Maha Geeta #31

Man is a stranger—on this shore. This is not his home. He is not familiar with himself, nor with others. And if one is not acquainted with oneself, how will one ever be acquainted with another? We make a thousand attempts to manufacture a little familiarity, but it will not hold. It is like drawing lines upon water—our acquaintanceships form and are gone; they hardly form and already they are gone.
What we call family, what we call society—are all delusions; devices to distract the mind. And man tries to forget just one fact: that his home is not here, that it must be elsewhere. He tries to convince himself: ‘These are my loved ones, this is my truth. This body—and that which appears through the body—this is the world; beyond this, nothing exists.’ But this claim keeps shattering, the play will not come together. Toys remain toys; they never turn into truth. We practice deception a great deal, but the deception never truly succeeds. And blessed it is that deception does not succeed. If only it did, we would be lost forever! Then Buddhahood would have no way. Then there would be no possibility of Samadhi.
Despite a thousand devices, things keep breaking; hence deep anxiety arises, great anguish. You affirm that your wife is yours—yet you know within, how can she be yours? You affirm that your son is yours—yet somewhere in the depth you know that this mine-and-thine is a dream. So you deny, persuade yourself, console yourself—but inside the fire keeps boiling. A single thorn remains lodged: I do not even know myself, nor do I know others. How can one build a home in a land where one is a stranger?
The person to whom it begins to dawn that this place itself is strange, that no true familiarity is possible here, that we belong to another land—as soon as this awareness begins to awaken and you gather courage, and you stop the strategies that keep you lost in this maze, and you begin to awaken to the Beyond—that other shore, that shore hidden far away in the mist—its call begins to be heard by you—then the transformation of your life begins. Religion is the name of such a revolution.
These inlets, this melancholy—do not moor your boat here.
This is another country, friend—do not moor your boat here.
The riverbank’s fair sights will betray you;
Your good lies only in the journey—do not moor your boat here.
Heaven bears witness—the waters and the earth here are unsteady;
The ground itself is against you, brother—do not moor your boat here.
There is a different scent in the air of this place;
This soil is foreign—do not moor your boat here.
Let not these songs of nearness-to-shore drown you,
Though they are sounding sweet—do not moor your boat here.
The boats that reached this ghat—no news of them has come from anywhere;
Do not moor your boat here.
The skies we once knew—these are not the same heavens;
This is not that land, brother—do not moor your boat here.
We too have dwelt with this dust, yet no fragrance of fidelity has ever arisen—
Do not moor your boat here.
That soil which has called us since time without beginning—
It has appeared before our eyes—do not moor your boat here.
The taste of the desired shore is now in sight;
To tarry here is ruin—do not moor your boat here.
Wherever the shores have enticed us,
Separation has always followed—do not moor your boat here.
This shore is charming indeed, lovely as a dream. Many enchantments are here, otherwise so many would not be lost. Infinite numbers wander here; there is a deep hypnotic pull in this shore. They cannot be roaming without cause—something must be luring the mind, something must be seizing it.
Rarely is there one Ashtavakra, rarely does someone awaken; most people sleep and dream their dreams. There must be some intoxication in these dreams, of that there is no doubt. And the intoxication must be deep, for awakeners come and call and depart—and man turns his side and sinks back into his sleep. Man even deceives the awakeners. Man even arranges new ways of sleep out of the awakener’s words; he makes sedatives out of their speech.
Buddha comes to awaken; you listen to Buddha in your sleep. Within your dreams you distort Buddha’s message; you pull out meanings to your liking; you pour your own emotions into it. What Buddha said—you do not hear; what you wanted to hear—that is what you hear. Then turning your side, you sleep again. Thus even Buddhahood gets drowned in your sleep; you drown it too.
But however charming the dreams, anxiety does not disappear. The thorn keeps piercing, aching, the pain grows dense.
Look at people’s faces; look into their innermost being—wounds upon wounds! Plenty of lotions and bandages have been applied, but the wounds do not vanish. Flowers have been placed upon the wounds, yet they do not vanish. Flowers do not heal wounds.
Look within yourself. You have tried every device you could. Whatever you could do, you have done. Again and again you have been defeated. Yet one awakening does not arise: could it be that what we are attempting cannot be done at all?
The unfamiliar will remain unfamiliar. If you must make an acquaintance, make it with yourself; no other acquaintance is possible—knowing the other cannot happen. Only one knowing is possible: of oneself. For how will you enter another’s interior? As yet you have not even entered your own. You have not learned the art of going within. You have not descended the steps of your own innermost. You have not peered into your own well, not dived into your own watersource, not discovered your own center—then how will you ever see another? You will see the other only to the extent that you have seen yourself.
If you believe you are the body, then others will be known to you no more than as bodies. If you believe you are the mind, then others will be known to you no more than as minds. Only if you have known that you are Atman, will you sense the ray of Atman in the other as well.
We can see in the other only as much, only up to that limit, as we have seen in ourselves. We can read the other’s book only after we have read our own.
At least learn the alphabet of the within; become familiar with the scripture of the within—only then will you perhaps become acquainted with the other as well.
And the wonder is: the one who has known himself finds that the other is not. Knowing oneself, one discovers that there is only One—that One manifest in many forms. The one who has recognized himself finds that our peripheries are different, our center is one. As soon as we go inward, we begin to be one. As soon as we move outward, we begin to be many. The many means: the outward journey. The One means: the inner journey.
So whoever tries to know the other, to become acquainted with the other… Man wants to know woman; woman wants to know man. We want to make friends, to make a family. We want not to be alone. How frightening is aloneness! How difficult those hours when we are alone! How difficult and unbearable—hard to endure! Each moment passes as if years were passing. Time becomes very long. The anguish becomes very dense, time becomes very long.
So we want to make an acquaintance with the other so that this aloneness may vanish. We want to make a family with the other so that this strangeness may be broken somehow—so that it may feel like home!
I call that person worldly who is building a home in this world. Our word is very lovely: we call the worldly one a grihastha, a householder. But you have only heard the surface meaning. You think the one who lives in a house is worldly. No—sannyasins too live in houses. They too need a roof. Call that house an ashram if you wish, or a temple, or a monastery, or a mosque—it makes no difference. They too need a house. The difference is not in the shelter; it lies somewhere deeper.
