Maha Geeta #47

‘As long as thirst is alive — which is the state of aviveka (non-discrimination) — the acceptable and the rejectable, renunciation and acquisition, remain alive; they are the sprout of the tree called the world.’
Thirst is the basic wall, the root foundation, of man’s entanglement. If thirst is rightly understood, the meaning of all religions is understood. If thirst is understood, the cause of suffering is understood. And the one who understands the cause of suffering does not take even a moment to be free of suffering. We do not get free of suffering — for the simple reason that we do not see the cause. And if the cause is not seen, then try as we may, we will go on increasing suffering. We are shooting arrows in the dark; how can the mark be struck? Light is needed. And the light arises the very instant the cause is understood. Keep this in mind.
If there is an illness in the body, first we worry about diagnosis. Once diagnosis is made, half the treatment is done. If the diagnosis is wrong, treatment is dangerous — better not to treat at all. For medicines can help, but they can also harm. The very medicines that can benefit can also damage. If the diagnosis is not right, if the disease has not been caught, then the treatment can prove costlier than the disease. Perhaps if we had just sat quietly, the disease would have passed naturally; but if the wrong medicine enters the body, even the natural release may not be possible. Therefore, first we are concerned with diagnosis.
With regard to the body this is true — if the diagnosis is correct, fifty percent of the cure is accomplished; but with regard to the mind a more wondrous thing is true: there diagnosis itself is one hundred percent of the cure. Fifty percent for the body; one hundred percent for the mind. For the mind’s illnesses are illnesses of delusion; as if someone counted two plus two as five — then the entire arithmetic goes wrong. The mind’s illness is not any real disease; it is a misunderstanding, an error. The moment it is understood that two and two make four, all delusion vanishes.
The mind’s illness is like this: in the desert someone sees a lake. It is a mirage. It has arisen out of your thirst. It is a dream born of your thirst. You were so thirsty that you believed; you were so frantic for water that at the slightest support you imagined water. It is said that if a hungry man looks at the full moon, he feels as if a roti is floating in the sky. Hunger is projected.
The mind’s maladies are projections. A bodily disease has a base; the mind’s disease is baseless. Once you see the arithmetic correctly, then after the diagnosis you will not ask, “Now what medicine?” Diagnosis is the medicine.
Socrates has a famous saying: Knowledge itself is liberation.
Jesus too has a great proclamation: Know the truth, and the truth will set you free. It is not that after knowing the truth you will need to do something to be liberated; the very knowing is liberation.
Therefore Mahavira has said so far as this: if you listen rightly to the one who knows the truth, liberation happens through hearing alone. Hence the name of one tirtha: Shravaka — the one who is liberated by listening. The one who does not get liberated by listening and has to do something — that one is a sadhu. In my understanding the sadhu is in a lower state than the shravaka, not higher. He could not be liberated by listening alone; something had to be done. His understanding is not intense. He could not understand merely by listening; he had to do — only then did he understand. The understanding is not deep. Had it been deep, he would have understood simply by hearing. Had it been deep, he would have understood by seeing Mahavira. Seeing would have been enough. Open your eyes and see Mahavira, open your eyes and see Buddha, or open your eyes and see Krishna — what remains then? With open eyes everything is clear.
So the first sutra: ‘As long as thirst is alive — which is the state of aviveka — the acceptable and the rejectable, renunciation and acquisition, remain alive; they are the sprout of the tree called the world.’
You will not be able to be free of the world as long as thirst is. Thirst is the world.
Now the great joke is that without understanding, people want to be free of the world! They even want to renounce the world — and the reason behind it is still thirst: the joy of heaven will be obtained; the supreme bliss of Moksha will shower; one will enter the profound peace of Samadhi! All this is thirst.
People come to me and say, “We want to be silent. Give us some method of meditation so that we become peaceful.” I tell them: if you want peace, know thirst. By a method of meditation you will not become silent. For you have come to meditation out of thirst. It is greed that has brought you. With greed, how will you meditate? Where thirst is absent, there is meditation. Then meditation does not have to be done — it happens. That which has to be done is not meditation; that which happens is meditation. Where thirst is no more, the waves of the mind become silent on their own.
Understand it thus: in gusts of wind, on the lake waves arise; on the chest of the lake ripples arise. If you try to still the waves one by one, you will go mad. If the wind stops, you will not have to calm each wave; the moment the wind ceases, the waves quieten by themselves. Now the difficulty is that the wind is not visible. What is not visible we forget. Thirst too is not visible; it is like the wind. It is, it is very deep, but invisible; it cannot be grasped in the hand.
So when you see a storm of waves on the chest of the lake you think, “How to calm the waves?” And the root cause is invisible. If you sit to lull each wave — sing it a lullaby, “Sleep, dear child, sleep,” recite mantras — Ram-Ram, Allah-Allah, or Namo’kar — and in between open your eyes to see whether the mantra is having an effect — the waves are not going to listen to your mantras. Waves have not arisen because of the absence of mantra. If they had arisen due to the lack of mantra, then at the very utterance of the mantra they would have subsided. Waves have arisen because an invisible wind is blowing across their chest, a wind that is shaking them. Now water is not stone. Waves do not rise on stone, they rise on water. Water is fluid; it becomes wavy. Even invisible gusts move it.
The waves arising in your mind are raised by the wind of thirst. And many people want to quiet the mind. They want to silence thoughts one by one. One person says, “Anger comes; how to quiet it?” Another says, “Sex arises; how to quiet it?” One is greedy, one is attached — all are busy trying to quieten. In this way you will never become quiet. The likelihood is that you will not be liberated but deranged.
In my view the worldly man is often more at peace than your so-called religious people. So listen carefully to me — and then go and look again at your sadhus and sannyasins. You may perhaps find some quieter people in the marketplace; your sadhus and renunciates are not at peace. For in the market a man has only one unrest — the wave of the world is flowing over him; but the one in the temple, the one in the ashram, the sadhu, the mahatma — an extra unrest has mounted upon him: the thirst to be peaceful has awakened, the thirst to attain Moksha!
