Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #37

Phalam asmāt Bādarāyaṇaḥ dṛṣṭatvāt.
“Bādarāyaṇa says that karma is not itself the giver of fruit; it is God who dispenses the fruits of actions. This is also what is seen.”

If you push the doctrine of karma to its logical conclusion, it kills God. Then there is no need for God. This is exactly what happened in Jain and Buddhist philosophy: they carried the law of karma to its final deduction; God became superfluous. No need remained for God. The law of karma alone sufficed; no governor was required. Karma became self-operating; it needed no driver. Commit sin and its inevitable consequence will be bad. Inevitable—remember it! Do virtue and its inevitable consequence will be good. Inevitable—remember it! Karma gives its own fruit: this is the Jain and Buddhist standpoint. And from this standpoint both denied the reality of God.

Because they denied God, Jain and Buddhist philosophies soared to great heights in meditation—but prayer was lost. For where is prayer without the Divine? Meditation is a dry, plain thing; it lacks the flow of nectar. And meditation alone is also crippled. Meditation alone—unless pursued with utmost intelligence—can even fortify the ego, because there remains no feet before which the ego can bow.

That is why no monk on earth can be as egoistic as a Jain muni. It cannot be otherwise. Why? Because a Jain monk has no place to surrender, no threshold to lay his head upon. There are no feet before which to prostrate. If God does not exist, how can there be prayer? And if God does not exist, you are left alone—like an island, closed in upon yourself. No way remains to go beyond yourself, to transcend yourself. Yet the entire majesty of life lies in going beyond oneself. God is but a device so that you can cross yourself—a ladder by which, step by step, you can transcend even yourself. The dignity of man is precisely that he surpasses himself.

Friedrich Nietzsche has a famous utterance: Cursed will be the days when man ceases to transcend himself. Cursed will be the days when man becomes content with his being; when no fire burns within to go beyond himself, to rise above himself.

This is man’s glory. No other animal or bird, no plant, no stone or mountain aspires to go beyond itself. All desires are alike—only one desire in man is unique. The neem tree wants to remain a neem. It has no urge to go beyond. The lion wishes to remain a lion; he is satisfied with being a lion. He has no need, no longing, no dream to be otherwise. Man alone dreams—of rising above, of becoming other than he is. The extraordinary desire to use himself as a ladder to climb beyond himself shakes man to his depths. That very desire is called sannyas.

But if you are to go higher, there must be a goal; for ascending, a dimension must exist. God is the name of that dimension.

If there is no God, then only the “I” remains. The Upanishad declares: Aham brahmāsmi—I am Brahman. If there is no Brahman, then only aham remains. And then there is no way to dissolve the ego. It could have vanished only by dissolving into Brahman. Where will it dissolve now? How will you get over it now? At most the ego can shift from sin to virtue. That’s all. At most the iron chains can be replaced by golden ones. At most the swagger of wealth can give way to the swagger of renunciation. This is what you see in the Jain muni: the swagger of wealth goes, the swagger of renunciation takes hold. There is great confidence in one’s deeds. Resolve becomes everything. There remains no possibility of surrender. And without surrender, there can be no devotion. Without devotion, one cannot be freed of the ego.

Hence Bādarāyaṇa says—and Śāṇḍilya quotes his sūtra here. Bādarāyaṇa is one of the few seers who knew, who saw upon awakening—one of those rare Buddhas.

Phalam asmāt Bādarāyaṇaḥ dṛṣṭatvāt.
“Karma is not itself the giver of fruit. God is the giver of the fruits of actions. This is also what is seen.”

What does it mean to accept God? Understand this well, otherwise your notions of God are childish. It is these childish notions that the Jains and Buddhists could easily break. In this world a strange game goes on—the whole net of logic rests upon it. The game is this: beliefs current among the people, the ordinary, the separate-minded—those beliefs can be refuted with ease, because behind them there is neither experience nor vision, only common human intellect. A touch of uncommon intelligence, and you can shatter them. But by shattering them, you have not shattered the real nature of the belief.

For example, you imagine that God is a person sitting in the sky! Your notion is childish. God is not sitting somewhere like a person. And if you hold God to be a person, you will be torn apart by some argument of the atheists. You won’t survive.

God is not a person; God is energy. That energy which is intelligence—its name is God. The intelligence visible in this universe—its name is God. Intelligence. The brilliance that shimmers through existence—its name is divinity. God is not a person. If you set out to find a person, you will not find one anywhere. Those who have experienced God have not said that God is a person; they have said God is an experience. When your state of consciousness becomes so refined that no boundaries remain, when all attributes fall away and you are without adjuncts, when your consciousness is so still and blissful that not a ripple of thought arises, the lake is utterly calm—then you experience that your little lake does not end anywhere; it is part of a vast lake; this small lamp of consciousness is a ray of a vast sun. That vast consciousness is called the Supreme. Within you is but its ray. You are one of its forms. It has come as far as you.

God is not a person, but the name of the conscious power hidden in the whole. Even the inert is that, for matter is but a state of consciousness—sleeping. In your body it is that—its sleeping state. In your awareness it is that—its slightly waking state. And the day you attain Buddhahood, when you are fully awakened, it is still that—its perfectly awakened state, beyond which there is nothing further to awaken.

In short: God is not a person; he is the intelligence hidden in existence. And there is no dearth of proofs of intelligence. Everything here is run with such intelligence—do we really need proofs? You plant a seed; surely there is intelligence in it, for the seed knows what it must become—mango or neem. It knows precisely which leaves to grow—green, red, or yellow. It knows how high to send branches into the sky. It knows how far to send roots in search of water so it may live. You cut one branch and the tree immediately produces another. A lack has arisen; it fills it. At night the tree sleeps; by day it awakens. And scientists now say that trees have sensitivity. The proofs are at hand. What Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose first demonstrated has been corroborated with growing force over the last fifty years. If Bose were alive today, his joy would be boundless! For many discoveries have happened in the West since, and seeing them is a marvel.

