Deepak Bara Naam Ka #7

Sahajanand! The Chhandogya Upanishad is like a lake brimming with nectar—pure music. Hence its name: Chhandogya, from chhand—meter, cadence.

Life can be lived in two ways. One way is without music: hurry and scramble, anxiety, sorrow, agitation, ego, ambition, struggle. In such a rush there can be no inner cadence. Even if the night is full-moon bright, the sky cloudless, and the moon in its full splendor, a rippled lake cannot mirror it whole. The reflection forms, but breaks into fragments, scatters—like quicksilver spilled on a floor, impossible to gather. The moon is like that—shattered into pieces. The whole lake gleams with silver, yet the moon cannot be reflected as it is. But if the lake falls silent, still, waveless—no winds rising, no storm—if the lake becomes meditative, samadhi-like, then the moon is reflected exactly as it is.

One way of living is like that agitated lake—storms of desire raising wave upon wave; the mind ever trembling, unsteady, restless. In such a mind the divine cannot be mirrored; everything gets distorted. Chhandogya means: the inner meter does not break. It is the peak of meditation—where consciousness is thought-free. The instant consciousness falls silent, the unstruck music begins within; on the heart’s veena the hum of the eternal is heard. With a distracted mind we know the world; with a quiet mind we know the divine.

World and God are not two; truth is one. The moon is one whether the lake is rippled or still. If the lake could think, a wavy lake would think one way, a quiet lake another; the wavy lake would see the world, the still lake the divine. He who has seen only the world has not seen anything; he who has seen the divine in the world has true eyes; and he who has seen the divine becomes divine the very moment of seeing. Yesterday we were on the Mundaka Upanishad: he who knows Brahman, brahmaiva bhavati—he becomes Brahman. One who knows the divine also knows: I am its part. One who has not known the divine knows only this much—that “I am petty, bound in myself, a mere puddle.”

Ego means: to know oneself as separate from existence. The experience of God means: to find oneself one with existence—one-taste. To this experience the Chhandogya points:

yo vai bhūmā tad amritam.
“That which is vast is the immortal.”

Waves subside, the ocean remains. We die; God remains. We are born; therefore death comes too. This body is formed; it will fall apart—sooner or later. But not too long; within time, whatever is made dissolves. Here death is unavoidable.

Notice: we call both death and time by the same word—kāl. Perhaps in no other language is one word used for both death and time. Only we have called time and death both “kāl.” It is said out of deep experience: time is death. Within time, death is inescapable. It has already begun—death begins with birth. The day something is made, it starts unmaking. The child is born and begins to die. It is not that after seventy years death suddenly knocks; you have been dying continuously; the process completes in seventy years. Death does not arrive that day—it takes leave that day, its work done.

Within time we are small; if we can rise above time, instantly we become boundless, the vast begins to be experienced. We become as limitless as the sky—then even the sky is not a limit.

yo vai bhūmā tad amritam.
One who has experienced the Vast, the Immense, the Ever-expanding, attains the deathless. Then there is no death. To go beyond time is to become immortal—time is death; the timeless is nectar. In meditation, for the first time, time dissolves; therefore in meditation the first drop of nectar touches your throat. A window opens. For the first time you see: what truly is, never dies; and what dies, never truly was—you only believed in it. Like houses of cards or paper boats—you float a paper boat with a lamp; it glimmers for a while and is gone.

Thus we set out at birth in a paper boat—this body is no more than that—upon an immense ocean. How far will you sail? The fall is certain. Before the fall, if one becomes alert and sees: “My boat is of paper; my boat belongs to death,” a revolution happens. The longing arises to know that which never perishes. Without knowing That, how can there be joy? Wealth may be abundant—no joy.

You see the rich—often more miserable than the poor. The poor have one sorrow: their poverty; but they have hope—“one day when poverty ends, there will be happiness.” They live on hope. The rich lose even hope: wealth is gained but the inner anguish remains untouched. So the rich suffer doubly: wealth gained, hope dead, and inside the same pain, melancholy, hell, emptiness. No song born, no music, no flowers, no moon or stars—nothing! Darkness thickens. Even that distant twinkle of hope goes out.

A traveler lost in a dark forest lives on a far twinkling lamp; it keeps him going. Even if later he finds it was a mirage, at least he lived. But one who arrives—achieves wealth and status—his suffering deepens. In my experience, from that very suffering religion is born.

