Maha Geeta #6

What you think you understood from scripture has not become your own understanding. What you grasped from words has not turned into your realization. Many who hear Ashtavakra feel, “Ah, then everything is already attained!” But feeling that does not make it so.

What connection can there be between merely feeling this on hearing Ashtavakra and the actuality of attainment? Let it become your own seeing that it is already attained. Let it be your felt sense, your experience—not an intellectual conclusion.

The intellect agrees very quickly. What could be simpler than: “It is already attained. Good—trouble over! No need to search, no need to meditate, no need for worship or prayer—it’s already attained!” The intellect is pleased not because it has understood, but because the hindrances of the path, the labor of practice, the need for means all drop away. Then you look around and say, “But it still hasn’t happened.”

If understanding with the intellect were enough, we could have universities of spirituality. There is no university of spirituality. You won’t get it from scriptures; you will get it from your own self-arising wisdom.

Listen to Ashtavakra, but don’t be in a hurry to believe. Your greed will hurry you. It will say, “This is so easy; the treasure is already ours. The bother of attaining is gone; nowhere to go, nothing to do.”

This is what you have always wanted—to get it without doing anything. But remember: beneath it all the desire to get is intact—“Let it come without doing!” Earlier you thought you would get it by doing; now you think you will get it without doing. The craving to obtain remains. Hence the question arises: why has self-knowledge not happened yet?

One who has truly understood would say, “To hell with self-knowledge—what is there to do?” If you have understood Ashtavakra, no second question can arise. If self-knowledge has not happened, it means that even while believing Ashtavakra you were still glancing from the corner of your eye: “Has it happened yet?” Your gaze is still fixed on getting.

People come to me. I tell them: meditation will not deepen so long as you go on asking for something. As long as you think, “Let something come—bliss, God, the Self”—meditation will not deepen; because it is the mentality of greed that is thinking of getting. It is ambition; it is politics; religion has not happened yet. Then they say, “All right! Then we’ll sit without thinking—then it will happen, right?”

Not the slightest change. They are even ready not to think—“You say this is the means to get it; fine, we won’t think. But then we will get it, right?”

You don’t get free of greed. On hearing Ashtavakra, many people quickly conclude, “All right, it’s done.” If only it happened that quickly! And it isn’t that there is any obstacle to it happening. If there is a barrier, it is only the foolishness of your craving. It is utterly near.

Ashtavakra is right: it is already attained. But “it is already attained” will be understood only when every urge to get has dissolved. Then, with your whole being, you will know it is already so. Right now it is just an intellectual toy.

When a seer like Ashtavakra speaks, surely he speaks rightly. But you are too quick to believe. Your faith is impotent. You do not even doubt; you accept too readily. In this country we have lost the habit of questioning the words of scripture: if the scriptures say it, it must be right.

Mulla Nasruddin came one day with a very beautiful umbrella. I asked, “Where did you get it? Such a beautiful umbrella isn’t made here!”
He said, “My sister sent it as a gift.”
I said, “Nasruddin! You have always said you have no sister!”
He said, “That’s true.”
“Then how is it a gift from your sister?”
He said, “If you won’t accept it, it’s written right on the handle: ‘A gift from sister to brother.’ I was leaving a hotel, and this was written on the umbrella. I thought, well then, there must be a sister—when it’s written, one must believe. And anyway, some cousin-sister perhaps. And spiritual people always say: except for your wife, consider all women to be mother or sister.”

Words that are written—and then, written in scripture!—evoke faith very quickly. You tell someone something and he asks, “Where is it written?” Show it printed and he is satisfied. As if there were some power in being written! How old is it? Then people agree—as if truth had anything to do with age! Who said it—Ashtavakra? Buddha? Mahavira?—then it must be right.

You don’t make even the slightest effort to awaken on your own—not an inch. Someone says it and you believe it—and especially such a simple promise: that without doing anything you will get it.

Those devoted to Krishnamurti have been listening for forty years—the same people, more or less. Nothing has happened. Sometimes one of them comes to me and says, “We know that all is already attained—then why doesn’t it happen? We listen to Krishnamurti; it makes sense that all is already attained.” These are greedy people. They always wanted that no effort be required, that it be gotten for free. They have not heard Krishnamurti, nor understood Ashtavakra; they have heard their own greed. They have listened through the medium of their greed—and then they have interpreted according to their own accounts.

How easy it is to drop meditation—how hard it is to do it! What came to Ashtavakra did not come by doing something; but neither did it come by doing nothing. Understand this now. It’s a slightly intricate matter.

I have told you: Buddha attained when he dropped all doing—but first he did everything. For six years he labored tirelessly, staking everything. Only by staking everything did the realization arise that by doing, nothing is attained. It isn’t that he read Ashtavakra; the Ashtavakra Gita was available in Buddha’s time—he could have read it and spared himself six years of toil. He worked unremittingly for six years and came to know, through toil upon toil, that toil does not bring it. Not a hairline of hope remained inside that effort could attain it; not even a trace of such a desire. He tried and found: it does not come that way. This understanding became so total that one day, in that very totality, doing dropped—and instantly it was.

So I want to tell you: the state of non-doing comes only when you have done everything. Don’t be in a hurry; otherwise the little bit of meditation you are doing will also slip away; the small engagement you have in prayer or worship will fall away too. Ashtavakra will remain far away; even the little journey you had begun will stop.

Before anyone can stop, it is necessary to run with your whole being. Only then does the understanding deepen that running does not bring it. One day effort drops—but not by intellectual understanding alone. Every hair of you, every particle of you understands it is futile; in that very moment, it happens.

Ashtavakra is right: ritual is bondage. But only the one who practices ritual will know. I tell you this because I practiced and found it to be a bondage. I tell you this because I used means and found that no means reaches the goal. I meditated and discovered that no meditation brings samadhi. But when, by doing, you discover that no meditation brings samadhi—when that realization grows deep, boils at a hundred degrees, when you stake everything, hold nothing back, throw yourself wholly into the fire, when the effort is complete, the austerity fulfilled, the means exhausted—then existence can no longer demand of you, “You held something back.” You have poured in everything—and on that day, in that intensity, in that inflamed state of consciousness, suddenly all is reduced to ash. All means, all rituals, all meditations, all austerities and renunciations—suddenly you awaken and find: Ah! What I was seeking was already found!

If this could happen merely by reading Ashtavakra, it would be very easy indeed. What is hard in reading Ashtavakra? His sutras are plain and clear. Beware: the simplest things are the hardest to understand in this world. And the difficulty comes from within you. You always wanted to avoid doing anything. People agree to meditate only with great reluctance. Now here is the touchstone—the Ashtavakra Gita. Those who keep meditating even after hearing Ashtavakra have understood. Those who drop meditation after hearing him neither understood Ashtavakra, nor do they retain meditation.

