Maha Geeta #81

Do not look to see who walks on your right and who on your left.
Just keep walking, only this—let your breath be a wind that loves all.
There is no other; rest is the enemy upon the road.
Therefore, even the one who abuses you—offer him blessings.
Pick up bitter words as well, let stained songs dissolve in you;
for to the garden the whole humming has equal worth.
Smile and pause upon the flower—
but do not fling the thorn away weeping.
O wayfarer! Here upon you
everyone has an equal claim.

At the ultimate summit of consciousness, everything is accepted. As it is, so it is accepted. There is no demand for otherwise.
As long as the demand for otherwise remains, the world remains. As long as it seems, if only it happened like this it would be good, and if that did not happen it would be good, the mind persists. Then the world continues.
When it arises within you that as it is, so it is auspicious; as it is, only thus could it be; as it is, thus it had to be; as it is, thus it should have been—when your tones fall into total harmony with that which is, then surrender happens, then sannyas happens, then the world is finished—and you become jivanmukta, liberated while living.
Where Tathata is complete—where there is not even an inch of wish to transform anything—neither outside nor inside; where there is total consonance with this very moment—there, peace is. There, rightness is.

The first aphorism—

The desireless does not praise the peaceful, nor does he condemn even the wicked.
Equal in joy and sorrow, contented, he sees nothing left to be done.

To the desireless, there arises no sentiment of praise even for the serene—upon seeing a mahatma, even then no praiseful surge arises in the mind of the desireless—and upon seeing the wicked, no urge to condemn arises.
You praise a saint because you want to be a saint. Whom do we praise? We praise those we want to become. Whom do we condemn? Those we do not want to become. We condemn those we wish were not, and yet we find they are. And we praise those we wish to be, imagine ourselves to be, and are not yet. Praise is for our future; condemnation is for our past.
A well-known saying among Christian mendicants is: every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. He who is saint today was a sinner in the past. Hence, every saint has a past—and that past cannot be saturated with saintliness. And every sinner has a future; he who is sinner today may become a saint tomorrow. So when you praise someone, have you ever watched what you are doing? A politician arrives in the village—you go to see him! You think you are going to have the darshan of a great leader—you are mistaken. There is fascination for the seat in your own mind. You too long for office, for prestige...what you could not obtain and another did—at least let us go and have a glimpse of him!

A man walked into a hotel—big, robust, burly. He gulped down a glass of liquor and shouted loudly, is there anyone with the guts to test me? People shrank back, fearful. He shouted again—is there no strong one here, no man among you? Are all eunuchs sitting around? A small man stood up. All were astonished—why is this little fellow getting up! He will be shattered to pieces!
But the little man knew karate. He went near and dealt a couple of moves. The big, burly fellow found himself flat on the floor in a moment. The small man sat on his chest and said, now tell me, what do you intend? Did you see a man? The big, strong man was stunned. He asked, after all, who are you? The small man said, I am the one you imagined yourself to be when you walked into this hotel. I am the one you thought you were—when you entered. Whatever you thought liquor made you, that is what I am. Anything more to say?

