Maha Geeta #13

There is a great difference between knowledge and knowledge. One kind of knowledge is barren—no fruit, no flower. Another kind bears the fruit of liberation, blossoms with the flowers of Satchidananda, and the fragrance of Samadhi rises from it.
Know that knowledge from which the fragrance of Samadhi does not arise to be hollow and futile. The sooner you are rid of it, the better—for it will become a hindrance on the path of liberation. On the path to liberation, what is not a sadhana turns into an obstacle. Even wealth is not as great an obstacle as hollow knowledge. Wealth, after all, does not provide any means nor does it accompany you on the journey toward Moksha; hence wealth cannot truly obstruct.
For the journey toward Moksha, knowledge is the means. Therefore, if the knowledge is wrong, false, it becomes an obstacle. The world is not such a hindrance as the accumulated knowledge from words and scriptures becomes.
I have heard—an old tale—that outside the city of Avantika, across the river Kshipra, there lived a great pundit. His fame spread far and wide. Every day he would cross the Kshipra by boat to narrate a religious discourse to a wealthy merchant in the city. One day he was startled. As he was crossing, a crocodile raised its head from the water and said, “Punditji, I am getting old too. Please give me a little knowledge as you go and come.” “And I am not asking for free,” the crocodile added, showing in its mouth a necklace of diamonds it had been holding.
The pundit forgot all about the merchant to whom he was going to recite the discourse. He said to the crocodile, “First I’ll teach you.” From that day, daily the pundit began to narrate to the crocodile, and each day the crocodile would give him a different necklace—sometimes diamonds, sometimes pearls, sometimes rubies. After some days the crocodile said, “Punditji! My life is nearing its end. Please take me to Triveni; I will give you a full earthen pot filled with gems.”
The pundit took him to Triveni. After releasing the crocodile there, he filled his pot, inspected it carefully to be sure it contained real gems, and as he was taking leave the crocodile began to laugh. The pundit asked, “You laugh? Why? What is the reason?”
The crocodile said, “I shall say nothing. Go ask in Avantika—the donkey of the washerman named Manohar.”
The pundit was distressed: whom else should he ask—that was the trouble! And on top of it, to ask a washerman’s donkey! But the crocodile said, “Don’t take it amiss. That donkey is an old fellow in my satsang. Manohar keeps washing clothes; the donkey stands by the riverbank, and he is very wise. To tell you the truth, the first ray of knowledge dawned in me because of him.”
The pundit returned, very sad. Ask a donkey? But peace left him; he could not sleep that night. Why did the crocodile laugh? What secret does the donkey know? He could not contain himself. He tried, up to a point, and then he could not. One morning he went to the river early and asked the donkey, “Sir! Please explain to me—what is the matter? Why did the crocodile laugh?”
The donkey too began to laugh. He said, “Listen. In my past life I was the vizier of an emperor. The emperor said, ‘Make arrangements, I am grown old. We shall go to Triveni and live by the confluence.’ The atmosphere of Triveni so charmed him that he announced, ‘We shall not return.’ Then he said to me, ‘If you wish, you may remain with me. But if you wish to return, here are ten million gold coins—take them and go back.’ I took the ten million in gold and returned to Avantika. That is why I am born as a donkey. That is why the crocodile laughed.”
The tale is charming.
Many there are whose knowledge cannot liberate them. Many there are whose knowledge brings no fragrance into their life. They know—and yet nothing comes of their knowing. They are familiar with scriptures; they are masters of words; they possess the ornaments of logic; you cannot defeat them in debate—yet they keep losing in life. Their own knowing is of no use to their life.
That knowledge which does not give liberation is not knowledge. The definition of knowledge is this: that which frees.
Jesus has said, “Truth shall set you free”; and if it does not free you, know that it is not truth.
Doctrine is one thing, truth another. Doctrine is borrowed; you got it cheap; you bought it in the thieves’ bazaar; you acquired it for free; you found it lying on the roadside; you did not earn it. Truth has to be earned. He alone attains truth who offers his life as oblation. He who turns life into a yajna—that one attains truth. Truth is found—by one’s own effort. Truth is found—by one’s own awakening. Another cannot give you truth.
The deeper you can hold this one point, the more beneficial it will be: you must find truth yourself. No one in the world can give it to you. And as long as you are sitting in the hope that someone will give it to you, you will wander; until then, be careful lest you become Manohar the washerman’s donkey! You will reach Triveni again and again—and miss. You will arrive at the confluence, and Samadhi will not happen. Again and again you will come near home—and again you will go astray.
I have heard: Rabiya al-Adawiyya, a Sufi fakira, was passing along a road. She saw the fakir Hasan standing before a mosque with folded hands. Loudly Hasan was pleading, “O Lord! Open the door! How long I have been calling! Have mercy! Compassion on me, the poor! Open the door!”
Tears were flowing from Hasan’s eyes. Rabiya stopped, began to laugh, and said, “Brother, open your eyes and look—where is the door closed? The door is open; only look!”
Hasan had read in the scriptures. Perhaps he had read Jesus’ words: “Ask, and it shall be given. Knock, and it shall be opened.” From the scriptures he had read: cry out and wail; if your call is full of anguish, the door of God will open. But Rabiya is not one tutored by scriptures. She has seen that God’s door is never closed. She said, “Brother! Open your eyes! You are raising a racket for nothing! When was the door closed? It is open—only eyes are needed!”
And here we all are living with borrowed eyes. Even in ordinary life one cannot live with borrowed eyes—and we have set out on the journey to the Infinite carrying borrowed eyes.
