Maha Geeta #15

The Master is not merely a teacher, he is a shasta as well. Shasta — the one who gives life a discipline, who gives life a governance. The one who only gives words is a teacher; the one who also gives governance is a shasta.
Ashtavakra was not satisfied by giving words alone. Having given words, he immediately points to the first danger that arises from them. Having heard the word of the Master, there is every possibility that you become so fascinated by the word that you think all is done; that you clutch the word and take the word itself to be the truth.
The words that come from a Sadguru carry force, carry energy. In that force and energy you can be possessed, you can be hypnotized. Without becoming a knower, you can take yourself to be a knower — this is the first danger. If the words appear right, seem logically sound, if the intellect is impressed, if the heart blossoms — then in such moments of satsang even that which has not yet been your experience begins to feel like experience. So the Guru is also an examiner. He will test you: is what you are saying something that has truly happened, or are you merely repeating what you have heard?
Ashtavakra proclaimed the Supreme Truth — and the very impact of that proclamation made Janaka instantly resound with an echo. Janaka spoke the same. Janaka said, “Amazing — how did I sleep so long!” Janaka said, “I am awake!” And Janaka said, “Not only am I awake, I know I am the center of all — all moves through me! My salutations from me to me!”
Such grandeur arose. Ashtavakra stood silently, listening. He watched what had happened. In these aphorisms is the test. Ashtavakra raises questions, raises doubts. He knocks Janaka’s pot on every side: is it raw? Is he speaking merely after hearing words? Is he speaking under some influence? Are these waves arising due to my presence? Are these waves truly his own? Has this revolution actually occurred? Or is it merely intellectual?
Many come to me. Among them are many devotees of Krishnamurti. They tell me, “We have listened for years; what we hear seems one hundred percent right, we have no doubt about it. What Krishnamurti says, we have understood. It is not that we have not understood. Yet no revolution happens in life. Intellectually all is clear. The mind is full, but the soul remains empty. On the surface we know everything, inside we remain the same; within, nothing has happened. We remain untouched. It has rained, and the pot stayed empty.”
A person gets into great difficulty when everything becomes clear intellectually and no corresponding existential happening takes place. You cannot imagine his dilemma. He can see where the door is, yet he keeps bumping into the wall. The one who cannot even see the door also bumps into the wall; but since he cannot see the door, whom can he blame?
But the one who believes he sees the door, understands exactly where it is — and still breaks his head against the wall — understand his pain. Whenever his head breaks, he is filled with great despondency: “I know what is right — then why do I do wrong? I know where I should go — then why do I go in the opposite direction?”
He knows everything — and knows nothing. His capacity to learn is lost. The feeling of discipleship is lost, for he knows — what more is there to learn? Humility is lost. And the inner ache grows denser. No change happens within.
It is as if you go on collecting medicines — your illness will not end. Only when you drink will it end. Gather doctors’ prescriptions into files. Nothing will come of prescriptions unless life is shaped according to them. But the heap of medicines can give you the illusion that you have all the drugs, you have brought home an entire chemist’s shop — now what more, where to go, whom to ask? There remains nothing even to ask.
Thus an arrogance arises. From the hollow understanding of the intellect, an ego, an I-ness arises: “I know” — and within, there is also pain: “I know nothing, for nothing is happening.”
Happening is the touchstone. Only when your life is transformed by some truth do you possess truth. If life is not transformed, you do not possess truth.
I have heard Swami Ramtirtha tell a little story. He said: On the bank of the celestial Ganga, one morning Knowledge and Delusion halted. Ganga said, “Welcome! Come take a dip in me, I will purify you. Enter me, bathe. You will be renewed. I will return you to virginity. I will wipe off all dust.”
Knowledge stood stiff. Knowledge said, “You — and purify me?” He could not believe it. He had lost the capacity to bend, lost the art of surrender, forgotten to be a disciple. He had forgotten that anything can happen through another. Knowledge had come with the stiffness: “I shall do everything myself. What need of any Ganga, any pilgrimage, any Guru? No need of anyone.”
He smiled. He smiled at Ganga’s absurd invitation. But Delusion is delusion — he was enticed. Greed lured him; he went down. Ganga bathed him. He became pure, he became holy, he became innocent. When he came out the gods praised him, waved lamps before him; for Delusion had become Love. He had bathed in the Ganga, he had bowed. Delusion had now become Love.
Delusion, purified, becomes Love. Love’s ultimate height is Prayer. And Prayer’s final resting place is the Divine.
But Knowledge had already gone his way — stiff; carrying his dust and dirt, his skull heavy and hard, and his heart utterly dry, empty, desert-like.
Listening to Janaka, in these aphorisms Ashtavakra raises the first question: “Janaka, has this truly happened to you? Or have you been caught in words? Or caught in my words?” He knocks him from all sides.
The first aphorism — Ashtavakra said: “Knowing the Atman, in its essence, as one and indestructible, do you, O wise knower of the Self, still find delight in acquiring wealth?”
Because Janaka had left no palace. Janaka had renounced no wealth. He remained as he was. Ashtavakra raises a question.
When a disciple raises questions, they arise from ignorance; when a Guru raises questions, they arise from knowledge. It is easy to answer the disciple’s questions; the Guru’s questions can only be answered by life — there is no other way.
“Avinashinam atmanam ekam vijnaya tattvatah — you are declaring, in essence, that the Atman is one, indestructible; you are proclaiming Advaita in its essence.
