Adhyatam Upanishad #2

The body, the senses, and all such are not-self. The feeling of “I” and “mine” that is projected upon them is adhyasa (a delusion). Therefore the wise should, through abidance in Brahman, dispel this adhyasa.

A fish in the ocean remains unfamiliar with the ocean. Not because the ocean is far away, but because it is too close. What is far is seen; what is too near slips past the eyes. Knowing the distant is not difficult; knowing the near is. And what is nearer than the near—that is impossible to know. Let us understand this well; it is indispensable for the inner journey.

People ask: Where should we search for the Divine? They ask: How has that which is hidden within been forgotten? They ask: How has that which is so close that even the heartbeat is not that close, even the breath is not that close to oneself—how has that too been lost? How could I forget that which I myself am?

And their asking seems logical. It appears they ask rightly. It feels this should not have happened. That which is hidden within me—how is it that I do not know it? That which I am myself—how does it remain a stranger? Then what is there to know? What is there to recognize? What will knowledge be of? If the nearest slips from the hand, how will we ever reach the far?

Nor is it that it has only now come near; it has always been near—near from the beginningless beginning. Not for a single instant have we been separated or distant from it. Wherever we run, it runs with us. Wherever we go, it goes. It journeys with us in hells and in heavens alike. In sin it stands with us just as much as in virtue. Even saying “it stands with us” is not quite right, because whatever stands “with” us implies a little distance. Our being and its being are one and the same fact.

If this is true, then a great miracle has happened in this world—that we lost ourselves! It seems impossible: how can one lose oneself? It is hard enough to lose even one’s shadow. How did we lose the soul? How could that be?

But it has happened. How it happens—that is the essence of this sutra. Before entering it, let us grasp the basic foundation.

The eye has a limit, a circumference. Beyond a certain distance it cannot see; closer than a certain point it also cannot see. The eye has a range. Bring an object too close and it cannot see it; take it too far and it cannot see it. There is a field wherein the eye sees. Beyond this field—on either side—the eye goes blind. And you are so near that you are not even in front of the eye; you are behind the eye. That is the hindrance.

Imagine you stand before a mirror: at a certain distance a clear reflection forms. Go too far and the reflection fades. Come too close—press your eye to the mirror—and the reflection disappears. But here the matter is different: you stand behind the mirror; so there is no way for your reflection to appear on it.

The eyes are in front; you are behind. The eyes see that which lies before them. How can they see that which is behind them? The ears hear what is outside the ear. How can they hear what is inside? The eyes open outward; the ears open outward. I can touch you; how am I to touch myself? And if I touch my body, it is only because the body too is not me—it is other; that is why I can touch it. But that which I am—the one who touches—how am I to touch that? With what shall I touch it?

So the hands can touch everything but not themselves; the eyes can see everything but not themselves. For ourselves we are utterly blind. None of our senses are of use. The senses we are familiar with—none of them are of any use here. Unless another sense opens that looks within; unless another eye opens that looks within, that looks backward, that looks the other way; unless another ear opens upon which the inner sound-waves can make an imprint—until then we will not see, know, or hear ourselves. Until then there is no way to touch oneself.

What is near is missed. What is nearer than near is impossible. That is why the fish cannot know the ocean.

Secondly, the fish is born in the ocean, lives in the ocean. The ocean is its food, its drink, its life—its all. It dies in the ocean and dissolves into it. There is no chance to know because there is no distance, no gap. A fish comes to know the ocean only if someone lifts it and throws it onto the shore. This is a great inversion! The ocean is known only when you are away from it.

So when the fish writhes on the sand, under the sun, it comes to know the ocean. A little distance is needed to know. That which existed before one’s birth and remains after one’s death—the very one in which one is born and into which one dissolves—how is it to be known? To know, a little separation, a little estrangement is necessary. Hence the fish does not know the ocean. Only if it is thrown onto the shore does it know.

Man’s trouble is even greater. The Divine is ocean upon ocean; there is no shore where you could be thrown to wriggle like a fish. Had there been such a shore, it would be easy. But there is no shore; the Divine is only ocean. That is why those who seek a shore to God never find it. Only those who are ready to drown in the midstream of the Divine find its shore.