When we praise someone, at a very deep, unconscious layer we are searching for our own future—how we wish to be. Therefore the one who goes to see the politician will not go to see the saint. Or if he does go to the saint, in his mind there is no distinction between politics and religion. Whosoever is prestigious! He wants prestige. He does not care how prestige comes. He wants worship for his ego—be it as a politician or as a mahatma—he wants ornaments for his ego.
When you praise someone, you declare your demand; you reveal your craving—I want to be like that. I could not—helplessness—but at least let me see one who became that! Let me offer flowers at his feet, saying—I lost, but you have won; let there be at least one such! Perhaps it is possible; let me fill my eyes with it, obtain the confidence that though I wandered, wandering is not inevitable. Arrival could be—for someone has arrived.
And when you condemn someone—Bertrand Russell has written—often it happens that when a man condemns something too loudly, observe that man carefully. Suppose someone’s pocket is picked, and a man begins to shout—catch him! beat him! who is the thief! We shall fix him! Catch that man first. Very likely he himself is the thief—the very one who picked the pocket. The thief shouts loudly. Because of the shouting, others trust—at least he cannot be the thief. If he were, why shout! If he were, how could he be so against theft! A clever thief shouts against theft, creates commotion, and thus slips away. A simple fellow stands silent in fear—lest someone suspect him; he will be caught. The noisy one—who will catch him!
Russell has written: whatever a man condemns most, know that he has some vested interest in it. Either he finds he is like that, or he is afraid it may be revealed...Your so-called sadhus and sannyasins condemn sex so much for a single total reason—surges of sexuality are rising within them. They are tormented by woman. Hence your scriptures abuse women. Those who wrote them must have been deeply harassed by women—haunted in their dreams, chased by the feminine. They fled from women. But from what you flee you never escape; you remain entangled with that. Those scriptures which say, beware of wealth, in wealth is sin—understand, their greed still clings to wealth; otherwise why so much condemnation?
In truth, there is no reason to condemn. To the enlightened there is neither praise nor blame. He does not go to place flowers at the saint’s feet, nor hot coals upon the sinner’s head, nor shoes upon the wicked. He does not beat the bad, nor honor the good. If someone is good, he is good; if someone is bad, he is bad. As he is, so he is.
Understand this a little. This is an exposition of the supreme state. As-is-ness. Ram is Ram, Ravan is Ravan. As is, so is. Neem is bitter, mango is sweet—what condemnation of neem, what praise of mango? What essence? Thorn is thorn; flower is flower. As each is, so it is. There is not a grain of desire left in this. No connection with desire at all.
The desireless does not praise the peaceful—
When one has become desireless, even the wish for peace is gone. Then what use is praise?
Nor does he condemn the wicked—
Condemnation too is wickedness. When you condemn someone you are trying to wound. By condemning you yourself become condemnable. Praise has no meaning; condemnation has no meaning. The desireless is neither pro nor con. He has no insistence. He is uninsistent.
Equal in sorrow and joy, contented—and he sees nothing left to be done—
Equally poised in both. The entire search of this land is for this evenness. The Jains call it Samyaktva—right balance. Buddha calls it balance—samyak. The point is evenness. The Hindus call it Samadhi—sam, adhi—the point is evenness. If one small word must be chosen in which the entire wisdom of the East can be contained, it is this: sam. Sam means there is no longer leaning here or there. Not bending left, not bending right; on either side are abyss and well—bend and you wander. He who does not bend at all; who stands in the middle; still, unshaken. Samata, Samyaktva, Samadhi.
Even in English, in Greek-Latin, this Sanskrit root sam has survived in many forms—synthesis (syn), symphony, synapsis—wherever the syn/sym prefix appears, it is a form of sam.
Sam is an inner state—a state of no vibration. The unshaken. If in your mind there is praise of the auspicious and condemnation of the inauspicious, you have been shaken. Imagine you sit quietly and a wicked man passes by. A vibration arises—ah! this wicked one—may he be thrown into hell. Or compassion arises—he should be saved, made a saint—still you have been shaken. You are no longer what you were a moment before he passed. A saint passes, and in your mind—oh! blessed is his fortune! When will such fortune be mine? You are shaken. Thought arises; evenness is lost.
Equalness is when, whether bad passes or good, you remain as you are; as-it-is—as-you-were—unchanged, unmoved. Joy arrives, sorrow arrives, honor arrives, insult arrives—you remain as you are, not stirred in the least. He who attains such evenness only is to be known as desireless.
Equal in joy and sorrow, contented—
And only he is content. He who has equanimity in joy and sorrow is content. Otherwise the sorrowful are not content—and the joyful are not content either.
Have you noticed? In sorrow arises the urge to escape—how to get rid of it. That tension remains; how will contentment be? Who is content with sorrow! One wants to be free, to be rid. But when joy happens, are you content? Along with joy comes the fear—lest it be taken away.
