Maha Geeta #5

The first sutra:
Ashtavakra said, 'O son! You have long been bound in the noose of body-identification. Cut that noose with the sword of the knowing, "I am Awareness"—and be blessed!'

In Ashtavakra’s vision—and that alone is the purest, the ultimate vision—bondage is only of belief. The bondage is not real.

There is a mention in Ramakrishna’s life: his whole life long he worshipped Mother Kali, but in the end he began to feel, 'This is still duality; the One has not yet been realized. It is dear, it is sweet—but the two remain two. Someone loves a woman, someone loves wealth, someone loves position; I have loved Mother Kali—but love is still split in two; the supreme nonduality has not yet happened.' Pain began to arise. So he waited: 'If only an advaitin, a Vedantin, someone could come who could show the way.'

A Paramhansa, Totapuri, was passing by. Ramakrishna stopped him and said, 'Grant me the vision of the One.' Totapuri said, 'What difficulty is there in this? You consider two; therefore two are. Drop the belief!'

But Ramakrishna said, 'Dropping the belief is very difficult. I have cultivated it all my life. As soon as I close my eyes the image of Kali stands before me. I drown in the rasa. I forget altogether that I must be One. The moment I close my eyes, there are two. I try to meditate, and duality happens. Save me!'

Totapuri said, 'Do this: when the image of Kali appears, raise a sword and split it in two.' Ramakrishna said, 'Where will I get a sword in there?'

What Totapuri then said is exactly Ashtavakra’s word. Totapuri said, 'From where have you brought the image of Kali? From there bring the sword as well. That too is imagination. You have adorned and fashioned it with imagination. You have practiced it your whole life, repeated it your whole life—so it has become dense. It is imagination. Not everyone closes their eyes and Kali appears.

'A Christian closes his eyes, and after years of effort Christ appears. A devotee of Krishna closes his eyes and Krishna appears. A devotee of Buddha closes his eyes and Buddha appears. A devotee of Mahavira closes his eyes and Mahavira appears. Christ does not appear to a Jain. Mahavira does not appear to a Christian. Whatever imagination you have practiced—that alone appears.'

Since Ramakrishna had practiced Kali, the imagination had grown dense. By repeated reiteration, by continuous remembrance, the imagination had become so real that now it seemed Kali was standing before him. No one was standing there. Consciousness was alone. There was no second there, no other.

'Close your eyes,' Totapuri said. 'Raise the sword and cut.'

Ramakrishna would close his eyes, but the moment he did, his courage would fail: 'To raise a sword to cut Kali! A devotee raising a sword to slay the Beloved—this is too hard!'

To renounce the world is easy; what is there in the world worthy of clinging? But when a deep imagination of the mind has been erected—when some poetry of the mind has been composed, when some dream of the mind has taken shape—then to leave it is very difficult. The world is like a dream of sorrow. The dreams of devotion, the dreams of feeling are not dreams of sorrow; they are wonderfully pleasant dreams. How to leave them, how to break them?

Tears would begin to flow from his eyes. He would be choked with emotion. The body would tremble. But the sword would not rise. He would even forget that there was a sword to raise. Finally Totapuri said, 'Enough. We have been sitting many days like this. It will not do. Either you do it, or I go. Do not waste my time. This playing has gone on long enough.'

That day Totapuri brought a shard of glass. He said, 'When you begin to be absorbed, I will cut your forehead with this shard. When I cut here—where the ajna chakra is—gather your courage just that once, raise the sword, and split Kali in two. That is all. This is the last time; I will not stay after this.'

Totapuri’s threat of leaving—and then to find such a master again is difficult! Totapuri must have been a man like Ashtavakra. When Ramakrishna closed his eyes, the image of Kali arose, and he was just about to be lost in ecstasy—tears welling up, surge arising, gooseflesh about to happen—Totapuri took the shard and, from top to bottom, cut his forehead where the ajna chakra is. A stream of blood flowed. In that instant Ramakrishna gathered courage within. He lifted the sword and cut Kali into two. As Kali fell there, nonduality happened—as the wave was lost in the ocean, as the river descended into the sea. It is said that for six days he remained immersed in that supreme void—no hunger, no thirst; no awareness of the outside, no sense at all; everything forgotten. And when after six days he opened his eyes, the first words he spoke were these: 'The last barrier has fallen.'

This first sutra says: O son! Long have you been bound by the noose of body-identification, and have begun to take that noose itself as your existence.

'I am the body! I am the body!! I am the body!!!'—this has been repeated across births. By repetition we have become the body. We are not the body; it is our habit. It is our habit, it is our self-hypnosis. We have believed so intensely that we have become what we believed.

There is another mention in Ramakrishna’s life. He practiced the disciplines of all religions. He was the only person in human history who tried to reach truth through the paths of all religions. Ordinarily a person reaches by one path—and then who cares for other paths! You have reached the summit; whether other trails also lead there or not—who cares, since you have arrived? The path that brought you, brought you; whether others would bring you or not, what use to inquire! But Ramakrishna reached the peak again and again, then descended again. Then he climbed by another path. Then a third. He is the first person who practiced all religions and reached the same summit by all.

Many had talked of synthesis; Ramakrishna, for the first time, created the science of synthesis. Many had said, 'All religions are true'—but that was talk; Ramakrishna made it fact. He gave it the force of experience, testified with his life. When he practiced Islam, he became precisely a Muslim fakir. He forgot Ram and Krishna, began to cry 'Allahu! Allahu!' He listened to verses of the Quran. He remained at the threshold of a mosque. He would pass a temple and not even raise his eyes—let alone bow. He forgot Kali.

