Ishavashya Upanishad #4

Atman is unmoving—yet more swift than the swift. Atman lies beyond the race of the senses and the mind, because it precedes both; it is prior to both; it surpasses both.
For the seeker, this sutra is essential to understand—and immensely useful.
First, that Atman, with which we are unfamiliar, of which we have no direct clue—what we truly are, and yet what we do not recognize. The ultimate depth of our consciousness, the last abyss, from which our being is born and unfolds.
If we think of a tree: there are leaves spread into the sky, behind the leaves are hidden branches, behind the branches the trunk. And beneath all that, in the dark womb of the earth, the roots are concealed. If a tree were to take itself to be only the leaf—it would not be difficult, for the roots are not visible, hidden in the inner darkness—it might imagine, “I am a cluster of leaves,” and forget that roots are. Its forgetting makes no difference to the fact. The leaves cannot live even for a moment without the roots. And here is the marvel: leaves cannot be without the roots, but roots can be without leaves. Even if we cut down the entire tree, the roots remain alive below and will sprout a new tree. But if we cut away the roots, the leaves will only wither, dry and die; they cannot give birth to new leaves. Those roots hidden deep in darkness—that is life-breath.
If we take man too as a tree, then what we call thoughts are no more than our leaves. And we gather this cluster of leaves and conclude: “This is me.” The roots are deep within—the Atman. And, just as the tree’s roots are hidden deep in the dark earth, so too the roots of our Atman are hidden in the Paramatman—deep, very deep. From there we draw the sap. From there life arrives. From there the streams of prana flow and reach our leaves.
Our leaves cannot be, if there are no roots. The day those roots contract into the Paramatman, that very day our leaves wither, branches dry—people say, the man has died. As long as the roots drink the sap, as long as the Atman keeps unfolding our leaves, it seems we are alive.
Our thoughts are like leaves; our desires, like branches. From the aggregation of these leaves and branches, our ego is constructed. This is a very secondary portion of our being. The essential, substantial part of our being lies hidden below. This the Upanishad calls Atman: that without which we could not be—though we can forget it. That without which nothing of ours could be—yet it lies so deep underground, so profound in existence, that we can consign it to oblivion. Atman is forgotten.
And the oddity is: what is not deep, without which we still can appear to be, sits on the periphery—visible, graspable. When we go to grasp ourselves, we take our pile of thoughts to be “me.” We take the mind to be “me.” The mind-nature is the heap of our leaves; the Atman-nature is the root. And remember: whoever does not reach the roots will never recognize the soil from which the roots draw their sap. The root is Atman. Whoever reaches the root will very soon discover: even the root is receiving—the root itself drinks from the Earth. There is yet a vaster underground current of life. Whoever realizes Atman will also recognize the Paramatman.
But we live in the leaves, and taking this bunch of leaves to be ourselves, we tremble: when even a single leaf withers and falls, we think—we are dying, we are gone, we are destroyed. When all the leaves wither, we say—life is lost. We know nothing of Life. We live as the outermost covering—and take that to be ourselves.
The Upanishad says: he who lives in this covering—this cloak alone—is a self-murderer. He who goes beneath this veil, into the depths, to where the roots are found—the roots of existence, where existence discovers its original source, the Gangotri of the life-stream—he has known Atman. He who knows it is the knower of the Self; he alone attains light, he alone attains life.
Of this Atman three things are said. First: Atman is forever still. Around this still Atman, a vast web of change moves. This too is a great secret: wherever change is, at the center stillness is indispensable. A cart-wheel revolves, the axle-pin stands still. If the pin also moved, rolling would be impossible. The pin stays, therefore the wheel turns. The secret of the wheel’s motion lies in the unmoving pin. If the pin also moved, the wheel would not move; the cart would topple and perish. The wheel turns in exact proportion to the stillness of the pin. The wheel travels hundreds of miles, and how much does the pin travel? The pin remains where it is. And the marvel is: the rolling wheel needs the standing pin. The cycle of change revolves upon that which is changeless.
Thus, in our life all that is change is leaf. It will come with spring and fall in autumn. Not for a moment does it stay; the covering keeps changing. But deep within, somewhere, there is an element that is still, that sustains all change.
