Maha Geeta #69

‘Seeing the tiger of the senses, frightened, man runs in search of refuge, quickly entering a mountain cave to attain suppression of mind and the siddhi of concentration.’
Life is hard. Life is not simple. There are great problems; they do not seem to resolve. Soon a man grows tired and gives up. And the defeated one escapes. The defeated starts to run. Problems are not solved by running away. But the fugitive gets a kind of assurance, a consolation: at least he is far from problems. Yet the one who distances himself from problems is also deprived of the growth that could have happened in the very midst of them.
Understand this truth with all your heart. Because in every person the tendency to flee is hiding. Fear hides within, so escape hides within. Where fear is, deep down we are cowards. Wherever we sense that victory will be difficult, the urge to run away arises. We try to beautify our escape. We call our running away sannyas. We honor our escape with great respect. We worship escapees, touch their feet. We call the escapees mahatmas. All this decoration is for the fugitive sitting within us. All these ornaments are to cover the coward sitting within.
These are the mind’s strategies. But remember one thing: escapees have never attained anything. Whatever is attained is attained by accepting challenges. Yes, life is difficult—but its difficulties are purposeful. There are problems—a complex web of them—but precisely there lies the challenge. In unraveling that web your prajna is born. If you run, you are deprived of wisdom.
So your fugitive monks may well sit in caves—but in their lives you will not find genius, intelligence, creativity, radiance. If you want to see them, go to the Kumbh Mela; you will find a congregation of all kinds of dullards. Fools of many varieties in many costumes. You will also find crowds in the hundreds of thousands who worship them. Those who worship have no intelligence either, and those who are worshipped have no capacity.
This tendency lives in all of us; therefore Ashtavakra warns. This sutra is to make you alert. The mind often whispers: if victory is not possible here, better withdraw.
You have seen people playing cards; when the moment of losing comes, they overturn the game. In anger they flip the board. They declare, ‘I won’t play—there’s been cheating!’ They start babbling anything. They were merely playing cards—not doing anything great—yet even there they cannot bear to lose.
And one who is not ready to lose will never be able to win. Only one prepared to pass through defeat learns the secrets of victory. The very path of defeat is where the formulas of victory lie scattered. Among these thorns of loss, the flowers of triumph bloom. If you run from the thorns of the rose, you will also be deprived of its flowers. One thing is certain: if you run from the thorns, the pain of thorns will not be in your life—but the rain of bliss from the flowers will also not be yours.
Because most people in this world are unhappy, when they see a person who is not in pain—whose life seems untouched by thorns—they begin to worship him. But is that any attainment? The non-existence of thorns is no attainment. If flowers had blossomed, that would be attainment. The absence of thorns is only negative; where is the creative? There is no presence of the Divine here. The world may have become absent, but the presence of God has not happened.
The presence of God is available only to one who climbs the steps of the world. Those steps are intricate, paved with embers, they burn—but it is from that very burning that refinement comes. Only by passing through fire does gold become pure. If gold runs away from the fire—would you call it a sannyasi?
An escapee cannot be a sannyasi. A defeatist cannot be a sannyasi. A sannyasi is one who is in the world, yet not of it. This is Ashtavakra’s essential vision; this is also mine.
People come to me and say, ‘You give sannyas and yet you don’t tell people to leave the world?’ I say: when you were worldly, when you had not taken sannyas—if you had left the world then, you could be forgiven. Now there is no question of leaving. The very meaning of sannyas is the renunciation of escapism. Now we will wrestle. Now we will dive deep into the world. Because only by diving into the ocean of the world are pearls found. He who, out of fear of drowning, runs away from this ocean—at best he will collect conches and shells lying on the sand, not diamonds and pearls. Diamonds and pearls do not come that cheaply. The price must be paid.
This world is the price paid to attain God. Each of its problems is a device paid for Samadhi. Passing through the problem, the solution is revealed. The problem is only an opportunity, a test, a touchstone. If a student runs away from exams, you don’t worship him.
This life is an examination. Leave those who have run away. Stop honoring the escapees. Because that honor keeps your inner fugitive alive. You always honor what you deep down want to become—remember this. No one honors anyone for nothing. You honor only that which you wish to be. If you honor the escapees, know that an escapee is seated within you, waiting for the right moment. When the chance comes, he will run.
But this running is founded on fear. Fear means cowardice.
The sutra says:
‘विषयद्वीपिनो वीक्ष्य चकिताः शरणार्थिनः।’
Seeing the tiger of the senses, man, frightened, becomes a refugee.
To be a refugee is not a blessed thing. Those who sit in caves are refugees. They have run. They are refugees. Objects of pity, not of worship. They need treatment. Someone must give them courage. Someone must re-light their extinguishing flame. Someone must refill their spent oil. Someone must make their lamp shine again. Someone must pull them back: Come—where the test is, there is the touchstone. Do not run. Struggle. Enter life’s battle. What is there to fear? What is there to lose? That which is hidden within you cannot be lost.
What are you at your core? Chaitanya—consciousness. Consciousness cannot be lost. And if consciousness is to be awakened, it can be awakened only in discomfort; in comfort, it falls asleep. You went to the forest where there is no disturbance; you sat in a cave. Where no objects inflame, entice, or excite your passion. Gradually passion will fall asleep; it will not end. The day you return, you will find it awake again. The seeds will remain; given time and season, they will sprout again.
So one who has run once becomes afraid to return. The noise of life troubles him. Is that any meditation—that noise disturbs you? True meditation is that which remains unbroken even in noise. That which remains unbroken even in the marketplace. Let the clamour continue, let the world go on—and within you nothing goes on. All is still, all is silent.
Do not become a refugee.
‘Seeing the tiger of the senses...’
Now this tiger—the tiger of desire, of lust—if it were outside you, you could run away. But understand well: it is inside. Where will you run? How will you run from yourself?
It is like running from your own shadow. Wherever you go, the shadow will be there. You may run as fast as you like. It is possible to sit under a tree’s shade so the shadow is not seen—yes; but when you step into the sun, it appears again. When you rest in the tree’s shade, your shadow too is at rest. The moment you step into sunlight, it returns. The shadow is attached to you.
