Maha Geeta #34

As long as there is dilemma, you will have to remain in the Gorakh-dhanda. As long as there is dilemma, you will have to meditate. Meditation is the way to dissolve the dilemma. Dilemma means: the mind is split in two. Meditation is the method to bring the two halves of the mind together. Where the mind becomes one, there the mind ends.

While listening to Ashtavakra, keep this in mind: Ashtavakra is not a partisan of meditation, nor of samadhi, nor of yoga—he is opposed only to method as such.

In the world there are only two kinds of spiritual paths—one of method and one without method. Ashtavakra is the proponent of the methodless path. So, in trying to understand him, remember: his words are only for those who can understand without any inner split; whose understanding becomes so deep that no meditation is needed; whose very understanding becomes samadhi.

Ashtavakra insists only on awakening, on the witness-consciousness. But if that is not possible, don’t cling to Ashtavakra. If it is not possible, there are Patanjali’s means. If not, there are the means of Buddha and Mahavira.

Krishnamurti has been saying the same thing for years—what Ashtavakra said. For forty years those who have been listening to him have fallen into this very dilemma. They have not understood; understanding has not awakened—and they have dropped meditation as well. So they have become like the washerman’s donkey, neither of the house nor of the ghat. They got stuck in between. They became Trishanku: caught mid-air, neither this shore nor that. They come to me and say, “There is no peace in the mind.” If I tell them, “Meditate,” they say, “What will meditation do? Krishnamurti says nothing will happen through meditation.” If Krishnamurti has been understood, how has restlessness remained in the mind? You have come to ask, “There is restlessness in the mind—what should we do?” If Krishnamurti has been understood, restlessness should not remain. Because with Krishnamurti there is no remedy other than understanding: either you understood, or you did not. If you understood, you became silent; if you did not, then don’t get lost in the talk. Do something else that is for those who do not yet understand; then meditate.

The ego is very strange! The ego is not ready even to admit, “I do not understand.” Meditation is for those who do not yet understand. “I am not some fool who will meditate.” And you are also not so wise that you can arrive without meditation. Then you will get into trouble; your restlessness will become very deep. You will crack; you will be fragmented.

Ashtavakra says: all meditations, all methods are futile, because mere action cannot reach there; only awareness can. If you meditate, that too will be an act. If you meditate, you become a doer. So whether you cook food, sweep the floor, run a shop, or meditate—it makes no difference: you are doing something. Ashtavakra is saying that to your nature, to what you are, no action can reach; there, there is only being. In the sweeping that is happening, you are not there; the one who is seeing the sweeping happen—that is you. You cook food: in the cooking you are not there; the one who is seeing the food being cooked, and seeing that you are cooking—that is you. The same is true with meditation. In meditation you are not there; the one who is seeing that meditation is being done, the one who is seeing that peace is coming through meditation, the witness—that is you.

“Gorakh-dhanda” is a very significant word—it is connected to Gorakhnath. Whenever someone gets overly entangled in techniques and rituals, we say, “Don’t get into Gorakh-dhanda.” Gorakh discovered the greatest number of methods of meditation. After Patanjali, Gorakh’s name is unforgettable. He found great experiments in meditation. Certainly, through the experiments of meditation people have arrived; but meditation is for those for whom understanding alone is not sufficient—it is a complement; whatever deficiency remains in understanding, meditation completes. No one knows the soul through meditation; but through meditation you become so quiet that in that quietness becoming a witness becomes easy. When you know, you will know only through Ashtavakra’s path.

Consider: someone is afflicted with fever, lying ill, delirious, and he says, “How can I attain samadhi?” What will we do? Will we give him some method of samadhi? We will say, first let the fever be cured. He may ask, “By getting rid of the fever, will samadhi happen to me?” To explain we will say, yes, the subsiding of fever will help samadhi to happen. For it has never been heard that anyone in delirium ever attained samadhi; although it is also not the case that those who are not delirious have all attained samadhi—there are many who are not delirious and no samadhi has happened to them. But one thing is certain: the delirious one has never attained it. Whoever has attained, one thing is definite: he was not delirious.

