Maha Geeta #51

Someone has asked: Ashtavakra gave such an important scripture to the world—why did no sect form around him? Ashtavakra’s sect could arise only if the world had healthy people. Among the unhealthy, Ashtavakra’s sect cannot take shape. Because Ashtavakra says: “Eat, drink, smell, touch! Live as is natural. No strain here, no strain there. Remain only a witness.”
You will say: “A witness! That’s a big loophole. How can we know whether a person is a witness or not? He eats, sleeps, sits at ease and says, ‘We are witnesses!’ How can you be sure? There’s no way to tell—witnessing is inner; how can the outside know?” You want external proof that someone is a saint. And what counts as proof? If he does the opposite of what you do, that’s proof! You are mad; if he becomes mad in the opposite direction, that’s proof.

This sutra can carry another meaning too—an even deeper one.
“Kritārthaḥ anena jñānena iti evam galita-dhīḥ kṛtī.”
—Only he is truly fulfilled whose very thought “I have been fulfilled by nondual self-knowledge” never even arises. He alone has accomplished.

Then he sees while seeing, hears while hearing, touches, smells, eats—and abides happily.

This can also mean: the one in whom even the notion “Now I have attained knowledge” no longer arises—whose very such intellect has melted away.
“Kritārthaḥ anena jñānena iti evam galita-dhīḥ kṛtī.”
—There remains not even the inner thought “I have attained knowledge.”

For if inside there is still the idea “I have attained knowledge,” you have not gone beyond duality and division. A difference persists between the ignorant and the enlightened. He will still say, “You have not attained; I have attained.” The “I” has not dissolved; it has taken a new form. Yesterday he said, “You are poor, I am rich; you are uneducated, I am educated; you are ugly, I am beautiful; you are weak, I am strong.” Now he says, “I am a knower of the Self; you are ignorant.” But the gap remains. The I–you divide persists.

Therefore the second meaning is even deeper. The first is right; the second is very, very right. Even such a thought no longer arises. The Upanishads say: Whoever declares “I have known,” know that he has not yet known. Because the knower will not even proclaim “I have known.” That declaration also has the fragrance of ego. The knower will not even say “I have attained,” because again a separation appears: “We are above those who have not attained.” Then the same old pattern returns—others below, we above. Earlier we stood above through wealth; now we stand above through self-knowledge. The ego creates new plays, new lila.

“I am fulfilled by nondual self-knowledge—such a thought does not arise in the true wise one.”

In whom intellect does not arise at all; in whom thought does not arise at all—he is fulfilled. He is inexpressible. He makes no such announcements.

People went to Buddha and asked, “Is there a God?” Buddha remained silent. One morning someone asked, “Have you attained enlightenment?” Buddha was silent. The man said, “Please say it plainly. If yes, say yes; if no, say no. Why put us in confusion?” Buddha still remained silent. The man went away thinking, “He has not attained; that’s why he does not dare say it.” He told Buddha’s disciples, “There is no enlightenment and such—because I asked. Had it happened, he would have said so.” The disciples laughed. They said, “You fool, he remained silent precisely because it has happened. What is there to say?”

And then a great trouble arises in the world: you listen to those who stake a claim. The louder the claim, the more you believe. But in the state of supreme knowledge there is no claim—none at all. You can remain near a supreme knower only when you learn to understand the non-claimer. You will be able to remain near a knower only when, even if he says “I am ignorant,” you still understand. Even if he never says “I know,” you still yearn for his presence—only then will you find the company of a knower. Otherwise you will be caught in some trickster’s claim.

Claimants are many. Those who have truly realized are very few. And your sole criterion is: “Who shouts the loudest? Who bangs the table hardest?” The louder he shouts, you think, “Surely… if it weren’t true, how could he shout so loudly?”

One who has truly realized does not shout. He offers an invitation; he does not claim. His very breath is prayer, not insistence.