There was a man who had grown old—his eyesight was gone. The physicians said, “Your eyes can be cured; an operation is needed; for three months you must rest.” The old man said, “What is the point? I am eighty. And what lack of eyes is there in my house? I have eight sons—sixteen eyes; eight daughters-in-law—sixteen eyes; my wife is still alive—two eyes. Thus there are thirty-four eyes in my house. So I do not have two. What difference does it make?” The argument sounds persuasive: sons’ eyes, daughters-in-law’s eyes, the wife’s eyes—thirty-four eyes in the house. Not thirty-six, but thirty-four—what difference does it make? What is spoiled by lacking two?
He would not agree to the operation. And they say, that very night the house caught fire. The thirty-four eyes ran out; the blind old man groped, burned, screamed. The sons ran, the wife ran, the daughters-in-law ran. When the house is on fire, who remembers another? Remembrance arises after one is outside. Outside they began to think, “What shall we do now? How to save the old father?” But when the fire broke out, the eyes took their feet and fled. In such moments of crisis who can remember another? Only when time and convenience allow do we think of others. When one’s own life is at stake, who can think of whom?
The old man began to scream, and then he realized how false an argument he had given. Eyes only help in time if they are one’s own.
And in this mansion of life there is fire. We are burning here every day. Here only your own eyes will be of use; another’s eyes cannot help. In the outer world perhaps another’s eyes may help; but in the inner world another has no entry at all; there you are utterly alone. There only you are; none has ever gone there, nor can ever go. In your innermost, except for you, no one has any reach; there only your own eyes will serve.
Hence I say: there is a difference between knowledge and knowledge.
What happened to Janaka is real knowledge. It is not pedantry; it is the expression of prajna. The lamp has been lit!
The Sufis tell a story. A young seeker of truth said to his master, “What shall I do? How can my mind become quiet? How will this inner darkness be dispelled? How can I break the mesh of my stupor? Show me some way.”
The master looked at him for a while, then handed him a Sufi book that lay nearby and said, “Read this. Read absorbedly. Dive into it. Take the plunge. The mind will become quiet.”
The youth read with all his heart. After some days he returned. He said, “What you said is right—but not entirely. It is true that when I read I get immersed, I am filled with rasa. When the utterances of the saints begin to resound around me, I am transported to another realm. Great lamps are lit, great lotuses bloom. But then the book is closed—and all is closed. The lotuses bid farewell, the lamps go out. Again the same darkness, my old darkness. Again and again it happens, again and again all is lost. It does not feel like a treasure; it feels like a dream.”
The master laughed. He said, “Listen. Two pilgrims went on a pilgrimage. One had a lantern, the other did not. They walked together. The light in the hand of one served the other as well; the path was illumined for both. But a time came when the traveler with the lantern had to choose his own way. He went along his path—fearless, carefree—for he had his light in hand. But the one who had walked in borrowed light suddenly stood in darkness—trembling, afraid.”
“Exactly thus is the state with scripture,” said the master. “When you read, you walk for a while in another’s light; in another’s light everything becomes clear. But the other’s light can never be yours forever. The paths diverge. Scripture goes its way; you stand on your own path; darkness closes in again.”
In satsang very often a lamp lights within you, but it is not your lamp. It is a glimpse of the master’s lamp—only a reflection. Reading the scriptures, sometimes your nostrils fill with fragrance; but it is not your fragrance. It belongs to someone else; it has come from outside; it has not arisen from within. It will be lost quickly.
And remember! You have seen, perhaps—walking along a dark road, a car with bright headlights passes; for a moment everything is lit! But once the car passes, the darkness becomes even denser than before; the eyes are dazed; nothing is visible. Earlier at least a little was seen.
Often this happens: in the light of scripture or the master, for a moment the lightning flashes and all is clear; but then a darkness falls that was not there even before—an even denser darkness.
The Sufi master said to his disciple, “Now close the book; your first lesson is complete. Now kindle the lamp within. The flame is in you. Light your own flame. One can walk for a little while in another’s light; but it cannot be the eternal journey. If you must be illumined, it must be by your own light.”
Therefore I say, there is a difference between knowledge and knowledge. One is what you receive from the other—do not sit guarding it; do not suppose that you have found a boat that will take you across the ocean of becoming. The other is the knowledge that comes when your inner flame is lit—that alone will carry you across.
Something of this sort happened to Janaka. There was a blow. The inner darkness broke. His own lamp flared. It happened so suddenly that even Janaka could not believe it. That is why he keeps saying again and again, “Wonder! Wonder! Ah—what is this that has happened?” He is seeing something has happened—something by which all the old has gone and everything is new; something by which all relations with the past are snapped; something by which the mind’s world has fragmented and the open sky beyond the mind is revealed. But it happened so suddenly—he is astonished, dumb, taken aback! Hence in every utterance he speaks of wonder.
Today’s first sutra:
“Aho—though in the midst of a throng, I see no duality. The multitude has become to me as a forest. Where then should I take delight, with whom should I be attached?”
No second remains for attachment; no shelter remains!
“Ah, I see no duality.”
Nor is it that I have become blind. I see—and how clearly! I see as I have never seen before. The eyes, for the first time, are fully open—and yet no duality is seen; only One is seen. All have become waves of One; all have become notes of One music; all have become the tiny leaves, branches and twigs of one great tree. But the current of life is one! Duality is not seen; up to now only duality was seen.
