Kathopanishad #8

The English thinker Bradley has a famous work: Appearance and Reality—appearance and truth, or say Maya and Brahman. That which appears to the eye is only appearance. That which is hidden within the appearance and does not appear—that alone is truth. Reality has two aspects: one as it appears—on the surface; and one as it is—within.

I look at you: form appears, shape appears, body appears—but you do not appear. You are hidden within all this. All this that is form, all that is seen, is only the outer circumference; it is not the inner center. So if someone assumes that by seeing you he has known you, a mistake will be made. What he has seen is only the circumference.

It is as if someone looked at the outer walls of a house and went back. In just the same way, if someone sees your body, whatever is visible in you, and thinks he has become acquainted with you, he falls into illusion. You are hidden deep within—beyond the grasp of the eye, beyond the touch of the hand, beyond the hearing of the ear. Therefore only in moments of deep love can you be known—because love alone can reach where the senses cannot.

This whole world is such. And it is natural that it be so, because every thing has a circumference and a center. What can be seen from the outside is one thing; and what can be known only by entering inward through the deep heart—that is another. That alone is truth which abides at the center. The circumference keeps changing day by day.

You were in your mother’s womb—you were a tiny atom. If that atom were placed before you today, you would not even recognize that once you were that. But at the inner center you were then the same as you are today—the circumference has changed. Once you were a child, once a youth, once you became old—the circumference went on changing. If you look at your own photographs from childhood to old age, you will not be able to recognize that these are pictures of one and the same person. Everything goes on changing.

Physiologists say the body changes every moment, and in seven years the whole body is renewed. If you live seventy years, ten times you will have received a new body.

In every instant something in the body dies. Through food you are continuously building new body. Through excrement, urine, sweat, hair, nails, dead parts are being expelled. That is why cutting hair does not hurt—it is a dead part of the body which the body is throwing out. Cutting nails does not hurt—they are dead parts.

You will be amazed to know that even a corpse’s hair and nails continue to grow. Even when the body is dead and kept, its hair and nails keep growing, because hair and nails have no relation to life—they are dead parts of the body. A corpse’s body keeps expelling those dead parts.

In seven years all your body-cells are replaced, new. This is your circumference—flowing like a river’s current. One day it began, and one day it will end as well.

But the inner center—when you were a tiny particle, not even visible to the naked eye, needing a microscope to be seen; then a child, later a youth, later old, and one day falling back into dust—this all occurs on the plane of body; the center remains untouched. Only that center is truth; the circumference is appearance. It is called appearance because many take it to be truth; from it arises the illusion of being true.

And this is not only in relation to the person; it is true regarding all forms of life. You see these trees standing. They have leaves, they have branches—these are not the root of the tree, nor its center, nor its soul. These too are its body. Within this body is hidden a soul just like the one hidden in you.

And the seers of India have said that once you too were a tree. Today you are human—that is the change of circumference. Today a tree is—someday it too will become a human being. And these many trees standing here—even they are not all alike. There are differences in their personalities too. Among them are dull trees and wise trees. Those trees that are wise are moving swiftly, seeking to cross the tree’s circumference and enter a higher dimension of life. Among humans too all are not alike. There are the dull, who remain where they are—they have grasped the circumference and taken it to be truth. And there are the wise, who try to leave the circumference and enter a superior dimension of life.

Not only regarding forms—take the whole Existence together. The circumference of the Divine is called Maya—appearance. The world is the name of that circumference. And hidden in the deep mystery within this world is the center—that alone is Brahman.

We all run enamored, hypnotized by form, by shape. The one who begins to search for the formless hidden within form—the Upanishads call him a Brahmin. No one is a Brahmin by birth. If someone assumes he is a Brahmin by birth, he is deluded.

To be a Brahmin is an attainment of continuous sadhana. By birth all are Shudras—all. Among these Shudras some become Brahmins; the rest remain Shudras.

A Brahmin is one who leaves the circumference and sets out in search of the center; who breaks the cover of Maya and begins the search for Brahman. What the eyes can see no longer interests him. That which is invisible, which the eyes cannot see, which only the eye of discrimination can see, which only inner prajna can see—whoever sets out in search of that, he is a Brahmin.

These sutras are precious in many senses. Let us enter them.

This Self-form Param Purusha dwells in all beings, and yet—hidden behind the veil of Maya—is not manifest to all. Only by those who understand the subtlest principles, with exceedingly subtle, keen intelligence, can He be seen.

But do not misunderstand by “subtle and keen intelligence.” The Upanishads do not mean what we ordinarily call subtle and keen intelligence—skill in mathematics and logic, skill in argument, skill in breaking anything into parts.

The Upanishads call that intelligence subtle which is pure, which is untainted, which is silent. These are two entirely different notions. The Upanishads call that intelligence subtle which is so pure that no defilement remains in it—because defilements make it gross. The name of undefiled intelligence is subtle intelligence. A simple, guileless man may possess subtle intelligence. It is not necessary that a great mathematician or logician should have it.

The intelligence a mathematician or a logician has is not subtle. Properly speaking it should be called skillful. He has the capacity to think—but he does not have the purity of no-thought. This is the difference between a philosopher and a saint.

