Vysat Jeevan Main Ishwar Ki Khoj #2

This is not the meaning of nonattachment. Nonattachment does not mean that you either fall silent and let whatever happens happen. Nonattachment means remaining separate while doing. That is its meaning. Say what is appropriate to say; do what is appropriate to do; and inwardly, the whole time, know that I am separate. All this is a play; it is an acting.

Nonattachment means the state of acting. What is happening on the outside has no more value than a performance. For it, I have no reason to be inwardly tormented, anxious, unhappy, or filled with tension. Outside, a performance is going on.

Like a man playing the part of Rama in the Ramlila—Sita has been abducted; he is weeping, beating his chest...

No, it won’t come soon; but so far...

Yes, it will come—little by little. It will come only if you keep it in awareness. But nonattachment does not mean that you do nothing. If you do nothing, you fall apart. Nonattachment means the sense of separateness while doing.

One expression of this is the feeling of acting: that what we are doing has no more value than an act. And as this feeling deepens—that it is only acting—then it’s finished; once it is over, it is over, and we have nothing to do with it anymore. Someone makes a mistake; we tell him it is a mistake, we even explain it. And we remain outside it—because we were outside the whole time, even while we were speaking.

So it means finding within yourself a point that always remains outside—that is what nonattachment means. To discover within a state that stands outside in every situation. You are walking; that is not walking. You are speaking; that is not speaking. You are working; that is not working. This has to grow slowly—and that very growth is meditation.

For example, when you are walking, know as you walk that it is the body that is walking. Where am I walking? How can I walk at all? The soul has no feet, the soul has no movement—how would it walk? I simply am, and the body is walking.

Now we are speaking; it is the lips that speak, the throat that speaks. The soul has neither throat nor lips. So the lips speak; the soul sits silently.

You are listening; it is the ears and the body that are listening. The soul stands far, aloof.

Keep this remembrance in every action, even the ordinary ones. You are eating; the body is eating. The soul is continuously silent, in an eternal fast. There, the fast goes on unbroken; there, food has never been eaten. In every small action, keep aware: I am separate.

This sense of separateness, of being other—of standing far and apart—develops a new point of consciousness within. Then you will see a twofold functioning. Suppose someone has made a mistake and you are explaining it to him. As it is now, you become the explainer; only two remain: the one you explain to, and you. Then there will be three: the person addressed; your body and your mind, which are explaining; and you, who are watching these two happenings—watching that...

To labor in this direction is what is called the attitude of nonattachment. While doing everything—nothing is to be left undone—keep the sense that all this is play, acting, nothing more than an act. Sitting at the shop—it is a part of the act. Talking to someone—it is a part of the act. Therefore do it with complete skill, because in acting, full efficiency and skill are needed. Do it with total skill—do not miss even a whit. But even with all the skill, keep remembering that I am separate; what happened, happened; what did not happen, did not happen.

At all times. For twenty-four hours, sleeping or waking—that is, even while asleep. When you go to bed, go with this very feeling: the body is going to sleep; I remain alert, I am awake—what is sleep to me? Let this feeling be there twenty-four hours a day, in every act...

It will come just fine—indeed, more skillfully than it ordinarily does. And however it comes, it will suffice; it creates no obstacle.
So, nonattachment means that within us there is a point that remains outside everything. It has not attached anywhere; nonattachment is to be outside association. We stand in a crowd, and we are alone. We are working and yet not working. We are eating and yet not eating.

Every moment, every moment, that awareness has to go on growing.

Yes, then there will be non-attachment. And then there is no need to run away from any work. Therefore, non-attachment is a higher state than sannyas.

The one who runs away by becoming a sannyasin is not unattached.

He ran away because he was afraid. You sit in the shop; you are entangled in it. He is afraid that if he sits in the shop he will get entangled, so he left the shop and ran away. He is not in non-attachment. The state of non-attachment is very high—very high. That is what one has to work on; that is the real thing. It will come, slowly, slowly.

Let it come clearly into your awareness that this is a feeling...

Yes, they will clear up on their own; there’s not much to it. Take this common notion that one must be silent in meditation—there is no need for such a notion. We are silence already, and whatever is happening is happening outside us. Thoughts are happening too; they are happening outside us. We do not have to become silent; we are silence already. Whatever is moving is moving outside us. By mistake we made it one with ourselves; there the error occurred.

When you sit in meditation, thought is moving. We made the mistake of taking up an identity, an identification: “This thought is me, it is mine.” That was the error. This is a thought, and I am I. And this thought is circling around me—like a fan whirring, like a fly buzzing… this thought is circling. This is this, and I am I; what have I to do with it! As this sense deepens, the thought will grow thin. For the power that has entered this thought has come through us; it is our own gift. Because we called it “mine,” the poor thing showed up. The moment the “mine” breaks, a bridge breaks. Its coming will, by itself, grow feeble. And then it will come only when I call it; without that it will not come. When I say, “Come,” or I say, “Do this work,” only then will it come; otherwise it will not.

So it is wrong to say that in meditation we have to become silent. In truth, meditation means to know, continuously, that we are silence. We have always been silence. That is, there—where we are—no thought has ever entered, nor can it enter. There is no avenue of entry where our consciousness is.

So, breaking identification is meditation.

The trouble is that these things cannot be explained to people; therefore one has to speak to them step by step. Step by step one has to say, “Become silent, become this, become that.” All this is useless talk.

Yes, we are silence itself; it is this realization that has to be known. And you will be amazed that even when you are speaking, thinking, within you there is silence. In that utterly innermost state no thought ever enters. Just as waves keep moving on the surface of the ocean while below all is calm—there are no waves whatsoever. For miles and miles there are no waves.

In fact, the reaction to the blows that come from outside upon the outer layer of our consciousness—that reaction is the mind; mind is reaction. For example, you are sitting and I give you a push; the mind will say, “A push has come—defend yourself.” So it is the very outer ring of our consciousness. Just like the surface of the sea: when the wind blows, waves rise upon it from the wind’s impact.

Completely natural. It should rise. When the wind pushes, a wave will rise on the surface. When you sit to work at the shop and someone comes and creates a disturbance, a thought will arise. That thought is a wave on the surface of the mind.

