Maha Geeta #23

Truth cannot be said; that is why it has to be said again and again. Even after saying it again and again, it is discovered that it slipped away. Again it slipped away. What had to be said could not be contained in words.

There is a saying in Arabia: a perfect human being cannot be made; therefore God goes on creating new children every day. Even now He is trying to make the perfect man—He has neither given up, nor tired, nor fallen into despair.

Exactly so is the situation with Truth. From the beginningless, the awakened ones have attempted to speak. In a thousand ways they have pointed towards it, and yet what had to be said has remained unsaid. It cannot be said. By its very nature there is no possibility of it being bound in words. As no one can fill the sky into a fist.

Notice a wonder! Close your fist and the sky remains outside; open your fist and the sky is within your hand. In the open hand it is there; in the clenched fist it is lost. So in silence truth is; in words it is lost. Words are a clenched fist; silence is an open hand. And yet the awakened ones attempt to speak—out of compassion. And blessed it is that the attempt continues. Even if Truth cannot be expressed, the effort to express It must continue; because in that very effort many asleep ones are awakened. By hearing, Truth is not obtained—but by hearing again and again, thirst arises; the longing for the search of Truth is kindled.

What I am saying to you—I say knowing it will not reach you. Yet even if what I say does not reach, it will serve as ghee to the hidden fire within your life; the fire will be enkindled. Whether you obtain Truth or not, the sleeping fire within you will receive fuel. In this very hope all scriptures were born. But if, in trying to catch Truth, you get entangled in words, you miss—like one who memorizes a song and forgets the meaning hidden within it.

Have you seen parrots! They memorize. They start parroting ‘Ram-Ram’. They can even repeat a hymn.

You can learn words. Beautiful words are available. And a delusion may seize you that since the word has come, Truth too must have arrived. The word is only an empty casket. Truth does not arrive that way. Therefore, never, by mistake, take the word to be Truth, and do not carry scripture upon your head.

This is Ashtavakra’s Maha-Gita. A purer statement of Truth than this has never been given—and never can be. Yet let me remind you: do not get entangled in these words. These words are empty. They are so lovely—not because Truth is contained in them; they are lovely because the one from whom they arose must have had Truth abiding within. They are lovely because the heart from which they gushed, the source from which they rose, had Truth as its abode.

Near a Sadguru or in the vicinity of the words of Truth something happens—like a morning mist surrounding you as you go for a walk. You do not get drenched—there is no rain—yet if you keep walking and walking your clothes slowly become moist. There is no rain to soak you through and through, yet if you have walked in the fog and return home you will find your clothes a little wet.

In satsang such dampness comes, such moistness—there is no downpour. But if you listen to the pure utterances of scripture in silence and do not get caught in the words, then, like the fog, the fragrance that clings around the words will make you fragrant; it will enkindle you; it will become fuel to the torch within you.

The poet wrote new songs again and again,
Yet gave expansion to the very same theme—
That which he could never fully grasp;
That which never fit into any one song.
Had it been contained in a single song,
Why would the poet write another?

Many times you will feel Ashtavakra keeps saying the same thing; Janaka keeps repeating the same.

The poet wrote new songs again and again,
Yet gave expansion to the very same theme—
That which he could never fully grasp;
That which never fit into any one song.

One song is defeated; the poet composes another. But what he wanted to sing in the first song is what he wants to sing in the second.

Someone asked Vincent van Gogh, “How many paintings have you made in your life?” He said, “Many I made, yet I wanted to paint only one.”

Well said. In the attempt to paint that One, many were painted—and that One always remained, it could not be painted.

Rabindranath was on his deathbed. Seeing tears fall from his eyes, a friend said, “You—and you weep? Thank the Lord! He has given you everything. A greater poet than you has not been. You have written six thousand songs that can be set to music. In the West there is great fame for Shelley’s style; he too wrote only two thousand songs capable of being set to music. You have written six thousand. What more do you want? Why now do you weep? Now depart in peace.”

Rabindranath began to laugh. He said, “Not that I am weeping. I was inwardly petitioning the Lord—and tears came to the eyes. I was saying, ‘What a joke this is! Only now had I managed to tune the instrument. I have not yet sung the song! Only now had I tuned the instrument—and the moment of departure has arrived. What injustice is this? These six thousand songs that I sang were only the tuning of the instrument.’”

As you may have seen: the tabla-player knocks and adjusts the tabla; the veena-player tightens the strings. The sound that comes from tightening and testing the strings—do not take that for music; it is only the preparation.

Rabindranath said, “Only now was the preparation nearing completion. It seemed I could sing—and the hour of departure has arrived. What injustice!”

All who have tried to say something have had this very experience. What is to be sung remains unsung. What is to be said remains unsaid.

Then, from another side, the attempt arises: well, if it did not happen from this dimension, it might from another; if these words did not work, perhaps some other words will; if by this the lamp did not light, by some other utterance it might. But the lamp cannot be lit by words—for word and Truth do not meet. Still, if you listen in silence, if you drink, the word will be lost—but around the word, like a halo of mist, that aura will enkindle the inner fire; you will become thirsty.

Janaka’s sutras today continue the thread of the earlier sutras, in the same sequence. The previous four were very revolutionary. Now comes their unfolding. Indeed, the whole Maha-Gita will be the unfolding of those four. The essential matter in those four was simply this: Ashtavakra told Janaka, “Now be established in knowledge.” And Janaka says, “Be established in knowledge? What are you saying? I am established in knowledge! What are you saying—‘become established in knowledge’—as if knowledge were other than me! It is my nature, my awareness. Iti jñānam! This very witnessing that is being experienced is knowledge. ‘Become’ suggests it will happen in the future. ‘Become’ suggests some practice will be needed, some ritual, some rite. ‘Become’ suggests a journey—the destination is in the future, the path has to be walked.”

Janaka said, “No—no! Do not try to entangle me, and do not give me such temptations. It has happened; it has befallen.” And when he says “It has happened,” it does not mean it was not before and now it is. It means it has always been; I was simply unaware, unmindful. The treasure lay within me; I had not turned my eyes toward it; I kept searching elsewhere. There was no obstacle to finding; my wrong search itself was the obstacle. It was not that my effort was incomplete, or my practice unfinished, or my means inadequate, or I had not staked my total life-energy—no. Only where I needed to look I did not look. I did not look within. The seeker did not look within the seeker; he searched elsewhere. I looked within—and it was so. ‘It happened’ one has to say in language; truly one should say: that very thing happened which always is.”

When Buddha awakened someone asked, “What did you gain?” Buddha said, “Nothing was gained. I came to know that which already was, that which there is no way to lose.”

