Maha Geeta #37

Today's sutras are Mahavakyas — not ordinary statements, but pearls found in an extraordinary depth. You will understand them only if you listen with utmost attentiveness. And even then, the understanding will remain intellectual. Until they are experimented with in life, you may grasp them on the surface, but their resonance will not descend into the heart. These are words that can truly be known only when they become your own experience.
Yet an intellectual grasp also has its utility. But even that will be possible only if you listen very carefully, very delicately... The statements are subtle. Miss here or there — and the mistake is made. And to misinterpret them is very easy.
The first sutra: 'He who is by nature empty of mind, yet out of pramod imagines the objects, and who, while asleep, is as if awake — that man is free from the world.'
I do not only fear that you may err; in the Ashtavakra Gita, at many places this first sutra is miscopied. What I just translated is in fact the incorrect reading. Where it says 'pramāda', it should be 'pramoda'. But the collectors must have thought pramoda was not the right word; pramāda felt more appropriate. Here pramāda is wrong. One who is by nature empty of mind — how could there be pramāda there!
Pramāda means: stupefaction, torpor, unconsciousness. One who has known the no-mind — where would pramāda be for him, where would unconsciousness be? He has come upon the supreme witnessing.
'Prakritya shunyachitto yah pramādād bhāva-bhāvanah' — this reading appears at many places. The correct reading, found only with difficulty here and there, is:
'Prakritya shunyachitto yah pramodād bhāva-bhāvanah.'
He who, out of playfulness, enters into moods; not out of pramāda, but out of pramoda.
'He who is by nature empty of mind, imagines the objects out of pramoda, and who, while asleep, is as if awake — that man is free from the world.'
Pramoda is right. Pramoda means: leela — play, playfulness. This is the greatest discovery of the East. Many religions have arisen in the world, but none has known God with the depth with which the East has — with such profundity. Ask: 'Why did God create the world?' Only the East has the precise answer: 'Playfully! Out of leela!' If God creates the world for a reason, it becomes false — because a reason implies a lack. A reason would mean God was empty, some impediment was there; He was alone.
Some religions say: God was alone, therefore He created the world. Then even God cannot remain alone! Then what chance does man have! And if God Himself seeks duality, what capacity could man have to attain nonduality? Then Advaita would be impossible. So those who say 'God was alone, bored of His loneliness, therefore He created the world' — they speak wrongly. They project the mind of man upon God. They have extended their own minds and named it the divine mind. We get restless in solitude — 'What to do, what not to do! Something to keep busy, some entanglement, somewhere to occupy the mind!' So we think God too, fed up with aloneness, created the world.
Some say: God created the world so that man could be liberated. This sounds utter stupidity. He bound man so that he may be free? Why bind at all? — man was already free! He created a prison so that you may be liberated! Strange indeed: a prison built so you can be free from it! You were free — what was the need to imprison you? No, there can be no meaning in a cause, because God is causeless; He is complete, there is no lack, no absence. He is sat-chit-ananda. Loneliness does not rankle Him. Surely it must be so, for even on earth we have seen such ones who, alone, are in supreme bliss.
Buddha sits beneath the bodhi tree — utterly alone! But nothing is lacking, everything is fulfilled. Mahavira stands naked in the mountains, solitary; Mahavira even names the last state 'kaivalya'. Kaivalya means: only aloneness remains; only consciousness remains; none other remains; no second is left. Buddha calls that aloneness 'nirvana' — not only the other has disappeared, you too have gone out. Nirvana means: blown out! As when a lamp is burning, someone blows, and the flame goes out — we say: the lamp attained nirvana. Not only others have gone, you too have gone. Such aloneness that even you are not there! Only emptiness remains. And still Buddha is in supreme bliss, Mahavira is in supreme bliss. Then what shall we say of God!
That is why we have called Buddha and Mahavira divine. In truth, he who has known aloneness as joy — that alone is our criterion of the divine. That is the sign of God.
To be happy in aloneness means: the other is no longer needed. You are now complete. As long as the other is needed, there is pain. That is why lovers cannot forgive one another. Forgiveness is not possible. Because as long as the other is needed, there is bondage to the other. And towards whom we are bound, towards that one there is anger. Husband is angry with wife, wife with husband. The anger has a deep cause. Do not search on the surface — 'This wife is wicked, this husband is bad, this friend is unreliable.' The cause runs deeper: that upon whom our happiness depends, we become slaves to them. None wants slavery. Freedom is desired. The deepest longing is for freedom.
So from whom we derive happiness... If your happiness depends on your wife, you will be angry with her. A thorn will prick within: the key to happiness is in her hands — sometimes she opens the door, sometimes not. You are her slave. Slavery gives pain.
We call that state moksha when the key is in your own hands. There is not even any need to lock or unlock. Keep the door open — who will close it, and why? Be bathed in bliss day and night!
God did not create the world out of any sorrow, any pain, any lack. Then why did He create it? Only the East has given the precise answer: 'Playfully! Out of leela! In exuberance.' As little children play, build sand-castles, even quarrel and fight...
Buddha said: I was passing by a river, some children were playing, building houses of sand. There was great quarreling among them — sometimes someone’s house collapsed with a push, someone’s foot fell on another’s, and they began to beat one another. Buddha stood and watched, for it struck him: just like this is the world. Here people build mud houses; when they fall, they weep, they are in pain, anger... courts and lawsuits they file. The same as children do, the grown-ups do. Then evening came. The sun began to set, and from the riverbank a voice called: 'Children, now go home, it is evening.' And all the children ran — to their own homes. The very houses for whose protection they had fought — they themselves leapt and stamped on them, erased them, left the place empty, laughed heartily, and returned home.
Buddha would say to his bhikkhus: such is the state of the fully enlightened. He sees — it was his own play; if he wished, he could continue to play. But now the play does not bind; the very houses one fought for can be dropped by one’s own hands.
God is playing. Ask: 'Why does He play?' The East says: this is the very nature of energy. Energy expresses. Energy manifests. Songs arise, dances arise, flowers arise, birds are born. This is the sign that God is living. These are not flowers, not trees, not you here — this is God manifesting in countless ripples, in countless waves. It is the sign of His being. It is not happening for any reason. If there were no flowers, no trees, no plants, no birds, no people, no moon and stars — God would be dead, there would be no life in Him. The waves that rise on the ocean — these are the signs that the ocean is alive.
God is the great Life. Therefore He manifests in infinite forms. This manifestation is without a cause. Birds sing at dawn — causelessly. Flowers bloom on trees — causelessly. Sometimes you too feel like doing something causelessly. Whenever you do something causelessly, you are nearest to God.
Hence I say again and again: meditate causelessly. Do not think, 'I will get peace of mind.' If you do it with the idea of gaining peace, you have missed; it becomes a business, not religion. Do it causelessly! Do it for the joy of doing! 'For one’s own delight Tulsi sang the tale of Raghunath.' Sing for one’s own delight.
