Kathopanishad #9

Man’s senses face outward—and can only face outward. There is no instrument for turning them within.
As a scientist fashions a telescope to search distant stars: through the telescope he can see far-off stars, but the scientist hidden just behind that telescope—the one standing so very near—cannot be seen through it. The telescope will not catch the eyes pressed to its lens; yet it will catch stars millions of miles away. A telescope is built to see the distant. But to see the one who is seeing—no telescope is needed.
The senses are made to perceive matter. To see oneself, there is no need of any sense. The Self can be seen without the senses. Therefore the senses do not go inward, they go outward. From this a great tangle arises. The tangle is that the scientist who gazes upon distant stars may slowly forget that he too is. The stars may become all in all. Holding the telescope, the one behind—the seer—may be forgotten, for continuously only the outside is seen; constantly only the outer appears. And that which is hidden within—unseen—can slip out of memory.
This is what has happened. All our senses move outward. With the hand I can touch you. With the hand I can even touch my body—for it too is other, it too is outside. But the one hidden in the body I cannot touch with my hand. With the hand I cannot touch the one who touches.
When I extend my hand toward you, it is not only the hand that goes forth—the “I” hidden in the hand goes forth. I want to reach, to touch you; therefore the hand extends. The hand is but a shadow following me. I desire to touch you, so the hand follows, obeying my command. But when I touch you, two events occur—there is you whom I touched, and there is I who touched; there is the hand by which the touch occurred, and there is your body by which you were touched.
The eyes look outward—they see everything; only I, hidden within, they cannot see. The ears listen outward. Taste, savor, scent—all are concerned with the outside.
The senses were fashioned precisely that we might be acquainted with the world—arrangements for knowing the other, the “not-I.” But that which is hidden within becomes unknown in this very knowing. Our own being is overlaid. In knowing things, we forget the knower. This is the first point of this sutra.
The self-revealing Paramatma has fashioned the doors of all the senses to open outward. Therefore man, by the senses, mostly sees only outer objects, not the inner Self. Only some fortunate, intelligent one, desiring the immortal, has turned the stream back from outer objects through the ear and other senses, and seen the inner Self.
Here a point is to be noted, for from it arises much confusion in the world of seekers. What does it mean to turn the eyes within? Can the eyes be turned inward? The eyes cannot be turned inward. The eyes can only see the outer. There is no device by which the eyes can see within. There is no way to see the seer with the eyes. Yet saints and yogis have said, turn the eyes back, reverse the current.
Turning back means only this: do not go outward. Do not let the energy that rushes out through the eyes go out. If the door that opens outward is closed, the one who looks out will not go out—rather the seer will return to himself. There will be no eyes there—but to see oneself, eyes are not needed. Self-seeing happens without eyes. It is vision free of the senses.
To hear oneself, there is no need to turn the ears inward. Only let the ears not listen outwardly. Let the net of external sound-waves slip from the ears. Let the ears be filled with indifference to the outside. Then the energy that goes out through the ears—if it does not go out—that very energy hears the inner sound by itself. For that sound, no ear is needed.
For the senses to return within means only this: let them not go out; let there be no outward flow. Then, as a spring that flows and is dammed and finds no outlet, the spring returns upon itself—the flow ceases, a lake forms. So too consciousness, flowing out through the five senses—if it does not go out, a lake of awareness is formed within. That lake is self-knowing. That lake is capable of seeing itself, hearing itself, touching itself. But those experiences are beyond the senses—trans-sensory; they have nothing to do with the sense organs.
There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. He would constantly relate: My master once gave three youths a pigeon each and said, Go and kill the pigeon in such a place where no one is watching.
One youth returned within five minutes, pigeon killed. He had gone down the next alley—no one there—twisted its neck, came back. The second returned after three days. He had searched everywhere lest by mistake anyone might see; he went into a deep cave, blocked the entrance with stones—no way anyone could enter; there was dense darkness; even if anyone came, he couldn’t see—there he twisted the neck.
