Kathopanishad #12

Concerning the supreme mystery of life there are three visions.

One is the vision of the Hindu Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita. According to that vision, the Supreme Principle is one; all else is its expressions. There are not many souls, there is the one Paramatman. There is not the individual, there is the Whole. The second vision is the Jains’. The Supreme Principle is not one; it is innumerable, many. There is no Paramatman; there are souls. There is no Whole; there is the individual. The third vision is the Buddhists’. According to the Buddhists, neither is there Paramatman nor Atman. Neither the collective nor the individual. The Supreme is Shunya—the Void.

These three are very contrary visions. And for thousands of years the debate among the three has continued. No closure, no conclusion emerges. Those who proposed these three visions are supremely knowing. These three visions have been supported by those who have experienced—by those who have known. Therefore the difficulty becomes great: why such a vast difference? If pundits debate, it is understandable, for there is no experience there—there is a net of words, a logical arrangement of doctrines, no inner realization.

But Mahavira, Buddha, or Shankara—they are not pundits. What they are saying is not the propounding of an idea. It is no philosophy. They are simply stating their experience. They are saying only what they have known. And in what they have known there is not a hair’s breadth of mistake. Then why such a great controversy?

Because of this, the entire current of India’s life got divided into three streams—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist. These three contemplations have dominated the Indian mind. And because no decision could be reached, the Indian mind became caught in a double-bind.

It must be understood a little more deeply and subtly.

In my seeing there is not even a hair’s difference among the three. The statements are wholly different, but the essence is not different at all. And the statements are not merely different—they are plainly opposite—yet the intent and the purpose are one. Whoever cannot see that one intent will never be able to see the unity among all religions. Still, these three life-streams made separate formulations—for reasons.

The Vedas, Upanishads, Brahma-sutras, Gitas kept proclaiming: That is One. The ignorant took a meaning of this Oneness that became disastrous. The meaning became: then there is nothing left to be done. All forms are His—He is in sin and He is in merit. He is in the saint and He is in the thief. He is in the world and He is in moksha. Here too He is, there too He is. Everywhere He alone is. Even in the bad, He is. Then what is there to do? Nothing like duty remains.

If the entire expanse is of a single principle, then in life no means for action remains. What is the difference between auspicious and inauspicious? What is the difference between dharma and adharma? What is the difference between Maya and Brahman? If there is only One—truly only One—then nothing remains to be done. What is there to gain, what to renounce? The result of this extraordinary notion of One Brahman was a deep laziness. A profound negligence descended.

So people kept reading the Vedas, kept reading the Upanishads, memorized the Gitas—and nothing remained to be done. Life did not transform. Those who had made this proclamation had no such intention. But the intention of the knowing and the interpretations of the unknowing never match—indeed cannot. Those who had said “It is One” had the purpose that you drop yourself. You are not; That is. Your identity, your ego, is false. You think “I am”—this is your illusion and the obstacle of your life. This is your sorrow, this is your bondage.

Lose your little river into that Vast. Do not try to keep yourself separate. All the anxiety of life is born of this: I am separate. If I am separate, then I must protect myself. If I am separate, then I am fighting with all. In the struggle of life no one is truly my ally; all are my competitors. Then life becomes a quarrel, and from that quarrel anxiety is born.

And if I am separate, the fear of death enters—for then I will have to die. We see persons die every day; the Whole never dies. Persons go on dying; the Vast forever lives. Life is never destroyed, but we see life, confined in different enclosures, destroyed daily. Lamps go out every day; fire is eternal. Then the fear of death enters. If I am separate, there will be death; and if I am joined to this Vast, one with it, there is no ground for death—life is amrit.

Those who desired that the notion of the One become widespread had the purpose that your ego be shattered, broken, fall away. The ego did not shatter. That was the purpose of the wise. The unknowing took a meaning by which, through the notion of the One Brahman, they did not break the ego, rather they inflated it. The knowers said, “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman.” Their purpose was: I am not, Brahman is. The ignorant understood: I am—and I am that very Brahman. Those who said “Aham Brahmasmi” intended: the drop is not, the ocean is. But the drop understood: I am the ocean. Thus the drop did not dissolve; rather it swelled up with ego.

The knowing intended that the day it becomes a clear experience that there is only One, sin will drop—because sin is against the other. When do we sin? We sin when, for our pleasure, we sacrifice the other—that is sin. And if I alone am spread in all, if there is only the One, if there is no other, then there remains no way to sin.

