Kathopanishad #16

This aphorism concerning Paramatma is exceedingly subtle and profoundly deep. Naturally so, because the very existence of Paramatma is depth itself—utter, abysmal. Beyond it there is nothing deeper; beyond it nothing more endless; beyond it nothing more beginningless; beyond it nothing remains to be crossed or transcended. Inevitably, whatever is said about that Truth will have to be just as deep, just as boundless, just as infinite as Paramatma is.

There was a very wondrous Christian fakir, Tertullian. Let us understand one of his statements, then we shall enter this sutra.

Tertullian said: I trust in God precisely because God cannot be proved by any logic. A very upside-down statement. We place our trust in that which logic can prove. Tertullian says: I have trust in God because He is beyond logic, because no argument can establish Him.

The truth is: nothing can be more unbelievable than God. Because the very notion of God is impossible; the very imagination of God is impossible. All attempts to think in that direction fall futile. In searching for Him, the seeker himself is effaced. It is an entry into the impossible.

Tertullian says, “I believe in God because God is absurd.” He is beyond reason, unreasonable—He can in no way be proved; that is exactly why I believe. Then what other ground could belief have? If the basis of belief is not logic, not thought, not reflection, not contemplation, then its basis can only be the heart.

As when you fall in love—there is no argument. And if someone demands an argument, you will not be able to prove the reason for your love. Whatever you say will be insubstantial. You may say, “The person I love is very beautiful.” But another may not find them beautiful; only you do. The truth is the reverse. It is not that you love because they are beautiful; rather, because you love, they appear beautiful. Your love has made them beautiful. Beauty is not an objective event; it is a feeling of your heart. We do not love the beautiful; whom we love becomes beautiful. Love renders everything beautiful.

Whomever love surrounds, it beautifies. Hence the beloved appears beautiful to the lover—others may not see it. No one will ever be able to prove why love is. And whatever reasons you offer are always afterthoughts. The event of love happens first; then you rationalize, you search for reasons why you are in love. But has anyone ever loved like a problem in mathematics—first thinking everything through, arranging all the arguments, drawing a conclusion, and then loving? Man loves first, and later seeks causes. Causes found afterwards cannot be real causes. Causes should precede the event.

Love does not arise out of logic; love is a happening of the heart. And a happening of the heart means: we know it is, and yet we cannot give an answer for it. Our whole being says, “It is,” and yet we cannot explain to another why. For which no answer can be given—and yet for which we can be ready to die. A happening of the heart means precisely this: for which we can lay down our life, while having no argument at hand.

Surely, that for which we can lose our life must be greater than life. It must encompass our entire being, and yet we cannot argue for it.

A logician can never give his life for anything. No one can ever die for a syllogism or a logical process.

When Galileo first said that the earth circles the sun, and not the sun the earth, it was a logical conclusion, and absolutely right. But Christianity opposed him. Rome stood against him. The whole Christian network spread across the world was unwilling to accept Galileo’s statement—because the Bible says the sun circles the earth. People had always believed that the sun goes around the earth. It also appears so. It rises in the east in the morning and sets in the west in the evening, then rises again in the east—seeming to circle. Even after Galileo, the words in the world’s languages remain the same—sunrise, sunset. The sun neither rises nor sets; only the earth revolves. The sun remains where it is. It neither rises nor sets. It is the earth that circles around it.

When Galileo first proclaimed this, he proved it thoroughly by reason. But the Pope summoned him and said: Beg forgiveness; otherwise your life... your life is in danger. Galileo kneeled and begged pardon.

This has troubled many, and thoughtful people have wondered: did a man as brilliant as Galileo become afraid for his life?

But I think Galileo was not afraid for his life. He could have given his life—but who is prepared to die for a little argument! What difference does it make whether the earth goes around the sun or the sun goes around the earth! Why should Galileo die for this futile chatter? For him it was not of the heart; it was of the intellect. And he saw: for such a small matter—does the earth go around or not—why should I give up my life?

I consider Galileo an intelligent man. A fool might have been ready to die. For logic—only a fool can die. Logic is not worth that much. Who would give his life for a mathematical conclusion! Life is far more valuable.

But for a small love, a man can give his whole life. Love envelops the whole of life; it holds the entire being. Logic grasps only a corner of the intellect. No one has ever given life for the intellect. And that for which you cannot give your life cannot truly be of greater value than life itself.

In human experience, love is the one experience for which one can die—more precious than life. And love is beyond logic. People have given their lives for Paramatma. Countless have been martyred for Him, who quietly lost their life without a murmur. Paramatma is something like love.

