Kaivalya Upanishad #16

I myself compose the Vedas. I myself preach the Vedas. It is I who fashioned the Upanishads, and all the Vedas speak only of me.
This aphorism may sound a little strange. For I myself to preach the Vedas, and the Vedas to speak only of me! For me to compose the Upanishads, and in the Upanishads the discussion to be only about me! One’s own words, one’s own expression! On the surface the sutra may look odd; but if you look a little deeper, it is of immense significance.
A few basic foundations of the sutra must be understood.
First: whatever is, is Paramatman. Whether there is the discussion or the one who discusses; whether there is the seen or the seer; whether there is the statue or the sculptor—if existence is one, then the sculptor is sculpting only his own statue. And the singer is singing only his own song. And the maker of the Vedas will be the very subject of the Vedas. For there is no way for two to be. If existence is one, then everything is related to that one.
Therefore, in this seemingly odd sutra a very important message is being given: whatever is happening here, all of it is me. Nothing in it is forbidden. Our mind will be troubled. Because much is happening here that we would like to forbid, we would like to say it would be better if this did not exist. Anyone who thinks will find much which, if absent, life would appear better. But we do not know the depths of life; hence such ideas arise. Who would not prefer that there be no ungodly men in the world, that there be no sin? This seemingly clear thought is very mistaken, because a sadhu can only be when the unsaintly also are. And only if there is sin can there be virtue. If there were no illness, there would be no way for health to be. And if there were no death, birth would become impossible.
If we understand life’s mathematics, life is always a balance between polarities. From the two we wish to cut away one. Not knowing that the balance of life will instantly collapse.
Recently I was studying the matter of man’s intelligence quotient—IQ. Each person’s intelligence can be assessed. But I was amazed: if you measure the intelligence of a hundred people, one among them is gifted, a genius. And one is a dullard, the exact opposite of a genius. One genius, one utterly foolish. There are not two dullards, nor two geniuses. If there are two geniuses, there will be two utter fools. If you compute the world’s total intelligence, there is a ratio—astonishing indeed—that for every genius an utter fool is indispensable. If there are ten people of exceptional talent, then, just below that talent level, there are ten whose foolishness rises above the dull—and so the ratio holds. Fifty are distributed on one side, fifty on the other. And this ratio does not change.
This means intelligence blossoms in this world only alongside unintelligence—and in equal proportion. Otherwise it does not flower. It means that when a wise one enters the world, he brings along an utter fool. It also means that whenever an utter fool is born, he creates the opportunity for a wise one to be born. Therefore there is no need to separate the wise from the foolish—they are two pans of the same balance. Cut away one, and the other immediately falls. Hence the wise should feel grateful to the foolish; without them he could not be. And sooner or later we will come to know that all things in life are balanced in this way. Here, if a Rama takes birth, he cannot be born without a Ravana. Ravana must instantly step onto the other pan of the scale. Our minds wish there be no Ravana. But without Ravana, Rama cannot be.
Life is a balance. Here good and evil are the two pans of the same scale. Therefore the real question is not that evil be erased, nor that goodness be increased. The real question is that the thread by which evil and good are bound become visible to us—then neither evil remains evil, nor good remains good. Then we know it is life’s necessity. As when we build an arch in a house, a round doorway—we place inverted bricks on both sides. And upon those very inverted bricks the whole edifice stands. Someone may think to set all the bricks in the same way and not place the inverted ones—but then the structure will not stand. It will fall instantly. Those opposing bricks restrain one another, and when their opposing weights are balanced, a great strength is born.
All the energy of this world is made of polarity. It is operated by polarity. Therefore a day will never come when Rama can be without Ravana. There is no reason for despair in this. And if this is understood, then Ravana no longer appears bad. Rama and Ravana are seen as two parts of the same play. Remove even one, and the play ends. Try staging the Ramleela without Ravana—you will see! It will not be the Ramleela at all; it is the Rama–Ravana leela. If we understand rightly, they are opposing bricks of one arch upon which all is supported. Our attachment is to Rama; hence we named it Ramleela. But if we drop this attachment and look straight, we will call it Rama–Ravana leela.
