Maha Geeta #61

Within these two small lines the supreme exposition of wisdom is contained. If someone can know and live just these two lines, everything is accomplished. Nothing remains to be done.

Ashtavakra’s sutras are not such that only if you understand an entire scripture will they be useful. To seize even a single sutra is enough. Each sutra is a complete scripture unto itself. Let us try to understand this short but unparalleled sutra.

'A man who is devoid of vāsanā, without support, swacchhanda, and free of bondage moves like a dry leaf, driven by the wind of the world.'

It is mentioned in the life of Lao Tzu: for years he searched, yet could not catch even a glimpse of Truth. He tried everything—every effort, every device—and all proved futile. One day, exhausted, defeated, vanquished, he sat down—autumn days—under a tree. There was nowhere to go now, nothing to obtain. Defeat was complete. Even hope had died. Not a single thread of hope remained upon which to stretch a future. The past had been wasted; the future, too, was wasted. Only this moment was enough. Beyond this there were no wings of desire to fly with. The world had become meaningless—and so had moksha, Truth, Paramatman.

He sat silently like that. There was nothing to do. Nothing worth doing. Just then, a dry leaf fell from the tree. He watched the falling leaf—slowly, gently, swaying upon the wind the leaf came down. A gust came, lifted it up again, and it fell once more. The wind blew to the east—the leaf went east; to the west—the leaf went west.

They say, seeing that dry leaf, Lao Tzu attained Samadhi. In the behavior of the dry leaf he saw a ray of Knowing. Lao Tzu said, Let me be like this too. Wherever the winds carry me, I go. Whatever nature makes happen, I do. Let me not insist upon my will. Let me not impose my ambition. Let me have no private ambition at all. This vast play that goes on—let me merge as a mere ripple into this vastness. Let the plan of the Vast be my plan, and the resolve of the Vast be my resolve. Wherever this Infinite proceeds, there too I flow; I have no goal apart from That. If It drowns me—let me drown; if It saves—let me be saved. If It drowns—drowning itself is the goal; and wherever It drowns me, there is the shore.

And they say, Lao Tzu attained supreme knowing in that very moment.

This sutra, Ashtavakra’s first word—nirvāsano. It has been translated into Hindi as vāsanāmukta—free of desires. Not quite. Nirvāsana means vāsanāśūnya—desireless; not 'freed from desires.' Because 'freed' implies some effort has occurred. 'Freed' implies discipline, yoga, methods. 'Freed' implies as if there were real bonds and we have broken them; as if the prison were actual and we have come out.

No—vāsanāśūnya—nirvāsano. Without vāsanā; not 'freed,' but void of vāsanā. One who has looked at vāsanā closely and found that vāsanā is not. One who has experienced the absence of vāsanā. Understand the distinction—it is subtle.

Here lies the difference between Yoga and Sankhya; between the seeker and the siddha. The seeker says, I will practice, I will strive; there are bonds—I shall drop them, cut them, fight them. By methods it will happen. Yama-niyama, dhyana-dharana—an elaborate process; with it I will break the bondage.

The siddha declares there is no bondage. No method is needed. To open the eyes and see is enough. How will you cut that which is not?

So there are two kinds of people in the world: those who, believing there is bondage in the world, writhe; and those who, believing they must break worldly bondage, fight. And there is no bondage. Think of it as at night, in darkness, a rope lying on the path is taken to be a snake. One person runs, sweating, heart pounding—frightened, 'A snake! Run! Save yourself!' Another says, 'Don’t be afraid. Bring sticks, kill it.' One is running, one is trying to kill the snake. Both are in delusion. For there is no snake; it is only a matter of lighting a lamp. Neither run nor kill. In the light you will see it is a rope, and you will laugh.

The whole emphasis of Ashtavakra is the third—light. Open your eyes and look. Sit a little silently and see. Become a little still in mind and look. There is no bondage anywhere. Vāsanā is not—only appears to be. If you take the appearance to be real, then two options arise: be worldly, or become a yogi; become a bhogī or a yogi. If you become a bhogī, you run from the snake and writhe. If you become a yogi, you fight.

Ashtavakra says, between the two there is a third, a unique path—not of indulgence, not of renunciation; of seeing, of the seer, of the witness. Awake!

Therefore I will not translate nirvāsana as vāsanāmukta. It is true that one who is in nirvāsana is free of vāsanā, but translating it as 'free of desire' is not right, for it is the language of the yogi. Vāsanāśūnya, vāsanārikta, nirvāsana—one who has known that vāsanā is not. Awake and seen, and recognized there is no prison—there was none, there cannot be. As at night one dreamt—one was in prison, handcuffed; in the morning the eyes opened—it was all false. It was a dream. One’s own imagination. One’s own fabrication.

But people get lost in dreams. Not only their own dreams—they get lost in other people’s dreams as well. One’s own madness is infectious, that is understood; but when another is going mad, you too get enveloped.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin, with a friend, was sitting in the shade on a hot day. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and said, 'May the Lord grant that those days also come—they will surely come. Delay there may be, but darkness there is not. When we too shall have a palace, a beautiful lake, dense trees’ shade. We shall rest in the trees’ coolness, we shall float upon the lake—and piles upon piles of ice cream!'

The friend also sat up and said, 'One thing, elder brother—if I come, will you let me share in the ice cream or not?' Mulla said, 'At this moment I can only say this: right now I can’t say anything. Don’t raise this matter now.' The man said, 'All right, leave the ice cream. At least let me rest in the trees’ shade, swim in the lake.' Mulla fell into thought and said, 'No—right now I can only say this: for now I can’t say anything.'