Ashtavakra must have been overjoyed on hearing Janaka’s reply. Rarely has any disciple fulfilled the Master’s expectation with such completeness. For the disciple’s enthusiasm generally lies in becoming—in attaining, evolving, growing richer, becoming wise, powerful, acquiring siddhis. Ashtavakra must have been utterly delighted, inwardly ecstatic. For what Janaka was saying is what Ashtavakra wanted to hear.

Tere husn-e-javāb se āī,
Mere rangīn savāl kī khushbū.

Surely, in Janaka’s answer Ashtavakra experienced the ultimate fragrance of his own question. Inwardly he must have been blossoming, yet outwardly he kept a stern face. Outwardly, he is the examiner. Outwardly, eyes are testing. The sharp edge of his gaze cuts through Janaka’s heart.

The Master must be stern—this is his compassion. He will say “Right” only in the ultimate state—never before. As long as any possibility of error remains, he will probe, he will cut, he will devise new ways so that you may get trapped, so that somewhere a slip may show.

Janaka said: “In me, the infinite great ocean, the ship of the world, moved here and there by its own natural winds, rocks to and fro. I have no impatience.”

This sutra seems so simple, yet it is profound! Try to enter it. Only if you listen very attentively will you be able to enter. Its meaning is: whether sorrow comes or joy, both arise from nature. Where is any facility for my choosing? Who asks me! As waves rise in the sea—small, large; good waves, bad waves; beautiful, ugly—such is the sea’s nature. Likewise, within me waves arise—of pleasure and pain; of love and hate; of anger and compassion. By nature they arise and rock to and fro. I have not made any choice; I have dropped choosing. And from the moment choosing was dropped, impatience disappeared. When there is nothing to do, how can impatience be?

People come to me and say, “Somehow take us out of restlessness.” I tell them, “Accept restlessness.” At once they do not understand—because they have come to drop restlessness. I tell them, “Accept restlessness.” Their purpose in coming is entirely different. They want someone to rid them of unrest. Some method, some device, some medicine, some mantra-tantra, some yajna-havan—something by which restlessness will drop. And out of every hundred gurus, ninety-nine will surely prescribe something: “Do this—restlessness will leave.”

My difficulty is that I know there is no way to drop restlessness—there is a way to accept it. And in acceptance restlessness dissolves. When I say “dissolves,” do not think restlessness itself necessarily leaves. Whether restlessness continues or not—you are freed from restlessness. Whether restlessness leaves you or not—you leave restlessness.

Understand the mechanism of mind. The mind is restless; you say it should be quiet. The mind was restless; you have added a new restlessness—that now it should be quiet. Understand the restlessness of mind. You have ten thousand rupees; you wanted a million; therefore the mind is restless. You were not content with what is. You demanded what is not. Restlessness arises from the demand for the ‘no’. Restlessness comes from lack. From what is, restlessness never arises; from asking for what is not, it arises. The wife you have—you want one more beautiful. The husband you have—you want one more renowned. The son you have—you want one more intelligent. The house you have—you want one bigger. The prestige you have—you want it deeper. The position you hold—you want one higher. Restlessness comes from wanting what you do not have. Then, once you are restless, you start wanting one more new thing—while the old net remains, and its arithmetic spreads further—now you say, “I want peace.” Peace is not with you; now you want peace. Do you see? This means the net will become even more entangled.

A man ordinarily restless, who has not fallen into the fuss about peace, is more peaceful than a man who has fallen into the fuss of wanting to be peaceful. This is one more trouble. You were already restless; the logic was: what is not should be. Now peace is not; peace should be. One more new nuisance begins.

Among so-called religious people, you will not find anyone more restless. Worldly people are not so restless. Those bowing in temples and mosques, sitting in prayer-rooms, fasting and doing austerities—you will find them more restless than ordinary folks in hotels, sipping tea, reading newspapers. At least the latter have one restlessness—they want to obtain something in the world. The religious person has double restlessness—he wants something in the other world too. Not only does he want something in the other world, here too he wants peace, wants bliss, wants meditation. And the entire net is only this: if you want to obtain something, you will grow more restless.

I say—when someone comes in search of peace—“Accept restlessness.” I explain. Sometimes he even understands. It is a difficult point: “Accept restlessness! Then how will we be peaceful?” I understand your point too. But I tell you: whoever has become peaceful has become so by accepting restlessness. Hearing me, understanding me, someone agrees, “All right, then we accept; then we will become peaceful? We accept—then we will become peaceful? How long will it take?” Then I say, you have not accepted at all. Your demand remains—that you must become peaceful. Acceptance means: what is, is; otherwise it cannot be. What is, will be. What has happened, has always been happening.

When you accept in this way, afterwards the question does not arise, “By accepting, will we become peaceful?” Peace is the very state of that happening when what is, is accepted. Then how can you be restless? What device remains to be restless? What is, as it is—is accepted. Who then can make you restless—and how? Even if restlessness comes, it is accepted. If sorrow comes, it is accepted. Even if death comes, it is accepted. You have dropped choosing; you have dropped resolve; you have surrendered. You have said, now what is, is. And that very day the great revolution occurs to which this sutra points.

मयि अनंत महाम्भोधौ विश्वपोत इतस्ततः।
भ्रमति स्वान्तवातेन न मम अस्ति असहिष्णुता॥

“In me, the infinite great ocean, the world-ship rocks here and there by its own natural wind. I have no impatience.”

Now I know this is nature itself. No one is against me, behind me. No enemy is making me restless. These are waves of my own nature. This is me. This is my way of being: sometimes waves arise, sometimes they do not; sometimes all becomes quiet, sometimes all becomes disturbed. This is me, and this is my nature.

A friend asked: “You say, when the Atman is liberated it will be in perfect bliss, free; but can desire then not arise in the Atman? And if desire cannot arise later, why did desire arise before? For the Atman is by nature free, pure-awareness. Why then did desire arise at all?”

The friend’s question is completely natural, logical. What does not occur to him is that the arising of desire too is part of the Atman’s freedom. No one has put it in you. It is your nature. Desire arises in your nature, and moksha too arises in your nature. When desire arises, you become worldly. When desire arises, you enter the body. When you are tired of desire, you become free. But both are your very nature. It is not that some devil is putting desire in you and moksha you will bring. Desire is yours; moksha is yours. And whoever understands so will come to see: if desire cannot arise in the Atman, then that Atman is not free at all. What kind of freedom is that if you can go to heaven but the doors to hell are locked and you cannot go? Such freedom would be tasteless. Heaven would lose its flavor. Your mouth would fill with bitterness in heaven.