Even the shadow is outside—but this fever of the senses is within. Where will you run from it? You can flee from woman, you can flee from man—but how will you flee from lust? Lust sits in your innermost core. Yes, you may run from woman so lust gets no occasion to rise; it lies asleep, in seed form. The moment you meet a woman, it awakens again. That is why your monks are so frightened of women. There is a reason. The seed is not yet burnt.
You can keep away from money; the lust remains. Desire needs instruments to manifest. It needs a peg to hang upon. Break the peg and it has nothing to hang on. But the moment a peg appears, agitation returns; the mind starts wobbling. Hence your saints fear money. See the stupidity: afraid of coins! They say money is nothing—and yet they are afraid. If it is nothing, what is the fear?
On one side they say, ‘What is there in woman!’ and yet they are afraid. If truly there is nothing, why fear? Fear reveals there is something; there is temptation within, there is lust within.
This enemy called desire is not outside you—if it were, there would be many ways. You could go far, leave it behind. It is not outside; that is the first thing. It is within you. How will you run from yourself? Transform yourself; running will not do. Awaken; running will not do.
Therefore I say, don’t run—awake. By awakening it ends. When the inner flame burns intensely, you suddenly discover: that so-called tiger of the senses—there was no tiger at all. There were fears—unnecessary fears. Nets of imagination. There was nothing there.
Truly, one who attains knowledge does not say, ‘There is nothing in woman’; he says, ‘There is nothing in lust.’ Keep the difference in mind. Let this be your touchstone. When someone says, ‘There is nothing in woman,’ know that for him there is still something in woman. When someone says, ‘What is there in man?’ know that for her there is still something there. When someone says, ‘What is there in money?’ know that money still holds something. He is persuading himself. But when someone says, ‘What is there in desire?’—he is free.
Desire is inside; woman is outside. Man is outside; craving is inside. When someone says, ‘What is there in craving? I have seen it, there is nothing. I lit the lamp and searched. I looked into every nook and cranny of the mind with light—nothing was found.’ Then...
I have heard: A cave lay hidden in a mountain cleft for ages upon ages—for eternity. Caves have a habit of hiding. It had always lived in darkness. It was so concealed by rocks and boulders that no ray of the sun had ever entered. The sun knocked on its door daily, but the cave would not listen.
The sun began to feel pity: poor cave, living only in darkness for lifetimes. It has no idea of light. One day the sun called loudly—the sun usually does not shout—but pity must have arisen: for lifetimes the cave has lain in the dark. The sun cried out, ‘Come out, mad one! See how it is outside—flowers blooming, birds singing, a net of golden rays everywhere. And I stand at your door knocking again and again. Are you deaf? Come out.’
The cave said, ‘I cannot believe it.’ When has any cave believed the sun’s call? When I knock at your door you also say, ‘I cannot believe it. Who knows, perhaps a trickster has come to cheat me, to loot me.’ The cave had nothing, yet feared being robbed!
But the sun kept knocking. At last one day the cave had to come. It thought, ‘Let me peep once and see. I can’t trust that there are flowers—for how to trust what one has never seen? I cannot trust that there is light—for light was never known. Without even an inkling, how can recognition arise? How can longing awaken? We only desire that of which we have tasted a little. I cannot trust that birds sing—I don’t even know birds.’ Drowned only in its own darkness... its own darkness... its own darkness, that day it came out—trembling, hesitant.
When I see you stepping into sannyas, I remember that cave—trembling, hesitant. You come in such a way that, if something seems amiss, you can slip away. You step very cautiously. You do not break the bridge behind you; you keep arrangements ready for return in case this turns out to be a deception.
The cave came—and was startled. It began to weep. Tears filled its eyes. It beat its chest: ‘Lifetimes I spent in darkness. Why did you not show compassion earlier? Why did you not call me before?’
See? The sun had been knocking daily, yet now the cave holds the sun responsible: ‘Why did you not call before?’
The sun said, ‘Let the past be past. Even now much remains. Eternity lies ahead—live in joy. Come out now.’ The cave said, ‘I will come out, but you also come inside me sometime. Just as I had not known light, perhaps the darkness that I have known—you have not. The sun accepted her invitation and entered. The cave was startled: there was no darkness.
The cave cried, ‘What happened? How? For there was always darkness. Not a day or two—lifetimes I have known darkness. What happened today? Where has darkness gone?’ When the sun departed, darkness was there again. The cave again invited him. The sun said, ‘Foolish one! You cannot make me confront darkness, for where I am, darkness is not. I come—and darkness goes. Darkness is not something; it is my absence. My presence and my absence cannot be together. My presence excludes darkness.’
Vasana is the absence of bodha. When awareness comes, desire goes. Until awareness, there is desire. Do not run from desire; that is why I say, don’t run—awake. Awaken what sleeps within. Do not fear the mind. The mind’s presence can hinder nothing. Do not become a refugee—be a victor. Awake yourself. But man goes on sleeping—even when death comes, he sleeps on.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin grew very old. He became bald and went searching for medicines that might grow hair. By some saint’s prasad or some herb, with great difficulty four hairs sprouted—four! He went to the barber. The barber was startled: ‘Sir, shall I count them or cut them?’ Mulla, very embarrassed, said, ‘Dye them black.’
Four hairs have sprouted—and he wants them dyed! Man clings to the end. Death knocks at the door, but attachment doesn’t leave. Yama knocks, but the friendship with Kamadeva remains. Awake!
There are two types of people in the world. One remains sunk in lust—like worms in a gutter, rotting. And one runs away. Neither the one who drowns, nor the one who runs, arrives. The one who awakens arrives. Wherever he is, from there he arrives. The ladder of awakening connects you with the Divine right where you stand.
‘Seeing the tiger of the senses, frightened, man runs for refuge and quickly enters a mountain cave to attain suppression of mind and concentration.’
If you must enter a cave, enter the inner cave. And do not get caught in suppression of mind. Because if you force the mind into suppression... whatever you do by force will never be real. Life does not concede to force. Life responds only to simplicity and naturalness. Nothing succeeds here by violence.
