Maha Geeta #45

‘Speak or hear the many scriptures in many ways as you wish, but without forgetting them all you will find neither peace nor health.’
A German thinker once came to see Maharshi Raman. He had come from far away, carrying great hopes. He said before Raman, “I have come with many hopes. Teach me the truth. Instruct me—what is truth?”
Raman began to laugh. He said, “Then you have come to the wrong place. If you want to learn, go elsewhere. Here we can be of help only if you want to forget. If you want to fall into forgetfulness, here we can help.”
There are schools, colleges, universities—society, civilization, culture—everywhere the pressure is to teach—learn! Imprint! Religion is fire. Burn it all! Let everything you have learned be reduced to ashes!
Between education and religion there is a fundamental opposition. Education fills you with conditioning; religion creates emptiness. Education fills memory; religion frees you from memory. So long as something is remembered, a thorn is embedded. The consciousness needed is one in which no thorn remains lodged. This does not mean that the sage remembers nothing—that he forgets his own address or his name and place, or that when he returns he cannot recognize: this is my wife, this is my son. Memory remains—but memory is no longer the master. Memory becomes mechanical.
Ordinarily the situation is reversed: memory has become the master. Beyond memory you have no open sky. Memory’s clouds have covered everything. You see a rose—but you don’t truly see, for your memory becomes active: “It’s a rose, beautiful; I have seen them before; I have seen prettier ones.” Memory has dropped curtains; you miss what is right before you. This rose present here—this presence of the Divine in the rose—no connection is made. In between, so many memories have come.
Yesterday someone abused you. Today you go to meet him, or he comes to your house. If yesterday’s abuse stands between, you have become a slave to memory. Perhaps the man has come to ask forgiveness. But your memory—“he abused me yesterday”—will close you at once; you will not remain open and free toward this man. Even in his apology you will not see apology; you will see something else: “Perhaps he has come to deceive me. Perhaps he is afraid. Perhaps he has come lest I take revenge.” If yesterday’s abuse stands in the middle, you will not see the feeling that has arisen in him to ask forgiveness; it will be distorted. You will look from behind the screen of abuse, and its shadow will fall! Yesterday’s abuse is remembered by the sage as well; but yesterday’s abuse does not come in between today. This alone is the difference.
Read scriptures, listen to scriptures—but let no scripture come between you and truth. If it comes in between, you will not gain health; you will become more unwell. The pundit grows more unwell. The intellect gets filled with words and doctrines—but inside everything remains blank. Life-breath remains empty; the skull gets stuffed. The skull becomes heavy; in the life-breath there is nothing—only ashes!
Ashtavakra’s sutras are unparalleled! Nowhere else are there sutras like burning embers. However many times one repeats that Ashtavakra’s sutras are revolutionary, it is still too little. Say it seven times, seventy-seven times, seven hundred and seventy-seven times—it will not be an exaggeration.
Understand this sutra deeply.
“Speak or hear the many scriptures in many ways—but without forgetting them all, there is no peace for you, no health.”
So long as memory hovers over the mind, so long as the sky of the mind is filled with thoughts, where can peace be? Thought itself is restlessness! Whether one’s mind is filled with worldly thoughts or with thoughts of God—it makes no difference. Whether one’s thoughts are Hindu or Christian—it makes no difference. Whether one has read the Dhammappada or the Quran—it makes no difference. If there are clouds in the sky, the sun will remain hidden. Clouds are neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither worldly nor otherworldly—clouds are simply clouds; they cover and conceal.
When thoughts gather densely in the mind, you will not know yourself. Without knowing oneself, where is health! Understand the meaning of health. Health means: to be established in oneself; to come home; to abide in one’s own center. To delight in the Self is health. To be at rest in the Self is health. And Ashtavakra says, only then is there peace. Peace is the shadow of health. One who is displaced from oneself, cut off from oneself, can never be peaceful—he will remain unsteady. Unsteady means restless.
And every thought displaces you. Every thought pulls you off your axis.
See it. You are sitting quietly; there is no thought in the mind—then where are you? When there is no thought, you are exactly where you should be. You are in yourself. A thought arises—a woman passes by, and she leaves a trail of smoke in your mind. It is not that the woman knows you are sitting there; perhaps she has not even seen you. She has not come for you. If she is adorned, she is adorned for someone else; she has no relation to you. Yet in your mind a thought condenses—“She is beautiful, desirable!” The urge to possess arises. You are displaced. You have started moving. The thought carries you somewhere—you begin to follow the woman. Movement starts in the mind. Activity arises. A ripple rises. As if someone has thrown a pebble into a still lake! Till a moment ago it was utterly still; now there is no more stillness. The pebble has raised ripples. One ripple raises another, the second raises a third—ripples spread and spread—waves upon waves to the far shore!
A small pebble gives birth to a vast net of waves. The woman passed by—just a slight ripple, a small pebble. But the memories of all the women you have known begin to arise; the recollection of all the women you desired begins to come. A moment before the lake was absolutely still; no pebble had fallen; you were sitting utterly silent, steady, without even a ripple. Now a wave has arisen.
But remember—do not think that it arises only because of a woman. A Paramhansa passes by—a perfected one—and his shadow falls upon you, and a longing arises in the mind: when shall I also become such a siddha? The pebble has fallen again. Whether the pebble is a Paramhansa or another’s woman makes no difference. Again you start moving. The journey begins. The mind begins to sway. “When will liberation be attained? When will such accomplishment ripen?” A desire arises—and the race begins. As the race begins, you miss yourself.
The very moment even a single thought ripples in the mind, you are no longer at your axis; you are carried off. The stronger the thought, the farther you go.
