Maha Geeta #35

There is an old Jewish tale.

Alexander set out on his journey to conquer the world. Having subdued many lands, he came upon a mountain tribe. He wished to conquer them too. But when he attacked, he was astonished. The naked tribespeople came out with drums and music to welcome him. He felt a bit embarrassed as well. His intention had been to attack. But there was no one there prepared to fight. Those people had no weapons at all. Their history had never known war. They had no clothes either. They had no big houses—only huts; and in those huts, there was nothing. For they had never nurtured the tendency to hoard.
Where there is hoarding, there will be violence. Where there is hoarding, there will be war. Where there is ownership, there is competition too.
They took Alexander along. Alexander felt awkward, confounded—perplexed as to what to do. He knew only one thing—fighting. They took him into their chief’s hut. He was received with garlands and great honor. Then the chief summoned food for him: a golden plate—with bread made of gold! Vessels studded with diamonds and jewels—and curry of diamonds and jewels! Alexander said: Are you mad? Who will eat bread of gold! Curry of diamonds and jewels! What do you take me for? I am a human being.
The old chief said: We thought—if you could be satisfied with ordinary bread, you could have found that in your own land. You would not have needed to come so far, to travel so much! So much struggle, so much war, so much violence, so much death—all for a loaf of wheat bread? For common vegetables? That is available in your own country. Then are you the one who is mad? So as soon as we heard that you were coming, we somehow managed, with great difficulty, to collect gold from the mines, and make these arrangements.
One thing—the old man said—I must ask: Does it rain in your country? Do the stalks of wheat ripen? Does grass grow? Does the sun shine? Do the moon and stars appear at night?
Alexander said: You are mad! Why would the sun not rise? Why would the moon and stars not come out? My country is a country like any other.
The old man began to shake his head and said, I cannot believe it. Are there animals and birds in your country? Beasts?
Alexander said: Of course there are.
The old man laughed. He said: Then I understand. For people like you, God would have stopped bringing out the sun long ago—He probably brings it out for the animals and birds. For people like you, He would have stopped the rains long ago—He must still make it rain for the animals and birds.
They say, never before had Alexander, after attacking anyone, felt such regret.
In some moment of life you too will feel the same. What will you do with gold?—will you eat it, will you drink it? What will you do with wealth?—wrap yourself in it, spread it like bedding? What will you do with prestige, respect, ego? None of it has any use. Yes, one thing is certain: surrounded by gold, gilded with gold, sealed in ego, the sun of God will not shine upon you; the moon of God will not rise upon you. Your nights will grow dark; the stars will take leave. You will become a dry desert. Then His clouds will no longer gather over you, and there will be no rain. In this abundant world, you will be deprived. Where everything is, there you will be left picking up shards. Then you will become very miserable and keep hoping for happiness. You will dream of happiness and live in suffering.
This is what has happened. Ambition has drained life. And until ambition falls, no person is religious.
Today’s aphorisms are most unique. In truth, all the aphorisms of Ashtavakra’s Gita are unique, but at certain places they touch the ultimate height—beyond which going seems no longer possible. Such are these sutras.

‘Nothing exists—out of such a vision is born that health which is rare even after donning the loincloth. Therefore, renunciation and acceptance both I have abandoned, and I abide in ease.’
Let this reach the innermost core of your being.

अकिंचनभवं स्वास्थ्यं कौपीनत्वेऽपि दुर्लभम्‌।

Knowing in this way—that there is nothing in this world worthy of attainment; there is nothing in this world worthy of owning; there is nothing here except dreams—knowing thus, the one who becomes akinchana... “akinchana” means, one who becomes a no-thing; the one who, knowing thus, accepts his own emptiness. I am empty—and there is no way to fill this emptiness from the world, because this world is a dream. I am empty, the world is a dream—emptiness cannot be filled by a dream. This emptiness will be filled only when God infuses it, descends into it, when His feet step here! Otherwise this temple will remain empty. Only when the Lord enthrones Himself in this temple will it be full.
So, fill yourself with as many things of the world as you like—you are only deceiving yourself. In the end you will find it is not that you deceived someone else; you yourself got deceived—outsmarted by your own cleverness. Let me say it: those who are very clever in this world, in the end discover they have been slain by their own cleverness. The simple and guileless have sometimes attained the Truth—but the clever and cunning, never.
Your scholarship is your sin. And your cleverness will become your gallows.
Akinchanabhavam...
Janaka says: I am a no-thing! And there is no way to fill this in the world. Acknowledging this, I have consented to my own nothingness.
This is the gate of revolution. The person who understands that there is nothing outside that can fill me—I am empty, and empty, and empty—then I will consent to this emptiness... The moment you consent, a great transformation happens. The moment you consent, you become silent; the mind’s running stops, competition falls away; you accept the akinchana-bhava—that yes, this is my being, this is my nature; emptiness is my nature—akincanabhavam svāsthyam—instantly, a health event happens in your life.
The word “health” is most significant. Its meaning is: you become established in yourself. To be self-established is health. Right now you are running. You are disturbed, displaced. Ill-health means: one who is not at his center; one who is not in himself; who is wandering here and there. Someone is running after wealth—he is unhealthy; diseased. Someone is running after position—he is unhealthy; diseased. Someone is running after something else. But whoever is running after the other will remain unhealthy. Because in running you fall away from your center. Once the running is gone, you settle in yourself.
People ask: “How to go within oneself?”
There is not the slightest difficulty in going within; nothing could be simpler. How could going within be difficult? For you already are yourself. You are already within yourself. Therefore the real question is not how to go within. The real question is how to become free of the “other.” The moment you are free, you have arrived. The instant the grip on the “other” is released, you are seated in yourself. The question is not how to come into oneself. The only question is: how to see the futility of the things we are running after!

Alas, was this life—this alone!
In a lightning flash
a glimpse of dream and nectar-form,
I stretched my hands—and not even my own hands
could I see clearly.
Alas, was this life—this alone!

In a gust from the sky
the stars seated me high,
I opened my fists—and except for
pebbles, there was nothing.
Alas, was this life—this alone!

The world did not sway to my song,
nor spin at my scream.
Now both seem alike to me—
singing and sobbing alike.
Life deceived me as well—
Alas, was this life—this alone!

