Maha Geeta #17

The blossoming of a single flower
is not the orchard’s honeyed spring.
The house glittering on the outside
is not the jubilation within.
Outwardly we celebrate,
yet pain does not leave the home.
Even when the mango-grove waves,
we go on smouldering inside.
By the appeasement of a sandy mote,
our thirst is not quenched.
The blossoming of a single flower
is not the orchard’s honeyed spring.

Here the dark cloud thunders,
the deep ocean spits fire.
Over the old sannyasin’s hut
despondencies keep a day-and-night watch.
Just because one guard dozes off
is not the intimation of liberation.
The blossoming of a single flower
is not the orchard’s honeyed spring.

The danger is that at the blooming of a single flower someone may conclude: spring has arrived! Until the whole life-breath blossoms, until the entire consciousness is covered with lotuses, until the entire inner being is adorned with light...

Do not take the descent of a single ray to be the sun’s arrival, and do not take a single flower’s opening to be the coming of the honeyed month. Therefore a test by the guru is necessary. We have lived in such darkness, for so many births, so many lives, that the slightest glimpse of satiation—and it seems to us that the doorway to moksha has arrived! A faint fragrance—and it feels as if we have reached that great orchard. Even if a dream of light sways in the eye, it seems—sunrise has happened.

Our feeling too is understandable, for we have known nothing except sorrow. A slight quiver of joy, a little thrill, a small shiver of delight, and we are exultant. We have lived in hell; even heaven’s dream seems to give us contentment.

But precisely here the need of the guru is that he keeps waking us; that he says, many more flowers are yet to bloom; that he does not let us stop, that he keeps moving us on; that he goes on saying: further still, further still...! He must not let us halt until the whole of life is filled with fragrance; until every corner of prana is shrouded in light; until we ourselves become light-form; until nothing remains within us except light. Only then know that spring has truly arrived.

The blossoming of a single flower
is not the orchard’s honeyed spring.
And one guard’s falling asleep
is not the hint of liberation.

Therefore, this joy of Janaka—Ashtavakra did not accept it silently. He began to assay it on a great touchstone. Might it not be that a man, hungry and thirsty for many days, has found a dry crust and imagines he has found the ultimate? Might it not be that a person, utterly exhausted by the sun, has sat in a little patch of shade—even if only the shade of a date palm—and thinks, ‘I have come beneath the Kalpavriksha’? For whatever we see, we see through the lens of our past experience.

If a poor man finds a rupee lying there, he is overjoyed. If a rich man finds a rupee lying there, it is as if nothing has been found. The rupee is the same, but the poor man measures by his past, the rich man by his past. He has so much that the addition of one rupee adds nothing. The poor man has nothing; the addition of a single rupee is as if the wealth of the whole world had been added. The rupee is the same, but our perception is comparative and relative. We see through our own experience.

Yesterday I was reading a small story. A former maharaja writes it in his memoirs: he had hired a new servant. He ordered him, ‘Jhinku, bring the spittoon.’ Jhinku could not make sense of it; he had never heard the word ‘spittoon’. That there could be a golden vessel even for spitting—this was not within his experience. In the corner stood a golden vessel—studded with diamonds and jewels.

The emperor said again, ‘Didn’t you understand, fellow? That golden vessel in the corner—bring it here.’

Jhinku peered into the spittoon and said, ‘Wait a bit, huzoor! Some fool has spat in this. I’ll call the sweeper...’

A spittoon is not within the poor man’s experience! He spits anywhere; the whole earth is a spittoon. And a golden vessel—for spitting!

We measure by our experience. Whatever interpretation we give to life, that interpretation arises from us.

So Ashtavakra thinks: Janaka has never known this aho-bhava, this wonder, this unprecedented happening—might it be that, on seeing a single flower, he has taken it to be the advent of the honeyed month?

One who has never seen flowers, who has lived only in deserts, may take the arrival of a single flower to be the honeyed spring. The hunger within can deceive him. In just this way a mirage arises. In the desert, when a man wanders lost, when he is seized by hours and days of thirst, then the mirage appears. If that same man were satiated, had a bottle of water, a surahi at hand, and whenever thirst arose he could drink—then there would be no mirage. But when thirst becomes excessive and life-breath begins to writhe, and nowhere in the desert is there any sign of a stream, of an oasis—then illusions begin. Then, on the very laws of light, an oasis begins to appear in the distance. The deception of the oasis is caused by rays of light, but even more by thirst. The thirst is so great that an urge arises to see what is not. The thirst is so great that we concretize even the dream of what is not.

The thirsty falls into the illusion of the mirage. The frightened sees a snake in a rope. There is no snake in the rope—it is in the fear. If one has faced snakes many times, has suffered their bite many times, and the panic of snakes has settled into the life-breath, then seeing a snake in a rope is no wonder. The snake is not in the rope—it is in the seer’s eye and in his fear; he projects it.

Thus Ashtavakra tests. It may well be that sunrise has happened—and it may also be that, simply from long dwelling in darkness, a dream of light has been seen.

Then another point—before we enter the sutra: that which comes in experience—experience is true. As I have known, so it is true for me; but the moment I say it to you, it starts becoming untrue. The moment truth is spoken, it begins to turn into untruth. As long as I keep within me what I have known, it is true; for I have known it, experienced it—it is my realization, my direct seeing. The moment I speak to you, shape it into words, give it arrangement, enter into dialogue, transmit it to you—it begins to become untrue. First of all, when I bound the wordless in words, much was broken. When I poured the vast into a small courtyard, much was left out. When I imprisoned the freshness of morning in the casket of words, something died.

As when the morning sun has risen, dancing rays pass through the green trees, the trees sway in intoxicated delight, the morning breeze dances and runs in joy, giggling, teasing—take all this and shut it into a little box. You go to that place where the sun’s rays, filtering through the leaves, drop upon the earth, where the wind has played its dance with the leaves, where there is fragrance, where the fresh sweetness of morning is—and lock it all in a box. You bring the box back—only an empty box comes! Perhaps a faint hint of fragrance remains. But how will you confine the light? And even the fragrance, once shut in the box, will soon turn to stench.

