Maha Geeta #87

Life is a bride of a single night.
There is no destination where a welcome awaits her.
In the evening, spring itself filled the parting of her hair;
by night, the moon and the stars adorned the bridal bed;
at dawn, the henna faded from her hands—
life is a bride of a single night.
The natal home is far, the beloved’s village unknown;
no resting place anywhere, no shade anywhere—
where shall this palanquin of the wedding procession go?
Life is a bride of a single night.
Without oil the wick burns in the lamp of age;
in midstream the merciless bridegroom abandoned her;
the eyes have become monsoon clouds—
life is a bride of a single night.

Yet for this one night we create such a commotion. For this one night we build such a vast world. For the ephemeral we waste the eternal; for the insubstantial we lose the essential. We go on gathering pebbles and stones, while the diamonds of life slip empty from our hands. Clutching trash up to our dying breath, we lose life itself. Jesus has said: Even if you win the whole earth, but lose your own self—what is the meaning of such gain?

The sutras Ashtavakra gave to Janaka are unparalleled keys to awakening. If one understands, one simply wakes up. To find a disciple like Janaka is also rare—extraordinarily rare. A guru like Ashtavakra is rare indeed, but a disciple like Janaka is just as rare. Nowhere before is there a mention of such a meeting of guru and disciple as Ashtavakra and Janaka; nor later. Perhaps it never happened again; it seems almost impossible that it could happen again—guru and disciple like two spotless mirrors facing each other.

Ashtavakra has poured out his whole heart. Whatever could be said, he has said. What could not be said, he tried to say too. And now, after this incomparable rain, Janaka gives thanks. How to thank the guru? There is only one gratitude—that what the guru said has not been wasted, it has been understood. There is no other way to repay a guru. The sole path of gratitude is that the rain has not fallen in vain, it has filled the lake of my heart. Your labor has not been in vain. The pearls you scattered were not thrown before fools. They have been tested, cared for, gathered into my heart. They have become a part of my very life-breath. To convey this, Janaka brings the dialogue to its close.

And rightly so: the dialogue began with Janaka, it should end with Janaka. The inquiry was Janaka’s—Lord, tell me the essence of life, the truth. The end should also be with Janaka—what he asked for, he has received; more than he asked for. What he had wished to know has been revealed; and what even in dream had never occurred to him, what in deep sleep never stirred as a ripple, even that has been poured into him. Because when the guru gives, he does not give by measure. The disciple’s asking has a limit; the guru’s giving has no limit. The disciple’s question is bounded; the guru’s answer is boundless. And unless the answer is boundless, even finite questions cannot be resolved. The limited is resolved only by the limitless.

Janaka asked for a little—Ashtavakra has given in abundance. Two drops would have sufficed to quench Janaka; Ashtavakra has poured a whole ocean.

Understand this too: this is a fundamental law of life—that in the world of Paramatma there is no stinginess, no miserliness. Where one seed would suffice, look—on one tree millions of seeds stand shining. Where one flower would suffice, millions bloom. Where one star would be enough, there are billions upon billions. The basic rule of life is: no parsimony—there is splendor, there is majesty. That is why we call the Divine Ishvara—Eshwar; Ishvara means the One of Aishwarya—overflowing richness. Not just enough for need, but more than need: that is Aishwarya. When we say a person has Aishwarya, we mean, more than necessary. If there is only enough to meet needs, that is not Aishwarya. When it is so much that you do not even know what to do with it—needs long since finished—then it is Aishwarya. In this sense, no man is ever truly Ishvara. Only Ishvara is Ishvara—supreme Aishwarya, without the slightest stinginess. And when a soul comes into union with this supreme Aishwarya, that very resonance begins to echo within that soul as well.

Ashtavakra poured and poured. Many times you must have felt—why so much? The thing could have been said in a few words. But what can be said in brief, Paramatma says in many forms; what could be concise, He makes vast. He gives expanse. Brahman means vastness—the endlessly expanding. The discourse on Brahman is of the very nature of Brahman. Leaves upon leaves keep sprouting; branches beget sub-branches. The question was like a seed; the answer is like a tree—and so it should be.

For such supreme good fortune Janaka now gives thanks. The word “thanks” is not adequate. It is too formal. So how to give thanks? There is only one way—to declare before the guru that what you have said is not wasted; your labor has borne fruit; it has been creative; I am filled. Let a fragrance rise from Janaka so that Ashtavakra’s nostrils fill with that perfume. Let the note, the song he sent out, return to him, and he knows that Janaka’s heart has resonated, become an echo. Therefore, in the final movement, Janaka presents his offering. He also adds a few insights which Ashtavakra had purposely left unsaid.