In Bengal there is a sect: the Sakhi sect. When Ramakrishna practiced the discipline of the Sakhi sect... their belief is that only the Supreme is the male; all else are females—Krishna is the Lord, all others his sakhis. So even a man in that sect takes himself to be a woman. But what happened in Ramakrishna’s life was unprecedented—enough to startle great scientists. For six months he practiced as a Sakhi. After three months his breasts began to swell; his voice changed; he began to walk like a woman; his speech became sweet like a woman’s. His breasts swelled—like a woman’s! The masculine frame of his body began to transform.

Even this is possible, because men do have breasts—undeveloped. In women they develop. So perhaps his undeveloped breasts developed. The seed is there. Up to this point, nothing too extraordinary. Many men grow breasts; not so astonishing. But when six months were over, he began to menstruate. Then it was a wonder! Menstruation starting in a man is against the entire science of the body. It had never happened to any man.

What happened in six months? A single belief—'I am a woman'—was practiced with such intensity, the feeling resounded so deep, in every hair, in every particle of the body, that 'I am a woman!' The counter-feeling did not remain. The sense of manhood was forgotten. Then the event happened.

Ashtavakra says: We are not the body; because we believed, we became the body. Whatever we take ourselves to be, that we become. The world is our belief. And if the belief is dropped we can be transformed instantly. To drop it, no reality needs to be changed; only a notion has to be relinquished. If in truth we were the body, transformation would be very difficult. We are not the body in truth. We are, in truth, that consciousness hidden within the body—the witness, the seer.

Dehābhimāna-pāśena ciraṁ baddho’si putraka.
Bodho’haṁ jñāna-khaṅgena tan niṣkṛtya sukhī bhava.

Raise the sword of Awareness! Wield the sword of the feeling 'I am Awareness' and cut away this notion 'I am the body!' Then you are blessed.

All suffering belongs to the body. Birth, disease, old age, death—all are of the body. If there is identification with the body, there is identification with all the pains of the body. When the body grows old and worn, we think, 'I have become decrepit.' When the body is ill, we think, 'I am ill.' When the body nears death, we panic: 'I am dying.' Belief—only belief!

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin slept with his wife. They had, as yet, no child. The wife was intensely eager that a child should come. As they were about to sleep she said, 'Listen, if we have a son, where will he sleep? We have only one bed.'

So Mulla shifted a little to the edge. He said, 'We will lay him in the middle.' The wife said, 'And if there is a second?' Mulla moved a little further, 'We will lay him here as well.' A miserly man! The wife said, 'And if there is a third?' Mulla slid yet more and was just about to say, 'We’ll lay him here'—when he fell with a thud to the floor. His leg broke. The neighbors gathered on hearing the noise. He yelled and began to cry. They asked, 'What happened?' He said, 'The son who hasn’t even been born broke my leg! And if an imaginary son can do so much harm, what of a real one! Forgive me, I don’t want sons at all. This experience is enough.'

Sometimes—indeed, often—we live just like this: we assume, and then we go on acting on the assumption. And when we act on it, real consequences begin to happen in life, even if the belief is false. There were no sons there—but the leg truly broke. Even falsehood can have true effects. If falsehood is believed with intensity, its effects begin to occur in reality.

Psychologists say the differences we see in this world are less differences of reality and more differences of belief.

A psychologist at Harvard was conducting an experiment. He brought a large bottle into the class of about fifty students—well sealed, packed in every way. He placed the bottle on the table and said, 'This bottle contains ammonia gas. I want to experiment to see how long its scent takes to reach people when I open the lid. As soon as you smell it, raise your hand.' The students sat alert. He opened the bottle. Instantly he placed a handkerchief on his nose—ammonia gas!—and stepped back. Within two seconds a student in the first row raised his hand, then another, then a third; then hands rose in the second row, then the third. In fifteen seconds the whole class had 'received' the ammonia. Yet there was no gas in the bottle; it was empty.

Belief—so the result happens. Believe, and it is so. Even when he said, 'There was no ammonia gas in it,' the students protested, 'Whether or not there was—our noses caught the odor.' The odor came from belief. It seemed to arise from within; there was nothing outside. Thought it—and it came.

I have heard: in a hospital a man lay ill. A nurse brought him a glass of juice—orange juice. Another nurse, before her, had given him a bottle saying, 'Fill this with your urine—for tests.' The man was a bit of a joker. He poured the orange juice into that bottle. When the nurse came to take the sample, she was startled—the color seemed strange. The man said, 'You are surprised? The color is a bit odd. Let me pass it through the body once more; the color will be corrected.' He lifted the bottle—and drank it. They say the nurse fainted dead away. She thought the man was drinking his urine! And then he said, 'Let me run it through the body once more so the color gets right.' But it was only orange juice. Had she known it was orange juice, she would not have fainted. The fainting was real—it arose from belief.

In life you can find thousands of such events all around—when belief does the work, when belief becomes real.

'I am the body'—this has been believed across births; believing, we have become the body. Believing, we have become petty. Believing, we have become limited.

Ashtavakra’s fundamental ground is this: it is self-hypnosis, auto-hypnosis. You have not become the body; you cannot be the body. There is no way. How can you be what you are not? What you are—you are that even now. Only the false belief has to be cut.

