Kaivalya Upanishad #3

Death encircles man, on all sides, in every direction. Wherever man goes, he finally comes into death’s hands. Whether we think of it or not... (Who is that friend talking there? Please stop talking)... whether our mind is conscious or not, the fear of death stands up every single moment. In truth, all other fears are but shadows cast by the fear of death.
Whether someone fears poverty, or someone fears illness; whether one fears disgrace, fears failure — behind all fear, deep down, the fear of death is standing. The mind fears poverty because, it thinks, if there is wealth, then one can secure oneself against death. The mind fears failure because, it thinks, if there is success, perhaps we will be strong and able to fight death.
The fear of death is one face of the coin of life. The other face is the intense longing to hold on to life. In the exact measure that the longing becomes intense — that we should clutch life — in that very measure fear becomes intense that somehow life may slip out of our hands. The tighter the grip, the greater the fear.
This fear of death drives man into who knows how many endeavors. All life long we live little, and make more arrangements to escape death. Perhaps we do not get the opportunity to live at all. The heart is so badly riddled with the fear of death that how can the flower of life blossom there? We run, we race, we earn wealth, we earn fame, we build walls, we construct safes, we build arrangements for security — only so that we may not be obliterated. And yet, we are obliterated. All measures lie useless. All plans come to naught. All attempts, all efforts, all strivings prove to be a zero. And one day, death arrives at the door.
Billions upon billions have fought with death and wasted life in just this way. Even so, we do the same. Without considering that the death we are contending against — never has anyone won against it. No matter what measures were made. Someone thinks: I will die, but my progeny will remain. So the person looks after his offspring. Those without sons are afflicted that with them their lineage will break. If there are sons, then: I may die — no worry — but through someone I will go on living. Some part of me will live in someone. Even in progeny man seeks to escape death: I may die, but if some piece of me will live, then in one sense I am immortal. If not in offspring, someone else seeks it in immortal creations.
A painter thinks: I will be erased, but my paintings will remain. A sculptor thinks: I will be erased, but my sculpture will remain. A musician thinks: I will be erased, but my music will remain. These too are methods of seeking immortality. But when I myself will be erased, when I vanish entirely, then how long can that part of me, my offspring, be preserved? And when I myself vanish, then my painting, my sculpture, the literature wrought by my hands, my poetry — how long will that survive? That too will vanish.
In truth, in the river of time of this world, whatever is born will perish. Within time, death is a certain event. Within time, death will indeed occur. Whatever happens in time, will perish.
In essence, becoming and perishing are the two ends of the same phenomenon. When something is born, the perishing begins. And when someone is born, the journey of death begins. When there is a beginning, the end also will be. How long the end takes — that is secondary. It has no value. However long it may take, the end will be. Buddha has said: Whether I die in seven years, or in seventy years, or in seven hundred — it makes no great difference. Since I will die, the seed of death entered me with birth itself. The duration is secondary. And what will I do in the duration? If death is standing right behind me, one will live fearfully for seven years, another for seventy, another for seven hundred — but in such living, what will we do? When death is constantly at the door and could happen at any moment, this life will be a trembling life.
Mahavira has said: like a dewdrop fallen on the blade of grass in the morning, trembling in the gusts of wind — how long can it remain poised? How long will it escape the gusts? How long will it hold itself on the tip of the grass? It will fall. Now, or in a little while — it will fall. Mahavira has said: man’s life is just like that dewdrop poised upon the tip of a leaf. Now, now, now — it is falling. It will indeed fall.
All the measures man has devised to attain the amrit have gone in vain. Only one measure has not failed; this sutra speaks of that:
‘That Supreme Reality cannot be attained by wealth, by progeny, or by action. Renunciation alone is the path by which the Brahman-knowers attained the amrit. Above even the heaven-world, in the cave of the heart, that Supreme Reality is illumined, which only a steadfast seeker can attain.’
Understand a few things in this sutra.
That which is amrit, that which is the deep thirst of life — to attain that which never perishes — for what use is that which perishes! Even if we get it, what have we got! That which will slip from the hand after coming into the hand — what is the value of its coming! That which I shall receive, and yet will not remain, and will part — the labor I did for it has gone in vain.
Therefore we call him a Brahman-knower who seeks that which, once attained, remains attained. In whose meeting there is no more separation. Whose beginning may be there, but whose end is not. This is a difficult thing. Because whatever has a beginning, we see its end. In this world nothing appears that begins but does not end. All things appear as arising and dissolving. Can there be such an experience, such a realization on which we stand, and it is eternal? And then our separation from it is not? This very search is the search for Brahman-knowledge.
