Kaivalya Upanishad #7

If one is to know the ultimate secret of life, then a meditation is needed in which no object remains at all. A state of consciousness is needed in which only awareness remains—no content. Only the mirror, with no reflections whatsoever.
But such a state is far away. It will appear very difficult. Reaching it will look almost impossible. For our mind cannot be still even for a single moment, nor are we free of thought even for a single instant. If we try to remove even a small thought, defeat is what we taste. Then how will it be that all thoughts come to an end? We cannot remove even a tiny ripple—so how will the mind become utterly unrippled? If freedom from thought seems difficult, how will the state of no-thought happen? And if the condition is this—that without being thought-free the supreme reality cannot be known—then surely despair will arise in our heart. Deep despair will arise. It will seem that perhaps this is beyond our capacity. We will not be able to do it.
Therefore all the knowers who have known it, though they say it cannot be attained by meditating on any object, have nevertheless given objects for meditation. Though they say it cannot be reached through any thought, they have still suggested certain thoughts so that, by using these thoughts, a staircase might be made leading to the thoughtless. Thus, in their inner depth, all religions know well that it can be reached only by the person of empty mind. But empty-mindedness is very difficult. So between empty-mindedness and our present state it seems necessary to build a few steps.
Having spoken the ultimate word about meditation, the Kaivalya Upanishad then takes up this sutra. This sutra builds an intermediate step. In it we begin the journey by accepting some form of the Divine. This form is not final. One is not to stop at this form, nor is there fulfillment in it. Fulfillment will be only where all forms are lost. But we are surrounded by so many forms that for a mind encircled by forms it is hard even to understand how it can be in the formless. Therefore this sutra creates a link in between.
The link is this: leave many forms, hold to one form—so that even that one may be left, and the formless may be entered. The contemplation here is of this single form. If we understand a few words in relation to this form, then this sutra will become clear.
‘He whom we call by the names Uma’s Consort, Parameshvara, Neelkantha, and Trilochana; who is the Lord of all that moves and does not move, and is peace itself; who is the cause and the witness of all beings; who is far from ignorance (tamas)—that very One is attained by the sages through meditation.’
How to fashion a form of That which has no form? Many ways are possible. While shaping this form, the mind—which cannot grasp the formless—needs a role for form that it can understand, and yet not such that if we grasp it we cannot be free of it.
A man climbs by steps. The beauty of a step is that we both move up by it and also leave it. We place the foot on the step only in order to let it go. A man climbs from one floor to the next by holding each step and then leaving it. In the end, leaving all the steps, he enters the upper floor.
The step must be grasped—precisely in order to release it. If someone thinks he must cling to the step itself, then the first floor will be lost and the second will not be found. Very often this happens to many so‑called religious people: their foot slips from the world, and yet it does not reach the Divine. Their condition becomes that of Trishanku—neither of this world nor of that; neither here nor there. The only cause is: they cling to the step. And to remain on a step is very dangerous, because a step is no dwelling. It is no resting place. Better it would have been to remain on the first floor; there, at least, a dwelling was possible—though momentary, yet still a dwelling.
The momentary was dropped; the eternal was not entered; and one sat clinging only to the step—then life becomes a great dilemma. The life of so‑called religious people becomes a great dilemma. Sometimes even a worldly man appears more cheerful and healthy than such a one—at least he has a home somewhere.
Indeed, for those who enter the house of the Divine, to measure their bliss is difficult. The worldly man has nothing like it. His happiness, his pleasures, beside that bliss, seem as pale as a tiny lamp before the sun. But the one who gets stuck in between—grasping the step between the two floors—his condition becomes worse than that of the worldly.
Thus I see, innumerable religious people come to me; seeing their anguish I am astonished. A religious man should truly have no anguish. Yet their anguish is also worth understanding. Their anguish is: the wicked are enjoying themselves in the world, and the good are in great trouble. A good man is never in trouble. And if he is, know it well—he is not good. For the meaning of a good man is that he has begun to see the pleasant aspect even of difficulties.
