Ishavashya Upanishad #3

There is no other path in the world by which one can pass without karma leaving its stain. The path the Ishavasya speaks of is—live by offering everything to the Lord. Leave all at His feet. Surrender everything to Him. One who agrees to pass through actions having dropped completely the sense of being the doer—such a one, in this world, remains untouched by the smear of karma. There is only one path; there is no second.
It is useful to understand two or three things.
First: to live in the world and yet not be entangled in action is a great alchemy, a great intelligence, a great wisdom. It is almost as if someone were to emerge from a chamber of soot and not be blackened. And it is not a matter of an hour or two—if we take even a single life in full, at least a hundred years. And if we remember many lives, then many hundreds, even millions of years of journeying.
This sutra speaks only of a single life in which there are at least a hundred years; a hundred years of passing continuously through the soot-chamber—waking, sleeping, rising, sitting, living—and remaining untouched by the soot: this is a matter of great intelligence, of great yoga. Otherwise, the easy, natural thing is that the soot will catch hold of you. Not only will it touch you, the person himself becomes soot—that is ordinarily what is possible. To be touched seems natural, but to live a hundred years with soot and yet not become soot, not turn black, seems difficult.
How will we pass untouched by whatever we have to do? The very moment we do, we are joined to it. We do anger, and we are bound to anger. We do love, and we are bound to love. We fight, and we are bound to fighting. We run away, and we are bound to running away. We indulge, and indulgence grips us. And the irony of this bondage is that even renunciation grips us. There too the same soot comes onto the hands.
Indulgence has its arrogance—“I have so much wealth.” Renunciation also has its arrogance—“I have renounced so much wealth!” That arrogance turns into soot; that arrogance is ego. However a man spends his hundred years of life, he will do something. And whatever he does becomes the path by which he turns black.
The Ishavasya sutra says: and yet there is one path—that is what is being spoken of—the path by which one passes a hundred years through this dark chamber and does not lose even a particle of his whiteness; by which karma leaves no stain upon him.
It sounds impossible. But in this world, if we understand rightly what the Ishavasya is saying, it will no longer seem impossible. The sutra says: whatever one does, the soot will stick—become a doer, and you become black. Only one way remains: do not become the doer. You cannot avoid actions. To live is to act. If someone says, “Give up actions and there will be no stain!”—but if there is life, there will be action. Even to breathe is action.
It is not that only the shopkeeper acts; the beggar too acts. Not only the householder acts; the one who leaves the house for the forest also acts. Their actions may differ, but it is not that one is action and the other non-action—both are actions.
Here, where to live is already to act, even renunciation becomes an action. So if someone thinks he will escape the soot of blackness by dropping action, he dreams in vain. From that thinking no event will ever happen. One can flee from actions, and then flight becomes his action. Running away becomes his act. That too binds.
Only one way appears: there is no escape from action, but one can be free of the doer. But if actions continue, how to be free of the doer? If I act, then I will be the doer!
The Ishavasya says: you can act and yet be free of the doer. Ordinarily it appears to us that if we could be free of action, then perhaps we could be free of the doer. “I won’t act, and I won’t be the doer.” But Ishavasya says this is not possible. The possible is just the opposite: keep acting—and be free of the doer. How will this be?
We are somewhat familiar with such action. Whenever we act in a play, it occurs to us that action can be without the doer. Sita is lost to Rama; in the forest Rama weeps, he clutches trees and cries, asking, “Where is Sita?” On the stage of the Ram Lila too, some Rama loses his Sita. He too weeps. He too asks the trees, “Where is Sita?” And perhaps he cries louder than Rama—perhaps more skillfully than Rama, for Rama had no chance for rehearsal; the actor has practiced. He does the very action Rama did—asks, “Where is Sita?”—but behind it there is no doer, there is an actor.
