Adhyatam Upanishad #6

Whatever is worth attaining in life can be attained only in life. Yet most people keep waiting for the far shore of death. They ask, “How can truth, Brahman, liberation be found while living in the body, in life, in the world?” But what cannot be found in life can never be found. Life is an opportunity—to gather stones or to find the Divine. Life is utterly neutral. Life never tells you what to choose. Spend it collecting pebbles and trash, inflate and polish your ego—life won’t stop you. Or plunge into truth, into your own depths—life won’t block you either. Life is just an impartial opening: use it as you will.

But many have arranged to deceive themselves. They split it up: life is for the world and its pleasures; death they reserve for yoga. Yet death is no opportunity.

Understand this rightly. Death is the end of opportunity. What does death mean? It means that now no opportunity remains. Life is opportunity; death is the end of it. Therefore nothing can be gained from death; to gain, one needs a chance.

We’ve divided it. We say life is for enjoyment; when life is empty—then, then… yoga. We’ve even made tale after tale: whisper the Gayatri in the dying man’s ear—though he won’t hear it; the living don’t hear, how will the dead?—chant the Lord’s name, keep him repeating “Ram, Ram.” The one who never heard Gayatri all his life—even if he heard, he didn’t really hear; even if he heard, he didn’t understand—will he hear Gayatri when the senses are failing, eyes no longer see, ears no longer hear, hands no longer feel, and life-breath is withdrawing into the seed?

He will not. Then why do people keep chanting? There’s a trick here too. The dying man hears nothing, but the living who chant gain a consolation: when their time comes, someone will also chant in their ear, and the job will be done!

They have spun stories! The dishonest have spun stories. They say: a man was dying; his son’s name was Narayan. He cried out loudly, “Narayan!” The Narayan above was fooled! In fact he was calling his son to teach him tricks—how to do black-market deals, how to keep a second set of books. He was calling to explain his methods. But he reached heaven—Vaikuntha! He himself was surprised: how did I get here? But then, he had uttered the divine name!

Work so cheap will not do. And if Narayan could be fooled like that, understand—he too would be a Narayan of deception. Life is not deceived; self-consolation is something else.

Death is the end of opportunity—grasp this well. Death is no chance to do anything. Death is when all chances are gone; you cannot do a thing. Doing belongs to life. Therefore whatever is to be done must be done in life itself.

This sutra uses some precious words.

“One who has attained kaivalya while still alive remains Brahman even when he is without a body.”

Only the one who has known his own nature while living will remain Brahman when the body falls. For the one who has known himself as the body all his life will sink into stupor at death, into total unconsciousness. Very few die awake. People die asleep, fainting, unconscious. You are not in awareness at the time of death; otherwise you would remember your past death. What happens in unconsciousness is not remembered.

That is why people don’t know that they have been born many times and died many times; each time they died, they were unconscious. And he who dies unconscious is born unconscious—because birth and death are two ends of the same event. Here a man dies: that is one end; then he enters a womb: that is the other end. Birth and death are two sides of the same coin. He who dies unconscious is born unconscious.

Hence, you don’t even know that you were ever born. Even your birth is news others gave you. If no one told you that you were born, you would have no memory of it. You were born—that much is certain. Whether you died before or not, who knows? But that you are now born is sure—and yet you have no memory of it. Your parents and others said so; you heard it from them.

The news of your birth is hearsay for you. You have no proof. There is no memory in your consciousness. Why? You were born—what a tremendous event! And yet you know nothing of it.

Notice: one who does not know his own birth will find it very difficult to remain aware at death. The two are linked. Death has happened many times, but you died unconscious.

Leave death aside. Every day you sleep. Sleep happens daily. But you know that when sleep comes, your awareness is lost beforehand. Do you have any news of meeting sleep? When sleep descends, can you see it descending? If you can see it, know you are still awake; sleep has not yet come. And when sleep does descend, you are gone. The moment sleep comes you become unconscious. If you cannot remain aware even into sleep, how will you remain aware into death? Death is a deeper sleep, the deepest; to keep awareness there is difficult. You will die unconscious. In that unconsciousness, who is reciting Gayatri? Who is chanting Ram? You will know nothing.

And this unconsciousness is needed. Only those are exempt who have become free from body-identification. Why? If a surgeon is to operate on your abdomen, he must make you unconscious. The pain would be so intense you couldn’t bear it; you would scream and struggle and the operation would become impossible. You could be driven mad; your brain might never be right again. So the surgeon gives anesthesia. First he renders you unconscious, then he cuts. It is your body being cut, but you don’t know it. When you don’t know, there is no pain.

