Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #7

Devotion is supreme. Beyond it there is nothing—no God even.

Bhakti is that point where the duality of devotee and God dissolves; where all twoness melts away; where the two-ness subsides into one-ness—yet such a one-ness that even to call it “one” is not quite right. For when two are no more, what meaning has “one”? Bhakti is such a state of emptiness—or such a state of fullness. Say it in the negative and it is void; say it in the affirmative and it is plenitude; both point to the same. But beyond devotion there is nothing.

As from seed comes the sprout, from sprout the tree, from tree the flower, and from the flower the fragrance—fragrance is devotion. The last stage of life, where life is fulfilled; aroma, the final hour has come—beyond this nothing remains to happen; hence fragrance is contentment. There is nothing left to cross, nor can any beyond be desired. The one who desired is gone, and that which could be desired is also over. Bhakti is such desirelessness, such lustlessness, such an emptying. Empty—if seen from the side of the world, for the world is all gone. Brimming, overflowing—if seen from the other side, the side of the Divine—for only an empty vessel can be filled to the brim with the Divine.

Śāṇḍilya has said: “Prāg-uktaṁ ca.”

What I am saying is not new; it has been said before. It has always been said.

Prāg-uktaṁ ca means: thus was it said in the past also; those who knew said this; whenever anyone has known, this is what was said; and in the future, those who know will say the same. Expressions will vary, words will differ, languages will be distinct, but in essence what is said is this alone.

If the ignorant say the same things, they still end up saying different things—because ignorance is private, personal, different for each. Like dreams: everyone’s are different; untruths are different. A dream is a lie. The dream you saw, no one else will ever see in the whole world. You cannot even invite anyone into your dream: “Come, see my dream.” It is utterly private. Not even your beloved, your closest friend can be summoned into it. There you are alone—separate, cut off from existence, closed in upon yourself. That is why the dream is false—because it has no witness. You cannot produce a witness for your dream. Hence it is false: it lacks a witness.

The world in which we find companions is more real. The tree you saw with open eyes is more real—because you saw it, your neighbor saw it, your friends saw it, even your enemies saw it. But the tree of a dream—eyes closed, only you saw it; let alone enemies, even friends cannot see it. Let alone friends, you yourself cannot see it again if you want to. It is not in your hands. It was a ripple of untruth; you were asleep, so asleep you couldn’t recognize the false as false and took it as true. Sleep made the false look true.

Even if the ignorant share a language or give the same statements, they still say different things. They will, because they are different; they have not yet known oneness; they do not know the link to the Whole; no bridge has formed. Each is shut within their own house, doors and windows bolted.

The ignorant may speak alike, but their meanings cannot be one—they simply cannot. The wise speak differently—indeed they do—yet the meaning of their words is one.

Śāṇḍilya says: Prāg-uktaṁ ca.

“Thus has it been said before.”

Thus will it be said later as well. Thus alone can it be said. Truth cannot be otherwise expressed—be it the Gita, the Bible or the Quran. Those who have eyes will find the same proclamation in Gita, Quran and Bible, the same resonance of the single Om.

Krishna declares:
Brahmabhūtaḥ prasannātmā na śocati na kāṅkṣati.
Samaḥ sarveṣu bhūteṣu mad-bhaktiṁ labhate parām.

“Having attained to the state of Brahman, the soul becomes serene, free of all cravings; seeing the same in all beings, he attains to my supreme devotion.” That is, the single fruit of all disciplines is devotion. When all desires drop, all thinking falls silent—

Brahmabhūtaḥ prasannātmā na śocati na kāṅkṣati.

Remember: where there is craving, there is thought.

People come to me often saying, “How to stop thoughts?” Thoughts won’t stop so long as craving persists. If craving is there, thoughts will arise. As long as the wind blows strong, waves will rise upon the lake. How will you stop the waves? Let the wind cease; the waves will calm of themselves—there will be no need to stop them. Thoughts are waves stirred by the gusts of desire.

You are sitting quietly, peacefully; a beautiful woman passes and desire arises. Instantly you are surrounded by thoughts—desire here, a torrent of thoughts there; a thousand ripples surge. A small pebble of craving drops into the lake of your consciousness, and wave upon wave arises. You sit silently; a car passes by, and desire arises—“I want it.” Instantly a procession of thoughts begins, a long queue. If you observe within, you will catch this truth: if you wish to be free of thought, you must be free of desire. Thought follows desire—its attendant, its shadow.

Krishna says: “When one neither thinks nor craves, then one becomes a serene soul.”

One caught in desire and thought will always remain dispirited—sad, defeated, tired, weighed down by gloom, anxiety, suffering. Why? Because the greater your craving, the more you feel your poverty. Desire keeps pointing out what you lack, in how many ways you are deficient. The more desires you have, the more deprivation you will feel. You are as poor as your desires—because each desire announces, “I do not have this.” Until the day you never thought of building a grand palace, you were in a palace already; wherever you were was a palace—your hut was a palace. But the day the desire arose to build a grand palace, from that day you were in a hut—because now, compared to that imagined palace, this hut chafes and pricks and torments. A coarse dry bread was tasty once; the day desire arose, taste vanished—since then you are hungry; your belly no longer fills with simple bread.