Have you seen summer whirlwinds? A circling gust carries a cloud of dust into the sky. After the whirlwind passes, go and see the marks of its feet upon the dust—astonishing! The whirlwind spins with tremendous force; sometimes it lifts people into the air. Yet if you look where the whirlwind moved, you will find—like a wheel’s hub—an untouched center, a vacant, empty point. So fierce the rotation, yet at its heart a place remains empty—zero. There, air becomes an axle-pin. Upon that unmoving pin, the whole whirlwind spins.
In truth, nothing can revolve unless something stays still at the center. Life whirls with great force. Thoughts whirl with great force. Desires whirl with great force. The tendencies whirl. Life is a wheel, turning fast. The Upanishads say: in its midst is a still element. That must be sought. Without that support, such a whirlwind could not go on. The whirlwind of life moves upon that still element.
That still element is Atman. Forever still. It has never gone anywhere. It has never changed. Until the remembrance of that unchanging, never-altering One arises, know that we have not known life. Until now we knew the periphery, only change; we have not yet met the pin. We remained familiar with the spokes; we have not seen the base upon which all rests. The Upanishad says: it is still. It is unmoving.
What does stillness mean? Any meaning we impose is likely to go wrong. Many who have commented on the Upanishads have erred here.
Still does not mean stagnant. Not like a pond—dead, stopped, rotting. Saying Atman is still does not mean stagnancy. The stillness of Atman is not the stillness of decay.
Atman’s stillness means Atman is so complete that there is no possibility of change. Atman is so perfect, so absolute, so unconditional—whatever it is, it is so full that there is no room for anything further to become.
Change occurs where there is incompleteness—where there is space, scope, an opening for more. A child grows young; the young grow old. There is margin, so it changes. Leaves come, flowers bloom and fall; new leaves arrive.
To say Atman is still is to say: Atman is complete. How to change the complete? Into what would the complete change? There is no space left to change further. Stillness means: total flowering—so utterly in bloom that no buds remain to open. Think not of a stagnant pond, but of a lotus in full bloom. So completely opened that no petals remain unopened.
So here stillness means perfection—not stagnancy. It means fullness, fullness upon fullness. Beyond this, where would more petals unfold? All potentiality has become actuality. What was hidden in the seed is utterly manifest; nothing unmanifest remains. Hence, stillness here does not mean lack of movement; it means completion. But when we hear “still,” we imagine a man not walking, standing dead. Not here. Not dead stagnancy—living fullness. Keep in mind the blossomed flower, not the stagnant pool.
Second, the Ishavasya declares: the senses cannot attain it, for it is prior to the senses.
Naturally, I can see you with my eyes, because you are before my eyes. But I cannot see myself with my eyes, because I am behind the eyes. I can see you, for you stand before the eye. I cannot see myself with these eyes, for I am behind them. If my eyes are gone, if I become blind, then indeed I cannot see you—but that does not mean I cannot see myself. Blindness prevents only that which the eyes could see. Myself I have never seen with eyes—so even blind, I remain self-seeing.
Two things to remember here. The senses are a medium for that which stands before them. They are not a medium for that which is behind them. Behind means twofold: not only behind—but prior.
When a child’s embryo forms, life arrives first; then the senses come. It must be so—if life does not arrive first, who will craft the senses? Life enters first. The Atman enters the minute germ. The whole Atman enters. Then, one by one, the senses begin to develop. Then the body takes shape. In seven months the senses unfold in the mother’s womb. In nine months they assume their full shape—but some things still are unfinished. The sex-organ, for instance, is not complete; it takes nearly fourteen years after birth to mature. Many parts of the brain continue to develop throughout life. Even a dying man is still developing something as he dies.
But life came first; the senses came later—the instruments arrived afterward. The master comes first; the servants are called later. Of course—who would summon the servants? The master can know the servants, but the servants cannot turn back and know the master. The Atman can know the senses, but the senses cannot know the Atman. For its being precedes them, and is so deep that the senses cannot reach.
The senses are above—an outer garment of life. Therefore, no one can know the Atman through the senses, however swift their run. The mind too is a sense. How fast the mind runs!
Hence the paradox in this statement: even the mind, which runs so swiftly, cannot attain that Atman which is absolutely still. The mind—running at lightning speed—misses that which does not move. Strange race! The contest is bewildering. The mind should be able to catch the unmoving Atman—yet it cannot.
