Maha Geeta #41

Before Albert Einstein, existence was traditionally divided into two parts: time and space. Einstein created a great revolution. He said, time and space are not separate; they are two aspects of one truth.
He coined a new word by merging them: spacetime; kaal-aakash.
To understand these sutras more easily, a little background is needed. It is not simple to take in the idea that time and space are one. Einstein said that time is one dimension of space, a direction, a dimension. Seen from the side of time, the world looks one way; seen from the side of space, it looks another. If one looks at the world from the side of time, karma will appear important, because time is movement—action is significant. If one looks from the side of space, then karma and the like are futile. Space is shunya—there is no movement there. Whoever looks from the side of time will find the world dual, indeed manifold.
I am; yesterday I was not; tomorrow I may not be again. By my death you will not die; nor was your birth caused by my birth. Surely I am separate, you are separate. The tree is separate, the mountain separate—everything separate. In time, each thing is defined and distinct. In space, all things are one. Space is one.
The stream of time cuts things into pieces. Time is the source of division. So one who sees existence from the side of time will see the many; one who sees from the side of space will see the one. Seen from the side of time, one will think in the language of practice and attainment: one must walk, one must reach, there is a destination somewhere; one must labor, resolve, strive, make effort—and then one may arrive. Seen from the side of space, there is no destination anywhere.
Siddhi is man’s nature. Space is here, not somewhere else. Where is there to go! Wherever you are, there is space. Space pervades inside and outside. Space has always been; not lost even for a moment. In time one can travel—how to travel in space! Wherever you are, you are in the same space. In space there is no way of journeying; in time one can journey. Keep this in mind.
Mahavira’s tradition is called Shramana. Shramana means: effort, labor. By labor you will attain. Without labor neither Paramatman nor truth can be found. The Hindu tradition is called Brahmana. Its meaning is that Brahman you already are; there is nothing to attain. One must awaken, one must know. You are that by your very nature. Brahman is seated within you already. This is to see from the side of space. You will be surprised: Mahavira even named the soul as time. That is why Mahavira’s Samadhi is called Samayik.
I was born in a Jain household. That sect was called Samaiya—the word arises from samay, time. Mahavira says: become absorbed in time and meditation has happened; settle into time and you have arrived. The Hindu tradition gives no value to time, therefore no value to effort. Space is valued.
All these sutras of Ashtavakra are sutras of space. And as Einstein says, space and time are two aspects of one existence—one can reach from either side. The one who proceeds by valuing time will have no room for surrender—rather struggle, resolve. The one who proceeds by valuing space will bow now, bow here—surrender is possible. Shraddha! There is nothing to do. Mere awakening is enough. The one who proceeds by time will struggle between the auspicious and the inauspicious: remove the inauspicious, bring in the auspicious; erase the bad, bring in the good. Thus Jain thought became very ethical—it had to. If you must cut darkness and bring light, you must become a warrior. Hence Vardhamana was named Mahavira—the great warrior. He conquered, he achieved victory. ‘Jain’ means one who has conquered. Ask a devotee, and he will say: that whole idea is wrong; God is not found by conquering, but by being defeated! Be defeated! Surrender before Him! Drop the struggle! The moment you lose, you find.
These are two different languages. Both are true—remember. From both sides people have arrived. Choose the one that resonates with you—only that is right for you. Though a tendency arises in the mind that whoever holds one view will naturally call the other false. One who believes attainment comes by resolve—how can he accept that it can come by surrender? If he accepts that surrender works, then what need of resolve remains? And one who believes that only surrender yields—if he accepts that resolve also works, then what value remains in surrender? So both will go on refuting and opposing each other.
You will be surprised to know: there is not as much opposition between Hindu and Muslim—their methodology is essentially one; but between Jain and Hindu there is much opposition—their methodologies are fundamentally different. Muslim, Christian, Hindu—if you see closely, they proceed by accepting the notion of space. Language may differ somewhat, but there is no fundamental difference. But Buddha and Mahavira do not proceed by the language of space; they proceed by the language of time.
All the religions of the world can be divided into Shramana and Brahmana. And let me repeat: people have arrived from both sides. So do not worry that the other is wrong; see only with whom your inner ‘self’ falls into rhythm. Whom does your inner being harmonize with? That is enough; nothing more is needed.
The ultimate culmination of the Hindu tradition reached Advaita; but Mahavira cannot go to Advaita—because Advaita would mean: then there is nothing left to attain. The other is needed. There is nothing left to fight if there is no other; nothing to defeat if there is no other. For a warrior, what use is it to be alone? If you whirl a sword in a room there is no war, only a dance. A warrior needs an opponent—to grapple with a challenge. So Mahavira says: samsara is separate, Paramatman is separate; and between the two there is conflict; between consciousness and matter there is conflict. Therefore Mahavira is not an Advaitin, he is a dualist. Life and consciousness are one realm; matter, the inert, is another. And between the two there is never any meeting. They are different.
Mahavira’s understandings can help you to grasp Ashtavakra. With that background, Ashtavakra will become clear.
Ashtavakra’s vision is Advaita: there is only one, like space! It is all His play. That one alone appears in myriad forms. He is present within you from eternity; you are dozing, asleep—that is all. Open your eyes and you will find Him. There is not even an inch of distance to be traversed for that attainment. It is as if the sun has risen and you sit with eyes closed. Light is showering all around, but you are in darkness. You open your eyelids and you are filled with light. There was nowhere to go. The light was perched on your very eyelids; it was knocking at your eyelids. The lids opened and everything opened. All became light. The attainment of truth is effortless. And Samadhi is not effort-achieved; Samadhi is surrender-achieved, it is through Shraddha.
In Mahavira and Buddha you will find much argument, fine argument. In Mahavira there is no proposition that is not logically established. He does not utter anything that cannot be proved logically. Therefore Mahavira does not speak of God, nor does Buddha. Buddha goes a step further—he does not even speak of Atman, because there is no way to prove it by logic.
