Maha Geeta #19

Ashtavakra gave a very difficult test. And to one like Janaka who is freshly, just-now born into Self-knowing; just born; just now a ray of light has descended. Janaka has not even been able to steady himself yet. Waves of wonder are still rising. Even trust has not yet settled that what has happened… has really happened! Trust takes a little time to settle. The bigger the event, the more unknown it is, the more time it needs. Right now Janaka is overwhelmed. New waves are rising in the heart. Trust has not arrived that what has happened could even happen. Still less has trust arrived that what has happened could happen to me. And how to trust that it could happen so instantly!

Janaka is filled with a deep, profound “ah-ness.” And Ashtavakra puts him through a very harsh trial; as if a child has just been born, and the examination begins at once.

But within that harshness is compassion. Within that harshness lies all of Janaka’s future. And this examination can be taken only at once. If even a little time is lost and the freshness of knowing evaporates, then to test becomes difficult.

Try to understand this a little.

When knowledge is fresh, it is fluid; it can be given new forms, new molds. Like a tiny sprout that has just come out—one can bend it, turn it in any direction, give it any shape. But once it becomes an old tree, to bend it is difficult—it will break, it will not bend!

So when knowledge is born, that is the moment. If one delays, if the wonder ends, the knowledge becomes solid, the fluidity is lost. The fire that had arisen dissolves. The lava that had flowed has cooled, become stone. Then to test it is very difficult—and the test is pointless too, because now a lot of breaking and uprooting will have to be done.

Therefore Ashtavakra did not lose even a single moment. Here Janaka is brimming with wonder; there Ashtavakra has already begun to tighten the screws.

In today’s sutras Janaka has replied. He has revealed the feelings of his heart toward the test being taken—these are very unique. Janaka did not get angry; had he even become a little angry, he would have failed; had he become even a little agitated, he would have failed. What he says is not as crucial a question as this: how did he take the test? Did he recognize Ashtavakra’s compassion, or only the harshness? If he had recognized only the harshness and forgotten the compassion, that would have meant the ego of Janaka was still not dead. Ego recognizes only harshness. Where ego has dissolved, only Maha-karuna is known. There even if the Master places a sword upon your neck, it feels as if a garland of flowers were laid. There even if the Master were to kill, the disciple is ready to die—because death from the Master’s hand—what could be more auspicious than that! What greater Great-Life could be! It is the Master’s great grace that if he separates your head, you are freed from the cage. If even death is given by the Master and there is no ego, the vision will be of compassion. And if there is ego—and even if the Master is bestowing the Great-Life—still doubts will arise.

A thousand doubts could have arisen in Janaka’s mind. The first might have been: am I being doubted? If such a doubt had arisen, reverence would have been lost. The dialogue that was flowing between Master and disciple would have halted, the bridge would have broken. The second might have been: has Ashtavakra become jealous? Seeing this emergence of knowing in me, has Ashtavakra become envious? Has the revolution rising in the disciple’s life produced jealousy in the Master’s heart?

Had such a feeling arisen, the disciple would no longer have remained a disciple. Then tens of thousands of leagues of distance would have opened up between Master and disciple. Then it would have become impossible for their voices to reach each other. Then they would have become dwellers of different worlds.

No—neither did any such doubt arise that the Master doubts me, nor any feeling that the Master is filled with jealousy; nor did Janaka make any effort to speak in his own defense.

Ordinarily, whenever someone says something to you and you sense a test, instantly you become ready to defend. You begin to argue, to debate. You erect a thousand premises to prove you are right.

Had Janaka made even the slightest effort to prove “I am right,” he would have been wrong—for only a wrong man tries to prove he is right. Had he given any argument and attempted intellectually to establish, “No, you are wrong; I am right”—in that very attempt he would have gone wrong.

The mathematics of life is very paradoxical. Here the one who sets out to prove “I am right” is proved wrong. For the very desire to prove oneself right only arises in the unconscious when, deep within, one already knows one is wrong. The feeling of self-defense arises from the inner recognition of wrong—from fear that the truth may be exposed—“My inner secret might be revealed! The Master is lifting the veils! He is rendering me naked!”

No—nothing of this sort arose either.

Listen to these sutras of Janaka—they are astonishing. The test was harsh, the Master’s gaze was like the edge of a sharp sword. And the Master did not show even a trace of mercy. The Master was merciless. He struck to the full extent possible, from every door; he left no exit to escape. First he blocked the door of enjoyment, then he blocked even the door of renunciation. He left no avenue to flee. The Master tightened from all sides. If even a little possibility of darkness had remained in Janaka, these sutras could not have been born. But no possibility of darkness remained.

Janaka has answered in such a way that there is no feeling of self-protection at all; such an answer in which there is no chain of logic. It is not even right to call it an answer. What Janaka has uttered is an echo, not an answer. The Master held the mirror before him; Janaka placed his heart before it; whatever shimmered in that mirror—these are those sutras. Not even a little attempt to hide behind a screen. Not even a startle filled with doubt. Not even a trace of argument brought in between. As if the Master had taken no test at all—Janaka has answered in that very manner.

The first sutra—Janaka said: “Hant! While playing with the play of enjoyment, the Self-knowing, steadfast man can never be equated with the foolish who carry the world upon their heads.”

The first word is “Hant!” Into it he poured his entire reverence. “Hant” is a very lovely word. Among the Jains its full form is “Arihant.” Among the Buddhists its form is “Arhat.” Hindus use the short “Hant.” Hant, Arihant, Arhat—mean the one who has conquered his enemies—desire, anger, greed, delusion; enjoyment, renunciation; this world, the other world! The one who has conquered all his cravings, who has attained desirelessness—that one is Arihant.

Announcing the sutra, Janaka addresses Ashtavakra as Arihant—with supreme reverence! There is no greater word in the language. Arihant means: Bhagavan; Arihant means: the ultimate state of consciousness, beyond which nothing remains. Whatever had to be removed has been removed; whatever had to be dropped has been dropped; whatever had to be erased has been erased; whatever had to be won has been won; now nothing remains—only an ocean of pure consciousness. Such a state is called “Arihant.”

