I have given you one sutra: life is energy, and energy has two dimensions—existence and non-existence. And then, in a second sutra, I said that existence too has two dimensions—the unconscious and the conscious. In the seventh sutra, even consciousness has two dimensions—self-conscious and self-unconscious; a consciousness that knows it is, and a consciousness that does not know it is.
If we understand life as a vast tree, then life-energy is one—the trunk. From that trunk two branches break off—of existence and non-existence. We set aside non-existence; we did not speak of it, because it has nothing to do with Yoga. Then the branch of existence also divides into two—conscious and unconscious. We kept the unconscious branch outside our present discussion as well; Yoga has little to do with it. Then even the conscious branch breaks into two—self-conscious and self-unconscious. To understand this distinction in the seventh sutra is the most useful. All that I have said so far was a preface to understanding the sutra I will speak today, the seventh. With the seventh sutra, the process of Yoga practice begins. Therefore it is essential to understand this sutra rightly.
There are plants, there are birds, there are animals. All are conscious, yet they have no consciousness of themselves. They are conscious, and still self-unconscious. They are, life is, consciousness is, but there is no awareness of their own being. Man is—and in the same way as animals, birds, plants are—but he has the awareness that he is. A new dimension is added to his consciousness—he is self-conscious. He knows, too, that he is conscious. To be merely conscious is not enough to be human. The condition of being human includes: I also know that I am conscious. That alone is the difference between man and animal. The animal is conscious, but he has no self-awareness that he is conscious. Man knows that he himself is conscious.
But man is not in this awareness for twenty-four hours. In the mother’s womb he has no awareness that he is. If you try to remember the past, you will be able to recall at most up to the age of four or five; beyond that, darkness descends. Beyond four years, darkness spreads. Until four, you certainly were, but it appears you were not self-conscious. Hence the same innocence is visible in small children and in animals. There is no tension. The same naturalness is visible in small children, birds, and plants. Until four, perhaps we had no awareness that we are.
Then each night you go into unconsciousness for eight hours. If a man lives sixty years, he sleeps twenty. Twenty years of life simply pass in unconsciousness. There, too, you are not conscious. It will surprise you to know how many times you have slept, and yet can you say how sleep comes? When it comes? What it is?
You cannot. As long as you are awake at night, sleep has not arrived; and when sleep has arrived, you are unconscious. Sleep always finds you unconscious. In the morning, when sleep goes, you are still unconscious; when it has gone, awareness returns. Therefore when you say, I slept eight hours last night, it does not mean you know you slept eight hours. It only means that there is an eight-hour gap between your last waking moment at night and your first waking moment in the morning. You calculate by that gap. Otherwise, in sleep you have returned to the world of animals and plants.
In the remaining day, when you feel you are full of awareness, even then you are full of awareness only sometimes. Stand some day by the roadside and observe passers-by. You will feel many are walking in sleep. Someone is talking—to one not even present! Someone is moving his hand! Someone is moving his lips! With whom are they talking? Are they in some dream? Awake? There is no one seen with them. Who is this discussion with?
If you watch yourself carefully you will find that even when you are awake you are not aware all the time; awareness comes only once in a while. Let someone suddenly place a knife upon your chest—at that instant self-awareness happens in you; in that instant you are filled with alertness; otherwise not.
Let me explain with a few examples. These are two rooftops. If a one-foot-wide plank were laid between them and you were asked to walk across, hardly any of you would agree to walk. Place the same plank on the ground and ask everyone to walk across—old people, children, women, all will cross, and hardly anyone will fall. The plank is the same, you are the same. Why do you refuse to walk when it is set between two roofs? And when so many walked upon it on the ground and not one fell, where is the chance of falling now? What is the difficulty?
The difficulty is of another kind. Walking on the ground requires no awareness; you can walk unconsciously. But to cross a high roof, you must remain aware. And awareness is not with you; in unconsciousness if you fall, life is gone. On the ground, even if you fall unconsciously, your life is not at stake.
In moments of danger, sometimes awareness occurs; ordinarily, we are asleep. When death is near, there is awareness. When danger is close, when the peril is near, there is awareness. Otherwise, we are not aware. Hence we do not want to change our habits—because to change habits, awareness has to be brought in. The old habits can go on in unconsciousness.
Watch a man—how he takes a cigarette from his pocket, puts it to his lips, strikes a match. If you observe closely, you will find he is doing all this as if utterly unconscious, asleep—when did he take out the cigarette, when did he strike the match, when did he begin to puff the smoke in and out.
If the world were truly full of awareness, it would be very difficult to find such foolish people who spend hours drawing smoke in and pushing smoke out. To find people who spend hours merely moving smoke in and out would be difficult. And if you told someone so, he would say, I am not mad to move smoke in and out!
Not only is smoke being moved in and out, the whole world shouts, explains that it is harmful—life will be shortened, illness will come. Unconscious ears hear nothing.
America recently decided that every cigarette packet must carry in bold red letters: This is harmful to health. The shopkeepers, the owners, the factory men made a great uproar that this would cost them millions.
When I read this I said: those who make cigarettes do not know how unconscious people are. For how many days will they read what is written in red?
And that is what happened. For six months the sales fell; after six months they rose back to what they were. Now it is written in red on every packet, but the reader must also be present. One or two times it was read—and then sleep returned. Now the packet comes, it says everything, but no one reads it. Sales are back to their place.
If something has in red letters that it is poison, drinking it is dangerous, will an aware man drink it? Difficult. Everything is clearly labeled—what is poison, what is harmful. How many times have you resolved not to be angry! How many times? And how many times was it fulfilled? Not even once—otherwise there would be no need to resolve again.
I was a guest in a house. The old man said to me, I have taken the vow of brahmacharya three times. I was astonished. How can one take a vow of brahmacharya three times? I asked why he had not taken it a fourth time. He said: After taking it three times I experienced that it cannot be fulfilled, so I did not take it a fourth time—not that the third time it succeeded.
Every day you become angry, every day you swear an oath. Then what happens the next day? When anger comes, there is no memory of the oath—because there is no memory of you; where are you? The one who swore the oath is asleep.
A man goes to sleep in the evening resolved that he will rise at four in the morning, come what may; from tomorrow, I must rise. The same man at four, turning over in bed—the alarm rings on—and he says, let it be, not today, tomorrow. At seven he rises and repents: How did this happen? I had sworn to get up at four.
But the one who swore is asleep. He will swear again at seven, and tomorrow at four the deception will happen again. Life passes in such sleep. If we look at our actions, we cannot say we have done them. For if we had, many of them could never have been done.
Courts the world over know that hundreds of criminals have said in court, I did not commit this murder, I did not commit this theft. But the magistrate calls them liars, the court calls them liars—witnesses exist, proofs exist, the theft occurred. Yet I tell you: those criminals are not lying. When they stole, they were not aware. When they murdered, they were not aware. To murder with awareness is very difficult. To steal with awareness is very difficult.
In my vision, and in Yoga’s vision, I call that virtuous which can be done with awareness. I call that sin whose necessary condition is unconsciousness. Sin means a deed that cannot be done without being unconscious—you can do it only in unconsciousness. The necessary condition is to be asleep.
So when we say of someone that his act is animal-like, it does not mean animals do such things. No animal does what men do. Animal-like has another meaning: just as the animal is self-unconscious, unaware of itself, so too this man is unaware of himself. The act is animal-like in this sense. Otherwise no dog has done what Hitler did, nor any snake what Genghis Khan did. Which animal has committed evils like those committed by the animal called man? None. Animal-like has a single meaning: on the mental plane, this man has forgotten the Self; he is unconscious, he is not aware.
Hence courts do not agree to punish children below seven; we assume the child is not yet aware. But can any court give a guarantee that a seventy-year-old is aware? Even a seventy-year-old is not; we merely presume he is. If we examine the acts of a seventy-year-old, we will find he is sleep-walking, moving in unconsciousness.
In seventy years, if a man becomes filled with awareness even for seven minutes, that is a great quantity. If in a life of seventy years an individual has a total of seven minutes of consciousness—those minutes are enough to make him a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ.
But even such moments seldom occur. We live on—unconscious!
And yet I said: man begins only on the day self-consciousness begins. We are merely the possibility of man, not man. We are only the opportunity to become man, not man. We are but seeds, with the possibility that we may become self-conscious; we have not yet become.
Hence our perennial difficulty in calling a Buddha or a Mahavira a man; we call them Gods. The sole reason for calling them Gods is that we call ourselves men—though we are not, in the true sense. Where then to place them? If we call them men, we must put them with us. So we invent a new category, God. It would be better to call them men, and ourselves sub-human. We are on the way to becoming human, not yet arrived. That is proper. That is true.
But in our lives too, once in a while, for a moment or two, we do become aware. Those moments are the moments of joy in our lives. The moments in which we become self-conscious—those are the moments of bliss in our lives. For in those moments we catch a glimpse of our own nature—like a flash of lightning.
Yoga divides consciousness into two—self-conscious and self-unconscious. Those who are unconscious with regard to the Self are, of course, self-unconscious. We who should be self-conscious remain largely with the animals, largely with the plants, largely with the stones. A small part of us has become human, a very small part. As when a block of ice is dropped into water, a little part remains above, a tenth perhaps, and nine parts remain submerged. So are we. Our nine parts are drowned below in darkness; one small part has come above the surface and become human.
