Maha Geeta #73

The essence of the scriptures is only this: it is not about questioning, it is about knowing. The whole message of the wise can be squeezed into a single aphorism: by doing, nothing happens; by knowing, it happens. If the event of knowing has not happened, then whatever you do will have its roots in your ignorance. A good act done out of ignorance becomes unwholesome; and what appears unwholesome, if done from knowing, is auspicious. Therefore the fundamental transformation is of prajna, of knowing, of dhyana—not of conduct.

Ashtavakra’s first sutra:
‘The ignorant man, even while not acting, is agitated everywhere because of resolutions and alternatives—though not acting, he is disturbed; and the knower, even while doing all actions, remains one of tranquil mind.’

So the question is not to run away from action, not karmasannyas. The question is to be free of ignorance. And do not understand ignorance as a deficiency of information or data. No—in ignorance is meant the absence of self-knowing.

You may gather heaps of information, accumulate piles of knowledge; you will not become a knower until the inner lamp is lit, until the inner radiance manifests. Until then, whatever you gather from the outside, nothing will happen through that rubbish. You will become a pundit, not a man of prajna. You may become learned, but being learned is a deception. Being learned is the hoax of being a knower. It is not intelligence. You have deceived others, and you have deceived yourself as well.

It will not do without becoming a Buddha—less than that won’t do. Let the mind awaken, become enlightened—only then does any movement happen.

The ignorant remains entangled even while not doing. In thought alone he goes on doing. Seat him in a cave, and he will still think of the marketplace. Sit him for meditation, and who knows where the mind will wander. Resolutions and alternatives will surge—shall I do this, shall I not do that? In imagination he begins to do. In imagination itself he will murder, he will be violent, he will steal, he will cheat. The hand has not moved, the eyelid has not flickered, and within everything has happened. Because the world spreads in ignorance.

For the world to be, nothing else is needed—only ignorance. Just as for a dream to be, nothing else is needed—only sleep. Fall asleep, and the dream begins. No other apparatus or material is needed; sleep is enough. Sleep alone is the need. Then you do not ask, where is the stage, where are the curtains, where the director, where the actors—how can this drama of the dream happen? No—if one thing is present, all is present. Sleep comes, and you yourself become the actor, you yourself become the director, you yourself wrote the story, you yourself wrote the songs, you yourself became the stage, you yourself spread into all things. You yourself became the spectator too. And the whole play was created.

Only one thing was needed—sleep.

Exactly so, for the world one thing is needed—stupefaction, unconsciousness. Then the world spreads. Then no one else is needed.

So do not think that if you leave the market and go to the Himalayas the world will be left behind. Because for the world to be, only one thing is needed: moorcha—a swoon, a faintness. Sitting in a cave, a drowse comes, a drift, and the world spreads. There you will get married, there children will be born.

An old tale. A young sannyasin asked his Master: What is this world? The Master said: Do this—go to the village today, beg alms at such and such a door. When you return, I will tell you what the world is. The youth ran off. Such an auspicious moment—the Master himself said he would tell what the world is. Go, bring alms.

He knocked at the door. A beautiful young woman opened. Extremely beautiful—he had never seen such a woman. His mind was enchanted. He forgot he had come to beg alms for the Master, that the Master would be sitting hungry. He asked the young woman for marriage. In those days, if a Brahmin proposed marriage, one would not refuse. She said: My father will be coming; he has gone to the fields. It may be possible. Come into the house, rest.

He entered the house and began to rest. The father came, the marriage happened. He forgot the Master altogether. He forgot he had come to beg. He had children—three. Then a flood came to the village, the river rose. The whole village began to drown. He too, with his three children and his wife, is trying to flee. The river is ferocious. The river will spare no one. All are drowning. Somehow he is trying to save himself. In trying to save one child, two were swept away. His hand slipped here, two flowed away. In saving his wife the child was lost; and then, in saving himself, the wife too was swept away. Somehow he himself survived, somehow reached the shore—but was so utterly exhausted that he fell down. He fainted.

When he opened his eyes, the Master was standing before him. The Master said: Do you see what the world is? Then it came back to him—years have passed since I went to beg alms. The Master said: Nothing at all has happened; only a little drowse overtook you. Open your eyes and see. He had not even gone to beg. He was still sitting in front of the Master. No event had happened. The beautiful young woman was a dream. Those children—dreams. That flood—dream. Those years—dream. He was still sitting before the Master. He had dozed. It was afternoon perhaps, and a nap came.

Sitting here you too sometimes doze off. Reflect—the entire dream can happen within a single instant’s nap. Why? Because the time of waking and the time of sleep are not the same. In one moment the greatest dream can happen. There is no hindrance.

You must have experienced it. You dozed at your desk. Just before the doze you looked at the wall clock—it was twelve. You saw a long dream. Years went by in the dream; the calendar’s pages tore and flew. When you opened your eyes, the minute hand had moved only one minute—and you had seen a dream of years. If you were to narrate the entire dream, it would take hours. But you saw it.

Dream-time is different from waking-time. Time is relative. Albert Einstein demonstrated in this century that time is relative; in the East we have known forever that time is relative. When you are in happiness, time appears to pass quickly. When you are in misery, time appears to pass slowly. When you are in supreme bliss, time passes as if years have slipped through a single instant. When you are in great suffering, not to speak of years—even a moment seems like years and does not pass, it is stuck. The rope is around your neck.

Time is relative. By day it is one, by night another. In waking it is one, in sleeping it is another. And the great knowers say: when your supreme awakening happens, time is not at all. Timeless! You are outside time.

For dreaming, sleep is needed; for seeing the world, ignorance is needed. Ignorance is a kind of sleep, a kind of stupor, in which you do not know who you are. What else does sleep mean? In sleep you forget precisely this—who you are. Hindu or Muslim, woman or man, father or son, poor or rich, beautiful or ugly, educated or uneducated—this is exactly what you forget in sleep: who you are.

In moorcha we have forgotten more deeply who we are.

Yesterday a young woman asked me: What am I doing here? She is a sannyasini. I do not understand what I am doing here. This question keeps arising again and again—what am I doing here? I said to her: Except for me, no one here knows what anyone is doing. And the question does not arise only here—wherever you may be in the world, it will arise there too. It will go on arising—because as yet you do not even know who you are; then how will you know what you are doing? The fundamental question has no answer yet. The foundation-stone has not been laid, and you are raising the mansion!

