Maha Geeta #21

When the world falls away, it is not necessary that the grip of ignorance loosens. When indulgence drops, it is not necessary that the inner causes of indulgence are destroyed. The inner causes still remain. You may renounce wealth; that very urge to grasp will begin to clutch at renunciation. You may leave the home; that urge to clutch will seize an ashram. You may leave the marketplace; that old habit of grasping will grasp at solitude. And grasping is grasping... it is grasping that must be let go.

Hence, the moment one awakens from indulgence, another danger arises at once—one that never threatens the indulgent. It threatens only the one who has awakened from indulgence. That danger is—getting entangled in renunciation.

If the old habit remains and only the outer has changed, if no inner revolution has happened, you will be caught in renunciation. You will become a sannyasin from a worldly man. You will leave wealth, family, house and hearth; but within you the nets of grasping will remain. You will clutch at something else. A single loincloth is enough; no empire is needed to cling to. Even nakedness can be clutched. Renunciation can be clutched.

There is an old Sufi tale. When an emperor was a little boy at school, he had a deep friendship with a young man. Then their paths diverged. The emperor’s son became emperor. The friend became a renunciate, a faqir. His fame spread to the horizons—the faqir’s. Pilgrims began to arrive from faraway lands to touch his feet. Seekers came for his satsang. As the crowd of seekers grew, his renunciation also grew. In the end he even discarded clothes; he became a digambara. Then he shone like the sun. And he left the renunciates behind.

But the emperor always felt within himself, ‘I know him well. In school, in college—no one was more egoistic than he. How did such great renunciation suddenly flower in him!’ The emperor could not trust it. His curiosity only grew. At last he sent an invitation to his friend: ‘Now that you have become a great renunciate, come to the capital; give me an opportunity to serve. Give my subjects awakening as well!’

The invitation was accepted. The faqir came towards the capital. The emperor arranged a grand reception for him. He was an old friend—and now so renowned, so praised, so glorified! So he spared nothing; he decorated the entire capital—with flowers, with lamps! Priceless carpets were spread along the road. From the city gate to the royal palace, a Diwali had been erected.

The faqir arrived. But the emperor was astonished... He was waiting at the city gate with his entire court, and was amazed: it was not the rainy season; the roads were dry; people were yearning for water—and the faqir’s legs were smeared with mud up to the knees! He could not believe where on earth he had found so much mud on the way—mud up to the knees! But it was not right to say anything in front of everyone. They reached the palace. When they were alone, the emperor asked, ‘Tell me, where did this difficulty arise? Your feet are full of mud!’

He said, ‘There is no question of difficulty. When I was coming, people told me, “Do you know? Your friend, the emperor, is decorating the capital to display his splendor. He wants to embarrass you. He wants to say, ‘What have you attained? You are a naked faqir! Look at me!’ He has spread precious carpets along the road; lakhs of rupees have been spent. The capital is decorated like a bride. He wants to show you. He wants to make you look pale.” So I said, “Let me see who can make me pale! If he can spread precious carpets, then I am a faqir; I can walk over them with mud-laden feet. I don’t value them two coppers!”’

When he had spoken thus, the emperor said, ‘Now I am at ease. My curiosity is at rest. You have satisfied me. This is exactly what I wanted to know.’

The faqir asked, ‘What was your curiosity?’

‘Only this: I have known you always. In school, in college, no one was more egoistic than you. That you have attained so much humility—that is what I doubted. Now I have no worry. Come, let us embrace—we are the same. You are just like me. Nothing has changed. I have tried to fill my ego in one way—by being an emperor; you are trying to fill the same ego in another way. Our directions differ, our goal does not. And let me tell you this: I know that I am egoistic; you do not even know that you are egoistic. So someday I will get tired of this ego—how will you tire? I feel great compassion for you. You have decorated the ego well. You have clothed it in the garments of renunciation.’

For one who grows weary of the world, the danger is renunciation.

There are two kinds of worldly people—one, those who sit in shops; and one, those who sit in temples. Two kinds of worldly people—one, who collect wealth; and one, who kick wealth away. Two kinds of worldlings—one, who try to fill themselves with outer things; and others, who think that by abandoning outer things they will fill themselves. Both are in the same illusion. Neither can anyone ever fill himself with outer things, nor by abandoning them. Fullness has nothing to do with the outside.

First Ashtavakra tested Janaka. In today’s sutras he does not test, he tempts. That temptation which arises for every renunciate; that temptation which stands before one who is fleeing indulgence. Today he coaxes Janaka: ‘Become a renunciate. Now that you have known, become available to renunciation. Drop it all! Rise above this maya-delusion!’

These subtle temptations Ashtavakra gives to Janaka are an even tougher test than the first. But this occurs in the life of anyone who turns away from indulgence; so Ashtavakra is perfectly right. It is appropriate to give this temptation.

And until one is free even of renunciation, one is not free. One must be free of indulgence, and also of renunciation. Free of the world—and free of Moksha as well. Only then does the supreme freedom flower.

The meaning of supreme freedom is simply this: that no longing for any thing remains. In renunciation, longing remains. You renounce for some reason. And where there is reason, what kind of renunciation is that? Then what is the difference between indulgence and renunciation? The arithmetic of both has become one.

One man is immersed in indulgence—gathering wealth, seeking a beautiful woman, searching for a handsome man, building a great house—ask him, ‘Why are you doing this?’ He says, ‘This will give happiness.’ Another man leaves a beautiful house, leaves his wife, moves away from home and hearth, wanders naked, becomes a sannyasin—ask him, ‘Why are you doing this?’ He will say, ‘This will give happiness.’ Both long for happiness, and both believe that something can be done to attain it. This is the illusion.

Happiness is your swabhava. As long as you do something to get it, you will keep losing it. In your very attempt to get it, you have lost it. The worldly man loses it one way; the renunciate loses it another way. How you lose it makes no difference. What brand of liquor you drink and lose consciousness makes no difference.

