped upon these three, one attains eyes to enter the subtle. The smoke clears, the eyes open, and capacities arise to see what otherwise remains hidden.
God or Atman are not anyone’s speculative ideas, not logical conclusions that some thinkers reached and then declared: God is. As the so-called theists do — question them and they argue as if God were the result of argument. They say: The world exists, therefore a creator must be; that creator is God. In this mathematical manner they posit God. Know well: those who argue for God’s existence have no inkling of it.
The question of God is not a question of argument. It is a question of experience. If some subtle center of sensitivity awakens within, some receptivity, some refined susceptibility, then in this very world where only gross matter is now visible, the circulation of a subtle energy begins to be felt. The experience of that subtle energy flowing through all — the name of that experience is God. For that experience, the eyes must be free of smoke, free of conflict, free of struggle; the eyes must be free of tension. If within there is perfect silence, like a lake without ripples, then the mysteries of existence open.
Therefore the question is not of the mysteries of the world; the question is of perfect silent receptivity within man. That silent receptivity — if it is, the world is new. If it is, life is transformed. If it is, a revolution happens. How to give birth to this silent receptivity? I wish to speak of three brief sutras. These three are the central essence of all religions.
The first sutra is: love.
Whoever has ever known life — or whenever anyone will know — one priceless, invaluable sutra will be revealed: if I can love the whole, all my conflicts with the world will dissolve. My strife with another begins where my love for the other falls short. Whenever I relate to the world in any way other than love, the world becomes disturbance, conflict, quarrel. Whenever I relate by any path other than love, those relations will produce many dualities, many heats, many quarrels, many mental conflicts and tensions. Nothing creates more inner smoke than hatred, violence, anger.
For those who wish to know truth, to realize their own being, to be established in the experience of the invisible beyond matter, there is no path other than love.
Love means: to be related to the world in peace, in non-conflict. Only love liberates. Ordinarily we think that love binds. What binds is not love — it is attachment. And let me tell you: attachment is but a form of hatred; it is not its opposite. Therefore, it often turns into hatred.
Let circumstances change a little, and the very person to whom you were attached — which you mistook for love — that attachment can become hatred. Let conditions shift slightly, and the one you thought you loved — you may become eager to take his life. If attachment changes into hatred with a small reversal of conditions, know that beneath the thin veneer of attachment, hatred was always present. When that thin layer tears, hatred appears. Attachment is a form of hatred.
Love is a very different thing. Love means: such a relationship, towards the whole or towards anyone, in which there is no possibility of it turning into hatred.
One morning a man came and spat on Gautam Buddha. He was angry — Buddha’s vision of revolution disturbed him. In fury he spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped it with his robe and said to the man: Have you anything more to say? The man said: Do you think by spitting I have said something? Buddha said: Certainly you have said something. Perhaps you were so angry that words could not carry it, so you spoke by spitting. But you said, and I understood. Have you more to say? The man must have been stunned. He went away silent that day.
The next day he came to ask forgiveness. He said: Forgive me. Buddha asked: Why do you seek forgiveness? The man spoke what is worth pondering: He said, Because I have always received love from you. And when I went back yesterday, I felt that perhaps now it will no longer be possible for you to love me. I myself have ended the love I always received. Buddha laughed and said: Do you think I loved you because you did not spit on me? If I had loved you for that, then love could break.
Remember: love that has a cause can become hatred any day. Love that has a condition can be transformed into hate any day. Love that rests upon reasons will sometimes be, sometimes not. Therefore, love with a reason is attachment; love without reason alone is love — with no condition, no cause behind it.
So Buddha said: I shall love you still, because I am compelled to love. I can do nothing else. Do not think I loved you because of you. I love because of me. I am compelled to love; there is no other way for me. Whatever you do — good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious, for me or against me — cannot alter my love. You cannot change my love. Why? Because I did not love you for any reason of yours.
Love flows from me as light flows from a lamp. Whether a friend passes or an enemy — it makes no difference. Whether a good man passes or a bad man — no difference. Whether one of my own or a stranger — no difference. The lamp’s light falls upon whoever passes. Even if no one passes and the room is deserted, still the lamp’s light is.
