Maha Geeta #63

First sutra: 'Because the great-hearted one is without distraction and without Samadhi, he is neither a seeker of liberation nor a non-seeker; seeing the world as imagined, he abides as Brahman.'
A supremely revolutionary sutra.
Ordinary people, when they ask about the Supreme, do so out of mere curiosity. No one ever reaches truth through curiosity. Curiosity is very superficial; childish. Like little children, they ask whatever comes before them. If an answer comes, fine; if not, fine. A moment later the question is forgotten, the answer is forgotten. A ripple of air came and went. Answered or not, no worry. There was no deep longing for the answer. The question arose just so. To raise questions is the mind's habit.
No one ever reaches truth through curiosity.
Deeper than curiosity is inquiry. Inquiry makes one a seeker. Inquiry means: I will search and find. The question is precious. And until the answer is found, life will have no meaning.
Socrates said, an unexamined life is not worth living. A life not rightly examined, not illumined with meaning—what is the point of living? Then what is the difference between a human life and an animal's? If a correct analysis, a right sense of meaning and purpose is found—why I am—only then is there any substance in living.
Curiosity is on the surface. Inquiry goes deeper, but still not to your whole being. If life itself has to be staked, the inquirer does not stake it. Deeper than this is mumuksha.
Mumuksha means: the answer to the question is more valuable than life itself.
Inquiry means: to live, the answer is needed—but not more valuable than life. If someone says, the answer can be had by giving your life, what is the point then? The answer was sought only to live rightly. If life is lost to gain the answer, what will you do with the answer?
Mumuksha means: a longing for Moksha, a fierce thirst for the ultimate freedom. Now, even if life is to be laid on the line—no harm. The answer is so important that even life can be given; life can be staked.
Mumuksha goes still deeper. But this sutra says... such a sutra is available in no other scripture. Hence I call it revolutionary. Ashtavakra's sutras are such that no other scripture-writer ever dared go so deep.
Ashtavakra says: 'Because the great-hearted one is without distraction and without Samadhi, he is neither a mumukshu nor a non-mumukshu.'
There is a state where even mumuksha does not lead. To go there, even mumuksha has to be dropped. Understand this.
Mumuksha means: the longing to be free, the longing for Moksha. But the very nature of Moksha is such that if there is any longing at all, Moksha will not happen. The longing for Moksha becomes a barrier. Longing itself becomes bondage. The longing for wealth binds, the longing for love binds—so too the longing for Moksha, the longing to attain the Divine, is the final bondage; the last chain. It is a golden chain, studded with jewels. Blessed are they whose wrists wear the chain of Moksha—but still, a chain it is. The very idea 'I must be free' will create restlessness. The very idea 'I must be free' will pull you away from the present into the future. It is only the spread of desire. A new desire, yes, but still desire. A beautiful desire, yes, but still desire.
And what difference does it make, however precious the disease—studded with diamonds? Even if the physician says it is not an ordinary disease but a royal malady affecting only kings, what difference? A royal disease is still a disease.
The lust for Moksha is still lust. Try to understand this a little. Why is man bound? Where is the bondage? The bondage is in this: we are not content with what we are; we must be something else. There is no fulfilment in what we are. Where we are, as we are, there is no celebration. Somewhere else we will dance. Here the courtyard is crooked; today we cannot dance. Today there is no convenience; tomorrow we will dance, the day after we will dance. Tomorrow never comes. If tomorrow never comes, how will the day after? Whenever time comes, it is today. And whatever comes close becomes, to us, a crooked courtyard.
The current of our life is future-bound. In heaven tomorrow, in Moksha tomorrow—somewhere else there is happiness; here there is suffering. Desire means: here there is suffering, happiness is elsewhere. Happiness in dream; in reality, sorrow. So we try to bring the dream down. Either bring heaven down to earth, or carry ourselves up to heaven. But today, now, here—the festival cannot be created. Today the flute will not play. And for whom the flute does not play today, that one is in bondage. It will never play. Either now—or never. Either this very moment—or never.
Bondage means we are bound to the future. Bondage means the rope of the future's desire pulls us along, and we cannot be free today. The future binds us. The present frees. The present is liberation. Moksha is now; the world is tomorrow.
You have often heard the opposite. You have heard: the world is here, Moksha is there. I tell you: Moksha is here, the world is there. What is present this very moment—that is liberation. If you dissolve into this moment, become absorbed, take the plunge—you are free. If you remain dragged by the rope of tomorrow, shackles will remain on your feet. You will never dance. A moment of gratitude and benediction will never dawn in your life.
Ashtavakra says: this means that even mumuksha is a bondage. The longing for Moksha leads you into tomorrow. Moksha will happen someday, after death, beyond death. If in life it happens, still not today. Great discipline will be required, high Himalayan peaks must be climbed. Deep practice, great Yoga, tapas, japa, dhyana—and then, like the final fruit, Moksha will arrive. You must wait. You must be patient. You must labor. Moksha will come like fruit.
Moksha is not the fruit, Moksha is your nature. Therefore Moksha is not tomorrow, Moksha is now, here. So mumuksha will become an obstacle. One filled with mumuksha is better than curiosity, better than inquiry—but even beyond that is a state. Beyond the mumukshu there is a state of beyond-mumuksha—where even the longing for freedom is no more; where all longings have fallen from the roots. One is not asking of the world, and not even of the Divine; there is simply no asking.
In that instant, what happens within you—that is Moksha. In that instant, what you know—that is the Divine. In that instant, the light that spreads within you—because there is no wall left to obstruct it—that light is your nature.
So one has to go beyond mumuksha too.
'Great-hearted one...'
Mahashaya means: one whose intention has become vast; maha-ashaya. Whose intention has become like the sky, who has no boundary left upon his intention.
