Kathopanishad #3

Man evolves in two ways. One: his means, his conveniences, his property, his possessions go on increasing, but the soul does not grow. And the other: his inner consciousness expands. Whatever we can get in the world does not truly develop us. Our power may grow; our palaces may become larger; our wealth may swell; our knowledge may become a vast hoard, memory may be brimming; degrees, honors, welcomes may come our way — yet the inner consciousness, the inner soul, the Being, remains as undeveloped as it was at birth.
This outer race seizes everyone. The inner race, only with great difficulty, ever seizes anyone. There are reasons for this.
The outer race catches us easily because the outer is experienced through the senses. Things are seen by the eyes, sounds are heard by the ears, the nose reports fragrances, taste is savored. All the instruments of the body bring news of the outside, none bring news of the within. The body has evolved precisely to bring reports of the outside. The body is a bridge between the soul and the outer, therefore the body reports the outer. As soon as this news is received, consciousness starts running toward the outside.
The eyes see outward; they do not see within. And wherever we can see, there the path also appears to be known. All the senses are extrovert. They must be. For there is no need of introvert senses. What is within me I can know even without the senses. What is outside, there is no way to know without the senses.
All the senses of man have evolved out of the urge to know the outer world. My hands can touch you. With my hands I can grasp everything — everything except my own hand. My eyes can see all, except my own eyes. The eye cannot see the eye.
Naturally thus, consciousness flows outward. And we become engaged in outer accumulation, in the world outside, in things outside — in increasing them, in developing them. Thus one man becomes wealthy and remains inwardly poor. Thus one man becomes mighty — in the outer world — but remains inwardly mean. And so long as there is inner poverty, no outer power or might will be of any use.
Secondly, all around us people are running outward — and the mind of man is great at imitation. Everything we learn, we learn by imitation. The language spoken at home the child will learn. Naturally, there is no other way to learn any language. The religion the parents hold, the child too will begin to hold. The temple where they pray and worship, he too will begin to go. The direction in which the people of the home, the family, the village, the society, the nation are running — the child will join that very race.
We flow with the crowd. Since all are running outward, we run along with them. The whole education is about the outer journey; there is no education for the inner journey.
This land once made an attempt. When the Upanishads were composed, that attempt had reached its peak. Before any child could be tied to the world outside, we used to send him to the gurukul — to those who were running toward the within. Before he went toward the outside, we wanted to give him a taste of the inner.
If even once that taste comes, then no outer taste can ever be more precious than it. And once the relish of this is known — that there too is an inner world — then all the outer rush begins to look pale and dull. Then even if one goes outward, he goes out of duty, not out of craving. Then even if one remains engaged in outer life, he is engaged as a witness, not as a consumer.
Only India made a unique experiment: before the crowd could seize a man and he begin to be carried outward, we sent him to the gurukul so that he would sit in the presence of those who are flowing inward. In that breeze he too might flow within. If a little awakening happened, if a little music began to be heard, if the inner veena sounded a little, then we would send him into the world — unafraid.
In this land we made four stages of life. We called the first stage brahmacharya. This is a very unique word. It means: conduct like Brahman; God-like movement; Brahman-like behavior. The word is not as small as people take it to be. People think perhaps brahmacharya is semen-retention. This is a very paltry interpretation. Retention happens naturally. But if there is God-like conduct, then retention follows like a shadow. It is neither a fundamental, nor a foundational matter. The one who is running outward — even his semen runs outward. The one who has begun to move inward — the current of his semen also becomes inward.
God-like conduct means: whose life-consciousness is going within — and within — and yet more within. Consciousness moving toward the center is brahmacharya. Consciousness moving outside oneself is abrahmacharya. Consciousness going toward the other is lust. Consciousness returning toward oneself is brahmacharya.
For twenty-five years we used to send youths to the gurukul so that they might learn to flow inward. Before the taste of the world could arise, let them have a little taste of the Supreme. Then there is no fear. The world can never make them forget. That remembrance abides. The inner call goes on. Some melody keeps sounding within. And then however loudly wealth may call, it will be hard to drown that inner voice.
However much women may attract men, or men attract women, that attraction remains pale. One who has once seen the inner man or the inner woman — for him the outer is shadow, mere picture; outside nothing is anymore real. No attraction remains. None can pull him. Then we considered him fit to go into the world.
