Maha Geeta #26

Such a question is natural. Ordinarily, even with tireless effort, a person fails to bring discipline into life. Even with constant practice, responsibility does not become blissful; somewhere inside, there remains a pain. Whatever appears to us as duty looks like bondage. And where there is bondage, there is resistance. Where there is bondage, there is the longing to be free.

Duty or responsibility feels imposed from above. Society, culture, family—or our own urge for security—have forced us to be bound by duties; but there is compulsion there, helplessness, a sense of being at the mercy of it. And wherever there is compulsion, there can be no joy, no freshness. Whenever we get a chance to be free, we become licentious at once. We have lived so dependent that, if we were given freedom, we would drop all responsibilities, throw away all duties, and fall into anarchy.

From this it naturally arises to ask: Is it possible that a sarva-tantra svatantra person—upon whom there is no governance and no rule; this is the very definition of a sannyasin: absolutely free, un-imposed upon by society and culture, beyond all proprieties—how would such a person live within any propriety?

From our standpoint it seems impossible. The moment we drop restraints, we become unbridled. Yet a sannyasin, going beyond all restraints, is disciplined; an unprecedented responsibility—rising not like a chain but like a fragrance—keeps flowing from him. His inner light will not let him wander astray. His inner light becomes his supreme propriety. He rises above all outer restraints, but his self-knowing becomes his discipline.

It is natural that the question should arise.

I have heard: One day Mulla Nasruddin said to his dog, “This won’t do—enroll in college. Nowadays nothing happens without education. If you study, you will become something. Study and you become a nawab!”

The dog liked it. Who wouldn’t want to be a nawab? Even a dog does! When, four years later, the dog returned home from college, Mulla asked, “What did you learn?” The dog said, “Listen, I found no interest in history. For what interest could a dog have in human history? There’s not a word about dogs,” he said. “There have been big dogs—like your Alexander and Hitler; we too have had great dogs—but our history is never mentioned. So I had no taste for history. If there is no mention of me and my kind, what taste could I have? In geography I had a little curiosity—the very kind a dog could have, at best... the post-box or the electric pole, because for us they are our toilets; beyond that, geography did not interest me.”

Mulla was getting a bit puzzled. He asked, “And mathematics?” The dog said, “What would we do with mathematics? It has no meaning for us, because we have no need to accumulate wealth. We live in the moment. We live now; we do not worry about tomorrow. The yesterday that passed is gone; the tomorrow has not come—who has to keep accounts? What give-and-take is there? What ledger is to be kept?”

So Mulla said, “Four years all wasted?” “No,” the dog said, “not all wasted. I have returned proficient in a foreign language.” Mulla was delighted. “At least you did something! We’ll get you a job in the foreign office. If fortune favors, you’ll be an ambassador; if God is kind, the foreign minister. Something will come of it. For my happiness, speak a little of that foreign language—an example—so I may understand.”

The dog closed his eyes, gathered himself like a yogi. With great practice, with great difficulty, one word came out. He said, “Meow!”

‘This is the foreign language you learned?’

But for the dog, that is a foreign language!

Every level of consciousness has its own language, and its own understanding. From where we live, we cannot even conceive that, being absolutely free, we would be serene, well-ordered, creative—we cannot even think it; there is no way. We cannot understand because we know duty devoid of love. We do not know that when life is suffused with love, duty follows like a shadow.

A sannyasin was traveling in the Himalayas. He was climbing, bedding and bundle tied to his back—sweat-drenched, blazing noon, a steep ascent. Just then he saw a mountain girl climbing nearby, perhaps ten or twelve years old, carrying her big, sturdy younger brother—at least six or seven years old—on her shoulders, and she was sweating too. The sannyasin said to her, “Daughter, it must feel like a heavy load.” The girl looked startled and said, “Swamiji! A load is what you are carrying; this is my little brother!”

On a weighing scale, put your little brother or your bedding—it makes no difference; the scale will show weight in both cases. But on the scales of the heart there is a vast difference. He is the little brother—then where is the load? Then even the load has a sweetness; the weight becomes weightless.

For one in whom self-awareness has awakened, who has known himself, the whole existence becomes family; a relatedness arises. The day you know yourself, you will also know that you are not separate from this vastness; it is your own expanse—or you are its expanse—but the two are one. In that oneness, how could you harm anyone? How could you be violent? How could you cause suffering to anyone? How could you violate anyone—in any dimension, with anyone? How could you coerce? That would be cutting your own legs; that would be gouging out your own eyes; that would be violation of your own being.

For the one who attains self-knowledge, the knowledge also dawns that “I and you are not two; we are one.” In that sense of unity, responsibility flowers. But that responsibility is not like your sense of duty. You have to do it.

In that sarva-tantra svatantra state, there is no question of “having to do”—it happens.

The sannyasin was dragging his bundle, troubled, perhaps thinking a thousand times, “If only I could find a place to put this burden down! What unfortunate hour made me take so much weight! Had I thought earlier that the climb is steep and the sun fierce...” Thinking thoughts like these, through such a veil he also looked at that little girl. But the girl was not thinking such thoughts at all. Their languages were different. She said, “This is my little brother. What are you saying, Swamiji? Take back your words! A burden? This is my little brother!”

There is a relationship there, an interrelatedness. Where there is interrelatedness, where is the burden! And for the one whose interrelatedness becomes with the Whole, he becomes sarva-tantra svatantra—free of all systems—but now he is joined to the All. He is free of the system, joined to the Whole. The system was an outer imposition. Law says, “Do this.” Morality and rules say, “Do this.” If you do not, there is the court. If you escape the court, there is hell. Fear is created! Out of this fear a man lives within propriety.