That is why I continually say the word satyagraha (truth-insistence) is not good. Truth has no insistence. All insistence belongs to untruth. Hence a supreme knower like Mahavira gave birth to syadvad—perhaps-ism, non-absolutism. Syadvad means non-insistence. You ask, “Is there a God?” He says, “Syat—perhaps. Maybe yes, maybe not.” Syat! It sounds like the language of an ignorant person. Mahavira’s opponents said exactly that: “This is the language of the ignorant. You don’t know for sure! You say ‘perhaps.’ If you know, say yes; if you don’t, say no. What is this ‘perhaps’? Either there is a God or there isn’t.”

Mahavira says, “Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn’t.”

The matter becomes difficult. You are already wavering, and these great ones shake you even more. You came hoping for certainty from Mahavira, to take hold of a belief and return home with a treasure; instead they trouble you further. You came with a little firmness; they make even that waver. They say “perhaps”! Is there a soul? “Perhaps yes, perhaps not.”

Mahavira’s view is astonishing. He says: Do not ask certainty from me. Certainty will come from your experience. Do not borrow experience. Who am I to make you certain? And if I give you certainty, I am your enemy.

People come to me. One gentleman has been coming for years. I say to him, “You come and listen—at least sometimes meditate.” He says, “What’s the point of meditating? You have already attained. Whatever you say, we accept. We have no doubt. Those who doubt should meditate. We accept you. It is enough that we touch your feet. We want your blessing—what more is needed!”

How can my certainty become your certainty? If I have known, how will that become your knowing? And if I have known that I have not known, how will you know that? Will my claim be your only basis for trust? But claim—truth has no claim.

But you do not want to seek truth. You want it free of cost. You do not want to exert. You say, “If someone would just say it, the hassle would be over. If someone gives a firm guarantee, we can avoid the labor of inquiry. These mountain paths, this long journey—we cannot manage it. You have gone and returned; tell us what Manasarovar is like. Beautiful? Very well! We have faith in you. We are devotees.”

The world is full of such devotees. Because of these false devotees there is no religion in the world. Someone sits as a Hindu, someone as a Muslim, a Jain, a Buddhist, a Christian; all sit as devotees. Temples, mosques, churches are full of falsehood. None of them want to go themselves. The Christian says, “Jesus has said it; that is enough. Why would he lie?” The Jain says, “Mahavira has said it; the matter is settled.”

What are you doing? Deceiving yourself.

The supreme knower makes no claim. He offers an invitation. No insistence—only non-insistence. He says: “Look at me, come near me. Taste me, savor me. Then set out on the journey.” His presence will send you on a journey; it will not hand you certainty. It will send you on that pilgrimage where, at the final conclusion, certainty dawns within. Certainty must be born in you.

“Kritārtho ’nena”—only such a one is fulfilled—
“jñānena iti evam”—in whom even the notion “I am a knower” does not arise—
“galita-dhīḥ kṛtī”—whose such intellect has melted away.

This last thing has fallen. Now no division remains—not even between knowledge and ignorance, world and liberation, bondage and freedom. All division has dropped. Non-division is realized. In non-division, what thought can be? Thought always divides. Where thought appears, a wall rises, a line is drawn. In no-thought there is no division.

“Whose ocean of samsara has ebbed—such a person has no craving, no aversion. His gaze becomes empty, his efforts become futile, and his senses grow feeble.”
शून्या दृष्टिर्वृथा चेष्टा विकलानीन्द्रियाणि च।
न स्पृहा न विरक्तिर्वा क्षीण संसार सागरे।।

Drishti shunya—at that supreme state, the gaze becomes empty.

Your eyes are overfull—crowded with a thousand thoughts. You never see anything without thought—you do not look with empty eyes. You always look with bias, never neutrally. You go to see anything with a prior decision already made.