Being comes first; doing is secondary. Without being, you cannot do. Yes, without doing you can be; therefore being is fundamental, basic. First know ‘Who am I?’—only then will you be able to understand what you are doing. He who knows ‘Who am I?’—his world dissolves. Because in that supreme awakening, drowsiness cannot remain, sleep cannot remain, moorcha cannot remain—then there is no means left to spread the world. Therefore the knowers have said: the world and the dream are one.

Understand the meaning. The ‘world and dream are one’ means that the process by which both spread is one. The style, the structure of both is the same. For both, stupor is necessary—both for the dream and for the world. And let me add one more thing: for the dream a deep stupor is not necessary; for the world a deep stupor is necessary. A small doze is enough for a dream; this worldly doze is very ancient—many births old. It is very deep.

Hence the dream is personal and the world is collective. You dream, but you cannot invite me into your dream. You cannot tell your friend: Tomorrow please come into my dream. There is no way.

The dream is individual. It arises out of individual stupor.

This world is collective. These trees that are visible to you are visible to me too. Visible to all. We are sharers in it. In the dream, the tree I see is visible only to me, not to you. What you see is visible only to you, not to me. This tree is visible to me, to you, to everyone.

This means only that the stupor must be so deep as to be universal. It must be spread in all of us. This is our collective dream—the collective dream. Modern psychology has reached the discovery of the collective unconscious.

When Freud first said that beneath the conscious mind there is hidden an unconscious mind, people were shocked. In the West there was no such notion. The conscious mind was all. Freud brought the unconscious mind. People were very startled. After years of effort he managed to make it understood that the unconscious exists. It was very difficult to establish.

Why? Because people take mind to mean conscious. So ‘unconscious mind’ sounds like a contradiction. How can that be our mind of which we have no knowledge? Unconscious means: that of which we are unaware. But Freud explained it. You will understand too—if you try, it will come to mind.

Someone’s name does not come to you, and you say, ‘It is on the tip of my tongue.’ And yet you say ‘I cannot remember.’ Now what are you saying? You say it is on the tip of the tongue—and you also say you cannot remember. And you know that you know it. Then where has it slipped? It has slipped into your unconscious. It rattles there too, but until it comes into consciousness you cannot catch it. The more you try, the more difficult it becomes. The more you strive to catch it, the more it slips.

Finally you tire and give up. You say, ‘To hell with it.’ You begin to smoke, or read the newspaper, or switch on the radio. Suddenly it comes—just like that. It was there; you even felt it was there, yet you could not grasp it. Freud had to prove in thousands of ways that the unconscious exists. The matter did not stop there. Freud’s disciple Jung went deeper. He said: this unconscious is personal—each person has his own. Beneath this lies a deeper layer—the collective unconscious. That is common to us all.

This is even more difficult to prove, for it is even deeper. Yet it is so. Sometimes you experience it. You sit somewhere; suddenly you remember your friend—‘Perhaps he is coming.’ You open your eyes and he is at the door. For a moment you cannot believe it—how did this happen? You say, coincidence. In the name of coincidence, you negate countless truths. You say, coincidence.

I have a friend, a poet. He went to a Kavi Sammelan. Sitting in the bus, halfway, he felt a pull to return home. ‘Go back home.’ No reason to return. All at home was fine. Wife fine, father fine, children fine. No reason—without reason. He did not return; if one starts returning for such things, life becomes difficult. He went on.

At night in a hotel, around two, someone knocked and called at the door, ‘Munnu.’ He was very startled, because only his father called him ‘Munnu’—childhood name—no one else. He is a great poet, famous across the country. Who else would call him Munnu? He was frightened. ‘It must be the mind’s play.’ He pulled the sheet over his face.

Again a knock at the door: ‘Munnu!’ Now it was clear. He got up, fear increased. He opened the door—no one. The wind is silent. Two at night. Everyone asleep. Not even a bird flutters.

He shut the door and lay down. ‘It must be the mind’s game.’ He had hardly lain down when again the call came: ‘Munnu!’ Now the voice was loud. He went down to telephone home. He was dialing when the phone rang—before his call could connect, a call came from home: ‘Father passed away ten minutes ago.’

This is the collective unconscious. This has nothing to do with the personal unconscious. This is the realm where father and son are connected, where there is a bridge between them. They are joined across thousands of miles. Where mother is linked to child, lover to beloved, friend to friend. And if you go deeper, those who are not friends are also linked; those who are not ‘ours’ are also linked. Go deeper and man is linked to animals; deeper still and man is linked to trees; deeper still to stones and mountains. We are linked with all that we have been in our past. The deeper you go, the more you will find yourself nearing the collective. This is the collective unconscious. Man does not end where he appears on the surface.

When in the East it was said that the world too is a dream—and the dream is certainly a dream—the meaning is: the dream arises out of the personal unconscious, and the world out of the collective unconscious. Hence we do not quarrel over the world and its objects—because we can all agree. A table is placed; ten people can see it. So there is no dispute. We all say: there is a table. It is visible to all. What more proof is needed?

That is why we give such value to eyewitnesses in court. If ten people say so, the matter is settled. If witnesses are found, the case is won. Witness means there are those who saw it. Then the matter is finished. What more is needed?

The world is such a dream that witnesses can be found for it. Your dream is such a world for which no witness is available. This is the only difference. Both are dreams—the planes differ. One is on the surface, one is in depth—but both are dreams.

Now, if you would be free of the world, what to do? Where to go? Until light reaches your unconscious you will not be free of the world. You may run away from the external world; inside, resolutions and alternatives will continue to arise. Inner turbulence will continue. The unconscious will keep its waves. There you will go on dreaming; and upon those dreams your world will go on spreading. You will not be at peace.

Akuruvann api sankshobhat vyagrah sarvatra moodhadhih.
He who is mūḍha, steeped in ignorance and darkness—mūḍhadhīḥ—though he does not act, yet because of resolutions and alternatives he is agitated.

You have often found yourself agitated for things that do not even exist. Sit and begin to imagine; you will become anxious about things that are not. Later you will laugh: What did I do! There was nothing there.

There was a case in court. Two men had broken each other’s heads. When the magistrate asked for the cause, they began to laugh. They said: Forgive us. Give whatever punishment you like; please do not ask the cause. The magistrate said: How can I punish without knowing the reason? And why are you so embarrassed to tell it? If there was a quarrel, there must be a cause.

They looked at each other. One said: You tell it. The other: No, you tell it. The cause was such that they felt shy. Finally they had to tell it; the magistrate insisted that without it he would punish both. So they told it. The cause was not fit to be told.

