Maha Geeta #79

Gautam Buddha left the empire, left wealth and splendor. He moved from one extreme to the other. He renounced everything. He gave the body every possible hardship. The body dried up like a thorn. He became so feeble that even to sit and stand was difficult. While crossing the Niranjana River, he could not make it across. The current was strong and there was no strength left to cross. He clung, hanging, to the roots of a tree.
A thought arose in his mind: when I had everything, I attained nothing. When I lost everything, I still attained nothing. Somewhere there is a mistake. Somewhere a definite error is being made. I moved from indulgence to renunciation — neither did indulgence give, nor did renunciation give. There must be some other fundamental point that is not coming into my vision.
He was hanging from the roots when some village women passed by, humming a rustic song. The notes of their song were:
Do not leave the strings of the sitar loose —
the note does not come out true;
But do not tighten them so much either —
that they snap.
What could not be done by the so‑called masters happened upon hearing the song of those simple village women. A ray broke through. Hanging to the root, in the Niranjana, Buddha was illumined: I have moved between extremes; I did not remain in the middle. Perhaps the way is the middle. That very night, just as one day he had left the kingdom, he left renunciation too. Just as one day he had left wealth, so he left meditation too. Just as one day he had left the world, so he left even the desire for Nirvana. And that very night the event happened. By morning, Gautam became the Buddha. The mind awakened — Gautam became Buddha.
One awakening! Awakening happened in the middle.
All those who have known the truth have forbidden extremes. Atyanta — avoid extremes everywhere. And the mind is very eager for extremes. Moving from one extreme to the other is the easiest thing for the mind — nothing is easier. Like the pendulum of a clock — swinging from left to right, from right to left. But when it stops in the middle, the clock stops. If the clock stops, time stops. Timelessness happens. There is Samadhi. There is the solution.
Understand these sutras. The first sutra is:
निरोधादीनि कर्माणि जहाति जडधीर्यदि।
मनोरथान्‌ प्रलापांश्च कर्तुमाप्नोत्यतत्क्षणात्‌।।
'If the ignorant, even when he leaves practices like control of the mind, then at that very instant he becomes engaged in fulfilling fantasies and babblings.'
Such is our mind. If somehow we drop indulgence, we become engaged in yoga. Then if some wise one is found, a Satpurusha, who says, What madness are you in? Will anything ever happen through renunciation? — then instantly we drop renunciation too. And we return to indulgence.
With this sutra Ashtavakra warns you — do not conclude, listening to me, that I am supporting your indulgence; I am not supporting your renunciation either — what to speak of supporting your indulgence! Ashtavakra cannot support you.
And this is the dullness of the ignorant — he takes everything in support of himself. He thinks, Well then, if not through wealth, then through meditation; if not through religion, then through charity; if not through position, then through renunciation. If not through comforts, then by lying on a bed of thorns we shall get it; but we must get it. But I will get it. He drops and picks up everything — except the 'I'.
There is a famous saying of Rabia al-Adawiyya. A misguided man asked Rabia, If I set out on the path of religion, will God incline toward me? 'Whether God would incline toward me if I get converted?' Rabia said, No, never. 'No, it is just the opposite. If He should incline toward you, then you can be converted.' It is precisely the reverse. If the Lord inclines toward you, then you will be engaged on the path of religion.
Not by your inclining, not by your engaging in the religious path; by nothing that you do will anything happen. You are the undoing of all that is undone. This ego of yours is the prison of your life.
So first you accumulate wealth, then you start accumulating renunciation. You collect the world, then you start collecting Moksha — but you remain. You keep remaining. It is this ego of yours that does not go to either extreme; it shifts only when neither this side nor that side — for the sake of warning all of them.
Now the final sutras of Ashtavakra are coming. What he had to say, he has said slowly, everything. Now these are the last cautions. The first warning —
'Even if the ignorant leaves practices like control of the mind...'
First of all, the ignorant does not leave indulgence at all. If somehow he leaves indulgence, then with the same madness with which he was engaged in indulgence, he becomes engaged in yoga. The same obsession! The object changes, the obsession does not. He used to collect coins, now he collects merit — but he collects. In this world he wanted happiness; now he wants happiness in the other world — but he wants happiness. In this world he was afraid someone might snatch his happiness; now he is afraid in the other world that someone might snatch his happiness there.
Fear remains. Greed remains. Earlier he prayed, Lord, give me more — bigger empire, more wealth, more status, more respect. Now he says, Lord, I do not want all that. Call me to heaven. Now I want the bliss of heaven — but 'want' remains. Earlier too he wanted to use God; now also he wants to use Him. No, Rabia is right. If the Lord inclines toward you, then you can become religious. By your becoming religious, the Lord will not incline toward you.
There is an old saying of the Egyptian fakirs: when you choose a Master, never say in forgetfulness that I have chosen you — because there itself the mistake is made. When you choose a Master, say only this: Thank you, that you have chosen me.
Another ancient Egyptian aphorism says: whenever a disciple chooses a Master, it is because the Master has already chosen him before; otherwise he could not have moved toward the Master at all.
The essential, foundational point is that in no way should your ego be constructed.
Al-Hallaj Mansoor was hung on the gallows. His hands and feet were cut off; he was killed. Because he had proclaimed the unutterable 'Anal Haq' — 'I am God' — and the Muslims could not tolerate it.
A Muslim fakir, As Simnani, wrote a song. In that song he wrote that the day Al-Hallaj was crucified, that night a saintly man of that village had a dream. In the dream he saw that Al-Hallaj was being carried to heaven. He could not believe it. He himself had been in that crowd which had thrown stones; which had raised slogans to give Hallaj the gallows. He could not believe it — Hallaj, and being taken to heaven! So he asked God — Simnani’s poem says so — he said to God:
O God! why was a Pharaoh condemned to the flames
for crying out: 'I am God!'
and Hallaj is swept away to heaven
for crying out the same words:
'I am God!'
Then he heard a voice speaking:
When Pharaoh spoke those words
he thought only of himself —
he had forgotten me.
When Hallaj uttered those words — the same words —
he had forgotten himself.
He thought only of me.
Therefore the 'I am' in Pharaoh's mouth
was a curse to him;
and in Hallaj's the 'I am'
is the effect of my grace.
