Maha Geeta #83

‘He who is without possessiveness, for whom earth, stone and gold are alike, whose heart-knot has snapped and whose rajas and tamas are washed away — only such a steadfast one is truly resplendent.’
Many things in this sutra ask to be understood.
First, ‘whose heart-knot has snapped…’
The heart is the knot — the place where Ram and kam are tied together. And until the knot of the heart breaks, Ram and kam are not freed. The heart is the knot where the world and Nirvana are bound. Until that knot breaks there, the world and Nirvana cannot be separate.
The heart is the most crucial knot. And the word granthi means precisely a knot — what a psychologist calls a complex. Where things are entangled; where they must be untangled.
In the human body the meeting of both is taking place — kam and Ram. The meeting of Brahman and Maya too. In the human body the small meets the vast, the lower meets the higher. Darkness and light shake hands with each other. Nature and the Divine stand side by side. Man is a unique confluence. And the most foundational link in this confluence is the heart. Until the heart-knot is torn asunder — subhinnahṛdaya-granthiḥ, until the heart-knot is well and truly shredded — there is no liberation. There is no Buddhahood.
The yogic name of the heart-knot is the Anahata chakra. Three chakras lie below Anahata and three above it. At Anahata the two pans of the balance separate clearly. At Anahata is the pointer of the scale. Go down and at the very end you reach Muladhara — the deep darkness of lust, of stupor, deep unconsciousness where awareness drowns in every way, where not even a trace of wakefulness remains. That is why lust has such power. Whenever a person wants to forget himself, lust brews within as an inner wine. You drink it and forget. You can forget only for a little while, naturally only for a moment, because it is not possible to remain forever at that lower plane. You can touch it, like someone who dives into water, reaches the bottom, touches the floor — but how long will he remain there? A moment later there is a scramble, he returns, he must come back to the surface.
So one does plunge into lust — for a moment. For a moment one forgets oneself, forgets the world; worries are forgotten; no entanglement remains, no problem remains, no grief or anguish remains — for a moment everything is forgotten. But only for a moment. On returning, everything stands as before, perhaps even more distorted than before, because so much time has been wasted, so much energy lost. The situation does not change.
Through forgetfulness there is no transformation.
Below lies Muladhara. Falling to Muladhara, man becomes animal-like. Hence the old scriptures say: if lust is your life’s goal, then there is no difference between you and an animal. ‘Pashu’ is a most valuable word — it means the one bound in a leash, in pasha, the fetter of lust; the one whose neck is chained by lust, pulled downward by the tether — that is pashu. The one who becomes free of the tether is free of animality.
Below the heart-knot is the animal realm — darkness. Yes, darkness has its own kind of rest — filled with forgetfulness. And in forgetfulness there is a kind of pleasure: at least there is the feel of relief. Sorrow is forgotten — that much is certain, even if it is not dissolved! For the tired and the worn-out, even that forgetfulness feels enough.
Travel above the heart-knot, above Anahata, and at the end you reach Sahasrara. As Muladhara is the lowest, Sahasrara is the highest. Sahasrara means the thousand-petaled lotus — the final blossoming of human consciousness, where the flower of the human soul opens. On reaching there, man is no longer man — he becomes the Divine. Falling to Muladhara, man is no longer man — he becomes animal. Rising to Sahasrara, man again is no longer man — he becomes the Divine. Man is an entanglement, a knot. Man remains man because the heart-knot is tied. In the heart-knot lies manhood. In manhood there is an inevitable melancholy and anguish.
No one can be happy as man. Either the animals are happy — because they cannot know sorrow; there is no awareness. Or the Divine is happy — because there is so much awareness that within that awareness sorrow is not possible. There is so much light that in that light darkness cannot remain. The animal does not see darkness because animality is blind; and when one does not see, one thinks it is not there. In the Divine state — call it the state of Parmatma, Buddhahood, Jinatva, Arhant — all say the same: in that state there is no sorrow, because such a mighty flood of consciousness arises, such a tide of light — as if a thousand suns rise at once — where can darkness remain? There is no place for darkness to stand; and where darkness cannot stand, sorrow cannot stand — sorrow is a form of darkness. There is supreme bliss there.
In both extremes, man disappears.
So then, where is man? Man is in the heart-knot. The world below man is below the heart; the world above man is above the heart. And where you are — that place is the heart, and right there the knot is tangled. The heart is the crossroads from where you either go downward or upward. From the heart a person rises, and from the heart he falls. Understand this.
When the heart fills with a love that is lust-laden, the downward journey begins. When the heart fills with a love that is prayerful, the upward journey begins. But from the heart downward, and from the heart upward. The heart is the friend — and the heart is the foe. It must be so, because the heart is the staircase. The same staircase serves to go down and to go up. There is no separate staircase for up and another for down — the staircase is one; only your direction changes.
Prayer means the eyes are turned upward. That is why man lifts his hands toward the sky to pray. Lust means the eyes are cast downward. That is why, whenever lust fills you, you cannot raise your eyes out of shame — your eyes drop. Where lust is, the eyes have dropped; you are buried in the ground. Where prayer is, the eyes are raised — you are flying into the sky. The same thing happens within. When you are in lust, your inner direction is downward — toward the animal, back along the old beaten track from where you came. It is familiar, hence it seems easy. It’s the path of lifetimes, we have traveled it; so there appears no obstacle. But when you raise the inner eyes and look toward Sahasrara, then obstacles appear. It is a new path, unfamiliar; who knows where it will take you, what the outcome will be, auspicious or inauspicious — fear arises.
And on the downward path the whole crowd is with you; you are not alone. When you drown in lust, the whole world is with you. When you move into prayer, you are alone — it is a solitary path. In prayer who can be whose companion!
Have you noticed? In lust at least one person can be a companion. The woman you are in love with, the man you are in love with — they can be companions. In lust, togetherness is possible. But prayer is utterly solitary; there the other cannot accompany you. There you remain alone — utterly alone. Fear arises, trembling happens.
