Geeta Darshan #8

Movement is the nature of the world. Not to halt, but to go on and on—this is the very character of samsara. Nothing here is still; that which appears unmoving is not unmoving either. What seems to move is, of course, moving; but that which seems still is also moving. Stones look at rest, the walls of houses appear motionless—yet science now says they too are in motion. And this motion is multidimensional. If we glimpse this a little, we may have some feel for what the supreme motion—Param gati—might be.

The wall looks solid, not moving in the least; but scientists say every particle of the wall is in motion. If we could see its atoms, all are in ceaseless movement. And within each atom, the subtler fragments—electrons—are whirling at tremendous speed. The wall appears still only because our eyes cannot catch such subtle velocities. The more intense the motion, the harder it is for our eyes to grasp.

A fan spinning very fast no longer reveals whether it has two blades, three or four. If it spins even faster, you won’t even know it has blades—it will look like a single circular band of tin moving.

Scientists say you can increase a fan’s speed to the point that you cannot pass your hand through it; and you can also increase it so much that you could sit above it and, though the fan below is whirling, it would seem at rest. If the speed is such that, before your awareness can register the gap between two blades, another blade has already arrived beneath you, you will never come to know there was a gap. Knowing takes time. If the motion is too swift, and our capacity to catch it is insufficient, motion becomes invisible.

Stones are moving—each particle is spinning. Walls are moving—each particle is spinning. Their particles whirl as swiftly as the moon and stars whirl across the sky. Nothing is still in this universe.

Eddington, in his autobiography, wrote: “After a lifetime of searching into matter, I have found one word in human language that is utterly false: rest.” Nothing is at rest. So whenever we say anything is “at rest,” we are wrong. Nothing is at rest; nothing can be at rest. To be in this world is to be in motion.

I said the motion is multidimensional. You appear to be sitting here, utterly still—indeed you are not walking anywhere. Yet the earth on which you sit is racing at great speed. The earth has a double motion. It spins on its own axis; not only that, while spinning it also orbits the sun. Two motions at once. And the sun it orbits is also spinning on its axis, bearing this earth with it. With all its planets, the sun too is revolving around some great super-sun.

Motion within motion within motion—multi-dimensional. Perhaps the super-sun around which our sun revolves—along with many other suns—spins on its axis and orbits a still mightier sun. Revolution, in strata upon strata, is life’s nature.

In this revolving life, peace is impossible. In this world, brimming with motion, there is no resting place. Even as you lie down to rest, your blood is flowing at full pace; every cell in your body is moving. Your heart is beating; your breath is in motion; your mind is wandering in dreams. Even when you are resting in bed, nowhere within you is there a place truly at rest. So long as you dwell in this world, rest is not.

Krishna says to Arjuna: that which is called the Avyakta Akshara—by this name “Akshara,” the unmanifest—is the supreme motion, Param gati. And, Arjuna, if you wish to attain that supreme motion, where rest is the very nature…

In this world, effort is the very texture, and restlessness is the inevitable result. While remaining on the rim of this world’s wheel, no one can attain rest, no one can come to cessation. If one desires truly to seek cessation, one must change the plane of one’s consciousness. From circumference to center; from the world to Brahman—one must undergo a total transformation of consciousness.

That which has been called by the name “Akshara”—the unmanifest mood named Akshara—is what is called the supreme motion.

Understand two things here. Akshara means that which never diminishes, never decays. As it is, so it remains. Not even a particle of transformation ever occurs in it; it never deviates from its own nature—Achyuta—utterly still.

Have you seen a bullock-cart moving on the road? The wheel turns, but the axle-pin stands still. And the wonder is this—and to know the secret of this wonder is to know a great secret of life—that the very pin on which the wheel revolves does not move at all; it simply stands. The wheel may travel thousands of miles, the pin never leaves its place. And it is a wonder, because if there were no such pin, the wheel could not turn even a little. It is only because of this unmoving pin, as its support, that the wheel turns.

The existence of the world would be impossible if, deep within it, somewhere in its depths, there were not an unmanifest Akshara—an axle-pin. This is among the profoundest discoveries of the Eastern sages. We found that wherever there is change, at the base of that change there must be the unchanging. Wherever there is motion, at the root of that motion there must be the motionless. Where all things are moving, their very movement requires a non-moving support. In this dynamic universe there must be a motionless pin.

That pin Krishna calls Akshara. He says: that Akshara, that Avyakta—that very mood is the supreme motion.

But by what journey can we reach this Akshara? How reach this unmanifest, which lies hidden in the depths? If any method of our reaching remains on the circumference, remains with the wheel, we shall never arrive at the pin.