A man saw a dream, the very night Mansoor was crucified, that Mansoor was being carried to heaven. He was uneasy. He cried out and asked God: Pharaoh too had said — Pharaoh, the emperor of Egypt — he too had claimed, I am God. Pharaoh too had said, I am God. But we have heard that Pharaoh was thrown into the fire of hell. He was given great punishment and great suffering. And you were very angry. Pharaoh was condemned. And Hallaj has spoken the same words — I am God. Then why is this Hallaj being taken toward heaven?
God said: When Pharaoh said, I am God, he had utterly forgotten me. I was completely absent in his voice; only he was present. It was a declaration of ego. And when Hallaj said it, the matter was exactly the opposite. The words were the same, but the matter was utterly different. I was present, Hallaj had completely disappeared. The words were the same. In Pharaoh’s words, Pharaoh was; I was not. In Hallaj’s words, I was; Hallaj was not. My absence became a curse for Pharaoh; my presence became a blessing for Mansoor.
Everything depends on one small thing. Upon one small thing hangs it all: let not your doing be filled with 'me'. Then even without doing, one reaches God. And if you remain the doer, pile up all the japa, tapa, yajna, and ritual you wish — nothing will happen. If the doer is present, you will go on stiffening. The heavier you become, the farther God goes. The more present you are, the more absent God becomes.
When someone comes to me and asks, Where is God? We want to see! — it is very difficult to explain to them that you will not be able to see God as long as you are. Your presence is the screen. There is no veil over God — God stands utterly naked, uncovered. The veil is upon your eyes, and the veil is you.
Ashtavakra says, keep this in mind:
निरोधादीनि कर्माणि जहाति जडधीर्यदि।
People are of such dull intelligence that, first, it is very difficult for them to step out of indulgence. If by some fortunate moment they do, then with the same blindness they fall into yoga. They engage in the restraint of the mind. Earlier they were slaves of the mind; now they climb upon the chest of the mind and by force want to silence it.
And even if such dull-witted people agree, even if it comes into their understanding, they still understand wrongly. Something was said; they hear something else.
Reading Ashtavakra’s sutras, many times this must have arisen in your mind too — Aha! Then there is no need for meditation and so on? Then let us enjoy. Then as we are, so we are — just fine.
This is not what Ashtavakra is saying. Ashtavakra is not telling you to fall below meditation; he is telling you to go beyond meditation. In both cases meditation drops, but do not drop it by falling, drop it by rising beyond.
Hallaj and Pharaoh uttered the same words. Pharaoh spoke from falling below himself; Hallaj spoke from rising beyond himself. People have gone beyond meditation — only those reach. But if you fall below meditation, you will fall back into indulgence.
'If the ignorant even leaves practices like restraining the mind, then at that very instant he becomes engaged in fulfilling fantasies and babblings.'
He returns again. The same old daydreams, the same suppressed longings. The same embers hidden beneath the ashes flare up again; the fire begins to blaze. The old smoke rises again. The old babble, the old madness returns. It never went anywhere. It never leaves through suppression. Somehow, forcibly you had been sitting on it. Somehow, you had bound yourself into a posture. This is not sainthood — you had become a soldier. You learned drill. You practiced. Soldiers, too, look like calm statues after years of practice. But do not mistake them for Buddhas. They are not saints. Inside, a volcano burns. They stand; within, the crater smolders.
Your so‑called sadhus and munis, your mahatmas — soldiers, not saints. Fighting themselves, somehow they have dried themselves up, suppressed their urges, and arranged a discipline. They are not bad — that is true. They are not criminals — that is true. If they have committed any crime, it is against themselves, not against others. But they are not free either. They are not saints — at best, they are respectable gentlemen. It is true they are not wicked. They do not go to rob anyone’s house or murder anyone. But the murderer sits hidden within. And the thief is there. And any day, at the right opportunity, if the rain falls, it can sprout again.
Have you noticed? You are walking along the road. A rupee lies at the edge; you do not pick it up. You say, I am no thief! Then suppose a thousand rupees lie there — you feel a little tempted. Still you gather courage: I am no thief! But you turn back to look once or twice. Then there are ten thousand; you pick it up in your hand. You hold it — and say, What am I doing? I am no thief! You neither have the courage to go away, nor the courage to leave it. You look around — no one is seeing; why not pick it up? But if a million lies there, then there is no hesitation left.
I have heard — Mulla Nasruddin and a woman were entering the lift of a building — and finding a moment alone Mulla whispered, What do you think? If you will stay one night with me, I will give you a thousand rupees. The woman said, What do you take me for? Mulla said, All right, take two thousand. She softened a little, but was still angry. Mulla said, Very well, take five thousand. Then she softened completely. Mulla said, And what about five rupees? The woman flared up, What do you take me for? Mulla said, That we have understood — you have told me your price. Now it is only haggling. At five thousand you were ready — so we know what you are. Now we only bargain... Let us start at five.
Your so‑called respectability has its limits. The saint’s virtue has no limit. Your virtue is conditional. Change a few conditions — your virtue changes. The saint’s virtue is unconditional. You still carry seeds. The right soil and a shower and you will sprout.
Hence Patanjali has called the saint a 'dagdha-bija' — a burnt seed. Its seed is burnt. Now whether rains fall or the right soil is found — or not found — even if the most skilled gardener tries a thousand devices, no sprout will arise from a burnt seed.
So, listening to Ashtavakra, your hidden babblings may say, Aha, why were we troubling ourselves? Why did we get into the knots of the Patanjalis? Drop it! Ashtavakra has said the right thing. Let us return. The same madness, the same old life — that is fine.
Ashtavakra is not saying this. Do not fall into such a mistake. Ashtavakra is not in favor of indulgence. Ashtavakra is not even in favor of yoga — up to yoga. Because Ashtavakra says, in indulgence too the ego is fed — the doer as enjoyer; and in yoga too the ego is fed — the doer as yogi. In both, the ego fattens.
And the Divine descends only in that moment where ego is not.
'Even after hearing the essence, the dull‑minded does not drop his stupidity. Outwardly, he becomes without resolve in worldly affairs, yet within he remains full of longing for objects.'