Scientists say that when someone comes with an axe to cut a tree, the tree, from a distance, starts producing waves of fear at the very sight of the one carrying the axe. The blow has not yet fallen; it is not even certain that this tree will be felled. But he is approaching with an axe—far away! He has not arrived and the axe has not struck, yet the tree begins to tremble with fear, just as you would tremble if someone approached you with a sword. Perhaps it is a joke; perhaps he has not come to kill you. Yet fear possesses you.

There are now instruments to measure the vibrations within trees—like a cardiogram that records the heart’s beats and waves, there are subtle devices that record the tree’s heartbeat. At the sight of the woodcutter with his axe, the tree’s life quivers; the device instantly reports panic—the tree is afraid. At the sight of the gardener, the tree rejoices; the device reports delight: the gardener is coming, water is coming, the one who loves is near.

If you sit daily by a tree, stroke it, talk a little, scientists say the tree begins to wait for you. Every day at that hour it looks for you. Its eyes—which we cannot see outwardly, but the instrument reports—wait for you. Its ears—which we cannot see, but the instrument reports—listen for your footsteps. Are you coming today, or not? If you do not come it grows sad; if you come it fills with a unique joy. Seeing you it sways, it dances in ecstasy.

We have only just begun to descend into the life of existence, and even so, so many proofs have come that all existence is suffused with intelligence—there is sensitivity, there is consciousness. What is true of the tree today will tomorrow be shown true of the rock as well. We will need subtler devices to measure the rising streams of vibration even within stone.

God means just this much: the whole universe is sentient. It is not insensate. And behind it is an intelligence that arranges things.

Bādarāyaṇa says—and Śāṇḍilya cites him in support—that actions are not in themselves fruit-bearing. How could any act bear fruit by itself? The intelligence of the universe bestows the fruit. The world responds. Whatever you do with it, it does with you. Acts are not fruit-bearing in themselves; they bear fruit because hidden within the world is an intelligence that rewards and punishes each act.

There are four things to understand.

First: when you do good, it is not your doing good that automatically brings good results. You do good, and therefore God—the hidden intelligence of the world—does good to you. If the world were mindless, you could keep on doing good and no outcome would follow.

You can see this from experience. Do good to a fool, and the same good to a wise person, and you will find a difference in the result. The fool may not even understand that you did him good—or may even mistake your good for harm and hurt you. The wise will understand. Seeing fools, the prudent coined the saying: Do good and throw it in the well—do not expect anything. With fools, even if you do good, expect nothing good in return. Often it happens that if you behave well with the foolish, they will certainly behave badly with you.

Why does this happen? When you behave kindly with a foolish person, it hurts his ego: “Ah! So you are trying to be good? And what do you think of yourself—some great saint?” He becomes eager to scatter your saintliness, to bring you down. If you behave well with the wise, the result multiplies infinitely. This is seen every day.

Bādarāyaṇa says: “This is also what we see.”

The more inert the plane upon which you place your goodness, the smaller the result. The more conscious the person you deal with, the greater the result.

So yes, in this world the fruit of evil is evil; the fruit of good is good—this we have seen. But do not conclude from this that actions give their own results. Acts bear fruit because within the world there is a concealed intelligence that resonates to every act, responds to it. That resonance returns to you—as auspicious, or inauspicious.

If existence were inert, if there were no God, if existence were indifferent to you—and an inert existence would be indifferent—then whether you do good or bad, results would be merely accidental. There would be no inevitability, because on the other side there would be no intelligence to ensure outcomes.

There is great strength in Bādarāyaṇa’s statement. Those who have seen, have seen thus. Do not stop at noticing that good acts bring good fruit and bad acts bad fruit. Search deeper, and you will find that good follows good because an intelligent power everywhere has appreciated that good act; it has welcomed it.

And sometimes you do something thinking it is good, yet the result is bad. You do not see good fruit from your virtuous deed. People get worried. They come to me and say, “We did good; it is said good yields good—but it didn’t.” I tell them: examine your goodness. You thought you did good, but it wasn’t truly good; therefore existence has repaid you accordingly. Descend more deeply into your goodness; there will be some hidden ill within it. You cannot deceive the intelligence of the universe!

Suppose you give charity to someone. Charity can arise from two primary motives—though there can be many variants. One: you gave out of compassion. Another’s suffering touched you; tears came to your eyes; you felt something must be done; you were moved and sought to relieve their pain. Or it may be that seeing another’s suffering gave your ego a secret joy, and you acted out of pride: “Here, take! You are in pain—see how generous I am! Look at me. Remember, when you were in distress, I helped you.” Either the act arose spontaneously from compassion—or it was born from ego, glad for a chance to be the benefactor. Some people only look for opportunities to donate; their desire is that somewhere someone be in distress.

A Christian missionary once told me, “In your country, service has no value. Neither Mahavira nor Buddha nor Krishna has given service a central place. In the Upanishads and Vedas, there is no emphasis on service as in Christianity. Service is religion; without service, no one can attain salvation.”

I asked him, “If the whole world were to become happy, what would you do then? How would you attain salvation? If no one were in distress, no one needed service—just imagine it for a moment—then would the door to salvation be closed?”

He was startled; he had never thought of it that way. “No,” he said, “that can never happen—that everyone be happy.”

“Only because then your way to salvation would break? Then you are exploiting another’s suffering. Your service has the eyes of self-interest. You serve in order to gain heaven. You do not have compassion for another’s pain; you have a desire for your own bliss, your own heaven. If heaven is gained by serving the afflicted, then surely the servant will want affliction to remain in the world. How strange—that the servant should desire that suffering remain, otherwise his service will collapse! This is a great contradiction. But this is the situation.”