Hence a poor society cannot be truly religious; hope remains tied to the world. One reason India is despised in the world is this: the religion India talks of befits a prosperous society. When we first spoke of renunciation, India was a golden bird; the futility of the chase had been seen—then the quest for the divine was authentic. Now hope is tied to the world; even when we speak of God, it is for worldly ends.

Listen to the prayers in temples. What are people asking? The idol is irrelevant; their asking reveals their heart: “Let my wife’s illness be cured; let my son get a job; let business improve; let the lottery fall to me!” I don’t even blame the poor—it is not their fault. The danger arises when a poor society keeps mouthing a religion that no longer relates to its life. What inner cadence can the destitute have? If bread is scarce, who cares for inner music?

But when one experiences the outer world fully, disillusionment comes—and disillusionment is a great attainment. After that arises what the Chhandogya calls vijijñāsitavyaḥ—special longing to know: not ordinary curiosity, but a burning quest. “Is there something beyond body? Wealth? Status? Behind this seen world, is there a hidden secret?” Hypocrisy is born when you crave this world’s goodies while talking of the other.

Seth Chandulal asked his guru, Swami Matkanath Brahmachari: “Gurudev, you tell others to give up smoking, yet you smoke!” The swami said, “Child, if I didn’t smoke myself, how would I know its harms?”

Chandulal was leaving on pilgrimage—worried that his house would be locked for months. Friends can’t be trusted either; keys might get lost if he took them. He thought to hand them to his guru. He said, “Gurudev, I’m going on pilgrimage—here are the keys. Please keep them safe; be careful no one breaks the locks and steals.” The swami said, “Go carefree! Why break locks when the keys are here? That won’t be necessary!”

Here in the ashram itself: an Indian sannyasin said to an American sannyasin, “Friend, lend me twenty rupees; I’m in a tight spot.” The American said, “I can, but it’s said a loan is the scissors of friendship.” The Indian laughed: “Come on, just give the money—we’re not such deep friends anyway!”

Inevitably there is hollowness. If what you profess is not a living experience, you will speak one thing, do another. The Indian is disesteemed because he says one thing, lives another—bookish, rote Upanishads, able to recite the Chhandogya, yet no inner cadence. Without inner cadence, commentary on the Chhandogya is false—hypocrisy. Only one in whom cadence has awakened—whose life is music, poetry, grace—has the right to interpret it. Your life will tell; if your life crawls like worms on the earth while your words soar to the sky, people will be bored.

A great pundit’s left hand was cut in a machine—he was a Gita expert. At the doctor he was told, “You are lucky it was the left; had it been the right, you could have done nothing.” The pundit said, “Not luck—my cleverness. It was my right hand that went in; I quickly pulled it back and put the left forward.”

He may be a Gita expert, but life proves otherwise.

George Bernard Shaw was once being bored by an Indian pundit. Out of courtesy Shaw wouldn’t say “Please stop this nonsense!” He picked up a magazine and began turning pages—hoping the pundit would take the hint. The pundit said, “I wanted to say something to you, but I’ve forgotten.” Shaw replied, “Perhaps you wanted to say ‘Namaste’—let me remind you.”

People are bored—even you are bored by your pundits, saints, and mahatmas, but lack the courage to say, “Enough!” If your life has no song, don’t speak on the Gita. Until the Gita is born within you, how will you speak on it? Until you know Brahman, how will you interpret the Veda?

Whoever spoke this sutra knew. Ego is misery, because ego is limitation. Egolessness is bliss, because it is the limitless. To be bound to the body is misery—because the body is a limit. To know “I am not the body; I am consciousness” is bliss. To know—not to believe. Not a doctrine, but realization. To see oneself in time is to be bound to death; to experience oneself as timeless is to taste the immortal.

And there is no way to experience the timeless except meditation! Drink all the cow’s milk you like—you won’t know the timeless. Even if your skull fills with cow-dung, you won’t know it. Do headstands as much as you like—no relation to the timeless. Rise daily at brahmamuhurta—still you won’t know Brahman. Parrot the scriptures endlessly—nothing will come—not even pebbles, let alone diamonds. Other than meditation, there has never been another way.

Meditation means: the process of going beyond time. Understand time’s nature. Some aspects are in your experience; from them one can infer what lies beyond.

