Maha Geeta #8

Auspicious things are happening! It is unfolding exactly as it should. Do not be frightened by it. Let it happen. Collaborate with it. A unique process has begun, whose final result is liberation.
We are certainly imprisoned in the body. The lion is locked in a cage! It has been caged for so long that the lion has forgotten its own roar. So long in the cage, the lion has begun to think the cage is his home. Not only that—he has begun to think, “I am the cage.” Deho’ham: I am the body!

A blow has to be struck! You are with me precisely so that I may strike and you may awaken.
These words I am speaking are not mere words; take them as arrows—they will pierce you. Sometimes you will even be annoyed with me, because everything had been calm, convenient, and suddenly restlessness has arisen. But there is no other way to awaken; one must pass through pain.

When the inner energy rises, the body is not willing to bear it; the body is not made to withstand it. The body’s capacity is very small; the energy is vast. As if one tried to confine the whole sky within a small courtyard.

So when the energy awakens, many disturbances begin in the body. The head feels as if it were splitting. Sometimes it happens that even after full enlightenment the bodily upheavals continue. Before the happening of knowing this is entirely natural, because the body is unwilling. Like a wire made to carry the current for a hundred candles—if you drive a thousand-candle current through it, the wire will shiver, it will burn! In the same way, when the energy within you that was sleeping awakens and manifests, your body is not ready for it. Your body is ready to be a beggar, not an emperor. The body has limits; you have none. There will be shakings; storms will rise. Before the happening of knowledge, before samadhi, these tremors are entirely natural. Sometimes even after samadhi the shaking continues, the storm goes on, because the body cannot come to terms with it.

In Krishnamurti’s case it has been like this. For forty years, even after the attainment of supreme knowing, the process continued; the body could not bear the shocks. Krishnamurti shouts in the middle of the night, screams, gets up; he growls—literally growls. And for forty years a pain has persisted in the head; it comes and goes, but never entirely leaves. Sometimes the pain grows so intense that the head feels as if it were splitting.

Krishnamurti’s last forty years have been very painful from the body’s point of view. It happens sometimes. Often with samadhi the body also falls into harmony. But with Krishnamurti it did not settle, because great effort was made to force samadhi. The theosophical thinkers who raised Krishnamurti made a great, tireless effort to bring samadhi. Their ambition was to produce a world-teacher; the world needs it—a Buddha-avatar to be born.

Had Krishnamurti worked only by his own effort, perhaps one or two more births would have been needed. But then this hindrance would not have come. The work was hurried; what should have ripened over two lifetimes happened quickly. It did happen, but the body could not agree. It happened suddenly; the body was unprepared, and still it happened. So forty years were of bodily anguish. Even today Krishnamurti growls at night, wakes from sleep. The energy does not let him sleep. He cries out!

This may seem a little surprising—that one who has attained supreme knowing should cry out at night! But the whole arithmetic is clear. That which would ordinarily take at least two births to ripen was hastened greatly. The body could not be prepared for it; therefore the process is still continuing. The event happened, and the preparation is ongoing. Home has been reached, but the body has been left behind; it is still dragging along. The soul has reached home; the body has not. That dragging continues; hence there is ache, there is pain.

So do not be frightened by this. These are the first tidings of samadhi’s arrival. These are the initial stages before samadhi. Take them as a blessing; consent to them. If you accept them as good fortune, they will soon quiet down, gradually. And as the body begins to agree and cooperate, its receptivity and capacity will increase.

You have invoked the Infinite; then you must become infinite. You have challenged the Vast; then you must become vast.

In the old Bible there is a very unique story—of Jacob. Jacob is engaged in the search for God. He has sold all his possessions; he has sent away all his loved ones—his wife, his children, his servants—far from himself. He is waiting alone on a riverbank for God. God arrives.

But the happening is most strange: Jacob starts wrestling with God! Who wrestles with God? Yet Jacob grapples with God. It is said they fought the whole night. By morning, by dawn, Jacob could finally accept defeat. When God was about to depart, Jacob caught hold of God’s feet and said, ‘Now at least bless me!’ God asked, ‘What is your name?’ Jacob told his name: ‘My name is Jacob.’ God said, ‘From today you are Israel’—the name by which the Jews are known—‘From today you are Israel. You are no longer Jacob; Jacob has died.’ Just as I change your name when I give sannyas. The old is gone!

God said to Jacob, ‘Jacob is dead; from now on you are Israel.’

This story is in the old Bible. Nowhere else is there such a story, that a man fought with God. But in this story there is a great truth. When that supreme energy descends, the event that happens is almost like a fight. And when that ultimate event happens and you are defeated by God and your body is exhausted and you accept defeat, then your supreme initiation has occurred! In that very instant God’s blessing showers. Then you are new. Only then do you taste the nectar for the first time.

So ‘Yog Chinmay’ is almost where Jacob must have been. How long the night will be, it is hard to say. How long the struggle will last, it is difficult to say. No prediction can be made. But the struggle is auspicious.

Support this energy. This lion within that wants to be free—that is you. This energy that wants to rise toward the head, to travel from the sex center to the sahasrar, to carve a path—that is you. For lifetimes it lay coiled; now it has begun to raise its hood. You are fortunate, blessed! Through this you will come near the supreme benediction! Your real transformation will happen!

Krishnamurti has written in his notebook that whenever this head splits and I cannot sleep at night and there is screaming, and something within me growls—only after that do very unique experiences happen. Only after that does a great peace descend. All around there is a shower of benediction. Everywhere, only lotuses bloom.

Exactly this has begun to happen with ‘Chinmay’—good.

‘After this I sink into a strange intoxication and ecstasy.’

Because when the energy, after its struggle, rises upward and the body becomes even a little consenting, a new ecstasy will come: evolution has happened! You have risen a little higher. You have transcended a little. You have stepped a little outside the prison; a free sky is found! You will be exhilarated. You will dance; you will dance, intoxicated with joy!