If you serve in order to go to heaven, if you donate to gain prestige, to see your name in the papers, to win social respect, to accumulate merit for a celestial recompense—then you have not done a good deed. Deep down, it is selfish; there is no “for-the-other” in it. Deep down, it is ego. It has nothing to do with another’s sorrow. You will not be able to deceive the intelligence of the universe.

If the world were governed by a dead mechanism, you might perhaps be rewarded even for this—but the world is not dead. Hidden here is intelligence. It sees not only what you do, but the intention that drives your doing. It sees not only the act, but the why. What you do is secondary; what you are is primary. You cannot deceive this intelligence.

Hence you will have seen that sometimes a “good” man who does good in every way still suffers deeply; and sometimes someone you have never known to do any good appears to flourish in joy. Such differences arise because intelligence is at work in the world. God is present. You will not be able to trick those eyes, that awareness. All your cleverness will lie in tatters. All your shrewdness is worth two pennies.

So beware: even behind merit, sin can lurk. And sometimes behind an apparent sin, the energy of merit may be at work. The real issue is intention.

Suppose a man has had headaches for years. You quarrel with him and fling a stone at his head. By the stroke of that stone, his pain disappears. You intended harm, and good happened. Do you think you will gain merit from this? Your intention was not good. And do not think this is merely fanciful; it has happened many times. In China, an entire science—acupuncture—was discovered in such a way. A man had paralysis and dragged his foot along the road. His enemy shot an arrow which struck his leg. At that very point his paralysis vanished. This led to an inquiry: what happened? Medicines failed, but the impact of an arrow cured him. The investigation found the arrow had struck a point through which the body’s electricity flows; the blow altered the electrical pathway and the paralysis lifted. Acupuncture emerged on this basis.

So if you go to an acupuncturist with a headache, he may stick a needle in your hand, or your foot. You will wonder, “Is he in his senses? My head hurts and he’s needling my foot!” But a marvel occurs: the needle in the foot dissolves the pain in the head, because the electrical energy flowing from foot to head is transformed by the needle; the current changes course. Then points for altering flow were mapped; seven hundred points were found. By those points the ailments of the body can be treated.

But the discovery began from an accident. The one who shot the arrow did not intend to father acupuncture; he knew nothing of it. He wanted to kill the man. Do you suppose he gained merit? Though the outcome of his act was good, though the man lived—indeed, over five thousand years, millions benefited—still his intention was bad. The fruit will be bad.

Sometimes your intention is good, and the act appears bad on the surface, and still you gain merit. The act is not what is judged on the surface; the intention is. Who sees intention? For that, the universe must contain a very deep intelligence—one that can discern even your hidden motives, perhaps hidden even from you—one that can penetrate your innermost core and read you. And this is what is happening.

Therefore, when a bad result comes to you for a “good” act, do not be angry, do not complain. Understand that the act was good, but the intention was tainted. Do not conclude that injustice reigns in the world. And when you see someone perform a bad act and still receive good fruit, do not assume that crookedness prevails—even God is unjust. The act may appear bad outwardly, but its inner intention was good. You cannot see intention; perhaps even the doer cannot. But there are eyes in this world that see what we cannot see. The name of those eyes is God. Those eyes follow you always. They are upon you every moment. This is one meaning.

The second meaning follows from this, and goes deeper: Act, and do not worry about the fruits. In the Gita, Krishna says: You have a right to action alone, not to its fruits. The fruit is not in your hands; it is in God’s.

And the puzzle is that we act little and worry much. We want to avoid action and still have the fruit. Or we want to do the least and gain the most. Some shortcut, some rite, some magic—so that without action the fruit arrives. This is our dishonesty. It cannot be.

Fruit comes in proportion to the action. Through action you stimulate the hidden intelligence to bestow the fruit. Your action is your eligibility. But the fruit is not in your hands. Hence worrying about fruit is futile. And fruit is all that the world worries about. One who sees that the fruit is in God’s hands becomes free of anxiety; he rests easy. His mind grows serene. He goes on acting, unconcerned with the outcome—whatever will be, will be. What should be, will be; when it should be, it will be. He trusts the power of this universe; he has faith. He knows that injustice does not happen. If there is delay, it too is for my good. And if at times a bad result follows his good act, his faith is deep enough to know: there must have been some fault in my act—unseen by me, but not by those eyes. Now I will transform my act. And even if he receives much sorrow, he knows: this is also a test by fire. Even in this pain, the hand of intelligence is present; therefore surely some benefit will come of this—my impurities will be burned away, I will be tempered and refined.

Bhool ke bhi na dard ko dil se kabhi judā samajh,
Shāhid-e-dilnavāz kī yeh bhī koī atā samajh.

Even by mistake, do not think of pain as separate from the heart;
Count it too as a gift from the Beloved who courts the heart.

Manzil-e-husn-o-būd meṅ terā muqām hai buland,
Mehr-o-mah-o-nujūm ko apne nishān-e-pā samajh.

Your station is lofty in the realm of beauty and being;
Take sun, moon and stars as the trace of your own footfall.

Do not worry at all. There is a place for you in the heart of the Vast. Whatever is happening must be right. Wrong does not happen. How could it, when God pervades every particle? If wrong appears, the error must be in our seeing. The name of such deep trust is religion. Even where the mind says “wrong is happening,” faith knows: the fault is ours—there is a flaw in the seeing, a pebble in the eye, a warp in the mirror. Wrong cannot be. How could it be?

This universe has produced intelligent beings like you! Surely that from which you have come must be more intelligent than you. Your intelligence is but a drop; the intelligence of existence is oceanic. If a drop mistakes something for error, the ocean would have seen it ages ago. There will be no error—because we are a drop, we misperceive. Our understanding is so limited; we cannot reflect the vast as it is.