Only by performing ritual will you come to know: ritual is bondage. This is the final phase of ritual. Do not be hasty with it.

“By self-study of texts like Vedanta and Ashtavakra I have come to know...” Has anyone ever come to know by self-study? Has anyone known by reading and reciting? Has anyone known by mastering scriptures and words? This is not knowing; it is information. Say, “I received information,” not “I have known.” If you had known, the matter would be finished. A piece of information arrives, it tickles, greed sprouts! Greed whispers, “Ah! We were toiling needlessly; Ashtavakra says: without doing—so let us sit without doing.” So you sit without doing. In a little while you begin to observe: “The event has not yet happened; it’s taking time—what’s the matter? And Ashtavakra says, Now! Instantly! Not even one moment needs to pass!” Then you begin to say, “He must be speaking falsely.” Your trust breaks.

You did not know—you were informed. Always remember the difference between information and knowing. Information is borrowed. Someone else knew, and hearing it from him, you were informed. Information is borrowed; knowing is experience. No one other than you can know for you. It cannot be borrowed. If I know, that does not make your knowing happen. My knowing will be mine; your knowing will be yours. Yes, if you collect my words, that is information. Information makes a scholar, not a wise one. One accumulates the burden of knowledge, not the freedom of knowing. A net of words arises, not the beauty of truth. Words ensnare and bind even more. That is why you find the scholar very bound. Where is the open sky?

“I have known that what is to be attained is already attained.” If you have known, what remains to ask?

“For That, effort is a wandering.” If you have known this, what remains to ask?

“I have even deepened this conviction.” Conviction either is or is not; there is no method to deepen it. How will you deepen it? If conviction is, it is; if it is not, it is not—how will you deepen it? What device is there to deepen conviction? Will you suppress doubt? Sit on the chest of doubt? What will you do? Will you deny doubt? Questions will arise in the mind; will you refuse to hear them? Within, the worm of doubt will bite and say, “Listen! Has anything ever been gotten without doing? Can anything happen by just sitting? Does anything come for free? What nonsense are you in? What delusion misleads you? Get up, go, run—otherwise life will pass by; it is passing even now! Don’t sit like a fool and waste time.”

These doubts will arise—what will you do with them? Will you suppress them? Deny them? Say, “I don’t want to listen”? Throw them into the unconscious, hide them in the cellar within? Avoid looking them in the eye? Whatever you do to “deepen” conviction will be some form of repression. Then that conviction will be false. Underneath it disbelief will smolder. The conviction will be only on the surface—a thin sheet spread over embers of doubt that will soon burn it up. Such conviction is of no use; you cannot deepen it. If conviction is, it is complete.

Consider: someone draws a circle—half a circle. Would you call it a circle? A half-circle cannot be called a circle; it is an arc. Only when it is complete is it a circle. An incomplete circle is not a circle.

Incomplete trust is not trust, because incomplete trust means incomplete doubt still stands. The half that is empty—who stands there? Doubt. Doubt and trust cannot travel together. It is like one leg going east and the other west—you will reach nowhere. It is like riding two boats—one coming to this shore, one going to that; where will you arrive?

Doubt’s journey is one thing, trust’s journey another. You are riding two boats. What meaning does incomplete trust have? That half disbelief, half doubt are also present! If trust is, it is whole; if not, it is not.

Remember another curious thing: whenever you mix the superior with the inferior, the inferior loses nothing; only the superior loses something. Add the inferior to the superior and the inferior remains intact; the superior is harmed.

A pure feast is ready; bring a small handful of filth and throw it in. You will say, “There are mounds of pure food; what can a handful of filth do?” That handful will ruin the whole. The entire pure meal cannot destroy that little handful of filth.

Throw a stone at a flower—the stone is unharmed; the flower is finished. The stone is inert, crude; the flower is glorious, of the sky; the stone is of earth; the flower is the poetry of life. In a clash between stone and flower, the flower is ruined; nothing happens to the stone.

One drop of poison is enough.

So remember: doubt is the cruder element. If the stone of doubt lies beside the flower of trust, the flower will be crushed and die; the flower will be murdered.

Do not imagine that trust will transform the stone; the stone will destroy the flower.

Conviction either is or is not. There are no two opinions about this. If it is, it envelops your whole life—it permeates every hair. Such conviction does not come from scripture—nor can it. It comes from living experience. Read the scripture of life and it will come—not by reading Ashtavakra.

Understand Ashtavakra. But do not mistake that understanding for knowing. Understand him, keep that understanding within, set it aside in a corner. You have obtained a touchstone. Not knowledge—a touchstone. When knowledge happens, you will be able to test it upon Ashtavakra’s touchstone.

A touchstone is not gold. You go to a goldsmith and see a black stone lying there—the touchstone. That black stone is not gold. When gold is found, the goldsmith rubs it on that black stone to see whether it is indeed gold.

Understand Ashtavakra, keep his words carefully like a touchstone, tie a knot around them. When the experience of your life arrives, then test it. Ashtavakra’s touchstone will be useful then. You will know what has happened. You will have a language to understand it. You will have a means to recognize it. Ashtavakra will be your witness.

I take the scriptures in this sense: scriptures are witnesses. The path to truth is uncharted. On that unknown path you need some testimonies. When for the first time you stand before truth, it is so vast you will tremble; you will not understand. You will shake to your roots. There is great danger you may go mad.

Just think: a man who has been searching for a treasure for lifetimes, one day suddenly finds it is buried exactly where he stands—will he not go mad? Then all those lifetimes of seeking were futile—and the treasure was right here where I stand.

Think a little! The shock would be immense. “So all these days I lived in vain! This endless span of living was a meaningless endeavor, a sorrowful dream! What I was seeking was within!” In such a blow, such an impact, would one not go mad? In that moment, Ashtavakra’s gentle voice will be cooling. In that moment, Vedanta, the words of Buddha, the Upanishads, the Bible, the Koran will stand as your witnesses. In their presence, what is happening to you anew, you will be able to comprehend; otherwise alone it will be very difficult.

I speak on the scriptures—not so that by hearing them you become wise; I speak so that, since you are walking the path of meditation, today or tomorrow the event will happen—it must happen. When it happens, it should not be that gold is right in front of you and you cannot recognize it. I give you the touchstones. Test it on these.

Ashtavakra is the purest touchstone. One is not to have “faith” in Ashtavakra; one is to use Ashtavakra’s touchstone upon one’s own experience. Make Ashtavakra your witness.