When you are unhappy, time grows long. Your mother or father lies dying; you sit up all night because the doctors say, “any breath may be the last.” That night becomes endless—like the Night of Judgment; dawn seems impossible. The clock’s hand crawls as if it has forgotten to move. Yet the clock moves as always; night passes as always. It is your mind’s state—sorrow lengthens time.

Think of time like rubber—stretched in sorrow, shrunk in joy. When your beloved arrives, an old friend returns, hours pass like moments. You chat all night; suddenly it’s morning—you didn’t notice the night come and go. This you know. From it take an indication: in sorrow, time lengthens; in joy, it shortens. What then of supreme joy? Time dissolves. And in extreme pain? Time seems infinite.

Bertrand Russell wrote a significant book, Why I Am Not a Christian. Among many arguments, one shows he lacked meditative experience. Jesus says sinners will fall into hell; Christianity holds hell is eternal. Russell argues: with a single lifetime of seventy years, however many sins I commit—even counting sins merely thought—how can eternal punishment be just? A harsh magistrate might give me ten years—but eternal? This is gross injustice. No Christian theologian has answered him.

They couldn’t—neither Russell nor the priests know meditation. The answer is simple to one who knows: “eternal” does not mean endless in clock-time; it means hell will seem endless—because in suffering, time stretches. In ordinary pain time lengthens; in hell it will appear infinite. Likewise, we say happiness is fleeting—not because it truly is, but because in joy time shrinks to a moment. No one says sorrow is fleeting.

Time is our perception.

Keep four things in mind:
- In extreme suffering, time seems infinite.
- In ordinary suffering, time seems long.
- In ordinary happiness, time seems short.
- In supreme bliss, time vanishes.

Someone asked Jesus—the saying isn’t in the Bible, but is preserved in Sufi tradition and quoted by P. D. Ouspensky in Tertium Organum: “What is the most special thing in your Father’s Kingdom you always speak of?” Jesus said, “There shall be time no longer.” In meditation one tastes this: in thoughtless emptiness, all boundaries disappear; thoughts are the fence encircling you—when they fall, walls, prisons, docks—all vanish; all doors open. In that moment, the clock stops. Chhandogya points to this and says:

“That which is vast is the immortal.”
yo vai bhūmā tad amritam.

Bhuma is more than “vast.” It means all-pervading—present wherever your imagination can reach, and where it cannot. So immense that imagination itself collapses; thoughts cannot move; dreams cannot fly. Unsayable vastness.

Brahman means the same. From the root that also gives our word vistīrṇa—ever-expanding. A wondrous word. Properly, Brahman means: that which is forever expanding. Wherever you arrive, it still extends beyond—never exhausted, never a final stop, never a last limit. No shoreline.

We used “Brahman” at least five thousand years ago. Modern science, with Einstein, has now affirmed: the universe is ever expanding—an “expanding universe.” Like a child blowing a balloon—ever larger. The universe is spreading at the speed of light—unimaginable: 186,000 miles per second. Light from the sun takes about nine and a half minutes to reach us; from the nearest star, four years; from others, millions or billions. Some stars sent their rays when the earth was formed; they still haven’t arrived. Some rays will arrive after the earth is gone—they will never meet the earth. And the universe is expanding at light-speed.

A woman went to a doctor, worried she forgets things—now she is pregnant. “How will I know when nine months are over?” The doctor had her lie down, wrote in tiny letters on her belly and said, “When you can read this clearly, come; that will be my address.” The belly will have expanded enough by then!

Existence keeps expanding. Mystics have called it the ever-expanding womb. Continual vastening. This is Brahman—forever becoming vaster. Buddha said: if only we dropped nouns and kept verbs, we’d be closer to truth—nouns freeze things; verbs reveal flow. Don’t say “the river is”; say “the river is rivering.” Don’t say “the tree is”; say “the tree is treeing.” Life is movement.

Bhuma means: ever-becoming vaster—no limit, no end, never stopping. Those who have seen say: there is no destination in the universe—only journey, endless journey.

What is vast alone is immortal. If only you experience yourself one with the vast, where is death? The drop dies; the ocean does not. A form of life departs; Life continues—colors change, forms change, but Life flows on.

yo vai bhūmā tad amritam.
That which is vast, ever-vaster, is the deathless. What is small is mortal. Do not identify with the small.

atha yad alpaṁ tan martyam.
Do not bind yourself to the small. Yet we are bound—to body and to mind—both small, and thus we become small. Then comes the pain of smallness and the race to become big.