It is a strange thing: let him taste the beyond-world, then send him into the world. The purpose was precious. Then even if he went into the world, the world could not reach within him. One who had created even a small understanding of the inner would pass through the world untouched. He would walk through the river, yet water would not touch his feet. He would pass through all the same places you pass, yet he would pass like a guest. This house would be only a dharmashala, a wayside inn. This family would hold no more value than a play. Whatever was necessary he would do — but there would be no craving that becomes derangement.
Thus we made him a householder in the second stage. Such a unique experiment was never repeated on earth. And until it is repeated, the earth will remain filled with great sorrow and pain.
Before going outside, the feet within must be firmly planted. Before the hand touches money, the experience of one’s own wealth must dawn. Then money will be a means. We will use it — but money will no longer be our master.
So after brahmacharya, we would send him into the life of a householder — go, marry, have children. See the world, live the world. But this person lived in another way. The quality of his living was different. For he could be a witness. We cannot be witnesses; we become enjoyers.
To be an enjoyer is misery. To be a witness is supreme bliss. And even if you throw a witness into hell, you cannot put him into sorrow. And even if you place an enjoyer in heaven, you cannot take him out of misery.
The enjoyer-mind will be miserable. For the enjoyer-mind has certain marks. First: whatever he gets seems less. Second: whatever he gets seems useless; only what he does not get seems meaningful. Third: his desires are infinite, and the means to fulfill them are always finite.
Therefore it is impossible ever to bring the enjoyer-mind into any kind of happiness. He will be miserable everywhere. His sorrow arises within. Everything is colored by his sorrow.
To make a witness miserable is impossible. The witness too has marks. First: whatever event happens, he regards himself as separate from it. Whatever is happening, he sees himself at a distance. He knows, I am only the seer. So if sorrow is happening, he is the seer of sorrow. He cannot become one with sorrow. And until you become one with sorrow, you cannot be sorrowful.
Second: whatever comes, he is grateful. Whatever comes, he takes as grace of the Divine. Whatever comes, he does not regard it as the fruit of his doing but as His compassion. For the witness never becomes a doer, therefore he cannot say, I did, therefore I received. He always says, I did nothing, and all this has been given — therefore I am obliged. His sense of grace has no limit. His thankfulness, his wonder of gratitude, is infinite.
Understand this well.
Witnessing means: he knows, I have never done anything. I am only the seer. So whatever has happened has not happened by me; I am not the doer in it. Therefore whatever happens is the Lord’s compassion.
You cannot snatch away happiness from a witness. He knows the art by which happiness spreads around him. As the spider draws out from within and spins its web, so the enjoyer spins a web of sorrow around himself, and the witness spins a web of bliss around himself.
Then the witness has no craving. For when I cannot be the doer, then all desire to do is futile. And one who has no craving, no expectation — you can never make him miserable. Sorrow comes from the breaking of expectation.
I have heard: a man sat very sad and miserable. He owned a big hotel — a very busy hotel. A friend asked, Why do you look so sad these days? Some difficulty in business? He said, Great difficulty. Business is running at a big loss. The friend said, I don’t see how — so many guests coming and going! And every evening when I pass by, your door carries the sign 'No Vacancy', that there is no room — business must be brisk! The man said, You know nothing. Fifteen days ago when we hung 'No Vacancy' in the evening, at least fifty people still knocked. Now only ten or fifteen come. Fifteen days ago fifty went away for want of rooms; now only ten or fifteen go away. Business is running at a great loss.
A mind full of expectations is bound to be miserable.
I was a guest in a home. The hostess said, Please explain to my husband what has come over him — he is continuously worried: a loss of five lakhs! It is not clear to me how a loss occurred; there has been no loss. I asked the husband. He said, There has been a loss — we hoped for a profit of ten lakhs, only five came. Certainly a loss: five lakhs gone out of hand.
A mind full of expectation experiences loss even when there is profit. A mind full of witnessing experiences profit even in loss — for I did nothing, and whatever came is also supreme grace; it is also a gift of existence.
Thus we made a man a householder when he had caught a little glimpse of the inner witness. Then there was a wife, but he could never become a husband. Then there were children; he cared for them, but he could never become a father. He built a house, ran a shop — but all as if acting upon a stage. And he waited for the day when that inner journey, left incomplete at twenty-five, could be completed. At fifty he entered vanaprastha.
Vanaprastha meant that his gaze turned again toward the forest. From the forest his journey had begun; again he looked toward the forest. But he did not leave yet, because his children would be returning from the gurukul at twenty-five. If the father left suddenly, the children would be in difficulty. They had some experience of the inner, but needed education in the snares of the outer world.