But when one comes to know, “I am one with this vastness—the trees too are my own spread; it is I who am green in these trees,” then even while cutting a branch your eyes will moisten; you will be filled with hesitancy—you are cutting your own self. You will begin to move with great care, as Mahavira moved with great care. It is said he would not even turn over in his sleep at night lest, in turning, some tiny insect that had crept near be crushed. So he would sleep on one side only. No one had ever told him such a thing; nowhere is it written in any scripture that one must sleep only on one side. In no book of ethics is it written that turning over is a sin. Even among the earlier twenty-three tirthankaras of the Jains, none had said, “Do not turn at night”; no one would even have thought that turning over could be a sin. You turn over in bed—do so comfortably—what obstacle is there? But Mahavira’s inner awareness made him feel that, even in turning, something might be crushed, something might suffer. He would not walk in the dark lest something be crushed underfoot. He would not eat in the dark lest some moth fall into the food.

A Jain too does not eat in the dark—but not because he has any concern for the moth. The Jain’s concern is this: if a moth falls in and I eat it, violence will happen, and I will go to hell! The worry is for oneself; that is system. Mahavira’s concern is not for himself; it is for the moth. This is sarva-tantra svatantra—oneness with all.

A Jain monk also walks with a whisk, clearing the ground before he sits. But his purpose is different: he is following a rule. If no one were watching, he would sit without clearing. If ten watchers are present, lay followers gathered, he will skillfully perform. That is system. They are following a discipline. They have read some things, heard, understood; from tradition they have taken a few aphorisms—and they follow those aphorisms.

That is why you do not see joy on the face of a Jain monk. Look at the joy of Mahavira! Joy is always in freedom. And the ultimate discipline of life is also in freedom.

Be amazed only if it blossoms anywhere else. If beautiful discipline were to blossom in dependence, that would be a miracle. It cannot happen. It has never happened; it will never happen.

A mother says to her son, “Love me, because I am your mother.” Even in love, “because,” “therefore”! As if love were a syllogism; as if it were some problem in mathematics! “I am your mother, therefore love me!”

The boy also thinks, “Since she’s my mother, I should love her.” Love—and “should”? You have started cutting love at the very root. You are destroying its very possibility. The moment “should” enters, love has already departed. What will you do in love then? You will act. What can a small child do? When the mother comes near he will force a smile; he will spread his mouth wide. No smile rises from his heart. “Now mother is coming—since she is mother one should smile, one should show love”—but in his heart no smile is arising; falsity begins. The journey of hypocrisy begins. This is not the journey of love; the child has started dying, he has started becoming a hypocrite. Then his whole life long he will keep stretching his mouth.

Stretching the mouth can be learned by practice. But stretching the lips is not a smile! A smile is that which arises from within, spreads over the face, to every pore of the body—only then is it a smile. If you just pull the lips tight, it’s acting, theater, politics.

Look at a politician—hands folded, always smiling!

I know one politician. They say that even at night, while sleeping, he lies with folded hands, smiling. Even in sleep he is standing before the voters, smiling! Life is rotting away. Inside, except darkness there is nothing; nothing is known except anxiety and derangement—yet he keeps smiling! That smile is hollow.

And if you have loved because she is your mother, because she is your little sister, because he is your younger brother—if there is a “because” in your love, understand that you have not understood.

We all have been trained for hypocrisy. That is why there is so little love in the world and so much hypocrisy. That is why there is so little truth and so much acting. That is why God does not manifest in the world—because there is too much maya, too many counterfeiters.

Live only that which arises from within you. In the beginning there will be obstacles, because many times you will find: when you should have laughed, you did not laugh; when you should have cried, you could not cry. In the beginning there will be hurdles. I call facing those hurdles tapascharya—austerity. But slowly you will begin to be filled with a unique joy. Then you will find that you laugh only when laughter is truly blooming. You do not cheat; slowly your life begins to be freed from “tantra”—from mechanism, from habit—and it comes into alignment with your nature.

“Tantra” here means habit. Since childhood someone is taught, “Fold your hands in front of a Hindu temple,” so he folds them; it is a habit. There is neither devotion in his heart, nor any eagerness of the life-breath to offer itself, nor trust. Mathematics is there, not trust.

I was reading the life of Blaise Pascal—a great mathematician and scientist. He had a friend, De Meyer, a gambler. They say he was among the world’s great gamblers. He staked his whole life on gambling. When some great difficulty arose in his gambling, some question arose, he used to ask Pascal: “You are such a great mathematician, help me in my gambling.” He was Pascal’s friend, so Pascal would listen. Listening to him again and again Pascal understood—he has written in his autobiography—that by listening to his talk I became a Christian.

It is amazing: by listening to a gambler he became a Christian! Pascal says, “Thus I became a Christian. By understanding the gambler’s psychology I realized that the religious man’s psychology is also that of a gambler.” The gambler wagers a rupee: if he wins, he will get twenty-five; if he loses, he loses only one. This is his psychology. He loses little; if he wins he gains twenty-fivefold, even thousandfold. Between these two the gambler weighs his odds.

So Pascal wrote, “I too thought: if God exists…” The theist believes God exists; if after dying the theist finds that God does not exist, what has he lost? A little time—spent in prayer and worship, wasted in satsang, in turning the pages of the Bible or the Koran—a little time lost. If God is not found, the theist loses only that little time; and when the whole life has been lost, what difference does a little more time make? But if God exists, he will dwell in heaven eternally, enjoying bliss!

The atheist says God does not exist. If God does not exist, fine; the atheist loses nothing. But if God exists, then eternal hellish suffering…

Therefore Pascal wrote, “I say it is straightforward arithmetic to believe in God. There is nothing to lose, there is the possibility of gaining. If you do not believe, you will gain nothing if God does not exist; but if he does, you will lose immensely.”

Pascal says, “If you have even a little sense of security and a little experience of gambling, then God is a bargain.”

Now this is a calculus. In this calculus there is no love for God. It is pure logic. And if I were to meet Pascal somewhere, I would say to him, “The person who believes in God in this way does not trust God at all. He trusts gambling; he trusts mathematics; he does not trust God. Is this trust? Is this the language of love and reverence? This is straight marketplace talk, shop talk.”

Either God is or God is not—there is no question of “if.” Either in your experience God is, or in your experience he is not. If in your experience he is, then whether it brings profit or loss—God is. If in your experience he is not, then whether it brings loss or gain—he is not. Where is the place for “if”?