See the madness: first we make ourselves small by identifying with the small; from that comes inferiority; then we run to become big—wealth, office, prime minister, president, the richest man, famous—running and running! The only mistake: you already are the Vast—there is nothing bigger. If you see this, the race ends by itself. I don’t say renounce the world, office, wealth—dropping them is useless. Know meditation: once known, the race thins away. Wherever you are, you are content; the inferiority has melted.

Psychologists say all politicians suffer from inferiority complex; without it, politics would end. Feeling small within, one wants to prove greatness—through money, office, fame—climbing new rungs of ego. The irony: ego is the very cause of your smallness. As long as you cling to it, you cannot be big. The day you drop it, smallness drops. Where smallness is gone, the race is over. Then one lives; one doesn’t run.

When there is no death for you, only life remains. Identify with body—trouble starts. Identify with mind—trouble starts. When you are young, fear old age: gray hair, wrinkles, trembling legs. Panic: old age is coming—then death too—step by step, sliding toward the grave. We build cemeteries outside town to forget death—but how forget as long as you are tied to ego? A yellow leaf falls—death is remembered; a dewdrop evaporates—death remembered; a bent old man on the road—death remembered; a funeral passes—it must. As long as you are tied to ego, you cannot escape fear of death. Then the mind’s cravings grow: how to get wealth, rank, be an Alexander? Yet even as Alexander, nothing happens—he too dies empty-handed.

From our side…
Carry our salaam to her…
Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last salaam—
carry our salaam to her,
tell the messenger it is the last.

A meeting with me…
A meeting with me can no longer be.
This message from the sickness of sorrow
is the last message.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

At dusk when you part from me,
it feels as if the soul is parting from the body;
it feels as if this evening
is the last evening of my life.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

You looked at your face in the mirror,
but not at the scars upon your heart.
How sweet life felt in living—you even forgot to die, by God!

What is this human body
that so bewitches the world?
A house of clay, a mud-made dwelling:
blood as mortar, bones as bricks,
a fancied sky propped on a few poles of breath.
When death’s fierce storm strikes it,
this edifice will crumble into dust.

This edifice—what are rubies and gems on your feet?
Beside the wealth of faith, what are gold and goods?
The penniless, the poor, the prosperous—each will be asked:
not of wealth, but only of deeds.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Completing the proof of fidelity:
those to whom I gave my heart the very first day,
today I go to give even my life—
in love, this drenched act is the final act.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Within time, death is certain. Don’t walk stiff-necked! Don’t live stiff-necked! But ego is precisely the wish to live stiff-necked. However we prop up ego—by wealth, position, prestige—it falls and scatters. Collapse is its fate. It is untrue—how long can you stretch untruth? Not long. Today or tomorrow, the bubble will burst. Before it bursts, free yourself from the small.

atha yad alpaṁ tan martyam.
Know this much: the small is under death’s sway. Go beyond the small.

Meditation is the process of neti neti—“not this, not this”: I am not the body; I am not the mind; I am not the heart. That which remains—that I am. And that remainder has no limit. The body is a gross boundary; the mind subtler; the heart subtler still. Yet all are boundaries—three ramparts around us. The consciousness within them is boundless—vast like the sky. To know that is joy.

yo vai bhūmā tat sukham.
He who recognizes the Bhuma—within his life a monsoon of bliss pours. Lotuses bloom; fragrance spreads; lamps are lit that do not go out; lotuses that do not wilt; fragrance that does not fade.

nālpe sukham asti.
There is no joy in the small. Awake! There is no joy in the small! Yet we are rigidly wed to the small.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

He who recognizes death before death arrives—he is not hindered in letting go. I call this sannyas: to recognize death while alive. Not the renunciation of the world, but the understanding of death is sannyas. Then whether you live in the world or out of it—no difference. Don’t be bound to body or mind. Be bound to nothing. Unbound, unknotted, free. Float like the lotus leaf upon the lake—on the water yet untouched. Even dewdrops rest upon the leaf without wetting it. Such living is sannyas.

bhūmaiva sukham.
Then there is only joy. Dependence is misery; freedom is bliss.

bhūmā tveva vijijñāsitavyaḥ.
This Bhuma alone is to be sought, to be inquired into. Seek this Vast—this nectar, this truth, this ever-expanding immensity. This quest is religion.