The third youth returned after three months, still with the pigeon. The master asked, In three months could you not find any place where no one was? He said, Not in three lifetimes could I find such a place. For three months I tried hard. I went into a deep cave—there was darkness—but I was still seeing; the pigeon was still seeing—two were present. Even if I closed the pigeon’s eyes, still the one who would kill would see—no matter how dense the darkness!
Bayazid’s master said, Only you will succeed in finding yourself. The other two have no inner search. He dismissed the two, kept the one—for you remember this much: where the senses do not see and where light is absent, you still see. Your seeing has no need of the senses.
However deep the darkness in the room, you may not see anything, yet that you are—this is still known. The wall is not seen, the furniture is not seen, those sitting in the room are not seen, yet that you are—no darkness can erase this. In any condition whatsoever, you remain—and you know you are. This being is self-evident. It comes through no medium. Therefore the knowers of the Self have said: all the world’s experiences are indirect; only the experience of the Self is direct.
This is a reversal. Ordinarily we think everything is direct—the tree is seen, you are seen—everything is right there before the eyes. But the self-knower says: all worldly knowledge is indirect—because between you and the object an organ stands as middleman. You are hidden behind; the knowable object is outside; between them a mediator—the broker—called the eye. The eye can deceive.
Knowledge is not straight, not immediate. Between the knower and known stands a medium. If one has jaundice, he sees yellow; if one is color-blind, colors do not appear at all. What reliance on the eyes? On what evidence say the eyes are right? We merely trust them.
It is amusing—people ask for proof for everything in the world, but never do they ask their senses for proof—what is your warrant? What certifies that your eyes see truly? The Charvakas, the materialists, accepted only one proof—direct perception—what stands before the eyes alone will they accept.
But those Charvaka thinkers never asked: On what ground do we trust the eyes so much? Are the eyes always right? For at night they dream—and those dreams are direct, yet not true. A rope lying on the path appears a snake—and when the eye sees “snake” in a rope, the snake appears utterly real. Later, when light comes, we discover—there was no snake. In the desert the mirage appears.
When the first three-dimensional films were made, those who went to see were frightened. In the first such film shown in London, a horseman throws a spear—the whole hall ducks their heads, for in three dimensions it appears as a real spear. For a moment one feels the spear pass close by. The whole hall bends in two—yet there is nothing on the screen, no spear coming, none going—only a play of light and shadow. Still the eyes are deceived.
What reliance on the eyes? What warrant do the senses possess? The self-knower says: only Self-knowledge is direct; all other knowledge is indirect. For there is a mediator, and no mediator is reliable. Only what is seen directly is seen. What is seen through an intermediary—who can be sure? You come and tell me, there is light outside. I must rely on you. You may speak truth; you may lie; you yourself may be deceived. What reliance can I have until I myself go out and see?
Knowledge of matter will always be indirect; only knowledge of the Self can be direct—for there, between the knower and the known, there is no one. I alone am—solely I. There is no element to deceive or distort in between. Therefore, in common experience what is direct is indirect for the self-knower; and what in common experience we do not see at all is direct for the self-knower.
The Atman is self-luminous. For its vision no light of the senses is needed. The blind are as capable of seeing it as the sighted. The deaf are as capable as those with ears. A man paralyzed, lying inert, is as capable as one strong enough to climb Everest. No difference arises from bodily strength.
In knowing the Atman, the body is of no use. Weak or strong, healthy or ill, beautiful or ugly, dark or fair—it makes no difference. The body is useful for knowledge of the other; to know the other, the body is useful—eyes must be healthy, ears sound, the body strong. Only then can relationship with the other be formed. With oneself, the relationship is already there—there is nothing to be established.
Therefore this sutra says: The self-revealing Paramatma… To know Paramatma, the senses are not needed; He reveals Himself. He is already revealed. But the world does not reveal itself—senses are needed to know the world. The more senses, the more the world appears.