Yesterday a young sannyasin told me he is now going back home. The days here passed in great joy, great peace. Even now the mind is blissful and quiet. Now a fear arises—what if, on returning home, this peace is lost! Not lost yet, but the fear—what if it goes—unrest began. The mind is quiet, yet restlessness has begun. Joy rains, and fear enters—lest it be lost. Whenever you are happy, from within a fear also comes that it may slip away. As with sorrow the feeling comes—how to get rid of it; with joy the feeling comes—may it not get rid of me! In both cases you wobble. In both cases contentment is destroyed; discontent arises.
So the sorrowful are sorrowful—and the joyful too are sorrowful. The poor worry how to get wealth; the rich worry lest it be lost—thieves might steal, the State might seize, communism might come, this or that may happen—what guarantee! He who has no wealth might sleep better; he who has cannot sleep. He is more frightened—ever caught in ninety-nine loops of worry. How to protect! Earlier one thought wealth would bring security, then anxiety arises—how to secure the wealth! Those whom you call wealthy should not be called wealthy—at best custodians, watchmen. Ownership of wealth is not possible—you keep watch, and you think you are the owner.
Content is he alone who has evenness in joy and sorrow. When sorrow comes, he does not say go. When joy comes, he does not say stay. As you wish—come in your own will; if you would stay, stay; if you would go, go. With both joy and sorrow his inner state remains the same.
And this is not only outside; inside too this is the very mantra of meditation. A bad thought arises—steal, kill; do not condemn it. Watch it too. Have nothing to do with it—this thought is not you; you are the witness. A good thought arises—give everything away, build a great temple, open a hospital—this too is a thought; do not puff your chest, do not stiffen that such a holy thought has arisen. And do not be troubled by the unholy—do not furrow your brow, do not sweat, do not panic—what an unholy thought! I have become unholy. Neither unholy thought are you, nor holy thought—you are the witness.
Where there arises an equal vision toward holy and unholy, good and bad, night and day, joy and sorrow, life and death—there the supreme door of life opens. And such a one sees nothing left to be done.
He sees nothing left to be done—
Having known such evenness, nothing remains to be done. No sadhana, no siddhi. No mantra, tapas, yoga or yajna. No moksha to be gained, no world to be renounced. In this very moment all is accomplished. In the moment of samyaktva all happens. In the moment of evenness all happens. In the moment of Samadhi, everything happens. Nothing remains to be done.
He sees nothing left to be done—
Nothing appears as yet to be done.
Become the witness and you become non-doer—or become the non-doer and you are the witness. Then there is only bliss upon bliss; nothing left to do. Consider: as long as there is something to do, there will be worry, planning, fear. You will act—but will you succeed? Even if you succeed, was the direction right? Even upon success will contentment come? Having wealth will peace arrive? Having position will fulfillment be? Wherever there is doing, the net of anxiety is there. Where there is doing, fear of failure remains—and fear also remains that even upon success, where is success ensured? For Alexander was, Napoleon was—they conquered the world and went empty-handed. In the dust lie the biers of those who sat on thrones. From the throne, too, one falls into the grave. Whether you sit upon a throne or upon the pavement like a beggar—when you fall into the grave you fall alike. Umar Khayyam has said—dust mingles with dust. Then, whether your dust was called emperor or beggar—what difference! In the final step all becomes one.
The wise, seeing that death whitewashes all—he whitewashes himself. He says, if death will erase and make one, I of my own will go becoming one. Thus the wise dies by his own choice. Do not take it to mean he does nothing. Nothing remains to be done—but actions continue spontaneously—what is natural, what is of nature. Hunger comes—he eats; thirst comes—he drinks. That which happens of itself; not that which must be done.
Imagine—a wise one sits, and a man is beating another. The wise one does not rise thinking—I must save him; I should save him; since I sit here and this man is being beaten before me I become partner in sin—no such reflection. If a spontaneous thrill arises, he gets up and saves. If it does not, he remains sitting. If it happens, it happens; if not, no device.
This does not mean the wise will never save; nor that he will always save. No prediction can be made. He lives by spontaneous throbbing. This is what Ashtavakra says again and again—the wise lives by self-sprungness. If a surge comes, it happens; if not, it does not. The charge of surge is no longer his—it is of the Vast at whose feet he has left himself. As that wills. If it likes, it makes him an instrument—fine. If not—fine. The wise has become a peg: God may hang a coat upon it or not. The peg has no purpose—coat hangs, fine; does not hang, fine. The peg is a peg—mere instrument.
Much will happen through the wise. Sometimes it will, sometimes not. With one wise it will; with another, it will not. Nothing can be said. So do not sit bound by explanations. There were wise who spoke; there were wise who remained silent. There were wise who participated deeply in the world of action and lent a hand; there were wise who sat in their caves and utterly forgot the world. Both are right—because the basic happening within them is one: self-sprungness. What happens happens through the throbbing; what does not, does not. The wise neither does by his own effort nor resists by his own effort. The wise has stepped out from the middle. He has given the door to the Divine.
He sees nothing left to be done—

