Bhaj Govindam #9

There is a Greek myth: there was a supremely beautiful youth named Narcissus. He fell in love with a maiden named Echo.

Even the name is worth pondering. We fall in love with echoes. Wherever you hear your own voice, where your ego finds its secret gratification, where, in a hidden way, you encounter only yourself—there your love is born. Your love is nothing but an extension of your ego.

Echo too fell in love with him.

Of course Echo will fall in love—she is the reverberation of your own voice. There is neither the possibility nor the means for her to be apart from you.

But one day an accident happened. It had to happen. Because the one who gets deceived by echoes—who hears his own voice and falls in love with it—disaster is certain in his life.

Narcissus had gone into the forest. In a lake, a quiet lake—without even a ripple of wind—he saw his own reflection. He was bewitched. The lake was a mirror. He saw his own face; but saw it for the first time, and it was so lovely. And whose own face is not dear to them? One’s own face is always dear. Narcissus became spellbound—as if turned to stone. Fascination brings numbness. He grew afraid even to move—what if the reflection should shatter? His eyes were transfixed. He would not leave. Echo waited. And when Narcissus did not return, love died.

Echo can resound only so long as you keep humming your own voice. When your voice falls silent—she will echo a while in the hills, then disappear. Narcissus did not return, did not return.

They say Narcissus, standing there on the lake’s edge, turned into a plant—a narcissus. There is indeed a flower called narcissus. It is found by lakes, by waterfalls, along rivers. If you ever come upon it, look closely—you will always find it bending over the water, peering into it; it is gazing at its reflection.

The myth is strange and wondrous. If you become too enchanted with yourself, awareness is lost; then you are no longer human, you become a plant; then the humanity within dissolves; the soul within is denied—you fall back, you degenerate. Does a plant have freedom? A human being is free; he can walk. The plant is bound; it has no feet, it has roots. Narcissus becoming a plant is simply a message that whoever gets tangled in the reflections of ego loses his feet; they turn into roots. He stops, his movement ceases; even the freedom to stir is lost.

And this is what happens to almost all human beings. The Upanishads say: no one really loves the wife—through the wife, in the wife, one loves oneself; no one really loves the children—through the children, in the children, one loves oneself. The children are mirrors; the wife is a mirror. Every person is a Narcissus.

With such a state of mind, how will the doors to ultimate freedom open! The little freedom you have also gets destroyed. Wings should have grown so you could fly toward the divine. Far from wings—even your feet are lost. Do you understand the bondage of the tree? It cannot budge from where it stands. If it would move an inch, it has no freedom, no movement; where it stands, there it is bound. It cannot shift. A man can move, can walk. A bird can fly.

But however much the body can move, there is a limit—it will tire; fatigue itself becomes a fetter. And however far a bird can fly—even for miles—can space be measured in miles? It will tire; the body has limits. And freedom is freedom only when it is boundless. The freedom of the soul is needed. Let wings grow in the soul, let the soul fly—so that then there is no limit, no walls to block you, no chains anywhere. That moment we have called moksha, liberation.

It is moksha that is being sought. By the name of happiness you are in fact seeking moksha. This is why every happiness becomes your misery; because when you discover that moksha has not come, that instead you have got bondage, then happiness no longer feels like happiness. You seek wealth also for the sake of moksha. You think wealth will bring freedom; your hands and feet will be a bit unbound; you will be able to move about a little. The poor man’s sky is very small; the rich man’s will be a bit larger; there will be some conveniences. But when you get wealth, you find—the sky has become even smaller than a poor man’s. This money has not become wings; it has become chains. Now you cannot even leave it and move away.

There are tales that when the rich die, they become snakes and sit guarding their strongboxes. Even while alive they sit like snakes. There is no need to inquire what happens after death. The one who has wealth—he lives terrified: what if the wealth is lost. He just sits, keeping watch. To enjoy it becomes impossible; he ceases even to be its owner. He becomes almost a watchman. You will rarely find a rich man who is the master of his wealth. A poor man may at least be the master of his poverty, but a rich man is not the master of his riches.

If you look closely, even money is desired for freedom. Position is desired for freedom. If you have rank, power, capacity, there will not be so many fetters; you can break some chains; you can enter a little into the unknown and the unfamiliar.

If you search precisely within human consciousness, the note that plays is of moksha; from every side it seeks release. Therefore wherever bonds begin to form, restlessness arises.