The philosopher tries to break anything open and enter inside. The saint tries to purify himself—not to break anything—and enter through his purity. Therefore many times it happens that the unlettered become saints, and the highly educated fail to become saints.

Jesus is a carpenter’s son—hardly educated. In argument anyone could defeat Jesus. Ramakrishna studied up to the second grade. In debate anyone could defeat Ramakrishna. In the sense in which we call intelligence subtle—and in which Western psychologists measure intelligence by I.Q.—Ramakrishna would not stand anywhere.

But Ramakrishna, or Kabir, or Nanak, or Jesus possess another kind of subtlety—the subtlety of purity, of sanctity. As a newly blossomed flower in the morning—he is not sharp like a thorn; he will not prick anyone. But a flower has a sanctity, an innocence. That innocence has a subtlety. Only that subtlety can enter the Supreme Element.

The keen mind that we praise becomes a scientist. He will break matter and discover its secrets, but he will miss the knowing of the Self. The one whom the Upanishad calls endowed with subtle intelligence will not break anything—he will enter without breaking. And surely, if you need to break something to enter, your intelligence is not very subtle—you needed to make space. The one who enters without breaking—his subtlety is ultimate.

This distinction must be clearly understood. Much obstruction has arisen because it was not understood. The pundits of Kashi asked Kabir: when you do not know the scriptures, have not studied Sanskrit, know nothing of doctrines, how did you become a knower of the Self?

Certainly any ordinary pundit of Kashi knew more than Kabir—in the language of scripture. But compared to Kabir all of them were extinguished lamps. However much they knew—and Kabir knew not at all—still Kabir’s being was dense. His existence was dense. They had memory; Kabir had soul.

That flame which was with Kabir—the Upanishads call it subtle intelligence. Little children have it; saints have it; simple-hearted people have it. Only through this subtle intelligence can one cross the veil of Maya.

If one has skillful intelligence, he becomes entangled in cutting and analyzing the veil of Maya itself. Ordinary intelligence entangles itself with appearance—with what is seen. The capacity to leave what is seen and reach what is unseen—I have said—exists in love, or in prayer.

When someone truly loves, or is in love, the body is forgotten. A direct leap beyond the body happens. When such love is for the whole Existence, its name is prayer.

Meditation is the process of making intelligence subtle. As you meditate, the defilements of the intellect fall away. A moment comes when the intelligence becomes perfectly pure. No impurity, no foreign element, no alien particle remains—not even thought remains. Intelligence becomes so immaculate that it does not think—it simply is. There is simply a flame—without the slightest smoke. Only pure light remains—luminosity. With that pure luminosity alone is one capable of knowing Brahman hidden by the veil of Maya.

The intelligent seeker should first restrain speech and all the senses in the mind; dissolve that mind into the knowledge-natured intellect; dissolve that knowledge-natured intellect into the Great Self; and dissolve That into the Peace-natured Supreme Person, the Paramatman.

This is the process of the intellect becoming subtle and pure. One must begin with speech—with voice, with thought, with words. Our intelligence is distorted because of the burden of thoughts—thoughts upon thoughts. Like the sky completely overcast with clouds so that the sky is lost to view—no vision of the sun—such is our intelligence. Thoughts and thoughts are spread over it. The inherent brilliance of intelligence, the luminosity, is lost, hidden.

If one cloud moves away, a patch of sky begins to appear. If gaps arise in the clouds, sunrays start entering, the sun begins to be seen. Exactly so, as long as intelligence is heavily covered with thought... and there is not one layer of thought—there are thousands. Like peeling an onion—layer within layer within layer. Thoughts are exactly like an onion. Remove one layer and the next appears; remove the next and the third appears. Remove one thought and another is ready; remove the second and the third is present.

This is layer upon layer of thought. We have amassed this over births upon births. It is dust gathered on our mind during a long journey—as a traveler walking on the road gathers dust. If he never bathes and keeps traveling, much dust will gather—so much that the traveler himself will be lost from sight.

Meditation is a bathing of the intelligence. And if one does not take care to meditate, one’s mind will naturally be loaded with rubbish. Impressions are being recorded every moment, every hour. Scientists say some ten lakh impressions fall upon the mind in a day. You cannot even imagine from where a million impressions arrive. Everything leaves an imprint. I am speaking—this is an imprint. A bird calls—that is an imprint. A car horn sounds—that is an imprint. The wind runs through the trees—that is an imprint. An ant bites your foot—that is an imprint. A slight ache in the head—that is an imprint. A million impressions in twenty-four hours, and all these are being accumulated.

These impressions are dust; and we have been gathering them for lifetimes. Thus many layers have accumulated. Even when you are asleep, impressions are being made. You are asleep—but it makes no difference, for the mind is working all the time. A sound outside—an impression is made even in sleep. Heat—an impression. Mosquitoes buzzing—an impression. You turn in bed—an impression. Heat, cold—the mind is recording all the time, every impact. The capacity of mind is immense.

Scientists say the mind can collect infinite impressions. In your little head are roughly seven hundred million cells, and each cell can store billions of impressions. There is no end. All the knowledge of the world can be stored in a single mind.

