Maha Geeta #89

I had no acquaintance with tears at all
It was you who introduced me to pain
You touched the pulsations of my heart
You alone germinated the seedling of song
To a mute mind, you alone gave voice—
I shall not forget this kindness for as long as I live

I would never have learned this language of the eyes
Had I not found you, my life would have been wasted
Breath would have been dragging its own helpless corpse
And what meaning would my life have had?
You alone placed faith in my very prana—
I shall not forget this kindness for as long as I live

Have you come to me as a companion on the journey?
A certain enchantment with the path has arisen
A loneliness that once gnawed at the mind—
stumbling somewhere along the way, it has been lost
You alone have turned grief into celebration—
I shall not forget this kindness for as long as I live

This heart would have remained stone forever,
to tell the truth, had you not met me in this life
Then spring would not have become my friend,
nor would these flowers have bloomed again upon the lips
The shattered temple—you alone rebuilt it—
I shall not forget this kindness for as long as I live

You alone have made the mind a tirth—
I shall not forget this kindness for as long as I live

The shishya is profoundly incapable when it comes to offering thanks. In what words can gratitude be bound? For even the words are given by the guru. Only a mute offering is possible. And yet, still, there is an urge to speak—one cannot remain entirely without saying.
Then there is but one way: let the guru’s echo resound. What the guru has said, let the shishya make it resound within his very prana. What the guru has played, let it be played upon the shishya’s prana-veena as well. This will be the thankfulness, this will be the gratitude.
There is no way to repay the debt to the Master. The disciples asked Buddha, “You have given us so much. If we ever wished to be free of this debt, how? How can we repay it? How can we express our gratitude?” Buddha said, “There is only one thing, only one possibility: whatever I have given you, go and give it to others. Share it. This is the only way—the fragrance received from the Master must be shared.”
In these final sutras Janaka is expressing that unparalleled state of being. And in this expression, the whole dialogue condenses. This is the essence, the distillate. If these final sutras were to remain and the entire Mahageeta were lost, nothing essential would be lost. Janaka has summarized it precisely. As a tree comes from a seed and then the tree again bears seeds, so a small inquiry arose in Janaka—like a seed—Ashtavakra made it a tree, and now Janaka is making it seed again. He is condensing it again, binding it into sutras. His quandary can be understood; his restlessness too can be understood. No matter what you give, gratitude cannot be fulfilled.

All the gold of a lifetime—
even after giving, the mind says,
“Let me give a little more, still.”

Accept my body,
accept the wealth of my mind.
Take my greed, my attachment, my delusions—
make my very breath stainless.

Let me give at every moment, every watch of the night,
let me give at dawn and at dusk,
until worship itself falls silent—
even after giving, the mind says,
“Let me give a little more, still.”

Take devotion’s feeling,
take the power to create.
The inmost core is offered—
take the dissolution of the ego.

Take my birth, take my death,
take my dreaming, take my waking.
Take the long-hoarded efforts of lifetimes—
even after giving, the mind says,
“Let me give a little more, still.”

Let this name be yours,
let these riches, these mansions be yours.
May only the actions be mine,
and the results be yours.

Let these fingers be rosaries of remembrance,
let these breaths follow you.
Let the eternal fragrance of the Self blossom—
even after giving, the mind says,
“Let me give a little more, still.”

Understand this ache. Only then can you enter these sutras. And do not think these sutras are mere repetition. They may look like repetition, because in one sense Janaka is saying what Ashtavakra said; but they are not a repetition. If Janaka were only parroting Ashtavakra, then it would be repetition. What Ashtavakra said has become Janaka’s inner illumination. Now what he says is the very speech of his life-breath.

When a disciple makes the Master’s word his own living experience, then it is no repetition. The words may be the same, yet it is not repetition. These words have been given another chance to live. Entering the disciple, they have been reanimated. They are the same, and yet not the same.

