Maha Geeta #1

We set out upon a unique journey.
Humanity has many scriptures, but none like the Ashtavakra Gita. The Vedas are insipid. The Upanishads speak in a very soft voice. Even the Gita does not carry the same majesty as Ashtavakra's Samhita. There is something utterly singular here!
The greatest thing is this: neither society, nor politics, nor any arrangement of life has left any imprint upon Ashtavakra’s words. Such pure, trans-passionate utterance, beyond time and beyond history, is found nowhere else. Perhaps that is why the Ashtavakra Gita, the Ashtavakra Samhita, never became widely influential.
Krishna’s Gita did. First reason: Krishna’s Gita is a harmony. It is less concerned with Truth and more concerned with synthesis. The insistence on synthesis is so deep that Krishna is willing even if Truth is lost a little.
Krishna’s Gita is like a khichri—so it pleases all, because everyone finds some part of themselves there. It is hard to find a sect that cannot discover its own voice in the Gita. It is hard to find a person who cannot find some support for himself in it. For all these, Ashtavakra’s Gita will be very difficult.
Ashtavakra is not a synthesizer—he is a truth-teller. Truth, such as it is, he has said—without ornament, without compromise. He has no concern for the listener. He has no concern whether the listener will understand or not. Nowhere before, and never again later, was Truth stated so purely.
Krishna’s Gita is dear to people because it is easy to extract one’s own meanings from it. Krishna’s Gita is poetic: two and two can be five, and two and two can be three as well. With Ashtavakra no such play is possible. There two and two are only four.
Ashtavakra’s utterance is the utterance of pure mathematics. Poetry finds not a trace of space there. There is not a moment’s margin for poetic license. ‘As it is’—so it is said. No compromise whatsoever.
Read Krishna’s Gita: the devotee finds his meaning, for Krishna has also spoken of bhakti; the karma-yogi finds his meaning, for Krishna has spoken of karma-yoga; the jnani finds his meaning, for Krishna has spoken of jnana. Somewhere Krishna calls bhakti supreme; somewhere he calls jnana supreme; somewhere karma supreme.
Krishna’s utterance is deeply political. He was a statesman—a masterful statesman! To say only ‘statesman’ is not enough—he was a shrewd politician, a diplomat. Many considerations are taken care of in his statement. Hence all love the Gita. Hence thousands of commentaries are on the Gita; no one cares for Ashtavakra. Because if you are to agree with Ashtavakra, you will have to drop yourself—unconditionally! You cannot carry yourself along. Only if you stay behind can you go along. With Krishna you can carry yourself. With Krishna there is no need to change. With Krishna you can fit right in.
Thus all denominational schools wrote commentaries on Krishna’s Gita—Shankara, Ramanuja, Nimbarka, Vallabha, all of them. Each drew out his own meaning. Krishna has said things that are polysemous. Therefore I call it poetic. From poetry one can draw whatever meanings one wishes.
Krishna’s utterance is like clouds gathering in the rains: see whatever you want to see. Someone sees an elephant’s trunk; someone may see Lord Ganesh. Someone else sees nothing at all—he says, what nonsense are you babbling? Clouds! Smoke—what shapes are you seeing in it?
In the West, to test the scientific mind, they drop ink-blots on blotting paper and ask a person to look and say what he sees. The person stares; he sees something. There is nothing there—only random ink-blots on blotting paper, not even placed thoughtfully, simply a bottle upturned. Yet the onlooker finds something. What the onlooker finds is in his own mind; he projects it.
You must have seen: rain streaks mark a wall, and sometimes an outline of a man appears, sometimes a horse. What you want to see, you project.
In the darkness of night a hanging cloth appears as ghosts and spirits.
Krishna’s Gita is such that whatever is in your mind, you will see there. So Shankara sees knowledge, Ramanuja sees devotion, Tilak sees action—and all return home cheerful, saying, yes, Krishna says exactly what we hold as doctrine.
Emerson writes that once a neighbor borrowed Plato’s books from him. Plato lived two thousand years ago—one of the world’s rare thinkers. After some days Emerson said, if you are done reading, return them. The neighbor came. Emerson asked, how did you find them? The man said, fine. This fellow’s—Plato’s—thoughts agree with mine. Many times I felt: how did this man come to know my thoughts! Plato lived two thousand years ago; he suspects perhaps Plato stole his thoughts!
With Krishna such suspicion arises often. And so, centuries passing, commentaries continue upon Krishna. Every century finds its own meaning; every person his own. Krishna’s Gita is like ink-blots—a skilled politician’s statement.
In Ashtavakra’s Gita you will not be able to find any meanings. Only if you leave yourself behind and walk on will Ashtavakra’s Gita become clear.
Ashtavakra’s message is crystalline. You will not be able to insert even a trace of your own interpretation into it. Hence people did not write commentaries. There is no space to annotate, no way to twist and contort, no convenience for your mind to stuff anything in. Ashtavakra has spoken in such a way that centuries have passed and no one has been able to add or subtract anything. It is very difficult to give such an utterance. Such mastery with the word is rare.
That is why I say: you are embarking upon an unparalleled journey.
Politicians have no curiosity for Ashtavakra—not Tilak, not Aurobindo, not Gandhi, not Vinoba, none. For you cannot play your game here. Tilak wanted to inflame patriotism, to raise the tide of action—Krishna’s Gita becomes a collaborator.
Krishna is ready to lend his shoulder to anyone. Place any gun upon his shoulder and fire, he is agreeable. The shoulder is his; you have the convenience to hide behind it, and if you shoot from behind him, even the bullet appears precious.
Ashtavakra will not let anyone even place a hand upon his shoulder. Hence Gandhi has no curiosity; Tilak has none; Aurobindo, Vinoba have nothing to do here. Because you cannot impose anything. There is no convenience for politics. Ashtavakra is not a political man.
This first point is necessary to remember. Such a lucid, open-sky statement, in which there are no clouds—you will see no shapes. If you drop all shape, become formless, and relate to the Formless, Ashtavakra will be understood. If you wish to understand Ashtavakra, you will have to descend into the depths of meditation; no commentary will suffice.
And even for meditation Ashtavakra does not say: sit and chant Ram-Ram. Ashtavakra says: whatever you do will not be meditation. Where the doer is, how can there be meditation? As long as there is doing, there is delusion. As long as the doer is present, the ego is present.
