My beloved Atman! Life is not only what is seen; there is much that is unseen. In truth, what is seen is nothing when compared with what is unseen. Look at a tree. The branches spread into the sky are visible, the leaves dancing in the winds are visible, the flowers smiling in the sun are visible. But the roots are not visible—without which that tree could not be at all. Those roots are hidden beneath the earth. And if one were to forget the roots, the life-breath of the tree would begin to wither in that very moment. The visible tree depends upon that invisible tree which is hidden underground.
Man’s life, too, is like the leaves spread into the sky; but that which is unseen—Paramatma—is hidden within like the roots. And if our connection with that Paramatma begins to break, the leaves, flowers, branches of our lives all begin to droop.
The roots are not seen. Paramatma is not seen. That very source from which life springs forth and grows is not seen. Perhaps its hiddenness is also necessary. The more essential a work is, the more it becomes possible only in hiding. It becomes possible in darkness, in silence, in peace, in solitude. If we bring the roots out into the sunlight, they will cease to function. They work concealed. Just so does Paramatma work, unmanifest within all that is manifest in life. But we rely on what is visible to the eyes, and about what is not visible we assume: it is not.
We think far too materially. Take a flower to a poet, to a lover, to a painter, and he sees so much in it that we do not see. And if he speaks of the beauty of the flower, we say: Where is the beauty? There is color, there is form, there are some minerals, some chemicals, some matter—where is beauty?
Perhaps the lover of the flower cannot take beauty out and show it separately. Perhaps he cannot say anything at all; he will be at a loss.
In the same way, what is essential in life is seen only by those who create within themselves a receptivity, a sensitivity to see; otherwise, it remains invisible. But we do not even see what is within ourselves. We wander outside; our eyes roam outward, outward—and life ends. And what was within, we never even come to recognize.
That which is within us is what is called Paramatma. But how to seek it?
A few things in this regard must be understood.
There are three levels to a man’s personality. One is the body, the second the mind, the third the Atman. We all are familiar with the body. The body is the outermost level, hence directly visible. No effort is needed to see it. Like the outer wall of a building that is visible to one walking by, the inner chambers are not seen. The wall is seen in passing, because it is outside. What is outside is seen without effort. In truth, only that which is outside is seen without effort; for what is inside, some effort will be necessary, one will have to go within. If someone wishes to see the deity of a temple, he must go inside the temple. If he only wishes to see the temple walls, he can circle outside and return.
The body is the outer enclosure of the temple of our life. Within it is the mind. We get a little glimpse of the mind as well; we have some inkling of the mind. Because there is pain, there is pleasure, there is anger, there is love; the body feels hunger, thirst—who receives this news? The body cannot receive this news. There is someone within the body to whom it becomes known that hunger has arisen, to whom it is known that the foot is in pain. The foot never knows that the foot is in pain; the head never knows that the head aches. Someone else comes to know the ache. From this “coming to know” we get a little glimpse that within the body there is such a thing as mind. Of that we have a slight surmise. But behind that too there is someone else—of whom we are not able even to surmise. It doesn’t even occur to us. We become acquainted with the temple’s wall, we become somewhat acquainted with the inner corridors, but we remain utterly unacquainted with the sanctum sanctorum where the deity resides.
There are reasons for this; if we understand them, a certain tendency may begin to arise in that direction. On the level of the body there is some hunger, some thirst. On the level of the mind too there is hunger, there is thirst. And on the level of the Atman there is also hunger and thirst. The body’s hunger we go on fulfilling. The body makes demands—if the body’s needs are not fulfilled, the body falls into distress. If hunger has arisen and bread is not found, the body will suffer. Suffering means: it will demand loudly for bread. Suffering means: it begins to say, if bread is not given, I refuse to cooperate. Suffering means: it says that if bread is not found, I die. Suffering means this news: the body is withdrawing cooperation, refusing to cooperate.
You must provide bread, you must provide water, air, clothing; you must protect it from heat and cold. The body is making its demands all the time. If these demands are not fulfilled, suffering will be felt. Suffering means: the body’s demand is not being fulfilled. And if the demands are fulfilled, no pleasure will be felt. Understand this well. It is the body’s nature that if its demand is not fulfilled, it suffers; if the demand is fulfilled, the matter ends—no pleasure is experienced.
Yet we say that when the proper food is found, it feels very pleasant; when good sleep comes at night, it feels very pleasant. The meaning of that pleasantness is the absence of suffering. That pleasure is negative. It has no positive, constructive status. Hunger was felt in the belly and suffering was experienced; food was put in the belly—now suffering is no longer felt, and we take this to be pleasure.
Hence those who get bread continuously, who have clothes continuously, who never allow any opportunity for bodily suffering, become very troubled. Because the “pleasure” they used to experience—upon eating bread, upon getting clothing—that too stops. The poor man’s problem is that his body is in pain; the rich man’s problem is that he finds no pleasure at all.
The body can give no pleasure; the body gives two kinds of pain—either the pain of hunger, or the pain of overeating. Eat too little and it gives pain; eat too much and it gives pain. If you eat in balance, it gives no pain, that is all. The body never gives pleasure. The body has never given anyone any pleasure.
Therefore those who live only on the level of the body never receive pleasure. Yes, they can receive two kinds of pain. The pain of the poor—that means the body’s needs are not met. Or the pain of the rich—that means needs are over-fulfilled. Eat less and there is trouble; eat more and there is trouble. No house—one trouble; a very large house—another trouble. No money—trouble; too much money—trouble. But on the level of the body there is no pleasure whatsoever. On the bodily plane, pleasure means the absence of pain; that is all it means.
Then the second level is that of the mind. The mind too has needs, demands, hunger. The mind hungers for music, for literature, for love, for friendship, for art. The body is very gross, hence its needs are gross—water, bread, shelter. The mind is subtle, hence its demands are subtle—music, literature, love, art. On the mental plane the situation is reversed. If music is not found, no suffering is felt.
The aboriginal tribes have never heard any classical music; they are not tormented in the forest that because they did not hear classical music, they are miserable. One who does not know Sanskrit and has never read Kalidasa’s wondrous works is not miserable because he has not read them. One who has never even heard of Rabindranath and has never dipped into Gitanjali suffers no distress. It never occurs to him day and night that not having read Gitanjali, he is greatly afflicted.
The mind works the other way. If the mind’s needs are fulfilled, pleasure arises; if they are not fulfilled, suffering does not arise, distress does not arise. If the mind’s needs are not met, there is no suffering; if they are met, there is pleasure. On the mental plane there is no suffering; there is only pleasure. Yes, on the mental plane suffering can be felt as the absence of pleasure. One who has heard classical music and then does not get to hear it, the absence of that pleasure appears like suffering.
On the mental plane suffering is negative—it is the absence of pleasure. On the bodily plane pleasure is negative—it is the absence of pain. On the mental plane pleasure can be had; suffering is not found—only its absence is called suffering.
But the pleasures of the mind are very fleeting, they are momentary. How long can one listen to music? How long can one drown in poetry? How long can one love? How long can one hold one’s beloved’s hand in one’s own?
And there is a special thing on the plane of mind: the mind always demands a new pleasure. If you hear the same song once, it seems pleasant; hear it the second time, it is not as pleasant; hear it the third time, a restlessness begins; and if you are forced to hear it ten times, you begin to run; and if someone forces you fifty times, you may go mad—one and the same song! A lover arrives, we embrace him. For a moment there will be joy; after two or three moments, unease will set in; if one has to keep hugging for half an hour, it will feel as if any poison would do, swallow it and die—how to be free of this now?
The mind’s experience is extremely momentary; in a little while, it begins to refuse the very experience. It says: new! and new! and new!
The body always asks for the old; the mind always asks for the new. The body says: what happened yesterday, let it be today. If yesterday food came at ten, today also it should come at ten. If it is half past ten, unease will begin in the body. The body says: the cot one got yesterday for sleeping, that same one should be given today. The body lives by habit; habit is always old, a repetition. Hence, one who molds the body into a kind of mechanism finds his body gives the least trouble—he gets up at the same time every day, sleeps at the same time, eats at the same time, eats the same food he eats every day, makes no “mischief.” The body is like a machine; it demands the repetition of the old.
If you give the body something new every day, the body becomes troubled, the body suffers. The body does not adjust to the new. The body is a demand for the old. Therefore in the old world, the body was greatly at ease. Everything was fixed. In the new world a great difficulty has arisen—everything changes daily. The body is in great distress. Hence the body experiences many illnesses which it had never known in the old world. New diseases, new troubles have arisen for the body, because all its rhythms have been broken. A man travels by airplane; this morning he is in India, after a while in Pakistan, a little later in Arabia, then in Europe. Everything changes. In a single day ten countries change, ten kinds of food change, ten atmospheres change, ten kinds of beds to sleep in, ten languages, ten kinds of people. The body falls into great difficulty—what is happening? The body becomes very restless.
The body wants a fixed order; its longing is for the old. Therefore those who are body-centered will always be eager and inclined toward the old. They will have no aspiration for the new.
But the mind demands the new every day. It says: new each day, new each day. The book you read yesterday—don’t read it today. The film you saw yesterday—don’t see it today. The song you heard yesterday—don’t hear it now. This demand of the mind goes on increasing—new each day, new each day—great difficulty arises!
I have heard that in Havana, on the Hawaiian islands, they have made Havana in such a way that day and night they strive to change the city—so that the tourists who came yesterday may come again today and not feel they have returned to the same old place. If you lodge in a hotel today and return to the same hotel tomorrow, you’ll find many things have changed—the color of the signboard, the colors of the rooms, the lights have changed, even the windows replaced. Why? So you cannot say: the same hotel again.