Buddha said: I call that love which falls without the consideration of upon whom it falls, without the consideration of why it falls, without the consideration of whether someone is present or not. Let goodwill rain upon the whole like light — that is its very outcome. Such a person becomes free of conflict with the world. And when conflict with the world ceases, the inner conflicts begin to fade. The smoke that arises within begins to dissolve.
Those sages who spoke of love, of ahimsa, of compassion, of mercy — do not remain under the impression that these are social moralities. They are central elements of sadhana. Without love no one can ever become quiet within. Without love one cannot create within the state necessary to know the Divine.
Therefore Christ said: If someone insists that I define God, I will say — love is God. This little sutra is invaluable. If someone insisted with Mahavira — what is Dharma? He would say — ahimsa is Dharma. Ahimsa means nothing but love. If one asked Buddha — what is Dharma? He would say — maitri, loving-kindness, is Dharma. Maitri, ahimsa, love — they are synonyms. There is no difference.
Whoever wishes to experience the Divine must climb the first step within — love. Not by argument, but by the flowering of love will the Divine be known. Love must be cultivated.
So the first sutra is: the expansion of love.
Causeless, unmotivated, unconditional circulation of love towards the whole. Waking or sleeping, in presence or absence, towards birds and plants, trees and the stars — from the eyes let nothing be thrown but love.
I have heard about Madame Blavatsky. She came from a small village in Russia. Someone there once asked her something. Later, she passed through a village in Tibet — someone asked the same thing. Then in India, again the same was asked. Thrice the same question, for the same reason; and she responded the same way each time.
Whenever she traveled, she carried a large bag with many flower seeds. Sitting in the carriage she would scatter seeds along the wayside. People asked: What is this? Why do you throw them? She always said: I am scattering a few flower seeds along the road, so that flowers may bloom here. When the rains come, seeds will sprout, and there will be flowers.
People asked: But is there any likelihood that you will pass this way again? Will you be able to see those flowers?
Blavatsky said: I, perhaps not — but with thousands of eyes, it will be I who will see them. She said: I, perhaps not — but with thousands of eyes, I shall see. Their joy will be my joy.
I do not ask you to carry flower seeds and scatter them on roads. But I do say this: there are only two kinds of people in the world — those who throw flowers on others’ paths, and those who throw thorns. Only two. And let me quickly add: do not forget — those who do not make it their nature to cast flowers on others’ paths, whether they know it or not, whether they wish it or not, inevitably scatter thorns.
So long as we live, we will be casting something. Life means: to cast forth. So long as we live, we will be pouring out something. Life means: a pouring. So long as we live, something will radiate from us. Life means: radiation.
Therefore, whoever does not scatter flowers — remember — knowingly or unknowingly, he scatters thorns. Whoever does not radiate light — remember — knowingly or unknowingly, he radiates darkness. Whoever does not emit benediction from within toward others — remember — in some form he is sending messages of death, sorrow, and pain. Every human being either blesses or curses. There is no third alternative. A third kind cannot live.
And this expansion of love — the scattering of flowers on others’ roads — is not costly. And remember: do not think that by what you scatter, others will be benefited; in the very moment of scattering, your own benefit happens. Whether others are helped or not, you are uplifted then and there.
When someone throws love from the heart, it is not necessary that the one toward whom it is directed will receive it — his doors may be closed, he may be unfortunate, his eyes may be shut, the message may not reach. But the one who casts love upwardly raises his own life instantly. In the very act of loving, he rises. For when love moves outward, peace condenses within.
When love moves from within to without, peace thickens within. When hatred moves outward, unrest thickens within. Hatred leaves unrest inside as its shadow, love leaves peace as its shadow. Love spreads outward; its shadow, peace, remains within. Hatred spreads outward; its shadow, unrest, remains within.
Whoever wishes to purify the eyes should spread love on all sides — goodwill toward all, kindness, ahimsa. The more love expands, the more one becomes free of the world. There is no other liberation than love. Hatred binds; love frees. And that attachment which binds stands allied with hatred. Love is freedom. Whom I love, I am freed from. And if I can love the whole, I am freed from the whole.
Remember: that which frees is love. The measure of freedom is the measure of love. And that which frees utterly — that is perfect love. The name of perfect love is ahimsa. This is the first sutra for inner purity, for dispelling smoke.