Understand this before we enter the sutras. Any true guru, to test the disciple, employs a single device—he says all, and yet leaves one or two points incomplete. If the disciple completes them, know that he has understood. If he merely repeats what the guru has said, know that he is a parrot—no understanding. That empty space is the test. So much has been said, but on one or two points a little space is left blank. If the disciple has understood, he will fill the emptiness. What the guru did not say—only hinted at, began but did not conclude, gave a glimpse but not the solid statement—if the disciple has understood, the unsolid will become solid, the incomplete will be completed. Only when the disciple fills the blanks left open by the guru can you know he has understood. To repeat what the guru said—any parrot can do that; it is merely mechanical.

So Ashtavakra left one or two things unsaid. Buddha did the same. All masters do the same—one or two threads are left. The one who has not understood cannot complete them; it is impossible. No trick can suffice, no intellectual device can cover it. Only experience can fill those blank spaces. Janaka has filled them. That is his gratitude.

One more thing: the distillation of all Ashtavakra’s sutras is—shravanamātreṇa. Janaka did nothing—he only listened. Neither any practice, nor any yoga, nor any mantra or tantra, no ritual, no austerity, no Yajna—he did nothing. He simply listened. Just by listening, he awoke. Just by listening it happened—shravanamātreṇa.

Ashtavakra says: If you listen rightly, nothing else is needed. Doing becomes necessary because you do not listen rightly. You hear something else, you leave out something, you add something; you hear a part and draw your own meanings—and create mischief. Therefore, then something has to be done. All doing is because of the poverty of listening. Otherwise, listening is enough. The deeper you listen, the swifter the happening. If there is delay, know that something is missing in listening. Do not think, “I have heard, I have understood; now when I do, there will be fruit.” There you are deceiving yourself again. You say: “Now it is time to do; listening is over.”

A Sarvodaya leader comes to me—an old man, a lifetime of service, a good man. He came to one or two camps, then came to meet me. I asked, “You are not seen these days?” He said, “What is the point of coming now? I have heard you, I have understood; until I bring it into practice, why come? I am now doing; when it is done...” I said to him, “Then you have neither heard nor understood. If you had heard and understood, nothing would remain to be done. The very talk of doing is the trouble.” I tell you, “This is the wall; that is the door.” You say, “I have heard, I have understood.” What is there to do? When you wish to go out, go through the door—do not head-butt the wall. And you say, “I shall practice. I shall practice that this is the wall; I shall practice that this is the door—when I am well-practiced, I shall go.”

Practice is a deception. This is Ashtavakra’s seed-saying. Ashtavakra is opposed to practice. He says: Practice alone, sadhana alone, is a trick. The moment you talk of doing, it is certain you have not listened; now you are inventing gadgets. You are persuading your ego—“I have listened.” But you have not. You say, “I have listened; now I shall do. Without doing, how can it be?”

But the glory of truth is: if you have listened, it is done. Truth is no ordinary affair; it does not depend on your doing. Your effort does not produce truth. Truth is—it stands before your eyes; it beats in your heart. What is there to do? In one roar, in one proclamation, remembrance can arise—shravanamātreṇa.

But man is clever at tricks. He thinks the goal is far; Paramatma is far—so we shall walk, seek, wander; lives will pass; we shall do good deeds, abandon the bad; we shall cancel the bad with the good; slowly, slowly we shall accumulate merit; one day we shall arrive. No—you will never arrive. You yourself are pushing far away that which is near.

“I had thought to give you
my entire life—
but the goal seemed so far,
walking, walking, evening fell.
I set out with a ruby
hidden in my ragged cloth—
some were playmates of my childhood,
some companions of my youth;
for some the buds were enamored,
for some the lanes swayed;
some were priceless gems of the heart,
some were necklaces worth nine-lakh of the eyes—
but the trickster cast me into
such a maze of paths,
the savings of lives were lost,
the sleeps of ages were stolen.
I had thought to give you
my entire life—
but the goal seemed so far,
walking, walking, evening fell.”

The goal is not far. The goal stands before you.