'Cut that noose, with the sword of the knowing "I am Awareness"—and be blessed now.'

Jñāna-khaṅgena tat niṣkṛtya tvaṁ sukhī bhava—raise the sword of insight now; for all suffering tails along with the belief that we are the body.

Buddha also dies, but there is no agony of death. Ramakrishna also dies, but there is no agony of death. Ramana also dies, but there is no agony of death.

When Ramana died he had cancer. The physicians were astonished. A hard disease, very painful—but Ramana remained as he was; as if the illness had made no difference, no change anywhere. The physicians were troubled: 'Impossible! How can this be? Death stands at the door and the man is unshaken.' We can understand their unease. 'So much pain, and the man is steady, wave-less!' Their unease, their reasoning we can understand—because for us the body seems to be everything. But once it is known, 'I am not the body'—death may be approaching, but it approaches the body. And pain arises—but it arises in the body. A new awareness appears that stands at a distance and watches. And the distance between body and consciousness is the distance between earth and sky. There is no greater distance. Within you the most distant of all things in existence are meeting. You are the horizon where earth and sky meet.

Jāyate, asti, vardhate, vipariṇamate, apakṣīyate, vinaśyati—
'That which is born, exists, grows, changes, decays, and perishes—that you are not.'

That which witnesses all this… You saw childhood; you saw childhood go as well. If you were childhood itself, who would remember today that there was childhood? You would have gone with it. You saw youth come; you saw youth go. If you were youth, who would remember today? You would have gone with youth. You saw youth arriving, you saw it leaving—naturally you are other than youth.

It is such a straight thing, so clear! You have seen pain, seen aches arise, seen clouds of sorrow gather all around you—then you saw pain go; you saw sorrow dissolve. You saw suffering, you saw joy. A thorn pricked—you saw pain. The thorn was plucked—you saw being pain-free. You are the seer. You stand across. You are untouched. No event can touch you. You are like a lotus in water.

'You are unattached, actionless, self-luminous, and stainless. Your bondage is only this—that you practice Samadhi.'

This is a wondrous, revolutionary statement. To grasp its entire meaning is to feel a deep awe arise.

Patanjali has said: Yoga is the cessation of the modifications of the mind. It is the accepted view of Yoga that until the fluctuations of mind are stilled, one cannot know oneself. When all the vrittis of mind become quiet, one knows oneself.

Ashtavakra speaks in opposition to Patanjali’s sutra.

Ashtavakra says, 'You are unattached, actionless, self-luminous, and stainless. Your bondage is only this—that you practice Samadhi.'

Samadhi cannot be practiced. Samadhi cannot be organized—because Samadhi is your nature. The vrittis of mind are inert states. To still the vrittis is like a man whose house is filled with darkness and he begins to fight the darkness.

Understand this a little! He brings swords, spears, clubs—and fights with darkness; he calls strong men and begins to push the darkness—will he ever win? Although the definition 'the non-being of darkness is light' is correct, do not catch the thing from the wrong end. The non-being of darkness is light—true; the zeroing of mind-vrittis is Yoga—true; but do not take the matter from the reverse side. Because darkness is absent when there is light, do not begin to labor at the absence of darkness. In truth, the situation is from the other side: the presence of light is the absence of darkness. Light the lamp; darkness disappears of itself. Darkness is not. Darkness is only lack.

Patanjali says: quiet the mind-vrittis, then you will know the Self. Ashtavakra says: know the Self—and the mind-vrittis will become quiet. Without knowing the Self, you will not be able to quiet the mind-vrittis. It is because of not knowing the Self that the vrittis arise. Take yourself to be the body—bodily desires arise. Take yourself to be the mind—mental desires arise. Whatever you associate with, its desires are reflected in you. Sit near something—its color stains you.

As the crystal reflects the color of the stone placed near it: place it beside a red stone, the crystal seems red; beside a blue stone, it seems blue. This is the flaw of proximity. The crystal does not become blue; it only appears so.

Darkness only appears; it is not. The absence of light is called darkness. Darkness has no independent substance. So do not begin to fight with darkness.

The perspectives of Yoga and Ashtavakra are quite opposite. Therefore I have said: if you want to understand Ashtavakra, try to understand Krishnamurti. Krishnamurti is the modern version of Ashtavakra. In modern language, in today’s idiom, what Krishnamurti is saying is the pure essence of Ashtavakra. Krishnamurti’s followers think he is saying something new. There is nothing new to be said. Whatever can be said has already been said. Every facet of life has been explored. Since beginningless time man has been searching. Under this sun there is nothing new to be said. Only language changes, wrappings change, garments change. According to the times, the expressions shift. But what is being said is exactly the same.

Ashtavakra’s tongue is ancient; Krishnamurti’s is utterly new. But anyone with a little understanding will see: the message is one.

Krishnamurti says: there is no need for Yoga, no need for meditation, no need for japa-tapa. These are all rituals. Rituals are for that which is not your nature. What ritual is needed to attain nature? Drop all rituals and look within; your nature will reveal itself.

'You are unattached, actionless, self-luminous, and stainless!'—behold the proclamation!

Ashtavakra says: you are stainless; so, even by mistake, do not take yourself to be a sinner. Let a thousand saints say you are sinful, that you must purify, must repent, must be freed from bad actions—remember Ashtavakra’s word: you are actionless; how will you act at all?

