Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #13

Attaining the divine is difficult. But having attained it, to speak of it is even more difficult. To attain it is not so hard, because in truth we have never been even a moment away from it. The fish is in the ocean. It is the ocean that is forgotten. The moment the memory returns, in that very moment the ocean is found. The ocean was never left. No wealth has been lost. It is not a kind of wealth that can be lost at all. It is the life of your life, the breath of your breath, the heartbeat of your heart. It was simply forgotten. When remembrance returns, the treasure is available. In fact, it was always available.

Like an emperor who, in a dream, forgets he is an emperor and becomes a beggar—begging from door to door, wandering through alleys—and when morning comes and he opens his eyes, he laughs. Such is the realization of God. We have never truly lost it. The world is a dream in which we fell asleep; a sleep in which forgetting happened. Whenever the eyes open, laughter comes—laughter at the absurdity that we forgot what can never be lost. And yet, what cannot be lost can still be forgotten. Forgetfulness is possible; remembrance is possible. Neither is the divine truly lost nor truly found. When we say “found,” it only means that remembrance has returned, awareness has come back. “Lost” means that forgetfulness descended, awareness slipped away. To lose means: sleep came, a nod overtook you. To find means: you awoke, your eyes opened. Hence those who have found have been called the awakened—Buddhas.

When Buddha was asked what he attained, he said, “I attained nothing. I only came to know what was already there. Yes, much was lost—‘I’ was lost, ego was lost, ignorance was lost, anxiety was lost, suffering was lost, hell was lost; much was lost, but nothing was gained. What was gained was only what was always present. Memory returned.” In between, garbage had piled up, mountains of ego had arisen, and when those were removed, the sun shone forth. The sun had never been lost; mountains merely obstructed the view. Just as clouds gather and the sun is not seen—even then the sun is as it is, just as when the clouds disperse.

You are clouded. Wrapped in clouds. Within, the sun blazes exactly the same. It is not a sun that can be extinguished. Therefore, attaining God is difficult because bringing back remembrance is difficult. We have been forgetful a very long time. We have slept for aeons, for lives upon lives. Difficult, yes—impossible, no. But more difficult still is this: once attained, how to speak of it to those who have not? How shall one whose eyes have opened speak of light to the blind? How shall one whose deafness has fallen away speak of sound, of music, to the deaf? No device seems adequate.

Ramakrishna used to tell a story. A blind man was a guest somewhere. Kheer had been prepared; he was served kheer. Poor and blind, he’d never tasted kheer before; he loved it. He asked the man sitting beside him, “What is this?” The neighbor said, “A sweet made of milk.” The blind man said, “Don’t tease me with riddles. What is milk?” The neighbor thought, “This is a mess,” and, being a scholar, he forgot he was talking to a blind man. He said, “Milk? Milk is white in color.” The blind man said, “That’s even more confusing. What is white?” The scholar, being a scholar, wouldn’t give up. “White? Have you ever seen a crane? White like a crane.” The blind man was more lost than ever. From kheer to crane! When had he ever seen a crane? He said, “Do something so I can understand. I am blind. Explain the crane to me.” Then the scholar remembered whom he was speaking to. “How will I explain a crane to a blind man?” He bent his arm, held it out and said, “Run your hand over my arm—it’s bent like this; that’s how the crane’s neck is.” The blind man felt his bent arm and rejoiced: “Now I understand—kheer is like a crooked arm!”

In this way, scriptures fall into ruin in the hands of the blind.

Buddha says one thing; you understand another. The fault is neither wholly yours nor Buddha’s; somewhere between the saying and the hearing, the exchange gets distorted. Buddha speaks from another dimension; you understand from yet another. What is your fault? If you have never seen light and someone speaks to you of light—of moon and stars, of rainbows arched across the sky—and you don’t understand; speaks of colors and you don’t understand—what is your fault? And what shall he do who has seen colors? Colors can only be spoken in the language of color. There is no other way.

There was a great Western thinker, Ludwig Wittgenstein. He said: what cannot be said should not be said. But then all scriptures would be rendered meaningless. One would have to set fire to the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Quran, the Shandilya Sutras—for all of them are attempts to say the unsayable. Wittgenstein’s point seems right too: if it cannot be said, why say it? Better to remain silent. Whatever you say will be wrong, and whatever you say will be understood wrongly. It will only create more trouble.

There is weight in his argument. The world has so many sects—this is the result of what awakened ones have said. They intended one thing; something else happened. There are three hundred religions, but the experience of the divine is one. How did three hundred religions arise? It’s the fallout of words. The knowers have known one, but when they spoke, their languages were different—as is natural. Kabir will speak in Kabir’s tongue—the language of a weaver: “Finely, finely the cloth is woven.” Buddha cannot say this. Such words cannot come to his lips, nor enter his mind. Buddha never wove cloth; he cannot remember such a thing. Kabir remembers. Jesus speaks as the son of a carpenter. Buddha speaks like an emperor. Their languages will differ: their conditioning differs; their minds were shaped differently. Meera speaks while dancing. Mahavira does not speak dancing. In Mahavira’s mind there is no place for dance. He becomes still. Perhaps once he danced, but upon knowing, he became utterly motionless—statue-like.