Then there is also the fear of falling when you go upward. There is no fear of falling when you go downward — you are already going down; how can you fall further? Those who live in the valleys — how will they fall! Those who live on the peaks — they can fall. Hence you have never heard the phrase ‘corrupted by indulgence’ — you have heard ‘fallen from Yoga’. The hedonist cannot fall — where is there left to fall? The yogi can fall, for Yoga is a peak. Those who fly at heights take risks; the greater the height, the greater the risk.
Have you climbed mountains? As you ascend, danger increases. As Everest draws nearer, the risk grows; a slight slip and there is death. If the same slip happened in the valley, nothing much would happen — at most a sprain, a scraped knee. But the same slip on Everest — and it is the end of life. The higher the climb, the costlier the bargain. Only the truly daring can enter the realm of religion. A rare courage is needed.
Cowards live and die in lust. Only the great brave take wing on the upward journey — where the vast sky is empty, where the bird of breath is alone, where there is no companion, no society, no sect. In that aloneness the lotus of Sahasrara blossoms. You must have seen: when someone goes deep in meditation, his eyes pull upward. If you gently open a meditator’s eyelids you will be surprised — the eyes are drawn upward. In the depth of meditation the gaze turns toward Sahasrara; the direction has become upward. Feel this within: when lust rises in you and the instruments of lust begin to vibrate, your eyes, within, drop downward — within. Even if outwardly you do not lower them, inwardly you know the energy has begun to flow downward; the current of the eyes has moved downward. Keep measuring it.
The knot is of the heart. From there a man falls, from there he rises. Love lifts — and love throws down. That is why love is a dangerous word. A slight misunderstanding and you miss.
I speak constantly of love. To use the word love is to play with fire. The love I speak of — it is very likely you will not understand it. You will take it to mean only what you can understand. When I say love, I am speaking of prayer. When you hear the word love, immediately you understand desire and lust. You understand your love. If your kind of love could lead to liberation, there would be no need to come to me — you are already doing that love. But it has not brought liberation; it has created only the world. It has not taken you upward even a little — it has thrown you lower. It has led you astray; that is your very wandering. But hearing me, you may look for relief for your old structure and think I am speaking of your love.
Remember always: never translate my words into your language — otherwise you will miss. Keep yourself aside. Whenever I use words to which you are also accustomed, listen with great care, for the possibility of error is great. You will impose your meanings; there the slip will happen. You will hear something that was not said. You will understand something that was not intended. One thing will turn into another — there will be mis-meaning, not meaning.
Below the heart-knot there is also a love — animal love, blind love, lust, love of the body; love only in name. It should not even be called love — it is mutual exploitation of bodies, devices to forget oneself, stupor, intoxication. There is another love above the heart-knot — there love is supremely delicate, like pollen; there love is not a substance but a fragrance. Try to grasp it and it will not come into your fist; make a fist and you will miss. There love enters another dimension. There you do not want the body; there the body has no purpose. There the longing of mind arises — and slowly you go beyond the longing of mind too. The prana meets the prana.
Bodies are separate. Minds are not that separate. And souls are not separate at all. The love I speak of is such a love where you experience one pulse of life throbbing in the whole of existence — where in leaf and pebble alike you feel one love, one energy flowing; and you, like a drop, long to dissolve into this vast ocean. This is the meaning of prayer.
The knot has to be broken at the heart. So understand the first sutra well —
‘He who is without possessiveness, for whom earth, stone and gold are alike…’
Keep this too in mind. The interpretations given to this sutra have been greatly delusive. Do not take it to mean that if you place gold before a knower he will not see it as gold but as earth. Do not take that meaning. Gold will appear as gold, earth as earth, stone as stone — but there will be no difference of value among the three. If a knower were to see gold as earth, that would be a delusion, not awakening. In awakening, distinctions appear even more clearly: gold is seen as gold, earth as earth — but the difference of value ceases. That earth has no value and gold has value — that difference ends. Value is man-imposed.
Imagine that no human beings remained on earth — there is a heap of soil and a heap of gold. Would the heap of gold be valuable? Gold would still be gold, earth still earth — but now gold would not be valuable. The one who gave value, man, is no more; value becomes valueless, becomes zero. Earth is earth, gold is gold. By the removal of man, neither will earth become gold nor gold become earth; but with the disappearance of value, no difference remains.
Keep this in mind, otherwise madmen will be taken for paramahansas. Those who see no difference at all will be thought to be enlightened. Between madness and the paramahansa there is a fundamental difference. Paramahansahood means: the difference of value is gone. Value has become equal. But the properties of things are different and will remain different.
When Ashtavakra says ‘for whom earth, stone and gold are alike’, he means: of equal value in the ultimate sense — not equal in the practical sense. Otherwise the paramahansa, on feeling hungry, would eat earth! There are such madmen who eat earth and people consider them paramahansas. Did the Buddhas do such? Is there any mention of Mahavira doing so? Or of Krishna, that if you serve them earth they will eat it? Earth is earth; food is food. In the practical sense there is difference; in the ultimate sense there is none. For what you call food is born of earth; what today you call food tomorrow again will be earth; then again from earth it will arise and again dissolve. Ultimately there is no difference; practically there is.
You sow a seed, in the earth. It sprouts from the earth and yields a thousand seeds. You harvest the crop. What you call wheat is the transformation of earth. The plant has done for you a wondrous work you could not do. If you eat earth directly, it will not become blood; but chew wheat and digest it — it becomes blood. The wheat plant has performed a miracle: it sifted out of earth those parts that would hinder the making of blood, and selected those parts that pose no hindrance. Be grateful to the wheat plant; it has made earth digestible to your body.
Thus I say the whole of nature is interlinked. Without wheat plants you could not remain alive — gratitude is due to them.
