Kaivalya Upanishad #6

Meditation is the door. Meditation is the door to that dimension where thought has no entry; where there is no way to think, where there is no place for understanding, logic, argumentation; where only pure experiencing remains. What is attained in this meditation—this sutra points toward that. It is essential to understand each word of this sutra with great depth.
The first word is: 'Achintya'—that about which no thinking is possible; about which thought cannot function; where the intellect falls short. Meditation is the door to such an experience.
About what can we think? We think only about what is already known. Perhaps you have never noticed: whatever you think, you already know beforehand. You cannot think about the unknown—how would you? If something is not known at all, how will you think about it? Thought is like cud-chewing. Many animals chew the cud—they chew what they have already eaten.
Thought is cud-chewing. First the idea is given to you; then you keep chewing the same. Only if something is known can you think about it. There can be no thought of the unknown. How will you think the unknown? Where there is no knowing, thought has no movement. And the ultimate truth of life is unknown—it is the Un-known. The ultimate mystery of life is not known. It cannot be conceived by thought. Yet the unknown can become known—and then you can think about it.
One more thing has to be understood. The supreme mystery of life is not merely unknown; to call it unknown is not right—it is unknowable. Not only unknown, but un-knowable. If we say 'unknown'—like saying, what is behind this mountain is unknown. Someone may go behind the mountain and come and inform you, and it will become known. But even if someone goes into Brahman and returns to give news, Brahman will not be known. The news is too pale, too limited—it cannot say anything meaningful about that mystery. Whatever has been said about it so far only indicates human incapacity.
Hence a person like Buddha stopped speaking about it. When someone asked Buddha about Brahman, he would fall silent. This caused great misunderstanding. Many thought he did not accept Brahman. But he was so silent about it that he would not even state, 'I will not be able to say anything about it.' Because Buddha said: that too would be saying something about it. 'I cannot say anything'—that too becomes a statement about it. That much also he would not say.
If the supreme mystery were merely unknown, then we could study it in universities, because it could be made known.
Consider this: a scientist makes a discovery. Until the discovery happens, the subject-matter is unknown. Then an Edison, an Einstein, a Newton discovers—and it becomes known. Thereafter even schoolchildren can study and know it. No one has to rediscover it personally. In science one discovers, all can know; each need not search again. What was unknown becomes known.
But Paramatma is not like that. Innumerable ones have realized it, yet it has never become 'known' in that way. So we must not place it in the category of the unknown; it belongs to the category of the unknowable. Unknowable means: even when known, it remains ungraspable. People know, they even speak of it, and yet it cannot become our thought. It cannot become our concept. It cannot be taught. No pedagogy will work for it.
Understand the second implication: All worldly experiences are collective—one knows, and the whole group can come to know. Paramatma is a personal, intimate experience. One realizes—and it becomes like the sweetness in a mute person’s mouth; he cannot tell the other. The tongue stops; the lips close. It is a strange thing that one who does not know God can talk endlessly about him; the one who knows finds it very difficult to speak. This seems odd: the ignorant can speak because they do not know that what they are putting into words cannot be put into words. They have heard words—so they repeat them.
Thus the pundit never feels the incapacity that 'God cannot be expressed.' The pundit goes on speaking. The saints feel constant helplessness; and even when a saint speaks again and again, he adds: 'I have not been able to say it. It remains unsaid. I tried—I failed.' The pundit never fails; he always appears successful. The knower always seems to fail—he tries to say, then finds the essence has slipped away, he has not said it.
It is like trying to bind the wind in your fist. So long as you have not closed the fist, the wind is in it; the moment you close it, it escapes. In experience, Paramatma is; the moment we bind it in words, it slips away. Words function like the fist. Do not speak—he is; speak—and he is lost. Those who spoke only indicated their helplessness. Those who did not speak, by their silence said only this: it cannot be said. The experience is personal, not collective. And the purpose of saying 'Achintya' is precisely that you cannot think about it.
