Kaivalya Upanishad #8

There is a deep thirst in the human mind, prayer also rises, yet how to call upon the Nameless? Even if one longs to weep at His feet—where are His feet to be found? If a resonance rises in one’s very life-breath for Him, toward what direction should that resonance go? If the feet wish to run toward Him—where is His temple? There is no address of His, no route, no direction. For all directions are His, all paths are His. Inch by inch this entire existence is His temple.

Hence man’s great difficulty. Man can only move in a direction; how will he walk in no-direction? And man can walk only on a path. If all paths be His—or if none be His—then to move becomes impossible. And whenever man calls, he needs a name. If only for remembrance, still he needs a name.

But the Divine has no name. Not only the Divine—nothing whatsoever in this world truly has a name. We speak, we use names; the use is necessary. Yet use carries danger. Because names are used so much that gradually the nameless reality becomes secondary, and the name becomes important.

A child is born; no one arrives carrying a name. He is a blank page. Yet in this vast world some name must be pasted on him—otherwise even calling him would be difficult; speaking to him would be impossible. Paste a false name onto him and all becomes easy—one can call, one can speak, one can point, one can say something to him. Dialogue becomes possible, relationship is forged. It is a great irony that to relate with the real child is difficult, but a name—which is unreal—becomes the very basis of all relationships.

All names are given by man; things are nameless. Existence is nameless. The danger begins with utility. Without a name it would be hard for the child to live. And living with a name, slowly he will forget that he was born without a name and will die without a name. However much is written upon him as name, nothing of name can ever enter within. Nameless he will live. Others may call him by a name; let me not fall into the delusion that the name is what I am. Yet all fall into this delusion.

Then man begins to live for name and to die for name. People say: to save the name we will give up our life. The honor of the name, disgrace of the name, reputation—these become supremely important. If someone does not pronounce your name properly, pain is felt. If someone errs a little in your name, hurt arises. The name seems to have sunk deep. Up to utility it was fine; now it has become life-breath. And the real life-breath—the nameless—is forgotten.

As for a person a name becomes necessary, without which living is difficult—an unavoidable utility—so too, whenever someone turns toward the search for that Supreme Truth, he feels the need of a name. These names have their benefits; these names have their dangers.

Therefore in the first sutra the rishi of the Kaivalya Upanishad spoke of Shiva—that is his beloved name. But immediately in the second sutra he says: all names are His. Let no delusion remain that one name alone is significant. Thus the rishi says of the very One spoken of in the first sutra: He has been called Brahma, He has been called Shiva, He has been called Indra, He has been called Akshara-brahman, He has been called the Param Virat, He has been called Vishnu, He has been called Prana, He has been called Kala-Agni, He has been called the Moon. All these names are His. And there are a thousand more. But among these, the fundamental categories of name are included. As Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—these are three categories of Hindu insight. All further Hindu names relate to one of these three.

These are the three basic categories—and there is a reason. Hindu thought is scientific in many senses, psychological. Whatever it determined, it determined out of a deep need. Within man there are three kinds of minds. And men too are of three kinds. If we divide humanity, we will find three types of men.

The number three is very significant in Hindu thought. At first it was assumed to be merely symbolic, but as science went deeper into things, science too found the unit of three to be significant. For when the atom was split, it was discovered that its constituent parts are three: electron, neutron, positron. From these three the basic unit of this world is formed; upon this basic unit the entire cosmos is built. If we keep breaking the world downwards, we arrive at three—and if we break beyond three, nothing further is found; it becomes shunya. That shunya we have called the Supreme Truth—the Nameless. From that shunya the first unit that arises is three; this we have called Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh.

And to call them Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh is meaningful in other ways too. It is not only a matter of the number three. What the electron, positron and neutron indicate—these three words also indicate. Of the three electric particles that science holds as the foundation of the world: one is affirmative, one is negating, and one is neutral. One positive, one negative, one neutral. And in these three—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—one is positive, one negative, one neutral. Brahma is positive, legislative, the basis of creation. Hindu thought holds Brahma as the source of creation—the creator. He enacts, he is the legislator. Shiva is destructive, negating; he dissolves the world, annihilates it—negative. Vishnu stands in between, neutral; he sustains. He neither creates nor destroys—he preserves in a middle, balanced way for as long as the creation lasts.