These accumulating layers cover you. This covering must be broken. The beginning of this breaking—“the intelligent seeker should first restrain speech and all the senses within the mind.”

Hence the great value of silence. Silence means you cease speaking both outwardly and inwardly—because speech is a very deep process of mind. Through speaking the mind keeps on collecting much. And whatever you say—you do not only say it; you also hear it yourself, so its imprint becomes more intense.

When you repeat the same thing again and again, you do not realize that you are also hearing it again and again. The impressions are growing deeper. And you keep talking rubbish. You read the morning paper, and all day you go on repeating it to people. Some useless talk, with no value, from which no one will benefit—you go on talking. If you analyze your twenty-four hours you will find that ninety-nine percent was trash; had you not spoken it, no one would have been harmed.

Remember: that which benefits no one by being spoken certainly causes harm by being spoken. For not only did you dump garbage into the other’s mind—which is violence, to put into another’s mind what has no value—but while you were speaking you also heard it again yourself. It sank deeper into you; it made fresh impressions; fresh conditioning.

If you keep repeating even an untruth, you will yourself forget that it is untruth. So many impressions will fall within that it will begin to feel like truth. Adolf Hitler has said: if you want to turn any untruth into truth there is only one trick—keep on saying it. It is not only that others will believe it—you yourself will believe it.

Look into your own life: many untruths have begun to appear as truths to you because you have been saying them for so long that you no longer remember that on the first day the thing was untrue. Impressions, when repeated, become deep; grooves are made.

The first work for a seeker is to discipline speech. Speak only that which is wholly essential, indispensable—without which one cannot manage.

This world would become very peaceful if people spoke only what is indispensable and did not speak the unnecessary. By speaking the unnecessary you fall into great troubles—for when you speak, you are not the only one speaking; the other will reply.

Consider: had you remained disciplined, silent, how many disturbances would have been avoided in your life! By speaking you fall into countless entanglements; then to save yourself you must speak more. The chain goes on lengthening. It is a vicious circle, a devil’s wheel without end.

Hence the sage becomes quiet. He speaks only as much as is essential—and only that by which someone may be benefited. Otherwise he remains silent.

Even if you stop speech outwardly it is not necessary that it will stop within—for if you do not speak to others you continue speaking to yourself. You sit, and inside a conversation goes on. This inner talk also creates impressions, because when you speak to yourself, the mind is listening. Whatever you speak, you are carving a deep groove within. Stop speaking to yourself as well.

Speech is a great mischief. It need not be—but we have made it so. Slowly let the inner talking also come to a halt. Practice silence; let silence spread. The more silence spreads, the more the mind dissolves. As silence grows dense, the clouds begin to disperse; holes open here and there and the inner light begins to pour.

The foundation of religion—of all religions—is silence. Mahavira remained silent for twelve years. Buddha spent many days in silence. Before Jesus spoke, he went into silence. The Quran descended upon Muhammad when he was in a state of supreme silence. Whatever descent of truth has happened in this world has happened only when within there is quiet—everything is at rest.

Only in that still instant does our tuning join with Brahman. That pointer of silence alone leads us from appearance to within, and joins us to truth. Hence we have called the sage muni—one who has become silent, who has become quiet within.

Truly, only he deserves to speak who has become quiet within—for only then will his speech have value; it will have meaning. He has known something which he is giving. He who is not quiet does not deserve to speak. If the inner talk goes on, speaking is a disease.

When you talk to others you are not really talking to them—you want to unload yourself. Therefore, if you find no one to listen to you, restlessness begins. You need someone for chatter. But the other listens to your chatter only so that when you fall silent, he may begin. There is no other purpose in listening.

I have heard: In a gathering a leader was delivering a speech, but people slowly got up and left. By the end only one person remained. The leader said, “Thank you. People in this village seem completely unintelligent—only you are wise.” The man said, “Nothing like that. In truth, after you, it is my turn to speak. I have not stayed to listen to you—my speech too is to be given in this meeting.”

No one listens to anyone. No one wants to hear anything from anyone. One has to listen because one wants to speak. Listening is a bribe. When you are listening to someone, look within—you are just waiting for him to fall silent. And if he doesn’t, you say, “He is boring.” Meaning: he gave you absolutely no chance to bore him! He kept speaking himself. You wanted to speak; he gave you no opportunity. The cultured person will bore you and also give you the opportunity to bore him. He speaks a little, then makes you speak a little—so the company remains sociable; you don’t get nervous. It is give-and-take. But it is a disease.

If speaking is your compulsion and you feel relief by speaking, that you feel lighter—know that what you speak is rubbish. It will benefit no one.

We dump our rubbish into others; others dump theirs into us. Both end up with more rubbish. The junk should decrease. If seekers have often fled to the forest, they have fled not so much from you as from the rubbish you pour over them. In the forest they have the facility to be silent.

But there is no need to flee to the forest. If there is understanding, slowly you can become silent right here. Remember one thing: do not speak the unnecessary.

