Maha Geeta #25

Speak of the sentence if you must; speak of the judge if you will—
let those who have found Khuda speak only of Khuda.

Man talks of his pain, his worries, his restlessness, his anguish. Man speaks only of what he has known. When a ray of bliss breaks open within, an altogether new speech begins. When there is meeting with the Divine, the meshes of births upon births are forgotten—as if they had never been; as if the night-visions had never been true. The morning sun makes all nights false. And once the sun has risen, who will go on talking of darkness!

Such a sun has risen in Janaka’s life. And what has happened to Janaka is so sudden that even he cannot contain it; he is being carried away like a spring that has burst forth all at once—no channel yet, the channel is being carved. In the carving of that channel Ashtavakra lends his hand—first testing, then offering temptation. In today’s sutras there is encouragement. The test went well; Janaka passed. The temptation failed; Janaka did not get entangled. What has happened is truly real; it has stood the touchstone. Now comes encouragement. Now the Master pats him on the back. Now he says, Well done. Now what Janaka has uttered, Ashtavakra repeats, bearing witness.

These sutras are most uncommon.

Speak of the sentence if you must; speak of the judge if you will—
let those who have found Khuda speak only of Khuda.

Here, the event of finding Khuda has happened. Between Ashtavakra and Janaka, Khuda has happened. Hence nothing else can truly be talked now. At times you may feel: Is this not becoming repetitive? Why the same thing again and again? But those who have found Khuda cannot do otherwise; they will say the same again and again.

Have you seen a small child when he first begins to speak? Broken words, hardly meaningful—Papa, Mama—and once he begins, he repeats them the whole day. Whether there is any point or not, correspondence or not—he delights in speaking; a wondrous power has come into his hands! He has learned to say Papa, or Mama. A new experience has happened in his world. He has become part of society. He was outside till now, as if in a jungle; by saying Papa he has crossed the threshold within. Now he belongs to language, to society, to the group. Now he can speak.

So when for the first time the child speaks, he hums all day: Papa, Papa, Mama… Even if there is no purpose he says it; he savors the saying. He repeats it again and again; his joy is in the repeating.

Exactly such an event has happened. Janaka is newly born. The first glimpse of the Divine has been had. The flash has darted through his very life-breath; every pore has trembled. Now whatever he says, whatever he sees, whatever he hears—through it all only Paramatma will be spoken of. Though this is that which cannot be said, yet when it happens a thousand ways are devised to say it.

In today’s sutras Ashtavakra places his hand on Janaka’s back and pats him. He says, You have won. He says, You have returned home. What you say is right. Your examination is complete. You have passed.

The first sutra:

‘When the mind desires something,’ Ashtavakra says, ‘when it thinks, when it renounces something, when it grasps something, when it is pleased and displeased—then there is bondage.’

If the definition of bondage is seen precisely, then the definition of moksha is seen as well—for that which is not bondage is moksha. And it is easier to define bondage first, because bondage we know.

If bliss is to be defined, Buddha says: the cessation of suffering. We know suffering. Where suffering is not, there is bliss. We know the dark night. If morning is to be defined we must say: where darkness is no more.

But from such definitions great mistakes have also been made. Some begin to think that perhaps one must destroy the darkness—and then morning will be. As a definition it is exact: where darkness is not, there is morning. But do not turn this definition into a ritual. Do not imagine that by removing the darkness morning will arrive. All will then be upside down. Morning comes—and then the darkness dissolves. There is no way to remove darkness. Call the morning. Seek the morning. Light the lamp. Though as definition it is accurate—that when darkness is not, there is morning—as a means it is dangerous.

Where no suffering remains, there is bliss. Do not then set about removing suffering, else you will never reach bliss. As definition, it is beautiful; as method, fatal. Call bliss. Awaken bliss.

People come to me and ask, How can we be free of suffering? I say, remove your attention from suffering. As long as you want to be free of suffering, you will not be free—because your gaze remains fixed on suffering. To be free of suffering you have thrust your eyes into it. To be free of suffering you think about suffering—and whatever you think about grows. You do not forget it even for a moment; what you do not forget sinks deeper. What you remember, that you become. From what you want to be free you must keep remembering—and remembrance keeps it alive.

Have you seen, if you want to forget a certain person, how difficult it becomes! Thousands come and go in life and are forgotten. But to forget someone deliberately is hard—because in order to forget you must remember. Remembrance begins the reverse process.

What is to be forgotten should never be forgotten by effort. If you try, you will never forget—because trying means you will recall it again and again. Try, and it will return again and again. If you wish to forget, neglect it. Shift your attention elsewhere. If you try to forget, your attention will remain stuck there.

It is like a man playing with his wound, poking it with his finger, and thinking it will heal. It will not heal; it will stay raw. You keep making it raw. The more you play, the less the chance of healing. Forget it.

You have seen, when someone is very ill physicians say: first requirement is sleep. If sleep comes, half the illness is cured. Why is sleep so valuable? Because without sleep the sick cannot forget their sickness. They keep playing with the wound. Again and again they think: my head aches, my head aches! The more they think, the more strength they give the pain.

A lustful man wants to be free of lust; then he thinks of lust and lust alone: How to be free? It is sin, it is evil, it is crime. The angry man wants freedom from anger and gets entangled in anger.

From whatever you want to be free, in that you will be caught.

Shift your attention. Let attention move from night to morning. Let it move from darkness to the lamp. Do not raise talk of suffering at all. If there is pain, ignore it. Awaken joy. As joy awakens here, pain will vanish there.