Imagine a great wheel, and you are seated upon it. You may keep revolving with the wheel, turn thousands upon thousands of times—you will not arrive at the center. Though the wheel itself revolves on the center, on the pin, still by revolving on the wheel you will not come to the pin. You will have to leave the wheel and slide toward the pin. Slowly, slowly, you must move off the rim, toward the hub. The day you leave the wheel altogether, in that very instant you attain the pin—the Akshara.

However many journeys we make in the world, we will not find the Akshara. Let someone go to Himalaya, to Kedarnath and Badrinath, or another to Kailash; someone to Mecca and Medina, another to Kashi or Girnar—let one wander where one will. Nowhere in the world is there a place from which you reach the pin. No outward journey is a pilgrimage. Wherever feet are needed to arrive, that is not the supreme abode. Wherever the body must be used as vehicle, that will be circumference, not center. Wherever movement outward is required, that cannot be the inmost. Walk outward and you will reach only the outer. Journey through the world and you will remain standing in the world. With feet you can reach only where feet can go.

To attain that supreme motion, the Akshara, we must make an inner journey for which feet are not needed. A journey not outward but inward. A journey in which the senses are not used, rather their non-use happens. A journey in which the mind is not leaned upon but relinquished. A journey in which we leave the spinning form of the wheel and, slowly, slowly, slide toward the pin—until at last we arrive where there is no wheel, only the pin.

That pin is within each one, for each of us too is a small turning wheel. As I said, motion is multidimensional. The earth spins upon its pin and also orbits the sun. So too each of us circles the world outside, while inside, upon the pin, the body’s wheel turns. Upon our pin the mind’s wheel turns; upon our pin the wheels of passion, thirst, craving, anger, greed—wheels upon wheels in layers, all turning. One who would attain the Akshara must, slowly, leave each spinning wheel and slip inward.

The greatest difficulty in this inward sliding is the wheel of thought. Thought turns with such velocity—and in some dark moment of ignorance we have believed that we are our thoughts. To see our distinctness from the body is not so difficult; to see our distinctness from thought is very difficult.

That is why, if a man’s body is ill and we say, “Your body is sick,” he does not feel offended. But if a man’s mind is deranged and we say, “Your mind is unsound,” he is hurt. From the body we feel some distance; even if the body is sick, I may remain healthy. But if the mind is sick, I am sick.

Hence the ill agree when you say, “You are sick”—but the mad never agree. Tell a madman he is mad, and he will employ every strategy to prove he is not. The ill do not do so; they understand, “The body is sick; I am not.” Only the wise, if told “You are mad,” are unperturbed, for distance from mind too is established in them. Otherwise, the slightest injury to someone’s mind feels deeper than an injury to the body. Cut off a man’s leg and it hurts less; refute a cherished idea and the wound is greater.

Man is ready to die for his ideas, to be sacrificed. He is prepared even to be hanged, but he will not let go his idea. Why? Because with thought we have forged a very deep identity. We feel the body is an outer layer, and thought is my inner center.

This is false. Thought is not my inner center. Thought too is but another outer layer. My inner center is the Akshara. Thought is not Akshara—thought is here now and a moment later is changed. What was in the morning is not by noon; what was at noon is not by evening. So even if you pause a little for a thought, you may never need to do anything about it at all.

Bernard Shaw used to say: When letters pile up on my desk for a fortnight, hundreds of them, and answering becomes impossible, I take a little wine—and all the work is done. A friend asked: Does wine give you power to answer all those letters? Shaw said: No. With a little wine I become unconcerned with the letters; answering no longer seems necessary. After two, four, eight, ten, fifteen days, the letters answer themselves; I need not answer them. A letter not answered for a fortnight—its sender has already received his answer.

Someone once took Shaw to see his play on stage. Shaw slept through the entire performance. The author was distressed! A single word of praise from Shaw would have graced him, but Shaw slept straight through. He tried to wake him twice, then feared Shaw might be annoyed. When the play ended, Shaw said, “How delightful!” The author said, “I hoped you would say a few words about my play—you slept throughout!” Shaw replied, “Sleeping is also a kind of opinion. And when I said delightful, I meant it: for two or three nights I had not slept at all. Your play gave me such deep sleep that my mind is utterly satisfied!”

If for fifteen days you do not answer a letter, the negative answer is received by the sender. Shaw said: One has to gather courage for a fortnight not to answer, then the thought grows old; time passes, and the inner urge vanishes.

Thus the wise have said: if an evil thought arises, wait a little—the thought will pass. If those who commit murder would pause for two moments, murders would not occur. If those who seek suicide would stop for a single moment, suicides would not happen. And if a good thought arises, fulfill it at once—do not delay even a moment, for it too will change if you wait.