They were sitting by the river, old friends. One said: I am thinking of buying a buffalo. The other said: Don’t buy a buffalo—I am thinking of buying a field, an orchard. If your buffalo enters my orchard someday, quarrel will arise. Do not put our old friendship at stake by buying a buffalo. And listen—I tell you now: if your buffalo enters my orchard, there will be no one worse than me.

The other said: This is the limit! What do you think of yourself? Why should I not buy a buffalo just because of your orchard? You don’t buy an orchard if you want to guard it so much. The buffalo will be bought—consider it bought. Do what you like.

The matter escalated. The second man drew a line on the sand with his finger and said: Here is my orchard. Now try to push your buffalo in. The first man used his finger to push the buffalo in. Heads were broken.

They said: Do not ask the cause. Give any punishment. I have not yet bought the orchard; he has not yet bought the buffalo. And we are old friends. What happened, happened. They were hauled to court.

You too have often made entanglements for orchards not yet bought. Examine your mind—you will find a thousand examples. Sitting quietly, who knows what thoughts arise! And when a thought arises, for a moment you forget that it is a thought. For a moment stupor descends—and the thought feels true.

That very feeling of truth in thought is the world. Once you are free of thoughts, you are free of the world. To be thoughtless is sannyas. There is no other way to be a sannyasin.

Kurvann api tu krityani kushalo hi nirakulah.
‘And the knower, even while doing all actions, remains of a tranquil mind.’

Actions do not create bondage. The knower rises, sits, walks, speaks, works—but inside there is no upheaval. He is skilled in one thing; his mastery is inner. Within, thoughts do not arise. Within he is utterly silent, void-like. When he walks, the void walks. When he sits, the void sits. When he acts, the void acts.

And he who has become void within—only he attains knowing. He alone is a knower. He who has garlanded the void—that is the knower.

Because from the one who is void, fullness begins to manifest. From the one emptied of ego, Paramatman begins to flow.

‘The knower in everyday dealings too sits happily, happily comes and goes, happily speaks and happily eats.’

Sukham aste sukham shete sukham ayati yati cha.
Sukham vakti sukham bhunkte vyavahare’pi shantadhih.

In the narrative threads written on Buddha’s life, a preface comes before every sutra that puzzles readers.

A Buddhist bhikshu stayed with me for a few days. He said: You have a deep love for Buddha. I am a Buddhist monk, but one thing I do not understand—before every sutra it is written: ‘Bhagwan came, his gait was very tranquil, his breaths were very tranquil. He sat happily upon his seat. He closed his eyes; for a moment silence descended. Then he opened his eyes and happily spoke.’ Then the sutra begins.

He asked: What need is there to repeat this before every sutra?

I told him: More important than what is said in the sutra is this. The sutra is second; this is first—because first we should speak of the source from which the sutra has issued, then the sutra has value. These sutras you too can say. There is no great difficulty. You too know them. But you will not be able to rise like Buddha, sit like Buddha. You will not be able to breathe like Buddha. The sutras you too can speak.

I was reading last night a book by a Japanese Buddhist monk. He is a psychologist, and he has written on Zen meditation—how Zen can be used to heal the insane, the deranged. The basic foundation of the whole therapy is the rhythm of the breath. The more tranquil the breath, the more tranquil the mind becomes.

Ordinarily we breathe sixteen to twenty times a minute. Slowly, slowly the Zen fakir quiets the breath. The breath becomes so tranquil and slow that in a minute he takes five... four or five breaths. Right there, meditation begins.

If you cannot enter meditation directly, do only this and you will be astonished. If the breath slows to four or five a minute, as the breath becomes slow here, thoughts become slow there. They are linked together. That is why when there is great movement of thoughts, the breath becomes uneven. When you begin to go mad, the breath begins to go mad. When you are full of lust, the breath is agitated. When you are full of anger, the breath becomes disturbed, unruly. Its tone breaks, its music is torn, the meter is destroyed. Its rhythm is lost.

Zen monks pay great attention to the breath. The psychologist placed instruments on a Zen monk’s head to investigate when the state of meditation comes, when alpha waves arise. Suddenly, in the middle, alpha waves were lost for a second; looking closely he saw the monk’s breath had faltered. The monk steadied himself again, regulated his breath, and the waves returned. Alpha waves began again.

Zen says: the breath should be so slow that if you place a bird’s feather near your nostrils it should not tremble; so tranquil that if you hold a mirror, no imprint forms. In meditation such a moment comes when the breath seems to have stopped. Sometimes the seeker gets frightened—‘Will I die? What is happening?’

Do not be afraid. If such a moment comes—and it will, for all who walk on the path of meditation—when it seems the breath is not moving. When the breath does not move, then the mind also does not move. The two are tied together.

So the whole body is connected. When you are silent, your body too is immersed in an extraordinary stillness. In every hair of you there is a glimmer of peace. Your walking reveals your meditation. Your sitting reveals your meditation. In your speaking, in your listening.

Meditation is not something you do for an hour and are done. Meditation is something that spreads over your twenty-four hours. Life is one unbroken stream. An hour of meditation and twenty-three without, and meditation will not happen. When meditation spreads over the twenty-four-hour stream of your life... even in sleep you will see a difference. In his sleep too the meditator has a supreme peace.

This is the sutra:
Sukham aste sukham shete sukham ayati yati cha.
Sukham vakti sukham bhunkte vyavahare’pi shantadhih.

He who is the knower—shantadhih, whose prajna has become tranquil—sits happily even in ordinary dealings.

You cannot sit happily even in meditation. You are restless even while praying. The knower sits happily in ordinary dealings. His sukhasana never fails. This is not a yogic posture; it is his inner state. Sukham aste—he sits in bliss. Sukhasana—sitting in bliss.

Sukham shete sukham ayati yati cha.
The taste of his whole life is bliss. Wherever you taste him, you will taste bliss.

Someone asked Buddha: What is the taste of your life? Buddha said: Just as the ocean, from wherever you taste it, is salty, so from wherever you taste the Buddhas you will find ananda, shanti, prakasha. Taste me from anywhere.

‘He sits happily.’

It is you who will sit, no? If you are restless, your sitting will be restless. Have you seen people? They sit on a chair and still shake their legs. Now you are sitting—if you were walking, your legs shaking would do; at least when you are sitting, sit. Sukham aste. Yet even there the foot waggles.