Similarly, take sea water: it looks like water, but if you drink it you will die — your thirst will not be quenched, your life will be lost. The sea water looks like water, yet it cannot be drunk. But the same sea water, filtered through thousands of miles of earth, comes into your well — and then you drink it and there is no harm; your thirst is stilled. Those layers of soil have strained out all the salts and chemicals that would have caused death. Water is still water, but the earth has done great work, holding back the salts, removing what would harm your body. Strained and purified, it reaches your well. It is the sea’s water still — but now you can drink it.
What the well did, the wheat plant also did — it strained earth into wheat. So do pear trees and lemon trees — straining, straining. The earth is one; from it arise lemons, pears, mangoes. The earth is one, but different plants filter in different ways, hence different fruits arise. These fruits are nothing but earth — even so, I will not tell you to eat earth, nor would Ashtavakra. Had Ashtavakra eaten earth, this great Gita would never have been born — he would have merged into earth long before these words were spoken.
No — ultimately, you are eating earth anyway. Whether wheat or rice or pear or grape or orange — whatever you eat, ultimately you are eating earth, for all this is the play of earth. And the wonder is: you yourself are earth’s play. One day you will fall and dissolve into earth. Born of earth, you will be immersed in earth. Ultimately all is earth.
What you call gold is but a form of earth. What you call silver is a form of earth. You may be surprised: what you call a diamond is a form of coal. Coal, lying under the soil for millions of years, becomes diamond. No one hangs coal on his chest as if it were Kohinoor! However big a lump of coal you hang, no one will call you wise; they will call you mad. Granted, the science books say coal and Kohinoor differ only by time — pressed for eons under earth, under pressure and chemical processes, coal becomes diamond — and yet a diamond is a diamond, coal is coal. You will not hang coal, you will hang diamond. The difference is practical; ultimately, in the last sense, there is no difference. Remember this. Wherever scriptures say ‘gold, earth, stone are one’, they mean: one in the ultimate sense; not one in the practical sense.
‘He who is without possessiveness, for whom earth, stone and gold are alike; whose heart-knot has snapped, and whose rajas and tamas are washed away — only such a steadfast one is truly radiant.’
In these sutras Ashtavakra again and again praises that element, that throne, without which there is no fulfillment. He asks: whose is the ultimate radiance, the true glory? It belongs to the one free of possessiveness. Possessiveness drags love downward. When one is free of possessiveness, love begins to move upward. Possessiveness is like rocks tied to love’s neck. Possessiveness means: ‘You are mine, therefore I love you. You are my son, therefore I love you. You are my husband, therefore; my wife, therefore. Mine — therefore.’ Where love becomes free of ‘mine’, then you no longer say ‘therefore I love’. You say: love is flowing within me; you are present, so it touches you; someone else were present, it would touch them; if no one were there, it would disperse into the void. Like a flower blooming alone on a far mountain — its fragrance spreads even if no traveler passes. So too when your love turns upward, a fragrance arises in your life that spreads; whoever comes is touched by it; even if no one comes, it diffuses into emptiness. Love then is a state of consciousness.
Possessiveness means love is a relationship — ‘mine, therefore’. My-ness is more important than love; if my-ness is threatened I am ready to kill. For the wife for whom you would give your life, you would poison her if it were certain she is no longer ‘mine’. For the husband for whom you would die, you could kill him if he became someone else’s. This spread of ‘mine’ is disease of ego — a roundabout way of loving oneself, not the other! Hence the Upanishads say: the husband does not love the wife; through the wife he loves himself. The father does not love the son; through the son he loves himself.
It is like looking at your picture in a mirror — you are not looking at the mirror; who looks at the mirror? People say ‘I was looking into the mirror’ — that is wrong. You look at yourself in the mirror; the mirror is a pretext. You are seeing yourself; the mirror is the excuse. Who looks at the mirror! Who cares to look at the mirror! In the mirror one sees oneself — one’s reflection.
Those you say you love because they are ‘yours’ — you do not love them. You are seeing yourself in their eyes. When your wife says to you, ‘No man is as handsome, as strong as you,’ you are delighted — you love this woman because she speaks what your ego wanted to hear. When someone tells a woman, ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world; I cannot imagine anyone more beautiful,’ she blossoms — ‘your love has made me happy.’ It has nothing to do with love; the ego was eager to hear its own praise.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. One night he said to her, ‘There has never been, nor will there be, a woman more beautiful than you on this earth.’ Lovers all say so. The woman was thrilled: ‘Really, Nasruddin?’ Nasruddin grew a little scared — he was an honest fellow. He said, ‘Forgive me — I have said this to other women before. And I cannot promise I won’t say it to others in the future.’ Instantly the woman grew sad: ‘You have said it to others — and you may say it again! Then it has no meaning, no value.’
We look at our own picture in each other’s eyes. Whoever paints our picture with richer colors, we call that love. Wherever your ego is confirmed, you call it love. Possessiveness is love in the service of ego. Possessiveness means ‘mine, mam’ — the shadow of ‘I’. Wherever you see the shadow of my-ness, wherever your ‘I’ can stand by someone’s support, by whose crutches your lame ‘I’ can move — you call those relationships love. But that love is false.
The radiance, says Ashtavakra, belongs to the one whose love is free of possessiveness, whose heart-knot is pierced — the knot where Ram and kam are joined. Kam falls downward; Ram flies into the sky. The knot breaks where sexual union and Samadhi are joined.
‘Such a person whose rajas and tamas are washed away…’
Understand this too. Rajas means the frenzy of doing; tamas means laziness, inertia. Tamas means attachment to inaction; rajas means attachment to action. There are people who cannot sit still — they must be doing something, fiddling with something — they cannot sit. The rajasic tendency within will never let them be quiet — a kind of disease. Even on holidays they cannot sit quietly — they will be doing something. For six days they look forward to the holiday for rest, and on the holiday you will see them work more than they ever do in the office. In the office people rest, they doze; they wait for the seventh day to rest at home. But rest feels hard. The art of rest is known to few, and even those you see resting are not restful — they are lazy. Either people are frantically active, or frantically lazy. Some cannot sit, some cannot rise. Both are crippled.