There is an account in the life of a Zen monk. He was with his Master, who had given him a problem for meditation—a koan. He would ponder, contemplate, reflect upon it. The koan was: How does the clap of one hand sound?

A clap does not happen with one hand. None of the sounds we know is the clap of one hand. Sound is born only from the collision of two. All the sounds within our knowledge arise from friction. And sounds born of friction are themselves friction, violence. And whatever arises from conflict cannot be eternal. What is born will also pass away.

The Zen formula, “Seek the sound of one hand,” means: find a sound that is already resounding—from the beginningless to the endless—forever; a sound that never fades and never arises. Indian mystics call it the anāhata nāda—the unstruck sound. Āhata means struck; anāhata means without striking.

So the disciple searched, meditated. Day after day he brought answers. Months passed. He grew tired and asked an experienced practitioner, “What should I do? Months have passed, years are going by; how can I answer the Master?”

That seasoned disciple said, “It took me years too. Every time I brought an answer, I was found wrong. Then one day it dawned on me that there can be no answer to it. I myself would have to become the clap of one hand—that would be the answer. Then I went before the Master perfectly still and empty, thoughtless—no sound remained in me, no ripple. I bowed at his feet, and he said, ‘Now it is right—you have brought the answer!’ When I took no answer, and only bowed in emptiness, he said, ‘You have brought it. Your practice is complete.’” The young monk said, “Why did no one tell me this earlier? I can do that.”

The next morning he came after bath and meditation. He went in silence and bowed at the Master’s feet. But the Master began to laugh. He said, “Fool, the borrowed will not do.” The disciple pleaded, “But I am bowing exactly so—utterly silent. I haven’t uttered even a word.” The Master said, “Even so, the borrowed will not do. When that other one came, he was empty. You are only carrying the feeling of emptiness. You have contrived to be silent on the surface, but inside a million webs of words are being spun. Waves of thought are still surging. Even as you bowed, a thought moved in you: ‘Let’s see if the Master accepts it now or not.’”

He departed for months. When he truly became empty, he returned. Outwardly everything was the same—no visible difference—and again he bowed. A disciple who served at the Master’s feet had witnessed the earlier bow and now saw this one too. The Master said, “Good. Now it is right—you have brought it! You have received the answer.” The attendant asked, “I see no difference. Then too he bowed like this, now too. Then he was as quiet as now. Then you said a borrowed, stale answer won’t do; now you say, he has brought it. I see no difference.” The Master said, “The difference is not outside. The difference is within.”

If you understand only from the surface, it will seem that Janaka is merely repeating Ashtavakra. What need is there? What purpose could such repetition serve? But if you look within, you will see that what Ashtavakra said has come alive again. Janaka has poured his soul into it. Now these are Janaka’s own tones. Do not take them as Ashtavakra’s views anymore. It is not that Janaka is carefully repeating Ashtavakra. What understanding has arisen in Janaka—its essence is in these sutras.

The first sutra—

क्व भूतानि क्व देहो वा क्वेंद्रियाणि क्व वा मनः।
क्व शून्यं क्व च नैराश्यं मत्स्वरूपे निरंजने।।

“In my stainless nature, where are the five elements? Where is the body, where the senses, or where the mind? Where is the void, and where the absence of space?”

With a sense of wonder—the blow of Ashtavakra’s words has struck so deep that it is as if someone has awoken from sleep; as if lightning has suddenly flashed in the dark; as if a blind man has suddenly received eyes, or a deaf one, ears; as if the dead has risen—so sudden an event has occurred—astonished, enraptured. These words are filled with utter amazement.

“In my stainless nature...”
mat-svarūpe niranjane.

Niranjana is a precious word. It means: that upon which no coloring can stick, to which no coating can adhere. A lotus leaf, they say, is niranjana. Though in water, even with drops upon it, the water does not touch the leaf. The drop rests upon it yet remains separate. The leaf is separate. There is no contact, no touch. However close they stay, the leaf is niranjana.

mat-svarūpe niranjane.

