Ishavashya Upanishad #6

For that Self— for the nature of that Self— this sutra gives a few hints.

First of all — that Self is self-born. In this world nothing other than Existence itself is self-born. Self-born means self-originated. Self-born means not produced by anyone else. Not created by any other. That which has happened by itself. Whose being issues from itself. Whose existence is in no one else’s hands. Whose existence is dependent only upon itself. The Self is self-born — this is the first point to be kept in mind.

Whatever we see may be manufactured. Whatever can be made — that will not be the Self. A house we build — it is not self-born; it is produced. A machine we make — not self-born; produced. We made it. Seek that element which we have not made, which no one at all has made — the unmade, the uncreated. That is what is meant by the element of the Self. If, while inquiring into the existence of the world, we arrive at that ground which no one has made — which is, from eternity, unmade, by itself — we shall find Paramatman. And if, turning within, we search and reach that which is unmade, by itself — we shall find the Atman.

Atman and Paramatman are not two. They are two names given to one and the same reality, approached from two directions. If you seek within and find the uncreated, unoriginated, self-born element — its name is Atman. If you seek without and find it — its name is the element of Paramatman. Atman is Paramatman — grasped from the inside. Paramatman is Atman — discovered from the outside.

If we enter within ourselves — this body is created. Without the cooperation of your mother and father it could not be produced. Or if tomorrow it could even be produced in a test tube — still it would be created. Therefore Western scientists, biologists, if not today then tomorrow, will accomplish their claim — they will manufacture a body. And by manufacturing a body they suppose they will give the final defeat to the spiritualists.

They are in error, because the spiritualist has never insisted that this body is the soul. The spiritualist says that which is uncreated — that alone is Atman. By creating a body they will only prove that the body is not the Atman. Some day the body will indeed be manufactured — I see no reason why it should not be. Many spiritualists, too, are frightened: “The day a body is made in a test tube, in a laboratory, then what will become of the soul? The day we manufacture a child by chemical arrangement without the help of mother and father, and he stands there just like a human being — then the soul is disproved!”

Even those spiritualists do not know that spiritualism never called the body the soul. If some day science can do this, it will only prove the Upanishadic sutra: see, the body is not the Atman. That alone will be proved — nothing else.

Even now we know the body is not the soul. Even now it is produced by natural arrangement. Tomorrow it may be produced by artificial, scientific arrangement. Today, when the chemical elements of mother and father combine to form that cell which is the first component of the body, the Atman enters into it. Tomorrow, if in a scientific laboratory that component — that cell — is produced, that genetic situation created which until now has been brought about by mother and father, then there too the Atman will enter. But that cell, that chemical cell — the first component of the body — is not the Atman. It is created. It is not self-born. It is made by another. Its being depends upon something else. Therefore the knower of the Self will never agree to call it the element of the Self. It is not the element of the Self. One will have to go further back, descend deeper.

So I for one am delighted that the sooner science manufactures a body, the better. The sooner science can make a body, the better — because then it will help to break our identification with the body. Then we shall know rightly that the body is a mechanism; to take the body as oneself will be foolish. Even now it is foolish — but we do not yet see that the body is a device. Even now it is a device. It is born of nature. Then, by understanding the laws of nature, we shall produce it ourselves. That will help to cut identification with the body. Within ourselves we have to proceed to that point which cannot be manufactured. And wherever manufacturing is possible, know that up to there it is not the element of the Self.

Therefore, the deeper construction goes, the more it supports religion — for thus far it is decided that up to there it is not the Self; the Self lies beyond. The Self is always beyond, past, on the far side of all that can be made.

So let science be greatly thanked that it goes on constructing. Wherever construction can go, a boundary will be defined: up to here, it is not the Self. For by Self we mean the self-born, the uncreated — that which cannot be manufactured.

Self-born means that which is the original. Certainly, for existence to be, there must be some fundamental, ultimate element which is uncreated. If every thing needed to be made, creation would become impossible. Say, to make the world a God is needed; then to make God, another God would be needed; then there would be no end to this need. Nowhere would that place arise where we could say, “Enough — here is that which needs no creating.”