Do not mistake definitions for practice. Many people take definitions to be practice. Definitions are only pointers, gestures, ways of saying something. And we must say it from the reverse side, because you are familiar with the reverse. We cannot speak of bliss from the side of the Buddhas, for there is no language there—their language is silence. To speak of bliss we must speak from the side of the non-Buddhas. The non-Buddhas have language but no experience of bliss. The Buddhas have experience but no language. How shall dialogue happen between the two? We translate the experience of the Buddhas into the language of the non-Buddhas. When we say, Bliss is the cessation of suffering—this is translation. When we say, Sunrise is the disappearance of night—this too is translation. Translation into your language, for you have no experience; and translation by those who have experience but no words.

‘When the mind desires…’

तदा बंधो यदा चित्तं किंचिद्वाञ्छति शोचति।
किंचिन्मुञ्चति गृह्णाति किंचिद्धृष्यति कुप्यति।।

‘When the mind thinks, when it desires, when it renounces something, when it grasps something, when it rejoices and when it is saddened—then there is bondage.’

When the mind is active, there is bondage. The very activity of mind is bondage. People have told you anger is bondage. They have told you lust is bondage, greed is bondage—that is not complete. If you give alms with calculation, that too is bondage. If you cultivate compassion with thought, that too is bondage. Ashtavakra gives an original definition. He says: the very activity of mind is bondage. Wherever mind becomes active and waves arise, there you are bound. Where mind falls utterly inactive, there you are free. Seek those moments where no activity of mind is.

तदा बंधः!
—Here is bondage.

यदा चित्तं वाञ्छति!
—When you desire. You think of setting out on a journey. You dream of becoming Sheikh Chilli.

Have you heard the story of Sheikh Chilli? He was going to sell milk, a pot on his head. On the way he thought: Today I will sell and get four annas. I will save four annas, four annas… soon I will buy another buffalo! He swelled with pride: the buffalo stood before his eyes, rang in his mind. Seeing the buffalo he thought: So much milk, so much ghee, selling it thus and thus, soon there will be many buffaloes! I will keep buying and selling—quickly such a time will come that I will have so much wealth that the most beautiful girl in the village will certainly propose marriage!

He flew in the air. He was walking on the same road, going to sell milk—the milk not yet sold, the four annas not yet in hand—he had already married, had brought home his bride. Not only that—soon a son was born. He had not yet reached the market—already a son! In winter he sat with the child in his lap, playing with him. The child began to pull his beard. He said, Oh you little fool!—and this came out a bit loudly. So far all the play was inside, now it had become so solid that this burst out loud. With both hands he tried to free the child from his beard—the pot slipped. It fell to the ground.

You saw a pot break; but his whole world collapsed. You do not know his world! The son died, the wife died, thousands of buffaloes to be bought—gone. An empire had arisen—wiped out. No one remained. Even those four annas that were possible—gone. He stands alone. You cannot even imagine how much crashed in that broken pot by the roadside!

This, Ashtavakra calls the world of your mind… imagination by name. Nothing is there—it is a game. But the mind becomes absorbed, drowned in the game.

Wherever there is activity of mind, there is bondage.

यदा चित्तं वाञ्छति!
—Wherever desire arises—any desire.

Here no discrimination of subject is made. It is not said that those who desire wealth are worldly and bound. If you desire Paramatma, you are bound. If you desire truth, you are bound. See the sutra:

यदा चित्तं वाञ्छति—
Whenever desire arises in the mind.

Desire for what? No need to say—any desire. Desire throws a stone into the lake; waves arise. The still lake—throw a pebble, there is a splash and the lake is filled with ripples. So with desire; as soon as the stone of longing drops in the mind, the whole is stirred.

Try it. In truth you try it daily. Do not look for Sheikh Chilli elsewhere. If you watch carefully you will catch him within. How often he dons so many masks! Mind is Sheikh Chilli. And when you catch him, laugh a little at yourself and your stupidity—because the moment one laughs at one’s stupidity, intelligence begins. He who laughs at his stupidity has become a witness.

यदा चित्तं वाञ्छति किंचित् शोचति…

You take up thinking—and thinking is a net. When a thought arises you drown in it. As soon as a thought arises, you become secondary, the thought becomes primary. Values are reversed within. You become so involved in thought that you forget you are the seer; you become the thinker.

There are three states of you. First is that of the witness—then the mind is not at all, for there are no waves. Mind is the sum of waves, the name of the flow of thought. The witness—then the lake is utterly silent, no wind ripples it.

The second is that of the thinker. The lake trembles. Seeds of thought have fallen. The stone of desire has dropped. All is rippled; the mirror is lost—the mirror-like lake which till now reflected the moon, reflects no more. The moon has fragmented; silver scatters over the whole surface, but no clear reflection anywhere; all is distorted. This is the second state.

The third—the doer. What you seized in thought soon becomes action. Witness, thought, and action. In action you enter the dense forest of the world. In thought you were moving toward the world. From witness you had slipped, yet not into action—you were hanging in-between, a Trishanku.

He who attains to witnessing is religious. He who remains entangled in thought is a philosopher. He who plunges into action is a politician.

Dharma, philosophy, and politics—these are the three states of your mind. Dharma has relation neither with doing nor with thinking. Dharma concerns pure witnessing. Then comes philosophy: it concerns thinking alone. It calculates the waves—and forgets the lake in the accounting of waves; in counting waves it forgets whose waves they are. The most lost is the political mind: it misses even the waves; it tallies only the effects of waves—the sounds that rise from waves resound in nearby valleys. Until something becomes action, there is no politics.