Often, in life too, what is still can be reached only by stillness—not by running. You walk along a path. Flowers blossom on the verge. They are still. The slower you walk, the more you see them. If you stop, you see them fully. But if you pass in a car at ninety miles an hour, nothing is grasped. And if you fly, you do not even know they were there. If some future vehicle goes ten thousand miles per hour, not even a hint of the flower will remain. Speed makes you miss what is still.
The mind runs faster than any vehicle—and may no vehicle ever be built that matches it, otherwise our mind will be left behind and we will be dragged ahead—trouble indeed. No craft will ever outpace the mind. When the ship reaches the moon, the mind will already be voyaging to Mars; when the ship lands on Mars, the mind will have forayed into a hundred other worlds. The mind always outruns all vehicles.
Even so, the Upanishad says, this fleetest mind cannot attain the still Atman. Rightly so—what is utterly still cannot be caught by running; it is attained only by halting. If the mind comes to a complete stop, only then can it know that which is still.
Know this also: when the mind stops absolutely, it is not. The mind exists only so long as it runs. Truly speaking, “running” is the mind. We say, the mind runs—this is a linguistic error, like saying lightning “flashes.” Have you ever seen lightning that does not flash? The flashing is the lightning. Saying “lightning flashes” divides what is one. In truth, what flashes—we call that “lightning.”
Exactly the same mistake happens when we say “the mind runs.” What runs—that we call “mind.” The run itself is “mind.” Therefore a “still mind” is meaningless—just as “non-flashing lightning” is meaningless. If lightning is not flashing, it is not. If the mind becomes still—it becomes no-mind. Kabir calls it the a-mani state—no-mind. When it halts, it ceases. The mind will never know the Atman. For, as I said, by running Atman is never known—and mind is the very running. The day the mind is not, that day the Atman is known. With mind we may know the whole world; only the Atman will remain unknown. When mind is not, we know the Atman.
And the mind’s run has its own technology. One cannot run without cause; so the mind manufactures causes. These causes are called desires—vasanas. The mind says, “There is something to be attained.” Without a goal ahead, how will it run? So every day the mind fixes a goal in the future: there is the destination—now run! And when it “reaches,” that goal becomes useless—because it was only a pretext for running. Having attained one, the mind manufactures another: “Very well, now that is reached—no essence in it. The next is over there—forward!”
Thus the mind always lives in the future—never in the present. Whoever must run must live ahead; never where you are. If it were where you are, running would cease. Atman is where you are. The mind is where you never are—always in the future. And wherever it arrives, it declares: “Useless. Move on.”
The mind is like a milestone whose arrow always points ahead. But among milestones there is one that reads “zero.” On the zero-stone there is no arrow.
Yesterday in Abu I passed such a stone—zero. No arrow—neither this way nor that. It cannot be—because zero means destination; beyond it, there is nowhere to go. Where you wished to arrive—there you are.
But in the mind’s journey, the zero-stone never appears; the arrow forever points ahead. If ever the zero-stone appears in the mind’s pilgrimage, that place is called meditation. Where the stone reads zero—no arrow. If ever such a point arrives in the mind’s journey—there is the realization of Atman. That zero-place. Therefore those who have known say: you cannot know by the mind—but you can know by Shunya. Remember, whenever such knowers say “Shunya,” they mean a-mind, no-mind.
I said the mind manufactures pretexts—something to get. And the final trick of the mind is this: when all worldly things are exhausted and the mind grows bored—“We obtained wealth, yet nothing was received; we built houses, nothing was gained; we bought bodies, nothing came”—even then it does not tire; it keeps drawing arrows. It will not say, “Now make a zero; stop drawing arrows.” It begins to draw arrows toward afterlife, heaven, moksha, God. “Attain these! If not wealth, then dharma—yet obtain! Let becoming continue.” So the mind continues.
Remember, the religious man is not the one who wants to attain God. As long as anyone wants to attain anything, the mind continues. The religious man is one who has seen this truth: the run to attain is the mind—therefore we do not attain. We stand in non-attainment. Even if God were to say, “Come two steps, I am here,” now we do not go. We stand upon the zero-stone. Our journey is over.
And the marvel is: the one who stands still—finds God. The one who runs to attain even God—does not find. For running belongs to the mind; through the mind, no Atman is attainable.
