Maha Geeta #75

The first sutra: 'The muni who is desireless in all actions and behaves childlike— even the deeds done by that pure one do not stain him.'
There are many things in this sutra to be understood.
First thing: sarvārambheṣu. Ordinarily, whenever we begin any work, we do it out of desire. We do it because we want to get something, to fulfill some ambition.
The wise one does not begin any action for any reason. He has nothing to gain, nothing to become. What had to happen has happened. What had to be gained has been gained. Yet actions go on. In these actions there is no desire of initiation. There is no beginning. That which Existence makes happen, happens. The wise one, on his own, does nothing. If the Lord calls him to speak, he speaks. If the Lord keeps him silent, he remains silent. If the Lord moves him, he moves. If the Lord does not, he stands still.
The day the ego is gone, the very longing to initiate actions also disappears. Now the beginning of actions is in Paramatman, and the end of actions is also dedicated to Him. In the wise, action appears, but it does not begin; the beginning is in the Divine. The wave rises from the Divine and manifests through the wise.
Understand this. In truth, it is so even for the ignorant— but the ignorant thinks the wave rose from himself. The ignorant takes himself to be the source of his actions. There, bondage is born. There is no bondage in action; bondage lies in considering oneself the source of action. Have you ever done any action? How could you ever do any action? Neither birth is yours nor death is yours— how then can life be yours?
I have heard: beside a palace lay a heap of stones. A small child came playing, picked up a stone, and hurled it toward a palace window. As the stone began to rise, it said to the stones lying below, to its kith and kin, 'Listen! The wings you have always dreamed of— they have grown on me. Today I am going to fly in the sky.'
Stones too dream of flying. They cannot fly. In helplessness they yearn. Today ego awakened in this stone. Someone had thrown it, yet the stone declared, 'Do you see? Do you hear? The wings you dreamed of have grown upon me. Today I go on a journey into the skies.' It was being sent, but it said, 'I am going.' The initiative had not arisen from within itself. The beginning had been made by someone else, yet it owned that beginning as its own.
Then, when it struck the glass window and the glass shattered, it burst into peals of laughter. It said, 'Do you hear? A thousand times I have said it, a thousand times I have warned: let no one come in my way, otherwise I will shatter him to pieces.'
Now when a stone strikes glass, the glass shatters; the stone does not do it. It happens by the very nature of stone and glass that glass shatters. Understand the difference between happening and doing. The stone has done nothing. What is there to do? The glass broke. The stone is a mere instrument in the breaking, not the doer.
But who would miss such a chance? How could the stone let go of such an opportunity? As others have made proclamations— you have— so did it: 'Let no one come into my path, otherwise I will shatter him to pieces.' Today the occasion presented itself, the proclamation seems proven. To miss such a moment would not be right. And what can the shards of glass say? The thing is happening, happening before the eyes. The stone has shattered the glass— so where is the denial? Where is the contrary proof? Yet still, the stone did not shatter the glass; the glass shattered. When stone strikes glass, by the nature of both... and the name of nature is Paramatman. It is happening spontaneously. No one is doing, nothing is being done.
And when the glass shattered and the stone fell upon the palace carpet, it sighed with relief. It said, 'A long journey— I am tired; I have also slain an enemy; let me rest a little.' It has fallen on the carpet, yet it says, 'Let me rest a little.'
Then it began to think, 'Preparations have been made for my welcome. Carpets have been spread. Someone awaits me.' Just then the palace servant, hearing the clatter of the stone and glass shattering and the stone falling, came running. The stone thought, 'The master comes to receive me.' When the servant picked the stone up in his hand, the stone said, 'Thank you.' Though no one heard it. The language of stone is different; the language of man is different.
The servant had picked it up to throw it back, but the stone said, 'Thank you; I am pleased by your welcome.' Why wouldn’t it be? 'I am no ordinary stone; I am special. Rarely are there such stones on whose wings sprout and who fly in the sky. I have heard of this in the Puranas; these days it is hardly seen.'
The servant threw the stone back. It was thrown— but the stone began to say, 'I long for home. The journey has been too long; much time has passed; let me return home.' As it began to fall toward the heap, it said, 'Look, I have returned. Though I was a guest in palaces, an ornament in emperors’ hands. What receptions were not held! You would not even understand. You never rose from this heap, never flew. The freedom of the sky, communion with moon and stars— I have known all, seen all; yet still, one’s own home is one’s own home. I missed home very much. I have returned.' The stone fell back into the heap.
Such too is the tale of man. Neither the beginning is in your hands nor the end. So long as breath runs, it runs; when it does not, what will you do? Yet you say, 'I am breathing.' Existence breathes through you, and you say, 'I am breathing.' If you are the one breathing, then when death stands at the door, keep breathing and you will see who was the breather! When death comes to the door you will not be able to take even a single extra breath. The breath that has gone out has gone out; it will not return within. However much you writhe and cry. However much noise you make— the breath will not return. You will want to take it, but you will not be able to.
You are not breathing; breath is happening. The Divine is breathing. By Divine I mean the Whole. The Whole is pulsating in each of its parts, breathing. The wise one sees it as it is. The ignorant believes as he wants to believe. He does not see as it is.
Sarvārambheṣu— the very beginning of all deeds is the point to be understood.
Krishna said in the Gita: dedicate the desire for fruits to the Lord. This sutra goes even deeper. For it says: dedicate the beginning of the fruit as well. Desire for fruit arises at the end; the fruit comes later. Krishna says, dedicate the desire for fruit to the Lord; Ashtavakra says, dedicate the beginning of the fruit to Him. Because if you have not surrendered the beginning, you will not be able to surrender the desire for fruits either. If you miss at the beginning, how will you manage later? If you stumble at the first step, how will the last step fall rightly? The arithmetic went wrong from the start. The mistake was made at the very first moment.
That is why I have called Krishna’s Gita the Gita, and Ashtavakra’s Gita the Mahagita— the Great Gita. It goes much deeper, catches at the very root. A transformation that uproots from the base becomes possible.
Leave the beginning to the Divine. And the one who has left the beginning, the end too is left. If at the very beginning you are no longer the master, how will you be the master later? Now no place remains. Now ownership has no ground on which to stand. You have pulled the ground away.
Sarvārambheṣu— at the beginning of all actions. That urge to do, that 'I will do; I will show; I will become such; such will happen through me'— leave it. In leaving it, one becomes a knower. In clinging to it, one remains ignorant.
And if you do not leave the beginning, try a million ways— you will not be able to leave the end either. How will you? These things are linked. If you say, 'I took birth,' then how will you say, 'Death happened'? For birth and death are two sides of the same coin, two stations of the same journey. The one in whose hands is birth— in his hands is death as well. If birth is in your hands, then death is in your hands. And if birth is not in your hands, only then is it possible that death is not in your hands either. The seed is not in your hands, nor is the fruit.
Krishna says, leave the fruit; Ashtavakra says, leave the seed itself! Then everything is left. For from the seed the tree will arise; on the tree the fruits will grow; and in the fruit the seeds again. If you wait till the fruit, meanwhile the false journey you undertake will become so dense, the habit so strong, that you will not be able to leave.
