Ishavashya Upanishad #2

The foundational proclamation of the Ishavasya Upanishad: everything belongs to Paramatma. Hence the name Ishavasya—everything is Ishvara’s.

The mind longs to believe that something is ours. We live our whole life in this illusion: something is mine—ownership, proprietorship—mine. If everything is of Ishvara, then there remains no ground for my I to stand.

Remember, the ego too needs a base to be constructed. The I requires the support of the mine to stand. Without the prop of the mine, it is impossible to construct the I.

Ordinarily it appears that the I comes first and the mine later. The truth is just the reverse. First the mine has to be constructed; then, in the midst of those mines, the mansion of the I is raised.

Reflect: if everything that you call mine were to be taken away—one by one—then the I would not remain either. The I is only the sum of the mines: my wealth, my house, my religion, my temple, my mosque, my status, my name, my clan, my lineage. Amidst these countless mines the I is manufactured. Drop each mine, and the ground under the I is removed. If not even a single mine remains, there is no place left for the I to survive.

The I needs a nest of the mine, a dwelling, a house. Foundational stones of the mine are needed for the I; otherwise the whole house of the I collapses.

The first proclamation of Ishavasya demolishes that entire edifice. The Rishi says: everything belongs to Paramatma. There is no way left for any mine. Not even can I call myself mine. If I insist, it is illegitimate; if I keep insisting, it is madness. Even I am not mine. Everything else follows from this.

This must be understood from two or three directions.

First: you are born, I am born—but no one asks us. My wish is never consulted—do I want to be born? Birth does not depend on my wish, my consent. Whenever I find myself, I find myself already born. Before birth, there is no me at all.

Think of it this way: you build a house. You do not ask the house whether it wants to be built or not. The house has no will. You build—it gets built. Have you ever thought that your will was never asked either? Ishvara gives birth—you are born. Ishvara makes—you are made. If a house were to become conscious, it might also say, I. If a house were to become conscious, it would not accept the builder as the owner; it would say the builder is my servant—he has made me. He is my instrument, he has served me; I wanted to be built.

But the house has no awareness. Man has awareness. And who knows—perhaps the house does too. There are a thousand tiers of awareness.

Man’s awareness is of a certain mode, a certain kind of consciousness. It is not necessary that everyone has the same kind. A house may have another kind; a stone, another kind; a plant, another kind. They too may be living in their own I. When the gardener waters the plant, the plant may not think the gardener is giving it life; it may think, I am graciously accepting the gardener’s services. It is my kindness that I allow his services! Though no one ever went to ask the plant whether it even wants to be born.

To call that which comes without our wish mine is pure foolishness. If before my birth I am never asked, what meaning is there in calling birth mine? Nor will death arrive after asking. Nor will death inquire what your intentions are: shall we go, shall we not? It will come—simply come. Just as birth arrives unannounced, so death will stand silently at the door—without knock, without prior notice, without warning. And it leaves no alternative—no choice, no selection. Not even that if I want it to wait a moment, it will wait.

So, where I have not even that much will in death, to call it my death is outright insanity. Where I have no will in birth, that birth is not mine. Where I have no will in death, that death is not mine. And the life that stretches between these two—how can that be mine? The life we fill in between, when both its ends are not mine—its two fundamental ends, without which I cannot even be—then the filling in between is also a deception. And yet we fill it in—forgetting entirely birth and death.

Ask a psychologist and he will say: we forget knowingly, intentionally. Because these are painful memories. If even my birth is not mine, how utterly poor I become. If even my death is not mine, everything is taken—nothing remains; my hands are empty and bare. Only ash remains. And the long bridge of life we build between—imagine a bridge across a river: neither this bank is ours nor the other. Neither the foundation of the bridge set on this side is ours, nor the foundation on the other side. Then how can the span across the river be ours? If the bases are not ours, the bridge cannot be ours. Therefore we knowingly push it out of awareness.