Those who have written commentaries on Krishna’s Gita are of three types. First the politicians: Tilak, Aurobindo, Gandhi. They strive to prove Karma Yoga—that action is all. Then the thinkers: they push their line of thought—if their tradition favors bhakti, they prove bhakti; if jnana, then jnana; if advaita, then advaita; if dvaita, then dvaita; or dvaitadvaita. Thousands of thought-traditions—these are philosophers’ glosses.

The third commentary has never been written—for it cannot be written. It is the commentary of witnessing. It is a matter of experience. One must descend into it; it cannot be done, for if one tries even to prove that witnessing is the essence of the Gita—that meditation, that samadhi—then it too becomes part of thought.

The third cannot be commented upon. Only those who have known it by experience have understood; the rest have thrown Krishna’s understanding into disarray by their understanding.

‘When the mind desires, thinks, renounces, accepts, rejoices and grieves—then bondage.’

तदा बंधः!

Now the irony is: some cling, some reject. Some hold the world tightly. They are told: Let go! There is sorrow in the world, renounce, escape! But those who run away do not look happy. There is no grace in their lives. Those who have fled to jungles, mountains, monasteries—there is no gleam, no radiance. What has happened? Neither holding nor letting go seems to yield. For the one who clings at least obtains ordinary passing joys—momentary, yes! Someone falls in love with a woman—momentary, yes—but at least he dreams of joy. It will break, yes; but it was there. But the one who flees loses even the momentary; the eternal is not gained and the transient too is lost.

I read a story. A story-master told his disciples: Hear a story, meditate on it, and bring me its conclusion tomorrow. The story was simple. An emperor had five hundred women in his harem. But the harem he had built five miles away in the forest from his palace. His most trusted servant went every evening to bring one queen for the king’s nightly pleasure. It is said the king lived till ninety, but the man who fetched the women died at forty. The next one, too, died before the king.

The master laughed and said: The meaning is plain. Man does not die so quickly from enjoying women as from running after them. The one who ran, going and coming each night, finished by forty; the one who enjoyed lived till ninety.

Man does not break so much by enjoying wealth as by chasing it. Man does not break so much by the world as by running away from it. On worldly faces you may sometimes see a glow; but on those you call ascetics, you see none. They are dead. Yes—if you take their deadness as austerity, you may see something. If a man turns pale by fasting, the devotees say: What a gold-like luster has come! See, how the form glows like pure gold! Those who are not devotees would say: We would not call them even brass, let alone gold. Your seeing is uncertain; you see because you want to see.

Have you ever seen your renouncers joyous? Ever seen a Jaina muni joyous? And have you wondered—so many Jaina munis, yet none looks joyous; none is seen dancing, humming a song. Joy should be here. They have left the world. They have broken all paths to sorrow, dropped all bridges. In their hands there should be an ektara; a veena should sing in their hearts; their feet should wear ankle-bells. They should sing—Pad ghunghroo baandh Meera naachi re! But no—no dance, no chime in their steps, no resonance in their breath. All dull, all empty, all void—like cremation grounds.

Your mahatmas—living cremation grounds. Still you do not ask what has gone wrong? Perhaps enjoyment is false—and renunciation even more false. The enjoyer is ignorant—and the renouncer more so.

Hear Ashtavakra’s sutra: ‘He who renounces some and grasps some…’

किंचित् मुञ्चति किंचित् गृह्णाति…

Some held, some dropped—both bondage.

यदा बंधः।

He who rejoices or suffers—neither in pleasure nor in pain is there ananda. Ananda is utterly transcendental. The man of pleasure is not the man of ananda; he is one who has suppressed pain for a moment. When do you call yourself happy? You went to a film, for two hours you were absorbed—you say, I felt so good! You come out—your sorrow stands waiting. You drank wine—you say, It felt so good! In the morning your sorrow stands waiting; perhaps it has swelled at night. While you were unconscious it grew—for nothing in this world is static; all grows. You slept—trees grew; your child grew; your sorrow grew. Drunken oblivion occurred; but by oblivion nothing is erased. It is the ostrich’s logic.

You have heard: the ostrich, seeing the enemy, buries its head in sand. The enemy not seen—therefore, for the ostrich, the enemy does not exist. His logic is sound. The atheist says, God cannot be seen, therefore he is not. The ostrich follows Aristotle’s logic. Buries its head—says, I see no enemy, how can he be? If I do not see it cannot be—no direct evidence!

But however deep it buries its head, the enemy remains. Truth is, with eyes open there might be a way to escape; with head in sand there is none. Now it is in the enemy’s hands; it has handed itself over. This is suicide. If the enemy kills it, the enemy’s skill is less and the ostrich’s suicidal tendency more.

Do not be an ostrich. Do not close your eyes.

What you call pleasure are ostrich-tricks. Here or there you entangle yourself a little. Someone sits with cards to play; someone lays out a chessboard—fake horses and queens—plays. How people drown! Consider it. Chess-players drown so much they forget the world—what concentration! And on what? Where there is nothing—pieces of their own making.

Not only chessmen are false—the elephants and horses of kings and politicians are just as false.

In the last analysis, what goes on here is play. Taking it with deadly seriousness is delusion. But we do—because it is the only way to forget sorrow.

You see—cricket, hockey, volleyball—crowds in the millions go to watch. Ask them what they go to see—they have no answer. They go to forget.