For sin, an other is needed. And for sin, one must sacrifice the other, destroy the other’s good for one’s own gain. If there is only One, there is no other. And where there is no other, there is no possibility of selfishness and sin. Then if I harm another, I harm only myself.

The intent of the knowers was: the day you are not, on that day there will be no possibility of sin. The ignorant understood: if there is only One, then there is neither sin nor merit—whatever you do is fine, because in everyone that One pervades.

The day Mahavira saw how Brahman-knowledge had declined into decadence, he tried to break the root from which the whole error was rising. Mahavira said: there is no one Brahman; each person himself is Paramatman. And the drop has not to lose itself in any ocean; the drop has to be purified, utterly purified.

To lose—this very phrase is wrong. For the meaning the ignorant took from “losing” had filled the entire land with deep negligence and laziness. Brahman became a support for ignorance, not a cause for dispelling ignorance.

So Mahavira set Brahman aside altogether. Mahavira said there is no such thing as Brahman. There is only the individual, the Atman. And you must become pure, supremely pure. And sin is sin, merit is merit. And in all, one and the same is not overshadowing. The bad is bad, the good is good; the line of distinction between the two must be kept clear; that line is not to be erased.

Therefore Mahavira called his vision “the science of distinction.” The Upanishads say: non-difference. Mahavira called his entire method: the clear discernment of difference. Where is the wrong, where the right? Where does the auspicious begin, and where the inauspicious? Where does the world end and moksha begin? This precise discrimination and distinction Mahavira made the basis of spirituality: each person is separate; he has not to be lost anywhere. And when each person is separate, then the whole responsibility is one’s own.

If you fall into misery, you are responsible—no God. If you attain bliss, you are responsible—no God’s grace. Mahavira bid farewell to prayer; only meditation remained. And meditation meant: keep purifying yourself so completely that one day the supremely pure consciousness remains. That supremely pure consciousness Mahavira called Paramatman—not in the sense of a God, but in the sense of the Supreme Self, the purest Self.

Mahavira’s purpose was to shatter the laziness of the person, to break the dullness. The web of self-deception the person has woven around himself out of doctrine, by whose support he lies in stupor and finds convenience for sin—that whole foundation must break. The person should become alert, discerning, awake, and stand on his own feet. He should wait for no God; not for grace, not for blessing, not for God’s support—he should stand on his own feet. This was of great value, a great campaign for the person’s purification. But as always happens, happened again.

Mahavira’s purpose was that the person be purified and become Paramatman. The ignorant understood: I am—and there is no Paramatman in whom I must dissolve; my being is the reality. Mahavira’s doctrine of the Self became, for the unknowing, the inertia of ego. He did not become the Self, nor did he refine toward Paramatman; rather he became filled with dense ego: there is no God; I am.

The more dense this ego “I am” becomes, the deeper the stupor in life—because “I” is intoxication. The greater the ego, the greater the intoxication; one does not live in awareness but in unconsciousness. And where there is no God, there remains no reason to bow.

So those who wanted to stand stiff with pride found great support. There is no question of bowing, no question of surrender. Humility ceased to be a mark of saintliness. Vainglory—standing stiff and proud...

Mahavira had said “on your own feet” so that you do not become negligent in the name of prayer. The ignorant understood “on my own feet” to mean: I am everything, and only my own support counts—only my own reliance. Ego thickened. This ego drowned the Jain vision. Just as the thought of Brahman filled the Hindu with laziness, the thought of the Self filled the Jain with ego.

And when Buddha saw that Brahman led to a pit and Atman led to a pit, Buddha said: there is no Brahman and no Atman—there is an immense Shunya, the Void. The purpose was very wondrous. No Brahman—because the root of the error in Hindu thought had to be cut. And the root of the error in Jain thought had to be cut as well—so, no Atman. You are not at all; there is no one within.

To attain this “no-thing” is supreme knowing, said Buddha. Hence Buddha did not use the word Brahmaloka, nor the word moksha; he used the word Nirvana. Nirvana means: the lamp’s going out. As a lamp goes out, we do not ask, “Where is its flame now? Where did it go?” It became not. Buddha says: the lamp of the knower does not keep burning; the flame of identity, of being, is utterly extinguished. Within, supreme emptiness and silence. To attain that emptiness is Nirvana.

