Maha Geeta #65

What is this man really saying? He is saying: if it is attained without effort, then give us a blanket so we can curl up and sleep. If Ashtavakra says, become the crown prince of idleness, then why bother? Why take on the labor of meditation?

You are making a mistake again. First you erred on the side of effort, now you err on the side of non-effort. Listen to a sage’s language with utmost alertness; do not let it get translated. Do not translate it into your own language. Put yourself aside. Listen to the sage exactly as he speaks—very intelligently, very honestly.

Keep one thing in hearing: do not mix yourself in. If you translate into your own idiom you will miss. Then whatever conclusions you draw will be yours; the sage did not say them.

That is why Ashtavakra says: The ignorant man finds neither happiness through effort nor through non-effort. In effort he misses because of the feverish running; in non-effort he misses because of laziness, a deep torpor. The way lies between the two.

It is easy, I said, to stay awake while running. And it is easy, I said, to not run while sleeping. The path is the middle. Stay awake the way a runner is awake, and be at rest the way a sleeper is at rest—then you have understood the sage’s language. Stay as alert as the worldly man—see how he is constantly on the run!—and be in as deep a repose as one who sleeps. Let consciousness remain awake while the body sleeps; let the mind sleep while consciousness stays awake. Let the flame of awareness not dim even a little.

That is why Patanjali has said samadhi is like deep sleep—like sleep. Notice: he did not say it is sleep, he said like sleep. A slight difference. He said “like sleep” because the rest in samadhi is as deep as in sleep, but it is not sleep. A ray of wakefulness remains.

Therefore Krishna says in the Gita: “Yā niśā sarva-bhūtānāṁ tasyāṁ jāgarti saṁyamī.” Where all are asleep, the self-restrained one is awake. Where all creatures sleep, where all fall unconscious, there the lamp of the yogi’s awareness keeps burning. Darkness all around, sleep all around, repose all around—but in the innermost sanctum, in the inner temple, the lamp keeps burning. Not for a single moment does it go out.

So run—you will not find. Sleep—you will not find. From running, save awareness; from sleeping, save repose. Join awareness and repose together—samadhi is born.

Hence Buddha said: the middle path—Majjhima Nikāya. Walk in the middle. Neither sway left nor right. Do not go to this extreme or that. Extremes are the world; the middle is nirvana.

Aprayatnāt prayatnād vā mūḍho nāpnoti nirvṛtim.
The unfortunate is the mūḍha. Understand this word. Mūḍha does not mean brainless. Mūḍha means: a drowsy person, sunk in torpor, in faintness.

A mūḍha can be intelligent. Do not think the mūḍha is always a fool. A mūḍha can be a great scholar. Often, only mūḍhas are scholars. A mūḍha can have great scriptural knowledge, an abundance of words, a web of brilliant arguments. He can be skilled in debate—yet still a mūḍha.

Here “mūḍha” is not in the psychological sense—an imbecile. It has a spiritual meaning: one who seems awake but is not; who gives the impression he knows, but he does not; who has created delusion for himself and for others that he knows—yet he does not.

Mūḍha means: egoistic—intoxicated on the liquor of ego; drowsy. He walks, but not consciously; speaks, hears, reads, but not consciously.

Have you noticed? You read something; you reach the end of a page and suddenly realize: I read it, but not a single word stuck. The eyes moved over the words; punctuation marks too. Nothing was skipped. Yet, at the end, nothing remains. What happened? In that period you were a mūḍha. You were unconscious. The eyes worked, the intellect worked, but at the level of the soul there was a deep stupor. An onlooker might think you were absorbed, but you know there was not the slightest touch. You will need to read again, and then perhaps something will land.

Have you noticed? Twenty-four hours pass—morning to evening—and life goes by just like that. Do you ever find that for even a little while you are awake? You go on half-asleep—speaking, quarrelling, loving, marrying, earning. It all goes on. But have you ever consciously asked: Is this what I want to do? Is this why I came? Was this the purpose? Was this my destiny?