And Hant has another meaning that is very precious. In ordinary speech we use it in one sense. When someone kills himself we say: atma-hanta. Hant means: the one who has erased himself; who has ended himself; in whom “I” no longer remains; in whom the ego is no more; who has entirely finished himself; who has kept no outline of himself, left neither name nor address; who has become like void; who has become the Great-Emptiness; who has attained Nirvana; who, in truth, has committed self-slaughter!

Those whom you call self-slayers are not self-slayers; they only slay the body. A man shoots himself—this should not be called self-slaughter, because the Atman does not die. The ego does not die. In fact, it is due to ego that he destroyed the body. The blow was falling on the ego; the stake had been placed; it looked difficult to be saved; bankruptcy was apparent; maybe the wife had run away, or he was defeated, or lost the election—he committed suicide. Do not call it “self-suicide”—call it “body-suicide,” “deha-suicide.” The mind, the ego—remain. He will be born again, soon; he will enter another body.

But the knower is truly an atma-hanta. He erases himself entirely. And in his erasing, the Supreme is. When you are lost, then God is. Where you are not, there is Bhagavan.

You and God can never meet. So long as you seek, you will wander—because as long as you seek, you remain you.

Yesterday a young man came from England and said to me, “I have come to you. I have great devotion to Jesus; great faith in Jesus—can you strengthen my faith? If you can fortify my faith, I am ready to take sannyas.”

I said to him: then we must make our talk clear, for to strengthen your faith will mean to strengthen you. You think you have faith in Jesus? You have some use for Jesus? It is your faith that must be strengthened! And until your every feeling of “I am” is erased, there can be no relationship with Jesus. If you leave yourself in my hands, my whole effort will be to erase your beliefs completely, because it is upon these very beliefs that you stand. When every support falls, you too will fall. And where you fall—there the cross stands! Where you fall, there your relationship with Christ happens.

I said to him: as long as you are a Christian, there can be no relationship with Christ. If you leave yourself to me, I will erase your Christ—your Christ entirely—for your Christ only feeds you. When you are finished, your Christ, your Christianity, your church, your scripture—all will be lost; and you too will be lost, the basis of them all! Then that which manifests—call it Christ, call it Buddha, call it Jina—call it whatsoever you wish. It makes no difference to me then—it is only a matter of names.

Jesus’s name was not “Christ,” nor was Buddha’s name “Buddha,” nor Mahavira’s name “Jina”—these are names of states of consciousness—the ultimate states. Jina means: the one who has conquered. Buddha means: the one who has awakened. “Christ” also means: the one who has gone through the cross and yet has not died; who has passed through death and attained the Great-Life—that is the meaning of Christ. The cross passed, yet nothing essential was erased. The eternal remained; only the nonessential fell away. He who died upon the cross was Jesus; he who remained beyond the cross is Christ. That is the meaning of the story of resurrection.

Hanta means: the one who has wiped himself out; erased himself; with his own hands strangled his ego. Then what remains is—we—like the Infinite, like the Endless, like the Eternal-Sanatan.

Janaka did well; the very first word he used in answering said everything. It said, in brief, that you will not be able to deceive me. You will not be able to make me angry. Test me as much as you wish; not for a moment will I forget that you have arrived. Because of your harshness, how could I even imagine you are jealous? You are not—so how could jealousy be? You are not—so how could ego be? You are not—so how could harshness be?

Therefore he used “Hant” as the first word. In that “Hant” he said everything. The matter ends there; the remaining sutras are elaboration. In the rest he spreads out the same point.

Hant-Atmajnasya dhirasya khelato bhoga-lilaya.
Na hi samsara-vahikair-mudhaih saha samanata.

“Hant! While playing with the play of enjoyment, the Self-knowing, steadfast man can never be equal to the fools who carry the world upon their heads.”

And he did not take the test personally. Look at the reply! He does not say, “You compare me with the ignorant!” He does not bring “me” into the middle at all. He does not raise the “I.” There is no personal involvement. The reply is completely impersonal.

He says: “Hant! The Self-knowing, steadfast man who plays with the play of enjoyment—he can never be equal to the fools who carry the world on their heads.”

Both stand in the world. The ignorant stands, the knower stands. Both stand in the marketplace—perhaps at the same place—but their stance differs. The place may be the same, the situations are different. The ignorant carries the load on his head; the knower has placed his bundle down upon the chariot. Let me tell you that story again. I repeat it often, for it is very important.

An emperor returns from the hunt, seated in his chariot; he sees a beggar on the road with a bundle upon his head. He brings him into the chariot: “I will drop you where you wish to get off; where shall I leave you?” The beggar is very nervous. He sits—but frightened. He wants to say, “No, Emperor, how can I sit in the chariot—no, no!”—but lacks the courage; lest the emperor be offended! He sits, shrunk upon the golden seat; afraid that he might soil everything. “I, a wretch, should sit upon this royal chariot!”—but he keeps his bundle upon his head.

After a while the emperor says, “O fool, put the bundle down! Why keep it on your head now?” He says, “No, Majesty, your kindness is not small as it is—that you have seated me! And should I place even the weight of my bundle upon your chariot? No, no—this would be excessive. This would be ill-mannered. Granted I am poor and low, but I have at least this much sense. I shall keep the bundle on my head; say what you will. I have sat—this is much; I should not even have sat. I sat out of fear lest you become angry. My feet are made to walk. I am a poor man; this chariot is not for me. I am in great difficulty as it is. So at least allow me to keep the bundle upon my head. To put even that load upon your chariot—I cannot do this.”

Now whether you keep the bundle upon your head while seated in the chariot or put it down—the load is the same.

Janaka says: the knower too sits in the chariot; the ignorant too sits in the chariot. The ignorant keeps the bundle upon his head; the knower places it down.

“One cannot in any way equate the knower with those fools who carry the world upon their heads.”

Why? “While playing with the play of enjoyment…”—for the knower everything has become leela, mere play. He participates in this world as a play. There is no taste left in the world for him. No “for” or “against” is left in his mind; no desire, no aversion. He participates—by the Lord’s will. The sutras will come later; but for him the world is a play.

You can sit in a shop in two ways. One is the ignorant’s: you think the shop is life. The knower’s way: you know it is a game—necessary; to be played; a part of life, but only a game. Both sit in the shop; the place is the same—but the inner state is very different. One is only a witness, because all is play. The other becomes an enjoyer, a doer, because everything is so serious.