Someone must have asked Tulsidas: 'Why did you compose the story of Rama?' Tulsidas said: 'For no reason — for my own joy, I, Tulsi, sang the saga of Raghunath.' I said this tale only for my own delight.
A poet sings because he cannot remain without singing. The song wells up! As rain pours from the cloud, so the poet showers. The musician plays the veena, the dancer dances — it is energy!
Nijinsky, the celebrated Russian dancer, was asked: 'Do you not tire of dancing?' He said: 'I tire when I do not dance. When I dance, I grow wings. When I dance, then I am. Then I am intensely. When I do not dance, I become sad; my life-energy wanes. When the life-energy expresses, then it truly is.'
Meditate — for your own delight! Not for any tomorrow, but for the joy that is now, out of pramod!
This is the first sutra: 'He who is by nature empty of mind imagines the objects out of pramod.'
Playfully! Janaka is saying he does not run away from the world. And even if he leaves, he leaves out of pramod; he never becomes serious. This is the supreme mark of the sage — he is not serious. Yet you will always find your so-called saints serious, as if they were doing some heavy work. Have you ever seen God serious? But the so-called saints you will find forever grave, as if carrying a burden! Performing austerities, doing worship, praying. Everything smells of duty, not of one’s own delight. Have you seen God dull anywhere? Wherever you look there is a shout of joy. Wherever you look there is ecstasy. Wherever you look, it bursts forth like a spring. Open your eyes a little — in the moon and the stars, in the sun, in trees, in mountains, in valleys and gorges — everywhere there is laughter, giggling, a gentle smile, a dance is underway, a night-and-day dance is underway.
Therefore the Hindus called God Nataraj — the Cosmic Dancer. He is dancing. And there is great meaning in this Nataraj. If the sculptor makes a statue, the statue becomes separate, the sculptor separate. Even if the sculptor dies, the statue remains. But when the dancer dies, the dance does not remain. The dancer and the dance cannot be separated. If the dancer goes, the dance goes. We did not call God a sculptor. Those who did, did not know. Some have said: God is like a potter. Those who said so must have been potters; not much intelligence was there. God is not making pots. God is Nataraj — He is dancing. If the dance stops, if God withdraws, you will not be able to save anything.
Understand it thus: you cannot separate the dance from the dancer, nor the dancer from the dance. Because the moment dance stops, the dancer is no longer a dancer. He is a dancer only while there is dance. They are conjoined. Two sides of one wave, not separate. God is dancing. This whole universe is His dance. In pramod, in wonder, for one’s own delight!
Therefore, in this first sutra, replace pramāda with pramoda. Pramāda is a terribly wrong word here. Pramāda has two meanings. The Jains and Buddhists take pramāda to mean stupor, insensibility. Mahavira constantly tells his monks: 'Live in apramāda! Be un-negligent!' Buddha tells his bhikkhus: 'Do not remain in pramāda! Wake up! Break the stupor.' The Hindu meaning of pramāda is: due to prārabdha — the effects of past actions.
'Those who by nature are of empty mind, due to pramāda — i.e., due to past karmas — remain entangled in sense-desires. Yet, as asleep there is wakefulness, so such men are free from the world.'
But even this is not right. Because the one who has known 'I am not the doer' — from him the bond of all karmas, past and future, falls away. The bondage was only in doership. In the morning you awake and you know the night’s visions were dreams; do the dreams then have any effect on you? Once awake, the dream is over. Someone might say... sometimes in small children it happens: at night he dreamed of many toys, then, waking, he found his hands empty; the child begins to cry, 'Where have my toys gone!' Because the small child does not yet know clearly the boundary between dream and waking. He has no firm line: where does dream end and waking begin. The liberated one will not even notice where the dream broke and where awakening began! We ordinary ones notice. Waking, you say, 'Ah, I dreamt so much!' The matter ends there. You do not keep accounts of the dream-stuff!
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin dreamt one night. A voice in the dream said, 'How many rupees do you want — take them!' Nasruddin said, 'A hundred.' The voice said, 'I will give ninety-nine.' Mulla became stubborn: 'Only a hundred will do.' In such bargaining his sleep broke. He was alarmed — realized it was only a dream. He quickly shut his eyes and said: 'Alright, give me ninety-nine.' But now the matter was gone. No giver, no taker. You may try whatever you want — the dream that broke has broken.
So pramāda cannot be in the Jain-Buddhist sense, for the one who has awakened, who has known no-mind — no shadow of dream, stupor, torpor remains. Nor can pramāda be in the Hindu sense of prārabdha karmas. The awakened man knows that whatever happened so far through lifetimes upon lifetimes, was a long dream. While we were not awake, it was; now we are awake — it is not. They do not co-exist.
It would be like this: Mulla worked at someone’s house. The master said: 'Go out and see, has morning come?' Mulla went out, then came back, and took a lantern with him to go out again. The master asked: 'What are you doing?' He said: 'It is very dark outside; one cannot see whether it is morning or not. So I am taking a lantern.'
When morning comes, where does darkness remain? And how will you see it with a lantern? Morning is, and that’s that. Morning means darkness is no more. The sun has risen, darkness gone. You may light a lamp and go about the room to search for darkness — 'Just now it was there, where has it gone?' Even if you bolt the doors, even if you put a guard so that darkness cannot get out — as soon as you light a lamp to see where darkness is — darkness is no more. Lamp and darkness cannot be together. Light and darkness do not coexist.
The moment someone awakens, all dreams are gone. However many dreams you may have seen through lifetimes — sometimes you were a lion, sometimes a goat, sometimes a man, sometimes a horse, sometimes a plant — all were dreams; your assumptions. You were none of those. You were the seer. Sometimes you saw a horse, sometimes a tree, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman — these were forms formed in dream. Sometimes a thief, sometimes a saint, sometimes sitting very serene, sometimes a violent killer — but all were dreams. The moment you awaken, in one stroke all dreams end. Then where is pramāda! No.
'Prakritya shunyachitto yah pramodād bhāva-bhāvanah,
Nidrito bodhita iva kshina-samsarane hi sah.'
'He who is by nature empty of mind, yet out of pramod, playfully...'
Sometimes you play with your little child. Your son wants to wrestle; the father wrestles knowing the son cannot really win, and yet he lets the son win. He suddenly lies down, the son sits on his chest — look at his ecstasy! You are in playfulness, but the son is not playing — he believes he has truly won. He will shout through the house, wave his flag: 'I pinned father down!' For him it is great glory. You had yourself lain down; you let him win. For you it was only play.
I have heard: a German thinker went to Japan. He was a guest in a house. The elderly host, around eighty, said: 'This evening there is a wedding in a friend’s family. Will you come?' He said: 'Certainly — I have come to study Japanese customs; I will not miss this opportunity.'
He went, and was amazed: there a dolls’ wedding was being performed — little children had arranged the whole ceremony and the elders too had joined. The program flowed with great grace. He was surprised. He said: 'Children play like this everywhere, they arrange doll-weddings. But elders participating, then even a procession, and all elders joining!' He could not restrain himself. Returning home, he asked: 'Forgive me — what is this all about? Children, okay — everywhere they do this. But you elders joined in!'
