Maha Geeta #53

‘Seeing a beloved woman and death standing close by, the noble one who remains unshaken and at ease is certainly liberated.’
This is the definition of the liberated one—whom shall we call free?
Life binds in two chains. One is attachment—rāga; the other is fear—bhaya. The handcuffs and fetters that hold you are of attachment and fear. Attachment is towards life; fear is of death. They are two sides of the same coin. Because there is attachment to life, therefore there is fear of death. If attachment to life drops, the longing to live—jīveṣaṇā—drops; then fear of death also disappears. If fear of death disappears, attachment to life too is gone. They are linked together. Keep this in mind, and the sutra will become very clear.
We want to live. We want to live without even knowing why. Even if a thousand calamities come, even if life yields no essence, still the urge to live remains strong, it does not die. Hands and feet break, we go blind, we grow old; the body begins to rot, to decay, we lie in a gutter, drenched in stench—still we want to live. As if it makes no difference what our condition is!
Has it ever occurred to you, seeing a beggar by the roadside—limbs broken, crippled, blind, dragging himself along, begging for a coin, being pushed away—that a thought arises: after all, why does this man want to go on living? What will he get from living? What is there left to get? Eyes gone, limbs gone, the body emaciated, a life like insects, insult from all sides, misery from all sides—and still he goes on living! Why? Does this question ever arise? Then put yourself in his place: if you were blind, your limbs shattered, if you had to live by begging—would you live, or would you prefer to die? Do not answer in haste. Do not be harsh to that man. You too would want to live. He is a man just like you.
The urge to live is immensely powerful! A very blind craving! Without reason we want to live. Even when nothing is gained, we want to live. Why such a grip on life? There is a reason for such clutching.
We have not found anything in life; our hope is invested in tomorrow. Tomorrow perhaps it will be found; until now it has not been found. Until now we have remained empty-handed. Until now our life is ashes and ashes; no flower has bloomed. We go on living by a hope that perhaps tomorrow it will bloom. So how to die?
Now let me tell you a paradox: the one who truly lives, his urge to live disappears. The one who does not live, he alone wants to live. The less a person has lived, the more he wants to live. And the one who has lived rightly, looked life fully in the eyes, that person becomes free of the lust for life. If death comes to him now, he will welcome it. He will rise and be ready. He will say, I was ready already. He will not delay even for a moment. He will not even ask for time to prepare. He will not say, a few tasks remain unfinished, let me complete them; I will be there in a moment. Nothing remains unfinished. The one who has looked straight into life, eye to eye...! But because of hope, our eyes are elsewhere.
Last night I was reading a book. More people would agree with the author than with me. The book has sold very well. Its title is: ‘Hope for the Terminal Man.’ On the cover he has written: ‘A man can live forty days without food; three days without water; eight minutes without breath; but not even a second without hope.’
Most people will agree. How will you live a second without hope? Hope keeps you alive. It hasn’t happened yet, tomorrow it will! Live till tomorrow! Just get through to tomorrow! These few hours are of sorrow—let them pass! It is night; morning will come! Someday it will come!... Hence the fear of death.
What does death do? Death comes like a sword and cuts off tomorrow. After death there is no more tomorrow. Death leaves you on the now. In a single stroke it severs the rope of the future. The future dissolves. Death does not kill you; death kills the future. Death does not kill you; death becomes poison to hope. Now there is no hope left.
Therefore man has kept great faith in the doctrine of rebirth. We found a new hope again: no harm—if not in this life, then in the next. I am not saying the doctrine of rebirth is true or false—I am saying nothing about that. I am only saying that most who believe in rebirth do not believe through knowing. Their belief is merely an extension of hope. Their doctrine falsifies death. They say: no worry; death comes, no worry; the soul will remain! What we have not been able to do now, we shall do in the next birth.
The longing for life means: we have remained unacquainted with life. The longing for life means: life was given, but it was not recognized.
You do not know who you are! You have never asked in your depths: Who am I? You have never tried to know what this life is that has happened. Its meaning? Its mystery? Its purpose? What hides behind it? You get up every day, eat your food, run to the office, run back from the office, eat again, quarrel a little with your wife, sleep a little, then morning again... This you have been doing—and you call this life? And this is what you want to prolong further! Perhaps you have not awakened to see what you are living. You are living nothing—and yet there is hope for life. Therefore the hope. Therefore the strong grip. Do not ponder about that blind beggar—why is he living?
You will be surprised to know: among poor peoples, in poor countries, suicide is rare. Among primitive tribes there is no suicide at all. Who would be mad enough to kill himself! The number of suicides begins to increase as society becomes affluent. The rich commit suicide; the poor do not. Have you heard of beggars committing suicide? The beggar clutches at life so fiercely; and you speak of suicide! He cannot even think of it, cannot even dream it.
The less one has lived, the more one clutches at life. If this becomes clear to you, the path becomes easier. You too are clinging to life, clinging very hard! You cling to the doctrine of rebirth: no harm, this one seems to be gone now—so trust in the next! But what is the basic cause of this trust, of this hope for the next? Only this—that you have not been able to see life. If you had, you would have seen it is a mirage.
The first sutra says: ‘The one who remains unshaken between life and death...!’
Whose mind does not waver; who stays healthy; if life comes, fine; if it goes, fine; if death comes, fine; if it does not, fine; for whom it makes no difference now whether there is life or death.
‘He alone is surely liberated.’
Here a symbolic word appears; understand it:
‘Seeing a love-filled woman and death standing near...!’
You may wonder why woman and death are placed together, like the two pans of a balance. There is a reason.
The more deeply the East observed, the more it saw certain things. One: birth is received from woman; then surely death also comes from woman. Because where birth comes from, death too must come from there. When birth is from woman, then death too must be from there. From where birth came, from there it will be drawn back.
Have you seen the image of Kali! We call Kali the Mother. She is the symbol of motherhood. And you see—around her neck hangs a garland of human heads! In her hand is the freshly severed head of a man, blood dripping. ‘Kali of the skull-bowl!’ Terrible, frightful form! A beautiful face, tongue protruding! Fearsome! And have you seen—below, she dances upon the chest of her own husband! Do you understand its meaning? It means: she is Mother, and she is Death. This is a way of saying it—a very poetic way. Mother, and death! So we call Kali Mother, and in her is gathered the whole symbolism of death. Fearsome, and beautiful!
Woman is a symbol. Do not take ‘woman’ as literal woman, else you will miss the meaning. Understand by ‘woman’ this essential point: woman is the giver of birth. Where the circle begins, there it must also end.