There is no shore; there is no way to seek it out. And how could there be a shore? Shores exist for things; the All cannot have a shore, because a shore is formed by something else. A river has a shore, a sea has a shore—from something else. Besides the Divine there is nothing else to form a shore. “Divine” means: that besides which nothing else is.

“Divine” does not mean a person sitting in the sky running the world. Those are children’s tales. By “Divine” is meant the principle beyond which nothing else exists. That is its scientific definition. The Divine means: the Total, the All, the Everything that is.

That which is all cannot have a shore—for what else would remain to be the shore? Therefore the Divine is midstream. There is no shore there. One who is willing to drown is saved; one who tries to be saved drowns badly. If there were a shore, it might even be found. That is why we have not found it. We are in it already. That which we seek, we are already in. That which we call out to—there is no need even to call; there isn’t even that much distance that our voice must be raised.

Hence Kabir said: Has your God gone deaf that you call so loudly? Has your God become hard of hearing that you shout so much? He is so near that even a call is not needed! If there is any silence within, that too will be heard—he is that near!

To call the other, one needs a voice; but to call oneself—what need is there of a voice? The other hears only when sound vibrates; the self hears even the silence.

Precisely because it is so near, that is the difficulty. Take it to heart: we missed truth because we are born in it. Our flesh and marrow are formed of it, our bones made from it. It is our breath, our life—it is everything. In countless forms, through countless doors, we are strung upon it—it is its play. There is no distance. Hence remembrance does not arise. Hence remembrance became impossible. Hence the world is very visible, truth not at all. The world is far; there is space between; therefore the craving for the world is born.

What is desire (vasana)? Desire means the attempt to bridge a felt distance from that which seems distant. Desire means the attempt to erase distance from whatever appears far.

Therefore there is no desire for the Divine, because no distance is felt. Or if someone seems to be seeking God, it appears a false desire. In the name of God, he is seeking something else. He takes the name of God but wants something else—power, siddhis, wealth, position—something else!

A friend came to me and said, “Since I began immersing myself in meditation at your camps, I’m getting great benefits!” I asked, “What benefits?” He said, “Spiritual not yet—but financial has begun.”

Fine! What hurry is there about the spiritual! It can be postponed. Financial is immediate.

We seek something else and put another label on it. Wherever we have written “God,” if we peel off the label a little, something else will be found underneath. We want something else. The man who wants something else in the name of God is more dishonest than the one who straightforwardly wants the world. At least he has honesty, integrity, authenticity.

One man says, “I want money.” Another says, “I want sex.” Another says, “I want position; I want the gratification of ego.” Another says, “I want God.” But in his wanting of God, his mind is such that one day he can show the world, “Even God is in my fist!”

Therefore, if a seeker of God is watched carefully, and his ego keeps increasing, know that he is seeking something else. Only if his ego thins, breaks, dissolves—only then understand that his search is for God.

The stiffness of sannyasins is notorious. The stiffness of mahatmas! Great politicians are outdone by that stiffness. The politician’s quest, at least, is honestly for that stiffness. It’s straightforward; there’s not much pretence. The fun is in being somebody. But with the mahatma it’s different. He says, “I’m seeking to be a nobody,” and yet he becomes more and more of a somebody. Let two mahatmas meet: you can’t seat them on the same platform—who sits higher? where? That’s why mahatmas don’t meet each other; it creates too much difficulty!

A friend—slightly mad—tries to bring mahatmas together. He told me he runs into great troubles. It goes so far that the question arises, if two mahatmas are brought together, who will fold his hands first in greeting?

It’s a difficult matter! Worldly folk aren’t even that worldly. Even if they don’t want to, they still join their hands. In their minds they may hope the other does it first, but they conceal it. It seems uncouth. But for mahatmas even that doesn’t seem uncouth. Some mahatmas never greet at all! They have abolished the practice. They only give blessings!

A friend tried to arrange a meeting between one mahatma and another. The second said, “Everything else is fine, but if we don’t greet and they go and give blessings, it will spoil everything!”

Our search is for something else. It has nothing to do with religion or God. We are wanting something else; we are asking for something else; but we are dishonest, wrapped in different words.

How is God to be sought? There is no distance. If there were, desire would arise. If there were a gap, the heart would run. If there were a gap, the aspiration to conquer would be born. A challenge delights the ego—overcoming, winning. But there is no gap, no distance—God is already attained.