You love in the hope that love will become a sky; that you will be able to fly, that it will become a support for your freedom. But when you fall in love you find—far from flying, even moving becomes difficult. You had hoped for support from the other—far from support, the other has tied stones around your neck. Love becomes bondage—it does. In dreams it is freedom; in reality it turns into chains.

Kahlil Gibran, in his unique book The Prophet, was asked: and tell us about Love! The protagonist Almustafa says: love one another, but do not make a possession of each other. Be near one another, but not too near. Be like the pillars of a temple—they uphold the same roof, yet stand apart. If the pillars come too close, the temple will fall. Even with your beloved, remain a little apart, so that there is free sky between you. If the free sky between is entirely lost, you will begin to trespass upon each other, to invade each other.

But these things are in books. In life, when we love someone, we try to snatch away all their freedom. Because the moment love arises, fear arises that it may turn elsewhere; that the love I have received may come to belong to someone else.

When wealth comes, fear it might be lost! When love comes, fear it might be lost! Whatever you get, the fear of losing that very thing arises. Because of that fear, freedom becomes impossible.

What freedom can there be with fear? Only in the fearless does the flower of freedom bloom. And the life-breath of each person cries only for one thing, hums only one thing, seeks only one thing—moksha. Wherever you find release, you begin to rejoice; wherever you find bondage, you begin to become sad.

If you are so sad, the reason is clear—you wanted moksha, you got chains; you asked for the sky, you got a prison; you sought wings, even your legs were cut off; you wanted release, what you did have you staked and lost, and what you hoped for shows no sign anywhere, so you are sad.

If the word God has any meaning at all, it is moksha. Therefore the supreme knowers did not even use the word God. Mahavira speaks of moksha, not of God. Because the word God has become entangled with many delusions; prisons have been built around it. Buddha speaks of nirvana, not of God—knowingly. Because in the name of God there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians—new fetters have arisen. The Hindu is bound by being Hindu, the Muslim by being Muslim—some are bound to the mosque, some to the temple. And religion is freedom.

Therefore religion can have neither temple nor mosque.

And the day you become religious, that day you will see the same in temple and in mosque. Then you will sometimes pray in a mosque, sometimes in a temple. In truth, there will be no need to go to temple or mosque, because you will see the same in your own home; wherever you look, the same will be seen.

Religion is an absolute freedom. If you keep this in mind, Shankara’s final sutras can be understood.

“Abandon lust, anger, greed, and attachment, and meditate on your Self.”

These are the four bonds that have stolen your moksha, that have suppressed it—lust, anger, greed, and attachment. If you condense these four, only one remains—lust. Because where lust is, there attachment is born; where attachment arises, greed appears; and where greed appears, if anyone obstructs it, anger arises toward that person. The root disease is lust.

Understand the meaning of lust. Lust means: the hope that pleasure can come from the other.

Lust means: my happiness is outside me. And meditation means: my happiness is within me.

If these two definitions are understood clearly, your journey will become very simple. Lust means: my happiness is outside me—in someone else; if another gives it, I will get it; I cannot find happiness alone; in my aloneness is sorrow and in companionship is happiness.

That is why you do not want to be alone. The moment you are alone you are afraid; a little alone, and you are uneasy; alone, and you begin to stuff yourself with anything—trash will do. The newspaper you have read thrice since morning, you start reading again. A little alone, and you must fill the emptiness—it rankles. Turn on the radio; there will be noise, but it will seem you are not alone. Play cards, sit at the hotel, go to the club—anywhere, anyhow…

A young man came to me three days ago. He said: the more I meditate, the more the fear of aloneness increases. Sometimes such a moment comes that I suddenly run out of the house and go to the market. Though I have no business there, wandering in the crowd I don’t feel alone. I roam an hour or two and come back, feeling relieved.

Much of what you call the busyness of life is not necessary; much of it you could cut; much time could be rest. But that is not the point—that the work is necessary. The point is: without work you become alone.

In the West, psychologists are filled with a new anxiety. It has arisen for the first time in human history. And it is this: by the end of this century, at least in some Western countries—America, Sweden—there will be such comfort and so much work will be done by automatic machines that people will have a great deal of time left. Psychologists fear—what will people do? Because as yet people have no capacity to be empty; they cannot sit silently.

Imagine—all work is done by machines and nothing remains for you! Though you complain now that there is only work and no leisure; you even think that if you got leisure you would rest. Yet even now when leisure comes, you do not rest. Sunday’s holiday does not pass easily. How many tricks you use to get through Sunday? You go on a picnic. There was no disturbance, so you create one. You cannot sit at home; the holiday doesn’t end. On Sunday you look for Monday—when will morning come, when will you get back to work.

