Ishavashya Upanishad #9

It does not easily occur in the mind, it does not easily come into understanding — in many senses this sutra carries a most extraordinary import. First, ordinarily we think, we believe, that if truth is veiled it will be veiled by darkness. But this sutra says: truth is veiled by light, by radiance. O Lord, remove the curtain of that light.

This is the realization of one who has gone very, very deep in the dimension of truth. Those who have only thought will always say that truth is veiled in darkness. But those who have known will say: truth is veiled in light. And if darkness appears, it is the excess of light.

In an excess of light the eyes go blind. If there is too much light it becomes like darkness — because of the weakness of the eyes. Look at the sun. Open your eyes toward the sun. In a short while, there will be darkness. The light is so much, the eyes cannot bear it, therefore darkness happens.

So those who have known from afar, have thought from a distance, they will say: truth is hidden in darkness, the temple of the Lord is hidden in the dark. But those who have known will say: it is hidden in light. O Lord, remove this curtain of light.

And it is precisely because of the excess of light that the illusion of darkness arises — because our eyes are weak, because our capacity, our worthiness, is weak. As the journey toward truth advances, light goes on increasing. All who have made even a little progress in meditation know that as meditation deepens, light goes on increasing.

Today the Italian sadhika Vitsandeh came and told me: so much light has arisen within that it feels as if rays are coming from inside and the whole body is aflame. As if a sun is seated within. The heat is not coming from outside, it is coming from within. And the light is so much that it has become difficult to sleep at night. The moment the eyes close, there is only light, only light.

As soon as anyone goes deep into meditation, the light begins to grow dense and profound, intense and blazing. And there comes a moment when the excess of light becomes so great that it begins to appear almost like a supremely profound darkness. The Christian mystics have given a precise name to that moment — they alone have named it exactly — they have called it the Dark Night of the Soul. But that dark night is due to an excess of light.

And when there is so much light that inwardly it seems like darkness because of its abundance, the prayer uttered in that instant is: O Lord, remove this curtain of light, so that I may see the face of the truth that lies hidden behind it.

And it is fitting that around the face of truth such a preponderance of light should be gathered that the eyes go blind and dark. It is fitting, it is right, that truth be veiled within a circle of light. And if darkness appears, let it be our illusion. How can there be darkness around truth? And if even around truth there can be darkness, then where in this world could there be any light? How could darkness possibly endure near truth? There is no possibility, no way, for darkness to remain near truth. Wherever truth is, there will be only light. Yet, to us it may appear as darkness if its abundance becomes too great.

If you ask the Sufi fakirs, they say: when we descend to that place, a single sun — no, saying one sun is not enough, a thousand suns are not enough — infinite suns begin to burn within at once, and such abundance overflows that darkness spreads. But darkness cannot be near truth. Truth is hidden in light. And remember, it is easy to open one’s eyes in darkness, and extremely difficult to open them in an excess of light. On the new moon night, what obstacle is there to opening the eyes? But when the sun stands before you, opening the eyes becomes very difficult.

Those who go near truth, their final struggle will be with light, not with darkness. The final struggle — there is such a flood of light that opening the eyes becomes difficult. In that moment of anguish this sutra is spoken.

In that painful hour this prayer is uttered: O Lord, remove this light, so that I may behold Thy true face.

Naturally one would say: lead me away from darkness, take me out of the dark. But — remove the light!

And there is something more: the very word that has been used for light — that light is not such that one would want it removed. It is like gold, very pleasing. That is precisely the difficulty. It is so delightful that even the desire does not arise for it to be removed. And until this light is removed, the vision of truth cannot be. So understand the second point as well.

It is very easy to renounce the inauspicious; when the hour comes to renounce the auspicious, then the real difficulty comes. What obstacle is there in throwing away iron chains? But when the chains are of gold, then the difficulty arises, because even to call them chains becomes difficult. They appear as ornaments. To abandon wickedness is very easy; but in the final hour when even virtue becomes a bondage and it too must be let go, then the real difficulty arises. In the last moment even the auspicious has to be discarded, because even that much clinging is dependence. And before truth, even that dependence is a barrier. There one needs the supreme freedom.

Therefore it is also a matter of wonder that the rishi battled with darkness himself, but regarding light he says to God: You remove it. With darkness we will fight ourselves — there is not much obstacle there. But when the time comes to struggle with light, enormous hindrance is felt — to struggle with light! The very thought of removing light gives pain. Light is so pleasant, so heavenly, so peace-giving, so exhilarating, it fills the very life-breath with nectar — the very idea of removing it hurts.