Understand this well: pain is when you know; pain does not arise merely from the cut. The surgeon is cutting, pain-signals are arising, but if you don’t know, that’s it. He will cut and separate things; you will not know. Only when awareness returns will you know pain. If, under anesthesia, your limbs were amputated, even chopped to pieces, you would not know.

A surgeon performs a small operation; death is a great operation. None is greater than death. A surgeon removes a limb or two; death separates your entire body from you. You cannot be kept conscious. Therefore nature always uses its own anesthesia at death. The moment death arrives, you become completely unconscious. In that unconsciousness the greatest surgery of existence happens: your body and your soul are separated.

But nature allows the one who has realized “I am not the body” to die in awareness. Why? Because when the body is cut away, he does not take it as “I am being cut.” He stands at a distance and watches. He sees from afar, for he knows “someone else is being cut; not I.” “I am the witness.” For the one in whom this recognition becomes deep, nature gives the grace to die awake.

But that happens later; first you must learn to sleep in awareness. And even that comes later; first, learn to be awake in awareness. One who wakes with awareness will slowly sleep with awareness. One who lives with awareness will one day die with awareness. And only he who dies in awareness knows, “I have become Brahman.” But this is first to be known within one’s own body, in the experience of the hidden consciousness. Then one day this pot breaks, and the inner sky merges into the vast sky.

One who dies aware passes through a most wondrous experience. Death is no longer an enemy, but a friend. Death becomes a great union with the Divine, with the Vast. He who dies aware is born aware. He who is born aware lives a different life. He no longer repeats the old patterns. All that stupidity withers away, becomes futile. His life is new. It enters a new dimension. And the witness remains with him continuously. The one who was witness at birth, who was witness at death, makes the whole life a witnessing.

So, in one death you can die awake, and in one birth you can be born awake; thereafter the process of birth and death ends. After that you disappear from the realm of bodies. For this vanishing, India found a very precious word: kaivalya. A wondrous word. Kaivalya means: I am alone. Only I am; nothing else is. Only the One; only consciousness; only the Self—nothing else. Only the seer, only the witness—nothing else. All else is play, all else is dream; only one truth is the witnessing consciousness. The one who sees is truth; what is seen is not the truth. Kaivalya is the name of this realization.

Understand it a little. You were a child, then you became young, then old. Childhood went, youth came. Youth went, old age came. If you are only change, then what are you? Childhood doesn’t stay; youth doesn’t stay; old age doesn’t stay; everything changes. Is there in you some element that does not change?

You were miserable, then happy. Happy, then miserable. Peaceful, then disturbed. Disturbed, then peaceful. Everything changes. You were rich, then poor; poor, then rich—everything changes. Is there some one element in you that does not change?

If there is no such element, you are not. What would it even mean to say “you are”? Who strings together your childhood, your youth, your old age? Like beads are strung on a thread to make a garland; without the thread, the beads scatter. Your childhood hangs like a bead; your youth hangs like a bead; your old age hangs like a bead—where is the thread on which these beads are strung? Where is that continuity? That very continuity is truth; the rest is change.

India defines it like this: what changes is dream. Understand this well.

Our definition of dream is our own. What changes is dream; what never changes is truth. Childhood goes like a dream; youth goes like a dream. Happiness comes and goes; misery comes and goes. As dreams fade, so everything fades. Therefore India says the vast world spread outside is a great dream.

There are two kinds of dreams. One is private, which you see at night in sleep; the other is public, which you see during the day while awake. There is no difference between them, because both change. The night’s dream becomes false in the morning; the life-dream becomes false in death. A moment comes when what was seen is rendered meaningless. Is there then anything true?

Even a dream needs a true base. Change itself requires a changeless ground; without it, change is impossible. Where is that base within us? The rishi’s sutra says: the witness is the base.

You saw childhood; childhood changed; but the one within who saw does not change. Then youth came; you saw it; it too went; but the seer did not change. The same one saw childhood, saw youth, saw old age, saw birth, saw death; saw pleasure and pain, success and failure. All keeps changing; only the one who keeps seeing and experiencing does not change. That very principle is what we call the soul; that is truth. Knowing this one changeless thing is kaivalya.

