Ishavashya Upanishad #7

The Upanishads do not take avidya to mean merely ignorance. Nor do they take vidya to mean merely knowledge. By avidya the Upanishads intend material knowledge. Avidya means that kind of learning by which everything else is known, but the knower himself is not known. Avidya is the name of the knowledge of matter. Ordinarily, if you consult a dictionary, avidya will mean ignorance. But the Upanishads call avidya that kind of knowing which appears like knowledge, yet the person remains ignorant. A knowing by which we know everything else, but remain strangers to ourselves—the kind of learning that deceives us with the appearance of knowledge—this the Upanishads call avidya.

If translated rightly, avidya would mean science. This may sound strange. Avidya would mean knowledge of matter, knowledge of the other. And vidya means self-knowledge. By vidya they do not mean knowledge alone. By vidya they mean transformation. If a knowing leaves the self unchanged, the Upanishads will not call it knowledge; they will not call it vidya. If I have learned something and yet I remain as I was before I knew it, the Upanishads would not call such knowing vidya. It will be called vidya only when the very act of knowing transforms me. I knew, and I changed. I knew, and I became other. Knowing must not leave me as I was when I did not know. If I remain the same, that is avidya. If I am transformed, that is vidya. A knowing that is not mere addition, that does not merely add a few bits of information to you, but is transformation—alchemical—changes you, makes you other, gives you a new birth—that the Upanishads call vidya.

In precisely this sense—Upanishadic sense—Socrates uttered a small aphorism: knowledge is virtue. For centuries in Greece there was dispute about it. Ordinarily we think: what has mere knowledge to do with virtue? A man comes to know that anger is bad—yet anger is not gone. A man comes to know that stealing is wrong—yet theft does not cease. A man comes to know that greed is evil—yet greed continues.

But Socrates says: if one has truly known that greed is evil, his greed will drop. If one has known that greed is evil and greed has not gone, then it is avidya, it is a counterfeit of knowing—false knowledge. The touchstone of knowledge is that it instantly becomes conduct; it need not be made into conduct. If anyone thinks: first we shall know, then we will mould it into action—then it is not vidya, it is avidya. The very knowing—like when a cup kept before you is discovered to be poison—your hand had been rising with the cup toward your lips, and it stops. You know it is poison, and the cup slips from your hand. Knowing becomes action—then it is vidya. If after knowing you have to strive, to make effort, to change your conduct, then that conduct is imposed, forced. It is not born of knowledge; it is a superimposition.

Any knowing that must be imposed to become conduct, that does not become conduct by itself—the Upanishads call it avidya. The Upanishads call vidya that which, once known, changes life. If somehow we invent a lamp that lights, yet darkness does not disappear; and then after lighting the lamp we still have to labour to disperse the darkness—if such a lamp could be made, it would be a symbol of avidya. A lamp lights and darkness is no more. The lighting of the lamp becomes the dispelling of darkness. Such a lamp, such a knowledge, is what the Upanishads intend by vidya.

Two matters must be kept in mind here.

Why does it happen that we come to know, yet transformation does not occur? Countless people come and tell me: we know anger is bad, it is poison, it burns, it is fire, it is hell. Yet anger does not leave us; we do know. I tell them: you think you know—there lies your mistake. You think, “We do know; now what should we do to stop anger?” There lies your mistake. You do not know. You do not actually know that anger is hell. Is it possible that one truly knows anger is hell and yet does not leap out of it?

Buddha said somewhere: I explained to a man whose life was sorrow, full of pain, nothing but anxieties all around. I said to him: leave these anxieties and come out—I will show you the way. The man said: show me the way now, and later I will try to come out—slowly, gradually. Buddha said: you are like a man whose house has caught fire; we tell him, “Your house is on fire,” and he says, “You have done me a kindness by informing me. Now I will gradually, slowly, softly try to get out.” Buddha said: it would have been better if he had said, “You lie; I see no fire.” But he does not say that. He says: granted, you speak the truth, the house is on fire—but I will come out slowly.