If in this world there is only one, then that one has divided itself into two and from that division polarity and energy arise. The bricks are all the same. But when they are placed inverted, an arch appears and the building can be raised upon it. The bricks are the same. Rama and Ravana are not made of two different bricks; good and evil are not made of two different bricks. They are made of the same bricks, placed in opposing directions. Sadhus are forever striving to eradicate the unsaintly from the world. They do not know that only because of the unsaintly do they exist. Therefore their effort continues but the unsaintly do not vanish. They cannot. They will vanish only on the day when the sadhus also are no more—never before. And that world would be dull, meaningless, where neither saint nor sinner exists.
In the world the two will remain, because the world is a leela, and in this leela polarity will continue. But if you understand, if it becomes visible to you that this polarity is a play, and that the one hidden behind polarity comes into experience, then for you the leela ends. For whom the leela ends, he goes beyond the world. For whom this leela has ended, he is beyond samsara. As long as you have a choice in the play, you remain within it. One who chooses Rama against Ravana, or Ravana against Rama, will remain in the world. He has not yet understood the ultimate balance of life. There is no choice between Rama and Ravana. One must see that it is leela. The play of polarity is the game of the world; within this polarity the one becomes visible.
In many ways this sutra gives news of that one—
‘I myself preach the Vedas; I myself composed the Upanishads, and all the Vedas speak only of me.’
I am speaking only of myself, because there is no other. Have you ever seen someone, alone, playing cards all by himself? People do. They spread both hands. From this side they play, and from that side they answer. This world is exactly such a game of the Divine. Both hands are his. He moves from this side, and he answers from that side. There is no second. This is the vision of Indian wisdom. Such a vision has not become available outside India. Everywhere this polarity, this visible duality, has been taken as ultimate. No unity within it.
Christianity, Judaism, and Islam have taken God and Satan as ultimate entities. There is no joining within them, no harmony. In India, the Jainas did not divide God and the devil, but they divided the world and moksha. They too believe that samsara and moksha have no coordination, that they are separate entities. Therefore the Jaina vision is dualistic. They say: two certainly exist—one is the world and one is the divine. One world and one liberation.
In this sense the Jainas, the Muslims, the Christians, and the Jews agree that the world is split in two—it is not one.
Hindu contemplation says the world appears divided in two, but that which is divided is one. The Hindu insight is: if the world is two in essence, then there can be no way to peace. Never. If the two are ultimate entities, then conflict becomes inevitable; it will be perpetual. Sometimes God will win, sometimes Satan; sometimes evil will win, sometimes good—but how will it end? For evil, as an independent power, cannot be destroyed—only victory and defeat can happen.
And goodness too, as its own power, cannot finally be victorious, because the power of evil cannot be annihilated. It too is power. Both are powers. Both are eternal. Satan and God, both eternal. Samsara and moksha, both eternal. How then will there be an end? And if a person today falls into the world and somehow, fighting, winning, gets out—what guarantee is there he will not fall in again tomorrow? For one day he had fallen; he can fall again. The world remains. It does not vanish. It can pull again. If it pulled this time, why not again? Thus the struggle becomes eternal. With two opposing eternal powers, the struggle is eternal—and there is no end to it.
Therefore Hindu insight says something wondrous: the struggle is a play, not eternal. It is a show, not inner reality. Merely amusement for the mind. Therefore India, especially the Hindu vision, says: the world is a leela, a game. There is no reason to grant it ultimate reality. If it is a game, it can be stopped. And if it is a game and the one is hidden within the two, then as soon as the one is experienced the game dissolves. And even if it does not dissolve, knowing it is only a game—liberation happens.
Hence Hindu insight recognizes two kinds of the liberated. One is called the jivanmukta—the one who stands within the play and knows it to be play. And one is called simply mukta—who, knowing it to be a play, has stepped out of it.
Both hands are mine. Both sides are mine. The deep implications are these: every loss is mine, every win is mine. Which means—I neither ever lose nor ever win, because I alone am the player. Which means the distance between samsara and moksha is shattered. Which means even while remaining in the world one can be free. There remains no opposition.
