Maha Geeta #57

First sutra: 'Atman is Brahman, and presence and absence are imagined. Knowing this with absolute certainty, what would a desireless man know, what would he say, and what would he do?'
Understand: 'Knowing with absolute certainty that Atman is Brahman...'
Whatever is known through someone else can never be known with certainty. If trust is placed on another, deep down, mistrust will remain. In the very heart of belief, doubt is always present. Try as you may to believe, there is no escape from doubt. Belief means that doubt exists and that you are attempting to suppress it. You can press it down; you cannot erase it. You can forget it; you cannot annihilate it.
And the more the doubt is suppressed, a great contradiction arises: on the surface there is belief, within there is doubt. In words there is belief, in your very life-breath there is doubt. What is said goes one way; what is, becomes exactly the opposite. This is hypocrisy.
Hence people say one thing, do another, think something else. No harmony in life. And where there is no harmony, what music can be? If the veena’s strings all run in different directions, what music can arise? There will be noise, not music. No cadence, no peace. Where then is joy?
The first sutra is: 'He who has known with absolute certainty that Atman is Brahman...'
Who has known with certainty? Who comes to know for certain?
Iti nishchityam...
Whom shall we call one who is certain? The one who has experienced. In experience there is no doubt. Experience is the liberation from doubt.
People come to me and say: We have firm faith in you. I say, firm? Firm already means a dense doubt lurks within; otherwise what are you pressing down so firmly?
If someone says, I love you with all my heart, be a little alert, because if the love is 'all', then what is he hiding behind it? What is concealed in this 'all'? Why this insistence—'I love completely, I trust completely, my faith is firm'? Behind such insistence, behind the curtain, the opposite is present. The bigger the doubt, the stronger the need for firmness in belief. But even then the doubt never dies.
That is why, though outwardly the atheist and the theist may differ much, inwardly there is no difference. Is there any inner difference? The atheist does not go to the temple, does not bow to God. You go to the temple—have you ever arrived? You bowed—did your prostration reach his feet? You perform; the atheist does not. But where does your performance arrive? In life-conduct you are exactly alike. Not a shade of difference. Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Jain—no difference in conduct. These are hollow beliefs, because they are borrowed. Whose faith is certain? The one who has experienced.
Keshab Chandra went to meet Ramakrishna. Keshab Chandra said: I have no trust in God! I have come to debate. I will demolish your faith. Accept my challenge.
Ramakrishna said: Very difficult. You will not be able to do it. Your defeat is certain. Not that I can debate. Not that I have any arguments. I have none. But I have known the Lord. You may refute a thousand times—what difference will it make? I still know that the Divine is. It is my own personal experience, you cannot snatch it. It permeates my every breath. It throbs in every beat of my heart. It is the call of every pore of my being—you cannot rob me of it. I will not be able to answer your arguments, Keshab Chandra. You are clever, a man of the scriptures, a scholar, a pundit; I am an unlettered rustic—Ramakrishna said. But if you tangle with a rustic you will not win, for I have no doctrines, no beliefs. It is my experience. How will you demolish my experience? What I have seen—how will you make it unseen? With these eyes I have seen. Let the whole world stand on the other side and declare there is no God, even then I will keep saying, He is. Because I have known!
Keshab did not agree; he argued hard. Ramakrishna listened, did not answer even a single argument. Once in a while, when Keshab Chandra raised a very serious point, Ramakrishna would stand up and embrace him. Keshab became uneasy; a crowd had gathered, his disciples had come anticipating a great debate. They too grew uneasy. Keshab began to perspire. He said, What is going on? Are you in your senses? I am speaking against you!
Ramakrishna said: You think you are speaking against me. Seeing you, my trust in God deepens. When such brilliance can exist in the world, how can it be without God? Your brilliance is unique. Your arguments are precious—razor-sharp. This is proof that the Lord is. This intelligence of yours, these arguments, these thoughts, this system—this is evidence that God is. When flowers appear, it is proof the tree exists. Let the flowers make a thousand attempts, they cannot demolish the tree. Their very being becomes proof of the tree. Let the flowers bear witness in court that trees do not exist, yet their testimony proves trees do exist—otherwise, from where have flowers come?
Ramakrishna said: I am a rustic; I have no flower of brilliance. You have the lotus of genius. I am filled with a thousand thank-yous. That is why I keep rising to embrace you: O Lord, you did well to send Keshab Chandra to me! I had one more glimpse of you! One more recognition! I saw you again through a new door! Now try a thousand devices, Keshab—having seen you, I can never accept that God is not.
Keshab Chandra has written in his memoirs: The one man I was defeated by is Ramakrishna. There was no way to win against this man. That night I could not sleep. Again and again I thought: surely this man has had some experience. Such a profound experience that no argument can shake it. So profound that even through opposing arguments, that very experience is affirmed. No, I must sit at this man’s feet. I must learn from him. What he has seen, I too must see. He has the eye; I have arguments. Arguments are not enough. Since when has anyone’s hunger been stilled by arguments? Since when has anyone’s throat been quenched by logic?
To know for certain means to know like Ramakrishna. To know for certain does not mean belief; it is the shraddha that flows from experience—only that.
And if you have built belief, you hinder the birth of shraddha within. So cut off what is borrowed. Drop the stale. Renounce the alien. Do not worry. If all beliefs slip from your hands, do not be afraid—keeping them in your hands is of no use either. Let them go. Stand in that emptiness where there is no belief, no thought. From there the melody will begin to play. From there a new note will arise. From that very emptiness, an experience spreads and surrounds you. In that experience, knowing happens.
Atma brahmeti nishchitya...