The search for Brahman means: the search for that which is eternal, beginningless, infinite. That which always is, which never perishes. Will not die, will not be finished. Only if we attain that have we known life. If we become one with that, only then have we known the amrit. And until we become one with it, our life will be just a trembling leaf in fear. Because death will keep making us tremble on all sides. The gusts of death will keep coming. Only by knowing that Supreme Reality, only by becoming one with it, does fear end. And where fear ends, where fearlessness begins, there is the sunrise of life — there dawns the morning of life.
But can this be attained through wealth? For a person devotes his entire life to gathering wealth. The hope is that perhaps through wealth something may be gained that does not perish. But the hands by which wealth is earned — those hands will perish; how can the wealth earned by those hands be preserved? He who makes it is so frail — the things he makes will be frailer still.
Wealth is a deception. Yet wealth creates the deception of permanence. It seems that if I have wealth, then I have something stable by which I can fight this fleetingness. By whose support perhaps I can also make arrangements against death. That is why man, in madness, accumulates wealth. And this madness reaches that limit where he forgets why he started to accumulate it at all. Then he just goes on gathering wealth. He loses himself in gathering that wealth which he began to earn so that he might save himself. One does not even notice when the means becomes the end.
Among man’s basic illnesses, this is one — the means becomes the end. What we thought we would use, becomes our master. What we thought would help us obtain something, in the end we find that what we sought to obtain got lost in obtaining the means.
Man earns wealth for life. But if we look at the wealthy, we will find they live for earning wealth. And the astonishing thing — if we ask them, they too will say they are earning money for life.
Andrew Carnegie died leaving billions behind. Yet till the very end, at the last moment, he was on the phone talking about profits. At the last moment, when his breath broke, the phone was in his hand — he was discussing a deal. His biographer has written: I did not see a single moment in Carnegie’s life when we could say he was living. Every moment he was earning. Perhaps the richest man on earth; but in one sense, none more poor than him. For no thrill of life ever came to him. No wave of life touched him. Many times friends asked him: You will earn so much — but what will you do? He would say: Wait — once the earning is complete, then I will begin to live.
But the earning is never complete, and living never begins. Whose earning has ever been complete? Have you ever seen a wealthy man who said: I have reached the point where earning is complete? No, earning has its own logic. Earning is not such a thing that we can draw a final line and say, there it will be complete. Earning recedes like the horizon. The farther we go, the farther the horizon recedes. It appears close, very close — not far — the sky seems to touch the earth. It seems just ten or five miles more and we will reach the place where sky meets earth.
The sky never meets the earth anywhere. It only appears to meet. The more we move, the point of appearance moves on. We can circle the whole earth — nowhere will we find the sky meeting the earth. Though everywhere it will seem just a little further that the sky is touching the earth. Even after circling the earth, it will still seem a little ahead.
Wherever the ego runs in life, there too the ego constructs such a horizon-line. Wealth too is a horizon-line. Wherever we reach, we do not reach. The line moves ahead, the race continues. It is endless — and life is spent.
The rich often live the life of the poor. The poor lives — that is his compulsion. The rich live — they cannot be forgiven. And those who hope to attain the essence of life through this wealth — we can only call them deranged. Neither through wealth will it be found, nor through progeny.
Some spend their whole life only in this: that their children grow up, get educated, get married, get settled. If someone were to ask them: your father did just this for you; your children will do just this for their children — what is this rigmarole for? Your father lived so that you may grow up, be educated, get settled; you live so that your children may grow; your children will also live for theirs. What is the purpose of this living?
Is it not that you do not understand the art of living, so you park your mind into busyness anywhere? You busy yourself with your children. Those who have children are troubled that because of them they cannot live; those who have none are troubled how to live — there are no children!
It seems we do not know where the stream of life’s juice flows. And it is not that one who finds the stream of life’s juice will not earn wealth. Nor is it that one who finds it will not care for his children. But his care will change. The basis of earning will change. One who has found the stream of life will also care for his children, but now this care will not be his occupation and postponement. He is not deferring his life. He is not saying: I will live for you.
But can anyone live for another? One who has found life’s stream will live himself; and from his life, his children will also receive life — that is a completely different matter. But he will not live by resting his life upon his children’s shoulders, that through them I will live. In this way each person postpones onto another, and none lives.
There are some who think that by action — by vast action, by ceaseless action — we shall attain that amrit. They remain continuously engaged. From morning till night, from birth till death, they keep doing something. They think by doing, it can be had. But action can only give us what originates from action. Amrit does not originate from action. Never has. Amrit is hidden somewhere. It already is. Amrit is not some production that we will generate by our action. Amrit is present; it is not to be produced — it is to be unveiled. It is to be discovered. It is not to be manufactured. We are mortal — how will our action produce amrit? We are ignorant — how will our action give birth to knowledge? We are surrounded by death — our action too is surrounded by death. Everything of ours is surrounded by death. We are darkness — how will light be born from us?
