Adhyatam Upanishad #1

I will say only what I know; I will say only what you too can know. But by knowing I mean living. One can “know” without living it—then knowledge becomes a burden. It can drown you; it cannot carry you across. Knowing can become alive—then what we know makes us weightless, light, so we can fly in the sky. Only when life itself becomes knowing do wings grow, chains break, and the gates of the infinite swing open.

But knowing is difficult; collecting knowledge is very easy. So the mind chooses the easy and avoids the difficult. Yet whoever avoids the difficult will be deprived of religion. Not only the difficult—whoever tries to avoid even the impossible will never come near religion. Religion is for those ready to step into the impossible. Religion is for gamblers, not for shopkeepers. Religion is not a deal. Religion is not a compromise. Religion is a wager. The gambler stakes his money; the religious person stakes himself. That alone is the supreme treasure. And whoever is not ready to stake himself will never know life’s hidden mysteries.

Those mysteries are not available cheap; information is very cheap. Information can be found in books, in scriptures, in schooling, with teachers. Information comes almost for free—you pay almost nothing. In religion, much has to be paid. It is not even right to say “much”—only when one stakes everything do the doors to that other life open. Only for the one who stakes this life do those doors open. To risk this life is the key to the doors of that life.

But information is very cheap. So the mind picks the cheap, the convenient. We learn sayings, words, doctrines—and think we have come to know. Ignorance is better than such knowledge. At least the ignorant know that they do not know. They have at least that much truth.

Those we call “learned”—it is hard to find people more untrue than they. They don’t even know that they don’t know. What is heard, memorized, learned by rote deceives them. It seems as if, “I too have known.”

I will say to you only what I know—because only that has any value. For what I know, if you are ready, carries a living sting that can set the strings of your heart trembling. What I myself do not know—what has only reached my throat—cannot go deeper than your ears. Only what has reached my heart has the possibility, if you consent, of reaching your heart.

Your consent is still needed; for if your heart is closed, there is no way to force truth into it. And it is good that there is no way. For if truth is forced on you, it will not create freedom—it will create bondage.

All forcing becomes bondage. In this world anything can be forced upon you, except truth—because truth can never be bondage; truth’s nature is freedom. So there is one thing alone in this world that no one can force on you, no one can thrust upon you, no one can make you wear or wrap around you. Your agreement is essential—your openness, your receptivity, your invitation, a heart brimming with awe. As the earth thirsts before the rains and cracks open—opening her lips here and there in hope of rain—so, when your heart becomes like that, truth enters. Otherwise… otherwise truth comes up to your door and turns back. It has turned back many times, through births upon births.

You are not new. In this world nothing is new—everyone is very old. You have sat at Buddha’s feet and listened; you have seen Krishna; you have sat with Jesus—and yet you remained deprived! Because your heart was never prepared. The river of Buddha flowed past you, the river of Mahavira flowed past you—and you remained thirsty.

Ananda was weeping the day Buddha’s life was ebbing away, beating his chest. Buddha said to him, “Why are you crying? I have been with you more than enough—forty years! If in forty years that event did not happen, what will your tears do now? Why be so upset at my passing?”

Ananda said, “I am upset because you were present, and I could not dissolve. If I had dissolved, you could have entered within me. For forty years the river flowed by me, and I am still thirsty. I weep now because who knows in which birth this river will come my way again.”

You are not new. You have buried Buddhas, buried Mahaviras—Jesus, Krishna, the Christ—you have buried them all and gone on living. They lost to you; you are very ancient. Since life began, you have been. The journey is without beginning, without end.

Where does the mistake happen?

Just here—that you do not open, you remain closed.

I will say to you only what I have known. If you can also make yourself an openness, you too will know it. And it is not that there is great difficulty—there is only one difficulty, and that is you. Some people move by curiosity. Like children walking on a road ask, “What is this tree called?” and if you don’t answer, they instantly forget they even asked; they start asking something else, “Why is this stone lying here?” They ask in order to ask, not to know. They cannot remain without questioning, so they question; not in order to know.

Those who live out of curiosity are still childish. If you ask, “What is God?” the way a child passing a shop asks, “What is this toy?” then you are still a child. And a child can be forgiven—you cannot.

Curiosity will not do. Religion is not a child’s pastime. And even if answers are given, they are of no use. A child’s joy is in asking. He has asked—that is his fun. You will answer, but the answer has no real juice for him. Why is that?