Ashtavakra says: there are six waves in life—the shat-urmis. Hunger and thirst, grief and delusion, birth and death—these six waves. Hunger and thirst are waves of the body. If there were no body, there would be neither hunger nor thirst. These are needs of the body. When the body is healthy, more hunger; when it is sick, less hunger. If you stand the body in the sun, more thirst—because sweat evaporates. In the heat, more thirst; in winter, less. These are bodily needs—waves of the body. Grief and delusion—waves of the mind.

Someone departs and there is sorrow, because the mind clings—it creates attachment. Someone beloved arrives—there is joy. A beloved departs—there is sorrow. An unlovely person arrives—there is sorrow; an unlovely person departs—there is joy. These are mind’s games—of attachment and aversion, of attraction and repulsion. In one who has no mind within, there is no grief, no delusion—these are waves of mind.

And birth and death—these are waves of prana. Birth occurs with breath; death with breath’s departure. Hence, as soon as a child is born, the doctor worries that the child quickly breathe, cry. To cry only means: if he cries, he will breathe. In the shock of the cry the gateway of breath opens; the closed lungs begin to function. If the child does not cry within a few seconds, the doctor hangs him upside down and strikes him—so that through the jolt, breathing starts. Breath is birth—the process of prana. When a man dies, breath ceases—the process of prana stops. Moment to moment this is happening. When breath comes in, life enters within. When breath goes out, life goes out.

Moment to moment birth and death are happening. Every incoming breath is life; every outgoing breath is death. So birth and death are happening each moment. These are the waves of prana.

Ashtavakra says: these are six waves; you are beyond all six, the witness of them.

Therefore Buddha based his entire discipline on breath alone. He said one thing is enough: watch the incoming and outgoing breath. What will happen by watching breath? Slowly, if you watch the outgoing breath—breath going out; watch the incoming—breath coming in—you will discover intervals when breath becomes still: neither going out nor coming in. Between every in and out there is a momentary gap—breath neither moves nor stirs. It goes out, stops for a moment; then comes in. It comes in, stops for a moment; then goes out. The gaps will begin to be seen. In those gaps you will find you are; the coming and going of breath is the play of prana. And if you are able to watch the breath, the watcher becomes separate from breath. He is apart from breath.

The body is our outer circumference; mind is the circumference within; prana is an inner circumference still. So it can be that the body becomes crippled, broken—yet a man lives. Mind may be fractured, deranged, dull—yet a man lives. But without breath a man does not live. Take out the entire brain—even then life can continue; he will lie there, but life will be. Cut off limb after limb; as long as breath continues, man will live. If breath stops, even though everything else is present, man is dead. These are the six waves, and beyond them is the seer.

'You are unattached.'

No companion is yours—not even the body, not even breath, not even the thoughts of mind. You are unattached. Within there is no companion; what to say of the outside! Husband, wife, family, friends, beloved—none are companions. They may be together, but not your inner companion. Togetherness is only an outer event. Inwardly no bond is formed with anyone.

'You are unattached, actionless.'

Therefore do not raise the entanglement of karma at all. If you ask Ashtavakra, 'You say liberation can be this very moment—what then of actions? We have done sins across many births—what then? How to be freed of them?' Ashtavakra says: you never did them. Because of hunger the body may have done something; because of prana, prana may have done something; because of mind, mind may have done something—you have never done anything. You are always unattached; you abide in the non-action. Action has never been yours; you are the witness of all actions. Therefore liberation can be this very moment.

Consider: if we have to break the entire web of actions, perhaps liberation could never be. Impossible. In beginningless time how many actions have we done—try doing the accounting. If we must be freed of them all, it will take an infinite time. And during that infinite time will you just sit? You will do something—so actions will go on accumulating. The chain will become endless. There will be no end, no conclusion.

Ashtavakra says: if freedom depended on freeing oneself from actions, liberation would never happen. But liberation does happen. Its very happening proves that the Self never acted—ever. You are neither sinner nor virtuous; neither saint nor not-saint. There is no hell anywhere, no heaven anywhere. You have never done anything; you have only dreamed. You have only thought. You were asleep within; the body was acting. The bodies that did the acts have passed—why should their fruit be yours? You were asleep within; the mind acted; and the mind that acted is passing every moment.

I have heard: a former king saw the drawing room was dirty; he scolded the servant Zhanku: 'There are cobwebs in the hall. What do you do all day?'

Zhanku replied, 'Huzoor! Jālā kauno makṛī lagāyi hoī. Hum to apan kōṭhariyā meñ aūṅghāt rahe!'—'Some spider must have spun the web. I was dozing in my room!'

You were dozing within; some spider spun the web. The body spun webs; mind spun webs; prana spun webs—you slept. Wake up! The moment you wake, you will see you never did anything. Even if you wanted to do, you cannot. Non-action is your nature. Non-doership is your natural state.

'You are unattached, actionless, self-luminous, and stainless.'

Did you hear the proclamation? You are stainless! Then throw away what the pundits and priests have taught you. You are stainless. Their teaching has done great harm; it made you sinners. It filled you with a thousand notions that you are bad. It poured wretchedness and guilt into you. You are innocent—without blame.

'Your bondage is only this—that you practice Samadhi.'

Behold the revolution of this word! Your bondage is precisely this—that you perform the ritual of Samadhi—that you arrange, 'How shall Samadhi ripen? How shall the flowers of meditation bloom? How shall liberation be?' Ritual!

Te bandhaḥ hi Samādhim anutiṣṭhasi—this alone is your bondage. Raise the sword of Awareness and cut it!