What is known is in the void, in silence, in profound wordlessness; the moment it is put into words—it is dishevelled. Nor does the difficulty end there. In putting it into words, half the truth dies; if even half remains, it is much—it depends on the speaker’s skillfulness.

Therefore in the world there are many jnanis, but not many Satgurus. Satguru means: one who has known, and who can say it with such skill that some portion of truth does reach you. Such skill that something reaches the shishya—that is called Satguru. Jnanis there are many.
Someone once asked Buddha, “You have ten thousand monks. They have been with you for years, have offered their lives, practice and are absorbed in practice. How many among them have attained Buddhahood?” Buddha said: “Many have attained, many are attaining, many are on the way. Some have set out, some are close to arrival, some have already arrived.”
The questioner said, “I can’t believe that—none of them looks like you.” Buddha began to laugh. He said: “That is true. By becoming a buddha one does not ‘appear’ unless he gives expression to buddhahood—until he lets it speak, hum, become song; binds it in meter and cadence; carries it to the other. Until buddhahood is communicated, how would you know? And as long as I am alive, they will not speak either. They say, ‘When you are present, what is there for us to say? What could we say in your presence?’ Many among them have arrived. Many will never speak, because speaking is a different skill.

“To realize is one thing; to speak is quite another. The Jain scriptures call the one who has realized: kevali, jina; and the one who proclaims it to the world: tirthankara. Thousands of kevalis arise; perhaps one tirthankara among them. Tirthankara means: one who not only crosses but builds the ford, makes the boat, seats others in it, and ferries them across. Tirtha means ford; tirthankara, the maker of the ford—many can swim across, but he who takes others in the boat...

“But remember, the very moment—even the greatest tirthankara, the greatest satguru—puts the experience into words, it begins to become untrue. Some of it starts dying instantly; only a fragment can reach. First it depends on the speaker—how much he can pour into words; then it depends on the listener—how much he can open and receive.

“You are all listening, but you will not all open the same amount. Someone will open greatly; someone near you will be overwhelmed, and you will be surprised—‘Has he gone mad?’ He has opened more than you. The message has reached his heart; in you perhaps it keeps echoing in the head. Maybe you are busy counting words. In him, the essence has reached.

“It then depends on how much you open. But even in your opening, some truth dies. What is bound in words is beyond words; from the word you must separate the meaning; you must break the circle of words, the boundary, and free the infinite again.

“I hand you a bird—the bird of the Infinite—kept in a cage. Many will be entranced by the beauty of the cage and forget the bird. Many will carry the cage on their head and never even remember, never recognize, the bird.

“The cage was not given for its own sake; inside there is a living bird—that is why it was given. The cage was made so the bird could reach you; otherwise it would fly from my hand and never reach you.

“So the word, the scripture, is a cage; the doctrine, the language, is a cage. We try to make it as beautiful as possible so that, attracted by its beauty, you long to enter within; so that thirst arises to see what is inside if the outside cage is so lovely. But many will keep the cage carefully; they will become pundits. They will repeat my words; they will roam with my cage showing people: ‘Look, what a beautiful cage! What a fine philosophy, what a lovely doctrine, what a heart-pleasing intention! What a saying, how it delighted the mind, how it colored it, how rainbow-hued!’ But they will forget that the cage was not given for the cage. Some among them will recognize the bird hidden within, but will not free it; it will remain imprisoned. And if it is caged too long, the bird’s capacity to fly will be lost.

“If you receive words from me, do not delay—open them quickly into the wordless. Whatever you hear from me, do not delay—transform it quickly into meditation. The longer the delay, the harder it gets. Listen here, and over there—in meditation—free it. As soon as I place the cage in your hands, do not stop! The moment you take the cage, open the door and free the bird. If you delay—‘Tomorrow... the day after... when convenient... let me note it down first; later I’ll draw out the meaning; what’s the hurry? At leisure, at the right time’—by the time you go to extract the meaning, it will have died; only the words will remain, only the cage. If you haven’t freed the bird, the bird will have died. Even if you open it then, you will find a corpse; the life-bird will have flown, for its life belongs to the Infinite, to the Void, to the Sky. That bird is not made to live in a cage. The body will remain; the bird of life will have flown. Worship that body as much as you like; life will not return. That is what you are worshiping in temples, mosques, gurdwaras—the dead birds! Life cannot now be put back; you missed the chance.

“When words come from a true master, open them instantly; even a moment’s delay is dangerous. Open them while they are still warm. When I give you something, it is hot, fresh. Don’t sit on it, don’t put it in your fridge to open when convenient—when needed you’ll take it out. It will be dead; the warmth will be gone; the life-bird will have flown; only the body will remain.

“The piled-up bodies of truth are what you call scripture. Then you place the Gita, Quran, Bible on your head, worship with flowers and bows—futile, utterly futile! Nothing will happen from such arrangements now.

“So when a true master speaks, open it at once. As I speak, you keep opening. Do not get entangled in the word; keep freeing the meaning. Do not get entangled in the flower; free the fragrance. Forget the cage. Fly with me in the sky—you will receive more.

“Ordinarily it doesn’t happen so; you will find things dead. And if you pass on to another what you heard from me, then it is worse than dead—a rotting corpse. And this is what has happened. Thus sects arise. I told you, you tell another, he tells another, generations tell generations, time tells time—the level sinks. The corpse rots further. Hence the stench from religions, and so many killings in the name of religion. Love did not spread in the world from religions; hatred did. Struggle, murder, war arose; prayer did not descend, the door of God did not open. Religions increased the devil’s power, not God’s—because what you call religion is a decaying corpse.

