Maha Geeta #39

Eastern scriptures are like the waves of the sea. Wave upon wave, alike and yet... the ocean never tires.

When the East was first translated in the West, Western thinkers were constantly troubled by one thing: there is so much repetition in the Eastern scriptures. The same thing is said again and again—revealing the same truth over and over, with small differences, with a change of emphasis, with a slight turn of phrase.

The Western manner of writing is different. It says a thing briefly; once said, it is done—no repetition. The Eastern manner is utterly different. The East discovered that the issue is not the speaker, it is the listener. The listener is asleep. Even if a thing is said repeatedly, there is no certainty he will hear. If he happens to hear even after much saying—fortunate! Most likely he will still miss. These truths are so vast that they do not fit in one hearing; they don’t fit even in a thousand.

It is also said: the true teacher speaks with the last student of the class in mind. A class has every type of student—first rate, second rate, third rate; the very intelligent, and those with frail intelligence. A good teacher speaks remembering the last student; if he speaks for the first, one will understand and twenty‑nine will remain without understanding. If he speaks for the last, all thirty will be able to understand.

So when the Eastern scriptures speak of the Supreme Truth, they speak with the last student in mind. Hence the abundance of repetition. The same thing is said again and again. Do not be dismayed. And even then, the repetition is never merely repetition; in each reiteration there is a fresh glimpse of truth.

Sit by the shore of the ocean and watch. The waves come—at a glance they seem the same! But if you look a little more attentively, you will see that no wave is like another. Watch with utmost attentiveness and each wave has its own signature, its own gait, its own rhythm, its own form, its own expression. No two waves are identical—just as no two thumbprints are the same. From afar all thumbs appear alike; under a lens you discover they are utterly different.

In Ashtavakra’s Gita you will often feel, “This is being repeated.” Then understand: you are lacking a microscope. In one sense it is repetition—Truth is not two. The one truth has to be said again and again, day and night. There is repetition. Have you heard classical music? It is that kind of repetition. A classical musician goes on repeating the same line. But the one who knows, the one whose palate has tasted classical music, will see that each time the line returns it is new; each time the emphasis shifts; the words are the same, but the stress changes; the words are the same, but the ascent and descent of the notes changes.

One who knows nothing of the rise and fall of notes, of ascent and descent, will complain: “Why keep saying the same thing? And for hours…!”

It is the same—and yet not the same. The scriptures are classical music. The utterance is the same—and yet not the same. The waves seem alike because you haven’t looked with care. Otherwise, in each wave you will find something new.

Truth is both new and old—ancient, eternal, and ever fresh. Truth is paradox.

So when it ever seems to you that repetition is occurring… when Ashtavakra appears to speak the same truth again, it is because he is bringing forth a new facet.

Remember this also: your entire education has been in the Western mode. Now even the East is no longer the East; the East too has become the West. The East as East hardly remains. Your systems of education have been set by the West. Therefore even an Eastern person feels there is repetition. But the Eastern method of teaching was different.

The entire way of life in the East is circular—like the wheel of a cart turning. The Western way is not circular, but linear. A straight line is drawn; it goes on straight, never returns. The East says: that is not even possible—a straight line, as such, does not exist. If you read Euclid’s geometry and have never gone beyond it, you will side with the West. But now the West has birthed a new geometry: non‑Euclidean. Euclid says a straight line can be drawn. The new geometry says: no line is truly straight. It has come to the Eastern insight.

The earth is round—whatever line you draw on it, if you keep drawing it will become a circle. On a small paper you draw and you think it is straight. Draw it on and on—and one day you’ll find it has turned circular. Nothing can be straight on a sphere. The earth is round. And all the movements of life are circular. Summer comes, the rains come, winter comes—and then summer again. The wheel has turned. Stars turn in the sky; the sun turns—from dawn to dusk; the moon turns; childhood, youth, old age turn—you see the wheel turns!

Life is circular. Hence the Eastern scriptures speak in a circular way. They are in deep accord with life. The same wheel turns again; the ground is new. You sit in the bullock cart—the wheel turns and turns; the ground changes. If you look only at the wheel you will say: repetition! But look all around: the trees along the path have changed, the dust underfoot is different; sometimes the road was rocky, sometimes smooth; the sun has changed—from evening to night, the moon and stars have appeared. Keep your attention only on the wheel and it is the same wheel turning; attend to the expanse and the wheel is the same, yet everything is forever new. Remember this; otherwise, the moment the idea of repetition arises, one stops listening. One listens—yet mutters, “Yes, yes, I already know that.”

The first sutra: “A man of sattva‑buddhi is fulfilled even by a slight instruction. One of asat‑buddhi, even questing all his life, falls only into delusion.”

“One whose intelligence has a little awakening is fulfilled by even the slightest upadesha; a small word strikes home. One whose intelligence sleeps—you may strike him a thousand times, he will only turn from side to side and go on sleeping.”

A man came to Buddha one morning. He bowed at Buddha’s feet and said, “Do not tell me in words; I have gathered words enough. I have read all the shastras. Say it to me through shunya, through silence. I shall understand. Trust me.”

Buddha looked at him, closed his eyes, and sat silently. The man also closed his eyes and sat silently. Buddha’s disciples were amazed. His question itself was strange—“Tell me without words, trust me; I am familiar with the scriptures; give me news from the wordless. What is worth hearing I have heard; what is worth reading I have read; but what is worth knowing seems to be beyond both. Initiate me. Awaken me. I have not come for knowledge—I beg for awakening.” The question was strange; then Buddha, simply looking at him, closing his eyes—and the man too closing his eyes—mystery upon mystery. For a while nothing but silence; something in that silence was transferred, something passed. The man began to smile with closed eyes; a light came upon his face. He bowed, thanked the Buddha, and said, “Immense grace. What I came to receive—I have received,” and he left.