In countries like America, which live in the world of the mind, there is intense anxiety to bring in the new every day. Hence divorce is so prevalent in America—the husband too seems old, the wife too seems old.
In India, the very thought of divorce is hard to imagine. We have bound marriage to the bodily plane; the day marriage is raised to the mental plane, that very day the trouble begins. Because the mind says: new every day! The same wife, day after day, begins to feel boring, suffocating. The same husband appears every morning—very suffocating indeed.
I have heard that an American actress married thirty-two times. And after her thirty-first marriage, she learned after fifteen days that this man had already been her husband once before. The changes were so fast that there was no leisure left even to keep track of who changed when and how many times.
If marriage is brought to the mental plane, it will not last; the demand for moment-to-moment change will arise there too. And today there is divorce; tomorrow even divorce will seem too slow—divorce takes a year or two, marriage and divorce. Therefore new experiments are being made—trial marriages: do not marry, first have a trial; if you are bored during the trial, finish the fuss.
A very prominent man, Judge Lindsay, even praised trial marriage in America and wrote a big book: do not marry, only experiment—experimental marriage. Then, when you are absolutely certain, marry. And I know that if marriage is made experimental, no one will ever have the courage to take a final decision. He will think until his dying day: who knows, trouble may come, then tomorrow I will have to change—let the experiment continue.
The mind will demand the new each day. On the mental plane, the old is suffocating; the new is accepted—even if worse than the old, being new is enough. On the bodily plane, even if the new is better than the old, the body does not want to accept; it refuses, it wants to live in habit. The mind demands the new, even if it is worse.
Why does the mind demand the new? Because the mind is satisfied in a single moment; it asks for no more than a moment. The mind says: enough. The glimpse is had in a moment, the matter ends. Therefore all the pleasures of the mind will be momentary; no pleasure of the mind can be eternal, everlasting, abiding. It comes and it goes. It hardly arrives before you find it is gone.
A man wants to buy a car. How many nights he worries, how many plans he makes! Then he buys the car and brings it home. For a single moment the mind is filled with thrill; the next moment the matter is finished. The car has come home and all is over. What will you do now? From the next day the eye is on another car, on another house. That too will be acquired; and the moment it is acquired, everything is finished—acquired, and gone. Because the mind is not prepared to take pleasure for more than a moment. It begins to demand the new again.
And on the mental plane, if this demand for the new is not fulfilled, suffering is felt. On the mental plane, pleasure is momentary and suffering appears permanent. In between, for a moment, pleasure flashes; then suffering settles again. A flash of pleasure, then darkness. Like in a dark night when lightning flashes. For a moment there is light, then utter darkness again. So it is on the plane of mind. A new thing is found—a flash, lightning; then pitch darkness. How many new things can you find? How many in twenty-four hours? On the mental plane one gets a glimpse of joy, a moment of pleasure; then it is lost.
One who lives on the bodily plane will not receive any pleasure. One who lives on the mental plane will receive flashes, but no abiding joy.
The third plane is that of the Atman. The Atman too has hunger. Just as the body hungers and the mind hungers, the Atman hungers as well. Just as the body thirsts and the mind thirsts, so too the Atman thirsts. The hunger of the Atman, or the nourishment of the Atman, is what is called Paramatma, or Dharma. That which the Atman longs for—there too is hunger and thirst.
And on the plane of the Atman there is a special thing, another nature—until Paramatma is found, a man’s life will be a restlessness, a disquiet. Whether he knows this inner hunger or not, there will be a restlessness in his life, a churning within. He will always feel: something is missing, something is lost, something has not been found. He does not even know what is lost. Because of that which has never been found, how can one know its loss? But an unknown restlessness, an unknown unease, a disquiet—twenty-four hours! Food will be obtained, still he will feel: something is lost. A house will be built, still he will feel: all is built, yet something remains unbuilt. He will say he attained the mind’s pleasures, and still something has slipped by. Let everything of the mind be had, everything of the body be had, still a hollowness, an emptiness will keep moving within. It will go on striking from behind.
That sting is the hunger of the Atman. The Atman is saying that until Paramatma is found, all that is found is deception.
This hunger of the Atman must be understood as well. If Paramatma is not found, an unknown sorrow will cast its shadow across your whole life. The body will get its satisfactions, the mind will get its pleasures, everything will flash and fade. But a constant undertone of sorrow, a melancholy, a restlessness, a sadness, an anguish, an anxiety will stand behind you all the time. Until that experience which we call Paramatma is had, this restlessness will remain. And the moment a single glimpse of that experience is had, the restlessness vanishes utterly—as if it had never been. And once that glimpse is had, it never disappears again.
The body must be fed every day; within twenty-four hours, the food is finished—then again, food; again, water—and the water is finished. Give to the body every twenty-four hours, then the body remains quiet. Give the mind as much as you will—it is finished in a single moment. It says: again! its hunger changes within a moment. Give to the Atman once, and then it never asks again. What is gained is gained forever.
On the bodily plane there is no joy—there are sufferings, or there is the absence of suffering. On the mental plane there is pleasure, not pain; or there is the absence of pleasure, which we take to be pain. On the plane of the Atman there is either sorrow or there is bliss. When sorrow goes, what remains is bliss. The search for that bliss is Dharma. The search for that nourishment named Paramatma—the science of that search—is Dharma. And today my friends have asked me to say: in a busy life, how can that nourishment named Paramatma be found?
Surely life is busy, and it has always been busy. There are two reasons for busyness. One reason: the needs of the body and mind must be fulfilled. To fulfill them, one has to be busy. One who only has to fulfill the needs of the body will not have to be very busy, because the body’s needs are very limited.
There is an animal, a lion—he gets up once a day, makes a kill, eats and drinks, and sleeps. His need is finished. He does not remain busy all day. Food is found, the matter ends. The animal lives only on the bodily plane. His needs are very limited. The body’s demand is fulfilled, the matter ends.
And the body does not say: the same animal we ate yesterday, we are eating again today—we are now bored! No animal is ever bored—do you know this? No animal ever gets bored; boredom exists only in the world of man. Because the animal has no mind. The mind gets bored, gets tired.
The body never gets bored. Give it the very thing it received yesterday, it is content, satisfied; the matter ends. The body is a mechanism. As we pour petrol into a motorcar. The motor does not say: this same petrol you put in yesterday, and today again the same—again you are at the same pump! Today we need some other oil, or a third kind of engine oil. No, the motor has no such meaning; it simply needs petrol. The body too has no meaning about what you give it; its need should be fulfilled—that is all. The need is fulfilled, the matter ends.
Hence the animal is not very busy. The animal is not busy at all. Look at a dog, look at a cat. The cat will seem busy until it finds a mouse; after that, the matter is finished. The mouse is found, then the cat sits in peace—who knows whether she meditates or dreams, what she does!
But I suppose the cat meditates only when no mouse is found—she must be meditating on mice; otherwise she would not meditate either.
I have heard: a cat was sitting under a bush dreaming. A dog passed by and asked, “Lady, what are you seeing? What are you dreaming?” The cat said, “Such a wonder! I saw in my dream that it was raining, and instead of water, mice were falling from the sky.” The dog said, “Foolish cat! We have never heard from our ancestors, nor is it written in our scriptures, that mice ever fall. When it rains and God is pleased, bones fall! Have you ever heard of mice? We too see dreams, but bones fall; mice never fall—your talk is false.”
The dog is right—why would mice fall in a dog’s dreams! In the dog’s dreams, when hunger is in the belly, bones must fall. Why should bones fall in a cat’s dream! When hunger is there, mice fall. But the dreams end there. The animal’s personality does not go beyond the body.
And thus we can say that the man whose personality ends at the body is no more than an animal. There is no fundamental difference between him and the animal. One who thinks: eating, drinking, wearing clothes—there is the end, the “the end”—that man is living on the animal plane. In that man’s life there will be a kind of contentment. Because animals appear completely content. In that kind of man’s life there will be a kind of carefreeness. Animals seem carefree. Such a man will have little anxiety. Animals have no anxiety. But that man will neither know the pleasures of the mind nor the bliss of the Atman.
Therefore someone asked Socrates: instead of becoming a dissatisfied Socrates, what is the harm in becoming a satisfied pig?
Socrates said: rather than becoming a satisfied pig, I would choose to remain a dissatisfied Socrates. Because the satisfied pig cannot travel those realms to which the dissatisfied Socrates can travel.
Hence you will have observed: animals neither get bored nor do they laugh. Have you ever seen any animal laugh? If a buffalo laughing were to meet you on the road, you would never be able to sleep your whole life. You would flee the city and leave all your work—finished! What has happened that the buffalo is laughing!
No animal laughs, except the animal called man. Because laughing and boredom belong to the mind, not to the body. Animals never laugh. If one had to define man, we could say: the animal that laughs is called man. Laughter is man’s fundamental sign.
Man gets bored and he laughs too, because he has a mind. And there are joys of the mind and also non-joys of the mind. But if a man remains on the bodily plane, he lives like a machine and is finished. He never comes to know what was hidden within him—what mysteries, what unknown realms, what journeys remained, which, had he undertaken, would have made life blessed. He does not come to know. Some stop at the body.
