Kathopanishad #7

Man’s restlessness, the inner conflict of the mind, tension, anxiety, his feverishness and fragmentation, arise from a single source: the many layers within the human personality.
Man is not one; he is layered.
There is the body; a layer of the body. And the bodily layer has its own urges, its own desires. The body has its own magnetism, its own attachments, its own greed, its own cravings.
Then, within the body there are the layers of the mind. The mind has its urges, its ambitions. And even within the mind there is Buddhi, intelligence, discernment. The longing of that discernment is utterly different. And among the urges of these three layers there is great mutual opposition.
The body says: do this. The mind says: do something else. Discernment suggests yet another thing—and then inside man a crowd arises, a struggle; a tumult, an anarchy.
If man were only body there would be no restlessness. If man were only mind there would still be no restlessness. If man were only soul there would be no restlessness either. That is why animals are less restless than man: they have only the body. A slight glimmer of mind—and the little glimmer they have brings the little restlessness there too. Plants are even more quiet, trees even more still. No worry, no tension. Not even a faint glimmer of mind there.
And among human beings, the more thoughtful one is, the more restless one becomes. The more unintelligent one is, the less restless one is.
So as education increases, thinking capacity grows, Buddhi sharpens—restlessness increases. In America the number of insane is the highest. Do not be pleased by that; do not imagine it means good fortune. It only means that in the world of intellect America today is most developed.
In prosperous homes there will be more tension and anxiety. It should have been the other way around. In the poor, deprived homes there is not so much unrest. In prosperous homes there is unrest, because with prosperity Buddhi also grows. With the growth of Buddhi, prosperity also grows. The more impoverished a person is, the less their Buddhi has developed—otherwise they too would have become prosperous. The poor man is miserable, wretched; not necessarily restless.
It follows that the more layers there are within us, the greater the conflict.
If one could live only in the body, there would be no reason to go mad. But you cannot live only in the body; mind stands behind. The body says one thing, the mind another. You are eating. The body says, the stomach is full. The mind says, it’s delicious, a little more can be taken. Buddhi says, you are being foolish—this will cause illness. Three layers have appeared; the quarrel has begun within.
The body follows no policy or rule. The body is animal-like. But the mind is full of duality. The mind too has animal urges, and yet it carries human conditioning. There is the knowledge given by society, there is conscience. You are hungry. The body will say: steal, what’s the harm? On the bodily plane there is indeed no harm. But the mind will feel uneasy.
Ego will say: if you are caught stealing, there will be disgrace. The mind will say: if you must steal, then do it in such a way that you are not caught. But deeper within is Buddhi—it will say, whether you are caught or not is irrelevant. The theft is wrong. And that Buddhi will keep pricking like a thorn. Even if you are not caught, Buddhi will suffer and say: it was wrong.
Man’s restlessness is because he is split into many layers. Understand this well; then the next point will be easy to grasp. The next point is: a disturbance cannot be stilled on the very plane where it arises by the force of that same plane. Only on a higher plane, by a greater power, can the disturbance be stilled.
If the difficulty is on the plane of the body, the body alone cannot resolve it—the mind can. And if the difficulty is on the plane of the mind, the mind alone cannot resolve it—Buddhi can. And if the difficulty is on the plane of Buddhi, Buddhi alone cannot resolve it—for that one must reach close to the Atman. And if the difficulty is on the plane of the Atman, apart from reaching the plane of Paramatman there is no solution.
It means, wherever the difficulty is, the solution must be sought on the plane above it.
We usually seek solutions on the same plane; difficulties then increase, they do not decrease. Understand. Lust arises in the body; the eyes seek form. Some saints’ stories tell that they plucked out their eyes because the eyes seek beauty. The body is seeking form. But to pluck out the eyes is still on the same plane; it is not rising above.
The body is being attracted, and you injure the body. By throwing away the eyes no solution will come. A blind man too, without eyes, will remain possessed by lust. Perhaps with eyes he would not have been so possessed. Losing the eyes will make it even more difficult.
Many traditions have said: cut off the limbs that cause trouble. You will be surprised to know, in Russia there was a large Christian sect that used to cut off the genitals. After the revolution of 1917, when a legal ban was imposed, only then could they be stopped with difficulty. Nearly a million people in Russia had cut off their genitals, imagining that by cutting them they would be freed of lust.
No freedom from lust is possible by cutting off the genitals. If lust were fulfilled only there, perhaps. But lust is in the brain, deeper within. The genitals are a part of the brain’s circuitry. And the pleasure of sex is not experienced on the genital level; it is experienced on the brain’s level.