But we erect our lives on “ifs.” Our entire life is like that of gamblers—calculations, accounts, bargains!

Do you hear what Pascal is saying? “A little time went in prayer—that alone is what you lost!” Can such a man ever pray? How will prayer arise? What has prayer to do with mathematics and logic? Prayer is such an ahobhava—such a state of wonder—that only God is and nothing else is. And even if believing in God were to cost you everything, the devotee is willing to believe. And if by abandoning God everything were saved, the devotee would still say, “Forgive me, I do not want this everything.”

Prayer must be a true state of mind, not mathematics. Love too must be a true state of mind, not mathematics. And all your feelings should be authentic. Then slowly you will find: you are becoming free, sarvatantra swatantra, and a unique discipline begins to descend into your life! Freedom will not turn into license then. From freedom will be born a fullness of responsibility—such responsibility in which there is absolutely no sense of “duty”; such responsibility in which there is a flowing stream of love! Then whether you get up, sit down, walk—whatever you do—behind it the lamp of your awareness will remain lit.

If the inner lamp remains lit, light falls upon whatever we do. If the inner lamp is extinguished, the shadow of our darkness falls on whatever we do. A sleeping man, even if he performs virtue, it becomes sin. An awakened man, even if he were to do sin, it would still be virtue—because an awakened man simply cannot sin. Awakening and sin have no relation.

You have seen: in the dark a man gropes for the door. In the light, he neither gropes nor asks—he gets up and goes out. In the light, he doesn’t even think “Where is the door?”—such a question does not arise. If you have to get up and go from here, you won’t think or plan, “We will go like this, then like that, then we will look for the door”—you will simply get up and go! You can see.

Only the person in whom the light has been kindled within can be sarvatantra swatantra—free beyond all systems. We have called the sannyasin sarvatantra swatantra. We have regarded him as beyond all reckoning. Ashtavakra speaks of that one—of that supreme sannyas, that supreme state—where neither indulgence nor renunciation applies, where neither rule works; neither enjoyment nor renunciation—where only witnessing is sufficient. Ashtavakra says: If there is witnessing, then live anywhere, anyhow, as you are. If witnessing is there, everything will come right, everything will be fine. If one thing is set right—if meditation is set right, witnessing is set right—everything else sets itself right; all the rest settles of its own accord. And surely then the discipline that is there has an incomparable glory. Then the discipline is of the nature of grace. There is not the least imposition in it, not the least contrivance. You do not do because “one should do.” Whatever happens, happens. Whatever happens is beautiful and auspicious.

You have heard the definition: “A man who does good deeds is a saint.” I want to tell you: in saying “A man who does good deeds is a saint,” you have put the oxen behind the cart. “From a saint, good deeds happen”—then you have yoked the ox to the front of the cart. No one becomes a saint by good deeds; from saintliness good deeds flow. By correcting outer conduct no inner revolution takes place; but if an inner revolution happens, the outer conduct becomes luminous, filled with radiance, suffused with aura.

And you will see a difference like earth and sky between the walking of Mahavira and that of a Jain monk, between the walking of Buddha and that of a Buddhist bhikkhu; between the rising and sitting of Jesus and that of a Christian. It may even happen that both are doing exactly the same. Sometimes the imitator may even outdo the original—because the original is natural, spontaneous; the imitator is mechanical. The one who is acting does it after rehearsal, with much practice. But the one who is living from his nature does no rehearsal, no practice. He lives as it is reflected in his inner consciousness; he lives as it is reflected, moment to moment.

Walk as your nature moves you. Do as your nature prompts you. Let what sprouts within not be otherwise. This is sannyas. This declaration is very difficult—because its result will be that those around you, to whom you are connected, will feel obstructed. They do not want your freedom; they want only your efficiency. They have no interest in your soul; they are interested in your utility. And the utility of a machine is greater than that of a man—remember this. A machine’s utility is great because it only works; it asks for nothing—neither freedom, nor does it strike, nor does it create disputes; it does not say “This is right, this is not right.” Whatever the order, the command! The machine says, “We are ready! Press the button and the light comes on.” Society too wants men to be like that—press the button, the light should come on.

A spontaneous person has no buttons; you cannot press his buttons. You have no way to push his buttons; he is his own master. Even if you abuse him, he will stand and listen. You cannot press his anger-button by abusing him. You may keep abusing; he will stand listening; he will smile and walk away. He will say, “Our heart is not one that does anger. We are not your slaves that whenever you wish, you abuse and we fall into your claws. We are our own masters! If you wish to abuse, go on—this is your work; we do not accept it. To give is your freedom; to take or not to take is our sovereignty. You have given—thank you! You wasted so much time on us—much obliged! Now we go to our house; you go to yours.”

He who is his own master alone is free. And who is a master? Only he who knows himself can be master of himself. He who does not know himself—how can he be master?

From that knowing, from that awareness, everything in life changes. A definite dignity arises. And in that dignity there is not the least filth, no ugliness. That dignity does not oppose freedom; the lotuses of dignity grow only in the lake of freedom.

Just look! Try living with love, with meditation! Your old habits will obstruct, because you have woven great nets of duty. You keep expressing love to your wife because you say she is the wife; the scriptures say it is a bond of many births. But have you loved this wife even for a day? These scriptures ruined your life, and this wife could not be fulfilled by you—because you never loved; you followed a rule: one should love one’s wife; love never flowed, never dripped, never danced, never hummed; no song was born in love—there was only a rule: you had taken seven rounds; the priest had done the astrological arithmetic that she is your wife, you are her husband; the parents searched the lineages—so now it must be done! She is a wife, so one must love! You ruined this wife’s life, you ruined your own.

When your love becomes false, all your bridges to God break. You could not connect with your wife or your husband—what on earth will you connect with God? You could not love—how will you pray? Prayer is the clarified butter of love; it is the very essence of love.

To live naturally is rebellion. That is why I say: a religious life is the life of a rebel. A religious life is the life of a tapasvin. And remember, by tapascharya I do not mean standing in the sun, blackening the body, or lying on a bed of thorns—these are stupidities. They have nothing to do with tapascharya. Nor does tapascharya have anything to do with fasting or starving—these are stupidities. They may be derangements of your mind, but they have nothing to do with tapascharya.