You shrug your shoulders: nothing definite is known. Why did I come? Where was I to go? Was I to earn money or not? What was I to earn? What was I to lose? What did I lose, why did I lose, why did I gain? No accounts. You got pushed along. The crowd was going; you went along.

Have you seen how, when a crowd runs, you drop a thousand tasks to run with it? If a Hindu crowd attacks a mosque, you go too; you drop everything; you lose all sense; you smash a temple or burn a mosque. Later, if asked, “Could you have done this alone?” you say, “Alone, no. The crowd did it; I just went along.” Then are you conscious or unconscious?

Someone abuses you; you boil over; you do something. Later in court even murderers say: “I did not do it—it happened.” You did not do it—but it happened? Who did it? “It happened despite me. I lost consciousness. In that unconsciousness the event occurred. I did not even intend it. I picked up a stone and struck. I did not think he would die.” Is an abuse so valuable that you take a life? You did not calculate. In truth, you had no idea he would die; you did not pick up the stone to kill. It just happened. When you saw blood on your hands, you panicked: “What have I done!”

Ninety-nine out of a hundred murders happen in unconsciousness. The murderer is not truly responsible. And if you look within, you will find that murderer sits there too and can appear at any time. Do not trust that because you have not killed yet, you won’t tomorrow. An unconscious person—who can say what he might do?

You have not loved consciously nor hated consciously. You have made neither friends nor enemies consciously. This unconscious state is mūḍhatā. Mahavira called it pramāda; Buddha called it mūrchhā; Ashtavakra calls it mūḍhatā.

Mūḍha is not necessarily unlearned. He may be a pundit, very knowledgeable, rich in information—and yet stupefied.

Tattva-niścaya-mātreṇa prājño bhavati nirvṛtaḥ.
“The wise man, merely by knowing the essence with certainty, becomes fulfilled.”

He does not do anything. He neither strives nor non-strives; he simply does not do. Knowing this much—that bliss is my nature—knowing it with certainty, one ray of such knowing—tattva-niścaya-mātreṇa—just so much, and realization happens.

There is a mention about Rinzai—a Zen monk. He was passing by a temple in the morning, birds humming, the sun risen, peace and beauty everywhere. Inside, a Buddhist sutra was being chanted. As he passed the gate, a mantra reached his ears. He had not come to listen; he was going somewhere else, likely on a morning walk. The mantra’s meaning was: “What you seek outside is within you.”

A simple thing. Sages have always said: the kingdom of heaven is within you; bliss is within you; the Self is within you. The same sutra: what you seek outside is within.

Something jolted him, like being shaken from sleep. He stopped. “What you seek outside is within?” The words pierced like an arrow, went deep, so deep that Rinzai was transformed. It is said he attained realization, attained samadhi.

He had not gone seeking; he had made no attempt at samadhi, had no inquiry for truth. He was simply passing by. And the words are not special—such sutras are recited in every temple. You will be astonished to know: the priest who chanted it had been chanting for years; nothing happened to him. He was learned yet mūḍha. He kept repeating like a parrot. If you teach a parrot to say “Ram-Ram,” it will keep repeating. Do not think the parrot will attain moksha because it chants the divine name.

It could even be—though it was not that day—that there was no priest at all; a gramophone record played: “What you seek outside is within.” Even hearing a gramophone, someone could attain. It depends on you—how you listen, with how much awareness.

That morning, in that hour, in that sunlight, in that moment of wakefulness, he must have been full of awareness. A small thing became a revolution. Rinzai became a great knower. He did not return home—he went into the temple, took initiation, became a sannyasin. The priest asked, “What happened?” He said, “I saw it. What I seek outside is within. Just certainty!” The priest said, “I have read this my whole life; nothing happened. How did it happen to you?” Rinzai said, “I don’t know that. You know how you read. I heard, my eyes closed, and I saw that it is so. Within, an ocean of bliss is waving. I had never seen it. Now it is seen. The sutra became the pretext.”