If one has too much taste for food, people fast—but again on the same plane. Where earlier you were forcing things into the body, now you forcefully stop. But the plane does not change. And until the plane changes, no revolution can happen in life. Only a higher plane can be master of the lower. Second point.
Third, remember: if you try to organize things on the same plane, repression will enter your life. The whole life will become poisoned. But if you awaken the power of the higher plane, there is no need for repression. In the presence of the higher power, the lower becomes humble, it bows down.
There is mind, and all difficulty is of the mind. People come to me and ask: how to get rid of this mind? But whatever methods they adopt to get rid of mind are all activities of mind. To get rid of mind they go to temples. The temple too is mind’s play. To get rid of mind they begin reading scriptures. Those scriptures are mind’s creations. To be free of mind they begin chanting mantras. The chanting too remains within mind’s circumference. They count on beads. They take vows. They swear oaths. Those oaths too are taken by the mind.
A friend came to me. He had taken a vow of brahmacharya. But is brahmacharya attained by taking a vow? If it were so easy, what difficulty is there in taking a vow? He said to me: I have fallen into great trouble. I have taken the vow, but it is not being fulfilled. The mind is restless—more restless than ever. I never had so much lust in my mind as I have now. Since I took the vow it has become such that the mind has nothing but lust. Earlier I could at least think of other things; now one single obsession!
The moment you take a vow you are unwise. The wise do not take vows; they awaken Vivek, not vows. Because a vow means creating a disturbance on the same plane. Like a small classroom where children are fighting, making a din. The teacher enters—and suddenly silence. The children sit in their places, open their books, as if nothing was happening. A power of another plane has entered the room. Its very presence transforms.
As soon as you awaken the power of the higher plane, the struggle and disturbance of the lower plane immediately subsides. This is worth deep understanding. Wherever an obstacle arises in your life, do not jump directly to fight it. Try to awaken the power behind it.
So those who ask me: how to quiet the mind? I say to them: do not worry about the mind at all. Do nothing to the mind. Awaken Vivek; become filled with awareness. Do not fight the mind, because the fighter will be the mind. The very one who is saying “be still” is also mind.
If mind fights with mind, divided into two, the fight will be like my right hand fighting my left. No one will win, no one will lose. And it is my whim: whenever I wish I can raise the left, whenever I wish I can raise the right. Both are my hands, and in both my power flows. There can be no final victory. Sometimes I identify with the left hand—“I am the left.” Sometimes with the right—“I am the right.”
So sometimes you agree with that part of the mind which is full of desire; and sometimes you agree with that part of the mind which talks of vows, resolutions, spiritual practice. It keeps changing, like the pendulum of a clock. One moment this, the next moment that—because both hands are yours.
Above the plane of conflict, behind it, deeper than it, one must find a principle that can awaken. Vivek is the essence of Buddhi. Vivek means a certain alertness, a certain wakefulness; in action, in thought, a certain care, a continuous remembrance—awareness.
You are walking on the road. Walking is mechanical. You know how to walk, the body keeps on moving. No need to be conscious—no need to remember that you are walking, that the foot is lifting. You are breathing. Breath goes on, mechanical. You need do nothing. No awareness required.
But you can also breathe consciously. Buddha based his whole discipline on breath and awareness. Buddha used to tell his bhikkhus: if you begin to breathe with awareness, everything is done.
So simple a thing, and everything will be done! It looks simple on the surface, but within it is very intricate. It looks simple the way you press a switch and thousands of bulbs light up. Someone asks: how can pressing a small button light thousands of lamps? The button is visible; the network of wires is hidden.
Awareness seems a simple thing, but it is extremely difficult. Buddha says: just take and release your breath with awareness—that is all. What will happen by so little? By so little, everything happens. For within, the element called Vivek begins to awaken. It can be awakened by any process.
Whatever you do with awareness, your Buddhi begins to be alert. And the moment Buddhi becomes alert, the mind begins to fall silent—because the master is present. The servant sits quietly; he waits for orders.
Vivek is the essence of all religion; stupor is the basis of all irreligion. Whatever we do, if it is done in stupor, it is sin; if done with awareness, it is virtue. No act is virtue or sin in itself; it depends on the state of consciousness at the time of doing. If consciousness was alert...
It happened: Buddha was passing through a village. He was not yet Buddha then; he was searching—he was a seeker, not yet a siddha. He was talking with a friend when a fly sat on his head. He continued the conversation, kept walking, and brushed away the fly—as you do. Then instantly he stopped, raised his hand again and took it to the same place where the fly was no longer. He brushed away—that fly that was no longer there—brought the hand back.
