Maha Geeta #71

There is an old Chinese tale: in a forest a woodcutter was cutting wood. Suddenly he saw that a stag had come and was standing right behind him—beautiful, very beautiful, utterly robust. The woodcutter brought his axe down on the stag’s head. The stag died. Then the woodcutter was afraid; what if he were caught? It was the king’s protected forest and hunting was forbidden. So he hid the stag in a pit, covered it with earth, and lay down to rest beneath a tree.
Now there was no need to chop any more wood. He would get enough money selling the stag. When evening fell and darkness descended, he would dig it out and carry it home. For the time being it was still afternoon.
He lay down beneath the tree to rest and dozed off. When he awoke, the sun had already set and the dark was spreading. He searched a great deal but could not find the pit where he had buried the stag. Then a doubt arose in him—could it be that I saw it in a dream? Do stags come and stand behind you like that! At the sight of a man they run—miles away they run. Surely I must have seen a dream and am worrying for nothing.
Laughing—laughing at himself—he started back home. What foolishness! On the way he met another man and told him his story—that he had seen such a thing in a dream. And then, like a madman, he had begun searching for the pit.
The other man thought, very likely this fellow actually killed a stag. The woodcutter went home; this man went into the forest to search and he found the stag. Secretly he carried it to his home. He told his wife the whole tale: the woodcutter said this to me, and he also said he had seen it in a dream. How am I to believe it was a dream? How can dreams be true? The stag is lying right in front of us. So it can’t have been a dream; it must have actually happened.
But the wife said, you are crazy. Weren’t you also asleep for a while in the forest at noon? He said, I was—I took a nap. Then she said, most likely you saw the woodcutter’s dream; in your dream the woodcutter appeared to you. The man said, even if I saw the woodcutter in a dream, the stag is here, isn’t it!
Then his wife said, the wise say: where is the difference between dream and the real? Dreams are also true, and what we call the real is also false. Perhaps the dream came true. The man became easy in his mind. There was a slight sense of guilt that he had deceived the woodcutter, but he, too, left it.
That night the woodcutter saw a dream that the man had gone to the forest, found the pit, and taken the stag home. He got up at midnight and went to that man’s house. He knocked on the door. When the door opened the stag was lying in the courtyard. So he said, you have played a real trick. I saw a dream—I saw you take it out—and the stag is lying at your door. Such dishonesty you should not have done.
The case went to court. The magistrate was in great difficulty. The magistrate said, now this is a real tangle. The woodcutter thinks he saw a dream. Your wife says you saw a dream in which you saw the woodcutter. Now the woodcutter says that in his dream he saw you bring the stag. Whatever it is, I am not going to get into this dispute. Law has no provision for deciding dreams. One thing is certain—the stag exists, so divide it half and half.
The file reached the king for signature and approval. The king laughed heartily. He said, this is really something. It seems this judge has lost his wits. He must have seen the entire case in a dream. He called his minister and said, this will have to be resolved.
The minister said, look, the wise say: what we call real is a dream. And till today no one has been able to decide for sure what is dream and what is real. And those ancient knowers—like Lao Tzu—unfortunately they are no longer present to decide what is dream and what is real. This is beyond our capacity. The judge has given a verdict; quietly approve it. Do not enter this tangle. Because only the enlightened can decide what is true and what is dream.
I want to tell you: only the enlightened can decide what is dream and what is real. But why can’t we decide? Why do we keep missing? We keep missing because we try to decide on the basis of what is seen. In the seen we try to decide what is true and what is false.
What is seen by day we call true; what is seen by night we call false. What is seen while awake we call true; what is seen in sleep we call false. What is seen with eyes open we call true; what is seen with eyes closed we call false. What is seen in the company of others we call true; what is seen alone we call false. But we never consider one thing—that we keep weighing only the seen against the seen.
The wise say: the one who sees is true; what is seen is all false—whether seen while awake or seen in sleep, seen alone or seen in a crowd, with eyes open or with eyes closed—whatever is seen is false. The seen as seen is false. The seer alone is true.
The seer is truth; the seen is false.
Do not decide truth and falsity between two scenes; decide between the seer and the seen. We know nothing of the seer.
The whole message of Ashtavakra is the search for the seer. How to discover that which sees all.
Even when you search for Paramatman, you begin to search as for yet another seen. You say: I have seen the world—false; now I must have darshan of God. But you do not leave seeing; you do not leave the seen. You have seen wealth—now you wish to see God. You have seen love, seen the expanse of the world; now you want to see the maker of the world. But still, you want to see. As long as there is seeing, you will remain in the false. Your shops are false. Your temples are false. Your ledgers are false. Your scriptures are false.
Wherever the gaze is fixated upon the seen, the expanse of the false extends. The day you decide to see the one who sees all, to see yourself—on that day you return home. That is the day of revolution. That is the day of transformation. The journey toward the seer—that alone is religion.
All these sutras are pointers that lead toward the seer.
And that old minister said rightly to the king that those ancient, rare ones are no more—because it is a Chinese tale he took Lao Tzu’s name; had it been an Indian tale he would have taken Ashtavakra’s name. They are rare and, unfortunately, only sometimes do they appear. Hardly ever. They alone know what is truth and what is dream. Ashtavakra is one among such rare beings. Consider each sutra as pure gold. Hold each sutra deep in the heart, guard it well. Nothing more precious has ever happened in the consciousness of man.
The first sutra:
अकर्तृत्वमभोक्तृत्वं स्वात्मनो मन्यते यदा।
तदा क्षीणा भवंन्येव समस्ताश्चित्तवृत्तयः।।
“When a man recognizes the non-doership and non-enjoyership of his own Atman, then certainly all the modifications of his mind are brought to cessation.”
Why are we entangled in the seen? Because only in the seen is there the convenience of there being a doer, there being an enjoyer. As long as we want to be doers we cannot be seers. For the one who wants to be a doer cannot be a seer. The dimensions are opposite. They do not coexist. Like darkness and light. Bring in light, darkness goes. In the same way, the day witnessing arises, the doer disappears. Or, let the doer disappear and witnessing appears. They are never together.
And our taste is in being enjoyers. Why do we want to see the seen? Why do we get entangled in this grand play of the seen? Because it seems to us that in seeing there is enjoyment.
Look: you do not tire of seeing the world, and then you go to watch a film. You know perfectly well nothing is there on the screen. For nothing’s sake you sit three hours. There is nothing on the screen. You know it well, yet you forget again and again. You even weep, you even laugh. Handkerchiefs are wet with tears. You are stirred, delighted, saddened. For three hours you forget.
Wherever television has spread, people for hours... I was reading American statistics: the average American watches television at least six hours a day—six hours! From little children to the very old—childish. What are you seeing?