But keep this arithmetic in your heart. The worldly says, ‘When I have this much and that much, I will be happy.’ The renunciate says, ‘When I have nothing, I will be happy.’ The happiness of both is conditional. And as long as you put conditions on happiness, you have not understood that happiness is your nature. There is nowhere to go to get it; it is already given. Simply stop going. Do not seek anywhere. Sink into rest within yourself.

This is exactly what Ashtavakra said in the primary sutras: to arrive at rest in consciousness is happiness, is bliss, is Satchidananda.

Do not go anywhere! Let no ripple arise to go anywhere! To go means—you have moved away from your nature. You asked for something, you wanted something, you searched for something—you fell from your nature. Ask not, seek not, go nowhere—close your eyes, dive within yourself!

What is, is with you this very moment. What is, you have been carrying forever. What is, is hidden in your ragged garment. That diamond lies in your rags. You look at the rags and beg. You think, ‘What do I have?’—and the diamond lies in the rags. Open your rags. And that which you were seeking—you will be astonished—that is the wonder which has shaken Janaka. Janaka says, ‘Wonder! Such a mood arises that I feel like bowing to myself, like touching my own feet! It is the limit: that which was already found, I was searching for it! I am the God of gods! I am the essence of this whole universe! I am already the emperor—and I was wandering like a beggar!’

To be emperor is our nature; to be a beggar is our habit. Beggary is our mistake. The mistake is to be corrected; there is nowhere to search, nothing to seek.

Thus, when someone begins to awaken from indulgence, a danger arises. Still, he will ask for the same.

‘I am weary of the rigors and strivings of life.
Minstrel! Strike up some raga of love.’

—‘I have become afraid of life’s struggle!
Enough of this struggle; no more. I have no strength left. I am broken now.

Minstrel! Strike up some raga of love.’

But what is this? If you have grown weary of life’s song, then this song of love? That is again the song of life. If you are tired of life’s struggle, then once more the longing for love, and life will begin again.

We change—and yet we do not change. We turn—and we do not turn. On the surface we play all the games. We keep swimming upon the waves; we do not enter within.

‘How could we attain the pearl of our longing without a deep dive?
We kept swimming always upon the froth of waves.’

From one wave to another, from the second to a third. We keep floating upon the froth of waves. That jewel, upon finding which liberation is gained—call it a pearl, call it a gem—that supreme gem is found by diving deep.

‘How could we attain the pearl of our longing
without a deep dive?’

That—the longing of our longings, the desire of our desires, ‘gauhar-e-murad’, that without which we have never truly desired anything—we have desired it in every guise, in every color. One seeks it in wealth, another in position; but we are seeking only the Divine. Seated on a throne we taste a little of being Divine—some power in hand! If wealth is with us, we taste a little of being Divine—that we are not poor and destitute. If knowledge happens, we taste a little of being Divine—that we are not ignorant.

‘How could we attain the pearl of our longing
without a deep dive?
We kept swimming always upon the froth of waves.’

We sought the Divine in many waves, but never found. In the hand remains froth. We grasp a wave, and foam remains in the fist. Yet again the froth raised upon another wave beckons us. Foam sometimes looks very beautiful! In the morning rays of the sun, foam can appear many-colored. Pearls might be defeated by its whiteness, its hues, its rainbows revealed in foam. Upon a distant rising wave the foam looks as if snow rests upon the Himalayas—pure! The foam looks as if the essence, the churned butter of the whole ocean, has gathered there. Clasp your hands, close your fist—nothing remains in the hand.

‘How could we attain the pearl of our longing
without a deep dive?
We kept swimming always upon the froth of waves.’

We have changed sides many times, but we got tangled from one wave into another. I want to tell you this: many of you have been sannyasins many times, then worldly again; then sannyasins again, then worldly again. You have changed these sides many times. It is nothing new. This game is very old. You have become expert at it. Often I see some people come for the first time to take sannyas; they think it is their first time. I look within them and am filled with wonder: they have done this many times. Will the old game continue again this time, or will there be a revolution this time? I begin to wonder: will this be another new wave, or will there be a descent into depth?

When I see worldly people, the worldly are found dreaming of sannyas; and I have met sannyasins too. I wandered for years, met all kinds of sannyasins. Sannyasins begin to dream of indulgence. It is a great joke. The wave upon which you ride appears futile; and the wave far away—drums from afar sound sweet—looks very attractive.

The worldly says the renunciate must be enjoying great bliss. That is why the worldly goes to touch the feet of the renunciate. When will understanding dawn on you? When will your eyes open?

If you have touched the feet of the renunciate only because you think the renunciate is enjoying, there is danger. When you tire of indulgence, you will become a renunciate. For you bow the feet of that which you want to become. Touching the feet is only a sign. You are giving the news: ‘If I could, I would be like this; a little trouble hinders me, so I am entangled.’

One day Mulla Nasruddin was very sad. I asked, ‘Why so sad? Granted your wife has died; but you are still young, you can marry again. In fact some people have come to me and said, “Somehow persuade Mulla; we have a young daughter.”’

Mulla said, ‘I would, but there are four reasons I cannot. Four reasons!’ I said, ‘Even brahmacharis have not managed to list four reasons for not marrying; you tell.’ He said, ‘There are four reasons: three girls and one boy. Because of these four reasons I cannot marry. I too would like to. But they are stuck around my neck. They are the noose.’

The worldly goes to touch the renunciate’s feet. But a thousand reasons hang round his neck; otherwise he too would like to be a renunciate. Why do you go to touch the feet of the great man? You think, ‘Someday I too will have such good fortune, I too will become a great soul! If not yet, at least I can touch his feet. If not yet, at least I can offer respect.’

Your respect is the flowers you place at the feet of your own future ambitions. You are not touching the feet of some great man; you are bowing at the feet of your own future idol. If you ever get the chance—if those four reasons are gone—then the danger will come. Then you will leap and become a sannyasin, a renunciate. And I know renunciates who, having become renunciates, are writhing.