The old man laughed and said: 'The children are doing it as reality; we, as play. The children are so happy — it is necessary to cooperate. One day they will awaken. Our presence makes their play feel very real to them.'
Then the old man said: 'And later, what you call the real wedding — is that anything more than play? That too is play. This is the play of the small; that, the play of the big.'
The awakened one too can join the play. When God Himself is participating in the play, the awakened one can join as well.
When Bodhidharma went to China — a great Buddhist bhikkhu! After Buddha, the greatest! — the emperor came to welcome him. But seeing him, he was startled. Bodhidharma looked mad. He had one shoe on his head and one on a foot. The emperor was disturbed. It was a disgrace! The whole court was present. Many guests and dignitaries were there. All were upset — for whom have we come to welcome, he looks crazy! And Bodhidharma burst into laughter.
The emperor asked: 'What are you doing? Is your mind healthy? Did the long journey from India make you deranged? I had heard that you are the most awakened — and what are you doing!'
Bodhidharma said: 'I did this only to see whether you can recognize play as play. A shoe is a shoe — whether on the foot or on the head — all the same. I wanted to test whether you would recognize me or get entangled in my act. Look at me — not at my act. Do not get caught in action — for I have gone beyond action. Look at me! You are only seeing that a man is coming with a shoe on his head. This head will fall today or tomorrow — and thousands of shoes will one day stand upon it. And tell me — in anger, emperor Wu, haven’t you wanted to put your shoe on someone’s head?'
Have you watched your own psychology? When you revere someone, you place your head at his feet. When you are angry with someone, you want to put your shoe on his head. The wish is to lift your foot and place it upon his head; that is a bit difficult, you must be trained in circus — so symbolically you take off your shoe and put it on his head.
Bodhidharma said: 'That is why one shoe is on the foot, one on the head — to give you your own news!'
And Wu was even more disturbed, for just last evening he had, in rage, lifted his shoe and smacked it on his servant’s head. He began to sweat. He said: 'Master, have you come to know something? Please do not be so sarcastic.'
Bodhidharma is playing a game. The act is mere leela, yet useful for children.
Another Buddhist monk, Hotei, wandered through the villages of Japan. He carried a sack slung over his shoulder, filled with toys and sweets. Whoever asked him, 'Say something about Dharma, Hotei,' he would hand over a toy or a sweet. The questioner would say: 'Have you taken me for a child?' Hotei would say: 'I am looking, but I see no adults. All are entangled in play. The small are small; the big too are only big children. Big in age, still children.'
A very intelligent man asked Hotei: 'What is the meaning of Dharma?' Hotei dropped his sack on the ground. The man asked: 'And what is the practice of Dharma in life?' Hotei lifted the sack onto his shoulder and walked away. He said: 'First, drop it all — it is futile. Then, playfully, carry it all on your head — for if it is all futile, there is no meaning in either indulgence or renunciation. Then, in whatever town you live, flow along with the people.'
A well-known story by Khalil Gibran: A magician came to a village. He chanted a spell and dropped something into the village well and said: 'Whoever drinks this water will go mad.' There were only two wells — one in the palace and one in the village. The whole village drank and went mad. The king and his minister did not drink, so they remained sane. The king was happy that they had been saved — otherwise they would have gone mad. But soon the joy became sorrow — for the whole village spread the news: the king has gone mad. A village of mad people — the one man not mad is, naturally, thought crazy by all. The king said to his minister: 'This is trouble! These mad people...' But among them were his soldiers, his generals, his guards. He asked: 'What shall we do? It is dangerous.'
By evening the whole capital had gathered around the palace. They shouted: 'Remove this king! We want a sound-minded king.' The king said: 'Quickly, do something! What must be done?' The minister said: 'Sire, there is only one remedy — let us go and drink from that well.' They ran and drank the water. That night there was celebration in the town; people danced — 'Our king is sane again!' They too went mad.
This world is of mad people. Here all are unconscious. If the awakened must live among you, he must speak your language. Living among you, he must follow your rules. You obey those rules very seriously; he obeys them playfully, out of pramod!
'He who is by nature empty of mind imagines even the objects out of pramod, and while asleep is as if awake.'
Even if you find him sleeping, do not think he sleeps. When you think you are awake, even then you are asleep. Such a man — when he sleeps, he is awake.
That is why Krishna says in the Gita: 'Ya nisha sarvabhutayam tasyam jagarti sanyami — That which is night to all beings, therein the disciplined one is awake.' He may have gone to sleep with you, not wanting to disturb your sleep; yet he is awake. Somewhere in the inner world, his lamp is lit.
Janaka says: even while asleep he is as if awake.
One thing we know — that we, even while awake, are like those asleep. Then the counterpart can at least be understood intellectually — the reverse is possible.
Your eyes are open, yet you are not awake. Any small thing throws you into stupor. Someone gives a push, and you lose your awareness. You run, seize him by the neck! Someone presses your button — that is all. You are like an electric fan — the button is pressed and you start. The fan cannot say: 'I do not wish to run now.' The fan is not its own master; it is a machine. When anyone pushes your button — a slight abuse, a shove — you flare up — you too are mechanical, not yet awakened.
Someone abuses Buddha — he listens silently. He says: 'Great kindness that you came; but you have come a little late. Had you come ten years ago, we would both have enjoyed it! You have come late; I have stopped accepting abuses. You brought it, but a little late; the season is gone. Now take it home. I feel compassion for you. What will you do with it? Because I do not accept it. Giving is in your hands; you are the master of giving. But taking is in our hands. You abused me — I do not accept. What will you do?'
Have you ever seen that when someone abuses you, does the thought arise to take it or not? No! As it is hurled, it enters you. Not even a moment falls in between. Like an arrow, it pierces. Right there you become unconscious. In that stupor you can hit, beat, even kill. But it is not you who did; it is unconsciousness.
A man climbed a thatched roof and abused as Akbar’s procession passed. Soldiers caught him. Next day he was presented before Akbar. Akbar asked: 'Why did you speak such abuses? What was the cause?' The man said: 'Forgive me — I did nothing. I was drunk. I was not conscious. If you punish me for that, the one who committed the fault is another, the one punished another — such disgrace it would be. If you wish, punish me for drinking — though drinking was no crime — but do not punish me for abusing, for I did not abuse, I know nothing. If you say so, surely abuses came from me — but the wine made them come. I know nothing. How could I abuse!'
Akbar understood, and the man was freed.
That is why small children are not tried in courts; nor are mad people. If a madman kills and psychologists certify he is insane, there is no meaning in a trial — for one who is not in his senses, how to try him; he did it in unconsciousness.
But if you observe, all you do is in unconsciousness. Thieves are unconscious — yes — but the magistrate too is unconscious. Thieves are unconscious — yes — but the policeman who arrests them is just as unconscious.
