Ishavashya Upanishad #5

At the root of man’s deepest entanglements lies hatred. One can say: the poison of hatred alone erupts in man and in all his poisonous expressions.

Hatred means: an eagerness for the other’s destruction. Love means: a longing for the other’s life. Hatred means: a longing for the other’s death. Love means: the readiness, if need be, to end oneself for the other. Hatred means: even if there is no need, to be ready to end the other for oneself.

And the way we all live, there is no tone of love in it; only the expansion of hatred. In truth, what we call love is most often just another form of our hatred. Even in love we turn the other into a means. And whenever one turns another into a means, from that very moment hatred begins. Even in love we live for ourselves. And if we seem to do something for the other, it is only because we expect to gain something from it. We do something for the other only when there is a hope of return, a desire for the fruit; otherwise we do not.

Hence our love can turn into hatred any moment. It does. The one we loved a moment ago, the very same love can turn into hatred a moment later. Let there be only a small obstacle to our desire, and love is transformed into hatred. Any love that can change into hatred is but the hidden face of hatred. Inside there is hatred; on the surface, only the covering of love.

The Ishavasya speaks of a very precious sutra. The sutra is this — and only then is love possible, otherwise love is not possible; only then can the flower of love blossom; apart from this, there is no possibility for the flower of love — the sutra is that when a person begins to see himself in all beings and all beings in himself, only then does hatred come to an end.

Remember, the Ishavasya does not say that only then is love born. It says: only then does hatred end. There is a very well-considered reason for saying so.

It is a most delightful truth that, except for the presence of hatred, nothing obstructs the birth of love. If hatred is not, love flowers by itself. It is spontaneous; it blossoms of its own accord. Nothing else is needed to make it blossom. Just as when a rock is placed over a spring, and we remove the rock and the spring bursts forth — so it is with us; the rock of hatred lies upon us.

What will the stone of hatred mean? It means we do not see ourselves in others, nor do we see others in ourselves. We neither perceive that our image dwells in all beings, nor do we perceive that all beings are reflected in us. The totality cannot become our mirror wherein we behold our own face, nor can we ourselves become a mirror in which the faces of all beings are reflected. These two events occur together. One who sees himself in all beings, in all creatures, in all existence, will necessarily see all in himself. For whom the world becomes a mirror, such a one also becomes a mirror for the world. It happens simultaneously; they are two aspects of one and the same event.

And the Upanishad says that the moment this happens, hatred falls away.

Then what is born? The Upanishad does not say that now love is born. Because love is eternal; it is our very nature. It neither is born nor dies. It is as with the rainy season: clouds gather in the sky and the sun is covered. Shall we say that when the clouds disperse the sun will be born? No, we simply say that when the clouds move away, the sun, which always is, will become manifest. Even when the clouds have come, the sun has not been destroyed; it is merely suppressed, covered, unseen, hidden behind the veil. When the clouds go, the sun is revealed. Clouds are born and clouds die — the sun is ever-present. It neither has birth nor death.

Love is the nature of life; therefore it has neither birth nor death. The clouds of hatred arise and die. When they appear, love is veiled. When they dissolve, love is revealed. But love is eternal. Therefore the Upanishad does not speak of the birth of love; it says simply that hatred dies, hatred falls away.

But how? The sutra looks simple; it is not so simple. Often what appears very difficult is not truly difficult. Often what appears very simple is not truly simple. Mostly, within simplicity lies great depth and great complexity.

Now this sutra is straightforward. It is concluded in two lines: he to whom the vision of the Self in all beings arises, or in whom the vision of all beings arises within the Self — his hatred is destroyed. But to make everyone into a mirror, or to become a mirror for all — that is the supreme alchemy and the supreme art. There is no art greater than this.

I have heard a small story; let me tell it to you. It is said that in the court of an Iranian emperor a Chinese painter made a request: I have come from China; I am a master of a great art. I can paint pictures such as you have never seen. The emperor said, Certainly, paint. But painters are not lacking in our court, and I have seen very unique paintings. The Chinese painter said, Then I am even ready for a contest.