The worldly runs after things that, if you try rightly, can be obtained. The so-called religious runs after things that cannot be attained by running — where the running itself is the obstacle — things that are obtained by stopping. If you run rightly after wealth, wealth will come; there is no great hindrance. If those more foolish than you have obtained it, why not you! Work well and you can be conquerors of the world; if Alexander did it, why not you! If you run madly, you will get something or other; somewhere some bank balance will happen; some big house will be built.
But Paramatma is not obtained by running; truth is not obtained by running. Peace is not obtained by running. For the running is itself the unrest. Understand! The running is the unrest. The moment no one runs, thirst falls silent. Thirst means running. Thirst means: happiness is somewhere else, not here; not now, but tomorrow; the day after; in the next birth; in heaven — somewhere else! “Happiness is elsewhere” — this very notion is thirst. When it is not here but elsewhere, then one must run. Sitting here, what will happen! Run, hurry! Strive! If you do not run you will lose. Sacrifice today for tomorrow. Offer today at the altar of the future. Today is not.
“As you are, you cannot be happy, so try to become something else. Let there be more money, a bigger house, prestige — or virtue, character, meditation — do something!”
Thirst means: as you are, there is no contentment. And the meaning of dropping thirst is only this much: now, here, as you are — be delighted! Dropping thirst means the art of being blissful now. You only know the desire to be blissful some day; not now! “How can it be now!”
This is the entire proclamation of Ashtavakra. It is a great revolutionary declaration: as you are, you can attain bliss right now, because bliss is your nature. You have not lost it even for a moment. You have not deviated from it. These waves can be quiet right now — here! The life of the wave is in the invisible wind; in that invisible wind that is racing across the chest.
What is the invisible wind racing across your chest? From that you tremble. Let that wind stop... and you yourself are moving it. You yourself are giving that wind its breath, its momentum.
Thirst means: discontent. Thirst means: unfulfilment. Thirst means: the future, not the present. From whose life the future departs, from his life thirst departs. Thirst needs the future in order to expand.
See this truth! What I am saying is not a theory — it is a direct fact.
The future has no existence. That which has not yet come — how can it be! When it comes, then it will be. When it is, then it is; right now it is not. The past has gone, the future has not come — between the two, that small instant of the present — that alone exists. Other than that, all is imagination. The past is memory; the future is a dream. That which is now, this instant, this little window of the present that opens — that alone is. Be absorbed in it! Dive into it. That very dive becomes your plunge into Paramatma. You become silent — without doing anything. As grace.
I became silent in just this way — exactly as I am telling you. You too can become silent in this way. But do not make any longing for the future. Aspiration for the future creates tension, creates strain. Today you remain miserable, but hope for tomorrow keeps you stretched. And when tomorrow comes, it comes as today. Tomorrow never comes. When it comes, it is today. And you have learned a wrong habit — the habit of being miserable today. You will remain miserable forever. For whenever it comes, it comes as today. And your relationship with today has gone wrong — you have bonded with misery. What does not come is tomorrow — and you want to be happy tomorrow! What does come is today — and today you practice being miserable!
Thirst means: to be in tomorrow; to be in the future; not to be where you are, but somewhere else. And then you will be miserable. The tension that arises, the restlessness that arises, the waves that arise — they will perforate your very life-breath. If the dance and the music depart from your life, what is there to be surprised about! If there is no peace in your eyes and no sitar of Paramatma resounds in your heart, what surprise is that! If your nerves, your heartbeats, lose all connection with this vast festival that is ongoing — if you even forget its address and whereabouts — what is there to be surprised at!
Trees are happy now — this very instant! Birds are singing now; they have not postponed it for tomorrow. The sun has risen now; it will not rise tomorrow. And the sky is spread now; the sky knows nothing of tomorrow. This whole existence, except man, is in the now; man is always “sometime, somewhere else.” Between this now and that sometime is the tension — there is thirst.
Thirst brings unrest. And the greater the thirst, the greater the unrest.
Therefore I tell you: the worldly man’s unrest is not greater than the religious man’s — it is less. His thirst is for small things, trivial things. To buy a car — what great thirst is that! He will be a little restless. To build a bigger house — what is the great matter! There have always been big houses, arising and falling — nothing new, nothing special. His thirst is small, momentary. The tension of his thirst is not going to be heavy. But someone else wants Moksha — that thirst is very difficult.
Have you ever seen anyone going to Moksha? You have seen people building big houses, you have seen people conquering the world, you have seen people piling up wealth — have you ever seen someone going to Moksha? Actually, the very language “going to Moksha” is the language of the ignorant.
Ashtavakra says: the Atman neither goes anywhere nor comes anywhere. What going! Where will you go!
When Ramana was dying, someone asked, “Now you are going?” He opened his eyes and said, “Where would I go! What going and coming!” Then he closed his eyes again. Who knows if the listener understood. What going and coming! There is no going and coming. Does the sky go or come anywhere?
Ashtavakra said: you bring home a clay pot — the pot comes and goes; but the space inside the pot — does it go or come anywhere? You walk, but your Atman does not walk!
The world moves; Paramatma is unmoving. Paramatma is the nail of the wheel of the world. All keeps moving; Paramatma is still. One does not “go to” Moksha. Moksha is the experience that where I am, there is Moksha; as I am, that itself is Moksha.
Strange notions have been taught to you by thirst-ridden people. Certainly they have taught the lesson of thirst. You were already mad; they have decorated your madness with philosophy. You were mad to gain wealth; they said, “Why hanker after this wealth? Attain the supreme wealth!” The language of attainment continues. You were running after women; they said, “What is there in these women? Today or tomorrow they will dry up into skeletons!”
Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. She said, “Before marriage I want to ask you one thing. Right now I am young, beautiful; when I become forty, my cheeks sink, my hair start turning white, wrinkles begin to appear on my face, I begin to grow old — will you still love me?”
