Kathopanishad #6

Let us first understand a few fundamental things about the Divine. First: Parameshwar is the harmony of all opposites. In this world, everything exists together with its opposite. This is the very way of nature’s being. Nature’s tension, nature’s very existence, cannot be without opposition. If there were no night, there would be no day. If there were no woman, there would be no man. If there were no death, there would be no birth. If there were no sorrow, there would be no joy. All of life is woven from, and bound to, the opposite.

Hence life is a duality, a struggle. And here, anything that happens, happens upon the basis of the opposite. The very moment you make a friend, you begin to create enemies. The very moment you love, hatred has entered. Here you cannot do a single thing whose opposite does not simultaneously come into presence.

Buddha has said, I do not make friends, because I do not wish to make enemies. Buddha has said, I do not love, because I do not wish to hate.

Life is matter, and at the same time, consciousness. Consciousness means: the opposite of matter. The philosophers of the East have continually accepted this duality; hence they have said, the world is dvaita, duality.

In the West, the new discoveries of science too have begun to embrace this duality. And their view has now become this: even if we know one pole and do not yet know the other, the other must exist.

Thus a very unique discovery has arisen—the discovery of anti‑matter. They say: since there is matter, there must be matter’s opposite. It has not yet been caught, but it must be. Because where all things are formed together with their opposites, there too must be something opposite to matter.

Since there is time, there must be anti‑time—the current opposite to time. Time flows forward; then anti‑time will flow backward. Here a child is born, then becomes young, then old. If there is opposite time, there one will first be old, then young, then a child. A reverse journey.

And this is not being said by metaphysicians. Modern physicists say: alongside this stream of time there must be the counter‑stream of time. Because time cannot exist without its opposite. Nothing can exist without an opposite.

You see a stone lying there. The stone is a solid object. Science says: just as a stone is a solid object and occupies space, so too, space must have holes—holes as the opposite of matter. They have not yet been grasped, but on the very basis of this principle someone has already been awarded the Nobel Prize.

There must be holes in the sky. It is difficult even to imagine what a hole would mean. The sky is filled, a fullness. Right beside it there must be empty, void holes.

Mahavira said exactly this twenty‑five centuries ago. He said: there is lok and there is alok. Alok is the opposite. This existence that appears—the visible—this is matter, lok. Its opposite, alok—anti‑matter.

This is the arrangement of the world, of the visible. Paramatma is the invisible. There, no opposites remain. There, all opposites become harmonized. There, the opposite loses its oppositeness.

Paramatma is one. If there were an anti‑God, then God too would be a part of the world. But the Divine is greater than the world. It encompasses both lok and alok. It encompasses matter and anti‑matter, time and the counter‑current of time, birth and death, both together. It is the one within whom both are included.

This first thing must be understood about Parameshwar: He is the sum of totality. Within Him is birth and within Him is death. Hence, He is the creator and He is the destroyer. He is the friend and He is the enemy. He builds and He dissolves.

When we use such words, there is a difficulty—we begin to feel as if He were a person. This is the error of language. And language has no other way. Paramatma is not a person. Paramatma is only the vast expanse of energy. In this vast expanse of energy the two are united. What appear to us as opposites—day and night—both are included in the Divine. Night is His, day is His. If not today then tomorrow, science, too, will be compelled to accept this.

Science does accept that there are opposites, a duality, a polarity. It will also have to accept that wherever there are two, there must be a third bridge that joins them; otherwise, no relationship would remain between the two. And between the two there is a harmony, a rhythm, a music. Certainly a third is needed that encompasses both, that includes both.

The meaning of Paramatma is totality—where all dualities are present together. This is very difficult for us to understand, because reason breaks apart; reason has no art of joining. As scissors cut, but have no method of joining—if you attempt to join with scissors you will fall into trouble. The more you try to join, the more it will be cut.

Reason is a pair of scissors. Hence, in the Indian myth, we have placed the god of reason—Ganesh—upon a mouse. The mouse is a scissor; it gnaws, it cuts. A mouse cannot join. Hence it was made his vehicle. It is only a symbol.

And you will be surprised to know, we invoke Ganesh in every auspicious work. You may not know the odd reason: because Ganesh is dangerous—destructive. He is mischievous; he rides reason. So the story goes that Ganesh used to obstruct every auspicious act in ancient times. People became so afraid that it seemed best to remember him beforehand, so that he would not become a hindrance. Hence, “Shri Ganeshaya Namah!” To remember him first means: be gracious, we fear you.