The finest artist of the emperor’s court was chosen for the competition. And the emperor said, Put your full strength into it; this is a matter of the empire’s honor. Let not a foreigner defeat you. They were given six months.

The Iranian painter plunged into hard work. With ten or twenty assistants he filled an entire wall of a building with paintings. News of his labor spread far and wide. People came from distant places to see his work. But even more astonishing was the Chinese painter who said, I need no tools, nor do I need any colors. I have only one request: until my picture is completed, the curtain in front of my wall must not be lifted.

Every day he would go behind the curtain. In the evening he would return tired and sweating. But the great difficulty and amazement was this: he would not take a brush, nor any colors, behind the curtain. There were no stains of color on his hands, no smears on his clothes. He held no brush. The emperor began to suspect he was mad! For how would the contest be held? But they had to wait six months; the condition had to be honored.

Six months passed with great difficulty. Far and wide the news of the Iranian painter’s pictures spread. Alongside it spread the news that there was a mad contestant who was competing without any colors. People waited for six months with an eagerness beyond measure. At last, the curtain was to be lifted.

The emperor came. He was amazed at the Iranian painter’s work. He had seen many paintings in his life, but such labor hardly ever! Then he turned to the Chinese painter. The Chinese painter removed the curtain in front of his wall. The emperor was staggered. The very same picture! What the Iranian painter had created, the Chinese painter had also displayed. But with one further wonder: the picture did not appear upon the wall; it appeared as if it were twenty feet within the wall. The emperor asked, What have you done? What magic is this?

He said, I have done nothing. I am only skilled at making mirrors. So I made the wall into a mirror. For six months I polished and polished the wall and made it a mirror. And the image you see within the wall is in fact the Iranian painter’s picture on the opposite wall. I have only made this wall a mirror.

He won the contest. For reflected in the mirror, that Iranian painting acquired a depth it did not have in itself. The Iranian painting was on the surface of the wall; in the mirror it went inward, deep. It became three-dimensional. The Iranian picture was in two dimensions, without depth. The Chinese painter’s picture became three-dimensional; it had depth.

The emperor said, Why did you not say earlier that you only know how to make mirrors? The Chinese painter replied, I am not a painter; I am a fakir. And then he added, The funny thing is, earlier I did not tell you I make mirrors; now I tell you I am a fakir. What use has a fakir for making mirrors? The Chinese painter said, Having made myself into a mirror, the image of the world I beheld — since then I only make mirrors. Just as I polished this wall into a mirror, so I polished myself into a mirror. And the beautiful image of this world I then saw within myself, I have not seen anywhere outside. But the day I became a mirror, that day I saw and knew that the whole world is contained within me. All beings merged into me.

The day our heart becomes like a mirror, that day we can see the Lord within, total, all-inclusive. And the day we can see this, on that very day the whole world too becomes a mirror. Then we can see ourselves, moment to moment, everywhere. But the world cannot be made into a mirror. The only mirror that can be made is oneself. Therefore the traveler — the seeker on the path — begins by making himself a mirror.

This alchemy and art of making oneself a mirror — three things you must understand.

First, perhaps it is not right to say we have to make a mirror. We already are a mirror, but buried under dust. All the dust has to be brushed away, wiped away, cleaned. If dust gathers on a mirror, the dust-laden mirror ceases to be a mirror. It no longer reflects. Its power of reflection is dead under the dust.

We too are mirrors buried under dust. The dust is also our own accumulation. Just as dust gathers on a mirror while traveling the road, so as we travel the road of life, through innumerable lives, along countless pathways, out of our cravings to do and to be doers of countless deeds — we gather an immense amount of dust. There is the dust of karma, the dust of doership, the dust of ego. There is the dust of thoughts, desires, tendencies. A very thick layer of dust lies upon us. The work is to remove it. Once it is removed, we are a mirror. And for the one who is himself a mirror, everything becomes mirror-like. Why?