Have you ever thought? Even in those moments where you wish duality would vanish, there too it is duality you see. You love someone; you wish that at least here nonduality may be. You wish that here at least there be oneness.
What is the lover’s ache? What is the lover’s pain? The lover’s pain is precisely this: even with the one with whom he longs to be one, distance remains. Come as close as you will, embrace neck to neck—distance remains. Come near and yet nearness does not happen. Become intimate and yet intimacy does not happen.
The lover’s pain is this: he wants that with at least one, let there be nonduality. The longing for nonduality lies in our very life-breath; it is our deepest yearning. What you call the longing for love—if you understand closely—it is the longing for nonduality. It is the wish: if not with all, then at least with one, let me become one. Let there be at least one place where there is no two, no second, no other; where no gap remains in between; where a bridge is built; where union happens.
The longing for love is the longing for nonduality. Perhaps you have never defined it thus. You may not have analyzed the longing for love. If you analyze it, you will find: all religion is born of the longing for love.
But even lovers cannot become one. For oneness, love is not enough. For oneness, longing is not enough. For oneness, there must be the capacity to see One. Our capacity is to see two. We always see two. We see difference. Difference reveals itself immediately to us; non-difference does not. Our capacity to see the non-different is lost. The finite shows; the Infinite does not. Waves are seen; the ocean is not seen. How you differ from others is seen; how you are not different from others is not seen.
Nonduality can blossom only when the eternal bridge that already is between two becomes visible.
Wonder—Janaka begins to say—I see, and yet no duality is seen! What is this? What has happened to me? I cannot trust it. It has happened so suddenly. If it had happened gradually, there would be nothing to marvel at.
Buddha did not say, “Wonder!” Mahavira did not say, “Wonder!” What happened to them unfolded slowly; it was a gradual process. It did not happen by the roof suddenly collapsing.
If you gather coins one by one and make ten million, there will be no wonder. But if you suddenly find ten million lying by the roadside, you will not be able to trust your eyes. Again and again you will rub your eyes to see whether indeed you have found ten million, or whether you are dreaming. For your lifelong experience has been that whatever you touch turns to dust; you touch gold and it becomes dust. What is this? Today the dust has turned to gold. You will not be able to believe it at once.
So when awakening happens gradually—ray by ray the sun descends—one ray descends, then another; before the second descends you have assimilated the first, and you are ready for the second. But to Janaka it happened as if at midnight, in darkness, the sun suddenly rose; the experience of lifetimes is overturned at once. The sun has always risen in the morning—now suddenly it rises at midnight! Or as if a thousand suns rose together—how could one trust it? The first thought would be: have I gone mad?
Therefore, when such a unique event happens, the presence of a master is essential; otherwise, one may go mad. Janaka might have gone mad had Ashtavakra not been present. Ashtavakra’s presence brings trust, assurance. Ashtavakra listens silently—do you see? Janaka keeps speaking; Ashtavakra remains silent. Not a word. He wants the wonder to flow. Let what has happened pour out; let it bubble forth.
You have seen—when sorrow happens to someone, if he speaks it out, the heart becomes light. You do not know the other event—that when bliss happens, if one does not speak, one cannot become light either. Bliss has not happened to you, so you do not know. All the great scriptures of the world were born because when ecstasy happens the one in whom it happens cannot remain silent. He must speak. Speaking, he is unburdened. He pours it into a few ears and the weight is lifted. Not only sorrow weighs heavy; bliss too is an intense ache—sweet, yes!—but intense, like an arrow in the heart. One must hum; one must sing; one must dance. Meera tied the bells upon her feet and danced! She had to dance. What has happened within is so great that if it does not make you sway, it has not happened. If it does not make you dance, it has not happened. If it does not make you tremble, it has not happened.
Like a small leaf dancing in a great storm—thus Janaka must have trembled.
“Ah, I see no duality.”
What has happened to my eyes? Always I saw two, the many; today all has become one. One person appears merged into another; the boundaries of all seem to dissolve into each other; all seem to interpenetrate. What has happened!
If such a happening befell you here, what would you see? You would not see that so many people are sitting here. You would see: what is this? Have these many people suddenly disappeared? Forms sit, but one person’s soul is flowing into another’s; the second into the third; all are flowing into one another. What is happening? Why have their pots cracked? Why are their vessels broken? Why are their life-breaths pouring into each other?
This is precisely what is happening. It does not appear to you—that is another matter. Your breath is going into another; the other’s breath is coming into you. Your energy flows into another; the other’s energy flows into you.
Now there is scientific evidence that we flow into one another. That is why if you sit near a depressed person, you become depressed. His sorrowful prana begins to flow into you. Sit near one who laughs, who is cheerful—his cheer touches you, becomes contagious; someone inside you begins to laugh. You are sometimes surprised: I had no reason to laugh; I was not in a cheerful mood—what happened? The other flowed into you.
Scientists say that when you look at someone with deep love, an energy flows from you into him. There are ways now to measure this. A particular warmth flows from you toward him—just as currents of electricity flow, in exactly that way an electric current begins to flow from you toward him.
That is why if someone looks at you with love, he cannot hide it; you will know. If someone looks at you with hatred, he too cannot hide, for in hatred a destructive energy like a knife comes toward you and pricks.
Love makes you bloom; hatred kills. In hatred there is poison; in love there is nectar.
In Russia there is a woman on whom great scientific experiments have been done. Merely by concentrating on an object she can move it. She stands ten feet away from a vessel placed on a table. If she concentrates on it for five minutes, her eyes fixed upon it, the vessel begins to tremble. If she says, “Move left,” it slides to the left; “Move right,” it slides to the right.