Ashtavakra says: become a witness. Where the doer drops, you remain only the one who sees—mere Seer! In becoming mere Seer is philosophy. In becoming mere Seer is meditation. In becoming mere Seer is knowing.
Before we enter the sutra, a few things about Ashtavakra must be understood. Not much is known, for he was neither a social man nor a political one—so there is scarcely any mention in history. Only a few events are known—and even those quite strange, hardly credible; but if you understand, deep meanings open.
The first event—from before Ashtavakra’s birth; the prior event, in the womb. His father—a great pandit. Ashtavakra—in his mother’s womb. The father used to recite the Vedas daily, and Ashtavakra heard from the womb. One day suddenly a voice arose from the womb: ‘Stop! This is all nonsense. There is no knowledge in this—only a collection of words. Where is knowledge in scripture? Knowledge is within oneself. Where is Truth in words? Truth is within oneself.’
The father was naturally enraged. First, a father—and a pandit! And the child hidden in the womb speaking thus! Not yet even born! He burned with anger, was inflamed. A father’s ego was wounded. Then the pundit’s ego! He was a great scholar, a great debater in scriptural disputation. In fury he cursed: when he is born, he will be crooked in eight limbs. Thus the name—Ashtavakra. Crooked at eight points. Crooked at eight places like a camel—skewed and awry! The father, in anger, disfigured his body.
There are other such stories.
They say, when Buddha was born, he was born standing. His mother stood beneath a tree. Standing—she stood—and he was born standing. He did not fall to the earth—he walked, took seven steps. At the eighth step he stopped and declared the Four Noble Truths: that life is dukkha—he had taken only seven steps upon earth, and he declares life is dukkha; that there is the possibility of freedom from dukkha; that there is a path to freedom from dukkha; that there is the state of dukkha-lessness—Nirvana.
About Lao Tzu there is a tale that he was born old—born eighty years old; he remained in the womb for eighty years. Since there was no desire to do anything, there was no desire even to leave the womb. No desire, no lust—so no longing to enter the world. When he was born his hair was white; he was an eighty-year-old old man.
About Zarathustra there is the story that as soon as he was born he burst into laughter.
But Ashtavakra surpassed them all. These are matters after birth. Ashtavakra gave his entire statement before he was born.
These stories are important. In them lies the essence, the distillation of these beings’ lives. The cream. What Buddha said over a lifetime—its distillate… Buddha taught the Eightfold Path… so he walked seven steps and stopped on the eighth. There are eight limbs in total. The final arriving is samyak Samadhi. In that state of Samadhi the whole Truth of life is known. Thus the Four Noble Truths were declared.
Lao Tzu was born old. People take eighty years, and still such understanding does not dawn. Growing old, people do not become wise! To be old and to be wise are not synonyms. Hair can be ripened in the sun too.
Lao Tzu’s tale says only this: if there is urgency in life, intensity, what happens in eighty years can happen in a single moment. If the flame of prajna is intense, it can happen in a single moment. If the intellect is dull, it does not happen even in eighty years!
Zarathustra laughed at birth. Zarathustra’s religion is the only religion in the world one could call a ‘laughing religion’. Extra-worldly—and yet of the earth! Hence Parsis do not find other religionists religious. Dancing, singing, joyous! Zarathustra’s religion is a laughing religion; it is the religion of life’s acceptance; it is not a religion of denial or renunciation. Have you seen any Parsi ascetic—standing naked, roasting himself in the sun, sitting by a sacred fire? No. In the Parsi religion there is no arrangement for torturing life. Zarathustra’s entire message is this—that if God can be attained laughing, why attain him crying? If you can reach that temple dancing, why sow thorns needlessly? If you can go with flowers, why this melancholia? So the symbol is right—that Zarathustra laughed at birth.
Do not seek history in these tales. ‘It happened thus’—no. But these tales contain a very deep meaning.
You have a seed in your hand. Looking at it, there is no information whatsoever about the flower that will be born. What can it become? Not even a hint arrives. Will this become a lotus, bloom, live on water and yet be untouched by it, dance upon the sun’s rays—and even the sun be jealous of its beauty, its delicacy, its unparalleled dignity, its grace; its fragrance fly to the skies—looking at the seed, none of this can be known. No one can imagine it from the seed, nor even conjecture. But one day it happens.
There are two ways to think. Either clutch the seed tight and say: what is not seen in the seed cannot happen in the lotus. That is delusion. That is deception. That is false.
Those we call rationalists, skeptics, base themselves on this. They say, what is not seen in the seed cannot be in the flower; some error is occurring.
Hence the skeptical person cannot accept Buddha; cannot accept Mahavira; cannot accept Jesus. For they say: we have known them.
Jesus came to his village and was astonished: the villagers had no concern at all. Jesus said: a prophet is not honored in his own village. What could be the reason? Why is the prophet not honored in his village? The villagers had seen him from childhood: the son of a carpenter, Joseph! They had seen him hauling wood, planing, sawing, drenched in sweat, playing in the streets, quarreling. The villagers knew him from childhood—they had seen him as a seed. How can it suddenly happen that he is the son of God!
No—the one who saw the seed cannot accept the flower. He says there must be deception, dishonesty. This man is a hypocrite.
When Buddha returned home, his father… what the whole world was seeing, the father could not see! The whole world was experiencing a light; news was spreading afar; people from distant lands had begun to arrive; but when Buddha came home after twelve years, the father said: I can still forgive you, though you have done ill, tormented us, committed a crime; but I have a father’s heart. I will forgive you. The doors are open for you. But throw away this begging bowl! Remove this monk’s garb! None of this will do. Return. This kingdom is yours. I have grown old—who will manage it? Enough childishness—stop this play!
Buddha said: please, look at me! He who left has not returned. Someone else has come. He who was born in your house has not returned; someone else has come. The seed has returned as a flower. Look carefully.
The father said: you would teach me? Since the day you were born I have known you. Deceive someone else. Mislead someone else. You will not befool me. I tell you again: I know you well. Do not attempt to teach me. I am ready to forgive.
Buddha said: you know me! I did not even know myself. Only just now has the ray descended and I have known myself. Forgive me! But this I must say—that what you saw was not me. And as far as you have seen—that is not me. You saw the outer; where have you seen the inner? I have been born of you, but you have not created me. I have come through you, as a traveler comes along a road; but what is the relationship of the road with the traveler? Tomorrow the road might claim, I know you, you came through me—just as you are saying. I was before you. For births upon births my journey has continued. I have certainly passed through you, as I have passed through others. There were other fathers, other mothers. But my being is very separate.