Because another deeper sutra must be kept in mind: whatever we are, that alone we see all around. We only see what we are; never otherwise. What appears outside is our own projection. It is our own casting. It is ourselves. It is our own face. Therefore, if the outside appears evil, know that somewhere within the seed of evil is present. If ugliness appears outside, know that some ugliness has taken root within. If dishonesty appears outside, know that dishonesty dwells within. The projector is within; outside is only the screen. Upon it we go on projecting what is within us.

If the Paramatma is not visible outside, it only means that nothing like the Paramatma is being experienced within. The very moment one experiences the Paramatma within, he begins to experience the Paramatma everywhere. Then there is no way around it. Then even in a stone there is God. As of now, even in God we see only stone.

The one we call materialist — for me it only means this: the one in whose heart there is a stone, he is the materialist. One whose heart is like a stone sees matter everywhere. The one we call spiritualist — for me, that is the person whose heart is not stone-like, whose heart is truly a heart — throbbing, alive, vital.

The scientist will say that what is beating within us is nothing like a heart; it is the lungs, a pumping system, nothing more. The heart we speak of — the scientist will say, we dissect and examine and find there only a pump that circulates blood through pressure. Nothing more is there. If that is true, then one will never be able to experience life and consciousness in the outer world. If inside the heart that drives the blood is a machine, then outside too there will be only a mechanical expanse — that is all. The world will be machinery, matter, only stones outside.

No, but there are other ways to go within. If the scientist’s way were the only way, it would be a great difficulty. Then the scientist would have won. He cannot win. His defeat is certain; only sooner or later. For there are other ways to go within. For example, someone plays the veena. But there is another way to know the veena: break it apart, pull out all the strings, smash it into pieces, peer inside and declare that there is no music at all. Who said there was? Here lies the veena in fragments, disassembled — nowhere any music.

If that were the only way to know the veena, the musician would have lost. But there is another way to know the veena. Certainly it is more difficult. Breaking the veena is very easy; playing it is very difficult. Yet by playing it, what lies hidden in the heart of the veena is known. Surely it is so subtle that it cannot be grasped by the hand. And if the ears are deaf, then nothing at all is grasped. And if there is no understanding of the heart, only the intellect, then even if the ears hear it, it is not understood. For music is more than merely hearing. Into that hearing something more must be added — the heart has to be brought in — then sounds become music. Otherwise only noise remains.

If there were only one path to know the heart — cutting and dissecting it upon the surgeon’s operation table — then fine. But there is also another path. The religious man knows it; the saint knows it. He has known the heart by making it sing, not by breaking it. He has evoked music in the heart and come to know it. He says: Within, within — of what lung, of what pump are you speaking? You are as foolish as someone who breaks a bulb, gathers the glass pieces and takes them home, saying, This is light. Granted that light manifests through it, but the glass shards you gathered are not light, nor were they. And it is true that upon breaking the bulb, light becomes hidden, becomes absorbed into the unseen — this is also true. Hence the logic seems right: when we broke the bulb the light ended; certainly the bulb was the light; otherwise breaking it would not end the light. We have taken the shards home; this is the total of light. Yet it is also true that when the bulb breaks, light dissolves — not destroyed, only dissolved, unmanifest. The medium of manifestation is broken. If we break the lungs, the medium through which the heart manifests is broken. The bulb is broken. Having broken it, one does not find the heart, just as breaking the bulb one does not find light. The heart retreats behind. The lungs merely make the heart manifest.

But very few among us have known the heart. We only know the lungs — where air moves, where vibrations of breath occur, where prana is conducted. We have known only the mechanical arrangement; then outside too the expanse is of machinery.

