Maha Geeta #55

‘Salutations to that one alone—bliss-form, peaceful and radiant—at whose dawning of awareness all delusion dissolves like a dream.’

The Supreme, Truth, Existence—can be seen in three ways.
One—as ‘Thou’; as the devotee sees: he erases himself, drops the ‘I’, and calls to God. As a lover beholds his beloved. As a mother beholds her child. He forgets himself; God appears as ‘Thou’.
Then there is the path of the wise: Aham Brahmasmi! God appears as ‘I’.
And there is a third way—neither the wise man’s nor the devotee’s—of utter balance. He sees God as ‘He/That’—neither I nor Thou. For in I and Thou there is duality. Say ‘Thou’: however much you erase the I, to say ‘Thou’ the I must remain. ‘Thou’ would be meaningless if there were no ‘I’. Say, ‘I am not’, but in that very declaration you are; an I is formed. Wipe yourself utterly, say, ‘I am dust at Thy feet’, still you remain. Even in saying ‘I am not’ you affirm your being.
As long as there is ‘Thou’, escaping the ‘I’ is not possible—because I and Thou are two faces of one coin; inseparable. The very meaning of ‘Thou’ is ‘what I am not’. ‘Thou’ cannot be defined if ‘I’ falls away utterly.
There is a famous poem of Jalaluddin Rumi. A lover knocked at the beloved’s door. From inside came the question: ‘Who is there? Who is it?’ The lover said, ‘It is I, your lover.’ Silence fell within. He knocked again: ‘Did you not recognize me? My voice, my footsteps? It is I, your lover!’ The beloved said, ‘I recognized everything, but this house is very small. Love’s house is very small—two cannot fit here; only one can be contained.’
Kabir has said: Love’s lane is very narrow, two cannot pass through it.
And in his poem Rumi says the lover went away. This is a fundamental Sufi insight: the lover withdrew. He labored for years. Moons waxed and waned; suns rose and set. He dropped all worries. He erased his I utterly. Then after years he returned; he knocked. The same question: Who is it? This time he said, ‘It is Thou—none else.’ And Rumi says, the doors opened.
If you ask me, I would say: the doors should not open yet. If you ask the Upanishads, they too would say: the doors should not open yet. They opened a little too soon. The poem should go a little further. For when the lover said, ‘It is Thou,’ however unmanifest, an I is again implied—who says ‘Thou’? Silence is not yet absolute. The sound ‘Thou’ rises—and without an I, the sound ‘Thou’ cannot rise. Somewhere the I is hidden. Who answered?
If I meet Jalaluddin Rumi somewhere, I will tell him: complete the poem; it is unfinished. If I were to finish it, I would say: Once again the beloved replies, ‘Two cannot be contained in this house. It is too narrow. Granted, you have come unmanifest, but still you are. You have come concealed, yet still you are. You have come from behind a veil, yet still you are. You have come with the face covered, yet still you are. This burqa will not deceive.’
And I would say: once more the lover turns back. And the third time, he does not come at all—how could he? To come there must be an I. The third time the lover does not arrive; the beloved goes in search of him—on the day his I has utterly disappeared.
So I tell you: to attain God you need not go anywhere. If you are utterly not, God comes. He must come—you have fulfilled the condition. Where would you go to search? Whom would you search? As long as you search, you remain. In the seeker, the I will remain hidden. There will be a searcher! And as long as you search, there will be your own outlook. Whom will you seek? Some concept will be there. Some image will be hidden in the mind. You will search only that which ‘you’ can search. How will you search God? It will be your concept of God. As long as you are, the net of your concepts will remain.
And even if someday you meet some God, he will only be your dream. Thus the Hindu meets Krishna; the Christian attains a vision of Christ; the Buddhist, standing before the image of Buddha, gradually one day creates an inner image. It is only a net of imagination; bhavana-matram—nothing more than feeling. A very sweet feeling—but still only feeling. Only an expansion of your own imagination. Only self-hypnosis, autohypnosis. Not beyond that. Beautiful, auspicious, pleasing; yet not truth.
Truth is neither beautiful nor ugly. Truth is neither bitter nor sweet. Truth is neither flower nor thorn. Truth is beyond duality. Therefore truth is neither ‘I’ nor ‘Thou’. Truth is ‘That’. Hence the Upanishads say: Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu. O Shvetaketu, Thou art That. ‘That’ is a supremely impartial indication—neither I nor Thou; beyond both.
Today’s first sutra of Ashtavakra is wondrous: Yasya bodhodaye—‘at whose dawning’.
He does not say, ‘at the dawning of the Lord’, for if you say ‘Lord’, the ‘Thou’ appears. He does not say ‘Self-realization’, for if you say the Self arises, the ‘I’ appears. He says only: Yasya bodhodaye—‘at whose dawning’. No name is given; no boundary drawn. Only a gesture; no definition.
Yasya bodhodaye tavat svapnavad bhavati bhramah.
‘At whose dawning...’
As the morning sun rises and the dewdrops which, a moment before, were gleaming like pearls upon the blades of grass, begin to vanish—so, at his dawning, at the entry of that Great Sun into your consciousness, all that were your mental moods till now—the nets of imagination, the cravings, the passions, thirst, attachment, anger, greed—all those pearls you had hoarded begin to evaporate like dew. All delusion is dissolved—merely by his dawning, by his presence.
Understand the difference here. Ordinarily man thinks: I shall destroy attachment, I shall destroy anger, I shall destroy greed—when I destroy all these illnesses, then I will have the vision of God. Here the point is reversed. By God’s vision, these are destroyed. When the sun rises, the dewdrops vanish. And see how the darkness flees! If you set out to remove dewdrops one by one, will you succeed? If you start cutting the darkness, will you cut it? As the sun rises, darkness is no more. Dewdrops begin to vanish, to bid farewell. Their time is struck; their moment of death has arrived. But if you set out to remove dewdrops, you will never eliminate them from the earth. And if you set out to burn the darkness, to slash it with swords, to push it away—you will be exhausted; darkness will not go.
This sutra also hides the secret that the real matter is not the destroying of your greed, anger, attachment; the real matter is his dawning. Hence people come to me and say: You talk only of meditation! You do not tell your disciples to leave lust, leave anger, leave attachment, leave greed. You do not separate them from the world; you do not separate them from householder life. You let them remain amidst all this paraphernalia. I say: Yasya bodhodaye—at his dawning.
And for his dawning we can do only one thing: to become a silent mind, a void mind, thoughtless. If you begin to be thoughtless, you have vacated the space for his dawning. That is all you can do. Beyond this, nothing is in man’s hands.
Attaining God is not in man’s hands. Man can only express his thirst. He can call—but to pull God in is not in man’s power. And the God who could be pulled by man—he would not be God. He would be more petty than you, if he came filling your bucket; if he fit into your fist. He would be lower than you, if he could be locked into your safe, with the key in your hands.
