Bhaj Govindam #6

Through logic and dispute, through argument and refutation, no dialogue has ever happened, nor can it happen. Dialogue means: a conversation between two hearts; dispute means: a collision between two intellects. Dialogue means: the meeting of two persons; dispute means: the struggle of two persons. In dialogue no one loses—both win; in dispute no one wins—both lose. But there was a compulsion, and Shankara had to debate; because before debate there was no way to prepare the ground for dialogue. Shankara did not debate in order to explain truth. People were so stuffed with their intellects, their egos, their pedantry, that unless their pedantry was broken, their intellect defeated, unless they were thrown to the ground and covered in dust, they were not even willing to listen to the language of the heart. So Shankara did not make anyone understand truth through debate; he used debate only to bend their egos. And the one who becomes willing to bow can then enter into dialogue.

Shankara’s disputation was purely negative; it was like using one thorn to remove another. Minds crammed with logic understand only the language of logic. A mind swollen with pedantry understands only the language of pedantry; the language of love does not even reach it. And even if it does, it seems meaningless. As for the language of silence—there is no question at all.

When Shankara was born, the pedantry of this land was at its peak. That very pedantry had also ruined this country. It got stuck in the skull; its doors to the heart were closed. Necks had to be cut; otherwise there was no way to reach the heart. And the sickness had grown so grave that medicine would not do; surgery was needed—an operation was necessary; there was no way without cutting. Ointments and bandages were not going to heal it. The illness had advanced too far.

So Shankara had to debate; it was a compulsion. Shankara is not a controversialist. For Shankara to be a polemicist is simply impossible. Shankara’s juice is not in argument—otherwise he would not have sung a song like Bhaja Govindam. His very breath was made for singing devotion. Had he found the right occasion he would have danced; if the time had been ripe, if people had understood the language of the heart, Shankara would not have argued at all. But the country was ill; pedantry was in its last phase; people’s heads were heavy; it was necessary to remove that load. And a pundit understands only logic. If he is defeated by logic, if he is beaten by logic, perhaps he will agree to listen to the language of the heart. Shankara made people bend.

And remember: one who has known truth can also use logic—in a wholesome direction. In the hands of one who has not known truth, logic is dangerous. For one who has not known, logic becomes everything—the goal itself. One who has known the truth harnesses logic in the service of truth. One who has known makes logic a follower. Truth can even ride upon logic. Generally, logic is a sword fallen into a child’s hand. With it he harms others, and in the end he will harm himself too. But in the hands of the wise, logic is like a sword in a skilled hand; no one will be harmed. Yes, in moments of accident someone may be protected.

Shankara used logic rightly. Even poison becomes medicine in the hands of an understanding person. Poison is not poison if there is understanding; even it can be used. And Shankara used it in a precious way. He traveled from one end of the country to the other. Wherever he felt that some diseased mind was stuck in intellect and the language of the heart had been forgotten, wherever he felt a gifted intelligence was entangled in words and the gateway to the flowers of the void had been closed, wherever he felt someone was buried under scripture and writhing—there he debated, he used logic, he engaged in shastrartha. That was only the prologue.

The moment someone lost in debate, Shankara inducted him into discipleship. That second part is valuable; that is the real thing. The very moment someone fell in argument, he used that defeat. In that instant of defeat, when the ego shatters, the person is startled, logic does not work, the intellect gives no support, he becomes helpless, starts to sink—Shankara placed another boat before him: the boat of the heart, of love, of devotion. “If the boat of logic is sinking, let it sink; I have another boat.” In such moments he must have sung—Bhaja Govindam, Bhaja Govindam, Bhaja Govindam, mudhamate. This “mudha”—fool—he addressed to the pundits themselves. If you understand rightly, he engaged in debate in order to cut your stupidity. As soon as it was cut, as soon as the delusion broke, he used that interval—when for a moment you are weightless, when the open sky is visible and the clouds have dispersed. He used that. Shankara did not explain truth through debate; with debate he merely thinned the clouds so the sun of truth could be seen.

Truth needs no proof; truth is self-evident. And remember: that which must be proven by logic can also be disproven by logic. Logic has no real force; logic is a game. There is nothing that can be established by logic that cannot be demolished by logic. Logic is a lawyer; logic is a courtesan—it has no attachment to anyone; it can serve either side. Take any argument: its opposite is equally strong.

A sword has no purpose of its own, no matter whose hand holds it. In anyone’s hand it cuts from where it is swung. Your own sword, fallen into the enemy’s hand, can cut your neck. You cannot protest: “But it’s my sword—how can it cut me!” A sword belongs to no one. Logic, too, belongs to no one. Hence those who have relied on logic will one day find they were riding a paper boat; one day they will discover that the very logic on which they stood has thrown them down.

If you believe in God, you say, “There must be a maker of the world. How could the world arise without being made!” That is your logic. The atheist asks, “Who made God?” His logic is the same. You say, “The world cannot come into being without being made; therefore God must be.” He says, “Then who made God? For how can even God be without being made!” He is asking the same thing; there is no difference between your logic and his. You appear a theist; he appears an atheist. As I see it, the two are the same, because both rely on the same logic: how can anything be without being made!