The one who has attained sattva works when there is a need, rests when there is no need. Both dimensions are free for him; he is not bound to either. No compulsion. Not that he must do even when there is nothing to do; nor will he lie around when there is work to be done. One who has attained sattva has attained restraint. Extremes have left his life; balance has come. His scale rests in the middle; both pans have become equal. When work is needed, he works wholly; when rest is needed, he rests wholly. Such a one is truly radiant.
You will find two kinds of people everywhere. Some keep working even in sleep. Watch them sleeping — even sleep is a big work: hands and feet flail, legs churn, they mutter, tug at the sheet — many works.
I read recently in a medical book — I was astonished — that as many calories as a person spends during the day in work, he spends half that much at night — in sleep! Half! After the day’s labor he works half as much even in sleep.
And their dreams — look at people’s dreams: fighting and brawling; the same schemes as in their waking life continue. Palaces they could not build here, they build in dreams; pits they could not dig here, they dig there; but they keep doing something. Your dreams vary, but if you look closely there are two types: filled with rajas or filled with tamas. And the dream of one will not make sense to the other.
I have heard: a cat sat on a tree, basking in the chilly morning sun. Below, a dog dozed in the same sun. The cat asked, ‘What are you doing?’ He opened an eye: ‘I had a strange dream — there was a great rain! And instead of water, bones fell. Bones and bones!’ A dog’s dream will be a dog’s! The cat said, ‘Impossible! Never heard of it. The scriptures say that sometimes when it rains, mice fall — but bones? Never heard, nor read!’ In the cat’s dreams mice fall, and in the cat’s scriptures also, surely, mice are written. In the dog’s scriptures — bones. The dog laughed: ‘Leave it. I am an educated dog; I have read scriptures too — dog scriptures. They praise bones; mice are nowhere mentioned.’
You laugh — because you are neither dog nor cat, you are human. Your scriptures say something else; you laugh, ‘These mad creatures!’ Ask us what comes in dreams!
Your dreams are different, but not fundamentally. If you divide humanity into two — rajas and tamas. Either rajasic dreams — the works you could not do in the day; or tamasic dreams — the laziness you wished to wallow in but could not. Only two. Outgoing dream or ingoing dream. Man’s dream or woman’s dream. Passive or active. Two kinds of dreams, two kinds of people, two kinds of imbalances, two kinds of derangements.
This sutra says: the person whose heart-knot is broken, whose rajas and tamas are washed away — both washed away. Neither male nor female remains; neither active nor passive; neither extrovert nor introvert — the one who abides in the middle. In whose life the supreme point of restraint has come. What is needed, he does; and when he does, there is not an iota of reluctance. When not needed, he does not — no compulsion.
Gurdjieff gave his disciples some aphorisms. One was: ‘Do not do what is unnecessary.’ Ouspensky asked: ‘Why give such value to this? Why would we do the unnecessary?’ Gurdjieff said: ‘I watch — ninety-nine out of a hundred things people do are unnecessary. Their lives are being spent in the unnecessary. Necessary things are few; the unnecessary are many.’
Reflect a little. Of the words you speak in twenty-four hours, how many were necessary? How many could have remained unspoken?
If you look very carefully, very few remain that were necessary. Your speech would become telegraphic — chosen, weighed. The value of your word would increase; there would be weight, a sparkle, a keen edge — because the few words you speak would carry thought, discrimination, awareness, love, necessity. And you will see a wonder: the unnecessary things you used to say created a thousand entanglements — you will be saved from those thousand troubles. Because of unnecessary talk, a thousand actions you also had to do — say it and you get stuck. You will be saved from a thousand actions too. A quiet will enter your life; a grace will descend. You will become gentle. There is radiance where there is gentleness, where there is grace; where there is the music of balance, where there is beauty. Ask me — I call balance beauty.
When a face appears beautiful, the reason is balance — proportion. When a body appears beautiful, what is the reason? Proportion — all limbs in harmony. If one arm were long, the other short; one eye big, the other small; the nose one way on one side and another way on the other — you would call the person ugly. What does ugly mean? Lack of proportion; imbalance; a scale whose pans hang unevenly — shapelessness.
Beauty means balance. This is for the body. The same is true of the mind — when the mind is a scale. When the beauty of mind arrives in your life, an aura begins to shine from within the body — as if a lamp has been lit within, and its light glimmers through the body. And then there is a final beauty — the beauty of the soul, where all has become samyak, all has become even — Samadhi has happened.
Sam is Samadhi. Dissonance is disturbance. Dissonance is the world; evenness is Samadhi, Nirvana, Moksha. Where such evenness comes that not a grain of the unnecessary remains in your life and all is meaningful; what must be done is done — not an inch more; no unnecessary labor, no unnecessary rest; your days and nights become equal; your male and female balance; your rajas and tamas balance; what remains is sattva — what remains is sainthood, purest simplicity — call it what you will.
‘Here all honey-pitchers were filled with poison;
The truth was known only after drinking.
Stitches were put upon the body,
But every wound in the mind remained unsewn.’
Wherever you see honey-pitchers, it is only after drinking you know: it was poison. Wounds on the body heal quickly, but wounds upon the mind are very difficult. Stitches can be put upon the body; not on the mind.
‘Here all honey-pitchers were filled with poison;
The truth was known only after drinking.’