Therefore if someone says, 'I am contemplating God,' he is entirely mistaken. He may be contemplating, but that which he contemplates cannot be God—it must be something else. Whatever you can contemplate—know it is not God. You can contemplate Rama, but only that part of Rama which is known—his form, his eyes, his body, his words, his conduct; these are known, and you can think about them. But whatever is known is not the supreme reality. That which remains unknown within all this is the supreme reality—the hidden within. Rama’s conduct is not God; conduct is known. That innerness within Rama’s conduct—that is God. Rama’s words are not God; they are known. That which was wordless behind the words—that is God, and it remained unknown.
On the day of Buddha’s passing, Ananda was weeping, beating his head. Buddha asked him, 'Why weep in vain?' Ananda said: 'Not in vain. Now you will not be here; you will dissolve; how can I not weep?' Buddha laughed and said: 'That which you think will be dissolved—that I never was. That which you think will die—when was I that? That I never was. So if you weep for that, it is not me. And if you weep for me—then it is in vain. I shall remain exactly as I am. No difference will occur.'
But the Buddha of whom Buddha speaks is not the Buddha for whom Ananda weeps. There is no meeting of the two. If Ananda contemplates Buddha, he will contemplate leaving out Buddha himself, for he knows nothing of that. He will think of the gestures, the movements, the voice, the eyes—that is not Buddha. It is as if, when thinking of Buddha, we think of the house in which he lives. What has the house to do with it!
Whenever we think of God, we think of some form through which he might have appeared. We cannot think God. He is Achintya—the unthinkable. Then how to reach him? If we drop all thinking—we can reach.
God cannot be thought. When there is no thought, God can be. All thinking must stop; the process of thought must come to a halt; language must dissolve; mind be absent; only consciousness remain—just a pure knowing within, and no object in that knowing—like a mirror.
A mirror has two states. When a figure appears in it—that is one state. When the mirror is empty, no figure appears—that is the other. When an image is there, the mirror is covered by it; the mirror contains an object. When no image is there, the mirror is pure, uncovered, immaculate—and there is no object in it.
Our consciousness is like the mirror. When thoughts move in it, consciousness becomes covered. When it is without thought, when no thought moves, consciousness becomes pure and silent. In that silent state there is nothing to know—only the capacity to know remains. Just knowing. This state is called meditation. And only in this meditation is that Achintya intuited—intuited! In this meditation the unthinkable comes into experience—not into thought.
So understand one more difference: thought is only the ripples rising in the intellect; experience vibrates through the whole existence. When God is experienced, each pore experiences it, each drop of blood, each bit of bone, each particle of consciousness—your whole being experiences it. When you think, only a corner of your intellect goes on repeating borrowed words about it. The intellect is a very small fragment—and that too borrowed. It is not your being. It is not your authentic existence. It is not truly you.
Understand it this way. The intellect is the corner of you into which society has entered. Your being is; society has poured into it what it has taught you—that is your intellect. You can go on repeating it. Hence when a Hindu thinks of God, Rama appears; when a Muslim thinks, Rama does not appear; when a Christian thinks, Jesus appears; when a Jain thinks, neither Jesus nor Rama appear. The notions that were given to you—those alone arise.
Notions are borrowed. Thoughts are not your wealth, only your collection from outside. You can chew them like cud. By this cud-chewing you will not arrive. This chewing must come to a complete halt, and the mirror of consciousness must become such that no reflection remains in it. The day no reflection remains, the Achintya flashes.
The first word: 'Achintya.'
The second word: 'Avyakt'—the Unmanifest. If you wish to know, do not search in the manifest. This does not mean that he is not in the manifest. He is in it, but he is not only manifest. The manifest is the circumference, the Unmanifest the inner core.
I have heard of Mozart. He was a great musician. One day he created a unique composition. The music stopped. Only a single friend had come to listen. The music ceased, Mozart became silent, the instruments stilled—yet the friend kept swaying. After a long time Mozart shook him: 'Now everything has stopped; why do you keep moving?' The friend said, 'While you were playing, what was there was manifest. The manifest has faded; now I am rejoicing in the Unmanifest. That was only the periphery of music; now I am drowning at the center. Do not interrupt.'
If we search only in the manifest—that is the scientific effort: we will seek truth in the manifest. If there is soul in man, science says: we will dissect, analyze, examine what is manifest and determine whether it is there or not. The manifest can be examined; within, no Atman is found—because Atman is unmanifest. The manifest is only the circumference of the body. If you cut and hammer the manifest, the Unmanifest will be lost.
