Maha Geeta #67

“Where is the vision of the Self for one who leans on the seen? The steadfast do not look at the seen; they behold the imperishable Atman.”
Within this single aphorism lies the essence of all Eastern vision. The word darshan means precisely this. This sutra is the very exposition of darshan.
Darshan does not mean thinking or speculation. It is not what “philosophy” means. Darshan means: to see That which is seeing everything. To see the seen is not darshan; to see the seer is darshan.
We can divide human beings into two kinds. First, those who are entangled in the seen. Call them irreligious. Even if they place an image of God before them and remain fascinated by that image—they are still entangled in the seen. Even if they form a concept of God in the sky and get dissolved in its sweetness—they remain entangled in the seen. For them, even “God” is only a seen object.
The second kind are those who search for the seer. I am looking at you—you are the seen. That which within me is looking at you is the seer. You are looking at me—I am the seen for you. That which within you, hidden, looks at me, which hears me through the windows of the ears, sees me through the windows of the eyes—who is that? One who sets out in search of That alone is religious.
If you think of God as an object of seeing, you will build temples and mosques and gurudwaras, you will worship, you will pray—but you will not come into contact with real religion. Real religion begins only when you set out to find the seer; when you begin to ask the primal question: Who am I? Who is this that knows? The knower must be known. The seer must be seen. This root, this source must be grasped. Grasp this, and everything else is in your grasp.
The Upanishads say: One who has known the knower has known all. Mahavira says: Knowing the One, all is known. And that One abides within each of us.
Stop thinking of God as the seen. Begin to see God as the Seer. Hence it is said: Atman itself is Paramatman. Recognized, it is Paramatman; unrecognized, it remains Atman. If you dive deep within and touch the innermost center of your own depth—there is nowhere else to go. You are the temple. God is enthroned within you.
But the direction of the journey must change. The seen is outside; the seer is within. The seen is other; the seer is the Self. To see the seen, the eyes must be opened. To see the seer, the eyes must be closed. To see the seen, waves of thought are helpful. To see the seer, a state of thoughtlessness and unmoving stillness is needed. To see the seen, mind is the device; to see the seer, meditation.
Meditation means freedom from mind. Mind means freedom from meditation. One who lost meditation became mind; one who lost mind became meditation. It is a small shift: do not look outward—look inward.
There was a Sufi fakir, a woman, Rabi’a—unique Rabi’a. Very few such women have walked the earth. She sat in her hut at dawn, meditating. A Muslim fakir, Hasan, was staying with her—he too was a renowned fakir. You will understand the difference I am pointing to. It was morning—the sun had risen, birds had begun to sing. The morning was beautiful. White clouds drifted across the sky. A cool breeze was blowing. Hasan stepped outside and saw this beauty. He called loudly: Rabi’a, what are you doing in there? Come out! God has given birth to a beautiful morning. The birds are singing sweet songs, the sun’s golden net is cast, the cool breeze is flowing. Come out—what are you doing inside?
Rabi’a burst into laughter and said: Hasan, how long will you stay outside? You come inside. Out there you see the morning made by God; in here I am seeing the One who made the morning. The morning is beautiful, but what is it compared to the Master of the morning? The sun is radiant, but what is it compared to the One whose gesture kindled light in the sun! And the birds’ songs are sweet indeed—but I am listening to the song of that Master who composed all songs, who hums through the throats of all the birds. Hasan, you come inside.
Hasan was startled. He had not imagined the matter would turn like this. But Rabi’a was right.
Hasan and Rabi’a are two symbols of humanness. Hasan seeks outward; Rabi’a seeks inward. Hasan searches in the seen. The seen too is beautiful—it is not that it is not—but its beauty is like the moon’s reflection in a lake. It is a shadow in the lake, a mere reflection; the real moon is not in the lake.
One who has seen the moon will say to the one gazing into the lake: Fool, why are you entangled in the seen! Seek the source. This is a shadow, a reflection.
What we see outside is our own reflection. The world is nothing more than a mirror. When your mind is filled with rasa, the outside too appears filled with rasa. When you are full of song, songs are heard outside as well. When you are blissful, it seems the whole world is a festival. When you are miserable, the whole world becomes miserable. When you are filled with pain, flowers are not seen—only thorns prick your hands.
What is happening within you is what gleams outside. You interpret the outer from the inner. The interpretation arises from within—from the seer. Even what you think you see in the seen is only the seer’s shadow.
A poet may enter this garden, and a musician may enter, and a painter may enter, and a shopkeeper may enter, and a woodcutter may enter—though they seem to be in the same garden, they are not in the same garden.
The woodcutter thinks which trees to cut, which wood will sell, which will become furniture, which will become firewood.
The shopkeeper may not even see the trees—or he sees only this much: if these fruits were sold, how much profit would come? He keeps counting rupees.
The poet will see something else. He will see flowers, and the aura spread through the flowers. As if, seeing flowers blossoming outside, songs start bursting within the poet.
The painter will have a vision of colors. He will see colors you ordinarily do not see. When you look, all trees seem simply green. But when a painter looks, each tree’s green is different. How many shades there are within green! How many nuances! All is not just green-green—between greens there are great differences; only a painter will see them.