मन्दः श्रुत्वापि तद्वस्तुं न जहाति विमूढताम्‌।
निर्विकल्पो बहिर्यत्नात्‌ अन्तर्विषयलालसः।।
Manda‑mati — understand the term. It does not mean 'fool' as we use 'fool'. A fool does not even understand what is being said. Manda‑mati means one who does understand, but understands when the time has slipped by — he understands late; a sluggish mind. When he should understand, he does not. When the moment passes, he understands.
If one understands in old age that desire is futile — that is dull‑wittedness; if he understands in youth — that is brilliance. In old age the time has passed. Now repenting is useless; the bird has eaten the crop. In old age everyone becomes wise — there is no way left to remain unwise. By becoming old the vigor of desire itself has waned — then the ego enjoys the pleasure of being desireless. The old laugh at the young and think them foolish — and they did precisely the same follies in their youth, and their elders laughed at them. And the same has happened with those elders before as well.
If one becomes wise because of old age, his wisdom is worth two pennies. For wisdom has no relation with old age. From old age, only one thing occurs — you become compelled; you can no longer do certain things. You have become helpless. Then that helplessness is wrapped in beautiful words as renunciation, austerity.
Kafka wrote a well‑known story: in a circus there was a man who was very skilled in fasting. But the circus was very big and stayed for many months in a capital. And because of his fasting, no one paid much attention to him. He neither needed food nor had any worry. He had made himself a bed of straw and would lie there.
It so happened, amidst the bustle of the circus people simply forgot him. The manager forgot him. Great commotion, a big capital, big crowds. Ten or fifteen days went by and one day the manager remembered — what happened to that fasting man? His tent was the last one. He ran there. The fasting man was counting his last breaths. In fifteen days no one came to see him, no one took any care.
The manager was amazed. He said, You madman! Why did you not eat? No one came to see you. No one cared. You could have gone and eaten.
He said, Today let me tell you a secret. His voice had become very faint; he was near death. He called the manager close and whispered in his ear: The truth is, I have no taste for food. I am not fasting! I suffer from a grave illness — my taste has died. I cannot eat. This fasting I have used as a device to maintain life even with this helplessness. The fasting was only an excuse. People used to come, they used to look at me — and I would feel pleased. In these fifteen days when no one came, I completely shriveled. That was my nourishment — the gratification of ego that people are coming. Food I cannot take. Eating is not possible. This fasting was not some austerity of mine. It was a weakness.
Many of your sadhus and sannyasins suffer from many kinds of weaknesses. They have adorned these weaknesses with new ornaments.
If someone like Buddha says that truth is not attained through logic — it is understandable. If someone like Mahavira says truth cannot be attained through logic — it is understandable. If Ashtavakra says truth cannot be attained through logic — it is understandable. But if some fool, who does not know the ABC of logic, says truth cannot be attained through logic — then he is only hiding his weakness. It has no value.
These statements look alike. Hence many fools also get the convenience of saying, What is there in logic! But to do logic is no small matter. You need a sharp intelligence, a blade‑like edge, medha.
Anyone can say there is no essence in logic. Nine times out of ten, it is false. Only he has the right to say so who has gone into logic and found its emptiness.
Do not hide weaknesses. In old age it often happens — when the seed‑energy is exhausted, people start talking of brahmacharya. They begin to call the young foolish. What they can no longer do, at least they can take the pleasure of abusing. A deep jealousy catches hold. Out of this jealousy, pronouncements are made that have no value.
Manda‑buddhi means: the moment passes, then intelligence comes. When the rains are over, then they think — Alas! the rains are gone; the sowing should have been done. Now it cannot be done. The time has gone.
Manda‑buddhi has only one meaning: when the moment is present, you are absent. Prakhar‑buddhi — sharp intelligence — has one meaning: when the challenge is present, you are present. Ready to accept the challenge, to respond — your being is alert. You are fully present. Intelligence is a kind of presence — presence of mind, the presence of Chaitanya.
'Even after hearing the essence, the dull‑minded does not drop stupidity.'
He appears to be listening. It seems he has even heard — perhaps he can even parrot the words like a parrot — yet no revolution happens. And unless revolution happens, knowing, hearing, has no value. You may go on hearing — what will happen? Some sounds echo in the ears; that does not create revolution. And it does not matter whose voice it was.
You have heard the enlightened ones — and nothing happened. You passed by the Jinas — and nothing happened. You sat in the air of the Paramahansas — and nothing happened. Nothing touches you. Because where it could touch, you are absent. There, your intelligence is very dull; there, you are so lax — beyond measure.
This has consequences. One consequence is: when Christ is alive, people do not listen; when he dies, they worship — this is dull‑wittedness. When Buddha is present, they throw insults; when he is gone, they build statues. They get intelligence too late. Now beating your head before Buddha’s statue will do nothing. And these are the very people who threw stones at Buddha. Now they build statues. Now they are very repentant — What have we done! And if Buddha comes again, they will throw stones again. For with what is, they have no alignment. What has gone, what is dead...
Hence people become tradition‑worshippers. The older a thing, the more they worship. That suits their backward intelligence, not contemporary. Like someone sits with the Vedas, repeating them — and does not care that somewhere the Veda is being born again and again even now on earth. He does not care — he repeats the Veda. He carries a mind of five or ten thousand years ago. It has taken him ten thousand years to wake up to the fact that some Rishis happened once. He trails ten thousand years behind time. Between them and time there is a gap of ten thousand years. These people will hear me ten thousand years later. Then they will look up and say, Aha! something happened — and we never knew.
Manda‑buddhi: one who drags behind time. Presence with time is genius; and one who is a little ahead of time — Buddhahood.
Understand these three. The dull trails behind time — he can do nothing; whatever he does, he will miss. His arrow cannot hit the target; his arrow goes one way, the target is elsewhere — no alignment.
One who stands with time, the pure present — he is talented; his possibility is greater. His arrow will hit — arrow and target one direction.
Then there is the last stage of consciousness — a little ahead of time. Therefore the utterances of the enlightened are always ahead of time. It takes you thousands of years to understand them. The sole reason is — what they say is far ahead of those who are in front of them. A statement made thousands of years ahead; people were not ready.
Buddhahood means: to see that which is yet to be.