Janaka says, “Today I see that I am close to the body, yet I never was the body.

mat-svarūpe niranjane.

I am close to the mind—so close I seem pressed right against it—yet I never was the mind. Actions occurred; I stood nearby, yet I never was the doer. Enjoyments happened; I stood near, yet I was never the enjoyer. Shadows of enjoyment formed, as images form on a mirror: you come before a mirror and your face appears. But no coating is laid upon the mirror; you move away and the image too departs.

This is the difference between a mirror and a camera plate. On a camera plate an image also appears, but there is a chemical deposition. You go away, yet the image remains stuck. On the mirror, no deposition occurs; the image forms and flows away. The state of witnessing is like the mirror, not like the camera plate. The ignorant one is like the camera plate—whatever he sees, he clings to. Someone insulted you twenty years ago; it still reverberates in your mind. You still repeat it. You probe and scratch it again and again, and feel the pain once more. Perhaps someone honored you fifty years ago; that day still refuses to be forgotten. A coating has occurred. The entire past has stuck to the plate of your mind. Only scratches upon scratches remain. In every way you have become smeared.

Janaka says—mat-svarūpe niranjane—seeing this stainless nature of mine, I stand astonished, in a wonder-struck “ah!” It is hard to believe. So much happened, and nothing happened to me. I bore so many pleasures and pains, and I remained untouched. There was wealth, there was poverty; there was childhood, youth, old age; who knows how many bodies I entered—once an animal, once a bird, once a man; once a stone—through how many forms I passed, how many shapes I took—and yet I remained the stainless of the stainless.

“In my stainless nature, where are the five elements!”

This vast play of the five elements is outside me; it is other than me. It has no entry into me—cannot have any entry—my nature is such. Mix water into water and it blends. Pour water into oil and it does not blend. If you drop water into a bowl of oil, they will come very close; their boundaries will seem almost one, and yet water and oil remain distinct. So too consciousness remains distinct from matter. However near the contact, no coating occurs.

mat-svarūpe niranjane.

“Where is the body, and where are the senses?”

Janaka says, “I stand behind the eyes, but I am not the eyes. The eyes that see are not the real seer; the eye is only a window, an opening, at which someone stands and looks. The ear that hears is not the true hearer; the ear is only a window beside which someone listens. When I touch you with my hand, the hand is not the real toucher. Otherwise, a dead hand could also touch. A dead eye can face you, yet it will not see, because the one who stood behind has departed. The real energy has gone. And that real energy is niranjana—stainless.”

“And now where are the senses, where the mind, where the void?”

And he says something extraordinary: “I am not the mind, and the emptiness experienced in samadhi—that too I am not. For whatever is experienced, I am not that.”

Understand this a little—it is subtle. Whatever comes into your experience is other than you. Make this a formula—an inner mathematics. Whatever has come within your experience, you are now separate from it. Whatever you have seen, you are other than it. Whatever has become the seen is not the seer. If you see that within there is great light, then you are separate from that light—you are the one who is seeing. If you see within that streams of nectar are flowing, you are separate from that nectar; you are the one who knows it. If you see within that all is void—no thought, no ripple, no feeling, infinite peace has settled—then you are separate even from that peace. You are the knower of that peace. Therefore I am neither the mind nor the void; from all that can be known, I am separate.

“I am not even space, nor the absence of space.”

mat-svarūpe niranjane.
I am the stainless.

“Being forever free of dualities, where in me are the scriptures, where self-knowledge, where the objectless mind, where contentment, and where the absence of craving?”