Hence the rishi says: O Lord, You remove it. That I could remove it — I do not find the strength for that. My mind would wish to drown in it.

Remember, when the experience of light becomes deep in meditation, one has to be saved from the light too. Beyond it also lies the journey. One must go beyond it as well, rise above it as well. One must go above darkness — and above light, too. Only when consciousness goes beyond both darkness and light does nonduality begin beyond duality. Only then is there the vision of that One which is neither light nor darkness, neither night nor day, neither life nor death — that which is forever beyond all duality. Prior to the enthronement of that Advaita, the final struggle will be with light.

Understand this too: to renounce pain is always easy — we fight with pain. But if happiness arrives, then to struggle against happiness is very difficult, almost impossible. How will one fight happiness? Yet if happiness too has caught hold of you, then also moksha is not possible. This morning I said: happiness will also only create a heaven, it too will forge new chains — pleasant, delightful, very charming to the mind — but still no liberation.

This longing of the rishi to have this curtain of light removed, to behold Thy face covered by radiance — it announces the final helplessness of the human mind.

The human mind does not want to be free from light. The human mind does not want to be free from happiness. The human mind does not want to be free from heaven. But one must be free from that too. Therefore the rishi stands at the gate. On one side is his humanity, which says: light is blissful, dance, merge, drown and be dissolved. And on the other side, the thirst for truth within says: beyond this too, beyond this too. In such moments of difficulty, in such moments of choice — a decisive moment — this sutra is uttered: O Lord, remove Thy veil of light! Remove this pleasant, this heavenly form, so that I may see that which is stark naked truth — which is Thou!

Those who live in sorrow do not even know that happiness has its own sorrow. Those who live among enemies do not even know that friends have their own enmity. Those who live in hell do not know that heaven has its own pain. Those who live in darkness cannot even imagine that one day light too becomes a prison. As long as there is duality there is non-liberation. As long as there is duality there is bondage.

But what will remain when even light is removed? When darkness too is removed, what will the face of truth be like? What will remain?

At the utmost that we can think, as far as thought can go, as far as the wings of mind can take flight, as far as the mind’s boundary extends — at most we think: if truth has a face it will be like light, like radiance. Why does it seem so? Take one or two points to heart.

We have not yet seen light. You will say, how so? We are seeing light. In the morning the sun rises and we see light. At night the moon comes and moonlight spreads and we see light. We have seen light. No — still I say to you, you have not yet seen light. You have only seen illuminated things. When the sun rises, you do not see light, you only see illuminated objects — mountains, rivers, waterfalls, trees, people. Here electric bulbs are lit — you will say we see light. You do not see light. You see the bulb, you see people upon whom it falls. You see the objects that are illumined.

There is no experience of light in the outer world. In the outer world only the illumined things are seen. And when illuminations are not seen, we say there is darkness. When does darkness happen in this room? When nothing in this room is visible, we say it is dark. And when things are seen, we say there is light. We have seen illuminated things, not light itself.

If there were nothing in this room at all, you would not see light. Light strikes objects, their shapes appear, and then you think there is light. If things appear very clearly, you say there is more light. If they appear dim, you say there is less light. If they are not seen at all, you say it is dark. If there is not even a hint, you say it is pitch dark. But you have seen neither light nor darkness. Our inference is: since things are seen, there must be light.

In truth, light is such a subtle energy that outside it cannot be directly seen. The vision of light happens only within, because inside there is nothing to be illumined. Inside there are no objects to be lit and then to be beheld by you. Inside, when light is experienced, it is pure light — immediate, direct, without any medium — only light!

And another difference: outside whatever we see — I said — we see illuminated things, and we also see the source of light and the illumined things. We never see the light in between. The sun is seen, this bulb is seen, and below here the shining objects are seen. The light between the two is not seen. The source of light is seen; the things upon which it falls are seen.

But when light is seen within, there are neither things, nor is there any source — it is sourceless light. There is no sun from which light is coming. There is no lamp burning from which light is coming. There is only light — sourceless, without arising. Light without origin. A world void of objects. In that void, when for the first time light appears, then if Kabir, or Mohammed, or a Sufi fakir, a Baul fakir, or a Zen master begins to dance and says: that which you call light — that is darkness!

Aurobindo has written: until I had seen within, what I had understood outside as light — after seeing within, I knew, that is darkness. Until I had seen within, what I had taken as life outside — after seeing within, I knew, that is death.