There is no reason to look at the world as necessary enmity. Then the world is the play of the one, in a profoundness. There is no need to break the polarity and fill oneself with tension. Remember, when we split the world into two, we split man into two. His body and his soul become enemies. His senses and his consciousness become enemies. This enmity then creates inner tension, and no bridge can be made across this tension. A person full of such tension either begins to destroy the senses or to destroy the soul—and in both cases he suffers.
The Indian vision is that when we divide the two into two, then tension and unrest are born. Do not divide the two. Behind them the one is hidden.
So that the awareness of this one may dawn from every direction, the sutra says: ‘I myself preach the Veda, I myself compose the Upanishads, and all the Vedas and Upanishads speak only of me.’ Because other than me there is no one. ‘I am beyond birth and death. Papa and punya cannot touch me.’
‘Papa and punya cannot touch me.’
Such a statement is impossible to find in any other scripture. For all scriptures have identified the Divine with virtue and have forbidden sin. Having forbidden sin, they were forced to invent Satan—for where else shall sin go, to whose account? Evil exists in the world. We ascribe goodness to God—where then does evil go?
Christianity has always been in difficulty about the evil in the world: what to do with it? Who is responsible? They cannot muster the courage to make God responsible—because if God too is doing evil, there is then no way to be free of evil. And if God does evil, what kind of God is that? In English, God and good arise from the same place. He is the benevolent; he is God. Therefore, truly, to translate Ishvara as God in English is not accurate. For this Ishvara says: papa and punya cannot touch me. I am in both, and I am beyond both.
One more point must be understood here: cannot touch me does not mean I am far from both. If far, the question of touching does not arise. Its clear meaning is: I am amidst both, yet they cannot touch me. I pass through the river, and water does not wet me. I pass through a dark cell, and it leaves no black stain on me. If I do not enter the dark cell at all, where is the question of being touched or not? This sutra that papa and punya cannot touch me says: I myself am within papa and punya, yet they cannot touch me. Being in both, I am beyond both.
This transgressive form of the Divine—this transcendence beyond auspicious and inauspicious—is a unique vision. Here we do not make the Divine one with the auspicious; therefore we have no need to manufacture Satan. But then our conception of the Divine becomes complex. For both auspicious and inauspicious arise from him. Health is given by him, illness too. Birth and death both. Rama comes from him, and Ravana too. Poison arises from him, and nectar as well. Thus our notion of the Divine becomes intricate.
A Muslim friend came to me, a thoughtful man. He said, all else is fine, but we cannot understand: if evil too is done by God, why does he do it? A small child is born and dies at birth. If this too is God’s doing, why does he do it? Why illness? Why poverty? Why suffering, why pain? His question seems relevant. From the Hindu vision, Christianity and Islam have constantly asked: why is this so? They have it easier, for they can say it is due to Satan.
I asked that Muslim friend: first tell me—does this Satan exist in the world without your God’s permission? Why is there Satan? Where is the solution by positing him? You have only pushed the question one step back. Why is there Satan? Leave it—Hindus may not answer why there is evil; you tell me why there is Satan.
There are only two ways. Either you accept that he is there by God’s command, that God made him. And if God is making Satan, then why this roundabout—why not make illness directly? Why appoint Satan as agent, then Satan manufactures illness—what is the point? Or you say Satan is independent of God, God did not make him; he exists with the same status as God. Then you have made Satan a second God. And then I ask you: are you certain which of these two Gods will win? As far as worldly experience goes, it appears Satan wins every day and God loses every day. Who told you God will ultimately win? And what reason is there to think so? Daily Satan seems to triumph; God does not seem to be winning!
Whom you call an avatar—a hoodlum stabs him and the avatar dies. Whom you call the son of God, Jesus, is nailed to a cross. Where does your God appear to win? It seems Satan is the bigger deity then, and victory appears to lie in his hands. By accepting Satan, nothing has been resolved.
But the Hindu insight offers a different answer. It says: what you call evil is evil only from your point of view. If you consider the totality of existence, it is not evil. Evil is your standpoint.