“Tavatmajnasya dhirasya katham artharjane ratih — and after such a declaration, can interest remain in wealth? In kingdom, empire, palace, position, prestige, the throne?”
Ashtavakra places a question mark before Janaka: “I ask you, Janaka: when you have come to know the One, when you have realized that you yourself are the Divine, can you still run after wealth? Search within — has any attachment to wealth remained?”
Why begin with wealth? Because our greatest race in this life, our greatest madness, is for wealth. Within we are hollow, empty, void; we try to fill that void with wealth. Emptiness bites. In emptiness there is great restlessness: “I am a nothing — I must become something!” How to show it? So position, prestige, wealth — these are forms of wealth. Through them we fill ourselves so that we can say, “I am something! I am not a nothing! Look — how much wealth I have!” So that I can offer proof that I am something!
Ashtavakra says: The race for wealth belongs to the man who has not found the God seated within. The one who finds the God seated within becomes rich; he has obtained the treasure. Ram-ratan dhan payo — “I have found the jewel of Rama!” Now nothing remains to obtain. Now no other wealth is wealth; the supreme wealth is obtained. And having found the supreme wealth, will one still run after wealth?
As a child you played with toys; if a toy broke you cried, if someone snatched it you fought. Then a day came — you grew up. You forgot where those toys went, in which corner they lay; one day they were dusted off and thrown in the trash. You no longer remembered them. One day you fought for them, were ready to die or kill for them. Today if someone asks where those toys are you will laugh: “I am not a child now — I am grown. I have understood toys are toys.”
Such maturity descends again when one comes to the inner God. Then all the toys of the world — wealth, position, prestige — become as futile as childhood toys. Then there remains no struggle, no rivalry, no competition for them.
The race for wealth belongs to the self-less, to the one without a Self. The more impoverished a man is within, the more he tries to fill himself with outer wealth. Outer wealth is only a device to forget the inner poverty. The poorer the man within, the more he runs after wealth.
That is why we have seen: sometimes a Buddha, sometimes a Mahavira — they must have been greatly wealthy — left everything and became beggars. See this astonishing phenomenon! Here the poor keep running after wealth; here the rich become poor. Those who found the inner treasure dropped the outer race.
Ashtavakra asks: “Janaka, go back within and probe — has any craving for wealth remained? If craving remains, then all you have spoken is rubbish. The touchstone is there. Do you still want position? Do you still wish to expand the kingdom? Is thirst still holding you within? If desire still dwells within, know with certainty that you have not experienced the Atman. The experience of the Atman happens only when desire is no more. Or, the moment the Atman is experienced, desire is no more. They cannot coexist. There can be no alliance between Atman and desire; just as there can be no companionship between darkness and light. Light — then no darkness; darkness — then no light.”
“You speak of light. You suddenly utter great mahavakyas, Janaka! It has happened so quickly. Test it. Investigate it. Go within. See — is any craving for wealth hiding? If it is, then all you said you merely repeated after me; it is stale, borrowed, of little worth. Then we must begin again from A-B-C. Then I shall have to awaken you again if any craving for wealth is found. If you do not find a trace of it anywhere, then something has happened; otherwise, nothing has happened.”
“Knowing the Atman in its essence as one and indestructible, do you, O wise knower of the Self, still delight in amassing wealth?”
Any slight delight? The least trace of interest? A drop of taste?
Remember: as long as we think we can become something by obtaining something outside ourselves, we remain interested in wealth. It can also happen that you renounce wealth, yet you keep the interest that something will be gained through renunciation — that the world will call you a renunciate, people will praise you, touch your feet — then nothing has changed; you have only flipped the coin. Your longing remains the same. Your interest still belongs to wealth. By “wealth” I do not point only to money; I point to an inner longing that something from the outside can confer value upon me. The ultimate meaning of wealth is just this: something external can be obtained that will give me value!
My worth is within me; I myself am my worth — this realization is true sannyas. My worth comes from outside; what people say determines my worth — this longing is the longing for wealth.
Hence among your hundred renunciates, ninety-nine still live in longing for wealth. They may have left wealth, the marketplace, the shop — and sit in temples — but they still wait for you to come and honor them. Your insult still pricks them like a thorn. Your honor still makes them gush with delight. You say, “You are a great renunciate,” and flowers open within.
If no one comes to honor them, the renunciate begins to wait: “Today no one came.” The shop has changed, the customers have not. Still waiting for customers! As a shopkeeper opens his shop in the morning and waits for customers, so if the renunciate in the morning waits for people to come to the temple, to worship him, to honor him, to give him prestige — the shop changed, nothing changed within.
The day your mind accords no value to the respect given by others — neither negative nor positive; the day others’ insult holds no sting; the day you do not count your being by what you have, nor feel a lack within by what you lack; in that moment you become unconditionally complete; in that moment your proclamation of completeness becomes causeless — with no outer cause lending a hand — know then that you have known. Before that it is information, and do not mistake information for knowing.
It happened that Swami Vivekananda returned from America. When he came back, Bengal was in famine. He immediately went to serve in the famine-stricken region. This was in Dhaka. Some Vedantin pundits came to have his darshan. “Swamiji has returned from America, having hoisted India’s banner!” They came for satsang. But when they came, Vivekananda spoke neither of Vedanta nor of Brahman, no talk of spirituality or Advaita; he spoke of the famine, of the suffering spread everywhere, and he himself began to weep, tears streaming.
The pundits looked at each other and smiled: “He weeps for this insubstantial world. This body is dust, and he weeps — what kind of knower is this!”