“Ashtavakra began to question, to strike again and again at Janaka. Because when a master gives, he wants to know: did it reach you alive? Was it warm when it reached? Did you open it rightly? Were you not merely stirred by the words? Is this Janaka only shaking the cage? Is there also a bird inside? Is it alive? Has he tried to free that living bird, or has he fallen into a web of words? For whatever Ashtavakra said, Janaka repeated it—adding only the word ‘wonder.’ So, is this mere repetition? Is this mechanical memory? Is Janaka just a man of memory? Is what he says truly happening?

“Ashtavakra began to dig from every side. These sutras are his excavation. In them is great compassion and great severity both. Severity, because Janaka is speaking in exclamation, and Ashtavakra begins to test. Compassion, because if the test is not taken in time and time is lost, then the matter becomes ‘out of season’ and loses meaning. So he tests freshly: ‘What I told you—did it reach your heart? Has it become your blood, your flesh and marrow? Have you transformed it into your very life? Has it become a part of your being? Or is it only something wandering in the intellect—words and ideas drifting? From where are you speaking? From the place where it has happened within? Or have you merely heard me and are repeating me to my face? Are you not a gramophone record?’

“This danger exists. The sayings of true masters have a quality—they are so lovely that you feel like trusting them. That is the danger: if truth becomes belief, it turns false. Belief itself is false. From truth should arise shraddha, not belief.

“I tell you something, something very lovely—you are enchanted. You accept it: the thing is so lovely it must be true; you love the one who said it, how can it be false? So you don’t argue, you don’t inquire; you silently accept. You build a belief and live by that belief—you live by a falsehood. What I said was true; but you made a belief and it became false. What should arise is shraddha.

“What is the difference between shraddha and belief? When we accept the other without any testimony from our own experience, that is belief. When we accept the other after measuring it on the touchstone of our own experience, that is shraddha. Shraddha is experience; belief is the other’s experience, not yours. Be alert to this.

“So, is what Janaka says belief or shraddha? This is what Ashtavakra begins to test.

“Ashtavakra said:
‘For one dispassionate toward enjoyments here and hereafter, and discriminating between the eternal and the transient—astonishing indeed, that a seeker of liberation is terrified of liberation itself!’

“Is there anywhere within you a fear of moksha? Understand this—it is a wondrous sutra! Fear of moksha? Fear of freedom? We all want to be free—who is afraid of freedom?

“But you don’t know. Ashtavakra is right. Very few in this world truly want to be free. Ninety-nine out of a hundred talk about freedom, but they do not want to be free. In dependency there is great safety; in freedom, great danger and risk. That’s why people go from one dependency to another. Capitalism becomes communism—but nothing changes. Dependency remains; one slavery is replaced by another, but there is no difference. Man does not want to be free.

“Let us understand this. There is fear of freedom. And moksha is total freedom—its fear is immense.

“What Ashtavakra raised is something that, after five thousand years, Western psychology is only now beginning to grasp. Erich Fromm emphasized it greatly—The Fear of Freedom. We want someone to bind us. That is why people can bind us. You think people bind you; that is why you are bound—then you are mistaken. Whoever does not want to be bound cannot be bound by anyone. You want to be bound—that is why people bind you. Your wish to be bound comes first; the binder comes afterward. First the demand, then the supply. You call out for someone to bind you—and the one who binds arrives. Then you shout that you have been bound.

“People come to me. They say, ‘We are greatly bound—there is a wife, there are children!’ But who told you? Even if a hundred people insisted, if you did not want to be bound, who could bind you? You would have run away. If the house is on fire and you sit inside, people might say, ‘Sit, it’s fine’—you could not sit. You would say, ‘Enough of your wise talk—I’m going out. You sit!’ You would have fled if you had seen the bondage. But you did not.

“And the fun is: if this wife dies, you will very likely marry again soon. You will not remember her long. The mind will start new fantasies. It will say, ‘Not all women are alike. A wicked one came before—that was fate. Now all will not be wicked. There are good women in the world. Other than my wife, all women are good anyway. I’ll find a good woman and life will be happy.’ Then you search. Soon you are bound again; then you cry out that you are bound.

“You make your own bonds—because to live unbound needs great courage. To live without bonds needs great courage. Without bonds, there is no security: who knows what tomorrow will be! Why did you bring a wife? For tomorrow’s arrangement. If sexual desire arises tomorrow, who will satisfy it? So you brought a wife—who will be there tomorrow too. The wife found a husband: who knows what security tomorrow holds—who will give food, house, clothes, ornaments! You secured tomorrow, secured the day after. People secure far ahead. And then they are bound by that very security.

“You built a house, collected a bank balance, built wealth and prestige—and now you say, ‘I’m greatly bound!’ But who binds you? You are bound because there is some security in bondage—what if you fall ill tomorrow? What if you begin to die?

“It is recorded in Muhammad’s life: whatever came during the day, after eating and drinking, he would give away by evening. He slept a beggar at night. This was his lifelong practice. The night he died, his wife thought: death is approaching, doctors say there is no way to save him; medicine may be needed; a doctor may be needed at night. So she kept five dinars aside.

“At midnight Muhammad became very restless. He called his wife and said, ‘It seems my lifelong rule is being broken at the time of death. I never made arrangements for tomorrow. And today I feel afraid—there is some money in the house. If there is, quickly give it away; otherwise on the last day I will have to be ashamed before God. He will ask: then why did you save money for tomorrow at the very end?’

“The wife was frightened—how did he know! She quickly brought the five dinars and apologized: ‘I made a mistake. I thought, if at midnight some need arises, where will I ask from?’

“Muhammad said, ‘Foolish woman! The One who has given each time, every day—have we ever died hungry? Has a need ever remained unmet? The One who gives in the morning and evening—will He not give at midnight? Just go look at the door!’

“She took the five dinars to the door; a beggar was standing there saying, ‘I need five dinars.’ She gave them to him.