You can forcibly suppress anger, smear a smile over it, wear a mask of happiness—what difference does it make? Within, anger continues to boil and burn. You may swear vows of brahmacharya, but inside the storm of lust continues. The more outer restraint you impose, the more inner trouble grows. No one is freed from trouble by repression. This cheap device never works. It looks easy because man is violent. You have used violence against others; when you long to change yourself, you begin violence against yourself. That is what ‘suppression of mind’ is. Nothing happens through such violence.
I have heard: On a rainy night, while crossing the railway gate, a man narrowly missed an accident. In anger he sued the railways. On the stand the signalman testified, ‘I waved the lamp well.’ After winning the case, the stationmaster congratulated him: ‘Bravo! I thought you’d falter under the lawyer’s cross-examination. But you stood firm: I waved the lamp well!’ The signalman said, ‘Sir, I was not nervous at all—that’s true. But had the lawyer asked whether the lamp was lit or not—then I would have been in trouble.’
You keep waving an unlit lamp—nothing will happen. Suppression is waving an unlit lamp. Inside there is no light. In bodha you won’t even need to wave; the radiance is enough. With light, revolution happens. Suppression does not bring light. Understand this.
If you begin from the wrong end, you will go on missing. Why do we begin from the wrong end? Because whenever we saw great restraint flowering in someone’s life, we made a mistake in logic.
We saw Mahavira—supreme peace, ultimate coolness. We also saw great restraint in his life. We concluded: restraint must have produced peace. We are restless; we too want peace. How to attain it? We saw Mahavira—peace and restraint. We want peace; we don’t care much for restraint, but peace we want. Our arithmetic concluded: in Mahavira there is restraint and peace; restraint must have caused peace.
The truth is the opposite. Peace happened first; restraint followed. Peace is the cause, restraint the effect. We thought peace is the result and restraint the cause. Here is the error. And there is a reason. Restraint is visible outside; it is graspable. Mahavira walks with great awareness. He sits with awareness. He does not even turn in his sleep—lest some tiny creature might have crept behind and be crushed. Every act is done with bodha.
What did we see? We saw Mahavira does not turn. The inner awareness we cannot see; we see that he does not turn. It is outer—it can be seen. We think, ‘Let us also not turn.’ So you too lie without turning. You only get discomfort; nothing else happens. You merely cultivate a habit—a sort of circus trick. If you practice daily, fine, you will lie without turning. No great thing in it!
But will awareness be born by not turning? You are shaking the lantern without a flame. In Mahavira’s life awareness happened first. Because of awareness he does not turn. Because of awareness he does not eat at night. You also stop eating at night; awareness does not arise. Jains have avoided night meals for long—what awareness has flowered?
You caught it from the outside. You thought, ‘We’ll work from the periphery to the center.’ But it happens the other way: first at the center, then at the circumference. The outside is secondary; the inside is primary. First the lamp is lit within; only then does light spread without. The inner changes first; then behavior changes. But behavior is what we see. The inner is hidden in Mahavira; only Mahavira or one like him knows it. We cannot see the flame inside the lantern; we see the glow outside. That is conduct, restraint, rule, vow—we catch that. There we miss.
Revolution moves from within to without, not from without to within. Understand rightly what is cause and what is effect. Do not mistake the effect for the cause and the cause for the effect—else you will wander all your life and never reach the right place.
‘Seeing the tiger of the senses, frightened, man runs for refuge and quickly enters a mountain cave to attain suppression of mind and concentration.’
To suppress the mind, to bind it, to bring it under a system—to chain the mind, to push it into prison—but nothing comes of it. Even if mind is bound, you are not free. If the mind is bound, you too are bound—remember. The one you call a sannyasi is more bound than you.
Open your eyes and see. Go and look at a Jain monk. He is more bound than you. You have at least some little freedom; he has none. It should be the reverse: the sannyasi ought to be supremely free. Freedom should be the very taste of a sannyasi. Freedom should be the definition—what other definition? Supreme freedom! But are your so-called monks free? They are more dependent than you. Dependent on your hands.
Jain monks send word to me: ‘We want to come to meet you, but the lay-followers don’t allow it.’ They say, ‘The lay-followers don’t allow it. What can we do?’ Incredible! A monk not allowed by the layman. Who is slave, who is master? It is understandable if laymen follow the monk; but the monk is following the laymen. They are afraid—bread depends on them, honor depends on them, status depends on them. If they veer a little off the code, everything is lost—status, honor. Those who touched their feet yesterday will be ready to cut off their heads tomorrow.
Followers keep watch: is our maharaj keeping to the code? They investigate every side: any violation of rule or vow?
Followers become the prison. And they suppressed the mind—so they fell into a double trap. First, in binding the mind, they bound themselves. They do not yet know that beyond the mind they have a being. They have not known the Atman. If they had known, binding the mind would be unnecessary. With the advent of the Self, the mind bows on its own. These forced bendings will not work.
Yeh saara jism jhuk kar bojh se dohra hua hoga
Main sajde mein nahin tha, aapko dhokha hua hoga
The whole body is bowed—doubled under the load—I was not in prostration; you were deceived.
Someone stoops from suffering and pain, and you think he is in prayer, in devotion.
Yeh saara jism jhuk kar bojh se dohra hua hoga
Main sajde mein nahin tha, aapko dhokha hua hoga
Most who bend in prayer—look closely—are doubled by burdens of sorrow. These are not prayers. There is no fragrance of prayer in them. They have bent in fear, in trembling.
This is not a taste of bliss. Nor is it surrender in joy—nor heads bowed in wonder. Look closely: the body may bend, but the mind still stands stiff. And even if you force the mind to bend, nothing will happen—until there is awakening of the Self. These are the keys to that awakening.
‘निर्वासनं हरिं दृष्ट्‌वा तूष्णीं विषयदंतिनः।
पलायंते न शक्तास्ते सेवंते कृतचाटवः।।’
‘Seeing the lion-man free of vasana, the elephant-like objects of the senses quietly flee; or, unable to fight, they begin to serve him like flatterers.’