The ignorant takes the world seriously; the knower takes it with a smile. That’s all—the distance of a smile. The wife dies: the ignorant too takes her to the cremation ground—but crying, screaming, wailing. The knower too takes her to the cremation ground… a play has come to completion. A drama is over, the curtain has fallen. There is nothing to cry or scream about. Within, he remains the witness. His seeing, his drashta-bhava does not get lost for even a moment. Only this much is the difference.

If the knower were to renounce the world and run away, then he would be no knower—then it would mean he still takes the world seriously; he is running away. He has not yet truly seen. His eyes have not become deep. He has not descended into life’s innermost core. He has not yet recognized that neither enjoyer nor doer is he—he is only the witness.

In America, the first centennial of Lincoln was celebrated. An actor played the part of Lincoln for one year throughout America. His face resembled Lincoln’s. So he was given the role. And the troupe traveled to every big city, to villages too, for a year. The man kept acting Lincoln for a year.

Little by little, people began to suspect that something was going wrong. He wore Lincoln’s clothes on stage, and gradually he began to wear them offstage too. He began to walk offstage the way Lincoln walked. Lincoln limped a little, so he began limping outside as well. Lincoln stammered a little; so he began stammering outside too. People asked: what kind of joke is this?

At first people thought he was joking. But gradually they became serious, for he had fully accepted that he had become Lincoln.

When he came home after a year, he came as though he were Abraham Lincoln. Acting for a year, he forgot that he was an actor. He accepted: I am Abraham Lincoln. A saying spread about him that until he is shot, he will not believe it. Just as Lincoln was shot and killed—until he is killed, he will not believe.

Every sort of treatment was tried; doctors were called; psychologists too. All grew tired explaining. They tried to make him understand; he only sat smiling. He said, “You are saying such amusing things! It is too much—you are explaining to me that I am not Abraham Lincoln? Are you in your right mind? What deficiency do you see in me?”

There was no deficiency—in performance he was perfect. He walked that way, spoke that way, sat and rose that way; grew the same beard and moustache—everything exactly so.

Finally the physicians too were tired. They said, “This man is beyond! His conviction has become so deep!”

Just then a machine had been invented in America, used in courts to detect lies—the lie detector. They make a man stand upon the machine and ask him questions—questions to which he can never give false answers. Like showing him a watch and asking, “What time is it?” If it is eight-thirty, he says, “Eight-thirty.” What lie can he tell—the watch is before him. They ask, “What color is this—saffron or green?” He says, “Saffron.” What lie can he tell? They place a book before him and ask, “Is this the Koran or the Bible?” He says, “Bible.” What lie can he tell? They ask five or seven such questions in which telling the truth is unavoidable; there is no room to lie. Below, the machine draws a graph—like a cardiogram—showing that the heartbeats are steady.

Then suddenly they ask, “Did you steal?” In his heart the voice says, “Yes”—for he did. But he swallows it and says, “No!” The graph receives a jolt—because for the first time he wanted to say one thing and said another. A jerk happens to the heartbeat, to the breath; a conflict arises; the conflict is caught. And there they catch him.

Someone suggested, “Stand this man upon the lie detector.” They did so. Physicians gathered; relatives too. The man himself was tired—every day all kept explaining. That day he said, “All right, end the fuss. I am Abraham Lincoln, but what can I do! The world is not ready to agree, so let the world go—say that I am not. End the story now.”

They put him on the lie detector; asked five or seven questions that he could answer accurately. Then they asked, “Are you Abraham Lincoln?” He said, “No!” And below the lie detector said he is lying. Such a deep conviction! Above he said, “No!” The lie detector said, “He is Abraham Lincoln!”

Our condition is like this. Birth after birth… he acted only for a single year; we have acted as doers and enjoyers for countless births. No lie detector can catch us. Even if we stand upon a lie detector and say, “We are the witness,” the machine will say, “This man is lying—he is a doer-enjoyer, not a witness.”

Our habit has become long and ancient—antique, it has been going on for ages.

When a person awakens, he does not run anywhere—where would he run? Awakening makes only this difference. This difference is very small and very great—both at once. No one will even notice—it is such a difference. It will shimmer only when you stand before the Master; only in his mirror will it be seen; no one else will notice. Even your wife may not recognize when you changed from doer to witness. When, in which hour, in which moment the revolution happened—perhaps even your husband will not recognize; your children will not know. Those closest to your heart may not come to know—for this revolution is very subtle—subtle, ultra-subtle. So subtle that either you will know or the Master will know. No one else can recognize it.

Because you will remain as you appear. If you kept a shop, then after the revolution you will still go and sit at the shop, weigh with the scales, sell, bargain with customers—everything will continue. You will come home; pat the heads of the children; bring flowers or ice cream for the wife—everything will continue. Perhaps it will all flow even better than before, for a deep understanding has now arisen. You will not want to give anyone needless pain.

But within, a revolution has occurred. Now you are far, far away. You are very distant now. You act, but there is no seriousness in the doing. Now it is a drama. Now you have awakened that this is all Rama-leela. Now you have become aware.

Only one who knows this awareness can recognize and test it. Hence the great need for a Master, for only the Master can be the witness of it.

Janaka said: “Hant! The Self-knowing, steadfast man who plays with the play of enjoyment can never be equated with the fools who carry the world upon their heads.”

Notice—he does not bring “I” into the answer. If even a little ignorance had remained, he would have said, “What are you saying? You compare me with fools?”—such would have been the reply. The words would have been similar, but with a slight twist: “You compare me with fools! I am a knower; knowledge has dawned upon me!” No—he does not raise such a thing at all. The one in whom knowledge has arisen—his “I” has set. There is no reason now to raise “I.” He speaks directly—principle. Straight talk—truth, sutra.

Hant-Atmajnasya dhirasya khelato bhoga-lilaya.

“Hant, O Arihant! The knower plays with the bhoga-leela, he does not carry it. The world is sport, not serious action.”

The ignorant, even when he plays, gets entangled, becomes serious. The knower, even when he performs action, does not get entangled; he remains awake. He keeps knowing that his nature is only to witness. Such a refrain hums day and night—I am the witness. This “I am witness” remains standing in the background. Everything keeps happening. Birth happens, death happens; defeat, victory; honor, dishonor—everything happens. Sometimes palaces, sometimes huts—everything happens. But within, the knower keeps knowing: it is leela, play, sport.