Goodness and complaint do not fit together. But if a so‑called good man also complains, the only reason is this: he wants exactly what the wicked man is getting, but he does not have the courage to be wicked. A thief has built a big house; he too wants a house, and yet he will not steal. He wants this: because I have not stolen, I should get an even bigger house. Since I did not steal, I must get a house. And the reason for not stealing is not that he is free of attachment to wealth. If he were free, the sight of the big house would not kindle envy. His attachment to wealth is complete. But ninety‑nine out of a hundred so‑called good men are good only out of fear. They lack the courage to steal. They lack the boldness. And from impotence no goodness is ever born in this world.
Such a man is inwardly full of the thief’s desires; only the thief’s courage is missing. Therefore when the thief builds a house, he is pained and envious. Then he says: good people suffer and bad people enjoy. This man is a Trishanku. He is stuck on the step. He has not leapt into the Ultimate, and he has also moved away from where his mind had not yet moved away.
Let me tell you a second thing: only those clutch at the step whose lower floor has in truth not been left. If the lower floor is truly left, what man who can leave it would then cling to the step? If he could leave the lower floor, he would have no reason to hold the step. Men do leave the world, but behind their renunciation is greed—just as behind the so‑called good man there is fear. They give up the world, swayed by greed.
It may surprise you to know that ninety‑nine out of a hundred who renounce the world do so out of greed. They read the scriptures, they hear the gurus, and a dense greed is ignited. It seems to them: what is there in this world? Leave it. Wherever true happiness may be found, leave this to gain that. For them, leaving the world is a bargain. Hence it does not leave their mind; they reach the step and then cannot let the step go, because fear arises: what if the step too is lost—the world left, the step left—and that supreme mystery, who knows if it will be found or not!
And remember, until that supreme mystery is found nothing is known about it—whether it will be found or not. Even that is unknown; nothing is certain. Its being assured becomes known only by attaining it. Hence the insistence on Shraddha. Shraddha means readiness to leap into uncertainty, into insecurity; the willingness to say: so be it—whether it will be found or not will be known only by leaping. One does not walk with a prior guarantee that it will be found. The one who says, ‘Only if it will be found shall I leap,’ will never leap. How could there be knowledge of attainment before attaining?
Today I received a letter from a friend. He writes: there is no peace, no joy; life has no meaning. No faith arises that there is any Divine. No trust forms that there can be peace or bliss. Still, I ask you to show me the way.
I am familiar with many such people. Even if a way is shown to them, no trust arises in it, no Shraddha; no meaning appears in it—because the issue is not the way. Ways are many and clear. The issue is the eye, the trust. For the path is visible; the goal never is. The goal becomes visible to the one who walks the path. Their desire is that the goal be seen, trust arise, before they walk. This is impossible. And precisely because it is impossible, Shraddha has such value.
Shraddha means: the path is visible, the goal is not, yet I walk. I walk. And remember, by walking the goal is formed and appears. If Shraddha is intense, perhaps even walking is not needed—the goal may appear just before you. It depends on the density of Shraddha. If Shraddha is thin, the road grows very long. If there is no Shraddha at all, the road becomes endless. If there is disbelief, the road turns circular; you go round and round and do not seem to arrive anywhere.
It is worth understanding why with Shraddha the goal appears before you. Only then can the step be released, and then this sutra will become easy. Otherwise it will be difficult. In truth, if the goal were outside, it would be reached by walking.
Take this image. Someone walks from Mount Abu Road toward Mount Abu. Even if he has no Shraddha at all, he will reach Mount Abu. Even if he is actively disbelieving—he says, ‘I don’t believe there is any Mount Abu’—still, if he walks the road he will arrive. For Mount Abu’s being does not depend on your belief or disbelief; it is an objective fact. Whether one believes or not, whether one walks by himself or is dragged there, whether conscious or unconscious—he will arrive. For Mount Abu does not depend on the traveler. But the journey we are discussing depends entirely upon the traveler. If the goal were outside, Shraddha would not be needed. The goal is within.