You get angry with the atheist and say, “Be quiet! No one made God.” The atheist says exactly this: if God is allowed the privilege of being unmade, why not grant the same privilege to the world? The logic is the same. That is why the theist and the atheist never win. How could you? Your logics are identical.

Nothing is ever established by logic. What is, is beyond logic; what is, is established already—self-evident.

But if you go to Shankara with logic, Shankara is ready to cut your logic. Few have been as devoted to logic as Shankara. You will find people who have known the divine—Ramakrishna—but you will rarely find those who have known and who can also break the atheist’s arguments. Ramakrishna cannot break the atheist’s logic. In the realm of argument he has no movement. He is a person of pure, simple feeling. Vivekananda can break it; but Vivekananda has no experience of truth. Shankara is such that Ramakrishna and Vivekananda come together in one person. He has known, as Ramakrishna knew; and for what he has known he can marshal all the arguments that Vivekananda can—without having known. A person like Shankara is unique.

But remember, there has been a mistake in understanding Shankara. The very pundits whom Shankara labored all his life to break have taken Shankara himself to be a pundit. They keep proclaiming that Shankara performed digvijaya. If Shankara were to hear, he would laugh.

Is victory in argument any victory at all? Is defeating someone with logic any defeat? For know well: the one defeated by logic falls silent; he does not truly lose. Set forth arguments larger than his, and he may not be able to muster as large—so he falls silent. But inwardly he says, “Wait—I’ll find a way.” To defeat by logic is like placing a sword upon someone’s chest and he bends. But inside? Inside he still stands rigid. He will wait for a favorable time—when he can place his sword upon your chest.

Does one defeated by the sword ever truly lose? Only one defeated by love truly loses. Until the heart bows within, all outer bowing is futile.

So Shankara used logic only to cut logic; those living by logic he defeated with logic. But in that moment of defeat Shankara made it clear: your logic is futile, and mine too is futile. You had a thorn lodged in you, so I removed it with another thorn; my thorn is not more valuable than yours. And do not, even by mistake, keep my thorn in your wound, otherwise it will hurt just as much as yours did. Are thorns yours and mine? Throw both away.

That was his discipleship: step away from the intellect; come nearer to feeling. Truth is not to be sought by thinking; truth is to be sought by feeling. Not by logic, scripture, doctrine; truth is to be sought with an open heart. When the flower of the heart blossoms, the sun of truth shines upon it; truth’s rays dance on the open flower of the heart. That is what discipleship meant. But those who could not understand in any other way, Shankara spoke to them in their own language.

Shankara is a unique being. And with unique beings, misunderstanding is easy—because they fall beyond the ordinary categories of your understanding. People felt he too is a logician, a super-logician. But would a super-logician say, “Bhaja Govindam”? Would he tell you to dance and sing? “Sing the song of God”—would a logician say that? Would a super-logician say that? Impossible. Such words rise from a very deep heart. Only a lover of the divine can say this, not a logician. Remember this.

“You have often said that dialogue is never possible through logic and dispute.”
Never possible. With logic and dispute Shankara cleared the ground for dialogue. You were filled with dispute; he toppled you through dispute. You were filled with logic; he broke you with logic. This is only to clean the field. Then he sowed the seeds of feeling, of devotion.

Many people have thought Shankara is contradictory. He is not. It only appears so, as when a neighbor demolishes his house. One day you see he is busy tearing it down. For months he labors to bring it down, clear away the rubble, prepare the ground. Then he lays the foundation and begins to raise the house. Will you say the man is contradictory—one day he demolishes, the next day he builds? It looks like contradiction—but will you call it that? No, because you know: to build a new house the old has to be brought down. Even in that opposition there is no opposition. Only after the old house is demolished can the new one be built.

Shankara is not contradictory; he is grappling with logic. And when the old house is down, he invites you to dance. You may say this is contradictory—first he spoke of thought and logic, now he speaks of dancing and feeling! No. With logic he only brought down the old; with feeling he is building the new. With logic he cleared the ground; with feeling he is sowing the seeds. There is no contradiction.

“But Shankara proclaimed his world-conquest.”
Even that proclamation was not Shankara’s; it was made by those who walked behind him—yet did not understand him. Just walking behind does not mean one understands. To trail after someone is very easy; to be a follower in truth is difficult. What great art is there in walking behind? You can walk behind anyone. Imitation needs no art; tagging along is easy. But truly understanding someone, and developing your life in accordance with that understanding, is very difficult.

So those who followed behind Shankara made the proclamation of his digvijaya; they still do. The Shankaracharya of Puri still does; Karpatri still does. They keep saying that Shankara defeated the whole world; the Shankaracharya of Puri still goes on declaring that he is a Jagadguru.

