Maha Geeta #85

The final phase of this unparalleled dialogue is drawing near. Today’s sutras of Ashtavakra will be the last. Afterwards there are a few more, but they are King Janaka’s. The Master has said all that can be said—and also what cannot be said. He has pointed toward that which can be indicated, and he has also indicated toward that where no indication has ever been, nor can ever be, made.

Today is the summit of Ashtavakra’s utterances—the ultimate word. And this is not only Ashtavakra’s last word; it is the last word of all the knowers. Beyond this, words do not go. Beyond this, words cannot fly. Here their limit is reached. Beyond this too is sky, beyond this too is the Infinite—in truth, only after this does the real begin—but up to here words can bring you. Up to here you can ride on the chariot of words.

Listen to these sutras very attentively, for never have higher sutras been spoken. The few sutras that follow later are from Janaka. The Master gave so much—so much—that they are Janaka’s thanksgiving. They are his gratitude. And they are also there so that Janaka could say whether he understood or not. So what Ashtavakra said, Janaka has repeated in brief, in sutra form. By that repetition he merely declares: what you showed has been seen; your labor was not in vain; the seeds you sowed have sprouted; the flowers have blossomed. The sutras that come after today are the conclusions, the distilled essence of all Ashtavakra’s words. But today’s sutras are the peaks—these are the Gaurishankar.

The first sutra—
सुप्तोऽपि न सुषुप्तौ च स्वप्नेऽपि शयितो न च।
जागरेऽपि न जागर्ति धीरस्तृप्तः पदे पदे।।

‘He who is not asleep even in deep sleep, and who does not dream even in dream; and who is not awake even in the waking—such a man of insight is fulfilled at every step.’

Before understanding this, you must understand the four divisions of the psychology of the Buddhas.

In the West, until merely two hundred years ago, psychology’s horizon was only the waking state. What happens between the morning when your eyes open and the night when you go to sleep—psychology studied only that. No one even thought that at night too, in sleep, the mind is functioning—that that too is psychology. When a man looks with open eyes, that is the mind’s play; and when with closed eyes he sees a dream, that too is the mind’s play.

Sigmund Freud brought a revolution to the West. It appeared revolutionary there because the West was unfamiliar with the wisdom of the East; otherwise what Freud said has no great novelty for the East. The East has always said this. Freud created an upheaval when he said: the real exploration of the human mind will be in dream, in sleep. Because waking is a great deception. In waking what you display has little chance of being true. The faces you put on are often false. So the waking won’t reveal your mind accurately; waking creates a mirage. From it we learn only this much—that you are not as you appear. A man smiles and shows friendliness—and within he may well be sharpening his knife for you. The more keen the edge he is putting on the blade, the broader his smile—lest you catch a glint of steel. The smile is a cover. He displays friendship because he must cut your throat. The more he has to cut, the more he shows camaraderie. Faces are great deceivers!

When Freud said: if a man’s reality is to be known one must peep into his dreams—for there the mind is undiluted, there is no trickery—this was new. Very few are so skilled that they can deceive even in dreams. Some are. And sometimes you too become so expert at deception that you can cheat even in a dream—but very few. To cheat in dreams becomes difficult.

Freud opened a new chapter: the analysis of the human mind will be through the analysis of dreams. When he said this for the first time, people did not believe him. They said: if you want to know us, ask us—what is there to see in dreams? What value can a dream have? You yourself don’t grant dreams much worth. If at night you murdered someone in a dream, in the morning you are not troubled that you have committed murder. But you did murder—night or day, what is the difference? That you are filled with the urge to kill is proven. Today it happened in the night; tomorrow it can happen in the day. The thought is present—the seed is present. If the seed is present it can become a tree anytime. Thought can become act, because acts are nothing but thoughts that have ripened. What is act today was thought yesterday. What is thought today can be act tomorrow.

Therefore, before you change the pattern of your life, the patterns of your dreams must also change. Because dreams are constructing your life. In dreams are the blueprints of your life. There are news bulletins of what you are to become. In the night you ran off with someone’s wife in your dream—on waking you are not disturbed. You say, it was a dream. But you ran—you want to run. You have interest in another’s wife; there is savor there for you. Perhaps in the day you don’t notice. In the day you chant ‘Ram Ram’, you turn your rosary. If such a thought arises by day, you will laugh, saying “what a wrong thought.” In the day you show to others—and to yourself—that such a thought is wrong. But it is yours. At night, when it arises in dream, you will go through with it. What you have done in dream today will grow stronger; a groove will form.

There is only one small tribal people in the Philippines who give great value to dreams. The first thing that happens there each morning is the discussion of dreams. When this tribe was studied, people were amazed—they are unique. A small, primitive, jungle tribe. Yet nowhere have such civilized people been found. And the whole secret of their civility is this: they have gained great sensitivity toward dreams. From childhood—when a child is born, and as soon as he begins to speak—the first thing he is asked is: what did you dream last night? The elders of the house analyze it—what does the dream mean? Gradually, through the dream, they begin to guide him: this is what you should do; your dream is saying so.

A small child dreamt that he slapped the neighbor’s boy. You would give this no value at all—you don’t value even murder in dream. But the people of this tribe will tell the child: go and ask the boy for forgiveness—you made a mistake. A slap in dream! Then it means you want to slap him—that much is proven. Go ask pardon. Asking pardon alone won’t do, because the slap has landed; there is a hurt; take a small gift too—some toy, some sweets—give it to him and ask forgiveness, saying: great mistake, I slapped you in a dream. Small children! For little ones there is hardly any difference between dream and waking. In a dream if a child loses his toy at night, he weeps in the morning and asks: where is my toy? You explain: it was a dream, silly! For the child the gap between dream and reality is still very small.