Neither the words neutron, positron, electron have any intrinsic value—they too are given names. Nor do Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh have any intrinsic value—they too are given names. But when religion gives a name and when science gives a name, there is a difference. The difference is this: science’s names are impersonal; religion’s names are personal. For religion is less concerned with indicating the object, and more concerned that the one who follows the indication may form a relationship with the One indicated. To forge relationship, a person has to be evoked.

With a neutron no relationship can be formed. In a laboratory you can use it, manipulate it, cut it, set it in motion—you can use it. But you cannot build a relationship with a neutron, for a neutron is not a person. With Shiva, a relationship can be forged, for he is personhood. This is the basic difference between the vocabularies of science and religion.

Science’s words are impersonal. Religion’s words are personal. A person should be evoked through the word. But let there be no delusion that these three are three—in that sense we made the Trimurti; Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—three faces carved in one image. These are three functions. But That for which they work, within whom they function, is One in these three. That has no face. These three faces are three processes. Existence itself has no face. It is faceless.

Therefore if you encounter a Trimurti of Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—separate the three faces, then that which remains is the pointer to Existence. And these three faces are existence’s three expressions. Science also accepts that existence cannot be without these three forces. If the affirmative is not, the birth of existence cannot happen. Without the destructive, that which is born can never be transformed. Without the sustaining, even if there is birth nothing can attain stability. These three are indispensable for anything to be.

So in the science of religion these are the three fundamental atoms: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. These three are His names. And all other gods and goddesses formed in the world, all further names, will relate to one of these three. Hence Hindus say: such-and-such avatar is an avatar of Vishnu—meaning he belongs to the category of Vishnu. Another is an avatar of Shiva—he belongs to Shiva’s category. Another is an avatar of Brahma—of Brahma’s category. But you will see: all avatars are of Vishnu. Because Brahma’s work ends with creation—no need to descend. Shiva’s work pertains to destruction—no need to descend. Vishnu alone descends again and again as long as creation is.

So whether Rama, whether Krishna, whoever—Vishnu keeps incarnating. This series of Vishnu’s avatars says: the sustainer must come again and again. The creator points once; creation happens. The destroyer acts once; it is over. But that which sustains throughout must return again and again. Hence only Vishnu incarnates.

These three, from the Hindu vision, the rishi considered. But he counted others too. He included Indra. Indra is not a name of the Supreme Power—not of the category of Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. If we look to persons, it is rare to find those whose vision reaches such depth that they are filled with love for Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—for their utility is supremely scientific. What would you ask of Brahma? Their utility lies in the basic foundations of existence. But man is weak—very weak. His weakness is such that he cannot form relations with such fundamental bases.

Therefore all the religions of the world conceived not only of God but also of gods. The deity is for those who cannot reach to the idea of God.

So let us understand three points.

First, the Supreme Existence is formless. People like Buddha relate to That. Hence they call even God, Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—futile. It is delightful to know that when Buddha attained nirvana, Samadhi—when for the first time he became enlightened—the Buddhist stories are very sweet. Hindus were deeply hurt by them—all those who held Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh as supreme were hurt. The stories say: when Buddha attained enlightenment, Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh came, folded hands, and placed their heads at Buddha’s feet. The tale is sweet. It declares: the Supreme Existence is beyond Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. And when someone enters the Supreme, even Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh will bow.

Buddha attained; but he remained silent. He felt: what I wish to say cannot be said—and even if I say it, who will understand? For seven days Buddha sat silent. The tale says: there was great agitation among the gods. Among the gods! Men had no inkling. The gods became very sad, for an event like Buddha happens only once in ages. If Buddha remained silent, his being or not being would be of no relation to this vast conscious cosmos. They waited seven days. Because Buddha was in that supreme state where even the presence of gods would be a disturbance—they stood afar, waiting: may Buddha speak, may Buddha speak. They too were eager to know regarding that Supreme Existence.

It is very amusing: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh were eager to know of the ultimate event that befell Buddha. For they too are but the outer faces. The One hidden behind the three faces—Buddha entered there. Ask him: what is there? Seven days Buddha kept silent; then they had to interrupt. They approached and prayed: please speak. Buddha said: what I will say—what I have known—cannot be said. And even if I speak, who will understand? Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh could not even say: at least we will understand. For they too are outer faces of existence—gatekeepers, not the inner soul.

They grew sad, wept, prayed; then the three consulted and said to Buddha: we understand—you say it cannot be spoken. Never has it been spoken. Since always we have heard: it cannot be said. And even if you speak, none will understand. And even if someone understands, to live it will be hard. Still we pray: there are also those who stand exactly on the boundary—still in the world, yet at the last edge. Merely your speaking—that Buddha spoke, not what he spoke—your speaking alone, your very presence, will jolt them; they will leap. And if you speak to a hundred and even one leaps—that too is great compassion. Thus Buddha agreed.