The wise say: the world is false, yet you take the false for true. On the screen where there is nothing, a play of light and shadow, you are moved, pleased–pained, and you forget yourself in every way. What is the pleasure of going to a movie? For a little while you forget. A film is a kind of alcohol. The scene grips you so much that the doer gets totally involved, the enjoyer gets involved, and the witness is forgotten. In that forgetfulness is the intoxication. After three hours, when you awaken from that forgetfulness—the film puts you to sleep for three hours in your witnessing—you call that an excellent film. In a film where you repeatedly remember yourself, you say, it is worthless. A novel in which you forget yourself while reading, you say, what a marvelous story.
You call marvelous that in which wine drips—where you forget, where there is oblivion. Where remembrance arises you say, there is no substance in the story; it does not drown me.
“When a man recognizes the non-doership and non-enjoyership of his Atman, then certainly all the modifications of his mind are brought to cessation.”
There is one thing to be known, to be believed, to be—non-doership and non-enjoyership. They are two sides of the same coin.
The enjoyer and the doer exist together. The one who is an enjoyer becomes a doer; the one who becomes a doer becomes an enjoyer. They support one another.
The one who becomes free of both—his mental modifications certainly subside. Then there is no need to suppress them, no effort to renounce them. There is no method required for how to drop mental waves. Knowing thus, seeing thus, understanding thus—that I am only the witness—then the mental waves quiet down by themselves.
With witnessing, the mind cannot continue. With witnessing, the mind-waves dissolve. And the dissolving of the mind-waves—that is the rising of the waves of the Divine. Where your mind ends, there the Lord arrives. If you vacate the throne, the Lord comes.
You sit rigid, fixed in being doer–enjoyer. Even if somehow you escape the world, you do not escape doership–enjoyership. Then you say, we want heaven; we will enjoy there. Enjoyment continues. Even if you leave the world, you say, we will do tapas, we will meditate; we will chant, worship, pray, perform yajna, havan—we will do. Doership still continues.
The final essence of all religion is to find such moments when you neither enjoy nor do; when you simply are. In being, if the wave of enjoyment arises—you have missed; if the wave of doing arises—you have missed. If in being no wave arises, the juice flows. Raso vai sah! There the stream of bliss, the stream of nectar becomes available.
Understand this. At night you dream—you know well it is false. Not at night; you know in the morning it was false. But if you know it at night, you become enlightened, you become a Buddha. At night you forget again. It is your old habit—to get lost in the seen. You get lost in films, you get lost watching TV, you get lost reading a book. At night you dream—a web of your imagination—and you get lost there too. And it all seems true, all right. Even the most incongruous things seem fine. What is not at all possible also seems fine.
A stone lies by the roadside; as you come near it, suddenly the stone leaps up and becomes a rabbit—still you have no difficulty. A horse is coming; it changes into your wife; you have no difficulty. You do not even think for a moment, how can this be?
No, you are so immersed in the scene—where is the thinker? Where is the one awake to see? Who will judge? You are not there. You are a cipher, a negation. Your presence is not there. If even a ray of your presence arrives, the dream starts breaking immediately.
Gurdjieff would make his disciples, for three months prior to any deep practice, undertake a single experiment—to learn to awaken within the dream. He had devised many methods; one of them was this: for three months—walk, rise, sit, go to the market, go to your shop, go to your office—but keep one thing in awareness: whatever you are seeing is false. Remember it. Deepen this remembrance. Practice that whatever you see, all is false.
It is very difficult. You are walking on the road: the people walking—false; the cars running—false; the buses moving—false; all false. At first there is resistance. Again and again you forget, because for lifetimes you have taken it as true. But Gurdjieff says, keep trying. After a month of experiment, this begins to settle. The feeling that all is false remains.
By the end of three months, one night suddenly you will find—in the midst of a dream—there arises remembrance: false! And the dream collapses right there. Silence descends. And the moment you remember “this is a dream”—the dream breaks here, and there you awaken. The scene goes, the seer rises.
And the day you know in the dream that it is false—the dream is false, the seen is false, the seer is true—then in the morning you will find you no longer need the practice. Now whatever is seen is false. False does not mean it is not; it only means it is an appearance. False means it is not eternal; it is momentary. Like a bubble on water. Bubbles arise on water; they are not unreal in the sense of non-existence—they exist. But they are false in that they will not remain. Arising now, gone now. Momentary. A wave comes, a wave goes. It does not stay; it is not stable. Yesterday it was not; today it is; tomorrow it will not be again.
Remember this definition. The Eastern definition of truth is: that which remains always is Truth. That which remains continuously is truth. The essence of continuity is sat. Satya and sat are one in meaning. That which has unbroken continuity—that alone is Sat. That which is today and is not tomorrow—that is asat. That which has no continuity—that is asat.
Be alert about asat. Asat does not mean non-existent. A bubble on water is also there. The night’s dream is also there. A dream is—but only for a while. And the one who becomes entangled with that which is for a while will suffer. Because that which is for a while will not be there a little while later.
You fall in love. You desire a woman, a man—deeply. Whenever you desire someone, you desire that your desire become eternal. The love you have found should become eternal. This cannot be. This is not the nature of things. You will be misled. You will weep. You will writhe. In your very longing you have sown the seeds of your sorrow. You have poured poison into your life by your expectation. It will not last. Nothing lasts here. Here everything flows away. Comes—and goes.
Now, you have desired that the momentary become eternal; there will be restlessness, there will be anguish. Either love will die or the lover will die. Something will happen. Some obstruction will come.
Understand it this way: a gust of wind comes, and you say, may it keep coming forever. Winds do not obey your wishes. Flowers blossom in spring and you say, may they always bloom. Flowers do not blossom by your desire. Stars are spread in the sky, and you say, let them remain even by day. Stars do not run by your desire. When you will not find stars by day, you will be sad. When, in autumn, leaves will begin to fall and flowers will disappear and trees will stand naked, sky-clad, then you will weep and repent. Then you will say, someone has deceived me.
No one has deceived you. The day your love with your beloved comes to an end, do not think your beloved deceived you; do not think the lover proved treacherous. No—the love was treacherous. Neither the beloved is treacherous, nor the lover—love is treacherous.
What you called love was momentary—a bubble on water. Just now it seemed to be swelling. Sunlight on the bubble would weave a net of rainbows. How colorful it was! How seven-hued! How poetry was sprouting! And then it was gone. And with it all rainbows, all hues, all poetry—gone. Nothing remained.
From our relation to the momentary, and our expectation of the eternal, sorrow arises. The eternal certainly is; it is not that it is not. The eternal is—your being is eternal. Existence is eternal. No desire is eternal. No seen is eternal. But the seer is eternal.