The friend said: is your head all right? What are you brushing now? Buddha said: I am brushing as I should have brushed—consciously. While talking with you I brushed the fly away in stupor. The hand rose mechanically. My care was not in it. Now I have taken the hand with care. In this motion of the hand my whole awareness is present. I have gone with the hand. I have brushed away the fly with mindfulness; while brushing, my mind is nowhere else; it is present in the act. Rememberfully. This is Buddha’s word. I brushed away the fly with awareness. The first time I erred. A sin happened.
The fly was not hurt. There was no cause for sin. Yet Buddha says: the first time a sin happened—because I was unconscious. And if I can brush a fly away unconsciously, I can also commit murder unconsciously. What trust can there be in an unconscious man? He who can do anything without awareness—anything sinful is possible by him. Now I have brushed the fly as I should have.
Buddha used to tell his bhikkhus: get up, sit, walk—but keep a small lamp of remembrance lit within. If a step is taken in forgetfulness, bring it back; then lift it again, with awareness.
As one cultivates wakefulness in one’s actions—eating, blinking, breathing... Try a little experiment and you will be amazed at how quiet you become—suddenly. Nothing needs to be done to the mind. No cure of the mind is needed. Only awareness in actions—and you find the mind has become silent.
The mind is restless because of stupor. There is an intoxication spread over it. This must be broken. These sutras point toward breaking this intoxication.
He whose Buddhi is always yoked to Vivek, and whose mind is mastered, his senses, like good horses under a vigilant charioteer, remain under control.
Understand. Ordinarily we begin with taming the horses. We start fighting the senses. We think, conquering one sense at a time, we shall win. No one ever wins this way; one is only destroyed. Things become so distorted and perverted that life loses all meaning and begins to look like suicide. Yet many so‑called wise people keep fighting their senses—someone fighting food, someone sexuality, someone something else; but the fight continues—with the senses.
To fight the senses is as if one begins to fight one’s own servants. Servants need to be given orders; there is no need to fight. To fight means you have made the servant your equal. A mistake. And if you have made the servant your equal, you will not win against him; he will win against you. Once the servant knows that the master takes him as equal and is ready to clash—since fight can only be between equals—if there can be a fight, then the servant too can win; he will also make every effort.
The senses are not to be fought. In fighting, the mistake has already happened. And if you lose against the senses—and you will lose, for the very decision to fight shows you do not know your own mastery; the one who needs not fight at all—only awareness is enough, and the senses will stand in their place—if you lose, you will be disheartened forever. Then you will think the senses are too powerful; there is no release from them. Once such despair settles, life remains in darkness.
We are all disheartened. We have lost trust. And this despair has been created by our so‑called sadhus and sannyasins, who teach us to fight rather than to awaken. They have put you into difficulty.
Friends come to me and say: for twenty years I’ve been fighting cigarettes!
If you had to fight, choose something big! Fighting a cigarette? You do not value your soul at all! And for twenty years you have fought and could not even win against a cigarette! How will you trust that the divine is within you? You will be disheartened. Who told you—what fool told you—to fight a cigarette? If you wanted to smoke, smoke—but remain the master! If you wanted to drop it, drop it—but remain the master! Why create a brawl in which mastery breaks? And twenty years! The cigarette keeps winning and you keep losing!
Never fight the trivial. To fight the trivial means you have lost touch with the vast. Seek the vast; do not fight the petty. In the presence of the vast, the petty is defeated by itself.
You must have heard Akbar’s story: he drew a line on the wall and told the courtiers, make it smaller without touching it. They were in trouble. They were like your so‑called sannyasins: without cutting it, how can it be made smaller?
Birbal stood, and drew a bigger line beside it. The moment the bigger line appeared, the first became small—no need to touch, cut, or erase it.
This is the art of life: stand the greater before the lesser. Do not fight the small—it will make you small.
Remember, any friend will do, but choose your enemy with great care. He who chooses a small enemy will become small. People do not learn as much from friends as they do from enemies—because with enemies there is a twenty‑four‑hour struggle. Slowly the two enemies become alike.
If two enemies fight for a hundred years, by the time they die they will be like twins. This continuous struggle of a hundred years is a kind of satsang. Fighting each other, they learn each other’s art; and to fight one must learn what the other is doing, must keep accounts. Gradually they become similar. Enemies usually become alike. Differences remain among friends; among enemies differences disappear.
Keep this well in mind within: do not cultivate enmity with anything small.
Psychologists say—and it is of great value here—no father should ever say to his son something he cannot actually make him do. If once he fails, the father will never again have prestige in the son’s mind.
