Anahad Mein Bisram #7

Sahajanand!
This sutra may certainly sound strange; it is not strange. In truth it is very lovely—unique, incomparable. It is as if the entire cadence of the Chhandogya Upanishad has been distilled into it, as if, from thousands of blossoms, one has extracted a single perfume. Yet it will feel odd, because truth, when forced into language, inevitably sounds odd. And if we have no experience of truth, we clutch at words—and words are dangerous. Nothing is more perilous than words: understand them and you arrive; miss them and you fall. It is like walking a sword’s edge.

I understand your difficulty, Sahajanand, because the sutra begins, “बलं वाव विज्ञानाद् भूयः—strength is superior to science,” and ends, “विज्ञाता भवति—he becomes a knower.” It starts by exalting strength over science; then it praises strength; and finally it culminates in, “he becomes a knower.” Naturally you are puzzled. You must have wondered, What is this?

There are more lines that create worry:
“Because a strong man can terrify a hundred scholars.”
A scholar is one who knows, we say; and the strong—well, that hardly seems a great value. To compare a Gama the wrestler with a Buddha? In a way one could say a single Gama could defeat a hundred Buddhas—but that conquest would be like a boulder crushing a rose. The boulder does not become a flower by crushing the rose, nor does it triumph over the rose in any meaningful sense.

Then the Chhandogya goes on extolling strength: “When a man is strong, he rises to stand. Rising, he serves the master. From serving, he becomes worthy to sit near the master. Sitting near, he becomes a seer...” There a turn happens: we began, apparently, by praising strength against science, and the discourse becomes something else—“He becomes a seer, a listener, a contemplative, a buddha, a doer”—and then the circle completes: “the strong one becomes a knower.”

So naturally, reason will find it senseless. Reason does not resolve; it entangles. Put reason aside a little, and meet this sutra with sympathy. Take each word attentively—there are fine distinctions that are not visible on the surface; hence mistakes persist for centuries.

“Vijnana” (science) and “vijnata” (knower) may seem to mean the same, but they are not; they are opposites. Vijnana is an outer journey; to be a vijnata is the inner journey. Science is knowing the object; to be a knower is to know the knower!

Science concerns matter; being a knower is self-realization, God-experience, truth face-to-face. So first, clearly separate the words vijnana (science) and vijnata (the knower). They arise from the same root; dictionaries may give them akin meanings—hence the confusion. But those who uttered this sutra were not mere linguists; they were soaked in experience, living in the state of supreme knowing.

First distinction: vijnana is science; vijnata is religion. Science depends on thought; being a knower on no-thought. In science you think; to be a knower you transcend thinking.

So long as thinking remains, the mind is disturbed—storms, tempests; your boat rocks. Will the shore be reached or will you drown midstream? Anxiety eats the moments; time passes in anguish.

To be a knower is to have reached the shore; storms have ended. Not only storms—no ripples now arise on the lake; the lake has become a mirror: so calm, so silent, that the whole sky reflects exactly as it is.

A knower is not a scholar; he is awakened. A scientist is a scholar, not awakened. The difference between Albert Einstein and Gautama the Buddha... In matters of matter, Einstein knows far more than Buddha. If the test is knowledge of things, Einstein wins. But if the comparison is self-knowing, Einstein cannot even be weighed. And in the end, that alone is decisive.

Before dying, Einstein said, two days earlier, “My life has been futile. I was entangled in the unnecessary. I did not know that which had to be known.”

What had to be known? The knower had first to be known. One did not know one’s own self, and went on knowing everything else! Darkness remained at home, while you celebrated Diwali all over the world! No festival happened within, while outside you threw colors and powders. All became hollow.

Until there is festivity within, what is the value of spring without? Until inner flowers bloom, what if spring comes or goes? If there is no inner light, what matters if the sun rises or sets—you remain in darkness. The sun rises—still darkness within; the sun sets—still darkness within. New moon or full moon, within it remains new-moon night.