Much study has been done on what is happening. Another surprising thing was discovered: if she performs this experiment for five minutes, she loses half a kilo of body weight. Energy has certainly flowed out. She has expended energy. In five minutes she hurled energy with force; by the push of that energy the vessel moved and shifted and stuck.
We flow into one another—whether we know it or not.
You must have observed—some persons are such that near them you feel a current, as if you had entered a river’s flow; with them you feel fresh. With others you feel they are stagnant pools; near them you feel dull, closed; there is no current, a kind of stench, everything blocked, doors shut—no fresh air, no new light.
You have seen. Those whom you ordinarily call sadhus and saints are often such stagnant pools. Sit with them—fine for a short while; to remain with such a saint for twenty-four hours is difficult; he will drain your life. You cannot laugh out loud near him; you cannot joke; you cannot hum a song. He himself is closed; he will close you too. He is stiff; he will make you stiff. He has shut every door; he has become a tomb, and he will make you a tomb.
That is why people, after bowing to saints, run away. Salutations, Maharaj—and they run! They touch the feet—and run! They do right. They do so by an inner sense. They can worship, but they do not do satsang. Satsang could be dangerous.
Those persons near whom a current is felt—near whom a resonance arises in your life too, something begins to tremble within, to move, to flow—that only means they pour their life-breath into you; they are ready to give; they are not miserly. And the one who places something within you prepares you too to give; an echo arises within you, a responsiveness.
And the more a person flows, the purer he remains. We keep striving to dam ourselves up, that we will not flow. When for the first time it appeared to Janaka, “Ah! this effort is useless. However much one may restrain from without, within we are all connected. We are not small islands rising in the sea; we are a continent. Even the island that appears to rise in the sea is, in the depths below, joined to the earth—joined to the continent. We are all joined.” The vision of this connectedness dawned upon Janaka, and he said:
“Aho—though I behold a crowd, I see no duality!”
So many people I see, yet duality is not seen! It seems that in all of these, one alone is living, one alone breathes, one alone’s prana is flowing. And this entire world has become for me like a forest.
As when one is lost in a forest—have you ever lost your way in a forest?—does one build houses there? One who is lost seeks the way out. However beautiful the scenes around, he does not look at them. He only searches: how to get out of this forest? He neither builds a home nor gazes at the flowers nor forms attachment to the trees.
Janaka says: for me this world has become like a forest. In this new knowing the whole business of the world has become to me just like jungle; as if I had been lost here till now—now I wish to be out. And I am amazed: where shall I be attached? In this lost condition, in this jungle, where and to whom should I be attached?
Up to now people must have told Janaka—he used to frequent great scholars, he was discerning, a connoisseur of pundits—countless persons must have told him: renounce attachment, renounce maya! But today Janaka says: talk of renouncing attachment is foolish. How to do it? Even if I want to, I find no way, for there is no other left to whom I could be attached. I alone remain.
“I am not the body. The body is not mine. I am not the jiva. Surely, I am consciousness alone. This was my only bondage—that I had the desire to live.”
“I am not the body...!”
Nāhaṃ deho, na me deho, jīvo nāham; ahaṃ hi cit!
“I am not the body. The body is not mine. I am not even the jiva. I am only pure consciousness.”
This is how it appears. It is not a doctrine; it is a direct seeing. Such is the encounter, the vision. This is what Janaka is seeing. He is not speaking philosophy here; he is giving words and expression to what is appearing to him.
“This was my only bondage—that I had the desire to live.”
Jīveṣaṇā was my bondage. I wanted to live—this was my bondage. There was no other bondage. But now where should I keep even this urge to live? With whom should I be attached? For now I see, what is—is eternal, timeless; never born, never dying. The body is born and dies. These breaths run today; tomorrow they will not. This mind that now ripples will be quiet tomorrow. These pranas were born; they will perish. But now one thing is plain to me, seen with certainty: I am only consciousness—the witness.
In Bengal there was a jester: Gopal Bhand. Many sweet tales are told of him. One is very delightful. In the court where he made people laugh, the courtiers were very angry with him. For he became more and more dear to the king. He who brings laughter into life—who would not love him? He had a rare talent; jealousy was natural. They wished to defeat him but could find no means. Finally, in desperation, they seized Gopal Bhand one day and said, “Today you must reveal the secret of your talent. There is a rumor in the village that you possess the Sukha-damani—the gem of happiness. You have acquired some siddhi and have obtained a jewel named Sukha-da, by which not only you remain happy, you make others happy too; that is the secret of your miracle and your influence. Give us that Sukha-damani—or it will not be good for you.” The courtiers even beat him. He said, “Wait. You are right. The rumor is true. The Sukha-damani is with me. But lest someone steal it or snatch it, I buried it in the forest. I’ll tell you—go and dig it up.”
On the full-moon night, he took all the courtiers to the forest. He sat under a tree. They asked, “Speak—where is it buried?” He said, “Now find the place yourselves. The clue is this: wherever you stand and the moon shines directly over your head—that is where it is buried.”
The courtiers ran to search. But wherever any one of them stood, the full moon was directly overhead. The moon was over every place. So they dug here and there. All night they kept digging in many spots, while Gopal Bhand slept peacefully under the tree. In the morning they told him, “You are deceiving us. We have dug the whole area around the tree. We are exhausted. There is no sign of any Sukha-damani.”
Gopal Bhand laughed. He said, “I had told you, where the moon shines over your head, there is the Sukha-damani. It is embedded in your skull; not in the earth. It is in your head.”