Jauhar-e-dard hai agar gauhar-e-ashk meṅ tere,
Dāman-e-kā’ināt ko motiyoṅ se bharā samajh.

If the jewel of pain shines in the pearl of your tears,
Consider the hem of the universe heavy with pearls.

Do not worry then. Make sure only this: that your tear becomes a pearl. Let even the tear that falls in pain fall in faith; let even the tear born of suffering fall as a prayer. Let a pearly luster appear in your tear. Let a glint of trust glow in your feeling. Then the lap of this world will be filled with pearls.

Act; do not fret about the fruit. That worry is baseless. It drains you for no reason. You pour so much energy into anxiety that none is left for action. If all that energy were invested in action, each person would attain an extraordinary joy; life would become a journey of astounding triumph. Success would be the rule.

But ninety-nine percent goes into worrying about fruit, and one percent into action. You plant but one percent—and expect ninety-nine percent in harvest. When the crop fails, who is responsible?

“Those who have seen have seen it thus”—this too can be taken in two ways. The ordinary sense is what the commentaries record: “This is also what we see.” What is seen? Commentaries say: If you do good, the king rewards you; if you do evil, the king punishes you. Without a king, who rewards? Who punishes? Without a magistrate, who sentences, who acquits? Acts cannot decide themselves; behind judgment there must be consciousness.

This is a very ordinary exposition—and not to my taste. It has many flaws. Those who hold the doctrine of karma will not be convinced so easily. They say: When we thrust our hand into fire, who burns it? Putting our hand into fire is our act; the burning of the hand is its fruit. There is no king or magistrate in between. Put your hand in fire—you will burn. The act brings its own result. If drinking poison brings death and putting the hand in fire burns it, then—say those who uphold karma—likewise love yields love and hatred yields hatred. Buddha said: enmity grows by enmity, love grows by love. So the talk of kings etc. is not meaningful.

What meaning do I give then?

Phalam asmāt Bādarāyaṇaḥ dṛṣṭatvāt.
“This is also what is seen.”

I mean: by those who have seen. Bādarāyaṇa has seen. Śāṇḍilya has seen. I tell you: I too am seeing. You too can see. When the inner eye opens and you begin to see that the world is not dead—that deadness is our presumption; that within every dead thing consciousness slumbers; that the whole is flooded with consciousness—then those who have seen say: the fruits of our actions do not come from the actions themselves, nor from us, but from this ocean of consciousness that surrounds us on all sides.

Open your eyes and see. This can be seen. It is not merely a theory, not merely philosophy. Devotees have little interest in philosophy; their whole relish is in feeling, not in thought. But today’s sūtras are also sūtras for thought—for those who cannot yet understand feeling and live in the mind’s realm. If they understand, they too will embark on the path of feeling.

Vyutkramāt āpyayaḥ tathā dṛṣṭam.
“By reversal there is dissolution—thus it is seen.”

This sūtra is extraordinary. Seat it deeply in the heart. Understand its meaning.

Two orders are spoken of in the scriptures—anuloma and viloma. Anuloma means expansion. As when a seed becomes a tree: a tiny seed breaks, a sprout emerges, leaves and branches spread—a great tree stands. Hundreds rest in its shade; thousands of birds roost in it at dusk; travelers unhitch their carts and repose. Who could have imagined so large a tree was hidden in such a small seed? This process is called anuloma: evolution, spread, expansion.

The other order is called viloma: the tree becomes seed again—produces seeds. Contraction, drawing in. If anuloma is evolution/expansion, viloma is involution/condensation. This rhythm is the law.

The seed becomes a tree; the tree becomes seeds again. God becomes the world; the world returns to God. The world is God’s expansion. God is like a subtle seed and the world is its spread. The word brahman means “that which expands.” Brahman and brahmāṇḍa—the Absolute and the cosmos—are two states of one energy: Brahman the seed, universe the tree.

No religion of the world has thought deeply about the viloma—hence none can be called complete. Much has been said about anuloma; Christians, Muslims, Jews all say that God created the universe; but little about dissolution, that God also dissolves creation. If there is creation, there will be an end. If there is birth, there will be death. That which spreads—how long will it spread?

Scientists say the universe is expanding. But how long can it? You blow air into a balloon—it expands and expands. But beyond a point it bursts and collapses. So too, expansion continues only up to a limit; after that, contraction begins.

A child grows into youth; after youth comes old age—contraction. The child came one day from the unknown and was born; one day death comes and he enters the unknown again. Until thirty-five, anuloma; after thirty-five, viloma.

Those who build life upon only one order—anuloma—are mad. This is the great error of the modern world: life is built wholly upon expansion. Keep spreading—more wealth, position, prestige, houses—more, more, more. This “more” is the spirit of expansion; it is the world.

When sannyas? The very notion is lost. The word makes us nervous; we don’t even consider it. The seed has become tree—when will it become seed again? Sannyas is the order of viloma.

Anuloma says: let this be mine and that be mine—let everything be mine. Viloma says: neither this nor that is mine—nothing is mine. It draws in; it grows quiet.

With expansion, unrest is natural—grabbing, competition, conflict, war. With involution, peace grows; the person sits within, comes to rest within, returns to the seed.

I call the world anuloma, and sannyas viloma. He who masters both is whole. He who masters only one is deranged. And note: if you have not mastered expansion, how will you master contraction? If you have not lived the world, how will you live sannyas?

Therefore I say: do not run from the world. Live it; let expansion happen. But when understanding dawns—enough of expansion, it has no meaning—let the urge to expand subside from within. Stay where you are—where will you go? Wherever you go, there is the world. The world spreads in ever-new forms. It makes no difference how you expand—as long as the thirst for “more” remains, the world remains. You can sit alone on a mountain, and the mind will say: more meditation, deeper samadhi, more merit, more fasting; more heavens, more bliss. The “more” continues—no difference. The day you are utterly bored with more—that day sannyas. No need to go anywhere. When you are utterly finished with more, sannyas is born. Then you live where you are; all goes on—life goes on—but within, sannyas bears fruit.