The strong one neither hates the world, nor does he desire to see the Self. Free of elation and dejection, he is neither dead nor alive.

The dhira does not hate the world…
This is understandable—that the wise does not see the world, nor does he have any desire to look at it; nor any hatred for it. How to hate what is not!
Consider—a rope lies upon the path; in the dark you mistook it for a snake. You ran, panicked. Then someone brought a lamp; it was rope, not snake. Even then will you be afraid? Will you fear to pass by the rope? Will you run? Will you warn your children—be careful on that path! There lies a rope that looks like a snake. If you say such, your children will laugh—if false, why frighten us? On seeing it false, the matter ends.
Now your so-called saints instruct you—avoid the world—and at the same time say—the world is maya. Have you noticed their stupidity? They say, the world is maya—and avoid it! If maya, what is there to avoid! Maya means—it is not. In the rope the snake appeared—what is there to run from! And they not only say to you, run—they themselves run—and keep shouting—it is a rope, not a snake—yet run! Beware of gold and women!
Do you see the distortion, the inconsistency? On one hand they shout—the world is untrue; on the other—they shout—renounce the world, be free of it. From the untrue there is no way to be freed—knowing it as untrue is freedom.
The wise will say only this—look at the world carefully; in seeing is liberation. There is no question of hatred.
The dhira does not hate the world…
The wise has no hatred toward the world—because the world is not. For hatred to be, being is necessary. And where hatred can be, attachment can be—for hatred is the other face of attachment. With whom you can be an enemy, you can be a friend. With whom you can be a friend, you can be an enemy. Machiavelli advised in The Prince—do not tell your friends what you would not tell your enemies; for today’s friend may be tomorrow’s enemy. And do not say about your enemy what you cannot later withdraw—he may be tomorrow’s friend. He spoke rightly. Where hatred is possible, attachment is possible; hatred is attachment standing on its head.
The wise has neither attachment nor hatred. He has awakened and seen, in his supreme consciousness, that there is nothing here to be attached to or to hate. You are grappling with shadows—you embrace phantoms. Whose hands are you holding? There are no hands—only your imaginations. What you have amassed—wealth, property—is nothing; mere thought.
It is thought; the moment you see so, liberation happens.
The dhira does not hate the world…
This much is fine. But Ashtavakra says something more wondrous—he who is dhira has no hatred toward the world, and he has no desire even to see the Atman. This is deeper still. When it is seen that the world is vain—meaningless—when it is seen that what appears outside is only a dream, like a snake upon a rope, a mirage, a gathering of notions—then all desires become futile. For what is not, to long for it has no value. In this world it has value to seek position only as long as you feel prestige is meaningful. It seems enjoyable to amass ego only so long as you feel ego can be amassed. But if all is deceit—false—then the root is cut.
So far, understandable. But Ashtavakra says—the day it is understood the world is vain—that what appears outside is only a dream—that day the talk of attaining the Atman also ends. Attainment itself becomes futile—hence the question of attaining Atman does not arise. In fact, the day attaining becomes futile, that day the Atman is attained. Therefore there is no question of attaining the Atman anymore.
Subtle, a little intricate—but if you contemplate, it is clear.
If the world appears one hundred percent true to you, then you are zero percent. In the proportion that Atman is forgotten, in that proportion the world appears real. It is arithmetic. When the world is ninety percent true, Atman becomes ten percent true. When the world is fifty percent true, Atman is fifty percent true. In the proportion that your energy is released from the world—no longer invested there—in that proportion it settles into the Atman. You become soul-full. Here desire wanes, there Atman waxes. Here Kama loses, there Rama wins. A moment comes when the world is ninety-nine percent vain—at that instant the Atman is ninety-nine percent yours. The day the world is one hundred percent vain, the Atman is one hundred percent yours—you become a Jina, conqueror of self.
One does not become Jain by believing Mahavira; when the world becomes wholly null and the Atman wholly full, then one becomes a Jina. These are not matters of scripture or following someone—they are inner mathematics. The energy that was being poured into the world, believing it true—when the world is seen false, is no longer poured out; it settles into itself. This settling into oneself is to be soul-full. He to whom it becomes evident there is nothing in the world—not even fit to hate, let alone to love—
Look, there are two kinds of people. One you call worldly—their attachment is to the world. And one you call dispassionate—their hatred is toward the world. But both are bound to the same thing. Both believe the world to be powerful. The attached says—without it I cannot be happy. The dispassionate says—with it I cannot be happy. But both base their happiness upon the world. One’s happiness depends upon conquering the world; the other’s upon renouncing it. Both depend on it.
The wise is neither enjoyer nor renouncer—neither attached nor disattached. He is Vitaraga—gone beyond attachment. He sees—here there is nothing to grasp and nothing to drop. In this very seeing, he becomes soul-full. And one who has become soul-full—where is the question of seeing the Atman! And how can Atman be seen at all? The word self-vision is not accurate—whatever we can see will be other than us. Vision is only of the other. One cannot see oneself. In seeing, two must be: seer and seen. The Atman is the seer; hence it can never be the seen. Whatever is seen is the world.
Therefore when you come saying—kundalini has begun to rise—I say, keep watching, but do not get entangled; for whatsoever is seen is the world. You say—there is a great light within. I say, keep watching; keep your attention upon the one who sees—do not get entangled in the light. Darkness drowns, and light drowns as well. Darkness is dangerous; light is dangerous too. Hold to the one thread—I am the seer, I am the seer. Do not get caught in the seen. The mind has many nets—first it shows outer scenes—look, there is Delhi, go to Delhi. If you are freed from that, it shows inner scenes—see, kundalini is rising, how energy surges! What delight is felt! What illumination pervades the brain! It begins to build new Delhis. Keep only this awareness—I am the seer. Whatever appears—I am not that. Whatever comes into experience—I am not that. I am the witness standing beyond all experiences.
Therefore hear me well: no experience is religious. All experience is worldly. Experience as such is worldly. The one to whom experience happens is religious.
Arrive at that hour where you are freed from all experience. No experience remains. You abide in the void. If even the void is experienced, then experience remains—and the mind remains. When not even the void is experienced—when nothing is experienced—when experience itself dissolves like lines of smoke—then you remain as pure consciousness, sheer knowing, awareness only—Buddhahood flowers. This Ashtavakra calls the dhira, the steadfast.
Free of elation and dejection—
Such a one is free of jubilation and grief. There is nothing left to lose and nothing left to gain. Nothing to see; nothing unseen. No world and no liberation. Nothing outside to gain; nothing inside to gain. No search for world; no search for Atman. When all search ends—what joy, what sorrow? In such a state, an unprecedented happening—
He is neither dead nor alive.
Grasp this well.
In one sense the wise is dead—dead in the sense you are alive. He is not alive as you are. What is your life? Running and rush, feverish scramble, wealth-position-prestige, ambition. Your life is febrile insanity. In that sense, the wise is not alive—no fever, no ambition, no race, no scramble. In that sense, he is a corpse. But in another sense he is alive—in the true sense in which you are not alive. He lives truly. You merely live falsely. You will die—and your scramble will crash upon death. The wise has reached a plane where death does not happen—where death is untrue—where it does not exist. He has attained the immortal.
Thus the wise is alive in one sense and dead in another; we cannot call him dead, nor alive—for whatever we call will be wrong. Perhaps he is beyond life and death.
Neither dead nor alive.
The wise has a unique condition. To reveal it, paradox is needed. The Zen master says—when the wise crosses a river, the water touches his feet, but his feet do not touch the water. Strange—if water touches the feet, how can the feet not touch water? Yet they are right—an inversion pointing to a truth.
It is said to show that the wise, living in our world, is not of our world. He breathes like us, yet not as us. He eats like us, yet not as us. While eating, he is fasting. And if you fast, you still eat. You must have tried fasting—on fast days you eat more often. On other days twice or thrice; that day you eat all day. Sit idle—escape your restlessness—again food comes to mind.
During Paryushan the Jains fast—so they remain long in the temple, not returning home; at home food memories assault. In the temple one is occupied—bhajan-kirtan, reading, worship—engrossed. And there is also the comfort—I am not alone in this trouble; so many fools are trapped—seeing them the mind feels happy—if I starve, all starve. And competition—who defeats whom—and thus there is relish. Sit alone at home and memories come—why did I get trapped, when will Paryushan end! And when it ends, people plan—what to eat, what not, what to buy.
Ask the markets—when Paryushan ends, sales leap—sweets, vegetables, fruits—sudden boom. People pounce. Ten days they gathered recipes—made plans. If you fast by day, by night you will feast in dreams. Food will be everywhere.
So you can see—your fasting is eating. Intellectually too one can see the opposite—a someone can be fasting while eating. That opposite state is Vitaraga. A rare state—there you walk in water, water touches your feet—but your feet do not touch water.
The wise is dead and alive—or neither dead nor alive. It is hard to place him in any category. Learn this much—whichever category you place him in—error happens; all categories are of the world; the wise is beyond categories. Neither dead nor alive.

Devoid of partiality toward son and wife, desireless toward the senses, carefree even about his own body—the wise alone is beautiful.

