Adhyatam Upanishad #10

Four words have been used. Each word is a world unto itself. The four are: śravaṇa (listening), manana (reflection), nididhyāsana (assimilation through one-pointed contemplation), and samādhi (absorption). The whole journey of truth is contained in these four. One who completes these four stages properly, precisely, has nothing left to do. Around these four words the entire field of practice has unfolded. So it is useful to understand each one minutely, deeply, subtly.

The first word is śravaṇa.

Śravaṇa does not mean merely to hear. We all hear. To hear, having ears is enough. Hearing is a mechanical event: there is a sound, it strikes the ear, and you hear. Śravaṇa is not just this. Śravaṇa means that what is heard not only touches the ear, it also resounds all the way to the inner consciousness.

Understand this a little.

You are on the road; your house has caught fire; you are running. Someone greets you on the way. The ears will hear, but you will not. The next day you won’t even be able to report that someone greeted you. If your house is on fire and someone is singing in the street, the ears will hear; you will not.

The ears hearing is not the same as you hearing. It is not necessary that if the ears have heard, you have heard too. Ears are necessary for hearing, but not sufficient. Something more is needed within. When your house is on fire, the greeting does not register—why? The instrument of the ear is exactly the same. But inwardly attention has broken away from the ear. Attention has gone to the burning house. The ear is hearing, but to convey what the ear has heard to consciousness, a bridge of attention is required; that bridge is missing. It has been diverted to where the fire is. So the ears hear, yet you do not. The connection between you and your ears is broken.

Śravaṇa means: the ears are there, and you too are there. Then true listening happens. It is difficult. To be with the ears is a discipline. Śravaṇa means that when you listen, your entire awareness becomes ear; only listening remains—nothing else. No thought moving within. Because if thought is moving within, your attention shifts to the thought and away from the ear.

Attention is very subtle, delicate. The slightest inner thought and attention runs there. An ant bites your foot while you are listening to me—no house need be on fire; an ant’s bite is enough—as long as you register “an ant is biting,” for that much time śravaṇa is lost; mere hearing remains. Attention has slipped.

Another difficulty: attention cannot be on two things at once; it attends one thing at a time. When it goes to the second, it instantly leaves the first. Of course, you can keep jumping. We do jump. The ant bites, attention goes there; then it returns and you hear again. An itch arises, attention goes there; then back to hearing. In between, whenever attention leaves, gaps open in listening.

That is why, out of what you hear, very little meaning is retained; much is lost. And often the meaning you derive is your own, because so much has been lost. You fill in the blanks, and what you think in the end is yours.

I was looking at a book by a disciple of Ouspensky. She writes: when we began inner work with Ouspensky, one thing bothered us a lot—he would lay great emphasis on something that didn’t seem worth such emphasis! Why would a man like Ouspensky press so hard on such a small matter? And yet a man so extraordinary—if he emphasizes it, there must be a meaning; but our intellect couldn’t catch it! His insistence was this, and he would press it fifty times a day: if yesterday Ouspensky said something and a disciple came and said, “Yesterday you said such and such,” he would interrupt, “Don’t say: you said. Say: from what you said yesterday, I understood such and such. Don’t ever say directly: you said.”

So she writes: we were very irritated—why preface every sentence with “From what you said, I understood…”? Why this need? He said it—end of matter.

Gradually she understood: these are two different things.

Only someone who attains to śravaṇa can understand what is actually said. If you are only hearing, you will understand what you understand, what you can understand—not what is said. Because much gets lost in between. And whatever is lost, you will fill with your own mind. Empty spaces get filled.

You listen, and wherever attention has slipped, who will fill those blanks? You will. Your mind, your memory, your information, your knowledge, your experiences seep in. The final shape that emerges is authored by you—not what was said; the speaker is not responsible.

Śravaṇa means: let consciousness come right to the ears. No inner thought moving; no ratiocination; no argument.

This does not mean you accept what is said without understanding. Acceptance has no place in śravaṇa. Śravaṇa means: just listen. Acceptance or rejection is later; don’t hurry.

What do we do? We listen and simultaneously accept or reject. Heads keep nodding! Someone keeps nodding “Absolutely right,” someone else shakes “Doesn’t sit well!” They don’t even know their head is nodding; I can see it.

This means that while I speak, you are also deciding inside. During the time you decide, śravaṇa misses. You don’t even know your head moved. The inner assent made it move. When I say something that doesn’t please you, your head keeps shaking “No.” It isn’t the head that is moving; your attention is shaking within. Because of that trembling, the head moves. In those vibrations, your listening is lost.