Understand it this way — it will be even better, more scientific. Instead of saying “the Self is self-born,” it is more scientific to say: whatever is self-born — that we call the Self. Instead of saying “no one created God,” it is more scientific to say: that which no one has created — the unmade — that alone we call God.

Science, too, has its experiences. Boundaries appear again and again, and beyond them it seems whatever is there is outside construction. For example, science kept thinking and searching for the elements. The ancient scientists — not the religious, for the religious man has no business with elements; his concern is only with the one self-born element — but the style of ancient scientific thinking, four or five thousand years old, said: everything is made of five elements. The mistake was only that in those days there were no separate books of science; everything was written in religious books. The religious texts are compendiums of the knowledge of those times. Therefore even the statement “all is made of five elements” is found in religious books. But that statement is scientific, not religious. Religion seeks only one element — the self-born element.

Then science went on inquiring. It found the theory of five elements to be wrong. When science discovered that the theory of five was wrong, foolish religious people became anxious. They thought everything was upset. For we believed in five. Slowly, science discovered new elements — the number reached one hundred and eight.

But science’s new discoveries only disprove old science. No scientific discovery can disprove religion — because their dimensions are different. However beautiful a poem one writes, it cannot disprove a theorem of mathematics. Poetry and mathematics have no meeting point. However deep a mathematical theorem one may discover, no poem is thereby made false — for the dimension of poetry is different. They do not cut across each other anywhere. They do not even touch. These dimensions run parallel, like the rails of a track. If somewhere they seem to meet — it is your illusion. When you go there, you will find they never meet; they go on running parallel. There can be an illusion of meeting, as with railway lines.

Whenever science falsifies something, it only falsifies older science. If science says the earth is not flat but round, Christianity becomes very frightened — because the Bible says the earth is flat. But what is written in the Bible about the earth being flat is a declaration of the scientists of the Bible’s era. It is no religious declaration. So if science discovers the earth is round — fine, the old statement is wrong; old science is wrong.

Science can never disprove religion; nor can religion disprove science. They have no give-and-take, no communication — the dimensions are utterly different, their directions entirely apart.

The search that began with five elements went to one hundred and eight; and it was found that the ancient five were mistaken. Mistaken indeed. What were once called elements turned out to be compounds, not elements. For example, earth — soil contains thousands of elements; there is not a single element called “earth.” Or water — science now says water contains two elements, hydrogen and oxygen. Water is not a single element; it is a combination of two. Science does not call a combination an element; it calls it a compound, a mixture. So water is no element; oxygen and hydrogen are elements. In this way science discovered a hundred and eight.

But as inquiry deepened, one thing came into view — the constituents of all these one hundred and eight elements are the same. Whether hydrogen or oxygen, both are constituted of electricity. Then hydrogen and oxygen, too, are not elements; the element is electricity. The different elements are combinations of electrical particles. If three particles combine, one element arises; two combine, another; four, yet another. But whether three or four or two — all are electrons, particles of electricity. Then a new understanding dawned: there is only one element — electricity. These hundred and eight are deeper down also compounds; combinations, not the original.

In today’s scientific outlook, it is admitted that electricity is uncreated — self-born; and electricity is the one element from which all spread has come. Because electricity is not a compound, not a joining of two elements, it is uncreated. Science calls element that which is self-born. Thus science now says electricity is the self-born element. It cannot be made — for whatever can be made by joining can be unmade by separating. Join two things and a third thing appears; join three and a fourth appears.

But the fundamental, the original element — without any joining — how will you make it? You can neither make it nor destroy it. If we want to destroy water, we can — separate hydrogen and oxygen and water disappears, for it is a compound. If we want to destroy hydrogen — we can. If we separate its electrical particles — what we call atomic energy is only the separation of electrical particles — hydrogen will be no more; only electrical energy will remain, only shakti will remain. But that shakti cannot be destroyed, for it has no twoness to be separated. We can only combine or separate — we cannot create. Therefore an element is that which is uncreated — which we cannot bring into being.