Then two things will be clear to you: Yoga is one path, and Awareness an altogether different path. The ancient name of the path of Awareness is Sankhya. Sankhya means Awareness. Yoga means practice. Sankhya means: only to awaken—nothing to be done. Yoga means: much has to be done, then awakening will happen. In Yoga there are means; in Sankhya only the end. There is no path—only the goal. For you have never gone anywhere away from the goal; you are sitting in your inner shrine. There is no coming back; only this knowing: you never went anywhere.

Niḥsaṅgo niṣkriyo’si tvaṁ svaprakāśo nirañjanaḥ.
Ayam eva hi te bandhaḥ Samādhim anutiṣṭhasi.

This alone is bondage—that you are seeking Moksha. From the search for liberation new bondages are created.

One man is bound in the world; then he is frightened and begins to seek Moksha. He leaves house, family, wealth, shop—but then he binds himself in new bonds—becomes a sadhu. 'Sit like this, get up like this, eat like this, drink like this'—he weaves new chains all around.

Have you seen? The condition of sadhus is like that of prisoners. The sadhu is not free. For he thinks: 'To be liberated I must first bind myself.' What a joke! To be free one must first accept bondage! No bondage is needed for freedom.

Krishnamurti has a book: The First and the Last Freedom—the most modern statement of Ashtavakra.

If you wish to be free, be free in the first step. Do not think 'In the end I will be free.' Freedom is in the first step, not the second. For if at the first step you think, 'Let me prepare for freedom'—in that very preparation new chains are forged. Then you must prepare to be rid of those chains—and in that preparation new chains will be forged. You will be freed from one and bound by another. You will avoid the well and fall into the pit.

Look: the householder is bound, and the renunciate is bound. Their bondages differ—but the difference is not essential. It seems that until the fundamental unconsciousness breaks, whatever you do will be bondage.

I have heard: a man’s wife eloped; he went looking. Searching, he reached a forest. Under a tree sat a sadhu. He asked, 'Have you seen my wife go by? She has run away from home. I am greatly distressed.' The sadhu asked, 'What is your wife’s name?' He said, 'Her name is Fajeeti (humiliation).' The sadhu said, 'Fajeeti! You chose a fine name. All wives are fajeeti; but you have even named her so. And your name?' The sadhu was curious, 'You are clever with names.' He said, 'My name is Bewakoof (fool).' The sadhu laughed: 'Stop searching. Wherever you sit, 'humiliations' will find you there. You need not go anywhere. Your being a fool is enough. Humiliations will search you out.'

A man may run from the world—but his dullness does not vanish; his stupidity remains; his unconsciousness remains. He sits with that unconsciousness in a temple and makes new chains. That unconsciousness weaves new webs. Earlier he was bound in the world; now he is bound in renunciation—but he cannot remain without bonds.

Freedom is in the first step. For it, no arrangement. If you arrange, you are bound by the arrangement. If you make provisions, you are bound by your provisions. How far will this go? It becomes endless.

I have heard: a man was afraid of passing the cremation ground. His home lay beyond it, so he had to pass daily. He was so frightened that he never went out at night; even at dusk he would return home trembling. At last a sadhu took pity. He said, 'Give up this worry. Take this talisman. Keep it tied to you always. No ghost or spirit will be able to affect you.'

The result: the talisman drove away the fear of ghosts. Now he could pass the cremation ground even at midnight. There had never been any ghosts there—only his fear. The talisman freed him from one fear—but now a new fear seized him: what if he lost the talisman? Natural; the talisman that had saved him—he took it even to the bath; again and again he would feel for it. He became so frightened he could not sleep at night—afraid someone might untie it, steal it; for the talisman had become his life. Fear remained—if not of ghosts, then of the talisman. If someone replaced it with something else, what difference would it make? The man’s frightened state would not change. It is not a question of ghosts; it is a question of fear.

Thus people play volleyball with their fears—tossing the ball from here to there—while life passes by.

Ashtavakra says: the ritual of Samadhi itself is the cause of bondage. If you want to be free, make the proclamation of freedom—not the arrangement.

Therefore I say: see the revolution of this word! It is unique! Peerless!

Ashtavakra says: proclaim freedom here and now! Do not prepare. Do not say, 'First I will prepare, then...' For preparation will bind you. How will you then drop the preparation?

You escape one disease and catch another—only changing shoulders.

You have seen, when people carry a corpse to the cremation ground, they change shoulders. One shoulder gets tired, so they shift to the other. A little relief—then that shoulder aches, and they change again. So you have been doing for births. It yields only relief—not the ultimate rest.

Stop carrying corpses. Proclaim! If you wish, in one instant, in a fraction of an instant, the proclamation can happen.

People ask me, 'You give sannyas to everyone.' I say: everyone is eligible; it is only a matter of proclamation. Nothing else is to be done; only to proclaim. Install this proclamation in your heart: 'I am a sannyasin'—and you are a sannyasin. 'I am free'—and you are free. Your proclamation is your life.

Dare to proclaim. Why make small proclamations? Proclaim: Aham Brahmasmi—'I am Brahman!'—and you become Brahman.

In the next sutra Ashtavakra says, 'This universe is pervaded by you, strung on you. You are in truth pure consciousness—therefore do not become a petty mind.'

Why tie yourself to small things? 'This house is mine, this body mine, this money mine, this shop mine!'—why join your mind to such trifles?

Tvayā vyāptam idaṁ viśvaṁ tvayi protam yathārthataḥ—
By you everything is imbued. By you the whole Brahman is pervaded.