No—God you can never pull; you can only call. You can weep. You can sing. You can dance. You can only empty the space. You can only say: the house is ready, now come! You can open the door. You cannot drag the sun’s rays inside. Open the door and sit; when it is to come, it will come. When the time is ripe, the season complete, the moment arrives—it will come.
In truth the seeker does nothing. He only lets himself descend into meditation. Meditation means: he sits empty, sits with the door open. Meditation means: if You come, You will not find me full; if You knock at the door I will hear, I will not be entangled in my thoughts. Otherwise, very often it happens: he knocks... perhaps he knocks every day. He must knock; for not only do you seek him, he too seeks you. This play is not one-sided. This fire is not kindled on one side. It is kindled on both sides—that is the beauty. If only the lover seeks the beloved, and the beloved is not eager for the lover, the flower of love will never bloom. When both lover and beloved seek, then the flower blooms. When both are mad, then the flower blooms. God, too, seeks you. He also comes.
Tagore has a song: One night, in a great temple, the high priest dreamt that the Lord said, ‘Tomorrow I am coming.’ The priest could not trust it.
Priests are the greatest atheists in the world—for they know the inner secrets of the trade. They cannot be theists. Theism is only a means of exploitation for them. You might find a scientist who is a theist; perhaps in a poet you might glimpse theism; sometimes even a philosopher may rise from his dialectics and once open his eyes to the sky. But not the priest—because the priest knows it is all a mesh. He sits inside the net.
It is like a juggler who can trick everyone—but not himself. He knows where the object is hidden and how it appears. He knows the stone idol, bought in the market. He knows that at night mice climb upon this idol and the idol can do nothing. And however much you offer food, this idol takes nothing; he himself takes all the offerings. Money is piled on it—but it ends up in his pocket. He knows the whole game.
The high priest had the dream, but he could not trust it. Perhaps God knocked in the dream. He was also frightened: what if He really comes! Never had He come. The temple was thousands of years old; prestigious. There were a hundred priests. He was a little perplexed. He had a double anxiety: if he told anyone, the priests would laugh; they too knew that He never comes—mere talk! But if he did not tell and He came, then I alone would be stuck with trouble. So by afternoon he disclosed it. He gathered all the priests and said, ‘I don’t really believe it, it is only a dream, but I tell you, last night I dreamt He said He is coming tomorrow—make preparations.’ The priests first laughed: ‘Have you gone mad? Senility? All life we have performed worship; our fathers and forefathers too; centuries old this temple is—God never came. And today suddenly, without cause!’ But then they also became thoughtful. The head priest said, ‘Now you decide; responsibility is yours. If He comes, do not blame me.’ Then they too were afraid. They said, ‘What harm is there? Let us make preparations. If He does not come—fine. The temple will be cleaned anyway. And the offerings we prepare—as daily we prepare—today also we shall prepare. We will offer them—ourselves. No one is going to come. Fine—let it be a festival.’
They polished the temple, cleaned it all. Lit incense and lamps; sprinkled perfume, adorned flowers—knowing no one is coming, enjoying a sweet madness! Knowing all this is a jest over a dream. Evening fell. There was no sign of His coming. Night arrived. They began to say, ‘We are indeed fools. Troubled all day over a dream. Now let’s offer the food and go to sleep.’ They ate well—having labored all day, they had cooked rich and heavy meals. Then they fell into deep sleep.
At night, God came. His chariot. The rumbling sound. One priest, in sleep, heard the sound—as of chariot wheels. He said, ‘Listen, seems someone has come; there is the chariot’s rumble.’ Another priest said, ‘Stop this nonsense! We spent the whole day over one man’s dream, now you are dreaming! No rumbling—clouds are thundering in the sky.’ They slept again.
Then the chariot halted at the door. He alighted; climbed the steps. He knocked upon the door. Some priest again felt, in dream, someone knocking. He said, ‘Listen, seems someone is knocking.’ Then the head priest also shouted, ‘Everything has a limit. Though I began this foolishness—now let me sleep. One says, “the chariot rumbles”, another says, “someone knocks”. Nothing! It is a gust of wind. Sleep quietly.’
In the morning, when they awoke and went to the door, a chariot had indeed come; there were its tracks. Someone had climbed the steps; there were footprints. Someone had knocked upon the door; there was the imprint of a hand. Then they wept bitterly.
Tagore’s poem is titled: The occasion was missed.
Perhaps the Lord does come. This poem is not merely poetry; there is deep seeing in it. But you interpret. Your mind makes interpretations. You are so full—inside you is such a net of thoughts—that no truth can reach you through that net. Hence I say: meditation. It means nothing more than this: relax thought a little; drop your interpretations; don’t give much value to your concepts; open the doors, the shutters of the temple; sit at the door of the temple, wait, watch. It is enough that your eyes be a little empty—so that if He comes, you recognize Him. That your mind not interpret and mislead you.
Yasya bodhodaye tavat svapnavad bhavati bhramah.
At the very advent of his experience, as his rays break upon the horizon of your consciousness, all that life you knew becomes illusion, becomes a dream.
You hear so-called scholars and saints proclaim, ‘The world is Maya.’ The world is not Maya so cheaply. It is a costly affair. It does not become Maya so easily! Until God becomes true, do not call the world Maya. Otherwise you are repeating a lie. It is not your experience. Maya is not a philosophical doctrine—it is an experience, a direct witnessing. It is like sitting in darkness, never meeting light, never whirling in its radiance, and sitting there saying, ‘Darkness is unreal.’ And because of that very darkness you stumble, you fall, you break your bones, you slip into gutters—and yet you keep saying, ‘There is no darkness.’ Seeing your condition, one knows there is only darkness; hearing your words, one thinks perhaps darkness is nothing—light is real. But where is that light? And if there were light, you would not fall into pits, not crash into walls; there would be a path in your life, there would be peace, rest, joy.
When someone says, ‘The world is Maya,’ look closely: are the Lord’s rays shining in his eyes? Is there the tone of shunya in his voice? Is there grace in his movements? Look closely. Does he speak with the flavor of ‘this has no value’?
The world becomes Maya only when ‘That’ has dawned; not before. Before that, the world alone is true; God is Maya. For you, God is false; the world is true. And if you accept this and move rightly, perhaps one day God will become true and the world false.
But you are deeply lost in falsehood. You believe the world true, you know it true, and you repeat that it is Maya. Hypocrisy. Erudition is often hypocrisy. You have borrowed truths. In your sleep you heard someone else’s words, the voice of some Buddha, and in your sleep you began to repeat. It has not touched your life, it has not brushed you; your very life has not transformed by it. If someone shouts, ‘Morning has come, the sun has risen, darkness is false’, and yet he walks with a lantern in his hand, what will you say? You will say, ‘If the sun has risen and darkness is false, why the lantern?’