“Walking, walking, evening fell.”
The very walking is the mistake. To walk is to believe the goal is distant. By walking we go toward distance. That which is nearer than the nearest—Muhammad said, “Nearer than the life-nerve throbbing in your neck.” The Upanishads say, “Nearer than the near.” That which abides within you—between you and That there is not an inch.

“Walking, walking, evening fell.”
You walked—and you strayed. You walked—and you missed. If you are to arrive—stop. Do not walk, do not even move. If you are to arrive—stand where you are, become statue-like. No one reaches truth by motion, because truth is not a destination. There is no journey to truth—for truth is not far. Truth is you. Truth is the name of your very being, your very existence. Therefore Ashtavakra says, shravanamātreṇa.

Had Janaka said, “Lord, I have heard you; now I will do,” Ashtavakra would have held his head in his hands. But Janaka said no such thing. He gave thanks—by speaking his own statement. What did Janaka say? He said:

“tattva-vijñāna-sandaṁśam ādāya hṛdayodarāt
nānā-vidha-parāmarśa-śalyoddhāraḥ kṛto mayā.”

“Taking the pincers of your Tattva-vijñāna, I have drawn out from heart and belly the many barbs of opinion.”

The matter is finished. Janaka says: the surgery is done—śalyoddhāraḥ. The healing has happened. Your words became weapons. And unless śāstra becomes śastra—scripture becomes sword—it is useless. Your words became blades, and all the diseased arrows lodged in my belly and heart—they have all been pulled out. It is over.

“Tattva-vijñānāya”—that indication you gave toward the essence, the truth—that became a forceps; it drew out all the poison within me, it pulled out all the thorns.

Note that Janaka uses two words—hṛdaya and udara: heart and belly. This is very important. This is a statement five thousand years old; only now, in the West, psychology is beginning to see that whatever a man represses—thoughts, desires, tendencies—gathers in the belly. This is a very recent discovery of the last two decades; but this sutra is five thousand years old. Belly? You may be startled. If he had said “from my brain the thoughts were removed,” it would seem more logical. But Janaka says “from my belly.” It sounds odd—what thoughts are stored in the belly? But modern psychology agrees. In English we say, “I will not be able to stomach it.” The idiom itself points.

This is significant. Whatever we repress sinks into the belly. That is why anxious men develop ulcers—arrows of anxiety become ulcers. Not in the head, not in the brain—have you seen brain ulcers? There should be—but they are in the belly. The miser becomes constipated—his miserliness settles in the belly. If a miser is not constipated, it is difficult; his habit of clutching at everything descends into the belly; then even the intestines clutch at excrement and will not let go. If you clutch everything, you will clutch that too.

All the diseases of our consciousness finally fall into the belly and accumulate there. The belly is the only empty space where things can accumulate. That is why Janaka says “udara.” Whatever disturbances I had gathered in my belly—your forceps of Tattva-vijñāna pulled them out. My belly is light. The weight is gone. One thing.

The second thing he says—“and from the heart.” He does not even bring in the brain. There is a reason. Three planes are in our life: body, mind, and Atman. The ancient seers discovered: what is repressed on the bodily plane collects in the belly; what is repressed on the mental plane gets blocked in the heart; and on the level of Atman there is no repression at all. The seat of Atman is in the inner sky of the brain—the sahasrar. Three points: the belly is joined to the body; the heart is joined to the mind; the sahasrar to the Atman.

If the knots of body and mind open—nothing remains repressed—then the energy trapped in the belly and the energy entangled in the heart is freed. That freed energy nourishes the lotus waiting for lifetimes in your crown; as soon as energy reaches, it blooms. There is freedom.

If there is bondage, it is in the belly and in the heart. Whatever you have suppressed has lodged either in the belly or in the heart. Mostly in the belly—because most people have nothing to suppress of the mental plane. If you suppress lust, it goes to the belly; anger—belly; jealousy, hatred, violence—belly. These are bodily-plane events—crude, the first layer. If a man suppresses love, it goes into the heart; a song—heart; music—heart; compassion—heart. Understand the difference: anger suppressed—belly; compassion suppressed—heart. Compassion had arisen—you were about to give—and you suppressed, then the heart is blocked. Anger arose—you suppressed—then the belly is blocked. Anger belongs to a lower plane; compassion to a higher. Ninety out of a hundred times we live on the lowest plane; therefore our trouble is in the belly. And then belly distortions create countless obstacles and diseases. Seventy percent of bodily diseases are the outcome of repressed mental toxins lodged in the belly.