Therefore man is exceedingly restless—the animal is not. No animal commits suicide. The day an animal commits suicide, understand, he will not remain an animal for long; he has begun becoming man. No animal commits suicide—there is not so much anxiety that suicide arises. No animal laughs, except man. If on the road you meet a buffalo laughing, you will never take that road again. No animal laughs. Why?
Because no animal is so miserable as to need to forget sorrow by laughter. Laughter is a device to forget pain.
Therefore the more suffering grows in the world, the more we seek means of entertainment—cinema, television, radio, dance, song. And even those are exhausted, and man says, bring something new—we are bored of these.
At present, fifty percent of the world’s energy is being invested in providing entertainment. And today those who can entertain have become the most important—like actors. Their importance has no other reason; they can entertain you for a while. You are so miserable that one who can entertain you even a little becomes important.
No animal laughs, because no animal is so unhappy that laughter is needed. Laughter is a safety valve. As any steam-engine needs a safety valve—if steam increases, the valve must release it, otherwise lives are at risk—so laughter is man’s safety valve. When pain accumulates within, for its release, for a little freedom from it, there is laughter. Hence animals do not laugh; they lack such tension, such anxiety, such worry.
What is man’s anxiety?
His anxiety is that a small part of him has become self-conscious and the larger part remains in unconsciousness. His trouble is the same as Narasimha Avatar’s must have been—that half is animal, and half has become man. We all are in the same predicament as Narasimha.
People ask me, how can there be a Narasimha Avatar?
I tell them: all men are avatars of Narasimha. And had it been even a half-and-half division, there would have been some balance. But just a bit of the skull—a very small corner—not even the whole skull—has become human; the rest remains animal. The whole life is of the animal, of unconsciousness. A small corner of intellect—not even the whole mind—just a tiny corner of intellect! As a large house is in darkness and a single lamp burns in one corner, so we live by the light of that one corner. Even that does not burn all the time; it goes out in sleep. And if it does not, a man will drown it in wine, or extinguish it with a thousand intoxicants.
Wine brings relief because that little part which created restlessness—that had become human—sinks too. The whole block of ice submerges. You enter the animal’s world; anxiety disappears.
Therefore sleep gives relief; in sleep you are a hundred percent submerged again. You rise fresh in the morning—you are returning from the animal’s world where there was no worry, no trouble. Then the human world begins. This goes on round the clock.
So when I say man is self-unconscious, I mean: the possibility of being self-conscious exists. With man, a small portion has become self-aware. Yoga says, if one becomes wholly self-conscious, one attains meditation; if all dark parts are filled with light, one attains Samadhi.
Self-knowledge will be only when my whole house of life is filled with light. The wick of a small lamp will not do. The whole house needs the light of the sun—every corner filled with radiance. Otherwise I shall forever remain split in two. The part lit by light resolves: I will not let snakes enter my house. But what resolution will you make about the darkness? There, snakes dwell already! And in a little while, when a snake glides into the lamplight we scream, My vow is broken! I had sworn—no snake shall enter my house!
When you swear, I shall not be angry—your oath is taken in that small lit part; and you leave unconsidered the nine parts submerged in darkness—where anger is already being brewed, distilled. While you are swearing, somewhere within, anger is being prepared. And your whole interior must be amazed: What oaths are you taking!
It is as if the peon sitting at the gate, who knows nothing of the mansion, begins making decisions for the entire house. He knows nothing of what is happening inside. In the dark parts, all preparations continue.
You have taken a vow of brahmacharya, but your sex-centers are drowned in darkness; no ray of your intellect has reached there. In a corner of the skull you decide: I take the vow of brahmacharya. But your sex-center does not even hear of it. It goes on with its work. From there sex will rise and overwhelm your intellect and everything else—because it is nine times stronger, and intellect is only one part. Then you will cry, scream, and vow again. But you never understand that vows are useless. The real question is not to take oaths from that small lit corner; the real question is to enlarge that corner until your whole personality becomes conscious. Then oaths are unnecessary.
Therefore I say to you, Yoga does not ask anyone to take vows. Only the ignorant have taken vows in this world. Vows have no meaning. The real question is different: your entire personality must be illumined; then no vow will be needed.
Yet we go on taking vows! Against whom are they taken? Against our own dark parts. And you have no movement there, no access. All your resolutions sit in a corner of the skull. Not even the whole skull is lit.
Now scientists agree with this. Yoga’s vision—that even man’s whole brain is not conscious—is now supported by science. That is why I repeat: Yoga is a science. Day by day, as science discovers, Yoga’s realizations and insights are being confirmed.
Scientists now say that more than half of man’s brain lies entirely inactive—no work at all; it is closed. Not for all—this applies even to those who use their intellect more. Those who use it less have three-quarters of the brain lying idle.
And of the part that functions—a quarter or a half—even the greatest geniuses use only a half; the other half remains dormant. In the ordinary person, not even a half functions. And that part which functions—a quarter or a half—does not function to its full capacity. Even the greatest intellect uses only fifteen percent of his capacity. The remaining eighty-five percent remains unused. We leave aside the half that does not function; of the part that does, if we take its hundred percent as capacity, we use only fifteen percent in life.
For this, there is now scientific data, evidence, research. Only a tiny part in man functions. And even this part generally stops developing after eighteen; it does little thereafter. So you have approximately the same intelligence you developed up to eighteen. Do not be in the illusion that at eighty you have much more intelligence. Very few people develop their intelligence after eighteen.
Most people, whatever has happened till eighteen, simply go on collecting experiences with that intelligence. Their experiences grow; intelligence does not. Experience accumulates; intelligence does not grow. They go on experiencing with the same intelligence. Experiences increase. Hence an eighty-year-old has many experiences; but his intelligence is about what an eighteen-year-old has.
In the last world war, America had a surprising realization. America—the most educated, developed, the country using intellect the most on Earth—tested soldiers’ intelligence during recruitment. Great astonishment! The results of lakhs of recruits showed the average intelligence was not beyond that of a thirteen-year-old. Everything seemed to stop at thirteen.
Yoga has long said: even the whole mind of man is not illuminated. If the whole mind were illumined, astonishing phenomena would begin. What you call siddhis, Yoga calls the functioning of those parts of the mind that remain inactive—nothing more.
Even for this, scientific proofs are slowly appearing. In America there is now a man named Ted Serios. Parts of his brain function that ordinarily do not. There are methods now to determine which parts are active. Different brain centers do different work. When you read, one center works; when you weep, another; when you laugh, another; when you sing, another; when you play the veena, another; when you paint, another. Even if you speak Hindi, one part works; if you also speak Marathi, another; if you know English too, a third part. There are thousands of centers in the brain doing different work.
In Ted Serios, centers function that ordinarily do not. He can close his eyes in America and be asked: what is happening tonight at Sanghvi factory in Poona? He will sit with eyes closed for fifteen minutes, then open them—without saying a word—and if a camera is placed before his eye and a photograph taken of his eye, the camera will catch a picture of your many heads here, this crowd, through his eye.
Had such a description appeared in a two-thousand-year-old book, we would have said: a fable. But the man is alive today; all American universities have examined him; he has performed demonstrations everywhere. The difference will be slight—if we photograph from here and he from there—the difference will be like a pale copy, that’s all. A little blurred, nothing more. His eye, from that distance, can catch our image.
So if the Mahabharata says Sanjaya sat beside blind Dhritarashtra and, hundreds of miles away, reported the battle of Kurukshetra—if Ted Serios can do it, what hindrance for Sanjaya? The eye can see far indeed—but other parts of the brain must be illumined.
Let me give you an example from Russia. Fayadev is a Russian scientist. Leave America aside! Russia is an atheistic nation, still reluctant to accept soul or God. Yet Fayadev has sent telepathic messages a thousand miles—without any instrument—by thought alone. Sitting in Moscow, he has sent messages to Tiflis, simply by closing his eyes. He would think the message in Moscow, and it would be received in Tiflis.
In Tiflis a test was arranged. In a garden, on bench number ten, a man came and sat. He knew nothing—a passerby, tired, resting in the afternoon. Hidden behind bushes, people wired Fayadev: a man sits on bench ten—if you can make him sleep in five minutes with a message, we will accept it.
Sitting in Moscow, Fayadev thought for five minutes: the man on bench ten should fall asleep. In five minutes the man was snoring in deep sleep.
Those hidden friends naturally suspected: perhaps he was tired and slept by himself; coincidence is possible. So they wired back: the man has slept; wake him exactly at seven minutes—we will accept then.
Exactly at seven minutes the man startled and woke. He looked all around, as if someone had called. They came out of the bushes: whom are you looking for? He said, someone keeps telling me: get up, wake up, do not sleep now—wake exactly at seven minutes.
Who is speaking? There is no one there. The man is hundreds of miles away in Moscow.
If the mind fully awakens, man becomes an inventor of great powers. Many such possibilities lie in the brain. Yoga called them siddhis. Call them by any name—it makes no difference. Our whole brain is not awake. The poverty we appear to be in is the poverty of our sleep. The restlessness in our lives remains because the wealth we brought with us we cannot use.
Yoga says all these brain centers can be awakened.