A great Western thinker, Ludwig Wittgenstein, wrote one of the significant books of this century. One of its aphorisms says: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. Do not try to bring into speech what cannot come into speech, otherwise injustice occurs—violence occurs.”
Wittgenstein stands precisely in the lineage of Mahavira and Buddha—the same logical vision. Mahavira does not say anything that cannot be proven by reason.
Therefore there is no poetry in Mahavira—because how will you prove poetry? Poetry is not proven. One may be intoxicated by it—and blessed; if not, there is no way to prove it. And if you try to prove poetry, poetry dies. If someone asks you the meaning of a poem, never make the mistake of explaining. Because the moment you explain and analyze, the poem dies. If it is grasped as a glimpse, good; if not, let it pass. There is no way to force it into grasp.
Mahavira is clean and clear, logic-ridden; Buddha too. There is no talk of Shraddha. There is no question of belief. Whatever is, can be known. Hence the whole exertion of intellect is necessary. In the Brahmana view, the exertion of intellect itself is the obstacle. So long as you strive with the intellect, your striving itself becomes your prison. For there are things the intellect can know, and things it cannot—because some things are beyond the intellect and some behind it. One thing is certain: you are behind the intellect. You are not ahead of it. By your standing behind, intellect moves. So you cannot be known by the intellect—how will it turn back and know you? It functions by your support—without you it cannot function at all.
It is as if I take a pair of tongs in my hand—by the tongs I can grip any object; but with the same tongs I cannot grasp the very hand that holds the tongs. In trying to grasp it, the tongs will fall; and if the tongs are not in my hand, the tongs can grasp nothing.
The intellect too is yours, a part of your consciousness—the tongs in the hand of consciousness. By it you can grasp everything; consciousness will slip away. If you want to grasp consciousness itself, you will have to drop the tongs. If you cling too much to the tongs, you will fall into difficulty. Then you will understand everything, except yourself.
Therefore science is understanding everything, only the selfhood of man it is forgetting. Man’s inner consciousness is the one thing not coming into its grasp; everything else is being grasped.
Science is very pleased with Mahavira. It is very possible that if scientists read Mahavira they will be amazed—because what they are saying today, Mahavira said two and a half thousand years ago. Mahavira’s grasp of logic is very clean and sharp; but the mistake science is making, Mahavira did not make. He said only this much: what can be known, can be known by reason; and about what is beyond reason he kept silent. He did not spin theories about it. Yet he led his seekers slowly, silently, toward the trans-rational—without talking of it, without building doctrine about it. And that too was reached through an intense struggle of reason. When reason reaches that shore—where its wings can fly no further, where there is no movement left ahead and reason, of itself, falls—its wings cut… then what you directly encounter…
The Brahmana says: even this long journey of reason is futile. If reason must fall at the end, then the goal is available here and now. The Brahmana shastra says: the moment reason falls, the goal arrives. You say, we will drop it at the end—your choice. Drop it now, and the goal arrives now. As you wish. If you want to carry it a while, carry it. It is not that dropping it at some special spot brings the goal—wherever you drop it, the goal arrives there. The dropping of reason is Shraddha.
Today’s sutras are very unique. They must be understood with great care.
The first sutra: “O gentle one, O beloved! Have Shraddha, have Shraddha! Do not fall into delusion. You are of the nature of knowing; you are Bhagavan, you are Paramatman; you are beyond Prakriti.”
“O Soumya!”
Soumya means: one who has come to equipoise; to beauty; to samata, to grace; one very close to Samadhi. “Soumya” is a very lovely word—attained to balance! Someone who is becoming still within, settling, even the last ripple is disappearing; soon the lake will be without a ripple. Samadhi is near. As if there is only the delay of an eyelid’s opening. Just that much distance.
Till now Ashtavakra had not used this word for Janaka; now he does. He says: “O Soumya! O Janaka who has come near to Samadhi! O Janaka resting in equanimity!” And when one attains to samata, one becomes beautiful. Beauty is the shadow of samata. If even a body appears beautiful, it is because there is proportion, a symmetry; the body is in balance, symmetry. No limb is too large, no limb too small; all are in balance; as they should be.
Beauty means that everything is in the right proportion and in harmony with each other. Do not think you can take a beautiful nose, a beautiful eye, beautiful hair, beautiful hands, and by assembling them make a beautiful woman or man! Do not think so. Perhaps nothing could be uglier. Because beauty is not in the nose, nor in the eyes, nor in the hair. Beauty is in equilibrium. Beauty is in the proportioned harmony of the whole, in chhand, cadence. You cannot assemble many beautiful pieces and give birth to beauty. Remember: beauty is a rhythm, a lilt, a balance of measures.
So there is the beauty of the body; then there is the beauty of the mind; and then the beauty of the soul. The mind’s beauty is when the qualities in a person have a consonance—no contradictions. One thing is not the opposite of another. All things flow in one stream. A deep congruence and music arises.
The beauty of mind is when the mind moves in one direction. Not that half is going east, half west; some part is stuck; some going here, some going there—mounted on many horses, no; riding many boats, no—there is one journey, one destination; and the whole chitta is unified. Whenever you meet a person whose mind is flowing in one stream, unfragmented, you will find a beauty of mind there—a grace around that person.
Then there is the beauty of the soul. That beauty is when the soul awakens and draws near to Samadhi.