Ananda asked, “What happened? What passed between you two? We remained utterly blank. Our grasp is up to words. Tell us in words what happened in the wordless; we remained deaf.”

Buddha said, “Ananda, in your youth you were a famed horseman. Did you not see the differences in horses? Some horses—you beat and beat, and still they hardly move; beat them and they won’t move—mules. Some horses—beat them and they leap forward. Some horses give you no chance to beat them—only crack the whip in the air and the crack is enough. And, Ananda, there are horses in whose case you need not even crack the whip; the whip is in your hand and the horse becomes alert. The indication is enough. And—surely you have seen this—there are horses for whom even the shadow of the whip is enough. This was such a horse. The shadow of the whip sufficed.”

Sattva‑buddhi means: the one who is ready to understand even without words, who is prepared to see Truth directly; who does not evade, who does not look sideways. The one who looks straight at Truth—he is sattva‑buddhi.

How does this capacity to see the Real arise? How does one become sattva‑buddhi? Do not be disheartened thinking: if I am asat‑buddhi, what can I do? If I were sattva‑buddhi I would understand—what now?

Commentators have often created this feeling that the Divine made two kinds of people—sattva‑buddhi and asattva‑buddhi. Then the fault would be God’s, not yours; if you have asat‑buddhi, what can you do? You are helpless. No—I want to break this illusion. Sattva‑buddhi and asattva‑buddhi are not gifts bestowed. You come with neither. Through the experiences of life, sattva‑buddhi arises—or does not. Take my definition: sattva‑buddhi is that intelligence which passes through facts and does not shrink from experience; that accepts fact and meets it in witness. From the seeing of fact grows the right to see Truth. The intelligence becomes sattva‑buddhi.

Consider: a youth comes to me and says, “Save me from lust.” He has no experience of lust; he is green. Even his idea of renouncing lust is borrowed—second‑hand. He has heard a saint praise brahmacharya; the greed for brahmacharya has arisen. The argument pleased his mind; but experience cannot yet testify, for he has none. He understands as a piece of arithmetic, but there is no witness of lived experience. He has not yet tasted the fact. Even if he labors to be celibate, he will fail. He does not yet have the intelligence that can understand brahmacharya.

Another man, who has not even run in the world, is already weary before the race; he says, “Save me from this scramble.” He has no personal experience of the scramble; he has heard others who are tired. But their weariness is their own. He is not yet tired. Energy is still brimming; the world of ambition is just opening and he is blocking it. He can block by effort—but that very effort will become an obstruction. Only through experience does one come to the Real.

Therefore I say: whatever desire arises in you, do not flee in haste. Do not escape unripe. When the fruit ripens, it falls of its own accord. Then there is attainment to sattva. If you force a raw fruit off the tree, it will rot—and the tree will be wounded. Force will be needed, and the aroma of the ripe fruit will be missing; the taste will be bitter. It still needed the tree. A tree releases a fruit only when it sees the need complete: all the sap it could give has been given; now to keep the fruit hanging is meaningless. The fruit is fulfilled; its journey reaches its moment. The tree lets it go, frees it, so that the sap can flow to another unripe fruit—to ripen another.

By my meaning, sattva‑buddhi is when your style of living issues from experience—then slowly you come to the Real. And when a person who has come to the Real hears, he understands instantly. No lash—the shadow of the lash is enough.

But the horse who has never known the whip—no rider has mounted him, no one has struck him—he will not move by the shadow of the whip. He may not move even with the lash. He may stiffen and stand.

What we have not experienced does not harmonize with our life.

“The man of sattva‑buddhi is fulfilled even by the slightest instruction.”

Even so!

If a small thread of Buddha’s word comes into his hand, that is enough. A glimpse of the awakened is enough. A chance to walk a few steps with one who is awake is enough. But it is enough only when it resonates with one’s own experience.

Seat children near Buddha and nothing will happen to them. They may not even see Buddha; they might giggle: “What is this man doing under the tree? Come on, do something! Why close the eyes?” A little curiosity may arise because it looks so different—but no real inquiry will come: within, there are no questions. Life has not yet become a problem. They have not yet been carried in the current; not yet been pricked by thorns. What is there to ask? What is there to know?

But one who is seasoned by life, wearied by life, who has passed through experience; who has seen the vanity of it all, the tastelessness; who has seen the ash—he will understand Buddha’s word.

Each thing has its hour of understanding. Without the right hour, nothing enters. Place before you the most beautiful Van Gogh—and if you have no taste for art, you might not even glance. Let someone sing the most beautiful song—but if there is no resonance in your being, nothing will happen. Only that can happen for which there is readiness in you. When the amrita of the word showers from without, and it fits your inner readiness, a rare beginning unfolds!

Even a few drops on the palm give you the taste of the ocean. There is fulfillment—kritartha. ‘Kritartha’ is a beautiful word. It means: not only does the meaning dawn, but the deed happens of itself. On hearing—both meaning and act fructify. Sometimes a single hearing transforms you. That is kritartha. You do not act—you are changed. As though you were already ripening for what you had never heard; and one final link was needed—someone added it, and you are fulfilled. Then you do not ask “How do I do it?”—in the listening itself it is done. That is the supreme state of the true seeker, the seeker of sattva‑buddhi. On hearing Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Ashtavakra, he does not ask, “Sir, I understand, but how to do it?” If you have understood, the matter is finished; there is no question of doing.