Look: by night you see dreams; in the morning you find the dream was false. All day with open eyes you see the spread of the world—events upon events. At night when you sleep, all is forgotten—everything becomes false.
By day you were husband, wife, mother, father, son; by night, asleep, all is lost. No father, no wife, no son. By day you were rich, poor; by night, no rich, no poor. You were many things by day; at night, all gone. By day you were young, old; by night, neither young nor old. Beautiful, ugly—all gone. Successful, unsuccessful—all gone. The night wipes out the day.
As morning wipes out the night, so night wipes out the day. As with the rising of day the night becomes a dream, so with the coming of night the day too becomes a dream. See this carefully. Both are forgotten. Both are erased. But one remains—the one who sees the dream at night is the same who sees the spread of the day in wakefulness. The one who sees does not disappear. He is present even in dreams at night.
Sometimes even the dream disappears and there is such deep trance, such deep sleep, that there are no dreams—sushupti, dreamless. Even then the seer is. In the morning you sometimes say—slept so deeply in the night, so deeply that not even the disturbance of a dream—great bliss. I rose so fresh.
Then surely someone sat awake, seeing, even at night. Someone experienced even the night. Even in deep sleep, someone remained awake. Some ray was present. Some light was present. Some awareness was present. Someone saw. Otherwise who will report in the morning? If you awaken only in the morning, who brings the news of the night? Who brings the news of that deep slumber? You were also awake somewhere in the night, at some deep level. In some deep layer of the inner consciousness a part remained awake, a small cluster of light. That remembers; it is its memory in the morning—that the sleep was very deep; unique it was, blissful it was.
One thing is certain: whether awake or asleep, whether seeing dreams or seeing the world—everything changes; the seer does not change. Therefore the seer is eternal. In childhood the seer was; in youth the seer was; in old age the seer was. Youth went, childhood went; old age also will go—the seer remains. Look closely into your life; you will find only one thing that is eternal—the seer. Sometimes you lost, sometimes you won; sometimes you had wealth, sometimes you were poor; sometimes you lived in palaces, sometimes even a hut was hard to get; but the seer was always with you. Whether wandering in forests or residing in palaces, whether defeat throws you into pits or victory seats you on peaks, whether you sit on the throne or beg for pennies—one truth remains: the seer. The one who sees is always with you.
And if you come to recognize this seer exactly, then even when you die, this will remain. Only this will remain—everything else will be left behind. Death is only an event. As you saw life, so you will see death. As you saw day—day is life—and night—night is death—so the great night will come, the night of death, the new moon night—you will see that too. But make acquaintance with the seer. Make friendship with the seer. Make a pact with the seer.
As it is, you are unconscious even in the day—so in the night you will surely be unconscious. If life itself is going in sleep, death is an even deeper sleep—you will not be able to be awake there. And the one who has seen death while awake—his next birth will also be in wakefulness. If even death has been seen, what obstacle remains? You will be born awake. And after that there is nothing more. Then the last life has come; and the death that comes after that is Moksha.
Doer and enjoyer—these are entanglements in the seen; the seer is the inner journey.
“Even an unbridled state looks becoming on the dhira, the man of steadiness; but the contrived peace of one whose mind is filled with craving does not become him.” Listen to the sutra—“उच्छृंखलाप्यकृतिका स्थितिर्धीरस्य राजते, न तु संस्पृहचित्तस्य शांतिमूढस्य कृत्रिमा।”
Ashtavakra is saying: If a man of knowledge, awakened in witnessing—a dhira—then even his unrest looks beautiful. Sorrow also becomes an ornament in his life. If you find him wrathful, even in his wrath you will find a dignity, a grace, a divinity. If such a man is unrestrained, in the depths of that unrestrainedness you will find an unparalleled current of peace.
And the opposite is also true: “The artificial peace of the foolish whose mind is full of craving does not become him.”
“Whose mind is full of craving...”
Whose life still carries jealousy, hatred, competition. Consider: in becoming the seer there can be no craving. Because if I become the seer, I take nothing from you. If you become the seer, you take nothing from me. But if I become an enjoyer, I cannot do so without snatching from you. If I want a big palace, some houses will fall. If I want much wealth, some pockets will be cut. If I want much fame, the lamps of fame in some lives will be extinguished. If I want position, those in position will have to be pulled down. Craving! In enjoyment there is craving.
If I want to be a doer there will be struggle, conflict. Because others too are trying to be doers; I am not alone. And the world of doing is outer. All have set out to be victors; all have set out to be Alexanders. There will be struggle. There will be violence. There will be suffering. The whole history of mankind is a history of craving-filled madmen—Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Napoleon and all. But there is a realm where there is no craving with another.
If I set out to become a seer, I have no conflict with anyone. I become non-competitive. I have no enmity with anyone. Preach as much as you like: be friends, all are your brothers; see, the Father is one, God is one, and we are his sons so we are brothers—but nothing is solved by this. However much you say it.
In a school there are thirty children in one class. However much we say they are friends with each other, it cannot be. Because competition exists, the race to come first exists. One will come first defeating the twenty-nine. Thus each is the enemy of each. However much you preach. However much you paint over it and say, we are friends—that friendship is mere show, hypocrisy, formality.
Perhaps the show is needed to keep the inner war going. The mask is needed—otherwise the conflict will become utterly naked; heads will be cut. So we cut heads too—but in such a manner that no one even notices, no uproar, no sound. We pick pockets yet do not even put hands in pockets.
A great politician had a famous tailor make his clothes. He tried on the clothes and was very pleased. The tailor had done a perfect job. The coat was beautiful, the shirt beautiful, the trousers beautiful. The politician was very pleased. Then he put his hand in the pocket and found there was no pocket. He asked the tailor: you have prepared such a beautiful outfit, but there is no pocket. How did you forget this? The tailor said, I thought you are a politician; politicians never put their hands in their own pockets. So why the pocket? Politicians put their hands in others’ pockets—so skillfully that the other does not even notice. Thieves also steal—but they are noticed. Politicians also steal—but they are not noticed.
In this world there is struggle everywhere. Some do it with much refinement; some with great skill; some by open snatching. The one who snatches openly is only unskilled. All are equally dishonest. There is no difference in dishonesty. In this world it is impossible to be honest—because the race of this world is such that one must be dishonest. Anyone who sets out to be a doer must fight. And can fighting ever be moral? Anyone who sets out to be an enjoyer must cut another’s throat. Can another’s throat be cut religiously? Friendship, etc., are all names; talk; chatter; outer hypocrisy; deception. What you call culture, civilization—that is all talk. Under that talk—refined talk—pockets are being cut, throats are being cut, roots are being cut. Here enemies are enemies, and friends too are enemies.