The first sutra: the expansion of love.
The second sutra is: the contraction of possession.
It is a strange truth that the more one expands possession, the smaller one becomes. The more one becomes engaged in accumulating things, the more one falls — grows heavy. The burden of possessions weighs upon him, and he sinks.
An Indian monk, abroad, stood before a building in flames. Tongues of fire were leaping. People were carrying things out. All the goods were saved. The owner, nearly unconscious, tears flowing, stood by. He could not even remember what was happening. People asked: The house is about to burn completely. The flames have reached the lower floors; we can go in once more — tell us if anything remains to be saved. He said: I can remember nothing; go in once more and look. Each time they had gone in earlier, they came out laughing — they had brought out some valuable item. The last time they returned weeping, though they had brought something. A crowd gathered, asking: Why are you weeping? They said: We made a mistake. We were busy saving things, but the owner’s only son was asleep inside — he died. We were saving the goods, and the lone owner perished meanwhile.
The Indian monk who witnessed this wrote in his diary: What I saw among those flames that day, I see in every life. Most people busy themselves saving things, while the owner slowly dies. A day comes when the goods are saved and the owner is dead.
Whoever is engaged in saving things is irreligious. Irreligion has no meaning beyond this. One who saves goods forgetting the owner — himself — is irreligious.
The meaning of being religious is only this: the orientation changes from things to the self. The self becomes primary; things become secondary. Then religion begins. The more one is occupied in saving things, the more the self fades. One day he becomes nearly a part of the goods. Nearly a thing among things. And this urge to expand possession makes man ever more a beggar. Those whom we see as emperors — those who have eyes see them as beggars. And those we call beggars — those who have eyes see them as emperors.
Buddha was about to leave a town. The king wondered whether to go to receive him or not. A beggar is entering the town — should a king go to receive a beggar? He asked his ministers: Is it proper that I go? Should a king go outside the town to receive a beggar? An old minister said: Forgive me — if you had eyes, you would see that the one who comes is an emperor, and you are the beggar. The king said: What are you saying? How am I a beggar? The old minister replied: He whose desires are endless has endless beggardom within. He in whom no desire remains — he has become the master. He who asks for nothing — only he is emperor. He who asks — asking itself makes him a beggar.
Another memory: the Muslim fakir Farid. People of his village said to him: Akbar honors you greatly; go to him and ask that he open a school for our village. Farid said: I have never asked anything of anyone. I am a beggar; I never ask. Yet since you all insist, I will go. He thought to go early in the morning, when Akbar finishes his namaz; there he would speak. He reached the mosque; Akbar’s prayer was ending. At the end Akbar raised his hands: O God, grant me more wealth, more riches; expand the borders of my realm; grant me more fame and glory; let my boundaries double day by day. As soon as Akbar rose, he saw Farid’s back, descending the steps, returning. He ran and asked: How is it you are leaving? Farid said: I came thinking you were an emperor; I leave seeing you are a beggar. I saw you also ask. I saw your asking has no end. You ask for more and more.
The more one seeks to possess, the more a beggar one becomes. And in this universe, the Divine is not available to beggars; it is available to masters, to emperors. Those who are not masters of themselves cannot behold the master of this universe, the inner essence of existence. Therefore possession is the greatest obstacle. Non-possession — aparigraha — is the greatest support, the greatest path, the greatest bridge.
So whoever wishes to find himself must gradually thin and contract possession — to the point of being utterly alone, with nothing.
What does 'nothing' mean? It means there is no demand within. No longing to get anything. As desires diminish, Atman grows. As desires increase, Atman declines. Desire and the self are opposed. Desire is the doorway to the world; whoever turns back from desire arrives at the doorway of the self.
I have said: let love expand and possession contract. Let love spread, let possession shrink. And remember: the more love expands, the more it helps possession to shrink. The more possession shrinks, the more love can expand. Whoever has much possession has a very small love. The more the possession, the narrower and smaller the love becomes.
Unfortunate are those whose possession becomes vast and whose love becomes void. Blessed are those whose possession becomes void and whose love becomes full. They grow together — love advances, possession recedes; possession recedes, love advances further. They are linked sutras: the expansion of love and the contraction of possession.