Hence a curious event occurs: devotees of the Gita— when the fruit turns bad, they leave it to God; when the fruit is good, they cannot leave it. To leave the auspicious becomes difficult; the inauspicious they can leave.
I have heard: such a Gita-devotee lived in a village. He had planted a very beautiful garden. He would tell everyone, 'Look, nowhere else do such flowers bloom; nowhere such greenery. This is the fruit of my labor.' And he would read the Gita daily. God thought: 'He reads the Gita daily, meditates on renouncing the desire for fruit, but says: I planted the garden. I am greening its trees; he says: I have planted. I blossom the flowers on these trees; he says: my flowers are greater. I pour rain on these trees, I pour the sun— and he says: I have given birth to so much beauty.'
So God came in the guise of a poor Brahmin. He asked him, and he said, 'I planted it. Come, I will show you.' He showed him everything. Just then— God had arranged this— a cow entered his garden. He was showing the garden when a cow strayed in. He went mad. That cow ate his most beautiful saplings, ate his roses. He grabbed a club, ran and killed the cow. He forgot that he was a Brahmin. He forgot that he should not interfere: 'The flowers belong to Him, and so does the cow. Why this haste?'
And when he had beaten the cow and it died, he panicked, for cow-killing is a great sin! The poor man— this beggar who had come with him— had seen it. And the beggar said, 'What have you done?' The Brahmin said, 'Who am I to do? The Lord does everything. Hasn’t God said in the Gita: Arjuna, those you see as living, I have already slain them. You are merely a nimitta, an instrument. This cow was to die, sir! I did not kill it. I was made the instrument.'
The beggar laughed. He said, 'He made you the instrument in killing the cow— and in making the flowers bloom, He didn’t make you the instrument? You planted the trees, and the cow was killed by God?'
'Sweet— keep; bitter— spit': such is the mind’s logic. Choose the good, decorate the ego with the good, leave the bad.
Ashtavakra’s sutra goes deeper. Ashtavakra says: leave the beginning itself. Start from the seed. Walk rightly from the very first step. If the journey is to end at the temple, then from the very first moment let there be worship, from the very first moment prayer, from the very first moment wave the lamp, hum the Lord’s song— so that in the end a temple happens. Do not live such that your whole life is spent in taverns, gambling dens, and at the last moment you arrive at God.
People are very clever. They say, 'We will leave the fruit.' But you will not be able to leave the fruit— not until you have left the beginning, the initiative.
'He who is desireless in all actions...'
Sarvārambheṣu niṣkāmo.
Only the one who has left the beginning is desireless. Desire hides in the beginning, in the craving: 'I will do; it will be by me; through me; I will show that I am something.'
'He who is desireless in all actions...'
The word muni also needs to be understood. Muni arises from mauna— silence. The one who no longer speaks on his own, he is the muni. When the Lord uses him, he speaks; when He does not, he remains quiet.
When the great English poet Coleridge died, thousands of unfinished poems were found in his house. His friends would repeatedly say, 'Why don’t you complete these? Some are almost complete, just a line is missing. Finish them. Such beautiful poems— they will remain incomplete.' Coleridge would say, 'He who began them will complete them. Who am I to complete?'
'I tried earlier. All efforts proved futile. Sometimes three lines of a quatrain would descend, the fourth would not. In my early days, when I was raw, young, egoistic, blind, I used to fabricate the fourth line, push and fit it in. But I found again and again that the fourth was very ordinary. The three were unique; the fourth, like a dirty blot, destroyed their whiteness. The three were of the sky; the fourth was of the earth. There was no harmony. The three were of God; the one was mine. Even those three would limp because of it. Then I decided— He will compose, He will compose. I will only allow that much which descends. Now I simply wait. I am merely an instrument in His hand. When He hums, I write. As much as He hums, that much I write. If His will is three lines, let it be three. I will not defile them.'
Coleridge completed only seven poems in his life— unique they are. And he died leaving some forty thousand poems incomplete. They all could have been unique, but Coleridge was an honest poet. He should be called a rishi, not a poet. He wasn’t a rhymester; he was a seer— a rishi like those of the Upanishads. What descended, he let descend. As far as it could descend, it descended. If it did not, it did not. 'God’s will!'
Muni means: one who does not even speak on his own. More than that, one who does not even say yes or no on his own. When you ask something of a wise one, the wise one asks the Divine. You may not see it, for it is invisible. You ask the wise one; the wise one places your question at the feet of the Divine. Then whatever answer flows, flows.
The answer comes through the wise one, but it is not his. Speech breaks forth from him, but it is not his.
Muni means: on his own he has become like a vacuum. Only when one becomes utterly empty, utterly silent, can the Divine speak. So long as there is inner noise, so long as your own waves fill you, His subtle whispers cannot be heard. So long as you are crazed by your thoughts, His sweet notes cannot flow through you. You cannot become the passage for them.
Sarvārambheṣu niṣkāmo yaś charet bālavān muniḥ.
And also take note of this word bālavān— childlike.
'He who is desireless in all actions and behaves childlike.'
What are the marks of a child? First: the child is ignorant. The wise one too is ignorant. You will be startled— for wise and ignorant sounds contradictory. But I tell you, the wise is ignorant. The wise knows nothing. Only that much which God lets be known— just that. The wise does not know on his own. The wise is not a scholar. The scholar never becomes wise. Sinners may reach, scholars never do. The scholar keeps wandering. There is an arrogance in the scholar— 'I know.' The wise has this much awareness: 'What do I know! I am not— how can I know? Where is knowing possible?'
The wise is childlike. He has accepted his ignorance: 'You let me know— I will know that much. You show me— I will see that much. I have neither my own eyes nor my own ears nor my own intelligence. I own nothing. You are my only wealth. I am not. I am a cipher, a zero. As much as You manifest through this zero, that much I will appear— but it is You who are appearing.'
Socrates said: 'The day I came to know that I know nothing, that very day the first ray of knowledge descended.' The Upanishads say: the one who says, 'I know'— know that he knows not. Lao Tzu has said: the pride of knowing exists only in those to whom nothing has yet been revealed. In knowers, the very idea of 'I know' vanishes. In knowers, the feeling 'I know' does not arise. That is but a part of ignorance.
Now you can understand. Only the ignorant feels, 'I know,' for 'I' condenses only in ignorance. The wise has no sense of 'I know.' And yet the wise alone knows; the ignorant does not.
It is paradoxical, but life is profoundly paradoxical. Here, those who have the stiffness of knowing— they have nothing. And those who have the feeling of not-knowing— they have all. Here, those who boast of wealth are poor; those who have seen their poverty— they have found the treasure. Here, the stiff are worth two pennies; those who have dropped their stiffness— priceless. Here, those who are— are not; and those who have become 'not'— in their lives the first ray of being dawns. If you wish to be, dissolve.
So the first thing in being childlike— ignorance. The wise is ignorant like a child. There is a slight difference, hence 'childlike,' not 'child.' Childlike means 'like a child'; not an actual child.