At the moment of death, it began to dawn on Einstein: had I invested the same energy in knowing myself, today I would have recognized that which remains even beyond death. There would be no fear of death; I would have the capacity to transcend it.

As he died, one feeling possessed Einstein: if life were given again, I would devote it to the search for religion, for mystery. And the greatest of mysteries is within oneself. So it should be. The supreme mystery is to know the knower. Understand this distinction well and the sutra will become clear.

“बलं वाव विज्ञानाद् भूयः—strength is indeed greater than science.”
The Rishi is right: strength is superior to science.

Science is knowledge of matter. What does he mean by “strength”? Do not take it to mean a wrestler’s muscle. By “strength” the Upanishadic seer means inner energy.

The ordinary man is like a pot with a hole—fill it as you will, it never fills; whatever you pour in drains away. Nothing stays.

A Sufi tale: A young man came to a fakir and said, “I have gone to so many saints, but I have not found what I seek. Your door is my last knock. I am exhausted. Many pointed me to you. I have traveled far; do not send me away disappointed. This is my final attempt: if something is to happen, let it happen; if not, then not. I am defeated.”

The fakir said, “It will happen. Why not? But you must keep one small condition—very small. I am going to the well to draw water; while I draw, do not speak. Stand silently. If you can keep that much restraint, it is enough. I will take care of the rest.”

The youth thought, What sort of man is this! I have practiced great austerities—headstands, mantras, fasts. And this fellow? If he wants to draw water, let him! Why would I speak?

But he did not know. Even before reaching the well—when the fakir merely picked up the bucket and rope—the youth’s inner storms arose. He controlled himself, remembering: he said, “Don’t speak.” But he could hardly bear it.

He restrained his tongue, clamped his lips. He looked neither here nor there—If I don’t look, no questions will arise. It’s only a moment.

At the well, the fakir tied the rope, lowered the bucket, rattled it about, made a great clatter. When he pulled it up, the bucket was empty! Again he lowered it. The youth’s restraint began to break. The third time, the youth burst out, “Stop! To hell with Brahma-knowledge! The bucket has no bottom and you’re trying to draw water! Even patience has a limit. With this, births will pass and you will never fill it. It will remain empty. And you made me promise not to speak until you filled the water! I will speak. And I tell you—you can give me nothing! You don’t even know your bucket lacks a bottom, and you will give me Brahma-knowledge!”

The fakir said, “It’s over. The bond is broken; the condition failed. You couldn’t complete even a small task. I had fixed three tries. You failed before the third—your restraint lost. Go your way. What can happen with a man who has so little patience! Go. Of course I knew the bucket had no bottom. Am I blind? I also knew it would never fill. It was a test of your patience. You failed. Now I know why you are frustrated, and will remain so. You could not do a little thing.”

The youth left, but fell into great restlessness. The fakir was not mad. Fakirs are always a little illogical; if a fakir were logically neat, he wouldn’t be a fakir. Pandits are logically tidy; fakirs are mysterious, like riddles.

I made a mistake! A few moments more... Who knows what this man knows! He must know; no one ever tested me like this. He was sleepless all night. At dawn he returned, throwing himself at the fakir’s door: “I will not leave. I erred. Forgive me. Give me one more chance.”

The fakir asked, “What was the mistake?”
He said, “I had nothing to do with it. I could see the bucket could not be filled—but I shouldn’t have spoken. I had promised. I broke my word.”

The fakir said, “If you can see that a bottomless bucket cannot be filled, then hear me: you too are without a bottom; that is why your energy never gathers. Without stored energy, how will you know Brahman? To know Brahman, you need energy—so much that it overflows! Excess is needed.”

This excess of energy is what the Chhandogya calls strength—so much energy that you cannot contain it; it spills over you. Only then can truth be known. The impotent cannot know truth. Have you ever heard of a eunuch attaining Brahma-knowledge? Only the vigorous, those brimming with energy...