Anuloma means: to be, to be much. The scriptures tell stories that God was alone and thought, “Let me be many.” Then comes the day God thinks: “Now I am too many; let me be one again”—that is viloma.

Vyutkramāt āpyayaḥ tathā dṛṣṭam.
“By reversal there is dissolution—thus it is seen.”

Why does Śāṇḍilya give this sūtra?

Because it contains the whole secret of sannyas. On the surface you may not notice it—for a sūtra is a compressed seed. Only those who can understand will understand. Hence commentaries are needed.

To be, to be more—wealth, dominion, prestige—name, fame—this is the world. Then one day it becomes clear: all this is futile. There is no substance in fame—I am gathering soap bubbles. No meaning in name—for I am nameless; I came without a name and will go without one. No meaning in wealth—it will all remain here. What will I take with me when death comes? Only that which you can carry through death—that is sannyas. To die before you die—that is sannyas.

All die; blessed are those who die before death. Who understand that death can snatch only what is not yours. What is yours cannot be taken. Nainaṁ chindanti śastrāṇi—no weapon can pierce me. Nainaṁ dahati pāvakaḥ—no fire can burn me. Who is this I whom fire cannot burn and sword cannot cut? Who is this immortal principle? That alone am I. Nothing more is needed.

The world means: this too, this too. Sannyas means: neti, neti—neither this nor that. One by one, letting go; returning to where the eternal nectar lies within as a seed; to the point from which all development began. Coming back home.

This is liberation—nirvāṇa.

Watch a child’s development. Whatever comes to the child, one day must be given up. Hence the wise say that in the final stage the realized man becomes again like a small child. The child is born with no knowledge, knowing nothing. In the ultimate state, simplicity is like that of a child. A child’s trust is total; he believes whatever the mother or father says—his faith is untouched, virgin. Soon the thorn of doubt will sprout; he will begin to question: does my father always speak truth? Is my mother always right? He will discover flaws and limits in them; faith will wane, doubt will grow. This is anuloma. With doubt comes ego; with ego comes negation—“no,” atheism.

Every child one day tells his parents: No! You have seen the stubborn child saying, “I won’t do it! I won’t go to school!” From where does such strength arise in such a small child? Notice his power when he says no—as if ready to stake everything. When he insists on a toy, he torments you until you yield. And children learn the limits of their parents’ endurance; they keep pressing until the parent gives up. This “no” is the basis upon which the child builds his identity, his ego. This is anuloma. Then ego clamors for wealth, position, prestige—thus begins the race. The day you see this is all futile, you must learn the order of viloma—and then, in reverse, drop things one by one.

Hence “theist” means one who has regained the capacity to say yes. Āstik means the man of yes; nāstik means the man of no. Therefore all theistic traditions insist on egolessness, for ego is the basis of expansion. Let the ego go and viloma happens. Doubt must go, struggle must go; surrender must be learned. The entire journey of the world—from childhood to youth—must be retraced in reverse. One by one everything is relinquished, until you return to the state in which you were born from your mother’s womb—simple, innocent; no for, no against; not Hindu, not Muslim; not Chinese, not Pakistani; not black, not white; not beautiful, not ugly; not man, not woman—no stance at all. A state of no-mind, and a supreme acceptance—no refusal. The idea of “I” had not arisen; the mirror was clear; no thought. Again to be like that is viloma—and that is the path of liberation.

So remember these precious words. Anuloma is the world. Viloma is sannyas. There is nowhere to go, nothing to change outwardly—but inwardly this revolution must happen.

Shām-e-gham hai, qarār kis ko hai,
Dard par ikhtiyār kis ko hai?
Merī kismat meṅ āg hai warna,
Chāndnī nāgawār kis ko hai?

Sorrow’s evening is upon us—who has repose?
Who has say over pain?
It is only that fire is in my fate—
Who finds moonlight bitter?

Dard hī zindagī kā hāsil hai,
Maut kā intizār kis ko hai?
Apnī āṅkhoṅ se pyār kartī hūṅ,
Tere jalwe se pyār kis ko hai?

Pain is life’s true yield;
Who waits for death?
I love my own eyes—
Who cares for your splendor?

Dekheṅ Shabnam ko gul meṅ chun-chun kar,
Detā gulshan ye hār kis ko hai.

See how the garden strings garlands,
Plucking dewdrops into blooms—who are they for?

I love my own eyes—
The ego does not love wealth or position; it loves only itself. Wealth merely adorns the ego; position heightens it. The ego does not love beauty either—but a vain man wants a beautiful woman beside him as decoration. The ego seeks every arrangement to fill itself.

Apnī āṅkhoṅ se pyār kartī hūṅ—
There is no relish in things themselves—only in proving: I am special. And the irony is: the more you strive to prove your specialness, the more holes appear, the more your specialness cracks. Pitiful is the plight of those who try to prove they are special. In the attempt, all becomes unproven. Those who fight here are defeated. Those who build empires die like beggars. Ask Alexander! A lifetime of running and hustle—what comes to hand? All is lost.

He who clings only to expansion will depart impoverished. He has not learned life’s rhythm; he is one-sided, incomplete. He who also understands contraction—his life becomes whole. Let half your life be expansion, half involution. At the time of death, you should arrive at the very place from which you came—the instant of birth, as pure and virginal. Then the circle is complete. He who completes the circle is the Whole Man.