If we understand rightly: the day we arrive at the goal, we will have arrived at ourselves; we do not go anywhere else. If there is no Shraddha, it means we have no trust in ourselves. Then we may walk all the outer roads—we will not meet the goal. Because the goal is an inner event, it is formed by our own feeling. The more intense the feeling, the more it takes form, clarifies, and reveals itself.
Understand this revelation through a flower bud. A bud is not yet a flower, but it can become one. Yet it is not necessary that it will— it may remain a bud. It may become a flower, it may fall as a bud. On what will the flowering depend? On the stream of sap flowing in the plant—a vital current. If that stream flows powerfully, the bud will open and become a flower. If the stream is weak, lifeless, not moving, the bud will remain a bud; it will not become a flower.
Within the bud the flower is hidden as a possibility, not as a reality. It is a dream as yet, but it can become incarnate. It depends on the plant’s own vital sap.
Paramatman is a dream hidden within the human Atman. If we see the human soul as a bud, then the Divine is the flower. But it depends on man’s own living current. The name of that current is Shraddha. With how much force, with how much insistence, with what strength and urgency is the inner longing? How intensely have we called life? How strongly have we drawn life’s vitality toward ourselves? How deeply have we engaged, how totally have we surrendered? With how one-pointed a feeling have we endeavored? On all this depends whether the bud will become a flower or not.
So the one who says, ‘I have no Shraddha—just show me the way,’ is like a bud saying: ‘I have no sap—tell me the method to become a flower.’ The method can be told, but it will be useless. For the question is not so much of the path as of the inner strength of the walker.
Shraddha means only this: I have gathered my life’s whole energy and staked it. The stake is difficult, because the bud knows nothing of the flower. The bud may think: what if this stake is lost? What if I do not become a flower, and the nearby wealth—the stream of sap—is also lost? There is fear. The bud must think: if I risk it, perhaps the sap with which I could have remained a bud for months will also be lost, the flower may not come, and my life be wasted. This fear prevents man from becoming religious. The fear remains: what I have may be lost; what is not, who knows if it will be gained!
The courage to leap into the unknown is Shraddha!
The bud leaps. It becomes a flower—and to die as a flower has a joy all its own. To fall as a bud is very painful. To die as a flower is bliss—because once the flower has fully opened, to wither is rest, natural. But if the bud falls, it is very agonizing, for nothing has come to fulfillment; what was to be revealed never appeared; the song the bud was to sing remained unsung, the dance remained undanced; the conversations with moon and stars, the play with the winds—all that was hidden remained hidden.
In the Indian vision of rebirth, this is the return of the bud. He who dies incomplete will be born again and again. Incomplete death means the longing that remained to be fulfilled will be reborn. Until the bud becomes a flower, rebirth will continue.
Liberation from coming and going has only one meaning—unlike what people sitting in temples imagine when they pray, ‘O God, free us from birth and death.’ This is not in God’s hands. The bud’s prayer cannot be heard, because the bud has not yet created the worthiness to pray. It is the flower’s prayer: now I am complete; now I wish to dissolve. The wish to dissolve is the last desire, available only in fullness and maturity. A Buddha can say, ‘Right—now it is finished! Now I wish to end.’
Our mind says: somehow keep existing, somehow do not perish. This is the bud’s fear. The flower’s dignity is to say, ‘Now I wish to dissolve.’ To wish to dissolve means: the whole meaning of life is fulfilled; the purpose is accomplished—the event for which life was, has happened. Known, lived, become. Now to dissolve is rest; to merge into That is deep repose, blissful.
But the bud will be reborn—because the bud is incomplete, incomplete, incomplete. You must have seen many people dying—have you ever seen anyone whose every breath, while dying, was not saying, ‘I am incomplete; nothing is complete’? Each person seems to die saying, ‘Nothing is complete—everything is unfinished. And you carry me off now!’ Hence all the life-breaths are eager to return. Without fulfillment there is no freedom from coming and going.
This fulfillment depends on the courage of the bud to leap—indeed, call it audacity. For the bud has no knowledge of the flower; only a deep urge for fulfillment. If the seeker can hold this feeling and be ready to leap—meaning: he is prepared that what I am may be lost, but for what I must become I am ready to stake everything—then he can be fulfilled in this very moment.
