Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #39

Atha to bhakti-jijñāsā!
Now, the inquiry into devotion!

Today we come to the last day with these rare, incomparable sutras. We have thought, we have reflected—but thought does not quench the thirst. Thirst is quenched only when it enters every pore, throbs in every heartbeat, sways with every breath. Whoever stopped at mere thinking and contemplation of these sutras reached the lake of water—yet remained thirsty. Such are these sutras: they can fulfill your life forever. Their glory is immeasurable. But even they cannot quench you unless you cooperate. Without your participation, nothing can happen. Your freedom is ultimate. If you drink, the lake will serve its purpose. But if you remain stiff at the shore, even the lake cannot pour itself down your throat.

Many people take only words from the scriptures. Then they have taken nothing. Then the journey has been wasted. They never even started; they merely thought, dreamt of walking. No journey is completed by dreaming of walking. One must walk—actually walk.

And what will walking mean in life?

It will mean that whatever feels true does not remain confined to the intellect, but pervades your whole life. Its flavor spreads through body, mind, and soul. Its taste gathers your scattered life-breath, joins your broken pieces. The thread of its taste strings you into a garland—becomes a seamless necklace.

We have reached the last day of contemplating the sutras, but this is not the inquiry Shandilya asked for; nor is this the inquiry I ask for. What we have done so far has been philosophical churning—an inner tussle. This tussle is auspicious if it sets you moving. If it does not move you, it is useless. A call has been heard from afar, traveling across centuries, and I have revived it for you. I have given Shandilya another chance to speak to you through me. I have rebirthed his words, polished them, dusted off the centuries. But the work is not complete by this alone. Do not think you have understood Shandilya. If understanding alone could complete the work, universities would be producing sages. Then pundits would be wise. What difference would remain between a Buddha and a pundit?

Pundits remain parrots. No matter how much a parrot chants “Rama Rama,” his heart is not in it. He recites mechanically. You wouldn’t call that bhajan, would you?

There is a famous tale: Shankaracharya went to debate the great scholar Mandan Mishra. Mandan lived at Mandala—named after him. When young Shankara arrived—unknown then, while Mandan’s fame was vast—he asked the women drawing water at the riverbank outside the city, “I have come seeking the great pundit Mandan Mishra—where is his house?”

The women laughed. “Is there any need to ask where Mandan Mishra lives? Enter the town—wherever parrots and mynas sitting at the doorway are reciting the Vedas and Upanishads, know that is Mandan Mishra’s house.”

Amazed, Shankara entered the village. At Mandan’s door, indeed, birds were flawlessly quoting Vedic verses, reciting the Upanishads, singing the Gita. Hundreds of students came and went. Mandan’s fame spread to distant lands; students came from far to learn from him.

Shankara was astonished. When he met Mandan, even more so. He said, “Not only do parrots at your gate recite the Vedas and Upanishads, you too are a parrot. The words have reached only your throat, at most your intellect; your heart is untouched. Your heart is not behind what you say. This is not the flowering of your life-breath.”

Think of it this way: you bring a plastic flower from the market and hang it on a tree. From afar it may deceive, it may create the illusion of a real flower. But come closer and you will see that the tree’s life-sap is not flowing into that flower. It is not joined to the tree’s roots.

If knowledge is hung on you like a plastic flower, you become a pundit. When it is born like a real blossom from the tree’s energy, when the tree’s sap flows in it—then you are wise; then you are a Buddha.

Don’t memorize Shandilya like parrots. Otherwise, after such a marvelous journey, you’ll reach nowhere—only dreamt you traveled. You went deep into glorious words but gained no depth; you merely gathered a little debris—words and doctrines. A bit more ego swelled: “I know.” But nothing has been known. Knowing is not so cheap. You must pour your life-breath into it. In his final sutras Shandilya speaks only of pouring your life into it.

The first sutra—

Ananyabhaktyā tad-buddhiḥ buddhi-layāt atyantam.
“Through ananya—supreme, nondual devotion—when the intellect dissolves completely, a mind suffused with That (tannmayi buddhi) arises.”

Tannmayi buddhi—a lovely phrase! What you know must be known in absorption—tannmay—intimately, personally; you must become a witness to it, able to testify, “Yes, it is so.” If you say, “There is God because the Vedas say so,” you are a parrot. If you say, “There is God because Shandilya says so, or because I say so,” you are mechanical. Seek the day, search for the moment when you can say, “There is God—because I say so! Because I have known! Because I have seen!” Don’t settle for less than seeing. What is heard is worth two pennies; only what is seen is true.

Someone said something—did he know or did he also only hear? How will you decide? And even if he knew, when a knower speaks, the same truth does not reach the listener. Words reach the listener; truth does not.

I have loved; I have known love—and I can speak to you about love. What reaches you is not love but the word love. You may listen intently, you may understand and memorize—but you will still not know what love is. Knowing about love is different from knowing love. “About” means you stayed outside, circling the periphery—never entered within; you were afraid, you lacked the courage to know.

