Ishavashya Upanishad #1

This mahavakya is unique in many ways. First, because the Isha Upanishad both begins and concludes with this mahavakya. Whatever is to be said, whatever can be said, is complete in this one sutra. For those who can understand, there is no need to read the Isha Upanishad further. For those who cannot, the remaining book is spoken for them.
Ordinarily, the chant Om Shantih Shantih Shantih, which comes at the end of a book, is placed right after this first utterance. For those who know, the matter is finished. For those who do not, it only begins.
This mahavakya is also wondrous because it makes clear the difference between the Eastern and Western ways of thinking. Two kinds of logic, two kinds of logical systems, have evolved in the world — one in Greece, one in India.
Out of the Greek method of logic, all of Western science was born; out of the Indian method of contemplation, religion was born. There are basic differences between the two. The very first difference is this: in the West, in the logical approach of Greece, it is assumed that conclusions always come at the end. It sounds reasonable: we shall search for truth; the search comes first, the method comes first, the process comes first — the conclusion will come only at the end. Hence Greek thought first thinks, investigates, and only at the end delivers its conclusion.
India thinks just the opposite. India says: that which we are going to seek is already there. It does not appear as a result of our search; it existed even before our search. The truth that is to be revealed was there even when we were not; it was there even when we had not searched; it was as much there when we did not know as it will be when we know. Search only makes truth manifest in our experience; truth is not manufactured. Truth precedes us. Therefore the Indian dialectic first declares the conclusion and only then speaks of the process — the conclusion first, then the methodology and the process. First the conclusion, then the path. In Greece: first the process, then the search, then the conclusion.
From this, take note of one more thing. For those who will reach truth by thinking and reasoning, the Greek method will appear right. Thinking is like taking a small lamp in hand and going forth to search in a night overwhelmed by vast darkness. Night is immense, darkness deep, the lamp’s light is meager — it falls only a few steps ahead. Something is seen; much remains unseen. Whatever conclusions are drawn about what is seen will be tentative, provisional. A little later something more will be seen; then conclusions must change. Again, later, more will be seen — conclusions must change again.
Hence Western science, since it proceeds by Greek logic, can never have any final conclusion. All its findings are temporary, makeshift — based on what is known so far. What will be known tomorrow will bring change.
Therefore Western truth is never absolute, never complete. All truths are incomplete. And here is the paradox: truth cannot be incomplete. Whatever is incomplete is untrue. That which we must change tomorrow was not true today either — it only seemed so. Truth can only be that which never needs to be changed. Thus what the West calls truth is, in fact, an untruth dependent upon the present extent of our knowing — which tomorrow’s knowing will modify and transform.
India’s method is not to search for truth with a lamp. India’s method is like this: there is a dark night, dense darkness — and lightning flashes. With the flash, everything appears at once, simultaneously. It is not that something appears first, something later — there is revelation; all is laid bare at once. All the paths — stretched to the far horizon — all that is, appears together in the lightning’s blaze. Then there is no possibility of change; the whole is known.
What Greece calls logic is a search for truth through thought. What India calls anubhuti, prajna — what the West might call intuition — is like lightning: it reveals everything at once. Therefore truth is reflected as it is, in its wholeness. Then there remains no scope for alteration.
Hence in what Mahavira has said there is no room for change; in what Krishna has said there is no room to change; in what Buddha has said no modification is possible. Sometimes Westerners become worried and wonder: twenty-five centuries have passed — can Mahavira’s words still be right? Their question is understandable. Because if one were seeking with a lamp, in twenty-five centuries the findings should have changed twenty-five thousand times. New facts would be discovered daily and the old would have to be transformed.
But the truths of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna are revelations — not found with a lamp. They were seen and known in the flash of no-thought, unveiled in the lightning of no-mind. When Mahavira knew truth, he was not knowing it step by step — otherwise the whole could never be known. He knew the entirety at once.
From this mahavakya I want to tell you: in this small two-line utterance, whatever the East has discovered is present together — in total. Therefore in India we state the conclusion first, the methodology later. First we announce what truth is; then we discuss how it can be known, how it has been known, how it can be made understandable. This is the proclamation. For one who understands it right here, the rest of the book is meaningless. No new thing will be said in the whole Upanishad. But the same thing will be said again and again from many approaches. For those who have no way for lightning to flash, who are adamant to search with a lamp, the remaining Upanishad is for them. Then, holding a lamp, the later verses will speak of fragments of truth. But the whole is contained in this sutra. Hence I say this sutra is unique — all has been said in it. Let us understand what has been said.