Until it is certain that someone will benefit by your words, do not speak. Until it seems it is absolutely indispensable, do not speak. And inwardly too, gradually quieten the process of speaking. When the mind begins to speak, do not cooperate with it. Stand aside and say: “Speak if you must—but I will not join you. I will remain a witness. I will watch that you are speaking—but I will take no relish.” Become indifferent. Create an inner indifference.

Buddha has said: inner indifference is very necessary for a seeker. Indifference means: in-difference. Let the mind go on—alright—let it go on, but we have no business with it. We will not descend into it and taste it.

Remember, the mind runs only as long as you relish it. There are two kinds of relish—either you are for a thought or you are against it. Both are relish.

A thought is moving in your mind; you favor it—then you join it, you flow with it. You breathe life into it, for a thought in itself is lifeless; with your support it becomes alive. Or you become its enemy. If you become an enemy you still give it life. This is a little harder to grasp. When you become an enemy of a thought, you begin to fight—you start a struggle. Struggle means you are taking relish in the thought—an enemy’s relish, but relish nonetheless.

Neither friend nor foe—indifference. “Alright, go on. I have no curiosity whether you go on or cease; go on if you will, cease if you will—I stand apart.” One who cultivates such neutrality attains inner silence.

“Restraining speech and the senses in the mind...”

Then speech dissolves in mind; words are not formed. The mind becomes empty. But speech is not the only one. Among the senses, speech is foremost; yet other senses are engaged in the same work.

You do not speak only with the tongue—you speak with the eyes too. With eyes you signal; through eyes lust is revealed, indifference is revealed, friendship is revealed, enmity is revealed. Do not speak through the eyes either.

And you do not only hear through the ears—you hear many things with the eyes as well. You grasp impressions through the eyes. Psychologists say a man speaks all the time—even when not speaking, he speaks with his body. The way he stands, sits, walks—he expresses through that as well.

In the West much research is going on into body language—the language of the body. If you are filled with love for someone, you stand leaning towards him. If a woman wants to avoid you, when talking to you she will lean backward; if she does not want to avoid you, she will lean forward. She is speaking.

If you understand a little of body language you can know whether a woman wants to fall in love with you or avoid you. Without a word her body will tell it. If a woman wants to fall in love with you, she will sit with her feet apart. If she wants to avoid you, she will sit with one leg crossed over the other. She is giving the news: my doors are closed.

You travel in a train—look at the people around you. You will be astonished: everyone’s body is giving news, hinting every moment. You do not speak only with speech; you do not hear only with ears. You hear with the whole body; you speak with the whole body. If you pay a little attention to yourself, you will begin to notice that your body too signals.

Hence the Buddha laid great emphasis on mudras. It is a matter of body language. When you see Buddha sitting, perhaps you have never reflected on the way he sits. That sitting declares—he sits in such a way as to be complete within himself, with no desire to go out. One who has no curiosity to move outside himself—encircled within, in a circle, peaceful. His manner of sitting declares he has no desire, no curiosity, no craving for the other.

Whether you sit, stand, or sleep, in every state you are giving news. The inner mind points, signals. You take someone’s hand in your hand—your hand, the warmth of your hand, the current of life running through your hand—these tell many things.

When you take someone’s hand with love, the warmth of your hand is different—the life-energy flows into the other hand, welcoming. If you take someone’s hand unwillingly, there is no warmth—energy does not move outward; it is drawn back inward; the hand is cold—there is no welcome, no acceptance.

At every instant we speak with all the senses and hear with all the senses.

An egoistic man’s nose will reveal how much ego is within. The eyes will tell he considers you petty, worth two pennies. The way he stands and moves will tell you are nothing.

Have you ever noticed—when you pass your servant at home your manner is different; when you pass your employer your manner is different. The body language changes.

Past the servant you pass as if he were not, a non-entity. His presence carries no meaning. He is not a person, merely a machine. Past the master you pass as if you are nothing and he alone is. None of this is said, yet all of it is understood. There is no need to say it.

A husband enters the house and knows instantly whether the wife will quarrel today or not—just upon entering. Her way of standing, sitting, the posture of her face, her eyes, the way she puts down utensils loudly or softly—everything tells it.

Psychologists say that on days when the wife is hurt, distressed, troubled, the sounds in the house are six times greater—utensils fall, things are put down loudly. She herself does not know it, but the language is expressing itself. She is saying by her language: today everything is disordered, anarchic. When the wife is in love there is no noise in the house; things are placed softly, lovingly.

That love for or hatred of the husband expresses itself even upon things. The whole personality’s vibrating form—the vibrations—change. The husband, upon entering, knows that the air is different; the temperature is not right. There is no need to say it.

The rishi speaks in this Upanishad through Yama: “First restraining speech and all the senses within the mind...” Free all the senses from their language. Let no sense express anything; no movement, no stirring in any sense. Let all the senses dissolve in the mind. Then, dissolving that mind into the knowledge-natured intellect... then this silent mind which remains must be taken further inwards.

As behind the senses is mind, so behind the mind is buddhi—discrimination. Merely being silent is not enough. In this silence, awakening is also necessary. That awakening will lead into the intellect. First silence is necessary—so that energy is not wasted outwardly, does not dissipate. And when energy begins to collect, it must be made aware, alert. An inner wakefulness must be kindled such that whatever happens, I remain awake to see it; I am not a victim—but a witness. Anger arises—let me see it arises, grows, spreads, and then begins to dissolve; for nothing is permanent.