For this the Hindu mind felt hurt. Those who felt hurt did not understand. They thought: to place gods, Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh, before Buddha—this story is not good. But the story is immensely valuable and deeply in tune with Hindu vision. For Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh we have held only as creator, sustainer, destroyer of this world—they are parts of this world, functionaries. The day the world dissolves, they too dissolve; then they have no value. That which remains, only in that is the entry—Samadhi. But to reach that Supreme is very difficult. Even to reach Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh is difficult. Man needs deities of still lower status with whom he may build relation. So man created such deities; Indra is their symbol.

In this sutra Indra symbolizes all those deities who are born of human desires, of human passions. From whom man asks for something. Hence if we read the Vedas, ninety-nine out of a hundred hymns are addressed to Indra and other deities. And in those hymns, the prayers are the most ordinary desires of the human mind. Someone’s cow has stopped giving milk—he prays: O Indra, may my cow’s milk return. Someone’s field has had no rain—he prays: O Indra, let rain fall upon my field.

Here two or three points are worth noting—that Hindu thought strives to provide a path for every kind of person. One whose cow’s milk is gone, whose fields have no rain, whose wife is ill, whose child is crippled—what prayer can he make to the Supreme Vastness? Before that Immensity the tongue falls silent; prayer cannot be uttered. What can he say to Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh? Such small tasks are not their tasks. They arrange the making, sustaining, dissolving of the entire cosmos. Where shall this weak person go? Where will his mind find solace? Where can he lay his burden down? The Vast is so vast there is no way to place one’s burden upon it. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are engaged in such distant functions as have nothing to do with this man—that the world be created, destroyed, sustained—this is beyond his imagination.

He has his own small world—where his child is ill, the roof has fallen, the cow gives no milk—his small world. To employ Brahma and Vishnu in this small world is like using a sword where a needle is needed—the cloth will be torn further. For him Hindu thought created another category—the deities of Indra and the like. Therefore Buddha and Mahavira have no good feeling for the Veda. The Hindu mind was hurt by this too. The Upanishads also have no very good feeling for the Veda; nor does Krishna. It cannot be otherwise. Not that there is ill feeling toward the Veda; rather, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the Veda is engaged in the concerns of the most ordinary man’s world.

From one angle the Vedas are not the supreme scripture; from another angle they are supremely human—too human. And if we are to bring the Divine near to man, only then can man go near to the Divine. One way is that man rise, rise, rise and go near to God—very few can rise so high. Another way is that we bring God down, down, down, near to man. Indra is the last link in this bringing down. Hence in this sutra the rishi also counts Indra and the other deities.

Then a few more words are used—‘Akshara-brahman.’ There are people—especially philosophers—for whom all words of personhood are meaningless. As I said: generally, if the Divine is not person, no relationship can form for us. But for the philosophical mind, if the Divine is person, relationship cannot form; with the very notion of person they become uneasy. They need the formless, the non-personal.

Like Shankara. Anything below Brahman jars upon Shankara. The reason is not in the ‘lower’; the reason is Shankara’s own height. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh will appear lower than himself to Shankara—too human. For Shankara, or for such a type, Akshara-brahman is a symbol. Within it are included all the names different thinkers have given—whether Hegel, Kant, or others from any corner of the world—whether they said ‘Absolute’ or gave another term; all such names are included in Akshara-brahman.

Akshara-brahman means: that ultimate energy which never meets with decay, which remains forever amidst all change—amidst destruction and creation. The Param Virat is different: in Akshara-brahman there is an indication of that energy which remains, but no indication of vastness or expanse; in Param Virat there is an indication of immensity. There are people for whom the Divine appears as the Vast. Wherever they encounter vastness, they glimpse the Divine—seeing the vast ocean, the vast sky—wherever spread is endless. In eternal energy there is one kind of spread—the stream of time. In the vast sky there is another kind of spread—space.

Understand both.

In eternal energy, the spread is along the flow of time—what was before, is now, will be ahead—time dimension. The sky is spread now, here, in all directions—space dimension. Some people can experience the spread of time; some can experience the spread of space in this very moment. It will depend on the person. The thinker will experience the spread of time. The meditator will experience, now, the spread of space.