I call him worldly who is building his home in this world; who thinks a home will be made here; who thinks we shall become inhabitants of this place, we will somehow manage it. And that one is a sannyasin who has understood: a home cannot be built here. Just as two plus two are not five, so he has understood that here a home cannot be built. Build, and it collapses again and again. However many houses you make here, they prove to be houses of cards. However many houses you make here, they are like the houses children make in sand; a gust of wind—and gone. In the same way, a gust of death comes and all is dissolved. Here no one has ever managed to build a home.
The day this becomes visible to you—that here no one has built a home, that home-building is not within the very law of this world—on that day sannyas steps into your life. On that day a deep longing for the other shore awakens in you. A call arises, a day-and-night pull, a challenge—you set out upon a new journey!
Only when you abandon the idea of becoming acquainted with the world does the means of becoming acquainted with God begin. When you utterly forget that the other can become yours, then you begin to descend within yourself—because there remains nowhere else to build a home.
There is no place outside—now one must go within.
These sutras of Ashtavakra are deep halting-places upon that inner journey. Understand each sutra very attentively. These are not matters to be merely heard in passing. These are matters to be savored; only if you mull them over have you truly heard. These are matters that must descend into meditation, not into the ear alone; only then will they reach you. So, in great silence, in great attention… There is no entertainment in these words. They are for those who have seen that entertainment is foolishness. They are for those who have come of age; whose childishness has fallen away; who no longer build houses; who no longer arrange toys; who no longer stage weddings of dolls; to whom one thing has dawned—that something must be done, something ultimate, by which one becomes acquainted with oneself. If one becomes acquainted with oneself, anxiety is dissolved. If one becomes acquainted with oneself, one finds the other shore. If one becomes acquainted with oneself, the door opens to acquaintance with all.
As soon as a person dives into the depth of the innermost, another realm arises—such a realm where you can moor your boat; such a shore as is yours.
The first sutra—Ashtavakra said: ‘The rising and falling of states belong to swabhava—to nature. He who knows this with absolute certainty becomes, without effort, free of modification and free of anguish, and attains peace with ease.’
Simple words, but profound in meaning!
Bhavābhāvavikāraśca svabhāvāditi niścayī.
Nirvikāro gatakleśaḥ sukhenaivopaśāmyati..
Bhavābhāvavikāraḥ svabhāvāt…
In this first sutra Ashtavakra says: whatever is born, dissolves; comes, goes; presence or absence; pleasure or pain; birth or death—wherever there is comings and goings, arising and passing, understand: there is the play of prakriti. In you nothing ever rises, nothing ever falls; neither presence nor absence—you are ever the same; in your being there is never any change. All change is outside; you are eternal, beginningless-endless. All waves are outside; you are only depth, where no wave has ever entered. You are only the witness of change.
Hunger arises: hunger never arises in you; you only know that hunger has arisen. Hunger arises only in the body. Hunger is a part of the body. Body means prakriti. The body has become in need. The body is helpless. It needs alms every moment. It has no inherent means to live on its own. It lives on loans. Do not feed it and it will die. Deprive it of breath and it ends. Feed it day after day and somehow it drags along. Hunger arose—hunger arose in the body. Then you ate and satisfaction came—satisfaction came to the body. The mood of hunger, and then the absence of hunger—both events occurred in the body. You only knew, you only saw, you remained a witness. In you neither hunger arose nor satisfaction came.
‘The arising and the ceasing of states belong to nature’s way. He who knows this with unwavering certainty becomes unmodified and free of affliction, and attains peace with ease.’
Iti niścayī—he who has known with certainty! You too have heard this, but certainty will not be born. You have read it in scripture, but certainty will not be born. Certainty is born of experience, not of another’s word.
I tell you, Ashtavakra tells you, that hunger belongs to the body, not to you. You listen; perhaps you will use a little intellect and it will become clear that the point is right. The thorn pierces only the body; pain happens in the body—it is you who come to know; awareness dawns in you. Events go on happening; you are only the witness. Intellectually this can be grasped, but it will not make you ‘iti niścayī’—established in certainty. It will be understood again and again, and again you will forget. When hunger comes, Ashtavakra will be forgotten. Again you will say, I am hungry. You will forget. In the moment of hunger identification will become dense; you will say, I am hungry. Then, after eating, when you feel satisfied, you will say, ‘I am satisfied!’ Intellectually you can grasp this, but still you will not become ‘iti niścayī’.
Therefore again and again Ashtavakra will repeat this cluster of words—‘iti niścayī’, the one who has known with absolute certainty. Do not misunderstand him to be saying that if you keep repeating this, certainty will become firm. By repetition, by raising this feeling in the mind again and again, resolve firmly—and knowledge will descend.
No, certainty does not arise that way. Repeat a falsehood as much as you want and it may begin to appear true, but truth does not come by repetition. By much repetition, only delusion arises; it begins to seem as though experience has begun. If sitting and sitting you daily repeat, I am not the body, I am not the body, I am not the body—repeat it for years—finally a groove will be cut in the mind. A rope coming and going leaves its mark even upon a stone. Then the mind too will bear a mark; do not mistake it for certainty. It is only a rut, carved by repetition. From it delusion will arise. You will begin to feel, Now I know I am not the body.
But you have not known yet—how will you know? When it has not yet happened, how will certainty be?
So when Ashtavakra says, the one who has known with certainty, he does not mean: hypnotize yourself. Many in this country are doing exactly that. If you look into the ashrams of sannyasins, they sit repeating, I am not the body, I am Brahman! But what are they repeating? If it has been known, then stop repeating. The very repetition declares that it has not been known. Stop for two or three days and see. They will not agree to stop for even two or three days, fearing their certainty will weaken. Is that certainty? If dropping repetition for a few days ends it, it was only a clung-to delusion.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: ‘There is not much difference between truth and falsehood. Falsehood repeated often enough begins to appear true.’ He is right; this is what he did all his life. He repeated lies so often that they appeared true. Lies at which even his friends had laughed at first began to appear true. Repeat and repeat—advertise; repeat in front of others, repeat in front of yourself; in solitude, in crowds—repeat continuously, and you will create a fog around you. A dense line will form. Do not mistake that line for certainty.
