Ishavashya Upanishad #8

Nature is the manifest form of existence—the one that is seen by the eyes, touched by the hands, recognized by the senses, to which the senses bear witness. Say that nature is the visible God. But this is the experience of those who have known God. They will say that nature is the body of the Divine. As for us, we know only the body. That it is God's body—this is not our knowing. Nature is the very figure of that unmanifest consciousness, its very revealed form—this is known only to those who know that which is unmanifest as well. Our knowing goes only so far as this: that which is manifest is all there is.

The Upanishads say that those who are absorbed in the worship of this manifest nature enter into darkness.

We are all absorbed. Not only those are in worship who offer prayer and puja in temples. Those too are absorbed in worship who, in the temple of the senses, pray and offer oblations.

The word upasana means: to sit near. Up-asan—to sit in nearness.

When you relish taste, you have gone to sit near the sense of taste. Then you are overwhelmed by it. Then the worship of taste is under way. When you relish lust, you have gone to sit near the sex-organ. The worship of the sex-organ is under way. Those who call themselves atheists too are absorbed in worship. Not the worship of God, but the worship of nature. It is difficult to escape worship—one will have to sit near something or the other. If you do not sit near God, you will sit near nature. If you do not sit near the Atman, you will sit near the body. If you do not sit near the supernatural, you will sit near the natural. But you will sit near, inevitably. Except for one possibility, in every situation worship will continue—except for one possibility. I will speak of that later.

This sutra of the Upanishads says that those who are absorbed in the worship of nature enter into darkness.

They enter darkness because worship of nature cannot be related to light. In truth its fundamental basis, its very condition, is darkness. To fulfill any craving, the more filled with darkness the mind is, the easier it becomes. If there is light within, the fulfillment of craving becomes difficult. The more stupefied the mind, the smoother the run of desire. The more asleep the mind is, the more in a trance.

All the juices of the senses are savored in a deep stupor. If you awaken, you begin to go beyond the senses. If you sleep, you come closer to the senses. The more the sleep, the more the intimacy. Therefore the worshipper of nature will have to become stupefied. The worshipper of the senses will have to search for some kind of unconsciousness. If, gradually, worshippers of the senses discover numerous ways of stupor—discover intoxicants, discover alcohol—there is no surprise. In truth, the devotee of the senses cannot remain far from alcohol for long. Wherever the worship of the senses increases, wine and newer devices of unconsciousness will increase alongside.

For the practice—the worship—of the senses, the mind is better the more un-alert, the more devoid of discrimination. Whether it be to be angry, or to be greedy, or to be filled with lust—the mind’s being stupefied is necessary, being unconscious is necessary. Only in this unconscious state are we able to worship nature.

So this sutra of the Upanishads is meaningful. It says that those who become absorbed in the worship of what is manifest, what is immediately visible, enter into darkness. Those absorbed in the worship of nature enter into darkness. But one more thing is said: into great darkness enter those who are absorbed in the worship of karma-prakriti—the nature of action.

One is the simple worship of the senses—animals too practice it. An animal too remains absorbed in the worship of the senses. But no animal remains absorbed in the worship of karma-prakriti. This is man’s special direction—the worship of the nature of action.

A man is running after position. By occupying any position there is no direct possibility of any particular sense being satisfied. There is an indirect possibility: in some position he may gain greater facility to satisfy certain senses. But there is no direct, straight relation to the senses. The relish in the race for position does not go to the senses; it goes to the ego—I am somebody. Yes, if I am somebody, then, more than those who are nothing, I will be able to satisfy the senses with greater ease. But “I am somebody” has its own relish. So the relish we take in the worship of karma is the relish of gratifying the ego.

The Upanishads say: such a man goes into great darkness—deeper darkness than animals.

Because what animals relish is natural. One man relishes food—in one sense it is animal-like. In one sense it is like animals. But a man relishing politics and mounting one post after another—he is worse off than an animal. It is not even natural. The relish he is taking is perverted; it is not natural. The relish of occupying a position satisfies no sense, no natural organ. Within us a very unnatural growth—a knot—of the ego increases; the relish goes to that: that others are nothing and I am something. The relish of domination, the relish of owning another, the relish of crushing another in one’s fist, the relish of tightening one’s grip around another’s neck.

To worship the nature of action means: all the directions that gratify the ego—be it fame, be it position, be it wealth. Granted that with wealth one gains greater facility to satisfy sensual cravings; without wealth there is trouble. But there are those who worship wealth for wealth’s own sake—not because with wealth they can buy a beautiful woman, nor because with wealth they can buy fine food, but because with wealth they will be somebody. The question of buying anything is not large; and often, in amassing wealth, one loses even the capacity to enjoy the senses. Then only the counting of wealth remains—the number of figures in the bank balance—that alone carries relish. Such a man remains absorbed in karma from morning to dusk. He neither sleeps at night nor truly awakens by day. He goes on running, collecting wealth, piling it up.