A seventy, seventy-five year old Jain muni said to me, ‘I can tell you—no one else can I tell. What kind of pain is this? Who to tell! People come to touch my feet. I cannot tell them; they respect me, how can I tell them the truth? But I can tell you: forty years have passed since I took sannyas. I have renounced everything for forty years, but nothing has been found. Now in this old age a doubt arises,’ he said to me, ‘that perhaps I have made a mistake! Now in my nights I begin to dream it would have been better if I had remained a householder. There was home, wife, children—better than this. Now I begin to doubt my endeavor. The events of forty years ago begin to look pleasing—that was right; this is not right. That wave which I left forty years ago is again covered in foam. On its crest the beautiful foam has again woven crowns; rainbows are appearing again.’

You will be astonished to know: bad men dream of being good; good men dream of being bad. If you could peep into the dreams of sadhus and saints, you would panic. There you would find criminals hiding. And if you go into the prisons and peer into the dreams of criminals—make a window into their skulls—you will be astonished that they are all bored and tired of doing evil; now they want to be virtuous. Somehow if they get one chance, they want to prove to the world that they are not criminals, they are saints. That is another matter that when they are released from jail after ten, fifteen years, then again the outer waves will look fresh. That is another matter. But man always dreams of where he is not.

This meditation-event has happened to Janaka; Ashtavakra has tested—and now tempts him. This temptation is an even deeper test. He says: ‘Very well, if you have indeed known, Janaka, then now... now drop; now enter renunciation.’ If Janaka gets entangled in this, he fails—fails in the deeper test.

If in place of Janaka there had been any ordinary person, he would have been ensnared. Because Ashtavakra speaks such words that they are hard to grasp. Listen to his sutras.

Ashtavakra said: ‘You have already declared your detachment.

“तेरा किसी से भी संग नहीं है, इसलिए तू शुद्ध है। तू किसको त्यागना चाहता है? इस प्रकार देहाभिमान को मिटाकर तू मोक्ष को प्राप्त हो।”’

A very tangled sutra. He coaxes along a very fine, delicate path. He asks: ‘You are pure, you have no attachment to anyone—yet, Janaka, I see waves of renunciation arising within you. Whom do you wish to renounce? All right, if you must renounce, then by abandoning this body-identity, attain Moksha.’

‘By abandoning body-identity, attain Moksha!’

He says, ‘I see a wave of renunciation arising in you—a faint ripple; perhaps you have not yet recognized it; perhaps it will take time to recognize. In your deep abyss a wave is arising which, after a while, will strike your rock of consciousness, and you will know. Perhaps as yet you have no inkling.’

When a thought arises within a human being it can be divided into four parts. When you speak, that is the last stage. Before speaking, it is in your throat. You know it. It is clear what you will say. Within you have already spoken. Not yet expressed outside. This is the third state.

Before that is a second state when it is hazy. Not clear what it is. It could be this way or that. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. The outline is not clear. It is hidden in the twilight of dawn. But a faint hint begins to be felt. It seems something is there. A slight sound begins. That is the second state.

Before that is a first state: when you know nothing at all, not even the twilight. A deep dark night prevails.

But even when that first state arises within you, the Master sees it. Ashtavakra sees that in Janaka’s first state there is some ripple of thought. After a while there will be a second state; a hazy sense will arise. Then the third state: the thought will deepen, become clear. Then the fourth: Janaka will proclaim, ‘I have left all; I have renounced all; now I go to the forest.’

Before the thought reaches this point... because once it comes this far, it is hard to return. The process of being free of thought is this: if you catch the thought in its first state, you never fall into its bondage. You catch the tree in its seed; the tree cannot sprout. Most people become alert only when the tree has not only sprouted but borne fruit; not only borne fruit, but scattered thousands of seeds in the soil—only then do they wake up; then it is too late. Even if you uproot this tree it will make no difference, because it has scattered thousands of seeds. In time they will sprout, become thousands of trees. And you have the old habit—you will only catch when the trees have grown, the seeds have fallen; then you will catch again, you will cut them again. Keep cutting trees—and there will be no end to trees. New chains of trees will keep coming. This is how it happens in our lives.

Buddha gave the experiment of Vipassana to his bhikkhus. The total meaning of Vipassana is only this: that you become inwardly so alert that gradually you begin to see the thought in its first state. When seen in its first state, it is very simple. Simply saying this is enough: ‘Forgive me—no desire for this!’ Just this much—‘No’—and the seed is roasted.

In the second state it is a little difficult. Some struggle will be needed. In the third state even more difficult. Even with struggle it is doubtful you will win. In the fourth state it is very difficult. The proclamation has been made. You are caught. It becomes almost impossible to return. Now you must bear the fruit, because the thought has become karma.

Before, the thought was only a feeling. Before that, in the void, it was only a seed, a mere possibility. Then it becomes feeling, then thought, then expression.

Perhaps Janaka himself does not yet know; or perhaps he has just begun to suspect. But Ashtavakra has seen it.

‘You have no attachment to anyone, Janaka; you are pure! But still, whom do you wish to renounce?’ ... ‘Do one thing: if you must renounce, if you are adamant about renouncing, then... “By erasing body-identity, attain Moksha.”’

A very deep snare! If Janaka even says that yes, body-identity must be renounced, then it is decided that something has to be renounced. If anything is to be renounced, ignorance remains. Then the revolution of knowing has not happened. The lamp has been lit and you say, ‘I must renounce darkness’—then the lamp is not lit! If the lamp is lit, what renunciation of darkness? When the lamp is lit, the darkness is already gone, the renunciation already happened. If something must be done, it is wrong; if renunciation happens, it is right. If it has to be done, we become the doer; if it happens, we remain the witness. Indulgence happened, renunciation happened. Neither did we indulge, nor did we renounce. Whatever was happening was allowed to happen. What else could we do? Whatever was happening was allowed to happen. We kept seeing. Kept our seeing pure!

‘न ते संगोऽस्ति केनापि किं शुद्धस्त्यक्तुमिच्छसि।
संघातविलयं कुर्वन्नेवमेव लयं व्रज।।’

‘ते केन अपि संगः न...’

You have no companion; whom do you want to leave? If there were a companion, you could leave.