Suppose your little child is sitting and crying in front of you, and you say: stop crying! Do you have the power to stop his crying? He keeps crying, and you keep saying: stop! At most you can beat him. By beating he will cry even more. To stop crying is very difficult.
Once the child comes to know: you keep saying “stop crying,” and I keep crying—and you can do nothing—your power is gone. In the child’s mind your place is decided: you are not very powerful.
Freud said that sons become spoiled because fathers want to make them do what they cannot make them do. He said: don’t say such things. Say only what you can make happen. Say: leave the room! At least you can make him leave the room. The child will retain the trust that what father says, he can make happen.
In this context remember: say to your senses only what you can make happen. Otherwise, do not say it. Wait. Because once the senses know that you keep saying things and your words are worthless, that you keep resolving and vowing, but it is all futile, once the senses know that you are not the master, that everything you decide can be broken, then these horses will never come under your rein.
But this is what everyone has done. And our very intelligent people go on advising this.
Take a vow only that can be fulfilled. But what can be fulfilled needs no vow.
Understand this. What can be fulfilled—you just do it. Why a vow? Vows are taken only when you know you cannot fulfill something, so you take support of a vow. You swear: I will do it! But whom will you show it to? And if you cannot show it, you will fall in your own eyes—and none is more wretched than he who falls in his own eyes.
So I say: if you want to drink alcohol, drink; if you want to smoke, smoke—do whatever you want—but remain the master. Do not start a fight that breaks mastery.
This does not mean I say: keep drinking, keep smoking. I am saying: within there is another element, not born of struggle but of awareness—Vivek. Awaken that. Engage in its cultivation. Do not fight these petty things. This fight is meaningless—a waste of time and energy. And even if somehow you drop cigarettes, you will begin sniffing snuff, or you will chew betel, or tobacco—because the disturbance will find a new channel. The senses do not relinquish their mastery so easily.
This sutra shows the reverse journey. It says: he whose Buddhi is always yoked to Vivek, and whose mind is mastered—his senses, like good horses under a vigilant charioteer, remain under control.
The essential point is: endowed with Vivek‑yukta Buddhi. If that is there, the mind becomes regulated. When the mind is regulated, the senses come under control. Therefore the real search is for Vivek.
He who is always devoid of Vivek, with an unrestrained mind and impure—he does not attain that supreme state; rather he keeps wandering in the cycle of birth and death.
Our wandering is our stupor, our avivek. We move as if drunk from birth. If a man lives sixty years, he sleeps twenty. One third. That much is certain: twenty years asleep. Not a small time—one third of life. In the remaining forty years, there are only a few moments when one is not dreaming; otherwise, one dreams on.
Sitting at home on a chair—the dream goes on. One imagines: I have become President; suddenly wealth pours into the house. And not that it stops there: what will I do with that wealth? How to build a palace with it? What to do, what not to do? It all starts.
The stories of Sheikh Chilli are not in children’s books alone; they are in everyone’s mind. Everyone keeps building—and not once, but daily. Then, when a little awareness comes, one laughs: what nonsense! Leave it. But after a moment or two, the chain of dreams starts again.
Twenty years in deep sleep; forty in dreams. Only sometimes a few moments—which if added up, Gurdjieff used to say, would not exceed five minutes in a full sixty-year life—when one occasionally comes to a moment of awareness. Glimpses of awareness come and go. With so little awareness one cannot reach God. With so little awareness one cannot reach anywhere. And even this awareness comes when there is some obstacle in life, some fear, some accident.
You are driving a car or a bicycle. You go on—daydreaming. The hands, like a robot, manage the steering. The mind dreams; inner talk continues. The destination has been reached inwardly. And where you came from—you have not yet arrived from there. The car goes on. Suddenly, the possibility of an accident— a truck appears in front. For a second awareness comes; the mind stops; thought breaks; the dream is shattered—for a second.
Have you noticed? If ever you have faced an accident, the jolt strikes at the navel. The navel is the root of life. The shock hits there, and a flash of light spreads through consciousness. For one second you are filled with awareness. For that moment you hold the steering with awareness. The truck passes. The heartbeat will throb a little; it will settle. The breath will be fast; it will slow. The dream returns. You are lost again in your world.
In moments of crisis, a little awareness comes. The wife dies, the husband dies, the son dies. For a moment there is shock. The blow hits at the navel. A light flashes within. For a moment an awareness comes that there is death, that life is not forever, that those we love will depart—that these houses of love are houses of cards, that we have built palaces on sand. For a second! And that second is so small that sometimes we do not even know when it came and went. Then we beat our chests and weep, we suffer, we think of past and future—and the moment is lost.