Imagine that your whole life is a Sunday holiday. Will you survive that much rest? Will you be able to bear that silence, that solitude? No—you will create some dangers; you will stir up some troubles; you will invent ways to get entangled.

Psychologists say we will have to invent tasks that have no need, but which we must give to those who cannot sit idle. And a very curious idea is coming up: those who are ready to sit totally idle, the government will pay them a salary for agreeing to sit idle. Those who work will not get paid—because you can’t have both: work and salary!

It sounds strange today. And in Eastern lands, where there is poverty and life is precarious, it sounds very strange. But in Western countries that hour is approaching. Within twenty years, by the close of this century, those who agree to sit idle will be called good citizens; those who refuse to sit idle will be considered troublesome.

Only one who has tasted a little of meditation can sit idle. It is no accident that such an intense interest in meditation has arisen in the West. Nothing happens without a cause; when something is about to occur, consciousness becomes curious in that direction.

So if you see people coming to me from far-off Western lands, it is no accident. A deep longing has arisen—to know the joy of being alone with oneself. Because with the other, neither has joy ever been found, nor can it be found; with the other only suffering is found. But the compulsion is that we do not know the art of being alone. Therefore even if with the other there is suffering, hell, there is no other way; we must live with the other; because in aloneness there is an even greater hell. So we choose the hell of the other over the hell of the alone—at least the other is there, hell though it be. There is someone to talk to—even if it’s a quarrel.

Have you noticed—if you are left alone, you will say: better to be with an enemy than with myself. Better with an enemy than with myself. There will be fights, abuse; at least there will be some sense of life. Sitting like a corpse! The house will fall apart like this. Do something, get up! People in their rooms get up and start doing anything at all.

I traveled by train for many years. Often I would have a compartment with one other person alone. I would watch what he did. I would not speak—because if I spoke, his reality would not be revealed. He wished to speak; he tried several times—Where are you going? I would answer “hmm” and close my eyes. When at last he understood that I am not fit for conversation, then his true nature would appear. He would open his suitcase—I could see he had nothing to do—then close it, arrange it; open the window, shut it. Restlessness! He would turn on the fan, turn it off; step out, return with tea. At every station he would get down and buy fritters. Doing anything at all! He would ring for the attendant and chat with him.

But I understand his restlessness. These twenty-four hours of being alone are pricking him like thorns; difficult to endure. Yet if you ask him, he will say: where is the leisure! I would like to meditate, but there is no time. Now he had twenty-four hours! In twenty-four hours a man could become a Mahavira, if he could be silent in one tone. Twenty-four hours—indeed I overstate it; let not the Jains be offended, for Mahavira said forty-eight minutes. I say twenty-four hours considering your capacity. Mahavira said: in forty-eight minutes a man can become utterly empty, merge—and supreme knowledge will be attained. Forty-eight minutes! Not even a full hour!

But forty-eight seconds are hard, let alone forty-eight minutes. For forty-eight seconds you cannot remain quietly one-pointed; you will create a thousand interruptions.

Lust means: pleasure in the other.

Though it is never found. This is man’s stupidity. Shankara does not call you stupid without reason; he says it after much thought. From sand, oil has never been extracted—yet you go on trying to extract it. And it is not that you do not know. If you did not, you would be ignorant and could be forgiven. The stupid cannot be forgiven. The stupid is one who knows and still keeps doing it. Because what else to do? There is only sand; no other source is known from which oil can be drawn. And you cannot sit empty! So you keep trying with the sand.

Look closely at your life. This charge of stupidity is meant for you. Reflect a little! How many times have you not been lustful; how many times has the mind not been overcast by the clouds of desire—did rain ever fall? Did fulfillment ever come? Did contentment ripen? Did happiness arrive? But you are afraid to think further—if we think about this, it is dangerous; then what will we do? This is the only entanglement; by it we somehow keep ourselves occupied. Somehow we go on passing life. If even this game is stopped, our hands are empty. Lust is the whole game, the entire world. In it you are caught, in it you are weighed down, plodding along. And knowing well that this road leads nowhere. Never has. Yet the mind keeps deceiving. The mind says: maybe it has not yet led, but tomorrow it might! Maybe it didn’t for others, but perhaps I am the exception! Everyone thinks so.

It is said there is an Arab proverb: whenever God creates someone, he whispers a joke in their ear. He says: I have made you the exception; I have made you special; the rest are just ordinaries; I have made you unique. But the trouble is—he says it to everyone. And so everyone walks with the notion that all others are nobodies, and I am something special.