Oscar Wilde wrote: O Lord, I can deal with my enemies; you please take care of my friends! It is very easy to deal with enemies; at least the matter is clear. To deal with friends is very difficult, because nothing is clear; there is a claim of friendship. In the end it is friends who prove the great enemies, because they are close, and it is easy for them to stab.
Craving is violence. Craving is enmity. In craving lies the whole disease—the great disease. Ashtavakra says:
उच्छृंखलाप्यकृतिका स्थितिर्धीरस्य राजते।
If ever you see a dhira in anger, unrestrained, upset—look carefully: behind his upset there will be a deep peace. And if you see a craving-filled man sitting quietly, his peace will be only on the surface; within there will be storms and tempests.
It was the days of Ramadan; Mulla Nasruddin and three of his friends resolved to keep silence for a day—to remain silent the whole day. Sitting in silence, not even half an hour had passed when one man began to fidget and suddenly blurted, I don’t know whether I locked the house or not. The second said, fool! You spoke and ruined everything—the vow is broken. The third said, whom are you admonishing? You too have spoken. Mulla Nasruddin said, we alone are good—we have not spoken yet.
If an unquiet man forces himself to sit still, nothing much changes. Unquiet is unquiet; however much he overlays it, nothing changes. The truth is, if you are unquiet, when you sit in silence your unquiet will surface more than at any other time. Because at that time, only unquiet remains. A thin sheet you will throw over yourself—a blanket—and inside storms will be raging. When you are entangled in the tasks of life, such storms may not rage—because energy is engaged in work. When you sit silently, what will happen to the energy, the power— which was engaged in shop, in fighting, in killing–being killed? It will lie free and begin to swirl within. All that steam will gather inside you. Your kettle will begin to whistle; the moment of bursting will come near.
Often it happens that when people sit for meditation, they become aware of their unquiet. People come to me and say: when we do not sit to meditate, everything seems fine; when we sit, a thousand questions arise, thousands of thoughts arise—memories from who knows where—from years back. We thought we had forgotten them; they seem fresh. Wounds we thought had healed open again. What kind of meditation is this?
But there is a reason. Ordinarily you are busy. You do not get a chance to look within. If you sit silently for a while, the entire disease within becomes revealed, comes before you. The fever, the pus within begins to be seen.
“Even an unbridled, spontaneous state looks becoming on a dhira.”
Mark the word—“spontaneous.”
I told you earlier, Chadwick wrote that he had never seen Ramana angry. But one day a pundit came and began asking such–such questions. Ramana explained to him at length, yet he would not agree. He stood ready for argument, quoting scriptures. Chadwick says, we were all distressed—he was disturbing him unnecessarily. What was to be said, he had said. Let him understand if he can, otherwise let him go. But the pundit started quoting Veda, Upanishads, Gita, and tried to prove himself right.
Chadwick writes: then an extraordinary event happened. Ramana picked up a stick and chased him. Ramana Maharshi—with a stick, chasing someone! All the devotees were shocked. The man ran, terrified. Driving him out, Ramana returned laughing, put the stick down and sat in his place.
What happened was utterly spontaneous. This man understood no other language. There was no other way. This is not that anger which you know. Nowhere in this did Ramana leave his center. He remained steady in his center. But this man would understand only the language of the stick. Seeing this—and not even as a deliberate decision, thinking–planning—he picked up the stick childlike, spontaneously. That was what was relevant in that situation, spontaneous there.
Chadwick writes: on that day I had never seen such peace in Ramana. Peace—unparalleled peace. So deep was the peace that he could allow even anger to happen so spontaneously. Even this was no disturbance to him.
Ashtavakra says: spontaneous unbridledness also becomes him. That form of Ramana which we saw that day was unique, very lovely. That too is becoming.
“But the artificial peace of the foolish whose mind is full of craving does not become him.”
The fool is in trouble whether he speaks or not.
I have heard: Lala Karorimal had a small shop. One day a ten-rupee note went missing from the till. He said to his servant Nanku: from morning till evening no crow even flew into the shop. Apart from you and me, no one was here. You tell me, where can ten rupees go? Nanku immediately took five rupees out of his pocket and said, master, here is my share. I do not wish to spoil your prestige.
If the fool speaks, he is caught; if he does not speak, he is caught. The fool is trapped—whatever he does. His foolishness will show everywhere.
Therefore the real question is not whether to sit quietly or not; the real question is to break foolishness. The real question is awakening, bringing in non-stupor. Meditation, austerity, chanting will not be of use—because if a fool chants, only foolishness will appear; if he does austerities, only foolishness will appear. Whatever is within you is what will manifest. Whatever you do makes no difference until the revolution happens at the inner center itself.
Therefore Ashtavakra says: do not get entangled in the trivial outer things. Pour all your energy within—into awakening.
Have you looked closely? If a fool sits quietly, he seems merely inert, dead, devoid of brilliance, sleepy. If a knower sits quietly, his quiet is alive. If you listen carefully, you will hear the soft murmur of his silence. When a knower sits quietly, his silence dances, is festive. The quiet of the fool is like a stagnant puddle. The quiet of the knower is like a singing river, flowing, dynamic. The fool’s quiet goes nowhere—the quiet of a grave. The knower’s quiet is not the quiet of a grave; it is the benediction of life—life’s great rasa, life’s dance, life’s music. In the fool’s quiet there is no music—you find only quiet. The knower’s quiet is musical—rhythmic, free.
So be careful: do not make quiet your goal; otherwise you will very quickly fall into the quiet of the fool. Because it is cheap and easy. Nothing needs to be done. Just sit! That is why so many of your sadhus–sannyasins have simply sat down. Go to them—you will find only foolishness. Their brilliance has not blossomed; it has rusted. What value is there in a quiet that is inert? A quiet is needed that is creative. A quiet that hums. A quiet in which flowers bloom. A quiet in which the touch of life is felt—and the Great Life is felt; not the cremation ground. Your temples too have become like cremation grounds. Somewhere there is a mistake.
Ashtavakra is right: the artificial quiet of the fool is not becoming.
Understand it this way: an ugly woman puts on many ornaments. Have you seen? A woman becomes even uglier if she is ugly and wears ornaments. And often it happens that ugly women have a great urge to wear ornaments. They think perhaps their ugliness will be covered by jewelry. They wear bright clothes, many ornaments, diamonds and jewels. But ugliness is not covered by jewels; it stands out even more. No matter how costly the garment, ugliness does not vanish. It is not so easy.
