Adhyatam Upanishad #12

‘When desire does not arise toward objects fit for enjoyment, know that as the period of vairagya; and when ego does not arise, know that as the supreme state of knowledge.’

People usually take vairagya to mean “viraga.” There is raga, and its opposite, viraga.

Raga means: seeing objects and the urge to enjoy them arises. Beauty appears, delicious things appear, pleasant circumstances appear—and the mind that wants to enjoy, to drown in them, to be lost in them—that is raga. Raga is the desire to get attached; the wish to lose oneself by plunging into some object. If some happiness seems to be outside you, the urge to immerse yourself in that happiness is raga.

Viraga means: when a thing appears to be enjoyable, there arises an aversion to it; a wish to move away; a desire to turn one’s back on it.

Attraction is raga; repulsion is viraga—in the linguistic sense. What you feel pulled toward is raga; what you feel like moving away from is viraga. So viraga becomes the opposite of raga. In one you are drawn near; in the other you retreat. But viraga is not complete freedom from raga; it is raga inverted. One man is mad for wealth; if he gets wealth he thinks he has everything. Another thinks, “If I renounce wealth, I have everything!” But both are centered on wealth. Someone thinks happiness is in man or woman; someone else thinks happiness is in renouncing man or woman. Yet in both cases the center remains man or woman. Someone thinks the world is heaven, someone else thinks the world is hell—but both are focused on the world.

Linguistically, viraga is the opposite of raga. But for a seeker of the inner, vairagya is not the opposite of raga—it is the absence of raga. Understand this distinction clearly. In the dictionary you will find raga’s opposite listed as viraga; but in lived experience, the opposite of raga is not viraga—it is the absence of raga. The difference is subtle.

Attraction toward woman is raga. If repulsion arises toward woman—so that it becomes hard to tolerate her presence, so that one feels like running away, staying far—that is viraga in the sense of language, words, scripture. In the sense of experience, of samadhi, it is still raga.

From the standpoint of samadhi, there is vairagya when there is neither attraction nor repulsion toward woman; neither pull nor the opposite. The presence or absence of woman becomes equal, the presence or absence of man becomes equal. Poverty and prosperity become equal; no choice remains, no personal insistence remains that “if I get this, it is heaven; if that drops, it is heaven.” Happiness no longer depends on external gain or loss; happiness becomes one’s own. Whether the outer gives or withholds—both become secondary, both become futile—then there is vairagya.

Vairagya means that our gaze stops going toward the “other”: neither favorable nor unfavorable; neither in attraction nor in aversion. Complete freedom from the other—that is vairagya.

There are two kinds of bondage to the other: when a friend meets you, you feel happy; when an enemy meets you, you feel unhappy. When an enemy drops away, you feel happy; when a friend drops away, you feel unhappy.

Buddha said—he made a deep joke—that enemies also give happiness and friends also give misery. Friends give misery when they leave; enemies give misery when they meet. What’s the difference?

We remain attached to our enemies too; we remain attached to our friends too. If your enemy dies, something breaks inside you; a space feels empty. Often the empty space is bigger when the enemy dies than when a friend does, because there was a kind of raga there too—an inverted raga; you were bound by his being. You are tied to friend, tied to enemy. So with the things you oppose, there is also a relationship.

Vairagya means there is no relationship at all—you have become unattached, unrelated. So the sutra gives the supreme definition of vairagya as this: that desire does not arise toward objects fit for enjoyment.

In language, the word viraga means leaving enjoyable objects and going away. Vairagya means that even when enjoyable objects are present, nearby, the desire to enjoy does not arise. Even if enjoying happens, the desire to enjoy does not arise.

Janaka lived in his palace; everything enjoyable was there, yet there was no craving to enjoy. You may run to the forest; there may be nothing to enjoy, but the craving to enjoy will become a dream, vrittis will arise; the mind will run and run to where enjoyable objects are.

So the issue is not the presence or absence of enjoyable objects; it is desire. And here is the irony: where objects are absent, desire is often felt more sharply; where objects are present, it seems less sharp. In absence, the pinch becomes keener.

This sutra says: a man who has left everything, who has forsaken everything—that is not the supreme period of vairagya either; that is not its peak. Because raga may remain inside. It may even be that running away was just an expression of raga.

Then what is the ultimate definition?

All enjoyable things are present, and inside there is no craving to enjoy.

Who will decide this? You must decide for yourself. It is not for others to judge; you are your own judge. Desire does not arise within; enjoyable things are present outside but no desire runs within—neither for nor against; the mind does not run this way or that; you are not shaken. You are as you would be if nothing at all were outside; things may be outside, but inside their reflection does not produce any sap or bitterness of taste—then it is the period of vairagya.

