Maha Geeta #7

As in the dark a ray suddenly descends, or as a blind man all at once is given eyes—just so it happened to Janaka. That which he had never seen, appeared. That which he had never heard, was heard. The heart filled with a new ripple, a new upsurge. The very life-breaths had a new vision. Surely, Janaka was a fit vessel!
Rain falls—upon mountains too—and the mountains remain empty; for they are already full. It falls upon lakes, and empty lakes fill up.
Only the empty is a worthy vessel; the filled is unworthy.
Ego turns a man to stone. Egolessness gives a man the vastness of shunyata.
Janaka must have been a hollow vessel of emptiness. In that instant, a wonder-struck “Aho!” arose. He awakened as he heard. He had not been called, yet the call arrived. Even the shadow of the whip sufficed; there was no need to crack it; the question of striking did not arise.
Ashtavakra too is fortunate to have found a listener like Janaka. Among the true Masters in the history of humankind, none has been so fortunate as Ashtavakra; for to find a disciple like Janaka is supremely rare—one who awakens at the slightest gesture; as if he had been ready; as if but a little gust of wind was enough for sleep to break. The sleep was not deep. He was not buried in dreams. He was in that liminal state of rising-awakening. The Brahma-muhurta had arrived. It was about to be dawn.
In the Buddhist Jatakas there is a story that when Buddha attained awakening he remained silent for seven days; because Buddha thought: those who can understand me will understand even without my saying a word; those who cannot understand me will not understand even if I explain and explain. Then what is the point? Why speak? Why labor in vain? Those ready to awaken—any cause will be enough for them; there is no need to call and shout. Some bird will trill a song, a gust of wind will move through the trees—that will suffice!
And so it has happened.
Lao Tzu was sitting beneath a tree. A dry leaf fell from the tree, and seeing that dry leaf fall he attained the ultimate enlightenment. The dry leaf became the Master. He simply saw everything! In that dry leaf—his own birth, his own death! In the death of that dry leaf everything died. If not today, then tomorrow, I too shall fall like a dry leaf—matter finished.
It happened in the same way to Buddha himself. On the road he saw a sick old man and was startled. Seeing a corpse he asked, What has happened to him?
The charioteer said, This will happen to you as well, to all. One day death surely will come.
Then Buddha said, Turn the chariot back toward home. There is nowhere left to go. If death is coming, life has become futile!
You too have seen funeral processions pass by on the road. You too have stood by the roadside for a moment expressing sympathy. You say, How unfortunate—poor fellow, he died! He was so young yet. His household was still unformed. How sad!
You have felt pity for the one who died. You felt not a drop of pity for yourself—that in that one who died came the news of your dying; that just as today he is bound upon the bier, tomorrow—or the day after—you too shall be bound and carried away. As today you stand at the roadside expressing sympathy for him, other people will stand at the roadside expressing sympathy for you. You will be so helpless that you will not even be able to say thank you. This corpse that is passing—this is yours.
If one can truly see, if the eye is there, deep, intense awareness there—then when one man dies, all humanity dies; life becomes futile!
Buddha left everything behind.
So when he attained awakening, he thought that one who is to awaken will awaken even if no one awakens him. Any excuse is sufficient for him.
It is said a Zen nun was returning from the well with water when the bamboo pole broke and the pitchers fell. It was a full-moon night; the moon’s reflection was shimmering in the water of the pots. She was returning to the monastery, carrying the yoke, watching the moon reflected in the water of the jars. The jars fell. She stood startled. The pot fell, the water ran—the moon too ran away! It is said she was instantly awakened. Samyak Samadhi arose. Dancing, she returned; it became visible that this world is nothing more than reflections. What we keep weaving here can break at any time. All these moons will be lost. All these lovely poems will be lost. These bewitching visages—all will be lost. These are reflections formed in water. When that was seen, the matter was finished.
So Buddha thought, What is the essence? Whom shall I speak to? One who is to awaken will awaken sooner or later even without me—some difference of time only. And one who is not to awaken, shout and scream—he will turn over and sleep. Even if he opens his eyes, he looks with annoyance: Why are you ruining my sleep? Have you nothing else to do? You don’t let the sleeper sleep! Sleep was going on peacefully, and you came to awaken me!
You yourself tell someone, Wake me in the morning; when he wakes you, annoyance arises. You yourself had said you have to catch a train, wake me at four sharp. When he wakes you, you feel like hitting him.
Immanuel Kant, a great thinker of Germany—he used to get up every night at three. He lived by the clock, by the hands of the clock. It is said when he would go to the university to teach, people set their clocks by him. For he had, for thirty years continuously, left the house exactly minute by minute, second by second. But when it was very cold he would tell his servant: no matter what, wake me at three. Even if I thrash you, don’t worry, thrash me back, but wake me! Servants would not stay in his house, for it was a great bother. If they woke him at three, he would be very angry; if they didn’t, he would be angry in the morning. And not only anger, there would be blows. He too would strike. He had told the servant, Don’t worry—three o’clock we must wake. Drag me, haul me, but make me stand up at three! Don’t mind what I am doing. Don’t listen to what I say at that time; at that time I am asleep. What I say then, there is no need to hear.
There are such people too!
Buddha thought, What is the point? One who wants to sleep will keep sleeping even if I shout. One who wants to awaken will awaken even without my calling.
For seven days he sat in silence. Then the gods prayed to him: What are you doing? Only once in a while does someone attain Buddhahood; the earth longs; the thirsty long; a cloud has formed—now let it rain. You are silent—let it rain! A flower has blossomed—let its fragrance be released! Let this stream of nectar flow! Many have been thirsty for births upon births. And we have understood your logic. We have been looking into your mind for seven days unbroken. You say: there are some who will awaken without my calling; and there are some who will not awaken even with my calls. Therefore you are silent? We have come thoughtfully. There are some who stand exactly in between! You cannot refuse them. If someone awakens them, they will awaken. If none does, they will sleep for aeons. Care for those few. What you say may be true for ninety-nine percent; but have regard for that one percent who stand at the boundary—if someone wakes them, they will awaken; if none wakes them, they will remain asleep.
Buddha found no reply to this; hence he had to speak. The gods persuaded him. He sold the word.
Buddha’s thought was right. The gods’ thought too was right.
Thus there are three kinds of listeners. First, those who will not awaken though awakened and awakened again. This crowd is the largest in the world. They hear, yet they do not hear. They see, yet they do not see. They even understand—and still they counsel themselves, they plaster over understanding. Even when they understand, they continue to cling to non-understanding. With non-understanding a deep self-interest has grown. They fear leaving old familiarity.