The shadow of what is within you appears outside. And if a saint were to enter—if Rabi’a were to enter—that garden, the beauty of a flower would close her eyes. The flower’s beauty would make her eyelids droop, for the flower would remind her of the beauty of God. The beauty outside would fling her within. She would close her eyes. The outer flower would be forgotten—it served as a pretext—and the inner flower would begin to appear. Hearing a song outside, Rabi’a would set out on an inward journey. The outer song would recede far away.
Every seen thing brings news of the seer—it does; only we are blind. Blind inwardly; therefore we remain entangled in objects.
Today’s first sutra:
Where is the vision of the Self for one who leans on the seen?
One who runs after the seen—how could he possibly glimpse the Self? The more he runs after the seen, the farther he will stray from his center. The seen will never be grasped, for it is a mirage. That moon you see shining in the lake—if you dive in to catch it, will you get it? Your very dive will lose even the shadow. The water’s surface will ripple. The reflection that had formed will shatter and scatter across the whole lake. Silver will spread over the waters, but you will not be able to seize it. You will go mad.
Thus the whole world is mad. Beauty appears on a distant horizon; you run. By the time it reaches your fist, it has dispersed. The most beautiful woman becomes ugly the moment she is in your fist. The most handsome man becomes ugly as soon as he is in your hands. That is why whose own wife seems beautiful? It is always another’s wife who seems beautiful. And whose own house seems a palace? Always someone else’s house appears a palace. What is not in your hand seems beautiful; when it comes into the hand, it falls apart.
In this world there are shadows, reflections—enticing from afar. Drums sound sweet from a distance. As you draw near, everything is lost. Truth is defined thus: that which, when you come near, becomes truer still. Untruth is that which appears true from afar but dissolves as you approach. A great man is he who grows greater as you come close. One who deceives with a great name—go near him, he shrinks. The closer you come, the smaller he looks. When you are very close, he is of your size—perhaps even smaller. From afar he seems big.
That is why politicians never let anyone come too close. It is said Adolf Hitler never made friends. There was not a single man who could place an arm on his shoulder as a friend. He never loved any woman so intimately that she could come close. No one ever slept in his room—not even a woman. Why? Hitler could not tolerate anyone’s nearness. His greatness depended on the charm of distance. He was great far away; up close he would become small. He knew it. All politicians know it.
When you aspire to high office, what are you aspiring to? You are small; by standing on a chair you hope to become big. Childishness. Little children do it—they climb on a stool near their father and say, “Look father, I am taller than you.” Politics is just such childishness. Sitting on a chair, people become big. Sitting in the president’s seat, a man seems presidential. Step down from the seat—and he vanishes. No one cares, no one even says hello.
Therefore one who reaches a position never wants to leave it. Push him, try everything—he will not budge. He wishes to die in that position, not step down—for he knows the bigness he feels is false. It comes from the position, from the chair. It is not his own, not atma-gourav; it is pad-gourav, the prestige of the post.
One who tastes even a little of the juice of the Self loses interest in positions.
A position has one advantage—you cannot be approached. Wealth has the same advantage—the bigger the heap you stand on, the farther people are kept. No one can come near.
Such races belong to small men—those who are afflicted with inferiority. Yet most people are busy in them.
Where is the vision of the Self for one who pursues the seen? Ashtavakra says: one who leans on the seen will never find himself. And one who has not found himself—let him gain all else, what is the worth of that gain? Jesus said: If you gain the whole world and lose yourself—what kind of bargain is that? Do you call that victory? It is utter defeat—what defeat could be greater? You threw away yourself and amassed everything.
There is only one thing worth acquiring: That which is hidden within you. That is the supreme wealth, the supreme position. If you have not attained That, know that you remained a beggar and will die a beggar. Climb as many chairs as you like, stack up as much money as you like, become owner of the whole earth—if you are not master of yourself, you are poor, you are destitute. And if you are master of yourself and possess nothing—your wealth is unparalleled; you are an emperor.
Swami Ram used to call himself a king. He had nothing. Even then he would say, “This morning Ram the King went walking—trees bowed and saluted. Tonight when Ram the King was passing—the moon and stars circled in homage.”
In this country such talk circulates; no one objects—we are used to it. But when he went to America, people did not like it. They said, “What are you saying? In America this will be taken as madness. The moon and stars encircle you? Trees bow and salute? Are you in your senses? You call yourself Ram the King, and you own two loincloths!”
Ram the King replied, “That is exactly why I call myself a king—because I have nothing that can be snatched. I have nothing death can wrest from my hands. My ownership is such that even death is defeated. And my ownership is such that none can seize it. That is why I call myself king. Look at my laughter, gaze into my eyes—my kingship is inner. It is the very kingship Jesus called the Kingdom of God. Look into my eyes and see—my kingship is within. I have found myself, therefore I say I am a king. And you are all poor, destitute. You may have millions, you may have wealth and splendor—but I tell you, you are poor.”
For these “rich” who have everything outside and nothing within, Jesus’s famous saying is: A camel can pass through the eye of a needle, but you wealthy ones—you shall not enter the Kingdom of the Lord.
