Adhyatam Upanishad #11

This morning we spoke of the four steps: shravan, manan, nididhyasan, and samadhi. Samadhi is the end of the world and the beginning of truth. Samadhi is the death of the mind and the birth of the soul. Seen from one side, samadhi is the last step; seen from the other, it is the first.

Through shravan, manan, nididhyasan, the mind grows thinner and thinner, dissolving; in samadhi it dissolves utterly. And where the mind dissolves completely, there begins the experience of what we truly are. This sutra concerns that samadhi. And within it are some very deep points.

“At the time of samadhi, the modifications are only of the nature of the Self; therefore they are not known. But in the seeker who rises from samadhi, those awakened modifications are inferred through remembrance.”

Understand this first point very carefully. For those who are engaged in practice, if not today then tomorrow, it will be of use.

In samadhi there is no experience. Hearing this will be difficult. In samadhi, experience cannot happen. And yet samadhi is the supreme experience. This sounds contradictory, even inverted. But it appears inverted for a reason. In samadhi the experience of supreme bliss happens, and yet the seeker submerged in samadhi does not know it at all—because the seeker and bliss have become one; for knowing, distance is needed.

We only come to know those things from which we are separate, distinct, distant. The realization of bliss in samadhi, the experience that occurs, is in no way known while in samadhi. When the seeker returns from samadhi, then he infers that bliss happened; afterwards he remembers that an ultimate joy had been, that nectar had rained; that he had lived in another way altogether and tasted some deep state of life—this remembrance comes afterwards, when the mind has returned.

Understand it like this: shravan, manan, nididhyasan, samadhi—these are four steps. Through them the seeker reaches the gate of samadhi and experiences. If the seeker were to remain in samadhi and never return, he could never speak of his experience; there would be no way to convey it. But the seeker who attains samadhi never returns as exactly the same person—he returns new. Returning, all his mind’s relations alter; but he does return into the mind.

Before, when he lived in the mind, he was its slave; he had no mastery of his own. The mind made him do what it wanted; he had to believe what it dictated; it made him run where it pleased. The soul was in bondage; the reins were in the mind’s hands.

When the seeker returns from the gate of samadhi into the mind, he returns as master. Now the reins are in his own hands. He takes the mind wherever he wishes; if he does not wish, he does not take it. If he wants to set it in motion, he does; if not, he does not. The mind has no power of its own now. But only when the seeker who has attained samadhi returns into the mind—as master—can he remember. For remembrance is a capacity of the mind. Only then, through the mind, can he look back and see what occurred!

This means that the mind does not record only the events of the world; when the seeker reaches samadhi, the mind also records what is taking place there. The mind is a double mirror: the outer world reflects in it, and the inner world reflects in it. So only when the seeker returns into the mind does he come to know what happened. Then, only if he descends the three steps, can he express it.

The first step, as the seeker returns from samadhi, is nididhyasan. In nididhyasan, the experience begins to surface; what was known in samadhi in subtlety, in depths, at one’s ultimate center—on the step of nididhyasan it begins to glimmer in conduct. He will lift his foot and it won’t feel like the old foot; some tone of dance has entered this foot! He will raise his eyes, and they will not seem like the old eyes; they are fresh, like morning dew! When he rises he will feel weightless, as if he could soar into the sky! When he eats, it will be seen that food goes into the body and that he has never eaten at all.

Now whatever he does—the seeker returned from samadhi—on this first step of nididhyasan he will see the reflection of samadhi in his conduct; everywhere his behavior will be other. The man he was yesterday is dead. The one who stands at the boundary of nididhyasan before samadhi is not the one who now returns. The step is the same; the man descending is different. He has returned knowing something. And he has returned knowing something that has transformed his whole life. In that knowing the old has died and the new has been born.

In nididhyasan he will glimpse what happened in samadhi; the juice that flowed within will now seem to flow through every pore, in all his behavior.

Mahakashyapa would go again and again to Buddha and ask, “When will samadhi happen?” And Buddha would say, “Don’t worry—you won’t have to come to ask me. When it happens, you will recognize it. And not only you—the ones who see you will also recognize it, if they have even a little eye.” Because when that inner revolution takes place, its rays pass through body and breath and shine outward.

On the step of nididhyasan the seeker will know: I have become other; I am new; I am twice-born. He will know that the one who went into samadhi is not the one who returned. Someone else went, someone else has come back.

Below nididhyasan is manan. When the seeker descends below nididhyasan into the mind, the moment of manan arrives. Now he can think: What happened? Now he can reflect: What did I see? What did I know? What did I live? Now he will try to bind the experience into thought, into words, into concepts.

From those who, standing on the step of manan, could bind their experience, came the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bible, the Quran. Many have gone to samadhi, but to bring back what was known down to manan is a very difficult task.

Remember, the first journey—which seems so difficult to us—is not as hard when compared with this second journey. The first was very simple against it. This second journey is exceedingly difficult.