When do trees flower? When the tree has so much energy it can squander in exuberance; then blossoms appear. If a tree lacks nourishment, water, light—no flowers. Flowers are luxury, opulence. That is why I love the word Ishvara (God): it comes from aishvarya, splendor. Only those who carry such abundance within know God—just as a tree’s energy becomes flowers. If energy is minimal, even leaves are hard to produce; the few leaves will be withered. Energy must be in excess.

William Blake, the great Western mystical poet, said something Upanishadic: “Energy is delight.”

He said the essential thing: Energy is delight. Lack of energy is misery: poverty and depletion of energy is pain, hell—because no flowers blossom, no fragrance spreads. When a lamp’s oil runs out, the wick dies. A lamp needs oil and wick for flame—and the more oil, the deeper the flame.

Notice a peculiarity: when wind comes, small lamps go out; a forest fire blazes higher. A gust snuffs little lamps, but great fire burns greater. If you have energy, God’s energy joins with yours; your life catches fire as a forest does. A little lamp goes out with a breath. Remember: petty energy won’t do; vast energy is needed. For a skyward journey you need fuel; your wings need power.

So the Chhandogya is right: “Strength is indeed superior to science.”

Of what use is geography, arithmetic, history? Of what use physics, chemistry? Superior to these is to gather your life-energy—to become a brimming lake, with no leaks. When your pot is full, overflowing with opulence, you have the capacity to know God.

People are irritated when I say this, because they don’t understand. Yet I repeat: knowing God is the greatest luxury in this world. Wealth is nothing; status is nothing. Knowing God is the supreme luxury because it is the experience of the ultimate splendor. And for that, first you must conserve and gather energy.

But you are squandering it. Ninety-nine percent of your energy goes to the garbage heap. How will flowers grow? How will a flame arise? How will there be dance? Exhausted as you are, how will you dance? Broken, how will you dance? And when you cannot dance, you look for excuses: “The courtyard is crooked.” The one who can dance will dance whether the courtyard is crooked or straight; if there is dance, the courtyard straightens. The dancer’s energy will make it straight. What excuses we invent!

You lack energy, and then you ask why life is suffering. The cause is simple: happiness is the overflow of energy; bliss is the great overflow. But in your life, drop by drop, everything drains away. Remember: even drop by drop, not only the pitcher but the ocean empties.

In how many ways you waste your energy! With each sense you can do two things: turn energy inward, or throw it outward. This is the difference between introvert and extrovert. The extrovert is a fool.

A door has two sides: one says Entrance, the other Exit. The same door brings you in and takes you out. Your eye can send energy outward and draw it inward. The wise collect energy through the eyes; the foolish squander it. To the foolish, the eye becomes a hole through which energy leaks; to the wise, the eye becomes a collector.

Buddha said, When you walk the road, don’t look more than four steps ahead.
Why? What more is needed? Four steps are enough. When you walk those four, the next four appear. Four by four, a thousand miles are covered.

But you? You look at everything but the next four steps. A wall poster, a film hoarding, a hawker, a passing woman, someone humming a song—what all is happening! Scientists say eighty percent of a man’s energy goes outward through the eyes.

Your ears do likewise. What do you listen to? Falsehood you hear quickly; truth, you don’t bother. Where’s the news in truth? Gossip is news. Who ran off with whose wife—now that’s news! People crowd closer when such talk begins, whispering. And when two people whisper, everyone else starts listening—because a whisper must be deep! If you want something to spread, whisper it in a few ears, and say, Don’t tell anyone! It will reach the whole town.

You watch trash, listen to trash, read trash—and then you ask why you suffer. You drink trash; you won’t drink pure water, you want Coca-Cola. You don’t even ask what it is; the whole world drinks it, ads scream it—if you want to enjoy life, not without Coke. Live a little hot, sip a Gold Spot! Without it, life is wasted.

What do people eat? Drink? Hear? See? If you keep an account, you will see clearly why you are unhappy.