Psychologists say when children are newly learning to speak, they practice speaking by asking questions—just as a child learning to walk keeps standing up to try walking. So, learning to speak, they repeatedly try to speak. That’s why they say the same thing many times. They repeat because a new experience, a new dimension of expression has opened; they swim in that new dimension to practice. So they ask anything; they say anything.

If you too are asking anything, saying anything, thinking anything in the realm of religion—with no deep longing, only curiosity—then you will bury a few more Buddhas yet! Who knows how many more Buddhas will have to labor with you!

Curiosity has nothing to do with truth.

Some go a little beyond curiosity and come to inquiry. Inquiry has a little more depth—but only a little. It too is not very deep; it is intellectual. And the intellect is like an itch: scratch it, and there is a bit of pleasure. So the intellect keeps itching: Is there a God? Is there a soul? Is there liberation? What is meditation? Not in order to do—what is God?—not to know, but to discuss, to talk. An intellectual amusement, an intellectual exercise.

People talk lofty talk, but never stake anything on it. Whether God exists or not makes no difference to them. God or no God—they remain as they are.

It is amusing: one man believes God exists, another believes God does not, and their lives are the same! If someone abuses them, both get angry—the believer and the nonbeliever. In fact, often the believer gets angrier! For what can the nonbeliever do at most—abuse you, beat you, kill you. But the believer can consign you to hell! He has more resources for anger.

If believing or not believing in God makes no difference in life, it means this “God” has nothing to do with you; it is mere intellectual palaver. With such inquiry one becomes a philosopher, ruminates and speculates, studies scriptures, gathers many doctrines, thinks pro and con, argues and debates—but never lives.

If you are filled only with inquiry, the journey will not happen. The inquisitive are those who sit by the milestone and ask, “What is the destination? How far is it?” and forever ask—but never get up to walk.

You too know so much! What is lacking in your knowing? You know almost everything. Whatever Buddha knew, Mahavira knew, Krishna knew—you too know it! Don’t you feel, reading the Gita, that these things are familiar to you?

You know them too—but only in the mind. Their seed has not reached your heart. And ideas kept on the mind are like seeds laid upon a rock. The seed is there, but it lies on stone; it cannot sprout. For sprouting, the seed must fall off the rock and find soil. And the surface soil is not enough; it needs a moist place—so it must go a little within the earth, where some water is available, where a little sap flows.

On the mind, like a rock, you place seeds. Until they drop into the heart, no moistness is found. In the heart a little sap flows—a little love. There is some water there. If a seed falls there, it germinates; otherwise it never does.

The inquisitive possess much—but like seeds laid on stone. The soil is not far, yet a little journey feels hard. Without any walking, the seed remains on the rock. At least this much travel must be done: the seed must fall from the rock to the soil, find a moist patch, hide a little in the dark.

Remember, whatever is born in this world seeks deep silence, solitude, darkness. Whatever you keep on the mind is kept in the open light. Sprouts do not happen there. Your heart is the hidden, moist earth within; there something is born.

So those who live only in inquiry become learned, scholars, pundits—but nothing sprouts within them; no new birth, no new life, no new flowers—nothing.

One more direction of seeking—which is ours here—is called longing-for-liberation, mumuksha. Not the concern to know, but to be. Not the concern with knowing, but with becoming. The question is not whether God is; the question is, can I be divine? Even if God is, and I cannot become divine, what is the point? The question is not whether there is liberation; the question is, can I be free? If I can never be free, what meaning is there even if liberation exists somewhere? It is not whether there is a soul within or not; the real question is, can I be soul?

Mumuksha is the search to be. And when one wants to be, then one must stake oneself. That is why I say, religion is the business of gamblers. I will say only what I know, what I have lived. If you are ready to put yourself on the line, then what is my experience can become yours.

Experiences belong to no one; whoever is ready to receive, they become his. No one has any monopoly on truth. Whoever consents to dissolve becomes its master. Truth belongs to the one who shows readiness to ask for it—who opens the doors of his heart and calls it in.

That is why I have chosen this Upanishad. It is a direct encounter with the spiritual. There are no doctrines here—only the experience of the realized. There is no talk here born of curiosity or inquiry. No—here are hints for those filled with longing, and the hints of those who have attained.

There are also those who have not attained and yet cannot give up the pleasure of guiding others. Guidance is a great pleasure. If there is anything most given in this world, it is guidance! And if there is anything least taken, it is also guidance! Everyone gives it; no one takes it! Whenever you get a chance to advise someone, you don’t miss it. It is not necessary that you be qualified to advise. It is not necessary that you know what you are saying. But when it comes to advising another, it is very difficult to give up the pleasure of being a teacher.