You pass the road with a thousand urgent tasks; if two men are fighting by the side you stop. You prop your bicycle and stand to watch. What do you watch? To watch two men fight is unbecoming. It lends them speed; you become sharers in sin. Your standing encourages them. If no one stood by, perhaps they would go their way: What’s the point? But when a crowd gathers, it becomes hard to withdraw; ego is at stake: So many are watching! If we step back—coward! Your standing becomes the cause of their fight.

And have you noticed—if a quarrel does not happen, if they reconcile, bow and part—you feel a little cheated inside, as if you suffered a loss, no fun! You feel that what should have happened did not—there should have been a clash, some blood; you would have had a thrill; some force would have flowed into your dead life, a breath into your dying soul. Nothing happened—you go empty-handed, as if deceived. You carry a secret complaint. You cannot say it, but a bitterness remains: something you waited for did not happen. The noise was much—and nothing came of it.

In the morning when you pick up a newspaper, you quickly look: Where was a robbery? Where a murder? Which prime minister was killed? Who was toppled? If the paper has nothing, you cast it aside in gloom: No news today. What news do you want? You want something—anything—to excite you.

In Spain they make men fight bulls; crowds watch with avid attention. To pit a man against a bull is injustice to the bull and the man—but millions watch, rapt. In Roman days men were thrown before lions and tigers—and millions came to see. People fight roosters, doves. If in your neighborhood a husband and wife quarrel, you sit with your ear to the wall. Your taste is in such things—by which you might divert your attention from yourself.

All religion says: turn attention to yourself—and ananda flowers. You turn attention away from yourself; when the attention goes away a little, you succeed and say, I felt a little happy. A song absorbed you, or sex absorbed you, or wine absorbed you—and you say, a little happiness. For a moment you forgot yourself; oblivion—was that happiness? Then all the Buddhas are mistaken. They say: self-remembering is ananda.

Understand the definition of ananda and sukha. Self-remembering is ananda. Moving by one’s own will toward self-remembering is sadhana. Self-forgetfulness is sukha. And when something forcibly reminds you of yourself—that is dukkha. What you call suffering is closer to ananda than your pleasure is.

Again: self-remembering is ananda; self-forgetfulness is sukha; dukkha lies between the two. In dukkha we are forced to remember ourselves—unwillingly. The head aches—self is remembered. A thorn pricks the heart—pain forces remembrance. You try to flee—open a bottle—to forget yourself.

Wherever you go to forget yourself—even if it be a temple or a mosque, a prayer or a namaz—it is all wine. Every means to forget is wine. Forgetting takes you away from yourself.

If this is understood, you will also understand tapas. Tapas means: when there is suffering, do not flee from it. Tapas means: when life brings pain, in no way attempt to escape; rather, sit meditative in the very midst of pain; look at it; wake toward it; bring the witness to it.

Therefore I said: suffering is closer to ananda than pleasure. I am not telling you to produce suffering—that would be a cult of suffering, a kind of masochism. Nor to torture yourself—as many fools are doing. Life has enough suffering; you need not add more. Birth is suffering, old age is suffering, death is suffering—everywhere suffering. Buddha said, Is there any shortage of suffering? Only wake to it; do not flee. Do not try to drown pain in pleasure. Turn pain into meditation—and through that meditation you will slide into self-remembering. Slowly, as you look at pain, you will also begin to see the one who is looking. In pleasure, the seer falls asleep. Hence in pleasure God is never remembered. The happy man is under a curse; the unhappy has a certain blessing. The happy forgets himself—who will remember Paramatma? Paramatma is our ultimate center. If we forget ourselves, how will we remember the center? Paramatma is hidden within; if we forget ourselves, we forget Him as well. Therefore sometimes in pain we remember God; in pleasure, never—we forget totally.

Let pleasures come—do not call them good fortune. Be witness to pleasures too. Let pains come—do not call them misfortune. Be witness to pains too. Being witness to both, you will find you have gone beyond both.

He who is neither happy nor unhappy, where neither pleasure nor pain is—there one goes beyond bondage. As long as you are happy or unhappy, holding or dropping—there is bondage. तदा बंधः!

‘When the mind neither desires nor thinks, neither renounces nor grasps; when it is neither delighted nor angered—there is liberation.’

तदा मुक्तिर्यदा चित्तं न वाञ्छति न शोचति।
न मुञ्चति न गृह्णाति न हृष्यति न कुप्यति।।

Where is liberation? People think moksha is some otherworldly geography. Moksha is not geography. Moksha is the utterly quiet state of your own consciousness.

People think the world is outside. The world too is not outside—it is your agitated consciousness. And moksha—somewhere high above? Not at all. Moksha is your soul fallen quiet again.

Then see it thus: samsara is fevered consciousness; moksha is fever-free consciousness. Samsara is the agitated waves of your awareness; moksha is the waves gone to sleep, dissolved in rest. When the lake grows still and the moon’s reflection forms in full, that is moksha. When the lake is disturbed, waves upon waves spread out and the moon’s reflection is shattered—that is samsara.

तदा मुक्तिः यदा न वाञ्छति…
—No desiring;
न शोचति…
—No thinking, no brooding;
न मुञ्चति…
—No renouncing;
न गृह्णाति…
—No grasping—
तदा मुक्तिः…
—There is moksha.

This is the purest definition of moksha. It means you need not wait for some day. Even now, in the market-place, for a moment you can taste moksha—because if for a moment thought stops, if for a moment no desire remains, if for a moment the mind’s activity ceases—no movement in, no movement out—no urge to grasp or to drop, then in that very moment you are in moksha. And that very taste will lead you farther. Meditation means: little glimpses. Samadhi means: the glimpses coming to rest, becoming steady.