Ashtavakra says to Janaka: “O Soumya!” This is the kind of state you sometimes have in the morning: not yet awake and not asleep either. A little awake, a little asleep—drowsy. Sounds from outside begin to be heard. The milkman is knocking at the door—you register it. Children are preparing for school; rushing about—you remember it. The wife has begun to make tea; the kettle’s hum faintly enters the ear; the aroma comes to the nostrils. Perhaps the sun’s ray is entering from the window, touching the face—you feel its warmth. Still you are drowsy—not fully awake. Sleep is slipping away. When such a state happens in a man’s innermost world, he becomes Soumya. The Atman has not fully awakened, but is close. Something is being felt; a taste is arriving; news of one’s nature is coming—but the curtain has not fully lifted. A glimpse, a window has opened; the leap has not happened.
“O Soumya! O beloved…”
And to the guru the disciple becomes beloved only when he becomes Soumya—when he draws near to Samadhi.
This is the whole effort of the guru: to awaken the sleeping; to remind the lost of their remembrance; to bring the stray back to the path. And when he sees someone drawing near to the goal… And Janaka, the way he has spoken, the answers he has given to Ashtavakra… In the book there are only answers; even from the answers one learns much; but before Ashtavakra, Janaka himself stood—his eyes, face, gestures, his getting up and sitting down—everything must have been conveying: equanimity is arriving; Samadhi is near.
As you approach a garden, from afar it may not yet be visible, yet the air becomes cool; in the winds a fragrance of flowers starts to drift. Perfume floats. You may not yet see the garden, but you can say you are in the right direction. The coolness increases, the freshness grows, the fragrance becomes sharp and strong. You know the garden is near and you are moving right. Such must have been the case. A intoxication must have been descending; a gentle languor in the eyes. God’s wine had begun to drip into Janaka’s heart. This is the moment when the guru calls the disciple “beloved.” The moment is near when the guru will consider the disciple worthy to be seated by him. Near is the moment when the distinction of guru and disciple will vanish. “Beloved” indicates this. Beloved means: now I draw you close to my heart; now I accept you as my equal; now you have become, are becoming, the same as I; now there is no difference between me and you. Soon it will not be possible to tell who is guru, who disciple.
Whomever you love, you accept as your equal. That is the difference. Love has many modes. A father’s love for his son is vatsalya—we do not call it love. Vatsalya means: the father is very high, the son very low; the love pours down. The son is like a vessel placed below; the father’s love falls into it. Love toward a guru we call Shraddha, reverence, respect—we do not call it love either, because the guru sits high, and our love and reverence rise upward like incense smoke. But when you fall in love with someone, then we call it love. Love means: the one you love stands exactly beside you.
Hence it often happens: a husband comes to me and takes sannyas; he says, “I wish my wife also to come; I try every way but she does not listen.” I tell him: “Do not, even by mistake, try. Such a thing has never happened. You will not be able to bring her—because with the one with whom you have loved, you have accepted an equal footing. Now she cannot consider you her guru.”
Likewise when a wife comes to me and is initiated, she wants to bring her husband. The desire is natural—what we have found, may it come to those we love. But it does not happen. The husband becomes even more stiff. To accept the wife as guru is difficult.
Therefore husband and wife can almost never persuade each other; it is a very hard matter. The more you try, the more the distance grows; the more anger arises; no one is persuaded. I tell them: do not enter this tangle. Once accepted as equal, once love is given, and now you want to be the guru—and that is what it is to show the way. You say, “Come, where I have found, you also come.” She cannot accept that you can be ahead of her.
But a time comes when the guru says to the disciple, “Beloved,” when the guru’s love showers on the disciple. The days of vatsalya are past; the days of love have come. Now the guru feels the disciple is entering the very state for which the effort was; he is coming to the guru’s own state. The guru is fulfilled only when the disciple becomes a guru.
“O beloved! Have Shraddha, have Shraddha!”
Understand the meaning of Shraddha. Shraddha does not mean belief. Because Shraddha that means belief is not Shraddha at all. Belief means trust in a doctrine, a dogma, a scripture. Shraddha means trust in one’s nature, in truth; not in a doctrine, but in life, in existence. And this is the moment when Janaka is close to waking; if a little doubt arises, sleep will return. If even a little fear catches hold—“What is happening? I have always slept; all was going fine. Now awakening—and a new work begins. Who knows if awakening will bring joy or not; is awakening right or not? What is unfolding is so vast—shall I go with it or turn back? That old, known world was familiar; this is an unknown path, no map in hand…!”
Shraddha means: when the unknown knocks at your door, go with it. Belief never meets the unknown; belief is always of the known. You are a Hindu—this is belief. You are a Muslim—this is belief. Become religious and you will become Shraddhavan.
Belief means: you believe in the Koran, therefore you are a Muslim. You believe in Mahavira, therefore you are a Jain. Still you have no trust in life, because trust in life is related neither to Mahavira, nor to Koran, nor to Buddha, nor to Krishna. Life surrounds you here—inside and out, everywhere. And life has no doctrine, no scripture. Life is its own doctrine.
Suppose someone runs in and shouts here: “Fire! The place is on fire!” Many will run, whether there is fire or not. They have trusted the word. But the word “fire” cannot burn. I may shout fire a hundred times, you will not be burned; but if I place a live coal on your hand, you will burn. The word ‘fire’ is not fire. And no doctrine of God is God; no word is God.
All the doctrines about life are human languages—attempts to make the unknown known; attempts to define the undefined. We stick a name, and feel relief: we have known. But God is such an immense event—who has ever known Him fully! Who can! To know would mean to see God through and through. To see through and through would mean He has a boundary. That which has a boundary is not God. That which is infinite, which has no shore, no beginning and no end—how will you ever completely know it? Never. Its mystery will remain mystery.
Science says: we accept two words—known and unknown. What we have known is knowledge; what we have not yet known is unknown—but we will know. Religion says: we accept three—known, unknown, and unknowable. Known is what we have known. Unknown is what we will know. Unknowable is what we can never know.