I show you: here is a door; when you go out, go through this. Here is a wall; don’t try to go through it, or your head will break. You say, “I understand; but my mind wants to pass through the wall—how shall I refrain? And my mind is not eager to pass through the door—how shall I?” Then you have not understood. Only your intellect has caught it; it has not reached your life. You were not ready. You still see a door in the wall; thus the mind wants to go through the wall. But one who has hit the wall too many times—show him, tell him—and awareness arises. He is fulfilled. He will not ask “How?” He will say, “There was one link missing; you completed it. The song now fits. There is no hindrance.”

“The man of sattva‑buddhi is fulfilled even by slight instruction. The man of asat‑buddhi, even questing lifelong, falls into delusion.”

A wonder: the one of sattva‑buddhi is freed by knowing—knowledge brings freedom. The one of asat‑buddhi does not attain freedom; rather, he falls in love with knowledge itself. Thus people have become Hindus, Muslims, Christians. Jesus did not free them—they made Jesus a chain. They cast handcuffs out of Jesus. Rama did not free them; Rama came to free—but you do not wish to be free. So you cast chains out of Rama—you sit as Hindus. Someone sits as Jain, another as Buddhist. Instead of becoming Buddha, you became “Buddhist.” Had you become Buddha, you would have been free. Becoming Buddhist, you are entangled in words, doctrines, scriptures. You argue, fight, prove you are right and the other wrong—but no fragrance rises from your life; you do not become the evidence of your truth. You debate and you reason. You say: our scripture gives liberation. But you yourself are proof that you are not liberated. Strange! If your scripture liberates, then be free!

A Christian missionary came to see me. He had read my statements on Jesus and thought perhaps I am a Christian; even if not, at least a lover of Jesus. He said, “What now stops you from becoming a Christian? If you love Jesus so much, why not become Christian?” I said, “I have become Jesus. ‘Christian’ are those who cannot become Jesus.” He was shocked, a little hurt. He said, “Impossible. Jesus can be only one.” I said, “So your only chance is to be a carbon copy? You cannot be the original? You will live borrowed? Become Christian—be carbon copies. If you cannot be Buddha, worship Buddha. But all the effort of Jesus is that you become Jesus. The effort of Buddha is that you attain Buddhahood.”

He was a decent man, as missionaries often are. Courteously he took leave. He said, “Still, you are doing good work; at least you spread the name of Jesus. This is what we are doing.” He served far away among tribals, converting them. I asked, “Looking at you gives no proof that Jesus is true. Looking at you proves only that you are educated and decent; that you have read scripture and studied well. But looking at you does not prove Jesus true. You are busy changing others—but have you changed?”

He said, “There is no need for me to change; I have left that to Jesus. He is the Redeemer; he will change me; he is my witness. On Judgment Day he will testify that I was doing his work.”

I said, “You are doing his work—but only if you become like him. There is no other way. Even if you hum a beautiful song in a discordant voice, it is futile. Your raga, your sur must be as beautiful; then even your ordinary words will become song. You are trying to free others; Jesus will free you, and you will free others! Are you free?”

He was honest. He said, “Not yet. I am entangled as others are.”

I said, “At least become the proof that the love of Jesus has set you free. Then those who thirst will come to you for change. You need not go door to door. Increasing the number of Christians is nothing.”

But this is what happens. The Muslim clings to his Quran; the Hindu clings to his Gita. The Gita that could free you—you have made it a prison. You have used the scriptures like bricks to build a cell.

“The man of asat‑buddhi, questing lifelong, falls into delusion.”

Therefore I call religious only that one who is in no sect; who is free of all sects and all doctrines; who is swachhanda—who has found his own cadence; who now lives by the song within; who lives by the voice of Paramatma resounding within; who has no support outside. The one who is supportless without finds the support of the Divine within.

But naturally, one filled with the asat falls into moha. Because he was not truly ready for knowledge.

A man was running after wealth, keen to accumulate. Accumulation gives a sense of security. He returns halfway—unripe—from that race. Now he will accumulate knowledge; the race of collecting remains. He has returned from money, but halfway; the instinct to collect remains unfinished—he will complete it somewhere. He will collect knowledge now.

A man in politics said, “My party alone can bring peace.” He did not go all the way; had he gone fully he would have seen the futility. He returns halfway and joins a religion; becomes a Hindu. Now he says, “Only Hindu Dharma can free the world.” This is politics, not religion. He returned unripe.

From wherever you return unripe, its shadow remains on you and distorts your life. Understand well: do not return half‑baked. The experience of “sin” is also necessary—otherwise “virtue” will not be born. You must pass through the pain and fire of the world; only then is the gold refined. Do not be in haste. Those who hurry will suffer. They belong to neither shore; they become the washerman’s donkey—neither of the world, nor of the Divine.

Most I see in such a state—riding two boats. They think: let us manage the world a little—mind has not yet left; and let us manage God a little. Fear holds them—since childhood they have been frightened; they have been tempted by heaven, threatened by hell. They wobble.

Leave this wobbling. If you want freedom from the world, descend into its darkness totally—with awareness. Experience the world rightly. That very awareness will tell you—absolutely—that the world is a dream. Then sattva‑buddhi arises. The realization “the world is a dream” is the realization of sattva‑buddhi. Then you are ready to know Truth. Once the world is proven a dream by your own experience, even a small word of the Sadguru will startle you, fulfill you. Otherwise to the last moment a man remains entangled where he is stuck.

When at dusk the strong
return me from the bamboo grove to home,
do not loop a harsh rope of breath around my neck
and drag me.

In the free earth and open sky,
to wander as I wish,
to flow with the wind, to breathe at will,
to bathe in golden warmth,
to slip into the blue river, quench thirst,
and under the dense cool shade of trees
sit with half‑closed eyes, weaving dreams—
from such joys
turning the face away will be hard.

Even pain seems pleasant—trouble, crisis—gone past.