Swami Ram used to say, “I am an emperor.” Someone asked—“Why?” He replied, “Because I have no desires. As my desires lessened, my sovereignty increased. The day no desire remained, I found I am the greatest emperor; a samrat, a shahenshah. Wherever I am, nothing is lacking.”

Lack becomes known only through desire. As the line of desire lengthens, the line of your life shortens. Erase the line of desire and you will discover you are a serene soul.

Krishna says: When desire goes, thought goes; one becomes serene. And the serene soul becomes capable of being Brahmabhūta—merged in the Divine. The obstruction is gone. The obstacle was the sense of lack, the poverty, the beggarhood.

I have told you again and again—do not go to his door as a beggar. Whoever went as a beggar returned empty-handed. Go empty-handed—you will return empty-handed. If you yourself insist on keeping your hands empty, even God cannot fill them. Go to his door like an emperor. Do not go to take and ask—go to give yourself. The day your prayer is not a demand but an offering, that very day it is fulfilled. The day you are ready to give yourself to the Divine, that day no lack remains.

Only a serene soul can give. One overflowing with joy can give. Only one whose every breath has become a celebration can give. For the serene soul, the distance to Brahman is gone; home is near. The river has begun to enter the ocean—it will soon be one. Brahma-bhāva will be attained.

Brahmabhūtaḥ prasannātmā na śocati na kāṅkṣati.
Samaḥ sarveṣu...

And to the one who attains Brahma-bhāva, the self is found in all, and sameness is seen in all. He finds himself in stone and in flower alike; he finds himself expanding. All existence becomes his body.

You have bound yourself into a tiny body because you have cinched yourself in petty desires. As the bonds of desire loosen, you become vast. It is not that the Divine comes from somewhere outside—only your bonds fall. You are God in knots; when the knots open, suddenly you experience that what I have always been, that I am—the only difference is that the knots fell away.

One morning Buddha came before his monks holding a handkerchief. Standing there, he tied five knots in it. Then he asked a monk, “Can you say whether this handkerchief is the same as when I brought it, or has it become different?”

The monk said, “Lord, the question is tricky. The right answer is that in one sense it is the same, and in another sense it has changed. It is the same in that nothing new has happened in the cloth—knots add nothing new to the cloth. What can a knot add? The handkerchief is exactly the same. Yet it is not quite right to say it is entirely the same, because the knots do make some difference. They were not there before; now they are.”

You are a knotted handkerchief. You are a God in knots. When the knots untie, God does not come from elsewhere—only the tangle opens. The tangles are of thought and desire. Because of them, lack, gloom, torment. Because of them—hell. The larger your sorrow, the greater your distance from God. No one connects with the Divine in sorrow. Yet man is such a fool—he remembers God when he is unhappy, and forgets him when happy. But never has anyone been joined in suffering. It has never been heard that in sorrow someone leapt into God. In sorrow you shrink; the knots tighten. Knot upon knot remains; the cloth disappears. Not five—fifty knots, a thousand knots. The whole handkerchief is compressed into knots; knot upon knot. It becomes hard to believe there was ever an open cloth; that you were ever free, stainless; that once your slate bore no writing; you were at peace without a blot.

In sorrow man remembers God. And sorrow is the farthest distance between man and God. The serene soul arrives. That is why I tell you—dance, sing! Do not go weeping; go laughing! Only those who go laughing arrive. Go dancing! Do not carry mountains of worry upon your head.

It often happens that those who carry these mountains appear to you as saints. They are far away; they know nothing. If somewhere someone is dancing in abandon—even if he does not remember God—he is closer to God. Ecstasy has the essence. Wherever someone is soaked in rasa, immersed, forgetting everything—that is near the gate of the Divine. Do not miss it—sit in satsang there. Wherever you find people drunk with ecstasy, wherever you find the tavern of the intoxicated—there is the temple. If you remember him in that moment, it works—because then we are very close. A slight call reaches. Only on the wings of joy do prayers reach God. Sorrow is wingless—like Jatayu with clipped wings. On it, no journey is possible.

The one who has become Brahmabhūta, drunk with bliss, freed from thought and desire, begins to see the same indwelling One in all.

Samaḥ sarveṣu bhūteṣu mad-bhaktiṁ labhate parām.

And this state is called parā-bhakti—supreme devotion. God and only God—even in the devil, God. Rama and only Rama—even in Ravana, Rama. When, besides God, nothing else appears—try as you might, you cannot see anything else; search as you will, you cannot find anything else; wherever you turn, under every stone the same; break any stick, the same; eyes open—he; eyes closed—he; whichever place you go becomes Kaba, becomes Kashi; wherever you bow is a temple; wherever you sit, a pilgrimage.

Kabir has said, “Eating and drinking—service; getting up and sitting down—circumambulation.”

If only he is, then there is no need to offer him separate victuals—what you eat and drink is already offered to him. Eating and drinking is service; rising and sitting is his parikrama. This breath itself is his circumambulation—the in-breath and out-breath; this incoming and outgoing breath is his resonance, his Om, his hymn.

Krishna has called this supreme state “devotion.”

Śāṇḍilya is right: “Prāg-uktaṁ ca.”

“Thus it was said before as well.”