'Atman is Brahman' is known in that experience wherein your boundaries fall and no dividing line remains between the Infinite and you. 'Atman is Brahman' means: the drop is the ocean. But how will the drop know? If the drop does not fall, can it know? Only when the drop falls into the ocean does it know. The drop may become a pundit—even a great pundit; but a drop that has not fallen into the ocean will not know that the drop is the ocean. Only when the drop dissolves is it known that the ocean is. Only when you dissolve is Brahman known. When you vanish, then Brahman is present. Your absence is his presence. Your presence is his absence. In your being, Brahman is 'not'; in your dissolving, he is again.
'He who has known with absolute certainty that Atman is Brahman...'
For this certain knowing, do not go to the scriptures—go into emptiness. Do not go to words—descend into the wordless. Do not be entangled in the net of logical thoughts. Silence. Silence is the door. Practice being quiet. Each day, for a few moments, become utterly still. When no voice remains within your mind, then that which speaks—only that is Brahman. When within you there is only vast silence—no shore to it, no beginning, no end—just silence upon silence—within that very silence, for the first time you will hear the footfall of the Divine; for the first time you will feel his touch. He is nearer than the nearest. So long as you are filled with thought, he is farther than the farthest.
The Upanishads say: The Divine is farther than the far, and nearer than the near. Farther than the far—if you are filled with thought. For thoughts cover your eyes. As when dust settles on a mirror and no reflection appears. Or when waves become too many in a lake and the moon cannot be mirrored. So, when you are full of thought, the reflection of That-which-is does not form within you.
Certain knowing means: you became so quiet, a mirror; the lake fell silent; thoughts slept; the dust was removed—and then That-which-is began to be reflected in the mirror. This is certain knowing—when you form the reflection and through that reflection you know: the drop is the ocean.
Atma brahmeti nishchitya bhava-abhavau cha kalpitau.
In that instant you also come to know that presence and absence were my imaginations. I imagined some things 'are', and I imagined some things 'are not'—both were untrue. What is—I had no clue. I myself was untrue, therefore what I thought is, was untrue; what I thought is not, was also untrue.
Imagine that one night you dream you are an emperor—vast kingdom, great palaces, heaps of gold. The next night you dream you are a beggar, have lost everything, wandering hungry and thirsty through forests. One night you dream the kingdom is; one night you dream the kingdom is not—what difference is there between the two dreams? Both are your imaginings. Presence is your imagining, absence is your imagining. And That-which-is did not appear to you. The night you dreamed the emperor’s dream, the dream was false, but the one who was seeing the dream—that was true. The next night you dreamed of being a beggar. The dream was still false, what was seen was false—but the one who saw remained true. Whether empire is seen or beggary, the seer is true in both states. What is seen—presence and absence—both are imagined. Only the drashta is true, only the witness is true. All else is dream.
As soon as you become silent, two realizations happen simultaneously: I am not; Brahman is. For the witness is one. My witness and your witness are not separate. My dream is different; your dream is different—certainly. But my witness and your witness are identical. In the witness there is no difference.
Think of it this way: you are sitting here; if all of you sit silently and become utterly still so that in no one does a ripple of thought arise—how many people are then sitting here? Then people can no longer be counted. Then only one emptiness is seated. Add as many zeros as you like to a zero; the number does not increase. Two zeros together are still one zero, three zeros are still one zero, four zeros still one zero. Add infinite zeros—zero remains one. In the zero, numbers do not increase. But if you speak, another speaks—you become two. Speak—and you are two; be silent—and you are one. The moment you say anything, you create separation. Another says something—more separation. With thought, difference comes. With words, enmity comes. You say, I am Hindu; I say, I am Muslim—difference arises. You say, I follow the Bible; I say, I follow the Koran—difference arises, dispute arises. Where dispute arises, we are separate. Where we sit indisputably, quietly, we are not separate; there, only One is seated. When you run, you are many; when you sit, you remain One. In dream you are different-different...
Have you noticed a strange thing? In a dream you cannot invite your friend; you become utterly alone. Dream by night, even a beautiful dream—you cannot take your wife with you into your dream. You cannot say, Come along, it’s a beautiful dream. No way. Dream cannot be shared. Two people cannot see the same dream. Dream separates us so totally! Even the most intimate lovers cannot see one dream together. In precisely the same way, in witnessing two cannot remain two; they become One. The name of that One is Brahman.
Atma brahmeti nishchitya bhava-abhavau cha kalpitau.
And what you have assumed as 'is' and what you have assumed as 'is not'—both are nets of imagination. That is your imagination. You are true; your being is the Ultimate Truth; all else is the web of imagination. If you accept this upon hearing Ashtavakra, it will not be certain knowledge. If you experiment and know it, it will become certain.
Religion is as experimental as science. Understand this well.
Scientists say: science is eminently experimental. I say to you: religion is equally experimental. Science and religion do not disagree about experiment. The quarrel is about the laboratory. Science’s lab is outside; religion’s lab is within. Science experiments on 'other'; religion experiments on oneself. The scientist spreads something on the table, tests and analyzes it. The religious one goes within, spreads himself on the table, and tests himself. Religion is self-examination; science is examination of the 'other'. Science is knowing the other; religion is self-knowledge—but experimental, utterly experimental.
And if you have accepted anything without experiment, remove that junk. It has no essence. It has made you burdened. Your head has become heavy. You have acquired erudition, but your stupidity has not departed.
'Knowing this with absolute certainty, what would a desireless man know, what would he say, and what would he do?'
This statement is very unique. Listen—
Nishkamah kim vijanati, kim brute cha karoti kim.
The one who has known thus—that only Brahman is, and I am not—his cravings depart. They will depart, they must depart.