Jesus’ famous saying. Someone asked in a marketplace: 'Who will enter the kingdom of my Father?' He looked around; in front were the village rabbi, the priests, the rich. They thought perhaps he would point toward them. But Jesus lifted a small child from the crowd onto his shoulder and said, 'Those who will be like this child will enter the kingdom of my Father.'
'Like this child'— he did not say that children will enter. Otherwise all children would. 'Like this child'— note the difference. Like a child, and yet not merely a child. Somewhat like a child, and somewhat something else. Childlike.
What is the difference? The child is ignorant, but he is not aware of his ignorance. The wise is also ignorant, but he is aware of his ignorance. That is the difference. In that very awareness, all becomes known. The child is ignorant, only ignorant, and unawakened. Ignorance plus unawareness— child. Ignorance plus awareness— wise. The difference is awareness versus unawareness. The child sleeps; the wise is awake. The child knows nothing; the wise knows nothing. But the child does not even know that he knows nothing. Therefore the child will soon be caught in a delusion. As he begins to learn, he will think, 'Now I am knowing... now I am knowing. I have learned so much; I have returned from college; from the university.'
Just so, Uddalaka’s son returned from the gurukul one day, having learned all the scriptures, committed all the Vedas to memory. When his father saw him coming, the father was very sad; tears came to his eyes. For here comes one strutting. How can the wise strut? The wise becomes humble. The son walked in stiff with pride.
He had reason: he had stood first in the gurukul, won great prizes, mastered all scriptures. He thought his father would pat his back, but the father sat downcast. When the son stood before him, his pride was such that he could not even touch his father’s feet. How could he? He must have felt, 'This father is ignorant; I have returned wise.'
Often it happens: when boys return from college and university, they think, 'What does the father know? Uneducated fellow!'
Shvetaketu did not touch his father’s feet. He stood. Uddalaka said, 'Son, have you known That by knowing which all is known?'
He said, 'What are you saying? That was not in our syllabus. To know That by knowing which all is known— our teacher never spoke of it. I have learned the Vedas, history, Puranas, grammar, language, mathematics, geography— all that there was; I have learned all. This question never arose in all those years.'
Uddalaka said, 'Then go back, son. In our house there have not been nominal Brahmins. In our house there have been true Brahmins— by knowing Brahman. We have tasted Brahman, not become Brahmins by birth. Go. Seek That One.'
There is knowledge that comes from outside— you collect it. What comes from outside remains outside; it will never become your inner flame. It is borrowed; it remains stale, left-overs. You have not known by yourself. This 'knowing oneself,' knowing the One— the One hidden within— that knowing alone is such that by it all is known.
But every child will go to school, college, university, amass knowledge, collect degrees. And in the end all degrees prove to be only burdens, even diseases. Yet he will collect. For now he must wander.
The wise becomes childlike in another sense. Having known all, he reaches the conclusion that by such knowing nothing is known. Having known, he throws knowledge into the garbage like rubbish. He becomes innocent again, childlike again. He has roamed the world and found nothing. His hands remain empty.
Seeing this, he leaves the lust for knowing. Now he says, 'What will knowing do?' Now he wants to know the One who knows all— the knower, not the known. He wants to know the seer, not the seen— the one within who knows all.
Childlike— one thing.
Second thing: a child has this beauty— whatever happens does not go beyond the moment. You scold a child, he gets angry, his eyes become red, he stamps his feet, filled with rage. He says, 'Now forever I am your enemy. I will never look at your face.' An hour later, after a little wandering outside, he forgets and sits in your lap.
In him, whatever happens is only for the moment. It does not stick; it flows. He does not hold on; no knots are tied within him. In you, knots are tied. Someone insulted you— a knot was tied. It may be twenty years ago— the knot remains. Fifty years ago someone abused you— the knot remains. The abuser is gone; the knot remains.
And on such knots, knot upon knot accumulates. You become knotted, complicated. The child is simple— no knots tie in him. He is like water.
Understand thus: draw a line on water— you cannot even draw it, it is gone. Draw a line on sand— it lasts a little; a gust of wind will erase it, or someone walking will. Draw a line on stone— then no gust erases it; it will remain for ages.
The small child is like water— simple, fluid. The line is drawn, and before it is drawn, it is gone. Nothing remains. Waves come and go; no stains are left. His innocence, his virginity, remain intact. The day knots begin in your mind, childhood is gone.
People ask me: on which day did childhood go? The day knots began. Look back. Remember the very last thing you recall of your childhood. You will be able to go back to four years of age, at most three. When the last station comes in the journey of memory— beyond which nothing is remembered— know that on that day a knot formed. Only the knot is remembered; nothing else. That is why up to three or four, no memory forms— because without knots, how can memory form?
Memory forms when you begin to keep knots as possessions. Someone abused you, and you kept it as a treasure: 'I will take revenge.' This will never fade. You are no longer water; you have congealed. Now lines can be carved on you. Your virginity is destroyed, your softness, your fluidity. You are no longer a child.
The wise becomes childlike again— like water again. You throw an abuse— the thing comes and goes, it is over.
A man came and spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped his face with his robe and said to him, 'Brother, anything more to say?' As if he had said something! He had spat. Ananda was very angry— Ananda, Buddha’s disciple. He said, 'Master, grant me permission to break his neck. Old Kshatriya! He has been a monk for twenty years— what difference? Knots do not dissolve so easily. His arms quivered: 'This is too much. He spit on you and we sit watching! Please just give me the word— I will break his neck.'
Buddha said, 'This man’s spitting doesn’t surprise me, but your words do. Ananda, twenty years with me— your old habits haven’t gone? And I say: this man wanted to say something. It happens at times that words cannot be found; he said it by spitting. He wanted to say something. He is not adept in language; perhaps he does not know how to abuse properly, or whatever abuses he knew would not suffice. See his compulsion. He wanted to say something.'
Sometimes it happens: you embrace someone because you wanted to say something that words could not carry. You squeeze someone’s hand to say what words cannot. You place a garland around someone’s neck; you wanted to say, you could not— the flowers speak. Sometimes you want to say— tears moisten the eyes. You wanted to say, could not; the eyes say it with tears. This man wanted to say something. Some thorn was pricking inside him. By spitting, he threw it out; now he is relieved.
The man heard all this. He was in great difficulty; he ran home, pulled a sheet over himself, lay down. He was seized by repentance; he began to weep. Next day he came to ask forgiveness, fell at Buddha’s feet. He said, 'Forgive me.'
Buddha said, 'Foolish one! Who should forgive whom? The one you abused— where is he now? In twenty-four hours the Ganges has flowed much. The Ganges you abused is no longer there. You abused me— twenty-four hours have passed. The thing came and went; it is over. Lines drawn on water do not remain. Whom have you come to ask forgiveness from? How can I forgive? I tied no knot. If I had tied, I would untie. What should I untie? I can only say this much: you too, do not tie this knot now. The thing is over. A gust of wind came and went. Now do not repent.'
This is of great significance— what Buddha said: 'Now do not repent.'