And it is not that you have never glimpsed it. It is not that you have not seen the vanity of what you are doing. But habits! The crowd! Everyone is doing the same; therefore the illusion persists that it must be right. A mass hypnosis drives you. Many times you have felt: how long will I amass wealth? What is the point? But others keep piling up. Your refraining will not stop them. You won’t buy a new car; the neighbor will. You won’t build a new house; the neighbor will. You will feel small, left behind—so you run. When all are running, you run. You live by imitation; you copy.

The day you understand that imitation is futile—that you were not born to live someone else’s life but your own—revolution happens. That moment is the most precious of life. A line divides: before it, expansion; after it, contraction.

Ik waqt phir ātā hai ki mar jātī hai ummīd—
Fursat nahīṅ miltī ki si’eṅ chāke-garībāṅ.

A time comes when all hope dies—
No leisure remains to mend the torn collar.

Hotī nahīṅ mānūs kisī shai se tabīyat—
Khātir bhī parīshān, takhayyul bhī parīshān.

The heart grows estranged from every thing—
The mind is troubled, imagination is troubled.

Barh jātī hai afkār-e-ma’īshat kī kashāyish—
Dozakh-sī nazar ātī hai yeh jannat-e-dauraṅ.

The anxieties of livelihood intensify—
This paradise of the age looks like hell.

Chhuṭ jātā hai zauq-e-amn-o-josh-e-tamannā—
Barh jātī hai māyūsī-e-dil tājda-e-imkān.

The taste for peace and the surge of longing recede—
The heart’s despair grows, dethroning possibilities.

Such an hour arrives in every life when hope dies. And yet you lash your hope back to its feet—whip it to run again. You have seen a coachman flog a horse that balks; the more it balks, the more he flogs. Somehow he drags it along. This is what you do. Many times your horse of hope has balked; many times you felt everything is futile; yet you cracked the whip. You did, your companions did. If you are a husband, your wife pushed; your sons pushed.

It happens daily: someone takes sannyas and the wife comes weeping—“Not now!” A son takes sannyas and the father rushes—“What have you done?” A father takes sannyas and the son arrives, “What have you done to our father? Hypnotized him?”

If you spare yourself, your family and friends will flog you and prod you with goads: “Keep going! The whole world is still moving—why have you stopped? Keep going till death drops you.” But then you will lie with mouth full of dust in the grave, and life will have gone to waste—drawing lines upon water.

Ik waqt phir ātā hai ki mar jātī hai ummīd—
Fursat nahīṅ miltī ki si’eṅ chāke-garībāṅ.

Such a time comes—awareness dawns. It comes again and again, but you deny it. You distract your mind elsewhere—find a thousand excuses: “Let’s watch a movie; let’s drink; there’s a dance somewhere—let’s go.” The mind is restless, hope broken, legs wobbly—so you brace them again. The mind whispers: “It hasn’t happened yet, true—but tomorrow it may. Don’t stop now—keep going.”

It never happens. It has never happened. Anyone who has known only expansion has never known peace, joy, fulfillment, contentment, samadhi. Without samadhi, where is solution? He who learns viloma knows samadhi and solution. The sooner the art of involution arrives, the more intelligent you prove.

Buddha was twenty-eight when he left expansion and turned to contraction—a very young age; he was supremely intelligent. People live to seventy-eight and viloma does not come. Shankara’s genius was astonishing! At nine he chose sannyas. A nine-year-old? Unheard of. He must have seen more in nine years than others see in ninety. This is talent. No dullness; he saw what is. Mozart played music at three that ninety-year-olds cannot play.

Shankara’s story is sweet. His mother wept and refused. It is told that Shankara went to bathe and a crocodile caught his foot; his mother stood on the bank screaming. “Save my boy!” Who would save him? Shankara said, “Mother, there is one way: say that if I am saved I may take sannyas. Then I shall pray—and it will be worth being saved. If sannyas is not to be, better to die; what is there in life? If you grant me leave to renounce if I survive, I will pray to God.”

At such a moment, who would not agree? At least he’ll live—even as a monk! Between death and sannyas—what a choice! And note: whether or not the story is literally true, the choice stands for all: death or sannyas. Either you will only die, or you will be a sannyasin—there are only two options. The tale says he prayed and the crocodile let go; thereafter, permission was inevitable.

A crocodile has your foot too. Look closely! There are many kinds of crocodiles—not just in rivers. Rarely there; mostly on roads, in homes, shops, markets. For some, politics holds the foot; for others, money; for others, something else. But crocodiles all. Your foot can be freed if one prayer arises within you—the process of viloma. Otherwise this crocodile will chew you up—indeed, it is chewing you a little daily. Since birth, what have you done but die piece by piece? One day the process will be complete. Time is the crocodile.

Understand the process of viloma. Expansion is fine—up to a point; good for learning, good for experience. But then return—go home again.

Tadaikyaṁ nānātvaïkatvam upādhi-yoga-hānāt ādityavat.
“It is one; when adjuncts drop away, the many become one—like the sun.”

So long as expansion runs—so long as the world runs—you see multiplicity. As soon as the process of contraction begins, oneness appears. In truth there is only One. Many waves seem to be, but the ocean is one. Many beings seem to be, but Life is one. Many forms appear, but the energy within them is one. But as long as you are full of “I,” eager to expand the “I,” you will not experience the One. In the One alone is rest, in the One alone is bliss.

Multiplicity breeds sorrow, pain, anguish—for multiplicity is false. You are building your house on sand; it will fall. On the sand of many. As soon as you think, “I am separate”—and in the world you must think this, or competition is impossible—then “I must prove, I must fight; all others are my opponents.”

What is the meaning of the world? I am for myself alone; all others are my enemies. What is the meaning of sannyas? I am not—and all are my friends. Without “I,” what enemy can there be? The “I” breeds enmity; it is the seed of hostility. When “I” goes, friendship dawns—no other, no stranger, no foe; whom to fight? Then what sorrow? What pain? What defeat or victory? Success or failure? All dualities drop. One remains—that is sat-chit-ānand.