So by giving medicine we first bring down the delirium of the man burning with fever. When the delirium has come down, then we will give him a method of meditation. When the method of meditation quiets his mind, witnessing will become easy. The final event is of witnessing alone. In the final reckoning, Ashtavakra is right. But will you be able to reach that final moment in one leap? If you can, good; if you cannot, then meditation will have to be done.

As long as the dilemma remains, meditation is appropriate. When the dilemma dissolves and the light of understanding—of prajna—spreads, and in a single instant the happening happens, then you will not ask. The very urge to ask will not arise. Once the event has happened, once you have attained samadhi, you won’t come and ask, “Now should I meditate or not?” As long as you come with questions, keep meditating.

From where you are standing right now you cannot make the leap. Perhaps by meditating again and again the mind will become a little quiet, the feverishness will lessen somewhat—then the leap may be possible. The leap has to be taken from the doer to the witness; that much is certain.

In the ultimate sense, Ashtavakra’s statement is absolutely true. But from the point where you stand, whether it is true for you is hard to say.

When a small child is sent to school he is taught, “ga is for Ganesh,” or “ga is for gadha (donkey).” In truth, neither the donkey nor Ganesh has anything to do with the letter ga. And if the child learns too well that “ga is for donkey,” and every time he sees ga he repeats inside, “ga is for donkey,” he will never learn to read—the donkey will keep intruding. That was only a prop, a device to help the child understand. The child knows the donkey; he does not know ga. He has seen the donkey. That’s why children’s books have big pictures—because the child recognizes pictures. A big mango hanging—he recognizes it. A donkey standing—he recognizes it. Recognizing the donkey makes it easier to recognize ga. But one day he will forget “ga is for donkey.” Ga is itself; why should it be for donkey or for Ganesh!

Meditation is for those to whom that ultimate statement cannot yet be comprehended. It is primary. For now, to understand meditation itself is already much. There are many for whom even meditation will not yet be understandable. It isn’t right to enroll them even in primary school; they have to be put in kindergarten. For them even meditation won’t make sense. To the one for whom meditation doesn’t make sense, we say: read, do svadhyaya, reflect. When reflection begins, when svadhyaya begins, we say: meditate. When meditation happens, then we say: now take the leap; now jump from the doer to the witness. Then we tell him: by doing, nothing will happen.

So the one who understands Ashtavakra will not ask this question. The one in whom the question still remains should forget Ashtavakra for now; you are not yet ready to befriend him. For now you will have to meditate.

I am speaking to everyone. People of many classes are present here. Someone is in kindergarten, someone in primary, someone in middle school, someone in high school, someone has reached the university, someone is preparing to go beyond the university. I am speaking to all of them. So what I say will have different meanings. But it is necessary to say it, because someday you too will reach the university, someday you too will be ready to go beyond the university.

So listen; if it can be understood today, good—otherwise keep it safe. Tie a knot in it. If it doesn’t make sense today, perhaps someday it will be of use. It will become provisions for the journey. It will serve you on the way. Many things will not be understood today. What is understood today, do today. What is not understood today, don’t be in a hurry to be troubled by it—tie it in a knot and keep it. When your understanding grows, that too will be understood.

The mountain does not tremble, nor the tree, nor the foothill;
what trembles is only the tiny reflection of the lamp’s flame,
cast from the house on the slope onto the lake below.
The mountain does not tremble, nor the tree, nor the foothill;
what trembles is only the tiny reflection of the lamp’s flame,
cast from the house on the slope onto the lake below.

You do not tremble—you are the unmoving mountain. At your center there is no vibration. Only the reflection trembles. The mind trembles. If this is understood, revolution can happen this very moment. If it is not understood, then pass through the processes of meditation so that a moment may come when it can be understood.