And the brain hidden within the skull is not the whole of personality. An equally large personality is hidden near the heart. Of that, news has stopped reaching us. Sometimes, when a little love shines in someone’s life, one remembers the centers near the heart—otherwise not.
And even if the brain fully develops, the heart has its own brain—it remains incomplete, untouched. Our entire education is of the brain; so the brain develops a little. The heart has no education; it remains undeveloped. Man fills with inner tension.
And even heart and brain together do not make the whole man. There are other centers. Yoga divides man into seven centers. It says: on seven planes there is possibility for the development of personality. These are broad planes; the division is rough. Finer divisions can be made. Buddha made nine divisions—he is among the great Yogis. Patanjali made seven. Another may divide otherwise. For there are hundreds of centers within man, each with its powers; if all develop and man fully awakens, and in that state he says, Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman—there is no exaggeration in his utterance.
But sitting at home, extracting words from the Brahmasutras, searching the mahavakyas of the Upanishads, lighting kerosene lamps and declaring, Aham Brahmasmi!
Kerosene will not do; and scriptures read by an outer lamp are of no use. The lamp within must be lit, and its flame must reach all seven centers. Then the scripture that opens will be no book; the Veda that is experienced will not be any written Veda. And the proclamation Aham Brahmasmi will not have come from scripture, but from one’s own total being.
Thus Yoga regards man as a scripture with many unread chapters—unknown, unfamiliar—upon which we have never carried light, of which we have had no inkling. Like an emperor asleep in his palace, forgetting his treasuries and wealth, dreaming he is a beggar on the road, pleading for a coin and receiving none—crying, troubled, shouting. We are in exactly that condition—emperors unaware of our wealth. We do not even believe it if told. How to believe that we have such treasure? No, no. If in the dream someone told that emperor, Why do you beg? You are an emperor! he would say, What a joke! Do not joke—give me a coin and I will understand.
Precisely so are we.
Yoga says: within us is the expanse of infinite riches. But they will awaken only through self-consciousness; there is no other way.
Now, understand this a little. All the centers of our personality awaken and become active through consciousness. To the extent that consciousness gathers upon them, they awaken. The part upon which consciousness gathers becomes active.
Small children have no activity at the sex-center, so they do not even know it. After fourteen, Nature activates that center and awareness begins to come; as awareness comes, the center becomes active. Nature does this. If Nature did not activate the sex-center, you would not even know there is such a thing as sex in your personality. It would lie there, unnoticed. How would you know?
But Nature must use that center to maintain life; so she activates it herself; she does not leave it to you. In animals too; in plants too; in all life she activates it herself.
The brain’s center is activated by society—through education, instruction—because otherwise life would be hard to manage. So society teaches arithmetic, geography—just enough for life to be manageable. The sex-center is activated by Nature; the brain-center a little by society; all the centers in between remain closed—they never activate. No one needs them. Society does not need them. In fact, society will not want some centers to be active. If a person’s love becomes very active, society will not like it. The family will not like it. The wife will not like the husband’s love-center to be very active; the husband will not like the wife’s to be very active; the mother will not like it, nor the father.
There are reasons. When the love-center is fully active, the distinction—this one to be loved and not that one—begins to dissolve. Then a mother cannot say, Love me alone. If the love-center truly activates, the child will love everyone. The mother’s jealousy will stop it. The wife will not want the husband to look lovingly at anyone; her jealousy will stop it. Society will strive to suppress, to cut it off.
Other centers society will tolerate even less. If many people like Ted Serios were to appear, society would try to pass laws against them.
A recent event occurred. In Indonesia there is a man named Tony. Among the most significant events of this century is what has been happening through Tony. But the whole society—courts, law—has stood against him. Tony has performed an experiment which is among Yoga’s profoundest: spiritual surgery. Even the phrase seems strange.
If you have an appendix, Tony—without any instrument—will place his bare hands upon your belly, close his eyes, pray to God, and both hands will enter your abdomen. The skin will make way without any instrument. His bare hands will enter your belly. This has happened before twenty-five medical scientists, doctors, surgeons; it has been filmed and shown all over the world. His hands will reach inside; his eyes remain closed. Within your open abdomen he will grasp the appendix, pull it out with his hands, tear it out and place it outside; then he will pass his hands again over your belly, and your cut skin will rejoin. In two days there will be no mark that any cut was ever made.
Such a man should be valued, yet the Indonesian government is prosecuting him. The medical association has filed suit in the Supreme Court: he has no license for surgery—how can he perform it?
Is there any measure to man’s madness! Because he has no certificate from a medical college, no M.D., how can he operate? The court will rule against him—law is always blind. The government has ordered him to perform no surgeries anywhere.
This man has a group of twenty-five friends—people of prayer and meditation. When asked, they say they know nothing. We leave ourselves in God’s hands; whatever He makes us instruments for, that we do. We do nothing.
But if such a man grows, what will become of the medical profession? Of surgeons? They will agitate against him, trap him in accusations. He is poor, simple; disturbed by their trouble-making he will fold his hands—Very well, I do nothing. I ask forgiveness.
Many times, many miracles have happened in this world. We have suppressed them. We have always arranged that such things not happen—because they endanger our establishments, our organized institutions. And they do. What will become of them?
And upon these things, what we call scientific outlook becomes worthless—because these events bring news from farther away. We will stand against people like Ted Serios or Tony—because we will say: these things will break our whole arrangement. If Ted Serios can see inside another’s house, today or tomorrow we will worry—he can see our safe too! We will try to stop them.
Society has tried to suppress Yoga’s precious attainments. Naturally, when we suppress these things, they cease to manifest—because we prevent the occasions, the circumstances in which they can appear.
An event happened before me and with me. Then I felt the wonder. A friend used to come to meditate. His child, who was in third grade Hindi, would also come. He asked me: would it be all right if the child sits by me? I said, it is all right—good that he comes. The friend meditated; the child too sat by him and began to meditate.
The father could not go very deep, but the small boy went quite far. They were to come four days. They did not come; after fifteen days they arrived, very frightened: What have you done to the boy? Please make him forget; we do not want him to go into meditation.
I asked, what happened?
They said: strange things. The husband and wife locked the door, left the child inside—Play at home; we are going to a neighbor—and went to the matinee. When they returned, the child stood at the window: You are lying; you have gone to the cinema. You went to the matinee!
They had indeed gone to the matinee, deceiving the child. They were astonished. How did you know?
He said, nothing; when no one was at home, I sat to meditate and I saw you both sitting in the cinema.
They said: we do not want such things to develop in the child—see the mind of a dishonest father—we do not want him to meditate; there will be trouble.
It seems surprising, but it is so. If your child began to see such things, you too would say: stop! Because you tell the boy: do not smoke—and you yourself smoke. Tomorrow he will say: what are you saying, father? You stop him: do not go to the cinema!—and you yourself go. Tomorrow he will say: what are you saying? Everything you forbid, you do. So you will not allow such talents to develop in children.
Thus all humanity has conspired, unknowingly, against yogic development. We will try to suppress these things. And when the whole society suppresses and gives no occasion for growth…
Imagine if all universities and schools were closed—how many would know mathematics? And if education ceased for two thousand years, then after two thousand years people would doubt whether such intelligence is possible as to fly an airplane, to reach the moon. They would say, how can it be? What proof? None would remain. What man does today—reaching the moon—is the fruit of ten or twenty thousand years of educating intelligence. Had we worked for ten or twenty thousand years on the centers of Yoga, where man would have reached is unimaginable. Sometimes one person reaches; we worship him and forget. But it is all possible. Many planes lie within man, but they are submerged in unconsciousness; hence we know nothing of them.
Yoga divides man into seven planes—seven centers, the seven chakras. At each of these seven, infinite energy and power lie asleep. As a bud contains the flower. From the bud one cannot tell what flower will bloom, what lotus will open, how many petals. The bud is closed. If someone has seen only buds and never a flower, he cannot imagine that this bud can become a flower. Our chakras are like buds. If they fully open, we cannot even guess what fragrances, what beauty, what power lie inside. Each chakra holds infinite beauty, infinite power. But only if the buds open does it manifest; if not, it remains hidden.
Have you seen lotus buds opening? When do they open? When the sun rises and light spreads, the buds that were closed in the night open in the morning with the sun. Exactly so, the day the sun of our consciousness rises upon a center, that center’s bud opens.
Within us there is also a sun of consciousness. With its reaching—call it meditation or anything else—the sun of our inner awareness, on whichever center its light falls, that bud opens and becomes a flower. And as it flowers, we find that infinite powers hidden within us begin to manifest.
These seven chakras—each can be opened; each has its own capacities. And when all seven open, the doors and windows of the person, of which I spoke yesterday, open to the Infinite. Then the individual becomes one with the Infinite.
How will mere consciousness—mere awareness—open these chakras? I want to share a few scientific facts.
Until twenty or twenty-five years ago, scientists did not think consciousness could affect anything. We do not see it affecting. We have heard stories of fakirs, Yogis—but those have become stories. The arts we forget become stories—naturally.
If a third world war occurs and only a few great scientists die, it will be impossible to make an atom bomb again. Even now only twenty-five people know the formula. If these twenty-five were seized and killed, no atom bomb could be made. Ten years ago only fifteen knew it. Before Hiroshima, hardly four men in the world knew. Kill those four and the atom bomb becomes a story. Whenever someone says, It is true, we will say: make one and show! That will be difficult.