Yoga has many processes to purify the belly—but they are long. And even then, you seldom see a yogi truly free—long is the journey; lifetimes of yogic belly-purification, and only then something loosens a little.

But Janaka says—your word-arrows drew out the lodged arrows within me. I am emptied. I am vacant. I am light. I am healthy.

“From heart and belly you have drawn out the many arrows of thought.”

“Nānā-vidha parāmarśa”—this word is to be understood. So many advices have been given to you by people—that is precisely why you are in trouble.

“Nānā-vidha parāmarśa”—whoever you meet gives advice. Those who know nothing—advise the most. Ask anyone for advice; he will not say, “I have no experience in this.” He will never say, “I cannot speak on this.” Ask an angry man how to overcome anger—he will advise you. A drunkard will advise you how to quit drinking. A thief will advise you against stealing. Perhaps he must—because through that advice he builds an image in your mind: “At least this man cannot be a thief; he advises against theft.” The dishonest will speak of honesty; those who know nothing will speak of the ultimate truth. They have borrowed from books, learned word-webs—and throw them on others. Buddha said: If only this much integrity arises in the world—that man speaks only of what he knows—half the darkness will disappear. But people go on speaking what they do not know.

Once I shared a platform with a Jain monk. He lectured for an hour on Self-realization. Listening, I felt he knew nothing; all borrowed, stale. When I said so, he grew restless—yet he was a good man, he kept silent. In the evening he sent someone: “All day I pondered what you said. You are right—I do not know. I wish to meet you.” I said, “I will come.” Such a sincere man need not come—I shall go.

I went. Ten or twenty people gathered. The monk said, “I want to talk in private.” I said, “Have the courage—if it is honesty, say it here. Why be afraid? At most people will know you are not yet enlightened. Let them know—that will be the first step on the path of enlightenment. You are seventy; you say it has been fifty years since you took sannyas; you were twenty then; you are renowned; thousands are your disciples—but what you are saying, none of it do you know. Why say it?” He had never thought of it. He said, “I never thought this way. Today, because you ask, I feel utterly at a loss. I never asked why I am saying it. It has gone on in unconsciousness. I took sannyas, studied scriptures, began to preach; people came to ask, I began to advise; I forgot how fifty years passed in advising. What I advised—I know nothing.”

So much advice—infinite advice—and because of it, a great sludge churns in your belly.

“Nānā-vidha parāmarśa”—so many opinions, doctrines, systems people have stuffed into you—of all these you have drawn out the splinters. You have done my surgery, Janaka says. I am free. You have cut it out.

“Established in my own glory, where now is dharma, where is kāma, where is artha? Where is duality—and where nonduality?”

“kva dharmaḥ kva ca vā kāmaḥ kva cārthaḥ kva vivekitā
kva dvaitaṁ kva ca vā’dvaitaṁ svamahimni sthitasya me.”

And now—now when awake I look at myself, I find:

Where is dharma? Where is desire? Where is wealth? Where is even my vaunted discrimination? Where duality? Where nonduality? Established in my own majesty—I am seated on the throne of my glory. There is nothing to do. You have bestowed my own glory upon me—just by saying, by shaking me, by a voice.

The life of Jesus tells: a devotee, Lazarus, died. Jesus was out of town. His sisters sent word. By the time Jesus came, four days had passed. They had placed the body in a cave. When Jesus came, Mary and Martha wept, “Now what can be done? It has begun to stink.” Jesus said, “Do not worry. If I call, Lazarus will hear.” No one could believe. A crowd gathered. Jesus reached the mouth of the cave and cried out, “Lazarus—come out!” They say, Lazarus rose from his bier and came out. People were frightened; they began to run. Jesus said, “Do not run. I told you—if I call, he will hear, because he has already heard me while alive. If he has heard me alive, why will he not hear me in death? You who have not heard me while alive—how will you hear while dead?”

Such incidents may or may not have happened; they are symbolic. The truth stands: when the guru calls the disciple—“Lazarus—rise, come out!”—Lazarus rises and comes out—shravanamātreṇa. He does not argue; he does not say, “How can I come? It is dark still; the night is long; let me sleep a little more. I am dead.” He does not say, “Is this the time? I am bound in grave-cloths—at least observe some formality! Do not break all decorum!” No—he comes. If listening happens!