It says: from the Whole, the whole is born — yet the Whole remains ever intact. And in the end, the whole merges into the Whole — yet the Whole does not become more; it remains exactly as it was.
This is a deeply anti-mathematical statement.
P. D. Ouspensky wrote a book called Tertium Organum. At its beginning he makes a small, startling assertion. Ouspensky was a great Russian mathematician who later, with a strange Western fakir — Gurdjieff — became a mystical seeker. But his understanding is of mathematics — deep mathematics. In the preface to that astonishing book he says there are only three marvelous books in the world: one is Aristotle’s — the father of Western logic — called Organon; organon means the doctrine of knowledge. Then Ouspensky says the second important book is Francis Bacon’s, called Novum Organum — the new doctrine of knowledge. And the third, he says, is mine — Tertium Organum — the third doctrine of knowledge. After stating this, he adds a little line, most surprising: ‘Before the first existed, the third was.’
Aristotle wrote his book two thousand years ago; Bacon wrote his three hundred years ago; Ouspensky wrote his only some forty years ago. Yet Ouspensky says: before the first book existed in the world, the third existed. And he has just written it! Whenever anyone asked him, ‘What kind of madness is this?’ Ouspensky would say, ‘What I have written, I have not created — it existed; I have only unveiled it.’
Before Newton, gravitation was in the earth. The earth pulled a stone then as it does after Newton. Newton did not invent the law of gravitation — he uncovered it. What was covered, he opened; what was unknown, he made familiar. But long before Newton, there was gravitation — otherwise there could be no Newton. Without gravitation Newton cannot be; without Newton gravitation can be. The earth’s pull can be without Newton; Newton cannot be without the earth’s pull. Before Newton, the earth’s attraction was — only it was not known.
Ouspensky says his third organon existed even before the first. That it was not known is another matter — and even to say it was not known may not be accurate. For whatever he has said in his entire book is contained in this small sutra. A precious book like Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum… I say too, his claim is not false. When he says there are three important books and the third is his, he is not speaking out of ego. It is a fact — his book is that valuable. If he had not said it, that would have been false modesty. He speaks truth, humbly. And yet all he has said throughout is contained in this small formula.
He tries to establish that there are two kinds of mathematics. One mathematics says two and two are four — ordinary mathematics we all know. It says that if we add up the parts of a thing, they can never be more than the whole. It says if we break something into pieces and add up the pieces, their sum can never exceed the whole. Straightforward. If we break a rupee into a hundred paise, the sum of a hundred paise can never be more than one rupee — can it ever be? The sum of parts can never be greater than the whole — simple arithmetic.
But Ouspensky says there is another mathematics — higher mathematics. A more elevated mathematics — the mathematics of life’s depth. There two and two need not be four; sometimes two and two become five, and sometimes two and two remain three. And sometimes, he says, the sum of the parts exceeds the whole.
This must be understood — otherwise we will not understand the first and final sutra of the Isha Upanishad.
A painter creates a painting. If you calculate, what is the cost of the colors? Not much. The canvas? Not much. But any great work, any great painting is not just the sum of colors and canvas — it is something more.
A poet composes a song. The words in his song are ordinary — words we use every day. Perhaps only one or two words may be rare. Even if unknown, they are at least familiar. Yet a poem is not merely the sum of words — it is something more.
A person plays the sitar. The effects upon the heart are not just impacts of sound. Something more reaches us than the blows of sound.
Understand it this way: someone, with eyes closed, touches your hand with love. The touch is the same; the same person, filled with anger, touches your hand — the touch is the same. As far as the physical evaluation of touch goes, there is no fundamental difference. Yet when someone touches from the heart with love, something comes through that is very different; when someone touches in anger, something utterly other comes through; and if someone touches in neutrality, nothing comes. The bodily touch is the same.
Ask a physicist and he will say: a hand touched a hand — the amount of pressure can be measured. How much electrical charge passed — measurable. How much warmth passed from one hand to the other — measurable. But by no means will he be able to tell whether the touch was of anger or love. Yet we experience the difference. Certainly, touch is not only the aggregation of heat, pressure, and electric effect — it is something more.