One man collects fame. One man collects knowledge. Wherever the relish “I am somebody” finds nourishment, from there commences the vast web of our acts.

Remember: in the animal realm there is not as much disturbance as in the human realm. Though all animals are worshippers of nature—staunch worshippers—they undertake no other worship. They need food, security, sexual satisfaction, sleep—their journey ends there. An animal asks no more than that. In one sense the animal’s demand is very limited. In one sense the animal is very restrained. Its demand is not very great—very little in fact. If what the senses demand is fulfilled, then it has no worry. It does not aspire to be a president. If food is obtained it goes into rest. Even the demand for sex among animals is very restrained. Except for man, in the vast realm of animals, sexuality is periodic. There is a season when the animal demands sex. For the rest of the year it is outside sex, it does not demand sex.

Only man is the lone animal on earth whose sexuality is continuous—twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. There is no fixed period when he becomes lustful. He is lustful all the time. Lust spreads over his entire life.

No animal is so lustful. If the animal gets food the matter ends. The animal has little aspiration to collect food for tomorrow, for the day after, for a year, for two years. If an animal cares for the farthest, perhaps it is a year at most—some animal. But man alone is the animal who not only strives to collect for the whole of life, but even for after life—if there be some existence beyond death, he collects for that too.

In Egypt, in the mummies and tombs, when a man died, all the goods were placed with him. The bigger the man, the more the goods. If an emperor died, all his wives would be buried alive with him—because he might need them beyond. All wealth, food, great arrangements. Those pyramids that stand—they are provisions for the dead in Egypt. Living women would be buried alongside the husband, because after death…

No animal worries about the afterlife. Not even about life till death. Its time-horizon is very limited. In many ways man makes arrangements even for the next world—builds a temple, gives charity—in the hope that in the other world he will reap the profit. He will show there: See, I gave so much—may I receive my return.

Worship of the senses is not so complex. Hence the older the society—the aboriginals, the primitives—the less the web in life, and therefore the less the tension. For in many ways it is only like the animals—worship of the senses. This is not the worship of karma-prakriti.

As man becomes civilized, the prestige of ego is established even over the senses. And if a man sacrifices his senses at the altar of ego, we respect him greatly—greatly. If a man, in the race for position, gives up care for food, wife, children—we say: he is a great renunciate. In the race for position! In the race for prestige! We say—look, he has no thought for food, no care for clothing, no care for house and home. But look behind: he is dedicating his animal nature to the ego.

The Upanishads say: such a person goes into great darkness. Better is the one who is absorbed only in the worship of the senses. His web is not deep. And the demand of the senses is not very much—the demand of the ego is infinite. There is another virtue with the senses: the demand of all the senses is small, very small and limited. It repeats, but it is not infinite. Understand this difference.

The demand of the senses repeats, is recurrent, but it is not infinite. Today you are hungry; given food, the hunger is gone. Tomorrow it will return—repeats, recurs. But no one’s hunger is infinite. It is not that you go on eating and the hunger is never satisfied. Lust will seize you today; after twenty-four hours it will return. But today, when lust is satisfied, you will suddenly find you are completely outside sex. Lust too is not infinite. It repeats, but it is limited.

But the ego is infinite. It does not need to recur; it just keeps going. However much you fill it, it does not fill. The ego is insatiable; it cannot be filled. Give one post, immediately it demands the next. The first post has not even arrived and it begins preparing for the next. Tell a man he will be made minister; that very night he dreams of becoming the chief minister—that very night. For: all right, what is done is done; now the next journey begins immediately in the ego.

The ego does not recur—note this; passions recur. And they recur because each passion has a limited demand; when it is fulfilled, it becomes quiet. Then when it awakens again, it demands again.

Therefore animals are not very worried. Therefore animals do not go mad; they are not neurotic. Animals do not commit suicide. Animals have no need of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis. For animals, there is no need for a Freud, a Jung, an Adler.

Observe the animal closely and you will see: it is very peaceful. Even a dreadful animal is very peaceful. If you have seen a lion after food, you will find him utterly quiet—without the slightest restlessness. He is utterly violent, but his violence lasts only until he gets food. Once food is found, he becomes utterly non-violent—almost Gandhian! Even if food lies near him, he pays it no heed. Often when the lion has eaten and rests, small animals—the very ones who could become his food—sit beside and eat the leftovers. When hunger returns tomorrow, he will again be ready for violence, but until then the matter is over; nothing matters. But the ego’s hunger in man never ends. The more you fill, the more it grows.

Understand the difference between sense and ego. Fill the sense, it fills—then it empties again and will have to be filled again. But the ego never fills. The more you pour, the more it grows—like pouring ghee on a fire to extinguish it; all that you pour into the ego becomes ghee on the flames. It blazes up and becomes larger. The more you enlarge it, the more it demands to be enlarged. Whatever you give to the ego only becomes a facility for it to grow further. Therefore, from the moment the ego seizes man, from that very moment more unrest, tension, anxiety, unease than in the animals begins to seize man.