God is the Unknowable. Shraddha is trust in that Unknowable—that not all is exhausted by knowing. What is known becomes petty; what remains unknown is the vast. This attitude is called Shraddha. Till now Ashtavakra had not spoken of Shraddha; today suddenly he speaks of it. And not once—he repeats it twice: “Have Shraddha, have Shraddha!”
When someone is about to take the leap, the past pulls with all its might to stop. The past has great power! For births upon births you have lived with it—habit has great power. It pulls like a chain. It says: “Where are you going? On what unknown path? You will get lost. Go with the known, the familiar. Do not leave the highway. All have walked here. If you are a Hindu, remain a Hindu. If a Muslim, remain a Muslim. If you have been reading the Koran, go on reading the Koran; if reciting the Gita, go on reciting the Gita. This is familiar. Where are you moving? Life! Life is vast. Existence is immense. You are very small. Like a drop you will be lost in the ocean; no one will know; you will not be able to return. Beware!” The past pulls with full force.
Seeing this moment before him, Ashtavakra says: “Shraddhatsva! Have Shraddha, have Shraddha.”
Shraddhatsva tat, shraddhatsva—do not be deluded, O dear one.
“O beloved, O Soumya! The moment of Shraddha has come, have Shraddha. And do not make the mistake of clinging.”
Moha belongs to the past; Shraddha belongs to the future. Moha binds you to that with which you have lived. Shraddha belongs to that with which you have never lived. Even the coward has moha; only the courageous have Shraddha. The ignorant too have moha; Shraddha belongs only to the seekers of knowing.
You say, “I am a Hindu”—is this your moha or your Shraddha? Distinguish. If you had not been born in a Hindu home, if from childhood you had been placed in a Muslim home—you would be a Muslim. And you would have the same moha in being Muslim as you now have in being Hindu. If a Hindu–Muslim riot happened, you would fight on the Muslim side, not the Hindu side. Now you fight as a Hindu; but are you certain you were born in a Hindu home? Who knows—you were born in a Muslim home and placed in a Hindu one. This is belief.
Moha is belief. Moha has no foundation; only conditioning. Repeated again and again, it became moha. You do not really know. In moha there is habit, but no awareness. Shraddha arises with great awareness. Shraddha means: what has happened has happened; what has gone is gone. I am ready for what should be. The door to the possible is open, and taking hold of the thread of possibility I will move—wherever Paramatman leads, whatever He shows, whatever He does. If I must be lost, I will be lost! Better to be lost with Shraddha. There is no essence in clinging to moha. You have lived long enough with moha—what have you gained? Make an account! You are filled with beliefs—what have you received? Beliefs are like the word ‘fire’—it does not burn. Beliefs are like the word ‘amrita.’ Write ‘amrita’ and gulp it down—still you will not attain nectar.
Shraddha is the search for that which is. Shraddha is the quest for truth. Shraddha has no relation with belief. And the believer, if he imagines himself to be Shraddhavan, falls into great delusion. Belief is counterfeit coin—the wish of the weak. Shraddha is real currency—the search of the brave.
“O Soumya, O beloved! Have Shraddha, have Shraddha! Do not be deluded. You are of the nature of knowing; you are Bhagavan, you are Paramatman, you are beyond Prakriti.”
Do not fear; do not be entangled in limits. Do not take the boundaries of the past as your boundaries.
Understand. Till now you have known yourself as human. Not even whole human—Hindu, Christian, Jain—cut again into fragments. A Hindu is not whole either—Brahmin, Shudra, Kshatriya, Vaishya. And Brahmin is not whole—Deshastha, Kokanastha... It keeps cutting and cutting. Then man–woman; poor–rich; beautiful–ugly; young–old—how many fragments! In the end you are left—very petty, bound in thousands of limits. This you have known. Today I suddenly say to you, “You are God”—Shraddha does not happen. You say: “God and I! What are you saying! As I know myself, I am a great sinner. I commit a thousand sins; I steal, I gamble, I drink.” Still I say: you are God! These limits you have taken as yours are only your assumptions. The day you dare to raise your head above these limits, suddenly you will find all boundaries have fallen. Your real nature is the boundless.
When the hour of awakening comes, the guru must say to you with great force that you are God. Because the limits are ancient; the conditioning long, very ancient—and the new ray descending is very new and very tender. If you cling to the past and say, “I am a sinner; I have committed such and such sins…”
Someone comes and says, “I am not worthy of sannyas.” I say, “Leave that worry—I consider you worthy. Listen to me.” He says, “Whatever you say, I am not worthy. I smoke.” I say, “Smoke. If sannyas is so small that it is spoiled by a cigarette, it is worth two pennies. It has no value. What kind of sannyas is that—that if you smoke, it is finished! If sannyas has some strength, the cigarette will go; why hold back sannyas by the strength of a cigarette?”
Another comes and says, “I drink.” I say, “Don’t worry—drink. We will give you a greater wine; then let us see which wins.”
Whenever there is a conflict between past and future, listen to the future—because the future is what is to be. The past is what has been. The past is what is dead, ash. The ember there is gone; the life has moved away. Only the beaten track remains, the dust where once you walked. Do not listen to the past. The tendency is to listen to it because we know it.
Our condition is like a man driving a car by looking only into the rear-view mirror—he looks behind and not ahead. What will happen but accident! We are driving life like this—looking behind while moving ahead. You can look behind; you must go ahead. With eyes fixed behind and movement ahead—what else but accident! This is a blind journey.
Where you are going, there also look—this is Shraddha. You are going into the future. The future is unknown. Trust it. If you waver and tremble, you will be filled with moha.
When a prisoner is released after twenty years, he looks at his handcuffs with tenderness. Twenty years is not a small time.