Man knowingly forgets many things. He never allows certain facts to come to remembrance—because remembering would drain all the stiffness out of the ego and fling it out. Then what remains ours? Leave aside birth and death. In life there appears the illusion that much is ours. But the more we search, the more we discover: that too is not ours.

You say, I fell in love—without even thinking whether love is your decision. No. Lovers always say: we do not even know how it happened—it happened. We did not do it. If it happened, how can it be ours? If it had not happened, it would not have happened. If it happened, it happened. We are so helpless—there is such destiny. Everything seems bound somewhere.

But the bondage is such that you tie an animal to a peg with a rope, and it circles around the peg. By circling, a delusion arises: I am free, because I can move. And it forgets the rope, because remembering the rope is painful. That rope tied to the peg carries the news of dependence. In truth, it carries the news of the absence of oneself. We are not even worthy of dependence; freedom is far away. To be dependent, we must be—yet even that we are not. The animal moves around the peg—sometimes left, sometimes right—and so thinks: I am free. And if I am free, then I am. Gradually it may convince itself that being tied to the peg is also my will. When I want, I will break it. I have agreed; this is also for my good.

We manufacture many illusions in life. We say anger, we say love, we say hate, friendship, enmity—yet none of these are our decisions. Have you ever been angry in a way that you did it? Never. When anger happens, you are not there. Have you ever loved in a way that you did it? If you could do love, you could love anyone—but you can love some and cannot love others. And if you can love someone, then even if you do not want to, you love; and someone else you cannot love—even if you want to, you cannot.

All the emotions of life arise from an unknown shore—the same shore from which birth comes. You needlessly become the owner in the middle. And what have you done? What is there that is of your doing? Hunger arises, sleep arrives; in the morning sleep breaks, at dusk the eyes begin to close again. Childhood comes—and when does it slip away? How does it go? It neither asks nor takes counsel; if we beg it to wait a moment, it does not. Then youth comes; youth bids farewell. Then old age arrives. Where are you in all this?

Yet you go on declaring: I am young, I am old—as if youth depended on you. Then youth has its flowers; old age has its own flowers. They blossom just as flowers blossom on trees. A rosebush cannot say, I bring forth rose flowers—because it could say so only if it could bring forth jasmine. But it cannot bring forth jasmine, nor champa, nor madhukamini. Only rose appears—then why the vanity? Rose appears. On jasmine, jasmine appears.

In childhood, the flowers of childhood blossom—you do not make them blossom. If in childhood there is innocence, then it is—there is no personal merit, no glory, no credit to take. If childhood is simple, it simply is. And if in youth lust and desire grip you, they grip you just as innocence grips in childhood. Neither are you the master of that innocence, nor the master of lust in youth. And if in old age the mind starts moving toward brahmacharya, do not make it your glory. In exactly the same way that in youth passion seizes you, in old age dispassion seizes you from passion. And the one whom it does not seize—he too has no say. And the one whom it seizes—he too should not take false pride.

There is nowhere for the I to stand. If you examine life particle by particle, you will find there is no foothold for the I. Then why do we create the illusion? From where does this deception, this delusion arise?

It arises because all the time it seems to us that there are alternatives. Suppose you abuse me; it seems I have two options—if I wish I can reply with abuse, if I wish I can refrain. It seems so—not that it is so. It seems I can choose—to reply or not. But are there really options? The one who replies to abuse with abuse—could he have refrained if he had wanted? You will say: if he had wanted, he could have.

But go a little deeper. Does that wanting arise in you by your command? The desire to abuse or not to abuse—does that lie in your hands? Those who search deeply say: somewhere we begin to see that things move outside our control. One person feels the thought to abuse and abuses. Another feels the thought not to abuse and refrains. But from where does the thought arise—to abuse or not? Is that thought yours? It comes from the same place as birth. From the same place as love. From the same place as life-breath. And it dissolves in the same place as death. It merges where the outgoing breath goes. Yet a convenient deception becomes possible: it is in my hands. If I had wished, I would not have abused. But who told you to abuse?