Even the impossible may by some trick become possible—a camel through the eye of a needle. But you rich—you shall not enter the Kingdom. Why? Because you are not rich at all. You are utterly poor within. Inside you is emptiness, a dry desert—no oasis at all. Inside you there is only blankness. You have never awakened the inner treasure.
One who keeps chasing the seen—he will not gain the seen, and he will lose the seer. This race is very costly. Most people run this race. Many times experience also shows that what we sought, when obtained, turns out to be nothing. Still, mind’s nets are deep. Mind says, “Perhaps we missed this time—next time it will happen.” Desires return; new lures arrive.
Again the Lord of Lords rides by, lashing his whip,
white horses galloping, a sunlit crown gleaming.
Again children begin gathering flowers.
Will I never be free of winter’s scent?
Shall I remain bound to the craving for warmth?
Each year, each time, will I melt like wax in the steam of sunlight?
Will I dig out the touch-free Self?
Break free of this helplessness,
become bodiless and return?
Again the Lord of Lords rides by, lashing his whip—
white horses galloping, a sunlit crown gleaming.
Desire does not leave one alone. Many times a deep longing arises—when will I be free? When will this net fall away? When will this tangle be undone? When will there be liberation? When will open sky be—where no demand forms a boundary, where no desire pollutes, where the lamp of consciousness burns smokeless, where not a trace of beggary remains, where within is full contentment and no thought even arises to go outside, where dreams do not tremble, where the flame of consciousness stands unwavering—when will such a moment arrive?
Often this understanding comes—yet again the horses of desire come galloping.
Again the Lord of Lords rides by, lashing his whip.
Then the mind seizes you again. Someone whispers, “Just once more. Run a little more.”
There is a famous story by Tolstoy: How much land does a man need? A wandering ascetic stayed the night with a simple, contented family—well-fed, easy in their ways, uncomplicated people. The wanderer said at night, “What are you doing here? All your life you will toil on this small piece of land—you will never become rich.”
This householder had not been poor at all, for the thought of becoming rich had never arisen. That night he became poor. The wanderer said, “If you stay stuck here, you will never be rich.” The thought of riches arose—and he became poor. He could not sleep. He slept peacefully every day; that night his mind churned. In the morning he asked the wanderer, “You roam everywhere—tell me, is there any place where I can become rich?” “There is,” said the wanderer, “in Siberia. Strange folk live there—still wild, still without worldly cleverness. Go there. Sell a little land here. With that money you can acquire as much land as you wish.”
Desire awoke. The man sold his fields and house. His children and wife wept, but he said, “Do not worry—we will be rich soon.” They had been rich indeed—because the thought of poverty had never occurred. They had been at ease—but now they became very poor.
He sold everything and reached far-off Siberia. There he found the wanderer had spoken truly—strange people lived there. “Just please a tribal chief,” the wanderer had said, “they are pleased by small things. Take a hookah, some tobacco, some liquor—offer it as a gift. If he is pleased, ask for a little land.” He pleased a chief. The chief said, “Take as much land as you like. How much do you want?” The man could not think. The chief then said, “Do this—tomorrow at sunrise, set out walking. The land you encircle by sunset will be yours. As big a circuit as you can make.”
The man went mad with joy—“So much land, as much as I can circle in a day?” He did not sleep that night. He ran all night in his dreams. In the morning he was exhausted. No sleep—and in nightmares he had been running. But he said, “No matter.” He did not even eat, fearing a heavy belly would slow him. He took only a flask of water.
He ran. He ran faster than ever in his life—like an arrow. To lose a single moment was dangerous. He had decided to turn back at noon, when the sun would be overhead, for he would need time to return. But when the sun was overhead the mind lured him: just a little more. He had covered many miles; the enclosure was vast and the land so beautiful. At noon he said, “Let me circle a little more—I will simply run harder. It is only a day.”
He did not stop to drink water, though he was thirsty—as stopping would waste time. In that pause he could encircle an acre or two. The sun began to decline, but his mind did not turn back. He thought, “I will stake my life—only today matters.”
Then he turned; and now the trouble began. He was running and running—exhausted from the whole day’s toil. The sun was about to set—he kept running. The entire village gathered to watch and encouraged him, “Run! The sun is setting. If you do not return by sunset, all is lost.” The condition was to return by sunset. He had staked his life. Now he was very near, but the sun was touching the horizon. He gathered the last of his strength—there wasn’t any left—he staked it all. He ran. He reached the line that had been drawn—and collapsed, dead, as the sun went down.
The village laughed. They made his grave and wrote upon it: How much land does a man need? Six feet. Six feet of soil was enough. He had encircled miles—yet all went to waste.
This is Tolstoy’s famous tale: “How Much Land Does a Man Require?” Desire only grows; it knows no end. You go on running.
A friend of mine, around sixty, said to me, “You say a man should turn his mind to God at the final time.” I said, “The final time has indeed arrived—what are you waiting for?” He said, “Give me five more years.” I said, “As you wish—the time is yours, the age is yours, the meditation is yours—what force can I apply? But are five years guaranteed?” He laughed, “You speak strangely. With your blessings I will live—why not!” I said, “What have my blessings to do with it? By my blessings you were not born, nor are you living, nor will you be saved. Do not fall into such deceits.”