This will seem very difficult to us, because we have all taken viraga to be the opposite of raga. A man leaves his wife, children, home and family, and runs away—we call him a renunciate. But the very running tells you raga was still connected. No one flees out of fear of a house; he flees out of fear of his own desire. What can a house do? And if a house can still make you run, then self-settledness has not yet happened. One man is being chased by houses—desiring more houses; and another is chased by a house into the forest—afraid of it. His back may be toward the house, but he is still tied to it.

No; there is a man whom objects can no longer chase, no longer drive. The challenge of things has no hold over him. He does not accept the challenge of things at all. Then vairagya means self-settledness; you have come to rest in yourself.

None of us is settled in oneself. There are old stories—still told in children’s tales—of a king whose life is hidden in a parrot. Strike the king and he will not die—not until you kill the parrot. His life is tucked away in the parrot. As long as the parrot lives, the king lives. This is not just a story; every one of us has our life hidden somewhere else. Your life may be stored not in a parrot but in your safe. If the safe is lost…

In 1930–31, in America, many of Wall Street’s big millionaires suddenly committed suicide—just like that! Because there was a crash—a sharp collapse in value. Speculators and magnates became paupers at once. Their bank balances were emptied. From the fiftieth or sixtieth floor they jumped and killed themselves on the spot. What happened? What occurred that suddenly no course seemed open except death?

Their lives were locked in their safes; their very life was there. The safe died; they died. Nothing else happened—the world was the same; but some figures in a bank vanished. Figures! Where there had been a ten, it shrank to two. Where there had been a long row of digits, there was zero. All this happened in the bank, on paper. But their life was stored there. That was their life. Had you killed them, they wouldn’t have died; the safe emptied—they died!

Someone’s lover dies, and his life departs.

If we look carefully, our life is hidden somewhere or other, in one or another “parrot.” As long as your life is locked outside, you are not self-settled. Your life is not where it should be. It should be within you—but it is not; it is somewhere else.

That “somewhere else” can take many forms. One person thinks his soul is his body—that too is “somewhere else.” Tomorrow the body will age and he will suffer, because the body becomes feeble, wrinkled, ugly—sick, worn. He will feel dead before dying, because he had stored his life in a youthful body—and it is leaving.

Where you have stored your life may vary, but if it is outside, you are living in raga. Raga means: the soul is not in its own place, it is elsewhere. You may flee in the opposite direction, but your soul remains elsewhere.

The soul is within; I am settled in myself; nothing pulls me, and nothing stirs any waves within me—that is the definition of vairagya. Therefore vairagya is the door to bliss. For one who has come to rest in himself, there is no way to make him unhappy.

And remember, those children’s tales are right. One who is settled in himself, whose life has come back into himself—there is no way to kill him either. Life never dies; parrots die. Wherever you deposit your life, those things will shift and perish. That is their nature. When they crumble, the illusion arises: “I too have died.” This “I have died” is an illusion born from linking yourself with mortal things.

Vairagya means: having broken all relationships, one has come to know That with which one was always related.

‘When desire does not arise toward objects fit for enjoyment…’

Let not opposite desire arise either; rather, let no desire at all arise—in any sense. Then know it is the period of vairagya. This is a formula given for yourself. Do not use it to examine others.

We are so clever! Once we get definitions, we rush to test others: “So, is that person a vairagi or not?”

You have no need of it. You have nothing to do with another; if he is in raga, he will suffer; if in vairagya, he will enjoy bliss. You are not involved.

But we are so skillful at deceiving ourselves that if some definition falls into our hands, some touchstone, we go to test others—and never think to test ourselves.

Test yourself; this sutra is for you. It is not for brooding about others: “Was Mahavira a renunciate or not? Was Krishna a renunciate or not?”

Whether they were or not is none of your business. If they were, they found bliss; if not, they suffered. You do not come in anywhere.

People come to me and ask, “How can we know if someone is truly enlightened?” Why do you need to know whether someone is truly enlightened? Just keep track of whether you are or not—that is enough. If another is enlightened, that doesn’t make you enlightened. If another is not enlightened, that does not hinder you.

Why do we think like this? There are reasons. We want to make sure no one has attained vairagya. That gives us relief: then there is no harm; if we haven’t, no harm; no one has! This consoles the mind, gives it support: “As I am, so I am fine; no one ever attained; I too am not attaining!”

Hence our mind never readily accepts that anyone has attained vairagya. We search for ways to prove it is not so. If someone has attained, it creates an inner difficulty: if someone else has attained, then I too can—but I am not. This gives rise to guilt.

That is why no one wants to accept that another is right. The less we accept another’s rightness, the easier it is to accept our own wrongness. If the whole world is a thief, you feel no self-reproach in being a thief. If the whole world is bad, your being bad seems natural. If the whole world is good, then your being bad pricks you like a thorn. A self-sting begins; guilt arises; it feels as if what should be is not happening. Restlessness is born in your life.