Think like this: rain falls from the clouds. It rains on the mountains, upon the Himalayas; from Gangotri the water flows, becomes the Ganga, runs, and falls into the ocean. Then the water becomes vapor, rises, makes clouds. The circle is completed where it began. The circle is complete only when clouds form again.
In the East we have seen all movement as circular. Everything returns there. The old man again becomes as helpless as a child. As the child is born without teeth, so the old man becomes toothless. As the child was helpless and the parents had to care—lift him, seat him, feed him—so becomes the state of the old. The circle completes.
The whole movement of life is circular, mandala-like. If birth is from woman, then somewhere deep down death too must be from woman. Now if you remove the word ‘woman,’ things will become clearer. For our grasp becomes literal: woman means woman.
We do not understand symbols; we do not catch poetic hints. Women may feel this is a statement against them. Men will think, we knew already—women are dangerous! Here ‘woman’ has nothing to do with your wife. It is a symbol, a poetic symbol, an indicator—something is being said through it.
What is being said? That from kāma (lust) birth arises, and due to kāma death occurs. It must. The same energy of desire by which the body is formed—when that energy departs, the body is dissolved. As if desire itself is life. And when the energy of desire has been exhausted, man begins to die. What does old age mean? Only this—that the energy of lust is now depleted; the river begins to dry; soon it will vanish. What is childhood?—Gangotri: the source of the river is born. Youth means the river is in flood. Old age means the river has come near departure; the moment of meeting the ocean is near; the river will be absorbed.
From sex-desire is birth. Whatever, wherever, in this world birth is happening—flowers opening, birds singing, children being born, eggs being laid—the whole creativity of existence is sex-energy, kāma-śakti. As soon as sex-energy leaves you, your life begins to end; death has arrived.
What is death? The withdrawal of sex-energy is death. Therefore till the last breath man remains possessed by sex, because man does not want to die.
You will be amazed to know: in old Taoist texts there are such references—and meaningful ones—that the emperor, however old he becomes, should keep marrying fresh young girls. Why? Because whenever the emperor marries young girls, for a little while an illusion arises: I am young. When the emperor becomes old he should sleep at night with two young girls lying on either side. The presence of young girls will not allow the sex-energy within him to withdraw, and death can be postponed. Death can be pushed far. There is some secret in it. There is some truth in the saying.
Have you noticed—your age is fifty, and if you fall in love with a girl of twenty, suddenly you begin to walk as if your age has dropped by ten years; as if you have become somewhat young; a thrill returns; desire takes a wave; ripples rise. If an old man falls in love, you will find that oldness leaves his eyes, desire begins to ripple, the dust of old age is blown off. Even if it is deception, it disappears. If a young man is loved by no one he begins to grow old even in youth; he feels worthless, futile! Thus love has such attraction, and man clings to it till the last breath; because to let go is to die.
Therefore we remain ridden by sex till the end. Clinging to that shore is our support. If women are not available, people will go on looking at nude pictures; they will go see films; stand at the roadside; jostle through the market. It feels as if some movement has returned to life.
Mulla Nasruddin was sitting on his balcony and suddenly called to his servant: quick, quick, bring my dentures! By the time the servant returned with the teeth, Mulla said: too late. The servant asked: why did you suddenly need your teeth? You were not eating. Mulla said: fool! Just now a young girl was passing by; I felt like whistling!
When an old man whistles, his age forgets him. He forgets that death is near. Seat an old man dressed as a bridegroom upon a horse and see—you will find he is no longer old. The arthritis and all that, it slackens; he can walk straight now. The paralysis—no sign of it. The limp—gone. As if a new life has been poured into the lamp; someone poured oil into the flame!
Desire, kāma, is life. Kāma is synonymous with life. And the loss of kāma is death. Hence the two are placed together.
‘Seeing a beloved woman and death standing near, the noble one who remains unshaken and at ease is certainly liberated.’
If a dying man, seeing a woman, is filled with lust, he will tremble even on seeing death standing there. If a dying man can look at a woman as if nothing at all, he will not tremble on seeing death either. And what is true of woman for men is true of man for women. Since these books were written by men and not addressed to women, the point was forgotten. But remember: what is true regarding man is true regarding woman. In the final moment, if a woman, seeing a man—beloved, beautiful, healthy, a strong body, inviting arms, filled with love for her—if her mind remains unmoved, then she will accept death as well.
The meaning is simply this: the day you become unmoved by sex-desire, on that day you become unmoved by death too. This sutra is very significant. Death will come someday; there is no sure date for it. And you cannot prepare for death, because death does not do rehearsals—she does not come and say: ‘I will return in fifteen days, be ready.’ She comes suddenly. No message arrives. No notices are issued—notice one, notice two, notice three—like from the income-tax office. She stands there all at once—without informing! Till a moment before, the dying has no suspicion that he will die. Till a moment before he goes on making plans for life. Thinking—when I rise from bed, what shall I do? What business? How to earn? Where to go? Even the dying man remains busy with plans for living. Most people die busy with life’s plans; they never come to know that death has arrived.
So the encounter with death will be only once—uninvited, sudden, like a guest at your door. The scriptures call death a guest. Atithi—one whose tithi (date) is not given. Death is Atithi!
But there is one method then. And that method is sex-desire. If you become alert toward sex-desire and its grip on you loosens, in the same measure the fear of death will loosen. Thus, all life long you can prepare for death. And the one who has encountered death without fear becomes immortal. He then has no more death.
You keep hearing it said: the Atman is immortal. Do not apply this to yourself. Where is your Atman yet! Atman arises only when desire falls. And when desire falls away, only pure consciousness remains within. That is the Atman. Right now your Atman is so buried that you cannot even know it. What you take to be your Atman is not Atman at all. Some have taken body to be Atman, some mind to be Atman, some something else. You have not yet had the vision of Atman. In the fog of desire the Atman is lost; it cannot be seen. When the fog of desire clears, the sun of the Atman arises. When the smoke of desire disappears, the flame of the Atman is revealed!
The Atman is certainly immortal. But do not think that what you know within as ‘you’ is immortal. There is nothing immortal in that. You have yet no acquaintance with the immortal. If you come to know the immortal, you will not fear death. For then you will know: what death! Whose death! That which dies is not me. The body will die, because the body was born. The mind will die, because the mind is only a conjunction. But that which transcends body and mind—that witness remains. But you will know the witness only then!