An important aphorism—and the way it has been explained so far is not right; even the Hindi translation is not adequate. So listen closely.
Devoid of attachment toward son and wife—and commentators read this to mean the wise has no love—this is wrong. Only the wise has love. What love can the ignorant have! What then is the meaning? It means—the wise has love, but not because they are mine; not because they are others either. Not—my son, therefore love; not—my wife, therefore love.
Understand the difference. You love and say—she is my mother, therefore love; your love has a therefore. She is my wife—therefore love. Your love has a therefore. He is my son. Consider—you are ready to die for your son. You taught him, worked, sweated, dreamed he rise, be renowned. One day a letter, found in an old chest, reveals—the son is not yours; before her marriage your wife loved another—and the child is his. In that instant your love will evaporate like camphor. Even if the letter is false and the son is yours—your love evaporates. Now you may hate him—wish him dead—a blot. A moment ago he was yours and you loved him; now he is not yours and love is gone. Your love is conditional—mine, and love; not mine, no love.
This love is not for the son—it is for the ego; proclamations of your ego. Mine, therefore love; not mine, gone. This son seemed beautiful—now he seems ugly; you see faults everywhere.
The Sufi Bayazid wrote—a man’s axe was stolen. He was cutting wood; he went inside, leaving the axe outside; it was stolen. Coming out, he saw the neighbor’s boy walking away. He thought—surely that little devil stole it. He had not seen it, so could not say. From that day he watched the boy, discovering every sort of mischief in him—shrewdness in his eyes, wickedness in his gait. On the third day he found the axe among his logs—buried. That day the boy passed—he saw no wickedness; the boy seemed sweet; he repented—how could I have harbored such bad thoughts about so decent a boy!
You have had such experiences—your feelings are projections. My son! You care not for the son—this is the spread of mine—the expansion of ego. My wife—the extension of my ego. My means the expansion of I.
I read this aphorism thus—not without love toward son and wife; not loveless—this is false. I tell you from knowing, from experience—love is in knowing; before knowing love is not. Love is the fragrance of knowing. When the flower of knowing blooms, fragrance of love spreads. What you have called love is not love—it is the disease of ego; its stench—habit makes it seem fragrance.
A fish-selling woman came to the city to sell fish. Returning, she met an old school friend—now a gardener. The gardener said—stay tonight at my place. Her garden was full of fragrant flowers. At night the fish-seller lay down; the gardener placed armfuls of jasmine near her. The fish-seller tossed and turned—could not sleep. The gardener asked—what’s wrong? She said—take these flowers away; give me my fish basket, sprinkle a little water in it, and place it by me; only the fragrance of fish will let me sleep. The fragrance of fish! Habit—for without it even flowers bring restlessness. Worms bred in filth do not know filth—if they knew they would leave—who stops them?
What you call love is not love—it is the stench of ego. That stench drops in the wise. The love you know does not remain—for you had no love, only mine-yours, the quarrel of I and you—which you call love. And what is the result? You snare each other’s necks. Your love is a noose; whoever is caught repents.
The wise is filled with perfect knowing—and so with perfect love. But that love is not tied to mine; it is unconditional. No address written upon it—for this one or that. The wise is love—his very state, not a relationship.
Therefore I read it thus: the wise is free of mine-yours kind of love—and so he attains the love Jesus called God; what Buddha called Karuna; what Mahavira called Ahimsa—their words for love. Our so-called love is violence.
Notice—whom you love, with that one you do violence. You build walls around them. You fall in love with a woman—you wall her in—bars all around—cage her—clip her wings.
If you loved, you would give freedom, not bondage. You would leave her open to the sky, not in a cage. Your love is dangerous. If she smiles looking at someone, poison spreads in your chest—you will cut her throat. You say—you want her happy. What happiness do you want! If she is delighted with someone, you would be pleased—if you loved. The joy of your beloved would be your joy. But no—the words love are gossip; inside it is possession. Men call women stridhan, women-wealth. You have possessed her—she is yours. Husband calls himself master; women call themselves slave—though inside none feels slave—they say it, because they must. And with hidden strategies they maintain their own possession. Your love births a thousand flames of jealousy and nothing else. Whoever falls into your love dies, repents.
Such love is not in the wise. This is true. But precisely because it is absent, a wondrous love is born in the wise. This love will be understood only by those who have flown a little higher—above the ground. If your definition of love is paltry, you will not understand the love of Buddha and Mahavira. Hence Buddha had to find a new word—not love but karuna—lest people understand it as their love. Mahavira more negatively—ahimsa—because your love is himsa—violence—he had to define his love as non-violence. Your love kills; it does not cause to live; it breaks, it destroys.
A mother says to her son—I love you—and clamps him from all sides; the son will die. Who wants their sons to live in freedom! You want them to live according to you. You want them to be your representatives—to repeat your face again and again; to be your carbon copies. You do not want them—you know you will die; you want to remain alive through your sons. Hence the belief here that without a son, life is futile. A son must be. If not one’s own, adopt—but one must have a son.
Why? Because on the son’s shoulders your ego continues. You go, but someone remains—a name-bearer—to carry your standing; your shop continues.
This is expansion of ego. Thus Mahavira called his love Ahimsa. Real love is non-violence. Real love cannot do violence. In real love there is no negation or denial. Real love gives full freedom.
Buddha said—Karuna. For one you love, there will be compassion, kindness. You will support and assist in every way; you will wish him free, independent, spontaneous. You will wish him to become that for which he was born—and that your ambitions not be imposed upon him. You will not be his prison; you will be his wings. You will not pin him to the earth; you will aid him to the sky—even if he goes far from you—if that is his destiny. Even if he goes against you—if that is his destiny. But let him become what he is born to be—you will not deviate him. Such compassion.
Desireless toward the senses.
Carefree about his own body—the wise alone is beautiful.
This is most precious—
Carefree even about his own body—
Carefree because the body will die. The body is already dying. It belongs to death. It will go—today or tomorrow. From the day it is born, it is dying. So it will die. Why worry? There is only one thing certain in life—death. And that you worry about! What is utterly certain—why worry about it? It will happen; it always has.
No one has ever been saved from death, however many devices. Death is destiny; it will occur. In truth, it is not that after seventy years one suddenly dies—death spreads through your body for seventy years—grows, develops—one day it surrounds you and devours. Death is part of the body—its very nature. When birth has happened, death cannot be avoided. Birth is one part of a single energy; death the other.
The wise knows—death is certain—why worry? Knowing it certain, he becomes carefree. You do the reverse—knowing it certain, you worry even more. You do not wish the word death to be uttered. You live as if death always happens to others—never to you. Others die; the bier always belongs to someone else. Yours will also—but you will not see it—others will. Seeing the bier of others, a feeling grows—dying is something other people do. You have never seen yourself die. You have died many times—but so unconscious—if in life you cannot keep awareness, at death you will lose it completely. Before dying you faint. Many bodies you have inhabited, many you have dropped. Whenever the body fell, you were unconscious; whenever you entered a womb, unconscious. You died in unconsciousness; you were born in unconsciousness. So you know nothing of life’s secrets.
The wise, knowing death is certain, is carefree.
Someone mistakenly served Buddha a poisonous dish. A poor villager invited him; Buddha went to eat. The man was so poor he had no vegetables. In Bihar they gather mushrooms during the rains, dry them, and eat all year. Mushrooms are sometimes poisonous. The curry he made was pure poison—bitter. When served, as Buddha began to eat, he felt it—but did not say—what foolishness is this! The poor man sat before him, fanning, tears in his eyes—he had never believed Buddha would dine in his home. Buddha came; he could not believe his eyes; the eyes were wet with tears. There was nothing in the house—dry bread and mushroom curry. Buddha did not wish to wound his heart—lest he be stricken forever—Buddha came and I fed him poison! Buddha even asked for more—took all there was—lest the host taste later and regret. He said—these are so good—bring more! I have eaten in palaces, but yours is unequaled. The poor man was delighted and gave all.
Returning, the numbness of poison spread. Buddha told his physician Jivaka—my end is near; I will not survive this poison. Jivaka cried—why did you not stop it! Buddha said—death is bound to happen—what difference when? I could stop one thing—the man’s sorrow—that was in my hand. Death is not. If not today, tomorrow—what difference?
As he died Buddha told his disciples—announce in the village—the man from whose hand Buddha took his last meal is greatly blessed. Two persons are greatly blessed: the mother who first gives suck at birth; and the one who gives the last meal. People asked—why say this? He said—otherwise after my death they will kill that poor fellow—he will not survive. Announce it—two are supremely fortunate.
Such love. And such carefreeness about death!
Carefree even about his own body—and
One more unique thing—
The wise shines even in hopelessness.
You, even filled with hope, do not shine. In your eyes, how many lamps of hope burn—this will happen, that will happen! How many desires blow like storms in your mind! Lovely dreams of the future, how many hopes you carry—yet you do not glow. Even your hopes make you sickly. But the wise, hopeless—indeed he is the one who is utterly hopeless—who knows no hope can ever be fulfilled in this world. Whose hopelessness is total, ultimate. Who knows with absolute clarity that in this world, hope is never fulfilled. Yet in this supreme hopelessness he sits upon the throne—his radiance is wondrous. In this hopelessness the flower of his life opens. When there is nothing to get outside, all energy returns within. When no running outward, he abides in his center—becomes healthy—self-settled. In that state is the true throne—the supreme seat.
The wise shines even in hopelessness.