So Akshara-brahman is said for thinkers; that is their category. Whatever names thinkers give fall within it. And Param Virat is said for meditators. For the meditator time disappears—he enters the timeless. Then in this very moment That is experienced as vastness.

Take note.

The vastness of the sky is present now. A river’s vastness is spread behind and ahead—however long a river may be, it is stretched in front and behind. The sky is spread here-now in every direction. In meditation, Param Virat is experienced. So the words meditators choose are like Param Virat; the words thinkers choose are like Akshara-brahman.

But even this does not exhaust it. Other streams also descend into human consciousness. For example, Prana. Yogis have known the Divine as Prana. Hence in yoga, the vocabulary for God uses Mahaprana, Virat Prana, Prana. For the yogi’s path is the experience of the Prana hidden within one’s own body. As that experience deepens, the same Prana begins to be felt everywhere, outside as well. A moment comes when the whole world is felt as filled with pranic energy.

Bergson in this very century used the term ‘élan vital’—it means Prana—for the Divine. The yogi works wholly upon Prana, hence the fundamental process of yoga is pranayama—expansion of Prana. Prana’s spread, Prana’s boundless expanse. To bring about such a state that my Prana flows into the Prana of the whole cosmos. Then whatever is experienced—call it Mahaprana, call it Prana—any name will do. Other names of God have never been dear to yoga, for yoga is a profoundly scientific process of refining Prana.

In one sense the word Prana is scientific. It often happens that the direction from which one searches becomes the final word. Science searched and searched—its final power found was electrical; because the whole search was of electricity. Gradually that word became fundamental and what was found at the end was named ‘electrical energy.’ In the same way yoga began the search for the electricity hidden in the body; its name is Prana. And as the search went deeper, yoga experienced that everything is a transformation of Prana. A tree is one form of Prana, a stone another form, a man another. Whatever is happening in this world—its basic unit is Prana. This is one category; therefore the rishi gives place to Prana.

Two words remain: ‘Kala-Agni’ and ‘Chandra.’ Kala-Agni—Time-Fire. You will be astonished: only Mahavira gave the Atman a name that startles—Mahavira called the soul Time. Only one man did so; only the Jain tradition gave the vastness of life the name ‘Time.’ Therefore Jain meditation is called ‘Samayik’—entering Time. Their word is precious—even more precious than ‘meditation.’ For in meditation the subtle delusion remains: whose meditation? In Samayik even that disappears—entering Time itself is meditation; entering oneself is meditation; and the name of the Self is Time.

Kala-Agni—Time-Fire. Those who considered Time to be the name of the soul had profound reasons. Let us look back a little. A stone lies here; its expanse is in space, not in time. The stone’s spread is spatial, not temporal. A stone has no sense of time. Therefore the Jains say: a stone has the most gross soul; it has no sense of time. A plant—its spread is spatial too, but in some primary way it has a faint sense of time—very gross, but time is sensed. A plant grows in time, becomes larger. Long ago only the Jains accepted that the plant has a little experience of time—hard to prove. Now science has shown that the plant has time-experience—a little sense of age, of how long it has been. But only of the past; it has no sense of the future.

Then the animal. The Jains say: animals have a more developed soul; thus they too have a greater sense of time—some faint remembrance of the future as well. For example, an animal stores food for tomorrow; a plant does not, cannot—the future is unknown. Birds prepare for the rains—meaning they have a coarse sense that trouble may come. Ants gather food for the rainy season—great effort; each brings what it can, stores it, for in the rains going out will be difficult—this shows future orientation. Thus Mahavira says: animals possess a greater time. He says: this very time-awareness within them proclaims the development of the soul.

In man time expands greatly. No animal can think of its own death; that is too far a future—hence animals are utterly at ease with death; they have no experience or idea of it. They cannot contemplate death beforehand. In this sense they are happy—death does not torment them; when it comes, it comes. But before it comes, there is no pondering of death. Therefore animals cannot create religion, for religion arises only when death becomes part of the contemplation of time.

Thus Mahavira says: man is supreme among souls, because he is aware of death. But among men, those are supreme who are aware also of births after death; their time has expanded further. And higher still are those who know the Supreme Existence beyond all births and deaths—their time has developed ultimately. Those who sense going beyond coming-and-going—such are the highest souls.

Mahavira divided all souls on the basis of time, and then he gave the name ‘Time’ to the Atman itself—no need of another name. Atman means time-consciousness.