Science presently says electrical energy is the self-born element. Religion says the element of the Self is self-born. There need be no surprise if — today or tomorrow — science breaks electricity too, and we find electricity is not self-born either. Once we thought water was an element; we split it and found hydrogen and oxygen are elements, water is not. Then we split hydrogen and found hydrogen is not an element, electricity is. Either electricity will prove to be the same as the Self — or electricity, too, will split and we will find it is not the element. As I understand it, electricity too can be broken. And the day it breaks, we will find consciousness — consciousness appearing with the breaking of electricity…

Now this is most amusing: no one would call a stone “energy.” A stone is matter. Our old distinction is between matter and energy. Matter — the stone. But when stone was analyzed, analyzed, until finally the atom exploded — matter was lost, energy remained. Science had to abolish an ancient dualism — matter and energy. The stone melted into energy. We had to say: matter is energy. There is no such thing as matter.

In the latest scientific research, there is nothing like matter — only energy. The materialist should become very alert — now there is no thing called matter; there is only energy. As long as we had not descended below matter, there were two things: matter and energy. Certainly, take a stone in your hand and then touch a live wire — you will feel the difference. The stone in your hand seems matter; in the wire there flows energy. A great difference.

But now science says: if we break the stone, in the end the same energy will be found that runs in the wire. By splitting it we killed a hundred thousand people in Hiroshima. That was an electrical shock. From the fission of matter, from the explosion of a tiny atom, so much energy was produced that a hundred thousand died in Hiroshima and a hundred and twenty thousand in Nagasaki. By touching the biggest electrical cable no such numbers die. From a tiny particle, so much electricity! But the particle vanished into electricity. So science says the old dualism of matter and energy is gone. Only energy is.

Now I say to you: one more dualism remains — energy and consciousness. Touch electricity and you know — there is power. But when you talk to a man, you feel not only power — you feel consciousness. A tape recorder will speak if electricity runs, and it will say exactly what I am saying. But when the tape recorder speaks, there is only energy; when I am speaking, there is not only energy — there is consciousness. Therefore the tape recorder cannot substitute for me; it will only repeat what I have said. And I, even if I wish, will not be able to say tomorrow exactly what I am saying today — I am not a machine. I myself do not know what word will follow this word. Only as you hear do I also hear.

The distance between consciousness and energy still remains. It is better to say: the old world was not a duality but a trinity — matter, energy, consciousness. One has dropped — matter has fallen. Now a duality remains — energy and consciousness. By searching deeply into matter, matter vanished and we found energy. And I tell you, by searching deeply into energy, energy too will vanish — and we shall find consciousness. The name of that consciousness is the element of the Self. Where everything drops — neither matter nor energy remains — only consciousness.

Hence we have called the supreme element Satchidanand — three words for that element of the Self. Sat — that which is, that which never is not, which always is. Sat means ever-existent. Chit — consciousness, Chaitanya. Not only is it, it knows that it is. A stone exists — then it is only existent. But if the stone also knows that “I am,” then it is chit, consciousness. And the third is Ananda — not only is it, not only does it know that it is; the very moment it knows “I am,” it also knows “I am bliss.”

This sutra calls that Self self-born. No one has made it; no one can destroy it. Therefore — remember — because it is self-born, it is immortal. Whatever is made will be unmade. Whatever is produced will perish. No construct can be eternal.

All constructions arise in time and fall in time. Whatever is born will die. Build as strong as you like — it will take a little longer to fall, but fall it will. Palaces of playing cards — they fall. Palaces of hard stone — they fall. Palaces of steel — they fall. Yes, it takes time. A house of cards falls in a gust of wind. A palace of stone falls after a million gusts — but falls it does. The difference is of degree.

The difference between a card house and a stone palace is merely of degree — how many gusts will bring it down. There is no basic difference. For the card house is made — it will fall; and the palace is made — it will fall. Wherever at one end there is construction, at the other there will be destruction.

Because it is self-born, the element of the Self is immortal. Because at one end it was never made, at the other it will never be unmade. In “self-born” there are two things: it is uncreated, and it is immortal — it cannot be destroyed.