You will say: Buddha, Mahavira—they do not abuse.

Do you think that if they wished, they could abuse? No. Just as you experience yourself bound to abuse, Buddha and Mahavira experience themselves no less bound not to abuse. Even if they wished, they could not. The very wish does not arise.

A Zen monk was once asked early in the morning by a man: Why are you so peaceful, and why am I so restless? The monk said: I am peaceful and you are restless—this is so. The matter is finished; there is nothing more to add. The man said: No, but how did you become peaceful? The monk asked: I would rather ask you—how do you become restless? The man replied: Restlessness comes by itself. The monk said: Exactly so—peace came. And there is no glory of mine in it. While restlessness came, it came—I could do nothing. And now that peace has come, if I try to bring restlessness I am just as bound—I can do nothing.

The man said: No, but show me a path to be peaceful. The monk said: I know only one path—drop the delusion that you can do anything. If you are restless, then be restless; know you are restless—it is not in your hands. And then you will find that from the back, peace begins to approach. That too is not in your hands. Kindly do not try to be peaceful. Those who try to be peaceful only become more restless. They are already restless; now the effort to be peaceful gives birth to a new restlessness.

But the man said: No, it does not settle within me—I must become peaceful. The monk said: Then you will remain restless. Because you want to become something. You cannot leave it to Paramatma—though all is in those hands. Nothing is in yours. From the day we consented to that which is, from that day we became peaceful. As long as we wanted to be something, we could be nothing.

Still the man would not agree. He said: Your peace makes me envious; I cannot simply go away. Then the monk said: Wait. Ask me when there is no one around. Later, many times in the day there was no one; the man asked: Now tell me. The monk placed a finger on his lips and said: Silence. The man was troubled. He said: When people come and I ask, you say—when no one is here. And when no one is here and I ask, you say—silence. How will this be resolved?

Evening fell, the sun set, everyone left—the hut was empty. The man said: Now at least speak. The monk said: Come outside. They went out—there was a full moon. The monk said: Do you see those small plants?

He said: I see.

Do you see those tall trees touching the sky? he asked.

He said: I see.

The monk said: Those are big and these are small—yet there is no quarrel. I have never heard a dispute among them. This little plant has never asked the tall one—why are you big? The small is at peace in being small. The big has never asked the small—why are you small? The big has his own troubles—when the storms come, one knows. The small has his own difficulties. But the small consents to be small, the big consents to be big—and in between I have never heard any dialogue. I have found both to be peaceful. You too, kindly leave me. I am as I am. You are as you are.

But how can that man agree? How can we agree either? The mind insists on becoming something. Why? Because we have assumed we can do something. No—the Ishavasya says, you cannot. You cannot be the doer.

The astonishing conception of fate that arose had this secret behind it. The wondrous notion of destiny carried this mystery. Destiny does not mean that you should do nothing and sit idle—because fate says, even to sit you cannot unless it seats you. Fate says: then we will do nothing—no, you cannot even not-do if it does not allow it.

Note well: among those who appear as fatalists, not one is truly fatalistic. They say: fate does all—what can we do? So we do nothing. If even this idea remains—that we do nothing—the sense of doing remains. Complete destiny means: we are not at all. There is no way of doing. Only That is—Paramatma is.

And when we cannot do and cannot be the doer, then what of possessiveness, of mine-ness? Whom shall we call mine? Shall we call the son mine? It seems so—because it appears we gave birth. It appears so—an illusion. No one has ever given birth to a son—sons are born. They find a passage through you.

You do not create lust—it finds a way through you. You begin to love a woman—that love does not come from you; it finds a passage through you. The lust of two, the love of two, the bodies of two become eager to meet—that eagerness is not yours. It is hidden in every pore; it is compressed in every particle—it pushes from within. Then a child is born; someone becomes a mother, someone a father—as if we have given birth! Destiny laughs—truly laughs. Birth has been taken through you—you have not given it. You have been just a passage, a pathway on the journey through which destiny has taken birth. You have done nothing.