It is no wonder the Jains and Buddhists first made stone statues. Buddha and Mahavira stood like stone, sat like stone. Marble suited them. Make a statue of Meera and it will be false—how will marble dance? But a statue of Buddha is not entirely false; there is affinity. Buddha did sit like that—still, unwavering, unshakable.

If you want a statue of Meera, it cannot be in stone. Perhaps from a fountain—something that dances. Stone would falsify Meera. Meera may never have danced before; when she knew, she danced. The dance must have been in her, in her samskaras. Meera said through dance what Mahavira said while standing in silence.

Languages differ; the experience of truth is one. Speakers have expressed it in many ways; hearers have understood it in many more ways. From a single experience, a thousand paths arise. Then come the quarrels, the deep hostilities, mutual denigrations. Then the urge to prove oneself right and others wrong—argument-nets and debates. In these debates, religion is lost.

So Wittgenstein is right in saying it would have been better if the knowers had remained silent. He also says: when you say “it cannot be said,” that too is something said. Can even that much be said? Not even that.

Yet we must understand the compulsion of Shandilya, Narada, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—those who spoke. When the event happens, when truth is met, along with that meeting comes an inner urge: speak! share! It is inherent in the experience; it does not come from outside. It is not as if Meera thought afterward, “Shall I say it or not?” At most she wondered, “How to say it?” Say it she must. One may even speak through silence—remain quiet and yet say—but that too is a way of saying. You know it: at times you say a great deal by remaining silent. There is a saying: “Maunam sammati lakshanam”—silence is the sign of consent. If someone falls silent, understand: they have agreed. That too is a way of speaking. They did not say “yes,” but they did not say “no” either. If they had wanted to say no, they would have said so, lest silence be mistaken for acceptance. They fell silent—gave their “yes.” Sometimes, by being silent, you say “no” too. Your face speaks; the quality of your silence speaks; your eyes speak; your gestures speak. One speaks even while silent, and also while speaking—there is no avoiding saying.

Whoever knows the divine receives, with that knowing, an inner prompting: share it! say it! scatter it like alms! For so many wander and long to attain, and I am blessed. Along with the blessing comes a responsibility: now let me distribute it, say it. As when a cloud grows full, it must rain. No cloud ponders whether to rain or not. When the child has stayed nine months in the mother’s womb, birth will happen; the mother does not sit debating whether to give birth. When a seed is in the earth and the right moment, the right season arrives, it sprouts. When a lamp is lit, light spreads. When a song rises in your soul, sooner or later it will hum on your lips. And if there is dance in your feet, then sooner or later you will tie on the anklets and dance—Pag ghunghroo bandh Meera nache re—there is no escape. With the experience of truth comes a great impetus—innate in truth itself—not outside it. Truth longs to be shared.

Understand it through whatever you have known. Whenever you are joyful, you want to share. A joyful person seeks companionship—someone to talk with, to open the heart, to laugh and speak with. But when you are in deep sorrow, speaking is hard. You want no one to disturb you; you pull a blanket over your head, shut your door, and lie alone. You want to close yourself off from every side. Sometimes, in deep despair, a person even commits suicide. That too is a message: “I want to be perfectly closed, never to meet anyone again, never to speak again—let it end.” One wants to hide in one’s grave—hence suicide. When you are happy, thrilled, filled with delight, you seek company, you seek a friend. Alone it won’t fit; another is needed to share a little. The joy becomes heavy.

What to say then of the joy of truth! The ocean has poured into the drop; the drop is bursting. In a small human being, the divine descends. The light cannot be contained; a flood arises and breaks all banks.

Wittgenstein is right—but he has no experience of truth. He speaks as a philosopher: what cannot be said should not be said. Logical enough, but he has no taste of it. If only he had known, he would have known the pain—the pain of those who have seen.

This is humanity’s oldest, unresolved question: how to express the experience of truth—in what language, by what method? How to speak without error? How to speak without doing injustice to truth? How to ensure the listener understands what is meant, and does not misunderstand, or understand something else? This puzzle is as old as the search for religion. It has not been solved; nor will it be. It cannot be solved. It is an eternal riddle.

On this riddle, Shandilya gives his view today—a very unique view. Before you can understand Shandilya, let us reconsider a few points I mentioned earlier.

The Western Jewish thinker Martin Buber said: in that moment two remain—I and Thou; I–Thou. That moment is the moment of I–Thou. Here, the devotee remains; there, God. The devotee means “I,” God means “Thou.” The ultimate experience is the dialogue between I and Thou—the bridge is built; I and Thou meet. As in lovemaking, lovers merge and for a moment become one—yet even in oneness, they remain two; and in twoness, they taste oneness. Bodies remain two, minds remain two, souls remain two—yet in a peak moment, they forget themselves and merge into one another. Still, two they are; and two, yet one. This is love’s riddle, love’s pain—that with the one you long to become one, you never quite become one. Even when you become one, two remain.

Buber says the hour of union gives a glimpse of the supreme dialogue that happens between devotee and God. That experience is dialogue. Meera will agree; Kabir will agree; Junnaid will agree; many Sufi mystics will agree. This is one way of saying it.