Then there are the second kind of listeners, who are in-between. If someone exerts a little—some Buddha, some Ashtavakra, some Krishna—they will awaken. Arjuna was such a listener. Krishna had to labor. Krishna had to labor long. From that long labor the Gita was born. At the very end Arjuna feels: My delusions have fallen, my doubts have dropped, I take refuge in you, I have seen! But there was much tussle, much struggle.
Then there are the superior listeners—those like Janaka, to whom nothing was said and yet they heard. As Ashtavakra said here, over there Janaka began to see.
Today’s sutras are Janaka’s words. So swiftly—so immediately—Janaka saw that what Ashtavakra was saying is perfectly true; the blow struck.
I said: Rain falls—at times upon land that is stony; the rain falls, but no shoots sprout. At times upon land that is somewhat gravelly—shoots sprout, but not as many as could. And then at times upon land fully prepared, fertile, free of stones. A great harvest comes!
Janaka is such soil. A gesture was enough.
This condition of Janaka is worth understanding, for you too will be somewhere among these three. And it depends on you where among these three you insist on standing. You may be of the ordinary folk who have resolved not to hear; who have sworn to fight against truth; who, when they hear, will hear something else; the moment they hear they will interpret; the moment they hear they will throw themselves upon what was heard, color it, distort it, hear something entirely different.
You do not hear what is said. You hear what you want to hear.
I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin’s wife came home seething with anger and said to the Mulla, Beggars are great deceivers.
Why, what happened? asked Nasruddin.
Well, a beggar had a placard around his neck on which was written: Blind since birth. Out of pity I took ten paisa from my purse and put it into his bowl. Do you know what he said? O beautiful lady, may God keep you happy. Now you tell me, how did he know I am beautiful?
Mulla burst out laughing and said, Then indeed he is truly blind, and blind from birth!
So the Mulla said, I am not the only blind one; there’s another blind too. Otherwise how would he know that you are beautiful—if he had eyes?
The wife is saying one thing, Mulla is hearing another. Mulla is hearing what he wants to hear.
Consider—this incident is happening twenty-four hours a day. You hear only what you want to hear; though you never even reflect whether what I heard was mine or was it what was said?
Mulla was working somewhere. The owner said to him, You do not work well, Nasruddin! I am compelled to hire another servant now.
Nasruddin said, By all means, sir; there is work here for two people anyway.
The owner is saying, I wish to be rid of you, I will hire someone else. Mulla says, There is work for two people here—do hire another!
Stand behind yourself and reconsider what you hear: was this indeed what was said? If one becomes capable of hearing exactly, he becomes the second kind of listener; he rises above the third. The third kind of listener mixes in himself. The third listens only to himself, to his own echoes. His vision is not clear. He distorts everything.
The second kind hears exactly what is being said. The second kind will still take a little time; for even after hearing what is said—after hearing what is actually said—he will need courage to do it. But once he has truly heard, courage will come too. For after hearing truth, it becomes impossible to remain long in untruth. Once it is seen what truth is, then however ancient the habit may be, it must be dropped. Once it is known that two and two are four, however old the habit of counting two and two as five, it will have to be abandoned. Once it is seen where the door is, to depart through the wall becomes impossible. To go on banging one’s head upon the wall becomes impossible. When truth is understood, sooner or later so much courage arises that a man leaps, transforms himself.
Then there are the first kind of listeners. If understanding and courage are simultaneous in you, you will become a first-rate listener. A first-rate listener means understanding and courage occur together—here understanding, there courage; there is no interval between the two. Not that I understand today and will gather courage tomorrow; understand in this life, and in the next gather courage. Here I understand, and here is courage. In this very moment understanding, in this very moment courage. Then the sudden event happens. Then sunrise happens all at once.
Janaka is a listener of the first order.
In this connection, keep one more thing in mind. Janaka is an emperor. He has everything. More than required. He has enjoyed. For the one who truly exhausts his enjoyment, the revolution of yoga becomes easy. For life’s own experience tells him that what he took life to be is futile. Half the work life itself does—what I take life to be is futile. Questions begin to arise: then where is another life? Where is the other life? Where is the life of truth? But the person whose life has no enjoyment, only the craving for enjoyment; has not received, only longs to receive—he faces great difficulty. So do not be surprised that India’s Tirthankaras, the great seers—be they Jain, Buddhist, Hindu—were all princes. Not without cause. It only tells us this much: that through bhoga, a man becomes freed from bhoga. An emperor sees one thing clearly—that there is nothing in wealth; for heaps of wealth are there, and within, emptiness. A pile of beautiful women—and within, nothing. Beautiful palaces—and within, a vast silence, a desert. When everything is there, it becomes evident that nothing is there. When nothing is there, a man lives on hope.
To be freed from hope is very difficult. For hope cannot be tested. The poor man thinks: tomorrow when wealth comes, I will live in joy. The rich has acquired wealth—now there is no way for hope. Hence whenever a society becomes affluent it becomes religious. Do not be surprised that in America the winds of religion have begun to spread strongly. It has always been so. When India was affluent—in Ashtavakra’s day it must have been; in Buddha’s day it was; in Mahavira’s day it was—when India stood upon the peak of its prosperity, yoga soared to great heights, spirituality took its ultimate flight. For then people saw there is no essence; even if all is attained, there is no essence. When the country is poor and destitute, it is very difficult.
I do not say a poor person cannot be liberated. A poor person can be liberated. A poor person can be religious. But a poor society cannot be religious. Individuals can be exceptions. For that, profound intensity is needed.
Think a little. If you have wealth, to see that wealth is futile is easy; if you don’t, to see that wealth is futile is hard—extremely hard. How to test the futility of what is not? If gold is in your hand you can assay whether it is pure or base. If you hold no gold, but only in dream—there is no touchstone for dream-gold. Real gold can be tested.
The poor man’s religion is not real religion. Therefore when the poor man goes to the temple he asks for wealth, position, employment. If he is ill he asks that the illness be cured. If his son is unemployed he asks for a job. The temple turns into an employment exchange. From the temple does not arise the fragrance of love and prayer. He should have gone to the hospital; he came to the temple. He should have gone to the job office; he came to the temple.
Even in the temple the poor man keeps asking for what the world has not given him. What is lacking in the world—that we ask for.