So the father stayed at home for twenty-five more years. Until seventy-five he stayed. His face toward the forest; he began uprooting his camp from the home. But the children returning from the ashram — he had to pass on to them his experience of the world’s arrangements. And when he reached seventy-five, he took sannyas. He returned to the forest. For by then his children were nearing fifty; their time for vanaprastha had arrived.
Those who took sannyas at seventy-five became gurus. Little children reached them. Such was our circle. One who had seen all the stages of life and returned to the forest — to him we sent our little ones, that they might bring back from him the essence and key to life.
There must be this much distance between teacher and student. Today the world is inconvenienced: there is no feeling of respect between teacher and student. Nor can there be — because there is no distance. Sometimes it even happens that the student may be more experienced than the teacher. And if there is any distance, it is so small — an inch or two — that no reverence can arise in it.
But a seventy-five-year-old elder, who has gathered the whole experience of brahmacharya, householder, vanaprastha, and sannyas — when little children came to him, they felt they had come near a snow-clad peak. Its summit so high, touching the sky! There reverence was spontaneous.
People say, One should respect the guru. I say, He whose respect happens of itself — he alone is guru. There is no question of should. Wherever should arises, reverence cannot happen. Reverence cannot be imposed; it cannot be demanded.
There are two journeys in life — one toward the within, one toward the without.
Now let us enter this sutra.
Having thus tested him, when Yama understood that Nachiketa is resolute, supremely dispassionate and fearless, and thus the most worthy recipient of Brahmavidya, then — before beginning to impart Brahmavidya — he proclaimed its significance...
He examined many things. First he understood that this Nachiketa is filled with the mood of dispassion. Only one filled with dispassion can go within. One filled with attachment will go outward. For we go where we expect gratification. The gratification of attachment is outside, the gratification of desire is outside, the gratification of lust is outside. Wishes — whether fulfilled or not — have their mirage of fulfillment outside.
When Yama became certain that Nachiketa had attained dispassion, then he felt Brahmavidya could be spoken. For Brahmavidya means: to go utterly within; to reach that point where only the within remains, and the without disappears. The outside simply ceases to be. No such event as the outer remains. Everything happens within. The whole existence gets absorbed within. The entire current of life returns to the center. But this will happen only when life-energies are not being dissipated outward in desires.
Dispassion means: the tendency to go outward has vanished. Only then can one enter Brahmavidya.
Yama saw that Nachiketa is dispassionate, resolute. He cannot be shaken. A seeker of Brahmavidya must have decisiveness.
But our mind trembles. Someone says a small thing, all our resolves evaporate. Someone sows a small doubt, immediately doubts arise in us. People are afraid; the theist is afraid of listening to the atheist! Such weak theists! What is there to fear? Perhaps atheism may shake theism.
And the theism that is shaken by a word of atheism is worth two pennies. What is its value? It is worse than atheism. At least atheists are not afraid of theists! I have never seen an atheist afraid that a theist may unseat him. An atheist does not fear. He looks for the theist so that he can unseat him. Strange indeed.
In none of their scriptures have the atheists written: Do not listen to theists, for doubt will arise. The theists have written: Do not listen to the atheists, do not read their scriptures, for the mind will be unsettled.
But remember, the mind shakes only when it is in a condition to shake. Only when you want to be moved can anyone move you.
So I say: if you are a theist, settle atheists around you. They will keep shaking you to see whether you shake or not. And if an atheist can shake you, understand that theism has not yet arisen. Do not impose false theism upon yourself.
It seems to me this is why there appear to be so many theists in the world — they must be false, otherwise the very ground would have changed. How many on earth are theists? In a hundred, perhaps one or two atheists. Ninety-nine are theists. These ninety-nine do not make this earth religious — and one atheist keeps it irreligious. A wonder! These ninety-nine theists are false. There is no faith within them. They have covered themselves outwardly with a veneer of resolve. Therefore whenever anyone speaks of doubt, the hidden doubts begin to ripple within. They lie concealed inside.
Only what is hidden within can be aroused in you. Understand this as a supreme principle. What is not within you cannot be created by anyone. If doubt is within, anyone can create doubt. If faith is within, only then can anyone create faith within. What is not within you has no way to be born within.