Thus Gurdjieff said: if you add up a man’s whole sixty years, at most five minutes—and even these are not continuous, only in fragments. Sometimes the sun rises and its beauty shakes you. Sometimes a skein of cranes crosses the sky, lightning flashes against dark clouds, and you halt. Sometimes a bird sings, its note strikes the inner sound, the mind stops. Such are the rare few moments. These are also our moments of joy.
The moment of awakening is the moment of bliss. The sleeping moments are moments of sorrow. If one carefully begins to raise this awakening within, it can be raised.
Do a small experiment at home. In the morning, on rising, keep your watch before you. Fix your eyes on the second hand, and keep only one intention: for one minute, as long as the hand completes a circle, I will watch with awareness. I will not miss awareness; I will go on seeing: the hand is moving, moving, moving.
You will be surprised: after two or four seconds the mind has gone elsewhere; the hand is forgotten. After two or four seconds! You cannot keep the mind on the second hand even for sixty seconds. Twenty‑five thoughts will intrude. The thought will come: where was this watch made? Swiss‑made? How many jewels? That little moving hand will trigger twenty‑five ideas.
Try! If you try, it will take you three months before you can keep attention on the hand for a whole minute. This is not a small achievement; it is great. One minute—attention throughout the circle of the second hand. It will take three months to awaken Vivek. Vivek is that difficult.
But if you can awaken Vivek even for a minute, you will become a different man. The old one will no longer feel related to you. His story will seem to be someone else’s. He is gone; what was behind has died; a new life has descended.
For the order of this person’s life will be entirely new and unique. The mind will not be the master. He who can be awake for one minute—the mind becomes his slave. He who can be awake for one minute—no desire can drag him, for he can remain awake.
The amazing thing is: desire drags you because you are unconscious, asleep. Anger cannot seize you. Whenever anything seizes you, you can awaken—if you have learned this art. He who can be awake for one minute can awaken at any moment. If lust grips the mind, he can awaken. He will straighten his spine and become alert for a moment—and suddenly there is a strange experience: the very moment you awaken, desire vanishes as if it never existed.
Buddha said: in the house where a lamp is lit, thieves do not even peep. Where the lamp is out, thieves enter. Buddha said: at the gate where a watchman sits awake, thieves do not even look. Where the watchman sleeps, it is an invitation to thieves.
Desires are like thieves. If your guard is awake, if the inner lamp is lit, desires will not even glance. If you are asleep, snoring, desires will encircle you. In stupor, in darkness, in sleep—there lies the power of desires.
He who is always devoid of Vivek, with an unrestrained mind and impure—he does not attain that supreme state; rather he keeps wandering in the cycle of birth and death.
It is stupor that causes the wandering again and again. Many find it hard to grasp this cycle of birth and death because they have no memory of it. Leave that aside. Understand it another way.
How many times in life have you been angry? How many times have you repented? How many times have you resolved never to be angry again—and yet you were, again? How many times has lust seized you, you became unconscious, insane—and how many times later you repented; the mind felt sorrow, pain, and thought: enough, no more! Yet how many times has it happened!
Again and again, like the spokes of a wheel you keep revolving. The same spoke that seems to be below is above a moment later. The spoke of anger is above, then it goes down. When it goes down, you repent. Then it rises again. Then it goes down—you repent again. Like the spokes of a cartwheel your life turns in a circle. It is not difficult to understand that this circle did not begin with this birth, nor end with this death.
Psychologists now say the child, even in the womb, has a distinct personality. After birth, of course; but even in the womb it is distinct. Some children are aggressive in the womb and kick in the mother’s belly—violent and fierce. Some children are so melancholy that the mother becomes sad because of them while they are in her womb. Some children are so cheerful and joyful that the mother becomes elated because of them—because she is moved by their waves; the two are connected.
Hence a woman’s personality often changes during pregnancy. A new person, a new soul, is joined. Its influence begins to work. During pregnancy the woman’s personality may become different. A quiet woman may become restless; a restless one may become quiet. After the birth she returns to her old patterns. But for nine months, a new current flows in her.
Psychologists say: from the very first moment the child has its own personality.
From where does it bring this personality? There must be a long story behind it. No child is being born today as a blank. He is born carrying the journey of countless births.
When the child is in the womb, different dreams come to the mother with different children. In Jain and Buddhist traditions, a whole science of dreams was built: when a Tirthankara is to be born, what dreams come to the mother—by those dreams one can know the son to be born will be a Tirthankara or a Buddha. The experiences and dreams of many such mothers were collected and sifted to make a science: whenever such dreams arise in pregnancy, know that this kind of soul has entered; under its influence such dreams begin.