When we say: do not think while listening, it doesn’t mean swallow whatever is said blindly. No. Acceptance or rejection is not the point yet. Right now, just hear clearly what is being said; only then can you decide later whether to accept or reject.

To bring the process of acceptance/rejection into the listening itself is to miss śravaṇa. Listening means: just listening.

Right now, we are listening. We will not, alongside, keep thinking. The mind cannot do two things at once. Either listen or think. Those who think cannot listen; those who listen have no way to think at that time. And there is no hurry; thinking can be done later.

And it is only fair to first listen, then think. Otherwise, what will you think about? If you haven’t truly heard, or if you have added your own insertions, or if there are gaps in your hearing, what on earth will you think about? Whatever you think will have no value. If it hasn’t been properly heard, thinking is futile.

That is why the sages put the first step as śravaṇa.

If someone came to Buddha or Mahavira, they would insist first: become a proper śrāvaka—a listener. Even today Jains divide as: sādhus-sādhvīs, śrāvakas-śrāvikās. But neither śrāvakas nor śrāvikās exist today. Because śrāvaka means: one skilled in listening. There are no listeners, and no reason to listen.

Go to temples and observe the so-called śrāvakas. You will often find them asleep—listening is a far cry. Tired from the day, they rest there. If not asleep, still not listening—busy in their inner confusions and thoughts.

Your mind must come to a full stop, its stream must halt—then śravaṇa happens. And śravaṇa is the first step. The more significant the thing, the deeper the śravaṇa must be for it to be understood. Hence this aphorism says:

“To investigate, through sentences like ‘tat tvam asi,’ the unified meaning of jīva and Brahman—this is śravaṇa.”

“Tat tvam asi” is a mahāvākya. There are only a few great sayings in the world, but none greater than this. Tat tvam asi means: Thou art That.

That which we spoke of yesterday as tat—“That,” the name for the Divine. Tat tvam asi means: that is not something distant and separate—it is you. When we say tat, “That,” it sounds like a faraway pointer.

Tat tvam asi means: that is you. Not far; very near—nearer than near. Your very being is That. This is a mahāvākya. A mahāvākya means: if one holds this single sentence and pursues it to the end, one can attain the ultimate state of life. Therefore it is called “great.” Then there is no need for any scripture—no Veda, no Quran, no Bible. Tat tvam asi is the sufficient Veda. If one can truly listen to this, reflect on this, assimilate this, and dissolve into this, no other scripture is needed.

A mahāvākya is a concentrated formula, as in chemistry. Or like Einstein’s formula of relativity. In just a few symbols, the whole thing is contained. This mahāvākya is the formula of spiritual chemistry. It says three things: tat—That; tvam—you; and that the two are one. That and you are not two—that is the whole sutra. All Vedānta, all the sages’ realization, is contained in these three. It is as precise as mathematics: That—the Existence, the Divine—and you, the inner consciousness, are not two; they are one. This is the essence of the Vedas; all the rest is elaboration.

Thus, in the Upanishads, such sayings are called mahāvākyas. From this one line, an entire life of contemplation, practice, and realization can unfold. Such sentences should be heard in utter silence. They are not to be heard the way one hears a movie song. The quality of listening must be different; only then will they enter the heart. On the road you may overhear things; these sentences cannot be heard that way.

For thousands of years in India, the seers insisted that supreme knowledge should not be written down. Their insistence was precious. But impossible to maintain forever. Eventually it had to be written. Many, especially linguists, think the Vedas and Upanishads were not written for long because scripts were not available.

They are mistaken. Those who could bring to fruition an experience like tat tvam asi—could they not discover the art of writing? It seems implausible that those whose genius touched such heights would fail to find a simple thing like writing.

Writing existed, but they were unwilling to write. Why? Because if such mahāvākyas are written, anyone in any state can read them—and then fall into the illusion that he has understood. To hear or read these sentences requires a certain inner climate; without it, one can still read them. What difficulty is there in reading “tat tvam asi”? A first-grader can read it. And then be deluded: “I get it—I too am That.” He memorizes it, repeats it all his life, and the point is missed. The very heart is lost.

These sentences are to be heard only in a particular fragrance of mind, a particular state. Only then do they enter the life-breath. Hearing them casually is dangerous. Two dangers: first, you may remember them and think you have known; second, because of this premature “knowing,” you may never prepare the inner state required to truly hear them. Seeds must be sown in season, in their right moment. And these are mighty seeds; they cannot be sown just anywhere. Hence the guru would place them in the disciple’s ear.