But if everything is in your life—or if you have such intelligence, such brilliance that by reflection alone you can awaken and see: even if all is gotten, what will be gotten? Others have wealth—what has happened to them? Even if you yourself do not have it, then it requires talent to see: those who live in palaces—what has happened to them? Do their eyes have waves of joy? Are their feet in dance? Is there around them the fragrance of the Divine? If it has not happened to them, how will it happen to you? But this is a little difficult.
Most people are such that even when they themselves possess wealth they cannot see that wealth is futile—then to think that when they do not have wealth it will become visible… It may happen; it is a possibility, but a far one. For Buddha it must have been easy to awaken. For Janaka it must have been easy. For Arjuna too, easy. For Kabir it must have been very hard. For Dadu, for Sahajo—very hard. For Christ, for Muhammad—very hard. For they had nothing, and yet they awakened!
In life, what we do not have—that desire surrounds us; holds us captive. Last night I was reading a song:
I want, therefore to take one more birth
that perhaps there I may find such a beloved
who knows how to give love.
Who, rising in the morning, smiles toward me,
lets me enter her heart,
who, at noon amid many tasks,
becomes sad without me,
spends the day in waiting;
who in the evening welcomes me so—
with all longing, with all solace gathers me in;
releasing me from birth and death
binds me in abiding love!
There is a longing for such a beloved
who can give my joy
the flame of fidelity,
and to my sorrow too
the color of warm teardrop pearls;
who, when the home faces poverty, does not flinch;
when the journey is difficult, no lines crease her brow.
Perhaps in the next birth I will find such a beloved
who knows how to give love—
I want, therefore, to take one more birth.
What has not been found—one lacks a beloved, another wealth, another position, another prestige—so we want yet another birth. We have taken infinite births, yet something remains missing, something remains empty, something remains petty—for that another birth, and another.
Desires have no end. Needs are very few; cravings have no boundary. On the crutches of those cravings a man keeps living.
Remember, wealth does not bind, the craving for wealth binds; position does not bind, the craving for position binds. Prestige does not bind, the craving for prestige binds.
Janaka had everything. He had seen all. He stood prepared, as if awaiting that someone make but the slightest sign—and he would awaken. All dreams had become vain. The sleep was ready to break.
That is why I say: Ashtavakra found a supreme disciple.
Janaka said: I am stainless, I am serene, I am bodha, I am beyond Prakriti! Astonishing! Aho! that for so long I have been simply duped by delusion!
The ray began to descend. Aho niranjanah. Astonishment!
He heard Ashtavakra say: You are niranjana, stainless—and the ray at once reached to the innermost depth of the life-breath—as if a needle pierced straight in.
अहो निरंजनः शांतो बोधोऽहं प्रकृतेः परः।
I am amazed—what are you saying? I am stainless! I am serene! I am bodha! I am beyond Prakriti! Astonishing, that for so long I have simply been duped by moha.
एतावंतमहं कालं मोहेनैव विडंबितः।
Janaka was startled. What he heard, he had never heard. What he saw in Ashtavakra, he had never seen. Not heard by the ears nor seen by the eyes—such an unprecedented revelation. Ashtavakra became luminous! In his aura, in that orb of radiance, Janaka was astounded: Aho! I have realized that I am niranjana! At first trust does not come, faith does not arise.
Truth is so unbelievable, because for so many births we have believed in the untrue. Think—if a blind man’s eyes suddenly open, will he be able to believe in light, in colors, these thousand-and-thousand colors, the rainbow, these flowers, these trees, these moon and stars? If the blind man’s eyes suddenly open he will say: Aho, it is astonishing! I could not even have imagined that this is! And this is. I had not even dreamt of it.
Light aside—a blind man does not even know darkness. You ordinarily think a blind man lives in darkness—then you think wrongly. To see darkness, too, eyes are needed. When you close your eyes you see darkness, because with eyes open you know light. But one whose eyes have never opened—he does not know darkness either; light is distant, even darkness is unknown. There is no way for a blind man to dream of rainbows. But when he opens his eyes he will find this whole world unbelievable; trust will not come.
Janaka too has received a jolt, a startle! Filled with wonder he says: Aho, I am stainless!
Since always he had known himself guilty; and since always religious teachers have said—you are sinners! Priests and pundits have told you—wash the sins of your actions. None has ever told you—you are stainless; your innocence is such that it cannot be broken; that though you commit a hundred sins, you cannot be a sinner.
All your sins are dreams seen; at awakening they vanish. Neither merit is yours, nor sin is yours; because action is not yours, deeds are not yours; for you are not the doer—you are only the drashta, the witness.
I am stainless!—startled, Janaka said. I am serene!—for he had known only restlessness.
Have you ever known peace? Ordinarily you say yes. But if you look closely you will find—what you call peace is only that little time between two unrests. In English there is a word “cold war.” It is a good word—a cool war. Between two wars, a cold war goes on. Two hot wars, and between them a cold war—but the war continues. The first world war ended, the second began. Many years passed—some twenty years; but those twenty were of cold war. Fighting continues, war-preparations continue. Yes, battle does not manifest; it goes on inside, underground; buried within the soil.
Even now a cold war is on in the world; preparations are going on. Soldiers are drilling. Bombs are being made. Guns polished. Swords sharpened. It is a cool fight. War goes on. Any day it may flare. Any day war will arise.
What you call peace is cool unrest. At times you are heated—hot unrest. Between two hot unrests, the small spans you call peace are not peace; they are only cool unrest. The mercury has not risen high, the temperature is not great—one can manage, that is all. But peace you have not known. Can there be peace between two unrests? Can there be peace between two wars?
One who has known peace—his unrest ends forever. You have not known peace; you have heard the word. Unrest is your experience; peace is your longing, your hope.
So Janaka began to say: I am serene, I am bodha!—for he had known only stupor. All you do, you do in stupor. If someone truly asks you, you will not be able to answer even one thing. If someone asks: Why did you fall in love with this woman? You will say: I don’t know—it happened, it just happened. Is that an answer? For something like love—is this an answer, that it happened? It just happened! At first sight it happened! On seeing it happened! Do you know from where this love arose within you? How it came? You know nothing. And from this love you hope for joy in life. You don’t even know this love—where it arises in you? From what depth of the unconscious does it surge? Where is its seed? From where does it sprout? Then you say—from this love I want happiness in life. You don’t get happiness; you get sorrow, quarrel, enmity, jealousy, envy. Then you writhe. You say, What has happened? This love turned out to be deception!
From the beginning there was stupor.