This personality is not born of society, conditioning, arrangement. It is brought by the person himself. Your mind is very ancient. Innumerable experiences are stored in it, like seeds, very subtle. The sum of those subtle impressions—this wheel did not begin today; it has always been turning. Hence we called the world a wheel—a chakra.
This sutra says: he who is not restrained in mind, whose Vivek is not awake, who is not innocent and pure—he returns again and again, circling in birth and death.
But he who is always endowed with Vivek‑filled Buddhi, with a restrained mind and pure—he attains that supreme state, from which there is no return to birth.
The notion of the supreme state has gripped the Indian mind since very ancient times: how to be beyond this wheel. Moksha—an utterly unique idea, India’s own. Liberation is India’s own discovery—and the distilled experience of millions of awakened ones: how to leap out of the wheel, how to be beyond it.
As long as one is bound to this wheel, there can be no release from sorrow. That which is dropped will come again. That which seems to be gone will return. We are completely bound; nothing is in our hands. Within this bondage, there is only one thread that can lead toward freedom—that thread is Vivek.
A man is imprisoned and asleep. Can a sleeping man get out of prison in any way? A sleeping man does not even come to know that he is in prison. And even if in dream he comes to know he is in prison, what will he do to get out? His eyes are closed; he is asleep; he is unconscious. If he makes some effort in dream it will be futile—it will have no relation to reality.
To get out of prison the first condition is that the sleeping prisoner awaken. If he awakens, something becomes possible.
Gurdjieff—who in this century in the West did deep experiments in awareness—like Mahavira and Buddha—Gurdjieff said: man is so asleep that one cannot trust him to awaken alone. Hence Gurdjieff said: school work is needed. Alone it will not be done; a group is needed.
Imagine: a dark night, fear of thieves, wild animals; ten of you camp in a forest. You cannot trust that one man, if put on watch, will remain awake. So you arrange it: one man stays up for two hours, then wakes the second; he keeps watch for two hours, then wakes the third. One stays awake while another watches him—whether he is awake or not; if he nods, the other wakes him. Behind the second, a third keeps an eye, ensuring he does not doze, his gaze does not falter.
This Gurdjieff called school work. He called it a group.
Therefore Gurdjieff created small schools in the West, where he, with a few people, tried that they keep awakening one another, that none falls asleep. After years of hard work, people begin to learn to be awake. A man asleep in prison cannot even think how to get out. Awakening is the first thing.
There are only two ways for a sleeping man to awaken: either someone who is awake awakens him—that is the meaning of the Guru. The sleeping man is asleep; he does not even know that he is asleep. Even knowing sleep is possible only to one who is awake: you know in the morning that you slept well—that is knowledge of wakefulness. If tonight you fall asleep and do not awaken for twenty years, you will not even know that the morning came long ago.
I went to see a woman; she has been asleep nine months. A coma. Doctors say she will never wake; she may lie for three years. She will not know that morning came nine months ago. Only when she wakes will she speak of morning. She will say: it must be Saturday? She will say: I slept deeply. She cannot even think it was nine months—that is the perception of those who were awake.
Guru means only this: someone awake can awaken the sleeping. But it is risky: to awaken someone sleeping is to annoy him. You disturb his sleep! He is taking his dream with pleasure; he is resting; you pester him.
Immanuel Kant, a German philosopher, kept a servant only to wake him at four in the morning. He had an obsession with Brahma‑muhurt. He was the kind who would fight anyone who woke him; so a servant was employed because no one in his family would dare—he would swear, abuse, sometimes even hit whoever woke him. Yet he had the obsession to rise at four—so the servant’s job was: even if beaten, never mind—wake him. He had ordered: even if I beat you, you must wake me at four.
The Guru’s work is troublesome. Therefore people get angry with Gurus; we crucify Jesus. It is the anger of the sleeping toward those who disturb the sleep.
Ouspensky dedicated a book to his master Gurdjieff: To Gurdjieff, who broke my sleep.
But when he broke it, it was painful, full of suffering.
Thus there is a struggle between Guru and disciple. The disciple wants sleep. In truth he has come only that you give him a trick to sleep well. He has not come to awaken. He says: give me peace—how to sleep in peace. He is seeking a tranquilizer. Someone to hypnotize him so he can sleep comfortably.