In the world there are beings with many senses. Man has five. An amoeba—a tiny unicellular being—has only one sense: only body, only touch. No other sense. So the amoeba is least developed—not in the sense of Atman, but in knowing the world. Its knowing depends solely on touch. As senses increase, worldly knowledge increases.
It is no wonder if somewhere on some moon or star there are beings with more than five senses—man’s knowledge would pale before theirs. There could be ten senses—there is no obstacle, no reason against it. We cannot even imagine a sixth sense, for our knowledge is of five, our imagination too.
Leave animals aside—take a blind man—even he cannot imagine what light might be. He cannot imagine what an eye might be—through which light is seen. He has no experience of light, no experience of eyes. He has only four senses—his knowledge is limited.
You will be surprised: eighty percent of your knowledge comes through the eyes; the remaining four senses give only twenty percent. Hence we feel great pity for the blind—less for the lame, less for the deaf; but much for the blind. The reason—eighty percent of life is in darkness for him; eighty percent of knowledge is impossible. He is very pitiable.
But all these five senses give knowledge of the outer. For inner knowing no sense is necessary. There, one enters only by leaving the senses. Renunciation of the senses is the way.
The self-revealing Paramatma fashioned the doors of all the senses to open outward. Therefore most men spend their lives looking at outer things, not the inner Self. Only some fortunate, intelligent one, desiring immortality, has withdrawn the ear and other senses from outer objects and seen the inner Self.
All meditative methods—however varied—agree on one fundamental: all your senses must be stilled. They may differ on how, but not on that they must become quiet. Let all the senses fall silent and you remain within. Let the world remain without and you remain within—and let there be no bridge in between. In that instant the inner Self arises, is revealed.
Here the experiments we do use your senses in three stages—use them as intensely as you can, exhaust them—so that even for ten minutes, if the senses, being tired, fall silent, a glimpse within may be had.
The Sufi fakirs have a dance—the dervish dance—precious indeed. As your courage grows, we will soon enter the dervish dance. But the dervish dance runs long—five hours. Slowly you will be able to do it. The fakir dances continuously for five hours—until the body drops of its own accord. Do not stop of your own will. Do nothing from your side. Keep dancing, keep dancing. As long as even the last drop of energy remains—keep dancing.
No dishonesty will do—do not think, I am tired, let me sit. No. As long as you feel you can still sit, at least that much strength is left—pour even that into the dance. Until you actually see the body falling…
It is a unique experience. When your body’s energy is completely spent, and you see the body falling—you can do nothing: neither stop it, nor dance, nor manage—just the body is falling. In that instant the witness suddenly awakens. And when the body is utterly tired, no sense remains active—the doors close, the bridges break—the Sufi enters within.
The kirtan we are doing is part of the Sufi dance. Many come to me and say, In India kirtan is not like this! It has no direct connection with Indian kirtan. It is not worship or ritual. It has no relation with Krishna or Gopal. They are only pretext—only pegs. Through that pretext we are trying to tire you. Therefore whoever saves himself misses the point. You must be exhausted—use energy so intensely that you are utterly spent, the body becomes like a corpse—as if all prana has dried up. In that moment the senses close—there is a glimpse of the inner.
And once the glimpse begins, then it is no longer difficult. Once the path is clear, there is no longer the need to exhaust yourself. Then just closing the eyes, you can enter within. Once the path is recognized, the foot-trail known—like in a dark night if lightning flashes and the road is seen for a moment—then even if the lightning ceases, you can walk assured in the dark; you know the way; you have seen once—you can seek it again.
All these meditations are fundamentally methods of exhausting, so that the senses, tired, sit down. One way is to force them to sit; I am not in favor—no one can force the senses to sit. The situation becomes like telling a small child: Sit quietly. He sits, but all his energy is going into sitting quietly—he is taut, tense, cannot relax, cannot rest.
No. Tell the child, Run! Do twenty-five rounds. Then there will be no need to say, Sit quietly. After twenty-five rounds he will sit by himself. And that quietness will be of a different quality—no tension, no restlessness—quietness with a relief, a sweetness, a taste of rest.