Life rests on a superior mathematics. Here, when the parts are added, something new is born — something higher arises, something significant appears — the important emerges even from the insignificant.
Life is not ordinary arithmetic. It is a much higher, deeper, subtler mathematics — where numbers fail, where rules of addition and subtraction collapse. One who does not know the mystery beyond mathematics knows nothing of life.
In this mahavakya, strange assertions of higher mathematics are made. It says: from the Whole, the whole emerges — yet the Whole remains. By ordinary math this is absurd. If we take something out of anything, what remains cannot be as much as before; it must be less — otherwise what became of what we took? If I remove ten rupees from a coffer — even if billions remain — it is less. Remove even ten paise — it is less. It cannot remain as much as before. However huge the treasury — whether Kubera’s or Solomon’s — if we take out ten paise, the chest is not what it was; it is less. And however great the hoard, if we add ten cowries, it is no longer what it was; it is more.
But the sutra says: from the Whole, the whole emerges — not a little — we do not remove ten paise, we take out the whole treasury — from the Whole, the whole is brought forth — and still the Whole remains. Either a madman said it, one who knows nothing of math — a first-grader knows that if we take something out, there will be a deficit. If we take it all out, nothing should remain. But this sutra says: no — the whole still remains. Then certainly, those who think in terms of coffers will not understand; we must look in another direction.
When you give love, does your love become less? If you pour out all your love, do you find a deficiency? No. The nearest word in our experience to grasp this sutra is love. With that we must catch it. In truth, however much you give love, as much remains as there was. There is no decrease. Some even say it grows — the more you give, the more it grows; the more you share, the more profound it becomes; the more you squander, the more you find it becoming available. One who throws his whole love outward becomes the master of infinite love.
If from the Whole the whole emerges and the Whole still remains, it means this cannot be explained by mathematics — it must be understood through love. Go to Einstein and you will not understand; go to Meera and perhaps you will. Go to Chaitanya and perhaps it will dawn. For this belongs to another dimension — where by giving, there is no diminishment.
Other than love, you have no experience by which to take the first step in understanding. Whether even love is your experience is uncertain — for ninety-nine out of a hundred do not have it. If you feel a lack when you give love, know you have no experience of love. If you give love and feel something emptied, know that what you gave was something else — it cannot have been love. It must belong to the world of coffers, measurable by weights, numbers, yards — measurable.
Remember, whatever is measurable will be diminished by giving. Whatever can be measured, if you remove anything from it, will become less. Only the immeasurable — that which cannot be measured — remains as much, however much you take from it.
If ever you felt that by giving love your love becomes less — and you all must have felt this; that is why we become possessive about love. If someone loves me, I want that he love no one else — because it will be divided, it will be less. Hence possession. I do not want that the one who loves me even look with loving eyes toward another; his loving glance at another becomes poison for me — because I know it diminishes, becomes less. And if it is diminishing, know this is not love. If I know love, I will desire that the one I love go and share it with the whole world — for the more he shares, the more deeply it will manifest; the deeper it manifests in him, the more his love toward me will also deepen and overflow.
But we know nothing of higher mathematics. We live in lower mathematics — a very ordinary arithmetic where everything decreases by giving. Hence fear is natural. The wife fears that the husband may give his love to someone. The husband fears that the wife may give her love to someone. Even a newborn child in the house creates conflict. If the son takes some of the mother’s love, the husband is troubled; if the daughter takes some of the father’s love, the mother is pained. Because what we call love is not love; its touchstone is this: whatever diminishes by sharing — do not, even by mistake, call it love.
The difficulty is: apart from love, we have no other experience of the immeasurable. Everything else we have is measurable. Our anger can be measured, our hatred measured — all can be measured. Only one experience is immeasurable — love. And even that is not with everyone. Hence we find it so difficult to understand the Divine.
One who understands love will abandon all concern about understanding God — because whoever knows love knows God. They belong to the same mathematics, the same dimension.
One who recognizes love will say: even if God is not found, it is alright — because love is found; it is enough. We have become acquainted with that higher world where things do not diminish by sharing — they grow; however much you give, as much remains as there was.