What you have known as life—see it once with open eyes. That’s enough. And you will begin to become akinchana. The exact sense of “akinchana” is the same as in Jesus’ words. Jesus said: “Blessed are the poor. Theirs is the kingdom of God.” Notice, Jesus did not say: Blessed are the poor, theirs will be the kingdom of God. No, Jesus says: “Theirs is the kingdom of God.” Theirs—this very moment! It has happened! Blessed are the poor!
Akinchana is the very name of that poverty. Such poverty becomes the gateway to richness. Such poverty, once embraced, never leaves you poor again—for then the whole kingdom of the Lord is yours.
Akinchanabhavam...
Knowing in this way that I am nothing, in such a mood that nothing is in this world—that it is a dream—a health arises; a self-establishment happens; the running dissolves, the upheaval subsides; the fever drops, the disease disappears; one returns home, abides in oneself.
Such abiding in oneself—Janaka says—is true sannyas. One does not become a sannyasin by donning the ochre robe! Not even by wearing a loincloth alone. Not merely by taking initiation into sannyas. Initiation may be a symbol, an auspicious beginning; a resolution at an auspicious moment. But by taking sannyas alone, nothing is accomplished. Taking sannyas does not end the journey, it begins it. It is the first step. Whoever gets stuck there has gone badly astray. That was but your declaration. The day you become a sannyasin—it is not that you became a sannyasin that day. That day you declared that now you wish to be a sannyasin; now you wish to walk the path of sannyas. By your declaration you do not become a sannyasin.

‘That highest renunciation which is rare even after wearing the loincloth, becomes available the moment the akinchana-bhava is born. Therefore, abandoning both renunciation and acquisition, I abide in ease.’

त्यागदाने विहायास्मादहमासे यथासुखम्‌।

Therefore now I neither grasp nor reject. I have neither attachment nor aversion. If aversion remains, attachment continues. We are averse only to that to which some attachment still clings.
Understand this. It is very easy—to change attachment into aversion. To be free of attachment is very difficult. To turn attachment into aversion is very simple. You were running after wealth; you found much misery, much pain, no happiness—failures came again and again—you were filled with rage; you became an enemy of wealth; you began to say: Money is sin; I will not even touch it. But in the mind somewhere, in some deep layer, an attraction to wealth still remains. You will go on speaking of money even then.
Once I was taken to a Jain muni. He sang a devotional song. Sitting around him were all rich people. The heads of his devotees began to sway. The hymn said: “I have no taste for the golden thrones of emperors; the dust of my path is dear to me. I have no taste for your palaces; the dust-laden path is dear to me.” Such were its sentiments. Heads swayed. People were delighted. Having sung the hymn, seeing me silent, he asked: “You said nothing! Did you not like the hymn?”
I said I am in a bit of a fix. If you have no taste for the thrones of emperors, then why take the trouble to compose such a hymn? For I have met emperors too, and none has sung to me a hymn saying, “Go on, be blissful in your dust—we have neither attachment nor envy for your dust.” I have not heard emperors singing such songs in envy of sannyasins. It is only sannyasins who have been singing such songs for ages—it is worth some thought. It should be the reverse: the emperor should feel envy of the sannyasin. To console himself he should say, “No, I am fine in my palace. You enjoy your huts, remain akinchana—I am fine being an emperor.” But no emperor says such a thing. Sannyasins have been saying forever: We have no taste for your thrones. If there is no taste, why so much effort? There is taste. You are persuading yourself. Speaking loudly you are trying to convince yourself.
It happens, doesn’t it? Walking alone in a dark night, you begin to sing loudly! Afraid, you sing. Though by singing nothing changes; but hearing your own voice, courage arises. People begin to whistle going through a dark lane. Hearing their own whistle, some courage, some warmth comes. At least it feels like—see, I am not afraid, I am singing! But the singing itself announces that there is fear.
I said: Surely you still have taste for palaces, an attachment remains. The throne still appears before your eyes. Otherwise why should a sannyasin bother! It is understandable if emperors are jealous; and if to pacify themselves they sing such songs—that too is understandable.
He could not quite understand. He was quite troubled. The point struck deep. Next day he called me again. When he called me the next day there were no disciples. I asked: “Where is the crowd?” He said, Today I want to speak in private, it cannot be said in front of them. How did you recognize it? You spoke to the point. I do have taste. You touched my wound. I squirmed—also true; I could not sleep all night, thinking. I have taste for money; I had it before. I could not obtain wealth, so the grapes turned sour. I renounced the world. And when I renounced, I was astonished: those wealthy men at whose doors I would not have gotten a gatekeeper’s job began to come and touch my feet. And since then I have been speaking continuously against wealth. This is not the only hymn—I have sung, all are against wealth. You caught the point. Great compassion that you did not hesitate, did not hide behind etiquette, and laid my wound bare. Now what shall I do?
I have seen many sannyasins in such a condition. Some ran away from woman and got busy condemning woman; since then they have never left her—now the condemnation continues. Earlier there was praise, now there is denunciation. Earlier there were odes to beauty; now there are verses of renunciation. But the basis of both is woman. Earlier, descriptions of her beauty from nail to crown; now descriptions of the filth—feces and urine—the body contains. But the matter is stuck in the same place.
Be alert: he who describes the woman’s beauty—eyes with kohl, eyes as lovely as a fish, face like a rose, cheeks like petals of a rose—; and he who says it is filled with feces and urine, filth, bone, flesh, marrow, pus, blood—there is not much difference between the two. They stand back-to-back, but the juice of both is entangled in woman. Beware of both. Neither is renounced. Both are worldly.

‘Nothing is, out of such a mood is born that health...’

Woman is neither a rose-flower nor a heap of excrement. Nothing is. There is no life in wealth, nor is wealth some poison that you must shrink from touching. Nothing is. This world is neither worthy to be indulged in, nor worthy to renounce and flee from. Nothing is. It is dreamlike.

‘That health born of such a mood is rare even after wearing the loincloth. Therefore, abandoning both renunciation and acceptance, I abide in ease.’

अकिंचनभवं स्वास्थ्यं कौपीनत्वेऽपि दुर्लभम्‌।
अस्मात्‌ त्यागदाने विहाय...