You are running—to earn money! If one asks you, For what? Perhaps you will manage some small answers. You will say, How will I live without money? But there are those who have enough to live, and still they run. And be sure—on the day you earn enough to stop, you will not be able to stop. You will keep running.
Andrew Carnegie died leaving a billion dollars; but even as he died he was still earning. Two days before his death his secretary asked, You must be satisfied? A billion dollars! He said, Satisfied! I am dying in great unrest—my plan was to earn ten billion.
For one whose plan was ten billion, a mere one billion—there is a nine-billion loss. Look at his loss! You see one billion; to him, one billion are ten cents. A billion has no value at all.
You can neither eat a billion nor drink it. There is no use for it. But once the run starts it continues.
Ask yourself, For what are you running? You have no answer. Stupor! You don’t know why you run, where you go, for what you go! If you don’t go—what will you do? How to stop? For what to stop? Even that you do not know.
Man moves as if drunk. The threads of our life are not in our hands. We are without bodha.
Gurdjieff used to say: we are walking almost asleep. Eyes open, granted; but sleep not broken. The eyes are full of sleep. Something happens; we keep doing something; something goes on. Why? We fear to ask why, because there is no answer. Such questions bring restlessness.
Janaka said: I am bodha. अहो निरंजनः शांतो बोधोऽहं। And not only this—you say: you are beyond Prakriti! प्रकृतेः परः! You are not the body, not the mind. What appears—you are not that. This scenery—you are not this. You are the seer. Always beyond. Beyond Prakriti, forever transcending.
Understand this. This is Ashtavakra’s fundamental means, his basic method—if we may call it a method—going beyond Prakriti! Whatever is seen, I am not that. Whatever comes into experience, I am not that. Because whatever I see—I am beyond it; I am the one who sees. The seen cannot be me. Whatever has entered my experience—I am beyond it; for I am the witness of experience—how can I be the experienced? Thus I am neither body, nor mind, nor feeling; not Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian; not Brahmin, nor Shudra; not child, nor youth, nor old; not beautiful, nor ugly; not intelligent, nor stupid—I am none of these. I am beyond the whole of Prakriti!
This ray descended into Janaka’s heart. It filled him with wonder, amazed him, startled him. For the first time his eyes opened.
Astonishing—that for so long I have been simply duped by delusion!
That all that I had built, all that I had desired, all those beautiful dreams I had seen were moha-sleep! They were dreams! Thoughts arising in sleep, with no reality at all!
अहो अहं एतावंतमहं कालं मोहेनैव विडंबितः।
You startle me! You have shaken me. All these mansions I constructed—they have fallen! And all these empires I spread—all were the travesty of moha!
Try to understand. If you too will hear, just so it will be. If you too can hear, exactly so it will be. All that you have done will become vain. Whether gained or not gained—everything becomes vain.
Mulla Nasruddin one night was muttering in sleep. He opened his eyes and said to his wife, Quick—bring my glasses!
The wife said, What will you do with glasses at midnight on the bed?
He said, Don’t delay, bring them fast. A beautiful woman is appearing—in my dream! I want to see properly, with my glasses on. The dream is a little hazy.
Even in dreams you try to make the dream true; somehow let the dream become reality! You do not want anyone to call your dream a dream—you become angry. We gave poison to the saints, threw stones at them—not for nothing. They angered us greatly. We were dreaming; they began to shake us. We were in deep sleep; they began awakening us. They began breaking our sleep without asking us, began ringing alarms. Annoyance was natural.
But if you hear—you will become grateful; you will experience gratitude forever.
Consider Krishna’s Gita—when Krishna speaks, Arjuna raises questions. In Ashtavakra’s Gita, Ashtavakra speaks—Janaka raises no question. Janaka only expresses “aho.” Janaka gives only assent. He simply says: You have startled me, Lord; you have awakened me! There is nothing to ask. Janaka begins to realize: I am stainless; I am serene; I am bodha; I am beyond Prakriti.
To us it seems difficult—so quickly it happened! It seems some time should be needed. We are amazed—so swiftly, with such haste, the event happened!
In the lives of Zen masters there are many accounts. Now books on Zen are spreading East and West, and people read and are amazed. For in them are thousands of accounts where in a mere instant the monk awakened and attained bodhi. We cannot believe, because we strive greatly yet do not attain bodhi; we labor, yet meditation does not settle; we sit to chant, to practice austerity, and the mind remains restless. And this Janaka—he simply awakened in one instant!
At times it happens thus. It depends on your preparedness. The more deficient your receptivity, the longer it will take. The delay is not because of the event. The event can happen now—as Ashtavakra says again and again, Be blissful now! Become free—now! In this very moment!
The event happens now; delay occurs because of our receptivity. We are not ready. The time that it takes is spent in removing the stones in between. The spring can burst forth now; the spring is ready, trembling, waiting: Remove the stones—I will rush toward the ocean! But how many stones lie in between, how many great rocks—it depends on that. The spring’s emergence is not delayed—the spring’s way is not closed. Somewhere the spring will burst now; elsewhere a little digging will be needed. Somewhere there may be a boulder—you will need dynamite. But in all three situations—whether it bursts now, or after an hour, or after births—the spring always existed. The obstacle was not to the spring’s being, but to its appearing, because of the stones in between. On Janaka’s consciousness no stone remained—an “aho” arose, gratitude expressed! He danced! He was enraptured!
As this body I illumine alone, said Janaka, so I illumine the world as well. Therefore either the whole world is mine, or nothing at all is mine.
This is the theistic vision. Arjuna is a skeptic. Arjuna keeps denying. Again and again he raises questions. He doubts a thousand times. He probes from this side and that. Janaka asked nothing.
Therefore I have called this Gita the Mahagita. Arjuna’s skepticism ends at last; he comes home. In Janaka there is no skepticism. He was as if standing right at the threshold of home and someone shook him—Janaka, you are standing at home itself; there is nowhere to go—and he said, Aho! As I alone illumine this body, so I illumine the world as well.
Ashtavakra has said that that ultimate witnessing-essence which is yours is not merely yours, not just your center; it is the center of the entire creation. On the surface we are separate; within we are utterly one. Outside we are separate—deeper within, one. Like waves are separate on the breast of the ocean, but in the ocean’s depth all waves are one. On the surface one wave small, one large; one beautiful, another ugly; one dirty, another clean—on the surface, great distinctions. But in the ocean all are joined. One who remembers the center—his personality dissolves; he is no longer a person.
So Janaka says, As I alone illumine this body, so I illumine the entire world as well. What are you saying? Trust does not come!