And remember, the day it happens that you have a love which, however much you give, remains as much as before — that very day your demand for love from others weakens. Because however much you receive, yours will not increase. Remember, that which does not diminish by giving, cannot be increased by taking. Both stand together.
So long as I beg love from others — and we all do, children and old alike — all our life we keep begging for love.
Psychologists say our only misery, our only tension, our only anxiety is this: how to get love. And when it is not available we search for substitutes — but we go on seeking love throughout life, we keep asking for it.
Why do we ask? In the hope that getting it will increase us. Which means we do not know love — because that which increases by receiving is not love. However much love I receive, it will remain as much as it was.
One who understands this formula of love understands a double truth: however much I give, it will not be less; however much I receive, it will not be more. Even if the whole ocean of love breaks upon me, not a grain will increase; and even if I pour out the whole ocean, not a grain will decrease.
From the Whole the whole emerges, and yet the Whole remains. From the Divine this entire world emerges — not small — infinite, boundless; without shore, without end, without beginning — such vastness emerges; yet the Divine remains Whole. And when one day all this falls back and merges into That ultimate Existence, still That remains Whole — neither decreasing nor increasing.
Let us try to understand it from another direction.
The ocean, in our visible experience — in the world of senses — seems neither to diminish nor to increase. It does — yet it is so vast. Not infinite, but immense. Rivers pour into the ocean and do not pour out. The sky, through clouds, keeps filling and emptying the sea. There is no lack — yet it is changing. The ocean is vast — not infinite. So vast that when rivers fall into it, there seems no inch of difference. Brahmaputra, Ganga, Huangho, Amazon — how much water they pour each moment! The ocean remains the same. Everyday the sun lifts water by its rays — the clouds fill the sky — all from the sea. Still, the ocean seems as it was. Still I say: truly it is changing; it is only that it is so big we do not notice.
Space is another state in our experience. Everything is in space. Space means that in which all exists. Therefore space cannot be in anything. If we think that space too must be in something, then we must imagine a greater space, and we fall into infinite regress. For then the greater space would itself be in what? There would be no end.
No — all is in space, and space is in none. Space envelops all; space is unenveloped. Space means: that in which all exists, and which itself is in none. Therefore within space, whatever is constructed, space does not become bigger; whatever is destroyed, space does not become smaller. Space remains as it is — as it is — in its suchness.
You build a house, you raise a palace. Your palace will fall tomorrow — into ruins, into dust. Palaces that kiss the sky will sink back into earth — and the sky will not even notice. When you built the palace, space did not shrink; when it falls, space will not expand. In space the palace arises; in space it disappears. Space is unaffected by it. Perhaps space is a little nearer to what I wish to convey.
Yet, however untouched space seems by our constructions, in our ordinary sense there appears to be less and more of space. If I sit somewhere, you cannot sit at the same place. Which means the space I have occupied has become less available. We can raise one house at a spot; we cannot build another at that same spot, much less a third — why? Because one house has enclosed the space; in a certain sense space has become less.
Hence buildings now rise upward. Because on the surface of the earth, space is running short. Land prices rise; buildings climb. As below becomes expensive — as lower space becomes scarce — we raise houses upward. Soon we shall also go below ground — for there is a limit to rising. The upper space too can be filled.
Space appears to fill up; as it fills, the empty space becomes less. On the ground where we sit, no other ground can now appear. Granted that infinite space stretches all around like a void — no shortage — yet at least this much is obstructed; this much space is less; it is filled.
No — the Divine does not even fill to that extent. The ocean I called small in comparison to the Divine — though to us it is huge. To the Ganga and Brahmaputra it is huge; it seems unaffected by their fall — yet, a difference is there, not measurable perhaps, but there. Space is even vaster — yet even space seems to fill.
To leap to the Divine one step more, all logic must be dropped. The Divine means existence — that which is. Is-ness — being — is its quality. Whatever we do, its being is untouched.
Scientists say it differently: we cannot annihilate anything. That means we cannot throw anything out of is-ness. If we wish to destroy a piece of coal, we can make ash — but the ash remains. Throw it into the ocean — it dissolves, is unseen — but remains. We can eliminate everything except its is-ness. Its being remains. Whatever we do, its being is not affected. Being remains. Yes, we can give being forms — thousands of shapes — we can change forms — but we cannot change the is within. Yesterday it was earth, today ash; yesterday wood, today coal; yesterday coal, today diamond — but in is-ness, no difference.