That Supreme Reality is not produced from us. In truth, we are produced from that Supreme Reality. We are not to produce that Supreme; we have come from that Supreme — this we have to discover. That Supreme is not an event of the future; it is the hidden foundational source at our back, within our very being. By action we can obtain the other, not the self. With my hand I can hold you — not myself. With my eyes I can see you — not myself. Behind all actions my own form remains hidden. Even if there were no actions, I would be. I am deeper than action. So if I am to find my essential self, it cannot be found through any action.
Then how can it be found?
‘Renunciation alone is the path by which the Brahman-knowers have known that amrit.’
This word renunciation is very intricate. And the moment you hear it, whatever comes to mind — that is not its meaning. The common meaning of renunciation is: to leave wealth.
Understand this a little.
We say: a man is a renunciate. We say: Mahavira is a renunciate — he left so much wealth. We say: Buddha is a renunciate — he left the palace, the kingdom, comforts and luxuries — left all. In our minds renunciation means: leaving. But in truth renunciation means: not to grasp at all.
In truth renunciation means: not to grasp at all. We think Mahavira left wealth — but Mahavira only left the grasp.
Understand this rightly.
We think Mahavira left wealth — but Mahavira left only the grasp. The wealth was never Mahavira’s — how could it be left? The grasp was his. The wealth was not Mahavira’s. Because when Mahavira was not, even then that wealth was. When Mahavira was gone, even then that wealth remained.
The empire was not Buddha’s. It existed before Buddha too — it was his father’s; and before his father, his grandfather’s. Buddha left — yet it was with someone. Buddha did not leave the kingdom — he left the grasp on the kingdom. The grasp was Buddha’s.
I have money in my hand, people see that I am holding wealth; the truth is, I am only clenching my fist. The wealth will not even know that it is in my fist. And when I leave the wealth, it will not know it has been let go. That wealth has lain in many fists. It keeps no account. Only my fist clenches and opens.
Renunciation means: the dropping of the grasp. Or renunciation means: not to grasp at all. Renunciation means: to know that what is not mine, is not mine. But in our mind renunciation has another meaning. A man has wealth, he says: the wealth is mine. Then he renounces — in our meanings — and he says: I have renounced my wealth. But even after renouncing, he does not leave the ownership of wealth. He still maintains: I left my wealth.
I know such renunciate people who have left thirty years ago — some forty — but they have not left the accounting. Even now they say: I kicked away millions! This kick was forty years back! And if the wealth was never yours, you should ask forgiveness of the wealth that you kicked it! It was not yours. But no — the wealth was theirs! Now, instead of the wealth, the renunciation is theirs!
Understand this rightly.
They have made renunciation into wealth. Now for forty years it is their credit, their capital: I left millions. Those millions they left — that renunciation is now their property. If you say to them: No, it wasn’t millions, a little less — they will feel the same kind of hurt.
A friend came to me. He brought his wife along — perhaps he found it difficult to introduce himself. So the wife introduced him. He introduced her. The wife said: He is very charitable — he has donated about a hundred thousand rupees by now. The husband looked at her out of the corner of his eye and said: A hundred thousand! The figure has now reached a hundred and ten thousand. This renunciation — this is wealth. It is a new kind of wealth. And it is more convenient. Thieves cannot steal it. If governments change, nothing will affect it.
And this wealth is such that — I said to that friend: You are very clever, very skillful. The hundred and ten thousand you had — thieves could have taken; there could have been a robbery; the government could have taxed; socialism might have come, anything could have happened. Now no robbery can be done on you. No communism-socialism can confiscate this. His spine, which was resting on the chair, straightened. He said: You are absolutely right. That is why I renounced — even death cannot snatch this. This is punya. No power of the world can snatch it now. He converted wealth into merit.
Punya means: such wealth as will also be valid in the other world. What else does it mean! Punya means: such wealth whose coin is recognized not only here, but also there. Now they will enter the other world with this capital, this balance.
And all the so-called scriptures keep teaching people just this: Leave here and you will get there. Leave here, and there you will receive ten thousandfold, a thousandfold. People leave in the hope of that receiving. They renounce out of greed. They leave in order to gain. Then it is not leaving at all — leaving becomes impossible in this arrangement. Leaving does not mean turning renunciation into wealth.
Leaving means seeing that wealth is not wealth. Leaving, renunciation, means there is no such property here as ‘property’, nor is there any in the other world. There is no property. To be established in this feeling: that there is no wealth with me, and no wealth is mine — I am utterly destitute. For this Jesus used the phrase: poor in spirit. Poor in spirit! Those who experience their poverty in the spirit — they are the renunciates. Those who know that the soul has no property. The soul has no wealth at all.
And the wonder is that the very moment a soul knows: I have no wealth — in that same moment amrit becomes available. In that very moment! Because the very fist by which we clutch wealth — let that fist open fearlessly — then the rain of amrit pours into that very hand. But remember: to clutch wealth the fist must be clenched, and to receive amrit the fist must be opened. Amrit showers upon the open hand. Upon the tightened hand only poison accumulates.