By then it is too late. Yet there is no other way — only by drinking does experience come. You are all sitting with poison drunk. You are all Nilakantha — your throats are full of poison, to the brim, and yet the awakening has not come. You live so hard a life and still no awakening — it is a marvel! You live in so much suffering, yet no awareness — you bear so much pain, thorns upon thorns, and still, by some dream of flowers, you go on living. Those flowers never bloom; only thorns are found; yet you keep hoping for flowers. In this running, in this mad haste, awareness does not come; you do not even consider what you are doing. Sit a little, reflect. Consider your situation. Cut off all that is useless; let the meaningful remain. Slowly you will find that as the useless is cut, useless laziness will be cut, and useless busyness will be cut. Slowly a sound begins to hum within you — a unique sound, one you have never heard. It is already there within you — the sound of sattva. The one who attains that sound — call that one a saint. The supreme state of balance is sainthood.
‘Who, other than the one free of vasanas, knows without knowing, sees without seeing, speaks without speaking!’
sarvatra anavadhānasya na kiñcid vāsanā hṛdi.
muktātmanaḥ vistṛptasya tulanā kena jāyate।।
‘Who is indifferent everywhere and in whose heart no vasana remains — with whom can such a fulfilled, liberated soul be compared?’
Ashtavakra says: he alone sits upon the supreme throne — incomparable, unique, unprecedented, peerless. There is no comparison. Your Alexanders and Napoleons and emperors do not provide any comparison — it would be like comparing a handful of water to the oceans. No, there is no comparison — it is incomparable. Understand this sutra —
‘Who is indifferent everywhere…’
‘Udaseen’ is a wondrous word, though badly corrupted. Time often mistreats even the best of words — they become dust-laden; and trampled words sometimes sit on thrones. Accidents happen. ‘Udaseen’ is a marvelous, pregnant word; but it has fallen into bad company. Today ‘udaseen’ means sad, hopeless, dejected, disinterested — the negative aspect. That is not its real meaning.
‘Udaseen’ means ‘ud-āsīn’ — seated above, seated within oneself. The one who has sat within, who has installed himself within — that is its real, creative meaning. As ‘upavasa’ means to dwell near oneself, so ‘udaseen’ means even more: not just near, but seated in oneself. ‘Upavasa’ is the step toward ‘udaseen’. Sitting close to oneself is upavasa; sitting in oneself is udaseen — one who has taken his seat at the center of his consciousness. ‘Swastha’ means ‘established in the Self’. That is ‘udaseen’.
But one who becomes established in himself becomes indeed devoid of taste for many outer things that once gave him relish. People cannot see his inner throne; they can only see that he has become tasteless: ‘Poor fellow, he has become indifferent! He no longer enjoys dance and color; he does not go; he does not bustle about; he no longer has any eagerness to go anywhere; yesterday he was feverishly earning, now not at all; yesterday he struggled for position, begged door to door, “Elections are here, vote for me!” — now there is no taste. Invite him to stand in elections — he says, “Forgive me, did I commit sins in past lives that you come to punish me? Spare me! There are many mad people — catch one of them.”’ People say, with pity, ‘He has become indifferent, poor thing! He has lost to life.’
But something else has happened. What he left outside is secondary; what he found within is primary. And the inner relish is so great — you cannot see it. He is immersed in rasa, hence the outer, petty tastes no longer tempt him. He has found a great relish. If one who has found diamonds and jewels lets go of pebbles, will you call him indifferent! If he does not let go of pebbles, in which fists will he hold diamonds? And if diamonds are found, pebbles will drop of their own accord. One who has dipped in the inner stream of nectar will not go to the petty things of the outside — there was no relish there anyway. He had not found his home, hence he begged at other doors. Now he has found his home — where is there to go? The creative meaning of ‘udaseen’ is: absorbed in one’s own rasa, immersed in the supreme relish — therefore no longer going out. Grasp this distinction.
The same distortion overtook ‘upavasa’. Mahavira fasted, Jain monks practice starvation — not upavasa. Mahavira’s upavasa meant he would be so deeply absorbed in meditation that days would pass and he would not remember food. This is one thing — a great thing: to not remember food; so absorbed within that even the body is forgotten, that the body hungers is forgotten. This is an unprecedented event; it has grandeur; this is what Ashtavakra calls radiance.
Then there is another type — who starves: ‘I will not eat, because today is upavasa, festivals have come, vows must be observed.’ He restrains himself — his mind wishes to slip into the kitchen; he goes to the temple; his mind wishes to slip into a restaurant — but how can he, with Jains all around watching, they too starving; no one must slip! ‘We suffer; how can you get away!’ Each keeps an eye on the other. He sits in the temple; his mind is hovering around eateries; he dreams. He did not eat — but his being is dwelling at the kitchen’s door. He keeps wandering around restaurants. Before, at least he ate twice and then forgot; now he never forgets. Nights too he dreams of feasts in palaces. He is even closer to food now than before. This is not upavasa; it is the deception of upavasa — starvation.
Likewise you will find those who call themselves ‘udaseen’ because the righteous had no taste for the outer — and they think if they drop the outer taste they will attain saintliness. Beware! By dropping the outer relish one does not attain the inner; attaining the inner, the outer relish drops — drops of its own accord. The Sanskrit word in the sutra is even more astonishing. Perhaps translators feared to render it literally. The word is: ‘sarvatra anavadhānasya’. ‘Anavadhana’ means freedom from attention; ‘avadhana’ means attention, concentration. ‘Anavadhana’ — freedom from attention. ‘He who is everywhere free of attention’ — the original Sanskrit. Translators feared: to say ‘free of attention’ would be confusing; so they rendered it ‘udaseen’.
Understand.
The Sanskrit is deeper. ‘Udaseen’ is only one limb of it. What does attention mean? Concentration. You pay attention only where the mind is filled with vasana. A beautiful woman passes and you become all attention; the mind binds. You were going somewhere else; you follow her; she goes into a shop — you too go, and buy something even if you need nothing. That is your avadhana.