You have seen—you walk the same road for a morning stroll, and along the same road you go to the office at noon; the road is the same, you are the same, the trees along the way the same; sun, sky, neighbors all the same—yet when you go to the office, there is tension in your gait. Then there is worry in your mind. In the morning, walking the same route—no worry, no tension. Because you are not going anywhere—it is a play. You went for a walk; to take the air. You can return from anywhere; there is no goal to reach; you did not set out to arrive anywhere; you set out only to stroll. When you set out to stroll, there is a certain joy. When you go for work, all joy is lost.

The knower turns all his work into play; the ignorant turns even play into work. That is the only difference. For the knower, karma becomes mere acting; for the ignorant, even acting becomes karma. He grasps acting seriously. The knower holds to nothing in life, and he drops nothing. There is no question of grasping or dropping. Whatever comes, whatever happens—he lets it happen. He only keeps watching.

“Of that state for which Indra and other gods become beggars in desire—upon attaining that seat the yogi does not come to joy—this is the wonder.”

The statement is impersonal.

Yat-padam prepsavo dinaah shakra-adyah sarva-devatah…
Aho! Tatra sthito yogi na harsham upagacchati.

“Even the gods beginning with Shakra (Indra) are impoverished, craving that state: ‘Give more, give more, give more!’ Those who appear to have everything still beg. Begging ceases not, poverty departs not, inferiority is not erased. However high the post, the inferiority persists: ‘A higher post! A little more power! A little more empire! A slightly bigger vault!’ There is no end to it. The beggar remains a beggar.

‘For that very state for which Indra and the gods are impoverished in desire…’

‘Ah! The yogi, seated there, does not come to joy.’ His entire beggary is gone.

Understand this.

So long as you can be happy, you can also be unhappy. Happiness and sorrow come together—like day and night. You cannot save one and discard the other. You cannot manage to keep joy and throw away sorrow. You cannot arrange for days only, with nights abolished. If you save day, night will remain. If you save pleasure, pain will remain. If you save birth, death will remain. If you save the friend, the enemy will remain. You cannot go beyond the duality. The day you see that they are linked—two sides of the same coin—that day the whole coin falls from your hand. The yogi is seated upon that very seat for which even great gods have longing—yet he does not come to joy.

“Even seated there, not the slightest joy arises.”

Why? Because what is attained there is one’s own nature. Why rejoice at that? What should have been attained was attained. What had always been there is what is found. That which by mistake was thought to be lost has been found. It was never lost. What is there to be joyous about? Finding one’s own property—what joy is that?

Janaka says: the wonder is precisely this, that even after attaining all, the yogi does not come to joy. Joy does not happen to a yogi at all.

Do not mistake bliss for joy. Joy is a feverish state. Joy exhausts as well. You cannot remain long in joy. Waves arise in joy. Just as there are waves of anxiety, so there are waves of joy. Just as there are waves of sorrow, so there are waves of pleasure. The only difference is that you do not like the waves of sorrow; you like the waves of joy—that’s all. But both are waves. In both the mind is disturbed. In both the mind breaks into fragments. Your wholeness gets scattered. Your still lake is lost. Your mirror gets covered.

Tatra sthito yogi na harsham upagacchati—aho!
Ah, wonder, Lord! Janaka begins to tell Ashtavakra: that for which the whole world is running; for which the journey of births has been proceeding, the search for the Infinite has been going on from the Infinite—upon attaining that, even seated upon that throne, there is no trace of joy in the yogi. Even there he remains the witness. His witness-consciousness is not lost even there. Not even a small ripple rises. His sky remains clear as ever. Neither the clouds of sorrow nor of joy—no clouds gather at all.

“The touch of virtue and vice does not arise upon the inner being of the one who knows that state; just as the sky, though smoke appears within it, is not truly in contact with smoke.”

You have seen: you light a hearth, smoke rises. Smoke spreads into the sky, but it cannot soil the sky; it does not touch it. So many clouds arise—also a kind of smoke; again and again they vanish. How many times clouds have arisen and disappeared—the sky has not become even slightly tainted. Neither does white cloud make it purer, nor do black clouds make it impure.

Janaka says: “The inner being of the knower of that state becomes like the sky.”

Tajjñasya punya-papabhyam sparsho hy-antarn na jayate.
Na hy akashasya dhumena drishyamanopi sangatih.

Just as by the company of smoke the sky remains untouched, virgin—un-contacted—so the sky of the knower’s witness-bhava does not become smoky with anything. His radiance, that inner light, burns without smoke. Neither do palaces make him wealthy nor huts make him poor. Sitting upon thrones, gold does not touch him; wandering the roads like a beggar, wretchedness does not touch him.

“The great soul who has known this entire world as the Self—who can restrain such a present knower from acting according to his own spontaneous sfurana?”

A very unique sutra now.

Hi akashasya sangatih drishyamanaapi dhumena na…
“The one who has become like the sky—whom smoke can no longer touch…”

“The great soul who has known this whole world as the Self…”

When the “I” is erased, distinctions vanish. Like when you fence your house—you become different from your neighbor. Remove the fences, burn the fences—the earth was always one; you had fixed a fence in the middle; remove it and instantly you become one with the whole earth.

The boundary of “I” is there. We have drawn a limit around ourselves; a Lakshmana-rekha within which we do not go out, nor do we let anyone else enter. The day you erase this Lakshmana-rekha—then nothing remains outside, nothing remains inside; outside and inside become one. The outside becomes inside, the inside becomes the outside. If you build a house, raise brick walls—the sky remains outside, a little sky remains inside. One day you demolish the walls; then that sky which you called “inside”—you can no longer call inside; and that which you called outside—you can no longer call outside. “Outside” and “inside” had meaning only in reference to the wall. Now that the wall has fallen, what is outside? What is inside? How can you say outside? How can you say inside? With the fall of the wall, outside-inside also fall. Only the One remains.

“The great soul who has known this entire world as the Self—who can restrain such a present knower from acting according to his spontaneous sfurana?”

Atmavedam jagat sarvam jñatam yena mahatmana.
Yadrichchhaya vartamanam tam nishedhdhum shameta kah?

Who has the capacity? How will anyone restrain him?