Today in the West there is a vast movement to return to the senses—return to the senses. Those you call hippies, or beatniks, or provos—the great movement among today’s youth is to return to the senses. They say: we do not want your education, your degrees, your posts, your money, your cars, your palaces. Let us have food, let us have love, let us have sex—that is enough. We do not want your…

And I take it to be a great event. In human history this has not happened before: that on so broad a front people declared, “We are ready to drop karma-prakriti and to live only for the senses—the manifest nature of the senses and passions—that is enough; we do not want more.”

This is a sign that the web of karma and ego has become so dreadful that man is ready to be an animal, but now wants to be free of ego. Though, by becoming an animal, man will not be freed of ego. One is freed of ego only by becoming Paramatma. By falling into the senses there may be brief relief; tomorrow the web of karma will begin again. Two thousand years ago man lived only with the senses, but out of that emerged the ego. Today if we regress again, tomorrow the ego will emerge again. There is no way backward. Man must go forward.

In this sutra the Upanishads have said: those absorbed in the worship of nature stray in darkness. Those absorbed in the worship of ego stray in great darkness.

Who goes beyond darkness then? Who?

Only two kinds of worship are seen: either worship of the senses, or worship of the ego. And often the worshippers of the ego are opposed to the worship of the senses. A man goes on renouncing. If we could cut open the mind of the renunciate, perform an operation, you would be astonished: the secret of the renunciate is the gratification of the ego—respect. He has fasted for thirty days—the band is playing in the village, there is a welcome. He has endured thirty days of fasting. We say: what a great renunciation—thirty days without food is no ordinary thing! It is not ordinary at all. But it is entirely ordinary if the ego is being gratified. Why thirty days, a man can remain hungry for thirty years if the ego is being gratified. The ego is ever ready to make any sense be renounced—ever ready.

We understood this secret long ago; therefore, whenever we want someone to renounce, we begin to gratify his ego. Humanity has understood this secret well. Therefore you respect the renunciate. Without respect, no one would be ready to renounce. Yet, a true renunciate is one who can renounce without respect. If you withdraw your respect from renunciates, out of a hundred, ninety-nine will vanish by tomorrow—you will not find them. Withdraw the respect and see—you will know.

We do not notice: if in a village a man eats only once a day and the whole village touches his feet, you have given him such food as suffices for a lifetime. Given to the ego. That man will cut the body but continue to fill the ego. And therefore, for this worship of the ego, anything can be made to happen—and almost everything has been made to happen. In the whole history of mankind, in thousands of forms, anything can be made to be done by man.

In Europe, in the Middle Ages, there was a great widespread movement of flagellant monks. The more lashes a monk inflicted on himself, the more respect he received—because he was enduring so much austerity upon the body. So marvelous monks were produced in the Middle Ages whose sole virtue was that they would, from morning, lacerate their own flesh with whips and make themselves bloody. And fame would spread in the village: so-and-so gives himself fifty lashes; so-and-so gives a hundred. That was their only merit, nothing else. But for that they received great honor. So people became proficient in whipping themselves.

You may feel astonished: what madness is this! If a man has nothing else but can whip himself, why honor him?

Think of your own holy men and you will find—what virtues do they have? In some, the only virtue is that he walks on foot. In some, the only virtue is that he eats once a day. In some, that he does not touch a woman. In some, that he remains naked. Are these virtues? There is nothing in them. What is the essence? Walk as much as you wish—all animals are walking on foot.

But the essence is this: those who cannot walk on foot, who find it difficult—which is natural—give them honor. The one who travels in a car touches the feet of the one who walks on foot. The walker-by-foot has reduced your car to the worth of two coppers. He has thrown your car-ego into the dust. You may travel by car, but you must touch the feet of the one who walks!

The one who walks perhaps could not obtain a car—that was a little difficult; but he could walk. There were two ways to break your ego: either he could bring a bigger car than yours—which is difficult; or else he could walk on foot—which is very simple. By walking, he will throw your ego into the dust. He has established a pride. But what is the quality? What qualitative revolution has occurred in the man who walks on foot? Yet we give him respect.

We give respect because he is doing what we cannot do, what we feel is painful—so we feel he is doing great renunciation. And when that man receives respect, for respect one can circle the entire earth. Not only walk, one can drag oneself on the ground. People even drag themselves—someone goes all the way to Kashi dragging himself on the ground. And two hundred people walk behind him because he is dragging himself to Kashi. Are there any other virtues besides this? No, there is no need. The renunciate often goes on fulfilling the ego against the senses.