Have you seen sadhus? On one side they say, ‘The world is Maya’; on the other side they preach, ‘Renounce, renounce.’ If the world is Maya, who can renounce it? How can you renounce what is not? On one hand they say the world is not; on the other they warn, ‘Beware of woman and gold!’ Just listen to their words. The lantern hangs in the hand—and they say, ‘Keep the lantern safe; keep pouring oil in it—though the sun is up and darkness is false.’ See the madness.
If truly God is and the world is Maya, then there will be freedom in your life; there can be no rules. This is Ashtavakra’s great sutra: the fragrance of truth is freedom. Remember, freedom is not license. Freedom means: one has begun to live by one’s own inner rhythm. No external rules remain; awareness alone is discipline. No outer code of ‘should’ and ‘should not’. Now whatever arises, happens. For only God is—then how can there be ‘what ought not be done’ and ‘what ought to be done’? There is none outside Him.
In truth, as soon as it is felt the world is Maya, you also know that you too are Maya. Then who will keep rules? Who will maintain decorum? Now only He is—the same rule-less, the same free; His is the dance.
Yasya bodhodaye tavat svapnavad bhavati bhramah.
At his dawning, at his awakening...!
And what does this ‘bodhodaya’, dawning of awareness, mean? It means: He sleeps within you; let Him awaken—turn again and rise. There is nowhere to go; only a little awakening is needed. As you are, just open your eyes a little, be filled with a little awareness. Don’t walk so drugged, so asleep—walk a little awakened.
Tasmai sukhai-karupaya namah shantaya tejasé.
‘Salutations to that one alone—bliss-form, peaceful and radiant.’
Do you hear? Salutations are not for Ram, not for Allah, but for that radiant, blissful, peace-natured one. Salutations to awareness, salutations to that Sun whose manifestation makes all darkness disappear.
These words of Ashtavakra belong to no sect, no religion. They have no relation to any caste, country, or society. As long as you bow to Allah, your bow is wasted—remember. As long as you bow to Ram, you are bowing to Hindus, not to Ram. As long as you prostrate at the feet of Buddha, you are a Buddhist—not religious. The day your bow is to awakening itself, to awareness itself—that day your salutations are to the whole of existence. Then no boundaries of temple, mosque, or gurdwara remain over you. Bowing to the Infinite, you too become infinite. It should be so. If you bow to the Infinite and remain finite, the bow was wasted.
What does bowing mean?
Bowing means: to bend; to surrender; to be absorbed; to drown oneself. Bowing means the same as what happens when a river runs to the ocean and, reaching where it falls into the sea—look closely—she is bowing to the ocean, dissolving into it. If after bowing you remain, there was no bow. Then you deceived. Then you merely made a formal ‘Jai Ramji’. You did not drown, you did not vanish. After a true bow, how can you remain?
Bhattoji Dikshita in Bengal was a wondrous grammarian. He reached sixty. His father often told him, ‘Will you remain entangled in grammar? Go to the temple now, bow to God, call out to God! You too are growing old.’ The father was about eighty. But the son would not listen. He smiled and postponed it. One day the father said, ‘Listen, it seems my last hour is near. In my heart a sorrow will remain—that before my eyes you never went to the temple, you never remembered God. Drop this nonsense—what is there in this writing-reading? Remember God!’
Bhattoji said, ‘Since you don’t accept it, I must tell you. I have watched you for years going to the temple—but I have never seen you bow. Because you return exactly the same. After a bow, does one return? Returns just the same? First, one should not return at all if there has been a bow. And if he returns, he should return different. For forty-fifty years since I remember, I have seen you go morning and evening to the temple—but no ray of revolution is visible. So I thought: by bowing like this, what will I do? If my father could do nothing, what will I do? I will go one day, but I tell you this much: I will remember only once. And you know—I am mad about grammar. Why say “Ram” and “Ram” again and again? I will say “Ramah”—the plural—once for all. Saying ‘Ram’ in singular all life—what is the use? I will say in plural once. If He understands, He understands; if not, the matter is finished. Nothing remains to be said again.’
And they say he went and said just once, ‘Ramah,’ and fell there itself—his life-birds flew away. An hour later people came and told the father at home, ‘What are you doing sitting here? Your son is gone. The whole village has gathered: the one who never came to the temple, came once—called to Ram once—and departed on the endless journey! What happened?’
The father wept: ‘He spoke rightly: “I will say it only once, but with my whole life. I will say it utterly, with everything.” Repeating in dribbles daily—what good is that?’
And often it happens—by repeating daily, you become habituated to repeating. You go on repeating mechanically. People bow mechanically: they see a temple; they bow. It has no meaning, no purpose. A mechanical habit bound since childhood: Hindu-temple—bow; Jain-temple—bow.
I was on a journey. A Digambar Jain lady traveled with me. She had taken a vow that she would not eat until she had gone to a temple and bowed to Mahavira. It created great trouble. Not every village has Jain temples. In one village I saw a Jain temple; I rushed to her and said, ‘Auspicious day—go quickly, there is a temple.’ She went and returned dejected: ‘That is not our temple; it is a Shvetambar Jain temple. I need a Digambar Jain temple. I bow to naked Mahavira. These adorned Mahaviras are not Mahavira! Only if he is Vitarag-form.’
Even in Mahavira there is division—Shvetambar’s Mahavira, Digambar’s Mahavira.
I lived for years in Jabalpur. In Ganesh festival the Ganesh procession would come. The rule there: Brahmin quarter’s Ganesh first, then another quarter—just as per varna order. Once the Brahmin quarter’s Ganesh was delayed and the cobblers’ Ganesh arrived first. The Brahmins could not tolerate it. They stopped the procession: ‘Move back the cobblers’ Ganesh! Cobblers’ Ganesh! Outrage! They are going ahead—cobblers’ Ganesh!’ As if Ganesh too had become a cobbler. The result of satsang: befriend cobblers, become cobbler. They had it removed. Riot was about to break out. Until they got the cobblers’ Ganesh removed and placed their own Ganesh in front, the procession could not move.
Your concept of God is so narrow. Even when you bow, you keep accounts. Bowing means accountless. This vastness all around—bow in it; be submerged like a river dissolving in the sea.
Tasmai sukhai-karupaya...
I bow to that bliss-form.
Namah shantaya tejasé.
I bow to that Radiance. I bow to that ocean of Peace.
People would come to Buddha, bow at his feet, and say: Buddham sharanam gachchhami. Someone asked Buddha: ‘You say, do not bow at anyone’s feet—yet people bow at your feet and say, Buddham sharanam gachchhami. Why don’t you stop them?’ Buddha said, ‘Who am I to stop them? They do not bow to me; they bow to Buddhahood. Buddhahood is not confined in me. Buddhahood means the state of awakening. Before me, thousands have been Buddhas; after me, thousands will be. Those who are not Buddhas today also harbor Buddhahood within; one day it will manifest. Today it is a seed; someday it will be a tree. Today it is a bud; someday a flower. Today it is hidden; someday it will be revealed. Buddham sharanam gachchhami—they go to the refuge of Buddhahood; it does not mean they go to my refuge. Who am I? If they go to my refuge, they go wrongly. If they go to the refuge of Buddhahood, they go rightly. Who am I to stop? Who am I to come in between?’