Yama made a big effort to shake him. With this small child, Yama seems to be a little unjust. He tempts an innocent child! If you think about it, it seems Yama is a bit excessive — telling this innocent boy of perhaps five or seven years: I will give you the apsaras of heaven! It seems too much. He is trying to pervert this innocent child! Telling this small boy: I will make you emperor of the whole world; ask for whatever you want, I will give. Small children are tempted by toys — here the temptation is for the empire of the whole world! We must say Yama is putting him to a hard test. Even old people get entangled in toys.
A young man came to me. I asked, Do your father and mother ever come here? He said, No, my father has no time — he keeps cleaning his car! He does not even drive it, lest it get spoiled! Always tinkering. Sometimes he changes this, sometimes that. Sometimes adds new gadgets; decorates. All day he is absorbed in the car. No time. My mother wants to come, he said, but since father is at home twenty-four hours, she too cannot.
The car has become a toy. No longer a vehicle to take one somewhere. There is no question of going anywhere. He does not take it out lest it be spoiled. But things decay even when they are not used, so he keeps patching it.
It is understandable when small children play with toys. But big children too go on playing with toys. You too consider how much you worry about your things. The whole life is consumed in anxiety over things.
To tell this little boy: I will give you the empire of the whole world. To tell him: live as long as you wish; however long a life you want! Let your sons be thousands of years old, your grandsons thousand-year-olds — let your life-journey be so long!
Remember, a child has no sense of death. Even old people struggle to gain a sense of death. One who truly senses death will take sannyas. Death brings sannyas, brings dispassion. Till the last breath, man wants to go on living. Even if the last breath is breaking, tell someone, Now you are dying — he will look at you like an enemy.
I have heard: a youth returned after studying astrology. His father was an old, seasoned astrologer. He said to his son, Do not rush. Astrology is a deep art. It is not necessary to speak truth in it. Often one must avoid truth. And even when truth must be spoken, it has to be said in such a way that its impact is hidden. One must also speak untruth. It is a very sweet art. Scripture-knowledge alone will not do. Wait. Do not begin showing astrology to everyone.
But the youth said, I have returned from Kashi, I have completed all knowledge, I cannot wait. I will go to the emperor. With what I know I can proclaim what is to happen. The father said, As you wish. I too will come behind.
The father said, First let me say something to the emperor, let me see his hand; then you see. The father looked and said, The empire will increase; in your life, sunrise is near. The youth was surprised, for the lines said something else — the man was close to death.
The emperor honored the father, gave money and precious gifts. The son looked at the hand and said, One thing is certain — you will not live beyond seven days. The emperor had him flogged. The father stood watching, laughing. He brought the beaten boy home and said, See, what is written in the scripture is for the wise. Where are the wise! It was apparent to me too that he would die in seven days — but one must announce what is to happen only if one must himself die before him. Saying truth is not enough; what does he want, what is his desire — more than the lines of his hand, it is necessary to read the lines of his wishes.
Thus when you go to an astrologer, he reads the lines of your desires. He tries to see where your cravings run, and assists them as far as he can.
Even at the last breath man does not want to hear that he is dying.
To tempt this small child who has not yet known life with a long life — a bit too much! But Yama exaggerated — so that if the child could be shaken, he would be shaken. And remember, before death we are all small children. Till the end of life, temptations shake us. Doubts wobble us. Anyone can put us in difficulty — anyone! There is no need of a mighty one like Death; anyone can.
People come to me and say, We meditate, great joy had begun to arise — then someone said, What are you doing? Is this any meditation? A doubt arose. If joy was coming, how so quickly did doubt arise? At least see whether this doubt brings any joy! Go in the direction from which joy is coming. For ultimately, if one keeps seeking joy alone, he will reach the Divine.
Therefore, in defining the Divine we have said Satchidananda — the final state of bliss. If one simply keeps testing one’s instrument — wherever joy comes, I go — then however much one may wander, he will not be lost forever.
But even when joy comes, anyone can wobble you. Doubt sits inside; people outside only point to it and bring it up. You are already afraid — Who knows what I am doing? Perhaps this is madness? Your fear becomes your doubt; others are only occasions.
Yama tried his best, but found that there is no way to shake Nachiketa. Resolute. Supremely dispassionate. Fearless. Therefore the most worthy receptacle of Brahmavidya.
These three things make one worthy: dispassion — that consciousness is willing to move inward; decisiveness — that what we choose to do we can do with our whole being; fearlessness — that fear does not unsteady us.
