Maha Geeta #2

We are on this earth, and yet in truth we neither can be nor are we of this earth. It appears we are strangers here. We have made our home in the body, but the body is not our home. As if someone settled in a foreign land and forgot his homeland—and then one day, suddenly, in the marketplace on the road he meets someone who reminds him of home, who speaks his language: for a moment the foreign disappears and the homeland is revealed.

This is the value of scripture. This is the meaning of the words of the scriptures. Listening to them, for a moment we are not here; we are where we ought to be. Flowing with their music, what surrounds us falls away; and what is very far comes near.

Ashtavakra’s utterances are very unique. If you listen, this will happen again and again. Again and again it will feel as though you are no longer of the earth—you have become sky—because those utterances are of the sky. They have come from the homeland—from the source from which we all have come, to which we must go, and without reaching which we will never know rest.

Where we are is an inn, not a home. However firmly we sit and take it to be home, the inn remains an inn. Explain it away, quiet it away, forget it—it makes no difference; the thorn pricks; the memory persists. And when by chance there is a meeting with such truth, which pulls like a magnet and gives a glimpse of another world, it will seem we no longer belong to the earth.

You felt rightly.
“Yesterday while listening to the discourse, it felt I am not on this earth.”
No one is on this earth. On this earth we only seem to be; it is an appearance. In truth we are in the sky. Our nature is of the sky.

The soul means the inner sky. The body means earth. The body is made of earth. You are made of sky. Within you the two meet.

You are the horizon, where earth appears to meet sky—but it never meets! From afar the horizon looks as if the earth meets the sky. Start walking; it seems you’ll reach it in a couple of hours. Walk for lifetimes—you will never arrive at the place where sky meets earth. It only appears so; it always appears a little further on—just a little further!

The horizon is nowhere; it only looks so. As outwardly the horizon is, so is our state within. The meeting has never truly occurred inside either. How can the soul meet the body! How can the mortal meet the immortal! Milk can merge into water—they are both of the earth. How can the soul merge into the body—their qualities are different! However close they may be, union is impossible. Even if eternally close, union remains impossible. It cannot happen; only our impression, our assumption says it does. The horizon is our assumption. We have believed it; therefore it “is.”

If you allow Ashtavakra’s words to enter the heart like an arrow, they will awaken your memory; they will stir your forgotten remembrance; for a moment the sky will seem to open, the clouds will part; life will be filled with the sun’s rays.

There will be difficulty; for this experience runs counter to our entire way of living. It will create restlessness. And the clouds that have dispersed did not disperse because of you; they dispersed as a result of the words of a Master. The clouds will gather again. By the time you reach home you will have gathered them once more. You won’t drop your habits so quickly—the clouds will gather again. Then even more restlessness will arise: Was what I saw only a dream? Was it imagination, a trick of the ego, of the mind? Did I fall into some kind of madness?

Naturally, the weight of your habits is very old. The darkness is ancient. Though in truth it is not—yet it is very ancient. When a ray of the sun breaks through, it is very new—utterly new, freshly bathed. For a moment it is visible; then you lose yourself again in your darkness. Your darkness has a long history. When you weigh the two, doubt arises about the ray, not about the darkness. Doubt should arise about the darkness—but it arises about the ray, because the ray is new and the darkness is old. Darkness is like tradition—a stream of centuries. The ray has just now dawned—fresh, new; so new—how to trust it!

“…it felt I am not on this earth.”
No one is on this earth. On this earth we cannot be. It is our belief, our notion—an appearance, not truth.

“…and it seemed I am a particle of light in the infinite sky.”
This is the beginning: “a particle of light in the infinite sky.” Soon it will seem you are the infinite sky. This is the start.

Even in the infinite sky, for now we do not dissolve completely. Even if at times that flight comes, that storm comes, even if the winds carry us—still we save ourselves as separate. “A particle of light!” The darkness is gone; you have become a particle of light—but still there is a distinction from the sky, a difference, a distance. The happening will be complete the day you become the sky itself—the particle of light is still other. The day you become non-different, the day it seems: I am the void-sky.

We say in language: I am the void-sky. As long as the “I” is, how can this be? If the “I” is, the sky remains separate. When it is seen as the void-sky, the “I” will not be. Only the void-sky will remain. They say: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman. But when there is Brahman, how can the “I” remain? Only Brahman will remain; I will not. Yet there is no other way to say it.

Language belongs to those who sleep. Language belongs to those who have settled in the foreign land and have taken the foreign as the homeland. Silence belongs to the knowers; language to the ignorant.

So the moment you say anything, the very saying turns truth into untruth. “Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman. I am the sky.”—the moment it is spoken, it becomes untrue. …The sky alone is!

But even saying “the sky alone is” is not the whole truth, because “alone” implies there could be something else; otherwise why emphasize “alone”? Even saying “the sky is” is awkward, because what is can also be “not.” We say, the house is; someday the house is no more, it falls, it becomes a ruin. We say, the man is; someday the man dies. The sky is not in this way—sometimes is and sometimes is not. The sky is forever.

So to say “the sky is” is a redundancy. Better to say simply: sky. But the moment we say “sky,” the moment we make a word, the mistake is made. Saying “sky” already implies there is something else different from sky; otherwise why the need for a word? If there is only one, then even saying “one” is pointless. “One” has meaning only when there are two, three, four, a number. Why say even “sky”?

Hence, true knowing is silence. To bring the ultimate knowing into words is impossible.

And yet we are fortunate that beings like Ashtavakra have made tireless, impossible efforts. As far as it could be, they have tried to bring the fragrance of truth into words.

And remember: very few are as successful in consciousness as Ashtavakra. Many have tried to bring truth into words—all have failed. Failure is assured. But even among the defeated, if you look, Ashtavakra lost the least; he won the most. If you listen rightly, the memory of home will arise.

It is auspicious that you felt yourself a particle of light. Keep the readiness to lose. One day it will seem even the particle of light is lost—only the sky remains. Then a complete intoxication will descend. Then you will be drenched in the wine of truth. Then you will dance. Then the full glimpse of nectar will be given.

“…even after the discourse a sense of lightness and emptiness continued. I kept wanting to roam in that same sky.”
Here a small mistake creeps in. Whenever we have some pleasant experience, we want it again and again. The human mind is weak—filled with desire, with greed; temptation arises. Whatever is pleasant, the mind wants to repeat. But remember one thing: the mistake lies precisely in wanting to repeat. The moment you want it again, it will never happen. Because the first time it happened, it did not happen because you wanted it—it happened; it befell you; it was not your doing.