Therefore what we call property is less property and more calamity. With property come calamities; they thicken and increase.
An open hand — even if amrit is showering — has no urge to grasp. The day amrit is present and there arises no urge to grasp; when the Supreme Wealth is there, and there is no desire to clench the fist — that day the person attains renunciation. Where the longing to grasp is no more, there renunciation happens.
Renunciation means: the disappearance of the tendency to cling — in all dimensions — neither cling to any person, nor to any wealth, nor to any scripture, nor to any merit; it is not a question of what to cling to. We are so skillful that we can drop one thing and cling to another, but keep clinging.
Our trouble lies in our clinging, not in our things. One man leaves wealth and clings to renunciation. One leaves the house and clings to the ashram. One leaves worldly life and clings to sannyas. The tendency to cling!
Sannyasi means one who has stopped clinging. That is its very meaning. One who has decided: now I will not cling to anything; I will live without clinging. This resolve is called sannyas. But the matter is subtle. If we wish, we can cling even to sannyas. That too can become our fist. Our fist is so skillful it can close upon anything; even if there is nothing, we can clench upon the void. When the habit of clenching is dropped, that is renunciation. Non-clinging — no feeling to grasp arises.
So renunciation does not mean renunciation of wealth. It does not mean renunciation of house. It is not the leaving of any thing — it is the leaving of my tendency to grasp. Let my tendency to cling be dissolved — this dissolution is called renunciation.
Through such renunciation the Brahman-knowers have attained that amrit. This renunciation — only if one lives very consciously does it become possible. And this renunciation is no longer an outer act; it becomes an inner state. I do not cling, and I remain alert and awake that my fist should not close on anything. Let it not happen anywhere that I grasp and become bound. Let me not be bound to anything. One who lives with such alertness lives in renunciation.
Thousands took initiation into sannyas with Buddha. Buddha would say to those sannyasis: Be careful — you are leaving what you had, but I am not giving you anything. Many often turned back from Buddha. Because this was beyond man’s logic. Man is ready to leave — if he gets something.
People asked Buddha: We will leave home — what will we get? We will leave wealth — what will we get? We are ready to leave everything — what will be the fruit? We will devote our whole life to meditation, yoga, austerity — what will be the outcome? What will be the gain — at least tell us that. Buddha said: As long as you ask about gain, stay where you are — that is better. Because the mind that asks for gain is samsara. The mind that seeks gain is samsara. Even if you have come to me, you have come seeking gain!
But had this very person gone to some ordinary saint, he would have said: Right — what is there in this woman, she is impermanent; the real women are in heaven — if you want them, leave this one. This pleasure of food — what is in it! A petty taste — tomorrow hunger will come again. If you want the real taste, there are wish-fulfilling trees in heaven — sit beneath them. And what are you clutching at this money! These are just potsherds. If you want real wealth, earn merit. And what houses are you building here! These are sand-castles. If you want permanent reinforced construction, build in heaven — there, once built, never falls. The common saints explain to people thus — this is not the language of liberation; it is the language of greed. It is the language of the world. The arithmetic entirely worldly. That is why it appeals to us; it catches us easily.
But when someone went to Buddha asking in such language, they asked: If we practice austerity, meditation, yoga all life — then what will happen? What will we get in moksha? Buddha would say: In moksha! Do not ask about getting in moksha. The moment you ask about getting, you have gone into the world. The moment you ask about obtaining, your attention is in the world, not in moksha. Ask of moksha the day you are ready to leave without asking to get. The day you are ready that: I leave — and I do not ask to receive — that very day you will attain moksha. And do not ask me what will be found there — attain it and know.
Many turned back. They would come, then go away. He seemed foolish to them. People would say: Even if nothing else, at least tell us — will there be bliss! Buddha said: Not even bliss — I will only say this much: there will be no suffering. Buddha’s entire language arises out of non-worldliness. Perhaps no other on earth has used so non-worldly a language. That is why even in this great religious land of ours — thousands of years religious — Buddha could not set down roots. Because the so-called language of its religion is entirely worldly. Buddha could not speak in our tongue. And in China and Japan Buddha did take root — not because they understood his tongue; the Buddhist monks, through experience, understood: this language is not to be spoken. They began to speak the language of greed there.
Buddha took root in China and Japan because of those Buddhist monks who abandoned his language. They spoke the worldly tongue again. They said: Bliss will come; joy will come; great joy will come; and this will come, and that will come — and speaking the language of getting, in China, Japan, Burma, Lanka — across Asia outside India — Buddha took root; but these are not Buddha’s roots. The roots that would have been his did not take.