It is in your consciousness. It is in your witnessing. He who becomes a witness, becomes happy.
Janaka says: I am not body, nor is the body mine; I am not the jiva. Surely I am consciousness. My only bondage was my desire to live.
There is but one bondage in life: that we want to live. Now this is a great wonder. Have you ever seen someone dragging himself along a road—his legs broken, arms broken, near death—and yet he wants to live, begging by crawling? Do not think, “Had I been in his place, I would have committed suicide.” Not easy. The attachment to life is very deep. So deep that a man wants to live under any condition; he agrees to any terms.
Some people do commit suicide, so you may ask, “What of them?” Those who commit suicide also do so because of the desire to live. No one kills himself in order to die. People have conditions for living. Someone says, “I will live only if I have a million rupees.” He goes bankrupt; the money is lost—he says, “What’s the use of living!” He had a big condition for life which broke. He had chosen a particular way to live which is no longer possible; he says, “I will die.” He dies for a particular condition of living.
Someone says, “Only if I live with a certain woman will I live—otherwise I will die.” A woman says, “Only if I get a certain man will I live—otherwise I will die.” These are not statements about death. They are all insistences about living. When life does not happen as one wanted, people are ready even to die. To live, people are ready even to die.
If suicide ever truly happens, it happens to a Buddha, to a Janaka, to an Ashtavakra, to a Mahavira. They are the ones who commit real suicide—for after that there is no birth again. They do not want to live even to live. They see through the jīveṣaṇā—that it is a deception.
Understand it. When seen with the eyes of Samadhi, the eyes of meditation, it is seen: life simply is; it can never not be. It is madness to crave what you already are. It is like having wealth and begging for money. It is like seeking alms for what you already have, wandering from forest to forest. The day your real life is seen, that very moment the urge to live drops. So long as you have linked your life to a false thing—someone has linked it to the body, has said “I am the body”—difficulty will arise, because the body will die tomorrow; the fear of the body’s death breeds the urge to live.
I have heard an old Tibetan tale. Two owls sat on a tree. One held a snake in its beak—breakfast. The other had caught a mouse. As they sat near each other—one with a snake, one with a mouse—the snake saw the mouse and forgot it was in the beak of the owl and close to death. Seeing the mouse, its mouth watered. It forgot it was in the mouth of death; the urge to taste possessed it. The mouse saw the snake and was terrified, trembling—though seated already in the jaws of death—seeing the snake it shook with fear. The two owls were astonished. One asked the other, “Brother, do you understand the secret?” The other said, “Perfectly. The desire for taste is so strong that even if death stands before you, you do not see it. And it is also clear that fear is even greater than death. The mouse is not afraid of the death he sits in; he is afraid of fear—that the snake might attack.”
We are not afraid of death; we are more afraid of fear.
And the greed for taste, for the senses, for living is so intense that though death stands before us twenty-four hours, we do not see it. We are blind.
He who has bound himself to the body will be troubled. You can deny it, you can argue, but you cannot forget that the body will die. Every day someone dies—how will you avoid facing the fact? Funeral pyres are lit daily. Daily processions pass, chanting “Ram Nam Satya Hai.” We have made every arrangement to avoid too much awareness of death. We build the cremation ground outside the village—where it should have been in the middle, so all know. If one body is burned, the whole village should know. But we make it outside. Women pull their children inside; as the corpse passes, doors close: “Someone has died—come in! Don’t look at death!”
We do not speak much of death. Even those who go to the cremation ground with the dead talk of other things. The body burns here; they talk there of which film is running, which leader will win, who will lose, whether elections will be held or not—politics and a thousand things—while the corpse burns!
These are devices, tricks. They erect a curtain: “Let it burn; someone else is dying; we are not dead!” We feel sympathy for the dead—another trick. Sympathy for whom? You stand in the same queue. One has stepped forward; the queue has moved; death has come a little closer to you. Your number nears; you will soon be at the window.
But we say, “So sad, poor fellow died!” Yet we nurture a deep illusion: always someone else dies. I do not die—always someone else dies!
Nevertheless, whatever you do, it is true that life cannot be forever with the body. Stretch it as you will—live a hundred years, two hundred, three hundred—what difference? Science may one day arrange that man lives longer. But what difference? You can push death a bit back, but it will stand there. The body will go.
Therefore, joining oneself to the body, one grasps at life in panic, “Let me remain!” In the craving for life we hoard wealth, gather status, create all sorts of illusions that others die, I will not. All kinds of securities. Yet death comes.
To the one who had identified with the body, however he may deceive himself, the veil will tear repeatedly and death show through. And the more death appears, the more the urge to live grows; the more one clutches at life in panic.
Janaka saw that day: what a joke!—we cannot die; we are Amrita! Amritasya putrah! We thought ourselves one with body—hence death. One with prana—hence death. One with mind—hence death. See ourselves beyond these, and what death? What death can there be for the witness? For consciousness? There was only one bondage—the desire to live.
Aham dehaḥ na—I am not the body.
Me dehaḥ na—the body is not mine.
Aham jīvaḥ na—I am not the jiva, this so-called life that appears; this I am not.
Aham hi cit—I am certainly consciousness.
Me eva bandha yā jīvite spṛhā āsīt—only this was my bondage, that there was the craving to live. Now I have known that I am life itself; to crave life is madness! I am the emperor; in vain had I become a beggar.
“Wonder! In me, the infinite sea, when the wind of chitta arises, strange waves called the world are quickly produced.”