Let me choose names worthy of your form.
Let me fashion eyes worthy to behold your rays.
I have not yet read well even the two-and-a-half letters,
let me study more deeply the grammar of love.
I have not yet slipped out of the fenced yard of ego—
let these arms become earth and these eyes become sky.
Let me choose names worthy of your form,
let me fashion eyes worthy to behold your rays.

The Supreme Truth is near. Near is not right, for near suggests distance. The Supreme abides within—only eyes are needed.

Let me choose names worthy of your form,
let me fashion eyes worthy to behold your rays.
I have not yet read well even the two-and-a-half letters,
let me study more deeply the grammar of love.

What you call love is not love—you have not yet read the two-and-a-half letters of love. Reading something-else entirely.
Mulla Nasruddin once sat in a train, reading a newspaper—but held it upside down; he could not read, but did not want anyone to know; so he bought a paper. The man beside said—elder, the pretense worsens it; if you did not read, no one would know—but why hold it upside down? But man seeks arguments—Mulla said—you think you understand! Reading straight is common—what is special? I can read upside down!
Man protects his ego by any means—even absurd ones.
I have not yet read well even the two-and-a-half letters,
let me study more deeply the grammar of love.
Your so-called scripture-writers tell you—drop love, love is sin! I tell you, what you take as love is not love at all—you are reading the paper upside down! You have not yet read even the two-and-a-half letters of love—
let me study more deeply the grammar of love.
I have not yet slipped out of the fenced yard of ego—
let these arms become earth and these eyes become sky.

As yet you live within ego. Like a bird still enclosed in its shell imagining the sky is gained. You are shut within the shell of ego; where is love’s sky! Break the shell; come out. The ego binds you; it will not let you be free.
I have not yet slipped out of the fenced yard of ego—
let these arms become earth and these eyes become sky.
When your eyes are vast like the sky, then you will have eyes to see the One hidden within. Inner vision is available only when ego departs. When the clouds of ego no longer veil the eyes, the blue sky of insight is available.