—Therefore I have left both renunciation and acceptance.
Here there is no “leaving,” mark it. It is only a manner of speaking. Because when even renunciation is left, what is there to leave! It only means: I awakened. I saw that renunciation is the same as indulgence. When indulgence stands on its head, it looks like renunciation. But the thing is the same, not the slightest difference. It became visible that indulgence and renunciation are two faces of the same coin. There is no fundamental difference. There is no revolution from the roots in the renouncer. The renouncer does what the indulger does—he does the opposite of it.
Look at a renouncer! Whatever you do, he does the opposite. And you get impressed because he sleeps on a bed of thorns while you spread flowers upon your bed. You are impressed—“Look, I spread flowers and still sleep eludes me; and behold this blessed one—he sleeps on a bed of thorns!” You go and bow at his feet. Your head bows at the renouncer’s feet because the renouncer’s language is understandable to you; it is your own language. There is no difference. You are mad for wealth, someone kicked wealth away—so you fall at his feet—“Ah, this is what I needed to do; I could not. I am weak, the poor sinner! But you have done it, blessed one!”
Wherever you find a renouncer, you will find indulgent people massaging his feet. This is the arithmetic. The true sannyasin will impress neither the renouncer nor the indulger. The renouncer impresses the indulger, and the renouncer remains impressed by the indulger. Deep down he wants the same; so in heaven he longs for all that you have here. You enjoy women here; the renouncer consoles himself that what is in these women—oh, they wither in two days! We shall enjoy in heaven the apsaras whose age halts at sixteen and never advances. You drink thimblefuls of wine here; we shall drink in Paradise where streams of wine flow; we shall plunge and leap and drink! There is no licensing queue there! You are entangled in the petty; we shall enjoy there! Here we renounce so that we may indulge there.
The renouncer is not outside indulgence. Look at their stories of heaven. From them you will understand that even if the renouncer renounces—why he does so. The longing is for indulgence. And if he saves himself from indulgence here, it is in the hope that he will get it tomorrow; the fruit will come. Fast today, sit in the sun, roast the body; this body will go to the funeral pyre anyway—how long will you save it! Earn something that will remain forever.
But even the renouncer renounces in order to indulge. So long as you renounce to attain something, you are an indulger. Such renunciation does not happen out of wisdom. And the one you call an indulger, he too thinks of renunciation; he too understands; but seeing his weakness, he says: I lack strength—for now. In old age perhaps, next life perhaps, I will have strength; I will renounce—surely I will. To keep this hope alive he bows at the renouncer’s feet—to remind himself that ultimately, this is the path for me too. You have gone a bit ahead; I come a little behind—but I will come! If not today, tomorrow. So at least let me bow my head at your feet today, so I remember.
Renouncer and indulger speak the same language. There is no difference in their language; they understand each other. Therefore you will often see: the more indulgent the society, the greater the praise of renunciation. This creates great confusion.
Now take the Jains—their definition of renunciation is the hardest in India; and yet the wealthiest community is theirs. Mahavira stood naked, and most of the clothing shops belong to Jains. I sometimes think...
I used to live in Jabalpur. A relative of mine had a shop named: “Digambar Shop”! A cloth shop! Digambar means: naked. I told him: Have some shame! At least don’t entangle Mahavira! “Digambar Shop”! Do you know what Digambar means? And you sell clothes?
It is worth pondering that whose guru became naked, why do they all sell clothes! There must be some attachment to nakedness and to clothing—some relationship, some opposite link.
The Jains conceived renunciation with great intensity—but the entire laity is indulgent, greedy for wealth. The Jain muni sits with the pinnacle of renunciation, and the Jain householder sits with the pinnacle of indulgence. Yet there is great harmony between the two. They support each other.
There is attraction in the opposite—note this. That is why man is attracted to woman, and woman to man. Attraction lies in the opposite. In one just like yourself, there is hardly attraction—he seems a reflection, a copy of you. In the opposite there is a call, a challenge—that this has been lived—being an indulger—we have lived; now renouncer remains to be lived. So there is attraction. What we are, there is no juice there; what we have not yet become, what is opposite to us—perhaps there is juice there. Today we lack courage; we shall gather courage—slowly, slowly we will proceed—first take the small vows, then the great vows, and slowly someday we will attain Digambar-hood. And no one becomes that all at once. Gradually, over births and births, traveling and traveling—we too shall become.
In the mind of the indulger is the dream of renunciation, and in the mind of the renouncer is the heaven of indulgence. These two are two faces of the same coin. A person like Janaka is very difficult to recognize. Because he is neither renouncer nor indulger. He speaks a language that neither the renouncer understands nor the indulger.
Hence these supremely precious sutras of Janaka stayed lying as they were; India never lifted them upon its head; India never danced with them. Because this language became very unfamiliar. The indulger does not understand this language—because if the indulger goes to look at Janaka, he will say: “What’s in them? They live in palaces like ours—in fact better than ours; there is a kingdom, everything. So what is the difference!” So the indulger will not bow. And how will the renouncer! The renouncer stands against indulgence. He will say: this is precisely the sin. Who will understand Janaka!
There is a mention that Kabir had a son: Kamal. Considering he remained Kamal—“wonder”—Kabir named him “Kamal.” And when Kabir gives a name, it is not casual; he must have thought. But about Kamal the other disciples were very jealous. He was Kabir’s son, so he had a prestige—hence the disciples felt jealous. And they were afraid that in the end he might become the successor. So to push that son aside, they kept bringing a thousand complaints against him.
At last Kabir said: Fine, what is your complaint? They said: There is a great difference between you and him—he is just the opposite of you. We suspect he speaks of renunciation only on the surface, within he is an indulger. Separate him from you; because of him your reputation suffers. Look—just yesterday a wealthy man came to offer you a thousand coins; you refused; he was sitting outside at the door; he asked the rich man: “What are you carrying?” The rich man said: A donation for Kabir—he doesn’t accept. And what did Kamal say? Kamal said: You have carried the load this far—will you carry the load back home again! Put it down here!
So the disciples said: This is dishonesty, trickery. Kabir will understand. He said: Fine, we will separate Kamal. Kamal’s hut was shifted nearby. The king of Kashi sometimes came to Kabir. He did not see Kamal. He had interest in Kamal. He asked: “Kamal is not visible?” Kabir said: The disciples hounded him; I put him apart; he’s in the hut nearby. He asked the reason and Kabir told him.
So the king went. He took out a precious diamond from his pocket and said to Kamal: I came to offer this to you. Kamal said: You’ve brought a stone! Shall I eat it or drink it? What shall I do with it! Hearing this, the king thought within: Ah! People say he is an indulger—and this one, what greater renouncer could be! Such a precious diamond—perhaps in India there is no other like it! He began to put it back in his pocket. Kamal said: Now that you’ve brought it, where are you taking it back! It is a stone, put it here! Then the king grew a little doubtful. He asked: “Where shall I put it?” Kamal said: If you ask where to put it, then take it back. Because then you have not understood it as a stone—you still value it. Put it anywhere—it’s a stone! But how could the king accept it as a stone. It was a precious diamond. He said: I will wedge it here in your hut—that too to test him. The thatch was of straw; he wedged it there. He thought, as soon as I go Kamal will take it down. Eight days later he returned. He asked Kamal: I had brought a diamond... Kamal said: A diamond doesn’t exist—where will you bring it from? Everything is stones!
The king said: Well, stone then! I had wedged it here in your hut—what became of it? Kamal said: If no one took it out, it will be there—look.
The diamond was wedged there still.
Now Kamal is difficult to understand. Neither the indulger will understand him, nor the renouncer. This is the supreme state. Kabir said rightly that his name is Kamal—wonder. But the disciples put great meanings on it. They took it to mean Kabir had scorned Kamal. There is a saying of Kabir: “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal!” The Kabir-panthis say it is a condemnation of Kamal—that with the birth of this Kamal my lineage is ruined. “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal.” But it was said in great praise! A lineage ends only when a son like Kamal is born; otherwise the chain continues. Then Kamal had no son. Hence the lineage ended. Jesus had no son.
In the Bible there is a genealogy: God made Adam and Eve; then their son so-and-so; then so-and-so; then so-and-so—the lineage continues. Then to Mary and Joseph, Jesus was born—and then, no one else; with Jesus, everything stopped. “The lineage of Kabir sank, a son Kamal was born.” Those who were born one after another—the chain continued—but at Jesus it broke with a jerk. The peak came. The ultimate height arrived. There remained no place to go beyond. The journey ended, the goal arrived.
That is the meaning of Kabir: “The lineage of Kabir sank, a son Kamal was born.” Said in great ecstasy. But the disciples took it to mean that Kabir said it in anger. Kabir cannot speak in anger. If Kabir does not understand Kamal, who will! He was his son—he went two steps ahead of him. Kabir’s lineage ran a little; Kamal’s lineage didn’t. The ultimate height arrived!
But such a person is difficult to understand; for to the indulger he looks indulger-like, to the renouncer he does not look renouncer-like. His renunciation is supreme—where both indulgence and renunciation drop.