If the fire is truly seen, does anyone come out slowly? He leaps out in a single bound. The one who told him may remain behind—but the one who has seen the fire will get out first. He will thank you only after he is outside the house.

So Buddha said: you say you grant that there is fire, but you do not see it. You are saying yes in vain. You do not even want to take the trouble to look. You do not even wish to test my words on the touchstone. Have you not opened your eyes and seen all around that fire is raging? You only assent, and therefore the question arises in your mind: the house is on fire, now I will get out slowly; please give me some method, some technique by which I may go out.

When someone tells me, “I know anger is evil, and yet I cannot be free of it,” I tell him: it would be good for you to know that you do not know that anger is evil. What you really know is that anger is good. We go on doing only what we feel is good. But we have heard from others that anger is bad. We have taken hearsay as knowledge. That is avidya; it is not vidya.

Then what will vidya be like?

You will have to know for yourself that anger is bad. You will have to pass through anger, be scorched in its fire, endure its pain and torment. When all your limbs are burning in the flame of anger, when your life is smoking, then—you will not need to ask anyone whether anger is evil. Then you will not need to go to someone for understanding. And then you will not need any method, any device, any practice to be free from anger. The very knowing that anger is fire becomes freedom from anger. Such knowing is called vidya.

The Upanishads call that knowing vidya which is in itself liberation. Any knowing that is not liberation in itself is not vidya.

We all have a lot of knowledge. We all know something—indeed, a great deal. But if you ask the Upanishads, what is our knowing? The Upanishads will call our knowing avidya, not vidya. Because our knowing does not touch us, does not change us, does not even caress us. We remain as we are, while our knowing goes on increasing. Our knowing is like a hoard, and we remain at a distance. The collection in the treasury grows and grows; we remain the same. The treasury becomes bigger, the accumulation increases. Accumulation—that is what we presently call knowledge. Whoever mistakes this accumulation for knowledge will go badly astray. Understand it as avidya.

Only that is vidya which does not attach to you as an addition, but transforms you. Which is not stored alongside you, but transfigures you. Vidya is that which you do not have to remember—it becomes your life. Vidya is that which does not become memory; it becomes your very breath. Not that by memory you recall “anger is bad,” but that your conduct declares it. Not that you write on your walls “greed is sin,” but that your eyes, your hands, your face say “greed is sin.” Your whole being says “greed is sin”—then it is vidya.

The Upanishads have given great reverence to the word vidya. They have bestowed great value upon it. Vidya is the alchemy that changes life. What we call knowledge is only the arrangement by which livelihood is maintained. A man is a doctor, another an engineer, another a shopkeeper. They all possess learnings—but none of these change life; they only keep life going. They do not make life new; they merely secure it. They do not make new flowers bloom in life; they only prevent the roots from drying. They bring no bliss into life; they only create systems and safeguards against suffering.

What we call knowledge is only a convenience for running livelihood skillfully. The Upanishads call that avidya. Vidya is that by which life does not merely run—it changes. By which life is not pulled forward along a line—it is lifted upward.

Remember, avidya is horizontal—moving along the line of the horizon. Vidya is vertical—rising toward the sky. Avidya is like a bullock cart; it moves on the ground. There is no takeoff in it like an airplane. It does not leave the earth and rise upward. It keeps moving on the ground. From birth to death the journey is completed, but the plane of being does not change. The level remains the same. Where we are born, on that plane we die. Often the cradle is the coffin. There is no great difference—the plane is the same; we remain the same—going along the horizontal line. Everyone finds his own grave, but not far from the cradle. And even if far, there is no change of level—the same plane, the same tier.

Vidya is vertical—rising toward the sky, ascending. The plane changes. You do not remain the same. To know is to become other. Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna may stand right beside us, shoulder touching shoulder, yet they are not really near us. They stand on other peaks. Only their bodies seem near; their being is not by us. They have passed through vidya. They are the wise.