And the deepest experiment for knowing the witness is to become a witness to sex-desire. Because that is our strongest grip. That is the hardest to drop. Its force is indomitable. Its power deep. It has encircled us on all sides. And there is a reason for this encirclement.
Your body is constructed out of sex-cells—half from the father, half from the mother. That is the donation in your body. The sex-cells of both combined to create your first cell. Then from that cell more cells were produced. Today, scientists say, your body has some seven trillion cells. This body, made of these countless cells, within it is hidden the puruṣa—‘the dweller within the city’—the one who abides within this township. Surely these myriad cells have surrounded you; surrounded from all sides. Their grip is deep. You have become lost in that crowd. In that crowd you cannot find who you are. What is this crowd? Who has encircled me? You have lost remembrance of yourself. And in the current of these countless life-forces you are dragged along. As strong horses pull a chariot, these powerful cells pull along your little flame of life. You are carried away. These will fall in death, because they were created from sex-desire at birth.
Understand it thus: that which is made of sex-desire will die in death. You were before the making; you will remain after the unmaking. But this can be clearly realized only by knowing yourself—not by hearing scriptures; by awakening.
Sānurāgāṁ striyaṁ dṛiṣṭvāṁ mṛityuṁ vā samupasthitam.
A love-filled woman standing near you, young, beautiful, in full proportion, attracted to you, turned towards you—and death standing there as well—if between these two you remain unshaken, without even the slightest tremor, as a gust of wind comes yet the flame of the lamp does not flicker—if you remain that unflickering, then know you are liberated. This is the inner touchstone of jīvanmukti—liberation while alive.
People come and ask me: how can we know if someone has become liberated or not? There is no way to know the other, for how will you know the other? Only a way to know yourself. And the very question is wrong: why try to know whether the other is free or not? What is your purpose? And how will you know from the outside? From the outside, the liberated one is like you. He feels hungry, he eats—just as you do. He gets sleepy, he sleeps—just like you! Yes, there is a difference. But it is inner; it does not show outside. When he eats, he eats with awareness. But that awareness is not visible. When he sleeps, someone within remains awake. But you will know it only by going within. Right now you have not gone within yourself, so forget going within another. You cannot.
Do not ask what the sign of a liberated one is. If you ask for signs, ask for yourself. This sutra is for you. Do not go testing others with it. Otherwise you will say: Krishna is not yet liberated—see, the gopis are dancing, and Krishna plays the flute and sways! He seems wavering. Swaying, see! As a snake sways to the flute, so Krishna sways. He seems unsteady. Then he cannot be liberated.
If the one swaying were Krishna, your point would be right. In the midst of this swaying someone is standing unswayed. This flute is playing, and within no flute plays. Amidst this dance someone is totally still. Amidst these waves someone utterly silent. But how will you see that? Only if you have seen it within yourself will you recognize it in Krishna too. Those who recognized Krishna first recognized themselves.
One day someone asked Buddha: how shall we recognize you? We have heard your declaration that you attained Buddhahood, that great knowing flowered, that you are liberated, Kaivalya happened. How are we to recognize you? Give us some basis. Buddha said: if you set out to recognize me you will go astray. Set out to recognize yourself. The day you know yourself, not even a moment will be needed—you will recognize me too.
Do not use these sutras for others. Man is very cunning! Whatever he understands, he misuses. Then he starts saying: well then, so-and-so has not attained liberation yet.
Keep this touchstone safe for yourself. You walk along the road, a beautiful woman passes by, or a handsome man passes by; does something tremble within? If not, rejoice. You have tasted a little flavor of life! Life is unflickering! Be happy! Something has been gained!
Slowly, slowly, as this practice deepens, one day death will come. The final outcome of sex-desire leads to death. Since the body is made of sex-desire, death will occur. If you remain alert towards sex-desire, one day you will be awake even in death. And one who dies awake will not return; there is no re-entry. You have heard again and again: how to end the coming and going. Here is the path to end the cycle of rebirth.
You can be liberated while alive. Jīvanmukti means: one who is free of kāma; one whom neither woman nor man attracts. All other attractions are small. The attraction to wealth is secondary. The attraction to position is also secondary. The attraction of sex is deepest. In fact we desire wealth so that the gratification of sex becomes easier; and position so that it becomes easier.
Have you seen—kings had the luxury of thousands of women! The mind is the same in all. All minds are kings. But you cannot keep them, because even one is expensive; even with one difficulties arise. The stories of emperors having thousands of women are not false. They had the means, wealth, status, prestige. They could break social norms and decorum. Who could stop them! No one could harm them.
Freud has said: people seek wealth and power, but deep down the quest is that with the force of wealth and power they will gratify their sex-desire. Then they can do as they like. But at the deepest depth is sex-desire.
Avihvalamanā svastho mukta eva mahāśayaḥ.
‘Avihvalamanā’—whose mind is no longer agitated, no longer trembles; it has become steady.
Experiment with woman, experiment with man. Life is the opportunity for this. By waking a little and a little, one day the great awakening comes. Gathering light grain by grain, one day the great Sun appears.
Walk with me, and I am ready to walk standing
through the heart of the silence—beyond the silence.
When you were born, you came out of silence. When you die, you will go back into silence. The Zen mystics say: find the face you had before birth and the face you will have after death. This face in between is borrowed. This face is from your mother and father; it is not yours. It is not original.
Walk with me, and I am ready to walk standing
through the heart of the silence—beyond the silence.
Therefore all religion is the practice of silence—of śūnya, of mauna, of dhyāna.
You worry about the road; I worry about something else—
may we not be stopped here by some blossoming scene.
Do not worry too much about the road. All roads go to the Divine. Worry only this: do not get stuck at any halting place; do not mistake any stopping place for the goal. All arrive, if they go on walking, if they go on walking. If you stop—you get stuck. Do not stop anywhere—on wealth, on position, on attachment, on greed, on love. Do not stop anywhere. Keep moving. Keep awakening.
Do not mount the palanquin of the mind, do not walk in your own shade—
this is a land of bandits, not a village of friends.
In all, the same Atman; in all, the same union—
there were such days once, there were such people once.
You too can be such. What happened to Ashtavakra can happen to you. What happened to me can happen to you. What happened to one can happen to all.
In all, the same Atman; in all, the same union—
there were such days once, there were such people once.
No, this has not ended. It is not that Buddhas have stopped happening. They never stop. Where sleepers are, there someone, sometime, will awaken. Lotuses of awakening will bloom in the sleep. Where sin is, there virtue will appear. And where there is night, morning will be. If there is darkness, then light is close by. Do not be afraid!