Remember, as long as there is fear, there is greed. Fear and greed are two sides of one coin. One who is fearful can be dropped into greed at once. One who is greedy can be frightened. Remember, they are joined together. Often people try to become fearless, but they do not know — till greed remains they cannot be fearless. Greed is the root of fear. So long as you ask for something, you will be afraid.
I have heard: Chuang Tzu, a great Chinese mystic, was a minister to an emperor. Then he left the post, took sannyas, and lived under a tree in the forest. The emperor came hunting. His friends said, Your old minister Chuang Tzu lives nearby under a tree. If you are curious, let us see him. The emperor said, Certainly — worth seeing. What happened to Chuang Tzu? He knew the minister well — very cultured.
The emperor came and stood. Chuang Tzu sat with legs outstretched, playing his little tambourine. He kept his legs outstretched. This was most improper. The emperor stands before you and you sit with legs out! The emperor said, Chuang Tzu, sannyas is alright — but do not abandon culture. Why are your legs stretched?
Chuang Tzu said, The day greed dropped, that day fear also dropped. I want nothing from you; I fear nothing from you. My legs were not folded due to culture; they folded because of greed. I used to be afraid. You could snatch something. What you could snatch, I have already dropped. Now there is no fear of you. You think you are an emperor — for me you are as any other passerby on the road. You were an emperor once — that was because of my greed. I could get from you what I could not get from another. Now? Now you are like any passerby. Why should I fold my legs — there is no fear now.
As soon as greed goes, fear also goes.
When Yama saw that such great temptations do not tempt Nachiketa, naturally he is fearless. He has no fear. He has attained abhay. He is worthy of Brahmavidya.
So Yama said: Shreya — the means of blessedness — is one thing; Preya — the means of the pleasant — is another. Both, giving different fruits, bind man and pull him toward themselves. Of the two, one who chooses Shreya, the means of blessedness, attains well-being. But he who accepts Preya, the means of worldly pleasures, is deprived of real benefit.
Shreya and Preya both come before man. The wise, having considered well the nature of both, separate and understand them. And the supremely intelligent chooses only the means of ultimate blessedness, deeming it superior to the means of pleasure. But the dull-witted, desiring worldly security and gain, adopts Preya — the means of indulgence.
These two words are very precious — Shreya and Preya. Shreya means: that which is superior, that which is true, that which is ultimate — auspicious, Shiva. Preya means: that which is dear, pleasant; which delights and colors the mind; which promises to gratify some desire.
Preya means: that by which desire is exhilarated. Shreya means: that by which the Atman is exhilarated. Preya means: the mind feels that this will bring joy — but it never does. For feeling has no necessary connection with reality.
You may feel that oil could be squeezed from sand — but feeling means nothing. In the desert you may feel that the distant oasis is real — but your seeing does not make it real. When you come near you find — it was all a play of rays. There is no oasis; only mirage. What appears to you is not necessarily true.
Preya means: that which appears as though it will gratify — but on attaining, it does not. A man thinks: if only this woman were mine; or this man. As long as it is not attained, all dreams circle around it. But when it is attained, a mirage falls into the hand. No love is ever fulfilled. And if one wants to remain a lover, to remain always in love, then it is necessary that closeness to the beloved never happen.
Rabindranath wrote a novel — and he spoke from deep experience. The protagonist loves a young woman, and says to her, Let us not marry, for marriage always breaks love. The girl cannot understand. It is natural to think, because we love, let us marry. The youth says, Even if we marry, you live on that shore of the lake, I on this side. We will meet sometimes — suddenly, casually. Or sometimes I will invite you, or you invite me — but let us not live together. The girl says, You are mad! We marry precisely to live together — twenty-four hours together. The youth says, Then love will die.
From deep experience Rabindranath wrote this. The story of thousands of loves is the same. Majnu still perhaps loves Laila, wherever he is, because Laila never became his. Had he attained her, he would have been freed forever.
It is a mirage. Preya means: those objects, those persons, those relationships which, from a distance, seem to bring great joy — but as you come near, joy disappears and sorrow thickens.
Exactly the reverse is Shreya. In Preya, at first there seems to be happiness and behind it comes sorrow. In Shreya, at first there seems sorrow and behind it comes happiness. Therefore Shreya is, in the beginning, tapas — self-chosen hardship. A willing acceptance of pain. Thus the seeker of Shreya will engage in tapas.