This sutra of the Upanishad says: avidya has its own qualities, vidya has its own qualities. Avidya has its characteristics, and its utility. The Upanishads do not say: destroy avidya. They say: do not mistake avidya for vidya—that is all. It is not that you go on rising to the sky and do not live upon the earth. In truth, those who would rise in the sky must keep their feet firmly on the earth.

Nietzsche said somewhere: the tree that would touch the sky must have its roots touch the netherworld. The higher a tree rises, the deeper it goes. The tree that longs to touch the stars must send its roots further and further down. The deeper the roots, the higher the rise.

The Upanishads are not in denial of avidya. A great misunderstanding happened because this was not understood. I want to tell you this, because due to this misunderstanding the East—and especially India—has suffered immeasurably.

The Upanishads were not rightly understood. We make one mistake—mistaking avidya for vidya. The Upanishads are against this. They say: avidya is not vidya—understand this distinction clearly. Or, in the stubbornness to err, we make the opposite mistake. Either we mistake avidya for vidya—as is the case with our present schools; according to the Upanishads they should be called schools of avidya. For there is no connection with vidya there. Our universities are universities of avidya, and their vice-chancellors are vice-chancellors of avidya. From there only avidya comes.

Still, the Upanishads are not opposed to avidya. They say: do not mistake it for vidya; do not fall into that error. Keep the distinction clear. It is avidya—and avidya has its own quality, its own utility. It is not that there is no need for a doctor. It is not that an engineer is useless. It is not even that a shopkeeper should not be. No—shopkeeper is needed, doctor too, engineer too, the street cleaner, the mason building the house—all are needed. All have their utility. But if anyone takes the knowledge of livelihood to be the art of living, then he is mistaken. Then he will only earn bread and die.

Jesus said: you cannot live by bread alone. Yet this does not mean you can live without bread. You cannot live by bread alone. Can bread alone be life? Bread is a need of life; it is not life itself. Without bread, life cannot develop, cannot even stand—but bread is not life.

In the foundation of a house, we fill stones. Without those foundation stones the house will not stand. But remember, the stones in the foundation are not the house. If you fill only the foundation and sit down, do not be under the illusion that a house has been built. Nor does it mean that without the foundation a house will be built. The foundation must be laid. It is a necessary evil. A necessary burden that must be borne.

The Upanishads say: avidya has its own quality. Its quality is livelihood, the arrangement that keeps the outer, bodily life running. But do not take it to be all. It is necessary, but not enough. It is necessary, but not sufficient. Not everything will be done by it.

The Eastern lands, especially India, made the opposite mistake. They said: when the rishis of the Upanishads, the knowers, say this is avidya—then leave avidya. We will cling only to vidya. Therefore science could not develop in the East. What we took to be avidya, we abandoned. Hence the East became poor, destitute, and enslaved. Either we cling to avidya so much that we become soulless, or we abandon avidya so much that the body and outer life become beggared.

The Upanishads say: both are useful—each in a different dimension. Avidya has its own place. It is not to be discarded; only do not take it as the whole. Vidya has its own quality.

And in this sutra the rishi adds: “Thus have we heard from those who know.”

This too must be understood.

He says: thus have we heard from those who know.

Does the rishi of the Upanishad who uttered this not know himself? Is he only repeating what he has heard? Does he not know? Is a heard thing being said?

No—this too must be understood rightly, for a great misunderstanding has arisen from it. In the days when these Upanishadic sayings were composed, one must understand the form of expression used. No one ever said, “I know.” Not because he did not know. The reason was: after knowing, the “I” does not remain. If this rishi were to say, “Thus I speak having known,” the people of that time would have laughed and said: do not speak yet, for you have not known—because the “I” is still present. The rishi knows perfectly well, yet he says, “Thus have we heard from those who know.” And the fun is, from whom he heard, they too said the same—“We have heard from those who know.” And those about whom they said it—those also said, “We have heard from those who know.”