‘Abandoning both renunciation and acceptance, I abide in ease.’

And as long as you cling to one, you will remain unhappy. Whoever clings, suffers. Hence Krishnamurti keeps saying: choiceless awareness. Do not choose! Do not choose at all! Become choice-less; otherwise you will remain entangled. This is the entanglement. Become a witness to both—do not choose. In choicelessness there is transcendence.

‘Somewhere is the suffering of the body, somewhere the tongue is pained, and somewhere the mind is afflicted. Therefore, abandoning all three, I am happily established in the purushartha, in the bliss of the Self.’

कुत्रापि खेदः कायस्य जिह्वा कुत्रापि खिद्यते।
मनः कुत्रापि तत्त्यक्त्वा पुरुषार्थे स्थितः सुखम्‌।।

Kutra api kāyasya khedaḥ...
There are bodily sorrows—thousands. All diseases are hidden in the body. Given time, some disease manifests; but they are there inside. We are born carrying all diseases. The body itself has been called “vyadhi”—affliction—by the wise. The root of all diseases is there, because body is the first disease.
Understand this. To be in the body is to be in disease. To be in the body is to be in upadhi—limitation. Entangled—and the further entanglements come by themselves. Somewhere is sorrow due to illness; somewhere sorrow due to old age; somewhere sorrow that one is ugly. And the strange thing is, those who are healthy are not happy either. Those who are beautiful are not happy. It seems happiness with the body is not possible. The sick are unhappy—understandable; but what of the healthy? They are not seen to be happy either.
Have you noticed? When you are ill, then you are more unhappy—that’s all. When you are healthy, you are not that unhappy; but unhappy still. Have you ever danced in the street just because you were healthy today, no illness? No—then you don’t even notice. If healthy, health is not noticed; you forget. If sick, you notice the sickness and there is pain.
Those who are ugly—unhappy. Every moment a problem: I am ugly. They groom and preen—but it won’t do. Ask the beautiful. They do not seem happy either.
America’s great actress Monroe committed suicide. She was the most beautiful of women. President Kennedy was mad about her. Many great lovers she had. In America perhaps there was not a single rich man who was not crazy for her. Whoever she wished, she could have obtained; whatever she wished, she could have had. She committed suicide! What happened? She was not happy. Beauty does not make you happy; lack of beauty certainly makes you unhappy.
In this life it seems that with the body, happiness is simply not possible. Happiness has no relation to the body. Somewhere the body is in sorrow. Somewhere the tongue—speech—is pained. Someone is unhappy because he has no intelligence, no ideas, no eloquence. Ask those who have intelligence, eloquence, ideas—many among them commit suicide, go mad.
Among the great thinkers of the West in the last fifty years, nearly half went mad. They were very intelligent. Nietzsche! A profound genius of speech. Once in centuries someone like Nietzsche receives such capacity for word and thought. Read Thus Spake Zarathustra—it feels a prophet, a seer, a Tirthankara is speaking. But Nietzsche died mad. And all his life he was unhappy. What was the matter?
Those who have no speech are mute. Those who have speech go deranged. Those who have no thought are poor, they long—if only I had intelligence. Those who do—what do they do with it? They create more trouble for themselves—raise a thousand entanglements—spread a web of worries and torment.
Somewhere speech is pained, and somewhere the mind is. Even if nothing else—body healthy, mind skillful, capacity for expression, life full in every way—still the mind is unhappy. Because the mind has a rule—the demand for what is not, is the rule of the mind. In what is, the mind finds no juice; in what is not, there is juice. The flavor is in absence. So the mind will remain unhappy. No one has found a way to make the mind happy. Hence the wise began to find a way out of the mind. The intelligent stepped outside the mind—for they saw that the mind’s very nature is not to be happy.
Janaka says: There are strange sorrows—of body, of speech, of mind! Therefore I have abandoned all three, and have stood immersed in that where I am neither speech, nor body, nor mind. In that witnessing, I abide happily.