There is only one tapascharya: that you live from the inside outward—whatever the consequence. You will not live from the outside inward—whatever the consequence. What is within you, that alone you will bring out; you will shape your outer according to your inner.

Now see the difference. Generally, religious teachers explain to you that what is outside you should be what is inside you. I say to you: what is inside you should be what is outside you. And do not think we are saying the same thing.

The religious teacher says, “What is outside you should be within you.” He says, “If you smile, there should also be a smile in your heart.” Now this is a big hurdle. I say to you: what is within you should be on your lips. If there is a smile within, forget about time and propriety. If there is a smile within—laugh.

When I was small, one of my teachers died. I was deeply attached to him. He was a very lovable man—quite stout. And as stout men usually look simple and guileless, he too looked guileless. We used to tease him—a lot; all the students made a great joke of him. He would come with a big turban; stout as he was, and with turban and stick—he looked very ancient. And his face had a childlike innocence; as often stout faces do. Just seeing him made one laugh. People had even forgotten his real name; all of us called him “Bholenath”—the Simple Lord. That irritated him. The moment he came to the blackboard, “Bholenath” would be written in big letters. And the moment he came in, he would flare up. His flaring up was worth seeing! His agitation, and his thumping the desk—students enjoyed it peacefully.

He died. I was young; I went there. A big crowd had gathered; a small town, everyone connected to everyone, all had come. The whole town loved him. Seeing him lying there, dead, and looking at his face, I suddenly felt like laughing. I held it back—because it would be improper. But then an incident occurred that I could not resist. His wife came from inside, fell upon his chest, and cried, “Alas, my Bholenath!”

All our lives we had teased him by calling him “Bholenath.” At death, after death, and from the mouth of his wife! It became impossible, so I burst out laughing. I was taken home, scolded, and told, “Never again go anywhere if there is a death! Because one should not laugh there.”

I said, “What could be more appropriate? Understand my point. The poor man died and all his life he was troubled because people tormented him by calling him Bholenath. Children would run behind him shouting ‘Bholenath.’ It took him an hour to reach the school—chasing this child, that child, quarrels and commotions—and at the end this perfect epilogue! An extraordinary finale: his wife falls upon his chest and says, ‘Alas, my Bholenath!’”

Let what is inside be outside.

I was scolded, but I was not willing to accept that I had done wrong. And then I said, “Both life and death are occasions for laughter.” My family said, “Keep this philosophy to yourself—that life and death are occasions for laughter. But do not go to anyone’s funeral again; and if you go, it will not be good.”

A person should make a firm decision: whatever is within me, I will not suppress. And whatever is within me, I will express. Whether I express it or not, it is there. By not expressing it, slowly my own connection with my inner self will break. When it is a time to weep and tears rise, though the situation may say, “Do not cry; you are a man, and men cry? That is women’s work! Don’t be effeminate! Be manly! Do not cry”—still, when it is time to weep and your heart is full of sobbing, let the tears flow; do not listen, even if the whole world says otherwise. And when fireworks of laughter are bursting within you, then however much the world says not to, laugh. This I call tapascharya.

You will face great difficulties. Compared to these, standing in the sun or starving or fasting is nothing—children’s play; circus tricks. In life you will face difficulty at every inch—because at every inch society has laid down proprieties, conventions, etiquette. And all the etiquette is making you false. You have become utterly false. You are a great lie. Even if one searched within you, there would be no trace of truth. If you yourself search you will be shocked.

I want to say this to you: for a month, investigate how and when you are false. On the road you meet someone: you say, “Namaskar; it’s been so long since I saw you; my eyes were aching to see you.” And inside you are saying, “What ill-fated hour that this wretch has shown up in the morning; may the whole day not be ruined! In what unlucky moment did I take this route?” Outwardly you are saying, “So happy to meet you,” and inwardly you are saying, “How to get rid of him?” Examine yourself. Examine for a month. You are smiling—examine: is it only on the lips, or is it connected within? Your eyes have filled with tears—examine: are the tears false, or do they rise from the life-breath?

Investigate for just one month and you will find that your life is about ninety-nine percent false—and then you say you want to seek God! God is found only by those whose lives are one hundred percent true. And to be true is extremely difficult, full of tapascharya; because there will be obstacles at every step.

Society lives by lies. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that man is so made that he cannot live without lies. The whole social transaction runs on lies. Nietzsche wrote: never free man from lies, even by mistake, otherwise living will become difficult; he will not be able to live. In life, lies function as lubrication in an engine. If you do not put oil, do not lubricate, the engine cannot run. Put lubrication, and things start to move; the clatter reduces. As the oil’s smoothness helps the engine run, so the smoothness of lies prevents clatter between two people.

You come home, you bring ice cream for your wife, you bring flowers—you have purchased a lie. Because if there is love in your heart, there is no need for ice cream, no need for flowers; love is enough. If wholeheartedly you embrace your wife, that is plenty. You have never done that; there is a feeling of guilt inside. As the sense of guilt deepens, you try to fill the pit: bring flowers, bring ice cream, bring sweets. When the pit becomes very big, then bring jewelry, bring saris. The bigger the pit, the more expensive the thing with which you try to fill it. Where love could have filled, nothing else will fill—bring as much as you will. You think, “I am doing so much”; the wife thinks, “I am not getting love.” And you think, “I do so much; every day I bring so much; all this I do for you!” But nothing is resolved by this. Love is filled only by love—not by your lies.

But Nietzsche too is right. If you look at people’s lives, they are full of lies, absolutely full of lies. There is no truth there. In such a false condition you will never attain the vision of God. Lies may make social life easy, but lies become obstacles in the life of the soul.

So if you understand me, I do not tell you to leave society; but I certainly tell you to drop the lies because of which you have become a dead limb of society and have lost life. There is no point in leaving society, but leave sociality. Live in society, but drop formalism; be authentic! Slowly you will find: the Lord begins to descend within you. As you become truer, your eyes begin to succeed in seeing the vastness.