You build a house and say: it is mine. But observe—birds too build nests. In this world even the smallest creature fashions a dwelling. And there are birds that never learn from anyone. There are such birds that, after laying their eggs, the mother flies away. When the egg breaks, the chick steps straight out—there is no teaching from the mother, no protection from the father; no schooling, no admission to a school. Astonishingly, that bird builds exactly the same type of nest her mother built, and her mother’s mother built, and her mother’s mother’s mother built. And the nest is not simple—it is very technical, of great skill in architecture. Even a man would need to learn, and even then it would be hard to craft it with such precision.

How does the nest get built? Scientists say: a built-in program. They say, in the bird’s very fibers there is a built-in program. With birth itself, in its bones, flesh, marrow, the entire manual of nest-building lies hidden. It will build—inevitably. It will fetch the same grasses and leaves that its mother fetched. No one taught it. The mother was not there. No school trained it. It will choose the same leaves, the same blades of grass; the same structure will arise, the same nest will appear.

Man builds too. Everyone builds. There is no reason to say mine. There is no reason at all to say mine.

In what can we say mine? Because we gather wealth? All creatures hoard—in many forms. And it is not that man is the most skillful among them. Not so. There are creatures far more skillful at hoarding than man.

In Siberia there is the white bear. Snow falls for six months. In those six months it would be hard for a man to survive—but the bear survives. Its way of hoarding is astonishing—its parigraha is very skillful. It does not gather things—it gathers fat for six months within the body. It goes on increasing the fat. It gathers so much that when the snows fall and it gets buried beneath the snow, for six months it lives by eating its own stored fat beneath the snow.

Your safe is not kept so deep within. Thieves can carry it away. And a safe depends on so many outer factors. If the market collapses, the money is useless. The white bear is more skillful—he stores food directly. And since under snow there will be no facility to chew, to breathe, to process flesh and marrow, he stores prepared food as fat within—and quietly digests it.

The whole existence hoards. So do not imagine that only we do it. If a mother feeds her child milk, she should not be filled with too much pride. The milk comes of itself—with the arrival of the child the body begins to produce milk. If the child refuses to drink, then the mother suffers—and only then does she realize it is obligatory. The child drinks—what grace! If he does not drink, restlessness arises. The mother has never consciously made milk. Just as the child is born unasked, with the child milk is also born. When the child grows, milk begins to recede. As soon as the need is over, milk bids farewell. All this is of nature. The instinct to hoard is of nature.

Therefore this sutra of Ishavasya says: everything is of Paramatma. Call it nature, call it destiny, call it prakriti—but Ishavasya says Paramatma. Because nature, destiny, and prakriti are mechanical words—they are of a machine. This vastness, this profound mystery cannot be mechanical—it is living, conscious.

Science also says: nature does everything—man does not. But when we say in the language of science that nature does everything, we become humble, we become mean, we become like machines. When Ishavasya says: Paramatma does everything, then on the one hand our ego is taken away, but on the other hand we become Paramatma. That is the essential point. That is worth understanding.

So as science develops, its emphasis too is that man should drop the illusion that I am doing—everything is happening. But its emphasis is that everything is mechanical, everything is machine-like. The whole universe runs like a machine. If all is mechanical, man becomes humble—his ego is broken—but by no other door does his dignity return. His grandeur that came from ego was petty—like a tiny lamp burning in kerosene. That goes out—dense darkness descends—and no sun returns from anywhere.

Therefore the proclamation of Ishavasya is more precious than that of science. On one side Ishavasya blows out your flickering little flame—Be extinguished; you are not. You were troubled for nothing. On the other side it births the great sun. There is Paramatma. On one side it says: you are not—and on the other side, instantly it establishes you in the state of Paramatma. On one side it snatches you away, dissolves you—and on the other it gives you the Whole. It extinguishes the sooty, foul-smelling little lamp of ego burning in kerosene—and gives the light of the sun. It dissolves the I, yet it enthrones the supreme I.