It is a great wonder: where happiness appears first, there sorrow comes later. We all have some experience — wherever happiness seemed to be, there we found sorrow. But we learned nothing. We did not learn the rule of life: that happiness appearing first is dangerous. It is in fact a temptation.
That happiness appearing first is like coating sugar over a bitter pill to make it swallowable. On every bitter tablet there is sugar. If you want to catch a fish you bait the hook with dough. Who sits on the riverbank to feed fish with dough! People sit with hooks. But the fish will not bite the hook; the fish wants the dough. So it is simple arithmetic: put dough on top, the hook within.
All our lives we do just this. Understand it — it concerns the deep psychology of life. In the West there is much inquiry, for the West made a big mistake: it based marriage upon love. Earlier marriages were arranged. The boy and girl had no relation — as if they were not even getting married. It was the affair of the parents. The priest matched horoscopes. The parents examined families and made the marriage. The boy and girl had nothing to do; marriage was between two families. Love had no place.
The West attempted a new experiment in the past two or three centuries, saying: arranged marriage — what kind of marriage is that! Marriage should arise from love. The statement is precious. But love-marriage is breaking. Divorces increase every day. In America, of a hundred marriages, fifty end in divorce. And those fifty which do not — do not think they live in great joy. They merely fail to gather the courage for divorce; there are obstacles.
Only in stories, or films — especially Indian films — everything ends at marriage: then they lived happily ever after! No one ever lives so. The king and queen were married and then lived happily ever after — the story ends there. In fact the story begins there. All the trouble begins there. Before that it was only the prologue — the dough. The hook begins where two persons are together.
In the West marriages are breaking because marriage is being built on love. Why would it break? There are reasons. Whenever two people fall in love, both show what is best in them, and hide what is worst.
If you fall in love — man or woman — you show to the beloved your most beautiful face. That is not your reality. It is not your wholeness — at most a facet. And it may be not even a facet — only a show. But when you meet in the marketplace, or in the garden, or under the moon and stars — this face can be shown. But when you live together twenty-four hours, the real person begins to appear. That real person is hell. Then the talk that happened under the moon and stars falls apart.
When two persons come close, their reality is revealed. Both hells appear. The faces they had shown are discarded, because you cannot wear them day and night.
I am saying that even two lovers show the dough and hide the hook. Therefore all marriages built on love break. Marriages cannot stand on love until lovers gather the courage to show their hooks. Two lovers should, before marriage, reveal their hells completely. If each consents to the other’s hell, then marriage should be. There will be no divorce. The cause of divorce will already have ended.
But both display their heaven. Both display the web of their dreams. The closer they come, dreams vanish — as the rainbow vanishes when you approach. It appears only from afar; do not make the mistake of going near.
This is so everywhere in life. Not only between husband and wife — between friends, between guru and disciple, between leader and follower — wherever there is relationship, there is dough. In a little while the sugar crust breaks and the hook comes out — for the hook is real and the coating is only a surface.
We have called Preya that in which first there is a glimpse of pleasure and later comes pain. We have experience of Preya. Shreya is the exact reverse. If it can happen that first pleasure shows and later pain comes, then the reverse can also happen: first pain, later joy.
Upon this basis we tried to create a different life. In this land we began the child’s life with severe hardship and tapas. To send children to the gurukul in the forest was difficult. There were no civilized conveniences. In the forest, amidst all difficulties and rigors, the child had to grow. The masters were stern. He had to labor — cut wood, herd cows, cut grass. Little children toiled, and then they received a little education. After twenty-five years of such tapas, when they came into life, even dry bread seemed delicious.
India was happy for long — not because India possessed everything, but because India’s education began with hardship. Today education begins with comfort; the whole earth is miserable. The facilities a student gets in the university and hostel his father cannot provide. And when, loaded with all these comforts, he returns home, marries, takes a job of a hundred rupees, and all sorts of hardships begin — life becomes a great misery.
Indeed, whatever begins with happiness ends in sorrow. And what begins with sorrow can end in happiness. Education in sorrow should be the primary stage; then contentment at the end of life becomes possible. But all parents think: give the children comfort. Poor children! At least give them comfort. They are organizing a lifetime of misery for them.
Tapas means: to accept suffering voluntarily. The aim of Shreya is the reverse of Preya — choose suffering first. Do not run from suffering; do not hide it. Do not fear suffering — rather, live it. So that the sting of suffering is drawn. And you become so acquainted with suffering that it cannot hurt you. After that, the great descent of joy happens in life.