Śuddha-buddha-svarūpas tvaṁ mā gamaḥ kṣudra-cittatām—
You are pure consciousness—do not fall into littleness of mind.

We have made such small proclamations. Whatever we proclaim, that we become.

From this perspective, India’s offering to the world is unique indeed—for here the greatest proclamations have been made. Mansur declared in the Muslim world, 'Anal Haq—I am the Truth!'—they killed him. They said, 'This man proclaims beyond measure. “I am the Truth!”—only God can say that—how can a man?' But we did not kill Ashtavakra, nor the rishis of the Upanishads who said, 'Aham Brahmasmi.' Because we understood one thing: as a man proclaims, so he becomes. Then why proclaim small? If your life’s expanse depends on your proclamation, make the supreme proclamation—declare the Vast, the Infinite, the Divine. Why settle for less? Why such miserliness? You are stingy even in proclaiming—and then you become accordingly.

Consider yourself petty—and you will be petty. Consider yourself vast—and you will be vast. Your belief is your life. Your belief is the style of your life.

'You are without expectation, without modification, self-sufficient (a mass of consciousness), the place of peace and freedom, unfathomable intelligence, shockless. Therefore abide in pure consciousness alone.'

One allegiance is enough. Not discipline—but allegiance. Not practice—but trust. One allegiance is enough: 'I am pure consciousness.' In this world, this is the greatest magic.

Psychologists say: if you tell a person again and again, 'You are foolish,' he becomes foolish. Those who appear foolish in the world—are not fools. They are God. They have been told, made to feel fools. So many have repeated it to them and they have repeated it themselves till they became fools. Those who could have become Buddhas have been reduced to buddhoos.

Psychologists say: meet a man on the road—he is healthy. The moment you see him, say, 'What has happened to you? Your face looks pale. Fever? Show me your hand. You are ill. Your legs seem to tremble.'

First he will deny—he had not even thought of it a moment ago—he will say, 'No, no, I am perfectly fine. What are you talking about?'

'As you wish.'

After a while another meets him: 'Hey! Your face has gone pale. What’s the matter?' Now he won’t be able to say as boldly that he is fine. He will say, 'Yes, I’m a bit unwell.' He begins to agree; his courage slips.

Then a third says, 'Hey…!' Now he will return home: 'I am quite ill; no point going to the market.'

You have heard the story: a Brahmin was bringing home a goat he had purchased. Three rogues saw him and thought, 'We can snatch that goat—but the Brahmin is strong; snatching won’t be easy. Let’s use strategy.' One met him at the roadside and said, 'Amazing—how much did you pay for that dog?' The Brahmin said, 'Dog! Are you blind? You crazy fellow! It’s a goat! I have just bought it at the market. Spent fifty rupees.' The man said, 'As you wish—but you should know: being a Brahmin and carrying a dog on your shoulders! To me it looks like a dog. Perhaps my mistake.'

The Brahmin went on, thinking, 'What kind of a person!'—but he felt the legs, 'It is a goat.' On the other side, the second accomplice said, 'What a fine dog you have bought!' Now the Brahmin could not insist with the same confidence that it was not a dog; perhaps it was a dog! Two people cannot be wrong. Still he said, 'No, no, not a dog; a goat.' But he was weak now—the inner foundation shaken. 'If this is a goat, then what will you call a dog, Brahmin sir? Then the definition will need changing. Your wish—you are a learned man; perhaps you will change names. Call a dog a goat, or a goat a dog—what difference? It will remain a dog. Saying does nothing.'

That man went. The Brahmin put the goat down and examined it—entirely goat! He squinted; he washed his eyes at a roadside tap—his neighborhood was near, and people might see a Brahmin carrying a dog; it would damage his worship and scholarship; people would stop inviting him; they would consider him mad. Yet after checking in every way he saw it is indeed a goat. 'What has happened to these two!' He picked it up again, moved on—timid now, lest someone else see. The third accomplice was waiting: 'What an amazing dog! Where did you get it? We too have been wanting one.' He said, 'Baba, you take it! If you want a dog, take it. It is a dog. A friend gave it—rid me of it.' He ran home so none would know he had taken a dog.

This is how man lives. What you have assumed—you have become. And there are many rogues around you making you assume many things—for their own purposes. The priest wants you to feel sinful—otherwise how will his worship go on? His interest is in your seeing the goat as a dog.

There is the pundit: if you are not ignorant, what will happen to his scholarship? How will his shop run? The religious leader—if he convinces you that you are a non-doer, actionless, have never committed a sin—what will be his use? It is like going to a doctor and he telling you: 'You are not ill; you have never been ill; you cannot be ill—health is your nature.' Such a doctor is committing professional suicide. What of his shop? Go to a doctor perfectly healthy, saying, 'I want a check-up.' It is hard to find a doctor who will say, 'You are not ill.'

Mulla Nasruddin’s son became a doctor. I asked him, 'How is it going?' He said, 'Quite well.' I asked, 'How do you know?' He said, 'So well that many times he tells people, “You are not ill.” Only a very successful doctor can afford to say that—one who is too busy. So I think it is going very well. Many times he tells people, “No, you have no illness.”'

Shops—each with their own interests—are running upon you: the pundit’s, the priest’s, the guru’s. It is necessary that you be sinful, that you have done bad deeds; otherwise what of those who free you from bad deeds? What of the messiahs who come for your liberation?