I call him a renunciate who is freed of the senses and does not gratify the ego. Only then is it renunciation; otherwise, it has no meaning. He who is free of both—of whom the Upanishads speak. One who is absorbed neither in the worship of nature nor in the worship of ego—he enters into light.

And remember, the worship of the senses is very obvious. The worship of the ego is very subtle. Therefore it is often difficult to recognize the worship of the ego. The worship of nature is visible.

A man relishes food excessively—this is plainly visible. A man wears beautiful clothes—this is plainly visible. But when a man wears beautiful clothes and goes out into the village, what is his longing? Is it not this—that people should see? Is it not this—that people should know, should acknowledge that he is somebody? When a woman goes out wearing a mink coat worth a hundred thousand or two hundred thousand, what for? There is no utility in a coat worth that much. A coat has nothing to do with such a price. A coat worth a few hundred rupees is coat enough. But what is the meaning of a coat costing two lakhs? Certainly the coat has no purpose, but there is the relish that will arise as jealousy flickers in the eyes of other women. There is relish in the helplessness of other women that will be exposed before that coat.

But this is visible; there is not much difficulty in understanding it. If someone wears a coat worth two lakhs, we understand what is what. But if a man stands naked in the marketplace—could his relish also be only this, that people should see he is somebody? If so, there is no difference between the mink coat and digambar nakedness. The only difference is that to buy a mink coat one has to enter long hassles and earn two lakhs; and if, by standing naked, one gets the same fun as the mink coat, then it is a simple practice.

The worship of the senses is very clear, obvious, easily seen. The worship of the ego becomes more and more subtle.

No—keep attention on yourself, do not worry about others—what others are doing. If someone else stands naked, you will not be able to know why he stands so. The matter is so subtle that even if he himself knows, it suffices. You will not be able to know. It may be that his nakedness is pure innocence. When a Mahavira stands naked, certainly Mahavira cannot use nakedness like a mink coat—because he had many mink coats. Mahavira had very costly coats. The relish of being somebody was abundant for him. So when a man like Mahavira stands naked, the possibility that he is going into ego-worship is next to none—almost none. Still, we cannot know it from outside. It should be left to Mahavira himself to know within. If someone in your neighborhood stands naked, you cannot know why he stands so! Leave it to him that he may know. This matter is subtle and inner.

To satisfy the senses we must go outward. To gratify the ego we need not go outward; it can be fulfilled entirely within.

I have heard: a renunciate lived alone in a forest, far away. He took no disciples. One day a traveling sadhu came and said to him: You are very humble, you have made not a single disciple. So learned—and yet you have not become anyone’s guru. I have just come from another renunciate—he has thousands of disciples.

That sadhu only smiled. He said, “How can you compare him with me! How can you compare him with me! I am utterly, utterly solitary. I do not create any kind of attachment. I have not created even the attachment of a single disciple. I do not construct any kind of ego—not even the ego of being a guru. I am utterly egoless. I have seen only one other egoless sadhu like me.”

The sadhu’s face changed; the smile disappeared. When a competitor appears, ego suffers. Earlier he was pleased because the man he referred to did not hurt his ego; it was nourished. Now he said, “I have seen another sadhu just like you”—this hurts much more. Someone like me? This pains the mind greatly.

So even that utterly solitary man, in that desolate solitude, is feeding his ego. He is feeding it by being alone; he is feeding it by not taking disciples. Someone can feed it by having disciples; someone can feed it by not having disciples. Someone can say, “No one is greater than me.” And someone can say, “I am poor and lowly, dust beneath your feet,” but then add: “But there is no dust greater than I am. Do not speak of any dust beyond me—I am the last.” Then it makes no difference. Then it makes no difference. But to recognize this, one must go within oneself.

The one who becomes free of both kinds of worship enters into light—from the worship of the senses and from the worship of the ego. From the worship of manifest nature and from the worship of subtle I-ness.

But the Upanishads say one more profound thing: the first worship does not take you into such deep darkness, because the senses have been given to you by nature. You did not create them. The ego is your own creation. The ego is acquired. The senses are given.

You were born carrying hunger. You may be freed of taste someday, but you will never be freed of hunger. Hunger will remain till your dying breath. Hunger is a necessity. The senses you have brought with you; and however free you become of the senses, you will not be free of the necessity of the senses. You can be free of sensual craving, but you cannot be free of the senses. You can be free of the frenzy of the senses, but you cannot be free of the requirement of the senses. Not even Mahavira can, not even Buddha can—no one can. It is an indispensable part of life that you will need food.

Yes, this can happen—and it happens to the one who becomes free of the worship of the senses: he ceases to be insane. It happens that he does not go on expanding sensual craving. He stops at the minimum—the essential. If two loaves suffice for the body, he stops at two loaves. He does not demand fifty loaves. If one garment suffices to cover the body, he uses one garment. He has no longing to pile up heaps of clothes. If a hut gives him shade, it is fine. He does not demand a great palace.