There are two ways “about” love. One is to fall in love. The other is to sit in a library and read every scripture ever written about love. You might even write a PhD thesis. But still, you will not know love. To know love, you must love. And whatever you know, you know only when you are absorbed in it—when you become one with it, when there is intimacy—when the knower and the knowing are not two, when the knower himself becomes the knowing—when the boundaries, the intervals between the two vanish, when they are one—ananya. When there is not even a hair’s breadth between lover and love, when you are love itself—then you know. Then what was hidden reveals itself within you.

You have heard these sutras; do not stop at hearing. That is why Shandilya did not even write them down. That is why I have not “re-said” them merely to inform you. I have spoken them only to ignite your thirst, to remind you that such a thing is possible. Let it be remembered—such a thing is possible. Let a longing rise in you. There is a thirst in you—long buried. You have covered it up because it is dangerous. For that thirst you must stake everything. You have hidden it; in its place you have cultivated little thirsts.

The vast thirst within man is only one: to know—what is truth? Call it God, call it the mystery of nature—any name. In the innermost depth there is only one inquiry, one quest, in everyone: to know what existence is. Where have I come from? Where do I go? Who am I? What is the purpose of my being? What is the outcome of all my running about? This life spread between birth and death—what is its purpose? What gives it meaning? Let me know this meaning. For without knowing it, my living will be shallow. Without knowing it, whatever I do will go wrong. He who does not know his own being, who does not know why existence flows, how can he act rightly? Whatever he does will be like an blind man groping in the dark. Even if, by mistake, his hand touches truth, truth will not fall into his hands; even if it does, it will slip away—he will not recognize it. He who has no thirst, how will he recognize water? And he who has not gone in search of diamonds, even if he arrives at a diamond mine, he will return empty-handed, as a beggar. One who has sought—who has dreamt deeply, thought intensely, tossed and turned through nights, sleepless, possessed day and night by one tune—“I must find diamonds!”—if he comes upon them, he may recognize them. To one who has dreamed with such intensity, the art of recognition dawns.

So you have listened to these sutras—with love, with exhilaration. But that is not completion—that is the beginning. We began with “Atha to jijñāsā,” now let us end there too—because now inquiry must shift to another plane—the existential. One kind of inquiry is intellectual; another is existential. The intellect’s inquiry ends today; now we must begin existence’s inquiry.

The first sutra says: “Through ananya—supreme devotion—when the intellect dissolves completely, a mind suffused with That arises.”

Understand every word.

Ananya! As long as there is even a trace of aversion between you and existence, even a sliver of doubt, even a shade of duality, you will not know. Knowing happens only in nonduality. The only way to know is love. Without love there is no knowing—there is only information.

Imagine a botanist enters a garden and sees the trees. He has a lot of information; he can label each tree—its name, species, lifespan, whether it will flower or fruit, how tall it will grow. But this is information. He has no ananya state toward the tree. He has read in books; he recognizes that what is written there applies to this tree—and repeats it.

A poet comes, a lover, an artist—their way of seeing is different. He looks at the tree and embraces it. He becomes intoxicated with the tree. He drowns in its greenness, invites that greenness into himself. He sits with the tree, rises with it; befriends it, makes friendship; sees it at sunrise, at sunset; in moonlit nights, in star-studded nights; in the dark of the new moon, in the full moon; when the tree is jubilant and when it is sad; when blossoms cover it and when even its leaves have fallen and it stands naked. He recognizes its many moods and gestures, speaks with it, dialogues with it. This is another kind of knowing: knowing through love.

A Chinese emperor asked a great Zen painter to paint a rooster for the royal seal—such a painting as no rooster has ever seen. “How long will it take?” “At least three years,” said the painter. “Three years—for a rooster?” “The painting will take seconds,” he said, “but before that I must become the rooster. Otherwise how will I know him from within? I can paint him right now—but it will be only lines, not the rooster. Only an outline.”

That is the difference between a photograph and a painter’s picture. The camera catches the outline. Many thought painting would end with the camera. But since the camera, the painter’s value rose—because for the first time it was clear the camera captures only the surface; the interior remains untouched.

“So give me three years. I will live with roosters, become a rooster, know him from within. When he crows at dawn, until that same crow rises from my belly, how will I know his majesty, his pride, his splendor?”

The emperor was not pleased—three years was long. Still, he agreed.

A year later he sent men to check on the “madman.” They found he had disappeared into the forest, living among wild roosters. He didn’t even recognize the emissaries—he sat among the roosters as a rooster, crowing. They reported, “He’s gone mad. Don’t wait. He won’t return. You asked him to paint a rooster; he became one. What hope is there now for a painting!”

But three years later the painter returned. He made the painting before the emperor—within seconds. They say no such painting has ever been made; it still survives. Its greatest marvel: roosters recognize it. Place any other rooster painting in a room—a rooster will ignore it. What does a rooster have to do with a painting? But at that painting—born from three years of becoming a rooster—a rooster stops at the threshold, looks and is startled: it is alive—he even grows a little afraid, for it is a wild rooster; it seems about to crow, dawn about to break.

This is another way of knowing—the existential way. Information is gotten from outside; knowing is born within—through attunement, ananya.