This—this is the point to grasp.
‘Seeing the lion-man free of vasana, the elephant-like objects of the senses quietly flee.’
Ashtavakra calls them elephant-like—because they appear very big; they are not big.
A fox came out of its den at dawn. Rising sun! Its shadow became huge. The fox thought, ‘For breakfast today I will need a camel.’ Seeing its own great shadow, naturally it thought, ‘A camel at least.’ It searched for a camel. Searching and searching, noon came. Where do foxes find camels? And if they find one—what will they do?
By noon the sun was overhead. It thought, ‘Noon is passing, the time for breakfast is gone. Looking down, the shadow had shrunk to nothing at its feet. It thought, ‘Now, if even an ant appears, that will do.’
These shadows of your desire are very large—like elephants. And you set out to fulfill them, searching for camels. One day you will find the day has set—no breakfast—and no camel. Then, looking carefully down, you will see the shadow hardly exists.
Desire is only an illusion, a chase. Run—and it keeps you running. Stop, look carefully—it dissolves. Understand—and it is discharged.
‘Seeing the lion-man free of vasana, the elephant-like objects of the senses quietly flee; or, unable to fight, they start serving him like flatterers.’
This is what I meant when I said: desire becomes obedient; the mind becomes obedient. Only awaken! Then there is no need to seize the mind; it bows by itself. The mind says, ‘Command! What shall I do? As you say.’ The mind aligns with you—when the master arrives.
Have you seen? Children are noisy in class, jumping about—but when the teacher enters, sudden silence; books open; children pretend to read. A moment before there was an uproar—now it is gone. The teacher has arrived.
So it happens within. Servants are chattering, raising a ruckus; the master arrives—noise ceases. Now the mind sits on the throne as master—because the one who should sit upon it lies unconscious. The owner has not claimed his seat. So the servants have occupied the throne and quarrel among themselves: ‘Let me sit, let me sit.’ A thousand desires—each says, ‘Seat me upon the throne.’ When the master comes, they all vacate the throne and stand with folded hands, serving like flatterers.
‘पलायंते न शक्तास्ते सेवंते कृतचाटवः।’
Either these shadows flee, or they begin to serve. The essential point is: the lion-man free of vasana.
But how? How to bring forth this lion? How to awaken this sleeping lion? How will the roar arise?
Not by escapees. For the escapee has already accepted: ‘I am weak.’ One who accepts weakness remains weak. Your belief shapes your life. Believe carefully, said Buddha, for you become what you believe.
The old Bible says: as a man thinketh, so he becomes. Believe with awareness—because what you believe, you become.
That is why I say: do not run. For in running there is the belief, ‘I am weak, I cannot fight. Wealth will defeat me, position will defeat me, the body will defeat me. This world is great, vast. This net is powerful; I am weak.’ Therefore man runs. Running, you have believed yourself weak. Believe it—and you become weak. Then your belief becomes your life. And sitting in caves you will not be able to forgive yourself—because it will always prick that you ran away; that you could not win; that you are a coward; that courage was not enough.
No—fight. Do not be afraid. This world is smaller than you. The mind is your servant. And these desires are not as big as you imagine—they are like a fox’s shadow in the morning. By noon the shadow shrinks. With understanding, with maturity, the shadow becomes small and disappears.
How to awaken the lion-man? First, accept the lionhood of the Atman hidden within. Proclaim: I am the master. Just proclaim it and see: I am the master. Begin to live as the master. The mind will still pull—out of old habit—but tell the mind, ‘I am the master.’ Do not even fight with the mind, for to fight means you are no longer master.
A lion was challenged by a donkey: ‘Come, fight me.’ The lion quietly moved away. A fox, hiding, saw this and asked, ‘What happened? A donkey challenged you—and you are leaving?’ The lion said, ‘The matter is this: to accept a donkey’s challenge would make me a donkey too. He is a donkey—that much is clear from his challenge. If I fight him, I lower myself. Even if I win—and I will certainly win, that is no issue—what praise will there be? People will say, “He won—from a donkey!” And if by some mishap the donkey were to win—then what a disgrace forever! So I slip away quietly—this is not a challenge to accept.’
Remember: I am the lion. The mind will pull. The mind will challenge. If you have declared your mastery, say, ‘Fine—go on challenging; I do not accept. I will neither fight you nor obey you. Bark on. Dogs bark; the elephant passes.’
You will be amazed: if for a few days you let the mind shout and do not respond, gradually its throat goes dry. Gradually it stops shouting. And the day the mind stops shouting—that day you enter the inner cave. No outer cave will work. No outer refuge will help.
Mahavira has said: become without refuge. Do not take refuge outside. Only in being without refuge does one find Self-refuge.
‘Seeing the lion-man free of vasana, the elephant-like objects of the senses quietly flee; or, unable to fight, they begin to serve like flatterers.’
‘The man without doubt and with a unified mind does not adopt, with insistence, the liberating yogas of yama and niyama; but seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating—he lives at ease.’
Meditate well on this sutra.
‘न मुक्तिकारिकां धत्ते निःशंको युक्तमानसः।
पश्यन्‌श्रृण्वन्‌स्पृशन्‌जिघ्रन्नश्नन्नास्ते यथासुखम्‌।।’
He who has no doubt about his being a lion, who has no doubt about being Atman—who has tasted a little of the inner realm, who is a little awake in viveka, in dhyana, in Samadhi—nishanko, without doubt.
‘निःशंको युक्तमानसः।’
And whose mind is yoked, integrated.
Understand these two. First: we are doubtful even about our own being. We say, ‘I am Atman, I am deathless’—but we don’t really trust it. We say it, we want to believe it. We try to believe because death frightens us. We read in a scripture that the Atman is immortal—courage arises: ‘Good, it should be so.’ But this is not nishanka. It is wish-belief.
I lived long in a neighborhood. Someone died; I went there. I saw another neighbor consoling the family: ‘Why cry? The soul is immortal.’ I was impressed—this man must be a knower. By chance, three-four months later his own wife died. Wives—who knows when they might! I went eagerly, thinking he would be cheerful—perhaps playing a tambourine and bidding farewell. But he was weeping. I said, ‘What happened? When another’s wife died you said the soul is immortal.’ He wiped his tears: ‘Ah, those are consoling words. When one’s own dies—then you know.’