‘Then the lion, quieted, writhes, paces, keeps growling—and in kirtan, or intoxicated by the remembrance of you, he even dances.’

That lion wants to dance; there is no space in the body fit for dancing. To dance, there must be room; where is there room in the body? Only outside the body can the dance happen. Therefore if you dance rightly, you will find that you are no longer the body. In the final grace of the dance, at its highest peak, you step outside the body. The body keeps spinning, keeps quivering; but you are outside, you are not inside.

That is why I have made dance an essential part of the meditative processes; for there is no other process as wondrous for meditation as dance. If you dance to the full, if you dance totally, then in that dance your soul will move out of the body. The body will go on quivering, but you will experience that you are outside the body. And then your real dance will begin: here, below, the body will go on dancing; you, above, will dance there. The body on the earth; you in the sky! The body in the material; you in the immaterial! The body will do the dance of matter; you will do the dance of consciousness. You will become Nataraj.

Something unique is happening! Something wondrous is happening! Something unprecedented is happening! What is happening cannot be explained; it can only be experienced. Whatever I say will not make you understand; at most it can help you become a little more able to accept it. Say yes to it. Do not suppress it!

The natural tendency of the mind is to suppress: “What madness is this—that I am growling like a lion! What is this roaring! People will think I’m crazy!” So the mind’s impulse is: suppress it, hide it! Don’t let anyone come to know! What will people say!

Don’t worry! Don’t worry about who says what. If people call you mad, be mad! Has anyone ever become a paramahansa without being mad? You pay attention to your inner being. If from this bliss is arising, ecstasy is arising, wine is pouring, then don’t worry. This world has nothing—nothing so valuable—to give you. Therefore make no bargain with this world. Don’t sell even an inch of your soul, even if the empire of the whole world is offered in exchange.

Jesus has said: even if you gain the whole world and lose your soul, what is the point? If the soul is saved and the entire world is lost, then it is essence and nothing but essence.

Keep courage! Have daring! With trust, with faith, keep moving onward! Soon—slowly, slowly—the body will come around. Then even the roaring will disappear; only the dance will remain. Then the lion will no longer be restless, because the lion will have found the way: when it wants to go out, it will go out; when it wants to come in, it will come in. Then this body is no longer a prison; it becomes a place of rest. Whenever you wish, come within; whenever you wish, go out.

When you can move in and out so simply, as you come and go in your own house—there’s a chill, so you go outside and sit in the sun. Then the sun grows stronger, the heat rises, sweat begins—you get up and come back inside. As you come and go in your own house, then the house is not a prison. But if you are sitting in a prison, you don’t have such freedom that whenever your heart wishes you go out, and whenever your heart wishes you come in. In a prison you are a captive; in a home you are the master. As your lion can dance outside, can fly in the sky, can play with the moon and stars—then there is no problem. Then there is no quarrel with the body; then the body is a place of rest. When it gets tired, you will return within and rest. Then there is no enmity with the body either. The body is then a temple.

It has happened many times that I have given sannyas even to those who had no idea of sannyas at all. I have given sannyas to those who had not come to take sannyas; I have given it even to those who had never dreamed of it. Because I do not look only at your conscious mind; I see many things that lie buried in your unconscious.

Just last night a young woman came. I didn’t even ask her. I said to her, “Close your eyes—and take sannyas.” I didn’t ask, “Do you want to take sannyas?” She closed her eyes and accepted. Otherwise people are startled; people think. If they are to take sannyas, some think for months, some for years—some kept thinking and died without taking it. She simply accepted. Consciously, she knows nothing.

But we are not new—we are ancient, very ancient. That young woman has been searching for many lifetimes. She has a wealth of meditation. Seeing that wealth, I said, “Dive within—close your eyes!” I told her, “I will not ask you whether you want sannyas. There is no need to ask.”

In just this way I gave sannyas to Dayal too. This question is from Dayal. I did not ask him; Dayal himself did not know.

You hardly know yourself! You don’t know where you come from. You don’t know what treasures you bring with you. You don’t know what you have done in countless lifetimes—what you discovered, what remains incomplete. Each time death comes it disrupts all that you had done. Many of you have been sannyasins many times—each time death came and scattered everything. And your memory is not strong enough to remember.

Understand it like this: you were working, painting a picture; it was still unfinished when death came. With death, you forgot. Then you are born again. Even if someone brings you news of that unfinished painting, even if the incomplete canvas is placed before you, still you don’t remember—because in this life you have never even thought, “I am a painter.” And if I say to you, “Complete it, it lies unfinished; you created it with great longing and deep yearning—death came in between; now complete it,” you will say, “I know nothing; if you put a brush in my hand, all right—but I don’t even know how to hold it. If you set out the colors, I will splash them—but I know nothing of how to paint.” Still I say to you, Begin. Just by beginning, remembrance may return. Come, take the brush in your hand—perhaps it will all come back!

It happened in the Second World War: a soldier fell, struck his head, and lost his memory the instant he fell. The threads of memory were disturbed; he forgot—even his own name! When he was brought from the battlefield he was unconscious; somewhere his badge was lost, his number too. A great difficulty arose. When he regained consciousness he knew neither his number, nor his name, nor his rank. Psychologists tried hard in every way; nothing worked. The man became a blank slate, as if all connection with his memories had snapped. Then someone suggested the only remaining possibility: take him around England. He was in the English army. Tour him through England; perhaps, near his village, memory will return.

So they seated him on a train with two escorts and took him around England. At every station the train stopped, they disembarked him; he would stand and look. They grew tired. England is a small country, so it was not too difficult—they took him everywhere. Finally, at a tiny station where trains do not even stop, but stopped that day for some reason, the man stepped down, saw the signboard, and cried, “Ah—this is my village!” He began to run. He forgot the two men with him; they ran after him. He left the station, ran into the village—everything returned! The lanes and byways came back. He asked no one. Crossing the alleys, he reached his own house. He said, “Ah—this is my house; this is my name! Here is my nameplate!” Everything returned. One shock—and the stream of memory was rejoined.

