Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #33

The quest now is not for the road nor for the destination,
I seek only my own lost heart.
Hold me not back, beloved, from the rain of my tears—
this assembly of existence longs for an evening of festivity.
Let there be a vision where none appears but One alone;
the heart, upon the path of longing, seeks such a destination.
How long with the outward eye will you guess at the Friend?
O “Shama,” now seek an eye of the heart.

We possess one eye that looks outward, and we possess another eye that looks within. Of this inner eye we have hardly any inkling. The very search for this inner eye is what religion is. And that inner eye does not only look inward; it also sees that inner which hides behind the outer.

The world and the Divine are not two. The world means: the Divine as yet seen only by the outward eye. The Divine seen from the outside is the world. The day we behold the world with the inner eye, that very day the world dissolves and only God remains. God is the intimate backstage of the world. God is the soul of the world.

God and the world are not two; it is our seeing that has two modes.

How long with the outward eye will you guess at the Friend?
How long will you try to see the Beloved with the eye that looks out?

How long with the outward eye will you guess at the Friend?
O “Shama”—now seek an eye of the heart.

Now we need an eye that sprouts in the heart. Only through this heart’s eye can God be seen. People ask: Where is God? They should ask: Where is my heart? How does my heart open? They should ask: How can I become capable of looking within? Whoever sees within himself also sees within the whole—remember this. From the outside we look at ourselves, and we look at the world. Neither is our recognition of ourselves direct, nor is our recognition of the world direct.

Devotion is the most effortless way to open that inner eye. Yoga opens it too, but through long procedures—great effort, great striving, a kind of force. Devotion also opens that eye, but without striving, without force. Not effort, but worship. The devotee simply surrenders himself into God’s hands—open my inner eye!

And then the One who gave life, from whom existence has welled up—through That all things are possible; the impossible becomes possible. Understand this small thing properly: the energy by which the whole universe moves, by which sun and stars are born, by which you are born, the trees are born, mountains are born—will that energy not be able to open your inner eye? If you look rightly at the world, one point becomes clear: such an immense vastness runs with such ease; will it not be within the capacity of that vast energy to make the bud of your heart open? The sun rises, and millions upon millions of buds bloom.

This is the trust of devotion: by our doing it does not happen; our doing creates the obstacle; by our doing the hindrance itself arises. It happens in simplicity, in trust upon That, in faith.

Today’s sutras are very precious. The first sutra—

Utkrantih smriti-vakya-sheshat cha.
Because the Blessed Lord has said that His devotees, transcending all karmas, are capable of attaining perfection in a single leap.

Every single word is to be understood.

Utkrantih smriti-vakya-sheshat cha.
Remember the words of God. Those words lie scattered—in the Vedas, in the Upanishads, in the Gita, in the Quran, in the Bible—throughout the scriptures of the world they lie scattered. God has spoken many times. Whenever a devotee has called, God has spoken. The Gita was spoken because of Arjuna’s thirst. Had Arjuna not been thirsty, the Gita would not have been born. Whenever a devotee has thirsted, his cloud has poured—poured abundantly. The words lie scattered. In the history of human consciousness there are mile-stones here and there. God has spoken many times. You too will call, and He will speak to you as well. If He has not spoken to you it is only because you have not called. You have not declared your thirst. You have not prayed your plea. You have not even written a letter. And then you make a useless complaint: He has never spoken to me; how can I have trust? He may have spoken to Arjuna—Arjuna can say so—but how am I to trust?

Have you called like Arjuna? Have you pleaded? If you plead, instantly you will find—His words begin to descend, rays begin to arrive, the bud begins to open.

Utkrantih smriti-vakya-sheshat cha.
This word utkranti is also to be understood. You will understand it if you understand three words.

One word is vikas—evolution, growth. Vikas means: that which happens by itself; it does not have to be done. The child becomes a youth, the youth becomes old. The seed becomes a sapling, the sapling becomes a tree, the tree blossoms. This is vikas. No one is doing it; it is happening. Understand vikas rightly. The devotee’s trust is in this vikas, in the ultimate form of this vikas. We do not pull the tree out of the seed by force. Even if you try, what will you pull? The seed will be destroyed. The bud does not have to be forcibly opened. If you open it, it will wither in your opening and never become a flower. Children do not have to be pulled into youth. Fortunately people do not pull their children into youth; otherwise the children would have perished long ago. Everything is happening on its own. Such a vastness is happening on its own! Trust this happening-on-its-own.

Vikas means: that which is happening of itself. Kranti—revolution—means: that which must be done, by force. That is why violence is inherently hidden in revolution. There can be no nonviolent revolution; revolution means compulsion. How you apply compulsion makes no essential difference—whether you press a dagger to someone’s chest, or you keep a fast—it is compulsion. Whether you threaten to kill yourself or threaten to kill another, it is the same. Revolution means you have lost trust in vikas; you are in a hurry. In revolution there is lack of faith.

Hence it is not accidental that revolutionaries are often atheists. Not accidental that they become irreligious. There is a logic behind it. Revolution means a person has lost trust in vikas. He says: nothing will happen without our doing; only if we do will it happen; if we leave it to itself, it just goes on—nothing ever changes. Revolution means an upheaval brought by force. Bloodstains remain in it. Stains that cannot be wiped out.

What does utkranti mean?

Utkranti is a very unique word. Utkranti contains something of kranti—hence ut-kranti—and something of vikas—hence it is not merely kranti, but utkranti.

Vikas is happening by itself—very slow, gentle. You need not do anything. Sleep or sit, you will keep growing into youth; sleep or sit, you will keep growing old. Do or don’t do, old age will come. It is happening of itself. Opposing it is not possible. What will you do in haste? Nothing can be done. You are helpless. Vikas has no need of your thirst, no need of your prayer. That is vikas.

And kranti means: your entire ego is required. You seize all arrangements into your own hands, take the laws of the world into your hands, twist and force and try to fulfill your own designs.