The day a person steps back from the dreams, from the beads, and knows himself as the thread—“I am this continuous consciousness, this ongoing witness; just this awareness am I”—when this recognition becomes dense experience—not thought, but realization—then we say he has attained kaivalya. He has known the One worth knowing. He has attained the One worth attaining.

And by attaining that One, he attains all; by missing that One, we miss all. We clutch at dreams; before we can grasp them, they dissolve and our fist is empty. At night we dreamed we were an emperor; in the morning we find the fist empty. In life we thought we became this, became that; at the moment of death it’s clear—the fist is empty. We had clenched it around the wind. The fist closes, the wind vanishes. All proves to be a dream.

Remember: by dream we mean simply this—wherever there is change, there is no truth. What is the eternally unchanging One? Search the world and you will not find it anywhere outside. Search within, and you will find it only in the state of witnessing—the single thread, the continuity that is one. That is called kaivalya. Knowing this One while the body still lives, then at the body’s fall Brahman is experienced.

“O sinless one! Therefore, established in samadhi, become empty of alternatives.”

How will we know that One? The method is: “Become empty of alternatives.”

This word “alternative” (vikalpa) needs to be understood. It means that which has an opposite. Happiness has the opposite of unhappiness. If you desire happiness, you will get sorrow as well; you must bear the price of happiness. If you want love, you will have to bear hate; that is the price. If you want success, failure will come too; it is the shadow of success. Vikalpa means the realm of duality—where everything comes in pairs, and if you choose one, you get entangled in the other. Whoever chooses one will be caught by the other; there is no escape. There is only one way: drop both, become free of alternatives. Do not choose where there is duality. Drop choosing.

Understand this well; it leads deep. Wherever two can arise—wherever! If you want peace, you will be trapped in unrest. It will seem difficult, because we understand happiness and sorrow, success and failure, honor and insult; but even peace and unrest are the same duality. Not just that: if you desire liberation, you will remain in bondage—because the duality is the same. The opposite stands before you.

The one who says “I want liberation” will be trapped. Liberation comes to the one who does not choose in dualities. Peace comes to the one who does not choose in dualities; who does not ask “I want peace,” but says, “Peace or unrest, I will choose neither.” That one becomes peaceful. The flower of love blossoms in the life of one who does not choose love as the opposite of hate; who says, “Neither love nor hate—I am indifferent to both. May both forgive me; I will not get into either.” In such a life, love blossoms.

Where there is duality, where there are alternatives, where choice is possible—do not choose. But we are always choosing! And we never notice that our choosing is our entanglement. When you choose happiness, it doesn’t occur to you that you have chosen sorrow too. Sorrow enters your door along with happiness. Why? Understand the process.

“I want happiness.” Already many things have happened in that wanting. First, you are unhappy—only an unhappy person wants happiness. A happy person would not want happiness—one desires only what one lacks. No one asks for sorrow; because sorrow everyone already has. People ask for happiness because it is not in their hands.

So the day you say, “I want happiness,” you have announced that you are unhappy. Second, whatever happiness you are asking for—if it does not come, you will sink into deeper sorrow. There is no guarantee it will come. And even if it comes, you will sink into sorrow—because you will find that the many dreams you had projected onto that happiness are not fulfilled.

Happiness appears only at a distance; as it comes closer, it dissolves. Till it is not in the hand, it is happiness; the moment it is in the hand, it becomes sorrow. Which means happiness exists in distance, not in the object. Happiness is in hope, in anticipation. As it approaches, happiness evaporates; when it is fully in hand, it is sorrow. Neither sorrow nor happiness is in the object. The greater the distance, the greater the happiness; the closer, the greater the sorrow. What a complicated net! What we bring close begins to hurt us.

So the more we desire happiness, first, it will not arrive—desire brings nothing. When it doesn’t arrive, frustration and melancholy will surround us. If it does arrive, failure and emptiness will surround us: “All this effort, all this running—and for this? What looked so dazzling from afar, what sounded so sweet—proves to be an ordinary drum.”

Whoever chooses becomes entangled in the world. The world is choice; moksha is choicelessness. Do not choose. Let happiness come—agree with it; let sorrow come—agree with it; but inside do not choose, “I want this.” One who does not present his demands before the world becomes free of it.

Let this go deeper. The one who asks nothing of this world—the world cannot catch him. Ask the world for anything and you are caught. If what you ask for is given, you’re caught; if it is not given, you’re caught. The very asking is the trap; whether it is given or not is irrelevant.