Understand, the sutra is subtle. Understand, and a revolution can happen. Someone comes to me and says, ‘I have to leave wife and children.’ He has already assumed one thing: that wife and children are his. Someone says, ‘I have to leave wealth, house and home.’ I ask him, ‘Are you certain they are yours? If you do not leave, will they remain yours? When you die tomorrow, what will you do then? At the time of death you will say, “These are mine and they are being left—what is this matter?” Before you were born, you were not; the house was here. The safe in which you have put diamonds was here; you were not. They belonged to someone else. Someone else had the illusion that they were his. Now you have the illusion they are yours. When you were not, they were; when you will not be, they will be. Will you leave? Leaving can only occur if you are certain they are yours. If they are mine, I can leave. If they are not mine, how will you leave? In leaving, the claim of ownership continues.’

One who says, ‘I have left the world’ has not yet left, because in leaving, too, the claimant is present. He says, ‘I left!’—so he still holds the first illusion: that it was mine. Only what is mine can be left.

‘ते केन अपि संगः न...’

Who is your companion, who is your friend! Alone you come, alone you go! You bring nothing, you take nothing! You come empty-handed, you go empty-handed!

The matter is strange. When man is born his fist is clenched; when he dies, his hand is open. And he dies in a worse condition. At least he arrives with a clenched fist; the child when he comes. True, there is nothing in it, but at least a clenched fist... People say, ‘A closed fist is worth a lakh; when opened, worth dust!’ When he dies the hand opens—worth dust. Neither was there anything in the closed fist, nor in the open hand. But at least the closed fist gave the illusion there was something. We neither bring anything, nor do we take anything. What will you leave? What is there to leave?

‘ते केन अपि संगः न अतः शुद्धः।’

An amazing sutra! These are very scientific sutras! You have no companion, no ownership, no thing of yours. ‘अतः शुद्धः’—therefore you are pure. For ownership corrupts.

Have you seen—whichever thing you claim ownership of, that very thing claims ownership of you! Become the master of a woman, and she becomes your master. Become the owner of a house, and the house becomes your master.

Farid was passing along a road with his disciples, and a man was dragging a cow tied with a rope around its neck. The cow was resisting, not going. Who wants bondage! Farid stopped the man and the cow. He said to his disciples, ‘Stand still. Take a lesson. I ask you a question: “Has this man tied the cow or has the cow tied the man?”’

The man too stopped to see what the matter was—what an odd question, especially from a knower like Farid!

The disciples said, ‘It is clear: this man has tied the cow, because the rope is in his hand.’

Farid said, ‘I ask another question. If we cut the rope in the middle, will the man run after the cow or the cow after the man?’

The disciples said, ‘Now it is tricky. If the rope is cut, one thing is sure—the cow is ready to run. She will not go after him; it is the man who will go after her.’

Farid said, ‘From above it looks as if the rope is on the cow’s neck; from deeper understanding, it is on the man’s neck.’

Whoever we are masters of, gains mastery over us. Because of wealth, you do not become wealthy; you become a slave to wealth. If because of wealth one became truly wealthy, there would be no fault in wealth. But rarely does anyone become wealthy through wealth; most become slaves. Their whole life goes into one thing only—guarding the safe! And gathering more! As if they were born for this! As if they came into this world to accomplish this great work: fill the safe and die—their great work completed! The safe will remain here.

Ashtavakra says: ‘You have no one; you are no one’s; you are alone—“अतः शुद्धः”—therefore I declare you are pure. Purity is your nature.’

Whenever a thing mixes with any other, it becomes impure. Meeting the alien, impurity arises. Everything in itself is pure—understand this. You say, ‘This milkman has mixed water into the milk; the milk is impure.’ Have you ever thought of the other thing—that the water also became impure? You need the milk, so you worry the milk has become impure. But if the milkman says, ‘I mixed absolutely pure water—what foolishness to say it became impure! The water was pure, boiled, sterilized; the milk was pure—purity has doubled! You talk of impurity?’ Two pure things, when mixed, by straight arithmetic should become twice as pure, doubly pure.

But life is not governed by arithmetic. Life is more than arithmetic. Mix even two pure things, and both become impure. You say the milk became impure because you need milk, because milk has a price. The water also became impure.

Understand the meaning of impurity: even if excreta is lying there and you put gold into it, the excreta becomes impure as excreta. Excreta is pure as excreta. Pure means—it is only itself. The meaning of pure is: being oneself.

Mulla Nasruddin was gossiping in a teahouse, saying, ‘God has made everything perfect. God is perfect, so he made every thing perfect.’ People were listening with gravity; it sounded good. Then a hunchbacked man—perhaps like Ashtavakra—stood up and asked, ‘What about me?’ He was crooked in many places. Even Mulla was startled—it was a difficult point. He said, ‘It is perfectly right in your case as well. I have never seen a more perfect hunchback than you. You are a complete hunchback. There is no way to improve it. God makes only perfect things—he made you a perfect hunchback!’

Each thing as it is, is pure in itself. Thus pure means: abiding in one’s own nature. Impure means: abiding in the other. Whenever you seek the other, purity is lost; you become impure. Desire wealth—its shadow falls upon consciousness; desire position—its shadow falls; desire prestige—its shadow falls. As long as you desire, desire means the wish to be other than oneself. Who desires the self? The self you already are; there is nothing to desire.

Therefore people keep missing the Atman, for why would anyone desire the Atman? The Atman already is. We desire what is not. We desire what we are not—and that desire makes us impure.

‘ते केन अपि संगः न अतः शुद्धः।
You are pure, Janaka, because you have no desire.

“किम् त्यक्तुम इच्छसि!”

Yet I see within you the sprout of a desire—to renounce. Whom do you wish to leave? Whom? For in leaving, the illusion ‘mine’ remains. Simply know that nothing is mine—and renunciation is accomplished! There is nowhere to run, nowhere to go. Sitting where you are—without anyone’s ear catching wind of it, with your wife still sitting beside you, your children playing around you, your shop functioning, customers coming and going—sitting right there, with this small lamp of understanding, you can be free: ‘Nothing is mine!’