“Muhammad said, ‘See—He comes even to receive; He comes even to give. We create unnecessary worries. Then we are bound, tormented, and cry out. Now I am at ease. Now I can stand before Him with my head high—that You alone were my only trust. Other than You, I put my trust in nothing.’

“He who trusts God has no bond. But we do not trust God; our trust is in thousands of other things—insurance companies, banks, wife, husband, friends, family, father, son, government—so many trusts!

“Even one who calls himself an atheist is not truly an atheist. As far as the bank is concerned, he is a believer; as far as the insurance company is concerned, he is a believer; only in relation to God is he not a believer.

“A theist means: one who has placed all his trust in the Divine, who has placed all his trust in the energy of life, in existence.

“As soon as the money was given, Muhammad laughed and said, ‘Now it is auspicious, now the right moment has come, now I can go peacefully.’ He pulled the sheet over his face, and it is said his life flew. The wife lifted the sheet; only a body lay there—Muhammad had gone. Just as those five dinars were stuck; as though because of them he had been restless—burden, bondage!

“We say we want to be free; but the arrangements we make to be free are what bind us.

“Why does a man desire wealth? So that he may be free. It is an illusion that wealth gives freedom: you can go wherever you want; you can stay in any hotel; fly by airplane; live in a palace; the woman you desire will massage your feet; whatever you want, you can do. In the hope that wealth gives freedom, man collects wealth—then is bound, badly bound! The burden of wealth becomes heavy and the chest begins to break beneath it.

“This is our ordinary freedom. The ultimate freedom is called moksha.

“Ashtavakra says: ‘Listen, Janaka—one who is dispassionate toward the enjoyments of this world and the next, and who has discrimination between the eternal and the transient...’

“As your words suggest. From your words it seems you are entirely free—no longing here, none in heaven. You seek nothing here, nothing in heaven. And it seems you have discrimination—you know what is transient and what is eternal; what has essence and what is without essence. It appears you have vision. Yet I ask: astonishing it is that one who desires moksha is afraid of moksha—are you aware of this? Might there still be fear of moksha within you? If so, then all this talk is futile, nonsense, the babbling of a madman! There would then be no substance. Because of that fear you will remain bound; you will go on creating the world.

“We have created the world out of fear. The world is the expansion of our fear. And then a great irony—your God too is the expansion of your fear; your heaven too; your merit too. Even if you do virtue, you do it out of fear that you might go to hell. Even if you do not sin, it is out of fear that you might go to hell. If you do virtue, it is out of fear that you may not miss heaven—the apsaras, wish-fulfilling trees, flowing streams of wine. If you go to temple or mosque to bow your head, it is just so that if there is a God, He may not be annoyed.

“Your religion comes out of fear—so it is irreligion. From this poison, no nectar will arise; only poison comes from it. From fear, what comes is the world. Call it God, call it heaven—remember one thing: from fear, other than the world, nothing comes. How will moksha come from fear? That would be like squeezing oil from sand—it doesn’t happen.

“Moksha does not arise from fear; it arises from fearlessness. Then what is the fear of moksha? Why does Ashtavakra say, Search within and see—might there be fear of moksha?

“The fear of moksha is the fear of the Great Death. Moksha is your death. Your being free means your total disappearance. Then what remains is moksha—where you are utterly absent; not even your outline remains; you are utterly lost.

“In death, a man remains; in moksha, not at all. In death, the body is lost; the mind remains, the ego remains, the impressions remain—everything remains; only the body changes. In death, only the clothes change; the old, worn clothes fall away and new ones are received. In moksha, the body is gone, impressions are gone, ego is gone, mind is gone; all that you knew and experienced—gone. You are gone—wholly, totally gone! What remains in your absence, in your non-existence—that is moksha, that is God, that is truth. You vanish as darkness vanishes with the arrival of light. With the arrival of moksha, you will not remain—moksha is the Great Death.

“The Upanishads say: the guru is the Great Death—because through the guru one walks towards moksha. The guru teaches only the art of dying.

“Ashtavakra rightly says:
‘Astonishing indeed: one who desires moksha is fearful of moksha.’

“I have seen, says Ashtavakra, that even those who desire moksha are afraid of it. Janaka, look closely—might there be a line of fear in you? If there is, then these talks of moksha are all futile, meaningless babble. There is no essence in them.

“The note of moksha resounds within you only when all your own notes fall silent. Empty the throne! So long as you are, moksha is not. The moment you are not—erased, bowed, lost—moksha is! Moksha has always been—it was your presence that kept it from appearing; you were the cover, the veil; you were the hindrance; you the obstacle.

“A great obstruction has now arisen. Moksha means recognizing this truth: I am the disease. Moksha does not mean your liberation; moksha means liberation from you. The one who recognizes, ‘I am the very base of the disease; I will now drop this base; I will now prepare to not-be; I agree to die. I have tried being again and again—nothing came of it; only loss. I have been many times, for many births; enough time has passed. You have tried being many times, and each being went empty. Now let us try not-being.’ Moksha means this much: having tried being and failed, let us try not-being.

“‘Janaka, might there be fear of dying within you?’

“‘Astonishing that the seeker of moksha is terrified by moksha itself!’

“Ashtavakra says: you speak of wonder—listen, I’ll tell you a great wonder! The greatest wonder is that those who desire moksha fear dying. And one who fears dying, how will he attain moksha? Moksha is the Great Death.

“Mulla Nasruddin and his wife were eating when Raga Malhar started on the radio. ‘Bravo!’ said Mulla, ‘what a lovely thing!’

“‘What?’ the wife asked loudly.

“‘I said what a lovely thing!’ Mulla repeated louder.

“The wife said, ‘Turn off this radio so something can be heard. Because of this tuneless a-a-a, I can’t hear you at all!’

“Mulla was speaking of the very Malhar the wife called a tuneless a-a-a. The note of moksha—for some it is Raga Malhar; for others, it is just noise. Those who are fearful, to them it seems mere racket—because they have taken meaningless racket as meaningful; thus the meaningful appears meaningless. They are standing upside down.