People come to me. Someone says, 'We get angry, then we repent. But then again we get angry; again we repent; again we get angry. What to do?' I tell them: 'All your life you tried to drop anger. Now kindly do this much— drop repentance.' They ask, 'What will that do? Repentance upon repentance did not remove anger, and you advise the opposite— drop repentance.' I tell them: 'At least drop something! Drop repentance; anger doesn’t drop. Try this one device. Repentance may be the fuel keeping anger alive.'
You abused someone, got angry. At home you thought, 'This is bad.' The idol of your ego has been blemished. You think you are a virtuous, saintly person. 'An abuse came from me? That should not have happened.' By repentance you do a whitewash. The black stains the abuse flung on your idol— you wash them by repenting: 'I am a good man. It happened in spite of me. I did not want to; it happened. Circumstances made it happen. A slip occurred, but there was no intention. See— I am repenting. What more should I do?' With repentance you repaint your idol. You return to the very point where you were before the anger. Now you are ready again to be angry. Now you are again the good man, the saint.
I say: at least do not repent. Why tie such knots? What is done is done. You will be surprised— if you drop repentance, you will not be able to be angry again. Because without repentance you cannot become a saint again. You will know: 'I am a bad man; anger happens to me.'
This is a great experience. You will not be able to cheat yourself. You will go and tell your friends, 'Brother, I am a bad man. Sometimes I even abuse— not in spite of me, by me it happens; it comes out. Why ask forgiveness? I am a bad man. Make relations with me only with care. Let the world know I am a bad man; be a little cautious with me. Don’t befriend me; someday or other I will do something bad. I will bite. Biting is my habit.'
If you can make such a declaration, see what a revolution happens! You shattered your ego. Anger arises from ego. As ego recedes, anger doesn’t arise. Repentance strengthens the ego; hence with repentance no one’s anger ever goes.
Buddha told that man: 'Drop repentance. Just as I left it, you leave it too. I tied no knot; you do not tie. What happened, happened. What to take or give now? The past has gone; why drag it? Bathe! Wash off this dust. The dust of the road— don’t carry it.'
If you understand, that is what meditation means: bathing. Meditate daily— that is, bathe daily— so that the dust that has gathered washes away. As the dirt on the body washes away with water, so the dirt on the mind washes away with meditation. You are fresh again, childlike again.
So the child is guiltless. The wise is guiltless.
'He who is desireless in all actions and childlike in behavior— the actions done by that pure mind do not entangle him.'
Then too he acts, but the doer is no more— hence no stain sticks from any action. He is not tainted by any deed. This is very significant.
You have heard the phrase 'karma-bondage.' But if rightly understood, the phrase is not correct. For bondage does not come from action; it comes from desire. If bondage came from action, Krishna would not have told Arjuna to descend into war, to act. Bondage comes from kāma— from craving. Therefore he said: drop the desire for fruits, then descend. If you have dropped the desire for fruit, then you do not descend— the Divine descends.
And that is what Ashtavakra says, even more deeply: sarvārambheṣu niṣkāmo. At the beginning of every act, let there be no desire— be mindful of this. Let karma run. Karma is the very nature of life. It will not stop. The journey of action will go on. But you— from within become a void. Do not do; let it happen.
No one is bound by action; bondage is in craving. Thus more correct than karmabandha is kāmabandha— bondage of desire.
Buddha too acts after becoming wise— for forty years he acted. Mahavira acts, Krishna acts, Mohammed acts, Jesus acts. Action does not stop. Yes, the quality of action changes. Now there is no doer behind it.
'Blessed is that knower of the Self who has gone beyond the mind, and who, seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating, remains even in all states.'
Sa eva dhanya ātmājñaḥ sarvabhāveṣu yaḥ samaḥ.
Paśyan śṛṇvan spṛśan jighrann aśnann nistarṣa-mānasaḥ.
Nistarṣa-mānasaḥ— blessed is he who has gone beyond the mind. Who has crossed over.
We do not go beyond even the body. Hunger arises and we say, 'I am hungry.' You know well hunger is in the body, not in you. You are the knower, the one who knows that the body is hungry. The head aches— you say, 'I have pain.' You know well, pain cannot be in you. You are the knower; pain is in the body. Someone abuses you, you are disturbed. Disturbance happens in the mind, not in you. You are the knower, standing behind the mind— the witness who sees that the mind is disturbed. Someone hurled the stone of an abuse; waves rose in the lake of the mind. You, like one sitting by the shore watching someone throw a stone into the lake and waves rise, watch from the bank: someone threw abuse and waves arose in the mind.
You are not the mind. Neither body nor mind are you. You are beyond both— something indefinable. But one thing is certain: you are wakefulness, awareness, consciousness. In attaining this awareness alone we call someone a Buddha. To attain this witness-consciousness is nistaraṇa— crossing over.
Nistarṣa-mānasaḥ— 'Blessed is the knower of the Self who has gone beyond the mind.'
The one who has swum beyond the mind, gone behind it. The one not standing in the stream of mind.
'Such a knower— seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating— remains even in all states.'
Pleasure comes, pain comes— for the one beyond mind neither pleasure comes nor pain. Both happen in the mind. He is not elated by pleasure, nor dejected by pain. Whether someone throws flowers or showers abuses, whether success or failure, whether thorns prick or a bed of flowers is spread— the knower remains the same in both.
'A bulbul’s nest burned yesterday in the garden,
The flowers kept smiling; not a tear fell from the eyes.
All were absorbed in their own chanting; none had sorrow,
Only a few straws beat their heads in that sacrificial fire.
I laughed to see this and a falling leaf said—
Be noisy or mute, the outcry of all is equal.
Do not cling laughing to the flower and fling away the thorn crying,
O traveler, over you here the right of all is equal.
It is the flower’s way to sulk when touched by fingers,
It is the thorn’s love to raise blisters for a lifetime.
What we call difficulties— they are blessings of the path,
And what we call stumbling— its name is a sleeping foot becoming awake.
There is not just one, love has thousands of relationships;
Therefore every tear is a gift— of all— equally.
Do not cling laughing to the flower and fling away the thorn crying,
O traveler, over you here the right of all is equal.'
There is pleasure, there is pain. There is life, there is death. There are friends, there are foes. There is day, there is night. All have equal rights. Do not ask for pleasure, do not ask that pain not be. Do not ask at all. Whatever comes, remain an equanimous witness.
Blessed is that state which is even in all feelings— which nothing shakes, which is unmoving, unwavering, centered in its own stillness.
Remember this word: nistarṣa-mānasaḥ— to go beyond mind— unman— what Zen calls 'no-mind.'
One must discover within oneself a state where nothing touches. That state is hidden within you— that is your Atman. Until we know it, we have not known that One by knowing which all is known. Upon knowing that One, duality dissolves. Then the choice between two is no more; choicelessness arises. In that choicelessness alone there is bliss, sat-chit-ananda.
There is a mention in Janaka’s life. Janaka lived in a royal palace, with great pomp. He was an emperor and a witness too— a rare union. Gold with fragrance. That Buddha is a witness— not very wondrous. Mahavira is a witness— not very wondrous; simple. Leaving all, they are witnesses. Janaka’s being a witness is significant— everything is, and yet he is a witness.