Understand: we all hear that the mantra is given “in the ear.” We think the guru brings his lips close and whispers. That is childish.

The guru gives these great seeds into the disciple’s ear when the disciple has become nothing but ear; when his entire being is ready to listen; when he no longer hears with ear alone—his every pore listens; when his whole life-energy gathers behind the ear; when his entire soul withdraws from all the senses and is focused in the ear—then the guru places it there. He says the same: “tat tvam asi.” The words do not change. But the disciple’s quality of consciousness, its capacity, is different. “Blowing into the ear” means this.

Even today, countless naïve people keep blowing into ears, giving mantras, without any understanding of what “ear” means!

The two flaps attached to your skull are not the point. “Ear” means a mode of your being—an inner openness, a stillness, a presence, an eager thirst to listen; the whole life ready to receive. Then the guru plants these mahāvākyas in the ear.

Sometimes, the very arrival of the sentence becomes the Event.

Many have realized merely by hearing—the other three steps were not needed. You may be surprised! Just hearing—and knowing happened.

But don’t make it easy. You may think: “If it happens by hearing alone, why bother with the rest? Just say it, and we’ll be enlightened!”

Only one whose totality is devoted to listening can be transformed by hearing; not even a grain is held back. The listener is gone—only listening remains. No sense of “I am listening.” Even “I am” is not there; only listening. Inside, all is silent, empty. In that emptiness, one small stroke—“tat tvam asi”—and life explodes. One small stroke!

But note this too: the disciple must be so prepared that he is empty. Yet it will not work if just anyone says “tat tvam asi” into his ear. Anyone can say it. You could even play it on a tape recorder; it would resound in the ear. Even that won’t work. Words also have power—but that power depends on the speaker, not the syllables. How deep do the words arise from? How much life is infused in them? How much taste of lived experience do they carry? And the one who utters them—has he dissolved, so no “speaker” remains, only a resonance from the soul: “tat tvam asi”? And the listener too is no “listener,” only soul, ringing with “tat tvam asi—Thou art That.” At that meeting point, without “doing” anything—though much has already been done—a revolution happens; an explosion; the ignorant one becomes a knower.

History records such events: merely by hearing, it happened. We don’t believe it, because even after doing so much, nothing happens for us.

It is a rare convergence that the speaker is absent and voice appears, the listener is absent and voice enters; then the journey completes in śravaṇa itself.

But to find such a convergence is hard; and even if it comes, to use it is hard. It is very subtle. Hence the disciple would live with the guru for years, awaiting this moment—when will the occasion arrive? When will readiness ripen? So for years and years, the sole practice was silence.

Shvetaketu went to his guru. For years the guru didn’t ask, “Why have you come?” Shvetaketu thought, “When the guru asks, I will tell.” Years passed; the guru did not ask. There is a sweet tale: from morning onward the sacrificial fire kept burning. Even the fire altar grew impatient!

Shvetaketu came; even the fire pit felt pity for him: “So many years and the guru hasn’t asked why he has come!” He would chop wood, tend the fire, milk the cows, press the guru’s feet. Night came; he would sleep at the guru’s feet. At dawn he would resume his tasks. The fire that burned day and night, in that long waiting it too felt compassion: “What will become of this boy? He won’t speak, and this Uddālaka won’t ask!”

Such waiting, such patience, such quiet would make one a listener without any technique. Slowly, slowly, not only the guru’s words—even his breath became audible. Even his heartbeat—in that waiting, in that silence—became audible. He need not speak; his every movement was heard. And when the right moment came, he would speak. At the right moment, speech happened—without the guru making an effort to speak, without the disciple striving to know. The event happened.

Śravaṇa is a precious stage. Keep two or three things in mind. First, while listening—be only listening. Forget the listener; become all ear; let your whole body be ear. Listen from everywhere, and let no inner thought move. Let the entire mind sink one-pointedly into listening. Do not run any inner commentary.

We fear: “If I don’t think, who knows—something wrong may be slipped inside; someone may demolish my beliefs!” So we guard ourselves: “We’ll inspect what you say before letting it in; if it suits us, we’ll allow it; if not, we won’t.”