Buddha was very watchful. Once a man was sitting before him listening to his discourse, and his toe began to shake. Buddha stopped his discourse and said: Listen, why is this toe shaking? When he said it, the man became aware—otherwise how would he be aware? As soon as Buddha spoke, the toe stopped. Buddha said: Now also tell me, why did it stop? He said: What can I say? I don’t know. Buddha said: It is your toe; if you do not know, who will? Your toe is shaking and you do not know—are you sitting conscious or unconscious? Is this toe yours or someone else’s? You must tell me why it was shaking. He said: Forgive me, I am unable to answer. I do not know.

When within you are restless, that vibration shows in your life. The toe is not shaking for nothing. Inside there is fever, there is unconsciousness. Within you are boiling. That boiling finds a way out somewhere. When steam fills the kettle, the lid jumps. Steam is collected; it must escape somewhere. You will scratch your back; you will scratch your head; you will move your hands; you will yawn; you will wag your toe; you will change your posture—something or other you will do. By doing, a little energy flows out and you feel a little light. You are filling with energy.

Watch small children—they cannot sit. Energy overflows. Even when they sit, you will find... A mother said to her child: Now you sit. See, I have told you six times. If you do not sit now, this is the seventh time—then it will be bad for you. The child understood. Children know when the last moment has come, when trouble will start. As long as he feels ‘it will go on,’ he goes on. He said: Very well, I shall sit. But remember, I will not sit inside. I can sit only outside. So I sit. He sat on the chair, hands and feet still. But he said: Let me tell you—I have not sat inside. How can one sit inside like this?

When you sit inside, a radiance of bliss begins to float in your life. It is not only that you feel bliss; in your shade as well those who come will feel bliss. Those who come near you will be moved by your coolness.

You must have felt it: going near some person you become agitated, near another you become calm. To one you feel like going again and again; and if you meet another on the path, you want to slip away. Perhaps you have never thought why. Sometimes it happens you never met that person before, and in the first meeting you want to withdraw, to run. Sometimes in the first meeting your eyes fall upon someone and you are his—forever his.

What happens? Inner waves touch in depth. One person pushes you away; another pulls you in a powerful attraction. Near some you taste bliss; near some you feel light—as if the burden has dropped. Near some you feel heavy—it would have been better not to meet. His presence saddens. He throws some of his pains, worries, anxieties upon you.

It is natural—each person is broadcasting his totality. You cannot escape. The song within him vibrates in the four directions. You come near and you will catch the song. If the song is off-key, you will catch discord; if it is tuned to a classical raga, you will sway and be intoxicated.

Each person has a taste. Hence satsang has great value. Sit near one who has become silent. From him, sometimes a glimpse will come of your own future—that such can happen in my life too. What happened in one life can happen in another’s. And by tasting, longing arises, thirst arises.

Sukham aste sukham shete sukham ayati yati cha.
Sukham vakti sukham bhunkte vyavahare’pi shantadhih.

The knower, even in ordinary dealings, you will find him always stirred by bliss, immersed in ananda, full of masti. Even sitting, you will find around him a dance of some unearthly energy, the hum of some Omkara. Around him some celestial musicians, Gandharvas, seem to be singing.

And the ignorant—even when you see him sitting in pleasure—you will find him making preparations for new miseries. The ignorant spends even his time of happiness sowing the seeds of sorrow. What else can he do? When he is happy he sows the seeds of suffering. He says: Now sow—the chance has come, sow the crop. A little time is there—use it. But the ignorant will use it as the ignorant can. The knower even in sorrow sows the seeds of bliss.

Laughing, spend the days of joy—
Laugh and play through the days of sorrow as well.
Since you have tasted the sweetness of honey,
You must also tell the taste of poison.
You have played with flowers—
You must also accept the thorns.
If you have kissed the silky cheeks of buds,
Then placing embers upon your lips,
You must smile as well.
Such is the path of life—
Sun and shade walk together.
Along with the sweet moments of joy,
The long moment of sorrow grows too.
Laughing, spend the days of joy—
Laugh and play through the days of sorrow as well.

He who is a knower remembers bliss even in sorrow. He says: The days of joy were passed in joy—now pass the days of sorrow in joy too. The days of joy were danced through—now dance through the days of sorrow as well. The days of joy were passed in prayer—now let the days of sorrow be transformed into prayer too.

Laughing, spend the days of joy—
Laugh and play through the days of sorrow as well.

The ignorant becomes habituated to sorrow. When happiness comes, he uses it to create new sorrow.

I have heard: A poor tailor won the lottery. He always bought a ticket—every month he would spend one rupee on a lottery ticket. He had done this for years. It had become a habit. On the first of every month he would buy a ticket. One day, by coincidence, he won—ten lakhs. When the news came and the man brought the money, he said: Good! Right then he locked his shop, threw the key into the well. With ten lakhs he leapt into the world—who would sew clothes now! In a year the ten lakhs went—and his health too. The order of his old simple life was disturbed. The bond with his wife broke; children became angry. He wandered in brothels, wine-houses, gambling dens... thinking he was enjoying. After a year, when the last rupee was gone, he realized that in this year he had never been so miserable—ever. This was something! These ten lakhs brought sufferings of many lifetimes. These ten lakhs turned into a nightmare of sorrow.

Somehow he had new keys made. He opened his shop and sat again. But the old habit—he still bought a rupee ticket each month. Coincidence—after a year the lottery man came again. The tailor said: Oh no—not now! Forgive me. Has it come again? The man said: We too are amazed—again you have won. He said: I am ruined! He could not refuse—ten lakhs came again. But he said: I’m destroyed. He got frightened—again I have won; again I will go through the same misery. Again brothels, again liquor, again gambling, again the same trouble. The days had begun to pass in peace; he had started running his shop. Now this calamity again.

If a man is ignorant, whatever comes is calamity. You will often find that when moments of happiness come, you are skilled in turning even those into misery. You instantly seize them, and deal with them in such a way that all becomes pain.

There is no suffering in wealth. Those who told you that wealth is suffering were unknowing. The suffering is in you. The suffering is in your stupidity. When wealth comes into your hands, there is an opportunity. Even to purchase sorrow, convenience is needed! To be miserable you need opportunity.

I say to you: there is no suffering in wealth; suffering is your habit. Without wealth, perhaps you could not be as miserable—because one needs wealth to buy even misery; needs opportunity. You did not go to the brothel because there was no means. You were a gentleman because to be a villain also requires an occasion. You did not gamble because you need money to gamble. You did not fight and go to court because who would get into that mess—court, cases, lawyers!

But when money comes, all these tendencies within you sprout. Just as when the rains come, where the seeds of flowers are, flowers sprout; where the seeds of thorns are, thorns sprout.