Some rise above the body and search for the mind’s pleasures. The pleasures of the mind are wondrous, but quite dreamlike, very deceptive; hardly do they arrive before they depart. How wondrous is the joy of poetry, how wondrous the joy of the veena, how wondrous is the joy of love, how wondrous the depths of the mind; but touch them for a moment and lose them. They are very illusory, very deceptive, very imaginary. Touch—and…
The meeting with the un-beloved brings sorrow. But even in meeting the beloved, fear remains that the beloved may be lost, and that fear weakens the joy itself. The flower blossoms and gives joy; but along with it a fear is there—it will wither, it will wither, now it is withering, now it is withering. On the mental plane, the life-breaths are never wholly satisfied; scarcely does the flower blossom when it begins to wither. Nothing abides there, there is no stability. Therefore those who live in the mind live in great anxiety. There, a tremor goes on day and night—now it is gone, now it is gone, now it is gone; all will be lost. And whatever is found, the moment it is found, it slips out of the hands. As one closes one’s fist upon water; as the hand goes into the water it seems the water is in the hand—close the fist, and the fist remains empty, the water goes out. Put your hand into the pleasures of the mind and it feels there is much joy; close your fist—and you find the fist is empty, the joy has vanished somewhere.
To live in the world of the mind is to live in anxiety. To live in the world of the mind is to live in restlessness. Yet some live in the world of the mind and are finished there. Those who live in the world of the mind are greatly prone to madness. One who lives on the plane of the body is never mad; because he is not truly a man—he is below man. To be mad, one must first be a man. But those who live only in the world of the mind live almost in madness. Therefore the more the living starts in the mind, the more derangement and madness will increase.
Today America has the largest number of mad people in the whole world. Today America has the most psychiatrists. Why? America is living at great speed in the mind. Go to a tribal village, to some hamlet hidden in the hills of Bastar; there you will not find a madman. Because that man is not even yet living upon the plane of man; he is not passing through the transition, where there is pain. If he will stop there, there will be much pain; if he will go forward, there is a realm of great joy.
Man is a transition—from animal toward Paramatma. Either remain an animal—there will be one kind of peace; or become Paramatma—there will be another kind of peace. But the animal’s peace is the peace of ignorance, the peace of the dead. The peace of Paramatma is the peace of life. A cremation ground is peaceful, but the meaning of that peace is that there is no one there. A temple too can be peaceful, but the meaning of a temple’s peace is that those who are there are at peace. One state is the animal’s, one state is Paramatma’s; and in between there is a transition, a period of infection—this middle state of the mind is the condition of most men—the middle of the mind.
Those who try to live in the mind hang suspended. Neither animal nor Paramatma. The pull comes from both sides. The body says: become an animal—then all will be fine. The Atman says: come farther—then all will be fine. But do not stay where you are. The body too says: do not stay there; the Atman too says: do not stay there. And the mind says: stay right here. And yet nothing here feels like a place to stay. A moment of joy, then pitch darkness.
This is man’s tension, his strain. Nietzsche has said: man is a rope, stretched between two eternities. Nietzsche has said: man is a bridge, between two infinitudes.
He is right; man is a bridge, a span. Behind, a path that is gone; ahead, a path not yet begun; and we stand upon the bridge. And this bridge is not of iron; it is the bridge of mind, more restless than water. Upon this bridge we stand, which trembles at every moment—who knows when it may collapse. And our life-breaths tremble. The mind says: let us turn back. One mind says: let us move forward. And our mind says: do not abandon this joy—this love, this wife, this music, this poetry—do not leave these joys; enjoy them. The mind says: stay here! The body says: return behind! Some unknown call ahead summons—Paramatma calling: come forward! In all this, man is caught in a worry.
Those who stop at the mind stop at a very wrong station. They did well to move beyond the body, but they still had to move further; they were not to stop. That third call is Paramatma’s call—farther! and farther!
There is then a place beyond which there is nothing more; beyond which there is nothing behind. Having reached that place, there is nothing left to obtain. Because the desire to obtain remains only so long as there is sorrow within. Sorrow pushes: obtain something so that I may be erased. When sorrow is erased, the race to obtain stops. And when That is found which is all, there is nothing left to obtain.
But how to obtain That? We are very busy; from morning till night we are busy. Either busy in the body’s work or in the mind’s work. Either fulfilling the demands of the body or fulfilling the demands of the mind. Where shall we find time for Paramatma? Who will fulfill this third demand—how to fulfill it? Where is the time? Where is the opportunity? Where the facility?
I wander from village to village; people ask me: where is the time? Where is the facility? When shall we call upon that Lord? When shall we seek that Atman? There is no leisure. We get up in the morning—and there is the factory. We return in the evening exhausted—and there are the children. Another factory at home—the children, the wife. All day we run one factory; in the evening we get entangled in the second. We escape from this, and the next morning the same factory; the same in the evening. We go on to the factory; where is the time? Where the facility? When shall we seek That of which you speak—the bliss? By which path? Who will go? How shall we go? There is simply no time.
These people are perfectly right; they are not wrong. But I say this: to seek Paramatma, time is not needed at all. I say this: to seek Paramatma, no separate time is needed. The search for Paramatma is not competitive with the body and the mind. There is no competition between the search for Paramatma and the body-mind. Between body and mind, surely there is competition. If you are to pursue the body, then for that period the pursuit of the mind must be stopped. For the man who goes to earn bread cannot, at the very same time, go to learn the veena. Or one who goes to learn the veena cannot at the very same time earn bread. This is why this confusion arises: those who earn bread never write poetry; those who earn poetry always starve. This always happens, because there is competition. If you go to seek the mind, there will be some obstruction in seeking the body.
Therefore for thousands of years the search for the mind’s pleasures was the luxury only of kings and wealthy men. The poor man never pursued the mind. Where was the facility for a sweeper, a tanner, to sit and listen to the veena! Kings would listen to the veena in their palaces, would watch the apsaras dance. Where was the leisure for a scavenger! All day he will sweep the street—when will he watch a dance? And the sweeper, gradually, will become so gross that he will lose the very sense of seeing a dance. One who hammers all day—when will he hear the sitar? And the constant hammering will make his ears so dull that when someone plays the sitar, it will be beyond his understanding what is happening.
I have heard: two youths wanted to be painters. One of them later became a great painter—Doric. Both went to their master for training. But both were poor. They had no money even for fees. No money to buy colors. The master said: I will teach you free, but where will I get the colors? I myself am poor. Where will I get paper? You will have to arrange that. They said: we have nothing but the longing to learn painting.
Their master said: then it is very difficult. Where will you get food? Even if colors and paper come from somewhere, where will you get clothes?
Then the two decided that one would labor and the other would learn painting. They tossed a coin, Doric’s name came up, and he began to learn painting. He would learn for five years; after five years his friend would learn; then for five years he would labor.
The friend went and began to break stones on the roads. For five years he broke stones and fed his companion the food of painting. After five years, his friend caught his feet, washed them with tears, and said: you are wonderful—you never once said that I am breaking stones. Now you go!
That friend said: now it is very difficult for me to go; these hands and these fingers have become like stone. Now to hold the brush with these, perhaps they cannot create the subtle strokes of painting. But no matter—begin to paint; paint must be made. My hand too will be in those paintings, even though I did not paint, I only broke stones.
But the friend wept much: this is great misfortune. Go to the master! The master too, seeing his hands, said: these hands have become so hard that with these hands the subtle lines of the brush cannot be fashioned. Their fine vibrations are finished.
Either break stones, or hold the brush; there is competition there. This is why in the world the aspirations of the mind have been fulfilled only for a few—the Ashokas, the Akbars, the Peters the Great, the Elizabeths. The common man has kept breaking stones for the body. And this seems appropriate too; it appears to man that either do this, or do that. If there is hunger at home, how will the veena play? If there is thirst and illness at home, how will painting be made?
No, this is not possible. Between these two there is competition. Because of this competition man begins to ask: where shall we seek Paramatma, when shall we seek? Where is the time! We cannot even seek the mind’s pleasures—how shall we seek the bliss of the Atman?
Here I must say something. And that is: the Atman has no competition with the body and mind. For the search of the Atman, there is no need to carve out a separate time. But understand—if we bring a thousand chairs and fill this room, all the space is taken. And if someone says: one more chair must be placed, we will say: there is no space; where shall we put this chair? The space is full, there is no room for another chair. But imagine a thousand lamps burning in this room, and someone says: one more lamp must be lit. Will we say: now the light is full here; no more light can be accommodated in this room? Because light is not competitive. It is not that the light of one lamp occupies the space and leaves no room for another light; in the very same space, that light too will be accommodated. The third lamp’s light too will be accommodated, the fourth too. It is not that light occupies space; however much light… yes, it may be that lamps occupy space, but light does not. However much light can be filled into this room. A tiny lamp can illumine this room, and thousands of lamps’ light can illumine it too. But light does not collide with another light.
We have only known the body’s and the mind’s aspirations—which collide. We know nothing of the aspiration of the Atman—which does not collide. So first understand this: there is no opposition between a busy life and the search for Paramatma. In truth, there is no need to find time apart from your busy life for Paramatma. In your very busyness, in whatever you are doing—whether you break stones, build a house, run a factory, cook food at home, stitch clothes, play the veena, paint—whatever you do—doing does not oppose the search for Paramatma. Because the search for Paramatma is not a new kind of doing. It is not a new action. The search for Paramatma is a consciousness, an awareness; not an act, not a doing.
This difference must be understood a little.
One man is breaking stones, another is playing the veena—of those two, only one can be done at a time. But I say this: a man may break stones, and while breaking stones he can create such a consciousness that the search for Paramatma continues; the stones are broken, and the search continues. Play the veena—let the veena play, and the search continues.