Seeing their sarcastic smiles, Vivekananda could not understand. He asked, “What is it? Why do you laugh?” Their chief said, “It is laughable. We thought you were a supreme knower. You weep? The scriptures say clearly: we are not the body, we are Atman! The scriptures say clearly: we are Brahman — without birth or death. And you, a knower, are weeping? We thought we came to see a supremely realized one — and you are drowning in ignorance!”
Vivekananda’s staff lay nearby. He picked it up and fell upon the man. Pressing the stick to his head he said, “If you are truly a knower, then sit here — let me beat you. Only keep remembering you are not the body.”
Such was Vivekananda — strong, powerful, with a big stick — the pundit’s soul fled. He began to plead, “Maharaj, stop! What are you doing? Is this any talk of knowledge? We came for satsang. Is this appropriate?”
He ran. He saw: this man can kill. The other pundits slipped away. Vivekananda said, “By repeating scripture nothing becomes knowledge. Scholarship is not knowing. Many are skilled in preaching to others!
“That pundit who was talking of knowledge was parroting. In that parroting there is no Self-experience. It was of the scriptures, not of himself. And that which is not your own is worth two pennies.”
Thus Ashtavakra sets the first test. He says: “Janaka, pay attention! You say you have known, in essence, the indestructible One — then tell me: do you, O wise knower, have even the slightest taste for acquiring wealth?”
The Guru is a mirror. Before the Guru’s mirror the disciple must become totally naked. He must lay his heart completely open — only then can revolution happen.
There is an ancient Jain story about King Nemi of Mithila. He had never read the scriptures, never taken interest in spirituality. His bent was not that way. He grew old, then a burning fever seized him. In the fierce agony of fever, his queens began to cool his body with sandal and saffron paste. On their hands were golden bangles set with diamonds and gems; while applying the paste, their bangles clinked and jingled. The king found the jangling sound most unpleasant. He said, “Remove these bangles! Stop them! They are harsh to my ears.”
For the sake of auspiciousness the queens left one bangle on each hand, removing the rest. The noise stopped. The application continued. Within Nemi, a great revolution occurred. Seeing that when ten bangles are on the hand they jingle; one remains, and there is no jingle — he sensed: when there are many, there is noise; when there is One, there is peace. He had never read scripture, never had taste for spirituality. He sat up: “Let me go. This burning fever is not illness — it has come bringing the message of revolution into my life. It is the grace of the Lord.”
The queens tried to hold him. They suspected delirium from the intensity of fever. They knew him only as a man of indulgence; he never spoke of yoga, never let a yogi come near. His life was only indulgence. Perhaps he had sunstroke! They were frightened, they tried to stop him.
The emperor said, “Do not fear. This is no delirium. Delirium was there — now it is gone. Great thanks to your bangles! From what place the Lord brought out the sun, cannot be said! Your bangles were jingling — you wore too many. One remained, the noise ceased — from that came understanding: as long as many desires inhabit the mind there is noise. When only one desire remains, or only the yearning for the One remains — and note, only the yearning for the One can be one. The yearning for the world can never be one — the world is many; there will be many desires. Only the yearning for the One can be one.”
Nemi rose, the fever vanished. He set out toward the forest. No scripture had he read, nor did he know scripture. But since when has knowing come from reading scripture! What is needed is alertness toward the scripture of life — then the hint arrives from anywhere. What has bangles to do with sannyas?
Have you heard, any relation between bangles and renunciation? None. But in a moment of awareness, in a moment of silence, any event can awaken. You sleep, an alarm wakes you; birdsong wakes you, crows cawing wake you, the milkman’s call wakes you, the rumble of a passing truck wakes you, train or airplane wakes you; the neighbor’s dog barking wakes you.
Exactly so, we sleep. Awakening can happen — but awakening does not happen from words alone. Real sound… Scriptures are like sounds locked in a record. Keep a record by your pillow while you sleep — nothing will happen. Fill your memory with records of scriptures — nothing will happen.
A glorious event has happened to Janaka, but Ashtavakra wishes to test rightly. He wants to give Janaka a full chance to reach within and see: “Is there any craving for wealth?” If yes, beware. Do not speak such lofty things. Your feet are still rooted in the earth; do not talk of flying in the sky. Wealth is the earth; if there is craving for wealth, your roots are sunk in the ground — you will not open your wings to the sky.
Another Jain story: the chief merchant Sumedha of Amaravati. His father died — the wealthiest man of Amaravati. After the cremation and after all relatives departed, the chief accountant, an old man, came. He laid all accounts before Sumedha: how many warehouses across the land, how much capital in each, how many businesses, how much invested, how many vaults — “Come to the cellar, I will hand over all the keys. Your father entrusted me with all this; now you are the master.”
Sumedha rose. He saw all the ledgers. Crores of rupees in assets. He went and saw all the vaults — filled with precious gems, wealth beyond count. He saw it all. But the accountant was astonished. Sumedha was looking as if from far away, not close, without greed. As he looked, tears filled his eyes. The accountant asked, “I do not understand. You weep! At this moment you are among the wealthiest on earth. Your father is gone, you are the master. This is your ancestral treasure. Each generation has increased it; it has never diminished. Be glad.”
Sumedha said, “I have a question. My father’s father died — he could not take it. My father died — he could not take it. And I tell you, I want to take it with me. Find a device. You say it has come down through the generations? The meaning is clear: people kept dying, and it kept being left behind. I do not want to die and leave it behind. For what worth is that which is left behind? I will take it with me. Either find a way by tomorrow morning, or I will find one. I cannot rest; death can come any moment. Then these keys will be in another’s hands. You will show them to someone else, to my son. But neither I nor my son will be able to take it. No — I want to finish this account. I want to take it all with me.”