The man exclaimed, 'This is too much! Won’t you even let me rest in the trees’ shade?' Nasruddin said, 'What kind of man are you? Even laziness has a limit. Hey, spur your own horses of imagination! Why do you mount mine? There is no palace, no lake—can’t you at least gallop your own? Why borrow even in this? Even here you mount my horses?'

A man is not only seized by his own imagination, he is seized by others’ too. Man is so unconscious. Your own ambition overtakes you—and another’s ambition overtakes you as well. Sit near an ambitious person and your own ambition starts skimming within. It is contagious. We are unconscious.

Nirvāsana means: now the colors of imagination no longer take hold. Now desires no longer sway. Now the sham seven-colored palaces of ambition no longer impress. Those rainbows have broken. However colorful, they have been known, recognized—false. They were only the spread of one’s own eyes. Waves of one’s own vāsanā. They were nowhere, and yet for nothing we became happy and miserable because of them.

Nirvāsana means: vāsanā has been seen naked—and is not found. The mind has become empty.

Nirvāsano niralambaḥ.

For niralamba Hindi offers 'svatantra'—independent; that too is not right. Niralamba means without support—nirādhāra. 'Independent' carries a whiff of truth, but not complete. Independent means: on one’s own support, one’s own system. Niralamba means: who has no support—neither his own nor another’s. No support whatsoever; one who has become without any ground.

Ashtavakra says, as long as any support remains, you will sway. If there is a foundation, the building will fall. If the foundation is strong, it will fall later; if weak, sooner—but if there is a foundation, it will fall. Only the building without foundation never collapses. How will it collapse—there is no base! If there is any base, sooner or later you will regret—companionship will be lost. Only the supportless never regret. There is nothing that can be lost, no one to leave. No hand is held at all.

Do not even take the support of Paramatman—such is Ashtavakra’s instruction. Because even the supports of God are only the play of your imagination. What God? Who has seen? When known? You will extend it yourself. First you were weaving the net of the world, accomplished in great imagination; then you set up the idol of God. First you searched in the world, missed, did not find. You did not find because that too was imagination—how could it be found? Now you spread the imaginative net of God. Now you decorate Krishna; you place a flute at his lips. The song is yours. This Krishna is yours, this flute yours, this humming yours. This idol is yours—and then you kneel before it. These scriptures you have composed—and then you clasp them to your chest. This heaven and this hell, and this moksha—these vast tents you have pitched afar—these are the games of your own desires.

Tired of the world, but in truth not tired of vāsanā. Pulling up your tent pegs here, you pitch them in moksha. Bored with a woman’s beauty, bored with a man’s beauty—you now gaze at the beauty of nymphs; or you decorate the form of Rama or Krishna and ornament them. But the game continues. The toys have changed; the game continues. Changing toys changes nothing. The game must stop.

Ashtavakra says, 'nirvāsano, niralambaḥ.'

One whose vāsanā has fallen—his supports fall too. Where now to seek support? He does not even ask for a place to stand. In this bottomless existence he becomes like a void. He says, I need no support.

Support means: I want to be saved, I need a crutch. The knower has seen: where am I, after all? That which Is, simply Is. It needs no support. This 'I' of mine needs support because it is not. Without support it cannot stand. It is lame and crippled; it wants a staff.

Niralamba means: now I need no crutch. Now there is nowhere to go, no goal left—what need of a crutch? No need even of legs. No vehicle is needed. Now I am as ready to drown as to be saved. Now whatever Existence makes happen, I am ready to do. Now I need no boat. Now, while drowning, it is not as if I will cry, 'Save me!'

If a knower drowns, he will drown whole-heartedly. In the moment of drowning not even for a moment will the feeling arise: 'What is happening? This should not happen.' What is happening is what is happening. Other than that, neither can it be, nor is there any aspiration for it. What support then?

Have you ever noticed why you seek the support of God? Have you analyzed? You seek even God’s support for the sake of some vāsanā. Some dreams have remained unfulfilled; you cannot accomplish them—perhaps with God’s support they may be completed. You are defeated; now you plan to fire from God’s shoulder. You are tired and collapsing; now you say, 'Lord, now You hold me. You are the support of the helpless. You are the compassion of the poor. You uplift the fallen. I have fallen—now You take care.'

But the yearning to be taken care of remains. If you look closely, it means you are ready to use God’s service too. This is no prayer. This is a new arrangement to exploit God. Your vāsanā is yours, the hunger to satisfy it is yours. Now you want to employ God like a servant. Now you want, 'You also harness Yourself to my chariot. Mine does not move—now You too be yoked. Only if You are yoked will it move.' Though you speak in very fine words—the phrase-making is beautiful.

Your prayers, your hymns—if searched carefully—are new masks for your vāsanā. But you remain present in them. Your hymn is not praise of God; it is flattery, so that you may enlist Him in some vāsanā, so that, with His support, something may be fulfilled which could not be alone.

People come to me and say, 'Give us sannyas.' I ask, 'For what?' They say, 'We could obtain nothing by ourselves; now, with your support… but we will obtain. We will not let life just go like this.'

The chase to obtain remains. If not obtained, we will change the means, change the doctrines, change the scriptures—but we will obtain. A Hindu becomes a Muslim, a Muslim a Christian, a Christian a Buddhist—but he will obtain. He will change scriptures, change instruments—but he will obtain.

A knower is one who has awakened and seen: there is nothing here to obtain. That for which we run to obtain is already obtained. Then what search is there for support? Then one becomes ready to be without shelter, niralamba. The very state of being niralamba is called sannyas.

Nirvāsano niralambaḥ svacchhando…

And one who has attained to the rhythm of his own being.

