Adhyatam Upanishad #13

Bokuju said, “Brahman? I have no idea of Brahman.
What do you do then?” the questioner persisted. “What is your practice?”
Bokuju was drawing water from a well at that moment. He said, “When I draw water from the well, I don’t exactly know whether I am drawing from the well or the well is filling me. And when my bucket clatters down into the well, it doesn’t feel as if the bucket has gone down—it feels as if I myself have descended! And when the water brims up and I begin to pull it up, believe me, nothing is clear any more—what is what, what is happening! You asked, so I have thought about it and said this much. Had you not asked, I am simply lost. I have no idea of Brahman. I no longer even have an idea of myself!”
When the “I” itself is lost, that which is known then is what we call Brahman. When is the “I” lost? When your intellect is no longer there to paste thoughts on to every single thing. The intellect’s job is to paste labels—name every thing, give it a word, a form.

A child is born. The child opens its eyes. There is no intellect yet. The intellect will develop slowly, through education and conditioning. Scientists say that when a newborn first opens its eyes there is no discrimination. Red will appear as red, but the child cannot experience “this is red,” because the word “red” has yet to be learned. Green will appear as green because the eyes see color, but the child cannot say “this is green.” The child cannot even say “this is color.” Nor can the child say where red ends and green begins, because “red” and “green” have no meaning yet. To the child’s vision the world appears as a single, continuous happening—everything merging into everything else, nothing yet separable. An ocean of experience—indivisible. Even this is our inference; what truly happens for the child is hard to say.

But the sages—who have become children again, who have become as simple as when there was no intellect, as innocent and unknowing as before intellect—they experience that all things become one. One thing links to the next, the next to a third. Things as separate stop appearing; the inner connectedness begins to show.

Our situation is that we see the beads of the garland but not the thread within. The intellect sees the beads. When intellect falls away, that consciousness which is free of intellect sees the thread running through—sees the oneness pervading all, hidden within all, the very substratum.

Wherever the intellect works, it divides. Science is the organization of intellect; therefore science breaks down, analyzes. Breaking and breaking, it reached the atom—the ultimate fragment. It sees bits and pieces everywhere; no oneness is visible.

Religion abandons the intellect. Then the reverse process begins: things join and become one. Science reaches the atom; religion reaches the Supreme Being. The atom is the smallest part we could break things into; and we can break further and further—the intellect will keep breaking. God is the largest whole we can join into—without the intellect. With intellect we broke and found the atom—the power of atomic science. Without intellect we saw and realized the Supreme—the power of religion.

Therefore remember: any so-called religion that divides is not religion—on any plane. If a Hindu separates himself from a Muslim, know that these are two kinds of politics, not religion. If a Jain seems separate from a Hindu, know that these are two social systems, not religion. Understand that behind such divisions it is the intellect at work, whose nature is to split; behind them is not the experience of a consciousness that has transcended intellect, where everything joins and becomes one.

“He who never, by means of the intellect, knows any distinction between the individual soul and Brahman, or between Brahman and the creation, is called a jivanmukta (liberated while living).”
“Whether the virtuous honor him or the wicked cause him pain, he who remains ever equal toward all is called a jivanmukta.”

Equality of heart! First: nonduality. Second: evenness, equanimity, sameness of heart. The word is a little tricky because of how we use it.

If one person abuses you and another bows at your feet, what will equanimity mean? Will you hold yourself together and try to remain equal-minded? “He abused me—do not be angry; he honored me—do not be pleased”—should you make such an effort? If you have to try, it is not equanimity. That is a managed restraint, a discipline imposed; you have merely held yourself in. Equanimity means that whether someone abuses or honors you, no reaction arises within—none at all. Let abuse revolve outside, let honor revolve outside; nothing penetrates within.

When will this happen? Only when there is a witness within. Why do we react when abused? Because the moment abuse is hurled, we feel, “I have been abused”—and suffering begins. When honored, we feel, “I have been honored”—and pleasure begins. Which means whatever is done to “me,” I immediately identify with it. From that identification arises pleasure and pain, imbalance, loss of harmony.

A moral person also tries for evenness. But his evenness is imposed, cultivated. He explains to himself, “All right—so someone abused me, what is the harm! And if someone honored me—fine, that’s his choice. I will remain even.” This evenness remains on the surface; it does not go deep. For he has no sense of the witness yet. His evenness is of character; therefore in unguarded moments he can be provoked; cracks can appear and his inner imbalance erupt.