When God himself plays a joke, it becomes very difficult. Everyone remembers what he said when sending them off. Though you don’t tell anyone; if you say it, others will laugh—because he told them as well. They will say: how could he have told you? So you don’t tell anyone, and neither do they tell you. You try to show it without saying, and so do they. Those who shout it from the rooftops you lock in the asylum. But everyone carries the delusion: I might be the exception.

The Buddhas have said—no happiness was found; we scoured deserts of lust and did not find even one oasis. The Mahaviras said, Shankara says—we journeyed greatly; an oasis was far, even the shade of a date palm was not found. Is there even any shade under a date palm? But even that was not found.

Yet you keep thinking perhaps they did not find it; they missed, they did not search rightly, they lost the map, they weren’t smart, they strayed. And who knows, it often happens that those who fail then preach to others that you too will not succeed. Perhaps the grapes were sour; they could not get them, so to console themselves they declare all grapes are sour, and thus try to cheat those who might get them. At least I will get them. Your mind is a web of such delusions. Then there is no escape from lust.

And the one who does not awaken from lust does not awaken to Rama; the one who awakens from lust awakens to Rama.

Merely chanting Rama will do nothing; because if the mind is filled with lust, even the utterance of Rama becomes foul. Yes, if the mind empties of lust, then don’t even call on Rama—he will be called anyhow; every hair on your body will sing, there will be no need for you to say—Bhaj Govindam, Bhaj Govindam!

This is not something you will do. It is not of your throat, lips, or tongue. It arises when lust drops from within. Suddenly you find this very fragrance rising from every pore. It rises when lust falls; for the energy that was tied up in lust is released. That very energy becomes an ascent toward Rama.

Lust is the deluded hope of joy in the other; Rama is finding joy within oneself. And that alone is the place where it can be found. Whoever has ever found, found it that way; whoever has missed, missed it your way.

Therefore Shankara says—O stupid one, beware! Awake!

But to see the stupid one within oneself is very difficult.

In Mulla Nasruddin’s village a play was being staged. The play needed a fool. So the village’s leading netaji was chosen. He was a born fool. Had he not been, he would not have been a leader. Is any leader one with a little intelligence? Who would willingly take abuses, shoes thrown, rotten tomatoes? But throw shoes or tomatoes or hurl insults—the leader sits firm. That is how he remained a leader for long. Those with a little sense ran away. People requested him. The leader asked Mulla Nasruddin: I have to play the role of a fool; tell me how to enact it skillfully?

Nasruddin looked him up and down and said: just go on stage exactly as you are; there’s no need to change a thing. If you try to change, it will be a mess.

The leader got very angry. He said: I know you spread rumors in the village, telling people I am the number one fool. Now you’ve said it in front of me. He threatened much.

Nasruddin said: I tell you the truth, by Allah, I never said number one. Fool—maybe I said that, but never number one. Because if there is a chance to be number one anywhere, you won’t miss it.

Number one—that is the politician’s race.

What the whole world sees in you, you yourself fail to see! Blind of eye! What everyone else can recognize, you cannot. What greater stupidity could there be than this—that through the same experiences you have passed a thousand times, never finding a single drop of happiness, you still yearn for them again! When will you wake up? The one who sleeps in lust is asleep. The one who awakens from lust is awake. And only when you awaken from lust does the journey of meditation begin; because meditation means: happiness is within. Lose yourself in the other—you have searched enough—repent; come back home.

“Abandon lust, anger, greed, and attachment, and meditate on your Self.”

Shankara speaks knowingly: only if these four drop can you meditate on yourself.

If lust drops—the belief that happiness lies in another drops—everything hinges on this much; to see clearly that there is no happiness in the other, and all is done. Revolution has happened. Because the moment you see there is no happiness in the other, you will not be attached to the other. What attachment now? We are attached to that which we hope will bring pleasure; we protect it, keep it safe, lest it be lost, destroyed, snatched. Attachment is for that which we think—tomorrow it will bring pleasure. It has not till today—tomorrow it will. So we keep it for tomorrow. Today’s experience is the opposite, but we do not awaken from it. We say: who has seen tomorrow! Perhaps tomorrow it will come.