Understand this word very, very well; much misuse has happened with it. There are words in the world against which great injustice has been done. Svacchhanda is one of those words. People interpret it to mean wilful, self-indulgent. Dictionaries will give you licentious. But svacchhanda is a very lovely word. It does not mean licentious. It simply means: one who has found the inner rhythm, the inner song; one who has come upon one’s own cadence. Who is no longer eager to sing another’s song. Who is not eager to sing even the body’s song, nor the mind’s; who has found his own song. Who has found the innermost melody. Who has been blessed with the inner rhythm—and now dances with that rhythm.

Some of us sing the body’s song. We will be miserable—because that is not our song. Some of us are engaged in fulfilling only the body’s vāsanās. They are never fulfilled. They cannot be fulfilled, because the nature of the body is momentary. Today there is hunger—fill the belly—tomorrow it will be hungry again. One filling does not end hunger. Again and again it returns. Today thirst—drink water—after a while thirst returns. Today sex arises—drown in sex—after a while it arises again.

The body’s nature is transient. There, fullness can never be steady. Unfulfillment remains. Do what you will—your devices will do nothing; it is not the body’s nature.

It is like someone trying to cool fire; or squeezing oil from sand. You will say he is mad. Fire never cools—its nature is heat. And nowhere does oil come from sand—there is no oil in sand. Do not be mad.

He who seeks fulfillment through the body is unwise. He has not peered into the body’s nature. The body is made of the transient. Transience is its nature. The ingredients that have composed it are all ready to scatter; they will scatter. Without the eternal, where is fulfillment? Without the timeless, where is joy?

No—one who takes the body’s rhythm as one’s own, who makes so false an identification, will go astray, weep, writhe. And once you take the body’s rhythm as yours, that inner rhythm, resounding day and night within, is no longer heard. Amid the drums of the body, the brass bands, the yells and huckstering of the transient marketplace, that inner vina—your own—ever playing within, will not be heard.

That note is very soft. It is no noise-maker. To hear it, silence is needed; a still mind, a quiet inwardness, a profound vāsanālessness. No coming and going, no hustle and bustle, no rush; you have sat, with nothing to do—such a non-doing, such a calm flow—and its appearing happens. The inner ray bursts forth. Fragrance arises. And when it comes, it comes abundantly. Once the doors and windows open, every nerve and hair thrills with bliss.

The bursting of that inner song is svacchhanda. Svacchhanda means: one who lives by one’s own song. Not by the song of society, nor of nation. The national anthem is not his anthem. Society’s song is not his song. Sect, temple, mosque, priest—none of these is his song.

These are far things. He does not even tune to the body’s cadence. He tells the body, 'You are fine; your function is fine. Hunger comes—have bread. Thirst comes—drink water. But I have come to know that you have no relation to the eternal.'

Nor does he hum the song of the mind; he sees the mind, too, changing moment to moment. It does not stay an instant. That which does not stay—how will it attain joy? Without rest, how is joy possible? That which never pauses, which keeps running—how will it know repose? Running is its very nature. The mind’s nature is to run. If the mind stops, it dies. It lives only as long as it runs. The mind is like a bicycle—pedal it and it moves; stop pedaling and it falls. The mind runs—so it keeps going; stop, and it drops. Where stopping is annihilation, how will there be rest? How will there be a pause?

Svacchhanda means: now even the mind’s rhythm is not mine. Now we sing that cadence which arises from our ultimate nature. That is the anāhata nāda, Omkāra. Call it what you will. Buddha calls it nirvana; Mahavira calls it kevalya. Ashtavakra’s word is svacchhanda—an exquisite word.

Nirvāsano niralambaḥ svacchhando…

He who has attained svacchhanda…

…muktabandhanaḥ.

Only he, and only he, is free of bondage.

Take note of this too. Freedom from bondage is not a negative thing; it is creative. Only one who has attained the rhythm of the Self is truly free of bondage. Liberation is not merely the breaking of chains. You could drag a man out of a prison—force him out; he may not even want to come—but you break his chains and shove him outside. Do you think he has attained freedom by this? One who did not want to come out, whose chains he did not even wish to break, whom you had to shove out of the prison—this is not bringing him out of prison. Where force is used, that itself is prison. A bigger prison has arrived—you have forced him into a larger cell. The walls are a bit further apart—what difference does it make? Where forcing is needed, that is bondage.

Now you see someone fasting by force—will that bring svacchhanda? And the more he writhes in hunger, the more violence he does to himself; he thinks, 'I am fighting, pushing—on the journey of Self-knowing.' Someone lies on thorns; someone flogs his body. Someone refuses sleep—stands, awake, in the sun and heat. Tormenting himself, doing violence, in the hope that this way there will be liberation.

No, says Ashtavakra, this is not the way to be free. This will become worse than bondage. Where has freedom ever been through force?

So liberation is not negative. Freedom is not merely in breaking the fetters. Freedom is in the attainment of inner autonomy, of svacchhanda. One who attains svacchhanda—his bonds drop by themselves, as if they had never been.

Properly understood, it means we are bound because we have no inkling of our inner freedom. Let the taste of inner freedom arise—bonds fall. No one else has bound us; therefore there is no question of fighting. We are bound because we have not known ourselves. We ourselves have bound ourselves. No one has bound us. It is our belief.

Have you seen a hypnotist hypnotize someone? Once hypnotized, whatever the hypnotist tells him, the subject accepts. If he tells a man, 'You have become a woman—now walk onto the stage,' he walks like a woman. It is difficult to walk like a woman. For a man to walk like a woman is very difficult, because for that the inner structure of the body must be entirely different. A uterus is needed—only then can one walk like a woman. Otherwise, very hard—requires much practice.

But this man has never practiced. Suddenly hypnotized, he is told, 'You are a woman—walk,' and he walks like a woman. What has happened?—a belief.