You’ll be surprised—psychologists say if a hundred statements are addressed to you, your mind lets perhaps five get in; ninety-five it rebuffs. Why? Because your beliefs from the past are sitting inside. You are Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—your mind has all that stored in the past. It keeps constant scrutiny: “If something matches me, strengthens me, let it in. If it doesn’t match, or weakens me, don’t let it enter.” You listen in such a way that it’s as if you didn’t hear at all; or having heard, you immediately oppose it so it cannot enter.

Watch your mind: are you saying “yes” or “no” inside all the time? Who is saying this yes and no? Not you; it is your accumulated mind. The mind selects what suits and rejects what doesn’t. Then it is very difficult! It is this mind that must be dissolved; and this mind chooses the agreeable and refuses to hear the disagreeable—how will it dissolve? It is both your enemy and your master; you want to end it—and you are relying on it to end itself. Impossible. If one small point jars with your beliefs, your mind shuts the door: “Don’t listen; ignore it; oppose it inside.” You are busy protecting yourself—as if in a wrestling match. Śravaṇa will not happen; there will be inner conflict.

But śravaṇa does not mean blind acceptance. Śravaṇa has nothing to do with accepting. It only concerns hearing accurately what has been said.

The second stage is manana.

Having listened, reflect—on what was said, and on its authenticity. This is the first condition of manana. If you pick and choose what suits you and reflect only on that, it is not reflection—it is self-deception.

So: first, listen without yes or no—no praise or blame, acceptance or rejection—no evaluation, no decision; neither for nor against; in silence, in neutrality, hear what is said. Let it descend into the innermost heart so you become familiar with it. You can reflect only on what you are familiar with, what you have allowed in and assimilated.

This is the difference between chintan (argumentative thinking) and manana (contemplative reflection). Chintan we do about that which we are not truly familiar with—mind’s gymnastics around the unfamiliar. Manana is thought applied to what we have allowed in, absorbed into ourselves.

There is a big difference. In chintan there is conflict; in manana there is sympathy. In chintan there is duel; in manana there is dialogue. Chintan means you are fighting with a thing. If you cannot win, you concede—but with pain.

When you argue with someone and you cannot defeat him, you “accept”—and you know the inner sting. You accept because you cannot argue further; but inside, you prepare that, sooner or later, you will throw it out. Therefore, no one is transformed by argument; argument means defeat. If by argument you “prove” something to someone, he will feel defeated, not transformed. He will think, “For now I have no reply, but when I find one…” He feels defeated.

Remember: a defeated person is never a transformed person. You can silence someone by argument; you cannot transform him. And rightly so. In a debate, the one who loses need not be wrong; the one who wins need not be right. The winner only had better arguments; the loser had weaker ones. Nothing more is certain. Naturally, argument does not bring revolution; it injures the ego, and the ego wants revenge. Argument is a struggle.

Chintan is an inner struggle. You wrestle with whatever you think about. You marshal your entire past memory and ideas against it. Even if you lose and “accept,” a thorn remains. Acceptance is by compulsion; there is no flowering in it. It doesn’t make you blossom; it withers you.

Thus thinkers all over the world seldom have the radiance of a Buddha. What is the difference? You won’t find in thinkers the joyous grace of a Mahavira. On thinkers’ faces you see the furrows of thought, not the flowers of manana. Their foreheads wrinkle—the record of lifelong strain. But what happens in Buddha or Mahavira—a blooming—doesn’t appear. Thought lays a burden; the back bends. The thinker looks worried.

Between chintan (thinking) and chintā (worry) there is no qualitative difference. All thinking is a form of worry—restlessness hidden inside, tension. Because there is an inner fight. By old age the thinker stoops under the weight—of thoughts themselves.

With Buddha and Mahavira, the opposite happens: as the body ages, something inside grows young—a freshness! That is manana.

Chintan begins with argument; manana begins with śravaṇa. Chintan begins with conflict; manana begins with receptivity. Śravaṇa is receptivity; no struggle. That is the first difference.

Consequently, because chintan begins in conflict, its base is disputation; sympathy is absent. Manana, beginning in śravaṇa, rests on sympathy.

What is sympathy here? A sympathetic mode of thinking. Regarding what we are pondering, we think with friendliness and love.

What difference does this make to the quality of reflection?

When you think with sympathy, your inner inclination is: what I have heard could be true—and if true, it may benefit me. So you first search for the points that are right. In chintan you proceed assuming it is wrong; you first seek the points that are wrong.

Imagine a man standing by a rosebush. If he is doing chintan, he will first count the thorns. If he is doing manana, he will first count the flowers. This starting point makes a fundamental difference.