When within, light — without origin, objectless, formless — arises in the inner sky, its effulgence is very hard to bear. The greatest difficulty is this: the mind feels — the goal has come, we have arrived.

For the seeker, the senses are not the great obstacles — one goes beyond them. Thoughts are not such great obstacles — one goes beyond them. But when the blossoms of inner, delightful experiences begin to open, when the bliss of inner siddhis begins to manifest, then feet will not lift at all. One does not want to leave. The courage to go beyond, the daring to go beyond, is not there. It feels — the destination has come.

In that moment the rishi has said: O Lord! Remove even this light. I want to know only that which is beyond light as well. I have crossed beyond darkness — beyond light, You lead me.

And remember, to go beyond darkness resolve suffices; to go beyond light, surrender works. To go beyond darkness, struggle suffices — we can grapple. Man is quite capable of fighting darkness. But when it comes to battling with light, man is utterly powerless — almost not there. There resolve does not work; there surrender works.

This sutra is of surrender. The rishi is defeated. He has come up to the point where the supreme light manifests. Up to here he did not pray. Up to here he did not say to the Lord, You do it. Up to here he came on his own strength. Far this much a man can come.

Those who walk by resolve will never be able to go beyond this point. Those who are prepared for surrender — for total surrender — only they will go. Say it like this and perhaps it will be understood more quickly: up to here, dhyana takes you — up to here. Dhyana carries you to the supreme experience of light. Beyond light, prayer carries you. After that, meditation cannot function. Therefore those who have not meditated and are praying are foolish — there prayer has no use. And those who have meditated and think: now what need of prayer? — they too are foolish. Because meditation will bring you to light, will stand you at the gate, but in the end only the call of prayer will be the support. Finally you will have to say: I am in Thy hands — You lead me. I have come this far.

And remember, the one who has gone this far in meditation has earned the worthiness. He has earned the worthiness that even if he were to say, I shall not go, God will take him. He has become eligible for the place where the grace of the Lord begins. Where His compassion rains. He has arrived at that point where man can come. More than this, even God cannot expect from man. The last hour has come — the far edge of human capacity. If God were to demand more than this from man, it would be injustice. There is no further question. Prayer — now prayer — now only to say this much: I leave it in Thy hands, remove this veil.

Prayer is the ultimate completion of meditation. Surrender is the final fruit of resolve. Do yourself, as far as you can. But the moment it seems now it will not be possible — in that moment remember prayer. In that moment call upon the Lord. Say in that moment: I have come as far as I could with my frail steps. Now enough. Now it is beyond my power — You take care.

Therefore the rishi, in that hour, repeats this prayer: O Lord, remove the light, unveil Thy true face.

What will truth be like? When even light is removed, what will truth be like? Bring it a little into your imagination. It is very difficult, very profound, yet bring it a little into imagination — someday it may become useful.

I said: outside there are illumined objects and the source of light. There is no experience of light itself outside. Inside, light is experienced — there is no source of arising, nor are there objects. Then ultimately even light slips away. The mind will think: if light slips away, darkness will come. That is our experience. We will say: what foolish prayer this rishi is making! If the curtain of light is removed, then there will be darkness — then how will he see the face of the Lord? But the matter has come beyond darkness. Now with the removal of light there will not be darkness. Darkness has been left far behind. The curtain of light has come. If even light is removed, then what will remain?

When in the evening the sun sets and night has not yet come, when the source of light has vanished and darkness has not yet descended — that middle moment of twilight — it is such a moment. Hence prayer and twilight became linked. Gradually people began to call prayer “sandhya,” saying we are doing sandhya. And people thought that one should perform sandhya when the sun sets, or when in the morning the sun has not yet risen — the hours of sandhya, the midpoints. Day has gone, night has not arrived. Night has gone, day is about to come. That small in-between hour, the gap — we call it sandhya. We made it the moment of worship and prayer. But the real thing is different.

The real thing is this: when darkness too has dissolved and when light too has dissolved — then the moment of sandhya arises from the inner sky. There sandhya arrives. There is neither dark nor light — alok. If you go to a dictionary you will find the meaning of alok given as light — that is wrong. Alok means: a moment where there is neither light nor darkness. At dawn, the sun has not risen, night is going, has gone — that moment of dawn is the moment of alok.