Thus duty seems painful; morality seems painful. To do the auspicious is painful; the inauspicious carries great temptation. If a lakh rupees lies before you, two voices arise. One mind says, Take it — for behind the lakh is the possibility of great pleasures, the means of building palaces. Another mind says, Leave it. But leaving is painful. If you take it and choose theft, you have chosen Preya — and along with it, your life will be filled with sorrow.
But if you leave it — with courage — if you step back and kick away that lakh, you have chosen suffering. For the hope of the pleasures of the lakh ended. But in choosing this suffering, you are choosing Shreya — you are choosing non-stealing. And this non-stealing will lead you toward great bliss.
Theft has never made anyone happy. However much the thief may accumulate, he remains a thief — miserable. His soul remains suppressed. The flower of his being cannot bloom.
Shreya means: to choose suffering for the sake of the auspicious. Even if one must clearly pass through pain, endure torment, bear inconvenience, let hardship become fate — but for Shreya, for the good, for Shiva, one who accepts that hardship — his soul develops. His being becomes integrated, indivisible. He becomes one. This voluntary acceptance of hardship becomes fire — and in that fire his soul is purified.
But one who chooses petty pleasures — little by little he finds his soul fragmented. Desires — their race — their paraphernalia accumulate; the inner man is lost.
Nachiketa stands before both alternatives. Yama said: Shreya and Preya are two paths.
O Nachiketa, you are so desireless that, having deliberated well, you have renounced all the pleasant and supremely beautiful enjoyments of this world and the other. You did not accept this chain of property — these fetters. You did not fall into those bonds in which multitudes get entangled.
These are known by the names Avidya and Vidya...
Two more words to understand.
Avidya does not mean ignorance, as in the dictionaries. Vidya does not merely mean knowledge, as in those entries. Avidya means: that kind of knowledge by which Preya is attained. Vidya means: that knowledge by which Shreya is attained. Avidya is also knowledge, Vidya is also knowledge. Avidya is the name of that knowledge which yields Preya.
The thief too has some knowledge. It is not only the yogi who has knowledge — the enjoyer too has knowledge. The bad man too has skill, craft, artistry.
Knowledge by which Preya is gained is Avidya. If you understand this, it will be difficult — it means that all science is Avidya, all scientific knowledge. For by it the pleasant is obtained — not the blessed. At most, dear objects are obtained, but not the soul.
Science belongs to the realm of Avidya. We call that Vidya by which the Self is known. We call that Vidya by which one drops the attachment to the pleasant; seeks the auspicious, seeks truth. He who renounces the sweetness of the pleasant and is ready to drink truth — even if it is bitter poison. From that readiness new life becomes available.
Yama said: These two exist. And Nachiketa, you showed great courage. You proved greatly dispassionate. You were not entangled in this chain — this shackle — which binds most: of the dear, of Preya.
Avidya and Vidya are mutually opposite and give different fruits. I regard you, Nachiketa, as a lover of Vidya. For no enjoyments could lure you in any way.
You are in search of that element — that knowing, that awakening, that meditation, that yoga, that alchemy — by which one attains the supreme Shreya, the Supreme Paramatman. You are not seeking the pleasant. For I gave you all temptations — and you came out untouched, unsmudged. No one could wobble your mind.
Those dull ones who, abiding in Avidya, regard themselves as intelligent and wise — they wander in many wombs, stumbling all around, just like the blind led by the blind who, not reaching the goal, roam here and there and suffer.
Yama said an astonishing thing: Many are so-called wise, learned, who regard themselves as knowers — but all their knowledge is Avidya.
Our schools and universities, even now, are not vidyalayas in this sense — they are avidyalayas. For whatever is taught there leads to Preya — and even that is hardly obtained; merely the promise of it. Even those promises are not fulfilled. If we ask the rishis of the Upanishads, they would say: you have given the wrong name — call them avidyalayas. A vidyalaya is where one learns the art of gaining oneself, of knowing truth — not the art of earning a livelihood, but of gaining life.
Says Yama: you are a lover of Vidya. For you are dispassionate, decisive, fearless; you are not wobbled; the gusts of desire, the gales, cannot flicker the flame of your consciousness. You are ready, you are a vessel; I will speak Vidya to you.
You too know many things. That is not Vidya. An engineer, a doctor, a professor, a shopkeeper, a carpenter, a craftsman; an artist, a painter, a sculptor — what they know is not Vidya. From what they know, Preya can be obtained; there is no way to obtain Shreya from it.