Look closely—you too are laid on a bier. This body you call “mine” is nothing but a bier. And the clothes you call your garments—are they not shrouds? That is why a fakir’s robe is called kafni—from kafan, the shroud. These garments are shrouds. This body itself is your bier; on it you ride toward death. This very body will one day carry you to the pyre. Within this corpse you are alive—but you have not learned to listen.

Janaka heard the call. He said, “Blessed! In what words shall I thank you?”

“Established in my own glory”—in a single instant you seated me in my majesty. Not that you showed me the way to attain it—you did not give a path, you gave the goal. Now what dharma? what artha? what kāma? Where duality? Where nonduality?—his utterances are cries of wonder; hence the repeated “kva...?” Where is dharma? Where desire? Where the feverish race for wealth?—to earn, to become, to sit on this post and that. Not only that—where even my precious discrimination? That discrimination was a blind man’s staff. When the eyes open, what need of a stick?

The Hindu scripture says, “When the far shore is reached, what use is the ferry?” An old man leans on a staff; a cripple uses crutches.

In Jesus’ life there is mention: a lame man came on crutches. Jesus touched him—the man was healed. As he turned to go, he took his crutches with him. Jesus said, “Fool—leave the crutches! Where are you taking them? People will laugh.” Old habit—who knows how many years he walked with crutches! Today he is healed, yet he takes them along.

Janaka says—where are the crutches now? “Where is dharma?” Lao Tzu has said: there was a time when people were so religious that no one knew what “religion” was. When adharma arises, then “dharma” is heard of. When people became irreligious, religions were born, gurus appeared.

A Hindu sannyasin was my guest. He said, “This land of India is so religious!” I said, “Have a little shame.” He asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “All Tirthankaras, all avatars, all Buddhas were born here—and still I say, have shame.” He did not understand. I said, “What does it mean if every day doctors come to your house? Is it your glory? ‘Look—so many great doctors visit our home, their cars are always there! Not a day passes without doctors coming—our house is glorious!’ People will say: you are sick. The glorious home is where no doctor is needed. Lao Tzu says: Blessed were those times when no one knew what ‘religion’ is. Only when irreligion spreads do we need the medicine bottle of religion; only then gurus arise. If ever religion truly flowers again, the first to be dismissed will be the religious teachers. If health is, who needs the physician? If people are honest, who needs to be taught honesty? And even if you teach, what happens?

A Christian friar announced, “Next Sunday I will speak on Truth. Please, all of you, read the sixty-eighth chapter of Luke.” The following Sunday he asked, “Who has read Luke chapter sixty-eight?” All but one raised their hands. Tears came to his eyes. He said, “What is the use of speaking on truth? There is no sixty-eighth chapter of Luke! No one even opened the Bible. Now it is better I speak on untruth. Still—blessed that at least one did not raise his hand.” That man stood up and said, “I am hard of hearing. What did you ask? Was it about the sixty-eighth chapter? That I have read.”

Truth is discussed among those adept in untruth. Ahimsa is preached because people are violent. People are dishonest—so honesty is taught. People are sinful—so we sing of virtue. Otherwise, what need?

This is the supreme state—svamahimni sthitasya me. Janaka says, “Seated in my own majesty.” With a snap of your fingers you seated me there. Now where is the need of dharma? Desire arises only so long as one has not tasted one’s own glory. Kāma means: from the other I shall get joy. You clutch someone’s hem—this one will give joy, that one will give joy. Kāma means beggary—someone will give pleasure: a woman, a man, a son, a daughter, a husband, a wife. If joy could be had from another, everyone would have it. Joy is from oneself—by abiding in one’s own glory.

Janaka says, “Blessed—you have seated me upon my throne. Now I do not understand why people are filled with lust. The one who has tasted his own nectar—ātma-rati, the inner union—who has met himself, he needs no other rapture, no other juice; he need not extend a begging bowl at any door.” Those at whom you beg—what do they have? Everywhere you will see dull, dead faces; extinguished eyes, extinguished hearts, extinguished life-breath—only ashes. No flower is seen blooming, no vina resounds, no anklet sings. Without song and dance being born in you, how will you know that there is a God? God is no argument, no doctrine. God is glimpsed by those in whom song is born—those established in their own glory; those who are intoxicated with their own wine. Only they can say, “There is God.” Those who know “I am,” only they can say, “God is.” Those who have not known themselves—how will they know God? Those who do not know their own small lamp—how will they recognize the empire of great suns? The law of light is one—small or great. The light in the little lamp is not different from the light of the vast suns—exactly the same. Befriend the lamp within; then befriend the suns. But the lamp is in your house, and you grope in darkness, knocked about at others’ doors.