First point: you have been told ordinarily that when your desires disappear, then you will attain Brahman. No—the matter is the other way round. When Brahman is attained, then desire disappears. You have yoked the bulls behind the cart. Desire will remain so long as you are. It may change forms, find new routes; even the desire to know Brahman may become a desire—that I may know Brahman, that I may attain moksha. But this too is desire. To get wealth—desire. To get meditation—desire. Let the world fit into my fist—desire. Let God fit into my fist—desire. Pleasure in this life—desire. Pleasure in the afterlife—in paradise—desire. Desire can take new forms, new dimensions, new directions, new objects. It will not vanish. So long as you are, desire will be. For in your presence, the waves of desire arise. Your presence is the source of those waves. When you are lost, only then desire is lost.
You can disappear by only one device: become silent and look, eye to eye, at the one seated within. Those who told you: first drop desire—have put you into trouble; they have given birth to new desires in your life—religious desires. I say to you: you cannot drop desire, but you can drop thought. And if thought drops, you will know—where am I, who am I? Only That is. When Only That is, what remains for desire? When I am not, the bamboo is gone—where can the flute play? If no bamboo remains, what flute?
Desire is but a shadow; as when you walk on the road and a shadow forms. Sit still beneath a tree; do not walk in the sun—the shadow ceases to form. The day the ego sits quietly, it collapses; ego lives only in running, never in sitting. Ego lives in ambition, in rush and bustle, in fever. Sit quietly in the shade; become silent; thought ceases; you are gone; desire too leaves. At this moment Ashtavakra’s sutra says: What does a desireless man know?
You may be thinking: when we become utterly still, then we will know something. Then the knower still remains. Then you have not become utterly still—not totally, not wholly. You have saved something else: not the enjoyer, then the knower.
Ashtavakra says: What will such a man know? When the knower is not, what remains to be known? When no separation remains, whom will he know? What will he say? What can such a man speak? It is not that once God is attained, you will speak and God will speak to you. Speech is lost. You become unspeaking.
Tulsidas and other poets have said that God makes the dumb eloquent, and gives legs to the lame. Ashtavakra says the reverse—and more true. Ashtavakra says: He makes the talkative dumb; the running one, lame; the industrious one, the crown prince of idlers.
The saying is: mukam karoti vachalam—He makes the dumb eloquent. But the same saying can be read the other way. We can also read: mukam, karoti vachalam—He makes the eloquent dumb. That is truer. He who spoke becomes silent. He who moved, stops. He who came and went—now goes nowhere, becomes utterly lame. Doer is lost; deed is lost.
'All waves—gross and subtle—subside. Such a one neither knows anything, nor says anything, nor does anything.'
Kim vijanati, kim brute, kim karoti.
And this is the state of supreme knowing: where nothing is known. Because there is no knower, and nothing to be known. Sounds paradoxical! Yet this is the state of supreme knowing.
Kim vijanati, kim brute...
Nothing is said, nothing can be said.
Kim karoti...
Nothing remains to be done. What happens, happens. What is happening, continues.
They say Buddha explained to people for forty-two years. He went from village to village. He spoke so much—morning till night. And one day, when Ananda asked something, Buddha said: Ananda, do you know, for forty-two years I have not spoken a single word? Ananda said: Lord, had you said this to anyone else, perhaps he might accept it. I have roamed with you for forty-two years like your shadow; and you say you did not speak! From morning till night you explain to people.
Buddha said: Ananda, even so I say, remember, for forty-two years I have not spoken a single word. Ananda said: You wander village to village, door to door. Buddha replied: Ananda, again I tell you, for forty-two years I neither went anywhere, nor came. Ananda said: Perhaps you are joking. Do not tease me.
But Ananda could not understand. Only after Buddha’s dispersal, after his nirvana, when enlightenment happened to Ananda, did he understand—and he wept. He said: Lord, you explained so much and I did not understand. Today I know for forty-two years you neither went nor came. Today I know for forty-two years you did not speak a single word.
Kim vijanati, kim brute, kim karoti.
You did nothing at all.
When the ego goes, all activity goes. Activity itself is ego’s. Knowing is an activity, speaking is an activity, walking is an activity, doing is an activity. All goes.
You too will be troubled if I say, I have not spoken a single word. I am speaking right now. And if I say, I am not speaking even a single word—you too will be troubled. I understand your difficulty. For whatsoever you have done until now, you have 'done' it; you have not allowed anything to happen in life. These words are being said; no one is saying them. As leaves appear on trees and flowers bloom, so these words bloom. No one is making them bloom. There is no effort behind them, no attempt, no insistence. If they do not bloom, nothing is lost. If they bloom, nothing is gained. If suddenly, in the middle of speaking, I stop—no difference will be made. If the word does not come, it does not come.
Coleridge—the great English poet—died leaving thousands of unfinished poems. Before dying, a friend asked: You are leaving so many poems unfinished! Why not complete them? Coleridge said: Who was there to complete them? As much came, came; more did not come. Three lines descended, I wrote three lines. I was only an instrument. The fourth line did not descend. Even the quatrain did not form—what could I do? As much came, came.
In his whole life Coleridge completed only seven poems. Yet on the strength of seven, he is a great poet. Those who wrote seven thousand poems are not great poets. There is something in Coleridge’s verse—something from beyond, some sound from far away. Something unknown has descended. Coleridge did not speak; the Divine spoke.
This is the meaning when we say the Vedas are apaurusheya, or we say the Koran descended. Understand this meaning. I do not care for the claims of Hindus or Muslims; I neither endorse nor argue them. But the meaning is this: the Koran descended. Muhammad did not compose it; he found it descending. When for the first time the Koran descended upon Muhammad, he was very frightened. He was an uneducated man. He had never imagined such unparalleled poetry would descend. He had never even dreamt it. It was beyond his reckoning. As if you had never sculpted in your life, and one day suddenly you find you have taken up chisel and hammer and are carving marble—and you wonder: what am I doing? I am no sculptor; I never even thought of it! Yet an irresistible force drags you, and not only that—you carve the greatest statue in the world—would you be able to say, I carved it? You neither learned nor dreamt. No images floated in your mind.