Here you come to listen to me. Someone arrives already decided, “This man is bad.” Someone else arrives decided, “He is good.” Without coming, before coming, how did you decide good or bad? Only if you came without decisions could a true decision arise. Having already decided, a true decision becomes very difficult. You will likely simply confirm your prior stance. The one who came thinking “good” will select only those points that strengthen his decision. The one who came thinking “bad” will also return certain that he was right. Each will select what favors him. Both will think they came to me; in truth they never came at all. Their bias stood in between; they could not see me. Their eyes wore spectacles.

Your condition is as if there are only spectacles—no eyes at all. Lens upon lens—no eye inside. For the true eye is of emptiness.

Drishti shunya.

A wondrous statement: eyes exist only when they are empty—without color, without bias, without any belief, doctrine, scripture, anything.

A Christian lady once told me, “I was delighted by your words. You strengthened my faith in Christianity. What you have said is exactly what Jesus said.”

What happened to this lady? She is stuffed with Jesus. Her ideas are all prepared. She picked only what matched and left everything that didn’t. She felt pleased and came to thank me. I said, “You never came here. You never reached me. You never heard me.”

She said, “You must be mistaken; perhaps you did not see—I have been listening for fifteen days.”

I said, “Even for fifteen years you would not hear me. Come with empty eyes. Do not listen as a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim. Listen as nothing, otherwise how will you hear? Just listen. And I am not asking you to agree with me. There is no hurry to agree. First listen, then decide. But at least listen. If you decide beforehand, it will be very difficult.”

Mulla Nasruddin once became the village judge. The first case came. He heard one side and said, “Absolutely right.” The clerk said, “Sir, this is only one side; please hear the other.” Nasruddin said, “If I hear the other, my mind will get wobbly. Then deciding will be difficult. Now it is easy—let me finish.”

The clerk said, “That would be unjust. You don’t know the rules of court.”

“Fine,” he said. He heard the other party and said, “Absolutely right.” The clerk said, “Are you in your senses? How can both be right?” Nasruddin replied, “Brother, you too are absolutely right! We should never have gotten into this mess.”

Man is in a hurry to decide—quickly! You were born in a Christian home, a Hindu home—you heard only one side. There are three hundred religions in the world, and you have already decided! So quickly? You are afraid that if you hear all three hundred, decision will become impossible—so hurry!

A child is not even born, and the parents begin imprinting. “Circumcision.” The child barely breathes, and you make him a Muslim. “Shave the head,” “Thread ceremony”—the priest arrives, rituals begin. The child has no awareness, his eyes have hardly opened; he knows nothing—and you start molding him. Before his awareness blossoms, you make him into something. You indoctrinate him, and his awareness may never blossom.

So much turmoil exists because awareness is missing; there is no chance for it to awaken. Parents are in a rush; religious teachers preach “Religious education!” Religion should never be taught. Meditation should be taught, not religion. Teach people silence. Teach them to be thought-free. Then wherever their thoughtlessness leads—that will be their religion. And I tell you, thoughtlessness will never make anyone a Hindu or a Muslim; it makes one simply religious.

Religion can exist in the world if we do not poison children’s minds in advance. But we are in a hurry—anxious to put in our version before something else gets in.

Among the greatest atrocities humanity inflicts, the worst is upon children. Helpless, unaware, they fall into your hands. You do whatever you wish—circumcise, keep a tuft, cut a tuft, put a thread—anything. The child cannot say a thing; he doesn’t even know what is happening. Before he can say yes or no, you will have trained him for years so thoroughly that saying yes or no will become almost impossible.

Galita-dhih means: letting go all these imposed conditionings.

Shunya drishti—then your gaze becomes empty.

Cheshta vritha—effort becomes futile.