Understand well the meaning of awareness and unawareness. Unawareness means: you did not act out of decision; you did not act after reflection; you did not act by being awake, after understanding the whole situation. It happened out of compulsion. Someone pressed the button — and it happened.
You are not your own master. Anything can be made to happen through you. Someone comes, flatters you — you melt; and then he can make you do anything.
Dale Carnegie wrote that he was working in a village selling insurance. There was a wealthy old lady who had not taken insurance and every agent had an eye on her. She was so annoyed with agents that if anyone said, 'I am from insurance,' she would have him thrown out. When Dale came to that village, his companions said: 'If you can get that woman to take insurance, we will accept your methods. You wrote a famous book: How to Win Friends and Influence People. Writing is one thing — winning this old lady is another.' He said: 'Alright, let’s try.'
Next morning he went. He did not enter the house, but sauntered by the garden. The old lady stood by her flowers. Her roses were famous throughout the country. He stood outside and said: 'Amazing! I have never seen such flowers.' She came closer: 'You love flowers! Come in!' She would never allow an insurance agent inside; but someone who loves flowers... He came inside. He praised each flower. They were not so special — but he built bridges of praise. The old lady blossomed. She took him inside, showed other things.
He began to come daily. One day the old lady asked: 'You seem to be an intelligent man. What is your view about insurance? Many come telling me: take insurance, take insurance.' He had not yet revealed that he was an agent. He explained that insurance is valuable and should be taken. She said: 'Is there someone you know who can do it — bring him.' He said: 'I myself.'
Slowly, slowly he had won — by flattery. Many times you even know the other is lying. You know your face; you have seen it in the mirror. Someone says: 'Ah, what a beauty!' You know your beauty — and yet you begin to believe. He says what you wanted to hear — 'your intelligence, your talent, your character, your holiness...' You know how much holiness there is — but when someone says such, you begin to tingle. When someone says a few such things...
Dale Carnegie wrote: If you want someone to say 'yes' to you, first speak of things in which he cannot say 'no'. When someone praises your looks, how will you say 'no'! You had been searching all your life — now someone has come. You cannot say 'no'; you begin to say 'yes'. Once you have said 'yes' to two or three things, then bring out the thing where you fear he will say 'no'. After three, four, five 'yeses' it becomes easy to say 'yes'; the slope slips. You have buttered the path. Now you can take him to any ditch; he is ready. Abuse someone — he is immediately inflamed. Such events happen instantly. There is no awareness in them.
Gurdjieff said: 'On his deathbed, my father told me — if someone abuses you, tell him you need twenty-four hours; you will come after twenty-four hours and give your answer.' And Gurdjieff says: 'Then in my life it never happened that I needed to go back to answer; twenty-four hours were enough.' Either you see the abuse is true and you learn something — thank him. Or you see it is meaningless — why answer! Thus either you learn from the abuse of some shortcoming in yourself, or you see the man is mad — why become mad behind a madman!
Gurdjieff said: 'That small advice at my father’s death changed my whole life.' Asking for twenty-four hours is a wonderful thing for anger. Twenty-four seconds are enough; twenty-four hours are abundant. Anger can happen only in unawareness. In twenty-four hours enough awareness arises; time passes, wakefulness comes.
So I say to you: if you want to do the good, do it immediately; if you want to do the harmful, wait — say: tomorrow, or the day after. Because ordinarily you postpone the good for tomorrow and do the harmful right now. If the good is postponed, it is lost — for the good can happen only when a deep fragrance has arisen in you. And the harmful can happen only when a deep stupor has taken hold. If you wait, the deep fragrance will pass; if you wait, the deep stupor will pass. Therefore, the good — instantly; the harmful — whenever, keep postponing.
'He who is by nature empty of mind, out of pramod contemplates the objects; even while asleep he is as if awake. That man is free from the world.'
Union, separation, reactions —
none have any existence of their own.
Sensation — a mirage of matter;
Atman’s quality is nirveda — dispassion.
The Atman is untouched by anything — untouched, virgin. And whatever happens as play happens in pudgala, in matter. One who awakens thus — a revolution happens in his life. Whatever he does — it is out of pramod. If he speaks — out of pramod; if he walks — out of pramod. But nothing is any longer a compulsion. No coercion remains, no helplessness remains.
A man wanted to leave a friend’s house, but the friend was engrossed in talk. He said: 'Let me go now; I must go to my psychologist, and I am getting late.' The friend said: 'Even if you are ten or fifteen minutes late — why so anxious?' He said: 'You do not know my psychologist. If I do not arrive on time, he begins psychoanalyzing me in my absence.' — Compulsion!
When I was at university, I had a teacher — a Bengali. A man of great quality, but also eccentric as philosophers are. I was the only student in his class; no one else enrolled. But he suited me. I learned that for three or four years no one had gone to his class. When I went, he said: 'Understand one thing. Generally I have no interest in students — that is why you see they do not come. But now that you have come after many years, fine. But keep one thing in mind: when I begin to speak, I start by the hour, but I cannot end by the hour — because how can the end be timed! How can a clock bring the end! When I am finished, then it ends. Sometimes I speak two hours, sometimes three. If you have to go in between — to the bathroom, or you have some work, or you are tired — just quietly leave and come back. I will continue. Do not obstruct me. Do not ask, 'May I go out?' Do not disturb me in between.'
I was amazed. On the very first day I wanted to see what would happen. I slipped out quietly — he kept speaking. I stood outside the window and listened. No one was left in class; he continued. He said what he had to say — and went on saying it. It had become a compulsion. Slowly, as I got closer to him, I came to know he had remained single all his life — unmarried, no friends, no companions. He had formed a habit of speaking to himself. Speaking had become a compulsion, an illness. He was not speaking for anyone. Even when I sat there, it was clear he was not speaking for me. He had nothing to do with me. He could speak to the table and chair likewise. I was merely an excuse; speaking was the compulsion.
Observe your life. If it is filled with compulsions, you are not free. If you cannot be silent, you are bound in the prison of words. If you cannot speak, you are bound in the prison of silence. Then you are a slave to silence.
Life must be freedom — in all directions, in all dimensions. No compulsion. Then life’s work continues, yet the reason for doing becomes pramod. It is no longer an obsession that it must be done; if not done — trouble. If not done — restlessness. If not done, fine; if done, fine. Doing and not doing are no longer grave acts.
'When my craving is destroyed, then where for me are wealth, where friends, where the thieving senses? Where scriptures, where knowledge?'
Janaka sits in the palace — an emperor — and says: 'When my craving is destroyed, when longing and hankering are no more, then where wealth, where friends, where the thieving senses, where scriptures, where knowledge?'
Understand this. To drop wealth is easy; but by dropping wealth, wealth does not drop. Here you leave wealth, there you create another wealth — you make 'merit' your wealth. That becomes your possession. It is only by dropping craving that wealth drops. Then even merit is not wealth. When craving — spṛhā — is gone, everything goes — no friend remains, no enemy.