And if someone is beautiful, then even naked—without fine clothes—she is beautiful; in simple garments she is beautiful; without ornaments she is beautiful. Yes, if a beautiful person holds a jewel, the jewel becomes beautiful; in the hands of the ugly, even jewels look ugly.
As you are—that spreads over your life, that color. So the real question is not of ornaments; the real question is to awaken the inner beauty. There should be an aura of beauty within you that flows and gleams from every pore; that is present in every hair; whose fragrance is in every breath.
“The dhira, free of imaginings, free of bondage, with a liberated intelligence—sometimes they play with great enjoyments, sometimes they enter mountain caves.”
विलसन्ति महाभोगैः विशन्ति गिरिगह्वरान्‌।
निरस्तकल्पना धीरा अबद्धा मुक्तबुद्धयः।।
Ashtavakra says: the liberated has no attachment to palaces, and no attachment to huts.
Mark this. Those who give up attachment to palaces get attached to huts, but attachment continues. Those who give up attachment to wealth get attached to poverty, but attachment continues.
Ashtavakra says: “The dhira, free of imaginings, free of bondage, with a liberated intelligence—sometimes they play with great enjoyments.”
As it is, they are content. Palace?—content in the palace. Pleasure?—content in pleasure. Throne?—content on the throne. And sometimes mountain caves—those too are beautiful.
The truth is, when a liberated one is in a palace, the palace becomes luminous. When he is in caves, the caves become luminous. Wherever the liberated one is, beauty showers. His very presence fills everything with an unusual dignity. Touch a stone and it becomes a diamond. Touch a diamond and—by nature—even the diamond becomes fragrant. Fragrance in gold.
But the liberated one has no insistence upon anything. Only if it is like this, only then will I be happy—there is no such insistence. As it is, in that he is content. His contentment is profound, deep, total. He has accepted wholly. Whatever the Lord shows, wherever he takes him—he is content. He neither clings to the palace nor chooses the hut. He lives like a dry leaf; wherever the wind carries him.
“In the heart of the dhira there arises no craving—even after worshiping the scholar, the deity and the sacred place, or on seeing a woman, a king or a beloved.”
श्रोत्रियं देवतां तीर्थमंगनां भूपतिं प्रियम्‌।
दृष्ट्वा सम्पूज्य धीरस्य न कापि हृदि वासना।।
“In the heart of the dhira there arises no craving—even after worshiping the scholar, the deity and the sacred place...”
Even your worship is tainted by craving. Your worship loses its fragrance; the stench of desire enters. The dhira too may worship—but there is a sky–earth difference between his worship and yours. The dhira may go to a temple, may sometimes dance in ecstasy before an image; may bathe in the Ganges, may journey to sacred places—but there is no desire in his mind. He does not go to the temple to ask for anything; the temple too belongs to the Divine. The dhira may go to temple, to mosque, to gurudwara, to church—everything belongs to God.
Wherever the dhira is, there is the temple. Nor is it that only in the temple he is blissful—but he does not reject the temple either. He may also worship. For there is a joy in worship too, a flavor, an Ahobhava. But all is gratefulness, a thanksgiving. You have given so much—thank you. There is no urge to ask. No craving.
You also go to the temple, you also bow—but there is some desire in your heart. May I get something. You go like a beggar. The dhira has become an emperor; he dances. He gives much to the world, and gives to God too—does not ask. He pours himself into God’s hands too. He even offers a dance to God.
“On seeing a woman, a king, or a beloved—no craving arises.”
If he sees the most beautiful woman—still no craving arises. Does it mean he does not see beauty in her? People teach so. Your priests tell you this.
It is wrong. He sees the beauty—he will see it more than you. You are blind. Where there is beauty, he sees it. But craving does not arise. Even there an Ahobhava arises. In the beautiful woman he sees the Divine; in the beautiful man he sees the Divine. If in a lotus you can see the Divine, then where the lotuses of humanity bloom, why be afraid? Those who are afraid are announcing that desire is still alive. The fuel is still there. They turn away, close their eyes.
No. The dhira will look at beauty; every beauty will remind him of the Supreme Beauty. Every beauty is a ray of that Supreme Light. In some woman the ray dances; in a child’s eyes the ray gleams; in a waterfall the ray hums—but everywhere it is the same. This sunlight is his light everywhere. Even if you cannot see the sun, the light is still his. Perhaps to look directly at the Divine the eyes may not work. Perhaps it is not possible to see God directly—because our eyes are limited. So we see in reflections. On a woman’s face, in a child’s eyes. In the strings of a veena, in the birds’ chorus, in the roar of waves upon rocks—these are reflections, echoes, reverberations. One shadow only. In the many, that One appears as many.
So on seeing woman, king or beloved there is no craving. Even on seeing emperors the dhira rejoices—because in emperors too there is his empire. That dignity in the emperor’s gait—that grace, nobility, aristocracy—that too is his. That glint in the emperor’s eye—that is his glint.
All shining is his shining. Therefore on seeing a king he does not feel a craving arise—to become a king. He has already become a king. He has become king of kings. He is Rajarajeshvara. But when he sees a king, he remembers—that small fragment has descended here too. Some warmth of his sunlight is here too; his only.
The warm touch of the sun
The gamboling of the flutes of rays
Then the grasses begin to carry tender palanquins of dew
Lifting the veil of fog, invincible
The sun opened a window; peeped into a smoke-filled room
Dawn again hung the sun in the blue sky
Like red coral, alluring
This warm touch of the sun
Wherever there is warmth of light, it is the Divine’s warm touch. Even on seeing a beloved, no craving arises. Those who are mine are mine—and those who are not mine are also mine. For in truth, no one is mine and no one is not mine. There is only One. Call it mine—it is the same; call it other—it is the same. Call it neither mine nor other—it is the same. There is only One. It is the expansion of the Self. The Self is all; what craving can there be?
“Even when laughed at and scorned by servants, sons, wives, grandsons and relatives, the yogi does not undergo even the slightest distortion.”
भृत्यैः पुत्रैः कलत्रैश्च दौहित्रैश्चापि गोत्रजैः।
विहस्य धिक्कृतो योगी न याति विकृतिं मनाक्‌।।
Understand. If even his servant insults him—the man of knowledge does not get angry. Why mention the servant specifically? Because the servant is the last person from whom you expect insults. The servant—and he insults you? The servant is bought for flattery. He insults? Impossible! He laughs and scorns you? Impossible! Others you might forgive, but not your servant. You will say, namak-haraam! You will say, he pierced the very plate in which he ate. You will say, ate the salt and then... You will be furious.