There is a secret here. There is no personal claim behind it. There is no egoistic boast in it. It is not that “I know,” for where does the knower’s “I” remain? Therefore they say: “those who know.” And let me add a further delight: in “those who know,” he includes himself as well. This may seem a little difficult.

As I told you in the morning: when I am speaking to you, just as you are hearing, I too am hearing. If the speaker is not also a listener, that speaker knows nothing. Truths are not readymade, not premanufactured. They are revealed, born unpremeditated, spontaneous—like flowers unfurling from trees and fragrance spreading. If I am saying something to you, it can be said in two ways: either I had settled it beforehand and prepared it, then spoke to you. In that case it will be stale, no longer fresh or alive—dead. Or I say what is coming now—then, just as you hear it for the first time, so do I. I too am a listener. Not only you—again, I too am a listener. Thus when the rishi says, “From those who know we have heard,” it includes that he has heard from those who knew—and if he himself knew, that too is “heard.” For that the rishi calls himself a listener, a hearer.

There is yet another reason. Whenever a person attains the supreme truth, it never appears as if he has created it. It appears to have descended upon him, been revealed. It never feels like his construction; it feels like a revelation, an unveiling, an ilham.

If someone were to ask Mohammed, “Did you write the Quran?” Mohammed would say: forgive me, do not ask such a sinful question. I heard the Quran. I saw the Quran. I wrote the Quran—having heard, having seen. I did not compose it.

Therefore Mohammed is called a prophet. Prophet means messenger—one who has delivered the message. He was given the tidings; truth was revealed before him; he came and told you, “This is how truth is.” This truth is not his fabrication.

Thus we have called the rishis drashta—seers—not srashta—creators. They did not create truth; they saw it. Therefore what they saw we have called darshan—seeing, whether you call it seeing or hearing.

The rishi says: “We have heard from those who know.” He is saying: truth is free from us and separate; we do not manufacture it. We do not construct it. We only hear, know, see. We are merely witnesses. Call it witness, call it seer, call it hearer—but remember the passivity.

The rishi says: we are passive, not active. When you construct something, you are active. When you receive, you are passive. A painter making a flower is an active agent; he is doing. But a painter standing before a rose, simply beholding—then he is passive. He is not doing anything; he is only a receiver, receptive. He has left the doors open—the windows of the mind open. He has said to the flower: come in—and stood silently. Then he is receptive. Then the flower will enter; its petals will caress the heart; its fragrance will resound in the depths. The one who, as a receiver, lets the flower in—then to the farthest corners of his being the flower will pervade. But the receiver is passive; he is only receiving.

The rishi of the Upanishad says: thus have we heard. He is informing you that truth is available only to those who are passive. Passivity is the door—receptivity the gateway. As the sun has risen outside the door—we cannot bring the sun in, but we can sit with the door open. If the door is open, the sun will come in; his rays will dance their way into the innermost rooms. We cannot say we brought the sun inside—that would be too much. We can only say: we did not hinder his coming. We did not keep the door shut. We sat with the door open. It is not necessary that if our door is open the sun must come. Though it is certain that if our door is shut he will never come. With the door open, it is up to the sun to come or not. With the door closed, even if he wishes to enter he cannot. This means: if we choose, we can be blind to truth—and then truth can do nothing. If we choose, we can have eyes for truth—but even then we do not create truth; it is only seen.

Whatever is valuable, beautiful, noble, true, auspicious—Shiva—is available only to the receptive mind. The mind that yields the door—receives. Therefore the rishis never say, “I have…” No. They say, “From those who knew we have heard.” Where there is knowledge, thence we have heard; from that source we have received. It is an aspiration to wipe out the “I” completely. That is why no Upanishad is signed. We do not know who is speaking, who is saying, whose utterance it is. No signature. We do not know who said it—these oceanic truths uttered without a signature! In fact, oceanic truths can be uttered only without a signature—for before their birth the signer disappears.