The questioner has not written a name; that is a sign of cowardice. As a rule I do not answer questions that carry no name. If someone hasn’t even the courage to say, “This is my question,” then the question is not worthy of an answer.
But the question is important and must be arising in many minds, so I will answer.

“Earlier you used to say at the end of your talks, ‘I bow to the divine seated within you.’”
I do not keep accounts of what I have said in the past—and you should not either. I take responsibility only for what I am saying now. Even for what I said an hour ago, I accept no responsibility. Remember this well, otherwise you will get caught in a great net. Otherwise you will find many contradictions in my statements; one statement will seem to contradict another. If you start tallying accounts, far from becoming free you will go mad.

So keep this sutra carefully: what I am telling you in this moment, only that… An hour later, forget even this. There is a rosebush—today a flower has bloomed. You don’t go and say, “Yesterday the flower was bigger or smaller—why is it like this today?” If the rosebush could speak it would say, “Today it is like this; yesterday it was like that.” You don’t say to the sky, “Yesterday the sun was out; today clouds have gathered—what’s the matter? Why this contradiction?” If the sky could speak it would say, “Yesterday was like that, today is like this.”

Vincent van Gogh, the great Dutch painter, was painting. Someone asked, “Which is your very best painting?” He said, “The one I am painting right now.” The next day he was painting another. The same man came and said, “I’ve come to buy the one you said yesterday was your best.” Van Gogh said, “It is no longer the best. The one I am painting now is the best—the one in which I am present. The rest are beaten tracks—the snake has passed; only the marks remain in the sand.”

I myself don’t keep accounts of what I said earlier, so why should you? Let it go! Otherwise it may happen that you won’t hear what I am saying today, and day after tomorrow you will come asking again. The friend who asked this—when I was saying it then, he must not have heard. If he had understood, a revolution would have happened in his life; this question would not arise. You missed that day—don’t miss now. Don’t make a habit of missing. Some people make a habit of missing; they keep accounts of what is dead—they go on counting corpses.

The statement I am making now is alive. Fresh and warm—take it into your heart. When it becomes cold and stale you won’t be able to digest it; if you couldn’t digest it while fresh and warm, how will you digest it stale and cold? Don’t eat it even by mistake; otherwise it will become a burden, spoil your digestion, even poison your life.

So first: what I said in the past—let the mad keep accounts of that, or those who want to go mad. I am with my statement only now; a moment later I may not be. What I am saying now—I may even contradict it tomorrow. Because I am not a thinker. I have not fixed any chain of thought by which I must live. I have left life entirely without a system. There is no discipline in my life—only freedom. Therefore you will not be able to bind me. You cannot say to me, “You said it yesterday; why the opposite today?” I will say, “Yesterday I spoke out of my freedom; today too I speak out of my freedom. Yesterday the mood was to sing one kind of song; today another. And repeating the same thing every day is not right either—it would bore.”

I am like a flowing stream of water.

Heraclitus has said: you cannot step into the same river twice. You cannot meet me twice either. Where you meet me today, tomorrow I will not be there. Those who want to walk with me will have to learn to flow. Otherwise you will be dragged. I am rushing—like a river’s current—toward the ocean; you will scrape along behind. You will keep accounts of the past.

I have no history, and I have no interest in history. Moment to moment I say what life makes me say; or, if you trust in the divine, moment to moment I say what the divine makes me say. This is a sensitivity happening moment to moment. It is like a spring. It is not a philosopher’s system.

A philosopher lives by a mold; he fixes a mold and then never says the opposite, even if life itself goes the opposite way; he keeps his eyes closed. Everything may change, but he keeps repeating himself. He keeps his windows and doors shut—lest a new breeze or a new ray of the sun force him to change. He does not open his eyes.
Philosophers are blind—that is how they remain consistent. If you have eyes and living sensitivity, then moment to moment your answer will be different, because moment to moment everything is changing.

I am with this changing stream of life. I have nothing to do with my past. The present is everything. So, taking this opportunity, let me tell you: I have said many things in the past—don’t worry about them.