If you see only what is worth seeing, listen only to what is worth hearing, ninety percent of your energy will save itself—by itself. If someone tries to dump garbage at your home, you refuse; but if someone dumps garbage into your head, you say, Come in, how kind!

You run to films full of noise; you pay money, get shoved and beaten, and what do you see? When you are getting the beating, others watch the show; when they are beaten, you watch. What else is the show?

The “strength” the Chhandogya speaks of is this same energy that Blake called the delight of excess. Buddha said: become energetic; let power collect within as a lake. An empty pot has no grace; even if you go to God’s door with an empty pot, what face will you show? Let it be full—hence the full pitcher as a symbol of welcome in our culture; it is a hint of the inner full vessel.

“बलं वाव विज्ञानाद् भूयः। विज्ञान से बल श्रेष्ठ है। अपि ह शतं विज्ञानवतां एको बलवान आकंपयते—one energetic person terrifies a hundred scholars.”
This is not about wrestlers; an energetic man makes a hundred pandits tremble—those who have gathered borrowed knowledge. Hence pandits have always been enemies of the truly knowing. They must be, because the knower cuts their trade at its root.

What is the pandit’s trade? His coin passes among the blind; the knower starts giving people eyes. If your trade stands only among the blind, how will you tolerate anyone treating people’s eyes? If eyes open, your counterfeit coin fails.

So rabbis—the Jewish pandits—crucified Jesus. They had to, because one man shook all their foundations. Socrates was poisoned by the pandits of Athens, because one man threatened the hollow intellectuals. You stoned Buddha; you pierced Mahavira’s ears with nails. Your pandit has always been the enemy of the awakened. He will remain. Because both trades cannot run side by side.

The court told Socrates, “If you stop speaking truth—be silent—we have no objection; live in peace.” Socrates said, “If I am silent, why live? Speaking truth is my trade.”
A dangerous trade indeed! He used the right word—trade. If truth is his trade, those living on falsehood—so many—will not let him live. Their livelihoods are at stake. Remove him—he is an obstacle; dangerous; he is spoiling people.

What were Socrates’ crimes? The same as mine! They are always the same, because man does not change; he does not learn.

First charge: Socrates speaks truths that go against tradition.
Has truth sworn to conform to tradition? Tradition is worth two pennies. Why should truth conform to tradition? If anything, tradition should conform to truth. Truth conforms to nothing but itself—its own cadence. That word “Chhandogya” is lovely: those who found their own chhand (cadence) are gathered here. Truth is free, self-regulated.

Second charge: you corrupt the youth!
Naturally, the youth are drawn to men like Socrates—only the young still have some energy, power, capacity, courage to venture into the unknown. As one grows old, power wanes, poverty sets in, death draws near, and one leans toward convention.

Often atheists turn believers as they die—not because life’s experience made them believers, but because their legs shake; fear seizes them: Who knows, perhaps there is a God! Let me not be in trouble later—better to apologize now: a dip in the Ganges, a trip to Kashi or Kaaba—some certificate if God exists; if not, no harm—just travel.

Socrates-type people attract the young. A few elders too—but those whose bodies are old yet souls remain youthful, daring to set sail on a sea whose far shore is invisible.

Truth is for the few audacious; the crowd prefers consolation to truth. Therefore a single knower becomes a crisis for thousands of pandits.

And notice the fun: Hindu pandits despise Muslim pandits; Muslim pandits despise Christian pandits; Christian pandits despise Jewish pandits; Jewish pandits despise Parsi pandits. Yet against a Socrates, they all agree! This is a secret.

Against me too—Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh pandits—are united. I am happy at least that through me some brotherhood grows! On at least one point their enmity vanishes.

What’s the secret? Their mutual enmity is only formal—competition between shopkeepers. But someone like me cuts both shops at the root simultaneously; so against me they unite.

Thus the Chhandogya says well: “One energetic person makes a hundred scholars tremble—akampayate.”
“Akampayate” is stronger than “frighten”—their very life trembles; an earthquake shakes their house—made of playing cards; their paper boats begin to sink. They play with toys and bewitch others with toys in the name of religion—what games, with what seriousness!