And the one who has become a witness sees: there is no need to strive; what is to happen is happening on its own. The river does not “strive” to reach the ocean—yet it goes. Trees do not strive to grow—yet they do. Clouds do not strive to rain—yet they rain. Sun and stars do not strive to move—yet they move. If there were striving, someday the sun would sleep in—“Enough! Today is a holiday.” The whole world takes Sunday off; why not the sun? “Today is my day—no rising.” If there were effort, there would be fatigue; need for rest. But there is no effort, hence no fatigue, no holiday—no pause. No one is doing anything; everything is happening.

Whose gaze becomes empty, whose intellect melts—he suddenly sees: I was needlessly mad! Making this plan and that! All is happening by itself. I was carrying a useless burden. By posing as doer I carried stress and anxiety, growing deranged.

“Whose ocean of samsara has ebbed—such a person has no craving, no aversion; his gaze is empty, his efforts are futile, and his senses have become feeble.”

Indriyani vikalani—his senses are enfeebled.

Right now our life-energy is tied to the senses. As one becomes quiet, empty, witnessing, energy is released from the senses and begins to move upward. The senses are ways for energy to flow downward.

For one whose energy is not rising upward, nature has provided a safety valve—otherwise you would explode. Energy is drained below. The day energy rises upward, the senses calm on their own. Their former urgency dissolves. You still see, but the eyes no longer pester: “Go, look at beauty!” You still hear, but the ears no longer urge: “Go, hear sweet music!” You still taste, but the tongue does not torment, fantasize, arouse craving: “Eat! And if not, then at least in dreams feast!” No—work goes on, but the old passion, the old lust, that old force, fades away.

Krishna tells Arjuna: “That which is night for all beings, therein the disciplined one is awake. That wherein beings are awake, therein the seer sleeps.” Where the ignorant are awake, the wise sleeps; where the ignorant sleeps, the wise is awake. You are awake in the senses and asleep in yourself; the knower is awake in himself and asleep in the senses. His senses quiet into emptiness. His witnessing awakes.

It is the same energy. When witnessing awakens, the senses have no need to be lit; energy no longer flows into them. Where you are awake, the knower is asleep; where you sleep, he is awake. Your day is his night; your night, his day.

“He neither wakes nor sleeps. He neither opens nor closes his eyelids. Ah! What an excellent, supreme state abides in the liberated consciousness!”

Understand this.

न जागर्ति न निद्राति नोन्मीलति न मीलति।
अहो परदशा क्वापि वर्तते मुक्तचेतसः।।

Na jagarti—he does not “wake.”

The knower does nothing; hence even to say he “wakes” is not right. Nor does he “sleep.” Once doer-ship is gone, it is God who wakes and God who sleeps—not the knower. Keep this distinction in mind.

You try hard; sleep won’t come. You try to sleep—does sleep arrive by trying? When it comes, it comes. When existence wants to sleep, it sleeps—not because you sing lullabies. When sleep is needed in you, it comes.

Someone comes and says, “I cannot sleep.” I say, “Then let it not come. Rest quietly in bed. Don’t do anything. Your effort will not help. In fact, effort blocks sleep. If it doesn’t come, it isn’t needed.”

Old people still want eight hours. They forget: now they need less—three or four is plenty. They worry: “I used to sleep eight.” They forget they were young; needs were different. In the womb, a baby sleeps twenty-four hours—will you also sleep so in old age? A newborn sleeps eighteen or twenty hours—will you? As you age, less sleep is needed.

We don’t listen to nature. Nature is God’s voice. If we listened, nature would make us agree to everything. When sleep lessens, we would know the need is less.

A knower does nothing from his side. If sleep comes, fine; if not, he lies quietly. If eyes open, fine; if not, he lies quietly. He is neither industrious nor lazy. He is nothing. He is an instrument, a mere conduit. Whatever God gets done through him, happens. If not, he waits; when existence moves, he moves.

Na jagarti na nidrati…
He neither sleeps nor wakes by himself. Even—
Na unmīlati na mīlati—
He neither opens nor shuts his eyelids by himself. You have never actually blinked; you only imagine you do. Bring a swiftly moving hand near your eyes—the lids blink. If you try to do it deliberately, it becomes awkward. Blinking happens on its own. It is natural—a reflex action.