Understand. Someone abuses — the stupid one will not catch it now; only when someone tells him, Look, this man abused you — why are you sitting silently? — then he wakes up. The wise one catches it now; as it is said, he knows now — and does what is appropriate, now.
The Buddha — he catches it even before the abuse is uttered. It only rises — and he catches it. This is the outer side.
The inner too — someone abused you at the office, and at home you became angry. It took that long for you to feel it. Even when you have become angry, you do not know. After you have beaten your son, then you remember — Oh, whom are you beating! You wanted to beat someone else; you are beating the son. The anger has been projected at the wrong place. You come to know of your anger only when it becomes an act.
Anger has three stages. First — the first dawn of anger; like the sun has not yet risen, the east has only reddened — it is about to rise, Brahma‑muhurta. The Brahma‑muhurta of anger. The anger has not yet come — it will, any moment. Then the sun rises — anger has arisen. Then the sun reaches the zenith — anger becomes act; it burns and scorches.
Those who know anger only when it becomes act — they are dull‑witted. When you have killed, then you get wisdom: What have I done! I did not even want this — and it has happened. Now what to do? It has happened in spite of me. Better than this is the man who knows when anger is rising; then something can be done — not much, for what has risen has risen. Still, it can be prevented from becoming act. The thought has arisen. You have been poisoned within. At least you can prevent the poison spreading to the other.
Then the third — the person of awakened intelligence, available to Buddhahood — he knows it before anger rises. He saves himself from being poisoned. He who catches the seed is saved from the tree.
'Even after hearing the essence, the dull‑minded does not drop stupidity.'
How many times have you not heard! Yet something sticks in the throat; it does not drop. Words get memorized; the meaning does not come into your grip. Hearing and hearing, you become a pundit; Prajna does not awaken.
'... outwardly without resolve in worldly affairs — yet within, full of longing for objects.'
Then sometimes it also happens that by much hearing, by frequent satsang with sadhus and saints, you too begin to feel that there is no substance in the world; indulgence has nothing in it. It begins to appear so — on the surface, in the head. Nothing has happened within. So you drop the outer world, you run to the jungle, you sit in a cave. You think of the world, while sitting in a cave. The rosary in the hand counts beads; within, the counting of rupees goes on. Outer and inner fall apart. And the person who is one thing outside and another thing inside — he becomes sick; badly sick. He becomes deranged — for he is fragmented. Health is in wholeness; fragmentation is derangement. The more splinters within, the more sick you become.
In fifteen–twenty years I have seen countless sadhus and saints up close. Ninety‑nine percent are ill. They need treatment. They are not mahatmas, not liberated — they are in a deranged state. But their derangement is worshiped. And when worship begins, the man somehow holds himself together inside... holds himself together. Now he cannot leave even this worship. The ego has begun to enjoy it. Respect comes, position comes, honor comes. He fasts, he does japa‑tapa — he does all this — and within a volcano blazes.
निर्विकल्पो बहिर्यत्नात्‌... —
Outwardly, in worldly dealings, he seems to have no interest.
अन्तर्विषयलालसः —
But within, flames — flames of longing for objects — go on leaping.
So keep the real touchstone for yourself: the real question is within, not without. If within, longing rises, then the world is better — do not run away. At least you will be saved from deception. You will not deceive anyone. You will remain true. Better to remain worldly and true, than sannyasin and false. If there is truth, then some day sannyas will come — it will follow truth. Through falsity, sannyas never comes.
Therefore I have not told my sannyasins to leave home. I have said, remain where you are, stand firm; do not run. Running is the sign of a coward. It is the conviction of a frightened mind. Do not run; stand where you are. Only take care to begin to understand inner longing. I am not even telling you to drop. And Ashtavakra too is not saying that you drop anything; understand.
'He whose karma is dissolved by knowledge — such a knower, though to the eyes of the world seems to be doing, in truth finds no occasion to do anything, nor even to say anything.'
'He whose karma is destroyed by knowledge...'
Karma can be destroyed in two ways: by force — using karma against karma — and you will be deceived. Understand; it is subtle.
Anger arose within you. You can destroy this anger in two ways. One — through action, you jump on top of anger. You sit upon its chest, do not let it move, do not let it go out. You hold yourself, you control yourself. You block all exits. You say, I will not do it, come what may!
You can do this; but how long will you do it? Will you not tire? Will you not relax? At night you will sleep — then control will loosen. In dreams you will murder someone. Anger will come out there. Or anger will start coming out in such ways that you will not even know. You will open the door and open it with anger — and you will not know. For the door is innocent; anger was for your wife. You kept yourself from expressing it toward your wife; now you slam the door.
Have you seen? When the wife is angry with you, more cups and saucers break that day. She cannot say anything to you directly. She wanted to break your head, but the husband is god — his head cannot be broken. But something must be broken. It is not that she plans like this, not that she calculates; these are unconscious processes. The hand lets the saucer slip. It slips more that day, though she may say nothing.
Have you seen? The day the wife is angry she may not utter a word, but the way she will pour the tea, you can recognize she is angry. It will appear in the pouring. There will be too much salt in the curry — not that she put it consciously. She has not that much awareness. It just falls. Anger finds ways here and there. You have caught it at the seed, but it will seek corners and crevices to flow. Flow it will, from somewhere!
A spring flows; you place a rock in front — the main stream may break, but small rivulets will burst open around the rock. Anger will come out from somewhere.
Anger is not stopped by action. For action has no real relation with anger. Sometimes it even happens that the person who is very angry is precisely the one capable of suppressing anger by action; for suppression too requires anger — anger against anger.
Ashtavakra says: 'He whose karma is melted by knowledge.'
No, if you conquer karma by karma, there is no victory. For in the end karma remains, the doer remains.
'He whose karma is melted by knowledge...'
Who, by knowing, by recognizing, by awakening the light of understanding, by seeing anger, by understanding the nature of anger — without any exertion, without any device, without effort — looks at anger with full gaze and understands anger is futile.
And who will not understand it? Just once, look anger fully in the face. How will you do it then? Then the question of stopping does not arise — how will you do it? See the difference — one who stops anger by action, stops it without understanding. One who awakens through Jnana does not stop anger — anger stops by itself. For anger arose out of ignorance, out of stupidity, out of unconsciousness. That unconsciousness has broken. The root of anger has been cut. Understand this sutra.