If a third war occurs—as has happened before—the entire science and culture of an age are destroyed with it; stories remain. We say now: those are stories. If a third war comes and the whole world is destroyed—as is possible—when bombs fall, the most developed centers—Poona, Bombay, Delhi, London, New York—will not survive. If any survive, they will be tribals hidden in Bastar’s hills, people in the Himalayas. No one will try to drop atom bombs upon them; to seek them out would be too costly. The centers—universities, halls of science—will fall first. Those who remain, the undeveloped, had seen trains; they will tell their children stories that trains used to be. After two or three generations, the children will say, Impossible! How could it be? What proof? None will be left.
So it has happened with the art of Yoga—many times it develops, then for many reasons is lost; chief among them, we ourselves—we cannot tolerate it because it is dangerous.
I was saying: consciousness affects things. This is a very simple experiment in Yoga—that consciousness makes a difference. Science now agrees. And it agreed when... If we look at a pebble, nothing changes. No matter how much we look, the pebble remains a pebble. No matter how much consciousness we concentrate, it remains a pebble. But since the discovery of the electron, scientists learned that when we look at an electron through great microscopes, its movement wavers under observation. As if you are bathing in the bathroom—enjoying yourself, making faces, laughing in the mirror, forgetting your age—and suddenly you notice someone peeking through the keyhole. You become alert, stand straight. If you were singing film songs, you begin to sing hymns—or something else.
We can accept that being watched through a keyhole changes you. But scientists say: when we watch electrons through microscopes, they change the way they move. Astonishing! It means observation brings alteration.
Yesterday I spoke of a Christian fakir who blessed seeds in an Oxford laboratory. With his blessing another strange event occurred. Wearing a cross on his chest, he bent with folded hands over a seed and prayed. When that seed was photographed, great surprise—the picture of the cross on his chest appeared within the seed. Astonishing! As he bent to pray, his cross came near the seed; but the cross’s image inside the seed—how? Did his prayer, his attention flowing toward the seed, communicate that image within it? Did the seed respond? Did it accept the fakir with its heart?
Yoga’s ancient insight—indeed, experience—is that whichever center within we meditate upon becomes immediately active. Its activity opens the buds that were closed. As the sun awakens the birds at dawn.
And mark—whether you think of it or not—before the sun arrives, an hour before, birds begin to sing. The sun has only turned to come, has not arrived; the birds begin to sing; flowers begin to open. The sun is about to come, not yet come, and the flowers begin to blossom and the buds to smile and the birds to sing.
Let your attention begin to turn inward and your chakras begin to activate. Merely beginning—and unique experiences arise within. In these three days, many friends have come and told me many experiences. They are ancient experiences. Some begin to have intense experiences of inner light—that is light bursting from a center. Some begin to experience fragrance within—that is fragrance welling from a center. Some begin to hear unique music—the nada, sounds flowing from a center. Different experiences begin to arise from within. As vast as the world outside, the world within is no smaller. We have attended only to the outer; therefore outer things have been activated. We have not attended within, otherwise the inner would activate too. Let me give you one or two small experiments so you may remember that this is possible.
Walk on the road; someone is ahead of you. For two minutes do this: fix your gaze on the back of his head, without blinking, for two minutes.
You will not be able to look longer than two minutes before the person has to turn and look back. The center became active; he will at once feel restless, turn and look: what is happening behind? You cannot find a person whom you look at for two minutes and he does not look back. If you do, know you have found a rare man.
Within your own body choose any center and begin to take awareness there. If we are asked: if your hand were cut off? We will say: not much of ours will be lost—some pain, not much. But if our head were cut?—everything is lost. Because our identity remains only in the brain; our being is felt only there. We will say, our being is there. Whatever knowledge we have of ourselves, it is in a small brain-center, not in the whole body.
Begin to meditate upon any center within. As I gave you an outer experiment, try an inner one: for four to six days, simply close your eyes and take awareness to the heart; do only that for five minutes a day. You will find love growing in your personality. You will see it; your neighbors will see it; your family will see it. No need to say anything; silently keep attending. People will begin to tell you: there is a great change in you—you were never so loving.
The center upon which consciousness goes becomes active. We have seven centers. Awareness can be taken to all seven. It will go only if you take it. This is both the boon and the risk of self-consciousness. If you do not take it, it will not go. And if you do not, self-unconscious, there is no difference between animals and man. If I say Yoga is the science of making an animal into a man, that is no exaggeration.
Even the very word animal is wondrous in Yoga. Yoga calls him animal who is bound in the rope—the pash. As a buffalo or cow is led by a rope. The rope is pash; the bound one is pashu.
Yoga says: the man bound in the chains of unconsciousness is an animal; the one who has broken those chains stands as man. Man means one whose manas—mind—has become complete. And manas means consciousness. Mind means consciousness—one who has become fully conscious. Even the English word man comes from the Sanskrit man. One who has become mind—i.e., fully conscious—that one is man.
This is Yoga’s seventh sutra. A couple more points on this, and the rest of the sutra we will speak of tomorrow. A few necessary things to keep in mind.
As I said, man is sometimes conscious, mostly unconscious. From this, reverse events also occur. Those we assume to be continuously unconscious also become conscious in certain moments. A plant becomes conscious sometimes; a stone becomes conscious sometimes; an animal becomes conscious sometimes—just as man becomes conscious sometimes. But such events occur rarely and only sometimes. As it happened with the Bodhi tree in Buddha’s time.
For five hundred years after Buddha’s death, no image of Buddha was made. Buddha had said: Do not make my image; the Bodhi tree will do. For five hundred years, only the Bodhi tree was worshipped. Only after five hundred years were images made. Among many reasons, one was this: the moment Buddha became awakened, the tree under which he sat resonated with Buddhahood; it too awakened. It became a witness—the only witness—no one else was present there but that tree.
You may ask: how did the tree become conscious?
A great sun arose beneath it; no matter how deeply asleep in its unconsciousness, a part of the tree awakened. It awakened and saw the event. Hence Buddha said: This tree is my witness. Worship it; it will do. It is the sole witness.
That Bodhi tree has been preserved till now for this reason. Though Buddhists themselves may not know why they preserve it. In India it dried; Ashoka sent a branch with his son and daughter to Sri Lanka. That branch was planted there. When India’s Bodhi tree died, a branch was brought back and planted again. For twenty-five hundred years that tree is alive—a witness. With that great event in Buddha’s consciousness, the tree was stirred and, waking from its deep sleep, saw what had occurred.
Understand it thus. Ask a great musician; he may tell easily. In an empty, silent room, place a veena—no one plays it, just place it. In the other corner let a skilled musician play another veena. If the room is empty, not full of things, the veena that lies there will catch the resonance of the other veena and begin to give music. Its strings will vibrate, dance.
So it happened. Such a great event happened with Buddha that, in that vibration, the strings of the tree’s veena also moved. It danced. It became a witness.
So sometimes trees have awakened; and often men remain asleep. Some things have given greater evidence of awakening and thereby became precious. What we call precious stones—their preciousness is not merely economic. Their true preciousness is connected with Yoga. Stones that, in certain moments, can be filled with awareness, gradually became precious. From such aware stones many uses have been made. That is a long journey. Metals like gold and silver became precious not merely because they are rare; for other reasons. These metals have given greater proof of awakening.
You have heard the name of Hakim Luqman. There is a remarkable mention in his life, connected to deep yogic ways. A story says—call it story, though it is history—that Luqman asked trees: in what use can you come? He asked herbs: what is your utility?
Even today, medical researchers are puzzled: how did Ayurveda, Unani, and ancient medical sciences discover the uses of so many thousands of herbs for specific diseases? There is no evidence of such vast laboratories. Even today we have not fully discovered which herb helps which disease. Work continues. It would take thousands of years. But Luqman, a single man, created a whole science! How could one man, in one life, find all this?
Luqman’s story says something else. He would go to each plant, sit by it in meditation, pray to it: tell me for what use you can serve. And in his heart the plant’s answer would arise; he would begin to use that plant for that illness. What Luqman used is proving right in the laboratory even now.
Plants can awaken near a Luqman, near a Buddha. Stones can awaken near a Yogi. But we men remain asleep. It is a sad thing that, near Buddha, a tree awakened—but thousands who came to him did not and went away asleep. Perhaps the tree is simple and easily resonates; man is complex, cunning, clever—he does not resonate quickly; he examines everything. And in his examining he sometimes tests a cheap pot and brings it home sound, and loses a check worth millions by knocking it. Very clever people can fall into great delusions. If one keeps placing every step with great caution, one thing is certain—he cannot travel to God. That journey is so insecure, so unknown, so unfamiliar, that it is not for the over-cautious. Often the simple enter; the clever stand at the door and think.
Tomorrow I will speak on the next sutra. Whatever questions arise about this, ask. Whatever questions there were, I have gradually spoken to them; if some remain, we will take them up tomorrow. Friends who wish to come to the morning meditation—bathe, come at the right time, and sit silently. Tomorrow is the last day; let no one come just to watch—only those who wish to do are invited.
I am grateful for the love and peace with which you have listened. In the end, I bow to the Lord dwelling within all. Please accept my salutations.