If anger fills the mind, attention tightens — the whole world is forgotten: how to destroy this man? Such concentration gathers that Mahavira called two forms of attention ‘aart’ and ‘raudra’ — some become attentive out of grief, some out of rage. Someone dies and you beat your chest — all is forgotten, you become utterly attentive to weeping. Or someone insults you — the wrathful form arises; you draw the sword; the world is forgotten; you become concentrated on one thing.
Where there is vasana, there is concentration. That is why you sit to meditate on God and the mind won’t concentrate — it goes to the shop. It goes where vasana is. Attention follows vasana.
Someone asked Farid, ‘How to find the Lord? How did you find?’ Farid said, ‘Come — I go to bathe in the river; I will tell you there.’ The man felt uneasy: ‘Is he a little crazy? We ask about God and he says “in the bath”.’ But, being a mystic, he went. As they bathed, Farid suddenly dunked him under water and held him down. Farid was strong; the man writhed; Farid did not let go. In such moments even a thin man finds strength. At last with a heave he threw Farid off, came up and shouted, ‘I thought you a saint — will you take my life!’ Farid said, ‘It was my answer. Tell me: how many thoughts were in your mind under water?’ ‘Thoughts? None — only one: “How to get free, how to get breath?” And even that was not a thought for long — it became a thirst of life; all thoughts vanished; only one urge remained.’
Farid said, ‘When your attention clings to God like that, you will find Him. And did you see the power of attention? I am twice your weight — and you threw me.’
A dog boasted among his fellows — as all do — ‘No dog in the world runs faster than I! If only the Olympics let dogs in, I would beat them all.’ The others knew he was strong and fast. One day a hare darted out. ‘Don’t miss the chance!’ They cheered. The strong dog gave chase, but the hare flew like lightning; in a leap he vanished; the dog stood panting. The others said, ‘Well, sir, you wanted to enter the Olympics!’ He said, ‘Consider the difference: he ran for his life; I ran for breakfast. Not the same race! If I had caught him, fine; if not, no big matter. For him it was not so!’
Such was the man under Farid’s hand. For Farid there was no mortal issue; for the other it was life and death — attention gave him power.
Understand now the sutra —
Sarvatra anavadhānasya.
The person who has become free of all vasanas — where will his attention go now? There is nowhere for it to go. There is nothing to attain; where will attention flow? There is no more concentration, because all concentration is the shadow of vasana. Remember: even the desire for God is vasana, the desire for Moksha is vasana. As long as there is vasana, there is attention; when vasana is no more, what attention!
There are two English words: concentration and centering. Concentration is one-pointedness on something outside; all concentration is outgoing, worldly. Centering is to abide in one’s own center. When the mind no longer travels anywhere, when the outward movement ceases and one sits at the center — centering. Centering is the real thing. Concentration is not the real; centering is. Now the mind goes nowhere. Udaseen-ness is a limb of this. When the mind goes nowhere, there is outer indifference.
This is ‘anavadhānasya — sarvatra anavadhānasya na kiñcid vāsanā hṛdi’: when not the least vasana remains in the heart, all attention is gone — the eyes are not riveted anywhere.
‘muktātmanaḥ vistṛptasya tulanā kena jāyate’ — such a state is freedom. With whom can it be compared? How? It is incomparable.
‘We lived in our own house like tenants;
We spoke the heart’s pain only to the walls and doors.
Far and wide stretched a flood of sand —
Taking it for ocean, we flowed as a tiny stream toward it.’
What you call the world — this pursuit, that pursuit — does anyone get anything here? It is a mirage.
‘Far and wide stretched a flood of sand —
Taking it for ocean, we flowed as a tiny stream toward it.’
And in this sand-ocean you are flowing as a little rivulet of attention, hoping somewhere there will be a sea, fulfillment, union. You will be lost in this desert; there is not even an oasis here.
‘We lived in our own house like tenants;
We spoke the heart’s pain only to the walls and doors.’
And in your own house you live like tenants. You are the master — this is your temple — yet your attention does not go there; it wanders outside. The bird of attention goes everywhere, only not within. ‘Anavadhana’ means: now the bird of attention goes nowhere — it has come within. You have recognized that you are the master of this house, not a slave. The mind makes you wander, enslaves you; you are beyond mind. The moment you declare this, all your outer running will stop. Such a state is liberation.
‘Who, other than the one free of vasanas, knows while not knowing, sees while not seeing, speaks while not speaking!’
jānann api na jānāti paśyann api na paśyati.
brūvann api na ca brūte ko’nyo nirvāsanād ṛte।।
Such a person has nothing left to desire, has dropped the future — no future — who is fulfilled here and now. Who, other than the one free of vasanas, knows and yet does not know! He sees and yet does not see — because there is no desire to see; he hears and does not hear — no desire to hear; he touches and does not touch — no desire to touch. A beautiful woman passes before Buddha — it is not that he does not see her; he sees, and yet does not see.
Understand this.
Often you pretend not to see a beautiful woman; but even in your not-seeing, she is seen. You avert your eyes so that no one sees you looking; or you try to save yourself from trouble: ‘Better not look; don’t get into this.’ You cast your eyes hither and thither, but what difference does it make? You are still seeing.
If a woman passes before a Buddha, he looks — he does not hide his eyes. What is there to hide? What is there to steal? What comes before the eyes is seen; yet he does not see, for there is no desire to see. A Buddha does not look back; you look back again and again. Your eyes are eager. A Buddha’s eyes are empty, like a mirror: whoever comes, a picture forms; whoever goes, the picture dissolves — the mirror is vacant. There is no grasping.
‘Who, other than the one free of vasanas, knows while not knowing, sees while not seeing, speaks while not speaking!’
‘brūvann api na ca brūte.’
That is why I told you yesterday: Buddha spoke for forty years and yet did not speak.