If the mind is unfulfilled, not yet full; if a thorn is still lodged somewhere; if in the dream there remains some savor; if it still seems maybe, perhaps, it might be true; the insubstantial has not fully revealed itself; if you suspect that there must be some essence hidden somewhere—so many run after wealth and position! And we are turning back! Doubt arises: so many are racing—maybe they are right.

A woman boarded a bus and handed a half‑rupee to the conductor. He looked closely and said, “It’s counterfeit.” She adjusted her glasses, looked again, and said, “It cannot be counterfeit. It’s written here: valid since 1900. Seventy‑six years it has worked—could it be fake?”

The world goes on—if it were false, could it run so long? Infinite crowds run. Who listens to the saints? Saints are as if someone’s mind has gone strange. Whom do people hear! Among millions, once in a while a saint says, “The world is a dream.” Shall we believe him or the millions? One man may err; how can the millions err! This is the simple logic. In democracy the million cannot be wrong. If you put Buddha up for election, even his deposit will be forfeited! Who will listen to him! What he says seems to belong to some fantasy land. Right now fantasy appears true—hence truth appears fantasy. Returning is hard. And then, the pains one is used to—one becomes friendly with them.

If you have been ill for two‑four years, you won’t feel like leaving the illness. Say what you will—there is no urge to be well. Illness too has its sweetness: lying in bed, bossing everyone; no going to the office, no shop; the wife presses your feet who never did before—once wanted hers pressed; the children quiet, tiptoeing out, “Father is ill.” Friends visit; sympathy and love shower. You become important.

Physicians say: the body can be cured, but the mind gets a taste for illness. Long illness is dangerous; the body may heal, but if the mind is hooked, the body won’t heal. You will keep seeking new ailments. There is a vested interest in illness. Even sorrow begins to taste sweet. After long in sorrow it feels like a companion—at least you are not alone; you have sorrow to talk to.

A woman went to a famous surgeon and said, “Please operate—anything!” He asked, “What is your disease?” She said, “Nothing at all; but do some operation.” He said, “There is no reason.” She said, “Whenever I meet other women, one has had tonsils out, one an appendix. Nothing has been taken out of me; I have nothing to talk about. Take something out!” When your appendix is removed, the whole village sympathizes—as if you accomplished something great: blessed that you are on earth and your appendix came out—and we poor things sit without that glory!

Watch how people narrate their sorrows—see the relish in their eyes. If you don’t listen they become angry. Meaning? They are enjoying something. People enlarge their woes. A small pain they magnify—who will listen to small pains! They want you to listen with attention. They keep watching if you are neglecting them.

Astonishing. It is like picking at one’s wound. People pick their wounds—at least the pain proves, “I am.” Headache proves you have a head. Pain gives the sense “I exist.” Otherwise—no sign at all.

Sorrow binds us to “reality.” If there were no sorrow at all, at times you would doubt your existence. Often here it happens: people meditate; after two‑four months, if they go deep, a moment certainly comes when great waves of joy arise. Then they come to me and ask, “This isn’t a dream, is it? Not imagination?” I ask, “All your life you were unhappy; did you ever ask, ‘Is this sorrow a dream, imagination?’ Now the first wave of joy—and you ask, ‘Is it imagination?’ You do not wish to accept joy; you wish to deny it. Sorrow you accept—because sorrow is familiar. Long acquaintance. You are not a stranger to sorrow; joy is a stranger. You have not known joy. When it comes, you don’t even want to believe it.

And there is another thing: when you are happy, your ego dissolves; in happiness the ego does not survive. This is the definition of joy—if the ego survives, your joy is sorrow. Sorrow protects the ego; joy disperses it. The happy man becomes egoless. The wave of joy is so vast that the little ego dissolves; the throne topples. Happiness brings an upheaval. You remain—but not in the old sense. A new meaning is born. The life that was filled with sorrow, and the ego propped up by sorrow—that is gone. A wave of joy carries you; you find no shore. Hence you are not prepared to accept joy; but you cling to sorrow.

Let the experience of sorrow go deep; let your vested interests in sorrow wither; stop taking relish in sorrow; stop nursing it… You will be surprised when I say: renounce sorrow. People say, “We do want to renounce sorrow.” I do not see it. If you truly wanted to, it would be gone. Sorrow cannot remain without your grip; it cannot survive without your protection. Perhaps you are protecting it skillfully. You have hidden the roots through which you feed it—but sorrow cannot survive without you. Outwardly you say, “I want to be rid of sorrow,” but look closely: are you truly ready? To pass through the great revolution of ending sorrow? To end sorrow means: to be ready to end. For your ego is the condensation of sorrow.

Understand it: when your stomach aches, you become aware of the stomach. When it does not, you never know you have one. When your head aches, you know you have a head; without pain, you never notice it. Wherever there is pain, that limb is felt.

The wise have said: when there is pain in your consciousness you feel “I am.” When all pain is gone, there is no sense of “I.” That not‑knowing frightens—“I am not! Better keep hold of sorrow; at least the bank remains. Otherwise I’ll drown midstream!”

Only when someone sees sorrow so thoroughly that he realizes “sorrow is me, my ‘I’ is woven of sorrow; without sorrow there is no ‘I’”—after such deep seeing, when such a one comes to a Sadguru, then “by even slight upadesha” a revolution happens.

A time comes
when everything turns false—
all untrue, all spongy,
all deserted—
as if all we saw was a magic show,
as if all we heard were stories of a dream.

When such realization dawns, you are ready to come to the Master. Before that you will come, you will listen, even understand intellectually—but there will be no fulfillment in life.