“किम् त्यक्तुम इच्छसि!”

Whom do you wish to leave? I see within you the sprout of a desire.

‘एवम् एव संघातविलयम् कुर्वन् लयं व्रज।’

And if it is so, then there is one thing worthy of being left: body-identity. This idea that I am the body, that I am the mind, that I have any identification—this is what is worthy of being left. Abandon this, renounce this.

See the net! On the surface he says: any desire for renunciation arising in you is wrong. And then with great subtlety and mastery he says: ‘Even so, if you wish to leave, all else is in vain; leave this: “I am body,” “I am mind,” “I have identity with anything.”’ Thus he incites towards renunciation—so delicately! It is intricate.

Have you seen a potter making a pot? What does he do? From within he supports the pot. He places the clay on the wheel, supports from within, and strikes from without. With one hand he strikes, with one hand he supports. Thus the wall of the pot rises. The pot begins to form. He supports within and strikes without.

Kabir has said: this is the Master’s work. With one hand he strikes, with one hand he supports. If you see only the blow, you have seen only half. If you see only the support, again you have seen only half. Then the full alchemy of the Master will not be known to you. Then the full chemistry will elude you. Here he strikes—there he consoles. He does not strike so hard that you run away. He does not console so much that you remain just as you were. He keeps striking so that you change. But he strikes only as much as you can bear—homeopathic doses—slowly! Not an allopathic dose at once that you either run away or perish. In very small measures he strikes. He watches how far you can endure, and strikes accordingly. Then he stops; if it is too much, you smart and are about to flee, packing your beddings—he consoles again.

See, he did exactly this with ‘swabhava’. Now he has unpacked their bundles again. Now they sit at ease, heads shaved—no problem now. Now another blow is prepared. Now another strike should fall upon them.

... Support with one hand; strike with the other.

So he says, ‘Do this: leave. Leaving money and so on—these are small matters. I tell you the great thing to leave: leave body-identity!’

‘संघातविलयम्!’

Dissolve this aggregate of the body! Dissolve the sentiment ‘I am the body’! In this way, by erasing body-identity, you can attain Moksha now.

Notice the subtlety: ‘Moksha can be attained, if body-identity is left!’ Again the world of cause and effect is being created. He is saying this is the cause; if body-pride drops, Moksha will bear fruit.

Moksha is not a fruit. Nothing is necessary to do for Moksha. Moksha is your nature. Yet Janaka must have been an extraordinarily skillful soul. His sutras will soon come—then you will see what an astounding answer he gives!

‘तुझ से संसार उत्पन्न होता है; जैसे समुद्र से बुलबुला। इस प्रकार आत्मा को एक जान और ऐसा जान कर मोक्ष को प्राप्त हो।’

‘उदेति भवतो विश्वं वारिधेरिव बुद्बुदः।
इति ज्ञात्वैकमात्मानमेवमेव लयं व्रज।।’

Only this much—feel: the world arises from me, as a bubble arises from the ocean. Knowing the Atman to be one with all—thus, attain dissolution.

As if Moksha depended upon some knowing! As if some knowledge were necessary for Moksha!

If anything is necessary for Moksha, it is no longer Moksha. For a Moksha that depends upon any cause will be bound to that cause; it will have conditions; when the cause disappears, Moksha will collapse. Moksha is causeless. Moksha has no cause.

If you ask, ‘How shall I be free?’ you are asking for a new method to bind yourself. You are asking, ‘Now tell me something else; the old bondages are tired, no more juice in them; now how shall I be free?’ Then someone says, ‘Do yogasanas—you will be free.’ Before, you were placing asanas on the cushion of a shop; now you sit under a tree in a forest and place yogasanas. But the same work continues. The longing for the future remains.

Moksha already is. Do nothing—Moksha is. When you are doing nothing, in that very moment you will see it. For when energy is released from doing, what will it do? It will see!

When energy is entangled in the doer, it cannot become the witness. That same energy—when it is not entangled in doing, when there is nothing to do—becomes the witness.

Zen Masters tell their disciples: just sit and do nothing. Never has a more revolutionary sutra been given. They say, just sit; do nothing. The disciple returns again and again: ‘Give me something to do.’ The true Master says: ‘If I give you something to do, the whole “gorakh-dhandha” begins!’

‘Gorakh-dhandha’ is a wondrous word. It comes from Gorakhnath. For as many methods as Gorakhnath devised, none other—except me—has devised. Gorakh-dhandha! They do not agree; they want to do something... do it! Do Kundalini, do Nadabrahma! Without doing, there is no peace! You say, ‘Without doing something, how can we sit?’ So I say, ‘Very well, do something!’ When you grow tired of doing, someday when you say, ‘Now tell us something by which nothing needs to be done; enough of doing; nothing happens by doing’—I shall say: now sit!

Like a small child in the house—restless—you tell him, ‘Sit quietly!’ How will he sit quietly? He is not old enough to sit quietly. Energy is brimming, fire is boiling! Even if he sits quietly, he fidgets. He cannot sleep at night; he falls off the bed. He tosses and turns; flails arms and legs. Energy is arising. Tell him, ‘Sit quietly! Close your eyes!’ He cannot. There is only one way for him: tell him, ‘Run fifteen laps around the house—run fast.’ Then nothing more needs to be said. After those laps he will sit quietly by himself. Then look—there is a difference in his quiet. Energy has flowed out; tiredness has come—and in that tiredness, sitting becomes easy.

All methods are gorakh-dhandhas. They have only one use: that you get tired; the doer in you slowly grows weary. You begin to think, ‘By doing and doing nothing has happened; now let me try not-doing!’ You get so harassed by doing that one day you say, ‘O Lord, now free me from doing! Now this doing is life-taking. Now we want to be quiet; we want to sit!’

Only when you yourself want to sit quietly, will you be able to sit quietly.

As long as the disciple takes some relish in the doer, he must be given something to do, some process. But the Zen fakir speaks the final word: sit, do nothing! It is very difficult to just sit and do nothing.