Utkranti means: do only this—prayer, thirst—and let the rest be done by God. Prayer you must do, hence there is a little kranti in it. For this much effort is necessary on your part—prayer, thirst, calling. But then the rest happens by itself; the rest is vikas. Therefore utkranti is a wondrous word. It is a synthesis of vikas and kranti. It retains whatever is auspicious in vikas and drops what is inauspicious. What is auspicious in vikas? That all happens on its own. What is inauspicious? People become lazy and dull, corpse-like. What is auspicious in kranti is also retained; the inauspicious is dropped. What is auspicious in kranti? People are not dead; they are alert, aware. What is inauspicious? They become violent, egoistic. Utkranti gathers the fragrance of both and leaves the stench of both. Pray, sing, chant, call, shed tears—but let the rest be done by Him. Once the call is full from your side, everything else will shower as His grace. In utkranti there is the meeting of man and God. In vikas, only God; in kranti, only man; in utkranti, the hand of man in the hand of God. Companionship happens.

Utkranti is a very lovely word. Shandilya has done something astounding by using it.

Shandilya says: Utkrantih smriti-vakya-sheshat cha.
Remember how many times God has said—through utkranti it shall be.

The Blessed Lord has said: My devotees, transcending all karmas, are capable of attaining perfection in one stroke.

Transcending all karmas! This does not fit into arithmetic. The rational mind gets very restless. It thinks: for every sin there must be an equal amount of virtue to balance the scales; if I did wrong, I must do right; if I injured someone, I must serve; if I robbed someone, I must give in charity. This is pure arithmetic, perfectly just, so it seems: the bad must be wiped clean. If it took lives upon lives to commit wrong, it will take lives upon lives to clean it. How will utkranti happen? How can it happen in a single instant? Instantly?

But the devotee knows it can happen instantly. There is an alchemy for the instantaneous.

What is the alchemy? First, whatever wrong has happened through you has happened because you were not aware, not conscious. You will not find a person who knowingly does evil. Even the worst doer does it unknowingly—or convinces himself that he is doing the right thing, that something good will come of it. And the worst person repents: Why did I do this? In solitary moments, in his aloneness, in his silence, he reflects, repents. I should not have done it. It happened. I will not do it again. I will not let it happen again.

Understand the state of the “evil” mind. He does not act thinking “this is evil,” first of all. And even if it seems something bad may happen, he convinces himself some good will come of it. After doing it he cannot accept with joy and pride what he has done. He repents. He may not say it before others—out of pride he may defend himself—but in solitude he knows a mistake happened which should not have happened. He falls in his own eyes. He loses reverence for himself. And he resolves: never again. This happens in everyone’s life—small sins or big.

The proclamation of bhakti is that sin happens not because it is much or little, but because man is still unconscious. And what obstructs his becoming conscious? The obstacle is ego. “I am”—this is the stupor. The scripture of devotion recognizes only one stupor: “I.” As long as the “I” is, evil will go on. Even if you do virtue, it will turn into sin. You may do good, yet it will go bad. The day the “I” disappears, even if you want to do wrong you will not be able to—without the “I,” wrong cannot happen. Where the “I” departs, God begins to act from within you. Because of “I,” God cannot act.

Hence the question is not to purify each act one by one; the question is to surrender the root of acts—ego. Cut the root. The leaves will stop sprouting on their own.

Usually people keep cutting the leaves and the tree keeps growing. They keep watering the root. This may sound difficult, but if you observe—yourself and others—the point will be clear. People water the root and cut leaves. A man thinks, “I will build a temple—a virtuous deed!” He builds the temple, and then fills with pride: I built a temple.

How will man build God’s temple? And how will a temple built by man be God’s temple? At least while building the temple it should have been remembered that He is building; perhaps I am only an instrument—nimit matra. He has no hands; He uses mine. He is building through me. His energy is flowing through me.

But “I” am building! Even on temples stones are set to proclaim the builder—great donor, mighty donor! Pride has arisen. Ego has arrived. Ego is the root; you are watering it—and you think you are doing virtue.

Bodhidharma went to China. Emperor Wu asked him: I have built many Buddha temples, installed thousands of images, countless monasteries and ashrams, and daily lakhs of monks are fed from the royal palace—what merit accrues from all this?

Bodhidharma said: None whatsoever. And if you do not become alert soon, you will fall into great hell.

Emperor Wu was offended. Naturally. Before Bodhidharma, other Buddhist monks had come—great ones—and all had said: You are blessed, supremely meritorious; you have done what no emperor has ever done.

Emperor Wu made China Buddhist. He did a great work. Buddhism had uprooted from India; in China he made it flourish. Millions became Buddhist because of Emperor Wu. So Buddhist monks sang his praises, carved stones, inscribed his name on copper plates, sang his glory upon mountains.

Then came Bodhidharma—a man of astounding insight, of the very genius of Buddha. The others were monks; Bodhidharma was a knower, a seer realized. The emperor thought Bodhidharma would praise him too. But Bodhidharma said: no merit at all; and if you do not forget this soon, you will fall into great hell.

It hurts to hear this. But what was Bodhidharma saying? Just this: all that you did is fine, but do not now water your pride; otherwise you are paving the road to hell. You will go to hell by your good.

The doer goes to hell. Neither the good nor the bad takes you there—doer-ship does. The scripture of devotion says: let the sense of doer-ship go. That is what Krishna says to Arjuna in the Gita: be but an instrument. Lift your bow, Arjuna, but let Him lift through you; fight, but let Him fight; step aside; let Him take whatever work He wants through you; be a mere instrument. And do not be anxious that you are killing people. What will you kill? Whom He wishes to kill, He kills; whom He wants dead is already dead. I tell you, Arjuna, I see here many corpses standing—who only need a push; they will fall. If you do not push, someone else will. Therefore do not worry. Be carefree, O son of Kunti! Enter the battle free of worry. There is neither sin nor virtue. There is only one sin: “I am the doer.” And one virtue: “God is the doer.”