The Guru’s purpose is different. In a sense the Guru is the enemy of the disciple. The disciple comes searching for sleep; the Guru promises peace—come, you will be quiet; and he awakens him. Before awakening, turmoil increases. Peace comes later. With awakening, at first agitation grows—because what you did not see earlier you begin to see. Nothing new is created; what was always there becomes visible. Where the thorns lie, they now prick. They always pricked, but in sleep you did not notice. Now all the troubles begin to be known.
The seeker’s life first passes through great agitation. That is tapascharya. He who passes through it attains peace.
But the Guru’s longing is not for peace; it is for Truth—the supreme Truth. Peace is the shadow of the supreme Truth. He who attains Truth becomes peaceful. The fundamental thread of the whole journey is Vivek. He who attains Vivek attains the supreme state—the place from which there is no return.
He who possesses the charioteer‑like Buddhi of Vivek and holds the reins of the mind in mastery—he, crossing the road of the world, reaches the well-known supreme state of the all-pervading Parabrahman, Purushottama.
Understand this a little, because people have many confusions. Generally people think God is some person we shall meet, have an audience with. This is utterly untrue.
God is not a person with whom you will have an interview. God is a state. As you approach that state, you become divine. The day you are utterly drowned in that state—you become God. There will be no one left separate for you to meet. You will be that.
The meaning of having darshan of God is to become God—because God is a position, a state. It is the last height of consciousness. It is the flowering of the seed hidden within you. That which was concealed becomes manifest.
Therefore godliness is better than the word God—for it indicates a state, not a person: divinity, godliness. Rather than God, Ishvara, Bhagwan—say godliness, Brahmanhood.
But man’s difficulty is that language turns everything into symbol and sign. We turn everything into images. When the freedom struggle was on in India, pictures of Bharat Mata were hung in every home. She exists nowhere—yet the pictures hung: shackles on her feet, the tricolour in her hand. Bharat Mata! Shouting “Victory to Mother India,” many must have forgotten—there is no such entity anywhere. A symbol—dear, poetic—but not a fact.
God too is a symbol. There is no God sitting somewhere. You will become that. Seeking God is, in truth, seeking to be divine. Until one becomes divine, the search continues—because this is our thirst, our longing.
Like a seed lying in the earth—aching that the rains come and it may sprout. Stones are in the way; the tender seed still tries to push them aside, or slip past, and emerge. It bursts forth, reaches the surface, rises toward the sky. Until the flowers bloom, the seed’s race continues.
Man too is a seed. Say, a seed of godliness. Until it breaks and the flower of God blooms, the restlessness continues. This restlessness is creative. Without it, you would be lost.
Blessed are those who are filled with spiritual restlessness. Unfortunate are those who have no restlessness, who say, what need of meditation? Why search for God? What has religion to do with us?
On this earth there is none more unfortunate than these. These are seeds saying: what need to sprout? What use to become a shoot? What is the point of rising to the sky? What will we gain by journeying into the sun? Such seeds will remain seeds—lying like pebbles. They will be miserable. They are miserable, but they do not understand what the misery is.
In my vision there is only one misery in life: if you do not become that which you were born to become—you will be miserable. And there is only one joy: to become that which you were born to be. The destiny fulfilled. That which was hidden has become unhidden, manifest. Until you become that which your capacity allows—and that capacity is to be God—there will be no end to pain and anguish.
And it is fortunate that there is no end—because if there were, you would sit where you are. It is this pain that keeps pushing you. Suffering is your oar; it carries your boat to the other shore.
Because, for the senses, the objects such as sound are strong; stronger than the objects is the mind; stronger than the mind is Buddhi; and stronger than Buddhi is the Atman, the master of them all.
Therefore remember: when you wish to bring something under mastery, awaken the element hidden behind it. Hold the stronger; do not fight the weaker. This is the positive, the creative approach.
There are two kinds of people. The negative intellect spends its time in fighting. The creative intellect does not bother to fight; it searches for the higher. Some people waste time on how to conquer the futile, the false. Others invest their energy in how to give birth to the meaningful. Some keep fighting darkness; others try to light a lamp.
And the amusing thing is, the one who fights darkness never wins; the one who lights a lamp conquers darkness. Become one who lights lamps; do not fight darkness. If negativity enters your sadhana, sadhana becomes sick. Be creative. Seek to attain something—not to renounce something.
Therefore I say: forget the word renunciation. Do not worry about dropping; worry about attainment. As you attain, much will drop by itself. As soon as you place your foot on a higher step, it withdraws from the lower by itself. Do not try to leave the lower; try to step onto the higher. Move forward—and the past will fall away. As one enters God—or dissolves in godliness—the world keeps dropping away.