Have you noticed, when there is nothing to do at home, what a calamity it becomes! People start arranging furniture—yesterday they arranged it, today they rearrange it. They begin to dust and sweep—yesterday they did it, today they do it again. An old newspaper is lying around; they begin to read it—they had read it before. Have you noticed? One begins to do something or other! If nothing else, one begins eating and drinking.

I used to travel for years; a friend sometimes traveled with me. He said to me, ‘A strange thing—at home I don’t feel such hunger. In a train, sitting with you for thirty hours—I don’t feel such hunger at home; what is the matter? At home I’m engaged in work, and hunger doesn’t come; in the train I am only sitting.’ Many feel hunger in trains; and if one has brought some snacks from home then it becomes an obsession—when to open them!

I said, ‘The reason is only this: you cannot sit idle. Now this has become a kind of zhazen—a Zen act—that you sit thirty hours in a train. There is no work. How long can you look outside—your eyes tire. How long can you read the newspaper—it is finished shortly. So you eat something; you lay out the bedroll again; you open the suitcase—like it belongs to someone else! Arrange it properly!’

I would watch—what is he doing? Then he goes to the bathroom. Why? You just went! Who knows what’s the matter? He opens and shuts the window!

Man needs some entanglement. If he remains entangled, occupied, it feels all right. If he remains entangled and occupied, everything continues according to the old habit. If he slips into emptiness, the void begins to seize him. That very void is meditation. If he slips into emptiness, Moksha begins to descend.

You have no idea of Moksha. You keep shutting the door. Whenever Moksha says, ‘Let me enter within for a moment,’ you begin doing something again.

Moksha will come only when you are in a moment when you are doing nothing. Then suddenly it descends. That supreme grace showers. Instantly prasada stands all around. For Moksha is everyone’s nature; it does not depend upon your doing.

But the Master sees: if any small desire to do remains, finish that as well.

‘तुझ से संसार उत्पन्न होता है; जैसे समुद्र से बुलबुला। इस प्रकार आत्मा को एक जान और ऐसा जान कर मोक्ष को प्राप्त हो।’

‘इति ज्ञात्वैकमात्मानमेवमेव लयं व्रज।’

He says, ‘Do one thing: know that the Atman is one with all.’

Now he is starting the journey of knowledge. Many foolish ones sit repeating, ‘I and Brahman are one, I and Brahman are one.’ Repeat it for lifetimes—nothing will happen. You will become parrots. By repetition such an illusion can arise that perhaps I and Brahman are one. But this illusion is not knowledge.

‘The visible world appears as a perception, and yet like the rope-snake, it is not for you, the pure. Therefore, attain Nirvana.’

This is all illusion. Awake from this illusion! Attain Nirvana! This is a dream; as in a rope a snake appears.

‘व्यक्तं विश्वं प्रत्यक्षम् अपि अवस्तुत्वात्।
अमले त्वयि रज्जुसर्पः इव न अस्ति।
एवम् एव लयम् व्रज।’

Though the world is visible, still it is not. Just as a snake appears in the rope. In you, the pure, the awakened, there is no stain. If a stain seems to appear, it is like the rope-snake.

Thus, knowing so, attain dissolution! Attain Nirvana!

Only two things can seize a man who has awakened from worldly indulgence: renunciation and knowledge. Renunciation: ‘Leave; enter tapas, fast, abandon sleep; drop this, drop that.’ And knowledge: ‘Know this; know that; strengthen knowing.’

There are two kinds of people: those of very active temperament—upon leaving the world they get into renunciation. Those of a little passive temperament, of a reflective bent—upon leaving the world they get into knowledge. But both are hindrances.

You will often find: either the man fleeing the world becomes a pandit, repeating the scriptures; or he begins to torment and wither the body. Both are obstacles. Here there is neither anything to know, nor anything to do. The knower hides within—you are to know what? The knower of all sits within you—know what?

These are the ultimate proclamations of the spiritual. So even if they seem difficult, try to understand.

‘For whom sorrow and joy are the same, who is complete, who is equal in hope and despair, in life and death—be so, and attain Nirvana.’

‘समदुःखसुखः पूर्ण आशानैराश्ययोः समः।
समजीवितमृत्युः।
सन्नैवमेव लयं व्रज।’

—For whom joy and sorrow appear equal; hope and despair appear equal—this is the definition of vairagya.

—For whom death and life also appear equal.

—Knowing thus, attain Nirvana, Janaka.

Then he gives a goal: either leave body-identity—or hold onto the knowledge, ‘I am Param Brahman, the Atman; the Atman is one with all.’ These are two paths for your liberation.

Had the seeker been ordinary, he would have gotten entangled. If active, he would have fallen into karma-yoga. If passive, he would have fallen into jnana-yoga.

Ashtavakra did not raise the point of bhakti, because there was no such possibility in Janaka. There were two possibilities: he was a kshatriya, so there was the seed of being a warrior—hence the possibility of activity, and therefore deep renunciation like the Jain Tirthankaras who were all kshatriyas; and he was an emperor, well-educated, cultured—whatever purest knowledge was possible in that age was available to Janaka—hence a second possibility: that he would become a great thinker. Bhakti had no possibility; therefore Ashtavakra did not raise it. He raised these two. These were the possibilities lying in the unconscious; within, some scope sliding; in which an sprouting could happen.

We understand in our own way whatever is said. I am speaking to you; as many people are here, so many meanings will be born. I am only one speaking; but as many as are here, so many meanings will arise. People understand in their own manner.

I was speaking with Mulla Nasruddin’s son. He is a small child. He suddenly asked, ‘Tell me one thing. You answer everyone’s questions; answer mine. When a man dies, from where does his life leave?’

Small children often ask such things. I too was startled a little. I asked him, ‘Do you know from where it leaves?’ He laughed, ‘I know.’ I said, ‘First you tell me.’ He said, ‘From the window.’

I asked, ‘How?’ He said, ‘One day I saw that Papa—Mulla Nasruddin—standing by the window, when a girl was passing in the street, he said, “Stop, my life!” Then I understood that life goes out of the window.’