We ordinarily call anyone 'Mahashaya'. As etiquette, it is fine—but truly the term belongs only to a Buddha, an Ashtavakra, a Christ, a Krishna, a Lao Tzu. Not to all. We say it as politeness—in the hope that one who is not a Mahashaya today may become one tomorrow. It is our good wish, but not truth.
Mahashaya means: one upon whom the limits of longing no longer remain. One whose inner sky is free of longing—that one is Mahashaya. Longing no longer binds his horizon. He is limitless. The state of his consciousness is no longer waiting for anything.
For whatever you are waiting on—that is where you are stuck. On whatever you wait—your happiness and sorrow depend. What you wait for—if it comes you are pleased, if not you fall into despair. Dependence upon the other continues. Moksha means: I am no longer dependent on the other. I am whole in myself, complete. There is no need of anything at all. What needed to be, what was required—already is; has always been. This is the state of the Mahashaya.
'Great-hearted one is without distraction...'
Then there is no reason for distraction. Distraction arises because we have some desire. If you want wealth there will be distraction—others too want wealth. There will be struggle, competition, enmity. It is not certain you will get it—there are other contenders, mighty contenders. It is not easy. If you want position, there will be disturbance, distractions. A thousand obstacles will come.
If you want Moksha, you will find a thousand obstacles. The body puts up obstacles, the mind puts up obstacles. Desires rise mountain-high, cravings race. Thousands upon thousands of distractions arise. Bind, try to hold—knots do not stay tied; they loosen. Hold together here and it falls apart there. One side you arrange and the other side is uprooted. Life passes in such tug-of-war.
So long as there is longing in your mind, there will be distraction. Distraction is like this: when the wind of longing blows, waves arise upon the still lake. Those waves are distraction. When the wind of desire blows across your consciousness, waves arise. Do not fight the waves. Fighting the waves will not help. Here is the difference between Ashtavakra and Patanjali.
Patanjali says: 'Chitta-vritti-nirodha'—Yoga is the cessation of the modifications of the mind. This is his definition of Samadhi—the cessation of vrittis. Vritti means wave, ripple.
Ashtavakra says: how will you cease the vrittis? A gale is blowing, a storm, a whirlwind. How will you quiet tiny ripples? If you go calming wave by wave, even eternity will not suffice. The wind is still blowing, creating new waves.
Ashtavakra says: drop the concern with waves; be free of the wind itself. And the joke is, you are creating the wind. The storm of longing, the storm of desire, the storm of craving. When the storm of craving blows, waves arise. Now you are busy calming waves. Still the root itself—and the ripples will settle by themselves. Drop desire.
Others too have told you: drop desire. But Ashtavakra's statement is complete. Others say: drop worldly desire; cultivate desire for God. They change the wind's name. The worldly storm ends, the otherworldly storm begins. The wind of wealth stops, the wind of meditation starts—but the wind still blows. The label is changed, the name changed, the color changed; the root remains the same. Before you begged for rank in this world, now you beg for the supreme rank. But begging continues. You remain a beggar.
Ashtavakra says: drop it altogether. Do not divide between world and Moksha. Desire is desire; what it seeks makes no difference. Whether you ask for wealth, position, meditation—it makes no difference. If you ask, you are a beggar. Do not ask. Drop asking itself.
And the moment asking drops, a unique event happens—because the energy that was employed in asking, tangled in a thousand askings, is freed. That very energy dances. That dance is the festival. That dance is bliss, sat-chit-ananda.
Some of your energy is engaged in acquiring wealth, some in position, some goes to the temple, some to the shop. Whatever little is left, you put into meditation, reading Gita and Quran, prayer and worship. Your energy is entangled in many places.
Ashtavakra says: become Mahashaya—drop everywhere. Understand the very nature of longing. The very nature of longing is raising waves.
Have you ever noticed? Sit for a moment not wanting anything. In that moment can any ripple arise? If nothing is wanted, no demand remains, how can a wave arise? You say, we sit to meditate, but thoughts go on. The reason is: you sat to meditate, but you have not understood the form of desire. Perhaps you sat to meditate to fulfill some desires; perhaps meditation might fulfill them.
People come to me and ask: if we meditate, will we get happiness and prosperity? Happiness and prosperity—if we meditate? How will such a person meditate? He wants to meditate in order to have happiness and prosperity. When he sits to meditate and thoughts of happiness and prosperity arise, what is surprising? Then he says: meditation does not happen, because thoughts go on. He sits and thoughts go on—so he thinks thoughts should stop; he tries to stop them. And he sat to meditate out of desire—petty intention: happiness and prosperity!
Someone asks: will health come through meditation? Another: will success be ours through meditation? Seeing only failure so far. Will meditation change life's way? Will success come?
Now this one, sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, came with the longing for success. Inside, the waves of success are already moving. When he was busy in the market, perhaps it was not so evident. Now he sits idle in Siddhasana, with nothing to do—waves will move more purely; there is no outer entanglement. Yet the storm is blowing. The whirlwind continues.
Ashtavakra says: the storm of longing has made you blind. It has given you a limit. You become exactly what you long for. If you are involved in collecting objects, eventually you will find that you have become like objects—fit to be thrown on a junk heap. If you long for wealth, one day you will find you too have become a shard of wealth. What you desire, that you become. Desire becomes your limit. The color of desire stains you. You become like it.
Have you seen the eyes of a miser? In them appears the same dirty, ugly shadow that sits upon worn coins. Have you seen the face of a miser, a niggard? On it appears the same greasy ugliness as on coins—they pass from hand to hand, are rubbed thin; that same ugliness comes upon his face.
What you desire—the desire itself will become your sculpture. Have you seen the eyes of the lustful? His face? On his face lust becomes thick and palpable. You need not even ask about his mind—his face will tell. Consciousness pours itself out upon the face; the face is a mirror. The desire moving within etches marks upon the face; they do not fade.