Last night a young man came to me and said, What happened in meditation—I cannot trust it. Right. When something does happen, that is how it is—trust does not come. Our trust is only upon small things, upon the petty. When the vast happens, how will trust arise?
When God stands before you, you will be astonished and dumbfounded.
In the West there was a great saint: Tertullian. Someone asked him, Tertullian, is there any proof for God? He said, only one proof: God is, because He is not believable. God is, because He cannot be believed. God is, because He is impossible.
A most unique statement Tertullian made: God is, because He is impossible! The possible is the world; God is impossible. The possible is the petty; the vast is impossible. But the impossible too happens, said Tertullian. If you consent to the impossible, it happens too. When it happens, trust does not come at all. All your roots are uprooted—how will trust come? You vanish when it happens—who is there to trust? You scatter when it happens.
Till now you are like darkness. When His sun rises, you are dissolved.
Janaka began saying: Therefore either the whole world is mine, or nothing at all is mine.
Only these two are possible. Any vision between these is false. Either the whole world is mine—because I am a portion of the Divine; because I am the Divine; because I am the center of the entire world; because my witness is the witness of the whole world. So either the entire world is mine—one possibility; or nothing at all is mine—because where am I? In witnessing I do not remain; only witnessing remains. There the claimer does not remain—who will claim that all is mine?
So Janaka says, there are two possibilities. These are the two expressions of religion—either Purna or Shunya. Krishna chose Purna. The Upanishads chose Purna. From that Purna all arises; yet Purna remains. Into that Purna all dissolves; yet Purna neither increases nor decreases.
The Upanishads, Krishna, the Hindus, the Sufis chose Purna. Buddha chose Shunya. This statement of Janaka—that therefore either all is mine, I am the Purna, the Supreme Brahman; or nothing is mine, I am the Supreme Shunya—these two statements are both true.
Buddha’s statement is incomplete. Krishna’s is also incomplete. In Janaka’s statement, the whole matter is complete. Janaka says, both can be said. Why? Because if I am the center of the whole world, then the whole world is mine. But when I am the center of the world, then I am no longer “I”; my I-ness is left far behind—like dust blowing behind. The traveler moves on, the dust remains. Then what of mine? Hence, nothing at all is mine.
अतः मम सर्वं जगत्…
—Either the whole world is mine;
अथवा मम किंचन न—
—or else nothing at all is mine.
Astonishing—that having abandoned the world along with the body, by some skill, through upadesha itself, I now behold Paramatma.
अहो सशरीरं विश्वं परित्यज्य…
Astonishing—my body is gone; with the body, the whole world gone! Renunciation has happened!
Renunciation is not done. Renunciation is a state of bodha. Renunciation is not an act. If anyone says, I have renounced—then renunciation has not happened. He has made even renunciation into enjoyment. If someone says, I am a renunciate—he has no clue to renunciation. For as long as the “I” is, what renunciation?
Renunciation does not mean leaving. Renunciation means seeing, awakened, that nothing is mine—how shall I leave? What shall I leave? If I have grasped, I can leave. If there is, I can leave.
In the morning you do not say—come, let us renounce the dream. You do not say on waking, Last night in the dream I became an emperor; there were golden palaces, jewel-studded ornaments, far and wide my kingdom, beautiful sons, a wife—now in the morning you do not say, come, now I renounce all. If you do, you will seem mad. If in the morning you beat the drum in the village— I have renounced everything, the kingdom, the wealth, the splendor, wife and child, all renounced—people will startle. They will say, What kingdom? We never knew you had a kingdom. You will say, In last night’s dream! They will laugh: you have gone mad. The kingdom of a dream cannot be renounced.
Hence the supreme sutra of true knowing is: when it becomes visible that this world is nothing, what is there to leave? Yet there are those who keep accounts of how much they left.
A friend had come to see me. His wife was with him. The friend’s name is among the great donors. The wife said, Perhaps you do not know my husband—he is a great donor! He donated a hundred thousand rupees! The husband quickly placed his hand upon the wife’s hand: Not a hundred thousand—one hundred and ten thousand!
This is not donation; this is accounting. This is a bargain. Counting every coin continues. If by chance they find God, they will seize Him by the neck—We gave one hundred and ten thousand; what will you give in return? They gave in the hope scriptures promise: give one here, get a million-fold there. Who will leave such a business! A millionfold! Have you heard such interest? Seen such a deal? Even gamblers are not such gamblers. Not even in gambling does one get a millionfold. This is gambling. In the hope: leave a hundred thousand here, you will get a millionfold there—this is the expansion of greed.
And the counting of thousands? The value of money has not ended! Before, they stored rupees in a safe; now in the safe they keep the accounts of what they have renounced. But the dream has not broken.
There is an ancient Chinese tale. An emperor had only one son. That son lay upon his deathbed. Physicians gave up: we can do nothing; he will not live. The illness had no cure. A matter of a day or two; any time he would die. The father sat awake all night, to bid farewell. Tears streamed from his eyes as he sat. Around three in the night dozing overtook the father. He saw a dream that he possessed a vast empire. He had twelve sons—beautiful, youthful, skillful, intelligent, great warriors and heroes—none like them in the world! Mountains of wealth! No limit! He was a world emperor. As he was seeing this dream, his son died. His wife cried out in grief. He awoke with a start. He was flummoxed. For just now there was another kingdom, twelve sons, so much wealth—that all is gone; and here this son has died. He sat dumbfounded. His wife thought perhaps his mind has broken; for he was deeply attached to his son. Not a single tear came. When the son was alive he wept for him; now the son is dead, the father does not weep. The wife shook him, asked, Has something happened to you? Why don’t you weep?
He said, For whom shall I weep? The twelve were just here; they have died. A great empire—gone. Should I weep for them or for this one? Just now I am wondering—for whom should I weep? As twelve went, the thirteenth also went.
The matter is finished, he said. That was a dream—this too is a dream. For when I was seeing that dream, I had completely forgotten this son. You, this realm—I had forgotten all. Now that dream broke—you have now come to mind. Tonight I will sleep again—you will be forgotten again. So that which comes and goes—now it is, now it is not—both are gone. Now I have awakened from dreams. Now I will not indulge in any dream. It is enough; time has come. The fruit has ripened; it is time to fall!
Janaka says, Astonishing, that having renounced the world along with the body…
Renunciation happened! He has not moved even an inch; he is where he was—in that very palace where Ashtavakra was invited, seated upon the throne. There they are, before Ashtavakra. He has gone nowhere; the kingdom continues, the wealth and splendor; the guards stand at the gate; servants fan him. All just as it was; the treasury in place. The wealth in place. Yet Janaka says: Astonishing—renunciation has happened!