But if you shut this down, you are as good as dead—because then you cannot do anything. And that is why the sannyasin becomes like a dead man: he runs away from wherever there is wind. Wherever the wind comes, vibrations begin. He says: stay away from money, away from woman, away from house, away from son, away from society—run off somewhere. He says this because if we stay near these, vibrations will be produced. And having kept himself aside from vibrations, he ends up in difficulty.

What I say is: let the vibrations arise. That is the very meaning of life—that vibrations will arise. And the mark of a living consciousness is that it will generate intense vibrations; it will be sensitive, more and more sensitive.

We are so many people sitting here. Put a stone here and a flower here. When the fan runs, the flower will tremble more, and the stone will just lie there—because the stone is not that sensitive. The more sensitive the mind, the more subtle vibrations it will catch. Therefore, do not run from vibrations. Know this: while catching all the vibrations, at the center I am unmoving—there, there is no vibration. So what is there to fear?

And deepen only this sense: I am not the vibrations. Non-attachment is the central process of meditation. And the person who cultivates the sense of non-attachment—then there is no need of meditation or anything else. Slowly, everything will drop away.

Absolutely.

Lately I have been thinking that a camp for a small number of people should not be a meditation camp but for asanga sadhana—for the practice of nonattachment. In it, for five to seven days, one lives only in the attitude of nonattachment; performing every action while remaining in that attitude of nonattachment.

We are not with anything. We may be together—as we are sitting here; you are all sitting with me—but still I am alone and you are alone. We appear to be together, but who is truly with whom? There is a wife, a child, a mother, a father—everyone, all together—yet ultimately you are alone. The point is to deepen this sense. In every situation, in every situation. Even if wealth is close by, it is still outside us.

No, there is no need to run away. The very mistake is in calling it a hassle and an entanglement.

Yes—let it happen. The unease we feel is not a real problem; it’s just disturbance. When we take that disturbance to be “I am,” then we get troubled. Disturbance will be there. And you think a sannyasin won’t have it? Run away wherever you like—it will be there everywhere. I was just telling you about Nirmalji! In Amritsar I heard that the ashram had deposited money with someone; he refused to return it—and there was a heart attack.
Where will you go? The difficulty is: where will you go? Wherever you run, disturbances are like that—suppose you become a Jain monk. He sets out with the rule: only if such-and-such condition is met in such-and-such house will I eat. He comes to that house, the condition isn’t met—disturbance. Then he goes to another house; again it isn’t found—disturbance again. He sits to eat in your home, and some child pees, and he will leave the food, because a disturbance has occurred.
What I’m saying is: disturbance is the sign of life, the very sign of life.

Disturbances will keep happening all around us, because wherever we go, the world is there.

It is a play. The real joy is to live this play as a play. Then you live it totally—no fear, no worry. And within you know that an acting is going on. This is the wife, so you are acting with her; this is the son, so you are acting with him; this is the shop, so you are acting with it. And they too are all acting. Keep both things in mind.

Acting, theater—these too are just acting.

Then even what they say will not make us unhappy. If someone abuses you, you know it is just part of the acting. When within we know we are unattached, we should know that everyone is unattached. In that state the mind will remain calm—calm even amidst disturbance.

And until this art is learned, where will you run? Nothing will come of it. Here children make a racket; go and sit in the forest and the birds will make a racket and disturb you. Life is present everywhere and in every way. Right now you have a big house and you worry so much about it; a sannyasin worries just as much about his loincloth—that it might get stolen.

Once, this happened: I boarded the train at Jabalpur. Some people had come to see off a sannyasin—seemed to be great devotees of his, perhaps he was from out of town. He had a strip of burlap tied around him—you know, that gunny-sack cloth, burlap. One piece tied on, one draped, and two more in a basket along with some fruit. He was traveling first class with me. I was coming to Bina. It was just the two of us. He asked me, “When will Bina come?” I said, “Bina will come around six-thirty or seven in the morning. This train terminates at Bina, so rest easy, sleep—Bina is in the morning.”

I lay down to sleep. I saw that some devotees had offered him ten–fifty rupees, kept in the basket. Seeing that I had fallen asleep, he quickly took the money out and counted it, all the while glancing at me to see if I was watching. He put the money back in the basket, then took it out again, wrapped it in a piece of burlap and placed it under his head. One piece under his head, one as a cover, one spread out—and he went to sleep.

Two hours later I saw him open the door and ask someone, “When will Bina come?” I said to him, “I’ve told you Bina is at seven, and the train ends there. So be absolutely carefree and sleep. If you keep waking up all night to ask, you won’t let me sleep, and you won’t sleep either.”

An hour later I saw him again asking someone, “When will Bina come?” Now he has nothing at all, yet the disturbance of the mind is there.

Then it got amusing: near six-thirty at Bina he got up, took the burlap strip in his hand, and stood before the mirror tying it. He unties once, ties again. He ties it with the same relish as someone tying a necktie—no difference at all. Like someone putting on a tie and getting ready. He ties it once, it doesn’t look right to him, so he ties it a second time. Then he wraps everything and looks in the mirror again.

Now, my point is not whether you tie a tie or wear trousers; whatever you wear, your mind is the same—you will do the same with it. To onlookers it may seem, “What a great renunciate!” But inside, the mind is just the same. So don’t worry about swapping a tie for a strip of burlap. Wear a tie—see it as acting. Wear the burlap—see it as acting. Whatever you do, don’t give it too much value.

Therefore it is not so much a question of changing things on the outside; it is a question of your inner change. And inner change has only one meaning: either we take it that we are the doers of what we are doing—in that case there will be suffering. Or we understand that things are happening; such a vast universe, and within it things are happening. We too are players, as are millions upon millions of players. This play is going on… As this feeling deepens, liberation is possible while remaining in all situations. And I say, only in this way is liberation possible; otherwise, it is not.

Complete awareness and the state of complete non-attachment!

Otherwise, troubles of the opposite kind arise. Remain in just that space. Otherwise you keep working and go on being miserable, thinking, “This work is giving me suffering.” The work is not giving you suffering; your mind is giving you suffering. So you drop this work and take up something else. But even after leaving the work, the mind remains the same. And as long as you live you will be doing something or other. There too it will give suffering. It will continue in the background, and you will not do the real thing. The real thing is that a distance should arise between the work and you.

So in that very state, if thoughts arise—whatever arises—meet it with the same attitude. Whether thoughts go away entirely or not, we are not to worry. They will go. Inwardly just keep this: fine—if they come, they come; if they don’t, they don’t.