The bud can blossom this very moment. How long it takes to blossom depends only on its sap-flow. If the stream flows now in full strength, the petals will open now—this very moment! Nor will the petals say, ‘It is too soon.’ It is never too soon. It is already long delayed. Many, many times we have withered as buds. The delay is already great; there is no hurry. Whenever it happens, it is in time—and after very long indeed. But the sap must be available. Shraddha is the sap in the flowering of spiritual life.
In this ultimate leap of Shraddha, if Shraddha is lacking, the step will be clutched. Somehow we will leave the world and then stand trembling on the step. Beyond the step lies the unknown; descending into it will feel frightening. The step will appear known. The step is created precisely so that between the known and the unknown a middle point may arise and the journey become easy. But that same middle point can become a bondage. It depends on us how we use it. It can be a jumping board—or we can spread our bedding there and turn it into a dwelling. It depends on us.
This sutra is for a jumping board in between—a place merely for the leap.
The sutra says… These are symbolic words. The rishi of this Upanishad is a devotee of Shiva. For him, Shiva is the symbol of the Infinite. And Shiva is indeed a wondrous symbol. Humanity has discovered many symbols, but for the Divine none can match Shiva.
There are reasons for this. ‘Shiva’ means auspicious, good. Yet in Shiva’s personality all that we call bad is also present. ‘Shiva’ means the auspicious—and yet we have called him the god of destruction, of dissolution; by him the world’s end will come. It seems strange that the auspicious should be the deity of destruction—but the insight is precious.
We could never accept that the world’s end be through the inauspicious. Its end should be in that consummation where the whole flower of the auspicious opens. The end should not be merely an end; it should also be fulfillment. Not only death, but the ultimate peak of Great Life.
And our conception of the auspicious is also remarkable. Wherever the auspicious has been conceived in the world, it stands opposite to the inauspicious. Therefore, everywhere outside India the religions have felt compelled to posit two gods—by ‘two gods’ I mean: one they call God, the other they call the Devil. There is also a god of evil. He had to be separated. There is a god of good—kept apart. When I say two gods, it is for many reasons.
In English the word ‘devil’ comes from the Sanskrit ‘deva.’ He too is a deity—a deity of evil. A separate deity for evil had to be created, for no intelligence outside India had courage enough to contain good and evil in a single personality. It is a great audacity. We cannot even think it. Nor can we when we say someone is a mahatma—then we cannot conceive he could be angry. But Shiva can be angry— not merely a little, but enough to reduce all to ashes! And yet the Hindu mind says no one is more compassionate than Shiva—he is very innocent; persuade him a little and he agrees to anything. A man may even ask for a boon that lands him in trouble—and Shiva grants it. This symbol is unique.
We have never regarded evil and good as opposites, for to oppose them is to split existence in two and begin duality. And if evil and good are opposed, then the victory of good is not assured; evil could also win. If there is a conflict, who will decide that in the end God must win and Satan will not? In the day-to-day world Satan seems to win. Daily he seems to win. What certainty is there that ultimately he will not? If there are two powers in the world, the infinite history of man shows no moment when evil was not present. Evil and good have always been in conflict.
Infinite history says they have always fought—either they are equal in power, so there is no final victory; sometimes one seems to win, sometimes the other. Yet if we look closely, ninety‑nine times out of a hundred evil appears to win; once in a while good. Then fear arises—perhaps evil is stronger. As soon as we divide good and evil, danger begins—and no end is then possible: who will win? If it is not certain that ultimately the auspicious wins, all effort toward the auspicious becomes futile.
But India thinks otherwise. India does not consider evil the opposite of good; India absorbs evil into good. Understand it so: India does not call anger necessarily bad. India says: if anger serves the auspicious, it becomes auspicious. Anger is energy. All energies are neutral. Science now also experiences that energies are neutral—neither good nor bad. Anger can serve good or evil; by itself it is neither. A sword in my hand is neither good nor bad. I can cut a man’s throat and loot, or I can protect the man being looted. The sword is neutral. India holds all energies to be neutral. Everything depends on the purpose they serve.