Remember this: for a child the difference between dream and truth is slight. For a saint too, the difference between dream and truth becomes very slight. That is why saints call the world ‘Maya’. They call it a dream. What you call ‘reality,’ the saint calls a dream. There is a little difference between a child and a saint. A child takes the dream as true; the saint not only knows the dream is a dream—he also sees the so-called truth as dream. Yet there is a harmony between them. Hence Jesus says rightly: only those who are as simple as little children will enter my Father’s kingdom. Hence Ashtavakra repeats again and again: he who becomes childlike is the supreme knower. This is becoming childlike from the other shore. The dream remains dream—and what you call waking reality, the objective world—this too becomes dreamlike.

In that little tribe children are taught from the start: if a mistake happens in a dream, it is still a mistake. Now think—those who slowly awake even to mistakes in dream, how will they err in waking? That is why this tribe is the most civilized on this earth. In this tribe there has never been a murder, nor a theft, nor a suicide. In the tribe’s history no one has ever gone mad. And the tribe has never gone to war. An extraordinary fact! Man without war! Man without theft! Man without murder! Man without madness! Then what will man do? For these are the chief occupations. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of our activities are these. With a little something left over, we live in other ways; otherwise our lives are fight and kill.

Their civility is wondrous. And no one taught them nonviolence—no Buddha, no Mahavira—no one taught truth, no one taught religion. The tribe is not ‘very religious’ in the usual sense—no pundits, no priests, no temples—that concerns them little. But they have caught a great alchemy, found the key: transformation in dreams. When dreams change—when thoughts change—acts change. They have grasped the fundamental.

This is what Freud gave to this century in the West. When Freud gave it, people were astonished. Psychology and psychoanalysis now search in the dreams of madmen—and through the exploration of dreams bring the madman to a vision of truth. As the madman’s awareness of his dream becomes clear, his behavior changes. Revolutionary in the West—but not in the East. The East has said this for centuries.

This sutra of Ashtavakra is unique. Ashtavakra is saying: there is a depth of understanding where not only dreams are understood—but Sushupti, deep dreamless sleep, is understood as well.

Sushupti is still deeper. First is waking—day’s business, conduct, behavior; then the business, conduct, behavior of dream; beneath this, Sushupti—where dream is no more, neither the outer world nor the inner—everything shut, you become like a seed. No sprouting yet—no thought, no ripple. That is Sushupti. And even deeper than this is a state called Turiya—the Fourth—where in that inner, extraordinary, silent, solitary state you are awake. Awake while asleep; awake within sleep. The body slept, the mind slept—and consciousness awoke. This is the Fourth.

Western psychology is still tangled in two—first only in one, waking. With Freud’s contribution it entered dream. Just in the last ten years research has begun even into Sushupti. In America ten laboratories are working to study human sleep—what happens in sleep. But of the Fourth there is yet no news. And the entire psychology of the East stands upon that Fourth. The West too will have to come to the Fourth. Earlier it did not accept dreams—what is there in a dream?—then dreams gained value. Then Sushupti was ignored—Freud made no inquiry into sleep, he stopped at dream—but now psychologists are entering sleep. And then the Fourth—Turiya—Turiya means the Fourth. It was not given a name, for it is the last—why name it? It is beyond names. That which is beyond the three—that is the Fourth. Understand the Fourth—then this sutra will be clear.

Turiya means: as silent as in deep sleep, and as awake as in full waking. The union of opposites. As awake as in full waking—it happens sometimes. A man suddenly appears with a dagger upon your chest—at that instant, for a fraction of a moment, you awaken completely. A fierce awakening. For a moment all stupor breaks. You were walking lost in your thoughts—this business, that business, so much profit, such a house, marry that girl—lost in your arithmetic, a Sheikh Chilli fantasy—and a man suddenly appears with a naked knife. A knife is such a thing that it pierces the web of dreams like an arrow. Death stands before you—now where is time to think of which girl to marry, which shop to open, what business, how to make money? Death has come—these things become meaningless. The dagger stands so palpably before you that for a moment you will be utterly aware. Hence sometimes awareness arises in danger—and hence the strange savor in danger.

Do you know what the lure is for those who climb the Himalayas? The lure is precisely this: at times, swinging on a rope over an abyss, life is in peril. A slight slip—and gone. A tiny misstep—and lost forever. Each breath seems the last. In that very reason a great awakening arises. A taste. The taste of Samadhi, of Turiya. Just a little—a mere glimpse. That is why on the battlefield people feel fresh—where death is raining on all sides. That is why people drive very fast—there comes a point: a hundred miles per hour, one-ten, one-twenty—now each moment is dangerous, a slight mistake and gone. At that time a thrill fills the life, thoughts stop—who has leisure to think amidst such risk? That is why people play dangerous games. That is why people stake everything at gambling.

A Japanese actor earned millions of dollars, and at the end of his life he took all his money and in France staked it in one throw at roulette. Imagine his state—everything together. Either this shore or that. Next day the papers carried the news—because he lost—that he had committed suicide. Some other Japanese had jumped from a hotel roof. The papers assumed it must be him—who else would jump? A lifetime’s wealth gone in one bet. But the man was sleeping peacefully. When the hotel manager woke him and said: are you still alive? The newspapers say you are dead!—he said: why should I die? The truth is, in staking everything I tasted the juice of life for the first time. Never had I been so intensely conscious. When I put all at stake—all of life—the chance to think vanished. Each moment slid by in a way it had never slid before. I could hear the heartbeat of my own breath. This way or that! Either all lost, or all doubled. No room for thinking—I stood transfixed. And then I lost. Now that all is lost, what now? So I slept peacefully—nothing remains—let morning come, what will be will be.

Worry exists only when there is something. In two states worry disappears—either you have everything, or you have nothing. Everything belongs only to Paramatma; and nothing belongs to the sannyasin. Only in these two is worry absent—for in both there is completeness. If all is, what worry? Hence God is carefree. If nothing is, what worry? Worry needs something to cling to. If there is nothing, what worry? Hence the sannyasin is carefree. And at some deep inner door the sannyasin and Paramatma meet—for the Full and the Void meet.

This is why danger has such attraction—because in danger there is a taste of awakening.