It is like a beautiful rose. If I say 'it is beautiful,' and you ask 'where is beauty?'—so we cut and pound and analyze, and we will not find beauty. Chemical elements will be there, a few minerals will be there. Color will be extracted. Whatever is objectively there in the flower will come into our hands. We will bottle each thing, label it. One thing will be certain: there will not be a bottle on which is written—'Beauty.' Then we can insist, with perfect logic, that beauty never existed. We examined everything; each thing is in the bottles—the whole flower is there. Weigh them—the weight equals the flower’s. Everything is present, but beauty is nowhere.
Beauty was unmanifest. The flower was manifest. From the flower the unmanifest was radiating. Understand it so: the unmanifest had made the manifest ground of the flower its abode. Remove the ground, the unmanifest vanishes. If you believe music is in the strings of the veena, you will be mistaken. Strings are only strings; however much investigation you do, you will not find music there. Nor will breaking the wooden body of the veena reveal music. The veena is only a medium for the Unmanifest to manifest. Seek in the veena—and music will not be found.
If the veena is broken, and you smash it to pieces and investigate, then the Unmanifest has no means left to appear. The veena is only a medium. When the musician tunes and prepares the veena, what is he doing? He is simply making the medium ready for the descent of the Unmanifest. He is taking care of the instrument so the Unmanifest may place its feet on the strings and manifest. He is making it worthy of the Unmanifest. Playing the veena is not as difficult as making the veena fit for the Unmanifest to manifest.
Therefore the true artist is not one who only knows how to play, but one who knows how to bring the instrument to the state of being played by the Unmanifest. Playing is easy; creating the harmony between the Unmanifest and the manifest is arduous.
The Unmanifest is the supreme mystery of life. Do not seek it only in the manifest; do not make the manifest the limit. Even when you look into the manifest, keep your attention on the Unmanifest. See a tree—do not stop at the outline; remember the hidden flow of life within that outline. See a person—do not get stuck in eyes, face, body; attend to the aura shining through the eyes and the body, the halo gathering—attend to that, and the Unmanifest will be felt. The Unmanifest is its unavoidable nature; therefore even in manifestation it remains Unmanifest. Its innermost, its center, ever remains unmanifest; the circumference alone is expressed.
It is like going to the ocean and taking waves to be the ocean. We seldom reflect: we come back saying, 'We have seen the ocean,' but we have only seen waves, because on the breast of the ocean are only waves. The ocean is in great depth. Seeing waves we return and say, 'We saw the ocean.' A true teacher would warn: Do not mistake waves for the ocean. Granted—ocean is in the waves—but ocean is far more than waves. Peer into the waves. Only he knows the ocean who does not return by looking from the shore, but dives. Only by diving do you escape the waves. Standing on the shore—how will you peer beneath the waves? The shore must be left.
Kabir has said: 'I was foolish—I went seeking and sat on the bank.' I was mad: I imagined I would find him sitting on the bank. From the bank you see only waves; you must leap. To drown means only this: to go beneath the waves—then the ocean is experienced. The deeper the plunge, the more the ocean.
Avyakt means: do not think—dive. Thinking is standing on the shore. With thought you will grasp waves; the deep life of the waves will remain untouched.
The third word is: 'Ananta-rupa'—infinite forms. The Unmanifest means the formless. Achintya means the formless. And yet the rishi says: it is of infinite forms.
Understand this a little. Only the formless can be of infinite forms. That which has a fixed form cannot be of infinite forms. If I have a fixed form, I am bound by it. But if I have no form, I am fluid—I can be any form. Therefore Paramatma can be tree, stone, sky, flower, animal, human—anything. Because he has no fixed form, he can be infinite forms. If he had a form, he could not be infinite.
Whatever we see in the world has forms. Within all forms the flowing life is formless; hence any form can be taken. The ocean can become any kind of wave—small, big, terrible, playful. Because the ocean is not a wave, it can be any wave; because it is not bound to any one wave, it can express through any wave.