ज्ञानाद्गलितकर्मा यो लोकदृष्ट्यापि कर्मकृत्‌।
नाप्नोत्यवसरं कर्तुं वक्तुमेव न किंचन।।
ज्ञानाद्गलितकर्मा —
One whose karma is melted by knowledge — not by some device, but by simple seeing. He has not suppressed anything; whatever is within, he has seen it exactly as it is — and in the very seeing, revolution has happened. Seeing brings revolution.
Modern physicists have reached a rare discovery: that when you see a thing, by your very seeing the properties of that thing begin to transform — in the thing itself.
You are looking at a tree attentively — this ashoka stands here. You look carefully; you think, We are seeing — what has the tree to do with it? How will the tree change? But now there are methods to know that the tree changes. When so many people look at it with love, the tree is in a different wave. If many look with anger, the tree is in another state. If someone comes with an axe to cut the tree — even before the cutting, the thought‑waves in the woodcutter’s mind reach the tree before the axe does. And the tree becomes afraid, it trembles, it becomes sad.
When the gardener approaches, who waters daily, the tree, seeing him from afar, begins to feel gratified. This has been tested scientifically. The tests have determined that trees, too, feel. And by mere seeing, transformation happens.
Have you noticed in your life? If four people look at you with love, do you change or not? And if four look at you with anger, do you change or not? Are you the same when four look at you with anger, with hatred, with insult — and when four look at you with full love and respect? Transformations occur within you — subtle differences arise.
And these are outer glances. What to say of the inner! The inner is the eye of eyes. That eye we have called the third eye. There is the Shivnetra. If, having closed the outer eyes, you look with that inner eye at any state of your mind, you will find — transformation happens.
The wise have said — ज्ञानाद्गलितकर्मा — look at desire and desire goes. Look at anger, and anger goes. Look at greed, and greed goes. Then the key is in your hand — the master key: whatever you look at, that goes.
And then an amusing thing — not everything goes by being seen. Some things, when seen, blossom; and some things go. If you want the foundation of spirituality — that which cannot stand before your witnessing and disappears — that is sin. And that which not only stands, but begins to flower when witnessed — that is virtue. This is the definition of punya and papa.
You have heard many definitions — they are all rubbish. There is only one: that which increases with your awareness is virtue; that which diminishes with your awareness is sin.
If you look at love attentively, love grows — it does not go. That is the wonder. If you look at anger, it goes; it diminishes. In the same proportion as awareness increases, in that proportion anger decreases. If awareness is one percent, anger is ninety‑nine percent. Awareness fifty percent, anger fifty. Awareness sixty, anger forty. Awareness ninety‑nine, anger one. Awareness one hundred percent — anger zero.
But this is not the case with love. With love the experience is different. With karuna, peace, dhyana — the more awareness, the more they grow. Awareness one hundred percent — love one hundred percent. Awareness one percent — love one percent. Awareness zero — love zero.
What grows with awareness is virtue. What does not grow with awareness — rather decreases — is sin. What neither grows nor decreases with awareness — you have no concern with it. Leave it alone. You have nothing to do with it. Become neutral in regard to it.
If you look at your body, it neither decreases nor increases. As it is, so it remains. So, the body has nothing to do with your awareness; it is of itself. You look with awareness at the sun — it neither decreases nor increases. As it is, so it remains. These are facts — neither virtues nor sins.
Virtue grows, sin decreases. And the energy that is freed by the decrease of sin — it was engaged in sin — when freed, flows into virtue. Here hate diminishes, anger diminishes — there karuna and love begin to grow. Your energy is one — employ it where you will. Use it in the wrong place, and it is not available for the right.
ज्ञानाद्गलितकर्मा —
Let your karmas be melted by knowledge — keep this in attention. Do not try to melt by action. Otherwise what happens? If you suppress anger with force, anger is not destroyed — it sits within, repressed. And the fun is, the energy that earlier was used in anger now doubles: what was used in anger remains in anger, and now the energy used in suppressing anger also belongs to anger.
Therefore such a man comes to harm. His spiritual growth does not happen — there is decline. Better than this is the natural man: when anger arises, he gets angry — you will find him a good man. The one who always suppresses anger — you will find him dangerous. One day he will explode. And when he explodes, it will not be a small disturbance — it will be big. Those who get angry in little ways daily and cool down — such people do not commit great crimes; they do not murder, nor commit suicide. They are simple natural people. They are not spiritual — but at least they are healthy.
Look into the eyes of your so‑called mahatmas; instead of peace you will find a kind of deadness — a cremation‑ground peace; not the peace of flowers, of gardens. Why? Because some energy was tied up in anger, and some in suppressing anger. Some in hate, and some in suppressing hate. Some in greed, some in suppressing greed.
Even the worldly man you will find a little more cheerful; even that you do not find in your mahatma. He is in more trouble. It should be otherwise. And the energy that is in anger, and in suppressing anger; in greed, and in suppressing greed; in attachment, and in suppressing attachment; in sex, and in suppressing sex — all energy is invested there. There is no space left for love. In the life of your mahatmas you will not find love. In their life you will not find karuna. You will not find any creativity. Nothing is created through them — not a beautiful song, not a statue, not a painting. Nothing is created. They sit like corpses. Their whole occupation is — to sit upon, to suppress anger, greed, attachment. Their life is futile — without beauty, without grace, without prasad.
Only when the energy wrongly invested begins, by itself, to flow toward the auspicious, can we name it revolution. The flowers you had been offering at the feet of the devil begin to fall at the feet of God.
ज्ञानाद्गलितकर्मा यो लोकदृष्ट्यापि कर्मकृत्‌।
Then such a knower may appear in the eyes of people to be living in the world — it does not matter. For himself, he is beyond the world — that is the essential. In worldly eyes he will look ordinary.
नाप्नोत्यवसरं कर्तुं वक्तुमेव न किंचन।
Such a person has no occasion left to do. Nor is the occasion left to say, I did this, I did that. There is no opportunity. Only one thing is understood — by awareness, things happen of themselves. Who is the doer?
If you want to say it in the language of the devotee — say, it happens through God. God has no other meaning than this — the collected intelligence of this whole existence, the collected Buddhahood, the collected awareness — that is 'God'. There is no other meaning.