A master told his disciple: 'For years you have been beating your head, and nothing is understood. Now you are beyond my capacity. Go to Janaka.' The disciple said, 'If with a great knower like you nothing happened, what will happen with an ignorant man like Janaka— who still lives in palaces, watches courtesans dance; I have heard he even drinks wine. Where are you sending me?' The master said, 'Go!'
He went, unwillingly— only obeying the guru’s order. He was sure: what would he find there? He held Janaka in contempt; he thought he knew more than Janaka. When he reached, coincidence— Janaka was sitting, courtesans were dancing, courtiers pouring wine. He was enraged. He said to Janaka, 'Your Majesty, my guru sent me, so I came. A mistake has been made. Why he sent me, for what sin he punished me— I do not know. But since I have come, I must ask: by what trick have you spread this rumor that you have attained wisdom? What is happening here? This revelry! With such an empire, these palaces, wealth, this whole arrangement— amidst all this you sit, and you have attained? Only renunciates attain.'
Janaka said, 'You have come at a wrong time. This is not an hour for satsang. Do one thing— I am busy— take this lamp.' He handed him a lit lamp: 'Go around the whole palace— every room— but mind one thing: this palace has a peculiarity; if the lamp goes out, you will not be able to return— you will be lost. It is a vast palace. Keep the lamp from going out. See the whole palace. By the time you return, I will be free, then we will sit for satsang.'
The young man went with the lamp. His life was in trouble. He had never been in such a palace. It was legendary that people got lost in it; and this added trouble: if the lamp goes out, peril to life. He was already lost in the world, and within it another trouble! Not yet freed from the world, and a new mischief arose. But since Janaka had said and the guru had sent, he went, holding the lamp, fearful. The palace was very beautiful— extremely. There were beautiful paintings, statues, carpets— but he saw none of this. He saw only one thing— that the lamp must not go out. He guarded the lamp. He returned after circling the palace and felt relieved. He put down the lamp and said, 'Your Majesty, saved! Saved the life, a fortune gained. The fool returned home. Such a trouble for a poor man; these palaces are indeed a nuisance— but the lamp saved me.'
The emperor said, 'Leave the lamp aside; tell me— how did it look?' He said, 'Who had the leisure to see? Life was at stake. Should I look at the lamp or the palace? I saw nothing.' The emperor said, 'Then stay tonight. In the morning we will have satsang. You are tired, and the circling has tired you; I too am tired.'
He was placed in a magnificent chamber, on a precious bed. While leaving, the emperor said, 'Just keep an eye above. There hangs a sword, tied with a thin thread— perhaps a fragile thread. Take care it does not fall. And this sword has a peculiarity: as soon as you sleep, it falls.'
He said, 'Why are you entangling me in troubles? I am weary from the jungle, then this palace nuisance, and now this sword!' The emperor said, 'This is our arrangement for guests. We welcome them fully.'
He lay all night and watched the sword. Even for a moment, in the blinking of an eye, he was afraid— lest even by mistake the sword thinks I have slept and drops. In the morning, when the emperor asked, he was half dried up— 'How was the night? Was the bed comfortable?' He said, 'What are you saying! What bed? In my forest hut it was happier. These are troublesome things. In the day you gave me a lamp— if it went out, I would be lost. Now you hung a sword. All night I could not sleep; if a drowse came... I would suddenly sit up in the night— a little fear that sleep is coming and the sword will snap. It’s tied with a fragile thread. Poor man— where have you trapped me! Let me go. I want no satsang.'
The emperor said, 'Since you have come, at least eat. Satsang will be after food. But your guru’s message has arrived: if in satsang you do not attain, you will lose your life. In the evening you will be hanged. In satsang you must realize.'
He said, 'What is this? Must realization happen in satsang? If it happens, it happens; if not, not. What is this compulsion? You do not understand kings’ ways. Your guru’s order. If realization happens, fine; if not, you will be on the gallows by evening.'
He sat to eat. The meal was delicious— everything— but where was taste? Anxiety seized him: thirty years with the guru— no realization. How will it happen in one satsang with this man? Somehow he ate. The emperor asked, 'How was the taste— the food?' He said, 'Leave it. Somehow let me escape from here— this is my only prayer. I want no satsang.'
The emperor said, 'This much only is satsang: as you circled the palace with a lamp and, fearing it might go out, could not enjoy the palace— so I too know this lamp will go out— this lamp of life will go out; it is bound to go out. In the night, if the lamp went out, you would be lost; and this lamp of life is going to go out— and then, in the darkness of death, you will wander. Before it goes out, one must understand life. I am in the palace; the palace is not in me.'
'At night, seeing the sword, you could not sleep. The sword hangs at every moment— not only over you, over all. Death hangs. The thread is fragile; any moment it can snap; death can happen at any time. Where death can happen so easily, who will get entangled in revelry? I sit amidst revelry; I do not get entangled.'
'Now you ate such a delicious meal— you could not taste it. So it is with me. All this goes on, but there is no taste in it. I am awake within. I guard the lamp within. I see death’s sword hanging. The noose is near. If this lesson of life is not learned, if the benefit of satsang is not taken, death is coming. Before death, one must attain that which death cannot snatch. One must find that which is immortal. Therefore, I am amidst all— but it makes no difference.'
What Janaka said: 'I am in the palace; the palace is not in me. I am in the world; the world is not in me'— this is the supreme mark of the wise. While acting, he is not entangled in anything. The process of non-entanglement is witnessing. The process of non-entanglement is nistarṣa-mānasaḥ— going beyond the mind.
The moment you go beyond mind, you become one-taste. In the mind are many tastes; beyond the mind, one taste. Because mind is many, there are many tastes.
There is not one mind within you, as you think. Mahavira said: man is multimental— bahu-chittavān. Many minds. Moment to moment, minds change— morning one, noon another, evening another. Mind keeps changing— so many minds. Modern psychology says: man is poly-psychic— which is exactly Mahavira’s phrase. Poly-psychic means many-minded— bahu-chittavān.
Gurdjieff used to say: you are a crowd, not one. In the morning you were very happy— you had one mind. A small thing and you became dejected— another mind. A letter came from a friend— you became very happy— a third mind. You opened the letter— the friend wrote some unpleasant thing— dejected again— another mind.
The mind changes twenty-four hours. With such a mind, how will one taste be attained? One taste can be only with the One— the witness within you. Knowing that One, one-taste arises in life. And one-taste is another name of bliss.
'Where is the world, where the mirage of it, where the goal, where the means— for the steadfast one, like the sky, always without alternatives?'
Ka va samsāraḥ ka cābhāsaḥ ka sādhyaṁ ka ca sādhanam.
Ākāśasyeva dhīrasya nirvikalpasya sarvadā.
For the one who has sat within like the sky, established in witnessing without alternatives, there is no world. The world is the union of mind and consciousness; the world is the identification of the witness with the mind. For the one whose identification with the mind is broken, there is no world. The world is the delusion of the mind— wandering in mind’s palaces. If the lamp of witnessing goes out, you will wander in the palace of mind. If the lamp remains lit, you cannot wander.