The accountant said, “This has never happened and cannot happen. No one ever took it.”
Sumedha said, “I have found the device.” In that very moment he gave away all his wealth in charity. He took sannyas. “I have found the device. I will take it with me!” So saying, he left all, and became a renunciate.
A revolution happens: when you drop the outer, the inner is obtained in that very instant. People saw only that he left outer wealth; I want to awaken you to the other side — he left the outer here, and the inner was found there. He took it with him. Only the inner goes with you. Entanglements in the outer hide the inner. When the inner is seen, the grip on the outer loosens.
“Amazing!” says Ashtavakra. As Janaka repeated again and again “Amazing!” — that the Supreme Brahman, the eternal consciousness, and how I wandered in maya! — as he said again and again, “Amazing! I myself am the Divine — and how I got lost in dreams!” — so now Ashtavakra, again and again, says:
“Amazing! As with ignorance of a seashell one mistakes it for silver and greed arises, so too with ignorance of the Atman, when delusion of the objects appears, attachment arises.”
You see a rope and mistake it for a snake — fear arises. The snake is not there, and fear arises. The snake is false, the fear very true. You run. In panic you may fall, break limbs — and nothing was there; only a rope. The illusion of the snake did its work.
Ashtavakra says: Just so, sometimes in sunlight a seashell gleams like silver. There is only a shell, shining in the sun — it looks like silver. There is no silver — only the appearance. At the very appearance, the urge to pick it up arises, the wish to own it arises. Even in the illusion of silver, greed is born. Amazing — even illusion gives birth to greed! Where nothing is, the desire to obtain is born!
From the very places where no one ever obtained anything, there we keep groping. If someone had obtained, it would be understandable. On this earth, how many people there have been — uncountable. All sought wealth — all died poor. All sought position and prestige — all fell into dust. Great emperors lie crushed underfoot, turned to dust.
Chuang Tzu was returning from a village. He passed a cremation ground; his foot struck a skull. He picked it up and began to apologize: “Forgive me.” His disciples said, “What are you doing? Why apologize to a dead skull? What sense is there?”
Chuang Tzu said, “You do not know. This is the cremation ground of the great. Only kings, rich men, politicians are buried here. This is no small skull, you fools — the skull of some great man.”
The disciples laughed: “You jest well! Big or small, a skull is a skull. And why apologize to a dead skull?”
Chuang Tzu said, “You do not know — it is only a matter of time. If, a few months ago, my foot had struck this man’s head, there would have been no hope for my head. It is only time. Let me apologize. Think also of this: after some days, my skull too will lie here somewhere; people’s feet will strike my skull; no one will apologize. Think of that too!”
Who has obtained anything? If anyone obtained anything and you searched — even then, fine.
It is recorded of Sultan Mahmud that every night he would ride incognito through the town to see how things were. Night after night he saw a man on the riverbank sifting sand. He asked once or twice, “What are you doing, midnight after midnight?” He said, “I sift the sand; sometimes grains of silver are found. I gather them. That is my livelihood.”
After seeing this many nights, Mahmud felt compassion: “The poor fellow works so hard, gets nothing.” He took off his armlet — worth lakhs — and quietly threw it in the sand, and rode on. The sifter did not even notice. But later, searching, he found the armlet.
The next night Mahmud came again. He thought the sifter would not be there. But he was again sifting sand. Mahmud was surprised. “Listen,” he said, “my soldiers tell me the armlet I threw, you found. You sold it in the bazaar — that news too has come. I am Sultan Mahmud. The armlet was worth lakhs — enough for your life and your children’s. Why are you still sifting sand?” He said, “Master, by sifting this sand I got the armlet; now whatever happens, I cannot stop sifting. Now it is life — I, and this sand. In a place where such things can be found — an armlet was found! How can I stop now?”
Mahmud had it written in his memoirs: “His logic has force. But what are we seeking in this world where no one ever found anything? Yet we go on sifting the sand. Has anyone ever found anything?”
“Amazing! As with ignorance of a shell one mistakes it for silver and greed arises, so with ignorance of the Self, when delusion of objects appears, attachment arises. O Janaka, has any attachment remained within you? Any slightest trace of delusion, of greed?”
Let me remind you: you have heard it said many times — drop greed, drop attachment, drop passion, drop anger — then Self-knowledge will happen. The fact is exactly the reverse. When Self-knowledge happens, then passion, attachment, greed, anger fall away; they are the result. You do not have to drop darkness to bring light; bring light — darkness leaves.
Hence Ashtavakra asks: “Has Self-knowledge happened, Janaka? From your proclamation it seems so. Now I ask: search — is there any passion? Are you still clinging to old illusions?”
Because, many times — every day, not many times — every night you dream. In the morning the dream breaks; you say, “It was all a dream.” Then, the next night, you dream again. Though it breaks again and again, the dream does not end. How wise you become in the morning! “All nonsense — all a dream, no substance!” But this does not remain remembered. Night comes — again you sleep, again the dream rises. Then how many times it has broken, and how many times in the morning you have announced it false — those announcements do not help; again the dream seizes you. The influence of dreams seems very powerful. So, is your spiritual proclamation like that morning proclamation — “It was a dream” — only to sleep again at night?
I was reading a poem yesterday:
“This is the third deception of love, Malati,
I have fallen again into the deception of love.”