That is not Shankara’s proclamation. Shankara knows very well that with logic no one ever truly wins and no one ever truly loses. Logic only proves that the other person’s logic was weaker than yours, that you were a bit more skillful. But tomorrow the other can return more skillful; victory in logic is no victory. Shankara knows well that victory in logic is not victory—it is the illusion of victory. And Shankara’s effort is not to win anyone through logic. His effort is very unique. But that uniqueness will not be visible to those walking behind; they only see: “Look, he has defeated one more man.” Those behind understand only the language of ego. They do not see that Shankara has not defeated a man; he has made a man win—put one more person on the path of the heart; one who was drowning in logic and losing, he rescued and showed him the way to victory. Now this man will truly win.

Thus, those like Kumarila Bhatta who “lost” to Shankara became disciples. Kumarila did not become a disciple out of sorrow or hurt. Had Kumarila become a disciple out of defeat, a sting would have remained inside. If he had felt defeated he would have tried in some way to take revenge. Not so. Kumarila was as devoted to logic as Shankara. In debate with Shankara, one thing became clear to Kumarila: logic is futile. Shankara did not win; Kumarila did not lose—logic lost, feeling won.

This needs a little effort to understand.

Debating Shankara, playing with a master player, it became clear to Kumarila that the very things he had relied upon so much fall in a gust of wind. This does not mean he accepted Shankara’s logic. Shankara’s skill lay in this: in debate he showed, “Your logic is futile, and so is mine.” Logic fell; neither did Kumarila lose nor did Shankara win—logic lost. And since that collapse of logic came through Shankara, Kumarila bowed and fell at Shankara’s feet.

And these debates were filled with great sweetness, with great love; there was not a trace of bitterness anywhere. No one fought like enemies. As two people play chess, so an entire army of arguments was arrayed; whatever was in the intellect was placed on the board. But Shankara kept cutting through everything. Cutting and cutting, he did not plant his own arguments in the opponent’s mind; he only kept cutting. An empty space remained. In that emptiness discipleship arose. The opponent saw that the one standing before him had not come with a doctrine, but with truth. He saw: all my arguments have been broken—but no other argument has been given in their place. A vacant space is left—an interval, emptiness, shunyata. This state became one of meditation. In that meditative moment, he bowed.

Remember, do not think he was bowing to Shankara; he was bowing to the truth that had manifested through Shankara. Shankara is only an image, a symbol. He bows because he has been awakened. He bows not because he has been defeated; he bows because he has been awakened.

But those standing behind saw only that someone had been defeated, someone had bowed. Those followers proclaimed that Shankara achieved digvijaya, that he defeated the whole world. Because of these fools Shankara’s image has been corrupted; that unique flowering in Shankara, that unparalleled feeling, has been lost; what remains is a petty tradition, a narrow, stifling alley; the vast open path of the sky is gone.

That is why you will find that if a sannyasin who claims to follow Shankara is wedded to logic, he will never touch something like Bhaja Govindam. There are people who say that songs like Bhaja Govindam were written by others and attributed to Shankara—that they are not Shankara’s. “How could Shankara write such songs? If Mira writes, it makes sense; if Chaitanya speaks, it makes sense. Shankara? From such a sharp stream of logic—songs of devotion? Impossible.” They say these have been mixed in by others to capitalize on Shankara’s prestige and name; they cut these songs away. They rely only on those arguments that have no value at all.

Shankara gave arguments so the old building might fall, and then he sowed songs so the new could rise. Do not take his process to be contradictory; otherwise you will never understand Shankara.

Shankara never proclaimed his world-conquest. Those who know are not ambitious; those who know are not egotistical.

These proclamations of victory are very childish. These are the talk of little children. Who is there here to win and who to lose? Shankara sees only the One, the divine. Multiplicity is illusion; unity is truth. Who will win, who will lose? If there is defeat, the divine is defeated; if there is victory, the divine is victorious. When He alone wins and He alone loses, who will announce a world-conquest?

No, Shankara cannot make such a mistake. And if he did, then Shankara would be worth two pennies—he would have no value left. Shankara awakened—he did not defeat.

“And in debate and scriptural disputation he defeated hundreds of wise men.”
No—he made hundreds into wise men. Until then they were entangled in false wisdom, clutching counterfeit coins; he showed them the real coin. Naturally, in the presence of the real, the counterfeit becomes counterfeit. There is no other way to expose what is false. If you are holding a counterfeit coin in your hand, how can I convince you it is false? You need the real. Only in comparison to the real can the false be seen as false. Shankara manifested the real. In the radiance of the real, the false became false.

These debates were not like the debates of the West. Nor like the debates that run in the East today. These debates were filled with great sweetness. They were the debates of seekers of truth.

Debate can happen in two ways. One: what you say is right—because you say it. You yourself can be wrong! What you say has little value; it must be right because you have said it. Then debate is a useless quarrel. The other: you are seeking truth. You do not say, “What I have said must be the truth.” You say, “As far as I have understood till now, this seems true to me. I am ready—if there is more to know ahead, I am open; I am not closed; I have not taken a final decision. But up to now, to me this appears closer to truth. I am ready to be changed, to be transformed, to drop what I know—if truth reveals itself to me I am fully prepared to embrace it.” Then debate too becomes oriented toward truth. Then debate itself becomes a process.