Buddha said: things come, abide a while, and go. You are hasty and get entangled. Wait a little, keep watching. Anger rises—no anger is eternal, it will not remain forever. Have a little patience—let it rise. Buddha says: close your eyes and see that anger has spread like smoke over the whole body, every hair is heated. Watch—do not be in a hurry. Soon you will find that what rose like smoke has begun to dissolve like smoke—disappearing. The body’s heat returns to its place; the heartbeat returns to normal. The clouds have dissolved. Wait a little and keep watching. Anger will come and go—and you will remain untouched.

And if a person can once manage to watch even a single passion, he becomes free of all passions—because the key is in his hand. In impatience we get entangled—we are in too much of a hurry.

Gurdjieff’s father, while dying, said to him: “Give me one promise—that whenever anger arises in you, you will give your answer after twenty-four hours. If someone abuses you, go and answer after twenty-four hours.” Gurdjieff said, “This is a strange thing! But as you say...” Because it was a dying father—he accepted.

Later Gurdjieff said: my entire life was changed by my dying father. Because after twenty-four hours nothing remains to answer. Someone abuses you—now you would have to tell him, “Wait, I have given my father a promise—I will return after twenty-four hours to reply.” But in twenty-four hours so much ash gathers that many times it seems his abuse was absolutely right—one feels like going to thank him: “I am indeed such a person.” Many times it seems he abused me because of his own disease—what have I to do with it? I was only an excuse.

But Gurdjieff said: never did it happen that after twenty-four hours I went to answer an abuse. Twenty-four hours is too much time—even twenty-four moments, if you can wait, life will begin to change.

Silence must be turned into wakefulness; and mind must be dissolved into buddhi—discrimination.

Then “dissolve the knowledge-natured intellect into the Great Self.”

Even this wakefulness, this discrimination, this awareness is not the end—because for this awakening effort has to be made; and whatsoever is done by effort cannot become one’s nature. Whatever requires endeavor remains superficial. You have to try within—stay awake, be alert: this too is a duality, a kind of struggle.

The Upanishad says: dissolve even this struggle, this effort, into the Atman. Atman means being; effort means doing—whatsoever we do. Atman is that which is—does not have to be done—no effort is needed. To dissolve awareness into the Atman means: let it become nature—so that no effort is needed. Let it be there without practice. Whatever needs to be practiced is artificial. Stop it for a moment, it will be lost.

A Sufi fakir was brought to me. For thirty years he had been seeing God everywhere. He had devotees, and they said, “He is unique. Whether tree, stone or mountain—everywhere he sees God.” I asked the Sufi: “Even now, do you make an effort to see?” He said, “What do you mean? Effort to see God?” I said, “For three days drop all effort—and if God is still seen, know that something has happened. Otherwise if He is seen through effort, nothing has happened yet.”

After three days he was very angry with me: “You have spoiled my thirty years of sadhana. I have begun to see trees as trees again!” I said, “Nothing has been spoiled; only what was not there has been lost. You were seeing by effort. In thirty years it had become a habit. Habit is not experience. There is a great difference between habit and experience. Habit is an overlay imposed from above; experience is a flow arising from within.”

Therefore, awareness attained through effort is not ultimate. In the beginning one has to make effort; but soon it must be dissolved into the effortless Atman—forgotten. Do not even remember it. Let it remain natural. Only this one remembrance: that without effort it remains. This happens.

If the mind’s energy gathers wholly, that energy becomes discrimination—vivek. When vivek is fully awakened, it is not difficult to make it spontaneous. Just like learning to swim: at first it is effort; once learned, it becomes nature—not habit. That is the difference. If swimming were habit, after thirty years you would have to learn again. Habit breaks over time. But even after three hundred births, if you retain awareness that once you swam, there is no need to learn again—enter the water and you will swim.

No one ever forgets swimming. Once known, it becomes nature—there is no way to forget it. No need ever to learn again. Habit drops; nature does not.

When vivek is fully awakened, gradually abandon the effort and establish effortless awareness. See that awareness remains—but without trying. Remove the trying. When trying disappears, effortlessness flowers—effortless awareness is established. This is the dissolving of awareness into the Atman. But even the Atman is not the end.

“Dissolve That into the Peace-natured Supreme Person, the Paramatman.”

What remains now to be dissolved? First there was speech, words, senses—they were dissolved. Mind remained—a silent mind. That too was dissolved; discrimination remained. That too was dissolved; pure being—the Atman—remained. Into what is this to be dissolved? And what remains now?

The remaining of the Atman means the thought still remains that “I am”—asmita. A subtle, pure ego still remains: “I am.” Dissolve this too—“I am not.” This is called dissolving into the Paramatman. Let not even the notion remain that “I am.” Being will remain—but not my being. The name of that pure being where no sense of I arises is Paramatman. That is the center within you—where there is no I, no ego, no asmita. This is the supreme attainment.