Hence Tertullian is right: there is no reason to believe; belief is impossible—and yet I believe in God. It is a happening of the heart. It is a relationship of love. It comes from a depth far beyond the intellect.

Now let us enter the sutra.

That Parabrahman, that Supreme Lord, can be attained neither by speech, nor by mind, nor by eyes.

That Paramatma, neither by speech... however much one may explain, He cannot be understood. However skillfully one may explain—even if someone sets it so firmly in your mind that you cannot answer back, are forced to concede because you lack counter-arguments—still remember: when you are out-argued, when you cannot reply, even then the heart remains unconvinced. The heart does not agree. A person can demolish your intellect, but cannot touch your heart.

A great logician may break all your beliefs; you may be defeated, yet you do not agree. Inside, the heart keeps saying, “I am not convinced.” By logic no one is ever convinced—you can win or lose, but conviction, the trust of the heart, does not arise from argument.

Ingersoll has written somewhere in his letters: by logic you can convince only the one who is already convinced. Logic is futile. It can persuade only the one who was ready to be persuaded. But the one who is not inclined—you cannot even touch him with logic. Logic skims the surface; it never enters the depths of life.

What can speech do? At most it can argue. Speech can entertain. Speech can be pleasing—poetic, agreeable. But through speech one cannot leap into that Existence. There have been many masters of speech. And it is not that they had not known. Even if they had known, even then through speech they could not convince anyone. Even Buddha does not have the power to convince you by words.

When Buddha convinces, he first prepares you for silence. He quiets you, makes you still, before he explains. He cannot resolve it by speech. Hence Buddha was utterly clear about this: he would not answer people’s questions. He would say, “Before I answer you, you will have to learn to be silent. Stay by me in silence for one year, two years, three years. When your silence becomes complete, then I will give you the answer.” But invariably, when a man’s silence became complete, he would no longer raise the question. In silence itself Buddha would in truth have already given the answer.

What cannot be said by words can be said by silence. Because silence does not enter the head; it goes straight to the heart. Words strike the skull and rebound. Silence—like a silent stream—flows unhindered into your heart.

The utmost use of words is only this: that someone may persuade you to become silent. If through words this much happens—that you agree to be wordless—then the work of words is done.

But Paramatma cannot be obtained by speech, nor by mind, nor by eyes.

The mind thinks. The process of mentation is mind. Where we think, reflect, contemplate—that process is called mind. But understand one element of thinking rightly: you can think only that which you already know. What you do not know at all—how will you think it?

Only the known can be thought. The known—what is already familiar—you can think about that; the unknown—how will you think it? Thinking is like a cow’s cud-chewing. The cow first takes in the food, then regurgitates it and chews it at leisure. The mind chews the cud. What has already been fed into it, what has become known—about that it keeps thinking again and again.

The unknown—the un-known—has no relationship with mind. It cannot have. What is not known at all—where will thinking even begin? In one sense, thinking is repetition. Thinking is always stale; it is never fresh. And thinking is always a return to the past. Thinking is a reiteration of memory. It is only the chewing of what lies in memory. And God is the Unknown. We have no inkling of Him. How will we think Him? Therefore mind cannot be linked to Paramatma. And so long as mind is present, you will remain separate from Him. The day the mind disappears, that day you will be joined. Mind is the wall between you and Him.

People come to me and say, “The mind won’t allow us to meditate.” I tell them: the mind will never allow meditation—ever. Because mind is the enemy of meditation. Mind will propose a thousand tricks to stop you: “What are you doing? This is madness! What will come of being silent? If you do not think, you will be lost. Guard your intellect, preserve your logic. It is not right to fall into someone’s words.”

Mind will offer a thousand arguments against meditation—because meditation is the death of mind. If meditation happens, mind dies. So mind will protect itself in every way. And your mind does exactly that. It finds twenty-five reasons, and because of those reasons you postpone meditation. Sometimes the reasons are so petty—“What will people say if they see?”—that you stop even for such trifles.

This tendency of the mind to stop is natural to the mind, because it knows that meditation means descending into an abyss—from there mind will not return intact; it will not survive. Zen fakirs call meditation “the state of no-mind”—the state where mind is lost, the condition of a-mind.

This Upanishadic sutra says the same: not by speech, not by mind, nor by the eyes.

Search as you may through the senses, the senses only contact the material. Each sense has its limit. You cannot hear with the eyes—you can only see. You cannot see with the ears—you can only hear. Try to hear with the eyes and you will be in trouble. The eye’s limit is seeing; the ear’s limit is hearing; the hand’s limit is touching; the nose’s limit is smelling. Each sense can do only one thing. You cannot extract the function of one sense from another; that is not its capacity.