I must tell you — science concurs: whatever is formed by the union of two will perish; what is made of one alone cannot perish. There is no way to destroy it — because there is no way to make it. To make is to join; to unmake is to separate. But that element which is single, which has no second within it — how will you destroy it? You cannot split it. Had it a second, it could be split. It is one — it abides forever.

The element will be self-born, and it will be immortal. That element the Upanishads call the element of the Self. Then other characteristics too are listed, which follow from these.

It is said that the self-born element is omniscient.

What does “omniscient” mean? There can be two meanings — and the one that is common is the wrong one. Commonly it is taken to mean “all-knowing” — knows everything. Therefore, for example, the Jains have called Mahavira “sarvajna” — all-knowing. They said: when the element of the Self is known, a man becomes omniscient — for a mark of the Self is to be sarvajna: to have known all. Mahavira himself said: whoever knows the One knows all. Then, they think, Mahavira knew everything — that he knew how to patch a bicycle puncture! But Mahavira knew nothing of bicycles. Then he should know how to make an airplane!

If we take omniscience in that sense, great confusion arises — and great embarrassments have indeed arisen. The day the Jains held Mahavira to be omniscient in that sense, they fell into difficulty. Buddha made much fun of this in many places — not of Mahavira, but of the disciples’ claim. They said their Mahavira knew everything. Buddha joked: “I have heard that some claim of someone that he is omniscient — yet I saw him begging alms before a house where no one lived. Later I learned the house was empty. I saw him walking in the dimness of dawn and heard that only when his foot was bitten by a dog did he learn that a dog was sleeping on the path.” Buddha’s jest is at that meaning of omniscience. He said: “Those whom people call omniscient — I have heard that they too, on reaching the outskirts of a village, ask, ‘Where does this road go?’” So yes — Mahavira, too, would need to ask where a road goes. But the joke is not on Mahavira. He made no such claim. The claimants are the followers who say their Mahavira knows everything — which road goes where.

No — the second meaning is quite different, and it is negative. The very positive meaning — “knows everything” — is wrong. The negative meaning is: nothing worth knowing remains to be known. Sarvajna means: nothing remains worth knowing. Is it worth knowing where a road goes? Is it worth knowing whether there is someone in a house or not? What harm if one does not know? Is it worth knowing whether a dog sleeps upon the path or not? What harm if one does not know?

In my view, sarvajna means that in the element of the Self nothing remains that is worth knowing and has not been known. Whatever is worth knowing is known — upon knowing the Self — all that is worth knowing. In the utilitarian world, many things seem worth knowing — but what difference do they make? For me, sarvajna means: nothing remains that, if known, would add even a grain to the joy of life. Nothing remains such that, by knowing it, there would be any change in being Satchidanand. Whether this road goes left or right — it reaches somewhere. But by that, the nature as Satchidanand does not change. And even if Mahavira wanders and reaches the wrong village — what of it? A man who has arrived at the true destination — wherever he wanders, what difference does it make? And we, who have not arrived — even if we reach the right village exactly, what is gained? Even if we know every road exactly — even if we are a PWD map — what difference?

So I take sarvajna thus — and if not taken thus, it becomes a mockery. Mahavira has had to bear much mockery needlessly because of his followers’ claims.

Even now, when astronauts first landed on the moon, Jain monks were greatly troubled. Troubled — because they say their scripture describes what the moon is like; and it was not found to be so. They hold the scripture to be the word of a sarvajna, so it cannot be wrong. They said: these people are deluded — they did not land on the moon at all; they landed upon the vehicles of the gods that are stationed this side of the moon — ox-carts, chariots — and returned from there; they did not reach the moon.

One Jain monk even began collecting money — and the foolish gave lakhs — to prove in a laboratory that they had landed upon some god’s vehicle and returned; they had not reached the moon. When they reach, the moon will be exactly as written in our scripture — because it is the word of a sarvajna.

If such claims are made, your scripture will become worthless — by your folly it will be brought to naught. If anywhere your scripture describes the moon and it proves false, that statement is the statement of a scientist of that age — not of a knower of the Self. And what concern has a knower to declare what stones are on the moon? And if he did, it was not spoken in the capacity of a knower of the Self. But this creates great difficulties.