How will you know God? Shandilya says: through ananya. Become one with God. The devotee must not keep even the slightest distance between himself and the Beloved—no modesty, no shyness. Meera says, “All social shame I have thrown away”—why? Because even a shred of shame retains a shred of distance. In love we drop all distances. In love we become naked. Clothes are for those with whom there is distance—those from whom we wish to hide, before whom we will not open fully. Before God, the devotee must open entirely—naked. However you are—good or bad, beautiful or ugly, saintly or un-saintly—lay it all out. Open the whole heart.

Only he who drops his selfhood utterly attains ananya. As long as ego is, there is no ananya—only the other.

Contemplate this whole vision well.

As long as the thought “I am” persists, a distance remains between me and God.

Rumi tells a famous poem: A lover knocked on his beloved’s door. “Who is it?” she asked from within. “I am,” he said. “Did you not hear my footsteps? Do you not recognize my knock?” Silence. He knocked again. “What is the matter? It is I—your lover.” She said, “In this house there is no room for two. This is the house of love—here only one can be, not two.”

Kabir said it: Remember—Love’s lane is very narrow; there is no room for two. Jesus too: “Straight is my way—but narrow.” Straight—and narrow. For centuries Christians have stumbled over the “narrow.” Understand Kabir and you will understand Jesus. Why narrow? Because two cannot pass—only one.

The lover went away. Years passed. He melted his “I,” then returned. He knocked again. “Who is it?” “It is You.” The door opened.

The day you can say with your whole being, “It is You,” that day ananya happens. That day love’s door opens. And love is the temple. One who enters love’s temple enters God. All other temples are hollow—your inventions, your toys—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—politics, without value from the standpoint of religion. In religion there is only one temple—the temple of love, of ananya. Where you sit with That and become one makes no difference—at Kaba, Kashi, or Kailash. Where you awaken ananya, where you sway with That, become drunk, intoxicated; where you drink His wine, open yourself and let His current pour through you and dance with Him—no difference. There is no need to go to any holy place. Wherever ananya happens, a tirtha—pilgrim’s ford—appears. Wherever one becomes ananya, wherever his feet fall, a tirtha is born. Wherever he sits, temples arise.

Ananya: I am not other. You are not other. I am your ripple; I am your leaf—you are my tree. I am your wave—you are my ocean. I am one expression of you, one gesture, one mood. When ananya happens, the intellect dissolves utterly—and tannmayi buddhi is born.

As long as you think, “I am separate,” your intellect is egocentric. Ego makes your intelligence small. Otherwise your intelligence is as vast as God’s. The talent within you is God’s own talent—but you have made it very small. You have fenced it in, raised walls—Hindu, Muslim, Brahmin, Shudra—wall upon wall. You have been burying yourself behind thousands of walls—how cramped you are! Expand! But expansion is with Him; ego can only be small.

Do you know the meaning of Brahman? Brahman means: the vast, the ever-expanding. Even the word “vistar—expansion” comes from the same root. Hence we call the universe “Brahmānda”—the expanse. Our mystics said five thousand years ago: the universe is expanding. In this century Einstein confirmed: This is an expanding universe. Everything is expanding—seeds become trees, drops become oceans. In this expanding universe you are clutching a tiny, petty ego—that is your hindrance, your hell, your suffering, your bondage.

Break these chains. They give you nothing but pain. Break them and suddenly a new genius is born within you—the genius of God. Then there is no limit to you. I will call you a Brahmin only when there is no boundary left around you. Brahmin means: one who knows Brahman. Buddha said: I do not call one a Brahmin who was born in the house of a Brahmin; I call him a Brahmin who has known Brahman.

A right definition.

How can anyone become a Brahmin by birth? All are born as shudras—Brahmins too. Shudra means: petty, limited, narrow. Ego is the root of shudratā. Whoever is egotistic is a shudra; whoever is egoless is a Brahmin. Egolessness is ananya. In ananya lies brahminhood. Then tannmayi buddhi is born.

What is tannmayi buddhi?

It means: my intellect is gone—His intelligence has begun to function through me. When Buddha speaks, it is not Buddha who speaks—it is Brahman. That is why the Vedas are called apauruṣeya—not composed by any man. Composed through man, but man is not their author—only the scribe, the medium.

That is why the Qur’an is called ilhām—revelation. It descended upon Muhammad; Muhammad is the medium. It came from an unknown realm; Muhammad brought it to us. Hence Muslims call him a rasūl—messenger, the postman. The letter is written by God; Muhammad delivered it. Like a flute—someone sings through it. The flute does not sing—what can a hollow reed sing? It is inert. But if it is placed upon Someone’s lips—song flows.

So with the Vedic rishis, so with the Qur’an, the Bible, all the great scriptures—hollow reeds through which God has spoken.

Tannmayi buddhi means: you move aside; God enters. The ego-filled intellect departs; the vast intelligence descends. The little courtyard you had walled off—you pull the walls down; your courtyard becomes the sky. That is tannmayi buddhi: to make the courtyard the sky. The courtyard is the sky—but you built a little wall, chopped the sky into a fragment—made it small. The boundless sky could have been yours.