Let your bow be to That—light-form, peace-form, bliss-form—at whose dawning the whole world becomes mere illusion.
Our attachments to the world are such they do not leave even at the last breath. Even dying, man does not let go.
I have heard: a rich merchant was drowning in a river. A poor beggar ran to save him. It was difficult—because the merchant was heavy. Big belly, big man! The beggar was skin and bones; yet somehow dragged him out—put his own life at stake. When the merchant opened his eyes, he took out a one-rupee note and said, ‘You saved me—take this rupee, go have it changed at some shop; keep eight annas and bring me eight annas back.’ The beggar said, ‘Sethji, no shop is in sight here—and what is the point of so much discussion over eight annas? You hold it. Next time when you drown, then give me the entire note.’
Man clutches to the last breath—does not let go. In a sense it is natural: we hold what we value. Our entire value is in wealth, position, prestige; since we have stored value there. Our God is in wealth—we hold wealth. Our God is in position—we hold position. Wherever you install your God, that you will hold. You have installed God in the world. God—meaning pleasure.
You have heard the definition that Brahman, God, is Satchidananda—Ananda-form. But think from the other side too: wherever you take Ananda to reside, there you begin to have the vision of God. If you take it to be in wealth—you will see him in wealth, become mad for wealth, worship wealth. Do you not see on Diwali people worship wealth? Worshipping wealth! What does it mean? It means wealth has become God. Now even wealth is being worshiped! To use wealth is fine; it is a useful means of exchange; many conveniences come with it. But worship! You have begun to see God in money. Then the rupee is not a rupee, it is an idol of the Lord. You bow to it.
Observe what people bow to—that is their God. Let a politician come to a village; thousands gather. Why bow? Worship of position. They see God in power. The same politician, if tomorrow out of office, not even dogs come to receive him at the station! Let alone men—his own dog will not wag his tail: ‘Let it be—when you were, you were.’ People come with counsel: ‘Drop the arrogance now! The rope burned, but the twist remains. What do you have now?’ But if the politician holds office—or even the possibility that tomorrow he may—crowds gather.
Your God is in position.
Buddha came to a village. The minister said to the king of that village, ‘Buddha is coming; let us go to welcome him.’ The king was haughty: ‘Why should I go? What does Buddha have? He is a beggar after all! And I am no less than he. Why should I go? If he has to come, he should come to the palace. If I have to meet him, he will be brought to me.’ The minister said, ‘Then accept my resignation.’ He was a very useful minister—the real key-holder of the state. The king got scared. He was a debauched sort—he knew nothing of ruling. He was only nominal; the minister was the real man. The minister said, ‘Then release me.’ The king said, ‘Why the anger? Why resign?’
He said, ‘It is no longer right to sit beside you. Buddha is coming to the village—and the one who does not go to bow to him, it is not right to sit beside him. To remain with you is dangerous. I cannot stay. Even if you now agree to come—I still cannot stay. Remember: Buddha had this kingdom and renounced it; you still do not have the courage to renounce yours. He is ahead of you. Buddha’s beggary is not ordinary beggary. It is immensely rich—beyond empires and emperors. And if you do not go to bow here, from where will bowing come into your life? And in whose life there is no bowing, no namaskar, by his side it is not right to remain. For in his life there can be nothing but the poison of ego. Bowing is nectar.’
‘Having amassed all wealth, man attains abundant enjoyments; yet without renouncing all, he does not become happy.’
Arjayitva’khilan arthaan bhogan apnoti pushkalan.
Na hi sarva-parityagam antarena sukhi bhavet.
The second sutra: ‘Having amassed all wealth...’
Remember—‘all wealth’ means whatever you take to be the means to happiness. Whatever it be—that becomes wealth. So one man hoards money; another hoards postage stamps. The money-hoarder says, ‘What stupidity—collecting stamps! Be sensible. What will you do with them?’ But if he hopes for happiness in them, then for him they are wealth. Wealth means: wherein you hope for happiness. One collects this, another that. One collects knowledge—then for him knowledge is wealth. Another collects utterly useless things. They may seem useless to you; if he hopes for happiness in them, for him that is wealth.
The sutra says: ‘Having amassed all wealth—arjayitva akhilan arthaan—having gathered all wealth, bhogan apnoti pushkalan—he attains abundant enjoyments; yet without renouncing everything he does not become happy.’
Ashtavakra is distinguishing between enjoyment and happiness.
Understand it. Ordinarily you think enjoyment means happiness. But if you watch enjoyment closely, you will find enjoyment never gives happiness. In enjoyment there is tension, excitement. Enjoyment is a feverish state, not peace. And without peace, where is happiness! The man gathering wealth thinks: once I gather, I will be happy. His happiness is always in the future. It never comes. However much he gathers, gathering brings much misery: he must worry, be restless, he loses sleep, ulcers arise, headaches persist, blood pressure rises, heart attacks begin.
In America they say: the man who by forty has not had a heart attack is a failure. A successful man must have one. If a successful man by forty has not had a heart attack—what were you doing? Fame, position—there must be a heart attack. What is your blood pressure? Normal? You are wasting your life! Nothing to earn? This normal blood pressure is for primitives, for aboriginals! Failures, beggars, vagabonds—these do not get heart attacks.
A man full of anxiety, of great ambition—his stomach must have ulcers. Wounds must be there. Worry falls like acid in the stomach and makes wounds. So all ambitious men will suffer ulcers. The man running for wealth never finds happiness. Yes—he runs in the hope of happiness, and suffers much in that hope. He suffers sorrow; he keeps the hope of happiness. And because of hope he suffers all sorrow—saying, ‘No harm. Today is ulcer, today a heart attack, today blood pressure—no worry; tomorrow all will be well. If not tomorrow, next month; if not next year! Sometime it will be fine. Delay there may be—no injustice.’ One day the Lord will be pleased; He will understand our intention, our effort; one day reward will come.
Ashtavakra says: ‘Having amassed all wealth, man attains abundant enjoyments.’
Then what is enjoyment? Understand it thus.
I stayed as a guest in a house. The wealthiest of Calcutta. I sleep at eleven. When I went to sleep, he said, ‘You will sleep now?’ I asked, ‘What is your plan?’ He said, ‘No, I never get sleep. I thought we might sit longer and talk.’ I asked, ‘You don’t get sleep—what is the trouble? Is a good bed not available?’ He said, ‘A good bed? What could be better!’
‘What lacks? You have no son or daughter. And wealth is abundant.’
Have you seen—often the wealthy must adopt sons and daughters! Life-energy gets so distorted, dissipated! If it is entirely spent on earning, then to beget a child becomes difficult.
You have amassed much wealth. Now what hinders sleep? Why don’t you sleep?
He had earned by his own hand—not inherited. I asked, ‘For what did you earn so much if sleep is gone?’
