Maha Geeta #77

‘Knowing with certainty that all this is mere prapanch, that it is nothing at all, the pure one, whose pulsation is un-aimed, becomes silent by his very nature.’
Understand each word with precision. Understand exactly as Ashtavakra says. Do not insert your own meanings. The first word is prapanch.
Bhramabhūtam idaṁ sarvam...
All this that appears is not true. It is not as it appears. We tend to see exactly what we want to see. We impose our desire. Things will appear as they are only when no thought remains in the mind; when our eyes are utterly empty, void; when no clouds of bias, passion, craving hang over our vision. Only then will things be seen as they are.
Prapanch means: seeing what is not there as though it were.
I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin went to America. On a big New York street he saw a signboard on the roadside that read: “By 1980 the number of cars in America will reach five hundred million.” The moment he read it he ran straight onto the street. It was dangerous to run like that. A policeman caught him: “Where are you dashing off? What’s the hurry? Can’t you see how much traffic there is?” Nasruddin said, “Oh, let go! By 1980 there will be five hundred million cars. If I have to cross the road, I had better do it right now!”
Man projects his desire. You laugh because 1980 seems far—what’s the hurry? But you have not only made plans up to your death, you have made plans beyond death as well. You have made arrangements here, and you are making arrangements in heaven too. Here you gather wealth; there you gather merit. Here, if money comes by theft, you steal; there, if merit coins can be amassed by donation, you donate. You are a thief and a donor—side by side.
I have heard, an emperor sentenced a great thief to death. The rule in that kingdom was that the emperor would ask the condemned man at the final moment: “Do you have any last wish?” So the emperor asked that master-thief, “Any last wish?” He said, “I have a small wish; if it is fulfilled I shall die content.
“I have a few pearls. My guru told me, ‘Sow them, and from each pearl millions of pearls will be born.’ So I wish to sow them. I will be gone, but someone will reap the crop. Someone should have this benefit, otherwise these pearls will go with me.”
The emperor too was greedy. He said, “All right, sow them in the royal garden.” The man cleared the ground, ran the plough, and then suddenly stood up. He said to the emperor, “Please come here, because my guru said, ‘Only a man who is not a thief should sow these pearls.’ I am a thief; I cannot sow them. And if I do, they will be wasted. The special quality of these pearls is that they will sprout only when a man who is utterly non-thief sows them.”
The emperor looked at his viziers, the viziers looked at the high priest, the priest looked at the general, the general looked at the emperor. Then the emperor said, “Forgive us. These seeds cannot be sown. We are all thieves. There is no such person who is not a thief.” And the emperor added, “I understand your point. Your sentence of death is cancelled. You are a thief, we are thieves too. You are a small thief, we are big thieves—but thieves we all are.”
And that emperor was a great donor. The thief said, “Your Majesty, how can you be a thief? You are a great giver!” The emperor replied, “How can I be a great giver without being a thief first? First one steals, then one donates. He robs a hundred thousand and gives away two or four thousand. Thus he becomes a saint on top of theft. He steals and amasses wealth here; as a saint he accrues merit and amasses coins for heaven there.”
You plan up to death and beyond death—plans for yourself, for your children, for your children’s children, for your grandchildren. Your desire stretches across the long span of time. Then, through the fog of that desire, you want to see reality—how will you see it? You want to see Rama through the fog of lust; you will not see him. When the fog of lust dissipates, Rama is seen. Truth is present, right before your eyes, but your eyes have grown dim. Layer upon layer of spectacles are on your eyes. And the fun is, those spectacles aren’t even yours, they are others’.
Have you ever worn someone else’s spectacles? What a state you get into—everything appears distorted. And on your eyes there is not just one foreign lens, who knows how many there are? Buddha’s, Mahavira’s, Krishna’s, Mohammed’s, Zarathustra’s—you have collected spectacles from everywhere, century upon century. And you sit wearing them all, and want to see what is. No—everything becomes prapanch. Everything becomes false. Distorted, ugly.
Prapanch means: the eye was not pure, and you looked. And if the eye itself is not pure, whatever you see will be wrong. This is the meaning of maya. It does not mean that what surrounds you is false; it means that as you have seen it is not so. As you have seen, that is false. These rocks and mountains, this sun, moon, stars—these are not false; but as you have seen them is false.
Have you noticed? On a full-moon night, in autumn, if you are sorrowful, the moon too seems to be weeping. The moon—what would it weep for! But you are weeping. Your eyes are full of tears. Your beloved is lost or your lover is gone or your son has died—you look at the moon and it seems as if tears are dripping from it. Your tears are being projected upon the moon. And it may happen that right next door someone has found his beloved, or a friend has returned home, and he is overflowing with joy. He will look at the moon and see it smiling, dancing, humming a song. Both of you are looking at the same moon, but your eyes differ. Your emotional states differ. Emotion is projected. Then the moon is no longer seen; only that which is within you is seen.
As long as the inner projector is running, whatever you see will be false.
Bhramabhūtam idaṁ sarvam.
And all that you have seen so far—utterly unreal. Understand carefully, this does not mean that it is not. If you try to walk through a wall you will break your head. The wall is. Do not fall into that delusion.
But it is not as you see it. There is error in your seeing, not a trace of error in truth’s being. The day your eyes become pristine, suffused with meditation; the day the lenses of others fall away—bias, scripture, doctrine, Hindu-Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain; the day no spectacles are on your eyes, your eye will be open and naked, and you will see with a free eye, and behind the eye no projector of passion, no instrument of projection; that day whatever appears—that is the Divine. That day truth is known. That day delusion drops.
“Knowing decisively that all this is prapanch, that it is nothing...”
Kiñcin nāstīti niścayī.
“Nothing at all”—knowing with certainty.
Iti niścayī.
Take note of “knowing with certainty.” You too have heard a thousand times that all is maya. For centuries this has been repeated in this land. But hearing does not bring certainty. Even belief does not bring certainty. Within belief a worm of disbelief goes on creeping. You may accept a thousand times that all is maya—but inside? Deep within you know it is indeed real. The scriptures say so, so you accept. Born in a Hindu home, you accept. Born in a Buddhist home, you accept. But this acceptance is not certainty. And until certainty is there, nothing will happen.