Later, when Rinzai had many disciples and monasteries, that sutra was read daily—but such an incident did not recur. Rinzai was puzzled: by hearing this sutra—indeed not even reading it—I attained; why do others miss?

It depends on you—how you listen. If you listen quietly, awake, full of awareness, the event can happen this very moment. Then there is no meditation, no tapas, no japa—nothing to do. Then even non-doing need not be done. Neither effort nor non-effort. The mere recognition of what is—sufficient.

Tattva-niścaya-mātreṇa.
Let certainty settle in your very breath about what is essentially true—that alone brings revolution, fundamental transformation.

Prājño bhavati nirvṛtaḥ.
“By mere certainty the awakened one becomes fulfilled.”

Opposite of mūḍha is prajña. The mūḍha is asleep; the prajñavān is awake.

“Merely by knowing the essence with certainty he becomes happy.”

Happiness is not to be acquired; it is to be known. Not to be sought, but recognized. You are to go nowhere; you are to come home. You have drifted far from yourself—that is your trouble. Through births you have gone far. Return! Come back!

And do not ask “How to return?” You only imagine that you have gone far. How can you go far? Like sitting at home and a fantasy arises: let’s go to Calcutta. You go—in imagination. But you have not actually gone; you have only imagined. At most, in dream, you are at a Calcutta crossroads. Now if I say, “Come home,” will you ask, “How? Which train? Which plane?” because you are standing at a Calcutta crossing? No. On hearing “Come home,” you come—if you truly hear. You do not ask how—because you never left. Worldliness is a mere appearance, a delusion—maya. It appears you are in the world; in truth you are not. Try as you may, you cannot be “in” the world.

“In this world, those devoted to practice do not know the Self that is pure, awake, beloved, complete, without contrivance, and free of sorrow.”
Śuddhaṁ buddhaṁ priyaṁ pūrṇaṁ niṣprapañcaṁ nirāmayam.
Ātmānaṁ taṁ na jānanti tatrābhyāsaparā janāḥ.

Ashtavakra says an astonishing thing: those who are tangled in practice never come to know the pure, aware, blissful Self.

People ask: what practice should we do to attain self-knowledge? Ashtavakra says: those devoted to practice do not know the Self. Understand.

Practice (abhyāsa) means the attempt to become what you are not. What you are needs no practice. Practice is an overlay. It is falsification, deceit, pretense. It is imposing something upon yourself by contrivance. What is, is: it needs no practice.

A rose does not practice to be a rose. Nor jasmine, nor champa, nor juhi. A cuckoo is a cuckoo; a crow is a crow—none practices to be itself. But if a crow goes mad—and madness happens only to humans—if a crow tries to become a cuckoo, then trouble. Then headstands, yogic practices, postures, exercises. He wants to be a cuckoo. But all this remains on the surface—no practice can change nature. At a time of stress the crow will appear. He may train his voice in a music school and become mellifluous, but at some moment, when he forgets to control the practice, things will go awry.

There is a tale from Kalidasa’s life at King Bhoja’s court. A great scholar arrived who knew thirty languages. He challenged: if anyone can identify my mother tongue, I will gift one lakh gold coins; if anyone errs, he must give me one lakh. The challenge pricked Bhoja’s pride. One after another, courtiers failed. He turned to Kalidasa. Kalidasa said, let me observe him. The man is a deep practitioner. Whichever language he speaks, it seems his mother tongue—he makes the very mistakes only natives make, speaks in the very cadence. All the languages! Hard. Let me watch.

After a few days, as the scholar was descending the palace steps with yet another lakh, Kalidasa gave him a shove. He tumbled down, stood up and shouted abuses in his mother tongue. Kalidasa said, “Forgive me; there was no other way. This is your mother tongue.” In that moment he forgot—his inner crow appeared. One does not abuse in a foreign language. Abusing in a second tongue has no kick.