Content everywhere is the strong one who lives by whatever comes of itself, who roams the lands in freedom, and sleeps where the sun sets.

This aphorism is a little tangled—because it is symbolic; explanations so far have been literal. The literal sense is simple.
First the literal, then the symbolic. The literal is the old description of the wanderer—living by what comes, as it comes, where it comes. Not staying anywhere; moving like a river; not becoming a stagnant pond.
He does not decide beforehand where to spend the night—he makes no plans. Where the sun stops, there he also stops. He does not make even the plan of where to sleep.
This literal sense does not complete the matter—and it goes against Ashtavakra. He is not against the world; nor is he telling you all to renounce and roam village to village. And no truly wise man can say so—for if all roam, from whom will you receive what comes? The sannyasin depends on the householder; one cannot be higher than one’s dependency. Remember—upon whom you depend, beneath him you will be. The layman may touch the monk’s feet, but deep down the monk is bound to the layman. He is not free of him; he moves on the layman’s signal. The monk’s freedom is false. The real master is the layman. Where you get your bread, you are bound. In a country of millions, two or three thousand sannyasins can be sustained; but if millions become sannyasin—then what?
In Thailand the government had to make a law—among forty million people, two million are bhikkhus—too many; difficult to sustain. The country is poor; the crowd of monks sits on its chest. So a law that they must work. Now a great difficulty for the Buddhist monk—the scripture forbids work—how to lift the plough? I remind you—this will happen worldwide—even in this country. Hence I propose a new sannyas—not dependent upon anyone—not the sannyas of begging. Wherever you are, in the home, as you are—be sannyas. No government can deprive you of this sannyas. The old sannyas is gone—its days are over. Now it cannot survive. The old sannyasin seems an exploiter—he is: living off others’ labor. Do your own labor. If you want meditation, if you want Samadhi—why should another labor while you meditate? It is dishonesty. Someone else breaks stones while you sit in worship? Not right. If you wish to worship, break stones—save time—then worship. Buy time by your work—not by begging. The days of free are over. Because of free, many freeloaders became monks—ninety-nine out of a hundred were dishonest—who did not want to do anything, avoid responsibility, or were incapable—so they became monks.
Thus the world needs a new sannyas—whose sannyas is not against the world, for that will not last. A sannyas that is in the world and yet out of it. Such a sannyasin who is both alive and dead; who walks in water and water does not touch his feet; who, while in the world, remains beyond. Only such will remain.
So I cannot accept the literal sense; it goes against Ashtavakra’s whole thrust. He advocates not world-renunciation but knowing—wisdom. Not abandonment of action.
My rendering is different—
Content everywhere is the dhira who lives by what is given—
Be satisfied with what comes from the Divine—ask not for even a grain more. Whatever comes—be grateful—accept in thankfulness. Such I call satisfied-by-what-comes.
Who roams the lands in freedom—
I am not speaking of outer lands—nor is Ashtavakra. This is not geography; it is spirituality. Here the lands are inner. Within you are so many inner countries; one must travel from one to the next. You are not small within—you are vast. This earth is small; you are as vast as the cosmos. Within you is as big a sky as outside. The outer and inner are balanced—equal. Enter these inner skies—these inner lands. Within lie hells; within lie heavens; within is moksha. Within is the land of anger, the land of hate; within too the land of love and compassion. Within is delusion, greed; within is renunciation, dispassion, vitaraga. There is a great geography within—the geography of the inner. Roam freely there—be acquainted with all your inner provinces. I say—roam the inner lands in freedom.
In the West the word space is now used in the meaning I am using—inner space. People say—we entered an inner space of great peace—or of sorrow, of sadness. Just as today space means inner dimension in the West, so once here antardesh—the inner country—was used—spiritual language.
And there freedom is needed. If you go bound, you will not know your inner life fully. Everything must be known. Anger must be known within—only then can you be free of anger. What you know, you are freed of. Recognize and release. Inner hells must be known—then you can be free of hell. Inner heavens must be known—then you can be free of heaven too. He who, knowing all inner worlds, goes beyond all—lokatit—he is Vitaraga, dhira, sthir-dhi—Buddha, Jina—call him what you will.
And sleeps where the sun sets—
What is the inner sunset—and sleeping there—? Understand—
As outside there is day and night, so within. As outside the sun rises and sets, so within the light of awareness rises and sets. Two ways to divide: Atman—witness—and body; between them the bridge—mind. Atman is light, jyoti, bodha—sun. Body is darkness, tamas, new moon—death. The two are joined by mind. Mind is half influenced by body and half by Atman. In half its field it is day; in half it is night. The wise comes up to where there is day—up to where there is light. Where light ends, he stops—there he sleeps. He goes no further; does not journey into the zones of darkness. The ignorant moves in darkness; he does not even know there are inner sunrises. He knows only outer light and dark.
Or another division—the seven chakras of the body. Three are below, three above; one in the middle joins—the heart center, Anahata. Below are three; above, three. The lower three build the world; the upper three build liberation. Heart connects both. Hence even those living in lower centers love—but their love is weighed down by the lower. Those living in higher centers love—but their love is like the vast sky—unfettered. In love both participate—the ignorant and the wise—because the heart belongs to both. Half the heart is filled with darkness—call it kama, vasana, violence. Half is filled with prayer—upasana, worship, adoration.
The wise comes only up to that half-point where there is light. There he rests; beyond he does not go. The ignorant travels in darkness and falls asleep where there is light. The wise does not enter where darkness begins; the ignorant does not enter where light begins. Krishna says in the Gita: what is night for all beings is day for the self-restrained; and what is day for the self-restrained is night for all beings. Where the self-restrained is awake and active, you are asleep; where you are awake, he is asleep. Your sunrise is his sunset; your sunset is his sunrise.
You are split down the middle; you have chosen the lower—the dark night. This is your choice. To go beyond it there are two doors—wakefulness and love. Either become aware and rise; or become love and rise. Two paths—dhyana and prema.
Who roams freely and sleeps where the sun sets—
The wise conducts himself utterly free—free as the wind.