Therefore utkranti is possible. Only this much needs to change. And this is what seems difficult. We are ready to do good, but not ready to drop the ego.

The Blessed Lord has said: My devotees, transcending all karmas, are capable of attaining perfection in one stroke.

“O Kaunteya,” Krishna says to Arjuna, “those who worship Me single-heartedly—even if they be very wicked—know them to be saints; for even sinners, if they devote themselves to Me, quickly attain peace. By the grace of God, devotees obtain welfare in all states—of this there is no doubt.”

When such sayings were first translated into Western languages, scholars were startled. What kind of words are these?

“O Kaunteya, those who worship Me single-heartedly—even if they be very wicked—know them to be saints.”

What kind of words are these? The translators themselves could not trust they were translating correctly—would a scripture say such a thing! They had read Moses’ Ten Commandments—do not do this, do not do that; do this, do that. They had only heard of do’s and don’ts. They had no inkling of this astonishing thing—that the root can be cut. Do’s and don’ts are leaves. The root can be cut.

How is the root cut?

By being single-hearted. He who becomes one with Me, Krishna says, who ends all distance between us, who allows no obstruction between himself and Me, who becomes a wave in My wave—then even if he be a sinner, know him to be a saint.

The reverse is equally true. One who is not single-hearted with Me—this is not said in the Gita, but I tell you—even if he be virtuous, do not know him to be a saint. This is simple logic—the other side of the same coin. Why not know him to be a saint? Because where ego is, saintliness is not. Saintliness is the fragrance born of egolessness. When the flower of egolessness blooms, the fragrance that rises is saintliness.

Ananya-bhava is a precious word. Ananya means: not other. You are not other, not separate—non-separate. We are not separate at all; we are all joined; one breath flows in us, we are waves of one stream. But we have believed we are separate; each wave thinks it is separate—there the hindrance begins. In that notion of separateness lies the whole crisis of your life. The day you understand you are not separate, that very day all crises vanish. In a single instant they vanish—hence utkranti. Transcending all karmas, the devotee attains perfection in one stroke.

All desires were quenched by resting in one center:
What I took for a beginning turned out to be the end.

What the devotee takes as the beginning, in the end he finds—it was the end.

What I took for a beginning turned out to be the end—
What we had thought to be the start of the journey… Surrender—I tell you—is the start of the journey. But surrender is also the journey’s end. Until you have surrendered, the journey has not even begun. The day you surrender, that very day the journey is fulfilled. Beyond that, what remains to go? The goer himself is no more. When the traveler is lost, how can the journey remain? Surrender means: the traveler has ended. The traveler has laid down his arms—laid down himself.

Just reflect on this majestic feeling; let it hum within: if you are not, who will go? Where will one go? Then what dissatisfaction? What to gain? What to lose? What nirvana? What moksha? Whose moksha? Whose nirvana? Then, in this very moment, you have arrived. All is done.

By dropping this one small ego, everything happens. Because of this ego you seem to be other than God. In being other you ache and are troubled. In being other the fish is thrown out of the ocean. Become non-other, and dive into the ocean—then there is no pain. No sorrow, no worry. You have come home. Existence is no longer your enemy; it is your friend. On the first step the destination is completed. And only if on the first step the destination is complete, know that you are a devotee. If a second step remains to be taken, it means surrender is not yet total. And surrender is never partial; either it is total, or it is not. Things as momentous as surrender cannot be portioned and cut: a little now, a little tomorrow, a little the day after. It takes great courage to leap in one step. It takes great madness.

Perhaps no one before me was ever so crazed—
Every speck of the desert stares at me intently.

And when the devotee makes the first leap, the whole world looks with fixed gaze: This one has gone mad! Is it done like this? Go slowly. Keep the rules, practice vows, go to the temple, perform worship, pray. Is it done like this?

People say to me: You give sannyas to everyone!
I say: To everyone? That itself is insulting. Do not call anyone here “everyone.” Here there is none but God. “Everyone”? They mean riff-raff, any Tom, Dick, and Harry. There is no riff-raff here—never was. Yes, someone may have believed himself to be riff-raff—his error—but no one here is other than That. Therefore I give sannyas to anyone. Ananya-bhava. You are not other. You are not different from God. No other qualification is needed.

People ask me: You do not ask for eligibility?
An old-style sannyasin came here some days ago. Quite aged, perhaps sixty-five or seventy; a sannyasin for twenty years. He asked: You give sannyas to anyone? Eligibility?
I asked him: Even after twenty years of sannyas has it not occurred to you that the One indwells all here? What more eligibility than God? You recite daily: tat tvam asi—That thou art. He is you. You recite the Upanishads, the Gita. You must have read many times this saying: O Kaunteya, those who worship Me single-heartedly—even if very wicked—know them to be saints. Surely you have read it. For twenty years you have been reading the Veda, the Upanishads, the Gita. You are learned. But the word seems never to fall into the heart; you read, you hear, you memorize—like parrots. It does not sink within; no effect is seen in life.

If it is true we are parts of the One God, then who is eligible, who ineligible? Who Ravana, who Rama? Who bad, who good? For the awakened there is neither bad nor good. Yes, these are distinctions of sleep. In sleep one dreams he is a saint and another dreams he is a thief—but these are distinctions of sleep. On waking, both will find—there was no saint and no thief; no one murdered and no one gave charity. On waking it will be known: all was dream.

In this world people dream different dreams. Being is one for all; dreams differ. Dreams are private; Being is universal. Let this distinction settle deep. And if you consider dreams you will see: a dream is entirely private—you cannot even invite a friend into your dream; it is that private. Your wife lies on the same bed and she will dream her dream, you yours. It is not that both see the same dream. So private! Bodies touching, minds seeing their own dreams. You can try hard—tell a friend: I saw such a lofty dream last night…

Mulla Nasruddin was speaking to a friend. “Yesterday,” he said, “I had a grand time. In a dream I went to Paris. And Paris nights—colorful nights! Casinos and bars! Great fun.”
The friend said, “That’s nothing. Last night I dreamt I took Hema Malini to Kashmir.”
Mulla was instantly angry. “Why didn’t you invite me? What sort of friendship is this?”
The friend said, “I did invite you. I went to your house, but your wife said, ‘Mulla has gone to Paris.’” Such are the happenings in dreams!