Ram-lilas repeat every year—the same audience, the same lines known by heart; even the actors may forget their dialogues, but the audience remembers every word. They know the boy playing Rama is the village rascal who teases their daughters—yet they touch his feet, garland him, wash his feet and drink the water. What playacting! Like children marrying dolls, you marry Rama and Sita.

In temples, you rock baby Krishna. Poor Krishna cannot protest—even if he dislikes swings. I never liked swings; since childhood I’ve hated them. Who knows about Krishna? Perhaps he gets dizzy. But the devotees decide: rock him; lay him down, raise him up, open and close the curtains—what game is this!

You have made idols—your webs of imagination. Someone worships Rama, someone Krishna, someone Buddha, someone Mahavira. Stone idols are worshiped as if worshiping them will yield truth. Does anyone ask whether Mahavira worshiped anyone’s idol? In a Jain gathering I asked: “You worship Mahavira’s idol—at least find out if Mahavira ever worshiped any idol. Since he did not, by worshiping his idol you are not his followers but his enemies. If you truly follow him, do not worship.” Mahavira taught ashraya-lessness, the “feeling of no refuge”: never take refuge in another. Whom will you worship? God sits within you. Seek—do not worship. Wake up—do not worship. Discover within. What you worship outside is not outside; it is hidden in the worshiper. The seeker carries the sought.

Buddha said, “Do not cling to me. Take my hint; walk yourself.” Yet who has more idols than Buddha? So many that in Arabic-Urdu, the word for idol, “but,” is said to derive from “Buddha”—so many idols that Buddha’s very name became synonymous with idol. He had refused: “Do not accept what I say because I say it; accept it only when you know.” Whose idol did Buddha worship? None. That was his “fault.” Had he worshiped someone, Hindus would have carried him on their shoulders. Instead, they expelled him—because he gave no support to tradition; he placed naked truth as it is, pleasing or not. The pandit trembles.

“बलवान होने पर ही मनुष्य उठ कर खड़ा होता है—only the energetic truly stand.”
Replace “strong” with “energetic” and the sutra becomes clear. You say, “But we all stand.” Not in the sense the Rishi means. Your body stands; your consciousness sleeps. When the Rishi speaks of standing, he means the standing of awareness.

Darwin and his followers say man evolved from the ape—the crucial step: he stood upright. That changed everything. Upright posture reduced blood flow to the brain—the delicate neural fibers could then develop. If you sleep without a pillow, you can’t sleep; too much blood keeps the brain agitated. Headstands, I do not favor; they harm the brain. I have not seen a head-stander with genius. At best, animal vigor comes; intelligence suffers.

Try wrestling with a monkey—one is enough to finish the greatest wrestler.

Once a monkey chased Vivekananda. Monkeys and dogs have a knack for hating uniforms: policemen, postmen, sannyasins—any uniform. Vivekananda, a proud Khattri, walked with staff; the monkey followed, scaring him. He began to run; more monkeys joined. Suddenly he realized running would only worsen it. He stopped, turned, planted his staff, gathered courage—invoked Ramakrishna perhaps! Seeing him stand, the monkeys also stopped. When he advanced two steps, they retreated; when he ran at them, they fled. He later wrote: that day I learned—don’t run from trouble; face it.

Darwin says: man developed by standing—body-wise. The brain could refine; the hands were freed for culture, art, tools. The Upanishad adds: if bodily standing yielded such development, imagine what will happen when your consciousness stands upright!

The sutra is lovely: “स यदा बली भवति अथोत्थाता भवति—when he is energetic, he rises to stand.”
His awareness rises upward like a flame—urdhvagami.

And for the one whose awareness ascends—“अथोत्थाता भवति”—in his life these wondrous events unfold:
“उत्तिष्ठन परिचारिता भवति”—when awareness rises, he becomes capable of the guru’s presence. Guru means one who has gone upward. Only those moving upward can relate to him—at least a common direction is needed. If you move downward, how will you meet the guru?