This is the basic difference in the dimensions of religion and science. Science too says the very things religion says—but its emphasis is mechanical, on the machine. Religion says the same, but its emphasis is on consciousness, on prajna, on the living—and that emphasis is precious. If Western science triumphs, ultimately man will become a machine. If the religion of the East triumphs, ultimately man becomes Paramatma. Both take away the ego—but with one the ego is taken and man falls downward; with the other, the ego is taken and man begins the upward journey.

A hundred and fifty, two hundred years ago, when science first began to say that man is not autonomous—when Darwin said: forget that God created you; you have come from animals—then man’s first pride broke. It broke with a great crash. He had thought: we are sons of God. It turned out, no—the father does not seem to be God; a chimpanzee, a baboon, some monkey seems to be the father. A shock indeed. Where once God sat on the throne, and we were his sons—now we had to be sons of the monkey. Painful, grievous.

First science said: man, forget that you are man—you are a kind of animal. The whole edifice of ego collapsed. But when a journey begins in any direction it does not stop easily; it reaches its end. It was difficult to stop at animal. First science said: man is a kind of animal. Then it studied animals and found: animals are a kind of machine.

You see a tortoise crawl. The sun’s heat grows intense—the tortoise moves into shade. You will say: the tortoise thought and went. Science says: no. Science has created mechanical tortoises. Leave them—so long as the heat is mild they remain in the sun; as soon as it becomes intense, they slide into the bushes. It is a machine. What happened? A thermostat. As soon as the inner temperature crosses a certain point, the mechanism moves it toward shade. No consciousness is needed—a machine can do it.

You see a moth fly toward a lamp. Poets say: the moth is mad, a lover of light—so it loses its life. Scientists say: nothing of madness—mechanical. As soon as the moth perceives light, its wings incline toward it. They have made mechanical moths—release them; they roam in darkness. Light a lamp—instantly they move toward it.

Thus science proved that animals are machines. The final result was strange: man was an animal; the animal turned out to be a machine. Hence, finally, man is a machine. There is a certain truth in it. It breaks the ego—good. But breaking the ego only makes man fall—he becomes mechanical. The consequences are dangerous—and they have been dangerous.

Stalin and Hitler could murder millions—because if man is a machine, killing makes no difference. Consider this curious fact: Krishna too could say in the Gita that man’s Atman is immortal, it never dies—so by killing nothing happens. And Stalin too could say: man is a machine—there is no Atman—so by killing nothing happens. When Krishna says: the Atman is immortal, Arjuna—kill as much as you will, it does not die—the consequence appears the same: Arjuna becomes eager to kill. But the significance is utterly different. In the declaration of the immortality of the Atman, death becomes meaningless. Here too Stalin becomes ready to kill millions—but because there is no Atman, what harm is there in killing?

Killing a machine brings no harm. If you strike a machine with a stick, even an ahimsak will not accuse you of violence. Break a machine into two—no court will try you. The result appears similar; it is not. The aura of the result is entirely different. The meaning is different; the whole gestalt changes.

Science says: nature does everything, not man. Religion also says so—but religion says: Paramatma does everything, not man. Science breaks the ego and throws man down. Religion breaks the ego and sends man on an upward pilgrimage.

This sutra of Ishavasya says: accept nothing as yours—and the I will vanish. Accept all as Paramatma’s. Do not desire another’s wealth. Why? Here lies a very amusing point: when nothing is mine, how can anything be yours either?

Beware: great wrong meanings have been given to this sutra. Do not covet another’s wealth—such wrong meanings that one is amazed. Almost all commentators have said: desiring another’s wealth is a sin—do not desire it. They seem foolish. Because the first sutra says: wealth belongs to none; it is Paramatma’s. If so, how can it be mine—and how can it be yours?