So that restlessness does not arise, so we can sleep soundly, we never see goodness in another. If someone says that such-and-such a person has attained vairagya, you will say, “No, he has not.” You will find twenty-five grounds to prove it. This is part of the deep net of the mind. One must be alert to it. You have nothing to do with another.

A friend came to me for three days. He wanted a lot of time. He said, “I want to take sannyas, but before that I have two or three essential questions.”

I thought they would be essential. Not one was essential. All were about others, not about him. He wanted to take sannyas; his questions were about others: “Has Krishna truly attained enlightenment? Then why have the Jains consigned him to hell?”

The Jains have consigned Krishna to hell in their scriptures, because they have their own definition and interpretation of vairagya; by that Krishna does not fit. One must abandon everything—that is their definition. And Krishna did not abandon anything! So there is a problem.

Krishna’s definition is precisely this: if you still have to run away, you are not yet a renunciate. That is why the Hindus did not even mention Mahavira in their scriptures. They did not consider him worth mention. At least the Jains showed a little love toward Krishna: they put him in hell! The Hindus did not even put Mahavira in hell! They left him out altogether. Because if one holds Krishna’s definition, then trouble arises.

But remember, all definitions are for you—for the seeker—so that he can keep investigating within. A touchstone in your hand, a scale to weigh yourself. And we are so clever that with that touchstone we go to weigh others! You have nothing to do with others. If Krishna is in hell, that’s his concern—what is that to anyone? You cannot volunteer to take his place in hell and send him to liberation! And if Krishna is in moksha, your moksha is not created by that. Other than you, all your thinking about others is useless.

Another friend came asking, “If an arrangement could be made for you and Krishnamurti to meet, would you agree to meet?”

Now this is between me and Krishnamurti! What concern could this friend have?

Then he asked, “If you both meet, who would bow first?”

That too is a matter between me and Krishnamurti!

The mind is absorbed in thinking about others; it never thinks about itself. A seeker should decide that such inquiries are useless. Other than me and my inner growth, nothing is for the seeker. Useless. Do not get entangled in those curiosities. They have nothing to do with you. They will bring nothing to your life.

So remember: these definitions are for you. Keep weighing within, which is why the Upanishads gave you measures—so that on the pathless path within you do not falter. Keep seeing within: as long as desire arises on seeing objects, know that vairagya has not yet been attained. And keep to the steady labor of vairagya; we are speaking of that labor step by step.

‘When ego does not arise, then know it is the supreme period of knowledge.’

The seers of the Upanishads are strange people! They do not say, “If you have a vision of God, then know it is the period of knowledge.” They do not call even the vision of God the period of knowledge; they do not say, “When all your chakras open, kundalini awakens, the thousand-petaled lotus blooms—then it is the supreme period of knowledge.” No! Nor do they say, “If you ascend the seven heavens, complete the tour of all fourteen worlds and enter the realm of Truth”—the Upanishads say none of that matters. There is one touchstone: that ego does not arise.

Even kundalini can give rise to ego. The seeker begins to think, “My kundalini has awakened! I am no ordinary man now!” Another thinks, “My ajna chakra has opened; I see inner light; I am no ordinary man!” Another thinks, “A blue jewel has appeared in my heart; a blue light is visible; now I am liberated; this world is nothing for me!”

Remember, whatever creates a “me” is part of ignorance—call it what you will. The Upanishads say: as long as ego arises—whatever the cause—as long as it feels, “I have become something,” know that knowledge is not yet ripe; its flower has not opened; the explosion of knowledge has not happened. One single sutra is given: ego should not arise.

So it may happen that a shopkeeper—whose kundalini has not awakened, who has seen no blue light, who has not journeyed through the realms of truth—does nothing at all, just sits at his shop doing his work, and if ego does not arise, he too has reached the supreme period of knowledge. And a great yogi may stand on the high peaks of the Himalayas—and as lofty as the outer peak, so lofty is the peak of his inner ego—and he thinks, “I have arrived, no one else has; I have attained, no one else has”—then know that knowledge has not yet happened. There is only one touchstone: the inner moment arrives when nothing whatsoever creates ego. Whatever happens—even if God himself stands before you—this feeling does not arise, “How fortunate I am—I have even found God! Here is God standing before me; I have his darshan.”

When the “I” does not form, then know it is the supreme period of knowledge.

Keep searching for this within; otherwise pride begins to form out of everything—out of everything! The mind is very cunning; it extracts ego out of anything; so cunning that it even extracts ego out of humility! Someone begins to say, “No one is more humble than me! No one is more humble than me!” But there remains that “no one more than me.” Whatever it is—wealth, fame, position, knowledge, liberation, humility—“no one more than me.” That “me” keeps getting formed.

So keep examining within, keep searching; otherwise even your spiritual quest becomes worldly. The difference between worldly and spiritual seeking is not in objects, it is in ego. One man piles up heaps of wealth; his ego grows strong. Another gives up all wealth and strengthens his ego through renunciation. Both journeys are worldly. The spiritual journey begins with the dissolution of ego. There is only one real renunciation: the renunciation of “I.” All other renunciations are futile, because the “I” fattens on them too.