Slowly people forgot that he is destructive; now he has become the symbol of auspiciousness. Over long stretches of time such things happen in human consciousness. Their memory of his mischief faded. Now he is a sign of the auspicious. Now we remember him thinking that by remembering him, all work will be blessed. But the cause of his trouble‑making is his allegiance to logic—the art of cutting, of breaking.

Science depends on reason; it is the expansion of reason. Hence science breaks. Hence analysis is its method. Give anything to science, it will break it and divide it into parts. Thus science reached the atom—cutting and cutting, breaking and breaking.

Religion goes beyond reason. Because religion says: by breaking you will never know the whole. By breaking you may know the fragment; how will you know the unbroken? You may know the atom; but how will you know God?

These are the two extremes. The atom—if you go on breaking, what remains is the atom. If you go on joining—Parameshwar. Parameshwar means the sum of all—the point beyond which there remains nothing more to join. And the atom means the ultimate break—the point beyond which there remains nothing more to break. Hence, the ultimate conclusion of science is the atom. The ultimate conclusion of religion is Parameshwar. These are the two ends. Science begins with duality and ends in multiplicity. Religion too begins with duality and ends in oneness.

The method of religion is synthesis—joining—and to go on joining, until nothing remains unjoined. When all is joined, that totality is called Parameshwar. He is no person; He is the name of the wholeness of this entire existence. In that unbroken wholeness, all distinctions dissolve—because it is a joining. And in science, all distinctions become pronounced—because it is a breaking.

Hence science not only breaks things, it itself goes on breaking. Five hundred years ago the word “science” had some solid meaning. Now it has almost none. There is no such thing as “science.” There is physics, chemistry, biology; but “science” as a single thing is no more. If you ask who is a scientist, it is hard to say. Someone is a biologist, another a physicist, another a chemist—no one is simply a “scientist.” Science, breaking and breaking, has itself broken into tiny branches. And even between these branches there remains no communion.

At this moment the greatest difficulty for human beings is that between our branches of knowledge there remains no coordination, no relationship. The physicist has no idea what chemistry is doing. Because physics itself is so vast that even if one lived a thousand years one could not know it fully. And chemistry is itself so vast that no one person can know it fully either.

In old times, one vaidya or one doctor would treat everyone. Now it is not so. Now, if your eye is ill—one doctor. If the ear, if the leg, if the stomach—everything is partitioned. There is a Western joke: in the twenty‑first century a man went to a doctor for his eye. The doctor asked, which eye—left or right? because I am a doctor of the left eye.

It is possible. Things go on breaking.

Science, which fragments the other, goes on fragmenting itself. Hence there is no dialogue among scientists. The speech of one scientist another cannot understand—so specialized is it. The fear within science now is this: one branch of knowledge may become utterly unfamiliar with another, and then great difficulty will arise.

As has happened. In the last great war, when experiments with the atom began, physicists said there was no danger. Because physicists knew nothing of biology; biologists were not asked. When the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, physicists were consulted—because they had made the bomb—but biologists were not asked what results it would have upon life.

The results became known later—and they are terrible. And the results are not of a single day. The women who were pregnant and survived—their fetuses were filled with radioactivity. Now their children, and their children’s children, for thousands of generations, will be sick, diseased, crippled.

Where the atom fell people were finished, but the smoke that rose, and the radioactivity that spread with it in all directions—the ash that fell into the oceans poisoned the fish. There is now no way to purify those fish. Those who ate the fish, radioactivity entered their bones. Their bones became poisonous; their blood became poisonous. The trees where the fish‑meal was used became poisonous. The journey began.

Scientists now say there is no way to contain it. Life is so vast that it has entered everywhere. And the physicists had thought there would be an effect only within a boundary. But the world is so interlinked, so interconnected that you cannot even imagine how the effect goes on spreading. It entered the milk of cows. The milk children drank; it entered into them. The calves of those cows, from birth, were already corrupted by atomic processes. Only later did it become clear that they should have asked the biologists what effect it would have upon life.

Hence in the West there is a new movement—ecology. They say: before doing anything, one must ask all the branches of knowledge, because life is so interconnected. You may have broken science into separate fields, but life has not broken; life is whole. Here even a small act will have vast consequences.

For example: when man went to the moon, those involved in the logistics of the journey, the astronauts and the sciences related to space travel, were consulted. But life is so huge that no single science can encompass it.