Whom do you call a friend? The one who cooperates with your craving — that is your friend! Whom do you call an enemy? One who obstructs your craving, stands in the way of your expansion, creates hurdles in your life — that is the enemy; and the one who places ladders for you — the friend. And what is your life? — a race of craving!
Hence the saying: the one who is useful in time is a friend. What does usefulness mean? When you face obstacles in your craving, he gives support. 'Useful in time' — that is a friend. And what is the 'use'? Use is only your 'desire'.
Janaka says: 'When my craving has melted...'
'Kva dhanani kva mitrani kva me vishaya-dasyavah?
Kva shastram kva cha vijnanam yada me galita spriha.'
'Yada me spriha galitah...' When my craving, the race of desire — the wish to become something, to get something — when that is gone; when nothing remains to become; when I rejoice in what I am, rejoice as I am; when fact itself is my only truth, and there is no desire to be otherwise — then, 'Kva dhanani' — what is wealth? If it is there, good; if not, good. If it is, it is play; if not, it is also play. 'Kva mitrani' — what friends then? If someone comes near — good; if not — good. Even without wealth, the one free of craving is wealthy. Even without friends, the whole world is his friend. He whose craving is gone — everything, everyone is his friend — trees are friends, birds and animals are friends. From craving, enmity is born. God is the friend of one whose craving is gone.
Look — our entire education is of craving. A small child goes to school — we pour poison in him: 'Crave! Run! Come first!' And we say to children: 'Keep friendship, do not be hostile.' And we teach hostility — 'Come first!' There are thirty children, only one can be first. So every child is competing against twenty-nine, while outwardly pretending friendship. But where there is competition there cannot be friendship. There is enmity. They are the obstacles. Then the race continues. Then we say: 'This is your country, your people, your society, the human race — love them all.' But what love! Craving is working inside; the race runs behind. So man is afraid of enemies — and he fears even those he calls friends.
Mulla Nasruddin, after namaz, was praying when I went to his house. He was saying: 'O Lord, I will handle my enemies; save me from my friends.' The point struck me. Friends are harder to handle. Who here is a friend!
Adolf Hitler never allowed a friendship. He never gave anyone the chance to put a hand on his shoulder. So close he never allowed. No politician tolerates anyone’s coming close. Because the one who comes closest is the most dangerous. The one who becomes number two — that is the danger.
Mao Tse-tung never allowed anyone to be number two. You will be surprised — whoever came close to Mao fell from grace. As soon as he saw someone becoming number two — for number two will strive to become number one — he had him toppled before he could try. Hence those most important around Mao all fell; and now a totally insignificant man sits in Mao’s place.
It is surprising, but all politicians do this. The closer someone comes, the greater the danger; he will seize your throat, pull you off at some moment. So they never let anyone grow under them — they keep them at a distance: 'Remember your status; a small mistake and you are removed.' They keep changing cabinets — remove from here, place there — never letting anyone settle, for if someone settles there will be trouble. As long as no one settles, he depends on you; once settled, you depend on him. In this world, as long as craving remains — where is friendship possible?
Janaka says: 'Now there is no craving; where wealth, where friends? And what fear of the thieving senses?' There is nothing here that you can steal. What can you steal? That which can be stolen I have come to see as futile. But with craving intact, even when people come into the world of religion, their old world continues.
I have heard:
There was not a single knot in Kabir’s sheet —
all four corners were open. Yet morning and evening
the crowd of devotees kept feeling around,
thinking there must be the wish-fulfilling jewel hidden somewhere —
otherwise why would Baba take such care!
Kabir has sung:
'I draped the fine, finely woven sheet with great care,
with as much care I returned it as I received it.'
His devotees must have thought: he speaks so much of draping this sheet with care — means what? Perhaps something is tied inside? Some gem!
There was not a single knot in Kabir’s sheet —
all four corners were open. Yet morning and evening
the crowd of devotees kept groping and searching:
there must be the wish-fulfilling gem somewhere —
else why would Baba take so much care!
Even in religion you go with craving. It is because of craving that you go. That is why you go to the temple — and reach nowhere! You bang your head before the idols, but how can God appear? In a mind full of craving, there is no room for God. A mind empty of craving is a mind empty — shunya — Samadhi! There the Lord abides. In the smoke and filth of craving you cannot invite Him.
And one day all you have piled up through craving will laugh at you. Wealth laughs at the wealthy — for you must go empty-handed. A lifetime trying to fill — and in trying to fill, you remained empty. Your palaces will mock you. Your status will satirize you.
Then I could not hold back my tears —
that which I had crazily run after all my life,
when it turned to mirage-water,
my own aspiration laughed at me;
that in which I wanted to pour my very life,
make it deathless —
when, hiding behind forgetfulness,
my own sweet song laughed at me;
my worship and adoration,
my total surrender —
when my worshiped stone
called it my weakness.
One day you will find — what you have built laughs at you; the home you made derides you. The whole world will make fun of you. Because here you may run — but who arrives!
Craving is a false race, a mirage. There is effort — but nothing in the hand; like trying to press oil from sand. People tire, people die — the small and the great, poor and rich — all are full of craving. It is not difficult to leave wealth and become poor, to become a beggar. That is not difficult. One who has wealth can see wealth is futile and he runs to the other shore — becomes poor. Yet craving continues.
A Jewish tale: A man stood after the rabbi’s sermon and said: 'When I hear your words I become a nothing. When I came to this country I had nothing; today I have millions of dollars. Still, hearing your words, I become nothing.'
Another man stood: 'When I came I too had not a penny; today I have billions. But my friend spoke rightly — when I hear your ambrosial words, I become zero, nothing before you. Your wealth is the real wealth.'
A third man stood and said: 'What both my friends said is true. When I came I had nothing; now I am a postman. But when I hear your words — ah! I become nothing.'
The first rich man glared and said to the second: 'Hear who is claiming to be nothing — a postman! Be nothing — why claim!'
Even in being nothing there are claims! 'Who claims to be nothing? A postman! He is indeed nothing — why boasting?'
Those who have left wealth — craving starts in poverty: who is the greater renunciate? Who is more humble! Tell a humble sadhu that you have met one more humble than he, and see the flames flare in his eyes: 'More humble than me? Impossible!' The same competition, the same race, the same ego! No difference.
Go circulate among sadhus and you will be shocked — the same ego, the same race! Only the name changed — now the name of arrogance is 'humility'. The name changed; the stiffness remained. Even if the rope burns, its twist remains.
'When my craving is destroyed, where for me are wealth, friends, the thieving senses? Where scriptures, where knowledge?'
What a unique statement! When craving is gone, even concern for knowledge is not there. Otherwise there is craving even in knowledge — 'Who knows more — you or I?'
Watch when you talk with people — everyone tries to show his knowledge. Thus disputes arise. No one is ready to accept he knows less. Each claims to know more. No one is ready to accept: 'I am ignorant.' Knowledge feeds the ego — it becomes its food.