When Ashtavakra says, with certainty, his meaning is not Hitler’s. He means: know the truth by experience, not by repetition—do not be deceived by mantra. Mantras are devices for self-deception. They blur your eyes. By repetition words are memorized, but no experience is born of it.
Iti niścayī means: the one who has heard, who has mulled, and then who has experimented in life. Now when hunger arises, watch. I do not ask you to repeat, I am not the body; I say, when hunger arises, watch, be aware, hold a little alertness. Watch, where is hunger arising? At once you will find—it arises in the body. Not because Ashtavakra said so, not because I said so; not because anybody said so—hunger does arise in the body; there is no need to repeat anything, there is only the need to know. There is the need to see, to recognize—to re-cognize. When hunger arises, look attentively—where is it rising? You will find: in the stomach. And look more attentively. And then also see: the one who is seeing hunger arise—does hunger rise in that one? Suddenly you will find: there is no trace of hunger there. Not even a shadow of hunger falls there.
Stand before a mirror and your image appears in it. Does something actually form in the mirror? Does the mirror undergo any inner change because you stand before it? The reflection is not something. You step aside and the reflection is gone. Nothing formed in the mirror; there was only an appearance. That appearance happened for you; the mirror is not even aware of it.
Consciousness is like a mirror. Events happen before it, reflections arise—only that. Events cease, reflections vanish; the mirror again empty as infinity, returned to its infinite emptiness. That is the purity of the mirror—its vast emptiness.
Nirvikāra gatakleśa…
And the one who has realized with certainty that all play runs in nature, I am only the witness—his afflictions end, his modifications fall to zero.
Nirvikāra gatakleśa…
He becomes free of modification and goes beyond all suffering—affliction cannot touch him. Hunger arises—he knows it arose in the body. He takes measures too, it is not that he does not. He knows the body needs food. But there is no affliction now. The mirror is no longer deceived that some blow is falling upon it.
If a thorn pierces, the wise one too removes it. As far as removing the thorn is concerned, there is no difference between the wise and the unwise. When the sun is blazing, the wise one too sits in the shade. As far as sitting in the shade is concerned, there is no difference between the wise and the unwise. If you look from the outside, you will find no difference. What is the difference then? Inside, the difference is infinite—of awareness. When the thorn pierces, the wise one removes it, but knows: the event occurred in the body; the pain too is in the body; its reflection is in me. When the thorn is removed, freedom from pain comes; that too is in the body. Freedom from pain—its reflection is in me. A great distance arises. As if the body becomes infinitely far away.
The wise one becomes very distant from the body. The wise one is no longer in the body. The denser the knowing becomes, the further he moves from the body. And the wonder is: the further the wise one moves, the clearer the reflections become.
So when a thorn enters Buddha’s foot, you might think he does not feel pain—I want to tell you, his awareness of pain is far clearer than yours; naturally, his mirror is more spotless. Where dust lies upon the mirror, can reflections be clear? Upon a dustless mirror, reflections are very clear.
Buddha’s sensitivity is certainly many times, infinitely more than yours. Yet there is no distress. The mirror is pure; the reflection is clear—but there is no affliction. Understand what affliction means. Affliction means: identification between body and soul. As soon as you tie yourself to the body and say, I am hungry—affliction is born. Affliction is neither in the body nor in the soul; it is in their mistaken marriage. Where they fall into the delusion that they are one—there affliction is born. The knot of body and soul—your marriage, your seven rounds—that is where affliction resides.
Nirvikāra gatakleśaḥ sukhena eva upaśāmyati.
And Ashtavakra says: if this much becomes clear, if this much certainty dawns—that I am other, I am forever other, that pleasure and pain, comings and goings have no knot with me; if such a divorce occurs from the body; such a separation opens, such distance—then peace is attained effortlessly.
Sukhena eva upaśāmyati.
Then for this peace no austerity is needed—standing on your head, fire rituals, living beside sacred fires, melting the body, giving it hardship—these are all futile.
Sukhena eva…
Easily, peacefully, without labor, in great rest and repose—the supreme event happens.
What Zen mystics call effortlessness in effort—that is the meaning of Ashtavakra’s sutra.
I have often wondered why Zen masters did not turn to Ashtavakra’s sutras. Perhaps only because these sutras are not linked with Buddha. Otherwise no scripture could serve Zen better than Ashtavakra. His whole saying is: it happens without labor, without striving. Because the matter is of awareness only; it is not of doing. There is nothing to do; as it is, know it thus. Doing is superfluous.
Seekers! You will not believe it
but the saints are right:
In the very house we roam
there is no way out.
The void and the wall are one,
Form and the formless are one.
The day the search falls silent,
you will know by yourself
that the search was not for gaining—
it was for losing.
That is to say: what you truly are,
you were to simply be.
Seekers! You will not believe it.
Yet this is the truth. There is nothing to be sought—you are already carrying it. There is nowhere to go—you were born with it.
Truth is your nature-given right. Even if you wish, you cannot put it down. Even if you wish to lose it—you cannot; because you are that: how will you lose yourself? Where will you go? Wherever you go, truth will be with you. It is not even proper to say truth will be with you—because that sounds like two. You are truth. Tat tvam asi—you are That! How will you drop it? How will you flee? How will you escape? Descend to the deepest hell, into darkness upon darkness—what difference will it make? You will remain you. Wander as much as you like, forget yourself totally—nothing will change by your forgetting; you will remain you. Whether you forget or you awaken, you remain you.
The day the search falls silent,
you will know by yourself
that the search was not for gaining—
it was for losing.
That is to say: what you truly are,
you were to simply be.
Therefore Ashtavakra can say: ‘Sukhena eva upaśāmyati.’
Easily the revolution occurs! Not even a leaf stirs—and the revolution takes place. You need not change your breath, need not lift your foot. Without going anywhere, the goal arrives. Because the goal is within you. Your home is within.