It is that simple. This alone is the essence of all scriptures. Then where is the goal, where the means? For the one who has found witnessing, there is no goal, no means. No method to practice, no yoga, no austerity; nowhere to go— no moksha, no heaven, no God. Neither anywhere to go nor anything to do. Arrived.
In witnessing you arrive— you are free. In witnessing you attain the fruit of fruits. One must go within. One must come into oneself.
I have heard: in a village a fakir used to wander, with a long white beard, a thick staff in hand, his loose, wrinkled old body wrapped in rags. He always carried a bundle with him; on the bundle, in big letters, was written 'Maya.' He would repeatedly open his bundle. In it, he had carefully wrapped colorful waste papers. If he found them on the road, he would collect them and put them in his bundle of Maya. In any lane, if he saw colored paper, he would pick it up with great care, smooth out the crinkles, make a bundle as if making a bundle of currency, and place it in his bundle of Maya.
His bundle became bigger day by day. He grew old, the bundle grew bigger. People would explain to him, 'Madman, why carry this trash?' He would laugh and say, 'Those who are themselves mad call others mad.'
Sometimes he would sit on a doorstep, show the papers and say, 'These are my life. If these are lost, I would not live a moment. If these are lost, I am bankrupt. If stolen, I will commit suicide.' Sometimes he would say, 'These are my rupees, my wealth. With these I will rebuild the crumbling fort of my village.' Sometimes, stroking his white beard with pride, he would say, 'On that fort our flag will fly and I will be king.' Sometimes he would say, 'Don’t think these are merely notes— I will make boats of them, and in those boats cross to the other shore.'
People laughed— children and old men alike. If someone laughed loudly, he would say, 'Silence! You are mad and you think others mad.'
A knower came to the village. He said to the people, 'Do not think him mad; do not mock him. Worship him, you fools! For the bundle he carries— he carries for you. Such bundles of paper you carry. He takes so much trouble to expose your stupidity. On his bundle is written Maya; it is filled with paper, trash. What are you carrying? You too think you will build palaces, hoist flags on them. Build boats, cross over. Become Alexander or Napoleon. Conquer the world. Build great forts where even death cannot enter.'
When the fakir began to explain, that old beggar laughed and said, 'Do not explain. They will not understand— I have tried for years. They do not listen. They see my bundle; they do not see their own. They consider the papers I carry to be paper— and the notes in their safes to be real wealth. They call me mad— they are mad.'
This earth is a great madhouse. Awake from it. If you do not, death will come again and again, and you will be thrown back into the same asylum. Birth again and again! Hence, for centuries the sages of the East have contemplated only one thing— how to be free of coming and going, how birth may end, how death may end.
There is only one way: within you is something that is never born and never dies. Within you is something unborn and immortal— your diamond. Find it. That is your wealth.
And it is not far. Just behind the body is the mind, and just behind the mind is the witness. Not even an inch— just a slight shift inward. Shift a little inward and you will find that for which you have been striving for lives— but in the wrong place, therefore you miss.
This witness is like the sky. As the sky has no boundary, so the witness has no boundary. And just as when clouds gather, the sky seems lost, so when mind gathers— the clouds of thought— the witness seems lost. But in truth, it is not lost. Even when dense monsoon clouds gather, the sky is not lost; it only becomes invisible to the eyes. The clouds come and go; the sky appears again.
What you call thoughts are clouds gathered upon the sky of your consciousness. Separate yourself a little from them— nistaraṇa— and you will suddenly find the One that was never lost and can never be lost. Only that is worth attaining which cannot be lost. What can be lost— what will you do even if you gain it? It will be lost again and again.
'He alone triumphs— the renouncer of 'purpose,' the embodiment of complete joy— whose natural Samadhi abides in an unbroken flow.'
Sa jayaty-artha-saṃnyāsī pūrṇa-svarasa-vigrahaḥ,
Akṛtrimo’navacchinne samādhir yasya vartate.
Understand:
Sa jayati artha-saṃnyāsī—
The one who has renounced seeking his own 'meaning' in life. Who says: 'Meaning belongs to the Divine— what is mine? Does a part have meaning? Meaning belongs to the Whole.'
Understand: my hand rises before you— if you sever this hand from me, it may remain in the same gesture, but then it will carry no meaning. Does a dead hand have any gesture? I am looking at you now; look into my eye. If I die, if that which is hidden within departs, still the eye will seem to look at you— but then there will be no meaning. Without the seer, what meaning can there be in the eye? Without the mover, what meaning in the raised hand?
Meaning lies in the whole, not in the part. We are all parts of this vast Existence, of the Whole— Paramatman, the Supreme Brahman. In us there can be no meaning; meaning is in the Divine. As long as you seek your private meaning, you are mad.
The English word 'idiot' is very apt— from the root meaning 'one who seeks his private meaning, his personal idiom.' The idiot is the one looking for his personal destiny, his 'I must prove something.'
The wise is the one who has joined his destiny with the vast. If a wave begins to seek its goal, it will go mad. The goal will be the ocean’s— how can it be the wave’s? Then how can it be the ocean’s? It will be the great ocean’s— and how even of the great ocean? It will be of Existence. Ultimately, meaning belongs to the Whole. The individual has no meaning; the totality has meaning. Meaning belongs to the Vast.
And this is a wondrous saying:
Sa jayaty-artha-saṃnyāsī—
He who has renounced meaning— he has won. The renouncer of meaning is the sannyasin. One who says: 'What should I seek? What have I to do with it! I will flow in Your stream. Wherever You take me, I will go. If You drown, I will drown; if You save, I will be saved. Now You decide. Your will be done. If even leaves do not move without Your will, why should I? If You move me, I move; if not, I do not. As You dance me, I will dance.' The one who has left it entirely to the Divine— he is the sannyasin: artha-saṃnyāsī.
Sa jayati artha-saṃnyāsī pūrṇa-svarasa-vigrahaḥ—
And the one who has left in this way— into his life descends that embodiment in which the stream of supreme rasa flows— the taste of the Total.
You are the obstruction. You are the rock lying over the spring— move aside and the spring will flow. Because of you the spring cannot flow.
'He alone triumphs— the renouncer of the fruit of action, the embodiment of complete bliss— whose natural Samadhi abides without interruption.'
And remember, Samadhi abides unbroken only when it is sahaj— natural. Natural means: not produced by effort, not constructed, not planted. That Samadhi which does not arise from any effort— which happens of itself.
Understand this difference. This is the difference between Patanjali and Ashtavakra. The Samadhi Patanjali speaks of will come through effort— yama, niyama, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana— then Samadhi. A long journey; a great plan; much effort. One must discipline oneself in every way— then it will be. It is the path of resolve.
Ashtavakra says: surrender. Drop it all. What yama-niyama will you practice? How will you practice pratyahara? The breath is not even yours— what pranayama will you do? What dhyana, what dharana? Who are you? Move aside. Let this ego go. On this ego you have hung diamonds; now you want to hang yama-niyama? With this ego you conquered the world; now with this ego you want to conquer God? Leave it all. Do only this— in a single step, leap: 'Now as is Your will.' Whatever the Vast brings about, will be.