Understand Janaka’s sutra very deeply. This is Janaka’s very answer. Janaka is saying: now who will restrain? When I have become One, who now will restrain? Whatever happens, happens. Whatever will happen, will happen. There is no restrainer now. It is now yadrichchhaya—by spontaneity. Now it is destiny. Now it is the Will—call it Parameshvara, or any name you like. Now “That” which makes things happen—will happen. Nothing will now be by “my” doing. I am no more. I am gone. Then whatever will happen, we shall watch. If he keeps me in a palace, I shall live in the palace. If he takes the palace away, I shall watch him taking it away.

There is a tale in Janaka’s life: a Master had a disciple; after many years of effort, seeing no progress in Samadhi, the Master said, “Go to Janaka.” One whose meditative movement was not happening was obviously very egoistic. He said, “I—and go to Janaka? And what will Janaka teach me? He should first learn himself; let him first renounce! He lives in palaces; lives amidst pleasure and color—what on earth can he teach me? But since you say it, I shall go. Guru’s order—I must.”

He went—but he did not go. He went out of compulsion, with reluctance. The order had to be honored. The Master said go—so he went, but stiff with pride.

When he reached Janaka’s court, there music was resounding; courtesans were dancing; cups of wine were being poured; courtiers were in intoxication. Janaka sat in their midst. He laughed to himself: “I knew it beforehand. He himself has no awareness yet. What is he doing here? And if he is a knower, then who is ignorant? And if I am to learn from him… it seems inverted: I can teach him something.”

Janaka rose. A brahmin had come—he bowed to his feet and said, “Rest now; in the morning, after you have rested, present your inquiry.”

He said, “What inquiry! What do you take yourself to be? Am I to inquire of you?”

Janaka said, “As you wish—ask or don’t; but first rest, eat.”

Food and rest were arranged. It was perfectly clear to Janaka where the knot lay; why the Master had sent him. This man was finished with enjoyment; he had become a renunciate. And it is difficult to bring a hedonist to meditation—but to bring a renunciate is much more difficult. The very barrier that ego is for meditation becomes even stronger in the renunciate—becomes steel, truly. The renunciate’s ego becomes Stalin. (Stalin’s name is from steel.) It becomes utterly of steel. To bend him is difficult!

Janaka saw it. He washed the renunciate’s feet. The renunciate stiffened more. He said, “I already knew—what can this fool teach me! He is washing my feet! He himself is eager to learn from me. In the morning he will be the one to inquire.” He slept with pride. The little anxiety he had in his mind—that too vanished: he would have to learn from someone. For the ego, to teach is great fun. To learn—the ego is not ready at all. To be the guru—the ego is ready at once. To become a disciple is a great difficulty.

Morning came. Janaka came to the door to wake him and said, “Let us go to bathe. A river flows behind—let us bathe there.”

They went to the river to bathe. The renunciate had nothing but a loincloth—two loincloths. He placed one upon the bank and wore one into the river. Janaka went along with him. While they were bathing, the renunciate cried, “O Janaka, your palace is on fire! Your whole palace is aflame!”

Janaka said, “My palace? Say only: the palace is on fire. What is ‘mine’! I did not bring it with me, I shall not take it with me.”

He said, “You know best—your palace; my loincloth…!” He ran, because he had left his loincloth near the palace wall.

Later Janaka said to him, “Think: the palace is roaring in flames, and I say—I came without a palace, I shall go without a palace. Whether it remains or burns—what difference does it make? I watch! But you could not be the witness even of your tiny loincloth. So the question is not how big your property is—millions or a single shell—the question is: what is your attitude toward it—enjoyer or witness?”

They say this fire had been set by Janaka. It was an instruction for that foolish renunciate.

“The great soul who has known this entire world as the Self—who can restrain such a present knower from acting according to his spontaneous sfurana?”

Who will restrain? None remains! Janaka is saying: I am no more now. Master, whose test are you taking? The one who could be tested has gone. You cannot even say to me, “Why do you do this and not that?”—for who will control now? I am not—now what happens, happens.

This is talk of the supreme state.

You have seen—little children incur no sin; in court they incur no crime—because they have no consciousness. The mad too incur no crime—because they have no consciousness. The Buddhas too incur no crime—because they have gone beyond consciousness. The knot is of the one who stands in between. Below there is no sin, above there is no sin. You cannot call animals sinners, for to be a sinner requires awareness. But you cannot call a Buddha a sinner either, for his awareness is so dense that the sense of doership is not.

I have heard—Mulla Nasruddin, on a winter day, was sitting outside, taking the sun. His son was doing homework. He twisted the boy’s ears, abused him: “You bastard! Which rascal birthed you? You wretch!”

A pundit lived next door—he heard. “This is too much. He is abusing himself! The son of an owl means you yourself are an owl. Then, the son of an owl!”

“Which rascal birthed you! Bastard!”

The pundit thought—he too was taking the sun—he could not hold himself back. He said, “Mulla, think whom these abuses strike!” Mulla said, “They strike only the one who understands abuse! I do not understand, and this son of an owl—what will he understand! You understand—so they strike you!”

They say the pundit quickly went inside. “Trouble—why should I get into this?”

So, there are children, the insane; animals and birds, trees—there is no sin there because there is no understanding. Then there are Buddhas, Ashtavakras, Jesus, Mahavira—there awareness is so compact that the sense of doership is not. Neither have sin. Sin is for the pundits in between—those who understand. You think you have done, hence you become a sinner. You think you have done, hence you become virtuous. You think you have done—hence an enjoyer. You think you have done—hence a renunciate. The day you understand you have done nothing—whatever is happening, is happening; you are only the watcher—on that day there is neither sin nor virtue; neither yoga nor bhoga.

That is why Ashtavakra is speaking of the supreme yoga—one that goes even beyond yoga. In such a state neither a rule remains nor a prohibition remains.

Janaka began to say:

Atmavedam jagat sarvam jñatam yena mahatmana…
“Those great ones who have known themselves as one with the world…”

Yadrichchhaya vartamanam tam nishedhdhum shameta kah.
“…how shall they restrain, what shall they restrain, what shall they change?”