The rishis remove themselves utterly from between—so we cannot tell who has spoken these words. It is not even certain that all these sayings belong to one person. One saying may be of one, another of another, a third of a third. And yet there is a wonder: though the utterances are of many, there is a harmony, a music, an inner accord. However different these people were, even if one aphorism’s two lines are by different people, deep within they have become one.

Visit a Jain temple sometime: there you will find twenty-four Tirthankaras. There is no difference from one statue to the next. Only a small symbol beneath differentiates them—placed there for our convenience; otherwise we would not know which is Mahavira, which is Parshvanath, which is Neminath. If you remove the signs below, all the statues become absolutely alike; even the faces.

Historically this cannot be so. Mahavira’s face could not have been identical to Parshvanath’s—and all twenty-four exactly the same is improbable. Two people are not alike—how could twenty-four be? Did the sculptors not understand that one day someone would mock and say these are not historical?

They understood well. But they sculpted not the outer faces; they sculpted the inner face—where a deep similarity arises. On the surface, surely Mahavira differed from Parshvanath—height, features, eyes, face—but a point comes in life where the “I” is lost. Then within there is no distance, a face-lessness remains. Then outer faces are meaningless.

Hence they made not outer statues but the inner similitude—the inner equality. Therefore the statues are alike.

These Upanishadic utterances are by different people. And it is not surprising if even two lines of one verse are by two different persons.

It happened: when the great English poet Coleridge died, forty thousand unfinished poems were found in his house. Before his death, his friends told him many times: why have you left so many wondrous poems incomplete? Finish them all—you will be the greatest poet on earth. Forty thousand—some with three lines, missing the fourth; some with seven lines, missing the eighth; some with eleven, missing the twelfth—stuck after a line. Why don’t you complete them?

Coleridge said: only eleven have come; I have been waiting for the twelfth for ten years. Until the twelfth line comes, how can I add it? Someday it may come to someone else—he will join it. It does not come to me. If I wish, I can make one—but it will be false, a wooden leg attached to a real man. These eleven lines are alive—they descended. I did not make them. In some receptive moment they came upon me; I wrote them down. The twelfth has not yet come. I am waiting. If in this life it comes, I will add it; otherwise I will leave them. Some day, in someone else’s life it may come. If someone becomes a door, he will add the twelfth line.

It is not necessary that two lines be by the same person. These are lines of those who wrote nothing of their own; whatever descended upon them, they said it.

Thus the rishi’s saying—“We have heard from those who know”—is the total acceptance of egolessness, a declaration: I am not; only a door is.

विद्यां चाविद्यां च यस्तद्वेदोभयं सह।
अविद्यया मृत्युं तीर्त्वा विद्ययाऽमृतमश्नुते।।11।।

He who knows both vidya and avidya together—by avidya crosses over death, and by vidya attains amrita. 11.

He who knows both—avidya and vidya—crosses death by avidya and knows the immortal by vidya.

A rare sutra. I said: the Upanishads are not enemies of avidya. They are partisans of vidya, but not at all opposed to avidya.

They say: he who knows avidya crosses death by avidya. All the battle of avidya is with death. A doctor fights death, an engineer fights death. Our entire science fights death—disease, insecurity, danger. The whole struggle of avidya is that life may not be wiped out. So he who knows avidya crosses over death. He learns to live rightly.

By avidya one crosses death. But by avidya one will not attain amrita. By avidya we shall only live—life will move on—but not its essence. One should say: vegetation. We will pass along life’s road—food will be obtained, houses, medicines—everything. Life will pass smoothly, comfortably—but amrita will not be attained. Even if avidya one day prevents death entirely, amrita will still not be attained.

Science is engaged in this effort. In truth, all of science’s struggle is defense against death. Science is always eager to find how death may be postponed—indefinitely. And someday, that a situation may arise in which we can, if we choose, put death off forever. If we understand the last three thousand years of the development of avidya—of science—the whole struggle is with death. And science has succeeded far.