Thus the rishi includes Kala-Agni—the living fire of time; some have given this name to the Supreme Power as well.

And the last: ‘Chandra’—the Moon. This too astonishes. For the moon we know has no relation with this ‘Moon.’ People ask me: now that scientists have set foot on the moon, what of the ‘moon’ spoken in our scriptures? There is no relation—if there were, you would be in trouble. ‘Moon’ here is a symbol of a different order of seekers.

Tantrikas have refined the inner nadis of man; as yoga refined pranic energy, tantra refined the inner channels. They divided them into two: those they call ‘Surya’—solar—and those they call ‘Chandra’—lunar. Surya are stimulating, fiery, hot—hence called solar. Chandra are peaceful, cool, silent. Tantra holds that by the union of the lunar and solar nadis the personality is formed; by this very union existence is formed. Their balance is sadhana.

Understand it this way.

The sun is the basis of life—the libido of life: energy, running, desire—all are sun. With sunrise the world becomes desire-ridden; a wave of life runs through; birds awaken, plants become alert, man rises, the search for life begins. With sunset life sets; darkness, night—people fall back into a swoon.

But nights are of two kinds: dark nights and luminous nights. The dark night is unconsciousness; the luminous night is Samadhi. In the night all fall—those who are tired by day, tired by life, fall into deep sleep; then morning comes, the sun rises. But there are also those who, not only tired of the sun’s running, have known its futility and become engaged in the direction of peace, coolness, union with the moon.

Within oneself, the nadis that lead toward Chandra, toward peace—the whole group and the cluster of those experiences is called ‘Chandra.’ One who attains to this Chandra, in tantra’s language attains to the Param Virat. To reach such a state where there is life—and yet so silent as death. Life—but so still as death. The day this union of life and death happens, that moment is ‘Chandra.’ These are symbolic words.

‘That One is called Brahma, Shiva, Indra, Akshara-brahman, Param Virat, Vishnu, Prana, Kala-Agni and Chandra.’

‘He becomes free of the wheel of birth and death who understands this essence.’

This essence—the essence that has many names. He understands that This Vastness is nameless; he understands that all names are His. One who does not bind himself even to names—only he is freed. If one binds to names, a new world is created again.

‘He who understands that whatever has happened earlier, or will happen later, all that is He.’

What has happened, what is happening, what will happen—these are all His names. All forms that have been, are, will be—are His. All events that have taken place, are taking place, will take place—are His. He who begins to remember Him through all experiences, who begins to see Him from all directions, for whom all pointers bow toward Him and none elsewhere—

‘Apart from this there is no other way to moksha.’

To experience thus—that all roads lead to Him, all directions are His, all names are His, all tones are His, everything is His. Other than the density of this very perception there is no way to moksha.

Understand a little more.

It means: your moksha cannot happen. As long as you are, moksha cannot happen. When you become utterly shunya, then moksha is. When everything becomes His and nothing remains yours, then moksha is. Ordinarily, when we speak, we mean ‘my liberation’—how can my moksha happen? how can my freedom be? how can my nirvana be?

It is utterly wrong—for it is precisely from ‘me’ that one has to be free. It is this ‘me’ that has to be extinguished. It is this ‘me’ that has to be erased, to be lost. There can be no moksha for this ‘me.’ It is like a man with an illness saying: how can my illness become healthy? Does illness become healthy? Illness has to cease so that health may be. I have to cease so that moksha may be. There is no such thing as ‘my moksha.’ Where moksha is, I am not. Where I am, moksha is not. Moksha means: ultimate freedom. If everything is free, and ‘I’ still remain, that too is bondage.

So the rishi says: apart from this there is no other way to moksha—that everything become His. Everything! Joy His, sorrow His. Success His, failure His. Defeat His, victory His. Birth His, death His. Everything become His totally—nothing remain with me that I can call ‘mine.’ As long as I can say of anything ‘mine,’ I will live in bondage. For in the ultimate sense, ‘mine’ itself is my bondage.

‘That man attains to the Divine who sees the Atman pervading all beings and all beings pervading the Atman. Apart from this there is no other way.’

‘That man attains to the Divine who sees the Atman pervading all beings, and all beings pervading the Atman.’

This means: one who breaks boundaries. One who removes the frontier. This tree no longer appears as ‘You.’ This body no longer appears as ‘I.’ His ‘I’ enters the tree; the tree’s ‘you’ enters him. In this world there remains no boundary-line between ‘I’ and ‘Thou.’ The boundary-line of ‘I–Thou’ means I keep assuming myself to be separate.