Formless means fluid. If I pour water into a glass, it takes the form of the glass; into a pot, the form of the pot. Whatever space you pour it into, water takes that form. Water has no form of its own—it is fluid. But a stone placed in a glass remains unchanged; in a pot—unchanged. Stone is not fluid. Yet even water has a form—though fluid, its transformations are within limits. Water cannot become fire; water cannot become stone. The fluidity of water has its own form.
Water can be multiform—but only as water. Beyond being water, it cannot change. Paramatma is fluid beyond all limits. Infinite. His fluidity is boundless. Therefore he can be tree, stone, water. Even scientists now say: as we break matter down to its depth, we discover all matter emerges from one energy, one energy.
From ancient times alchemists struggled that iron might become gold. They never succeeded—but their hope is fulfilled now. Science says: there is no hindrance. Iron can become gold—because the energy within both is one. It is only a matter of decreasing or increasing electrons; a difference of number. In one element there are ten, in another twelve, in another fifteen, twenty—any number; but the difference is of the count, not the electron itself. If one element has twenty electrons and another twenty-five—add five and it becomes the other.
Iron can become gold—experiments have been done; no barrier remains. Such gold does not come to the market because it is costlier than ordinary gold. There is no point. Adding or subtracting electrons is an extremely expensive process. Otherwise, no obstacle remains. Earth can become gold, gold can become earth. Now no hindrance remains, for we have achieved atomic fission. Atomic fission means we can add or subtract electrons. This means underneath there is one fluid substratum. This too has come through material inquiry—but science has not yet glimpsed: by adding or subtracting what can we make matter into consciousness? By adding or subtracting what can consciousness become matter?
Yoga relates wholly to this formula: what to increase so that matter becomes consciousness; what to decrease so that consciousness becomes matter. Meditation is the name of that process. When meditation increases, matter starts becoming conscious. When meditation decreases, consciousness hardens into matter. The increase in the quantity of meditation is the transformation of matter into soul. If meditation becomes perfect, the whole world becomes Paramatma. Then one sees—it is the same everywhere: the ocean in every wave. Either waves are remembered and the ocean is forgotten—or the ocean is remembered and waves are forgotten; both cannot be together. Try and see.
It is the same as keeping each tree in mind—you will lose the forest; keep the forest—you will lose the trees. Both cannot be together. It is not possible to keep each tree individually and at the same time, simultaneously, keep the forest in mind. It cannot be done. Forest means the individual trees are lost—a formless crowd. Tree means the crowd is lost—the individual stands out. Exactly so—if the wave is in mind, the ocean is lost; if the ocean is in mind, the wave is lost.
This is why for a seer like Shankara the world appears as maya. It is not a mere theory. Theoretically it came to minds too—like in the West, Berkeley said it. He too said: the world is maya. But that is only theoretical. Berkeley has no meditative experience. By thought, by logic, by reflection he concluded that the reality of the world cannot be established; therefore it is unreal.
Many have compared Shankara and Berkeley—but the comparison is utterly wrong. Volumes have been written on them—yet wrong—because Berkeley has no experience of meditation; his whole experience is of thought. Not one of Shankara’s conclusions is of thought; all are of meditation. They cannot be compared—merely because both utter a similar statement. Berkeley says: the world is dream-like; Shankara says: the world is dream-like. The statements can be compared, but the comparision is false, for the statements arise from two different consciousnesses. Berkeley says: because reality cannot be proved, therefore. Shankara says: I have known another reality before which this reality disappears—therefore. The day I knew Brahman, the world was no more—for both cannot remain together. As long as the world appears, Brahman does not; when Brahman appears, the world is not. They cannot coexist. For 'world' means viewing from the wave; 'Brahman' means viewing from the ocean.
Avyakt, Achintya, formless—therefore it appears in myriad forms. All forms are his—and yet no form is his. That is the meaning of 'infinite forms.'
'Kalyan-kar'—the beneficent. Auspicious. The supreme truth is auspicious—we hear this. But when we say 'God is compassionate, beneficent, auspicious,' we err—because what we mean by 'auspicious' is unclear. We imagine it as we imagine a benevolent person. But a person can also be malevolent, cruel, harsh. The opposite is present in him—therefore he has to do kindness and restrain unkindness.