In our own village has spread such a disease—
our own people ask us our identity from us ourselves.
A grave illness has spread. There is only one disease: we do not know ourselves—who we are! When someone asks you who you are, have you ever answered honestly: I do not know. Whatever address you give is false, make-shift. You say: Ram or Rahim; I live in this village or that; in this neighborhood or that; this is my house number. All right, and yet not right. You do not know your own address.
In our own village has spread such a disease—
our own people ask us our identity from us ourselves.
Others ask—fine; you too ask the same: who am I! The first inquiry of birth is this. And the last inquiry is this too.
Psychologists say the first question that arises in a child—the very first—is: who am I. It should be so. Though there is no fixed proof, because children do not speak. And it is hard to say what first question arises in their minds. But by all accounts, it must be this. Before any other question arises, this must arise: who am I! Even if not in words, only as a feeling. Sometimes children actually ask: who am I? Why am I here? From where did I come? Why am I such as I am? We put them off: wait, when you grow up, you will know.
Even grown up, you have not known. No one comes to know just by growing up. What does growing up have to do with knowing? After growing up it becomes even harder, because more rubbish accumulates on your head. The child’s intelligence is still clear, still honest; grown up, he becomes dishonest.
The first question, the depth-psychologists say, should be: who am I? Naturally, before other questions, this will arise. And the last question at the time of dying is this too—it will be. The first is the last. Where we start, there we arrive. At the last moment also the question is: who am I. I lived, I suffered and rejoiced, success and failure, made much noise, fussed and fought—sometimes with earth, sometimes with sky; all done—everything turned to dust; now I am going, and still I do not know who I am!
Who am I—the answer comes only to one who becomes unshaken. As long as the mind is agitated, it cannot be known. Because through agitations you cannot see your true image. It is not that somewhere an answer is written. It is only this: if you become utterly quiet, if not a single ripple rises in consciousness, then in that unrippled state what you see and know—that is who you are. You will dance! Yet it is not that you can tell others who you are. No—like the sweet of the dumb! But you will know! And if someone watches you attentively, sits near you, flows a little in your current, he will also receive a little flavor, a little fragrance will reach him. Unknown realms will begin to draw him too!
But we spend our lives building houses of sand. We float paper boats all our lives! What you call life—what is it but making paper boats?
Some darkness comes with light,
some brightness leaves a shadow behind.
There are those whose feet are on the steps of tomorrow;
we—bind new jackets upon old histories.
Those who do not compromise with time
leave a fertile ground behind.
We have given this meaning to life—
we build sandhills in the river.
Some winds blow so fierce
that men of stone too tremble.
We must have met thousands of persons—
all try to grow mustard upon their palms.
People here are entangled in great madness.
We must have met thousands of persons—
all try to grow mustard upon their palms.
We have given this meaning to life—
we build sandhills in the river.
At the time of death you will feel—what was done is undone; what was built is falling. You yourself are falling! Where your own staying is not assured, what will remain of what you made? Where you yourself are removed, what marks will remain of your doing, of your doerhood!
Ashtavakra says: if you become unshaken you will know that which is neither born nor dies; you will know that which does not act—only is! To be drowned in that is-ness is supreme peace, supreme liberation.
‘For the even-seeing wise, in pleasure and pain, in man and woman, in prosperity and adversity—there is no distinction anywhere.’
Sukhe duḥkhe nare nāryāṁ sampatsu ca vipatsu ca.
Viśeṣo naiva dhīrasya sarvatra samadarśinaḥ.
In pleasure and pain...!
Pleasure and pain appear two to us. They appear two because we desire pleasure and do not desire pain. Because of our craving and aversion they become two. Drop both desire and dislike once, and suddenly you will find the distinction between pleasure and pain has vanished—no difference remains. Their boundary line is drawn by our wanting. Understand this.
Sometimes what you did not want a moment ago brought pain—and then you began to want it, and the same turned into pleasure. A man who does not smoke—give him a cigarette—tears will come to his eyes, coughing arises, he is troubled, his face flushes, he throws the cigarette. He says: are you mad, I was fine and you gave me this disease! He is pained. But tell him: practice slowly, this is a great yoga, it does not happen just like that; practice, and it will come. He practices and it settles. The sensitive nerves of the body that had resisted no longer resist. The body agrees: fine—your wish. No coughing, no tears. And he begins to say: now I feel pleasure.
Have you tasted wine? At first it is bitter, acrid, tasteless. Keep tasting and all other tastes are blunted; the taste of wine remains the only taste.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was very troubled. He would come drunk every day. One day, having failed with explanations, she came to the tavern—just to frighten him. Mulla was alarmed too, because she had never come here. She used to scold only at home. She came, sat at his table, and said: today I have decided—I too begin to drink. You do not stop; I too begin. Mulla worried—what is this! One drinker in the house is enough. He feared that if she starts, the misbehavior he did with her, she will do with him. But he cannot say now: don’t drink. She has said it so many times to him.
Before he could say anything, she poured the wine and took her first sip—instantly flung the glass and said: ah, this is poison! She spat. Mulla said: see! And you thought I was enjoying! A thousand times I explained—this is a difficult thing. And you believed I was having great fun!
Practice—and pain begins to feel like pleasure. If you desire, pain turns into pleasure. Have you seen? You desired a woman; you desired a man—so long as desire remained, there was pleasure! You married; lived together; desire waned. Desire ended. Now pleasure is gone. Have you ever seen a husband happy with his wife? If from afar you see husband and wife walking happily together—know that they are not husband and wife.
I was on a train. A lady sat on the seat opposite. At each station a man would come to meet her—every station. Then run back to his compartment, then come again. Sometimes with sherbet, sometimes with something else. I asked her: they seem like your husband. She said: yes. I asked: how many days since marriage? She said: seven years. I said: do not lie. Seven years! Then you are not married to him. After seven years, do you ever see a husband from another compartment bringing sherbet and tea and coffee and ice cream at every station? Has it happened anywhere? Not in this age; nor is there mention of it even in the golden age. Do not lie. Tell the truth, I will tell no one. She said: ‘How did you recognize? We are not married.’
What was there to recognize? A husband would seat you once and vanish; then the whole journey no sign of him. Such good fortune comes rarely.
Have you seen—husband and wife sitting together, how dull and serious they look! If a guest arrives, both brighten up—good, someone has come, a little juice will flow.