Fishermen bait hooks with dough and drop them in the water. Only that fish will be safe which never opens its mouth. Any fish that opens its mouth is caught. No fish is foolish enough to open its mouth for the hook; they open it for the dough. The fisherman too sits with dough on the hook. The fish is caught by the dough.

Everyone wants happiness—and the hook of sorrow emerges from happiness. Everyone wants respect—and the hook of insult emerges from respect. Everyone wants peace—and peace itself turns into unrest. Be like that fish that swims indifferently past the bait and the hook. Such a fish cannot be caught. Be that fish in this world: one who does not choose, who does not ask. Then no bondage can touch you; you cannot be caught.

Sannyas means dropping choice in dualities. Therefore remember: sannyas is not the opposite of the world. Those who make sannyas into the opposite of the world remain entangled in the world. There are such people—they say sannyas is opposed to the world. “We are in the world; how can we be sannyasins? We will be sannyasins after we leave the world.” Their sannyas too is duality. World and sannyas are two opposing poles for them. “If we choose the world, how can we choose sannyas? If we choose sannyas, how can we choose the world?”

If sannyas is a duality, then its meaning is lost. Sannyas means becoming beyond duality. We do not choose. Whatever happens, we accept. What does not happen, we do not demand. Such a state is sannyas. Then anywhere, you can be a sannyasin. Sannyas is a state of being, not an alternative.

This sutra says:

“Therefore, O stainless one, established in samadhi, become empty of alternatives.”

Samadhi arises only when one becomes empty of alternatives.

“At the very moment the soul is seen through nirvikalpa samadhi, the heart’s knot of ignorance is completely destroyed.”

Two kinds of samadhi are spoken of. One is savikalpa samadhi—by name only samadhi. Savikalpa samadhi means someone has chosen to be peaceful.

Understand it. People begin with this. Harassed by the world, they become restless, anxious; they think meditation will give peace. They choose peace as the opposite of unrest. Meditation begins to give a certain peace. But beneath that peace, unrest remains hidden. The opposite will remain, because you chose peace as against unrest. What you choose cannot free you from its opposite—it remains. At most, what you choose comes to the surface, and what you didn’t choose sinks below; it does not vanish.

Choice never takes you beyond duality; duality remains. Thus your choice keeps the opposite present. You may become peaceful, but it will be on the surface. Deep within, unrest hides. You will always be afraid it may erupt. The seed of unrest remains, and you fear the sprout.

That is why people run away from the world—because they are afraid. Within, unrest remains; anyone might poke it and it will burst out. The man who runs to the forest is not running from you; he is running from his own hidden unrest. He runs from you because you might peel back his thin surface. The husband running to the jungle is not running from his wife; his celibacy is only on the surface; desire is hidden within. Whoever has made celibacy the opposite of desire cannot be free of the seed of desire. Whoever has chosen will remain tied to the opposite.

Choice means we have chosen against something. What we are against will haunt us. What we build above will hide what we are against beneath—because that too is our own part. In truth we have split life into two halves. One we have chosen; the other we have not; but they are linked. The unchosen does not go anywhere; it remains with us. Then we are afraid—of people, of family, of marketplace. The hidden can be teased out by the slightest hint.

So we flee—to places where no one can reveal our hidden parts to us. But even there it doesn’t end. Someone may live in the Himalayas for a thousand years; the day he returns to the marketplace he will find those thousand years wasted. What was hidden within, the market will provoke again; it will sprout again.

Savikalpa samadhi means you have become peaceful by choosing. Nirvikalpa samadhi means you have dropped choosing. Only nirvikalpa samadhi is samadhi; I make no two. Savikalpa samadhi is a deception. But a man first comes to savikalpa; harassed by the world he chooses sannyas. That is natural.

The next step happens when he becomes harassed by sannyas itself. Then he sees: the world is one world, sannyas another world. When he realizes world and sannyas are two halves of the same note, the real sannyas happens. That day he will not choose at all. He will drop choosing. He will see that choosing itself is the world. “I choose no more. Whatever happens, I accept; what does not, I do not expect. I am content; let existence have its way. I have no voice against the whole. Let sorrow come—I say, so be it; what should be, is. Let happiness come—I say, so be it; what should be, is. I no longer stand apart and say ‘this should be.’ I have no expectation, no demand, no claim. I have dropped claims.”

The day one drops all claims, nirvikalpa samadhi happens. Then nothing in this world can bind you. Even if the whole world were to become chains and wrap itself octopus-like around every limb, you would not be bound—for you would accept that too: “All right; so it is.”