Mind runs by manufacturing desires—even religious desires. One may even desire moksha. Therefore a man as incisive as Buddha had to say, “There is no moksha”—not because moksha is not; or, “There is no God”—not because God is not—but so your mind may find no further pretexts. You may tire of the world—but then you will manufacture new pretexts: “All right, leave the world—seek God.” Buddha goes so far as to say, “There is no Atman”—lest you begin to chase even the Atman. The mind is so clever it will say, “If nothing else, at least there is Atman—let us attain that!” If not the house, then the temple—but run we must!
But those who arrive are those who stand still. This sutra says exactly that.
It is behind the senses, beyond the mind. By senses and mind you will not attain it.
What then to do? If it is beyond the senses—drop reliance upon the senses. If it is beyond the mind—break the supports of the mind’s run. Let the mind’s props fall; let the senses be set aside.
This is what I tell you. If I ask you to close your eyes, I am asking you to break a trust. You have seen much by the eyes; it did not appear. Birth after birth you looked—He did not appear. Now close the eyes and see. You tried to hear His sound with the ears—never did it reach you. You longed for His music—no, the ears cannot seize it. Now close the ears. You thought a lot, reflected a lot—no clue of Him came to hand. You wore the mind out—philosophized, theologized, searched scriptures, minted words and doctrines—no news of Him. Now drop it. Stop thinking. Slip into the un-thought, into no-thinking. There—perhaps—He is found.
I say “perhaps” for your sake. In truth, there He is found. But I say perhaps—for until you have found, even a firm faith that “it will happen” can be dangerous; it may become an obstacle. It consoles you—“It will happen”—and the very remembrance to turn, to shift the gaze, to experiment, is lost. The doctrine itself becomes the attainment. Therefore I say—perhaps. So you may experiment. Perhaps—so you may be experimental. He is found—but after the experiment.
The senses—and reliance upon them—must be set aside. The mind—and its speed, its race—must be let go. Such is the Atman—always available, always present—and yet we miss it with great skill. We have never lost it; we only forget. But in that forgetting, life becomes darkness; in that forgetting, life becomes hell. In that forgetting, no flowers bloom—only thorns. In that forgetting, life becomes a desert—no river flows, no stream of rasa. Everything dries up.
So is our life—a desert. Dig as you may, only sand comes to hand; no springs are found. Walk as you may, there is no shade, no rest, no halting-place.
Without the shade of Atman there is no rest. Without it, there is no oasis. Without it, no stream of rasa has ever flowed—nor will it. That alone is all.
But those entangled in leaves do not reach the roots. Granted that leaves come from roots—yet if one is stuck in leaves, the roots are never reached. Drop the leaves. Go down—deep. Go within—beyond. Transcend—indriyatita, vicharatita—further and further retreating backwards. Reach that place where the zero-stone appears. It is within everyone. We all carry that Shunya within. Else we could not whirl. As I said: if that inner Shunya—that still fullness—were not within, this whole stream of change, this great spinning web, could not turn. We whirl like a storm, like a whirlwind—on that Shunya.
A last word here. Shunya and Purna are two ways of saying one thing. The Upanishads prefer the language of Purna—the positive language. When these sutras were born, man could understand the language of fullness. To hear Purna, a childlike heart is needed. The old cannot understand Purna. And humanity has grown out of childhood—becoming “mature.” When these sutras were uttered, people were childlike—so they understood Purna.
Study little children. They ask very difficult questions. A small child asks, “Where do babies come from?” Science still has no final answer—and in my view, never will. Yet you say, “The crow brings them.” The child is satisfied and runs out to play. He believes—positive mind. No denial arises yet, no suspicion. Later the negative mind appears.
There was a time when the whole human race was like children—innocent, simple. Hence the older the scripture, the more astonishing it seems—no argument, no logic, pure statement. Someone comes to a rishi and asks, “My mind is restless—what shall I do?” The rishi says, “Take the Name of Ram.” The man says, “All right,” goes home, repeats Ram—and all is well.
Remember, it is not the name Ram that works. In that mind’s positive state—acceptance so simple, no refusal, no doubt—that does it. The rishi could have said, “Repeat ‘stone, stone,’” and it would have happened. Not because of the word “stone”—but because of that affirmative mind-state. A talisman, a pinch of ashes—anything would do, if the mind is positive.