And the other sage of devotion, Narada, has said: “Om phala-rūpatvāt.”

That devotion is the fruit of all disciplines. It is the ultimate, the culmination—beyond it there is nothing. All else—means and paths—lead toward it. All other roads are disciplines; devotion is the goal.

Etena vikalpo’pi pratyuktaḥ.
“Thus even the alternatives are answered.”

Ordinarily this sentence is taken to mean: since the scriptures say so, the trustworthy have said so, the words of the knower are thus—therefore no doubt remains; all alternatives are ended and faith is possible.

I cannot be satisfied with such a meaning. It is correct, but very superficial. A knower like Śāṇḍilya cannot be merely citing scriptures to say that all alternatives are ended. Alternatives cease only when there is experience. How can scriptures end alternatives? And Śāṇḍilya cannot say so—just now we saw his other sutras where he called knowledge futile; he said scholarship is rubbish; no one reaches devotion through knowledge. What difference will it make to know what Krishna said in the Gita, or Narada in the Bhakti Sutras? Will that bring peace? Will alternatives end through that? Without samadhi there has never been any solution—nor can there be.

Let scriptures say whatever they will; until your inner scripture awakes, all is mere belief, not faith. And belief is the name of false faith. You might accept that, since Krishna said it, it must be right—but first you must accept that Krishna is right; then that if a right person said it, it must be right. But the whole thing is blind. How can you be sure that Krishna is right? If Śāṇḍilya says so, does Krishna become right? Then it must be certain that Śāṇḍilya is right. Where will you stop? Where will you begin? Wherever you begin, there is blindness. You will say, “Tradition says.” But tradition can be wrong. Somewhere a confusion happened, a mistake crept in. Until your inner experience testifies, nothing in the world can be proof. Yes, you can believe; it will console you, give you some respite—but respite and truth are not the same. Often it happens that those who get addicted to solace are forever deprived of the truth—because they keep settling for consolations.

Truth is not convenience, not relief, not self-persuasion. Truth is experience. And experience requires burning. Truth is fire—fiery. It will burn you, refine you—only then will you become pure gold.

It won’t happen by believing. It is precisely because of beliefs that so many are lost. Everyone believes—some in Krishna, some in Christ, some in Mohammed, some in Mahavira. And then, the one who believes in Mohammed cannot accept Mahavira; the one who believes in Mahavira cannot accept Mohammed. Who then is the trustworthy one? The believer in Mahavira will sow doubt in the mind of the believer in Mohammed—who is the true seer? Some believe in Mahavira, some in Mohammed, some in Christ, some in Krishna. Which is true? Such “faith” cannot free you from alternatives.

So those who have interpreted Śāṇḍilya’s sutra—

Etena vikalpo’pi pratyuktaḥ.
“Thus the alternatives are ended.”

—to mean that, since the good have said it and the true scriptures repeat it, therefore there is no longer room for doubt—I would not take it that way. Doubt does not vanish so easily; it is deep-rooted. The truth is, even if God himself stands before you, your doubts will not end—until God stands within you. If even that little distance remains that he is in front, if that much gap remains—even an arm’s length—doubts will keep surfacing: perhaps it’s a deception; perhaps a trickster; perhaps Maya; perhaps I’m dreaming, imagining; how to be sure? Certainty comes only through one’s own experience. Personal experience alone is faith.

Then how do I take it?

I take it to mean: where neither devotee nor God remains—in such parā-bhakti all alternatives end.

Etena vikalpo’pi pratyuktaḥ.
In that supreme devotion the alternatives dissolve. When all your inner alternatives are over, know that parā-bhakti has come. Where no alternative remains.

So long as there are two, alternatives will remain. So long as there is “I” and “Thou,” alternatives remain; conflict continues. When only the One remains—neither I nor you, only That—then there is no room left for alternatives. In what would they arise, when there is no devotee, no God—only Godhood? In that Godhood, in that supreme devotion, in that ultimate state where seed, tree and flower have vanished and only fragrance remains—an invisible fragrance—there the alternatives fall silent.

Deva-bhaktiḥ itara asmin sāhācaryāt.
“Devotion to other deities than Ishvara cannot be supreme devotion, because such devotion appears also toward other means.”

And the meaning I have given becomes even clearer, more affirmed, by the next sutra.

Śāṇḍilya says: apart from devotion to Ishvara, devotion to other gods is not parā-bhakti. What does this mean? I do not call a Hindu religious, nor a Muslim, nor a Jain, nor a Buddhist. So long as there are Hindus, Muslims, Jains and Christians, no one is religious—because each has his own God: the Christian God, the Hindu God. Even God is multiple. The difference between devotee and God has not yet ended; there are differences among gods. God is not even one yet—let alone the devotee becoming one with him; that is a far-off dream. When a Hindu bows, he bows not at the feet of God but of the Hindu God.

There is a story: Tulsidas was taken to Krishna’s temple when he went to Vrindavan. He did not bow. Bow before Krishna? Tulsidas? He did not. He said, “Until you take bow and arrows in hand, I will not bow.” See the “fun”! See the ego! The devotee laying conditions even upon God. “If you fulfill my condition, I will bow. Take up bow and arrows and Tulsidas’ head will bow. I accept Rama of the bow, not this flute-playing Krishna.”