That which is helpful in this world becomes a hindrance in the search for God. And you will be astonished—like Janaka was astonished; he says, “Aho, wonder!”—you too will be astonished one day when you find that his grace has descended and you have become sarvatantra swatantra, and his grace has descended and now in your life there is again a sense of responsibility that is entirely new. Suddenly you begin to fulfill life’s disciplines again—but now not due to any external pressure, not due to any external compulsion. Now the juice is flowing from within. Now you have begun to see that there is no other at all. Now you have known that there is no outside—there is only inside; only I am.

That is why Janaka says, “I feel like bowing to myself!” Now only I am. All is in me, I am in all! On that day a discipline arises—most dignified, most beautiful, incomparable! A responsibility arises—not anyone’s imposition; born of your own capacity for awareness, spontaneous!

Seek the spontaneous—and you will go on approaching God. Consent to what is forcibly imposed—and you will live like a slave and die like a slave.

Do not die like a slave; that is a very costly bargain. Live like a master and die like a master. And mastery means only this much: become the master of your own awareness; attain self-knowing!

The fundamental message of the Mahageeta is this: choice is the world. Even if you choose sannyas, that too becomes worldly. Whatever you choose is not of the divine; what happens by itself is of the divine. Whatever you try to make happen is your scheme; it is an expansion of your ego.

So the Mahageeta says: do not choose—just be a witness. Let whatever happens, happen. If it is the marketplace, then the marketplace. If suddenly you find you are moving toward the forest—not because of choice, but out of a spontaneous upsurge—then go.

Try to understand the difference. To go to the forest out of a spontaneous arising is one thing; to go by effort, by decision, by practice, by discipline is quite another.

One of my friends is a Jain monk. I was passing by his place—his hut was in the forest—and I told the driver, “Let’s stop with him for a while.” We turned in. When I got down and reached his hut, I looked through the window: he was naked, pacing in the room. Nothing surprising—there was no one there in the forest; for whom to wear clothes? And I know him: he was raised in the Jain tradition, and for the Digambara Jains nakedness is greatly honored; it has high value in his mind. When I knocked on the door, I saw that he came out with a cloth wrapped around him.

I asked, “I just saw you naked through the window. Why have you wrapped this cloth?” He laughed. He said, “I am practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Practicing being naked.”

Among the Digambara Jains there are five rungs for the renunciate. Gradually, first one is a brahmachari, then a chullaka, then an ailaka, and so on, and finally at the last stage one becomes a muni; when he becomes a muni, he becomes naked. So he gives up bit by bit: first he keeps two loincloths, then one, then he gives that up.

I asked him, “Is there any mention in Mahavira’s life that he practiced nakedness?”
He said, “There is no mention.”
I said, “Tell me what is said in the scriptures about his nakedness—you are a knower of the scriptures!”
He was a little puzzled, because the scriptures only say this: when Mahavira left home, he wrapped a sheet around himself. He had distributed everything. On the way, a beggar, late and still dragging himself along, said, ‘Ah, has everything been given away? I was just coming.’ Mahavira said, ‘That’s a difficulty.’ He tore the sheet and gave him half. Now nothing else was left; he would manage with the half. As he was entering the forest with this half-sheet, it got caught on a bush—perhaps a rose bush, perhaps some other bush. It was so badly entangled that if he pulled it out, the bush would be hurt. So Mahavira said, ‘You take it too; what is the point of keeping even the half?’ He gave that half to the bush. Thus he became naked. There is no practice in this anywhere.

I told him, “If you become naked by practicing, you will not become a sannyasin—you will become a circus performer. First you will walk naked in your room, then little by little in the garden, then gradually you will start going into the village—doing it like this you will build courage: people laugh? Let them laugh. People say things? Let them say. Slowly, slowly… But whatever happens slowly like this becomes false. You will have missed the innocence of nakedness.

“What is born of practice is filled with cleverness; innocence is natural. If the feeling to be naked has arisen in you, then offer me this sheet,” I said. “End the matter.”

He said, “No, not yet.” I began to pull at his sheet. He said, “Hey, don’t do that!” I said, “I’m being helpful. I’ll get it to happen right now—and I’ll call the villagers. How long will you go on practicing? This is five minutes’ work. I’ll bring people from the village, gather a crowd, and take your sheet in front of everyone. Finish it! How long will you practice?”

He said, “No, no, not now, don’t tell anyone. I am not qualified yet.”
“Even for being naked one needs qualification? The whole forest, animals and birds, roam naked; and you say even for nakedness one needs qualification! Man is so cunning—he needs qualification even for what is simplest!”

He has not become naked yet. It’s been some fifteen years. He is still wrapped in the sheet. The practice must still be going on.

Understand: the Mahageeta says, do not choose! Because if you choose, you will choose from the ego, won’t you? If you choose, you become the doer—kartā. The Mahageeta says: neither doer nor enjoyer—bhoktā—remain a witness. If you find that you are sitting in the marketplace and everything is fine—then fine, the marketplace is fine. If you find that no, the feet have begun to move, the forest has begun to call, the call has come—now even if you try there is no way to stop; now you have set out, now you are running—just as when Krishna’s flute sounded and the gopis began to run! One had just set milk to boil; she dropped the pot right there and ran. Another was lighting a lamp; she left it and ran. The flute sounded its call! How can one stay then!

On the day it happens like this—on the day you cannot answer why you did it, you have no argument for why it happened; you can only say, “It just happened; we were the watchers, not the doers”—then the Mahageeta says, then Ashtavakra says: that is real sannyas, spontaneous.

Choose, and you are lost. In choice is the world; even if he chooses the forest, it is the world—because in choice is the world. And if he stays in the marketplace without choosing, that is sannyas. Choicelessness is sannyas; choice is the world. Therefore there is no way to choose sannyas—sannyas happens.

So many people come to me. I see two kinds of sannyasins—those who make it happen, and those to whom it happens. Those who try to make it happen say, “We’re thinking about it; what you say appeals; we’re considering.” “We’ll take sannyas someday—just not now. Right now there’s so much to do; yes, what you say does make sense.”