The joy of heaven is precisely that there is the facility to go to hell. The joy of happiness is that there is the facility to be unhappy. Because of the opposite, life has all its color and music. If the opposite is not, all music is lost. When the veena-player plucks the string, there is music. The struggle between finger and string—that very struggle is music. If the struggle ceases, music is zero, gone.

The polarity between woman and man—that is love. If the polarity ends, love departs. The option between the world and liberation—that is freedom. Freedom means: if I wish, I can go to the lowest layer of hell—no one can prevent me. And if I wish, the heights of heaven are mine—no one can prevent me. It is my decision. And both are my nature. Hell is my lowest state; heaven my highest. Understand: hell is my feet, heaven my head. But both are mine, and within, my blood connects them.

भ्रमति स्वान्तवातेन…

By its own wind it wanders. The boat rocks.

“In me, the infinite great ocean, the world-ship rocks here and there by its own natural wind. I have no impatience.”

Janaka says, now I do not wish to choose. I do not want the boat not to rock—for that very desire that it not rock will become a tension of my mind.

Whenever you desire something, tension arises. Whenever you accept what is, tension disappears. If you desire ignorance to go and knowledge to come—trouble begins. If you desire desirelessness—then you are caught in a tangle! If you desire to be free of the world and to establish moksha as your kingdom—you have taken on a kind of worry that will not let you rest.

Janaka says a wondrous thing. The world and moksha are both waves arising in me. I no longer choose; whichever wave arises, I keep seeing. This too is mine. This too is natural.

See this mood of acceptance! How can there be impatience then? Then forbearance becomes absolutely natural. What is happening, is happening. It is very difficult to accept this—because it is utterly contrary to the ego.

Someone came and said, “I am violently angry; I must be free of anger.” I asked him, “Why are you so angry? Understand this a little. It must be because of ego.”

He said, “You are right.” And I said, “For the same ego you now say you want to be free of anger, because anger hurts your ego. So behind anger is ego, and behind becoming non-angry too is ego. Whenever you are angry, your image falls; your ego does not like that. You want people to worship you as a saint, to touch your feet. Because of your anger all that gets disturbed. Who will touch your feet? Who will bow to you? So now you want to be free of anger. But the root remains the same. The ego because of which you were angry—that very ego now wants to become a saint. Understand this—and drop choosing. I say to you, you are angry: agree—fine, I am angry. And the consequences of anger will be—let them be. No one will respect you—fine; why should they? Someone will insult you—fine. I am angry, therefore I am insulted.”

Try to understand: if this person understands anger and accepts it, will anger remain?

Two days ago this person wrote me a letter: “Now save me, take me out; I have started going to a prostitute’s house, and people think me a saint, a sadhu. If I am caught, if someone comes to know—then what?”

See, the same ego will take new forms! The same ego will take you to the prostitute’s house; the same ego will create the ambition to become a saint.

I told him, “Do one thing. Either accept that you are a frequenter of prostitutes and declare it: ‘I go to prostitutes.’ Finished. Then neither fear nor dread remains. Then if you wish to go, go; if not, don’t. Your choice. Perhaps for you, as you are now, this is right: what is happening is happening rightly. I am not telling you, ‘Don’t go.’ If with this acceptant mood this tendency drops—good, then you will awaken. Then accept awakening. For now accept your sleep. And only through acceptance is a bridge built between sleep and awakening.”

What did he do? He screamed, right before me: “No one can stop me from becoming a Buddha!” He shouted so loudly that Sheela, who was sitting beside me, trembled.

The same anger, the same ego takes new forms. “Now no one can stop me from becoming a Buddha!”—as if I were stopping him from becoming a Buddha! Because I said to him, “Accept. Accept what is!”

This struck him as a wound. How to accept! Even the worst of men does not accept, “I am bad.” At most he admits, “Some badness is in me; but essentially I am a good man. See, I am trying to be good—worshipping, praying, meditating, going to satsang. I am a good man; a little weakness is there; a little evil happens sometimes—it will fade gradually.” It will never fade. Because this goodness is but a way to hide your evil. This satsang of yours is a cover for the anger within. These nice-nice words and dreams—someday I will be a saint; no one can stop me from becoming a Buddha—now the ego has found a beautiful cover—hiding behind the curtain of becoming a Buddha!

If you look rightly into mind, you will understand the significance of Janaka’s statement. Acceptance! This is natural; that too is natural. What is happening this moment, I do not want to be otherwise. Do you understand the revolution? What is happening in this moment—this is me: if anger, then anger; if greed, then greed; if lust, then lust. This moment I am whatever I am; and I make no demand to be otherwise, nor do I raise any façade of otherwise.

Often you hide the wounds of your life behind good ideals. The violent, in trying to be non-violent, remain busy—their violence never disappears; it cannot. The only way to be non-violent is to accept violence utterly. The angry try to be compassionate—they never can be. At most they put on a veneer, enact hypocrisy, but they cannot become compassionate. The lustful try for brahmacharya. The more lustful a man is, the more he is attracted to the ideal of celibacy; for in the ideal of brahmacharya he can hide the ugliness of his lust; there is no other way. “Today I am wrong, tomorrow I will be right”—in this hope he can live today; else even living today would be difficult.

I say to you: there is no tomorrow; you are what you are today. The moment you wholly accept this, the duality is dissolved. You are what you are; you cannot be otherwise; where then is conflict? Where is choice? As you are, so you are. This is your being. Existence has desired you thus. In this moment Existence wishes to make this happen within you. In this moment all of life wants to see you just so; such a person is needed. Within you this is the ordinance, this is fate.

“In me, the infinite great ocean, the world-ship rocks by its natural wind.”

Sometimes it becomes anger, sometimes compassion; sometimes lust, sometimes brahmacharya; sometimes greed, sometimes charity—here and there, itastatah! But I have no impatience. I do not wish it otherwise. Therefore nothing remains for me to do. The doings are gone. Now I sit and watch what wave arises.

भ्रमति स्वान्तवातेन…

Wandering by its own wind. Nowhere to go, nothing to become. No ideal, no goal. I sit now. I watch at ease. All impatience has vanished.

When you say, “I am angry and I must become non-angry”—do you understand? Because of anger you are very impatient. You do not accept anger with patience. You are in great haste. You say, “Anger—and me! A holy man like me and I should get angry—no, it does not suit me. I must get rid of anger! I must be free! I will practice yama-niyama, asana-exercise, dharana-dhyana; but I must be free of anger!” You have revealed your impatience. You have declared that what is—you are not in agreement with; you want something else. From there you began to be restless.

Impatience is the seed of restlessness.