The bhakta says, Through God it happens. The jnani says, Through awareness it happens. In one thing both agree — I am not the doer.
If you say, I have practiced austerity — you have missed. That means karma has not yet been melted by knowledge. You have simply sat upon karma by karma. You are still the doer.
One man struts — I possess millions. Another struts — I have kicked millions aside. The strut is the same. Not a hair’s difference. And the second is more dangerous — for his strut is complex. The first is worldly; the second is painted with spirituality — more poisonous.
Keep this in mind: if it happens through effort — it is inauspicious. If it happens through awareness — it is auspicious.
'For the ever unperturbed and unmodified wise one — where is darkness, where is light, where is renunciation? There is nothing at all.'
क्व तमः क्व प्रकाशो वा हानं क्व च न किंचन।
निर्विकारस्य धीरस्य निरातंकस्य सर्वदा।।
You have always heard — the Divine is light. Some few mystics have said — the Divine is darkness; but very few. Ashtavakra says, the Supreme is neither like light nor like darkness. Where is darkness there? Where is light? There are no dualities there. Where there are not two, all pairs fall — life–death, darkness–light, profit–loss, success–failure, pleasure–pain, mine–thine — all fall. There, all pairs fall; both merge into one.
Now just consider — if light and darkness merge, what will happen? There is no way to say. One thing is certain — it will be like neither light nor darkness. It will be utterly unique, unprecedented, mysterious, inexpressible — unsayable.
Whatever we say will split into two. If we say beautiful — at once ugliness enters. Say this — and the opposite is implied. We cannot escape the opposite. Language is trapped in duality. Therefore silence is valued so greatly.
Silence means — to be beyond language. To arrive within at a place where there are no words. Where words are not — there is Brahman. Where word is lost — there is Brahman. There, One remains. There is no way to say. No category fits; no arithmetic works.
'For the ever fearless and unmodified wise one — where is darkness, where is light, where is renunciation? There is nothing at all.'
Na kinchana — nothing.
Understand also: ninety‑nine out of a hundred scriptures have called the Divine 'light'. The reason is not in the scriptures — the reason is in man’s fear. Man is very afraid of darkness. In darkness he panics. When there is light, there is some confidence — something can be seen. In darkness, only he does not panic whose seeing is within. One who knows only how to see outside, and inside whom there is no light — he panics in darkness. Because in darkness he becomes blind — nothing is seen; the whole visible world is lost. In darkness the visible is lost. Only the Siddha can be at ease in darkness. For whether darkness or light — he has no interest in the seen; he is merged in the seer. He is in the one who sees.
Have you noticed — however dense the darkness, you still are. You do not get lost.
There is an old Sufi story. Two young men came to a Master and asked for initiation. The Master said, Before I initiate you — a test. Here — take a dove, you take one too — go and kill them in a place where no one is watching, and return.
One youth ran off quickly, went into a side alley where there was no one. He twisted the neck and returned. He said, Here, Master — initiate me. The Master said, Wait.
The second did not return for three months. The first became uneasy — this is too much! He still has not found a place where no one is watching? The side alley was enough — I killed there. The Master said, You be silent. Sit. Until the other returns I will give you no answer. Let him come.
He would not return. The first got nervous. He said, Give me initiation then.
After three months the second returned with the dove. He was in a state — the body had withered, but there was a strange radiance in the eyes. Placing his head at the Master’s feet, he returned the dove and said, It cannot be done. What a puzzle you gave! For three months I tried. First I sought everywhere — there is no place where no one watches. Then I went into a dark cellar. No one there; I locked it. Not a ray of light, there was no question of seeing. But this dove was seeing. Its staring eyes, the beat of its heart! I said, It is present. Then I closed it in such a way that neither its heartbeat could be heard nor its eyes seen. Then I took it — but I lost again, for I was present. You had said, 'where no one is present'. What a condition! My presence remains — wherever I go. I am defeated. I have brought it back. Give initiation or not; but even in this test I have received much. One thing I have understood — there is one presence that never gets lost — my presence. You have given me a taste of the Atman.
The Master said, You are already initiated. To the first he said, Run away. Do not look back here again. You have no sense. You killed in a side alley?
Even in the deepest darkness, you are. One thing remains experienced even in darkness — my being. It is beyond darkness. To know it, no outer light is needed. It is self‑luminous. It needs no proof. It is self‑proven.
He who begins to sense that inner light with closed eyes — he will not panic in darkness. People fear darkness; therefore the Divine is called light.
And even those who have known the inner, calling the Divine light, have meant only this — when you come from outside to within, outside there is one kind of light, inside another; and the inner is deeper. But even this is not the last word — it is the language of the journey.
The first experience — light outside; of the worldly, the outward‑looking. The second — light within; of the inward‑turned. But Ashtavakra trusts the ultimate words. He says — where inside and outside dissolve, where outward and inward both are gone — that duality too — then what darkness, what light?
There is a place even deeper than the within. First come from outside to inside; then from inside go deeper still. Be free of the outside — that is certain. But be free of the inside as well. There is a moment when neither outside nor inside remains. In that moment the supreme revolution happens. There is neither light nor darkness.
'For the yogi whose nature is inexpressible and who is natureless — where is patience, where is discrimination, where is even fearlessness?'
This sutra is rare.
'Whose nature is inexpressible and who is natureless...'
Two things at once — inexpressible nature and natureless. Understand:
क्व धैर्यं क्व विवेकित्वं क्व निरातंकतापि वा।
अनिर्वाच्यस्वभावस्य निःस्वभावस्य योगिनः।।
The supreme definition of yoga, of the yogi. One who has come to the inexpressible nature and at the same time is free of all nature. One who in one sense is free of himself and in another sense has found his true self. A paradox. Only he attains himself who loses himself. Without losing oneself, none attains oneself. When we lose ourselves totally, drown utterly, then what is found is the Self.
'Inexpressible nature and natureless...'
There comes a moment when you cannot even say 'I am'. As long as you can say 'I am', you are astray, still far from home. Because 'I' depends on 'Thou'. 'I' too is the dual of 'Thou'.