Only in a thoughtless mind is one healthy. Hence to be without thought is meditation. To be without thought is Samadhi. To be without thought is the state of liberation. For you are seated in yourself; there is nowhere to go, nowhere to come! Ashtavakra says: the Atman neither goes nor comes; only the mind comes and goes. If you link yourself to the mind, then within you too the illusion of coming and going is born. You are sitting exactly under the tree where you were sitting—before the woman passed, before the sight of the Paramhansa. The body is where it was; the Atman is where it always is; but the mind is swaying. And if you are attached to the mind, you have started moving—without moving you are moving. You have gone nowhere, and a great journey has begun.
No one has ever gone anywhere from his true nature. We have only dreamed ourselves into restlessness; we have never truly become restless. We cannot be restless—peace is our nature. But we can dream of unrest. We can cultivate the notion of restlessness. We can generate the madness of being restless. Then one madness follows another in a line.
“Speak or hear the many scriptures in many ways…”
What will come of speaking and hearing scriptures? New thoughts will arise, new waves; new sentiments will arise. The desire to attain those new sentiments will surge up. The curiosity to fulfill them, the eagerness—the mumuksha—will flare. Imaginations of new heavens, new liberations will become alert. The race will be created. And truth is here, not there.
Therefore there is nowhere to go. Only when you go nowhere are you in truth.
So Ashtavakra says: “But without the forgetting of all, there is no peace.”
Peace will not come through remembering; it will come through forgetting. It will come by forgetting what you have known. No one knows by knowing; one knows by forgetting. And whenever you are in such a state of oblivion that there is no thought at all—utterly forgotten, utterly lost, dissolved, absorbed—then and there a ray of light begins to descend.
Last evening I was speaking with a sannyasin. He has been influenced by George Gurdjieff’s ideas. He has come from the West and for years has experimented with Gurdjieff’s method. In Gurdjieff’s method there is a word: “self-remembering.” A very precious word. Its meaning is the same as the meaning of meditation. It is what Kabir, Nanak and Dadu call surati—remembrance of the Self. But there is a danger in the word, because if you tell people “self-remembering,” the risk is great, since they have no idea of the Self; how will they remember it? They will remember that very “self” which they already know. Their “self” is only the ego. So self-remembering will not happen; the ego will be strengthened.
So I told that sannyasin: for some days forget this altogether. I say to you: practice self-forgetting. For some days begin to forget yourself. This talk of remembering is not appropriate for now. When even once you completely forget yourself—no sense remains, in such ecstasy—at that very moment the ray descends and self-remembering awakens. Self-remembering does not happen by your doing. The remembrance of the Atman arises only when you have forgotten everything.
This seems highly paradoxical, and the sutras ahead are even more paradoxical—so understand paradox. There is a deep law in life: often when you strive for something, the opposite happens.
A man wants to sleep at night and makes great effort to sleep; every effort becomes an obstacle. He is trying to sleep—but the more he tries, the harder sleep becomes. For sleep comes only when all efforts are dropped. Even the effort to bring sleep hinders it.
This is why those who cannot sleep suffer particularly from their very attempts to bring sleep. They count sheep, mutter mantras, try all sorts of remedies; whatever anyone suggests they try it. But the more they try, the more awake they become—because every effort arouses. Effort is labor. How will labor allow entry into repose?
Someone comes to me who cannot sleep. My first advice shocks him. I say, “If you cannot sleep, go run four miles.” He protests, “What are you saying! I am already so troubled—running will make it worse. Whatever little comes will also go; I will become even more fresh.” I say, “Try it.”
Many rules of life are paradoxical. Run and come back tired—the sleep will come. The one who has toiled all day sleeps at night. The one who has rested all day cannot sleep. If life ran by logic, the one who lay on an easy chair all day should sleep deeply at night, for he practiced sleep all day. But life is not mathematics. It is paradox. The one who dug earth and broke stones all day—he snores at night. And the one who rested all day lies awake at night; sleep does not come. Yet the paradox is simple: if you have rested enough, there is no need for rest. The one who has not rested creates the need for rest. Life moves by the opposite.
Therefore, if self-remembering is to arise, do not try to remember—else you will go astray and fall into illusion. You forget. Lose yourself in kirtan, in dance, in song, in music. Forget yourself utterly—forgive even the knowledge of who you are, your address, what you know or don’t, scholar or unlettered, virtuous or sinner—forget all. Become so rhythmic in some moment that nothing remains remembered. Let all scholarship be forgotten, all virtue be put aside—where you leave your shoes, leave your merits and your learning as well; leave there your whole identity and ego and dive. Suddenly you will find: from that very plunge something begins to arise. A new light starts coming within. The clouds disperse; the sun begins to appear. Self-remembering has happened.
Through the process of forgetting, self-remembering comes. The same is the process of knowing. Those who keep trying to remember—forget. The more they try to remember, the more they forget. Those who forget—remember.
This is the foundation of religion—the paradoxical process of life. Hence all religious sutras are paradoxical. Do not seek logic in religion—otherwise you will miss.
Mulla Nasruddin went one morning to his doctor’s house, coughing and hacking, entered inside. The doctor said, “Today your cough seems better.” He said, “Why would it not be? I have been practicing for seven days! Why wouldn’t it seem right? I practiced all night.”
Whatever you practice, through your practice you will strengthen precisely that! If you have practiced coughing all night, the cough has become stronger. If you practice self-remembering, you will strengthen that from which you take the meaning of self-remembering. Your ego is what you think the Self is. Your ignorance is what you think the Self is. That gets strengthened and seated more firmly. So the more you practice self-remembering, in truth, the more the real Self is forgotten. Let this false remembering drop; let this falsehood be forgotten—then the remembrance of truth will be. Let the clouds go, the sun will reveal itself. The sun need not be made to appear; the sun already is.
Ashtavakra says knowledge is man’s nature—why search for it in scriptures! If you learn something from scripture, layers of memory will form, and beneath them what was natural in you will be pressed down. Let the nature reveal itself. Do not bring in from the outside; let it arise from within.