Janaka says: these are waves. At times anger comes, at times lust, at times greed. Itastatah! Here—there! Sva-anta-vātena! All wanders! But I watch. Now I have nothing to take or give. I have no insistence to become such. As I am—I am content.

In freedom from ideals there is forbearance. And whom do I call a sannyasin? I call that person a sannyasin who has renounced ideals. Now you will be startled. You have always heard: the one who has renounced the world is a sannyasin. I say: the one who has renounced ideals is a sannyasin. For after the renunciation of ideals there remains no way to be impatient.

Try it. For one month. For one month, accept whatsoever is. Someone says something and you get angry—accept it. Acceptance does not mean you justify your anger. Only accept this much: I am a man of anger. And tell the other: “Friend, if you keep company with a thorn-bush, thorns will prick. I am a man of anger. The mistake is yours that you befriended me, that you came close to me. If you remain with me, anger will sometimes happen. I do not promise that tomorrow I will be non-angry. Who knows tomorrow! As far as I know, in the past I have never been non-angry; so most likely tomorrow too I will be angry. Consider it. I cannot even repent, for I have repented many times and nothing happened; it proved a trick. I get angry, I repent, and then I get angry again. What is the point of repentance? I only tell you this much: now I will not even cover it up by repentance.”

Repentance is whitewash. You got angry at someone, returned home, and thought: “What happened! I made a scene in the bazaar; what will people think! Until now I was taken to be a gentleman; people said I am a grave and serious man—today the shallowness stands proved. They thought me a golden vessel—turned out to be aluminum; heated in a moment. Now do something; the image is shattered, lies face down. Pick it up, place it on the throne again.” You go thoughtfully and say, “Forgive me, brother. I did not want to, it just happened!”

And what do people say? “I did not want to; it happened! In spite of me it happened. I don’t know how it happened! Which devil climbed on my head?”

Do you hear people’s talk? Now he himself is the devil—he is arranging to avoid accepting. “Which devil climbed on my head? What foolishness! But sense returned; I have come to repent; forgive me.”

What are you doing? You are raising that very statue of yourself which broke in the marketplace. You want to say, “I am not a bad man. A mistake happened. Who does not make mistakes? Man errs.”

You remember that you are a man only when you err. Then you say: “To err is human.” And you do not remember you are human otherwise? By asking forgiveness or touching his feet… he too thinks, “No, the man is good.” Why does he think so? Because by your anger his ego was hurt; he was upset. Now you touched his feet, offered flowers, a bouquet. He too thinks, “He is a good man.” Why? He too has nothing to do with you; nor you with him. He thinks you good because now you have put flowers on his ego. A moment earlier you had slapped him; he flared up, thought of taking revenge, of going to court. You placed flowers—trouble saved. Court saved. Prestige came to you. His ego was restored; yours too. The world runs again as it did before your slap. Things are back in place. You are again where you were.

No, one who truly wants to understand will go—not to repent, but to accept. He will go and say, “Brother, saw it? What kind of man I am? Your notion about me was wrong. You thought I am a good man—that notion was wrong. My real man has manifested. And good it did manifest. Now decide whether to keep relations with me or not. I give no assurance that it will not happen again tomorrow. I am not dependable. Even if I give assurance, do not believe me—for I have promised people before and deceived them. I am a bad man. Devilry is my nature.”

What do you think will be the result? What happens to the other is his business; but within you a simplicity will arise. You will become utterly simple. Utterly humble. This is not repentance; this is acceptance. You have made everything about yourself clear—what kind of man you are. And you have stored no illusion about yourself. Then a revolution occurs—the revolution that happens through this great truth, this great sutra, of acceptance. Suddenly you will find that slowly anger becomes difficult—what remains the reason to be angry? Anger used to happen because someone tried to pull down your ego; now you yourself have thrown that statue down. You yourself have thrown it into the garbage. Now no one can make you angry.

Remember, our mind always likes to lay responsibility on the other. We all do this in a thousand ways—shift responsibility onto others.

I know a man—furiously angry. I asked him, “How did you become so angry?” He said, “What to do! My father was very angry. Because of him, bad impressions formed from childhood.”

But do not laugh at what he says. Freud says the same. The greatest psychologists say the same. All their devices are to pass responsibility to someone else. Old religions said the same. If you see the entire history of mankind, you will find those who spoke like Ashtavakra or Janaka can be counted on fingers; all the rest say something else.

Christianity says that God expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden because they disobeyed. When God came and asked Adam, “Why did you eat the fruit?” he answered, “What could I do? This Eve—she lured me.” See—the story begins! He threw his responsibility on Eve. “Look at this wife—I am after all a husband, and you know the condition of husbands! If a husband does not obey his wife—trouble. If I had to choose between God and this one—I had to choose her. I know your command, but look at hers too! She brought the fruit and insisted I taste; I had to eat.”

God asked Eve, “You too knew; why did you bring it?” She said, “What could I do? The devil in the form of a serpent told me. He tempted me. He said, ‘Eat this fruit; you will become divine. God Himself eats of it and tells you not to. See the trick! This is the fruit of knowledge; by eating it God is wise and wants to keep you ignorant.’ So I am an ordinary woman—I was lured.”

A woman’s refrain forever is: “Others lured me.” Every husband knows his wife says, “I was not after you—you were after me. You lured me, and brought all this trouble.”

“…What could I do? The serpent lured me!”

If only the serpent could speak, he would have passed it to someone else. Perhaps to the tree: “This tree advertises that whoever eats its fruit will attain knowledge.” But the snake could not speak; perhaps he did not even hear what case was going on. It was a matter between humans; he remained silent, and the story stopped there—else stories never stop.

Marx says society is responsible. If you are bad, it is because society is bad. This is no different—the same old trick, with a new name.

Hindus say: it is fate; the Writer has written so—what can you do? Throw it on someone! The Writer wrote on your forehead at birth that such-and-such will happen; you will be angry, lustful, saint, or whatever—everything is written. All is pre-decided; what is in our hands? It is being done by Him.

Freud says: in childhood the impressions your parents put on you, the conditioning upon your mind—its result you are.

But all these are devices to escape one thing: this is my nature; whatever is happening is my nature. All these inventions are to escape this great truth. I call that man courageous, brave—who like Janaka says, “By my own natural wind, the waves rock here and there.”

भ्रमति स्वान्तवातेन!
मम असहिष्णुता न अस्ति।

I have no impatience. I do not wish to make any difference here, O Master! Janaka said to Ashtavakra, “What is, is; I am content. In my contentment there is not even a trace of ‘no’.”

From this the great revolution arises. The day you see this truth, you will find: without doing anything everything happens.

“In me, the infinite great ocean, the wave of the world may arise by nature, or subside…”

Listen!