When the revolution happened in France, the greatest prison, the Bastille, was torn down by the revolutionaries. There were only life-term prisoners. One had been imprisoned for fifty years. One had been in for seventy. Handcuffs and fetters for seventy years! And those brought to the Bastille were life-termers; their shackles had no locks, for they would never be released alive; the cuffs were closed, the fetters linked. They would be freed only when they died—by cutting the legs, cutting the hands. Suddenly to free such a man who has lived seventy years in chains, in a dark cell where no sunlight ever entered—imagine!
The revolutionaries thought they were doing great compassion. They broke the Bastille and freed all the three or four thousand prisoners. They assumed the prisoners would be pleased with them as liberators. But the prisoners were not pleased; they said, “We do not like this; we are fine as we are.” Revolutionaries are stubborn; they do not ask whether you want revolution or not. They forcibly broke the chains and pushed them out.
By midnight half of them returned. They said, “We cannot even sleep without our handcuffs. For fifty, sixty, seventy years they were on our hands and feet—only then could we sleep. Now, without their weight, we cannot sleep. Without that weight we feel naked, empty. And where shall we go? Outside we are afraid. Our eyes have become accustomed to darkness. Light frightens us.”
The story of Bastille is important. It is a real incident. And the Bastille’s prisoners had been in for seventy or fifty years; man’s prison is far more ancient, eternal. For births upon births we have been within limits. Once we had the limits of trees, then of animals, then of birds. Now the limit is human. We have been in prison since unbeginning time. Today when the hour of liberation comes, and an Ashtavakra arrives to free us, naturally our moha will surge; our old habit will say, “What are you doing? No—stop. Do not place your foot in the unknown. Do not go into the dark. The light of the past is needed. Live in tradition.”
Remember, Shraddha is a revolutionary event. People generally think the Shraddhavan is traditional. Nothing could be more foolish. The Shraddhavan is utterly non-traditional; he cannot have a tradition. Shraddha—and tradition! Tradition belongs to the past; belief belongs to the past. Shraddha belongs to the future; how can it have tradition! Tradition belongs to the crowd, the society. Shraddha belongs to the individual, the alone.
“O Soumya, O beloved! Have Shraddha, have Shraddha! Do not be deluded. You are of the nature of knowing; you are Bhagavan, you are Paramatman, you are beyond Prakriti.”
These proclamations frighten you; they make you uneasy. If you call someone “You are God,” he thinks, “Perhaps you are joking? Perhaps you are mocking?” Your religious leaders have taught you that you are sinners; they have taught you that you are hellish; they have taught you that you are not even worthy of being human—you are worse than animals! But whoever has taught you so—far from being a religious guru—knows nothing of religion. He is strengthening your boundaries, your chains, your prison. He will not let you be free. A true guru says to you: you are free! Freedom is your nature.
“Dear one, O Soumya! Beloved! Have Shraddha! Have Shraddha!”
Atra mohám na kurutsva—now do not fall into moha, not even a little. The urge will arise—do not fall; be alert.
The word Bhagavan is important. It means: fortunate, endowed with bhagya. You are Bhagavan means: you are fortunate. Bhaga, bhagya means: you have a future. It means: you do not end where you are; your future is there.
A stone, a pebble—has no future. The pebble is not Bhagavan; it will remain a pebble. Beside it lies a seed; the seed is Bhagavan—it has a future. Place both pebble and seed in the soil; after some days the pebble remains a pebble; the seed sprouts and becomes a plant. The seed has a future. Wherever there is future, there the divine is hidden.
Bhagya means: you are master of your future. You are not finished by your past. You are not exhausted by what has happened. Much remains to happen. This is the meaning of Bhagavan. Bhagavan means: never conclude yourself; the full stop has not come. The story will continue. The truth is, the story never ends. Bhagavan means: become whatever you may, there will always remain more to become. Possibility remains. The seed keeps bursting; the tree keeps growing; flowers keep coming—flower upon flower, lotus upon lotus—without end. Your possibility is endless; your future is vast.
Understand the word Bhagavan. Because of the Christians and Muslims, the word became poor, came to mean “the creator of the world.” Certainly Janaka did not create the world. So Ashtavakra’s meaning cannot be this. In India the meanings of Bhagavan were unique. Understand the grandeur of the word: it means one whose possibility can never be exhausted, whose potential can never be fully actualized—because the day the potential is exhausted, the seed has become a pebble, and nothing more can happen. Where development is forever possible—that is Bhagavan.
“You are fortunate.”
You have a future. You have growth. Possibility is hidden within you. You are a seed, not a pebble.
Another word is Ishvara—also marvelous. The English word ‘God’ does not have the relish and depth that Ishvara or Bhagavan carry. The English ‘God’ is poor. Ishvara means: one who has Aishvarya—splendor, abundance; one endowed with Satchidananda. From Aishvarya comes Ishvara. The great sovereignty hidden within you—when it manifests, its kingdom will have no boundary—its empire is vast. Such you are—Ishvara! Aishvarya is your nature. You have become a beggar—this is your mistake. Aishvarya is your nature; you have become mendicants because you related to the past. You will become Bhagavan if you relate to the future. That which is ever moving, ever flowing—that is Bhagavan. If you are growing, there is Bhagavan; if you stop, you become stone.
But you have made stone idols of God. Do not, by mistake, make an idol of stone for God, for in stone there is no flow at all. The Hindus were better—they worshiped rivers, worshiped the sun—in them there is more godliness. They worshiped trees—there is far more godliness there. Understand the difference: a tree at least grows, is moving; a river flows; the sun rises, is born, grows, waxes. You made an idol of marble—dead; no movement. You made idols of pebbles; you should have made an idol of a seed.
When people from the West first came and saw Hindus worshiping trees, they called them primitive, uncivilized. They could not understand. To understand the Hindu requires great depth, because for thousands of years the Hindu has been diving into the ultimate depths of life.