What we call knowledge comes from outside. Suppose I say something to you, or you read Ashtavakra’s Gita—still, something comes from outside. I spoke—something came from outside. You gathered it. It is not your nature. It is alien. If too much of the alien is collected, it will obstruct the revelation of what lies within. It becomes a barrier.
When we dig a well, the water is already there—we do not have to bring it from somewhere. Currents flow beneath the earth; springs are full. We simply remove the layers of soil in between, and the water appears.
Ashtavakra says, knowledge is nature; its springs are within you. Just remove the layers of soil that have settled in between. And the largest layers of soil have gathered because of knowledge. Someone’s layer is made of the Vedas, someone’s of the Quran, someone’s of the Bible. One gathered from here, another from there—without knowing, you accumulated by hearsay. Forget it.
Tathāpi na tava svāsthyaṁ sarva-vismaraṇād ṛte.
“So long as you do not forget all, health will not be attained.”
But we trust words greatly. We are in love with the sweetness of words. Words are sweet indeed. Words have their music, their own rasa. Thus poetry is born. Thus merely arranging words rightly creates music. And we relish words because contained in them are arguments, and argument satisfies the mind. In the dark we wander; logic gives us a crutch: we know nothing, but at least the accounts begin to add up; something seems to be coming into hand; a thread is in our grasp—by and by through this thread we will obtain more. And we have enormous insistence on the printed word.
A friend came to see me. He said, “What you have said—where is it written in scripture?” I said, “If it is written in some scripture, does that make it true? If it is true, even if it is not written, it is still true; and if it is false, then even if it is written in all scriptures, it is still false. Why not weigh the matter directly?” He said, “That is fine—but still, tell me in which scripture it is written.” So I told him: Mulla Nasruddin had an accident—a car collided with a truck—he was badly injured. He was admitted to hospital. The doctor bandaged him and said, “Don’t worry, Nasruddin; by morning you’ll be fine. Sir, please depart in the morning.” But the next morning the doctor rushed in, “Sir, wait—where are you going? I have just read in the newspaper that you had a severe accident—I need to check you again.”
When it’s in the newspaper, it becomes another matter!
Ramakrishna used to tell: a disciple was reading the newspaper in the morning. His wife said, “What newspaper are you reading! Last night the neighbor’s house caught fire!” He said, “There is no news of it in the paper; it must be false.” The neighbor’s house burned—but the man is looking into the paper!
We have great trust in print. Therefore it’s easy to deceive by printing. That is why advertising has become so powerful in the world. A printed advertisement makes an immediate impression. When words are written in big letters, they enter the chest at once. How to deny big letters? If it is so widely printed, it must be correct. Do printed words ever lie! And if big people—people of repute—say the words, then certainly they cannot be wrong.
But what has truth to do with being printed? Our infatuation with words must lessen. Truth relates more to emptiness, to the wordless. God has no language—yet the religions of the world all claim otherwise. Hindus say Sanskrit is devavani—the language of the gods. Jews say Hebrew is God’s language. Ask Muslims: Arabic. Ask Jains: Prakrit. Ask Buddhists: Pali.
After the second world war, a German and an English general were speaking. The German asked, “What is the matter—why did we keep losing? We had better equipment than you—more scientific. Technologically we were more advanced. Then why did we lose?”
The Englishman said, “The reason is different. Before battle we pray to God.”
The German said, “What sort of thing is this! We also pray.”
The Englishman laughed, “You may. But have you ever heard that God knows German? Did you pray in English?”
Every speaker of a language thinks his language is God’s—divine speech! The language of revelation!
No language is God’s. All languages are man’s. God’s language is silence. This does not mean words are the devil’s language. It means truth is experienced only when one attains perfect silence. But when a man wants to say it, he must take the help of a medium. What he has known, he places into words—and in the placing, most of it is lost.
Imagine—you go to the seashore and see the rising sun; you see the crimson spread across the ocean; the songs of birds, the fresh morning breeze—you are intoxicated! You wish to come home and tell your wife and children. So you draw a picture—the rising sun, the waves, the trees bowing in the wind. You bring the picture home. Will your picture carry what you experienced? Your picture is dead—though born of your experience; you saw the sea, the rising sun. But the moment you set it upon paper, it became a corpse. Or can you lock it in a trunk—the sea wind, the sun’s rays—bring them home and open it? The trunk will be empty. Neither fresh breeze nor rays.
Darkness you may domesticate, but sunlight cannot be caged. As soon as you close it in, it dies. How will you carry beauty bound? Will you write poetry? Compose a song?
We now have even better means—beautiful, precious cameras. You can bring color photographs. Still the picture will be dead. There will be no life in it. The sun you saw rising, rising higher in the sky—your sun in the picture will be fixed; it will not rise further. The sun on the sea you saw will be noon later, then evening, will set, vanish into the night; vast darkness will spread. Your picture remains stuck. No noon, no evening, no darkness. Your picture is dead—a report of a moment. What you saw was living. You have compressed the living into a dead photograph and locked it. It is a report of one instant—not the real.
Often you have felt this—many have. A photographer takes your picture and you say, “It doesn’t suit me.” The photograph cannot be false—its camera has no enmity with you. It will show what was. Still you say, “It doesn’t satisfy; it doesn’t look like my face—what is the matter?” The matter is only this: whenever you saw your face in the mirror, it was alive. Your memory is of a living face; the photograph is dead. The living and the dead do not match.
That which enters the void—when it is said in words—just this much difference arises. The difference is vast. Although the picture is indeed yours—of your very face—not of another—still it is not you; you are alive, the picture is dead. Words arise likewise from experience; but when truth passes through the medium of words, it becomes distorted.