A friend married an American girl. He told me, “There are two big difficulties: when we quarrel—and when we are in deep love. In quarrels, the fun isn’t there; I long to burst into my mother tongue. And in love’s depth too, one wants the language woven into one’s breath.”

Practice is an imposition upon nature.

Ashtavakra says: to sink into your nature is bliss. Bliss cannot be practiced. Whatever you practice will bring sorrow—because practice breeds pretense. Hence a tremendous sutra:
Ātmānaṁ taṁ na jānanti tatrābhyāsaparā janāḥ—
Those poor souls devoted to practice never know the Self.

Practice makes you false. Practice is a compromise against the self. Practice means: tears within, smile on the lips. Inside one thing, outside another. Gradually the inside and outside become two separate worlds.

Psychologists call this schizophrenia. Two selves—one within, one without—with such a chasm that no bridge can be built. You lose connection with yourself. You forget your original face; you take the mask as your face. Tusks to show, different teeth to eat. In such a life you cannot be natural; and where naturalness is lost, joy is lost. Joy is the fragrance of nature.

Trees are happy: the rose does not try to be the lotus; champa is champa, jasmine is jasmine. No competition. No tricks to become something else. Man is mad. A healthy man is hard to find. Healthy—swastha—means: established in oneself; established in one’s nature. Healthy people are rare. Wounds upon wounds, compromises upon compromises, masks upon masks.

Notice how many masks you wear! One before your wife, another before your son, another before your servant, another before your boss—changing all day. You are so practiced you don’t even notice how you switch.

Husband and wife are fighting; a guest knocks—the masks change. The guest will never know. He may even feel envious: what love they have! He doesn’t know what was happening a moment ago.

Seeing others laugh, everyone feels perhaps I am the most miserable—because you know your inside, while you know only others’ masks. You may deceive the world; how will you deceive yourself? However hard you try, your reality keeps surfacing, telling you you are false.

As long as you are false, you are unhappy. The moment you are authentic, you are happy.

“In this world, the practice-obsessed do not know that Self which is pure, aware, beloved, complete, without contrivance, and without sorrow.”

The treasure you have brought with you—the safe within—you never opened. You painted the safe from outside so much the keyhole is jammed. And what you seek is locked within. You brought it with you.

It seems a paradox; remember it. You are sent to this earth to find exactly what you already have. You have come to be acquainted with what you are. There is nothing else to become: only to recognize what you are; to look it in the eye; to take its hand; to embrace it.

Then you will find: you have never been impure; you are pure. You have never fallen below the Buddha even for a moment. Your inner self is in the state of the supremely awakened. There the stream of nectar flows; there light alone is—darkness cannot enter. You are the source of vast consciousness. God abides within—pure, aware, beloved, complete, uncontrived, and free of sorrow.

“The ignorant man does not attain liberation by karma in the form of practice. The actionless knower abides liberated merely by knowing.”
Moksha is not a goal or destination. It is not ahead; it is behind you. Do not seek it with outstretched hands; look within. Moksha is the diamond at your depth. Comb the shore for shells—you won’t find it. Dive into your own ocean.

Nāpnōti karmaṇā mokṣaṁ vimūḍho ’bhyāsa-rūpiṇā.
Practice as much as you like—japa, tapas, fasting; renounce the world, flee to the Himalayas—still you won’t get moksha. Because your fundamental seeing has not opened: that moksha is my nature. Then why the Himalayas? What is not possible here won’t be possible there; what is possible here needs no Himalaya.

Money has not stopped you. How can silver coins stop you? Neither house nor shop nor family has stopped you. Who else can stop you? You are stopped by your own mūḍhatā. Break it. Go nowhere; leave nothing—just break unconsciousness.