The Upanishads place no value on character-based evenness. They value self-based evenness. Self-based evenness means: whatever happens outside, I am no more than the witness.

Ram was in New York. Some people abused him, threw stones. Ram came back dancing. Disciples asked, “What happened? You seem so happy!” Ram said, “It’s a thing to rejoice. Today Ram was in real trouble. Some began abusing, some throwing stones, mocking. Seeing Ram caught, I enjoyed it—he was nicely trapped. See, now he’s stuck.”

Those with him asked, “About whom are you speaking? Which Ram?”
Ram placed his hand on his chest and said, “This Ram. He got badly caught, and I stood aside watching. I watched those who abused, and I also watched this good man who got caught and stood taking abuse. I stood and watched.”

When this third point is found, there is evenness. If there are only two points for you, evenness is not possible. If someone is abusing and you are the one being abused, you can try to adopt a good attitude—that is the mark of a respectable person; you should. You can try: “No harm done; he abused me—what have I really lost?” You feel something is lost, that’s why you must keep explaining there is no loss. “He spoiled his tongue—what did I lose?” But something did go. This is consolation.

The respectable man lives on consolation. He thinks, “All right, he abused me—each will reap his own deed. Why should I say anything? He abused; he will suffer; he will go to hell; he has sinned.” He is consoling himself. What he cannot do himself—he imagines God will do. He outsources his work to God and keeps consoling himself. “As you sow, so shall you reap. I will sow good so I may reap good. He is sowing evil; let him reap evil.”

He can even go so far as to say, “If someone sows thorns for you, you sow flowers for him.” He can do even this: “He is sowing thorns for me; I will sow flowers for him—then he will reap thorns and I will reap flowers.” But this is shopkeeper’s arithmetic, a businessman’s bargain. It is clever, but it is not evenness.

Where is evenness? Only when, beyond the two points, the third point appears. When I feel: there is the abuser; there is my form, my name—the one being abused; and there am I, the watcher. My distance from both must be equal—only then is there evenness. I must be as distant from the one who abuses me as I am from the one who is abused. If the distances differ even a little—if the abuser seems farther and the abused, nearer—then evenness has wavered; imbalance has come.

Evenness means the two pans of the scale are level, and I am the unmoving pointer in the middle, the third—showing not the slightest tilt—neither toward the abused nor toward the abuser. I remain beyond; I stand apart and keep watching.

This witnessing is equanimity. And a jivanmukta will live in equanimity, because jivanmukti comes from witnessing.

Remember this second maxim: consolation produces the respectable gentleman; witnessing produces the saint. There is a great difference between a saint (sant) and a gentleman (sajjan). The gentleman is a saint outwardly; inwardly there is no difference between him and the scoundrel. The scoundrel is a scoundrel inside and outside. The gentleman is a gentleman outside, a scoundrel inside.

Between saint and gentleman the difference is vast. In one sense, a saint and a scoundrel share a similarity: the scoundrel is one piece inside and out; the saint is also one piece inside and out—though their forms differ, both are of one piece. The gentleman is stuck in between the two.

Hence the gentleman’s suffering never ends, because his mind is like the scoundrel’s but his conduct like the saint’s. He lives in a quandary, torn by inner conflict.

People come to me and say, “We have never done wrong, never stolen, never cheated, and yet we suffer so much! Those who cheat and steal—how they enjoy! Where is justice?” Or the gentleman consoles himself: “Whatever it looks like, there is God’s law: there is delay but no darkness.” He tells himself, “It’s a little delayed; for the moment the dishonest seem to be succeeding; in the end it will be we who succeed. Delay, not darkness”—he keeps soothing himself.

But one thing is clear: he perceives delay. And he suspects darkness too—“Is something wrong? Have I missed on both counts—lost maya and not found Ram? What if I lose wealth now, and at the end discover there was no God either! Then the one who enjoyed wealth will appear victorious even in the end.”

The gentleman is constantly pained. And whoever suffers from his own gentility—clearly his inner feeling is that of the scoundrel. Inwardly he wants exactly what the scoundrel wants and enjoys, but he maintains the conduct of a gentleman. His greed is double. His cart has oxen yoked to both poles pulling different ways. He wants wealth, fame, gratification of ego—the scoundrel’s desires—and he also wants God, soul, liberation, peace and bliss—the saint’s aspiration. Caught between these two greeds, he is harassed and therefore usually most restless.