These are the three states. What you call waking, the knower does not call waking—what kind of waking is this! You are walking asleep. You have become skilled at functioning in sleep. Your eyes are open but you are not awake—because though your eyes are open, inside a thousand dreams are running. And those dreams are not yours. You are not of the dreams—the dreams are all borrowed. Everyone has given you dreams—you catch them from around you. You do not know the truth that the thoughts moving inside you are not yours. You are thoughtless—thoughts you pick up from here and there. It is not only when someone speaks that you catch them—let a man just sit near you and his waves of thought begin entering your skull.

Sometimes, sitting near someone, very bad thoughts arise. Near someone else, very good thoughts arise. That is why people began to go to Satsang. Long ago it was understood: by sitting near some, auspicious thoughts arise; near others, inauspicious thoughts. And near yet another, a strange event happens—no thought arises. Near whom bad thoughts arise—he is an asadhu. Near whom good thoughts arise—he is a sadhu. Near whom a glimpse of thoughtlessness begins—that one is a saint, a Paramhansa, a Buddha, a Jina. How do we recognize?

People ask: how do we know someone has attained Buddhahood, Jinahood? Only one way—live near him, dwell by him, linger around him. If some day floating clouds of peace enter you, and suddenly you find all thoughts gone—those who were ceaseless, day and night—the inner clamor forever rising—suddenly as if someone has lifted it away; a cloud came and rained and you were cool; a gust of wind came and the dust was gone—you were fresh and new; something uncanny happened and you were stunned—no thought remained—you became thoughtless. Near whom thoughtlessness happens—know that Buddhahood has happened there. There is no other way. Know that Jinahood has happened there.

At every moment we are influenced by others’ thoughts. Understand it like this: the breath I have just taken is now within me; after a little while it will be your breath. The breath now in you—after a little while it will be mine. We are inhaling and exhaling each other’s breath! Exactly so, we are drinking each other’s thoughts. You do not see that another’s breath entered yours—you may never have thought of it, otherwise you would be frightened: ah, this wicked fellow sits here—his breath is entering me—let’s run from here! Where is that unbathed, dirty man’s breath going—into me! I a Brahmin, he a Shudra; I bathed and pure, I virtuous, he a sinner! Yet breath goes in and out. As breath, invisible, goes in and out—more invisible still are thoughts going in and out.

Each person is a broadcasting station. All the time he is throwing around him subtle waves—and all near him are receiving them. You stop receiving waves only when you attain Samadhi. Then sit by anyone—you are safe. Nothing enters through your pores. And the day you become such that no other’s waves can enter, your Shunya begins to flow into others.

This is the meaning of disciple and Master. From whom Shunya begins to flow—that one is the Master. And the one who is ready to receive that Shunya, with cupped hands and an open bowl—that one is the disciple. Between whom Shunya is exchanged—those two are disciple and Master.

These dreams running within you—do not take them as yours.

And in sleep
of infinite, unmanifest feelings
thousands of dreams run.

These thousands of dreams, which are not yours, are all borrowed. Look at your poverty—your dreams are not even your own! Look at the beggary! Wealth is not yours, status is not yours—why, even your dreams are not yours—others produce them.

You can try small experiments. Your wife is asleep—go near her and slowly brush an ice cube on her feet; later when she wakes, ask what she dreamt. She will dream that she went to the mountains and walked on snow. Such a dream will arise. Or give a little warmth to her feet—she will dream she is in a desert, in the Sahara, that the sun is blazing, her feet are burning. This is a gross experiment. Or place a pillow on her chest—she will feel a demon sitting on her chest and will panic. Not even a pillow—only lay both her hands upon her chest—she will dream of suffocation. This is crude. Subtle experiments can also be done.

Someone is asleep—sit near and, with great intensity, think one thought. If the sleeper is related to you—therefore I said wife, or husband, or son—those who have a deep bond with you—they receive more quickly. Through love, all kinds of illnesses and influences pass between one another—the doors remain open. Sit by your wife with closed eyes and think only one thought—with such intensity that the thought becomes crystal clear, like a naked sword hanging. And think: this naked sword is being seen by my wife—she is seeing it, seeing it. Keep thinking, circling back again and again—think only this. You will be amazed—after two or four attempts you will succeed. On waking she will say: today I had a strange dream—a naked sword was hanging.

Many experiments have been done. And now this can be said on a scientific basis: dreams enter into each other, thoughts enter each other. One small experiment you can do: you walk behind someone on the street—fix your gaze upon the nape of his neck and inside call strongly: turn—turn and look. In two or three minutes he will suddenly turn, alarmed: what is the matter! You will see his face disturbed. Because right at the nape is the center where thoughts are most readily received—the port of entry into the brain. The dreams are not yours. And your life is nothing but dreams. And the dreams are not yours.

Baché hain khandhar ab to mahaz do-char sapnon ke—
na socha is tarah humko karega bedakhal koi.

Only a few ruins remain now—ruins of two or four dreams;
I never thought that in this way I would be evicted from myself.

But no one evicts you—you yourself, entangled in dreams, evict yourself with your own hands. All your life, whatever you desire and do is a web of dreams. To be like this, to become like that, to attain this, for people to know us as such—lost in these, one day you are lost. Swaying, wobbling, drowned in these waves, pushed and jostled, you fall into the grave.

Shyamal Yamuna se keshon mein Ganga karti vaas hai—
bhogi anchal ki chhaya mein sisak raha sannyas hai.
Menhavar-mehndi, kajal-kanghi—garv tujhe jin par bada—
mutthi bhar mitti hi keval in sabka itihas hai.
Natkhat latka naag jise tum bhaal bithaye ghoomti—
ari, ek din tujhko hi das lega bhare bazar mein—
koi moti goonth suhagin tu apne galhar mein—
magar videshi roop na bandhne wala hai shringar mein.

In your hair dark as the Yamuna, the Ganga makes her dwelling;
under the shadow of the sensuous sari, sannyas sobs.
The henna and vermilion, kohl and comb—those on whom you pride yourself—
are but a handful of dust in the end; this is their only history.
The naughty serpent you wear like a pendant upon your brow—
one day it will bite you, in the full marketplace.
String pearls if you wish, O bride, in your necklace—
but this foreign beauty will never truly bind in ornament.