What is the pleasure in being a teacher? Instantly you are above—for free—and the other is below. If someone comes to beg alms from you, giving even two coins pains—because you must give something you have. But in giving advice there is no pain at all—because you are giving what you don’t even possess. What is there to lose? On the contrary, you gain something—enjoyment, ego. Today you are in a position to advise, and the other is in a position to take. You are above; the other is below.

So I say: in this Upanishad there is no pleasure of advice or guidance; there is great pain. For the seer of the Upanishad gives only what he knows. He shares something—very heartfelt, very inward. The hints are brief, but deep. The wounds are few, but life-piercing. And if you agree, the arrow will strike straight into the heart, and it will not rest without taking your life—but in taking, it gives life.

So be a little careful, a little alert—because this bargain is dangerous. There is no path here without going mad. There is no way to attain without erasing yourself. Here only those who lose become those who gain. That is why I have chosen this Upanishad. I could have spoken to you directly—no need to choose any Upanishad—this is merely a pretext, a screen. If the arrow is shot openly, a person can dodge; from behind the cover of an Upanishad, there is less room to escape. All hunters know: with a little cover the hunt goes well. This Upanishad is only a cover; beyond that it is not so important.

I will say what I have known—but there is no difference between that and the Upanishad, for the seer of this Upanishad spoke only what he knew.

This Upanishad opens the subtlest mysteries of the spirit. But if I talk only about the Upanishad, the fear is the talk will remain just talk. So the discussion will be a backdrop; along with it, practice! Turning your face toward what is pointed to—toward what this seer saw, or what I say I have seen—lifting your eyes that way, helping your eyes to turn that way—that will be the essence. The Upanishad talk will only stir the air around you so that the waves arise around you and you forget the twentieth century and arrive in the realm where this seer lived. Let this drab and ugly world around us fade, and let the memory of those days return when this seer was alive. An air, an atmosphere—that is the use of the Upanishad. But that is not enough—it is necessary, not sufficient.

So if you listen to what I say and stop at listening, I will take it you have not even listened; because if one does not walk after hearing, I cannot accept that he has heard. If you think that listening you have understood—do not be so quick. If understanding came by listening, we would have understood long ago. If listening brought understanding, this world would not lack the wise; the unwise would be hard to find. But the unwise are all around!

Nothing is understood by listening. By listening only, your fists clench around words. Not by listening, but by doing, understanding comes. So listen in order to do—not to “understand.” Listen to do; do to understand. Do not think that just by listening you have understood. Without that middle link there is no way, no path. But the mind says, “I have understood—what need to do now?”

Destinations are reached by walking. Even if you understand everything, hold the whole route in memory, carry the complete map in your pocket—without walking no one ever reaches.

But one can dream. One can sleep right here and dream of arriving anywhere. The mind is skilled at dreaming.

And don’t think only you dream so. Those you call very wise dream in the same way. There are monks, sannyasins, saints; they have been “seeking” for years and go nowhere—not an inch. They never travel. Their entire search is circular. Within the intellect a circle forms, a whirlpool. They spin in that whirl. And into that whirl everything is pulled—the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Qurans, the Bibles—everything—but there is not an inch of movement.

We will discuss the Upanishad—not to explain the Upanishad, but to become Upanishad. If, after listening here, you memorize and start speaking, I have harmed you; then I am not your friend. If after listening here, you too begin to repeat what you have heard—there is no value. Only if, after listening here, you become what is being said, you see what is being pointed to, your eye opens—only then.

Think of it this way: a poet sings a song about a flower. The song may have great sweetness, meter, rhythm, music. The song has its own beauty.

But no matter how the song sings that flower, how much it hums—still, a song is a song, not the flower. However much movement and rhythm it has, still a song is a song; it is not the fragrance of the flower. If you become content with the song, you have strayed.

The Upanishad is a song of a flower you have not yet seen. The song is wondrous; the singer has seen. But do not be satisfied with the song; the song is not the flower.

Sometimes it happens that you even come near the flower—sometimes! Sometimes a glimpse flashes—sudden, accidental. The flower is not alien; it is your nature, very near, just at the edge. Sometimes it brushes you—in spite of you. Sometimes the flower grants a glimpse. A lightning flashes. In some moment, accidental, you experience: there is something more in this world—this world is not all. Amid this stony world there is something else—not stone, but flower—living, blossoming. As if in a dream, or like lightning in the dark night that illuminates something and then is gone—such things happen sometimes in your life too. In poets’ lives it happens often; in painters’ lives it happens often. The flower’s glimpse comes very close.