Put a straight stick into water; it appears bent. The medium of water, the way light refracts—the straight stick looks bent. Pull it out—straight again. Put it in—bent again. Ask the scientist—he speaks of laws of light. Whatever the law, one thing is sure: a straight stick will appear bent in water.
As soon as truth is put into words, it becomes bent; it is no longer straight. It becomes Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—it ceases to be truth. As soon as truth is put into words, a sect is born; a doctrine is born—it ceases to be truth. And if you then remember it, it creates an obstacle.
Words too belong to God—there is no denying that; for all belongs to him. Yet whoever tries to reach him through words will be in difficulty.
Imagine: you walk along the road, and behind you your shadow is cast—the shadow is certainly yours. But if I catch your shadow, I will never catch you. Yet I cannot say the shadow is not yours—it is yours. Still, catching the shadow, I cannot catch you. The reverse is possible: if I catch you, your shadow comes in hand automatically.
Ramtirth would pass by a house. A small child—on a cold morning, in the sun—saw his shadow and tried to catch it; when he couldn’t, he sat crying. His mother tried to explain. Ramtirth stood watching in Lahore. He saw the child’s struggle, the mother’s instruction—but the child did not understand. Ramtirth went into the courtyard, took the child’s hand and placed it upon his own head. As soon as the child placed his hand on his head, he saw his shadow’s hand too upon its head. He burst out laughing. Ramtirth said, “Through you I too received instruction. Catch the shadow—you won’t catch it. Catch the original—and the shadow is caught.” Catching the shadow does not catch the original.
If the wordless is grasped, all words are understood. If the wordless is experienced, all scriptures get explained; all scriptures are proved true. But by catching scripture, the original is not caught.
Words you created—
As you adorned with henna,
As you set a bindi—
Words you created.
These two syllables—‘love’—were meaninglessness;
You gave them meaning.
“I”—that sound
Of blind, barbarous caves—
Filling yourself into it
You gave it new existence—
Arms’ embrace
Like the rounds of the pavilion,
The tones of motherly love
Like mantras of the altar—
Resounding in the dark mouth—
Words you created.
As upon catastrophic waves
A single leaf of the immortal banyan survives—
Words you created.
Words too come from the same source as silence.
Words you created—
They too are the Lord’s. The scriptures too are his. But remember—there is no path from scripture to him; from him there is a convenience to understand scripture.
Hence let me tell you: by reading scripture no one has ever known truth; but one who has known truth has known all scriptures. The joy of reading scripture comes after knowing truth—this will seem strange. You will say, then what is the point of reading? Again I say: the joy of reading scripture is after knowing truth. Once you have tasted truth—even a little—then you will find its glimpse everywhere. Then the shadow begins to come into your grasp. Then read the Gita, read the Quran, read the Dhammapada—suddenly you will exclaim, “Ah, the same! Exactly!” From your depths a feeling of affirmation will arise—“Yes, this is just what I too have known!” All scriptures will become your witnesses. Scriptures are witnesses.
And the great sages who created scriptures did not create them for you to memorize and become learned. They created them so that when you taste, you may receive testimonies—so that you are not alone on the path. So that you do not panic: “What is happening? Has this happened to anyone before? Is what is happening to me only imagination? Some mental web? Am I on the right path or gone astray?”
Scripture is your witness. When you begin to experience, scripture will support you, encourage you, pat your back—“You are right, on the right path; so it has happened; so it always happens—go on, further!” As you move toward truth, so you will find in words too its shadow and glimpse.
Understand it thus: if I know you, I will recognize your photograph. The reverse is not necessary—recognizing a photograph does not ensure I know you. A photograph is static. A picture from your childhood bears no relation to your face today. You have moved on, grown. And if pictures of the same man are taken from different angles, it begins to seem they are of many men.
It happened in Stalin’s time: a man committed theft; ten photos of the same man—left, right, back, front, this way, that way—were sent to the police station: “Find this man.” A week later when asked, “Found?” they said, “We have arrested all ten men.” All ten! Those were photos of one man. “Now it is too late,” they said, “for all ten have confessed. In Russia, you can make anyone confess. They have confessed and signed that they did the theft.” Ten men arrested from one man’s photos! It is possible.
Pick up your own album sometime. Look carefully and you will say—you are changing and changing! So much changing! After ten years, you meet a friend—you hardly recognize him.
Mulla Nasruddin was crossing a bridge. He saw a man ahead, ran and slapped his back: “Ah, dear one, seen after many years!” The man was startled, almost fell. What friend is this! He turned and did not recognize Mulla. He said, “Forgive me, perhaps you are mistaken.”
“Don’t try to trick me,” Mulla said. “Though I see you were big and sturdy and have become thin as a stick; not only that—you were six feet and have shrunk to five! But you won’t deceive me. You are Abdul Rahman, aren’t you?”
The man said, “Forgive me; my name is Farid.” “The limit!” said Mulla. “You’ve even changed your name! But you won’t fool me.”
After ten years even recognizing your friend is difficult; after ten years even your own son is difficult to recognize. If you see every day, it is easy—for change happens gradually and you accommodate it gradually.
No—the picture will not do. If the real person is known, you can find his reflection in the pictures. From the original, the shadow is always traceable.
The meaning of this sutra is only this: do not get lost in words; seek the wordless. And if the wordless is to be sought, then forget scripture, doctrines, philosophy.
“O wise one, enjoy, act, or even master Samadhi if you will—yet your mind will still be extremely drawn to that nature wherein all hopes subside.”
This sutra is very precious. Ashtavakra says: even if you, through scripture, become very learned—become a great knower—even if you, by scripture, indulge in enjoyment, perform karma—not only that—even if, through scripture, you master Samadhi—still you will find that the longing to attain health remains unquenched; the longing to simply be is still aflame. For even if you attain Samadhi through scripture—arrange yourself, make yourself silent—by force, hammer yourself into posture like Buddha; bind body and mind somehow into discipline and keep them quiet—still you will not become healthy.