Just yesterday a gentleman came to see me. He said, “For fourteen years I have not taken grain!” And his stiff pride was a sight to behold. Eating grain does not produce such stiffness; not eating grain had produced it! That “not eating” had become poison. Of course he was stiff! Fourteen years of no grain—it will happen! On whom have you conferred a favor by not eating? Don’t eat! But he goes about proclaiming, “Fourteen years without grain!” Now that is becoming his ego. Grain does not feed the ego so much; this “not-grain” is feeding it!

People come and say, “For years we have been taking only milk!” Milk seems poison to them. They are no longer walking on the earth—because they are taking milk. What difference are you making? What great revolution is happening because you drink milk?

There is a reason. They feel they are doing something special that others are not doing. The moment the notion of “special” arises, ego begins to form—no matter what that special thing is. If you create any distinction for yourself, ego is formed.

What then is a seeker? A seeker is one who stops producing specialness within; who, slowly, becomes a nobody. Gradually he becomes so ordinary within that not even the feeling remains, “I too am something”; he becomes a nothing. The day the seeker becomes a nothing, the supreme period of knowledge arrives.

Not by collecting knowledge, but by dissolving ego.
Not by hoarding information, but by the death of “I.”

‘In the same way, when the vrittis that have dissolved do not arise again, that is the period of uparati. Such a sthitaprajna yati abides in bliss always.’

‘When the vrittis that have dissolved do not arise again.’

Very often vrittis do dissolve—very often. But that dissolution returns again and again. One day it feels the mind has become utterly quiet; the next day it is agitated again. One day there is great bliss; the next day sorrow surrounds you.

There are some laws of mind; they should be understood. One is that the mind never remains constant; change is its nature. So any peace that comes and goes—know that it is not spiritual peace; it is the mind’s peace. Any bliss that comes and goes—it is not spiritual bliss; it is of the mind. Whatever is made and then unmade belongs to mind. Whatever comes and goes belongs to mind. That which comes and then never goes; that which, once arrived, simply is—no way to make it leave—even if you try, you cannot remove it—that is other than mind. Note the difference: if peace comes in mind, you can strive with all your might to make it stay; it will not stay; it will change. And if peace arises in the soul, you can strive with all your might to destroy it; you cannot destroy it. In mind, even by effort you cannot keep continuity; in the soul, even by effort you cannot break continuity.

So when vrittis stop arising, don’t be hasty; don’t think you have arrived. Wait and see that they do not arise again. If they do, know that the process is still on the plane of mind. And what is the value of the mind’s peace? It will come and go, and unrest will return. In mind, at every moment, there is a movement toward the opposite. When you are restless, mind moves toward peace; when you are peaceful, it moves toward restlessness. Mind is duality. The opposite will always be present and the movement will continue.

How will you know it is of the mind?

If mind is quiet, keep one basic observation: when the mind alone is quiet, and peace has not reached the inner depth, immediately there arises a desire that this peace should remain, not vanish. If this desire arises, know it is a matter of mind; fear of loss belongs to mind. If peace comes and there is no fear it might vanish, know it is not of mind.

Second: the mind gets bored with everything—everything! Not only with sorrow; it gets bored with happiness too. This is another law of mind: it gets bored with anything static. If you are in sorrow, it’s bored of sorrow and asks for happiness. But what you don’t know is that when happiness comes, it gets bored of happiness too—and begins to demand inner sorrow.

I observe this continually—so many people in experiment. If happiness lingers a few days, they become uneasy; if peace lingers a few days, they become uneasy—boredom arises from that too.

Mind gets bored of everything. It always demands the new. From this demand for the new, all trouble is born. Beyond mind—on the spiritual plane—there is no demand for the new; there is no boredom with the old. There is such absorption in what is that no further demand remains.

The sutra says: when vrittis that have dissolved do not arise again, then it is the period of uparati—relaxation. If they keep arising, know it is all the net of mind.

Why must this be kept in view? Because our connection with mind is so deep that we take the mind’s peace to be our peace. That causes great suffering—because it is lost.

What to do? Use the sutra of witnessing. It creates a path out of the mind, and the ultimate uparati is reached.

What do we do? When the mind is restless, we want to withdraw from it; when it is peaceful, we want to connect with it. We want to preserve peace and remove unrest. When the mind is unhappy, we want to throw it away—“How to get rid of mind?” And when it is happy, we embrace it and want to keep it. Then you will never be free of mind, because this is the mind’s very arrangement—to drop sorrow and grasp pleasure.

The way out of mind is this: when the mind is giving pleasure, remain a witness even then, and do not grasp it. As you meditate here, sometimes a spring of peace will unexpectedly burst. In that moment, do not embrace it; stand apart and watch, “Peace is happening; I am the witness.” A spring of joy will break; every fiber of your being may be suffused with delight—stand apart and watch that too. Do not clutch it, “Good! Liberation has arrived!” Stand watching in witnessing, “Joy is happening in the mind; I will not grasp it.”