‘No action done is truly done by the Self. Knowing this in reality, whatever action comes to be done, I do it and abide happily.’

Man is deceiving himself. With deceits, nothing changes—everything remains as it was; only if the process of self-deception is dropped does transformation happen.
I have heard: Surta Bhai lost his way. Night fell. He climbed a tree and saw far away a lamp burning. He went straight there. He saw a house in the fields, a cot outside. He sat there. The husband and wife inside were terribly miserly; they became angry seeing a guest outside. They planned to stage a fake quarrel. The wife would cry, the husband would beat her. Inside they began their fake fight. A great commotion. Surta Bhai got scared. Lest he be beaten, he slipped under the cot. The husband and wife came out; not seeing the guest there, they were delighted. The husband said: “Did you see how I beat you!” The wife said: “Did you see how I cried!” And from beneath the cot Surta Bhai came out and said: “Did you see how I went!”
Nothing changes—things remain the same in trickery. Look back at your life. You have tried every method, every deceit—did anything change? In the end you will find—Surta Bhai emerges and says: “Did you see how I went!” Nothing went anywhere. Everything is as it was. Most people die just as they were born. Not an atom of revolution happens in their life, nothing changes. The whole opportunity of life is wasted.
These sutras are sutras of self-revolution.

‘No action done is truly done by the Self.’

Understand. It is difficult. Janaka is saying: whatever you do, it is not done by you. Prakriti does it. This is very difficult, but very true. There is no greater truth than this. And one day you will have to understand it. The hunger arises in the body. The search for food is undertaken by the body. At most, the mind assists. Mind is a part of the body. Mind and body are not two. Mind is the subtle body and the body the gross mind. They are two halves of one thing. Hunger arises—mind makes arrangements—bring bread, cook food, beg or earn—many ways. But as far as you—the consciousness—are concerned, you are outside.

‘No action done is truly done by the Self. Knowing this in reality, whatever action comes to be done, I do it and abide happily.’

Listen—this sentence is very sweet. And not only sweet—equally true: whatever comes, I do it. Hunger comes—I eat. Sleep comes—I sleep. Someone speaks—I reply. But I remain awake to one fact—that I am not the doer in it. Whatever comes to be done, I do.

The wave returns to the unfathomable sea.
It is a solemn moment—keep still, hold silence!
Let what is to happen, happen;
For all the past bears witness
that what is to be, is what is occurring.

This is an ancient, beginningless saga of what has happened—
written, stored in memories,
known or unknown, forgotten or made forgotten.
The wave returns to the unfathomable sea.
Keep peace, hold silence!
Let what is to happen, happen;
For all the past bears witness
that what is to be, is what is occurring.

Look back. Turn the pages of your life. Search in the past, dig. You will find: what is to happen, is what happened. Needlessly you got disturbed in between. Without you too, it would have happened. Even had you not been so agitated, it would have happened. Failure was destined—you being calm or disturbed wouldn’t change it. In your hands is only so much: to save yourself from agitation, to save yourself from misery, from pain, from anguish. What is to happen will happen. What is to happen has always happened. But our mind wants to rebel. Because only when we do something do we feel the thrill, the intoxication; then it seems: I am!
I was reading a song yesterday:

I must pray—
and to accept it, to make it possible—
is equally simple for You!

A devotee prays to God:

I must pray—
and to accept it, to make it possible—
is equally simple for You.
That, wherever You move, I may move too;
That, whichever path You hold, I may hold too;
That, to Your steps I may fit my steps;
That, wherever You pull me, I may be drawn—
whence You wish to save me, I may be saved;
that I see nothing, think nothing,
do nothing on my own—
this I cannot do.
To slip away, to go apart, to stumble, to roll—
in short, to do something on my own—restless,
fidgety—that is my desire today.

Even in prayer man says: O Lord, let me do as You do; let Your will be done. People say: “Without His will not even a leaf stirs.” Yet, somewhere inside, the ego declares:

This I cannot do.
To slip away, to go apart, to stumble, to roll—
in short, to do something on my own—restless,
fidgety—that is my desire today.

The ego constantly tries: “Let me do something on my own! Let me be the doer!” This desire to be the doer is the source of all hell.
Do as much as you like—what is to happen is what happens. Sometimes success happens indeed, sometimes failure happens indeed—but by happenstance. Neither can you bring success by your hand, nor failure. Despite your utmost striving, sometimes you fail; and lying idle, sometimes you succeed. Have you noticed?
I was an M.A. student at the university. My professor—now dead—had great affection for me. He used to say, If you work a little, the gold medal is yours; give even an hour to study and the gold medal is yours. I would say to him, If it is to come, it will. This did not sit well with him. He would say, How will it come like that? Only if you do something will it come; if you do nothing, how will it come?
Three months before the exam he said to me: Let’s have a test. Come to my house and stay there, so I see whether you do anything or not.
I stayed with him three months. I tied up all the books and put them away. He was a bit afraid. After five-seven days he said: Leave this obstinacy; what’s the point of this stubbornness? Lest you lose needlessly. I said: If I must lose, I will; if I must gain, I will. But now this won’t change. Now I am not opening these books. After a month he grew very nervous. He said: Forgive me; I take back my words—but you study. I said: There is no question of your taking back anything; in any case I was not going to study because of you. I was going to do what I was going to do. And what is to happen, will happen.
When the exam came close he grew so alarmed he said: Do this—I will tell you what is coming; at least that... I have never done such a thing; but I feel pity, and wonder if you are mad. Because I would lie on the grass in his lawn; sleep in the sun or under the trees’ shade. Three months I did not touch a book. I said: Even if you tell me, it is useless—because I am not going to pick up a book. I will come to the exam without touching a book.
On the last night he could not hold out. It was eleven at night—he knocked and said: Listen, here is the paper. I said: Look, you are spoiling everything by your own hand. Three months have gone—only the night remains; in the morning what will be, will be. What will I do with the paper? Even if I know what is coming—well, I will know in the morning anyway; what is the hurry? I am not going to read in between.
When I received the gold medal his state was worth seeing—he danced with joy. He said: Unbelievable! Perhaps you are right—what is to happen, will. Still I cannot quite believe. It happened—but still...
Years passed. Whenever he met me he would say: Tell me, how did you do it? What was the secret? I would say: I stayed at your house three months; you know—I was before your eyes twenty-four hours. I gave you the key to the books. I never came back to fetch the books afterward either; they are still lying at your place. I never opened them. I made an experiment—I took a gamble—that what is to happen, will happen.
But he could not believe.
You too, many times, will succeed without doing anything—still you will not believe; you will say: It must have been a coincidence; it happened by chance.
But the truth of life is this: what is to happen is what happens. What happens is what happens. Knowing such truth, if you take a step back, the clouds of peace will rain in your life. Then what unrest? Then there is bliss, and only bliss.