So sometimes I give sannyas, as I did to Dayal, in just this hope: I will have you wander in ochre robes; perhaps you will remember that you have wandered in ochre before. I will say: Dance! Perhaps, dancing, one day you will reach that state of mind where the dances of past lives return to you. I will say: Meditate! Meditating, perhaps some door of the unconscious will open and a flood of memories will pour in.

That is why I go on speaking—sometimes on the Gita, sometimes on Ashtavakra, sometimes on Zarathustra, sometimes on Buddha, sometimes on Jesus, sometimes on Krishna. Who knows which word will resound within you; who knows which word will become a key; who knows which word will awaken you from your sleep! I keep trying every device. The only effort is this: that somehow, what many deaths have disrupted in between—leaving your life scattered—may regain a thread, a continuity, a single-tunedness, a oneness. As soon as that single flow arises, your destiny starts drawing near. You have built the house many times; each time it remained unfinished.

So Dayal is right to say, “I don’t remember any moment when I took sannyas.” He did not take it; I gave it.

“When did I take it, where did I take it! You yourself gave it. I haven’t even reached you yet!”

You will reach me only when you reach yourself. There is no other way to reach me. Reach yourself—and you have reached me. Know yourself—and you have known me. To come to me no outer journey is needed—turn inward, and go down into the innermost.

“I knew nothing of sannyas then, nor do I know today.”

You will know—soon you will know. It is true: you did not know then, you do not know now. But this is a good state—that you see and acknowledge that you do not know. Unfortunate are those who do not know and yet think they know. You are in the right condition. This is the innocence of mind: “I do not know.” When you are empty, you can be filled. There are many who know nothing—indeed they are many—but they think they know. Because of this delusion, they remain deprived even of what could be known.

Knowledge blocks the way to knowing. If you know that you are ignorant, you are moving in the right direction. In such innocence the supreme event of knowing happens. To know that “I do not know” is the first step toward knowing.

“Where is my worthiness! Where is my faith and surrender!”

This very feeling arises only in a worthy heart: “Where is my worthiness!” The unworthy think, “Where will you find someone as worthy as we are!” This humble feeling is itself the worthiness—that my worthiness is lacking, that my surrender is lacking, that my faith is lacking. This is the very sign of faith. The seeds are present; only time is awaited. At the right season, in the right climate, the sprouting will happen, the revolution will happen.

And this journey is a unique journey—an adventure into the unknown, the unknowable.

This continual veiling by silence—
how strange that now we have become confidants of the secret.
We lost our peace in your madness;
in your sorrow we became flame-tongued.
So bent have we been by the hands of the ages—
once we were arrows; now we have become bows.
No guide, no fellow-traveler—
on what path is it that we have set out?
In self-forgetfulness we found great delight:
lost, we became those who arrive at the destination.

This is a destination that is found by losing yourself. As long as you are, it will not be found; the moment you are lost, it is found.

In self-forgetfulness we found great delight—
where you are not, where your ego is gone, where no-self has come...

In self-forgetfulness we found great delight:
by getting lost, we became destined for the goal.

By losing, we arrive! This path is the path of effacement.

So if you feel, “Where is my worthiness for surrender?” the erasing has begun; self-forgetfulness is coming. If you feel, “Where is my faith?” self-forgetfulness is coming; you have begun to dissolve.

Sannyas means just this: you disappear—so that the Divine can be.

“No guide, no fellow-traveler...”
It is a very solitary journey.
“No guide, no fellow-traveler...”
Neither companion nor pathfinder. Ultimately even the guru is left behind, because where is there room? The lane of love is very narrow; two cannot pass through it. Where is the space for three—disciple, master, and God? There isn’t room even for two. There, the guru drops away; there, you drop away; there, only God remains.

“No guide, no fellow-traveler—
on what path is it that we have set out?”

Sannyas is a very unknown journey—the journey of great courage and daring! It belongs to those who can risk a plunge into the unknown. It is not the work of the clever, the calculators. This is no mathematics; it is a leap of love.

The very moment you ask “how,” you miss; you have not understood. This is precisely Ashtavakra’s whole teaching: the moment you say “how,” you have slipped into ritual—method, technique, doing. If you insist on “how,” Ashtavakra will elude you. Then go and knock on Patanjali’s door; he will tell you “how.” If your insistence on “how” is strong, Patanjali is your path. He will tell you: practice yama, niyama, samyama, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana, samadhi. He will spread it out so much that you will say, Master, a little less, please! Give me a simple trick; this is too much—this will take lifetimes.

Most yogis keep working at yama and do not even reach niyama. Many die perfecting asanas—where is dharana, where is dhyana! There are so many asanas; even completing the practice of asana feels arduous. The truly persistent reach, at most, to dharana. But the happening is in samadhi. And even samadhi Patanjali divides in two: savikalpa samadhi and nirvikalpa samadhi. He keeps dividing, making steps, ladders—he raises a staircase from earth to sky.

If you are interested in “how,” in ritual, then ask Patanjali. Though even Patanjali, in the end, says: now drop everything; enough of doing. But some people cannot stop without doing; so they must be made to do first.

Understand it this way: a child at home is noisy, restless. You say, “Sit quietly.” Even if he sits, he boils inside; his hands and feet tremble, his head shakes—he wants to do something; he has energy. That is no way to seat him. There is danger—there will be an explosion, he will do something or other. Better tell him, “Go run seven rounds of the house.” Then he will come back panting and sit quietly by himself. You won’t have to tell him to be quiet; he will settle on the very same chair on which earlier he could not sit still.