I asked a small child—I was a guest in a house. The child was very bright. He said to me, “I too have faith in God.” I asked him, “What do you mean by faith?” He thought a little and said, “Faith means a power by which one gets the courage to accept what is not as if it were.” To accept what is not as though it were—that is called faith.
His definition pleased me. We know well there is no God, yet the power to accept is called faith. Great scriptures have defined faith, but not so beautifully.
You too—do you really believe that God is? You say it. It is on the tongue, not in the breath. On the lips, not in the heart. On the surface, not within. Such faith is not certainty.
I have heard, a man lived many years with a guru. One day he saw the guru walking on water. He was astonished. People are greatly impressed by miracles. He fell at the master’s feet: “Give me this formula too. This trick—I will not let go now; I must learn it. Teach me the secret—how to walk on water.”
The guru said, “There is no secret. If there is trust in the Lord, everything happens—iti niścayī! If there is śraddhā, all happens.”
He asked, “How shall I have śraddhā?” The guru said, “Remembrance of the Lord is enough—Ram-nam.” So the very next morning the man went to the river to try. He began to repeat, “Ram-Ram-Ram-Ram,” and tried to walk, and instantly he plunged. Water filled his mouth. He barely got out. He was angry.
He went to the guru: “You deceived me. I went on saying ‘Ram-Ram’ and still I sank. And because I was saying ‘Ram-Ram’ water entered my mouth. Otherwise I can swim. But I was busy saying ‘Ram-Ram’. Thinking that I wouldn’t sink, I made no arrangements—my clothes are spoiled, and I still took a dip. This doesn’t make sense. You tricked me.”
The guru asked, “How many times did you say Ram?” He said, “How many times? Countless. First I stood on the bank and repeated a lot to gather force. When I felt the heat had come, I stepped—and I sank. I was still saying it as I went under—‘Ram-Ram’ even while I was drowning.”
The guru said, “Precisely because you said it so many times, you sank. Had there been śraddhā, once would have been enough. Repetition so many times is due to lack of trust. With śraddhā, once is enough. Why say it again? Having said ‘Ram,’ the matter is finished.”
The truth is, if there is śraddhā, you don’t even say it in words. Its thrill, its wave in the heart is enough. Words are not needed. Something resounds in the heart like a gust of wind—you don’t have to make it resound. That is why Nanak called its japa “ajapa”—not japa. If japa has to be done, it is not true; a little false. Japa means you are doing it; ajapa means it happens on its own.
You sit—and suddenly you find the inner resonance; flowers are opening. Become a seer in that moment, not a doer. Ajapa means: you did not chant, yet it was chanted. It happened by itself. Later, in the sutras, we will explore the meaning of ajapa.
“What is mere sfurana...”
That which did not happen by your doing, whose pulsation arose. Flowers have blossomed on trees; the trees did not make them bloom—they blossomed. Hence there is profound truth in them and great fragrance. Their colors are marvelous. In them is a glimpse of the Lord. These birds are humming. They are not making an effort; the song is erupting from them—as streams flow, so the birds hum; as the wind flows and the sun rises and rays shower—so the birds sing. This is mere sfurana.
When you sit to say “Ram-Ram,” then it is effort. Effort means falsehood. All that you do is prapanch. Through your doing you will reach nowhere. The moment you do, you go astray. Come to a state where you do not do, and what happens—let it happen. But you cannot remain without doing.
A fisherman was catching fish on a riverbank. He had placed two buckets. As he caught fish he put them in one bucket, and the crabs he caught he put in the other. The bucket with fish he kept covered with a lid; the bucket with crabs he left open. Twenty-five crabs writhed and tried to climb out.
A village politician happened to pass by. He stopped to watch. He didn’t like what he saw. “Brother, what kind of fool are you! You’ve worked so hard and all these crabs will escape. Why don’t you cover this bucket too, just as you covered the fish?”
The fisherman said, “Don’t worry. These crabs are very clever—nearly politicians. Think of it as politics. Their condition is like yours in Delhi. There are twenty-five crabs; not one can get out. I have been catching them since morning; not a single one has escaped. I too watch—such extreme politics is going on. One climbs up, two pull him down. No need to cover them. Their own doing keeps them trapped. Their action is enough to hold them.”
You are trapped by your own doing. No one else pulls you down; you yourself pull yourself down.
Revolution can happen in your life—if you drop doing and the sense of doership, and live by sfurana.
Bhramabhūtam idaṁ sarvam...
All this—as you have seen it—is untrue; as it is, you have not yet seen it.
This is the definition of world and the Divine. You often think they are two separate things. You are wrong. The Divine seen wrongly is the world; the world seen rightly is the Divine. These are not two. There is no duality here—only one. As it is—seen as such—the Divine appears; seen as it is not—the world appears. See exactly, and the Divine; miss—and the world. The lapse that occurs in seeing the Divine is what makes the world appear. That lapse makes “matter” appear; otherwise, matter is not. Matter is your delusion; the Divine is truth.
People ask, “Where is God? We want to see God.” Sometimes an atheist comes to me and says, “Until we see, we will not believe.” I tell him, “First take care of your eyes. Seeing is fine; the desire to see is fine. But are your eyes open? Are they clean? You have no concern for this. You are concerned with the object of seeing, not with vision itself.”
He is blind and wants to see the light. He is deaf and wants to hear music. He says, “Until I hear, I won’t believe.” He speaks rightly—what is the point in believing without hearing? But if you cannot hear, the first intelligent question is: “Is there some defect in my listening apparatus?” Through endless ages the sages have said: there is. Not just in one country—in infinite times, in infinite lands and circumstances—sages have unanimously said: there is. So, might there be some defect in the instrument of my seeing? This is the first question of an intelligent man. The stupid says, “If there is, let me see. If I see, I will believe.” He does not take care to see whether he has the capacity, the receptivity, to see.
Iti niścayī means: one who has seen, and by seeing has arrived at certainty. Certainty comes only one way—through darshan, through experience, through realization.
Alakṣya-sphuraṇaḥ śuddhaḥ svabhāvenaiva śāmyati.
“And the pure one, whose sfurana is un-aimed, becomes silent by his very nature.”
This word is wondrous: alakṣya-sphuraṇa—the un-aimed pulsation. Understand this, and you have grasped Ashtavakra’s essence.