It is very difficult, supremely difficult! If one has seen the seed, he cannot trust the flower.
One approach belongs to the faithless, the rationalist, the skeptic: he says we recognize the seed; the flower cannot be. We know the mud—how can a lotus arise out of it? All false! You must be in error, under a spell. Someone has deceived you. Some magic, some enchantment… This is one path.
Another is the path of the devotee—the lover, the heart full of sympathy—he sees the flower and travels backward. He says: if such fragrance has arisen in the flower, such splendor manifested, such genius, such virginity seen—then surely it must have been in the seed too. For what appears in the flower cannot be unless it was in the seed.
All these tales did not ‘occur’ historically. Those who beheld the flower of Ashtavakra thought: what is today, was also yesterday—hidden, veiled, behind curtains. What is at the end was there at the beginning. What is seen at the moment of death must also have been present at birth; otherwise how could it be born!
So, one method is to look backward from the flower; another is to look forward from the seed. Look carefully and the essential thread is the same, the foundation is the same—but how sky-wide the difference becomes! The one with the seed says: that which is not in the seed cannot be in the flower—this is his logic. The one with the flower also says the same: that which is in the flower must have been in the seed. The logic of both is the same; but their ways of seeing differ. And there lies the great difficulty!
Someone asked me: many people must have studied with you in childhood—in school, in college—yet they are nowhere to be seen! How could they be seen! They face a great difficulty. They cannot trust. It is supremely difficult for them.
Only yesterday someone from Raipur sent me a newspaper. Shri Harishankar Parsai has written an essay against me. He knows me; he has known me since college days. He is an eminent satirist in Hindi. I respect his works. In the essay he wrote: there is some defect in the air of Jabalpur. Charlatans and rogues are born there—like Rajneesh, Mahesh Yogi, Moondra. He listed three names. Thanks to him, at least he listed my name first. He remembered that much! Not completely forgotten—he has not utterly erased me.
But the difficulty is natural, straightforward. I can understand. It is impossible—if you have seen the seed—to trust the flower! Then those who have seen the flower find it hard to trust the seed. Hence the life-stories of all the great ones get written in two ways. Those who oppose them begin the journey from childhood; those who are for them begin from the end and move toward childhood. Both are right in one sense. But those who start at childhood and move toward the end, they remain deprived. Their being right becomes self-defeating. Those who start from the end and move backward—they are blessed. For much is given to them unasked, which earlier the rationalists never receive.
Now not only do I seem wrong to him, because of me even Jabalpur’s air seems wrong: there must be some fault in the water and air! Although I would like to say to him: Jabalpur has no right to judge the water and air regarding me. I have little connection with Jabalpur. I stayed there for a few days. Mahesh Yogi also stayed there for a few days. He too has no connection. Both of us are associated with another place. The people of that place are so asleep that they have no idea yet. Mahesh Yogi and I were born close by. He was born in Chichli, I in Kuchwada, near Gadarwara. If the water and air are bad, they would be bad there. Gadarwara should feel the pain—someday it will. Or joy… Jabalpur should not come in between.
But how the mind contrives arguments!
Whoever hears Ashtavakra’s tale will say at once: false! Impossible! Those who wrote these tales knew too that no one speaks from the womb! They are only saying that what blossomed at the end must have been present in the womb at some deep level; otherwise from where would it bloom? Nothing comes out of the void! Behind everything there is a cause. We may not have seen it, but it was there.
All these tales point to this.
The second known thing about Ashtavakra is from when he was twelve. Only two things are known. The third is his Ashtavakra Gita; some say Ashtavakra Samhita. When he was twelve, King Janaka arranged a vast scriptural debate. Janaka was an emperor and he invited all the scholars in the land. He placed a thousand cows at the palace gate, gilded their horns and hung diamonds and jewels, and proclaimed: whoever is victorious may herd these cows away.
A great disputation ensued! Ashtavakra’s father also went to the debate. By evening came news that the father was losing. He had defeated everyone else, but he was being defeated by a scholar named Vandin. Hearing this, Ashtavakra too reached the palace. The assembly was convened. The debate was at its final climax. The decisive moment was near. The father’s defeat was all but settled. The state was ‘now he loses, now’.
Ashtavakra entered the court. The pandits saw him. The great scholars had gathered! His body crooked in eight places! Even his walking made people laugh. The way he walked was comical. The entire assembly laughed. Ashtavakra too burst into laughter. Janaka asked: ‘I understand why all these laugh; but child, why did you laugh?’
Ashtavakra said: ‘I am laughing because in this assembly of cobblers, Truth is being adjudicated!’
A great… the man must have been extraordinary! ‘What are these cobblers doing here?’
Silence fell!… Cobblers! The emperor asked: ‘What do you mean?’ He said: ‘Simple. They see only skin; they do not see me. Find me a simpler, straighter man—yet they cannot see him; they see only this crooked body. These are cobblers! Connoisseurs of skin. O king, does the sky become crooked if the temple is crooked? Does the sky crack if the pot is broken? The sky is changeless. My body is crooked, but I am not. Look toward that which dwells within! You will not find anything more straight and simple than that.’
This startling proclamation must have stunned the assembly. Janaka was affected, shaken. Indeed, what is this crowd of cobblers I have assembled! He felt remorse even about himself, felt guilty that he too had laughed. That day he could not bring himself to say anything; but the next morning, when the emperor went out riding, he found Ashtavakra on the path. He dismounted, fell at his feet. Before all, he had not gathered courage the day before. The day before he had said, ‘Child, why do you laugh?’ He was a twelve-year-old boy. He had weighed age. Today he did not weigh age. Today he dismounted, fell prostrate—full prostration! And said: Please come to the palace, resolve my inquiries! O Lord, come to my home! The point has dawned upon me! I could not sleep all night. Truly said: those who know only the body, how deep can their knowledge be! They talk of the Soul, yet still feel attraction and aversion in the body! Seeing the mortal, they speak of the immortal! Blessed am I that you came and startled me! You broke my sleep! Now, please come!
He decorated the palace magnificently. He seated this twelve-year-old Ashtavakra upon a golden throne and questioned him. The first sutra is Janaka’s inquiry. Janaka asked, and Ashtavakra explained.