And Yama says: “Arise, awake, O people, and having found the great ones, approach them and know through them that Parabrahman, the Supreme Lord—for the wise declare the path of that supreme knowing to be as difficult as the razor’s sharpened edge, hard to tread.”

Surely, as we enter within, the path grows more arduous, more subtle—delicate. A slight mistake and you will go astray. The deeper the path goes, the more mysterious it becomes. And the deeper it goes, the more alone you become.

If one could find companionship on this inner path... whose companionship can it be? Only of the one who is established exactly at his center; who has fully found his center; who has traveled this path; who knows its difficulties, its confusions; who knows the side-paths running close by on which it is very possible to wander.

When you go on a mountain trek there are two possibilities: either you take a map—of all the paths, turns, pitfalls, ravines, difficulties—and go up with the map. Those who walk according to scriptures walk with a map. But remember: a map is dead. A map can never fully do the work of a guide.

A hill-man, unlettered, who cannot read a map, who knows nothing of scripture—if such a native guide is found he is better than a thousand maps. Because he is intimate with the terrain. He does not need to calculate anything; he has grown up there. He knows each grain of that land. The mountains are his friends; there is no question of confusion.

The Vedas will not be as useful as a Kabir-like uneducated guide—he knows every inch of that terrain. He was born there, grew there, entered there. He has reached the final destination to which the paths can take you.

If a living master can be found, the dead scriptures have no value.

There is another great difficulty with scriptures: you will be the one to interpret them. Even if a map is in your hand, you will be the one to interpret it. And what interpretation will you make? Only that which you can make—your interpretation cannot be bigger than you.

Hence as many as read the Gita, so many meanings arise. The meaning a person finds is in accord with his own nature. It can never be Krishna’s meaning—it will be yours. Where will the Gita take you then? Since the meaning is yours, not Krishna’s, you go only where you can go.

Therefore scriptures do not prove effective. Scriptures are many—how many maps! There are some three hundred religions on earth—three hundred maps to reach God. But no map is working. Everyone has a map, everyone sits with his map—but the meaning of the map has to be supplied by you. The language of the map...

A map is a symbol; it is not the real thing. Having a map in hand accomplishes nothing. Many times it may even be the cause of wandering. Without a map perhaps you might even arrive—using your own intelligence to explore. But you keep your eyes glued to the map—you do not look at the actual terrain to see where you are going.

And these maps have been passing through hands for thousands of years—people have added things, subtracted things. Original maps are nowhere left. They cannot remain, because whosoever holds a map adds and subtracts—puts in something of himself, adds color, beautifies it, makes it worthy of worship—but unfit for walking.

All scriptures have become worthy of worship. We can place them in temples and worship them—that is enough. But we cannot walk with them.

A mind filled with scripture many times cannot even see simple facts—because the scripture comes in between.

Therefore Yama says—and all true masters have said—find someone who is a living scripture. Relying on him, the journey becomes easy. You will not have to interpret; you can ask; and slowly he will lift you up towards himself.

A Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna, a Christ are living scriptures. But later their words too become dead scriptures—and people go on carrying those dead words.

A wise seeker will first try to find a living person who can be a guide. And it never happens that the earth is without such living persons—it never happens that there is no one who can give you the path.

Yama says: “Arise, awake, and having found the great ones, approach them and know through them that Parabrahman, the Supreme Lord; for the wise declare the path of that supreme knowing to be as difficult as the razor’s sharpened edge, hard to tread.”

Alone, disaster can happen. Alone, it is very difficult to decide where you are going, what you are doing, whether what is happening is right or not. And to play with inner energies is dangerous. There are great snares within. If the inner energy awakens and does not take the right path, you can become deranged. Many seekers go mad; the sole cause is that no one is present to give inner order, inner discipline. Within is a very intricate net.

A young man was brought to me. He was doing headstands on his own. Interpretation he had to do himself. Feeling that headstand brought joy, well-being, a kind of twenty-four-hour wellness, he began increasing the time. Beyond a limit, even health was lost; the sense of well-being vanished; the head became heavy like a stone. Then he panicked.

Inside, the arrangement is very subtle. Only a limited increase in the blood flow to the brain is possible. Beyond that the brain’s fine fibers break—and the damage is grave. Man could develop his brain only because he stopped walking on four limbs and stood on two. Animals’ brains cannot develop because blood flows so forcefully to their brains that fine fibers break—just as a river torrent destroys delicate things.

When you stand on your head, the blood begins to flow downward—for the earth has a pull. When you stand upright, the least blood reaches the brain. Therefore the brain could develop; its fine fibers could endure.

Animals walk with four limbs on the ground. Their heads are pulled by the earth exactly as their whole bodies are. That is why you will find it very difficult to sleep while standing. Lying down is easy—because you return to an animal posture. To sleep one must lie down; for rest too one lies down.

In fact, in any return to an animal state there is comfort, because the tensions of being human are dropped.

That youth’s fine fibers snapped. The brain fell into a state of derangement.

Headstand can benefit—but only near a living guru—because he will decide how long, how much, how far, and when. It cannot be at all times. If you do headstand at night, the results will differ; in the morning, they will differ. With the rising sun there will be one result; with the setting sun, another. In what phase the moon is—there will be different results accordingly. On a full-moon night one result, on a new-moon night another. Life is not a small event; it is an immense web.