Jesus said to his disciples, “When you arrive, I will be your witness.” Yet the disciples misunderstood. They thought, “When we die and reach God’s heaven, Jesus will testify that these are my disciples, let them in; they are ours, Christians—grant them special grace, more prasada!” But Jesus meant something very different. “When you arrive, I will be your witness” does not mean Jesus will stand there. It means what Jesus has said will remain like a touchstone. When your experience happens, you will immediately test it, and the knot will untangle. Otherwise, having wandered in untruth so long, your eyes have grown accustomed to it; the impact of truth might shatter you, drive you insane.

Remember this: many seekers of truth have gone mad. Many, right on the verge of becoming paramahansas, have gone mad. Because the happening is so great, so unbelievable, so beyond trust—as if the whole sky falls upon you; your vessel is small and the vast pours upon it! You become disarrayed. You cannot hold it. As if the sun suddenly stands before you and your eyes are dazzled—everything goes dim! The sun stands before you and there is darkness, because your eyes close. In that hour, Ashtavakra’s words will help you make sense of the sun. In that hour, the voice of Ashtavakra lying in your unconscious will instantly become articulate. The Upanishads will resound, the Gita will resound, the Koran will resound, the verses will rise! Their fragrance will reassure you that you have come home; there is no need to panic. This vastness is you!

Ashtavakra says: You are all-pervading! You are the vast. You are the infinite. You are actionless. You are pure awareness. You are only Brahman in form.

These words will become interpretation in that moment. By merely having “faith” in them, by clutching at them, you will reach nowhere. And your greed stands within: self-knowledge, right now!

To bind desire,
the gourd lays out a string of sound.
Ah! And in that very thing
how solitary, dense
desire trembles!

Listen again—

To bind desire,
the gourd lays out a string of sound.
Ah! And in that very thing
how solitary, dense
desire trembles!

That is why the snake’s coils do not move,
only the hood sways.

Even when you want to be free of desire, you weave a net of desire. You want to become utterly pure and aware—but still through the medium of greed; still it is desire that trembles.

Ah! And in that very thing
how solitary, dense
desire trembles!
To bind desire,
the gourd lays out a string of sound.

You set out to attain God, but your mode of attaining is the same as the one who seeks wealth. You set out to attain the Divine, but your desire, your craving is the same as the one who seeks objects. The frenzy with which one pursues the world—that very frenzy is yours.

Desire changes the object; desire does not change.

Hearing Ashtavakra, your desire says: “Ah, this is auspicious! We never knew that what we seek is already attained. Then let us just sit.” And then you wait: now it will happen, now it will happen, now it will happen! How desire trembles! Now it will happen! Then you have not understood at all.

Listen to Ashtavakra again. He says: It is already attained. But how will you hear this? How will you understand? Your desire is trembling.

Until you have run through your desire, run and run and seen its futility; until you run and fall and are bloodied, break your hands and feet—you will not understand. When, through experience, desire becomes futile, collapses in exhaustion and breaks—only in that desireless moment will you understand that what you seek is already attained.

Otherwise you will become parrots. It makes no difference whether you are a Hindu parrot or a Muslim or a Christian or a Jain or a Buddhist parrot—it makes no difference. A parrot is a parrot. If you wish, you can make a parrot recite the Bible; or, if you wish, the Gita. The parrot will rote-repeat.

Inside the temple they, all scrubbed and wiped,
bare, unstained, with open throats,
in ringing voices, over-eloquent,
went on singing the name of Ram.
Within, all dumb, deaf, meaningless prattle,
witless, uncomprehending, stunted—
but outwardly,
as many children as there were, that many loudmouths!

Look in the temples!

Inside the temple they, all scrubbed and wiped,
bare, unstained...!
How innocent people appear in the temple. See those same faces in the marketplace, and in the temple—the coverings look different. With open throats, in ringing voices, over-eloquent, they go on chanting Ram’s name. Have you seen someone with a rosary chanting Ram’s name? Wrapt in a Ram-cloth, sandalpaste on the brow—what a pure image! See this same gentleman in the bazaar, in the crowd—you won’t even recognize him. People wear different faces: one for the market, another for the temple.

Over-eloquent, chanting the name of Ram—
inside, all dumb, deaf, meaningless prattle,
witless, uncomprehending, stunted—
but outwardly,
as many children, that many chatterboxes!

Information can make you a parrot, a blabberer. Information can give you the illusion of being religious, can deceive you. But do not mistake it for knowing. And any conviction you maintain on the basis of information will be seated upon doubt—riding on the shoulders of doubt. Such conviction will not take you to the door of truth. Do not trust it much. It is worth two pennies.

Conviction must arise from self-experience. Conviction must arise from the pure, stainless meditative state of your own being.

This is exactly what I keep telling you.
If even a small glimpse of truth comes to you, you will become restless; you will not understand what it is. If you do not understand what it is, deep unrest will seize you; even madness can take hold. That is why I speak on these scriptures. That is why I go on explaining to you every day—so that somewhere in your unconscious the information remains, and when such events occur you can interpret them precisely and sort them out. Otherwise, how will you sort them out?—you will have no language; no words; no way to understand; no standard of measure. There will be no scales—how will you weigh? No touchstone—how will you test?
Whoever has asked has asked rightly, and from experience. Keep this in mind.
There are two kinds of questions. One is theoretical. They do not have much value. This question is of experience. Had it not arisen from experience, it could not even have been formed. If these feet had not staggered, this question could not have arisen. This question comes straight from experience.
“From somewhere, the remembrance of the witness arose.”
Perhaps the words of Ashtavakra were echoing. What I said in the morning—its echo must have remained; its fragrance must be rising within you; a few traces of it must have stayed entangled somewhere.
“The remembrance of the witness came from somewhere! The play of the witness went on for a little while.”
Perhaps it lasted only a moment. Even that moment seems very long when the play of the witness is on, because the witness is beyond time. Here, on the clock, a moment passes; there, in being the witness, it can seem as if centuries have gone by. The clock does not function there. This clock is not made for the inner eye.
“The play went on for a little while, but in the meantime my legs began to wobble, so to keep from falling I sat down by the roadside.”
This faltering shows that the happening occurred. The questioner has not asked after listening or after reading—something has happened.
"And then there was neither the seen, nor the spectator, nor the seer." In that faltering, everything scattered, everything was lost. At such a moment, a kind of derangement can come if there has not been gradual practice. If we do not assimilate it bit by bit and it bursts forth all at once, there can be an explosion.

"Everything ended—and yet something was."
Certainly, something was. In fact, for the first time there was everything. Your “everything” ended. The little hut of straw you had built—that collapsed. The sky remained, the moon and stars remained. Only the Divine remained! The boundaries, the lines you had drawn—they disappeared. The cloudless sky remained! The habit you had formed of living in the small—this staggered. In that very stagger you panicked and sat down by the roadside.