I was traveling by train. Near Prayag, when the train crossed the bridge over the Ganga, the villagers in the compartment started throwing coins. A learned gentleman was sitting, later I learned he was a professor at Banaras Hindu University. He said to me, “What foolishness! These idiots are throwing coins into the Ganga—what is the point!” I said, “From the surface it does look like stupidity, and perhaps they are stupid; perhaps they too do not really know why they throw money into the Ganga. But try to look a little deeper, with sympathy.
The Ganga flows—from the Himalayas to the ocean. She never stops anywhere. The Hindus built all their sacred places on the banks of the Ganga—or of rivers. They are symbols of flow, of the living. Those throwing money into the Ganga—whether the thrower is right or not I am not saying—but somewhere a secret is hidden in it. He may have forgotten; but whoever first threw a coin was saying: “All my wealth is trivial before your flow.” Understand the value! “My wealth is dead; yours is greater. I bow my wealth to yours. I place my wealth at your feet.”
In the worship of a tree there is much more of godliness. Christians worship the cross—a dead thing that does not grow. Better a tree—at least it grows; new leaves come; new flowers bloom. The tree has a future! And the tree has some Aishvarya too. When flowers bloom on a tree—have you seen…
Jesus said to his disciples: look at the lilies in the field. Solomon in all his glory was not clothed as one of these. And these lilies neither toil nor spin—from where does their glory come? Who gives them such beauty? From where does this grace shower?
Aishvarya is your nature. Becoming Bhagavan is your destiny. Manifest your Aishvarya. Declare your godliness. And remember: in declaring your godliness is hidden the declaration of the godliness of the whole existence. If you declare “I alone am God, none else,” you fall into error—that is the proclamation of ego. Then you go very far from God—on the opposite shore. For in the declaration of godliness, there is no ego. Aishvarya is only where you are not. And Bhagavan is only where the sense of “I” is wholly lost. Then you too are vast as God, boundless, infinite.
“The body, wrapped in the gunas, comes and goes. The Atman neither goes nor comes. Why then this thinking for it?”
Gunaih samveshtito dehas tishthatyayati yati cha.
Atma na ganta naganta kim enam anushocasi.
“The body, wrapped in the gunas, comes and goes.”
Think of bringing home a clay pot—inside the pot is space—ghata-akasha. A little space inside the pot. When you carry the pot home, does the space inside remain the same? The space goes on changing. Space is where it is; it comes and goes nowhere. You pull the pot and bring it home; the space you bought with the pot remains where it was. Space stays. You bring the pot home—the emptiness within neither comes nor goes.
The Atman is like space. The body has its properties. The body is the pot—clay pot. You go, you move—the body moves; your Atman does not move.
Imagine: Mulla Nasruddin was in a train, walking fast up and down the coach. Someone asked, “What’s the matter, Nasruddin?” He said, “I must reach quickly.” He was sweating. Now, when the train is running, whether you walk or sit makes no difference. When the train moves, you do not move. You sit and the train takes you. You remain where you are.
When your body moves, you remain what you are. Inside nothing moves; the inner emptiness, the sky within, remains exactly as it is. You get up here, sit there—poor, then rich; nothing, then president; seated on the ground, then on a throne—but that which is hidden within never comes or goes. Recognize that! It neither eats when the body eats, nor walks when the body walks, nor sleeps when the body sleeps—it is ever the same! One-taste.
“The body, wrapped in the gunas, comes and goes. The Atman neither goes nor comes.”
For this there is no cause to think—thinking has no meaning. It is like Mulla walking in the train; you are thinking in vain. There is no purpose. As soon as this is understood, one does not have to drop thinking—thinking drops. If Mulla understands that his walking makes no difference, the train is running and all the movement that is needed is happening by that, and his extra walking adds nothing—he will sit down. It is a matter of understanding; not of doing—only of awareness.
Gunaih samveshtitah dehah tishthati…
The body wrapped in the gunas certainly comes and goes—birth, childhood, youth, old age, sickness, health—thousands of happenings; but that which is hidden within the pot remains the same.
You brought a clay pot home, plated it with gold, studded it with jewels; but the emptiness inside remains the same. Do you think the space inside a golden pot is different from that inside a clay one? The inner emptiness is the same—whether in a beautiful body or an ugly one; whether adorned with ornaments or standing naked—no difference.
Atma na ganta na aganta, kim enam anushocasi.
Then what thought! In the inner world nothing ever happens; it remains as it is. At the innermost center there is no movement, no loss, no gain—nothing happens. Like space—sometimes clouds gather, rain falls; then the clouds pass; sometimes the sky is clear, sometimes overcast. Night comes—darkness; day comes—light. But the sky remains the same. This is the vision of space. Do not try to reconcile it with the vision of time—or you will be in trouble.
The time-vision says: you did evil deeds—correct them; you sinned—reform; you stole—give charity; you caused suffering—serve.
The time-vision says: change karma. The space-vision says: recognize the witness. Karma has nothing to do with it; karma is like a dream.
“Whether the body remains till the end of a kalpa, or whether it goes right now—what increase of you is there, what loss—for you are only consciousness?”
Kva vriddhih kva cha va hanis tava chinmatra rupinah.
You are only consciousness. You have no increase, no decrease.
“In the infinite ocean that you are, the world-forms arise and subside by their own nature; but you have neither increase nor decay.”
Whatever is happening, is happening by the nature of Prakriti. Hunger arises, satiation comes; youth comes, lust stirs; old age comes, lust subsides—neither the lust is yours, nor is the brahmacharya yours. This is the space-vision. Sometimes you become a thief, sometimes a saint. All this is of Prakriti. There is nothing to do, nothing to renounce. Nothing to choose. What Krishnamurti calls choiceless awareness. Choice-less. Nirvikalpa bodha-matra.
Tvayy ananta maha-ambhodhau vishva-vichih svabhavatah.
“In the ocean that you are, the waves of the world rise by themselves.”