Osho's Commentary
I have given you one sutra: life is energy, and energy has two dimensions—existence and non-existence. And then, in a second sutra, I said that existence too has two dimensions—the unconscious and the conscious. In the seventh sutra, even consciousness has two dimensions—self-conscious and self-unconscious; a consciousness that knows it is, and a consciousness that does not know it is.
If we understand life as a vast tree, then life-energy is one—the trunk. From that trunk two branches break off—of existence and non-existence. We set aside non-existence; we did not speak of it, because it has nothing to do with Yoga. Then the branch of existence also divides into two—conscious and unconscious. We kept the unconscious branch outside our present discussion as well; Yoga has little to do with it. Then even the conscious branch breaks into two—self-conscious and self-unconscious. To understand this distinction in the seventh sutra is the most useful. All that I have said so far was a preface to understanding the sutra I will speak today, the seventh. With the seventh sutra, the process of Yoga practice begins. Therefore it is essential to understand this sutra rightly.
There are plants, there are birds, there are animals. All are conscious, yet they have no consciousness of themselves. They are conscious, and still self-unconscious. They are, life is, consciousness is, but there is no awareness of their own being. Man is—and in the same way as animals, birds, plants are—but he has the awareness that he is. A new dimension is added to his consciousness—he is self-conscious. He knows, too, that he is conscious. To be merely conscious is not enough to be human. The condition of being human includes: I also know that I am conscious. That alone is the difference between man and animal. The animal is conscious, but he has no self-awareness that he is conscious. Man knows that he himself is conscious.
But man is not in this awareness for twenty-four hours. In the mother’s womb he has no awareness that he is. If you try to remember the past, you will be able to recall at most up to the age of four or five; beyond that, darkness descends. Beyond four years, darkness spreads. Until four, you certainly were, but it appears you were not self-conscious. Hence the same innocence is visible in small children and in animals. There is no tension. The same naturalness is visible in small children, birds, and plants. Until four, perhaps we had no awareness that we are.
Then each night you go into unconsciousness for eight hours. If a man lives sixty years, he sleeps twenty. Twenty years of life simply pass in unconsciousness. There, too, you are not conscious. It will surprise you to know how many times you have slept, and yet can you say how sleep comes? When it comes? What it is?
You cannot. As long as you are awake at night, sleep has not arrived; and when sleep has arrived, you are unconscious. Sleep always finds you unconscious. In the morning, when sleep goes, you are still unconscious; when it has gone, awareness returns. Therefore when you say, I slept eight hours last night, it does not mean you know you slept eight hours. It only means that there is an eight-hour gap between your last waking moment at night and your first waking moment in the morning. You calculate by that gap. Otherwise, in sleep you have returned to the world of animals and plants.
In the remaining day, when you feel you are full of awareness, even then you are full of awareness only sometimes. Stand some day by the roadside and observe passers-by. You will feel many are walking in sleep. Someone is talking—to one not even present! Someone is moving his hand! Someone is moving his lips! With whom are they talking? Are they in some dream? Awake? There is no one seen with them. Who is this discussion with?
If you watch yourself carefully you will find that even when you are awake you are not aware all the time; awareness comes only once in a while. Let someone suddenly place a knife upon your chest—at that instant self-awareness happens in you; in that instant you are filled with alertness; otherwise not.
Let me explain with a few examples. These are two rooftops. If a one-foot-wide plank were laid between them and you were asked to walk across, hardly any of you would agree to walk. Place the same plank on the ground and ask everyone to walk across—old people, children, women, all will cross, and hardly anyone will fall. The plank is the same, you are the same. Why do you refuse to walk when it is set between two roofs? And when so many walked upon it on the ground and not one fell, where is the chance of falling now? What is the difficulty?
The difficulty is of another kind. Walking on the ground requires no awareness; you can walk unconsciously. But to cross a high roof, you must remain aware. And awareness is not with you; in unconsciousness if you fall, life is gone. On the ground, even if you fall unconsciously, your life is not at stake.
In moments of danger, sometimes awareness occurs; ordinarily, we are asleep. When death is near, there is awareness. When danger is close, when the peril is near, there is awareness. Otherwise, we are not aware. Hence we do not want to change our habits—because to change habits, awareness has to be brought in. The old habits can go on in unconsciousness.
Watch a man—how he takes a cigarette from his pocket, puts it to his lips, strikes a match. If you observe closely, you will find he is doing all this as if utterly unconscious, asleep—when did he take out the cigarette, when did he strike the match, when did he begin to puff the smoke in and out.
If the world were truly full of awareness, it would be very difficult to find such foolish people who spend hours drawing smoke in and pushing smoke out. To find people who spend hours merely moving smoke in and out would be difficult. And if you told someone so, he would say, I am not mad to move smoke in and out!
Not only is smoke being moved in and out, the whole world shouts, explains that it is harmful—life will be shortened, illness will come. Unconscious ears hear nothing.
America recently decided that every cigarette packet must carry in bold red letters: This is harmful to health. The shopkeepers, the owners, the factory men made a great uproar that this would cost them millions.
When I read this I said: those who make cigarettes do not know how unconscious people are. For how many days will they read what is written in red?
And that is what happened. For six months the sales fell; after six months they rose back to what they were. Now it is written in red on every packet, but the reader must also be present. One or two times it was read—and then sleep returned. Now the packet comes, it says everything, but no one reads it. Sales are back to their place.
If something has in red letters that it is poison, drinking it is dangerous, will an aware man drink it? Difficult. Everything is clearly labeled—what is poison, what is harmful. How many times have you resolved not to be angry! How many times? And how many times was it fulfilled? Not even once—otherwise there would be no need to resolve again.
I was a guest in a house. The old man said to me, I have taken the vow of brahmacharya three times. I was astonished. How can one take a vow of brahmacharya three times? I asked why he had not taken it a fourth time. He said: After taking it three times I experienced that it cannot be fulfilled, so I did not take it a fourth time—not that the third time it succeeded.
Every day you become angry, every day you swear an oath. Then what happens the next day? When anger comes, there is no memory of the oath—because there is no memory of you; where are you? The one who swore the oath is asleep.
A man goes to sleep in the evening resolved that he will rise at four in the morning, come what may; from tomorrow, I must rise. The same man at four, turning over in bed—the alarm rings on—and he says, let it be, not today, tomorrow. At seven he rises and repents: How did this happen? I had sworn to get up at four.
But the one who swore is asleep. He will swear again at seven, and tomorrow at four the deception will happen again. Life passes in such sleep. If we look at our actions, we cannot say we have done them. For if we had, many of them could never have been done.
Courts the world over know that hundreds of criminals have said in court, I did not commit this murder, I did not commit this theft. But the magistrate calls them liars, the court calls them liars—witnesses exist, proofs exist, the theft occurred. Yet I tell you: those criminals are not lying. When they stole, they were not aware. When they murdered, they were not aware. To murder with awareness is very difficult. To steal with awareness is very difficult.
In my vision, and in Yoga’s vision, I call that virtuous which can be done with awareness. I call that sin whose necessary condition is unconsciousness. Sin means a deed that cannot be done without being unconscious—you can do it only in unconsciousness. The necessary condition is to be asleep.
So when we say of someone that his act is animal-like, it does not mean animals do such things. No animal does what men do. Animal-like has another meaning: just as the animal is self-unconscious, unaware of itself, so too this man is unaware of himself. The act is animal-like in this sense. Otherwise no dog has done what Hitler did, nor any snake what Genghis Khan did. Which animal has committed evils like those committed by the animal called man? None. Animal-like has a single meaning: on the mental plane, this man has forgotten the Self; he is unconscious, he is not aware.
Hence courts do not agree to punish children below seven; we assume the child is not yet aware. But can any court give a guarantee that a seventy-year-old is aware? Even a seventy-year-old is not; we merely presume he is. If we examine the acts of a seventy-year-old, we will find he is sleep-walking, moving in unconsciousness.
In seventy years, if a man becomes filled with awareness even for seven minutes, that is a great quantity. If in a life of seventy years an individual has a total of seven minutes of consciousness—those minutes are enough to make him a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ.
But even such moments seldom occur. We live on—unconscious!
And yet I said: man begins only on the day self-consciousness begins. We are merely the possibility of man, not man. We are only the opportunity to become man, not man. We are but seeds, with the possibility that we may become self-conscious; we have not yet become.
Hence our perennial difficulty in calling a Buddha or a Mahavira a man; we call them Gods. The sole reason for calling them Gods is that we call ourselves men—though we are not, in the true sense. Where then to place them? If we call them men, we must put them with us. So we invent a new category, God. It would be better to call them men, and ourselves sub-human. We are on the way to becoming human, not yet arrived. That is proper. That is true.
But in our lives too, once in a while, for a moment or two, we do become aware. Those moments are the moments of joy in our lives. The moments in which we become self-conscious—those are the moments of bliss in our lives. For in those moments we catch a glimpse of our own nature—like a flash of lightning.
Yoga divides consciousness into two—self-conscious and self-unconscious. Those who are unconscious with regard to the Self are, of course, self-unconscious. We who should be self-conscious remain largely with the animals, largely with the plants, largely with the stones. A small part of us has become human, a very small part. As when a block of ice is dropped into water, a little part remains above, a tenth perhaps, and nine parts remain submerged. So are we. Our nine parts are drowned below in darkness; one small part has come above the surface and become human.