And when no death remains, only life remains. Identify with body—trouble starts; with mind—trouble starts. When young, fear old age; then fear death—sliding toward the grave. However far the cemeteries, how can you forget death while tied to ego? A yellow leaf falls—death remembered; dew evaporates—death remembered; an old man passes—death remembered; a bier goes by—death remembered. As long as you cling to ego, fear persists. Then cravings rage: wealth, rank, conquest. Yet Alexander dies empty-handed.

From our side…
Carry our salaam to her…
carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last salaam.

A meeting with me can no longer be.
This message from the sickness of sorrow
is the last message.

At dusk when you part from me,
it feels as if the soul is parting from the body;
it feels as if this evening
is the last evening of my life.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

You looked at your face in the mirror,
but not at the scars upon your heart.
How sweet life felt in living—you even forgot to die, by God!

What is this human body
that so bewitches the world?
A house of clay, a mud-made dwelling:
blood as mortar, bones as bricks,
a fancied sky propped on a few poles of breath.
When death’s fierce storm strikes it,
this edifice will crumble into dust.

This edifice—what are rubies and gems on your feet?
Beside the wealth of faith, what are gold and goods?
The penniless, the poor, the prosperous—each will be asked:
not of wealth, but only of deeds.

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Completing the proof of fidelity:
those to whom I gave my heart the very first day,
today I go to give even my life—
in love, this drenched act is the final act.

Carry our salaam to her—
tell the messenger it is the last.

Within time, death is certain. Don’t walk stiff-necked! But ego is that very desire. However we bolster it—with wealth, rank, prestige—it collapses. Before it collapses, free yourself from the small.

atha yad alpaṁ tan martyam.
Know: the small lies within death. Go beyond the small.

Meditation is neti neti. Not the body, not the mind, not the heart—whatever remains, that am I; and it has no boundary. The body is a gross boundary; the mind subtler; the heart subtler still—yet all are fences. Within these three ramparts is our consciousness—boundless like the sky. To know it is joy.

yo vai bhūmā tat sukham.
He who knows Bhuma—bliss showers. Lotuses bloom, fragrance spreads, lamps that do not go out.

nālpe sukham asti.
There is no joy in the small. Wake up!

Intoxicated with youth,
don’t go trampling broken graves, O tyrant!
You too will have to die here one day—
this world is everyone’s final lodging.

He who recognizes death before it arrives is not hindered in release. This I call sannyas. Not renouncing the world, but understanding death. Then whether in the world or out—no difference. Don’t be bound—by body, by mind—bound by nothing. Unbound, unknotted, free—floating like the lotus leaf upon the lake, touched by water yet unwet. Such living is sannyas.

bhūmaiva sukham.
Then there is only joy—because where no chains bind, how can there be sorrow? Dependence is misery; freedom is bliss.

bhūmā tveva vijijñāsitavyaḥ.
Therefore, seek Bhuma alone—this nectar, this truth, this ever-expanding Vast. This quest is religion.

But look what hypocrisies you’ve erected in the name of religion—chains and prisons. Religion is the ascent to freedom; yet in its name you’ve built jails—temple, mosque, gurudwara, church; bound as Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. The earth seems filled with the deranged. Give man freedom and he forges chains from it. Hand him a veena, he creates not music but noise—harassing the neighborhood, and himself.

Chandulal’s enemy—meaning his neighbor—gifted his son a drum on his birthday. Like a monkey with a drum, the boy banged at all hours—ruining everyone’s sleep. Chandulal asked me what to do. I gave him a knife: “Gift it to the boy and awaken his curiosity—‘See what’s inside the drum.’” That was enough; the boy cut it open—nothing inside but hollowness; the drum ended.

Give freedom to an unconscious man and he turns it into bondage. In the name of religion more atrocities have happened than in any other name.

The doctor told Mulla Nasruddin, “You’ll get well, but you must live by rule.” Mulla said, “Doctor, I always live by rule.” The doctor said, “Shameless! Yesterday I saw you drinking.” Mulla said, “What of it? That is my daily rule.”

Seth Chandulal printed on a medicine packet: “Best for boils. Money back if no benefit.” A man returned it: “No benefit; give my money back.” Chandulal said, “We refund money if there is no benefit. You didn’t benefit, but we earn eight annas on every packet!”