The Samadhi born of such simplicity is sahaj. Kabir says: 'O seekers, the natural Samadhi is best.' Sahaj Samadhi means: not of your effort, but arising from your awareness— from awakening, from understanding. For which no elaborate methods are required.
'He whose natural Samadhi abides unbroken— he is the renouncer of meaning, the blessed one.'
Akṛtrimo’navacchinne samādhir yasya vartate—
Akṛtrima— not artificial. Many attain an artificial trance. Sit, fast. If you fast intensely, the body becomes weak; thoughts do not receive energy; they grow feeble. In that enervated state, thoughts do not arise. Do not mistake that for Samadhi— it is a kind of inner debility, not Samadhi. A deception.
It is as if you castrated a man and he says, 'I am celibate.' Impotence is not brahmacharya. Impotence is merely an absence; brahmacharya is a rich state of being.
Samadhi can be of two kinds. If you fast— that is why many sects impose fasting— by fasting the body weakens; when the body weakens, the mind finds no energy, then you feel you are free of the mind. The mind lies like a snake, stunned, hungry. Then you eat— again the mind lifts its hood. By forcing such things, nothing is solved. If you want to attain brahmacharya, you fast long.
A Harvard experiment: thirty students were put on a fast. After seven days, Playboy magazines lying around— they did not look. Nude pictures of beautiful women— they did not look; their interest was gone. When the body weakens, where will lust get energy? After two weeks their interest dwindled entirely; after three weeks they became utterly insipid. However much you asked: 'Any thoughts about women?'— 'Nothing.' Food was given after the fourth week. As soon as food came, energy returned; thoughts that lay like a snake lifted their hood; lust arose; the pictures became interesting; conversation became lively.
This proved something important: if the body gets no strength, the mind gets none. The mind gets its strength from the body. Powerlessness is not liberation. Liberation happens in supreme power.
Therefore my emphasis too is on sahaj Samadhi— natural Samadhi— that arises in health, with eating and drinking, in simplicity. If forced, it is artificial— paper flowers, not real. Do not rely on them; they will not serve.
'What is the use of saying much? The knower of the essence— the great-hearted— is desireless in both enjoyment and liberation, always and everywhere without taste for either.'
Bahunātra kim uktena jñāta-tattvo mahāśayaḥ,
Bhoga-mokṣa-nirākāṅkṣī sadā sarvatra nīrasaḥ.
Ashtavakra says this much— and now says: 'What is the point of much saying?' Enjoy the flavor of this. Having said so much, still he says: what is the point of saying much?
The reason is: however much is said, it remains less. However much is said, what was to be said remains unsaid. However much you hum— the song that was to be sung cannot be sung. Lao Tzu has said: what can be said is not the Truth. That which remains unsaid— that.
After these wondrous utterances of the Mahagita— the like of which were never spoken— Ashtavakra says: what is the use of much speaking?
Bahunātra kim uktena—
The point is small— what is the essence of much speaking? It can be said in brief: just this much—
Jñāta-tattva mahāśaya— the one of vast heart who understands the essence— then the matter is small: bhoga and moksha— enjoyment and liberation— he becomes desireless in both. He has attained all. He alone is the sannyasin.
Tattvajña is one who sets aside his opinions and tries to understand. Such people are rare. And mahāśaya— great-hearted— are rare.
You sit here; among you a mahāśaya is hard to find. Someone is Hindu— no longer great-hearted; his heart has shrunk. Someone is Muslim— no longer great-hearted; his heart has shrunk. When boundaries close on the heart, one is no longer great-hearted— one becomes small-hearted.
Sect makes one petty. Any dogma makes one petty. Mahāśaya means: one whom no scripture binds, no sect binds, no belief binds— one who is free; who says, 'I am ready to listen after putting all this aside.' Then Ashtavakra says: śravaṇamātreṇa— by hearing alone. Nothing else is needed. If you have the courage to be great-hearted— set aside your biases, calcified opinions, conditionings— you become vast like the sky. When thoughts are removed, clouds are gone; the open sky appears.
In that open sky, a slight touch of a true master can awaken you forever. But you listen through layers of thought. The blow doesn’t reach you, or if it does, it is misunderstood— misinterpreted. Something is said here; you understand something else.
I have heard: the great saint Eknath of Maharashtra. A man kept coming to him— a seeker— 'Master, give me some wisdom. How to live sinless?' A thousand times Eknath explained, but the man understood nothing. One morning he came and asked again. Eknath said, 'I keep explaining, but you don’t understand— what can I do?' The man said, 'Tell me how you became sinless; I’ll walk the same path.'
Eknath said, 'Wait— suddenly I saw the line of your life on your palm— it has been cut. This can be later; there is no hurry for that. But this I must tell you— lest I forget— in seven days you will die. Your life line is broken.'
If Eknath tells someone he will die in seven days, it is hard to disbelieve. The man was terrified; his limbs trembled; he stood up. Eknath said, 'Where are you going? Sit. I haven’t answered your question.' He said, 'Sir, now you think how you became sinless! Death is approaching— who cares for satsang now? If I get time, I will come again.' Eknath grabbed his hand: 'Where are you running?' He said, 'Let me go! I have to see to my family— make arrangements. Seven days! You say I will die in seven days.'
He ran. When he came, he was stiff with pride; when he left, he shook, taking support to descend the temple steps. He went home and lay down on the bed. The family asked what happened; they consoled him, 'Death does not come like this!' He said, 'It is certain. Make these arrangements, make those arrangements.' He lay on the bed; he stopped eating and drinking. What need for a dying man! In three days he became utterly weak. Death seemed certain. The whole house sat sadly around his cot.
On the seventh day, near sunset, when he was awaiting death, not death but Eknath arrived. He knocked. The man could not even utter a greeting; he could not fold his hands— so weak. Eknath said, 'Brother, what is the matter?' With great difficulty he said, 'What else? Death is coming.' Eknath said, 'I have come to ask one question: in these seven days, did you commit any sin? Did any thought of sin arise?' He said, 'This is the limit of jest. With death standing before me, where is the convenience to sin? How could the thought of sin arise?' Eknath said, 'Get up. Your death has not arrived. Your life line is long. I only answered your question. You did not understand otherwise; your head needs a hard blow. Now do you understand how we are sinless? With death standing before us.'
Where life is passing moment to moment, where time runs out, what sin? Where death will take all, what accumulation? Where death will wipe all, what dreams? Where death will destroy all, what to build? But Eknath said: 'I explained a thousand times; it did not enter you. Only when I hit you hard did understanding enter.'
And I do not know what happened after. As I understand, that man must have sat up and said, 'If I am not to die now, Master, please go— let me look after my world.' The story is not written further— perhaps that is why. Because if death’s blow gave him a little understanding, as soon as the blow receded, the understanding would recede. The blow was engineered; death did not appear to him— he only believed. When he later knew he still had much life, he would have said, 'Master, I will come at leisure for satsang, but now there are other tasks. The tasks of seven days have piled up.'
Perhaps he never forgave Eknath: 'He played a joke. Do saints joke so? Perhaps he left Eknath’s satsang, saying: this man is not dependable. Another day he will say something odd and create trouble.' In India, stories are usually written to a happy end— but here it is not. Otherwise, it would be said he returned, fell at the master’s feet, took sannyas, declared he had changed. It is not written— so it did not happen. In India, even if it does not happen, the end is written so: all ends well. We fix the story by the time of death.