Now it amazes me—says Janaka—seeing that as gusts of wind raise ripples on a still lake, so the wind of chitta raises thousands of waves upon my still Self. Those waves are not mine; they are due to the wind of chitta.
“Wonder that in me, the infinite ocean, when the wind called chitta arises, the odd waves called ‘world’ quickly appear.”
And what strange dreams arise! What illusions and attachments and greed! What webs are spun! Once we get practiced in these webs, it becomes difficult to be rid of them.
I have heard of a Greek musician. Whenever anyone came to learn music, he would ask, “Have you learned anywhere before? Do you know something of music already?” If someone said, “I know nothing at all,” he would take half fee. If someone said, “I know a little,” he would ask double. Two persons came together: one a blank slate; the other a famed musician. When the master said, “Half fee from the one who knows nothing; and double from you who know,” the musician protested, “This is unjust. What do you mean?” The master said, “The meaning is simple. The one who does not know—I will only have to teach him. You who know—I must first make you forget. What you know must be erased; then you can learn.”
Our real problem is that over lifetimes we have acquired certain habits. We have learned some wrong things with such intensity that now the difficulty is: how to forget them? We have learned deeply that “I am the body.” Language, society, community, culture—all reinforce this.
Hunger arises; you say, “I am hungry.” Consider: if you phrase it as, “The body is hungry; I see this,” do you see what a great difference that makes? You say, “I am hungry,” and you declare “I am the body.” If you say, “The body is hungry; I see, I know,” you are saying: the body is separate from me; I am the knower, the seer, the witness.
When someone abuses you and waves arise in your mind, you say, “I am angry.” You speak falsely. Say only: “The mind has become angry; I see this.” You are not the mind. You are the one who sees the anger arising in the mind. If you were the mind, you would never know that you are angry—because you would have become anger. Who would know?
If you were only the body, you would never know you are hungry—because you would have become hunger. Who would know? To know, a little distance is needed. The body becomes hungry; you come to know. In the body hunger arises; in you knowledge arises. You are nothing but awareness.
If our language were more scientific and spiritual—if our conditioning pointed toward consciousness rather than the body—many obstacles would melt away.
“In me, the infinite ocean, when the wind of chitta is stilled, the boat of the world perishes to the misfortune of the merchant-jiva.”
And when this wind of chitta is stilled, the waves vanish; the lake of consciousness falls silent; then the boat of the world is destroyed. Jagat-potaḥ vinashvaraḥ! The world’s boat is immediately gone—as if a dream; as if it never was; as if merely a thought, an illusion.
So there is only one thing to be done: let this wind of chitta become still.
About this Ashtavakra and Janaka’s vision is very revolutionary, as I have been saying. Yoga will say: how to still the wind of chitta. It will give a method: chitta-vritti-nirodha—Yoga is the cessation of the modifications of chitta. How to do it? Practice yama, niyama, restraint; asana, pranayama, pratyahara; dharana, dhyana, Samadhi. Then the waves of chitta will be stilled.
Here Ashtavakra and Janaka say a very unique thing. They do not say: do anything. They say: by doing, the waves of chitta only rise more; doing creates disturbance. By doing, even more waves will be stirred. There is no question of your doing. Only watch. Do not do anything.
“Wonder that in me, the infinite ocean, waves called jivas arise, by their nature quarrel with one another, play, and dissolve.”
By their nature! This is the key. All this is happening—by its nature. You cannot still it, nor can you make it unstill; do not interfere. Let it be. Only remember one thing: you are the witness.
You go to watch a film. The hall grows dark; pictures begin to move upon the screen. If only you can remember that I am the witness and these images that move upon the screen are merely a play of light and shadow—the story will not affect you at all. If someone murders someone, you will not be disturbed.
You have seen—in a film a murder occurs and people sit up straight, as if something real is happening. Someone dies—and tears fill many eyes; handkerchiefs come out. It is dark, so it is convenient—wipe the eyes quickly and put the kerchief back. People’s kerchiefs become wet in the cinema. Until their kerchiefs are wet, they do not declare the film good. We are so practiced in crying that whatever makes us cry—we call it remarkable. People begin to laugh, to weep!
Shadows move! There is nothing there. And yet the shadow grips you; you begin to sway with it; anger arises, love arises, passion arises, excitement arises—everything happens—and there is nothing on the screen. You forget.
It is only this forgetting that must be corrected—nothing else. You need not tear the screen in a rage—“Stop this! Only light and shadow—why torment people? Enough in life to make one cry; shut it down!” You do not do that; nor is it needed. Those who wish to weep—let the screen be for them. Those eager to cry—having paid to cry—don’t disturb their play. Those who wish to play, let them play. You only understand you are the witness, and all this is on the surface.
Aścaryaṃ mayy ananta mahāmbhodhau jīva-vīcayaḥ udyanti,
Dhvanti ca khelanti ca svabhāvataḥ praviśanti.
Let these waves play! Let them arise! Let them dance! As by nature they have arisen, by nature they will become still. You remain seated on the shore in the witness.
There is no yoga here. In Ashtavakra’s vision, no practice is to be done. It is a direct leap. Only keep watching! If anger arises, say, “Fine—it is natural.” If lust arises, say, “Fine—it is natural.” Remain the seer. Do not be disturbed in the witnessing. Let everything else tremble—the whole world be in a storm—remain poised in the center as the witness.