An old Sufi tale: a king devoted to Moses asked the greatest painter of his kingdom for a portrait of Moses to hang in his court. The painter went. Moses was alive. He stayed with Moses for months and completed the portrait. When it was hung in the court, the king was displeased. He said: this does not look like Moses. On the face is the shadow of a murderer. On the face it looks like a lustful man. There is no glimmer of peace, meditation, Samadhi. Something is wrong.
The painter said: I have made no mistake. I painted the face as it was. The king went to Moses and said: I feel restless seeing that painting; it does not seem yours. It has the shadow of a killer. In the eyes is some deep disease of desire. Your supreme aura and radiance are not there.
Moses laughed and said: the painter is right. That is my earlier story. Those marks were carved deep; they do not fade. I have changed, but the marks on the face do not go. He caught the truth beneath the skin. I too know it. When I look closely in the mirror, I too can see the shadows that once were; their marks remain. The snake has gone, but the trail remains on the path. The rope is burnt, the twist remains.
What you are—the imprint of your desire—that you are.
Mahashaya means: one who has dropped even the last desire—the desire to attain Moksha. Such a man is without distraction. And do you hear the unique point?
Ashtavakra says: 'And without Samadhi.'
When there is no distraction, what need of Samadhi? Samadhi is like an antidote. If there is illness, you need the remedy. If there is no illness, what need of the remedy? Samadhi means solution. If there is a problem, there must be solution. If there is no problem, what need of solution! So this is a very unique sutra—
'Because there is neither Samadhi nor distraction, he is neither a mumukshu nor its opposite.'
Neither mumuksha nor non-mumuksha. Neither Samadhi nor distraction.
'Such a great-hearted one, seeing the world as imagined, abides like Brahman.'
Remember also this. Ashtavakra says: only one thing happens in that man—the world becomes dreamlike. Not that it is destroyed; beware, it is not destroyed. Many have the illusion that for the knower the world disappears. It does not disappear; it becomes dreamlike. It is there, but one thing is certain inside the knower: it is only an appearance.
Have you seen? A straight stick placed in water appears bent. You know it is straight. Pull it out—it is straight. Put it back into the water—now you know very well it does not become bent, it only appears so; yet it still appears bent. Put your hand in the water and touch the stick—it is straight; yet it appears bent. Now you know it is straight, not bent—only an appearance. Due to the laws of rays, the rules of light, it appears bent. The medium of air and the medium of water differ; hence it appears bent.
For the knower the world is not destroyed; it becomes dreamlike.
'Having ascertained it as imagined...'
Only one thing becomes certain: it is imagination alone.
'Seeing thus, the great-hearted abides as Brahman.'
And seeing thus...
'He abides, seeing Brahman alone.'
Seeing thus, the Mahashaya, the knower, settles in Brahman. He sinks into his Brahman-nature.
'He abides, seeing Brahman alone.'
He dives. He rests. He comes to the center. Knowing the world is imaginary, he no longer chases imagination.
In Rama's story you have seen? He ran after the golden deer. The story is sweet. Everyone knows deer are not golden. It must be imagination, a deception, a dream. Yet Rama went to seek the golden deer. He went seeking what was not—and lost Sita.
The story is sweet, meaningful. Just so, the Rama within each person has gone seeking golden deer. And just so, each one's inner Rama has lost his Sita—lost his own nature. He lost what was his. He went chasing what is not; what only appears. The day you see that the golden deer is not real—deception, a web of delusion—in that very instant you will return. In that very instant you will rest in yourself.
'He abides, seeing Brahman alone.'
That very instant you will stand in yourself. Still! Whole! You no longer go anywhere. Now you know. It is not that golden deer will not appear now; they will still appear. In the morning sun their gold will still glitter. Their call will still come. But now you know; one thing has become certain: the world is only imagination.
'Whenever in some new mold we set ourselves
Like gold-plated teeth, worms are working underneath;
The Ganga-Jamuna polish of teeth launches careless laughter,
In the restless eyes of envy, the kohl is the smoke-mark of smoldering;
Advertisements, introductions—cigarettes swinging around—
These references of effort have become meaningless,
Like gem-studded swords lying in the royal bedchamber;
We nurse the venom of inferiority in golden jars.
The pain of not being able to express ourselves grows worse,
When some smile gilds over our anguish with gold;
In whom are the marks of a king, we have remained such beggars.'
In whom are the marks of a king, we have remained such beggars.
Royal marks are there—and we beg. With a begging-bowl in hand, emperors stand. Rama has wandered after golden deer and is losing his Sita, his soul.
Only this happens to the knower. Only this event occurs—call it small, call it great—only this: it becomes a certainty that desire, craving, is only the net of my imagination. When that certainty dawns, then there is no need of any Samadhi, no need of any mumuksha, no need to calm the mind's waves. Now chitta-vritti-nirodha is not to be done. It has happened by itself. The root is removed. The storm is removed.
Remember also: the storm is not visible; the waves are. The mind tends to fight what is visible. What is not visible does not even come to mind. Hence Ashtavakra goes deeper than Patanjali. Patanjali's method is straightforward: waves of the mind are visible—still them. By yama, niyama, asana, dharana, dhyana, Samadhi—still them. If they are stilled, something will happen. Yoga's path is struggle with the mind.
Patanjali completes upon Samadhi; Ashtavakra's journey begins by leaving Samadhi. Where Patanjali ends, there Ashtavakra begins. Ashtavakra is the final pronouncement. Beyond this no statement has ever been given. This is the last lesson in the world's school. And one who understands Ashtavakra has nothing else left to understand. He has understood all. And one who, having understood Ashtavakra, also experiences—blessed is he. He is then absorbed in Brahman.