I asked him: a small child is born and dies—you say it is bad. Are you certain that had he not died it would have been better? That his dying was worse? Do you believe that if he had lived, auspiciousness would have flowered in the world? A Hitler could have been born. If Hitler had been born and then died, we would have said: how bad this world is! But we did not know what he might have done by living.
We know nothing of the whole. We infer from fragments. Our condition is like tearing out one page of a novel and reading it, then making pronouncements about the entire novel. Or cutting a single line from a poem and, reading it, issuing statements about the whole poem. This world is a vast epic, whose beginning and end we do not know. We seize upon one event in the middle and from it we calculate. There the mistake happens. You cannot calculate from a single event. The event is not solitary; it is a part of a great web, a vast series.
A child is born—we have no idea what he may become. If a Hitler dies and we know he could become Hitler, no one would say that it is bad. A German thinker has written: at such moments man’s ethics and understanding become shallow. If Hitler’s mother were to press the neck of her child, it would be an act of great merit. But no one would consider it such; she would be punished in court. And the whole world would condemn her: what kind of mother is this! And rightly so, because we know nothing of what this child could be, what his possibilities are.
Even leaving aside what the child may become—who has established that to live is good and to die is bad? Who said so? How was it known? The dead do not return to tell you they fell into great suffering. And the likelihood is, if the dead did go into suffering they would certainly come back and tell—there is such a desire to tell of suffering! It seems the dead fall into such bliss that they do not bother even to return to say so. But who will decide that death is suffering? One thing is clear: life has tensions, pains, anguish; but death has rest—that is clear. All day you run about, worry, are harassed—at night you sleep and rest. Death is a great sleep. Who has said it is suffering? Why is it inauspicious?
It seems inauspicious because my son died. It does not seem inauspicious because someone died; it seems so because someone of mine died. A part of my ‘mine’ has died, therefore it appears inauspicious. It appears inauspicious because with this son many of my ambitions had arisen—they all died. With this son, to fulfill my ego in the world, I had woven countless dreams—they all died.
But who says the dying of ambitions is bad? Who says it is bad if my ego does not get fulfilled? Who says that a part of my ‘mine’ breaking is bad? For those who know say: the day everything of mine shatters, when nothing of ‘mine’ remains within me—only then will I attain supreme bliss. It depends on the standpoint what we call bad and what we call good.
It is man’s thinking that decides what is bad and good. From the side of the Divine, where there is awareness of the vast, where the whole is visible, there is no question of bad and good; there is no bad and good there.
Let us understand it this way.
I have heard: Kenneth Walker, a great surgeon in London, once operated on a patient to remove a growth; a gland had formed inside. It was an extraordinary disease—one in millions. The patient’s relatives sat outside, weeping, distressed. And Kenneth Walker was so absorbed in the operation, as if an artist were painting. His delight, his freshness! He had no personal relation with the patient. An unusual disease had come to his hands—one that occurs to one in millions; rarely does a surgeon have the fortune to operate on it! He was engrossed in it. So delighted, so joyous—the greatest moment of his life had arrived! And when he cut out the gland and placed it on the table, the words that arose from his mouth were: how beautiful! That growth, that knot of disease—when he set it on the table and looked at it, the words that came were, how beautiful.
It depends on perspective. A knot of dreadful disease may appear beautiful to a physician who is also an artist. Whether it is beautiful or not—who can say? What we call disease… There was a Sufi fakir, Sarmad. An ulcer developed in his chest, and worms began to live in it. When he bowed in the mosque to pray, the worms fell to the floor. The story goes that Sarmad picked them up and put them back into the ulcer. People said, Sarmad, what madness is this? Sarmad said, what is my death is their life—but who will decide which life is better? So I will stop offering namaz, for it is better I deem my own life inferior rather than theirs, for how can I decide about their life? And Sarmad stopped prayer, because when he bowed, the worms fell.
What an unusual man. It is a matter of vision. He said: my life is their death. If I want to be saved, these worms must die. They will have to be killed. But in the final reckoning, whose life is more useful—who knows? One thing is certain: if a mistake has to be made, it is right to make it against oneself, not against these worms. Who knows for what purpose they are? They too have life.
Your disease is, perhaps, the life of uncountable microbes. And your life is, who knows, the disease of how many. You may never have thought: my very existence may be a sickness for many. My being may be a disturbance for countless others.