Therefore first Ashtavakra says: even if a servant scorns—and not ordinary scorn, laughs while scorning—laughter mixes venom in scorn, makes it caustic, wounds deeply. And from the servant? He is the last from whom you expect it. If your boss scorns you, you manage to bear it—you must; it is costly not to. Even if the boss abuses, you must thank him.
If the servant praises you, you never thank him. You sit reading your newspaper in your room; the servant passes by—you do not even acknowledge anyone passed. You do not accept personhood in a servant at all. Does a servant have a soul? If someone else came, you would stand up. You would say, come, sit. A servant passes—no feeling arises. You go on reading as if no one passed. You do not accept the servant to be human. So if the servant insults you, laughs at you, there will be great difficulty.
Ashtavakra says: “Even when laughed at and scorned by servants, sons...”
From your son you do not expect scorn. Your own son—and he laughs and scorns? You might forgive everyone else, but your son you cannot—for he is your extension, your form. He laughs at you? It is as if your own hand slaps you—how will you bear it? It becomes too much.
“...wives...”
When Ashtavakra spoke these sutras, wife was not as she is now—modern. The wife was bought. Woman was property. The sutras are so ancient that if a man killed his wife, it was not a crime. His own wife—no one’s business; there was no question of court. Your wife—you killed—your choice. You break your chair, you demolish your house, you burn your notes—it is your will. You killed your wife—who are we to ask?
I lived once in a house in Raipur. I had been there two–four days when at one at night I awoke. The neighbor was beating his wife. The roofs were adjoining, so I climbed down onto his roof. I tried to stop the man: what madness are you doing? Stop! He said, who are you to interfere? This is my wife. Whether I save her or kill her—who are you to interfere?
He was right—speaking the language of the scriptures, of Manu Maharaj. As if the wife were an object! He was beating her so brutally, blood was flowing from her head. And he says to me: do not interfere. Who are you to interfere? This is my wife.
Ashtavakra says: “Even when laughed at and scorned by wives, grandsons, relatives, the yogi does not undergo even the slightest distortion.”
Because in the one to whom knowledge has happened, there is no mine and no other. Who is son, who is father? To whom knowledge has happened—who is master, who servant? Who is wife, who husband? Only the One remains. And the one to whom knowledge has happened—he is no more. There is no wound left on which the sting of scorn, insult, disrespect, someone laughing at you can land. That wound is healed. Ego is gone—then insult does not give pain.
विहस्य धिक्कृतो योगी न याति विकृतिं मनाक्‌।
Not even a little—no change at all. I am not there—how will you hurt me? Your dart goes in vain, to emptiness. There is no one to receive it, in whom it can prick.
“The dhira, being content, is yet not content; being afflicted, he is yet not afflicted. His wondrous state is known only by those who are like him.”
This sutra is very unique; try to understand it.
संतुष्टोऽपि न संतुष्टः खिन्नोऽपि न च खिद्यते।
तस्याश्चर्यदशां तां तां तादृशा एव जानन्ते।।
“The dhira, being content, is yet not content.”
What can this mean? Because there is contentment and there is contentment. There is one contentment like the fox and the sour grapes. You did not get it, so you somehow reconciled yourself. A consolation, a self-deception—what to do, it is not to be had; what use is crying? So you sit, with a suppressed heart. You do not even have the courage to admit that you have lost. You dress your defeat and wear it as a garland. You sing its praise. You say: what is there in the world anyway?—and you become content. You say, we are content.
There is a contentment that protects dead hearts, that becomes the refuge of the defeated, that renders those who do not have the courage to set forth on the adventure of life—on the inner victory-march—into logs. It is a kind of intoxication, drinking which one sits down—no need to go anywhere.
Psychologists say: if the defeated at least accept they have been defeated, a dignity arises; a movement in life appears. But the defeated do not accept—it is defeat; they even want to paint defeat as victory. Such is one contentment.
When Ashtavakra says: संतुष्टोऽपि न संतुष्टः—the dhira, even content, is not content in that sense. His contentment is very different. It is born of bliss, not of defeat. It arises from inner rasa. It is not consolation, it is a proclamation of victory. Life has been known, lived, recognized; from that recognition comes contentment. Not “I did not receive bliss, thus I sat suppressing my heart”—but “I received bliss, thus I am content.” His contentment is synonymous with ananda—that is the first point.
Second: the first contentment will stop you, kill your movement; it will not let you go further. The second contentment is free. It does not kill movement—it enhances movement. More life-energy arises in you. The more you are blissful, the more capacity and receptivity for bliss arise. The more you dance, the more your skill in dancing grows.
Therefore Jesus said: to him who has, more shall be given; and from him who has not, even what he has shall be taken away. However harsh this sounds, it is the utter truth. He who has, will be given more—he is the owner. He will get more and more. There is no end to his receiving. He will receive forever—unto the eternal. There is no final moment when his door of receiving is shut. One summit is reached, another higher opens.
So one contentment is: you sit, suppressing the heart—where to go now? we are content. There is nothing of worth anywhere. You have managed the mind: I cannot do it; I have recognized my condition; I tucked in my tail and sat down. No—the knower’s contentment is not such.
संतुष्टोऽपि न संतुष्टः—content and yet not content in this sense.
And another sense: one contentment is opposite to discontent; another is not opposite to discontent. One contentment, opposite to discontent, does not allow you even a touch of discontent—then movement dies.
Understand. People teach you: be content as you are, where you are. This is incomplete. The knowers have said: be content outwardly; do not be content within. With wealth, position, status—be content. There is nothing in them. If you stop there, you lose nothing; those who keep running get nothing. But do not be content within. Within there is endless journey. There is beginning there, no end. Infinite is the journey. There is more and more to seek within.
So let a divine discontent burn within. Do not be satisfied—because God is vast; do not sit with a small piece. Keep moving until the Whole is attained. And can anyone ever attain the Whole? One keeps attaining; the Whole is never finally attained. The destination is never such that it ends. And this is a blessing—that it never ends. Otherwise what would you do? If the destination ended—you have gotten God entire, locked him in a safe, sat down—then what? No—it does not end. The more you get, the more remains yet to get.
So to Jesus’ saying add one more: he who has will be given more; and he who is given more will have to seek more. The more you receive, the more will remain to be received.
God is never without remainder. Always remaining—more remains. There is no other shore to him. Once you drop the boat into the ocean, it is ocean—more ocean—more ocean—vaster and vaster. As your courage grows, your receptivity grows, your capacity is earned—the ocean expands.
संतुष्टोऽपि न संतुष्टः—therefore the knower, even content, where is he content?
खिन्नोऽपि न च खिद्यते—and even afflicted, he is not afflicted.
Sometimes you will see the knower afflicted, yet he is not afflicted. His affliction too is wondrous. Sometimes you will see him sad. His sadness is more valuable than your joys. For he is never sad for himself—he is always sad for others. Therefore it is said: खिन्नोऽपि न च खिद्यते.