Tulsidas too seems to have had no eyes. Otherwise he would have seen: the one who took up bow and arrows is the same who played the flute. And these are both Hindu images—both Krishna and Rama are Hindu conceptions. Imagine Tulsidas in a mosque—what would become of him! At least he entered the temple; that is his great favor—at least he went inside! He even gave Krishna a chance: “If you want to make me bow, take up bow and arrows.” But what would he do in a mosque—there are no hands there! The one with the flute might sometime take the bow, but in a mosque there are no hands, no idol—what would he do there? He could not even step in.

If he went to a Jain temple and Mahavira were standing there—telling Mahavira to take up bow and arrows would be crude nonsense. That man was the very opposite of bow and arrows. Ahimsa paramo dharma—nonviolence is the highest virtue. Precisely because of bow and arrows, Rama is unacceptable to Jains. A Jain cannot bow in a temple of Rama. How could he? Here is someone standing with weapons! And weapons are the symbol of sin, of violence. Has violence ever removed violence? It only breeds more. In Jain scriptures, stories of Rama exist—they call him a great person, but not God. Only that far can a Jain accept him—as a great person, like many others, but not God. If they mention Buddha, they call him a great soul, but not God. Great soul they can accept—but God? Their conception is their own. Everyone has his own conception. And as long as you nurse your conception, you will not be joined to God—your conception itself is the barrier. The Hindu bows before the Hindu God—but is there such a God? God is simply God—neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian.

I’ve heard a story. A fakir slept one night and dreamed he reached heaven. Great crowds, heaven all decked out, a grand procession—pageantry! He asked, and someone said, “It’s God’s birthday; we celebrate.” He thought, Lucky me—I reached heaven on the right day. The procession began. First came Rama with bow and arrows, and millions followed him. Then came Mohammed with his sword, and millions followed him. Then came Buddha, then Mahavira, then Zarathustra—one after another they filed past. At the end, when all had passed, a man appeared riding a skinny old horse. The crowds were gone, the people dispersed, the festivities nearly over; it was past midnight. Seeing the sorry rider, the fakir smiled—“And what is this gentleman doing now! A procession with nobody behind him!” He asked, “Who are you, and why astride this horse? What kind of procession is this—no one behind you!” The man said, “What can I do? I am God. Some have gone with the Hindus, some with the Buddhists, some with the Christians, some with the Muslims—no one remains with me. I am alone. It’s my birthday, you didn’t know?”

In panic the fakir woke up. Think it over—you too will wake in panic.

Śāṇḍilya’s sutra is marvelous. He says—

Deva-bhaktiḥ itara asmin sāhācaryāt.
Apart from devotion to Ishvara, devotion to “other deities” is not parā-bhakti. “Other deities” means God with adjectives. “Other deities” means bound in conceptions, limited in boundaries. God means: the One, pervading all. Only when you drop being Hindu will your connection with him form. Only when you drop being Muslim will your connection form. This is my teaching. I am telling you, day and night: be free of temple, mosque and gurudwara, so you may find his temple. Be free of Rama with the bow, Krishna with the flute, Mahavira standing nude—then you will glimpse him. Otherwise, the glimpse is impossible.

Remember well: if your conception of God runs contrary to another’s conception of God, that God cannot be true. Seek such a God in whom all conceptions dissolve; who is beyond conception; beyond words; who eludes doctrine. Scriptures point toward him but cannot define him. Seers speak of him but he cannot be bound in discourse. They explain and yet cannot make you understand.

Lao Tzu said: I do not know what his name is; for convenience, I will call him Tao. Just for convenience! I do not know his name; he is nameless. For convenience, I will say “Tao.” Call it Tao, or God, Lord, Nirvana, Dharma—it makes no difference. All names are for convenience—makeshift.

Look carefully: when you were born, you were nameless. But for the workaday world, a name had to be given. Your name is assigned—there was a need; without a name there would be difficulty—how would letters reach you? How would anyone call you? And there is such a crowd, so many people!

Recently I read of an American court decision. A man wanted to change his name; the court refused—“You cannot change your name to numbers.” He wanted a number—1001. The court was perplexed—no precedent existed of someone taking a number as a name. Much deliberation, and they ruled it could not be allowed, because it had never happened before.

Absurd! When I read it I was astonished—“Never happened before, so it cannot happen.” Then how will it ever happen? And if the man had come earlier, you would still say, “Never happened before.” Then it would never be possible. Let it happen once, at least—then it would become a precedent. Let one man do it first!

But the court too had its bind. The snag was—there was a small fault on the man’s part; had he asked my advice, I would have suggested a slight tweak. He wrote numbers; he should have written letters. He wrote “1001” in digits; that creates complications—different ways of reading it. As a name, it would be troublesome. Someone might read “ten hundred and one,” someone “one thousand one”—two names in one! Legal difficulties. He should have written it in words: “One Thousand One.” Then no legal snarl.

But courts are foolish—all courts are—because they are bound to the past. They have no vision for the future. “Since it never happened before, we won’t allow it”—is that any argument? Is it this man’s fault that no one else wanted it earlier? It is no fault of his. If, for that reason alone, you say “you can’t do it,” you are strangling the future. All laws are anti-future; doctrines cling to the past. The thicker the web of rules and doctrines, the harder it is for the future to be born. In any case, a name is needed. Without a name, work won’t get done. A number would do too. Some symbol is required—even though inwardly you are nameless.