Mulla said, “So it is your intention to become like that at forty? Then end the matter here! Why get into the trouble! If you intend at forty to put wrinkles on your face, to turn your hair white and to sink your cheeks — then forgive me! Good you told me before marriage; otherwise we might have been entangled in marriage and it would have been worse. Forget the matter.”
What is your religious man saying? He says, “Why are you after skeletons! There are apsaras in heaven, bodies of gold — seek them! Why after positions! These Delhis are always rising and falling! Do not get into this hassle. Above is a greater Delhi; whosoever reaches there — reaches forever. Here’s Delhi is uncertain — today on the throne, tomorrow below! Whoever sits on the throne must fall. What happens after reaching Delhi — a tomb at Rajghat! What ultimately remains in hand? There is one more Delhi above — the supreme abode! Reach there.”
This is talk of enlarging your thirst. You are told: abandon the transient, seek the eternal! But the talk is the same, the language is the same, the running is the same, the thirst is the same. Stronger tempests will sweep the chest; bigger waves will arise! You will be more restless.
Whenever a sadhu-sannyasin comes to me, I see him trembling and disturbed far more than the worldly. For you seek the possible; he seeks the impossible. Your event can happen — there are thousands of proofs; his event has never happened — there is not one proof. Who has seen whom going to Moksha? I tell you: no one has ever gone to Moksha. Mahavira became liberated; he did not go to Moksha. Mahavira did not go to Moksha — he realized that he is liberated. In this moment, in this present, immersed in the taste of existence, he discovered how mad he had been — seeking that which is already given!
When Buddha was enlightened and someone asked, “What did you attain?” he said, “Do not ask! Do not ask — for what was attained was already given. It was forgotten; there was a lapse of memory. It was in my pocket, but I had lost remembrance.”
It is a forgetfulness, not a gaining! It is already gained. Whether you know or not, Moksha is your nature. Whether you know or not, you are God, you are Paramatma!
So thirst is the obstacle. Stop, and you will meet yourself. You are running, so the meeting with yourself does not happen. And you meet everyone else, only yourself you go on missing.
Heyopadeyata tavat samsara-vitapa-ankurah.
And in thirst lies the seed of the world. Where there is thirst, there arises naturally the choosing — what to do, what not to do! For we should do that by which thirst will be fulfilled. Naturally a distinction arises. Do only that which fulfils thirst; do not do that which does not; take the path that leads to the goal of the future; avoid that which leads astray.
And here there is no path. Ashtavakra proposes no path. Ashtavakra says: open your inner eyes a little; where you are, you are at the goal!
Rinzai, a Zen fakir, was resting by the roadside under a tree at the foot of a mountain pilgrimage. One day, two days — years passed. Pilgrims would come and go. People began to recognize him — that he always remained under that tree. They would ask, “Rinzai, why don’t you go up the mountain on pilgrimage?” Rinzai would laugh and say, “I too had come for pilgrimage, but sitting under this bush I came to know that the pilgrimage is within; I remained here — now there is nowhere to go.” People would say, “Come, we will take you there.” They felt pity — perhaps the old fakir could not climb. “We can carry you on a shoulder?” He was a lovable man, but he would say, “No, you go; for I am already where you are going. And you — going there you will never arrive. If you too want to arrive, come back someday, and just sit here.”
The pilgrimage is within. Truth is within, because truth is your swabhava. However many times this is repeated is little. For thirst means: the truth has not been attained — it has to be obtained. Those who have attained proclaim: truth is your nature; it is not to be obtained — it is already given. Only a recognition, a re-cognition, its re-cognizing is enough.
Spruha jivati yavat vai nirvichara-dashaaspadam.
And as long as thirst remains, as long as longing remains, as long as desire remains, till then discrimination, awareness, does not arise in man. The state of aviveka remains.
Understand also the word “aviveka.” Aviveka means: a wavering mind, an agitated mind; a consciousness full of waves; waves and ripples upon the lake. A restless state is aviveka. And the un-restless state — the wave is gone, calmness has descended, the wind has not blown, silence has happened, the lake has become a mirror — that is the state of awakening, the state of Buddhahood.
Buddha has said: the day you become like a mirror, without a tremor, then that which is will begin to reflect in you; then that which is will begin to appear in your perception. Right now you tremble so much that what is can’t be caught; something else is caught.
Imagine someone runs with a camera and takes pictures. When the pictures are developed and seen, nothing is caught; all is jumbled, nothing is clear — this is our condition. Running, rushing, we try to see life. Stop, be still. Do not run! Come to a halt so totally that for a moment everything stops, all movement comes to rest; the moment of non-movement arises. In that very instant, what is will be seen.
The definition of world is: you saw Paramatma while running — that is the world. You saw the world while sitting still — that is Paramatma. A right picture of what is — and it is Paramatma. A distorted picture — and it is the world.
World and Paramatma are not two. The world is Paramatma; Paramatma is the world. There are only two ways of seeing. One man saw while running, always chasing thirst — he did not see rightly; neither the leisure nor the means to see were there. Another sat quietly under the Bodhi tree and saw, utterly still.
Look at the statues of the Buddhas and the Tirthankaras we have made! Have you seen any statue in motion, walking? Either sitting or standing — but one thing is certain: all are still. Go to Jain temples, to Buddhist temples — search: all are still. This stillness is the very experience of truth.
“In activity arises attachment, and in renunciation aversion. Therefore the wise one, free of dualities, remains as he is — like a child.”
Listen to this wondrous utterance!
Pravrttau jayate rago nivrttau dvesha eva hi.
Nirdvando balavad dhiman evam eva vyavasthitah.
Now if there is thirst in your mind, two things will arise.
Yavat spruha yavat nirvichara-dashaspadam.
Where there are ripples in consciousness, your state of awareness is lost; you fill with deep darkness; what is does not appear; your eyes lose clarity; purity is lost; the virginity of the eyes is gone; the eyes are tainted. A lens of distortion is placed upon your eyes. Your eyes no longer show what is; they show either what you want, or, because of the rush, the distortions that spill over. You see shadows; truth does not appear. Reflections revolve; but from these reflections truth cannot be tracked. A noise is created, but music is lost.