We live by our effort. We live by our planning. We live by striving. And this very striving fills us with tension, torment, worry. Such an immeasurable existence is moving—so harmoniously, so musically, so rhythmically—and yet you think you must run your life yourself.
Maluk has said:
Ajgar kare na chaakari, panchhi kare na kaam
Dās Malūka kah gaye sabke dātā Rām
A wondrous utterance. Though it fell into wrong hands! People took it to mean: lie around in laziness.
Dās Malūka kah gaye sabke dātā Rām—so what need to do anything? No. That is not the meaning.
Ajgar kare na chaakari, panchhi kare na kaam—but do you not see how much work birds do? They bring grass and twigs, build nests, glean wheat and rice and lentils, gather food, feed their young, feed themselves—work goes on aplenty. The python too glides along; it too is at work. But Maluk’s meaning is something else.
Maluk is saying: birds do so much work, yet they do not “do” it themselves—what happens, happens. There is no planning in it, no ego in it, no sense of doership. But people understand in their own way. People understand through their own minds. They took it as a lesson in laziness—pull a sheet over yourself and sleep. But even if you pull the sheet over your head and sleep, you are still the doer.
Let the Divine do; you do not. This is the meaning of alakṣya-sphurana: the unknown pulsation. Surrender yourself into the hands you cannot see. He who has held all together will hold you too. Your life is small—a day you are born, a day you are gone. Two days. So vast a cosmos is sustained—can you not trust your two-day life to this vastness? And even if you don’t—what is the point! You will die. You did not take birth yourself, you will not take death yourself. Birth happened; death will happen. In between, in these few days, you raise an unnecessary racket.
Ashtavakra says: leave it to sfurana. Live by effortless pulsation. Do not plan. Do not erect grand castles. Do not raise great dreams. People think this is a teaching of laziness. It is not. It is not a teaching of inaction. It is simply this: you are not the doer; the Divine is. But people understand in their own way.
I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. The woman was a little anxious, suspicious. One day, as the wedding drew near, she asked, “Nasruddin, will you love me just as much after marriage as you do now?” Nasruddin said, “Why not! You know I have always liked married women more.”
Such is man’s understanding! He sees through his understanding, interprets through his understanding. We cannot step out of our understanding. That is why the Divine does not descend into our hands. Put your understanding aside for a while.
Alakṣya-sphurana means: leave it to the natural flow; live moment to moment. What Ashtavakra calls alakṣya-sphurana, Buddha called kṣaṇavāda—momentariness. Live moment to moment. Do not think of the next moment. What happens this moment—let it happen. When the next moment comes, it will come. Jesus said: the morrow will take care of itself. Jesus said: look at the lilies of the field—how beautiful they are! They neither worry for the morrow nor brood over yesterday. They neither labor nor weave colors or perfume—everything is happening through some alakṣya-sphurana. And Jesus said to his disciples: I tell you, even King Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these lilies.
Alakṣya-sphurana means: as the flowers are, as birds are—as this whole vast play of nature is proceeding—become a participant in this play. Do not be the doer. Let what the Divine makes happen, happen.
Zen masters say: when hungry, eat; when sleepy, sleep. Flow with what happens. Do not even swim. Float with the current. Have you noticed something funny? A living man drowns in the river, and a dead body floats. The dead comes to the surface; the living sinks. Perhaps the dead knows a secret the living does not. The dead knows that he makes no effort—he cannot; he is dead. Not making any effort, the river takes him in its hands. You make effort, and in that very effort you drown.
The secret of swimming amounts to this: the day you know it is not the river that drowns you; you drown by your effort—you will gradually drop effort. Then you can float on the breast of the river. Just lie there! The river does not drown. The river has never drowned anyone. People drown through their own exertion.
This vastness is not eager to drown anyone. People drown through their own efforts. People put the noose on their own necks. No one here is eager to hang you. Existence is filled with a unique rasa, a unique celebration. You can dance. There are no chains on your feet. Existence has tied anklets to your feet, but you have forged chains. You have forgotten that one may become one with existence.
This is precisely the meaning of sannyas: the person who has begun to live by self-sfurana; who lives from within; who no longer plans by intellect; who lets what happens, happen—as it happens. He has not become inert; action still happens vast and plentiful—but there is no longer any ownership over action. No longer any claim upon one’s deeds. He who has become unclaiming is the sannyasin.
Alakṣya-sphuraṇaḥ śuddhaḥ svabhāvenaiva śāmyati.
Such a man becomes pure; he becomes silent by his very nature. He does not need any yoga, any japa-tapa to be silent; he requires no program to be pure.
So, prapanch means: dream-web, mind’s play, projection of thought, imposition of desire—seeing what is not, seeing as one wishes it to be. And the path out of prapanch is:
Alakṣya-sphuraṇaḥ śuddhaḥ—
To be content with what is as it is; to flow with it. Not to fight the current of the river, but to go with it. To go with the vast current of existence—alakṣya-sphurana.
We do not even know for sure where the river is going. We do not know where it will end; whether there is an end, we do not know. What is the destiny of this vastness—we have no idea. It is all very mysterious. But to try to figure it out is futile; we will not be able to. It is like a drop going to understand the ocean. It cannot be. Impossible. The drop can become the ocean, but it cannot understand the ocean. Man can become the Divine, but he cannot understand the Divine. If the drop falls into the ocean, agrees, drops its boundary, it becomes the sea. Only as the sea can it know; there is no other way. We can only know that which we become.
To go beyond prapanch means: do only that which happens by sfurana—do not do by ambition. Do not act out of the desire to get something, to be something. Let the Divine do as He will, and keep you as He will—if in happiness, then in happiness; if in sorrow, then in sorrow. If you can live thus, there will never be regret in your life. If you cannot, the fruit of prapanch is regret. One day you will weep—bitterly. And then nothing can be done—because the time that has passed has passed.
The delightful fairs of colors have gone by, leaving you alone.
One day you will weep much. One day you will repent much. One day in your eyes nothing will remain but broken rainbows, scattered dreams, and tears.
The delightful fairs of colors have gone by, leaving you alone.
Like broken promises, like sulking relationships,
Moment by moment we scatter—like burst embankments.
Yellow leaves fall and drift, songs once full spill out,
Mingled with pain they dissolve—hearts playing with tears.
A cursed blessing, seen burning even when quenched,
Life lived meaningless—let the world learn from us.