Remember, action can happen in two ways—while being a doer, and while being an actor. If in place of the doer the actor comes in, then outwardly action continues, but within, the actor stands where the doer used to be—and the whole transformation happens. Acting does not bind. Acting remains on the outside; it does not enter within. Acting never descends into depth; it moves on the surface and departs. However much the actor-Rama may weep, however many tears may fall, those tears do not arise from his life-breath. Often he must put collyrium in his eyes to bring the tears. And if without collyrium, practice brings them, still they flow from the surface, not from the depths. He shouts. A voice comes, but it comes only from the throat, not from the heart. Within, everything remains untouched. Within, nothing is touched. Within remains unstruck. He emerges from the soot-chamber, but inside there is no doer—there is an actor.
Remember, it is the doer who catches the soot, not action. If it were action that caught the soot, then what Ishavasya says could not be. What the Gita says could not be. Then, acting, there would be no release from action. Then liberation while living would not be known. And one who is not liberated while alive—how will he be liberated by dying? If one could not be free while living, he cannot be so after death.
If this life-soot clings to action itself, if it smears action, then it is impossible. But those who search deeply say: it does not seize action, it seizes the doer. Whenever anyone says, “I am the doer”—just then. When the knot of action and “I” is tied—just then. When the identity, the tadatāmya of “I” with action happens—just then. When I make myself one with the act and say, “I am the doer”—just then; only then the soot catches. And then life fills with darkness and blackness.
If within there is no one to say “I am the doer,” and within there is one who knows that this is acting—gathered upon a stage—yes, it may be a very large stage, the whole earth can be a stage; the stage being large makes no difference. And the curtain may rise only once at birth and fall at death—this makes no difference. It is a long one-act play—this makes no difference. If within there is the remembrance of acting—of the act, not the actor—within there is no sense of the one who does, but the sense of acting—then the whole world becomes a leela, a play; life a stage, a tale, a story. Then we are only characters, and characters are touched by nothing.
In this sutra of Ishavasya it is said: there is only one path by which a human being, while living, can pass through action and yet not be entangled in it. That path is: transform life into acting.
But we are very strange people. We turn acting into life, yet we cannot transform life into acting. We do make acting into life again and again. Many times our life is nothing but the heavy load of our learned acting.
If we ask the psychologists, they say that whatever behavior of a person we see is all taught behavior—cultivated, conditioning. What we call human nature—“this is this man’s nature”—the psychologist says man has no nature. If he has any nature, it is infinite liquidity, an endless fluidity. Man is like water: pour it into a glass and it becomes the shape of the glass; into a pitcher and it becomes the shape of the pitcher. Whatever the form of the vessel, that form water takes. What is the natural form of water? None. Water’s nature is the capacity to assume infinite forms. Hence, whatever form is given, it immediately assumes it. Water is not obstinate, not stubborn. It does not insist on remaining of one form; it says, whatever the form, I agree.
Man too has no nature. What we call nature is learned arrangement, behavior formed within the mold of conditioning. Thus, one born in a meat-eating home eats meat. It is not nature. The same boy raised in a vegetarian home will be vegetarian; the sight of meat will make him retch, he will feel nausea and fear. Do not think the one raised in a vegetarian home is greatly virtuous, and the one raised in a meat-eating home is greatly vicious. No—there are differences of upbringing. The shape of the vessel has been grasped.
From childhood we teach every person something. If we see rightly, all that teaching is preparation for the acting he must do in life. What we call schools are our rehearsal halls, where we train for life’s acting—family, society, school, university—there we prepare a person to act in a particular way.
We prepare one to be a Hindu, one an American, one a Christian, one a Chinese. They are made ready, and when the molds become firm, it seems their nature has become this. These are all learned roles so strongly seized that while doing them the person does not remember that he is acting.
Has it ever occurred to you that your being Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Christian—these are taught roles? Had they not been taught to you, you would never have learned them. But when you say, “I am a Hindu,” you become the doer. Then swords can be drawn. Lives can be taken and given. And if someone says, “You are not a Hindu,” disturbance can ensue.
The old psychologists used to say habit is the second nature. The new ones say nature is the first habit. That which we call nature is the first habit—sunk very deep. It becomes so strong that a person forgets he is acting.
If you remember that you are acting, there will be no knifing. Because you will say, “What madness is this! I am playing the game of being a Hindu, you are playing the game of being a Muslim—where is the quarrel?” No, the quarrel enters because this is not a game—these are serious matters. It is not a play.