When they don’t come, we are not to be pleased; when they come, we are not to be unhappy. When they are not coming, simply know they are not coming right now; when they come, simply know they are coming. In both conditions we must keep a sense of nonattachment. If they come, fine; if they don’t, fine.

Consider it as held in abeyance on the foundation of nonattachment. The whole point is to be alone there; that is, after a little practice of meditation, one should practice nonattachment. To whoever has begun to understand me, I must then speak only of nonattachment. To tell it outright to one who does not understand has no meaning; it is beyond his grasp. So keep the vision of nonattachment alive. And as far as I am concerned, whatever is needed, whenever it is needed, I will do it. Do not worry about that; do not worry at all—it is completely in my awareness.

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

Yes, two things: first, I have in mind to write a Diary of Mahavira—written from Mahavira’s own side, as if Mahavira himself were writing his diary.

No, no—nothing like that, nothing like that. Suppose Mahavira comes to this village today, and he keeps a diary—what happened today, whom he met, with whom he spoke, what I said, what the state of my feelings was. He is filling his diary. Now, his diary has to be filled on his behalf. That is a very useful thing, and it will become very deep. And it will also create quite an upheaval, and become the cause of much discussion.

It will be like a novel, but it could have many consequences. One is to go ahead and do that. And another is—on Mahavira’s ideas, on his life, whatever my perspective is on all those things...

In that, actually, it will only come together properly if we do this: our Dayanand here—he has done some study of Jain philosophy—ask him to prepare some questions, to prepare a questionnaire.
(The recording of the question is not clear.)
Because whether I come here or there, in either case it will be convenient if a questionnaire is ready. Prepare the questionnaire so that it covers every aspect of Mahavira’s entire life. Two hundred questions, even two hundred fifty—no need to worry. Let them frame questions on each individual point, and make divisions.
For example, regarding his birth they should prepare two or three questions. Prepare questions about his childhood; about the economic condition of his household; then about the later period of his life; then about his austerities. Prepare questions on all of these. Then I will go on having a detailed recording made on each question, one by one. That will make it very easy, very systematic.

Yes, the whole of life will come in, the whole thing will be covered. And as we talk, whatever questions arise in between, we’ll keep asking those too as we go along. So let them raise three or four hundred—five hundred—questions of their own kind.

And while I am answering the questions, you also sit and keep formulating all the questions. As soon as that answer is complete, ask further questions related to it. Then the questions will be recorded, and their answers will be recorded as well. That book is to be prepared in the form of question-and-answer. The questions... let them be complete.

Yes, that diary I would have to have written separately, have it prepared. But after this, getting the diary written will be easier. Because everything will become clear to me too, won’t it! I mean, it is in my view, but if I sit down with some leisure I will have it organized—systematically.

Send them to me. I’ll take a quick look. If anything needs a little tweaking or a bit of rearranging, I’ll do that and have them ready.

Yes, I’ll look into it. The timing will be right in the monsoon—yes, in the monsoon it will be right. If you wish to come in the rains as well... By then, let them too have their questions ready; so, in July or August.

That would be even better. If there is a house somewhere, and there’s a good spot in it, sit there—and it will be even more delightful...

That would be good; set aside fifteen or twenty days.

Until then, have the questions prepared.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
A person like that is not of a simple heart. Rather, the one who says, “That sweet looks good; I will eat it,” is the simple-hearted person.
Simple-heartedness is a far greater thing. This man has a very complex mind.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
It only seems so to us. To us—about such subtle secrets of the human mind... Why do you step out after applying good oil and wearing good clothes—have you ever thought?

No. You wear good clothes, oil your hair, step out in style; others are impressed by you.

Among us there are very clever people… you are not as clever as the sadhus and renunciates are. How much respect will you get by applying oil? By applying oil, how much respect will you get? By applying oil, how much respect will you get. But without applying oil you can get even more. So if you are clever you won’t build a big house. You will say, What do I need a house for? I am a sadhu! What does one get from a big house? Only respect is gotten, only honor is gotten.

As for the mind’s contentment—the reverence he is receiving now, he will receive there as well; in fact, he will receive even more. As for the mind’s contentment, does Gandhiji get any less of it than you? He gets more than you. And the irony is that even the builder of great mansions will come to touch the feet of the one lying under a tree.

Yes. This kind of renunciation never transforms the mind; the mind’s basic desires continue. And to fulfill those very desires it has taken up this path—you have taken up this path. The paths may differ, but the mind’s longing remains the same. That is why I say renunciation cannot be primary. If it becomes primary, a mess is bound to follow.

A secondary thing.

A simple person is one who has no insistence, no stubbornness. If you tell him, “Have a sweet,” he eats the sweet. And if you say, “Today it’s vegetables,” he eats the vegetables. The person who says, “Only if there are twenty-five kinds of dishes will I eat,” is also complex. And the one who says, “I will eat only one kind of vegetable; remove the others from here,” he too is complex.
A simple person is a very different kind of person. Simplicity means there is no stubbornness, no insistence; he accepts life as it is.
Now, for example, if you were to put a velvet shirt on Gandhi-ji then...

In the matter of meat, the question of simplicity cannot arise. In the matter of meat, the question of simplicity cannot arise.

No, no, no. There are many more perspectives, aren't there! There are many more perspectives. A simplicity that can hurt another is not simplicity.

Yes, by killing someone—what kind of simplicity is that!

For example, you came here, and a sannyasin came here, and he is a simple man. You arranged a nice cushion for him, so he lay down. Now, by lying on the cushion no one is being hurt at all, no pain is being caused. If there were no cushion, he would lie on the ground, because he has no insistence on a cushion.

No relation at all. Simplicity means such a person will be plain and straightforward—he will not do anything that would become a cause of hurt to anyone. He will not get into such acts.

But those whom you call renunciates and “simple”—not a single one of them is simple. They are extremely complicated people—extremely. Their minds are very complex and very cunning. And the whole thing they are doing is a calculation of cunningness—who cooked this food, how it was cooked, this one touched it, that one touched it. In short, the whole thing is cunning, through and through.

Your mind is simpler than all that. You are simpler than they are. Because you are simply saying, quite naturally, whatever the mind desires.
(The question’s audio recording is unclear.)
If I show love toward you, it will be costly, because I will have to give up something—give up something for you. But if I show it toward a stone, there is nothing to lose. There sits a dead stone, and I circle around it and return home. Feeling should awaken toward life, not toward stones. And when feeling awakens toward life, your feeling will rise higher. But we have devised a trick: to escape life, we have erected temples.
(The question’s audio recording is unclear.)
I will speak. There should be temples. Certainly, certainly...