A second way is that of Maharshi Kashyapa: “तामैश्वर्यपदां काश्यपः परत्वात्‌।” He will speak in terms of “Thou.” The I dissolves; only Thou remains. The devotee is absorbed; only God remains. The drop falls into the ocean—the drop is lost; the ocean remains. I is gone; thou alone remains. I was isolated; that was the pain. Now I am no longer separate; I am one, without another.

What Kashyapa says, Jalaluddin also says. Many mystics have said: Thou is, I am not. This too is true. For I is a delusion. In the supreme moment, how can I remain? The divine is truth; the ocean is truth. What is the being of a drop—momentary, limited? When the limited meets the limitless, only the limitless remains; the limit dissolves. And know this: the limitless does not grow by one drop. Hence the Upanishads say: from that Whole if you take the Whole, the Whole remains; if you add the Whole to the Whole, the Whole remains as it is. In the infinite, nothing increases, nothing decreases. Rivers pour into the ocean; the ocean does not increase. Clouds rise from the ocean; the ocean does not diminish. The ocean remains the same. And the ocean, note well, is not truly infinite; it has shores. God is infinite. So Kashyapa says: only sovereignty remains—tam aishwarya-padam. In that supreme moment, only pure lordliness remains.

Understand this: Kashyapa does not even say “God”; he says aishwarya—sovereignty, majesty.

Why not “God”? Because “God” suggests a person. No person remains there; only a pure experience remains—the experience of sovereignty, supreme splendor, blessedness. “God” is a personal noun, and where there is personhood there is ego. How can there be ego in the divine? There is only pure sovereignty. The divine is not a noun but a verb; not an object but a flow, a movement, a dynamic happening. For convenience we say “God.” But how will you worship sovereignty? What idol will you make of sovereignty? Where will you find sovereignty? Sovereignty pervades all. The devotee, according to his need, narrows sovereignty into a small image: a statue of Rama, of Krishna. Dress Krishna in yellow silk, crown him with peacock feathers, place a flute in his hand, set him in a dancing posture. The peacock plume symbolizes the beauty of the whole universe. The flute on his lips symbolizes the universal song. The devotee needs this. He is limited; he can befriend only the limited. That’s why when Krishna revealed his cosmic form in the Gita, Arjuna was terrified—though he himself had asked to see it. The drop trembled upon beholding the ocean. Faced with the infinite—without boundary, without shores—how could he not shake?

The devotee, according to his measure, fashions God. The world is filled with beauty—but to see it as a whole requires profound eyes. The devotee condenses that universal beauty into the peacock crown. The cosmic sound—Om resounding through trees as winds pass, thunder rolling in the sky—he captures it in the flute. That flute can be understood; it is placed on Krishna’s lips. The yellow garment symbolizes the golden sunlight that envelops the world, without which there is no life. The earth itself wears a yellow robe; trees, creatures live under it. But where will the mind hold the vastness? So Krishna is robed in yellow—symbol of sun, of life. His feet stand in dance, for the whole existence is a festival, a dance.

If you go looking for Krishna, you will not find a person somewhere, crowned with peacock feathers, robed in yellow, holding a flute, standing in dance, waiting for you. He would have grown tired by now; long since become sad that you have not come. The curtain would have fallen by now—how long to wait? No, there is no such person anywhere.

Therefore Kashyapa said: tam aishwarya-padam—sovereignty, not a God. “Kashyapah paratvat”—it is Thou. The I disappears; his sovereignty remains; He remains; Thou remains.

This goes a step beyond Buber. In Buber, duality remains. In Kashyapa, duality dissolves; one remains—no two.

The third expression is Badarayana’s: I—Aham Brahmasmi! It is also Vedanta’s, and that of Jain sages, and of Mansoor—Anal Haq! They say: what is hidden within us unfolds as the whole; nothing lies outside. The divine is not other; it is not a Thou—it is the innermost core of I. This goes deeper still, for Thou implies some distance. Why retain even that? The divine is my very nature.

Thus Badarayana says: आत्मैकपरां बादरायणः—He is the self, the I of my I.

Not the “I” you repeat day and night—that false I, counterfeit coin. The true coin is when the divine appears as your I—without ego, without self-sense. Badarayana wants to say: the divine is not outside you; do not go searching elsewhere. Open your inner eye! You won’t find it by opening the outer eyes but by closing them. Dive within. Jesus says, “The kingdom of God is within you.” Badarayana will agree.

The fourth expression is Gautam Buddha’s, which goes deeper still: neither I nor Thou; neither is there.

Understand this. The same realization ripened deeply in the Zen lineage. This is the language of emptiness. On one end, Buber: I–Thou. On the other, Gautam Buddha, Bodhidharma, Rinzai, Hui Hai, Huang Po—a long Zen tradition. They say: neither I nor Thou. Neti-neti—not this, not that. Why? Because, Buddha says, only so long as I is, Thou can be; and only so long as Thou is, I can be. They arise together. If either is present, duality remains. When the One is known, both must disappear; neither can survive.

We cannot say of the divine, “I,” for it is “Thou” also; nor can we say “Thou,” for it is “I” also. If we say “I,” a boundary forms; if we say “Thou,” a boundary forms. If we say both, duality appears, distance arises. Therefore Buddha says: not this and not that. The Upanishadic “neti-neti” would agree. Neither I nor Thou remains there. The quarrel between I and Thou does not remain—indeed, I and Thou do not remain. An immense void envelops you, in which both dissolve. Something remains for which we have no word. Buddha says: it is inexpressible, indescribable; inevitably, it cannot be said.