A small child—he understood correctly, as far as he could.

We only understand as much as we can. Janaka understood as Janaka could understand. Janaka’s understanding is extraordinary, unique—no ordinary person’s. Ashtavakra too must have wondered whether Janaka would understand or not. Natural too, because the event is so great, the height so high—can anyone climb so far?

‘For whom joy and sorrow are the same...’

Be careful: by effort you can make joy and sorrow the same—and still you will remain bound. Life and death can also be made equal—on the basis of belief. You can hypnotize yourself that all is equal. But from this no great event will occur that transforms you, gives you new meaning, new intent, new sky.

Janaka said...

Now Janaka’s sutras. These are very rare sutras. It seems as if Ashtavakra spoke by descending into Janaka’s depths. As if Janaka answered exactly as Ashtavakra would have wished. To find such a disciple is rare.

Janaka said: ‘I am like the sky. The world is nature-made like a pot—thus I know. Therefore there is neither its renunciation, nor its acceptance, nor its dissolution.’

He spoke a revolutionary thing! Ashtavakra must have danced. Granted his body was crooked in eight places, but in this moment he must not have been able to restrain himself—he must have danced. The supreme lotus has bloomed—the sahasrara has blossomed.

‘आकाशवदनंतोऽहं घटवत् प्राकृतं जगत्।
इति ज्ञानं तथैतस्य न त्यागो न ग्रहो लयः।।’

I am like the sky. The world is like a pot—made and unmade. Pots are made and crumble. The sky remains unaffected. Worlds arise, take shape, vanish—as dreams arise, take shape, vanish. But the witness remains pure like the sky. Nothing can make me impure—Janaka declares. So set aside talk that I should become pure and attain liberation. I never became impure.

Granted, water can be mixed with milk, because milk and water are of the same order. You can place water and oil together in one bottle—though they do not mix, still they are both substances. But the sky cannot be mixed with anything. The sky is pure, unmodified.

On this earth how many were born—good and bad, virtuous and sinful; how many wars took place, how many loves happened; how many springs came, how many autumns—the sky stands unmodified. No line remains. No form forms in the sky.

‘इति ज्ञानं!’—this is astonishing.

Janaka says: I am sky-like. ‘Iti jnanam.’ This is knowledge. What other knowledge now are you telling me to attain, to seek? Knowledge has happened—‘iti jnanam’!

‘तथैतस्य न त्यागो न ग्रहो लयः।’

You will not find a sutra like this in the whole spiritual literature. There are scriptures that say: neither indulgence nor renunciation. But Janaka says: neither indulgence, nor renunciation, nor Moksha; nor even dissolution.

This third thing is to be pondered.

‘I am like the sky. The world is nature-made like a pot.’

Pots are made and unmade. When the pot is made, there seems an inside-sky and an outside-sky. When the pot breaks, the inside and outside sky are one again. Perhaps even while the pot exists the inside and outside sky are not separate. The pot is porous; through its pores the sky is joined. The sky is not torn, not fragmented. You cannot cut the sky with a sword. All boundaries are imaginary, man-made. No line is drawn upon the sky.

I am like the sky—so I know. ‘Iti jnanam!’ Therefore there is neither its renunciation, nor acceptance, nor dissolution.

‘I am like the great ocean. This manifest world is like waves. Thus I know. Therefore there is neither its renunciation, nor its acceptance, nor its dissolution.’

‘महोदधिरिवाहं स प्रपंचो वीचिसन्निभिः।
इति ज्ञानं तथैतस्य न त्यागो न ग्रहो लयः।।’

Janaka says, ‘Master, do not entangle me. You cannot entangle me. You have awakened me. Now do not cast nets. Your temptations are of no use now. You give very lofty temptations: “Knowing thus, attain liberation.”’

Janaka says, ‘I am liberated—“iti jnanam!” This is known; what else remains to know? If I try to become liberated, you awaken desire again. If I seek Moksha, you awaken longing again. You cause to sprout what had burned to ash, what had died away. To whom are you saying this? Stop offering these temptations. You can no longer cajole me.’

Even one as skillful as Ashtavakra, with such subtle language, can no longer sell his hidden net to Janaka. Janaka is no longer a customer. Janaka is certainly awake.

Like the ocean—waves arise in the ocean. ‘I know thus: I am the ocean. This world is wave-like. It appears separate from me—yet how is it separate? How are waves separate from the ocean? They are in the ocean, of the ocean. It is the ocean that waves; who else? This world is also me; and the absence of this world is also me. When there are waves, the ocean is; when there are no waves, the ocean is. Iti jnanam! Knowing thus, what shall I leave? Shall the ocean leave the waves?—what foolishness. Shall the ocean hold the waves?—there is no need to hold; they are of the ocean. Where is liberation, where Moksha? Knowing thus, I am already free—“iti jnanam!”’

‘I am like the mother-of-pearl; the world’s imagination is like silver. Thus I know. Therefore there is neither its renunciation, nor its acceptance, nor its dissolution.’

‘अहं स शुक्तिसंकाशो रूप्यवद्विश्वकल्पना।
इति ज्ञानं तथैतस्य न त्यागो न ग्रहो लयः।।’

‘I am surely in all beings; and all beings are in me. Thus I know. Therefore there is neither its renunciation, nor its acceptance, nor its dissolution.’

Knowledge is not to be attained. Knowledge is. Either it is, or it is not. No one has ever attained it by attaining. The attainer becomes a pandit; the awakened becomes a jnani.

What ought to be, already is. As it ought to be, it is. Otherwise, for even a single moment it neither was, nor can it be. He who becomes available to this state is the saint.

Some people are engaged in gaining the world—wealth, position, prestige... Some are engaged in gaining heaven—there too position, prestige... Some bank here; some in distant heavens. But it makes no difference—both are earning. The saint is one who says, ‘What earning? This whole universe is mine. I belong to this whole universe. There is not a hair’s breadth between me and this universe.’

‘Now in the longing for You we have arrived at such a destination,
We find ourselves in You, and we find You in ourselves.’