This is Ashtavakra’s whole emphasis: truth happens; it is not a doing, it is a happening. While listening it had happened—what were you doing? Listening means you were doing nothing; you were sitting in a state of emptiness; you were silent, you were alert; you were awake, not asleep. Good. But what were you doing? You were only a recipient. The state of your mind was like a mirror: whatever comes, is reflected; whatever is said, is heard. You were not adding anything. If you had been adding, what happened would never have happened. You were not interpreting either. Sitting inside you were not saying, yes, this is right or wrong, this matches me or not, whether the scriptures say so or not. You were not arguing. Had you been arguing, this happening would not have occurred.
The one who has asked—Swami Omprakash Saraswati—I know him. His mind stands far from argument; far from doubt and debate. Those days are gone! Once he may have argued, once he may have doubted. Life’s experience has ripened him. The childishness of the mind is no longer there. That is why the happening could happen. He was listening, doing nothing—just sitting—and sitting, sitting, it happened.
So when the first time it happened without you doing anything, then the second time, if you wanted it to happen, a hindrance was bound to arise. Wanting was never its cause. Therefore, when such unprecedented happenings occur, do not desire: when they happen, receive them in a mood of rejoicing; when they do not, do not complain, do not ask. Ask—and you miss. In asking there is force, insistence: ‘It must happen! It happened once—why is it not happening now?’

This happens every day. When people come here to meditate, at the beginning they are fresh and new; they have no prior experience—so it happens. It is most surprising. Understand this; it will help you to understand Ashtavakra. It is my daily experience: when people come new and fresh, with no experience of meditation, it happens. It happens—and they are filled with elation. But there the trouble begins: demand arises—what happened today must happen tomorrow; not only happen, but happen even more. Then it doesn’t happen. Then they come to me and cry: ‘What went wrong? I must have made a mistake! It happened before; now it’s not happening!’ The mistake is just this: before, when it happened, you had not asked; now you are asking. Your mind is no longer innocent; demand has tainted it. You are no longer simple, no longer open; demand has closed the doors and windows. Aspiration has arisen; aspiration has distorted everything. Craving has stood up, greed has been born.

This happens daily. Those who have been meditating a long time, doing many kinds of processes, find meditation very difficult. Their experience becomes a barrier. Meanwhile sometimes someone wanders in, just flowing with the waves. A friend used to come—he had never even thought of meditation—another friend was coming, so he said, ‘Let’s go, see what it is.’ He came out of curiosity, with no craving, no quest for spirituality, no effort—he just came; seeing others meditate, a ripple arose, he joined in—and it happened! The man was startled: ‘I hadn’t even come to meditate, and meditation happened!’ From then on the snag begins. When he comes again, there is expectation, a taste in the mind: let it happen again. There is greed, the urge for repetition. The mind has entered—and the mind spoils the whole game.

Where the mind is not, it happens.

Remember, the mind is the lust for repetition. Whatever was pleasant—let it happen again; whatever was painful—let it never happen again: this is the mind. The mind chooses: this should be, that should not be; this again and again, that never again. That is the mind.

When you begin to flow with life—what happens is fine, what doesn’t happen is fine; if sorrow comes, accept it—no resistance; if joy comes, accept it—no frenzy—when joy and sorrow begin to be equal, equanimity dawns; when joy and sorrow gradually feel alike because there is no choice left, nothing is in your hands, whatever happens happens and you go on watching—this Ashtavakra calls the witnessing state. And he says: if witnessing is established, all is accomplished. Witnessing awakens the witness within and brings equanimity without. Equanimity is the shadow of witnessing.

Or, if you attain equanimity, witnessing comes. They walk together. They are the two legs, or the two wings, of the same happening.

‘...the urge keeps arising to roam in that same sky.’

Be alert to this. Do not give the mind a chance to spoil the hours of meditation. This very mind has spoiled the world. It has distorted all your relationships. It has made life a desert; where countless flowers could have bloomed, only thorns remained in your hands. Now, do not take this mind along on the inward journey. Bow to it. Bid it farewell. Lovingly, yes—but bid it farewell. Say to it: Enough. We shall not ask anymore. Now, whatever happens, we will be awake. We will watch.

The moment you demand, you cannot remain a witness—you become a enjoyer. If you become an enjoyer even of meditation, meditation is gone. To be an enjoyer means you have said: This gave me a taste, this gave me pleasure.

‘...I know nothing of knowledge, action, or devotion; but when I am alone, I feel like sinking into this very state.’

Drop that ‘feeling like’—and you will sink into this very state. Not only when alone—when you are in a crowd, you will sink; in the marketplace, you will sink. This state has nothing to do with solitude or crowd, temple or bazaar, aloneness or company—this state is connected only with the quieting of your consciousness, with its becoming even. Wherever there is quiet and equanimity, this happening will happen. But do not ask for it; otherwise this very thing will become restlessness, will become tension.

Ashtavakra says: ‘Now and here!’

Asking is always for tomorrow. Asking can never be ‘now and here.’ The nature of asking does not rest in the present. Asking means: Let it be—let it be tomorrow, a little later, a moment from now—let it be.

Asking cannot happen now; asking needs time, even if only a little. And the future does not exist. That which is not is called the future. That which is is called the present. The present and asking have no relationship. When you are in the present you will find there is no demand. And then this event will occur. When the urge to make it happen is not there, then it happens fully.

Grasp this riddle well. Recognize every corner of it. The day you demand nothing, that day everything happens. The day you stop running madly after God, he will begin to follow you. The day you show no anxiety for meditation, no tension within you, that day you will be filled with nothing but meditation.

Meditation does not come from outside. When you are not in tension, what remains within you—that is meditation.

When there is no craving within you, what remains—that is meditation.

There is a lake. Waves are rising—gusts of wind! The lake’s whole breast is filled with storm. There is a gale; all is upheaval. In the sky the moon is full, but the reflection does not appear; because the lake is trembling—how can a mirror form? The moon’s reflection forms and breaks into a thousand fragments; silver spreads across the entire lake, but the moon’s image does not form. The lake becomes still. Where did the waves go? From where had they come? They were of the lake. They subsided; slipped back into the lake. The lake returned to its still state. That which had spread like silver across the lake—the moon—now gathers into a single place, and the exact reflection begins to appear.

When there are no ripples on the lake of your mind—ripples meaning craving, ripples meaning demand, ripples meaning ‘let this be’ and ‘let that not be’—when no ripple moves on the lake of the mind, truth is reflected as it is. And the moon that is formed within you—what to say of its beauty! What to say of its flavor! A stream of nectar showers; union happens; and then it is a perpetual wedding night!

But the moment you ask, you will miss.

And I understand: asking appears completely natural. It is a great obstacle. Such happiness descends in those moments—how to refrain from asking! It is human. I am not saying you have committed some inhuman fault. It is a wholly human mistake. When for a moment a window opens and the sky flows into you, when for a moment the darkness breaks and rays descend, it is impossible—almost impossible—not to ask for it.

But this ‘impossible’ must be learned. Learn it today, or tomorrow, or the day after—but learn it you must. The sooner the better. Be ready now, and there is no delay for the happening. Not even a moment’s waiting is needed.

‘...I feel like remaining immersed in this very state.’

This state will happen. It has nothing to do with your mind. Therefore leave your mind behind. When it comes in between, keep telling it again and again: Forgive us—enough is enough! You spoiled the world, at least do not spoil the divine! You distorted all the joys of life; now that the innermost joys are arriving, do not distort them!

Remain alert; bow to the mind and bid it farewell. Slowly, slowly such moments will begin to come—born out of your very experience—when the mind is not; instantly the same window opens again; again the stream of nectar flows; light descends; you are illumined; you are ecstatic; you are bathed in the immortal. When this happens again and again, the matter will become clear; you will become skilled in keeping yourself apart from the mind.