“Where is kāma? Where artha? Where duality—where nonduality?” Understand a little. Desire arises because one has not tasted self-juice; therefore one seeks the juice of the other. The craving for wealth, power, prestige arises because inwardly there is a sense of inferiority. Psychologists say: those afflicted with inferiority complex become mad after wealth and position. You cannot find a politician not afflicted. Otherwise, who would be anxious to climb chairs? After taking a hundred beatings, still they rush to see the spectacle—no matter what happens, however many shoes fall upon them, inside they must get in. Even if the only spectacle is the shower of shoes upon them—that itself has drawn the crowd. Somehow sit on the throne of power, sit on a heap of money—why? Because within there is no taste of majesty; perhaps with outer shows they can announce, “I too am something.”

If Mahavira and Buddha left royal thrones, do not misunderstand. Often it is misunderstood that they left thrones; I tell you—they ascended the real throne; therefore the false had to be left. Earlier they sat on thrones of wood and stone; now they found thrones of diamonds—why sit on the false? Though your eyes do not see the diamond throne—because you are blind. You are traders of pebbles and stones—you see the worthless and miss the worthwhile. Mahavira and Buddha sat on the real throne; therefore the false had to be vacated. No one can sit on two thrones.

A politician came to see Mulla Nasruddin. Mulla, seated in his chair, said, “Yes—what brings you?” The politician was offended—Mulla had not even said “Please sit.” He said, “Do you not know who I am? I am a member of parliament.” Mulla said, “Good—then sit on the chair.” He said, “You do not know—soon I will be a minister!” Mulla said, “Then sit on two chairs.” But how can anyone sit on two chairs?

No, you cannot sit on two thrones. One must be left. You have only seen what they left—because scriptures are written by the blind. They praise renunciation. So it seems Mahavira was a renunciate. I tell you—he was a supreme enjoyer. Renunciation? Will an intelligent man renounce? What is renunciation? If you throw away pebbles and gather diamonds—will you call that renunciation? If you discard the worthless and hold the worthwhile—renunciation? The true empire is established, the fake is dropped—renunciation?

No—the renunciate is you. You have dropped the real and clung to the fake. Your great renunciation is beyond measure. If gold and clay are placed, you grasp the clay and won’t let go; clay appears gold and gold appears clay. And you have written the stories of Mahavira and Buddha—you have distorted them. The Jain texts list horses left, elephants left, chariots left—numbers multiplied. Neither were there so many horses nor chariots—Mahavira’s kingdom was small, scarcely larger than a sub-district; in those days India had two thousand tiny kingdoms. Where to stable so many elephants? But we exaggerate numbers—because our only value is wealth.

Mahavira renounced—the little wealth, so little renunciation. We measure renunciation only on the balance of wealth—so we show a lot—“so much was left!” But I say—you are missing the real point: speak of what was attained. Because he left only to attain. In truth, he attained—and then left. When this is found, who will carry the trash?

Janaka says, “Established in my own glory—where dharma, where kāma, where artha? And where duality—where nonduality?” Now I cannot even say “One is,” nor can I say “Two is.” All doctrine is nonsense now. You have pulled all doctrines out of me; you have left me in truth. Truth simply is. About it, much cannot be said. It is as it is. Neither one nor two; neither small nor great; neither red nor yellow nor green nor black—no definition, no delineation. You cannot say “two,” nor can you say “one.” You can only say: It is—and it is full. Only Being can be said.

“Nityam—where, for me, established in my own majesty, is the past, where the future, where even the present—and where space?”

“kva bhūtaṁ kva bhaviṣyad vā vartamānam api kva vā
kva deśaḥ kva ca vā nityaṁ svamahimni sthitasya me.”

Understand. “Nityam”—eternity. Ordinarily we live in time; the one in Samadhi lives in eternity—not in time. What is the difference? Time changes; eternity is changeless. That is why it is called “nitya.” Time is anitya—impermanent—coming and going. Morning comes, noon approaches, evening descends, night falls, morning returns—coming and going. Waves flowing. The mind lives in time. To know yourself, step beyond time. Time divides into past—what has gone, once was, now is not; future—what will be, not yet; and between them, the tiny instant of present—quivering. The present only means: the future is becoming past. What is the present? Only this—that what was not, is ceasing to be; in moving from one “no” to another “no,” the brief wink we call present. “Second”—I say “second,” and it is gone; saying “second” takes longer than the second. From not-yet to no-longer—a wink, a “pal”—a blink—and gone.