He was a little hurt. He said, “You should not speak like that. At least give your blessings.” I said, “Blessings cost me nothing—that is why sadhus hand them out. No expense at all! Take my blessings. But if you survive five years—then what?” He said, “Then I will take sannyas. I will stop everything. Done!”
Five years passed. When I stayed at his home again, he was restless, avoiding sitting alone with me. I said, “What will wandering about do? Five years are over.” He said, “You’re right—give me five more.” I told him Tolstoy’s story. “You asked for sixty-five—now you change?” “No,” he said, “I stand by my word—but there are entanglements. Businesses incomplete, children in university—let me set things right.”
I said, “Will entanglements be set right in five years? Nobody’s ever are. Not in five, not in fifty. For while you set some right, you create new ones.” He said, “No—this time I promise. I will write it for you if you wish.” I said, “Then write.” He grew scared: “Why write? I have said it.” “Write,” I said, “perhaps in five years you will change again.” He wrote it down for me. Five years later I sent a telegram: “Five years are complete.” He came and said, “Forgive me. I cannot do it. And I lack the courage to ask for five more. But I cannot do it.”
I said, “Will you die or not? What will you do at death? When death stands at the door—if you say to me ‘I cannot,’ what will you say to death?” He said, “Who is dying today? When it comes, we will see.”
Thus a man keeps postponing. Thus life empties, drop by drop. With each drop the pitcher drains—and you say, “Tomorrow, the day after.” Chase the seen and no happiness is possible.
Awake, I keep running as if awake,
inside a dark cave I search for a slit
to widen, to peer beyond,
to awaken—
This “wakefulness” you call wakefulness is not wakefulness.
Awake, I keep running as if awake,
inside a dark cave I search for a slit
to widen, to peer beyond,
to awaken—
You are not yet awake—you are racing in a dark cavern. You seek a crack for a little light, a little pleasure. You try to find a door somewhere so you may awaken.
This is not true awakening. The awakened one is the one who walks inward. One who moves outward sinks deeper into sleep. The crack will not be found; even if it is, it will be lost. The dark cave only grows larger. No sun was ever found by going out. Outside is darkness; within is light. Within is a mass of flame. Within a lamp burns, day and night. Where are you wandering?
What was seen—was a dream.
The unseen—was my own.
All you have seen is dream. The visible is dream. This is the East’s unparalleled insight into maya. Maya means:
What was seen—was a dream.
The unseen—was my own.
Only one thing remains unseen—that one is you yourself. You have never seen that. Everything else you have seen—the whole world. You have seen others very well. One thing remains unseen—your very own nature.
Ashtavakra says:
The steadfast do not look at the seen; they behold the imperishable Atman.
And one who has seen this imperishable, inexhaustible Atman—has seen the seer of all scenes. He has gained what was worth gaining; the essential has come to his hands; the nonessential he has dropped.
Amrit abides within you. That for which you thirst is hidden within you. The treasure you set out to find is piled up within you. Wealth is within; without are calamities. Riches are within; outside are misfortunes. Entanglement increases, it does not decrease. Problems deepen; solutions do not arise.
Samadhi and solution are within. Outside, only a web of problems spreads. From one problem ten sprouts come forth. Try to untie one knot—ten knots arise. Thus life passes, tying and untying. One day death stands at the door—and not a moment remains. You may beat your head—“Give me a little time, just a little, a day, I will meditate. I have always postponed!”—but not a moment is given.
And the wonder is that such a priceless treasure you carry within you. Buddha says, Krishna says, Christ says, Nanak, Kabir, Dadu say—the sages of all the world say one thing: an immeasurable treasure lies within you; the Kingdom of the Lord is within you—yet you do not listen. And outside you see countless in torment—the whole world writhes; those who have much are just as sad—yet you do not awaken.
If one statement can be made without exception, this is it: those who searched outside never found. There has not been a single exception. Not one person has said, “I looked outside and I found.” And all who found—found by looking within. That too is without exception. Whoever said, “I found,” said, “I found within.” What more proof do you want? Religion is an inerrant science—in this sense. It has never erred even once. Still we run outside. Still we do not go within.
We are the ones who can dissolve fragrance into the air,
who can write indelible lines with our fingers
on time’s pitiless heart.
We are the ones who can fill death’s cold fingers
with songs of life.
We float on winds,
from this shore to that—unbound.
We are those who, if you prune us, sprout like immortal vine;
if you bind us, settle like fragrance;
if you burn us, we spread across the sky.
We are the blazing flames of your souls,
the essence at the root of your voice,
the trusts woven into your fists.
We are the ones who fill the air,
who spread through the people,
who charm your lips,
who appear upon faces.
We are the ones who dissolve fragrance into the air,
who write indelible lines with our fingers
on time’s pitiless heart.
The eternal lies within you. You are immortal vine. How many times you were born, how many times you died—yet you did not vanish. Disappearing is not your nature. Inexhaustible! You never pass away; you are never spent. Amrit! No matter how much you have been running for lives upon lives, your treasure remains intact within. The day you awaken, that day you become master. By awakening, you become master and emperor. Only a proclamation is to be made.