So long as you are bound in intention, you have limits. The day you are free of intention, you are free of limit. Your limits are in your notions. You drew them. This 'Lakshman line'—you have drawn it. No one else drew it. You drew it, and now you cannot step out. Now you say: how to go beyond the Lakshman line? Fear arises. Trembling happens.
Gurdjieff has written that in his youth, seeking truth, he traveled through many lands of Central Asia. In Kurdistan he saw something unique. Mountain country. Men and women toil hard to gather two meals a day. They leave children at home to go into the hills and forests to work. They devised a trick. They draw a line of chalk around the child, a round circle. And they tell the child: you cannot go out, whatever you do.
From early childhood this is said. Slowly the child becomes habituated. Just draw a line and he sits within it. When Gurdjieff saw this he was amazed. It happens nowhere else in the world, but in Kurdistan it does. The parents then go to the jungle with ease. The child may weep or sing—he will not cross the line.
And leave children aside—if you draw a line around even a grown man and say: you will not be able to go out—he too will stand still at once. If he tries, it seems some invisible wall pushes him back.
There is no wall—only the wall of belief. It will not let him pass. Sometimes someone even tries and he falls as if pushed. But nothing pushes him—only his own notion: it cannot be done.
You will be surprised to know, but these are the common rules of hypnosis. And just so, your life too is gripped by countless lines. Your parents drew them, society drew them, the system drew them. But all these lines are false. Yet once drawn—drawn.
Someone drew the line: you are a Hindu. You became a Hindu. Now you cannot move aside from being a Hindu. A wall stands. Try to step out and you will fall hurt. Someone drew: you are a Muslim—you became a Muslim. Someone drew: you are a Jain—you became a Jain. All are lines. And because of them you have become small-intentioned. Your Mahashaya-hood is lost. You became what people said you were.
Psychologists say: if at home a child is called a donkey, and at school too called a donkey, he becomes a donkey. So many say it—must be true. The notion becomes strong. Once a notion sits deep, uprooting it is very difficult.
Examine how many notions you carry. And you yourself are holding them now. No one is holding you. Your parents are no longer around. Society is not drawing lines daily. It drew them—the matter came and went. But you continue to live them. You are closed within your own lines. Then if the great revolution does not happen in your life, no wonder.
'Bound to the branch the flower fell,
Its fragrance roamed the world.'
The flower is bound; the fragrance is free.
'Bound to the branch the flower fell,
Its fragrance roamed the world.'
Be like the fragrance. Be Mahashaya. Do not remain like the flower—limited.
'In heaven shone the moon, but moonlight
Brought it down to earth;
At the bamboo's root a flute—one note—
Made the world ring end to end;
And to a mud lamp a single flame
Gave eternal light in eternal night;
Its fragrance roamed the world;
Bound to the branch the flower fell.'
'Within banks the ocean was bound,
As cloud it touched the sky;
Fulfilment was bound in a drop,
It gave a cup of poison and nectar;
The shore clung to dust,
With the wave it floated to midstream;
Its fragrance roamed the world;
Bound to the branch the flower fell.'
It depends on you. You can fall, drying like a flower—or become the infinite—Mahashaya! Free like fragrance! So you roam across the world.
Become fragrance and I say you are a sannyasin. Remain a flower and you are a householder. Flower means limit, house. Flower means definition, bondage, wall. Sannyas means free like fragrance. All directions open. All winds are yours. The whole sky is yours.
'He in whose inner being there is ego, even when he does not act, he is acting. And the egoless, the steadfast one, even when he acts, does not act.'
'Yasyantah syad ahankaro na karoti karoti sah;
Nirahankara-dhirena na kinchid dhi kritam kritam.'
If there is ego, even if you do nothing, karma is happening. For ego itself is the feeling 'I am the doer'. If ego has fallen, then however much you act, nothing is happening. For the fall of ego means: God is the doer, not I.
Take this to heart. By outwardly running away nothing happens.
I had to visit a village. A Babaji had come there. People said: look, Babaji does nothing—sits all day. I saw too—he was sitting, smeared with ash, great tilak on the forehead, sacred fire lit. I said: he must at least be smearing ash, applying tilak—and you say Babaji does nothing? He must be doing something. Doing nothing is impossible. Sitting cross-legged is also a deed. If you run away to the jungle, running is a deed. If you fast, it is a deed. If you don't sleep at night, keep awake, it is a deed. Life is the name of doing. So long as you live, you will do something.
And I said: why is this ash and fire lit? They are waiting for you. He is waiting for those who worship ash to come. They will touch his feet, offer money. He is waiting for you. And if some rich patron comes, he will even arrange for hemp and hashish.
Those who spoke to me were startled. They said: how did you know Babaji smokes hemp? He does. I said: what else will he do sitting here? He has lit the fire—for what? He is of course doing something. And you say, Babaji does nothing.
So long as there is life, there is action: take note. There is no way to flee from karma. Whatever you do is karma. Therefore do not try to flee karma at all. There you will only increase delusion. The real work is different: be free of ego. Drop the sense of doer. Dropping deeds is meaningless; let the doer drop. Then whatever God makes you do will be done. If he does not have you do anything, nothing will be done. If he wants you to sit empty, you will sit empty. If he wants you to walk, he will have you walk. But you will neither walk by your own hand nor sit by your own hand.
This is what Ashtavakra called being like a dry leaf. Wherever the winds carry it, the dry leaf goes. It does not say: I must go east; what oppression is this that you carry me west? I must go east. The dry leaf does not say where it must go. East is fine, west is fine. Carry me—fine; do not carry me—fine. Leave me on the road—then that is home. Lift me to the sky—I am not honored. Throw me into the trash—I am not insulted.
One who becomes like a dry leaf—that one is the knower. And this state is called egolessness.
'Yasyantah syad ahankaro na karoti karoti sah.'