Lakhs reach samadhi. Of them, only a few can stand again in nididhyasan. Of those, only a few descend to manan. And of those, very few reach the first step, which we called shravan on the way up—its name changes on the way back; I will speak of that. Thousands attain samadhi; only a rare one becomes a Buddha. Samadhi happens to thousands; only a rare one becomes a Buddha. Buddha means one who, having descended these four steps again, can give what he has known to the world.

Manan means binding, on the way back, into thought that which is beyond thought.

This is the most impossible event in the world: to confine in the limits of words that which cannot be spoken or thought.

You see the morning sun rising. Some painter, sometimes, can capture that rising sun. To capture the sun is not that hard; many can paint a sun. But to capture the rising—this quality of emergence, this ever-growing, upward advent—that too should be inscribed in the painting, so that looking at it you feel: now the sun has edged further, now it has risen, now it has risen.

To capture a tree is not difficult; to capture aliveness is difficult—so that it seems the leaves will stir any moment, with just a breath of wind the petals will fall. That is very hard. And that is the difference between photography and painting. Photography, however much it catches, catches the dead. Sometimes a Picasso, a Van Gogh, a Cézanne can catch that aliveness.

But sun, plant, flower—these are ordinary experiences of life; they can be caught. Samadhi is an extraordinary experience. Once in many crores a single one attains it. There, the senses become incapable of reporting. The ears do not hear there, the eyes cannot see there, the hands cannot touch there—and the experience is boundless. As if the vast were to break down upon your roof; as if the whole sky were to come into your courtyard and you were overwhelmed, unable to grasp anything—that is how it is in the moment of samadhi. A small circle of consciousness, and the whole ocean enters it.

Kabir has said: At first I thought the drop had fallen into the ocean. When awareness dawned, I found the truth was reversed: the ocean had fallen into the drop. Kabir said: At first we thought we would return and say something—though even that seemed hard. If the drop falls into the ocean, how will it return? That seemed difficult; it is difficult indeed. Kabir’s lines:

Wondering, wondering, O friend, Kabir remained bewildered.
The drop merged into the ocean—how then can it be found?

That drop which fell into the ocean, how to extract it again, so it can report what happened? That was difficult. But later Kabir wrote another couplet and canceled the first. He said, In haste I erred. The experience was new, I could not rightly understand it; habit made things look reversed. The later couplet:

Wondering, wondering, O friend, Kabir remained bewildered.
The ocean merged into the drop—how then can it be found?

It is the ocean that has merged into the drop. Had the drop fallen into the ocean, we might somehow have found it. But this is reversed: the whole ocean has fallen into the drop. Where shall we search for this drop now? No trace can be found.

Thus, for what is known in samadhi, all the instruments by which we grasp the things of this world become useless. We become useless. Our very being as we knew it dissolves, and some great Being without boundary descends upon us—suddenly. We die.

Samadhi is the great death, greater than death. For in death only the body dies; the mind remains. In samadhi the mind dies. For the first time all our ties with mind are cut. For the first time we are severed from all the threads of mind. And all our knowledge was of the mind. Therefore in samadhi for the first time we stand utterly ignorant.

Let me repeat: In samadhi our knowledge does not function, because all knowledge had been learned by the mind. That mind is left far behind. We have moved beyond the mind. The knower is not there. The one who understood, who knew words and doctrines, who had digested scriptures—he is left far back. Not only clothes fall, not only the body falls—the mind falls. All our deepest experiences are left behind. The seeker takes a leap beyond the mind and stands at the door of samadhi. Now he has no means to know.

Whoever stands at the door of samadhi stands like the supremely ignorant—like the supremely ignorant! There is no means to know, no arrangement for knowing, no instruments to know—only pure knowing itself remains, standing. Then to return and report is very difficult. Who will report? Who will bring the news?

Yet news has been given. Some have made tireless effort. They are the most compassionate beings in this world—those who returned from the door of samadhi and gave the news. Why? Because even the urge to return does not arise. Returning from samadhi is as if you have gained what you always wanted; every desire is fulfilled; there is no reason even to stir; there is no question of movement—yet to return.

It is said that when Buddha attained samadhi he did not return for seven days. It is a sweet tale. The devas gathered at his feet; Indra began to weep; Brahma struck his head at Buddha’s feet and said, “Do not do this! We gods too yearn for what one who knows samadhi brings back. For countless births many have been waiting that someone become a Buddha and return to tell, to speak what he has known. Do not remain silent; speak!”

Buddha said, “There is no one left to speak; there is no wish to speak. And what I have seen—I cannot trust it can be said; so how will listeners understand?”

When the gods insisted, Buddha said, “If I speak, understand this: had someone told me these things before I knew, I would not have understood. Who else will understand? And one more thing this experience has brought: those who can understand my words could reach there without me; and those who cannot understand, pounding my head before them will not serve much purpose.”

But the gods offered a sweet argument. They said, “We know it is true that those who will understand are the ones who already stand at the shore—who can hear your voice; only a step away—they will cross that step somehow even without you. We do not ask you to speak for them. We also admit there are those who have not taken even one step; your voice will not reach them; they will not understand. We do not ask you to speak for them either. But there are also those in between. If you do not speak, perhaps they will not understand; if you do speak, perhaps they might.”