He said, ‘In the race to earn I used to think: one day when all is well! For some days let me not sleep—fine. Gradually sleeplessness became a habit. The anxieties of running are so many—now though there is no reason to worry, the old habit remains. Now the hand goes to an old wound and scratches it open. Even if there is nothing to worry about, the brain keeps running, the machine goes on. It does not stop. For fifty years I drove it thus—now it has gone deranged. The bed is good, but sleep is lost. The means of enjoyment are there, but the capacity to enjoy is gone. Food is good, yet he must eat greens—nothing more. He drinks lentil water. All means of enjoyment are available, but hunger is gone. Life was squandered in collection.
Happiness depends upon your sensitivity.
It is as if, in gathering flowers, your nose was cut off. By the time flowers were gathered, the nose was gone. Now there is no capacity to receive fragrance. You built a palace to rest peacefully in it. The palace was built; but the labor, the running about—such a habit was formed that it cannot drop at once. The house is built; you sit inside—yet cannot rest.
Rest is not a small matter—that you can do it just because you wish. There must be a discipline in life. Not everyone can rest. There is a subtle art—to give yourself a pause. So that you can tell your mind ‘Stop’ and it stops—then rest is possible. If you never halted the mind, never knew a moment of meditation, never a moment of love. Where is leisure for love? The one driven by wealth has no leisure for love. And the obsession with wealth avoids love—because love is dangerous.
I stayed some days in a home. The gentleman—whose house it was—I watched him: he never sat speaking with his wife; he never played with his children. He would come like an arrow, eyes down, and go like an arrow. One day I stopped him: ‘What is the matter? I never see you sit by your wife, chat. I never see guests at your home. I never see you in the garden with your children. The garden is beautiful, but you are never there. What is the matter?’
He said, ‘The matter is this: if I speak sweetly to the child, he asks for money. Smile and you are caught—his hand goes into the pocket. If I speak sweetly to my wife, she thinks some necklace has come to the market, some new sari is there. Gradually I saw: smiles are very costly, they come expensive. So I keep far; I don’t converse—because conversation means entanglement.’
Now this man is earning wealth—but love is lost from his life. If one cannot sit by his son and chat heart-to-heart, because of fear the son will put his hand into his pocket; if one cannot sit by his wife because every word proves costly; if one is always stiff and tense—this is his protective device. Wealth will be gathered—but where love is lost, where will happiness be?
Thus we gather the means—but lose the end. And then, when happiness does not come, people are puzzled: ‘All is there—why am I not happy?’
Happiness has no relation to wealth; it has relation to deeper layers of life. Your capacities must be sharpened; your awareness deepened; the art of living learned. Then even dry bread can carry such taste! Otherwise, the richest delicacies are in vain. Dry bread can give such contentment—but the art of contentment must be there. That is another matter. It has nothing to do with hoarding wealth.
Often I see the rich remain undeveloped. The buds of their life do not bloom. Running in one direction makes them blind to all others. They see wealth in everything.
People come to me: they say, ‘We will meditate—but what is the benefit?’ Hear their question! They think even meditation will increase their bank balance: benefit, profit—what will come of it? In their life there remains nothing they can do swanta sukhaya—for the joy of it. They ask: ‘What is the benefit of dancing?’ What benefit indeed? If birds began to ask, ‘What is the benefit of singing?’ the whole world would go desolate. Yet every day they rise and, welcoming the sun, they dance, sing, rejoice, are happy. Birds have no money—yet they have joy. Trees blossom—no tree asks. No economist is born among trees to advise them, ‘Why blossom stupidly? What is the profit?’ If some economist were to sow into their minds the idea that there is no benefit in blossoming, trees would stop flowering. The moon and stars would halt—‘Benefit?’ The sun would pause—‘What is the profit of pouring light?’
This whole existence runs without economists—man alone, following economists, has fallen into great unmeaning. All meaning has been lost. He asks only one thing: ‘Benefit?’
Tulsidas said: Swanta sukhaya Tulsi Raghunath gatha. Someone asked Tulsidas: ‘Why did you sing the Ram-katha?’ He said: ‘For my own heart’s joy. Not to gain anything. Not even to please Ram. He is already pleased. No bribe either—that I sing your praise so give me a good place in heaven. No, for nothing. Singing itself was joy; swanta sukhaya—joy arose.’
Observe: whenever you do anything without the hankering to obtain, joy comes. Wherever the desire to obtain enters, there is sorrow, tension. Happiness cannot be obtained through wealth—because wealth means a means, happiness later. Holding rupees in hand—no one is happy. Pile up heaps of money—happiness does not come. ‘Happiness will come from amassing; first let me amass—then happiness.’ Such people keep preparing for the pilgrimage and never depart. They keep studying the timetable, never travel—because preparation is never complete.
You will be surprised: the wealthiest are often poorer than the poor. Outside, they appear rich; look within and you will find only ash—no ember, no flame. Only the dead. You will rarely find a rich man alive. Why? Because in gathering wealth he sold his life. He sold all sensitivity, all capacity, all poetry—and gathered money—hoping that later something will be gained.
Let me tell you: happiness is in this very moment. If you think of the next moment—you are greedy for wealth. Hence I do not say only the rich are mad; the one who thinks he will get it in heaven is equally mad. The one who thinks, ‘I will attain God—then happiness will come’—he too is mad. The logic is the same: something will happen, then happiness; as if happiness comes as a result. No—happiness is either now or never.
You are sitting here. If you think, ‘By listening I will understand, distill the essence, then arrange my life accordingly—then I will have happiness’—you have missed. You have turned even this into wealth. Greed has entered here too.
People come. A doctor—taking notes. I asked, ‘Why do you keep taking notes?’ He said, ‘So I can use them later.’ I said, ‘This is the limit. I am laboring to explain: do not worry about later. “Later I will use them!” I am presenting something before you—be happy now. Sukhi bhavet—be happy—now, here. This moment flowing between me and you—you spoil it by taking notes. You are gathering wealth again. Notes mean money. Later they will be useful. Later you will turn the notebook; you will keep it safe. Then you will shape your life accordingly. This will become the timetable—but the journey will never be.’
In a village, a Ram-lila was on. Returning from Lanka, Rama, Sita, Hanuman alight from the Pushpaka Vimana. The theatre’s ‘aeroplane’ was a palanquin tied to a rope. They would sit in it and the rope would be hauled up. The boy above in the dark could not catch the right time. Before Rama could sit, he pulled the rope—the palanquin went up. Rama, Lakshmana, Hanuman remained standing below. Hanuman jumped and leapt—but could not reach. The palanquin went. The little village boy playing Lakshmana asked the boy playing Rama: ‘Elder brother, if there is a timetable in your suitcase, please see when the next flight departs.’
Some people keep a timetable hidden everywhere. They study the timetable as if it were the Bible or Quran.