When it happens, let it happen; when it doesn’t, wait peacefully—it will come. What has come once will come again and again. Only you must not ask. You must not come in between. You must not create the obstacle.

‘...but sometimes the feeling also arises: what if this is my madness?’

The intellect will raise such a feeling. For intellect cannot even concede that bliss is possible. Intellect is wholly reconciled to suffering; it has fully accepted suffering—because the intellect is the mother of suffering. Who does not accept his own offspring? So the intellect says: If there is sorrow, that is entirely proper. But supreme joy!—surely something has gone wrong. Does such a thing happen? Perhaps you imagined it, saw a dream, got lost in a daydream, fell into a hypnosis? Surely some madness has happened.

The intellect will say this again and again. Do not listen. Do not pay attention. If you do, those happenings will stop; those doors and windows will never open again.

Keep one thing in mind: bliss is the definition of truth. Wherever bliss is found, there is truth. That is why we have called the divine ‘sat-chit-ananda’—truth, consciousness, bliss. Bliss is his final definition. We have placed bliss even above truth and consciousness—hence ‘sat-chit-ananda.’ Truth one step below, consciousness one step below—bliss is supreme.

Wherever bliss flows, wherever bliss is found—then do not worry—you are near the truth. Just as when one approaches a garden, the breezes turn cool, birds’ songs are heard, coolness is felt—even if the garden is not yet visible, you begin to sense that the path is right, that you are nearing the garden. In the same way, as you near truth, bliss begins to pour; the mind grows cool; balance arrives; forbearance increases; happiness deepens. An uncaused thrill surrounds you! There is no apparent reason: no lottery won, no big gain in business, no high office attained. It may even be that you lost your position, what you had slipped from your hands, the business collapsed—yet without cause there is a buoyancy, someone within is dancing without stop! Then the intellect says: Are you not going mad? These are the signs of madness.

This is the strange world: here only madmen seem cheerful! So the intellect says, you must have gone mad—because apart from madmen, whom have we seen happy? Here a thousand reasons exist, yet people remain unhappy. Palaces, wealth, property, comfort—still man is not happy. This is a world of the unhappy—a crowd of the miserable. If you begin to laugh without cause, people will say you have gone mad! If you say, Laughter is just coming—no reason—spreading of its own, rising from within, a wave is coming—people will say, Enough, your mind is unhinged! Here if you go about with a long face, remain gloomy, your face frightening even to ghosts, then all is fine; then there is no trouble; then all is going right; you are a proper man, as a man should be. But if you start smiling, laughing, humming a tune, dancing by the roadside—you have gone mad!

We have denied the divine in such a way that if God himself came, we would lock him in the asylum. Perhaps that is why he does not come—he’s afraid to come.

Just think: if Krishna were to appear at a crossroads, flute on his lips, peacock feather on his head, yellow silks flowing, gopis dancing—what would you do? You would run to the police station at once: Something is wrong here! What should not happen is happening—lock this man up.

Joy has been banished! We have pushed joy out of life. We clutch sorrow to our breast. Here the unhappy man appears wise; the one who is joyous appears mad. The whole scale is inverted.

So it is natural. All your life you have thought it wisdom to be the way you were; if today suddenly it begins to slip away, if the foundations of your so-called wisdom begin to be uprooted, and suddenly a cheerfulness peeps out—‘uncaused’—remember! Madness means this: uncaused joy! No reason at all. You are sitting alone and a smile arises—then you must be mad! Because we have seen this only in madmen.

Remember: there is a small kinship between madmen and paramahansas. Madmen also laugh, are cheerful, because they have lost their intellect. Paramahansas also laugh, are cheerful, because they have gone beyond the intellect. Both: the madman falls below the intellect, therefore he laughs; the paramahansa goes beyond the intellect, therefore he laughs. There is a little similarity.

The madman and the paramahansa share one thing: both have lost the intellect. One lost it unconsciously; the other dropped it consciously—so the difference is vast, as great as earth and sky. Yet there is still a resemblance. Therefore sometimes you may glimpse a paramahansa in a madman, and sometimes a madman in a paramahansa. Mistakes happen.

In Western asylums many are confined who are not mad. A great revolt is underway there on this matter. Some psychologists—especially R. D. Laing and his colleagues—are leading a movement, saying many of those locked up are not mad; had they been born in the East, they would have been revered as paramahansas. R. D. Laing does not know that the reverse has happened in the East: here many madmen have been taken for paramahansas. But human beings are human beings. Mistakes occur because the boundaries overlap.

Keep just one criterion in mind: if your bliss is increasing, do not be afraid. Yet bliss can also increase due to madness. So what is the touchstone of safety? This: if your bliss is increasing and, because of you, no one else’s sorrow is increasing, then proceed without worry. If your bliss does not depend on anyone’s hurt, on attacking anyone, on making anyone suffer, then there is no reason to fear. Even if you are going mad, this madness is wholly auspicious—fine. Enter it without hesitation.

There is reason to fear only when you begin to harm someone. Your dancing is no hindrance to anyone; but if someone is sleeping and you jump on his chest beating a drum as you dance—then? Sing the Lord’s name—fine; but if you put up a loudspeaker at midnight and begin an unbroken kirtan, then you are mad. Though no one may call you mad, because you are chanting Ram’s name, still many such madmen do this. They say they are doing akhand kirtan, twenty-four-hour recitation. Sleep or not—your problem! If you object, you are irreligious.

Keep just this much in mind: let your joy be nonviolent. That is enough. Let your joy be your own. Let it bring no obstruction, no stone, into anyone else’s life. Let your flower bloom, but let it prick no one with thorns by its blooming. Keep only this much in mind, and you are moving in the right direction.

Wherever you feel others are now being obstructed, be a little careful; there, instead of moving toward the paramahansa, you have taken the road of madness.

No one suffers because of ‘Omprakash.’ Go ahead—fearlessly, unreservedly. Yesterday I was reading a song:

All that was beautiful, dear, desirable,
All that was good, refined, new, the essence of truth—
I gathered, piece by piece,
I offered it as oblation.
But what happened?
Everything lay there, withered,
Dried up, shriveled.
He did not stretch out his hand to take even a thing!
Somewhere it was written so,
Yet what I gave, what I got,
What I drank, what I spilled,
What I cast, what overflowed,
What I strained, what I filtered,
What I lowered, what I raised,
What I joined, what I broke, what I left—
Whatever accounts there were,
I saw that all of it fell into that sacrificial fire,
And in that very instant I felt,
Ah, I have crossed!
Indeed, my head has turned.

One crosses—when the head turns.

You can offer to God carefully chosen things, the best of things—it will do nothing, until the head is offered. Listen again:

All that was beautiful, dear, desirable,
All that was good, refined, new, the essence of truth—
I gathered, piece by piece,
I offered it as oblation.
But what happened?
Everything lay there, withered,
Dried up, shriveled.
He did not stretch out his hand to take even a thing!

Bring the most beautiful, the most precious; offer a Kohinoor—he will let it wither. Pluck lotus flowers, roses, offer them—they will wither. One thing alone is accepted there: your head; your ego; your intellect; your mind. Different names—one reality. Offer yourself there.

And in that very instant I felt
Ah, I have crossed!
Indeed, my head has turned!