No—we are thinking from a place where auspicious and inauspicious are seen from ourselves outward. If we had the eyes of the Divine, which can behold the entire expanse at once—both ends visible in a single glance, the whole existence at once—then there would be no bad and good. Perhaps bad and good would be the warp and woof there. As a weaver weaves cloth, he throws a cross thread and a straight thread, and thus cloth is made. That warp and weft—our wish is to weave only straight threads. Then cloth is not produced. Or we wish to weave only cross threads—cloth is still not produced. Threads, laid opposed to each other, interlacing, passing through one another, make the fabric.
This whole world is like a sheet, in which good and evil are woven like warp and weft. The wicked man’s mistake is that he wishes to drown the whole world in evil. The good man’s mistake is the same—he wishes to drown the whole world in good. Both are merely men, and neither has the Divine-vision. One who has the Divine-vision accepts the world as it is. He has no desire to drown it in evil, nor to drown it in good.
Therefore, in the Indian mind the saint has a new meaning—he is not a sadhu. A sadhu is one who stands opposite the unsaintly. A sant is one who is opposite to none—he is in total acceptance. Whatever is, is right. A sant is in universal acceptance. Whatever is, is right. Evil is right, good is right. Papa is right, punya is right. This is supremely difficult.
Hence Indian religion has attained a depth and height no other religion has touched. All others are childish—childish in that they think of the world from man’s point of view. Indian religion is unique: it thinks of the world from the Divine’s point of view. Do you see the difference? From man’s point of view he thinks according to himself. What seems good to him is good; what seems bad is bad. The vast accounting has no place in it.
All religions—except the Indian—are anthropocentric: man is the center. In everything man is the center. So whatever is in man’s interest is auspicious; what is against man’s interest is inauspicious—even if the harm of the whole world is in the interest of man, still it is called auspicious.
From the Divine’s perspective comes the reckoning of the world—and the day a person begins to live aligned with that perspective, that day he becomes godly. Man, remaining man, cannot be God. And any man-centered religion is not a real religion. A God-centered religion, with the Infinite in view—then our good and bad do not stand. Our saint and sinner do not stand. Our calculations and our accounts all vanish.
It is said: ‘Papa and punya cannot touch me.’
I am in them, yet they cannot touch me.
‘I am without body, without senses, without intellect.’
‘I am without body, senses, and buddhi’—this must be understood, for it may seem frightening that the Divine is without intellect. We think all intelligence is his, the ocean of knowledge, infinite knowing. This sutra says the opposite: ‘without intellect!’ What does that mean?
Buddhi means the apparatus of thought. Buddhi means the instrument of thinking. But thought is necessary for the ignorant. One who does not know—he thinks. One who knows—how will he think? Buddhi is the tool of the ignorant, not of the knower. The knower becomes without buddhi.
Without buddhi means: buddhi is needed only when something is not known and I must think it out. The inner process by which I grope for what is unknown is called buddhi. By thinking and thinking, I find out.
Understand it this way—
A blind man walks tapping with a stick because he has no eyes. So he holds a stick and probes. Probing, he finds the door. Buddhi is like the stick in the hand of the ignorant. With it we grope: where is the door? The door is not known, so we grope, stumble, commit mistakes. Therefore the way of buddhi is to learn by trial and error. Try, err, learn. The blind man does just this. He probes—this is a wall, not here; his head bangs; he probes elsewhere, and elsewhere. After tapping twenty-five places he finds the door; then he goes out. Even the blind man’s groping will cease if he exits the same house daily—the feel of the door will arise, and he will go out without tapping. But in a new house he must grope again. Have you noticed—you think only with buddhi when something is unknown. When it becomes known, gradually you stop using buddhi. The jobs you do daily do not use buddhi. When one learns to drive a car, at first buddhi must be used. As experience matures, buddhi is left behind. He smokes, sings, listens to the radio, chats—the car keeps moving. Now the blind man has learned where the door is; he goes out.