The day we know consciousness within, that very day there is an expanse of consciousness without. When within we become a mirror, then the whole world outside too is a mirror. Even standing near a stone, you will be able to see yourself in the stone. Then you will not touch a stone with the same hardness with which we now touch a human being. Then even upon a stone the hand will be placed as one touches a beloved. For then the stone is not a stone; it is the Paramatma. Then even the foot will be placed upon the ground with care — mindful, aware. There too life is hidden. There too life extends. There too life throbs. There too someone is dancing. In different dimensions, different forms, different directions, the dance of life is. We are not the sole owners of life. Even if we are not, life will be. Its forms are infinite. We too are one form — one among the infinite. We too have a small direction within the great expanse of directions. But we have no acquaintance even with the direction of the life within ourselves.

How to become a mirror? This dust must be removed; this dust must be thrown away. Not only removed — the new accumulation must also be stopped. Otherwise it may happen that we keep wiping dust on one side while the mechanism that gathers dust continues on the other; then too the mirror will not be.

Twofold work is needed. The old dust, the accumulated dust, must be removed; and the gathering of new dust must be stopped. The old dust abides in memory, and the new dust comes through desire. Old dust clings in memory; new dust arrives through desire. Twofold work is needed. One must be free of memory. One must be free of desire. Desire must be told: there is nothing ahead to attain; there is no further journey anywhere. And memory must be told: whatever has passed was a dream; do not carry this burden now.

We carry the burden of memory. We do not forget; we carry everything carefully. We clutch and keep. We collect garbage, and hold it to our chest. Garbage of births upon births has been gathered. Memory must be bid farewell. One must say: what has passed has passed; I am not that now. One must sever from the past and also from the future — just these two — and the mind will become a mirror.

Whom I call a sannyasin is precisely the one who says: I break from my past; I shall not remain what I was till yesterday. I end that identity. Hence the change of name. The change of name is symbolic; it indicates that the old name — the old I — I shall not remain. I free myself from it. All those memories, that entire web of the past, I bury with that old name. Now I become a new man. From A B C I begin the journey anew. I become new from today — to take this vow is sannyas. And to take this vow as well: from today I shall never become old again.

Remember, I can be freed of yesterday, but if tomorrow I continue the old habit, then again I shall become old. How long will the new name remain new? Not even for a moment. If, after breaking from the old, I continue the old habits, I will gather memories around the new name again. Tomorrow the same burden will stand again; the mirror will again be buried.

Therefore sannyas is a twofold resolve: freedom from the past — that I am not what I was yesterday; a discontinuity, I break that continuity. I say: now I am a new man. Neither is that my name now, nor are those my father, nor is that my lineage. No — that past is now nothing of mine. I begin anew today — reborn.

A young man named Nicodemus went to Jesus and asked, What shall I do that I may have the joy of which you speak? Jesus said, You will have to be born again. Nicodemus said, How can that be? What are you saying? How can this be? I have already been born; now I am grown. How can I be born again? Jesus said, You have not understood. That birth you never truly took. I tell you, you will have to be born again. You will have to become a new man. You will have to be free of that web of relationships and memories.

In this land we called such a person dvija — reborn. Dvija does not mean that by putting on a sacred thread one becomes dvija. Dvija means twice-born. No one can be dvija before sannyas. By putting on a thread no one becomes dvija. Nor by being a Brahmin does one become dvija.

Dvija means one who has taken the second birth. One birth is that which the parents give. The other birth is that which comes by one’s own resolve. This birth is twofold: I break from the past; and now, in the future as well, I break from that arrangement by which I became old again and again every day. Now I shall remain new every day. No dust will gather upon my mirror. Now this name will remain ever fresh. I will add no memory to it. I will never again say: I did this; I did not do that. I will never again say: I am the doer. I will never again say: this house is mine; that wealth is mine; that property is mine.

Remember, a sannyasin does not mean that he leaves his shop and starts calling the ashram mine. Sannyas means he stops saying mine. Where he lives has no significance. He may sit in the shop — only let it not remain my shop. Then the matter is complete.

But leaving the shop we are accustomed to; we can leave. Then in the ashram the same old habit continues and says, my ashram. That makes no difference. The change of name becomes useless — as useless as we often see: the elephant bathes, comes out, and throws dust upon itself again. No use is served; the labor is wasted.