So those who say wealth is suffering surely had the habit of suffering. Wealth is rain. If a man like Janaka has wealth, there is no obstacle. If a man like Krishna has wealth, there is no obstacle. He who has the habit of bliss will be wealthy even in poverty; when wealthy, he will be even more wealthy.

Understand this well; it is one of my fundamental bases. Therefore I do not tell you to run away from wealth. I tell you: wealth gives you a chance for self-seeing. People say: when power comes to hand, power corrupts. I say: wrong. Lord Bacon said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ Wrong—utterly wrong. How will power make someone debauched? No—you are debauched; power gives opportunity.

It happened in this country. Gandhi’s followers were satyagrahis, social workers. When power came into their hands, they all became corrupt. People say power corrupted them. I say: they were corrupt; power gave the occasion. How will power corrupt? Seat Buddha upon the throne—if Buddha becomes corrupt, it will mean that Buddha is small and the throne is more powerful. Does this make sense—that Buddha is defeated by the throne? No. It does not ring true.

If your Buddhahood is defeated by the throne, it only means your Buddhahood was imposed—a forced veneer. When the opportunity came, the trouble began.

To be impotent is not to be brahmachari. When the true energy of brahmacharya arises, it is the deepening of the same sex-energy. If sex-energy is destroyed and then you become celibate, that is no brahmacharya; it is deception, self-cheating.

The knower is happy even in the marketplace, tranquil even in the shop. Vyavahara means the bazaar and the shop. And the one who is not a knower—in any condition... even in the temple you will not find him in the temple. Look within, he is somewhere else. The knower, sitting in the shop, is seated within—sukham aste. The shop goes on. There is no contradiction between the two. What contradiction is there in the shop running?

For the self-knowing, there is no contradiction. For the ignorant, there is. The ignorant says: When the shop runs, I forget myself; the shop runs, I forget. So I will go where there is no shop, so that I may remember myself. But the ignorant cannot leave his ignorance behind. Ignorance will go along.

Understand it this way: you go to the cinema—the film appears on the screen, but the film is not on the screen. The film is in the projector behind. He who runs away from the world is like the man who leaves the screen and runs off with the projector. The projector he keeps with him. Without a screen, it is true, he cannot see—but the projector is with him. If ever he finds a screen, instantly the show begins again.

Run from women—you have run away from the screen. Lust is with you; it is the projector. One day a woman appears—then... And remember, if you have run, the woman will become more charming than she ever was. The more you are tormented within, the more beautiful the woman will appear. The more you burn within, the more an ordinary woman becomes a nymph. The more you burn, the more beauty you will project upon her.

The hungry man takes great taste even in dry bread. With a full belly, delicacies have no taste. Hence your sadhus and sannyasins keep abusing women. They have two things to abuse: kamini and kanchana—woman and gold. They are troubled by these two. Their single song is: Beware of woman, beware of gold. Their song tells the truth—that these two things torment them. Money torments them, woman torments them.

Will woman and money torment? It is the desire within; the seeds of desire are sown. The situation may be left—where will you leave the mind-state? The mind goes along.

‘He alone is graceful who, by his very nature, even in ordinary dealings does not behave like the crowd, and like the great lake remains without disturbance.’

The ignorant keeps fighting, keeps entangling. If there is no one outside to entangle with, he will create inner entanglements, but he cannot live without them.

Kya-kya hua hai humse junoon mein na poochhiye,
Uljhe kabhi zameen se kabhi aasman se hum.

He keeps entangling, keeps quarreling. Quarrel is his lifestyle. If no one else is found to fight with, he fights with himself. But quarrel is his nature. And wherever the ignorant goes, whatever he does—no difference is made.

Mulla Nasruddin fell from his donkey. The whole village was amazed, for the donkey took him to the hospital. People came to Nasruddin’s house and said: Thank Allah you were not much hurt. One gentleman said: Truly, it is hard to believe that a donkey can be so intelligent. The proverb says: a donkey is a donkey. But your donkey is special! Such a sensible animal took you to the hospital—hard to believe. Nasruddin said: What intelligence! He took me to a donkey’s hospital!

If a donkey leads, he will lead to the veterinary hospital. The ignorant, even if he acts sensibly, how much can he act? There is a limit. Beyond that, ignorance cannot go.

Therefore the real issue, the real revolution, the real transformation is not of situations—it is of awareness. One has to be free of ignorance, not of the world. He who is free of ignorance is free of the world. When moorcha breaks, everything breaks. All dreams go—personal and collective. If ignorance remains, go anywhere—Mecca or Medina, Kaba or Kailash—no difference.

Svabhavat yasya naivarti lokavad avyavaharinaḥ.
Maha-hrid ivakshobhyo gata-kleshah sushobhate.

‘The knower, by nature—svabhavat—even in dealings does not behave like the crowd; like a great lake he is unshakable, free of afflictions—thus he is beautiful.’

By nature—mind this: by nature; not by plan, not by conduct—svabhavat. Not by effort, not by striving, not by imposed discipline—but by nature. Where understanding has dawned, actions arise out of nature. One man is quiet by effort. If you look carefully, within he is boiling, and on the surface he has plastered and painted himself into control. Imposed quiet does not serve much.

Mulla Nasruddin was caught; he had stolen someone’s hen. The lawyer coached him: what to say. He memorized it—do not move a word here or there. He learned it by heart. He repeated it several times to the lawyer. The lawyer said: Perfect. He recited it to his wife too. He hummed it all night. He went to court in the morning and won the case—the lawyer had taught well. He said exactly what the lawyer had taught. The magistrate asked in many ways, the opposing lawyer probed in many ways, but he did not budge. Everyone knew he had stolen the hen—the village is small. He had stolen many hens earlier too. But he stood firm.

Finally the magistrate said: We surrender. All right, you are acquitted, Nasruddin. Yet he kept standing. The magistrate said: Why do you stand? You are acquitted. He said: What does that mean—may I keep the hen?

If theft is inside, where will it go? All the coaching went to waste. However much a man imposes from above, something will leak from within and give news.

However much you become outwardly quiet, however much you become virtuous and well-behaved, however much you act—something or other will flow out from somewhere. Because what you are cannot be denied long.

Gurdjieff used to say: Let a man stay near me for three hours and I will know his reality. Because it is difficult to maintain your lie even for three hours. That is why mischief happens.

Those you meet on the road—whose relationship is only ‘Jairamji’—you take them to be very virtuous. On the road you meet, say ‘Jairamji,’ and go your way. For that brief time one can hold himself. He smiles, is delighted to see you, becomes garden-like—and you say: What a good man! Come a little closer and goodness and badness will be known. Come near and it will become difficult.