Certainly, something was. But the one to whom this happened was struck dumb. He could not grasp what it was, who it was!

Do you recall? Sometimes it happens that someone suddenly wakes you when you were in deep sleep—it’s five in the morning, you were in the deepest hour of the night—someone wakes you abruptly; some commotion erupts; a bomb goes off on the road; a car crashes at the gate; some noise arises—you wake up at once. Suddenly! From sleep you are instantly conscious. From the depths of sleep you come like an arrow.

Ordinarily when we come up from deep sleep we come slowly. First deep sleep loosens, then gradually dreams begin to float. Then we linger in dreams for a while. That is why you remember the dreams of morning; you don’t remember the dreams of night. Morning dreams are very light, and they are exactly between sleep and waking. Then slowly the dreams recede. Then there is a broken, incomplete kind of sleep. Then a game of hide-and-seek with light and shade goes on for a bit; for a moment it seems you are awake, for a moment you fall back into sleep; you change sides; as you turn over it seems you are awake; you even hear sounds in between—that your wife has begun making tea, that a utensil has fallen, that the milkman has come, that someone is passing on the street, that the maid has knocked, that the children have started getting ready for school. Then, turning over, you dive again into a little depth. In this way, slowly, slowly, you come to the surface. Then you open your eyes.

But if suddenly something happens, you come like an arrow straight from the depths into wakefulness. On opening your eyes you feel all of a sudden: Where am I? Who am I? For a moment nothing makes sense.

This must have happened to all of you at some time: "Who am I? Even my name and address do not come to mind. Where am I? That too is not clear. As if suddenly I have arrived in a strange world!" It lasts only a moment; then you collect yourself. Because the shock is not very big. And you are used to it; it happens every day. Every morning you get up, returning from the world of dreams to the world of waking. The practice is old; yet even so, when it happens abruptly, one is startled, one panics.

When the real awakening happens, you will be utterly speechless. You will not understand what is happening. Everything will become silence and void.

But it is good.
"Neither the seer remained, nor the spectator, nor the seen. Everything ended—yet something was."

It is so that you can interpret this "something" that I speak on so many scriptures. Become capable of interpreting this something; give meaning to this something; recognize this something, define it—otherwise this something will drown you. You will be swept away in the flood. It is so that a ground to stand upon remains for you that I am saying so much.

"Everything ended, yet something was. At times darkness, at times a hide-and-seek of light kept playing. But since then the restlessness has increased. And I cannot make out what it all was."

Hold on to what I am saying. Make a casket for it. Do not take it as knowledge; take it as information. With understanding, make a casket for it. Then gradually you will find that whenever the experience happens, my words—those very words which will make the experience clear and distinct—will rise from your unconscious and stand by you. I will become your witness. I am your witness.

But if, while listening, you are arguing with me, then I will not be able to become your witness. If, while listening, you are engaged in some inner conflict with me, reasoning against me; if, while listening, you are not hearing me with sympathy and love, but disputing with me—then I will not be able to be your witness. Because then what you will store in your casket will not be mine; it will be your own.

Last night a psychologist from Australia took sannyas. I told that psychologist that even if you do not take sannyas, you are welcome. But then you will not be my guest. You are welcome in any case. If you take sannyas you are welcome—and you become my guest as well.

People ask me, "If we do not take sannyas, will your love for us be less?" My love for you will be complete. You are welcome. But the moment you take sannyas you become a guest as well.

And that is a big difference. Without sannyas you listen from a distance; with sannyas you come close. Without sannyas you listen and analyze with your intellect; you sift what I am saying. Whatever appeals to you, you keep; what does not appeal, you drop. And the likelihood is that what does not appeal to you is precisely what will prove useful. Because what appeals to you cannot change you. If it appeals, it means it matches your past. What does not match your past—that will become the ray of revolution within you. What does not match you will transform you. What matches you perfectly will strengthen you, not transform you. Yet you go on choosing. You think you are intelligent.

The intelligent sometimes commit great foolishness. They sit and choose. They go on selecting. What suits their purpose they will keep; what does not suit them—what have they to do with it!

But I say to you again: what you feel does not suit your purpose—that very thing will serve you some day. Today you have no way even to understand it, because you have no experience of it. Even so, I say, keep it safe. When the experience comes some day, suddenly the words will rise from your unconscious and resolve it. Then you will not be struck dumb. Then your wonder will not shatter you. And then you will not panic, and there will be no restlessness.

High above,
what the wind sang,
what the deodar echoed,
what shimmered on the snow-peaks,
what spilled from the evening sky—
who has found it?
The one who stretched the hand
of desire to appropriate?

Ah, it descended into my
heart that was given away;
it melted into my accepted tears.
The Unknown, the Unrecognized came thus.
Through all these and through me
it brought itself to itself,
it merged into itself.
Alone, that is so radiant where
the gaze bows down helplessly;
what of speech—there even the echo of silence
comes to an end.

Listen to me—with deep tears! Listen to me—with the heart! Listen to me—with love! Not with the intellect, not with logic. That alone is the meaning of faith and trust.

High above,
what the wind sang,
what the deodar echoed,
what shimmered on the snow-peaks,
what spilled from the evening sky—
who has found it?
Has he who
stretched out the hand of desire to appropriate?

No! Where the hand of desire is stretched, there the hand becomes very small. In the hand of desire only alms can fit; empires cannot. For empires to fit, a heart open with love is needed; not the vessel of begging, of lust.

Who has found it?
The one who stretched the hand of desire to appropriate?

You can listen to me here in such a way that you say, "Let me grab whatever serves my purpose and tuck it into my pouch." Then you come to me with the hand of desire. Desire is a beggar. Then you will take away a little something, but what you take will be crumbs fallen from the table. You will not have become a guest. Sannyas makes you a guest.

Ah, it descended into my
heart that was given away!
Ah, it descended into my
heart that was given away.

It melted into my accepted tears.
The Unknown, Unrecognized came thus.
Through all these and through me
it brought itself to itself,
it merged into itself.
Alone, that is so radiant where
the gaze bows down helplessly.
There the eyes bow.
What of speech—even the echo of silence
runs out there.

Prepare for That. Fill the heart with love for That. Learn to listen with sympathy for That. And what I am telling you, store it in your casket. Then there will be no restlessness. Then, when the unfamiliar, the unknown descends—you will be able to understand it. You will catch its subtle tone. You will not drown in its silence, you will not panic—you will be freed. Otherwise, it will feel like death. If the Divine comes without understanding—if you have no way to understand—it will feel like death: "I’m dying!" If you have even a little way to understand, a little preparation; if you have learned something from true masters, have sat in satsang—then the Divine is liberation; otherwise it appears like death. And once you panic, you will stop going in that direction. Once you are deeply frightened, every hair on your body will fear. You will go everywhere else but not there, where such fear is; where hands and feet falter; where one has to sit down by the roadside; where all becomes dim, all seems lost; something unknown, unfamiliar remains and it frightens and brings restlessness—you will not go there again.