Tire the senses—tire them so much that even for a moment if they fall into rest, in that moment your entry happens within.
Those of childish mind who chase outer pleasures fall into the all-pervading bondage of death. But the wise, knowing by discrimination the eternal, never-dying state, desire none of the impermanent pleasures here.
Viveka—discrimination—means only this: that the futile appears futile; the essential appears essential. In the world, whatever we desire—first, if it is not attained—there is misery; and if it is attained—no happiness. A man wants wealth—until it comes he is unhappy; when it comes, he finds: What has come? Piles of money—and now what?
Whatever you desired—if you did not get it, you suffered; if you did, what joy did you gain? Only while it is not attained does the shimmer of happiness appear. In this world sorrow is real; happiness is only an appearance. Happiness lies in that which is not attained; in what is attained all happiness is lost. Therefore no one is happy anywhere.
A friend of mine—earlier he was an MLA—said to me, Give your blessing—nothing more—that at least I become a deputy minister. I told him, You will surely become, for the madness you have—you will not escape without it. But if you think great bliss will happen, you are mistaken.
He became a deputy minister. He came to me again—Now one more desire: to be a minister. I asked, Did being deputy minister give you the joy you had imagined for years? He said, There is nothing in being deputy; only being minister will do. Now he is a minister. Now he says, Chief Minister. I asked, Where will you stop? Learn from your past.
Wherever man is, there he is unhappy. Find a happy man—it is difficult. Have you ever seen one? A happy man can only be the one who is happy where he is. But the one who thinks happiness lies elsewhere will be unhappy. The one happy where he is—such a one is a sannyasin.
The one unhappy where he is—such a one is a householder. He lives only in the future. His heaven is tomorrow—today is nothing. He will sacrifice today for tomorrow. He will burn today for tomorrow—that tomorrow’s heaven might be gained. But tomorrow never comes. When it comes, it is today—and he will spend that today for another tomorrow. Thus he spends and spends—and one day ends with nothing in hand but death.
The Upanishad says: child-minded people—immature—waste life pursuing only outer objects. The wise—the discriminating—knowing from their own experience that outside no one has ever found true bliss, nor can, drop the craving for impermanent pleasures. They let go the desire for outer objects. The foolish drop the objects—another matter entirely. Letting go of desire for outer objects is one thing; getting busy dropping outer objects is quite another—indeed opposite. Only one who was first busy grasping outer things gets busy dropping them—but his eyes remain fixed on the outer.
Some are mad for money; some other lunatics are terrified lest money touch them. I know a great sannyasin with many followers—he does not touch money. If you make him touch it, he goes nearly mad, terribly angry, bathes if ever he happens to touch it. People revere him—for this is renunciation! No—this is madness, derangement. It is an old illness. Earlier he must have tasted great sweetness in money. From the depth of his revulsion you can measure the depth of the former taste. The taste has not been lost—only inverted. Not free of money—still bound. Yesterday bound as friend—today bound as foe. One must attend to a friend; to an enemy even more so. When he comes and sits, he looks around—Is there any money? Any wealth? Twenty-four hours there is no remembrance of God.
There are many like this here—their tendency merely turns upside-down. The same man who earlier stood on his feet now stands on his head. Not an iota of change within—no revolution—but an appearance of it.
Outer things are neither to be grasped nor to be dropped. They are outside. Neither can you truly hold them nor truly renounce them. Who are you? Your grasping was your delusion; your renouncing too is delusion. The house is not affected by your holding or leaving. Yesterday you said, This house is mine. The house never said you were its owner. If the house had a little awareness, it would laugh: What an owner! Someone else before you said the same; before him another; and after you others will say so. Then one day you say, I have renounced the house. Neither was the house yours, nor can you renounce it. Renunciation is as mad as the proclamation of ownership. Only an owner can renounce. The knower understands: I am owner of nothing—how can I renounce? How can I grasp?