And if there is no attachment, what question of greed? Greed means: in that in which you believe there is pleasure, may there be more and more of it. If you have ten rupees, let there be a thousand—this is greed. If you have one house, let there be ten—this is greed. Greed means: where pleasure was found, to multiply it. Attachment means: what was found, to hold it, to possess, to cling. Greed means: to want it multiplied. But when nothing was found there, why would you want to multiply it? There is no reason.

And what is anger? When anyone obstructs that in which you see pleasure will come, anger arises. You go to earn money; someone comes in the way—you get angry. You are going to marry a woman and another man begins to interfere—you get angry. You were about to win the election when another gentleman stood with a flag—you get angry. Anger means: whenever anyone obstructs your craving.

So anger, greed, and attachment are the shadows of lust.

People come to me and say: I want to drop anger! I say, don’t even ask that; the question is wrong. Someone asks: how to drop greed! Another asks: how will attachment drop? But rarely does anyone ask: how to be free of lust. This means you have not even grasped the real problem of life; solution is far away, the diagnosis has not even happened.

Many come to drop anger, because anger brings pain. It does—it creates quarrels and fights, enemies and more troubles. Anger’s disturbance is evident. But that is like wanting to eliminate a shadow. If you walk in the sun, how will you erase the shadow? You come and ask: let me walk in the sun, but how to destroy the shadow?

What can I do? No one can do anything. I will say: don’t walk in the sun; you will say: that is impossible. Tell some technique by which I can walk in the sun and the shadow disappear. Let me live in the world and in lust, and let there be no anger. Because anger often wrecks what was being built; the pleasure nearing gets pushed away. Often because of anger you demolish your own house; a wrong word slips out, everything is ruined. So you want to be free of anger! You want this so that you may achieve lust more skillfully.

But anger is only lust’s shadow. That is why Shankara said first, lust; second, anger. Because where there is lust, anger is forming, the shadow is arising. When lust rises in you, competition arises, rivalry arises, enemies are born.

You want to gain wealth; the whole world wants wealth. The day you desire wealth, you become enemies with all those who desire wealth. The fruit may take time to ripen, but the seed of enmity is planted. Anger follows lust, immediately. Though it may take years for anger to surface, the journey has begun. You asked for something—you desired—and anger has come.

You may say: right now we feel no anger. We are cheerfully sitting. A car passed and we thought—if only that car were mine. What’s wrong now? No quarrel, no argument, we said nothing to anyone. How has anger come?

But I tell you, anger has come. Because toward all who will obstruct your path, anger has begun; in your unconscious the shadow is forming. It will soon enter consciousness. For this car, you will have to compete, to struggle, to accept enmities; you have already accepted them.

If you desire in life anything that, on your gaining it, will rob something from others, anger has been born.

If you desire something whose gaining robs no one of anything, then no anger arises.

But there is only one such thing—and that is the Divine—Bhaj Govindam. However much you attain of Him, you take nothing from anyone. If I attain Govinda, it does not diminish your attainment. In fact, delightfully, if I attain Govinda, it becomes support and companionship for your attainment. If I attain Govinda, you will attain more quickly; because if even one has attained, the door has opened; if one has attained, the ladder is set; if one has attained, then you too will—only effort remains—trust comes, faith comes, assurance comes. And if one has attained, he can give you the path. That is what we call guru—one who has attained. He can say to you: here is the way. He can give you hints.

Only the Divine is such that attaining Him does not reduce His measure, rather He becomes more available. Only the Divine is beyond economics. Only the Divine is such that if one attains, no one becomes poor; rather through one’s attainment all become enriched. In one’s gain, it is as if everyone gains.

When Buddha attained, Shankara attained, Krishna attained, Christ attained, that day rain fell upon the whole earth. Now those who kept their pots upside down—what can be done? But those whose pots were upright filled. Krishna attained; thousands of pots filled. Buddha attained; thousands of pots filled. Shankara attained; thousands of souls danced. Shankara’s festival of bliss was not his alone.

Understand this a little. That is joy which can be shared; that is joy which spreads of itself; that is joy which your gaining does not snatch from anyone, but by your gaining gives to the infinite. That we have called the supreme joy, ananda.

What you call pleasure is a shabby affair. It is like the old fable: a kite rose from a garbage heap with a dead mouse in its beak. As soon as it grabbed the dead mouse, dozens of kites circled, snatching, attacking. The kite with the dead mouse had its feathers torn, wounds made, blood flowing. It was amazed—till now there was nothing, and suddenly! But it did not let go the dead mouse. In a fierce swoop a cry burst from its beak and the mouse fell. As soon as the mouse fell, the circling kites all chased after it; the kite was left alone. It sat upon a tree and began to think.