It is as if Tenzing or Hillary climb Everest—what is the thrill? The first man in human history stands upon Everest! And there is nothing on Everest. But “the first man in history” stands there—that lends the ego a historicity. As long as Everest remains on this earth, wiping out the names of Hillary and Tenzing is difficult.

Recently there was such a race to the moon. And what did we leave on the moon? Those who went were Christians, but they did not leave a statue of Jesus; they left America’s flag! Think a little: flags are real; Jesus and all that are false! It didn’t even occur to the American astronauts to at least carry a small statue of Jesus. They took a flag! The flag is the true emblem of man’s ego. And even when they take Jesus’s name now and then, that too means nothing more than a flag. When it’s time to fight, may our flag be higher! Then Jesus, Rama, Krishna, Buddha—they all come along. But their use is no more than that of a banner. They are pennants tied to man’s ego.

We left flags on the moon. Man is obsessed with doing something only he can do, so that his “I” gains a historic stamp. But imagine you were born on Everest! Then you would be in trouble: where would you plant a flag?

Man is born upon God; he is there. You are already there—you have never departed. That is the very ground where you stand. Therefore in attaining God there is no race for the ego—no scope; there is no relish. Then if there is no desire for God, how will the longing, the thirst, arise?

The thirst for God arises in a very inverted way. Take note—there is no other path. The thirst for the world arises from distance. And if the distance is insurmountable, the attraction grows heavier. And that is why, in the world, whatever gets attained loses its charm—because the distance vanishes.

You wanted a woman, and then you got her; you wanted a house, and it was built; you wanted to gild its dome with gold, and that too was done—now what? Whatever is attained becomes vain—because it comes near. No distance remains. If it is far, difficult, unattainable for others but you can attain it—then there is fun.

The charm of wealth does not lie in wealth but in the poverty of many. If everyone became rich—the whole thing goes sour. That is America’s predicament. The charm of the rich is fading. The poor wear the same clothes, ride in the same cars, live in similar houses. There is no fundamental gap between rich and poor. The rich are becoming restless. They are seeking new tricks that only they can do and others cannot.

We are already in the Divine; hence there is no invitation for the ego there—no challenge. How then does longing for God arise?

Desire for the world arises from distance, from the call, from the challenge; longing for God arises from the failure of the world.

Mark this well. When you have run in all directions and been defeated everywhere; when you have attained everything and it all turns empty; when the search is completed and with its completion comes negation—everything becomes void. In your hand everything turns to dust, though from afar it looked like gold. The greater the distance, the purer the gold appears. As it comes nearer, it loses its purity. Closer still, it becomes dust.

There is a Greek tale of Midas—full of irony. Midas obtained a boon: whatever he touched would turn to gold. We are all the reverse of Midas—whatever we touch turns to clay! But even Midas got into trouble—so what can be said of our trouble!

Whatever Midas touched became gold. He touched his wife—she turned to gold! He touched his food—it turned to gold! He lifted water to his lips—it reached his lips and turned to gold! Midas was finished—great trouble! Because thirst is not quenched by gold. People say “a body like gold” and such—no satisfaction comes from a golden body. One may praise, “My beloved’s body is golden,” but if it truly became so, you would sit beating your head. The old body was better.

So Midas fell into this mess. He believed the poets and asked for the boon. His wife turned to gold, water to gold, food to gold. People fled from him. His children kept their distance—what if he touched them! Friends would not come near. Midas was alone. He had a filled world, was an emperor, yet alone. Ministers would not approach. They kept a perpetual gap—for safety, for escape—what if he touched them! Midas began to starve. No water to drink, no food to eat. He screamed and cried, “O God! Take it back—things were better before. This boon is a curse.”

Midas’s plight was that everything turned to gold; ours is that whatever we touch turns to dust. The wife, from a distance, looked golden. The day you were married, the turning toward dust began. After a few years only clay remains. Everything becomes clay. Whatever we touch becomes clay.

The day you feel that all running is futile, that day you stand where God is. The day you see that after all your running you obtained nothing, that day you stop running. And because you no longer run, that which could not be seen because of the running becomes visible. While the frenzy to run lasted, distant things were visible. When running proves futile, the gaze returns from the far to the near.

And if all running becomes futile, the gaze turns around; till now it looked outward, now it looks within. The mirror turns, when nothing in the world seems worth seeing, worth having, worth seeking; when the world ceases to be an object of desire.