“You used to say, ‘I bow to the divine seated within you; please accept my salutations.’ Now you don’t say that.”
I did not say it then to please you, and I will not say it now to please you. Then I said it out of my own delight; now out of my own delight I have stopped. You are not my master. In such questions, somewhere within, a hidden desire lurks—as if you were my owner. I say what I want to say; I do not care a whit about you. Who are you? If it pleases you, listen to my song; if it does not, you have legs—take your own path.

I am not here to satisfy your desires and expectations—I am not your slave. Usually the ones you call “mahatmas” are your slaves. That is precisely the hitch with me. They say what you prompt them to say. They walk as you make them walk. You think you are walking behind the mahatma; look closely and you will find the mahatma is walking behind you. Do you call such people mahatmas—those who walk behind you? What a delusion! One who walks behind you becomes unfit for that very reason—don’t walk behind him at all. But your acquaintance is with such mahatmas, with such leaders. I am neither a mahatma nor a leader.

A leader is always the follower of his followers. The skillful leader is the one who sees where the followers are going and starts moving that way. The skillful politician recognizes the direction of the wind and sees that the followers are now going east, so he starts toward the east ahead of them. If the followers shout “socialism,” he shouts it louder; if the followers are against socialism, he is against it. Or he makes such statements that you cannot tell whether he is for or against—so that he can change them anytime at his convenience.

I have heard: a village clerk took a bribe. He was caught; a case went to court. Three people came from the village to testify against him, among them old Uncle Shivdhan. The first witness appeared. The clerk’s lawyer asked a single question: “When the clerk took the fifty rupees, was he sitting or standing?” The first witness said, “Sitting.” The second witness came; the same question was asked. He said, “Standing.” Now it was Uncle Shivdhan’s turn. Sensing trouble, the lawyer asked him the same question. Uncle said, “Why, sir, what do you want to know?”
“Give a straight answer to my question,” the lawyer barked. “Don’t say what I want to know or not. What kind of answer is that? Give me a straight answer.”
Uncle laughed and said, “Sir, the clerk really did a wonder! Once the fifty rupees were in his pocket, he was fidgeting all over—now up, now down! Sometimes on a chair, sometimes on a stool, and sometimes standing.”

This is the politician’s answer. The politician worries about where you are going, because he always wants to be in front of you. Wherever you go, he runs ahead.

Mulla Nasruddin was once riding his donkey through the market—hurrying along. Someone asked, “Nasruddin, where are you going?” He said, “Don’t ask me—ask the donkey.” People said, “What do you mean?” Nasruddin said, “It’s a donkey! I used to get into a lot of trouble with it. In the middle of the market I would want to go one way, it would want to go another. I would be disgraced—after all, it’s a donkey! People laughed: ‘You can’t even control your donkey.’ Since then I learned a trick. In the marketplace I don’t quarrel with it at all—wherever it goes, I go. At least in the crowd my reputation remains that I am the master. In a crowd I don’t try to stop it—because a donkey is a donkey; in a crowd it becomes even more stubborn.”

So the leader walks behind the follower. Your “mahatma” fulfills your expectations. I am neither a mahatma nor a leader. I expect nothing from you, and I am not here to fulfill any of your expectations. If you ask me “Why?”—you are not entitled. I am not answerable. I did not ask your permission when I said it—why should I ask your permission when I stop? And I am not even saying that I will never start again. Who knows!

“Do you no longer see the glimpse of the divine within us?”
Once the glimpse of the divine happens, it never ceases. A glimpse that appears and then disappears is not of the divine. The divine is not a dream—now here, now gone. The divine is eternity. Once seen, it is seen. No—the glimpse has not stopped; but another glimpse appeared, and that glimpse was this: I saw that you became very pleased when I said, “I bow to the divine seated within you.” You thought I was bowing to you. You were mistaken. I said I bow to the divine within you; you thought I was bowing to you. You became overjoyed.