Even the best person must do the good and hold back the bad—because the bad is present. Hence the good person moves in a deep struggle—constantly restraining the bad, performing the good. Because he must do the good, slowly he becomes egoistic about doing good. Often the wicked are less egoistic than the 'good.'
In one sense the wicked are simple—they do what they feel, even the bad; and because they do the bad, they never feel 'we are something great'; arrogance does not form. Visit a prison: those imprisoned are often more simple than your so-called saints. They have no idea 'we are someone'—how could they, doing wrong? But the good-doer suffers deeply from subtle ego; his I-sense thickens. The criminal sins against others; the good-doer sins against himself—his ego becomes sin against his own being.
To call God 'Kalyan-kar'—beneficent—means something else: that auspiciousness is his nature, the intrinsic nature of existence. He does not do auspiciousness; you come near him, and auspiciousness begins to happen. It is not his act; it is his nature.
Like when I go toward a garden—the closer I come, the cooler the breeze. The garden does not send cool winds. Nor does it withhold them when no one passes. Nor does it withhold them if a foe passes or someone who does not love the garden. The garden has no concern with that. Around it coolness will be—this is its nature. Come closer—the coolness increases; come closer—the fragrance arises. It is not being sent; it is inherent in the garden’s being. The garden cannot do otherwise—even if it wants to send hot wind, it has no way. Even if it wants to send stench—there are no such flowers.
God is beneficent. Meaning: as we draw near, we experience auspiciousness. Remember, this is our experience. It is our experience that God is beneficent. God does not 'know' this. And if he did know, knowledge would imply the opposite exists. If you know 'I love so-and-so,' it implies hatred exists within—otherwise how would you know? If you say, 'I forgave so-and-so'—it implies anger is present. Knowing comes only by contrast.
God does not know that he is auspicious. If he did, he could also be inauspicious. So do not think of God in the language of person. One to whom nothing 'occurs' is not a person, but a force. By the very capacity to be aware, personhood arises. 'I knew I loved, I knew I was angry, I knew I forgave'—that knowing center becomes the person. Where nothing is known—God 'knows' nothing—this does not mean he is ignorant; it means only the opposite is not in him. Therefore all happens—but there is no 'knower' center. He is an expanse of consciousness. Not a person, but a spread of Chaitanya—an impersonal, formless expanse of energy.
It is our experience that as we go near, auspiciousness happens; moving away, inauspiciousness happens. The inauspicious is not 'because of him'—it is because we move away. The auspicious is not 'because of him'—it is because we move near. Better to say: the felt nearness to God is called auspiciousness; the felt distance from God is called inauspiciousness. It is our felt sense. If we make the total leap into God, even auspiciousness will not be known.
The day even auspiciousness is not known—know that union has happened. So long as auspiciousness is felt—know we are moving nearer: auspiciousness increases, bliss deepens, peace expands—but still, we are approaching. The day even these are not felt—understand: the leap has happened; you are in it.
Therefore of a Buddha we say: supremely peaceful. Strictly, we should not say even this. He is not unpeaceful—but he is not 'peaceful' either. Peace is experienced only by one who knows unrest. Between two bouts of unrest you feel peace. If, after one bout, no further unrest comes, shortly the experience of peace also disappears. The person is peaceful, but there remains no experience and no experiencer.
Then is said: 'Advaita'—not two. All who have sought him have said: he is one. Only in India we did not prefer the word 'one.' We always said: 'not two'—Advaita. Everywhere seekers have said: he is one. But India has not liked to call him 'one'—there are reasons. India has made the utmost effort to express this with precision—no other culture has done so much. So that not the slightest error arise—we have labored as none else. It even seems nothing further can be added; almost it appears we have touched the dimension to its fullness.
Hence even 'one' we found difficult—because at once 'two' arises. Whenever we say: 'God is one,' immediately two springs up in your mind. One is meaningless unless it belongs to the series of numbers—two, three, four. The whole spread of mathematics is hidden in 'one.' So when we say 'one,' the resonance that arises within is 'two.' What is said is less important than what you hear; we care more for your inner hearing, for in the end hearing works, not speech.