But when craving has gone — what knowledge, what scripture? Then the Quran, the Bible, the Vedas, the Gita — all go. All that too is the ego’s race — a very subtle race. One hoards wealth, one hoards knowledge — but both are obsessed with gathering.
You see, in schools and colleges mottos are written. I went to a sannyasi’s ashram; on the wall behind where he sat was written: 'The wise are worshiped everywhere.' I asked: 'Why have you written this? The wise are worshiped everywhere? One who still desires worship is not wise. And when desire is gone, whether he is worshiped or not — what difference does it make? For whom is this written? It makes no difference. Some gather wealth and seek worship — the wealthy are worshiped somewhere. A king is worshiped in his country. The wise, you say, are worshiped everywhere! The meaning remains the same. One seeks worship by wealth; the wise says: your worship will be limited. A king will get worship in his country, not elsewhere. But the wise — in all worlds he is worshiped, wherever he goes he is worshiped. But a longing for worship! A desire for honor! Then it is only a subtle race of the ego.'
And those who are busy collecting knowledge remain deprived of knowledge. For knowledge is within you — not to be collected from outside. What comes from outside is not knowledge — it is borrowed rubbish. Your scripture is within you — do not carry outer scriptures.
'Questions have stood bewildered for so long —
their poor feet ache.
They remember East, West, South —
but have forgotten the village of the North.'
The questions stand there for lifetimes; even their feet hurt standing.
They remember East, West, South —
but have forgotten the village of the North.
Just one place is forgotten — the village of the North, the inner direction. The answer is within you. You go East, West, South — never go within. Where the question arose — there is the answer.
A Zen master, Bokushu, was speaking. A man stood in the middle and said: 'Give me the answer — who am I?' Bokushu said: 'Make way.' Bokushu was strong; the crowd parted. The man was a little frightened: will he answer or will he beat me? And Bokushu had a staff. He came close, seized the man’s collar, raised his staff and said: 'Close your eyes — and descend to the source from where the question came. If you do not descend — this staff is here.'
In fright the man closed his eyes. Perhaps in his alarm, for a moment thoughts stopped. Sometimes in extreme crisis thoughts stop. For thought requires comfort. In danger, where is comfort? You drive, an accident seems imminent, you feel: finished — thoughts stop. Thought belongs to ease; when death stands at the door — where thought!
The monk stood, staff raised — he will strike! The poor man froze; for a moment thoughts ceased. And as the thoughts ceased, a certain aura came over his face, a drunkenness descended; he began to sway. The master said: 'Now open your eyes and speak.' He said: 'Amazing! You took me where I had never gone in myself. I had been asking, Who am I? — and strangely, I asked others! The answer could only be within. You were compassionate to raise your staff.'
About Zen masters, it is said: sometimes they even throw the disciple down; they mount his chest.
There is a story about this same Bokushu: whenever he spoke, he would raise one finger — to indicate the One, the nondual. Among his disciples there was a child who served him water, etc. He too learned this gesture. When anyone asked anything, the child too would raise one finger. It was a joke. The child stood behind as Bokushu was speaking. Bokushu raised his finger; the child too raised his finger behind him. Bokushu turned, grabbed the child’s finger and cut it with a knife.
It will seem cruel. But a shock entered — the pain pierced like an arrow — and for a moment the child was bewildered. He had not imagined it. In that very moment the event happened — at a very young age he entered his depths, attained Samadhi.
Such events of masters cannot be judged from the outside. Cutting a finger does not seem appropriate for a saint. But who is to decide! If we see what happened — it was great compassion of Bokushu to cut it. Perhaps this chance might never come again; perhaps the child might die without knowing. He attained great knowledge. In his time he himself became a great master. He would ever raise his stump and say: 'My master’s grace! In one blow thoughts stopped. In a single shock!'
'When my craving is destroyed — then where are wealth, friends, the thieving senses? Where scriptures, where knowledge?'
Then everything is within — wealth is within, scripture is within, knowledge is within. As long as you gather garbage outside, collect information, you remain ignorant. Scriptures cannot awaken you. You go on carrying their burden — you will not shine; your inner lamp will not be lit. Perhaps because of this the lamp is not lighting.
I see within many people that their lamp’s flame is smothered by some Veda, some Quran, some Bible — and dying. And they are holding the Veda, Bible, Quran to their chest: 'Lest knowledge should slip away.' Someone dying because of being a Hindu, someone because of being a Muslim, someone because of being a Jain. Knowledge is neither Hindu, Muslim, nor Jain. That knowledge which is Hindu, Muslim, Jain — is not knowledge. Knowledge is a seeing of your nature. It is hidden within you. There is no need to search elsewhere.
'Descending into the deep, the shore was found;
above, waves are agitated; below, the water is calm.
Shells and corals are left behind;
into the hand fall the pearls.'
As you go deeper within, the pearls will fall into your hands.
'The silence of the sky is sound;
the movement of sound is word;
the passion of word is tone;
the cadence of tone is effulgence;
the recognition of effulgence is Ishvara.'
The silence of the sky. Catch hold of silence. As the silence of the sky is without, so is the silence within. As there is one sky outside, there is one within.
The silence of the sky is sound.
That we have called Omkar, Naad, Anahat Naad.
Listen to the silence!
The movement of sound is word.
The love of word is melody.
The cadence of melody is effulgence.
The recognition of effulgence is Ishvara.
Silence, becoming denser and denser, becomes God. In scriptures there are words. Silence is within yourself. If you must read scriptures, then read between the lines. If you must read scriptures, read the blank spaces between the words. If you must read, the Sufis have a beautiful book — an empty book. Nothing is written in it — read that. There is no need to go anywhere to find it; take any blank notebook and read it. Gazing at the blank page, perhaps you too will become blank. In that blankness is the experience of God.
'Having known the Witness, the Paramatman, the Lord, and having known the despair of bondage and liberation — I have no anxiety for liberation.'
'Vijnate sakshipuruse paramatmani cheshvare,
Nairashye bandhamokshe cha — na chinta muktye mama.'
He says: once the Witness is known, the Paramatman is known, Ishvara is known. Once the Witness is known, hope falls away. In knowing the Witness, one sees that bondage and liberation both are illusions. When bondage was a dream, liberation must be a dream too. When we were never bound, what meaning has liberation? At night you dreamt you were in jail, hands in handcuffs, feet in fetters. In the morning you wake and find it was a dream. You will not say: 'Now I am freed from jail, freed from fetters.' They never were.
'Having known bondage and liberation, I have no anxiety even for liberation.'
Now what anxiety!
Remember, first people are entangled in worldly anxieties. Somehow they slip out, then another anxiety begins — but anxiety does not leave. Now the anxiety for moksha bites: 'How to be free! How to attain liberation!' And because of anxiety liberation does not happen. An anxious mind, a trembling mind cannot become the mirror of God. Let all anxiety go...