The moods of kin have changed, the jewels of dreams replaced,
Eyes like blazing palash—like clods of ochre red.
Breaths have thickened into tar, hopes have turned to ash,
Helpless smiles stick to lips, heavy as a load.
Every pore a burning Holi, the brow smeared with unrest’s vermilion—
Stay equanimous to one feeling and bear both spring and fire.
The delightful fairs of colors have gone by, leaving you alone.
One day you will repent much. What seems like a fair today, this crowd of colors, will not last long. It is a dream. You have believed it so; it is nowhere in itself. Soon life-energy will begin to wane. And as it wanes, the truth hidden behind dreams will be revealed. One day you will find: where you saw so much, there is nothing at all. One day everyone finds his hands empty. Life goes, the hands are empty. Then emptiness burns, torments; fills with sorrow and melancholy.
There is no other meaning to hell. Do not think you go to hell after death, or to heaven after death. He who has lived by the Divine’s sfurana lives in heaven here; he who has lived by the ego’s plan lives in hell here. He who is in heaven here will be in heaven after death; he who is in hell here will be in hell after death. Because after death the same continuum will go on that you have woven before death. Otherwise nothing will change. Nothing changes suddenly.
If you live life grain by grain, climb step by step, you will find the summit attained.
“Not seeing the state of the seen, where are rule, where detachment, where renunciation, where calming—for the one of pure sfurana?”
Śuddha-sphuraṇa-rūpasya dṛśya-bhāvam apaśyataḥ
Kva vidhiḥ kva ca vairāgyaṁ kva tyāgaḥ kva śamo’pi vā.
He who is filled with inner sfurana—self-sfurana, pure sfurana. Sfurana means spontaneity—what happens on its own, not by your doing. Sfurana means that which you do not have to make happen; suddenly you find it is happening.
As you sit here listening, someone will be seized by a certain attunement. Listening, someone’s rhythm will join with mine. Not that you have done it. If you try, it will never happen. If you try, you will come in the way; you will obstruct, create a disturbance. If you try to make the rhythm bind, it will not bind. Forget yourself—just listen. Listening, an uncaused sfurana occurs; some inner door opens, a light peeps. Some note enters within. You become one-tone with me, of one flavor—heart to heart linked.
In that moment something happens. Tears may flow; a wave may arise; gooseflesh over the body; for a moment a vision—a glimpse even for a split second of “as it is.” Like a lightning flash in the dark night—sudden light, and everything visible for a moment. Though it be for a moment, the taste of your whole life can change—because once seen, it will haunt you. Again and again the taste, the yearning awakens; prayer and calling. What happened once in experience cannot be dropped. Again and again you will be drawn by an invisible magic towards that center. But this will happen by sfurana, not by effort.
See: whenever joy happens in life, it happens by sfurana. And if you aim at joy directly, it never happens.
A man goes to swim and feels great delight. You ask him, “Swimming brings joy? I will come too. Will I get joy?” Difficult—perhaps you will not. Because you will go with a plan to get joy. You will swim less and keep looking askance: Has joy come yet? Now and then you will think, Not yet—when will it come? You will miss. The man who goes to swim finds joy because he did not go in search of joy. He went to swim. His eyes are on swimming. He gets lost in swimming. When you plunge into swimming, when you lose yourself in it, become entranced—then a window of joy opens. It happens by sfurana.
Therefore it often happens: a listener brings a friend—“Come, just once.” He thinks what happens to him will happen to the friend. Not necessary. Because the friend will come to see what happens. He is filled with greed seeing your state—“Let what happens to you happen to me.” It will not.
A friend came for meditation. A university professor—clever man. In this world the clever miss badly. Sometimes madmen find, and the clever miss. This world is unique. He meditated three days; on the fourth he came to me: “Something is happening to others. I can see that. But nothing is happening to me. I came with great longing for something to happen. I waited months for these days. Got leave, and came. Nothing is happening. I admit something is happening to others—I see someone crying and my being trembles, waiting: when will it happen to me? I see someone dancing in joy and I wonder: when will the gates of fortune open for me? But no thrill comes to my legs. Now and then I look at others: is it happening or not? It is happening—to me not. What is the matter? Are my sins in the way? Bad karmas?”
Man finds some argument to console himself. I tell you: neither sins nor karmas are in the way. Only one thing stands in the way: your too-intense eagerness, your greed, your plan to “get joy at any cost”—then trouble.
I told him: “Do this—drop this notion of joy. Drop this notion of Samadhi. Listen to me: do not keep this agenda. Dance, sing, meditate. For a while drop the idea of joy—whether it comes or not. If you can drop the idea of joy, it will come.”
There is no direct arrangement in this world to obtain joy. Joy comes by the back door, silently. No sound of footsteps. When you are lost in something else, it comes.
A painter absorbed in his painting—enchanted, immersed, the world forgotten. In those moments the universe is not; in those moments even he is not; there is only painting. To tell the truth, in those moments the Divine is painting; the painter has vanished. Alakṣya-sphurana has begun to work. Then the painting will be unique. And then it may happen that the painter stands, spellbound, and looks. He cannot believe his own creation: “How did it get made? Who made it?”
Picasso said: many times a painting got made; then I tried to make it again and could not. Tried hard but could not. That “suchness” did not happen. Some other day it happened again. Then when I tried again, I missed again, was defeated. Ego never wins.
Rabindranath said: whenever I tried, the songs did not happen. When they happened, they just happened. Sometimes it would so happen that Rabindranath was sitting, talking to someone, and suddenly there would be a transformation. A new aura would come to his face—a certain madness, an intoxication as if drunk on wine. Those close to him learned to slip away silently then.
Gurudayal Malik, his old companion, used to come listen to me. He once told me: “When I first went to Tagore I was told: if others leave in the middle, you too should leave—because one never knows when the Divine will descend upon him; do not disturb him then.
“Some eight or ten of us went to meet him. Tagore himself made tea and began to serve everyone. Suddenly, as he served, the cup slipped from his hand, his eyes closed, and he began to sway. One by one everyone rose—they all knew. They signaled to me to get up too. I got up, but I stood just outside the door. What was happening was so extraordinary—I wanted to witness it.
“What was happening? Before my eyes I saw that the man who a moment ago was Rabindranath, now was not the same. A new aura! As if another soul had entered. A haloed presence. As if a lamp once unlit within had flared forth. The light began to pour out. A profound peace descended.