Multiplicity means: the world, māyā, toil, adjuncts. As when you fill a clay pot in the river—the pot is in the river, yet the thin clay wall separates the pot’s water from the river’s. A moment ago they were one; now they are not. That wall is called upādhi—adjunct.

People eagerly seek upādhis—honors, identities. A lifetime is spent collecting them. Wealth is an adjunct, position is an adjunct, prestige an adjunct. Name, fame, glory—all upādhis. With each, your pot grows thicker, stronger, turning from clay to iron. And you are severed from the outer water of which you are a part. Break the pot—and the inside water unites with the outer.

Multiplicity means: world, upādhi, water in a pot. Oneness means: Brahman, liberation, rest, without adjuncts—pots broken, water merges with water. No barrier remains.

Stop relishing boundaries! We take great relish in them. Hindu separate, Muslim separate—a boundary. But even that does not satisfy; within Hindu—Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Shudra—more boundaries. Still not enough; within Brahmins—Kanyakubja, Chitpavan, and so on—more lines. Boundary upon boundary. Upādhi upon upādhi. Then you are left alone, uprooted from the whole, feeling estranged, unable to find roots, meaning drained, no music in life—what surprise? It is the fruit of your own labor. Break boundaries!

He who says “I am a Brahmin” cannot be a Brahmin—for Brahmin means the knower of Brahman, the one who has left all limits. He who says “I am a Hindu” knows nothing of religion—for he separates himself from Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist. The religious have no country, no caste, no sect. The religious have no boundaries. He has broken the pot; the inner space has merged with space. Rest lies in the One. Seeking the without-adjuncts is sannyas; that is the process of viloma. From there we came; there we must return. The goal is not different from the source.

You fashioned a clay pot; when it breaks, what happens? It returns to the earth. Everything returns to its source. When we begin returning to ours, a melody enters life.

Mohabbat ke tarāne gā rahī hūṅ,
Fazā meṅ āg-sī bhaṛkā rahī hūṅ.
Yeh main, yeh ḥādasāt-e-zindagānī—
Kisī tūfān meṅ bahtī jā rahī hūṅ.

I sing love-songs,
I set the air aflame.
This “I,” these accidents of life—
I am being carried by some storm.

Kisī kī yād meṅ naghme luṭā kar
Dil-e-kaun-o-makān ḍhakḍakā rahī hūṅ.

Scattering songs in someone’s memory,
I make the heart of space and time throb.

Khirad mujhe jitnā samjhā rahī hai,
Main utnī aur kho’ī jā rahī hūṅ.

The more reason tries to explain me,
The more I lose myself.

Masā’ib ghūrtē haiṅ har taraf se,
Magar main qahqahē barsā rahī hūṅ.

Troubles glare from every side,
Yet I rain laughter.

Na manzil hai na ko’ī rāh-e-manzil,
Magar main ek dhun meṅ jā rahī hūṅ.

No destination, no path—
Yet I go on in a single tune.

Once it dawns that the primal source is the final goal—that the first is the last—then a single-mindedness arises. A music is heard in life.

This ecstasy is visible in devotees. If there is no intoxication in a devotee, he is no devotee. If no rhythm arises around him, if sitting near him you feel no music, no inner dance begins—he is no devotee. A true devotee makes you want to tie bells to your ankles; sitting near him, songs hidden within you strain to come forth; buds unopened begin to long to bloom.

“It is one; for when adjuncts fall away, the many become one—like the sun.”

Its reflections differ, like the sun’s. Ādityavat—like the sun rising today: in how many rivers will his glint appear; in how many ponds; in how many seas; in puddles along the road; in pots and pitchers—everywhere there will be his reflection, yet the sun is one.

So too truth is one, God is one; only reflections differ. Let reflections point to the real, and move toward the real.

I have heard: a dog wandered into a royal hall of mirrors and was locked in by mistake at night. In the morning he was found dead. The room was lined floor to ceiling with mirrors. When the dog opened his eyes and looked around, he panicked—never had he seen so many dogs. Naturally, he barked. And all the dogs barked! He lost his senses; he leapt at this dog and that, and all leapt at him. He barked all night and fought reflections; in the morning he lay bloodied amid blood-smeared mirrors.

Whom are you fighting? Who is the enemy here? At whom are you barking—and for whom? Here are mirrors only. The One glimmers in many forms. And he dwells within you—without and within. Free yourself of adjuncts and see him. What is the obstacle to being free of adjuncts? Adjuncts are only superimposed—like clothes. However many clothes you wear, you remain naked within. So too upādhis are on the surface; within you are naked, sky-clad. Beyond adjuncts you remain without adjuncts. Within a human, you are still God; within woman and man, Hindu and Muslim—you are that One. Ādityavat.

As the sun glints in many waters, so the One glints in the mirrors of many adjuncts. Recognize the One. With that recognition, war ends—violence, enmity, hatred, anger—all end. Only bliss remains—rāsa upon rāsa, color upon color, flavor upon flavor. Raso vai saḥ—he is the very essence of flavor. You will know his savor only then; until then, all experience is vain.

Pṛthak iti cet—na pareṇa asambandhāt prakāśānām.
“Nor can we say it is separate; for that would sever our relation to God—like separate lights.”

You cannot say the Supreme is separate from you. Separation would sever the link; then no bridge could join us. You are already linked; that is why you can be linked. The bridge has not broken—only been forgotten. God is not to be found somewhere else; he is to be remembered. Pratyabhijñā—recognition. Remember—and it happens. For we have never been cut off. How would you live without God? Who would breathe, whose heart would beat? Without him, where is life? He is life.