This is what happens every day in the world. You fall in love with someone, some woman falls in love with you; both are so beautiful! The love of both is wonderful—never before on earth, never again.

Then marry—and slowly you will descend to the ground. Reality begins to reveal itself. The veneer on top, the plastered cover, breaks. How long can you stretch it? The reality will come out. Imposition can work only for a while; the reality manifests.

Two people who live close—reality begins to be revealed. From a distance, all drums sound sweet.

The knower’s specialty is that he is svabhavat—natural. Svabhava means: awakened, he has known himself; his inner prajna has become illumined; the inner lamp is lit; he has recognized his nature. Now otherwise it cannot be. However you see him, you will always find him established in his nature.

‘He alone is graceful who, by nature, even in ordinary dealings does not behave like the crowd, and like a great lake remains without disturbance.’

In Sanskrit the word is lokavat. Better than ‘ordinary folk’ is lokavat. Lokavat means: like the crowd. He who does not behave like the crowd.

How does the crowd behave? The crowd’s behavior is deception. They are something, they display something. They are something, they tell something. They say something, they do something. From afar they appear one thing; come near, they appear another. From afar they shine like gold; come closer and even brass becomes suspect—whether even brass or perhaps only a polish of brass. The crowd’s behavior is the behavior of fraud. The knower is simple, naked. He is as he is. If it pleases you, good; if not, good. The knower does not mold himself into your patterns. He does not behave to meet your expectations. He behaves as he is. If you like it, fine; if not, fine. The knower does not behave seeing you; he behaves from his nature. Perhaps many will not like it—because those who are skilled in falsehood will not like this truth. Those who are adept in deception will feel danger. They will feel the fear of their untruths breaking.

Therefore the crowd is always angry with the knowers. Yes, when the knower is dead, then they worship him—for a dead knower is no danger. The living knower—the crowd is always opposed; it will be. Because the living knower’s presence itself declares that the crowd is false. Coming near the living knower you begin to see your real face. The living knower is a touchstone—come near him and it is immediately clear whether you are gold or brass.

And no one is ready to accept that he is brass. You know it, yet you are not ready to accept it. You know you are brass, yet you go on proclaiming yourself gold. The more it becomes clear that you are brass, the louder you shout that you are gold. The ego has to protect itself. Hence people are angry with the knower.

Mahavira stood naked. This is the conduct of all knowers—whether they removed their clothes or not; all knowers stand naked. They stand as they are—like a child, natural.

‘He who, by nature, in dealings does not behave lokavat...’

He who even in ordinary situations does not follow the crowd’s conduct, does not imitate blindly; whose being has a privacy, an inner stream of his own nature, a freedom; who has his own song; who does not shape himself according to you.

Look at your monks and mahatmas—they have shaped themselves according to you. That is why you worship them. You did not worship Mahavira; you stoned him—but you worship the Jain monk. Because Mahavira did not mold his behavior according to you. Mahavira made his proclamation—just as he was. He may not please you, but your Jain monk pleases you. Because he is your follower. As you say, he does. You say: tie a band over your mouth—and he ties it, even if it looks like a circus. As you say, he sits, he stands, he walks. He is utterly obedient. Whom else will you worship if not such obedient people?

Their behavior is lokavat, not svabhavik. To be svabhavik is to be revolutionary. Svabhava is always rebellious. Svabhava means: as the inner mood is, as the inner feeling, as the wave. The natural man is whimsical. He has no shackles of conduct and propriety.

That is why you remember Rama; you have set Krishna aside. Krishna’s behavior is natural; Rama’s is of maryada—code. Rama is maryada-purushottama. Krishna’s behavior is very different, unique. No maryada—beyond code. Krishna is free. So Rama is no more than ‘gentlemanly.’ The saintliness has flowered in Krishna. Rama is more lokamanya—popular with the crowd—because lokavat. Krishna can never be lokamanya.

Those who try to make him lokamanya prune him. They keep only that much which is acceptable. Surdas sings his childhood leelas, not his youth—because in childhood it is okay if you break a pot, if you are naughty. Surdas himself feels a difficulty with the pots Krishna broke in youth. With the clothes of women taken and placed on the tree—there is a little difficulty.

Mahatma Gandhi speaks of the Krishna of the Gita, not of the Krishna of the Bhagavata. The Bhagavata’s Krishna is dangerous. In the Gita there is little of Krishna himself—only discourse. Nothing of his conduct. The Gita is Krishna’s statement; the Bhagavata is Krishna’s life. In the Gita it is easier. But even there one has to whitewash. Even there Gandhi has to say: The war is not real, it is allegorical. This war is not between Kauravas and Pandavas, but between evil and good. He has to say this, because he is nonviolent. If the war is real, and Krishna is conducting a real war, then there is sin.

Krishna accepts no maryada. Not the code of ahimsa, not of society—no code. Supreme freedom of life, and the extraordinary courage to let life be as it is... Krishna cannot be poured into small molds. There is difficulty. Hence Rama appeals.

Gandhi used to say: The Gita is my mother. But at the moment of death what rose to his lips was ‘He Ram!’—not Krishna. Krishna did not go deep. At the time of death what is within rises—‘Ram’ arose.

Bear this in mind.

‘He who by nature is natural in dealings, does not behave lokavat, and who like a great lake is without disturbance—he alone is graceful.’

Now understand ‘like a great lake, without disturbance.’ Have you ever seen the great ocean without waves? Maha-hrid means the ocean. Have you ever seen the ocean calm? Waves arise there—lofty waves. Waves upon waves. The ocean is not a pond, not a swimming pool. The ocean is the ocean—the great ocean. The bigger the ocean, the higher the waves—touching the sky. Now this sentence is extraordinary:

Maha-hrid ivakshobhyaḥ gata-kleshah sushobhate.

‘And as the great ocean is without disturbance, so is the knower.’

What does this mean? The ocean is always full of waves. Ashtavakra is saying: Is being emptied of waves the only way to be without disturbance? Waves arise—and yet the peace remains unbroken. Standing in the world—and the sannyas remains unbroken. In water like the lotus. The ocean is full of waves, yet it is not disturbed—not at all. You may think from the shore that it is disturbed; that is your mistake. That is your commentary, not the ocean’s statement. The ocean is supremely silent. These waves are waves of its silence. In these waves too, it is silent. Behind these waves is an unbroken depth. These waves are not contrary to its silence. There is a harmony of waves and silence.