A lover speaks to his beloved, some Malati:
“This is the third deception of love, Malati,
This is the third time illusion has arisen.
I have fallen again into the deception of love.
Cheeks that hunt the heart, eyes that capture the heart,
Your fiery beauty a flame for reason.
I kept thinking, I thought so much,
But your splendor filled my gaze.
I know well this too is desire’s deceit,
I accept this path of love is full of snares.
I know it is false, a dream, a cheat — I know it all.
Yet without it, there is no recourse for me.
Nothing but deception is my support.”
Beyond these illusions we seem to have no support at all; without dreams, life itself seems absent.
“Without fairy-like beauties such as you,
I am a worshipper of idols — I cannot get by.
I have fallen again into love’s deception —
This is the third deception, Malati.”
Third? Thirtieth, three hundredth, three thousandth — yet the deception goes on.
Ashtavakra says to Janaka: “Is this the talk of one who has merely awakened in the morning — ‘It was a dream’ — while by evening you will sleep again? The moment I turn away, will you doze off? Look rightly. Is there now no possibility of sleeping again? Is this awakening the final one? Might even this breaking of illusion turn out to be illusion? Look well. Has it broken in such a way that it cannot be reconstituted? Examine if the seeds of it are not hidden within. Otherwise the ground may be clean above, while seeds lie below — they will sprout again.”
That is why it happens: in the morning you see the dream broken; but the seeds are not destroyed — they still lie in the soil. The very seeds from which dreams sprouted last night still lie within. Night will come, the right season and rain will return — dreams will rise. What comes of a dream breaking? The seeds of dream must be burnt. If the seeds are not burnt, nothing has happened.
Craving for wealth is a seed. Craving for position is a seed. Ambition is a seed. To search for these seeds, Ashtavakra says: “Go within! See if small hidden seeds…!”
Seeds are tiny; trees become large. Trees are visible, seeds are not even noticed. Seek the seeds. Until the seeds are burnt, do not fall into the delusion that you are beyond delusion.
“In that ocean of the Self where this world shimmers like waves — that I am. Knowing thus, why do you still run like the destitute?”
The only poverty of human life is desire — for desire makes one a beggar. Desire means: “Give.” Desire means: “My bowl is empty — fill it! Someone fill it, my bowl is empty.” Desire means: “As I am, I am not enough. As I am, I am not content — give!”
They say: The people of Farid’s village said, “You know Akbar, Akbar knows you, he honors you. Go once and tell him to open a madrasah in our village; the children thirst to learn. We are poor; if you say it, a school will open.”
Farid had never gone to the royal palace. Sometimes, when he felt inclined, Akbar came to Farid’s court. But when one has to ask, one should go — thinking thus, Farid went. He arrived early morning; for if you must beg, beg in the morning. By evening a man is so irritable, so weary, that far from giving — he may snatch from you!
Hence beggars come in the morning. In the morning there is some hope. You are fresh after the night’s rest, life not yet heavy, not much anger. By evening you too will be tired; in the morning, in your freshness…
Farid arrived. Akbar was praying in his private mosque. Farid was allowed in; people knew Akbar revered him. Farid stood behind. Akbar finished his namaz, lifted his hands to the sky: “O Lord! Give me more wealth, more riches, expand my empire!”
Tears came to Farid’s eyes seeing such poverty. “Is this a king? We are better than this. At least the Lord cannot accuse us of asking anything.” Then he remembered: “What shall I ask from this man? To take a madrasah from him would mean making him poorer. He is already poor! Behold his impoverishment — still his hands are outstretched! Even a king like Akbar, who has everything, is still begging! Having does not end the beggar-mind.”
There are two kinds of beggars in the world — poor and rich. All are beggars. Forgive the poor; but how to forgive the rich who keeps begging?
Farid turned back. Akbar rose and saw Farid descending the steps. “How did you come and how are you leaving? You never came before. Welcome — come into the house!”
Farid said, “It’s done. I came with something in mind, but it was a wrong notion. I made a mistake. Not your fault.”
Akbar grew restless: “What happened? Let me understand! Do not pose riddles.”
Farid said, “The villagers — ignorant people — thinking you are a king, that you have much, put me under their illusion. I came under their words. The friendship of fools is dangerous. I am going back to explain to them: ‘You were mistaken. I went to beg.’ They said, ‘Ask for a madrasah for our village.’ No — but your condition is pitiful; you are in a beggarly state. I will not make that request. If I had anything, I would give to you. I have nothing. Your state is very bad — like one who is bankrupt. You were praying and begging! I came to meet a king, and seeing a beggar, I return.”
“Vishvam sphurati yatredam taranga iva sagare — in that ocean of the Self where this universe shimmers like waves,
So’ham asmiti vijnaya — knowing ‘That I am,’
Kim dinam iva dhavasi — why do you run like a beggar?”
Look within: Is any running left? Any begging left? Anything left to obtain? For the meeting with the Divine means this: nothing remains to be obtained. What was to be obtained is obtained — the ultimate is obtained; beyond this there is nothing to obtain. If within you still remains something beyond this to obtain, know that God has not been realized — you are caught in the net of words, Janaka! You are caught in my influence, Janaka. You are hypnotized.
Remember: the mind is in a hurry to accept sweet things. If someone tells you, “You are of the nature of the Divine,” who wants to deny it! “You are of the nature of Brahman” — who wants to deny it! The ego swells. Someone says, “You are pure, intelligent, eternal consciousness” — who denies it! Even the foolish, if you call him intelligent, will say, “Quite right — at last someone recognized me. Till now, no one recognized me. Fools — what would they recognize! You are intelligent — you recognized.”