The wonder is: the one who does not grasp joy—his sorrow ends. The one who does not grasp peace—his unrest is finished forever. In grasping peace is the sowing of unrest, and in grasping joy is the birth of sorrow. Do not grasp. Grasping is the name of mind. Clinging—that is the name of mind. Do not grasp anything. Keep an open hand. Then you will step beyond mind and enter that from where vrittis can never be reborn: the supreme dissolution. That supreme dissolution is called uparati—rest.

‘Such a sthitaprajna yati attains bliss always.’

Sthitaprajna is a sweet word. It means: one whose prajna—awareness—has settled in itself; whose knowing has come to rest in itself; whose consciousness no longer goes anywhere outside itself. One whose consciousness has become still—that yati, that seeker, that sannyasin—abides in bliss always.

On the plane of mind there is pleasure and pain—dualities; peace and unrest—dualities; good and bad—dualities; birth and death—dualities. Retreat one step behind mind and there is the non-dual—ananda. Bliss has no opposite word; it is beyond duality. One who is beyond duality attains bliss always.

Here is our great difficulty: we too want bliss. Hearing such words, our greed is stirred: if bliss can be permanent, then we too want it. Someone please show a way so that we too can have bliss always.

But remember: this definition is merely descriptive of the state. If desire is born from it, you will never attain that state. Understand the difference clearly.

A friend came to me: “Let liberation happen quickly; meditation should set in; samadhi should come—quickly!”

I told him: the quicker you are, the longer it will take. Because the mind in a hurry can never be at peace. Hurry is unrest.

We all experience how trouble arises in a hurry. You have to catch a train and you’re in haste. A task that could be done in two minutes takes five! You button your coat wrong! Then unbutton, re-button. You pick up your glasses, they slip and break! You try to lock the suitcase, the key won’t go in! Hurry! In a hurry there is only delay—because hurry means the mind is very disordered, and mistakes will be made. If in small things hurry causes delay, on the vast journey hurry will cause great delay.

So I told that friend: don’t hurry, otherwise you will be delayed. Here, be prepared that if it takes an eternity, I am content—no hurry. Then perhaps it will happen quickly.

He said, “Oh! So if we prepare for eternity, it will happen quickly, right?”

Here the mind creates difficulties. He was ready for that too—but for the sake of “quickly.” He wanted to use even that. How to make him understand? He says, “We are willing to wait—but assure us it will be quick!” Then the waiting becomes false. And what does “quick” mean then?

If you genuinely consent to wait indefinitely, quickness will be the result; but you cannot make “quickness” your desire. Understand this difference. If you are ready to wait, quickness happens as a byproduct of the waiting mind. If you say, “We will wait so that it will be quick,” then you are not waiting at all—and it will never be quick. How can true waiting arise out of the desire for quickness? This is the daily difficulty. We all feel, “We too want bliss. How can we get it?” But the very thought and desire to get bliss is the obstacle to bliss. Bliss is a result. Do not turn it into desire. It will happen. You continue the silent, simple journey; it will happen.

This creates a great difficulty: reading such sutras, many people become desire-ridden for bliss. For centuries, countless people have read such sutras and become full of desire. Yet these sutras are for freedom from desire. And a new desire catches hold: “How to obtain bliss? How to become sthitaprajna? How to attain uparati? How to bring about vairagya?” They fill with these desires—then they run birth after birth, and this never happens. Then doubt arises: perhaps all these statements are false; we were told bliss would come, and it has not.

Let me tell you something in this context. Every day we see the world becoming more irreligious. People are becoming more and more irreligious; their trust in religion is decreasing. Do you know the reason? The reason is in this sutra. Each of you has desired bliss, moksha, God over many lives—and bliss did not come, moksha did not come, God did not come. The result had to happen: now you feel these are not attainable. Your desire has been fruitless. Your trust in such sutras is gone.

For ten thousand years these sutras have been known. In these ten thousand years, nearly everyone on this earth—some at the feet of Buddha, some at Krishna’s, some at Christ’s, some at Mohammed’s—has desired this bliss, made efforts for it: meditated sometime, practiced yoga sometime, tantra sometime, mantra sometime—done everything. Looking into people’s inner layers, I have not yet found a person who has not done something in some life. Everyone has walked some path of practice in some life—but desire-ridden. Because of desire, practice went fruitless; and that failure sank deep into their consciousness. That is why irreligion seems to be growing: because religion has failed for most people.

You don’t even remember it, but you have already made religion fail within you. And you are the reason. Because you desired that which cannot be desired. These are the consequences. Passing through practice, such consequences occur. Do not worry about them, do not think of them, do not desire them, do not hurry that they should occur. Hurry reverses everything.