Lao Tzu is right—he has no name; I know of none that could fit him. For convenience, I will call him “Tao.” For convenience, someone called him “Rama”; another “Krishna”; another “Jesus”—all for convenience. He has no name. Enter the Nameless—that is where devotion is born.

Apart from devotion to Ishvara—in other words, immersion in the Nameless—devotion to other deities is not parā-bhakti.

Someone worships Ganesha, someone Goddess Kali; some go to mosques, some to temples; countless deities! When this country’s population was thirty-three crores, people used to say there were thirty-three crore gods. Now the population is six hundred million; the gods too must be six hundred million—because everyone has his own deity, his own conception, his own mind. Out of that mind deities are manufactured. Get entangled with such deities and you’ll never cross your ego—their shadows are your ego’s. Be free of them.

Why do you go to a Jain temple? Just because, by sheer accident, you were born in a house where people went to the Jain temple. That’s all. There is nothing more substantial. Had you been lifted at birth and placed in a Muslim home, you would never have gone to a Jain temple—by mistake even. Your blood, bones and marrow would be the same—but you would go to a mosque. It’s conditioning. And if, from birth, you had been taken to Russia, you would go neither to mosque nor to temple—you would believe there is no God. You believe what you are taught. To know what is, you must be free of what you have been taught. The one fed communism from infancy, stirred into his milk—he must be freed of communism. The one fed Hinduism must be freed of Hinduism. You must be free of “isms,” of ideologies. Ideologues never reach the truth. There, an uncontentious mind is needed.

Śāṇḍilya says: This sort of devotion cannot be parā-bhakti, because this kind of “devotion” shows up in other places too.

Understand this. Little children quarrel—“My father is stronger than your father; my mother is more beautiful than your mother; my teacher more intelligent than your teacher.” The same quarrel continues lifelong—“My temple is holier than yours; my guru truer than your guru; my scripture more authoritative than yours.” These are childish things—signs not of a developed mind, but of immaturity. Behind it all is ego. When a child says, “My father is stronger,” what is he saying? “I am the son of a strong man—therefore I am strong.” Under the pretext of father, he is announcing himself. When you say, “My religion is the oldest on earth,” you are saying, “It is mine—how can it be ordinary? Since it is mine, it must be ancient.” “My book is the best book in the world”—whatever the book. Because it is yours, it “must” be the best. These are concealed proclamations of ego. This is not devotion. It manifests in many forms—devotion to mother, father, guru, nation—“my country!”

The same delusion everywhere. Those in India believe this is a holy land, and all other lands are unholy—as if lands were separate! As if India and Pakistan were cut apart on the earth itself! And the irony—before 1947, Pakistan used to be holy land too—but not now! Before 1947, it was part of India, hence holy; once a line was drawn on the map—on the map, not on the earth (who can draw a line on the earth?)—from then Pakistan is no longer holy; sinners live there now. And they are under the same delusion; hence they call it “Pakistan”—pak means pure. They too say, “You live in Hindustan? We live in Pakistan!” The same foolishness.

Ask the Chinese—they say, our culture is the oldest. Ask Hindus, they say, ours is the oldest. Ask the Egyptians—they say, what are you compared to us? Everyone tries to prove the antiquity of their book, raises their flag—“May our flag fly high!” If you ever meet someone carrying a flag—know he is unhinged. And if he shouts, “May our flag fly high!”—know he has no intelligence. What could be greater foolishness? Yet wars are fought over this; people are slain—“Our motherland has been attacked!” “My motherland!”

Śāṇḍilya says: Such delusions are seen in many places; this is not devotion. Patriotism is not devotion. Nor is the worship of a deity necessarily devotion. Then what is devotion? Śāṇḍilya says: There is only one devotion—be absorbed in the Vast, as a drop dissolves into the ocean. Become nameless in the Nameless! Build the bridge to That. Do not be a claimant—how can you claim? As long as there is claim, there is distance; as long as there is distance, where is devotion?

Deva-bhaktiḥ itara asmin sāhācaryāt!
Apart from devotion to Ishvara—neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Jain nor Buddhist; neither of India nor of China; Ishvara means that Nameless Supreme from which we all come and into which we shall all dissolve; who is our source and our destination; our seed and our fruit; in whom even now we live; who is breathing within us now; the life of our life. To be absorbed in that Transcendent—that is devotion.

Parā-bhakti is the proclamation of the Supreme, the Transcendent. There, there is no mine-and-thine. There, even “I” is not, so how could “thine” be? “My deity, my God” is a petty stance. A God who is not everyone’s is no God. A God who “belongs” to someone becomes less of a God in that measure. Rise above words. Break the petty boundaries. It is because of these boundaries that you suffer. From expansion, from the Vast, joy arises. You bind yourself to the small. You creep into little holes—there you writhe, yet won’t come out; and you keep making the hole smaller; in the end only you remain—only your ego. If you keep shrinking, the ego alone remains; if you keep expanding, everything remains—not just the ego. These are the only two possibilities—either “I,” or the “All.” Surrender the “I” to the All. And the “I” is unnecessary—false. Yet we are attached to the false; ready to surrender truth, but not to drop the lie. Our ties with this lie are long and old. We keep reinstalling the same lie in new ways—new tricks, new pretexts—but the lie is ancient, unchanged.