Even the longing to change is the longing of ego. Sadhana is also the arrangement of the ego. Anushthana is the process of ego. That is why Janaka has said: you yourself have said that adhisthana, anushthana, basis, refuge—all are obstacles. Nothing remains to be done, for the doer is no more. This does not mean that karma does not remain. Karma will continue. Karma has its own flow. The body will feel hunger, the body will ask for food. Only this difference will be there now—that you will watch, awake, that the body feels hunger, give the body food. But hunger belongs to the body; satiety that will follow food also belongs to the body. You are the witness of hunger, you are the witness of satiety; in every condition you are the witness. Karma will continue. Karma is the law, the destiny. Karma belongs to the whole, not to the person—to the totality. It is the Supreme moving. Thousands of actions are flowing. Whatever work he wishes to take from you, he will keep taking. But now you know you are not the doer. You are only an instrument. In this state Janaka says: who will restrain, how will he restrain; who will control, who will do sadhana, who will impose discipline?

“Those great ones who have known the entire world as the Self; that present knower…”

Notice this word too—he says “the present knower.” The knower is not in the past, nor is the knower in the future. The happening of knowing is a happening of the present. Either now—or never. Whenever knowledge happens, it happens in the “now.” Because only now existence is. What has gone is gone; what has not yet come has not come. In between these two lies a thin stream, very fine—of life-consciousness, of existence—in which knowledge happens. The present knower lives by his own sfurana—spontaneous sfurana. It arises from the “whole.” We do not produce it; we do not control it. We are neither its begetters nor its controllers. The sfurana comes.

Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming on the trees. All this is happening spontaneously. This sfurana is cosmic. The trees have no ego. The tree does not say, “I am making flowers bloom.” Such a state returns when the circle is complete and one attains Buddhahood, Arihantness; then that state arrives again.

Ask Buddha, “Are you walking?” Buddha will say, “No—I am not, how shall I walk? That alone walks which walks in all—the one who blossoms like a flower; who flows like a river; who flies like a bird in the sky; who spreads like the sky into the infinite—that one walks.”

Ask Buddha, “Are you speaking?” He will say, “No—that alone speaks.”

“We are only a bamboo flute,” Kabir said. “He who sings—we let him be expressed; we give him the way; we do not obstruct. We are only the instrument.”

The present knower: the one whose witness is awake in the moment of the present.

You can see—if you wish, you can see it now; there is no obstacle. You can see by becoming the witness right now. Things will continue. If there is a body, hunger will come. If there is a body, thirst will come. If the sun shines, heat will be felt. If the cold rises, winter will be felt. If you put food into the body, satiety will happen. If you wear warm clothes, the cold will go. If you move from sun to shade, the sun will go. Karma will continue; only the doer will not remain within. You will not say, “I am troubled, I am afflicted, I am hungry.” You will only say, “Now the body is hungry—let us give it something.”

And the body being hungry—there is nothing of yours in it. Nature itself is hungry in the body. And if sitting in the sun the body is heated, then the Supreme itself is heating—what of yours is there? If you forcibly sit the body in the sun to roast it, that is the ego returning. You say, “I will roast it, because I am a renunciate; if I do not roast, how will there be penance; so I shall roast”—then you have stepped in as the controller. You did not allow what was happening to happen. Had you let it be, the body would have risen of its own.

Try it. Flow in it a little. You will be amazed. You are in the sun; the sun is hot—just watch. Suddenly you will see—the body stands up by itself; the body walks to the shade. You will say, “If we do not make it walk, how will it walk?” Again you speak wrongly. You do not know. You have never tried the experiment. Hunger comes; the body moves toward the refrigerator. You only watch. Do not stop and do not push. This is the supreme formula: live by sfurana. Let what is happen. Do not pass judgment of good or bad… Who are you? Do not keep accounts of sin and virtue. Let what happens, happen—flow with it.

“From Brahma down to the ant, among the four orders of living beings, only the knower has the definite capacity to renounce both desire and non-desire.”

Desire and non-desire both cease in the knower; enjoyment and renunciation both. Desire is enjoyment; non-desire is renunciation. Likes and dislikes both stop. For the knower says: we have no choice at all. Whatever happens—whatever happens naturally—we will keep watching. We will let it happen. We will not bend it this way, nor that. What happens naturally—we will let that be.

Listen to this. Contemplate this. Let this reach your heart. Let its light reach your breath. You will find it is a most liberating thing. Whatever is to happen—let it happen. We shall do no “no-no.”

The enjoyer says: more enjoyment. Even when the hunger is gone, he keeps eating. The body says: stop now! The body’s sfurana says: that’s enough, don’t eat. But the enjoyer keeps on eating.

There is no enjoyment in food; when the body says “no” and you keep eating—that is enjoyment. Then there is the renunciate; the body says it is hungry; the renunciate says, “I am fasting. These are the holy days. I am a faster; I cannot eat! Keep asking, keep crying.”

When the body is hungry, that is natural. But the force you are now applying—that is the ego entering. In force there is ego. In violence there is ego.

Violence is of two types: of the enjoyer and of the renunciate. People come and ask me: why don’t you teach renunciation to your sannyasins?… It is very difficult! I teach my sannyasins naturalness: neither enjoyment nor renunciation. Eat as much as the body’s natural sfurana demands. Sleep as much as the body’s natural sfurana asks. Work that much; speak that much; be silent that much—as is natural. Do not let the unnatural happen. Where you become unnatural, there balance is lost, sannyas is lost.

You can lose sannyas in two ways. Sannyas means balance; samyak nyasa—settling exactly in the middle; neither to this side nor that. The renunciate is not a sannyasin—he cannot be; just as the enjoyer cannot be a sannyasin. Both have tilted. The sannyasin stands in the middle. Naturalness is his discipline. The inspiration of the Supreme is the only organizing principle of his life. That is his method.

So the Zen fakir Bokuju was asked—someone asked, “What do you do? What is your practice?” He said, “When hungry, I eat; when sleepy, I sleep.” The questioner must have been startled. “Is this anything? Everyone does this. Anyone does it. What is great in it?”

Bokuju laughed. He said, “I have barely seen a few who do this. When hunger comes, you do not eat—or you overeat. When sleep comes, you do not sleep—or you oversleep. Either too little or too much. Too little is renunciation; too much is enjoyment. Exactly right—samyak—is sannyas; only as much as is natural.”

Hold the thread of naturalness, and liberation is not far. Hold the thread of naturalness, and Samadhi is not far. Practice—sahaj Samadhi is good!