‘When the mind neither desires…’

But see—those you call renouncers also desire—desire for moksha! In Ashtavakra’s definition your renouncers are no renouncers.

Ask a renouncer why he left the world. He says: I seek moksha. Ask why he left wealth and home: In search of moksha, to find the joy of the Atman, to find truth. Then it is not renunciation.

I have heard: two small villages were on a hill—one of Kshatriyas, one of weavers. The weavers were always oppressed by the Kshatriyas—could not even pass with their moustaches up. The Kshatriyas had decreed: no weaver may twirl his moustache in our village; he must lower it. The weavers suffered. At last they said: There is a limit; we must do something. Let us attack at night when the Kshatriyas sleep—for awake they are trouble. At night they cannot imagine that weavers would attack. We will beat them well and loot them.

Gathering great courage the weavers attacked the Kshatriya village. But weavers are weavers. Sleeping Kshatriyas proved enough for awake weavers. They trembled, hid behind each other; barely they reached the village! Their noise awoke the Kshatriyas before any attack could be made. The weavers kept planning—whom to hit, from where; who is the weakest Kshatriya—aim at him first. Such methods! By then the Kshatriyas were up, swords out. Seeing the swords the weavers ran—ran wildly. As they ran, one said, Brothers! If you must run, at least shout, Hit them! And so they ran, crying, Hit them! Hit them!

Whom do you fool? Yet they found joy in the cry. To strike was beyond them; they were being beaten, fleeing; but the one who suggested found a great device—at least shout Hit them; if you cannot strike, no matter; but make the sound. Thus you can keep the assurance that you too did something.

See your weavers—your mahatmas. They cry, Brothers! Renounce, renounce! There is nothing in desire; only sorrow. Ask them: Sir, you fast, you left home, you sit in the temple, do deep meditation—why? If he gives any ‘because’, he has missed. Any ‘because’ hides desire.

If a mahatma laughs and says, For no reason. Life’s futility has become clear. I have not left life—life has left me. I seek nothing. I am not searching. I have known that what is to be sought is within—no need to search. I am going nowhere; I sit at home. All journey has ended. I do not even seek moksha, nor God. My prayer asks nothing. Fasting is my joy, not a want. Meditation is my joy, not a means. These are not my instruments; they are my ends.

If you find such a one—and you may, for saying is nothing—and even if he shouts Hit them, still in his eyes there is such a glint, in his presence you feel: he neither grasps nor lets go; neither renounces nor enjoys. Whatever happens, happens; he sits quietly on the bank and watches. If you find such restful awareness, bow your head—there is a threshold of a temple. Such a person is a temple.

But if anywhere, some urge to obtain still slips in some corner of the mind—no matter what the obtaining—then worldly is worldly. Headstand or hunger or nakedness—no difference.

In Ashtavakra’s definition samsara and moksha are states of your mind—desire and desirelessness.

‘When the mind neither desires nor thinks, neither renounces nor grasps, neither rejoices nor grieves—there is liberation.’

तदा मुक्तिः।

When the mind is of one taste, simply is—no activity, no movement, no vibration; a still flame stands unwavering—no going anywhere; no urge to be; as it is, so it is—such total acceptance, such tathata; like a mirror—blank; like a blank page with nothing written—when the mind is so blank—that blank mind is meditation. And when no invisible writing remains on that paper—for there are chemicals with which one can write unseen; a little heat and it appears—when the page is so blank that even invisible writing is not there, however much heat you apply nothing appears—then know: you have arrived; the home is found. तदा मुक्तिः।

‘When the mind is tied to any perception or object, there is bondage; and when the mind is unattached to all perceptions, there is moksha.’

These are simple, direct words—very near to truth.

तदा बंधो यदा चित्तं सक्तं कास्वपि दृष्टिषु।
तदा मोक्षो यदा चित्तं असक्तं सर्वदृष्टिषु।।

‘When the mind is attached to any perception…’

Attached to any perception—whatever the eyes see; whatever the ears hear; whatever the hand touches.

Understand. You walk the road and see a beautiful woman pass—your mind begins to follow. You may not go after her; you may turn your face, close your eyes, not look that way—yet the mind goes. Whether the body goes or not is irrelevant; the mind goes. A renouncer passes the same way. Seeing the beautiful woman he repeats scripture: What is there in woman? Bone, flesh, marrow, filth. He lectures himself. He is a renouncer, but behind this renunciation some deep attachment hides—else why raise this issue? And if filth hides in woman, does gold hide in you?

Have you thought? The scriptures written by your mahatmas say: in woman there is bone, flesh, marrow, spittle, phlegm. What was hidden in these mahatmas? They give no information. Men wrote the scriptures—so in women there is filth; in men, gold! If women had written them, the talk would be different. But why write such things? It is clear proof that somewhere a taste for woman remained; to deny that taste, he says: There is nothing there! He is persuading his mind. The mind says: Go. He says, Fool, there is nothing. Desire has arisen; he tries to pull the reins.

You may try a thousand such tricks—you will not win. All this is thinking.

Mujhe apni pasti ki sharam hai,
Teri rif‘aton ka khayal hai,
Magar apne dil ko main kya karun?
Ise phir bhi shauq-e-visal hai.

I am ashamed of my weakness,
I keep your heights in mind—
but what can I do with my heart?
It still longs for union.

You may be ashamed, feel guilty: I err, I sin—still nothing changes.