Consider Einstein — a mathematician, a thinker. But being a mathematician does not exhaust his life. When he plays cards, he is not a mathematician. When he falls in love with a woman, what has mathematics to do with it? If he tells a woman, “None is more beautiful than you,” this is not a mathematical statement — that someone later should claim: “Such a great mathematician — he must have measured the beauty of all the women on earth and then declared this one the most beautiful!” People say this to every woman — for this there is no need to be a mathematician. But this is not said in the capacity of a mathematician; it is in the capacity of a lover. And whoever is loved appears the most beautiful — it is not that love happens to the most beautiful; the most beautiful appears so because of love — an illusion born of love.

So if a knower of the Self has given any scientific statements, those statements are scientific; they have nothing to do with Self-knowledge.

The knower of the Self is sarvajna in this sense: nothing remains that, if known, would increase his bliss even a little. His bliss is complete. No ignorance remains that hinders his bliss. His anger, his delusion, his greed — born of ignorance — are destroyed. He is supremely blissful.

Sarvajna means established in supreme bliss. He has known that by which bliss becomes established and the possibility of suffering departs.

So the element of the Self is omniscient — in this sense. Not in the sense of trikalgya — knower of the three times — that he knows what will happen tomorrow, who will win the election, who will lose. He knows nothing of this — and has no reason or need to know. All this play that happens within time is to him like lines drawn upon water. He keeps no account of it. To him it is dreamlike — who wins and who loses. It is children’s business. He has become mature. He has nothing to do with it.

By knowing that element, sarvajnata comes — meaning ignorance falls away; greed, delusion, anger born of ignorance fall away; bliss, born of knowledge, is attained. The lamp of knowing is lit, and in its light supreme bliss is established — eternal, everlasting bliss.

Of such an element of the Self, a third characteristic is said: pure — ever pure, ever holy, ever flawless. Even when we appear impure, it has not become impure. All our impurity is our delusion. As I said last night — a reflection of the sun in a dirty puddle is just as pure. So is the Self — as pure in Ravana as in Rama — not the slightest difference. Purity is not an accidental quality of it — it is a quality of nature. Understand the difference between accidental and essential qualities.

There are two kinds of qualities: accidental — saiyogik; and essential — swabhavic. An accidental quality is foreign, of another kind; it is attached to you, not arising from within. A man is dishonest — dishonesty is accidental, not essential; it is learned, acquired. Hence no one can be dishonest for twenty-four hours. The most dishonest cannot remain so all the time — for whatever is acquired is a burden; one has to set it down and rest. It is not nature. Therefore the most dishonest person is honest with someone. And often the dishonest are more honest with each other than the honest are with each other — because what we call honesty is also acquired; one must take a vacation from it. From whatever is acquired, you cannot remain forever; you must take holidays, or the tension will become too much.

Therefore a serious man needs entertainment — because seriousness becomes a burden. Mahavira or Buddha need no entertainment — because there is no burden of seriousness. Note this. We ordinarily think they are so serious — that is why they do not sit in cinema halls nor go to dramas. No — if they were so serious, they would have to go watch a play! They are not serious. Nor are they frivolous. Seriousness and non-seriousness are both dishonesties. They are simply themselves — the native, the natural. They acquire nothing from outside — so there is nothing to take a holiday from. If someone has even made saintliness into a habit, he will need holidays — two, four, eight days; every fortnight. Unless for two hours he enters the non-saintly world, he will not be able to be a saint again.

Accidental qualities are learned, acquired, imposed from the outside; they do not arise from within. Almost everything about us is learned — like language. Language is accidental, learned. So one can learn Hindi, another Marathi, another English, another German. There are a thousand languages — there could be a thousand more. An obstacle? None. Each person could speak his own language — no obstacle. But silence? Silence is not accidental. Therefore, if two people are speaking, their speech can differ; but if two are totally silent, there can be no difference between them. In language, dispute is possible; in silence, none. When two become utterly silent, the inner quality between them leaves no difference. What difference can there be between two silences?