It was a very deep insight, for in it neither could laziness stand, nor could ego stand. But the ignorant heard: there is no God, no Self—and they thought: then there is nothing worth attaining. If there is nothing, what is there to gain? And if inwardly there is only emptiness, what effort is there to make, what sadhana to undertake?

Buddha’s great vision seemed like atheism to the unknowing: when there is nothing, then it is proper to enjoy the small world of pleasures; why leave the momentary when there is nothing eternal? Whatever is available, take it; in the future there is nothing to attain—only Shunya.

Buddhist thought perished because of Shunyata. It is a great amazement that in each vision, the very thing that was supreme became the cause of its decline.

The ignorant are astonishing. The knowing have always been defeated by the ignorant. They find loopholes everywhere—errors and gaps by which they can save themselves. Then the ignorant enter into debate: our doctrine is right; yours is wrong.

Doctrines have no value in religion; intent has value. Understand this well. Doctrines are worth only for two-penny pundits. For religion—for the saints—only intent has value. What does Shankara want? What does Mahavira want? What does Buddha want? What they say is not as valuable as why they say it. What they say is a device, a pointer. Toward what does it point? But pundits grabbed the words and have fought for centuries.

Even now the Jain pundit goes on proving that there is no Paramatman, there is Atman. The Hindu pundit goes on proving that there is no Atman, there is Paramatman. The Buddhist pundit goes on proving that both are not—there is Shunya.

There is no question of proving anything to anyone. The matter is to understand intent, to understand the pointers.

Mahavira, Buddha, and Shankara have one and the same intent: that you be transformed, become new, your dust fall away, your mirror be clean, and you can see that which is, that which is—what is. Call it Brahman, call it Nirvana, call it Shunya, call it Atman—they are all words, mere words. Any word may be used. But That which is, is nameless. Let it be known by you—such is the intent.

But what they say, we debate. What they say, we do not walk. What they say, we think about. What they say, we do not meditate upon. What they say, we fill the intellect with. But in our life-breath no transformation, no revolution happens. So all have been defeated.

And every time anyone attains supreme knowing, he faces great difficulty: what to say to you? How to say it? For a thousand devices have been tried—and you save yourselves by each. New devices are sought. A few people—who are not very cunning, who are simple—benefit from those devices. The clever again invent their tricks.

These clever ones have fabricated sects. The knower speaks of dharma; the clever manufacture sects. Among them, those who are straightforward—who in the language of the Upanishads truly have subtle intelligence—they transform themselves; they do not manufacture sects. They do not worry that what is said is itself the truth. They care that what is said is a pointer toward where truth is.

All the words spoken are pointers. And the value of a pointer is only that it take you further, still further. But we are like those who, seeing a milestone on the roadside with an arrow pointing ahead—if you are going to Delhi it says “Delhi ahead”—we embrace the stone and sit there, thinking we have reached Delhi. We pay no attention to the arrow. That stone is not Delhi on which “Delhi” is written. All the stones are saying that Delhi is far. The day the stone of Delhi arrives, there will be a zero. The day zero arrives, know that Delhi has come. There will be no word there, no arrows pointing this way or that—only zero. As long as there are arrows, as long as there are pointers, understand that you are still far.

No scripture is truth; all scriptures are milestones that say: go on! And keep going until words fall into zero. And the day zero comes, you will see that all the pointers were different. The differing efforts of the knowers—methods, devices—were to bring you to this Shunya, to this nameless, wordless silence.

Now let us enter the sutra.

The Paramatman who is the inner Self of all beings—though One—having entered the various embodied forms, has become as if of those forms. The God who dwells within is also outside. As the single fire pervading the whole world assumes various forms.

In the same way, the one energy of that Paramatman has become of different forms. The forms differ; within them the formless, the hidden power—That is One.

Just as the one air that has entered the whole universe, though one, becomes of many forms, so the one Paramatman who dwells in all beings assumes forms in accord with embodied creatures. He is also established outside them.

Just as the sun, the illuminator of the whole universe, is not tainted by the outer defects arising from people’s eyes, so the one Parabrahman Paramatman, the inner Self of all beings, is not stained by people’s sorrows. Dwelling in all, he is yet other than all.