There are tales: a man is dying; his son’s name is Narayan. He never took God’s name all his life. Dying, he called, 'Narayan, Narayan'— calling his son; the Narayan above was deceived! He died saying Narayan; he attained liberation. Those who made such stories were dishonest. Will you cheat God like this? And God, cheated? He is calling his son; the Narayan above thinks he’s calling me. 'He never called in life; now at least he called. Let him be liberated.' We fix all in the end. All right and proper. A life’s sin— he said 'Narayan' twice, calling his son. Perhaps that is why people name their sons 'Narayan, Vishnu, Krishna, Ram, Khuda-bakhsh'— so that dying, calling the son, God may hear and grant liberation.
From such falsehoods there is no essence. As far as I understand, if the man was like you, he never went back to Eknath. He said, 'The trouble is over. This man is a deceiver; he lied. Do saints lie?' He thought so.
Tattvajña means: understand what is being explained. See what is being shown. Do not put yourself in between. The small key is this: desireless in both moksha and bhoga. Always and everywhere, without a taste— such is the key.
'Having abandoned the dual world beginning with Mahat, which expands as mere name and form, what duty remains for the pure knower?'
Mahad-ādi jagad-dvaitaṁ nāma-mātra-vijṛmbhitam,
Vihāya śuddha-bodhasya kiṁ kṛtyam avaśiṣyate.
This world of duality spreading all around— of the two, the many— these myriad forms—all are different only in name. As from gold many ornaments are made, differing only in name; within all is gold. Likewise, this vast world spread all around— different only in name and form. Differences of nāma-rūpa— not essentially different.
Science too bears witness: the whole existence is made of electric particles; of one thing alone. Ashtavakra says:
Mahad-ādi jagad-dvaitaṁ nāma-mātra vijṛmbhitam—
Only name-differences in the things of this world; nothing much else. All things are made of the same element in differing measures.
Knowing thus, one does not get entangled in forms and names— does not get caught in imagination’s web. By abandoning imagination—
Vihāya śuddha-bodhasya—
This imagination of yours, which is straying here and there— 'Let me obtain this woman, that woman; this wealth, that position; this man'— this wandering of imagination.
Vihāya— by leaving it, a pure awakening is born within you— śuddha-bodha arises.
Kiṁ kṛtyam avaśiṣyate—
Then what remains to be done, or not done? No duty remains. The doer is the Divine; what is your duty? Because of imagination alone you are entangled. The world has not bound you; your imagination has bound you.
This is Ashtavakra’s fundamental teaching. If the world had bound you, run away and you would be free. That is what your so-called saints are doing. The world has not bound you; imagination has. Drop imagination.
Vihāya śuddha-bodhasya—
In the very falling of imagination, pure buddha-hood is born.
This imagination— 'Let me get this, let me get that'— through it your energy is depleted. You run madly, in all directions, exhausted by the scramble, worry upon worry, not a moment’s rest. Let this imagination fade— just imagination— nothing else needs to be dropped. You need not leave your wife; only the imagination regarding the wife should fall— that is enough. You need not abandon your children.
Ashtavakra does not teach escape, nor do I. Stay where you are— at home, in the shop. Leave nothing outward. Drop one thing: the imagination. 'This wife is mine'— imagination. 'This son is mine'— imagination. Neither son is yours, nor wife. Neither shop is yours, nor temple. All is the Divine’s. You belong to Him; all this belongs to Him. Drop personal claims, rights, possessiveness.
In the dropping of this claim, your ego dissolves. Then what remains— the vast sky, the infinite freedom, the openness— is the true meaning of life, the true taste— the rasa of the Lord. Without tasting that rasa, you remain a beggar. Attain that rasa. Raso vai saḥ— the Divine is rasa itself.
But drop your meshes of imagination— then the stream flows. I tell you again: you are the stone blocking the spring. Move. Your ego is also only your imagination; it is not there.
Bodhidharma went to China. The emperor said, 'I have waited for you for years. Now that you have come, do one thing for me. This ego troubles me greatly. Because of this ego I built this empire, yet it is never satisfied. It does not fill. So much wealth, and still it thinks of wealth; such great palaces, yet not enough— it wants greater. Free me from this ego.'
Bodhidharma said, 'I will. Come at three in the morning. Come alone; bring no one. And remember to bring the ego with you— do not leave it at home.' The emperor was frightened. 'What is this? No other sage said, 'I will free you.' Who can free another? This man seems mad. Why three in the night? And alone! And he seems dangerous. Bodhidharma was wild— a terrifying presence. If he glared, your life would tremble. He was like a sword’s edge. They say sometimes he would shout and people’s thoughts would stop. His roar used to plunge people into meditation; for a moment, the chain of thoughts snapped.
'Is it right to go to such a man at three at night? And he says to bring the ego along.' When the emperor was descending the steps, Bodhidharma struck his staff and said, 'Do not forget. Come exactly at three— and bring the ego; do not leave it at home, for I will finish it today.' The emperor became more frightened; he could not sleep. 'Shall I go or not? Is this something to do?' Yet an attraction pulled him— there was a power in the man’s eyes; a magnetic presence. He could not resist. He went at three.
The first thing Bodhidharma asked: 'Have you brought the ego?' The emperor said, 'What kind of talk is this! Ego is not a thing to bring. It is inside me.' Bodhidharma said, 'Good— at least it is certain it is not outside. Half the world is cleared— half the work is done. It is not outside— it is inside.' 'Yes, inside.'
'Close your eyes. Sit facing me. Search within— where is it? I sit with a staff. As soon as you find it, signal me— I will finish it right there.' The emperor was terrified. Three in the night, in the dark monastery; this man with a staff, and mad too; now he could not even escape, having himself said it is inside. He closed his eyes and looked within. The more he searched, the more he found— it is not found. The more he searched, the more he saw— it is not. The sun began to rise; three hours passed; an extraordinary radiance spread on his face.
Bodhidharma shook him and said, 'Get up. I have other work. Did you find it or not?' Emperor Wu bowed at his feet: 'You have destroyed it. Blessed am I to have come to your feet. I searched much; one thing became clear— neither outside nor inside— it is not. It is only a misunderstanding, an imagination— a belief.'
This 'I' is only an assumption. This 'I' is the world. The seed 'I' spreads and becomes world. If this 'I' falls— this imagination falls— vihāya śuddha-bodhasya— in dropping this, pure bodhi— sambodhi— is born. Then nothing remains to be done or not to be done. The doer is gone. With the 'I' gone, the doer goes.
In that doerlessness, the Lord flows through you. You become an instrument— nimitta-mātra— a hollow bamboo flute— venu.
Become the venu. Surrender. Nothing else needs to be left— dissolve the imagination of 'I.' Let it go. In its going— nistarṣa-mānasaḥ— you go beyond mind. This 'I' is the condensed shape of mind. Beyond it is your witness.
Witness is rasa.
Raso vai saḥ.
Enough for today.