Renunciation of craving means this deep realization within that in this world there is nothing to grasp and nothing to renounce. Grasping and renouncing are both ignorance. In this world there is nothing worth holding, nothing worth dropping. The man who stands in such neutrality is discriminating. His craving falls. He stops running after the outer.
By whose grace a man experiences words, touch, form, taste, scent, and pleasures like that of woman—by that same grace he also knows what remains here: nothing at all. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
Yama tells Nachiketa: the Paramatma you asked about—what is He? First, He says: here in this world, whatever we enjoy—taste, beauty, pleasure—by what are they possible? Hidden within this all is that without which no event could be. You taste because within you are present. If you vanish, the body can taste nothing. You sense fragrance because within you are present. Without you, no scent is known. All experiences in this world—on what are they based? On the chaitanya—the consciousness—hidden within.
When fragrance comes from the flower, our attention goes to the flower—not to the one who is smelling. Three things are there: the flower blossoms, fragrance spreads, you sit or stand nearby—fragrance arrives. There are three: the flower, you, and between, the fragrance that floats.
One object of knowledge; one knower; and one knowledge. A trinity everywhere. But our attention always goes to the object—the flower. We say, What a beautiful flower! We do not say, What a beautiful soul—that could take in the fragrance of the flower! Beautiful flower—we never remember the beautiful consciousness within.
Neither fragrance is as precious, nor the flower, as that by whose support all this happens. Behind whatever is happening in life stands hidden consciousness.
Yama says: this consciousness within—the enjoyer of all pleasures—and the one who also experiences that there remains nothing here to be attained, that all is vain—this is That—Paramatma—for whom you asked.
Thus Yama’s first definition of God: the inner seer—the consciousness hidden within you; the power of awareness; the very root of your life—This is That.
He who, by whom the scenes of dream and of waking are seen again and again—knowing That supreme, all-pervading, the Self of all—the wise do not grieve.
This is a sutra worth grasping. Yama says: the experiences of dream, the experiences of waking—by whom man sees them again and again…
A curious thing—perhaps you have never noticed; yet on it many new dimensions can open. At night you dream—while dreaming, the dream feels utterly true. Within the dream it is impossible to know it is false. As long as it lasts, it is completely true. The most absurd dream too is fully true. You may in life beg by the roadside—but if in the dream you become an emperor, not a hint of doubt arises: How can this be? I am a beggar. In dreams all are believers—I have never seen an atheist within a dream. One has to believe the dream to be right. It is not only beggars who accept their kingship in dreams—even kings accept the beggar they dream themselves to be. Whatever happens—absurd or coherent—no logic arises; the mind is full of trust.
All dreams are true within the dream; they become false only when you wake. The moment you awaken, finding yourself in your room or under your tree—king, beggar, all the dream-web breaks—you say: All false.
But another curious point: when you go into the dream at night, what you saw in waking becomes false—and even more completely false. For some trace of the dream remains upon waking—but within a dream does any trace of waking remain? Not at all. Indian psychologists have said: the dream is an even deeper experience than waking—because waking cannot erase the dream wholly; in the morning something remains. But the dream wipes away waking absolutely—nothing remains. Surely the current of dream runs deeper. In the dream, waking is false; in waking, the dream is false. Then what is true?
The famous tale of Chuang Tzu: one night he dreamt he had become a butterfly. In the morning he sat depressed. The disciples asked, Master, depressed—what happened? He said: Last night I dreamt I was a butterfly. They said, Discard it—why be depressed by dreams? You have woken now. He said, A great difficulty has arisen: if Chuang Tzu can dream himself a butterfly at night, why cannot the butterfly dream it has become Chuang Tzu by day? Now who am I? A waking Chuang Tzu, or a sleeping butterfly? Is this a dream, or is this the truth?
Dream falsifies waking; waking falsifies dream. What is true? Neither. Only the seer is true—whom neither can falsify. At night the seer is present—dreams are seen. By day the same presence—waking experiences are seen. Dreams change, waking changes, the seer remains unchanged.