When someone puts a chain on my hand, remember: from the side of the one who fastens, it cannot be a chain. It becomes a chain only when I accept it as such. Everything depends on my recognition. If I extend my hand and say, “Put the chain on,” where is the bondage?

A lovely incident from Ramakrishna’s life. From childhood, his heart ran toward God. If he passed a temple, he could hardly reach home—he would begin dancing there, lie on the steps, lost. If someone uttered the name of Rama, he would go into ecstasy. His family knew he would never go into worldly life. Still, the parents’ duty demanded that when he came of age they asked, “Rama—his given name was Gadadhar—will you marry?” They thought he’d refuse. Ramakrishna became delighted. “What is marriage like? Of course I will marry!” The family was shocked; they had thought him of a renunciate bent.

A girl was sought. She was very young; there was eight or ten years between them. Ramakrishna went to see her, his family with him. His mother put three rupees in his pocket for expenses. The village was nearby. Ramakrishna went dressed as they dressed him.

The girl was very lovely. Ramakrishna took those three rupees, placed them at her feet, and bowed! All were aghast. They scolded him: “Madman! She is to be your wife—and you touch her feet! And you offer these three rupees?” Ramakrishna said, “She looks as dear to me as my mother. For I know only one kind of love—mother-love. I will call her mother even if she is my wife—what harm?”

They married, but Ramakrishna called Sarada “Mother” all his life; he touched her feet. On the day of Kali’s worship, he would seat Sarada on the throne and worship her instead of Kali. “When the living Mother is here,” he said, “what need of an image?”

A wife was no bondage—because he never looked at her as bondage. He extended his hand and accepted the “chain.”

Everything depends on your inner stance. Sorrow is sorrow because you don’t want sorrow and you want happiness. Sorrow exists because you desire its opposite. Otherwise, what is sorrow? Sorrow is hidden in the demand for the opposite. What is unrest? It is there because you want peace. Our world is in our choosing.

This sutra says: the one who becomes choiceless, nirvikalpa, has the vision of the Self. For the one who chooses nothing outside—neither happiness nor sorrow; neither love nor hate; neither world nor liberation; neither objects nor the Divine—whose choosing has fallen away, at once he reaches within. Choice is where consciousness gets stuck outside. We get stuck in what we choose. When no one chooses, the sticking dissolves; our ties to the shore are cut; our connection joins the midstream; we are absorbed into the inner current.

The vision of the Self belongs to the one who attains the nirvikalpa state. Then the heart’s knot of ignorance is utterly destroyed.

“Fix your sense-of-self in the Self alone, and abandon the self-sense thrown upon ego and its kin. As you remain indifferent to a pot or a garment, remain indifferent toward ego and the rest.”

This word “indifferent” (udasina) needs understanding. It does not mean “sad.” It means choiceless. It means: no agenda, no purposefulness—just being. Because of the word, a danger has arisen: orders of “indifferent” sadhus force sadness upon themselves; they think gloom equals indifference.

There is no kinship between sadness and indifference—only the sound of the word overlaps. Indifference means: no choosing; let what is happening, happen. Not sadness, but indifference—in the sense of a neutral overlooking: “All right, whatever is.”

As the sutra’s example says: in a house there are clothes, a pot, utensils. You pass by them; there is no need to pay particular attention. So too within: the ego hangs, pain and pleasure hang, wounds and worries hang, sweet memories and bitter ones—they are all “things.” Pass among them as you would among pots and garments: everything is all right as it is. Pay them no special attention; make no choices among them; feel neither drawn nor repelled. That is indifference.

The indifferent man is supremely joyous, not sad. Joyous—meaning nothing disturbs him, so the inner flower begins to bloom; nothing harasses him, so he abides in delight.

If you impose sadness upon yourself, you will not bloom. Be indifferent. Try it experimentally. Walk down the road for five minutes in total indifference. Which house is beautiful, which is not—equal. Who passes by—rich or poor, honored or dishonored, leader or thief—no purpose. If a beautiful woman passes, a handsome man, fine clothes—no purpose. Walk for five minutes as if the road were empty, as if you were walking through a forest where nothing is “there.” Just try—utter neutrality—and immediately you will see the road becomes meaningless. Its meaning used to be your attachment.