The day it breaks, and you see the Supreme seated within, that day you will find He is seated in your wife too, in your child too. That day the wife will no longer be wife—she will be God; the son will no longer be son—he too will be God. The whole world becomes what you are—colored in your color. And the celebration that happens then, the dance, the songs of bliss—that is moksha.

Moksha means: recognition of oneself.

Nāpnōti karmaṇā mokṣaṁ vimūḍho ’bhyāsa-rūpiṇā.
Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa muktas tiṣṭhaty avikriyaḥ.

Ashtavakra says: blessed are they—dhanya—who, by mere knowing, by mere awareness, attain moksha. They perform not even a speck of action. Action gives you what is outside; non-action gives you what is within. Non-action is not laziness; do not confuse it with inertia. Non-action means the quiet state of action—like a lake full, brimful, but without ripples. The energy and power that could move into action are there, but no waves of desire, no racing of craving. In that gathered energy, vision dawns.

Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa—
Blessed is that moment when, by mere awareness, you meet the Divine.

Muktas tiṣṭhaty avikriyaḥ—
And the liberated one abides, unperturbed. No one becomes free by searching for freedom; the free one simply knows: I am free. It becomes a proclamation.

The Upanishads say: “Aham Brahmāsmi”—I am Brahman. Mansoor said, “Anal Haq”—I am the Truth. This is not about becoming; Mansoor was that—today he recognized. The rishi says, “I am Brahman”—not that he became Brahman today. What you are not, you can never become. What you are—that alone you can recognize.

If one day the seed sprouts and becomes a mango tree and bears fruit, it only means the mango was hidden in the seed; nothing more. Not any seed will produce mangoes; only a mango seed. What appears was already there.

Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa.

“The ignorant does not attain that Brahman by desiring to be Brahman.”

The very desire “I want to be Brahman” proves you do not yet know you are Brahman. Desire is the evidence.

If a man desires to be a man, what will you say? “You are mad. You are a man; what is there to desire?” He says, “Show me the way to become a man.” At most you can hold up a mirror: see.

The true guru does just that: he puts a mirror before you.

An old story: a lioness leapt from one knoll to another and gave birth mid-leap. The cub fell among a flock of sheep passing below. The sheep raised him. He was a lion, but by habit came to think himself a sheep. He learned their bleating; shuffled along in the herd.

A lion walks alone. “Lions do not have herds.” Sheep have herds—only the cowardly walk in crowds. They cling to the crowd out of fear: if I leave the Hindu crowd, what will happen? The Muslim crowd? Stay in the crowd—so many with me; two hundred million Hindus alongside! Courage comes.

A sannyasin is one who steps out of the crowd. He is a lion. “Lions have no herds.” Therefore a sannyasin has no caste. Kabir says: ask not a saint’s caste. Caste belongs to the fearful; what caste for a saint?

One day, a lion attacked the flock. Seeing another lion running with the sheep, he was astonished. He forgot his prey and chased the young lion, who begged, bleated, “Please let me go—my companions are leaving!” The old lion dragged him to the river and forced him to look. “See the mirror—see my face and yours. Recognize!” Nothing more was needed. He saw: we are the same. “So I am not a sheep?” In an instant a roar burst forth—the long-suppressed lion’s roar. The mountains shook. The old lion too trembled: “You roar so loud?” “I have never roared since birth,” he said. “I got lost in practice. Your grace woke me.”

This is the satguru: he seizes you out of the sheep. You will be annoyed, you will plead: “What are you doing, Master? Let me go: I am a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian; it is Sunday—I must go to church.” But once you fall into the satguru’s orbit, he will not leave you without bending you over the river. And once you see that what is in Buddha, Mahavira, in the guru, in Ashtavakra, in Krishna, in Mohammed, in Jesus, in Zarathustra—that is in you—the roar bursts: “Aham Brahmāsmi.” The peaks echo; the mountains shake.