But if silence is imposed from above, there will be differences — because inside, language will go on. If two people are merely quiet, differences remain. I sit quietly; you sit quietly by my side — I will go on thinking my thoughts; you will go on thinking yours. Thinking continues; lips are closed. The lips may look the same — inside, all differences are running. We will be inwardly a thousand miles apart — who knows where you are, and where I am. But if true silence flowers — not imposed from above, but blossoming from within — if we become utterly quiet, and inside too words vanish, language disappears — then between you and me what difference remains? What distance? We will be in the same space, alike. Our two flames, becoming ever more silent, will merge into one flame — not even two will remain, because the boundaries that keep two apart fall away. From difference, boundaries arise; in non-difference, they fall.

So the inner, eternal silence is nature; language is accidental. Whatever is accidental cannot abide. Curiously — you cannot be angry twenty-four hours, but you can be in forgiveness all the time. Consider it! You cannot remain in anger all day — it rises and falls. But there is no obstacle to being in forgiveness twenty-four hours. In hatred you cannot live all day — it becomes hell even for yourself. But in love you can live all day.

Yet what we call love — we cannot remain in even that all day. That too is periodical, bounded by time. In twenty-four hours we may be loving for five or ten minutes — no more. Insist that we be more loving — and even those few minutes become difficult.

Why? Because only in what is natural can we abide. In whatever is artificial and externally acquired we cannot abide — we must set that burden down.

When we say the Atman is pure, it does not mean it ever becomes impure and we must purify it. If the Atman could become impure, we would never be able to purify it — who would purify? We ourselves have become impure — even the purifier is gone. Whatever that impure soul does will also be impure.

No — the Atman does not become impure so that we must purify it. The Atman is pure. Only we collect impure qualities around ourselves. As if we hang a black curtain all around a lamp — the lamp does not thereby become dark. It still burns in its own light, but the black curtain prevents the light from reaching outside. And if the lamp, being as crazy as we are, gradually forgets it is a lamp and begins to believe it is the black curtain — the same difficulty arises as with us.

Our connection with our own nature breaks, and we identify with the body and mind and thoughts and tendencies and desires — the net all around us. We begin saying, “This am I, this am I.” That which is within identifies with something and says, “This am I.” And that inner element is so pure, so transparent, that whatever shadow forms upon it, forms perfectly — and we grasp that shadow: “This am I.” Because of its purity, this accident happens. If a mirror were to become conscious and you stood before it — it looked within and saw your image, saw you standing there, and the mirror said, “This am I” — the same mistake occurs.

The Self is pure — like a crystal-clear lake. Whatever comes near it is reflected like in a mirror. The body comes near — it is reflected — the Self says, “I am the body.” And how the body goes on changing — yet you do not notice how many bodies you have identified with!

If the first speck formed in the mother’s womb were brought and placed before you and you were told, “This was you once,” you would absolutely deny it — “This, me? Never!” If every day an image were taken from childhood to old age, there would be a long series of pictures. With each picture you have said one day, “This is me.” What relation is there between the child’s picture and the picture of old age? Between a newborn and the coffin lowered into the grave? You have remained one through all this.

Whatever image reflects in the mirror, you have said, “This is me — this is me.” Tomorrow a different image appears — “This is me.” Look at your childhood picture and your youth’s picture — any harmony between them? Are these you? Once you claimed it; memory preserves the claim — “Once I was this; now I am this.”

The body changes daily. Scientists say that in seven years every particle of the body changes — not a single old particle remains. Yet identity persists. Bones change, flesh changes, blood changes, all cells change — everything changes within seven years. If a man lives seventy years, the whole body has changed ten times over. The body is changing every moment. But inside is a pure mirror. Whatever image forms says, “I am this.”

Break only this identification — break this misunderstanding. Stop saying, “This am I,” and begin to say, “I am the knower of all this — I am the witness.” I knew childhood — it was not me. I knew youth — that too was not me. I shall know old age — that too is not me. I knew birth — that was not me. I shall know death — that too is not me. I am that which has known all this. This long series, this caravan of films — I am that which has known. I am the knower — not the known. Not that which is reflected, but that in which reflection happens. Then the Self is supremely pure — a spotless mirror, a flawless lake where no wave of impurity has ever arisen.