No—do not desire another’s wealth because that wealth which is not mine cannot be yours. Desire is possible only when it can be yours and mine; otherwise desire has no way. But moralists have used this sutra to mean: even to think of another’s wealth is sin! Yet when mine is not mine, how can the other’s be the other’s?

A moralist cannot draw out the meaning of this sutra. It is deep, grave. The moralist’s emphasis remains: do not steal another’s wealth; do not make it yours. But he insists that it is someone’s. And know well: the one who says that thing is yours can never be free of the feeling that other things are mine—for these two are conjoined. As long as the house is mine, the house can be yours. But the day the house is not mine, how will it remain yours?

Do not desire another’s wealth does not mean: there is another’s wealth and to desire it is sin. It means: wealth belongs to no one; therefore desire is sin. Wealth belongs to no one; it is of Paramatma. Do not know it as mine, do not know it as yours. Do not become owner by making it mine; and do not try to snatch it, considering it another’s property. We will neither be able to snatch it, nor be able to protect it. It is of Paramatma—from whom there is no way to snatch, and by whom there is no way to protect.

How amusing: on a piece of land I fix a sign—mine. The piece of land was there even when I was not. The land must laugh a great deal. Before me many have fixed signs on that piece—mine. And the land has buried them all—right there in that very piece. Wherever you sit, on every single spot at least ten men have been buried. There is not an inch where ten have not died—because so many have been. The land knows perfectly well that many claimants with signs have come and gone. But man will again place a sign—and does not even see that he is merely varnishing an old sign and writing his name over it. He does not see that tomorrow someone else will have to take the trouble to varnish it again. This is labor for nothing. The land must laugh.

No—do not desire another’s wealth, because wealth belongs to no one. Note my emphasis is very different. I do not say that to make another’s wealth yours is sin. To consider wealth as someone’s—yours or another’s—is sin. To attribute proprietorship to anyone other than Paramatma is sin.

If this is understood, the deep dimension of Ishavasya will come into view. Otherwise these sutras are reduced to mean: everyone should keep hold of his own property and go on preaching to protect it—do not desire another’s wealth.

Thus if people like Marx felt that religions gave protection to the wealthy, they were not wrong—because the commentaries made on such sutras have been wrong. It then appears that what is someone’s is his—do not try to snatch. Which means: this supports the police, supports the status quo, supports proprietorship.

But it cannot be so—because this sutra already proclaims: everything is of Paramatma. If only Paramatma is the owner, then who else is the owner? Is there another Paramatma? There is no second Paramatma. Neither am I the owner, nor are you—the very notion of ownership is an illusion. The only owner is That which has never come to proclaim: I am the owner. For to proclaim, at least a second is needed—before whom to proclaim? When you fix a sign that this land is mine, remember: you fix it for someone else—to read and know it is yours. You do not fix it in a jungle. If you were alone on earth, I do not believe you would be mad enough to go on fixing signs—mine. If you are alone, the land is yours—there is not even a way to say it.

Paramatma does not proclaim, yet only That is the owner. The meaning of Ishavasya’s word is also this: those who proclaim cannot be the owners. The owner should have no need to proclaim. The true owner is unproclaimed. Proclamations are made by servants. The louder the proclamation, the greater the doubt. If someone shouts: no—it is mine!—be certain it cannot be his. Why so loud a proclamation?

We proclaim only to prove as ours that which is not ours. Paramatma makes no proclamation. For whom? Why? It would be useless—it would only reveal non-ownership. All is of That which has never said so. Whoever has said so—none of that is theirs.

Do not desire another’s wealth—because wealth belongs to none; it is of Paramatma. Do not take it as mine, do not take it as another’s. Know it as the Lord’s. And others are as much of the Lord as we are. Therefore snatching and grabbing are meaningless—irrational, without sense. We are laboring in vain. It is labor like drawing lines in water.

One more thing: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—by renouncing, enjoy. It says: those who let go are the ones who truly partake.