I give this example so that it may enter your imagination, because for the inner there is no other way to give a hint. Where there is neither darkness nor light, there alok remains. And as I said: in going from outside to inside, objects are lost, the source of light is lost, and light remains. In the same way, when light and darkness are lost and only alok remains, then the knower and the known both are lost. The seer and the seen are lost. Then it is not that the rishi stands apart and sees truth. Then the rishi becomes truth. Then truth becomes the rishi. The two strands do not remain — a knower and a known, a noer and a known — both are lost.

In alok both darkness and light are lost, and the knower and the known are lost. Then there remains no experiencer and no experience — only experiencing remains.

Krishnamurti uses a word in English: experiencing, not experience. Because where there is experience, there the experiencer, the one who experiences, also exists, and that which is experienced also exists.

No — neither the experiencer remains, nor that which is experienced remains. Only experiencing remains. Only experiencing — and nothing else. The rishi is lost, and God is lost. The distinctions fall. The lover is lost, and the beloved is lost. The devotee is lost, and God is lost. This is the moment of supreme liberation. Here it is not that we come to know something; rather we find that we are not. And we also find that there is nothing to be known. Only knowing remains.

Therefore Mahavira has used a most astonishing word: keval-gyana — only knowing. The knower is not, the known is not — only knowing. The knower is lost, the known is lost — only knowledge remains. Both the poles have disappeared. Just as the sun — the original source — is lost, and the objects upon which light fell are lost; so the one who knows — the primal source — is lost, and the object of knowledge — the thing known — is lost. Knowing remains. Only knowing remains. Mere knowing remains.

In the direction of this knowing I said: the first step is resolve, the second step is surrender. The first step is meditation, the second step is prayer. And the one who takes both steps — nothing remains to be known, to be attained, to be experienced.

पूषन्नेकर्षे यम सूर्य
प्राजापत्य व्यूह रश्मीन्समूह।
तेजो यत्ते रूपं कल्याणतमं तत्ते पश्यामि
योऽसावसौ पुरुषः सोऽहमस्मि।।15।।

O nourisher of the world, O solitary traveler, O Yama, O Sun, O offspring of Prajapati — withdraw Thy rays. Thy most auspicious form — that I behold. That Purusha who abides in the solar orb — that am I. 15.

There is one sun we are familiar with. But what we call the sun — there are infinite suns like it. And when the night sky fills with stars, we scarcely remember that what we call stars are all suns — very far away, hence they look small. Our sun is not a very great sun. In the infinite expanse of suns, our sun is quite a middle-class sun. There are suns far larger. According to scientific calculations so far — some forty million suns, it is estimated. Scientific calculation.

The saints’ experience is of infinite suns. But the sun spoken of in this sutra is that supreme Sun from which all these suns receive light — that supreme Sun which is the first origin of radiance, from which the entire net of rays spreads, from which all life arises.

Bear in mind too that life is most vitally bound to the sun’s rays. Today scientists are anxious, fearing that in three or four thousand years our sun will grow cold. It has radiated much, its radiation is spent. It is now a sun that is burning out; its rays will diminish day by day. At most for four thousand years more it will give light, then one day it will become cold ash.

When that sun cools, life here will fall silent, because all life is traveling upon the sun’s rays. Whether a flower blooms, or a bird sings its song, or the human heart throbs — the whole of life is bound to the sun’s rays.

The sun spoken of here is that great Sun to which the life of all suns is bound. This great Sun will never be found by outward journeying and search.

As I said in the morning: there is the manifest Brahman — all these suns are the manifest Brahman. The great Sun spoken of here is the unmanifest Brahman — seed Brahman — the unmanifest. From that unmanifest, from that source, this entire manifest spread of life — this saguna, this with-form — arises and is woven.

Here the rishi says: O Sun, draw in Thy net of rays.

In the drawing in of rays many things are being said — for with rays is the expansion of life.

Here the rishi says: we have gone beyond death. O Sun, contract even Thy expansion of life.

As I said: we have gone beyond darkness — now You withdraw even light. In this sutra the rishi says: withdraw even the expansion of life. I have crossed death — now let me cross life too.

In truth the longing is to go beyond all duality. Because as long as duality remains, whatever we may attain, the other will always be present. However much life we gain, death will remain. It is dual — the other face of the same coin. You cannot save one side of a coin and throw away the other. You can at most press one side down and keep the other up. But the side pressed down waits — it is present, right there in your hand, it has gone nowhere. You cannot throw away one side and keep the other. Yet all life long man remains in this folly — he throws away one side and tries to keep the other. He says: free me from sorrow, O Lord, give me happiness. They are two sides of a single coin. He saves happiness, sorrow stays with it. He says: give me honor, take away dishonor. He saves honor — dishonor walks alongside. He says: I do not want death, I want life. But the moment he asks for life, death stands behind.