People will say exactly this, Omprakash—that your head has turned! Let them say it. Do not worry about people. When people say your head has turned, they are only protecting their own heads—nothing else. When people say your head has turned, they are saying: ‘Save us; do not come this way! Do not sing these songs to us! Do not bring this laughter to our door! Do not show us those intoxicated eyes! Do not tell us such tidings!’ It is their panic. Within them too the same raga resounds. Within them too the same veena lies waiting, through lifetimes, that someone might pluck its strings. But there is fear, there is panic. They have built much in a false world; they are afraid it may all be uprooted.

I was in Allahabad. A friend was sitting right in front of me, listening. Millions have listened to me face to face; very few have listened with the feeling with which he was listening. Tears were streaming from his eyes. Suddenly he stood up in the middle and left the hall. I was a little startled: what happened? I asked the organizer to inquire. He was a well-known man—poet, writer—I did not know. The organizer went to his house.

He said: ‘Forgive me. I panicked. After twenty minutes I said to myself, better to run away now; if I stay a few minutes more, something will happen. This man’s head is turned—he’ll turn mine. I will come; but not now. Certainly I will come—give me a little time. I have not slept for two nights. Those words are echoing in my mind. No, I still have much to do; the children are small; I must look after my household. I will come, certainly I will come—but not now.’

When someone tells you your head has turned, he is only protecting himself. He is saying that by declaring your head turned, he is restraining his own attraction. He too has an indomitable longing within.

Who is there who has not set out in search of the divine? Who is not thirsty for bliss? Who is there who has no yearning for truth? No one has ever been. Those whom you call atheists are the ones who panicked; they say there is no God—because if they do not deny, they will have to go on the search.

My own experience is that within the so-called atheist there is a deeper longing for truth than within the so-called theist. He is afraid to go to the temple; you are not afraid. You are not afraid because there is no such powerful longing in you that you might go mad. You visit the temple as you visit a shop. You go around the temple and back again—nothing affects you.

The atheist is one who knows: if I go to the temple, I will not be able to return as I was; if I go, I will not return the same. So there is only one way: he declares, ‘There is no God! All religion is hypocrisy!’ He is saving himself, persuading himself: if there is no God, why go to the temple? If there is no God, why get into this tangle? Why meditation, why prayer?

In my view, within the atheist, self-protection is at work. I have yet to see an atheist who is truly an atheist. How can a man be an atheist? Atheism means a person trying to live inside a ‘no.’ How can one live in ‘no’? How can one live in atheism? To live, a ‘yes’ is needed. Do flowers bloom in ‘no’? A ‘yes’ is needed. Acceptance is needed.

Life blossoms to the extent there is acceptance; but there is fear that the flowers may bloom beyond the boundary—beyond what you can manage...

Last night a young man said to me: ‘Save me; this is getting too much. I am so happy I feel I will break. There is so much bliss I feel I cannot contain it. The vessel of my heart is small. Save me! I am overflowing. My limits are all breaking. I am afraid that if I flow with this, I will never return.’

It is the fear of losing control. The ego can live very well with sorrow, because in sorrow it does not lose control. Cry as much as you like in sorrow, yet you remain your own master. Control is lost in joy; boundaries break in joy. In sorrow no boundary ever breaks. In hell, too, boundaries do not break. You can be in hell and remain inwardly strong. Boundaries break in heaven. There control is lost. Where control is lost, the ego is lost. Where control is lost, the grip of intellect is lost, the net of logic is lost.

That is what is happening. Do not be afraid. The moment to cross is near. But without the head turning, no one has ever crossed.

I seek a tune
That is not on the lips—
It quivers in the veins,
Burning like lava—
So that I may melt.

I seek a fire
By which every pore is seared,
And I am torn thread by thread!
Let someone weave me mesh by mesh
So that I become transparent!

I seek a fragrance
So weightless that I may float in air,
Tremble in the fine drizzle of a light rain.
Upon the slate-gray sky of deepening dusk
I wish to shine for a little while—
I seek a playful, vivid hue!

Omprakash! That very vivid hue I have given you. These ochre robes are that hue. Flow! Flow leaving your boundaries! Flow beyond the intellect! Let control go. If there is any doer, it is the Divine alone. Do not compete with him, do not take up a rivalry; do not struggle with him. Surrender. Flow with his current. You will cross. Those who drown—only they cross. Those who try to swim—drown.

The truth is just this; it is neither a method nor a device. Your asking in this way is a method and a device to avoid. The mind is unwilling to accept that the divine can be found here and now. Why? Because if it can be found here and now, then why are we not finding it? How will we explain that? If it can be found here and now, why isn’t it happening? Restlessness arises. It can be found here and now—yet it isn’t! How to explain this? This becomes an obstacle. To resolve that obstacle you say: It can be attained, but worthiness is needed!

The intellect manufactures exits. Where confusion arises, it smooths it out: “We must find a path, we must acquire worthiness, we must be purified—then it will be attained. And if Ashtavakra says it can happen here and now, there must be some reason—he says it so that you throw yourself with intensity into effort! But effort there must be.”

The mind is very clever!

Ashtavakra’s statement is utterly direct and simple: the divine can be realized here and now because the divine is not an attainment. The divine is your very nature. The whole emphasis is straightforward. You are the divine; even the talk of “it can be attained” is wrong. When we say “it can be attained here and now,” it only means it is already attained; just open your eyes and see! Even the language of “can be attained” is not right. In “can be attained,” it sounds as if you are separate and the divine is separate; you are the seeker, it is the goal; you are the traveler, it is the destination. No. The only meaning of “here and now it can be attained” is: you are that which you are seeking. Just recognize yourself! Open your eyes and see! Or close your eyes and see—but see! It is a matter of a little vision, not of worthiness.

To talk of worthiness is to reduce the divine to a bargain. As in the marketplace: something costs a thousand, something a hundred thousand, something a million—everything has a price. Then “worthiness” means the divine too has a price; whoever acquires the worthiness, pays the price, gets it. You want to turn the divine into a commodity. “Renounce, perform austerities—and you will get it! Pay the price—and you will get it! Where does anything come for free?” You drag the divine onto a shop-shelf; you seal it in a box and tag a price on it. You say: fast this much; meditate this much; do this much austerity; bake in the sun; endure cold and heat—then you’ll get it!

Have you ever looked at what you are saying? You are saying that by your doing there can be a connection to attaining the divine. Whatever you do will be your doing. Your doing cannot be greater than you. Your austerity will be yours—just as petty, just as stained as you are. Your austerity cannot be larger than you. And whatever is obtained through austerity will be limited; from the limited only the limited can be obtained, not the limitless. What comes through austerity will be some notion of your mind, not the divine.

Ashtavakra says the divine already is. It is what is throbbing within you. It is what is breathing within you. It is what is born. It is what will depart. It has been manifesting since beginningless time in infinite forms—here as a tree, there as a bird, elsewhere as a human being.

The divine is! Other than that, nothing is. The recognition of this truth, the remembrance of this truth...

I have heard: An emperor grew angry with his son and banished him from the kingdom. He was the emperor’s son; he knew nothing else to do—because a prince has never done anything—so he could only beg. When an emperor is no longer an emperor, a beggar is about all that is left to become.