Only the seer is truth. What is seen becomes false. The one who sees alone remains true. Remember—falsehood too needs a true seer to be seen. Without the one who sees, even the false cannot be seen.
Thus Yama says: He by whom the scenes of dream and waking are seen—knowing That, the wise do not grieve.
Whoever grasps the seer does not grieve.
A famous Chinese story: an emperor’s only son was ill, near death. The emperor stayed awake all night, serving him. Around four he dozed. He had intended to remain awake, for the son could die any moment—and a father wishes to be present in the last moment. But a doze came—and he dreamt he was emperor of the whole world, with twelve sons—each had a palace of gold, immeasurable wealth. While he dreamt, his real son died. The wife beat her chest, cried; the emperor awoke. Instead of weeping, he burst into laughter. The wife cried, Have you gone mad in grief—why laugh? He said, Whom shall I weep for? A moment ago I had twelve sons—so beautiful as I have never seen—vast empire, endless treasure—all gone. While I lived with those twelve, I had no remembrance of this son—let alone his life or death. Now the twelve are gone, and this one is gone—who shall I mourn? Which is true?
Neither the twelve sons in the night’s dream, nor the son in the day’s dream. Only the seer is true. Whoever grasps the seer has taken the first step to siddhi. Then sorrow cannot catch him—for sorrow comes from clinging to the outer. The one who holds the inner seer—there is no reason for sorrow; bliss becomes his natural state.
He who knows as near to himself the Paramatma who gives the fruits of action, who gives life to all, and governs past, present, and future—after that he never condemns anyone. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
If the experience of the seer begins—if attention begins to move from seen and seeing to the seer—then you will find there is none nearer than Paramatma. Just now none is farther. Just now “God” is a hollow word. And whenever we think, we imagine Him far away, somewhere in the sky upon a throne—long the journey. In truth, Paramatma sits here—just behind the breath.
Muhammad has said: Your jugular vein—if cut, you die—He is nearer than that. Closer than close—for you yourself are That. But this is known only when attention settles upon the seer. Then Paramatma is utterly near. And having sensed Him so near within—remember—one will begin to sense Him within all.
This is a law: what you see within yourself, you begin to see in others. If you are a thief, you see thieves everywhere; you feel conspiracies all around. If you are dishonest, no one appears honest—everyone seems made-up, ready to cheat.
Two youths walked together—both pickpockets. The first again and again touched something in his pocket. The second again and again pulled out his watch and looked at the time. The first asked, Why do you look so often at the time? The second said, What do you keep feeling in your pocket? I too am a pickpocket—I must keep checking whether my watch is still there or gone. And you? He said, I too am a pickpocket—notes are kept in my pocket; I keep checking whether they are still there or gone.
Our notions of others are projections of ourselves. A wicked man cannot believe that anyone can be good—if told someone is good, he nods with disbelief: Wait—you’ll know—things don’t stay hidden—soon we shall see. He strives to find the man’s evil, for evil is his certainty; goodness, to him, is only a mask.
Only a good man trusts that another can be good. He finds it hard to believe someone is bad—why would he be? Take note: if you readily believe in another’s badness, do not mistakenly think you are good—that is the touchstone. For a good man it is difficult to believe another is bad—even if he is; just as for a bad man it is difficult to believe another is good—even if he is.
We cannot think outside ourselves. Therefore, the one who begins to experience the seer, begins to sense the seer in all. He does not see your body; he begins to glimpse within you. He finds Paramatma everywhere—condemnation becomes impossible. Only when Paramatma begins to be seen in others does condemnation cease. Then only praise remains—no ground for blame.
We see devils everywhere—therefore condemnation runs. The devil sees devils; Paramatma sees Paramatma. You are what your world appears to be. Know that saintliness has dawned within you the day you find it hard to see a devil anywhere.