This is Ashtavakra’s greatness: he says to you—nothing is to be done; only the angle of the eye is to be changed. See—and proclaim. From within you a lion’s roar will resound.
“One who forcibly restrains the mind—where is his restraint? For the ignorant, no restraint of mind exists. For the steadfast who delight in themselves—rest in the Self—this restraint is natural.”
This sutra is utterly foundational. Listen carefully.
Where is restraint for the deluded who impose force?
For the steadfast who delight in themselves—it is always effortless.
If you forcibly restrain the mind—who will restrain? The mind itself. Mind fights with mind; mind restrains mind. By mind you will fight mind.
You are going to a prostitute; you force yourself to go to a temple. Who is it that drags you to the temple? The mind again. The one who was going to the prostitute was also mind. Mind is a crowd of many desires. Mind is not one—mind is many. In that same mind is the desire to go to the prostitute; in that same mind is the desire to go to the temple. When you go to the temple you think you have conquered mind. No—this too is mind’s victory. When you go to the prostitute you think you have lost to mind. No—this too is mind’s victory. Both are your defeat.
Whatever you do—every doing is of mind. If you wish to enter yourself, there is only one way: the absence of doing. Do not do. No going anywhere. Neither to the prostitute nor to the temple—do not go at all, and mind loses. Mind needs doing. Doing is mind’s food. If there is something to do, mind wins.
Sing film songs—mind has no objection. Hum bhajans—mind has no objection. It says, “Fine—we will do this.” But something it must do. Sit and chant “Ram-Ram” and it will do. Abuse or praise—mind will fill itself with both.
People come to me. They say, “You say: just sit silently. Give us some support. How to just sit? Shall we roll the beads? Shall we repeat the name?” They ask for a guru-mantra, “Whisper in our ear.” Some take sannyas from me—then they ask for a mantra, a support.
As long as a support remains, mind remains. Support is needed by mind. Atman needs no support. Mind is lame; it wants crutches. What color of crutch you choose makes no difference. Mind wants disturbance, occupation. Anything to stay entangled. Even rolling the rosary will do. Counting money will do. Being engulfed in work will do. Draping the shawl of Ram’s name and humming “Ram-Ram” will do. But it needs work. Any action will do; on any boat of action mind will travel and enter the world again.
Do not give a boat of action, and mind goes. Just sit. Mind will demand, snatch, argue—you always yielded, suddenly you do not, it will not fall silent. But you sit. Say, “Now it is decided. I will not do anything. For one hour I will only sit, lie down, be empty.” Do not sleep—mind will propose that. “If you are simply sitting empty—just sleep at least—do at least this.”
Sleep is also action. So if you are doing nothing, mind says, “What is the point then? Take a nap.” If you nap, mind will start dreaming—work begins again. Mind needs work.
You have heard the tale in children’s books: A man pleased a ghost. The ghost said, “I am pleased with you—I will do whatever you say. But I have one defect—I cannot remain without work. Keep giving me tasks. If for a single moment there is no work, I will be in trouble—and I will throttle your neck. I need work.” The man said, “This is wonderful. Servants are a bother—they do not work even if you keep after them. You are good—that is just what I need.”
He did not know what trouble he was inviting. He had many undone tasks. “Build me a palace,” he said. He thought it would keep the ghost busy for a year or two. He went outside for a moment—returned—the ghost said, “The palace is built.” It stood ready. “Bring me a beautiful woman.” He went out—the ghost brought one. The man began to panic. “Fill the safe with money”—“Done.”
In moments all tasks were finished. Now the man feared for his neck. He ran out to seek advice. A fakir outside the village gave him a ladder. “Give this to the ghost,” he said. “Tell him to climb up and down. When you have some other work, tell him—but otherwise, up and down.” “How will this help?” “That is the whole process of the mind,” said the fakir. “I have understood the mind’s ghost.”
A man sits chanting on beads—what is he doing? Climbing and descending the steps. A man repeats “Ram-Ram”—he is climbing and descending.
He set up the ladder. “Climb up and down,” he told the ghost. “When you climb up, climb down; when you climb down, climb up.” Since then the ghost climbs and descends; the man is at peace.
Mind wants work. Mind is a ghost. When mind is empty, trouble begins instantly—“Do something.” Even on holidays there is no holiday. Have you seen—holidays bring more nuisance. Routine work is not done; you do not go to the office or shop—now what? Someone opens his car and starts cleaning it. The ladder! Someone opens the radio and begins to fix it—it was working already. Do something. Or drive out on a picnic—race a hundred miles, arrive, run about, return.
They say people grow more tired on holidays than on workdays. They cannot sit empty. A holiday means sit empty—but emptiness is possible only to the meditative. And one who knows meditation is empty even while working—understand this. One who does not know meditation climbs stairs even while sitting still. One who knows meditation is empty even while at work.
Emptiness is the nature of consciousness. Mind needs a support.
“One who forcibly restrains the mind—where is his restraint?”
Who will force? Who will insist? Who will do violence upon himself? These fasting folk, ascetics, head-standers, fire-dwellers—who is doing all this? Mind alone.
Keep Ashtavakra’s foundational sutra in view:
Where is restraint for the deluded who impose force?