Yes, then enjoy it—who is stopping you!

No, no—but then enjoy it as a song; why this cheating! If someone enjoys dancing, let them dance to their heart’s content. Why drag Mahavira into it! By placing his idol there—for what; why involve him in pretension! You dance and enjoy yourself; who is stopping you? Take full delight. If you enjoy throwing saffron, throw saffron. Why are you trapping Mahavira in it!

My point is that things should be clear. If I enjoy eating, let me eat to my heart’s content; but why make an excuse by first “offering it to God”?

A man used to come to Ramakrishna. Whenever Kali’s day came, when Dussehra arrived, he would give a grand feast and celebrate with great pomp. Many goats were slaughtered and all that. Then the man grew old. Ramakrishna asked him, “These days you don’t celebrate Dussehra? What happened—everything stopped?” He said, “Now I have no teeth.” Ramakrishna said, “Fool! When it was for your teeth that you had goats killed, why were you dragging Kali into it? At least be straight and honest. If you want to eat goat, eat goat. But cutting a goat before Kali and then eating it—that’s your cleverness. You are deceiving—yourself and others. The point was only to eat goat, and by making Kali the pretext you are also escaping the pang of eating it—because ‘we are offering it to God; we aren’t the ones eating’!”

So my point is: live life however you want to live it. I am not against living. Do what you like. But do it straightforwardly. And don’t invent these tricks of deception. If I want to wear silk clothes, let me wear silk; but to say, “I am a devotee of God, therefore I am wearing silk”—that is something else.

Yesterday a gentleman came to see me—there in Amritsar—with many medals, wearing a coat—and a certain mahant, a Sikh, the head of a monastery. He came. Over here—what do you call it—an entirely silver-embroidered coat, turban and all, silver stars woven on it, and ten or fifteen of his devotees; they came to meet me. I asked, “Why are you wearing these? What is all this?” He said, “One cannot go into God’s court in ordinary clothes.”

Now, wear whatever you want—who is stopping you! But why this ploy, this cunning? This cleverness—why? Go to God.

Over there, in Aurobindo’s ashram, there is the Mother. She wears nothing less than velvet and silk. There is no prohibition; let whoever wishes wear what they like. I don’t say that wearing is bad—wear whatever you please. But what did Aurobindo say? He was asked, “Why does the Mother wear such costly clothes?” He replied, “In the court of God, ordinary clothes don’t do. In the court of God, ordinary… God means aisvarya—opulence. There it is all grandeur. The Mother has reached where God is; there it is nothing but magnificence. Ordinary clothes do not work there.”

Now this is what I say: don’t run this fraud. I don’t say—if I were to say that wearing silk is bad, that would be wrong. I don’t say that. My whim is my own—if I want I’ll wear khadi, or I’ll wear silk; there is no question of anyone in the world having anything to say. But if I say that I have worn these clothes because they are for God...

Now, this is quite amusing. Do simple clothes make someone an ordinary person? Or do extraordinary clothes make someone extraordinary?
For a sensible man like Arvind to speak in such a dishonest way—it’s all a bad business. So I end up with all the hassle. And the trouble is that now the matter keeps getting more and more difficult—how to...

There are no arrangements at all, Lalaji; for now it’s all just talk without any arrangements. You all will have to do that. If it is arising in your hearts, then it will surely happen.

Just now the Shankaracharya came to Patna. First, the golden throne comes along. Four men in front... the whole meeting is getting disturbed... first the golden throne must be installed.

I’m not objecting: by all means, enjoy your golden throne; who can stop anyone? The golden throne is set up, and then he climbs onto it, khadau on his feet, clattering on the throne.

Ask him and he will say he is the Shankaracharya; therefore the golden throne. How can he sit in an ordinary place? Now, let anyone sit wherever they like; that’s not the issue. But this alibi! And what happens is, because of that alibi you can’t say anything. Otherwise you would call the man an absolute fool—that when ten thousand people are sitting there, he walks in carrying his own throne! Four men bring the throne ahead, and he comes walking behind.

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

Immediately! They first have the chairs measured.

Four inches higher—nothing less will do. They’ll stand; they won’t sit. And the irony is, if you say, “Let me sit four inches lower,” there’s no problem. They say, “It’s not about me; it’s about the honor of the Shankaracharya.” And under the pretext of the Shankaracharya, you take care to gratify your own ego.

In Calcutta about four years ago, when Dugad-ji was still alive, I went and stayed at Rajiv Singh-ji’s place. Perhaps Tulsiji was there at the time. The incident had happened before I arrived. Sushil-ji was there too, and others.

Dugad-ji told me they had organized a function to bring everyone onto one platform. Then representatives of each came asking, “Where will you seat our acharya, our guru? Settle that first.” Because they cannot sit below anyone. And since no one could sit below anyone else, the difficulty arose: how to build the stage? No one could sit lower than another. In the end it came to nothing—they couldn’t sit together.

More recently in Allahabad—there’s a baba there, Sachcha Baba. He had organized a gathering and invited me too. He had a large stage built to seat sixty people; he had invited sixty. But in the end, one by one they had to sit and give their speeches; the sixty could not sit together. Because who would be higher, who lower! And no one was willing to sit alongside—“How can we sit with him? Our seat must be four inches higher than so-and-so’s!”

At this recent conference in Puri, the other Jagatgurus did not come, the other Shankaracharyas did not come. Simply because it’s the same hassle—some Shankaracharyas demand a seat higher than the others’. And no one is willing to be equal with anyone. So at any one place only a single Shankaracharya can come; a second cannot—because if he sets up his bigger throne, a quarrel erupts immediately.

Such boorishness—so many stupid minds gathered together! And we go on tolerating them all. We just keep tolerating them all.

Nothing but ego—nothing else. And hiding that ego behind a religious cover is even more dangerous. It’s the mind of a child. Like a little child climbs onto a chair and says, “We are bigger than you.” Children do this, don’t they? They get up on a chair and say, “Father, we’re bigger than you; look, we’re taller than you.”

We take it as just a child—he doesn’t have the sense yet. But these are children too. They sit four inches higher and think they’ve become great. Childish—that’s what it is: a mind stuck in childhood. Yet these are our gurus, our leaders, our saints. It’s all a show, really. All very amusing talk.