Magar apne dil ko main kya karun?
Ise phir bhi shauq-e-visal hai.

The heart goes on demanding enjoyment. Chain it, bind it—still nothing changes. You pass along the road—if you are an enjoyer, the urge to enjoy arises; if a renouncer, that same urge arises and he suppresses it with renunciation. Both get entangled in perception; both in what appears.

Imagine the one who passes the same road—and what appears creates neither this nor that turmoil. A woman passes—woman is woman; she passes. No trumpet is needed that heaven has passed by; no disgust that the city’s garbage cart has passed. Woman is woman—she passed. You move as if nothing passed. This state is to be beyond perception.

You hear through the ear; you get a taste for a song—and you want it again; you are entangled in perception. You touch something and like it—you want to touch again—entangled.

Beware. You go to hear a sadhu; a saint’s words sound pleasing—and you are entangled. To feel right by understanding is one thing; to feel right because it pleases the ear is another. If you are hooked because it is ear-sweet, you are in perception. If your understanding sees…

‘When the mind is attached to any perception, there is bondage.’

यदा चित्तं कासु दृष्टिषु सक्तं तदा बंधः।

‘When the mind is unattached to all perceptions, there is moksha.’

यदा चित्तं सर्वदृष्टिषु असक्तं तदा मोक्षः।

Seeing—yet not seeing; walking—yet not walking; touching—yet not touching; hearing—yet not hearing. All goes on, but you remain steady in the witness. From there you do not waver; your inner flame is unwavering, no gust stirs it. All comes and goes; you remain as you are—of one taste. This is moksha. Moksha is not across seven heavens. And samsara is not in the marketplace or shop. Samsara is a state of your mind; moksha too is a state of your mind. Moksha is the natural state; samsara the diseased state. Samsara is the state of a sick soul; moksha is the state of a healthy soul.

Swasth—healthy—is a beautiful word. It means: established in oneself. Health means: one who is established in oneself. He who is self-established is healthy; the rest are ill.

The body’s illness is not the real illness; the real illness is the soul’s unhealth—the falling away from oneself, slipping from the center, becoming unbalanced. To sit firmly at one’s center is health. Ashtavakra calls this health moksha.

‘When I am, there is bondage. When I am not, there is moksha.’

How dear these words are! Where will you find anything greater!

‘When I am, there is bondage. When I am not, there is moksha. Knowing thus, do not desire, do not grasp, do not renounce.’

Simple, unique—and supremely difficult. The simpler, the more difficult. The simple has become difficult for us. The difficult we manage; the simple trips us.

Understand this. The difficult gives taste to the ego—hence we do it. The difficult challenges the ego; there is a joy to show: I can do it. The difficult gives the comfort of being a doer. Hence man is keen to do the difficult.

Watch: is what you do being done because it is difficult? A big house is difficult; a big car difficult; piling a mountain of wealth difficult. Is this why you chase it? What will you do with that pile—eat, drink, wear? Yet man keeps piling. Ask him why. Perhaps because it was difficult—hence the challenge; to show the world I too am something. The utterly simple attracts no one.

Alexander wanted to conquer the whole world. Diogenes asked: What will you do after conquering the whole world? Alexander said: Then I will rest.

Diogenes laughed: If rest is the goal, I am resting now; you too can. Resting after conquering the world—what sense does that make? Where is the argument? I rest without conquering anything. Just look at me.

And he was resting—naked by the riverbank, bathed by the morning sun, utterly at ease. Nothing to do. So he laughed: Alexander, you are mad. If rest comes only after conquering the world, then how does Diogenes rest? I have conquered nothing. I have nothing. I had a begging bowl too; I left that as well—because of this dog’s friendship.

A dog sat beside him. Diogenes was known in Greece as ‘Diogenes with the dog’. He befriended a dog; he left friendship with men, saying men are worse than dogs. One day he saw the dog drink from the river. He said: The dog drinks without a bowl; I need a bowl! He left it there. The dog defeated me, he said; it is ahead of me. I need a bowl—why? If a dog can drink water, can eat—then why do I need anything? I have nothing—and I rest. Can you doubt my rest?

No—Alexander could not. The man spoke truth. He was surely at rest. The eyes, the face’s luster—as if nothing remained to gain, all had been attained; nothing to lose; no fear; no temptation.

Alexander said: I envy you. I too desire such rest, but I cannot do it now. I must conquer the world. I cannot accept that Alexander died without conquering the world.

Diogenes said: Go—yet one word. I should not say it; it is not polite. But I will: you will die without resting.

Alexander died without rest—returning from India, midway. As he began to die and the physicians said there is no hope, he said: Give me just twenty-four hours; I want to see my mother. I will give my whole kingdom. I earned it by losing my life; I am ready to lose it for twenty-four hours; I have promised my mother I will come to her feet before dying.

The physicians said: Give the kingdom or whatever—you cannot get even one extra breath.

Alexander said: If someone had told me this earlier I would not have wasted my life. The kingdom for which I lost my life cannot purchase a single breath! Diogenes was right: I will never rest.

Remember: the difficult has a pull for the ego. The simple has none. Thus we miss the simple. Paramatma is utterly simple. Truth is utterly simple—plain, transparent, with no complexity at all.

यदा नाहं तदा मोक्षो यदाहं बंधनं तदा।
मत्वेति हेलया किंचित् मा गृहाण विमुञ्च मा।।

‘When I am, there is bondage.’

यदा अहम तदा बंधनम्!