Until one knows the art of attaining Shreya, he is not learned. And one who, without knowing this art, regards himself as wise — Yama says to Nachiketa — such wise men are fools. And they not only wander themselves — they lead many astray with them. As a blind man leads other blind men and says: I will show you the way. He himself will wander through countless births, and he will mislead many.
But this is a curious thing, worth understanding. Even the blind wish to guide others. There is a reason. If a blind man finds two people — blind is fine — who walk behind him, then he begins to feel he has eyes. Two walk behind me — they cannot be blind! Thus the larger the crowd behind a guru, the more certain the guru becomes that surely he is going somewhere.
The follower is greatly needed by the guru; only because of him does he gain certainty that he is.
Ninety-nine in a hundred gurus are like this — blind, leading the blind. But there is a great difficulty: how will a blind man weigh whether the one leading him is blind or not? If he had eyes himself, he would see. But he has no eyes.
Hence the disciple’s great compulsion. He gropes from one guru to another. How to find certainty?
I say to you: as in the story I told — if you catch hold of a guru that firmly, then if he is blind, he himself will fold hands and say, I have no eyes — now please go elsewhere.
And remember one more thing: you will have to wander. To find the right guru straightaway is nearly impossible. You will have to wander. But if you walk with courage, fearlessness — and remember the final word: with dispassion — then a blind guru cannot deceive you for long. A blind guru lures you because there is desire in you, not dispassion.
One gives talismans, one sprinkles ash, one shows miracles — and you are impressed. Your desires, your greed — you feel that the man in whose hand a talisman falls from the sky, what can he not do! He can fulfill my desires too. The miracle-worker will heal my disease; produce a son; give money; win my case in court. Desires are tempted.
Any guru who in any way gratifies your desires — know that he is blind, and he knows the art of tempting the blind. The guru who does not seduce your desires, rather leads you where supreme dispassion is — where there is supreme death; where all the outer bustle drops, the outer run is lost, and the inner void appears — if some guru leads you toward emptiness, where there is no promise that you will get money, position, prestige, fame, win an election...
In Delhi there is not a single leader without a guru — for gurus win elections! And as soon as a leader loses an election, if he had not gone to gurus before, he immediately goes. Those who are removed from posts in Delhi — at once you will find them in some sage’s ashram, sitting in satsang! And they remain in satsang only until they win the next election.
The hunt for guru’s grace goes on! And there are tempters who say, Everything will be done, everything will be given — only surrender at the guru’s feet.
Those filled with desire are attracted by the blind. And then, as Yama says — the blind leading the blind — the leader falls into a pit and the rest fall with him. Nanak said: blind pushing the blind.
But Yama said: Nachiketa, no blind one can lead you. To be your guru, one must be a guru. For you cannot be tempted. Where greed has died, no one can mislead you. Only greed misleads. Therefore seek not so much for a guru as for the dropping of greed. The day greed is gone, that day you will meet the guru. The day there is no greed within you, from that day no wrong person can direct you. Then satsang with the true happens by itself.
Now understand two things about the night’s meditation.
The night meditation is a practice of tratak — but very unique and very powerful. In the first stage, for fifteen minutes you will gaze at me without blinking. (Sit first — understand first...) Gaze at me fixedly. Do not blink. Do not let the lids fall, even if tears begin to flow. Keep the eyes wholly on me. Both hands are to be raised high during meditation, and you will stand to meditate. I will signal you with my hand. When I signal, you must jump with your total energy — so that the hidden energy within you becomes active. Keep your eyes affixed to me so a link is made with me, so a relationship, a bridge, is created. Keep jumping, keep both hands lifted upward toward the sky, and sound the great mantra Hoo, Hoo, Hoo.
This great mantra Hoo will strike within you. My hand’s signal will give you momentum. And your eyes’ connectedness with me will create a deep communion. If this experiment is done rightly, within fifteen minutes you will be leaping into another realm. After fifteen minutes I will say, Stop. However you are, at once stop there with eyes closed — like a corpse. For fifteen minutes stand in this silence, void, peace — or if you have fallen, remain fallen.
Afterwards there will be fifteen minutes for expression. Then dance and sing out the day’s joy — your gratitude, your thankfulness to the Divine. And remember: the more joy is expressed, the more it grows. So do not be miserly. Do not fear what anyone will say. Like small children, express your joy.