Eric Berne wrote a book—Games People Play. In it he did not count only football, hockey, cards, carrom and chess; he counted Hindu, Muslim, Christian too—these are also games people play—costly games. Sometimes even in chess swords are drawn; so if between Hindu and Muslim they are drawn, it is no wonder.
Roles seized with seriousness appear to have become life. Whatever is taught is grabbed. Across the world, women have been taught that they are inferior to men—they have seized it and learned it. Although there are matriarchal societies where it is taught that men are inferior to women—there men learn this. There are tribes where woman is superior and man inferior—and the amusing thing is that where it is taught that woman is superior, man has become inferior and woman superior; where it is taught that woman is inferior, there woman has become inferior and man superior.
No, like water we pour people into vessels. Then the roles so strongly seize the ego that it no longer says, “I am acting,” it says, “This is me.” “This being a Hindu is not my play—this is me.” And the moment you say “This is me,” soot starts to stick upon you. And if it stuck only to you, it would be less; the one on whose own hands soot begins to collect starts throwing soot on others too. Soot is what is in the hand; that is what we exchange. Then we blacken ourselves and others. And our whole life fills with blackness.
We have prepared even our acting to be like the doer. See how the games are, and yet how deeply rooted. Two little children conduct a wedding of a doll and a toy bride—we say, “They are playing.” But consider: the wedding of a man and a woman, on a larger scale, is it more than the wedding of dolls? All the same rites and rituals, the same calculations, arrangements, drums and music, the same pretenses. Yes—the difference is only that the small game is played by little children, and the big game by big children. The little ones forget quickly—by evening they forget they married in the morning. The big ones go on fighting even in court; they do not forget—they cling hard.
But no one is ready to accept that marriage is a game. It feels difficult—because if marriage becomes a game, then the family woven around it becomes a game; the society woven around the family becomes a game; and the human world spread around society becomes a game. Therefore, step by step we must make everything solid: marriage is not a game—it is a serious matter, a life-and-death issue. Family is not a game; society is not a game. Then everything grows hard like stone. And one who takes it as a game—we will take his life. Because he is breaking our entire serious arrangement. He does not accept the rules of our game. We will take our revenge.
Our entire life is a long acting. But we have shaped acting so that we say, “This is our doership.”
Ishavasya says the opposite. He says: know acting as acting, and for no event whatsoever in the world become mad enough to be the doer. You are mad if you become the doer. Let the doer be the Divine alone. Leave it to That—which was when you were not, and will be when you are no more. Leave it to That. Leave the doing to That. Do not take the burden of doing. That burden is far too great; it is heavier than you. That stone is too heavy for your capacity. You will be crushed beneath it and die, and you will not rise from under it.
But our ego finds this difficult. Our ego relishes it—the bigger the stone upon our chest, the more the relish. The bigger the stone one keeps on the chest, the more the swagger. It feels, “I am lifting such a great stone!” You are lifting nothing. “I am lifting a great stone.” Presidents, prime ministers—they enjoy great stones. They receive a thousand abuses, they face a thousand troubles—to have a big stone upon the chest! If someone tells you your stone is small—“You are only the head of a village council, aren’t you?”—then you say, “Where am I, and where is the President!” The same play on a larger scale. The same madness happens to the village head; the stage is small. The President’s stage is large. The village head too is tormented—when will he reach somewhere to lift a bigger stone? In this life we call one great to the degree that there is a big stone on his chest.
The truth is the reverse. Those who know say: the one who has no stone upon his chest is the one who is light like a flower—on whom there is no burden. But such a person is rare. At least a small burden a man keeps. If not the head of the village council, at least the head of the house! And it is not always the father who is the head at home—let the father go out a little, the small child becomes the head of the smaller children. At once he dominates. Your child who quarrels with his younger brother in your presence—remove yourself, and you will suddenly find him dominating. He begins to play the very role you were playing. The scale will be small, the status less, but the game the same. The proportions are the same: you play between two hundred and four hundred; he will play between two and four. But proportion is the same; there is no difference; only the numbers differ. Little children play little games, big children big games. The old play bigger and bigger games.