That kite must have been wiser than you; Shankara could not have called it a fool. It began to think—I had believed these kites were my enemies. That was wrong. Because the moment the mouse fell, all the kites left; there was no enmity; no one remained to attack. So they had nothing to do with me; they had no personal enmity; the dead mouse was the lump. And because of the mouse they were after me. My mistake was that I had grabbed the mouse; I could have dropped it before. But in my foolishness I thought their enmity was with me.

Ramakrishna often told this fable. And he would say: whoever holds lust in the mouth holds a dead mouse in the mouth.

Anger will arise everywhere, enmity will arise everywhere. You will protest: I have harmed no one; I quietly mind my own household; I don’t meddle with anyone’s affairs. Then why are people my enemies? But you have meddled anyway. You married a beautiful woman. The whole village was keen. Now you say: I live in my household! Live if you like, but you have taken on a quarrel with the whole village.

In India in earlier days there was such a custom, up to Buddha’s time: the most beautiful girl of the town was not allowed to marry. Because it would create great strife. She was made a courtesan of the city. That was a way to keep the town calm. You have heard of Amrapali; she was a courtesan. A courtesan meant: the wife of the city, of all. The very beautiful girl was not allowed to become one man’s wife; because making her someone’s would cause conflict—swords would be drawn. Making her everyone’s was convenient—no quarrel.

But where lust rules, however many devices you try, quarrels will remain. At Amrapali’s door fights occurred too. Because she could meet only one a night. The whole town—not only that town, the surrounding towns and distant cities—were eager. How many could one woman receive? Make her the courtesan if you want! It is also inhuman. But it was a way to keep some order, to maintain peace somehow. Still, no real solution. Then there were poor, there were rich, there were emperors. When the emperor stood at the courtesan’s door, there was no way for others to stand in line. They burned, died, were extinguished.

When a dead mouse is in your mouth, other kites will attack—that is natural. Drop the mouse a little and see! Suddenly you find—the whole world has become friend. When lust goes, the whole world feels friendly. There remains no enemy. There was no enemy anyway; the uproar was because of the dead mouse. You mistakenly took it as personal enmity; it had nothing to do with you, it was the mouse in your mouth. Then the kite sits alone on the tree. That day that kite must have become meditative. One thing became clear: there was no joy in that mouse, it was the whole device of misery; it held all the seeds of hostility.

If lust does not go, anger can never go. People ask me: how to get rid of anger? I say: difficult; you are asking the wrong thing. You want to save the seed and cut the leaves! You want to keep the roots and chop the branches! That will only cause more shoots. Cut the root.

That is why Shankara says first: lust—it is the root. Then anger—its shadow; then greed—its attendant; then attachment—its final outcome. One who leaves these can meditate upon oneself.

One who leaves these alone can meditate upon oneself. Because then attention is withdrawn from others—when there is no lust, attention withdraws from lust’s objects; when there is no anger, attention withdraws from anger’s objects; when there is no greed, the ruminations of greed stop; when there is no attachment, the energy spent in attachment is freed. Freed from all sides, you now set out on your journey—the inner journey begins. And the inner journey is the only pilgrimage; all other pilgrimages are deceptions. One who goes within reaches the holy place; those who wander without merely console their minds, entangled in toys.

“In such a state of mind, ask yourself—Who am I? For the fools deprived of self-knowledge suffer the torments of a ghastly hell even here.”

Atma-jnana-vihina mudhah.

Do not think that those bereft of self-knowledge will suffer pain only in hell. These are the tricks of the deceitful—saying: in hell you will suffer. As if here you are getting happiness! You will suffer when you go to hell? What are you getting here?

I have heard that nowadays when people arrive in hell, the devil asks—where are you coming from? They say, from earth. Then he says—now you should go to heaven, you have already endured hell, why have you come here?

Now it is even reported that those who commit sins in hell are sent to earth to be punished. Because where else to send them for punishment! In hell they say—if you sin, you will be sent to earth.

Shankara says: you are experiencing the torments of hell right here. Why push it onto the future?

This too is a device—to avoid seeing what is present. You make so many arrangements to be blind! You invent so many arguments to deceive yourself! Suffering will be in hell. What is here? Nothing but suffering have you found. Only suffering. You are filled with suffering.

“Ask yourself—Who am I?”