In this world, whoever asks for one is given the other unasked. Either be reconciled to both, or be ready to drop both. The one who is reconciled to both — he too becomes free of both. The one who is ready to drop both — he too is free of both.

Because what does it mean to be reconciled to both? One who is reconciled to death and life both — for him there is no dispassion in death, and no attachment in life — he is free. One who is reconciled to both happiness and sorrow — what happiness remains in happiness, and what sorrow remains in sorrow? Being reconciled to both, they negate each other, they cancel out. Being reconciled to both, they are cut off and become zero.

Or, the one who is ready to drop both, who says: I drop sorrow, I drop happiness. The mind says: drop sorrow, keep happiness. If you would break the mind, there are only two ways: either be reconciled to both or be unreconciled to both. In both states the polarity is cut — the two poles, their opposition, is destroyed. And those opposites are together — they are parts of a single existence.

Therefore the rishi says: draw in Thy rays, O Sun — and with them let all life contract.

And from this great Sun everything issues forth. So if we rightly understand the rishi’s longing, it is this: I want to see That from which all arises, and where all contracts. I want to see the source. I want to see that place from where the whole creation manifests, and where the entire dissolution subsides; the place from where all comes and where all is absorbed. From where life’s vast expansion occurs, and where the great death will contract all back. Therefore the Sun is also called Yama. That too is noteworthy.

Yama is the god of death. The Sun is of life. But remember — from where life comes, from there death comes. Death cannot come from elsewhere. From where life comes, from there death comes — because they cannot be separate. It is not that death comes from somewhere else and life from somewhere else. If that were so, we would save life and discard death. Thus the Sun is also called Yama.

The word Yama is useful in other senses too. Those who called death Yama were astonishing people. Yama means the regulator — the controller. These were delightful people — they called death the regulator of life. If death did not regulate life, great disorder, anarchy would ensue. Death comes and quiets all the turmoil. Death is rest. As after the labor of the day, night comes and in the lap of night one sleeps at rest.

Think: if for ten days sleep does not come, there will be great disorder. The mind will be confused, agitated, anarchic. If sleep does not come for ten days you will go insane. Night comes and saves you from insanity. Night comes and restores order; in the morning you rise fresh again.

In the deeper, wider sense, after the uproar of an entire life, after all its running about, death is the rest of night. It restores order. It steals away all the thorns, all the worries, all the disturbances, all the burdens of life. Then a new morning, a new life! Therefore the god of death is called Yama — he continually regulates life. Without him life would go mad. Death is not life’s enemy. Yama means death is life’s friend. And life would go insane if there were no death — life would become deranged if there were no death.

If you spread this into other dimensions you will be astonished — great flowers of meaning can blossom here. If a man were given so much happiness that sorrow never came, he would go insane. This will seem strange; it will not be understood easily. But if unmixed happiness were given, in which there is absolutely no sorrow, that happiness would derange.

Hence a curious fact: in poor, deprived, suffering societies fewer people go mad. In happy, prosperous societies more go mad. Today, on the earth, America is the largest madhouse. The poorest countries do not produce as many mad people as America alone produces. What might be the reason?

Sorrow has its regulation too. In truth, when a rose blooms, we may think thorns are its enemies; but all the thorns are the rose’s protection — its regulation. Life regulates by opposition. Through polarity, through the opposite, life balances itself.

Have you seen the acrobat walking on the rope? A very metaphysical, very transcendental truth can be seen in the acrobat walking on the rope — but we do not see. You must have seen a rope-walker. When he walks, he carries a pole and sways it to both sides. But perhaps you have not noticed: why does he sway to the left? He sways left so that he does not fall to the right. When he is about to fall to the right, he leans to the left. And when he is about to fall to the left, he leans to the right. The fear of falling left is balanced by leaning right; the fear of falling right is balanced by leaning left. One must lean into the opposite for balance.

The balance of life is by death. The balance of happiness is by sorrow. The balance of light is by darkness. The balance of consciousness is by matter. Therefore those who called death Yama were extraordinary. Surely they had no enmity with death — they recognized its truth: we know you regulate life; without you it would be very difficult.