Udetu vastu mayatu—na te vriddhir na va kshatih.
“Let them arise, let them subside—there is neither your gain nor your loss.”
It is happening on its own—let it happen. This dance is going on—let it go on. You remain the seer.
“Dear one, you are only consciousness. This world is not other than you. Therefore of whom, why and where can there be the imagination of rejection and acceptance?”
Tat chinmatra rupo ’si, na te bhinnam idam jagat.
Atah kasya katham kutra heyo-padeya kalpana.
“You are only consciousness. This world is not other than you.”
And the differences we see here are all on the surface; within we are one. Look at the wheel of a bullock-cart: at the rim the spokes are separate; but at the hub they are joined. And note a wonder: the wheel turns, the axle-pin does not. The pin stands still. That upon which it turns, does not turn. If the pin turned, the wheel would fall. The pin must not turn.
This whole world turns—upon the stillness of God’s sky. Your body moves—upon the still axle of your Atman. This wheel of the body goes on turning—childhood, youth, old age; joy–sorrow, loss–gain, success–failure, honor–dishonor; the wheel keeps turning. Its spokes go on circling. But your axle stands still. To recognize that axle is to be established in Samadhi. And here no one is other.
See the difference.
Mahavira says: to know the distinction between oneself and the world is knowledge. Hence his shastra is called bheda-jnana. To know precisely: matter is not me; the outer is not me; the world is not me. To separate—this is bheda-jnana.
You will be surprised: in Mahavira’s language, even the meaning of yoga is different. Mahavira says: one must attain ayoga, not yoga. Therefore the supreme state is called ayoga-kevali. Clearly Mahavira uses a different language. Patanjali says: one must attain yoga—two must join. Mahavira says: one must attain ayoga—that two must separate. Patanjali strives for marriage; Mahavira for divorce. Two must break. Where you know “body and I are separate, world and I are separate,” there is knowledge. In the space-vision—where you know all is one—there is knowledge.
Therefore there is difficulty: for those accustomed to Jain shastras, Ashtavakra is hard to understand—the sayings are reversed. For those accustomed to Ashtavakra, the Jain shastra is hard. It is a matter of terminology. For Hindus no word is greater than yoga; it carries great prestige. For Mahavira, yoga is sin; bhoga is sin as well. Mahavira says: bhoga runs because yoga exists—you are joined, therefore bhoga continues. Break the join; the identity; uproot it; be separate, entirely separate.
The Hindu says: you are separate—that is your ego. Join, become one with the vast. Let there be not even a trace of division. Let only the indivisible remain.
“Dear one, you are consciousness. Your world is not other than you. Therefore for whom, why and where the notion of rejection and acceptance?”
Listen to this revolutionary utterance. Ashtavakra says: then what is bad and what is good? What to reject, what to accept? What is auspicious, what inauspicious? Whatever is happening, is happening. How it is happening, it will happen so. Let it happen. Nothing is good, nothing bad. What happens is natural.
If this is understood, supreme peace will arise. Otherwise there are two kinds of unrest: the sinner’s unrest—he thinks, how to become a saint; he strives; he fails; again and again he loses self-confidence; again he falls into darkness—then repents, and thinks, how to become a saint. And the saint—he has become a saint, but within runs the feeling, “Perhaps the sinners are enjoying.”
I have met innumerable saints; I have always found that somewhere within them there remains the feeling: “Perhaps we are fools; with our own hands we have let go, while others are having their fun!”
A Jain monk, Kanak Vijay—once he was my guest. After two or four days, when he felt that in my heart there is no condemnation, he said, “Let me tell you something. I cannot tell anyone else; for they will immediately catch me—‘A saint, and such a thing!’ I can tell you, because I feel you will not condemn me.” I said, “Say it—what?”
He said, “I became a monk at nine. My father became a monk; my mother died.”
Often that is how people become monks—the wife dies and the husband becomes a sannyasin. There was only one son—what could he do! A nine-year-old child—so his head was shaved and he too was made a monk. If a nine-year-old becomes a Jain monk, trouble is bound to come. Now he is sixty, but his mind got stuck at nine. It stays stuck—for life had no opportunity to be known, to taste; there was no chance to suffer the pains of indulgence. That too is necessary. If one has never had the opportunity to sin, the unsinned remains stuck; it pricks. Maybe others are enjoying! A nine-year-old child!
Think—with other children licking ice creams, the nine-year-old monk passes by—he cannot eat. Have mercy on the nine-year-old! Outside the cinema people line up—even big men stand holding tickets; the nine-year-old monk passes—he cannot buy a ticket.
He said to me, “I will tell you—I cannot tell anyone else, but I feel you will not condemn me. I want to see a cinema.”
“Are you mad? At sixty—to see a cinema!”
He said, “It has stuck in me—what happens inside! So many stand in line; they even quarrel and fight for tickets—what is inside!”
He had never seen a cinema. The curiosity is natural. You may laugh because you have seen, so you do not feel the trouble in it. But think from his side.
I understood. I said, “Right.” A Jain householder used to come to me; I told him, “Show him a cinema. If he dies with this burden, in his next birth he will guard a cinema! Let us save him!”
Being a Jain, he panicked. “You will get me into trouble. If society knows I took him, I will be in a mess. I understand you, but I cannot take him.”
I said, “Someone should take him; somehow show him. Understand his situation.”
He said, “I do understand.” He found one way: “In the cantonment, English films run; no Jains are there; I can take him there. But he does not understand English.”
I asked Kanak Vijay, “What do you say?” He said, “Anything—English, Chinese, Japanese—just show me.”
Kanak Vijay is alive—you can ask him. He was taken, shown. He returned much lighter. He said, “A weight has fallen; there is nothing in it. But till now I carried a load.”