Beyond this nothing is known about Ashtavakra—and nothing more needs to be known. This is enough, more than enough. Diamonds are few—stones are many. One diamond suffices. These are two small events.
One from before birth: the voice from the womb and the proclamation, ‘What madness has possessed you? Entangled in the scriptures—in words? Awake! This is not knowledge; this is all borrowed. This is merely the web of intellect, not experience. There is not a shred of essence in it. How long will you keep yourself deluded?’
And the second event: the scholars’ laughter in the palace, and Ashtavakra’s saying that there are two visions in life—one of the Self, one of the skin. The cobbler sees the skin. The wise one sees the Soul.
Have you noticed? The cobbler does not even look at your face—he looks at your shoes. Indeed, looking at your shoes, the cobbler reads everything about you—your financial state; whether success or failure is coming; how luck is running. It is all written in the shoes. The wrinkles tell. The condition of the shoes tells. Your autobiography is inscribed in your shoes. The cobbler reads it. If the shoes shine—new and fresh—the cobbler meets you happily. The shoe is, for him, proof of your soul.
The tailor looks at your clothes. Seeing your coat and garments, he understands your condition.
Everyone has fixed ways of seeing.
Only the Self-knower sees the Self. He has no fixed ‘view’. He has Vision.
One small event more—not related to Ashtavakra’s life, but to Ramakrishna and Vivekananda’s, and yet connected to Ashtavakra—then we will enter the sutras.
When Vivekananda came to Ramakrishna, his name was Narendra Nath. ‘Vivekananda’ was the name Ramakrishna gave him later. When he came he was very argumentative, atheistic, rationalistic. He wanted proof for everything.
There are things for which there is no proof—such is the compulsion. For God there is no proof; He is, yet there is no proof. For love there is no proof; it is, yet there is no proof. For beauty there is no proof; it is, yet there is no proof.
If I say: look how beautiful these date palms are, and you say, ‘We see no beauty. Trees are trees. Prove it.’ It becomes difficult. How to prove beauty! To recognize beauty you need a sensitivity to beauty—there is no other way. You need eyes—there is no other way.
They say Majnun declared: to know Layla you need Majnun’s eyes. He spoke right. There is no other way to see Layla.
Majnun was summoned by the king of his village who said: You are mad! I know your Layla—an ordinary girl, dark, nothing special. I pity you. Here stand these twelve women of my palace; they are the most beautiful in the land. Choose any one of them. Seeing your tears, my heart too weeps.
He looked and said: none of these is Layla. These are not just far from Layla—they are not even the dust at her feet.
The king said: Majnun, you are mad.
Majnun said: that may be. But one thing I want to say: to see Layla you need Majnun’s eyes.
Majnun spoke true.
If you wish to see the beauty of trees, you need an artist’s eye—there is no other proof. If you wish to recognize someone’s love, you need a lover’s heart—there is no other proof. And God is the collected name of all the beauty, all the love, all the truth of existence. For Him you need such a stainless consciousness, such a witnessing, where no word remains, no thought remains, no ripple arises. Where no dust of the mind remains and the mirror of consciousness is perfectly pure! Where is the proof?
Vivekananda said to Ramakrishna: I need proof. If God is, give proof.
Ramakrishna looked at Vivekananda. Enormous possibilities lived in this youth. Great was the journey of his future. Much was waiting to happen within him. A great treasure was there, of which he was unaware. Ramakrishna looked into his past births. This youth was bringing the great wealth of merit. He should not remain crushed under mere argument. Ramakrishna’s heart must have groaned with pain and compassion. He said, ‘Drop it—the proof we will consider later. I am old, my eyes are weak for reading. You are young, your eyes are sharp. Here is a book—read it to me.’ It was the Ashtavakra Gita. ‘Read it aloud to me.’
They say Vivekananda found nothing odd in this—this man asks nothing special! He read two or four sutras—and a tremor, a shiver through every pore! And Vivekananda said: I cannot read further. Ramakrishna said: read! What harm can this book do you? You are young. Your eyes are still fresh. I am old, reading troubles me. And I want to hear this book—so read it to me.
They say that reading that very book, Vivekananda was drowned. Ramakrishna saw that this person contains an immense possibility, a pure possibility—the kind a bodhisattva has, who is destined to be a Buddha someday; if not today, then tomorrow, however much he may wander—Buddhahood coming closer to him.
Why did Ramakrishna say: read the Ashtavakra Gita to me? Because there is no purer utterance than this. If these very words reach within you they will awaken your sleeping soul. They will stir you. They will exhilarate you. They will shake you. With these words, revolution can happen.
I did not choose the Ashtavakra Gita idly. Nor did I choose it in haste—I chose it late, after much thought. There were days when I spoke on Krishna’s Gita, because there was a crowd with me. For a crowd the Ashtavakra Gita has no meaning. With much effort I have freed myself from the crowd. Now there are only a few Vivekanandas here. Now I wish to speak to those who hold great possibility. I wish to work with those few with whom effort will bear fruit. Now diamonds must be cut; I will not blunt the chisel upon pebbles. Hence I have chosen the Ashtavakra Gita. You have readied yourselves, therefore I have chosen it.
The first sutra:
Janaka said, ‘O Master, how is knowledge attained by man? And how will liberation be? And how will non-attachment be attained? Tell me this! Etat mama brūhi, Prabho! Explain this to me, Lord!’
A king, Janaka, says to a twelve-year-old boy: ‘O Lord! Bhagavan! Explain to me! Etat mama brūhi! Give some understanding to my foolishness! Awaken this ignorant one!’
He has asked three questions—
‘Katham jñānam! How will there be knowing!’
Ordinarily we would think: what is there to ask? The books are full of it. Janaka too knew. What is full in the books is not knowledge; it is only the dust of knowledge, ash! When the flame of knowledge burns, ash remains behind. The ash keeps accumulating and becomes scripture. The Vedas are ash—they were once burning embers, which the seers kindled in their own souls. Then only ash remained. The ash is collected, systematized, arranged. As when a man dies we collect his ashes and call them ‘flowers’. What strange people! In life we never called him a flower; we collect his bones and say, ‘We have gathered the flowers’! We keep them with care, we enshrine them. The one we never honored as a flower in life, never saw as a flower, when he dies—what madness!—we call his bones, his ash, ‘flowers’!