Irreligion will keep growing as long as we desire even religion. And none of you are new. No one on this earth is new. All are so old, so ancient beyond calculation. All have walked so many paths and routes without measure. Having failed in them all, you have become despairing and discouraged. That despair has sunk deep in the life-breath. Breaking that despair has become the hardest task today. And if anyone tries to break it, only one means seems available: to rouse your desire even more strongly and say, “This will happen!”—only then do you muster a little courage. But rousing desire is the root of the trouble.

Buddha made a unique experiment. In his time, too, the situation was what it is today. It always turns so. Whenever a Buddha or Mahavira appears, the thousand years after them pass under a shadow. Why? Because seeing Buddha or Krishna, feeling their presence, in their air, thousands are filled with religious desire. They feel: “It is possible.” Seeing Buddha, trust arises: “If it is possible for him, it is possible for me.” And if they make the mistake of turning that possibility into desire, then after Buddha, these very people, slowly harassed by desire, will become irreligious.

Understand the condition! Bliss can be attained—but do not make it your goal. It is not a goal. Supreme peace can be—but do not make it a goal. Not the goal. Make your goal understanding, wakefulness; make your goal meditation; make your goal inner stillness; make your goal stopping, coming home to yourself. As a result, bliss will arrive. It always follows. Do not invert it; do not make bliss the goal. Whoever made bliss the goal fell into difficulty.

Results are results—not goals.

Understand it; take a simple example from daily life. You play a game—football, hockey, tennis, kabaddi—anything. You feel great joy. You tell someone, “When I play, I feel so much joy!” He says, “We too want joy; tomorrow we’ll come play to see if joy comes.” He comes to play, constantly keeping an eye on whether joy is coming or not. Because of this, first, he will not be able to be absorbed in the game; the game becomes secondary, joy becomes primary. Every time he shouts “kabaddi” and enters, that “kabaddi” becomes secondary; within he keeps checking: “Joy has not come yet! It’s not coming—what am I doing shouting ‘kabaddi’? What will happen from this? Joy hasn’t come yet!” After the game he is merely tired and says, “No joy was found—what is this?”

If you go to the game to get joy, the game is spoiled—and joy will not come. Joy is a byproduct. Get totally absorbed in the game, and joy happens. Keep thinking of joy, and you cannot be absorbed; and without absorption, how will joy happen?

Life is like this. Here, the important things are byproducts. Whatever is truly significant happens quietly. Whatever is deep must not be made the goal. Making it a goal shuts its door. Joy happens unbidden, arrives like an accident. If someone sits deliberately watchful, the watching creates such tension that the doors close; a wall of tension forms, and joy does not happen.

Be careful with this sutra—it is dangerous. It is found in all scriptures. And whoever read those scriptures got his desires stirred—and went hunting for how to “grab” liberation! Liberation cannot be grabbed; by dissolving into the whole, liberation comes. “How to get joy?” Joy cannot be gotten by grasping. Do something in which you are so absorbed that you forget even yourself and forget joy as well—and suddenly you awake to find that only joy remains; what you sought and could not find by seeking is found.

Buddha’s life shows this clearly. For six years he labored tirelessly—to obtain liberation, peace, truth. He did not get them. He searched at the feet of every teacher. The teachers too grew weary of him. He was a searcher, determined; he had the kshatriya’s stubbornness: “I will find it.” He had the kshatriya’s pride: “What thing could there be that exists and cannot be found? Impossible!” That is the meaning of kshatriya. The teachers he went to were troubled by him. Whatever the teacher said, Buddha would do at once. However difficult—headstands, standing in sun and rain, fasting—whatever anyone said, he did it thoroughly—and nothing happened! The teachers grew tired. “What can we do?”

A teacher does not tire of an ordinary disciple because the ordinary disciple never truly follows. So the teacher never has to say, “I have exhausted what I can do, and still nothing happens.” Give a Buddha as a disciple—it becomes hard. Whatever the teacher says, he fulfills; the teacher cannot fault him—and still nothing happens! Finally one teacher said, “What I could do, what I could teach, I have done. Beyond this, I don’t know. Go elsewhere.”

All the teachers were weary of him. And he was stubborn. Six years—whatever anyone said—right or wrong, apt or inapt—he did it, with great devotion. Not one teacher could say, “You aren’t doing it hence it isn’t happening.” He was doing so completely that the teachers asked his pardon: “When you attain more, let us know too! We have told you all we know. Nothing is happening!”

It was not that what they taught had not worked for them; it had worked. Buddha did the very practices the teachers had done and by which they had found. The teacher was puzzled: “You are doing exactly the same, more intensely than even I did—yet why isn’t it happening?”

There was a reason. For the teacher it had happened because he had practiced without the idea of a goal. For Buddha the goal was intense. He practiced, but his gaze was on the goal: “When will truth, bliss, liberation come?” So the practice was done, but the goal was the obstacle.