The function of mind is to think. Thinking means: if it lies in memory, it can be repeated. Mind is like a computer—you have to feed it first. Give it the food, then it keeps chewing the cud.

Now marvelous computers have been made that can do more than the human mind. What the greatest scientist would do in years, the computer can do in seconds. But there is one great difficulty with a computer: you must first input what you want it to compute. If you feed it nothing, it can do nothing.

So it is with mind: it must be fed first. Suppose you are a Hindu. What does being a Hindu mean? That Hinduism has been fed into you—that’s all. That you are a Muslim, a Jain, a Buddhist—what does it mean? It means that from childhood a Jain-program has been placed in your computer; it keeps thinking only that. Someone else’s computer contains Hinduism; someone another’s Islam—and it keeps thinking only that. The cud goes on. And by mistake you imagine you are a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. You are none of these. Man is born only as a man; all else is imposed. Mind is manufactured by society.

If you were born in a Hindu home and were taken in infancy and raised in a Muslim household, you would be a Muslim, not a Hindu. You would bow to the Quran and desire to burn the Gita. You yourself! Whence do these desires arise? Others are teaching you. Hence all religions seize the children first.

Every religion is eager that children be given religious instruction. If a child escapes instruction, later it becomes difficult. Before the age of seven—before awareness awakens—one should fill the child’s skull with everything. Then he will chew that cud his whole life.

If you are a Hindu, your hands will automatically rise before a Hindu temple—it is mechanical; it is the computer at work. You were taught that God resides here. Passing a mosque you will stiffen and walk by. It won’t even occur to you that God resides there too. Someone else, whose computer has been loaded with “Islam alone is the true religion,” will feel that there.

We are being taught; whatever is taught to us—that is what we keep thinking. But Paramatma cannot be taught. There is no way to teach Him. Therefore He cannot be thought. You may say, “But we do think about God.” No—you think about the Hindu God, or the Muslim God, or the Christian God—not about Paramatma. And the Christian God, the Muslim or Hindu God—these are not God. They are only words planted in your mind.

Paramatma is wordless—pure Existence. No one can teach Him to you. There can be no school for training children in God. If it were so easy, the whole world would be full of God by now. Science can be taught; religion cannot. That is the difficulty. We can produce scientists; we can teach chemistry, physics, mathematics. Prayer cannot be taught. But we do teach prayer—hence all prayers become false.

Love cannot be taught. Open a school to teach people to love—and if you succeed, one thing is certain: whoever graduates from that school will never be able to love. Because love is so utterly of the heart, while learning happens in the head.

Hence it often happens that actors—whose profession is love—are never able to love. Actors’ own love-lives are extremely tragic. I know them closely. Whenever actors come to me, their trouble is love. And the whole world is learning love from them!

They have become skilled in acting. They know what should be done—and they do exactly that with their lovers or beloveds, but it remains acting—no heart inside. They are skilled: what to say, how to speak, how to rise and sit, how to hold someone to the heart—they know it all. As far as the technical side of the process goes, they know everything. But love is no technique—it is non-technical altogether; it is the arising of the heart.

Tolstoy wrote a little story. On the shore of a lake there lived three fakirs—illiterate, simple. But their fame spread, and people began to come from far to take their darshan. The chief priest of Russia heard that three holy men were living across the lake. He said, “I don’t know them! They have never taken initiation in the Church—how can they be holy? And thousands are going there and returning fulfilled!” He too went to see what the matter was.

He boarded a boat, reached the far shore. The three were completely unlettered rustics, sitting beneath their tree. When the arch-priest came, the three bowed to him. The priest at once felt reassured—there was no danger. If they touched his feet, they posed no threat to Christianity. The priest asked, “What do you do? What is your practice, your method?” They looked at one another. “Method?”

“Speak—what do you do? What have you attained?”

They said, “We know not much. We are not learned. No one has taught us. We have a little prayer—that is all we do.” But they were embarrassed: how to tell such a great priest… “And the prayer is our own contrivance, because no one taught us or told us.”

“What is your prayer?” The priest swelled with pride. “These are utter bumpkins! What is your prayer?”

They said, “How shall we tell you—it is very short. We have heard that God is three—the Trinity.”

Christians believe there are three—God the Father, His son Jesus, and between the two a Holy Spirit; by the union of these three is God—the Trinity. As we accept the Trimurti—Shankar, Vishnu, Brahma.

“So we made a prayer by thinking and thinking among ourselves. Our prayer is: ‘You are three, we are also three, have mercy on us.’ You are three; we are three; have mercy on us.”