“Perhaps,” the gods said. “But consider this: if you do not speak and even one person who could have understood misses because of it—think of it. The pain will be yours; it will remain with you. And Buddhas have never done such a thing.”

So Buddha spoke.

In the moment of samadhi it is entirely natural to feel: now—now speaking and listening and telling are all meaningless. To whom to tell? To whom to speak? Who is there to hear? Yet some return.

Standing on the step of manan, such people undergo a very arduous event. And therefore the greatest artists are these—not those who compose verse and song (they are artists), not those who paint and sculpt (they are artists)—but the great artists are those who, on the step of manan, bind the utterly unmanifest, invisible experience of samadhi into manifest, visible words; who attempt somehow to create hints; who devise some means, construct some chains of thought, some arrangements of ideas from which you too might catch a little glimpse—even if only at the level of mind—at least feel a little thrill, a little trembling.

Yet many can do manan. The last step, which on the upward journey we called shravan, becomes pravachan—speaking—on the return. It is the same step: listening and speaking. On the way up it was right listening—shravan; on the way back it becomes right speaking—exact, true speech.

Remember: on the first step there is the disciple, and on this last returning step there is the master; and the meeting between these two is the Upanishad. Where the listener is present in the right way, and the speaker is present in the right way, their meeting is the Upanishad.

Upanishad means: that which is known by being near the master; by sitting close; by proximity; whose resonance is found in nearness; whose touch is felt by intimacy.

Upanishad means: sitting near, being near, attaining nearness.

Let the disciple be only an ear, only listening; and let the master be only voice. Let there be no “someone” listening, no “someone” speaking. Here only voice; there only the capacity to hear. Then the Upanishad happens.

This sutra says: “In samadhi the modifications are only of the nature of the Self.”

There may be the experience of bliss, of silence, of peace, of emptiness, of liberation—but none of these can be directly grasped in samadhi.

“Therefore they are not known.”

These modifications are not known.

“But in the seeker who rises from samadhi, those awakened modifications are inferred through remembrance.”

Even Buddha cannot say, “It is exactly like this in samadhi.” He too says only this much: “It is my inference that it is so in samadhi.” That is why Mahavira always prefaced his speech with syat—perhaps. He would say, “Perhaps there is bliss there.”

No one should imagine Mahavira does not know. From his words it may seem he is in doubt: if he says syat, is he uncertain?

Not from doubt, but from extreme truthfulness. Mahavira’s truthfulness is so untouched, so virginal, that it is difficult to find its like.

Mahavira says, “The mind with which I am now knowing was not present there. For the mind, this is a piece of news heard from afar. Where the event occurred, the mind was not present. The mind is not an eyewitness. It was far away; it has inferred, it has reasoned; the event was distant.” As if we were sitting here and could see the snow on Gaurishankar’s peak from far away. The mind was very far; from the peak of Gaurishankar it inferred the coolness that showered there.

Therefore Mahavira uses only syat. He says, “Perhaps there is supreme bliss there.” This is because of extreme truthfulness. For this is only the mind’s inference—of the mind! For Mahavira himself it is not inference; Mahavira has known. But in the moment of knowing, the unity becomes so total that there is no knowing as an act. Having known, when Mahavira returns into the mind...

Understand it like this: you go to the peak of Gaurishankar and become one with the coolness; you yourself become coolness. Or you become one with the snow and freeze like snow. There no experience can be, because there is no experiencer apart. Then you descend and on the plain pick up your telescope and look again at Gaurishankar.

Then that echoing experience within—that which was known, but at such nearness there was no distance for knowing—now from this distance a perspective is gained. Now you raise the telescope of the mind and look back. Now you infer: there was supreme coolness! There was the vast expanse of pure white snow! What heights! All gravity was lost! As if wings had sprouted and we could fly! How pure the sky was! What azure! Even the clouds were left below! A cloudless empty sky remained! But all this is re‑consideration while standing on the ground.

Therefore the sutra says: “It is inferred through remembrance.”

“In this beginningless world, millions of karmas are accumulated; but through this samadhi they are destroyed, and pure dharmas grow.”

In this second sutra two words are of great value: karma and dharma. What we do is karma; what we are is dharma. Dharma means our nature; karma means what we do. Karma means our nature goes out of itself; karma means we descend from ourselves into the world; karma means we connect ourselves to something other than ourselves. Nature means what I am apart from the other, without going into the world—my inner being. It has no relation to my doing. What I do does not produce it; it is present before all my doing. That which is my nature.

Mistakes can occur in karma; in dharma no mistake occurs. Errors can occur in karma; in dharma there is no error. Note: dharma here does not mean religion in the sectarian sense; it means quality, nature—our inner nature, our being.

The more we do, the more our nature is covered. What we do presses down our being. Slowly so many layers of karma accumulate that we forget we have a being beyond our doings.