He began to beg. Twenty years passed. He forgot. If someone begs for twenty years, to keep remembering “I am a prince” would be impossible, painful; it would make begging difficult. So it is only fitting that he forgot. He had to forget, otherwise how could he beg? A prince—and he begs? Door to door, standing with a begging bowl at thresholds! Begging outside hotels and restaurants, asking for leftovers! A prince! He had to forget the prince entirely, had to consign it to oblivion. That chapter was closed. As if it had been some dream, some story read, a film seen—what did it have to do with him?

After twenty years, when the emperor—his father—grew old, he became anxious: there was only one son! He alone was the heir. He told his ministers: Go find him, and wherever he is, bring him back. Tell him his father has forgiven him. Now forgiveness or not makes no difference—I am dying. Who will look after this kingdom? Better it go into my blood’s hands than to strangers. However he is—good or bad—bring him!

When the minister arrived, he found him begging outside a hotel, a cracked bowl in hand. He was naked. No shoes on his feet. It was blazing midday. The hot winds blew. His feet burned. And he was begging, saying he needed money to buy shoes. A few coins lay in his bowl.

A chariot drew up. The minister stepped down. He fell at the beggar’s feet—the future emperor! The moment the minister touched his feet, in a single instant the event happened—the remembrance that had not arisen for twenty years: “I am a prince!” It wasn’t that he sat and thought and contemplated and did austerities and meditated to remember—no. In a split second—less than a moment—a transformation happened! The man became someone else. Just a moment before he was a wretched beggar; he was still naked; he still had no shoes—but he flung the bowl from his hand and said to the ministers, “Go and arrange my bath, prepare proper clothes!” He went and sat in the chariot. His majesty was a sight to behold. He was still the same man, yet now there was a dignity on his face; a light in his eyes; an aura all around! He was a prince! The remembrance returned. The father had sent the summons.

Exactly so it is.

When Ashtavakra says “here and now,” he is saying just this: however long you have wandered—if not twenty years, then twenty lives—living in exile, begging, utterly forgetful, having lulled remembrance to sleep—had you not, begging would have been impossible; roaming door to door with a bowl... Ashtavakra is saying: the summons has come! Wake up! You are not beggars! You are the emperor’s son!

If someone truly hears, the event will happen in the very hearing. This is the greatness, the glory of the Ashtavakra Gita. There is no insistence that you do anything. Just listen. Let the truth reach your heart. Do not become an obstacle. Be receptive. Let this arrow reach your heart—its impact is enough! The forgetfulness of lifetimes will shatter; remembrance will return. You are the divine. Therefore he says: here and now!

Now do not look for tricks. You say, perhaps this is a method, a device to increase people’s urgency, their intensity.

These sayings of Ashtavakra are not for the ordinary yogi; they are for the extraordinary, the wise one… the one who awakens just by hearing. Chinmaya is a bit of a hatha-yogi. He will move a little only if he is soundly thrashed. The sight of the whip—or even its shadow—won’t move him.

Don’t laugh, because most people are like Chinmaya. And don’t imagine that just because you laughed you are different from him. At least Chinmaya had the courage to ask; you did not—that’s the only difference. You are the same. This Ashtavakra Gita will come to an end, and if by then you have not become divine, understand that you are where you were—no difference at all. Only if, by listening, you awaken and become divine will it mean the shadow of the whip has worked.

“It has always been the seekers’ observation that God-realization is an extremely difficult event.”

The seeker is deluded from the very beginning. The very word “seeker” means he has assumed that God must be sought, that God has been lost. He has already assumed at least this much: that God has been lost. But how can you lose God?

People come to me and say, “We want to seek God!” I say, “Fine—seek! But where did you lose him? When did you lose him?” They reply, “We have no idea about that.” First find that out properly—lest it turn out you never lost him at all!

Sometimes it happens: the spectacles are perched on your nose, and with those very spectacles you are searching for your spectacles. Beware: God may be perched on your very nose, and you are searching with that very God! That is exactly the case. The seeker is fundamentally confused. He has assumed at least this: that God has been lost, or at least not yet found; he is somewhere far away and must be searched for.

God is never found by searching. By searching you discover only this much: there is nothing in searching. One day, searching and searching, the search itself drops; with the dropping of the search, God is found.

Buddha searched for six years—searched mightily! Where will you find a greater seeker? Wherever he heard that someone had attained wisdom, he went there. He bowed at every pair of feet. He did exactly what the masters prescribed. Even the masters got exhausted with him—because a master never gets tired of a disciple who disobeys. Never! He can always say, “You don’t obey; that is why nothing happens. What can I do?” A great convenience for the master if you disobey! He can always say, “You didn’t follow; had you followed, it would have happened.” But with Buddha the masters got into trouble. Whatever they said, Buddha did. If they asked for a seer, he gave a seer and a quarter. In the end the masters folded their hands and said, “Go somewhere else; we have told you all we can.” Buddha said, “But nothing is happening.” They replied, “Nothing more has happened to us either—why hide it from you? Go elsewhere!”

Before such an authentic man even the masters could not deceive. Searching everywhere, Buddha finally realized: no, searching does not yield it. The world had already proved futile, and now spirituality too became futile. Pleasure had become futile the day he left the palace; hence he left. Now yoga too became futile. There is nothing in pleasure, and nothing in yoga—now what? There was nothing left to do. There was no longer any convenience for the doer to exist.

Understand this principle well: when neither pleasure nor yoga remains, when neither the world nor heaven remains—there is no room left for the doer. As long as something remains to be done, the doer can remain. When nothing remains to be done, that same night the event happens. That evening, under the Bodhi tree, he sat with nothing left to do. He was astonished. Having dropped the world, he had grasped yoga; dropping pleasure, he had grasped spirituality. There was always something to do—so the mind was occupied. Now there was no place left for the mind. The bird of the mind fluttered frantically: no perch anywhere! The mind needs somewhere to alight. The ego needs the juice of doership, some duty. If there is something to do, the ego can survive. There was nothing at all to do.

Just consider it a little! A deep indifference arose—what Ashtavakra calls vairagya, dispassion.

A yogi is not dispassionate, because the yogi is seeking new enjoyments—spiritual enjoyments. He is not dispassionate; the longing for enjoyment still lingers. Not finding it in the world, he seeks it in God; but the search continues. Not finding it out there, he looks within; yet the search continues.

The pleasure-seeker is not dispassionate; the yogi is not dispassionate either. Yes, the objects of their desire differ. One goes outward, the other inward; but go they do, both of them.

That night nothing remained for Buddha—neither outside nor inside. Try to imagine that night! Evoke that night within and feel what it must have been like. That day, for the first time, true rest happened—the very rest Ashtavakra speaks of: when the mind comes to rest, truth is revealed. That day rest happened.

As long as something remains to be done, exertion continues. As long as something remains to be done, tension continues. Now what was the point of tension? The body relaxed, the mind relaxed. He lay down under that tree and slept. In the morning when his eyes opened, they opened as everyone’s should. In the morning his eyes opened for the very first time. For ages they had been closed; now they opened. Dawn’s last star was setting. He watched that last star sink. Out there the last star dipped below the horizon; in here the mind’s last trace dissolved. There was nothing left. No one remained within. There was silence, emptiness, vast emptiness—sky.