Buddha would say: Bliss? No — not bliss — cessation of suffering. People asked: If not bliss, at least tell us — the soul will remain? Will I remain? Give at least this assurance. Buddha said: You yourself are a disease — how will you remain? You will be effaced, you will be lost. And what remains will not be you. This was difficult to understand. Buddha is right. He says: Man’s greed is so intense that he is ready even for this — no problem if nothing else is gained — but at least I should remain. If I remain, then some arrangement can be made there too. But if I do not remain, then all... all sadhana becomes futile.
Sadhana seems meaningful to us only if some purpose, some fruit, some outcome comes, some gain is obtained. The language of gain is the language of greed. Wherever the language of gain runs, greed runs. Wherever greed runs, agitation will continue.
Why?
Because we have set out in a totally wrong direction — where the original source of life is not. The original source of life is there which needs no grasping — which is present within us, here and now. If we simply stand by leaving all grabbing, all clinging, that door opens right now. That which we cannot find by searching and searching, we receive now. It is already attained; here, now, within us. But we are so busy in clinging outward!
I have heard: One dark night a man fell from the edge of a mountain. It was pitch dark. Below was a deep gorge. He caught hold of the roots of a tree and hung. He shouted, screamed, cried. The darkness was dense. There was no one anywhere — desolate. The night was cold — no idea what to do. The roots seemed to be slipping from his hands. His hands grew cold, icy. The night deepened. The man screamed, cried out, held on — exerted all his strength. Exactly his condition was like ours. He was clinging, grasping hard lest he slip. His danger was certainly dire. We may not know death — but for him death was right below. If these hands slipped from the roots, his life would end.
But how long could he hold! Grip too gets tired. And the irony is — the tighter you grip, the sooner you tire. The tighter you hold, the faster you tire. He was holding tight; the fingers began to give way. Slowly before his eyes the hands started sliding; the roots began to slip. He cried, he wept — but there was no way. At last the roots slipped from his hands.
But then the valley echoed with the sound of laughter. For there was no chasm below — there was ground. It was not visible in the darkness. He had been troubled in vain all this time! Below there was earth, not a pit. And all the suffering he endured so long was due to his own grip — there was no pit. The valley that had been echoing with his screams now echoed with laughter. The man laughed at himself.
Those who have dropped this madness of clinging — they have laughed. Because that which they feared does not exist. The death we fear appears only because of our clinging. When the grip loosens, it is not. The sorrow we fear — that sorrow is part of our clinging, is born of it. When the clinging drops, it disappears. In the dark we cannot figure out where we shall stand — right there is our inner self. When all grasping slips, we are established in ourselves.
The Upanishad has said: ‘Above heaven, in the cave of the heart, that Supreme Reality is illumined.’
‘Above heaven...’ It sounds strange. ‘Above heaven, in the cave of the heart...’ What up-down is there between heaven and the heart’s cave? What relation of higher-lower between the heart’s cave and heaven! But the rishi speaks rightly. Above heaven means above greed. Heaven means greed. Heaven is the deepest symbol of greed. Heaven is greed made concrete. Heaven is the ultimate longing of the greedy. Those who discuss heaven are not religious. A truly religious person speaks only of freedom, of moksha. Talk of heaven is the extension of the worldly mind. Beyond death too we are engaged in trying to save our greed. Let the body perish — at least greed should remain. Let craving remain. Let there remain some field where craving can be satisfied. Heaven is the collection of our desires, the sum of our longings.
So the rishi is right: above heaven. One who has not risen beyond this web of greed, desire, longing — he will not enter the cave of the heart. In truth, heaven and hell are the obstacles to entering the heart’s cave.
There was a Sufi fakir, Rabia. One day she was passing through the village, carrying in one hand a pot of water and in the other a flaming torch — running. People thought: Has Rabia gone mad! They already suspected so. For whoever has ever loved God has been seen by others as mad.
This too is their defense. Because if Rabia is not mad, they will have to suspect themselves: then what are we? The crowd saves itself by declaring Rabia mad. The crowd says: This woman has gone mad. What God? Okay, there is a God in the mosque; once a week one should bow at his feet. If he is in the temple, alright — it is a formal rule, fulfill it. If in the church, he is a Sunday-God — a God of the day of leisure; on that day as we finish other things, we finish that too. But one who talks of God the other six days is mad. This Rabia keeps saying God-God for twenty-four hours — she has gone mad.
But that day it became obvious. The bazaar was crowded and Rabia, torch in one hand and water-pot in the other, began running through the middle of the market. They said: Rabia, until now we thought it only in our hearts — today we have to say openly — has your mind gone wrong? What are you doing? Rabia said: I am taking this water to douse your hell. And this flame — to set your heaven on fire. For it is because of your heaven and your hell that you have missed yourselves. But perhaps hardly anyone in that market understood her.