“But those who have known the false as false—instantly, that faint sound of moksha, which comes a little at death—becomes Raga Malhar, the great music of life.

“If you have understood anything from life, understand at least this: life is utterly insubstantial. In it there is nothing of essence. Run, rush, labor—nothing falls into your hands. It is a great wonder! And yet you do not want to die. You do not want to vanish. You ask for some trick by which you may remain forever—forever! What will you do remaining forever?

“They say when Alexander came to the East, one wise man told him: ‘There is somewhere on your path a place where, in the desert, is a spring. Whoever drinks of it becomes immortal. Since you are going, search for it; perhaps it is not mere tale but true.’ Alexander alerted his soldiers to keep their ears open. In passing through a desert, the news came that it was there. Alexander found the cave, descended, stood in the spring, delighted—‘Drinking this, I shall be immortal.’ He cupped his hands. A crow sat on the nearby rock and said, ‘Stop!’ Alexander was startled at a talking crow. The crow said, ‘Don’t be afraid. Hear me before you drink, because I drank and got into great trouble.’

“‘What trouble?’ asked Alexander.

“‘I too searched for it and, with great difficulty, came. I am the king of the crows, as you are the king of men. I am no small crow; you are speaking to a royal crow. With great effort I found it; I set thousands of crows to the search; finally it was found; I came and drank—and I am trapped. Now I want to die—because centuries have passed since I drank. I want to die, but cannot. I dash my head against rocks—no use. I drink poison—no use. I hang myself—no use. There is no way for me to die. This water is very dangerous, Alexander!’

“Alexander asked, ‘And why do you want to die?’

“The crow said, ‘What else would I do? The same tune, the same disturbance—how long? Nothing is gained—only running around. Now I envy those who die; at least they gain peace. None on this earth is more restless than I, Alexander! Still, do as you wish!’

“They say Alexander let the water fall from his hands and climbed back up. He did not drink.

“Whether true or false, the story is deeply meaningful. Imagine you became immortal—what would you do? This seventy years of life somehow passes. It is not a long life. Man lives seventy years; of those, twenty to twenty-five go in sleep. If you sleep eight hours every day, one-third goes in sleep. Fifteen to twenty years go in schooling, before any awareness appears. About twenty years remain—then the office, factory, shop, labor; wife, children; a thousand disturbances! Temple, mosque—thus it passes. What remains of seventy years? Do you even get seven minutes?

“But imagine you do not die—what inconvenience would arise! One to whom the futility of life is revealed does not desire immortality. He says, ‘O Lord! May a Great Death occur—such a death that life is no more.’ This we call freedom from the cycle of birth and death. This is the East’s greatest treasure and discovery. The West is still childish. It has not yet tired of life. The East is ancient, mature—tired of life. Western thinkers are puzzled: what is this matter? Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali, Ashtavakra, Lao Tzu—all speak only of one thing: how to be free? What is this? Is life something to be escaped? They say, ‘Make life longer; discover new medicines and means; let man live long, live well!’ Are these sages mad? Their minds gone? They say how to be free from the wheel!

“The West is still childish—has no experience of life. The East has taken a very long experience of life and found it wholly without essence. ‘Bubbles of water!’ Momentary! And within, nothing at all. When it bursts, you hold emptiness. Like an onion—peel layer after layer; new layers keep coming; one day—nothing in the hand. Run and hustle—you reach nowhere; you stand where you are and die. Have you reached anywhere? You set out: some walked thirty years, some fifty, some sixty—but have you reached somewhere? Does it seem like you arrived at a destination? Only road, only road—wandering around! There is no arriving; no fulfillment ever comes. One dissatisfaction leads to another, that to yet another. Between two dissatisfactions there is a little hope that perhaps there will be satisfaction; the rest—satisfaction never comes.

“The longing to be free from birth and death is moksha.

“Ashtavakra said: Look carefully, Janaka; pick up a magnifying glass—might there be anywhere a fear of dying? Otherwise these lofty words will remain merely words. If the truth has descended into your life, you would be ready to die; you would be ready for the Great Death. Then you would go to welcome death, dancing in exultation.

“He who has gone to meet death dancing, humming a song—only he has known life. Those who go toward death trembling and shaking have not known or recognized life. And because they have not recognized life, they cannot understand the meaning of death. Death is release; death is rest. But if, at the time of death, there remains the desire to be again—‘again I should be’—then you will return; your craving will drag you back. The threads of craving will carry you back into some womb. One who says while dying, ‘Ah, blessed am I! Wonder—that I am going now and will never come again’—Buddha has called such a consciousness anagamin—one who goes and does not return. Blessed are the anagamin—those who, at the moment of death, wholly die and say, ‘This journey is finished; this futile bustle has ended; this dream shall be no more!’

“‘So look—and if there is fear, marvel at it!’

“‘The steadfast one, even while enjoying and even while being afflicted, seeing only the Self, is neither pleased nor angry.’

“Ashtavakra said, ‘Janaka, see—one who has truly attained knowledge, who is steadfast—he is neither pleased nor angry. If there is loss, he is not displeased; if there is gain, he is not pleased. If there is honor, he is not pleased; if there is insult, he is not angry. Look within: if you are honored, will you be pleased? If you are insulted, will you be angry? If you lose in life—today you are emperor; tomorrow you have to become a beggar—will your mind be affected? If there is even a trace of difference, then do not hurry. This declaration is big—do not make it. Such a declaration would be unfit and dangerous, because if you begin to trust this declaration as true, you will never attain truth.’

“It is the master’s continual effort to show you: do not, by mistake, take up a false notion that what has not happened, has happened. This instruction of the master is essential and compassionate.