It is said Buddha sat for seven days just like that—like a statue; he neither stirred nor moved. It is said the gods grew anxious. From the sky the deities descended. Brahma came down. Prostrating at his feet, they said: “Please speak! Such an event happens only once in ages, with great difficulty. Tell us something—we are eager to hear what has happened!”

Hindus are very annoyed that Buddhist stories make Brahma descend and fall at Buddha’s feet. But the tale is exactly right. Because the gods may dwell in heaven, but they are not beyond desire! Today an event has happened: a man has gone beyond desire.

Therefore nothing stands above a Buddha. Buddhahood is the last word. Even the gods are below; they still long for heaven, for enjoyment.

That is why there are tales that Indra’s throne wobbles whenever a competitor seems to be arising, whenever some sage plunges deep into austerity—Indra panics; his seat quakes! Is that Indra’s seat, or Delhi’s? Call it Indra’s or call it Indira’s—it’s all the same! No great difference. “Someone is on the way!”—competition, anxiety, restlessness.

Buddha attained by doing nothing. What happened in Buddha’s life must have happened in Ashtavakra’s too. We have no stories; no one wrote them. But surely it was so. Because Ashtavakra says only this: you have run enough—now stop! God is not found by running; he is found by stopping. You have searched enough—now drop the search. Truth is not found by searching; because truth is hidden in the seeker, hidden in the one who searches. Where are you running?

“Kasturi kundal basai!” But when the musk-pouch bursts, the musk-deer goes mad. He runs here and there, searching: “Where does this fragrance come from? Who draws me with this perfume? Where does it come from?” Because whenever he noticed fragrance earlier, it always came from outside. Sometimes from a flower, sometimes from elsewhere—but always from outside. Now that the fragrance comes from within, he still thinks it must be coming from outside. He runs. And the musk dwells in his own navel. “Kasturi kundal basai!”

God dwells within you. As long as you keep searching outside—in yoga or in pleasure—it is futile.

The ordinary yogi takes you beyond worldly pleasures; Ashtavakra takes you beyond both yoga and pleasure—yogatita, bhogatita! Therefore you will find: the worldly man has ego. Haven’t you seen the yogi’s ego? The worldly man gets angry; haven’t you seen Durvasa’s anger? The worldly man struts, puffed up, carrying banners; haven’t you seen the yogis’ banners, elephants and horses? The ordinary man proclaims, “I have so much wealth, so much rank!” Haven’t you seen yogis proclaiming how many siddhis and ridddhis they have? But all of this is the same old thing; nothing has changed.

Until yoga becomes beyond yoga, until a person is utterly free of the feeling “I am the doer,” nothing has happened. Until then you have merely changed colors. You are a chameleon: you changed color to match what you saw. But you did not change; only the color did.

“It has always been the seekers’ observation that God-realization is an extremely difficult event.”

In one sense this is true. If you insist on arriving by running hard, what can anyone do? If you insist on grabbing your ear from the wrong side, by all means do it. Naturally, when you grasp your ear from the wrong side, you will feel that holding the ear is a very difficult affair. That is because of you, not because of the ear. If you stand on your head and try to walk, then even taking a few steps will be very hard; if you say that walking is extremely difficult, you are not exactly wrong; you are right—but you are walking on your head. For those who walk on their feet, walking is no difficult event at all. Now, fast, roast yourself in fires, keep sacred embers, needlessly torture the body, harass it, do a thousand kinds of madness—and then declare that finding God is very difficult. You will be right.

Where you could have reached naturally, you choose to reach unnaturally—so it feels arduous. The mistake lies in your way of approaching.

But why does a person choose the impossible? Understand this too. What is the thrill of walking on your head when you have feet? There is a thrill in walking on your head—and that thrill is the thrill of ego!

Mulla Nasruddin was fishing in a lake. I watched for quite a while: no fish were coming to his hook; it looked as if the lake had no fish at all. I asked him, “Nasruddin! There don’t seem to be any fish here. How long will you sit? There’s another lake nearby—why don’t you fish there? No other fisherman is here; they’re all there.”

Nasruddin said, “What’s the point of catching fish there? There are so many fish there they have no room to swim. What’s the fun in catching them there! If you catch a fish here, that’s something!”

The impossible has its attraction. The more difficult the job, the stronger the ego becomes. Catch a fish here—then it means something. If you do what everyone does, what is the glory in that? Everyone walks on their feet; if you do too, where’s the fun? Walk on your head!

In my view, difficulties have nothing to do with God; difficulties have to do with ego. The ego delights in doing the difficult—because the simple is done by everyone; where’s the substance in that? If you tell someone, “We walk on our feet,” they’ll say, “Are you crazy? Everyone does.” But if you walk on your head, your name will be in the newspapers; people will come to you; they will bow at your feet and say you have attained some power because you walk on your head.

Ego can be worshiped only when you do something extraordinary.

When Hillary climbed Everest, the whole world reported it. Now you go and climb a small hill in Poona, plant a flag there, and complain, “No reporters are coming, no photographers—what’s the matter? Why this discrimination? There was such a fuss for Hillary—his name will be immortal in history! And nothing happens for us. We did the same thing; he only planted a flag too.”

But climbing Everest is difficult. For fifty or sixty years people attempted it; then one man finally made it—hence the fuss. Gradually a path will be made there; a bus will go; someday it will. Everest cannot protect itself from humans forever. Once one person reached, the sequence began.

Not long ago, women reached there too. When women also reached, what was left? Now everyone is reaching slowly. In a few days there will be hotels and buses and everything up there. Then go and plant your flag again—when buses run there. You will say: “This is the very spot where Hillary planted his flag—great discrimination, great favoritism!”

The ego relishes the difficult. We make many things difficult so the ego can savor its fill. We make many things difficult. The harder we make them, the more juice the ego gets. Difficulty is not in finding God; difficulty is the ego’s relish.

So when you say, “It has always been the seekers’ observation that God-realization is extremely difficult,” that is right. Those seekers are ego-driven. And when have seekers ever found God? Only when the seeking drops. God is found only when seeking falls away—when you are going nowhere, simply sitting—in rest, in absolute repose; where the journey becomes zero!

Ordinarily people think: once God is attained, then the journey will cease. The truth is exactly the opposite: if you drop the journey now, God is found now. People think: when the destination is reached, we will rest. The reality is: rest, and the destination is reached.

Rest is the formula for meditation and samadhi; labor is the formula for ego.

Hence you will find: the more a religion prescribes labor for the monk, the more egoistic its monk will be. A Jain monk is more egoistic than a Hindu monk. Because the Jain monk can say, “A Hindu monk—what is there in that? Anyone can become one!” A Jain monk—now that is a difficult matter: one meal a day, countless fasts, every kind of hardship!

And even among Jains there are Digambar and Shvetambar monks. The Digambar says, “What is there in the Shvetambar? They sit wearing clothes! A true monk is Digambar!” Therefore in a Digambar monk you will see an ego shining as you will see nowhere else. The body will be emaciated, all bones—because of many fasts, nakedness, the heat and cold—but the ego will be blazing bright. His stiffness is like Hillary’s.