To come to the Master means: you are ready to journey into the Infinite. You are weary of the finite; you have seen its limit. You have exhausted the outer; your hands remain empty. You became an Alexander—and your hands remained empty. Then the inner journey begins. You saw what can be seen—now there is longing to see what cannot be seen but is hidden within: “Perhaps there lies the juice and mystery of life!” But as long as even a little shadow of the outer dream darkens the eye, you will return again and again.

That is what happens: you sit to meditate; you close your eyes—and the mind runs outward. Some run to food, some to woman, some to wealth—this way and that. With open eyes your mind may not run so fast—you are busy. The moment you meditate it runs in all directions, grabs ancient latent impressions, revives what you thought you had left—close your eyes, and it returns. It is clear: your love is still tied outside.

Ever‑vigilant eyes becoming drowsy, what a busy attire today!
Awake—you have far to go.

Even if the heart of the unmoving Himalaya trembles today,
or the languid sky wails with tears of dissolution,
let the heavy shadow of darkness sway the cup of light,
awake—even if ruthless storms speak from lightning peaks—
will these pretty bonds of wax hold you?
Will butterflies’ colored wings block your path?
Will the world’s lament be forgotten by a honeybee’s hum?
Will the dew‑wet petals of flowers drown you?
Do not turn your own shade into a prison for yourself!
Ever‑vigilant eyes becoming drowsy—what a busy attire today!
Awake—you have far to go.

The inward journey is the greatest journey. To reach the moon and stars is not so difficult—hence man has reached. To reach within is far more difficult. To climb Everest is not so difficult—hence man has climbed. To reach the inner summit is supremely difficult.

Why difficult? Because outside a thousand unfinished tasks remain; your mind is entangled in many places. The savor still holds you. The stream flows inward only when, through experience, all outer relationships are seen as vain.

Savor life fully. If the bhogi descends rightly into enjoyment, he cannot but become a yogi. The last step of bhoga is yoga. Therefore I do not call bhoga and yoga opposite; bhoga is a preparation for yoga. I do not call atheism the opposite of theism; atheism is a step toward theism. Say “no” thoroughly; live the sorrow of that “no,” let its thorns pierce your being—then from within the “yes” will arise. Do not be in a hurry; these things are not done in haste. Wherever your mind relishes—go there. Until you vomit, do not withdraw. Without that courage, sattva‑buddhi will not arise.

Gurdjieff wrote: as a child he loved a certain fruit in the Caucasus; delicious, but it caused stomach pain. Yet the taste—irresistible. Children are children, and old people too. Doctors forbid ice‑cream—but you eat; this they forbid—but how to leave! Then you suffer. His father forbade him many times; he wouldn’t listen, ate in secret. One day his father brought a whole basket of the fruit, sat him down with a stick in hand and said, “Eat.” Gurdjieff didn’t understand. First he was delighted—what happened to father! Always forbidding; and now a basket! But the father sat with a stick—so he had to eat. At first he relished—two, four, eight, ten; then the pain began; but father, stick in hand, said, “You must finish the basket.” Tears flowed; vomiting began; still the father said, “If you refuse I will break your limbs. Empty the basket!” He made him finish it.

For fifteen days Gurdjieff was ill. But later he wrote: I was freed from that fruit. Then, even seeing that fruit on the tree, my stomach would ache. If it was in the market, I would avert my eyes. Not taste—but distaste arose—virasa. Virasa is vairagya. Only from a true realization of the pain of attachment does vairagya arise.

The half‑hearted attached never become yogis, never become dispassionate. Therefore in my teaching there is no wish to pull you away in haste from anywhere. If you are in the home, remain there. If you are in enjoyment, remain there. Only keep one thing in view: wherever you are, live the experience as intensely as possible. One day bhoga itself will bring you to the place from where your whole being cries out:

Each new day brings a new boat—
but the ocean is the same, the shore the same.
Each new day brings a new wound—
but the pain is the same, the tears the same.
Blaze the whole fire in a single gust—
why burn me little by little each day?
When this Himalaya can melt in a moment,
why wear down my stones grain by grain?

A moment comes when you pray, “Burn it all to ash in a single breath!”

When this Himalaya can melt in a moment,
why wear down my stones grain by grain?
Blaze the whole fire in a single gust—
why burn me little by little each day?

In that moment sannyas flowers. Sannyas is the declaration of right understanding.

“Disgust with the sense‑objects is moksha; relish in the objects is bondage. This alone is vijnana. Then do as you wish.”

See the wondrous sutra!

“Moksho vishaya‑vairasyam, bandho vaishayiko rasah. Etavadeva vijnanam—yathecchasi tatha kuru.”

“Disgust with the sense‑objects is moksha.”

Moksha is a state of your consciousness where there is no more relish in objects. You cannot enforce virasa by force. The more you suppress, the deeper the relish. I see: the householder often has less attraction to woman than the so‑called monk. The day you eat well, you do not remember food; the day you fast, you remember it constantly.

Suppress—and relish grows. Prohibition increases invitation; it does not destroy it. The so‑called saints have taught you suppression: “Crush it by force.” Has anything ever been destroyed by suppression?

All want a cheap way. I say: forget suppression—else you will wander for lives. Revolution can happen in this very life if you become ready to experience. Say, “All right—if there is relish, let me know it thoroughly. If relish proves true, good; if distaste proves true, good.” No one loses by experience; one only gains—whatever the outcome. Wherever you are seized, wherever you are called—go. What fear? What will you lose? What do you have to lose? You are like a naked man who worries, “If I bathe, where will I dry my clothes?” You have no clothes—just bathe!

“Disgust with the objects is moksha.”

How will virasa arise? That is sadhana. The religious tell you: virasa cannot arise—it must be done. I say: it arises by itself; it cannot be done. If objects are meaningless, virasa will happen—by experience.