There is a song by Rabindranath: I had been searching for God for many lives. I searched much, I did not find. Sometimes, far, very far, on the moon and stars a glimpse would appear. Hope kept me going; I kept seeking. Then one day, by coincidence and good fortune, I reached his door. A plaque was there—Here lives God! I vaulted up the steps in a single leap; the journey of ages was complete. O blessedness! I had the chain in my hand to ring the bell when suddenly a fear seized me: if he appears—then what? What will I do then? Until now, seeking God has been my sole occupation. Until now I have lived by this alone. This has been my life’s journey. If God is found, that will be death. Then what of my life? Then where is my journey? What is there to seek, whom to attain? Then nothing will remain. Greatly frightened, I set the chain down gently—lest there be a sound, lest he open the door! I took my shoes in my hands and ran… and since then I am running.

Even now I search—Rabindranath has written in that song—even now I search for God; though I know where his house is. I search everywhere except that place; because seeking itself is life. I avoid going to that one place. I veer away from that house. Everywhere else I ask, "Where is God?"—even though I know where God is.

In my view, many people, in the journey of endless lives, have reached near that house many times—but they panicked. They panicked so intensely that they forgot everything; only that panic has not been forgotten yet! That is why people are not easily eager to meditate. People are afraid of things like meditation; they avoid them. They use the word “God” formally, but they never allow God to become the deep seeking of life. They visit temple and mosque—social formality, convention. One should go, so they go. But they never allow the temple, the mosque to settle in the heart. They do not take that risk. They keep God at a distance. There must be a reason. Somewhere in some profound experience, in some hidden deep memory, a sense of fear is concealed. Perhaps once they staggered near his house.

Now the friend to whom this experience has happened—if he does not understand rightly, he will begin to be frightened. To falter on the road like this, to sit down in panic by the roadside, hands and feet trembling, the heart pounding hard, breath running helter-skelter, everything going topsy-turvy—better to stay away from such meditation! It’s a troublesome business. It’s all right if one returns; but what if one doesn’t? If one keeps sitting by the roadside like that, people will think he’s gone mad. An hour or two is fine; then the police will come. Neighbors will say, "Now pick him up and send him to the hospital—what happened?" The doctor will start giving injections: he has lost consciousness; his brain has gone wrong.

A friend of mine has written—he is a sannyasin—that when he left here he went dancing, joyous. The family had never seen him dancing and joyous. When he arrived home dancing and joyous, they thought he had gone mad. The family rushed to grab him: "Sit down, what has happened to you?" "Oh," he said, "nothing has happened to me. I am very happy, very blissful." The more he spoke words of wisdom, the more suspicious they became that something had gone wrong. They would not let him leave the house. They forcibly admitted him to a hospital. His letter has come: I lie here laughing in the hospital. It’s great fun! When I was unhappy, no one brought me to a hospital. Now that I am happy, people have brought me to a hospital. I am watching the play. But they think I am mad. And the more they think I am mad, the more I feel like laughing. The more I laugh, the more they think I’ve gone completely off!

Good that you asked. Do not be frightened. This experience will gradually settle. Keep the witness-attitude. It is natural.

See the difference! Just now there was a question—of experience. This one is scholastic: “We are a part of God and also imperishable!” Do you know that? You have heard it, read it—and it gratifies the ego—you have even believed it. What could feed the ego more than this: that we are a part of God? We are God, Brahman, imperishable! This is exactly what you want. This is the ego’s search. This is your deepest longing: to become imperishable, to be a part of God, to be of the nature of Brahman, to become the master of the whole universe!

“We are a part of God and also imperishable.”
Do you know this? If you know, there is no need for a question. If you do not know, then writing this statement is pointless; writing the question alone is enough.

“Please tell when, why, and how did this part separate from the Source?”
These are questions of punditry. When?—you want the time, date, tithi. What will you do with it? Even if I tell you the calendar, the era, the exact hour—what difference will it make? What revolution will it bring to your life, what will you gain?

“When, why, and how did it separate?”
If you know you are a part of God, you will know you never separated. You dreamt of separation. Separation has never happened—how can a part be separate from the Whole? The part is with the Whole. You must have forgotten; separation cannot occur, only forgetfulness can. There is no way to separate. We are what we are—whether we forget or remember—the whole difference is between forgetfulness and remembrance.

“When, why, and how did it separate from the Source?”
Had separation happened, I could tell you when, why, and how. It did not. At night you slept and dreamt that in the dream you had become a horse. In the morning you ask: Why, how, when did I become a horse?—a very difficult matter. “Why did I become a horse?” You never did, in the first place. Had you actually become one, who would be left to ask? Horses do not ask. You never became one; you simply dreamt. Remember, even while you were dreaming you were not a horse—although you were utterly absorbed in the feeling that you had become a horse. This is precisely Ashtavakra’s central standpoint.

Ashtavakra says: Whatever you connect your “I”-sense with, that you become. Dehābhimān—identify with the body, and you become the body. Say “I am the body,” and you become the body. Brahmābhimān—say “I am Brahman,” and you become Brahman. Whatever you link your “I” to, that you become. In the dream you linked it with being a horse—you became a horse. Right now you have linked it with the body—you have become a human being. But in truth you have never become any of these. You are that which you are. Just as you are! Exactly as you are! In your nature not the slightest change has occurred.

Therefore such questions are meaningless. Do not waste time asking them. And those who answer such questions are even more unintelligent than you.

It is mentioned in the life of the Zen master Bokuju: One morning he got up, called his chief disciple, and said, “Listen, last night I saw a dream. Can you interpret it?”
The disciple said, “Wait. I’ll bring some water; please wash your face and hands first.”
He brought a pitcher of water and had the master wash his face and hands. While he was washing, another disciple was passing by. The master said, “Listen! Last night I saw a dream. Will you interpret it?”
He said, “Hold on—a cup of tea will do you good.” He brought a cup of tea. The master laughed heartily. He said, “Had you interpreted my dream, I would have beaten you and thrown you out.”

What interpretation of a dream? Now that it’s been seen and you’ve awakened—drop the whole fuss!
The disciples answered perfectly. It was a touchstone. It was their test. The moment of examination had come. One disciple brought water: wash your face and hands. The dream is gone—let’s end the matter! What more interpretation? A dream is a dream; the matter is finished. Interpretation is of truth, not of dreams. What interpretation can there be of a lie? Of that which never happened, what interpretation can there be? It is enough to know it was a dream; now wash your face and hands. Come out—now that you are already out.