When Swami Ramtirtha went to America, people could not understand his ecstasy—the mad ecstasy of a fakir! The West has lost the fakir; here too he is disappearing because ecstasy is disappearing—tannmayi buddhi is disappearing. Only hollow reeds remain; the song is not seen. Ramtirtha was a flute—song poured through him. Whoever came near felt something happening—some energy, some aura. Even the blind could see it; even the deaf could hear something. Those who dared to come closer tasted a little nectar.

They asked him, “We don’t see anything you possess; then why are you so ecstatic?” America knows only one language: What do you have? If you have money, mansion, status—you have the right to be ecstatic. This man had nothing—no house, no wife, no wealth. Such a man should commit suicide. Why so jubilant?

Ramtirtha said, “What I had was small. Because it was small, I dropped it. I left a courtyard—and the whole sky became mine. I left one house—and all houses became mine. The moment I dropped here, my empire opened there. Since then I am an emperor. People call me fakir, and I laugh—for since then I am king.”

He called himself Badshah Ram. His famous book: “Six Edicts of Emperor Ram.” Only an emperor issues edicts. He was an emperor indeed.

Everyone is born to be an emperor—but we die beggars. Begging our whole life away. Let tannmayi buddhi arise—and sovereignty is yours. Your own intellect is your poverty. However much money, position, prestige you have—you will remain poor. The root of poverty is in your being. You are the source of your poverty. Drop yourself. Bow down to yourself—fold your hands to yourself—and consign yourself to the river, as you sometimes submerge the idol of Ganesha. That immersion does nothing. Immerse the Ganesha sitting within—the trunk of ego. The day you immerse that, tannmayi buddhi is born. The sky is yours—the vast, infinite, boundless.

“Through ananya—supreme devotion—when the intellect dissolves completely, tannmayi buddhi is born.”

And tannmayi buddhi is Buddhahood.

Krishna’s assurance in the Gita:

Daivī hyesha guṇamayī mama māyā duratyayā.
Mām eva ye prapadyante māyām etāṁ taranti te.
“You are bound by my divine, three-gunā māyā—hard to cross. But those who take refuge in me alone—with ananya bhakti—cross beyond this māyā.”

Daivī hyesha guṇamayī mama māyā duratyayā.
You are entangled in the power of my māyā. You have not seen me—you have gotten caught in my servants. It is as if you reached the palace and mistook the gatekeeper for the king. The gatekeeper can look grand—sword in hand, shining buttons, polished boots—he swaggers. These days kings dress simply; the gatekeeper wears the glitter. You bow to him, catch his feet, thinking he is the king—you are stuck at the door. In this world, if you have grabbed anything—wealth, position, prestige—you are entangled with gatekeepers.

Daivī hyesha guṇamayī mama māyā duratyayā.
You are tangled in my difficult-to-escape māyā. You have not seen me. But:

Mām eva ye prapadyante māyām etāṁ taranti te.
He who takes refuge in me—crosses. Look toward the Master, says Krishna. Look at the owner. Do not be caught in his lesser powers; look toward the source. You are caught in riches; look toward the Rich One—the source of all riches. Fall at His feet. Falling at His feet is called ananya bhakti.

But we are entangled with the petty. Our love is tangled in bodies—nose and features, hair, voice, gait. Our love is pitiable—yet we sing its praises endlessly. Listen—

Now failure itself keeps becoming my destiny;
Life keeps turning into a portrait of pain.
Union with you would have been love’s ascension,
Yet distance from you keeps becoming my fate.
Such a strange miracle of separation—
Night’s darkness keeps becoming morning’s light.
Roads are blocked—my world is hemmed in;
Life keeps turning into the weight of chains.
In the mind there was a faint glimpse of beauty’s gathering—
That very image now keeps becoming my paradise.
What secret of my heart is not disclosed to them?
My silence itself keeps becoming my speech.
I am not even aware of my sighs being futile—
My ecstasy keeps becoming the display of their effect.
How to hide the secret of my sorrow? For even my silence
Keeps becoming the commentary on my feeling.

People sing so much for ordinary love—if they praised God so, all would be attained. One goes mad over someone’s eyes, another over a nose, another the style of hair, another the voice, the way of walking, sitting, skin tone. Your crazes are strange—you get caught in tiny things. However beautiful the nose, however honeyed the lips—it is all dust, and will fall back into dust. Everything rises from dust and returns to dust. Amid this play of dust, God is hidden—but you remain on the surface, entangled with gatekeepers.

When you were enchanted by a handsome man or beautiful woman, did you remember to see whether you glimpsed the God within? If sorrow followed, no wonder. If your love forged chains for you—no wonder. If your love brought countless forms of misery—no wonder. The original mistake: you did not recognize the Master; you got caught in His clothes. This world is God’s garment—His expression. Do not get lost in it. It is beautiful—but compared to the One who wears it?