We do not make a separate god of evil; we call it only the misuse of energy. Energy can be misused or rightly used. Right use will ultimately win, for misuse brings suffering to the misuser himself. Misuse cannot win in the end, because how long will I do that which gives me pain? However long I may, ultimately I shall abandon it; for it is impossible to remain related to pain. The day I see that I myself am producing this pain, that very day I will transform my energy into right use. Evil is not a power opposite to good; evil and good are the misuse and the right use of the same energy. And that energy is of the Divine.
So in Shiva’s personality we have installed all energies. His life is nectar—he is Mrityunjaya, the conqueror of death—yet poison is in his throat; thus we call him Neelkantha. His throat is filled with poison—he has drunk it. He is deathless, his state is immortality; he cannot die; he is eternal—and he drank poison. Only the eternal can drink poison; the mortal—how will he?
And that poison is symbolic. In Shiva’s personality, whatever we call poisonous is in his throat. No one was ready to marry Shiva. No father would agree; Uma’s father was very troubled. ‘This girl is mad—she has chosen such a groom! It was hard to define what he was, for he was both. The worst was in him, and the best was in him. And when the bad is visible, our eyes see the bad; they fail to see the good—for we are always looking for the bad. If the girl’s father saw only the bad in Shiva, it is no surprise—there was plenty. But within, the purest and highest were also there. And both were together, so balanced that he was beyond both.
Understand it well: when evil and good are in perfect balance, a saint is born. A saint is not a good man; a good man is a gentleman. A bad man is a rogue. He who has so assimilated both good and evil that they balance and cancel each other; when the negative and the positive are in equal measure and negate one another—then beyond both a new personality arises: the saint. The saint is a deep balance.
Do not think there is no evil in a saint. In him good and evil are present in equal measure. So equal that they cancel each other—debit and credit are equal. The saint has gone beyond them; yet he can use either at any time.
This Shiva is the ultimate conception of saintliness. The rishi of this Upanishad is a devotee of Shiva. He has taken Shiva as the symbol of meditation. He says: the one called Uma‑sahay—Uma’s helper, lover, husband, support; the one called Parameshvara; the one called Neelkantha; the one called Trilochana—by all these names we have called him. Three names he uses: first, Uma‑sahay—Uma’s helper, lover, friend, husband; the basis of Uma.
Consider this too. As I have said about auspicious and inauspicious, so with Shiva alone are woman and man in balance. Therefore we created the form of Ardhanarishvara—unmatched in the world. Nowhere else is there any image of the Divine in which woman and man are half and half. Most gods in the world are male. Some primitive tribes have female deities—Kali, and others. Generally, gods are male. Both notions are incomplete. If God is male, the woman’s personality can never be equal to the man’s; she will always be second.
Therefore Christianity, which holds God as male, considers woman made from man’s rib—secondary, a second‑rate event. Adam felt lonely; a toy was made from his rib—beyond that she has no value. Christianity has no way for the feminine to enter into God. God has three forms there: God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—none feminine; all male.
Other societies where woman’s authority existed made God feminine. And where man ruled, God was made masculine. These are social accidents; they have nothing to do with God.
But Shiva alone is a symbol where woman and man are given equal measure—half male, half female. The wonder is: when both are equal, their balance cancels both and the personality moves beyond them. It is a scientific arithmetic: where two opposites become equal, the personality instantly becomes the third—beyond both; it is no longer what it was.
So first he says ‘Uma‑sahay’—a delightful phrase: the helper of Uma, the lover of Uma. The vision is to keep both equal—and only then can we take God beyond sex‑distinction.
‘Neelkantha’—as I said, he drank poison. And only he can drink poison whose assurance of immortality is so deep that the question and doubt that poison can do anything never arises. Only he who knows that death does not happen can be ready to die.
Today a friend came for sannyas—thoughtful, educated. He said, ‘I hesitate to take sannyas, to accept you—my individuality will be lost.’ I said to him, ‘If you doubt your individuality so much, it will not be lost. Only if you possess individuality can you fearlessly take sannyas. The truth is: only one who trusts his own individuality can fall at someone’s feet—for he knows that even by laying it down nothing will be lost.’ It is by trust in oneself! When individuality is that trustworthy, surrender is possible.