The priest said, “Stop that. Is that a prayer? Prayer must be authorized—approved and certified by the Church. I will teach you a prayer. Memorize it, and from today begin this one.”

They said, “By your grace, teach us.” The arch-priest recited a long, official Church prayer.

They said, “Forgive us—we are utter bumpkins; we won’t remember so long a thing. Make it short, a little simple.”

The priest said, “It can neither be made simpler nor shorter. It is the certified prayer. Whoever does not recite it—the gates of heaven are closed to him.”

They said, “Then be kind—repeat it once more so we can learn it.” He recited it again. They said, “Once more—just once more.” They tried to repeat it, thanked him, touched his feet. The priest, pleased, started back in his boat.

Midway across the lake he saw a whirlwind rushing over the water. He grew afraid: “What is coming?” Soon it became clear—the three were running over the water! The priest’s life almost fled. They walked upon the water, came near and grasped the boat: “Please repeat it once more—we have forgotten it. We are poor unlettered folk.” The priest said, “Forgive me. Your prayer is working. Continue your own: ‘We are three, You are three; have mercy on us.’”

Love is a happening of the heart. It has no authorized system—no method, no tantra, no mantra. Love is a feeling of the heart. Prayer is a feeling of the heart. There is no way to teach it. And because all religions on earth try to teach, people have become irreligious. No one can ever become religious by being taught.

Therefore the sutra says: neither by mind, nor by eyes, can He be attained.

The senses have no capacity to see the invisible—they were made to see the visible. And Paramatma is the invisible. The mind has no capacity to grasp the unknown; its boundary is the known. And Paramatma is the Unknown. Speech has no capacity to express that which is available only in silence; speech can express only what is born of speech. Paramatma is available in silence.

The second half of this sutra is very wondrous:

He is—how else could He be available except to those who say so!

The one who simply says, “He is”—who does not merely say, but experiences that He is—without any cause, without any argument, without the testimony of senses, without the mind’s cogitation, without teachings received through speech—whose heart says, “He is”—except to such men, to whom else can He be available!

But how will such a state arise? It seems too subtle. If it happens, fine; and if it does not? If it does not feel so—then what remains to be done?

There is nothing to do in a prescriptive way. Only in the negative sense is there something to be done. If it so happens to you—He is—if such shraddha is born, such a sense of His existence, such a stirring in your heart—that He is—then the path is easy.

If it does not… only one in a million has such a spontaneous sense. Most do not feel it—hence they search for arguments, proofs: that someone may establish it, show it, give a glimpse; that a guru may be found, a guide—to show the way.

People come to me and say, “Show us God!” As if God were a thing, that I could point out—“Here He is,” or place Him in their hands—“Take, hold, see.” They say, “Until you show, we will not believe.” A great difficulty. “Until you show, we will not believe.” But all the scriptures declare: until you believe, you will not be able to see. And not belief of the intellect—for by intellectual belief no one has ever seen. There are great pandits in the world who believe intellectually—and have seen nothing. The one who believes from the heart…!

Then what to do? The one who can believe—let him be. He is the exception. Most cannot believe—what shall be done for them? Should we give them arguments proving that He is? All arguments given till now have been futile—nothing is ever established by logic. And the atheist will refute all your arguments. If the field is logic, the atheist will always win; the theist will always lose.

In life the theist wins; in logic the atheist always wins. Till today no theist has ever defeated an atheist in argument. This will surprise you. The theist never admits it, but I tell you: no theist has ever bested the atheist in debate—he cannot. Because the very basis of the theist is beyond logic—how can he win? The atheist can prove that there is no God—because your arguments can be dismantled.

The theist’s arguments throughout the world are prefabricated and hackneyed; nothing new in them. Either the argument is: the world must have a maker. The atheist asks: if everything needs a maker, who made God? Then trouble begins. Another God for God—and then another for that God—an infinite regress, an endless pit—no solution there.

Wherever you go, the atheist will ask, “Who made this?” And if you say, “No, the world needs a maker but God does not,” the atheist replies, “When you accept that something can be unmade, why not the world? Let the world be uncreated.” Straight and clear. When you already concede that something can be without a maker, then no difficulty remains: the world is unmade. The theist appears dishonest—he refuses the rule for the world but applies it to God.

Then the atheist says: the world is seen; if a rule must be made, let it be this: the world is uncreated. Your God is unseen—why bring Him in needlessly? And in the end you too accept that God is uncreated—so if an uncreated event is possible, why not the world?