This too each must decide for himself, for our needs are different. There can be no imitation here. For someone two loaves may be the minimum; for another five may be the minimum. For one, five loaves are minimum necessity; for another, five may be great luxury. Therefore never decide this by imitation of another. Seek within yourself.

And there is a simple measure for the search: the minimum of the senses never fills you with anxiety. The moment the senses go beyond the minimum, beyond the necessary, and begin to demand the unnecessary, anxiety begins. Take anxiety as the measure. The moment anxiety begins, know that you are asking more than is needed—the unnecessary. For it is the unnecessary that produces anxiety; the necessary does not produce anxiety. The unnecessary—the one without which life could go on but you refuse to let it go—that alone gives birth to anxiety.

So if anxiety arises in the mind, understand that you have entered into more than the necessity of the senses. Anxiety is a pointer. As when you are hungry and you have taken food—how will you know that the food is too much? The moment the belly begins to feel burdened, the moment weight presses on the stomach, the moment fullness brings not satisfaction but pain—know that this is more than needed. The belly has become anxious.

I gave this as an example. In the same way, each sense becomes anxious if you go beyond its need. As long as its need is met, it is healthy, quiet, satisfied. The moment the burden beyond need is placed, it becomes unhealthy, diseased, troubled. The satisfaction of hunger is deeply satisfying. But the burden beyond hunger is very sickening—very disease-producing.

A thoughtful man, Luikon, once said a brief thing: of the food we eat, half fills our stomach and half fills the doctor’s. For half is necessary for us; half is for disease.

Not as many die of hunger on earth as die of overeating. Hunger has a certain radiance. Overeating has a heaviness, a darkness—tamas descends.

Each must decide for himself, for each one’s needs and the arrangements of the senses differ. But the moment anxiety arises, the moment disease arises… The senses give early signals. They are very sensitive. They give quick notice that it is more than necessary, that this is not needed. Drop the unnecessary.

The senses will remain till the end—for life runs on the wheels of the senses. But the ego is not indispensable. The ego is our acquisition. We have constructed it. And while still alive, we can enter utterly egolessness. Therefore the ego leads into great darkness—because it is created by man and is wholly unnecessary.

In the senses something is necessary; the unnecessary we add. What we add—that is the disturbance. The ego is entirely unnecessary. It is entirely built by us. Therefore it leads into great darkness. The senses lead into darkness by the addition of the unnecessary. The ego leads into great darkness, for it is unnecessary in its entirety.

One can live utterly without ego while still alive. Truly, the more one lives without ego, the more deeply he lives. And the more one lives by the ego, the more petty and superficial his life. For the ego does not allow one to go deep. It keeps one stuck on the surface. Why? This too should be brought into awareness.

In truth, the relish of ego is in the eyes of the other. Leave you alone in a forest—there is no fun in ego. Then wearing a necklace of diamonds will have no meaning. And if you do wear it, the animals will laugh. Even a diamond necklace will feel like a burden on the neck. The urge will be: take it off and set it down—it is a load. What will you do with ego in the forest?

No—the whole relish of the ego lies in the reflection that forms in the other’s eyes. Certainly, what forms in the other’s eyes will be on the surface—surrounding us from the outside. Like the fencing we put around a house—the ego is like that. However colorful and beautiful, it is created by the eyes of others. And the ego cannot be created without others; therefore it is dependent on others. Therefore one must always fear others—for the satisfaction of the ego is in their hands; they can withdraw it at any time. Today they salute; tomorrow they may not—the brick slips. The mind becomes restless: what now? If the village decides: forget this man, when he passes, do not even think that he is passing, do not even notice he exists—it will be a virtual death; as if one has died.

The relish of ego is in the eyes of the other. And the eyes of the other are outward. He who takes relish there cannot go deep within. He cannot live deeply. He will live only in coverings and clothes.

Only he can descend into deep life who descends into the Atman. And only he descends into the Atman who forgets the ego—who forgets the eyes of others and goes into the eye within; who looks at himself; who drops concern with how others see him; who keeps only the concern: what am I? The question “what do others say?” is utterly useless. What have we to do with others? Others’ testimony will not serve. In life, the one asked will be I.

I have heard: there was a Jewish mystic—dying. The last moment. The village priest came to recite the final farewell. He said to the dying mystic: Remember Moses! You are near to going to God. The dying mystic opened his eyes and said: Do not take the name of Moses. Because when I stand before God—his name was Mouniz—he said, when I am before God, he will not ask me why I was not Moses. He will ask me why I was not Mouniz. He will not ask me about Moses. I am going there now—he will ask: the one I sent as you—did you become Mouniz or not? The seed I sent as potential—did it blossom or not? Do not take the name of Moses now. Now it is my question.