“Rising, he serves the guru.”
Do not misunderstand “service.”
“उत्तिष्ठन परिचारिता भवति.”
In this land we once held a great meaning of service; with the coming of Christianity, that meaning got distorted. Better to separate paricharya (attending upon) from social “seva.”

“परिचारिता भवति”—he becomes engaged in serving the guru.
We served those above us. Christianity imported a new model: serve those below—poor, sick, lepers, orphans, widows, the elderly. Nothing wrong socially; but it is a social act, not a religious one.

Therefore I do not call Mother Teresa a religious person—she did social service, good work. But religion arises when you hold the feet of one above you; that destroys ego. Serving those below you feeds ego. Only one above can pull you upward. Call this paricharya.

The Chhandogya says: “उत्तिष्ठन परिचारिता भवति—one whose awareness stands up serves the guru.”
In this land, service was only for the guru—no one else. “Guru” means dispeller of darkness. Serve the one whose darkness is gone, that yours may go. Come near the lamp that is lit, so your wick may catch fire.

“सेवा करने से वह गुरु के पास बैठने योग्य बनता है—by serving, he becomes worthy to sit by the guru.”
What comes of service? Worthiness to sit near—samarpan brings worthiness. Sitting by the guru is the most extraordinary experience.

“परिचरन उपसत्ता भवति”—not just sitting: you become encompassed by his being, bathed in his aura, drowned in his waves. As bathing in a cool river cools you, so the guru’s nearness cools—he has become a lake. Dive in.

This is the true Ganga-bath, the true pilgrimage: to be near the guru. He who has found the guru has found a Tirthankara.

His being begins to cover you. Pass by night-blooming jasmine; even after you go home, your clothes carry its scent. So with the guru.

“उपसीदन द्रष्टा भवति”—sitting near, one becomes a seer. From “upasidana—sitting near”—comes “Upanishad.” Upanishad means: what is attained by sitting near the guru—sometimes from words, sometimes from silence; sometimes by watching him, sometimes by closing your eyes beside him; sometimes from his rising or walking. Sitting near, strings begin to resonate.

Words like upasana also mean “sitting near” (upa-asan). If you think you do upasana in a temple, you err; until you sit by a living guru, you won’t know the meaning. There, the idol is stone; sitting by stone, you too become stone. No other land has as many stones as this one—because we sit by stones. Be careful where you sit: you become like that. The mind prefers to sit near those beneath you—ego is pleased. Politicians surround themselves with sycophants to feel great. Sitting by the guru is like a camel approaching the Himalayas: in the desert, the camel is the tallest thing; near the mountain, he is humbled. The ego resists; first it denies, argues, opposes—because it is hurt.

Even on coming to a guru, people stumble. Someone wrote me, “I am willing to accept you as a friend.”
How kind! To me, it makes no difference; but you will miss. Upasana will not happen. If it is friendship you want, why come so far? Friends are plentiful. Those gentlemen came from Calcutta—what dearth of friends there? But perhaps they do not see that this is a refusal of upasana.

“Upavasa” too means “dwelling near”—to abide near the guru. Fasting is not upavasa; starving is not upavasa. To sit so absorbed that hunger is forgotten, thirst forgotten, body forgotten—that is upavasa.

To sit so absorbed by the guru that you disappear—that is upasana. What descends in such upasana, such upavasa, becomes the Upanishad—the wisdom gained by sitting close.

“उत्तिष्ठन परिचारिता भवति, परिचरन उपसत्ता भवति, उपसीदन द्रष्टा भवति—rising, he serves; serving, he gains presence; sitting close, he becomes a seer.”
Sitting close, he receives vision: the capacity to see oneself. You can see everything else; only yourself you cannot see.

“By sitting near the guru, he becomes a seer, a listener.”
These are precious words. “Listener” (shrota) does not merely mean one who has heard. All hear, but all are not listeners. People hear with ears; what goes in one ear goes out the other. If a man, one ear to the next; if a woman, both ears to the mouth! It goes out; it does not settle.