The meaning of the Divine is: the is-ness within all things, the existence, the being — that. However many things arise, nothing is added to being; however many things dissolve, nothing is reduced in being. It remains the same — detached, untouched.
Not even like water where a line drawn appears and vanishes at once. On the Divine, from all existence, not even that line is made.
Hence the Upanishad says: from the Whole, this whole has come forth. From That Whole, this whole has arisen. That is the unknown; this is the known. What appears to us arises from that which does not appear. What we know arises from what we do not know. What comes within our experience arises from that which does not come within experience.
Keep this well in mind: whatever comes within our experience always arises from what does not. The visible arises from the invisible; the known from the unknown; the familiar from the unfamiliar.
We sow a seed and from it a tree arises. Break the seed — into pieces — you won’t find the tree in it. Nowhere are the flowers that will bloom; nowhere the leaves that will appear. From where do they come? From the invisible — they are formed from the unseen.
Each moment the invisible transforms into the visible, and the visible dissolves back into the invisible. Each moment the Infinite comes into limits, and each moment returns from limits to the Infinite — just like breath goes in and comes out. The whole existence breathes thus. Those who know the breath of existence call it creation and dissolution. They say: when existence breathes in, creation happens; when existence breathes out, dissolution happens. And for us, between one breath and the next lies an eternity; in that interval we are born and die countless times.
In this sutra both are said: from the Whole the whole emerges — yet the Whole remains; the whole merges into the Whole — yet the Whole remains Whole. That Whole remains untouched — virgin. Its virginity is never affected.
A difficult statement indeed: a mother gives birth to a son and remains a virgin! Only about the mother of Jesus is such a thing said — that Jesus was born and Mary remained virgin. It is said because those who knew Jesus and Mary recognized that this is exactly the birth of existence — as from the Whole the whole comes. Christians cannot explain it; they get into difficulty: how could Mary remain virgin? They know nothing of the mathematics where even after a mother gives birth she remains virgin. They know nothing of the higher mathematics. So Christianity is in trouble — they say it cannot be; therefore it is a miracle. It cannot be, but God showed a miracle.
But in this world, whatever miracle God shows is shown every moment. Either there are no miracles, or whatever happens each moment is a miracle. When a tree arises from a seed — a miracle. When a son is born of a mother — a miracle.
There is no difficulty. If a mother is absorbed in this sutra — that from the Whole such a vast world arises and the Whole remains untouched — where is the difficulty? If the mother becomes one with this sutra, she can give birth and remain virgin.
If a seeker truly understands this sutra — and I say this to you for the sake of sadhana — then you will remain a non-doer even while doing everything. Whatever you do — if the Divine, having done so much, remains untouched — so too you, after doing all, remain untouched. But this must be known — recognized.
If, after creating such a vast universe, the Divine does not become a householder, then for a man to become a householder after building a small house — madness! After erecting a net of such immensity, if the Divine remains as He was — and you run a small shop and are lost? Somewhere a mistake is being made. Unknowingly you are identifying yourself with your acts. You think: I am doing — and you fall into trouble. The day you know that what is happening is happening — I am not the doer — that day you become a sannyasin.
I call him a householder who thinks, I do. I call him a sannyasin who knows, It is happening. He does not just say so — for what is the use of saying? He knows. Nor does he only know — for what is the use of knowing alone? He lives it.
Try this. By my explanation perhaps it won’t be as clear as by experiment. Do some small act while remaining aware the whole time: it is happening — I am not doing. Any act. Eat your meal and watch; walk on the road and watch; even be angry at someone and watch — it is happening. Stand behind, as witness, that it is happening. Then you will receive the secret of this sutra — its key will be in your hands. You will find that outside something happens and you remain untouched — the same as you were before doing, and will remain after it is done. The event in between will come and go like a dream.
For the Divine, the world is no more than a dream. If for you too the world becomes a dream, you are not different from the Divine. I repeat: for the Divine the world is not more than a dream; so long as for you it is more than a dream, you are less than divine. The day it becomes dreamlike for you too, that day you are the Divine. That day you can say, Aham Brahmasmi — I am Brahman.