In India there are barely twenty Digambar munis; there are five to seven thousand Shvetambar munis. Hindu sannyasins number fifty lakhs. And if I had my way, I would make the whole world sannyasins. Therefore in my sannyas there can be no ego. Because I am not saying, “Do this, do that.” It is a very simple matter: wear the ochre robe—and you are a sannyasin!

When sannyas is simple, where is the fun for the ego?

People come to me and say, “Since you give sannyas, there should be some special ceremony for it.” A special ceremony for sannyas! They are right—because that is how it is elsewhere: if there is a Jain initiation, see what horses, bands, drums—how much fanfare—and it feels as if some great event is happening; someone is being enthroned! Sannyas has become like a throne. People shout acclamations that some great event has occurred. And I give sannyas so quietly that no one even knows—I even give it by post. I do not even know who the gentleman is; nor do they. Fine!

In my view, sannyas should be simple. In my view, God is found in rest; not in ego. It is not a doing, not a search. God is already attained—just become a little lighter; become a little quiet; stop a while. Suddenly you will find he has been there all along!

Who is it that says there are twenty billion cells in the body? Certainly not the cells. A single cell cannot even count the others. “There are twenty billion cells in the body, billions and trillions of cells”—who is saying this? Who asked the question? Who came to know this? Surely there is someone within you different from the cells who can count and say there are twenty billion cells.

“Our body has about twenty billion cells, and chemical reactions are going on in the body every moment. When you or Ashtavakra say, ‘Be the witness,’ whom are you addressing?”

To the very one who says there are twenty billion cells.

“If you are speaking to the brain cells, it is pointless; for the intellect is mortal.”

No, we are not speaking to the brain cells. We are speaking to you. Ashtavakra too is speaking to you. Ashtavakra is not so foolish as to address your brain cells. He is speaking to you! Your being is beyond your cells. You are using the cells, that is true. Just as a driver sits in a car and drives, speeding along at a hundred miles an hour—yet the driver inside is not the car. And if a policeman blows his whistle and says, “Stop!” and the driver asks, “Whom are you addressing—the car’s engine?” because the engine is what’s running; “Whom are you addressing—the petrol?” because petrol is what’s burning; “Whom are you addressing—the wheels?” because the wheels are what are turning—what would the policeman say? The whistle is for you. That is what I am saying to you: the whistle is being blown for you.

“If you are trying to awaken the soul, that too is pointless, because the soul is already awake. To say ‘awaken’ or ‘recognize’ seems foolish.”

Absolutely right. The soul is forever awake; there is no way to awaken it. And we are not trying to awaken it.

The situation is this: you are lying there already awake, with your eyes closed. Waking a sleeper is easy—shake him, sprinkle water, he wakes up. But if someone is already awake and lying with eyes closed pretending to sleep—how will you wake him? Sprinkle water—no effect. Shake him—he turns over and continues the act. Call his name—he hears, but does not respond. This is your condition.

To awaken one who is awake has no meaning; yet the one who is awake is pretending to sleep. That is why the need to “awaken” arises.

We are not trying to wake the body, because the body sleeps and cannot be “awakened” in that sense. And the soul cannot sleep, so it needs no awakening. You are right—this is a very wise statement. But it is borrowed wisdom; if it were your own seeing, you would not have asked the question. Ashtavakra, or I, are addressing that in you which is awake yet has forgotten that it is awake—the one who, being awake, is playing at sleeping. That is why it is so difficult to awaken you—very difficult.

“Are you people not putting others into delusion?”

Do you think people are not already in delusion? If they were not, then certainly I would be the one putting them into it. But if they are not in delusion, how could I put them into it? Are such wise people so easily deluded? And if people are in delusion, then what I am doing is an effort to bring them out of it. Whatever you are, I do the opposite. If you think you are deluded, this is an effort to awaken you. If you think you are awake, then this effort is to throw you into delusion. But if you are truly awake, who could put you into delusion?

Remember: no one but you can put you into delusion, and no one but you can awaken you. Someone can try to awaken you, but unless you cooperate, you will not awaken—because this is not ordinary sleep that someone can break; you are determined to keep it up.

Your cooperation is essential. That cooperation is what discipleship means. Cooperation means going to one who is awake and saying, “I have made a habit of deceiving myself. Please stand by me; give me a hand so I can step out of this habit.”

A young woman once came to me and said she had become addicted to intoxicants; she wanted to stop. She had a deep longing to come out of it. But the habit had gone so deep, into the very cells of the body, that if she did not take the drug, the entire body would be in such pain and restlessness that she could neither sleep nor sit nor stand—so she would have to take it. And when she took it, she would feel the pain in her heart—“What kind of trap is this?” She came to me: “Help me out; I need the support of your hand!” This is precisely your condition.

For lives upon lives you have practiced sleeping so deeply. The awake one has been thrown into the illusion of sleep. The emperor has been taken to be a beggar. But you have believed it for so many lives that now, due to your own conditioning… Merely hearing me will not do anything. You can hear my words and nothing will happen—until you ponder them, digest them, and agree. No one but you can awaken you. Otherwise, one enlightened person would have been enough—he could have made a big racket and woken everyone up; beaten drums and woken the world.

If a hundred people are sleeping nearby, one person is enough to wake them. In fact, you don’t even need a person—an alarm clock will do. One person can come and beat a drum—everyone will get up; ring a bell—everyone will get up. But why did it not happen that when there were Buddhas, Mahavira, Ashtavakra, Krishna, Christ, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu—why did they not simply ring a loud bell and wake the whole earth? They rang the bell well enough—but that wakes only those who are asleep. Here people are “made-up,” pretending. They hear the bell, and say, “Keep ringing—let’s see who can make us get up!”

You will wake when you want to wake. I cannot put you into delusion. You are already in delusion; can you be put into more? Do you think there is still room to wander further astray? Do you think you can fall any lower? Is there any place left to fall to? Can your greed increase even an inch beyond what it is? Your anger—can it grow even one iota more? Lust has surrounded you—can it spread any further? You are already at the furthest point. That which should be first is last. The emperor, who should be sovereign, is standing as a beggar. There is nowhere further back to go. There is no beyond to fall into.

There is no facility for putting you into more delusion. Even if someone wanted to, they could not. At most, someone can do this: switch your delusions; when you tire of one delusion, give you another. This is what sadhus and sannyasins keep doing. When the delusion of the world starts to come loose and you feel bored—“I’ve had enough; there’s no essence in it; I’ve seen it”—they create a spiritual delusion: “Now enjoy heaven! Do some merit; practice renunciation and austerity, and enjoy apsaras in heaven! Here you drank cup by cup; there in paradise, in firdaus, rivers of wine flow—take a dip! What is there here? In heaven are palaces of gold, trees of jewels—enjoy yourself! There are Kalpavrikshas—sit beneath them! Here you’ve had enough weeping and wailing.” But that is only a new delusion.

I am not giving you any new delusion. I am only saying: you’ve seen enough delusions—now wake up a little!