You will be amazed. Modern psychologists have researched much on hypnosis. If you place an ordinary cold pebble in a hypnotized person’s hand and tell him it is a burning coal, blisters appear. A coal was not put there—how can blisters come?

On the basis of the same principle, Buddhist monks in Lanka walk on fire. The reverse principle: if you have believed that the fire will not burn, it will not. Your belief becomes a Great Wall. If you believe even a pebble is a coal, a pebble will raise blisters. Your belief!

There is a Sufi story: outside Baghdad, Caliph Umar had gone hunting. He saw a black shadow approaching like a whirlwind. He stopped it. 'Stop! I am Caliph Umar. Before entering Baghdad, you need my permission. Who are you?' She said, 'Forgive me—I am Death. Five thousand people are to die in Baghdad. Death does not obey anyone’s orders. You may be Caliph—pardon me. Five thousand are to die—that much I tell you.'

A great plague spread. They say fifty thousand died. The Caliph was furious. He waited on the road. When the plague ebbed and the disease left the city, he stood outside. Death passed again like a whirlwind and he said, 'Stop. Do not obey—fine; but since when has Death learned to lie? You said five thousand would die—fifty thousand died.' She said, 'Forgive me—I killed five thousand. The remaining forty-five thousand died of their own fear. I did not touch them.'

Of a man’s thousand diseases, nine hundred and ninety-nine are self-created. He believes. And the event happens. Your belief is no small thing.

Nagarjuna was a Buddhist monk. A young man came and said, 'Give me some taste of liberation.' Nagarjuna said, 'Before you can taste liberation, you must know one truth—that the bonds are created by you.' The youth said, 'I? I would create my own bonds? What are you saying! Who puts bonds upon himself? This is not logical. Who wants bondage? Everyone wants freedom.'

Nagarjuna said, 'Forget it. In my view, hardly anyone wants freedom. People love their bonds.' When the youth would not agree, Nagarjuna said, 'Then do one thing—there is a cave before us. Go inside. For three days, neither food nor water; and for three days, keep only one thought: that you are not a man, you are a buffalo.'

The youth asked, 'What will that do?' 'After three days,' Nagarjuna said, 'we will see. If you can last three days, the matter will be settled.'

The youth was stubborn—young. He went to the cave. He began the chant. Neither day nor night; neither hunger nor thirst—he did not come out. He did not open his eyes. He repeated: 'I am a buffalo, I am a buffalo…' At first it felt insane. For an hour or two, absolutely meaningless babble. Slowly, he was puzzled. A buffalo began to arise within. The feeling came. Opening the eyes he saw a man; closing them, a buffalo. A gross body… weight began to be felt.

By the third morning, when Nagarjuna came and called at the door, 'Come out,' he tried to come out and said, 'Forgive me—I cannot come out because of my horns. My horns get stuck.'

Nagarjuna slapped him hard. 'Open your eyes. Where are the horns?' He opened his eyes, stunned—no horns, nothing. Yet a moment before he could not come out. Nagarjuna said, 'Belief…' It was a hypnotic experiment.

We have taken our bonds upon ourselves.

Muktabandhanaḥ means: we have tasted our own inner rhythm. We have tasted freedom’s flavor. Having tasted, we no longer fabricate our bonds. No one else builds your prison—you are the architect. You are the prisoner and you are the jailer. You are the one within the bars—and the bars you smelted yourself. Yes, the shackles are on your hands and feet, but they are not forged by another; upon those shackles your own signature is engraved.

There is a famous Sufi tale. A great blacksmith—renowned worldwide. Whatever he made carried his signature. One day his capital was attacked. He was captured, along with the city’s notable citizens. Chains were put on his hands, fetters on his feet, and they were thrown into a mountain trench.

All others were weeping, panicking; he remained unperturbed. The vizier of the city said, 'Brother, we all are anxious—what will happen? But you are calm?' He said, 'I am a blacksmith. All my life I forged shackles—I can break them too. These chains will not restrain me. Do not worry. If I break mine, I will break yours as well. Once they leave us alone, we will throw these away and go.'

The vizier gained courage, the king too. When the enemy had gone, the vizier said, 'Now what do you think?' Suddenly the blacksmith became sad and began to weep. 'What is the matter? Until now you were giving us courage—what happened?' He said, 'Now there is trouble. I looked closely at the handcuff—my signature is on it. It is my own making. This will not break. Impossible. I have never made a weak thing. I always forged the strongest—that is my fame. Had this been another’s, I would have broken it. Now it will not break. Pardon me. My signature is on it.'

I tell you: on your every shackle is your signature. Who else could forge it? And I tell you: there is no need to weep. However strong, it is your own making. And nothing made by the maker is ever greater than the maker. It cannot be.

However great a painting, the painter remains greater. However great a song, the singer remains greater. However graceful the dance, the dancer remains greater than the dance. Therefore Paramatman is greater than the world. Therefore the Atman is greater than the body.

Do not worry. The truth that life’s bonds are all our own making is not frightening—it is liberating. We can break them.

And the wonder is, the bonds are imaginary. In truth they are not—they are dreamlike, hypnotic.

Nirvāsano niralambaḥ svacchhando muktabandhanaḥ.
Kṣiptaḥ saṃsāra-vātena ceṣṭate śuṣka-parṇavat.

'One who is vāsanāless, supportless, who has found his own rhythm and is free of bondage'—then, there is a slight error in translation—'acts like a dry leaf, driven by the wind of prārabdha.'

The original says: saṃsāra-vātena—by the wind of the world—not prārabdha. No question of fate. There is the movement of the world; in that movement of the world, like a dry leaf… as a dry leaf in the wind goes east-west, falls up and down—so the fully wise one appears to be engaged in many activities, yet you cannot say that he is doing them.