This is a delicious sutra. In it, who knows how many things are said. It says: the Whole comes forth — whole, entire. Remember, it is said that the Whole remains behind — and it is also said that the whole comes out whole. What does it mean? It means that each individual is also the whole Divine. Each person, each atom, is the entire Divine — not a partial God — the whole.
It is a little difficult, unfamiliar to our arithmetic. If you understand that from the Whole the whole emerges and the Whole remains, I will add one more: from the Whole infinite wholes can emerge — and the Whole remains. If one whole comes forth and another cannot, that would mean that after one, something less remains. Only if a second arises, a third arises, if wholes keep arising endlessly and the capacity to produce the whole remains ever the same, can it be said that the Whole remains behind.
Therefore it is not that you are a part of the Divine. Whoever says so is wrong. Whoever says you are a fraction of God is mistaken. He is speaking of lower mathematics, the world where two and two are four — the measurable world. I tell you — the Upanishad tells you — and all who have known tell you: you are the whole Divine.
This does not mean your neighbor is not the whole Divine. It makes no difference. A rose on one bush blooms in its fullness; next to it another bud blooms fully — the full flowering of one does not hinder the full flowering of the other. There may even be a mutual grace — but no obstruction. A thousand flowers can bloom — entirely.
The fullness of the Divine is an infinite fullness. Infinite fullness means that infinite wholes can manifest from it. Each person is the whole Divine. Each atom is the whole Vastness. Between the Whole and that there is not even the slightest difference. If there is a difference, then it can never be whole; then there is no way to become whole. And if it can ever become whole, it is whole right now — only we do not know it. Only our awareness is lacking.
Keep this sutra in remembrance throughout the coming days of sadhana. Repeat within: from the Whole the whole emerges; the Whole remains. The whole merges into the Whole, yet the Whole remains the Whole — no difference anywhere. Let this revolve with your breath. Daily we shall interpret it in different ways, from different angles. You keep deepening the remembrance. These two hammerings will meet within. And any moment — even within these seven days — it may happen that suddenly this sutra will arise on your lips and you will feel: from the Whole the whole emerges and the Whole remains; the whole merges into the Whole and yet the Whole remains the Whole — no difference anywhere. All happens like a dream — yet nothing happens. All is enacted like a play — yet behind it all remains virgin and untouched.
Keep it in remembrance — as much as you can, for it will be that useful. Try to live in its memory twenty-four hours a day. What is in the Upanishads cannot be understood by understanding alone — only by living it. These sutras are not declarations of theories; they are declarations of practices. They are not mere conclusions of knowledge; they are realizations. When one lives them within, gives them birth within, allows them to enter blood, bone, marrow — allows them to pervade the breath; when one lives in their resonance, waking, walking, sitting, sleeping — then, then their secret, their doorway begins to open.
This is the introductory statement on the sutras. There must have been amazing beings — who finished the whole matter in the very first sutra. And then they said: may the threefold afflictions be pacified.
What relation can there be between this sutra and the pacifying of the three kinds of suffering? Has anyone’s sorrow ever ended because of theories? No. Yet the rishi says: Om — the matter is finished. May all your sufferings be at peace; may you be liberated from all pain. Can this happen by reading the sutra?
Truly, for one who reads it — lives it — it can. For one who reads it from a book, never. That is only a reading; that is only hearing. But those who, with such courage, say: Om — the matter is finished — for one who knows this much, all suffering ends. The heat of body, mind, and Atman is dissolved. He stands beyond all afflictions. One who speaks with such assurance, such trust, must mean something.
He means: one who lives it, one who gives it birth within, will find himself beyond all suffering. Because suffering is one and the same, on any plane — body, mind, or Atman — the suffering is one: ego. The suffering is: I am doing; it is happening to me; I am the doer; this insult was given to me; I gave this insult. Everything gathers around the I.
But when the vastness of existence makes no difference to the Divine, why should these small things make a difference to me? Let me remain untouched, standing aside. Let me say: the insult was uttered — not to me. What was done was done — I did not do it. If I remain a witness — to actions coming upon me and actions going out from me — not the doer, but the witness — then very quickly wondrous secrets begin to open.
For seven days, live in this sutra. We shall interpret different dimensions of it in the Isha Upanishad. If you also live it, then you will understand; otherwise you will not.
So much for the sutra. Now a few instructions regarding meditation — for tomorrow morning we enter meditation.