The East had used this kind of debate. A tradition of thousands of years made this possible. For thousands of years sages reflected and debated—in pursuit of truth. Not that they had found truth, but that they were seeking it. And when someone showed your untruth, there was enough courage to bow at his feet. Because the search was for truth—whoever shows it is the guru. Therefore those who lost to Shankara became disciples.

Discipleship simply means this: up to where we had gone, you took us one step farther; up to where our eyes could see, you gave us a vision of beyond; up to where we could reach, you lifted us on your shoulders and showed us a far sky.

The search for truth is a great thing. And with an eye for truth, even debate can be used. That is why I say: even poison can become medicine.

In the West too debates have continued, but they do not have the flavor of the East. There the contenders keep fighting; they never become anyone’s disciple. They keep debating; whether they lost or won, each goes on singing his own tune. No one can even decide who won or who lost.

This too is something to ponder.

Shankara reached Mandala—the city of Mandana Mishra. The town was named after Mandana. At the entrance to the village he asked the women drawing water at the well, “Where is Mandana Mishra’s house?”

They laughed. “Is that something to ask? You will recognize it yourself. The air will tell you. Even the parrots hanging at that door speak the words of the Upanishads. The air near that house is ancient, primeval, purifying. Is this something to ask? Stranger, go—the house will call you on its own. Who asks for that house?”

Shankara reached that door. The talk was true. Birds sat at the doorway singing songs filled with verses from the Upanishads and the Vedas. Shankara went inside and offered an invitation. Mandana was a renowned figure—older than Shankara, more famous than Shankara, with more disciples than Shankara. Shankara invited him: “I have come to debate; I wish to grapple with you for the sake of truth.”

He was welcomed, hosted in the home—he was no enemy. Mandana said, “You are young, therefore we are not equals. I have much experience; you are still young.” Shankara would have been about thirty; Mandana had crossed fifty. “I am of your father’s age, so this fight is not equal. I will give you an advantage—choose the judge yourself. Who will decide who has won and who has lost? You are young—choose whomever you think right; they will give the decision.”

This was a loving contest; there was no quarrel. The elder gave the youth more leeway, welcomed him like a son. Shankara looked around, but could find no one of Mandana’s stature to appoint as judge. No one came to mind except Mandana’s wife. He said, “Your wife—her name is Bharati—let her be the arbiter.”

Was this a quarrel? Can you understand it in the language of quarrel? For if the wife is the judge, she might lean toward her husband. That fear would be natural if the debate were an enmity. But it was a debate of great love, of truth-seeking.

The wife became the arbiter. After the debate she pronounced, “Mandana has lost; Shankara has won.” But she added, “Wait! This defeat is still incomplete, because I am his half-body—ardhangini. You have only defeated half of Mandana; now you must debate me.” It was a great joke, but very sweet. She was right, and even Shankara could not refuse; if the wife is the half-body, only half of Mandana has been defeated. Now there was a tangle. The wife had given the decision that Mandana had lost. A wife who could give such a verdict must herself have been unique—for defeating one’s husband is not so easy! But she said one thing remains incomplete: you must defeat me as well.

Shankara accepted the debate. And with the questions Bharati asked, Shankara found himself in difficulty. For she did not ask about Brahman; she had already seen from the debate that Mandana had lost. “This youth appears young, but he feels eternal, ancient. He is the Sanatan Purusha. Talking to him of Brahman is pointless.” She had already witnessed Mandana losing there. And Mandana certainly knew more than Bharati; it was for that very reason that she loved him, became his wife, served at his feet. Seeing him lose made everything clear. She asked questions regarding sexual desire.

Shankara was young—thirty; unmarried. He was in a bind. Shankara said, “I need six months’ time. I am unmarried, a brahmachari. I have not known love, I have not known desire. Whatever answers I give now will not come from experience. And what is the worth of answers that do not come from experience? I have read the scriptures.” Shankara said, “Just as Mandana, reading from the scriptures, spoke on Brahman and lost—if I speak on sexual desire from the scriptures, I will certainly lose and you will win. You know; I have only heard. My knowledge is scriptural; yours is experiential. I need six months so that I too may return with experience.”

These debates were deeply affectionate. Bharati said, “That is perfectly proper. You have a six-month leave; go and return with experience.”

The story is strange. Shankara fell into a great dilemma. He had taken a vow of celibacy, given his word to his guru. If he now goes to marry or seeks a woman, his whole life-structure will change! So the tale says Shankara left his body and entered the body of a dead man—a king was dying; as his life left, Shankara entered. Living six months in that body, he understood the meaning of the body and of sexual desire.

When he returned after six months, Bharati looked at him and said, “There is no need for debate; you have come back knowing. The matter is finished. Accept me too as your disciple.”

These were not the words of enemies. They were events filled with great love, with deep compassion, with immense mutual reverence and feeling. Mandana and Bharati became Shankara’s disciples.

Shankara did not “defeat” any wise man; he gave them wisdom. They had been entangled in false wisdom, clutching counterfeit coins; he showed them the real coin. Naturally, when the real is seen, the counterfeit becomes counterfeit. There is no other way to expose the false. Therefore those who bowed at his feet did not bow in defeat; there was no pain of losing there. They bowed in wonder, in gratitude, with a feeling of deep compassion.