Therefore man is exceedingly restless—the animal is not. No animal commits suicide. The day an animal commits suicide, understand, he will not remain an animal for long; he has begun becoming man. No animal commits suicide—there is not so much anxiety that suicide arises. No animal laughs, except man. If on the road you meet a buffalo laughing, you will never take that road again. No animal laughs. Why?
Because no animal is so miserable as to need to forget sorrow by laughter. Laughter is a device to forget pain.
Therefore the more suffering grows in the world, the more we seek means of entertainment—cinema, television, radio, dance, song. And even those are exhausted, and man says, bring something new—we are bored of these.
At present, fifty percent of the world’s energy is being invested in providing entertainment. And today those who can entertain have become the most important—like actors. Their importance has no other reason; they can entertain you for a while. You are so miserable that one who can entertain you even a little becomes important.
No animal laughs, because no animal is so unhappy that laughter is needed. Laughter is a safety valve. As any steam-engine needs a safety valve—if steam increases, the valve must release it, otherwise lives are at risk—so laughter is man’s safety valve. When pain accumulates within, for its release, for a little freedom from it, there is laughter. Hence animals do not laugh; they lack such tension, such anxiety, such worry.
What is man’s anxiety?
His anxiety is that a small part of him has become self-conscious and the larger part remains in unconsciousness. His trouble is the same as Narasimha Avatar’s must have been—that half is animal, and half has become man. We all are in the same predicament as Narasimha.
People ask me, how can there be a Narasimha Avatar?
I tell them: all men are avatars of Narasimha. And had it been even a half-and-half division, there would have been some balance. But just a bit of the skull—a very small corner—not even the whole skull—has become human; the rest remains animal. The whole life is of the animal, of unconsciousness. A small corner of intellect—not even the whole mind—just a tiny corner of intellect! As a large house is in darkness and a single lamp burns in one corner, so we live by the light of that one corner. Even that does not burn all the time; it goes out in sleep. And if it does not, a man will drown it in wine, or extinguish it with a thousand intoxicants.
Wine brings relief because that little part which created restlessness—that had become human—sinks too. The whole block of ice submerges. You enter the animal’s world; anxiety disappears.
Therefore sleep gives relief; in sleep you are a hundred percent submerged again. You rise fresh in the morning—you are returning from the animal’s world where there was no worry, no trouble. Then the human world begins. This goes on round the clock.
So when I say man is self-unconscious, I mean: the possibility of being self-conscious exists. With man, a small portion has become self-aware. Yoga says, if one becomes wholly self-conscious, one attains meditation; if all dark parts are filled with light, one attains Samadhi.
Self-knowledge will be only when my whole house of life is filled with light. The wick of a small lamp will not do. The whole house needs the light of the sun—every corner filled with radiance. Otherwise I shall forever remain split in two. The part lit by light resolves: I will not let snakes enter my house. But what resolution will you make about the darkness? There, snakes dwell already! And in a little while, when a snake glides into the lamplight we scream, My vow is broken! I had sworn—no snake shall enter my house!
When you swear, I shall not be angry—your oath is taken in that small lit part; and you leave unconsidered the nine parts submerged in darkness—where anger is already being brewed, distilled. While you are swearing, somewhere within, anger is being prepared. And your whole interior must be amazed: What oaths are you taking!
It is as if the peon sitting at the gate, who knows nothing of the mansion, begins making decisions for the entire house. He knows nothing of what is happening inside. In the dark parts, all preparations continue.
You have taken a vow of brahmacharya, but your sex-centers are drowned in darkness; no ray of your intellect has reached there. In a corner of the skull you decide: I take the vow of brahmacharya. But your sex-center does not even hear of it. It goes on with its work. From there sex will rise and overwhelm your intellect and everything else—because it is nine times stronger, and intellect is only one part. Then you will cry, scream, and vow again. But you never understand that vows are useless. The real question is not to take oaths from that small lit corner; the real question is to enlarge that corner until your whole personality becomes conscious. Then oaths are unnecessary.
Therefore I say to you, Yoga does not ask anyone to take vows. Only the ignorant have taken vows in this world. Vows have no meaning. The real question is different: your entire personality must be illumined; then no vow will be needed.
Yet we go on taking vows! Against whom are they taken? Against our own dark parts. And you have no movement there, no access. All your resolutions sit in a corner of the skull. Not even the whole skull is lit.
Now scientists agree with this. Yoga’s vision—that even man’s whole brain is not conscious—is now supported by science. That is why I repeat: Yoga is a science. Day by day, as science discovers, Yoga’s realizations and insights are being confirmed.
Scientists now say that more than half of man’s brain lies entirely inactive—no work at all; it is closed. Not for all—this applies even to those who use their intellect more. Those who use it less have three-quarters of the brain lying idle.
And of the part that functions—a quarter or a half—even the greatest geniuses use only a half; the other half remains dormant. In the ordinary person, not even a half functions. And that part which functions—a quarter or a half—does not function to its full capacity. Even the greatest intellect uses only fifteen percent of his capacity. The remaining eighty-five percent remains unused. We leave aside the half that does not function; of the part that does, if we take its hundred percent as capacity, we use only fifteen percent in life.
For this, there is now scientific data, evidence, research. Only a tiny part in man functions. And even this part generally stops developing after eighteen; it does little thereafter. So you have approximately the same intelligence you developed up to eighteen. Do not be in the illusion that at eighty you have much more intelligence. Very few people develop their intelligence after eighteen.
Most people, whatever has happened till eighteen, simply go on collecting experiences with that intelligence. Their experiences grow; intelligence does not. Experience accumulates; intelligence does not grow. They go on experiencing with the same intelligence. Experiences increase. Hence an eighty-year-old has many experiences; but his intelligence is about what an eighteen-year-old has.
In the last world war, America had a surprising realization. America—the most educated, developed, the country using intellect the most on Earth—tested soldiers’ intelligence during recruitment. Great astonishment! The results of lakhs of recruits showed the average intelligence was not beyond that of a thirteen-year-old. Everything seemed to stop at thirteen.
Yoga has long said: even the whole mind of man is not illuminated. If the whole mind were illumined, astonishing phenomena would begin. What you call siddhis, Yoga calls the functioning of those parts of the mind that remain inactive—nothing more.
Even for this, scientific proofs are slowly appearing. In America there is now a man named Ted Serios. Parts of his brain function that ordinarily do not. There are methods now to determine which parts are active. Different brain centers do different work. When you read, one center works; when you weep, another; when you laugh, another; when you sing, another; when you play the veena, another; when you paint, another. Even if you speak Hindi, one part works; if you also speak Marathi, another; if you know English too, a third part. There are thousands of centers in the brain doing different work.
In Ted Serios, centers function that ordinarily do not. He can close his eyes in America and be asked: what is happening tonight at Sanghvi factory in Poona? He will sit with eyes closed for fifteen minutes, then open them—without saying a word—and if a camera is placed before his eye and a photograph taken of his eye, the camera will catch a picture of your many heads here, this crowd, through his eye.
Had such a description appeared in a two-thousand-year-old book, we would have said: a fable. But the man is alive today; all American universities have examined him; he has performed demonstrations everywhere. The difference will be slight—if we photograph from here and he from there—the difference will be like a pale copy, that’s all. A little blurred, nothing more. His eye, from that distance, can catch our image.
So if the Mahabharata says Sanjaya sat beside blind Dhritarashtra and, hundreds of miles away, reported the battle of Kurukshetra—if Ted Serios can do it, what hindrance for Sanjaya? The eye can see far indeed—but other parts of the brain must be illumined.
Let me give you an example from Russia. Fayadev is a Russian scientist. Leave America aside! Russia is an atheistic nation, still reluctant to accept soul or God. Yet Fayadev has sent telepathic messages a thousand miles—without any instrument—by thought alone. Sitting in Moscow, he has sent messages to Tiflis, simply by closing his eyes. He would think the message in Moscow, and it would be received in Tiflis.
In Tiflis a test was arranged. In a garden, on bench number ten, a man came and sat. He knew nothing—a passerby, tired, resting in the afternoon. Hidden behind bushes, people wired Fayadev: a man sits on bench ten—if you can make him sleep in five minutes with a message, we will accept it.
Sitting in Moscow, Fayadev thought for five minutes: the man on bench ten should fall asleep. In five minutes the man was snoring in deep sleep.
Those hidden friends naturally suspected: perhaps he was tired and slept by himself; coincidence is possible. So they wired back: the man has slept; wake him exactly at seven minutes—we will accept then.
Exactly at seven minutes the man startled and woke. He looked all around, as if someone had called. They came out of the bushes: whom are you looking for? He said, someone keeps telling me: get up, wake up, do not sleep now—wake exactly at seven minutes.
Who is speaking? There is no one there. The man is hundreds of miles away in Moscow.
If the mind fully awakens, man becomes an inventor of great powers. Many such possibilities lie in the brain. Yoga called them siddhis. Call them by any name—it makes no difference. Our whole brain is not awake. The poverty we appear to be in is the poverty of our sleep. The restlessness in our lives remains because the wealth we brought with us we cannot use.
Yoga says all these brain centers can be awakened.