A man has great difficulty if he cannot show that there is some stone upon his chest. And another amusing thing: the bigger the stone, often the bigger we declare it.
In the university where I was, there was a lady professor. Listening to her illnesses, I was amazed—so many illnesses cannot belong to one woman! Whenever she met me: some great illness! Small illnesses never touched her. I asked her husband: so many illnesses! As it is, a wife is quite enough illness—then so many more! How do you manage? He said, “Do not get involved. She never has small illnesses. Even if she has a cold, she will not speak of anything less than consumption, than TB.” I wondered, what is the secret in enlarging illness?
There is a secret. A big illness is a big stone upon the chest. A small illness means you are a two-penny person—your illness is small, not a disease of status. That is why we used to call the great diseases rajroga—royal diseases; like phthisis or consumption—only kings had them, not the poor.
I was just reading: a woman went to a doctor and said, “Remove my appendix.” The doctor said, “But there must be some problem in your appendix!” She said, “Whether there is or not—at the club I belong to, among the ladies, someone has had the appendix removed, someone something else; nothing has been removed from me—there is nothing to talk about there.”
Man wants a stone upon the chest. Hence it is difficult to find a person like a flower, who can say, “There is no burden upon me.” But there is burden in life—who can say otherwise? Only the one who has given the whole burden to Paramatma. And the amusing thing is: the whole burden is already on Paramatma. You unnecessarily become the middleman.
Our condition is like the villager who got into the train carrying his bedding on his head. People nearby said, “Put it down, why suffer!” He said, “I have bought a ticket only for myself. I am an honest man; I paid only for myself, not for the load. How can I set this bedding down on the train? It would be cheating the government. So I keep it on my head.”
That villager does not know that whether he keeps it on his head or not, it makes no difference—the train bears the weight. The load is borne by Paramatma. All doership is borne by Paramatma. But we board the Divine’s train and, keeping our bedding on our heads, take great pleasure on the way. And we tell those with smaller weights, “Your life was wasted. You should have acquired a bigger burden. At least, at death there should be so much that people would say, ‘He left something.’” That is why, when someone dies, even if he left nothing, we still talk as if he did—we speak of weights that were not upon him.
I have heard: a man died. At his grave the village priest stood and, as the coffin was lowered, began to speak—of his virtues, his deeds, his services. His wife was a little anxious; she said to her son, “Sonny, bend and look—make sure it is your father’s face in the coffin. I have never heard of such deeds from him!”
At night she went to the priest: “You said such things—but as far as I know, my husband did no such works.” The priest said, “Perhaps he did not. But if a man dies and no works can be told of him, what will people say? Some weight must be declared.”
Voltaire had a friend who died. That friend abused Voltaire all his life, opposed every aspect of him—a poor character. When he died, people came to Voltaire and said, “Whatever he was, he was your friend. Granted, he abused you greatly, opposed you all his life—but now he is dead; write at least two words in his praise.” Voltaire wrote: “He was a good man, and a great one—provided he is really dead.” If truly dead, we can say so; if alive, we cannot.
So we are compelled to praise the dead. Even the stones they did not lift, we attribute to them. Is there such a man of whom there is nothing to say afterward!
Ishavasya, however, speaks of precisely such a man—who has left all doership to the Divine; who says, “I am not—You are. If there is a doer, it is You. At most I am a piece on Your chessboard. Move me where You will, do with me what You will. If You defeat me, I am defeated; if You give me victory, I am victorious. Neither victory is mine nor defeat mine. Defeat is Yours; victory is Yours.” One whose surrender is complete, who says, “All is of Paramatma—I too am His; every act is His”—such a one will still live, breathe, walk, rise, sit, work, eat his food, sleep at night. All this will happen—but within there will be no doer. And this is the only path.
And I too say: the rishi of Ishavasya speaks truly—this is the only path. All those on earth who have truly passed through life untouched—unstained, fresh as ever, as simple as they had come—have been those who acquired no ego in the journey. To live without ego—that is, without the sense of doership. And egolessness means surrender—sarender—placing everything at the feet of the Lord.