Likewise when a Buddha is alive, you do not listen. When a Mahavira moves among you, you get angry. It seems as though this man is breaking your dreams, disturbing your sleep. ‘Is this the time to awaken? Only now had the dream begun; only now had we begun to win a little in life; only now were our arrows hitting the mark—and here comes this gentleman! He says, all is futile! Only now had I won the election, the path to office had opened—and here arrives a great man! He says, it is all a dream, there is no substance in it; death will come and take it all away! Let go, he says; when death comes, we shall see—why bring up such matters in between!’
But when Mahavira dies, when Buddha dies, then we collect their ashes. Then we make the Dhammapada, the Vedas. Then we offer flowers in worship.
Janaka knew too that the scriptures are full of information. But he asked, ‘Katham jñānam? How will there be knowing?’ Because however much one may know, knowledge does not happen. You go on knowing and knowing, memorize the scriptures, become parrots, remember each sutra, stamp the Vedas into memory—yet knowledge does not happen.
‘Katham jñānam? How will there be knowing? Katham mukti? How will there be liberation?’
For what you call knowledge, it binds rather than frees. Knowledge is only that which frees. Jesus has said: Truth is that which liberates. Knowledge is only that which liberates—this is the touchstone. The pundit does not appear liberated, he appears bound. He talks of liberation, but he does not appear free—he seems bound in a thousand chains.
Have you noticed? Your so-called saints appear more bound than you! You are perhaps a little free; your saints seem more fettered than you. Slaves to the line of habit; they cannot rise or sit or live in freedom.
A few days ago some Jain nuns sent word that they wished to meet me, but the lay followers would not allow them to come. This is amusing! ‘Sadhu’ means one who has renounced concern for society; one who has set out on the forest-path; one who has said: I no longer need your respect or honor. But the sadhus and sadhvis say: ‘The lay followers do not let us come. They say, do not go there by mistake. If you go there, this door is closed!’ What kind of sainthood is this? This is dependency, slavery. It turns the whole thing upside-down: the sadhu is to change the layman; instead, the layman is changing the sadhu.
A friend told me that a Jain nun reads my books—but secretly; she wants to listen to tapes—but secretly. And if before anyone she even hears my name mentioned, she behaves as if she has never heard it.
Is this liberation?
Janaka asked, ‘Katham mukti? How will liberation be? What is liberation? Explain to me that knowledge which liberates.’
Freedom is man’s most essential longing. Gain everything, but if slavery remains, it chafes. Have all, but if freedom is not, nothing has been gained. Man longs for the open sky—no boundary! That is man’s innermost, most intimate longing—that there be no boundary, no barrier. Call this the longing to be God, or the longing for Moksha.
We have chosen a right word—‘Moksha’. No language in the world has such a sweet word. Heaven, Firdaus—these kinds of words exist, but none carry the music of Moksha. The music of Moksha is unique. Its meaning is only this: such supreme freedom upon which no barrier remains; freedom so pure that there is no limit upon it.
Janaka asked: ‘How will liberation be, and how will non-attachment be? O Master, explain to me!’
Ashtavakra must have looked intently at Janaka; for a Master’s first work is this—that when someone inquires, he looks deeply: ‘From what source does this inquiry arise? Why has the questioner asked?’ Only then can an answer be meaningful, when it is clear why the question was asked.
Remember, a true knower, a true guru, does not answer your question—he answers you! What you ask matters less; why you have asked, what net is hidden in your unconscious behind the question, what longing hides behind your question’s veil…
There are four kinds of people in the world—the knower, the mumukshu, the ignorant, the dullard. And there are four kinds of inquiries. The knower’s inquiry is wordless. It is better said: the knower’s inquiry is no inquiry at all—he has known; nothing remains to be known; he has arrived; the mind is pure, quiet; he has come home; he rests! So the knower’s inquiry is not like an inquiry. This does not mean the knower is unwilling to learn. The knower becomes simple, like a small child—ever ready to learn.
The more you learn, the more readiness to learn grows. The simpler and more guileless you become, the more open you are to learn. When the winds come, they find your doors open. When the sun comes, he need not knock upon your door. When God comes, he finds you ever ready.
The knower does not accumulate knowledge; the knower attains only the capacity to know. Understand this rightly, for it will be needed later. ‘Knower’ means only: one who is utterly open to knowing; who has no bias; who has no veil for knowing; who has no preplanned scheme, no framework for knowing. ‘Knower’ means ‘meditator’—one who is full of attention.
So Ashtavakra must have looked carefully, peered into Janaka: this person is not a knower. He has not attained meditation. Otherwise his inquiry would be silent; there would be no words.
In Buddha’s life there is a mention of a mendicant who came to meet him—an itinerant, a wanderer. He came and said to Buddha: ‘I have no words fit for asking. What I wish to ask, I have no skill to bind in words. You know—so understand. Whatever is fitting for me, say that.’
This is the knower’s inquiry.
Buddha sat silent; he said nothing. After a while, something occurred. The man who sat in silence gazing at Buddha, tears began to stream from his eyes. He bowed to Buddha’s feet and said, ‘Thank you! I am blessed! What I came to receive, you have given.’ He rose and went away. There was an extraordinary radiance upon his face. He went dancing.
The disciples around Buddha were astonished. Ananda asked: ‘Bhante! Lord! This is a puzzle. First the man says, I do not know how to ask; I have no words; I do not even know what I have come to ask; you know—so see me; say what is needed for me. First the man himself was a puzzle… is this a way to ask! And when you do not know what to ask, why ask at all? And then you remained silent! We have never seen you so silent; when someone asks, you answer. Sometimes it even happens that when no one asks, still you answer. Your compassion always flows. What happened that you fell silent and closed your eyes? And then what mystery happened that the man began to be transformed! We saw him changing. We saw him dyeing in another color. We saw bliss arise in him. He has gone dancing—full of tears, overwhelmed, ecstatic! He bowed at your feet. His fragrance touched us too. What happened? You spoke nothing—how did he hear? And we, for so many days and years at your feet—is your grace less upon us? Why do we not receive this prasada which you gave him?’
But remember, one receives only as much as one can take.
Buddha said: ‘Listen. Horses…’ He spoke to Ananda about horses, because Ananda was a kshatriya, Buddha’s cousin, and from childhood fond of horses—he was an equestrian, famous in competition. Buddha said: ‘Listen, Ananda! There are four kinds of horses. One you can beat and they will not budge. The worst of the worst! The more you beat, the more they become obstinate, standing rigid. If you beat, they become determined: Let us see who wins! Then there is a second kind: if you beat, they move; if you do not, they do not. At least better than the first. Then the third kind: crack the whip—no need to strike; only the sound is enough. More noble—better than the second. Then, Ananda, you surely know there is also the sort that seeing the shadow of the whip, run; you need not even crack it. This was such a horse. The shadow is enough.’