Such is the exchange—mutual consolation! You explain to me; I to you. Neither you know, nor I. People accept—but acceptance is not nishanka. We accept what we want to be true.
This country has carried the doctrine of the soul’s immortality forever, yet it is hard to find a more timid nation. It should not be so. A people who know the Atman is immortal should never be cowards. Yet people from the West—who are atheists, who do not accept the soul—ruled over these believers in Atman. They, who believe death ends all, ruled. And the believers hid inside their homes, reading the Upanishads: ‘The soul is immortal.’
If the soul is immortal—what fear is left? One who knows without doubt that the Atman is immortal—his fears dissolve. Even death cannot frighten him. Such a man cannot be enslaved. Such a nation cannot be enslaved. But the matter is different: we believe in the soul’s immortality because we are cowards. We lack even the courage to say plainly, ‘We don’t know.’ So we save ourselves with the doctrine. But this is not nishanka; hence it bears no fruit in life.
First then: nishanko—without doubt. This must be your experience. The teaching of the Upanishads will not do. Repeat Krishna or Mahavira a million times—nothing happens. What will Buddha’s words do? Until your inner Buddha awakens and testifies. Until you can say, ‘Yes, this too is my experience—by my own seeing, my own saksatkara, that within me is the eternal.’
But then you will also see: that which is eternal is not the ‘you’ you think you are. You are ego. You will die. Your body will go; your mind will go. Beyond both, someone is hidden within you—one you have not even met. That one remains—and he is utterly other than you. You have not even dreamt of him.
How will you become doubtless? How will this nishanka state happen? It should not be difficult. If that which is within is so hard to know—what else could be simpler? Perhaps you do not know the way within. Perhaps you never sit even for a few minutes. You never allow the ripples of mind to settle. You keep the fire burning; you keep feeding fuel. You keep spinning the potter’s wheel of mind. You never allow it to stop so that you might recognize the axle. The axle upon which the wheel revolves—it does not move.
There is in India a curious saying: chalti ka naam gaadi—what moves is called a cart. Yet what truly makes a cart is not the moving wheel but the unmoving axle. The wheel moves; the axle does not. The wheel may travel thousands of miles; the axle remains where it is. Because of the axle, we have a cart. The wheel is secondary; the axle is essential—the center, the rim is the circumference.
Within you too there is an axle upon which the wheel of life turns—the life-cycle. Its many spokes are your desires. But hidden within them is the one axle—immovable, unshaken. That axle is your Atman.
Sit sometimes. Save a little time for yourself. Do not spend it all on others. Some goes to money, some to work, to spouse and children—fine. But save some for yourself. Give the world twenty-three hours—keep one for you. And in that one hour do only one thing: with eyes closed, let the wheel slow and stop. Do not support it. It moves on your support. You give it fuel; it runs. Withdraw your hand; it will start stopping. Momentum will carry it for a while—but gradually it will halt.
Two, four months, if you simply sit one hour daily—without hurry, with patience—just sit with eyes closed, leaning on a wall, doing nothing at all—after two, four, six months you will notice the wheel slowing by itself. One day after a year or six months you will find the wheel has stopped—and the axle is recognized. That day you become nishanka. That day you know what is to be known. From then on, move the wheel as you like. The axle will not be forgotten. Even in movement you will know the unmoving within.
‘Shankarahit and with a yoked mind...’
From the experience of the axle, integration arises within—yoga, a unitive mind. Without seeing the One within, you remain a crowd. One mind says one thing, another says something else, a third yet another. Mahavira used a special word for this state: bahuchittavan—many-minds. Modern psychology calls it ‘poly-psychic.’ Until you have seen the One within, you remain entangled with the many. Mind is many; Atman is one. Only by knowing the One does a person become united.
‘न मुक्तिकारिकां धत्ते निःशंको युक्तमानसः।’
‘Such a man, nishanko and with a yoked mind, does not adopt with insistence the liberating yogas of yama and niyama.’
Mark this. You will find yama-niyama in such a one’s life—but not insistence. He does not practice them with effort. They happen naturally—without compulsion. No stubbornness, no violence.
It is like this: an eyed person who wants to leave a room simply walks out through the door. He does not stand and swear: ‘Today I vow to go only through the door and not try to pass through the wall.’ He just goes. The blind, when they get up, decide: ‘I must find the door, only the door.’ They ask, ‘Where is the door?’ Even after being told, they tap with a stick—for fear they might bump into a wall.
The blind try with insistence to exit through the door. The seeing simply go. They do not even think about the door. Only the blind think. The seeing do not need to. Thinking is the blind man’s stick.
Someone says, ‘I am thinking about God.’ What on earth will you think? Is God a matter for thinking? God is for seeing. That is why our journey to God we call darshan—not philosophy. In the West, ‘philosophy’ means thinking, speculation. Darshan means seeing. These are very different. Darshan is the opening of the eye, the arising of vision, the awakening of the seer.
Until there is darshan, there is thought. Where there is thought there are doubts and suspicions. Where there are doubts you remain a crowd—poly-psychic, unintegrated.
‘...he does not adopt with insistence the yogas of yama-niyama.’
He does not ‘adopt’ at all; the question of insistence does not arise.
‘...but seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating—he lives at ease.’
He lives simply in life’s small acts—seeing, he sees; hearing, he hears.
The Zen master Bokuju was asked, ‘What is your practice?’ He said, ‘When hungry, I eat; when sleepy, I sleep.’ The man said, ‘Is that a practice? Everyone does that—we too sleep when sleepy and eat when hungry.’ Bokuju replied, ‘No, rarely does anyone do it. You eat—and a thousand other things along with it. You eat and run a shop in your head. You eat and roam the market. You eat and bribe someone. You eat while a thousand thoughts run. Food is being put in by a machine; the mind wanders the worlds, makes plans.
‘And when you sleep—you hardly sleep. You dream. So much running about, so much hustle continues even in sleep. You never come home—day or night. Your mind is forever in motion.