Muhammad was a simple man, unlettered, with daily work. He had never imagined. When the Koran first descended and an inner voice told him: Sing! he trembled. Write!—he trembled, for he did not even know writing. The inner voice said: If you cannot write, read! He said: I do not know how to read either. He could not even sign his name. He trembled so much he developed a fever. He thought some ghost had entered—what is this? He went home, pulled a quilt over himself and lay down. His wife asked: What happened? You left fine—what’s the matter? He said: Do not ask. He lay huddled, shivering; the voice resounded, took on form, and the first ayat of the Koran descended. Muhammad saw it descending. It was entirely separate from Muhammad. It had nothing to do with him. Muhammad was like a bamboo hollow; someone began to sing through it; someone’s notes began to fill it. Muhammad provided the space—and even that in astonishment, not knowing what was happening. There was no preparation. The great Koran descended. The great epic descended.
In this sense the Koran is apaurusheya—not manufactured by man. In the same way the Vedas descended. The Bible descended. The Upanishads descended. The Dhammapada descended. Mahavira’s voice descended. No one spoke. Existence spoke. The Vast spoke. The Unknown spoke.
Nishkamah kim vijanati, kim brute cha karoti kim.
In such desire-free state, where it is known that Atman is Brahman, then no one says anything, no one knows anything, no one does anything; though everything happens—speech happens, action happens, knowing happens.
'Having known with absolute certainty that all is Atman, the yogi’s imaginings—'This I am' and 'This I am not'—wither away.'
Ayam so’ham ayam naham iti kshina vikalpanah.
Sarvam atmeti nishchitya, tushnibhutasya yoginah.
Sarvam Atma!
Brahman means: There is only One. And that One is in all. From stone to the Supreme, it is the expansion of the same One, the same waves. From the inert to the conscious, the One manifests. Many forms, many gestures—but the One to whom they belong is the same.
Sarvam Atma!
All is Atman.
Iti nishchitya...
He who has known thus, experienced, tasted! Not rotating in the head—these truths have descended into the heart; not pasted on the surface—they have sprouted from within!
Tushnibhutasya yoginah.
Such a one attains the ultimate peace, the ultimate rest.
Have you noticed? People come to me. They say: Great restlessness—how to be calm? Show us some easy method. They want something cheap. They want a way by which they may remain as they are and still be calm. If they are running after money, they wish to keep running. In truth, they want calm so that they can run after money more efficiently. If there is no sleep at night, then in the morning as much hustle at the shop cannot happen as it could have; without rest, how to labor?
Even when one wants peace, it is only so that the restless enterprise may function better.
If I say to them: You cannot be calm so long as you are, they say: Then it is beyond us! They want peace to be added as a commodity. Let them remain as they are; add peace. Like buying something from the market—a new table, a television. Old house, old wife, old children, old you—everything old; buy a new television and put it in the same room. People want such peace to come—such knowledge to come.
No. All the old will have to go; only then can peace come. Peace is the state of your disappearance. Where you have receded. So long as you are, you will continue to create disturbance. Disturbance is your nature. Disturbance is the nature of ego. Ego is a disease.
Tushnibhutasya yoginah.
He who has known the One alone—only he becomes silent; only he attains the supreme rest where no tension remains.
What is tension? Understand tension. The other is an enemy—this is the first tension. Just this acceptance starts the mischief. Then there will be snatching, competition, struggle. Where there is the other, there is war; where the other, there is enmity. Where the other, you are not alone. The desires you pursue—others too pursue. Not only you want to be president—sixty crores want to be president. The seat is one and sixty crores are candidates; therefore, for everyone, the remaining sixty crores are his enemies. Where the other is, enmity is. And when the other is, you must defend yourself—there is fear, anxiety; you must secure yourself. You defend, the other becomes afraid.
You saw: Pakistan buys airplanes from America; India panics and cries—then hurry, buy from Russia, do something. India buys—Pakistan panics: do something! No one considers that when you begin making arrangements out of fear of the other, the other also makes arrangements out of fear of you. A vicious circle is created.
Mulla Nasruddin was walking along a road at dusk, with twilight falling. He had read a book about thieves and murderers—some old detective, ghostly, magical book. He was frightened; the book’s shadow was upon him. He saw people approaching. He said: Seems they are enemies. And band is playing—an attack is underway. Someone on a horse with a sword dangling. It was a wedding procession. But he was terrified. He saw there was no escape nearby. By chance there was a graveyard; he leapt over the wall and ended up in a freshly dug grave. People must have gone to bring the corpse after digging; he lay inside thinking, Who will bother a dead man.
But seeing him leap over the wall and disappear into shadows, the wedding party too got scared: What is this? They stopped the band. Nasruddin thought: I am finished, they have noticed. He lay holding his breath. They peeped over the wall. When they peeped with their lanterns, he said: Now it is the end! I will never see my wife and children again. They saw a living man had just jumped in and was lying like a corpse in a fresh grave. They said: Some trick—this man will attack, throw a bomb! They came with lanterns and torches and stood around.
How long could Nasruddin hold his breath? Breath is breath. After a while he sat up. He said: All right, brothers, do what you must. They said: What do you mean—what do you want to do? Then he understood. They asked: Why are you here? Why are you lying in this grave? Nasruddin said: This is the limit. I am here because of you; and you are here because of me! And it’s all pointless.
When he saw in the light that it was a wedding—no attack—his fear dissolved.
Have you seen? The neighbor starts doing something; you begin preparing. You start; the neighbor prepares. In the world, half the conflicts are due to fear. You return home—it is not just among nations. You return home preparing your answers to your wife. The wife too is preparing: It’s five o’clock—husband will return; let’s see what answer he brings. Both are ready.