When a dry leaf goes toward the east, you do not say the dry leaf is going east. The leaf is not going anywhere; the wind is. The wind is invisible; the leaf is visible. But the leaf is not going anywhere. If the wind does not blow, the leaf will drop. The knower leaves himself in the ocean of Existence—to wherever it carries him. He has no private desire.

And in this sutra is the very essence of Samadhi. Walk, rise, sit—saṃsāra-vātena—not by your desire. Whatever happens, however it happens, let it happen. You run a shop—go on running the shop. You stand in a battlefield—go on struggling in the battlefield. However it is, wherever it is—leave yourself there. Surrender right there. Let the winds of the world blow; you become the dry leaf.

Kṣiptaḥ saṃsāra-vātena ceṣṭate śuṣka-parṇavat.

Then everything will happen of itself. There is nothing more to be done. Once you become the dry leaf, the nectar will rain in your life.

Where there remains no private desire, there remains no suffering. No defeat, no gloom. No honor, no respect, no insult. No loss, no victory. Moment to moment there, Paramatman showers. The very name of that Paramatman is your own rhythm. It is your own song that you have forgotten. Hum it and you will remember.

Asaṃsārasya tu kvāpi na harṣo na viṣādatā.
Sa śītalamana nityaṃ videha iva rājate.

'For the one for whom the world is no more—asaṃsārasya—there is neither delight nor depression. Ever cool of mind, he shines like one beyond the body.'

In translation something seems to be lost. Asaṃsārasya—translated as 'world-free.' Asaṃsārasya means: within whom the world is no more; or for whom the world is no more.

What does 'world' mean? These trees, the moon and stars—are these the world? The world means the inner web of vāsanās, cravings, desires. The desire to obtain something is the world. The desire to become something is the world. Ambition is the world.

Asaṃsārasya—within whom the world is no more; or who, though living in the world, is no longer of the world. Where can such a one have delight or depression?

Sa śītalamana nityaṃ videha iva rājate.

Such a person’s mind has become cool—śītalamana.

Understand this too. As long as there is delight and depression, you cannot be cool. For delight and depression, pleasure and pain, success and failure bring fever, agitation, unrest. When you are unhappy you are ill, and when you are happy you are ill too. Happiness is also an illness, because it excites. Where is peace in happiness? You have known that there is no peace in sorrow; now learn that there is no peace in happiness either. Happiness too excites. It disturbs the mind.

Have you not seen? A man survives sorrow, sometimes dies of joy.

I have heard: a man won a million in the lottery. When the news arrived, his wife was frightened. 'He will be coming home… a million! He has never even held ten rupees together—one million! He will not be able to bear this joy.' Terrified, she ran to the priest. 'Do something—before my husband arrives, do something. A sudden million—his heart will stop. Save my husband.'

The priest said, 'Do not worry. I will come. I will handle it.' The priest came and sat. The husband arrived. The priest spoke with calculation: 'Listen, you have won the lottery… one hundred thousand rupees.' Slowly, he thought to tell it in steps—let him bear a hundred thousand, then add another hundred thousand; if he bears that, add another. The man was delighted. He said, 'If I get a hundred thousand, I will donate fifty thousand to the church.'

They say the priest collapsed right there of heart failure. Fifty thousand! Never seen, never heard!

Joy too brings deep excitation. Joy has its fever; sorrow certainly has fever. We have grown accustomed to sorrow and somehow endure it. Joy we cannot endure because we have no practice—how often does joy come?

So a man cannot bear sorrow, nor can he bear joy. In both states, the mind fills with excitation. Excitation means heat. Coolness is lost. And in coolness there is peace.

Asaṃsārasya tu kvāpi na harṣo na viṣādatā.
Sa śītalamana nityaṃ videha iva rājate.

And one who has become cool of mind—where pleasure and pain do not come; where the birds of pleasure and pain do not make their nest; one who has become cool in his svacchhanda—no news from outside excites him now; whether someone honors or insults, within there is no difference. Within remains the same evenness. One who has become cool of mind—he shines, ever serene, like one bodiless. He sits upon the royal throne.

Nityaṃ videha iva rājate.

He is no longer the body—he has become videha. For he whom pleasure and pain cannot affect has gone beyond the body. Pleasure and pain affect only the body. To be shaken by them is the body’s attribute. He has become videha—transcended the body.

Kutrapi na jihāsāsti nāśo vāpi na kutracit.
Ātmārāmasya dhīrasya śītalacchatarātmanaḥ.

'For the dhīra, cool and pure of mind, who delights in the Self—ātmārāmasya—there is no wish to renounce anything anywhere, nor to obtain anything anywhere.'

Now there is nothing to grasp, nothing to drop. He has known That which Is. Grasping and dropping remain only so long as one does not know oneself. Once one knows, what is there to grasp? What to drop? By grasping nothing increases, by dropping nothing decreases. One who has known himself has received all. Now grasping and dropping are futile.

It would be as if the emperor of the whole world wanders picking up pebbles. One who sits upon the throne of the Vast goes and stands for election to become a municipal member! Meaningless.

One who has attained inner prestige—will he desire anyone else’s prestige? The truth is, prestige given by another is no prestige at all, for it is in another’s hands. He can snatch it whenever he wishes. Another’s prestige is a kind of slavery. If you have given me prestige, I become your slave—for you may snatch it; what can I do? It was your gift; I was the beggar. Your heart changed, your mind changed, the wind changed, the season turned; you began to think differently. Prestige by another is a beggar’s alms.

One who lives in svacchhanda has another kind of prestige—another throne. It is his own throne. No one can snatch it. No thief can steal it, no bandit loot it, no fire burn it. Not even death can take it—what of others!

Such a person delights in the Self. Svacchhanda is delighting in the Atman—ātmārāmasya.