The second young man also did right by bringing tea: your face and hands are washed, but it seems a little sleep still lingers—drink tea and wake up completely.

This is what I say to you: wash your face and hands, have tea! You were never separate. There is no way to be separate.

Then you ask: “Is the reunion of the part with the Source, a never-to-separate union, possible or not?”
Since you have never been separate, talk of union is sheer nonsense. That is why Ashtavakra says that the ritual of liberation is the bondage of liberation. What is he saying? He is saying: planning to meet that from which you have never been apart? This is the limit of insanity! This very plan will not let you meet.

Think a little! If you have never stepped outside your house, then the effort to return home will not allow you to wake up.

A drunk came home late at night. He had drunk too much. He felt about at the door, but could not make out that it was his own house. His mother opened the door. He said, “Hey, old woman! Tell me the address of my house.”
The old woman said, “You are my son, I am your mother, you fool! This is your house.”
He said, “Do not delude me. Do not mislead me. One thing I know for sure: my house is somewhere around here—but where is it?”

The neighbors gathered. They began to explain. Now, a drunk needs no explanations. Whoever explains to a drunk is drunk himself. They began to prove, to gather evidence: “Look—see this, see that.” They did not understand at all that the man is drunk—what proof! Who knows what all he is seeing, which you cannot even imagine. What you are seeing is not visible to him. He is in another world. He does not recognize his mother—how will he recognize his house! He does not recognize himself—how will he recognize anyone else!

Behind him came another drunk, driving along his bullock cart. He said, “Sit in my cart; I will take you to your house.”
He said, “This man seems all right. I have found a true master! These people were fools. We ask, ‘Where is our house?’ and they keep repeating, ‘This is your house!’ Are we blind? This man is a true master!”

Be alert. Ask a wrong question, and you will fall into the nets of wrong gurus. Once you ask a wrong question, someone or other will surely turn up to give you a wrong answer. This is the rule of life. The truth is, even if you do not ask, answer-givers are ready. They are looking for you. By asking such questions you only arrange to entangle yourself in confusions.

“Is reunion possible?”
Separation never happened, no farewell was ever taken—what is there to talk of reunion?

And then you ask, “Is a never-to-separate union possible?” Lest it happen that union occurs and then we separate again!
All this seems meaningful because we do not remember who we are.

If God were other than you, all this would be true. God is your nature. We can forget our nature. It is also in our nature that we can forget our nature.

It is also the soul’s freedom that, if it wishes to desire, it can. If the soul could not desire, it would become dependent. Think on this a little!

The world is your freedom; you desired it, and so it is. Your desiring is free. If you wish, it can cease right now. If you wish, it can arise again right now.

So I cannot tell you how a union that never parts will be. In truth there has never been any separation, but it is the soul’s supreme freedom to forget whatever it wants whenever it wants, and to remember whatever it wants whenever it wants. If this possibility were not there, the soul would be limited; its liberation would be bound; qualifications would be imposed upon it.

In the West there was a thinker: Denis Diderot. He “proved” that God is not all-powerful, not omnipotent. His arguments are such that they seem convincing. For instance, he asks, “Can God make two and two equal five?” Even to us this is an awkward question—how could even God make two and two become five? Then how omnipotent is He? Two and two will stay four. “Can God make a triangle with four angles?” How would He? If it has four angles, it is no longer a triangle. If it remains a triangle, it cannot have four angles. “Then God is limited.”

Diderot shook the Christian notion of God. But had Diderot known the Indian understanding, he would have been in difficulty. We say: this is precisely the whole “mischief”—God’s freedom is such that He can make two and two become five, or two and two become three. This we call maya, wherein two and two become five, two and two become three. When two and two become four, you are outside maya.

Here triangles sit as though they were quadrilaterals. There is great deception here. One person understands one thing, another something else. Things are not known as they are. One thing is certain: two and two are no longer four; everything else has become possible. This is what we call maya.

We have called maya the power of God. Have you ever thought what that means? If maya is God’s power, it means that if God so wishes, He has the power to delude Himself; otherwise He would be limited. What kind of God would He be if He could not dream? That would be a limitation: He would be incapable of dreaming.

No—God can dream. You are the God who is dreaming. You can awaken, you can dream—and this capacity is yours. Therefore, whenever you wish you can dream, and whenever you wish you can awaken. It is your choice: if you want to remain awake, you will remain awake; if you want to remain in the dream, you will keep on dreaming.

Man’s freedom is unobstructed. The soul’s power is unobstructed. Truth and dream—two streams of the soul. Everything is contained within those two streams.

You ask whether reunion is possible?
First, don’t say reunion (punarmilan). Say re-remembering (punarsmaran)—then you have used the right word.

Then you ask, “Will it be a union that never parts...?”
That I cannot guarantee. Because it depends on you—your choice. If you want to leave it, to forget it, no one can stop you.

If you want to remember it, no one can stop you. And don’t be troubled by this. Rather, be awed by how vast your freedom is—that even if you want to forget God, there is no obstacle. God does not hinder you in the least. Even if you want to go against Him, there is no obstacle. Even then He is with you. Even when you want to go the other way, He keeps giving you strength.

The Sufi fakir Hasan wrote: One night I asked God, “Who is the most virtuous man in this village?” God said, “The one who lives next door to you.”
Hasan had never given him a thought. He was a very simple man. Who pays attention to the simple? Attention goes to the troublemakers. A simple man, quiet, ordinary, in his own joy—no give-and-take with anyone. No one had noticed him. Hasan said, “This man the greatest saint!”
The next morning he looked carefully and saw a great radiance around him. That night he asked God one more question: “This was good—you told me. I will worship this man. I will bow to him. He is my master. Now tell me also: who is the worst person in the village, from whom I should keep away?”
God said, “That same neighbor of yours.”
Hasan said, “This is a bit confusing.”
God said, “What can I do? Last night he was in a good mood; tonight in a bad mood. What can I do? By tomorrow morning I can’t say what his state will be. He may be back in a good mood.”

The soul is absolutely free. There is no bondage upon it. This absolute freedom is what we call moksha. Included in moksha is this: if you wish to forget, no one can stop you. What kind of moksha would it be if you wanted to step out and could not?