That other shore is within you. One shore is outside you and one shore is within. Between these two shores—your within and your without—flows the current of the Divine. When you become bound to seeing only outward, then only one shore remains in your hand. Then all appear other, all appear separate. When you become familiar with the other shore, then all appear non-other, then no one appears separate—all appear inseparable.
‘The One who makes all, the One who knows all, is Ishvara. Here there is no second. He who knows this with certainty is at peace. All his hopes are uprooted and he is not attached anywhere.’
Īśvaraḥ sarva-nirmātā nehānya iti niścayī.
Antargalita-sarvāśaḥ śāntaḥ kvāpi na sajjate..
The One who knows all is Ishvara. Therefore if you set out to know Ishvara, never make one mistake—do not think Ishvara can be seen as an object. Ishvara cannot become an object of sight. He is the Knower. He is the Seer. Do not fall into the delusion that one day you will see God. Ishvara is the knower of all. Therefore you will not be able to make Him into an object.
Then what is the way to seek God? Commonly, when people seek God, this is how they seek—that God is some thing, some object, some person; we will go and see Him, and be thrilled, and dance and sing, and be delighted that we have seen God.
People come to me and ask: How should we search for God? Where will we find God? Shall we go to the Himalayas? To solitude? What is God’s impression? Give us some sense by which we may recognize and not be mistaken; by which recognition may happen; give us a form and outline.
The atheist and the theist—there is no great difference between them. The atheist says: show us, where is God, then we will believe. And the theist says the same: we believe, we have set out to seek—now show us. Both have the same intelligence. There is no difference.
In the atheist’s argument and the theist’s argument, where is the difference? Both assume that God is somewhere outside. The atheist says: show me and I will believe. The theist says: I already believe—now show me. Not an iota of difference. Hence the world is full of believers—and yet there is no theism. Because there is no difference between these and the atheists. Perhaps one difference: the atheist a little braver, these a little timid.
The atheist says: show me, then I will believe—and this sounds more reasonable. The theist says: Well then, we believe—why court trouble? To believe is convenient, safe. Everyone believes. Going against society creates trouble. Let us believe—now show us. But both think God can be seen by the eyes. Both think God can become an object.
Remember this sutra: ‘The One who makes all, the One who knows all, is Ishvara. Here there is no other. He who knows this with certainty is at peace. All his hopes have melted away and he is attached nowhere.’
Then how to know God? If God cannot be known as an object, what is the way? The way is: become the Seer. For seeing is God’s very nature. As you become the Seer, you begin to slide nearer to God.
There are only two ways in the world to make some contact with God. One is the poet’s way and the other is the rishi’s way. The poet’s way is to create something—to bring forth a poem, to bring words from the Void. The painter, the sculptor, the musician, the dancer—create something. The sculptor chisels the unhewn stone; where there was no form, he reveals a form. Yesterday the stone lay by the roadside; today a statue has appeared. Flowers begin to be placed at its feet—something has been born!
They say Michelangelo was passing a road and saw a stone lying at the edge. Nearby stood a stonemason’s shop. He asked, This stone has been here for years. The man said, No buyer—too crude. Michelangelo said, I will buy it. From that stone he brought forth a beautiful image of Jesus. When it was finished, the stonemason came to see. He said, It is a miracle. I never thought this would sell. What magic have you done?
Michelangelo said: I did nothing. As I was passing, the Jesus hidden inside this stone called out to me, ‘Set me free! Only you can. I have been bound to this stone for too long.’ So all that was unnecessary, I chipped away. I did nothing.
Yet a unique creation was born—from a crude stone!
When a sculptor like Michelangelo turns a crude stone into a statue, a slight sense of nearness to God arises—for the creator-juice flows. When a dancer gives birth to a dance and dissolves into it, a glimpse of God arrives—for God too has dissolved into His dance, His creation. When a poet brings a song from the inner emptiness—hard to bring, words slip away, the Void will not be held—yet somehow he binds it in the threads of words and language—and when the song is born, the radiance of joy upon his face—such must have been God’s radiance when He created existence.
Remember, there is no God with a face—this is the poet’s way of speaking, so I use the poet’s language. One way is to approach by becoming a creator, because He is the Creator—so create something.
When a woman becomes a mother, the gleam of joy on her face is the gleam of creation—a child is born!
Notice, women do not create much else. The reason is simple: they carry the capacity to create life—and the urge to create anything else does not remain. When a living child can be born, who will make a stone statue!
Hence there has been no great woman sculptor, no great woman musician, no great woman poet. Psychologists even say the male’s urge for creation arises out of jealousy of the female. Women can give birth to children; the male has nothing to birth—he is empty, barren!
So there is a great restlessness in man to create something. Hence men have created religions—Jainism, Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism; great temples and caves—Ajanta, Ellora, Khajuraho; great churches, great poems—Kalidasa, Shakespeare, Milton! The woman enters that experience and ecstasy when the child is born. Seeing the life arise from her own inner void, she is thrilled.
Therefore until a woman bears a child there remains some lack, some expression remains empty upon the face. A woman attains her supreme beauty by becoming a mother—because by becoming mother she becomes a creator. A little of the rain of creation showers upon her too. The cloud sheds a little upon her. A man too, when he makes something, is delighted, ecstatic, blissful.
They say Archimedes, when he discovered a mathematical principle for the first time, was lying in a tub. In that relaxation understanding dawned, the gate opened! He became so overjoyed that he ran outside naked. The emperor had asked him to find that principle. He forgot he was naked. A crowd gathered and he was shouting, ‘Eureka! Eureka! I have found!’ People said, Are you mad? You are naked! Then he came to his senses and ran home. He said, It never occurred to me.
The joy of creation: I have found! In that moment a man is as God is—a ray descends!
Scientist, poet, painter, sculptor—whenever you create, a ray descends. This is one way. I call it the way of poetry, of art. It is the easiest way to the nearness of God. But it is not complete. It brings only rays into your hands; the sun never comes into your hands.
The second way is the rishi’s. The rishi knows God by being a witness; the poet knows Him by being a creator. However great we become as creators, our creation will remain small. For creation, we must use the body. With these hands you will make a statue—these hands are small. With these hands, however beautiful a statue you make, it will remain small. With this mind you will compose a poem—this mind is petty. However beautiful, it remains a mind-product. A ray descends, but the full sun will not be grasped.