If the gentleman becomes calm, he becomes a saint. If he remains restless, then sooner or later he becomes a scoundrel. He cannot remain in the middle for long. The middle link must fall downward or rise upward; there is no way to stand still in between.

The saint is a jivanmukta. He does not refrain from wrongdoing because it will bring him harm someday; he cannot do wrong because he stands at the third point—where no wrong has ever been done.

Alexander wanted to take a renunciate from India. The sage’s name was Dadami. He would not agree to go. Alexander drew his sword: “I will cut you into pieces; come with me! If I command the Himalayas, even they must move.”

Dadami said, “Perhaps the Himalayas would have to move, but you will not be able to take me.”
Alexander couldn’t understand how a lean, naked fakir standing on the river sand could speak so boldly. He drew his sword and ordered his soldiers, “Surround him!” Swords drawn, they circled Dadami. Dadami burst into laughter: “You are not surrounding me. You are surrounding what I am not. You have no power to surround me, for my circle has become one with the vast circumference.”

Alexander said, “I don’t know philosophy, metaphysics. I only know the sword; your neck will fall in a moment!” Dadami replied, “Great joy! You too will see the head fall, and I too will see the head fall. We both will see.”
This is the third point: “I too will see the head fall.” If you can see your own head falling, it means only this: your identification with the body is gone; you have become the witness—standing apart, outside your own self. On this point saintliness is born; this point is jivanmukti.

“He who has known Brahman no longer sees the world as before. Therefore, if he still sees the world as before, know that he has not realized the Brahman-state and is turned outward.”

The world will remain what it is; the world will not change because you change. But because you change, your world will change. As I said earlier, each of us has our own world. I may be ignorant—the mountains of Abu are as they are; I may be wise—the mountains remain as they are. The sky is the same, the moon the same, the earth the same. This world will be the same. But when I am ignorant, the way I see and select in this world—“This mountain is mine”—that may happen. The mountain is a mountain; “mine” is my projection.

In the moment of knowing, in the experience of jivanmukti, the mountain remains a mountain—but no longer “mine.” The “mine-ness” we had overlaid dissolves. With “mine” gone, the mountain’s beauty is fully revealed. That “mine,” that attachment, was my suffering. It was my pain. It was my intellect standing in between. Earlier, whenever I saw the mountain, it seemed, “My mountain.” That “mine” came in between; I saw through a veil. Now the mountain is a mountain, I am I.

In Japan, Zen sages created ten pictures, handed down for centuries and used in meditation—the Ox-Herding Pictures. They are worth understanding; they will help to grasp this sutra.

In the first picture nothing much is visible; look carefully and you see mountains, trees, and—peeking from behind a tree—only the ox’s hind legs and tail. That’s all.

In the second picture, all that is there—and the seeker who is searching for the ox has appeared, looking all around. He hasn’t yet seen the ox; it is dusk, dim. Vines and trees hide the ox; just a hint of tail and two hind legs—only if you look closely.

In the third picture he catches sight of it. In the second he stood dejected, scanning the horizon—no glint in his eyes. In the third, a spark appears in his eyes; his feet move—he has seen the ox. In the fourth the ox is fully revealed, and the seeker has reached it. In the fifth he has caught the ox’s tail. In the sixth he has grasped its horns. In the seventh he has turned the ox toward home. In the eighth he is riding it. In the ninth he is leading it home, reins in hand, fully in control. And in the tenth there is nothing at all—no ox, no rider. Forest remains, mountain remains; the two are absent.

These ten pictures are used in Zen as aids to meditation. They are images of the search for the self.

In the first there is no sign of the seeker’s search. In the second the seeker is awake; the longing to find the self has arisen. In the third there is a little glimpse of the self. In the fourth a full glimpse. In the fifth, not just a glimpse—the tail is in hand; a corner of mastery. In the next, not from behind but face to face—the horns are seized. In the next, not only seized—the ox is turned homeward—homeward, toward Brahman. Next, not just turned—the seeker is riding himself home. And in the last both have disappeared; no seeker, no search. The world is empty. Mountains still stand, trees still stand, but both are gone.

This is the inquiry. Once you set out, the world as it appears today will not appear the same once you awaken. All possessiveness will wither. All accumulated notions will fade. All projections onto the world will be destroyed. Expectations from the world will drop. Demands will cease. The idea that the world gives pleasure will go; the delusion that the world gives pain will also break. Even the notion that we have any dealings with the world will end.

Thus the sutra says: “He who has known Brahman no longer sees the world as before.”