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was sitting in the mosque and the preacher gave a sermon. In the middle, in a very dramatic way, he asked, “Those who want to go to heaven, please stand up.” Everyone stood up—except Nasruddin. The preacher asked, “Didn’t you hear, Nasruddin? I said, whoever wants to go to heaven, stand up.”

Nasruddin said, “I heard perfectly—but I can’t go right now.”

“What’s the matter?”

He said, “My wife told me to come straight home from the mosque—no wandering here and there! Now you’re proposing a long trip... Those who want to go to heaven and who can go, should go; I too will go someday. First, because my wife said come straight home from the mosque. And second, because I don’t want to go to heaven with this company. It’s because of them this world has become hell—now you want to spoil heaven too? Without them I would even prefer to go to hell; with them...”

People come to me and say, “We’re thinking; it appeals; but right now it’s hard—we have to ask the wife, ask the children; the daughter’s wedding is due, the son’s wedding too; this to do, that to do; the shop...”

I tell them: I am not asking you to leave your daughter or your son, nor your wife nor your shop—I am not asking you to drop anything. And I am not even saying, “Think about sannyas first, then take it.” If you take it after thinking, you have missed—because thinking will make it your decision. I say: take it out of a sense of awe. If the feeling arises, take it. Don’t think. Don’t set the machinery of thought into motion. When it happens, let it happen; if it doesn’t, there is nothing to worry about—don’t impose it.

Some come and take it with this simplicity. I ask some, “What are your intentions about sannyas?” They say, “As you wish. If you consider me worthy, give it to me.”

This is different—of a different value altogether. “If you consider me worthy, give it to me. How can I ‘take’ sannyas? If you give it, then it is given.”

This person has understood the meaning of sannyas rightly: let what happens, happen—without ifs and buts, without putting in your own obstruction, your likes and dislikes.

So you ask: Choose the marketplace or the forest?

I say: Choose, and you are trapped! Choose, and you remain in the marketplace. Go to the forest or anywhere you like—if you choose, you remain in the marketplace. If you do not choose and still remain in the marketplace, the forest has arrived.

Where you now see a marketplace, once there were forests—and there will be forests again. And where you see forests, marketplaces have risen and fallen many times. There isn’t any great difference between forest and marketplace.

Ibrahim, a Muslim emperor, became a sannyasin. He left the royal palace suddenly. The gatekeepers tried to stop him. He said, “Out of the way! I stationed you at the gates to keep others from entering—not to stop me. Make way.”

They pleaded, “What are you doing? We’ve heard you are becoming a renunciate. Why are you leaving the palace?”

Ibrahim said, “Leaving it? That’s the wrong way to put it. There is nothing here worth leaving—that’s why I am going. Nothing here is worth grasping or worth abandoning.”

Ibrahim went and lived outside the town. He had been the king of Balkh. He made his dwelling at a crossroads near the cremation ground. Travelers would come that way, and when they asked where the town was, he would direct them to the cremation ground. The roads forked both ways, and people, trusting him, would go on. He was a very serene fakir, a regal man—his face had splendor and glow, his bearing dignity and grace—such an aura! One trusted him naturally. Someone would ask, “Baba, which way to the town?” and he would say, “Go straight; don’t take that path or you’ll be lost.” After four miles they would arrive—at the cremation ground! They would return in great anger. “Are you in your senses? You sent us to the cremation ground!”

He said, “You asked for the town, didn’t you? I have seen those who dwell at the cremation ground never get displaced—so I call that a town. And what you call a town, I call a cremation ground, because there everyone is on the way to die. Today someone dies, tomorrow someone, the day after someone—what is that but a cremation ground? There’s a queue there; when one’s number comes, he goes. What you call a town, I have never seen anyone truly dwelling there—only vacating it. How can I call that a town? A town is that which remains settled. The cremation ground is the town. You asked the wrong question; my mistake it is not. You asked, ‘Where is the town?’—I showed you the town. Had you asked for the cremation ground, I would have sent you to the village. Now if you insist on going to what you call the cremation ground, take that other road. But I tell you this: you will never be able to dwell there. Yet you will have to go—to what you call the cremation ground—because that is the final settling; there, ultimately, man arrives.”

What you call town has become a cremation ground many times; what you call a cremation ground has been a town many times. What is forest here, what is marketplace here! Both are maya, both are dreams. Choose—and you are caught.

The Mahageeta says: Do not choose. Let what is happening, happen. Just keep watching.

This is the hardest thing—and also the simplest. Because there is nothing to do, it is utterly simple; and precisely because there is nothing to do, it is very difficult for you. If there were something to do, you would do it. Here there is nothing to do—only to keep watching.

“Please also explain the difference between the state of indecision and the state of choicelessness!”

There is a great difference. They are opposites. Indecision means: two decisions are present in your mind at once. Whenever someone says, “I am undecided,” don’t be mistaken. He is saying there are two decisions—and he cannot settle on which one to take: “Should I go to the forest or stay at the shop?” One mind says, “Stay at the shop”; another says, “Go to the forest.” One mind says, “Get married”; another says, “Remain single.” One mind says, “Do this”; another says, “Do that.” Two decisions, or several decisions—and among them you cannot choose, because they all seem roughly of equal weight. Hence, indecision.

Indecision is a very confused, stupefied state; choicelessness is a very awakened state. Choicelessness means: you choose neither this nor that—you simply do not choose. In indecision, the urge to choose remains, but you cannot decide: “What to do? Which to choose?”

There is a woman you think you should marry, but she does not have a beautiful body though she has a lot of wealth. And there is a woman with a beautiful body and no wealth at all. Now your mind wavers: whom to choose? The ugly rich woman, or the beautiful poor one? One mind says, “What will you do with money? Will you eat money, drink money? What is money before beauty?” Another mind says, “What will you do with beauty? In two days it will go flat; in two days you’ll be overfamiliar. Then what—eat it or drink it? Money comes in handy in the end. Money will serve you all your life. And today she is beautiful; tomorrow smallpox may scar her—then what? And from afar she looks beautiful—drums sound sweet from a distance—who knows what poison appears up close! And today she is young; tomorrow she will be old—then what? And right now you are poor alone; if you tie this noose around your neck, you’ll be two starving people!” When hunger gnaws in the belly, where is love and where is beauty? On an empty stomach, hymns don’t happen!