One of my friends is a courageous man. One day he said to me—we were talking—how long will I remain in business? I have earned enough. He said: the day I turn forty-five, that very day I will quit. He is indeed bold. He turned forty-five and the very day he quit everything. Then he asked me: now tell me what to do, because now I am free! I said: good—go to some mountain resort. You have all the means. Now live in peace. He said: that’s fine. But see—when I was fifteen I was married. For thirty years we are together. Now if the two of us live together alone—there is calamity. Will you come with us to the mountains? Because we need at least one more—then there is some juice. We do not travel even on a journey without taking a friend along.
Have you seen—when husband and wife travel, they like to take a friend, or the friend’s wife, or the friend’s family along! Why? If husband and wife are left alone, they bore each other—nothing else. What was to be said has been said many times; what was to be done has been done many times; what was to be seen has been seen many times; only boredom remains. There is no method left. No juice remains. Perhaps for this woman you were crazy, for this man you were crazy. Now that you have got each other, all is quiet. Pain happens.
Have you seen pleasure turn into pain or not? The day you see that pain turns into pleasure and pleasure into pain, that day it will be clear: they are not separate. The difference is of your desire. Desire—and pleasure. Do not desire—and pain. As you choose, a boundary is drawn accordingly. But for one who has no desire—think of him. For him both pleasure and pain are dissolved.
Ashtavakra says:
Sukhe duḥkhe nare nāryāṁ sampatsu ca vipatsu ca.
Na in prosperity nor in adversity, neither man nor woman, neither pleasure nor pain—such a person has no distinctions left.
Viśeṣo naiva dhīrasya sarvatra samadarśinaḥ.
Such a person remains established in one vision everywhere—equal-viewed. He does not see differences. Do not mistake this to mean he begins to say to a woman: Where are you going? or to a man: Good that you came, sit! It does not mean he cannot see differences. Differences remain outward, practical; inner difference does not remain.
Inner difference is not in your body; it is in your desire. When lust within is intense, woman appears separate, man appears separate. When lust within has fallen, then though outwardly woman and man are different, the difference loses meaning. It is not that you do not see a woman as woman. You still see woman as woman. But this difference is formal, social, bodily. In this difference there is essentially no difference. There is dissimilarity, not separation. Both are made in different ways, but the same one dwells within both. The outer structure differs—body and chemistry differ; within, the Atman is the same. Neither man nor woman. All are Atman. One who is himself established in Atman, sees Atman everywhere.
‘In the one whose world has waned, there is no violence nor compassion, no arrogance nor meekness, no astonishment nor agitation.’
Na hiṁsā naiva kāruṇyaṁ na audhatyaṁ na ca dīnatā.
Nāścaryaṁ naiva ca kṣobhaḥ kṣīṇasaṁsaraṇe nare.
Kṣīṇasaṁsaraṇe nare—one whose world has waned.
Understand—‘world’ does not mean what is spread around you; that never wanes. How many Buddhas have been, and it goes on. ‘World has waned’ means: within he has no attraction or repulsion for the world. If it is—fine; if not—fine. As it is, so it is. There is no desire to make it otherwise. If it is lost today—fine; if it continues endlessly—fine. The outer world will remain, but the inner world disappears.
The inner world means: the world of thoughts, of desires.
Kṣīṇasaṁsaraṇe nare—one whose inner world has fallen silent.
Na hiṁsā naiva kāruṇyaṁ—in such a one neither violence remains nor compassion.
This needs understanding.
We say: Mahavira is great compassion. That is our mistake. From our side it appears right. But from Mahavira’s side, it is wrong. In one whose anger is gone, how can compassion remain? Where no anger remains, how can compassion be? And where no violence remains, how can nonviolence be? One who does not want to give pain to another—why would he want to give pleasure either? For him pleasure and pain have become equal. One who does not want to kill another—why would he want to save another? For he knows: nothing is killed, nothing is saved.
From our side it looks right—because we see anger gone, violence gone. Instantly we name him: nonviolent, great compassion! These are our names; and mistaken. We are mistaken, so our interpretations are mistaken.
From Mahavira’s side, the duality is gone—violence and nonviolence, love and hate, attachment and aversion—all duality gone. Where there was duality, there is the state beyond duality.
So the sutra says: in such a person there is neither violence nor compassion; neither arrogance nor meekness.
Such a one is neither egotistic nor non-egotistic. Neither humble nor proud. Therefore it is very difficult for you to recognize such a person. He neither oppresses nor is oppressed.
You know two kinds of men: those who oppress and those who are oppressed. Those who obey, those who are rebellious; traditionalists and iconoclasts; theist and atheist. These are the men you know.
Buddha or Mahavira are neither theist nor atheist; neither blind followers of tradition nor revolutionaries; neither do they obey society, nor disobey. These matters have become irrelevant. They live out of inner spontaneity. If it matches your pattern you think: he obeys society. If it does not match you think: he disobeys society. But these are your notions. Such a one lives by his own joy—free, spontaneous! His inspiration is inner. Many times it will match you; many times it will not. But he neither tries to match you nor to break with you. Understand the difference here.
The conformist always tries: to walk like the herd; not to be different at all, else trouble comes; people stare. Wear what people wear; cut hair as they cut; speak as they speak; smoke the brand they smoke; see the film they see; read the book they read. Do not separate from the crowd—the crowd is annoyed if you try to be a person, to be special. The crowd does not like it.
The crowd says: stay with the crowd. It gets great satisfaction if all are with it. The crowd is very afraid. See sheep walking—huddled together! Such a man walks. If some sheep moves separately, the whole herd turns against it. This is one type.
Then another type is frightened by this herd-walk and, in reaction, begins doing exactly what the crowd says not to do; begins to do that which the crowd opposes. He goes against the crowd. Note: this other man is also influenced by the crowd; he moves according to the crowd too—only inversely. The crowd says: do not drink; he will drink. The crowd says: do not grow long hair; he will grow it. The crowd says: bathe; he will not bathe.
Look at the hippies! They broke all standards of the crowd. They will live as the crowd wants no one to live; yet they are still influenced by the crowd. Their orders come from the crowd. The crowd bathes; they do not. The crowd wears clean clothes; they wear dirty clothes.
I have heard that in America shops have opened that sell clothes pre-soiled. For the hippies have demands too! A hippy cannot wear new clothes—they look fresh and clean. So there are shops where they soil them, tear them, ruin them, give them an old look, and sell. I have read their advertisements. Then the hippy buys—now it is right. Musty, old, dirty, weathered, worn—then!