Even after every arrangement, a mistake occurred, known only later. As our rockets pass through the atmosphere they pierce it. Nearly two hundred miles of atmosphere encircle the earth. Because of this atmosphere you not only receive breath; because of it the poisonous rays coming from space are stopped. This two‑hundred‑mile layer of air does not allow dangerous rays to enter; hence you live. Otherwise, from the moon and stars many kinds of rays are coming; if they all entered, we would perish at once.

When our rockets went out through the atmosphere, they made perforations. Through those holes, for the first time in the history of the earth, poisonous rays entered. And only when they had entered was it known. Some scientists think the rising incidence of cancer is due to these holes in the atmosphere. Now there is no way to stop it. Every day there is talk of going into space—and all these facts are hidden so that ordinary people do not come to know.

All the oceans are becoming poisoned. Because the toxins our mills and factories release are poisoning the seas. But life is one. The ocean is not a place where we can simply dump something. In the ocean there are plants, they produce oxygen, and we breathe that oxygen. Without them we cannot live. Those plants are dying. With their death, our oxygen reduces. Scientists say that in these three hundred years oxygen has decreased so much that it is a wonder man is still alive—alive like a corpse; health is lost.

Life is an indivisible whole. Everything is connected. Like a spider’s web—touch one strand and the whole web trembles. So too in life: do even a little and the entire web of life trembles. The name of that unbroken web is Parameshwar.

Science breaks—and itself breaks. Religion joins—and itself becomes joined. Hence the day man becomes truly mature, there will remain one religion on this earth; and the more science grows, the more innumerable sciences will be born.

Second: Paramatma is not a theory; Paramatma is an experience—like love is an experience. One who has never loved may read all the scriptures on love, may gather all information, and yet will know nothing of love. And one who has loved—even if he has never read a single scripture—will know what love is.

Paramatma is not a theory. In mathematics there are theories; there is no need to experience them. Experience has no relation to them. In religion there is experience, not theory. Theories have no relation to it. Hence those who seek theoretically wander in vain; but those who, through experience, transform themselves and enter a new direction—surely they attain.

Third: the intellect you have is not your wholeness. You are far more than the intellect. My hand is only my hand; I am far more than my hand. My foot is only my foot; I am far more than my foot. So too, the intellect is but an instrument; I am far more than it. Those who seek only through intellect will not reach Paramatma.

To reach the whole, one must oneself become whole. The intellect is one limb, useful—but it has usurped total ownership. And because of the tyranny of intellect, you have begun to feel as if you live inside your skull. If someone asks, “Where are you?” you point to the skull. This is a great calamity.

When the child is in the mother’s womb the brain is almost nothing, yet the child is complete. Even without the brain, the body grows, becomes large.

Life is prior to the brain. From the process of life, the brain is born. When the child is born he has only ten percent of his brain; ninety percent develops later. On the first day in the womb, when the first cell of the child is formed, there is nothing like a brain—yet life is there. And life expands.

As the legs grow, as the hands grow, so too does the brain grow. It is one branch of life. Do not take the branch to be the root. One who tries to live by taking that branch as the all will have a crippled vision.

Hence those who live only by intellect become crippled. As if a man tried to live only by his hand and bound up the whole body—what kind of life would that be? He would try to see with the hand, to hear with the hand, to walk with the hand. Making the hand everything—and binding the whole body—such is our condition.

We have made the brain everything and tied down the whole personality. Such a bound, fettered personality cannot know the ultimate truth. Therefore it is necessary to descend a little deeper than intellect—to come to that layer of life which was prior to intellect, and which will still be there on the day the brain burns on the funeral pyre.

Life is a vast power. You are only a small facet of that vast power—in the brain.

Among the sutras Shiva gave to Parvati there is one: Live as if there is no head—headless—as if there is no skull. You too will be amazed. If while walking and moving about you can keep one remembrance: the skull is gone, not there—only the torso. If for three months you practice this—whenever you remember, simply, no head—you will be astonished; immense changes will occur in your life.

Because if there is no head, you will slowly begin to slide toward the heart; it will become the center of being. And without the head, how will you be disturbed? Without the head, how will you be restless? Without the head, how will you be angry? How will you worry?

Dropping the head is dropping all mischief. If for three months you continue this practice, you will find your anxieties dissolved; the storms and tempests of mind gone. You will become more balanced, serene, graceful—and you will have descended into the heart.

But even beneath the heart there is a deeper depth—the navel. For the first throbbing of the child’s life begins at the navel. There are methods to descend beneath the heart too. When one reaches exactly the navel, one has come to one’s center. And only from that center can relationship with Paramatma be made.

Now let us enter these sutras—

That Parameshwar reaches afar while sitting; even while asleep He moves everywhere. Who other than Death—who is not intoxicated by that majesty—who other than me can know Him!