If Ashtavakra is right, all messiahs are superfluous. Then there is no need for your rescue; you are rescued already. You are free. Ashtavakra seems to have no shop with you—no business. He speaks straight, cuts clean, gives the naked truth.

'You are without expectation, without modification, self-sufficient—a mass of consciousness—peace and liberation, unfathomable intelligence, unshakable. Therefore abide only in pure consciousness.'

One allegiance is enough: 'I am the witness.' That suffices. Such a one is religious. No other allegiance is needed—not even to God, not to heaven and hell, not to the doctrine of karma. One allegiance suffices: 'I am the witness, without modification.' And as you make this allegiance, you will find yourself becoming without modification.

A psychologist did an experiment. He divided a class into two groups and placed them in separate rooms. To the first he said, 'This math problem is very difficult; none of you will be able to solve it.' He wrote the problem on the board and said, 'It is so hard that not only you—even the students of a higher class cannot do it. But we are experimenting, to see whether anyone among you can come even a little close—perhaps take two or four steps correctly. It is impossible.' He repeated this: 'It is impossible. Still, try.'

In the other room, same class, same problem—he said, 'This question is so simple that it is impossible that anyone among you should fail to solve it. Students of lower classes have solved it. We are not giving it to test you; you will solve it anyway. We only wish to see whether there is even a single student in your class who will make mistakes in this too.'

Same problem, same class—yet the results were vastly different. In the first group, out of fifteen, only three solved it. In the second, out of fifteen, twelve solved it; only three failed. Such a big difference! The question was the same. The feeling attached to the question determined the result.

Ashtavakra does not say religion is arduous. He says it is very simple. Those who call it arduous make it arduous. Those who say it is impossible, a razor’s edge—they frighten you. Those who say it is like climbing the Himalayas and only rare ones succeed—you give up: 'We are not among the rare. It is beyond us. Let the rare ones go. We will remain in the valley.'

Ashtavakra says: it is very simple—so simple that you need do nothing; only awaken and look.

This is the final proclamation of human genius. It alerts man to his ultimate possibilities. Religion is the last miracle of human intelligence. If we compare, politics is the lowest expression of human talent, religion the highest.

It happened: a politician rose from a severe illness. The doctor advised, 'For two or three months do no mental work.' The politician asked, 'Doctor, if I do a little politics—any objection?' The doctor said, 'No, none at all. Do as much politics as you like—just no mental work.'

In politics there is no mental work. There is violence, not talent; snatching and struggle, not peace; restlessness, not rest; ambition, jealousy, aggression—not the soul.

Religion is non-aggression, ahimsa, freedom from competition; not struggle—surrender. Nothing to snatch from anyone; only to proclaim what is already yours. What is yours is so much that what is there to snatch? Those who do not know their own fight for crumbs while God is within. They die for fragments while the Vast resides within. The ocean is present; they beg for drops.

Those who do not know their own—that alone is politics. And by politics I do not only mean parties. Wherever there is struggle, there is politics: struggle for wealth—politics of wealth; for position—politics of position; for renunciation—politics of renunciation.

Among renunciates there is great competition lest some other renunciate get ahead. The Olympics of renunciates goes on so that no other mahatma should become greater. If ever there are Olympics in India, there should be one for the mahatmas too.

Wherever there is competition, there is politics. The root note of politics is: I do not have, others do have; only snatching will give me. But what you snatch—when will it be yours, how will it be yours? What is snatched, will be snatched away. Today or tomorrow another will take it. If no one else takes it, death will. Only that is yours which is yours without snatching from anyone—then even death cannot snatch. Only that is yours which was yours before birth and will be yours after death.

Seek that One. And for seeking that One, even means are not needed—says Ashtavakra—only alertness, only witnessing.

Many times in life you feel you are running in vain—yet how to stop! It is not that you do not feel it is futile. You too feel it—yet how to stop! The habit of running is ancient. You have forgotten how to stop. The legs have grown accustomed to running. The mind has grown accustomed to racing. The habit is so deep you cannot sit. You have forgotten how to sit.

A complaint had risen to the lips—but
To whom could I say? What use to say?
I set out, drinking my pain—and went on walking;
I refused to sit down in defeat.

And people think: if I sit, I will be defeated; if I sit, people will think I have lost; if I sit, they will call me escapist, a deserter. The crowd of thousands, marching—will look with contempt… so people go on walking.

Often the complaint rises in the mind: this all seems futile—but to whom to say? Who will understand? Here all are like you. No one tells anyone. Hiding their wounds, people go on.

If some Ashtavakra is found, some Buddha is found—then there is some point in saying. To whom else to say, here!

They set out, drinking their pain—and go on.
They refuse to sit down in defeat.

And it becomes an idea of the ego: to sit is to lose, to go under, to die. Keep walking; keep doing something; keep trying to get something! Otherwise you will be lost.

And it is those who sit who receive. Those who stop—receive. God is not found by running—by stopping. Therefore Ashtavakra says: He is found in supreme rest.

Sit a little sometime. Seek a moment each day and simply sit—do nothing.

Among Zen monks there is a 'method': zazen. Zazen means: just sit and do nothing. A very deep 'method' of meditation—though to call it a method is not right; for there is no method—just sit, do nothing. Exactly as Ashtavakra says, Zen says: sit down! For a while only sit in rest. For a while drop all hustle and bustle! Drop all ambition! Drop the mind’s racing! Sit a while, just remain immersed in yourself.