But the positive mind waned. By the time of Mahavira and Buddha, affirmation had declined. Hence both had to use the language of negation. Mahavira used a little negation—he said, “There is no God.” Not because there is no God—but because now people were no longer such that, told “God is,” they would dance. They would bring ten questions. So Mahavira said, “There is no God.” An answer from which questions arise is useless. “God” had become a question. So he set it aside.
Buddha went one step further. Between Mahavira and Buddha there is only thirty years—yet Buddha had to say, “There is no Atman.” Mahavira said, “No God—Atman is.” Buddha said, “Even Atman is not.” Because people had turned “Atman” too into a question. Buddha said, “Shunya.”
Remember: no question can be raised about Shunya. Shunya means “that which is not”—what could you ask of that? If you raise questions, you have not understood. Buddha said, “Shunya—dissolve into this Shunya.” The language changed. But I tell you: Shunya and Purna are one. Purna is the answer for the affirmative mind. Shunya is the answer for the negative mind.
And marvelously, in this world, apart from Shunya, we have no direct experience of any fullness. Hence the symbol for Shunya—a circle—is the most perfect figure humans draw. No other figure is so complete. And it is significant that the first figure of zero was drawn in India—not due to mathematics, but due to Vedanta. One through nine are all incomplete—something can be added or subtracted. But from zero nothing can be subtracted; to zero nothing can be added. It is complete.
Shunya is the geometric image of Purna. We carry this Shunya within. If Purna speaks to you—good. If not, let Shunya speak—no difference in the end-result. For the affirmative temperament—dance, sing, dissolve in joy. For the negative temperament—be silent, be empty, sink into Shunya. The fruit is one. From Shunya, dance will arise; from dance, Shunya will arrive.
One whose feeling is for Purna will first dance and sing—kirtan—and come to Shunya. As the dance intensifies and becomes a whirlwind, only dance remains; within, the Shunya is felt. Behind, someone stands. The body dances; within, the empty Atman stands. The axle-pin is seen along with the turning wheel. And note: if the wheel stood still, it would be hard to distinguish pin from wheel; both would be still. When the wheel moves, the pin is easy to know—it does not move, the wheel does.
One who begins with Shunya—empties within first—will then see the outer wheel turning: thoughts moving, the world moving.
From either end the journey begins. There are only two ends. This Atman is known either by becoming Purna—or by becoming Shunya. Neither senses can lead to Purna, nor to Shunya. Nor can the mind carry you to Purna, nor to Shunya.
Let us take one more sutra.
Tadejati tannaijati taddure tadvantike.
Tadantarasya sarvasya tadu sarvasyasya bahyatah. 5.
That Atman moves and also does not move. It is far—and it is near. It is inside all—and it is outside all. 5.
It does not move—and yet it alone moves. It is near—nearer than the nearest—yet far. It is within—inner-most—and yet it spreads without.
This sutra is among the great utterances spoken in human history—very simple, and very deep. The simpler a truth becomes, the more profound it is. What appears utterly clear—that is the mystery. And to reveal that mystery, paradoxical words must be used. A logician will protest, “Nonsense!”
Arthur Koestler, a major Western thinker, has mocked such Eastern vision as absurd: what could be more meaningless than saying the Atman is “nearest and farthest”? If it is near, it cannot be far. If it is still, how can it also move? If it is within, how can it be without? “Choose: either near or far; either moving or still; either inside or outside.”
Your mind will agree with Koestler—if you are honest. He is an honest man—and honesty helps; paths can open from there. He calls such statements illogical, madhouse-talk. And at first glance it seems so.
But Koestler does not know that in the last ten years science has reached the same pass—and speaks the same way. Einstein too speaks like this. Leave aside the rishis—perhaps they are mad. They never claimed not to be—only the mad insist they are sane. The wise are so wise they can afford to be mad.
To claim wisdom is the only stupidity. The wise have said, “We know nothing—except that we know nothing.” The more they knew, the deeper the ignorance appeared; the more doors and walls of knowing fell away.
But even Koestler cannot call Einstein mad. Yet science too, as it touches the ultimate mystery, collides with the same necessity of paradox. When the rishi reached the last truth—the Atman—he had to say, in one breath: far and near. Lest you conclude only “far,” he adds “near.” Lest you conclude only “near,” he adds “far.” Each statement is immediately countered—so you are not trapped in half-truth. Today science, circling the ultimate of matter, faces the same crisis.