In the language of poetry this is the announcement of the beyond‑duality through the language of opposites.

That Parameshwar reaches afar while sitting.

This is a paradox—how can one who sits reach afar? To reach afar one must move. We reach afar by walking. It is the poet’s language—of joining opposites, of bringing the opposites together.

Yama says: that Parameshwar reaches afar while sitting; even while sleeping He moves everywhere. That god, who is not maddened by the intoxication of His own majesty—who other than me can know Him!

We have given one name to Paramatma—Ishwar. Ishwar means, one filled with aiswarya—majesty, splendor. Ishwar means one who has all majesty. But the moment one has even a little majesty, the ego is born. A little wealth, and heat arises from it. A little property, and the man begins to walk with a swagger. Wealth is an intoxication, a wine.

If a rich man goes bankrupt, all intoxication evaporates. His gait becomes like that of a drunkard after the hangover—no longer drunk, yet staggering; the memory of having drunk remains, and it hurts, it creates an emptiness.

God is the supreme majesty. But the indication of beyond‑duality is in this—“not maddened by the intoxication of that majesty.” There is no intoxication. Majesty is complete there, but there is not even a trace of swoon or unconsciousness. There is no ego there.

If Paramatma had ego, we could understand. That we should have ego makes no sense—we are poor, weak, nothing—and yet the ego clings: I am. If Paramatma had ego and declared “I am,” it would be understandable. But there is no declaration there. Here we, the poor and weak, declare “I am,” and there is no declaration!

Hence you may shout as much as you like: where is God? I want to see Him! Your voices, your arguments, cannot excite Him even that much that He would stand before you and say, Here I am.

There is no “I” there. Otherwise the atheists would have summoned Him long ago.

A European thinker, an atheist—Bark—entered a debate with a priest. Bark began with his first argument. He took off his watch and said: I call upon your God—if He is omnipotent—let Him do just this, stop my watch at this very moment. Let the hand freeze at eight. If your God can do even this much, I will accept that He is. But the watch kept ticking. God did not do even this much. Omnipotent—yet could not show such a small power, a thing even a child can do by smashing it!

Bark said: the proof is obvious. There is no God.

But what was Bark doing? Merely poking the ego. He was saying: if He exists, prove it by doing this little thing. Bark could not understand—the very point was missed. Paramatma has no ego; therefore you cannot provoke Him. One can be provoked only where there is selfhood.

In truth, only the petty can be provoked; the vast cannot be provoked by any device. In truth, storms can be raised only in teacups. In the vast, your words cannot raise storms. They leave no wound—whether they are or are not makes no difference.

This sutra informs us: the supreme majestic—but devoid of the intoxication of majesty…

This is the joining of opposites. Even the smallest majesty gives ego; the vastest majesty—if we proceed mathematically—should give the greatest ego. But religion is not the language of mathematics. The greater the majesty, the more infinite the majesty, the more the ego is zero. If we understand it in the language of psychology, it is easy.

In the West, a very precious psychologist—Adler—based his whole psychology upon the inferiority complex. Adler said: all human striving arises out of the inferiority complex. The man who seeks a high post, says Adler, feels within, I am nothing. To erase the sense of being nothing, he wishes to sit on a big chair. None are more afflicted with inferiority than politicians. Adler said: whether Lincoln or Lenin or Hitler—each is afflicted with some inferiority, and to fill that inferiority they run.

Lenin’s legs were short. The upper body was large; the lower small. When he sat on a chair, his feet did not reach the ground. He suffered greatly from this. So he sat upon Russia’s greatest throne to show: perhaps your feet reach the ground, but my feet reach the throne.

Adler says: that inferiority complex kept pulling him. Of Hitler, there is suspicion he was impotent. His impotence became a race for power. And this race became so great that his desire was to hold the whole world in his fist and show what your virility, your power, really is.

A reverse run begins. If a man is ugly, he tries somehow to compensate for his ugliness. If a man is blind, the whole energy of the eye becomes available to the ear. Hence the blind hear in a way no eye‑possessing person can. And the blind often become skilled in music; the energy of the eye runs to the ear. What was lacking in the eye, the ear begins to complete. Wherever there is a lack, we must do something opposite to cover it.

Adler said: the ego in man arises out of inferiority. A race for wealth is born. Those in whose lives love is missing become mad for wealth. Those who have not found the gold of love begin to collect the stone‑gold of money.