If someone asks you, “Who are you?” whatever answer you give will be about your karma, not about your dharma. You say, “I am an engineer,” or “I am a doctor,” or “I am a businessman.” Notice: business is karma. You are not a businessman; you do business. How can a man be a doctor? He can practice medicine. How can a man be an engineer? If the man becomes an engineer, the man is finished! The man does engineering—that is his karma, not his being.

Whatever self‑introduction you give—if you look closely you will find you always introduce your karma; you never give any news of your being. You cannot. You have no news of it. You only know what you do. You know your doings—what you have done and what you can do. The certificates you carry only report what you can do; they do not report what you are. If you say, “I am a sadhu,” it means you do sadhuta. If someone says, “I am a thief,” it means he steals. One’s karma is saintliness, the other’s karma is theft.

But what is being? What is within you? Before you were born from your mother’s womb, what was saint or thief, engineer or doctor? Had someone asked you in the womb, “Who are you?” you would have been in trouble—because then you were neither engineer nor doctor, you had done no business. If someone had asked in the womb, “Who is inside?” no answer could come. And yet you were there. No answer could come.

Today there are many ways to wash the brain. You say, “I am an engineer”—your brain can be washed clean. After a thorough cleaning, if we ask, “Who are you?” you will be left blank. Because being an engineer was in memory: you studied, wrote, gained a certificate, did work, gained honor or dishonor—this was in memory; it has been washed away. Now you cannot answer who you are. But you are. Being cannot be destroyed by washing memory, but the lines of karma can be erased.

The sutra says: “In the beginningless world, millions of karmas are accumulated.”

Naturally! Every day, every moment karmas are being accumulated—sitting, standing, breathing—karma is happening. Sleeping and dreaming—karma is happening. No one can run away from karma; running is also karma. Where will you go? The forest? Sitting there is karma. Close your eyes? Closing the eyes is karma. Do anything—where there is doing, there is karma.

So every moment uncounted karmas are being done; their shadow, their memory, their groove, their impression is being left inside. Whatever you do accumulates upon your being. Like grooves on a record. Then if you place the needle, whatever has been etched in the record’s lines is revived and manifests. Your mind is the collected code of all your karmas; everything is stored. Whatever you have done has left lines upon you. And these lines are of countless births. The weight is great. And you keep repeating the same things. Your condition is like a worn record—the needle is stuck and keeps going round! The same groove repeated again and again!

What are you doing? Yesterday the same, today the same, tomorrow the same. The same anger, the same greed, the same attachment, the same lust—the same old thing. The needle is stuck in the rut; it cannot climb out; the same sound again and again.

Hence life is so dull, so boring. It must be—because nothing new happens. The needle does not move forward. Look back at your thirty or forty years! What have you done? You have played one record! The same thing repeats, again and again. This the sages of India called transmigration—again the same, and again the same. In this birth the same, in the next the same, and in the next the same; the story of the past the same, the story of the future the same. The same lust, the same love, the same anger, the same hatred, the same friendship, the same enmity, the same earning money, the same house building, and then after doing it all, one day a gust of wind comes and the house of cards falls!

And like children, immediately we gather the cards again and start building another house. Taking a new birth, we begin again, trying this time to make it stronger. But the house is the same, the frame is the same, the mind is the same. We do the same again, and sink in the same way. It is not only the sun that sets every evening and rises in the morning—you, too, set and rise like that. A circle, a wheel. Samsara means the wheel, the potter’s wheel, revolving on the same axis.

These infinite karmas accumulated are destroyed through samadhi.

This requires a little understanding. Many think that if bad karmas have been accumulated, then by doing good karmas they can be canceled. They are mistaken. Bad karmas cannot be destroyed by good karmas. The bad will remain and the good will be added; that is all. They do not cancel each other. There is no method of cancellation.

A man steals; then he repents and becomes a saint. Becoming a saint does not cut the karma of theft and its impressions within. Nothing cuts them. Saintliness forms a separate karma, a separate line. It does not pass through the line of the thief. What has saintliness to do with the thief?

As a thief you etched certain lines; as a saint you etch lines in another place. Saintliness arises from a different corner of the mind; thievery from another. What happens is that on the line of the thief, the lines of the saint get overlaid; nothing is cut. The saint rides atop the thief, that’s all. The result: a thief‑saint is born. This mixture breeds great mischief. It is a constant inner civil war. The thief continues his effort; the saint continues his effort.

In this way we collect innumerable forms within that do not cancel each other; they are built separately.

Therefore the sutra says that through samadhi they are all cut.

Karma is not cut by karma; karma is cut by akarma—non‑doing. Understand it well. Karma is not cut by karma; karma becomes denser by karma. Karma is cut by non‑doing. And non‑doing is attained in samadhi, where the doer is not. When we reach that state of consciousness where there is only being; where there is no doing at all; where not even a ripple to do has ever arisen; where only being—existence—has always been; where there is being, not doing—then suddenly we see that those karmas we did were never done by us. Some karmas were done by the body—let the body account for them. Some karmas were done by the mind—let the mind account for them. We ourselves did no karmas.