At last Buddha too grew tired. After six years, one day he left everything. He had already left the world; now he left renunciation too. He had given up indulgence long ago; these six years he had wasted in yoga—he left yoga too. One night he decided: “Now nothing. No more seeking.” He realized: there is nothing to be gained. He had reached the ultimate tension of effort; he dropped it. That night he slept under a tree.

It was the first night in countless births that Buddha slept such that there was nothing to do in the morning. Nothing at all remained to be done. Kingdom had been left, home forsaken, all worldly planning dropped; the other plan—yoga—had failed. There was no task left for morning. If I wake, fine; if not, fine. Birth or death—equal. No difference. Morning held nothing to do; there was no meaning to “tomorrow.”

When someone sleeps a night like that—in which there is no plan for morning—samadhi happens. Deep sleep becomes samadhi. Because there was no desire for the morning, no goal remained, nothing to gain, nowhere to go; even the question “What will I do if I wake?” fell away. Until now it had been do, do, do. Now there was absolutely no doing. Buddha slept that night with the question: “If I get up, what will I do? The sun will rise, birds will sing—what will I do?” The answer was emptiness.

When there are no goals, the future is destroyed. When there are no goals, time becomes meaningless. When there are no goals, plans break; the mind’s journey halts. For the mind’s journey, plans are needed; for the mind’s journey, goals are needed; a point to obtain is needed; for the mind’s journey, a future is needed—time is needed. All that was destroyed.

Buddha slept that night like a man who, while alive, has died. He was living—and death happened. At five in the morning, the eyes opened. Buddha said, “I did not open my eyes.” What would I do by opening them? Nothing left to see, to hear, to gain; what would I do by opening them? So Buddha said, “I did not open them; they opened.” They were tired of being closed all night; rest complete, the lids opened. Inside was emptiness. When there is no future, inside is emptiness. In that emptiness Buddha saw the last star sinking. Seeing that sinking star, Buddha attained the supreme knowing. With that star sinking, all the past sank; the entire journey sank; the entire search sank.

Buddha said: “For the first time, I saw a star sink purposelessly—purposelessly. It made no difference whether I saw or not. There was not even a question of choosing to see or not see. The eyes were open; the star was visible. It was sinking; it went on sinking. There, the sky emptied of stars; here, inside, I was utterly empty—the meeting of two empty skies happened.” And Buddha said: “What I could not find by seeking, that night, without seeking, I found. What I could not get by running, I got sitting still; lying down, I got. What I could not get by effort, I got through rest.”

Why did it happen? Because joy is the natural result when you are empty within. When you run for joy, the very joy keeps you from becoming empty; thus the natural result does not happen.

‘Whose mind is absorbed in Brahman remains without modifications and without activity. When Brahman and the Self are purified, and the movement of mind, absorbed in their unity, becomes without alternatives and only pure consciousness, then it is called prajna. The one in whom such prajna abides always is a jivanmukta.’

When the inner sky becomes one with the outer sky; when the inner emptiness meets the outer emptiness—then all becomes without modification and without activity. Without thought, modifications cannot arise; thought itself is modification. And thought arises only because there is something to do—keep this in mind!

People come to me saying, “We can’t get rid of thoughts.”

You won’t be free of thoughts while you still have something to do. If there is something to do, how can thought cease? Planning for that doing is thought. Even if you want to be free of thoughts—that too won’t happen, because that plan keeps thought engaged.

People say, “We sit and try very hard to be thoughtless.”

The plan to be thoughtless is an opportunity for thought. So the mind keeps thinking, “How to be thoughtless? Not yet thoughtless! When will it happen? Will it happen or not?”

Remember: if there is any desire—heaven, liberation, God—thought will continue. Thought is not at fault. Thought simply ponders how to fulfill what you desire. As long as there remains anything to gain, thought continues. The day you consent to this: “I have nothing to gain at all—not even to gain thoughtlessness,” suddenly thoughts begin to depart; they are no longer needed. When inside all becomes empty—no plan remains, nothing left to get, nowhere to go—when all journeying seems futile, consciousness sits down by the roadside and drops talk of destination—then the destination appears.

‘Absorbed in Brahman, one remains without modifications and without activity.’

Then such a person remains unmodified and inactive. Within, nothing arises. The mirror is empty; nothing forms upon it. And he remains inactive—no impulse to do remains.

This does not mean he lies like a corpse. Actions happen—but there is no planning of action.

Understand this difference clearly.

I come here. I have to speak on this Upanishadic sutra. If I come having planned—thinking through what to say and what not to say—then thoughts will move and there will be modifications; there will be internal activity. If I just come, glance at the sutra, and begin to speak—and be content with whatever comes out—then that action is no action.

If I then leave, and on the way think, “What I said was not right; it would have been better to say that, or not say this”—that is modification. If I leave, and as soon as the speaking ends nothing more flows within about it—no stream continues—then it is without modification.