Rabiya, a Sufi woman-fakir—there is a verse in the Quran: Hate Satan. She struck out that verse. It is grave impertinence to correct the Quran—just as with the Gita or the Vedas—who can amend them? The fakir Junaid was her guest. In the morning he read Rabiya’s Quran and saw the correction—she had cut the line! He cried, What fool has committed this sin? Rabiya said, None other—I cut it. Junaid said, You have done an act of unbelief! Rabiya said, I am in a difficulty: since the taste of the Lord has begun, I do not see Satan—whom shall I hate? That verse no longer fits me. Where is Satan? If he stood before me, I would see only God. There is no way now to hate—so I cut the line. What does not fit me cannot remain in my Quran.
This sutra says: the moment a person experiences That as near—nearest—after that he condemns none. Praise becomes natural. He sees His glimmer within all. In every lamp, the same flame.
This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
He who was unborn even before water and the five elements, produced at the very beginning by tapas, who enters the cave of the heart and abides with the jivas—whoever sees that Lord, he alone sees rightly. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
Who sees rightly? If the vision itself is not right, the vision of God is impossible. Who sees rightly? He alone who recognizes in the cave of the heart the Unborn hidden there. The heart was born—the cave was formed and will dissolve. The body was constructed and will scatter; what is born will die. In this body’s cave something Unborn is hidden—never born, never to be destroyed. Whoever sees That—he alone sees. Only he has eyes; all others are blind—blind inwardly. However much they see outwardly, those who cannot see themselves—their eyes might as well not be.
The Upanishad says: he alone sees rightly who recognizes, in the cave of the heart, the Unborn. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
She, the goddess Aditi—life-energy—born together with the pranas, arisen with beings, who enters the cave of the heart and dwells there—whoever sees Her, he alone sees reality. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
Aditi is the name of the pranic energy—the current of life flowing within. We recognize the body; the body is not the river—only its banks. Between two banks a river flows. The banks we see—the river not. Like Saraswati—invisible. The banks appear; the dry bed appears; but not the river.
The body is the bank. Something else flows supported by it—but unseen. Every hair’s breadth in you a current of energy flows. Energy is never seen. These bulbs burn—bulbs are seen—but the current in the wires is not. No one has ever seen electricity—only its uses. No power has ever been seen—only its expressions are revealed. This is electricity—the bulb lights, the fan turns—these are uses. What is electricity? No one has ever seen it; no one ever will. Power has no form, no shape. You walk, sit, stand, speak—these are seen. But who walks? Who sits? Who speaks? Who is silent? That is never seen. That pranic energy—its name is Aditi. Whoever sees that pranic energy within—he truly sees. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
That all-knowing Agni, hidden and safe like a fetus borne by pregnant women, concealed between the two aranis, ever awake, worthy daily of the praise of men with offerings—This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
In ancient days, to produce fire two sticks were rubbed—the stick was called arani. By friction the hidden fire would appear. Hidden she was already—in the two sticks. With flint too—rub it and sparks appear. Rubbing produces nothing new; it only reveals what is hidden.
So too, within you Paramatma is hidden—a little rubbing is needed; a little sadhana, a little tapas; a little effort. What is hidden will blaze forth. But if a man merely keeps two aranis before him on a freezing night—he will shiver and freeze. Hidden fire gives no warmth, no light. Yet the fire is there, kept before him. Just a little rubbing and it will appear; darkness will break; the cold will dissolve. Agni can be invoked.
The worship of fire is ancient. The root reason—just as fire is hidden in matter and must be brought forth, so Paramatma is hidden and must be brought forth.
And for another reason Agni has been ever worshipful: Agni always rises upward. Even if you turn a lamp upside down, the flame still goes upward. You can overturn the lamp—you cannot overturn the flame. Water runs downward; fire flows upward. When water takes the help of fire, it too rises upward—heated to boil, becoming steam—its journey changes. The very nature of water changes—from one that flows down to one that climbs to the sky.
Of old, man saw that besides fire nothing else has the capacity to move upward. Fire defies gravitation—the earth pulls, but cannot pull fire down. Fire obeys levitation—earth can do nothing to it.