Patanjali is for those who cannot be quiet directly. He says, run your seven rounds. Do all your running about. Twist the body this way and that; do headstands; do this, do that. At last, after much doing, one day you say, Master, I am tired of doing! He says, If only you had said that at the beginning—we would both have been spared; now just sit quietly.

Man wants to do. Your logic does not admit that anything can happen without doing. Ashtavakra is beyond your logic. Ashtavakra says, You are free! And again you misunderstand: You say, “You say ‘free now, here’; but how do I get free of this ‘I’?”

Ashtavakra says: the question “how” arises only after you first assume, “I am unfree.” You have already accepted one premise—“I am in bondage; now how do I get free?” Ashtavakra says: there is no bondage—only the illusion of bondage. Then you say, “How do I get free of the illusion?” Still you have not understood, because illusion means it is not; what is there to be free from? The moment you see, the moment you awaken, you are free.

If you enter into tricks and techniques, you will get into great difficulty.

Every trick turned out false,
and in the end, life turned out too short.

If you fall into tricks, you will find that one life is too short—many lives are too short. There are so many techniques. For lifetimes you have been cultivating techniques! Your trust is in doing, because doing feeds the ego.

Ashtavakra says, do nothing. The doer is the Divine. What is happening is happening; just be included in it. Do not even ask, “How do I get free of this ‘I’?” If this “I” is happening, let it happen. Who are you who is trying to get free of it? Accept even this: “All right—if this is happening, this is what is happening.” You did not make it. Do you remember when you made it? You did not mold it. You did not bring it. If you did not bring it, how will you throw it away? What can you do? Two eyes were given, one nose was given; so this ego too was given. All this is given. Nothing is in your hands. So let what is be. The “I” is also fine; this too is okay.

Do not keep even a shred of complaint. In that complaintless state, in that supreme acceptance, suddenly you will find: the “I” is gone! Because the “I” is born from doership. When you do something, the “I” is formed.

Now you ask a new question: how do I erase the “I”? Then the eraser becomes an “I”; you will not escape. That is why a humble person’s ego can be even bigger than an arrogant person’s.

Have you seen the ego of the humble man? He says, “I am the dust at your feet!” But look into his eyes—what is he saying? If you say, “You are absolutely right; we already knew you were dust at our feet,” he will be ready to quarrel. He is not asking you to agree; he is asking you to protest: “A man as humble as you... what a blessing to behold you!” He wants you to say, “You, dust? You are a golden peak! You are the pinnacle of the temple!” The higher you raise him, the more he will protest, “No, I am just dust.” But if someone says, “You are indeed dust,” and you agree, “Everyone says so,” he will never look at you again. That was not humility—that was the ego in new clothes; the ego had donned the garments of humility.

So if you try to get rid of the “I,” the very one who tries will create a new “I.” Man changes attire—clothes change, but you remain the same.

Try to understand Ashtavakra; do not rush to “What should I do? How to get rid of the ego?” Do not hurry to do; rest a bit to understand. Ashtavakra says: know how the “I” forms—it forms out of doing, effort, striving, success. Wherever you strive, it takes shape.

Then one thing is clear: if you are to be free of ego, do not strive, do not make efforts. Accept what is, as it is. In that acceptance you will find: the ego has vanished as if it never was. The energy that sustained it has been withdrawn; the foundation has gone, the building cannot stand long.

And if the sense of doership collapses, all the illnesses of life collapse. Otherwise there are great snares in life. The race for wealth is a race of the doer. The race for position is the race of the doer. The race for reputation is the race of the doer. You want to show the world that you can do.

Many people come to me and say, Give us a path so that we can do something in the world. What do you want to show? They say, We want our name to remain. We will go, but the name should remain! What purpose will that serve? No one is interested in your name except you. Once you are gone, who cares? When you will not remain alive, what use is the name that remains? If you do not remain, living, the name is just a signboard—what will it matter? Who cares for your name? And even if the name remains, what is the essence? It will lie pressed in some books, suffocating there. Alexander’s name remains, Napoleon’s name remains—what is the substance of that?

But we have been taught these diseases since childhood: Do something before you die; don’t die without doing! If good cannot be done, then do bad, but leave a name. People say, Even if ill-famed, at least there will be fame! If the right road is not found, take the wrong road, but leave a name! People go to a mountain and carve their names on a rock. They visit an old fort and write their names on the walls. The man writing his name does not even notice he is erasing someone else’s name to write his own. Someone will erase yours and write theirs. You are erasing another’s and writing yours, and in thicker letters; someone else will come and write in still thicker letters. What madness is this?

Fanciful desires have woven many nets of dreams.
Many passion-wearied hearts rose with a single flash.
The intoxication of beauty, the drunkenness of love,
the grandeur of name, the pride of gold—
for man on earth, so many magical snares are spread.
Each has his destiny, each his nature:
many are crushed by pleasures, many are rich with sorrows.
A hard time has fallen on mankind; hard is the hour upon the world—
such hard times—though many ages have been hard.
The wealth of the heart is rare, though worldly wealth abounds;
we have seen many men of means whose hearts were paupers.
How many scenes lie hidden in the depths of intoxication;
the realm of awareness is one, but intoxication has many underworlds.

How many scenes lie hidden in the depths of our stupor! In our torpor so many vistas are concealed—scene after scene; curtain behind curtain; story behind story! In this stupor of ours so many underworlds are hidden—of wealth, of position, of prestige, of dreams. Nets are spread!

How many scenes lie hidden in the depths of intoxication,
the realm of awareness is one, but intoxication has many underworlds.

But the one who has awakened—his realm is one, his nature one, his essence one, his taste one!

Buddha has said: as the ocean tastes salty wherever you taste it, so taste me—everywhere I am flavored with awareness. My single taste is awareness.

That same taste is Ashtavakra’s: not a doer, not an enjoyer—only a witness!