Renunciation is inward. The abandonment is inner. Renunciation is of bodha.
Astonishing, that having renounced the world along with the body—by what skill…
By what skill has this happened—that not a leaf stirred and a revolution occurred; that without a wound, surgery is complete! What skill! What mastery in your upadesha! Now I behold Paramatma; the world no longer appears. The entire vision is transformed.
This sutra is of immense worth: where you are, remain there; as you are, remain so—and the revolution can happen. There is no need to run to the Himalayas. Sannyas is not escape, not cowardice. Wife, children, house—everything will remain as it is. Not a soul may hear of it—and revolution will happen. It is inner. You yourself will be astonished—what has happened? Now the wife will not seem mine; the son will not seem mine; the house will not seem mine. You will still remain—and yet you will live as a guest. An inn it has become; the house is the same. All is the same. You will do your work—rise and sit; go to shop and office; labor—but worry will not clutch you. Once it is seen that this is all play, a great drama, the revolution happens.
An actor asked me: Tell me, how can I become more skillful in acting? I said, there is one sutra. Those who want to be skillful in life—their sutra is: take life as acting. And those who want to be skillful in acting—their sutra is: take acting as life. There is no other sutra. If the actor takes acting as life, he becomes skillful. Then he takes the drama as real.
You are touched only by that actor whose skill has become so deep that he takes the false as true. If the actor cannot take the false as true, he cannot be skillful. He remains outside; cannot enter within. He will stand aloof, do the job at a distance; but you will feel his life-breaths are not involved. He has not gone in.
The actor utterly forgets himself in acting. When someone plays Rama, he forgets himself, becomes Rama. When his Sita is stolen, he does not think—what have I to do with it? In a moment this whole play will end; we will go home; why cry needlessly? Why ask the trees where my Sita is? Why scream and shout? What’s the point? Is there any Sita of mine…? And Sita is not even there—some other person is playing Sita. There is nothing to do with it. If he does not lose himself in acting, he cannot be skillful. Acting’s skill is this—that he takes acting as life; totally real. It is his Sita who is lost. Those tears are not false. They are true tears. He weeps as if his beloved is lost. He fights as such. He makes acting true.
If you want skill in life, take life as acting. This too is a play. Sooner or later the curtain will rise. Sooner or later all will depart. The stage may be large—but stage it is, however large. Do not build a house here. Stay as in an inn. This is a waiting hall. This is a queue. Death comes and goes; people depart. You are to depart too. There is no need to fix roots here; otherwise equal will be the sorrow.
One who does not sink roots in this world—he is a sannyasin. One who does not stand fixed here—whose foot is not like Angad’s foot—he is a sannyasin. One who is ever ready to go… In this world, the sannyasin is a nomad, a wanderer.
The word “khana-badosh” is very good. It means: whose home is upon his shoulders. Khana means house; badosh—upon the shoulders: whose house is upon his shoulders. One who is khanabadosh is a sannyasin. Pitch a tent at most; do not build a house here. A tent—so that it can be uprooted at any time, without a moment’s delay. An inn!
It is said there was a Sufi fakir, Ibrahim. He was formerly the emperor of Balkh. One night as he slept in his palace, someone was walking upon the roof. He asked, Who is this ill-mannered one walking upon the roof at midnight? Who are you?
He said, I am not ill-mannered; my camel is lost. I am looking for him.
Ibrahim too laughed. He said, Madman! Are camels found upon rooftops if they are lost? Think at least—how would a camel reach the roof?
From above the voice came: Before you call others ill-mannered and mad, think of yourself. Can happiness be found in wealth, splendor, wine, and song? If happiness can be found in wealth, splendor, wine, and song, then camels can be found on rooftops too.
Ibrahim was startled. It was midnight. He got up and ran. He sent men to catch this man. Catch him—he seems to be a knower. But by then he had gone. Ibrahim posted men throughout the capital: Find out who this man was. He seems to be an accomplished fakir. What did he say? For what purpose did he say it?
But all night Ibrahim could not sleep. In the morning when he sat in court he was sad, his mind stained; for that sentence had struck him. He must have been like Janaka—ready. It struck: he speaks rightly. If that man is mad, then what am I? Who has found happiness in the world? Here too I am seeking it. If happiness can be found in the world, then the camel can be found as well. Then the impossible happens—there is no obstacle. But who is that man? How did he get upon the roof? How did he escape—where did he go?
He sat in worry. The court sat. Affairs were discussed. But today his mind was absent—his mind-bird had flown to another realm. As if renunciation had happened! A small thing—as if Ashtavakra himself had climbed the roof and spoken.
Just then he saw a commotion at the door. A man wanted to come in and said to the gatekeeper, I wish to lodge at this inn. The gatekeeper said, Are you mad? This is not an inn—it is the emperor’s palace! Inns are many in the city—go and stay there. But the man said, I will stay here. I have stayed here before; this is an inn. Do not make me someone else’s. Do not graze me for another.
Hearing his voice, Ibrahim felt—it is that same voice; this is that same man. He said, Bring him in—do not push him away.
He was brought in. Ibrahim asked, What are you saying? What kind of insistence is this? This is my palace. You call it an inn? That is an insult!
He said, Insult or honor, let me ask: I came here before, but then someone else sat upon this throne.
Ibrahim said, That was my father.
And the fakir said, Before that I came too—and then someone else sat here.
He said, That was my father’s father.
So he said, That is why I call this an inn. People sit here and go—come and go. How long will you sit? I will come again—and someone else will be sitting. That is why I call it an inn. This is not home. A home is that where, once we settle, we are settled; where no one can remove us; from where removal is impossible.
It is said Ibrahim stepped down from the throne and said to the fakir, I bow to you. This is an inn. You stay here; I am going. For what use is it to lodge in an inn?
Ibrahim left the palace. He must have been a worthy vessel.
Janaka says: In one instant it became visible to me that having renounced the world along with the body—I am sannyast. By what skill! What an upadesha! What skill of yours! What artistry of yours!
अहो शरीरं विश्वं परित्यज्य, कुतश्चित् कौशलात्—
What skill! What a Master we met!
एव मया अधुना परमात्मा विलोक्यते—
Now only Paramatma is visible to me. I see nothing else. Now all this seems the form of Paramatma alone, his ripples.