The one who first counts thorns is in an adversarial stance. He will find thousands of thorns. And as he counts, the thorns will prick his hands, blood will flow. That pricking and the number of thorns and the bleeding will become his basis for opposing the flowers. Then, even if after counting a thousand thorns he notices one or two flowers, the mind will say: these flowers are deceptive; with so many thorns, how can such tenderness be real? I must be deluded. It seems reasonable: where there are so many bloodletting thorns, how can soft flowers bloom? If he concedes there are flowers, he will say they have no value: what is one flower against a thousand thorns? In fact, it seems a conspiracy of thorns—using a flower as a pretext to remain. This flower hides the thorns; it is their accomplice.

The one who begins with the flower—manana begins with the flower—first touches the blossom; its fragrance fills his hands; its color enters his eyes; its softness dissolves into his touch; its beauty envelops him. Then he approaches the thorns—after knowing, living the flower; he has fallen in love with the bush. Now his vision of thorns will be different.

Seeing through the flowers, he understands: the thorns are for the flower’s protection. They are not the enemy; not the opposite. The same sap that flows in the flower flows in the thorn. And for one who has truly seen a single flower—thousands of thorns become insignificant. The blossom’s existence makes the thorns trivial. And if amid so many thorns a flower can bloom—what a miracle! Even the impossible may be possible. Then he thinks: let me look deeper; perhaps even thorns will be revealed as disguised flowers.

Manana begins in sympathy; chintan begins in opposition. When śravaṇa is fulfilled, sympathy arises. Where sympathy arises, chintan’s current reverses—becoming manana. Yet manana is not blind acceptance.

Hence the seer says: “To consider with reason the meaning of what has been heard—this is manana.”

So do not think manana means blind acceptance. Neither śravaṇa nor manana means acceptance. Reason is to be used. But even reason changes. Reason in itself is neutral. Like a sword in my hand—it is neutral: I may kill or I may protect. Reason is neutral. In different inner climates, it functions differently. If the heart is full of enmity, opposition, struggle, logic becomes violent. If the heart is full of sympathy, listening, love, a thirst for truth—reason becomes a protective sword. Reason is not evil in itself.

Therefore, in this country we acknowledged two kinds of reasoning: tarka (sound reasoning) and kutarka (sophistry). Sophistry too is reasoning. Sometimes it even sounds more “reasonable” because it is sharper—able to cut and kill. How to distinguish? If reasoning is in service of the good, in search of truth, suffused with sympathy—if it begins with flowers and goes to thorns...

Notice where you start when you hear something. I am often amazed: I speak for an hour; afterwards someone comes to me. Out of that hour, nothing registered except one point he opposes. He picks that one point, tears it out of its context—where its meaning was different—and gives it another meaning, and comes to oppose it. He must have come prepared to find “what is wrong.” If you listen only to find the wrong, you will never be able to do manana.

And remember, however much wrong you find, it will not support your inner growth. You may catalog all the world’s errors; still, there will be no inner development.

One who is seeking growth does not worry about what is wrong; he worries about what is right. He begins with the right. And beginning with the right, one day what once seemed wrong may be seen in a new light and found meaningful. The difference lies in emphasis.

Sophistry hunts for the wrong; from there it begins.

True reasoning—let us call it sūtarka—begins with what is right.

Give a Hindu the Quran to read. What is important in it will not be visible to him; he will underline what is “wrong”: “See! It is written here. We always said the Quran is no scripture!” Give a Muslim the Gita; he will return with “what is wrong.” And if you want to learn this art, learn it from Arya Samajists! Nowhere does this skill of finding faults flourish as it does with them!

Guard the mind from becoming an “Arya Samajist,” or manana will be impossible—because you will be hunting for wrongs. Thorns are plentiful. But what will you do with thorns? String garlands of thorns to wear around the neck? Our need is for flowers. What is the use of thorns?

With right reasoning, you will pluck flowers from the Quran—no less fragrant than those in the Gita or the Bible. The person of manana seeks flowers; the thinker of chintan seeks thorns. Decide which you will seek. Remember: you will be surrounded by whatever you seek. Seek thorns, and thorns will encircle you; seek flowers, and flowers will encircle you.

Know that by hunting thorns you harm no one but yourself—because what you seek is what you find. We are all thorn-seekers. Meet any person and we instantly detect what is wrong with him—our skill is uncanny. Soon we see faults everywhere; we still have to live among these people—life becomes hell. Everyone appears wrong; no one seems right. Not because no one is right—but because you are searching only for wrong.