Fear of the other shrinks you, fills you with tension, makes you insecure. Life passes in this quarrel—small and big—of castes, religions, nations—yet it is one quarrel.
'Having known with absolute certainty that all is Atman, he becomes silent.'
Tushnibhutasya yoginah.
He alone is the yogi. One who has known there is only One—then what fear? I am in you too—then what question, what struggle?
Darwin’s doctrine is: struggle. All the sages of the East say: surrender. Darwin says: survival of the fittest. The sages say something else: ask Lao Tzu, Ashtavakra, Buddha, Mahavira. They say: The tender survives. The loving survives. The feminine survives; the hard is defeated.
Lao Tzu says: Water pours from the mountain upon the hard rock. At first glance, it seems rock will win and the water lose. Water is delicate; rock is strong. If Darwin were true, water must lose, rock must win. But Lao Tzu seems to be true. Water wins; rock loses. After some years you find the rock has turned to sand and washed away; the stream remains.
The tender wins; the hard loses. The egoless wins; the egoist loses. The egoist is like rock; the egoless like the stream.
Say it this way: he who fights loses. He who is willing to lose, wins. One willing to lose says: You too are myself.
Have you noticed—wrestling with your small son—you do not win. If you win over your son, the neighborhood will laugh: What foolishness! You pinned a small boy and sat upon his chest! No—the father wrestles in order to lose. Not that he falls flat instantly; then the child will not enjoy, will feel cheated. He feints, shows strength, threatens—and then lies down. The child sits on his chest delighted and says: I have won! The child is your own—what fear in losing? Who would not want to lose to his own child!
The Upanishadic gurus say: The master is pleased only when he is defeated by the disciple. Who among masters would not want the disciple to go beyond him—to reach where even he has not? If all is our own expansion, if I am a part of this wideness, if there is no gap between you and me, one ocean of consciousness—then what winning, what losing, what struggle? Where struggle ends, peace is. Peace is not brought; peace is the absence of struggle.
Tushnibhutasya yoginah.
And that one is the yogi who becomes quiet in this way. Sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, forcibly restraining yourself—that is not peace. That is contraction. Sitting like a corpse, having bound and braced yourself—that is not peace. The real yogi attains rest, a total let-go. He lets himself go, immerses, the drop falls into the ocean.
Iti vikalpanah ayam sah aham ayam na kshinah.
'All the imaginations—this I am, this I am not—fall away, forever, for the yogi.'
To say 'this I am' and 'this I am not' is to create division—when the truth is One. To call one 'I' and another 'you' is to create division; it is your vikalpana. And see: out of fear, ghosts arise. Once the idea is there...
In my village, a teacher I knew always said he did not fear ghosts. I had heard it so often that I said: You must surely be afraid. You say it again and again without cause. So I told him: I know a place with ghosts. If you have real courage, come. He feared, his face showed it. But it was a matter of ego. He said: I do not fear—where?
Near my house was a godown of kerosene tins. Empty tins expand in heat and make sounds. Long lines of tins. I said: Spend the night here. He feared; no one had lived there for years. He asked: Are you sure there are ghosts? I said: Sure—and you will experience them moving from one tin to another. Do not panic. And if it gets too frightening, I’ll hang a bell—ring it and I will come with the neighbors to rescue you.
He said: I do not fear. I said: Then no need for the bell. He said: The bell should remain, just in case.
His hands and feet began to tremble. I left him. In half an hour, at about nine in the evening, he rang furiously. As soon as the evening coolness came, the tins, heated all day, began to contract and made noises. He had already imagined much to hold himself together—and when he heard the 'ghosts' moving from tin to tin, he rang. I went; I knew he would. He stood on the parapet. I said: Come from inside and open the door; you’ve latched it from within. But he had no courage to pass through the room where ghosts were moving. His voice had frozen; he could not speak. We had to put a ladder and bring him down.
I asked: Why don’t you speak? He said: Speak what? I somehow endured half an hour. Never again will I say... Ghosts exist. I have my own direct experience now. I tried to explain there are no ghosts. Come with me, I will show you the secret. He said: Leave it. I will never go back into that house.
Whenever I go to the village, I ask what he thinks. He says: I have dropped the topic.
You can project your imagination onto anything. Vikalpana has great power. You take a woman to be beautiful and she becomes beautiful. You begin to see something in money and you see it. You lust for position, desire attaches, imagination spreads its net. How many times have you not, sitting at home, imagined you have succeeded, won the election, a procession is being taken out, people are garlanding you! The sages say: our whole life is Sheikhchilli-hood. We have made imaginations and poured our life into them so much that they seem real. They are not.
A child is born like a zero. He knows nothing. We teach him: This is your body. A belief is created. He learns: This is my body. We teach him character, ego: 'See what lineage you are born into! Be first in school. The honor of the family is at stake. Be ahead of everyone! Adorn yourself with virtues!' Slowly, through constant hypnosis, the child too begins to believe: I am special; I am something; born in a special home, family, religion, country; I am the glory of the nation. And such things: I am the body; I am the mind—these go deep.
Through constant repetition, lies become truths. Repeat anything and it begins to seem true. Once it seems true, you fall into its grip.
'Having known that all is Atman, the yogi’s imaginations—'this I am, this I am not'—wither away.'
You are neither body nor mind. You are beyond both. Neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain; neither woman nor man; neither Indian nor Chinese nor German. Neither white nor black. Neither young nor old. You are beyond all these. That which is hidden beyond all these and sees—that you are. The more you experience the truth of the witness, the more certainly you experience it, the more silent you become.
'For the calmed yogi there is neither distraction nor concentration, neither hyper-knowledge nor stupidity, neither pleasure nor pain.'