“In me, the infinite great ocean, the world-wave may arise by nature or subside—there is neither increase nor decrease for me.”

Here nothing is lost, nothing earned. Then why worry? Neither in anger is something lost, nor in compassion is something gained. A most wondrous thing! It is all a dream.

मयि अनंत महाम्भोधौ जगद्वीचिः स्वभावतः।
उदेतु वास्तमायातु न मे वृद्धिर्न न क्षतिः॥

By nature the waves of the world are rising—small and large, of many forms, good and bad, noisy and calm—all kinds arise.

Let them arise, let them set—no increase, no loss. For me, nothing comes or goes.

At night you dreamed you became a thief, or a saint—on waking, both dreams are equal. In the morning you do not say, “I became a saint in my dream,” and feel pride. Nor do you feel shame that you became a thief or a murderer in dream—dream is dream. It breaks and is gone.

So Janaka says: whether these form or collapse—you tell me, “Be free of the world?” What are you saying! What is happening will go on happening—it has, it will. What have I to do with it? Neither by doing this is anything gained, nor by doing that is anything lost. There is nothing here to choose. Profit and loss are equal here.

Hāni na lābh kuchh! There is neither loss nor gain. You are needlessly opening ledgers, calculating: “In this there is profit; in that loss; do this—gain; do that—loss.”

Janaka says: what is happening, is happening. I am only watching.

जगद्वीचिः स्वभावतः उदेतु वा अस्तम्।

By my doing change is not to be. How can nature be changed? In autumn leaves fall. In spring new shoots arise. In youth desires rise. In old age desires wane. It is not happening by my doing. I am not the doer. What then is this leaving, fleeing, renouncing?

Ashtavakra spread a net for examination and said, “Renounce; leave all this. If you are enlightened, as you say, then renounce the body, wealth, kingdom—leave it all.”

Janaka says, “What has leaving or holding to do with me? This is not mine to leave. I never held it that I might drop it. It happened by itself; it will be lost by itself.”

स्वभावतः उदेतु वा अस्तम्।
मे न वृद्धिः च न क्षति।

“I only see that neither by its presence is there any benefit to me, nor by its absence is there any benefit.”

This is a wondrous vision. This is the supreme sannyas. Sit at your shop—sit. If the shop is running, let it run. If it closes, let it close. When bankruptcy comes—happily walk out! As long as it runs, it runs. What will you do? When it ran, you were with it; when it doesn’t, you stop. One who takes it so—can such a person ever be restless? Ever be anxious? Ever be tense? His rest has come. In childhood there were the games of childhood; in youth, the games of youth; in old age, the games of old age. Children play with toys; the young play with persons; the old play with theories.

In childhood there is no sign of lust. Try to explain lust to a child—you cannot. No wave has yet arisen. Nature is not yet full of desire. Then the man becomes young—waves of desire arise. Then explain as much as you like…

Mulla Nasruddin was dying. He called his son near and said, “There is much to say, but I will not say it.” The son asked, “Why?” He said, “My father too said things to me, but did I listen! There is much to say, but I will not say. Yet, son, you say, at least tell and I will listen or not.” He said, “Then listen: my father said, ‘Do not get entangled with women,’ but I did. And not with just one; as far as Islam permits—nine wives—I married all nine, and suffered! I want to say the same to you, but I will not. For I know you too will get entangled. My saying will do nothing. When my father died he said, ‘Don’t drink wine’—I drank, greatly, and rotted. You too will rot; for what I could not do, will my son do—I have no such hope. Only remember so much that I told you: no one listens by telling; only by experience people listen. So make a mistake once if you must—experience it thoroughly; but do not repeat the same mistake. And if you allow me—then know this: you will get into the mess of women, but at least, at one time, be in the mess of only one. If you can restrain yourself even that much, it is enough.”

Within a man something is natural. In youth lust will arise. Old men think they have acquired some great treasure because now there is no such passion—detachment is arising. This is old age’s game. Attachment is the game of youth; detachment the game of old age. Just as attachment is natural at a certain age, at another detachment is natural.

Therefore the Hindus rightly categorized life: to twenty-five, brahmacharya, learning; then to fifty, enjoyment, householder; then up to seventy-five, vanaprastha—pondering, thinking of sannyas. Vanaprastha means thinking: go to the forest, go to the forest—thinking—do not go. Go a little to the edge of the village, then return—thus remain in-between. Then after seventy-five—sannyas, if death doesn’t come earlier! Often death will come earlier—and you won’t have the trouble of becoming a sannyasin. If death does not come, then sannyas.

After seventy-five, Hindus kept sannyas. Their way of thinking is very scientific. Because after seventy-five, sannyas is as natural as in youth desire arises, ambition arises—to earn wealth, to gain position. Just such a moment comes when life-energy runs low, bends; you are tired—then detachment arises. Tiredness brings detachment.

This method of the Hindus is clearly scientific—and that is why Buddha and Mahavira revolted against it. They said: detachment arising after seventy-five—what kind of detachment is that? It is mechanical. It will arise anyway. It is the shadow of death approaching. What kind of detachment is this? True detachment is that which arises in the full blaze of youth.

The revolution that Buddha and Mahavira brought has its logic. They say, “Granted, your arithmetic is correct; but what will arise after seventy-five—does that ‘arise’ at all?” Understand this difference.

The Jains and Buddhists—their culture is called the culture of the shramana—effort is valued; purushartha! There, fate, destiny, svabhava have little place. There it is your resolve and effort! Therefore naturally they tried to place sannyas in youth; because if a young man exerts, he can be a sannyasin; if he struggles by will, he can be a sannyasin. Hence, you will find a Jain monk more egoistic than a Hindu sannyasin. And a Muslim fakir you will not find egoistic at all; because outwardly he has left nothing—he has only understood; there is no sense of doership.

The Jain monk will be very egoistic, because he has done much. In youth or childhood he has left everything—wealth, home, sex, ambition! The waves are rising within, and he is suppressing them. The more he suppresses, the more he wants respect—because he is doing hard work, a difficult task.

Mulla Nasruddin once applied for a typing job. When he went for the interview, the owner asked, “Do you know typing?” Nasruddin said, “No.” The owner said, “Then why did you apply? And not only that—you have asked for double salary!” Nasruddin said, “That’s why I asked double. If I knew typing, I’d work at half. I don’t—so the labor will be much. Think of the labor!”

So a sannyasin in youth will seek much prestige. He says, “Just see—I am still young and have taken sannyas! I am swimming against the current to Gangotri—see!”