Dream as much as you like, make as many plans and fantasies as you can, labor as you may—in dreams no one becomes beautiful, and in dreams no one attains the truth.

One is your waking—filled with dreams. Dreams are filled with dreams. And then there is a state you know a little—Sushupti—where you are utterly lost. Between these three a man wanders. The Fourth is man’s reality. But man keeps roaming only within the three, being pushed from here to there: awake, then asleep, then dreaming; awake again, asleep again, dreaming again—turning in this triangle. Man is the Fourth—Turiya—the Fourth.

The Fourth means the Witness. The Fourth is that which sees the dreams—and is not a dream. In the morning you say, I saw a dream last night. Then certainly the seer remained separate—otherwise who saw? Who says in the morning that a dream was seen? And some morning you say, I slept a very deep sleep—never had such nectarine sleep. All is fresh, cleansed; I am new. Then certainly, even in deep sleep, someone knew: there was great sleep. Who had this experience? That one who has all these experiences—that one is you. You are the Drashta, the Witness. When you become the enjoyer, the doer—you are lost in dreams. Then call it waking—an open-eyed dream—or call it a closed-eyed dream—but wherever you become enjoyer or doer, there you fall from the center, there you become unhealthy. There you are not at your own core.

Now understand this sutra—
‘He who is not asleep even in deep sleep.’
One who has attained Turiya—the Fourth—one who has found his true state—his swabhava—such a person is not asleep even in Sushupti. He sleeps, and yet he is awake. From outside you will see him sleeping; from within you will find him awake. Hence Krishna says: ‘ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyam jagarti samyami’—where all beings are in night, in darkness, even there the self-restrained one is awake. He is awake there too. His awakening is unbroken, unfragmented. The sage never sleeps. Within him a lamp burns always—even on the darkest new moon night the lamp burns. His house is never without light.

This is your condition as well. Your lamp too is lit—but you do not remember. You too are a lamp—just like Krishna, like Buddha, like Ashtavakra—not a grain less; none was a grain more than you. But you never turn back to look. You are entangled outside.

Imagine someone standing at a window, so lost in the scenes outside—the traffic, the passersby—that he forgets the one who is standing at the window looking. He remembers all—but forgets himself.

Waking means attention on the object-world: these trees, these mountains, the moon and sun, these people—attention on them. Waking—no attention on oneself, attention on objects. Dream—attention on words, on thoughts, symbols, images, imaginations—not on oneself. Sushupti—now there are neither objects nor thoughts—but there is still no attention on oneself. Turiya—attention on oneself.

In waking, dream, and deep sleep, one thing is common—there is no attention on oneself. In waking on objects; in dream on images; in Sushupti on nothing—not even on oneself; a state of non-attention. In Turiya—attention turns upon oneself. And as soon as attention turns upon oneself, then in all actions you are not the doer. Then seeing all scenes you remain the seer. Not for a moment does self-forgetfulness arise.

‘He who is not asleep even in Sushupti; who does not dream even in dream; who is not awake even in waking—that man of insight is fulfilled at every step.’

Now there is neither sleeping in sleep, nor dreaming in dream, nor waking in waking—because within him a new note has arisen—the note of Turiya, the Fourth. Whatever happens outwardly, inwardly he is the Fourth.

Such happened. There is a unique incident in Kabir’s life. Kabir’s fame began to spread—it had to. Such lotuses bloom seldom. A wondrous lotus had blossomed; the fragrance began to reach people. But there was a hitch: Kabir’s existence was not traditional—no knower’s ever is. Tradition belongs to the dead, not to the living. It wasn’t settled whether Kabir was Hindu or Muslim. Is it settled about me—whether I am Hindu or Muslim? It cannot be settled.

In truth, such a person is neither Hindu nor Muslim. He wove cloth for a living. The Brahmins of Kashi were uneasy—people began going to this weaver; their courts emptied, people flocked to the weaver. That was troubling—traditional trade, prestige, vested interest. The Brahmins plotted—they must do something. And when Brahmins plot, it can be only in two ways—because tradition binds them in two ways: either smear his conduct with a stain, or entangle him in money. Two things—women or wealth—if either happens, the work is done.

But wealth does not create as much difficulty in this country as woman can—because the whole mind here is filled with repression of sex—the mind is unhealthy regarding woman—extremely ill, diseased. So they bribed a prostitute to, when Kabir came to the market in the evening to sell his cloth, grab his hand.

The prostitute had taken money—it was no problem; she only cared for the money. When Kabir finished his selling and was returning, she caught his hand in the marketplace of Kashi, embraced him, and began to weep: why, false swan, why have you left me alone? I have neither grain to eat nor cloth to wear—and a hypocrite like you is worshipped everywhere! She wept loudly. A crowd gathered—ready-made—and the Brahmins were ready too. They began pelting stones, insulting Kabir.

But both the courtesan and the Brahmins were startled. Kabir said: you did well to come—why did you make me wait so long? O silly one, am I alive! The courtesan was confused—what is this man saying? It was all pre-arranged—these were words to be spoken. But Kabir held her hand: now that you have come, we will live together. She began to fear this old man—what trouble now! She looked here and there.

The Brahmins who had set her up blended into the crowd—no one had thought of this possibility! Kabir said: now that you have come, come home! To hell with fame and honor—what lies there without you! Where were you so long? The woman wondered what to do—how to escape? He held her hand and led her away. She could not even refuse.

He took her to his hut, began to press her feet. She said: sir, what are you doing—do not embarrass me further—forgive me, let me go—what have I gotten into! He said: for whatever reason you came into trouble, you must have been in trouble indeed—otherwise who gets into such a mess for a few coins? Now leave your worry. He cooked and fed her. She ate and wept. She fell at his feet: forgive me—I have erred so greatly that even if I commit suicide it won’t be washed away. This thorn will remain in my heart all my life. For a few coins I did what I did.