This is to be understood. It is useful for the seeker upon his path. Rabindranath has written a reminiscence: One morning I went toward the sea. It was the rainy season. All the puddles, ponds, tanks were full of water. Some puddles were dirty, some were clean. I reached the sea as well. The sun rose; its reflection formed in the dirty puddle, in the clean pond, in the sea, and even in a small roadside pit filled with water.

Rabindranath writes: I was filled with wonder. At once it struck me that whether the reflection forms in a dirty puddle or in a clean one, the reflection is neither dirty nor clean. How could a reflection be dirty? How could the shadow of the sun formed in a filthy puddle be filthy? No filth can defile the reflection. The reflection formed in the sea was of the same sun, and the reflection formed in the small puddle was of the same sun. The two reflections were exactly one—without the slightest difference.

That day, Rabindranath says, I felt the meaning of the Upanishadic dictum: the Paramatman manifests within all. Forms differ, but That which manifests is One.

And the sutra says another thing: your impurity cannot make That impure. No impurity of the puddle can defile the reflection. Therefore the Upanishads say: even within a thief, that Brahman has not become a thief; within a saint, that Brahman has not become a saint—because it has never been unholy that it could become holy.

The Upanishads say: that Brahman is pure consciousness. However filthy the form may become, however distorted the shape, all impurity is only up to the form. That which is hidden within—no impurity has ever reached it, nor can it ever reach.

This is a very revolutionary statement, very dangerous. A sinner may hear it and think: then fine. If That never becomes impure, why leave sin? And if merit cannot make it purer—for it has never been impure—what is the point of good deeds?

It is the interpretation of the ignorant mind that creates the mischief.

The Upanishads say That has never become impure. If someone understands this with understanding, the entire burden of the past is destroyed in a single instant. If the sense arises that what is within me has never become impure, then the anguish of guilt in the mind, the burden of sin—vanishes in a moment.

Psychologists say that the greatest misfortune in human life is guilt. And psychologists say that Christianity, by creating the sense of guilt in the West, has done great harm to man.

But in this land we did great harm in freeing man from the sense of guilt. Christianity helped some and harmed some; we too helped some and harmed some.

It seems like this: those who can take benefit take it from anywhere; and those who are bent on harm, they create harm from anywhere. Some people can salvage life even from poison, and some commit suicide even with amrit! It depends on people. Amrit by itself is useless. Poison has no fixed meaning. It depends on man—what he does.

Christianity emphasized that man is born in sin—original sin. God expelled man from Eden because he sinned, he disobeyed God. And until man frees himself from sin, the gates of paradise remain closed. The mistake Adam made—that sin festers in every man. And to rise out of that sin, great effort is required.

Christianity emphasized: man is a sinner, his birth is in sin. From this, certainly, a deep guilt was born. The intelligent tried to change life, to rise above sin.

But the unintelligent said: if man is born in sin, there is no escape from sin. And when Adam, the first man, was a sinner, what of us! And when Adam could sin even in the presence of God, living in Eden, then we worldly folk—his children, carrying his very germs within—our very name “man” is from being Adam’s offspring—what can we do! The sin of thousands of centuries is upon us; the burden is so heavy, it is impossible to throw off. Our very soul has become sinful; there is no way but to accept sin.

Thus the West became materialist. The reason was: the West accepted sin and saw no way of release. Man will remain a sinner. Yes, if the Lord’s grace descends, he will lift us out of sin.

But if the Lord’s grace be, he would have lifted Adam out of sin—the very first man who sinned. There was then no need to create so long a chain of sin.

The West became materialist: there is no way but to sin. The issue is how to sin skillfully, efficiently, and as much as possible—for there is no other path in life. We are born in sin; therefore we shall sin.

We performed the exact opposite experiment: that the pure Paramatman never becomes sinful. He does not become impure; he is supremely pure. However much sin you commit, you cannot affect his purity. Those who understood, upon understanding this truth, dropped the very notion of sin—because sinning would do nothing. And in those to whom the awareness of the supremely pure arose, with that awareness the very notion of sin was broken, the craving to do wrong was broken; there was no more question of wrongdoing.

But most said: if it makes no difference to Him, what harm in sinning! If it makes no difference, if He is always pure, then keep on sinning.

Often the Brahman-knowers explain: the Self is supremely pure. Sinners nod their heads: quite right. Their sense of sin diminishes. They feel: indeed, we are pure; then what difference between us and Buddha or Mahavira? The difference is superficial; within all are the same.