The ‘I’ itself is bondage. The sense of ‘me’ separates me from Paramatma. The very thought that I am creates distance between me and That. This boundary obstructs. The moment I know—Only That is; I am not…

यदा अहम न तदा मोक्षः।

Where I am not—there is moksha.

Only one thing has to fall: the I-sense, asmitā, ahankar. And so long as waves exist in the mind, ego does not fall—for ego is the sum of the waves. Ego is the aggregate of your restlessness. Ego is not a thing you can pick up and throw away. It is the collected name of your whole frenzy. You go to the river and see a storm; the storm subsides—do you ask, Where did the storm go? When the river is calm, where is the storm? Do you say, The storm is now in calm form? The storm is not. And when it was—what was it? The river itself, but disordered; great waves rising, madness to touch the sky, ambition, longing to do something. Tired, defeated, seeing there is no point, it rests—storm gone.

The storm is not a substance—it is an agitated state. Ego too is like a storm—the name of your agitated consciousness. As you grow quiet, ego departs. In supreme quiet your boundary dissolves; you suddenly become one with the Infinite.

‘When I am, there is bondage.’

यदा नाहं तदा मोक्षो यदाहं बंधनं तदा।

‘And when I am not—there is moksha.’

‘Knowing thus, do not desire; do not grasp; do not renounce.’

A very straight sutra—and yet you will say: highly complex! Either say: grasp and enjoy—understandable. Or say: do not enjoy, renounce—understandable. What is this? This puzzles.

Ashtavakra says: ‘Knowing thus, do not desire; do not grasp; do not renounce.’

From the surface it appears complicated.

People come to me and ask: What should we do with sexual desire? Indulge? Suppress? What? You put us in a dilemma.

Those who say: Indulge! Charvaka says: Indulge. Brihaspati said: Do not worry. ऋणं कृत्वा घृतं पिबेत! Borrow and drink ghee! Return or not—who returns? Who will demand? Die and all is ash. Enjoy—even if you must loot, enjoy. Whether a woman is yours or another’s—why bother? Who belongs to whom? There is no afterlife, no soul—so do not fall into the falsehood of sin and virtue.

This too is understandable. Ninety-nine out of a hundred believe thus, though they may say something else. Do not go by their words—watch what they do. Do not look in their books—look at their faces.

Har ek chehra khud ek khuli kitaab hai yahan,
Dilon ka haal kitaabon mein dhoondhta kyun hai?

If you want to see a Muslim, do not look in the Qur’an—else you will be misled. The Muslim has as much to do with the Qur’an as a Hindu has—with the Qur’an. To see a Hindu do not look in the Vedas or Upanishads. Look in his eyes, on his face. Do not peep into doctrines—doctrines are great deceivers. We cover our realities with doctrines. Some hide behind the Qur’an; some drape the Veda; some wear the Ram-nam sheet. Do not be deceived by these sheets—look straight into the eyes.

Har ek chehra khud ek khuli kitaab hai yahan,
Dilon ka haal kitaabon mein dhoondhta kyun hai?

Ninety-nine out of a hundred are Charvakas. The older name was Lokayata—what is dear to the people. All love it. Above they may chant Ram-Ram; speak of moksha, God, dharma; but if you ask within, every heart is Charvaka.

Charvaka is a fine word—from charu vak—sweet speech. Sweet to all ears. Few will speak it—only the brave. Brihaspati must have been brave. India called him Acharya Brihaspati—the founder of Charvaka-darshan is called Acharya, just as Shankara is, or Ramanuja.

This country has courage; it says: he has spoken something of value. More people follow Brihaspati. Yet no dedicated temple stands to him, and you will not find his book in anyone’s house—the books are not preserved. Who will preserve them? You will find the Gita, Qur’an, Bible, Veda, Dhammapada—but these have little to do with anyone. Their covers are Dhammapada—inside are Brihaspati’s words.

Seek the human heart—ninety-nine are atheists, ninety-nine are hedonists. That is comprehensible, seems natural.

A few are renouncers—that too is comprehensible. Their logic does not contradict the logic of enjoyment. They say: Life has nothing—therefore we leave. That too is understandable: Where there is nothing, run—seek elsewhere where there is something.

But how will you understand Ashtavakra? How will you understand me?

‘Do not desire; do not grasp; do not renounce.’

When someone asks me: What shall we do with sexual desire? You say do not suppress. You say do not indulge. Then what? These two are clear. Duality is always clear; advaita is not.

I say: Be awake. Neither indulge nor escape—be awake. Neither suppress nor destroy yourself in indulgence—be a witness. See. Whatever happens, see it. If desire catches, let it catch—what will you do? Sit deep within and see that desire catches. You did not raise it; whoever did, let him answer. Why do you agitate yourself? Anger arises—see it. Greed arises—see it. Keep to seeing. Resolve only this: I will see. Whatever arises, I will see.

Morning comes—you see morning. Night falls—you see night. You become young—you see youth. You grow old—you see old age. Seasons change—you see. So too your mind wavers—see. If you catch the thread of seeing, slowly all seasons fall away; neither lust remains nor celibacy remains; neither enjoyment nor renunciation remains—both go. One day a man finds: I sit alone at home; no one remains. Solitary—utterly alone—pure consciousness, mere witnessing! Aho chinmatram! Astonishing—only consciousness am I; all else was idle chatter—grasp, drop, do this, do that. The doer was false, the enjoyer was false. The Sanskrit word is precious:

मत्वेति हेलया किंचित् मा गृहाण विमुञ्च मा।

In Hindi it is often translated: ‘Thinking thus, do not desire; do not grasp; do not renounce.’ But it is not thinking—for Ashtavakra forbade thinking at the outset.