And the wonderful thing is: the day stones are broken along with the search for Paramatma, the stones break more skillfully than before. Because with the search for Paramatma, the whole being begins to fill with peace, the whole being begins to fill with joy, the whole being begins to be stirred by a new music.
A temple was being built. A poet was passing by. He asked a stone-breaker: my friend, what are you doing?
The man lifted eyes filled with anger and said: are you blind? Can’t you see what I am doing? I am breaking stones!
The poet who asked became nervous, frightened. There was nothing in his question that warranted so much anger. But those whose insides are full of anger will pour it out at any time, right or wrong. The poet walked ahead and thought: I will ask another—are all stone-breakers so full of rage? He asked a second man: friend, what are you doing?
For a while that man did not even lift his head; then with great difficulty he raised it—as if a mountain of burden sat upon it—and said: what am I doing? I am doing nothing—earning bread for my children, for my sons, for my parents. Then he slowly picked up the hammer and began breaking stones again. This man was of another kind—sad, burdened.
Then he searched and found by the steps a young man breaking stones and singing a song. He went to him and asked: friend, what are you doing?
The man stood up and said: what am I doing! You ask what I am doing! As if he were dancing, as if a song were in his voice—and he said: I am building God’s temple.
All three were breaking stones—each one. One was breaking stones in anger. One can break stones in anger. Another was breaking stones in sadness. One can break stones in sadness too. The third was breaking stones in joy. One can break stones in joy as well. And neither anger becomes an obstacle, nor sadness, nor joy. None of these compete with the breaking of stones. One cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I be angry? The other cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I be sad? The third cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I hum a song? How can I be joyous? No—there is no opposition between breaking stones and joy.
What do I wish to make clear by this?
I wish to make clear that meditation has no opposition with our work. Whatever work we do mindfully, that very work becomes a path leading toward Paramatma. Whatever work one can do mindfully, meditatively, with attention, that very work becomes the door of the Divine.
Therefore there is no opposition between a busy life and Paramatma. There is no opposition between a busy life and the search for the Atman.
How to work meditatively, mindfully?
As we work now, it is not at all mindful. And we go around asking people: how should we meditate? When should we meditate? There is no place in our house where we can meditate.
There is no place in any house. Because of the children, how can there be place! Children keep being born and all houses go on becoming small. Where is the place? There is no place anywhere. There is so much noise, so many difficulties—where to sit? Where to meditate?
They ask the wrong questions. The question is not where shall we meditate; the question is—how shall we meditate? It is not a question of place, nor of time. People ask: when shall we meditate—morning or night? That too is a wrong question. Where?—this question is wrong. When?—this question is wrong. There is only one question—how? How shall we meditate? Because meditation is related neither to time nor to place; neither to time nor to space. Meditation is related to attitude, to a mode of being, to a feeling. Therefore there is no opposition between meditation and busyness. In fact, the more mindfully you work, the less busy you will seem, the less occupied you will feel.
A man like Gandhi, who lives mindfully, does far more work than all of us and never raises the hue and cry that he has no time. Gandhi did so much work that perhaps no other man on earth ever did. In these fifty years, no man in the world did so much work.
But for this man, no obstacle arises in the search for Paramatma. He is ready to do such small chores as we cannot even imagine. We cannot even think that a great man would do such things. If mother Kasturba is cooking vegetables, Gandhi will sit and help. Now, this does not befit our country’s mahatmas. But Gandhi is a unique man. Gandhi will sit and begin to explain to Kasturba how vegetables should be cut—“You are cutting tomatoes the wrong way.” Ba said, “This is the limit! I have been cutting tomatoes all my life, what do you know about tomatoes!” Gandhi said, “You cut tomatoes without attention. Ba asked, “What do you mean?” Gandhi said, “Look at this tomato—where it is attached to its plant, in that little portion small insects often sit. You lift the knife and cut right through there—the insects must be dying—your cutting is not mindful. From a distance I saw that you are cutting the tomatoes irreligiously, so I came to tell you. First remove that portion where the tomato is attached to the plant—cut crosswise, not straight—then it becomes prayerful cutting. Now, in cutting a tomato there is no opposition to prayer. Tomatoes can be cut prayerfully, mindfully. And then, the tomato is also cut and the search for Paramatma continues.”
A youth came to Gandhi and said, “I spin thread, and my thread keeps breaking.” What Gandhi said is worth understanding. He said, “You must not be spinning mindfully; I spin mindfully.” The youth said, “What has thread to do with mindfulness?” Gandhi said, “When I spin thread, I only spin thread. Within me there is nothing except the spinning of thread. My hand rises with the distaff, my mind also rises with the distaff. My hand comes down to the spindle, my mind also comes down to the spindle. Within me only the thread spins; everything else stops. Then the thread does not break. And you spin, and your mind runs elsewhere—perhaps to the cinema—and the thread breaks.” The youth watched and found it true—the thread breaks only when the mind goes elsewhere.
Meditation means: whatever we are doing, do it with the whole mind, mindfully. Be fully present where we are engaged. If we are eating, be wholly present there. We should only be eating—nothing else. If we are working in the factory, driving a car, hammering—whatever we are doing—do it with full attention, so mindfully that only that action remains in our consciousness and everything else recedes. The focus of consciousness—like a man entering a room with a torch: the room is very large; he wants to see the window, so he focuses his beam on the window. Only the window is seen; the whole house is filled with darkness. Consciousness too is a light; it too has a focus. We do something, but the focus of consciousness is somewhere else. Then our personality can never reach the Atman. The simple formula for reaching the Atman—be wholly in what you are doing. What happens then? Then a wondrous event occurs of which we do not know—one who becomes fully present in the present moment enters within himself. Why? Because the present moment is the very door to entry within. Neither the past has any existence, nor the future. Only this moment exists.
You are listening to me now. You can also listen in such a way that you just sit here while being elsewhere. And it can happen that I am speaking yet I am not here at all. When, while listening, there is neither a behind nor a ahead, when there is only speaking and listening, and only this moment—then you are listening mindfully. And by performing any action in such mindfulness, one slowly becomes quiet. So quiet that from that very quietude one begins to sink within. The day one becomes perfectly quiet, on that day union with oneself happens. That is the Atman—that which is the meeting with oneself. The moment That is known, all sorrow dissolves from life. There is an unending shower of bliss. The experience of that shower is the experience of Paramatma. To attain Paramatma there is no opposition from a busy life. Time is not needed; resolve is needed.
A busy life does not hinder anyone. Therefore, do not remain in this delusion: that I am too entangled, and if, when I die, there is a Paramatma and he asks, I will say I had no free time. Do not remain in this delusion, because to attain Paramatma, time is not needed; resolve is needed. To attain Paramatma, place is not needed; longing for Paramatma is needed. And nothing in the world becomes a hindrance in attaining Paramatma—because Paramatma is alone—he has no competitor. If there were another Paramatma, then trouble could be, that while trying to attain “A” named Paramatma, how to attain “B”! There is no opposition from the world’s things to That. Paramatma is not some commodity you go to purchase in the market—economic laws apply in the market. If you are to buy one thing, you cannot buy another—there is a limit to buying. If you are to buy a bicycle, buy a bicycle or a radio. If you buy a radio, then do not buy a bicycle. There an “or” is imposed—either the bicycle or the radio. But God is not a commodity for sale in the market; he is not a thing. Therefore the laws of economics do not apply to God—He is the only one; there is nothing that stands in opposition to Him. And there is nothing in the world to compare with Him such that if you buy This, you cannot buy that.
Do anything in the world—whatever life has given you as an opportunity—sweeping the road, cooking food at home, or working in a factory—whatever opportunity life has given, make full use of that opportunity; but along with that, strive to be mindful, and that very mindfulness will go on developing. And the one who lives mindfully twenty-four hours a day—who rises mindfully, sleeps mindfully, eats mindfully, speaks mindfully, loves mindfully, works mindfully, and if he fights, fights mindfully—such a man is doing the practice of meditation twenty-four hours a day. When will he say: I have no time? He is meditating all the time, praying all the time, moving in the search of Paramatma. And slowly he will begin to descend within. And the day the descent within begins—what is it like?—it is hard to say. What new event happens, what new flame is lit, which doors open, which flowers bloom, which sleeping veenas begin to sing—all this is very difficult to tell. Man has no words to say what happens there.
But there, something happens—after which no desire remains. There, something happens—on attaining which the race to attain ceases. There, something happens—on attaining which the hands join upward in gratitude to the sky. There, something happens—by which the head bows toward the earth at some unknown feet. There, something happens—by which gratefulness fills the life-breaths. But never by mistake say: I am busy, so how shall I seek Him? This very statement is wrong; this question, this outlook is deceptive; it is a device to save oneself from oneself.
Kabir went on weaving cloth and attained Paramatma; he did not say: I am weaving cloth—how shall I seek Paramatma? Kabir went on weaving, clack-clack, and attained Paramatma. Gora the potter went on making pots. He did not say: stop, O pots—either I fashion Paramatma or I fashion you. He went on kneading the clay, making pots. People said to him: what is this profession you have chosen—by it you will lose God! He laughed and said: for the sake of God I make pots. People said to Kabir: stop this weaving. Enough of making cloth. Why do you waste yourself in it if you are seeking Paramatma! He said: I weave only for Rama, I weave for Him—it all proceeds in His remembrance.
No, there is no need to flee life, leaving anything behind. Those who flee are in error. Only within life can Paramatma be attained. But one needs the way of seeing, the feeling. And I say again and again: in the very midst of life, Paramatma is to be attained; you are not to go elsewhere to attain Him.