In Jesus’ life too there is such a mention. Jesus passed through a village and saw some fakirs sitting — grown pale and trembling with fear. Jesus asked: What has happened to you? What calamity has befallen you? What disaster, what misfortune that you are pale like leaves, and shaking? They said: We fear hell. We are sinners; we have committed great sins. We are afraid we will have to go to hell. The villagers said: These are very religious people — these pale, fear-trembling people — shaken by hell — very religious!
Jesus went ahead and in another part of the same village he saw others sitting. They too had burnt themselves in renunciation and austerity — turned to ash, dried up, become thorns. Jesus asked: What epidemic has struck you? What has happened? They said: We are eager for heaven, tormented by the longing to attain heaven. We are ready to do anything — but we want heaven.
Jesus was very astonished. He said to his disciples: It is strange — there seems to be some connection between heaven and hell. Those who are greedy for heaven are also dried and pale and trembling; and those who fear hell are also pale and trembling. From above, if we look at both, there seems no difference — unless they tell the reason, you cannot tell them apart. There is indeed a connection.
The connection is this: heaven and hell are two sides of the same coin. Greed and fear are two sides of the same coin. A greedy man can never be beyond fear; a frightened man can never be beyond greed. Fear is the negative form of greed; greed is the positive form of fear. Fear and greed are the two poles of the same event.
The rishi speaks truly: ‘Above heaven.’ He does not speak of hell. For if one is above heaven, then certainly above hell. He did not mention it — knowingly. Because if you say: above hell — people are not troubled; but say: above heaven — and they are troubled. To be above hell is what we all want. That is no difficulty.
We all want that the Supreme Reality be above suffering — but that it be above happiness too — we will not want that. We will be ready to leave if someone says: leave all suffering — you will attain that. We will say: We are always ready to leave suffering — it is suffering that does not leave us. And if someone says: leave your pleasures — we will say: that is very difficult. Where is the way to leave? Pleasures themselves keep leaving us — running away. We catch them but they do not remain in the grasp. Pleasures — we will not be able to leave. Suffering — we are always ready to leave.
But the rishi says: ‘Above heaven.’ Above the longing for pleasures. One who has not yet left the longing for pleasure will keep falling into pain. Falling into pain is the outcome of the longing for pleasure. One who has not left pleasure — his suffering will continue. For he is holding onto pleasure. Along with pleasure the shadow of suffering will continue to form.
Only he can leave suffering who has left pleasure. Then there is no way for suffering to stand. The ground for its rising is gone. With the dropping of pleasure, suffering drops.
Therefore the rishi has said: ‘Above heaven, in the cave of the heart, in Brahman’s realm...’ He even called this cave of the heart Brahmalok... ‘there that Supreme Reality is illumined, which the steadfast seeker can attain.’
Let us understand this cave of the heart a little — what is the point? Ordinarily we have no awareness of the heart. That is why it is called a cave: it is hidden. We do not even come to know the heart. We think the heart is where there is a beat and the breath moves. But there is lung — not heart. It is the lungs.
If you ask a scientist, he will open your chest and take out the pumping system. He will say: here is the arrangement that drives the breath. Therefore the scientist says: there is no such thing as ‘heart’ in the human body — it is the poet’s imagination. And it is so. Where we place our hand, there is the lung — the heart is hidden much deeper behind it.
The heart is a cave. Cave means: it is secret, esoteric, hidden. Cave means we can be acquainted only with its outer wall; the inner is not revealed. We wander outside — we get to know the walls — we do not get to know the heart. The lungs are just the outer wall; the scientist will cut it.
Understand it like this: If you break the walls of a house, will you then find the house inside? The walls will fall; the house will be lost into the sky. If you want to find the house, you must find it while the walls are standing. This is the mistake the scientist makes. He says: Come, we will dissect and show that there is no heart here. Likewise he says: We will cut the brain and show there is no mind here. There is brain, not mind. For the mind is the inner space.
The brain is the wall; the mind is the inner space. The lung is the outer wall; the heart is the inner space. By cutting, the wall comes into the hand; the inner emptiness is lost into the vast emptiness. Without cutting, if we enter, the heart is found. Therefore the scientist can never find the heart. Only the yogi can. Because he does not break the heart — he enters without breaking. He lets the wall remain, and enters the empty space which the wall encloses.
There are ways of entering that empty space. To call them ‘ways’ may not be right, because ‘way’ suggests a door. If there is a door, then it is not a cave, not a secret place. But there are entry-thresholds where there are no doors. Like if an X-ray beam is sent into you, it needs no door — it enters; it does not make a hole. Until X-rays were discovered, we could not believe anything could enter within us without making a hole. Our experience was that a knife can enter — but it will cut. Now the X-ray enters and does not cut. Not only that — you do not even know it has entered. Only on the photo-plate we know the beam entered and brought images of the inside. You do not feel anything. If asked — did you feel anything? — nothing at all.