The Hindu’s sannyas is to float with Ganga toward the sea; the Jain’s is to swim against the current toward the source. He demands prestige—else why make such effort? So beat the drums, arrange processions! When a Jain muni comes to town, there is great commotion. A Hindu sannyasin comes and goes—nothing much is noticed. A Muslim fakir—there is no sign at all. He leaves nothing outwardly. He may have a wife, a shop. The Sufis do not leave anything. It is difficult to identify a Sufi.

When one Master sends his disciple to another Sufi to learn, then only one knows the other is a Master; otherwise one cannot tell—he may be weaving rugs, his whole life making and selling mats, or making shoes.

When Gurdjieff came East searching for Sufi fakirs he was in great difficulty. How to find them? For they do not appear separate; they are utterly at ease in life. He wrote: it was with great difficulty that clues began to appear—great difficulty.

He once asked a Muslim, “I want to find Sufi fakirs.” He was wandering in the alleys of Damascus, hoping to find one. “How to know?” The man said, “Do one thing. You will not be able to find them. Sit in a mosque as long as you can, offer namaz. If a Sufi’s eye falls on you, he will catch you. You cannot catch him. How can a disciple find the Master? Only the Master can find the disciple.”

This appealed to Gurdjieff. He sat in the mosque, sat all day, till midnight, offering namaz—some eye would fall—and one day an old man began to observe him. After some days the elder came and asked, “You don’t seem Muslim; why do you offer so much prayer?” He said, “I seek a true Master—and I have been told that I cannot find one. If I keep praying here, perhaps some elder’s eye may fall on me. Now your eye has fallen; if you find me worthy to send to some Sufi, please tell me.” He said, “Come at midnight to such-and-such place.” When he reached, he was astonished; the one he was introduced to ran a tea-shop. And in that tea-house Gurdjieff had several times drunk tea. Not only that, he had asked that tea-seller if he knew any Sufi. The tea-man had laughed, “I have no interest in religion—I know nothing.” That very man was the Master for Gurdjieff. He said, “For a year or two your work is to wash cups and saucers.” While he washed cups, the Master imparted the first lessons of meditation.

An American traveler reached Dhaka. Someone told him that there is a Sufi fakir there—who has reached the final state of fana, where one dissolves. “If you can find him, you will gain something.” He reached Dhaka, hired a taxi, and said, “I have come in search of a man of such-and-such description—help me.” The driver said, “Sure, sit.” He took him to a small hut and said, “Come in after five minutes.” When he entered, the taxi driver was sitting inside, with ten or fifteen disciples. “Are you the Master?” “I am,” he said, “and that is why I drive a taxi—sometimes a seeker arrives and I catch him straightaway.”

Where will you search—and how? You cannot even recognize Sufis—for they are utterly simple in life…

These utterances are of that flavor—the utterances of Sufis. What Janaka says is the essence of the Sufi path.

“In me, the infinite great ocean, surely the world is but imagination. I am utterly peaceful, formless, and established only in That.”

मय्यनन्तमहाम्भोधौ विश्वं नाम विकल्पना!

This world is only so-called—a mere imagination. It is in truth not there—it appears. It is our projection. It is a dream moving in our sleep. Because we are not awake, there is the world. If we awaken—there is no world.

Reflect a little! What would the world be like if within you no desire remained, no longing to obtain? If the madness to become something were gone? Would you still live in the same world? Suddenly you would find your world transformed. For a man fabricates his world out of what he seeks. It may be that the post-box of the post office stands by the road you take every day—Hanuman in red!—and yet your eyes never fell upon it; the day you have to post a letter, your eyes will at once notice it. You walked that road daily; but there was no letter to post; who looks at the post-box? Your eyes did not rest there. It remained outside your attention. It was there, but you did not see it until some longing within you made a connection. Today you had to post a letter—suddenly…

Fast and then walk on M. G. Road; you will see nothing else: restaurants, hotels, coffee-houses—such things. Your nose will become keen; fragrances will call; attractions will beckon. By fasting you pass through a route you have never passed before. So-called, it is M. G. Road. When you pass with a full belly, it is another matter. When you go to buy clothes, another matter.

A man content with his wife passes—the matter is one. The man not content with his wife passes the same road—yet the road is another. For their ways of seeing are different, their longings different.

What you want, from that your world is constructed. We do not live in one and the same world. Each lives in his own world. As many minds as there are, so many worlds. It is of that world that is being spoken—take note, otherwise confusion arises. From the utterances of Eastern seers a great confusion comes; people think: “The world—imagination? If we become silent, will this house disappear? Will these trees vanish?” You have not understood. By “world” is meant: that which your mind imagines—only that will vanish. What is, will remain. In truth, what is will be seen for the first time. Because of your mind, even that was not seen. You were seeing something else. What you were eager to see—that alone became visible. Your eagerness is creative; by that creativity, dreams arise, imaginations arise.

मय्यनन्तमहाम्भोधौ विश्वं नाम विकल्पना!

Your world is your imagination. Your neighbor’s world need not be yours. Two people can sit in one place—yet be in two different worlds.

In a cinema hall Mulla Nasruddin and his wife talked to each other for half the picture. The viewers sitting next to them felt very annoyed. One viewer sitting behind said, “What parrot-like chatter you have started—never silent!” Nasruddin flared up: “Are you talking about us?” The man said, “No—not you, the film people. From the beginning they are babbling; they did not let me hear a word of your delightful conversation.”

Two people can sit side by side in the theater; the couple talks—and one man may be upset that because of their chatter the film cannot be heard; another may be upset that the couple’s talk is so juicy—if only the film would stop so he could hear what is going on! Both sit close, yet their ways of seeing differ.

Our way of seeing is our drishti—and our srishti. From vision, creation. When you have no personal lens left—when within you remains only the simplicity to see as it is—and no room remains to impose interpretations—when your inner projector stops—then suddenly you find: the screen is empty. That screen is true. The pictures of light and shadow that play upon it are projected by your apparatus.

Therefore whenever you read in the scriptures that the world is only imagination, do not fall into the delusion that they say: if your awakening happens, in Samadhi the whole world instantly vanishes like a dream. They say only this: your world vanishes instantly.

This world is not yours. It was before you came; it will remain after you go. These trees, birds, this sky… you have nothing to do with them. You sleep—there they are; you wake—there they are. You become meditative—there they are; you remain desire-ridden—there they are. That will not vanish. But taking this world as a screen, you have woven a net of fantasies. Try to recognize this net—how every day you weave it! And this net does not let you be acquainted with that which is.

“In me, the infinite great ocean, surely the world is imagination. I am utterly peaceful, formless, and established only in That.”