“And on losing they had to accept discipleship under Shankara.”
Do not say it like that. “Had to”? We cannot seem to escape the language of ego. Even if Shankara had refused, they would have accepted discipleship. “Had to”? They did it! They did it in wonder! They did it dancing! That bowing was not the bowing of defeat—it happened out of great understanding. It was surrender, not a rout. In that bowing they rejoiced. In that bowing, for the first time they became established. In that bowing, for the first time they knew the meaning of life; they had their first glimpse of the divine. At those feet they found the feet of God.

No—do not use words of compulsion like “had to bow.” They bowed—in wonder! In supreme bliss! In deep gratefulness!

The ordinary person cannot really fall. Where would he fall? One who walks on level ground—even if he stumbles, where is there to fall?
Only the one who tries to climb the mountain peaks can fall. To fall you need a summit. And near the summits lie hidden ravines and chasms. On level ground, on the royal road, even if someone falls, what kind of fall is it? He is already fallen.
The ordinary person never becomes “fallen,” because there is nowhere left to fall. So when you say the fall of the ordinary is understandable—you have not understood. How is the ordinary to fall? He lives at the point below which no further decline is possible. He lives at zero degrees, at the very bottom. He has made the ravine itself his home. Only the extraordinary fall—those who undertake the ascent to the peaks; who strive for heights; who accept the challenge of altitude; who are unwilling to dwell in the pit; who say, “Until we attain the golden-crowned summits, life is wasted;” who refuse to slither in the darkness of the ravine and make a home there; who declare, “We will spread our wings and fly into the sky;” who set out on a far journey. The farther the journey, the greater the risk of a fall.
We have a word: yogabhrashta—one fallen from yoga. Have you ever heard “bhogabhrashta”—fallen from indulgence? It has no meaning. Yogabhrashta is meaningful: you tried to climb the heights, and you missed.
The danger of missing is always there. Perhaps out of this fear many never attempt the climb. They convince themselves; they begin to take the ravine for a height. They forget the very idea of height. They do not look toward the peaks, because the very seeing can issue a challenge.
I have heard: in countries where wild, mountain birds migrate from afar, when they arrive, even domesticated, reared birds feel a challenge stir in them. In the south of Europe, ducks fly down from Siberia to spend the winter. When winter ends, they return. But there are ducks raised in households too—generations ago they also were wild; they too were free. When these mountain and wild ducks begin their return—flock upon flock flying across the sky—the ducks sitting in fields and farmyards also begin to flutter; they spread their wings; they try to fly ten or five feet and then tumble. Their wings are no longer strong. Yet when they see the mountain birds flying—birds of their own kind—some challenge enters their very life-breath; some quest; some unknown land is remembered—some height of the sky. In their small minds even the open sky of far-off Siberia gives a jolt. Though they fall back and run again in the fields and farmyards, at least once they make the effort.
Whenever a Buddha, a Shankara passes among you, you too flutter a little in your fields and farmyards; you too beat your wings a bit. His very presence informs you; it awakens some sleeping note within; you recognize: “This is my destiny too, this is my adventure; I too can fly to such heights.” But then you flutter, fall, and forget again.
Or the very clever among you will say, “This cannot be.” They will not look toward the Buddha; they keep their backs turned. They listen to rumors about the Buddha; they do not look at him directly. They avoid meeting his eyes, for there is danger in meeting the eyes. They remain seated in their shops. They say, “All this is nonsense. Has anyone ever realized God? Is there any Brahman? All this is just to entangle people. Perhaps the man has gone mad. At most, it is beautiful poetry.”
They cannot admit that such mountains exist, such heights, such snow-peaks—so pure and virginal, untouched, where no one has ever reached. They are nervous: if the thought arises, they have no trust in their wings—will they be able to fly? to reach? What if they fall?
Flying is inseparable from falling; growth is inseparable from slipping. Creatures that crawl and creep along the ground do not fall—where would they fall?
So be clear: do not say the fall of the ordinary is understandable. Have you ever heard of the ordinary falling? No. Only those who walk the path of renunciation, dispassion, austerity, and sadhana fall—and the nearer they come to the goal, the greater the danger becomes. The closer you get, the more the dangers multiply. Then it is danger inch by inch, because inch by inch there is the possibility of falling. A slight miss, and a fall can happen. The error is small; the fall is immense. If you make the same mistake, it hardly matters; if Mahavira makes it, he will fall very badly. What will your mistake do? You live in mistakes. Amid your great errors, the small ones do not even show. But if a Buddha were to make that very mistake…
Buddha was passing through a village; Ananda was with him. They were talking. A fly settled on his shoulder; he brushed it away—as anyone would. Then he stopped, startled, as if a great mistake had been made. He raised his hand again, brought it mindfully to his shoulder, and brushed away the fly—which was no longer there. Ananda asked, “What are you doing?”
Buddha said, “I brushed it away unconsciously; it should be done consciously. Even a fly should be brushed away with awareness. For if unconsciousness can creep in even while brushing away a fly, it can creep in anywhere.”
Such a tiny thing—unawareness while brushing away a fly: he kept talking and brushed it off. What mistake is there? The fly didn’t die, no violence happened—what is there to worry about? But for Buddha there is something to be concerned about. Even this little smudge would be a great stain upon his spotless robe. On your black robe nothing would show. That is why people prefer clothes on which dirt doesn’t show. On white, the stain appears instantly. On Buddha’s white robe even a speck of soot becomes visible. Even a fly must be brushed away with awareness.
At night Buddha sleeps in a single posture. Ananda asked, “Often I wake at night and see that you lie exactly as you lay down; the hand placed upon the foot remains where it was; you don’t even move! Do you keep watch all night? At least while sleeping, rest.”
Buddha said, “For one who has to be awake, what is sleep! One must sleep consciously; sleep while remaining awake within; someone within must keep watch. If inner wakefulness is lost, dreams begin. And if dreams run within, thoughts will run during the day. If there is no wakefulness at night, wakefulness in the day is impossible; wakefulness must become natural—day or night, sleeping or waking—the inner current of awareness must go on.”
So even at night he sleeps with awareness; the hand remains where he placed it; he does not allow unconsciousness to seize him even in sleep. If unconsciousness takes hold even in sleep, Buddha would call that a fall.
The closer you come to the goal, the greater the danger. The nearer you get to Everest, the greater the peril. The altitude increases, and the summit narrows. At the very top of Everest only one person can stand—there is only that much space.
Recently a team of Japanese women climbed Everest. Afterwards China claimed their team had reached two days earlier and that seven climbers stood on the summit. The Japanese women denied it, because seven cannot stand there at once. The summit grows small.
And this is only your ordinary Everest; what will you say of the Everest of the Buddhas! There the space becomes so narrow that you cannot even stand there as “you.” If your ego survives, you will topple from that place. Only when you become zero can you stand there. On that peak of perfection only the zero can abide. The slightest ego, the slightest “I-ness,” and there will be a fall.
Remember this: the more you grow, the more you take on the risk of falling. But this is a challenge worth accepting. Only thus will your dignity be revealed; only thus will you become majestic. There is the fear of falling—no matter; even if you have to fall a thousand times, no matter: the peaks must be touched! Until you touch them, no fulfillment is possible. Until you find the divine within yourself, whatever else you attain, you will remain a beggar—there will be no satisfaction, no contentment. Joy is impossible until you become that which you can ultimately be; until your entire future becomes the present; until all your buds have blossomed—until not even a single bud remains unopened—you cannot attain bliss.
That is why for bliss we have a word: prafullata—full blossoming. Prafullata means: the flower completely opened. Only in that total flowering is joy. Do not settle for even a grain less, otherwise you will remain miserable and in hell.
The ordinary person escapes the danger of falling, but he lives in darkness, in pain, in sorrow. Take on the risk of falling. Rather than rotting in misery, even a single glimpse of happiness is precious. Rather than crawling on the earth, a single flight into the sky is enough to satisfy. Fly just once and you will gain trust in your wings. Certainly you will have to fall many times and rise many times. But every fall is a teaching, and every rising is new strength. The more you fall, the less the possibility of falling becomes, because you become skilled in rising.
It is a long journey, and God is the goal. Do not be content with the small; do not be easily satisfied; do not sit by the roadside, close your eyes, and start imagining that the destination has arrived. Many have done exactly this; because the journey is arduous, it is more comfortable to sit by the side of the road. Walking requires tapas, effort; blood will turn to sweat; you will have to stake yourself. Life is a gamble; only the great gamblers reach God.