Bhogaṁ karmaṁ Samādhiṁ vā kuru vijña tathāpi te—
Enjoy, act, or even cultivate Samadhi on the basis of scriptural knowledge…
Cittaṁ nirasta-sarvāśam atyarthaṁ rocayiṣyati—
Still, in your deepest mind you will know something has not yet joined with the source; something misses; something remains empty.
Therefore Patanjali too divides Samadhi into two. One he calls savikalpa Samadhi. In savikalpa Samadhi, remembrance is not yet finished; scripture’s tail still remains. The mind has become quiet—relatively, it is not as restless as before. You are near home—perhaps standing on the steps. But still outside the door. Savikalpa Samadhi means thought remains; options exist. Not yet free from scripture. Doctrines still grip. Hindu is still Hindu; Muslim is still Muslim. Brahmin is still Brahmin; shudra is still shudra. The circle of beliefs has not been uprooted. Patanjali says: not until nirvikalpa Samadhi arrives—thoughtlessness—until everything is lost, until utterly all thoughts depart—will entry into the inner house be possible.
Understand! By effort a man can manage many things. There are great devices for self-deception. Consider brahmacharya—celibacy—as practice: begin fasting. Slowly, food lessens in the body; semen-energy is produced less. With less semen-energy, desire seems less. But this is a trick. This is not real brahmacharya. Keep away from women, go to the forest, fast, eat coarse food, avoid nourishing food—let the body form no energy; stay away from women—no memory arises, nothing is seen to arouse—then after a few days you will feel brahmacharya is accomplished. It is not. Eat again, return to the marketplace—suddenly energy will arise, a woman will be seen, desire will arise again.
It is like this: in the dry days of summer the river shrinks; only the bed remains—sand upon sand. Then rains come, water fills, the river floods. Seeing the river in summer, do not think it has vanished—it is only the water that has dried. Rains will come, water will flow again.
Hence your sadhus eat in fear. They eat once a day; then bind food with rules: this we will not eat, that we will not drink—coarse food, so that somehow energy does not form. When energy forms, semen is produced and desire arises. Then your renunciate runs, hides. Eyes lowered—lest a woman be seen, lest beauty be glimpsed. This fear, this lack of food, this staying in one place, hiding from society—these dry the river, they do not abolish it.
Tell your sannyasin: for one month eat properly, rest well, sleep well, live in society—then we will see! Rain will come; the river will flood again! This is not brahmacharya—this is its deception. This is brahmacharya on the basis of scripture, not on the basis of truth experienced. Truth’s experience is different. Then such arrangements are unnecessary. Your very awareness becomes so intense that in its light desire wanes. Then whether a woman is far or near—it makes no difference. Then whether this food or that—it makes no difference.
But the anxiety remains. Mahatma Gandhi could not drink buffalo’s milk—anxiety about breaking brahmacharya. Then he feared even cow’s milk; then he began to drink goat’s milk, and took the goat along—because the capacity in goat’s milk to generate semen is very small, almost negligible. But what kind of thing is this! This is fear. And whatever celibacy is imposed from above will not come from within. The seeds remain within; when it rains, they sprout again.
Similarly, you can do meditation. Ashtavakra says: you may even achieve Samadhi. There are many outer tricks to produce Samadhi. If one perfectly learns pranayama and gradually controls the breath—learns to stop it—then as breath is held, thoughts stop; for without breath thoughts cannot run. This is a false device. Sit holding the breath: for as long as the breath is held, thoughts will stop—because with breath stopped, the mind and body lie almost inert. But how long will you hold the breath? It must return. As soon as you inhale, all thoughts will revive. Then one becomes afraid of breathing. It is also true that by such means a kind of peace arises; without thoughts, peace comes—but it is the peace of stupor.
Therefore those who know speak of two kinds of Samadhi. One they call jada Samadhi—stuporous absorption. It is not Samadhi at all, only torpor—mistaken for Samadhi because of dullness.
You have seen, the dull-witted are not anxious. To worry, something is needed in the skull. If you are obtuse, worry is not an issue. The dull sits. Whatever happens in the world, he is untroubled. The house may catch fire—he sits peacefully. See their nirvikalpa Samadhi—no options arise.
But stupidity is not Samadhi; inertness is not Samadhi. In the eyes of many sadhus and monks you will see torpor—not the light of consciousness—no splendor, but a kind of lethargy, a gloom. They have weakened the current of life. They breathe less. Or they have controlled the breath.
There are postures which, if mastered, slow the process of thought.
You have noticed—when you get entangled, you scratch your head. A particular posture expresses worry.
A great lawyer had the habit—when entangled in argument, he would fiddle with his coat’s button in court. The opponent noticed this. There was a big case before the Privy Council—some Jaipur State matter. The opponent bribed the driver and told him, “When the coat is in the car, break the top button—we will take care of the rest.”
The lawyer put on his coat and began. When an entangling moment came, he reached for the button—suddenly all thought stopped—no button! He panicked. The shock—an old habit. At once thought halted.
When worried, you smoke—and feel relief. An old habit. The mind becomes occupied elsewhere. Tell a worried man to stop smoking—he is in trouble. He may stop smoking, but when worry seizes him—what then?
Body and mind are linked. Yoga discovered many processes in which, by special postures, thoughts lessen.
If you read while lying down, you will not remember—because lying increases blood flow to the brain; whatever memory forms becomes smeared. Reading lying down—you will forget. Sit—and you will remember more. Sit with spine absolutely straight—you will remember far more.
Hence, whenever something is to be remembered, your spine immediately straightens—unconsciously. If something important is being said, you listen with a straight spine. If it is ordinary, you lean back—fine, remembered or not. An important matter—you straighten, because in special conditions of the body, special states of the mind are produced.