Psychologists have discovered — when a child is born, his first experience is not of 'I', it is of 'Thou'. His eyes first fall upon the mother. He cannot see himself; he would need a mirror. The child has no idea of his own face. He experiences the mother — 'Thou'. He will see the doctor, the nurse, the mother, the wall, the room, the dangling toys — but 'Thou'. 'I' cannot be seen yet.
Have you seen small children? Put them before a big mirror — they watch as if another child; they touch, become a little anxious, a little afraid, because there can be no trust yet that 'I am'. They will look behind the mirror to see if someone is sitting there; finding no one, they are bewildered.
Small children suck their own thumbs — you have seen? They catch the big toe of their foot and suck; they suck the thumb of their hand. Do you know why? Because to them these too are things. Something is lying there — pick it up. As they put other things in the mouth, so they put their own thumb in the mouth. The 'own' is not yet known. This is just a thing always present nearby; they pick it and put it in the mouth.
A child puts everything into the mouth because he has only one active avenue of experience — the mouth. You give a toy — he quickly puts it in the mouth. Because only one sense is active — taste. He tests what it is by tasting, for the first sense to become active is the mouth — he must drink milk; that is the first experience. Through that he investigates everything. He puts his own thumb into his mouth to suck, in the notion that it is a thing to be sucked. Only gradually does he understand that it is his hand. And that is known only when 'own' is known. The hand is second — first is 'own'.
And 'own' becomes known when 'Thou' is slowly distinguished — who all are 'Thou'. In relation to these 'Thou’s he begins to think — I am something different. Because sometimes the mother is there, sometimes she goes away. He sees her coming and going. Slowly, a sense arises — I remain here. When mother is not, I still am. Not expressed in words — but ripening in experience.
Now remember, just as 'Thou' comes first and 'I' follows, in the spiritual process, with the new birth, 'Thou' will go first — then 'I' will go. When 'Thou' is gone, 'I' cannot linger long. 'I' came as the shadow of 'Thou', and it will go as the shadow of 'Thou'. Therefore, if a knower says 'I', understand — 'Thou' is not yet gone. Somewhere 'Thou' stands near; its shadow is falling. 'I' is the shadow of 'Thou'. And 'Thou' is more original than 'I', for 'I' comes later, 'Thou' earlier. When 'Thou' goes, 'I' goes.
In that moment the yogi becomes natureless. He cannot even say, This am I. It is a paradox and a marvel — one who is, cannot say 'I am'; one who is not, goes on proclaiming 'I am'. The declaration of being arises from those who are not; for those who are, their 'I' becomes a total zero.
Then an inexpressible state arises. What to call it? Neither 'Thou' nor 'I'; neither darkness nor light; neither life nor death; neither matter nor God. Nothing can be said. Whatever we say becomes wrong.
Lao Tzu said — say the truth and it becomes a lie; speak and you miss. Such a state is 'inexpressible' — anirvachaniya. It cannot be defined.
अनिर्वाच्यस्वभावस्य —
You have come home — but such is the home that here no definition works. No explanation, no description suffices.
निःस्वभावस्य योगिनः —
And the yogi, freed of the little, petty nature, attains the vast, the inexpressible nature.
This is the meaning of Jesus when he says again and again, 'Blessed are the meek.' Blessed is the weak — the strength of the weak is the Lord. He who becomes so weak that he cannot even say, I am — even that claim is gone — to him the Lord is given. Hari’s name to the defeated — he who has lost in such a way that not only everything else is lost, he himself too is lost.
The Pandavas staked Draupadi — they staked only the 'Thou'. They missed a little — they came close to the last. The real wager of life’s battle is here — where the 'I' itself is put at stake.
I have become destitute at your door, O Lord;
The river of pain overflows — the embankments of the mind collapse;
Wherever I look, helplessness spreads its lap;
All the consolations of patience are proving fruitless;
A blade of grass in the current — I have become, at your door.
In the cradle of tears, pain has rocked me;
With the moist hands of memory, I have been lulled to sleep;
With lullabies, wake the milk‑lipped poor dreams;
A speck of dust — I have become, at your door.
I have become destitute at your door.
As one approaches the Lord’s door, one becomes 'akinchana' — a nobody. What Ashtavakra calls 'na kinchana' — not a thing. One who is not even a little — such a one is 'akinchana'. Kinchana means: a little something. Akincana — even a little is not. Not a line remains. Like emptiness.
I have become destitute at your door —
A blade of grass in the current — at your door;
A speck of dust upon the wind — at your door.
Like a dry leaf in the wind — wherever the wind takes it. In such akincanata, blessedness. Where all is lost, all is found. The wealth of all wealths.
'For the yogi there is neither heaven nor hell, nor even liberation while living. What is the use of saying much? In the vision of yoga there is nothing at all.'
न स्वर्गो नैव नरको जीवन्मुक्तिर्न चैव हि।
बहुनात्र किमुक्तेन योगदृष्ट्या न किंचन।।
Two words — heaven and hell. Judaism, Christianity, Islam revolve around these two. India found a third — Moksha. For Moksha there is no word in Western languages. The idea never arose there.
Therefore the Western religions are like primary steps. The ultimate peak was touched in the East — Moksha. Hell means the extension of pain — within our experience. Heaven means the extension of pleasure — also within experience. In life we know both pleasure and pain. We separate them — pleasures here, pains there — and make two piles, call them heaven and hell. In heaven we put all that we want; in hell we put all we do not want. We divide the world in two — pleasure and pain — and thus heaven and hell arise. They are not other‑worldly — they are this world’s experiences.
Therefore what will you find in hell? People being burnt in flames. This is our life’s heat and flame, conceptualized. What in heaven? People sitting by streams of wine, always green trees, feasting, apsaras dancing. But this is all of here — nothing very new. What happens here in small measure, you extend there to large. It does not go beyond the world.
Therefore the East found a new word — Moksha. Moksha means beyond both pleasure and pain. Moksha means beyond both heaven and hell.
But Ashtavakra has gone to the limit. He says — in the supreme state, not only are heaven and hell not there, even Moksha is not there. He has said even beyond Moksha. Beyond this no one has ever said anything. That is why I have called Ashtavakra’s utterances the Mahageeta. Krishna leaves you at Moksha. Mohammed leaves you at heaven. Jesus too. Ashtavakra takes you beyond Moksha.