But the Brahmins did not rest. Seeing he had taken her home, they ran to the king of Kashi: this hypocrite, to whom you too go, has taken a prostitute home! A summons came. Kabir did not come alone—he brought her along. She begged: let me go—I do not want to go anywhere—she feared that he would take her before the emperor. Kabir said: why worry? The long-separated are reunited. He kept speaking his own tune.

In the court, he took her inside. The woman trembled. The king, seeing him holding the prostitute’s hand, also felt uneasy. He said: what are you doing, destroying your honor and fame? Kabir said: to hell with honor and fame! Before he could say more, the woman cried: forgive me—let me speak first. I do not understand what is happening. I did this mischief for money—and she fell at Kabir’s feet and said to the emperor: give me some escape—the Brahmins trapped me.

The king asked Kabir: are you mad? Kabir said: what else should I have done—and it makes no difference to me—I am not a doer. This too is a seeing. The seer remains the seer; there is no way to become an enjoyer. This was an opportunity to test whether I could remain in the Fourth. And I remained in the Fourth—not a grain did I move. This is a dream—on that level I am not. For this Fourth level Ashtavakra says—

सुप्तोऽपि न सुषुप्तौ।
Even asleep, the knower is not asleep. A lamp burns—day and night it burns—unceasing.

स्वप्नेऽपि शयितो न च।
Even if a dream appears, he knows: I am the one who sees, not the seen.

जागरेऽपि न जागर्ति।
Even in waking he is not ‘awake’—for he is awake in the great sense; he has attained Mahajagruti. He has nothing to do with this petty waking—it is a deception for the blind. For those who are not awake, this seems waking. Those who awaken, find a word for it so great that this ‘waking’ looks like sleep.

धीरस्तृप्तः पदे पदे।
Such a state of consciousness—filled at every step with supreme contentment. Moment to moment.

Understand it: such a man of insight is contented moment to moment. Why? Because there is no way for discontent to arise. Discontent comes from identification. Bind yourself to waking, or to dream, or to deep sleep—wherever you bind, there is danger; there a knot forms; where a knot forms there is pain; where pain, there anxiety, worry, and the whole hell follows. Such a one does not form knots—he passes untouched through all.

Therefore Kabir has said: ‘As it was given, so I returned the cloth.’ With great care I wore the cloth—and as it was, so I returned it. ‘With great care’—the word ‘jatan’ is important—it means awareness, wakefulness, alertness. With great care—no mistake, no drowsing, no nap—awake, fully awake. With great care I wore the sheet of life. And I wore it with such alertness that not a stain touched it. As it was at birth—clean, unsullied, virgin—so I returned it at death—unsullied, virgin, clean. As if it had not been used at all. When you do not become the enjoyer or the doer, no stains fall on life’s cloth. One care alone is needed—remain the Witness.

Tum mand chalo!
Dhvani ke khatron bikahre mag mein
Tum mand chalo!

Walk slowly!
In the pathway strewn with the perils of noise—
walk slowly!

Soojon ka pahan kalevar-sa—
Biklaai ka kal jewar-sa—
Ghul-ghul ankhon ke pani mein—
Phir chhalak-chhalak ban chhand chalo—
Par mand chalo!

Wear the garment of insight,
wear yesterday’s tremblings like a jewel—
let them dissolve into the water of your eyes—
then let them overflow in rhythms—
but walk slowly!

The knower moves slowly—because he moves with awareness. He does not rush. There is no haste in his life—nowhere to reach by running. He already is where there is to reach. He is where one must arrive. Hence he walks gently—this is why he is called ‘dhira’, the one of supreme patience.

Tum mand chalo!
Dhvani ke khatron bikahre mag mein
Tum mand chalo!

Do not get entangled in the scramble, the hustle and bustle. Do not become a doer. There are great dangers here—two dangers only: becoming the doer, and becoming the enjoyer. There is one security only—Witnessing.

Tum mand chalo!
Soojon ka pahan kalevar-sa
Insight, awareness, understanding.

Soojon ka pahan kalevar-sa—
Wrap yourself in a cloak of wakefulness. Light the lamp. Gather discrimination, awareness, consciousness around you.

Soojon ka pahan kalevar-sa—
Biklaai ka kal jewar-sa—
Ghul-ghul ankhon ke pani mein—
Phir chhalak-chhalak ban chhand chalo—
Par mand chalo!

Then a rhythm will overflow from your life—when you walk slowly.
When you live with care, with awareness, as the Witness, in Turiya—then a rhythm descends into your life. That rhythm is what Ashtavakra has called spontaneity. A song will surge in your life. Some vina will begin to play of its own. Unplayed—it plays. That is why it is called anahata nada—sound unstruck—because it plays without being played. It plays on its own. But you are entangled in outer noises, hence the inner sound is not heard.

‘The knower, though with thoughts, is without worry; though with senses, is without senses; though with intelligence, is without intelligence; though with ego, is without ego.’

ज्ञः सचिंतोऽपि निश्चिंतः सेन्द्रियोऽपि निरिन्द्रियः।
सुबुद्धिरपि निर्बुद्धिः साहंकारोऽनहंकृतिः।।

Someone asked Nepal’s rare saint, Shivapuri Baba: do you ever become unhappy? He said: sorrow happens. The man said: I am not asking whether sorrow happens—I ask, do you ever become unhappy? He said: sorrow happens—I do not become unhappy.

Understand the difference: sorrow happens—I do not become sorrowful. For sorrow to happen is one thing. A thorn will prick the foot—whether Buddha’s or a fool’s—what difference? The thorn pricks and there is pain. But the fool is lost in the pain—he becomes pain—he identifies with it—he screams. Buddha too will feel the pain—but he will remain outside it. He will remain a witness to the pain. Buddha too will remove the thorn—but from the outside.

When your house catches fire you feel as if you are burning—because you have bound a great attachment to the house. If a knower’s house burns—then the house burns. When you die, you feel ‘I am dying’. The knower also dies—death comes to him too—but even in the moment of death he knows: the body is going—and I was never the body. There is such a distance. Such an inner difference.