Ashtavakra must have looked closely.
When you come and ask me something, it is you who are more significant than your question. Sometimes it may seem to you that I have answered what you did not ask. Sometimes it may seem that perhaps I dodged your question, sidestepped, and said something else. But your inner need is always more important; what you ask is not so important. For you yourself do not clearly know what you ask, why you ask. The answer is given to what you need. Your asking does not decide.
Ashtavakra must have seen: Janaka is not a knower. Then is he ignorant? He is not. For the ignorant is stiff, full of conceit. The ignorant does not know how to bow. This one has fallen at the feet of a twelve-year-old unknown boy, despite being an emperor. This is impossible for the ignorant. Even if the ignorant asks, he asks to invalidate you. For the ignorant assumes he already knows, and asks only to test whether you know. The ignorant asks to examine. No, Janaka’s eyes are very clear. He calls an unknown twelve-year-old ‘Lord’ and says, ‘Etat mama brūhi, Prabho! O Lord, explain to me!’ No, he is humble; not ignorant. Is he dull, then? The dull do not ask at all. For the dull, there is no problem in life yet.
Between dullards and Buddhas there is one similarity. For Buddhas there is no problem anymore; for dullards no problem has arisen yet. The Buddha has gone beyond problem; the dullard is still outside it. The dullard is so stupefied—how can he have a question? ‘Katham jñānam’—will a dullard ask? ‘Katham mukti’—will a dullard ask? ‘How will there be non-attachment’—will a dullard ask? Impossible!
If a dullard asks, he asks: how to be successful in attachment? He asks: how to stay a few more days in the world? Liberation…! No—the dullard asks: how to make chains of gold? How to stud the fetters with diamonds and jewels? Such things dullards ask. Knowledge! The dullard does not even accept the possibility that knowledge can be. He denies the possibility itself. He says: what knowledge?
No, Janaka is not a dullard—he is a mumukshu.
Understand ‘mumukshu’. The longing for Moksha is mumuksha. He has not reached Moksha yet—he is not a knower; he is not turned with his back to Moksha—he is not a dullard; he is not sitting fixed with ignorant notions—he is not merely ignorant; he is a mumukshu. ‘Mumukshu’ means: his inquiry is simple—not tainted by dullness, not distorted by ignorant notions. His inquiry is pure. With a simple heart he has asked.
Ashtavakra said: ‘O beloved, if you desire liberation then abandon objects as you would poison, and drink forgiveness, simplicity, compassion, contentment and truth as you would nectar.’
मुक्तिमिच्छसि चेत्तात विषयान् विषवत्त्यज। क्षमा आर्जवम् दया संतोषः सत्यं पिबेत् अमृतम्॥
The word ‘vishaya’—object, sense-object—is very precious; it is made from ‘visha’—poison. ‘Visha’ means that by eating which a man dies. ‘Vishaya’ means that by consuming which we die again and again. Again and again indulgence, again and again consumption, again and again ambition, jealousy, anger, resentment—again and again these are what we consume and by which we die! It is because of these that we have died again and again! Until now our life has known no life—we have known only dying. Our life is not a burning flame of life; it is only the smoke of death. From birth to death we only die—slowly. We do not live. We die daily. What we call life is a continuous process of dying. We do not yet know life—how then shall we live? The body weakens day by day. Strength is lost day by day. These indulgences and objects keep sucking us dry, making us senile. These objects and desires are like holes; through them our energy, our soul, leaks away daily. In the end the pot is empty—that we call death.
Have you seen? If you lower a cracked pot into a well, while submerged it seems full; pull it up above the water and it begins to empty! There is a loud gurgling. That you call life? Streams fall out—that you call life? And as the pot nears the hand, it empties more and more. When it reaches the hand—it is empty! Not a drop of water! Such is our life.
Before the child is born, he seems full; once born, he begins to empty. The first day of birth is the first day of death. He begins to empty. One day died, two days died, three days died! What you call ‘birthday’—better call ‘death-day’—that would be truer. You die a year; you say, a birthday has come! Fifty years dead—you say, ‘We have lived fifty years, let us celebrate the golden jubilee!’ Fifty years dead. Death draws near; life recedes. The pot empties! On what do you reckon life—what is going away or what is coming near? What inverted arithmetic! We die daily. Death edges closer.
Ashtavakra says: sense-objects are poison-like, for by consuming them we only die; they never bring life.
‘If you desire liberation, O dear one, leave objects as poison; and forgiveness, simplicity, compassion, contentment and truth drink as nectar.’
‘Amrita’ means that by which life comes; by which immortality is tasted; by which that is known which never dies.
So—forgiveness!
Anger is poison; forgiveness is nectar.
Simplicity!
Cunning is poison; straight, simple sincerity—arjava—is nectar.
Compassion!
Harshness, cruelty are poison; compassion, karuna are nectar.
Contentment!
The worm of discontent keeps eating you. Discontent is like a cancer in the heart; it spreads; it spreads its poison.
Contentment—satisfaction with what is; no longing for what is not. What is, is more than enough. It is indeed more than enough. Open your eyes and see!
Contentment is not something imposed upon life from the outside. Look carefully and you will see that what you have been given has always exceeded your need! What you need has been given again and again. What you have desired has always arrived. You desired unhappiness, and unhappiness arrived. You desired happiness, and happiness arrived. You desired wrongly, and the wrong arrived. Your desire has woven your life. Desire is the seed; life is the harvest. Through births upon births what you have desired—that is what you have received. Many times you think you desired something else but something else arrived; the fault is not in desiring but that you chose the wrong words for desiring. For example—you desire success, and failure arrives. You say, failure is arriving; success was desired.
But whoever desired success has already accepted failure; he has fear of failure inside. He desires success only because of failure. And whenever he desires success, the thought of failure arises. The thought of failure accumulates strength. Success may come someday; but the path, the journey, will be spent in failure-failure. The mood of failure will be collected. It will become so accumulated that one day it will manifest. Then you say, I desired success. But in desiring success you desired failure.
Lao Tzu has said: desire success—failure will come. If you truly want success, do not desire success at all—then no one can make you fail.