Shiva drank poison because his trust in nectar is so dense. The poison got stuck at the throat. This has deep symbolic meaning. Take note of it.
The poison remained stuck at the throat. The throat is the first perimeter of our personality—the doorway. Beyond it the mansion of our being begins. The poison could not pass the gate. But if we drink poison, we will die at once.
Why die? Because beyond the throat we have no personality at all. Our personality is the throat. If we see rightly, what we say, think, speak, do, accept—all is up to the throat. Below it there is nothing.
A man says, ‘I am a theist.’ This voice does not come from below the throat. Another says, ‘I believe in God’—not from below the throat. It is just above the throat. Cut off the throat and there will be no sign of this voice. It rises only from the throat. Our personality is throat-centered.
Man has greatly developed the throat—speech, language, thought. The whole development depends on the throat. Hence man’s life runs outside and above the throat. All the centers below have fallen into darkness.
Shiva drinks poison and it stops at the throat, because up to the throat whatever there is belongs to death. Understand it well: up to the throat all is mortal. Words, language, speech—none has ultimate value; they all lie within the boundary of death. Up to there poison works. Beyond it, if you have something, only then can you be immortal. The poison stopped at Shiva’s throat because up to there death reigns; beyond it is nectar—poison cannot go beyond.
Shiva’s throat turned blue from the poison. There is another meaning too: after the poison entered his throat and it turned blue, he became the supreme silent one. He speaks not—he is simply silent. His silence is wondrous and spreads into many dimensions.
Parvati died. Shiva could not accept that Parvati could die—and there was reason. The Parvati he knew—there is no question of her dying. But the body in which she resided did die. A tender story: none other like it in the world’s lore. Shiva roams the earth like a madman with Parvati’s corpse on his shoulder—speaks not, says nothing. Only tears fall from his eyes. The throat is blocked; there is no way to speak—only the heart can speak. Tears drop from his eyes; with the corpse on his shoulder he wanders. News spreads: Shiva has gone mad. How can God do such a thing—roam with his beloved’s corpse? It is difficult for us, because by ‘God’ we mean one utterly without attachment. Whether his beloved dies or not—what is it to him? Whether she lives or not—what concern? Shiva wandering thus seems strange. But to understand Shiva, we must think differently.
Between Shiva and Parvati there is not even that distance by which one could call Parvati the other. Then what viraga, what detachment? There is no question of attachment either. The identity is such, the unity such—this union of woman and man in Shiva is such—that it seems he is carrying Parvati’s body, but his roaming is almost as if my own hand became diseased, decayed, and I carried it. What else would I do? There is no separation.
Hence this story is sweet: wherever Parvati’s limbs fell, Shiva’s love and intimacy so deeply pervaded those places that on those spots of the decayed limbs the holy places arose. The meaning of holy places arising is only this—we should call them places of love. Deep love and the stature of God seem far apart to us, because by ‘God’ we mean one sitting far from all attachment.
Therefore the Jains, and others who value dispassion, cannot even imagine accepting Shiva as a Divine symbol—or Rama as God when Sita stands at his side! Sita standing there upsets all their understanding. They have chosen a symbol of total dispassion for God—but that is incomplete, for then the world and God become opposites: the world becomes attachment; God becomes detachment. Shiva is the union of both attachment and detachment, thereby gathering up all dualities of life.
The third word used: ‘Trilochana’—three-eyed. We all have two eyes. There is a third as well in all of us, of which we know nothing. Until the third is active and sees, we cannot have any experience of the Divine. Thus the third eye is also called Shiva‑netra.
Understand this too: in all dualities, the search is for the third. Your two eyes indicate duality. Between them, at the exact balanced center, is the notion of the third eye—beyond the two. Then the two are balanced by that one; left and right are dissolved. Darkness and light are dissolved. Two eyes are symbols of all duality. When they are out of the way, only one remains that sees. What is seen by that one is nondual; what is seen by two is dual. What is seen by two is the world—and it is divided. What is seen by the one is truth—and indivisible. Hence Shiva’s third name: Trilochana. His third eye is fully active; with its awakening one becomes directly related to the Divine.