How can witnessing be a delusion? Think a little. I am only asking you to be a witness: to see whatever is. If I asked you to do something, that would create a delusion. If I said “Leave this and do that,” that would create a delusion. I am saying only this: whatever you are doing, wherever you are—sensualist or yogi, Hindu or Muslim, in a mosque or a temple—wherever you are, wake up. Wake up and see. How can there be delusion in waking? For a wakeful person there is no possibility of delusion. Dreams happen in sleep; how can there be a dream in wakefulness?

“And if people stop reacting to pleasure and pain, won’t they become like animals or trees and plants?”

First, who told you animals and plants are in a worse state than you? You just assumed it. Ask the plants too! Ask the animals! Look once into the eyes of the animals!

This too is human ego—that he thinks he is above the animals. And no testimony from the animals has been taken—this is the funny part. A one-sided verdict has been declared, all by yourself.

If in the animal world books were written and scriptures composed, they would also say that man is a very degenerate animal.

I have heard that monkeys say to one another that man is a fallen monkey. Darwin says man is the evolution of the monkey—but who is Darwin’s judge? Ask the monkeys too! Both parties should be consulted. The monkeys say man has fallen. And their argument makes sense: monkeys are up in the trees and you are down on the ground—you have fallen! They are higher, you are lower. Try competing with a monkey—did your capacity increase or decrease? Try leaping from one tree to another—your bones will break! Did you gain an art or lose it? Who told you you are higher? You just decided it yourself.

This is quite amusing. One of man’s diseases is that he believes he is the highest. Ask the men, and they believe they are higher than women—without asking the women! No testimony from women was ever taken. No vote was ever held. Because men wrote the scriptures, they wrote whatever pleased them. Women were even forbidden to read, lest they object. If a scholar’s own wife could read, she would make trouble for him. So prohibitions were made—women cannot read the Vedas, cannot do this or that… Men even went to the limit of declaring: women cannot attain liberation! Before liberation they must be born as men.

Ask among men too. The white man believes he is superior to the black. Ask the black as well!

I have heard that in an African jungle an Englishman went hunting and took a black man as his guide. They got lost. Then they saw a hundred tribesmen approaching with spears. The Englishman panicked and said to the guide, “Our lives are in danger.” The guide replied, “‘Our’ lives? You worry about yours. Why would mine be in danger?”

The white thinks he is superior; the black thinks he is superior.

Ask the Chinese. In Chinese books it is written that the English are monkeys: they don’t even count them as human.

This disease is worldwide. Man’s ego is very deep. He keeps making judgments without consulting the other side. These are all the games of ego. If you look without ego, you will see only God’s forms everywhere—animals, birds, plants, humans. Where God wanted to be green, He became green; where He wanted to sing as birds, He sang; where He wanted to be man, He became man. There is no gradation here, no hierarchy, no higher or lower. These are all simultaneous, infinite waves of the Divine—He in the small wave and in the big, in the white wave and in the black. He in the grass, and He in the sky-touching trees.

The spiritual vision says: in this very moment, whatever is, is God. Then how could there be higher and lower in God? That would be difficult indeed—making parts of God lower and higher. There is only One. With witnessing you will see: all is one.

So first, don’t even ask, “If people stop reacting to pleasure and pain, won’t they become like animals or plants?” And if they do—what harm is there? If Hitler became an animal or a plant, would anything be lost? On the contrary, millions would be saved from death. If Nadir Shah had been a lion, would that have been a loss? He would have killed a few and been satisfied—for food. He would not have filled the world with corpses for no reason. One thing is certain: animals have not invented anything like the atom bomb; they make do with their claws—the ancient method. They kill to eat.

Man alone is the animal who kills without hunger. He goes into the jungle to hunt, kills animals and birds, and says, “We came for sport!” If a lion attacks him, that’s not sport! He doesn’t say, “Let him play, it’s a game.”

You kill for sport? No animal does that.

And another curious fact: no animal kills within its own species. No lion kills another lion. No monkey murders another monkey. Only man is the animal who murders his own kind. Ants don’t murder ants. Elephants don’t murder elephants. Dogs don’t murder dogs. They may quarrel or fight, but they don’t commit murder. Man alone murders man.

What is there in man for which you are so worried? If it were lost, what would be lost? Trees are very beautiful. Animals are very innocent. But I am not saying you should become trees or animals. I am only saying: drop the ego.

And secondly, I never said that one should stop reacting to pleasure and pain. Ashtavakra never said that either. To keep equanimity in pleasure and pain does not mean to stop responding. It only means: “I will remain a witness—if there is pain, I will watch pain; if there is pleasure, I will watch pleasure.” It does not mean that if you prick a thorn into Buddha he feels no pain. If you prick Buddha, he feels more pain than you—because Buddha is more sensitive. You are stony; Buddha is soft like a lotus. When a thorn pricks Buddha, the pain is deeper than yours—but the pain is in the body, and Buddha knows it. He stands apart and sees: pain is happening. He knows pain is there, yet he does not identify with it. He knows: I am the knower.

We are not telling you to abandon response. We are not saying: if your house catches fire, sit still and you’ll be a Buddha—don’t run out! Even while running out, know: the house is burning; I am not burning. And if the body is burning, know: the body is burning; I am not burning. This does not mean let the body burn. Take the body out. We are not asking you to torture the body.

To become reactionless would mean you have turned to stone, become inert. But Buddhas are not stones. Where have you seen greater compassion than in a Buddha? Ashtavakra did not become stone. The stream of love flowed through them. Wherever love has cascaded, sensitivity has increased, not decreased. Great compassion descended upon them.

But you may misinterpret.
And the one who has asked seems rather scholastic in mind; there’s too much clutter in the intellect. You’ve read a little, heard a little, gathered it all—and it’s making quite a whirl! It won’t let you listen; it won’t even let you see. It goes on distorting things.
Wayfarers, all halted.
Within, the waters half-stilled;
outside, ice has set.
On one side, a chest-deep, impassable bog,
on the other, a river in flood.
Wayward winds are blowing,
the forests all are bowed,
wayfarers, all halted.

Closed doors, half-open windows,
a few eyes peering out.
Upon the face of the sun,
evening’s black, countless,
arrow-like, piercing bars—
silent behind their faces,
all, afraid, concealed,
wayfarers, all halted!
Silent behind their faces,
all, afraid, concealed,
wayfarers, all halted!

These faces—masks of cleverness, erudition, scholarliness—how long will you go on hiding behind them? These layers of thought—how long will you keep hiding behind them? Remove them! Awaken the pure consciousness within.

See as a seer, not as a thinker. To be a thinker means the mind’s activity has begun.

So if you are to understand Ashtavakra, you will grasp him only as consciousness, pure consciousness. If you get entangled in thinking, you will not understand Ashtavakra—you will miss.

Ashtavakra is no philosopher, and Ashtavakra is no thinker. Ashtavakra is a messenger—of consciousness, of witnessing. Pure witnessing! Just look! If there is sorrow, look at the sorrow; if there is happiness, look at the happiness! With sorrow, do not say, “I have become sorrow”; with happiness, do not say, “I have become happiness.” Let both come, let both go. If night comes, look at the night; if day comes, look at the day. Do not say in the night, “I have become night.” Do not say in the day, “I have become day.” Remain separate, apart, beyond, above, distant! Keep only one identity: I am the seer, the witness.

Hari Om Tat Sat!