I have heard: a Christian priest died. He reached heaven, and was astonished. He saw many people bound in chains and shackles. He asked, “What is this? Chains and shackles in heaven?”
They said, “These—these are Americans—they want to go back to America. They say there was more fun there. We had to handcuff them, otherwise it would be a great insult to heaven. They say, ‘We don’t want to stay in heaven; send us back to America. There was more fun there. The women there were better than these apsaras. The wine! The wine there was better. The buildings! Taller there. Why are you stuck with these old-fashioned palaces?’
“Now the mansions of heaven are outmoded; they have fallen completely outside time. The engineers, the architects… they built them ten–twenty–twenty-five thousand years ago—and that’s what is still here.
“They say, ‘We want to go to America.’ So we had to bind them. If they ran away and reached America, heaven would be badly insulted. Then who would want to come to heaven?”
But what kind of heaven is it if there are handcuffs there? Then hell is better; at least there are no handcuffs. Remember this: freedom is heaven. Liberation is moksha. Wherever you are by your own freedom, there is liberation. And this is the final thing, the final unconditional truth—there is no condition above it.

So if a liberated soul decides to return to the world, no one can stop it. That they don’t usually return is another matter. But if a liberated soul does want to return, no one can stop it. Because who will stop it? And if someone could stop it, how would it remain a liberated soul?

You are heading out through heaven’s gate. They say, “Stop! We won’t let you out. This is heaven—where are you going?”—heaven ends in that very moment.

I am not telling you that liberated souls return. I am saying that if they want to return, no one can stop them. Therefore I cannot give you a guarantee. If you want to return, what can I do? If you want to forget God, what can I do? I only declare your complete freedom.

“If possible, please merge the part into the Whole!”
Your intent is a little too cheap. You say you don’t want to merge; someone else should kindly merge you. How will that happen? Only if you want to merge can merging happen. It will be your own longing, your resolve, your aspiration, your inner thirst—and then… No one else can merge you. There is no way to drag anyone into moksha by force—neither from outside nor from inside. You go by your own will.

And even if somehow I did merge you, you would slip out again. Because a happening brought from the outside will not become a relationship of your soul. It would be coercion. This cannot be. Otherwise a single enlightened one would have liberated the whole world. One enlightened one would have been enough—he would have freed everyone. Do enlightened ones lack compassion? No—their compassion lacks nothing. But nothing can be done against your will. And if your will is present, it can happen now, this very moment. Be blessed! Become it now!

And this expecting from the other—that someone else should merge you with God—this itself is the way to return to the world. The very expectation of the other is the device for returning to the world. “Let someone else give me happiness, someone else give me love, someone else give me respect”—the same old habit now says, “Let someone else liberate me, merge me with God”—but the other!

How long will you remain weak, feeble, impotent? When will you awaken to your own power? When will you declare your own virya, your own potency? When will you stand on your own feet? Now leaning on the wife’s shoulder, now on authorities’, now on leaders’…

I have heard: near Delhi some laborers were sent to work on the road. They reached the site, only to discover they had forgotten their shovels and picks. They phoned the engineer: “We forgot the tools—please send them immediately.”
He said, “I’m sending them. Till they arrive, lean on each other’s shoulders.”
Laborers do exactly this on the job: they stand leaning on their shovels—resting on them. The engineer said, “I’ll send them as soon as I can. Till then, do this: lean on each other’s shoulders.”

We are bent—only the shoulders change. And when we are free of all this, then comes the guru’s shoulder: “Now let some guru ferry me across; you be the savior, you carry me over!”

When will you proclaim your own Selfhood? In the proclamation of your own Selfhood lies the possibility of your own nature—to bud and to bloom. How long will you keep seeking refuge? How long will you cling to being a beggar? You want even God as alms! Wake up from this stupor!

“Kindly be so gracious that I don’t have to come again and again into this tumult and be frightened.”
You come into this tumult because you want to—therefore you come. And the fun is: if you are kept in solitude, you will be frightened there too. Who is stopping you? Run to the Himalayas, sit in solitude. There, afraid of solitude, you will run back to the hubbub. We are in the hubbub because solitude frightens us; we can’t stay alone. In the crowd we feel bad; it’s difficult. We can’t live alone, and we can’t live in the crowd.

Have you seen what happens when you are left alone? Alone in a dark night, in a forest—what happens? Do you feel bliss?
The hubbub seems better. Let someone come, let there be some conversation! Alone, you start panicking: “I’ll die.” In aloneness it feels like death.

If you drown in God, you will be utterly alone, for there are not two Gods in the world—only one God. Drown, and you are no more—and God is no more as Other—only the One remains. That is why you must prepare through meditation, so that you begin to taste a little of solitude. Before you enter the supreme solitude, let a little flavor of solitude arise: a tune begin to play, a song resound. Let solitude become sweet to you—then you can descend into the supreme solitude. This is the practice of being able to bear God.

If you ask me, I would say meditation is not the process of attaining God. God can be attained even without meditation. Meditation is the practice of withstanding God. Meditation gives you the capacity to bear Him. When the supreme solitude descends, you will be utterly alone. Then no radio, no television, no newspapers, no friends, no club, no society—nothing at all; utterly alone. Meditation is the preparation for that aloneness.

I am ready to take you out of the hubbub—but are you ready? Even when you sit alone, you start a hubbub in your head. The friends you left at home—you start talking to them in your head. The wife you left at home—you start talking to her in your head. You gather the whole crowd again. You begin weaving the net of imagination. You simply cannot remain alone. That is why you come back again and again.

You are not returning to the world without a cause. You return for your own reason. This hubbub you wanted; therefore you got it.

Man’s span of life is nothing at all;
the fact is, there is nothing to it at all.

Man’s life is no life at all. Life belongs to God.
The fact is, there is nothing to it at all.
Man is a fuss about nothing.

Mulla Nasruddin fell out of bed the other day—over a nothing. The child had not yet been born, and he was making room for it. He fell into that empty space and broke his leg.

There was a case in court. Two men had smashed each other’s heads. The magistrate asked, “What’s the matter?” They were both very embarrassed. “How can we tell you the matter? It’s embarrassing to tell. You just give whatever punishment you like.”
He said, “But at least tell me what the matter is. Whom should I punish?”
They looked at each other—“You tell him.” Then, forced to speak as the magistrate grew angry, they said, “It’s like this: we’re friends. We were sitting by the river on the sand. This friend said he was going to buy a buffalo. I said, ‘Don’t buy a buffalo, because I am going to buy a field; and if your buffalo wanders into my field, our lifelong friendship will be ruined.’
“He said, ‘Get lost! Because you’re going to buy a field, we shouldn’t buy a buffalo? You don’t buy the field! And a buffalo is a buffalo—what if she does wander in? We aren’t going to stand behind the buffalo all day! What kind of friendship is it that our buffalo strays into your field and you get bothered by that?’
“So I got haughty and said, ‘Fine—buy your field and show me your buffalo!’ And with a stick I drew a field on the sand: ‘Here is the field.’ And this fool took another stick and drove in the buffalo. A quarrel began, a fight broke out! Now what can we tell you! Please just punish us. It’s embarrassing to say.”
Man’s span of life is nothing at all;
the fact is, there is nothing to it at all.