A friend of mine has a factory in Nepal. Their only business is this: make new statues, pour acid on them to corrode, and bury them in the ground. After six months to a year they dig them up. Some they label five hundred years old, some thousand. A statue that would not sell for five rupees now sells for five thousand. That is their trade.
Once when I was a guest in his home I asked: from where do you get such old statues? He said: ‘Get? Are you mad? We make them.’ I asked: how do you make an old statue? He said: you will not grasp it—there is a secret. We inscribe old dates, old scripts. Then we pour acid to damage it. Break a hand, break a nose, then bury it. Buried, in six months it takes on an old look. Only the greatest experts can detect it is not old. Otherwise it sells for five thousand. It is antique! Its value goes up. Very old!
The hippy lives in opposition. But the wise lives neither in conformity nor in opposition. The wise lives in accord with himself—svānukūla—according to his own cadence. If it matches you—fine; if not—fine. He does not worry about you; he does not live by your calculation.
‘In his life there is neither agitation nor astonishment.’
This is very important. When does agitation arise? You wanted ten thousand rupees and not even ten came—there is agitation. You had no hope of even ten and ten thousand came—there is astonishment. When what should not happen happens, the mind fills with surprise. When what should happen does not happen, you are agitated. When contrary to your expectations things occur—you are unhappy. And if suddenly gold rains through the roof—you are ecstatic.
In the wise there is neither astonishment nor agitation. The wise had not wanted otherwise than what is. He had not thought, not imagined otherwise. He had not dreamt otherwise. If five come—fine; if fifty—fine; if fifty crores—fine; if none—fine. Even what is with him is lost—fine. In his life nothing makes a ripple—neither of agitation nor of astonishment.
The wise lives from moment to moment without carrying any past in his mind. Therefore he has no place for comparison. You can neither perturb the wise nor surprise him. There is no such event that can astonish him. Because for the wise this universe is so immensely mysterious that—if there is astonishment, what is there to be astonished about? Remember this: if there is astonishment, what is there to be astonished about? This whole existence is full of wonders. Each leaf is inscribed with wonder. Each flower is a tale of mystery. Everything here is unknown. Then what is there to be surprised about?
Someone produced ash from his hand—you were astonished. The vast universe arises out of emptiness and you are not astonished! Some juggler produces ash and you fall at a baba’s feet—miracle!
Miracles happen every moment. You plant a tiny seed in earth—it becomes a giant tree. Crack the seed open—nothing is found inside; no tree, no flowers, no fruits; nothing—empty. From that emptiness such a vast tree is born. Upon it crores of seeds. From one seed, crores of seeds! Botanists say one seed can fill the whole earth with forests. Just one seed! And what miracle do you want?
A child is born in your house—from you! And you are not astonished! You, such a dead man! You should fall at your own feet—blessed baba! A dead man like me—and a living child was born. No—you look for miracle in petty things because you do not see the vast miracle. In this very life, in the dullest, deadest man, Paramatma is present—and you are not astonished! Behind every tear a smile is hidden—and you are not astonished! Behind every life, death stands—and you are not astonished!
Here, whatever is happening, is all miraculous. Here nothing happens that is not miracle. Therefore nothing astonishes the wise; because when everything is wonder, what is there to be surprised about! Wonders upon wonders happen every moment. Because of this understanding nothing astonishes the wise.
And nothing agitates him either. Because he knows—nothing happens because of me. Nothing happens by my asking. I am only the seer; I will go on seeing what happens. His juice is in one thing alone—in witnessing; whatever happens, I will go on seeing. Whatever it be—what difference does it make what happens! Sometimes sorrow happens, sometimes joy; sometimes wealth comes, sometimes poverty; sometimes respect, sometimes insult—he goes on seeing. He has found all juice in seeing itself. Now he is not agitated.
We carry crazy calculations of before and after. We do not leave even a moment free. We give God no chance to be as He is. We keep saying: do this, let this happen. When it doesn’t, we are unhappy. When it does, we are elated. Remember—what is to happen is what happens. What was to happen is what happens. And what happened is what was to happen. Your cravings make no difference—not the slightest! But in between you become needlessly happy and unhappy.
The telephone rang. The receiver was lifted; from the other side a voice: ‘Sister, how is your health?’ ‘Terribly troubled’—came the reply. ‘My head aches. There is sharp pain in legs and back. The whole house is a mess. The children have driven me mad.’ ‘Listen’—said the other—‘you lie down; I am coming to you. I will prepare the lunch. I will clean the house and bathe the children too. You rest a little. But where is Mahesh today?’
‘Mahesh? Which Mahesh?’—came the reply.
‘Your husband, Mahesh.’
‘My husband’s name is not Mahesh.’
The first woman sighed and said: ‘Then I dialed the wrong number. Forgive me.’ There was long silence. Then the other woman said in a sad voice: ‘So you will not come now?’
Man longs even for what cannot be. Now there is no reason to come. The call itself was wrong. Yet she hung hope even on this: she will come, cook the food, tidy the clothes, bathe the children... ‘So you will not come now!’
There is agitation. We are agitated even for what is not to happen. And we are needlessly delighted for what was bound to happen. What is to happen happens; what is not to happen does not happen.
‘The liberated one is neither a hater of objects nor a greedy lover of objects. Ever unattached in mind, he enjoys both what is obtained and what is not obtained.’
This is very wondrous. Understand.
Na mukto viṣayadveṣṭā na vā viṣayalolupaḥ.
Asaṅsaktamanā nityaṁ prāptāprāptam upaśnute.
He neither hates anything nor is he greedy for anything. No attraction, no aversion. No demand. No desire to avoid anything. And no desire that something be obtained. And one more important thing—he enjoys both the obtained and the unobtained. How will you understand this? Enjoying the obtained is understandable. Enjoying the unobtained! To understand this, look first at your own side.
You are such that you suffer both from the obtained and the unobtained. You are pained by what you have, and by what you do not have. Then you will understand that the wise stands diametrically opposite. Have you noticed how much worry there is in your mind for what you have not obtained, what has not happened! How much disturbance there is!
I have heard: a man’s ship sank. He was a great architect. He found himself on a deserted island. No one else there. He was a Jew. Years passed. There was nothing much to do. There was plenty of wood, plenty of stones—he built many houses. What else could he do? He knew only that art. He built a road.
After some twenty years a ship came ashore. Seeing him they said: come, we will take you back. He said: before you take me, I invite you all—come see what I have built in these twenty years! No one would ever come to see later.