Osho's Commentary
Life is not only what is seen; there is much that is unseen. In truth, what is seen is nothing when compared with what is unseen. Look at a tree. The branches spread into the sky are visible, the leaves dancing in the winds are visible, the flowers smiling in the sun are visible. But the roots are not visible—without which that tree could not be at all. Those roots are hidden beneath the earth. And if one were to forget the roots, the life-breath of the tree would begin to wither in that very moment. The visible tree depends upon that invisible tree which is hidden underground.
Man’s life, too, is like the leaves spread into the sky; but that which is unseen—Paramatma—is hidden within like the roots. And if our connection with that Paramatma begins to break, the leaves, flowers, branches of our lives all begin to droop.
The roots are not seen. Paramatma is not seen. That very source from which life springs forth and grows is not seen. Perhaps its hiddenness is also necessary. The more essential a work is, the more it becomes possible only in hiding. It becomes possible in darkness, in silence, in peace, in solitude. If we bring the roots out into the sunlight, they will cease to function. They work concealed. Just so does Paramatma work, unmanifest within all that is manifest in life. But we rely on what is visible to the eyes, and about what is not visible we assume: it is not.
We think far too materially. Take a flower to a poet, to a lover, to a painter, and he sees so much in it that we do not see. And if he speaks of the beauty of the flower, we say: Where is the beauty? There is color, there is form, there are some minerals, some chemicals, some matter—where is beauty?
Perhaps the lover of the flower cannot take beauty out and show it separately. Perhaps he cannot say anything at all; he will be at a loss.
In the same way, what is essential in life is seen only by those who create within themselves a receptivity, a sensitivity to see; otherwise, it remains invisible. But we do not even see what is within ourselves. We wander outside; our eyes roam outward, outward—and life ends. And what was within, we never even come to recognize.
That which is within us is what is called Paramatma. But how to seek it?
A few things in this regard must be understood.
There are three levels to a man’s personality. One is the body, the second the mind, the third the Atman. We all are familiar with the body. The body is the outermost level, hence directly visible. No effort is needed to see it. Like the outer wall of a building that is visible to one walking by, the inner chambers are not seen. The wall is seen in passing, because it is outside. What is outside is seen without effort. In truth, only that which is outside is seen without effort; for what is inside, some effort will be necessary, one will have to go within. If someone wishes to see the deity of a temple, he must go inside the temple. If he only wishes to see the temple walls, he can circle outside and return.
The body is the outer enclosure of the temple of our life. Within it is the mind. We get a little glimpse of the mind as well; we have some inkling of the mind. Because there is pain, there is pleasure, there is anger, there is love; the body feels hunger, thirst—who receives this news? The body cannot receive this news. There is someone within the body to whom it becomes known that hunger has arisen, to whom it is known that the foot is in pain. The foot never knows that the foot is in pain; the head never knows that the head aches. Someone else comes to know the ache. From this “coming to know” we get a little glimpse that within the body there is such a thing as mind. Of that we have a slight surmise. But behind that too there is someone else—of whom we are not able even to surmise. It doesn’t even occur to us. We become acquainted with the temple’s wall, we become somewhat acquainted with the inner corridors, but we remain utterly unacquainted with the sanctum sanctorum where the deity resides.
There are reasons for this; if we understand them, a certain tendency may begin to arise in that direction. On the level of the body there is some hunger, some thirst. On the level of the mind too there is hunger, there is thirst. And on the level of the Atman there is also hunger and thirst. The body’s hunger we go on fulfilling. The body makes demands—if the body’s needs are not fulfilled, the body falls into distress. If hunger has arisen and bread is not found, the body will suffer. Suffering means: it will demand loudly for bread. Suffering means: it begins to say, if bread is not given, I refuse to cooperate. Suffering means: it says that if bread is not found, I die. Suffering means this news: the body is withdrawing cooperation, refusing to cooperate.
You must provide bread, you must provide water, air, clothing; you must protect it from heat and cold. The body is making its demands all the time. If these demands are not fulfilled, suffering will be felt. Suffering means: the body’s demand is not being fulfilled. And if the demands are fulfilled, no pleasure will be felt. Understand this well. It is the body’s nature that if its demand is not fulfilled, it suffers; if the demand is fulfilled, the matter ends—no pleasure is experienced.
Yet we say that when the proper food is found, it feels very pleasant; when good sleep comes at night, it feels very pleasant. The meaning of that pleasantness is the absence of suffering. That pleasure is negative. It has no positive, constructive status. Hunger was felt in the belly and suffering was experienced; food was put in the belly—now suffering is no longer felt, and we take this to be pleasure.
Hence those who get bread continuously, who have clothes continuously, who never allow any opportunity for bodily suffering, become very troubled. Because the “pleasure” they used to experience—upon eating bread, upon getting clothing—that too stops. The poor man’s problem is that his body is in pain; the rich man’s problem is that he finds no pleasure at all.
The body can give no pleasure; the body gives two kinds of pain—either the pain of hunger, or the pain of overeating. Eat too little and it gives pain; eat too much and it gives pain. If you eat in balance, it gives no pain, that is all. The body never gives pleasure. The body has never given anyone any pleasure.
Therefore those who live only on the level of the body never receive pleasure. Yes, they can receive two kinds of pain. The pain of the poor—that means the body’s needs are not met. Or the pain of the rich—that means needs are over-fulfilled. Eat less and there is trouble; eat more and there is trouble. No house—one trouble; a very large house—another trouble. No money—trouble; too much money—trouble. But on the level of the body there is no pleasure whatsoever. On the bodily plane, pleasure means the absence of pain; that is all it means.
Then the second level is that of the mind. The mind too has needs, demands, hunger. The mind hungers for music, for literature, for love, for friendship, for art. The body is very gross, hence its needs are gross—water, bread, shelter. The mind is subtle, hence its demands are subtle—music, literature, love, art. On the mental plane the situation is reversed. If music is not found, no suffering is felt.
The aboriginal tribes have never heard any classical music; they are not tormented in the forest that because they did not hear classical music, they are miserable. One who does not know Sanskrit and has never read Kalidasa’s wondrous works is not miserable because he has not read them. One who has never even heard of Rabindranath and has never dipped into Gitanjali suffers no distress. It never occurs to him day and night that not having read Gitanjali, he is greatly afflicted.
The mind works the other way. If the mind’s needs are fulfilled, pleasure arises; if they are not fulfilled, suffering does not arise, distress does not arise. If the mind’s needs are not met, there is no suffering; if they are met, there is pleasure. On the mental plane there is no suffering; there is only pleasure. Yes, on the mental plane suffering can be felt as the absence of pleasure. One who has heard classical music and then does not get to hear it, the absence of that pleasure appears like suffering.
On the mental plane suffering is negative—it is the absence of pleasure. On the bodily plane pleasure is negative—it is the absence of pain. On the mental plane pleasure can be had; suffering is not found—only its absence is called suffering.
But the pleasures of the mind are very fleeting, they are momentary. How long can one listen to music? How long can one drown in poetry? How long can one love? How long can one hold one’s beloved’s hand in one’s own?
And there is a special thing on the plane of mind: the mind always demands a new pleasure. If you hear the same song once, it seems pleasant; hear it the second time, it is not as pleasant; hear it the third time, a restlessness begins; and if you are forced to hear it ten times, you begin to run; and if someone forces you fifty times, you may go mad—one and the same song! A lover arrives, we embrace him. For a moment there will be joy; after two or three moments, unease will set in; if one has to keep hugging for half an hour, it will feel as if any poison would do, swallow it and die—how to be free of this now?
The mind’s experience is extremely momentary; in a little while, it begins to refuse the very experience. It says: new! and new! and new!
The body always asks for the old; the mind always asks for the new. The body says: what happened yesterday, let it be today. If yesterday food came at ten, today also it should come at ten. If it is half past ten, unease will begin in the body. The body says: the cot one got yesterday for sleeping, that same one should be given today. The body lives by habit; habit is always old, a repetition. Hence, one who molds the body into a kind of mechanism finds his body gives the least trouble—he gets up at the same time every day, sleeps at the same time, eats at the same time, eats the same food he eats every day, makes no “mischief.” The body is like a machine; it demands the repetition of the old.
If you give the body something new every day, the body becomes troubled, the body suffers. The body does not adjust to the new. The body is a demand for the old. Therefore in the old world, the body was greatly at ease. Everything was fixed. In the new world a great difficulty has arisen—everything changes daily. The body is in great distress. Hence the body experiences many illnesses which it had never known in the old world. New diseases, new troubles have arisen for the body, because all its rhythms have been broken. A man travels by airplane; this morning he is in India, after a while in Pakistan, a little later in Arabia, then in Europe. Everything changes. In a single day ten countries change, ten kinds of food change, ten atmospheres change, ten kinds of beds to sleep in, ten languages, ten kinds of people. The body falls into great difficulty—what is happening? The body becomes very restless.
The body wants a fixed order; its longing is for the old. Therefore those who are body-centered will always be eager and inclined toward the old. They will have no aspiration for the new.
But the mind demands the new every day. It says: new each day, new each day. The book you read yesterday—don’t read it today. The film you saw yesterday—don’t see it today. The song you heard yesterday—don’t hear it now. This demand of the mind goes on increasing—new each day, new each day—great difficulty arises!
I have heard that in Havana, on the Hawaiian islands, they have made Havana in such a way that day and night they strive to change the city—so that the tourists who came yesterday may come again today and not feel they have returned to the same old place. If you lodge in a hotel today and return to the same hotel tomorrow, you’ll find many things have changed—the color of the signboard, the colors of the rooms, the lights have changed, even the windows replaced. Why? So you cannot say: the same hotel again.