Hence the insistence of Buddha, Mahavira, and the Upanishads: desirelessness is the door.

Desire is the mechanism for going far; desirelessness is the door for coming near.

Now take this sutra to heart:
“The unborn, the eternal is hidden within this very body.”

That which was never born—and is forever and forever and forever—is hidden within this body; yet the body has no knowledge of it. The body is of earth; it is hidden within the earth, yet the earth knows it not.

This is the same assertion, the same sutra.

It is hidden within fire, and fire knows it not. It is hidden everywhere; and that within which it is hidden—knows it not. Why? Because that within which it is hidden is running outward.

Have you ever sensed it? If you once taste the inward surge of the body, samadhi becomes available. You have experienced only the body’s outward rush. A beautiful body appears—your body begins to run; you feel thrilled; every pore of the body begins to race. A beautiful flower appears—the eyes race. A lovely sound is heard—the ears race.

The body always runs outward. Have you ever felt the body running inward? Never. Then how will the body know who is hidden within? The body never goes there, never sees there, never hears there, never seeks there. How can it know? The body remains unfamiliar with the very one whose body it is.

All the rush is outward; hence ignorance envelops the within.

This sutra repeats the same point through many doors.

That which is hidden within air—air does not know it. The mind, which is its body, remains unfamiliar with it. The ego, which is its sheath, remains oblivious to it. The chitta, which is its body; the imperishable, the unmanifest, which are its bodies—they too do not know that which is hidden within. Even death remains unfamiliar with it—the one whose death seems to happen, who “dies.” This is a strange sentence: the one who dies—death remains unfamiliar with him! The one who dies does not die at all!

When death occurs, who dies? No one dies. Because the body has always been dead; it cannot “die.” And the one hidden within the body has always been immortal; it cannot die. Only the relationship breaks—in death, the link between the immortal and the mortal breaks. But death, even coming so close, remains unfamiliar with that which is immortal.

That is why we have died countless times and have yet to know that within us there is that which does not die. This process of unfamiliarity is precisely that: even when the near arrives, looking does not turn inward—it keeps looking outward. Watch a dying person. He is at death’s door, yet he keeps looking outward. Even now he has no mind to turn within. Death pushes him, pulls him from the body, yet he clutches—clutches harder than ever.

That is why the old become ugly and the young appear beautiful. The deeper cause is not merely physical. The young do not clutch the body; they are still assured. The old begin to cling. From that clinging arise all uglinesses. The old fear: now we will die! Death is near! The more they fear death, the tighter they grip life. And the tighter they grip, the uglier life becomes.

Children seem so lovable; they do not clutch at all. They do not even know that death exists. Look at animals and birds: no matter how old, in the wild they do not seem “old” as humans do... I am speaking of those who have no “satsang” with man—man corrupts.

It is astonishing: in the forest animals and birds do not seem aged. The way old age seizes humans, it does not seize them. They remain childlike. At some deep level they do not know that death is approaching. So there is no grasping of the body.

In the child there is freshness, life is effortless; there is no grip of death. In old age it becomes difficult. Death becomes apparent. Life becomes an exertion. One lives by effort. One moves inch by inch fearing that death may come. A divided mind is created; inner tension increases. Anxiety and distress seize one the whole time. That uglifies the mind.

Even death cannot know that inner immortal. The reason is one: the inward seeing happens only when the entire chain of outward seeing is exhausted.

Understand this well. Many times things seem futile, yet they do not become so. It is not that futility does not happen to you; it does. You think of buying a car, and you buy it. Before you bought it, it visited your dreams. The night before delivery, you could not sleep—an entire night!

Ortega y Gasset writes of a friend who bought a very beautiful Ferrari—very expensive. On the very first day he took it out and a small scratch appeared.

He was not a child—he was fifty! Nor uneducated—a university professor! Not of a simple subject—a professor of philosophy!

Ortega y Gasset writes: I saw my friend crying with his head on his mother’s shoulder. A scratch on a Ferrari. The car was costly; who knows how many dreams he had woven! That scratch pierced him within, entered to the soul—that is why he wept. You cry too. He was merely honest. On an open street, with his head on his mother’s shoulder, he began to weep.