Thought changes so swiftly, and yet we take it to be our nature. But “nature” means that which does not change. Do you know what happened to your childhood thoughts? What happened to your youth’s thoughts? Where did they vanish? Which path did they fall upon? There is no trace of them. And what seemed supremely important yesterday—does it feel as important today? Yesterday you might have given your life for it—does it still appear wise to do so today?

All is changing. Thoughts whirl at an immeasurable speed, yet we take ourselves to be our thoughts because we have never entered within thought. One who enters within thought will find thoughtlessness; and only such a one can experience within the Akshara—the pin upon which the wheel of thought turns, the wheel of body turns, the wheel of desire turns; and then the great wheel of the world, and then the vaster cosmic wheel.

Within each person is that pin. Attaining that pin, Krishna says, the supreme motion is attained. To find the Akshara, the Avyakta, is to attain the Param gati. And that eternal Avyakta which, once attained, man never returns from—it is my supreme abode.

That eternal Avyakta which, once attained, man does not come back from! There is a point in the evolution of consciousness—a point of no return—beyond which no one returns.

We heat water; even at ninety-nine degrees it can still cool and return. But at one hundred degrees, when it becomes steam, it does not return. Cross a hundred, and it rises skyward as vapor.

Curious indeed! The tendency of water is downward; the tendency of steam is upward. Flow water and it seeks hollows; release steam and it seeks the sky, as high as it can go. There is a point at a hundred degrees where water becomes steam; a qualitative transformation occurs—its nature shifts from moving downward to moving upward. But if you heat only to ninety-nine and then leave it, it returns—ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety—downwards—and remains water.

Also curious: at zero degrees cold, water flows downward; at ninety-nine degrees hot, water still flows downward. But one degree more—one hundred—and water begins to journey upward. Water is no longer water; it becomes vapor, ready to vanish in the vast sky.

There is a similar state for human consciousness—a hundred-degree point. Before that point, however high you raise your consciousness, again and again you fall back. Many times you feel so near to paradise that one step more and you will enter within. But by the time you think this, you find you have drifted far; heaven is once again distant.

We all sometimes reach even to ninety-nine degrees—perhaps in a moment of prayer, in a mood of worship, in a state of love, listening to a certain music, drawn by a certain fragrance, standing near a certain beauty. It seems, “Just a little more…”—and then we fall back.

Perhaps you have felt it, reading some poet—you feel: how close this man must have come to truth! And then one day you find the same man sipping tea and puffing a bidi at a stall—and you are shocked: is this the man who wrote such astonishing poetry? Is this he from whom such lines were born? Is this the one whose feeling touched such depth and height? How is this possible?

No, this is not he. He must, for a moment, have touched ninety-nine degrees. He saw the open face of the sky; he peeped into the stars; his eyes met high altitudes—but now he has returned to his place.

Coleridge—after his death it was known—left some forty thousand poems unfinished. His friends knew and often urged him to complete them. Why so many unfinished? In some poem there were seven stanzas; the eighth was missing. If the eighth had come, perhaps a great poem would have been born. Coleridge used to say: By the time the seventh came, I had returned; the eighth did not arrive. I could add an eighth—but it would not be of the height of the seven. I know well that very stanza would sink the poem’s boat. So I wait; if someday again the mind touches ninety-nine degrees and a stanza descends, I will add it—otherwise I cannot.

Thus great painters, poets, musicians constantly experience that when a poem, a painting, a raga is born through them, they are not present—someone else! Someone else speaks through them, sings through them, dances through their fingers and plays their sitar. It is no one else; it is their own elevated form of which even they are unaware. But they fall back again.

This is the difference between poetry and religion, between art and religion. Poetry falls just on this side of ninety-nine; religion takes a leap of one more degree—crossing the hundred. Thus poetry often comes very near to religion, and from religion often is born the great epic.

In olden days we discovered another word for the poet—Rishi. Rishi means poet, but with a distinct quality. We call that poet a Rishi who sings from that space from which return is impossible—the point of no return. He too gives birth to song.

The Upanishads are great epics. The Gita itself is a great song. But Krishna sings from that place—hence its name, Bhagavad Gita: the song of the divine, the song of Bhagavat consciousness—from where return is not possible.

Uncountable renderings of the Gita have been made in many tongues; yet not a single Rishi has appeared to render it. Poets have rendered it; the distance is not great. Sometimes a poet comes right near to Krishna. If Krishna speaks from beyond one hundred degrees, sometimes a poet speaks from ninety-nine. One degree is not a big distance—but there is no distance greater. There one degree is priceless.

However great the poet, however grand the poem, he cannot be a Rishi—he falls back. And when the one who gave birth to the poem falls back, the meanings poured into the poem cannot be upward flowing; they tend downward, whatever the degree of their altitude.

Thus the greatest poetry too seems to flow downward—even if it is Kalidasa’s. The greatest poetry tends toward human lust.