He says — heaven and hell are not there, that is right. They are states of mind. And Moksha is the experience when we are freed of mental states. But that experience is momentary.
Understand. A man was in jail for twenty years. You freed him, took him outside the walls, removed handcuffs, returned his clothes. He stood on the road. Certainly, standing on the road he will experience supreme freedom. But for how long? A moment, some hours, a day or two. Because of the twenty years in prison, standing on the road he will feel it. Those who have never been to jail and are always on the road feel nothing at all.
If this man begins to dance on the road, people will say, Are you mad? He will say, I am free! This open sky, this sun, these stars — ah! They will say, Are you crazy? The sun and stars are fine, the sky is fine — we have always been here. Not a matter to dance about.
This man’s experience of freedom is against the background of twenty years of prison. It is for a moment. After ten days, meet him — he will not be dancing. The matter is finished.
When prison ends, freedom ends. Freedom is momentary.
Ashtavakra says — when one is freed from the infinite net of the world, after births and births, he will dance with ecstasy: Ah, I am free! I am liberated!
But even this is momentary. It is said against the backdrop of the world. After a few days it is over.
If you meet Buddha or Mahavira now, you will not find them dancing. If they are still dancing, the mind is ill. It was right when they stepped out of the prison — the prison of births, ancient. There must have been tremendous joy. 'Pag ghungroo baandh Meera naachi' — Meera says, I tied the bells to my feet and danced. Kabir says, 'Now we go home, the Imperishable.' Great joy must have happened.
But this is only for a moment. And rightly understood — it is in comparison to the world. Even after stepping out of the world, the shadow of the world lingers in the head. Just as the man who has come out of the bars still carries the bars in his eyes, so too, the idea of Moksha is the shadow of samsara. The world has gone, but the idea born of it remains a little while. That too fades.
Therefore Ashtavakra says — 'for the yogi there is neither heaven nor hell, nor even liberation while living. What is the use of saying much? In the vision of yoga there is nothing.'
बहुनात्र किमुक्तेन योगदृष्ट्या न किंचन —
A rare statement. Ashtavakra says — in the vision of yoga, the yogi has nothing at all. No heaven, no hell; not even Moksha. No pleasure, no pain; not even bliss. In the vision of yoga, nothing.
Yogadrshtya na kinchana —
Even the yogi has not remained. What else will remain? Buddha has called it the Great Emptiness — Nirvana, the lamp of ego blown out. The lamp goes out. Where nothing remains — there all remains. The boundary is no more, the boundless is. You have vanished; the inexpressible is born.
'The man of steadiness has a mind made cool by nectar.'
Understand — each word of Ashtavakra is precious.
'Therefore he does not pray for gain, nor does he ever worry about loss.'
नैव प्रार्थयते लाभं नालाभेनानुशोचति।
धीरस्य शीतलं चित्तममृतेनैव पूरितम्‌।।
'The steady man’s mind is made cool, filled with nectar.'
Sheetal — cool — is a precious word. When one first relates with Amrit, when one first meets the Eternal, there is a unique ecstasy. Ecstasy happens. One becomes Samadhi‑filled. One begins to dance. A thousand suns, Kabir says, rise together. A thousand lotuses, Kabir says, bloom together. Fragrance everywhere. Beauty to the farthest horizon. A unique scene appears.
The yogi must become heated when such Amrit showers. When the ocean descends into the drop for a moment — will the drop not dance? It dances.
Life’s fire burns across the horizons;
The wind sways — delight ripples and overflows;
Fairs of fragrance are set up everywhere;
The flower has found its marriage — honey pours, the great scent ascends;
The horizons blaze.
The earring‑lamps of buds, the insistence of bees;
On the lips of the season — ghazals of revelry;
Jayjayvanti, Bihag — ragas sing out;
The horizons blaze.
All blossoms forth. Everywhere the horizons blaze. A tremendous explosion of energy. All dust and decay is gone. All that was old and withered — gone. A meeting with the ever new. Death goes — and that life in which death happened, that life goes too. The cycle of birth and death is gone. Amrit is attained. Now there is no more perishing. Nowhere to go, nowhere to come.
In the first moment, ankle‑bells ring; ankle‑bells sing. Dance awakens. Ecstatic madness — the word is right. One becomes mad with joy.
Wisps of tune become shepherd songs;
Alleys whirl, crossroads resound;
Upon the inner sky the drumbeat falls — the damp bracelets of cymbals clash;
Again has come the season to lose oneself —
To be drenched, and to drench.
The bodies of buds split, particles of perfume scatter;
The Malayan breeze shakes its fragrant scarf again and again;
Sleeping forests wake; rays wash their faces —
Again has come the season to string the creepers —
To be drenched, and to drench.
The rain of Amrit begins. Again the season has come to be drenched, and to drench. One sinks; every pore sinks into bliss. But this is not a stable state. This too becomes cool. Hence 'sheetal'.
This is very heated — ecstasy. There is great dance, great color, great song, great revelry. For the first time, life’s festival has opened its doors. For the first time, the beloved long sought has been found — the hand of the Beloved in one’s hand.
Kabir said — we are the brides of Ram. The rounds have been taken. Now we walk with Ram. Now we are wedded, one with Ram.
How will one not dance? How will one not hum? How will music not be born? Nada will arise, instruments will play, kirtan will be. But not for long — hence cool.
'The steady man’s mind is cool, filled with nectar.'
In the ultimate state, soon all becomes quiet. All becomes cool. All becomes shunya.
'Therefore he does not pray for gain, nor does he ever worry about loss.'
Now there is no prayer for personal gain, no anxiety about loss. Now there is nothing to lose, nothing to gain. Nowhere to go. The journey is over. The goal has arrived. Now there is no movement. No mover. All is still — in the supreme stillness. This is Samadhi.
Patanjali has spoken of two — Savikalpa Samadhi and Nirvikalpa Samadhi. In Savikalpa there will be ecstasy. In Nirvikalpa no ecstasy remains — no madness. Nirvikalpa is cool. No alternatives remain.
This supreme emptiness is the goal. And whoever attains it, attains the Full. Through the doorway of Shunya comes Purna. When you disappear, the Divine can be.
Enough for today.