I have heard this about Abraham Lincoln. He returned one night with his wife after giving a lecture. At home the children asked, “How was the lecture?” Lincoln said, “Which lecture? The one I prepared before I went? Or the one I delivered? Or the one I thought I should have delivered afterwards? Which one? I’ve delivered three. One I delivered in my mind before leaving; one I actually delivered; and one I kept regretting later, thinking I should have said this or that, and left that out.”

So the lecture became an activity. Activity is not in the lecture; it is in its planning.

If the mind decides beforehand, and broods afterwards—it is modification. If action happens—neither pre-planned nor post-thought—then action arises out of non-action. Action will continue. Buddha became Buddha—and still action continued. Krishna became Krishna—and still action continued. But the difference was made.

The Gita is precious precisely for this reason: whatever Krishna said in it was utterly spontaneous. No one goes to a battlefield prepared with a lecture. Krishna could not even have imagined he would fall into such a predicament there. No plan is possible; an accident—sudden—and Krishna’s spring bursts forth.

This is not speaking; it is speech emerging from the unspeaking. This is not action; it is action born of non-action. Therefore the Gita became so precious. Because it was so spontaneous, it sank so deep into the Indian heart. It arose from non-action, without planning. That is why we called it the Bhagavad Gita—the Lord’s Song. There is no human planning in it; Krishna is not behaving like a mere man there. The message rises from deep divinity.

So when all actions are born from inner non-action, when thought arises out of thoughtlessness, when words are born from silence—such a one is called jivanmukta.

In India there are two conceptions of liberation. One is the jivanmukta—liberated while living. The other is liberated at death. Both happen.

One person searches all life long—searches, searches—then one day he is tired of searching, and the happening occurs. Sometimes it happens that a man searches his whole life—six years will not do; a lifetime—and does not tire; he keeps searching. And when death arrives, only then does he realize that all searching was in vain, nothing found. In the moment of death the entire search relaxes.

If before death the entire search relaxes—planning ceases—there is no future, then what happened to Buddha beneath the Bodhi tree happens beneath the tree of death. Death and liberation occur together. Death can relax you deeply—if the search has clearly failed. If it is utterly clear that all seeking was useless—I found nothing in the world, nothing in practice—if it is wholly clear, and there is no desire for any future life to get something, no feeling “I shouldn’t die yet; give me two days to do something”—death comes and one consents.

If all has proved futile, one consents to death. As Buddha lay down that evening, and even the question “What will I do tomorrow?” fell away—so if someone dies at the moment of dying without thinking, “Now I’m dying; some tasks remain unfinished; if I had two more days I’d complete them”—if no such feeling remains, and death descends as evening descends and one falls asleep—death becomes liberation. Such a one is called liberated.

But sometimes it happens in midlife—and after liberation, the body remains. Survival depends on other causes.

When you are born, the body is born with a limited life—seventy years, eighty. If at forty that event happens, the body still has forty years left; it will complete them. You die at forty, but the body dies at eighty. You are finished at forty, but the body goes on forty more years. That is its own plan, the arrangement of its atoms. It was born with the capacity to run eighty years; it will run eighty.

Buddha died; Mahavira died at forty—and their bodies ran forty more. Inside, the movement stopped; the body continued—like a watch on your wrist, wound for seven days. You are lost in a jungle, fall, and die—yet the watch runs on. The watch has a seven-day spring; your dying does not affect it. It keeps ticking.

Your body is a mechanism. If you attain supreme knowledge today, you die today—but the body keeps ticking. While the body’s ticking continues, and the inner consciousness is as if it is not, that state is called jivanmukti.

‘When Brahman and the Self are purified, and the movement of mind, absorbed in their unity, becomes without alternatives and only pure consciousness, then it is called prajna.’

When the intellect no longer thinks in relation to anything—when it stops thinking, becomes no-thought; when thoughts drop and only the capacity to know remains; when intellect does not connect to any object—pure! Like a lamp burning, but nothing is being illumined, just the lamp alone burning in emptiness—when consciousness becomes like that, the Indian word for it is prajna. Then you have attained the true light of knowing. One in whom such prajna burns always is a jivanmukta.

‘He who has no ego-sense with regard to body and senses, and, besides these, has no feeling “this is mine” toward any other thing, is called a jivanmukta.’

These feelings have already fallen away. “Mine,” “I”—these fell away long ago. With the fall of ego, knowledge happened. Now nothing appears connected to “mine” or “I.” Such consciousness does not even say, “I am the Self.” It does not attach “I” anywhere; only being remains. We say, “I am”; such a one says, “Am.” The “I” falls. Only being—pure amness—remains.

This amness—this “beingness”—is called the state of jivanmukti. When “I” disappears and being remains, you have attained liberation while living.

Make your effort in this direction without desire, and it can happen now; if with desire, it takes time.