I had told you, hadn't I? The Morarji affair—I had told you, hadn't I, what happened with Tulsiji? Very amusing.

He asked, “Maharaj, why are you sitting up there on a raised seat? This is an intimate gathering. We have come together to converse. If you were going to give a speech, then it would be fine for you to sit above and speak and for us to sit below and listen. But here we have come to talk; this is an intimate sitting—there aren’t even a hundred or a hundred and fifty people that you should sit on high. There are just ten to twenty-five people; we could sit below and talk quietly, talk together. Why have you climbed up and sat above? I want an answer to this. And when I folded my hands to greet you, you did not fold your hands. So I want to ask: can you not fold your hands? The discussion should begin from this.”
Tulsi-ji became flustered.

So Morarji said, “He may be your guru, but he is not our guru. And in any case, we have been invited here to meet you. And if you speak of tradition, I have heard you call yourselves revolutionary saints—then what of tradition? If the tradition is wrong, break it. And if it is right, explain to me what is right about it.”

Then there was more fuss. I said, “If Morarji would like an answer from me, I would like to give him one—provided both Tulsi-ji and he agree that I should speak; otherwise I have nothing to do with it, because no one has asked me anything.”

Tulsi-ji said, “Yes, yes, please speak.” And Morarji said, “I want an answer.” So I said, “First of all, why did it catch your eye in the first place that he is sitting up there on a dais? What hurt you was having to sit below. And so long as it hurts you to sit below, someone will continue to enjoy sitting above; there is no difference in it. The two are linked. You are asking why he is sitting above—you know very well. The very pain you feel in sitting below is the pleasure he feels in sitting above; there is no need to ask anyone about it.

“And if you too had been seated on the dais, I can say with certainty you would not have raised this question. And there must have been other occasions when you sat on the dais and did not think, ‘Why am I on the dais and others are sitting below?’ So understand this clearly: what is becoming your sorrow is becoming his joy. There is no great complication in it. The ailment is the same in both of you.”

But everyone’s mind is childish. Everyone’s mind is childish. I said this is a pointless matter. If you are seated, then remain seated. A lizard has climbed up there… just keep sitting. What has it to do with you? And as for us twenty-five people sitting down here, if sitting below does not cause anyone any hurt, then sit wherever you want to sit. And then even those sitting above will feel the foolishness: “What a fool I am, sitting up here!” But it hurts you; it gives them pleasure.

One begins to relish the ego and the whole show goes on. So Morarji has been angry since that very day; Tulsi-ji is angry too. The trouble is that to speak the truth is to make people angry. Tell a lie and everyone is happy. Tell a lie and everyone is happy.

A few courageous people. Courageous people.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
So, the priest—the very meaning of “priest” is a person who gives answers to all these things. He knows nothing at all.

Now, the kind of knowledge he had was such that if it spread, his bluff would be exposed. If the knowledge spread, his cover would be blown. Because it wasn’t real knowledge—it was pseudo-knowledge.

The knowledge of science is such that the more it spreads, the more science grows. Because it isn’t false; you can experiment, you can test it. So science has nothing to fear. But the priest’s knowledge was such that if everyone came to know it, his whole game would be up. There was no substance in it. So it was made a secret, guarded so it would not reach everyone. To keep it from reaching everyone, education was not given to all.

Women were forbidden, so half of society was cut off. For them there was no question of education. And the striking thing is that it was understood early on that woman remained in a state of greater ignorance than man, because she had no opportunity to receive knowledge. And therefore woman became the instrument of man’s exploitation. And even today it is the same. Even today the holy man survives because of women; by men’s support he would have died. Even today it is your women who keep the sadhus and priests alive. They are the reason they are sustained. And you men go only trailing behind your wives; there isn’t much more to it.

So it was very necessary to keep women in ignorance; only if she remained ignorant could she stay with the priest. Therefore women were barred from education. They were to be given no education. The Shudras were barred from education as well. Because wherever education arrives, revolution begins. So if the poor get education… educating the poor is dangerous. Now that the poor are becoming educated, poverty will not remain in the world—they will wipe out the rich. The poor have been forcibly made poor; they too can become rich, but they cannot until they receive education. Therefore the lower class—the poor, the Shudras—their education was absolutely forbidden.

So half of society—women—were barred from education; they became the base of exploitation. They became collaborators in all kinds of foolishness. And the section from which an uprising could come—the lower, the Shudra, the laborer, the working class—was prohibited; it received no education. Without education, it never even occurs to him that he can change his condition. He accepts things as they are.

Then three classes remained to society: a class of businessmen, a class of the intelligent, and a class of Kshatriyas, the warriors. These three divided their domains so there would be no quarrel or conflict. The merchant would do trade, earn money, and gain prestige from wealth. The Kshatriya would fight, win, and gain prestige from power. And the Brahmin would do the work of intelligence and gain prestige from intellect.

Now, it is also to be understood that there was a reason for giving the Brahmin the highest honor. For one thing, by rule he was the Brahmin. But the Vaishyas and Kshatriyas also realized why the Brahmin should be given the greatest respect. Because here is the curious thing: in a society where the intelligent are given the highest honor, there is never a revolution. If the intelligent receive the highest honor, there is never a revolution—because those who start revolutions are the intelligent. Therefore, in India no revolution could take place, because we gave the greatest respect to the intellectual.

Even now in Russia they are doing the same. A revolution cannot happen in Russia, because Russia has figured out your secret. In Russia at this time, writers, journalists, speakers, scholars, thinkers, scientists—these are the most respected. Therefore, in Russia a revolution simply cannot happen.

So in Russia, after 1917, they gave the greatest respect to such people—and cared for no one else. Today writers in Russia get more money than anywhere else in the world: fine bungalows and cars beyond measure. The speaker, the writer, the intellectual—he is greatly honored. Therefore not even the slightest talk of revolution can arise there.

In India the Brahmins were given the highest honor; that is why there has been no revolution here for five thousand years. If the Brahmin gets filled with anger he can bring about a revolution. And this is exactly the mistake the British made in India. Had the British managed to placate India’s intellectuals, there would never have been a revolution. That was their mistake—they missed completely. The rebellion that did happen in India—by whom did it happen? Did you make a revolution? The Indian intellectual was not appeased; he became angry; his ego was not satisfied; he took offense; he started the trouble and spread it. If the British had kept conferring great respect on the few intelligent people, there would have been no revolution at all—never.