These are time’s three modes: past is not; future is not; and what present is—barely anything. What lies beyond these three is “nitya.”

“Nityam—where now past, where future, where even present?”

Ordinarily it is said, “Live in the present.” I too say: live in the present—because beyond this you will not yet grasp. Krishnamurti says it too. But how will you live in the present? The future is vast; though it has not happened, there is space in it—you can run about. That is why people live in future or past—these are spacious. How to live in the present? It is a mere instant. Yet we tell you: live in the present—because it is the first step into the eternal. For a bare moment eternity peeks into time; for that instant, time is true.

Understand it rightly. Time is false—two falsehoods: future and past. The moment of present seems a little true—not because of time but because eternity glimmers there. The present is where time and the timeless meet for a little while. In the light of the eternal, the present sparkles—then runs off. To enter the timeless, we tell you to live in the present—but it is only provisional. When you begin entering the present, you will soon find that to enter the present truly is to go beyond even the present—beyond time; neither past nor future nor present. The current of time disappears; behind it is the Timeless.

Imagine my three fingers before you—one named “future,” one “present,” one “past.” Between the three fingers are two empty spaces. In these emptinesses is the taste of eternity. Between two moments of time is a no-moment—there the eternal abides. One moment gone, another coming—between them an interval, a void—there is the home of the timeless.

“Where for me now past, future, present—and where space?” Einstein, only in this century, discovered that time and space are two aspects of one event. Time and space are not separate; they are joined. In Janaka’s utterance, both are mentioned together—not by accident. “kva deśaḥ”—where space? No past, no future, no present—and no space. Said as one—clearly the two are linked in experience. Einstein coined “space-time”—spacetime; time as the fourth dimension of space. As time goes, space goes. Hard to understand—because the mind dwells in time and space. Beyond the mind is a region where “place” itself disappears.

Ask me, “Where is the Atman?”—I cannot answer. No one has. “Where is the body?”—we can say: in Pune, in Calcutta, in New York. On the map we can give latitude and longitude. Where each of you sits, we can point. But “Where is the Atman?”—no answer. People ask: “Where is the soul—in the heart, in the navel, in the brain?” You do not see you are asking a wrong question. Atman is outside place. Ask, “When is the Atman? Six in the morning, noon, three in the afternoon? In future, present, past?” No answer—Atman is outside time and space. Time and space are in the Atman; the Atman is not in time and space. The Atman envelops all; in That all becomes zero.

Janaka says: By your grace I am there where these questions arise only as wonder—Where has time gone? present? past? future? Where has space gone? I stand in the void—yet I am enthroned in supreme glory.

“Nityaṁ svamahimni sthitasya me”—I am established in the eternal in my own majesty. Nothing changes—nothing comes or goes. What is, is—still, unmoving. This is life’s supreme experience.

“Where for me, seated in my own glory, is Atman and where anatman? Where the auspicious, where inauspicious? Where thought, where no-thought?”

Another unique sutra. Hindus and Jains name the ultimate truth “Atman”; the Buddhists name it “anatman.” Ashtavakra goes beyond both. Janaka declares: Now neither Atman nor anatman—neither “I” nor “not-I.” I cannot say “I am,” I cannot say “I am not.” Such a new happening—no word can hold it. Neither auspicious nor inauspicious; no merit, no sin; no heaven, no hell; no pleasure, no pain—gone are all dualities.

“kva cātmā kva cavānātmā kva śubhaṁ kvāśubhaṁ tathā
kva cintā kva cavācintā svamahimni sthitasya me.”

Seated in my own glory—neither thought binds me, nor can I assert a state of no-thought. I cannot even say “thought is absent.” Thought and no-thought both have vanished. I cannot say “I am Atman,” nor “I am not”—both terms are partial; the happening is too vast.

“Where for me is dream, where deep sleep, where waking—and listen—where is even turiya?”

Ashtavakra had left this. He had said: neither dream nor waking nor deep sleep—beyond the three is turiya. But Janaka says: now where is turiya either? The fourth can be counted only if the three are. When the three have gone, they take the fourth with them—numbering itself is gone; we enter beyond number.

“kva svapnaḥ kva suṣuptir vā kva ca jāgaraṇaṁ tathā
kva turīyaṁ bhayaṁ vāpi svamahimni sthitasya me.”