You are not a sheep. You appear so because you are in the crowd. Rise from the crowd. The crowd has trained you in practice—how could it teach anything else? The sheep taught what they knew.

What your parents knew, they taught you. They did not know; nor can you know through them. Their parents taught them to parrot “Ram-Ram.” They parroted; they taught you: never miss your Ram-Ram; salute the sun each morning; go to the Kumbh Mela. Millions of sheep gathered… A crowd can teach only what it knows. What is the crowd’s fault?

“The ignorant does not become Brahman by desiring to be Brahman.”

Understand this. It is ignorance to desire: I must be Brahman, I must be free. This desire includes the assumption that you are not free.

If that young lion had asked for a method—“Tell me how to become a lion”—and the old lion had given him instructions: do headstands, practice; or sit and repeat, “I am a lion, I am a lion”—then he would have become false. He does not need to become a lion; he needs the awakening of being a lion. Not practice—awakening.

Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa.
Blessed are those who awaken upon hearing; who see their face in the mirror and recognize it.

Mūḍho nāpnoti tad brahma yato bhavitum icchati.
This very urge “to become” will prevent being. You already are what you seek—only awaken. Therefore I do not call religious the one who wants to be religious—he will be a hypocrite. Religious is the one who sees what is. Becoming—bhavitum icchati—this fever to become is not the mark of the religious. Being—knowing what is—is religion. The race to become is the world; awakening to being is religion.

Mūḍho nāpnoti tad brahma yato bhavitum icchati.
Anicchann api dhīro hi parabrahma-svarūpa-bhāk.

“And the steadfast man, even without desiring, surely partakes of the Supreme’s own form.”

The steadfast, the awakened, the one whose lion’s roar has sounded, who has recognized his true face—even without desire he partakes. When the old lion dragged the young one to the river, the youngster had no desire to be a lion. He wanted to be left alone—to remain a sheep, happy in his world. But when the truth is seen, how will you escape? The proclamation bursts forth—“Aham Brahmāsmi.”

Anicchann api dhīro hi parabrahma-svarūpa-bhāk.
Even without wanting, the one who is a little awake, in whom a ray of awakening has dawned, becomes a participator in the Supreme’s nature.

Understand the word svarūpa-bhāk—one who “partakes of” the Supreme’s own nature. Bhajan is a subtle word. Bhajan means that which flows uninterruptedly—akhaṇḍa. You sometimes hear “akhand kirtan”—and the neighborhood is tormented for twenty-four hours by loudspeakers; no one sleeps. That is not akhand. No act can be uninterrupted; rest must be taken. Between every two words there is a gap—interruption. You say “Ram Ram”—between two Rams there is a gap; it is broken. Only when there is no gap does bhajan become akhand—but then the words collide, a railway wreck of syllables. However fast you chant, there will be gaps.

Therefore understand “svarūpa-bhāk.” True bhajan can be uninterrupted only when you remember “I am the Divine.” Then it is akhand. Then, waking, sitting, standing, even sleeping, you know “I am That.”

When that lion saw, he did not need to keep repeating, “I am a lion.” The matter was finished. His behavior became leonine. That is svarūpa-bhāk. He rose, walked, sat, slept like a lion; he looked like a lion. This is uninterrupted bhajan—his very life became his worship.

A truly religious person is known not by words but by the current of his life—its continuity, an ineffable peace, a stream of bliss, the presence of the Divine. If he speaks, he speaks of the Divine; if he is silent, the Divine is in his silence. Awake or asleep, you will find the Divine.

Buddha is Buddha even in sleep; there is Buddhahood even in his sleeping. Ānanda lived with Buddha forty years as his close attendant. At times he would stay awake just to look at Buddha’s sleeping face—such unspeakable peace! You—if someone watches you sleeping—where is peace? You mutter, grimace, toss and turn, flail. The day’s restlessness does not vanish just because you close your eyes; it follows you. Your worldly bhajan continues. At night you count money; the ninety-nine’s circle continues. The shop goes on.