They went to see. They were amazed. He had built a temple—a synagogue. He said: this is the temple where I pray daily. And opposite there was another temple. The travelers asked: this is fine—you are alone on this island; you built a temple—to worship. What is that other temple? He said: ‘That is the temple I do not go to.’
Now a temple-not-to-go-to! Seems useless labor—but search your mind. You make plans for what you have to do, and you also make plans not to do. You plan even not-doing. You are attached to what you have. You are attached to what you do not have. Things that are with others—you are attached to them too. The car in the neighbor’s garage—you are attached to it too. You have nothing to do with it—still you have made a relationship with it.
And due to the unobtained you find much pleasure and pain.
A doctor friend of mine had one craze: crosswords. His practice did not go well. There was no possibility, because he had so many crosswords to fill that when a patient came he would say: sit, don’t speak now. The word was just on my tongue and you interrupted! The word was right on my tongue—you spoiled it.
Gradually even patients stopped coming. But he did not care. He cared for one thing: this month fifty thousand is coming; this month a lakh is coming. But it never came. Whenever I would visit, he would say: next month—the prize is sure this time!
I said to him: look, years I have heard—nothing comes. Do one thing so perhaps it will come. Attach my luck to yours.
He said: ‘What trick? Tell me. Why didn’t you say earlier? Certainly there is some defect in my luck; that’s why I don’t get it. But how to attach yours?’
I said: do this. Tell me how much of the prize you will donate. Then it is sure to come.
In his joy he said: I will donate half. There is a possibility of one lakh. I will donate fifty thousand.
I said: done! This fifty thousand—you must not ask me what I do with it. I will distribute it anywhere. My share is settled at fifty thousand.
I went home. It was a joke. At about eleven at night he came to my door. He knocked. It was summer. I was sleeping on the roof. I peered down: what is the matter? He said: fifty is too much! Will twenty-five do?
Nothing has come yet! I said: think it through; otherwise you will wake me again. Twenty-five is fine with me, but you think it through. He said: if it is so, then it is the first time I am getting it. Truly, even twenty-five will be hard for me to give. I said: decide by morning. How much you say—I agree. But now please go.
In the morning when I passed his home his wife said he had not slept all night. He is in this dilemma. You too—why did you do this! One crossword was taking his life; now you have added your luck! Now the worry is: how much money to give! He kept waking, asking me: what do you think?
I said to him: I release you. Keep the lakh. But then my luck separates; you see what happens. He said: this month only. Next month I will connect your luck. This month, it seems, I am bound to get it.
Man keeps relations even with what he has not got; he ties pleasure and pain even to that. With what he has—he is tied anyway. And the irony is: the ignorant gains only pain. He suffers from what is; he suffers from what is not. His way of seeing creates pain. He is never truly happy; he has not learned the art of joy.
Here Ashtavakra gives the secret of supreme joy. He says: he enjoys both the obtained and the unobtained. What has come—he rejoices in it; what has not come—he rejoices in that too. In both he rejoices.
I have told you often. A Sufi mystic would daily say: O Lord, thanks! Whatever I need, You always provide; I am greatly blessed! Disciples were not satisfied; many times there was no reason for gratitude. They felt: it has become an old habit—the old man goes on saying it.
One day it was such that the disciples could not bear it. For three days they were hungry: they were on the Hajj. No one offered food. The villages they entered were of another sect. They refused, did not even let them lodge. Hungry and thirsty, on the third day they sat beneath a tree. In the morning when he did his namaz, the Sufi said—with the same elation—O Lord, blessed! Whatever my need is, You always fulfill it.
The disciples could not hold back. They said: stop. Everything has a limit. For three days we are starving; water is hard to find; no roof to sleep; the heat is fierce. At night we sleep in the wild; beasts roam. What are you thanking for? Three days we wander like beggars—and you thank! And you say: whatever my need is, You always fulfill it!
The Sufi laughed. He said: fools, for three days this was my very need—to remain hungry, to find no water, no roof. Whatever my need is, He always fulfills it. What He fulfills should be my need. There is no difference between the two. If He kept me hungry three days—if it had not been my need, why would He keep me hungry? How could He?
Keep this in mind. In the deepest state of knowing, such a current flows. What is, is right; what is not, is also perfectly right. If it comes—fine; if it does not—fine. He enjoys both; you miss both.
Not to speak of what you do not get—you miss even what you do get. Even the plate served in front of you does not taste. The wise tastes even that which is never served. He tastes everything. He has learned the art of tasting. He has the philosopher’s stone. He has a magic wand. Whatever he touches becomes gold; what is becomes gold; what is not becomes gold too.
We keep weeping—for what we left behind...
Have you seen—someone abused you twenty years ago—it still rankles. Someone insulted you—it still weighs heavy. Someone grew angry—the face does not leave your eyes. You wanted revenge—pus is still there, wounds are still green. Years have passed; you keep turning back, making it fresh again. The past is gone—yet you suffer from it. Perhaps the enemy has died—still you suffer. And the future, which is not in your hands—you arrange a thousand calculations and become restless. And what is given in the present moment—you miss it.
What we left in the fields
by now the golden grain will have ripened;
the breeze of home and village
will be fragrant in every body,
and the virgin fingers’ love
will have touched the sickles.
Where we left our flute broken
there perhaps the lonely note is sobbing;
into tearful eyes
some tenderness will have dissolved;
that crumbling memory
the dark soil will have packed tight in some hollow.
Those we had bound by name
will have become bridges of unknown shafts.
Where we left our flute broken
there perhaps the lonely note is sobbing.
Those broken flutes are of the past, but you feel the notes still sob there. There is nothing there now.
When the Zen monk Rinzai reached his master, the first thing the master asked was: from which village do you come? Rinzai gave the name. The master asked: what is the price of rice there? Rinzai laughed and said: what I have left behind I have left behind; what has not yet come has not come—speak to me of the now. The master laughed: you did right. If you had told me the price of rice, I would have thrown you out of the monastery. What need for such a man? What value in one who still remembers the price of rice in the village he left! The thing gone is gone, done is done.
We should burn the bridges. We should not carry the sobbing notes of the flutes of the past. Nor should we insist on the unborn future. What is, is. What is not, also.
The wise enjoys what is; he enjoys what is not. The point amounts to this: the wise enjoys, the ignorant only complains and laments. This will sound upside-down to you. You ordinarily think: the ignorant are the ‘enjoyers’ and the wise the renouncers. I tell you: only the wise truly enjoys. The ignorant—what do they enjoy! Why call them enjoyers? They hope for enjoyment; where have they tasted it?