The theist has no answer. The truth is: the theist does not really argue. It is the pandits who argue, and they are always defeated by atheists. No theist scholar can defeat an atheist scholar. The ground on which the atheist stands is fit for logic; the ground on which the theist stands has no relation with logic. If you fight on the other’s ground—you will lose. But in life the theist wins, the atheist loses.

Not a single atheist has attained Buddha’s life. Not a single atheist has attained the majesty of Mahavira. Not a single atheist has attained the compassion of Jesus. Not a single atheist has been seen as full of dance as Krishna. In life the atheist utterly loses. But in intellect the atheist has great speed—there is no way to beat him there.

Now the question is: even if you win in argument, what will it yield? People come to me, and I say: I have no objection—remain an atheist; but what are you gaining from atheism? That is what I want to know. If some great peace is descending, some great bliss, some unprecedented happening—then I shall pray to God that your atheism may increase; you are on the right path. Go on.

But they say: no joy is growing, no peace is deepening; life is filled with suffering. “But there is no God.” I tell them: think again—could it be that because you deny God, life is filled with suffering? For those who accepted Him—their life overflowed with joy.

Now decide: are you more fond of logical conclusions, or of the joy of life? Do you want an “aha” in life, or merely a mathematical sum? If you are satisfied with the sum—fine: there is no God. If you are unsatisfied in life, you will have to seek God. You will have to alter yourself somehow so that you can feel His presence.

What then is the way for those who do not naturally come to His experience?

First, understand this: do not give your attention to intellect and reasoning; give it to life. Be concerned with this: what is the outcome of my life?

A man stands thirsty on a riverbank. We say, “Drink—water is flowing; your thirst will be quenched.” He replies, “I need an argument for how thirst can be quenched by water. Why should water quench thirst? What proof? Water is made of hydrogen and oxygen. Thirst is not quenched by drinking hydrogen, nor by oxygen. Then how can their combination quench thirst? If neither element has the property, how can the compound have it? From where can the thirst-quenching quality arise? You are mistaken, in illusion.”

He will defeat you in logic. “Analyze the water—where is the thirst-quenching element? Neither hydrogen nor oxygen quenches thirst; combined they form water. How then?”

But that man will die thirsty by the river. His argument is flawless. And if people had drunk water only after arguing, all would have perished long ago. But people do not argue—they drink, and thirst is gone. They say: “We are not concerned with logic; we are concerned with the quenching of thirst. How thirst is quenched is beside the point. Which element in water quenches thirst is irrelevant. We only know: we drink, and thirst disappears.”

Care about your life: your life is full of misery, anguish, deep pain. The one who lives in God has become free of anguish and pain. In his life there is a dance, a music, a fragrance. If that fragrance and music attract you, if they pull you, then atheism will fall away and the sense of His being will arise.

I call the atheist self-destructive—because he deprives himself of that without which life’s flower can never fully blossom. History bears witness: the greatest atheist has not been able to flower as has even a minor theist. The greatest atheist loses in life even to the smallest theist.

A thinker as great an atheist as Bertrand Russell—what is he compared to Ramakrishna Paramhansa? In argument Ramakrishna cannot defeat Russell; he will be badly beaten. No argument can convince Russell; whatever Ramakrishna says, Russell can dismantle. But that is not of value. If Russell and Ramakrishna stand face to face, Russell’s life is insipid; there is no rasa, no soft flowing current—only a deep sadness. In Ramakrishna there is an aura, a thrill, an energy that seems to come from some great source.

If we consider only intellect, atheism will appear meaningful. If we consider life, very soon we will come to the sense: God is. Keep your attention on life.

Two days ago a young woman wished to take sannyas. She was wavering: “Shall I, shall I not?” Everyone wavers when taking a new step. I told her: “Understand one thing. You have lived twenty-five years without sannyas. If you don’t take sannyas, you will remain as you were. You have twenty-five years’ experience of non-sannyas. You have no experience of sannyas. Its door is new. Something may happen—there is a possibility. At worst, nothing will happen; but nothing is happening even now. At worst, the worst that can happen is that nothing happens. Nothing has happened for twenty-five years—you have nothing to lose. But a possibility opens—a hope, a new step.”

To change the well-worn path upon which nothing has happened—and to hesitate even a moment—is sheer ignorance. If something had happened, there would be no question of choosing the new; you should continue. If nothing has happened, you should have the courage to choose the new.

We go on walking the beaten track without ever considering that nothing happens upon it. For twenty-five years, for twenty-five lives we have been walking it—and nothing happens. How many lives have you already lived relying on intellect? This life too you have wasted upon logic and mind.

Step a little aside, descend into that dense forest which is not of the intellect. The roads of intellect are well-paved—clean, even, cemented. Milestones stand along them. You know exactly where you are, where you are going, from where you have come.