So one mind says, “Choose beauty”; another says, “Choose wealth.” And the dilemma is that you want both. You wanted sweets in both hands. You wanted a beautiful woman and wealth as well. But in this world no one gets sweets in both hands. If anyone did get both hands full of sweets, religion would be redundant; but religion has never been redundant for anyone—because no one ever gets both hands full. Something or other is always missing. Someone has beautiful eyes, someone lovely ears, someone a fine nose—such difficulty! Someone has beautiful hair, someone a sweet voice, someone graceful manners, someone perfect bodily proportion. There are a thousand things—none of them all together. The mind’s longing is vast, and things are small. The mind’s dreams are very lovely, and all things become insipid beside them. No one gets sweets in both hands—they come only when you are God.

Have you seen Hindu images of God—with a thousand arms—and in every hand something: in one a conch, in another a sweet, in another something else? Man has only two hands, the world is vast—until you become thousand-armed, nothing much can happen. Until you become divine, no one is satisfied; two hands are not enough. And even if both hands are full—what then? The longings are many; for them you need thousands of hands—and even those would likely fall short.

Look at ancient Hindu images sometime; now there are many new things that those hands don’t hold. God would have to grow new hands now—otherwise he too would be restless. If we sculpted again today, one hand would be holding a car, one a chair, one a fridge. You laugh! In those days, the highest prized things were hung in those hands. Now things have multiplied so much that even that many hands wouldn’t suffice. Things increase daily; hands are always too few.

So the state of indecision is when your mind holds many things, competing things, and you cannot settle. You want to decide but cannot—that is indecision. Indecision is a state of great confusion. Choicelessness means you do not want to decide at all—you have dropped deciding. You say, “We will just see. We will watch this, we will watch that; we have no leaning either way. We are simply sitting as witnesses.”

Choicelessness is the highest state of consciousness. Indecision is the lowest. Do not mistake indecision for choicelessness, otherwise you will take delusion to be truth. Do not think: “Since I cannot decide, I have attained choicelessness.” Not being able to decide is one thing; dropping decision-making is something else entirely. Not being able to decide is a kind of helplessness; dropping decision is freedom. Iti jnanam! Janaka says, this is knowledge!

Bashfulness or shyness is an appendage of the ego. What you call modesty or shame is just its shadow.

Why do you hesitate to speak? You fear someone may think you are rude, lacking decorum. Why do you hesitate to speak? You worry it may sound crude, that what you say may not be right. Why do you hesitate to speak? Because you are afraid: “What will the other think!”

But the relationship of Master and disciple is utterly intimate. If even the thought “What will the other think?” appears there, a separation has already entered. Before the Master, what shyness? Whatever has happened, lay it open. If something ugly has happened, lay the ugliness open; if something beautiful has happened, lay the beauty open. If you dreamt a sorrow-dream, put that out too. If there is darkness, say there is darkness; if light has happened—what shyness then?

Do you think Janaka should have said, “No, no, nothing has happened. How could it happen to me!”—and out of bashfulness, out of etiquette, kept denying it? Have you taken Janaka for a Lucknowi gentleman?

I have heard: a woman had two babies in her womb. Nine months passed, then ten, then eleven, then twelve... The woman grew anxious, the doctors grew anxious. Years passed. Finally they operated with great difficulty and took the babies out. By then the children were old enough to talk. The doctor asked, “What were you doing in there all this time?” They said, “Sir, what could we do! I kept saying, ‘After you’; he kept saying, ‘After you’!” Both were from Lucknow. Who should come out first—that was the snag.

In the old days it would happen like that. At the Lucknow station the train is whistling, ready to depart, and two men are still standing there, not boarding. “Please, you first! You first!” “Oh no, how can I get on before you!”

Shyness, diffidence, etiquette—none of these mean anything between Master and disciple. Where love is deep, these petty things are not needed. They are ways to hide love; devices to display what is not. When your love is complete, you hide nothing; you lay everything bare.

You must have noticed: when two people become true friends, all etiquette drops. People even say—rightly, in a sense—that until two friends can freely hurl abuse at each other, the friendship hasn’t ripened. Because until the moment comes when frankness can be that naked, etiquette is still ruling: “Please come,” “Please sit,” “You are most welcome.” When friendship grows dense, all the “please-sit-do-come” is bid farewell. Then speech becomes straight. Then it is heart speaking to heart. These surface games—social rules and courtesies—lose their value.

Between Master and disciple there is no formality at all.

Yet you may be surprised, puzzled, if you see a true Master-disciple. Janaka is saying all these things, but it does not mean there is no gratitude in his heart for the Master, no reverential awe.

A Zen monk stayed the night in a temple. The night was cold, and he lifted the wooden Buddha from its pedestal and burned it for warmth. Around midnight the priest awoke, hearing wood crackle, and rushed in. “Are you mad? We offered you shelter as a holy man, and you commit this sin—you burned the Buddha!”

The monk picked up a stick and began poking through the ashes of the burned statue. The priest asked, “What are you doing now?” He said, “Looking for the Buddha’s relics—his bones.” The priest laughed: “You are certainly crazy. How could there be bones in a wooden statue?”

The monk said, “If there are no bones, how is it Buddha? Bring those other two images as well; the night is long yet. You come too—why shiver outside? Warm yourself!”

The priest threw him out on the spot, lest he burn the other statues.

In the morning the priest saw the monk sitting by the roadside milestone, hands folded, having offered two flowers to it. “This is the limit! At night you burned the Buddha; now you are worshipping a milestone!” He shook him awake and said, “What are you doing here now?”