These are four standard answers. Shandilya’s answer is the fifth—and goes deeper yet.

Shandilya says: “उभयपरां शांडिल्यः शब्दः उपपत्तिभ्याम्‌।” By “word and reasoning,” Shandilya calls it ubhayapara—both-beyond.

Shandilya says: all these statements are right, and yet none is right. His statement is very unique. He says: all that has been said—I–Thou; Thou; I; neither I nor Thou—is right in one sense, from one standpoint; but from only one standpoint. From the rest, it is wrong. Even to say “neither I nor Thou” is not entirely true. If neither remains, why seek such a state at all? If both remain, the world remains—the quarrel of I–Thou persists in subtle form. If one remains, half the truth appears; if the other, still half. These are one-sided views—ways of speaking. They reveal the compulsion to speak, but they do not proclaim the fullness of truth.

Shandilya says: ubhayapara—both, and beyond. It is this and that; it is both. There is a saying “neti-neti”; Shandilya says “iti-iti”—this too, that too. All these statements hold some truth. In each of them a facet shines, but full truth cannot be contained in any statement—nor ever will be. For the whole truth, words are too small.

Shall we call the divine light or darkness? If we say light, whence darkness—will we then posit some other god, call it Satan? If we say darkness, whence light? If we say both, mind protests: they never coexist—where light is, darkness is not; where darkness is, light is not. If we say neither, our entire experience is of the two—light and darkness. If neither, then the matter slips out of our hands; we cannot understand. These are the hindrances.

Shandilya says: there is a portion of truth in all statements. He is a syadavadi—one who says “perhaps,” who allows multiple perspectives. Each statement reveals a facet; other facets are concealed—do not forget them. Truth is both-and: present in all facets. The one who says God is darkness also speaks truly—for in God are qualities of darkness: depth, profundity, peace, rest. Those who say God is light also speak truly—for in God are qualities of light: clarity, visibility, illumination, wakefulness; nothing remains hidden. In darkness, all is concealed; in God, all is revealed.

In God are features of light and of darkness. And because God is totality, he must be both. But language hinders. If we say both, logic objects. If we deny both, as Buddha did, we escape logical knots but lose all grip: neither I nor Thou; neither darkness nor light; neither life nor death; neither spring nor fall—then what is it? Nothing remains in the hand. After such long discussion, what result? You watched the Ramlila all night and in the morning still ask: whose wife was Sita? Nothing resolved.

Understand Shandilya. He says: ubhayapara. The divine must be understood as comprising both sides of every polarity—and beyond both. He sits between all dualities, free of duality. Life is that, death is that; light is that, darkness is that; and beyond both, that—as both-and-beyond.

Hence the Upanishads say: nearer than near and farther than far. This is the language of ubhayapara. If you say “far,” the search becomes difficult. If you say “near,” there is no need to search; and even the nearest implies some distance. What to say then? The Upanishads say both: farther than far, closer than close. Until you find, it is farther than far; when you find, it is closer than close. As long as you sleep, it is far; when you awaken, it is nearer than your own breath.

The first four positions generate sects. Why? Because they have a virtue: they are clear. Kashyapa says “Thou,” or Badarayana says “I”—it’s plain. In the name of clarity, truth was sacrificed. You can choose only one of the two. If you choose the whole truth, you must accept contradiction; there will be ambiguity, lack of clarity, statements beyond logic. If you want crystal clarity, truth can only be partial, never complete—for complete truth is paradoxical. Nothing can be done about it; it is the nature of truth to carry its opposite within itself.

Do you not see that life hides death? That love hides hate? That the friend hides the enemy? If you want to make someone your enemy, first make them your friend. Strange! You cannot make someone directly your enemy. How would you? First befriend him; then enmity can arise. The greater the friend, the greater the potential enemy.

Machiavelli, the Chanakya of the West, wrote in The Prince, as counsel to kings: what you would not say to your enemies, do not say to your friends either—for friends may become enemies. And what you wouldn’t say regarding your friends, don’t say regarding enemies—for sooner or later, enemies become friends. Otherwise you will regret it later.

There is great meaning here. He is saying: the enemy is concealed in the friend, and the friend in the enemy. Hatred in love, love in hatred. In wealth is hidden poverty; in poverty, wealth. See: Buddha and Mahavira abandoned their kingdoms and became poor. They must have seen that poverty is hidden in wealth and wealth in poverty. Naked, they became emperors; as emperors, they were naked. As emperors they were beggars; as beggars, emperors. Here, polarities interpenetrate. Health hides illness; illness hides health. Only the living can fall ill; the dead cannot. And the ill can become healthy; the healthy can become ill. They are opposites, yes, but inwardly linked—two ends of one energy: ubhayapara. But if you speak like this, no sect can form behind you.

A sect formed behind Badarayana; his Brahma Sutras became the foundation for Shankara’s lineage. Kashyapa has a tradition. But no sect formed around Shandilya—nor can it. When you try to speak truth from all sides, no one will be entirely satisfied. When you speak the whole truth, it slips beyond comprehension; it becomes difficult. You will do justice to truth, but people will not agree with you.