A man came to Buddha and said: how shall I serve the world? Teach me. It is said, Buddha closed his eyes and a tear rolled down. It is very rare for a Buddha to weep. The man became frightened: Did I say something that hurt him? Did I wound his flower-like heart? The man had thought Buddha would be delighted when he heard that he wanted to dedicate his life to serving humanity. And what happened—that a tear fell from Buddha’s eye?
Ananda was moved, the other monks were moved. They asked: what did you say? The man said, I said nothing such—only this. They asked Buddha: what happened? A tear in your eye? He said, I wept for this man. He has not served himself yet and he sets out to serve the world. He does not even know himself. This man is in great sorrow. He wants to get entangled in serving others to escape his own sorrow. This is his avoidance. Therefore I weep. His compassion is not real compassion; it is self-escape. Therefore I weep.
Would Buddha weep?
खिन्नोऽपि न च खिद्यते.
If ever the knower seems sad, afflicted, even tears in his eye—do not be quick to conclude. He does not weep for himself.
Understand. Whenever you weep, you weep for yourself. Even when you say you are weeping for others—you are weeping for yourself. Someone’s husband dies, and the wife weeps. But she is weeping for herself, not for the husband. He was support, protection, money. That support is gone. Because of the husband, the heart was full; now there is empty space. She is weeping for herself—not for him.
I have heard: a husband died—naturally in America. An insurance agent came and gave the wife a check of a hundred thousand dollars. She said, thank you. If my husband could be returned to me, I could still return half this amount—half! She could not return even all. The husband is not coming back; he is dead. “I could still return half.”
There is an ancient tale of Confucius. He was passing by a village and saw a woman fanning a grave. He was amazed. This is love! The husband is dead; she is fanning the grave? He asked: Goddess, I have read in the scriptures of such goddesses, but I did not think they exist now. But blessed! Let me touch your feet. She said, wait—first ask why I am fanning. Why? Confucius asked. She said, when my husband died he said: you will marry again—do—but not until my grave dries. So I am fanning—drying the grave. The grave is still wet. I have given a vow to my husband.
We weep only for ourselves. Even when someone dies, we weep for ourselves. When a bier passes on the road and a jolt arises in you—you say: ah! someone has died. Then you remember your own death, that you too must die. Hurry—the time is coming. This bier is not only his; mine too is being prepared.
Whenever you weep, you weep for yourself. Whenever you are afflicted, you are afflicted for yourself. Whenever you are angry, it is for yourself. Your whole life is ego-centered. If ever a knower seems afflicted, it is for someone else. If ever a knower is angry, it is for another’s benefit. If ever a knower is sad—do not decide quickly. His sadness is part of compassion.
“The dhira, even content, is not content; even afflicted, he is not afflicted.”
So you may find the enlightened in much sorrow, yet he is not sorrowful. There is no dwelling of sorrow within him. The ego is gone; with it its shadow—sorrow—also gone.
“...his wondrous state is known only by those who are like him.”
It is difficult—how will you recognize? Your recognition springs from you; you are your own touchstone. The way you think when you weep—that is how you will think when you see another weep. The way you think when you laugh—that is how you will think when you see another laugh. You measure by your own standard. Your standard is you. Therefore you cannot understand the knower.
Ashtavakra is right: तस्य आश्चर्यदशां—his state is wondrous. And you will not understand it, because you have no experience of such a state.
तां तां तादृशा एव जानन्ते—only those who are like him will know him. The Buddha is known by the Buddha. The Knower is known by the Knower. Krishna is known by Krishna. There is no other way to know that supreme state until it happens within you.
People come to me and ask: how shall we recognize the true Guru? It is very difficult. Impossible. You cannot recognize. There is no way. Whatever way you adopt will be wrong. You have only one way: where you feel—your feeling will be only an intuition, not a proof—where you feel that some current begins to flow in your life in the presence of someone, stay there. Experience. If the experience deepens, understand you have come to the right place. If it does not, understand you must walk on; search elsewhere. Keep feeling your way—there is no other method.
If you want a firm guarantee—impossible. How will you test? The experiences which have not yet arisen in your life—how will you recognize them? Whatever you decide will be wrong. If you see a knower laughing wholeheartedly, you will think, what kind of knower? We too laugh like this. If you see a knower with tears in his eyes, you will say, what kind of knower? We too weep like this.
However you see the knower—in ignorance too similar states appear—remember, what happens in knowledge also happens in ignorance. The causes differ, but the manifestations look almost the same. You will measure by the manifestation; you have no access to the cause. You will err. Do not enter this mess.
Therefore I say: wherever your heart feels—an intuition—where you feel, yes, something may happen here—stay. Try. Dare. Experiment.
If there is something there, slowly your life will begin to be transformed. Slowly your boat will unmoor from the shore. Bonds will begin to break. Waves of bliss will begin to rise. A new realm will begin to open its doors within you.
If doors begin to open, remain. If not, feel elsewhere. And the day you leave a teacher because your doors are not opening, even then do not decide whether he is a true Guru or not. Because it often happens that where your doors do not open, someone else’s open. It often happens that where another’s do not open, yours open. People are different—very different.
And no one Guru can be the Guru of all. People are so diverse. With Buddha, some doors open; with Mahavira, some others; with Krishna, yet others. Therefore do not decide at all. Do not decide before going, nor when leaving. Say only: we shall try. If something begins to happen, good—we shall stay. If not, we shall withdraw with gratitude. Even when you withdraw, let your heart be full of gratitude. Do not be full of complaint that so many days were wasted. Nothing goes to waste. The knocks we gave at wrong doors are not wasted either. Those knocks take us to the right door.
तस्य आश्चर्यदशां तां तां तादृशा एव जानन्ते।
Only those who have attained that state will know it.
“‘This is my duty’—such resolve is the world; but the wise, who are empty of form, formless, changeless and disease-less, do not see that duty.”
ममेदं कर्तव्यं—there is a saying in the scriptures, “this is my duty.” ममेदं कर्तव्यं—such resolve alone is samsara. As long as you feel, such is my duty, such I must do, until then you are in the world. The day you see: what is my duty? He who has created all, it is his. I will simply perform the small part given to me. Not duty—acting. The day you begin to live as an actor rather than a doer, a revolution happens that very day.
कर्तव्यतैव संसारो न तां पश्यन्ति सूरयः।
शून्याकारा निराकारा निर्विकारा निरामयाः।।
कर्तव्यतैव संसारो—so long as you think, this is my duty, this I must do, my responsibility. I am father of four, I have a wife—duty to fulfill—you are living in the world. Do not run away from your wife or children. Samsara is not wife and children. Understand this sutra.