But this can be asked only when the four have fallen. Then once ask, Who am I? and the answer begins to arise. In truth, there is no need even to ask. You close your eyes… you don’t ask, Who am I?—no need to form words. Because there is no other there for whom words are needed; there you are alone—with whom to ask, Who am I? You are face-to-face with yourself; see, recognize. What is there to ask! But for the sake of saying it, Shankara says it.

Shankara loved a story: a disciple kept asking the master, what should I do to attain self-knowledge? And the master, hearing this question, would suddenly become deaf. At other times he answered; his ears seemed keen, he would hear the smallest thing. But whenever the disciple asked what to do for self-knowledge, the master would become deaf—busy himself with something, give no answer.

At last one day the disciple shook him and said: what is this? You are always fine; I ask a thousand things and you answer. Only this…

The master said: I answer, you don’t listen. Because the method to attain self-knowledge is just this—to fall silent. So I fall silent—so that you might listen, you might understand.

That is the whole alchemy: if someone becomes silent within. And when the dead mouse drops from the mouth, inner silence arises naturally. In that moment, there is the knowing: Who am I.

“The Gita and the thousand Names are worthy to be sung; the form of Vishnu is fit for constant contemplation; place your mind in the company of the good; give wealth to the poor. And O fool, always sing Govinda.”

Until it happens that the four have fallen and in the inner sky you can ask without forming words—Who am I?—until then the Gita and the sahasranama are to be sung. Until then sing the Gita, chant the thousand names of the Divine; contemplate the form of Vishnu; keep company with the virtuous; give to the needy. Share—share as much as you can; listen to the tidings of truth—listen as much as you can; sing the songs of the Divine.

“O fool, always sing Govinda.”

Until that hour arrives, prepare yourself thus.

“For happiness, woman is enjoyed—but alas, in the end the body becomes diseased.”

You set out seeking pleasure and return home only with disease. You go searching for life and meet death.

“Though in this world death is certain, yet people do not cease to sin.”

Death is utterly certain. Even if all else is uncertain, death is not. One thing here is fixed—that you will die—and still you do not stop sinning. You will die—yet you are ready to sin for a penny. As if you will live here forever; as if if you have one penny less it will be a great inconvenience in eternity! People take the railway waiting room to be their home and settle with baggage as if they will always be there!

Any moment the train will come, the bell will ring; soon you must roll up your bedding and board. Have you seen—in the station’s waiting rooms, people do not even open their bedding; they keep trunks closed, sit with things tied. If you must leave soon, why open?

Do not take this life for more than a rest house; a night’s shelter. When morning comes, birds will fly off on their journeys. If this becomes clear, sin becomes impossible. For what? For whom? All will be left here. Then sin does not even seem worth doing. When all will be left, what is the point?

You live as though you will be here forever—therefore you sin. To sin, it is necessary not to regard oneself as mortal. The belief must be kept in mind that you will always be. Only then can you sin. The more the remembrance of death comes, the more sin begins to fall away. Therefore I call the remembrance of death the greatest virtue; because for the one who remembers death, sin becomes impossible.

“Contemplate again and again that wealth is misfortune. The truth is, there is not an atom of happiness in wealth. It is seen everywhere that the wealthy are afraid even of their sons. Therefore, O fool, always sing Govinda.”

“Practice with care pranayama and pratyahara; discrimination between the eternal and the transient; and samadhi together with japa—practice these with care, with utmost care.”

“Pranayama and pratyahara…”

Pranayama means: do not take yourself to be a contracted life-breath; expand the breath, enlarge its dimension. You are great, vast. You have assumed you are small. That smallness is only your assumption.

Look closely—where do you begin? Where do you end? You do not end with the body. Because the sun millions of miles away—if it were extinguished, you would be extinguished here; you are connected to it. The moon and stars billions of miles away—threads of light are tied to you from them.

The atmosphere around the earth—without it you could not exist; you breathe in it. The knower says: it is hard to say we breathe in it; it is more accurate to say it breathes in us. The breath that was mine a moment ago becomes yours; and perhaps it will not even remain yours, it will become someone else’s.

The body that is now yours was once in trees, once in animals, once in birds. When you die—your water flows to the river, your earth returns to earth; plants rise again, trees form. Perhaps your sons will eat the fruits in which your dust has dissolved.

All is connected, all is joined; here no one is isolated. We are not little islands; there is one continent of which we are parts.

Pranayama means: widen yourself. The process known in yoga is just a device for widening. Breathe deeply so the pores of your lungs fill; then expel the breath so it is fully emptied. As you deepen this process, suddenly one day you find—you are not breathing, God is breathing in you.