We have not broken; we are not unrelated—only forgetful. Thus devotees emphasize remembrance: Remember—who sits within you? Search within—whom are you connected to? From where does life flow into you? If a well were to seek the source of its waters, it would arrive at the sea. If you descend into the well of your consciousness, you will find the ocean—the streams are still connected; their flow is from there.

“Nor can we say it is separate; for that would sever our relation with God—like separate lights.”

Have you heard the sayings of Zen? Zen masters declare: samsara and nirvana are one. The statement shocks—how can world and nirvana be one? Zen says: knowledge and ignorance are one. Shocking—because we have always thought them opposites. But Zen speaks truly—the view from the ultimate. How can samsara be separate from nirvana? Nothing here is separate; it is all one, all connected.

A seeker once asked a Zen master: “What is Buddha? Who is Buddha? What does Buddhahood mean?” The master pointed to a tree and said, “Do you see that tree? That is Buddha.” The seeker must have been startled—tree and Buddha? But the master points: samsara and nirvana are one; matter and God are one; the sleeping and the awakened are one.

What is the difference between sleeping and awakened? A little awareness—that’s all. Patanjali says in the Yoga Sūtras: between deep sleep and samadhi there is but a slight difference; in deep sleep you are asleep, in samadhi you are awake. Otherwise, the rest, the stillness, the delight, the bliss are alike.

Na vikāriṇaḥ tu kāraṇa-vikārāt.
“Nor can you call it a modification; for then the cause itself would be subject to modification.”

Śāṇḍilya insists: you cannot say the world is other than God. This proclamation is revolutionary. Nor can you call it a distortion. Some philosophers tried to explain: not other, but a perversion—like milk becoming curd. Not other, yet altered. Śāṇḍilya says you cannot even say perversion, for how can distortion arise in the undistorted Supreme? This world is God; not a distortion, not other. You too are not his distortion, nor other than him. What then is the difference?

Only this: you fell asleep—and you are dreaming. Suppose five hundred of us here fall asleep—we will dream five hundred different worlds. Awake, we see one world—the same trees, the same birds. Asleep, there are five hundred worlds. The trees in your dream are yours; the trees in my dream are mine. You cannot see mine; I cannot see yours. We will forget each other; five hundred worlds will arise if five hundred sleep. Awake—one; asleep—five hundred. And everyone will have his own drama—someone becomes a saint, someone a thief, a murderer, a shopkeeper—each with his own story. In the morning, awake, we will laugh at our dreams. Will we say, “You became a thief in your dream; I became a saint—so we truly became different?” No one became anything. Imaginations arose; the play of dreams happened. Each staged his own theater. The playwright was you, the actor was you, the director was you—and the audience was you. The entire play was you—on stage and in the seats both—seer and seen, story and song and music—everything yours. In dreams you are a great creator; imagination gets free rein.

This world is not other than God; we are only asleep. Asleep, we conjure our separate worlds; we dream our private dreams.

Dreams are private. Truth is not private. Truth is universal. There is no “my truth” and “your truth.” In truth, even “you” and “I” are not separate—how then can truth be separate? Truth is one. Where multiplicity appears, there is untruth; where division appears, there is untruth.

What then to do? Śāṇḍilya urges—wake up! How? Remember, call out! Weep, sing, hum—bhajan. When your singing grows deep enough, its shock will awaken you. When your prayer rises like a cry from your whole being, that cry will awaken you. If your tears deepen and deepen, they will wash your eyes of dreams; you will be clear.

But people are lost in dreams—sweet dreams.

Har rāt tumhāre pās chalā main ātā hūṅ.
Jab ghan andhiyālā tāroṅ se ḍhal
Dharti par ā jātā hai,
Jab dar-par-diwāroṅ par bhī
Nīnd-nashā chhā jātā hai,
Tab yantra-sadṛś apne bistar se
Ho bāhar chupke-chupke
Har rāt tumhāre pās chalā main ātā hūṅ.

Each night I come to you.
When thick darkness spills from stars
Upon the earth,
When curtains and walls too
Are drugged with sleep,
Like a machine I slip from my bed
Softly, softly—
Each night I come to you.

Samat̤al bhūtal, battī kī pāntoṅ ke
Pehre meṅ supt nagar,
Ambar ko darpan dikhlāte
Sarovar, sāgar, madhuban, banjar,
Him-taru-maṇḍit, nangī parvat-mālā,
Maruthal, jangal, daldal—
Sab kī durgamatā ke ūpar muskātā hūṅ.
Har rāt tumhāre pās chalā main ātā hūṅ.

The level earth, the sleeping city
Guarded by rows of lamps,
Lakes and oceans, orchards and barrens
Holding up mirrors to the sky,
Snow-crowned, naked mountain chains,
Deserts, jungles, marsh—
I smile at all their hardships
And come to you each night.

Par kabhī-kabhī kyā nidrā ko
Ho jātā hai rūṭhā kartī,
Tumko pāne ke mere sāre
Yatnoṅ ko jhūṭhā kartī,
Tab bhāv-jalad par indradhanush-rūpak
Dhar kar, chhandoṅ se kas,
Tum tak gītoṅ ke sau-sau setu banātā hūṅ.
Har rāt tumhāre pās chalā main ātā hūṅ.

But sometimes sleep grows sullen
And makes my every effort to reach you false—
Then on clouds of feeling I fasten a rainbow,
And with meters I lash together
Hundreds of bridges of song
To cross to you each night.

People are dreaming—sweet dreams. What you have done till now is dream: dream means the process of expansion. The dream spreads; illusion spreads.

Awaken. Do viloma now—contract the dream. Evening has fallen; it is time to close the shop. You spread out your wares amply; now gather them up, shut the doors—twilight has come.

And remember: even if the morning’s stray returns home by evening, he is not called lost.

Enough for today.