You have given man everything,
and still the human species is nothing at all.
Apart from the heart-and-gut’s unrest,
the visitations of passion are nothing at all.
The universe of beauty is everything;
the universe of love is nothing at all.
Man just changes his garments—
this life-and-death is nothing at all.

Man only changes clothes. Neither life is anything, nor death.
Man changes garments;
this life-and-death is nothing at all.
Man’s span of life is nothing at all;
the fact is, there is nothing to it at all.

If you understand this much—that you are a fuss about nothing—then you have understood everything.

‘For so long I have wanted to ask you. Please, you yourself tell me what I should ask.’
The real question of life is such that it cannot be asked. The questions you can ask are not worth asking. The one you cannot ask—that alone is worth asking. The real question of life cannot be confined in words. It can only be offered through empty eyes, eyes brimming with wonder. The question of life is existential; it is expressed through your whole state of being.

I know Dulari. She never asked, yet I have heard her question. And that question is not even hers, because what you ask is yours; what you cannot ask belongs to all.

Within all of us there is the same question. And it is this: All this is happening, all this is moving—and still no essence seems to be found. This running, this helter-skelter—yet no meaning appears. So much gaining and losing—and yet it seems neither anything is gained nor anything lost. Birth after birth, a long journey; no destination in sight. We are—but why are we? What is this being of ours? Where are we going and what is happening? What is our meaning? What is the purpose of this music?

Hidden inside everyone lies the question of existence: what is the meaning of existence? And there is no answer to it in words. A question that cannot be formed in words cannot be answered in words.

That which is within us—the witness, the seer, the stream of life, consciousness—call it what you will; in truth it is nameless. Give it any name you like: God, moksha, nirvana, soul, no-soul, the Full, the Void—whatever you wish—this nameless within: dive into it! Only by diving into it will the question slowly be dissolved. I am not saying you will get an answer; only the question will dissolve. And when the question dissolves, the state of consciousness that remains—that is the answer. I am not saying an answer will be given. When you are questionless, life is joy, auspiciousness, grace showers. You dance, you hum. Samadhi blossoms. Then you ask nothing. Then there is nothing to ask. Then life no longer appears as a question; life is a mystery—not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived, to be danced, to be sung; a mystery to be celebrated.

Go within. Beyond the body, beyond the mind, beyond feeling—go within!

All life long we could not know
what tenderness is, where love is,
and where the flower truly gives its fragrance.
All life long we could not know
what tenderness is, where love is,
and where the flower truly gives its fragrance.

The fragrance seems to come—where does it come from? Life is; its shadow is cast—but where is its source? The reflection shimmers, but where is the original? The echo resounds on the hills, but where is the primal sound?

All life long we could not know
what tenderness is, where love is,
and where the flower truly gives its fragrance.
We were caressed by sighs,
and the smile we found was the smile of thorns.
All life long we could not know
what fragrance is, where the pollen is,
and where the cloud pours down.

But the cloud is raining—in your innermost depth. The flower is exuding fragrance—in your innermost depth. The musk dwells within! This fragrance that surrounds you and has become a question—where does it come from? This fragrance is yours; it belongs to no one else. If you look for it outside, it turns into a mirage; the net of maya spreads; the journey of births goes on and on. The day you look within, that very day the doors of the temple open. That very day you arrive at the center of your own fragrance. There is love; there is the Divine!

The mind keeps you entangled outside. The mind says: we will go within, but just a little later.

Leaning on some desire,
by the riverbank
for a long time now
I stand alone, holding silence.
The cow-dust hour is lovely,
a fair of high spirits is on.
This twilight’s gentle haze
is settling over my thinking.
I feel
the evening of my thinking has also come.
There is great restlessness.
Yet in life
even in despair a hope is nursed:
Flutter on a little while more, O heart!
Smile and embrace this delightful dusk—
there is still plenty of time before night arrives!

The mind goes on persuading: a little while more, a little while more—forget yourself in dreams; run a little longer after mirages. The dreams are so beautiful! And then, death is still far away.

That is why people think they will take sannyas, they will pray, they will meditate—in old age, when death will be standing at the door. When one foot has already descended into the grave, then we will lift the other foot for meditation.

Flutter on a little while more, O heart!
Smile and embrace this delightful dusk—
there is still plenty of time before night arrives.

Thus we keep postponing. Night keeps drawing near. There is not plenty of time; night has already come. Many times we have wasted birth and life like this; we kept waiting for death—death arrived before meditation. Another life went to waste. Another opportunity was squandered. Let it not be so this time. Do not postpone now! This fragrance is your very own. This life is hidden within you. The veils to be lifted are the inner veils.

The question is not to be asked outside. The answer is not to come from outside. Wherever the question is arising within, enter there. The question is not even clear—don’t worry. Enter exactly where this dim twilight of the question is. In that evening-light, in that dusk, slowly, slowly go within. Seek the very place from which the question is arising. Do not worry too much about what the question is—only be concerned with where it is arising from. Within yourself, search for that plane, that deep layer, from where the seed of the question sprouted, from where its leaves have risen. There is the root—and there you will find the answer.

The meaning of answer is not that you will find some cut-and-dried reply, some conclusion. The meaning of answer is: there you will experience the “ah-ness” of life. There life ceases to be a problem and becomes a celebration.

A smooth silence
in which loud, burning desires
are seared and then dissolved.
There, your soundless cadence resounds,
Rit is revealed!
A smooth silence
in which loud, burning desires
are seared and then dissolved.

Yes: within, a silence, a peace, in which the heat of all desires slowly fades and cools. There, your soundless cadence resounds—no notes are heard, only the meter resounds—a chant without words, without sound. Pure cadence resounds.

There, your soundless cadence resounds,
Rit is revealed!

There the truth of life is unveiled—Rit is made manifest.

A night like a thick black brew
in which forms, images, idols
all melt and hide,
a dream-transcending, form-transcending, sacred deep sleep—
from that very state You extend Your hand,
suddenly draw me close, and embrace!

The Divine is hidden within you. Go down a little. Leave the idols, the ideas, the images, the concepts—bubbles of the mind! Go a little deeper! Where there are no waves, where there are no words—where there is silence. Where the supreme silence speaks! Where only silence resounds!

There, your soundless cadence resounds,
Rit is revealed.

Descend there!

From that very state You extend Your hand,
suddenly draw me close, and embrace.
There is the union!

That which you seek is hidden within you. The answer to the question you are searching for is hidden within you. Awaken! Taste it this very moment! All the sutras of Ashtavakra bring one single news: He is not to be attained; He is already attained. Awaken and enjoy!

Hari Om Tatsat!