There is not the slightest contradiction. The so-called sannyasins do shopkeeping in the name of religion because they were torn away from their shops. And they were not ripe yet; the mind still wanted to do business, yet they were made to sit in the temple. They turn the temple into a shop.

Therefore I do not tear my sannyasins away from their shops; I say, if a temple is going to be turned into a shop, it is far better to turn the shop into a temple. I don’t wrench them from the shop, because I see that those sannyasins who were wrenched away have turned the temple into a marketplace. Until the very relish for the shop dries up within you, breaking you away from the shop is futile. And if the relish has really disappeared, what need is there to break away at all? Sitting in the shop you will make it a temple.

Bear in mind, if a temple can be turned into a shop, why can’t a shop be turned into a temple? The two processes are the same. I emphasize the second: if there is to be a transformation, let the shop be transformed into a temple. And if as yet there is still taste for the shop, there is no harm—let it continue. At least the temple will be saved from corruption.

I want you to ripen; for maturity to happen right where you are. Maturity is the essential thing; everything else is secondary. And there are bigger questions in life. The greatest question is this: if you are removed from somewhere while you are still unripe, you may be removed physically, but how will you be removed mentally? And the relish that you carry in the mind will go with you. Wherever you go, that relish will rebuild its own world around you. The seed lies in your craving; not in your outer circumstances, but in your inner state.