Vidyasagar wrote a reminiscence. One evening he went walking; a Muslim gentleman he often met was walking ahead. Suddenly a servant came running; Vidyasagar was just behind. The servant cried, “Mir sahib, your house is on fire—come quickly!” Mir sahib said, “I shall.” But he kept walking at the same pace—the same stick, the same stride; no change. Vidyasagar’s stride changed just hearing the news; his breath grew heavy; his legs sped up. But Mir sahib kept the same pace. The servant, alarmed, said, “Did you not hear? The house is on fire!” Mir sahib replied, “I heard.” And walked on.

Vidyasagar went ahead and asked, “What are you doing? Do you understand what the servant is saying? Your house is on fire!” Mir sahib said, “That’s true. But what can I do now? Why spoil my walk? And here I have a rare chance: even with my house on fire, if I can walk as I walk when it is not on fire, I will taste the flavor of indifference. The house is burning; fine. I walk just as I did when it wasn’t. If I change my stride even a little, that change will be a change in my consciousness.” And he went on walking.

Vidyasagar wrote: I and the servant ran; let him keep his stride. We got frantic; we tried to put out the fire; we didn’t sleep all night. But the face I saw on Mir sahib that day told me he slept peacefully. If his stride did not change, what would change his sleep?

Indifference means a neutral attitude: whatever is happening is fine—suchness—with no choice anywhere. The house on fire does not create restlessness—understand: “The house should not have burned”—that hidden expectation creates restlessness. “My house should not burn”—that subconscious demand. The house burned; the inner expectation was broken; the stride falters, the consciousness shakes. But he who has no expectations—whatever happens, in him nothing stands opposed; thus his consciousness does not tremble. That unshakability is indifference.

“From Brahma to a post, from stone to the Supreme, all adjuncts are false; therefore behold only the full Self, the one Form, everywhere.”

All titles are false, all positions, all reputations, all constructs. Whether a stone lying by the roadside or the God we’ve enthroned in the heavens—both are vain. Keep attention on the one that is not false; stay absorbed in the witnessing alone. If you become a stone, remain absorbed in the witness; if you are made Brahma, remain absorbed in the witness. Then there will be no choice between being a stone or being Brahma, for the witnessing is the same. If you are poor, remain absorbed in witnessing; if you become rich, remain absorbed in witnessing. Then neither poverty nor wealth will make a difference; the inner stream of witnessing flows on.

All adjuncts are useless. What is available from outside is worthless; what is available within alone is meaningful. But within, nothing is found except witnessing consciousness. In all circumstances, in every state, keep seeing the inner Self.

“I myself am Brahma, I myself Vishnu, I myself Indra, I myself Shiva, I myself the world, and I myself am all this. There is nothing other than myself.”

This is the flavor of kaivalya. One who experiences this consciousness, who knows this witness—then the “other” disappears. There is no “other.” Only I am. It is all my expanse. The day I know my consciousness, that day I know your consciousness is not different from mine. As long as I know only my body, you are different—my body is different, yours is different.

Understand it like this: one lamp is burning in a clay lamp; another in a silver lamp; another in a gold lamp. If these three focus on their bodies—clay, silver, gold—they are different. They will boast: “You clay lamp—are you competing with me? I am a silver lamp!” And the gold lamp will scoff: “Why talk to you at all? I am a gold lamp!” But if any one of the lamps realizes the flame—“I am the flame, the light burning in this lamp”—then can it say to the clay lamp, “You are different from me”? It will see the flame in that one too. The bodies of clay, silver, gold become irrelevant; only the flame remains meaningful—which is neither silver nor gold nor clay—only flame. If even one lamp realizes “I am the flame,” then all lamps in the world become one with it. Wherever there is flame—there I am.

As long as we look at bodies, we are separate. When we see the witness within, our eternal flame, we become one, indivisible. The bird flying near the tree—within it too the hidden witness is myself. Brahma, the maker and ruler of the world—within him too the hidden witness is myself. The beggar on the road is me; the emperor on the throne is me. Once the inner flame is known, forms are meaningless; body and matter lose meaning; only the flame is meaningful.

And a delightful fact: whether the lamp is clay or gold, the flame does not change. Does the flame of a clay lamp become “clay”? Does the flame of a gold lamp become “gold”?

No difference at all. Flame is flame—the same. Bodies bring no change to flame. No one’s flame differs. The same flame burns in the most ignorant that burns in a Buddha. The difference is only that the Buddha knows it and the ignorant does not. How? The Buddha dropped concern for the outer lamp and discovered the inner flame; the ignorant is still wrapped in the outer form—clay, silver, gold—and has not sought the flame. But the flame is there.