In sleep, an insect crawls on your face; your hand flicks it away. You don’t know it. In the morning if someone asks, “An insect was on your face—you shook it off?” you say, “I don’t remember.” Who shook it? You don’t remember! But something within was awake and flicked it away. In deep sleep, if someone whispers your name—“Ram!”—you sit up: “Who is disturbing?” The whole house sleeps; none heard, but you heard. The calling of your name sent energy through your unconscious. Even in sleep you hear. A mother sleeps through storms and thunder, but if her baby stirs, she wakes instantly. There is a stage-manager within.

Ashtavakra says: Aho—how wondrous!—what an incomparable state abides in the liberated consciousness: neither does he blink nor open his eyes; neither sleeps nor wakes. He does nothing by himself. The sense of doer-ship has vanished.

Just contemplate such a supreme state, and you will feel thrilled. If only your doer dissolved—what worry could remain? Worry is the shadow of the doer. If the doer goes, worry goes. You want to drop worry but not the doer; therefore worry never leaves—and a new worry appears: how to drop worry! One more addition to worry.

Eastern psychology recognizes four states of consciousness. The first is waking. In waking there is ego, the sense of doer-ship, a strong “I.”

The second is dream. In dream the ego is weakened. Every night when you sleep, in dreams your ego becomes thin. The Brahmin is no longer a Brahmin, the Shudra is no longer a Shudra. The president forgets he is president; the peon forgets he is peon. Identity is dimmed. The ego does not stand clearly, though a faint reflection remains—hazy.

The third is deep sleep—when dreams have vanished and nothing remains. Then the ego is absent; you do not even know that you are. The doer is absent. Breathing continues, digestion continues, blood flows; you do nothing. The “I” is gone, not even its shadow as in dream. Deep sleep is a negative state—nothing happens; as if you are not.

The fourth is the supreme state, turiya. Turiya is awake like waking and silent like deep sleep. It carries the peace of deep sleep, but deep sleep is dark; turiya is luminous. In deep sleep ego is lost; in turiya ego is lost too—but in deep sleep no egolessness is born; only the ego is absent. It is negative. In turiya, a positive egolessness is born. Awareness arises, wakefulness dawns. The clarity of non-doer-ship becomes total. In turiya the individual becomes a complete instrument of the Divine. The person disappears; only God remains.

This is the fourth state Ashtavakra is describing:
“Aho—some supreme state indeed abides in the liberated consciousness!”
How blessed, how excellent, how supreme—where he neither wakes nor sleeps, neither opens nor closes his eyes—and everything happens on its own. All is natural, spontaneous.

“The liberated one appears centered everywhere, with a stainless intent everywhere, and free of all desires, he reigns everywhere.”

Sarvatra drishyate svasthah!
The liberated one you will find established in himself in every situation. You will never see him perturbed, never displaced from his center. This is possible only in turiya—where the center is found and one’s feet are planted there, like a tree rooted deep in the earth. The liberated one spreads his roots in his turiya.

Sarvatra drishyate svasthah…
You will find him centered everywhere: in pain or pleasure, success or failure, life or death. You will find him centered—even in death. Never wavering.

Sarvatra vimal-ashayah…
Everywhere his intent is pure. You will not find hardness or distortion in his intention. His intent is always auspicious. Not that he tries to be moral—that talk is gone. Neither vice nor virtue remains. His natural, spontaneous behavior is his pure intent. Around him you will sense a fragrance, a hush. If you are even a little open, you can take a dip in his presence—like bathing in the Ganges and coming out fresh.

The knower is the true place of pilgrimage. That is why the Jains called Mahavira a tirthankara—a ford-maker. The real fords are not on riverbanks but around the wise. In them the true Ganga flows. The water-Ganga can cleanse your body; the consciousness-Ganga cleanses your soul.