Watch the child—he relishes toys. A thousand efforts won’t remove his relish. Then he grows and the relish disappears. Tell him, “Take your doll to school,” he says, “Are you mad? Shall I make a joke of myself?” One day he himself throws the doll into the trash—“Enough of this mess; let this shame of old days not remain in the house. It shows we were once fools.” As a child, you could not convince him that a doll is a doll; he could not sleep without holding it. What happened? Maturity. Understanding—through experience. Playing with the doll he slowly found: it is dead; rags stuffed inside. One day children open it to see what is within—nothing!

You see children often break toys. Do not stop them. It is a sign of maturity. They break to see what is inside. Give a child a watch—soon he opens it. You say, “Foolish—don’t open it; you’ll ruin it.” His relish is more in seeing what is within. And he is right. One must know within, one must descend—only then is there freedom.

Children even kill insects—you think they are violent. Not so. They want to see what is within—what makes it move? This butterfly keeps flying—what makes it? They break the wings to peer inside. This too is a search—a curiosity that will invite them to descend into all experiences. One day they will open everything and find nothing—ashes everywhere. Then virasa arises.

“Disgust with the objects is moksha; relish in them is bondage.”

The world is not outside—it is in your relish. Moksha is not in the sky—it is in your becoming tasteless. The famous Shruti says: “Mano eva manushyanam karanam bandha mokshayoh.” Mind alone is the cause of bondage and freedom. Mind means: where your mind is. If it resides somewhere—there is relish, and there is bondage. If it resides nowhere, if everything has become tasteless, if the bird of the mind finds no perch and returns into itself—there is moksha.

“Bandhaya vishayasaktam, muktair nirvishayam smritam.” Bondage is mind; freedom too. As long as the bird keeps flying and alighting on different branches—and we keep changing before we have gone through anything entirely—the relish remains fresh.

One day I saw Mulla Nasruddin carrying a new umbrella. “Where did you get such a fine umbrella—brand new?” “Not new,” he said, “about twenty years old.” I was startled. It didn’t look twenty years old. He said, “Believe it or not—about twenty years. I’ve had it repaired at least twenty‑five times; and at least six times I exchanged it with others’; new as new!”

If you keep changing umbrellas, it will remain new.

You never go deep into one relish—you keep hopping. A little toward wealth; then you see it’s hard to get; a little toward power; you see the queues are already formed; then a little elsewhere, and elsewhere. Never all the way toward one—so you never reach the end; and the relish remains.

And those who teach you keep saying, “Where are you going?” The ones who say this are the returners. Some are knowers—and they will not say, “Where are you going?” They say, “Go faster—so you return sooner.” Those who are not knowers returned halfway and declared the grapes sour—they went a little and turned back, thought it was beyond them.

In my experience, most so‑called sannyasis are of dull intelligence—men who could not succeed anywhere. They say the grapes are sour. Put your sannyasis in a row—go to the Kumbh Mela and watch. You will feel as if the dull‑minded have gathered there. No intelligence is needed to sit by a fire smeared with ash, to stand on the head, to lie on thorns. This is their strength. You see no sign of intelligence—rather the lack of it. They would not succeed anywhere. To run a shop is no simple matter! They would not rise beyond a peon.

They found a cheap trick—lit a sacred fire and sat. For this, no intelligence, no university degree is needed. Even the most dull can do it. Donkeys roll in sand and gather dust—what’s special? But the wonder is: this dull man sits at the fire, and those who would not hire him to wash their dishes now touch his feet. A miracle! He could not be a city council member; ministers touch his feet—thinking, “If the Guru’s grace falls, we will win the election!”

I heard of a thief on the run; the police chased him. He came to a river; he could not swim; the river was deep; he panicked. Nearby a sadhu sat with his dhuni, eyes closed. The thief plunged in, smeared himself with mud and ash, and sat with eyes closed. The policemen came and touched his feet, then went back. He thought, “What fools we were to steal! All can be had without that.” He sat. The villagers came, “A great silent saint has come.” Numbers grew; the king came, touched his feet, asked, “How long in silence?” He said nothing. He had no answers; they took his silence for vow. He thought, “These are the very people from whose houses I used to steal potsherds; now they pile diamonds at my feet. If only I were authentic!” Finally, when the emperor came, he couldn’t help it. “Don’t touch my feet. I am a thief. This is the limit. But one thing is sure: I will not be a thief anymore. What a trick—if only I had known it earlier! I am a false sannyasi and so much honor—if I were true!”

I have seen many sannyasis across the land; ninety‑nine percent are dull. They could not have succeeded elsewhere. Do not turn back listening to them; otherwise virasa will never arise; relish will remain.

“Disgust with the objects is moksha; relish is bondage.” And Ashtavakra says, “This alone, Janaka, is vijnana—this alone.”

‘Vijnana’ is an extraordinary word—special knowing. ‘Jnana’ is what can be received from another; ‘vijnana’ only from your own experience—hence “special.” The heard is jnana; the known is vijnana. We call science vijnana because it is experimental, experiential, lab‑proven—not chatter. Likewise, the inner is also vijnana—proven in the inner laboratory. Remember:

“Etavadeva vijnanam.”

Ashtavakra says: nothing more need be known. This alone is vijnana: if virasa arises, there is moksha; if relish remains, bondage. Knowing this, do as you wish. No binding then; you are swachhanda—free to live by your own cadence, your own svabhava. No outer mechanism binds you; no inner mechanism binds you. You are free—beyond all tantra; you are swachhanda.

“Yathecchasi tatha kuru.”