A mother saw her boys fighting again: “At it again?” One child said, “No, mom, it’s the same old fight—still going on.”

Chandulal asked Mulla, “When do you get up?” Mulla: “When the sun’s rays enter my room.” Chandulal: “Then very early—at brahmamuhurta!” Mulla: “Don’t misunderstand—my room faces west.”

Mulla’s daughter Farida came late from school. “Why?” “Father, a wicked boy was following me.” “How does that make you late?” “Oh, my naïve papa! He was walking very slowly; what was I to do?”

Formulas for living have been given many times—but from every scripture you’ve fashioned a noose for yourself.

This sutra of the Chhandogya is precious: the vast, infinite alone is the immortal—and you are that. Amritasya putraḥ—you are children of the immortal. What is small is mortal—and you have unnecessarily become small. Your sorrow proclaims you have not tasted bliss. You have turned life’s festival into a funeral. You live as if carrying a load, crushed—yet you won’t wake up. And the whole matter is only of waking up.

Undoubtedly joy is only in the Vast. Therefore long especially to know the Vast!

yo vai bhūmā tad amritam. atha yad alpaṁ tan martyam. yo vai bhūmā tat sukham. nālpe sukham asti. bhūmaiva sukham. bhūmā tveva vijijñāsitavyaḥ.

Let there be longing, quest, yearning—but for the Vast. The Vast is not far, not outside—it is within you, your innermost core, your very soul. You need not go anywhere—come within. Not to Kaba, not to Kashi, not to Kailash—come within. Do not bind yourself to the body. And note: I am no enemy of the body. I am not asking you to torture it—that is done by those who have not known they are not the body. You know well you are not the house you live in; yet you maintain the roof, plaster the walls, keep it beautiful—because you live in it.

There are two kinds of madmen. One, who think they are the body—and suffer. The other, who say “we are not the body,” and torture it—fasting, wasting away. If you are not the body, why torture it? It is one extreme to indulge through the body; another to torment it. In both you are identified. Between these extremes is music, cadence—Chhandogya.

A prince, Srona, took initiation with Buddha. He was a great hedonist—wine, food, women—pure Charvaka. But how long can one indulge? He got fed up. When Buddha came to his city, Srona merely saw him—and fell at his feet: “Initiate me.” Buddha said, “You haven’t listened to me; why such haste?” Srona said, “Just seeing you is enough. I have seen renunciates too—more dead than I. But you are neither indulgent nor austere; your radiant presence, the glow in your eyes, the aura about you is enough.” Buddha initiated him. What happened? The old habit of excess returned—now in renunciation. Monks ate once a day; Srona ate once in two days. Monks walked on the road; he chose thorny paths—his feet bled. Monks kept three robes; he kept only a loincloth. He forced himself—blackened in the sun, emaciated, wounds on his feet, sleeping on stones. People were impressed—people are impressed by such things. The same old ego enjoyed itself.

Buddha went to him one night and said, “Srona, let me ask you something. I have heard you were a master veena-player.” Memories stirred. “Yes.” Buddha said, “Tell me: if the strings are too loose?” “No music.” “If too tight?” “They snap; again, no music.” Buddha said, “That’s all. Do you want to ask me anything?” “I was wondering why joy doesn’t arise although I do twice what others do.” Buddha said, “Precisely because you do twice. Life’s veena needs right tuning—not loose, not tight. In the middle lies music; only a master can keep that balance.”

Srona fell at his feet again—this time as a renunciate. He said, “You saved me in time. My strings were loose; now I’ve over-tightened them.” Balance is needed—then cadence arises, Chhandogya happens.

Do not overbind to the body, nor be its enemy. The body is a beautiful house—care for it; simply don’t mistake it for yourself. The mind too is useful; use it, but don’t be used by it. The heart is lovelier still—live there too. But let remembrance remain: I am the witness.

One who remembers, “I am the witness,” is assured of revolution. He attains Bhuma. You are only the witness—that is your nature. You are not the doer—actions happen through the body; not the thinker—thoughts happen through the mind; not the feeler—feelings arise in the heart. You are the witness of feelings, thoughts, and deeds. These are your three expressions; between them is your witnessing. Hold the thread of witnessing.

The moment you hold it, the bud of sannyas flowers. Its petals open—this flower does not wither; it is nectar. It is Bhuma—boundless. It is the flower of bliss. That flower is liberation.

Enough for today.