Say to someone, “So-and-so plays the flute beautifully.” He retorts, “What flute? He’s a thief! A cheat! What flute will he play?”

What has theft or cheating to do with flute-playing? He may be a cheat—but who said a cheat cannot play the flute? If flowers can bloom among thorns, why can’t a thief play the flute?

But we find it painful to admit anyone can do anything well. We blurt, “He’s a crook—what flute!”

The man of manana responds differently. If you say, “So-and-so is a cheat,” he says, “Perhaps—but his flute is marvelous.”

This is the difference of choice. And when someone plays the flute marvelously, his being a cheat becomes doubtful. Conversely, when someone is a dyed-in-the-wool cheat, his flute-playing becomes doubtful. What we grasp colors our view of all else.

Do we need our neighbor to be a cheat? Then we should look for that. Do we want our neighbor to be a fragrant flute-player? Then look for that. Life holds both—night and day, bad and good. Do not think heaven is elsewhere and hell somewhere else. It depends on your vision. On this very earth some live in heaven and some in hell. What you search for becomes your world.

Manana begins with the bright, white half of life; chintan begins with the dark half. Keep this in mind and reason becomes delightful. Thought and logic become allies—not a harm. You can then reason with full integrity. Reason then helps; it becomes a friend.

“By śravaṇa and manana, establish the mind in the meaning that has become indubitable, and make it one-pointed—that is nididhyāsana.”

You heard the mahāvākya: tat tvam asi—“You are Brahman.” You heard with your whole life; then with sympathy you pondered, inquired into its implications, explored its hidden depths from many directions, touched, tasted, bathed in it—you reflected. And then you saw: it is true.

You will find it so; because those who spoke it had found it. These are not the conclusions of thinkers, but the utterances of experiencers. They are not from those who merely reasoned and decided; they are the reports of those who knew, lived, dove, and found. If śravaṇa and manana proceed rightly, you will see: it is true. If it is true, then to become one-pointed with that truth is nididhyāsana. If it is true that I am Brahman, then to live as Brahman—to shape behavior, conduct, everything—into a single alignment is nididhyāsana. To strive so that no gap remains between what is true and what I am. Because if this sentence is right, then I am wrong. There are only two possibilities: either I am right and the sentence is wrong; or the sentence is right and I am wrong.

What is our constant effort? Understand this. Our perpetual attempt is to prove: I am right. This is our mischief. The biggest tangle, the greatest trouble in our life is that we take as the starting point: I am right. That is our measure: I am right. Whatever does not fit me is wrong.

A seeker must settle this: do not let this foolish premise—“I am right”—be the point of departure. If you are already right, there is no need to seek.

This is amusing. Yesterday a lady came. “Twenty years ago I took initiation from a swami. My kuṇḍalinī is awakened. But there is no peace—great restlessness.”

If kuṇḍalinī has awakened, how this restlessness? If there is restlessness, please concede: the kuṇḍalinī is still asleep. But no—both claims are maintained!

If you are right, nothing remains to search. Everyone proceeds assuming “I am right,” and then says, “I seek truth.” If you seek truth, the consciousness must clearly resolve: I am wrong. Only then can search begin. When I am wrong, I can enter Truth; if I am right already, Truth itself will look wrong. When the wrong man believes he is right, he can never see the right as right.

The mind’s arrangement begins with the assumption “I am right.” My opinion, my view, my religion, my scripture—“I am right.” If you begin here, there is no need to begin; you have already arrived. You are merely toiling needlessly. And you will not find, because you are convinced you are the destination.

Set this straight. If such madness has taken hold—that “I am right”—then end the matter; do not search. Searching means: I am wrong. There is suffering, pain, tension; I am troubled, ill; hemmed in by my own diseases. Consider yourself the sum total of your diseases—that is the honest start. You are a bundle of illnesses—nothing much more. And yet amid all this you keep the notion: I am right.

Nididhyāsana means: the mahāvākya becomes visible as true. You heard, you reflected, you saw it is true. Your consciousness begins to taste its truth. Now shape your whole being in alignment with it—that is nididhyāsana. Live what has been seen as true.

And note: once you truly see what is right, living it is not difficult. Seeing and living begin together. Who puts his hand into fire knowingly? Only in ignorance does one do that. Who does wrong knowingly? Only in ignorance. Who dons madness knowingly? Only in ignorance. Once it begins to be seen what is right, that very glimpse begins to transform you. Your whole vibration gradually aligns with what you have seen.