Among the Digambara Jains there is a strange belief, though even they have not understood it. They say Mahavira did not speak at all — therefore the Digambaras have no scriptures. The Shvetambaras have scriptures, but the Digambaras place no trust in them: ‘Mahavira never spoke — these texts you have fabricated; Mahavira was silent.’ In a way it is profoundly true that Mahavira never spoke — and yet the Shvetambara texts are not false either.
The Digambaras speak truth — he did not speak — but they have clutched it in a dead way: ‘He never spoke.’ They have not understood Ashtavakra’s sutra: ‘brūvann api na ca brūte’ — ‘speaking, yet not speaking.’ Not speaking is true — but don’t clutch it as inertia: that he was silent always. Then you fall back into the old duality: speaking means speaking; not speaking means not speaking. In the supreme state, opposites meet — they cease to be opposites. Speaking, he does not speak; and sometimes, without speaking, he speaks. Sometimes through silence he speaks; sometimes using words he remains silent. In that ultimate freedom, all the dualities of the world become absorbed and still.
‘He whose notions of beautiful and unbeautiful have melted in all states, and who is desireless — he alone is radiant, whether beggar or king.’
bhikṣur vā bhūpatir vāpi yo niṣkāmaḥ sa śobhate.
bhāveṣu galitā yasya śobhanāśobhanā matiḥ।।
Now there is nothing beautiful and nothing unbeautiful; nothing refined, nothing coarse; nothing auspicious, nothing inauspicious; nothing to do, nothing not to do. Dualities have gone — good and bad have gone. Note: the one born of non-division alone is truly radiant. This is worth pondering. Ordinarily you call a person radiant who is opposite of the unbeautiful — ‘how fine his manners!’ But then to remain fine he must make effort — an effort means the opposite still exists within, suppressed. In front of women men behave beautifully; when the women are gone, the unbeautiful begins. The unbeautiful is inside; a father behaves beautifully before his son; with friends he does not. Friends — where friendship is measured by how freely one can swear! Mulla Nasruddin, walking on the road, thumped a man on the back: ‘Chandulal! How are you?’ The man fell flat. He stood up: ‘Sir, I am not Chandulal — and even if I were, is this how you thump?’ Nasruddin said, ‘Who are you to stop me? However hard I thump Chandulal — old friends! Who are you to interfere?’ He is not Chandulal; he got the thump; and yet Nasruddin is right — with old friends one can be rough. We call a person fine when he suppresses the coarse; but if the coarse is only suppressed — ready to erupt when the occasion comes — its shadow remains. That is not the state of supreme radiance. Supreme radiance is when one no longer remembers what is fine, what is coarse — a state of spontaneity, of nature, of uncontrived freedom.
Note: throughout the world — except India — life is arranged in dualities: heaven–hell. India brings a third word — Moksha. Pleasure–pain — India brings a third — Ananda. Wicked–virtuous — India brings a third — Jivanmukta. Saint–sinner — India adds ‘Sant’. Know the difference: a ‘sadhū’ is not a ‘sant’. ‘Sadhū’ means the opposite of ‘asadhū’; ‘sant’ means one beyond both saint and sinner. ‘Heaven’ is the opposite of hell and tied to it; one falls from heaven when merit is exhausted. Heaven and hell are not separate — they are opposites bound together. Moksha is where there is no falling, no loss of eminence; only there is true radiance. Where falling is possible, what is the meaning of reaching?
Therefore the religions of the world, except India’s inner current, have not gone beyond duality. Christianity, Islam, Judaism speak of heaven and hell, but not of Moksha. They speak of matter and God, not of Brahman. India’s discovery is unique: wherever there is duality, there is a third state beyond.
‘For the guileless, simple and fulfilled yogi, where is license, where is inhibition, where is ascertainment of the Truth?’
kva svācchandya kva saṅkochaḥ kva vā tattvaviniścayaḥ.
nirvyājārjavabhūtasya caritārthasya yoginaḥ।।
This is the final state of the yogi — so guileless that even good and bad are not distinct; auspicious and inauspicious do not seem different; the eyes are so clear that not even white clouds arise, let alone black clouds; not iron chains remain in the hand, not even golden chains. Freedom is absolute.
‘For the guileless, simple and fulfilled yogi, where is license!’
Now, a strange thing Ashtavakra says at the end. Till now he has sung the song of freedom — now he says: where is even freedom! Freedom exists only as long as there is the distance between ‘I’ and ‘you’; as long as the other and the self are distinct: dependence and independence; another’s will — dependence; one’s own will — independence. Another’s chhand and one’s own swachhand. But now where is ‘mine and thine’!
‘For the guileless, simple and fulfilled yogi, where is license!’
He even breaks the notion of freedom. This is India’s unique discovery — neti, neti: not this, not this. In the end, negate all so that only that remains which cannot be negated — that alone is the ultimate, the Truth.
‘Where is license, where inhibition, and where the ascertainment of the principle?’
So far he sang much of ‘tattva-nischaya’ — certainty of the principle. Now he says: ‘kva vā tattva-niścayaḥ’ — where is even that! When uncertainty goes, certainty goes. To say ‘certain’ still smells of doubt. When one says, ‘I am absolutely certain,’ know that some uncertainty is there; otherwise why insist? When someone says, ‘I love you very, very much,’ know it is a little less — otherwise why the ‘very, very’? If someone keeps saying, ‘I certainly love you,’ suspicion naturally arises. Truth is lived, not said — its fragrance rises from the whole life.
Now even ‘certainty of truth’ goes. Everything is to be dropped — like a climber to Everest who must lessen his load. He started with much — transistor, portable television, thermos, food, camera — as the height rises he must drop things: ‘Leave the television; leave the transistor; leave the camera; perhaps keep the thermos till the end.’ But at the last, even the thermos must be left — ‘What need now? Home is reached!’ When you remain utterly simple, alone, naked, empty — there is the meeting.
‘nirvyājārjavabhūtasya’ — in whose mind there is no guile, no duality, no trick, no calculation — guileless; ‘ārjava’ — straight as a line; no crookedness.