However much he tries, the deluded will not attain restraint of mind—not because he does not restrain—he restrains, and that is why he is not free. Then what is the way?
“For the steadfast who delight in themselves—rest in the Self—this restraint is natural.”
Restraint of mind is not something to be done. Delight in the Self, absorption in the flavor of the Self—and the mind becomes restrained of itself. Restraint becomes effortless, spontaneous—a consequence.
You too have noticed—whenever you are delighted—even for a moment—at that moment the mind is restrained. At night you see the moon in the sky—you are delighted for an instant—thought stops. Where is room for thought in delight? Thought survives only in sorrow.
Listening to music—you sway, become intoxicated, an inner wine is born—where is the mind then? For a moment it is restrained.
Listening to me now—many say to me, “Which meditation suits us best?” They say, “Your morning talk.” I say, “A talk? Why?” “While you speak, the mind becomes restrained. Listening to you, the mind stops.”
They are right. If listened to in peace—without argument—with dialogue—if you put your hand in my hand and walk without obstruction, cooperating—when listening becomes deep, where is mind? Where is thought? All is lost. In that moment you are in the Atman.
Therefore Mahavira went so far as to say: if one knows right listening—becomes a true shravak—the gate of liberation opens from there. He said there are four tirthas, four fords: shravak, shravika, sadhu, sadhvi. But sadhus have taken it upside down.
Ask sadhus—they don’t say shravaks can be liberated. They say, “Without becoming a sadhu how can you go?” Mahavira creates four fords—means, the places where one can cross—but the sadhu does not bow to the shravak. He accepts the shravak’s bow and gives his blessing—but he does not bow. He considers himself higher.
Actually it is the reverse. In my view—and if you meet Mahavira, ask him, he will say the same—the sadhu is secondary, the shravak is first. If a shravak is truly capable of listening, there is no need to become a sadhu—listening is enough. If listening is not complete, then effort is needed. Remember this.
Sadhu means sadhana—doing something—because listening did not suffice; the intelligence was not so keen that listening would do. For listening a profound genius is required. Those for whom listening does not work must do something—fast, chant, practice austerities. Fill what is lacking in intelligence through action. The sadhu is number two. The supreme state arises through listening alone. If you cannot listen—if your mind remains cluttered with trash and cannot receive—then you must act. Shravak first, sadhu second.
It should be so. In a class of thirty, who is most talented? The one who understands by listening. If he does not, the teacher writes on the board, demonstrates. If still not, a tutor is arranged. If still not, he cheats in the exam. But without intelligence nothing works; everything goes wrong.
I was once a professor—during an exam I was the invigilator. All were writing except one student, sweating, restless, writing nothing. I asked, “What is the matter? Do you not understand the questions? Do you not know the answers?” He said, “Why hide from you? I have the answers in my pockets—but I have forgotten in which pocket which answer is!” If there is no intelligence, even answers in the pockets are useless.
In Russia they solved cheating beautifully—students may bring their books into the exam. No cheating possible. They can even go to the library mid-exam. Yet the intelligent still excel and the dull remain dull, because the answer still has to be found. Books are there—so what? You must find the right answer. At least understand the question—then search. The difference remains—the first-rate, second-rate, third-rate are revealed. Someday this will be everywhere. Let students bring books—no problem. In the end their intelligence alone must find the answer. The quality of the answer will show the quality of intelligence.
One who understands by listening... Buddha said: Some horses move only when whipped. Some move when the whip cracks. Some move when they see the whip in the hand. And some—truly noble—move when they see the whip’s shadow; even the shadow is insult enough.
A man came to Buddha, bowed, and said, “Do not tell me in words—I have heard too many. And do not tell me in silence either—for I have not the capacity to understand silence.” You would think he put Buddha in a bind—no words, no silence. Buddha smiled, closed his eyes. The man also closed his eyes. After a while he rose, bowed, and said, “Thank you—you have shown me the path.” He left.
The disciples were astonished. “What happened between them?” Even Ananda, after forty years with Buddha, said, “This is too much. After forty years I neither understand what you say nor what your silence means—and this man says ‘Thank you’!”
Buddha said, “There are horses that move when whipped, some when the whip cracks, some when they see the whip, some with the whip’s shadow—this last one he is. The shadow sufficed. His journey has begun—he will reach.”
Mahavira says: If right listening happens—that is enough. Doing is needed only when listening does not suffice; then one must whip—fast, stand in fire or cold, lie on thorns—whip in some way.
Mahavira says the sadhu can go. Ashtavakra is even more pure. He says the sadhu cannot go at all. Understand this. That is why I say no seer has been as revolutionary as Ashtavakra. He says:
Where is restraint for the deluded who impose force?
However much you restrain, restraint does not happen by restraint. However much you practice, nothing is achieved by practice. Nothing is gained by striving.
“For the steadfast who delight in themselves—it is always effortless.”
It happens only to the one transformed by mere understanding—by bodha alone, by prajna alone—who begins to delight in himself.