I traveled long by train; I saw people sitting studying timetables! I would ask, ‘You are studying the timetable for hours. What is there to study?’ They would say, ‘What else to do sitting? So we are studying the timetable.’ Planning something in the mind, arranging trains.
Look at your life closely. Has your life become only the study of a schedule? ‘There will be wealth, position, prestige, a big house, a big car—then I will live happily.’ Then you will never live happily. If you will live happily—live now. Otherwise, never.
‘Having amassed all wealth, man attains abundant enjoyments; yet without renouncing all, he does not become happy.’
Remember: Ashtavakra’s ‘renunciation’ does not mean run to the forest leaving everything. The one who runs to the forest is also deluded: he thinks, ‘Reaching the forest, I will be happy.’ Again the journey of wealth begins. Ashtavakra’s sutra is this: instant, now, here—be happy where you are!
Even renunciation you do in the language of wealth. One person renounces; he calculates: ‘If I renounce this much, how much Moksha will I get?’ There is business there too. ‘If I keep so many fasts, on which rung of heaven will I arrive? How much fasting, how much self-torment to sit upon Siddhashila?’ He keeps accounts. He is a shopkeeper. His shop is not closed; he has expanded it to a new dimension.
No—the religious person says: to have happiness needs nothing; happiness is our nature. It is not to be obtained tomorrow; it is available now. In this very moment we can drown and be absorbed.
‘The inner being, scorched by the sun of sorrow born of ‘duty’, where is happiness for such a man without the rain of the nectar-stream of peace?’
Kartavya-duhkha-martanda-jvaladagdha-antaratmanah.
Kutah prashama-piyusha-dhara-saram rite sukham.
‘The inner being scorched by the sun of sorrow born of duty!’
Remember: all wealth you gather because you think you can gather; you are the doer. What is to be is given; it need not be hoarded. God is given; he is not to be earned. He is your nature. Satchidananda is what you are. But man thinks: I must earn, I must do arrangements for happiness—so he becomes a doer. He says: I will do this, and this, and so much—and when you become a doer, you burn.
Hear this word: ‘Whose inner being is scorched by the sun of sorrow born of duty.’
Burning only because of the doer—‘I must do’. This vast cosmos is moving—have you ever opened your eyes to see there is no doer and yet everything is happening!
Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Behold the lilies of the field. They labor not, neither do they spin—yet how beautiful! How enchanting! Even King Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.’
What does it mean?
It means: look—this vast existence goes on. He who runs this vastness will run me too. One in whom this feeling arises—there is bowing. One in whom this feeling arises—he drops his limitation; he strikes alliance with the infinite. He says: the doer is God; I am not the doer. He dissolves the center of his I. He says: You created me; You breathe; You digest; You turn food into blood; You make me young; You make me old; one day You will take me. When You are doing all, why should I be the doer? You do all! I will only allow. I will cease being the doer. I will be only an instrument—nimitta-matra. Let Your current flow through me, as the current of a flautist flows through the hollow reed. The reed is only an empty space through which notes can flow. I will be the reed.
Kabir has said exactly this: I am the bamboo flute. If You sing, song flows; if You do not sing, the song remains silent. I will not sing. I will not hum. I will not come in between. This state of feeling is bowing, is surrender. Call it shraddha, call it prayer, devotion, theism—whatever. But the essence is: the doer is God, we are not.
‘The inner being scorched by the sun of sorrow born of duty—where is happiness without the rain of the nectar-stream of peace?’
No happiness can be earned by you. Let the rain of the nectar-stream of Peace shower upon you. Peace is not your earning. Merely open your door and let Him rain within.
See: rain falls on the mountain; it remains empty—for it is already full. The same rain descends and fills the hollows—lakes are created, Manasarovars arise. Why? The lake fills because it was empty. What is empty will be filled; what is full will remain empty.
If you are full of ego—‘I am the doer; I am the bearer; I this, I that’—if all this is stuffed inside, you will remain empty. God rains—but you will not be a lake. Become empty and His nectar-stream will fill you. Only then is peace.
Kutah prashama-piyusha-dhara-saram rite sukham.
Without the rain of His nectar-stream, who attains peace! Peace is not the result of your doing; it is the natural state of your non-doing.
‘This world is only imagination. Ultimately it is nothing. In entities of being and non-being there is no absence of one’s own nature.’
‘This world is only imagination...!’
What you see in this world is not as it is—because your eye that sees is not blank and pure. Your eye is filled with emotions; your feelings get projected. On the screen of the world, you see only what you want to see or are eager to see. Understand this.
You do not see what is. What is—is seen only by one in whom the dawn of awareness has happened, in whom God’s ray has entered, who is awakened. You see what you want to see.
Understand. A man went to sleep hungry and dreamed at night that he was invited to dine in a palace. There is no palace, no feast. But the hungry man dreams of food. If you have ever fasted, you will know; if not, try. A significant experience: not of fasting, but of food in dream. What in your life has remained unfulfilled, and a desire persists—you repeat it at night in dreams.
But your day is not much different from your night—how could it be? Your night is yours; your day is yours. The same mind is there. In the day you are a little cautious; in the night you drop caution. The difference is of degree, not of kind. You see what you want to see.
I sat with a friend on the bank of Ganga. Suddenly he rose: ‘Wait—I cannot resist. That woman combing her hair on the shore—let me go see her. She seems beautiful.’ I said, ‘Go see—if desire has arisen, it is not right to resist.’ He went and returned beating his head. ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘She was a sadhu. The back was towards us—long hair, a beautiful body. But he was a sadhu.’ He said, ‘Because of these sadhus there is much trouble.’ I said, ‘What fault is the sadhu’s? You projected your notion. He did not even know you existed. He did not arrange himself for you.’
In this world your lust, your feeling, is continuously projected. The world you see is your projection. The day you become feeling-less, that day you will see what is. Then you will be surprised: countless things that appeared yesterday suddenly are gone—no longer visible.
A woman took sannyas. As a woman ought to be—a woman. I would sometimes stay at her house. There were at least three hundred saris in her wardrobe. Long she waited, saying: ‘Nothing hinders me—what about the saris?’ I said, ‘If this goes on, you will be a sari when you die. What will happen to the saris? Whatever must happen will happen. When you were not, were things not happening? When you are not, they will happen. Distribute them.’
At last she took courage and sannyas. Only ochre remained. No remedy for those saris. After three months she told me: ‘A strange thing: earlier when I passed through the market, I saw a thousand cloth shops; now I don’t. Before, if I saw a cloth shop, I could not pass. I would leave a thousand tasks and go inside—until I had checked whether a new sari had arrived, some new fabric... But suddenly something has happened.’
I said, ‘Not suddenly; with cause. Now that you wear only ochre, the feeling to wear others has fallen. When the feeling is gone, the seeking ends. The seeking ends—what meaning has a cloth shop now?’
Seat a cobbler by the road—he sees only your shoes; not your face. For him the world is filled with shoes. Shoes walking, coming, going. Good shoes, bad shoes, rich, poor, educated, uneducated—shoes! He sees nothing else.