We have called Rishi one who gives birth to song, or to anything, from that space from which return is not possible.

There is a moment of crystallization, of inner organization beyond which there is no falling. “That eternal Avyakta which, once attained, man does not return—that is my supreme abode, my home.” All else is way-station, where one halts for a moment and moves on—no destination. Paramatma’s destination. And within all Paramatma is hidden; the journey is toward that, to that destination. Where is that destination?

Krishna says: the Sanatana Avyakta—the eternally unmanifest, forever hidden, eternally hidden; that which no one has ever unveiled, whose veil no one has ever removed—that which from beginningless to endless remains hidden—he who attains that does not return. That is my supreme abode.

Understand this a little.

If we say that Paramatma is forever hidden, how then did the knowers speak of Paramatma? Logicians have always raised an important argument against the Rishis, the mystics. They say: these mystics talk nonsense; there is no meaning in their statements. For on one hand they say, “We are going to speak of that about which nothing can be spoken,” and “We give you news of that of which no one has ever had news,” and “That which is forever hidden—we reveal it before you.”

Krishna said only a moment ago to Arjuna: “I will tell you briefly of that”—and now he says, “It is Sanatana Avyakta.” If it is eternally unmanifest, forever hidden, how will Krishna reveal it? And if Krishna says anything at all about it, that itself becomes a revealing. To say even this—that it is eternally unmanifest—is to say something. Logic has laughed at mystics and said: your statements are the statements of madmen.

Wittgenstein, in his extraordinary Tractatus, wrote: “Of that whereof one cannot speak, one must remain silent.” If it cannot be said, do not say it. But if you can say even this much—“I cannot say anything about it”—then something has been said. This too is a saying, a revealing.

Mystics are in a quandary: what shall they do? If they keep silent, it is a problem; if they speak, it is a problem. And yet they must say: it has never been unveiled, it remains forever veiled. If forever veiled, how does Krishna unveil it? If forever veiled, how did Buddha know it? This is worth pondering.

In the world, if we wish to uncover something covered, we uncover that thing. A scientist, inquiring into an object, breaks it open, enters within, strips away its coverings. If he wants to know the disease in a body, with X-rays he penetrates within; dissection is done; instruments go inside; pictures are taken; information is gathered—he unveils the object. That is the way of inquiry into matter.

Paramatma is also discovered—but He is never unveiled in this way. The search is utterly reversed. One who would unveil Paramatma must remove all his own coverings. His own! He must throw off all his own veils; keep no concealment within; keep no secret; keep nothing unexpressed—express himself completely, all doors and windows open. One who becomes utterly exposed—as Mahavira stood naked. That nakedness is a symbol: one who would know Paramatma, who would unveil the Un-unveiled, must leave himself utterly uncovered—naked, vulnerable, in every way open. When one is totally open—like the sky—before the eternally Avyakta, then He cannot remain hidden; He reveals Himself. This is a very different kind of revealing, because we do not unveil God—we unveil ourselves.

Understand it thus: veiled, we are man; unveiled, we are Paramatma. Veiled, man; unveiled, Paramatma. No one comes “in front” of us; suddenly, upon unveiling, we find: that which I sought—I am. The Akshara I searched for is seated within me. The axle-pin for which, seated on the cart, I traveled so far—all along the wheel of the cart was turning upon that very pin.

Mulla Nasruddin is galloping on his donkey, rushing out of the village in great haste, whipping away. People in the bazaar ask, “Nasruddin, where are you racing?” He says, “My donkey is lost. I’m in a hurry—don’t stop me.” Someone shouts, “But Nasruddin, you are riding on the donkey!” Nasruddin replies, “Good you told me; I was in such a hurry I would never have remembered!” Such is the haste of seeking that we forget we are riding upon that which we seek.

The knowers say: we never find that which we seek—because we are riding on it. But our haste is so great that we will travel endlessly and never remember that what bears us in search is itself our goal. That which we extend our hands to attain is spread already in our very hands. That for which we cast the net of cravings—that is the very fiber of our cravings. That for which we run and run, anxious and weary—that One is within, whom we are harrying with our very haste.

Nasruddin is very worried. His doctor says, “Why so much worry? It is worry that is making you old.” Nasruddin replies, “I understand. Let me tell you my worry: I am worried I might grow old! And you say it is my worry that is making me old!” A vicious circle. Because of worry, man grows old; because he grows old, he worries. Where to break it?

What are you seeking? Whom do you seek? The seeker himself is the sought. Each person, except himself, is seeking nothing else. But how will he find himself?