Attend to this word: 'upashant'—the one who has become calm in this way. The one who has dropped the ego’s imaginations, who has dropped all identifications, who no longer says 'this I am' and does not separate himself from 'you'. For such an upashant yogi there is no distraction—nothing 'distracts' him. How can anything distract him?
You sit and say: I sat to meditate and my wife dropped a pot in the kitchen—distraction. The meditation was broken. Then it was not meditation if it broke. The child cried, a truck passed on the road, an airplane overhead—great obstacles. If obstacles happened, it was not meditation. You were holding yourself forcibly; a small jolt and your forcing broke. This is not meditation.
Meditation is a state of zero. How can there be distraction in zero? Can there be obstacle in emptiness? If you were truly calm, your wife might drop a pot; the sound would echo and be heard—but no reaction would arise. Of course you would hear, because your ears have not ceased to exist. Perhaps you would hear even better, because you are utterly still; even a pin drop would be heard. But the sound would echo; as in an empty house it echoes and fades—so in your emptiness it would come, resound, depart; you would remain as you are. Your zero would not tremble. Zero does not tremble; only ego trembles. Only ego is wounded by touch. Ego is a wound; it hurts when touched. Remember this.
'Neither distraction nor concentration.'
A unique utterance! Ordinarily you think meditation means concentration. Meditation is not concentration. Because if you concentrate, there will be distraction; obstacle will come. You sit focusing on the image of Rama and a dog barks—mess. The dog’s bark will be heard, for as long as it is heard your focus on Rama is gone. For a moment you forgot. Your beads are rolling and the phone rings. For a second the mind went to the phone; the beads slipped. The hand may go on, but within, you missed. You become unhappy: obstacle.
Meditation is not concentration; meditation is awareness.
You sit—the dog barks—it is heard. The phone rings—it is heard. When the dog barks, there is no inner thought that 'the dog should not bark'. Who are you to stop the dog? The dog is not stopping you from meditating! The dog does not say: your meditation disturbs us, stop meditating—so that we can bark without guilt. You are putting a hindrance in our freedom by sitting here with eyes closed.
No—the dog has nothing to do with your meditation. What has your meditation to do with the dog? The dog barked; it barked. The sound resounded; it resounded. No reaction arose. You did not think: This dog should not bark. This neighbor’s dog... the neighbor... my enemy... they are conspiring. The mind starts: I will take revenge. I will buy a stronger dog, an Alsatian, and repay this. What is the corporation doing—stray dogs are roaming. The mind starts. Reaction begins. Then distraction...
Distraction is not due to the dog’s barking; distraction is due to your reaction, the thoughts you weave around the barking. Those thoughts are yours. Do not think. The dog barked; it barked. Sit still. The phone rings—you get restless.
Once I stayed in Calcutta at a stockbroker’s house. He was a big speculator. There was not a single room without telephones—even in the bathroom there were two or three. On the walls were scribbles—he would write there. In the bath, if a deal was struck, he would note it then and there. I saw pencils on the bathroom wall. He said: The stock business is such that a moment’s delay cannot be afforded. I said: I understand for the bathroom. I want to see your prayer room. There too was a telephone. I asked: What is this? He said: The stock is such; God can wait a bit. A moment’s delay and things go topsy-turvy—lakh becomes loss. It must be settled at once. The beads keep moving; I settle quickly in a second and return to the beads.
I said: This is distraction.
The phone rings and you think: who might be calling? Maybe a deal! Thought arises. Notice: the phone is not creating the obstacle; your thought is.
I bathed in his bathroom too. The bell rang; I thought: What’s that to me? No deals of mine. The bell was no hindrance. It rang; I heard it as music—no business of mine.
At a rest house, a minister stayed the same night. He could not sleep because ten or twelve dogs were barking. He came and said: You are sleeping so well; I envy you. I said: What is the matter? He said: You are sleeping; these dogs are barking; they won’t let me sleep.
I said: You see I am sleeping. If you cannot, the trouble is in you, not in the dogs. The dogs don’t know the Minister has come—they neither read newspapers nor listen to radio. They are dogs; they don’t know you have arrived. They are not giving speeches to welcome you. They are doing their thing.
He said: Then tell me how to sleep. I said: Do one thing. What is disturbing you is the thought 'dogs should not bark'. Lie down and say within: 'Bark, dogs; your work is to bark. My work is to sleep. You bark; I sleep.' Listen with ease. In the barking there is a flavor too.
He said: What are you saying! I said: Try. Your way hasn’t worked. Half the night is gone. There is flavor even in barking—there too the Divine is barking. Another form of the Divine. Accept it. Drop opposition. Embrace it: You bark and I sleep. The world is vast—room for you and room for me. The Divine is vast—holds all.
He said: All right, let’s try. He did not seem eager, but there was no alternative. After half an hour he was snoring. I went and shook him. He said: What now—you woke me up? Somehow I had fallen asleep.
I said: Now you have found the knack; no more trouble. But I wanted to be sure if you had actually fallen asleep—you were snoring. He said: True—when I let go and lay down...
This effortless acceptance is meditation. Be awake and see: whatever happens, happens. Planes will fly; trains will pass; shunting will be done; trucks will roar; babies will cry; women will drop utensils; the postman will knock—this will all happen.
Because of concentration, people fled to jungles. They did not know meditation; otherwise it happens here.
I read the life of an American psychologist. He wanted to learn vipassana. The largest school is in Burma. He took three weeks off, came to Rangoon with great fantasies: a foothill retreat, deep trees, waterfalls, birds singing, flowers blooming—three weeks of bliss in solitude. But when his taxi stopped, he slapped his forehead. The ashram was in the middle of Rangoon’s fish market—stench, uproar, noise everywhere, flies buzzing, dogs barking, people bargaining, women running, children screaming. Is this a place for an ashram? He felt like returning at once, but no plane was available for three days. So he thought: since I am here, at least see the master who created such an ashram.