When the Upanishad says it is pure-intelligence — ever pure — not even the least impurity ever enters the Self, it says so by breaking this identification. We too are just as pure. No one has ever been impure, nor can be — there is no way. But identification makes us impure — identification makes us sinner or saint.

Remember — even a saint is not pure, for he is identified with virtue. One says, “I am an iron chain”; another, “I am a gold chain.” What difference? In the marketplace the price differs, but identification remains. One says, “I am a sinner”; another, “I am a virtuous soul.” As long as we say, “This am I,” we go on needlessly making ourselves impure — not in fact, yet all the same. The day we say, “Not this, not this — neti-neti. Not this, not that. I am that in which all is reflected” — the mirror in which all shadows form and dissolve — “I am that emptiness in which all glimmers and departs,”

Who knows how many births have glimmered? How many bodies? How many forms, figures, learned qualities, skills, positions, titles? An endless journey — but the reflecting lake is one. The lake remains ever clear. Travellers pass along the shore; new reflections arise in the lake. And the lake goes on thinking, “This am I.” A thief passes — the lake says, “I am a thief.” A monk passes — “I am a monk.” A virtuous man passes — “I am virtuous.” A sinner passes — “I am a sinner.” The caravans of reflections go on passing along the shore so swiftly that before one has faded, another has formed. No gap remains in between to look into the lake in which no reflection is.

The process of meditation is to give that gap — that interval — when no reflection forms, and in the middle one glances and sees: I am the lake, not the caravan. Not what passes along the shore; not the pictures formed upon me — I am that upon which all is formed and yet remains unformed. I remain the unmade — uncreated.

Keep these three points in mind. The other characteristics enumerated are only their variations.

Let us take another sutra:

Andham tamah pravishanti ye’vidyam upasate.
Tato bhuya iva te tamo ya u vidyayam ratah. 9.

Those who worship ignorance enter into darkness. And those who delight only in knowledge — as if they enter into an even greater darkness. 9.

A very profound statement — from very deep levels. An announcement of great courage. Only a rishi could say it.

It says: those who walk the path of ignorance certainly wander in darkness — but those who walk the path of knowledge wander in great darkness.

In human history there is hardly a second statement of such courage. To find a parallel is difficult — where it is said: the ignorant wander in darkness, the knowledgeable in great darkness. Whoever said this has said it from very deep knowing.

That the ignorant wander — we understand, no obstacle there. Plain, clear. Surely the ignorant wander.

But the rishi says: they wander in darkness — not in the very deep darkness, not in the great darkness. Why do the knowledgeable wander in great darkness? And if the ignorant wander in darkness and the knowledgeable in great darkness, then where is the way out of wandering? Why do the ignorant not wander in the deepest darkness? Because ignorance, however it may mislead, cannot mislead too much. What misleads more is not ignorance but ego. Ignorance allows mistakes, but it is always ready to correct them. Therefore it does not mislead too far. Ignorance is always ready to err — yet ready to correct. Ignorance has its own humility. Remember — ignorance has its own humility. That is why children learn quickly; the old do not. Children are ignorant — ready to correct. Point out a mistake — they accept it. But tell an old man he is mistaken — he becomes angry, he will not correct. First he will try to prove it is not a mistake. A child accepts — and learns.

Thus children learn swiftly; in one day they learn what the old cannot in a year. The capacity to learn withers. Why? It ought to grow! No — the old acquire knowledge. The child is merely ignorant; the old fall into a deeper darkness. They develop the delusion that they know something. The child knows he does not know — so he is ready to learn whatever you show. Therefore children can wander only in darkness; the old wander in great darkness.

The ignorant are humble; if awareness of ignorance arises, they become supremely humble. When it is remembered — “I am ignorant; I do not know” — there is no place left for the ego to stand. Where would the ego build its mansion? There is no ground. Curiously, when ignorance becomes conscious — “I am ignorant” — wandering begins to end; errors begin to cease; a man starts to come on the path. But if the knowledgeable becomes filled with the idea “I am knowledgeable,” then the descent into great darkness begins.