We all delight in the other. Some delight in wealth: 'Another hundred thousand, another million…' Their delight is in money. Some delight in position: a bigger chair, and a bigger chair—climbing chair upon chair.

Different kinds of people—but one common thread: the delight is outside—other-oriented. That is the mark of the worldly. Self-delight, self-love, to revel in the Atman—that is the mark of the religious. The religious is one who has learned the art: the juice is within; who begins to sip his own nectar.

The amusing thing is, even when we sip another’s juice, it is never the other’s—it is our own.

Like a dog who gnaws a dry bone and is delighted. Try to take it away—he won’t let go. Yet there is nothing in the bone—no juice. But the dog gets something: the sharp bone wounds his mouth; his own blood begins to flow; the taste of his own blood arises; his own blood trickles down; he thinks the juice comes from the bone.

Every juice you have known has come from you. And because of the bone you have wounded yourself. Drop the bone—be free of wounds. The juice is yours. No juice comes from outside.

A rich man kept gold bricks in his safe. Daily he opened and looked. He had piled up bricks of gold. Then shut the safe—felt great joy. His son saw this. The whole household suffered; even necessities they could not afford—he sat hoarding bricks. The family lived in poverty.

Eventually the son slowly removed a brick at a time and replaced them with brass bricks. The father’s joy continued. Slowly all the bricks disappeared. But the father would open the safe daily, see the bricks, happily lock it. On the day he was dying, the son said, 'I must tell you something. The fun you enjoyed was all inside you. The bricks were not there—we removed them long ago.' Instantly the father became miserable, beat his chest. Life passed in delight—and now at death, misery.

There is no joy in a gold brick. Your belief that the brick is gold, valuable, is yours; that it is yours, that you are the owner, that it is in your possession—there lies the joy. The joy is within you; choose whichever bone you like.

Religious is one who drops the bone—because the bone causes wounds—and who says: 'If the joy is within, why not take it directly?' Sit with eyes closed; dive within. Dance within. Play the inner vina. Hum within. Sink into love. Drown in the inner juice.

This alone is the difference between worldly and unworldly. The worldly thinks it is somewhere outside. When you are delighted by seeing a beautiful woman, the delight too comes from within you. When people garland you and you feel happy—that happiness also rises from within. Whenever anyone gives you any kind of pleasure—watch carefully—does it come from there, or flow from within? The outer is merely a pretext; the source is within. The outer is an excuse; the root is within.

One who is free of excuses and begins to taste the nectar—Ashtavakra calls him 'ātmārāmasya'—one who now takes his joy in the Atman alone. No more bonds remain upon him. No one in the world can make him miserable now. All his delusions are broken. He has found the source.

This source is within. We reach it by going in circles. Because of the circling, many entanglements are created. Sometimes the very pretexts through which we seek this joy become such great obstacles that we never reach it.

Prakṛtyā śūnyacittasya kurvato ’sya yadr̥cchayā.
Prākṛtasyeva dhīrasya na māno nāvamānata.

'For one whose mind is naturally empty and who acts spontaneously, that dhīra has neither honor nor dishonor, like an ordinary person.'

'Naturally empty of mind…'

What does 'naturally empty' mean? Not by effort, not by striving, not by practice, not by exertion—but by one’s very nature, by understanding, by awakening—one who has understood this truth: joy is within. Test it. Recognize it. Examine it at many places. Keep the touchstone of awareness alive.

Have you seen? A full-moon night—you sit, and great joy arises. Close your eyes and consider: is the moon a pretext, or is joy coming from the moon? Your neighbor sits beside you and gets no joy at all from the moon. His wife has died—he weeps. Seeing the moon he is angry, not happy. He scolds the moon: 'You had to be full today? My wife died—and you had to become full tonight? And tonight the earth had to drip with moonlight? Is this a mockery of me? Is this a joke? Was this the time? You could have waited four days—what harm?' For one whose beloved has come, even the new moon looks like the full moon; for one whose beloved has gone, the full moon is a new moon. They say a hungry man, if he looks at the sky, sees the moon like a flatbread—as if bread is floating.

Heinrich Heine, the great German poet, wrote that once he lost his way in the forest for three days. So hungry—so hungry—that when the full moon rose it looked like bread floating in the sky. He was astonished. He had composed many poems before—never once had he thought he would see bread in the moon; always he had seen a beautiful woman’s face. But that night he saw bread. He tried very hard to see the lovely face, but with a belly empty for three days, blisters on his feet, life in danger—where a beautiful lady! Those are luxuries. The moon looked like bread floating in the sky.

Whatever you get from outside is your own projection. The nectar is within. The essence of life is within.

'Naturally empty of mind—prakṛtyā śūnyacittasya.'

Do not make forced efforts. Force does not work. You can force yourself into a lotus posture, sit stone-like with eyes shut—nothing will happen. Within you will boil, fires will burn, the running will continue. The storm of vāsanā will arise. Nothing will change.

Prakṛtyā—little by little, through understanding; not through force, not by superimposition. Kabir says, 'O seeker, the natural Samadhi is best.' Through naturalness. Understand life. Look. Wherever joy comes, close your eyes and look carefully—is it coming from within, or from outside? You will always find—it rises within. And wherever sorrow comes—look closely; you will always find: sorrow simply means disconnection from within.

Joy means only this: connection with the within has been made. By what pretext it connects is not important. Whenever the connection with the within happens, joy arises. Whenever you disconnect from the within, sorrow rains.

Someone abuses you—you feel sorrow. But understand: the abuse only does this much—it makes you forget yourself. Your connection within is cut. The abuse excites you so much you forget who you are. In a moment you are mad—agitated, deranged. The link breaks.