As waves, foam and bubbles are not different from water, so this world, distinguished as the self, is not different from the Self.
यथा न तोयतो भिन्नस्तरंगाः फेन बुद्बुदाः।
आत्मनो न तथा भिन्नं विश्वमात्मविनिर्गतम्।।
Just as in water arise waves, bubbles, foam—and they are not separate from the water; they arise in it and dissolve in it—so nothing here is separate from Paramatma. All are his bubbles. All his foam. All his waves. They arise in him, they dissolve in him.
यथा तोयतः तरंगः फेन बुद्बुदाः भिन्नाः न।
Just so are we. So it has begun to be visible to me, Lord!
Janaka began to say to Ashtavakra: Thus I am seeing—directly. This is not a philosopher’s assertion. This is a statement born of a deep experience—that thus I am seeing.
You too see! It is merely a difference of a slight shift in vision; what they call gestalt in the West—the matter of gestalt. The word is important. You must have seen in children’s books pictures in which, if you look carefully, sometimes an old woman appears, sometimes a young woman appears. If you go on looking, the change begins to happen—now the old appears, now the young. The same lines make both. But one thing—you will be surprised, perhaps you have not noticed—you cannot see both together, though you have seen both. In the same picture you saw the old woman; in the same, the young woman. Now you know both are in the picture—and yet you will not be able to see both together. When you see the young, the old disappears; when you see the old, the young vanishes. Because the same lines serve both. In German this is called gestalt.
Gestalt means: from one style of seeing, the thing appears in one way; from another style, in another way. The thing is the same, but your manner of seeing changes the whole meaning.
The world is the same. The ignorant too sees it—he sees innumerable objects. That is one gestalt, one style. Then the wise looks at the same—and the many vanish; the countless forms vanish. One vastness is seen.
Janaka says: एव मया अधुना परमात्मा विलोक्यते—one Paramatma has begun to be seen!
These green trees are his very greenness. In the flowers, he blooms colorfully. In the fragrance of flowers, he plays with the wind. In the sky gathered clouds, he is gathered. Within you, he sleeps. In Buddha and Ashtavakra, he is awake. In stone, he lies densified in deep stupor. In man, he has stirred a little—awakening has begun. But it is he, all the same—his forms everywhere. Somewhere he stands inverted, somewhere upright. Trees stand inverted by human reckoning.
Some days ago I was reading a botany book. I was astonished; it seemed right. The scientist had written: the head of trees is buried in the soil—for trees take their nourishment from the earth, so their mouth is in the earth. They drink water from the earth—so their mouth is in the earth; and their feet stand in the sky—trees are doing a headstand. Very ancient yogis they seem.
The scientist has tried to show that gradually we can understand the development of the human on this basis. Then there are worms, there are fish—they are horizontal. They are parallel to the ground. Their tail and mouth form a straight line parallel to the ground. They are a little transformed from trees. Then dogs, cats, lions, cheetahs—their heads are lifted a little. From parallel, a slight change—the head is a bit above; the angle has shifted. Then monkeys—they can sit; they almost form a ninety-degree angle to the ground, but cannot stand. They are men sitting. Trees are men in headstand. Then man—he stands upright, making a right angle. Just the reverse of trees. The head is up, the feet down.
I liked the thought. It is all one play—somewhere inverted, somewhere upright, somewhere lying down, somewhere asleep, somewhere awake; somewhere sunk in sorrow, somewhere afloat in joy; somewhere restless, somewhere serene—but the ripples are all of the One.
यथा तोयतः तरंगाः फेन बुद्बुदाः भिन्नाः न।
As waves, foam, bubbles are not different from water, so nothing is different from the Self. All is non-different.
See this—do not merely hear it! It is the change of gestalt. In one glimpse it can be seen. One glimpse! If you look with attention, slowly you will find that all is dissolving into the One and lost. One vast ocean is surging. It will not last long—because to stabilize it your capacity must grow. But if even for a moment it appears that one Vastness is surging, and we are all its ripples; one sun shines, we are all its rays; here one music is playing, we are all its notes—then revolution will happen in life. That one moment will slowly become your eternal form.
You can catch it if you wish—or you can miss it. Janaka caught it.
Last night I awoke
from behind the shutter of darkness it seemed to me
I suddenly heard the whispers of silence—
soft, secret, musical, in a supreme song;
and that song spoke to me—
Unavoidable one! Ah, are you still not awake?
And like a free spring,
light began to flow everywhere—
Ah, unfortunate one, how many times filled,
unseen, your cup spilled and spilled away!
You are not hearing these words for the first time; you have heard many times. You are ancient. It may be you have heard from Ashtavakra too; some among you certainly have. Some have heard from Buddha, some from Krishna, some from Christ, some from Muhammad, some from Lao Tzu, from Zarathustra. So many infinite beings have been on the earth, you have passed by them all. So many lamps have been lit—it is impossible that the light of some lamp did not fall into your eyes. Your cup has been filled many times.
Ah, unfortunate one! How many times filled—
unseen, your cup spilled and spilled away!
Even when your cup is filled, it remains empty. You cannot hold it.
And that song said to me—
Unavoidable one! Ah, are you still not awake?
And like a free spring,
light began to flow everywhere.
Morning began. Many times morning has happened, many times the sun has risen; but you cling to your darkness. You will let go of this misfortune only if you let it go.
Janaka began to say: Only the One is visible. I have dissolved into that One. That One has dissolved into me.
The Vedas say:
The one who is a tyagi—who is a sannyasin—
he is beyond the Vedas;
his radiance is greater than the world;
he dwells in the Lord of the world;
and the Lord of the world dwells in him!
The Vedas say:
The one who is a tyagi—who is a sannyasin—
he is beyond the Vedas—
vedon se bhi balatar!
Because:
usme bastā hai Jagadishwar—
he dwells in the Lord of the world;
wah bastā hai Jagadishwar meñ—
and the Lord dwells in him!
In that instant Janaka’s consciousness ceased to be separate; it began to become one. He himself is astonished.
As by considering a cloth one finds it to be only threads, so by considering, this world is only the substance of the Self.
By waking and seeing, by discrimination, by seeing with bodha… As when you look closely at cloth—you find what? Only a net of threads. One thread across, one thread along—placed thus and thus, cloth is made. A net of threads is cloth. Yet look—threads you cannot wear, but you can wear a cloth! If a heap of thread is placed, you cannot wear it. Though cloth is also a heap of thread—only the arrangement differs; crosswise weaving—and it becomes cloth. With cloth you cover yourself. But what difference has it made? They remain threads. However you set them—what difference does it make?