The Sufi mystic Rabia would sit in her hut at dawn, meditating—absorbed; surely in ananya. Her guest, a fakir named Hasan, awoke and stepped outside. The sun was rising; the eastern sky flushed; birds flew singing; trees were waking—such a beautiful morning! Hasan shouted, “Rabia! What are you doing shut inside? Come out! The morning is so lovely—the sun so sweet, birds singing, flowers blooming; the breeze is intoxicated. Come out!” He didn’t expect what came—Rabia laughed from within. “Hasan, how long will you wander outside? The morning is beautiful—but I am seeing the One who makes mornings, within. You come in. Outside is beautiful, surely—because He who made it is beautiful. If the statue is so lovely, how much lovelier the sculptor! If flowers are so beautiful, how beautiful the painter who painted them! The moon and stars so lovely—look for the signature—whose signature is on them? Seek the Master.”

Do not get entangled in māyā—wake up! Who stands within this magic? Do not be caught by the trick; search for the magician. But no—we remain entangled. One hope fails; we manufacture another. Hope upon hope.

The candles went out; the stars slipped from the sky.
Losing them, all my supports slipped away.
How can I complain of the storm’s raging surges?
They came near—and then the shore moved far away.
What spring? What garden? Where are the flowers now?
You left—and all the scenes disappeared.
You went away without a backward glance even once;
We stood in tears, calling after you as you went.
Those nights you had filled with beauty—
They are gone; those moon and stars are gone.
God forbid anyone be so forsaken:
One by one, all props slipped away.
“Nudrat,” perhaps the spring will come someday—
In that longing we kept passing the time.

People merely pass time in the hope: “That moment will come—the moment of fulfillment, of bliss.” If not with this woman, then another; if not with this position, then another; not in this town, then elsewhere; not in this house, then another. It will come.

“Nudrat, perhaps the spring will come someday.”
In that hope, time is spent.
Death comes—but that moment does not. In the end, only dust fills the hands. All fall into graves. Our whole life we dig our own graves. Had we seen the Master, everything would change.

Through ananya bhakti the intellect dissolves totally. Through that total dissolution, God is realized. The devotee calls this realization moksha—nirvana. The fading away of “I” is nirvana. When God remains entirely within you and you are no more—not even your shadow—that is liberation.

Āyuḥ ciram itareṣāṁ tu hāniḥ anāspadatvāt.
“The ordinary person’s life continues for the sake of exhausting karma; but for the devotee, since there is no cause for enjoyment, his accumulated karma is annihilated.”

The second sutra. An important question—apt at the end: When a devotee attains ananya and tannmayi buddhi, why does he still remain in the body? The body is for desires; we are in the body because of ego and craving. Buddha was enlightened, yet remained in the body forty years—why? We are in the body because of desires, because we are tied to the small. But one who is untied from the small—why doesn’t his connection to the body end? Why doesn’t he merge into the vast? What holds him? All desires gone, ego gone, his own intellect gone; the courtyard has become sky, the drop the ocean, the individual the whole—what keeps him? A life-liberated devotee may remain for some years—how?

Shandilya says: ordinarily we are in the body because of desires. Desire is the cause of birth. Without desire there is no reason to be in the body. But when the devotee attains ananya, all his karmas fall away, ego ends—but the body’s lifespan was fixed before ananya arose. The day you were born, your body’s age was determined—by the seeds that came through your mother and father. Perhaps you were to live seventy, eighty years. If at thirty, forty, fifty you become enlightened—your karmas shed, there remains no reason to be in the body. But the body has its own age. The body’s term is not canceled by ananya. The body is not affected by it.

Think of riding a bicycle. You’ve been pedaling for miles. Now you decide to stop pedaling. Even then, due to old momentum, the bicycle goes on a little. If it slopes downhill, it may go far; uphill, not so far. But it doesn’t stop at once when you stop pedaling. Through many lifetimes you have pedaled—generated momentum. That energy carries the bicycle a while.

So even upon dissolving in God, the devotee remains in the body some time. He no longer “lives in the body” as identity; the body is not his limit—yet he is in it. The inner state has changed; the “I” has gone. Truly, even the thought “this is my body” is gone. Now only God lives in the body.

A lovely incident: Someone took a photograph of Ramakrishna. When they brought it and placed it before him, he began to touch the photograph’s feet—his own photograph—raising it to his head. Opponents said, “We knew the man is mad. Who bows to his own picture?” Even disciples were disturbed: “What is our master doing? What will people say?” A disciple said, “Paramhansadev, what are you doing? Are you in your senses? This is your picture; you’re touching its feet—your own feet!”

Ramakrishna replied, “Ah—thanks for reminding me! I had forgotten it is my picture. Now there is only His picture in all pictures. I was bowing to His feet. Where am I? And this is a picture of supreme samadhi—I was absorbed. Whoever’s picture it is, it is of samadhi—of ananya, of tannmayi buddhi; I was bowing to that.”

Ramakrishna is right.

Ashtavakra said: When one attains supreme realization, he bows again and again to himself.

Why bow to himself? Is it madness? But the self has vanished. Everywhere is God—even within. So the devotee gives great respect to his own body. If at the end of your bhakti there does not arise a respect for the body—if there is disrespect—know something has gone wrong. The devotee regards the body as God’s own vehicle—His temple. He does not torture it. Those who torture the body are ill—mentally diseased.