ममेदं कर्तव्यं—“this is my duty”—such resolve is samsara.
कर्तव्यतैव संसारो—so long as there is duty, there is worldliness. Drop duty. Let the wife remain, let the children remain. Go to the office, to the shop, do your work. Make the Divine the doer; do not be the doer. Say: whatever play you wish to show, whatever role you give, in whatever drama you cast this character—we will perform it. We will perform it with a full heart—but not as doer.
न तां पश्यन्ति सूरयः—the wise do not see duty at all. They see no duty. What the Divine makes them do, they do; what he does not, they do not. They have no responsibility. Therefore Ashtavakra calls them swacchanda—moving in freedom.
शून्याकारा निराकारा निर्विकारा निरामयाः—four marks are theirs.
Shunyakara—within they remain empty. Outside they may assume a thousand forms; inside they remain empty. See them in anger—see Ramana running with a stick—inside shunyakara still. See Gurdjieff boiling with fury...
Gurdjieff’s disciples have written many memoirs: when he was angry, it was like a storm had come—he seemed as if he would destroy everything. And in a moment—as if the storm had passed. In the next moment, looking at him you would not believe he could ever be angry.
Sometimes Gurdjieff did the incredible—he was a master actor. If two people sat with him, he would show anger with one eye to one person, and love with the other eye to the other. And when the two later met outside, they would quarrel whether he was good or bad. One would say, he is dangerous—he looked at me as if he would kill me. The other would say, he looked at me with such love—you are wrong. Can anyone look with each eye differently?
But it is possible. You have two brains; both can be used separately. The left eye is operated by the right brain, the right eye by the left brain. They are distinct. If you learn to use them, you can use both.
In the West experiments are going on—novel experiments, useful in the future. Humanity has used only half; thus one hand works and the other does not. In the West they are training that the other hand can be equally active—there is no reason it cannot.
So in the future children will be taught to use both hands; then double the power will be in hand. When both hands work, both brains work. Man has lived half. Great capacity will manifest when both hemispheres work.
And if your skill increases—it will, once man becomes aware—then you can alternate them. Let one hemisphere work for six hours, then switch. Then the other works while the first rests. Working capacity can greatly increase.
Gurdjieff experimented with this. But his whole affair was drama. One disciple wrote that he traveled with him from one station to another and swore never again to travel with him. He created such a commotion!
At the very station he made such a ruckus a crowd gathered. The train was ten minutes late because of him. Somehow he boarded. Then he smoked where smoking was prohibited; drank where drinking was prohibited; more commotion. The driver and conductor came running to manage him. He babbled nonsense. The disciple knew he was perfectly conscious—he was not doing anything wrong. However much he drank, he would not lose consciousness.
There is a deep practice here; in India the Aghori sadhus have long used it. It is a test of meditation that alcohol does not impact it. Drink as much as you like and let meditation remain untouched. If meditation drowns in alcohol, what meditation is that? A mere chemical changes you—that cannot be very deep.
The disciple knew and tried to explain to everyone that it was drama—but who would believe? What kind of drama is this? Till two in the night he had troubled the whole train. Finally the driver halted the train where it should not stop and said, we must offload this man—he won’t let the train move; he is troubling passengers. The whole train was connected and he kept moving from one end to the other, making noise, shaking sleeping men awake.
The disciple was distressed. He knew it was all for him. With folded hands he begged: let us reach the next station where we have to get down anyway. What has been done has been done.
After alighting, they sat in a car; then he began to laugh. He said, tell me, how was it? You were very scared, weren’t you? I shook you well? The disciple said, I trembled. I will never travel with you again. And I knew it was drama. You tested me thoroughly. How much I cursed you the whole time! Because people thought you were unconscious, so all the trouble fell on me—why had I brought such a man on the train!
The man was famous—a big journalist, writer. People knew him. Gurdjieff had him thoroughly disgraced. But that journalist wrote that after that night great changes happened in his life. Next morning I awoke utterly light, as if a mountain had fallen off me. That ego—“I am famous, so-and-so”—he ruined it. The locale was mine where people knew me—he poured water on it. And the next day I arose utterly light—weightless!
It is hard to say what the conduct of a knower will be.
कर्तव्यतैव संसारो न तां पश्यन्ति सूरयः।
Shunyakara—inside he remains empty; outside he may do anything.
Nirakara—outside he may act in any shape; inside he remains formless.
Nirvikara—see him in a tavern or a brothel—no difference; within he remains without modification.
Niramayah—see him in any condition, he is free of sorrow.
There are more accounts in Gurdjieff’s life, very significant. Near the end he crashed his car into a tree. He loved driving and drove beyond limits. The crash was so severe it took an hour and a half to extract him. His body was entangled in the wreck; everything shattered.
But he directed those who were extracting him—how to do it. He remained fully conscious. When they brought him out, he told them where to bandage. His whole body was shattered. Thirty-six hours later when he was brought to a big hospital, doctors could not believe a man could be alive. Impossible. His lungs were full of blood; his brain was full of blood. Not only alive—perfectly conscious. He kept talking to the doctors. They could not believe he was not unconscious.
His disciples knew he had done it knowingly. He wanted to see death voluntarily before dying. He wanted to put his body into the last distortion and see whether his awareness could still remain. Doctors said, he cannot survive. He should have died. There is no record that such a one could survive. But he did. And he took no medicine, no injections, no tranquilizers. He said, nothing.
Not only that, the next morning he sat among his disciples instructing them—brought in on a stretcher. And within three weeks he was perfectly well; walking again, fine.
When he died—years after this incident—his famous disciple Bennett could not arrive in time. The message had been sent—come, for he knew when he would leave the body. But Bennett could not make it; his plane was late. When he reached, twelve hours had passed since the death.
At midnight Bennett arrived. He went into the church where the body lay. No one else was there; all disciples had gone. He was amazed—he felt as if Gurdjieff were alive. Bennett is a great thinker, mathematician, scientist. He approached, put his ear to the chest to listen. He felt as if he were breathing. He was frightened. Dead twelve hours—and is he still playing some game even after death?
He was so afraid he came out—but the urge remained to go once more and see if it was true or his imagination. He went in again, did everything—held his own breath, lest he hear his breath—yet he still heard breathing.
Even then Gurdjieff was experimenting, standing outside the body. He experimented inside the body and outside. Even now, after death, Gurdjieff is available to his disciples—just as alive as when he was alive.
Even in death the knower does not die. In sorrow he is not sorrowful—niramayah. But to recognize the knower, you must become a knower. To know like, one must become like.
Enough for today.