Yet the truth in itself is of great value: He cannot be defiled. However many births you try, there is no way to defile consciousness—for the nature of consciousness is purity. You can only heap garbage upon it, but the diamond within—the shining light—you can only cover, not destroy. Those who remember this will stop trying to destroy and will begin searching for the diamond that sin cannot touch.

And this can be seen with a little experience: that which is within you is not the doer; it is the witness. When you go to steal, even then something within sees that you are going to steal. That which sees cannot incur the sin of theft. It is only the witness. It only witnessed you stealing. And when you go to a temple to pray, it is again the seer. It sees you going to pray. No merit can cling to it.

What you do is outside. Action is outside; awareness is inside. Awareness never becomes action, and action can never become awareness.

Within you are two separate streams. One is the stream of action. This stream of action is born of your body.

Recently great experiments have been done: where are human desires actually born? For desire leads to action. The scientists are astonished by their findings: desire is born in the body. There is the male hormone, the female hormone, chemical elements. If injections of male hormones are given to a woman, her whole behavior changes. Her voice becomes rough like a man’s; the sweetness of woman is lost. Her style becomes aggressive.

Woman is not aggressive. Even in love she does not attack; she waits. Even in love she does not take the initiative. No woman in the beginning tells a man, “I love you; I will die without you.” If a woman says such, the man should run away—she is not a woman. It is always the man who will say, “I love; I will die without you.” The woman will only assent—say yes. And even that yes will be very silent—passive, inactive. There is no activity in it. The cause is the total arrangement of her body.

The woman receives the man within herself. The man attacks the woman from above. The man’s nature is aggression. But if a woman is given injections of male hormones, she becomes aggressive. If a man is given injections of female hormones, he becomes passive. He will sit and wait for some woman to come and attack.

A scientist was experimenting upon a troop of monkeys. He took an extremely feminine female—utterly modest—who held no rank in the troop, for monkeys have ranks, just as politicians have ladders. There is a president, a prime minister, cabinet members—the same sequence. Scientists say the monkeys’ habits are being enacted in politics—no difference at all.

That female monkey, who held no rank, a proletarian at the very bottom—he gave her large doses of male hormones. As soon as the injections took effect, within twenty-four hours she became so aggressive that she put all the males who held positions in their places. She rose to the top almost like an Indira Gandhi. The Kamarajs and Nijalingappas of that troop—all were thrown out.

That scientist wrote: those old fighters—she set them all right! They all sat dejected. She took such possession of them that she did not allow them even a little mischief and frolic, which is a monkey’s nature. And all the difference was made by hormones...

Whatever you are doing—the body has a hand in it. In your behavior, your movements, your gait, your desires, your ambitions, your struggles—everywhere hormones have a hand. A few chemical elements create great differences.

Scientists say in earlier times—when prices were low—there were about five rupees’ worth of chemicals in a man’s body. Now maybe fifteen! In a woman’s body about sixteen rupees’ worth.

So note: chemically, woman is more expensive. The difference between man and woman is only of one rupee of chemicals. Therefore scientists now say a woman’s body can later be made into a man’s by injections, and a man’s body into a woman’s. Before this century is out, you may simply choose whether you wish to be woman or man—it will be possible. Experimentally there is no difficulty now.

Then a man steals, another kills, uses violence; scientists say: their causes are bodily. So the punishments we give are foolish. It is like punishing a man for having tuberculosis—what can he do?

A man is proven a murderer. Scientists say we kept punishing because we did not yet understand the science of murder—what elements in his body propel him to kill. Instead of punishing him for murder, hanging him, jailing him for life, it would be better to change his hormones. That work could be done with an injection.

This discovery is precious—and dangerous. Every precious discovery is dangerous in the hands of the ignorant. If we can make a murderer non-murderous by injection, we can make the non-murderous murderous by injection. If a country is at war, they can inject their soldiers—they will go mad with killing. No other country can defeat them that does not know the art. If there is rebellion in the country, people are agitating—just give injections and they will become utter yes-men, wagging their tails in your praise. The discovery is dangerous—but meaningful.

And Indian wisdom has long said: that which is hidden within is only the witness; it is not the doer. The doer is on the outside. The web of action is joined with the body and mind. The inner pure consciousness is the witness; it only sees. It has never done any action.