Mulla Nasruddin was caught, jailed. I went to see him. ‘How were you caught, big man? What happened?’ He said, ‘Because of a cold.’ ‘Because of a cold?’ I asked. ‘I suffer cold; I should have been caught! Who caught you?’ He said, ‘Understand fully: I put my hand in a man’s pocket; because of the cold—suddenly I sneezed. They caught me on the spot.’
Not caught for theft; caught because of a cold.
Man even chooses his causes according to himself. Causes are not true either. There are causes behind causes. The cause you give is not true. You are angry with your son. Someone says: ‘Don’t be angry.’ You say, ‘If I’m not, how will he improve?’ But there are causes behind this cause. See closely: are you truly eager to improve him? Or did you say something and he didn’t obey—and your ego got hurt. Now you take revenge for the ego, but covertly, behind fig leaves. Perhaps it has nothing to do with improvement. The boss scolded you at the office; you could not be angry at him—that would be costly. Anger filled you; now you vent it on the weak child. What should have gone to the boss goes to the child. Look closely: there are layers of causes.
One night at two, Nasruddin was walking in the street. A policeman stopped him: ‘Where are you going at this hour?’ ‘To hear a lecture,’ he said. ‘At two in the morning! Who is giving a lecture here at two? Be sensible! Are you drunk?’ ‘You don’t know my wife, sir,’ said Nasruddin. ‘Not just at two—the entire night she will sit; until I go, until she gives me a lecture, she cannot sleep. I am going to listen to a lecture.’
Causes behind causes. Our own causes. Look closely. You will find layer upon layer.
Bhavo’yam bhavana-matro na kinchit paramarthatah.
‘This world is merely imagination; ultimately it is nothing.’
The world you know is your emotions. You have not seen what is. What Krishnamurti calls ‘That which is’—you have not seen. You have seen only what you wanted to see. You have seen only what you could see in your blindness, your unawareness, your insanity. You have seen something else entirely.
You see a rope on the path and take it for a snake. You run, pant, even fall.
In my village there was a Kabirpanthi sadhu—now he has passed. I always went to hear him. He would say things in discourse that had no relation to his life. I went to hear how far a man can go! He would say, ‘The world is Maya,’ and he had a grip on every penny. He would say, ‘What is here? All like children’s sand-houses.’ And I saw him stand for hours, umbrella in hand, in the midday sun, building an ashram. I thought, ‘Wonderful! In mid-noon, sweating, building sand houses that will fall.’ What is the matter? Why so troubled? He said, ‘Money and things—nothing at all.’ But his hold on each paisa was such that in the village there was no one more miserly. I went to hear such talk—to see how far man can wander. He always said, ‘This world is like seeing a snake in a rope.’
He said it so often—almost daily—that I had an idea: let’s do an experiment on him. He passed before my house every evening. I tied a thin thread to a rope, dropped the rope into the roadside gutter, and hid behind a cot, holding the thread. As he came along, I pulled the thread: the rope slid from the gutter. He ran so fast that within a few steps his lungi snagged and he fell. I had not imagined that! I was caught—crowd gathered. My father asked, ‘Why did you do this? He is an old man; he could be hurt. Is this a joke?’ I said, ‘I didn’t do it—he suggested it. He says it daily. There is a limit to hearing. I got tired of hearing; at least he should not see it. But he saw it. He forgot.’
A snake in a rope is seen because of fear. It is a projection of fear. What we see is our projection. When a seer like Ashtavakra says the world is illusory, Maya—do not think he says it is false; he says: as it is, you have not known; you have seen something else. Because there is fear, greed, attachment, anger, jealousy, envy—thousands of veils. Through these veils all is distorted. Nothing appears straight. The eye is not clean; filled with smoke.
Bhavo’yam bhavana-matro na kinchit paramarthatah.
This world, as you know it, is only your emotion. Someone you call wife, someone son; someone yours, someone enemy, someone friend—mere assumptions. Who is your wife? For twenty-five years you lived unacquainted; then one day a priest matched your horoscopes. Priests who cannot match their own! Look at them and their wives—see what goes on! Yet they match thousands of horoscopes. On that basis, marriage is done. With fire offerings and seven circumambulations.
A gentleman came to me: ‘Great difficulty. The marriage is done, the seven rounds, the bond tied—and we do not get along at all. Great suffering.’ I said, ‘Why not walk seven rounds the other way? Finish it. It’s all a matter of rounds—tie as you tied, now untie.’
‘How can that be?’ he said.
When a knot can be tied by seven rounds, why can it not be untied—I do not understand.
Your passions, relations, attachments and aversions—this web is what is called the world.
‘This world is merely imagination. Ultimately it is nothing. In entities of being and non-being there is no absence of one’s own nature.’
Only one thing here is true. Your sakshi-bhava, the witness; your swabhava. Some things are, some are not. Some non-existent you have taken as existent; some existent you have taken as non-existent. All that is so—but among all this, if anything is ultimately true, eternally true—was, is, and will be—it is your witnessing. Therefore, seek only that. In the other entanglements there is little meaning. Much running about—arrive nowhere. You will hold nothing. The fist will remain empty.
See this wonder: children come with fists closed; they go with palms open. It seems man comes with something and returns having lost it. Children seem to have some joy, some thrill, some juice; the old dry up completely. It should be the reverse. They should return knowing more. This world is a school; they should return more aware. Instead, more unconscious.
‘The nature of Atman is not far. It is neither near nor bounded. It is without alternatives, effortless, changeless, and stainless.’
Na duram na ca samkochad labdham evatmanah padam.
Neither is Atman far nor near; for Atman is within. Far and near are of the other. In truth, what we call near is also far—only less far, but far nonetheless. One sits five feet away, one ten, one fifteen, one thousand feet, one thousand miles, millions—but all are far. What we call near is only a way of measuring distance. Even near is distance. Who can be near? The wise say even this body is far. Very near—but what of that? Only consciousness, your witnessing, the inward flame of awareness—that alone are you. It is neither far nor near.
Na duram na ca samkochad labdham eva atmanah padam.
That Atman, that nature—or the Paramatman hidden within the Atman—is neither far nor near, neither manifest nor unmanifest.
Nirvikalpam nirayasam nirvikaram niranjanam.
It is nirvikalpa. If thoughts drop—you know. Be without alternatives—you know. Nirayasa—no effort is needed to know it. No exertion, no practice. Effortless—already given. You never lost it. Just a little awakening—and you know the treasure was always there. Nirvikara—no modifications ever reach there. However many sadhus tell you, ‘You are a sinner’—do not be deceived. However many tell you, ‘You are virtuous’—do not be deceived. There is neither virtue nor sin there. It is without modification. What you did or didn’t—mere dream prattle. Knowing that One, all done and undone is lost—mere illusion.