The sutra of the Upanishad says: become a mirror. The renounced mind is a mirror. One who says: now neither do I have a past, nor a future. Only the here and now — just this moment I am. This moment is my being. One who knows thus becomes a mirror instantly.

And when, in all beings, the images of all beings begin to form within one’s mirror, then what hatred can remain? And when one’s own image begins to be reflected in all beings, then what hatred can remain? Hatred disappears. Its smoke dissolves. Those clouds of smoke depart. And then what is revealed like the sun is love.

Remember, as long as hatred remains, what we call love is but a form of hatred. When the root of hatred departs, when the foundation is gone, what then arises is love. Only a sannyasin can love. Only from the Atman does the stream of love flow. From the body only hatred will flow. From the mind only hatred will flow. From the feeling of mine and thine only hatred will flow.

For the seeker, this art of the mirror must be clearly grasped. And as swiftly as possible, one must make the present moment one’s very existence. Freedom from the past, freedom from the future. Freedom from memory, freedom from desire. Then the old dust will depart, and there will remain no way for new dust to enter.

Yasmin sarvāṇi bhūtāny-ātmaivābhūd-vijānataḥ.
Tatra ko mohaḥ kaḥ śokaḥ ekatvamanupaśyataḥ..7..

When, for the knower, all beings have become the Atman, then for the seer of oneness what delusion and what sorrow can be?..7..

He who has known himself in all beings, or who has known all beings within himself — to that learned one, to that knower, what sorrow? What delusion?

Three or four things must be understood in this sutra. First, whom do the Upanishads call learned? Vidvān arises from the same root as Veda. Veda means to know. Vid means to know. Vidvān means one who knows. What does he know? Some know mathematics, some chemistry, some physics. There are a thousand things to know. Some know even the scriptures. Some are familiar with what the saints have said of the mysteries. But the Upanishads do not call them learned. It is most wonderful that the Upanishads do not consider the collection of information to be learning. The Upanishads call only one who knows the Self a vidvān. Because the one who knows himself knows the all. Knowing oneself, one becomes a mirror. Becoming a mirror, the reflection of all begins to arise within.

But knowing the all does not mean that one who has known himself will become a great mathematician; or that by knowing himself he will become a great chemist; or a great scientist. No, this is not the meaning.

Knowing oneself, he knows the all — it means only this: the very moment he knows himself, he comes to know that which is hidden in everyone — the deepest, the most secret, the holiest; the occult; the mystery hid in all. He knows the root of which all is a play. He knows the destiny of which all is an unfoldment. He knows the inner governor who, within all, holds the strings of all dolls and puppets.

He is no specialist, no expert. He has no specialization. If you go to him with one particular question, he may know nothing. He knows the essential within the whole. He does not know every leaf; he grasps the root. He knows the deep life, the Mahāprāṇa. And knowing it, he becomes free of all sorrow and all delusion. That is the mark — the mark of the learned according to the Upanishad.

A strange mark indeed. It is not that if you ask him questions he gives answers. It is not that if a problem arises he can solve it. It is that he is free of sorrow and delusion. However great a mathematician someone may become, he does not thereby become free of sorrow and delusion. However great a psychologist someone may be — few like Freud have existed upon the earth — even knowing so much about the mind, Freud’s own mind remains just like an ordinary man’s. No difference; not a shred of revolution has happened in him. He is anxious in the same way, fearful in the same way, burns in anger in the same way, is filled with jealousy in the same way. The same delusion, the same sorrow. And the irony is that regarding fear he knows so much; regarding jealousy he knows so much — perhaps no other man knew as much. He knows so much about sex. Yet even in old age sex agitates his mind as it agitates anyone else’s.

The Upanishads do not call this one learned. They would not even call this vidyā. They would say: this is a collection of information. He is an expert, a specialist, who knows all that has been said about fear. He knows about fear — not fear itself. If he knew fear itself, he would be free of fear.