“With Patanjali there is no danger—he increases you inch by inch. He takes you only as far as an ordinary person can go. There is no leap. And only when you have climbed one step can you climb the next. If you cannot climb the first, you cannot climb the second. That is why Patanjali makes no arrangement for examination. But Ashtavakra had to; he says there are no steps—if you want, you can be free in this very instant! Hearing this, many fools will declare immediately: ‘We are free!’ Such fools must be pulled back and set in place. These sutras are given for them.

“‘He who sees his own active body as one sees another’s body—how will such a great-hearted one be disturbed by praise or blame?’

“Who sees his own body as though it were someone else’s—who does not even claim his own body as his; who has created as much distance from his own body as from another’s. If someone injures your body, I am not hurt; likewise, if someone injures my body, I know I am not hurt—as though this too is someone else’s body. Only then...

“‘He who sees his own active body as one sees another’s—how will such a great-hearted one be disturbed by praise or blame?’

“This word ‘mahashaya’—great-hearted—is dear. Made from maha + asaya—whose intent has become great; who is not bound by petty intents; whose intents of body and mind, of tendencies and thoughts, are no longer his; who has offered his entire intent, his entire longing, at the feet of the Supreme.

“‘How will such a great-hearted one be disturbed by praise or blame?’ So look, Janaka—will you be disturbed? If I praise you, will you be pleased?

“Pleasure too is disturbance. Disturbance means waves arising; becoming perturbed. Anger is disturbance; so is pleasure. Being unhappy is disturbance; so is being happy—because in both states the mind is filled with waves. Only he who is beyond pleasure and pain is beyond disturbance; none can disturb him.

“So they say: ‘If someone insults you, Janaka, will you be disturbed? If someone honors you, will you be disturbed? Will there be any change within—even a slight change? If there is any change at all, then what you are saying is something you have heard me say and are repeating. And truth should not be repeated; it should be experienced.’

“‘He who sees this world as mere illusion and has gone beyond curiosity—how will such a steadfast one be afraid even when death is at hand?’

“Vigata-kautuka—whose curiosity, inquisitiveness, ignorance have passed; who has finished the journey of questioning; whose questions have fallen.

“Mayamātram idam viśvam paśyan vigata-kautukaḥ—
‘Who sees this world as mere illusion and has gone beyond curiosity...’

“Api sannihite mṛtyau kathaṁ trasyati dhīradhīḥ—
‘...how would a steadfast mind be afraid even when death is near?’

“Will even a line of fear arise? Look—death is coming, standing at your door, knocking; Yama’s messengers have arrived, mounted on their buffaloes—will you welcome them and be ready to go with them? Or will your mind hesitate? If even a little hesitation remains, then you are not yet beyond curiosity. If even a little hesitation remains, then shraddha has not yet arisen. If even a little hesitation remains, then much remains to be done; the revolution has not occurred. You have understood with the intellect, not yet with your life. You have known from above; the lamp has not yet been lit in your innermost core.

“‘That great soul whose mind does not crave even for moksha, and who is content by Self-knowledge—who can be compared with him?’

“‘Whose mind has no craving even for moksha...’

“Nispriham manasam yasya nairāśye’pi mahātmanaḥ—
‘The mind of the great one, without craving even in renunciation...’

“Who has gone so far beyond desire that he has no desire even for moksha. If it happens, it happens; if not, it doesn’t—this is the ultimate state. Only when there is no desire even for moksha does moksha bear fruit. This is the paradox of moksha.

“Yesterday I read the life of a Sufi fakir. He had been very wealthy—before becoming a fakir. He lived in Damascus. He had the longing to become the administrator of the great, world-famous mosque there. That was the highest position—to become the mosque’s administrator. He was wealthy already, but left everything else—he would be the first to enter the mosque at dawn, the last to leave at dusk; absorbed in prayer all day; in twenty-four hours, immersed in prayer. But inwardly the intention was that when people saw him so much in prayer, then today or tomorrow those who came to the mosque would surely feel that, ‘With such a great worshiper here, who else should be administrator!’

“He had no relish for prayer as such; the relish was that people should see. And people did see. Months passed; a year was passing; no result appeared. God was not his concern; it was only display. When the year completed he said, This is useless. He said a prayer that night: ‘Forgive me. Where did I waste a year! If I had prayed to attain You, perhaps I would have had Your glimpse. But these fools had no sense. Though I too am a fool—forgive me!’

“That night he prayed with a very desireless heart; there was nothing to ask. He finished his prayer and came to the door; he saw the townspeople gathering. He asked what the matter was. They said, ‘We have decided together that you should become the administrator of the mosque. We have seen for a year—never was there such a worshiper!’

“He was astonished: Today I have dropped the craving, and today is the day of fulfillment! Then wisdom dawned. He said, ‘Forgive me, friends. For a year I craved—where were you? Now you come when I have dropped craving. When dropping craving brings such a fruit, I will no longer crave. Appoint someone else as administrator.’

“This insight made him a fakir. ‘Malik bin Dinar’ was his name. They say he never again desired even moksha. As for heaven, the question didn’t arise; he stopped desiring altogether. When he died, he appeared in a dream to an elder; the elder asked, ‘What news? How did it go there?’

“Because on the same day that Malik bin Dinar died, another fakir died too—a fakir named Hasan. Both were very renowned. So the elder asked, ‘You both died together, at the same time; you must have reached the gate of moksha together. Who entered first?’

“Malik bin Dinar said, ‘I was surprised too—I entered first. And I asked God, ‘Why did You let me in first? Hasan is more knowledgeable than I. Hasan is a greater renunciate than I. I too went to him to learn.’ God said, ‘He may be more knowledgeable than you; he may be a greater renunciate; but there was a desire for moksha in his mind, and in yours there was no desire for moksha. You deserve first entry.’’

“Whose mind has dropped even the desire for moksha; who is satisfied by Self-knowledge; who is fulfilled in his very being; who no longer asks for anything; who says, ‘My very being is enough—more than enough. What more do I need?’—who says so! Who says, ‘I have known myself; I am fulfilled, filled, fully attained. Now I need nothing!’