The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhuñjīthāḥ—by renouncing, enjoy. Those who truly enjoyed are those who let go. Mahavira enjoyed; Buddha enjoyed; Ashtavakra enjoyed; Muhammad enjoyed; Zarathustra enjoyed. Those whom you call ‘enjoyers,’ please, do not call them that. Where is enjoyment? There is no juice in their lives. All is desert. Dry, dry. No greenery anywhere. No song anywhere. Where is the veena’s music? Where does rāga arise? Where is the dance? Only tears. And you call them enjoyers?
A man came to Ramakrishna and piled thousands of rupees before him and said: please accept this. Ramakrishna said: it is very difficult. I cannot accept. You do one thing—throw them into the Ganga. The man said: you are a great renunciate! Ramakrishna said: do not tell lies. The renunciant is you; the enjoyer are we. The man said: I don’t understand—you speak in riddles. Ramakrishna said: we left the world and found God. You left God and found the world. Who is the enjoyer here? Who is the clever one? We enjoyed the eternal; you are dying for the perishable. Where is the enjoyment? You are hanged by the neck. Look at my face, look at yours. The enjoyer is us; the renouncer is you! You have abandoned the Divine—where will you find a greater renunciation? Leaving Everything, clutching at the trivial!
No—the wise knows the art of enjoyment. Of what is, and of what is not...
Asaṅsaktamanā nityaṁ prāptāprāptam upaśnute.
He enjoys both.
‘The empty-minded man knows not the alternatives of solution and non-solution, of good and bad. He abides as if in Kaivalya.’
Samādhānāsamādhānahitāhitavikalpanāḥ.
Śūnyacitto na jānāti kaivalyam iva saṁsthitaḥ.
The one settled in himself is free, established. Settled in himself he becomes empty. And one who is empty is in moksha; he abides as in Kaivalya. Such a one knows neither solution nor non-solution; no questions arise, no answers. Neither good nor bad. Like a mirror—what good, what bad? Whatever happens, reflects. If nothing reflects—fine. If something reflects—fine.
Do you think a mirror becomes happy when a beautiful woman stands before it? Or unhappy when an ugly woman does? What has the mirror to do with it? What is made or marred for the mirror? Beautiful or ugly—both reflect. When both depart, the mirror is empty again. Truly, even when reflections appear, the mirror remains empty. Nothing is made in a reflection. The reflection is only appearance. The state of witnessing is the state of the mirror—free, alone, silent! Whatever happens around, it goes on seeing.
‘Within whom all hopes have melted, who knows with certainty that nothing is—such a man, free of possessiveness and ego, even while acting, does not act.’
Nirmamo nirahaṁkāro na kiñcid iti niścitaḥ.
Antargalita sarvāśaḥ kurvann api karoti na.
Such a one goes on doing whatever Existence makes happen; whatever God brings before the mirror, he lets that reflection happen; but even while doing, he is not the doer. Doing everything, he is not a doer.
Kurvann api karoti na...
He acts, yet there is no sense of doership. Only an instrument, a conduit.
‘The one whose mind has melted, whose mind’s deeds, delusion, dreams and dullness have all ended—such a man attains an inexpressible state.’
Manaḥ prakāśasaṁmohasvapnajāḍyavivarjitaḥ.
Daśāṁ kām api saṁprāpto bhaved galitamānasaḥ.
The one whose mind has melted—galitamānasaḥ! In whom craving does not remain, desire does not remain, wish does not remain; who wants nothing; who is wholly content with what is—that one’s mind has melted. He attains the state of no-mind—the ‘a-mani’ state Kabir sang of. Such a one’s illusions, dreams, dullness—all end. Such a one does not dream.
The day all dreams end within you—waking or sleeping—the day not even the smoke of a thought arises and the sky is utterly free of clouds, on that day the state of Kaivalya that arises in you... Ashtavakra says: to what inexpressible state that man arrives! There is no expressing that state, no explaining it. There are no words for it—it transcends all words. Language is impotent to say it. That song has never been sung. Many attempts have been made to say it—it cannot be said. It can only be become.
If you wish to know that inexpressible state, then enter witnessing. Only by taste will you know. Only through experience will it be revealed. And you are worthy of experience. You have not claimed your right yet; it is your responsibility. I see within you that pure mirror, already there! Just glance within, and you will see that mirror yourself; and you will suddenly find: living in the world, you are outside the world; you begin to enjoy what is obtained and what is not obtained; you enjoy the seen and you become an enjoyer of the unseen. The world is yours—and the Divine also becomes yours. All becomes yours! But all becomes yours only when you have completely melted—when you are not.
This is the dilemma. So long as you are, nothing is yours; when you are not, all is yours. That inexpressible state—towards which the Upanishads point, whose song the Gita sings, towards which the Koran indicates, for which the Bible guides—and all the wise have called you to that journey, challenged you to it.
These sutras of Ashtavakra—do not think that a little more information has been added and that is the end. No—let your life be enlarged by them, not your information; let your being expand—then know you have heard. Let your being spread. You are vast—remember it. This whole sky is yours—let the remembrance arise. You are an emperor. In that very recognition—the whole beggarhood ends forever.
In mid-water shiver
boats chained with iron fetters!
A daily assault
upon the weak wooden backs—
surrounded from all sides
by the fear of some unknown whirlpool.
In the water-palace tremble
the boats bound by anklets at the feet!
The dharma of a boat is to sail—
it does not know how to stop.
If it stops, it shivers itself;
if it moves, the water trembles.
Like fish they now flutter—
boats bound in nets within the water!
Have you seen—a boat is tied by chain to the shore; a wave comes and the boat quivers! Such is your condition. Bound by the chain of desire to the petty shore. Set off—and the vast is yours. Stay tied—and only the poverty of the shore is yours; set off—and the entire ocean is yours.
The dharma of a boat is to sail—
it does not know how to stop.
If it stops, it shivers itself;
if it moves, the water trembles.
If you stop, you tremble. If you move—what of your trembling—the whole existence around you will tremble; you will remain unmoved. In your moving, in your dynamism, in your aliveness lies attainment.
Accept the challenge. This is an invitation to touch the summits of the Vast. Until the Himalayas within you remain unconquered, all other victories are futile. There you must win! Become a conqueror of the Self.
Hari Om Tatsat.