‘Knowing in truth that nothing whatsoever is done by the Self, whatever comes to be done, I do it and abide happily.’

“Whatever comes to be done.”
If it comes to the door—fine, I get it done; otherwise there is no relish in doing, and no insistence upon not-doing either.

कृतं किमपि नैव स्यादिति संचिन्त्य तत्त्वतः।
यदा यत्कर्तुमायाति तत्कृत्वाऽसे यथासुखम्‌।।

Kritam kimapi eva na atmakritam syāt...
No, nothing done is mine. Nothing done is my doing. On all deeds are the signatures of God. Remove your signature—and you stop creating hell. Enlarge your signature—and your hell grows likewise.

इति तत्त्वतः संचिन्त्य...

Knowing thus, experiencing thus, realizing such truth.

यदा यत्‌ कर्तुं आयाति तत्‌ कृत्वा—

Whatever comes, whatever appears before me—

आयाति तत्‌ कृत्वा—

I do it. There is no refusal. No laziness. No rush to do. No madness to do. Neither tamas nor rajas—there the rise of sattva.
Tamas means: lying idle. The house is on fire, yet he lies there.
Rajas means: the house is not yet on fire—he has gone to buy insurance; he is digging a well, making arrangements—because when the fire comes, then you will not be able to arrange. He is dying in arrangements—whether fire comes or not. The house may be saved, the arranger will die—in arranging.
Sattva means: neither rajas nor tamas; where both are balanced. If the house catches fire, he will get up, fetch water, put it out. Whatever comes—he does. But for it there is no planning, no dreaming, no calculation. Whatever the present indicates and does—he does.

यथासुखं आसे...

Therefore I abide happily.

Man remains a doer, and yet somewhere, on some plane of consciousness, it keeps being known that one’s own doing does not accomplish. How much effort you make to succeed—and failure lands in your hands. And sometimes, uninvited, wealth rains through the thatch.
I have heard, a Jewish tale: A king believed thus—that what is to be, is. In the town there was a beggar—only one beggar. The capital was wealthy. He was blind—not blind of the eyes, but a certain blindness: whatever he did, turned out wrong. He would choose wrongly, go in the wrong direction. When everyone else was selling in the market, he would be buying. When prices were falling, he would get trapped. Whatever he did, turned out wrong. The ministers felt pity. They said to the king: The entire town is rich—this one man remains entangled. His fate is inverted, his intelligence reversed. When the world is doing something, he won’t. When all are earning money, he will not. When all sow the crop, he sits idle. When it is the season to sow, he will not sow; when the season passes, he will sow. Then the seed rots; it does not sprout. The crop does not come, what was in his hand is lost. Have mercy on him.
The king said: Mercy will accomplish nothing—but since you say, let us make an experiment.
That man returned from the market each evening, crossing a bridge to go home. The king said: Empty the bridge. Place on the middle of the bridge a big pot filled with gold coins. The king and ministers sat on the other bank. The bridge was cleared—no one else could pass.
That man came along, in his own tune, lost in his own thoughts, humming, lips fluttering. The ministers were amazed—no sooner did he step on the bridge than he closed his eyes. They were astonished—What madness! Why close eyes on a bridge! But with closed eyes, groping, he crossed, leaving the pot where it was—for to a blind man, what is a pot! When he reached the other side, the king said: Look... They grabbed him. They asked: Great man, why did you close your eyes? He said: For many days I had an idea—to cross the bridge once with eyes closed. Today, seeing the bridge empty—no one at all—I thought, let me do it; this chance may not come again. The path is empty—let’s pass. For the experience—can one walk with closed eyes?
“Today of all days it occurred to you?”
“No, the plan was old—but the route never used to be empty. People coming and going—might have been jostled.”
The king said: What is to be, is.
You will find some way to fail, or success will come searching for you. This truth is most difficult—for nothing can be more opposite to the ego. Only the akinchana, who has dropped ego, will understand it.

That I do not set my own goal;
That I do not choose my own path;
That I have not crafted my own gait;
That my eyes fail to see ditches and pits;
That I hesitate, falter, to take risks;
That shouldering my own responsibility frightens me—
None of this is so.

In the beginning there was awareness somewhere,
there must have been some great mistake—
You will manage it at once.
Even in the end I want assurance—
my arm is not without a Hand to hold!

Somewhere above, all that play goes on—of defeat and victory, success and failure, happiness and sorrow—but within, in the depth of the unconscious, there is a sense too:

There was some great mistake—
You will manage it at once.
Even in the end I want assurance—
my arm is not without a Hand to hold!