Then do as you wish. Live as happens—only know: no relish. If there is no relish, dwell in a palace—so be it. If there is relish, even a forest hut is of no value.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife asked, “You are so handsome, Nasruddin—and yet, why are you so empty of sense? God gave you beauty; why kept you witless?”

Nasruddin said, “The reason is clear. God made me beautiful so that you could marry me; and kept me witless so that I would marry you.”

If you are witless, your marriage with the world will go on—wherever you run, the world will catch you. And there is only one way to be truly intelligent—be rich in experience. The essence of experience is wisdom.

So the more you can experience, the better. Do not fear mistakes. One who fears mistakes never arrives at experience. Make mistakes—wholeheartedly. Only, do not repeat the same mistake. Make it once totally—so there is no need again. It is my perception: if once you get angry absolutely—totally—you will not be able to get angry again. That anger will give you the taste of fire, poison, death. If once you descend into lust totally—wildly, like an animal—the matter will end; you will not be able to descend again; virasa will arise. The urge to repeat again and again is because you never truly descended even once. And God is such that until you learn by experience, He does not let go; He pushes: go, return with experience.

Just as a father says: do not return home until you pass—re‑enroll in the same class, study again, return with a certificate. The Divine takes you beyond life only when you pass life. There is freedom from the wheel only when you have drawn from life what can be drawn. Without drawing it, you cannot be taken across.

“This realization turns the verbose, the clever, and the hyper‑industrious into mute, wooden, and lazy. Hence those who desire enjoyment avoid it.”

This is a strange utterance. Understand it. The “cleverness” you praise is worldly; it is not true intelligence. What is the value of an intelligence that brings no moksha, no freedom, no satchidananda? If that is “intelligence,” what then is stupidity? What you call intelligence—cunning—is, in the ultimate, stupidity. Thus what is intelligence in the ultimate will appear as stupidity to you.

You call the fool “buddhu”—a word born of “Buddha.” People called Buddha a “buddhu”: gone to waste, of no use. He had house, palace, wife, child—he ran away! Lao Tzu says, “The rest are very clever—running and rushing; I alone am lazy.”

Imagine a madhouse. You are locked within, but you are not mad. All the mad will consider you mad—will they not? Their minds are one; yours does not fit. They run, shout, fight; you neither shout nor fight. They will think, “What has happened to you? Is your mind spoiled? Behave like us. Live as we live. Be like those with whom you live—that is intelligence. We are all running, shouting—you sit!” The healthy man in a madhouse will look like a fool.

Ashtavakra says: those who lust, those who crave enjoyment do not go near the essence of Truth; they are afraid. The slightest shadow of wisdom—and ambition disappears. With ambition gone, the rush is gone. Even if a diamond lies in front of the knower, he will not care to pick it up. To the ambitious this looks like sloth. “What sloth! A priceless gem lay there—couldn’t he lift a hand?” He will think this man is drunk.

There is a story of two lazy men beneath a tree, praying, “O God, let a berry fall directly into our mouths.” One berry fell. One said, “Brother, put it in my mouth.” The other said, “Forget it—when the dog was peeing in my ear, did you chase him away?”

Do not confuse such laziness with Bharthari. Bharthari left his kingdom, sat beneath a tree, left the world. Rightly so—virasa must have arisen. He wrote two shatakas: Shringara‑shataka and Vairagya‑shataka. No richer homage to beauty and the body has ever been written; and no richer homage to dispassion. The same man wrote both—only the one who has known beauty can know vairagya. He went deep; found nothing there; it was hollow. From afar the drums were sweet; up close—all vain. The mirage proved mirage.

He sat beneath a tree. The sun rose; rays fell through the branches; on the path lay a dazzling gem. He sat. He was a connoisseur—an emperor—he knew gems. He had never seen such a gem; even his treasury had none. For a moment old habit must have stirred. For a moment the mind said, “Pick it up.” Then he laughed—“What madness! I left everything; I have seen through it all.” He smiled and closed his eyes. Two horsemen came galloping; both saw the gem; both drew swords; both claimed, “I saw it first.” Bharthari had seen it first, yet he made no claim; he remained non‑claimant. Had they known he’d been sitting there for an hour, they would have called it the height of tamas—“Are you paralyzed? Drunk?” But they had no time. Their quarrel flared; swords fell; the gem lay; two corpses lay beside it. Bharthari closed his eyes.

To the ambitious, the knower looks lazy, mute, wooden. Therefore the craving ones flee from the shadow of wisdom. If Buddha came to their village, they would go to the next. If Buddha stayed next door, they would turn their backs. If his words fell upon their ears, they would plug them. There are a thousand ways to plug the ears. They find a thousand arguments—“Don’t get into this.” From their side, it is right—these words flow opposite to their direction.

“You are not the body; the body is not yours; you are neither enjoyer nor doer. You are chaitanya, the eternal sakshi, unattached. Move at ease.”

Honey may be in a clay pot or a golden cup—
the eye’s duality cannot deceive
the tongue’s Brahman.
Duality deceives only the intellect, never experience.
Honey may be in a clay pot or a golden cup—
the eye’s duality cannot deceive
the tongue’s Brahman.

If you have tasted, you do not keep account of vessels—gold or clay. You keep account of taste: is it honey or not?

One who runs in the world cares only for vessels—sees a beautiful body and goes mad, even if poison lies within; sees a high post and goes crazy, even if that throne is a cross. It is a cross. The one sitting on the high chair is hanging upon a cross. You do not know his inner pain; you do not know his unrest. He neither sleeps nor wakes; in every condition he clings to the chair. Someone pulls his leg, someone from behind, someone tries to topple, someone to climb. The one on the chair cannot sit—he only appears in newspapers to sit. Those are faces—do not be deceived by faces. One who has tasted the juice of life sees at once: outside there is not honey but the trick of honey; not taste but the trick of taste.