The world remains, but not as before. And if it still remains as before, know that realization has not happened. This is for examining yourself—keep watching.

People say to me, “There is a wife, children, quarrels, family, business—nothing seems possible in all this; should we leave and run away?”
I say, don’t run. Where would you run? The world is everywhere. And if you remain as you are, someone else will become your wife, another home will arise, another business begin. There are many kinds of businesses—even religious ones. If not a shop, then a monastery. Something or other you will do—what else! The man sitting inside—if he remains the same—he will do what he knows to do.

Don’t run; stay and go deeper, keep inquiring. Know the search is ripening the day you can sit in the marketplace and the marketplace remains, yet for you it is no longer a marketplace. Your wife sits beside you; in her mind she remains a wife—let her be. For you, first let “wife” disappear. That sense of “mine” dissolves. A woman remains. But even “woman” remains only so long as lust remains. As meditation deepens and lust wanes, then even “woman” disappears; then even “body” disappears. As things break within, your projections on that woman—of wife and woman—will dissolve. A day will come when, wherever you sit, you become empty. Around you the same world—but you are no longer the same. Therefore your vision changes.

Keep searching continually: is everything still as it was? Are things carrying on in the same old way? Names change, objects change, but if the inner mode is the same and everything appears the same—then know jivanmukti is far away, the glimpse of truth is far.

The very meaning of the glimpse of truth is that the relationship between you and your world changes; the world remains the same. Relationship changes only when I change.

“As far as pleasure and pain are experienced—so far it is prarabdha karma (destined fruition). For every fruit arises from action; without action there is no fruit anywhere.”
“But just as on waking the actions of the dream are destroyed, so with the knowledge ‘I am Brahman,’ the accumulated store (sanchita) of crores upon crores of births is destroyed.”

Pleasure and pain arise from karma. So do not think that for a jivanmukta pain and pleasure cease.

Raman had cancer at the time of his passing—great pain. The pain of cancer was natural; a deep ulcer, with no cure. Many doctors were astonished to find a body riddled with pain while not a trace of suffering shone in his eyes. In his eyes there was the same tranquil lake as ever; from his eyes only the witness peered and saw.

Doctors would ask, “You must be in great pain?” Raman would say, “The pain is great, but it is not happening to me. The pain is great, but not to me; I only know that pain is happening. The body is in great pain; I simply know it. I am seeing; it is not happening to me.”

Many wonder: why would a realized one like Raman, a jivanmukta, get cancer?
The sutra answers: a jivanmukta too will experience pleasure and pain, for these belong to past karmas, to samskaras. What he has done—before awakening…

Suppose before awakening I have sown seeds in my field. Whether I awaken or not, those seeds will sprout. If asleep, they will sprout, flower, fruit; if awake, they will sprout, flower, fruit. The only difference: if asleep, I think “my crop,” clutch it to my chest. If awake, I understand the seeds I sowed are meeting their destiny; I have nothing to do but watch. If asleep, I harvest and save seeds to sow again. Awake, I watch; seeds sprout, fruit ripens; now I do not gather. The fruit will ripen and fall there and perish; my connection with it is cut. My connection was the sowing; I will not sow again. No further link will be formed through me.

So a jivanmukta too will have pleasure and pain. But he will know: this is a link in the chain of past karma—nothing to do with me. He will keep watching. When someone lays flowers at Raman’s feet, he sits and watches: this too is a piece of the past chain—that this man has come to give me pleasure. But he does not “take” the pleasure; the man gives, he does not take. If he were to take, the journey of new karma would begin. Nor does he stop it—“don’t do it; don’t place flowers; don’t touch my feet”—he doesn’t stop it either, for stopping is also an action and the chain begins anew.

Understand it. A man comes with flowers; he places a garland; he bows. What is Raman doing within? He is watching: some give-and-take will happen with this man, some prarabdha is at work; he is completing his part. But the business must be settled here; no further linkage. This ends here; nothing is to be carried forward. So he sits quietly; he doesn’t even say “don’t do it.” To say “don’t” would mean: first, you are unwilling to receive what you yourself had once set in motion—and it must be received; and second, you are forging a fresh link by stopping him. When will that be completed? You are creating a new karma, a new reaction.

No—Raman keeps watching—whether a man brings flowers or cancer arrives. He watches cancer too.