You cannot have company in dreams. Not even invite. A dream is purely private. Not only another—strictly speaking, in a dream you yourself are not there. If you observe carefully, in the dream you are absent. The dream happens—where are you? In the morning you are; then the dream breaks. For only in wakefulness can you be—you cannot “be” in a dream. If in the dream it occurs to you: Who am I?—that very instant the dream breaks.

Gurdjieff used to tell his disciples: if you can remember even your name in a dream, the dream will break. Try it. It is a successful experiment—at least six months it will take. Try to remember only your name in the dream: my name is such-and-such—let it remain in the dream. Each night, going to sleep, hold the thought: my name is Krishnamurari, Krishnamurari. Keep repeating: my name is Krishnamurari; may I not forget. It will take three to six months; one night in the middle of a dream it will suddenly occur—my name is Krishnamurari. That very moment the dream departs. Not even a second—your eyes will open. This tiny key breaks the dream.

When you arrive, the dream breaks. To invite another is far more difficult. Dreams are private.

In this world our dreams alone differ; our Being does not. One who wakes from dream and knows Being—there is for him neither bad nor good, neither saint nor sinner; for him there is only the expansion of One, the dance of One—He in the trees, He in the animals, He in the birds, He in humans. In innumerable forms, the play of the One.

Mahapatakinam tu artau.
The devotion of great sinners is to be understood as arta-bhakti—the devotion born of distress.

Even the greatest sinner can attain devotion. At the door of devotion no eligibility is asked. Devotion is a medicine—what eligibility to ask? You are ineligible—that is precisely why devotion is needed. All are accepted—even the great sinner.

But the great sinner’s devotion will be arta-bhakti—born of pain, of the bitter experience of life, of the pricks of thorns.

What does sin mean? Sin means a dream of suffering. Sin means: you are seeing such a dream in which you undergo much pain. It is still a dream. You are dreaming hell.

Most people reap only suffering in life. It is of their own making. A person has five thousand rupees; he says, “I must have ten thousand; until I have ten thousand I cannot be happy.” He himself has placed this condition upon his happiness: “I cannot be happy until…”

Notice: people lay down conditions for happiness, not for suffering. No one says, “Until I have one lakh rupees I will not be unhappy.” Have you heard someone say, “Until I have a lakh, I refuse to be unhappy”? And could you make such a person unhappy? One so courageous! “Only when I have a lakh will I be unhappy. Why be unhappy now? I lack the means to be unhappy.”

No—people do not set conditions on sorrow; that is why they are sorrowful. And they set conditions on happiness; that is why they cannot be happy. Notice—this is your own arrangement. You say: If I get this woman, I will be happy. Drop that! Say instead: Until I get this woman, this car, this house, this wealth, this position—why be unhappy? We will be unhappy only when we get them. Until then, let us enjoy. After all, these will be obtained—if we try, we will get them.

But one who has placed conditions on sorrow—you cannot make him sorrowful. How will you?

We have placed conditions on happiness. People say: First these things must happen, then we will be happy. First, they never happen; hence they remain unhappy. And if ever they do happen, the conditions are pushed ahead. You said ten thousand—by the time you reach ten thousand, your condition moves on: “What is ten thousand now! Everything costs more; things have changed; now nothing less than fifty thousand will do.” And do not think that upon getting fifty thousand you will be happy. At best there may be an illusion for a moment—illusion only. For you have practiced sorrow. A man earning fifty thousand while practicing misery—when he gets fifty thousand he will not know how to be happy. The habit of sorrow has become ingrained. He has become skilled at being miserable.

That is why you often find rich people more miserable than the poor. The difference is only this: the poor cannot buy much misery; there is a limit to his purchasing power. The rich can buy much; his limit is vast. If in America people seem more miserable, do not be surprised; the reason is simple: their capacity to purchase sorrow is large. They do not confine their misery to one village; they go around the world to be miserable—touring from capital to capital in misery! They are not miserable with one woman; what’s the point in being miserable with one woman now? That is old style. One man is miserable with eight or ten women over his life. He does not stick to one business to be miserable; he changes businesses to be miserable. In America the average span in one occupation is three years. Marriage too lasts on average three years. People make ample arrangements to be miserable—they have the means. The poor man’s limitation is his limitation.

I have heard: When Mulla Nasruddin’s father was dying he called Mulla and said, “Listen, son, my life’s distilled experience is this: as wealth increases, worry and restlessness increase. Be content with little. Peace remains. With more comes unrest.”
Mulla quickly caught his feet and said, “I understand all that, but bless me that even if unrest increases, let there be more.”
The father said, “I am explaining to you, and you ask for a blessing!”
Mulla said, “I accept that with little one becomes content—because one does not have the capacity to be discontent; one has to be content. What else can you do? Even freedom dies. Bless me that if I must be miserable in this world, at least let me have the freedom to choose my miseries. If I must be miserable with some woman, let it be with the one I choose. If I must be miserable in a house, let it be in the one I choose. Let me have freedom. Bless me that I may choose my sorrows.” To be miserable we will be!

Remember, people have concluded they must be miserable anyway. Then better be miserable as rich—why be miserable as poor? Better be miserable in palaces—why in huts? Better be famous and miserable—why obscure and miserable?

No; it is not true that one must be miserable. Misery is your creation, and happiness too is your creation. They are expansions of your vision. Sorrow is your dream; happiness is your dream. You are the owner of the dream. But you will not be able to trust this yet.