One day Mulla goes to a tavern and asks, “I came to ask—did Sheikh Rahman come here a little while ago?” The innkeeper says, “Yes, he came about an hour ago.” Mulla says, “Good—now tell me, was I with him?” He has drunk so much he comes to learn whether he drank! He remembers he was with another; about himself he forgets. Of the other we keep memory; of ourselves we have none. We measure ourselves by others. If four people call you a good man, you suddenly feel you’ve become good. If four call you bad, all collapses—you feel ruined! Are you anything, or are those four opinions everything?

So man fears others—lest someone slander him and undo all his build-up. He praises others so that others praise him. For we possess no treasure other than others’ opinion. We know the other; we do not know ourselves. The day a man enters within, that day he finds what he sought is already inside.

In Nasruddin’s village a man became a Haji—returned from the Hajj. The whole village gathered, except Nasruddin. His wife said, “When will you drop this irreligion? You roam the lanes, gather dust, and today the Haji has come to town and you sit at home while all have gone!” Nasruddin replied, “What is so admirable if a man goes to the Hajj? If someday the Hajj comes to a man, then notify me.” To go and return—what is great? Many have come and gone. If someday the pilgrimage itself comes to someone, tell me—I will go.

He is right. Such an event does happen—when the pilgrimage comes within the man. Such an event happens when the devotee does not go seeking God, but God comes seeking the devotee.

In truth, only such an event happens. A God whom the devotee seeks has never been found, nor can be. If the devotee knew where God is, he would have found Him long ago; he knows nothing. What can the devotee do? He does not go anywhere; he only opens himself—exposes, becomes naked. He drops every covering of heart and consciousness; and the day the devotee is utterly naked—no garments upon his consciousness—uncovered, that very day God becomes available. Devotees have never reached God by traveling; whenever someone truly became a devotee, God traveled and arrived.

This event—attainment of the Sanatana Avyakta—Krishna says, is my supreme abode.

This supreme abode is within each one; this Vaikuntha is within each; this moksha is within each. Krishna calls it the supreme abode because it is not a way-station. There, one does not stop to prepare for further journey. There, all journeys cease.

I have heard: in Japan there is a temple on a mountain that is a halt on a pilgrimage. Thousands walk to it one day a year. For years a fakir lay beneath a tree on the path. Pilgrims came and went. Sometimes someone would ask, “Are you halting here on your way, or halting as you return?” The fakir would laugh: “Neither on the way nor returning.” People stopped and asked, “What do you mean? Where you sit is only a way-station; the destination is ahead!”

He said, “Certainly—for your outer journey this is a halt. But where I sit within is that place from which neither can one go farther, nor return. I too had set out for the pilgrimage, but under this tree a great pilgrimage happened—I could not go on. Sitting here, that occurred which brought me to my own within. Now the destination has come; now placing a step here or there has no meaning. I am where I have always been, and for which I always ran.”

“Supreme abode” means that beyond which there is no further preparation for journey. And take to heart another, subtler meaning: the supreme abode is not a place reached after many travels. If you reached it through travel, it cannot be supreme—only an abode. The supreme abode is that upon arriving you realize: astonishing! Here I always was!

When Buddha attained Nirvana, when Samadhi bore fruit, for seven days he sat silent. Nothing came to mind; he did not stir. People gathered; the radiance of his eyes, his fragrance, began to spread. When a flower has bloomed in consciousness, there is no need to call anyone—news flies. People came from afar: “Tell us, what have you attained? Gautam, tell us what you have found.”

Buddha’s first words astonished: “If you ask what I have attained, you put me in difficulty—for I have attained that which was always attained.” People said, “Do not speak in riddles. We are simple folk—explain plainly. What is your attainment?” Buddha said, “As for attainment—none. I have certainly lost something—Ignorance. Now I am amazed how I ever attained that ignorance! That I have lost. And the knowledge I have found—how can I say I have ‘found’ it? For now I know it was always with me.”

Buddha said: imagine a beggar with a diamond in his pocket who roams begging. One day his hand goes into the pocket and the diamond comes out. Will he say he has ‘found’ the diamond? It was always with him—only he did not know.

The supreme abode is that which is with us even now—yet unknown. The supreme destination is what we carry in the corner of the heart while we search. Ever-present—and unknown. The only difference upon arriving is: we know. Nothing else changes.

Buddha remembered a previous birth and said: in my former life—before this birth in which I became Buddha—I heard that someone had attained enlightenment. I went to see him. When I bowed and placed my head at his feet, as I stood up I was startled—for that enlightened one placed his head at my feet. I was shaken; I lifted him: “Forgive me! What offense have I given? How could you place your head at my feet?” The knower said, “I know the destination; I have attained it. But there is not much difference between you and me. The destination is as present within you as within me; only you do not yet know. The diamond I have is the same diamond you have. I know; you do not. But the diamond is no different. I bow to you so that you may remember: within you too is that diamond worthy of an enlightened one’s bow. Today or tomorrow, when you come to know, you will understand.” And when, a life later, Buddha awakened, the first folded hands he offered were to those unknown feet—now untraceable—the stranger who had bowed to him then, knowing that the same ocean of wisdom lay within him, not a whit less.