So do not even ask, “How?” Because in “how” the doer has entered, the enjoyer has entered, and you have missed; you have missed Ashtavakra. Ashtavakra says only this: whatever is, see it; be a witness. Just see! If there is ego, see the ego. What is there to do? Merely see—and seeing brings revolution.

Do you understand? The matter is a little subtle, but not so subtle that it cannot be understood. The point is straight and clear. Ashtavakra says: if you only see, in seeing the doer cannot remain; only the witness remains. Once the doer is removed, all that drew juice and strength from doership begins to fall. Without the doer, where is the race for wealth? Where is the race for position? Without the doer, where is ego? All of it begins to drop of its own accord.

Master one thing—the witness; nothing else is to be done. All the rest will happen by itself. It has always happened by itself. You unnecessarily keep standing in the way.

I have heard: an elephant was crossing a bridge. The bridge shook under the elephant’s weight. A fly sat on his trunk. When they reached the other side, the fly said, “Boy! We really shook that bridge!” The elephant said, “Goddess! I didn’t even know you were there until you spoke.”

This thought of yours—that you shook the bridge—is not you; it is life-energy. You are like the fly, perched on life-energy, saying, “Son, see how we shook it!”

This ego is only sitting on you. Everything is happening through your infinite energy. That energy is the Divine; you have nothing to do with it. It breathes in you, it wakes in you, it sleeps in you; only you stiffen in between. True, when you stiffen, it does not obstruct.

The elephant at least protested: “Goddess, I didn’t know you were sitting on me.” At least the elephant said that; the Divine doesn’t even say that much. The Divine is absolute silence.

You puff up, and it lets you puff up. You claim its acts as your own, and it lets you claim them. Even when you say, “I am doing,” it does not intervene: “No, not you, I am doing!” For it has no “I”—how can it tell you, “I am doing”? Hence your illusion keeps running on.

But look carefully—open your eyes a little. It is not your doing; everything is happening by itself.

This is the marvelous principle of destiny, of fate: everything is happening by itself. The wrong people took it in the wrong sense—that was their mistake. Properly understood, fate means only this: if you understand the principle of destiny rightly, you become a witness, and there is nothing to do. But people did not become witnesses through fate; they became inert, indolent.

There is a difference between a non-doer (akarta) and an idler (akarmanya). The idler is lazy, sluggish, dead. The non-doer is overflowing with energy—he simply does not say, “I am doing.” The Divine is doing. I am only seeing. This play is happening; I am watching.

Man is very dishonest; he uses even the most beautiful truths in ugly ways. Fate is a very beautiful truth. It means only this: everything is happening; nothing is happening by your doing. All is ordained. What has to be, will be. What has to be, is happening. What has happened, had to happen. You can sit by the bank and watch the play in peace; there is no need to jump around in the middle. Your running to and fro makes no difference; what has to happen is happening. What has to happen will happen. Then you become a witness.

The structure of fate was devised to lead you toward witnessing. But people did not move toward witnessing; they sat down in idleness. They said, If what has to happen will happen, fine—then why should we do? Still the underlying assumption remained that our doing has force: “Why should we do?” Earlier they said, “We will do and show.” Now they say, “What is the point of doing?” But the sense of doership has not gone; it stands where it stood.

If you understand Ashtavakra, there is no method, no ritual. Ashtavakra says: ritual is bondage; method is bondage; doing is bondage.

First thing: be a witness to lust as well. Do not become its controller. Do not try to bring it under control by force; remain a witness to it too. Just as you are a witness to everything else, be a witness to lust as well.

It is difficult, because for centuries you have been taught that lust is sin. That notion of sin has settled in the mind.

In this world there is no sin at all—only the Divine. Drop that notion. In this world the One alone is, pervading all forms—that One is the Divine. In the smallest of the small, the same; in the vastest of the vast, the same! In the low, the same; in the high, the same! In lust, the same; and in samadhi, the same. Here there is nothing that is “sin.”

This does not mean I am saying you should remain stuck in lust. I am only saying this much: see that, too, as a form of the Divine. There are other forms. Perhaps lust is the first step of that manifestation. A small taste of samadhi gets expressed in lust; that is why it has so much allure. When a greater samadhi begins to happen, that allure will drop away on its own.
The friend has asked: “When I am absorbed in meditation, I can become one with the inner flow; when sexual desire seizes me, then I want to sink just as deeply into that too.” Sink! There is no need to stop it. Just keep sinking and remain a witness. Keep watching that a dip is happening. Keep watching that sexual desire has encircled you. In fact, the very word “lust” brings condemnation into the mind. Say instead: a mode of God has surrounded me; this is God’s energy surrounding me; this is God’s nature surrounding me; God’s maya surrounding me! But the moment you use the word “lust” — the old associations, the links with the word are wrong — it feels as if sin has been committed; witnessing becomes difficult — either you become unconscious or you become a controller. To be a witness is neither to be unconscious nor to be a controller — it is to stand in the middle. Fall to one side and there is a well; fall to the other and there is a ditch — remain in the middle; if you are balanced, there is samadhi.
Both are easy. To become unconscious in sexual desire is absolutely easy; to forget completely what is happening, to get drunk on it is easy. To control sexual desire, to stop it by force, to hold it down — that too is easy. But in both you miss. The libertine is missing, and the celibate is also missing. Real brahmacharya happens only when you stand in the middle, when you are only watching. Then you will find that sexual desire arose in the body and resounded only in the body; a slight shadow fell on the mind, and it departed. You remained standing far away! What lust can there be in you? How can craving exist in you? You are only the witness.

And often it will happen that when meditation starts settling rightly, sexual desire will gain force. Understand this, because many people will experience it. When meditation begins to fit, a relaxation comes into your life, tension decreases. Then the repression you have been doing for lifetimes regarding sexual desire will fall away. The suppressed desire will then rise like a fierce flame. So if sexual desire arises along with meditation, do not panic — it is a right sign that meditation is going well; meditation is working; meditation is removing your tensions, removing your controls, removing your repression; meditation is bringing you toward your naturalness.