But if suddenly an accident moment appears, buddhi must be used again—because there was no practice for it. How can you practice an accident? Practice is not possible; that is why it is an accident. That which cannot be practiced and yet occurs is an accident. Therefore, in an accident a little buddhi is needed; suddenly one starts thinking—what to do?
Buddhi is the tool of the ignorant—like the stick is the tool of the blind. Buddhi is a system of groping, groping in the dark. For the Divine there is no dark; hence ‘without buddhi’ means: nothing is unknown to him, all that is is before him. There is no reason to think. Therefore the instrument by which thinking happens is unnecessary there.
Buddhi is a limited tool for the ignorant. As long as you are limited and ignorant you will need buddhi. Or, as long as you keep the need for buddhi, you will remain limited and ignorant. Either dare to drop buddhi, and perhaps you will make the leap into that Paramatman who is without buddhi. You too will enter only by becoming without buddhi. If you take buddhi along, you will not find the doorway of the Divine. Hence the intelligent often miss. Sometimes a Kabir, sometimes a Nanak, sometimes a Mohammed—neither schooled nor lettered; no one even knew they had any buddhi—suddenly they make the leap.
When the first leap happened to Mohammed, even he could not trust that if he told anyone they would believe it had happened. So he told it with fear to his wife. I am afraid to tell anyone—such a thing has happened. Mohammed’s first disciple was his wife. In one sense this is a great success. It is easy to convert the whole world; to convert one’s wife is very difficult. Even Buddha found it difficult. Mohammed’s is a unique success in the history of men—among the great successes of men, this must be counted. Mohammed’s first disciple was his wife. Then slowly he told those nearest to him. And even then, the suffering Mohammed had to undergo was inflicted by the intelligent people of his land. For the intelligent could not accept that a man unlettered, unread, giving no evidence of intellect—such a one has it, and we do not.
The suffering Kabir underwent in our land was at the hands of the pandits. For the pandits could not accept that this weaver, who till now wove cloth, sat in the market selling fabric—suddenly he has become omniscient. It is unbelievable.
Because we believe that knowledge comes from the cultivation of buddhi.
Certainly all knowledge of this world comes by cultivating buddhi. But none of the knowledge of that realm comes through buddhi. Here, buddhi is an ally; there, buddhi is a barrier. Here, buddhi is a path; there, buddhi is a wall. If you wish to go into the world, keep increasing buddhi. There the blind man’s stick is very much needed, for it is a world of the blind. The more alert and sensitive the stick, the more success. But if you wish to go toward the Divine, drop the stick, because there the blind have no entry. One does not reach by groping with a stick. You reach only by leaving the stick. For to go out you must grope; to go in, what is there to grope? There you already are. Drop all sticks, drop all journeys, and one arrives.
This sutra is precious: I am without buddhi. I am without body, senses, and intellect. The senses too are needed to know the other. For the Divine there is no other. As I told you last night—how do you know yourself? Without any sense. Yes, others you know through senses. If the Divine is one, he needs no senses, for there is no other to know—he knows only himself. Nor is there body. What does body mean?
Perhaps you have never considered what body means.
Body means the relationship between you and the vast. The vast is spread around you; you are within. And the source of relationship between you and the vast is the body. Consider your house wall—through it your room is formed. But does the earth have some wall? On earth there are all walls and all houses; but the earth has no wall—what will it separate from what?
You need a body because you need to be separate from all. Paramatman is the name of totality, of the whole existence. He can have no wall. Remember, wall always separates from the other. If there is no other, existence cannot have a body. Body is a wall. It creates a division from the neighbor. For the Divine there is no need of a body, because apart from him there is no one from whom to be divided. The total existence is bodiless.
The small have bodies; the vast has no body. The body of the small is necessary—otherwise you would not know what you are, who you are, where you are.
From this sutra understand also: as long as you feel you are the body, you will remain small. The day the sense begins to dawn that there surely is a body with me, but I am not the body—that very day you begin to spread beyond the body. The day you experience that I am bodiless, that day you are one with the Divine. As long as you rely on the senses, you will know only the world. The day you drop reliance on senses and begin the search, that day you will know the Divine. As long as you move by buddhi, you remain in ignorance. The day you move leaving buddhi behind—that day knowledge begins.