A thousand years ago, out of ten children born, nine died. In those lands where science has become effective, out of ten one may die and nine live. In ten-thousand-year-old skeletons, not one bone has been found of a person who lived beyond twenty-five years. Today, in the Soviet Union, there are people above one thousand in number who are over one hundred and fifty. A hundred years is becoming ordinary. When you read in the newspaper that a ninety-year-old in Russia has married, you feel the old man is foolish. But know: he is not yet old—not in that culture. Your old man would have died twenty years ago. In a culture where life can stretch to one hundred and fifty years, when will you keep youth? At least a hundred!

Where science succeeds, death is pushed back. And success increases. It does not seem impossible that very soon we shall bring the human body to a point where if we wish to keep it going, there will be no reason we cannot—perhaps endlessly.

Therefore in the West—especially in America—some thinkers have begun to insist that before scientists succeed in lengthening life, we must add to the constitution each person’s birthright to die—otherwise great difficulty will arise. If a government decides not to let someone die, that person will have no right left. Until now we have made laws that no one has the right to kill another. But now, in countries where science is lengthening life—as in Switzerland, Sweden, Norway—where age has risen high, movements for euthanasia are growing. Thoughtful people insist that if a person wishes to die, no doctor has the right to keep him alive. If a doctor does, he violates that person’s fundamental right—his right to life as he chooses.

It is dangerous. A man of one hundred and fifty—he may not wish to live further. If he is utterly foolish, that is another matter. Otherwise he will wish to rest, to depart. But doctors can keep him hanging in hospitals. And doctors are not yet allowed to assist death. They cannot say: we will help you die. They say: we will do everything to save you; if you die, that is different. Hence the movement that we grant man the right to die—if he decides, no one can prevent him.

This will soon be meaningful. Because in the human body no such factor has been found that makes death unavoidable. Death happens because body parts are not yet replaceable. As we learn to replace parts, man’s dying will cease to be a necessity and become a voluntary act. Remember, very soon in this world, except for accidents, no one will die on his own. There will be less death and more self-chosen exit—when a man tells the doctor, “Let me go.” Self-chosen departure will become the normal process of dying.

Long ago the Upanishads declared: by avidya one can cross death. What modern medicine is attempting, the Upanishads declare. They say: by avidya death can be conquered—pushed far away. For death does not occur to the inner element; death occurs to the body. If we can keep the old body serviceable, the inner element need not take a new body. And to take a new body is very non-economical.

An old man dies—consider that Nature does not know economics. She produces children and kills the old. The old—trained, experienced; and she produces children—untrained, unskilled. Those with whom we have laboured seventy years—and a little wisdom has come—she removes; and then produces the unwise. We have to rear them again. Very non-economical! The economical thing would be: do not let the seventy-year-old die, for his seventy years of experience would be lost. If he dies and is born again—twenty, twenty-five years go in education; only then does he arrive, with difficulty, at the place from which he died. Wasteful. Science—avidya—has been engaged to prevent this waste.

If we could keep an Einstein, how much waste would be saved! And if Einstein could live three hundred years, the increase in the world’s knowledge would be such as three Einsteins across three births could not produce—because it would be three hundred years of continuous maturity, without discontinuities. Not broken again and again by gaps of twenty, twenty-five, thirty years. If we keep Einstein alive three hundred years, the growth of knowledge will be beyond calculation.

And knowledge has no end. A small human brain—with perhaps five hundred million cells—and each cell can store so much that scientists say: all the libraries on earth could be stored in one person’s brain. Five hundred million compartments—such power—that all knowledge on earth could be owned by one man. Another matter is that we do not yet possess the means to put such knowledge into one brain. Our method of putting in is primitive.