With this realization the network of all karmas is cut. The sense of “I” is the knot of all karmas. Losing the sense of self alone creates the illusion “I did.”

A man is stealing. Either the body is making him do it, or the mind. Some bodies become such that a theft must be done—a hungry man, the body compels. The soul never steals. There is hunger, pain, trouble; a child is dying, there is no medicine—and a man steals. This theft is from the body. We have not yet distinguished between bodily thieves and mental thieves. The body’s thief is not a criminal; if the body’s thief exists, it means society is criminal. The mind’s thief is the criminal. The mind’s thief is different: there is no need, the safe at home is full; but a coin lies on the road and he picks it up and slips it into his pocket.

This man is a thief of the mind. No bodily need is driving him—it is greed. This coin will add nothing to him, yet still—something will add: even one coin. Crores in possession and a mind still bent to pick up a single coin—that is the real criminal. But he is not caught; the bodily thief is caught. This is the real criminal: no bodily reason to steal, yet he steals. Theft has become a habit; there is juice in it.

Psychology speaks of a disease, kleptomania. Many are sick with it. Some become so sick psychology notices.

I knew a professor—wealthy, comfortable. He had one son—kleptomanic. He would steal anything. It made no difference what it was. He would come to your house, a broken button lay there, he would slip it into his pocket! No use for it. A needle—he’d take it! He would be looking at your book and tear out a single page and pocket it! The father asked me, “What to do?” He did not even steal such things as to feel “He is stealing!” He would bring anything! The boy was doing his M.A., intelligent.

I befriended the boy. He showed me his cupboard. Everything he had ever stolen was kept there. Each item had a note: from whom he had tricked it, from whose house he had pinched it, and that no one had yet discovered. He savored it. A button from your house with a note, “From so‑and‑so’s house.” The man was sitting right there and didn’t notice. This is another kind of juice; it has nothing to do with the body.

So theft may be of the body or of the mind; the soul has no theft. The day you enter the soul, that very day you find: I never stole; those karmas were not done by me; I was only present as they occurred. It is true they could not have happened without me. It is also true that I did not do them.

Science uses a term—it is valuable: catalytic agent. If you break water apart, hydrogen and oxygen come out, nothing else. H2O is the formula: two atoms of hydrogen, one of oxygen. You might think that if you combine two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen, water should form. It does not. Curious! If you split water, you get two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen. Naturally, if you combine them you should get water—but you don’t.

One more thing is needed. It does not enter into the water, but its mere presence lets the event occur. Electricity. In the sky when lightning flashes, it acts as a catalytic agent; through it, water forms. The lightning’s presence is necessary. It does nothing; it does not enter the water.

Put hydrogen and oxygen together and pass a spark—the water forms. Then if you split the water, no electricity comes out—only hydrogen and oxygen. This means electricity did not enter into the construction of water; yet water cannot be made without its presence. Science calls this a catalytic agent: a presence without which the event will not occur, though that thing does not enter into the event.

You cannot steal without the soul. The soul is the catalytic agent. Its presence is necessary. The body alone—a corpse—cannot go out to steal. Put money in a corpse’s pocket; even then we won’t call it theft. A corpse has nothing to do with theft; it cannot act.

The mind alone cannot go out and steal. The mind may think, but cannot steal. And if the soul were not within, it could not even think. The soul’s presence is necessary; then the theft occurs. And yet, the day a man reaches the soul, he sees that though it happened in my presence, the soul did not enter into the theft; it was merely present. Its presence is so powerful that events begin to happen.

A magnet lies there and iron filings gather to it. You perhaps think the magnet “pulls.” You are mistaken. The magnet’s being is enough. It does not need effort; it need not contract any muscle to pull. The magnet does not even know. Its being—and the iron begins to be drawn.

The soul’s presence—and the body becomes active, the mind becomes active, the journey of karma begins.

The day you re‑enter this soul in samadhi, you are freed of all karma. Not because they had bound you, but because they had never bound you. Only you had never reached yourself to see you are unbound.

This Upanishadic vision is, in one sense, anti‑moral. And so there has been deep resistance to the Upanishads in the moral mind. The moralist says: cancel bad karma with good; do good, don’t do evil. The Upanishads say: that you do karma at all—that is the misfortune. Whether good or bad is secondary. Your concern with doing, your claim to doership—that is the evil.

So there are two kinds of evil: bad evil and good evil—but both are evil. For that you do karmas is the delusion. You are only present, and karma is happening. In your presence, karma is happening. You are only the witness, not the doer.

The day you understand this presence as presence—no longer as doer but as witness—on that day you will see that whatever happened, happened around me; whatever happened, I did not do it; the event occurred around me, but I remained untouched and distant.

Just as at night you dream and in the morning you wake and say, “A dream occurred,” and you remain untouched. In the dream you might have stolen; in the dream you might have gone to jail; in the dream you might have bribed and escaped, not gone to jail. Anything can happen in a dream. But in the morning when you awaken, the dream vanishes as if it never was. On waking, you do not experience yourself as a thief.