In countries like America, which live in the world of the mind, there is intense anxiety to bring in the new every day. Hence divorce is so prevalent in America—the husband too seems old, the wife too seems old.
In India, the very thought of divorce is hard to imagine. We have bound marriage to the bodily plane; the day marriage is raised to the mental plane, that very day the trouble begins. Because the mind says: new every day! The same wife, day after day, begins to feel boring, suffocating. The same husband appears every morning—very suffocating indeed.
I have heard that an American actress married thirty-two times. And after her thirty-first marriage, she learned after fifteen days that this man had already been her husband once before. The changes were so fast that there was no leisure left even to keep track of who changed when and how many times.
If marriage is brought to the mental plane, it will not last; the demand for moment-to-moment change will arise there too. And today there is divorce; tomorrow even divorce will seem too slow—divorce takes a year or two, marriage and divorce. Therefore new experiments are being made—trial marriages: do not marry, first have a trial; if you are bored during the trial, finish the fuss.
A very prominent man, Judge Lindsay, even praised trial marriage in America and wrote a big book: do not marry, only experiment—experimental marriage. Then, when you are absolutely certain, marry. And I know that if marriage is made experimental, no one will ever have the courage to take a final decision. He will think until his dying day: who knows, trouble may come, then tomorrow I will have to change—let the experiment continue.
The mind will demand the new each day. On the mental plane, the old is suffocating; the new is accepted—even if worse than the old, being new is enough. On the bodily plane, even if the new is better than the old, the body does not want to accept; it refuses, it wants to live in habit. The mind demands the new, even if it is worse.
Why does the mind demand the new? Because the mind is satisfied in a single moment; it asks for no more than a moment. The mind says: enough. The glimpse is had in a moment, the matter ends. Therefore all the pleasures of the mind will be momentary; no pleasure of the mind can be eternal, everlasting, abiding. It comes and it goes. It hardly arrives before you find it is gone.
A man wants to buy a car. How many nights he worries, how many plans he makes! Then he buys the car and brings it home. For a single moment the mind is filled with thrill; the next moment the matter is finished. The car has come home and all is over. What will you do now? From the next day the eye is on another car, on another house. That too will be acquired; and the moment it is acquired, everything is finished—acquired, and gone. Because the mind is not prepared to take pleasure for more than a moment. It begins to demand the new again.
And on the mental plane, if this demand for the new is not fulfilled, suffering is felt. On the mental plane, pleasure is momentary and suffering appears permanent. In between, for a moment, pleasure flashes; then suffering settles again. A flash of pleasure, then darkness. Like in a dark night when lightning flashes. For a moment there is light, then utter darkness again. So it is on the plane of mind. A new thing is found—a flash, lightning; then pitch darkness. How many new things can you find? How many in twenty-four hours? On the mental plane one gets a glimpse of joy, a moment of pleasure; then it is lost.
One who lives on the bodily plane will not receive any pleasure. One who lives on the mental plane will receive flashes, but no abiding joy.
The third plane is that of the Atman. The Atman too has hunger. Just as the body hungers and the mind hungers, the Atman hungers as well. Just as the body thirsts and the mind thirsts, so too the Atman thirsts. The hunger of the Atman, or the nourishment of the Atman, is what is called Paramatma, or Dharma. That which the Atman longs for—there too is hunger and thirst.
And on the plane of the Atman there is a special thing, another nature—until Paramatma is found, a man’s life will be a restlessness, a disquiet. Whether he knows this inner hunger or not, there will be a restlessness in his life, a churning within. He will always feel: something is missing, something is lost, something has not been found. He does not even know what is lost. Because of that which has never been found, how can one know its loss? But an unknown restlessness, an unknown unease, a disquiet—twenty-four hours! Food will be obtained, still he will feel: something is lost. A house will be built, still he will feel: all is built, yet something remains unbuilt. He will say he attained the mind’s pleasures, and still something has slipped by. Let everything of the mind be had, everything of the body be had, still a hollowness, an emptiness will keep moving within. It will go on striking from behind.
That sting is the hunger of the Atman. The Atman is saying that until Paramatma is found, all that is found is deception.
This hunger of the Atman must be understood as well. If Paramatma is not found, an unknown sorrow will cast its shadow across your whole life. The body will get its satisfactions, the mind will get its pleasures, everything will flash and fade. But a constant undertone of sorrow, a melancholy, a restlessness, a sadness, an anguish, an anxiety will stand behind you all the time. Until that experience which we call Paramatma is had, this restlessness will remain. And the moment a single glimpse of that experience is had, the restlessness vanishes utterly—as if it had never been. And once that glimpse is had, it never disappears again.
The body must be fed every day; within twenty-four hours, the food is finished—then again, food; again, water—and the water is finished. Give to the body every twenty-four hours, then the body remains quiet. Give the mind as much as you will—it is finished in a single moment. It says: again! its hunger changes within a moment. Give to the Atman once, and then it never asks again. What is gained is gained forever.
On the bodily plane there is no joy—there are sufferings, or there is the absence of suffering. On the mental plane there is pleasure, not pain; or there is the absence of pleasure, which we take to be pain. On the plane of the Atman there is either sorrow or there is bliss. When sorrow goes, what remains is bliss. The search for that bliss is Dharma. The search for that nourishment named Paramatma—the science of that search—is Dharma. And today my friends have asked me to say: in a busy life, how can that nourishment named Paramatma be found?
Surely life is busy, and it has always been busy. There are two reasons for busyness. One reason: the needs of the body and mind must be fulfilled. To fulfill them, one has to be busy. One who only has to fulfill the needs of the body will not have to be very busy, because the body’s needs are very limited.
There is an animal, a lion—he gets up once a day, makes a kill, eats and drinks, and sleeps. His need is finished. He does not remain busy all day. Food is found, the matter ends. The animal lives only on the bodily plane. His needs are very limited. The body’s demand is fulfilled, the matter ends.
And the body does not say: the same animal we ate yesterday, we are eating again today—we are now bored! No animal is ever bored—do you know this? No animal ever gets bored; boredom exists only in the world of man. Because the animal has no mind. The mind gets bored, gets tired.
The body never gets bored. Give it the very thing it received yesterday, it is content, satisfied; the matter ends. The body is a mechanism. As we pour petrol into a motorcar. The motor does not say: this same petrol you put in yesterday, and today again the same—again you are at the same pump! Today we need some other oil, or a third kind of engine oil. No, the motor has no such meaning; it simply needs petrol. The body too has no meaning about what you give it; its need should be fulfilled—that is all. The need is fulfilled, the matter ends.
Hence the animal is not very busy. The animal is not busy at all. Look at a dog, look at a cat. The cat will seem busy until it finds a mouse; after that, the matter is finished. The mouse is found, then the cat sits in peace—who knows whether she meditates or dreams, what she does!
But I suppose the cat meditates only when no mouse is found—she must be meditating on mice; otherwise she would not meditate either.
I have heard: a cat was sitting under a bush dreaming. A dog passed by and asked, “Lady, what are you seeing? What are you dreaming?” The cat said, “Such a wonder! I saw in my dream that it was raining, and instead of water, mice were falling from the sky.” The dog said, “Foolish cat! We have never heard from our ancestors, nor is it written in our scriptures, that mice ever fall. When it rains and God is pleased, bones fall! Have you ever heard of mice? We too see dreams, but bones fall; mice never fall—your talk is false.”
The dog is right—why would mice fall in a dog’s dreams! In the dog’s dreams, when hunger is in the belly, bones must fall. Why should bones fall in a cat’s dream! When hunger is there, mice fall. But the dreams end there. The animal’s personality does not go beyond the body.
And thus we can say that the man whose personality ends at the body is no more than an animal. There is no fundamental difference between him and the animal. One who thinks: eating, drinking, wearing clothes—there is the end, the “the end”—that man is living on the animal plane. In that man’s life there will be a kind of contentment. Because animals appear completely content. In that kind of man’s life there will be a kind of carefreeness. Animals seem carefree. Such a man will have little anxiety. Animals have no anxiety. But that man will neither know the pleasures of the mind nor the bliss of the Atman.
Therefore someone asked Socrates: instead of becoming a dissatisfied Socrates, what is the harm in becoming a satisfied pig?
Socrates said: rather than becoming a satisfied pig, I would choose to remain a dissatisfied Socrates. Because the satisfied pig cannot travel those realms to which the dissatisfied Socrates can travel.
Hence you will have observed: animals neither get bored nor do they laugh. Have you ever seen any animal laugh? If a buffalo laughing were to meet you on the road, you would never be able to sleep your whole life. You would flee the city and leave all your work—finished! What has happened that the buffalo is laughing!
No animal laughs, except the animal called man. Because laughing and boredom belong to the mind, not to the body. Animals never laugh. If one had to define man, we could say: the animal that laughs is called man. Laughter is man’s fundamental sign.
Man gets bored and he laughs too, because he has a mind. And there are joys of the mind and also non-joys of the mind. But if a man remains on the bodily plane, he lives like a machine and is finished. He never comes to know what was hidden within him—what mysteries, what unknown realms, what journeys remained, which, had he undertaken, would have made life blessed. He does not come to know. Some stop at the body.