But that is not our knowing. We think those who grasp are the ones who enjoy. The Rishi says the reverse. He says: those who let go—tena tyaktena—are the ones who enjoy. Paradoxical. Those who drop becoming owners become the owners. Those who hold nothing—into their hands everything arrives.

It is like trying to hold the wind in your fist. Clench your fist tight—and the wind slips out. Tighten, tighten—and at the end only the fist remains; no wind. Open the fist, do not bind—and the wind flows intimate and deep. The open hand holds the wind; the closed hand loses it. The tighter one binds, the emptier it becomes. The one who opens completely is never empty—ever full. Moment to moment fresh winds, forever fresh winds, fill it. Have you seen—an open hand is never empty. A closed hand is always empty. And whatever little remains becomes stale, rotten, decayed.

Only those enjoy who can renounce.

In this world, in this life, the more one is ready to let go, the more one receives. It is paradoxical—but all the laws of life are paradoxical. They appear opposite, yet are not oppositions—only opposites. The person who wanted honor is destined to be dishonored. The one who wanted to be wealthy—within, he becomes more and more impoverished as wealth accumulates. The one who thought I must never die is surrounded by death twenty-four hours a day—haunted by fear. The one who said: I am willing to die—death never comes to his door. The one ready to die discovers the nectar of immortality. The one afraid of death dies every moment—he only dies; he never knows living. The one who said: I will be master—becomes a slave. The one who said: I am willing even to be a slave—his proprietorship is beyond all measure.

These are reverse truths—and therefore difficult. When we interpret them, the meanings we extract are usually to save ourselves from the paradox—and thus they go wrong. So people interpreted tena tyaktena bhunjithah as: give alms so that you will get in heaven. Give a coin on the banks of the Ganga and receive a millionfold in liberation!

Of all things in the world, the great sentences—mahavakyas—suffer the worst fate. And no one is so wronged as the Rishis—because they are difficult to understand. The meanings we take are ours. We thought: good—if we donate here, we will receive there. But donate in order to receive. Donate to receive.

Remember, the sutra says: the one who lets go receives; but it does not say: the one who lets go in order to receive receives. The one who lets go in order to receive is not letting go—he is only waiting to receive. He says: I donate here so that I may get in heaven—he is not letting go at all. He is only tightening his fist further forward. Properly understood, he is not only clenching here; he is clenching even in the other world. He says: all right here—but there too! There too I shall not let go; there too I want. And if there were a guaranteed return, he would invest here for there. He would put capital here if there were a sure profit there.

He has not understood. This sutra does not say that. It simply says: the one who lets go enjoys. It does not say: therefore, let go to enjoy. Because the one whose eye is on enjoyment cannot let go; he only invests—he never renounces.

A man puts a hundred thousand into a factory—is he donating? No—he wants to get a hundred and fifty. Then he puts in one and a half—is he donating? He wants three. He keeps putting in, because he wants to tighten his fist more and more—to grasp more and more. The one who gives in order to get has not known the secret of giving. He has not even tasted what giving is.

The sutra says simply, directly: the one who lets go, enjoys. It does not say: if you want to enjoy, let go. It says: if you can let go, you will be able to enjoy. But if you keep the idea of enjoyment, you will never be able to let go.

Wonderful sutra. First it says: everything is of Paramatma. In this, letting go is already contained. The one who has known that everything is of Paramatma—what remains to grasp? Nothing is left to hold—so it drops. And the one who has known that all is of Paramatma, in whom everything has dropped, in whom the I has fallen—he becomes Paramatma. And the one who becomes Paramatma begins to enjoy—he becomes soaked in rasa, immersed in bliss. He is bathed moment to moment in nectar. Every fiber of his being begins to dance. For the one who has become Paramatma—what remains to enjoy? He enjoys everything. The sky becomes his to enjoy. When flowers bloom, he enjoys them. When the sun rises, he enjoys it. When night brings stars, he enjoys them. Someone smiles—he enjoys it. All around, enjoyment spreads for him. Nothing is his now—yet everywhere the expanse of enjoyment. From every side he begins to drink the juice of life.