Mulla Nasruddin one night tore his quilt. His wife said, “What are you doing?” He snapped, “Now you’ve started coming to the shop too?” He woke up; in his dream he was selling cloth to a customer.

If you are a sheep by day, you will be a sheep by night. If you are a lion by day, you will be a lion by night. What you are will show in waking and in sleep.

Ānanda sometimes sat watching Buddha sleep, and he was filled with ecstasy. Such deep sleep—yet such peace that nowhere was there any stupor. Buddha would sleep the whole night in the same posture—no tossing. Ānanda wondered: do you remain aware even at night? Buddha said: taste the ocean anywhere, it is salty. Taste me anywhere—you will find Buddhahood. Even in sleep, where will awareness go? The lamp keeps burning.

This is svarūpa-bhāk—worship through one’s very nature.

Buddha will not commit violence even in dreams. You will commit it by day and by night. What violence you suppress by day you will enact at night; accounts must be settled. The wise have nothing to do by day; nothing remains by night. Day empty; night empty.

“The baseless and obstinate mūḍhas nourish the world. The wise have cut the root of this calamity.”

The knower is one who has attained his nature—like cuckoo and rose and lotus, like birdsong. The day you are in your svarūpa, that is knowledge.

Leaving behind the idioms of cities,
Come, let us speak the language of forests,
Where birds sing keen-edged songs,
Where rabbits wear innocence,
Where in the red ribs of buds
Hides a heart as tender as flowers.
At least once more, let us belong
To primal fragrances—
Trees with deep brotherhood with trees,
Mountains squatting, knees to chest,
The green monsoon covering
The fiery tale of June.
Let us open rusted windows
On shut-down metres and rhymes—
Leaving the idioms of cities,
Come, let us speak the language of forests.

The wise speaks the language of his nature. That is his bhajan. He belongs again to forest, to the Divine, to nature. Practice is gone, hypocrisy, masks, compromises—all gone. He no longer drapes the outer; he lets the inner flow.

Nirādhārā graha-vyagrā mūḍhāḥ saṁsāra-poṣakāḥ.
Those who are obstinate, mūḍha, holding to beliefs without any foundation—they nourish the worldliness.

Have you noticed? The beliefs you clutch—besides ego, what else is there? Have you known? Experienced? Someone asks: is there God? You boldly say yes. Have you ever known? Have you ever held God’s hand some morning? Seen Him in some eyes? Felt His shadow?

You know nothing, yet you are ready to fight and die. Another says “No”—he too knows nothing. Do not repeat hearsay. Seek; experience. Do not cling; be unclinging. These are baseless things, for there is one basis—experience. Say only what you have known. If you have not known, say, “I do not know.” At least be that honest. Do not tell such huge lies. Little lies—fine. But you tell gigantic ones. And the irony is: those who forbid little lies teach you the big ones. The priest, the pundit, the monk—they say, “Do not lie,” and then, “Believe in God.” How can you believe without experience? Say: I will believe when I know. How else?

I am not saying say “I do not believe”—that too is a belief. Say, “I don’t know.” Keep the door open. In “no” the door closes. The atheist is closed; the theist is closed.

I call religious the one whose door is open. “I have no insistence; if God is, come—I am waiting with open eyes. If you are not, what can I do? I will not fabricate you. If you come, I will dance with you.”

“The baseless and obstinate mūḍhas nourish the world. The wise have cut the root of this catastrophe.”
Ashtavakra says the awakened have cut at the root of all unfounded beliefs, insistences, prejudices. These are the roots of calamity.