Life grows deep there where even the opposite is assimilated. Remember well: where you drop the opposite, life becomes crippled. Where you cut off the opposite, life becomes weak. Where you separate and throw away the opposite, there you become poor and paltry. Life’s grandeur, its fragrance, its richness is in the opposite. Where, in the presence of opposites, music arises—that is life.

Do not run away from the opposite; transcend the opposite. Do not be a fugitive.

If the ocean were to run away from waves, what would happen? It could run to the Himalayas, freeze like ice; then no waves rise. So far your sannyas has been like ice—frozen, dead. No movement, no wave, no music. Cold—no warmth, no love—lifeless!

Your sannyas should be like the great ocean—dancing! Filled with the longing to touch the sky. With high waves—and yet peaceful. Hence this astonishing statement.

‘The ignorant man’s renunciation is generally seen to be centered on possessions; but for the knower, whose hope has melted in the body, where is attachment, where is renunciation?’

This sutra too is unique.

Parigraheshu vairagyam prayo moordhasya drishyate.
Dehe vigalitasasya kva ragaḥ kva viragata.

Unique.

Parigraheshu vairagyam prayo moordhasya drishyate.
‘The mūḍha’s vairagya is focused on possessions.’

Understand. The mūḍha’s renunciation arises from possessions—against possessions. He says: Abandon wealth. First he held wealth; now he says: Abandon wealth. But his gaze is stuck on wealth. First he was obsessed—kanchana, kanchana, kanchana; gold, gold... he slept in gold. Now he says: I have awakened—but still he talks of gold. He says: Leave gold, leave money. Even in leaving, the holding continues. It has not yet dropped. He says: Gold is mud. But if it is mud, why do you not call it mud? Why call it gold? The matter is finished.

I have heard a very ancient Maharashtrian tale—of Ranka and Banka. Ranka is like the one whose sannyas arises in opposition to possessions. He cut wood, sold it, ate whatever he got. What remained in the evening he distributed; he kept nothing at home at night—a supreme renunciate. One time unseasonal rains came—three or four days it rained. He could not go to the forest. He and his wife Banka remained hungry. On the fourth day they went to the forest. Returning with wood, Ranka walking ahead with his bundle, Banka behind with hers, he saw a pouch of gold coins lying by the road. Quickly he threw down his bundle, pushed the pouch into a pit, and covered it with earth.

As he was finishing throwing earth, his wife arrived. She asked: What are you doing? He had sworn to tell the truth; he could not lie. He said: It is difficult. If morality is imposed from above, such difficulties come. He had sworn truth—he could not lie. So he said: Now listen. As I walked I saw a pouch of gold coins—someone traveling must have dropped it. I was putting it in a pit and covering it with earth in case you—being a woman—your mind might be tempted. And we are hungry for three days. Some desire may arise—‘Pick it up.’ To save you, I put it in the pit and covered it with earth.

They say Banka began to laugh. From that day she was called Banka—she must have been a witty woman. She laughed and laughed. Ranka was puzzled. He asked: What is the matter? Why are you laughing?

She said: I laugh because you are putting mud upon mud. You feel no shame putting mud upon mud?

Here are two standpoints. One is the renunciate whose renunciation is centered on possession. He still sees gold. However much he may say ‘Gold is mud’—he is saying it to contradict what he sees. Gold still calls to him. Gold still invites. By saying ‘mud’ he lectures himself: it is mud—where are you going? Don’t go. But gold is still gold.

What Banka said is supreme renunciation—true sannyas. Putting mud upon mud—have you no shame? The very idea is absurd.

Gold is as it is. To be mad for it is madness; to run away from it is also madness. One has to awaken—know.

‘The mūḍha’s renunciation is centered on possessions.’

He remains surrounded by the very things he runs from.

‘But for the knower, whose hope has melted in the body—where is attachment, where is renunciation?’

Such a knower is vitaraga. He is not a viragi. Viragi is not a beautiful word—it is the opposite of ragi. And what is the opposite of raga is still tied to raga. The opposite is always bound.

Have you noticed? Friends may forget, enemies do not. There is a bond even with an enemy. There is an attachment with one you oppose.

Ashtavakra says: For the knower, where raga, where viraga! The strange thing is—those who run from the world do not end the world; it manifests in new forms, under the name of renunciation.

The flower withers even when placed at the god’s feet;
The thorn remains fresh, unstaled, even fallen in dust.

Have you seen? The flower withers even at the deity’s feet; the thorn does not wither even when fallen in dust. Our understanding in this life is as delicate as a flower; even if offered at the deity’s feet, it withers. And our foolishness is like a thorn; even in dust it does not wither—remains fresh. The thorn, once broken from the tree, does not become less thorn; it becomes more thorn. The flower, once plucked, withers, perishes.

Our understanding is very delicate, frail; our foolishness very deep. Even if we run from the world, the foolishness does not leave; it continues in new forms, new ways. It comes wearing new garbs—no difference.

Only his foolishness ends ‘who has had his hope melt in the body’—he who has known that ‘I am not the body.’ He who has known who he is.

Dehe vigalitasasya kva ragaḥ kva viragata.
He who has recognized ‘I am not the body’—all raga and all viraga belong to the body. Attachment comes from the body; renunciation comes from the body. You were mad after women—one day you tired and said: Now I am renounced.

A friend came one day and said: Now I must take sannyas. I asked: What happened? He said: Bankruptcy. Bankruptcy—therefore sannyas! What sannyas will that be which comes from bankruptcy? One taste that had been savory is now unsavory—you move to its opposite. Now that he is broke, money is gone—at least taste the joy of being a renunciate! Take the pleasure of viragya. But nothing changes.

Vitaragata means: neither raga nor viraga. Balance. Resting in oneself. Both these attitudes are futile. Now there is neither clinging to the world, nor any insistence upon abandoning it. Let the world be as it is—God’s will. Let the world go—God’s will. As it is, so be it—fine. If it vanishes this very moment—fine.

If suddenly the knower finds the whole world gone and he is standing alone, still no worry arises—‘Where did it go? What happened?’ For him it had gone long ago. If the world grows a thousand times, no difference. For the one whose relation with the body is snapped, whose hope has melted in the body—nothing makes a difference.

‘The mūḍha’s vision is always stuck in ‘like’ and ‘dislike’—but the healthy man’s vision, though accompanied by choice and non-choice, is of the form of seeing the Seer, free of being caught by the seen.’

Bhavana-abhavanā-saktā dṛṣṭir mūḍhasya sarvadā.
Bhavya-bhāvanayā sā tu svasthasya adṛṣṭi-rūpiṇī.