Therefore I say to you: leave even the concern for moksha. Moksha will take care of itself. Do not even seek God. God will find you. Please — sit. Now do not search for anything. For in every search is hope; in every hope, despair. In every search is the pride of success and the pain of failure. In every search the future enters, the present is lost — and truth is here-now. As you are — remain so, silently. Watch what is happening. Become the Witness.
'Vijnate sakshipuruse paramatmani cheshvare...' You will know the Lord too, the Paramatman — because the Witness within you is a ray of God.
But people go from one illness to another. They are so attached to illness that it does not leave.
'As a thorn pricks in separation so in union too —
what surrounded me as despair yesterday
today becomes anxiety — what a spectacle!
One pricks more than the other in their sting —
as a thorn pricks in separation so in union too.
The mind remains tangled in dreams always;
I know only this one cause:
this world-dream never fulfills anyone;
by love the beloved — no one’s heart is ever satisfied.'
First you love worldly things; then somehow you are fed up, you turn away; then you love the otherworld.
'By love the beloved — no one’s heart is ever satisfied.
As a thorn pricks in separation so in union too.'
Before, you wanted someone — then trouble. Then you get them — then trouble.
I heard: someone visited an asylum. In one cell a man was beating his head, holding a photograph in his hand. 'What’s wrong with him?' 'He loved this woman, could not get her — went mad.' In the next cell, another madman was smashing his head against the bars, tearing his hair. 'What about him?' 'Do not ask — he married the same woman and went mad.'
One went mad because he could not get that woman; one went mad because he got her.
Mulla Nasruddin loved a woman. He said: 'Queen, will you marry me?' He had expected a refusal — an experienced man — but he was tricked. She said 'Yes' instantly. At once a silence fell over him. For a while she was quiet. Then she said: 'Now say something.' Mulla said: 'Now there is nothing left to say — only to suffer. The mistake has happened.'
As a thorn pricks in separation so in union too!
The poor man cries because he has no wealth; the rich man cries because he has wealth — and now what to do! The unknown cries he is not famous; the famous cries he is famous.
Yesterday an English film actor renounced — very famous. What is the pain? One pain is that you walk the road and no one recognizes you, no one greets you — great pain: you are a nobody. No picture in the papers, no voice on radio, no face on TV. No one knows you — as if you are not. One day you die — no one even finds out; perhaps no one will weep; perhaps no memory remains. You will die as if you never were — no difference to anyone. This hurts. Man wants to be famous — that the world should know I am, and know who I am. Then one day he becomes famous — and then trouble. Wherever you go — crowds surround you. One thinks: this is difficult, let me find a place where no one knows me, where I can be myself. Eyes everywhere — you pass, eyes; you sit, eyes. Wherever you stand — eyes.
Understand the film actor’s trouble — wherever he goes there are pushes and shoves! He feels suffocated — 'What has happened! The world has come to know me — but this knowing has become suffering, a noose around my neck!'
The unknown wants to be known. The known wants that people forget him and leave him alone.
If someone comes here from England, a famous man, leaving all — understand the trouble. Trouble is this: fall — trouble; win — trouble. Fall here — a well; there — a ditch. And how to walk in between? For that, great awareness is needed. Indulgence — trouble; renunciation — trouble.
I see: the indulgent are suffering, weeping. Someone is mad for overeating — he is in pain, the body is exhausted, the stomach aches. Go to a Jain muni — there is trouble. He is tormented by fasting. As if we know nothing of the middle — as if no one knows the right measure. Either you over-breathe, or you hold your breath out. What nonsense! Then misery arises.
Janaka’s sutra is of right measure, of balance.
'Sakshi-purush' means: to stand in the middle of life’s dualities; neither this nor that — no choice; neither renunciation nor indulgence; whatever comes, let it come; whatever happens, let it happen — out of pramod, out of joy — do it and forget it.
'He who within is free of alternatives, and without appears like a deluded man — the various states of such a svacchandacarin are known only by those in the same state.'
This sutra is very difficult. Try to understand.
'He who within is free of alternatives...' Within whom there remains no thought, no choice — 'this should happen or that should happen' — no decision remains; within, only emptiness remains; he sees, he witnesses.
'And without appears like a deluded man...' Such a person outwardly will look like a deluded one — for if he feels hungry, he will eat. If the body is tired, he will lie down and sleep. Outwardly, where is the difference between you and him? No difference.
If you go to Buddha and inspect from outside — what difference will you find? The same as you! If sun is hot, he too will move to shade, as you do. If a thorn pricks, he too will remove it, as you do. He will ask for water if thirsty, as you do. If hungry, he will go for alms. Night comes, he sleeps. If you judge from the outside, what difference will you see? None. He will seem as deluded as you.
Janaka says: 'He who is within free of alternatives and outwardly appears like a deluded man — the differing states of such a svacchandacarin are known only to those who are in the same state.'
If you wish to know Buddha, there is no way from the outside — unless a similar state arises in you. Unless you too attain Buddhahood and begin to see from within. From outside, everything looks the same as you. They too are made of bones, flesh, marrow. The needs of the body that you have — they have. The body will wear out, grow old; death will come, too.
Do not get trapped in false stories. Do not think that Buddha is different from you outwardly. Disciples make such claims, not Buddhas. Disciples wish to prove that Buddha is different from you — you are stones, he is a diamond. But even the diamond is a stone. There is a difference — but inward, not outward. Outwardly everything is as yours. And those who try to show outward difference are in the same delusion as you. The inner difference you will see only when a little light arises within you.
Ponder these words —
'Antar-vikalpa-shunyasya, bahih svacchandacharinh,
Bhrantasyeva dashas tas tas — tad-risha eva jānate.'
Only one who attains a similar state will know. Become Krishna — and the Gita is understood. Become Buddha — and the Dhammapada is understood. Hum like Muhammad — and the Quran is understood. Otherwise memorize the Quran — nothing happens. The state of inner consciousness will be understood only through your own lived experience.
One who has loved will understand by looking at a lover what is happening within. One who has never loved — how will he understand Majnu! He will think him mad and throw stones. But the one who has loved will understand.
One who has tasted devotion will understand Mira. Do not ask Freud about Mira, or you will be disgraced, and Mira too will be disgraced. Freud would say — he did not speak of Mira, because he knew nothing of her — but what he said about Teresa in the West, he would say about Mira. Teresa says: 'I am your bride, Christ!' Freud says: 'This is sexuality, sensuality — it is wrong. Bride! 'I am married to you! You are my husband, I your wife!''
A Jew’s daughter became a Christian nun. The Jew was furious — to become a Christian, and then a nun! He never saw her face again. Three years later, a phone call came from the convent: 'Your daughter has died. What do you want done — how shall we bury her?' He said: 'I have heard Christian nuns say they are the brides of Christ. Is it true?' The Mother Superior said: 'It is true — we are brides of Christ. We have left all to Him; He is our only husband.' The Jew said: 'Then ask my son-in-law. Ask Christ what to do. Why are you asking me?'