Sannyas is an inner revolution. It is a declaration: now I will transform myself from within. And I maintain that there are more opportunities to change in the marketplace than in the Himalayas. Because in the marketplace there are challenges at every moment; at every step there are opportunities to fall; there is constant struggle; and there you cannot deceive yourself for long. The marketplace is a mirror. Every person you meet illuminates some corner of your own mind.

Understand this a little. Many things about yourself will never be known to you if you do not meet people. Suppose you never meet someone who abuses you; then you will never come to know your own anger. How would you know it? If no one ever insults you, you will go on imagining that you are without anger. Only when someone abuses you will you, for the first time, feel the touch of the anger within you.

So the one who abuses you has helped your self-understanding; he has lit up one of your facets; an unlit corner in you was lying suppressed—he awakened it. He made you aware that there is anger within you; he gave you a chance to understand yourself.

The sannyasin who runs away to the forest loses these helps—no one abuses him, no one honors him, no one tempts him with money—no one gives him any occasion. He remains alone; self-seeing becomes difficult. In the world there are means for self-seeing. Otherwise God would have made only forests and given each person his own forest. God is a little more intelligent than you, you will grant that much? Listen to God; beware of the mahatmas. The mahatmas are trying to be even more intelligent than God. They are being clever; they say, we’ll go to the forest and do our practice there.

The real practice is in the world; in the forest there is no question of practice at all. In the forest you will rot—what practice will you do? The practice is here, where there are thorns at every moment. And the day you learn to walk among the thorns, to walk among them and not be pricked—on that very day know that you have become worthy of going to the forest. Then, if you want to go, go; I will not stop you. But then you yourself will say, what need is there now to go to the forest? In the midst of the crowd a forest has happened.

If maturity arises in you, if wisdom is born—and how will it be born? Through struggle; by accepting life’s challenges moment to moment; by losing, falling, and rising again. A thousand times you will be abused, you will get angry. But a moment will come when someone abuses you and you do not become angry. From a thousand experiences you will come to understand that burning yourself is futile; someone else is abusing you—why punish yourself? A day will come when someone abuses you and no anger arises within. On that day a thorn within you has turned into a flower; you have become a different man. The peace you will know that day no forest can give you. The peace of the forest is dead. If here, amidst abuse, you become peaceful, then your peace will have a certain aliveness. The silence of the forest is like a cremation ground; there is hush because no one is there. It is negative. If in the world you become peaceful, it is creative. The peace of the forest is like death; the peace of the world is vibrantly alive.

And I tell you, if you want to attain God, do not run away. God never relates with escapees. How could there be a relationship with cowards? To accept the challenge requires courage. Granted, courage includes falling and getting hurt. But that is the path—the only path; there is no other.

Have you ever noticed: the children of very comfortable homes are not intelligent. They cannot be—there is no challenge. The truly intelligent children come from those homes where there is great struggle, where even small things are hard to obtain. The children of millionaires are often useless.

Henry Ford used to send his boys to polish shoes on the street; he would say, earn your pocket money yourselves. The richest man in the world! Even the neighbors told him this was too much—what are you making them do?

He said, I myself earned money by polishing shoes. Those who were the rich men in my time are begging today. I was a beggar; today I have become the richest man in the world. I do not want to make my children beggars, so I send them to the street to polish shoes.

That man was intelligent. He was skillful. The children of the rich often become dead, gobar-Ganesh—dig into them and you will find only dung; you will not find Ganesh anywhere; because there is no challenge of life, no struggle.

If there is too much security and no struggle, the spine breaks. The spine is formed only in struggle. The more challenge you take on, the more backbone is born; the stronger you become.

I do not tell you to run away from the world; I tell you to awaken in the world. Sannyas is not escapism; sannyas is the great struggle of awakening. And where there is challenge, do not move away. Yes, stay there until the work of that challenge is finished. And the work can be finished quickly. If the tendency to escape is absent, awakening can happen soon; because the very energy that goes into running away is then available for awakening.

I do not advocate the peace of the cremation ground; I point you to the peace that is earned through labor—not by dying, but by becoming magnificently alive—creative.

What does vanaprastha mean? It means: face turned toward the forest.
It belongs to all. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—you have to find that ultimate solitude which is called God. Everyone is vanaprastha; sooner or later everyone has to enter that supreme aloneness, to discover that inner forest. Vanaprastha has nothing to do with physical age. Otherwise, what will you do with Shankaracharya? He passed away at thirty-three. So before thirty-three he had already become vanaprastha—and a sannyasin too.

You are clever. Your cleverness is your misery. You are cunning. You say, “This is for the old.” For vanaprastha—meaning, when there will be nothing left worth doing in the world; when people themselves will forcibly retire you; you’ll be shouting, “Why are you sending me off already?”—and they will have started preparing your bier; then you think you will chant Bhaj Govindam? People do not want to let go even with their dying breath. Not even after death!