It is only a method. By this method pranayama happens; by it breath expands and you sense that we are tiny fragments of a vast consciousness, drops of a great ocean. Then even the drop is dignified; even the speck brims with the Divine’s grace. In your little cup the oceans begin to surge.

“Pranayama and pratyahara…”

Pranayama is the expansion of breath; pratyahara is returning home—turning in, coming within. Pratyahara. Returning to oneself, the source from which you came. As if a tree could shrink and become a small plant; the plant shrink and become a seed—that is pratyahara. Withdraw back from what appears—within… within… within—find the seed, the original source from which you have come. If the Ganga could return and merge again in Gangotri, at Gomukh, that would be pratyahara. Pratyahara means: to regain your source.

The Zen masters say: know your original face.

The one you had before you were born; the visage that was yours before you were born—recognizing it is pratyahara.

“Pranayama and pratyahara, and the discrimination between the eternal and the transient…”

Every moment be aware, keep seeing—what is meaningful, what is meaningless. Do not forget this for even a moment. Because the moment you forget, you grasp the meaningless and let go the meaningful. It takes no time to grab the dead mouse; slip for a second and it’s in your beak. The moment awareness returns, it drops.

“Samadhi together with japa…”

Shankara says something very sweet. He says, samadhi together with japa. Patanjali says: ultimately samadhi should be without japa. Nanak says: the ajapa-jap—the chantless chant. Japa must be lost. Buddha, Mahavira—they too say: let all be lost, only emptiness remain. But Shankara says: japa-samadhi! Practice samadhi together with japa!

He is saying: be empty, but do not lose the dance of fullness; let fullness abide in emptiness. Let thought be lost, but not feeling.

For if feeling is lost you will become arid. You will be silent, but no stream of song will flow from your silence. Meera will not dance, Chaitanya’s bhajan will not burst forth. You will be mute, you will attain—but there will be no expression. Your song will remain un-sprouted within; no one will hear it. Your joy will not overflow—like a flood leaving its banks. Its towering waves will not drown others.

Therefore Shankara says: become thought-free, but not feeling-free; let knowledge come, but do not lose devotion. This is a rare union. It happens. It is a difficult occurrence, but it happens. Thought goes, feeling does not; deliberation departs, worry departs, and the heart dances, overwhelmed.

“Practice samadhi together with japa—practice with care.”

He repeats: “With utmost care.”

“And O fool, always sing Govinda.”

“By dedicating yourself wholly at the lotus feet of the Guru, freed from worldly bonds, restraining the mind along with the senses, you will behold the Lord seated in your heart.”

The Lord is not far; He dwells in your heart. He is not to be sought elsewhere; you must return to your home. You have never actually lost Him—only forgotten, fallen into oblivion. Even in oblivion He is ever present; you have turned your back to Him, yet He is present. In truth, who are you—you are He. Forget Him, and you begin to think “I am.” Remember Him, and you vanish; only He remains.

“You will behold the Lord seated in your heart. Therefore, O fool, always sing Govinda.”

Shankara’s emphasis is that a harmony arise between meditation and devotion; that a music awaken between them; that an impossible bridge be built between them.

There have been many devotees, but then the empty samadhi is not within them; they remain filled with God’s image; duality continues. There have been many knowers; in them duality dissolves, advaita happens; but as soon as duality dissolves, the stream of rasa dries.

Shankara says: somehow bring such a moment—possible, and sometimes it has come—bring such a ray within that you are as empty as the knowers and as full as the devotees! When knowledge and devotion connect, fragrance comes to gold. This is the ultimate event. Beyond it there is no way to go—where devotion and knowledge are joined; where devotion becomes knowledge and knowledge becomes devotion; where samadhi sings; where flowers bloom in samadhi; where samadhi is not a barren desert but a lush greenness; where the mind is completely gone and the heart fills it. There stands the temple of God.

“You will find that Lord within yourself.”

The devotee is not separate from God; the day the devotee truly knows, that day he is God. But many have known God and then their devotee vanished; only God remained. And many have wanted to keep the devotee alive; then God remains and the devotee remains—but the duality remains, the gap remains.

Is it not possible that you be both devotee and God—at once? That your kirtan happen before your own presence? That you dance and you witness the dance?

It is possible. And that is Shankara’s vision. In Shankara himself such a unique personality flowered—such a summit of knowledge, and such an incomparable merging of devotion. If ever fragrance came to gold, it came in Shankara.

Bhaj Govindam, Bhaj Govindam, Bhaj Govindam, mudhamate.

Enough for today.