A friend arrives after many years—memories flood, hands clasped, embraces. For an instant the connection within is made. In that sweet moment, in the friend’s presence, you connect with yourself. For an instant worries are forgotten; loads of the day drop. For a moment you sink within. The friend is only an excuse—a nimitta.

In whatever moment you connect with yourself, joy showers. In whatever moment you disconnect, sorrow showers.

When one slowly begins to recognize this truth, one begins to drop the pretexts. Then one sits alone. That is meditation. Then he does not worry that if a friend comes he will be happy; friends do not come daily. And if they come daily, joy will not come—occasional arrival is the charm. Let him stay in the house always and joy will not come at all.

Then such a person does not wait for the moon to rise to be happy; or for spring and flowers. What miserliness is that? When bliss is within, slowly, without pretext, one begins to connect to oneself. That is meditation. He sits quietly, and connects with himself—without pretext. In pretextlessness he connects with himself.

And once—even once—you connect with yourself without pretext, the event has occurred. The key is obtained. Now you know—there is no need to depend on anyone. When you wish, the lock opens. When you wish, the inner door is available. In the middle of the marketplace you can close your eyes and drown within.

Slowly, even closing the eyes is not needed—for that too is a pretext. Then with eyes open you drown within. Then even while working you drown. Then it is not that only the lotus posture will do, nor that you must sit in a shrine, or in temple or mosque. In the marketplace, in the fields, in the barn—working, you drown within.

Gradually this becomes so natural that coming out and going in do not hinder at all. A moment comes when you remain immersed in the inner source. Work continues, the marketplace continues, the shop runs, conversations with customers go on, the fields and barns continue, you dig the earth, sow seeds, reap the harvest, talk and listen—and you remain soaked in yourself. One who is thus juice-absorbed is the siddha.

'For one whose mind is naturally empty and who acts spontaneously, that dhīra has neither honor nor dishonor, like an ordinary person.'

Kṛtaṃ dehena karmedaṃ na mayā śuddharūpiṇā.
Iti cintānurodhī yaḥ kurvann api karoti na.

'This act has been done by the body, not by me who am of pure form—one who follows this contemplation, even while acting does not act.'

And now—once you are immersed in your own nature—you come to know: whatever happens belongs either to the body or to the mind; or to the nature spread outside the body and mind. Nothing is done by me. I am akartā—the non-doer. I am only the witness. Such a stream of contemplation begins to flow within you. Such a gem of a sutra—a cintāmaṇi—falls into your hand.

When you see hunger arises—a process happens in the body—and you remain only the seer. Your stream of bliss is not even slightly disturbed. This does not mean you die of hunger. You rise, you arrange food for the body. Thirst arises—you give water. This is your temple; your deity resides in it. You care for it—but you no longer identify. You no longer say, 'I am hungry.' You say, 'The body is hungry.' You care, but the form of care has changed. Now, when the body is satisfied, you say, 'The body is satisfied.' The body was thirsty—you gave water. The body was sleepy—you gave rest. But you remain untainted, separate, afar, beyond.

You take care as one cares for one’s house. In the house where you live, you keep it clean; at times you paint it; on festival you whitewash; you wash the curtains, change the furniture—but you do not take the delusion that 'I am the house.' You remain the owner, dwelling in it. You never become so united that if the house falls you think, 'I died'; if the roof collapses, 'My life has gone'; if the house burns, 'I am burning.'

Such a thing happens to the knower. As the inner nectar clarifies, as the inner witness awakens, the body remains your home.

Rightly understood, 'householder' means one who has taken the body to be himself. One who sees the body as body and himself as separate—that one is sannyast.

'This deed is done by the body, not by me who am pure—one who follows such contemplation, even while acting, does not act.'

And this great proclamation: such a person has no karma. No karma touches him. He has become non-doer—acting, yet non-doer.

'Even if the jīvanmukta acts like the ordinary man—who says one thing and does another'—understand this sutra—'he is not foolish. He is happy, blessed; living in the world he shines.'

Atadvādīva kurute na bhaved api bāliśaḥ.
Jīvanmuktaḥ sukhī śrīmān saṃsarann api śobhate.

This sutra is a little intricate; listen again.

'Even if the jīvanmukta acts like the ordinary man—who says one thing and does another—still he is not a simpleton. He is happy, blessed; living in the world he shines.'

What is the mark of an ordinary man? We say: he is dishonest—he says something and does something else. Ashtavakra says: the liberated one also appears the same—says something, does something else. But the difference is basic.

The ignorant says something and does something. What he does—that is his truth. What he says is false. Understand the distinction. The ignorant—what he says is a lie. He is deceiving. In his saying there is no truth; he lies. What he does—that is his truth. Recognize him by his deeds.

With the knower, the coin is entirely reversed. What the knower says is the absolute truth; what he does is the lie. Do you see the difference? The knower speaks truth—without error in his saying. But do not lay too much stress upon what he does. Because when hunger comes, he too will eat. If fire engulfs the house, he too will come out.

He will say something and do something. If you go and ask, he will say, 'How can I burn? Nainaṃ chindanti śastrāṇi, nainaṃ dahati pāvakaḥ—'How can weapons cut me? How can fire burn me?' But if his house is on fire, you will see him running out. Do not think him dishonest for this. What he says is true. Do not focus on his doing; focus on his saying. It is true—when he says, 'Who can burn me?'—no one burns him. The body will burn—he will not. But as long as you live in the body, it is your temple, the dwelling of your deity—care for it.

The ignorant also looks as if he says one thing and does another—but focus on his doing. What he does is his truth, whatever he may say. In his doing, you will find the truth; in the knower’s knowing, you will find the truth. The knower lives in knowledge, not in action. The ignorant lives in action, not in knowledge.