That which Kabir called sahaj Samadhi—that is what Janaka is saying; offering it before his Master. He is saying, “I have understood. Incite me as you like—you will not be able to incite. Because the real thing has happened; I have seen. Now however many ways you twist, you will not deceive me. Now I have seen that I am the witness, and what happens happens by sfurana. Neither am I the stopper, nor am I the bringer. I have nothing to do with it. I have stood aside. Hunger comes—I will eat. Sleep comes—I will sleep.”

Someone once asked Bokuju again, “Before you attained knowledge, what was your daily routine?” He said, “Then I lived in the Master’s ashram; I would cut wood from the forest and bring water from the well.” Then he asked, “Now? Now that you have become a Master and knowledge has happened—what is your daily routine?”

Bokuju said, “The same—I cut wood from the forest; I bring water from the well.”

The man said, “This is too much! Then what difference happened?” Bokuju said, “The difference happened within, not without. The difference is known to me—or to my Master. In work there is no difference. In awareness there is difference. The action is the same. I still cut wood—but now I am not the doer. I still bring water—but now I am not the doer. I remain only the witness. Actions go on; beyond the actions a new feeling and a new knowing has arisen. A new sun has dawned!”

Vijnasya eva iccha-aniccha vivarjane hi samarthyam!

He says: the knower has only this one capacity—that he becomes free of both desire and non-desire. He neither says “let it be so,” nor does he say “let it not be so.” He says, “As it is, I agree. However it is, I will watch. I am the witness—so however it is, what difference does it make? If there is loss, fine; if there is victory, fine. Loss—yours; victory—yours. Success—yours; failure—yours. Now I will watch. I will watch life, I will watch death as well.”

Once the witness has arisen, the whole of life is transformed. The Lord’s will!

Jesus is hanging upon the cross; at the last moment he begins to say, “O Father, what is this you are showing me? Have you forsaken me?” But he is startled; he understands his own words—what have I said—there has been a complaint! This in effect means: “You are not fulfilling my will.” This puts my will above and the Lord’s will below. I have advised Him. I have attempted to control the Whole.

So he says, “No, no—forgive! Forgive—I erred. Thy will be done! Forget me. Do not keep my words in mind. Let Thy will alone be done!” The Lord’s will!

If the word “Lord” pleases you, use it. If it does not, there is no need—it is only a word. Sarva-iccha—say “the will of the Whole.” The will of the Total. The will of Existence. Say what you wish. Only keep this in mind: not the will of the person, but of the collectivity. So long as you live by the will of the person—samsara. When you live by the will of the total—moksha. Moksha means liberation from oneself. What is, is. What happens, happens. Let me not come in between. Whatever scene is shown—let me see it; whether desert or oasis. Let me not come in between. What is, is; what happens, happens. No desire for otherwise. This is the meaning of renouncing desire and non-desire: neither rule nor prohibition. The knower is not a pebble of rule-prohibition; he is not a slave. The knower does not know any personal discipline—he is dissolved into the discipline of the Whole.

“Only a few ever know the Atman as nondual and as the Lord of the world…”

“Only a rare one, sometimes, knows the Atman as nondual and as the Lord of the world. Whatever He deems to be done—that He does. He has no fear anywhere.”

Atmanam advayam kashchid janati jagad-ishvaram.
Yad veti tat sa kurute—na bhayam tasya kutrachit.

Understand—only rarely does someone attain such a great moment where the drop dissolves into the ocean; where the ego dives into the Void; where the limited is immersed in the Unlimited! Rare, sometimes! Blessed is such a rare man! It should happen to all—but we do not let it happen. We keep throwing obstacles. It should happen to all. It is everyone’s natural birthright. But we erect a thousand hindrances; we do not let it be.

It is very amusing—you will be amazed to hear—that what you want, you do not let happen. None other than you is your enemy. You want bliss—and you do not let bliss happen! Because bliss can happen only in naturalness. You want freedom—and you do not let freedom happen. Because freedom is possible only in uniting with the sfurana of the Whole. You do not want worry and sorrow—but you keep creating them—because worry and sorrow are in struggle.

In surrender there is no worry, no sorrow. Flow with the current. The Ganga is going to the ocean—flow with her! There is no need even to row—let the boat be! Break the oar! This Ganga is going to the ocean. Do not flow against the current. Do not try to get to Gangotri. Otherwise you will break; you will be sorrowful and troubled.

Whoever goes against nature breaks—not that nature breaks him; he breaks by going against nature. Whoever goes with nature—there is no way to break him.

He who does not struggle—how will he be defeated? He who does not desire victory—how will he be defeated? Leave yourself—this Ganga goes—come, flow upon it.

Hindus have built all their holy places upon the banks of rivers; among many reasons is one—that the river may remain before the eyes! That the flowing river to the ocean may be remembered. And that this feeling never be forgotten—that we have to let ourselves go—like the river.

The river does nothing—only flows. In flowing there is no effort, no striving. The river carries no map. When the Ganga issues from Gangotri, she has no map of where the ocean is. Yet she reaches the ocean. All rivers reach! Even small rivulets, streams—they too reach. They find their way—without any scripture. They know one trick: do not flow upward, do not try to climb. Keep flowing; wherever a depression appears—sink into it.

The nature of water is to flow downward. The river knows only this nature. Sitting by rivers, Hindu sages, sannyasins, seers—call them what you will—knew one truth: become like a river in your flowing, and you will reach the ocean. Those who flow always arrive.

“Rarely does someone know the nondual, the Lord-form…”

To know the Lord-form of the world you must lose your own form—this is the condition; the bargain! If you wish to save yourself and also know the Lord, this is impossible; it cannot be. Either save yourself and lose the Lord; or lose yourself and save the Lord. Your choice! And those who lose themselves and save the Lord—do not think they make a costly bargain. The costly bargain is yours: saving the pebble and losing the diamond.

Those whom you call knowers have not made a costly bargain. They are very wise. They have dropped the pebble and saved the diamond. What do you have besides suffering and hell? If you are, what is there besides pain and anxiety? You are a thorn in your own chest. What will you do by saving this? The one who surrenders this—only that rare one…

Atmanam advayam kashchid janati jagad-ishvaram.

Only that rare one, sometimes, knows the Lord. And the one who knows Him—

Yad veti tat sa kurute.

Then he does nothing. Then only that is done which He deems to be done. He has no will left of his own.