That sense remains. Man is a paradox. On one plane he tries to be the doer, and on another he also knows he is non-doer—and You hold my arm, so You will manage. He tries on his own to manage, and within he also knows—You will manage if I wander too far. Between these two dilemmas man breaks. In this respect the Westerners are better—they have dropped the first thing altogether. They do not believe You will manage; You are not! God is dead. That chapter is over. Now only by oneself must one do what is to be done. Man is the doer—no one else.
So in Westerners you find a certain simplicity, no dilemma. Two and two are four. When an Indian comes, look deeply within him; sometimes two and two seem five, sometimes two and two three. Two and two are never four. Some obstruction is there. He has heard Great Truths. He has not known them—he has heard them. Proclamations of Great Truths have been made so often in this land—sometimes Buddha, sometimes Mahavira, sometimes Krishna, sometimes Ashtavakra—he has heard them. He cannot deny them. The Indian consciousness has seen these great beings. For centuries they have come. They cannot be denied. Their presence has left deep imprints. Their voice echoes—merging into our blood. Even if we wish to forget, we cannot. And our ego too is there—we do not wish to falsify it either. We also go on obeying our ego. Such a dilemma! In this dilemma man is broken into fragments.
To me, the Eastern man seems more cunning than the Western man. The Western man is settled on one statement—that man is the doer. The Eastern man wavers between two. His boat goes both ways at once. He has yoked oxen on both sides of his cart. His bones are breaking; his skeleton is being torn. And there is great dishonesty. What dishonesty? If the Eastern man wins, he says: I won. If he loses, he says: It was written in fate. This dishonesty arises. In defeat he says: It was written—what could I do! When victory comes he forgets this. Then he says: I have won.

‘Body-attached are the yogis who, bound by the notions of action and inaction. I, being utterly separate from the union and disunion of the body, abide happily.’

Listen! Janaka says: Body-attached are the yogis! The indulgent are body-attached, and the yogis too. Their attachments differ in style—but they are attachments. The indulger worries to decorate his life. He worries to arrange comforts for the body; to prepare a velvet bed. And the renouncer worries to fix the posture; to master the siddhasana, the yogasanas, to do hatha yoga, to control the breath. But the efforts of both apply to the body. The yogi’s effort may be better than the indulger’s—but not different. The plane is the same; the dimension is the same.

कर्मनैष्कर्म्यनिर्बंधभावा देहस्थ योगिनः।
संयोगायोगविरहादहमासे यथासुखम्‌।।

Even the yogis are body-attached—those who are bound to the fetters of action and inaction; who think: I will not do. Yogi means: one who has stopped doing. Indulger means: one who is entangled in doing. But both—action and non-action—are different expressions of the same energy. So Janaka says: I, being utterly separate from the union and disunion of the body, abide happily.

‘For me, neither standing still nor walking nor sleeping brings meaning or non-meaning...’
Listen!
‘For me, neither standing still, nor walking, nor sleeping brings meaning or non-meaning. Therefore, standing, going, and sleeping, I abide happily.’
Have you ever heard a more revolutionary sutra!

अर्थानर्थौ न मे स्थित्या गत्या वा शयनेन वा।
तिष्ठन्‌ गच्छन्‌ स्वपंस्तस्मादहमासे यथासुखम्‌।

Janaka says: Sleeping, I am the same; waking, I am the same. No difference. And for me there is no distinction of meaning and non-meaning.
When sleep comes, I sleep. When it is time to walk, I walk. When it is time to sit, I sit.
Zen masters have said this again and again. Therefore I say: Zen masters should attend to Ashtavakra’s Gita. There is no greater Zen statement.
Someone asked Bokuju: What do you do? What is your practice? We never see you sitting in meditation; never see you doing pranayama; never see you in yogasanas; no worship, no scripture. What do you do? What is your practice?
Bokuju said: When sleep comes, I sleep; when hunger comes, I eat. When the feeling to walk arises, I walk. When the feeling to sit arises, I sit. This is my practice.
‘For me, neither standing, nor going, nor sleeping brings meaning or non-meaning. Therefore, standing, going, and sleeping, I abide happily.’
Now there is no choosing left.
A young man was brought to me. His mind was going out of order. A university student. I asked: “What happened to you? What trouble has come upon you? Why have you so disturbed your mind?” He said: I am a disciple of Swami Sivananda. Reading his books I have been practicing yoga. Swami Sivananda wrote: don’t sleep more than five hours. So I sleep five hours. And it is written: get up at three in the night—so I get up at three.
Whoever gets up at three will feel sleepy in the day. He was a university student.
“So I feel sleepy in the day. Looking into the books, Sivananda has written: if you feel sleepy in the day, your food is tamasic; purify your food. So I drink only milk.”
Then he began to grow weak. On one side only milk—he grew weak; on the other—cut the night’s sleep—the rest that sleep gives ended. The threads of the mind began to snap. Madness approached. In those books it is also written: such inconveniences come upon the aspirant; such hardships in tapasya. So he found consolation for that as well.
This is a trap he has raised himself.
Five hours of sleep cannot be right for all. In old age—perhaps. In old age sleep decreases of itself. And often scriptures are written in old age. They write from their own experience—and rightly. In old age appetite also diminishes. Truly, milk is right food for old age. The old become childlike again. Life becomes as limited as the small child’s. Nothing is being created any more in life; milk suffices. Sleep also decreases of itself.
The child in the mother’s womb sleeps twenty-four hours. If he were to read Sivananda there—he’s dead! After birth he sleeps twenty-two hours. If he reads Sivananda—gone! Then twenty hours, then sixteen. By youth he sleeps eight, seven. This is natural. As one becomes old, sleep decreases. Because the need of sleep is one—repair of the broken threads in the body. In the old, the rebuilding of threads has stopped; so less sleep is needed. The child sleeps twenty-four hours in the womb, because a thousand things are being built—sleep is needed. Deep sleep is needed so there is no disturbance—let all work proceed quietly. In the darkness of sleep, building happens. That is why the seed goes under the soil—there it sprouts. On a rock in the light it does not. Darkness is needed. That is why the sperm goes into the mother’s womb—in darkness it develops. Darkness is needed. Deep sleep is needed. Rest is needed.
In the old, sleep ends by itself. Old people come to me; they have another trouble. They say: We used to sleep eight hours; now only three. Insomnia has struck.
This is not a disease. In old age, naturally, sleep decreases. If you insist on sleeping eight hours—it is not possible. Food too decreases. The need has lessened. In youth: more food.
Now this young man—his life is growing. If he sleeps five hours, he will feel sleepy by day. Sleepiness is thought to be caused by tamasic food. It is not food—he has reduced sleep; thus he feels sleepy. Then reading the scripture: tamasic food—so change food. Then weakness increased. Now the brain’s threads are snapping; their rebuilding stopped. Now he is becoming deranged. He thinks the state of paramhansa is approaching.
Beware of such traps.
Janaka’s sutras are important. Neither by standing still, nor by moving, nor by sleeping—now there is any attachment. What happens—however much happens—I am content. There is no meaning or non-meaning. The reason—standing, going, sleeping—I abide happily.