If you slowly become a witness to your actions, your inner witnessing consciousness will begin to awaken. It lies asleep; you have never used it. Therefore all practices of meditation are essentially efforts to awaken the sleeping witness within—to awaken the seer, to fill it with awareness. The moment it fills with awareness, whatever is wrong in your life begins to drop by itself; whatever is right begins to grow by itself. Why? Because without your cooperation the body cannot act. Your cooperation is needed. You do not act, but your inner cooperation is required by the body.

If a person is wholly a witness, you may inject him with aggression, he will not become aggressive.

Understand this a little.

The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are all Kshatriya—born in aggressive houses. If ever their hormones could be analyzed—now it is difficult—they would all have had ferocious hormones of aggression. They were born in Kshatriya houses, sons of kings. The entire tradition of their parents was aggression. Hormones come in inheritance; they are hereditary. These twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras, Buddha—these were all Kshatriya—and all taught Ahimsa! They were born in violent houses; violence was their inheritance—and they taught non-violence! Surely they became so deeply witnessing that their aggressive hormones could have no effect upon them.

It is a great curiosity that not even one Brahmin—not a single one—has been a teacher of Ahimsa. And the most dangerous Brahmin we know is Parashurama, who several times wiped the Kshatriyas from the earth. And these twenty-five—one Buddha and twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras—these are all Kshatriya; in whose blood there was war, yet they became the teachers of non-violence.

Between Parashurama and them the same thing is happening. Parashurama too is a witness. And becoming a witness—his Brahmin hormones are all of non-violence—yet, becoming a witness, Parashurama saw that the Kshatriyas had created dreadful havoc, filling life with disturbance. Because of them there is violence. To destroy violence, Parashurama began to eliminate the Kshatriyas.

A Brahmin can commit such violence if witnessing awakens. He separates himself from action, then he can see what is proper to do and what not. These twenty-five—the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras and one Buddha—these are all Kshatriya; they have the element of battle; in their blood there is war. But the witnessing showed that war is futile, without result. They became quiet, and violence absolutely dropped from their lives.

I am saying: if witnessing arises, the influence of hormones is destroyed—whether in Parashurama’s way or in Mahavira’s. But witnessing consciousness makes its own decision; the body is no longer its master. The body cannot drag it. Witnessing consciousness lives its own life in its own spontaneity; it has its own movement, supremely free.

And another thing: whatever witnessing consciousness does, even while doing, it knows that it is not the doer—it is only the witness. Therefore I hold that no sin could have clung to Parashurama—indeed, it could not. Parashurama is a figure to be understood. No sin could cling, for the killings were done with great witnessing.

Krishna gives the same counsel of killing to Arjuna in the Gita: enter this war in the spirit of witnessing—drop the notion that you are the doer; be merely an instrument, a witness. Arjuna’s trouble is that he cannot be a witness; again and again he feels, “I am doing. I will kill my loved ones!” He is identified, joining himself with his action. Krishna’s whole effort is to bring witnessing into Arjuna: that even while fighting the war, know that you are not the doer.

The moment a person fills with inner awareness, he ceases to be the doer.

The sutra says:

Just as the sun, the illuminator of the entire universe, is not tainted by the external defects of people’s eyes, so the inner Self of all beings—the one Parabrahman Paramatman—is not stained by people’s sufferings; dwelling in all, he is yet separate from all.

That sense of separateness is witnessing.

That inner ruler of all beings, unique and the subduer of all, fashions his one form into many. Those wise who unceasingly behold that indwelling Paramatman—they alone attain the real happiness, the unshakable bliss; others do not.

Only those taste a little of joy who separate the witness from the doer. As this realization deepens, bliss increases. In the final moment, when the witness becomes utterly separate, when the seer is wholly apart from the doer—then the experience of supreme bliss happens.

That which is the Eternal even of the eternals, the Conscious even of the conscious, the One who alone ordains the enjoyment of the fruits of actions for these many beings—those wise who unceasingly behold that indwelling Supreme Person—they alone attain the peace that abides forever; others do not.

Of this inward nature—witnessing, wakefulness—those to whom the sense remains steady alone attain changeless peace.

The seeker Nachiketa, hearing thus the glory of the bliss and peace of Brahman-realization, pondered within: That inexpressible supreme joy—this Paramatman, so the wise say—how shall I understand it well? Does it become illumined, or does it come in experience?

A deep question arose in Nachiketa: that by which supreme peace comes and supreme bliss—does that Paramatman become illumined, or does it come in direct experience? This distinction is to be understood.