असुर्या नाम ते लोकाः अन्धेन तमसावृताः।
तांस्ते प्रेत्याभिगच्छन्ति ये के चात्महनो जनाः।।3।।
Those worlds related to the Asuras are covered by the blindness of ignorance—the non-vision of the Atman. Whoever are self-slayers, after death they go to those worlds. 3.
The Upanishads divide human beings into two: those who are slayers of the Self—of their own Atman, suicidal; and those who are knowers of their own Atman—self-knowers. Atmajñani and Atma-han.
Remember, we use the word “suicide,” but the Upanishads use it in the true sense; we do not. If a man kills his body, we say he has committed suicide; he is a self-slayer. Not right. Killing the body is not killing the Self; killing the body is not suicide. Though done by oneself, it is still not of the Self—it is a change of clothing, of covering. It is body-slaughter, not self-slaughter.
The Upanishad calls him a self-slayer who, covered by ignorance, lives without knowing himself. He is suicidal. He is killing his own Atman. To live without knowing oneself is suicide. To live without knowing oneself…
And we all live without knowing ourselves. We live, indeed—but we have no idea who we are, whence we are, why we are—for what? Toward what, where are we going, what is the purpose? What is the meaning of this being? No, we know nothing. We have no address of ourselves.
We may know many other things. But one thing is certainly unknown—our own address. The Upanishad will call us self-slayers, Asuras. Until we know ourselves, knowingly or unknowingly we are cutting ourselves. Ignorance afflicts others later; first it afflicts ourselves. Remember, the ignorant attacks others later; first he attacks himself. In fact, attacking another is impossible until we have attacked ourselves. Giving sorrow to another is impossible until we have given sorrow to ourselves. One who has not sown thorns in his own feet does not go to sow thorns on the path of others. One who has not arranged tears for himself does not arrange miseries for others.
In truth, first we sow pain for ourselves; when pain becomes so dense it begins to overflow us, we start distributing it. Only the unhappy give unhappiness to others. And rightly so—we can give only what we have. But that is the second event. The first event is giving pain to oneself.
Do we not all give pain to ourselves? We will. We may try to give ourselves joy, but we succeed only in giving pain. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. And the road to our own hell is constructed out of our very attempts to do ourselves good.
The real question is not, “What is my desire?” We all want to give ourselves joy—but without knowing oneself, no one can give himself joy. Because one who does not know who he is—how will he know what his joy is! What could my joy be? I will know only when my nature, my form, my innermost is known. Until I know the deep roots of my being, how will I decide for which flowers I am—what blossoms are to bloom in me? Until the seed within me is decisively known for what it is, how can I long for a certain flower? What flower should I wish to become?
If I do not know my seed, then whatever I try to become will bring sorrow—because I will not be able to become that. Failing to become, I will suffer, be tormented, filled with anxiety and tension. Life will become a race without arrival—much journeying with no destination. For destination is hidden in my nature, my innermost.
First I must know who I am. Perhaps what I truly am I am not even seeking; and for what I am not, I am seeking. If that is so, I will suffer if it is not found. And—even more strange—if it is found, I will still suffer.
In this life, those who fail become unhappy—but those who succeed also have no end to their sorrow. Granted, it is understandable that a man who fails should be unhappy. But those who succeed, ask them too—then life appears most ironic. Here, the unsuccessful are unhappy—that seems logical, just. But the successful are unhappy too—then this world looks sheer madness. If both success and failure lead to sorrow, where is the way to joy?
Ask the successful—ask Alexander, ask Stalin. Ask billionaires—Carnegie or Ford. Ask those who have obtained what they wanted. Did joy come? Astonishingly, they say: “We succeeded—but we succeeded only in gaining sorrow.”
Those who are unsuccessful say, “We failed to gain joy; sorrow came.” Those who are successful say, “We succeeded in gaining sorrow; sorrow came.” Those who run and reach the goal arrive in sorrow. Those who wander in the wilderness, in the forest, wander in sorrow. Then what is the difference between the goal and the path? Between wandering and arriving?