Religion is enjoyment. And when I say this, many become frightened—because they think religion is renunciation. Remember: the one who thinks religion is renunciation will commit the same mistake—he will fall into the trap of investment. Renunciation is a fact of life: in this life, to grasp is foolishness. The one who grasps errs—simply errs. He loses what could have been his by grasping. What was his, he abandons by proclaiming mine. But the one who has known that everything is of Paramatma—everything drops. Then even renunciation does not remain to be done. Mark well: renunciation remains only for the one who says mine.

Someone says: I am renouncing. That means he believed it was mine. In truth, the one who says I am renouncing cannot renounce—because he is still obsessed with the idea of mine. Renunciation is possible only for the one who says: nothing is mine—what is there to renounce? To renounce, first there must be a mine. If I say: I renounce the sky to you—you will laugh. At least first let it be settled that the sky is yours! You are donating the sky! If I say: I donate Mars to you—you will say: first it must be yours. The illusion of renunciation arises only in the one who harbors the notion of possessiveness.

No—renunciation does not happen by leaving; renunciation happens by realizing the truth that all is of Paramatma. Renunciation happens. It need not be done—it occurs. In the very recognition of the fact that all is of Paramatma, nothing remains to be renounced. You too do not remain—to renounce. No claim remains—to be given up. And for the one who comes into such a moment of renunciation, the entire enjoyment is his. All the rasa of life, all the beauty of life, all the bliss of life, all the amrit of life is his.

Therefore the sutra says: tena tyaktena bhunjithah—the one who lets go, receives. The one who opened the fist—it filled. The one who became like a lake—he filled. The one who became empty—he is the master of infinite treasure.

This one sutra for this morning. The rest we will take in the night.

Now a few points regarding the morning meditation. Then we will move into meditation. A little instruction—because it is to be done. And whatever I have explained—that itself is meditation. That itself is meditation. Just open the fist a little, and you will be filled with the wind. Just see a little that all is of Paramatma—and the dance will arise within.

The meditation will be of forty minutes. We have to cover the eyes and ears completely—so not a trace of light remains. And stand a little apart from each other. Those who are ill, old, or wish to sit—let them go far to the back and sit; otherwise someone may fall upon them. First stand; when the moment of falling comes, then fall—the joy is different. First stand.

So move apart. Make space all around—because there will be a strong awakening of Kundalini. Many will cry out, shout, jump, dance—so spread out across the whole space.

Spread out! Use the entire space! Yes—no talking. Do not talk at all. There is no need to talk. Silently spread out. I will then give you the four sutras. Spread out. Do not tie the blindfolds yet. First listen to all I say, then tie them.

For the first ten minutes breathe deeply with full strength—so all the energy of Kundalini awakens within. Along with it, if the body begins to sway, to dance, to leap—allow it. Do not be concerned. In the second ten minutes, drop the body completely into blissful abandon. It will jump, dance, laugh, shout, sing—whatever it wants, let it do with total energy. In the third ten minutes, while dancing and jumping, keep asking: Who am I? Ask with great joy, like a mantra—Who am I? Who am I? Keep asking. In the fourth ten minutes some will be standing, some will fall, some will lie down. Remain in silent waiting for ten minutes—for Paramatma to descend into us. We have left the fist open—now let That descend. We have let go—now the moment of enjoyment; let the rasa pour into us. Wait for it.

Before we begin the experiment, make a resolve. With hands folded, make a resolve before Paramatma. First the resolve—then put on your bands. Fold your hands, close your eyes. With Paramatma as witness, take the resolve in your heart three times: With the Lord as my witness, I resolve to put my total energy into the meditation. With the Lord as my witness, I resolve to put my total energy into the meditation. With the Lord as my witness, I resolve to put my total energy into the meditation.

Now tie the blindfolds over the eyes and place cotton in the ears. Close ears and eyes completely. Spread out far from one another, so no one disturbs another. Tie the bands. And begin!