Look and examine within: in whatever you proclaim “this is supreme,” you will find your “I” hiding. “The Vedas are supreme”—if someone says so, you can know he is a Hindu. “The Bible is supreme”—then you know he is a Christian. People only proclaim their own superiority—the pretexts vary. Often it happens that those trumpeting the superiority of the Vedas perhaps have never read them.

Once an elderly gentleman came to see me, from Amritsar. “The Vedas are ultimate,” he said—an Arya Samaji. I asked, “Have you ever read the Vedas?” He bristled a bit—“No, I haven’t.” “Then how do you proclaim?” Right there on the shelf was a copy of the Vedas; I took it down and said, “Open to any page and read it aloud.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “It will settle the matter of superiority—whichever page opens. I don’t even insist on any particular page.” He opened and began to read—and stopped mid-way. For ninety-nine percent of the Vedas is chaff. There are diamonds—but rarely. The Vedas are not just a collection of diamonds; they are a record of the whole day’s affairs. Even newspapers sometimes contain a diamond! The Vedas are the newspaper of that day. The history of the day is there, the poetry of the day, the myth, the religion, the philosophy—all is reflected. Not only diamonds. Politics, diplomacy, even trickery—it is a mirror of the age. That is its beauty.

He read a page and stopped, saying, “I had never thought such things could be there.” You too might not have thought that in the Vedas a Brahmin might pray for the udders of his cow to grow large! You will say—“Is that any prayer?” And it doesn’t end there—“May the udders of my enemy’s cow shrink.”

But I say—the Vedas are an honest reflection of man. Such is man. The Vedas are honest. I praise this honesty—that even the rishis are just like you; their feet are clay and their skulls are filled with the same petty desires. Their prayers too are full of trivialities—“May it rain more on my field, and not at all on my neighbor’s.” Is this not your usual wish?

I heard of a man who did much devotion. God appeared and said, “Ask—what do you want?” He said, “Whatever I ask, let me get it.” God said, “Fine. But one condition—your neighbors will get twice as much.” Whatever you ask, you will get it—but your neighbor doubles.

The man beat his chest—“You’ve killed me!” God vanished. Now he was in a fix. He wanted to ask for a hundred thousand rupees—but if he asked, the neighbors would get two hundred thousand. He finally sought out a lawyer—lawyers can always be found—to find a way around the clause. The lawyer said, “Simple! Ask that a well be dug in front of your house.” “What will that do?” “Let the neighbors get theirs first!” He asked that a well be dug before his house—done. The neighbors got two wells. Then the lawyer said, “Now ask that one of your eyes be put out.” The neighbors lost both eyes. And with two wells in front! Consider what became of that village! But the man was delighted. He roamed the streets as the only sighted one among the blind, and watched the fun—people stumbling into wells—savoring it: “This is the pleasure!”

Even God had not thought a lawyer would find a loophole. But that man never asked for the hundred thousand, nor the palace. The very joy of asking was gone. The joy of asking lies in having more than your neighbor.

That Vedic verse is symbolic of man’s natural, animal, petty craving. I say it is beautiful—for it is true. But the Veda-propagandist was upset. “I had not thought such small things would be in the Vedas.”

Such small things are in the Bible too; in the Quran too. But those who proclaim a scripture’s superiority want to prove every single thing right. Perhaps for fear they do not even read—lest something be found to hamper their proclamation of supremacy. They are ready to fight, but not to read!

Examine within: whenever you proclaim something as right or supreme—are you not indirectly proclaiming your ego? Where the ego is proclaimed, there sin is. Wakefully dissolve all your ego’s proclamations. The day they are gone, you will find your connection with God begins. Then neither Veda nor Bible nor Quran are barriers; neither Krishna nor Rama nor Allah. Then you will see That—Lao Tzu says: I do not know his name; for convenience I call him Tao. For convenience, you may call him “Rama”—no harm. But remember it is for convenience—do not forget that it is only to make do.

Yogas tūbhayārtham apekṣaṇāt prayājavat.
“And yoga, being of use to both, is, like a preliminary oblation in the Vājapeya sacrifice, a limb of devotion and knowledge.”

Śāṇḍilya says: knowledge—in the sense of understanding—can be a helper to devotion. Understanding—not mere knowledge; remember it well. With understanding, even poison can become nectar. And knowledge is poison! A small lapse of understanding, and the medicine will cease to be medicine; disease will arise from it. Knowledge must be soaked in understanding. Understanding means: keep in mind that what I have not known is only information. Remember: others have known; I still have to search.