Ramakrishna also died of cancer—of the throat. Even water could hardly pass, food scarcely went down. Vivekananda said one day, “Why don’t you ask Mother Kali? She could heal it in a moment.” Ramakrishna laughed and said nothing. Pressed hard one day, he said, “You don’t understand. What has been set in motion must be settled. Otherwise I will have to return for the settling. What is happening should be allowed to happen; no obstruction is right.” Vivekananda said, “At least ask that the throat remain fit enough for water and food! We feel unbearable pain.” Ramakrishna said, “All right, today I will ask.”

In the morning he awoke laughing: “What a joke! I asked Mother, and she said, ‘Is there an exclusive contract with this throat? What difficulty is there in eating through others’ throats?’” Ramakrishna said, “Because of you I became a fool! You needlessly pestered me. It is true—what special claim has this throat? From today when you eat, know that I am eating through your throat.” He laughed the whole day. Doctors came: “You are laughing? The body is in the worst possible state!” He said, “I laugh at my mind—how did I not think that all throats are mine? I will now eat through all throats! Why insist on this one throat!”

However high a person has risen, the body is tied to the past; it will complete its course. Pleasure and pain will come; but the jivanmukta knows: this is prarabdha. Knowing so, he stays distant; his witnessing is unmoved.

“And just as on waking the actions of the dream perish, so with the knowledge ‘I am Brahman,’ the accumulated karmas of millions and billions of births are destroyed.”

We spoke earlier on this. As a dream vanishes on waking, so on awakening whatever “I did” is seen as never truly done and dissolves. But even though I know this, my body does not know. The body runs its mechanical process and fulfills its fate. As an arrow loosed from the hand cannot be recalled, a word released from the lips cannot be taken back—so the body is a mechanism; what has been set in it cannot end until it is completed—until the arrow reaches its mark, the word touches the farthest edge of space.

So the body will endure. And one more point here. You might think it odd: Ramakrishna got cancer; Raman got cancer—such terrible diseases! Buddha died of blood poisoning from tainted food; Mahavira died of severe dysentery, six months of unbearable abdominal pain—no remedy. The mind wonders: how do such pure souls get such dreadful illnesses? If we, the ignorant, the sinners, suffer—understandable, fruit of our deeds. But Mahavira, Buddha, Raman, Ramakrishna?

There is a reason. For a jivanmukta, the further journey is over; this very life is the last. For you, the journey is long; you have time—you will suffer in small doses. Time is abundant for you. Buddha, Mahavira, Raman have very little time—ten, twenty, thirty years. You may have lifetimes. In this short span all karmas and impressions, accumulated and stored, fructify together.

Therefore twofold events occur. Mahavira receives the honor of a Tirthankara—an accumulated experience of all joys; and he also undergoes unbearable pain—the condensed aggregate of all sufferings. Raman receives immeasurable honor in thousands of hearts—condensed bliss; and then cancer—condensed pain. Time is short; everything gathers and completes swiftly.

Thus such people taste supreme joy and supreme pain together. When time is little, all things concentrate and become one-pointed. But they must be borne; there is no other way.

(Ma Anand Madhu stood up and asked a question.)

No—there is no method, and it cannot be taken. Because taking an illness would mean that the fruit of my actions could be received by someone else. Then all order would collapse. And if the fruit of my actions could go to another, then in this world no law, no rita (cosmic order) would remain. Then even my freedom could be given to someone, and my jivanmukti (liberation while living) could be given to someone. My sorrow, my happiness, my knowledge, my experience, my bliss—then everything would become transferable, could be handed over.

No, in this world nothing is transferable. There is no way for it to happen. No way. And it is right that there is no way. Yes, such a feeling does arise in the heart; that too is appropriate and auspicious. Someone who loves Ramana may wish, “Let me take your cancer upon myself.” That wish is beautiful. And from that wish this person will receive the fruit of punya (merit). From his side, this has become a karma.

Understand this. Ramana is dying and has cancer. Someone may say, with total feeling, “Let the cancer come to me.” Even so, it will not come. But that he has felt so deeply, to take it upon himself—this has become a karma; it has become a merit. And he will receive its joy.

It is a very strange thing: he asked for suffering, yet the one who asks for suffering is performing a wondrous act of merit. He will receive its joy. But nothing can come to him from Ramana’s side. This feeling he is creating—this itself is becoming his karma. This karma will benefit him.

(Someone else stood up to ask another question.)

No, Madhu, don't start this bad habit. It will only do harm.That is my intention.
Your intentions are different, and so many people are sitting here! Don't begin in this way; otherwise it will be difficult. The whole thing will become disorderly.