Gurdjieff had his disciples do another experiment: the process of deliberately producing a dream. It is a valuable experiment because it gives a direction regarding life. It can take a year—sometimes two—because the hold of dreaming is so deep. But you can dream at will. Fix one dream and fall asleep thinking that dream each night. As your consciousness dims and sleep descends, keep composing the plot of that same dream. Night after night—the same dream. Do not change it, or it will leave no imprint. After months, perhaps years, one day you will suddenly find that dream appearing in your sleep; the scene stands before you. That day you will have a unique realization: the dreams seen so far—your belief that they were happening on their own was false; your own unconscious mind was producing them. You produced them—unaware. Now you have produced one with awareness. From that day you can dream what you like.

And the next experiment: if you do not wish to dream, do not. First comes freedom to choose the dream; then, the next step—decide at night that tonight there will be no dream, we are not going to any cinema, and you will sleep at ease. If it becomes possible at night, it will be possible in the day too—for day and night are not different.

You are the master of your mind. But you have not declared your mastery. You are being dragged along. Whatever your mind shows, you keep watching.

Try such small experiments.

You are sitting in anger—try changing the anger. At first it will seem very difficult. At first you will think: is it an easy thing to change anger? Now that anger is here, how change it? Try. Sit alone and start laughing, jumping, dancing—try to change the anger. In five or seven minutes you will find the anger gone; you are laughing—perhaps laughing at yourself: What foolishness is this? But you will find within: the anger has changed; it no longer has the same intensity.

You sit depressed—try to change it. Sometimes you sit joyful—try to make yourself sad. Sometimes you sit blissful—try to move into anger. Experiments like these will show you that all is in your hands. Anger can be changed into joy; joy into sadness; sadness into laughter; laughter into tears. And when you learn this alchemy, you can switch as you change radio stations.

In the West instruments are being made—biofeedback. They will have great use in the future. Through them astonishing things have been seen—that man can change his emotional states. He can change his blood pressure. Hooked to a device, the heart’s beat is displayed; the instrument shows so many beats per minute. Now the person is told: try to lower it. You will say: How? You have never tried to change your heart. But you try—and are surprised: the numbers drop. As your effort continues, the numbers fall. After a few points drop, you gain confidence: A key has been found! Though you cannot say how you are doing it inside, you do it. You can bring it down. Blood pressure lowers and rises.

Recently an even greater marvel: some patients, hooked to these instruments, reduced the sugar flowing in their blood. They cannot say how—“how” is a tricky affair. The brain’s waves of various kinds—these too people succeed in changing before the device. They cannot say how.

How can you say? You lift your left hand—can you say how you lifted it? What happens inside? To whom do you first give the command? Where does it start? You know nothing. But you are the master—in the unconscious.

With biofeedback one thing stands proved: a person can change all his inner states. And this is precisely the essence of the sages’ teaching: all is in your hands. You manufacture sorrow. Do not shout that the world is harassing you. You are harassing yourself. Declare your mastery. Take your responsibility in your own hands. Try to change a little—and you will be amazed: you can. The day this key is found, that I can change the states of my life, you will be filled with such joy as you cannot now even imagine. You are free!

And the day you experience that anger can be changed into love, love into sadness, sadness into laughter—like tuning a radio station—on that day a point becomes clear: you are separate from all these states; you are only the witness. You are not the radio station; you are not the radio; you are the one sitting outside turning the knob. You are separate, distinct from all your emotional states. The day one knows oneself separate from all states, that day the ego dissolves. And that day it is seen: I am non-other from God; I am one.

You have bound yourself in petty limits; hence you seem severed from the vast. Your eyes are entangled in small things. You think, “This is me—my wealth, my body, my wife, my husband, my children, my house.” You have constricted yourself into very smallnesses. As the “I”-sense falls, you will find— even the sky is not your limit. You are vast.

From life’s suffering the great sinner is moved to arta-bhakti.

And who is there who is not suffering in life? Where do we meet the happy? It is a world of the unhappy. And in this world of the unhappy, even if happy children are born, they soon learn the practice of sorrow. Because the father is unhappy, the mother unhappy, brother, sister, teacher—all around the unhappy—the child even feels ashamed to laugh. The child longs to rejoice, because he comes from God’s house—bringing news from there, bringing its dance. He knows nothing. But seeing all unhappy here, sullen, troubled, he too slowly becomes infected with this trouble; it is slapped upon him. Then it does not come off. To take it off and put it aside—that is what is meant by rebirth. You become twice-born.

There is suffering in life, there is sin in life, there is delusion—but all of it is dreamlike.

“My heart is not free today to go anywhere leaving You.”

Let me count first the hairs of my body,
then speak of the bondage of flesh—
the other name of bondage is mind;
how can I separate the two?
Daily my tongue, my song,
ties knots with the promised word—
My heart is not free today to go anywhere leaving You.
In moments of my weakness,
it is You, Compassionate One, who come to mind;
in the moment of Your compassion
You make me forget my weakness,
Poor intellect, dumb and defeated,
but my heart speaks plainly:
My sins have nothing to do with Your compassion.
My heart is not free today to go anywhere leaving You.

Drop this worry that your sins are so great you cannot reach God. There is no connection between your sins and His compassion. Whether your sins are few or many, big or small—no difference; whether you are sinner or saint—no difference. His compassion keeps raining. His compassion does not shower according to your sins, nor according to your deeds.

Have you not seen? When the cloud grows thick in the sky, when monsoon clouds arrive, do they worry whether to rain upon the sinner’s field or the saint’s? Whether to rain upon the thief’s field or the donor’s? Likewise, the clouds of His compassion make no such concern.

“My sins have nothing to do with Your compassion.
My heart is not free today to go anywhere leaving You.”

The day you understand this truth, you will drop even the worry: I will reach by doing good; how can I reach by doing bad? You are already reached. His compassion does not concern itself with this. Compassion is unconditional. If there is a condition in compassion, it is not compassion. If He says: for this many sins this much compassion; for this much virtue this much more—then compassion has a condition. What need of it then?