Slowly a light will begin to spread within. At first it may not be visible—like when you come home in bright noon; the house seems dark, because the eyes are accustomed to the sun. Sit a while; the eyes adjust; then you begin to see light. Slowly the room becomes luminous.

So it is within. Having moved outside for lifetimes, the inside seems dark. The first time you go in, you may see nothing—only darkness. Do not be frightened. Sit. Let the eye become ready for the inner. These pupils have grown accustomed to sunlight.

You have noticed: when you go into the sun, the pupil contracts. Look in the mirror after sunlight—the pupil appears tiny; so much light cannot be taken inside; it is too much; the pupil shrinks. It is automatic. When you come into darkness, the pupil must expand; after sitting a while in the dark, look in the mirror—the pupil has become large.

And as with the outer eye, so with the inner 'third eye.' For seeing outside, a small pupil; for seeing inside, a large pupil. The old habit must be undone—not by a new practice; only sit.

People ask, 'Sitting—what to do? Give us some name of Ram, some mantra—we will repeat it. But give us something to do!' They want a prop, a support.

The moment you do a ritual, bondage begins. Just sit. Nor does 'sit' mean only to sit; you can stand, you can lie down. To sit means only this: do nothing. For a few moments in the day become a non-doer, a-karmic. Be empty. Let whatever is happening, happen. The world flows—let it flow. Trains pass, planes roar—let them; you just sit. No concentration—just sit. Samadhi will slowly grow dense within. Suddenly you will understand Ashtavakra—what it means to be without ritual.

'Know form to be false; know the formless to be still and eternal. With this true instruction there is no re-birth into the world.'

This is what Buddha called anagamin—the non-returner. Such a one, when he dies, does not return. We return because of desire, because of politics—we return because of craving. He who dies knowing 'I am only the knower' has no further coming. He is freed from this futile wheel—of coming and going.

'See all that has form as false;
Know the formless as motionless, eternal.'

Whatever has form within us is the delusion; what is formless is the truth.

Have you seen a whirlpool in water? What is a whirlpool? A rising of water itself. When it calms, where does the whirlpool go? It was never a separate thing; it was a ripple of the water. So we are a ripple in God. The ripple subsides and nothing is left behind—no ash, no trace. As if you write on water—it is erased as you write. So are all the states of form—mere waves.

'As a mirror is present within and without the reflected form, so the Divine is present within and without this body.'

You have seen: you stand before a mirror, a reflection forms. Does anything form in the mirror? A reflection forms—which means nothing forms. You step away; the reflection vanishes. The mirror remains as it was—unchanged. Your standing there, a reflection appeared; you going away, it disappeared. But in the mirror nothing was formed and nothing was removed—the mirror remained in its nature.

This is Ashtavakra’s sutra: as one stands before a mirror, a reflection appears; but does a reflection actually form? It only appears. Do not be deceived by reflection. Many are deceived by reflections.

And this sutra says: all around the reflection is mirror—outside and inside. In the reflection too there is nothing but mirror. Just so, the Divine is present within and without this body. God within, God without—God above, God below—God west, God east—God south, God north—on all sides the One alone. In that ocean of the Vast we are small whirlpools, little waves.

Do not be entangled by taking yourself as the wave. Take yourself as the ocean. The only difference between bondage and freedom is this difference of belief. He who takes himself as the wave is bound; he who takes himself as the ocean is free.

'As the all-pervading sky is within and without the pot, just so the eternal Brahman abides in all beings.'

'As the all-pervading sky is within and without the pot…'

A pot is kept. Within the pot is the same sky, and outside the pot the same sky. Break the pot—the sky does not break. Make the pot—the sky does not alter. The pot may be crooked or round; whatever its shape, no shape is imprinted upon the sky.

We are all earthen vessels—mud pots. Outside, the same; inside, the same. Do not give excessive value to this thin wall of clay. It is this thin wall that makes you a pot. Do not be too fettered by it. If you believe this clay wall to be yourself, you will go on becoming pots again and again—your belief will draw you back. No one else brings you into the world; your notion of being a pot brings you back. Once you know you are the emptiness within the pot…

Lao Tzu’s words are meaningful: what is the value of the wall of the pot? The real value is of the emptiness within. When you fill water, you fill the emptiness—not the wall. When you build a house, do you call the walls the house? That is a mistake. The empty space within the walls is the house. You live in that—not in the walls. The walls are only a boundary. In truth we live in the sky. We are all digambar—sky-clad—inwardly. Live in the inner sky or in the outer sky—what difference do walls make? The walls are here today, gone tomorrow; the sky is always.

So if by mistake you take the house to be the walls, the pot to be the clay; if you take yourself to be the body—that is bondage. A tiny error in reading the scripture of life—and everything goes wrong. Just a small mistake!

Once Mulla Nasruddin, lost in thought, boarded a bus and began to smoke in his seat. The conductor scolded, 'It is written clearly that smoking is prohibited. Can you not read? Do you not know how to read?' Nasruddin said, 'I did read—but there is so much written in the bus. Which writing should I follow? See here—it says: “Wear only handloom saris.”'

From such little mistakes one must be alert. The body is very close; its language is easy to read. And it is so near that its shadow falls on the inner mirror—reflections are made. But you are in the body—you are not the body. The body is yours; you do not belong to the body. The body is your instrument; you are the end. Use the body; do not lose sovereignty. While living in the body, live beyond the body—like the lotus upon water.

Hari Om Tatsat!