He who has seen God in all, will he not see Him within? Truly, one who has seen Him within, sees Him everywhere. First it happens within.

Then as long as the body’s term lasts, it goes on.

You have desired the body for so many lives; that desire has gathered immense momentum. You have forgotten. Hence even after enlightenment, for some years there is jivanmukti—liberation-in-life. Then final liberation; the body is dissolved; no more return.

We forget so soon! I heard of a husband and wife who had been fighting for hours. A man asked, “What is the cause?” The husband gestured at his wife, “Ask the goddess herself.” The wife beat her chest and said, “It’s been more than three hours—we’ve been fighting so long, how can I remember why?”

Fights often begin over trifles—unworthy of mention. Couples come to me having quarreled; I ask the cause—they glance at each other. Whoever tells it will sound foolish—the reasons are so petty! Perhaps the real reason is: we wanted to fight; any excuse will do. Without fighting there’s no fun; and without fighting one cannot test one’s strength. Husband and wife weigh: who is stronger? Any excuse: the tea was a bit cold; the bread slightly burned; “Why did you come home late? I phoned the office—you weren’t even there!”

Mulla Nasruddin came home one evening. Every day a quarrel. He thought, “I’ll end it—confess myself.” As soon as he entered he said, “Before you start—on the way a woman signaled me. Beautiful woman. You know my eyes are bad—I followed her.” His wife shouted, “Stop this nonsense! You’re lying. I’ve already learned you are coming from the gambling den—after playing cards!”

A fight started over that. If he himself confesses he followed a woman, the issue loses steam; there’s no juice in it. But gambling—yes! I also heard she would daily inspect his clothes for a hair—always finds one—and then begins: “Which woman is this hair from?” One day he carefully dusted his clothes outside for an hour—came in spotless. She found no hair and burst into tears, beating her chest: “This is too much—now you’ve begun to chase bald women too!”

Any excuse will do. Bald women are rare—but look long enough and you can find anything. Who will fall for a bald woman? But that’s not the point. Any pretext—the fight must arise.

For lifetimes man has been caught in such petty things—forgetting how we’ve valued the trivial, making it seem precious. We’ve loved the body so much—because all our pleasures are bodily. If your joy is in food, you cannot enjoy it without a body. If your joy is in fine clothing, you need a body to wear them. If your joy is in form, you need eyes; in sound, ears. Our pleasures depend on the five senses—each tied to the body. So for lifetimes, whatever pleasure we desired, we desired the body. We’ve striven to preserve it. And what we strive for comes to pass. Hence the wise caution: be very careful what you desire—it may come true!

For lifetimes we have pedaled the body. Then comes the revolutionary moment—when the sorrow of life becomes dense; the fruit ripens and falls; we see—this was all pointless. In one instant ego breaks—and ananya is attained. Even then the body continues; the message reaches the body late. It is very gross; its intelligence is crude and undeveloped. It takes years for the message to reach. Until then the devotee lives. But now his way of living is different. This way is called brahmacharya—not celibacy but “the conduct of Brahman.” Now he lives as God. The devotee disappears; God lives.

Saṁsṛtiḥ eṣāṁ abhaktiḥ syāt, na ajñānāt kāraṇa-siddheḥ.
“It is not correct to hold that the soul is bound in the world because of ignorance—for that cause has no real existence. The soul’s bondage is due to lack of devotion.”

This sutra is extraordinary—priceless—worthy of deep, repeated contemplation. Upon it the whole scripture of bhakti stands—the foundation.

Saṁsṛtiḥ eṣāṁ abhaktiḥ syāt, na ajñānāt kāraṇa-siddheḥ.
People commonly say: man is bound in the world due to ignorance. Shandilya says: not true—an audacious statement. Your sadhus say ignorance is the cause. Shandilya says: ignorance has no real existence—how can it cause anything? Ignorance is like darkness. Darkness appears—but has no being. That’s why you cannot push it out of the village. If it had being, you could gather ruffians, as politicians do, and shove it out. Or cut it down with swords, threaten it with guns. You can do nothing to darkness. Even if you collect the strongest wrestlers—you and they will be defeated.

Darkness is not. With what are you fighting? An absence. Darkness has no positive existence—no substance. It is merely the absence of light. One who fights darkness is foolish.

Whoever tries to destroy ignorance is a fool. He who gets entangled with ignorance—“I must be free of ignorance”—becomes a pundit, nothing more. Ignorance remains—hidden behind a net of words. Scholarship cannot end ignorance. It is like gathering goons to remove darkness.

The wise do not fight darkness; they light a lamp. They do not talk of darkness; they light a lamp. The lamp lit—darkness is gone. Light has existence; hence we can do something with it. If you want darkness, you cannot bring it from your neighbor—“Give me some darkness; I have little tonight and I want to sleep.” You cannot bundle darkness, nor buy it; no one can give it to you. Why? Because it does not exist. If you want darkness—extinguish the lamp. If you want to remove darkness—light the lamp. Remember: only with the positive can anything be done. With the negative—nothing.