Some rise above the body and search for the mind’s pleasures. The pleasures of the mind are wondrous, but quite dreamlike, very deceptive; hardly do they arrive before they depart. How wondrous is the joy of poetry, how wondrous the joy of the veena, how wondrous is the joy of love, how wondrous the depths of the mind; but touch them for a moment and lose them. They are very illusory, very deceptive, very imaginary. Touch—and…
The meeting with the un-beloved brings sorrow. But even in meeting the beloved, fear remains that the beloved may be lost, and that fear weakens the joy itself. The flower blossoms and gives joy; but along with it a fear is there—it will wither, it will wither, now it is withering, now it is withering. On the mental plane, the life-breaths are never wholly satisfied; scarcely does the flower blossom when it begins to wither. Nothing abides there, there is no stability. Therefore those who live in the mind live in great anxiety. There, a tremor goes on day and night—now it is gone, now it is gone, now it is gone; all will be lost. And whatever is found, the moment it is found, it slips out of the hands. As one closes one’s fist upon water; as the hand goes into the water it seems the water is in the hand—close the fist, and the fist remains empty, the water goes out. Put your hand into the pleasures of the mind and it feels there is much joy; close your fist—and you find the fist is empty, the joy has vanished somewhere.
To live in the world of the mind is to live in anxiety. To live in the world of the mind is to live in restlessness. Yet some live in the world of the mind and are finished there. Those who live in the world of the mind are greatly prone to madness. One who lives on the plane of the body is never mad; because he is not truly a man—he is below man. To be mad, one must first be a man. But those who live only in the world of the mind live almost in madness. Therefore the more the living starts in the mind, the more derangement and madness will increase.
Today America has the largest number of mad people in the whole world. Today America has the most psychiatrists. Why? America is living at great speed in the mind. Go to a tribal village, to some hamlet hidden in the hills of Bastar; there you will not find a madman. Because that man is not even yet living upon the plane of man; he is not passing through the transition, where there is pain. If he will stop there, there will be much pain; if he will go forward, there is a realm of great joy.
Man is a transition—from animal toward Paramatma. Either remain an animal—there will be one kind of peace; or become Paramatma—there will be another kind of peace. But the animal’s peace is the peace of ignorance, the peace of the dead. The peace of Paramatma is the peace of life. A cremation ground is peaceful, but the meaning of that peace is that there is no one there. A temple too can be peaceful, but the meaning of a temple’s peace is that those who are there are at peace. One state is the animal’s, one state is Paramatma’s; and in between there is a transition, a period of infection—this middle state of the mind is the condition of most men—the middle of the mind.
Those who try to live in the mind hang suspended. Neither animal nor Paramatma. The pull comes from both sides. The body says: become an animal—then all will be fine. The Atman says: come farther—then all will be fine. But do not stay where you are. The body too says: do not stay there; the Atman too says: do not stay there. And the mind says: stay right here. And yet nothing here feels like a place to stay. A moment of joy, then pitch darkness.
This is man’s tension, his strain. Nietzsche has said: man is a rope, stretched between two eternities. Nietzsche has said: man is a bridge, between two infinitudes.
He is right; man is a bridge, a span. Behind, a path that is gone; ahead, a path not yet begun; and we stand upon the bridge. And this bridge is not of iron; it is the bridge of mind, more restless than water. Upon this bridge we stand, which trembles at every moment—who knows when it may collapse. And our life-breaths tremble. The mind says: let us turn back. One mind says: let us move forward. And our mind says: do not abandon this joy—this love, this wife, this music, this poetry—do not leave these joys; enjoy them. The mind says: stay here! The body says: return behind! Some unknown call ahead summons—Paramatma calling: come forward! In all this, man is caught in a worry.
Those who stop at the mind stop at a very wrong station. They did well to move beyond the body, but they still had to move further; they were not to stop. That third call is Paramatma’s call—farther! and farther!
There is then a place beyond which there is nothing more; beyond which there is nothing behind. Having reached that place, there is nothing left to obtain. Because the desire to obtain remains only so long as there is sorrow within. Sorrow pushes: obtain something so that I may be erased. When sorrow is erased, the race to obtain stops. And when That is found which is all, there is nothing left to obtain.
But how to obtain That? We are very busy; from morning till night we are busy. Either busy in the body’s work or in the mind’s work. Either fulfilling the demands of the body or fulfilling the demands of the mind. Where shall we find time for Paramatma? Who will fulfill this third demand—how to fulfill it? Where is the time? Where is the opportunity? Where the facility?
I wander from village to village; people ask me: where is the time? Where is the facility? When shall we call upon that Lord? When shall we seek that Atman? There is no leisure. We get up in the morning—and there is the factory. We return in the evening exhausted—and there are the children. Another factory at home—the children, the wife. All day we run one factory; in the evening we get entangled in the second. We escape from this, and the next morning the same factory; the same in the evening. We go on to the factory; where is the time? Where the facility? When shall we seek That of which you speak—the bliss? By which path? Who will go? How shall we go? There is simply no time.
These people are perfectly right; they are not wrong. But I say this: to seek Paramatma, time is not needed at all. I say this: to seek Paramatma, no separate time is needed. The search for Paramatma is not competitive with the body and the mind. There is no competition between the search for Paramatma and the body-mind. Between body and mind, surely there is competition. If you are to pursue the body, then for that period the pursuit of the mind must be stopped. For the man who goes to earn bread cannot, at the very same time, go to learn the veena. Or one who goes to learn the veena cannot at the very same time earn bread. This is why this confusion arises: those who earn bread never write poetry; those who earn poetry always starve. This always happens, because there is competition. If you go to seek the mind, there will be some obstruction in seeking the body.
Therefore for thousands of years the search for the mind’s pleasures was the luxury only of kings and wealthy men. The poor man never pursued the mind. Where was the facility for a sweeper, a tanner, to sit and listen to the veena! Kings would listen to the veena in their palaces, would watch the apsaras dance. Where was the leisure for a scavenger! All day he will sweep the street—when will he watch a dance? And the sweeper, gradually, will become so gross that he will lose the very sense of seeing a dance. One who hammers all day—when will he hear the sitar? And the constant hammering will make his ears so dull that when someone plays the sitar, it will be beyond his understanding what is happening.
I have heard: two youths wanted to be painters. One of them later became a great painter—Doric. Both went to their master for training. But both were poor. They had no money even for fees. No money to buy colors. The master said: I will teach you free, but where will I get the colors? I myself am poor. Where will I get paper? You will have to arrange that. They said: we have nothing but the longing to learn painting.
Their master said: then it is very difficult. Where will you get food? Even if colors and paper come from somewhere, where will you get clothes?
Then the two decided that one would labor and the other would learn painting. They tossed a coin, Doric’s name came up, and he began to learn painting. He would learn for five years; after five years his friend would learn; then for five years he would labor.
The friend went and began to break stones on the roads. For five years he broke stones and fed his companion the food of painting. After five years, his friend caught his feet, washed them with tears, and said: you are wonderful—you never once said that I am breaking stones. Now you go!
That friend said: now it is very difficult for me to go; these hands and these fingers have become like stone. Now to hold the brush with these, perhaps they cannot create the subtle strokes of painting. But no matter—begin to paint; paint must be made. My hand too will be in those paintings, even though I did not paint, I only broke stones.
But the friend wept much: this is great misfortune. Go to the master! The master too, seeing his hands, said: these hands have become so hard that with these hands the subtle lines of the brush cannot be fashioned. Their fine vibrations are finished.
Either break stones, or hold the brush; there is competition there. This is why in the world the aspirations of the mind have been fulfilled only for a few—the Ashokas, the Akbars, the Peters the Great, the Elizabeths. The common man has kept breaking stones for the body. And this seems appropriate too; it appears to man that either do this, or do that. If there is hunger at home, how will the veena play? If there is thirst and illness at home, how will painting be made?
No, this is not possible. Between these two there is competition. Because of this competition man begins to ask: where shall we seek Paramatma, when shall we seek? Where is the time! We cannot even seek the mind’s pleasures—how shall we seek the bliss of the Atman?
Here I must say something. And that is: the Atman has no competition with the body and mind. For the search of the Atman, there is no need to carve out a separate time. But understand—if we bring a thousand chairs and fill this room, all the space is taken. And if someone says: one more chair must be placed, we will say: there is no space; where shall we put this chair? The space is full, there is no room for another chair. But imagine a thousand lamps burning in this room, and someone says: one more lamp must be lit. Will we say: now the light is full here; no more light can be accommodated in this room? Because light is not competitive. It is not that the light of one lamp occupies the space and leaves no room for another light; in the very same space, that light too will be accommodated. The third lamp’s light too will be accommodated, the fourth too. It is not that light occupies space; however much light… yes, it may be that lamps occupy space, but light does not. However much light can be filled into this room. A tiny lamp can illumine this room, and thousands of lamps’ light can illumine it too. But light does not collide with another light.
We have only known the body’s and the mind’s aspirations—which collide. We know nothing of the aspiration of the Atman—which does not collide. So first understand this: there is no opposition between a busy life and the search for Paramatma. In truth, there is no need to find time apart from your busy life for Paramatma. In your very busyness, in whatever you are doing—whether you break stones, build a house, run a factory, cook food at home, stitch clothes, play the veena, paint—whatever you do—doing does not oppose the search for Paramatma. Because the search for Paramatma is not a new kind of doing. It is not a new action. The search for Paramatma is a consciousness, an awareness; not an act, not a doing.
This difference must be understood a little.
One man is breaking stones, another is playing the veena—of those two, only one can be done at a time. But I say this: a man may break stones, and while breaking stones he can create such a consciousness that the search for Paramatma continues; the stones are broken, and the search continues. Play the veena—let the veena play, and the search continues.