You say: I desired respect—insult is coming. Only he desires respect who has no respect for himself. He wants others to respect him. He who insults himself wants to fill his inner insult with the respect of others, to cover it. The longing for respect is proof that you feel insulted within; that you feel ‘I am nothing—others should make me something, seat me upon a throne, wave flags, raise banners with my name—others must do something!’
You are a beggar! You have already insulted yourself by desiring respect. And this insult will deepen.
Lao Tzu says: no one can insult me, because I do not desire respect. This is to attain respect. Lao Tzu says: no one can defeat me, because we have dropped the talk of victory. Now how will you defeat me! You can defeat only the one who wants to win. This is a little tangled arithmetic.
In this world, respect comes to those who did not desire respect. Success comes to those who did not desire success. For those who did not desire success have accepted already: we are successful—what more to desire? Respect, within us already belongs to the Atman—what more to desire? God has respected you by giving you life—what more respect do you want? God has given you sufficient glory! He has given you life! This good fortune—to open your eyes, to see green trees, flowers, birds! He has given you ears—to hear music, the murmur of waterfalls! He has given you awareness—to become Buddhas! What more do you want? You are already honored! God has given you the certificate—by creating you. From whom do you beg certificates? From those who are begging certificates from you?
It is a delightful matter: two beggars stand before one another begging! How will this alms be given? Both are beggars. From whom do you seek respect? Before whom do you stand? You are insulting yourself. And this insult will deepen.
Contentment means: see what you have. Open your eyes and see what has already been given.
This is a very precious key of Ashtavakra. It will become clearer to you slowly. Ashtavakra’s vision is revolutionary, unique—a revolution at the very root.
‘Contentment and truth drink as nectar.’
Because he who lives with untruth becomes untruth. Whoever speaks untruth, lives untruth, naturally becomes enveloped in untruth. His connections to life are severed; his roots are broken.
If you want roots in God, they can be only through truth. Only through authenticity and truth can you be connected with God. If you wish to be separated from God, produce the smoke of untruth; create clouds of untruth around you. The more untruthful you become, the farther from God you go.
‘You are not earth, not water, not air, not sky. For liberation, know the Atman—know yourself—as the witnessing consciousness of all these.’
Simple, straightforward lines; no preface. Ashtavakra has not uttered even two sentences before meditation arrives, before Samadhi is spoken. The knower has nothing else to point to but Samadhi. He has spoken two lines only because, if Samadhi is stated abruptly, you might be startled and fail to understand. But two lines—and Samadhi is upon us!
Ashtavakra does not even walk seven steps; Buddha walks seven steps—on the eighth is Samadhi. Ashtavakra’s first step itself is Samadhi.
‘You are not earth, not water, not air, not sky’—in this realization establish yourself. ‘For liberation, know the Atman—yourself—as the witnessing consciousness of all these.’
‘Witnessing’ is the key. There is no more important key. Become the Seer! Whatever is happening, let it happen; there is no need to obstruct. This body is water, earth, fire, sky, air. Within it you are the lamp by whose light these elements shine. You are the Seer. Deepen this knowing.
साक्षिणां चिद्रूपं आत्मानं विद्धि…
This is the most precious sutra in the world. Become a witness! By this will be knowledge! By this will be non-attachment! By this will be liberation!
There were three questions; the answer is one.
‘If you separate the body from yourself and abide resting in consciousness, you will at once become happy, peaceful, and free of bondage.’
Therefore I say: this is revolution at the very root. Patanjali does not speak with such daring: ‘at once’. Patanjali says: practice—yama, niyama; discipline—pranayama, pratyahara, asana; purify. Birth upon birth will be needed—then siddhi.
Mahavira says: five great vows! And then birth upon birth it will take—then will be nirjara; then the net of karma will be cut.
Listen to Ashtavakra:
यदि देहं पृथक्कृत्य चिति विश्राम्य तिष्ठसि।
अधुनैव सुखी शान्तः बन्धमुक्तो भविष्यसि॥
‘Adhunai’—right now, here, this very moment! ‘If you separate the body from yourself and abide resting in consciousness…’ If you begin to see one thing—that this body is not me; I am neither doer nor enjoyer; that which is hidden within me and sees all—once there was childhood, and it saw childhood; then youth came, and it saw youth; then old age came, and it saw old age; when childhood is no more, I cannot be childhood—it came and went; I am. When youth is no more, I cannot be youth—it came and went; I am. Old age came and goes—I cannot be old age. For that which comes and goes—how can I be that! I am the one who is always. Upon whom childhood came, upon whom youth came, upon whom old age came, upon whom a thousand things came and went—I am that eternal one.
Stations change like childhood, youth, old age; the traveler of birth moves on. You do not identify yourself with stations! At Pune station you do not think, I am Pune! Then you reach Manmad—you do not think, I am Manmad! You know Pune came and went; Manmad came and went—you are the traveler! You are the Seer—who saw Pune when it came; who saw Manmad when it came! You are the one who sees!
So the first thing: separate the Seer from what is happening.
‘Separate the body from yourself, and rest in consciousness…’
And there is nothing to be done. Just as Lao Tzu’s key is surrender, Ashtavakra’s key is rest. Nothing is to be done.
People come to me and ask: how to meditate? They are asking the wrong question. When they ask wrong, I tell them: do. Now what will you do! So I tell them to do—something or other must be done; your itch to do must be satisfied. If there is an itch, what will you do! Without scratching one cannot manage. But slowly, by making them do and do, I tire them. Then they say: now get us out of this! How long will this go on? I say: I was always ready for this; it is only that you took time to understand. Now rest!
The ultimate meaning of meditation is rest.
चिति विश्राम्य तिष्ठसि
‘He who lets his consciousness be stilled in rest; who settles in being…’
Nothing is to be done. Because what you seek is already given. Because what you seek has never been lost. It cannot be lost. It is your nature. Ayam Atma Brahma! You are Brahman! Ana’l-Haqq! You are Truth! Where are you seeking it? Where do you run? Seeking yourself, where do you run? Stop; be still! God is not attained by running, because God is hidden in the runner. God is not attained by doing, because God is hidden in the doer. For God to be, nothing need be done—you are, already!
Therefore Ashtavakra says: chiti vishramya! Rest! Let go! Drop this tension! Where are you going? There is nowhere to go; nowhere to reach.
And resting in consciousness… then right now, this very moment—adhunai—happy, peaceful, and free of bondage you will become.