Understand this: falsehood has clarity. It sounds odd, but falsehood is neat and tidy—man-made. You can cut and shape it however you like; it’s in your hands. Truth is not in your hands—you are in its hands. You cannot shape it, color it. You must speak it as it is.

Lao Tzu says: everyone else is so clever and precise; my intelligence is all tangled—I have become almost a fool. The knower, the supreme knower, says he is nearly a fool. Everything inside him is misty; nothing sharp. Others’ reason is at high noon; mine is like twilight—neither day nor night.

Have you ever wondered why the Hindu calls his prayer “sandhya,” twilight? Precisely for this reason—ubhayapara. Why call prayer “twilight”? Because it is where day and night meet—where neither day nor night is; where both are present. Twilight is a haze, a midpoint, a time of transition. Such is the state of the supreme experience—neither I nor Thou; both I and Thou—ubhayapara. Like twilight—neither blazing noon nor dense night. Neither I nor Thou is clear; all is hushed and shadowy. That is why this hour is called the hour of mystery, of wonder.

Lao Tzu is right: others are intelligent, logical; I alone have become foolish—nothing appears clear. Everything within me is like twilight.

The supreme knower is like this: everything becomes mysterious; dualities dissolve into one another; the boundaries of two worlds meet—twilight descends.

Perhaps you have not noticed that in this land, the saints’ language is called the language of twilight. Kabir’s language is called sandhya-bhasha; the sadhukkhari dialect is the language of twilight. Why? Because in it, things are not clear as in mathematics. That is the difference between science and religion. Mathematics speaks the language of noon; poetry speaks the language of night; religion speaks the language of twilight. Some of its statements are as clear as science; some are as vague as poetry. Their fusion creates great bewilderment.

In the West, the saints’ utterances came to be called mysticism—nothing is very tidy. Like dawn haze, thick fog—hand cannot see hand. Light is there, yet you cannot see your own hand. Poetry is clearly obscure; mathematics is clearly clear. Religion is clear–obscure at once. Religion does not choose.

“उभयपरां शांडिल्यः शब्दः उपपत्तिभ्याम्‌।
By word and reasoning, Shandilya calls it both-and-beyond.”

For two reasons he says ubhayapara.

First: words have limits; truth does not. Words must be precise; otherwise they lose their utility. Darkness must mean darkness; light must mean light; heat must mean heat; cold must mean cold. Otherwise, words lose meaning. If a word’s meaning is sometimes this, sometimes that—everything mixed into khichdi—speech becomes impossible. Language survives by clarity.

Consider this: warm one hand over the brazier and chill the other on ice. Then dip both hands into a bucket of water. If someone asks, “Is the water cold or hot?”—you’ll be in a fix. One hand will say cold; the other hot. The water is at one temperature. The hand warmed on the brazier says cold; the hand chilled on ice says warm, tepid. Which hand will you trust? The water is both.

Heat and cold are not two things—two names for one phenomenon. But in language we must separate them, or we will be lost. Language demands clean boundaries and definitions.

This trouble arises from language. Shandilya says: I want to tell you—truth is both. It is both, and also neither; and beyond both. Do not be bound by any one word’s limits.

And second: upapatti—how the realization happens. By the time you reach that experience, revolutions have occurred within you. First revolution: thoughts fall silent. Where thought falls silent, words dissolve. The moment happens in utter silence; there are no words there. Second: the mind is not. Mind is only the name of the process of thinking. There, there is no mind, no mentation, no reflection. Truth stands before you; you are filled with it. Where is the room for cogitation? Thinking is groping in the dark; when there is light and everything is clear, what is there to think? Thinking stops; one is struck dumb. The mind shuts with a thud. And yet it is the mind that must carry back the report. When you return to the world—to your friends, your family, your loved ones—and you say, “I have known,” who will bring the news? The mind. Irony: the mind was not there then; yet the report must be given by that which was absent. That which was present there never returns; you cannot bring it back. There is no way.

A famous poet once went to the seashore. His beloved lay ill in the hospital. The sea was beautiful—the blueness, the fresh morning breezes, the newborn sunlight, the loveliness upon the shore, the fragrant winds. He was thrilled and joyful. He thought, “If only my beloved were here. She cannot come—she is ill. What can I do for her? I’ll take her a gift.” He brought a big chest and, opening it on the shore, tried to capture the sea air and the light—then quickly closed it, sealed and locked it.

He arrived at the hospital beaming: “I have brought light and fresh breeze.” But can fresh air remain fresh in a chest? Put in as much as you like—inside the chest it becomes stale. Can you trap sunlight in a chest? When he closed it, he saw the rays playing upon it, and thought, “They must be inside now.” But some things cannot be caught. He sealed every seam with wax and locks, but sun rays are not currency you can lock in a safe. They slipped out as the lid came down. No one can clench them in a fist.

Still, he was delighted, imagining the moment: when I open this chest, my beloved’s eyes will brighten. When he opened it, she looked perplexed: “What have you brought—a vacant chest?” He too peered in, bewildered: “It’s strange; when I closed it, it was not empty. Rays danced; the breeze blew. I thought I’d bring a taste of the sea for you.”