Yet however close the flower comes, however many glimpses you get—being “close” is still being far. Even if the flower comes very near, a distance remains. And even if I touch the flower with my hands, it is not certain that what I experience is of the flower—because the hand is the messenger. If the hand brings a wrong report, who can trust it? And why presume the hand will always report correctly? Besides, whatever report the hand gives will be more about the hand than about the flower. The flower feels cool—there is no need the flower be cool; perhaps the hand is hot, so the flower seems cool. The report is relative to the hand. Whenever a report comes through a medium, certainty is not possible.

I was reading a reminiscence by Popoff—a woman practitioner, a deep practitioner—who worked with P. D. Ouspensky. One day, sitting nearby, a gentleman asked Ouspensky, “Is there God or not?” Ouspensky said, “God? No, there is no God!”

Then he paused and added, “But I cannot give any guarantee—because whatever I have known has been known through a medium. Sometimes I saw with my eyes—but what trust is there in eyes? Sometimes I heard with my ears—but ears can mishear. Sometimes I touched with my hands—but who can vouch for the hand? I have not yet seen directly. I have not yet stood face to face; therefore there is no guarantee. So far, in what I have known, I have had no experience of God. But it does not follow that there is no God. It only tells you my report—what my experiences have been. So do not stop by trusting me. Seek.”

Whenever something happens through a medium, it is not to be trusted. Even if you come right up to the flower—your eyes see, your hands touch, the scent reaches your nose—this too is an experience of distance.

Sometimes a poet comes so near to the supreme Flower that its resonance descends into his song. And yet he is not a Buddha, not a Mahavira.

Who is a Mahavira? Who is a Buddha?

Buddha is that consciousness which becomes the flower itself; not even the slightest distance remains of “seeing the flower”—he becomes the flower. Only by becoming can one fully know what it is.

The seer of the Upanishad speaks. It is a song about a flower. Hum it; there is great sweetness in it, much flavor. But it is a song, not the flower. If you strive rightly, sometimes a glimpse will come.

People come to me and say, “In meditation a great glimpse came—but then it was lost. There was infinite light—then it was lost. There was only bliss—where is it now? We seek it now and cannot find it.”

A glimpse means you came near. A glimpse will be lost. Meditation can give, at most, a glimpse. Do not stop there, clutching at that glimpse and trying to repeat it again and again. Meditation’s value is only this much: it grants a glimpse. Then you must go further into samadhi—so that you become the flower itself.

Meditation brings glimpses; samadhi is being. Do not stop at glimpses. Glimpses are very endearing. The whole world starts to taste stale—just one glimpse in meditation of the living, of the flower, of that blossoming within—and the world turns pale and futile.

But then some cling to glimpses, repeat them, and think all is done. No—until you yourself become That, until you become God, do not trust that God is. You can become; because That is. It only needs a little unveiling, a little opening. It is hidden, present here and now; only a few garments are veiling it—very thin garments that you could cast off right now and be naked, and be divine. But the grip is tight; the veils are thin, but the clutch is deep.

Why this tight grip? Because we think these garments are our very being, that this is who we are; beyond them we know no other existence.

In this Upanishad there will be hints of that existence beyond the garments. And along with this Upanishad we will practice meditation—to get glimpses. And we will keep the hope of samadhi—that we may become That too, without which there is no contentment, no peace, no truth.

The Upanishad begins with a prayer. It is a prayer to the whole universe.

“May the sun be benevolent. May Varuna, Aryama, Indra and Brihaspati, and Vishnu be benevolent. Salutations to that Brahman. O Vayu! Salutations to you, for you are the manifest Brahman. I will call you the manifest Brahman. May Truth and Rta protect me—protect the teacher too.”

With this prayer it begins.

The journey of religion always begins with prayer.

Prayer means—trust, hope.
Prayer means—the feeling of being connected with this whole universe.
Prayer means—what can be done by me alone!

If by me alone it could happen, it would have happened by now. By me alone not even the petty has succeeded! I wanted wealth—it did not come. I wanted position—that too did not come. Such small desires I desired—very small—and they were not fulfilled. When by me alone even the worldly has not succeeded, will this great journey into truth succeed by me alone? Alone, I have been defeated even in the world.

Everyone is defeated in the world—even those who seem victorious. They only appear victorious to others; to themselves they are wholly defeated.