Samasta vasana-mukto.
He is free of all desires.

Muktah sarvatra rajate.
He reigns everywhere. You will recognize his royalty even if he sits in dust. His kingship does not depend on thrones; it is deeply inner. He may stand naked like a fakir on the road, yet you will know he is sovereign. Jesus spoke of this kingdom—the kingdom of God.

Many times, enemies came to arrest Jesus, but on coming near, they changed. Once the priests sent the worst men to seize him. They listened spellbound. Returning without him, the priests asked, “You didn’t bring him?” They replied, “Very difficult. This man is extraordinary. There is a majesty about him; we felt dwarfed. How could we put handcuffs on him? We hid our chains. Such a man has never been.”

So they captured Jesus in the dark of night. They never tried again in daylight—those attempts had failed.

Look at Mahavira standing naked—has any emperor ever attained a greater sovereignty?

Swami Ram called himself “the Emperor.” He wrote a book: “The Six Edicts of Emperor Ram.” He had nothing—only a loincloth. Six royal edicts! He issued six orders to the world. When he went to America, he still called himself Emperor Ram. People asked, “You are a fakir; why call yourself an emperor?” He said, “Precisely because I have everything. The day I left the small house, the entire cosmos became my home. I dropped the trivial and gained the vast. Now I possess all. The sun rises for me; the stars move for me. All this happens at my gesture.”

People thought his brain was a bit off: “At your gesture?” But Ram was right. There is a moment when you dissolve, and only the Divine speaks through you.

Someone asked, “At your gesture?” He said, “Whose else? There is no one other than me. I moved them at the very beginning. I made these stars; they move at my behest. From the first, they have moved by me.”

This belongs to another dimension. Ram carried that royalty.

Samasta vasana-mukto muktah sarvatra rajate.
Everywhere—the one whose desires are empty sits upon an inner throne. Only he truly reigns; all others are beggars.

“Seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating, receiving, speaking, walking—free of effort and non-effort—the great man is certainly liberated while living.”

He does everything and yet does nothing. He walks and yet does not walk. He speaks and yet does not speak. He eats and yet does not eat.

The Jain scriptures tell a story. A Jain monk arrived and stayed across the Yamuna. The river was in flood. Rukmini asked Krishna, “A monk is there; there is no boat—who will take him food? We should send food.”

Krishna said, “Then send it.” She said, “How will we cross? There is no boat.”

He said, “Just say this: ‘If the monk has been fasting always, may the Yamuna give way.’ If he is forever a faster, the river will part.”

It is a sweet story. Rukmini prepared the plates and went with her companions. She said to the river, “O river, the monk is hungry on the other side. If he has been fasting always, please give way.” The river opened a path. Amazed, she crossed and fed the monk. Then she remembered the difficulty: “What will we say to the river now? The monk has just eaten. We forgot to ask Krishna about returning. Coming over was fine—he was a perpetual faster; the river parted. Proven! But now we ourselves have fed him. How is he a faster? And he finished everything!” She grew anxious. Seeing her uneasy, the monk asked, “You look worried. What is it?” She told him. The monk said, “Foolish girl! Say the same thing again: ‘If the monk is ever-fasting, please give way.’”

She had no faith this time. But there was no other way. She said it, half in disbelief—the river again opened a path. On returning, she asked Krishna, “This is beyond our understanding.” Krishna said, “The monk is indeed ever-fasting. Fasting has nothing to do with eating or not eating. Upavasa (fast) means to abide near oneself—upa (near) + vasa (to dwell). It has no connection to abstaining from food. Without eating is mere hunger-strike. Upavasa means abiding in one’s own innermost. One who abides there—even while eating, he does not eat, for food goes to the body, not to him. He remains the witness. He walks, yet does not walk—because the body walks.”