Shandilya says: It is wrong to say the soul is bound due to ignorance. Because ignorance has no existence. Then why is man bound? Because of the absence of light—not because darkness exists, but because light is missing. And light arises through ananya. You are darkness—negative. The moment you connect with God—you become positive.

“The soul’s bondage is due to lack of devotion.”

This is the foundation. Shandilya waited to say it—now, after you have understood much. Bhakti is absent, ananya is absent, tannmayi buddhi is absent.

Intellect is darkness—my intellect is darkness. When I go—His intelligence descends—that is light. You are not entangled due to ignorance. If you think ignorance is the cause, then only one path remains—accumulate knowledge. Pile up the junk of information. People do just that. Scholarship spreads—and even an inch of darkness does not recede. It cannot. Only ananya dissolves it—only God-feeling dissolves it. Join your being to His flame—and you become luminous.

Trīṇi eṣāṁ netrāṇi śabda-liṅga-akṣa-bhedāt—Rudravat.
“Like Mahadeva, by three eyes—word, sign, and eye—the soul knows.”

Each sutra grows more precious. This is the ninety-ninth; one remains. The ninety-eighth was foundational; now the ninety-ninth—Shandilya gives the finishing touch, like a painter adding final strokes.

“Like Mahadeva’s three eyes...”
You know the story of Shiva’s three eyes. It is your story—everyone’s. You don’t know you are Mahadeva; that God dwells within you.

What are the three eyes?

Shandilya says: “They are: śabda, liṅga, and akṣa.”

Understand all three.

Śabda means: scripture, the master’s word—the word that comes from the other. Naturally, the search begins with the other. You read the Gita and an upsurge arises. You hear the Qur’an recited and something stirs. You sit near a realized one, a bhakta; for the first time you taste that another way of living is possible—that such people exist, with the fragrance of flowers, the light of lamps, with the music of the unstruck sound within. A long-buried yearning awakens; a seed cracks, a sprout appears. So the beginning is from the other—śabda, śāstra, śāstā (master).

The second eye: liṅga—sign, inference, thought, contemplation. The first is from the other; the second from oneself. You heard—but what then? You must digest it—ponder, contemplate, churn it deeply in solitude. The first came from another; the second is your own process—self-reflection.

So first: the other. Second: the self. Then the third: akṣa—direct seeing; sākṣāt-kār, experience, realization. It is beyond both self and other—beyond duality. There neither I nor you remains—only God.

These are the three eyes.

One eye is opened by the master—by hearing.

The second by contemplation—your own.

The third by meditation—nididhyāsana, samadhi.

Thus the three limbs of yoga are complete: śravaṇa, manana, nididhyāsana.

Let the master awaken you; let the scripture’s words resound. But do not stop there—or you’ll end as a pundit—a parrot. Go further: contemplate, reflect, observe; dive yourself into what has been said.

But do not stop at the second—or you will die a philosopher. A philosopher is richer than a pundit, for he at least thinks; the pundit only repeats. Yet the philosopher remains unacquainted with experience. His thought cannot be witnessed; it is inference: “It seems God must be.” “Surely He must be; it appears so.” These are not testimonies—they can be debated, refuted.

Ask a pundit the meaning—he cannot. He is a gramophone. Press the record—it plays. Do not ask the meaning; he has never thought. The philosopher is better—but not by much. He has some meanings—but inferences, which can be countered. Philosophers keep arguing—believer and unbeliever. The theist says: such a vast universe must have a maker. Even a little pot needs a potter; it cannot form by chance.

The atheist retorts: if this vast universe needs a maker, who made your God? He is even more complex. If you say God is unmade—then your argument collapses. If even a pot cannot be without a maker—how could the maker be without one? Then an endless regress begins—who made the maker’s maker? No end. For centuries they have argued—no one wins.

Inference never decides. It has no potency; it is sterile. Better than parroting—but still sterile. Take one more step: drop even the self—then tannmayi buddhi arises. The third state is akṣa—the true eye—direct sight.

Only through the third eye does knowing happen. Then one becomes a witness. He no longer says, “It seems; perhaps; it must be.” He says, “I have seen.”

That is why Buddha’s words have power; Ramakrishna’s, Jesus’, Muhammad’s, Kabir’s, Shandilya’s, Meera’s, Chaitanya’s—their force is not logic but experience. The Upanishads offer no argument; they declare.

When the Upanishads were first translated into Western languages, thinkers were shocked: there is no argument—only conclusions. “Aham Brahmāsmi—I am Brahman.” “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu—Thou art That.” Where is the proof, the method? How did you arrive at this conclusion? None. Because these are not philosophers’ words; they are the utterances of the realized. He does not infer; he sees. He looks into Shvetaketu and says, “You are That. What you seek is within you—I see it.”

The blind man infers that light must be—or should be. One with eyes says, “There is light.” If someone asks for proof? “There is no question of proof—I see it. It is indubitable. My eyes are the proof.”

Hence akṣa: eye. The real eye is the third—the eye of experience, of realization.

Move from hearing to contemplation, from contemplation to meditation. From “other” to awakening longing, from “self” to assimilating it in every fiber—then in God there is fulfillment.