First: throughout these days, as intensely as possible, breathe deeply — twenty-four hours — as deeply as possible whenever you are aware. Hyper-oxygenation. The more prana enters within, the more energy will be available for your sadhana. There are many energies dormant in your body; they need to be awakened and channeled toward meditation.
So the first sutra: the nearest and simplest means available to man to awaken that power is breath. As soon as you wake in the morning, on the bed itself, begin deep breathing. While walking on the road, breathe deep. Slowly — do not force — deep, peaceful, joyous — but deep. Keep awareness that as much prana as possible enters — into your blood, your breath, your heart — and as much carbon dioxide as possible is thrown out — then what we are going to do in meditation will become easier.
The more prana within, the less the body’s impurity. And it is a delightful fact that if the basis of bodily impurity loosens, it becomes difficult for the mind to remain impure. The more fresh air within, the less the chance for impure thoughts to thrive. And then, in such an inner climate, a sutra like Purnam idam is more likely to flower.
So first: hyper-oxygenation — an abundance of prana — remember it for seven days.
Two or three things may happen — do not be alarmed. If you breathe deeply, sleep will be reduced. Do not worry at all. As breath deepens, sleep deepens too; so the deeper the breath, the deeper the sleep. Those who labor sleep deeply at night; those who do not, cannot. The deeper the breath, the deeper the sleep; but as the intensity of sleep deepens, its extension reduces — its length shortens. Do not worry. If you usually sleep seven hours, the need will finish in four or five. No problem. But after five hours you will wake fresher, happier, healthier than after eight.
Therefore when the morning comes — and it will come sooner if you breathe deeply — get up. Do not miss that blissful hour. Use it for meditation. That is first.
Second: as little food as possible, and as light as possible, will be beneficial. As little as you can manage, and as light as you can manage. Each should do according to his capacity. The less you take, the faster and smoother will be the movement of meditation. Why? There are deep reasons.
Our body has certain fixed habits. Meditation is not a habit of the body. It is new. The body has fixed associations. If we break some of the body’s fixed habits, the mind and body more easily catch hold of a new habit. You will be surprised — if you become anxious and scratch your head, and if your hand is tied so you cannot scratch, you will not be able to become anxious in the usual way. You will say, what has head-scratching to do with anxiety? Association. The body has formed a habit and completes its pattern by clutching its routine.
The deepest habit of the body is food — the deepest, for without it life is impossible. Deeper than sex. From the first day of birth to the last day of death it goes on; life’s existence stands upon it. Therefore, if you wish to change your body-mind habits, slacken its deepest habit. As soon as it slackens, yesterday’s arrangements fall into disarray. In that disarray you will find it easy to enter a new direction.
So, as little as possible. One who wishes to fast may fast. One who wishes to eat once may eat once. No rigid rule is needed. Quietly, of your own accord, keep to the minimum. Second: light diet.
Third: concentration. If for twenty-four hours you breathe deeply and keep attention on the breath, concentration will arise by itself. While walking, breathing, watch: breath comes in — be attentive; it goes out — attentive. In, out. If you keep attention, the breath will go deep; otherwise, when you forget, it will become shallow. To take it deep, you will have to be attentive. So, link awareness to breath.
If while doing some activity you feel you cannot keep attention on breath, keep it on the activity. Eat with full attention — each morsel taken mindfully. While bathing, feel each drop. While walking, lift each foot with awareness.
For seven days, be absorbed in meditation twenty-four hours. What we do here in the meditation hall is one thing; this is to create a background for the rest of the time.
So, third: whatever you do, do it very attentively, very concentratedly. Mostly, keep attention on the breath, because it runs twenty-four hours. You cannot eat, bathe, or walk for twenty-four hours — but breath goes on. Keep attention on it. Forget what else is happening in the world. Let only one thing be happening — breath going in and coming out. Let the in-and-out be your mala’s beads. Third sutra.
Fourth: sense-fasting — sense deprivation. Three things here. First, those who can remain silent the whole day, be in total silence. If that seems difficult, be telegraphic: whatever you speak, feel that each word costs you dearly — do not use more than ten or twenty words in a day. Only when absolutely necessary, when life depends on it. Those who can keep total silence — the benefit is beyond measure. Keep a paper and pencil; if needed, write. Be silent. Through silence, all your energy will gather within — which we shall take further into meditation.