Have you seen the difference between music and noise? The only difference is that in noise there is no order; in music there is order. If order enters noise, it becomes music; if music loses order, it becomes noise. Music means that notes have become rhythmical; among all notes a harmony has arisen, a consonance. If all notes are nonsensical, discordant, opposed to each other, creating a conflict, creating a hubbub — then music will not be born; the head begins to ache; the mind is deranged.
Paramatma is the search for music in the hubbub of this world; to know that which is the common tone among all tones; that one note which pervades all sounds.
Yavat spruha yavat nirvichara-dashaaspadam.
And wherever thirst remains, aviveka will remain.
Tavat jivati cha heyopadeyata samsara-vitapankurah.
And as long as the seed from which the world sprouts remains, the bud of discrimination — “this is to be rejected, this to be accepted” — will remain: this is right, that is wrong.
This is the difference between ethics and religion. Ethics says: this is right, that is wrong. Religion says: that which is, is; nothing is wrong, nothing is right.
Often you mistake a moral man for a religious man — and you fall into a great error. The moral man is a gentleman, not a saint. A gentleman does what is “right.” A saint is one for whom nothing remains right or wrong; whatever happens, he lets it happen. He does not do. The gentleman is a doer; the saint is a non-doer. Often the gentleman is mistaken for the saint. So you begin calling gentlemen “mahatmas.” Mahatma is a far bigger thing.
A great Western thinker, Lanza del Vasto, came to the East in search of a guru. He had heard of Ramana Maharshi, so he went there. But he was not satisfied. In his memoirs he has written: I went there, but I could not be satisfied. For there I could not find what is good, what is bad; what should be done, what should not be done. He asked Ramana, “What should I do, what should I not do?” Ramana said, “Do not get into doing; be a witness.” Witness! He asked again for precise guidelines: how to build character, how to increase auspicious tendencies? Because without auspiciousness no one can reach God.
And Ramana said: “Forget God. You are already there. The auspicious is already there, the inauspicious is already there — all are there; for the inauspicious cannot live without him, the auspicious cannot live without him. He sits even in the bad. He is in Ravana and he is in Rama. So be a witness; drop the doer.”
He wrote: the man seemed good, but he did not fit. Then he went to Wardha; there Gandhi fit him. He wrote: here is a guru — he says on every little thing: do not drink tea, do not smoke; when to get up, when to sit; how many clothes to wear, how many not to wear; what to eat, what not to eat — everything from chutney to Brahman! Eat neem chutney, Gandhi would say, so that taste dies. Do not take taste in anything. So eat without salt. If even then you feel a little taste, mix neem chutney into it... This fit him. He made Gandhi his guru.
Leaving Ramana, he made Gandhi his guru! Do not be surprised; the same possibility is yours. It is not just Lanza del Vasto; your understanding is just the same. You too will not recognize Ramana. How many homes carry Ramana’s picture? Who cares for Ramana! But Gandhi’s picture is in every house, every office! Gandhi is a mahatma!
You will be surprised to know: someone even hung Gandhi’s picture behind Ramana’s seat! Ramana was of the kind who did not even say: what are you doing! He said: “Fine. If you want to hang it, hang it.” Even behind Ramana, Gandhi’s picture hung!
A gentleman we can recognize. He speaks our language. You have a relish for food, he speaks the language of tastelessness — immediately you understand. You find taste in woman, he talks of celibacy — immediately you understand. You are grasping wealth, he speaks of renunciation — immediately you understand. The language is the same; there is not the slightest difference between your language and the gentleman’s. Yours is the language of the wicked; his is the language of the righteous. You are going down the stairs; he is going up the same stairs; but the stairs are one. A saint you cannot understand. The saint is unfathomable.
“Pravrtti gives rise to attachment...”
At first people keep attachment in activity — “Let me do this, let me do that!” Then, doing again and again and not finding happiness, they begin to think: let us renounce. This too is the last rung of activity. First one thinks: let me indulge; and when nothing is found through indulgence, then one thinks: now let me renounce; let me indulge in renunciation! I have tried the world and found nothing; now I will become a sannyasin, a renunciate; I ran after women, now let me run against women; perhaps the joy lies there. I tried my best to indulge in food and found nothing, the body became decrepit; now let me fast!
“In activity attachment, and in renunciation aversion.”
Wherever you had attachment in activity, wherever there was defeat, depression came, the taste of life soured — there aversion arises.
So see: your sadhu keeps abusing woman, abusing taste, abusing enjoyment. What has happened? Aversion has happened. Where there was attachment, aversion has come. Earlier there was a desire to put the hand in fire; now, having tried and burned the hand, enmity with fire has arisen. First there was attraction; now there is repulsion. But the connection remains — it does not go.
A saint is one whose connection itself is gone. Indulgence is vain, and renunciation too is vain. When along with the non-virtuous, the virtuous also becomes vain — a revolution happens in your life. Along with immorality, morality too becomes vain; auspicious along with inauspicious — because they are the two faces of the same coin. The wicked and the righteous stand together. They are partners in the same shop.
Imagine a world where there is no wicked man — will there be righteous men? Imagine a world where only Ramas are and no Ravanas — will Rama remain? For Rama to remain, Ravana is necessary. Without Ravana, Rama cannot be. What kind of Rama is that! A great compulsion. Just think a little. Rama depends on Ravana. Ravana depends on Rama. Both are necessary characters in the Rama-leela.
Try playing the Rama-leela without Ravana! The play will not run; not an inch further. The story will collapse at the outset. And the audience will leave before it begins, saying, “What nonsense! If there is no Ravana, how will there be a Rama-leela! Sita must be abducted, a war must happen — none of it will occur.” Lord Ramchandra sits there; for a while devotees will sit, waiting for something to happen; but nothing will happen, because for anything to happen, duality is needed.