“Supreme abode” means such a destination as we already have—and yet do not know.

And, O Partha, that Paramatma within whom all beings abide, and by whom this world is pervaded—that eternal, Avyakta, Parama Purusha—is attainable through undivided devotion.

“Within whom are all beings!” Surely beings are not within beings. Paramatma is not under matter; rather matter is under Paramatma. As the vast sky contains all substances, so the vast Paramatma-consciousness contains even all skies. Consciousness is the greatest expanse in existence.

In the West a revolution moves—especially among the younger generation—and thousands of experiments are made with chemical substances: LSD, marijuana, mescaline, hashish, ganja, bhang. Behind these experiments works a hope, a longing: that in some way consciousness might expand—Expansion of Consciousness. That consciousness might spread, enlarge, embrace a wider field. Whether chemicals can do this or not, the longing is ancient. Man’s sole longing is that consciousness become so vast that all be encompassed within it, nothing outside. The day nothing remains outside consciousness, and all is contained within—consciousness becomes a sky, a space, and everything is in it. That day nothing remains to attain; that day there is no fear of loss; that day death has no terror; that day springs of immortality burst forth within. That day there is no reason for change; the eternal becomes one’s very home.

Of this supreme consciousness Krishna says: that Paramatma within whom all beings abide.

A saying of Jesus is relevant. One dark night a young man, Nicodemus, came to Jesus. Jesus asked: “Why have you come? Do you want more wealth by my blessing? Do you want success to come to your life by my touch? Have you come that my benediction shower upon you and you stride upon the path of worldly attainments?” Nicodemus said, “Lord, you have seen into me. I have come precisely to know how my wealth might increase, my kingdom broaden, how I might become master of things. Give me a formula, a secret—some guru-mantra—so that wherever I place my feet I succeed; whatever I desire is fulfilled; here I wish, there it happens. Give me a secret that becomes a wish-fulfilling tree.”

What Jesus gave did not make sense to Nicodemus—but it is the essence of all religion: “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, then all else shall be added unto you.” First find the Lord; the rest follows of itself. First seek the Kingdom, then all else will be added unto you.

Nicodemus said, “Let me first seek everything else. I am not yet of the age to seek God!” Yesterday an elderly gentleman came to me—no less than seventy—and asked, “How have you given sannyas to youth? Scriptures say sannyas is for the final stage!” If he truly believed the scriptures, he should have come already as a sannyasin; at seventy, yet he has not taken sannyas. But he questions giving sannyas to the young—“It will cause great harm!”

For seeking Paramatma there is no condition of age. Sometimes even the old never seek; sometimes even children do. And who is old and who is young is not easy to say. If old age has any meaning, it is wisdom. The old may be foolish; the young may be wise.

Nicodemus said, “I am not yet of the age to seek God. What are you saying!” Though older than Jesus—who was crucified at thirty-three—Jesus gave him the sutra: “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, then all else shall be added unto you.” If you ask for the master-key, here it is. First seek the Lord.

But how will seeking the Lord bring all else? Krishna’s sutra contains the meaning: “O Partha, that Paramatma within whom all beings abide…” If one attains Paramatma, one has attained all beings. But one who busies himself with attaining beings, matter—he cannot attain matter either. Until one has attained the master of matter, how will one attain matter? This is the misery of our lives.

I have heard: an emperor set out on a campaign. After many victories, when he turned back, he sent word to his hundred queens: “What gifts shall I bring you?” One asked for the Kohinoor; another for the finest perfume of a certain land; others asked for other precious things. Only one queen sent word: “Return home safely; I want nothing.” The emperor brought for her as much as all the others had asked combined. He said, “Only one queen is truly wise—she asked for the master; the things follow.”

Indeed, the religious man is the most skillful among men. He does not ask for things; he asks for the master—and the things follow behind.

What we call a householder, what we call “sensible,” is sensible only in the eyes of the foolish; none is more foolish, for whatever he asks is petty stuff. And without asking for the Master, we are merely deluded that we have received something—death takes all and returns it to the Master. For a little while we play watchmen. The richest among us guard their wealth. The more the wealth, the harder it is to spend it—only the fakir knows how to spend.