There appears no difference—there will be none. Because one who does not know who he is—his success too brings sorrow. The day he succeeds he finds the house he built is not even fit for him to dwell in—not in accord with his nature. The house is built, wealth amassed, fame acquired—but no part of the life-breath is fulfilled by them. First one had to know what one’s thirst is, one’s longing is. How many desires we carry without knowing what truly is our desire!
Freud, a few days before his death, wrote to a friend: “After listening to the miseries of millions throughout my life, I have come to the conclusion that man will remain ever unhappy—because man does not even know what he wants.” When a man like Freud says it, it is worth pondering. He says: “After studying the sorrows, anxieties, and mental agonies of millions of unhappy people, I have reached the conclusion that no man knows what he wants.”
Nor will he know. For before that, man does not know who he is. Suppose I go to get clothes tailored without knowing who I am—in the sense of my body’s measure. The clothes will be made. And I never knew my body, my size, my needs. One day the clothes are ready and I find they do not fit—something is out of harmony.
By all means, go to make the clothes—but first examine the one for whom they are—the one for whom the house is, the one for whom joy is to be sought. And the great wonder is: the one who knows who he is—his entire journey and arrangement of life is transformed. What we go out to seek, he no longer seeks. What we toil to obtain, he would not accept even at the price of a laughter. If someone were to give it for free, he would move away lest someone put it upon him. He goes out seeking something else. He goes to attain something else.
And the great wonder is: those who know themselves have never failed—till today. And those who do not know themselves, however successful they become—still they are not truly successful—till today. The self-knower succeeds without fail—because in knowing himself he opens the mystery, the secret, the door where joy is. It is hidden within himself.
Therefore the Upanishads say there are two kinds of people—self-knowers, who come to know themselves; and self-ignorant, who do not know themselves yet rush along, doing this and that, obtaining this and that, constructing this and that. Not knowing makes no difference—their running only grows faster.
Often it seems in life: what I had to attain is not coming because I am not running fast enough. A little faster and I will get it; still faster and I will get it. Perhaps I have not staked all, that is why it is not coming; I will put down the whole stake and I will get it. We never ask whether what we seek has any inner harmony with our innermost music. If not, then even if it is found, it is useless; if it is not found, it is useless anyway. And the time spent in getting or not getting is wasted. In that much we have murdered ourselves. We are self-slayers. We are Asuras.
Asura means: one who lives in darkness. Asura means: one who lives where the light of the sun does not reach. One who is darkness-lived. Creeping and groping in the dark like insects. And those who have not known themselves will be in darkness—for to know oneself is to become the sun. The unveiling of the self, the recognition of the self becomes the sun from which light spreads all around. Then wherever the foot steps, there is light; wherever the eyes fall, there is light; wherever the hands go, there is light. From within such a person a stream of light begins to flow. Wherever he is, there is illumination. Such a person’s journey is a journey through the realms of light.
And there are those whose inner lamp is utterly closed and extinguished, sunk in darkness. They keep running, groping, fleeing; the blind follow the blind; the blind lead the blind. The more talkative blind push aside the less talkative blind. The race continues. The more bold blind gather the less bold behind them: “Come!”
Kahlil Gibran wrote: a man went from village to village saying, “Follow me; I will take you to God.” No one ever followed him, so there was never any trouble. The villagers said, “We are busy with many other things—come later. The crop stands; let it be cut, then come.” He came again; they said, “The crop did not do well; there is scarcity, hardship—come next year.” He wandered from village to village. He was in no hurry for anyone to follow.
But in one village he found a madman. “Come,” he said, “whoever wants to go to God.” The madman threw away his spade, “I am coming.” The leader was alarmed. He thought, “In a year or two he will run away—how long will he follow?” But the man stuck behind him. A year passed—still behind. “Say, where do we go? I will go where you say.” Two years passed; now the leader grew nervous, the guru began to avoid him. But the disciple stood ever behind, “You say where! Wherever you say, I will go. Whatever you say, I will do.”
Six years passed. The disciple caught him by the neck, “Now it is getting late—speak.” The leader said, “Forgive me. In your company I lost my way. Since the day you began to follow me, I myself have lost the path. Before, the way was clear; all things were visible; the goal was near; God was in front. Your companionship has drowned me! You take your own path—stop following me.”