But how long will it last? In a few days the Ferrari will grow old. In a month or two he will sit in it and not even notice which car he is in. He will tire of it, but not of cars. Another car will seize his dream. He will think, “A Rolls-Royce now; something more.” One tires of one woman, one man; but not of women, not of men.

We tire, but our boredom is tied to objects. Our boredom does not become vision. Tired of one thing, we get attached to another of the same kind. And the series goes on.

The only difference between you and a Buddha is this: you tire of one woman, but desire for other women remains. You tire of your wife, but another’s wife remains enticing. What is near becomes vain, but what is far seems meaningful. That too will become vain when it comes near. But not everything can come near; some things remain forever distant. Therefore taste remains, desire keeps running. Buddha tires of one woman and tires of all women. Buddha lives in one palace and lives in all palaces. For Buddha, one incident is enough.

It is a scientific point: if a drop of water is known, all oceans are known. A scientist would be mad who kept testing all the waters of all the seas and said, “Only when I have tested every drop will I declare that water is hydrogen and oxygen.” We are all mad in that way.

A scientist analyzes a single drop—breaks it down, discovers: H2O, a union of hydrogen and oxygen atoms. Finished—the oceans are finished; they are known. Wherever water is found—not only on this earth; scientists say there may be some fifty thousand earths in the vastness—wherever there is water, it will still be H2O; formed by the same arrangement. All water is known by knowing one drop.

One who understands the mechanism of a single desire knows all desire—that one becomes a Buddha. One who recognizes the inescapable futility, the inherent failure of desire—his desires fall away. They drop as crutches drop from a cripple. He used to walk by them; his legs were not fit to walk—he walked with wooden legs. Suddenly the crutches fall, and the cripple collapses—just such a thing happens when the crutches of desire fall.

There are no real legs for walking in the world—only wooden legs, counterfeit legs, fabricated from desires. When desire falls, the crutches fall, and a person suddenly finds himself where he never in fact moved away from; where he always was; where it is his nature to be. That is the Divine. That is spirituality.

The final part of the sutra gives the hint:
“Death is its body, and that which is within death—and death knows it not—is the inner Self of all beings. His sins are destroyed; he alone is the divine god Narayana.”

“The body, the senses and so on are not-self; the feeling of I-ness and mine-ness superimposed upon them is adhyasa (delusion). Therefore the wise should, through Brahman-nistha, through steadfast abidance in Brahman, dispel this adhyasa, this delusion.”

One last thing in this sutra. This race of desires is because we see, in the distance, some dream being fulfilled. Like in a desert—someone sees a lake shimmering afar. He runs for water. On reaching he finds nothing—only sand. But by then somewhere else another lake appears. It is a mirage, adhyasa.

When the sun’s rays beat down upon the sand and reflect back—vibrating—those trembling rays, returning, create the illusion of rippling water. The vibration is so constant, forming a shimmering stream, that if a tree stands nearby, in that quivering the tree’s shadow appears below—the shimmering works like a mirror.

And when from afar you see water, and not only water, but the reflections of clouds flying in the sky—how not to believe? If birds fly across the sky or a line of cranes, and below their shadows appear in the “water,” if the nearby trees also appear below, then the conviction grows: water must be there—not only do waves appear, but reflections appear in them! As you approach, the shadows begin to fade. When you reach, only sand remains.

Adhyasa means: seeing what is not. For Shankara it is a beloved word; for the Upanishads, foundational. Adhyasa means projection—projections of what is not. That which appears is not there; you impose it from within. You are the cause of its imposition. A face appears beautiful to you. Is the beauty there, or do you superimpose it? For tomorrow the same face may seem ugly. Perhaps until yesterday it did not seem beautiful; suddenly today some divine lens opened and you see beauty! Your friends still don’t see it.

They say Laila wasn’t beautiful—Majnu saw her so. The whole village was bothered. People tried to explain to Majnu, “You’re mad! There are far prettier girls in the village; you’re going crazy for nothing.” Majnu said, “To see Laila, you need Majnu’s eyes.”

This is adhyasa. The issue is not Laila; the issue is Majnu’s eyes. The issue is not what appears; the issue is who is seeing.

So Majnu said, “Look through my eyes; then you will see Laila.”

But there is danger here: if you truly borrowed Majnu’s eyes, you would see Laila exactly as he sees her. Eyes are lenses; their colors dye the objects.