Untie the boat—
let it drift where it drifts.
The boat can cross without me—
I can drown without the boat.
Come, untie the boat,
let it drift silently where it drifts.
Let me be—
if, dropping the oar, I gaze at the shoreless expanse—
untie the boat,
let it drift where it drifts.

Janaka’s sutras are sutras of surrender. It is Ashtavakra shining out of Janaka. It is the Master speaking through the disciple. It is the Master who has raised these waves in the disciple’s heart. And you will note: Ashtavakra speaks, then falls silent; then lets Janaka speak. Having heard that what Ashtavakra spoke reached Janaka’s heart—began to sprout, to leaf, to flower; and note: Ashtavakra’s words are like seeds, and Janaka’s words like flowers. Therefore Janaka’s words appear even more beautiful—more beautiful even than Ashtavakra’s. But those words are Ashtavakra’s. Ashtavakra falls like a seed in Janaka’s heart; there they sprout, leaf, and flower. The fragrance of those flowers is in these words.
Ashtavakra must have attained a unique bliss hearing Janaka’s words. As a mother rejoices when her child speaks for the first time, so hearing Janaka’s utterances, Ashtavakra must have rejoiced immensely. Rarely has a disciple ever satisfied a Master so deeply!
I have heard of a Hasid mystic. He was a great scholar, a learned man. And as often happens to the learned—so with him. When he was about fifty he became an atheist. Till then he had taught religion to countless people. Then he became an atheist. In those fifty years—through him—countless attained saintliness. Then he became an atheist. All abandoned him—except his disciple, Rabbi Meir, who kept visiting. He kept saying to his Master: Return, what color is this you have taken up at the end! But how can a disciple persuade the Master! The Master was a great logician; he would shatter all arguments. He had become rebellious. On his deathbed, his disciple came and said: Now please, return—leave argument. I know you.
The Master opened his eyes and said: Will God forgive me now? He wept—and died. The next day people came running and said: What we feared is happening—flames are rising from your Master’s grave—as if he were in hell!
Meir went and said: Look... He spread a sheet over the grave and said: Listen—enough of the rebellion; do not keep troubling to the end. Sleep peacefully through the night; God will forgive you, give you liberation, give you peace. And if by morning God does nothing—I will liberate you; I will give you peace!
A voice came from above: Meir, what are you saying! A disciple will liberate the Master!
Meir said: Yes, I will! For whatever I am, I am but my Master’s shadow. And if I am so pure of heart, I cannot accept that my Master has become impure. He is playing a game. He awakened me—how can I accept that he has gone to sleep! He is playing a game. So I say: Either God will understand you—or if God’s compassion has dried up, do not worry—by morning I will come and liberate you and bring you peace.
When a disciple blossoms, the Master is liberated again. Once he was liberated by his own; now, whenever a disciple flowers, the Master is liberated again and again. As many disciples as flower, so many times the Master tastes moksha, so many times he savors liberation.
Ashtavakra must have attained supreme rejoicing. For these sutras are most unique.

‘While sleeping, there is no loss for me, nor while striving is there any attainment. Therefore, abandoning both loss and gain, I abide happily.’

स्वपतो नास्ति मे हानिः सिद्धिर्यत्नवतो न वा।
नाशोल्लासौ विहायास्मादहमासे यथासुखम्‌।।

‘While sleeping, there is no loss for me...’
Listen! Janaka says: Even asleep I am the same—what loss! Even when astray I am the same—what loss! In the darkest night I am still a limb of Light—what loss! Standing in the world I am connected to God—what loss!
‘There is no attainment by striving.’
Attainment has no relation to effort—because attainment is not something to be acquired from outside; you are born siddha—accomplished. It is your very nature.
‘Therefore, abandoning both loss and gain, I abide happily.’
In dream it is You—and in waking, You.

When did anything else delight me in the light?
When did darkness hide You from me?
You are the night, and You are the morning ray;
In dream it is You—and in waking, You.

My attention goes only towards You;
In my goal nothing else ever comes.
You are in my heart—and You are in my contemplation;
In dream it is You—and in waking, You.

It is You who roams as form;
It is You who resounds as raga.
You are in the eyes—and You in the inner being;
In dream it is You—and in waking, You.

Moment to moment, the One alone is. He never became two, never many. He appears many. As when the moon is full and in every lake of the world it reflects—it appears many. In puddles, in lakes, seas, rivers, reservoirs—how many reflections! The moon is one. Lift your eyes above—one; get lost in reflections below—many. But even when you think many—the moon remains one. By your thinking only you are deluded; the moon does not become many; the moon remains one.
‘While sleeping, no loss; nor by striving, any attainment.’
He who has known thus—can there be tension in his life? Restlessness? This is a state beyond meditation, beyond Samadhi.

‘Therefore, having seen again and again the impermanence of pleasure and the rest in various situations, and abandoning auspicious and inauspicious, I abide happily.’

सुखादिरूपानियमं भावेष्वालोक्य भूरिशः।
शुभाशुभे विहायास्मादहमासे यथासुखम्‌।

Again and again I have seen: happiness and sorrow, gain and loss—everything is impermanent.
Having done much that is auspicious—and inauspicious too—I have seen: all is momentary; lines drawn on water, hardly formed and already gone. Therefore now I have no longing in the auspicious nor relish in the inauspicious. No relish in attachment nor in detachment. I no longer desire that sorrow should not be, nor that happiness should be. Now I am free of both. Liberated from both.

यथासुखं आसे...

Now I am in happiness. This great happiness is the state of moksha, of nirvana.

No more heart-throb, nor tears, nor surge—
with time these storms have gone.

Time gone, time passed! Childhood gone, youth gone, old age gone. Waves of the body gone, waves of the mind gone. Now no storms arise, no surges.

No more heart-throb, nor tears, nor surge—
with time these storms have gone.

All has gone! And when all goes—all tempests—then what remains—that is you. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu! That thou art! That is your Brahma-nature. O Brahman, that is what you are!

Hari Om Tat Sat!