If my mind had not held me
with its grip from life’s river,
what could stand long
as a barrier on my path?
But I myself built high dams
and deceived myself within them.

People deceive themselves; they entangle themselves; they build the dams; they spin the webs of argument; they convince themselves—and flee the source from which understanding can come. The ray of understanding can come only from one who has understood. Ask the one from whose life ambition has departed the essence of ambition; ask the one from whom lust has gone the essence of lust. He alone can reveal the essence of lust—and the taste of brahmacharya.

Ashtavakra says:

“You are not the body; nor is the body yours. You are not the enjoyer, not the doer. You are chidrupa, the eternal sakshi, nirapeksha—move in happiness.”

“Raga and dvesha are of the mind. The mind is never yours. You are nirvikalpa, nirvikara, bodhasvarupa. Be happy.”

But the mind is very close to consciousness. Place an object near a mirror and an image forms—so the mind’s waves reflect in pure consciousness. All is play of mind. When the mind drops, the mirror is clean. To know that clean is Brahma‑jnana. That is vijnana.

“Etavadeva vijnanam.”

But the mind is very near; its waves rise; their shadows fall upon consciousness. Watch them as a sakshi. Understand the witness: a wave of lust arises; if you say “bad” you lose witnessing—you have judged; you have joined in opposition. If you say “good,” again witnessing is lost. Let lust arise; do not say good, do not say bad; take no decision—only watch. Remain only the seer—neither for nor against. If you can remain a watcher even for a moment, you will be amazed. In your seeing, the desire rises like smoke and dissolves. When it dissolves, what remains is a pristine void—its peace is incomparable, its bliss unique. Gather those drops of nectar; little by little you will be transformed. Drop by drop your vessel will be filled with amrita.

We live from the mind; therefore what is, we do not see.

A new widow went to the insurance company for her husband’s claim. The manager, out of courtesy, offered her a seat and said, “We are very sorry to hear of your sudden misfortune, madam.” She snapped, “Yes—that’s how men are everywhere. When a woman gets a chance to receive a little money, you feel very sorry.”

The poor man meant: your husband passed—we are sorry. But her mind is elsewhere—on the lakhs to come: how many saris, which car, which house. Her mind is filled with a net; she hears through her mind. She understands only, “You are feeling sorry—at my house and car and saris I’m about to buy.” She takes her meaning.

The mind colors everything. The meanings you take are not true—they are of your mind.

A woman was traveling on a bus with ten or twelve children. Mulla Nasruddin, sitting next to her, lit a cigarette. The woman disliked it. “Sir, did you not see? It is written here: smoking on the bus is prohibited.” Mulla said, “What is in writing? A thousand things are written. It is also written here: ‘two or three bus.’ Then how come ten or twelve?”

Whatever we decide, speak, do—the mind’s shadow is there. Mulla is thinking: ten or twelve children! He is disturbed—perhaps he lit the cigarette to forget the clamor.

We see through our habits.

A math professor celebrated the birth of his child with a party. On the table a placard read: “Taste any five—each has equal flavor.” The habit—setting a problem: “Answer any five; all marks equal.”

Man lives by habits; thinks by habits. Habits reach to the mind—beyond mind there is none. Beyond mind you are nirvikara. All waves reach only to the mind.

“Raga and dvesha are the nature of mind.”

“Ragadveshau mano dharmau.”

“The mind is never yours.”

“Na te manah kadachana.”

“You are nirvikalpa, nirvikara, bodhatma. Be happy.”

Know this vijnana—and you know joy. The Atman has never been unhappy. If you are unhappy, you have mistakenly identified mind as Atman. Suffering means: Atman’s identification with mind.

“Know the Atman in all beings, and all beings in the Atman—you become without ‘I’ and ‘mine’. Be happy.”

The moment you know the inner witness, you will know: the witness is one in all. As long as there is mind, there is multiplicity. When the witness awakens, there is One. On the circumference we are different; at the center we are one. Where unity dawns, what ego? Where One remains, what “mine”?

“See the Atman in all beings and all beings in the Atman. Without ego, without possessiveness—be happy.”

“In whom this universe shimmers like waves in the ocean—that thou art. There is no doubt. O embodiment of consciousness, be feverless, be free of sorrow—be happy.”

“Vishvam sphurati yatredam taranga iva sagare.”

In this ocean, the waves rise; behind the waves the ocean is—thou. These waves of the world are waves of Brahman.

“Tattvam eva—na samdehah. Chinmurte—vijvaro bhava.”

Know thus: you are that chaitanya whose play this all is; you are the source of whose expression this all is—be rid of fever, drop all sorrow—be happy.

As long as there is mind, there is obstruction.

Night has donned silence;
dreams have merged into quiet.
The inner doors begin to open by themselves—
as if gods have arrived at the threshold.
Water’s stillness
is the symbol of the mind’s peace and aura.
When water is still,
one’s face is seen within;
in rippling water, the image ripples.
When the mind becomes still like a lake,
there the secret of secrets is found.
O mind, become still like a silent lake;
awake, you played so many games—
all went wrong;
now forget everything
and sleep.

When the mind sleeps, consciousness awakens. When the mind wakes, consciousness sleeps. Do not take the mind’s wakefulness to be your wakefulness. The waking of mind is your sleep. Let the mind sleep; let its waves subside. Only when the mind sleeps, do you awaken. It is all about mind. With mind—samsara; without mind—moksha. Know yourself free of mind by any means.

“Etavadeva vijnanam.”

This alone is vijnana.

“Yathecchasi tatha kuru.”

Knowing thus, move at ease—do what you will. Swachhanda—free.

Hari Om Tatsat!