“I stood entranced. I felt guilty—I should not be standing; all had gone. I slipped away quietly into my room.
“For three days Tagore remained shut in his room, did not come out. When a poem descended he stopped eating; he would not bathe; he would meet no one. When a poem descended—what sleep, what waking? Everything would become disheveled. When a poem descended, another would take hold of him; some other hand held the reins.”
This is called pure sfurana.
Have you seen? It is symbolic that Krishna became Arjuna’s charioteer. This is the symbol of alakṣya-sphurana: let God become your charioteer; let the reins of your chariot be in his hands. Let him drive. You sit within carefree. Wherever he takes you, go. God as charioteer—you sit silently in the chariot.
He is the charioteer. You come in the way unnecessarily. If there is sorrow in your life, it is because of you. If there is ever joy, it is because of Him.
Śuddha-sphuraṇa-rūpasya dṛśya-bhāvam apaśyataḥ...
And for the one in whose life pure sfurana has arisen—the “seen” is both seen and, in a sense, not seen, because now the seer is seen. Understand this.
When you see, you do not see yourself; you see the other. The arrow of your knowing is lodged in something else. You do not see yourself; you do not see the seer. You miss the root; you wander on the circumference. The one who has placed his hand in God’s and said, “Now you take care...”
A strange thing now happens: he sees you—but before he sees you, he sees that which is hidden within. He looks at a tree—but before the tree, the one who is seeing the tree appears. The tree becomes secondary. The seen becomes secondary; the seer becomes primary, foundational. Then the world becomes secondary, and truth becomes foundational.
“Not seeing any ‘seen’-state, where is rule for him?”
No feelings arise in his mind about the seen: “I should see this, I should see that.” None arise. Whatever appears, fine; if nothing appears, fine. He is content in all states. In such a state there is no need of renunciation, no need of detachment, no need of methods, no need of suppression or calming.
Ashtavakra’s sutras are sutras of the siddha, not of the seeker. Ashtavakra says: become a siddha straight away. Why get into the tangle of being a seeker? Do not get entangled in means and practices. Be a siddha right now. Because the Divine is seated within you. What is the point of japa-tapa? Whom are you worshipping? He whom you worship is enthroned within you. Why seek Kaaba or Kailash? Where are you going? He whom you seek is within. Sit quietly, and live by His sfurana. Leave all to Him—unconditionally.
Courage is needed—daring is needed. The mind will say: if I let go like this, some harm may befall me; if I let go, I may get lost. The joke is: walking with the mind, what else has happened except getting lost? Where have you reached?
People come to me: “We will take sannyas, but we are afraid to surrender.” I ask them, “What do you have to surrender? What have you got?” They startle, hesitate, shrug: “Nothing, really.” Then I say, “What are you afraid of? What have you to give up? Whatever you think you must not let go—will be taken away anyway. Death will take it. Death will not even ask, ‘Will you surrender?’ When death will take all, why not enjoy the joy of giving? When death will snatch, why not drop it yourself? You are losing a chance. Tell the Divine yourself: I place myself in Your hands.”
And he who places himself in God’s hands—death is no more for him. Death comes only to him who does not allow God to come to him. Understand this.
You collect—your doership, your ego, wealth, position, prestige. You think, “I did this, I earned this, this is my prestige, my rank.” Then one day death comes and scatters it all—like a palace of playing cards blown away by a gust of wind. A lifetime’s labor—dust to dust. If you yourself return to dust, where will your labor go? That too will go to dust.
The sannyasin is skillful, wise. He says: what death will snatch, I give. Either way it will go—so why not taste the joy of giving? Why not enjoy that much bliss—that I gave.
Then a revolution happens. As you let go, you begin to receive. Jesus said: he who saves will lose; he who loses will gain. He who is ready to lose has earned the right to receive.
Then where are methods, where renunciation, where calming? Nothing needs to be done. Only one thing is to be done: leave everything to the Divine. As He makes you act—act; as He makes you rise—rise; as He sets you down—sit. And let me repeat: unconditionally. No condition that “If You do good, I will follow; if You do bad, I will not.”
That was precisely Arjuna’s problem. He told Krishna: “I will not fight this war. It is sinful. It is violent. I will kill my loved ones. Of what use is this kingdom? Even if I get it, I will sit on the throne in a cremation ground. A man fights for his own people. Only with one’s own is there joy in sitting on a throne. If my own are not, what joy is there? Let me go—I will go to the forest, become a sannyasin.”
Krishna’s entire Gita explains one thing: whatever the Divine makes you do—unconditionally. If war, then war. If good, then good; if bad, then bad. Do not come in between. Be a perfect instrument. Do not choose. Let your being be choice-less. Only then is surrender done; otherwise, not.
Where there is surrender, there is sfurana—outer surrender, inner sfurana. Without surrender you will never attain sfurana.
This is called alakṣya-sphurana.
Śuddha-sphuraṇa-rūpasya...
Alakṣya means “without cause.” The Divine has no cause; the Divine is the cause of all. He made all; no one made Him. Behind everything is He; behind Him is nothing. He is the cause of causes—the uncaused. He is the primal root. Beyond Him, nothing. Everything is within Him.
So what happens by the Divine happens without cause. You are—why? The mind raises questions: why am I? What cause is there for my being? Only in this land has there been a precise, exact answer. The rest of the world has tried to answer: Christians say something, Muslims something, Jews something. Only this land has given the exact answer: it is līlā. Līlā means without cause—play, His joy. There is no purpose in it. For whatever reason you propose will seem foolish.
Some say the Divine created the world so that man may be liberated. Foolish—because first the world was created and man bound; had He not created, there would be no bondage—what need of liberation? It is like first shackling someone in chains and then, when he asks “Why did you chain me?” replying, “So that you may be freed.” If He wanted to free, why chain?
That He made the world so that man may attain knowledge—also meaningless. If knowledge was to be given, give it directly. Why this whole roundabout? That He created evil so that man may avoid it—what kind of answer is this! If He wanted man to avoid evil, do not create evil. What is the use—putting poison to teach you not to drink it; giving you a sword so that you do not kill; spreading thorns so that you walk carefully.
What need? The precise answer here is: for līlā. This vastness is for no cause. No purpose behind it. No business. No goal—alakṣya. Then why is it?