The priest bent close and whispered: Do not throw water on your reputation at the time of death, for people are standing all around—they will hear that he said, leave aside Moses. Moses is God to the Jews. The priest said: Do not spoil a lifetime’s prestige at the time of death. The mystic again opened his eyes and said: I remained in that madness all my life—now let me be free at least at death. I leave prestige now. Let me be free of prestige as I die. Let me leave these people around me—within moments I shall be free of them. They are not to be my witnesses. God will not ask them what they say of me. God will look at me—what I am. Let me care for myself now.

In truth, the ego is always an accounting of what others say about me. And the Atman is always the felt-ness of what I am. What others say—this has nothing to do with it. Others may be wrong. Others may be right. Let others know for themselves.

To reduce the worship of the senses means: let the senses settle at necessity. To reduce the worship of the ego means: let the ego come to zero. If these two possibilities are fulfilled, a person does not sit near the senses nor near the ego. He sits near the Atman. Then a new worship begins—the nearness of the Lord.

And even to say nearness to the Lord is not right—because to be near the Lord means to become one with him. Near him, we cannot remain separate. As long as we are absorbed in these two worships, we can remain distant. To be near him means to become one. Just as if someone stands on the roof and asks, “I am going to jump—after I jump, what should I do to reach the ground?” We will tell him: jump—the rest the earth will do. You will have nothing more to do. Just leave the roof—take one step off the roof. Then you need do nothing more. The earth will do the rest.

If one just takes a leap from the roof of the worship of the senses and of the ego, the rest is done by the Divine. It is not that we reach near him—we reach into him. His gravitation, his pull, is mighty. The earth has no such pull in comparison. One is drawn in.

The one whom we have called the complete avatar—Krishna—his name means gravitation. Krishna means that which draws, which attracts, in which there is kashish—pull—gravitation—the one who draws.

Great is the earth’s pull. Yet you can hold yourself back: not come to the earth. Even a small straw can hold back the earth’s great force. If there is clinging anywhere—if you are holding on to something—the earth’s pull will not work. Unclinging—let go anywhere; let the hands be empty; hold on to nothing—the earth will immediately draw you. However far you are, you will be pulled. And however near you are, if you are holding on to anything, you cannot be drawn.

Paramatma draws him who is freed of two attractions: here, the attraction of the senses; there, the attraction of the ego. One enters the light.

Anyadevahuh sambhavad anyad ahur asambhavat.
Iti shushruma dhiranam ye nastad vicachakshire. 13

From the worship of karya Brahman (sambhuti) they declare a different fruit; and from the worship of the unmanifest Brahman (asambhuti) they declare another fruit. Thus have we heard from the wise, who explained it to us. 13

The Upanishads speak of two forms of Brahman. Only the forms are two; the essence is one. Or better still: the knowers are of two kinds; the essence is one. One is the unmanifest, causal form of Brahman—the causal. And one is the effect-form of Brahman—the manifest, expressed, effect. The seed is cause; the tree is effect. In the seed, all is hidden; in the tree, all is manifest.

The seed-Brahman is nowhere seen by us. Wherever something is seen by us, it is not the seed-Brahman; it is the tree-Brahman—the expressed Brahman. What is revealed, that we can see. What is unmanifest, we cannot see. This manifest Brahman too can be prayed to and worshipped. The worship of this manifest Brahman can be in many forms. Here, the intended meaning is twofold.

When the Upanishads were spoken, the worship of devas was widespread. Understand the word deva rightly. Deva is the purest expression of Brahman’s effect-form—the purest. A stone is also its expression. We call that divine in which, even as it is manifest, the unmanifest glimmers. Those we call avatars, Tirthankaras, sons of God—Jesus, Mohammed, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama—such persons are as if standing on a threshold, at the door between. They are manifest—seen from the outside of the door. Their front face is clear, just like ours. Yet not just like ours. In them some shimmer of the unmanifest, some gleam of the seed-Brahman, is also visible. In their entirely manifest conduct, here and there the unmanifest flashes and gives a hint. All such consciousnesses are divine. Divine means: manifest, yet giving a glimpse of the unmanifest.

The Upanishads say: their worship and prayer, their adoration too bear fruit. Because in them there is a step beyond the manifest. For one who looks at them very attentively, their manifest form disappears and the unmanifest remains. Therefore a difficulty has always arisen: if Rama stands before you, then to the devotee of Rama, Rama does not appear as a man. The devotee of Rama becomes so identified with the unmanifest that the manifest disappears. The figure of Rama dissolves—only Brahman remains. Therefore when the devotee of Rama says “Rama, Rama,” he has no relation at all with Rama, the son of Dasharatha. When he says Rama, he has nothing to do with Dasharatha’s son—no purpose, no connection. He is speaking of the seed-Brahman alone.