“‘He who is satisfied by Self-knowledge—who can be compared with him?’

“So, Janaka—do you have the desire for moksha? Is there still the urge to be free? Has the Self-knowledge you claim fulfilled you? Now you do not want anything else? Your fulfillment is complete? You will not ask for anything else? If God stood before you and said: ‘Listen, Janaka, what do you want? I am ready to give’—would you have something to ask, or would you only give thanks? Would you ask or give thanks? Would you say, ‘You have given everything; I want nothing. Now I want nothing at all’? Could you say that without any hindrance? Would there be no inner conflict at all? Would your mind not say, ‘Ah, now that God is asking, ask for something! For births you have desired; now the auspicious moment has come; God Himself says, “Ask for something. My hand of blessing stands ready to shower upon you, to fill your bag”’—and your mind would spread its bag?

“Ashtavakra says these things so that Janaka may see where he stands.

“‘He who knows that this manifest world is, by nature, nothing—how can such a steady mind see this as to be taken, and that as to be rejected?’

“This is a very important sutra—of greatest importance among these. Its meaning is this: Ashtavakra says, ‘Janaka, look—upon hearing all this I said—that the steadfast person will not crave wealth, palace, the expansion of possessions—let there not arise in your mind the thought: “Then I should renounce all this.”’ This is very subtle. Hearing my words, let there not arise the idea, ‘Let me renounce all this.’ Because the steadfast person neither desires the objects, nor desires the renunciation of the objects. Do you still have enjoyment within?

“For this, the previous sutras were spoken: if anywhere the desire for enjoyment remains, find it out.

“Now this great sutra—greater still—he says: Now I ask you—maybe enjoyment does not remain. But do you have the desire for renunciation?

“Because the desire for renunciation is the other form of enjoyment. The desire for renunciation is enjoyment—standing on its head; there is no difference. Enjoyment says, ‘Hold’; renunciation says, ‘Leave.’ But in both holding and leaving, attention is on the same thing—wealth, woman, or gold. Enjoyment says, ‘More women!’ Renunciation says, ‘None at all.’ But the gaze of both is on woman or man. Enjoyment says, ‘More and more wealth!’ Renunciation says, ‘None at all—more and more renunciation!’ But in both minds there still is ‘more.’

“Neither the enjoyer will you find satisfied, nor the renouncer—because the renouncer thinks, ‘I must renounce more and more’; and the enjoyer thinks, ‘I must enjoy more and more.’ It is amusing—the gaze of both is fixed on ‘more’—more! Understand this ‘more’ well; in this ‘more’ the whole world is contained.

“You will find the enjoyer restless; he says, ‘There is a car, but I need a bigger one; there is a house, but I need a bigger one.’ Look inside the renouncer; he says, ‘I have fasted—but more! I have renounced—but more! Much remains to be dropped—anger, maya, attachment; reputation, ego.’ But the race of ‘more’ continues. Neither the enjoyer is satisfied, nor the renouncer.

“Svabhavad eva jñānavān: the one who has truly become steadfast, truly attained peace, and truly known that all this seen world is by nature nothing—no desire to take arises in him, and no desire to renounce arises either.

“There is not much difference between the enjoyer and the yogi; they are two sides of the same coin. There is no difference between the enjoyer and the renouncer; they are two commentaries of the same logic. But the logic is one. The real steadfast one is he who has gone beyond both.

“See how the test becomes more and more difficult! How Ashtavakra presses Janaka from all directions—giving him no place to escape! Until now he had only refuted enjoyment; Janaka had one avenue of escape: he could think, ‘Alright—Ashtavakra says the knower does not engage in wealth, maya, status, order, empire, palace—all this. Then I have a place to get out: I will drop everything.’

“Ego, in its claim to knowledge, can even drop. If the only touchstone for Janaka’s declaration—‘I am awake’—were that he drop all this—because an awakened man does not remain in such things—then the ego has this subtle talent: it will agree even to this. Janaka would say, ‘Very well! If this is the touchstone, I will fulfill it. Here lies the empire—I go!’

“But nothing would be proved by that. Nothing at all would be proved—that the empire has become dream-like. Because dreams can neither be grasped nor dropped. When someone says, ‘I have renounced millions,’ know that renunciation has not happened—the accounting is still going on. Then know for sure: this man is still calculating how many millions he has renounced; the millions are still very real.

“I have a friend who has renounced millions. He is older than I am. Many years have passed since he renounced; yet whenever I went to see him, in some way or other he would bring up the matter that he had kicked millions. I heard it once; I heard it twice; the third time I said to him, ‘Listen—don’t be offended. When did you deliver that kick?’

“He said, ‘About thirty or thirty-five years ago. I kicked millions!’

“I said, ‘You kicked—but it did not land. Why do you keep repeating it? Thirty or thirty-five years have passed—why repeat it? Is the accounting of millions still kept? Earlier you must have strutted that you had millions; now you strut that you have kicked millions—the strut is the same! The second strut is a little more dangerous—because the first is visible; the second is not; it is very subtle.’

“That door of escape remained open for Janaka thus far; now Ashtavakra has closed even that. Now Janaka has no place to run. Now only awakening remains—no running. Now he must accept the truth directly: either it has happened, or it has not. There is no way to save face.

“Svabhavad eva jñānavān—he to whom all appears as maya—what is there to leave and what to hold?

“Idam grāhyam idam tyājyam—‘This is to be taken, this to be dropped’—how could such a one ever see like this?

“To him nothing appears worth holding or dropping.

“The steadfast person does not say that gold is mud. He says: gold is gold; mud is mud—but both lack meaning, both are without essence. He says: sit in the palace, or sit outside the palace—both are the same; both are dreams. The rich man’s dream and the poor man’s dream; the successful man’s dream and the failure’s dream—both are dreams. Changing dreams does not change anything. One night you dream you are a bandit; another night you dream you are a saint—both are dreams; neither are you a bandit nor a saint.