Yoga found many processes. Sit in a special asana—padmasana—and the body’s electric current begins to whirl circularly. With the spine absolutely straight, gravity’s effect on the body lessens. Breath absolutely calm and slow—thoughts thin. Eyes fixed on the tip of the nose—nothing around disturbs. If this state is practiced continuously, you will gradually find a kind of jada Samadhi is produced. Through the body you have taken hold of the mind. From outside you have suppressed the inside.
Ashtavakra says: this is not true Samadhi. It is Samadhi produced by effort.
Bhogaṁ karma Samādhiṁ vā kuru vijña tathāpi te—
Enjoy, act, even sit in Samadhi…
Cittaṁ nirasta-sarvāśam atyarthaṁ rocayiṣyati—
Still, in your deep mind one thing will remain—that what ought to be found is not yet found. On the surface all may seem quiet; within, a forest fire will rage. On the surface there may appear silence; inside, a volcano burns. Again and again the mind will be tempted by that nature in which all desires dissolve.
This Samadhi, too, is only a desire—mastered by force. What has come by striving is not real. Nothing is solved by it.
Now hear the next sutra—each one more wondrous than the last!
“By effort all people are unhappy!”
Have you heard any scripture say this?
“By effort all people are unhappy—no one knows this! By this very instruction the fortunate attain Nirvana.”
“By effort all people are unhappy!”
You are unhappy because of your striving. Therefore through striving you can never be happy. Your striving—means your ego. Your striving—means your declaration: I will do it, I will earn wealth, I will gain position, I will attain Samadhi, I will even grab God in my fist! Your striving—means the assertion of ego that I am the doer!
Āyāsāt sakalo duḥkhī—na enaṁ jānāti kaścana.
By labor, effort, striving—misery arises. Hardly anyone knows this. The one who knows is blessed.
Anenaiva upadeśena dhanyaḥ.
The one who recognizes this instruction is blessed indeed—fortunate. For Nirvana is his. No one can prevent it then.
Understand its meaning.
Nirvana means: effortless Samadhi. Nirvana means: the Samadhi that happens by itself—not by your doing; that comes as grace—not as achievement. Whatever you achieve will be smaller than you; the deed cannot be greater than the doer. If you have written a poem, it will be less than you; the poem cannot exceed the poet. If you have painted a picture, it will be less than you; the picture cannot exceed the painter. If you dance—your dance will be smaller than your limits, for the dance cannot exceed the dancer. Your Samadhi, if it is yours, will be yours—never vast. You are petty; your Samadhi will be pettier. To invite the Vast—not by striving, but by surrender; not by effort, but by laying everything at the feet of the Infinite.
Ashtavakra’s path is not the path of resolve. Those who know Mahavira and Patanjali may not understand Ashtavakra. Ashtavakra’s path is surrender. He says: if you just stop being the doer, God will do it immediately. Move aside a little, and God will do it now. Do not come in between, and it is done. Your coming is the obstacle.
Your striving fills you with tension, makes you restless. Accept! Accept what is as it is. Do not struggle with the Whole; flow with this current. Wherever the river leads, go. Do not swim against the stream. In going against it, restlessness is born. In fighting, you are defeated—sorrow arises, and anguish gathers in the mind.
“By effort all are unhappy—no one knows this. By this very instruction the fortunate attain Nirvana.”
Āyāsāt sakalā duḥkhī!
All are miserable because of effort. This is a unique assertion. You think: we are unhappy because we are not striving enough; if we tried fully, we would succeed. Those who run reach.
Ashtavakra says: by effort, all are unhappy. If you run—you wander. If you stop—you arrive.
This agrees with Lao Tzu. Ashtavakra and Lao Tzu are one in process. Lao Tzu says: if you fight—you are defeated. If you accept defeat—you have already won. No one can defeat one who is willing to be defeated. People can defeat you because you are eager to win; thus conflict is created.
Na enaṁ kaścana jānāti!
No one seems to know this crucial sutra.
Anena eva upadeśena dhanya nivṛttim!
But the one who knows becomes blessed. He is finished with striving—he attains.
You have heard Malukdas’s couplet:
The python does no service,
The bird does no work.
Said servant Maluka:
Ram is the giver to all.
This is a full commentary on Ashtavakra’s Mahagita. A great sutra.
God is doing everything. You only allow him to do—do not obstruct. The current is flowing. Merge into it—do not even swim.
The next sutra will disturb you even more—
“The joy belongs only to that lazy crown-jewel who even in the business of closing and opening the eyes feels burdened—none else has it.”
The python does no service,
The bird does no work.
Said servant Maluka:
Ram is the provider.
Ashtavakra says: the one who, even in the blinking of the eyes, feels—who will manage this—who does not take even so much doer-hood as to blink his eyes, but leaves that too to God—“as you wish, close; as you wish, open”—the one who surrenders all doership…
Vyāpāre khidyate yastu nimeṣonmeṣayor api—
Tasya ālasya dhurīṇasya sukhaṁ…
His is the joy—the joy of that chief among the lazy, absolute in laziness.
Recently in the West a book has been published—its author knows nothing of Ashtavakra, otherwise he would be delighted. Yet he has written from experience. Its title: “A Lazy Man’s Guide to Enlightenment.” A guide to Nirvana for the lazy! He knows nothing of Ashtavakra, but his experience is almost the same.
Ashtavakra says: the one who even in the covering and uncovering of the eyes feels—who will do this? Who am I to do…!
Look closely: do you blink the eyes? Is this your action? The eyes blink on their own. If you had to blink and unblink, you would be exhausted; the eyes blink millions of times a day. A fly rushes toward the eye—you do not blink; it blinks. If you had to blink, it would be late; in that time the fly would hit. The scientist calls this a reflex; it happens on its own. The religious man says: the Lord is doing it.