Unparalleled utterance! No other scripture can match it.
‘You are not Brahmin or any other varna, nor are you of any ashram; nor are you the objects of the eyes and other senses. You are unattached and formless, the witness of all—the cosmos. Knowing thus, be happy.’
Now how will the Brahmin write commentary!
‘You are not Brahmin or any other varna…’
How can the Hindus raise this scripture upon their heads! For their entire religion stands upon varna and ashram. And from the outset Ashtavakra begins to cut the very roots. He says: you are no Brahmin, no shudra, no kshatriya. This is all nonsense! These are all superimpositions. This is the game of politics and society. You are only Brahman—not Brahmin, not kshatriya, not shudra!
‘You are not of any ashram either.’
Nor is it that you are in celibate ashram or in householder’s ashram, or forest-dweller’s or renunciate—none. You are the Seer who passes through all these stations.
The Hindus cannot claim Ashtavakra’s Gita as ‘ours’. Ashtavakra’s Gita belongs to all. If in Ashtavakra’s time there had been Muslims, Hindus, Christians, he would have said: ‘You are neither Hindu nor Christian nor Muslim.’ Who will build a temple for such a one! Who will raise this scripture on their heads! Who will become claimants! For he denies all. Yet this is the direct proclamation of Truth.
‘You are unattached and formless, the witness of all—the universe. Knowing thus, be happy!’
Ashtavakra does not say: when you know thus you will then be happy. Listen carefully. Ashtavakra says: knowing thus, be happy!
न त्वं विप्रादिको वर्णो नाश्रमी नाक्षगोचरः।
असंगोऽसि निराकारो विश्वसाक्षी सुखी भव॥
Sukhi bhava—be happy now!
Janaka asks: ‘How will there be happiness? How will there be freedom from bondage? How will there be knowledge?’
Ashtavakra says: now it can be. There is no need to delay even a moment. There is no reason to postpone it to tomorrow. This event does not happen in the future; either it happens now or it never happens. Whenever it happens, it happens now. For there is no time other than ‘now’. Where is the future? When it comes, it comes as now.
So all who have come to know have known ‘now’. Never leave it to ‘someday’—that is the mind’s cunning. The mind says: how can it happen so soon? At least let us prepare!
People come to me and say: ‘We want to take sannyas… we will, someday.’ ‘Someday’—you will never. If you have postponed to someday, you have postponed forever. ‘Someday’ never comes. If you would take it, take it now. There is no time other than now. Now is life. Now is liberation. Now is ignorance, now is knowledge. Now is sleep, now awakening can be. Why ‘someday’? It is difficult for the mind, because the mind says: let us prepare! The mind says: how can any work happen without preparation? To get a university degree takes years. To do a doctorate takes twenty or twenty-five years of effort; then a man becomes a doctor. How can this happen now?
Ashtavakra knows too: if you wish to open a shop, will it open now? You must gather, arrange, bring goods, build a shop, find customers, send advertisements—years! In this world nothing happens ‘now’; it happens sequentially. True. Ashtavakra knows, I know. But there is one event here which happens now—God. He is not your shop, nor your examination hall, nor your university. God does not happen in sequence. God has already happened. It is only a matter of opening your eyes—the sun has already risen. The sun did not wait for your eyes to open so that he might rise then. The sun has already risen. Light fills everywhere. Day and night his sound resounds! The sound of Om reverberates all around! The anahat resounds continuously! Open your ears! Open your eyes!
How long does it take to open the eyes? Not even that much does it take to attain God. A ‘pal’ is the time it takes for an eyelid to blink. But to attain God, not even a pal.
Vishva-sakshi—witness of the cosmos—asangosi, nirakaro. Sukhi bhava!
Be happy now! Ashtavakra’s religion is not on credit—it is cash.
‘O Vast One, dharma and adharma, pleasure and pain are of the mind; they are not for you. You are neither doer nor enjoyer. You are forever free.’
Liberation is our nature. Knowing is our nature. God is our very way of being; our center; the fragrance of our life; our is-ness.
धर्माधर्मौ सुखं दुःखं मानसानि न ते विभो।
Ashtavakra says: ‘O All-pervading One, O glorious One! Dharma and adharma, pleasure and pain are of the mind.’ These are all waves of the mind. Doing bad, doing good, sinning, doing virtue, building temples, donating—these are of the mind.
न कर्तासि न भोक्तासि मुक्त एवासी सर्वदा।
‘You are not the doer, nor the enjoyer; you are forever free.’
Liberation is not an event that we must create. Liberation is accomplished within our very being! Liberation is the metal from which existence is forged. Every hair, every particle is made of freedom. Freedom is the element; by it the whole existence is made. Independence is the nature. To hear this proclamation and to understand it—revolution happens. Nothing needs to be done beyond understanding. If this sinks into your awareness, if you hear it with your whole being—enough!
So, today I will say only this: make the effort to understand Ashtavakra. There is no arrangement in Ashtavakra for ‘doing’. Do not think some technique will be given which you will then do. Ashtavakra does not ask you to do anything. Listen in rest. Nothing will happen by doing. Do not come with copy and notebook—to jot down some formula to try later. Here there is nothing to do. Therefore listen free of concern for the future. Just listen. Sit by me and listen quietly, in rest. Listening, you can become free.
Therefore Mahavira has said that a shravaka can be liberated—just by listening! ‘Shravaka’ means one who becomes free by listening. ‘Sadhu’ means only that one who could not become free by listening—one a little dull of mind, who needed to do something. For him the shadow of the whip did not suffice. The horse is of a low breed. Crack the whip—then he moves; or strike him—then he moves.
The shadow suffices. Just listen—the shadow of the whip will be visible.
With Ashtavakra, remember one thing: nothing is to be done. Therefore you can listen in bliss. There is nothing to take out of this to ‘do later’. What will happen will happen in the listening. Right listening is the key.
अधुनैव सुखी शान्तः बन्धमुक्तो भविष्यसि।
Be free now! This very moment be free! No one is stopping you. There is no barrier. Not even moving is needed. Where you are, there become free. For free you are already. Awake—and be free!
असंगोऽसि निराकारो विश्वसाक्षी सुखी भव।
Be happy! There is not a moment’s need to delay. It is a leap—a quantum leap! There are no stairs in Ashtavakra. No gradual evolution; sudden—this very moment it can happen!
Hari Om Tat Sat!