It is interesting: if a man is truly filled with love, he cannot be miserly. And a miser cannot be a lover. Because the miser is actually compensating for the lack of love with wealth. One who has love has a certain security. He knows: I will not die of hunger. He knows: when I am old, someone will serve me.

But one whose life has no love is frightened, insecure. He knows: when I am old, there will be no one even to look at me. He clutches at wealth for compensation. He begins to hoard; because now wealth alone is security. Where love’s security is absent, the security of wealth arises.

We compensate, we hide, we cover. If we observe our behavior closely, Adler seems right.

Paramatma, having everything, cannot have any inferiority complex. Hence as a person moves closer to Paramatma, he becomes egoless. The more one has, the less the ego; the less one has, the more the ego. Ego is the symbol of the poor, the beggar. Egolessness is the sign of the emperor.

Naturally, the one who possesses the totality of the universe will have no thought of “I.” These are attempts to join opposites—poetically.

And Yama says another delightful thing: Who other than me—who is not maddened by the intoxication of that majesty—who other than Death can know Him?

None other than Death can know that Paramatma. Why? Because until you die, dissolve, disappear—you cannot be joined to Him. Until your ego burns and becomes ash, you cannot be one with the element that is egoless. To meet Him, one must become like Him. Only the similar can meet the similar.

Right now you are utterly opposite to Him—and you ask, where is Ishwar? You stand with your back to the sun and ask, where is the sun? There is no way—if you keep your back turned. The sun is there; your back has hidden it. And you say, until it is proven that there is a sun, why should I turn? First let it be proved there is a sun, then I will make an effort. This is what all rationalists say.

The religious one says: turn your back—only then is there a sun. Transform yourself. Drop this ego.

This sutra of Yama is very precious: other than me—other than Death—who is capable of knowing Him? Hence, one who is ready to die, to dissolve…

Jesus has said: those who lose themselves will be saved. Those who try to save themselves—there is no way for them to be saved.

A surrender—like a drop falls into the ocean and loses itself—when one becomes willing to fall, to lose, to be offered, to be dedicated—instantly the ego dissolves. And with the dissolving of ego the hidden inferiority within vanishes.

As long as you are full of ego you will remain inwardly inferior. You are not removing inferiority; you are only covering it. As if there is a wound and we wrap it with beautiful silk, velvet. However beautiful the wrappings, however attractive to onlookers—because of those wrappings the wound does not heal. In fact, if the wound were open, perhaps it might heal—sunlight might reach it, air might touch it, nature might fill it. A covered wound becomes a cancer.

We are suppressing our inferiority, hiding it—some with wealth, some with status, some with knowledge, some with renunciation. By one device or another we are saying, I am somebody—while inside there is the state of nobody.

The religious person passes through death—meaning he drops this imposition of being somebody and agrees totally to being a nobody.

This is a mysterious sutra: one who agrees to being a nobody becomes one with the All. And one who strives to become somebody goes on shrinking, decaying; he cannot relate to the vast. Drop the pain of being a nobody, and simply accept the feeling of nobodiness—this is the state of the devotee.

Hence Yama says: other than me, who is capable of knowing Him?

Who, bodiless and unshakable, abides within unstable, perishing bodies—that great, all‑pervading Paramatma, once known, the wise never grieve for any reason.

Who, bodiless and unshakable, abides within unstable, perishing bodies…

The body is changeful. Within this changeful, the changeless is hidden. It is a constant effort to join the opposites—so that the remembrance of the unbroken may arise. Within change, the eternal is hidden. Within the mortal, the immortal is hidden. Within the flowing river, the pole star abides. And the one who becomes capable of knowing this inner immortal, the eternal—no grief, no sorrow can ever seize him.

All sorrow has one root: we are bound to the changing. And change means—it will change. And we do not want it to change. The young wish the body not to grow old—the body will grow old. The old wish not to die—the body will die. That to which we are bound, that which we wish to hold, will not be held. Like a man sitting by a river wishing it not to flow—if it flows he suffers, because his expectation is unmet.

Everything flows. Everything is transient. But we try to clutch the transient and make it eternal. From that our sorrow is born, for it cannot be made eternal.

A youth is in love with a young woman; he says, I will love you forever. The young woman too thinks this love will remain forever. But what is speaking—the body, the brain, the mind from where this promise is spoken—is transient. No promise made from there can be eternal. Tomorrow love will change; ashes will remain behind. The lamp will be extinguished; the memory of a once‑flame will remain. Then the pain will come. It will seem someone deceived. He had said, I will love forever—and the love did not last even a day! Suffering will arise.