Janaka says: Paramatma is green as trees, red as a rose; somewhere it is water, somewhere mountains; somewhere moon, stars. All these are different organizations of that same consciousness. Just as from thread you weave cloth—and then from the same you weave various garments: thin and light for summer, thick for winter; beautiful-ugly, for poor, for rich—all kinds of garments you weave. From that same you create a thousand forms.
Scientists say the whole existence is composed of one energy. They have named that energy “electricity.” Names don’t matter. But scientists agree that all existence is made of one thing. The different forms are arrangements of that one. Like many jewelry pieces of gold—all made of gold; melt them—gold remains. The shapes may be many, but the substrate is one.
यद्वत् पटः तंतुमात्रं—
As cloth is only threads.
इदं विश्वं आत्मतन्मात्रम्—
Thus this entire existence is woven of the element called the Self.
Surely it is better to call it Atman than electricity. Electricity is inert. From electricity, consciousness cannot arise. And if consciousness can arise from electricity, then to call it electricity is useless. For what can emerge must be implicit within. Consciousness is visible; it has manifested. So what manifests must also be in the source—otherwise how could it manifest? You plant a mango seed—a mango tree appears; mangoes come. You plant a neem seed—neem appears; neem-fruit comes.
What is in the seed—that manifests, that bears fruit. So much consciousness is visible in the world; so many forms of awareness—then the root-constituent of existence must contain consciousness. Hence it is not right to call it electricity—better to call it Atman. Call it atma-vidyut if you like—but consciousness must be placed there. What has come to be seen must have been hidden in the source.
As by considering a cloth one finds it to be only threads, so by considering, this world is only the Self.
As the sugar made from the juice of the cane is pervaded by the cane’s juice, so this world made from me is pervaded by me.
As from sugarcane you extract juice and make sugar—the sugar is pervaded by the cane’s juice; so the world is pervaded by consciousness, by Paramatma; Paramatma pervades me, pervades you, and you are pervaded by Paramatma.
By ignorance of the Self the world appears…
Understand this—very important.
By ignorance of the Self the world appears, and by knowledge of the Self it does not appear…
The gestalt changes—the manner of seeing changes.
…just as by ignorance of a rope a snake appears, and by knowledge of it, it does not.
In the dark of night you see a rope and are frightened—it seems a snake. You begin to run; you bring sticks to beat it. Then someone brings a lamp; the sticks fall from your hands; the fear dissolves. In the light it is seen—there is no snake, there is a rope. Because you did not see the rope as rope, there was a snake. The snake was not—it was only an apparition.
Because you do not see the Self as the Self, there is the world. One who knows himself—the world of that one is gone. This does not mean doors and walls, mountains and stones vanish. No—these remain; but all are submerged in the One. They are all varied ripples of the One—foam and bubbles!
One who has known himself—his world ends. And one who has not—the world never ends. By leaving the world you will not know yourself. Know yourself—and the world is already left.
There are two streams of renunciation. One says: leave the world, then you will know yourself. The other says: know yourself—then the world is left. The first is false. By leaving the world you will not know yourself. For in leaving the world, the illusion of the world’s being remains.
Understand a little. A rope lies; a snake is seen. Someone meets you and says: drop the notion of snake, then the rope will be seen. You will say, How can I drop the notion? The snake is seen; the rope is not seen. So if with courage, by chanting Ram-Ram, you stiffen your neck and say, Come, it is not a snake, it is a rope, a rope, a rope—even then within, you will know it is a snake; whom are you deceiving? Don’t go near—some trouble may occur! You will run anyway. You will say, It is a rope—granted; but why go near?
One who flees the world saying, The world is maya—still he flees. Ask him a little: if it is maya, then why do you flee? If it is not, where are you running? What are you leaving? He says, Wealth is dust. Then why are you so terrified of wealth? Why fear it so? If wealth is dust—you are not terrified of dust. Why fear wealth? If it is seen, then fine—wealth is there or not, fine. Sometimes we need earth—we use it; wealth is needed—we use it. But now all is like dream, like play.
The other stream is deeper and closer to truth: light the lamp, see the rope as rope—then the world is gone, the snake gone.
By ignorance of the Self the world appears; by knowledge of the Self, it does not.
See the Self—and the world does not appear. See the world—and the Self does not appear. Of the two, only one appears; both together cannot be seen. If the world appears to you, the Self will not appear. When the Self begins to appear, the world will not. There is no way to see both together.
It is like this: you sit in a room and darkness appears. Then you bring a lamp—to view the darkness more clearly, in the light it will be clearer. Then nothing will be seen. If you bring a light, darkness will not be seen. If you wish to see darkness—do not bring light. If you do not wish to see darkness—bring light. For darkness and light cannot appear together. Why not? Because darkness is the absence of light. When the presence of light is there—how can absence be there too?
The world is the absence of Self-knowledge. When Self-knowledge arises, the world goes. Everything remains where it is—and yet nothing remains as it was. Everything is where it is—and yet everything is transformed.
People ask me: You give sannyas, but you do not tell people to leave their homes, wives, children. I say, I do not tell them to leave; I tell them only to be Self-remembering, to be Self-possessed—so that it becomes visible: what is, is. What is—cannot be left. What is not—there is no need to leave.
We see what we want to see.
There was a case in court. The magistrate asked Mulla Nasruddin: among these hundreds of identical buffaloes, how did you recognize your own?
Nasruddin said, What great thing is that, sir! In your court stand hundreds of lawyers in black coats—and I recognize my own lawyer, do I not?
He said, What we wish to recognize, we do recognize. A man recognizes his own buffalo—though all are the same—like lawyers!
What we wish to know, we do know. What we want to recognize, we recognize. Our intent becomes the meaning of our life. If you want to awaken from this world, do not wrestle with the world. If you want to awaken from the world—simply strive to awaken within.
Mulla Nasruddin and his wife, with a child in their lap, went to watch a dance program. The doorkeeper warned them: Nasruddin, if during the dance the child cries you will have to leave the hall. If you wish, we will refund your tickets, but we will not allow you to sit—so be mindful. When nearly half the program was over, Nasruddin asked his wife, How is the dance?
Absolutely worthless! said Mrs. Nasruddin.
Then why delay—pinch the baby.
When you know utterly that the world is worthless, then do not delay. Pinch yourself. Shake yourself awake. From your own awakening, all is done. Awakening is the great mantra—the only mantra!
Hari Om Tatsat!