Witnessing! Witnessing needs neither body nor mind. Thus all limits drop—pure Brahman, hidden within you, is directly realized. In that realization you are Ishvara.
The way to God is: never seek God as an object, or you will go astray. God is the Seer.
‘The One who makes all, the One who knows all, is Ishvara. Here there is no other. He who knows this with certainty is at peace.’
Then what unrest can remain? When only One is, what unrest? No conflict, no duality, no dilemma, no division—what unrest? No means left for quarrel. You, me—still One! All become one flavor—and peace happens on its own.
‘All his hopes are uprooted.’
He who has known thus—that only Ishvara is—has no hope, no desire. What purpose to impose your desire upon Ishvara? Whatever happens by Him is right. Then whatever is, is auspicious.
Whenever you hope, you have already complained. When you say, Let it be thus, you mean: as it is, I do not agree. You say, Let it be thus—in that you have complained; in that, your prayer is destroyed.
Prayer means: as it is, so it is good; as it is, so it is beautiful; as it is, so it is true; there is no demand otherwise. Then you have prayer within. A theist means: with what is, I am content with full heart. I have no suggestion to God—do this, do that. What weight can my suggestion carry? Do I consider myself wiser than God? When only One is, whatever happens is right. And when all is as it should be, unrest disappears.
Antargalita-sarvāśaḥ…
In such a person hope, despair, lust, ambition—all melt away. Then attachment too has no ground. When only One is, whom to cling to, with whom to be attached? When only One is, there is no place left for the mind to alight. The mind dissolves into that One as a line of smoke disappears into the sky.
The root kept asking the flower: Any news from above?
The flower kept asking the root: Any sign from below?
But the flower and the root are one. The root that has gone down into the dark womb of the earth, and the flower that has risen into the sky scattering fragrance in the winds, dancing in the sun—these are not two.
I have heard: a worm was sliding through the mud. It came near its own tail and was enchanted. It said, ‘Beloved, I have sought you so long—now union has come!’ The tail said, ‘Fool! I am your tail.’ He thought he had met a lady. He was alone; he must have longed for a companion.
The root is asking the flower, the flower is asking the root. The two are one. Who will ask whom? Who will answer whom?
‘Misfortune and good fortune come at their time by destiny. He who knows this with certainty is ever content, master of his senses, and neither desires nor grieves.’
Āpadaḥ sampadaḥ kāle daivād eveti niścayī.
Tṛptaḥ svasthendriyo nityaṁ na vāñchati na śocati..
Kāle āpadaś ca sampadaś ca…
Everything happens in its time. Birth on time, death on time; success on time, failure on time—everything in time. Nothing before its time. He who knows that misfortune and fortune arrive by destiny in their time is always content. Then there is no haste, no impatience. When time is ripe, the crop will ripen, we will harvest. When morning comes and the sun rises, we will bask in warmth. When night comes, we will rest, relax; leave all and drown in sleep. Everything happens on its own, and in its time. Unrest arises when we begin to demand before time; we say, Let it happen quickly.
Thus you see, in the West people are more restless; in the East, less. Though in the East they should be more, because misery is greater here; poverty here, hunger here, famine here, a thousand illnesses here, all kinds of sufferings here. In the West all conveniences, all comforts, scientific and technological development—yet they are unhappy; in the East people may not be happy, but they are not as unhappy. What is the matter?
The East understood one thing: everything happens, and in its time; what will our doing accomplish? There is in the East a waiting, a patient waiting—therefore less tension.
In the West there is the notion that there is only one life. Seventy or eighty years—and then gone forever! Thus the hurry: everything must be done in seventy or eighty years. Half of that goes in sleeping, eating, earning. A few days remain to enjoy—so enjoy. A deep urgency: the hands must not remain empty! Time is flowing, time is racing—so run, hurry, be quick! And however much you hurry, nothing special comes of it. By hurrying, you delay even more.
I was reading figures: in New York, when there were no cars, the speed at which a man moved—fifty years later it is again the same! So many cars—and the speed remains the same! Because there are now so many cars on the road that the time it takes to reach the office on foot is less than by car. A strange thing. Man invented the car to reach quickly. It has not made him quicker; because everywhere traffic jams form, thousands of cars are stalled.
One man experimented: for a year he went to the office on foot; for a year he went by car. He was astonished. The account balanced—the same time either way. And walking benefitted his health; the car cost petrol. And nothing can be understood—what has happened? So much hustle!
Sometimes, by great haste, great delay is created. The hasty mind becomes so feverish, so tense, so diseased, that even when it arrives—where does it arrive? The fever still holds it; life trembles within. Running and rushing become its foundation.
From one place to the next, from one job to another, from one book to another, from one guru to another—he keeps running! Change this wife, change this husband, change this business—he keeps running! In the end he finds he ran a lot—reached nowhere. Like the bullock of the oil-press—walking and walking upon the same circle.
‘Misfortune and fortune come in time by destiny. He who knows this with certainty is ever content, master of his senses; he neither desires nor grieves.’
Whatever comes, he remains a witness—sorrow comes, witness; joy comes, witness; wealth comes, witness; poverty comes, witness. Within him, evenness remains.
Do not touch this lake.
Do not throw pebbles.
Do not drop leaves.
Do not pluck flowers—
and do not set little paper boats upon it.
In your play
you feel a thrill and a smile;
But in becoming waves
the water feels distress.
Yet we go on tossing pebbles of desires, throwing boulders—pebbles are trifles, we throw rocks—of ambitions and grand designs. The lake keeps trembling. The water suffers much affliction.
Be a witness and drop being the doer. All the trouble is from being the doer. The entire message of the East comes into one small word: witness.
My life—the witness of all.
How many times the day has passed!
How many times the night has gone!
How many times darkness has won—
how many times light has won!
My life—the witness of all.
How many times creation has awakened,
how many times dissolution slept.
How many times life has laughed,
how many times it has helplessly wept.
My life—the witness of all.