'He in whose inner being there is ego—even when he does not act—he acts.'
If you sit idle filled with ego, in your mind will arise: look, how we do nothing. In your mind: look, the whole world is dying in frenzy; see how peacefully I sit! Meditating—while the whole world chases wealth, I meditate; look at me! A new sense of doer is born.
Ashtavakra says: if there is ego, there is karma. If there is a doer, there is deed. If you become an egoless, steadfast one, then even if there is action, there is no doer.
'Nirahankara-dhirena na kinchid dhi kritam kritam.'
Then even as you do, there is no doing.
Keep the basic point: do not change karma into akarma; transform the doer into a non-doer.
By trying to make karma into akarma great foolishness arose in this land. The world's slackers, lazy, crippled became mahatmas. Those without energy or intelligence became honored as paramahansas. A great calamity happened here. Talentless, non-creative, dull minds obtained reverence. Because they dropped action. Dropping action, this country became poor and destitute. Dropping action, this country's glory was lost.
If you are poor, hungry, sick, troubled—wretched in the world—then you are responsible, no one else. Your mahatmas are responsible and your so-called pundits and priests are responsible who gave wrong interpretations—who taught: drop action. Who said sannyas is akarma.
Sannyas is not the name of akarma. Listen to Ashtavakra. Had you listened to Ashtavakra, this country's story would be different. Do—only let there be no ego; let the 'I' not remain. Let God act through you. Become a hollow bamboo. Let him sing his song. Let him hum. Whatever he wants to hum, let it be hummed. Give him full freedom. Say: I consent; whatever you sing I will sing; whatever you want me to do, I will do.
Life is action, energy. So akarma is not right. Akarma is self-destruction. Yes—become a non-doer—and God's glory will begin to flow through your deeds. Your action will shine. Into your act comes a luster, a glimmer of another dimension. In the courtyard of your small action the sky of the Divine begins to peep.
Such a person sees the Divine in all situations. In all deeds he finds his shadow. And whatever he does and experiences is dedicated to that One alone.
'All this coaxing of buds,
All this pilfering of bees,
This drizzling of cloud,
This stealth of lightning,
This magic of kohl,
This tinkling of anklets,
This whisper of the cuckoo,
This sass of the myna—
Every play is your play,
Every pain is your pain.
Whatever game I play,
I stake my wager with you.
Every mirror is your mirror.'
Then the whole mystery, the whole lila, is the Divine's. Then there is no running away, no prohibitions, no renouncing—except one thing to renounce, which we do not. We are ready to renounce everything—wealth, position, wife and children. One thing we are not ready to renounce—the 'I'.
Hence you will be amazed: a man leaves wealth, position, house, drops clothes, stands naked—and look within: the burning ember of ego. What needed to be dropped was not dropped. Nowhere does ego show up as nakedly as in the sannyasin. If you want to see pure egotists, look among sadhus and sannyasins. In the world you will find impure egotists—there is much adulteration there. Pure egotists are found in temples and ashrams. There is no adulteration there—pure poison.
What must be dropped is ego; people drop action. Dropping action is easy. Who does not want to drop action? In truth, everyone wants to flee from action. Who does not want release from doing? No one wants to drop the doer. The glory lies in dropping what no one wants to drop.
And man is such that he seeks excuses to build ego everywhere.
Mulla Nasruddin won first prize in a lottery. He himself was uneducated. The uneducated often have a strong passion to educate their children—at least they can become parents of the educated by proxy. With money in hand, a passion seized him to educate his beloved son well. Someone advised: if you are to educate, teach foreign languages. Mulla said: an excellent suggestion. He went to a university that teaches foreign languages. He told the Vice-Chancellor: I want my son to learn a foreign language. Do not worry about expense—whatever it costs I will pay. The VC asked: which foreign language—French, German, Spanish, Italian? Mulla said: do not get into such detail. I want whichever is the most foreign among them. My son will not learn any so-so foreign language—the most foreign...!
What can be 'most foreign'? But the ego looks for ways. Ego must be first everywhere. A strange thing happens: a man finds ego even in humility. He says: none is humbler than I. None is humbler than I! There too ego is enjoying itself—the competition continues.
Drop just this one thing, and sannyas happens. Drop this 'I'-sense.
And the joke is: dropping this, nothing else is dropped; dropping this, you gain much. Because by clinging to this, you have lost everything. Clinging to this, you became poor. Clinging to this you got limits. Drop this, and the flower is freed, the fragrance will ride the winds. Drop this, and the drop becomes the ocean. Drop this, and you become the abode of the Divine.
The third sutra—again supremely revolutionary.
'Only the mind of the liberated—without agitation, without even contentment, without doership, without vibration, without hope and without doubt—shines.'
'Na udvignam na cha santushtam akartṛ-spanda-varjitam;
Nirasham gata-sandeham chittam muktasya rajate.'
Let us try to understand each word.
'Without agitation...'
This is understandable. Other scriptures also say the liberated has no agitation, but supreme peace. But immediately Ashtavakra says: 'without contentment'.
We ordinarily think that one who is peaceful must be contented. We call a peaceful person 'very contented, very quiet, very happy.' The contented is always happy. Ashtavakra says something deeper: contentment too is the shadow of agitation. The agitated sometimes becomes contented. But when agitation itself is gone—what contentment? Where there is no discontent, what contentment? When discontent is no more, contentment too is gone.
Understand this: one who has always been healthy, never ill, does not even know health. He cannot. To know, illness is needed. Illness pinches, then health is known. If illness never happens, what is health? The day illness goes, that day health also goes. Health and illness together—two faces of one coin. Discontent-contentment together. Unpeace-peace together. Pleasure-pain together—two faces of one coin.