And the brain hidden within the skull is not the whole of personality. An equally large personality is hidden near the heart. Of that, news has stopped reaching us. Sometimes, when a little love shines in someone’s life, one remembers the centers near the heart—otherwise not.
And even if the brain fully develops, the heart has its own brain—it remains incomplete, untouched. Our entire education is of the brain; so the brain develops a little. The heart has no education; it remains undeveloped. Man fills with inner tension.
And even heart and brain together do not make the whole man. There are other centers. Yoga divides man into seven centers. It says: on seven planes there is possibility for the development of personality. These are broad planes; the division is rough. Finer divisions can be made. Buddha made nine divisions—he is among the great Yogis. Patanjali made seven. Another may divide otherwise. For there are hundreds of centers within man, each with its powers; if all develop and man fully awakens, and in that state he says, Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman—there is no exaggeration in his utterance.
But sitting at home, extracting words from the Brahmasutras, searching the mahavakyas of the Upanishads, lighting kerosene lamps and declaring, Aham Brahmasmi!
Kerosene will not do; and scriptures read by an outer lamp are of no use. The lamp within must be lit, and its flame must reach all seven centers. Then the scripture that opens will be no book; the Veda that is experienced will not be any written Veda. And the proclamation Aham Brahmasmi will not have come from scripture, but from one’s own total being.
Thus Yoga regards man as a scripture with many unread chapters—unknown, unfamiliar—upon which we have never carried light, of which we have had no inkling. Like an emperor asleep in his palace, forgetting his treasuries and wealth, dreaming he is a beggar on the road, pleading for a coin and receiving none—crying, troubled, shouting. We are in exactly that condition—emperors unaware of our wealth. We do not even believe it if told. How to believe that we have such treasure? No, no. If in the dream someone told that emperor, Why do you beg? You are an emperor! he would say, What a joke! Do not joke—give me a coin and I will understand.
Precisely so are we.
Yoga says: within us is the expanse of infinite riches. But they will awaken only through self-consciousness; there is no other way.
Now, understand this a little. All the centers of our personality awaken and become active through consciousness. To the extent that consciousness gathers upon them, they awaken. The part upon which consciousness gathers becomes active.
Small children have no activity at the sex-center, so they do not even know it. After fourteen, Nature activates that center and awareness begins to come; as awareness comes, the center becomes active. Nature does this. If Nature did not activate the sex-center, you would not even know there is such a thing as sex in your personality. It would lie there, unnoticed. How would you know?
But Nature must use that center to maintain life; so she activates it herself; she does not leave it to you. In animals too; in plants too; in all life she activates it herself.
The brain’s center is activated by society—through education, instruction—because otherwise life would be hard to manage. So society teaches arithmetic, geography—just enough for life to be manageable. The sex-center is activated by Nature; the brain-center a little by society; all the centers in between remain closed—they never activate. No one needs them. Society does not need them. In fact, society will not want some centers to be active. If a person’s love becomes very active, society will not like it. The family will not like it. The wife will not like the husband’s love-center to be very active; the husband will not like the wife’s to be very active; the mother will not like it, nor the father.
There are reasons. When the love-center is fully active, the distinction—this one to be loved and not that one—begins to dissolve. Then a mother cannot say, Love me alone. If the love-center truly activates, the child will love everyone. The mother’s jealousy will stop it. The wife will not want the husband to look lovingly at anyone; her jealousy will stop it. Society will strive to suppress, to cut it off.
Other centers society will tolerate even less. If many people like Ted Serios were to appear, society would try to pass laws against them.
A recent event occurred. In Indonesia there is a man named Tony. Among the most significant events of this century is what has been happening through Tony. But the whole society—courts, law—has stood against him. Tony has performed an experiment which is among Yoga’s profoundest: spiritual surgery. Even the phrase seems strange.
If you have an appendix, Tony—without any instrument—will place his bare hands upon your belly, close his eyes, pray to God, and both hands will enter your abdomen. The skin will make way without any instrument. His bare hands will enter your belly. This has happened before twenty-five medical scientists, doctors, surgeons; it has been filmed and shown all over the world. His hands will reach inside; his eyes remain closed. Within your open abdomen he will grasp the appendix, pull it out with his hands, tear it out and place it outside; then he will pass his hands again over your belly, and your cut skin will rejoin. In two days there will be no mark that any cut was ever made.
Such a man should be valued, yet the Indonesian government is prosecuting him. The medical association has filed suit in the Supreme Court: he has no license for surgery—how can he perform it?
Is there any measure to man’s madness! Because he has no certificate from a medical college, no M.D., how can he operate? The court will rule against him—law is always blind. The government has ordered him to perform no surgeries anywhere.
This man has a group of twenty-five friends—people of prayer and meditation. When asked, they say they know nothing. We leave ourselves in God’s hands; whatever He makes us instruments for, that we do. We do nothing.
But if such a man grows, what will become of the medical profession? Of surgeons? They will agitate against him, trap him in accusations. He is poor, simple; disturbed by their trouble-making he will fold his hands—Very well, I do nothing. I ask forgiveness.
Many times, many miracles have happened in this world. We have suppressed them. We have always arranged that such things not happen—because they endanger our establishments, our organized institutions. And they do. What will become of them?
And upon these things, what we call scientific outlook becomes worthless—because these events bring news from farther away. We will stand against people like Ted Serios or Tony—because we will say: these things will break our whole arrangement. If Ted Serios can see inside another’s house, today or tomorrow we will worry—he can see our safe too! We will try to stop them.
Society has tried to suppress Yoga’s precious attainments. Naturally, when we suppress these things, they cease to manifest—because we prevent the occasions, the circumstances in which they can appear.
An event happened before me and with me. Then I felt the wonder. A friend used to come to meditate. His child, who was in third grade Hindi, would also come. He asked me: would it be all right if the child sits by me? I said, it is all right—good that he comes. The friend meditated; the child too sat by him and began to meditate.
The father could not go very deep, but the small boy went quite far. They were to come four days. They did not come; after fifteen days they arrived, very frightened: What have you done to the boy? Please make him forget; we do not want him to go into meditation.
I asked, what happened?
They said: strange things. The husband and wife locked the door, left the child inside—Play at home; we are going to a neighbor—and went to the matinee. When they returned, the child stood at the window: You are lying; you have gone to the cinema. You went to the matinee!
They had indeed gone to the matinee, deceiving the child. They were astonished. How did you know?
He said, nothing; when no one was at home, I sat to meditate and I saw you both sitting in the cinema.
They said: we do not want such things to develop in the child—see the mind of a dishonest father—we do not want him to meditate; there will be trouble.
It seems surprising, but it is so. If your child began to see such things, you too would say: stop! Because you tell the boy: do not smoke—and you yourself smoke. Tomorrow he will say: what are you saying, father? You stop him: do not go to the cinema!—and you yourself go. Tomorrow he will say: what are you saying? Everything you forbid, you do. So you will not allow such talents to develop in children.
Thus all humanity has conspired, unknowingly, against yogic development. We will try to suppress these things. And when the whole society suppresses and gives no occasion for growth…
Imagine if all universities and schools were closed—how many would know mathematics? And if education ceased for two thousand years, then after two thousand years people would doubt whether such intelligence is possible as to fly an airplane, to reach the moon. They would say, how can it be? What proof? None would remain. What man does today—reaching the moon—is the fruit of ten or twenty thousand years of educating intelligence. Had we worked for ten or twenty thousand years on the centers of Yoga, where man would have reached is unimaginable. Sometimes one person reaches; we worship him and forget. But it is all possible. Many planes lie within man, but they are submerged in unconsciousness; hence we know nothing of them.
Yoga divides man into seven planes—seven centers, the seven chakras. At each of these seven, infinite energy and power lie asleep. As a bud contains the flower. From the bud one cannot tell what flower will bloom, what lotus will open, how many petals. The bud is closed. If someone has seen only buds and never a flower, he cannot imagine that this bud can become a flower. Our chakras are like buds. If they fully open, we cannot even guess what fragrances, what beauty, what power lie inside. Each chakra holds infinite beauty, infinite power. But only if the buds open does it manifest; if not, it remains hidden.
Have you seen lotus buds opening? When do they open? When the sun rises and light spreads, the buds that were closed in the night open in the morning with the sun. Exactly so, the day the sun of our consciousness rises upon a center, that center’s bud opens.
Within us there is also a sun of consciousness. With its reaching—call it meditation or anything else—the sun of our inner awareness, on whichever center its light falls, that bud opens and becomes a flower. And as it flowers, we find that infinite powers hidden within us begin to manifest.
These seven chakras—each can be opened; each has its own capacities. And when all seven open, the doors and windows of the person, of which I spoke yesterday, open to the Infinite. Then the individual becomes one with the Infinite.
How will mere consciousness—mere awareness—open these chakras? I want to share a few scientific facts.
Until twenty or twenty-five years ago, scientists did not think consciousness could affect anything. We do not see it affecting. We have heard stories of fakirs, Yogis—but those have become stories. The arts we forget become stories—naturally.
If a third world war occurs and only a few great scientists die, it will be impossible to make an atom bomb again. Even now only twenty-five people know the formula. If these twenty-five were seized and killed, no atom bomb could be made. Ten years ago only fifteen knew it. Before Hiroshima, hardly four men in the world knew. Kill those four and the atom bomb becomes a story. Whenever someone says, It is true, we will say: make one and show! That will be difficult.