The consciousness that begins to move upward—fire became its symbol. Paramatma is the name of consciousness forever rising upward. This fire is hidden in all. All the means are in your hands; only a little friction is needed—sadhana. A little stirring within, a little striking of the inner aranis. The meditations I offer you are in truth the striking of aranis.
People ask me, What harm if we sit quietly? They are asking: If we keep the aranis as they are, will fire not appear? No. One must rub. Your inner energy must pass through a little friction. Had it been to happen by itself, it would have happened. It has not. To awaken that fire, some labor is needed.
From where the Sun rises and where it sets—into That all gods are surrendered. That from which life begins and into which life dissolves—that primal source and final end—there all gods find dedication.
No one can ever cross That Lord. He is the primal source and ultimate end of all. There is no overstepping Paramatma—for when you overstep all, what is attained is Paramatma. There is no beyond to That. He is the final limit of existence. This is That—the Paramatma you asked about.
That Parabrahman which is here—mark this sutra well—that Parabrahman which is here is the same there. That which is there is the same here. He goes from death to death who sees the Paramatma as many. If someone says, God is not here—He is in the other world—he is ignorant. If one says, He is not here but there—he is deluded. For He is everywhere. Wherever being is—there He is: here and there; this shore and that. Not that Paramatma is only in the other world—He is in this world too. One needs the eye to see. And whoever has the eye sees Him here.
Remember, one who cannot see Him here will not see Him there. It depends on the eye. If the eye is born, He is revealed everywhere; if not, He is nowhere revealed.
But people deceive themselves: He is not manifest here because He is not here—He is in the other world. Thus the blind protect themselves. They do not consider, We are blind, therefore we do not see.
The blind have constructed Vaikuntha, heaven, the hereafter—so as to say: there is no fault in us that He is not seen—He simply is not here; He is there. When we get there, we will see Him. This comforts the blind.
But this sutra says something else: He is as much here as there. If you do not see, absence is not the reason—lack of eyes is. One must strive to give birth to eyes.
The Zen master Rinzai has a famous saying over which there has been debate for centuries. It sounds reversed: Samsara and Nirvana are one. We say—leave the world, renounce—but Rinzai says: they are one. He who makes even the slightest distinction is ignorant. Had he read this Upanishad’s sutra he would have danced in joy: exactly—what is there is here also. Samsara and Nirvana are one. The difference arises from the blind—they do not see Him here, and instead of thinking, We lack eyes, they think, He is not present here. No need to seek—when we go to the other world…
Hence, as man grows old and the other world nears, he becomes “religious.” Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are full of the old; the young are rarely seen. If one appears, know that in some way he has grown old—some mishap, some inner crack. The old will even advise their sons: Religion is not for you now—there is an age for it—when you are old. In truth, when death approaches, when suspicion arises that the other world is close, a man becomes “religious,” because here there is no God.
But this arrangement is deceit. He who is not religious here will not become so because of death; and the eyes death does not gift—one who does not see God here will not see Him there either. As you are—were you placed in the other world—you would see the world there too; you would hurry to arrange things—open a shop, arrange marriages—at once you would begin to build there the very world you had here. But the liberated see only liberation—even here in this world.
That Parabrahman which is here is there; that which is there is here. He goes from death to death who sees the Paramatma as many—as not One.
Understand this too: we see this world as many—tree apart from stone, you apart from me, neighbor apart—everything separate, fragmentary. Our condition is like a night when the moon rises and there are a thousand puddles, lakes, pools—the moon is seen in each. One moon in the sky—but its reflections countless. We go on counting the reflections and think, How many moons! Our gaze never rises to the One whose reflections they are.
All the existence in this world—all forms—are reflections of the One. Within you, like a lake, upon the stillness of your consciousness, the shadow of the One is formed.
This sutra says: he who sees here as many goes astray in birth and death. He who even here sees the One—at once is liberated.
To recognize the One is supreme knowledge. To go on seeing the many is ignorance.
Prepare for meditation.