And the wonderful thing is: the day stones are broken along with the search for Paramatma, the stones break more skillfully than before. Because with the search for Paramatma, the whole being begins to fill with peace, the whole being begins to fill with joy, the whole being begins to be stirred by a new music.
A temple was being built. A poet was passing by. He asked a stone-breaker: my friend, what are you doing?
The man lifted eyes filled with anger and said: are you blind? Can’t you see what I am doing? I am breaking stones!
The poet who asked became nervous, frightened. There was nothing in his question that warranted so much anger. But those whose insides are full of anger will pour it out at any time, right or wrong. The poet walked ahead and thought: I will ask another—are all stone-breakers so full of rage? He asked a second man: friend, what are you doing?
For a while that man did not even lift his head; then with great difficulty he raised it—as if a mountain of burden sat upon it—and said: what am I doing? I am doing nothing—earning bread for my children, for my sons, for my parents. Then he slowly picked up the hammer and began breaking stones again. This man was of another kind—sad, burdened.
Then he searched and found by the steps a young man breaking stones and singing a song. He went to him and asked: friend, what are you doing?
The man stood up and said: what am I doing! You ask what I am doing! As if he were dancing, as if a song were in his voice—and he said: I am building God’s temple.
All three were breaking stones—each one. One was breaking stones in anger. One can break stones in anger. Another was breaking stones in sadness. One can break stones in sadness too. The third was breaking stones in joy. One can break stones in joy as well. And neither anger becomes an obstacle, nor sadness, nor joy. None of these compete with the breaking of stones. One cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I be angry? The other cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I be sad? The third cannot say: I am breaking stones—how can I hum a song? How can I be joyous? No—there is no opposition between breaking stones and joy.
What do I wish to make clear by this?
I wish to make clear that meditation has no opposition with our work. Whatever work we do mindfully, that very work becomes a path leading toward Paramatma. Whatever work one can do mindfully, meditatively, with attention, that very work becomes the door of the Divine.
Therefore there is no opposition between a busy life and Paramatma. There is no opposition between a busy life and the search for the Atman.
How to work meditatively, mindfully?
As we work now, it is not at all mindful. And we go around asking people: how should we meditate? When should we meditate? There is no place in our house where we can meditate.
There is no place in any house. Because of the children, how can there be place! Children keep being born and all houses go on becoming small. Where is the place? There is no place anywhere. There is so much noise, so many difficulties—where to sit? Where to meditate?
They ask the wrong questions. The question is not where shall we meditate; the question is—how shall we meditate? It is not a question of place, nor of time. People ask: when shall we meditate—morning or night? That too is a wrong question. Where?—this question is wrong. When?—this question is wrong. There is only one question—how? How shall we meditate? Because meditation is related neither to time nor to place; neither to time nor to space. Meditation is related to attitude, to a mode of being, to a feeling. Therefore there is no opposition between meditation and busyness. In fact, the more mindfully you work, the less busy you will seem, the less occupied you will feel.
A man like Gandhi, who lives mindfully, does far more work than all of us and never raises the hue and cry that he has no time. Gandhi did so much work that perhaps no other man on earth ever did. In these fifty years, no man in the world did so much work.
But for this man, no obstacle arises in the search for Paramatma. He is ready to do such small chores as we cannot even imagine. We cannot even think that a great man would do such things. If mother Kasturba is cooking vegetables, Gandhi will sit and help. Now, this does not befit our country’s mahatmas. But Gandhi is a unique man. Gandhi will sit and begin to explain to Kasturba how vegetables should be cut—“You are cutting tomatoes the wrong way.” Ba said, “This is the limit! I have been cutting tomatoes all my life, what do you know about tomatoes!” Gandhi said, “You cut tomatoes without attention. Ba asked, “What do you mean?” Gandhi said, “Look at this tomato—where it is attached to its plant, in that little portion small insects often sit. You lift the knife and cut right through there—the insects must be dying—your cutting is not mindful. From a distance I saw that you are cutting the tomatoes irreligiously, so I came to tell you. First remove that portion where the tomato is attached to the plant—cut crosswise, not straight—then it becomes prayerful cutting. Now, in cutting a tomato there is no opposition to prayer. Tomatoes can be cut prayerfully, mindfully. And then, the tomato is also cut and the search for Paramatma continues.”
A youth came to Gandhi and said, “I spin thread, and my thread keeps breaking.” What Gandhi said is worth understanding. He said, “You must not be spinning mindfully; I spin mindfully.” The youth said, “What has thread to do with mindfulness?” Gandhi said, “When I spin thread, I only spin thread. Within me there is nothing except the spinning of thread. My hand rises with the distaff, my mind also rises with the distaff. My hand comes down to the spindle, my mind also comes down to the spindle. Within me only the thread spins; everything else stops. Then the thread does not break. And you spin, and your mind runs elsewhere—perhaps to the cinema—and the thread breaks.” The youth watched and found it true—the thread breaks only when the mind goes elsewhere.
Meditation means: whatever we are doing, do it with the whole mind, mindfully. Be fully present where we are engaged. If we are eating, be wholly present there. We should only be eating—nothing else. If we are working in the factory, driving a car, hammering—whatever we are doing—do it with full attention, so mindfully that only that action remains in our consciousness and everything else recedes. The focus of consciousness—like a man entering a room with a torch: the room is very large; he wants to see the window, so he focuses his beam on the window. Only the window is seen; the whole house is filled with darkness. Consciousness too is a light; it too has a focus. We do something, but the focus of consciousness is somewhere else. Then our personality can never reach the Atman. The simple formula for reaching the Atman—be wholly in what you are doing. What happens then? Then a wondrous event occurs of which we do not know—one who becomes fully present in the present moment enters within himself. Why? Because the present moment is the very door to entry within. Neither the past has any existence, nor the future. Only this moment exists.
You are listening to me now. You can also listen in such a way that you just sit here while being elsewhere. And it can happen that I am speaking yet I am not here at all. When, while listening, there is neither a behind nor a ahead, when there is only speaking and listening, and only this moment—then you are listening mindfully. And by performing any action in such mindfulness, one slowly becomes quiet. So quiet that from that very quietude one begins to sink within. The day one becomes perfectly quiet, on that day union with oneself happens. That is the Atman—that which is the meeting with oneself. The moment That is known, all sorrow dissolves from life. There is an unending shower of bliss. The experience of that shower is the experience of Paramatma. To attain Paramatma there is no opposition from a busy life. Time is not needed; resolve is needed.
A busy life does not hinder anyone. Therefore, do not remain in this delusion: that I am too entangled, and if, when I die, there is a Paramatma and he asks, I will say I had no free time. Do not remain in this delusion, because to attain Paramatma, time is not needed; resolve is needed. To attain Paramatma, place is not needed; longing for Paramatma is needed. And nothing in the world becomes a hindrance in attaining Paramatma—because Paramatma is alone—he has no competitor. If there were another Paramatma, then trouble could be, that while trying to attain “A” named Paramatma, how to attain “B”! There is no opposition from the world’s things to That. Paramatma is not some commodity you go to purchase in the market—economic laws apply in the market. If you are to buy one thing, you cannot buy another—there is a limit to buying. If you are to buy a bicycle, buy a bicycle or a radio. If you buy a radio, then do not buy a bicycle. There an “or” is imposed—either the bicycle or the radio. But God is not a commodity for sale in the market; he is not a thing. Therefore the laws of economics do not apply to God—He is the only one; there is nothing that stands in opposition to Him. And there is nothing in the world to compare with Him such that if you buy This, you cannot buy that.
Do anything in the world—whatever life has given you as an opportunity—sweeping the road, cooking food at home, or working in a factory—whatever opportunity life has given, make full use of that opportunity; but along with that, strive to be mindful, and that very mindfulness will go on developing. And the one who lives mindfully twenty-four hours a day—who rises mindfully, sleeps mindfully, eats mindfully, speaks mindfully, loves mindfully, works mindfully, and if he fights, fights mindfully—such a man is doing the practice of meditation twenty-four hours a day. When will he say: I have no time? He is meditating all the time, praying all the time, moving in the search of Paramatma. And slowly he will begin to descend within. And the day the descent within begins—what is it like?—it is hard to say. What new event happens, what new flame is lit, which doors open, which flowers bloom, which sleeping veenas begin to sing—all this is very difficult to tell. Man has no words to say what happens there.
But there, something happens—after which no desire remains. There, something happens—on attaining which the race to attain ceases. There, something happens—on attaining which the hands join upward in gratitude to the sky. There, something happens—by which the head bows toward the earth at some unknown feet. There, something happens—by which gratefulness fills the life-breaths. But never by mistake say: I am busy, so how shall I seek Him? This very statement is wrong; this question, this outlook is deceptive; it is a device to save oneself from oneself.
Kabir went on weaving cloth and attained Paramatma; he did not say: I am weaving cloth—how shall I seek Paramatma? Kabir went on weaving, clack-clack, and attained Paramatma. Gora the potter went on making pots. He did not say: stop, O pots—either I fashion Paramatma or I fashion you. He went on kneading the clay, making pots. People said to him: what is this profession you have chosen—by it you will lose God! He laughed and said: for the sake of God I make pots. People said to Kabir: stop this weaving. Enough of making cloth. Why do you waste yourself in it if you are seeking Paramatma! He said: I weave only for Rama, I weave for Him—it all proceeds in His remembrance.
No, there is no need to flee life, leaving anything behind. Those who flee are in error. Only within life can Paramatma be attained. But one needs the way of seeing, the feeling. And I say again and again: in the very midst of life, Paramatma is to be attained; you are not to go elsewhere to attain Him.