I heard of a famous philosopher. A man met him and said, “Ah—you are alive! I thought you had died in an accident.” “How did you infer that?” the philosopher asked. “What led you to that conclusion?” Philosophers always ask for inference. “A man who looked exactly like you—same clothes, black pants—was crushed under a car.” “Was he wearing a white shirt?” “Yes.” “Were the buttons broken and the collar torn?” “No.” “Then I cannot be that man,” said the philosopher. “It must have been someone else.”

A philosopher infers even about himself. His whole method is inference—thinking and thinking—and never arriving.

Do not become a pundit—or you’ll be a parrot. Do not stop at philosophy—or your life will remain conjecture. Experience is needed. Experience is the eye.

The final sutra—

Āvastiro-bhāvāḥ vikārāḥ syuḥ kriyā-phala-saṁyogāt.
“The appearing of change—arising and dissolving—is due to the conjunction of action and its fruits.”

The so-called pundits tell you: this world is a distortion (vikāra)—either of God, or of your ignorance. Shandilya says: there can be no distortion. First, ignorance does not exist—how can it cause distortion? Second, God is changeless—there is no possibility of distortion in Him.

Then what is this world?

Remember Shandilya’s unique principle: the world is rhythm between opposites. Day cannot be without night; life without death; man without woman; heat without cold; pleasure without pain. Reality is a harmony of opposites. Everything rests upon its opposite. Music arises from the union of sound and silence.

I am speaking—but if I only hurl words, you will understand nothing. Between words, silence is needed. Speaking is the union of word and silence—word, then empty space—word, then space. A veena sounds—note, then pause, note, then pause. If one strikes the string continuously with no gap—no music. Music is born from the marriage of sound and silence.

So with God and the world. Their union creates the rhythm.

For Shandilya, God is the seed, the world the tree. Every seed becomes a tree, every tree returns to seed. God is the unexpressed song, the world the sung song. The world is the note; God is the silence. The world is the seen; God the unseen. The world is labor; God is rest. The world is day; God is night. They are joined—the two wings of existence. There is no enmity between them. The world is not distortion, nor false. The world is as true as God is true; as changeless as God is—because what arises from the changeless is changeless in essence. This world is His expression.

Where then is the error?

Only in this: we look at the world and forget God. Our forgetfulness is the error—no distortion, only amnesia. We stare so hard at one that we forget the other. The world is visible, so eyes fix on it. God is invisible; for Him, the eyes must become un-focused—multi-focused. To see the world, eyes open; to see God, eyes must close. The open-eyed God is the world; the closed-eyed world is God—this is the only difference. The world is God’s outer form; God is the inner soul of the world. Like body and soul—Brahman and māyā.

There is no distortion here. The so-called opposites—day and night, labor and rest, spring and fall, life and death—appear opposite; in depth they are complementary. Science now supports this—one of this century’s great insights: the principle of complementarity. Everything is complementary. Man cannot be without woman; woman cannot be without man. Together they complete the circle; each is the other’s indispensable half.

So with māyā and Brahman.
Māyā is not a distortion, not a delusion external to Brahman. Māyā is Brahman’s consort—Shiva and Shakti, Radha and Krishna, Sita and Rama. The world is the couple—Brahman and Māyā. Between them opposition appears—but in truth, there is complementarity.

On this final sutra Shandilya completes the inquiry into bhakti. Why end here? To remind you—yet again—that bhakti is not contrary to the world. The devotee does not run away. He is no escapist. He accepts the world, lives in it, and lives so that he lives the world and God together. Eyes open—he sees the world; eyes closed—he sees God.

People ask me why I tell my sannyasins to remain in the world. Because God is hidden in the world. Leave the world—and you leave God. He is here, now—everywhere—within me, within you, in the trees, in the birds’ songs, in sunrays, in the breeze—because all this is His expansion. Amid all this, He resounds.

Do not think māyā is opposed to God—an enemy. If you see it as an enemy, obstacles arise—you become unfree; you become neurotic, a runaway. You abandon wife, children, family, and flee to the forest.

There is no need to go anywhere. God is as present in the marketplace as in the forest—as present in saints as in your wife, as present in Rama and Krishna as in your son and daughter, your friend and your foe. Attain this vision—then your whole life becomes bhajan. The essence of Shandilya’s sutras is one: let life become prayer. Let there be no opposition between life and worship. Sitting or standing—let it be prayer; eating or drinking—let it be service.

Let the small acts of life be filled with His splendor. Shandilya does not want to throw you into any struggle. All struggle breeds ego. Bhakti’s formula is not resolve but surrender. Dive! Drown! Hold His feet! In this world His feet are manifest. Searching here, going deeper, you will find Him. In these waves of the world, His depth—His ocean—is hidden.

Let us end with Krishna’s assurance—

Daivī hyesha guṇamayī mama māyā duratyayā.
Mām eva ye prapadyante māyām etāṁ taranti te.
Those who wish to cross—who wish to go beyond—take refuge in Me.

Do not fight māyā; in māyā, take refuge in Brahman—and life becomes worship.

Let life itself become religion—such is Shandilya’s longing and blessing!

Atha to bhakti-jijñāsā!
Enough for today.