“I alone am spread everywhere”—the recognition of this is spirituality.

A few important notices. The first day I said to you: be cheerful, be joyous, be blissful; laugh, and laugh as much as you can—even without cause. But I deliberately left one thing unsaid—deliberately. I did not tell you that when I am speaking here, do not laugh without cause. I left it so on purpose—to see if two or four “clever ones” would be here. They would laugh even while I am speaking. And because of their laughter, they themselves would miss what I am saying, and they would hinder others too.

My guess was not wrong! Those two or four clever ones are here. One or two of them are from Punjab. I had heard that in Punjab some people have extra intelligence—but I never believed it. I still don’t, though those two Punjabi friends are trying hard to convince me! That’s fine—but I never thought two or four Gujaratis in their company would do the same! I didn’t expect so much “intelligence” from Gujaratis; yet they are racing the Punjabis!

Competition starts even in stupidity. Remember, going to extremes is always easy; the question is to stay in the middle. Either you sit like a corpse, or you begin to display a fool’s gaiety—which isn’t gaiety at all.

So when I am speaking, if you make loud, causeless sounds, you don’t know what you are doing. You are merely attracting attention: telling people “I’m here too.” That is not intelligence, and it will not help your meditation. When I am speaking, go silent; put aside the mind’s movements so my words can enter within. If I am saying something and you burst into causeless laughter, what was entering will be thrown out by your laughter’s jolt. You throw it away. Please be a little thoughtful. Without thoughtfulness, you will not go deep.

Second: yesterday I announced that if you wish to remove your clothes, do so only in the morning meditation; there it is useful. In the noon kirtan or the night meditation it is not useful at all. For me, neither clothing nor nudity has intrinsic value. Keep this clear. Many times confusions arise; it may seem I am saying: become naked and liberation is gained! If it were so easy, all animals and birds would be liberated by now. And if liberation were blocked only by clothes, we could unclothe the whole world and be done with it. It is not so easy, not so cheap.

When I say: if at some moment you feel clothing is interfering with the body’s movement and expression, remove it; nudity can be supportive. But some simpletons cling to clothing, and others cling to nudity. They think: “If I stand naked, nothing more needs to be done.” I see one or two who don’t do the meditation at all; they simply stand naked—thinking that is enough.

Standing naked accomplishes nothing. Nor do I insist on nudity. The clingers to clothes and the naked sadhus are alike; in both, clothes have great value. Both believe clothing is significant.

I am not saying: remove your clothes and liberation will come. You are naked already—inside your clothes. What difference does it make if you are inside or outside? When I say: if the body’s energy awakens, if the breath’s sharp impact stirs the bio-energy and you feel clothing is a hindrance—then remove it; otherwise there is no point. In the noon kirtan there is no need at all; nor in the night meditation. If someone insists on it in noon or night, we will ask them to leave the campus.

In the morning meditation, you can, because there is a scientific reason. When deep breathing is done and energy rises strongly, clothes interfere. So remove them. And in the second stage, when I say: whatever arises in the mind, don’t suppress it—if at that time the impulse arises to remove clothing, then do. But in the kirtan there is no need; nor at night.

Do not make nudity into a doctrine; it is only a device.

Third: some foreign sannyasins may be bathing naked at the well, and some Indian friends gather crowds to watch. Do not be so foolish. If you want to bathe, bathe naked yourself. But to go stare at someone else bathing naked reveals how many sick tendencies are buried in your mind.

There are two kinds of crazies. Some are crazy to see others naked; others are crazy to show themselves naked. Psychology has special names for both. In the West, many are tried in courts for suddenly exposing themselves to others—they are called exhibitionists. We have one or two here; their only “fun” seems to be to give others a view of their bodies. Often such people’s bodies are not even worth viewing. If they were, someone would come to see them on their own. Since they are not, they strip in crowds, hoping to be seen by someone—anyone.

We have no use for such sickness here. And those who loiter to see others naked—sick too. If you have an intimate love for someone, and such closeness—clothes fall of their own accord. And even naked, lovers do not feel naked in that love; they feel close; even the barrier of clothes disappears. But to go look at a stranger naked is contemptible, petty—the sign of a diseased mind.

On the way here I was traveling with an English sannyasin, Vivek. At a checkpoint we stopped; four or five donkeys came near the car. I asked Vivek, “Are your donkeys in England this size, or bigger?” She said, “Slightly bigger.” I didn’t say anything—just joking. Then yesterday I heard about crowds at the well. Today I will tell her: you are mistaken; it’s hard to compete with India. The biggest donkeys are here!