Keep on seeing. Do not dwell anywhere, do not stop anywhere, do not be caught anywhere. Keep on seeing. Whatever comes—make no mood; think not in good or bad. Whatever comes, however it comes, whichever wave rises—keep on seeing. Slowly you will find: the seer alone remains; all waves have gone; the waters have become still. In that supreme stillness there is realization of truth.
Kāle āpadaś ca sampadaś ca…
—When the time comes, events occur.
Daivād eva…
—Thus it is, by God’s will.
Iti niścayī…
—He who knows by experience.
Nityam tṛptaḥ!
—Ever fulfilled.
Nityam tṛptaḥ!
Savor this phrase: nityam tṛptaḥ. Chew it, let it melt, let it descend to the heart! Nityam tṛptaḥ—ever fulfilled. Such a one does not know discontent. Discontent is born of desire. You desire and then, when it does not happen, discontent arises. Do not desire, and there will be no discontent. No flute if there is no reed.
Svasthendriyaḥ…
Such a person becomes established in himself, he becomes whole. His senses begin to be governed from within, by the central force. As of now, the senses drive you. Just the sight of food—and hunger arises. A moment ago there was no hunger. How do you deceive yourself! A moment ago you were humming a tune; the fragrance from a sweet-shop entered your nostrils—hunger arose! You forgot where you were going! You arrived at the shop. A moment ago there was no hunger; how did it arise in a moment? It takes time for hunger to come! By smell alone? No—the nose asserted ownership. The nose dragged you. Do not be such slaves.
You were walking down the road, no desire in the heart; a beautiful woman passes and the mind becomes lustful. Leave aside a real woman. You were reading a newspaper—mere black ink on paper and nothing else—there a picture of a naked woman; just that picture and you become aroused! Begin to walk in dreams, the fire is kindled. This is the limit. Think a little—just a piece of paper. A few specks of ink—and you are so affected? The eyes have deceived you. Then the eyes are not means of seeing; they make you blind.
When the eye becomes master, it blinds. When you are the master, the eye is a means to see. Buddha sees with the eyes, Mahavira sees—you do not. The senses are the masters now; you are the slaves. Liberation means the end of this slavery—when you become the master and the senses become your attendants.
Svasthendriyaḥ na vāñchati na śocati.
Such a one neither worries nor desires nor grieves. Because the entire matter has ended. Whatever is, he consents to it in a supreme mood.
Nityam tṛptaḥ.
‘Pleasure and pain, birth and death arise by destiny alone. He who knows this with certainty sees no goal to be achieved; he acts without strain and is not stained, even while acting.’
Sukha-duḥkhe janma-mṛtyu daivād eveti niścayī.
Sādhyādarśī nirāyāsaḥ kurvann api na lipyate..
Sukha-duḥkhe janma-mṛtyu daivād eva…
Pleasure and pain, birth and death—see: you did not decide to be born. You did nothing to obtain birth. No one asked you if you wished to be born. Your will had no place. One day you suddenly found yourself alive. Birth happened; you were not the doer. In the same way, one day death will happen. No one will ask you if you wish now to die. No one will ask if you wish to retire. You will not be able to strike nor protest that your retirement is premature, that you wish to live. No way. Death does not even knock at the door, does not ask, does not consult—it simply picks you up and goes. Birth happens suddenly one day, death happens suddenly one day. And between these two how madly you play at being the doer! When the real events of life are not in your control—no control over birth, no control over death—then awaken a little: how can the events between be under your control? No control at the beginning, no control at the end—how then in the middle?
This is the meaning when we say: God does, by destiny, by fate. It means simply this: since no one asks us at the beginning, nor at the end, why do we shout in the middle? Since no one asks us at the beginning or the end, we accept the middle as well. In that acceptance is supreme peace.
He who knows with certainty—then for him there remains nothing to achieve; whatever God makes happen, he does. When you have no personal goal left, there is no failure in life; if God makes you lose, you lose; if He makes you win, you win. The victory is His, the defeat is His.
‘Such a one is without strain; while acting, he is not stained.’
Notice these words—without strain; while acting! Strain has ended; now there is no hardship in life—now it is play. He makes it happen; as in a drama; behind it the playwright is hidden: what he prompts, we say; what costume he assigns, we wear. If he casts us as Rama, we become Rama; if he casts us as Ravana, we become Ravana. It is absurd for Ravana to raise a quarrel: why make me Ravana—I will be Rama! When such quarrels happen, they are seen as foolish.
In one village a Ramleela was staged. At Sita’s swayamvara, Ravana too had come. There was a possibility he would break the bow. But instantly—ancient politics!—a message arrived from Lanka that Lanka was on fire; false news, mere strategy. From there the whole trouble of the Ramayana began. Hearing of the fire, Ravana must have caught a plane at once—he flew to Lanka; and meanwhile, everything ended here. By the time he returned, Sita had been wed to Rama.
In one village’s Ramleela the actor playing Ravana already knew it was only a play. He was angry with the manager; he actually wanted to play Rama, and the manager told him to play Ravana. He said, Alright—we shall see at the right time! When the cry arose outside the swayamvara, ‘Ravana, Lanka is burning!’ he said: Let it burn. Today I will take Sita home myself! He rose and broke the bow—the Ramleela bow. Now there was great difficulty. Janaka, the old master of the stage, said, ‘Children, who has brought my children’s toy bow here? Drop the curtain; fetch the real bow.’ They pushed that Ravana off the stage. He would not go. He said, Bring the real bow! Bring it!
You are making similar unnecessary push and pull in life. One of the deep insights of the East is that life is a play, a drama, a lila—do not take it seriously. Do what He makes you do, see what He shows you. Remain untouched, remain virginal. Then there is no strain in your life, because there is no tension. Action will be there, but no strain. No strain means: action will be there, but no doer. Where the doer is, there is strain; where there is strain, there is worry. Now the doer is God; victory and defeat are His; success and failure are His. You are only an instrument, a vehicle. All worry disappears.
‘In this world, suffering is born of worry—never otherwise. He who knows this with certainty is happy and at peace; everywhere his craving has melted away, and he is free of worry.’
Cintayā jāyate duḥkhaṁ nānyathāiti niścayī.