Therefore, having said 'without agitation', he said something very important for what follows: 'without contentment'. Lest you mistake: that a man without agitation means a contented man. Contentment—where? Contentment is the property of the discontented.
When someone comes to me saying, 'I am absolutely contented,' then I feel he must be discontented. Otherwise why speak of contentment? If I probe a little, I immediately find—he is discontented, but has consoled himself into contentment. Hammered and mended himself into sitting. There is deep discontent, but now what to do? Helpless. Whatever could be done, has been tried—it did not work. He jumped a lot; he could not reach the grapes. Now he says: they are sour. Now he says: I am contented.
We do not need much wealth. Not that we do not want it—if it were found today lying by the roadside we would pick it up. We say: we do not want any position—but if by some divine accident a post sits upon our head today, we will be thrilled. We were waiting. That 'contentment' will evaporate. If something is got, we are ready. But we tried everything; it does not come. Now to save the ego there is one way: contentment.
Understand this. Let not contentment be a device to save your ego. It often is. You run and each time you lose. Each time there is pain and the ego breaks, shatters. Now you stop running. Now you say: I have no interest in the race. I am contented. What is there in racing! This is madness—to keep running.
Let it not be a trick. You know if you run you will fall. You know you cannot win. So you do not run. But to convince the mind you need a reason. To convince others you need a rationale, an argument. Now you have found one: we have no interest.
Among sannyasins, monks, saints you will find ninety-nine percent who are defeated people—who could not have won in life, whose talent was not up to winning. They sat down. They say: the grapes are sour. Now they preach to others. They preach to those who are running: do not run. There is nothing in it, all is futile. They themselves want to run, but know their capacity is not there. So they condemn.
Who condemns the world—look closely—somewhere his taste is stuck in the world. Otherwise why would he condemn? I say to you: go into the world with an open heart. Struggle. See it thoroughly if there is something to see. Get it if there is something to be had. Do not return half-cooked.
There is a charm to return incomplete, to stop in the middle. When you see you are losing and others are winning, when you see others are reaching, then there is great temptation to say: the race is worthless. At least some face-saving will happen. Condemn the world.
Hence Ashtavakra says: such a man is without agitation, and without contentment. He immediately adds a word that is very precious. Do not think this man has made contentment. No, he has known contentment too is futile—so is discontent. He threw away the disease—and along with it the medicine and the doctor's prescription. There is no need to keep them now.
Such a one is unagitated. No agitation arises within him. No dualities arise: peace-unpeace, pleasure-pain, success-failure, virtue-sin, world-Moksha—no such dualities. Beyond all dualities. Such a one is absorbed in supreme bliss.
'Without doership...'
Such a one does not see he has any doership—that he must do something. Whatever existence has him do, like a gust of wind carrying a dry leaf, he goes. He no longer speaks in the language of duty. He does not say: this is my duty; I must do; if I do not do it, who will? If I do not do it, what will happen to the world? This language he does not speak. He says: even if I do not do it, another will. For the one who makes things happen in this vastness—this Lord of the play behind the vast—if not through me, through another he will get it done.
This is what Krishna told Arjuna: do not run. If they are to be killed… know that those you see standing here in battle are already dead. You are but an instrument. If you will not slay, another will. If this Gandiva bow is not on your shoulder, it will be on another's. Your running will change nothing. What is to happen will happen. What is to be will be. Therefore whether you run or not—it makes no difference. Running is only to fabricate your ego: you could not surrender to the Divine, you did not drop the 'all'. You did not say: whatever you have me do, I will do. You saved yourself. Drop your doership.
'Without contentment, without doership, without vibration...'
Vibrations rise due to desire, due to longing. New vibrations arise.
You have seen: if no vibrations rise in life, you slowly begin to feel dead. You want new vibrations. You did one business—fine. Now you need a new business so that the current rises again. You succeeded in one direction—now success is needed in another. Money you collected—now the position of politics is needed. Politics achieved—now meditation too is to be done.
New vibrations keep arising. Desire keeps sprouting new shoots. Desire never lets you rest. One journey not done, another begins. Before one is complete, the next is prepared.
The great-hearted is without vibration. In his life there is no vibration, no excitement. Nothing is to be attained, nothing to be known, nowhere to arrive. Arrived! Where he is—there is his destination.
If this proclamation of truth is understood, you will dance this very moment. Where you are, just as you are, you are perfect. All vibrations are mind's illusion. Because of vibrations you do not see what you are. Look carefully. Enter within with understanding. What is lacking? To dance, to be delighted—what is lacking? The Divine is showering. As much as he is showering this moment, he will never shower more. He has always showered this much, and ever will. Therefore do not wait for tomorrow.
'Without hope...'
Do you hear? Ashtavakra says: such a one is without hope. He does not weave hopes. When there is no desire, what hope can there be!
'Without doubt...'
He is free of doubt. There is no doubt now—what is true, what false? One thing is clear: the seer is true, and whatever is seen is false. This much is the essence of all scriptures: whatever is seen is false; the one who sees is true.
Right now our condition is reversed. What is seen seems true; the one who sees—we have no clue; we take it as false. People ask: where is the soul? The one who asks—that is the soul. People ask: how to see the soul? Can the soul ever be seen? The one who will see—that is the soul. The soul can never be an object. We trust the world, we do not trust ourselves. We run after what is seen and do not even touch the one who sees—do not sit for a few moments silently holding its hand.
This much is the essence of all scriptures: what is seen is like imagination; the one who sees is truth.
At night you dream. In the dream the dream seems true—because your habit has gone bad. What is seen seems true. You have practiced this. What is seen seems true. Have you considered: even a dream seems true! Could foolishness have any greater boundary? What else is madness?