Understand this—it is very precious. Our concern is less with what is said, more with what is understood. Therefore we chose a reverse word: 'not two.' When 'not two' is said, what forms within you is the sense of One. When 'one' is said, a chain of numbers begins. The image formed within is different. When 'not two' is said, a subtle intuition of One arises—indirect, without grasping; a soft tone of One resounds in the depth, even without your noticing. To pour the feeling of One into the unconscious, India persistently said: 'not two.' This grew from deep experiments in human dialogue—again and again saying, and watching what forms in the other’s consciousness.
In consciousness, reflection often forms in reverse. Stand before a mirror—you do not notice the image is reversed. Daily you stand and do not notice. But put a page of a book before the mirror—you will at once see the letters reversed. In fact all reflections reverse. No reflection can be straight. Stand by a river—your reflection will be reversed. The process of reflection reverses things. Your right eye appears on the left, the left on the right. When you look at me—the image in your eye is reversed; when I look at you, my eye functions like a mirror, the image is reversed.
All reflections are reversed. All echoes invert. Out of this deep experience India never called Brahman 'one.' Because saying 'one' produces a reversed inner image. Hence we preferred the negative: 'Advaita'—not two. Then the image that forms is an indirect sense of One. To emphasize that subtle sense we used the negative.
'Without beginning, without middle, without end.'
That which never begins, never ceases—the first and last are easy to grasp, but the third is a little difficult. Perhaps it has never occurred to you. You have heard often: God has neither beginning nor end. But the rishi says: he has no middle either.
When we say 'no beginning, no end,' we mean: only the middle is everywhere. If something has no beginning and no end and yet is, then it means it is all middle. Wherever you touch it—it is the middle. But if you say: no beginning, no end, and no middle—then it is not at all! Then where will it be? How can it be?
But the rishi is more scientific. That which has no beginning and no end—how can it have a middle? For 'middle' means between two ends. What else can 'middle' mean? Between two termini. When there are no ends—how can there be a between? Yet it is. Then we must think of its being otherwise; the language of beginning-middle-end must be dropped. It is.
Consider another way. We divide time into past, present, future. If God is, then for him nothing can be past, nothing future. If for God there is a future—future means the unknown—then for him something is unknown. So there can be no 'future' for him, no 'past.'
Understand: past, present, future are results of our limited vision. We see a small segment of existence; that segment we call present. When it disappears from sight, it becomes past; when not yet in sight, it is future. Imagine a man sits beneath a tree by the roadside—his view is narrow. Another is atop the tree—he sees an ox-cart coming. From above he shouts: an ox-cart is coming. The man below says: there is no cart; it may come in the future; I see none. Then the cart appears—what was present to the man above becomes present to the man below. Then the cart passes and is gone. The man below says: it has gone into the past—I no longer see it. The man above says: I still see it. What for the lower is future, present, past is present for the higher—all three. One higher still—what becomes division for the one below still remains undivided for the higher. Higher yet—still undivided.
'God' means: beyond whom there is nothing further. So for him nothing is past and nothing is future. Then we feel: everything is present for him—meaning middle. But the rishi says: for him, even present is not. One can say 'present' only for that which is felt between past and future. If there is no experience of past and future—what will 'present' mean? For God there is no past, no future, no present.
Hence the mystics have said: before God there is no time. Timeless—akal. Because there is no time, he never began—he is always; never will end—he will always be. Then what will we call the 'middle'? The rishi says: no beginning, no end, no middle. He simply is—and these divisions do not apply. None of our divisions apply. He is indivisible. And whatever we think cannot be without division. That is why he is Achintya.
Whatever we think will have division—we cannot help it. We will divide: child, youth, old; birth, death; pleasure, pain; darkness, light—we divide. Do you know any thing that is indivisible? In human experience nothing is indivisible. Our mind cannot understand without division—and existence is indivisible. Nowhere is it divided. The rishi has given the hint of this indivisible existence—no middle, no end, no beginning.
'Advitiya'—the incomparable. After 'Advaita,' 'Advitiya'—one might feel there is no need, but there is. Advaita says: it is not two; Advitiya says: there is no second like it. Peerless, incomparable. Therefore we cannot say anything about it, for until there is a second, speech is difficult. We can call a man beautiful because we can compare him with the ugly; otherwise how would we call him beautiful? If only one man existed on earth—would he be beautiful or ugly? Wise or foolish? If there is only one, he is utterly incomparable; what can you say about him? If you call him a fool—in comparison to whom? If you call him wise—in comparison to whom?