That is why those systems that strongly cling to the doctrine of karma had, in the end, to deny God. Jains and Buddhists denied God. The reason is not atheism; it is the arithmetic of karma. The Jains’ logic is: if according to our deeds we get good and bad, what need is there of God? If I do wrong, I will reap pain; if I do right, I will reap reward. The law suffices. The law is God.

If karma is held in full rigor, there is no place left for God. In fact, His being would be an obstacle. A man sins; he is punished. A man does good; he is rewarded. That happens by law. If behind it we accept a living being, there is danger—He might feel pity for the sinner; then injustice would occur. Or He might be angry with the virtuous; then injustice. God’s presence becomes dangerous. No need, say the Jains; the law of karma suffices.

To me, those who insist upon karma will be compelled to deny God—that is the logical outcome. And those who accept God will have to set the law of karma aside—that too is the logical outcome.

Hence Krishna in the Gita sets karma aside. He says: O Kaunteya, he who worships Me single-heartedly—even if very wicked—is a saint.

Jain scriptures will not approve this. This is going too far. Then all the wicked can reach by worship—what is the use of righteousness? Why should anyone suffer to be righteous? That is why the Jains, in their texts, have consigned Krishna to hell—because such statements go against the doctrine of karma. But these statements are unique.

The doctrine of karma is the doctrine of intellect, of arithmetic. In it there is no room for compassion. Hence the Jain muni grows hard. There is no space for compassion. He becomes dry and harsh. Although he speaks of compassion and nonviolence, even his nonviolence becomes dry.

Have you noticed the difference? The Jains do not use the word karuna—compassion—they use ahimsa—nonviolence. A negative word. Ahimsa merely means: do not injure another. That’s all. But if someone is injured, should you not bandage and balm him? That does not fall within ahimsa. Ahimsa means: do not injure. But if someone is injured, then? Ahimsa is silent. Compassion says: if someone is injured, apply balm and bandage. Compassion is affirmative; nonviolence is negative. Nonviolence merely saves you from doing the bad; compassion inspires you toward the good.

For the Jains, if nonviolence prevails, it is enough. For Krishna, until compassion rains, it is not enough. Suppose people do not injure one another—then what? Each man sitting silent like a monk in his own place; no one injuring anyone; no quarrels; everyone silent lest any word offend; everyone sealed in his own tomb—the universe would become terribly sad. The Jains’ displeasure with Krishna is understandable; Krishna broke the doctrine of karma: those who worship Me—even if sinners—are saints. And I add: those who do not worship Me—even if virtuous—know them to be sinners.

Karma and compassion, the law of deeds and compassion, cannot be reconciled. Compassion means: no matter how bad the son’s deeds, when he comes to the mother she draws him to her breast. She will not say: how can I embrace you? You are a thief; you are dishonest; you are drunk. In truth, the one who comes drunk and gambling—the mother holds him even closer. Pity wells more: Poor one! When will he awaken? When will he understand? Compassion means: this universe holds for you a heart like a mother’s. You will be forgiven.

Do not take it to mean that you should do wrong merrily. That is where misunderstandings arise. Do not think: what’s the worry then? We can do as much evil as we like. It means only this: you have already done enough wrong—enough, more than enough. No need to do more. Now let life’s energy become worship.

Sa ekantabhavah gitartha-pratyabhijnanat.
Para-bhakti—supreme devotion—is one-pointedness (ekant-bhava), for so is the import of the Gita.

Shandilya often cites the Gita—for in the Gita unique sayings are found about release from karma and the path of devotion. Such sayings are not in the Quran or the Bible. The Gita is unique in this sense. There His compassion is fully revealed. The pettiness of man is not accounted. Your sins are not even worth two pennies—what accounting to keep? You took two coins from someone’s pocket—what difference? From this pocket to that—all pockets are His, and all hands His. Do not make such a fuss that a great sin has happened. You saw a beautiful woman and desire arose—within her too He sits. In your desire too He stirs. Do not get overly agitated. Do not give it so much weight!

People make mountains of molehills. Especially the saints are expert at this; they heap such burdens on your chest that you cannot move. If you keep accounts of your sins for twenty-four hours, you will die beneath the load. Some sins in doing, some in thinking; and if you didn’t manage then, you did them in the night in dreams. If you keep accounts of all—your saints tell you to keep accounts. They become restless: Keep accounts! Keep accounts of your sins!

A gentleman came to me—depressed, tormented, as if carrying a heavy load. I asked: What’s the matter? He said: I am a great sinner; look at my diary—he had brought it—where I write everything. I read his diary. I said: Reading your diary I am getting depressed! Why are you writing all this? He said, My guru told me to keep accounts of all my sins.

Keep accounts of God’s compassion! Keep a blank diary by you—write nothing; whenever some sin happens, open your diary and look at His compassion—blank compassion! His compassion has nothing to do with your accounts. What are you doing with accounts—running a shop? You have written of two-coin cheats, petty slanders, small lapses; you fasted and thought of food. You did not eat but thought—when else would thoughts of food come if not during a fast? Are you a stone? If you fast, food will be thought of—this is natural. Now you make a sin of this too! Someone abused you and worry arose. You replied with an abuse. All this is natural—do not give it such weight. If you bind it all together, keep stuffing your bundle, with it you will drown.

Trust His compassion. He is Ram, Rahim, Rahman—Compassionate. Trust His love. Do not trust your sins so much. Your sin will be swept away like straws in a flood—the flood of His compassion.

The essence of Shandilya’s sutras is: trust His compassion. When trust in His compassion dawns, your life will begin to glow. Your feet will find a dance. Your voice will regain its humming. Like the birds—you hear the cuckoo? It knows nothing of sin and such. It has not met the saints; otherwise it could not sing—by now it would have hanged itself. It would be fasting, keeping vows, and writing diaries. This kuhū-kuhū! A saint would say: stop this kuhū-kuhū! There is sexual desire hidden here. In kuhū-kuhū she is calling her lover—sending an invitation, saying, “Where are you? Come!” She is waiting. Blessed bird—she hasn’t met saints!