क्व शास्त्रं क्वात्मविज्ञानं क्व वा निर्विषयं मनः।
क्व तृप्तिः क्व वितृष्णत्वं गतद्वंद्वस्य मे सदा।।

gatadvandvasya me sadā.
I am beyond all dualities. Wherever there are two, there I am not. Understand this. All our life’s experiences are of twos. Therefore, wherever there are two, know that you are not—that is not your nature.

mat-svarūpe niranjane.
That is not your real nature. Where there is sorrow, there is joy. Where there is day, there is night. Where there is life, there is death. Where there is man, there is woman; where there is woman, there is man. Where there is peace, there is unrest. Where there is childhood, there is old age. Where there is becoming, there is perishing. Where there is creation, there is destruction. Wherever the two arise, there your stainless nature is not. Out of the two, you select one. Someone says, “I am a man”—he has chosen one. Someone says, “I am a woman”—she too has chosen one.
Someone asked Buddha, “After enlightenment are you a man or a woman?” Buddha said, “Now I no longer choose. I am outside choice.” He said only this much: “Now I am beyond choosing. I am neither woman nor man. Now I simply am.” Those choices too were identifications. Through those choices, too, a stain would cling.
Are you young or old? If you choose, you fall. If you stand in choicelessness, if you don’t choose at all… just think about this sometime. The matter is so close to you, and still you miss. Have you ever closed your eyes and pondered, “Am I young or old?” You may be young, you may be old; have you ever closed your eyes and asked, “Am I young or old?” Inside you will fall deeply into the puzzle: am I young or old! Even if the body has grown old, do you ever experience old age within? Even if the body is young, what difference does it make? When you were a child you experienced yourself within just as you do in youth, just as you will in old age. Within, nothing at all changes.

All transformations are outside. The body keeps changing; within is the formless. Within is the eternal. Within is the perpetual. From the outside you think, I am a man, I am a woman; have you ever peeped within to see who you are there? The distinction of woman and man is at the level of the body, it is physical. Consciousness cannot be man or woman. Consciousness bears none of the marks of male/female difference. The witness is only the witness—neither man nor woman.

An elderly Jain asked me—because Jains believe a woman cannot be liberated, liberation is not possible in a female embodiment; one must be male. Men wrote the scriptures, and men placed women lower everywhere. They did not dare to place women above, nor even beside themselves. So that Jain asked, “What do you say? Can a woman be liberated or not?”

I said, “Where liberation happens, there is neither woman nor man. As long as there is a woman and as long as there is a man, there is no liberation. So neither is a woman liberated nor a man liberated. It is wrong even to say a man is liberated. Liberation happens in choicelessness. Liberation happens in witnessing.”

Matsvarūpe niranjane.
Where no collyrium remains, no stain remains. Where you recognize that inner essence which is neither woman nor man; neither young nor old; neither fair nor dark; neither Hindu nor Muslim.

“Where, in me who is ever free of duality, are scriptures?”
All scriptures are in the mind, in the intellect—because all words are in the intellect. How then can scriptures be in me? Whether you accept the Quran or the Puranas, the Vedas or the Bible—it is all the mind’s game. As far as words go, the mind goes. Where words do not reach and only wordlessness reaches, from there you begin. Wherever there are words, there is stain; there you are not stainless. How words hold you!

Ask someone, “Who are you?” He says, “I am a Muslim,” “I am a Hindu,” “I am a Jain,” “I am a Buddhist,” “I am a Christian.” See how words have gripped them! Who is a Christian, who a Hindu, who a Muslim? When a child is born he is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. We teach him, we condition him; we pour it into him sip by sip. From the very day he comes into our hands we start making him a Hindu or a Muslim. Naturally, through constant conditioning one day he begins to repeat, “I am a Hindu,” and starts believing, “I am a Hindu.” You have made that person very narrow. Where is the soul a Hindu or a Muslim! Temples and mosques are all boundaries; the soul is boundless. The soul has no scripture. The soul has no words. The soul is wordless, thoughtless, without modification.