Nasruddin, in his town, had never offered anyone even a cup of tea. By the time he was dying he had piled up much money. One day a rumor spread: Nasruddin is giving a feast to the whole town. No one believed it. A stranger in town wondered: with such a strong rumor, why does no one believe? He decided to go ask Nasruddin himself. People said, “You’re mad—this rumor must have been started by Nasruddin himself; it can never happen.” The stranger’s curiosity grew: he went. Nasruddin sat within; outside his servant Mahmood. The man asked, “I have heard your master is giving a feast to the whole town—can you tell me on what date?” The servant knew it would never happen; in jest he said, “Since you’ve come so far, I’ll give you the date: on the Day of Judgment.” The man left. Nasruddin came out and scolded, “You fool! What was the need to fix a date already? You’ve trapped me—fixed a day! Even the Day of Judgment is still a day; now it is fixed!”

Men stand guard—over wealth, over reputation—and die. Their wealth and fame remain here, laughing at them. Only one treasure death cannot snatch—Paramatma. Only one renown death cannot tarnish—Paramatma. And the wonder is: one who finds Paramatma finds all. But one who tries to gain everything, gains nothing—and misses even that which he could have had—Paramatma.

“And by whom this world is pervaded—the eternal Avyakta, Parama Purusha—is attainable by undivided devotion.”

“And by whom this world is pervaded!” Yet we see Paramatma nowhere. Krishna says the world is filled with Paramatma; but we do not see Him. We see everything except Paramatma—men, trees, stones, jewels, the sky, moon, stars. Everything appears—except God. And ones like Krishna keep saying: nothing else is; only Paramatma is. Surely something is amiss.

In the last fifty years a new psychology developed in the West—Gestalt psychology. “Gestalt” is a German word; it means a configuration that, once the mind takes it, the opposite configuration becomes invisible.

Understand: children’s books often have pictures in which two black profiles face each other—nose to nose, lips to lips, beard to beard. You can see such a picture in two ways: if you attend to the white between, it is a flower vase. If you attend to the black faces, the vase disappears and two faces appear. The marvel: when you see the faces, you cannot see the vase; when you see the vase, you cannot see the faces. Never both at once.

Or a picture in which the same lines form a young woman and also an old woman. If the young woman appears, the old does not; if the old appears, the young vanishes. Even if you know both are there, whenever you look, only one appears—because the same lines serve both. If you use a line for the young, it is not available for the old; if you use it for the old, it is not available for the young. This is Gestalt—two possibilities in one picture, but when one is seen, the other cannot be.

This world is a Gestalt. So long as you see matter, you cannot see Paramatma—because the very line where matter ends is the line where Paramatma begins. Hence one who sees matter asks, “Where is God? Nowhere.” One who sees God asks, “Where is the world? Where is matter? Nowhere.”

Thus a knower like Shankara says the world is not; a knower like Marx says only world is, God is not. The materialist says: matter is. The theist says: Paramatma is. The matter is of Gestalt.

We are using the same lines. When I look at you, you appear—but the vastness around you, the space, is not seen. A seeker of God slowly begins to see the other Gestalt. Whenever he looks at any thing, he does not fix his gaze on the thing; he looks at the life within it. Standing before a tree, he does not see the lines of matter; he sees the life rising like a flame toward the sky.

Vincent van Gogh painted perhaps the most beautiful trees on earth. But his trees are hard to understand: they rise from the ground and pierce the sky; the moon and stars remain below while the trees go beyond! His friends asked, “Have you gone mad? Have you ever seen trees? These moons and stars below while trees surge upward? Trees drilling through the sky?” Van Gogh said, “The trees you have seen I may not have; the trees I have seen, perhaps you have not.” He said: “When I look at a tree, in a little while its leaves, branches, roots, body dissolve. I see the earth’s yearning to touch the sky—the earth’s aspiration—appearing as trees, like green flames racing heavenward. The tree’s outline disappears; I see the earth striving to embrace the sky.”

To one who sees thus, leaves and branches no longer appear. And to one who sees leaves and branches, the rush of life-energy within is not seen. One to whom only chemicals appear in a flower cannot see beauty; one to whom beauty appears will have no idea of chemicals. It is a matter of Gestalt.

Krishna says: this world, all of it, is pervaded by Paramatma—filled with Him.

We look around and do not see Him; our Gestalt is wrong—or rather, it is the world-seeing Gestalt. We must change the Gestalt.

The process of changing this Gestalt is called Yoga. The process of changing this Gestalt is called Dharma. The very effort to shift the Gestalt is sadhana.

Then matter is not seen; only Paramatma is seen. A moment comes when, in the world, nothing but Him is seen; only He remains. All lines dissolve into Him. All the rivers of matter fall and merge into His ocean.

“That eternal, Avyakta, Parama Purusha is attainable by undivided devotion.”

And this supreme presence, all-pervasive, is attained by Ananya Bhakti—undivided devotion. Understand these two final words.