‘The knower, though with thoughts, is without worry.’
If a reason for worry arises, he worries—but deep within he remains beyond worry. If you give him a problem, he will try to solve it—but he does not drown in the effort, does not forget himself, does not lose remembrance. If a knower loses his way in a forest—he will look for the path, will ponder: shall I go left or right? Which way will take me out? He will ‘worry’, yet he remains unworried within. Worry moves on the surface; within there is no wobble—akampa—unshaken.

‘Though with senses, he is without senses.’
After all, the knower has senses. Eyes are there. But he knows the eyes do not see—someone else sees through them. Ears are there—but he knows the ears do not hear—someone else hears through them. The ear is a window on which the inner listener sits; the eye is a window on which the inner seer peers. Then the senses become doors. As doors they are beautiful. But when the inner master loses himself in the senses, the doors become walls—and the servants sit on the throne. The knower puts everything in its place: the eye in its place, the ear in its place—neither is the master. The master sits within—very deep within—where the senses cannot reach. Where, if you wish to see with the eye, you cannot see—because the master sits behind the senses. The senses look out; the master is within.

‘Though with senses he is without senses; though with intelligence he is without intelligence.’
The knower is no fool. When needed, he uses intelligence—just as when needed he uses his feet. When needed, he uses logic. When needed, he can argue. In truth, only a knower can argue—for intelligence is a tool, a computer. The knower does not identify with it.

‘Though with intelligence he is without intelligence; and though with ego, he is egoless.’
The knower too uses the word ‘I’—perhaps more forcefully than the ignorant. What ‘I’ will the ignorant utter! They speak it tremblingly. Listen to Krishna: ‘sarvadharman parityajya mamekam sharanam vraja’—“Abandon all duties and come to me alone.” Only a knower can say this. ‘Come to my refuge’? ‘Mamekam sharanam vraja’—‘Come to me, the One.’ Ordinarily you think the knower will say, ‘I am the dust of your feet; I am nothing.’ But listen to the knowers. Al-Hillaj Mansoor says, ‘Anal Haq’—I am God. He was crucified still saying it. On the cross someone said: Mansoor, now drop this madness. He laughed: if I were speaking, I would drop it—but He speaks—what can I do? He says ‘Anal Haq’. These words are not mine—they are His. I am surrendered—whatever He says, I will say.

There is a rare Zen story. A Zen fakir was passing through a forest—Pai-chang was his name. A fox came on the path and said: stop, master! The fakir was surprised—a fox spoke! She said: it happened thus—five hundred years ago I too was a religious priest, head priest of a temple. A man asked me: do the enlightened ones go beyond the law of cause and effect? I answered, ‘Yes—beyond.’ Because of that answer I suffer this result; for five hundred years I have been a fox. I fell; I was punished—until I find the right answer I cannot be freed from this animal state. You are a great knower—give me the right answer.

Pai-chang said: ask again—what is the question? The old priest, fox for five hundred years, said: the question is—do the enlightened ones go beyond the law of cause and effect? Pai-chang said: they do not become an obstruction to the law of cause and effect.

Understand—he spoke something unique: they do not become an obstruction. Whatever happens, they let it happen. They neither hinder nor help—whatever happens, they let it happen. And the story says: the fox’s good fortune bloomed; a ray of light descended—she was human again.

Do not take the story factually—it is a parable. It is not about fox and man; it is about the animal state and the human state. Whoever lives in error lives in the animal state. Whoever lives in understanding attains the human state. You are foxes since not knowing how many lives—still not free of the animal state.

The word of Pai-chang—that they do not become an obstruction to cause and effect—this is what happens in the lives of Jesus and Mansoor. That is why in speaking of Mansoor I remembered Pai-chang. Mansoor said: what can I do—He speaks, and I let Him. I am no one to stop.

Mansoor was thrown out of many temples, many mosques, many monasteries—wherever he went, when ecstasy came he would say, ‘Anal Haq! Anal Haq!’ He said it so blissfully—every hair thrilled—he was filled with holy intoxication! People said: this man is dangerous—send him away. If it becomes known, there will be trouble. It will lead to trouble—because to declare ‘I am God’ in Muslim lands is difficult, beyond tolerance. He was advised in many places—people loved him. He stayed with many Masters—they loved him—and said: crazy one, we know this is true—but it is not to be said. Mansoor said: then you do not know—if you knew it is true, how will you stop it?

This is what Jesus said on the cross: ‘O Father, Thy will be done.’

The enlightened do not obstruct the law of cause and effect. Non-obstruction—what happens, happens.

So when needed, the knower even uses the ego. When needed, he uses humility. But whatever the knower does, he remains outside it—whether sleep, worry, senses, intelligence, or ego. The knower does not get contained in any act.

Remember this—and therefore do not weigh knowers by their acts, because the knower is not contained in the act. If you look only at the act, you will not see the knower. The knower is beyond the act. Acts have no value. Therefore sometimes a sword may be in a knower’s hand.

Jains come to me and say: you take Mahavira’s name with Muhammad—and Muhammad has a sword! Someone presented one of my books to Kanjiswami. He leafed through it and said: all else is fine—but remove this Muslim, Farid—how can a Muslim’s name be here? How can a meat-eater’s name be here? Jains say: at least do not take Muhammad’s name alongside Mahavira’s—there is a sword in his hand!

You judge from acts? Then you will not recognize. Look into Muhammad’s heart—you will find a compassion like Mahavira’s. In truth, it is because of that compassion the sword is in his hand. Time is different, situation is different, people are different—so the expression is different; but the inner truth is one. As you will find Mahavira beyond his acts, you will find Muhammad beyond his acts. Do not think of the knower from his doing—he lives in knowing, not in doing. Otherwise you will be in great difficulty: Mahavira threw away his clothes—ask a Muslim or a Christian and he will say it is uncouth. Do not search in acts.