You do not breathe—the breath goes on. Therefore you can sleep and it still goes on; otherwise someday forgetting in sleep—you would not awake. It is not left to you. Even when you are unconscious, breath continues—God breathes.
Whatever is essential in life has not been left to you! Were you asked whether you wished to be born? Did youth ask you whether you desire to be young? Birth happened, childhood happened, youth came; thousands of desires arose—no one asked you whether you wanted them. Everything happened. Old age arrived; death will come. All is happening. If only in this happening you would not put yourself between—what incomparable peace would bloom! In this happening, your becoming the doer makes you restless. The more you think “I must do,” the more entanglement increases, for there is so much to do!
Consider—if you had to digest your food after eating… When it passes the throat, you forget. The one who does not forget—his stomach will be upset. Try for one day: after eating, keep remembering—has it reached the stomach or the intestines—what is happening inside! Keep track—and you will go mad, and your stomach will go wrong. The next day there will be upset—diarrhea, or constipation, or pain.
You will be surprised to know: when a man dies, the stomach continues to digest for twenty-four hours. It gives a grace period—perhaps he returns, who knows! For twenty-four hours the stomach continues its work. The breath stops. The brain ceases in four minutes. As soon as breath stops, the brain ends within four minutes—it cannot be brought back. Therefore those who die suddenly of heart attack—if revived within four minutes, they can return; otherwise gone is gone. After four minutes the brain’s memory is deranged; its delicate fibers break. The brain is very weak.
But the stomach is courageous. Even after twenty-four hours it continues its work, sending nutrients—who knows! When you sleep, the stomach works. Those in coma for months—the stomach works. Even after death for twenty-four hours. It is not left to you. Some vast hand is managing all.
Look—recognize these hands! Vast hands stand behind you. You are unnecessarily anxious. Your state is like a small child walking with his father, yet worrying. There is no need to worry; the father is with you.
When Bernard Shaw’s father died, Shaw said to his friends, “Today I have become very frightened.” He was already beyond sixty. They asked, “Frightened—what do you mean?” He said, “Now my father is no more. For years we were not together—he was in the village, I here. Still, since he existed, I was a child; there was a trust—someone ahead. Today father left; today I am alone. Today I am afraid. Today whatever I do is my responsibility. Today whatever I do—mistake or right—is mine. Today no one to scold. Today no one to worry for me. Today I am utterly alone.”
The atheist becomes restless—there is no God! Understand the atheist’s pain; his austerity is great! He suffers hell. Because there is no one—it all falls on him. The web is so vast—and he is alone. Everywhere conflict, thorns, entanglements—and nothing is solved. The matter is too large to be solved by us.
The theist is supremely fortunate. He says: you made, you know, you run it. You made me—one day you will lift me up. You are in my breath, in my heartbeat. Why should I worry?
“The joy belongs only to that lazy crown-jewel who is burdened even by the blinking of the eyes—no one else’s.”
Such glory to laziness! Understand the meaning. It is not about your laziness. In your laziness you merely shirk—you do not surrender. Your laziness does not dissolve doer-hood. Hence the word “crown-jewel” is used. The crown-jewel among the lazy is one who has not only dropped actions—he has dropped the doer too. If you drop only action, you are merely lazy—not the crown-jewel. Many drop actions and sit idle. The wife earns, the husband sits at home—lazy. But he worries in a thousand ways—this will happen, that will happen! In truth, those who do not work worry more than workers, because the worker is occupied—no leisure. The lazy one sits—does nothing—so he worries.
You see the old—very worried! When they had work, they were carefree, yoked in the plough—no leisure. Now they sit idly.
Ruskin wrote in his memoirs: all the men he found happy were those so badly entangled in work that they had no leisure to know whether they were happy or unhappy.
When one is engaged, he does not know whether he is happy or unhappy. Beaten and battered, he returns at night, sleeps; in the morning runs again—no time to find out. But after retirement—idle, no work—he thinks: am I happy or unhappy? A thousand worries surround him—what will happen to the world! The whole world becomes his problem.
“Crown-jewel among the lazy” means: such a one who has not only dropped action but dropped the doer. With the dropping of the doer, all worry drops.
Mulla Nasruddin works in an office. The boss says, “Nasruddin, have you heard—machines have now been made that can do the work of ten men! Are you not afraid?” Nasruddin says, “Not at all, sir—because no machine has yet been made that can do nothing. Man has no rival there. No machine exists that does nothing.”
I said to Nasruddin one day, “You never take a vacation—are you so needed in the office?” He said, “To tell you the truth, I am not needed at all—that is why I never take leave. If I go, they will find everything runs just fine without me. I cannot go—only then the illusion remains that I am needed.”
One who drops action is lazy; one who drops doer-hood is the crown-jewel among the lazy.
Tasyālasya dhurīṇasya…
Then he becomes the chief—the peak—of laziness. Because he leaves everything to God; now whatever he makes happen—happens. He places no personal desire between. Now his wish alone!
“When the mind is free from the duality ‘this has been done’ and ‘this has not been done,’ then it becomes indifferent to dharma, artha, kama, and moksha.”
These are the last steps. One becomes free of dharma, artha, kama, moksha—because then there remains nothing to do. One wants to earn wealth, another wants to earn merit; one wants to gratify desire, another to enjoy heaven; another to enjoy liberation. But behind all this, our doer remains—“I have to do; without me, nothing will happen.”
Ashtavakra says: one who forgets even the idea “this has been done, this not done”—everything becomes equal. If it happens, fine; if it does not, just as fine. If it is done, fine; if not, equally fine. In such simple-mindedness, a dispassion arises toward all. Now even if moksha is placed before him, he has no longing. Heaven certainly has no invitation now. And to whom no desire’s invitation applies—that one is free, that one attains moksha.