To teach a child takes twenty years—and after twenty years, we merely produce a B.A. Nothing much. After twenty years we can only say: he is not illiterate—just that. Nothing special. Even seventy years of teaching will not do much. There is so much to know, and our means of pouring it into a person are so meagre. Therefore new methods are being sought.

In Russia, there is great work on sleep-teaching: the child is taught by day, and by night he lies uselessly sleeping—twelve hours wasted. So at night a tape runs by his ear, and while he sleeps, the tape teaches him. Making sleep a medium for education—and this has had success. Very soon what we now teach in fifteen years, we will teach in seven—by using the night. There is another advantage: when a teacher teaches an awake child, there is a conflict of egos, causing great obstacles. In sleep there is no conflict; education is assimilated directly. There is no teacher, no student—the student sleeps, the teacher is a tape recorder. It quietly pours education into the child by night; the child receives it straight.

“That death can be conquered by avidya”—this Upanishadic declaration should be inscribed above every institute of science. The rishi says so because death is only a bodily accident. If we can arrange the body, death can be lengthened—pushed away. No obstacle.

In America a man died fifteen years ago. There is no way yet to revive the dead. But scientists think that by around 1980, we will have means to revive someone after death. So that man left a ten-million-dollar bequest to keep his corpse perfectly preserved until 1980—so he might be revived. About a hundred thousand rupees are spent daily to keep his body exactly as it was at the moment of death—without the slightest change—so that in 1980, when the science is in hand, we may reanimate him.

Spiritualists feel frightened: if this happens, what of the soul? If in 1980 the man becomes alive, what of the soul?

But he will revive only on one condition. Science must revive the body—that is necessary, but not sufficient. If his soul has been wandering and has not taken a new body, it will re-enter. And I think his soul will wander—he left such a huge bequest! Ten million dollars is not a small matter. He will hover, he will wait twenty years. And if his body can be revived, he will re-enter—just as when a house collapses, and is rebuilt, we move back in.

By avidya one can conquer death, but one cannot attain amrita.

The second half of the sutra is even more important. Even if science one day conquers death, and we render man almost immortal—not dying—what then? Even then there is no taste of amrita. We will still know the same person who lived seventy years now living seven hundred—or seven thousand. But that which was before birth and remains after death—we will have no experience of that. To know amrita—only vidya can lead there.

Therefore the Upanishads give avidya great value as a means in the struggle with death. But for the attainment of amrita it is no means. The struggle with death is negative; the attainment of amrita is positive. To attain amrita is to know that which was before birth and will remain when I die—which is even now, was yesterday, was the day before; which was when this body was not, and will be when this body is no more. To know that is to attain amrita. To prolong this body—to lengthen the boundary between birth and death—is the struggle with death. But to descend into the experience of that which is beyond birth and death—that is the attainment of amrita.

The Upanishads say: the attainment of amrita will be through vidya.

A few sutras of this vidya must also be understood. What are the formulas of the vidya for amrita?

First: whoever thinks “I am the body” will never be able to move toward amrita. Therefore the first formula of vidya is to utterly sever identification with the body. To remember continuously, to be mindful again and again, to bring it to awareness repeatedly: I am not the body. The deeper this sits, the more movement toward amrita is possible. The deeper the conviction “I am the body,” the more the journey of avidya—the struggle with death—will continue.

And as life is, “I am the body” is remembered twenty-four hours a day. A small hurt in the foot—“I am the body.” A little hunger in the belly—“I am the body.” A headache—“I am the body.” Fever—“I am the body.” Old age descending—“I am the body.” Youth rising—“I am the body.” From all sides life signals: I am the body. Nowhere is there a signal that I am not the body. And the wonder is: that alone is true for which there is no signal; and that is false for which signals come daily.