'One who, weary of many thoughts, has attained repose—such a dhīra neither imagines, nor knows, nor hears, nor sees.'

Nānāvicārasuśrānto dhīro viśrāntim āgataḥ.
Na kalpate na jānāti na śr̥ṇoti na paśyati.

'One who, weary of many thoughts…'

Do not hurry. Haste is dangerous, costly. Do not be impatient. If there is still juice in thinking, think fully—become tired. If there is juice in the world, there is no hurry. Paramatman can wait for eternity. Do not be frightened. Do not hurry. If the world still charms you, exhaust it. If you flee half-finished into sannyas, the mind will keep running. Peace will not come.

If the mind still loved thinking and was wavering—and you bound it somehow and carried it by force—it will run away. Dreams will surge. Imaginings will rise. Attachments will be born anew. In new forms the old perversions will return—through the back doors—if you bolt the front. Nothing will be gained.

Ashtavakra says, know life rightly. Be tired. Wherever there is juice, exhaust it. Go—go deeply. There is no need to fear. Nothing can be lost. You cannot lose anything. What is yours is ever yours. However deep you descend into the world, your Atman remains untouched. Go—explore the dark night. If there is juice in it, finish it. Let it become flavorless. Your own lips, your tongue, will tell you: enough, this taste is bitter now. Do not run away because you heard someone else.

If you meet a Buddha and he says, 'The world is futile'—and when a Buddha speaks, his words have power, magic—their life and experience stand behind them. But this will not be enough. Do not just follow because a Buddha said it, or you will go astray, you will regret and return again and again. Exhaust this worldly process properly. Wherever your relish is—go and live it.

When thoughts themselves are tired, when the mind itself begins to wither—then…

'One who, weary of many thoughts—nānāvicāra—has attained rest—viśrānti—neither imagines, nor knows, nor hears, nor sees.'

Then no obstacle remains. One who comes tired sits and becomes silent. One whose relish still hangs somewhere cannot be silent. Even in the temple he will think of the shop. He will pray and worship, yet waves of other thoughts will arise. On the surface there will be prayer; inside, vāsanā. On the surface there is Ram; inside, lust. No good will come of it—for what is inside is the truth. What is above has no value. Your repeating 'Ram-Ram' does nothing. It is not a matter of your repetition; it is of your experience—of becoming saturated with experience.

Nānāvicārasuśrānto dhīro viśrāntim āgataḥ.

Only then arrives rest, repose—when you have run through many thoughts and are tired. Having known life, you return home. Marketplace, shop—futile. You have searched all—found nowhere. Defeated in every way, you return. Defeated—then the Name of Hari! And then the Name of Hari that arises has another fragrance, another sweetness.

Do not return from half the journey. Otherwise the mind will keep traveling. Among the greatest dangers of life is this: becoming interested in meditation, Samadhi, religion in an unripe state. Like plucking an unripe fruit. When fruit ripens, it falls by itself. There is a beauty, a grace, a benediction in that. Neither the tree knows when the fruit fell, nor the fruit knows when it fell. No hurt to fruit or tree. Quietly it separates—without any struggle. Sahaja, prakṛtyā—quietly it separates.

Ripen! Fall only when ripe.

Therefore I insist: do not run away from the world. There is great allure in running away. It is true—there is sorrow in the world. It is also true—there is joy. Seeing sorrow you will flee; but in the hut, in the forest, joy will be remembered.

An ancient tale: God made man. Man was alone. He prayed, 'I am alone; I do not enjoy this.' God made woman. All the work of creation was complete. The material was finished. So he took bits from many places: a little moonlight from the moon, a little light from the sun, some colors from the peacock, some fierceness from the lion—gathering material from all sides he made woman, because the work was complete. He had already made the man—then this gentleman arrived saying, 'Alone, my mind does not settle.'

So he made woman. But woman was trouble. Sometimes she sang like a cuckoo, and sometimes roared like a lioness. Sometimes cool as the moon, sometimes scorching as the sun. When angry—she was the sun; when loving—moonlight. Within three days the man was tired. He said, 'This is trouble. I was better alone.' Three days with woman revealed the joy of solitude. The bliss of celibacy cannot be known without being a householder.

He ran back, went to God: 'Forgive me. I was mistaken. Take this woman back—I don’t want her. She will drive me mad. She is not trustworthy. Sometimes she sings and sometimes she gets angry—and when she changes, one cannot understand anything. She is illogical. You handle her.'

God said, 'As you wish.'

He left the woman with God for three days. Lying at home, on the bed, he remembered: her sweet songs, her arm around his neck, her beautiful eyes. After three days he ran back: 'Forgive me—please give the woman back. She was beautiful, she sang. There was a hum in the house. Now everything is dull. I come back from the forest—tired, cutting wood or hunting—no one to welcome me. When she was there, tea was ready. She stood at the door, waiting. No—there is great sadness. Forgive me, I was wrong. Give her back.'

God said, 'As you wish.'

Within three days the condition again deteriorated. He returned. God said, 'Enough nonsense. You can neither live without woman, nor with woman. Now, however it is, manage.'

Since then man is somehow managing!

If you are in the marketplace, the ashram will be very appealing. If you are in the ashram, the marketplace will be remembered. If you are in Bombay, Kashmir; if in Kashmir, Bombay.

In the world there is a mixture of joy and sorrow. There is the moon and the sun. Peacocks dance and lions roar. When you are in the world, its sorrow is apparent; it stands out. When you withdraw, all its joys are remembered.

Therefore I say to my sannyasins: do not run. Stay where you are. Ripen. Do not flee—ripen. Fall when ripe. Let it happen of itself. Do not be hasty.

That which happens naturally is beautiful.

Sādhō, sahaja Samadhi is best.

Enough for today.