Ananya Bhakti: a devotion wholly, integrally, single-heartedly oriented toward Paramatma. A single-pointed longing—not fractured, not divided. Divided loyalty cannot reach Him. Divided, it carries you into the Gestalt of the world; undivided, it lifts you above it. The reasons are clear.

World means many; Paramatma means One. To live among the many, you must have many desires, many loyalties. To attain the One, there must be one devotion, one longing, one intent. To gain the One, you must become one. To gain the many, you can live divided.

Because we aim at the world, within each of us are many persons. Truthfully, none of us is a single one—each is a crowd. Psychology says man is multi-psychic—many minds within. One face remains a stranger to another; they never get introduced.

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling on a boat; it began to sink. A gentleman of strict etiquette, he clung to a plank alongside another man. A whole day passed without a word—both were too well-mannered: no one had introduced them, and there was no one to do so! At last the other’s patience broke: “Sir, enough of etiquette! Why don’t you speak?” Nasruddin said, “I was waiting for the ill-mannered one to speak first. Now that you have spoken, I have no hurdle. I never speak to anyone to whom I have not been introduced.”

So many faces within you float with you in the sea, yet you have no introduction to them. Who will introduce you to yourself? If anyone tries, you are offended: “In the morning you had another face; now you have a different face”—you become angry. We never undertake self-introduction; otherwise we would find a crowd inside.

What is the cause of this crowd? One cause only: you seek many things. To seek many things you must divide yourself into many parts. You are like a man at a crossroads who wants to walk all four ways at once. A little of you goes this way, a little that, a little another. Your parts set out on separate journeys; then it is nearly impossible to gather them together.

To attain Paramatma, only Ananya Bhakti avails. Ananya means integrated—be so one within that wherever you raise your eyes, the whole of your being’s eyes are raised there.

As of now, it is not so. Even when a man bows in a temple, one eye is on God—has He heard my prayer?—and the other looks back—are people watching how devout I am?

Mulla Nasruddin falls unconscious on a blazing afternoon, sprawled on the road. A crowd gathers. Eyes closed, he lies in a swoon. One says, “Make him smell a shoe.” Another: “Massage his head.” Another: “Sprinkle water.” A girl keeps crying, “None of that will work! Give him a quarter of milk with half a pound of jalebi.” Nasruddin listens to it all. When someone actually brings a shoe to his nose, he cracks one eye: “Move away with your nonsense! Won’t anyone listen to that poor girl? I’m dying over here, and you’re pushing shoes at me!” Even in a faint, half our being is insensitive; half is still calculating what others are doing around us. In sleep, too, we are not fully asleep. Ears remain alert; we hear what is happening around.

All is fragmented, divided. With such division, no one can move toward the Lord. Hence the condition: Ananya. And Bhakti means love. Love is by nature undivided; its current is single. Love cannot be with a fragmented mind—only with an integral heart. Through an integral love, this supreme presence is attainable.

“Attainable” in two senses. First, in the sense that, however much effort it takes to become one, it is no price—it is worth paying. In truth, it is free, for what is received is beyond price. Therefore, through Ananya Bhakti it is attainable. Second, in the sense that only this is worth attaining; nothing else in life, in existence, is worth attaining. This supreme abode alone is worth it. Until we attain it, we keep attaining such things that, had we not attained them, nothing would have been lost; and having attained them, nothing is attained.

But man cannot sit idle; he will keep attaining something. He will do something—build a house, then a bigger house; open a shop, then a larger shop. And after everything, he finds he has attained nothing—and again sets out for something else.

Our logic runs like this: If one small house gives me no joy, of course it is too small—let me build a bigger one. Build it—and still the logic whispers: obvious—this is not enough; build even bigger. And we keep running—never noticing: if in the small house even a little joy was not found, how will it be found in a larger? If the small could not give a little joy, the great cannot give great joy. We are engaged in a wrong endeavor. We are merely keeping ourselves occupied—because emptiness frightens, we fill ourselves—with wealth, with fame, with position, with busyness.

But however much we fill, we remain empty. Save for Paramatma, nothing can truly fill anyone. With that filling comes fulfillment. Before that, every man is empty.

Thus, in the last fifty years in the West—whose influence now pervades the East—all life-philosophies converge upon this: man’s life lacks fulfillment; it is empty. The cause of that emptiness is that, in the last fifty years, the West and its influential thinkers denied God as never before in human history. The more we deny God, the more empty we feel. That emptiness cannot be filled by atoms or hydrogen bombs; not by great universities; not by raising palaces a hundred stories high that touch the sky. That emptiness can never be filled by any other thing; it is filled only by the One with whom it is already full. Merely to know Him is to know fullness.

Enough for today.

But do not leave for five minutes. Sit where you are. If you remain seated, I will ask the sannyasins to stand and sing kirtan. Stay seated; let them stand and sing. You remain where you are.