This means that if... And the X-ray is utterly physical, material. Meditation is the name of that beam which can enter within without causing any hurt, breaking any door, opening any lock, using any key. The walls of the lung do not even come to know when the entry happens.
Meditation is the name of that beam which enters into this inner cave. This inner cave has also been called Brahmalok. Because one who enters this inner cave, the encounter that happens there — the experience there — that very experience is hidden in the heart of the whole cosmos as well. As in my little heart what is hidden — the same is hidden in the heart of this vast Brahman. What is hidden in my brain — the same is hidden in the brain of the Vast.
The individual is a small atom — a small living replica of the Vast. Therefore it is called the cave of the heart, and called Brahmalok too. In atomic terms we will know it within ourselves; then in the ultimate sense we will experience it within the Vast. Entry into one’s own heart is the first step to entry into the Supreme Heart. We learn the art — we understand.
It is almost like this: If you teach a child to swim in the river, you teach him near the bank — where there is no fear of drowning. You teach him in the shallow water. That is — you teach him where there is no need to swim. Because if there were a need, there would be danger. You teach him where swimming is not needed — on the bank. Once swimming is learned, then one can swim at any depth. Because swimming has nothing to do with depth. Swimming is an art. Then one can swim anywhere. Once learned, it is no longer a question whether in river or stream. Anywhere. Not even a question of how deep — whether a thousand feet or ten thousand — depth is no matter. Swimming is an art.
Meditation is also an art. In the cave of the heart we learn to swim near the bank; after that there is no difficulty in entering the ocean of the Vast. This is the bank — our heart is a small bank of the Vast. A shore on which one can learn without danger. Once this comes, it is like swimming. Once one learns to swim, one never forgets. Have you ever seen anyone who forgot swimming? Everything else can be forgotten — but no one forgets swimming. It is very delightful. Because there is some difference in the memory of swimming. When all else is forgotten... Things taught when I was five I have forgotten — but I have not forgotten how to swim. Even if for thirty years I did not swim, did not touch water — after thirty years, throw me in and I will swim again. It will not be that I have to remember how it was done — it will come by itself. What is the matter?
If swimming is a memory, then when other memories fade by non-use, swimming should also fade. But it does not. There is only one meaning: we actually do not learn swimming. Because whatever is learned can be forgotten. This may sound strange — because we do learn to swim. Then understand: perhaps in swimming we do not learn swimming, we learn only courage.
When for the first time a person is thrown into water to swim, he flails his arms and legs — somewhat chaotically. The chaos is due to fear of drowning. Ten or five times of flailing and he understands: I am not drowning — there is no cause for fear. Fear dissolves; the arms and legs move in order; swimming comes. As if he knew it already — only fear kept it from being orderly. As if he always knew how to swim — it only needed to be exercised. So perhaps we do not learn swimming — we re-member it. I say this by way of example.
Because exactly so it is with meditation. Exactly so in the cave of the heart. Once meditation happens, it is never forgotten. If one ray of meditation is attained, one glimpse — it can never be forgotten. There is no way. You will never again be the same person you were before this experience. This experience will now become your soul. And this too because meditation is less a learning, more a re-membering. Perhaps we already know meditation on some deep level. Only a little practice is needed so what we already know can manifest and be known. Perhaps what is hidden — remove a little dust and it shines forth, fresh. Perhaps a mirror upon which dust has gathered — wipe it and the image appears.
When dust had gathered on the mirror, even then it was a mirror. Dust does not cancel the mirror. But with dust my reflection does not appear. When the dust is removed, the mirror was a mirror before and is a mirror now, but now the reflection forms. Meditation is such a process by which we remove the collected dust within, the mirror becomes clean. Swimming is learned. And once learned, the art is ours. Then we can enter the greatest ocean. With the mirror in hand, we can receive not only our own reflection, but that of the Divine.
Therefore it is also called Brahmalok. And it is said: that Supreme Reality is illumined within this cave. As if a lamp were lit, surrounded by the cave, with darkness outside; we live in darkness — and inside the cave the lamp is lit. And when we go within, we are amazed: this lamp was always lit; this flame never went out.
Because of the flame burning in this inner cave, the Parsis chose the symbol of keeping fire constantly burning in their temple. But they forgot why they keep the flame burning twenty-four hours. That it not be extinguished — it was only a symbol. In that inner cave, Zarathustra discovered, Zarathustra knew — entering the inner cave he saw the flame that burns without fuel, without oil, eternal, never extinguished — that is the form of life, that is life itself. What was realized by Zarathustra, his followers established in their temple. It was beautiful. Symbolic. Artistic. But all our truths are lost in symbols.