First meditation will settle you in nature, and then it will take you to the divine. Because what is not yet natural cannot become spontaneous. One who is not yet with nature cannot be with God. So meditation will first take you into harmony with nature, then it will take you to God. Nature is the outer garment of God. If you are not in tune even with that, how will you be in tune with the innermost God? Nature is the staircase to the temple of the divine. If you do not climb the steps, how will you enter the sanctum?

If you can understand what I am saying, then do not repress anymore! Now silently accept that too. Whatever scene God shows will be auspicious. If God shows it, it will be auspicious. Do not control, do not become a judge, and do not stand behind saying, “This is right and that is wrong; I want to do this and not that.” Just watch!

Age is waning,
the lamp of longing too is melting,
little by little the fire is going out,
passions are settling,
the torrents are pausing,
attachment is subsiding,
the color of silence is setting in,
the fire is going out.

All is going well. But before the fire goes out, the last flame will leap up. Ask physicians: just before dying, a person becomes completely healthy for a short while; all illnesses disappear. The one who lay on the bed like a corpse sits up, opens his eyes, appears fresh. A little while before death all illnesses vanish, because life takes its last leap; life’s energy rises once more.

You have seen it: before a lamp goes out it burns with a last flare! Before the last oil is spent, it drinks the final drop and flares up. That is the last flare. Before morning arrives, have you seen how dark the night becomes! That is the last flare.

In the same way, when you go deep into meditation, you will find that as the fire comes close to going out, there is a last flare… sexual energy too will rise.

Age is waning
the lamp of longing too is melting
— the lamp of desire is melting, age is declining.
Little by little the fire is going out.
Passions are settling,
the torrents are pausing,
— the flow of life is coming to a halt.
Attachment is subsiding,
the color of silence is setting in,
— the hue of meditation is setting in, the hue of silence is setting in.
The color of silence is setting in.
The fire is going out.

At any moment a flare will rise. Such a flare is rising. Just see it. Do not suppress it; otherwise it will slip back inside you. It is close to being finished — do not push it down; otherwise bondage will begin again. What is repressed will emerge again and again. Whatever you have forced will return again and again. Let it go, let it move out, let it flow away. Let the flare be as big as it may be — you remain calmly watching. Your meditation is not obstructed by this. Remain a witness!

If you have understood, then don’t ask at all. If you are asking, you haven’t understood. If you truly grasp my point—“Don’t fall into any bondage; be peaceful and happy”—then the very understanding will make you peaceful and happy. Where would such a question arise then? Does a happy, peaceful person ask questions? All questions arise from restlessness, from sorrow, from pain.

If you are still asking, you are still not quiet; sannyas will be needed. If you are already quiet, what need of sannyas? Sannyas has already happened!

But don’t deceive yourself! If you lack the courage to take sannyas, don’t take shelter behind Ashtavakra. Yes, if you have truly become silent, then there is no need for any sannyas. It is only in the search for peace that one takes sannyas.

If you have become happy—if understanding has made you happy—if you are a vessel like Janaka, the matter is finished. But then this question wouldn’t arise. Janaka did not ask a question; Janaka exclaimed, “Ah, Lord! Then I am liberated? What a wonder that till now I remained caught in delusion!”

If you were a vessel like Janaka, you too would say, “Blessed! Then I am free! How astonishing that I remained in illusion till now!” You would not put this question.

The case is: the desire for sannyas is in the mind, but the courage is not. Hearing Ashtavakra you’ve thought, “Good! Sannyas is a bondage—no need to enter it!” Will you drop the other bondages—or only the bondage of sannyas? And you are not a sannyasin yet, so how will you drop what you don’t even have? And which bondages will you drop? Will you drop your wife? your house? wealth? position? the mind? the sense of doership? the feeling of ego? What all will you drop that you actually possess? You can only drop what you have. Let this be asked by those who have become sannyasins: “Should we now drop sannyas?” That makes sense; they have sannyas. You don’t. How will you drop what you don’t have? Ask about what you do have. Ask, “Should I drop the householder’s life?”

After hearing all of Ashtavakra, you managed to understand only this much—that sannyas is a bondage! Is nothing else a bondage?

Man is clever. The mind is dishonest. It is always calculating. It looks for what serves its convenience: “Good—we’re spared the bother! We were nervously thinking of taking it; these Ashtavakras turned up on the way—very helpful! They explained it so well; now never by mistake will we take sannyas!”

Will you learn anything else from Ashtavakra?

People come to me and say, “Shall we drop meditation now? Because Ashtavakra says meditation is a bondage.” Will you drop money? position? Only meditation…! And meditation hasn’t even happened yet—what will you drop? If meditation had flowered and you said, “Shall I drop it?” I would say, “Drop it!” But the one whose meditation has truly happened will not speak of dropping; he has gone beyond grasping and letting go. He will understand Ashtavakra, he will rejoice, he will be thrilled. He will say, “Yes—exactly! In meditation, it is meditation itself that is dropped. In sannyas, it is bondage that is dropped. Sannyas is not a bondage; it is simply a device to drop all bondages. Ultimately this too is released.”

Understand it like this: a thorn has entered your foot; you use another thorn to remove the first. The second thorn too is a thorn—but it serves to extract the first. Then you throw both away. You don’t preserve the second thorn reverentially—“It was so kind; it removed the first thorn!” Nor do you do something as absurd as sticking the second thorn into the place where the first was, because it has become so dear!

Sannyas is a thorn. The thorn of the world has pierced you; sannyas is a way to take it out. If you can remove it without a thorn—excellent. If Ashtavakra’s point truly dawns on you, what could be better! Then there is no need for any sannyas. But think carefully—let it not be dishonesty! If there is dishonesty, gather courage and step into sannyas. A time will come when you will be capable of dropping sannyas too.