Fourth: when, after thirty minutes of meditation, I say “Stop—be silent,” if you cannot become quiet and still, you are not meditating—you are in hysteria.

Understand the difference. When I say, “Breathe intensely for ten minutes,” you should be the master. When I say, “Go mad for ten minutes,” you should be the master of even your madness. You are going mad—it is not that madness is possessing you. You are, from your center, throwing out what is within. When I say, “Shout Hu for ten minutes,” you are doing it; do not let it seize you, else you become a slave. And when I say, “Stop completely,” the one who cannot stop is hysterical. It means he is not in control; he keeps screaming, keeps crying. Crying has mounted him.

This will not do. Such a man is sick; he is not meditating. Meditation means establishing your mastery. Without that, there is no difference between hysteria and meditation.

So when I say, “Stop,” stop instantly. Even a moment’s delay shows you lost mastery and what you were doing has become your master; you cannot drop it. If crying catches you and you cannot drop it, you cannot enter silence. Mastery leads to silence.

Some don’t stop even as I repeat, “Be quiet.” They think, “My meditation is going so deep—how can I stop?” It is not meditation. If this happens today, I will have them removed—because they need therapy, not meditation.

And after the thirty minutes, if you think, “Now a cough is coming,” don’t fall for it. Coughing is infectious: one coughs and five or ten fools follow. His cough may be real; the rest imitate. You saw last night even coughing stopped. How? When I said, “Do not cough,” how did it stop? It was false.

We won’t allow coughing either. Experiment and see: in ten minutes your life-breath will not leave you. You don’t know how many tricks the mind plays. It says, “A terrible cough is coming; cough.” It inserts obstacles; you cough. Then you say, “What could I do? The cough was a compulsion.”

It was not. Did you notice I speak here for an hour and a half and you don’t have to cough once? And when I ask you to be silent for ten minutes, suddenly many coughs arise! If coughing were inevitable, it would be evenly spread. It isn’t. In the cinema you sit for three hours without coughing. Why? Then you go to the temple—and instantly coughs! Are there cough-germs sitting in the temple? If anywhere, they are in the cinema.

The cause is mental; this cough is not physical. Stop it—completely. In ten minutes, what will happen? At worst, life-breath will leave? No one ever died from holding back a cough for ten minutes. Some may have died from coughing—never from not coughing. Please, stop completely. Be like a corpse. When I say “Stop,” stop. Become utterly still, or the work is wasted. The energy that has arisen doesn’t find a chance to work within; you dissipate it in coughing and such, and go home. Then you come to me saying, “Nothing happened.” Cough then—what else could happen? I know you were coughing the whole time. What can meditation do?

Establish mastery. When I say “Silence,” let such quiet descend that it seems no one is here—you vanish. Only then will results come.

When I begin speaking in English, do not get up—sit where you are. Show a little sense. When I speak in Hindi, those who don’t understand sit quietly. When I speak in English and those who don’t understand English immediately get up and leave—what greater impatience and foolishness can there be? There are fifty foreign friends here as well. They sit and listen. Look at their faces: when I speak in Hindi, their faces look more understanding than yours. Why?

They understand nothing. But they have at least this much patience: “We don’t understand, but something meaningful is being said—let us hear it in silence.” They may not understand, but the hour of silence is useful. Even if they don’t understand, the hour of patience is meditation.

But when I start English, you get up. It means you have no patience, no willingness to sit quietly, no concern for others who will be disturbed.

Think a little.

One of my poet acquaintances went to Sweden—an Urdu poet. He told me: “I recited in Urdu; nobody understood, but thousands sat in silence.” He said he was surprised—he’d thought no one would come; and if they came, they’d leave. He asked them: “You don’t understand—why sit quietly?”

They said, “We don’t understand the words, but when you sing with such feeling—your eyes, your hands, your posture—we understand that something meaningful and deep is being said. We are at least courteous enough not to disturb that feeling.”

So this will not do.

At night I see some outsiders come in. As soon as I begin English, they leave. Tonight no one will be allowed to leave. If someone near you gets up, seat him at once. If he goes anyway, from tomorrow night I won’t let him enter. I will announce in Hindi beforehand: those who plan to get up during the English segment should leave now.

Life needs a discipline, an order; without it, nothing happens.