Yad veti tat sa kurute—
—He does only what the Lord makes him do.

Janaka has answered beautifully. Exactly. Ashtavakra must have danced within, must have blossomed! This was the answer searched for. This was the reply sought.

Tasya bhayam kutrachit na—
—And then where is fear for such a one!

He who has left himself in the Supreme—where is fear for him! Fear is only so long as you fight the Whole. And fear is natural, for you cannot defeat the Whole. So fear is entirely natural. Death is bound to happen. Defeat is bound to be. Your journey is defeated from the very beginning.

Who will ever win against the Whole? How will a part win against the Whole? So he is fearful, trembling—like a small child fighting his father—how will he win? The same small child takes his father’s hand and walks with him—now how will he lose?

Once you bind yourself in unison, in one-ness, one-note with the Supreme—what fear then?

Tasya bhayam kutrachit na!

The scriptures say: “Brahmavit brahmaiva bhavati—the knower of Brahman becomes Brahman.”

What fear then? As we know, so we become.

You knew the petty—you became petty; you knew the Vast—you will become vast. Your knowing becomes your being. Brahmavit brahmaiva bhavati. And the scriptures also say: “Tarati shokam atmavit—he who knows the Self crosses beyond all sorrow.” Then he has no fear, no sorrow, no pain.

All sorrow, all pain, all fear, all hell are centered in the ego. Without the ego all this collapses like a house of cards in a gust of wind. A slight breeze of knowledge, a small wind of witness-bhava—and all the cards scatter.

Janaka did not give a direct answer. A direct answer was not even sought. Janaka has given an impersonal answer, standing afar; as if no test of his were happening. Because when you become conscious that your test is being taken, tension arises. Had tension arisen, Janaka would have failed. Had he become restless to defend, to prove—there would have been trouble. He is not the least bit restless; not the least bit worried. He stands far away and looks—as if someone else’s test were happening. As if it has nothing to do with Janaka.

Many friends have asked: why does the Master test? Does the Master not have such capacity that he can see whether the disciple has truly attained or not? The Master knows all—then why test?

A test is not only a test—it is also a device for further progress. These questions that Ashtavakra asked—they are not only a test. A test would mean: what has been known till now, to weigh it. If it were only a test, it would be pointless; what has been known is visible even to Ashtavakra. But by raising questions regarding what has been known, seeing how Janaka responds now, that very response becomes his future growth. So the test is twofold—with reference to the past—but that is secondary. It has little value. Ashtavakra can know that directly; he is already seeing what has happened. But by asking about what has happened, the response Janaka will bring, the answer he will give—by that, new doors will open.

There are two possibilities. If Janaka answers wrongly, doors behind can close; those that were opening might close again. And if he answers rightly, those doors that had opened will remain open—and more doors will open too. It will all depend upon Janaka’s answer.

Before the Master, what has happened till now in Janaka is clear—but what will happen is clear to no one. What will happen has not yet happened. The future is still in the void, formless; it has not yet taken form. The past is known. The past is known to Ashtavakra more than to Janaka. As much as Janaka can say about himself, Ashtavakra can see more.

Ashtavakra’s vision is certainly more steady and deeper. He will see right to the inside. That is not the question. The question is of the future. The future is unknown. What will be a moment later cannot be said—because life is not mechanical; life is supreme freedom. Just as a thing is about to happen—it can stop; just as it is occurring—it can halt. A man can reach the very last step and turn back.

A man was about to jump. In my childhood I loved leaping from heights into the river; the higher the better. My friends were very troubled—for if I jumped and they did not, their ego would be hurt. But if they jumped, their life was in danger! Often I saw someone gathering courage, running with me to jump—from forty feet, thirty feet, fifty feet. Then slowly I got so delighted that I began to jump from the railway bridge over the river—very dangerous. Someone would run with me to the bridge—till the very edge; I would jump, he would remain standing! He had come to the very edge. There was no doubt. He ran with me, he arrived at the brink…

Once it so happened in Pachmarhi—a hill station not far from my village—we went to jump into a waterfall. One of my friends, who had jumped at many places with me, got frightened from that height. He jumped, but in the middle he grabbed a root and hung on. What will you do now? He had jumped. It was not that he had not jumped—he had jumped, but grabbed a root in between. When I reached the water, dove under and came up, I said, “Now this is difficult.” Getting him down was very difficult.

What has already happened, Ashtavakra can see; but what is about to happen—there is no way. The future is entirely formless! It may happen; it may not. So do not take this merely as a test; it is more than a test. It is a test—but more: it is a pointing toward the future. More than a test, it is a device to bring the future into a certain direction; to give the future a form; to give birth to the future.

And the answers Janaka has given clearly say—the leap has happened—and will continue to happen. Janaka’s answer made it clear that he passed fully in the test; and regarding the future too the journey has been cleared; new doors have opened.

Whatever the Master does, he does rightly. If such questions arise in your mind—does the Master not have the capacity to know—if such a question had arisen in Janaka’s mind too, he would have missed. He too could have said, “Master, you are omniscient; and you test me! Open your eyes and look into me—then you will know.”

No, Janaka did not say that either. For if the Master is testing, there will be a secret in the testing. Some secret that Janaka does not yet know. Janaka silently accepted the test.

Whatever examinations the Master places before you, accept—that is wisdom. Because you can be explained only as much as you can understand. There is something else that must be made to happen to you. This examination was a situation. The Master created a situation. In this situation, what reply Janaka brings, what echo happens within him—an opportunity was given for that. From this the past will of course be known—even without this it could be known—but from this the future too will be assured. A line will be drawn, a dimension will be made clear.

Such questions have been asked by many friends. I had not answered them till now, for I wanted you first to hear Janaka’s answer.

As I discussed “naturalness” earlier—one friend came and said, “You spoke in such a way that Swabhava might feel hurt.” I said, if it gets hurt, then he is unpassed. “Swabhava might not understand and become angry, enraged.” If enraged, then as I said, the elephant got through but the tail remained—the whole head they shaved but left the topknot; the elephant got through, the tail got stuck—then the whole Swabhava got stuck through the tail!

No—but Swabhava did not take it badly, nor was it hurt. It tried to understand. If that effort remains, then the elephant has already passed through; one day the tail will pass too. Swabhava has done rightly.

Hari Om Tat Sat!