So it is. When you reach the shore of the divine and bring the experience back, by the time you get here, the chests you bring—chests of words—have killed it. The experience happens where there is no mind. But to tell of it, you must employ the mind. The very mode of that experience is so different, so unique, that you cannot catch it in words. Go beyond words—it is grasped. Bring it into words—it slips away.

Still, the master speaks—not thinking he can convey it by speech, but to arouse thirst. The poet’s folly—yet I say, he did right. At least this much would happen: seeing his eyes, the effort of filling the chest—though he failed—his beloved’s thirst would awaken. A thrill would arise: “I too must go to the seashore. When I am well, I will go.” If she recovered, her first request would be, “Take me to the sea.” He tried to bring something; he could not. But in me, a thirst has been born. Since that day, I cannot sleep; I dream of the sea; thoughts return again and again. Though I don’t know what you saw, you did see. Your stunned eyes, your wonderstruck face, your intention, the love with which you opened the chest, your bewilderment at finding it empty—all this told me you had truly brought something. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have carried that heavy chest. There was a treasure—only it could not be transported. The treasure exists. Your weariness, your disbelief as you kept reopening the lid, “Where did the rays go? Where is the breeze? Where is that little piece of the sea?”—your whole state stirred a thirst in me: as soon as I can walk, I’ll go to the sea.

So it is. Whether Shandilya speaks, or Kapila, or Kanada, or Narada, or Kashyapa, or Badarayana—no matter what kind of chest they bring—large or small, gold, iron or wood, ornate or plain—what matters is that whenever a knower returns, his lovers feel: there is something we have not seen—he has. Something happened in his life that should happen in ours. And they see too that he cannot say it; his tongue falters. Even the greatest saints lisp before the divine—how to say it? It is like the mute tasting sugar. He has tasted; how can he tell? He can grab your hand, though, and drag you along. He cannot speak, but he can make a commotion; his eyes can tell you: “He has seen something. Let’s go with him and have a look.” He wouldn’t be so ecstatic for nothing. If only you can go, you too will arrive. Without arriving, life has no meaning, no fulfillment.

“उभयपरां शांडिल्यः।” Shandilya says the experience is both-and-beyond—like twilight.

“वैषम्यात्‌ असिद्धं इति चेन्न अभिज्ञानवत्‌ वैशिष्ट्‌यात्‌।
This is not invalidated by diversity, for the diversity lies in the modes of knowing.”

A question will arise: do so many people experience the divine so differently? Does differing language indicate differing experiences? People say different things—are there many gods? Perhaps they are experiencing different deities! With so much diversity in expression, is there diversity in the divine?

Shandilya says: no. There is no diversity in it. It is vast—so vast that whoever returns can at most speak a facet.

And each person brings the news in his own way. Meera danced; Chaitanya danced; Buddha did not dance—he sat unmoving. Christ brought rebellion. And there were many who remained unknown, never speaking—a thousand different expressions. Naturally the question arises: was their experience one?

Shandilya says: the experience is one; there cannot be two—because experience happens only when the mind disappears. When mind is gone, distinctions are gone. Expression varies—because to express, one must take up the mind again.

Bring four people into this garden: a poet, a painter, a musician, a dancer. They sit under one tree’s shade, one fragrance fills their nostrils, one filtered sunlight falls upon them, one breeze flows, one birdsong sounds. Then they leave, and you ask each to convey what he saw. The poet will sing—song is his closest medium. The musician will pluck a vina—where is the similarity between a song and the vina’s strings? The dancer will tie bells to his ankles and dance, conveying how the winds danced and the trees swayed. The singer will sing of the birds’ humming and the resonances of air passing through leaves. The painter will paint with colors—no words, no dance, no sound, only hues. Their own specialties will enter their expression. This does not mean they saw different gardens. The seeing was one; the telling differs.

Diversity does not prove that God is not one. God is one—that which breathes through the whole, the life of the totality. “God” is the name of totality. But the mode of experience is each one’s own; expression differs. The divine does not manifest in distinctive, separate ways; its being is ordinary, undistinguished. This is Shandilya’s important statement:

“वैषम्यात्‌ असिद्धं इति चेन्न अभिज्ञानवत्‌ वैशिष्ट्‌यात्‌।”
There is no particularity in it; it is ordinary. What Zen calls “ordinary”—supremely ordinary. No specialness there.

A Zen monk was asked: you have attained nirvana, you have known God—what is your way of life now? What was it before? He said, “Before? I chopped wood, I drew water from the well.” And now? He said, “How marvelous! How wondrous! Now too I chop wood and draw water.” “Then what is the difference?” “There is much difference—if you have eyes to see. Before, I chopped wood—I was there, chopping. I drew water—I was the doer. Now wood is being chopped, water is being drawn—how marvelous! The wonder is this: there is no doer. I am gone; that alone remains.”

The world continues as it is. You change; your “I” falls. When your “I” dissolves in God, nothing else need change—still you will sit in your shop; you should. You will go to the market; you should. But you are no longer there. You go—yet no one goes. You sit—yet no one sits. This is what Krishna told Arjuna: fight—but don’t come in the way. Drop the doer; let Him do what He will. Be the vehicle, the instrument. Don’t worry, “He will kill them.” Those who are to die have already died—you will only be the occasion. Drop the delusion of being the doer; the sole doer is He.