And it is not that you saw it for the first time and so were deceived. You have seen them all your life. For many lives. Each morning you wake and find it was false. And at night again, the next day again—you are lost again. Today too you got up and found last night's was false. Can you give a firm promise that tonight, when dream comes, you will remember? Such a small thing does not stay in memory. Though repeated so often, it does not stay. Then the sleep catches you, illusion again, you forget again, the dream again seems true.
The reason is this: you have the habit of believing what you see. Gurdjieff told his disciples: if you want to see the dream as a dream, you must not do anything in the dream; you must do something in waking. He would make them practice. It is a valuable practice. He said: for three months at least, whatever you see during the day, remember with awareness: it is false.
As now I am speaking here—you can think: no one is speaking, it is my dream. Difficult. Not true either; but do it for three months. Trees appear—remember: dream, false. Whatever appears—false.
If for three months you take everything seen in the day as false, then one night suddenly you will see the dream and know it is false. The practice is done. A new habit is formed.
This is the whole meaning of the Hindu doctrine of Maya. Gurdjieff's experiment is the experiment of Maya. When Hindus say the world is Maya, it simply means that if you remember in wakefulness—if you practice—then one day, even in sleep, it will be certain that the dream is false. When dreams at night drop, and thoughts by day drop, slowly you begin to recall that which sees. Right now we are so obsessed with the seen that memory of the seer does not arise. And that is the fundamental truth; the source-truth. That is our real wealth. There Mahashaya is hidden. There our sky is hidden.
'Only the mind without hope, without doubt, of the liberated—shines.'
Your hopes are projections of your past. Whatever you have known in the past, you prune and select from it—cut the bad, keep the good—join the clippings and make your future longings. Whatever was painful you want to drop, whatever was pleasant you want to magnify and gain in the future. The future is the echo of your past.
'Flowers fell from the palms, only fragrance remains on the fingers.'
The past is gone, gone indeed, but its memories remain.
'Flowers fell from the palms, only fragrance remains on the fingers.
People pass through the crowd, lost in themselves,
Timidly we think—how long shall we drag ourselves?
An age we have spent picking remnants of memory.
Lest we be crushed amid relationships, we ask each tired dear one—why so many ties?
Why this fear of insecurity? Why this pain of relations?
Some savings remain with us—let us spend our wealth of experience,
On which some echo is echoing—some un-struck resonance hums—
And we stare unblinking towards the future.'
From the wealth of experience we keep selecting. The flowers fell, a little fragrance remains on the fingers, memory remains. That memory spread again is hope. The past spread again and again—hope.
Drop the past too. What is not—let it be not. And do not hope for a repetition of the past. Only when both past and future are gone will you awaken into the present. That awakening is the first experience of meditation. That awakening is the first fragrance of Samadhi.
Samadhi means: the present. Mind means: past and future.
Mind never is in the present. In the present will be your soul, your God. Past gone, future gone—both dropped. No net of memory or imagination. No burden of past experiences, no hope of the future. In some moment, when you stand so unwaveringly in the present, just there—exactly there—you meet truth. There happens the first testing of existence. You are bound in the embrace of That which is.
'The mind of the liberated does not incline to meditation or to action; yet without cause or motive he meditates and he acts.'
'...does not incline to meditation or to action...'
Now Ashtavakra says another unique thing: he has no longing for action, nor for meditation. No longing at all. He does not want to be unpeaceful, nor to be peaceful. He does not want to become anything. He is content with what is. His consent is total, complete. He is not afflicted by any desire. Within him there is no cause, no motive. Whatever the Lord makes him do, whenever. If he has him act—he acts; if he has him meditate—he meditates.
Pass through this experience sometime. Do it once—that for three months you will do nothing on your own. Whatever the Lord has you do, you will do. Then you will begin to wait. If silence descends, you will sit silent. If speech flowers, you will speak. If a song comes, you will sing. If stillness comes, you will be silent.
In the beginning it will be difficult—there will be great embarrassment. Someone comes to talk and the Lord within does not speak—you will have to ask forgiveness. You will say: within, the Lord does not speak now. Initially there will be trouble. Sometimes a great heap of work stands over your head and within there is no impulse from the Lord—you will not do it, whatever happens. Whatever is lost, whatever harm. And sometimes the Lord will have you do some useless task. Energy will rise, great inspiration will come: go clean the road! You will clean it. People will call you mad. But if you pass through this process even for three months, the key will come into your life.
All Ashtavakra's sutras point to that key. And once you taste the joy—such joy will come, such ineffable joy as you have never known. Then you will not be able to return. Do it for three months; then it will never end. After three months you will not be able to change it. You will get the taste. And this taste is unique.
Kabir called it 'sahaj Samadhi'—natural Samadhi. 'Whether I rise or sit, it is circumambulation; whether I eat or drink, it is service.' Now whatever the Lord makes me do, as he makes me do—just that; nothing otherwise.
'When the dull-witted hear the truth of Reality, they fall into stupidity; but some wise man, acting like a fool, attains contraction or Samadhi.'
'For the mind to meditate or to act—when it does not so incline—yet, without motive, it meditates and it acts.'
'The dull, hearing the truth of Reality, attain stupidity;
While some non-deluded, becoming like the deluded, attain contraction or Samadhi.'
He who is dull—on hearing the truth—falls into stupidity. And the wise, acting like a fool, attain contraction or Samadhi.
It depends on you. These sutras hold the keys of great secrets—but will you use them? You can misinterpret them easily. The greater the sutra, the greater the possibility of misinterpretation. And each sutra of Ashtavakra is like a live coal. If you wish, it can become light in your life. If you act dull-witted, you will be badly burned.
As Ashtavakra says: leave all to God; let what happens happen. A dull man will think: good—pull the sheet over and sleep. Nothing to do now. Let God do. If anything is to be done, he will do. Pull the sheet and sleep. An idle, dull person will derive a formula for laziness from this. He will not become a non-doer; he will drop deeds. He will say: there is nothing to be done by me now.