This sutra is important.

The mūḍha’s vision is always entangled in ‘Let me do this; let me not do that. Let this happen; let that not happen. This is pleasing, that displeasing. Here is my attachment; there is my aversion’—always in choosing. ‘I am for this; I am against that’—always in duality. Stuck in bhavana and abhavana, in like and dislike.

Sometimes he says: I am attracted to wealth. Sometimes he says: I am disenchanted with wealth. Sometimes he says: There is charm in wealth. Sometimes he says: There is repulsion in wealth. But repulsion is attraction standing on its head—no difference—bhavana or abhavana.

‘But the healthy man’s vision—though accompanied by choice and non-choice—is of the nature of ‘seeing the Seer’ and is free of the ‘seen’.’

He who is healthy—svastha—who abides in himself; who has come home, to his center; who is enthroned upon his own seat, svabhavat—who has come into his own nature, such a person, though accompanied by bhavya-bhavana—

This does not mean that if you place stones on his plate he will begin to eat them because now nothing makes a difference to him. Do not misunderstand in such madness. Some people fall into the illusion that a paramahansa is one to whom nothing is different. From this illusion many fools have become such ‘paramahansas.’

That which is honored—man becomes that. Even this can be practiced, and it happens. There is no obstacle. You can accustom yourself to filth too.

I have heard: In a village, a whimsical rich man had a fancy. In one of his houses there were many sheep and goats. The stench was terrible. He said in jest in a gathering: Whoever stays in this room for a night, I will give him a thousand rupees.

Many tried—who would refuse a thousand? It is only for a night. But no one could last more than an hour—the stench was such. Sheep and goats, living there for years; the stench had thickened. And even now the sheep and goats were inside. To sit among them—only a paramahansa can. The smell was so strong the head would hum and one would run out. ‘To hell with your thousand.’ The last man who tried lasted an hour.

Then came Mulla Nasruddin. He said: Give me a chance too. As soon as he entered and sat, the owner was amazed—the sheep and goats began to run out. In an hour the room was empty. He looked through the window—perhaps he is chasing them? But Nasruddin was seated in lotus posture in the middle. He had not done anything. He had not touched them. The owner was astonished.

They say he asked the sheep and goats: Where are you running? They said: This man is emitting such a terrible stench—he must never have bathed in many births. It is impossible to stay inside.

Some people take this as paramahansa-hood. Paramahansa does not mean he cannot tell what is right or wrong, what is beautiful or ugly. Paramahansa, according to Ashtavakra here, is:

‘The healthy man’s vision—though accompanied by choosing—’

He knows what is right, what wrong; what is beautiful, what not; what is to be done, what not. He knows; but still he knows himself to be other than these. His attention is on the Seer, not on the seen. He knows what is edible and what is not; but he is not bound by these. Beyond them he knows his own being—‘I am other than these; I am always other than the seen.’ He abides as the Seer.

Bhavana-abhavanā-saktā dṛṣṭir mūḍhasya sarvadā.
The mūḍha’s vision ends here. He is finished in ‘this is good, that is bad.’ Beyond this he has no being—‘What shall I do, what not; what shall I gain, what lose’—all ends there. He has no state of consciousness that transcends the two—‘I am beyond doing and non-doing, beyond pleasure and pain, beyond beauty and ugliness.’ He has no vision of the beyond—no paragamini drishti.

Bhavya-bhāvanayā sā tu svasthasya adṛṣṭi-rūpiṇī.
And the knower, the healthy one—he too sees what is to be done and not done, what to choose and not to choose; but simultaneously, at a deeper level, he also sees that he is beyond the dual. He is beyond both. His being is far away. He is untouched, stainless. He is the Seer, not the seen. He sees everything, but he also sees the Seer.

You only see things; you do not see yourself. You see all, and miss yourself. To the Seer, everything is seen—and one more thing is seen that you do not see: the being of the Seer himself is seen.

So it is not that the paramahansa will try to pass through a wall because he cannot tell the difference between wall and door. Such a man is mūḍha, not a paramahansa. And often it has happened in the East that countless mūḍhas have been worshiped in the hope that they are paramahansas.

I know—there was a gentleman in my village, famous far and wide. People came from far to see him. I knew him from childhood. I have never seen such a mūḍha again—what one would call an idiot. Yet people took him to be a paramahansa. From far they came for darshan and returned delighted. He could not even speak properly—he was an idiot. Babble came from his mouth, and people would derive meaning—‘Gurudev has said so.’ I sat with him many times and listened. I was puzzled—he said nothing; those wanting meaning took their own. Seeing him nod, they took signs and put money on a lottery or placed a bet or something. Some won, some lost. Those who lost thought they had taken the wrong meaning; those who won said: Gurudev showed the way.

His saliva would drip; people said: He is a paramahansa—like a child. With saliva dripping, they gave him tea; he would drink. The saliva fell into it; he would pass it to someone who would drink—the gift of amrita! He could not speak properly, nothing. Had he been in the West, he would be in an asylum. In the East he was a paramahansa.

The opposite is happening in the West. In the West some paramahansas are in asylums—because there, no one will accept a paramahansa; to them he looks mad; here the mad become paramahansas.

Now in the West there is concern. R. D. Laing, a famous psychologist, has created a revolutionary stream: many in asylums are not mad. Yes, they are not ‘normal’; their vision has risen a little above the normal; they have been locked up because the crowd cannot accept their vision. They are not deranged; they are worthy of worship; they are in asylums.

R. D. Laing sends me his books; I think someday he will come here. If he comes, I will tell him: the opposite we have done here—we have made the mad into paramahansas. Both are dangerous: neither are the mad paramahansas, nor are paramahansas mad. The mad are mad; paramahansas are paramahansas—very different things.

Paramahansa means: one to whom everything is visible—and one more thing is visible that is not visible to you. He also sees the one to whom all is visible. The Seer is seen. He lives as the Seer. In the seen there is no longer the state of attachment or aversion.

Remember this. Each sutra is invaluable. One sutra of Ashtavakra is so precious that if you bring even one into your life, Paramatman will enter your life. One sutra can open the door of your life. Superficially, you may feel these sutras repeat themselves. This is not repetition—it is the effort to say the truth from all sides, all dimensions, all directions, so that no mistake remains and you may become acquainted in every way. When the right understanding of truth becomes clear in your mind, you can set forth on the journey.

What we begin to seek is what we find.
What we begin to seek is what can be found.

Enough for today.