Are these proclamations of knowledge becoming a prop for your ego? Is it not that they taste sweet, so you accept them? Who wishes to accept bitter words! If someone calls you a sinner, the heart resents it. If someone calls you a virtuous soul, you accept it. And it may be that the one who called you a sinner was closer to the truth.
Tolstoy wrote in his autobiography: One morning I went to church and saw the village’s richest man, in the pre-dawn darkness, praying. I was astonished: “Even this man prays!” I stood behind and listened. He was saying, “O Lord, I am a great sinner. There is none as sinful as I!” He was confessing his sins — perhaps sincerely.
But dawn began. He sensed someone behind. He looked — and saw Tolstoy. He came and said, “Forgive me, let this not go to anyone. What I said is between me and God. If you have heard, please un-hear it. Let it reach no one else — or I will file a defamation suit.”
Tolstoy said, “Strange! You yourself proclaim before God — then why fear men?”
He said, “Do not interfere. If you reveal this anywhere — and no one else is here — if I hear it from anywhere, you will be caught. This is between me and God — a private matter, not public.”
We want to accept sin silently — between us and God. And virtue — we wish to proclaim to the whole world. It should be the reverse. Virtue should be private — between you and the Divine. Sin should be public.
Ashtavakra says: “Is it not that these delicious words, the essence of the Vedas, the essence of the Upanishads — they taste sweet to you, surely — but sweetness does not make them true!”
Man fears death, so he quickly accepts that the soul is immortal — not because he has understood it, but because of the fear of death.
Look — this is India. The whole nation believes the soul is immortal — yet it is hard to find a more timid people. It should be the opposite. Those whose soul is immortal — can anyone make them slaves? For a thousand years they remained slaves. “The soul is immortal!”
No — we cling to the doctrine that the soul is immortal because we fear death. This doctrine is our shield. We have not known it through experience. Had it been known, this nation could never have been enslaved; no one could crush it, for how do you crush the one whose soul is immortal? At most you can threaten to kill — but you could not threaten this land. Upon those whose soul is immortal, no threat works.
But the opposite is seen. Frightened people, afraid of death, chanting mantras of the soul’s immortality. The mean proclaiming the Vast to hide the petty. Is talk of the Vast an arrangement to conceal the petty? Is talk of virtue an arrangement to conceal sin?
If so, Ashtavakra says to Janaka: “Then go within again. Test rightly.”
“Even after hearing of the supremely beautiful and pure conscious Atman, how does one, exceedingly attached to sense-objects, fall into impurity!”
Shrutapi — even after hearing!
Remember, hearing does not give knowledge. Knowledge comes only through one’s own realization. Not from shruti, not from shastra. The Hindus have done well to divide scripture into shruti and smriti. In neither is knowledge. Some scriptures are shruti, some smriti. Neither memory nor hearing grants knowing. Shruti means heard; smriti means remembered. Neither is known.
“Shrutvapi shuddha-chaitanyam atmanam ati-sundaram — having heard that the Atman is supremely beautiful, do not be deluded, do not believe. Until you have known, do not believe. Do not take anything on faith; let experience alone become trust. Otherwise, outwardly you will go on believing ‘the Atman is supremely beautiful,’ but inwardly the same old pus will ooze — the same addiction to the senses, the same wounds of desire oozing.”
“Even after hearing of the supremely beautiful and pure conscious Atman, how does one, exceedingly attached to sense-objects, fall into impurity!”
Keep this in mind! Many are listeners. Many, after hearing, have believed. Look at their lives. They have listened and believed, yet they fall into impurity every day. The impurity does not leave. Given a chance, once more, the third deception — or the three-hundredth — they are ready to be deceived.
How many times have you resolved not to be angry? You have heard well that anger is sin, poison, of no benefit — yet when it arises you are swept away in a storm; you do not remember. When anger has devastated your inner garden, then you remember, then you repent. But of what use is repentance when the birds have eaten the field! You repent. This is an old habit: anger — repentance. Again anger — again repentance. They have become companions; there is no difference between them. Your repentance has not stopped anger. Clearly, you have not seen anger; you have only heard it is bad. It is not your own Self-vision.
I read a story — a Buddhist tale. In Shravasti, there was a merchant — Migara. His son’s wife was Vishakha. Vishakha would go to listen to Buddha. Migara never went anywhere to listen. He was mad for wealth, greedy for money. He was the greatest merchant of Shravasti. Shravasti was India’s wealthiest city; Migara was its wealthiest man.
You may not know: the word “seth” in Hindi is a corruption of shreshthi — “excellent.” Now “seth” sounds like an abuse. Once it was used for the most excellent people.
He was Shravasti’s greatest shreshthi, but he never went to hear Buddha. Vishakha served her father-in-law, cooked his meals. Yet she always felt pain: “My father-in-law is growing old and has not heard the words of Buddha. Far from knowing, he has not even heard. His life is passing in wealth, position, luxury. This river will be lost in the sand without reaching the ocean.”
One day, when Migara sat to eat and Vishakha was serving, she asked, “Sir, is the food all right? Is it delicious?”
Migara said, “You always make excellent, tasty food. You have never asked this before — why today? Your food is always delicious.”
Vishakha said, “It is your grace — otherwise the food cannot be delicious, for all this is stale. I am sad that I have to feed you stale food.”