He went in; it was evening—about two hundred crows were returning to the ashram because the monks throw them rice at dusk. Great noise! Crows—those great politicians—arguing. Debate was on. Crows always complain; they never find peace. Corrupt yogis—complaint is their business. They were engaged in their grievances; shrieking everywhere.
He said... And right there the monks were meditating. Some walking, as Buddhists do; some seated under trees, utterly still. He stood awhile; it felt paradoxical. But on the monks’ faces was great peace—as if none of this existed, or as if they were in another realm where such news does not arrive, or if it does, no distraction is created. Seeing their faces, he decided to stay three days.
He went to the master and said: What is this place you chose? The master said: Wait; if after three weeks you ask again, I will answer. He stayed three weeks. First for three days, then he felt there was something here. One week—slowly it ceased to matter that the market was noisy, trucks and cars rushing, crows cawing, dogs barking, flies buzzing. You begin to go to a far realm. You descend within; nothing obstructs. In the second week he forgot it entirely. In the third week it felt: had these crows, dogs, this market not been here—perhaps meditation would not have happened. Because because of them a background formed. He said to the master: Forgive me; my complaint was wrong—it was haste.
The master said: I built this here after much thought. Vipassana’s very experiment is: where obstacles are, do not react to obstacles. Let the mind become reactionless—and peace happens.
'For the calmed yogi there is neither distraction nor concentration, neither hyper-knowledge nor stupidity.'
Hear this marvellous truth: One who is truly quiet does not become a super-knower—that would also be an excess. The quiet one becomes balanced—in the middle. He is neither stupid nor learned. Neither over-knowing nor over-dull—he stands in the middle, with a quiet mind. You cannot call him dull; you cannot call him a pundit. He is simple, balanced, centered. There remain no extremes in his life. Neither violent nor non-violent—both are extremes. Neither friend nor foe—both are extremes. He is free of excess. To be free of excess is to be free. He has neither pleasure nor pain. He has gone beyond duality.
Ordinarily people think: when knowledge arises, we will become super-knowers. No—when knowledge arises, you will be so quiet that even the tension of knowing will not remain. You will not even know that you know. That too will go. You will know—and yet have no ego of knowing. You will be as if not knowing while knowing; and as if knowing while not knowing. Exactly in the middle. Standing in the middle is called self-restraint; samyaktva; music. Buddha said: If the veena’s strings are too loose, no music; if too tight, the veena breaks—again no music. There is a state where the strings are neither tight nor loose—there music arises. Concerning life’s veena too, this is true.
'For a yogi of nirvikalpa nature there is no difference between kingship and beggary, gain and loss, society and forest.'
Na viksepo na chaikagryam, natibodho na mudhata.
Na sukham na cha va duhkham upashantasya yoginah.
Swarajye bhaikshya-vrittau cha, labhalabhe jane vane,
nirvikalpa-svabhavasya na visheshosti yoginah.
One who has become quiet, centered, balanced—who has attained the inner music—for such a nirvikalpa yogi, neither the kingdom nor begging is special. If you meet such a yogi begging, you will see a king’s glory in him. If you see him on a throne, you will see a beggar’s freedom in him.
Wherever you meet such a person, if you watch closely, you will find the opposite pole present in balance. As a king, he is not only a king; he can leave any moment. As a beggar, he is not merely a beggar—he is not wretched. In the beggar is his dignity; in the king is his calm. Beggar or king—no difference. 'Na vishesh asti'—nothing is special. Whether in society or in the forest—no difference. You will find him alone in the crowd; and in the forest, you will not find him against the crowd—no enmity. He has not fled to the forest out of fear of the crowd. Bring him from forest to crowd or from crowd to forest—no difference. He has settled within. Nothing makes him tremble.
Swarajye bhaikshya-vritta...
Whether kingship or beggary,
Labhalabhe...
Whether gain or loss,
Jane va vane...
Whether jungle or crowd,
Nirvikalpa-svabhavasya yoginah...
The yogi remains choice-less.
He has no preference. He does not say, It must be thus. If it is, fine; if not, fine. If this happens, fine; otherwise, fine. He has dropped reaction. He no longer pronounces verdicts. He lets what happens, happen. He has no complaints now. All is accepted—tathata. All is embraced.
'For the yogi free of the duality of 'this is done' and 'this is not done', where is dharma, where kama, where artha, where discrimination?'
Kwa dharmah kwa cha va kamah, kwa charthah kwa vivekita,
idam kritam idam neti dvandvairmuktasya yoginah.
We live caught in this: What did I do, what did I not do? What did I achieve, what not—constantly calculating. Mathematics all day: earned this much, failed at this; won here, lost there; success here, failure there. Until the last breath man keeps thinking: What did I do, what did I not.
Andrew Carnegie, a great American multimillionaire, was dying. He opened his eyes and said: Tell me exactly how much wealth I leave behind. His secretary rushed to calculate. Carnegie seemed to be waiting, his breath held. When told: You are leaving about a billion dollars, he died—not very happily. He said: I had thought I would at least make ten billion. I am a defeated man.
Even a man who leaves a billion dies thinking he is defeated! If he wanted ten, then losing nine is defeat—heavy defeat. A billion seems like not even a rupee. He went full of sorrow; his whole life he ran.
His secretary wrote: If God asked me whether I would be Andrew Carnegie or Andrew Carnegie’s secretary, I would choose to be the secretary. Why? Because I never saw a more harried man. Engaged twenty-four hours.
They say Andrew Carnegie once did not recognize his own son. Sitting in his office, a young man passed. He asked his secretary: Who is that?
'You are impossible—that is your son!'