And niranjana—no color can stain it. Unclinging. However many dark prisons you pass through, no soot can stick to it. Even if you travel in hell, hell cannot cast a shadow upon it. Within you you carry such wealth that cannot be stolen, distorted, or robbed. But you have forgotten. You look outside. You have forgotten.
Have you seen—sometimes a man wearing spectacles searches for his spectacles! They are on his nose—and he looks for them. In haste to catch a train or bus—or some work—he forgets. You see a man with a pencil behind his ear searching the whole table. Such is your forgetfulness. Inside it lies; and you search here and there. When you don’t find it, your restlessness grows. In restlessness you forget more. After endless running, countless births, not finding it—you panic; in panic, you lose more awareness.
Sit a while. Meditation means just this: sit a while. Do not run; do not seek. Sit silently. Perhaps what lies at your depth will be revealed. In stillness you may remember your own nature.
I have heard an old story—you may have too. I want to make a small change. Ten stupid men crossed a river—flooded by rains. On the other side they thought to count; someone may have been lost. Each counted—and counted only nine; each left himself out: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. All counted and found: one is lost. They began to weep and beat their chests. The old story says: a wise man passed, saw and asked, ‘Why do you weep?’ ‘Ten came, nine remain—one is lost.’ He looked—ten in all, foolish men. He said, ‘Stand. I will count.’ He first asked one to count—to see how they count. He saw: one, two, three... nine—leaving himself. Then he placed his hand firmly on his chest and said, ‘Fool, the tenth is you!’ Awareness dawned. They rejoiced and thanked him: ‘You have been kind—the tenth is found. Else we would have lost him.’
This is an important story. But it says ‘ten fools’. I would say ‘ten pundits’ crossed the river. A small change. Do fools ever bother to count? Have you heard fools worry over counting? A fool, by definition, does not know how to count. If one knows counting up to nine—is he a fool? He knows all counting! No—ten pundits crossed. Very learned—knowers of Veda: one Chaturvedi, one Trivedi, one Dwivedi. Heads filled with numbers—doctrines, thoughts. They thought: someone may be missing. And as a pundit would, not go straight, he goes crooked—holding the ear from behind. They counted. And as a pundit does, he left himself out: he gives advice to others, leaves himself. He distributes knowledge, remains ignorant. He sets about changing the whole world—he does not change. He counted—nine; the tenth missed; they wept.
A simple man came by—not a pundit, not a fool. For a fool cannot count; a pundit will muddle counting. Simple, straightforward—mind at ease. Neither so foolish that he cannot count, nor so learned that he muddles it. Free of both extremes—some awakened one, balanced, beyond both—Majjhima Nikaya, centered—neither pundit nor fool. Both are imbalances: the fool knows nothing; the pundit knows too much. Both are diseases: one leans left, one right—both will fall. He, balanced like a tightrope walker, came. He laughed: ‘Idiots, why do you weep?’ Seeing all pundits—he laughed more.
This small change I add. The story is significant.
And your guru can do no more than place his hand upon your chest and say: ‘The tenth is you!’ What more can the guru do? None is lost. That which you seek—you are. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu.
‘When mere delusion ceases, and by merely reclaiming one’s own nature, the sorrowless, those with unobstructed vision, shine.’
Vyamoha-matra-viratau svarupa-adanamatratah.
Vita-shoka virajante niravarana-drishtayah.
He whose infatuation with dreams ceases, who sees the rising emotional waves of the mind with awareness and drops their fragmentation—and begins to see things directly.
Vyamoha-matra-viratau...
Whose delusion simply ceases. Who no longer says, ‘This is mine, that is not.’ What is mine? What is yours?
Vyamoha-matra-viratau svarupa-adanamatratah.
Who has merely reclaimed his own nature. Understand the word. One does not ‘attain’ one’s nature—it is. But you forgot. You corrected the forgetting. You were adding two and two to make five—now you add to make four. Two and two were four even when you made them five. You may add fifty—still they remain four. Whether you add or not—two and two are four.
Svarupa-adanamatratah.
He who now embraces his own nature; accepts what is; is filled with its remembrance.
Vita-shoka virajante niravarana-drishtayah.
He goes beyond all sorrow—and sits upon a throne where vision is pure, all is immaculate, without stain. Only such a person with unstained vision shines.
In this land, we have sung only of such a person’s glory—not of wealth, position, emperors, empires. We trust one empire alone: the inner—of nature, of freedom, of one’s own song. Only such a person shines.
Vita-shoka virajante niravarana-drishtayah.
Whose vision is unobstructed; no veil remains upon his eyes; he sees directly; no desire remains to see in some particular way—‘I should see thus’—he sees directly. Only the one who attains such unobstructed vision shines in this world.
‘Knowing that all this world is mere imagination and the Atman is free and eternal, what does the steadfast do practicing like a child?’
A wondrous sutra—the last for today:
Samastam kalpana-matram atma muktah sanatanah.
Iti vijnaya dhirah hi kim abhyasyati balavat.
He who knows the whole world is mere imagination—knowing this, he simultaneously knows the second thing: that Atman is eternal and free. As long as the world is true, Atman seems bound. As soon as the world is known illusory—Atman is free. The illusion of the world is bondage. Bondage is not real. You have believed that there is bondage—therefore it is. Drop the belief—it drops.
‘Knowing thus, what would the steadfast practice like a child?’
Children practice. To learn language, practice is needed. But to forget language—does one need practice? To earn—practice is needed. To lose—does one need practice?
A man brought five hundred gold coins to Ramakrishna as an offering. Ramakrishna said: ‘Do one thing. I have accepted your offering. Now, on my behalf, go and throw them into the Ganga.’ The man was in a fix. If Ramakrishna had refused, he would have taken them home. This was worse: accepted—and now, ‘Throw them into Ganga—on my behalf!’ He went. Took long. Ramakrishna sent to see: ‘Has he gone? Where is he? Why so long?’ Someone saw: he had gathered a crowd, and was striking each coin on the steps to hear it ring, then throwing—and counting. So it was taking time.
Ramakrishna ran and said: ‘Fool! When earning, counting is needed; when throwing, why count? Why ring them? Why worry whether genuine or fake? It is your habit for earning! But for losing? Throw—all at once!’
Practice is needed when we earn. Enjoyment needs practice; renunciation needs none. Renunciation happens in a moment. Enjoyment does not happen in many births; renunciation happens in a flash. Renunciation needs no time. Knowledge needs no practice—because knowledge is your nature. Practice is needed for what is not nature. A child is not born with any language—not German, Japanese, Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati. He comes without language. So language is not nature. But silence is nature. All children come with silence—whether born in Japan or China or Germany or Maharashtra or Gujarat—what difference? If you want to be silent—does silence need practice?
This sutra is wondrous: what is natural needs no practice. If you truly wish to be silent—you can be so this very moment. Language is learned; silence is unlearned—your nature.
The essence of this whole great Gita of Ashtavakra is this: what you have to attain is already given. Just awaken—and claim the Master. Declare—and you are the Master. God is your nature-given right.
Hari Om Tatsat!