But along the roadsides are the dense forests of life, where hidden springs sing, where fragrant flowers bloom, where birds pour out their songs. Those paths are not clear; there is fear there, danger there; there is no safety of the road, no crowd to accompany you. There is aloneness. But there too is the possibility of life’s depth opening. There is the risk of losing the way—and the possibility of arriving.

For this paved road leads nowhere. It is clean and comfortable; the crowd is always with you—no fear, no loneliness. But it leads nowhere. It brings you back to where you began—circular. No conclusion ripens from it.

The person to whom such a sense of life comes will soon arrive at that place where, without argument, without proof, without cause, he says: “Paramatma is.”

He is—how else could He be available except to those who say so!

Therefore one must first accept Paramatma as “He is”—with firm conviction. First let there be a solid assurance of His existence. Thereafter one should realize Him in His essence—in tattva-bhava.

First let the heart’s sense arise: He is. Let the fragrance of His being begin to change our life. Let it draw us—let it become our love. Then something becomes possible—then transformation can happen. Then even a slight glimpse—and we can gamble. Then we can accept the challenge, and be ready to pour our whole life into Him, to melt into Him, to attune and become one. But that first sense—He is, that first glimpse of His existence—can come only to those who are ready not to think merely with the intellect, but to consider life in its wholeness, to see life in its totality. And to look at life—suffering or joy?

Take suffering or joy as your touchstone—your assay. Keep testing on this. If there is suffering in your life, then whatever you think is wrong. Whether it is logically right or wrong is not the point. If life is sorrowful, the very structure of your thinking is wrong—your dimension is wrong. And if there is joy in your life, I tell you: whatever you think is right—without even asking what you think. For the fruit of right thinking is joy; the fruit of wrong thinking is sorrow.

There are Western thinkers like Sartre who say: life is suffering. Buddha also said: life is duḥkha. But Buddha said so to awaken you—to say: life as you live it is suffering; so that you may reach the point where life is no longer suffering. Sartre’s statement sounds like Buddha’s—“life is suffering”—but the purpose is utterly different.

Sartre says: life is suffering, and there is no way to transcend; nothing beyond—this is the whole of life. Suffering is existence. But why does Sartre cling so strongly to “suffering is existence”? One’s own life is the final proof. We cannot enter another’s life; we enter our own. If my life is suffering, I extend it and make it the truth of all life: life is suffering.

All truths are personal—then we inflate them and make them universal. If my life is suffering, I assume the world is suffering. To the suffering man, suffering is everywhere; even the moon in the sky looks melancholy. Everywhere disturbance, anxiety, anguish—because within there is suffering.

Sartre never considers that it may be only my wrong way of being that makes life suffering—because we have also seen Krishna’s life, which is not suffering; we have seen Buddha’s life, which is not suffering; we have seen Lao Tzu’s life, in which not even a distant hint of suffering appears—pure bliss. Among us there have been, and are, those in supreme bliss. Sartre says they are deluded.

Curiously, Sartre is not ready to admit that his suffering may be a delusion—but Krishna’s bliss is delusion.

I tell you: even if suffering is true, it is worth exchanging for illusory bliss. What will you do keeping true suffering? Even illusory bliss is worth choosing. And once someone chooses, he begins to discover that the illusion was the suffering; bliss is not illusory. But this is known only by experience—there is no other way.

The first perception: Paramatma is. The second step: realization of Him in His essence.

Of these two, for the seeker who firmly accepts “He is,” the essential form of Paramatma reveals itself of its own accord in a pure heart.

If the first event happens, the second gradually happens by itself. But without the seed, where will the tree come from? People sit without sowing the seed and wait for sprouting, for the tree, for flowers and fruit. When they do not come, they shout, “There is no tree at all!” But they never sowed the seed. They wait without sowing!

The atheist is like one who wants the vision of the tree of life without sowing the seed. In this sense the theist is more scientific: he first sows the seed, then waits—and tends it. His waiting bears fruit one day. Time will be needed—the seed will crack, sprout, grow. But the one who has sown can wait—however long it takes. If the seed has truly been sown, there is hope and possibility of the tree.

The seed is this feeling: “God is.” Sow it. Tend it—because there are many disturbances around. If a stone is placed atop the seed, sprouting will be difficult. If no water is allowed, sprouting will be difficult. Even if it sprouts, there are animals all around that can graze it—so you will need a fence.

And just as a seed needs tending, so does this feeling. Disturbances abound. Anyone may say, “What are you doing! There is no God!” You do not know for sure; the feeling is still tiny, very tender—anyone can break it. If someone speaks loudly, you may feel: “He speaks so forcefully—surely he is right.”