“So long as you give yourself any identity, delusion will continue. You are the supreme emptiness; you are the supreme awareness; you are the supreme witness.

“Renunciation is also an act; as enjoyment is an act, so is renunciation. And Ashtavakra’s whole revolutionary formula is this: not the doer, not the enjoyer—be the witness. To drop is also karma; to take is also karma. In both, you become the doer; in both, ego is created. Ego is created by doing. Become the witness.

“‘He who has abandoned the sediment of passions from within, who is without duality and without expectation—for such a person, what comes by destiny is neither cause of sorrow nor of joy.’

“‘Who has abandoned the inner kashaya—’

“Abandoning the inner kashaya means: having awakened, seen that the kashaya are not mine. Having lit the lamp, seen: I am only light and I am no one; neither anger is mine nor attachment is mine. It is not a matter of holding or dropping; it is a matter of knowing that both are not mine. Neither enjoyment is mine, nor renunciation is mine.

“‘Who has abandoned the inner kashaya, who is without duality and without expectation—’

“Now there is no duality within, because the two do not remain—only the witness remains. The witness is always one. And this word is wonderful: nir-dvandvasya nir-āśiṣaḥ—free of duality, free of hope. Now he no longer hopes that ‘this should happen, that should happen; this I should get; that I should get.’ For him, tomorrow is finished.

“We have two tomorrows on either side of today. One is the past—it gives rise to dualities. One is the future—it gives rise to hope, to desire. He who drops the past, declaring, ‘Whatever I have been until now was all a dream’—he is free of the past. And he who drops all hopes, saying, ‘What I am is enough. I don’t have to be anything else; I don’t have to go anywhere else. Where I am, there is my home. As I am, so being is my nature; to be otherwise I have no wish’—he has erased the future. He who erases past and future enters the eternal.

“Antas-tyakta-kashayasya, nir-dvandvasya, nir-āśiṣaḥ—
Yadṛcchayā-gato bhogo na duḥkhāya na tuṣṭaye—
‘For him whatever comes, by chance, by God’s will—neither brings sorrow nor satisfaction.’

“Understand this. Remember this sutra; do not forget it. You say: ‘Whatever comes, comes by my action, my karma.’ This is not the philosophy of karma; it is the vision of the witness. Ashtavakra says: when sorrow comes, he says, ‘God’s will, the will of the unseen’; when pleasure comes, likewise. Neither in pleasure does he say, ‘It came because of me,’ nor in sorrow does he say, ‘It came because of me.’ He says, ‘I am only a seer; this coming and going is His play.’ Then where is the regret? Neither is there sorrow in what is received, nor joy.

“On the cross, in his last moment, Jesus said: ‘Thy will be done! Do not listen to my will. What I say—do not heed! Let Your will be done! Because whatever I will say will be wrong; whatever You say will be right. Whether I want it or not, let Your will be done!’

“Whenever you pray and say, ‘Do this, do that,’ your prayer becomes distorted, broken; it is no longer prayer. You are giving suggestions to God; you are saying, ‘I am wiser than You; what are You doing?’

“A Sufi fakir had two sons—twin boys, very dear! Born late, in his old age. He had great attachment to them. One day he returned from giving a discourse in the mosque and, as always, asked as soon as he came, ‘Where are the boys?’ Often they went to the mosque; today they had not gone to listen. He asked his wife, ‘Where are the boys?’ She said, ‘They must be coming; they must be playing somewhere; you eat first!’ He ate. After eating he asked again, ‘Where are the boys?’ Because it had never happened that they did not eat with him. She said, ‘Before I say anything about the boys, let me ask you something. If a man had left something in trust with me twenty years ago—two diamonds—and today he came to ask them back, should I return them or not?’

“The fakir said, ‘Is this even a question? Is this something to be asked? You should have returned them—what is there to ask me? They were his diamonds; you should have given them back. What have we to do with it? Why did you wait to ask me?’

“She said, ‘That’s enough—I just wanted to ask; now please come.’

“She took him into a room—both boys lay dead. They had been playing in a nearby house; the roof had collapsed. The fakir saw, understood, and laughed. He said, ‘You did rightly; you awakened me rightly. Twenty years ago, someone gave them to us; today he took them back. When these boys were not, we were fine; now that they are not, we are again as we were before. What difference does their coming and going make! You did right; you awakened me rightly.’

“Thinking, ‘Whatever is happening is happening because of me’—from this the illusion of ‘I’ arises. Deepen the understanding that whatever is happening is happening because of the Whole; I am only a witness. Let such a smokeless, unwavering flame be lit—then the witness is born.

“Ashtavakra said to Janaka: look at yourself, tested against all these statements. If you come out right on all of them, then the declaration you have made is the Supreme Declaration. If not, withdraw your declaration. Because false declarations are dangerous. Do not, upon hearing me, build belief; arouse shraddha! Awaken in truth yourself. My awakening cannot be your awakening; my light cannot be your light. My eyes will serve me and I will walk with my feet. You need your feet and your eyes and your light. Recognize rightly; do not be merely influenced by me.

“Krishnamurti constantly says: do not be influenced by anyone. He is right. It is Ashtavakra’s very sutra. Do not be influenced by anyone. Awaken—do not fall into imitation. Imitation is only drama, acting; it has nothing to do with life.

“The same I say to you. Listen to me—but listening is not enough. While listening, awaken! Do not cling to what you hear. Otherwise, the cage will fall into your hand and the bird will fly—or die. Whatever you hear, open it quickly; brew it. Whatever you hear, transform it quickly; digest it—otherwise it will cause indigestion. Digest it! Let it become your blood, flow in your blood; become your bone, your marrow, your life—then shraddha!

“Shraddha means: digested. Belief means: undigested.

“Belief becomes a burden; shraddha brings freedom!

“Hari Om Tat Sat.”