Let it settle; let it descend into the heart. That happens only when not heard with argument, but in dialogue, in music—when the disciple’s and guru’s hearts beat together; when there is no separation—then one becomes a listener; then for the first time one truly hears, truly sees. And your translation was off, Sahajanand: not “manan karne wala—one who does reflection,” but “manta”—the contemplative.

“उपसीदन द्रष्टा भवति, श्रोता भवति, मन्ता भवति—he becomes seer, listener, contemplative.”
Seeing, hearing, thinking—all turned inward. When these three happen together, their total is “buddha”—awakened.

“बुद्धा भवति”—he becomes a buddha.
Then, for the first time, doership is born.
“कर्त्ता भवति.”
A rare sutra—complete science of life-transformation, the steps in order.

You also act, but you are not a doer. Your action is reaction. Someone abuses you; you abuse back. If he had not abused, you would not have abused. The button was pressed; you whirr like a fan. A true doer can say: not today, I’m on holiday. Someone abused Buddha. He said, “If you are finished, I will go—the next village awaits.” They said, “We abused you; this is no conversation!” Buddha said, “To you it may be abuse; to me, it is just words. I have no taste for it. If you had wanted me to relish them, you should have come ten years earlier. Then my sword would have been drawn, your necks fallen. You came too late. Now I am my own master. Your abuse does not operate me. In the last village people brought sweets. I told them my stomach was full. I ask you: what did they do with the sweets?” Someone said, “They took them home, gave them to the children.” Buddha said, “That’s what worries me—what will you do now? You brought abuses; I do not accept. My stomach is full. Take them back; distribute among your kin. You may give; I do not take. Until I take, how can you give? I am my own master.”

The sutra says: first, by sitting near, one becomes a seer, a listener, a contemplative; then buddha-hood happens; and then he becomes a doer. Only a buddha is a doer. And the one who becomes a doer—he is the true knower. He has known what is to be known: he has known himself; knowing himself, he knows all.

Sahajanand, I understand your difficulty: it begins by opposing science and ends by praising the knower. But science is knowing the other; to be a knower is to know the self. Science is science; the knower is religion. The intervening steps are precious.

But we interpret by our own habits and make the most valuable things seem strange. Our understanding trips us up.

Seth Chandulal said to his friend Dhabbuji, “I have terrible toothache. What shall I do?”
Dhabbuji said, “Do nothing. I too once had such pain; I went home, and with a single kiss from my wife, the pain was gone. Do as I did.”
Sethji said, “That’s fine, but will your wife agree?”

Mulla Nasruddin’s son Fazlu said, “Papa, I will marry a girl who is educated, intelligent, skilled, virtuous, and beautiful.”
Nasruddin said, “Meaning—you want to marry five girls at once?”

A lady asked a photographer at a fair, “What’s your rate for children’s photos?”
“Ten rupees for twelve.”
“Then I’ll come later.”
“Why?”
“Right now I have only two children!”

Ways of understanding—each one’s own!

A young woman was about to jump into a river when the guard stopped her: “Bathing is prohibited!”
She said angrily, “Why didn’t you say so when I was undressing?”
He replied, “Only bathing is prohibited here, not undressing!”

A postmaster was resting at home on leave. The postman called, “Sir, a registered letter!” The postmaster shouted from inside, eyes closed: “You wretch! Let me be in peace today—I’m on leave!” He still thought himself in his office. Understanding never leaves you; it stands there and interprets everything.

A very beautiful young woman fed a young beggar to his fill and asked, “Anything else?”
The beggar said, “Remember the word of Jesus: Man does not live by bread alone!”

Three monks sat meditating in a cave. One day a lion passed. Six months later one said, “What a beautiful lion!” A year later the second said, “It was not a lion; it was a cheetah!” Two years later the third said, “If you two keep quarreling like this, I will go elsewhere!”

That’s all for today.