अतिशान्तो निराकार एतदेवाहमास्थितः।

Seeing that all these are imaginings—arising in me and dissolving in me; that these are my waves—I have become utterly peaceful; I have become formless. And now this alone is my only refuge. There is nothing left to drop; only I remain.

“The Atman is not in the objects, nor are the objects in that infinite, stainless Atman. Thus I am unattached, free of yearning, and established only in That.”

नात्मा भावेषु नो भावस्तत्रानन्ते निरंजने।

Neither are objects in me, nor am I in objects. It is all play of waves at the surface. The ocean’s depth does not even touch them.

You see how many waves dance upon the sea; ask the divers if in the depths there are waves—there are none. Only on the surface waves play. In the fathomless depth all is unattached, silent, formless, free of longing. And that is my refuge. That is my true nature. What leaving? What renouncing? What to know? Iti jñānam! Thus what has dawned upon me—this is knowledge.

“Ah! I am only consciousness. The world is like Indra’s magic. How then shall there be, for me, the imagination of rejecting and choosing?”

Whom to leave, whom to hold? Heīya and upādeya, loss and gain, good and bad, auspicious and inauspicious—these fantasies are now futile. What is happening—by nature it is happening. What is happening—everything is right. There is nothing here to choose or to discard.

What Krishnamurti again and again calls choiceless awareness—Janaka declares that very truth.

अहो अहम् चिन्मात्रम्!
—Ah! I am only consciousness! Only the witness!

जगत इंद्रजालोपमम्!
—And the world is like a magician’s show, Indra-jāl. It seems, and is not; it appears, and is not.

अतः मम हेयोपादेय कल्पना कथम् च कुत्र।
—Then how and where can I imagine what to reject and what to choose?

Iti jñānam! This is knowledge. This is awakening. This is bodh.

Indulgence is one kind of imagination; renunciation another. If you escape indulgence you fall into renunciation—like one walking between a well and a ditch; saved from the well, he falls into the ditch. The path is in between. Be neither enjoyer nor renouncer. If you can be free of both—if you can be beyond both—if you can be the witness of both—then sannyas is born.

The worldly is not a sannyasin; the renouncer is not a sannyasin. Both have chosen. The enjoyer has chosen to enjoy—more and more enjoyment for happiness. The renouncer has chosen to renounce—great renunciation for happiness. The sannyasin is he who says: happiness is. Iti sukham! Not “will be.” Nothing to grasp, nothing to drop—be within yourself. There, in your own being, is joy and knowledge.

Otherwise you can only change miseries. You can shift the load from one shoulder to the other. You can move from one hell to another—but the difference will not be great.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to him: “The boy we found for Farida is fine—only two small drawbacks. One, it is his second marriage; his first wife died. He’s a widower. But that’s nothing—he’s still young. The other thing that bothers is this: all is fine—rosy complexion, tall, healthy, good features—but one defect pricks—when he laughs, his long teeth show and he looks ugly.”

Mulla said, “Oh, let it be! Let Farida marry first—then where will he ever get a chance to laugh?”

One wife has just died; now he enters Farida’s circle.

We cannot remain long without entanglements. One entanglement ends—we feel empty. Quickly we manufacture another. Man stays busy in entanglements.

Psychologists say: the unmarried are more often mad than the married. Very surprising. When I first read it I too wondered—how can it be! It should be the other way: the married should be mad; more mad—that one can understand. But statistics from the whole world show that the unmarried commit more suicides than the married. Incredible! But further research discovered why: the unmarried have no entanglements. If they don’t go mad, what will they do—so much free time! The married—where is the time to go mad! So busy!

A psychologist researched what kind of people seem happiest. He arrived at a strange conclusion: those who are so busy they have no time to think whether they are happy or unhappy. The moment you find time, misery begins.

You will find politicians very happy, very cheerful, garlanded—running. The only reason is: they do not have even time to sit and review: am I happy or unhappy? Where is that time! Like bullocks at the oil-press—running: “On to Delhi!” No time to look around. And the pushing and pulling—some drag the leg, some push ahead, some hold one hand, some the other—nothing is clear what is happening! But they run. In that scramble, there is no leisure.

Psychologists say: those who remain busy always are less mad, commit fewer suicides. They even forget that they exist. They forget themselves—their whole life and energy gets engaged in futile work.

Therefore it is good sometimes to sit in silence, alone. There you will see how restless you become when unoccupied! How the emptiness bites!

People ask me: why do people choose misery? They choose misery over emptiness. They think misery is better than emptiness—at least there is a headache; at least something is in the head. Entanglements give you something to do; devices to engage. But when there is nothing…

And one who is not willing to be empty never reaches himself. For the path to the Self goes through emptiness, shunyata. That is meditation—or give it another name—Samadhi.

When for a while you put aside all busyness and sit by the bank, away from the current; the river flows—you watch; you do nothing—then slowly the witness will awaken. Before the witness awakens you will have to pass through the desert of emptiness. That is the price; one who is unwilling to pay will never be a witness.

A little distance is needed. We stand so immersed in things that we cannot see we are separate from them. A little gap, a little space, a little leisure… to see: who am I? What is the world? What is happening to my life? These small empty intervals can become causes for self-knowing. In those intervals you will glimpse: “Ah! I am only consciousness!” In busyness you will never know. Busyness means: entangled with objects, entangled with others. When you are unoccupied, not entangled with anyone—then memory of yourself begins, smaran of the Self happens.

“Ah! I am only consciousness. The world is like Indra’s magic.”

Then you see that all your busyness is childishness, a game. You accumulate money, you pile up wealth—what will you gain? You reach the highest post—what do you obtain? Can you find anywhere more unsuccessful men than the successful? The successful is in trouble. Only after becoming successful he comes to know: “Ah! Life has gone out of hand—and nothing has fallen into the hand.”

It is said when Alexander came to India and conquered Porus, he went into a tent—and began to weep. His generals were worried—they had never seen Alexander cry. How to intrude—how to disturb? Then one was sent with courage. He asked, “Why do you weep? And at the moment of victory! If you had lost, it would be understandable. At the moment of victory you weep—what is the matter? Porus weeping would be understandable. Alexander? This is a moment of celebration.”

Alexander said, “That is why I weep. Now there remains nothing in the world for me to conquer. Now what shall I do?”

Perhaps Porus did not weep—there is no such story. Porus had a lot left—at least to defeat Alexander. But for Alexander, nothing remained. He trembled. All busyness ended in a flash. He came to the summit—now where? No ladder remained to climb higher. What now?

This panic happens to all successful men. You earn wealth, hold office, gain fame—but while doing all this, your life slips away. One day you are successful—and in the same moment entirely a failure. What now? Only ashes remain in hand. The busy man ends as a heap of ashes; the ember is covered over or extinguished.