Let knowledge awaken thirst for truth—then it is understanding. If knowledge makes you feel content—“I have attained, I know”—then it is death. Then you are finished; you have committed suicide—by the noose of knowledge. Knowledge must carry the awareness: this is not my knowing. Buddha has said; if Buddha has said, it must be right. Śāṇḍilya has said; if Śāṇḍilya has said, it must be right. But I do not know. And until I know, how can I bear witness? I must seek. And since Śāṇḍilya has said, Buddha has said, Narada and Krishna have said—so many have said—then I must search. Let me not sit idle, do not waste life—I too must set out on the quest. And since they say there is supreme bliss in that attainment, let my life not remain a desert; let me make an oasis, a garden, let flowers bloom. But only when my flowers bloom will I bear witness; only then can I say to the Buddhas, “Yes, you spoke true.” Until my flowers bloom, I will let your words awaken my thirst, accelerate my seeking, intensify it; I will give my whole energy to the search—for so many great souls have said there is something worth attaining. But until I attain myself, I will not say I know—for that would be false. That would be injustice to knowledge. If knowledge is suffused with understanding, it becomes a helper to devotion.

Śāṇḍilya says: in the same way, yoga too becomes a helper if undertaken with understanding.

Yoga is a noble process—a means. Yoga is not the goal; devotion is the goal. Knowledge is not the goal; devotion is the goal. Use knowledge to kindle thirst. And what use of yoga? Use it to purify yourself. Before the Beloved arrives, preparations must be made! When a guest comes to your house, you clean, don’t you? You sweep, remove the trash. That is yoga. Having invited the Supreme Beloved, the house must be prepared. You will spread a suitable seat; cleanliness, sanctity are needed; you will light incense and lamps. That is yoga. Yoga means this much: wash away the grime. The walls of your life have been stained by misconduct, ignorance, stupor—clean those blotches. Make the house clean, so that he is not inconvenienced. When your vessel is to be filled with nectar, you will scour away the stains of poison—this is yoga. With understanding, each yogic process is unique—an incomparable path of purification. It will sanctify every fiber of you, make you pure and hallowed. It will ready you—make you a temple in which the Divine may abide. It will make you a throne upon which the emperor of hearts may come and sit.

But often, where is understanding? Piling up knowledge, one becomes a pundit, not wise. And in yoga, one can get lost in gimmickry—gorakh-dhanda. Then one goes on with useless things—endless asanas, headstands; gradually that becomes one’s way of life; one forgets that the guest must also be invited. One becomes so engrossed in building the temple that even if the guest stands at the door, one does not look up—still busy building. One keeps cleaning—there is no end to cleaning. This body can never be perfectly pure; it is made of impurities. It can be made cleaner, but never absolutely pure. It can be healthy, but never perfectly healthy. Perfection does not belong to the body. The body will remain imperfect, limited. It will carry ailments. Samadhi has to flower in it. Hence the fewer ailments the better—but do not get stuck thinking, “When all ailments end, then I will seek samadhi.” Then you will never see samadhi. One ailment goes, another arises; that goes, a third comes.

It is from this that the word “gorakh-dhanda” (endless rigmarole) arose—from Gorakhnath, the great yogi. He took yogic processes to an unprecedented intensity; even Patanjali would have shaken his head! Gorakhnath devised arduous disciplines. Morning to evening he was at it—and set others at it. Hence gorakh-dhanda—people forgot the real thing and got entangled in the secondary.

If you have understanding, do not get stuck in the secondary. And note, Gorakhnath himself did not get stuck—his followers did. Gorakhnath gave many processes—indeed many—but tailored to individuals: to one this, to another that. Gradually greed arose in seekers—they thought: “So-and-so is practicing that, and this one that—let me do all.”

Here in camp you do five meditations. You must choose one. They are given only for choosing. A gentleman came to me months ago, in bad shape. “Meditation has made my condition worse,” he said.

“Which meditation?” I asked.

“Which? All ten! Everything you have given—I do them all. From four in the morning to midnight I’m at it.”

Of course you will be in bad shape! It is not my fault. When did I tell you to do them all? And if you do them all, when is anything else to be done? Will you give even a little space for God to enter? He will stand at your door. Now you are doing kundalini, then dynamic, then nadabrahma, then sufi—always doing something. He waits outside: “Finish your hustle; be free so I may come in and speak a word!” But you have no time. You will exhaust yourself and sleep. In the morning, you start your gorakh-dhanda again.

This is gorakh-dhanda. Gorakhnath did not give gorakh-dhanda; he gave different processes to different seekers. But greed seized hold—lest this process not work, let me add that, if not that, then the other—do them all. Man is greedy. From that greed the gorakh-dhanda arose. Whatever the ignorant touch, they create some mischief. Be careful.

Śāṇḍilya says: Yogas tūbhayārtham apekṣaṇāt prayājavat.
“And yoga, useful to both (knowledge and devotion), is like the preliminary oblation in a Vājapeya sacrifice.”

When one performs a sacrifice, one must first prepare—that preliminary is called prayāja—prior preparation, the groundwork. You build the altar, purify the ground, hang festoons—all the preparations. Without preparation, the sacrifice cannot be performed. Likewise, Śāṇḍilya says, devotion is the sacrifice; yoga is the prayāja—the preparation, the groundwork. But it is only groundwork—don’t get entangled in it.