When the electron was first discovered, scientists were at a loss for words. Is it a particle or a wave? Particle and wave are opposite. Particle implies a state—stillness; wave implies movement, process. If a wave stops, it is no wave. A wave is “waving”—arising and ceasing, a process. A particle is a state.
What to call the electron? It behaves as both. One scientist sees a wave; another, a particle; one moment particle, the next wave—both. There was no word in any language. They coined “quantum”—meaning: both.
“Mad!” Koestler should say—“Einstein, Planck—mad!” Someone asked Einstein, “How can it be both?” He replied, “Whether it can be or cannot be—how shall I decide? It is so. If logic breaks before fact, logic must break. Facts will not break. Change your logic. Aristotle is wrong if need be; the electron will not reform itself to suit Aristotle.”
Aristotle’s logic says contraries cannot be together. Yet those who know the deep mystery say: life and death are two legs of one being. At once we are living and dying. Only the living can die—being alive is the necessary condition for dying. Strange—but true. If living is required for dying, then dying is required for living. They are one process.
Aristotle says darkness is darkness, light is light—they cannot be one. But science says: darkness is less light, light is less darkness—a difference of degrees. So with heat and cold.
Try this: warm one hand over a stove, cool the other on ice, then put both into one bucket of water. Ask: is the water warm or cold? One hand says “cold,” the other “warm.” You will have to say: both—lest you err. Absurd, says Koestler. But what to do? “Warm” and “cold” are only relational.
So the Upanishad says: Atman is near and far. Near—because however far the leaves are, they are forever near the root; they are its extension. There is no gap—no discontinuity—between root and leaf. The leaf is the root’s outstretched hand. Your toe and your hair are not separate—they are joined, two ends of one thing.
So the root is nearest to the leaf—its life, its sap. How can it be far? Yet it is far—very far. For the leaf does not even suspect there are roots. The sun seems nearer to the leaf—though it is a hundred million miles away. At sunrise the leaf dances. The sun is obvious; the root remains unknown—though the leaf is nothing but the root extended. So: the sun is near; the root is far. And instantly we must add: no—near, very near.
Atman is very near—without it, we cannot be. And far—very far—for through countless births we have sought, and still no trace.
Therefore the rishi says: it does not move—yet it moves. The wheel moves; the axle-pin does not. Yet the journey belongs to the pin, too. You ride ten miles. The pin has not moved an inch, and yet the journey covered is ten miles. Madness!—but fact. Aristotle can be wrong—facts are not. The Atman has not budged a hair, yet how vast the journey, how many stations and goals!
Thus the Upanishad declares: it does not move—yet it moves much. It is within—and without.
Outside and inside are makeshift distinctions. What is “outside”? Breath goes in—you say “inside.” Before you can say it, it is out. Outside and inside are only directions. The sky inside the house and the sky outside—any gap? None. You raised walls around a piece of sky—it is the same sky. Yet when the sun blazes, there is a difference: outside burns, inside soothes. The inner and outer sky are one—and different. So the Upanishad says: the same within, the same without. Yet, to know, begin within. After knowing, you can declare: “This very One is without.” Before knowing, you cannot. He who does not know the little inner sky will not know the vast outer sky. First be acquainted with this small; then the vast will be known.
Those who set out to know must begin within. Those who arrive, complete without. The first step is inner; the last step dissolves into the outermost. The journey begins with Atman and is fulfilled in Paramatman.
This statement—apparently absurd, illogical, disjointed—is profoundly true. Those who halt at logic never reach fact. Only those who dare to drop logic arrive at fact. Facts do not obey your logic; logic is man-made. Truth does not study your logic, nor consent to your rules. Where fact and logic collide, logic must break. Therefore, when the sages reached fact, they left logic aside. “Logic will not do,” they said.
Hence those who are very skilled in logic find truth a little difficult. They keep saying: “How can water be cold and warm at once?”—but it is. “How can winter and summer be one?”—but they are. “How can birth and death be one?”—but they are.
The seeker of truth must have the courage to leave logic—the greatest courage.
This sutra is beyond logic—and for that very reason, supreme. This is why I say: among the Mahavakyas—the great utterances—this is one.
Now let us enter this supra-logical, ultimate fact. Therefore, do not think, “What will happen by dancing? By shouting? By crying? By laughing?” Do not think. Drop it.