You too may seem defeated to yourself, while to others you appear to have won. There are those behind you who think you have attained, you have triumphed in the world. But if we could see inside a man, each one is defeated.

The world is a long tale of defeat; victory never happens there. It cannot happen—that is not the world’s nature. There, defeat is destiny. Not anyone’s in particular, not some person’s; being in the world itself is destined to be defeat. There you will lose. There no one ever wins.

We could not win where things were petty, dreamlike—what Shankara calls maya. In maya we lost; even in dream we did not win. If in illusion we were defeated, in dream we could not triumph—what will happen in reality, in truth, by me alone?

Prayer is the experience of the person defeated in the world, who, after striving through birth upon birth in the petty, has been defeated and asks: In the vast, what is my capacity?

Hence—prayer.

Thus the seer calls the whole universe: Stand with me.

He calls to the sun, calls to Varuna.

These are names, symbols, for all the forces of life.

The sun is called first—because the sun is our life. Without it we are not. The sun lives and burns in us. If the sun were to go out there, we would go out here. The sun is our very breath—hence the invocation.

He says, “Salutations to Vayu.”

In this prayer, Vayu is especially saluted:

“Because you are the manifest Brahman.”

A strange statement! Consider it. Delightful: for Vayu—air—is utterly invisible, while everything else is visible. Had he called the sun the manifest Brahman—living, burning, blazing—it would be easy to understand. But he does not call the sun manifest Brahman; he calls Vayu, which is utterly unseen.

Where is the manifest air? We only infer that it is; we feel it is, we sense it is; it does not appear before the eyes. “Manifest” means what stands before the eyes. Air is not before the eyes. Stone, mountain—these are before the eyes; air is not.

Yet the seer says: “O Vayu, salutations to you, because you are the manifest Brahman.”

He says this because, like air, the Supreme is unseen and yet is. It does not appear to the eye, yet it touches the eye at every moment. Just so is the Supreme—unseen, yet touching you every moment.

Air is not seen because we lack the eye to see it. Air is here. Without air we could not be. It alone sustains us in our breath. Its comings and goings are our very life. It is so near—our breath—and yet it is not seen because our eyes are very gross. We see only what is coarse and crude; the subtle does not appear to us.

Air is supremely subtle—present before us, within us, without us, in every pore—and yet not visible. Hence he says: You are the manifest Brahman—you are exactly like Brahman. That too is present here and yet not seen. It pervades every pore; every pore is that—and still we have no clue. So he salutes Vayu, for we know air, but we do not know Brahman. Through air he threads a strand: Brahman is just like the air.

“Therefore I will call you the manifest Brahman,” the seer says to Vayu, “and I will call you by the names of Truth and Rta as well.” Because you are just like That—which is, and of which we are unaware; which we ourselves are, yet we do not know it; which is present here and now, forever—and we have no inkling. But this quest can be completed—if all the gods protect.

By gods he means the eternal, the innumerable forces of life. Life is a vast web of infinite energies. Your very being is a vast web of countless forces. The sun is in you; Varuna is in you; Indra is in you; air is in you; fire is in you; earth is in you; space is in you—everything is in you. If we fully know one person, we have known existence in seed form. Everything is in him; the gifts of all are in him. He exists only as the meeting of all. The prayer is for the help of all these.

But will the sun help? The question arises. If you pray, will the sun help? If you pray, will the air become helpful? If you pray, will the earth help?

This is not about the earth helping or the sun helping; when you pray, the great help happens already—you are helped. Understand this well. No sun will come to help you. But the result of prayer is not upon the sun; it is upon you. For the praying mind becomes humble. The praying mind becomes helpless. The praying mind accepts: alone I cannot. The praying mind becomes ready to dissolve. The praying mind drops the ego, the idea “I can do.” These have consequences.

All the consequence of prayer is upon you. Prayer does not change the sun—you change. Prayer does not change the world—you change. And with your changing, you enter another world.

Ordinarily when you pray, you think: someone will do something—that is why we pray. No—prayer is a device. Your hands are joined before something or someone, but the effect happens within—the one who has joined his hands is transformed.

Hence the scientist has difficulty. If you say to a scientist, “O sun, help me,” he will say, “What foolishness! Will the sun help you? When has it ever helped anyone? ‘O Indra, rain!’ Are you mad? Have prayers ever brought rain?”

The scientist is right. Neither will the sun listen to you, nor the clouds, nor the wind—no one will listen. But that you have called out—that will change you. The deeper your call, the deeper the cry will descend within you. If your whole being cries out, you will be another person.

That is why there is prayer.