You too will sing kuhū-kuhū the day you remember God’s compassion and drop the burden of your sins. You will bloom like a rose. Even a rose could not bloom if it heard the saints’ sermons; it would hesitate: to bloom is hellish; life is sin; blooming brings many troubles—better to stay closed. It will start praying: O Lord, how to be free of birth and death! Liberation, freedom from the cycle!

Do you see sadness anywhere in this world except in man? Why? Because the world did not receive the sermons of saints—only you did. If you can be freed from your saints, you will meet God. This is hard for you to understand; hearing me, you often get angry. I tell you: until you get free of your saints you cannot meet God. The cuckoo is even now singing God; this voice is rising from God Himself. She knows nothing; no accounts of yesterday—what was said, what was heard—no worry about tomorrow, nor hell nor heaven. If man becomes assured in God’s compassion, then song will rise, then dance.

A smiling glance bestowed its effect,
and the light of dawn’s spring was received.
When the gleam of pain went beyond itself,
news of Him arrived from my own heart.
What can they know of the sea’s vastness
who found only a shell’s wave upon the surface?
When the streaks of the heart grew luminous,
the night of sorrow received the herald of dawn.
Well done! A new resolve to travel the road of longing—
a new pathway of life appeared.
Strike up a life-giving melody, O minstrel!
Today “Shabnam’s” gaze met the rose.

Sing again.

Strike up a life-giving melody, O minstrel!
Today “Shabnam’s” gaze met the rose.

The moment your gaze turns even for a moment toward God’s compassion, in that very moment all sins are gone. In that instant utkranti happens. It happens in a single instant—indeed, an instant is too much; in a fraction of an instant it happens. It can happen sitting right here. Remember His compassion! His forgiveness is boundless and unconditional. He will not ask what you have done or not done.

In my vision, if He asks you anything at all, it will only be this: Did you dance or not? Did you sing or not? Did you smile or not? I sent you into the world—did you live or not? There is only one sin—to live like a corpse. And only one virtue—to attain dance, song, bliss, festival.

Para-bhakti is one-pointedness.
When between you and God there arises ekant-bhava—the experience of One alone; when “I am He, He is I,” and devotee and God are no more two—that is the goal.

Para-bhakti is one-pointedness.
All these pointers are toward para-bhakti. The secondary devotions point toward the supreme. Non-otherness, oneness, the end of all distance between devotee and God—this is para-bhakti.

Krishna has said: Yo mam pashyati sarvatra—he who sees Me everywhere. When for the devotee nothing is seen but God—neither outside nor inside—then ananya-bhava, then para-bhakti.

In secondary devotion (gauni-bhakti), difference remains—God is the Worshipped, the devotee the worshiper; God, far there; the devotee here, weeping, praying; and there, God pours compassion. But there is distance, separation, longing. Para-bhakti means: the devotee is dissolved in God, God in the devotee; there is neither worshiper nor worship; all is silent; the One has appeared; dualities gone.

Param kritva eva sarvesham tatha hi ah.
The Gita’s sayings are means for the attainment of para-bhakti.

And through secondary devotion—singing, chanting—there is no liberation. Liberation is through para-bhakti. Then what comes of the secondary? From secondary devotion comes para-bhakti. Through bhajan and kirtan the flavor of para-bhakti slowly grows. The day para-bhakti is attained, the secondary departs. And from para-bhakti blossoms moksha.

Our bondage is in being separate from God. Our freedom is in being one with Him. If we remain as “we,” we remain in chains. “I” is the prison. When we no longer remain “we,” when the “I” departs, the prison falls. Then the whole open sky is freedom. Then there is spontaneity. The search goes on for that supreme bliss; until it is found, there will be no contentment; gain whatever else you may—no contentment. Let the whole world be yours—no contentment.

And the final saying is astonishing:

Bhajaniyena advitiyam idam kritsnasya tat svarupatvat.
This entire world is God’s very form; therefore it is fit for bhajana—both to be enjoyed and to be revered.

The whole world is the form of God. You have heard scriptures say: the world is false, maya. Shandilya does not say so. He says: How is the world maya? How false? Can falsehood arise from Truth? If God is Truth, how can falsehood arise from Him? If God is true, how can the world be illusion? He raises a fundamental question. From Truth, only truth can arise. The wave too is true—because the ocean is true. The wave as separate is not true—that is where delusion begins—but as wave it is true. In the wave the ocean itself is waving. You cannot take the wave away from the ocean. If you try to carry a wave home, it will vanish. The wave can only be in the ocean.

The delusion about the world does not arise because the world is delusion; it arises because you have taken yourself as separate; you have given the wave a center—which is false. You have become the center—which is false. There is only one center to this whole existence. One life runs through the whole. One sun for the whole existence. We are many rays—but all rays belong to that one sun.

Shandilya says: the world is not false; it is the expansion of Sat-Chit-Ananda—the Truth-Consciousness-Bliss of God. Therefore it is fit for enjoyment and for worship.

This is a revolutionary statement.

Two things are being said. Bhajaniya has a double meaning: bhogya (to be enjoyed) and aradhya (to be worshipped). A deep hint: Do not run away; enjoy. This is God Himself. When you eat, you are assimilating God. Hence the Upanishads say: annam brahma—food is Brahman. Hence, in this land we first bow in respect, remember God, then take food—with reverence. Food is God in form. The fruit from the tree bears His life-flow, His juice. The water you drink, which quenches thirst, cools your throat, satisfies—there too is His form. In your wife He sits. In your son He sits. When you embrace your wife, do not be afraid!

Your saints will stand between and do everything to frighten you: What are you doing? Sin! Beware! You will go astray, rot in hell.

Drop all this nonsense. See Him in your wife too. Do not be afraid. Life is yours; life is God’s; and you and God are ultimately one. This entire expanse is His. This whole music is His. Listen. Relish. All this flavor is His—become rapture.