Think a little: if in a house, for two or four hundred years, nobody died, you would not need to send anyone to the madhouse — the madhouse would have to be brought into that house. Here the old depart, there the young arrive — and like the acrobat a balance goes on. All the while balance is being maintained.

So the rishi says: O great Sun, O Yama! Giver of life, and balancer of life by death — draw in all Thy rays. Draw in Thy life, and draw in Thy death as well. I want to know that principle which is beyond both life and death — that which is never born and never dies. I want to know the primal origin, or the primal dissolution — either that first moment when there was nothing and from that nothing all arose, or that ultimate moment when all will be absorbed and nothing will remain. I want to know that shunya from which all is born, or that shunya into which all is dissolved. Draw in Thy entire net.

Certainly this is not a prayer uttered to some outer sun. This prayer is offered upon arriving within at that place where the very last stop comes — from where the leap occurs, from where the jump into the void takes place, the jump into the beginningless, the infinite. In that hour this prayer is offered: O Aditya, gather back all of Yours.

Great courage is needed for this prayer — the ultimate courage. Because where life and death contract, where all the rays of that great Sun are drawn in — will I remain there? I too will not remain there. But the rishi’s longing is: whether I remain or not is not the question — I want to know That which forever remains, even when everything is destroyed. Even when I am destroyed, That which remains — I want to know That.

It should be said that in many ages, many people have searched for truth upon this earth; but the kind of search, the ultimate search, the kind of final courage some few people on this piece of earth have shown — it is hard to find parallels. However much I search, I do not find such people elsewhere — who are ready to lose themselves to attain truth.

Throughout the world truth-seekers have been, but with one condition preserved: I must remain, and know truth. But as long as I remain, I will only know the world — because I am part of the world. And if one were to say to those seekers — if someone were to say to Aristotle, to Plato, or to Hegel, or to Kant — that only by losing yourself will you know truth, they would say: what need to know such a truth? If we ourselves do not remain, then what is the point of knowing truth?

No — their search is with a condition: we must remain and know truth. Therefore, all who tried to know truth while preserving the self did not know truth, they fabricated truth. They manufactured it. So whether Hegel writes the largest books, or Kant speaks the greatest, deepest doctrines — since there is no readiness to lose the ‘I’, their doctrines, their greatest shastras, have no value. If you were to ask Kant and Hegel their opinion of this rishi of the Upanishad, they would say: he is mad! For what use is it to gain truth by losing oneself?

But the rishi’s grasp is deeper. He says: I am a part of the untruth, I am a part of the world. If I wish that the outer world should go and truth should come, and within me the ‘I’ should remain completely intact — I am desiring the impossible. If the world goes, it will go totally — outside and inside. Here outside matter will be lost, here inside the ‘I’ will be lost. Outside forms will go, inside form too will go. Outside there will be shunya, inside there will be shunya. Therefore if truth is to be sought, the readiness to lose oneself is an indispensable condition.

Draw in everything, O great Sun — everything — unconditionally, without condition. Whatever Thy spread is, take it back wholly. Contract Thy entire expansion. Return into Thy seed, return into Thy great limb, return to where there was nothing at all — so that I may know That from which all comes.

This is the ultimate jump, the final leap. When someone gathers the courage for this leap, he becomes one with the supreme truth. Without self-effacement, no union with the supreme truth is possible.

Therefore, when the Western philosopher seeks truth, his truths do not go beyond human truths. They remain human investigations — not existential, not of the very fabric of existence. When the Eastern sage sets out to seek, his truths are not human, they are existential. He plunges his very being. He says: what will we ever know standing on the shore of the ocean? We shall know by drowning.

But even in drowning, we do not drown wholly — the ocean remains separate, we remain separate.

So the rishis say: if that is so, then we shall drown as images of salt — and we shall know the ocean by being ocean. We shall become one with the ocean. We shall be salty with its salt, we shall be water with its water, we shall be wave with its waves. With its infinite depth we shall be infinite depth. Only by becoming one with it shall we know — before that there can only be acquaintance, not knowledge; acquaintance on the shore, knowledge only by drowning. The longing for such drowning is in this sutra.

Enough for today. Now let us prepare to drown in the ocean.

Let me say two or three things to you — keep two or three points in mind. First, let no one remain inside merely as a watcher. With honesty, quietly step aside. Let the onlooker not remain inside at all.

Second, the friends below shall all remain standing. Those who want to work with intensity will remain below. Those who wish to do it sitting may come up.