So, to save society from revolution, they kept giving the greatest respect to the intelligent, and the three made a division. The Kshatriya would receive great honor, because only he could be king. The wealthy would receive much honor, because only he could be the capitalist. The Brahmins would be highly honored, because only they could be the intelligentsia. And there would be no conflict among these three. The Kshatriya had no need to become a Brahmin, nor the Brahmin to become a Vaishya. And that quarrel you speak of between Vashishtha and Vishwamitra—at bottom it is only this: a Kshatriya trying to become a Brahmin. Which is forbidden; it should not be. Because the division that was made is disturbed by it.

This is exactly the quarrel with Mahavira and Buddha. They are Kshatriyas and are trying to become Brahmins. Mahavira and Buddha’s conflict with Hindu society is precisely this: they are Kshatriyas attempting to become Brahmins—that is, staking a claim that “we too are knowers.” This is a mistake; you are entering the Brahmin’s domain. Therefore the Brahmin became an enemy: “This cannot be allowed.”

Do you understand? This was a division of labor, and these are the people who disturb it. For they are Kshatriyas, yet they say, “We are omniscient.” So you are claiming to be Brahmins, Brahma-jnanis. The Brahmin has his own monopoly; you are encroaching upon it. Whereas the Brahmin does not intrude into the Kshatriya’s sphere—when Parashurama did, it created a mess, a whole tangle. Otherwise there was no trouble. Now and then a stray individual would try to enter another field—sometimes a Brahmin wanting to be a Kshatriya, sometimes a Kshatriya wanting to be a Brahmin—and then quarrels arose. But the general custom remained: stay within your bounds and do not quarrel.

Most quarrels happened between Kshatriya and Brahmin, because the Kshatriya had the power of the sword and the Brahmin the power of intelligence. The Vaishya raised no quarrel, for he had only the power of wealth. And one who has the power of wealth is very fearful, because wealth can be snatched away. Concerned with guarding it, he is very afraid; therefore he never ventures far into any sphere of action.

When Mahavira and Buddha rebelled—they were Kshatriyas and they took on the challenge—they went outside the Kshatriya fold; they stepped out of that fold. They could not become Brahmins, because the Brahmins did not admit them. They were no longer Kshatriyas. They had no path left except to become traders, hence all the Jains became Banias.

That was the only fold left to enter. They could not become Shudras; so there was no way left except to become Banias. The Brahmins did not let them in; they did not accept Mahavira and Buddha as capable of being knowers. And by talking of knowledge they moved outside the Kshatriya fold—they laid down the sword for matters of knowledge. They had no way left but to become Banias. And the Vaishyas could not stop them, because the Vaishya has no power; poor fellow, he remains preoccupied with his own protection. He does not get into any hassle—whoever comes, let him come.

Therefore no one has a conflict with the Vaishya. Whether a Brahmin opens a shop or a Kshatriya does, he says, “Fine, brother—whoever can, do it.” There is no occasion for all this hassle there. But the Brahmin will not let you in; nor will the Kshatriya let you in. He will say, “You are a Bania—what sword will you wield?”

And the Shudra was put outside the circle of honor altogether—he had no need of respect. Let him remain within his bounds; there was no use for him—he was out. He had no need to come in, no need to be in the middle of it.

This social arrangement—the varna system—was a very crafty and very clever arrangement. Until that entire arrangement changes, nothing can change in India. It is a very dangerous arrangement—one that sucks the very life. There should be a liquid condition, but we made it solid. No one becomes intelligent merely by being born in a Brahmin’s house. There must be a liquidity in society.

The development of the West happened because of liquidity. There no one is Shudra, no one Vaishya, no one Brahmin, no one Kshatriya. There are Kshatriyas, there are Brahmins, there are Shudras, there are Vaishyas—but there is no fixed demarcation. A Shudra’s son can become a Brahmin; a Brahmin’s son, if he cannot manage anything, will become a Shudra. The condition is liquid, not solid—so that if you are a Brahmin it does not mean only Brahmins will be born to you.

The result has been that all the intelligent people from all classes turn to the development of knowledge. In this country they could not turn to the development of knowledge; only the children of Brahmins could do so—no one else’s children could. Therefore we lag behind the world in competition. Hence today knowledge has been born in the West, because the whole society—whoever’s house a child is born in, whether he is the child of a sweeper or anyone—he can become a knower; the path is open for him. And if he is not a knower, then even Einstein’s son, if he lacks it, will simply go and work in some factory. There is no quarrel in this, no hassle—open competition.

So open competition has given immense strength to the West. The West’s Brahmin became the scientist, and India’s Brahmin kept sleeping. The loss from this is that we lost and they won—and we will still go on losing, because even now our “knower” merely does the work of a priest. And there is a difference between priest and scientist. The scientist disseminates his knowledge, and the priest hides his knowledge—lest you come to know the secret, for then his kingdom is finished. He will say, “These are esoteric things. In the Namokar there is a great hidden mystery—its calculation is unknown; no one knows it.” So the priest became the enemy of knowledge, because he hides it.

(Recording of the question is unclear.)
So you go on converting everything, all the time, into a relationship of sex. And “mother” means my father’s wife—what difference beyond that will it make? But my relationship with her remains defined by sex.

A woman—as a “friend”... apart from that, all sentiments... and the moral man begins with “friendship” only to advance all the other relations from there.

A very amusing thing happened. The first time I stayed at Govinddasji’s place, Sohan Ma came along from Poona. There was a girl, Yasha—when she comes I will introduce you; a rare girl. So she came with me. On the way she asked, “Where will you be staying?” “At Govinddasji’s.” “Then he will certainly ask who I am to you—he will surely ask. It is very hard to find such a virtuous man who, seeing a woman with you, will not ask what the relationship is.”

(Recording of the question is unclear.)
The chance to know love never even comes. Before they can know love, a wife becomes available.

No, no, no, I am not saying that. I mean: people go on dying without love—meaning the whole life passes, and they never come to understand love. We have arranged things in such a way that it leads only to sex and, at the most, to companionship. Then from living together a certain kind of relationship forms, but that is not love.

It can only be natural. You cannot bring it about by trying.