Now they light the lamp daily, keep the fire burning. Their temple has become a fire-house; the fire burns twenty-four hours; they strive that it not go out. But that inner temple — of which this fire was a message — there is no remembrance. This fire has to be maintained. And what has to be maintained is not the deathless flame. This must be tended round the clock. And what needs tending is not the fire of life.
There is a flame within that burns of itself — without tending, without fuel, without oil, without support. Ever living, eternally living — that flame is the Supreme Reality within, ever illumined, and the steadfast seeker attains it.
We should also understand two words about the steadfast seeker. What does steadfast mean? What is the difference between shraddha and nishtha? In the morning we spoke of shraddha. Nishtha is another element — very different. Commonly we use shraddha and nishtha as if the same.
Nishtha means: this search is arduous; it is not to be completed in a day; many, many failures are inevitable. Many times one will have to be defeated. Many times one will break. Many times it will seem: nothing comes to the hand — let us drop it, stop it. Nishtha means: even when failure is in the hand, the effort continues unchanged. Nishtha means: even with failure, not a whit of difference in the attempt.
When success comes, there is no need for nishtha. Success itself carries you onward. When a man is succeeding, there is no need of steadfastness, because success itself pushes him to the next step. But when failure comes, the feet do not rise. Failure becomes heavy. Stones tie to the feet. The feet refuse to move. Then only nishtha can lift the feet. Nishtha means: one who does not accept failure as failure, defeat as defeat; who keeps lifting steps — however many the defeats — but does not accept any defeat as defeat.
I have heard: Edison was conducting an experiment in his laboratory. He had taken a young scientist as assistant — very thoughtful, logic-bound, of scientific talent. They would experiment daily, spend eighteen hours on it, and return at night unsuccessful — old Edison and the youth. Three months passed, daily this continued. After three months the youth quit. He had wanted to quit much earlier, but the lamp of nishtha shining in old Edison’s eyes kept him from daring.
Every morning Edison came as fresh as a child running to the lab. The youth would decide at home: today I will say — forgive me — this work is beyond us, it will never be completed; it seems we have chosen wrongly — this experiment will not succeed. We have failed so many times, tried from so many directions — ashes come to hand — yet you go on in madness. Leave it! Let us do something else, where success can be had. But seeing the flame in Edison’s eyes, he lost his courage. He felt: this old man is yet so young — and I, young, speak like an old man — it is not right. But three months is long. He could neither sleep nights nor find peace by day. The experiment neither completed, nor would Edison end it. Today they would fail; tomorrow he would begin in another way.
After three months one morning he did not look into Edison’s eyes — he kept his gaze down and said: Forgive me... Edison said: Lift your eyes. He said: Looking up has gotten me into this mess for three months — today I will not. This experiment is not going to succeed. Edison said: Are you mad? So near to success! The youth said: Near to success? We are not even as near as the first day. In three months we have tried from every side — all the paths are useless.
Edison said: You do not know mathematics. So many paths we have tried and found useless — that means now fewer useless paths remain. If we have tried two hundred, if there are three hundred, only a hundred remain. We are closer to success. Today or tomorrow — losing and losing we will win. Because ultimately there will be one right path. We are cutting away the wrongs: this too is wrong, that too is wrong — success is drawing near. What a fool you are. After three months of effort you want to turn back. Now we are absolutely close.
This is nishtha!
Nishtha means: faith in victory facing defeat. Before failure, before loss — the formula of success. If there is a stone on my path, I can understand it as an obstacle and think the path has ended — this is the sign of a man without steadfastness. Or I can understand: a step has appeared — now I will climb this; the path will begin again a little higher. The stone on the path can be a step, or an obstacle. In itself it is neither. It becomes an obstacle if I lack nishtha; it becomes a step if I have nishtha.
This Supreme Reality, this amrit hidden in the cave, this Brahman-realm sunk beyond heaven in the depth of the heart — it is attained by a success that is burnished through infinite failures. Many times losing, one wins it. Many times breaking, one is joined together. Many times missing, the meeting happens. Many times we pass so very close — so close that it seems: now stop. Now it will not be. And whenever it seems so, then steadfastness is needed.
Without shraddha no one begins; without nishtha no one reaches the end. With shraddha the beginning, with nishtha the fulfillment. Therefore it is said: the steadfast seeker attains this Principle.
That is all.
Now let us prepare for the night’s meditation.
Keep two or three points in mind. Wait a minute. Keep two or three points in mind. In the night meditation, no one should remove any clothing. Only in the morning meditation, if someone wishes to remove clothing, they may. In the night meditation, no one should remove clothing — keep this in mind.
In the night meditation, those friends who want to do it with great intensity should come near me. Those who do not want to be so intense will stand in the outer circle. Even so, everyone should try — the more intense, the more resultful. Look at me with unblinking eyes. Do not blink. And dance, jump, awaken the energy; and when the energy awakens, strike it with the sound ‘Hoo, Hoo.’