Auspicious and inauspicious are together. In Rama-leela they are cooperators. And if you really want to see, then go see behind the stage sometimes — you will find Rama and Ravana sipping tea and gossiping together. On this side of the curtain they were fighting; behind they are chattering. They are all members of the same troupe.
Ashtavakra’s sutra says: if you want to be utterly outside the play, you will have to leave the membership of the troupe itself — neither Rama nor Ravana. You must go beyond both dualities.
“Pravrtti gives rise to attachment...”
Activity is attachment.
“Nivrtti is aversion.” And aversion too is bondage. With that to which we have aversion we remain bound, stuck. A thorn remains embedded. This is not freedom.
“Nirdvando balavat dhiman evam eva vyavasthitah.”
This sutra is wondrous, a golden sutra.
“The wise one, free of dualities, is like a child; he remains as he is.”
There is no effort to become something. Child means: he is as he is. When anger comes to him, the child does not think, “Should I or should I not?” When love comes to him, he does not think whether it is proper to express or not. He does not calculate.
An English seeker, Chadwick, has written in his memoirs of Ramana that he was greatly amazed. Once it so happened: a puritan sannyasi came to argue. Ramana told him briefly what he asked. But he was not willing to listen; he was full of his scriptural mind, his quotations. He cited examples, spun arguments. Ramana remained simple. He listened for half an hour and then said, “Remain in witnessing.” Do not enter into dispute. The sannyasi became more inflamed, more angry. He wanted to drag Ramana into argument. The disciples were a little disturbed — time was being wasted, the Maharshi was being troubled. But what to do! Leaning against his pillow, Ramana listened. When it went on too long and the man would not hear, Ramana picked up his stick and ran after him! The man panicked and ran out. He had not imagined that a knower would do such a thing! Ramana returned, set the stick down, lay back — and answered another devotee’s question.
Chadwick wrote: seeing him that day, my heart was enchanted! Childlike! Just like a small child! He did not even think what people would say: “You — and anger!” Nor did he get angry; because if anger seizes you, a trace remains. The event passes, but the smoke of anger does not depart in a moment; it lingers for hours, days, sometimes for years. He ran with the stick, came back, sat down. The man left. He spoke again as he had been speaking, as if nothing had happened.
There are many such anecdotes about Gurdjieff — he would become utterly wild in a moment and in the next be so cool it was unbelievable that someone could be so hot and so cool within a moment! Like a little child!
There is a famous incident about Jesus. He said: forgive all, judge no one, love even your enemy. This he had taught his disciples. And one day, suddenly, he took a whip in the temple and overturned the tables of the moneylenders. Alone, like a madman, he drove out a crowd — a single man! The disciples were shocked, for they had heard: “Love your enemy, and if someone slaps your cheek, turn the other.” What has happened to Jesus! And when he had driven them out and sat under a tree outside, he was just as before, with no line drawn upon him. Christians have never been able to understand this incident; it troubles them — if this is true, what of his words? If the words are true, what of this behavior?
Jesus stopped under a tree. He was hungry. He saw a fig tree — perhaps there would be fruit. There was none. Jesus said, “See, we came and you did not give fruit; you shall be fruitless forever; henceforth you will not bear fruit.” Bertrand Russell wrote against Jesus: this man talks of peace and gets angry at a tree! What fault of the tree? If fruit did not grow, what fault is that? To be so angry as to curse it forever — this does not seem right.
Russell’s argument is thoughtful. But Russell has no sense that there is a state of ultimate freedom, of kevalya, where a person again becomes like a child. And Jesus’ own famous saying is: only those who are like little children will enter my Father’s kingdom; others will not. It is difficult to accept, because we expect very coordinated behavior from a saint; no flaw, no fault. We expect perfection. For the saint is our ideal; we will imitate him.
But listen: Ashtavakra says the supreme saint is childlike. Not “perfect,” but whole. Understand the difference between perfection and wholeness. The child is always whole, never perfect. There is a totality. When a child is angry, he becomes anger. Then nothing else remains — he is fire. Hence there is a beauty in the child’s anger. Look carefully. Put aside your ideas. When a small child is angry — such a small life, yet it seems he will shake the whole world. He stamps his foot hard upon the earth. In his anger there is power, beauty, virginity, tenderness — and still a great force! And a moment later he has forgotten. A moment earlier he was angry with you and said, “I will never look at your face. Friendship over!” He made “cutty.” A moment later he is in your lap. He does not remember. Very inconsistent behavior — but whole. When he is in anger, he is totally in anger; when he is in love, he is totally in love. His love does not spoil his anger; his anger does not spoil his love. When it happens, it is total. There is an authenticity in his life.
A child is utterly characterless; he has no character. To have character, you need great cleverness. You need arrangement, planning, skill, calculation. Character means: walk carefully. Character means: do only what should be done; do not do what should not be done. Think what the result will be tomorrow, the day after. If you say this today, what reaction will happen; if you do this, what reaction will happen.
Hence a man of character is never whole; he is calculative, bookish. He has ledgers. A small child is without character. We should say “free of character,” not “characterless.” Yet he is whole. Whatever is the inner truth appears outwardly. If within there is anger, then outside there is anger; if within there is love, outside there is love. There is as yet no conflict between inner and outer. There is an evenness between inside and outside.
The saint becomes again like a child. Once more there is evenness between inside and outside. A saint has no character. Do not be shocked when I say it! A saint cannot have a character. The gentleman has character; the scoundrel has misconduct. The saint is beyond character — charitratit.
“The wise one is free of dualities.”
He has no sense of two: this right, that wrong; this to be rejected, that to be taken; this auspicious, that inauspicious; this Maya, that Brahman — nothing of the kind remains. What is, is.
“... free of dualities, like a child, he remains as he is.”
To be a saint is to be simple.