Have you ever walked? How could you—you have no hands or feet. The body walks. How will you speak? The body speaks. How will you think? The mind thinks. You are beyond all these actions—a witnessing presence behind them all.

“Seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating, receiving, speaking, walking—free of effort and non-effort…”
He neither does thus, nor thus not. What happens, he lets happen. He gives way to all. Whatever the Lord gets done is right. He has no personal wish left. He keeps no account. In every circumstance he is with the Divine. He has stopped swimming; he flows with the river. This flowing is called jivan-mukti—liberation while living.

“Such a great man is certainly liberated while living.”
Īhitānihitaih muktah muktah eva mahāśayah.

“The liberated one is tasteless everywhere. He neither slanders nor praises, neither rejoices nor gets angry. He neither gives nor takes.”

न निंदति न च स्तौति न हृष्यति न कुप्यति।
न ददाति न गृहणाति मुक्तः सर्वत्र नीरसः।।

Understand this. Do not mistake “tasteless.” He is “tasteless” because he has found the supreme rasa, the ultimate flavor. In this world he has no taste left—not because he has renounced things, but because there is nothing here worth renouncing or enjoying. Where you take taste, his taste dissolves. Where you wake, he sleeps; where you sleep, he wakes. A supreme nectar has arisen; now the ambrosial stream pours day and night. Who would drink poison—and why?

What you call “taste” isn’t taste; for if it were, your life would be suffused with ecstasy. You would blossom; there would be dance and celebration. But there is nothing—dry, desert-like, tired, impoverished. No flowers blooming—only thorns. Your whole tale is of thorns, pain and sting—and you call this “taste”! You are surely mistaking the false for the true. This worldly taste dissolves.

Hence the sutra says “nirasa”—tasteless. In your language, in terms of your tastes, the wise seems tasteless. But seen from the other side—from the knower—he is filled with rasa for the first time. He becomes an ocean of flavor, a great music arises, the veena of the Vast resounds, blossoms of the Divine open. In that sense he is not tasteless.

I say this clearly because there is always a danger with you: you might take truly dry people as enlightened. You have seated such “wise men” all around—empty within, dried out. They have dropped the outer but the inner has not happened. You think, “They have renounced; they are tasteless—ascetics, dispassionate.” No. The test of real dispassion is this: the outer tastes are gone, and from within flows an unceasing stream of nectar. Where you see taste, he sees none—and yet his life is suffused with a supreme sweetness. Buddha called this state dharma-megha samadhi—the cloud of the law—like a rain-cloud, brimming with nectar.

Kabir again and again says: dense clouds gather, amrit pours, and Kabir dances in ecstasy.

Your worldly taste certainly disappears. In fact it was never taste. Its loss does not make one tasteless; its loss opens the door to the supreme rasa. Two options: either open the supreme door and the worldly taste will drop on its own; or drop the worldly taste and hope the supreme door will open—no guarantee it will.

Ashtavakra’s entire process—and my whole teaching—is this: first open the great door. Attain the greater taste; the lesser will fall away by itself.

The trivial drops when the vast is in hand; the futile drops when the meaningful is scented. The one who gains a great treasure does not worry about trifles. Then there is joy in renunciation; it happens effortlessly. Renunciation that must be forced is false—it keeps the doer alive and reconstructs the ego.

Na nindati na ca stauti na hrishyati na kupyati.
Such a one is free of all your tastes. He neither slanders nor praises.

You may wonder: Why bring slander and praise into a discussion of taste? Because they are your tastes. When you slander, watch your face—how juicy it looks! How energized! People look so pleased while slandering. Without slander, many would become utterly insipid.

Why slander? Because slander makes the other small; and by making the other small you get the taste of being big. You are not big in reality; by slander you steal a small taste of bigness.

Remember Akbar’s story: he drew a line and said, “Make it shorter without touching.” Birbal drew a longer line beneath it. He must have known the taste of slander: without touching, he made the first line small.