A theologian is one who knows about religion — about religion, not religion itself. He knows what the Vedas say, the Upanishads, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible. He knows what has been said. But he does not know that for which it is said, the way in which it is said, and the knowing out of which it is said.

The difference is like this: someone knows about swimming, and someone knows how to swim. Knowing about swimming is not difficult. You can read books on swimming. You can memorize all the treatises on swimming. A man can become a great expert about swimming. Any question about swimming he can answer. But do not, even by mistake, push him into the river. For knowing how to swim is a totally different matter. And it is not necessary that the one who knows how to swim knows all about it. He only knows how to swim. But when life is in trouble and the boat is sinking, all the knowledge of the one who knows about swimming will be of no use. Then the ignorant man who knows how to swim will swim across.

Therefore the rishi of the Upanishad states the sign very rightly thereafter: the learned — those who see themselves in all beings and all beings in themselves — they become free of these two: sorrow and delusion.

Why are these two counted together? Because they are one; they are inevitable aspects of one mental state. One never exists without the other. Understand this well.

In that mind where there is delusion (moha), only there can sorrow (shoka) be. Where there is no delusion, sorrow cannot be. In truth, sorrow only arises from the breaking of delusion. There is no other cause of sorrow. I am attached to someone; he dies — I fall into sorrow. Sorrow is the shadow behind. It is the shadow of attachment. If I have no attachment to anyone, sorrow is impossible; even if I want to, I cannot be sorrowful. There is a house to which I am attached; it burns — then I will grieve. Wherever attachment is thwarted, obstructed, broken, there sorrow arises. And remember, whenever sorrow arises, to escape it you will have to create new attachments. A vicious circle begins. Every attachment brings sorrow; every sorrow demands a new attachment as medicine.

Illness comes; medicine is given; the medicine creates new illnesses; then more medicine; then more illnesses; and the circle goes on.

Counting both together is well-considered. Thus it is said that one who knows becomes free of both sorrow and delusion. For one who sees all beings in himself and himself in all beings — what mine, what thine? How can attachment be formed?

Attachment is formed only when I bind myself to some and say, These are mine — the rest are not. When I say, This house is mine — the rest are not my houses.

Just the other day, as I was coming, a woman came to see me. She said, Your great grace that my son’s shop was saved. The fire reached right up to the next door. The fire had begun in someone else’s building. It came right up close, but my son’s shop was saved. She had brought sweets to offer me. She was very happy that her son’s shop was saved. The fire came within ten feet, and all around everything was reduced to ashes. My son’s shop was saved — so she brought sweets.

Not even a trace of sorrow for the buildings that burned. No sorrow, because there was no attachment to them. Joy arose out of others’ burning — because that to which there was attachment was saved.

Attachment is always exclusive. It excludes. It is with someone and leaves the rest outside. It says: This is my wife, this my husband, this my son, this my house, this my shop, this is me — all else is not me. Then whatever happens to the rest makes no difference, so long as this alone is saved. And in the expansion of this attachment the intensity decreases. We are most attached to ourselves, because nothing is more mine than myself.

So if such a situation arises that the boat is sinking and both husband and wife are there, and the question comes that only one can be saved — both will want to save themselves. If there is fire in the house, one runs out first oneself, and only then thinks whether one’s own others could also get out. But when there is fire, first one comes out oneself.

Attachment is densest around the I; then, as the circle of mine expands, it thins. It is less for the family, still less for the village, even less for the country, less for humanity. And if there are people on other planets, we feel nothing for them at all.

Scientists say there is life on some fifty thousand planets. For them we feel nothing. Even for humanity our feeling is not very great. If seven die in our village, it touches us more than hearing that seven hundred thousand died in Pakistan. If one dies in our house, it touches us more than seven hundred thousand. If even one finger of ours breaks, it touches us more than seven hundred thousand — for it is concentrated. The nearer we come to the I, the denser becomes the mine. The farther we go from the I, the shadow thins.