But have you noticed? Without you, could the dream occur? Only because you were there did the dream occur. A corpse does not dream. You were there—so the dream occurred. Your presence was necessary. Yet in the morning you do not feel: What should I do now? I stole at night! Shall I fast? Shall I atone? What shall I do? You feel nothing of the sort. Two minutes after waking, the dream does not even remain in memory; it fades like a trail of smoke.

In samadhi, the whole of life appears dreamlike. Whatever has been lived—not just one life, but what has been lived across unending lives—upon reaching samadhi, just as you reach waking from sleep, so on reaching this so‑called waking to samadhi, all that circle behind becomes smoke, a dream.

One who reaches samadhi knows for the first time: I only am; karmas happened around me like dreams. And there remains no worry or remorse about them, nor any self‑praise or self‑glorification that I did great deeds or I did small ones. They all vanish.

If in the dream you were a king; or in the dream you were a supreme renunciate; or in the dream you were a thief and murderer—when you drink tea in the morning, none of these three makes any difference to the taste. All three are meaningless. You don’t sip with swagger because you were a king in the dream. You don’t sip with a bitter conscience because you were a thief in the dream. Nor do you refrain because you were a saint in the dream—“How can I drink tea?” No—when you drink tea, the dreams are gone.

I have heard: in Japan there was a great fakir, Rinzai. One morning he got up and said to a disciple standing nearby, “I saw a dream last night. If you will interpret it, I will tell it to you.”

The disciple said, “Wait two minutes; let me fetch water so you can wash your face.”

He brought water; Rinzai washed and smiled. By then another disciple arrived. Rinzai said, “I was about to tell this first one my dream so he could interpret it, but without my telling he has already given the interpretation. Shall I tell you?”

The second said, “Wait—let me fetch a cup of hot tea.”

After the tea, Rinzai laughed and said, “I am happy. Now there is no need to tell the dream.” A third man standing there had been watching. He lost patience. “This is too much! The dream has not even been told; interpretations are done; all is settled! At least tell us the dream—what was it?”

Rinzai said, “I was testing them. If they had shown any readiness to interpret, I would have expelled them from the ashram. Is there any interpretation for a dream? It was a dream; the matter is finished. This first one did right—he said, ‘Some drowsiness of the dream still lingers; wash your face.’ The second also did right: ‘Even washing hasn’t done it; a little haze remains—drink hot tea.’ Wake up—that is the dream’s interpretation. What other interpretation can there be? When you awaken, the dream is rendered meaningless—what is there to interpret? The meaningless is never interpreted.”

In samadhi, all that we had divided into great deeds and small, good and bad, morality and immorality—all becomes meaningless. Awakening in samadhi reveals a vast dream—long, beginningless—but a dream. I was only present; I did not enter.

Therefore karma is cut, and dharma arises.

When karma is cut—what we did—then we come to know what we are: our being, our nature. Nature is dharma.

“The supreme adepts call this samadhi dharma‑cloud, because like a cloud it rains down a thousand streams of dharma.”

Dharma‑cloud is a beautiful phrase. We have seen clouds. Ashadha comes and clouds gather in the sky. But we are not aware of the whole event. In Ashadha the clouds gather, the peacocks begin to dance. The earth cracks open in places, lips parted—ready to drink the drops to the heart; the parched earth long in waiting, the thirsty trees gasping like fish thrown on sand. Then the clouds gather, and under their dark shadow the rain begins, and a dance and a song spread over all nature.

Dharma‑cloud is such an inner Ashadha. Such that the life‑breath has been thirsty for births and births, cracked with drought, and no water to quench. We drank waters that only increased thirst, never quenched it. We drank much, wandered to many ghats, searched and grasped many things—but always hope turned to despair, nothing came to hand. The earth of one’s being, split and parched with longing—at the moment of samadhi, for the first time, clouds gather over it; for the first time Ashadha comes within; and there is a shower of nectar—only a symbol—a shower of nectar begins within; the soul is bathed; and from those clouds nectar falls in unending streams.

It is only a symbol; the event is far greater. Even to say “nectar” does not convey it; yet it gives a little indication—that clouds gathered above, rain began, and the soul, thirsty for births, was satiated.

“The supreme adepts call this samadhi dharma‑cloud, because like a cloud it rains down a thousand streams of dharma.”

Why “dharma‑cloud”?

Because for the first time the rain of one’s own nature falls upon oneself. Dharma means nature. Until now, whatever was known was other‑oriented. Beauty—seen in another; love—received from another; happiness and sorrow—always from another; all knowledge of the other; no experience of oneself. For the first time, one’s own rain upon oneself! Until now all raining was the other’s—always the other, the other: the other was important. For the first time the other falls away and the self’s own rain begins to fall upon the self. As if one’s own spring broke open, one’s own stream burst forth, one’s own source was found, and one’s own downpour began upon oneself.

Dharma‑cloud means nature begins to rain. Bathed in it, submerged, one becomes fresh, new. All karmas, all the dust of karmas, the debris of endless wanderings—all the rubbish that piled up—everything is washed away. What remains is spontaneity. What remains is oneself—nothing else.