I see you. You do not enter my experience; you are illumined. If darkness falls here, I will not be able to see you—light is needed. To see the other, light is required. The other must be lit to be seen. But to see oneself, no light is needed. To see oneself, experience suffices—even in the dark.

Nachiketa wonders: will this Paramatman appear as an object outside—shall I see in some light that the glorious Supreme Person stands there—or will He come in my inner experience, where no outer light is needed at all? Will Paramatman appear as a thing, as the other—or as the Self, as consciousness? Will the Paramatman reveal outside, or inside? Is He outside, or within?

For things outside, some medium of illumination is required; only then are they seen. Within alone, without any medium, without any light—events happen by mere experience.

So Nachiketa asks: does this Paramatman become illumined, or does He come in experience? For, if He is illumined, He is far from me—I must seek him. His temple, his abode, his supreme realm must be found. And if He is illumined, I must seek the light in which I may behold Him. The process will be entirely different. And if He comes in experience, then I need go nowhere. If He comes in experience, then I need no light. I have only to dive within—and I will find Him. These are the two paths.

Ordinarily people pray to God. Prayer means: He is outside. Prayer will work like a light, a focus, and we shall see Him. They worship: worship is the light. In the light of worship He will reveal; we shall see Him. One path is that of worship and prayer—of upasana. The notion of upasana is that He is outside; the Supreme Person is hidden somewhere outside, in the sky—He will reveal. If we are prepared, He will reveal.

The other path is that of dhyana, sadhana. The Supreme Person is not hidden outside; He is present within. Therefore there is no question of worship and ritual; the question is of my refinement. Let me become pure within, awake within—He will reveal. For Him, no external means, no ritual, is needed.

The first path is altogether wrong, but it appeals to many. The second path is altogether right, but attracts very few. Why? Because the first appears easy. We are attracted less by truth than by convenience. And on the first path we need not change ourselves. What obstacle is there in collecting the materials of worship! What difficulty in lighting a lamp, burning incense, ringing a bell! We remain the same.

A man comes to the temple—the very same man who sits in his shop—without a hair of difference. As he conducts the work of the shop, so he performs the ritual of the temple. He returns from the temple the same as he came. You will not find a hair’s difference at the shop. He will be the same man. Perhaps more dangerous: because the hour lost in worship, he will have to make up in the shop—he will squeeze the customer more, to recover what he gave to God.

Therefore religious shopkeepers are often dangerous shopkeepers. Be a little cautious with religious people, for they are giving some time to God which they feel is going to waste; they will want to extract it from somewhere. No change appears in their life. Visiting the temple all life long, they remain the same.

But it is easy to go to the temple; it is hard to go into the mind. So people choose the easy. But truth has no relation with ease. Truth has nothing to do with convenience. Hence, most worship and pray; very few meditate. But those who meditate, they alone arrive.

This is what has arisen in Nachiketa: shall I pray, or shall I meditate? Shall I seek Him outside through ritual, or within by awakening? Does He come in experience, or is He illumined?

Understanding Nachiketa’s inner feeling, Yama said: There, neither the sun shines, nor the moon and the hosts of stars; nor do the lightnings shine. Then how could this worldly fire—the lamps you light—ever illumine That? For by Its light all these—sun and the rest—are illumined. By Its light this entire world is illumined.

How do we know the sun has risen?

One morning Mulla Nasruddin said to his servant, Go outside and see—there is great cold—has the sun risen or not? The man returned and said, Outside it is pitch dark! Nasruddin said, Light a lamp and see whether the sun has risen or not!

To see the sun, no lamp is needed. The sun is self-luminous. In truth, we see other things by the sun’s light; we do not see the sun by any light.

Yama says: the very light of the sun is illuminated by That. Behind the sun is concealed His energy. In every fire He burns; all rays are His. By what light will you see Him? To see Him no light is needed—for He is the very source and base of all light.

He is seen by experience, not by illumination. He is known by slipping into the source—into the root. There is no need to take any lamp to seek Him. To find Him, you need go nowhere. Just slip into your own source, the root of your life. He is present there. By Him all is illumined. By Him the eyes see. By Him the moon and stars are luminous. The entire existence is His pulse. To know Him, no medium is needed.

We can know Him immediately, this very moment—for no medium is required. The knowledge of Him can be direct, not indirect.

Be ready for meditation.