So those saints who claim specialness because of their experience—know they have not known. The claim of specialness is a new form of ego: “I am renounced; I am this, I am that.” Those who sit on thrones of distinction—no realization. Those who have known become utterly ordinary—just like you. No outward difference; the difference is inner, invisible to you. Their lives are simple—hungry, they eat; thirsty, they drink; night comes, they sleep—like you.

But human ego is strange. We want our enlightened ones to be special. So we invent stories of specialness around our saints. Muslims say clouds followed Mohammed to shade him in the Arabian desert. Jains say Mahavira never perspired, even under the blazing sun. Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin. All nonsense—attempts to make them special. But the divine is not special; it is more ordinary than ordinary—hidden in the ordinary. It is not sitting in the skies; it is present in you.

Thus the true knower becomes entirely ordinary. Perhaps you meet him on the road and do not recognize him; he may sit beside you and you would not know.

In Japan, an emperor, now old, sought a true master. He visited many renowned sages, but none satisfied him. He said to his aged minister, “What shall I do? I am not content. I have met great saints, but I have not found the one who could be my master.” The minister said, “You will not—because you are seeking the special. You think, ‘I am an emperor; my guru must be very special.’ But the truly enlightened one becomes ordinary. You might meet him and not recognize him, because you are addicted to specialness. You think he should be studded with stars, with jewels; your habit misleads you. You sit on a throne and imagine he sits on a greater throne. Even if you meet him, you won’t know him.” The emperor said, “Strange! Do you know someone whom, if I met, I wouldn’t recognize?” “Yes,” said the minister. “And you will not recognize him. The old guard at your gate—that’s the one. I have sat with him for thirty years. What I have received from him, your so-called saints have no inkling of.” The emperor cried, “My guard—a knower? Are you mad?” The minister said, “I told you: you won’t recognize him. You are looking for the special.”

Often it’s so: the enlightened one may be in your home, and you search outside; in your neighborhood, and you go to the Himalayas. And while you search the Himalayas, the knower sits in the marketplace. Why would the knower go to the Himalayas? The marketplace is his; the Himalayas are his—everything is his. Realization is not a special event. The day you recognize your simple, natural being—on that day, it happens.

Remember this sutra:

“न च क्लिष्टः परस्मात्‌ अनन्तरं विशेषात्‌।
The divine is not tainted by diversity, for special qualities arise from the modes of knowing.”

The special qualities that various sects and religions attribute to the divine are not God’s qualities—they are the knowers’ qualities, produced by their modes of knowing. A musician’s knowledge is music; when he experiences God, he will say: God is supreme music, Om. That is his coloring. Another approaches by another route.

Plato, the great Greek, had inscribed at the entrance of his Academy: “Let none ignorant of geometry enter.” For Plato, God was the great mathematician. Plato was a mathematician; naturally, he saw mathematics everywhere—how flawlessly it fits! Mathematics alone seems perfect; other sciences revise themselves; mathematics is steady, its truths appear eternal. So he said: God is mathematics. Hence, in his school, geometry was a prerequisite. Strange, isn’t it—mathematics as a condition to know God? But that was Plato’s language.

Different people will speak different tongues; you must catch their idiom. Omar Khayyam speaks of God in terms of wine—that is his language. Don’t take him for a drunkard. He is not praising alcohol. He tasted wine, and when God happened, he remembered: this is wine in its ultimate form. With wine he had momentarily forgotten “I”; in God, “I” was forgotten forever. But only a drinker can say so. Ask Mahavira—he would be shocked: God and wine?

Each person’s knowing projects its own specialness onto God. But God is not mathematics, nor wine, nor music. He is all, because he is bound by no one specialty. He contains all.

“ऐश्वर्ये तथा इति चेन्न स्वाभाव्यात्‌।
There is no fault in His majesties, for they are natural.”

God’s totality is his aishwarya—sovereignty. He is everything—every poem is his; every mathematics his; every dance his; every love his; every wine his; good and bad—all his. This is his majesty. No fault clings to it, because it is natural. It is his nature.

Understand the difference. When a man attains “majesty,” it may be natural—or it may not. You collect wealth and people say, “He has attained great majesty.” But wealth is not your nature; it can be stolen, governments can cancel notes. What is its worth? In a moment you could be poor. Communism could arrive; a thousand things could happen—a fire, a bank collapse, a partner’s betrayal; your wife might run away with it! What will you trust? Possessions are not your nature; therefore, hidden in them is calamity.

Your fame is not natural; it depends on others. You must bribe and flatter others. If you want people to call you good, you must call them good. People call good the one who calls them good. If you want them to consider you wise, you must call everyone wise and great; they will then proclaim you a great saint. If you want others to bow before you, keep touching their feet—they will bow to you. It’s all give-and-take, dependent on others—no real majesty.

True majesty is your own nature, dependent on no one—arising from your inner consciousness, your own flower. Is the wildflower less majestic because no one praises it, no exhibition displays it, no photographer captures it, no newspaper reports it? Perhaps no one passes by; it blooms, dances in the winds, scatters its fragrance, falls, is lost—never recorded in history. But is it not majestic? It is. It lived and danced—what more is needed? It fulfilled its own nature.