Tayā hīnaḥ sukhī śāntaḥ sarvatra galita-spṛhaḥ..
Cintayā duḥkhaṁ jāyate—through worry, suffering…
Worry springs from the sense of doership. As soon as you accept that you are not the doer—what worry remains? Worry is the shadow of the doer. You want to drop worry but you do not want to drop the doer. You want to remain the doer—so the world will say you have done this, you have done that; you will leave your name in history. But you want no worry. You are asking the impossible. The bigger your doership, the bigger your worry. The bigger your ego, the bigger your worry. If you want to be carefree, be egoless. But egoless means: do not be the doer. Make room for God—let Him do what He wills. Let your hands be His; let your eyes be His; let Him abide in your body—become a temple. Let Him do what He wants. Then your life will have a natural beauty, a grace. If you lose, you will still sleep carefree. If you win, there will be no tension; you will still sleep carefree—because you no longer take anything upon your head.
Your state will be like a child who holds his father’s hand. The forest is dense, wild, full of beasts—father is worried, the child is carefree! He is utterly joyful, delighted with the forest. He asks questions about everything. Even if a lion appears, the child will stand in wonder. Why should he worry? His hand is in his father’s hand.
A Japanese tale: a young samurai married. He took his wife into a boat; his village lay across the lake. A storm arose, the wind raged, the boat began to pitch, near to sinking. The wife was terrified. The husband sat utterly calm, like a Buddha image. The wife said, You sit calm while the boat is sinking and death is near! The man unsheathed his sword and laid it upon her neck. She laughed. He said, You do not fear? The sword is upon your throat; a flick and your head will roll.
She said, When the sword is in your hand, why should I fear?
He sheathed the sword. He said, That is my answer. When the storm is in His hand, why should I be disturbed? If He will drown us, we will drown; if He will save, we will be saved. When the sword is in my hand, you do not tremble. Because there is a bridge of love between us. Such a bridge stands between me and God—therefore I do not tremble. Let the storm come: we will enjoy the storm. If we drown, we will enjoy drowning. All is in His hand; we are not outside His hand. What worry then?
Cintayā duḥkhaṁ jāyate…
Worry is born of the sense of doership—and in no other way. If you insist on being the doer, worry will be inevitable. If you want to be carefree, drop the doer. Let God’s hand be the only hand.
Iti niścayī sukhī śāntaḥ sarvatra galita-spṛhaḥ.
He who has known this with certainty—distilled by experience—becomes happy and peaceful; all his craving dissolves.
The bird does not ask the nest
to wait a moment.
The sky does not write reviews
of the wings—good or bad.
The lamp does not demand
any trial by fire from moths.
Smoke never yearns
to become kohl.
Life is only for itself
the medium of thirst and fulfillment.
All essences are unbound; expectation
is the mind’s sweet delusion.
All essences unbound; expectation
is the mind’s sweet delusion.
Delusion; a dream—Let it be so, let it not be so. And what is to be, is. Nothing you do changes anything, not a grain; you only end up harassing yourself—that is all that changes. Try for once to live this way. Try for three months: let happen what happens—no expectations. Do you think everything will stop happening?
I can tell you authentically: for years I have done nothing, I sit alone in my room. What is to happen, happens—goes on happening! Try it once—you will be astonished. You will be amazed that for lives you have exhausted yourself doing and doing, and all the while it was all happening anyway. The doer seems to be someone else. It all goes on. Step aside—do not become an obstacle. The more you obstruct, the more you entangle.
Having denied himself,
man thinks about others,
wanderers in the dark,
he curses the stones—after stubbing his toe,
he defames the roads;
he clenches his fist,
he grinds his teeth,
he plucks the wings of awareness,
and cannot see
the cloudless sky of the soul.
All the din you raise—you raise it needlessly.
Sibley saw a dog come thirsty to the water. In the water it saw its own shadow and was frightened: another dog, ready to pounce—fierce! It barked; the other dog barked. It was its own echo. Sibley kept watching, laughing. He understood everything. He saw the whole secret of his own life. The thirst was so great that the dog had to jump at last. It gathered courage and leapt. The moment it jumped into the water, the other vanished. The other was only a reflection. That which frightens you is your shadow. That which worries you is your shadow. That which you are fighting is your shadow.
In Hindi the word for shadow is ‘par-chhāyā’—‘the other’s shadow’. Who coined it? Some knower must have coined it. Your shadow is called ‘another’s shadow’. Have you ever reflected on this? The shadow is yours, the name is ‘another’s shadow’. Your own shadow becomes ‘other’—appears like another. The one who chose this word chose well—par-chhāyā. Your own shadow appears like the other—and the struggle begins. Then struggle as you like—victory will not be yours. Who has ever won against a shadow? Wrestling in the void—useless.
‘I am not the body; the body is not mine; I am Bodha—awareness.’ He who knows this with certainty attains aloneness—Kaivalya—and does not remember either the done or the undone.
Nāhaṁ deho na me deho bodho ’ham iti niścayī.
Kaivalyam iva saṁprāpto na smaraty akṛtaṁ kṛtam..
Ahaṁ dehaḥ na…
—I am not the body.
Dehaḥ me na…
—And the body is not mine.
Bodho ’ham iti niścayī…
—He in whom the lamp of awareness is lit—he in whom certainty has arisen…
Kaivalyaṁ saṁprāptaḥ…
—He begins to attain to Kaivalya, the supreme aloneness.
For the one who has known ‘I am not the body’, he is not far from knowing ‘I am Brahman.’ The first step is taken. The one who has known ‘I am not the mind’—he has taken steps toward Kaivalya. Soon the moment comes when the proclamation arises within: ‘Aham Brahmāsmi! Anal Haq! I am That!’ Such a one is concerned neither with what is done nor with what is undone.
Have you seen? You keep account of what you have done; you also worry about what you have not done! Have you seen an end to foolishness? Understand the arithmetic. Yesterday you did not get to abuse someone—you worry about that too. If you had, there would be worry—understandable. You did not, the chance was missed; will such a chance come again, who knows—this too worries you. You worry about what you did, and you worry about what you did not do. Even what you could not do, pursues you.