If life passes unexperienced, much junk accumulates. I am not saying by indulgence you will be free; if you indulge unconsciously, you will never be free. There are those who for sixty years watch cinema and still go. I am not saying those who have seen are free; those who have seen can be free, if there is a little understanding. Those who have not seen—their difficulty is greater; even with understanding, freedom is hard. For how to be free of what one has not known? How to transcend it?
Ashtavakra says: nothing is bad, nothing good. Let what happens, happen. For this, great courage is needed—extraordinary courage. Do not fight the flow of life; float with the current. Let what happens, happen. What is there to lose? What is there to gain? If courageously you float and remain alert, watching what is happening—you will find one day that you have become the witness. What is happening is the play of Prakriti—its nature. Waves are rising.
“Dear one, you are consciousness. This world is not other than you. Therefore of whom, why, and where the imagination of rejection and acceptance?”
“In you, a single stainless, imperishable, peaceful and conscious sky—where is birth, where karma, where ego?”
Listen to this utterance!
Ekasminn avyaye shante chid-akashe ’male tvayi.
Kuto janma kutah karma kuto ’hamkara eva cha.
In one alone—you alone, for there is only one. All is contained in your one; and you are in all. Amale—you have never been tainted. Never have you been guilty; never have you committed sin—because sin cannot be. You are not the doer; you are only the witness. You are like a mirror. If someone commits murder before it, the mirror is not a sinner; you will not take the mirror to court—“Murder happened before it, so the mirror is sinful; it is polluted.” What happens, happens in Prakriti. Murder and saintliness—both are of the body’s nature. And within you, the mirror of consciousness—amalam—has no stain. It is stainless. Avyaya—imperishable. Shanta—peaceful. Chid-akashe—the sky of consciousness. Chid-akashe!
This is the very essence of the Brahmana stream—Chid-akashe.
Janma kuto—where your birth? It cannot be. The body is born and dies; you neither are born nor die.
Karma kuto—how can karma be yours? What good deeds, what bad deeds? What sin? Karma cannot be yours.
Ahamkara kuto—how ego? Even the sense of “I am” can arise only if there are two. When there is no two, how ego?
“You are one stainless, imperishable, peaceful sky of consciousness. Where birth, where karma, where ego?”
Knowing this, awakening this awareness, sinking into such Shraddha—Samadhi is attained. Samadhi means: the solution—problems have gone, the mystery has opened. Samadhi does not mean “answers found”; it means the questions have dropped. With questions, answers also drop. You are untainted, thought-free—no question, no answer. Such is life. And such is a simple acceptance of life, and witness-consciousness.
Whatever is happening outside—let it. Do not choose. Do not decide. Do not divide into good and bad. Let what happens, happen. You only watch.
Do you get it? You only watch. Our entire education is the opposite. It says: if anger arises, suppress it—anger is bad. If love arises, express it—love is good. Our education is all about choice.
Therefore, in my view, the Brahmana tradition has not left a very deep imprint on the world; the Shramana tradition has. You will be surprised, because the adherents of the Shramana tradition are few, and the Brahmana tradition many—Christians, Hindus, Muslims—a vast number. Even so, though the Shramana tradition is not populous, its imprint is deep—because its logic is easily grasped by the human intellect.
In India the Jains are few; yet you will be surprised that their imprint upon India is deeper than that of the Hindus. Mahatma Gandhi speaks from the Gita, but the interpretation is wholly Jain. He speaks of the Gita—but the interpretation is Jain, not Gita at all. Mahatma Gandhi is ninety percent Jain, perhaps ten percent Hindu. Why? The reason is clear: the Shramana tradition’s logic is very explicit; its mathematics very clear. And this world is a world of math and logic. It is easily understood—by politicians, by religious leaders, by priests and pundits—that one should leave the bad and do the good. Yet, despite thousands of years of preaching “give up the bad, do the good,” the bad goes on happening and the good does not. This is astonishing. No doctrine is so utterly defeated and yet remains so dominant!
Look into your own life—you made a thousand efforts to give up the bad and do the good, yet you go on doing the bad.
Saint Augustine said: “Lord, what I should do, I cannot do; and what I should not do, that is what I do. And I know perfectly well what I should not do—still that is what happens.” It is not that I do not know; I know what is right—and that does not happen. And what is not right—that happens.
Despite thousands of years of such teaching, man remains the same. Think a little—perhaps there is value in Ashtavakra’s word.
Ashtavakra says: revolution happens not by choosing between good and bad, but by becoming the witness of both. Let anger arise—be a witness. Try an experiment for one year—with courage, with Shraddha. For one year, when anger comes, be a witness; do not stop it, do not suppress it—let it happen. If theft happens, let theft happen; if saintliness happens, let that happen. Let what happens, happen. And let the consequences happen. You go on calmly accepting all. Within a year, a window will open. You will suddenly find: the bad has slowly waned of itself; the good has become steady of itself. As witnessing happens, the bad fades by itself—because for the bad, the presence of the witness is a hindrance; for the good, the presence of the witness is nourishment, manure.
So let me give you the final paradox: you want to do good—it does not happen. You want to drop the bad—you cannot drop it. Because your basic notion is that you are the doer—that is where the error is. The witness-vision says: neither drop nor cling—only remain awake and watch. And an amazing experience comes: as you remain awake, the bad starts dropping, and the good begins to happen.
This is my definition: that which happens in witnessing is auspicious; that which does not happen in witnessing is inauspicious. If you ask me what darkness is, I will say: that which does not remain when a lamp is lit is darkness; and that which remains only when the lamp is unlit is darkness. When the lamp lights, darkness disappears. When the doer dissolves, evil dissolves of itself. Your pushing cannot remove it—your very pushing preserves the fundamental error. Become like space.
Ekasminn avyaye shante chid-akashe ’male tvayi.
Kuto janma kuto karma kuto ’hamkara eva cha.
Hari Om Tat Sat!