If a third war occurs—as has happened before—the entire science and culture of an age are destroyed with it; stories remain. We say now: those are stories. If a third war comes and the whole world is destroyed—as is possible—when bombs fall, the most developed centers—Poona, Bombay, Delhi, London, New York—will not survive. If any survive, they will be tribals hidden in Bastar’s hills, people in the Himalayas. No one will try to drop atom bombs upon them; to seek them out would be too costly. The centers—universities, halls of science—will fall first. Those who remain, the undeveloped, had seen trains; they will tell their children stories that trains used to be. After two or three generations, the children will say, Impossible! How could it be? What proof? None will be left.
So it has happened with the art of Yoga—many times it develops, then for many reasons is lost; chief among them, we ourselves—we cannot tolerate it because it is dangerous.
I was saying: consciousness affects things. This is a very simple experiment in Yoga—that consciousness makes a difference. Science now agrees. And it agreed when... If we look at a pebble, nothing changes. No matter how much we look, the pebble remains a pebble. No matter how much consciousness we concentrate, it remains a pebble. But since the discovery of the electron, scientists learned that when we look at an electron through great microscopes, its movement wavers under observation. As if you are bathing in the bathroom—enjoying yourself, making faces, laughing in the mirror, forgetting your age—and suddenly you notice someone peeking through the keyhole. You become alert, stand straight. If you were singing film songs, you begin to sing hymns—or something else.
We can accept that being watched through a keyhole changes you. But scientists say: when we watch electrons through microscopes, they change the way they move. Astonishing! It means observation brings alteration.
Yesterday I spoke of a Christian fakir who blessed seeds in an Oxford laboratory. With his blessing another strange event occurred. Wearing a cross on his chest, he bent with folded hands over a seed and prayed. When that seed was photographed, great surprise—the picture of the cross on his chest appeared within the seed. Astonishing! As he bent to pray, his cross came near the seed; but the cross’s image inside the seed—how? Did his prayer, his attention flowing toward the seed, communicate that image within it? Did the seed respond? Did it accept the fakir with its heart?
Yoga’s ancient insight—indeed, experience—is that whichever center within we meditate upon becomes immediately active. Its activity opens the buds that were closed. As the sun awakens the birds at dawn.
And mark—whether you think of it or not—before the sun arrives, an hour before, birds begin to sing. The sun has only turned to come, has not arrived; the birds begin to sing; flowers begin to open. The sun is about to come, not yet come, and the flowers begin to blossom and the buds to smile and the birds to sing.
Let your attention begin to turn inward and your chakras begin to activate. Merely beginning—and unique experiences arise within. In these three days, many friends have come and told me many experiences. They are ancient experiences. Some begin to have intense experiences of inner light—that is light bursting from a center. Some begin to experience fragrance within—that is fragrance welling from a center. Some begin to hear unique music—the nada, sounds flowing from a center. Different experiences begin to arise from within. As vast as the world outside, the world within is no smaller. We have attended only to the outer; therefore outer things have been activated. We have not attended within, otherwise the inner would activate too. Let me give you one or two small experiments so you may remember that this is possible.
Walk on the road; someone is ahead of you. For two minutes do this: fix your gaze on the back of his head, without blinking, for two minutes.
You will not be able to look longer than two minutes before the person has to turn and look back. The center became active; he will at once feel restless, turn and look: what is happening behind? You cannot find a person whom you look at for two minutes and he does not look back. If you do, know you have found a rare man.
Within your own body choose any center and begin to take awareness there. If we are asked: if your hand were cut off? We will say: not much of ours will be lost—some pain, not much. But if our head were cut?—everything is lost. Because our identity remains only in the brain; our being is felt only there. We will say, our being is there. Whatever knowledge we have of ourselves, it is in a small brain-center, not in the whole body.
Begin to meditate upon any center within. As I gave you an outer experiment, try an inner one: for four to six days, simply close your eyes and take awareness to the heart; do only that for five minutes a day. You will find love growing in your personality. You will see it; your neighbors will see it; your family will see it. No need to say anything; silently keep attending. People will begin to tell you: there is a great change in you—you were never so loving.
The center upon which consciousness goes becomes active. We have seven centers. Awareness can be taken to all seven. It will go only if you take it. This is both the boon and the risk of self-consciousness. If you do not take it, it will not go. And if you do not, self-unconscious, there is no difference between animals and man. If I say Yoga is the science of making an animal into a man, that is no exaggeration.
Even the very word animal is wondrous in Yoga. Yoga calls him animal who is bound in the rope—the pash. As a buffalo or cow is led by a rope. The rope is pash; the bound one is pashu.
Yoga says: the man bound in the chains of unconsciousness is an animal; the one who has broken those chains stands as man. Man means one whose manas—mind—has become complete. And manas means consciousness. Mind means consciousness—one who has become fully conscious. Even the English word man comes from the Sanskrit man. One who has become mind—i.e., fully conscious—that one is man.
This is Yoga’s seventh sutra. A couple more points on this, and the rest of the sutra we will speak of tomorrow. A few necessary things to keep in mind.
As I said, man is sometimes conscious, mostly unconscious. From this, reverse events also occur. Those we assume to be continuously unconscious also become conscious in certain moments. A plant becomes conscious sometimes; a stone becomes conscious sometimes; an animal becomes conscious sometimes—just as man becomes conscious sometimes. But such events occur rarely and only sometimes. As it happened with the Bodhi tree in Buddha’s time.
For five hundred years after Buddha’s death, no image of Buddha was made. Buddha had said: Do not make my image; the Bodhi tree will do. For five hundred years, only the Bodhi tree was worshipped. Only after five hundred years were images made. Among many reasons, one was this: the moment Buddha became awakened, the tree under which he sat resonated with Buddhahood; it too awakened. It became a witness—the only witness—no one else was present there but that tree.
You may ask: how did the tree become conscious?
A great sun arose beneath it; no matter how deeply asleep in its unconsciousness, a part of the tree awakened. It awakened and saw the event. Hence Buddha said: This tree is my witness. Worship it; it will do. It is the sole witness.
That Bodhi tree has been preserved till now for this reason. Though Buddhists themselves may not know why they preserve it. In India it dried; Ashoka sent a branch with his son and daughter to Sri Lanka. That branch was planted there. When India’s Bodhi tree died, a branch was brought back and planted again. For twenty-five hundred years that tree is alive—a witness. With that great event in Buddha’s consciousness, the tree was stirred and, waking from its deep sleep, saw what had occurred.
Understand it thus. Ask a great musician; he may tell easily. In an empty, silent room, place a veena—no one plays it, just place it. In the other corner let a skilled musician play another veena. If the room is empty, not full of things, the veena that lies there will catch the resonance of the other veena and begin to give music. Its strings will vibrate, dance.
So it happened. Such a great event happened with Buddha that, in that vibration, the strings of the tree’s veena also moved. It danced. It became a witness.
So sometimes trees have awakened; and often men remain asleep. Some things have given greater evidence of awakening and thereby became precious. What we call precious stones—their preciousness is not merely economic. Their true preciousness is connected with Yoga. Stones that, in certain moments, can be filled with awareness, gradually became precious. From such aware stones many uses have been made. That is a long journey. Metals like gold and silver became precious not merely because they are rare; for other reasons. These metals have given greater proof of awakening.
You have heard the name of Hakim Luqman. There is a remarkable mention in his life, connected to deep yogic ways. A story says—call it story, though it is history—that Luqman asked trees: in what use can you come? He asked herbs: what is your utility?
Even today, medical researchers are puzzled: how did Ayurveda, Unani, and ancient medical sciences discover the uses of so many thousands of herbs for specific diseases? There is no evidence of such vast laboratories. Even today we have not fully discovered which herb helps which disease. Work continues. It would take thousands of years. But Luqman, a single man, created a whole science! How could one man, in one life, find all this?
Luqman’s story says something else. He would go to each plant, sit by it in meditation, pray to it: tell me for what use you can serve. And in his heart the plant’s answer would arise; he would begin to use that plant for that illness. What Luqman used is proving right in the laboratory even now.
Plants can awaken near a Luqman, near a Buddha. Stones can awaken near a Yogi. But we men remain asleep. It is a sad thing that, near Buddha, a tree awakened—but thousands who came to him did not and went away asleep. Perhaps the tree is simple and easily resonates; man is complex, cunning, clever—he does not resonate quickly; he examines everything. And in his examining he sometimes tests a cheap pot and brings it home sound, and loses a check worth millions by knocking it. Very clever people can fall into great delusions. If one keeps placing every step with great caution, one thing is certain—he cannot travel to God. That journey is so insecure, so unknown, so unfamiliar, that it is not for the over-cautious. Often the simple enter; the clever stand at the door and think.
Tomorrow I will speak on the next sutra. Whatever questions arise about this, ask. Whatever questions there were, I have gradually spoken to them; if some remain, we will take them up tomorrow. Friends who wish to come to the morning meditation—bathe, come at the right time, and sit silently. Tomorrow is the last day; let no one come just to watch—only those who wish to do are invited.
I am grateful for the love and peace with which you have listened. In the end, I bow to the Lord dwelling within all. Please accept my salutations.