You have heard three expressions — savikalpa Samadhi; nirvikalpa Samadhi; sahaja Samadhi. In savikalpa Samadhi thought remains. In nirvikalpa Samadhi thought goes, but the awareness that thought has gone remains. In sahaja Samadhi even that awareness goes; neither thought remains nor the sense of thoughtlessness. Sahaja Samadhi means: you have come home; you have become natural; now what is, is; as it is; no wish, no demand for otherwise. In consenting to “as you are” lies the complete dissolution of thirst. Then what thirst! Thirst cannot remain.
Nirdvando balavat dhiman evam eva vyavasthitah.
He alone is wise who has become like a child beyond dualities. He alone has genius. As he is, so he abides; no demand for otherwise; not even a ripple for otherwise!
It is very difficult to understand. It is very simple — but to understand is difficult. Because what we have been taught is exactly the opposite. We have been taught: abandon stealing, be non-stealing; abandon lies, speak truth. This talk goes beyond truth.
There is such an anecdote in Kabir’s life. Every day people gathered at his house for bhajans. Kabir was in sahaja Samadhi, childlike. When people gathered and it was mealtime he would say, “Come, eat before you go! Where will you go now — eat and then go.” It is good the husband says so, but the wife was in great difficulty. Where to bring food from every day! So much food! Kabir was a poor man; he wove cloth and sold it — what little he could, and even that only when time remained from bhajans. The wife said, “I cannot say that, because there is nothing in the house. How can I feed, from where will I bring! The debt is mounting.” She told the son — Kamal: “You explain to your father to stop inviting people. We have no means. Let people sing and go; do not hold them back. He catches their hands and says, ‘Sit, eat and go! Where are you going!’ People also want to go, knowing there is no facility.”
Kamal told Kabir — once, twice, thrice. The fourth time Kamal got angry. He too was a Kamal. He said, “Will you stop or not? Should we start stealing? The debt has piled high; we cannot pay. Now only one way remains: if you go on, we will have to steal.”
Kabir blossomed like a lotus. He said, “Crazy boy, why didn’t you think of it earlier! All these days you have been troubled; your mother has been troubled; and you have been troubling me too! Why didn’t you think earlier!”
Kamal was shocked. He said, “This is the limit! What does this mean! Approval even for stealing!” But he too was Kamal. He said, “All right. Tonight we will go to steal. But you will have to come with me.” He thought perhaps at the crucial moment Kabir would refuse — “How can Kabir steal!” But Kabir said, “Yes, I will come.”
Kamal was Kamal. He rose at midnight and said, “Let’s go.” Still he thought, at the last moment he will back out — stealing and Kabir! It doesn’t fit. But Kabir got up, washed his hands and face, and said, “Where to go? Let’s go.” Kamal too was Kamal. He bored a hole into a wall. He thought maybe Kabir will stop now. He wanted to see how far the matter goes. The hole was made. He asked, “Shall I go in?” Kabir said, “What else did you come for! Crazy boy, you’ve ruined my sleep for nothing — hurry, it will soon be dawn and people will come for bhajan!”
It is a unique story. Unique, for there is no other like it in all the literature of saints. Kamal went inside. He thought: when I bring the money out, perhaps he will refuse it. He wanted to see to the last breath — he was his father’s son. He dragged out a sack of gold coins. As he was pulling it through the hole, Kabir said, “Listen, did you wake the householders, did you inform them?” “What do you mean?” “At least tell them, brother. In the morning they will wander looking here and there — they should know who took it! Make a noise!” Kamal was Kamal — and since Kabir said so, he made a noise. When he made a noise he was caught. As he was pulling out of the hole, the householders grabbed his legs. He asked, “What now? They have caught my legs.” Kabir said, “Let them hold your legs. What do we need legs for! I will take your head.” It is said he cut off his head and took it away. The householders pulled Kamal inside. Without a head it was hard to identify who he was; but from certain signs and fragrance and beauty and grace of the limbs, it seemed an extraordinary person. Someone said, “It seems this is Kabir’s son, Kamal. Let us hang him on the post outside; he will be recognized. Soon Kabir’s singing party will pass by; someone will recognize.” They hung the body outside. Soon Kabir’s party came singing. They were caught — Kamal’s body was hanging. Old habits die hard — when they saw people singing, the body began to clap! The dangling corpse began to clap.
It is a story; it need not be factual. But it is profoundly symbolic: Kabir agreed even to stealing; he agreed even to beheading his son. He was not afraid of stealing, not afraid of violence. Did it actually happen? I am not saying it did; but even if it did, there is no surprise. For our dualities — stealing bad, non-stealing good; violence bad, non-violence good — are notions raised by the ripples of our restless minds. Heyopadeya — this good, this bad; this auspicious, this inauspicious. There must be a state where nothing auspicious remains, nothing inauspicious; a state free of duality; a simplicity where distinctions do not remain; a place, a position where all dualities are lost, where duality dissolves and Advaita is born. It is of that Advaita that he speaks.
Nirdvando balavat dhiman evam eva vyavasthitah —
He who becomes childlike beyond duality...
One more thing to understand here. He says “like a child”; he does not say “a child.” If it were so, all children would have attained saintliness. But children have not. Children will wander. They are at the first stage, before wandering. The saint is after wandering. The circle is complete. Where you began, there you return. If your life evolves rightly, grows rightly, then as you were when you were born, so you should be again at death — a child again. The circle is complete; the source is regained.
This is the final childhood. Childlike does not mean “children”; it means those who, having gone through all the experiences of life, have attained again a child’s simplicity. Children will go astray; they are made to go astray. They are being prepared to be expelled from Eden. Their innocence is not an attainment; it is a gift of nature. All children are born beautiful, peaceful, whole. Then gradually discrepancies arise, conflicts arise. Gradually the child loses his childhood. Sin is born. Sin means: division has begun. Guile is born. Guile means: calculation has come. Simplicity departs. He is no longer as he is; he pretends to be what he is not. Politics enters. Diplomacy enters.
The child will wander. He must, for without wandering there is no way to pass through the experiences of the world. He must wander in the wilderness of this world. The saint is one who has passed through the wilderness, has seen it all — the good and the bad — and has found both to be insubstantial. Those who saw substance in the bad became scoundrels; those who saw substance in the good became gentlemen; those who saw substance in neither became saints. They went beyond both, having seen both, seen them well, fully, to the brim — and found both hollow.