Ashtavakra says: the Mahashaya even goes beyond Samadhi. The dull will say: if even Samadhi is to be transcended, what is the point of meditation? If it has to be left, what use? He will say: drop meditation. The dull will say: if mumuksha itself is vain—why seek truth? Why seek the soul, why God? It depends on the man.
I heard: Mulla Nasruddin's wife took him to a psychiatrist and said: my husband always has a habit of forgetting something or other. Sometimes the umbrella, sometimes the fountain pen, sometimes shoes... it goes so far that if he kept forgetting things like spectacles and handkerchiefs it would be acceptable; sometimes he even forgets me. He takes me to the club and himself disappears and goes home; later says: I forgot.
The psychiatrist said: do not worry—we will cure it. Then he looked at Mulla carefully. He knew Mulla well. He said: but take care that after the cure his tendency does not reverse and he starts bringing home things that are not his—someone else's umbrella, another man's shoes. The wife thought for a while and said: then let it be—let him remain as he is. What if he brings home someone else's wife! As long as he only forgets, that is all right.
A dull person will carry dullness into whatever he does. Therefore be very careful with your intellect. If you have even a little doubt about your intellect, better hold to the company of a true master. If there is any fear that by your own hands you may go wrong, take care.
'And some wise man, acting like a fool, attains contraction or Samadhi.'
Such an upside-down world this is. Here the dull, hearing the truth of the essence, become yet more dull. And here the wise are so skillful that, hearing the truth, they become like fools. In the world they behave as if they know nothing; they act like fools. In this way they free themselves from many unnecessary ties with the world. Becoming like fools, people leave them alone. Becoming like fools, people do not concern themselves with them. Becoming like fools, people do not entangle them. Becoming like fools, no one involves them in chores.
They say: when Mahavira wanted to renounce, he asked permission. But his mother said: so long as I live—no sannyas. He waited. Then the mother died. Returning from the cremation ground, he asked his brother: now may I take sannyas? I had promised our mother; that matter is over. The brother said: is this a time to talk of leaving? We are broken with the sorrow of mother's death and you talk of leaving? Do not say such a thing.
He kept quiet. Then he adopted a way of life such that at home no one could tell whether he was even there or not. He became so silent, so 'contracted', that in a year or two the household felt his being there or not made no difference. At last they themselves said: we should not stop you; you are already gone. Only the body is here; the life-bird has flown. Your soul has gone to the forest. We will not stop you. He gave no opinion in any household matter. Slowly he slipped away—became like a zero. This is called contraction.
'And some wise man, acting like a fool, attains contraction or Samadhi.'
'Contraction... becoming like a fool.' Someone slowly draws back his useless spread, withdraws his pointless affairs. Like a fisherman who draws in his net, like evening drawing in the net of the sun—some wise man, hearing the truth, becomes like a fool. He withdraws himself from the world as if he has become a fool. Now he has nothing to take or give from the world. And he attains Samadhi.
'Fools practice greatly concentration or suppression of the mind; but the steadfast see nothing to do, and, resting in their own nature, are like one asleep.'
Listen to this sutra very carefully.
'Ekagrata nirodho va mudhair abhyasyate bhṛsham;
Dhiraḥ kṛtyam na pashyanti suptavat svapade sthitah.'
The ignorant mind greatly practices concentration and suppression. The ignorant, once they catch a craze... the ignorant are great fanatics. If money catches them, they run after money; if meditation catches them, they run after meditation. The ignorant are stubborn, obstinate. Hatha Yoga was invented by the ignorant. Like a madman he pursues it and pours his whole ego into it.
'Fools practice greatly concentration or suppression of the mind; but the steadfast see nothing to be done, and, resting in their own nature, are like one asleep.'
'Like one asleep, in his own place...'
The wise slowly arrive at rest in themselves. As in sleep—where is your ego in deep sleep? In deep sleep where even dreams are gone, where are your thoughts? In deep sleep, when the mind has no ripple, what boundary do you have? In deep sleep you become Mahashaya. You are neither husband nor wife, neither Hindu nor Muslim, nor Christian nor Buddhist, neither woman nor man, neither father nor son, neither poor nor rich, neither young nor old, neither beautiful nor ugly. In deep sleep all your adjectives disappear. You surely are—but vast.
Ashtavakra says: the wise live as if in deep sleep each moment. No ego. Neither Hindu nor Muslim, nor Christian nor Buddhist; neither beautiful nor ugly; neither rich nor poor; neither moral nor immoral; neither saint nor sinner—none of these.
'The steadfast see nothing to do, and, resting in their own nature, are like one asleep.'
As one, in deep sleep, is absorbed in his own place—so the wise become absorbed in their own nature. And then, from that nature, whatever happens spontaneously is allowed to happen. Nothing to be done... no fervor 'I must do something', no insistence 'something must be shown', no stubbornness 'I must become something'.
In such a state you find God everywhere. One who has found his own place has found God everywhere—in every flower, every leaf, every stream, every eye.
'Ascetic's hut, enemy garden,
Poor ruin, rich palace;
Foppish street, melancholy lane,
Crooked fort, simple home;
Weeping doors, laughing walls,
Low ceiling, high towers;
Cremation ground's old silence,
Fair's virgin bustle—
Every threshold is your threshold,
Every window your window.
Whatever house I bow to,
I bow my head to you alone.
Every mirror is your mirror.'
One who has sat in his own place has come into the Divine. He has come home. He has received what was already given. He has obtained what was hidden within him. An emperor—beggary gone. Beggar-days are over.
His dignity is great, his intention great. He has no boundary. His consciousness is measureless. His life is nectar.
'Every threshold is your threshold,
Every window your window.
Whatever house I bow to,
I bow my head to you alone.
Every mirror is your mirror.'
Enough for today.