‘I—when I eat, I just eat. And when hungry, then I eat. You eat when not hungry—because the time-table says so. Or you do not eat when hungry—because you are fasting. You seldom listen to nature. When hungry, you fast; when not hungry, you cram. You are strange.’
I heard of a pandit in Mathura who went to someone’s home to eat. He ate so much they had to carry him home in a cart. His wife said, ‘No matter—this happened with my father too.’ She offered a pill. He said, ‘Foolish woman, if there had been room for a pill, I would have eaten one more laddu. There is not space even for a pill!’
A friend of mine, a writer, newly married, went to his wife’s home in the country. They served tiny puris. He would swallow each puri in one bite. His wife was embarrassed. She signaled with two fingers to break each into two. He thought in that house it must be custom to eat two at a time, and he put two puris into one bite. He laughed later—‘I was much disgraced.’
Bokuju says, ‘When hungry I eat; and then I only eat. When sleepy, only then I sleep; and then I only sleep.’
This is the meaning of the sutra. It is wondrous:
‘...seeing he simply sees, hearing he simply hears, touching he simply touches, smelling he simply smells, eating he simply eats—he abides at ease.’
There is no repression, no violence, no self-torture, no harsh austerity. Neither indulgence nor a forced yoga. Only great simplicity.
‘पश्यन्‌श्रृण्वन्‌स्पृशन्‌जिघ्रन्नश्नन्नास्ते यथासुखम्‌।’
In all actions he lives at ease. The wheel turns; he abides at the axle. He remains established in himself.
Remember also: his entire process is nothing but awareness. Seeing—he does not see in sleep; he sees with wakefulness. Mark the difference: the escapee says, ‘Do not look at a woman.’ The knower says, ‘Look—with awareness.’
An episode from Buddha’s life: A monk was leaving on a journey. He asked Buddha, ‘Please give me some instruction for the road; I will be away for months, unable to ask you.’ Buddha said, ‘Do one thing: if a woman is seen on the way, do not look; lower your eyes and pass.’ The monk agreed. But another disciple, Ananda, sat nearby—and humanity owes him much. He asked many odd, untimely, seemingly trivial questions. He said, ‘But, Lord, sometimes it may happen that one looks first and only then knows it is a woman. In that case, what to do? After all, how else will he know? Having already seen, what then?’
Buddha said, ‘If already seen—no harm—just do not touch.’ Ananda said, ‘And if touching becomes necessary? Suppose a woman has fallen on the road and there is no one else to help? What of compassion and kindness?’ Buddha said, ‘Good—then touch, but remain aware.’
Buddha said, ‘The essential thing is awareness. This monk is weak, so I said: do not look. To one a little stronger, I would not say even that. To one stronger still, I would not even say: do not touch. To the strongest, I give no command—only this: remain aware.’
It happened that before the rains a monk passed by a road, and a courtesan invited him, ‘Stay at my home this rainy season.’ The monk said, ‘Let me ask my master. If he permits, I will stay.’ He did not say, ‘You are a prostitute.’ He said nothing of the sort—only, ‘I will ask.’ In the assembly he asked Buddha: ‘A courtesan invited me to stay four months. I ask your leave.’ Buddha said, ‘Stay.’ Great turmoil arose. Senior monks were upset. Some had secretly wished for such a thing. They protested: ‘You always say do not look, do not touch—yet you permit him to stay in a prostitute’s house!’
Buddha said, ‘This monk is such that if he stays there, the courtesan should be afraid; he need not fear.’ ‘We will see in four months,’ he added.
After four months the monk returned; the courtesan came behind him. Before the monk could speak, she fell at Buddha’s feet: ‘Initiate me. By sending this monk to my house you sent the means of my liberation. I tried every trick to distract him—but he is extraordinary. I asked him to watch my dance; he did not refuse. I thought he would say, “I am a monk, how can I watch?” Whatever I asked, he gently said, “Alright.” But there is such a light within him that in his presence I would forget I am a courtesan. Near him I began to fly into a higher sky. I could not pull him down; he lifted me up. He did not fall; he raised me. You have been very compassionate—initiate me. The world is finished for me. Until such awakening is in me, life is meaningless. My lamp too must be lit.’
Buddha said to the other monks, ‘What do you say? You brought me daily news. I kept telling you—have patience. I trust this monk. He can remain aware. The real thing is awareness—the deeper and final thing.’
So Ashtavakra says:
‘न मुक्तिकारिकां धत्ते निःशंको युक्तमानसः।
पश्यन्‌श्रृण्वन्‌स्पृशन्‌जिघ्रन्नश्नन्नास्ते यथासुखम्‌।।’
See, hear, eat, drink—live in the world, awake, at ease. Do not run; do not indulge. Do not indulge; do not renounce. Awake! From that awakening the supreme attainment flowers.
If you run, imagination will still follow. If you awake, imagination ends.
‘Since morning I gaze at you, O season-filled one—
Now evening falls, yet the heart is not sated.
In sunlight each day, playful frolics—
A shadow climbs and descends the steps.
I touch you gently and tease—
Dew falls from a moist petal.
You are perhaps a lake; I am a small boat—
Such images arise within the mind.’
Sit far away if you like—new imaginations will arise in the mind.
‘Since morning I gaze at you, O season-filled one—
Even sitting on a distant hill you will gaze at the very one from whom you fled. What else will you do? What you left will pursue you.
‘Since morning I gaze at you, O season-filled one—
Now evening falls, yet the heart is not sated...
If there is no reality, shadows will climb and descend the steps—dreams will rise, imaginations will flare.
‘I touch you gently and tease...’
You will begin to touch imaginations. You have read the stories of rishis: Apsaras come to tempt them. From where would apsaras come? They do not exist. These apsaras are the rishis’ own projections. They ran from women; women remained in their minds.
‘A shadow climbs and descends the steps—
I touch you gently and tease—
Dew falls from a moist petal—
You are perhaps a lake; I am a small boat—
Such imaginations arise in the mind...’