But signals come because in understanding these signals—in decoding them—a basic mistake persists. Something is said; we understand something else. A great misunderstanding. Our whole life is a misunderstanding. Signals say one thing; we take another. The belly feels hunger—then I say, “I am hungry.” Wrong. We have mistranslated the message. The message is only this: I become aware that the belly is hungry. The message is only that much. But we say, “I am hungry.” How do we arrive at that conclusion? No one has shown it. The middle link disappears! I become aware that the belly is hungry. I am never hungry. But I say, “I am hungry.” The head aches—then I become aware—aware that the head aches. But I say, “My head aches.” Even this I say outside; inside I say, “I ache.”

There is no mistake in the body’s communications. The mistake occurs when we decode them—when, in the attempt to interpret, we err. The error is in interpretation.

Swami Ram always spoke precisely. People took him to be mad. In a world of the mad, a precise man appears mad—no wonder. Ram never said, “I am hungry.” He would say: “Listen, hunger is here.” People would be puzzled: is your mind alright? He is precisely right; therefore the question arises whether he is sane! Sometimes he would come home and say: “Great fun today! I was passing along—people began to abuse Ram.” Not: “me.” Not: “I was passing and they abused me.” He would say, “Some people met me—great fun—they abused Ram. I listened too. I said: look Ram, we got some fun!”

When Swami Ram first went to America and began to speak in the third person, it created great difficulty. Here his friends knew him and would think: alright, perhaps a little odd. There no one could understand what he was saying.

But he speaks exactly right. Only the belly gets hungry; you never have been hungry—and cannot be. The Atman has no instrument for hunger. Nothing is ever lacking in the Atman to be filled by hunger. In the body there is lack every day—because the body dies every day. In fact, hunger arises because of dying.

This may surprise you: you die daily, therefore the part that dies must be replaced by food—nothing else. Some portion within you dies; the dead portion must be replaced by living matter—then you remain alive.

Thus if you fast for a day, you lose a pound. What happened? That pound of you died. You did not replace it. You will have to replenish. Scientists say: a man can remain hungry for ninety days; beyond that it becomes difficult. For ninety days he has accumulated fat that can keep him going. He will go on dying within and go on filling from within—growing weaker, losing weight, becoming emaciated—yet he will live.

By food we replace what has died in the body. But the soul does not die; nothing diminishes there. Therefore the soul has no reason for hunger. And yet another wonder: the soul does not hunger; the body does not know hunger. The body hungers; the soul knows hunger.

It is almost like this: once there was a forest fire, and a blind man and a lame man had to escape. The blind could not see—fire raging—though his legs were strong, to run was dangerous. The spot where he stood had no fire yet. If a blind man ran to save himself, he might burn. Nearby stood a lame man—he could see the fire coming but could not run.

Those two must have been wise—unlike blind and lame usually are. They made a pact. The lame said: if we are to survive, there is only one way—I climb on your shoulders. Use your legs, use my eyes. I will see; you run—and we will be saved. They survived.

The journey of soul and body—within and without—is like that of the blind and the lame. It is a deep alliance. The soul experiences; no event happens there. In the body events happen; there is no experiencing. All experiencing belongs to the soul; all events happen in the body. Hence the trouble. That day too, perhaps, the trouble arose—the fable does not record it, but surely it did. When the blind ran fast and the lame looked fast—both needed speed in the fire—then it is entirely possible the blind felt, “I am seeing,” and the lame felt, “I am running.” Very possible.

Exactly this happens within us.

We must break this alliance—disentangle. These are crossed wires. In the body all events occur; the soul experiences them all. Separate the two, and you catch the formula of vidya. The journey toward amrita begins.

For today, enough. Tomorrow morning again.

Now let us set out on the journey to amrita.

Let me tell you two or three things. Because today we are indoors, the impact will be far greater. The space is closed; the yearning and resolve of so many beings—the vibrations, the waves—will bring broad and deep results. No one will be able to escape. And it is the third day, so depth will increase. Those who have fallen behind—if you cannot move on your own today, then ride on the waves of others. But let no one remain standing today.

Friends who have only come to watch—please step outside. Let no onlooker remain inside; it may harm him. Whoever has come to watch should quietly go out. Inside will remain only those who will do.