But one who is not a devotee of Rama does not see in Rama that portion which is unmanifest. He does not see the seed-Brahman. He sees only the manifest—the one who took a body. He sees Dasharatha’s son, Sita’s husband, Ravana’s enemy, someone’s friend, someone’s… But what is visible is the manifest. And so when the devotee of Rama speaks of Rama and the non-devotee speaks, they are speaking of two different persons. There can be no harmony between them, no dialogue. They remain beyond one another’s understanding—for they speak strange things. They speak of different aspects.

This sutra of the Upanishads says: from the worship of that manifest, effect-form of Brahman—where a glimpse of the causal form is found—there are results, fruits. Those fruits will be pleasant—say, like heaven. They will bring great peace, they will be very pleasing—but not liberating.

Therefore we have used three words: one is narak (hell), one is swarga (heaven), and one more is moksha (liberation). By nearness to deities, to divine consciousnesses, one can reach at most swarga—the state of pleasure—not liberation, not ananda. What is the difference?

Pleasure—however deep—will be lost. However long it lasts, it will end. And where it ends, there hell begins—right there hell begins. Moksha has a beginning, but no end. Swarga has a beginning and an end. Hell has no beginning—only an end. I repeat so it may sink in. Hell has no beginning. Sorrow has no beginning. Pleasure is not; it can begin. Hell has no beginning; it can end. Heaven begins and ends. Moksha begins, but does not end. It will begin—then there is no end.

From the effect-form, manifest Brahman—wherever divinity has flashed—through their worship and prayer one can reach at most swarga, to pleasure. Therefore those who long for pleasure engage in the worship of deities. Those who long for liberation do not. Those who long for liberation turn their back on the deities. Those who long for liberation do not ask for pleasure—because pleasure can never become liberation. It will remain a bondage—pleasant, but bondage nonetheless. Those who long for liberation—who desire that in every sense the supreme freedom be attained, that the supreme bliss be found, which then never ends, the nectar whose limit is none, from where there is no return—the point of no return—beyond which there is nothing further to seek, no journey left—those who have such longing must seek the seed-Brahman. Not the manifest Brahman, but the unmanifest Brahman must they seek. And only through the sadhana of the unmanifest Brahman do they attain the supreme moksha. Both have results.

A beauty of the Upanishads is this: they do not deny, they clarify. They do not deny that one may worship the deities. The Upanishads will say: if someone wants to worship a deity, let him—but let him do so knowingly, that beyond pleasure this journey does not go.

And earlier the sutra says: thus have we heard from those who have known.

Understand something here: there is always an infinity to know. However much I may know—however much—it still is not complete. However much I may know, it still is not complete.

Imagine a vast ocean. I enter the ocean from one shore. I enter fully, drown fully—still I have not known the entire ocean. The ocean may well have known me entirely, but I have not known the ocean entirely. There are infinite shores and infinite travelers. From infinite fords infinite people will enter—they too will know. So the wider, more comprehensive this pooled knowing becomes, the more auspicious it is.

Therefore the rishis of the Upanishads will continually pool what they have known. They will add their small share to that which has been known—by the infinite ones, in infinite ways. They will say: thus have we heard from those who know. Why speak of our own small, little share! What has been known has been known by infinite beings, in infinite ways. Our small bit we have also added to that. Why speak of it! Even to speak of it they feel shy. They do not even bring it up. As if they themselves have not known anything at all. With that feeling they simply say: we have heard it from those who have known.

Infinite beings, infinite consciousnesses, have known the Truth—and certainly from different fords. Tirth means ford—ghat. Therefore the Jains call their awakeners Tirthankaras—ford-makers—the makers of a ford from where boats are launched. But there are infinite fords, because this ocean is infinite. There are infinite Tirthankaras, because this ocean is infinite. We do not know all of them. Even if we go back, we have no information about the rishis before the Veda. There is mention only of the rishis after the Veda. But it is not that before the Vedic rishis there was no knowing. For the Vedic rishis repeatedly say: we have heard from those who have known.

The Upanishads are our oldest treasure from the knowers. But the Upanishads say: we have heard from those who have known. They give news that Truth has been known from the beginningless past. So many have known, so much has been known, in so many ways—it is better that I do not speak of my little bit. I pool it with theirs. I say: what the knowers have said, I say.

And note one thing more: to the ancients, originality was no obsession. None of them says: what I am saying is an original truth, said by me for the first time, and by no one else. Today there is a great difference: today each wants to claim that what he says is new—that no one has said it; that it is original. Why is this? Is it that the ancients were not original and today’s people are?

No—the case is exactly the opposite. The ancients were so assured of their originality that there was no need to announce it. The moderns are so unsure, so unassured of their originality that they cannot refrain from announcing it. The modern man always fears that someone will say: this has been known before—what new thing are you knowing? But this fear is a sign that the original is not known.

In truth, original does not mean new. Original means from the origin. Original does not mean modern. Original means: from the origin—from the root.

He who has known the root—he alone is original. And many have known the root. Therefore original does not mean new. Original means: the one who has known the root.