Migara said, “Foolish girl! Stale? But why would you feed stale? The warehouses are full; whatever you need is available daily. Why stale?”
She said, “You did not understand. This wealth may be due to your past merits; but in this life I have not seen you perform any meritorious effort. Since I came as your daughter-in-law, I have not seen any merit, any love, any religion, any worship, any prayer, any meditation. Therefore I say: this food obtained from the merits of past births is stale, sir! When will you eat fresh food?”
Migara rose half-fed. He could not sleep that night. The blow had gone deep. Next morning, Vishakha saw him present among the listeners of Buddha. He listened. In time he began to talk of knowledge. Years passed. Earlier he did not speak of knowledge; now he spoke of it — but life remained the same. Again Vishakha said, “Sir, you are still eating stale food — now stale knowledge. These are Buddha’s words, not yours. You are repeating what you heard. When will you speak your own? When will the song you have brought in your being be revealed? Lord, reveal that! A spring lies hidden within you — let it flow! This too is stale.”
Your wealth is stale; your knowledge is stale. Staleness is sin. Virtue is always fresh, freshly bathed — like flowers raised by the just-now rain, like young leaves dancing in the morning sun — such is virtue.
Do not accept everything after hearing. Until you have known, do not stop.
“Knowing the Self in all beings and all beings in the Self, yet the sage clings — this is the wonder.”
Ashtavakra says: Look at the sages, monks, sannyasins, saints. They say “The Self is in all beings and all beings in the Self,” yet the sage has possessiveness! So do not be in haste, Janaka. Do not become such a sage. On the surface they keep saying: “We have no possessiveness — we have dropped all…”
A Jain nun once came to meet me in Delhi. Listening to me, she began to feel that the net she was in needed to be left. I said, “First speak to your Guru.” She told her Guru, and he became very angry. He said he wanted to meet me. He came — very annoyed. In his anger he forgot himself. He said, “If this nun leaves, our sect will suffer greatly. We have great attachment to her. She is the support of our old age.”
He was quite old. I said, “This is like a father saying, ‘This son is the support of my old age,’ or a mother saying, ‘This daughter is the support of my old age.’ That is household talk. It does not befit a monk. If this nun feels that liberation will happen outside this net, give your blessing. If you have possessiveness towards her, take it as your own problem; try to resolve it; before dying, drop possessiveness.”
He was startled. He said, “True — possessiveness should not be, but it is.”
Possessiveness from sons and daughters drops, then it arises toward disciples. Possessiveness does not leave. It leaves the home and arises for the temple; leaves the shop and arises for the ashram. The “mine” does not go. Uproot one nest — it builds another. But the “mine” keeps surviving.
Ashtavakra said: “Even those who declare the Self in all beings and all beings in the Self — I tell you, Janaka — such sages still have possessiveness. This is the real wonder. What wonder are you talking of — that the pure conscious Self got entangled in the world? Leave that worry. I have seen a greater wonder. They became monks, dropped all — and yet…
Sarvabhuteshu chatmanam, sarvabhutani chatmani — and still mamatvam anuvartate — possessiveness persists.”
“I tell you the real wonder: those who dropped everything — and yet nothing dropped — possessiveness remains. The monk is a householder; the sannyasi is bound. Those who aspire for moksha still wander in the world. Their words are of liberation; their life-breath clings to the world. So consider well — do not hastily become a sage. For this wonder happens.”
Ashtavakra must have been a hard Guru — and rightly so. If a Guru is not hard, he is not compassionate. His hardness is his compassion. He began to temper, to strike. Janaka must have felt uneasy. He must have thought, “I spoke such lofty things — the Guru will embrace me: ‘Blessed! You are realized!’ But this Guru is strange — Ashtavakra is scolding.”
Yet Ashtavakra did right. Only by passing through the crucible are gold and its purity known; only by fire does gold become kundan.
“Established in the supreme nonduality and even intent on moksha, yet driven by lust, one becomes agitated by the old habit of sport — this is the wonder.”
Up to the last breath, even as he dies, with death knocking at the door, man is tormented by lust. And not ordinary men — those established in supreme nonduality; those who have declared their faith in Advaita; those who say, “We have made our home in God” — even they. And those intent on moksha — those who say, “We are journeying toward liberation” — even they.
“…Driven by lust, agitated by the old training in play — this is the wonder.”
Old habits do not go. Even when understanding arises, old habits return and attack. Habits take revenge.
I have heard: A blind man and a lame man were friends — both beggars. Their friendship was necessary: one was blind, one lame. The lame could not walk; the blind could not see. The blind would walk; the lame would see. The lame would sit upon the blind man’s shoulders; both would beg. Partners in the shop of begging. But sometimes they fought — as partners do. Sometimes one took more, the other less. Or the lame tricked the blind — a fight erupted. One day it became violent; blows were exchanged. They declared, “This partnership is over. Now we will crawl on our own — but not this trickery.”
They say, compassion arose in God. It must have arisen then; now it no longer does. God too must have tired of compassion; men are such that even compassion does not reach them. But this is an old tale — compassion arose. God appeared. He thought: “Today I will bless both.” To the blind he would say: “Ask what you want.” Naturally the blind would ask for eyes — his pain. To the lame: “Ask what you want.” He would ask for legs. “Let both be independent.”
He went — and returned weeping. God returned weeping! For when he said to the blind, “I am God, I have come to grant you a boon — ask,” the blind man said, “Make the lame man blind.” When he said to the lame, the lame said, “Make the blind man lame, Lord.”