But the cause of suffering is not that someone deceived you—no one deceived. Whoever clings to the changeful and seeks to make it eternal, suffers. That youth too, in that moment, felt he would love forever—no one was deceiving. And now it seems love has gone—what can he do now!

There is a Christian sect—the Quakers. Among the few on earth who try to be truly religious in a deep sense, the Quakers are one. They give no assurances, make no promises—because they say: from a transient mind what promise can be given? We are not even sure of ourselves that tomorrow we will be the same—then what promise can we give?

Quakers do not swear in court; hundreds have been punished only because they will not swear. They say: who is there to swear? There is no certainty about tomorrow. Within a moment we may change. Let him swear who has the guarantee of the eternal. The court says: lay your hand upon the Bible and swear you will speak the truth. The Quaker says: even if I swear, what difference does it make? If a moment later my mind does not wish to speak the truth, what can I do? Hence I will not swear. Hence I give no assurance. The Quaker says: there is no certainty about tomorrow—not even about oneself. Everything is changing. Like a river, all is flowing away.

One who tries to be still in a flowing stream will suffer. The stream cannot be still—that is not its nature.

Only he goes beyond grief who grasps the unshakable hidden within—then there is no change ever again, hence no sorrow. That inner element never grows old, never dies, never changes. It is always of one taste.

This inner unshakable element—this Parabrahman Paramatma—cannot be attained by discourses, nor by intellect, nor by much hearing. He is attained only by the one whom He accepts—for to such a one He reveals His true form.

This is a slightly difficult sutra—but it is essential to understand it rightly. Much depends upon it.

Not by discourse…

However much you may read, hear, understand—Paramatma is not attained. Only empty words come into your hand. Erudition accumulates. The intellect becomes stuffed. Memory thickens. Answers to questions are found—but no resolution. The soul remains unquenched.

It is like this: someone is thirsty, and you explain to him that water means H2O—two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen; water is not an element, the real elements are oxygen and hydrogen; one who understands H2O has understood water. The man will say: all right—but my thirst!

Remember: H2O does not quench thirst. Sit and write H2O, H2O… Many are writing—Ram, Ram; Krishna, Krishna—writing and writing. I met a madman who has created an entire library—thousands of notebooks filled. And disciples all over the country write “Ram, Ram” in copybooks and send them to him. His library contains only such copybooks. By writing H2O thirst does not go; by writing Ram, Ram, no one attains Ram. Time is wasted. These are symbols of foolishness.

But there is no shortage of fools. Everywhere. A man spends an hour or two every morning writing and thinks he has done great work. What will happen by your writing Ram, Ram? A printing press can do this job. You need not use your intelligence at all. And if the press does it, the press does not attain God—nor will you.

Paramatma is attained neither by discourse, nor by scripture, nor by intellect, nor by much hearing.

These are no means to attain Him. There is only one way—and Yama says something very strange: when He accepts you…

When He, Paramatma, accepts you—then He is attained. A troublesome matter. It means: the day you become worthy of Him. Transform yourself in such a way that He accepts you—only then He is attained.

Your inner transformation, your worthiness—becoming in such a way that there remains no way to reject you. He must accept you. Your purity, your innocence, your simplicity; such fragrance in your conduct; such sattva in your presence; such a meditative way of being—that He must accept you. Compel Him. Only in that situation is He attained.

To read scriptures is easy—changing one’s life is difficult. People always seek shortcuts. There are none in life. In life you have to walk the right path. The pain of the road must be endured; hardships borne; the troubles of the path accepted. Wandering, the labor of the journey—only then one arrives. That labor is necessary, because only through that labor do you transform, change, become new. The journey is not only a journey; it is transformation.

Yama says: it is attained only by the one whom He accepts—for to such a one He reveals His true form.

If Paramatma is not visible to you, understand this: somewhere within you there is a mistake, a barrier, because of which the Divine cannot reveal Himself. Perhaps your eyes are closed. The sun is before you and you cannot see. No matter how much we discourse to a blind man about the sun, what will happen? The eyes must be opened. The personality must be opened.

All the processes of meditation are processes of opening the personality. Discourses, scriptures are intellectual; meditation is of the heart. And meditation will change you—because meditation means, you must do something.

A friend came and said, we enjoy listening to you; your words please us very much. I said, however much they please you, nothing will happen by them. That is entertainment. Good if it pleases. Someone enjoys a film, another the radio; you enjoy listening to me. But what will happen? Until you do something, nothing will happen. Until you change, nothing will happen. My words can only provoke you to change—that is all they can do.