If the ignorant remembers, “I am ignorant,” the journey toward light begins. If the knowledgeable is filled with the thought “I know,” steps toward great darkness begin. For the remembrance of ignorance leads to humility, and the conceit of knowledge, the claim of knowing, leads to ego. The real misleader is ego.

Ignorance is not deep darkness; it is like twilight. Not yet the sun — not yet the light of knowing. But not yet the dark night of ego either. It is like dusk. Ignorance stands at the door — from where one can go into the light. But as the conceit of knowledge grows — “I know, I know, I know” — dusk disappears and night begins, ever darker; the stronger the conceit, the darker the night — until it becomes the new moon night.

Ego leads into great darkness. That is why a strange phenomenon happens: the truly wise begin to say, “We are ignorant; we do not know” — and the ignorant go on claiming, “We know.” What then is the way? Ignorance misleads, knowledge misleads — where to go? What to do? Where is the path?

Two things must be kept in mind. First: continually increase the remembrance of your ignorance. The remembrance of ignorance is the death of ignorance. To become aware of one’s own ignorance — and ignorance begins to be cut. It is like lighting a lamp in a dark room and going in search of darkness — and saying, “Let me see where darkness is.” Light the lamp and set out — nowhere will you find darkness. If awareness deepens within — “Let me see where my ignorance is” — wherever you go with the lamp of awareness, there ignorance is not.

So the first thing: remembrance of ignorance — “I am ignorant.” If you ever want to enter the realm of knowledge, become alert to your ignorance. Seek day and night where your ignorance lies — and wherever you see it, accept it at once; do not delay even a moment. Whoever shows it to you — place your head at his feet; he has become your guru. Do not try to prove your ignorance is not ignorance — the mind will try; the ego will say, “Do not admit it. I — and ignorant? Never!”

Thus we all go on insisting upon our ignorance. We go on saying, “This alone is right.” Those who know nothing make big claims to rightness. Those who do not know even the stone by the roadside make claims about Paramatman — “My God alone is right.” They know nothing — but there is no end to claims.

Ignorance is a great claimant. Beware of claims. If you must claim, claim only that you are ignorant. Say, “I do not know.” And whenever opportunities arise, situations occur that reveal your ignorance, stop and know: I am ignorant. Whoever points toward your ignorance — make him your guru.

But we make guru the one who increases our knowledge — from whom we learn a few learned things and return puffed with conceit, saying, “Now I, too, know.” The one who thickens our conceit of knowledge — we call him guru. The true guru is the one by going to whom we come to know that none is more ignorant than we are — the one who snatches away our knowledge, demolishes our claims, razes the mansion of our ego to the ground, brings us down to earth, and says, “You know nothing at all.” That is the guru. Not the one from whom knowledge is collected — but the one from whom the remembrance of ignorance is received. And remember — the remembrance of ignorance leads into knowledge; the hoarding of knowledge leads into great darkness.

So first — awaken to ignorance, become alert to it, recognize it, seek it; know yourself to be supremely ignorant.

Second — wherever the thought arises “I know,” reconsider. Wherever the thought arises “I know,” think again: do I truly know? One honest reconsideration will suffice. Be sincere — ask once again before saying, “I know.” Be alert both toward ignorance and toward knowledge — “Do I truly know? Do I in fact know?” When you examine, you will find: I know words, theories, scriptures — but I know nothing of truth. Those whose minds are stuffed with scriptures and words — whose intellects carry the soot of kerosene, the smell of the lamp — for them learning becomes smoke. It is very hard to find anyone more ignorant than pundits.

Therefore the sutra says: the ignorant wander — but the learned, the pundit-people, wander in great darkness. Better to remain ignorant than become a pundit — from ignorance there is a way, a door. Do not go into great darkness; better remain in darkness. From there it is easier to reach the light. From great darkness a long journey will be needed.

Enough for today.

Now let us move into meditation — take a few steps from darkness toward light.