Krishna entered into war—caused such a vast war. Do not think from the act. The act has no value, for the knower is beyond acts. He who knows he is not the doer—that one is the knower.

‘The knower is neither happy nor unhappy; neither detached nor attached; neither a seeker of liberation nor liberated; he is neither something nor nothing; neither this nor that.’

न सुखी न च वा दुःखी न विरक्तो न संगवान्‌।
न मुमुक्षुर्न वा मुक्तो न किंचिन्न च किंचन।।

‘Neither something nor nothing’—you cannot say he is such; nor can you say he is not such. All such is a division by acts. The knower is neither happy nor unhappy—because happiness and sorrow arise with becoming the enjoyer. You joined yourself to an experience—attachment produced happiness; you didn’t want to join and had to—sorrow. But joining happens in every case. The knower has severed the joining. What happens, happens; what does not happen, does not happen.

‘Neither detached nor attached.’
He is neither with anyone nor apart. In the crowd he is alone; in aloneness the whole existence is within him.

‘Neither a seeker nor liberated.’
He is not seeking—and he cannot say “I have found.” For when you truly know, you find that what you ‘found’ was never lost. Hence “found” is a foolish word. The knower cannot say ‘I am seeking’; nor can he say ‘I found.’ He can only say: ‘What was, is—always was. Once I forgot; once I awoke. I saw. But it had never been lost.’

‘Not something; not this; not that.’
He cannot be bound in definitions.

‘The blessed one is not distracted in distraction, not absorbed in Samadhi; not inert in inertia; and not a scholar in scholarship.’

विक्षेपेऽपि न विक्षिप्तः समाधौ न समाधिमान्‌।
जाड्येऽपि न जडो धन्यः पांडित्येऽपि न पंडितः।।

Therefore if sometimes a knower appears scholarly, do not take him for a scholar. The knower is never a pundit. He can use scholarship, but he is no scholar. And if sometimes you find him like Jada Bharata—dull, inert—do not take him as inert. Even if inertia happens, it happens—and the knower stands beyond. Remember a fundamental sutra: the knower is outside every state.

In English the word for Samadhi—ecstasy—is beautiful. Ecstasy means ‘to stand outside’. A marvelous word—those who coined it must have known deeply. It is even more beautiful than ‘Samadhi’. It means: one who stands outside—never inside anything. Wherever you find him, you will find him outside—he steps out of everything. Nothing can bind him, nothing can limit him, nothing defines him.

‘The liberated one is at ease in whatever is; he is fulfilled in the done and the to-be-done; he is equal everywhere; and, in the absence of craving, he does not remember what is done or undone.’

मुक्तो यथास्थितिस्वस्थः कृतकर्तव्यनिर्वृतः।
समः सर्वत्र वैतृष्णयान्न स्मरत्यकृतं कृतम्‌।।

Mukto yathasthitisvasthah—
As things are, he is at ease—whatever is, as it is—he is content. Not a grain of demand for otherwise. No thought of “it should be some other way.” The moment ‘otherwise’ arises, desire is born, craving awakens, anxiety rises—and you are lost.

Yathasthiti svasthah—
If rich, then rich; if poor, then poor. If palace, palace; if hut, hut. If pleasure, pleasure; if pain, pain. If honor, honor; if insult, insult. As it is.

A Buddhist tale: a monk begged daily in the capital, Vaishali. He went to the door of a very aristocratic house. A woman, adorned with diamonds, opened the door. The family opposed Buddha. She became angry and said, never come here again. The monk said, then the begging bowl will go empty. In rage she lifted a basket of garbage and poured it over him—his bowl filled with filth. As the Buddha had instructed—whenever anyone gives anything, accept and move on with gratitude—he bowed and thanked her.

A passerby saw this and asked the monk: what madness is this? For what did you bow—why did you thank? The monk said: she gave something. At least she knew how to give—garbage, yes—but to lift and pour took labor. Thanks! She gave something. Insult, yes—but the grace of giving was there.

Yathasthiti svasthah.
Whatever is—at ease, contented. How can such a person be disturbed? Such a one does not remember what was done or not done; does not plan what should be done or should not be done; no past, no future—he lives in the present, in tathata—suchness. This moment is sufficient—more than sufficient.

‘The liberated is not pleased when praised, nor angry when blamed. He is neither disturbed by death, nor rejoices in life.’

न प्रीयते वंद्यमानो निंद्यमानो न कुप्यति।
नैवोद्विजति मरणे जीवने नाभिनंदति।।

He neither opposes death nor clings to life. He stands outside—outside life, outside death. When praised, he listens; when blamed, he listens. You blame—your business; you praise—your business. Neither can blame disturb or anger him, nor can praise make him elated. Agitation is gone—for he has learned the secret of standing outside.

Remember: elation is also a kind of agitation—depression too. A fever. In elation you tremble very much—win a lottery and your heart thumps so hard that many die of a heart attack on the spot. Sudden success brings great tension. In America doctors say: if by forty a man has not been troubled by a heart attack, consider him a failure—success will bring it by forty or forty-five. What else can success do? When success comes, shocks will come to the heart—elation will unbalance you.

If the successful man has no ulcers in his stomach, then what sort of success? Life wasted! The count of ulcers reveals the bank balance! From ulcers you can tell—deputy minister, minister, or cabinet? Agitation—a fever. Storms come by sorrow; storms come by joy. And strangely, sorrow brings fewer storms than joy. You will never find the sorrowing as disturbed as the joyous. Therefore America has more disturbance than anywhere. And Americans coming to India are deeply impressed that people have nothing—sitting before their huts—and yet look so content.

Devesh’s mother came from England. When that old lady saw the slums of Bombay from the airport—she could not believe this is the twentieth century. More astonishing—naked children, yet joyous. A woman in a ragged loincloth walked out of a slum—and her gait like a queen’s. She could not believe it.