When you relish slander, you are drawing a longer line for yourself by shrinking another’s. You feel elated: “There are people worse than us! Perhaps we are not so bad.” Gradually you conclude, “We are good.” In a bad world, you felt needlessly worried.

Notice: if someone slanders somebody, you never demand proof. But if someone praises, you ask for proof. “He is enlightened”—“Proof?” But if someone says, “That enlightened man is corrupt,” you ask for no proof: “We knew it. It had to be.”

Examine your mind: you accept slander without argument; you challenge praise with a thousand arguments. Why? Because praise lengthens the other’s line and shortens yours; slander shortens his and lengthens yours. This is the inner arithmetic.

It’s not that you always relish slander; sometimes you relish praise—of those with whom you have identified. Your guru—you praise him: “Our guru, the great guru!” Others say “charlatan”; you say “great.” Why? Because if he is great, you become a great disciple. You’ve coupled your line with his. If his line grows, so does yours; otherwise you are finished too. You are a rail-car; he is the engine. If he moves, you move; if not, you don’t.

So you praise those with whom your ego identifies. Your son—“One in a million!” Where do these “one in a million” sons disappear? Everyone praises his own, because only if the fruit is outstanding is the tree recognized as special. If the son does not enlarge your ego, you don’t talk about him.

I had a friend with two sons. One became a minister, the other a small shopkeeper. He spoke only of the minister. I said, “You have another son—you never mention him.” He said, “What is there to say?” His hopes were tied to the minister son—perhaps a future prime minister! He imagined himself as Motilal to his son’s Jawaharlal. The shopkeeper son did not serve his ego. Later the minister son died from the burden of office—stress, breakdown, death. The father nearly killed himself in grief. I asked, “Had the shopkeeper died, would you create such a commotion?” He stopped crying. “Why do you always bring up the other son?” he asked. I said, “So I can see whether this is a father’s heart or only ego at work.” Later, by maneuvering, he made the second son a minister—and then he started praising him.

Whom do you praise? Those with whom your ego is allied. Hence a Jain says, “Mahavira—none greater has ever been.” The Christian says, “Jesus—the only begotten son of God” and stresses “only.” If there were another, trouble would start. A rival religion might claim, “Here is the elder brother.” So “only” is emphasized—no second is possible.

Muslims say: Muhammad—the last prophet. After him, none. God sent his final message; no revision. If they leave the door open, thousands will claim new revelations.

Hindus say: the Vedas are God’s book—none other. God’s first revelation.

An Arya Samaji once told me, “You praise the Bible and Jesus, but please note: God first revealed the Vedas. They are most ancient. God doesn’t make mistakes—what he sent once, he sent. No need for corrections. All other religions came later—human inventions. God cannot err. It’s not as if he sent one book, then thought ‘Oops, some errors, let me send another,’ then a third.” He argued: “Our book came first—proof that the others are human.”

Everyone has arguments to prove their own supreme—because deep in the psyche, the feeling is: if we are connected to the supreme, we become supreme.

Do not relish either slander or praise. Both are diseased tastes. Drop both and your ego will be left without support. Gradually your line will vanish altogether. When ego is gone, what remains is the only thing worth attaining. Then there is nothing to give or take. What is, is.

Na dadati na grihnati muktah sarvatra nirasah.
Then the liberated one has nothing to receive or to give. All is his and nothing is his. He has received everything, and he desires nothing. He has become one with the Whole—merged in the rasa of the All—hence he is “tasteless.”

Meditate on these sutras. Do not take them merely as doctrine. They are clear directives for your life. Use them a little and your unhewn stone will begin to be carved; your inner idol will begin to emerge; slowly, the form will appear. Each person hides God within. Only a little polishing is needed. A little bathing is needed—let the dust wash away. Galita-dhih—let thoughts drop—and the supreme bliss is your very nature.

Hari Om Tat Sat!