But what is there to drop? When understanding comes, there is nothing to drop—everything drops of itself. This is what Janaka said: “Lord, even this body has dropped!” Janaka is still in the body; the body has not fallen. Yet Janaka says, “Even this body has dropped! This entire world has dropped! Everything has dropped! I am utterly detached, beyond all feelings! What skill in your teaching! What an art! Nothing has outwardly happened—neither palace, nor world, nor body has been left—yet all has dropped!”

The day you understand, there is nothing to leave—neither world nor sannyas. Talk of renunciation belongs to the one who thinks there is something to grasp.

Renunciation is the shadow of indulgence. The renunciate is only the indulger standing on his head. When indulgence goes, renunciation goes too; they live together and depart together. That’s why you see the worldly touch the feet of renunciates! They are paired. Half the work the renunciate is doing, half the worldly; they are linked to each other. Neither can the worldly live without the renunciate, nor the renunciate without the worldly. Do you see this conspiracy?

A man came to me and said he wanted to learn meditation. He was a renunciate—of the old type! I said, “Fine—come in the morning.” He said, “That’s a bit difficult.” I asked, “Why difficult?” He said, “Because until this man who is with me comes, I can’t come; he keeps the money—I don’t touch money. He has to go somewhere else in the morning, so I won’t be able to come.”

What a fine joke! You need money anyway—so whether you keep it in your own pocket or in another’s, what difference does it make? In fact, this is a greater bondage. Better are those who keep it in their own pocket; at least they can go where they need to go! Now it’s a strange case: unless that man comes along, you can’t come—because the taxi has to be paid for—and “we don’t touch money!” So you have this man commit your sin for you? Commit your own sin yourself! It’s delightful: you will sit in the taxi; he will go to hell! Have some compassion for him. This is a perfect pairing of indulger and yogi!

Your renunciates live tied to the enjoyers. And your enjoyers live tied to the renunciates, because touching the renunciate’s feet the enjoyer thinks, “If not today, at least I touched a renunciate’s feet—some satisfaction, something done! If not today, tomorrow I too will become a renunciate. For now I will worship him!”

The Jains say, “Where are you going?” “To serve the monk!” Serving, they think, “Well, we’re earning some merit.” Over there the monk sits looking down the road—“When will the enjoyer arrive?” Over here the enjoyer watches—“When will the monk come to town?” The enjoyer and the monk are two sides of the same coin.

Just think: if the worldly stopped going to the monks, how many monks would remain sitting there? They’d all run. Who would arrange for them, manage for them? They would all be gone. The worldly sustains the monk; the monk keeps hold of the worldly. It’s mutual.

A true knower is neither a renunciate nor an enjoyer. He knows only this much: I am just the witness. Then whether the money is in another’s pocket or your own—what difference does it make? He is the witness. If there is wealth, he is a witness; if not, he is a witness. If poor, witness; if rich, witness. Witnessing is not altered by poverty or wealth. Do you think a beggar’s witnessing will be a little less, and a king’s a little more? Does witnessing come in degrees? Whether one is poor or rich, healthy or ill, educated or uneducated, beautiful or ugly, famed or infamous—it makes no difference. Witnessing is a treasure equal in all; there is no more or less in it.

We can be witnesses in every situation—of success and failure, of honor and insult.

Be a witness—that is all Ashtavakra says. But if you find witnessing difficult and for now must use a method, then use the method; don’t be nervous. By using method you will become capable of witnessing even the method. That is why I say, meditate—no worry. Because I know: without meditation, witnessing will not come to you; without meditation, only your thoughts will go on. So the real alternative is not “meditation or witnessing,” but “thinking or meditation.”

Do you understand me? If you do not meditate—having heard Ashtavakra say that meditation and the rest are bondages, and he is a hundred percent right—and you drop meditation, what will you do then? Will you become a witness at that very moment? You will simply repeat your useless thoughts. Then, thanks to Ashtavakra, you fall even deeper into the world. The ladder meant for climbing, you’ve leaned to descend into hell. The ladder is the same.

I tell you: meditate. Because right now your choice is between meditation and thought; you do not yet have the option of witnessing. Yes—when through meditation thoughts end, then a new choice will arise: “Now choose—witnessing or meditation?” Then choose witnessing, and drop meditation too.

Right now, if you decide not to take sannyas, you will remain worldly. At present the choice is between sannyas and the world. So I say: take sannyas! Then a day will come when the choice will no longer be between world and sannyas. The world will have gone; sannyas will remain. Then the choice will be between supreme sannyas and sannyas. Then I will tell you: let sannyas go too; now plunge into the supreme sannyas.

Yes—if you can, in a single instant, go like Janaka, I will not be an obstacle! Be happy! Be blessed! If you cannot, then no one else will decide—only you: if happiness is not happening, then something must be done.

You can turn even truth into untruth, and even flowers can become thorns for you—it depends on you.

Do not close your eyes and run away in the light,
my guileless heart!
All the pathways are unknown;
on the road there are thorns and stones.
Seeing a faint fragrance,
do not trust the flowers!

Be a little mindful—take steps awake! Whatever step you take, don’t take it merely because of some sweet smell.

On the path lie thorns and stones;
merely on sensing a gentle fragrance,
do not trust the flowers.

That gentle fragrance you feel—be careful—it may just be your projection! It may be your greed, your fear, your weakness that you are imposing. Don’t wander off in that sweetness.

It seems very easy to “do nothing”; hearing it, it sounds so. But when you set out to “do nothing,” nothing is more difficult. Hearing about witnessing—“Do nothing, only see”—sounds simple; when you try it, you will find it is formidable!

Do this: sit with your watch. The second hand completes a round in one minute. Keep your eyes on it and try to remain a witness to the second hand: “I am the witness of this second hand, and I will remain a witness.” You will find that after two or four seconds—gone, witnessing is gone! Another thought has come—you forgot completely. Then you’ll be jolted—“Ah! The hand has moved on!” Then again two or four seconds of witnessing—then again you forget. In the span of one minute you will take several dips. You cannot remain a witness even for one minute! So right now witnessing is not the issue. For now, choose between thought and meditation. Gradually the choice between meditation and witnessing will become possible.