And he adds a wondrous thing. Dream gone, waking gone, sleep gone—and even turiya gone. And all fear gone. Why fear? The deepest analysis reveals: fear is the mind. As long as you are afraid, there is mind. When fear drops, mind drops. And when mind drops, counting drops—this mind is the accountant. Have you noticed? The more afraid you are, the more you calculate.

In my village a goldsmith lived before me. His misery—he would lock the door, shake it, walk two steps, return, shake it again. The whole village teased him. If someone on the road called, “Hey—did you check the lock?” he would say, “I checked; don’t bother me.” But two steps later doubt would arise—perhaps the man is right; he would return from halfway through the market to shake the lock again. I told him, “This is not about the lock. There is fear inside you.” He admitted: he had buried some money. I said, “Take it out—deposit in the bank.” Not much—yet fear needs no quantity. Even for a single coin the mind trembles: perhaps this will happen, perhaps that. Fear—then convulsions; then arrangements to quiet the trembling. Where fear goes, all convulsions cease.

What is fear? Only one thing—that there will be death. Until you take yourself to be dying, you will tremble. From the trembling arise wave upon wave—waking, sleeping, dreaming, turiya. The day you see: That which is, how can it die? And that which is not—how can it be saved by saving? I shall die—as the ego. I will die, because ego cannot be eternal—it is contrived. But I remain—in the eternal, as the eternal. That which was before my birth will be after my death. That which was created with birth will end with death. The moment you know you are not the ego, the sense of death disappears; the sense of death gone, fear gone; fear gone, mind gone; mind gone—you are awake. In that awakening Janaka says: neither dream, nor deep sleep, nor waking. And more: where is even turiya? I cannot say.

By this last statement—“even turiya is not”—Janaka declares: witnessing has become perfect, complete.

“Where for me, seated in my own glory, is far—or near? Where outer—or inner? Where gross—or subtle?”

“kva dūraṁ kva samīpaṁ vā bāhyaṁ kvābhyantaraṁ kva vā
kva sthūlaṁ kva ca vā sūkṣmaṁ svamahimni sthitasya me.”

I have come to myself, to my home, to my center. Who now is far, who near? For far and near require “other.” I am seated in myself—and found that I am the All. Abiding in the Self, I have become the Whole. There is no far, no near—no other.

“Where for me is death—or life? Where worlds—where worldly? Where dissolution—where Samadhi?”

“kva mṛtyur jīvitam vā kva lokāḥ kvāsya kva laukikam
kva layaḥ kva samādhir vā svamahimni sthitasya me.”

Seated in myself—there is neither dissolving into another nor entering any Samadhi. There is no one in whom to dissolve, nowhere to be established in Samadhi. No worlds, no otherworld. All dualities gone, all partitions gone—born of fear, born of death. Now there is neither life nor death.

And the final sutra today:

“For me, resting in the Atman, enough of talk of the three aims—dharma, artha, kāma; enough of the talk of yoga; enough of the talk of science as well.”

“alaṁ trivarga-kathayā yogasya kathayāpy alam
alaṁ vijñāna-kathayā viśrāntasya mamātmani.”

“Alam” means—enough. Full stop. The end. Here the story ends. Resting in the Atman, I have no interest in the tales of dharma, artha, or kāma. He who delights in the tale of kāma reveals that his body is still lust-driven; he who delights in the tale of wealth reveals that his mind is money-driven; he who delights in the tale of dharma reveals that his life-breaths still yearn for moksha, for Paramatma.

Janaka says, “I have attained. You spoke—and I received. You called—and I listened. You challenged—and I awoke.”

“Alam trivarga-kathayā”—the tales of artha, kāma, dharma, moksha—finished. I am complete. “Alam vijñāna-kathayā”—enough of yoga, and enough of science. Science is the yoga of the outer; yoga is the science of the inner. Now the division of outer and inner has dissolved; all words are useless. The work of words is done. A thorn enters the foot; with another thorn you remove it. Now both are useless—you throw both away.

Janaka says: For lifetimes I had embedded many thorn-words; by the guru’s grace, with your words you removed my thorns; now even your words are unnecessary. It is over. Alam. The end.

“That battering of the waves of events is no more;
that boat sank—and there was no raft left either.
All quarrels were of life itself, O Anees—
when we were no more, no brawl remained.”

Alam. Hari Om Tat Sat.
Enough for today.