In London there is a medical college where a man’s corpse is kept. Two hundred years ago, that man made a donation to the college. And he attached a condition: “As long as I live, I will preside over the board of trustees—and after death too!” So whenever the trustees’ board meets, his corpse is seated in the chairman’s chair—even now. Even after dying people do not become vanaprastha; and you are asking about the living! He still presides; he still remains the chairman; and even now the trustees have to stand and say, “Mr. Chairman!” before they can speak. It’s in the trust deed; it cannot be changed. Legally it is his right. The body has been emptied out and stuffed with straw, but he sits! Stuffed with straw, yet clinging to the post!

You do not want to become vanaprastha at all. The very idea hurts—vanaprastha! Sannyas! These are last things; “We’ll do them at the end.”

Whoever wants to do it “at the end” will never be able to; whoever wants to do it now—only he can. There is no time other than now. And the smallest things become hindrances.

Just yesterday a friend came—he had taken sannyas—and said, “My wife won’t let me wear the ochre robe; won’t let me wear the mala.” And he agreed! Seeing his condition I said, “All right then—if you are defeated by your wife, whom do you think you are going to conquer?”

At the slightest struggle, the slightest challenge, a person is down for the count.

I am telling you: the time is now—and only now! Time never arrives in any other mode. If you can use this very moment, if your consciousness can turn toward the forest—the forest is symbolic—can turn toward solitude, can turn toward the divine, then sannyas will bear fruit.

Vanaprastha is preparation for becoming a sannyasin. Your back turns to the world; slowly the taste for the world is lost; whether pleasure or pain, the world begins to feel the same; whether you win or lose, it no longer makes a difference—you have become vanaprastha.

This has nothing to do with bodily age; it has to do with your mental maturity; it is a matter of inner age. There are many people who, even at eighty, have a mental age no more than eight or ten. And sometimes it happens that in an eight- or ten-year-old child there is the mental age of eighty. It depends on the swiftness and intensity of consciousness.

What Shankaracharya spoke at the age of ten, people cannot speak even at a hundred. The way he defined the Upanishads at the age of ten, a hundred-year-old cannot manage. It is a matter of swiftness, of intensity, of density.

Awaken your life-energy completely and pour your whole strength into it, and you will find: this very moment vanaprastha has happened; this very moment sannyas has happened. But if you keep running and dodging and postponing—“We’ll see tomorrow; today let’s watch a movie, tomorrow we’ll go to the temple”—if you must postpone, then postpone the movie; watch it in old age. A movie can wait for old age. But you postpone God for old age. You give your youth to the world and your old age to God! Your giving shows what you value. You give your youth to the trivial and your old age to the divine! When you had strength you did the wrong; when you have no strength you say, “Now I’ll do the right.” When nothing else is left to do, you say, “I will do it.” When you begin to die, you say, “Surrender.” And as long as you could cling, you never thought of surrender. Whom are you deceiving? That is why Shankar says: you are blind. Whom are you deceiving?

While you have strength, remember; because remembrance requires tremendous power. There is no act greater than that; it asks for your totality; it asks for every fiber, every breath. When your limbs are worn out and shaky, when you walk with a stick, when your sight has dimmed—then will you remember? Then even the sound “Govind” will not come out; your throat will be choked; even if you utter it, it will be deadened—will that reach the divine?

Urgency is needed; a flood is needed; the courage and readiness to stake the whole energy of life. That can happen today.

The very day you understand—on that very day, vanaprastha.

Only one who revels in Brahman is truly engrossed in enjoyment. He alone partakes of the supreme bliss. He enjoys; the rest are merely under the illusion that they are enjoying. The rest are carrying counterfeit coins; in the name of enjoyment they are suffering. If your enjoyment were to be summed up in a single word, it would be: suffering. That is what you have tasted—what else have you tasted? You say you are enjoying happiness; in fact, you enjoy suffering.

Only the knower of Brahman truly enjoys. Tena tyaktena bhunjīthāḥ! Those who have renounced are the ones who have enjoyed. He enjoys the Divine. You are enjoying the trivial, and by consuming the trivial you reap great sorrow.

One day a man came to Ramakrishna and placed a heap of money at his feet. Ramakrishna said, “Take it back, brother.” The man said, “You are a great renunciate—here is yet another proof.” Ramakrishna replied, “You are the great renunciate, not I. For I am enjoying God; you are giving Him up. You hoard money; I hoard God—so who is the renouncer and who the enjoyer? I am the enjoyer; you are the renouncer.”

One who gathers pebbles and throws away diamonds—will you call him an enjoyer or a renouncer? He who guards the worthless and loses the meaningful—he alone deserves to be called a renunciate.

Brahman-revelry is the supreme enjoyment. It is an entry into life’s ultimate bliss. There is no joy greater than that. Apart from that, all is suffering.

Therefore do not even ask whether one who revels in Brahman can truly be immersed in enjoyment. He cannot be immersed in your enjoyment, because your enjoyment is no enjoyment at all. He is immersed in enjoyment—but of an altogether different order. To know that enjoyment, you will have to lose your so-called enjoyment; you will have to awaken awareness. You are still dreaming; you have not enjoyed anything—only dreamed of enjoyment. The knower of Brahman has attained the enjoyment of truth, the supreme enjoyment.

Enough for today.