And imaginations upon imaginations will rise. From what you ran, you will never be free. You will remain bound to it. In running, the knot is tied. In running you declare: ‘I could not win; I am defeated.’ What defeats you will go on defeating you.
Ashtavakra is not in favor of this. He says, ‘By merely hearing the truth of reality, one whose buddhi is pure and whose mind is at ease—he sees neither virtue, nor vice, nor indifference.’
‘वस्तुश्रवणमात्रेण...’
I tell you daily: if prajna is sharp, by mere hearing—shravana-matrena.
‘वस्तुश्रवणमात्रेण शुद्धबुद्धिर्निराकुलः।’
He whose buddhi is pure and whose mind unperturbed—by mere hearing of truth, it happens. Nothing remains to be done.
‘नैवाचारमनाचारमौदास्यं वा प्रपश्यति।’
In such a one’s life—liberated by bodha alone, not by any insistence of yoga, vow, rule—there is neither achara, nor anachara. Not even udasinta, indifference.
Generally there are three positions. One is full of misconduct—what we call the bhogi. The second is full of conduct—what we call the yogi. Above both is the indifferent, in whom neither conduct nor misconduct remains—he has withdrawn, gone neutral. This is the third state. Ashtavakra says there is a fourth: not even indifference. This fourth is unique.
Understand. The anachari indulges the wrong. The achari indulges the right. Both have chosen. The anachari chooses one half; the achari the other half. Neither holds the whole. Seeing this, the indifferent drops both—but even he does not hold the whole. Indifference is negative—a spectator on the bank. He has stopped flowing with the stream.
There is a fourth—neither conduct, nor misconduct, nor indifference. The person stands in life—he does not decide, ‘I will act only by code,’ nor, ‘I will act in misconduct.’ Have you noticed? The virtuous have firm resolves; so do the vicious. The virtuous says, ‘I will do only the good.’ The vicious says, ‘Let’s see who stops me—I will do the bad.’
Go to a prison and you will know. Prisoners boast of their crimes. One says, ‘I killed two men.’ Another replies, ‘That’s nothing—I’ve done twenty.’ One says, ‘I robbed a hundred thousand.’ Another says, ‘A million is a real robbery.’ A new inmate comes; the old-timer says, ‘How long is your sentence?’ ‘Two years.’ ‘Then stay near the door—you’ll be out quickly. We are here for thirty. You are a novice—your time will pass soon. We are veterans.’
In prison they exaggerate their crimes—just as you exaggerate your donations.
A couple visited me. The wife praised her husband: ‘He is very charitable—perhaps you have heard his name—he has donated one lakh.’ The husband nudged her: ‘One lakh and ten thousand!’ That missing ten thousand stung him.
Man puffs his ego by announcing the good—and the evil too. There are stubborn men of virtue and stubborn men of vice. Then there are the indifferent whose faces attract flies. They say: there is no flavor left—neither in good nor bad. They sit aloof.
Ashtavakra says: beyond these three is the real state. Indifference is not good. Existence is a festival. To be indifferent in this celebration is to insult the Divine. Flowers bloom, the sun rises, birds sing—dance! To be indifferent is to insult the Lord who has given such a world. Life needs celebration, not indifference. And a celebration without insistence.
Live moment to moment without insistence. Do not decide, ‘I will do only good’; do not decide, ‘I will do only bad.’ Let God do through you. Leave it to His will. Whatever you do, do with awareness. And whatever He makes you do—be content. Such supreme contentment is the fourth state.
‘The steadfast man, when something good or bad comes to be done, does it with ease...’
Mark well—good or bad. No one can match Ashtavakra’s revolution.
‘The steadfast man, when something good or bad comes to be done, does it with ease—because his conduct is childlike.’
If the good comes, the good; if the bad comes, the bad. He does not choose.
This is what Krishna says to Arjuna: If the Lord’s will is that there be war—fight. Who are you to decide it is bad, that it is sin? You are but an instrument. Those standing before you—I see them already slain. You are a mere instrument. Their death has happened. I see a little ahead. Whether the bow is on your shoulder or another’s—it is the same. Do not think you kill. Do not be the doer.
Who are you to decide what is good or bad? Often you set out to do good and the result is bad. You set out to do evil and the result is good.
In China, four thousand years ago, a man had a persistent headache. A rival shot him in the leg with an arrow—and the headache vanished. The arrow was removed and the man lived—and the headache gone. From this experience acupuncture was born. The pain was in the head, but the blockage was in the foot. The arrow accidentally released it. Since then acupuncture has cured millions. All the credit goes to that man who shot the arrow. His intention was bad, but the outcome was great good.
You try to do good and harm happens. A father tries too hard to make his son ‘good’—and the son becomes bad. Excessive effort is dangerous.
It is hard to find a better father than Gandhi—yet he ruined his first son, Haridas. Gandhi was obsessed with being a Mahatma and wanted to make him one too. If you must be a saint—be one. But do not impose it on another. Wait for his moment. He rebelled—he drank, visited prostitutes, and finally became a Muslim. Because Gandhi said Hindus and Muslims are one, he said, ‘Let me test it.’ He became Abdullah Gandhi. News of it shocked Gandhi. Hearing of Gandhi’s shock, Haridas laughed: ‘Why shocked? If Allah and Ishwar are one, why shock? So it was only politics—not deep truth?’
You do good; evil happens. You do evil; sometimes good happens. Who can predict? Leave it to God.
What seems good now may soon turn bad. The story continues. You save a man fallen in a well; he goes and murders someone. Are you responsible? If you hadn’t saved him, there would be no murder. Terapanthi Jains say: Don’t save at all. Let him be. A thirsty man dying—and you have water—don’t give. Who knows—if he revives, he might rob someone at night. Who is responsible then? So be indifferent; go your way. He suffers his karma; you yours. Do not interfere.
But this is harsh—less than human. What, then? Ashtavakra’s suggestion is more potent: Do whatever comes in that moment—be an instrument. Do not be the doer. Keep no plan: ‘I will do this; I will not do that. This is right; that is wrong.’ This world is too mysterious to judge. The story is too long; what seems wrong now may turn right later, and vice versa. So in this vast, unknowable play, remain a nimitta—an instrument.