किंचित् शोचति तदा बंधः!

So ‘thinking’ cannot be the meaning of matveti. It comes from mati. Mati is a technical term. You have heard the saying: when God wants to destroy someone, He corrupts his mati. Mati is not dependent on your thinking. Thinking belongs to mind. Mati is the understanding beyond the mind—what in English is understanding, not thinking; what Buddha calls prajna—mati.

मत्वेति हेलया किंचित् मा गृहाण विमुञ्च मा।

He who abides in such mati—if I translate, I would say: He who has come to this understanding, to this mati where neither desire arises, nor grasping, nor the mood of renunciation—he who has attained such mati where the mind does not arise. What Zen calls no-mind—that is mati. This is not a matter of your thought. When your thinking is gone, then you arrive at that moment which is called mati.

Mati is neither yours nor mine. It is one. My thoughts are mine; yours are yours. When your thoughts are gone and mine are gone—when you are thought-free and I am thought-free—there is no difference between us. What then manifests is mati—not yours, not mine. Thoughts are always mine and yours. Ashtavakra says: when I am, there is bondage. And with thought the I remains; hence people quarrel: my thought; scarcely caring for truth—only that what I say must be true because it is mine. Debates are not for seeking truth; they are for asserting: what I say is true; what you say is false—because you say it. No other basis. I said it—how can it be false!

In thought there is I and you. In mati there is neither I nor you. Or better: thoughts belong to us; mati belongs to God. Mati is where we are lost.

इति मति मत्वा हेलया मा गृहाण मा विमुञ्च।

—Abide in such mati that you neither desirefully grasp nor desirefully renounce.

Understand this too. Let there be not even a trace of desire. Whatever happens, let it happen. If in a certain moment there is pain, let it be; do not try by desire to remove it. If in a certain moment there is pleasure, let it be; do not try by desire to prolong it. Stop removing and arranging by desire. Say only this: Let Thy will be done. As the Whole wills, so will I remain. The Infinite’s will is my will. I will not keep myself separate. I have no private goal now. The goal of the Whole is my goal.

In such a moment, in such mati, in such awakening—where is pain? Where pleasure? Where bondage? Where liberation? All dualities drop. One alone remains—day and night. One alone resounds, sings, lives, dances. In such a moment you become a limb of the Whole—blossoming with the Whole. All your struggle ends. You fall into rhythm with the Whole—become cadenced.

He who is cadenced with the Whole—I call a sannyasin. Whatever comes—good, bad—no worry remains. As it is, so be it. I have no expectation now. Whatever happens is acceptable: hell is hell; heaven is heaven. Such supreme acceptance is sannyas.

These are great sutras of sannyas. Understand them—not by thinking, but by meditating—so that mati is born of them.

यदा नाहं तदा मोक्षो यदाहं बंधनं तदा।
मत्वेति हेलया किंचित् मा गृहाण विमुञ्च मा।।

And for this life, for the supreme revolution of this life—you yourself are the laboratory; you yourself the test. You must examine yourself. You must be Janaka—and you must be Ashtavakra. This dialogue must happen within you.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was half-reclined in an armchair reading a newspaper on his lawn. An Alsatian dog sat wagging its tail by his feet. A neighbor came to see him, but stood at the gate frightened of the dog. To attract Mulla’s attention he shouted: Brother, does this dog bite?

Mulla said: Come in, come right in—do not worry! Still the friend was afraid, for the dog had stood and was growling. The friend said: All right—you say it doesn’t bite, yes? I have had bad experiences with dogs.

Mulla said: Brother, that is what I want to see—whether it bites or not; I just bought it.

Do not take life’s tests from others. What you get from others will never be yours. Another’s experience can never be yours. Life’s ultimate mystery reveals itself only to the one who makes himself the field of experiment, who makes himself the ground of practice.

Therefore I say: not by thinking but by experiment, by meditation mati will be attained. And you have always heard: heaven somewhere above, hell somewhere below. Drop that delusion. Heaven is within you; hell is within you. Heaven is a way of being; hell a way of being. Filled with ‘I’—hell. Free of ‘I’—heaven.

Drop the fantasies that samsara is bondage and moksha is some far-off mountaintop where the liberated sit. If there is desire in the mind—that is samsara. If there is no desire—not even the desire to drop, not even the desire to renounce—no desire—such desirelessness is moksha.

Do not seek heaven and hell outside; nor world and moksha. They are modes of your being. To be healthy is moksha; to be unhealthy is samsara. Therefore there is nothing to drop outside, nowhere to run. On the Himalaya you will remain you; in the marketplace you remain you. That is why I have not told my sannyasins to leave anything and go anywhere. I have told them only this: stay awake and keep watching; let what happens, happen. If there is householding, let there be householding. And if one day you suddenly find yourself sitting on the Himalaya, that too is fine; if you find yourself going, that too is fine.

Let whatever happens, happen. Do not want otherwise by desire. From wanting otherwise the I is organized. Keep no personal wanting. Flow with the Whole’s wanting. Wherever this Ganges goes, go. Do not take up oars. Unfurl your sails and let the winds carry you; let the river’s current take you.

I call this surrender sannyas. In this surrender you do not remain—only Paramatma remains. Some day that moment will come—that mati will dawn—clouds will part and open sky reveal itself. Then you will laugh; you will know what Ashtavakra is saying—there is nothing to drop, nothing to take. All that appears is dreamlike; the one who sees is the only truth.

Hari Om Tatsat!