Yet today there is insistence everywhere on the new: that what I say is new. Because the fear is that if all others have known it too, then my specialness is gone. But the amusing thing is that in this world there is only one specialness—only one.

I remember: the mystic Jacob Boehme once said a small sentence: To be most ordinary is the only extraordinariness. He said: there is no greater extraordinariness than to be utterly ordinary.

These are the most extraordinary people who say—not that “I know”—but “we have heard from those who know.” They are most extraordinary—because they are willing to be so ordinary. In truth, one who has even a little idea that “I am extraordinary” is a very ordinary man—because all ordinary men have that idea. The most ordinary people feel they are extraordinary. Everyone has this notion. It is very common, very ordinary. Everyone thinks he is extraordinary. So whom shall we call extraordinary? Only the one who does not even know that he is extraordinary—who is so ordinary that he is extraordinary.

Extraordinary is this statement: those who have known so much and so deeply—people of that kind say, “We have heard.” They must have remained like a zero. They are not claimants. There is no claim—neither upon Truth, nor upon the path—no claim at all. There is no claim. Those who are so non-claimant—their words carry weight.

Therefore, again and again they will repeat this; they will append it to each sutra: we have heard from those who know. This mood of wiping oneself off, erasing oneself, making oneself absent, of becoming utterly no-self—this mood is deepest of the deep and is related to the very sources of life—beyond mind, beyond feeling—transcendental.

Enough for today. In the evening we shall speak again.

Now let us move toward the root, move toward the transcendental.

Let me say two or three things regarding meditation that have come to mind. Ninety percent of friends are doing so well that I am very pleased. But for ten percent there is pity. Do not remain pitiable—do not remain among the ten percent. Second: in the noon meditation fewer people are visible. Perhaps they go wandering here and there. Do not lose precious things for cheap.

For the noon meditation, one more point: some sit without blindfolding the eyes. They will gain nothing. Not a single person should sit without blindfolds. Second: when you are in the noon meditation, be occupied with your own concern—do not take on worry for others. Those who are doing nothing begin to worry about others—because they sit idle, are unemployed. Do not sit idle. Be blissful, dance, be happy. Yesterday I was pleased. There was much lightness—like children. Even an elderly man was calling out with a childlike voice. It was very good, very innocent. He was crying “Ma, Ma, Ma!”—as a little child becomes light. There was delight, cheerfulness. It should go on increasing. As meditation deepens, it will increase. When an old man becomes a child, he has attained to meditation.

So for the noon meditation—this. About the morning meditation I am completely pleased—it is going perfectly. For the night meditation, let me say one thing. Yesterday, two or three friends who stay for management are enough. The rest who climbed up to manage created great disorder. And do not make self-appointments. You have come here to meditate, not to manage. In truth, those who sit idle found an opportunity—they thought: let us manage.

No—no one will climb upon the stage in this way. Those two or three who manage—let them. You do not have to. Yesterday I felt great pain for the people on the rear stage. They could not meditate properly—they were disturbed by people. There is no need to worry—nothing makes any difference. Even if someone falls upon me—what difference does it make! It makes no difference. And those who are meditating are not unconscious—they are alert. They will not fall. Do not worry that someone will attack me. They are themselves alert. They have as much love for me as the organizers have. Therefore do not worry about that.

We restrained them a lot; I was not visible to them. When I was not visible, trouble arose—for the whole meditation is to be filled with seeing me. So for tonight, I think: let all those standing remain in the hall below. Those who are sitting, sit at the back. This way no management will be needed.

One more mistake happened yesterday: outsiders entered again at night. That creates a great hindrance. The whole tuning that can arise does not arise. If even one wrong person is in the hall, he creates wrong waves. Therefore not a single wrong person is to enter. And among those in the camp who only want to listen and not to meditate, after listening they should immediately leave the hall at night. That will be a great kindness. Let them not cause harm. We do not want even one person inside who is a mere spectator. That creates a heavy obstacle; it creates a gap. When so many consciousnesses are filled with such feeling, the whole atmosphere becomes vibrational. If one person is standing in the midst who is not vibrational, he creates a discontinuity. He breaks that portion. In that portion, there can be no rain; and because of him, the waves that spread through and reach others cannot reach. Therefore, about the night meditation, I am not yet pleased.

The night meditation is the most precious. And the two meditations are preparations for it, so that in these two you are readied and by night there can be an explosion. That explosion is being obstructed. It has not yet happened properly. The day before yesterday people came here—because of them it did not happen rightly. Only the day before that it happened a little rightly. Yesterday many results could have been in the hall, but some people climbed up and began managing. The two or three friends who manage have been restrained for this very reason. They will manage. You are not here for management. Leave my worry—take care of your own. As for my body—if even one person attains and dissolves, I consider it enough. There is no loss in that. Therefore drop that worry altogether.

Come—let us go to our meditation!