Freud will say — repressed sexuality. He knows only one language — repressed sexuality. He never knew a greater form of love. He watched only sick minds and tried to heal them. That is his language and understanding. It is good Kabir’s words did not reach him: 'I am Rama’s bride!' He would declare: 'Homosexual!' If a woman says, 'I am bride' — well, perhaps — but Kabir! What happened to you that you say: 'I am Rama’s bride!' Extreme! Freud would surely declare: 'This is worse than Mira. A man proclaiming himself a bride — your mind is deranged.'
But this is not the way to understand Kabir. There is a state, a space, where only one male remains — God — and the devotee becomes feminine.
Woman and man is one thing at the level of body; at the level of consciousness — another. Kabir is right to say: 'I am Rama’s bride.' On that plane, God is the giver and we are the receivers — as the male is giver at the bodily level and the woman is receiver; as woman is the matrix, the womb. Man gives; woman embraces, accepts. Likewise there God gives, the devotee accepts, becomes the womb. God enters his womb.
But you will understand this only if at some moment in your life, into your darkness a ray of God has descended. Then you will know what 'I am Rama’s bride' means. Otherwise you will only derive the meaning you are capable of. Your meaning is your meaning; it cannot be greater than you. How could it be? One cannot expect it.
'Bhrantasyeva dashas tas tas — tad-risha eva jānate.' As one is, as one’s state is — so much one knows.
You are deluded; you know the body demands food, the body longs for sex, the body thirsts. Night you sleep, morning you rise, and again you run. You see Buddha the same way. That is your knowing. No one has awakened within you yet; the lamp has not been lit. There is darkness; how will you accept Buddha’s saying: the lamp within me is lit! Kabir says: 'Thousands upon thousands of suns have descended within me.' How will you accept that!
You close your eyes — darkness, darkness. When eyes are open, some light appears. You know the light outside; the light within is not seen; the inner eyes are yet blind. There, darkness — deep darkness. How to accept thousands of suns are burning! Inside, you go — and thoughts, desires, their haggling. Thoughts run, crowds move.
David Hume said: whenever I go within, I find nothing but thoughts. And these wise ones say within there is Atman. I tried a lot — nothing but thoughts.
Who is to tell him — who gets the thoughts? The one to whom thoughts come — he is not thought. He says: 'When I go in, I find only thoughts.' Then one thing is certain — you are other than thought. You see thoughts flowing! Hume was perhaps not told. He wrote: 'Socrates, the Upanishads — they say the Self is within. I have experimented — I find only thoughts.' But who saw? Who knew only thoughts were there?
You went into the room and came back saying: 'I am not in the room — it is full of furniture.' But if you went into the room, one thing is certain — you are not furniture. You saw the furniture — one thing is certain — you are the seer. A chair does not see the chairs; walls do not see the walls. You are the witness. Your knowing will be as your state is.
'He who within is free of alternatives and outwardly appears like a deluded man — the varying states of such a svacchandacarin are known only by those in the same state.'
Understand this word 'svacchandacarin'. It is unique. Svacchanda means: one who has come upon the rhythm of his own nature. The meaning you have heard is wrong. You think svacchanda means one who has broken all rules, immoral, corrupted. But think about the word: it means 'one attuned to his own meter' — chhanda; he knows only one meter — that of his nature; one who moves in harmony with his own swabhava. Svacchanda means 'sahaja' — natural. It means 'self-spontaneous.'
Svacchandata is even above freedom. People think freedom is high, svacchandata low, some kind of perversion. But svacchandata is very high.
There are three states. Paratantra — other-dependent — one who moves according to others; who is run by others; par + tantra — whose control lies in another. You say 'stand' — he stands. You say 'sit' — he sits. Svatantra — independent — one whose control lies within; who, if he wishes to stand, stands by his own plan; to sit, sits by his own plan; who has his own discipline. Svacchanda — neither moving by you nor by himself; moved by God — when He raises, he rises; when He sits him, he sits; caring neither for you nor for himself; he looks neither outside for control, nor arranges from inside; no arrangement, no plan — sahaja. What happens, happens; as it happens, so.
Janaka says: whatever happens, he does. Whatever God does, he does.
Svacchanda means: so merged with one’s nature that no planning is needed. Each moment, in answer to whatever situation arises, what emerges, emerges. If nothing emerges, nothing emerges. He neither repents the past nor plans the future. He lives wholly in the present moment. Such a one is svacchanda.
How will you understand a svacchandacarin? Until the svacchanda within you starts humming, until the flowers of your Samadhi begin to bloom — impossible.
'What is to be spoken is the unsayable,
what is the path’s goal is the pathless.'
All the effort to say is for that which cannot be said.
'What is to be spoken is the unsayable.'
It seems inverted, but all effort to speak is for that which cannot be said.
'What is the path’s goal is the pathless.'
And all paths are to bring you to the day when no path remains — apath. The apath-walker is svacchanda. Then there is no path, no route — a pathless path!
All paths are accepted so that one day one may be free of all paths.
'New year, new cheer, life’s new rise;
new surge, new wave, life’s new episode;
new gait, new road, life’s new flow;
new song, new love, life’s new rite;
life’s new policy, life’s new victory!'
Then everything is new each moment. For one who lives svacchandata, nothing is ever old. The past is gone, the future not yet — only this present moment is. In this moment whatever happens, happens; whatever does not, does not. For what is not done there is no regret; for what is done there is no competition, no desire. Like a mirror, the awakened one simply watches; he does not become the doer. The flow of action comes and goes — as reflections form upon the mirror.
However dirty a man may be, he does not dirty the mirror. You will not say: a Shudra passed before the mirror — now the mirror is defiled. The mirror remains clean. Reflections do not stain mirrors.
The Witness remains ever pure. We have called this state 'paramahansa'. As the swan — white, pure — swims upon Manasarovar — so in the ocean of mind the Witness becomes a paramahansa.
'Upon the stainless white peaks
I have seen the clouds gather!
Tiny pearls — the very cool droplets —
I have seen them fall upon the golden lotuses
of Manasarovar!
Upon the shoulders of the lofty Himalaya,
among the many small and large lakes —
in their dark, cool, pure waters —
coming from the level plains,
restless from the monsoon’s humidity,
seeking the bitter-sweet lotus-fibers —
I have seen the swans gliding!'
As if from faraway lands the swan flies to Manasarovar and begins to glide — pure, white — such is the state of the Witness.
The body — the ghats; the mind — the lake; and the Witness — the swan, the paramahansa.
'Upon the stainless white peaks
I have seen the clouds gather!
Tiny pearls — the very cool droplets —
I have seen them fall upon the golden lotuses
of Manasarovar!
Upon the shoulders of the lofty Himalaya,
among the many small and large lakes —
in their dark, cool, pure waters —
coming from the level plains,
restless from the monsoon’s humidity,
seeking the bitter-sweet lotus-fibers —
I have seen the swans gliding!'
Such a paramahansa abides within you. Wake — and you will meet him. There is no other way. And he who has met this paramahansa-state — he has found all. And one who has not — whatever he may gain, all his gains are futile.
Hari Om Tat Sat!