All your senses are projecting. You are building a world around yourself. Your mind is not only a receiver, it is a maker. You are constructing a world—of beauty, of fragrance, of this and that—around you.

The world is not as you see it. It depends on you. And when you change, the world changes—that is why. The young see a different world; the old see another; children see yet another. What changes? The world is the same!

But children do not have the eyes the youth has. Children still collect pebbles; color is enough. The youth says, “Throw these away—what’s in them? What’s their value?” For the youth, meaning—value—has become decisive; wealth is understood. You cannot live merely by collecting pebbles now; chasing butterflies won’t help. Children catch butterflies; butterflies seem like heaven. Youths think children are naive.

Then you grow old; the senses tire; experiences turn bitter; your mouth fills with their tasteless stream. Then even the young appear to you to be chasing another kind of butterfly. The butterflies have changed. They haven’t changed—only the kind they are chasing has.

Old people go on advising; no youth listens. They too did not listen to their fathers and grandfathers. The reason is: the eyes are different. If the old man’s eyes were given to the youth, he would see as the old man sees. And note the fun: if the old man were given the youth’s eyes again, he would forget all his wisdom! All the knowledge he was dispensing would be gone. The world would be colorful again.

I have heard: a Chief Justice of America’s Supreme Court, when he was young, came to Paris—came straight after marriage. Thirty years later, when he had grown old and his sons had married and visited Paris, he returned again with his wife. His name was Pierre. Seeing Paris, he said to his wife, “Paris isn’t what it was; everything has gone bland. Where are those days when we came the first time! Paris was different.”

His wife said, “Forgive me, you are mistaken. Pierre is different; Paris is the same. See through youthful eyes and Paris is the same even now. Paris does not change—people change; vision changes.”

If the world changes with the change of vision, understand that what you knew was adhyasa. It arose because of the vision; it was not the world. Is there any way to see the world without a vision? Only then can the world be seen—otherwise not.

Visions are adhyasas. Therefore remember: darshan does not mean a “view” or a “philosophy.” Darshan means that state when all visions fall silent; no standpoint remains—then seeing happens. When you have no “eyes” left to impose, no feeling left to project, no craving left to overlay. Look at the desert then, when there is no thirst within; then the desert cannot deceive. Because of thirst deception happens. You want water and do not find it; the want grows. When the want grows too strong, the mind becomes deranged, and it starts believing in what is not.

But there is a state when all visions wither and darshan arises.

When do visions wither? Only when all desires wither; because every vision is the spread of desire—desire extended.

This sutra says: “The body, the senses and so on are not-self. The ‘I’-and-‘mine’ feeling that arises upon them is adhyasa. Therefore the wise should, through Brahman-nistha, remove this adhyasa.”

By Brahman-nistha—by abiding in one’s own being.

Our fidelity is always to the other, to something else—not to ourselves. The running is somewhere else, not within. We go everywhere but the one place we leave out is the place within. Brahman-nistha means the race of desires has stopped; one stands in oneself. One stands where there is no mind, no senses, no body—only pure consciousness. The moment one becomes established there, all adhyasas break. Then there is no world—only Brahman.

When I speak in Hindi, many do not understand Hindi, yet they too can make use of it. Those who do not understand Hindi should close their eyes and only listen to the sound; sit quietly as in meditation. Many times what does not reach through understanding reaches simply through hearing the sound.

When I speak in English, friends who do not understand English should not think it is of no use to them. Close your eyes and focus on the sound of what I am speaking; do not try to understand. If the language is unknown, do not try to understand at all. Sit utterly uncomprehending and quiet; just attend to the impact of sound—just listen. That listening will become meditation and will be useful.

The great issue is not understanding, the great issue is becoming silent. The great issue is not listening, the great issue is becoming mute. Many times what you “understand” becomes a hindrance within, because it triggers thinking. Sometimes it is better to listen to what you do not understand at all—then thought cannot run. If you do not understand, thought has no ground; it stops.

That is why sometimes listening to the wind passing through the trees, sometimes the call of birds, sometimes the murmur of a flowing stream is better than listening to sages and seers. The real Upanishads are flowing there. They will not be understood by you. But there is no need to understand—listening is enough. And when you can listen without understanding, in a little while the intellect becomes quiet—because it has no work. And when the intellect becomes quiet, you arrive at that very place which is the goal of the search.