If only people would acknowledge their ignorance and drop false insistence, the search would begin again, the spring would flow again, the journey to truth…

But someone sits as a Hindu, someone as a Muslim. One clutches the Gita, another the Quran. You are connected neither to Gita nor Quran. You recognize neither Krishna nor Mohammed; yet you draw swords. The greatest sins have been committed in the name of temples and mosques. Priests and pundits have made you fight more than anyone. The earth is drenched in blood. All the while, talk of brotherhood; preaching love; and wars grow in that name.

Nirādhārā graha-vyagrā mūḍhāḥ saṁsāra-poṣakāḥ.
Etasyānartha-mūlasya mūlachedaḥ kṛto budhaiḥ.
The wise say: drop insistence—no dogma, no prejudice. The seeker’s vision: an open mind, open doors and windows. Let the airs come; let the news come. Let the sun’s rays come; let the news come—God is. Open the door!

You sit inside with doors closed, Hindu-Muslim, theist-atheist. You do not open the door. When God knocks, you say it is a gust of wind. It is not “just wind”—all winds are His. His footsteps rustle the dry leaves; you say, “Just leaves.” There are no “just leaves”—all leaves are His, dry and green. These are His ways of coming: sometimes as wind, sometimes as clouds, sometimes as rain, sometimes as moon and sun, in a thousand ways. Open your eyes a little.

Do not cling. Do not hide behind doctrines. Throw them away; they are worth two pennies. Choose truth. And truth is chosen only by experience. Experience alone is the basis—argument cannot prove; only experience proves. Experience is self-proving.

“The ignorant, desiring to be peaceful, does not attain peace. The steadfast, knowing the essence with certainty, is always of peaceful mind.”
Na śāntiṁ labhate mūḍho yataḥ śamitum icchati.
Peace is not attained by the desire for peace—because desire is the very cause of disturbance. How can there be a desire for desirelessness? It is contradictory.

People come and say, I want to be peaceful. I say: As long as you want to be anything, you cannot be peaceful. The wanting itself is unrest. Today you were restless for money and market; suppose you drop that—you will be restless for peace. The race continues—first for wealth and status, now for peace. Will you never be free of ambition?

To be peaceful means: nothing to attain. Peace arrives when attainment goes out the door. Both do not stay together. Remember this sutra; ponder it deeply.

Na śāntiṁ labhate mūḍho yataḥ śamitum icchati—
The mūḍhas never find peace because they desire it.

Dhīras tattvaṁ viniścitya sarvadā śānta-mānasaḥ—
The wise, the steadfast, by knowing the essence with certainty, become ever peaceful of mind.

To know that asking is unrest; running is unrest; becoming is unrest—then what is left to do? In this knowing, the race collapses; in the depth of this awareness, becoming is burnt to ashes. Then you are what you are: utterly content—pure, aware, complete, beloved—walking, sitting, standing, moment to moment.

This can happen by “mere knowing.” Hear this great proclamation. For it to happen, nothing need be done—because it is already so. It is your nature.

Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa.
Be blessed. Want it this very instant—there is no need to waste even one moment. If you follow Patanjali, you may need lifetimes. Practice is long: the eight limbs; and within each limb many subtleties—yama, niyama, asana, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana, then samadhi; and samadhi also savikalpa, nirvikalpa, sabija, nirbija. In this life? Even yamas won’t be mastered—samadhi is far. That is why your so-called yogis get stuck at asanas; they don’t go beyond. Asanas alone consume a life; pranayama alone consumes a life.

And yamas and niyamas are no small things: ahimsa, satya, aparigraha, asteya, brahmacharya—finished! You will drown right there.

Ashtavakra says: it can happen this very moment. If you have to wait even a moment, blame no one—it is because of you. Not lifetimes; now.

Dhanyo vijñāna-mātreṇa muktas tiṣṭhaty avikriyaḥ.
Because the establishment in freedom requires no action—only understanding, only awareness, only prajñā.

Contemplate these sutras deeply. Churn them, chew them, digest them till they become your blood, flesh, marrow. There is no scripture on earth more wondrous than this.

Enough for today.