Like little children play—so the Divine is pulsating His energy. Where there is energy, there is sfurana. In waterfalls there is the murmur; in oceans the towering waves. This whole world is an ocean of Maha-urjā. Energy playing with its own waves. “Play” is the right word. Līlā is the right word. It is not work that the Divine is doing. Līlādhar! It is His joy, His celebration.
Seen thus, you will understand what alakṣya-sphurana means: behind it there is no cause at all.
You ask: why does a flower bloom? Why are trees green? Why does the river flow to the ocean? Why does man love man? When you fell in love with a man or a woman, did you ask “why”? There is no why. No answer. If you go asking, you will get only contrived, false answers.
You say, “I fell in love with this woman because she is beautiful.” You speak upside down. She appears beautiful to you because you fell in love. To others she is not beautiful.
Layla looked beautiful only to Majnun; to no one else. The king called Majnun: “I pity you, madman! Layla is utterly ordinary—and you are going mad after her. Look!” He lined up a dozen women from the palace. “Choose any of these. Seeing you crying on the street, I too feel pained. And my pain grows when I see: for what Layla you run! Black and squat, utterly ordinary. See—such beautiful women.”
Majnun looked carefully: “Forgive me. None of these is Layla.”
Again the king said: “There is nothing in Layla.”
Majnun: “You have not understood. To see Layla, you need the eyes of Majnun. Without my eyes you cannot see. Layla is only in Majnun’s eye.”
So when you fell in love with a woman—if someone asks “Why?”—you say, “She is beautiful, her voice is sweet, her gait is graceful.” All this is false. Because you fell in love, her gait seems graceful, her voice sweet, her face beautiful. Tomorrow, when your dream breaks, that same gait will seem clumsy, that same voice harsh, that same face plain. It is a dream you saw because of love. Love is without cause.
If you set out to understand life itself, you will find: all that is, is without cause. Once it dawns that all is without cause, worry disappears. Where there is no cause, worry has no foothold.
“And not seeing the endlessly manifest sfurana of nature in infinite forms—where is bondage, where liberation? Where joy, where sorrow—for the knower?”
Sphurato’nantarūpeṇa prakṛtiṁ ca na paśyataḥ
Kva bandhaḥ kva ca vā mokṣaḥ kva harṣaḥ kva viṣāditā.
This nature—sphurato’nantarūpeṇa—this infinite play of forms, this līlā of nature, and behind nature the play of the Divine—the knower does not much bother with it. He has entered a greater play. He has begun to see the player of the play.
What’s the point in looking at small things! Granted: the tree is beautiful; the moon is beautiful; sunrise is exquisite. But compared to the sun within—they are nothing. Kabir said: when the inner sun rose, I knew what the real sun is—a thousand suns rose at once. Even then the talk is not complete—because the difference is not of quantity but of quality. Within is a light that is incomparable. The outer lights all will go out one day. This sun too will go out.
Scientists say: within four billion years this sun will extinguish. Its energy is being spent; its fuel is running out. Like the lamp you light in the evening, which does not last to morning—this sun will also go out. Granted, its night is long—billions of years; but in eternity billions of years are as a single night. You lit a lamp at dusk; by dawn the oil is finished, the lamp is out.
Within there is a light that never goes out—without wick, without oil. There is no wick, no oil—yet a light. He who sees that light, all other lights become pale.
Sri Aurobindo said: until I saw the inner light, I thought the outer light was light. When I saw the inner light, what I had thought light outside began to appear like darkness. And when I saw true life, what I called life began to look like death. When I tasted the true nectar, what I had taken to be nectar became poison.
The knower sees the root. He catches the Līlādhar hidden in the depths of līlā. He catches Nataraj who dances within the dance. The matter is finished. When relation is linked to Nataraj, the dance is seen—and not seen.
Sphurato’nantarūpeṇa prakṛtiṁ ca na paśyataḥ...
Then the play goes on outside, but in the knower there is no attachment to it, no interest, no running after it. When the running stops—where bondage, where liberation? The outer play binds; and once it binds, then one strives for liberation. And to one who has seen the inner mystery-holder, the outer play does not bind; hence no question of moksha either.
Dṛṣṭi tandril, śravaṇ soye
Aśru paṅkil, nayan khoye
Man kahān hai? Kyā huā hai?
Lag rahe kuchh bhagna-se ho
Bhrama-śilā saṅlagna-se ho
Kar rahe ho dhyān kis kā?
Kyon svayam meṁ magn-se ho?
Lag rahe ho samaya-bādhit
Āp apne se parājit
Hāy yeh kaisī vivashtā!
Kis bure grah ne chhuā hai?
Kyon hue udvigna itne?
Path-pratāḍit vighna jitne
Sochkar dekho tanik to
Śvās hain nirvighna kitne
Kya charaṇa koī kahīn haiṁ
Kāl-kavalit jo nahīṁ haiṁ
Har taraf tam kī virāsat
Dhundh hai kaḍuvā dhuāṁ hai!
Tantu-prerit gātra ho tum
Ek putle mātra ho tum
Is jagat kī nātikā ke
Kṣaṇik bhaṅgur pātra ho tum
Isliye har bhūmikā meṁ
Raṅg bharo tum bhūmi jāme
Ban sako nirpekṣ to phir
Kya duā, kya badduā hai
Man kahān hai? Kyā huā hai?
Where is the mind? What has happened?
We have wandered badly because the mind is outside.
Where is the mind? What has happened?
And this mind, wandering outside—in countless worlds, in innumerable passions and desires—because of it we cannot return home. It drags us, drives us. Because of it we do not see ourselves. It shows everything else and deprives us of ourselves.
Where is the mind? What has happened?
Tantu-prerit gātra ho tum...
You are limbs moved by strings—you are merely a puppet. In this world’s drama you are momentary, fragile actors. Therefore in each role pour your color and stand upon the ground; if you can be impartial—what blessing, what curse!
Where is the mind? What has happened?
As soon as the knower settles in the seer and turns away from the seen—this I call a one-hundred-eighty-degree transformation. The whole wheel turns. We look outward; the knower looks inward. We look with open eyes; the knower sees with eyes closed. We look through thought; the knower sees through no-thought. We look through mind; the knower sees through no-mind.