‘By these three names’—and by many others ‘we have called him—who is Lord of all that moves and unmoving, and is peace itself.’
These seem contrary qualities. Whoever is lord of anything cannot be peace itself. As soon as you become master of something, unrest begins. Do not become master, otherwise unrest will begin—because to be master is to make another a slave, and the slave will take revenge: his freedom is frustrated. He will take revenge.
Husbands, by becoming masters, have suffered in ways beyond accounting! The one of whom they became lord must, twenty‑four hours a day, demonstrate who the real master is. In letters she may write ‘swami’ and sign ‘your servant,’ but through the day she shows who is lord. A struggle is inevitable. Wherever there is lordship, there will be unrest. Lordship is the beginning of unrest. Until the husband steps down from the pedestal of lord, no friendship is possible between him and his wife.
But the sutra says: ‘Lord of the whole universe, and peace itself.’ Then this lordship must be of another kind. It is not a claim. The Divine has never come to you and said, ‘I am the master of all.’ Many have gone to his feet and said, ‘I am thy servant; thou art my Lord.’ This statement has come from the other side, not from God. There is no claim of lordship from the Divine; hence he is peace. Otherwise, his plight would be worse than that of any politician! If he claimed, ‘I am lord of this entire universe,’ the whole universe would teach him a lesson—‘How so?’
There is no proclamation from the Divine. Therefore even if someone shouts, ‘You do not exist!’ no answer comes from him—for even that much would be a claim of lordship. He remains without answer—silent.
His lordship is experienced by those who become his servants. This becoming a servant is very different. Slaves are made; they do not become. In the world no one becomes another’s slave; slaves are made. Then the master proclaims. Unrest arises. But the seeker of the Divine, by his own hands, becomes a servant—of one who never raises the issue of being master.
This servitude accepted by one’s own will is delightful for two reasons. First, when one, by one’s own resolve, becomes the servant at the feet of the Divine, not only does he make the Divine his master, he becomes master of himself. To become another’s servant by one’s own hand is the greatest lordship—proof of the greatest strength—for the mind does not agree to servitude; the life‑breaths will not testify; every fiber will refuse. But someone, and in such a situation—where the Divine neither comes to say ‘be my servant’ nor appears nor declares lordship—goes by his own hand to the unknown feet, places his head there and says, ‘I am thy servant; thou art my Lord.’ He is making That his master—but he is also saying: I am master of myself—of my mind, my resolve, my desire, my longing, my craving, my very soul. If I wish, my sovereignty is so great that I can even become a servant—without being made so.
He who is made into a slave has a weak soul. He who becomes one without being made has a strong soul. If I force you into slavery, I weaken your soul. If you agree, by force, your soul will break, be destroyed. Exactly the opposite: if you agree to be a slave with no enslaver, your soul becomes powerful.
I remember—and I often tell—the story of Diogenes. He was roaming in a forest. Some men seized him. He was a remarkable man—the only man in Greece comparable to Mahavira—he lived naked; his personality was beautiful, powerful, dignified. Some people on their way to the slave market thought: if we trap him, he will fetch a good price. But could even eight men catch him? He seemed very powerful, dignified, self‑possessed.
Seeing them worried and consulting, Diogenes asked, ‘You seem to be in trouble. People often come to ask me about their problems; I solve them. If you have one, tell me.’ They said, ‘It is awkward! The problem is this—how to tell you? We are thinking how to make you a slave—bind you in chains and take you to market to sell you for a good price.’
Diogenes said, ‘A noble intention—and there is no obstacle.’ He stood up and said, ‘Where are the chains?’ They became frightened—this man is dangerous. Diogenes took their bag, pulled out the chains, bound his own hands, placed the end of the chain in their hands and said, ‘Which way? Let us go.’ Now they were terrified. Diogenes said, ‘We are our own master. We can also be slaves. We are our own master. No one in this world can make us slaves. But if we wish, we can become so—no one can stop us. Now you cannot stop us; now you must take us. Now we will be sold in the market.’