There is now no gap of ‘I’ and ‘Thou’. It is only a play of language, perhaps a lila. One wave is not separate from another.

‘Now in the longing for You we have arrived at such a destination,
We find ourselves in You, and we find You in ourselves.’

In such a moment—‘iti jnanam!’

‘Having sung verses to the Beloved’s beauty,
We became the comfort of lovers’ hearts.
We became acquainted with the secret of the King of the world,
So we became carefree of profit and loss of life.’

We became acquainted with the secret of the world. Then we became unconcerned with all gain and loss—there is neither gain here nor loss; for here there is none other than ourselves. None can snatch; none can give. Neither does greed have meaning here, nor anger.

Anger is like slapping your own cheek. Greed is like hiding your own things in your own house—from yourself—lest you steal them yourself!

‘Having sung verses to the Beloved’s beauty,
We became the comfort of lovers’ hearts.
We became acquainted with the secret of the King of the world!
We knew—
We became acquainted with the world’s secret!
So we became carefree of profit and loss of life.’

‘To whom do you say,’ Janaka said, ‘be equal in joy and sorrow? Where is joy here? Where is sorrow here? You say, “Keep equanimity in life and death.” To keep equanimity means they are two, and equanimity has to be kept between them. When they are one, for whom is equanimity? Both are in me, and I am in both.’

Where the person becomes zero, there he becomes one with the whole. Therefore it is said: he who knows Brahman becomes Brahman. He who knows Truth becomes Truth. What we truly know, that we become.

‘अहं वा सर्वभूतेषु सर्वभूतान्ययो मयि।
इति ज्ञानं तथैतस्य न त्यागो न ग्रहो लयः।।’

When Janaka spoke these four small sutras, you cannot imagine Ashtavakra’s joy!

When the disciple attains, you cannot fathom the Master’s delight. As if the Master gains supreme joy again—what was already his, becomes his anew. When the lamp is lit in the disciple, it is as if another new sun has been added to the Master’s light! Thousands of suns were there—one thousand and one! This was expected; therefore the test. This was expected; therefore the temptation. There was this possibility in Janaka; hence he was not left quickly.

The disciples whom the Master leaves quickly—he leaves because their possibility is not great; if tested too much they will break. The test can be only as much as the capacity. If the test exceeds the limit, it will destroy the disciple, not make him.

Janaka was drawn to the end; the final temptation of knowledge and renunciation was given. Knowledge and renunciation are the last obstacles. He who goes beyond them is free.

He who has known in this way, ‘I am free,’ he alone is free. ‘Iti jnanam!’

Ignorant ones too speak great words of knowledge. Often the ignorant speak the words of knowledge. Thus they hide their ignorance. How else will they hide? In the talk of health, disease is concealed. The sick speak of health the most. A wound—cover it with flowers; drape it in fine clothes; drape it in velvet and silk. But the wound will not heal by that.

Often you hear people say in this world: maintain equality in joy and sorrow, equality in life and death. But ‘maintain equality’—this means the two are unequal and you have to maintain equality. This is effort. Where there is effort, there is no knowledge. Knowledge is natural. Only if it is natural is it knowledge—‘iti jnanam!’ That which comes by effort only announces that the opposite is present within; otherwise, against what is the effort?

A man struggles against anger and says, ‘One must remain peaceful; peace is religion.’ These things also please you—that peace is religion. Peace is not religion. The effort to remain peaceful is only a way to hide anger. To know ‘I am peace’—that is religion; not the effort to remain peaceful. To enter the experience, the realization, ‘I am peace itself.’

One day Mulla Nasruddin was telling his neighbor, ‘Remember in dire troubles—half the people have no interest in hearing your troubles, and the other half think you deserve them.’

Now he speaks words of great wisdom. From the ignorant too you will hear words of wisdom; though their reasons will always be wrong. They will say the right things, but the reasons will be wrong.

Peace is not the opposite of anger that you can acquire. Where there is peace, there is no anger—this is true. Peace is the absence of anger, not its opposite. People think peace is the contrary state of anger; remove anger and there will be peace. By removing, peace will not arise. By removing, at most you can put on a costume of peace; a garment—and inside everything remains concealed, like poison, like pus. It will burst someday.

Brahmacharya is not the opposite of lust. Where there is brahmacharya, there is no lust—this is true. ‘Iti jnanam!’ But brahmacharya is not the opposite of lust. By holding lust down, by managing it, no brahmacharya is born. One who knows ‘I am Brahman’—Brahman descends into his conduct. Brahma-charya—conduct like Brahman. It has nothing to do with lust. Look at the word! It is such a wondrous word: brahmacharya. Your so-called great men have corrupted it badly. They take brahmacharya to mean: freedom from lust. In brahmacharya there is no mention of lust. Brahman-like conduct! Divine behavior!

But conduct like Brahman will be only when you have inner experience of Brahman. One who has experienced Brahman—his conduct is brahmacharya. He says, ‘In the ocean are the waves—they are mine. All is mine, and I am of all. Here there is nothing to leave, nothing to grasp. Then the world itself is Moksha—where is there to go?’

The famous saying of Zen Master Rinzai is: ‘Samsara is Nirvana.’ For hundreds of years this sutra has made countless people restless. ‘Samsara is Nirvana’? How strange! Samsara—and Nirvana? It is as if someone said indulgence is renunciation. But the statement is true.

Rinzai is saying: he who has known—there is nothing to drop, nothing to abandon, nothing to obtain—he arrives in the state of Nirvana. ‘Iti jnanam!’ Then he remains in the world—where will he flee? Where will he go? Where is there to go? What is, is accepted by him. If there is a wave, the wave is accepted; if the wave vanishes, the vanishing is accepted. His acceptance is supreme. His state is tathata—suchness. What is, he accepts it. He does not demand otherwise; it cannot be otherwise.

As long as you want otherwise—to be something else; different from what is—you will remain restless. The day you say, ‘What is, is; and what is, will remain as it is; and as it is, I am content’—you are free! ‘Iti jnanam!’

Hari Om Tat Sat!