I have known such a world.
On this stage of the world,
How should I come, as what,
How should I go, as what —
I thought, I tried with all my heart,
But destiny, the actress,
Does with me only what she wills.
I have known such a world.
Today two met — this is love;
In two bodies is one heart,
One breath, one life —
I forgot it was all acting.
Above all, this was the naivete of my life.
I have known such a world.
I saw the bad — and forgot it is a play. I saw the good — and forgot it is a play. The one who got lost in the bad became Ravana. The one who got lost in the good became Rama. The one who wrapped himself in the bad became a sinner. The one who wrapped himself in the good became a virtuous soul. The one who rooted himself in the bad became mean; the one who rooted himself in the good became a mahatma. But the one who saw both —
I thought, I tried with all my heart,
But destiny, the actress,
Does with me only what she wills.
I have known such a world.
I forgot it was a play —
Above all, this was the naivete of my life.
I have known such a world.
And the one who saw that all is play — bad and good; Ravana and Rama both are characters in the Rama-leela — the one who knew life as acting, who stood aside as a witness, who said, “I am neither Ravana nor Rama” — he went beyond.
Many friends write to me: you speak on Krishna, on Buddha, on Jesus, on Kabir, Nanak, Dadu, Sahajo, Farid, Sufis, Zen masters — why do you leave out Rama? Why leave Tulsi’s Ramayana? Why not speak on Tulsidas? Why not on Rama?
There is a reason. I have little interest in the gentleman. My interest is in the saint. Rama is the Maryada Purushottama — the utmost of rectitude. My interest is in that which is beyond maryada. My interest is in Krishna, for Krishna is without maryada. You will not find a more character-free person than Krishna! A less reliable person! Nothing fixed. He behaves like a small child. He swore not to lift weapons — then he lifted them! Who keeps accounts of oaths! Who remembers oaths! A child’s behavior!
People ask me: what do you see in Krishna’s behavior? Nothing — it is simple and direct. The oath was taken in one moment; that moment has passed. A new moment has arrived, with a new situation, a new impulse. For a new moment, a new response is needed. To be bound to an old oath would be maryada. He did not remain bound. He became new with the new fashion of existence.
You have heard one of Krishna’s names — Ranchhod-ji: the one who fled battle. He ran away! When he saw that the essence lay in running, he did not stubbornly insist, “Let my life go, but my flag must remain high!” He ran — seeing that circumstances were for running; he did not keep a rigid pride. His devotees even coined a name — Ranchhod-ji!
In Krishna there is a glory beyond maryada. He is not easy to understand. Rama is straightforward. There is nothing extraordinary in Rama. He is magnificent, but not unique. He is a mahatma, but not a saint. Hence I knowingly leave him aside. When only the ultimate has to be spoken of, Rama does not appear there. And Hindus too have indicated as much. They called Rama an “anshavatar” — a partial incarnation; they did not dare call him a “purna avatar,” a complete incarnation. Krishna they called the purna avatar — the whole Paramatma. Whole Paramatma means: now there is no maryada. Maryada belongs to man. Limitation belongs to man. So the title Maryada Purushottama suits Rama — the best among men in maryada, the most bound to the line. The slightest remark by a washerman, “Am I Rama to accept a woman who stayed in another man’s house? Get out of the house!” — and that was enough for Rama — “maryada will break.” Sita’s ordeal by fire was taken; she was found utterly pure; even so she was sent to the forest. Maryada would break!
Krishna is of another kind — beyond all maryada. Hence he is called the complete incarnation: as if Paramatma has descended in full. Paramatma descends fully only in a saint; in a gentleman he descends bound; in the wicked he falls into a ditch. Like a drunk lying in a gutter — in the wicked, Paramatma lies in the gutter; in the gentleman he stands; in the saint he flies. I have spoken only of the saint — with the hope that when the destination is what we seek, it is right to speak only of that; why talk of midway inns!
Rama is a wayside inn, not the destination. Stay the night — if Krishna is hard to understand, stop with Rama; that is fine. Better a dharmashala than sleeping out in the open. But the dharmashala is not the goal. Therefore Tulsidas has little value for me. He is a stabilizer of the status quo. Kabir is different — Kabir is revolution. Tulsidas is tradition — accustomed, worn. Nothing new. Nothing original. No tone of revolution. If you want revolutionary tones, listen to Kabir, to Nanak, to Farid — or to Ashtavakra. Ashtavakra is a great source of revolution. In him you will find the root messages of all spiritual revolutionaries. Ashtavakra is the Himalaya, from where the Ganges of revolution arise.
“The man of attachment wants to renounce the world in order to escape suffering; but the one beyond attachment, being free of suffering, remains even amidst the world without falling into regret.”
“The man of attachment wants to renounce the world in order to escape suffering!”
Hatumi chchhati samsaram ragi duhkha-jihasaya.
First the attached person tries to escape suffering by clinging to the world — holding wealth to avoid suffering, holding a friend to avoid suffering, holding a family to avoid suffering. He first tries to avoid suffering by holding worldly things; then he finds that by holding, only suffering is produced — he does not escape — so he begins to renounce worldly things; but the old desire remains the same — to escape suffering. First he held on; now he drops; but the desire to escape suffering remains.
“The attached wants to renounce the world to escape suffering; but the one beyond attachment, being free of suffering, even while remaining amidst the world, does not come to grief.”
The attached runs from suffering — whether in the world, or to the temple, or to the shop, or to the mosque — he runs from suffering. The detached awakens and becomes free of suffering; he becomes free by witnessing. He does not run from suffering; he looks at it fully — and suffering is gone.
Mulla Nasruddin’s master told him one day, “Go outside and see whether the sun has risen.” He went out, returned and began doing something in the room. The master asked, “What happened? Has the sun risen?” He said, “I am lighting a lantern — it is very dark outside, nothing can be seen.”