Affluent Westerners come East and see poverty—and yet see a kind of contentment—they cannot believe it. How can there be contentment in such poverty? There are psychological causes. The sorrowing are not troubled by heart attacks; the sorrowing do not get ulcers. Sorrow has not as much excitation as joy. You wobble more in joy than in sorrow. The joyous wobble; the sorrowful do not. The joyous worry; the sorrowful do not.

Have you read the Puranas? Whenever some rishi’s austerity reaches its height, Indra’s throne begins to shake. Have you ever read that Yama’s throne in hell shakes? Never. He sits comfortably on his buffalo. Whatever these rishis do—let them—what can they do to him! He sits at ease. Indra’s throne shakes—or Indira’s—no matter—the throne shakes. The poor have nothing—what will you shake? What will you snatch? What can you take from a slum-dweller?

I was reading an African tale: a poor woman and her small child. In winter, with no blankets, she made a big bundle from bits of wood, rags, paper, newspapers, and covered him—he slept happily. One night the boy said: mother, think of those poor ones who don’t have wood bits and rags and papers—how do they sleep? He slept well. He thought this a great luxury. He said: think of them—those who don’t have these things—how do they sleep?

Sorrow does not shake as joy does. Therefore all seekers have embraced sorrow and dropped joy—because they saw that sorrow does not make you as sorrowful as joy does. Ultimately sorrow comes from joy. The meaning of tapas is only this: do not hope to gain from joy—yes, much can be gained from sorrow. Tapas means: from sorrow something can be found; from joy, nothing—joy is barren. But the supreme state is where neither joy makes you joyful, nor sorrow sorrowful—nothing shakes—you are steady in yourself.

‘The mind at peace does not run to the bustling city, nor to the forest. Wherever, however, he stands the same—he remains equal in all states and places.’

न धावति जनाकीर्णं नारण्यमुपशांतधीः।
यथातथा यत्रतत्र सम एवावतिष्ठते।।

Na dhavati janakirnam—
He who knows, who has become the Witness, who has tasted Turiya, does not run toward crowds. What juice is in the other? The other tastes sweet only so long as your own taste is unknown. Remember: the other pleases only as long as you have not tasted your own. People drown themselves in others because they do not know how to dive within. Sitting alone brings no savor. Alone one feels bored—let’s go—meet someone. Those you go to meet are also bored alone—they too are eager to be met. Now two bored people meet—expecting happiness! How can it be? One bored himself; the other bored himself; they will bore each other—produce multiplication—exponential! Yet people go—because they cannot relish solitude. They do not know their own taste. Unfamiliar with their own rhythm. No string sounds on the inner vina—they feel the inner desert. They go seeking a stream somewhere to feel happy—clubs, groups, dance halls, cinema, radio, newspapers—something to forget oneself—something to drown in—aloneness is restless.

Remember: if where you are, as you are—you cannot be happy—then you cannot be happy anywhere. And if where you are, as you are, you are happy—you can be happy anywhere.

This does not mean the knower runs away from the crowd either. Hence Ashtavakra says: ‘The mind at peace does not run to the bustling city, nor to the forest.’

For that becomes another bondage. Some say: we won’t go to the crowd—let us go to the jungle—we are lovers of solitude. But this too becomes a chain. In the presence of another you become restless; earlier in the presence of another you felt joy—now you feel trouble. But in both cases your eyes are on the other. First you ran toward the other; now you run from the other. Still you have not come to yourself. He comes to himself who neither runs toward nor away. Do not run toward woman; do not run from woman. Do not run toward wealth; do not run away from it. Do not run toward men; do not run from them. Do not run at all. Where you are, as you are—there is the whole of God. Where will you run? Do you think God is more in one place, less in another? Less in Pune, more in Prayag? Then you are mad.

If you want to see all the crazies of India, go to the Kumbh. About fifty percent are there. Pilgrimage? A tirtha means: where one is, he finds the juice. As he is, he finds flavor. That person himself becomes the tirtha. Tirthas are not in places but in souls. And he who becomes a tirtha is a Tirthankara.

‘He remains equal in every state and every place.’

Rind jo zarf uthalein, vahi kuza ban jaye—
jis jagah baith ke pi lein, wahi maykhanah bane.

The true drinker—whoever lifts the cup—turns it into the goblet of wine;
wherever he sits to drink—that place becomes the tavern.

He who, wherever he is, as he is—finds the savor there—liberation has arrived. Drop the chase for ‘otherwise’. Drop the race to be ‘other’. Drop the illusion that somewhere else is heaven. Because of this illusion you do not see—your eyes are turned elsewhere, to stars and moons; while God is very close. God is where you are. Exactly where you sit, He is present. There is not a grain of distance between you and God. Therefore there is no journey to be made. Pilgrimage is freedom from all journeys.

They say the fakir Bayazid was excommunicated because he uttered a heresy. Sitting under a tree he saw people going for hajj. He said: you fools, where are you going?—the hajj is here. Some stopped. They saw it was true—they had never seen such beauty, such grace, such sweetness. They stood transfixed. Bayazid said: now why stand—circumambulate. They circumambulated him. They kissed his hands, as people kiss the stone of the Kaaba.

Then he said: now go home. If you wish to make hajj again, you need not come to me—circumambulate yourself. I have only taught you a lesson. Do not cling to the lesson—otherwise when I die you will circumambulate this bush! That is how people create mischief. Still they circle the stone of Kaaba. They do parikramas—go to Kashi, to Girnar, to Jerusalem. Somewhere to go! The mind always clings to the delusion that bliss rains somewhere else, everywhere else—except upon you—as if God made a special arrangement that it should not rain on you. And those who live in Jerusalem—do you know them? Those who live in Kashi—do you know them? Did they get anything? It does not rain even there. If the eyes are closed, it rains nowhere; if the eyes are open, it rains everywhere.

Rind jo zarf uthalein, vahi kuza ban jaye—
jis jagah baith ke pi lein, wahi maykhanah bane.

Become such drinkers. Stop searching for taverns. Wherever you sit—let that place become the tavern. Even if you drink ordinary water, let it turn into nectar—be such. And the art of becoming such is the art of being a Witness.

Enough for today.