Everything is reversed. Our energy is outward; the knower’s is inward. We go outside; the knower comes within. Close your eyes and what you see—that is truth. Once you see the inner truth, then open your eyes—outside you will see the Divine, not prapanch. And then what bondage? Only the Divine is! What bondage and what liberation? We are one with Him. He is our nature, our rasa.
“In the world up to buddhi, where only maya appears, the wise—free of ‘mine,’ free of ego, free of desire—alone is resplendent.”
Buddhi-paryanta-sansāre māyā-mātraṁ vivartate.
Understand this sutra with great attention.
Nirmamo nirahaṅkāro niṣkāmaḥ śobhate budhaḥ.
Understand first the difference between two words—buddhi and Buddhahood. The ignorant has buddhi; the knower has Buddhahood. Buddhi means the capacity to think; Buddhahood means the capacity to be thought-free. Buddhi is a sky covered with clouds; Buddhahood is a sky without clouds. When buddhi becomes perfectly pure, it becomes Buddhahood.
The energy is the same. Buddhi is like gold lying in earth—dust-covered, mixed with stones. Buddhahood is gold that has passed through fire—the trash has burned, and it is pure—twenty-four carat. When gold is pure, that is Buddhahood; when gold is mixed with grit and dirt, that is buddhi. By purifying buddhi, Buddhahood is born.
Understand the sutra—
Buddhi-paryanta-sansāre māyā-mātraṁ vivartate.
The world is up to buddhi; buddhi is the world. This web of thoughts within you—warp and weft—is the world. Gradually drop thoughts, leave them, make them thin. Now and then intervals will begin to come within you when, for a moment, there is no thought. One thought goes and the next does not come; for a little while a gap remains. In that very gap you will have your own darshan. The name of that gap is the glimpse of meditation. From there the first tastes begin.
Like a door opened and the sun was seen—still far away, but visible because the door opened. Similarly if even one thought falls and a little space opens, through that space a relation to your own being is formed; for a moment—but even that moment becomes eternal. It transforms. That moment is a deep alchemy.
Buddhi-paryanta-sansāre māyā-mātraṁ vivartate.
As long as there is buddhi, a net filled with thoughts, there is world. And then only maya and maya. Take note: the world is not outside; it is in the cogitations of buddhi. The world is the absence of meditation.
Nirmamo nirahaṅkāro niṣkāmaḥ śobhate budhaḥ.
What revolution happens within one who attains Buddhahood? Neither “mine-ness” remains, nor ego, nor desire. As thought goes, these three go. Desire disappears—without thought desire cannot move. Desire needs the horses of thought to run. If there is no thought, how will you spread desire? Upon which horses will you mount it? In a thoughtless mind the wave of desire cannot arise—so desire dies with thought.
Mine-ness dies. Whom will you call “mine”? Whom will you call your own? Whom will you call the other’s? “Mine” and “yours” belong to thought. Where there is no thought there is no “mine,” no “yours.” Where thought is not, all relations are dissolved. All relations belong to thought.
And the third thing—ego. Where there is no thought, there is no “I,” because “I” is the name of the sum total of thoughts—the bundle tied together of all thoughts.
These three go as soon as thought goes. That is why my greatest emphasis is on meditation. Meditation simply means: you gradually begin to delight in no-thought. Sitting, not thinking anything. Walking, not thinking anything. Thought standing still. In this stillness you will dive into yourself. In this stillness will be sfurana; Samadhi will awaken.
Buddhi-paryanta-sansāre māyā-mātraṁ vivartate.
Nirmamo nirahaṅkāro niṣkāmaḥ śobhate budhaḥ.
Akṣayaṁ gata-santāpam ātmānaṁ paśyato muneḥ
Kva vidyā ca kva vā viśvaṁ kva deho’haṁ mameti vā.
“He who sees the imperishable, sorrowless Atman—where for that muni is learning, where the world, where body, where ‘I’ and ‘mine’?”
“Akṣaya”—imperishable, and “gata-santāpam”—without torment—he who sees such Atman...
Mind is momentary. Have you noticed? A thought does not last long. A thought comes...comes, and goes. Even if you wish to hold it, it does not last. Try to hold a thought for a while—you will find it does not. Try as you might, it goes. Thought is movement. It runs, restless, does not halt. Thought is momentary; therefore in thought there is decay.
Where there is no-thought, there is akṣaya—the beginning of the imperishable. There you have gone beyond the moment, entered the eternal. Thought is a stream of time. Outside of thought you are beyond time. Hence all the knowers have called meditation “timeless”—beyond time. Within time is the world; beyond time is truth.
Akṣayaṁ gata-santāpam ātmānaṁ paśyato muneḥ—
He who experiences this inner imperishable stream—his sorrows all end.
Understand then: all life’s suffering is the suffering of thought. Someone abuses you—and waves of thought arise within: “I have been insulted.” The idea “I have been insulted” brings pain.
Khalil Gibran tells a sweet story. A man went abroad—to a country where no one understood his language. He stood before a hotel—people were going in and out. He thought, “What is here? Let me see.” Poor man—from a poor country. He went in. People sat at tables, so he sat too. He felt delighted, peaceful—everything beautiful and fragrant.
A waiter came. He thought the owner had sent someone to welcome him. The waiter tried to understand, failed, and brought the usual food. He ate, grateful—bowing with thanks. The waiter asked for money; he kept thanking, because he did not understand the language. He thought he was being honored as a foreigner.
In the end the waiter took him to the manager. The manager got angry, but he thought, “What honor they give a poor foreigner!” Finally they sent him to the court. He thought, “To the emperor!”
The court was grand; the magistrate seemed like a king. He bowed. The magistrate asked, “You ate—why didn’t you pay?” But nothing made sense to him. Nor could the magistrate understand what he said.
The magistrate said, “Either this man is a thorough rogue, pretending not to understand; or a great fool. In either case—punish him. Hang a board around his neck: ‘This man is a cheat.’ Make him ride a donkey and parade him through the town, so others may learn.”
But he was overjoyed. When the board was hung: “How extraordinary—what a welcome for a poor man!” And when they seated him on a donkey his ecstasy knew no bounds: “These people are astonishing—how did they know that back home I ride a donkey? Now my procession is going out!” And the children shouted, people laughed and followed—a great parade. He sat with great pride.