Do you need to light a lantern to see the sun! And a sun that is visible by lantern — would it be the sun?
The moment one gains the capacity to look at suffering, suffering disappears. The sun has risen; the night is gone; darkness is gone. Witnessing has awakened; suffering is gone. Suffering arises only because we are lost in the darkness of identification — “I am the body, I am the mind, I am this, I am that” — due to this, the entire trouble. The moment witnessing awakens — I am not the body, I am not the mind; I am pure consciousness — in that very moment suffering goes.
“The detached, being free of suffering, remains amidst the world and does not fall into despair.”
Vitarago hi nirduhkhas tasminn api na khidyate.
Wherever he remains — in the world or out of it... and where will you go outside the world! Wherever you are, it is the world. There is world in the ashram, in the temple, on the Himalayas — where will you go out of the world! All there is, is world. So by running there is no way. Where you are, awaken — that is the way.
“One who has ego even about Moksha, and attachment to the body as well — he is neither a knower nor a yogi; he is only a sharer of suffering.”
Yasyabhimano mokshe ’pi dehe ’pi mamata tatha.
He who has mamata — possessiveness — toward the body will suffer.
Yasyabhimano mokshe ’pi —
And he whose ego has got tied to Moksha will also suffer.
Dehe ’pi mamata tatha —
And he who is attached to the body will suffer. If you think wealth is “mine,” you will suffer. If you think religion is “mine,” you will suffer. If you say, “I will conquer the world,” you will suffer. If you say, “I will attain Paramatma,” you will suffer. If you are, there is suffering. You are the embodied form of suffering. Ego is the knot of suffering. Ego is a cancer — it will go on aching, pricking, festering.
Na cha yogi na va gyani kevalam duhkha-bhagasau.
Such a person — whose attachment clings to body, or whose attachment clings to Moksha; whose attachment clings to the world, or to God — such a person is neither yogi nor knower; only a sharer of suffering.
Ashtavakra says: be free of the body — and be free of God too. Drop the rush of the world — and drop the rush for Moksha. Abandon all forms of thirst. Let thirst itself fall. Stand thirst-free. In this very instant supreme bliss will shower. It is showering — but you are holding up the umbrella of thirst, so you cannot be drenched.
“Even if your teacher be Shiva, or Vishnu, or Brahma, still, without forgetting all, you will not be made whole.”
Listen to this revolutionary utterance! Leave aside small teachers — even if Shiva himself instructs you, or Brahma or Vishnu, nothing will happen until you awaken. Even if Paramatma himself stands and explains, you will not understand — because understanding never comes from the outside. Understanding must sprout within. No one else can awaken you. If you are pretending to sleep while awake — how can you be awakened? If you were asleep, you might wake up; but you lie awake with eyes closed, not wanting to rise — how will anyone awaken you? You are pretending to sleep. And you are pretending. Your innermost center is awake — it never sleeps; sleep does not happen there. Its nature is wakefulness. Chaitanya means wakefulness. You are making excuses for sleeping. If you want excuses, your choice!
Ashtavakra says:
Haro yady upadeshtha te Harih kamalajo ’pi va.
Tathapi na tava svasthyam sarva-vismaranad rite.
Until you forget everything you have learned from outside, there will be no health, no wholeness, no taste of truth.
Shiva means: in whose hands lies the power to dissolve the world. Vishnu means: in whose hands lies the power to sustain the world. Brahma means: in whose hands lies the power to create the world. The one who created the world cannot create truth for you. The world is Maya, a dream — Brahma made the dream, but he cannot awaken you to truth. And the one who sustains this dream, Vishnu — he cannot bring you to truth. Despite such vastness under his control, he has no control over you. You are beyond him. And the one who can destroy the whole world — even he cannot destroy your ignorance. Even Shiva cannot destroy your ignorance. Ashtavakra says: you must become utterly free of the outer.
A true guru is he who frees you from the outer; who throws you back upon yourself; who leaves you unto yourself; who says: forget what you have learned from outside; drop scriptures that are outside; drop doctrines that are outside; be neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. Go within, where there is no doctrine, no scripture, no word. Dive into that nirvichara. Awake where the lamp of your ultimate prajna is lit. From there — only from there — transformation is possible.
Hear this! That is why I say again and again: what Krishnamurti says today is an echo of Ashtavakra. Krishnamurti says: no guru! Many feel this is anti-scriptural. Where is it against the scriptures? The scripture of scriptures says: “No guru! Not even Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh.”
But do not take it to mean that Ashtavakra’s Gita has no use. This is its very use. A scripture is that which frees you even from scripture. A guru is he who frees you even from the guru.
In Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, when Zarathustra was to bid farewell to his disciples, he said: “The last message. What I had to say, I have said. Remember the last thing — never forget this great mantra. Whatever I have said, forget it — but do not forget this.”
They were startled. “What remains to be said?” He said: “One thing — beware of Zarathustra! I am going; be careful with me!” This is the sign of the true guru. Whatever I have said, forget it — no worry; but never forget there is danger that an attachment to Zarathustra may arise. Otherwise, you get entangled outside again. One man is entangled in a woman, another in wealth, another in an outer God, another in an outer guru — the entanglement continues.
Freedom is within. Freedom is in oneself. Your nature is freedom.
Haro yady upadeshtha te Harih kamalajo ’pi va —
Even if gurus like Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh be found...
Tathapi na tava svasthyam sarva-vismaranad rite —
Still, until you forget all that is learned, forget words, forget doctrines, forget thoughts; until you are established in the nirvichara, the wordless silence — till then there is no health. Health means Moksha. Health means Nirvana — or call it Paramatma, Paratpara Brahman, Moksha, liberation — any name will do. Names have no value. But what is — is within you, and is covered from outside. Remove the outside, and the flower within, pressed down, will open. Remove the mud outside and your lotus, pressed under it, will bloom. In that blooming is contentment, fulfilment, the great fulfilment. Without it there is discontent.
Hari Om Tat Sat!