The disciple said, “Do not pass through our village again.” He said, “I beg pardon. I will not pass through your village. But there are other villages—may I go there? And in other villages where are men like you! They hear me; I pass beyond.”
A man lives in darkness, and to forget that he is in darkness he often begins to talk to others of light. Beware of this. You begin to tell others what you yourself do not know. Then you cause harm whose measure is hard to calculate. It is difficult to find a man who imposes such discipline upon himself: that he will say only what he knows, and what he does not know he will not say. No—if a chance comes, the temptation to tell another is heavy—very heavy. Let someone lean; if you see he is weak, that his neck can be pressed—you will press it. You will tell him, “Here is the way; go straight; reach.”
There is enjoyment in telling the way; by telling, a delusion arises that you know the way. Telling and telling, a man even forgets that he does not know.
Very few people know. But many are telling. If in this world those who do not know and yet tell were to become silent, a great auspiciousness would happen. But it is very difficult for them to be silent. Try to silence them, they will shout louder. Because shouting is how they deceive themselves; hearing their own voice ringing in their own ear gives reassurance: “All right; I know.”
The Upanishads say: there are two kinds of people. Think well: of the two, which kind are you? Which category are you in? And it is necessary to take an honest decision about oneself—only then can the next step of honesty be taken. Are you a self-slayer or a self-knower?
If you are a self-knower, there is no question—finished. Then there is no journey. If you are a self-slayer, then there is a journey—the matter has not even begun, far from ending. But it is easy to consider oneself a self-knower. Everyone has read the Upanishads, the Gita; the Bible, the Koran; the words of Mahavira, of Buddha—all are remembered. It has cost us dearly—beyond reckoning. All is memorized; everyone has the illusion of knowing everything. No one knows anything—and yet everyone has the illusion of knowing. It is memorized.
People write me letters: “You said this—it does not seem right because in such-and-such book it is written otherwise.” If you already know what is right, there is no need to listen to me. And if you do not know, whether my word is right or what is written in that book is right will not be decided by thinking. Something must be done.
Yesterday as I passed here, a friend in a car came and said, “Is this not what is said in the Yogasar, what you are saying?” They must be sitting with the Yogasar! Be concerned to do what I am saying. If what is said in Yogasar had been done, there would be no need to come to me. You have great grace for the Yogasar—nothing done. Do not show me the same grace. Now you ask me whether it is said in Yogasar. Whether it is said or not—what difference does it make? You read the Yogasar; you heard me. When will you do?
Those friends were not children. If you want to find deep foolishness, go to the old—for their foolishness has matured—experienced ignorance, solid and heavy. All the scriptures seen, all that is said known—self-knowers already. If you have become one—fine; very good; auspicious. We will all be delighted if anyone becomes one. But then there is no need to come to me. If you have come, I know the Yogasar was wasted. If you have come, I know all that has been read so far has been wasted. And having made so much waste, there is every likelihood you will waste me also. You are striving for that. If I say it is in the Yogasar, then fine—you already know; the matter ends. If I say it is not there, then you will have cause to argue. You have argued all your life.
I have no interest in any debate or doctrine. I have one small interest: that you decisively determine—are you a self-slayer or a self-knower? If you are a self-knower, you are beyond my accounting; I have nothing to do with you—the matter is over. If you are a self-slayer, something can be done. What can be done—that is what I am telling you. And remember: my saying so does not make it true. Nothing becomes true by my saying it. Until you know it by doing, nothing will become true. Know it by doing.
Religion is experiment, not speculation. Religion is process, not mere thinking. Religion is a science, not a philosophy. Surely the laboratory is not an outer one with test tubes and apparatus—you will yourself become the laboratory. Within you alone the entire experiment will bear fruit.
Enough for today. Tomorrow we will speak on further sutras.
Now let me say a little about the experiment—and then we will begin.
I take it that you are self-slayers. This may feel harsh. If it does, so much the better. A little hurt is good. Many are so dead that they do not even feel a hurt. Call them self-slayers—they say, “Right. You are saying rightly.” They accept—will accept.