This much we can grasp; go further and nothing can be said: is he sick or healthy? Without comparison nothing can be said. He becomes incomparable. He is as he is—about him nothing can be said. Hence 'Advitiya'—there is no second like him.
Overemphasis on any one of these qualities creates separations between religions. Hinduism emphasized 'Advaita.' Islam emphasized 'Advitiya'—the incomparable. The center of Islam is the incomparable; thus the Quran says: 'There is no Allah besides me. I alone am—there is no other.'
But Muslims misunderstood it. They did not take it to mean 'incomparable.' They thought it means: apart from the God of the Muslims, all other gods—smash them. Because there is only one, let no other remain. But had they understood rightly, in destroying the 'other' they had already accepted it; that which you have to destroy, you have first granted to exist.
If God is incomparable, then whatever is—must be a part of that incomparable one; there is no other way. If he is formless, destroying form will not prove his formlessness; seeing the formless in form alone proves it. If form must be destroyed, you have already accepted that form also exists—made and unmade. Then the meaning becomes: a formless God exists and form also exists—so there is something besides God. Then he is no longer incomparable; you have accepted a second.
In this regard Indian insight is very deep. It says: in form too, that same formless is. From that very formless all forms arise, and into that they dissolve. He is incomparable—but this does not mean he cannot be seen in many forms. He can be seen in every form, and yet he is incomparable, for he is one—no second. Therefore he is beyond comparison, beyond measure.
'Sarvavyapak'—all-pervading. Because all is he.
'Chaitanya, Anandaghan'—consciousness and a mass of bliss. There is great emphasis on Chaitanya. This is the spiritual insight of India: the higher can include the lower, but the lower cannot include the higher. This is the controversy—the great debate—between atheist and theist, materialist and spiritualist. The materialist says: everything should be reduced to the fundamental element from which all has been made. If man is—what is man? The materialist will say: we will analyze all that is within; man is the sum total of these. If consciousness appears, it is a result of this sum, not more than it. He wants to reduce things to their base.
The spiritualist’s approach is utterly different. He wants to take each thing to its ultimate peak. He says: that ultimate peak—he will not say man is merely the sum of matter; he will say: since consciousness has manifested in man, it is within consciousness that the entire assembly of matter has occurred—it has occurred because of consciousness. When the highest manifests, the spiritualist says, the highest is greater—greater than its base elements; greater than the things from which it is composed.
If we grasp their language we will see they do not speak very different tongues; they speak similarly, but their directions are as far apart as earth and sky—and their results are momentous. If we accept that man is only a sum of matter, all possibility of evolution is lost. With materialism, evolution is impossible; transformation is impossible. But with spiritualism possibility opens—because we accept the higher, the aspiration for the higher is born.
If God is, then—Nietzsche said a very wondrous thing: if God is, my soul will never be content without becoming God. If he is, there is no other way for me; I must become God—nothing less can satisfy. With accepting the higher, a new longing is born in consciousness. Two words become crucial: Chaitanya—Paramatma is consciousness; and Anandamaya—Paramatma is bliss.
'Formless, wondrous, realized by the muni through meditation.'
Now I will recite the whole sutra to you:
'Thus, by meditation the sages attain that which is beyond thought, the Unmanifest; which has infinite forms; which is beneficent; which is Advaita; which is the root-cause of Brahman; which has no beginning, no middle, no end; which is Advitiya, all-pervading, consciousness, a mass of bliss; which is formless and wondrous.'
Meditation is the door—to this Achintya, Advitiya, Advaita, formless, infinite-formed, Chaitanya, Anandaghan. Meditation is the method for this supreme transformation. Whoever avoids meditation will miss God. Whoever does not pass through meditation cannot reach the vast. As rivers must pass between their banks to reach the ocean, so consciousness must pass through the banks of meditation to reach that infinite ocean.
Now let us prepare for meditation.
If any friends have come merely to watch, please do not remain here in the ground.