These two I have said in relation to the outer world. In the outer world our relation to consciousness arises through love; our relation to matter diminishes through contraction of possession. Two sutras for the outer world: love and non-possession.
For the inner world, whoever practices these two finds that the smoke before the eyes gradually thins. Tensions begin to cease. Conflicts reduce within. As aspiration for possession diminishes, the inner quarrels lessen; oppositions lessen; the races and tensions lessen. Great stillness arises within. And as love grows, great peace arises. Love brings peace; non-possession brings stillness. And the third sutra is: abide in the life of life.
First: the expansion of love.
Second: the contraction of possession.
Third: abiding in the life of life.
When such peace is condensed and such stillness obtained — peace by love, stillness by non-possession — then one should inquire within: What is the life of my life? Where, in my ultimate being, am I — beyond which I cannot go?
We can step back from the body, for I see: this is my body. The seer of the body is other than the body. The experiencer of the body is other than the body. If my hand is cut, I experience that my hand is cut — so the one who experiences is other than the hand.
There is a distinction between I and mine. It appears: my body — thus, I am behind the body; the body cannot be my life. Enter further within.
Is breath my life? I witness the breath. Breath comes in — I see; breath goes out — I see. If I wish, I can hold it. It comes, it goes — I experience it. The experiencer of breath is behind breath. Breath is not the life. Are thoughts my life?
Look at the mind: thoughts are also seen. Anger arises — we know; attachment arises — we know; a chain of thoughts arises — we know. The consciousness that knows thoughts is behind thoughts.
Thus, step by step, entering within in that silence and stillness, the inward journey becomes easy. The body is seen as separate; the breath is seen as separate; thoughts are seen as separate. And then where nothing remains that can be set apart — only pure consciousness remains, not conscious of anything.
For whatever we were conscious of, we set aside; from all that we distinguished ourselves. When only consciousness remains and nothing remains to be known — only knowing remains and there is no known; only awareness remains, not of anything — in that sheer privacy of awareness, in that aloneness, in that solitary moment — one abides in the life of life. That abiding lifts the veils from the whole mystery of existence. In that abiding the eyes open and it is seen: where we had known matter, there is the Divine; where we had known persons, there is the ocean of all-inclusive consciousness; where we had known body, there is Atman.
Within oneself, Atman; within the whole, Paramatma — this is experienced. In that experience, all shastras become true. In that experience, all true masters are verified. They become witnesses, saying: that which happened in Mahavira, in Buddha, in Krishna, in Christ — has happened within you. What has happened in infinite awakened consciousnesses has happened in you.
For this realization, all scriptures, all true gurus, all teachers become witnesses. Before that, they are of no use. Before that, they are meaningless — only a net of words. No truth is there. When the inner experience is attained, the words dissolve and the truth within them becomes visible.
By experiencing the advent of truth within, one experiences truth throughout existence. By knowing Atman within, one recognizes its light in the whole. Such realization ends one’s personal crisis. Such realization reveals: before birth, I was; after death, I will be. It reveals: this consciousness has never been hurt by sorrow, nor can it be — there is no possibility. Beyond sorrow, established in bliss; beyond darkness, illumined in light — the experience of this consciousness uproots all problems.
If even a few in today’s world attain such light, a new kind of illumination can be felt across the earth. A new radiance can be born. And only in that radiance will the future of humanity be safeguarded; otherwise, saving man will be difficult.
Man will commit suicide by his own hand. Man will commit suicide through his hatred. Man will commit suicide through his possessiveness. Man will commit suicide by being severed from the life of his life. Establish man in love; establish him in non-possession; establish him at the center of his life-breath — then a new man can be born, and with him a new humanity. Thus, through Dharma, a revolution of life is possible.
These few things I have said to you. I can hope that perhaps some word has touched some string in your heart; perhaps a thirst arises within you; perhaps some dissatisfaction thickens and a longing is born — that I too may know myself and know truth; that I may transcend the crisis that arises in each life. Then I shall feel my prayer has succeeded — the prayer I have offered to your hearts all this while. May such longing and thirst arise within you. And may you become capable of knowing that, without which life is futile — and knowing which, life turns into benediction.
Thank you for listening to my words with such love. I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Accept my pranams.