In my seeing, the wise have not dropped anything; only the ignorant drop. This may seem complex. We call Mahavira a great renunciate, Buddha a great renunciate. Not in my book. In my book Mahavira does not drop anything; he attains. And he attains so much that the rubbish drops by itself. One who finds diamonds will not sit holding stones. Space must be made for the diamonds; the stones must be left. The ignorant drop and suffer; they suffer in enjoyment and in renunciation.
I know both kinds of ignorants. They suffer when they indulge—and they cannot even enjoy properly. They drop—and then they suffer the pains of renunciation.
A sannyasin came to me and said: forty years I have been renouncing—and still nothing has been gained.
You fool—why did you renounce? First attain, then drop—and forty years of pain would be saved! Nothing gained—and forty years wasted in dropping! As long as nothing is gained, dropping creates a void—and that void hurts, becomes hellish.
Therefore, in my understanding, the so‑called sadhus suffer even more than householders. The householder at least has the trust that the world is there. The sadhu lacks even that. The world has gone; God is not visible; moksha is not understood; the world is gone. What was in hand is gone—and nothing has come. An empty fist.
But he keeps his fist closed so that people do not suspect that he has nothing. Thus he talks of self‑knowledge, Brahman‑knowledge; but those words are for others. He is deceiving himself; by discussing with others, he talks to himself, persuading himself that something has been gained.
Until you attain, do not drop. Until then, even pebbles are all right—at least your fist remains closed and you feel you have something. And what is the hurry to drop pebbles? When diamonds begin to come, the pebbles will fall by themselves; you will not even have to drop them. You will not even notice when the pebbles fell and the fist clenched around the diamonds.
Keep a positive, creative vision always. That is the very purpose of Yama: awaken the strongest and highest within.
Stronger than the individual soul is the Lord’s unmanifest Maya. Higher than unmanifest Maya is the Supreme Person, Param Ishvara. Beyond the Supreme Person there is nothing higher or stronger. He is the final term of all and the ultimate goal of all.
Therefore the ultimate arrangement of sadhana is surrender to the Paramatman. This does not mean there is some God somewhere in the sky at whose feet you place your head. Surrender to the Paramatman means: you surrender to the highest and ultimate power within you. If this surrender becomes total, then in a single instant restraint and sadhana are fulfilled.
The ancient scriptures spoke of surrender to the Guru only in this sense: that Paramatman, of whom you have no inner glimpse yet, whom you fail to discover within because of many layers of darkness, thick walls—has become transparent in someone else. In his transparency you can see the inner element shining. Those who saw Paramatman at the feet of Mahavira, Buddha, Nanak, Jesus, Muhammad—who beheld the inner light sparkling through that transparency—surrendered. At first the surrender was to Muhammad or Mahavira; but the inner element is one. It is not Muhammad’s and yours separate!
The moment you surrender to that glimpse, your own glimpse begins. As if, with the help of another, your lamp is lit. The Guru is a catalytic agent. Until your inner Guru is awakened, he is a great ally.
Surrender to the Paramatman means: surrender to your highest possibility, to your ultimate future, to the final state of your destiny.
A friend came today. He asked: up to Atman, all right—but is there also a Paramatman?
He is Jain, so a slight difficulty—Jains do not accept a God beyond the soul. Up to Atman, all right—but is there Paramatman? But where is even Atman known? That too is only read or heard, news of the sect into which one was born. If there is a glimpse of Atman, the meeting with Paramatman happens instantly.
Mahavira said: Atman itself is Paramatman. But Atman has three states. Mahavira’s analysis is very clear: one is bahir‑Atman—the soul looking outward; second, antar‑Atman—the soul looking inward; third, Paramatman—looking neither outward nor inward; looking nowhere; settled in itself.
Thus Mahavira calls Paramatman a state of the Atman. Yama too says the same. He does not say there is some God sitting outside. He also says: stronger than the individual soul is the unmanifest Maya of God. Higher than unmanifest Maya is the Supreme Person, Param Ishvara. Nothing is higher than the Supreme. He is the final term and the final goal.
All have to reach there. That is the ocean into which all Ganges must flow. The ocean may seem far—yet it is not. It may seem long before Ganga reaches—yet it is not. Every moment the Ganga is falling toward the ocean. From Gangaotri, her attention is on the ocean; she keeps falling. And that is the supreme goal: when the Ganga falls into the ocean, there is no Ganga separate, no ocean separate—the Ganga becomes the ocean.
The ultimate and final state of the individual is Param Ishvara—that ocean into which all rivers fall.
Now, prepare for meditation.