Until now you have lived without knowing yourselves—that is what I say to you. I want that you yourself know this within and be able to say to yourself, “I am living without knowing myself.” Because the pain of not knowing oneself is so dense that it alone will take you into the experiment—nothing else will.
And remember: religion is such an experiment that you will know only if you do it. If your neighbor does it, you will not know. This afternoon in the silence I saw ten or fifteen hardened fools—they were watching what others were doing. What will you see! One man is running, one is dancing, one is shouting—what are you seeing? You must be thinking, “This one is mad!” I say to you: think again—mad are you. He is doing something. Have you come to see the mad? For what have you come here? To watch someone dance? Useless labor. Such a long journey for nothing. If you wanted to see madmen, you could have found them in your own village. There was no need to climb this mountain so far.
And whatever is happening within another you will never know. If he is laughing, you will hear the sound of laughter—but which spring within is flowing, you will not know. If he is crying, you will see tears—but what within has overflowed so that tears are flowing, you will not know. If he is dancing, so be it—he is dancing. You will see hands and feet rise and fall; he is jumping. But which melody has begun to play within him, which strings have begun to vibrate—you will never know. Put your ear upon his chest, yet no note of his inner veena will be heard by you. Hence, forget others completely—drop even the remembrance of the other.
Therefore for tomorrow’s silence: even in silence, keep the blindfold on your eyes; that is best. In silence also, let none sit without a blindfold—sit with a blindfold. Put cotton in your ears. Blindfold the eyes. Drop the concern to see. By seeing you will gain nothing.
The night’s experiment is with open eyes. And those who kept their eyes closed as much as possible today, they will be able to go deeper in this experiment. Those who did not, tomorrow keep more care—keep the eyes closed as much as possible. This night’s experiment is with open eyes. Remember: when the eyes are open, the energy of the eyes continuously flows outward. If you are to do this experiment with full power, then keep the eyes closed as much as possible in the day—energy will gather, and at night the eyes will be able to use it in the experiment; otherwise not.
So take care tomorrow. Keep the eyes closed as much as possible, the ears closed; remain in silence. In the morning the experiment will be with closed eyes; in the afternoon silence too the blindfold will remain on the eyes. At night for forty minutes keep the eyes fully open.
Now we will sit here for forty minutes. You will simply keep looking at me for forty minutes. Do not even blink. Keep the doorway of the eyes completely open for forty minutes. In a little while many experiences will begin to happen. And those who have experimented today—and many friends have done very rightly—the results will be powerful. Whoever feels that it will be easier for him to stand—because he will jump, dance—let him stand on the outer perimeter all around. From this corner around me, those seated will remain in the middle. Those standing will be all around. Whoever has even a little sense that it will be easier to stand—move now. Do not get up later in the middle. You will not be able to then. You will have to sway and move sitting. So quietly—without speaking—go to the outer circle and stand around me. And for forty minutes I will have to look at you—and you at me. I will sit silently here. Whatever happens to you—let it happen. If you feel to breathe deeply, breathe deeply. If you feel to dance, dance. But keep your attention toward me; the eyes fixed on me. If you feel to shout, shout. Dance, weep, laugh—whatever happens. But keep the gaze on me.
Two more indications. When I feel you have come into the right state, I will raise both my hands upward. At that moment you must put in your total energy. That is my signal that your inner Kundalini is rising—give your total. And when I feel you are so filled with energy that the power of the Divine can descend upon you, I will bring my hands down from above. Then you must use all the energy you have—total. And then there will be many results.
Now move. Whoever needs to stand—come around me. Those who wish to sit—remain in front. Quickly—do not take long; move silently. Later there will be no chance to get up, so step out now.
And do not look at anyone else. The microphone will be removed. I will sit silently here; your eyes will remain fixed on me. Forty minutes—unblinking—keep looking at me. If tears fall, let them fall; if the eyes burn, let them burn; do not worry. And whatever begins to happen within you, let it be expressed. Do not hold it back.
Do not talk. Move out. Stand up. The bliss of standing—its taste is something else. Do not be miserly. The joy of standing is something else—because you will have a full chance to let your energy be expressed openly.