So sit sometimes; no restraint is needed. The mind will come; it will spread its old nets. “Again the Lord of Lords rides by, lashing his whip”—he will come. You just watch. Do not fight—fighting is restraint. Do not push away—pushing is restraint. Do not oppose—opposition is restraint. Just watch. Let him whirl the whip. Let the mind come, bring its nets. Let the old arrangements spread. Sit in silence. Only witness. Say: “I shall watch—only watch. Raise your celestial nymphs—I will watch. Spread your nets of greed and lust—I will watch. I will do nothing. I will remain unmoving, seeing. My gaze will be sharp, clear. I will neither go with you nor fight you.”
In such a state, slowly the mind loses by itself, sleeps by itself, dissolves by itself. And in such witnessing, you enter yourself; delight in yourself begins.
And then there arises a restraint that is uncontrived, natural, spontaneous—like a shadow that follows you.
Understand it thus: one who restrains is negative—he fights. Nature means—without fighting, sinking into the bliss within. That bliss is so delectable that once it is tasted no temptation of mind can work. In whose hand jewels have come—he will not hanker after pebbles. One who has sipped Amrit will not be deceived by poison. One who has known supreme beauty will not be entangled by bones and flesh. One enthroned in his supreme station will not wrestle for your petty chairs. One who has gained the empire of himself will not crave your positions or wealth. The matter is finished.
Restraint will be—but effortless, uncontrived.
“Some are affirmers of Being; some are affirmers of Nothing. Some affirm neither. Only such a one is unagitated.”
Some say “God is.” Some say “There is no God.” Ashtavakra says—both are ignorant. That which is cannot be contained in “is” or “is not”—neither in being nor non-being; neither in “thus” nor “not thus”; neither in acceptance nor in rejection. That which is is so vast it can fit only into emptiness—only into silence. To speak is to miss. Express truth—and it is distorted.
Lao Tzu says: The truth spoken is no longer truth. The moment it is said, it has become untrue.
You said yes; you said no—division began. Neither yes nor no. Neither theism nor atheism. Ashtavakra says: there is one who is beyond both—only he is of healthy mind.
Say yes—and trouble begins. You have to fight those who say no. And “God is”—this is a statement of the mind. Yes and no are proclamations of mind—they create controversy. Doctrines, sects, scriptures arise. You will have to gather arguments that God is. Until now no one has been able to gather decisive arguments—remember that. Neither the theist has proven God, nor the atheist has disproven Him. None has established it—neither atheist nor theist.
In a village a great theist and a great atheist began to debate. Both were brilliant. The whole village gathered—happy that a settlement would come, for the two had made the village miserable. The theist would pull people his way; the atheist his way. Factions formed. The people wished, “Let them settle it. Whatever is decided will free us.”
But by morning matters grew worse. The theist argued so well that the atheist agreed—and the atheist argued so well that the theist agreed. Again the same trouble—the theist became atheist, the atheist became theist—but the village’s problem remained. Heads in hands, they said, “There is no solution.”
To this day no one has proven or disproven God. Those who fight are dull—both theist and atheist.
Ashtavakra says: There is one who accepts neither. Only he is unagitated.
He says, “I have no taste for these wrangles. Neither yes nor no. Neither side nor opposition. I am absorbed in myself; my joy flows there—enough. Immersed in myself, drunk in my own drunkenness—my song I have found, my dance I have found, my stream has begun to flow. Who will engage in the foolish gossip ‘Is there a God or not?’ Let the unwise decide.”
“Fools imagine the pure, nondual Atman—but out of delusion they do not know It—and so live unsatisfied all their lives.”
There are three possibilities of understanding: buddhi (intelligence), abuddhi (non-intelligence), and kubuddhi (mis-intelligence). One in abuddhi is not in great danger—his intelligence sleeps; it can be awakened. The ignorant are not in danger—they will be humble enough to admit, “I do not know,” and will search.
Who is kubuddhi? One who does not know but believes he knows. The pundit is kubuddhi. The one who has collected information from scriptures is kubuddhi. Abuddhi is not so bad. From abuddhi to buddhi there is no hindrance. Kubuddhi is the real obstacle. He is in non-knowledge but thinks he has reached knowledge—that is his mis-intelligence. He is sick, but considers himself healthy; therefore he neither takes medicine nor goes to a physician. The most dangerous state is kubuddhi. And most people live in it. That is why union with God does not happen, truth is not found.
First kubuddhi must be rolled back into abuddhi. From abuddhi the path opens. Hence my effort here is that whatever you “know” may be forgotten; the lessons you have learned may drop; your robe of knowledge may fall away; the false varnish of “knowing” may crack; you may remember you do not know. Then the journey begins. You are cleansed—childlike again.
There is nothing wrong with abuddhi—it only means, “I do not know, and I am ready to set out.” Kubuddhi means, “I do not know, but I pretend I know.” Within, you know you do not—how can you deceive yourself? But the ego will not allow the admission. “If I do not know, who else could?”
Drop this state of mis-intelligence. Fear may arise—because as you drop kubuddhi, abuddhi appears. But there is nothing wrong in abuddhi—only an innocent state, which is natural. From innocence to knowing is easy—one leap. From mis-knowing there is no way.
“Fools imagine the pure, nondual Atman”—they think about It, speculate, debate—“but out of delusion they do not know It—and so remain unsatisfied all their lives.”