One thought bothered him: “When I go back to my village, no one will believe that I was welcomed like this. If only one person from my village were here today! Now that it is happening, it is useless—no one here knows me; and those who know me will not believe.”
Just then he saw a man from his country in the crowd. The man had come twenty years earlier. He was delighted: “See, brother, how I am being received!” The man understood his language—and slipped away into the crowd, lest people associate him with this fool who thinks he is being welcomed, now that he also understood the country’s language. “Better not be recognized as from the same land.”
The donkey-rider thought, “How the envy burns! Seeing my welcome, he is jealous. He has never been welcomed—though he has been here twenty years!”
If someone abuses you, it is not the abuse that contains the sting—were you not to understand the language, nothing would happen. The sting is in the process of thought. When thoughts run within, you suffer. If someone honors you, you exult—not in the honor itself, but in the waves of thought it stirs within you.
The knower remains thoughtless in pleasure and pain, honor and insult. He sees what happens but does not give it much value. He remains equanimous—free of torment.
We manufacture torment by thinking, by laboring hard at it. We are such crazies that an insult flung twenty years ago is preserved like a treasure, like a gem. Even now the heart hurts; even now if you recall it, the nostrils flare, hands and feet grow hot; the urge to kill and be killed rises.
An insult of twenty years ago—a puff of wind; long gone, but you hold it still. A memory. You do not let the wound heal; you keep scratching it so it remains raw.
People are great lovers of suffering. If one wishes to be joyous in this world, no one can prevent him. If you are miserable, you are miserable because of yourself. No one is making you miserable.
The way we are living—there is some fundamental error. A great darkness—mind’s darkness, thought’s darkness; and a tiny understanding—very small. A slight knock—and your understanding scatters, darkness returns. A little blow—and even the greatest “understanding” collapses.
Āṅgan bhar dhūp meṁ
Muṭṭhī-bhar chhāṁv kī kyā bisāt, ho na ho!
Antar kī pīr kase, adharoṁ par hās hanse
Ulajhan ke jhurmuṭ meṁ kirnoṁ ke hiran phaṁse
Śahroṁ kī bhīṛ meṁ
Nanhese gāṁv kī kyā bisāt, ho na ho!
Ḍahte praṇ hāth gahe, taṭ ne āghāt sahe
Bhāvī ke sukh-sapne laharoṁ ke sāth bahe
Tūfānī jvār meṁ
Kāgadiyā nāv kī kyā bisāt, ho na ho!
Bhed-bhare rāj khule, sukh-dukh jab mile-jule
Bāṁvariya dṛṣṭi dhulī, āṁsū ke tuhin ghule
Kālajayī rāh par
Kṣaṇjīvī pāṁv kī kyā bisāt, ho na ho!
In a courtyard full of sun,
What weight has a fistful of shade—who knows!
Inner aches cinch tight, smiles dance on lips,
Deer of light get trapped in thickets of confusion.
In crowded cities,
What weight has a tiny village—who knows!
Broken vows are held by hand, the shore endures the blows,
Dreams of the future float away with the waves.
In the stormy tide,
What weight has a paper boat—who knows!
Secrets open wide, joy and grief entwine,
A mad gaze is rinsed, tears melt into frost.
On a time-defeating road,
What weight have momentary feet—who knows!
Our understanding is momentary. Our feet weak. Our buddhi is like a faint flicker in thick darkness—just a glimmer—now gone, now gone.
Ḍahte praṇ hāth gahe... Kāgadiyā nāv...
Our boat is of paper, the sea is stormy—and we have decided to cross. Sinking is certain. Build another boat—one not of paper. Build a boat that truly carries you across.
This mind-boat is paper; build the boat of meditation. Entangled in the seen, this little shade—
Āṅgan bhar dhūp meṁ
Muṭṭhī-bhar chhāṁv kī kyā bisāt, ho na ho!
This little illusion of understanding through thought—doesn’t serve much. It disappears at the slightest nudge. It never comes to use. When you sit at home and no one insults you, you seem very peaceful. If someone gives you a slight insult, the peace vanishes. Later, when you are peaceful again, you think, “What a mistake! I should not have done that.”
It is strange—your wisdom arrives when it is not needed; when it is needed, it goes missing. It is like dipping your hand into your pocket when in need—and finding no money; and when you do not need it—coins jingle. When needed—poverty; the bank will not give; when not needed—the bank says, “Come, it is all yours.”
Have you noticed? Your wisdom works only when there is no work for it. Reading scriptures—you are wise; in the market, at the shop, in the struggle of life—wisdom is lost.
Bhed-bhare rāj khule... Kālajayī rāh par
Kṣaṇjīvī pāṁv...
These thought-feet will not carry you to the eternal. Another foot is needed. Another flame—one that does not go out so quickly. A flame that never goes out. A light no death can quench.
Now, a mere insult—and all is lost. A mere honor—and you wobble. A few coins—your heart swells; a few coins lost—and thoughts of suicide arise. If such small things shake you, how will you face death? And death is coming. That is why people fear death so much. Buddhi will not work; Buddhahood is needed.
Akṣayaṁ gata-santāpam ātmānaṁ paśyato muneḥ.
Only he goes beyond sorrow who links himself to the imperishable—to the deathless. He who links to that which never ends goes beyond sorrow.
“And for such a muni, where is learning?” Then he need not seek in scriptures, need not seek in words. No need of vidyā. The door of knowing has opened within. The temple’s doors open within. He no longer goes to any scripture. His own scripture has become available. The very source from which all scriptures are born—the Vedas, the Koran, the Guru Granth—that source has become available. The link to the primal source has been made. Now stale doctrines are of no use.
In such self-realization—iti niścayī—one attains certainty, śraddhā.
Belief does not work; śraddhā works. Belief is childish, mere conditioning; śraddhā is experience. He who wants śraddhā must board the boat of meditation. Hurry. Time will pass—it is passing already. Hurry that the boat of meditation be built. Before death knocks at your door, your boat should be ready.
Then death becomes Samadhi. In death you behold the Divine; in death there is His embrace. Right now you are missing Him even in life—then how will you meet Him in death! Only one who finds Him in death has truly found Him in life.
Without finding Him, all our other findings are futile. Without Him, you may gain everything—one day you will repent, bitterly weep. And then weeping will be useless, because time gone does not return. Wake in time.
Awake!
Enough for today.