‘caritārthasya yoginaḥ’ — and in whose life the inner has become conduct; as within, so without; as without, so within; and even the talk of ‘within–without’ is gone — only One remains.
I have heard: a Jain monk saw a dream — he was trying to climb to the upper story of the Mansion of Liberation with two long poles in his hands. He kept slipping back; he looked to a nearby elder who was laughing. The elder said, ‘What are you doing?’ The monk said, ‘In my hands are the two poles of samyak-jnana and samyak-darshana — with their support I want to reach the upper story, but I keep slipping. You laugh — guide me!’ The elder said, ‘With samyak-jnana and samyak-darshana alone you will not reach; does anyone climb so high on poles? They can give the illusion of climbing, but the goal is beyond their power. Your effort is not wasted — but between these two upright poles, if you could set the cross-steps of samyak-charitra, a ladder would be made. You have known, heard, understood — but not lived. Without living, no ladder is formed. Thought alone cannot travel — existence must be. If only you set the crossbars of right conduct between right knowledge and right vision, the ladder will be ready — and then step by step you may reach the supreme.’
‘caritārthasya yoginaḥ’ — in whose existence simplicity has been embodied. Understand the difference: you can impose goodness from above — such are your ‘good people’. In their existence there is no simplicity — there is much complexity, much calculation. Their existence is not guileless, not straight.
I was on a journey. At a big station a monk was being seen off. He wore only a jute wrap — and a basket with fruits gifted by people. They seated him in the same compartment where I was — only the two of us. When the train moved and I lay with eyes closed, the monk quickly checked his basket, counted the fruits; beneath them were notes — he counted them too. I opened my eyes a little and watched. When he saw me sit up as he counted the notes, he hurriedly hid them. I lay down again; thinking I slept, he counted again. I sat up: ‘Count them without worry — there is no sin in counting notes. They are your notes, not mine. Why such restlessness? Why hide?’ He became nervous, perspiring — wrapped in jute! Later he asked when the train would reach Bhopal. I said, ‘At six. Sleep without worry — the carriage will be detached there; I too go to Bhopal. Do not fret.’ At midnight I saw him open the window and ask at some station, ‘How far to Bhopal?’ He did not trust me: ‘This man is odd — when I count, he sits up! He won’t let me count! Perhaps he jokes; perhaps he lies; will this carriage be detached?’ At three o’clock he asked again. I said, ‘Neither you sleep, nor let me. You a monk — and you cannot trust this small thing! Many have told you: six o’clock. It is written on the carriage: it will be detached at Bhopal. Still you cannot trust! And if, being a monk, you go here or there, what does it matter? What have you to lose? Why such panic!’ But there was calculation. Even the simplicity — the jute wrap — was arranged. At five he began to dress — before the mirror arranging the jute again and again. What difference is there between a woman fixing her make-up and this man fixing his jute? The difference looks big on the surface. If you have nothing finer than jute, even jute can be adorned; behind jute too the desire to be special can hide. All becomes futile.
‘For the guileless, simple and fulfilled yogi…’ Simplicity cannot be cultivated. Simplicity comes through understanding — through awareness. Hence Ashtavakra’s insistence is on bodh, on wakefulness. Understand — look at life with awareness — and simplicity arrives of itself. Do not organize it; organized simplicity ceases to be simplicity.
‘Having rested in the Self, fulfilled, desireless and free of sorrow — what happens within such a one, to whom and how can it be told!’
A wondrous utterance.
ātmaviśrāntitṛptena nirāśena gatārtinā.
antar yad anubhūyeta tat kathaṁ kasya kathyate।।
One who has come to rest in the Self — who has reached within; who lies like Vishnu upon the inner ocean of milk; who has attained repose —
‘ātmaviśrāntitṛptena’ — and there is fulfillment in that repose;
‘nirāśena gatārtinā’ — who is free of all outer hopes and longings; ‘antar yad anubhūyeta’ — now within such a one doors of experiences open, such a song resounds, such a sound arises —
‘tat kathaṁ kasya kathyate’ — to whom and how can it be told! Whom to tell — and how? Whoever is a fit vessel will not need it said — he will already have heard that sound; and whoever has not heard is unfit — what to say, he will not understand. To whom and how!
Two awakened ones meet — there is nothing to say, because their experience is one. It is like two pure mirrors facing each other — no reflection is made; mirror glimmers in mirror; no image arises. Two awakened ones may speak, but speaking has no substance. If an awakened one meets an ignorant, there is substance in speaking — the ignorant does not yet know; if he could be made to know, a sprout may happen — but how to make him know? What has been known is beyond word; what has been known deep within has no way to be expressed — it is unsayable.
‘antar yad anubhūyeta’ — what is known within cannot be brought out. Try bringing the peace of the ocean-depth to the surface — it becomes waves. That depth cannot be brought to the surface — one must dive into it. How to bring the depth of the sea into the world of waves? It too will become a wave and break. How to bring into words what has been known in emptiness, by dissolving, by being not? Where all through neti-neti awareness arose — how to express it again in the world of language and duality!
So Ashtavakra says: ‘ātmaviśrāntitṛptena’ — he becomes fulfilled by resting in the Self. ‘nirāśena gatārtinā’ — free of all the world’s hopes, free of longing, free of sorrow. Yet one difficulty remains — even for the knower there is one difficulty: how to share what has been found? How to spread it? How to convey to those groping in darkness the news of light?
‘antar yad anubhūyeta’ — what is known so deep within — how to bring it out?
‘tat kathaṁ kasya kathyate’ — to whom to say? Where are the ears that will hear, the eyes that will see, the hearts that will understand? And if a worthy one is found, there is no point in saying — for it would be repetition.
Such is the only dilemma that remains in Buddhahood — and that too is the dilemma of compassion.
Enough for today.