The awakened only kindle thirst; they cannot give the truth. But if you begin to enjoy only the thirst—then there is trouble. What will happen if only thirst is awakened? You must make the journey to the ocean. There may be trouble; as thirst is aroused, you may be put into difficulty. If thirst itself becomes the juice—that listening pleases, reading pleases, the intellect is gratified—when will you go toward water? When will you seek a lake?

Yama is right: even by subtle intellect, this Paramatma cannot be attained by the one who has not renounced evil conduct…

However subtle the intellect, however profound the contemplation, however logical the personality—Paramatma is not attained by one who has not renounced bad conduct.

Nor by the unquiet, nor by one whose mind and senses are not restrained. Nor by one whose mind is not at peace.

Conduct too is a kind of stupor or awakening. You do wrong because you are unconscious. If you are conscious, you cannot do wrong. If you are awake, wrongdoing stops. It is because you are asleep that wrong happens.

A man drinks and then whatever he does—he abuses, he injures someone. We do not tell him: stop abusing; do not injure. Saying so is futile. He is drunk; he can neither hear nor understand. At most, he may start abusing you; he may strike you. If we advise, we say: do not drink. Because we know: when he is not drunk—when he is not unconscious—he neither abuses nor misbehaves. Hence the real question is less his conduct, more his awakening; less reducing his wrong acts, more reducing his unconsciousness.

Yama says: whatever thoughts you may entertain, however much understanding you may discuss—if your conduct does not change, it is a sign you are inwardly asleep. Until this sleep breaks! And with this sleep is linked restlessness, and with sleep is linked unrestrained senses. Until this unrestrainedness breaks, until the senses become restrained, until the mind grows peaceful, until you become steady within—no one attains Paramatma.

At the time of dissolution, that Parameshwar by whom both Brahmins and Kshatriyas—that is, all beings—become food, and Death, which destroys all, becomes a relish to be eaten along with the food—where and how that Parameshwar is, who knows exactly!

This too needs to be understood. Paramatma can be known—but never exactly known. Because to know “exactly” means the knower becomes greater than the known. You can know exactly only that which is smaller than you, that which you can surround from all sides, recognize from all sides.

Paramatma can never be known exactly. He is mystery and will remain mystery. You can dive into Him, know that you have known, recognize that you have recognized, become one—but still you cannot say you have known exactly. A slight incompleteness will always remain in your knowing—because He is greater than you. He is vast. Relationship with Him will happen, but complete knowledge—never.

Understand a little.

A man dives into the ocean. To dive into the ocean is one thing. To dip and return—this too is something. He may say, I have bathed in the ocean, I have known the ocean—fine. But the ocean is very vast. He has known only a small circumference of water on one shore. And even if he lives in the ocean, he will know only one limb, one portion. In one sense he has known—because even if one knows a single drop of the ocean, the essence of the whole is understood. Because in the drop is hidden all that is in the vast ocean. Yet still he cannot say he has known the ocean entire—exactly.

Grasp this.

Science’s entire emphasis is: everything can be known, fully known. Religion’s emphasis is: everything can be known, but never fully; mystery will remain. The mystery remains.

Hence religion is mystical. Science is the enemy of mystery. Scientists say: the very definition of science is de‑mystification—wherever there is mystery, break it; wherever there is vagueness, make it clear; wherever things are hazy, manifest them. And the day science will be fully successful is the day there will remain no mystery in the world; whatever you ask, science will have the answer. Religion says: such a day will never come. And those who have gone very deep in science—Einstein, Planck, Oppenheimer—say the same.

The teacher of science in a school is not a scientist. Nor is the one who teaches science in a college or a university a scientist. They are only pundits of science—they know questions and answers. But someone like Einstein—a saint of science—who goes very deep, at the last peak of his life says: the mystery will never end. And the more we discover, the greater the mystery becomes—not less. Because whatever we discover raises new questions.

This is religion’s realization: the world is an infinite mystery. Hence Yama says: who can know exactly? None is greater than He. Only the knower who is greater than the known can know fully. But here the knower is small and the known is vast. Here are the wings of a butterfly and the boundless sky. With these wings, how can the entire sky be known?

This does not mean one should despair. The butterfly can fly in the sky and enjoy the whole sky. And why the need to know the whole? Wherever your wings can carry you—that is enough—more than enough.

Knowledge is an infinite journey; it never finishes, never ends. This is the meaning of an infinite truth, an anadi truth—without beginning, without end.