A great Jewish thinker, Martin Buber, wrote a book: ‘I and Thou.’ He is a precious thinker of this century—among the two or four great minds. But Jewish thought cannot go beyond I and Thou. He made a deep exploration of I–Thou relations. He says: whatever is the highest experience of life is produced in the ultimate intimacy of the I–Thou relationship. Jewish thought holds that a person cannot develop alone—true in one sense. Alone a person hardly is; if he is, he will be impoverished. This is worth understanding—for in the East we have thought the opposite: the more a man goes into aloneness, into solitude, utterly alone, the more he will develop. Jewish thought thinks from the other side: the more alone he goes, the more impoverished he becomes. Without relationships, where is growth? Without relationships, where is development?

So the deeper the relationships, the more the person develops. And the ultimate depth of relationship is the closeness of I and Thou. When we can call someone ‘Thou’ with love, through that calling we too reach a height; we are transformed by that very address. This dimension is valuable. And broadly there are two kinds of people in the world—hence East and West have become symbols of two types.

Jung recognized two kinds of personalities—rightly so: introvert and extrovert. The introvert develops only in solitude—give him aloneness and he grows; the presence of others harms him. Whenever he returns from a crowd, he feels he has lost something. When he meets someone, he feels he had to come down a notch. When he speaks, he feels a disturbance occurred. When he is in silence, alone, with no one around, he feels his soul flying toward the sky. This is the introvert—the East is the symbol of this inwardness.

Hence in the East all religions emphasized solitude, aloneness, sannyas, release from relationship—freedom. In the West, the religions that spread—all of them outside India—are born of Judaism; within India, all religions are born of the Hindu root. In the world only Hindu and Jewish are original religions; all others are branches. The Hindu is inward; the Jewish is outward. Therefore the Hindu cannot understand the Jew, nor the Jew the Hindu—their ‘types’ differ. The Jewish says: alone a man will die, will wither; all growth is of relationship. The richer the relationships, the more consciousness develops. Therefore a Jewish fakir will not be without wife, not without children; he will be part of society, not fleeing from it. He cannot even think otherwise. Rather, a Jewish saint will have more relationships than others—for he means to grow by more interrelatedness. Interrelationship, relatedness—joining with the other—is the means of growth.

Ultimately Jewish thought says: in the end the person will remain ‘I’ and the Vast will be ‘Thou.’ The whole world will be ‘Thou’ and the person will remain ‘I.’ Then in that union the person’s soul reaches full development. But Jewish thought does not go beyond this.

This sutra goes beyond.

It says: as long as Thou remains clearly Thou and I clearly I, however deep the relationship, it is not final. Distance remains. Even if I love someone greatly—if he still appears ‘Thou’ to me and I appear ‘I’ to myself—howsoever near we come, distance persists. There is a slight gap between ‘I’ and ‘Thou,’ yet it is distance. And there is a strange thing about distance: the less it is, the more it hurts. When it is small, it stings more. When it is great, one hardly notices. One feels distance only when very little remains—and then it gives great pain.

Thus the pain lovers fall into has an ultimate cause: the distance becomes so small yet does not vanish. It does not vanish—and becomes so small that hope arises it may now disappear; but it does not. Each time being so close triggers friction, yet the gap does not end. And the awareness of distance becomes very clear. As distance diminishes, in one sense it increases—because it offends more, pricks more; the mind feels: now it could have broken, the shore was so near; now we only had to stretch out our hands—and yet hands do not meet; distance remains. So even if we come so near to the Divine that we can speak the language of lovers—of ‘I’ and ‘Thou’—even then the gap remains.

The Upanishadic rishi says: until the Atman is seen in all beings and all beings in the Atman—until ‘Thou’ becomes as ‘I’ and ‘I’ as ‘Thou’—till then distance remains. This is the last leap—where the lover becomes the beloved, the beloved becomes the lover. The last leap—where the bhakta becomes Bhagwan, Bhagwan becomes bhakta. The last leap—where it is no longer known who is who. Who is who is not known.

The rishi says: that man attains the Divine who sees the Atman pervading all beings and all beings pervading the Atman. Apart from this there is no other way. This is the final point—up to where understanding and thought can go, up to where we can run a little with our consciousness, take it into account. Beyond this the realm of thought ends; thought is no longer any means.

That is all.

Now let us prepare for meditation.