Mulla Nasruddin was on a sea voyage. The ship began to sink. A great storm arose. People ran helter-skelter; the women screamed; dogs barked; children fainted. All crowded into a corner. The owner shouted, tried to control. The captain shouted. The sailors worked. Utter chaos! Only Mulla stood here and there, calmly looking at people. At last someone could not contain himself and said, “Mulla Nasruddin! Are you a man or a stone? Do you think this is a game? The ship is sinking. We are all going to die!”
Mulla said, “What is it to me? Is it my father’s ship?”
He speaks rightly. What of yours is being ruined?
There is such a moment when all happens and you know: “What is spoiled for me? Is it my father’s ship?” You remain across—witness. Then in the midst of the storm you have found a quiet place. Then you have come to your center.
A change of vision, not a practice. Ashtavakra and Janaka say a new thing: remain on the shore. The river’s waves will still by themselves. The mud will settle of itself. If you jump in to still it, more waves will rise.
Have you seen—whenever you try too hard to become peaceful, you become more restless?
People come to me often. In my experience, those you call worldly are more peaceful than the religious—because the worldly man is concerned only with the world. He has his restlessness, yes. But the religious man has a new restlessness: that he must become peaceful. All the other troubles are there too—house, doors, family, shop, success and failure—but a new disease: he must become peaceful! At least the worldly man does not have that disease. He says, “There is restlessness—fine.” His restlessness is not as dreadful as the restlessness of the man who is trying to become peaceful.
When you go to a temple, sit for worship, for prayer, for meditation—have you seen—then you become even more restless? Not as much in the marketplace. Why? You have jumped into the river; you are trying to still the waves. Your very attempt will raise more waves. Kindly sit on the shore.
In Buddha’s life there is a mention I love. Buddha passed through a mountain. It was hot; he was thirsty. He said to Ananda, “Go back. Two miles behind we left a spring—fetch water. I am thirsty.”
Buddha sat under a tree. Ananda went with the alms-bowl. But when he reached the spring, a bullock cart had just passed through it; the water was filled with debris. Mud rose; dry leaves floated; rotten leaves floated. The water was not drinkable. He returned and said, “The water is not fit to drink. Ahead, four to six miles, there is a river—we shall soon reach. I will fetch water then. You rest, or come along.”
Buddha insisted. “Go back and bring the same water.” Ananda could not refuse. He went, though hesitant—the water was useless. But when he reached, by then the water had become clear. In the time it took him to go back and forth, the dust had settled; the mud flowed away; the leaves were gone; the spring was crystal clear. He was astonished. He filled the bowl, came dancing. He placed it at Buddha’s feet and bowed, saying, “You have given me the sutra. This is the very state of my chitta. You did well to send me back. I was thinking on the way that if it is not clear this time, I will step in and push aside the mud and debris and somehow fill the bowl. If I had stepped in, it would have become muddy again. It was by stepping in that it became dirty. I stayed on the shore—and it became clear. No one stilled it—and it became clear!”
“Wonder! In me, the infinite ocean, waves called jivas arise by their nature, quarrel, play—and dissolve.”
Svabhāvataḥ praviśanti.
By their nature all is formed, erased, lost. You become the distant witness. Stand and watch.
I have heard: in a village a Purana-reciter was narrating. He told people, “Fear sin! Avoid sin! Fight sin!” as all the so-called religious say. A crazy-looking sannyasin stood and shouted, “Silence! Stop this nonsense! Drown yourselves in sin!” And saying only that, he left. The reciter was stunned, but the villagers said, “Don’t you worry. Continue the story. That fellow is mad. We know him. Don’t mind him.”
But the reciter was shaken: that man said, “Drown in sin!” He stopped the recital. There was a certain flavor to that man—a glow, a radiance. He was not mad. He could be a paramhansa.
The reciter left the Purana there and ran after the ‘mad’ man, chasing him two miles into the forest. He caught him under a tree and said, “Sir! Now explain further. You gave the sutra—drown in sin; now give the commentary. You put me in trouble.”
The sannyasin said, “Listen. A man went to a guru and said, ‘I want to be peaceful.’ The guru gave him a mantra and said, ‘In three days you will be peaceful. Chant it five times daily—but remember, while chanting do not think of monkeys.’ The three days passed. Three years passed. The man was dying, he was struggling; but nothing could be done. Whenever he chanted, monkeys came to mind.”
The sannyasin said, “That is the end of the story. Now be off!”
The next day the reciter spoke to the villagers: “Neither fight sin, nor fear sin, nor flee sin, nor avoid sin—only watch.”
In fighting—this man was fighting monkeys, that they should not come. That which you fight will come. Your very fighting becomes your attraction. One who fights lust will raise lust. He who fights greed will raise greed. He who fights anger will raise more anger; for that which you fight will remain in memory.
Have you noticed—what you want to forget, you cannot. For in order to forget, you must remember again and again; thereby memory is reinforced. How will you forget someone? In the attempt to forget, the memory intensifies. Has anyone ever forgotten by trying to forget? Has anyone ever won by fighting?
Understand this paradox of life: that which you fight—you will lose to. Do not fight. Struggle is not the key to victory. Witnessing is. Sit and watch.
Now monkeys are cavorting—let them. By their own nature they will go. If you do not show interest, they will not come to your door again and again. If you show interest—pro or con—friendship is formed.
That man chanting the mantra and thinking “monkeys must not come”—perhaps before chanting he had never once thought of monkeys. Have you? Try tomorrow—choose any mantra, Ram Ram Ram, and try that monkeys should not come. Not only monkeys—Hanuman will also arrive, with the whole army. And never before had this happened.
Your opposition is your declaration of appetite. Do not fight—else you will lose.