As a fruit of auspicious karma, in the human body, in the supreme abode of Parabrahman—the heart‑sky—in the primeval cave called Buddhi, there dwell two different principles: the one who drinks truth and the one who must reap the inevitable karma. They are distinct as shade and sunlight; thus say the knower‑sages of Brahman.

Within every person, say the Upanishads, there are two principles. And the insight is utterly right. One is the knower within you; one is the enjoyer. The Upanishads say: as on a single tree two birds sit—one above, one below. The lower bird hops, jumps, tastes the fruit, dances, loves, calls to its beloved—does everything. The upper bird only sits and watches the lower bird. He does nothing—or his doing is only watching.

The Upanishads say: within each person two principles are present. One is the drashta, the seer—just witnessing—he does nothing. The other below is the karta, the doer—runs the shop, fights, quarrels, befriends, loves, makes a home, takes sannyas. One is the doer; one behind is only seeing—attachment and detachment, good and bad, irreligious and religious, auspicious and inauspicious. The other is the doer.

The doing principle is not you. The doing principle is the sum of your countless past actions. Until that doing principle is utterly dissolved, there is no liberation. Call it mind if you wish—the Buddhists called it sanghat; the Jains called it karma‑mala; or call it the karta‑tattva, as the Upanishads do. But deeper than it there is the seer.

Understand it so: a thief is going to steal. As he goes, even then someone within knows: I am going to steal. This knower is within. You are running a shop; someone within knows. You are young; someone within knows you are young and becoming old. You are ill; someone knows you are ill.

But this knowing principle is not clear; this is our hindrance. We forget it and become identified with the doer. When you grow from youth to old age you say: I am becoming old—that is the mistake. When you are full of anger you say: I am angry. When you run the shop you say: I am running the shop.

Buddha said: hunger used to arise before; hunger arises now. But earlier I thought, I am hungry. Now I know, I am seeing—the body is hungry. Such a small distance—yet vast. Subtle—yet infinite.

When you are ill you feel: I am ill. There is the mistake. If only this remembrance arises: I know the body has become ill—then within you there are two principles: one at the plane of the doer, one at the plane of the seer.

The more the seer is refined, the closer you move to Paramatma. The more the seer is lost and the doer grows strong, the deeper you enter the world. Become one with karma—you are in the world. Break your oneness with karma—you become one with Paramatma.

For those who perform yajna, the Naciketa‑fire is a bridge to cross the ocean of sorrow; and for those who wish to cross the ocean of samsara, the imperishable Parabrahman, the Purushottam, is the fearless state—may we know and attain Him.

O Nachiketa! Know the jivatman to be the master seated in the chariot; the body to be the chariot; the intellect to be the charioteer; and the mind the reins.

The wise speak of the senses as the horses, and of the objects as the roads upon which the horses roam; and the jivatman, who abides together with body, senses, and mind, is the enjoyer—so they say.

He whose intellect is ever undiscriminating and whose mind is unrestrained and fickle—his senses become like the unruly horses of a careless charioteer—beyond control.

This is an ancient Indian symbol: man is like a chariot. Deep within sits the owner—the witness. Then there are the horses—the senses. The reins that hold the horses—that is the mind. The path upon which the horses run—that is desire. The charioteer who holds the reins—that is the mind. And behind all of them, hidden deep in the chariot, sits the witness—the drashta—that very supreme principle. One who begins to recognize Him—his whole journey becomes disciplined.

But we do not recognize Him. We linger near the horses—or are absorbed in them. And many horses are yoked to the chariot; each pulls in a different direction. One horse to one side; another to another.

Thus life becomes great duality and conflict. One mind says do this; another says do that; a third sense calls for something else. In their midst such confusion arises that you do not know what to do, what not to do. You sit to read the Gita—one sense calls: let us go to a film. Another says: why waste time? This is for old age. Read the Gita later; what is the hurry? All this goes on within. So you read the Gita and this inner noise goes on. All horses race in different directions; the chariot is dragged by them.

If a man gathers himself a little, he moves away from the horses and centers himself in the mind—the charioteer. If he gathers a little more, he moves even behind the charioteer—because the charioteer too is not the master; he is also a servant. To become one with the servant is to risk danger.

Slowly, slowly, the man comes into the very interior of the chariot—where the witness sits, the seer. The moment one becomes one with the master, the sovereignty of life is attained. For the first time you become an emperor. Thereafter, mistakes drop by themselves; misdeeds fall away.

There is only one journey—from the horses, moving inward to the witness. One who settles in the witness—there is then no sorrow, no pain, no anguish in his life.

Now, get ready for meditation.