At the university where I studied, its founder was a renowned lawyer, Dr. Hari Singh Gour. He would tell his students: always carry the law books to court. At the mere sight, the magistrate is a bit intimidated; the opposing lawyer is a bit afraid; your own courage rises—scripture is on your side. And if your client is in accord with the law, cite as many legal passages as possible. Rather than worrying too much about proving your client right, keep quoting scripture.

Sometimes students asked, “What if we are on the side of the wrong man?” He would say, “Then speak as loudly as you can and bang the table as hard as your strength allows—your fervor and the table-thumping will suggest you must be right. The wrong man speaks fearfully; his voice trembles beforehand.”

Note this: there are many in life who bang the table and speak loudly—so loudly that you are shocked; you feel: the point must be right, else why speak so loudly? And your sprout is very small. Perhaps you had just placed the seed in the soil when someone said, “There is no God.” You pull up the seed to see whether it is really there or if you were in illusion. But whoever keeps digging up the seed destroys its capacity to sprout. It will become inert.

People are all around. Do not listen to what they say; look at what they are. Then no harm can come to you. Do not attend to their words; attend to their being. Watch their life, not their speech—then you will not be harmed. Your seed will remain safe.

Surely, the one who has not sown has no fear; he roams fearlessly—he has nothing to protect, nothing to preserve. But the one who has sown will have to be a little cautious, sit near the seed, a little bound to it at first, waiting and tending.

Beware of those who roam fearlessly, saying anything whatsoever—they have sown nothing. They can roam; they have nothing to save and nothing to lose. If you have something to lose, you have something to protect.

The theist must remain continually alert that the tender, sprouting current of life in his field is not destroyed. Petty things, useless stones, can destroy it. There are those around who take delight in destruction—break anything whatsoever and they feel powerful.

Those who know nothing at all, they too keep speaking. If a person begins to meditate, anyone—friend, family, acquaintances, strangers—will say, “There is nothing in meditation.” As if they had meditated! As if they were experienced meditators. When someone speaks about meditation, first inquire: how much meditation has this person done? In other matters you do not accept anyone’s word so quickly—but here you accept at once.

If one says, “This medicine is not right for the disease,” you ask, “What degree do you have? Are you an M.D.? An M.B.B.S.? Do you know Ayurveda? Are you a hakim? At least a homeopath? What are you?” If he says, “I don’t believe in such things; no need to read anything; nothing comes of medicine,” you understand there is no need to listen to him.

But concerning meditation, any ignoramus says anything—and you immediately waver: “Perhaps I am making a mistake!” You do not even ask, “Is this man a meditator?”

Buddha repeatedly told his monks: on the matter of meditation, ask only meditators—otherwise you will go astray. Because in this world the ego is so dense that no one agrees to say, “I do not know.” Everyone is ready to advise.

Only one thing is free on this earth: advice. And it comes in such abundance as to defy measure. Everyone is ready—if you ask; even if you don’t, they come knocking on your door to give it. You never even consider from where they speak—how much reach they have in meditation; how much have they prayed; how much have they drowned in God-love; how much of existence have they experienced.

So do not listen to people’s words—see where they are.

When the desires lodged in the seeker’s heart are utterly destroyed, then the mortal man becomes immortal—and here itself he realizes Brahman well.

When all the knots of the heart are completely opened, then the mortal man, in this very body, becomes immortal. This alone is the eternal teaching.

Two points. First: when the desires lodged in the seeker’s heart are destroyed root and branch, the mortal man becomes immortal. Why? How will the destruction of desires make the mortal immortal? There is a reason.

Man is immortal already; it is only the passions that are mortal. Only desires die. The man never dies—only desires die. But we are so filled with desires that we do not even know we are anything besides them. When desires die, we feel: I am dying; I am being destroyed; I am ending.

Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, a great thinker of Bengal, wrote a reminiscence. The Viceroy’s Council was to honor him for being a great scholar. Vidyasagar wore the dress of a poor Bengali—kurta and dhoti—plain, simple. Friends said, “Going before the Viceroy’s Council dressed like this will look bad; it won’t seem right. We will arrange a fine outfit for you—splendid things are needed before the Viceroy.” Vidyasagar agreed; the point appealed to him. But a worry remained within: “Am I to change my lifelong garb merely to receive a title, for honor? It will not even look right—childish—to stand there decked out.” Yet he lacked the courage to say it.