Yes, we will talk about it, we will talk about it.
Lately I have been thinking about this a lot. And my view is: the world cannot be happy unless we give priority to love. We have been giving priority to sex. And the irony is that those who prioritize sex call love “sexual,” and have arranged everything in favor of sex. If there is one thing in life that can rise above sex, it is only love. Wealth cannot rise above sex; fame cannot rise above sex. Only one thing can transcend it—love. And it can offer a relationship that is beyond the body.
But there is no problem if that love also wishes to meet on the plane of the body—there is no harm in that. Yet for those whose beginning is merely a meeting at the body, it becomes very difficult for the journey to move further; no reason arises to go beyond. It starts at the body and ends at the body. Many people come to know sex; very few come to know love. And one who does not know love remains unfamiliar even with the mystery that sex holds. He knows only the mechanical act; he does not know its mystery. Because when sex is with the one with whom we have a relationship of love, then sex takes one into a wondrous realm of mystery. But first let there be love; then let sex follow.

It leads into a wondrous realm of which we have no idea. But if only sex remains, it becomes so mechanical and so tricky a business that it has no meaning at all—no meaning whatsoever.
Yes—what is it you want to ask? Speak!

No. A few things need to be understood.

In the beginning, when you start moving toward meditation, then the conditions of body and mind do influence it—because from where you start, you are nothing more than body and mind. It’s like I begin to walk out of this room: I take one step, but I’m still inside; I take two steps, I’m still inside. So the smell of the room—its fragrance or stink, its air—still affects me. But I am walking toward the door, where the room ends and I can go beyond. Once I step outside, the room’s fragrance or stink has no meaning; it no longer affects me.

In the primary journey, as you move into meditation, you are still passing through the room of body and mind. So it will affect you—very much so. If the mind becomes a little dull, the body unwell, meditation will get disturbed—because you are still within that circle. But as you gain momentum, one day you will find you have stepped outside the doorway of body and mind.

The day you step out, the situation reverses. Then the state of consciousness begins to affect your body and mind, rather than body and mind affecting it. As soon as you are out, you become the one who affects, not the one who is affected. Your body may be as sick as it is, but it will not feel that sick to you; your mind may be as dull as it is, but it will not feel that dull. You come upon a source of freshness that is continuously available, and you start sharing it even with your mind and body.

As this state deepens, you discover that beyond body and mind there is no experience of death. So those who live only within body and mind collapse at the time of dying—utterly. In fact, shortly before death they become unconscious, and death occurs in that unconsciousness. But those who are alert and have moved into the world of meditation, when they begin to die, they meditate on death. They already know what it is to be separate from the body. Now the body is dying—they can watch it. The body is becoming slack—they can see it.

I was saying the other day: Ouspensky died while walking—he died in 1960. He had invited about fifty disciples: “Come and watch my death.” Those fifty gathered, and Ouspensky kept pacing up and down. He said, “It will take a little more time, because the body has sunk this far; these many nerves have snapped.” And he kept walking. He said, “I am walking so that I can die giving the final report in perfect awareness—so I don’t lie down and doze off...”

He walks and walks... all his friends are gathered. One man present there—Nicoll—later wrote a full memoir. He wrote: “That very day we were freed from the fear of death. Because watching that man die, we were astonished—it became visible the whole time that he was both dying and yet present. On one side he was dying, and in his presence we all felt that on the other side he was simply being—he was. Something was ending, and something was sinking. As if something were subsiding: like when you pluck a vina and the last note keeps resonating, resonating, fading—so something was disappearing, but something in his eyes, in his very being, was entirely there.”

He walked till the last moment. He said, “This is the final stretch I can go. Up to there I will still manage; beyond that I will not, because the body’s last strength is giving way. I feel I can take fifteen more steps.” And exactly on the thirteenth step, he fell.

All those friends wrote that for the first time they saw a death so alert. Mystics have done this many times—many times. One who has gone into meditation reaches the place from where it is possible to stand behind the body. As if I have already entered the inner room: now the house is collapsing, and I keep stepping back inside the room; I say, “This house will fall now; this wall is about to go,” and I retreat. And you watch me at the doorway, hearing me say, “The house is going to fall,” and see that I have stepped out of it. But I am neither worried nor unhappy, because there are other houses—and there is existence.

So one who attains to meditation dies in perfect awareness. And that is why death can often be announced beforehand.

Recently in Amritsar, a rumor was spread—a big rumor—that I had died. They phoned around that I was finished. A legislative convention was to be held, and certain sadhus, wanting me not to come, spread the rumor that I was gone. When I went there, two sadhus came to meet me. I told them, “Go tell your fellow sadhus: I am not going to die so soon. I will see off quite a few of you first, then I’ll go. And second, when I do die, I’ll inform you in advance. So from now on, don’t bother with the newspapers.”

Someone spreads a rumor... They had done the same earlier in Rajkot two years ago. I had a meeting, and beforehand they spread the rumor: “He is finished; how can he come?”—so people wouldn’t show up. The result was very good: ten thousand used to come there to hear me—on that day twenty-five thousand came. People came to find out: “There are two news items—one says he’s dead, and another says there will be a talk. Let’s go see what’s what.”

Death can absolutely be foretold—absolutely. Not only foretold, it can be regulated. One can die at the exact chosen moment—that too is no problem.

(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)

What is happening is happening. We don’t even need to say, “This is right,” “That is wrong.” Truly, there is no need—none at all. Calling something good or bad may not help others, and it harms us, because our consciousness falls into unnecessary dualities—without any reason. Without any reason. Meaning: where we have no real cause, nothing to do with it. Keep this first in mind.

Second, whatever work you are doing, while doing it, do only that. If you are eating, then while eating take care to just eat. Let the mind not wander to the shop and so on; keep it with the eating—just eat. If you are bathing, then just bathe—don’t go anywhere else during that time. Keep this second thing in mind: in whatever you are doing, remain in it as much and as long as you can—that is best.

And third, keep the attitude of the witness. Whatever is happening—success or failure, gain or loss—we are only the watchers. Beyond that, we have no involvement.

Yes, this is the witness-attitude. This is exactly the third thing I have been speaking about—the witnessing. This witnessing means living each act totally, and keeping the sense of suchness (tathata), that things are as they are. There is simply no reason in anything for us to move into turmoil; there is no reason at all. If these three come together and are cared for, then slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly the present by itself... and nothing else will remain; the present will arrive of its own accord. There is no reason for anything else to remain; there is no way for it. And about suchness, what I said today needs much attention. It is very basic.