In one sense we can call this supreme blessedness. In another, supreme wealth. And in yet another, supreme poverty. From the world’s side, this man has become utterly poor. From the side of the divine, he has attained the supreme treasure.

Jesus spoke of this dharma‑cloud samadhi as “poverty of spirit.” When one arrives here, one becomes poor in every way. Nothing remains except oneself; except the self, nothing remains. This is poverty.

For this reason Buddha did not call his renunciates swami (masters), he called them bhikshu (beggars)—because of this dharma‑cloud samadhi. Buddha said, “I will not call my renunciates swami; I will call them bhikshu.” But both terms signify the same. From the world’s side, he has become a beggar; from the divine side, he has become a swami, an emperor.

The Hindus used swami from the other side—that by attaining samadhi a person becomes emperor, master—for the first time. Until now he was a beggar, hands folded, begging‑bowl extended; his soul was nothing but a begging bowl. Whatever scraps fell from others’ tables he gathered as his treasure—stale, borrowed, others’ leftovers. He was a beggar.

Hence the Hindus called the renunciate who attains dharma‑cloud samadhi a swami.

But Buddha said that whatever there was—world, empire, wealth—has fallen away; nothing other remains, only oneself. The utter poverty has come.

When you are alone, and nothing remains—no clothes even, no house, no land, nothing yours—only you. Greater poverty than this there cannot be. Even a beggar has more than just himself; a little, but more: a loincloth perhaps—that too is wealth! A beggar is not so poor as to be only himself.

Buddha told his bhikshus: let the world drop from you so completely that nothing remains of it—not even a line. Become beggars in the eyes of the world.

But these two are the same. One who becomes a beggar from the world’s side becomes a swami from the soul’s side; one who becomes a swami from the soul’s side becomes a beggar from the world’s side. Therefore we have honored the bhikshu more than any swami. We have seated the bhikshu on a throne no emperor has been placed upon. Bhikshu became a revered word. Sometimes such people upset language itself.

Now bhikshu means beggar. Call someone a beggar and a quarrel breaks out. But Buddha called his supremely blessed disciples bhikshu. To be called bhikshu was to be blessed. Sometimes people like Buddha disarrange language. The word beggar had a clear meaning—he spoiled it, gave it an entirely new sense. Bhikshu became emperor. Emperors fell at the feet of bhikshus. The word bhikshu gained supreme dignity.

Dharma‑cloud samadhi, from one side, makes you a beggar; from the other, an emperor.

“Through this samadhi the mass of cravings is utterly dissolved and the complex of karmas called merit and sin is uprooted from the roots.”

Remember—both merit and sin. Here lies the depth of Upanishadic thought. Both the good you did and the bad you did are uprooted.

Do not think that when you reach the divine you will carry a bank balance of merits—“I built a dharmashala; what is the accounting? I built a temple; I fed so many Brahmins.” If you arrive with such accounts, though the door may say “Heaven,” within you will find hell. No heaven will be given.

Sin and merit, in the world’s language, are high and low. Sin is bad; merit is good. From society’s viewpoint, fine; but in the ultimate view, both are useless—because there, to be a doer is sin, to be a non‑doer is merit. There the straightforward fact is: only the non‑doer, the egoless, can enter. Only one who is not—who is erased and goes empty—can enter. If even a little of you remains, the gate is very narrow; you cannot enter.

Jesus said something whose spiritual meaning has never been grasped. The West lacks the capacity to seek spiritual meanings; thus every meaning becomes worldly. Jesus said: “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of my Father.”

Two thousand years of Christianity, and not once has the right interpretation been made—a long time indeed. The crude interpretation: a rich man cannot go to heaven. The possibility that a camel pass through a needle’s eye—impossible—Jesus says even that might happen somehow; but a rich man cannot enter heaven. Christianity took the literal meaning. That is not its meaning. “Rich man” means the one who feels he has something. Whoever thinks, “I have something,” is rich. Whoever feels “I have,” is rich.

If someone thinks “I have accumulated merit,” he is rich. If someone thinks “I was virtuous, controlled, ascetic,” he is rich. Rich means the one who says, “Besides me, I have something.” If he says, “I have said so many prayers, fasted so many times, stood in the sun; for years I stood only on my feet, never sat; I served the poor; I went to so many hospitals—I did this, I did that”—if he has anything to say that “I have,” then he is a rich man.

Now hear the saying again: A camel may pass through the eye of a needle, but a rich man will not enter the kingdom of my Father.

Who is poor? He who, standing before God, has nothing to say that he has—no meditation, no merit, no dharma. He stands zero‑like and says, “I have nothing. Only I am—or whatever I am, that you have given; other than that I have earned nothing. My being is my all; I have no ledger of karma.” This zero‑like one at the gate is the poor man. He is Buddha’s bhikshu, Jesus’ poor. He alone enters.