The evening before he was to go to the Council, he went for a walk, much disturbed. A Muslim walked past, with a cane, slowly, in his sherwani. A servant came running, “Mir Sahib, your house is on fire—please hurry!” “All right,” he said—but his pace remained the same. Vidyasagar was startled: did the man not understand, or was there some mistake? The servant grew agitated: “Mir Sahib, not like this—the house is burning—hurry!”

The Muslim said, “Unless I am burning, there is no reason to hurry. The house is burning, I am not. Why should I change a lifetime’s gait because a house burns? And why are you so upset? What of yours is burning?”

Vidyasagar, who had nothing to do with that house, was himself alarmed at hearing “the house is burning.” His heart too had raced. He marveled: “What kind of man is this! I too got flustered merely hearing it, though it was nothing of mine. This man is unwilling to change his gait because his house burns. And I, for the sake of a title, have agreed to change my dress.” The next day he appeared in his poor garb. His friends were shocked. Later they asked, “What did you do?” He said, “Leave it. One man changed my life. He said, ‘Unless I myself am burning, nothing is burning. There is no need to hurry.’”

Your desires die—you do not. But you are so identified with desires! Your house burns—you do not. But the “my” is so strong that, seeing the burning house, you feel you are burning, and begin to burn.

Desires alone are mortal. When a man trembles before death, he does not tremble because he is dying—he has never died—but because all his desires are dying. All his hopes are shattered; all that he had planned for the future is lost; all the arrangements made in the past for fruits to come—those trees have fallen; everything is being ruined.

The sutra speaks truly: when the seeker’s desires drop, he becomes immortal. The seeker is amrita already; association with desires creates the illusion of being mortal. We catch the illusion of that with which we identify.

And when do desires fall away? Desires cannot fall until the sense of God’s being arises—because desires exist as we seek joy and life lacks joy. What are desires? Our search for joy, our longing to attain bliss, our dreams. Life is full of sorrow—so desires exist.

There seem two ways to remove this sorrow. One appears to remove it but does not in truth—that by fulfilling desires sorrow will end. This is the atheist’s journey, the materialist’s journey: fulfill all desires and then there will be joy. The theist’s journey is: when joy is attained, desires vanish.

Understand this well: the atheist’s logic says—joy after the fulfillment of desires. The theist’s logic says—when joy is fulfilled, desires dissolve. When joy is within, desires end; they were because of sorrow. What desires sought becomes present within—desires drop.

When the destination is found within, why run on roads? We run on roads because the goal is elsewhere. But through the roads of passion no one ever reached any destination. Whenever someone did reach, the destination was within.

As remembrance of the Lord deepens, as the feeling “God is” becomes dense, as joy arises, desires fall away—then death falls away.

When all the knots of the heart are completely opened, then the mortal man, in this very body, becomes immortal. This alone is the eternal teaching.

This is the second point: when all the knots of the heart are opened…

Indian wisdom has always understood the heart as a flower. As it is now, your heart is a closed bud—not opened. And as we live, it may never open; it has grown inert; the petals have perhaps lost their capacity; or perhaps not enough sap flows within for the petals to open; or perhaps not enough light falls upon the flower for the petals to unfurl—lifeless, withered.

In yoga, two states of our chakras are described. In the ordinary man, filled with passions, the chakras hang like wilted buds—drooping downward. The branch bows with the weight of the withered bud; the bud hangs downward. This is the state of the worldly man’s chakras.

As energy rises upward, as prana begins to flow through your life-tree, these buds become fresh; they lift up; they stand erect. The flower’s direction changes, and the upward-rushing energy begins to open the petals. One day all the flowers within open.

So long as your energy flows downward, the buds remain buds. When energy flows upward, the buds become flowers. Energy flows downward as long as desires exist—because desires are the downward path. Energy flows upward when desires fall. All the knots of the heart are broken; all complexes, all bonds, all rigidity dissolves. The heart becomes an open flower.

The very moment this flower opens, as its fragrance spreads, in this very body man becomes immortal. This does not mean the body will not die. The body will die—but that which is within will never die. For the attainment of this amrita, death is not necessary; while living in this very body the taste of immortality is known.

This alone is the eternal teaching.

Yama said to Nachiketa: this little is the eternal teaching. This has always been said by the wise. Those who have known have indicated it to others. But neither by speech, nor by mind, nor by senses can this truth be known. It is known by descending deep into the feeling of the heart that “God is.” The name of this descent is faith—āstikya.

Whoever understands this depth and begins to descend—as this trust thickens, as this shraddha grows intimate, as the journey turns inward—the sense of immortality thickens in this very body.

When passions fall, man becomes immortal in this very body.

Prepare for meditation.