Yes, yes. And in that moment whenever... again and again the mind will catch hold of you: “Ah, this or that is happening,” at that very moment be a little mindful that the same old thing is happening again. And as soon as the thought arises, bring the mind back.

Whether it is factual or not—do you understand?—it is supportive for your descent into samadhi. So the question of whether it is factual is not very important. This is not a big question.

My own view is that many times very wondrous things have been discovered, but we have grabbed them and trapped them in the wrong place—things, ideas—like fate. Fate is not factual, but for samadhi it is very meaningful. If a person is a complete fatalist, then as far as samadhi is concerned, there is no obstacle for him. The matter is finished. The point is not the factuality of whether fate exists or not. To reduce it to “Does fate exist or not?” is to throw the whole thing into foolishness. For those who discovered it, it was a device for meditation. These are all devices within which meditation will happen. The meaning of fate is: now there is no question left.

That is, if the thorn stuck in you is false, how will you pull it out with a true thorn? And if you try with a true thorn, you’ll get into even more trouble. The false one will come out, the true one will get stuck. Then it will give you more pain than the false one was giving. A false thorn must be taken out with a false thorn.
So if you understand very deeply, all methods are false. Because we are caught in falsity, they exist only to remove the false. Once it is removed, the matter is finished. Both falsities fall away, and we stand in our own place.
Now fate is so astonishing that if it occurs to someone that all this is fate, then the matter is finished. That is, what remains to think about? What method remains to consider? Poverty has come, wealth has come, sorrow came, joy came, illness came, someone lived, someone died—the person says: it is all fate. If this feeling is complete...

Just as I said yesterday. Someone came yesterday. Now I have a big difficulty. My difficulty is that I can see the thing as it is. But around it such a web has been woven that even when I speak about it, it becomes hard to remove that web from your minds.
Yesterday a man came and asked, “Do you say that if someone slaps us, abuses us, we should take it as the fruit of past karma?”
Now, this is not a fact. But it is also a device. It is not the fruit of some karma-and-all. The fruits of your karmas are all finished. Yet this too is a device. If someone were to slap me and in my mind there were the complete feeling that this is the return of something I had done, then I would neither worry nor be angry. Because it is only a returning current; what I had done has come back—matter finished. Then it becomes an aid to meditation.
But all these are auxiliary arrangements for meditation, and all of them are false. And when I say both these things, it creates a difficulty. Because they are not true; I cannot call them true.

Entirely false, imaginary. But it is a helpful ally. Because it can break the other imagination; that much work is enough for it. The situation is like this: there is a ghost in a house and you are troubled. And I say, “Come, I’ll tie a talisman on your arm, I’ll chant a mantra—the ghost will be gone.” I tie the talisman, chant the mantra; the talisman is in your hand, and the fear of the ghost disappears. But now this talisman has trapped you. Now you can’t even muster the courage to break it—if you break it, the ghost will return. That was a lie, and this too is a lie. The joke is that you used this lie to get out of that lie; now you are stuck in this lie. If this is understood, the East discovered very wondrous things that become the path to lead one into samadhi.

All wrong—they all caused harm. Because from fatalism no samadhi came; from fatalism came poverty, came cowardice. It’s a strange affair.

Now this tathata—suchness—won’t bring samadhi either. A foolish person will start doing petty thieving, thinking, “It’s a matter of tathata; what’s the fuss? Whatever is to happen will happen. What am I to do? If a theft is to happen, it’s happening; who can do anything about it?” That’s the whole matter. Even the highest principle can be given the lowest meaning and can cause harm.

As for raw eating, in your case there will be no harm; that’s why I didn’t say anything to you—no harm will come to you. But if a person were fed it from birth, there could be some harm. And if it were continued for two or three generations, there could be a lot of harm. It’s all so strange: in fact, the hair on the human body has fallen off, become sparse—and one reason is the stopping of raw eating. Otherwise, if raw eating had continued—if it had continued—humans would have hair like a bear all over the body. Because with raw eating the elements that greatly promote hair growth remain intact. So hair fell from human bodies; it didn’t from other animals. The basic reason is that animals eat everything raw, and humans eat cooked. In cooking, the elements that give excessive hair growth are destroyed.

So there are a thousand things connected behind it. Well, and with raw eating—what it is, is this: the human stomach… An animal walks so much, runs, does all that; its belly generates so much heat that it digests the raw. Now a human being neither runs nor walks like an animal, nor breaks stones; so the heat doesn’t arise in the belly—and then he takes to raw eating. To digest the raw, his digestive fire is not up to the job. So the fire on the stove is only a substitute for it. The fire we are not able to kindle in the belly, we kindle in the stove. The fire burning in the stove is doing half the work there that otherwise we would have to do. An animal has no need of that; such a fire is already burning in its belly. And matters of fire are beyond reckoning.

Now you’ll be surprised to know: the Kashmiris—what do you call it, a kangri?—they keep a kangri on them. Their whole chest gets scorched. And so much heat is produced in their belly that it is believed for a non-Kashmiri, to have intercourse with a Kashmiri woman is a very difficult affair. If one does, it feels like fire all over the body. So much fire arises in her belly that her whole body seems like embers.

The English wrote of their experience: never get into intercourse with a Kashmiri woman. They used to warn new officers to avoid Kashmiri women, because to have intercourse with them is to surely fall ill. And officers—well, they would manage it, call someone in; what difficulty did they have! Wherever they stayed, they would summon them. So the instruction was: avoid a Kashmiri woman.

So now, each and every thing…

Yes, they are connected. So my own view is that mixed eating is good. Raw eating has some advantages, so eat some things raw and some things cooked. Anyway, there is now no reason for you to come to any harm because of that...

All right, then that’s fine. Mixed eating. I am not in favor of total raw eating.

That's fine. Eat some cooked, some raw—that's fine. The raw has certain benefits—you'll keep getting those; the cooked has certain benefits—you'll keep getting those. And now there isn't really a question of harm for you, because your body is no longer in the phase of being built; that's an issue for a child, whose body is still forming. After a certain age the body doesn't build anymore; it only winds down. In truth, after thirty-five the descent begins. The body isn't being made now; cells are breaking down. So as to what you eat or drink now, just keep this in mind: let it be light, that's all. Nothing more matters.
That's why I didn't say anything to you about it. There's nothing to worry about. Just continue as you are; there's no harm in it.