I am the wind,
I am the vernal wind in the wind—
that one,
yes, that one who
makes the earth’s spring sweetly resound;
that one,
yes, that one who
gives every creature
the wine of love to drink and quickens them.
By the oath of beauty,
by the oath of love,
by the oath of this heart—
hear me—
I am so wildly free—
a strange wind,
utterly carefree with nothing to fret,
utterly fearless.
Where I wish, I wander—
a wondrous pilgrim—
neither house nor aim,
neither desire nor hope,
no lover,
no enemy—
where I wish, I wander,
I am the wind,
the vernal wind in the wind.
From where I set out
and where I went—
cities, villages, hamlets,
rivers, sands, solitudes,
green fields, ponds—
I swayed them as I passed,
I made them dance,
I laughed loudly—
all directions laughed;
fields laughed in their green waves;
the shining bright sun laughed;
in the vernal wind
the whole creation laughed.
I am the wind,
in the wind—
the vernal wind.

Free as the spring wind is the wise. No rites, no rules, no discipline upon him. In the next aphorism the matter is clearer—

Whether the body falls or endures, the great-souled has no concern—he who rests in the ground of his own nature and to whom the entire cycle is forgotten.

He who rests in the ground of his own nature—
Just what I have been saying—who rests in his witnessing, in his consciousness, in his light; who never goes contrary to his swabhava; who does not step out of his nature; who bears no unnecessary tension; who is spontaneous.
He who rests in the ground of his own nature, and to whom the remaining world is forgotten—
It will be so. Where the Atman is remembered, the world is forgotten. Where the world is much remembered, the Atman is forgotten. You cannot keep both. When you see the snake, you do not see the rope. When you see the rope, the snake disappears. You cannot see both together.
As long as memory is entangled in the world, the memory of Atman is not. When the memory of Atman arises, the memory of the world is lost.
He who rests in the ground of his nature and to whom the world is forgotten—such a one has no concern whether the body remains or goes.
For he knows—the body belongs to the world; it is not my part. I am not the body.

Owning nothing, moving freely, beyond opposites, doubtless, unattached—the wise alone plays in all states.

Akinchana—he who knows ego is a false proclamation; whose claim to be something is gone; who no longer asserts—who is content to be nothing, like a void.
Akinchana, moving freely—
The Sanskrit is wondrous—kamacharo—one whose conduct is beyond conduct. In whose life the categories of conduct and misconduct have vanished. I say again and again—supreme knowing is characterless—beyond character. Kamacharo means exactly this—free, beyond rules—living by swabhava—by sfurti—by spontaneous throbbing. No discipline over him—that one should do this. Only what happens, he allows. He accepts the consequences—neither worrying to avoid them nor insisting to stop what is happening; no strategy to make otherwise.
Unattached, doubtless, beyond dualities—and alone, the wise plays in all states.
Then one is free to roam all one’s inner provinces.
Plays in all states—
Then all play is available. He receives the passport to all his inner lands. No barriers. He goes where he will within; sees what he wishes—descends into the deepest unconscious chasms and touches the summits of supreme consciousness. He owns the entire staircase—its lowest steps in hell, uppermost in moksha. He ascends every rung—freely experiencing the whole of his consciousness. In this very experiencing—the vision of the vast.
The scriptures say—man is a microcosm of the macrocosm. Within man lies all that is in the vast. If within we see man completely, we have seen the vast completely. Understanding man, all is understood.
This aphorism contains a chain: akinchan—who is nothing—only he can be free. Akinchan, free. Only the one who is nothing can be free; one who wants to be something cannot be. He must make rules, bind limits. He wants prestige, honor, virtue, heaven—he must walk in bounds. One who is nothing and consent to be nothing—only he can be free. Only the void can be free. Then beyond dualities. Only the free can be beyond dualities. As long as the mind divides—this should happen and that should not—dualities will remain. When what is as it is is right, there is no duality. One who is beyond dualities—alone he is doubtless. When duality is not—what doubt! Then there is supreme acceptance, supreme trust in life. One who is doubtless alone can be unattached. When there is ultimate trust in existence, we do not cling—we do not say—hold what I have, who knows of tomorrow. When there is supreme trust—the One who gave today will give tomorrow; and if not, then it is not right to have. And one unattached—only he is alone—only he experiences solitude. Alone, he attains Buddhahood.
There is a sequence—free, akinchan, beyond dual, doubtless, unattached, solitary, Buddha—a ladder of steps.
And he alone plays in all states. Totality is his; the whole sky is his. No limit, no bond. The Infinite his, the Eternal his. But first declare this infinity within yourself.
Contemplate these aphorisms—do not only reflect—meditate. Try to taste them—for they are not just words. The word is like ash—blow aside the ash and the ember is within. In that ember is meaning, in that ember is the sense.
Each aphorism is so precious that the wealth of the whole world, if it had to be paid for a single one, would still not be the price—these are priceless.
Enough for today.