Attachment is the shadow of the I. Wherever I see that I am, there attachment clings. But I said, attachment is exclusive. It includes some and excludes others; only then can it be formed.

Therefore the rishi says: one who has seen all beings in oneself — now there is no exclusivity; now all are mine, all-inclusive — then attachment cannot be formed. Because there is no longer any meaning. If all are mine, then to call any one mine has no purpose. The word mine had a purpose only so long as there was also a thine — so long as there were those who were not mine. Then I drew boundaries and said, These are mine. A wall was built; there was a frontier of mine. Beyond it began that world which, if it dies, ends, suffers, is of no concern to me. Here was my world which should not suffer. Their suffering was my suffering.

In all beings, in all life, in all bhūtas — not only creatures; it is said, sarvabhūta — all that exists.

Bhūta means existent. All that is — even a grain of sand — that too is a bhūta. One who sees himself in all that is — his attachment falls. Attachment can arise only by drawing a boundary. Now no boundary remains. There is no attachment to the infinite — remember this. Infinite attachment is impossible. Attachment lives only by making limits. And the larger the limits, the thinner it becomes; the smaller the limits, the denser. But if it becomes infinite, it dissolves. And where attachment dissolves, how can sorrow arise? Without attachment it does not arise. Without attachment, no sorrow.

Thus the Upanishads call him learned who has gone beyond sorrow and delusion. And how did he go beyond? By seeing himself in all beings. Beings are present all around. Existence is spread on all sides. But we do not see that I too am there.

Rabindranath has written a small incident. He wrote the Gitanjali — he sang the songs of the Lord. He received the Nobel Prize; there was talk of him all over the world. But in the neighborhood of Rabindranath’s house there lived an old man. He began to trouble Rabindranath very much. Wherever he met him, he would grab him and ask insistently: Tell the truth — have you known God?

Gitanjali had been written. The Nobel Prize was received. And there was this obstinate old man. Rabindranath was an honest man; he could not lie. The old man would lock eyes with him and ask, Have you known God? — and his limbs would tremble. Where was the Nobel Prize winner! Wherever he went he was honored; wherever he went people said: as the rishis of the Upanishads spoke, so this great seer speaks. And the neighbor — this old man — became a headache! Not only one day — morning and evening; how long could he avoid him? The old man sat on his chair at the doorway. Old, with nothing else to do.

Rabindranath has written that leaving the house became difficult. I would first see whether that old man was sitting there. For if I went out and he asked, Listen, have you known God? my life-breath would tremble, for I knew nothing of God. And he would burst out laughing — and that laughter disturbed my sleep. His laughter haunted me. I began to fear. I thought: By writing this Gitanjali I have brought trouble upon myself. What happened with the Nobel Prize that this old man has started this? He had never asked before, never paid attention. But now, with all this fame, he began to ask.

Rabindranath said: I had never been so eager to find God as I became to escape that old man. If somehow I could come to know God, then one day I could say to him with certainty: Yes, I have known.

Surely that old man must have known something; otherwise he could not have created such haunting. There must have been something in his eyes that Rabindranath could not raise his own before them. He could have recited a verse from Gitanjali — the whole book is the song of God — but he could not. Years passed; the old man kept at him. Rabindranath said: The day I could say it to him, a great weight lifted from my heart.

Which day did he say it? One day in the rainy season, the first showers had come. Fresh water had filled the ponds and pools. Pits along the roadside brimmed. Frogs began to call. In the morning Rabindranath rose — the frogs’ croak, the sound of rain, the fragrance of earth — his breath drawn outward. He looked to see if the old man was there. Not yet; perhaps he had not risen. He was not at the door.

Rabindranath rushed out, walking toward the sea. The sun rose. Standing at the shore he saw the sun rise. The sun’s image formed in the sea, reflecting. The sun shimmered in the ocean. He had a vision of the sun, a vision of the reflection. He began the return home. In every puddle the sun shimmered. In each small pool, in filthy water by the roadside, the sun shimmered. Everywhere the sun shimmered — in the dirtiest pool, in the clearest pond — everywhere the sun shimmered. Some melody, some note was struck within. Dancing, he returned.