The exact meaning of poverty then is: the one who is empty. Only the empty can enter. Therefore the metaphor of the camel: the needle’s eye is small; there is no way a camel can pass. The gate of moksha is subtler than a needle’s eye; only emptiness can pass through it. If you have even a little substance, even a little “I,” you will be stuck. You are taking a camel through a needle’s eye—leave the camel.

But abandoning our mounts is hard, because on them we feel high. The camel came to Jesus’ mind for a reason: whoever rides the ego rides a camel. You know how uncomfortable the camel is—constant jolts, ups and downs, yet one feels high!

You must get down from the camel. Whatever you have is gained by karma—whatever it is. Whatever is gained by karma is bounded by the mind. Nothing gained by karma reaches the soul.

“When the entire mass of cravings is destroyed and the karmas called merit and sin are uprooted, then this sentence tat tvam asi shines forth as indirect knowledge.”

Then for the first time what the rishis declared, tat tvam asi—Thou art That—begins to be experienced. The first experience is indirect—paroksha. Still it does not stand plainly seen; still it is a touch, an inference; still there is no direct face‑to‑face. When the dharma‑cloud has rained above, when the chitta becomes empty and poverty supreme and one becomes a void within—then for the first time the mahavakya “Thou art That” is experienced indirectly.

These rishis are astonishing! Even now they say: still there is no direct encounter. Still it is like this: you sit with eyes closed and hear the sound of footsteps—you feel someone is coming; that is indirect. Or in darkness a strain of song resounds—you feel someone is singing though you do not see—that is indirect.

Indirect means: still not right face‑to‑face; still it is near and seems present somewhere. After the rain of the dharma‑cloud, the first event is the indirect intuition of tat tvam asi: the rishis spoke rightly; the Upanishads spoke truly. That sentence heard in shravan, pondered in silence, deepened in nididhyasan, unified in samadhi—now under the dharma‑cloud’s rain it becomes evident: it was right.

It was right—this is indirect; someone had said so. Today its taste comes; it feels—yes, it was right.

“It shines as indirect knowing, and then...”

When this indirect knowing becomes steady—and in it no ripple of the opposite remains; when it becomes utterly undoubted, becomes trust—then—

“Then it gives rise to direct knowledge, like an amla fruit placed in one’s hand.”

When this indirect knowing becomes utterly steady, when the whole life‑energy says and experiences that the rishis spoke true—tat tvam asi, Thou art That—when there remains not even a single ripple contrary to it; when it becomes entirely undoubted—though still indirect—then this mahavakya becomes as evident as a fruit placed in your palm. It becomes direct. Then such a person does not say, “What the rishis said is true.” He says, “Now I say it: tat tvam asi.”

In indirect knowing one says, “The rishis have said it; therefore I say it is true.” In direct knowing one says, “I say it is true; therefore the rishis, too, must have spoken truly.”

Take note of this difference.

In indirect knowing the proof was Veda, rishis, knowledge, scripture. The journey began with shravan from that proof. The master had said it; therefore, it must be true—out of that trust the search began. It was indirect so long as: the master has said it, so it must be right. One who knows the master accepts that it must be right.

One who has been with Buddha and Buddha says, “Tat tvam asi”—having known Buddha, he cannot even imagine that Buddha could speak untruth. Though he does not know whether the sentence is true, he knows Buddha. Therefore what Buddha says becomes proof. From Buddha no untruth can come—that thought does not arise.

For one who has been with the master, the master’s word is authority. But it is the master’s word that is authority. That is indirect—coming through another. The first realization for Buddha’s seeker on reaching samadhi will be to bow at Buddha’s feet: “You spoke rightly; what you said, I have known.” But when this realization deepens, and he goes on drowning, the situation changes entirely: he says, “I know I am That. And now I say: since my experience says so, therefore the master spoke truly.”

Now the person himself becomes the proof, and he himself becomes scripture. Such persons we have called Buddhas, Tirthankaras, Avatars—those who are themselves authority. They do not say, “It is written in the Vedas, therefore it is true.” They say, “I have known it, therefore it is true. And if the Vedas say the same, then because I have known, the Vedas are true; if they do not, the Vedas are wrong.” If they do not, the Vedas are wrong. Now the touchstone is one’s own experience. One’s own assay has been found.

This is the accomplished state. When samadhi passes from indirect knowing into direct knowing, the accomplished state happens. Only such a one—who has attained this state—if he returns down through samadhi, nididhyasan, manan, and pravachan, can give us news of that realm.

Therefore if we have honored the scriptures so much, it is because the words are of those whose companions heard them and found that this man cannot speak untrue. Even so, such men do not say, “Believe what I say.”

Buddha says: think, reflect, contemplate, meditate, and then, only if it comes into your own experience, accept it. Buddha says: do not believe because I say it; do not believe because Buddha says it; do not believe because the scriptures say it—search. And when it becomes your experience, then become a witness.

One who has attained samadhi becomes the witness of all scriptures—not a knower, a witness. The scholar is a knower; the samadhi‑seated is a witness. The scholar says the scriptures are right because the logic fits. The one in samadhi says the scriptures are right because my experience is the same.