So, first: partake. Do not flee the world. Second: even as you partake, remember—do not make it a means; keep the feeling of worship toward it, for it is God.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Shandilya wants you to be the third. I too want you to be the third.

One kind says: here there is only enjoyment, nothing else. Enjoy everything and throw it away. The materialist. He enjoys a woman and then discards her: what now? I’ll look for another. He has no reverence, no worship. He uses persons as things. There is disrespect, contempt. He uses persons as means, while every person is an end.

Have you ever touched your wife’s feet? If not, you are a materialist. Have you ever touched your son’s feet? If not, you are a materialist. Have you ever honored your servant? If not, your talk of God has no value.

The materialist consumes things. He says: Rinang kritva ghritam pivet—take a loan and drink ghee. If it takes deceit, deceive. If dishonesty, theft—do it. Just obtain your enjoyment. He can wipe out the whole world—his enjoyment is the only goal. He has no reverence for existence—no reverence for life. He will be violent, wicked, harsh. By any means, exploit, squeeze. His being is exploitative. In him there will be neither compassion nor love.

The other kind is so full of reverence he says: How can I eat? I will fast. How can I love my son? I will go to the forest. How can I stay here? This is a world of enjoyment. Everyone is exploiting everyone else’s throat. I cannot stay. I will go sit on a mountain. The spiritualist.

These two—materialist and spiritualist—have always been. A third is needed: one who is in the world and spiritual; who both enjoys and worships; who does not run away; who gives full respect to life and takes its full juice; who does not flee in fear.

The one fleeing in fear is only the materialist’s reverse. He flees because he knows: if he stays near his wife, he will exploit her. So he flees. He does not trust himself to stay near his wife without exploiting her. He fears that if he sits in his shop, he will pick his customer’s pocket. So he runs to the hills—no customer, no trouble. If the customer is there, he cannot restrain himself—he will pick the pocket. The runaway is a fearful hedonist. He knows that in the world he will be a materialist. He thinks the only way to be safe is to go so far no one remains to exploit—then how will he exploit? There will be no one to exploit!

But is this any revolution? Any transformation? He will sit in the forest where there is no one to lie to—does that become truth-telling?

Where the facility to lie is gone, the facility to tell truth is gone. Both facilities end. Truth and untruth both require another. In aloneness neither truth nor falsehood exists. Truth and falsehood are relational. In the forest he no longer hates anyone—but there is no love either. Both end together. Love and hate require the presence of another. Worship, honor and dishonor both require someone present.

Materialism is one kind of error; spiritualism another. Hedonism one mistake; renunciation another. Shandilya, a great knower, says a third thing: renunciationful enjoyment, enjoymentful renunciation. Remember the Upanishads: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—by renouncing, enjoy. Those who renounce are those who truly enjoy; those who enjoy are those who truly renounce. Renunciation and enjoyment are not separate. Let renunciation be full of enjoyment; let enjoyment be full of renunciation—then revolution happens. Then utkranti happens. Then life becomes a great festival. This is the hint in the saying:

Bhajaniyena advitiyam idam kritsnasya tat svarupatvat.
This entire universe is God’s form; therefore it is fit both to be enjoyed and to be worshipped.

Contemplate this deeply. It is fit for both. God has given opportunity, a gift—enjoy it. He has given flowers—let their fragrance pass into your nostrils. And fold your hands and bow to the flower as well. Give thanks. The one who can both enjoy the world and honor it—he is the devotee. In the devotee an unprecedented event occurs—the union of renunciation and enjoyment. The devotee is not a runaway, nor a mere hedonist. The devotee sees God everywhere with reverence, his head bowed all around. And whatever God gives, he accepts as prasad. That is why I tell my sannyasins: do not go anywhere leaving this—God is here. What must change is your way of being. Tena tyaktena bhunjithah. The runaways are deprived.

Life has taken my ordeal by fire.
I came into the world
a mad lover of waves,
and here it was hard to love
even two drops;
Water belongs only to him
who can chew embers—
Life has taken my ordeal by fire.

Listen—
Water belongs only to him
who can chew embers.
The inner flames
I myself kindled.
In my unseasoned days,
who led me astray?
When the thirst within cried out—
“Ocean, cloud, water!”—
the outer world was ringed
by tongues of flame.
Life has taken my ordeal by fire.

Life is an ordeal by fire. There is no need to go elsewhere; here is your refinement. Here your gold, passing through fire, will become pure.

Wood burns to become coal,
and coal to ash.
Hidden somewhere in my breast
was a witness of heavens.
Between two fires
I made a nest and sang—
in days of flame, and nights of smoke and darkness.
Life has taken my ordeal by fire.

Do not flee this ordeal. Here something is to happen. It is to happen—that is why life has been given.

Wood burns to become coal,
and coal to ash.
Hidden somewhere in my breast
was a witness of heavens.

That witness of heaven is hidden within you. Look at renunciation and at enjoyment—be the witness. Choose neither renunciation nor enjoyment; let both dance around you. Remain the witness. Be the third. See joy, see sorrow; see day, see night; but do not identify with any.

Hidden somewhere in my breast
was a witness of heavens.
Between two fires
I made a nest and sang—
in days of flame, and nights of smoke and darkness.
Life has taken my ordeal by fire.

Turning pain into honey,
and sobbing into gentle verse,
making the impure and inauspicious
into auspicious—that is my pride.
Where the ashes of the funeral pyre
of my dreams were strewn,
there I scattered
my clusters of blossoms.
Life has taken my ordeal by fire.

This fire’s very color is the ochre hue. To pass through this ordeal is the meaning of ochre robes. If your sannyas teaches you both the savoring of the world and the worship of the world, then your sannyas will become the glory of devotion. From your sannyas song should rise. From your sannyas dance should awaken. Let your sannyas be a festival. Only then know that you have used to the full the opportunity the Lord gave—and that you have passed.

Enough for today.