'Ah! I have no time.'
No time ever to sit with his sons, talk, play, go to the hills on holidays. Wealth alone—eyes blinded. He cannot see even his son.
Mulla Nasruddin stood in court. The magistrate said: Nasruddin, it is strange—you stole the box, but left the cash lying next to it. Why? Nasruddin said: For God’s sake, do not mention that. My wife fought with me a whole week over that mistake. Now you bring it up again.
He stole the box; next to it were notes—his wife fought for seven days: Why did you not bring the money? He says to the magistrate: For God’s sake, do not bring that up. A mistake happened—what to do? I stole the box—that is no mistake; the money I left—that was the mistake. Forgive me; but do not bring it up again. Hearing it for seven days has broken my head.
Your life is caught in such accounts: What I did, what I did not. Will you keep adding all your life? And then you go empty-handed. All done and undone remain lying here. What is done becomes futile; what is not done is futile.
'For the yogi free of this duality—'this is done, this not done'—where is dharma!'
Even dharma has no meaning for him, for dharma means 'what should be done'; adharma means 'what should not be done.'
Listen to this revolutionary utterance. For such a one, even dharma has no meaning, because he has dropped the very trouble of doing and not doing. He has come to witnessing. For such a one, where is dharma, where kama, where artha, where discrimination! No need for discrimination now. He does not decide what is good, what bad; what is duty, what not; what is moral, what immoral. These have become futile. Duality has gone—and what remains is peace. That peace is the treasure.
Idam kritam idam na kritam dvandvair muktasya yoginah.
This done, this not done—one who is free of such duality is the yogi. What is done is done; what is not—let the Divine know. One who has become the witness is the yogi.
Krityam kimapi na eva na kapi hridi ranjana.
Yatha jivanam eveha jivanmuktasya yoginah.
'For the jivanmukta yogi there is no duty at all.'
See these incendiary words—burning embers! No more revolutionary declarations exist.
'For the jivanmukta yogi there is no duty; nor is there any longing in the heart. He lives here the life that comes as it comes.'
As life is, so it is. What came, came. What did not, did not. What happened, happened. What did not, did not. He is happy in every state.
Yatha jivanam eveha...
As life is, there is not the slightest desire for it to be otherwise. As life is, so it is.
You keep desiring otherwise. With ten rupees you want twenty; with twenty, forty; with forty, eighty. The ninety-nine’s loop you know. Not only with money: your face is not beautiful—let it be. Your character be beautiful. Become a mahatma. It is the same story. You are not content as you are; you want to be a Buddha, a Mahavira—something else! Something to become! You are not content with what you are.
Remember: only if you become content with what you are, do you become a Buddha, a Mahavira. 'Mahatma' is not a goal to be achieved. Mahatma means one who is content as he is. Such utter fulfillment that nothing else need happen. Whatever he makes, however he makes. Whatever he shows, we will see. Whatever he makes us do, we will do. When he calls us, we will go. Until he keeps us, we remain. Whatever game he plays, we will play. Such a feeling-state is the state of a mahatma.
Meditate on this sutra deeply.
Krityam kimapi na eva—there is no duty.
Na kapi hridi ranjana—nor any craving in the heart that it be thus, no attachment, no infatuation, no possessiveness, no longing.
Yatha jivanam eveha—As life is, so it is. I am content with life as it is. The name of this contentment is yoga.
Jivanmuktasya yoginah—Such a one is freed from all the nets of life.
This one sutra can transform your whole life. In it is contained the essence of all the Vedas, all the Korans. In this tiny sutra are contained all prayers, all sadhanas, all adorations. The explosion of this one sutra can change your life from the roots.
As you are, surrender to the Divine. Say: Thy will be done. As you keep me, I remain. What you make me do, I do. If you lead me astray, I will wander. If you throw me into hell, I will remain there. But I will not complain.
The moment you are free of complaint, prayer is born. And the moment you are content with what is—then in your life nothing remains except sat-chit-ananda. Then only the taste of the Divine flows; only his stream pours. The moment of supreme benediction arrives.
Meditate on this sutra. Taste it little by little. Whenever you remember—throughout the day—apply the sutra. A thousand moments come every day when this sutra can be the key. Wherever complaint arises, make this sutra the key. All the locks of complaint can be opened by this key. When complaint falls, the doors of the temple are open—the Lord is available. Because of your desires, complaints, likings, loves—you cannot see; you remain blind.
Yatha jivanam eva—Thus is life. Just thus; not a hair-breadth different is needed.
On the cross, at death, Jesus proclaimed this very sutra. In his last words he said: 'Thy will be done.' Cross or cross—kill me if you will. Outside your will I have no will. I am content with your will.
In that very moment Jesus disappeared and Christ was born. In that very moment the human form of Jesus departed and the Divine form was born. Resurrection happened. Jesus became twice-born. Jesus became Brahmajnani. In that moment!
Mansoor was crucified, his hands and feet cut off—yet he laughed, looking at the sky. Someone in the crowd asked: Why do you laugh, Mansoor, when such pain is being given to you?
He said: I laugh because even creating this state, God could not create complaint in me. I look at God and laugh: Do this too, but I am content. However you come, you cannot deceive me. I have recognized you. You have come as death—I accept. I laugh looking at God: You gave a great deception; I was afraid perhaps I would be deceived, but no—you could not deceive me. I am content! This too is my blessedness: you have come—though as death! You have tested me!
Fire-tests are only for the truly worthy. So take difficulty as examination. Do not take crisis as crisis—take it as challenge. Remember this sutra. With the help of this sutra, from where you are, a bridge to the Divine can be built.
You have seen Lakshman Jhula—ropes swinging! This sutra is such a thin thread, but with it you can undertake the final journey.
Hari Om Tat Sat!