This one-pointedness, this harmony, is nididhyāsana.

If even then alignment is hard, the seeker knows: the difficulty is mine. So he melts himself. If the journey seems complex, he understands: the complexity is mine. He untangles himself. But the one who insists “I am right”—if after two steps no fruit appears, he concludes: “This tat tvam asi was wrong—drop it!”

People come to me. Yesterday a friend came—he meditated for the first time yesterday. He rushed to me by noon: “Nothing has happened yet!”

Human stupidity knows no bounds! In this world only two things seem infinite: Brahman—and stupidity!

He came for the first time—did some jumping in the morning—and by noon he concludes: “This method has no juice. Nothing yet!”

I asked, “For how many lifetimes have you been practicing this method?” He said, “Not lifetimes—just today!”

Grant the method a chance! Be a little generous—give time!

People maintain that they are right. So wherever a hitch occurs, the other thing must be wrong. Keeping their rightness intact, they embark on the path. Then they will wander for lifetimes; nothing will fit. Because one-pointedness requires work; it won’t happen instantly. There are lifetimes of conditioning to undo. Even if you see clearly in a flash what is right, your body and mind have habits—deep grooves. That net will not vanish today. You will have to tear it. The issue is not methods; it is you. Any method can work; but you?

Consider: life is habit. From small to great, everything is habit. A long groove has been carved. Our consciousness has become used to flowing along that groove. Even if you suddenly see today that this path is wrong, to take another path you will have to make a new channel. And that new channel must be deeper than the old; only then will the stream of attention leave the old bed and take the new. Merely “deciding” will not do.

Nididhyāsana means: having heard and seen what is true, transform life accordingly. It will take time. The mind will bring obstructions; the body will raise hurdles; all that will happen. But once the right is seen, then hurl yourself, in every way, into its journey. Courage is needed now. Sitting won’t do.

If you have seen the star—even from afar—set out. Do not fret: “I took one step and haven’t reached the star.” Take two steps—no worry. Two steps taken is no small thing. Many are sitting for lifetimes; they haven’t stood up. They have forgotten that one can stand and walk.

Buddha said: Walk. However many mistakes you make, no problem. If you walk, that is enough. If you err, we can correct. If you wander off, no worry. Motion has come into your feet. Today you went astray; tomorrow you will find the way. There is only one mistake, Buddha said: do not walk—keep sitting.

Indeed, those who sit make no mistakes. If you do nothing, what mistake can happen? Mistakes are made by those who act, who walk. The only mistake is to sit still.

Rise and walk in the direction that feels right. If tomorrow it proves wrong, at least one gain remains—you learned to walk. And when walking is learned, tomorrow the right direction can also be chosen. The essential thing is not direction; it is movement—the capacity to walk.

Nididhyāsana is the effort to become one-pointed. It is a marvelous word.

“By śravaṇa and manana, establish the mind in the indubitable meaning, making it one-pointed—that is nididhyāsana.”

Then let the mind move in rhythm with what has been seen; let it no longer remain merely a glimpse, but become our very mind. Not merely a thought among thoughts, but the tone of the whole mind.

Suppose someone takes sannyas. He can take it merely as a thought: it seems right—so I take it. But then there are a thousand other thoughts; one-pointedness will not be. Slowly, let the color that entered as a thought spread over all thoughts. Which means: even in eating, there should be a difference between a worldly person’s eating and a sannyasin’s. The color of renunciation must spread even over the act of eating. The sannyasin eats as if “I am not eating.” He walks as if “I am not walking.” He rises as if “I am not rising.” He leaves all doership.

So, sannyas can be adopted as a notion—or it can saturate life as one-pointedness; then the mind itself becomes sannyasin.

Buddha said: even in sleep—a monk sleeping and a householder sleeping—an observer should be able to tell which is which. The quality of sleep must change. Because when the mind has changed, its shadow, its color, its resonance must spread over all acts. It will.

Thus, not as a mere idea, but as one-pointedness—this is nididhyāsana. And—

“Then, letting go of meditator and meditation, when the mind takes only one object as its field and becomes motionless like a lamp in a windless place—that is called samādhi.”

Samādhi is the ultimate event. These three are its approach; the fourth is samādhi. Beyond it lies no world of words. Beyond it, nothing can be said. Up to samādhi one can speak. About “the other side,” nothing has been said, nothing can be said.