‘The steadfast man, when something good or bad comes to be done, does it with ease...’
He does not bring obstruction. He becomes the instrument: ‘Alright.’
‘Because his behavior is childlike.’
‘यदा यत्कर्तुमायाति तदा तत्कुरुते ऋजुः।
शुभं वाप्यशुभं वापि तस्य चेष्टा हि बालवत्‌।।’
Simply, straight, without burden—no pride that ‘I did good’ or ‘I did bad’; no claim of merit or sin. Whatever the Lord did through me—was done. He neither looks back in regret nor plans ahead. What happens in the moment—happens.
Childlike simplicity. Have you seen small children? They live moment to moment—that is their beauty. In one instant he is angry: ‘I’ll never look at your face—cutty!’ The next moment he sits in your lap, laughing. He has forgotten.
Childlike. No accounting of good and bad, of anger and love. Whatever comes in the moment—he does it totally—and with the moment it is gone. Such a person—flowing moment to moment like a river—that one Ashtavakra calls a sadhu: simple, straight.
‘The steadfast man attains happiness by freedom, attains the Supreme by freedom, attains nirriti by freedom, and attains the highest state by freedom.’
Freedom is Ashtavakra’s key—his essence.
J. Krishnamurti’s book is titled: The First and Last Freedom—the whole book is a commentary on this one formula.
‘स्वातंत्र्यात्सुखमाप्नोति स्वातंत्र्यात्‌ लभते परम्‌।
स्वातंत्र्यान्निर्वृतिं गच्छेत्‌ स्वातंत्र्यात्‌ परमं पदम्‌।।’
‘By freedom he attains happiness; by freedom he attains the Supreme; by freedom he attains nirriti; by freedom the supreme state.’
In dependence there is no happiness—whether imposed by another or by yourself. Chains are chains—whether another shackles you or you shackle yourself. Whether another cuts your wings or you cut them—it makes no difference. Dependence is sorrow, for it binds. Only the infinite gives joy.
Therefore: There is one joy in the world—freedom. Freedom from all codes, all limits, all yama and niyama, all austerities—this is one side, the negative side of freedom: from what to be free. And then: in what to be free—bodha. Free from bondage; and free in awareness, in wakefulness, in witnessing—this is the positive side.
If only the negative, you become licentious—self-willed in the lowest sense. Without the positive, there is no true freedom in Ashtavakra’s sense. Keep both: freedom from—and freedom for. When they meet, your own svachhanda—your own rhythm—flowers. Your song breaks forth, your spring flows, your lotus blooms.
By freedom the Supreme is known—the ultimate beyond which nothing remains to be known. It is not outside; it is your own saksatkara. Where all bondage dissolves and your own light is freed and revealed—there arises the supreme knowledge. Call it the ultimate aloneness, the supreme truth, the Atman, Paratpara Brahman—its name is the Supreme: beyond which there is no beyond. Until this is known, the race of life does not end.
‘स्वातंत्र्यान्निर्वृतिं गच्छेत्‌...’
Only in freedom does one enter nirvana. Only in freedom is one freed from oneself. Only in freedom does the ego burn out—like a candle put out and the sun revealed.
‘स्वातंत्र्यान्निर्वृतिं गच्छेत्‌ स्वातंत्र्यात्‌ परमं पदम्‌।’
Only in freedom does one sit in the supreme seat—become Divine.
In such a moment Al-Hallaj Mansur declared: Ana’l-Haqq—I am Truth. In such a moment Jesus said: I and my Father are one. In such a moment the Upanishads: Aham Brahmasmi. In such a moment Uddalaka told Shvetaketu: Tat tvam asi—That art thou.
This is the supreme state—where the hidden God within is allowed to blaze forth. Where the treasure hidden within for lifetimes is opened. Where your inner Kohinoor is revealed. There you cease to be merely human; you become vibhuti—divine.
Understand freedom rightly, for people take freedom only negatively. They say, ‘Believe nothing’—and call it freedom. That is not enough. That is license. ‘Believe nothing’ is a necessary step, but not sufficient. Go beyond—into the light within.
Abandon the lights borrowed from others, for they hinder your own light. But do not just extinguish them and sit in darkness; else what little light you had is gone—and your own is not yet lit. Until your own bodha arises, out of helplessness you will have to walk by borrowed light—or you will wander worse. These two happen together—two sides of one coin.
Do not believe the outer; know the inner. The day the inner is known, the outer belief is unnecessary. And it is not that you will become criminal then, or anti-social, or break all codes. The codes will still be fulfilled—but in a new way: out of your own seeing. You will still find yourself doing what is truly auspicious—but no longer by society’s beliefs; now you will let God flow through you. Sometimes what seems in this moment inauspicious will turn out auspicious later. Now you let the Whole move through you. ‘Thy will be done. You know the end and the beginning. I know neither. I have only a glimpse from the middle; I cannot decide the whole. You know the whole. In that totality, whatever You do is auspicious—even if, in this moment, it appears otherwise.’
When this trust deepens and one surrenders to the Whole, the moment of supreme revolution comes. This total revolution is called religion. Religion is not in scriptures; it is in flowing with your own inner music. Dharma means your very swabhava.
The arrangement for attaining this swabhava is freedom.
Do not bind yourself—open. Do not imprison yourself in cages. Fly. The open sky is yours. You are the sky. Settle for nothing less. Until your wings spread across the whole sky, keep moving, keep going.
Buddha told his bhikkhus: ‘Charaiveti, charaiveti’—keep moving, keep moving. Until the supreme state arrives, there is no destination. Rest for the night—but remember, at dawn move again. Do not become so attached to any halt that you mistake it for the goal. Becoming free of each stop, free of every rule—one day the ultimate freedom flowers. Freedom is first—and freedom is last.
‘स्वातंत्र्यात्सुखमाप्नोति स्वातंत्र्यात्‌ लभते परम्‌।
स्वातंत्र्यान्निर्वृतिं गच्छेत्‌ स्वातंत्र्यात्‌ परमं पदम्‌।।’
Enough for today.