“The hater of objects is ‘dispassionate’; the lover of objects is attached; but one who is free of both grasping and renouncing is neither dispassionate nor attached.”
Idaṁ kṛtam idaṁ neti dvandvair muktaṁ yadā manaḥ—
Dharma-artha-kāma-mokṣeṣu nirapekṣaṁ tadā bhavet.
The one who is calm and free of all four—he alone is beyond attachment. Here grasp three words: one is bhogi, the enjoyer; second yogi; and third—beyond both. One is asakta—attached; one is virakta—dispassionate; and one—beyond both.
Virakto viṣaya-dveṣṭā—
The dispassionate hates objects.
Rāgī viṣaya-lolupaḥ—
The attached, the enjoyer, is greedy for objects.
Graha-mokṣa-vihīnas tu na virakto na rāgavān.
But the supreme state is where neither attachment nor dispassion remains. Neither love for objects nor hatred. Such a vitarāga state is the supreme state. That is the Paramhansa state—the supreme Samadhi.
Understand this. One is obsessed with wealth; he goes on amassing, without concern for why or what it will serve—no question. Just collecting—madness. One day he awakens: life is wasted; nothing gained; wealth is gathered, I remain poor. He drops wealth; runs away. Now he has taken the opposite direction. Put money in his hand and he jumps as if you placed a scorpion. He will not look toward money. “Wealth? It is sin! Beware—flee from gold and women!” He begins another race. He is dispassionate now—not attached. The relationship of love has become hatred—but the relationship continues.
Hatred is also a relationship; love is also a relationship. With the friend, you are related; with the enemy, you are also related. Ashtavakra says: both are bound. One is bound by sin; the other more deeply by virtue. Both have chains—one of iron; one of gold. Sometimes the golden chain is more dangerous than the iron—for from the iron we wish to be free; from golden chains—who wishes to be free? Golden chains appear ornaments; we keep them on our chest. If the prison is dirty, we want to exit; if it is clean, neat, beautiful—who wants to go! Where will you go? Here is better.
Sin binds; virtue binds more deeply. Enjoyment binds; yoga binds too.
Ashtavakra says: the one who is different from both dispassion and attachment—that one attains—the vitarāga, beyond color. Rāga means color—one colored by the senses. Virāga means the opposite coloring—against the senses—turned upside down. The attached stands on his feet; the dispassionate does a headstand—but the race continues. One runs after woman; one runs away from woman—but the running continues.
Only the one distinct from both—the vitarāga—has known truth. For such realization, there is no need of scriptures. No need to ask anyone. This truth is your own treasure. It is already given to you. You search in scriptures—and waste time.
Mulla Nasruddin once returned from a journey. His wife asked, “How was the travel?” Nasruddin said, “Very troublesome. On the train I had the upper berth—and because of a bad stomach I had to climb down again and again.”
So the wife said, “Then why didn’t you exchange with the person on the lower berth?”
He said, “I thought of it—but on the lower berth there was no one—whom could I ask?”
Some are forever eager to ask someone. If no one is there—it is a great problem! As if no knowing ever arises from within! They search in scripture; the urge to search within never arises.
And what is—lies within. From within the scriptures have also arisen—out of those who looked within. Krishna’s Gita did not come by reading other Vedas. Krishna’s Gita arose out of Krishna’s experience. This does not mean reading the Vedas is useless. It means: read the Vedas as literature—precious literature. But do not mistake words for truth. Read the Vedas as an important tradition—the utterances of sages—read with respect, with honor—but do not stop upon them.
To stop on them is like sitting with a cookbook and never cooking. Without cooking, the stomach will not be filled; hunger will not be appeased.
Read! Relish! The Vedas are marvelous literature! The Upanishads are wondrous! The Quran and the Bible are unique books! Read! But do not fall into the illusion that reading will give truth. If reading brings thirst—that is enough. If it kindles the longing to seek truth—that is enough.
Keep the company of the true guru. It will not give truth—but in the company of the true, perhaps the longing to seek truth will become powerful, aflame, a blaze. Truth will be found within.
A true guru is one who leads you within. And scripture is that which connects you to yourself.
“The hater of objects is dispassionate; the lover of objects is attached; but the one free of both grasping and renouncing is neither dispassionate nor attached.”
He alone attains truth. He alone is vitarāga.
Meditate deeply on these words. Their essence is in Kabir’s saying:
He whom the Lord protects,
None can harm.
Not a hair can be bent—
Though the whole world be enemy.
Leave all to God! He is the protector—whether you leave it or not. The difference is only this: if you leave, your anxiety will drop. Do not even blink by your own will. Do not guard yourself. Do not make arrangements. Let that which he makes happen—happen. This does not mean you cover yourself with a blanket and laze. If he says, “Cover and lie,” fine. Do not decide from your side and ask, “Then what should I do?”
People come to me: “We understand Ashtavakra—then there is nothing to do!” If you have understood—there is much to do; there is nothing to be the doer of. If not understood, you will say, “Then we will rest. What is the point of meditation?” You want to escape doing—then you will become lazy.
These sutras are for the crown-jewels—for those who say, “We are no longer doers.” God will make you do much when you are not a doer. Then doing has another flavor, another juice. Doing becomes a celebration, a dance. Then doing is as Kabir said: I am a bamboo flute. You sing—your song passes through me. You fall silent—the silence resounds. I am a hollow reed—do what you will!
This is what Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita: become a bamboo flute—nimitta-mātra—only an instrument. Arjuna wants to abandon action and flee to the forest—he wants to be lazy. Krishna says: become the crown-jewel of the lazy—drop doer-hood; let God do the action. He has brought you to the battlefield; if he wants war—let it be. If not you, someone else. If your hands do not lift the Gandiva, another’s will. Do not abandon action; only abandon the sense of doership. As soon as doer-hood drops, life becomes healthy, peaceful.
Hari Om Tatsat.