We had to preserve sorrow carefully—
happiness flew off like a tablet of camphor.
Now I ask everyone—tell me, who was it—
that unfortunate fellow who lived in my place?
At the end of life you will ask. At the end you will say—these lines will be the distilled essence of your life if you do not awaken in time.
We had to preserve sorrow carefully—
and what else do you have to preserve? You preserve what you have. Only sorrow, so you cherish it. Someone abused you twenty years ago—you still keep it safe. Madness has limits—but abuse is not for preserving. You never forget your troubles. You keep scratching the wound to keep it raw. With nothing else—you keep pebbles in the safe, just to feel there is “something.” It makes noise when shaken—a feeling of fullness.
We had to preserve sorrow carefully—
happiness flew off like a tablet of camphor.
Happiness is so momentary—a glimpse, and gone.
Now I ask everyone—tell me, who was it—
that unfortunate fellow who lived in my place?
At the end you will ask—who lived in my place? For you never truly lived. You never really appeared. You remained in deception—what you were not, you believed; what you were, you hid.
Now I ask everyone—tell me, who was it—
that unfortunate fellow who lived in my place?
Let such a moment of misfortune not come—be alert now. Cut away all that is false. Whatever you have not known out of your own experience—drop it. Throw away the stale and the borrowed. Whatever has come from another but is not born of your experience—let go your attachment. Know yourself as you are—however painful. However many thorns prick—still, with truthful integrity accept yourself as you are. If you are ignorant—admit it. Angry—admit it. Dishonest—admit it. A liar—a thief—whatever you are—accept it.
You are a thief and you have taken the vow of non-stealing. You are lustful and speak of brahmacharya. You are greedy and deceive yourself with small donations; you earn a hundred thousand and give away two or four thousand—and become a “great donor.” You are ignorant, but have parroted the scriptures and think you are wise. You have never bowed at God’s feet—you do not know how to bow. You hire a priest to bow daily on your behalf.
Whom are you deceiving? This deceit will be costly. When death stands at the door you will ask in shock: who was the person who lived in my place? For you never lived.
I tell you: if you proclaim your truth—even if painful, humiliating—proclaim it, and transformation begins. One who can gather courage to say “I am a thief” cannot remain a thief for long. To remain a thief, the vow of non-stealing is essential—that is why “small vows” are taken. A habitual liar goes to the temple and swears, “I will tell the truth”—this makes lying easier. People learn you have sworn to truth, so they believe. The lie always needs the shoulder of truth; it has no legs of its own. If you wish to lie, spread the word that you are truthful—only then will people be deceived.
Mulla Nasruddin fooled the simplest man in the village. Even the magistrate was amazed. “Nasruddin,” he said, “you could find no one else to deceive? This simple, honest man—why him?” Nasruddin replied, “Your honor, who else would believe me? The village is full of rogues—they would deceive me! Only this poor fellow could I deceive. Whom else?”
The dishonest must spread the news that he is honest—only then does dishonesty become convenient. If people know a man is crooked, it becomes nearly impossible for him to cheat.
“The seeker’s mind cannot remain without a support. The liberated one’s mind is always without desire and without support.”
The mind cannot remain without a prop. Mind needs a support. It cannot stand on its own. It needs borrowed strength—the power of another. Mind is a parasite.
As long as you live with supports, you will live in mind. The day you live without supports, you will be beyond mind. And mark: mind is so cunning it has created supports even in temples—rituals, priests, scriptures. Even “God” is your support. You ask for His support for your longings: “O Lord, we start a new business—be mindful.” You consult astrologers for auspicious moments—“at what hour will He shower the most blessing?”
You use God as a support for mind. Know well—so long as you attempt to make God your support, you will remain far from Him. The day you drop all supports, God is your support. The supportless are supported by God. He is the strength of the weak. One who has dropped the race for all strength, who has accepted, “I am weak, helpless, there is no support anywhere. All supports are false, mind’s imaginings”—one who stands in such helplessness receives the support of Existence itself.
“The seeker’s mind cannot remain without a support.”
“But the liberated one’s mind is always without desire and without support.”
Liberation means to become supportless, foundationless. Liberation means: I will not seek a support.
As supports fall, mind falls. When supports go, mind goes. Mind is the sum of all supports, their accumulated form. When all supports are removed, the tent of mind collapses. What remains without any support—that is the Eternal, the Amrit, your own sat-chit-ananda. The vast Paramatman hidden within you. The transcendent Brahman present within you.
Imagine your courtyard with walls. Because of the walls, the sky in your yard seems small. Remove the walls—the sky becomes vast. All the sky is yours.
Mind is like a walled yard—small boundaries you have raised, making the sky seem small. Bring down the walls. Remove the perimeter. Drop definitions—and instantly your sky is vast. Instantly the whole sky is yours.
Attaining this sky is called moksha.
These sutras are sutras of liberation. Each is a unique key. Meditate on them deeply; think and ponder again and again. One day, in some moment, their light will enter you. In that very moment, the doors of the Infinite, the Unknown, swing open. In that moment you become host—and the Lord becomes your guest.
Be the host. The Guest is ready to come.
Enough for today.