You ask about sannyas: sannyas is only a gesture of being with me. It is not a bondage. You are not tying yourself to me. I am not giving you any discipline, any code. I am not telling you when to rise; what to eat or drink; what to do or not do. I am only saying: be a witness. I am only saying: my hand is there—hold my hand; perhaps if you walk two steps with me, my “illness” will catch you too. This illness is infectious. Walk a little while with a Buddha, and you will be colored in his hue; you cannot wholly escape. A faint fragrance of him will begin to come from you as well. Even if you merely pass through a garden, the fragrance of flowers clings to your clothes—even if you did not touch a flower!

Sannyas is the little courage, the little posture, of walking with me. It is to fall in love with me. The whole process of this love is that I am arranging to set you free. Walk with me—I want to give you the fragrance of liberation.

I am a doll of breath,
bound a little to decay,
and handed over to death;
but there is this one thing—love—
by that alone
I have been made liberated-in-life!
The unbearable mace of Time
is weighed by a playful, childlike instant.
What are you?
I am a doll of breath,
bound a little to decay,
and handed over to death!

Birth and death—this is all you are. The breath comes and goes; the little story in between, a small drama. If there is anything in it that can carry you beyond death and birth…

But that one thing—love—
it is by that
that I have been made liberated-in-life!

If love happens between birth and death…

Sannyas is simply to fall in love with me—nothing more. That’s all; that is the definition. If you are in love with me and agree to walk a little way, that little walking will prove to carry you very far.

And the rest is only the outer talk—that you changed your clothes, that you put on a mala. That is only to give you courage and keep you self-remembering. It is only an outer beginning; then much happens within. When you see those dyed in ochre, don’t look only at their ochre robes—peek a little into their hearts, and you will find the emergence of a new stream of love.

But that one thing—love—
it is by that
that I have been made liberated-in-life!

Let me pour over you! Even if right now you are stone, don’t worry: this stream will carve your stone.

When a ray showered upon me,
I said—
“I am adamantine-hard,
stone eternal!”
The ray replied, “How so?
It was you I was seeking.
From you I will build a temple;
from your inner being I will chisel an image of light.”
Stunned, the ray caressed me with love.

When a ray showered upon me,
I said—
“I am adamantine-hard,
stone eternal!”

You too say this to me: “No—you won’t be able to change me; I am stone, very ancient; I have sworn not to change.” But I say to you:

The ray replied, “How so?
It was you I was seeking.
From you I will build a temple;
from your inner being I will chisel an image of light.”
Stunned, the ray caressed me with love.

These ochre robes are only a message of my love—your love toward me, my love toward you. It is an alliance.

Jaya has been close to me for many years. She has a heart just like Meera’s; the same song lies hidden in her heart; the same dance lies hidden in her heart. When it manifests, when she appears in her splendor, another Meera will be revealed. It is only a matter of waiting for the right time; at any moment a ray will descend and the darkness will be cut through. And she is courageous—therefore one can predict that it will happen.
But is it not this very mist, the eternal swirl,
in which your seamless compassion
keeps pouring itself out day and night?
That shadow that sometimes peeks through is
the final language, the possible name—
abode of compassion,
this, the seed-mantra,
this, the essential thread,
this alone the measure of depth—
this, our salutation.

Mist-covered,
how deep your reservoir,
how small our cupped hands!

Before the Lord, our hands always fall short! Our cupped hands are small!

Mist-covered,
how deep your reservoir,
how small our cupped hands!

Those whose hearts are filled with love will always feel that our cupped hands are far too small.

“Give these tears a resting place.
You have filled my begging bowl,
yet I remain utterly blank.”

This is a kind of filling in which one becomes more and more empty. It is a filling of emptiness; a filling from emptiness. My effort is to make you blank. If you become blank, I have succeeded; if you remain full, I have failed. When you become utterly blank and within you nothing remains—no line, no word, no trash—then in that very emptiness the Divine will manifest.

I would say to Jaya:
Go, O soul, go—
maiden bride,
her attendant.
That Great Void is now your path,
that Great Void is now your path.
The goal: the Other, the Nourisher of the waters,
the Bridegroom—Light and Law—
He alone will suffuse you with sweetness.
O soul!
You are betrothed.
O joined one,
O wedded one,
with the Great Void your wedding rounds have been performed.

With the Great Void your wedding rounds have been performed! This becoming vacant, this becoming blank—this is to have your wedding rounds woven with the Great Emptiness. Dancing, expressing the great mood of that void, humming, ecstatic—lose yourself!

There is only one way to become: to be lost. Here, when you become wholly empty, there the Divine descends in full. You yourself are the obstacle. So do not be afraid! Become blank, and all is accomplished.

There is a tale in Maharashtra: Eknath wrote a letter to Nivrittinath—a blank sheet! Nothing written. Nivrittinath read it with great attention—the blank paper! There was nothing there to read. He read and read, again and again! Muktabai was sitting nearby; he handed it to her; she read. Tears began to flow—she was overwhelmed! Others present said, “This is sheer madness! First Eknath is mad to send a blank page—at least a letter should have something written! Then Nivrittinath is mad, reading it—not once, but over and over! And the height of absurdity: Muktabai, overflowing with tears!”

All scriptures are blank paper! And if one learns to read a blank page, one has learned to read all the scriptures—Vedas, Koran, Guru Granth, Gita, Upanishads, Bible, Dhammapada. Whoever has read the blank page, has known all!

Become like a blank page; I am engaged in this very effort. I am busy erasing you, for you are the obstacle.

O soul,
innocent virgin,
with the Great Void your wedding rounds have been performed.
Hari Om Tat Sat!