After such experiences, He slowly stopped coming to earth. No use. The disease doubled. Compassion’s result turned more poisonous.
Man’s habits! Even sorrow is habit. If God stands before you, what you will ask will invite more sorrow. Your old habit will ask. If the blind had even a little wisdom, he would say, “Lord, whatever seems right to You and worthy of me — give that. For whatever I ask will be wrong. Until now I have been wrong; my very asking will arise from that wrong consciousness. No — I will not ask; give what You will! Let Your will be done. You see better. Give me what suits me.”
The blind asked — there the mistake was made. The lame asked — there the mistake was made. Old habits were alive; the poison of anger still remained. God was present — and yet they missed. Many times, the moment of moksha comes before man — yet he misses; because old habits attack, and in the critical hour they attack with great force. Habits also want to protect themselves. Every habit defends itself; it does not want to break.
In my view, most people are not miserable because of reasons for misery. In ninety-nine of a hundred cases, there is no reason — only habit. Some have practiced misery deeply. The practice has become so ingrained they cannot drop it. They have invested their whole life in it; how to drop it in a day?
I was reading a book — most unusual, everyone should read it; it will benefit all. The book is called: How to Make Yourself Miserable. And truly, the author (Dan Greenburg) has researched deeply. He has laid down all the rules clearly so that no mistake remains. All rules are clear! You are practicing a few of them unknowingly; but if you read the book you will be able to practice knowingly, properly, systematically. Perhaps some mistake is occurring and your misery is not becoming perfect.
People are practitioners of sorrow. Lust is an ancient practice — eternal, primordial. For births upon births you have practiced it. Never obtained anything from it — always lost — yet the habit has entered every pore.
“Āsthitaḥ paramādvaitaṁ mokshārthe’pi vyavasthitaḥ — even one established in supreme Advaita, intent on liberation —
Āścaryaṁ kāma-vaśago vikalaḥ keli-śikṣayā — by the old training in play, becomes agitated under the sway of lust — this is the wonder.”
Because of the old practice, again and again one is unhinged. At the moment of death man is filled with the dreams of lust. Sit for meditation — the mind runs with thoughts of lust. In the temple he appears inside; inside he may be in a brothel.
Hence Ashtavakra says, “Janaka, do not hurry. These nets are very old. You have become free in a single moment?”
Ashtavakra does not say you are not free. His whole insight is that one can be free instantly. But he warns Janaka from all sides so that no illusion remains. If liberation has happened, let it be total — not incomplete. Let no germ return from any side.
“Knowing lust as the enemy of knowledge, yet extremely weak, even at life’s end one desires the enjoyment of lust — this is the wonder.”
“Udbhutaṁ jñāna-durmitram avadhārya ati-durbalaś cha, anta-kālam anuśritaḥ kāmam ākankṣet āścaryam — recognizing lust as the foe of knowledge, yet very weak, at the very end he longs for lust — amazing!”
“What wonders are you talking of, Janaka? We tell you the true wonder,” says Ashtavakra: “The man is dying, all life-energy spent, life scattered, yet lust remains. Nothing left but bitter taste. Nothing left but wounds and sorrow. His whole life was a failure — yet lust remains. Difficult, hard; the practice is ancient. So examine rightly, diagnose rightly: go down into the inner consciousness, into the unconscious.
What Freud called the unconscious — Ashtavakra points to the same: in your conscious there is light — what of your unconscious? Your drawing room is clean — what of your cellar? If fire burns in the cellar, soon smoke will reach the drawing room. If filth fills the cellar, how long can you keep fragrance in the drawing room? Descend within, step by step. Seek the seeds in the unconscious — burn them there. If you do not find them, then it is well. Then what has happened is right.”
Sorrow, craving, lust, greed, anger — all are illnesses resulting from constant practice. It is not without cause; we have labored hard to arrange and decorate them. We have invested wealth in them. Our selfish interest is woven into them. They are our world.
When someone says, “I want freedom from sorrow,” he should consider: “Am I gaining some profit from my sorrow, harvesting some crop?” If so, he may want freedom but will not obtain it. For with one hand he will pour water, with the other he will prune the branches. He will cut above and water below. There will be no escape. Look: is there any investment in your sorrow?
The bud of hope remains; the onlooker is sad. How far is the destination? The traveler is sad.
When will the wings of thought take flight? The bird is dull-feathered; the bird is sad.
The creation of a masterpiece is not yet possible. The verses are restless; the poet is sad.
The statue has longed for a pilgrim for ages; the lonely mountain temple is sad.
The harvest of feeling and thought is disappointment; the poet is lost in despair, the historian sad.
Here all are sad. The bird is sad — cannot fly; perhaps attached to a golden cage. The poet is sad — because people only listen to songs of sadness and clap. The thinker is sad — because a laughing, joyous man is thought mad; who takes a thinker to be one who rejoices? All are sad. In such an atmosphere filled with sadness, to go beyond is very difficult. The air is sad; in this air there is lust, anger, greed, attachment. It is hard to bring down the ray of liberation here.
Yet in Janaka’s life the ray has descended. Therefore Ashtavakra wants to test from every side — no error, no gap. Out of great compassion he speaks harsh words to Janaka: “Look well! Do not fall into the same net where many sages fell. Many knowers are entangled in foolishness. Many pundits are buried under scriptures. Many who talk of renunciation are still filled with craving for wealth. Examine all this rightly. If none of this is, then there is truth in your proclamation.”
Hari Om Tat Sat.