He danced because the reflection is not tainted. He danced because the sun’s reflection in the purest water is as fresh and pure as it is in the filthiest water. The reflection cannot be defiled. How can the reflection be sullied? The water may be dirty, but the sun’s image that forms within it, the sun that peeps into it — that cannot be filthy. It remains utterly fresh, utterly pure. No water can make it unclean.

This experience — it is a great revelation. It means that even in the worst of men, the Paramatma within cannot be tainted. In the most sinful, the reflection of the Lord is as pure as in the most virtuous. So, dancing, he returned — a door had opened.

He returned dancing. The old man was sitting at his door. For the first time seeing that old man, fear did not arise. And for the first time the old man said, Ah! It seems you have known. He came and embraced Rabindranath and said, Today your ecstasy says you have known. Today your bliss says you have known. Today I can give you the reward.

Nothing was yet spoken. For three days more, Rabindranath’s life was the life of a madman. His family grew frightened. Only that old man kept coming and telling them, Be happy, rejoice. He spread the news among neighbors: He has known. But the household became afraid, because Rabindranath began doing strange things — embracing pillars along the way, hugging a cow passing by, putting his arms around a tree. The family thought he had gone mad. The old man kept saying, Do not fear. He was mad until now; now he has become sane. Now he has begun to see in all beings that which must be seen; without seeing which, all that he sang was empty — mere rhyme. Now music is born in his life. Now the song has come.

Rabindranath himself has written that very slowly, slowly I managed to make myself restrained; slowly I managed to hold myself back. Otherwise whomever I met, I felt like embracing. The Lord had come to the door. Until then I had searched, Lord, where is your door? And now wherever I looked, there was his door. Until then I had searched, Where are you hidden? And now I was in difficulty, for he was just everywhere, and nothing else at all.

The one who can see his own being in all beings, or all beings in himself — that alone is the learned one. And such a knower rises beyond attachment and sorrow. In his life there is neither unhappiness nor happiness; there is bliss. Remember, in his life there is neither pleasure nor pain; there is bliss. In his life there is neither attachment nor sorrow; there is dance. In his life there is only the pure dance of life. Only life chants in his life. Only the music of life is there. All that brings pain is absent; all that binds is absent; all that today appears to give pleasure but tomorrow becomes an invitation to pain — all that is absent. He becomes like a mirror.

One last thing about the mirror, perhaps you have never noticed. You stand before a mirror, you are seen in it. You move away — the mirror leaves you instantly. It does not hold you. You go here, the mirror is empty there. When you were, you were visible; when you are gone, the mirror is empty. The mirror makes no attachment. Therefore, when you leave, the mirror is not shattered in sorrow. It does not break into pieces. Its heart does not break into fragments. It does not say: now my heart is broken to bits; now that you have gone, how will I live? When you were, it was a great grace; now that you are gone, there is no less grace. Empty, the mirror is as joyous as when filled.

Such a knower lives in the world like a mirror. Whoever comes before him, he is delighted. If flowers come, he rejoices; their reflection is formed, and he sees the Paramatma in them. If thorns come, he rejoices; their reflection is formed, and he sees the Paramatma in them. If none comes and all is empty, emptiness itself is Paramatma. The very emptiness — that void is also God. Then in that emptiness he too is dancing; in that emptiness he too is delighted.

Enough for today.

Now let us set to work on becoming mirrors. Who knows — what happened to Rabindranath may happen to many today! Those who wish to sit will remain in front; those who wish to stand, move to the back. And remember, yesterday a friend or two stood up later even after I asked them not to. I know they may not even have noticed when they stood, but then the people behind get into trouble. Therefore even if someone stands in the middle, step out at once; do not stand in between. And from now, step aside and spread out all around.