You know: on the full moon the maximum number of people go insane. On the full moon the most sins occur in the world. On the full moon the most murders and suicides occur. Because the full moon pulls the human mind exactly as it pulls the ocean’s tides. Hence the old word for a madman—“struck by the moon.” In English, lunatic—from lunar, the moon.

The moon, in some way, drives man mad. Therefore lovers are delighted on full moons—for there is a permission for a sweet madness. Poets write songs of the full moon—because poets are a little mad anyway. The full moon pulls more. The kind of poetry that descends on a full moon cannot descend on a new moon. New moon is a very silent night. On earth the fewest crimes occur on new moons. This will seem an upside-down fact. We feel more should occur in dark nights. But people sleep—the moon does not pull. People are at ease; quarrels are fewer.

The moon has a tremendous impact—upon every fiber. Your body is seventy-five percent water, with the same properties as ocean water. The moon pulls you, agitates seventy-five percent of your personality.

A headstand on a full-moon night can be very dangerous. On a new-moon night not so dangerous. But all this—only near a living guide. No scripture contains such details. And there are many subtleties that cannot be written down, for they vary from person to person. If a man is very intelligent, a little headstand will benefit him; if dull, a longer one will benefit him. It depends on how thick or fine the brain fibers are. Thick fibers can tolerate longer headstands.

And you will be surprised to know that no one who does headstands has yet won a Nobel Prize. Nor have headstanders shown any great intelligence. There is some issue, some cause. Headstand is a complex experiment; unless done near a living person, harm is more likely than benefit.

It is like barging into an allopathic dispensary where all are poisons, mixing a concoction by your own heart and drinking it—and telling the doctor, “What do you know? I am the sick one. Do I know my illness less than you?” Or picking up a medical text and, reading it, experimenting on yourself. Your illness will not go—the ill will go.

With the body you do not do such mischief. You go happily to a doctor and take what he prescribes as if it were a Vedic statement. The mind is much subtler than the body. For it one should seek a prescription only from a great soul. You write your own prescriptions.

People keep doing something or other—someone practices some meditation; someone some asana. This and that. People keep cobbling their own ways. Your self-made maps and interpretations are dangerous. Be a little cautious with yourself.

Why does this happen? What is the obstacle in going to a great soul?

The obstacle is ego. The ego suffers going to a great soul. The pain is like that of a camel going near a mountain—there for the first time it discovers that it is nothing. So the camel avoids the mountain. Man too avoids going to a great soul. And if he does reach, he arranges such protections that the great soul cannot do anything—lest he change something, lest he alter the current of life. We are so afraid! The cause of fear is our ego.

Only those can go to the great ones who are willing to be effaced, lost, dropped.

“That which is without sound, without touch, without form, without taste and without fragrance; which is imperishable, eternal, beginningless, endless, vast, higher than the Atman and utterly the Truth—knowing that Paramatman, man becomes forever free from the mouth of death.

“The intelligent ones, by narrating and hearing this ancient tale of Nachiketa told by Yama, attain glory in Brahmaloka, become established there.

“And whoever, becoming utterly pure, expounds this supremely secret, mysterious discourse in an assembly of Brahmins, or recites it during Shraddha to those who are eating—his act becomes capable of bearing imperishable fruit, becomes infinite—and he attains the power of the Infinite.”

This last point must be understood very carefully, because it has been grossly misinterpreted. First, the phrase “assembly of Brahmins” does not mean a caste assembly of Brahmins—it means a Sabha of Brahm-seekers, a parliament of Brahman-seekers.

These words are not to be told to all—because to those in whom there is no thirst they will seem useless. To speak such words to those without thirst is unintelligence. A sick person needs medicine; a thirsty person needs such words, such discourses. Thirst is essential. This is not for all; spirituality never can be for all.

Only at a certain state of development is spirituality meaningful. Before that you may hear it, it will still seem useless, empty. As if reading Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra to a seven-year-old child—utterly pointless. The child will say, “What nonsense! Fairy tales, ghosts, Tarzan—these are meaningful now. What sense has the Kama Sutra? Lust has not awakened.” He will be puzzled why you speak such things, and why at all—senseless.

But the same child at fourteen—lust begins to awaken. Try as you may, he will find the Kama Sutra—hiding it in the Gita to read. Now it becomes meaningful. When the thirst of passion awakens, the Kama Sutra is meaningful.

Exactly so with the thirst for the spiritual. But lust is in nature’s hands; at fourteen nature fills everyone with it. The thirst for the spiritual is not in nature’s hands. Sometimes births and births pass before you come to that thirst. It is in your hands.

Spirituality is a choice—therefore there is freedom. Lust is slavery; it is not in your hands. Nature will make you mature—because nature has an agenda with lust; she has no agenda with you. You may perish, but the lineage must continue, life must go on. So nature does everything to ensure the current of life is not obstructed. Just imagine: if for twenty-four hours lust vanished from the world, the world would be finished.

Thus nature creates lust with irresistible force. However much you fight, lust will seize you. It is hidden in your glands, in your hormones, in every fiber of your body—it will grip you at a certain hour.