Understand the majesty of this sutra. What is happening is happening. It did not begin by asking you; nor will it stop by asking you. What is happening has been happening and will happen—only watch. In this alone is revolution.
There are two kinds of people in the world. One—the bhogi, the sensualist—who says: let what is happening happen more intensely. The other—the yogi—who says: let what is happening not happen at all. Both are in struggle. The yogi says “not at all,” as if it were in his power, as if it began by asking him, as if it were in his hands.
The bhogi says, “Let it be more, ever more! I live a hundred years—let me live two hundred. One woman—let there be a thousand. I have a million—let there be twenty million.” The bhogi says, “More!”—and thinks that it happens by asking him, by his consent, by his desire.
Both share one illusion—back-to-back, they stand opposed, yet share the same delusion: that the world runs by their permission. If they wish, they can increase; if they wish, decrease.
Mulla Nasruddin turned one hundred. Reporters came from far and wide to interview him. A hundred years! They asked, “What is the secret of your health? You still walk about, you are cheerful, there is no disease. What is your secret?”
Mulla said, “My secret? I never drank alcohol, never smoked; lived by discipline; slept and rose by rule. Temperance is the secret of my life and health.” As he spoke, in the next room a cabinet fell with a crash. The reporters jumped. “What is that?” Mulla said, “That’s my father. Looks like he’s come home drunk again!”
Someone lives to a hundred and thinks, “I did not drink—therefore I lived long.” His father drinks—he knocks over furniture and is still around.
A Jain lives long and thinks, “It’s because of vegetarianism.” A meat-eater lives long and thinks, “It’s because of meat.” Smokers live long; non-smokers live long. People who live on greens live long; and those who never touched greens live long. And whoever happens to live long in whichever manner thinks, “It was my control, my temperance.”
Nothing is happening by your doing; you are not the doer. Nothing has happened, is happening, or will happen by your doing. Sometimes by coincidence—sometimes by the cat’s luck the curd-pot breaks open—it is coincidence. Sometimes what you wanted happens. It was going to happen; even had you not wanted it, it would have happened.
In a village an old woman got angry with the people. “You will grope in darkness forever!” They asked, “What do you mean?” She said, “I am taking my rooster to another village. No rooster—no crowing—no sunrise. You’ll die in darkness. Have you not seen—when my rooster crows, the sun rises?” She took the rooster and went to another village, pleased that there the sun now rises—the rooster crows. She was delighted: now in the first village they must be dying in darkness.
The sun rose there too. The sun does not rise because roosters crow; roosters crow because the sun rises. The world does not run because of you. You are not the master, not the doer. This is all ego, illusion.
The bhogi’s ego and the yogi’s ego—both are egos. Only he who goes beyond both tastes the flavor of spirituality—who is neither yogi nor bhogi.
“Wonder that in me, the infinite ocean, waves called jivas arise by their nature, quarrel, play, and also subside.”
And I only watch. And I only watch. And I only watch.
Colorless are these pictures of dreams,
soft as honey the blossom of the heart.
As wind you fondled me a hundred times,
you yourself opened the doors of my core—
and stayed not even a moment,
quietly you poured out the weight of fragrance.
Left lying poor along the road
was the tear-filled entreaty of my eyes—
this dumb, distressed call of life!
On the world’s veena for so long mute
lay the string of my life—
not stirred to voice by a hundred scented winds.
You alone compose a new music—
sometimes, my minstrel, on this shore;
you alone, with ruthless stroke,
struck forth this tuneless clang—
and tangled all the strings.
Say then—everything is happening by its nature. Or say—everything is being done by the Lord.
The bhakta’s language is that God does. The jnani’s language is that nature does. Choose whichever language pleases you. The truth is one: you are not the doer—either nature, or God. You are not the doer. You are only the seer. You are only the witness.
The light weight of life’s dispassion—this is its measure;
the price of imagined peace—this is its worth.
This bright land’s level shore,
this sweet sweetening of honey—this is its drink.
This is that very bliss, the eternal Beautiful True,
and that Light’s small sacred flame.
This is the heart’s necklace—the jeweled garland of victory—
and life’s sweetest, most luscious monsoon.
This is the door of fearlessness, the inkless courage,
this is the first glimpse of that Supreme Truth;
and in recognizing the total Vast—
this is the heart’s first awakened longing.
And nothing of “mine”—the direct feel of Truth—
I, this body, thine and mine—
all that had surrounded me till now—
this is the dawn of that black night’s end.
This is the first glimpse of that Supreme Truth.
A touch of witnessing—the first glimpse of Truth.
This is the first glimpse of that Supreme Truth;
and in recognizing the total Vast—
this is the heart’s first awakened longing.
Have a little vision, a little seeing; be a little of the witness. Simply look—at what is happening. Do not desire to alter anything. Do not say, “Let it be thus.” Do not say, “Let it be otherwise.” Do not ask for anything. Do not want anything. Simply see—as it is. Krishnamurti says: That which is. See it as it is; do not wish to make it otherwise.
And in recognizing the total Vast—
this is the heart’s first awakened longing.
And nothing of “mine”—the direct feel of Truth;
I, this body, thine and mine—
all that had surrounded me till now—
this is the dawn of that black night’s end.
Witnessing is dawn. The doer-enjoyer is the dark night. So long as you feel “I am the doer-enjoyer,” you will wander in darkness. The instant you awaken, call forth the inner flame, invoke the witness—in that instant, revolution! In that instant—dawn!
Hari Om Tatsat.