Afraid, for the first time it happened that the masters walked behind and the slave walked ahead. He walked swiftly—very healthy—so that they were drenched in sweat, almost forced to run. Many times they begged, ‘Diogenes, walk a little slower.’ Diogenes said, ‘We are our own master—and we listen to no one.’
They reached the market; a crowd gathered. They did not have the courage to say to anyone that they had captured a slave. It looked more as if they were his attendants. What was this? Diogenes said, ‘Fools, make the announcement! The market is about to close.’ At dusk he climbed the auction platform—on which slaves are sold—and cried out the very line for which I have told the story: ‘O slaves, listen! Today a master has come to the market to be sold.’
This lordship is a different dimension of consciousness. One who, by his own hand, becomes the servant at the feet of the Divine—his lordship is immeasurable. The Divine is the Lord of all, and yet peace itself—because there is no claim in his lordship.
‘He is the source and the witness of all beings.’
All beings arise from him, are revealed through him, and dissolve into him. And in the lives of all, whatever happens—he is its seer as well; he is the witness. Take careful note, for this is a fundamental conception.
Western religions say God is the controller. Eastern religion says: the Divine is the witness. If the Divine is controller, he must proclaim his lordship at every moment—keeping accounts: ‘What are you doing? Do not do this.’ Thus if we listen to the Jewish God, he seems very harsh: ‘I will burn; I will set fire; I will destroy. If you do this, I will rot you in hells.’ Such speech is placed in the mouth of the Jewish God because he is a controller: ‘If you do this, I will make you pay.’
But Indians have never even imagined placing such language in God’s mouth—because it is absurd. If you consider God the controller, then however gently you phrase it, such language must be placed in his mouth: all the time, in every matter—‘Do this, don’t do that. He who does will get this; he who doesn’t will be punished thus.’ God would be a police force—a controlling power—which to the Indian mind appears ugly. The Indian conception is different: he is the witness; he only sees what you do. He does not even say ‘do not do’; he only sees. And if his seeing is not enough, what use would saying be? There is a deep reason for calling him the witness, connected to sadhana. If you too cease to be the controller of your life and become the witness, you will begin to attain Godhood.
We are all controllers of our little lives: this bad thought should not come, this good thought should; this should be done, that not. We are controllers—little gods of our little worlds. Hence we suffer greatly. We can control little; we only suffer. What should not happen does happen; what should happen does not. Daily we lose and break. This controller—the ego—is a long tale of pain.
No—if even a single person in his small world becomes a witness, only knowing ‘this is happening,’ not stopping, not obstructing, not keeping accounts of good and bad, only watching—if the watching is utterly impartial—then the bad falls away and the good also falls away. Before this observation neither bad nor good can stand—both fall. When the capacity of witnessing arises in a person, only then does he know in what state the Divine abides in this vast universe: he abides as the witness.
The little God is within us; little worlds are around us. We can behave in two ways in them: as controller or as witness. Calling God the witness has the purpose that if we too become witnesses in our little worlds, we become Divine. And once we know witnessing, we see that God’s power lies in his witnessing.
‘He who is far from ignorance—such a one the sages attain by meditation.’
Such a conception of God—the witness, not controller; who has balanced good and evil and gone beyond both; who is neither good nor bad but beyond; who does not see through two eyes of duality but through the one third eye of nonduality—such a God the sages contemplate, and in such a God they enter Samadhi.
So if a conception of God is to be made—if you can move without any conception, it is excellent—if a conception must be made, then make it thoughtfully, scientifically. What is said here is thoughtful, scientific. From it there will be no difficulty in leaping, because the key of the leap is hidden in witnessing. Of whatever we become the witness, we do not identify with it; we remain separate and distinct.
So even if we take the support of this conception of God and remain its witness, we shall soon rise beyond it. The step will drop away, and we shall leap from the world to that other world which we may call Brahman, call the Divine, call Moksha, call Nirvana—or whatever we wish to call it.
Enough for today.
Now let us prepare for meditation.