But one who stands at samādhi’s gate sees that which cannot be seen; knows that which cannot be known; unites with that without which all sorrow and anguish persist. The Unknowable becomes known. The mystery opens, is revealed. All knots are cut. Like the open sky, consciousness becomes one with truth.

Samādhi is after nididhyāsana. One who has made his mind one with such mahāvākyas—tat tvam asi, aham brahmāsmi, so’ham—one whose character and mind have become their expression—when he rises, in his very rising is the tone of “tat tvam asi,” there is that gesture and announcement that he moves as one with the Divine—such a person attains samādhi.

When the meditator and meditation both dissolve and only the object remains—that is samādhi.

Understand this. There are three words: dhyātā (the meditator), dhyāna (the meditation), dhyeya (the object). For example, “tat tvam asi—Thou art That”—this is the dhyeya, the object. This is what is to be attained; this is the goal. Then there is “I”—the dhyātā—who contemplates this object, longs for it, thirsts to reach it.

The object is: “That am I.” I am the meditator; my awareness flows toward this object. When the meditator runs toward the object and all other runs cease—only one current remains, toward the object—that flowing is called dhyāna. When the entire stream of awareness, gathered from all sides into one, flows like an arrow toward the object, continuously—that flowing awareness is meditation.

Samādhi, say the Upanishads, is when this meditation pours all life into the object, and when the meditator’s entire energy, the whole of consciousness, traveling by the path of meditation, becomes one with the object—when the meditator no longer knows “I am”—and this happens—when the meditator does not know there is meditation; only the object, the “tat tvam asi,” remains—this is samādhi. Only one remains; not three—no meditator, no meditation, only the object.

Understand this further. Different paths chose differently which “one” to speak of.

The Upanishads say: let the object remain; meditator and meditation dissolve. Mahavira says: let the meditator remain; meditation and object dissolve—only the pure I remains. Sāṅkhya says: let the object and meditator both dissolve; only meditation remains—pure consciousness, pure awareness.

These seem opposed. The pundits argue endlessly. Their disputes are laughable. They say: these three are contradictory. If the Upanishads say the object remains, how can Mahavira’s “meditator remains” be samādhi? Which is correct? Two must be wrong, one right.

The pundit lives in words; not in experience. Experience has a different flavor. These three are the same in essence. Why? Because in all three, two are gone—whichever two—and one remains. The name you give that “one” is arbitrary.

For the practitioner, before the final leap, there are three: meditator, meditation, object. When the two drop and one remains, he chooses a name—it is a private choice. It makes no difference what you call it. You could even choose a fourth name. Many Upanishads, to avoid the quarrel of choosing among the three, simply called it the “Fourth”—turīya. They didn’t name it, so as to avoid bias. They said: the Fourth.

But those who love quarrels are not hindered. They ask: “There were three; where did this Fourth appear from? Which of the three is it? Or are the three gone and a totally new fourth has arrived? Or is it the sum of the three? What is this Fourth?”

For quibblers, anything is sufficient to start a dispute. For the seeker, the journey is quite different.

Among the three, the Upanishads prefer to say the object remains; Mahavira: the meditator remains; Sāṅkhya: meditation remains. These are only names. One remains—this is certain. Three do not. The name is artificial; call it as you like. Or, give no name—the best.

Know only this: when one remains, it is samādhi. As long as two remain, know that three remain—because two cannot remain without a third between them, linking or separating them. Two always implies three. Those who think mathematically call the world not dual (dvaita) but triple (traita). If there are two, there must be a third. Three is the pattern of existence.

That is why we made the Trimūrti—three faces of one. It points to the world’s triple nature. But the three are faces of one person; behind them is the Fourth. From any face you enter, inside the three vanish. But seekers will prefer the face by which they entered. One enters via Vishnu, another via Brahma, another via Mahesh (Shiva). From whichever face you enter, you may name the Fourth accordingly. But inside, the faces dissolve. Within there is no face—only One.

Trimūrti is not just a sculpture; it is an expression of our ultimate realization.

Before the last leap, three remain: meditator, meditation, object. After the leap, one remains. Name it as you wish—or not at all. Call it the Fourth—that is beautiful. Or be silent—that is best.

Listen—make listening into śravaṇa. Think—make thinking into manana. From manana, draw a conclusion and let it become nididhyāsana—bring one-pointedness. And let one-pointedness, at the end, cease to be a harmony between two; let it become unity.

Understand the difference. One-pointedness means: two still remain, brought into accord. Unity means: the two are gone—only the accord remains.

One-pointedness is nididhyāsana; unity is samādhi.