More than half of a man’s energy is spent in words. Drop them altogether for seven days. Later you can speak — you have spoken enough. Now stop. Those who are weak or irresolute may speak a little. Those with some intelligence and resolve, some trust in themselves — be utterly silent.
First in sense-fasting: silence. Second, we have prepared special bands for your eyes. Take them and use them from tomorrow morning. Cover the eyes completely. The eyes are your doorway out. Keep them bandaged as long as possible. When free, let the band remain. Others will not see you; nor will they draw you into talk. Others will consider you blind and leave you alone. Be blind. You have heard of being silent — be blind too.
Silence is a kind of liberation; blindness is an even deeper one. The eyes race us outside twenty-four hours a day. Once the eyes are closed, you will find there is no way out; awareness begins to circle within. So tie the band. While walking, slide it up a little, and look down only — three or four feet ahead is enough. Keep it tied the rest of the time. Those who can sleep with the band tied, do so; if it bothers, remove it. If you sleep with it, sleep will deepen.
This band you will keep on otherwise; in the morning meditation the band will remain. In the afternoon silent hour the band will be open — but come wearing it and quietly remove it here. At night you will also come with the band; in the night meditation it will be open. When I speak in the morning your band will be open; in the afternoon silent hour open; at night open. Only to the extent that it can help you turn within — otherwise, keep the eyes closed. In seven days you will be amazed how much tension of the mind disappears simply by keeping the eyes closed — beyond your imagination now.
The maximum tensions of the mind enter through the eyes. The strain of the eyes is the greatest cause of nervous tension in the brain. If the eyes become calm and relaxed, ninety-nine percent of the brain’s ailments depart. Use this carefully. Do not cheat yourself — there is no loss to me if you do; it is your loss. Be maximally blind. Give the eyes a seven-day holiday. After seven days you will know how cool they can be — and behind that coolness, what streams of bliss can flow.
Along with the eye band, you will receive cotton for the ears. Plug both ears. Give the ears a holiday. If mouth, eyes, and ears all get leave, your senses will be fasting. Put the cotton under the band and tie above. Then none can break your silence, even if they try; nor will you break another’s. Do not give others the temptation of speech; if ears are open, someone is tempted to speak; if ears are closed, even if he speaks, you cannot hear — the temptation drops. Keep ears closed.
This is sense-fasting. Silence, eyes, ears — for all the time. Only in the morning when I speak will you keep ears and eyes open. In the afternoon meditation, ears closed, eyes open. In the night meditation, eyes open, ears closed.
And the fifth — the last and most essential. Remember: only those enter the temple of the Divine who enter dancing, who enter laughing, who enter rejoicing. Those who enter weeping never find the way. Therefore, drop sadness for seven days. Be cheerful, laugh, dance, be exultant. Let cheerfulness be with you always. Rising and sitting, be intoxicated with a sweet madness — a rapture, an ecstasy. Do not walk as the ordinary walk — walk as a fakir, as a seeker should — dancing within. Forget others here; we have come here to forget others. Someone may think you mad — accept it in advance; there is no other harm.
Let this entire camp be joy-intoxicated — silent, yet overflowing with delight; quiet, yet dancing within; still, yet energy whirling within. Be full of joy — dance, laugh.
In the morning meditation too, be filled with joy. If in meditation you feel like dancing, dance; jump, laugh. If tears come, let them come — but let them be born of your joy. Even your tears should bring your happiness. Remember this. In the afternoon silent hour if you feel like dancing, dance; swaying, sway. In the night meditation too, dance if you wish; sway if you wish; laugh if you wish — but keep the ray of joy with you.
These five things begin tomorrow morning. Tonight prepare your eye-bands and ear-cotton — the arrangements. With the rising sun tomorrow you are not who you were when you came. Then only what I have said is expected of you. If you fulfill these, there is no reason — no reason — why, when you depart, you cannot say: Om Shantih Shantih Shantih. That your heart says it as you go — there is no difficulty.
So tonight I have only given you these instructions.
Tomorrow morning we shall first discuss the Isha Upanishad for an hour, then meditate for an hour. At noon, an hour of silence. At night, an hour of a third kind of meditation. And for the remaining time, remain absorbed in meditation.
The evening’s sitting is complete.
Perhaps one or two more announcements — a friend will give them — and then we will take leave.