But spirituality is not a natural event—it is the art of going beyond nature. Through your own experience, reflection, contemplation, search—you ripen. Before that it is of no use.

Hence Yama says: “In an assembly of Brahmins”—those who are seekers of Brahman, petitioners of Brahman, lovers of Brahman—those who now desire only the Supreme Truth—“whoever, having become utterly pure, expounds this supremely secret discourse in an assembly of Brahmins attains infinite power. Or if he speaks it during Shraddha to those who are eating, his act becomes capable of infinite, imperishable fruit.”

The second point must also be understood. Shraddha has become a ritual. People recite some holy words, Upanishads or Katha Upanishad. Rituals become dead—that is their nature. Through much repetition they lose meaning. But meanings can be rediscovered.

Yama says: at the moments of Shraddha... In fact this whole Upanishad concerns death and how to go beyond it. When even one person close to you dies, death becomes significant for you for the first time. Whenever someone close dies, something within you also dies—some part of you breaks, is fragmented.

There is a woman you love—your wife; or your son, your husband, your mother. The day your wife dies, whatever she had filled within you—whatever space of your personality she had occupied, into whatever corners of your heart she had entered—all that will suddenly break. Not only the wife dies; the husband also dies that day—half dies at least. A wound remains. Death becomes very meaningful.

And the truth is: at the time of your own death you will not be conscious—so reciting the Katha Upanishad then is not very useful. The hearer will be unconscious. But when a loved one dies, you die half and yet you remain conscious. At that time the Katha Upanishad can be immensely meaningful. That moment is sensitive. At that moment you are receptive. Then you want to understand: what is death? Then you also want to know: is anything left beyond death? Your beloved, your dear one, your son, your mother, your father, your friend—has he truly vanished utterly, or does something remain? In that moment your whole consciousness revolves around death.

In the moments of Shraddha these reflections can be meaningful, useful. Only when you are sensitive to death does the search for the immortal begin.

There are a few moments in life that are very important. One is the moment when you are born—when you are freed from the mother’s womb—an extremely important moment. Psychologists say there is hardly a more important moment, because for the first time you breathe freely. There was a perimeter—the mother—you are suddenly pushed out. You enter the world. That moment is traumatic.

Wilhelm Reich, a great psychologist, says that until we change that moment, humanity cannot change. In that moment man becomes filled with sorrow—that is why all children are born crying. It is a moment of deep sorrow, for all the bliss of the womb is snatched away, the peace of the womb is lost. That spontaneous joy of the womb is destroyed. The world of anxiety and disturbance begins.

For the first time the child’s ears hear noise. For nine months he was in supreme emptiness—soundlessness—no sound. For nine months no anxiety, no responsibility—not needing to seek food, to find a job, to breathe. Nothing to do—simply to be. And being was sufficient, perfect. From that perfection of bliss to come suddenly into the world is painful.

Otto Rank says: until we can make the moment of birth a moment of joy, man will remain unhappy. There is truth in what he says.

The second moment is when you fall in love—very important. As the womb-moment is important because you are freed from a person, so the love-moment is important because you are bound again to a person. You join your heart, yourself, to someone. It is a new birth. In that moment you are utterly open.

The third moment is when your beloved dies—again you are broken. And the fourth is when you die. These four moments are supremely precious. To take care of these four is part of the art of living. But these are the very moments we almost always waste.

As soon as a child is born... Some biologists have developed a theory: the moment the child is born, whatever environment exists, whatever is happening around him, is imprinted upon him forever. The impact of that moment is very deep; freedom from it is difficult.

A scientist was experimenting on chickens. The chick’s first sight on leaving the egg is its mother who has been sitting on it, hatching it. It begins to run behind the mother. The scientist placed a rubber balloon over the egg instead of the mother—and as soon as the chick emerged it did not see the mother; it saw the rubber balloon. The balloon became its mother. Wherever the balloon was taken, the chick would run behind it. It had no concern for the real mother; even if she came near, it did not care. For the chick it became a lifetime calamity—it could never love a hen. The rubber balloon alone remained its love.

Many such experiments have been done; they show that the birth-moment is precious. Whatever impressions are made then remain throughout life.

Hence psychologists say every son is searching for a woman like his mother—whether he knows it or not. And no woman can really be like his mother; thus all women bring sorrow. There will be trouble, because what is being sought will not be found.

And no woman marries you to make you her son; she is seeking her father. You are seeking your mother. This is a business of calamity—there will be no peace. Therefore marriage is hell. Unconscious impacts are at work and creating conflict.

Whatever impressions occur at the first moment remain lifelong. Whatever impressions occur at the love-moment remain lifelong. Whatever impressions occur at the death of the beloved remain lifelong. And the impressions at the moment of your death remain with you into the next birth.

This Upanishad is concerned with death; therefore it is to be read at the moments of Shraddha, to be understood during Shraddha—when death is impactful upon you, when the shadow of death has surrounded you and life appears futile. In those moments, if someone who knows this Upanishad opens its mystery within you, that imprint will go very deep; it can become the alchemy to transform your whole life.

Now prepare for meditation.