The monk said, “I’m thanking the Divine. It’s by His grace that I could burn His idol. An idol is a matter of belief: wherever you take it as Buddha, there is Buddha. He is present everywhere, but we are not able to see everywhere; we can focus only in one direction. So now what was right before me—a stone was here, flowers lay nearby—the means were all provided. I thought, let me worship. The sun has come out, the day is fresh. And last night He kept me company too. Didn’t you notice? When the cold struck, I took warmth from Him. He saves the body, and He saves the soul. So I am offering thanks.”

Between disciple and Master there is a most unique relationship. The disciple lays his truth completely bare; but that does not mean he is being disobedient or ill-mannered. This is the truly noble relationship. And his gratitude is total.

Janaka will touch Ashtavakra’s feet; he seats him on the throne and sits below himself. He is the emperor; Ashtavakra outwardly is nobody. Seating him on the throne, he says, “Lord, instruct me. Tell me: what is knowledge, what is dispassion, what is liberation?”

And do not think Ashtavakra is annoyed by this proclamation of realization. Had Janaka hesitated, something would have been missing—because hesitation means you are still thinking, “I am.” Now there is no hesitation; the “I” has completely gone. And Ashtavakra himself says: where the “I” is not, there is freedom; where the “I” is, there is bondage. All bonds have fallen. When the “I” itself has fallen, what shyness, what diffidence?

But do not conclude from this that Janaka’s gratitude has diminished. It has grown denser. Through this very Master, at his hint, from his spark, the fire was lit and everything was reduced to ash. This great event of supreme freedom—this samadhi that has happened to Janaka—has happened by the Master’s grace. Before him, what shyness?

The truth is: when the ultimate bond joins Master and disciple, neither disciple remains disciple nor Master remains Master. They become one—the great union happens.

But you have opened it! So, a story for you:
Four men decided to practice silence. They went and sat in a temple… they would remain silent for twenty-four hours. Not even an hour had passed when the first man said, “Oh, I don’t know whether I locked the house or not!” The second smiled and said, “You’ve broken the silence, you fool! By speaking you spoiled it for everyone.” The third said, “Yours is spoiled too! What are you doing preaching to him?” The fourth said, “O Lord! Only I am left whose silence is still unbroken.”

It is hard not to speak. If you can remain without speaking, much can happen. If you become silent, the great can happen.

Words offer no support for the descent of truth—only the void supports it. If a feeling arises within to be silent, then simply be silent; don’t even say so. Even saying that much spoils it.

I am compelled to speak to you because you cannot hear my emptiness. If only you could hear my void, there would be no need to speak! I would sit here, you would sit here—mind to mind, heart to heart, the communion would happen and words would not come in between.

I am preparing you for that. I speak only to slide you, little by little, toward not speaking. I ask you to listen—only so that, for now, through listening you can sit quietly; otherwise you could not sit quietly. Then slowly, when you become supremely skillful in listening, I will say: now listen, and now I will not speak; you just listen. Then I will sit beside you without speaking. Even then you will be able to hear. And what now comes as a mere glimmer will come face to face. What now comes through words, a little, drop by drop, will then come like an ocean. And what now arrives like a gust of wind—sometimes you feel it came, sometimes you feel it didn’t—will then come like a gale, a storm, and it will drown you; it will efface you; it will sweep you away. It will be a tempestuous ocean wave in which you will dissolve.

I am speaking only to prepare you for the void. For now, it is a necessity.

You have seen children’s books: few letters, many pictures. The letters are big and very few—“mango”… and a big mango hangs on the page. Because, for the child, letters have no relish yet. Write “mango” any number of times; he gets no taste from it. He looks at the colored mango; seeing it, his mouth waters. He says, “Ah, mango!” He knows the mango through the picture. With the help of the mango, he also grasps the word written at the side—“mango”—and understands: so this is mango. As the child grows, pictures begin to disappear from the books. By the time he reaches the university, there are no pictures left; all pictures vanish, and the letters get smaller. After the university, in the real education, the letters get smaller still, until even the letters disappear. A blank page! That is my effort: to make the letters smaller and smaller until, one day, I hand you a blank page and say, “Read!” And you read; and you savor; and you hum and dance; and you can thank me that I gave you a blank page!

These words are only bridges, pointers toward the void. If the thought of becoming silent arises in your mind, then be utterly silent; don’t even say that the thought of silence has arisen. Even that much breaks the silence.

These are the words of “Swami Sadashiv Bharati.”
Something has happened—certainly something has happened. But now there is great need for caution. If you stiffen in the idea that something has happened, you will lose it. A very delicate ray has just descended; if you clutch it tightly in your fist, it will die. The bud has just appeared—let it open, let it become a flower. Otherwise it often happens that we reach the very bank and yet turn back without taking a dip in the Ganges. We had reached—were on the verge of leaping—and we turn back.

Something definite has happened to Sadashiv. I say this so that trust may arise in you, so that you gain strength. But it is equally necessary to add this caution: do not become rigid in it. Do not let the ego become dense with the idea that “it is done.” Much is yet to happen. Something has happened; much more is to happen.

What has happened—good fortune! the Lord’s grace! Receive it as compassion, for nothing has happened by your doing. What have you done? Just by listening, just by sitting here, it has happened. Take it as grace; do not inflate the ego with it. Let it make you even more grateful—that the Lord’s prasad has been given, and I was not even a worthy vessel. Let the ego be dissolved even more through this; then more will happen, and more will happen. The more your vessel becomes empty of ego, the more the Divine will fill it. A moment comes when you remain only emptiness—the great void! Into that great void the great fullness descends.

The first ray has come—fresh, of the morning. The sun is about to rise; the east has reddened, a rosy hue has come to the east, the east has turned red—do not, in ego, sit with your eyes closed.

First, to receive this first ray is very difficult; and then, having received it, to lose it is very easy. Those who have not received it are not in as much danger—they have nothing. Those to whom this ray comes possess a treasure; for them there is danger. Be alert to that danger. Only this: let no ego be built! Let the sense of grace grow deeper and deeper—then more will happen, much more will happen! This is only the beginning. This is only Shri Ganeshaya Namah! The scripture has only just begun.
Hari Om Tat Sat!