If you have seen any of George Bernard Shaw’s books, you’ll be surprised—the preface is bigger than the book. The book is a hundred pages; the preface is two hundred. A preface is meant to hint at the essence of the book, to help a reader decide, in a couple of pages, whether the book is for him. But two hundred pages of preface! Easier to read the hundred-page book straight through. Shaw had that habit—many do. Their prefaces become huge; they forget the book. Many people want to “live well”; for that they start amassing wealth—then they die amassing wealth; they never get to live well. The preface never ends.

Alexander wanted to conquer the world, then live happily. The fakir Diogenes told him, “Your logic makes no sense. If you want to live happily, why not live happily now?” Alexander said, “How can I now? First I must conquer the world.” Diogenes said, “Why not now? See—I am living happily! I haven’t conquered the world; in fact I have given up even what I had, because it caused trouble. Look at me—in my tin barrel I live, and it has ample room; a dog lives with me, I live, you could live too.”

That big municipal garbage drum—he found one discarded, cleaned it and made it his shelter by the river. When he wanted shade, he sat inside; for sun, outside. He had only one begging-bowl. He threw even that away one day. He went to the river to drink water, bowl in hand; a dog ran alongside. Before he could fill his bowl, the dog lapped water directly with its tongue. He felt defeated—“The dog is ahead of me. No need to carry a bowl!” He threw it into the river. “If a dog manages, I will manage.” That was his last possession. He told Alexander, “Since then I own nothing—but I am at great ease.” And surely he was—none more carefree. He is the Mahavira of Greece—naked and ecstatic.

Once some people seized him in a forest—seeing his naked abandon they thought they could sell him in the market. Slaves were sold then. They expected resistance, but he quickly held out his hands for chains. “No need for chains,” he said. “Where are you going? I’ll come along.” In the market, on the block where slaves were sold, he cried out, “A master is for sale today; whoever needs a slave, buy him!” And he was a master indeed. The dignity of one who has no desires—the majesty!

Still, Alexander said, “You are right; I too could rest. But it’s difficult. First I must conquer the world.” Diogenes said, “Then remember one thing: you may conquer the world or not; but rest—you will never. You will die before you do.” And so it happened. Alexander, returning from India, died on the way—never reached Greece. On the day he died he remembered Diogenes; tears fell. When asked why he wept, he said, “For that fakir—he was right.”

Lives get spent in the preface.

So do not cling to yoga so much—nauli, dhauti, asanas, pranayama—that you die doing them. Yoga is the preface; samadhi is the aim. How many die in the preface! Keep your eye on samadhi. Śāṇḍilya is right—yoga can be used as help.

Gauṇyātu samādhi-siddhiḥ.
“Through secondary devotion, samadhi is accomplished.”

Śāṇḍilya speaks of two kinds of devotion—gauṇī-bhakti and parā-bhakti. Gauṇī (secondary) devotion means: the devotee still exists, God exists; they stand face to face; the rasa flows, a unique bliss arises, intoxication surges, flame meets flame—but duality still remains. Parā-bhakti means: God is lost in the devotee, the devotee lost in God—no two.

The first, gauṇī-bhakti, gives a samadhi which, in Patanjali’s terms, is sabīja—seeded. Parā-bhakti gives the nirbīja—seedless. In sabīja samadhi, the seed remains; the tree is gone but the seed persists, and in time can sprout again. The samadhi from gauṇī-bhakti can be lost. You stand before God, but there is still distance—even if an inch. And that inch can become a mile, or many leagues; the distance can grow; difference return; wandering resume. The seed remains—duality remains. Hence call it sabīja—or savikalpa—there is still a thought, a subtle notion: I am, and I am experiencing bliss.

As long as you feel, “Bliss is coming to me,” know it is gauṇī-bhakti; a lesser samadhi; the experiencer remains. In the final stage—parā-bhakti—the seed is burned, the seed destroyed; there can be no return. The world is finished. Even the experience “I am in bliss” cannot be—because “I” is not. There is only bliss. That is why from gauṇī-bhakti there is experience; in parā-bhakti there is no experience.

Krishnamurti is right: that ultimate state cannot be called experience, or knowledge, or seeing—for each presupposes two: the knower and the known, the seer and the seen. In the ultimate, seer and seen are one. Parā-bhakti; nirbīja samadhi; nirvikalpa samadhi—that is the goal.

Through gauṇī-bhakti, samadhi can be attained. But do not be content with that—go beyond. Go to that place beyond which there is no going; to that state beyond which there is no state. Do not end as a flower—flower is gauṇī-bhakti: still form, shape, color. End as fragrance: fragrance freed of form, shape, color; fragrance merging into the sky; fragrance becoming sky. Śāṇḍilya calls this parā-bhakti. In gauṇī-bhakti there is devotee, God and devotion; in parā-bhakti there is no devotee, no God—only devotion, only Godhood.

Such are these unique sutras. I am explaining them to kindle thirst in you as you listen to Śāṇḍilya. Do not accumulate knowledge—if you do, you miss. Kindle thirst. Let a deep longing arise—an urgency, a flame: “I will attain; I will know this experience; without this, life is futile.” If such a burning fire is born within you, the goal is not far. In that very fire the ego is consumed; in that very fire the seed is burned; and the fragrance, hidden in you for lifetimes, is released, merging into the open sky. Call it moksha, nirvana—use any name you like—he has none.

Lao Tzu is right: he has no name; for convenience I call him “Tao.”

Enough for today.