Keep finding small unoccupied moments. Sometimes take a little time to dive within. Forget the world. Forget the waves of the world. Dive a little into your depth, into your stillness. Then you will understand—only then—what Janaka calls, “Iti jñānam! This is knowledge.”

“Ah! I am only consciousness. The world is like Indra’s magic. How then can there be for me any imagination of rejecting and choosing?”

Now for me nothing is to be rejected, nothing to be accepted. No loss, no gain. Nothing worthy to obtain, no fear of missing anything. I am only consciousness. Ah!

This alone is liberation.

As long as you are entangled in karmas, there is difference. The moment you become a witness, all difference dissolves.

Apne-apne karmon kā phal
Bhog rahā hai har koī
Sūraj to ik-sā hī chamke
Nāthon aur anāthon par.
Apne-apne karmon kā phal
Bhog rahā hai har koī.

Each one is bound to his deeds, tasting their fruit.

Sūraj to ik-sā hī chamke
Nāthon aur anāthon par.

The sun shines equally on those with patrons and the orphaned. God showers equally on all. But you have made your own vessels of karma—some small, some big; some dirty, some beautiful. God rains alike. Some vessels are full of sin, some full of merit; but all vessels are limited—the sinner’s and the saint’s. Remove the vessel of karma, forget the doer—see the witness! The moment you see the witness you will find: you are the infinite ocean, and God rains upon you infinitely.

अहो, अहम्‌ चिन्मात्रम्!

Then you will find, as Janaka has said again and again—that a mood arises to touch your own feet. Such blessedness, such grace, that you feel like bowing to your own self!

Dāman-e-dil pe nahīn bārishe ilhām abhi
Ishq nā-pukhta abhi, jazbe darūkhām abhi.

If the rain of grace is not falling upon the hem of your heart, know only this—not that God’s grace is not raining: your love is still unripe, your inner passion unbaked. Otherwise God is raining—upon the worthy and unworthy; upon the saint and the sinner.

Sūraj to ik-sā hī chamke
Nāthon aur anāthon par.

Now there are two methods to reach the ultimate state. One: change actions—replace bad with good, the inauspicious with the auspicious, remove sin, bring merit. That is a long method—and perhaps can never succeed. Because those are karmas of innumerable births; you cannot change them. That is deception; a way of postponement; illusion. The other method—or truly, the only method—is: stand behind all actions as a witness. Then you can be now. In this very moment.

The essential essence of Ashtavakra’s Maha-Gita is only this: if you wish, step to the shore now and sit down. Become a witness now! And as long as you try to change actions, you will weave newer entanglements. For with every sin there is a little merit; with every merit a little sin. You cannot perform any merit without sin attached. Think—what merit will you do that has no sin? If you give in charity, from where will you give? You will have to earn first—and in earning you will sin; then you will donate. This is meaningless. If you build a temple—you will raze some huts to do so; you will suck someone’s blood to erect a temple. This is futile. Sin will accompany merit. Whatever good you do, some bad will accompany it. And when you do bad, some good also happens—else why would the bad man do it?

A thief steals—his child is sick and needs medicine. The child must get medicine—even by theft he must provide it. Life is valuable. Your rules of property are not so valuable.

It is written in the life of the great alchemist Nagarjuna, who was also a philosopher—an unparalleled one! Perhaps India has had no other philosopher like him. Even Shankara seems number two before him, and Shankara’s sayings bear Nagarjuna’s imprint. Nagarjuna said very unique things. He was an alchemist. He needed two assistants to help in processes. He found two; he wished to test them. He gave both certain substances and said, “Tomorrow bring back the compound. Whoever succeeds will be chosen.”

They went. The next day one brought the compound; the other brought back the materials untouched. Nagarjuna asked the second, “You did not make it?” He said, “I was on my way when I found a beggar dying; I remained in his service. Twenty-four hours went to saving him; I had no time. And this process requires at least twenty-four hours. Forgive me. I know I am rejected—but there was no other way. The beggar was dying; I served him for twenty-four hours. He is saved—I am happy. I will not get the chance to serve you—but I am content. I have no complaint.”

Nagarjuna chose this man. Others protested: “What are you doing? The man who prepared the compound is not chosen?”

Nagarjuna said, “The value of life is greater than alchemy. This alchemy is fine—but the value of life… This man has the knack. He knows what is more valuable. This is the secret—he can distinguish the essential from the nonessential.”

A man’s child is dying—should he worry about your concern that theft is wrong? Should he respect private property? He does not. He says, “Let there be theft; let me go to jail if I must; but the child must be saved.”

So even in sin there is some merit. If two men commit theft together, at least they do not betray each other—there is that much honesty. They too believe, “Honesty is the best policy”—at least between themselves. They may not practice it with others, but among themselves they are honest. That much virtue is there.

You cannot find any sinful act in which there is no virtue.

A thief was caught. The magistrate said, “We have heard you entered this shop nine times at night!” He said, “What to do, sir? Alone man—had to carry the whole shop!” The magistrate said, “No companions?” He said, “The times are bad. Whom to make a companion? Whoever you choose deceives you.”

Even the thief says times are bad—you know! Even to steal the times must be good. If you want to deceive someone—even then the person you want to deceive must have enough goodness to trust you.

Sin and virtue are intertwined—go together. You cannot do merit without doing sin; you cannot do sin without some merit.

Sukh na sahcharī, luṭerā bhī huā kartā hai,
Khushī mein gham kā baserā bhī huā kartā hai।
Apnī kismat kī siyāhī ko kosne walo,
Chānd ke sāth andherā bhī huā kartā hai।

They are all joined. Therefore if you try to escape one, at best you can hide the other—but you cannot escape it.

Sin and merit are two sides of a coin. If the coin goes, it goes whole; you cannot save half; one side cannot be kept.

Therefore the revolutionary sutra occurring between Ashtavakra and Janaka is that of witnessing. You are not to drop sin nor to pick virtue. You are to drop picking and dropping. Do not pick, do not drop. Step aside from both and stand as the seer—as the witness!

अहो अहम्‌ चिन्मात्रम्‌ जगत इंद्रजालोपमम्‌।
अत: मम हेयोपादेय कल्पना कथम्‌ च कुत्र॥

Therefore Janaka said, “Even the imagination does not arise in me—what is right, what is wrong. Now either all is right—or all wrong. I stand outside the net, pure consciousness! Pure awareness! Only the witness! To whom are you speaking of renunciation?” he began to say. “To whom are you saying, ‘Become established in knowledge’?”

इति ज्ञानं!

Hari Om Tatsat!