Mulla Nasruddin was dying. The mullah said, Now repent, at the last hour atone! He opened his eyes: I am repenting—do not disturb. The mullah asked: Loudly—of what are you repenting? Mulla said: Of the sins I could not commit—had I committed them, it would have been good. Death has come; who knows if I will be saved or not. If God sends me again—said Mulla—then I will not delay so much. I will quickly finish what I left undone. I am repenting what I did not do.
At the time of death most people regret what they did not do.
But the man who has known, I am not the body, I am not the mind, and has recognized the inner image—let alone the undone, he does not think even of the done. What happened, happened; what did not, did not. He does not carry burdens; he does not walk carrying the past on his head. And the one who has set the past down—his wings spread; he begins to fly in the open sky. The earth’s pull no longer affects him; he becomes skybound.
The burden on your head is the past. Because of the past, the appetite for the future arises. What you did not do must be done in the future. What you did, you could have done better—so you will do it in the future.
What is future? A refined version of your past, decorated, arranged. Next time the chance comes, you will do it better. He who carries the past runs after the future. He who has set down the past—his future is gone. He lives in the pure present. And to live in the present is to live in God.
‘From Brahman down to a blade of grass—I alone am.’ He who knows this with certainty becomes without alternative—nirvikalpa—pure and still, free from gain and loss.
He who knows that from Brahman to a straw there is one life-current, one play of life, one ocean’s waves—he becomes without alternatives. What fear remains? What desire? What unrest? What impurity? When only One is—He is purity. What gain, what loss?
‘This world, full of many wonders—is in truth nothing, illusory. He who knows this with certainty, desireless and only-awareness, attains such peace as if nothing is.’
Nāna-āścaryam idaṁ viśvaṁ na kiñcid iti niścayī.
Nirvāsaṇaḥ sphūrti-mātro na kiñcid iva śāmyati..
Idaṁ viśvaṁ nānā-āścaryaṁ na kiñcit…
This world, filled with countless wonders, to the stilled one appears dream-like. It appears true because of your desire; your desire breathes life into it. When desire is gone, the life departs from the world. This multi-splendored world suddenly becomes like a dream, a net of maya.
Iti niścayī nirvāsaṇaḥ sphūrti-mātraḥ na kiñcid iva śāmyati!
He who knows this with certainty, desireless and of the nature of awareness-alone, attains such peace as if nothing is.
Remember this sutra.
In the night you dream: you fell from a mountain; a demon sat on your chest, pressing your throat; you screamed; and the scream broke your sleep. Waking, your face is drenched in sweat; the heart pounding; hands and feet trembling. But now you laugh. Now there is no unrest. No demon, no mountain, no one sitting on your chest. Perhaps your own pillow lies upon your chest. Sometimes your own hand weighs upon the chest and it seems someone is sitting there. Now you laugh. What was dream moments ago seemed true—hence the panic. Now, being a dream, the panic disappears.
The one who attains awakening, who knows ‘I am only awareness, consciousness, light’—lives in the world as if the world is not; as if it is not; whether it is or not makes no difference.
Are the beads on the thread,
or the thread in the beads?
The knower is he who slept in the word
and awakened in the akshara—the imperishable.
What you see outside is kshara—the perishable.
The knower is he who slept in the words
and awoke in the akshara—the deathless.
He awakened into that which never decays—the akshara, the imperishable. It is within you. It is a marvel that in Devanagari we call the alphabet ‘akshara’—letters. Then when two aksharas come together and make something, we call it a word. ‘Ra’ and ‘ma’—‘Rama’ the word.
A word is a joining of two; akshara is the experience of the One. Alphabet is a meaningless word; akshara is significant. Akshara means: when there is One, there is no destruction; when there are two, there will be destruction. Where there is joining, there will be breaking. Where there is union, there will be separation. Therefore from words you cannot say the Truth. Because Truth is One, and words are formed by two.
Hence to express the Supreme Truth, Hindus found ‘Om’. And they do not write ‘Om’ as two letters. If they write ‘O-m’, it becomes two. They devised a unique symbol—ॐ—so that it remains akshara, only One. Otherwise there are three in ‘Om’: A, U, M. But then it becomes a word; a word becomes untrue. Word is a joining; what is joined will split. So we made a special symbol outside the alphabet. Ask anyone, What is the meaning of ॐ? It has no meaning.
Words have meanings; akshara has none. ॐ is meaning-less, a symbol only—of the Supreme. When the One splits, it becomes three—hence the Trimurti. Then the three become thirteen; it goes on breaking. The name of that One is akshara—the imperishable.
Are the beads on the thread,
or the thread in the beads?
The knower is he who slept in the word
and awakened in the akshara.
Reflected in the mirror,
fighting with the shadow,
Truth has become
bloodied.
Close the eyes—and the eyes open.
Close the eyes—and the eyes open!
What you see with open eyes is the world. What you will see with closed eyes—that is the Whole, the Divine, the Truth.
Close the eyes—and the eyes open.
All these sutras are, in one sense, sutras for closing the eyes—close the eyes to the world. And in another sense, for opening them—open them toward the Divine, toward the Self.
These inlets, this melancholy—do not moor your boat here.
This is another country, friend—do not moor your boat here.
The riverbank’s fair sights will betray you;
Your good lies only in the journey—do not moor your boat here.
Heaven bears witness—the waters and the earth here are unsteady;
The ground itself is against you, brother—do not moor your boat here.
There is a different scent in the air of this place;
This soil is foreign—do not moor your boat here.
Let not these songs of nearness-to-shore drown us,
Though they are sounding—do not moor your boat here.
The boats that had reached this ghat—no news has come of them from anywhere;
Do not moor your boat here.
Those skies we were acquainted with—this is not that sky;
This is not that land, brother—do not moor your boat here.
We too have lived with this dust,
but no fragrance of fidelity has arisen—
Do not moor your boat here.
That land which has called us since the Unbeginning—
It has come before our eyes—do not moor your boat here.
The taste of the destined shore is in sight;
To halt is devastation—do not moor your boat here.
Wherever the shores have enticed us,
Separation has always followed—do not moor your boat here.
Hari Om Tatsat.