There are two kinds of majesty. One imagined, dependent on others—the more lost in it, the less you can find natural majesty. The other is natural, dependent only on you—no one can steal it or refute it or take it. Use this as a touchstone: whatever can be taken is not yours. If this much dawns on you, your life will be revolutionized. What remains then? Only your inner awareness, your meditation, wakefulness, consciousness.

Krishna tells Arjuna of this: “Nainam chindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah”—no weapon can cleave it, no fire burn it. That which is within is you. That is your majesty.

When Shandilya speaks of God’s aishwarya, he means this majesty. No fault touches His majesty; plenty of fault touches yours.

Understand: to be rich, you must make many poor. There is guilt in this. Your wealth depends on others’ poverty. To be famous, many must remain obscure. How many can be president in a nation? If you make six hundred million presidents, presidency has no meaning. It only has meaning if only one can be president—implying that the rest are denied. Violence is inherent. One becomes president; six hundred million are rendered powerless. Your grandeur stands on their diminishment. You build a palace; many lost their huts—guilt fills the enterprise. This is not true majesty. True majesty takes nothing from anyone. Your flowering does not rob; meditation does not steal another’s meditation; love does not steal another’s love; your peace does not require others to be disturbed—on the contrary, your peace radiates peace.

Make this a basic touchstone: if your becoming robs another, it is worldly. If your becoming robs no one—and even enhances others—then it is natural. Nature—svabhava—is the divine.

“‘ऐश्वर्यों में दोष स्पर्श नहीं करता, क्योंकि वे स्वाभाविक हैं।’”

In this land, we have always called the divine Lakshmi-Narayana. Gandhi introduced an unfortunate phrase—Daridra-Narayana, “God as the poor.” He did not see the difference in majesty. He assumed worldly wealth is what is meant by divine wealth. But the divine Lakshmi is other—natural, his inner state. And whenever anyone attains the divine, he attains true majesty—he becomes God again.

Every person can be Bhagavan. The word means “one endowed with natural fortune”—but it must be natural, involving no snatching. What is taken from another contains sin and violence. Rejoice only in the majesty that is truly yours—you will then find yourself near the divine. Growing in that majesty, you become God.

“अप्रतिषिद्धं पर ऐश्वर्यं तत्‌ भावात्‌ च न एव इतरेषाम्‌।
God’s majesties are never negated; their eternity is evident. Not so with beings.”

His majesty can never be taken, destroyed, invalidated, or fractured.

“Not so with beings.”

Because human beings have mistaken non-majesty for majesty—misreading calamity as wealth, the alien as one’s own. Hence the trouble. You’ve seen the world’s game: a man in office is honored; step down and the honor vanishes. Not only vanishes—revenge appears. Those who garlanded him throw shoes. In truth, even when they praised him, they were angry, because his rise robbed them. They cannot forgive. While he had power, they tolerated him; they could not oppose him—he could harm them, so they bowed, waiting for their chance.

See how many books are now written against Indira. Where were these people before? They were writing in her favor, speaking for her. Why the sudden reversal? The earlier praise contained resentment. The flowers laid then are now being paid back. And they will do the same to others. Those now in power might think the whole nation speaks for them—a delusion. When you descend, you learn that the very people who sang your praises now abuse you. The rich are honored outwardly; inwardly people curse them and wait for their downfall: “When will his house catch fire? When will he go bankrupt?” Who wishes the rich a Diwali? They wish him a “divala”—bankruptcy. Outward praise; inside jealousy and resentment. They wait for the day they can watch the spectacle.

All human grandeur—wealth, fame, position—is theft and snatching. God’s majesty is of another kind—his nature. Move toward that nature. Seek what is your own nature. Do not magnify your persona or dignity by taking from others. These water-bubbles last a moment; paper boats do not go far—they will sink. Before they do, build the boat of your life from your own nature—call it meditation, love, prayer, worship—whatever name you like. Shandilya’s sutras are vital: to attain natural majesty is to attain God.

Have you noticed you carry within you a natural treasure you do not cultivate? Your condition is like a seed begging trees for a leaf or a flower: “Let me borrow a little greenness, a little fragrance!” A seed which, if it fell into soil and broke, would become a great tree with thousands of leaves, profuse greenery and flowers—yet the seed begs. You are such a seed, begging. You could be Lakshmi-Narayana, yet you act as Daridra-Narayana. And as long as you enjoy identifying as poor, it will be difficult.

You are Lakshmi-Narayana. All treasure is yours; the splendor of the whole cosmos is yours—the flowers, the stars. They need not be in your fist—they are yours already. No need to clench. Descend into your nature—your silence, your emptiness. Move through the inner steps, stand at your center. There, the seed cracks—the shell of ego breaks. As it breaks, you become a tree. And then the sound that arises within will differ in each—though the happening is one, the tones vary because personalities vary. Jesus would say what Zarathustra said; Krishna what Kabir said—each pointing to the same.

Shandilya’s sutras point to that One. But he adds a condition: remember—all gestures point to the same, and all gestures are incomplete; no gesture can reveal all facets.

“उभयपरां शांडिल्यः शब्दः उपपत्तिभ्याम्‌।
So much for today.”