Matsvarūpe niranjane, gatadvandvasya me sadā.
As far as words go, there is duality. You cannot find any word that does not have its opposite. Words are filled with duality. If you call someone beautiful, you will have to call someone else ugly. You cannot manage to say, “Everyone looks beautiful to me.” If everyone looks beautiful, the word beautiful becomes meaningless. You can see beauty only if you also see ugliness. Without accepting the ugly, there can be no comprehension of the beautiful. If you call someone a mahatma, you are in a tangle—because to call someone a mahatma means you will have to call someone else a low-souled one. Without calling someone low-souled you cannot call anyone a great-souled one. The very meaning of mahatma is that you have called someone superior, so you have called someone else inferior. The division has arisen. Say “good” and “bad” comes along. These are two sides of the same coin.

All words are caught in duality. Within words there is no way to go beyond duality. You cannot say, “I see God in everyone.” If you see God in everyone there is no point in saying anything at all. Only as long as you see devils in some can you see God in some. Otherwise it becomes meaningless; the talk is futile. If you say, “I am happy in every situation,” there is no meaning in that statement. It is empty. You must be unhappy in some situations; only then can you say you are happy in every situation.

Gatadvandvasya me sadā.
Janaka says, I am outside duality—gatadvandvasya—beyond. Wherever there is duality, there I am not. Where duality is not, there I am. There, neither are there scriptures nor even self-knowledge. Nor a mind without objects. There, where is satisfaction? Because there is no thirst. As long as there is thirst there is satisfaction. When someone says, “I am very content, I have never had discontent,” know that somewhere discontent is present. Otherwise how would contentment be experienced? Without thirst there is no experience of quenching; without hunger, no experience of satiety. Every experience drags its opposite along. That is why I said to you yesterday: if peaks of happiness occur in your life, remember that valleys of sorrow are nearby. You will fall into them; you cannot be saved.

In Krishnamurti’s teaching there is a priceless word: choicelessness—absence of options, absence of choosing. Do not choose. If you can do just this—stand and watch and do not choose; do not say beautiful, do not say ugly; do not say mine, do not say other; do not say pleasant, do not say unpleasant; do not want to keep close and do not want to push away—then in that very choicelessness you are free.

“Where is form in the formless Self? Where is knowledge? Where is ignorance? Where am I? Where is this? Where is mine? Where is bondage? Where is liberation?”
kva vidyā kva ca vā’vidyā kvāhaṁ kvedaṁ mama kva vā.
kva bandhaḥ kva ca vā mokṣaḥ svarūpasya kva rūpitā..
Svarūpasya kva rūpitā.
“Where is form in the form of the Self?”

We are forced to use words to indicate the wordless. So keep the limitation of words in mind. The more precious a statement is, the more paradoxical it will be. As in: “Where is form in the Self?” The word “svarūpa” itself contains “rūpa” (form). But this is a compulsion. All the words we have are filled with duality. Therefore, to indicate freedom from duality, the only way is to use opposite words side by side.

The Upanishads say, “The Divine is farther than the farthest, nearer than the nearest.” It doesn’t sound logical. Either far or near—how can it be both? But this is the compulsion.

The compulsion is: if we say “far,” we miss; if we say “near,” we miss. Because in calling it near, distance has crept in. Nearness is also a way of measuring distance. Someone sits near me at four feet, someone at six, someone at ten feet, someone ten miles away, someone ten light-years away—these are all distances. The one sitting “near,” at four feet, is also four feet away. Whether you say four feet near or four feet far, what difference does it make? The meaning is the same. Every nearness hides distance. Every distance hides nearness. Language is difficult.

Language is relative. You say water is cold, or you say water is hot. While saying so you feel you are stating some valuable fact. It isn’t a fact. Which water do you call cold? Which water do you call hot?

I was reading a traveler’s account. He had gone to Siberia and got lost on the way. Snow white in all directions. He lost his path. Evening fell, night approached, terrible cold. His blood began to freeze. He panicked. He would not survive if he didn’t reach his camp by night. He ran here and there and finally reached a small village with two or four igloos—homes of Siberian Eskimos. Those igloos are made of ice itself. He was shivering, terrified that death was certain. But he found an igloo, so fine, some shelter at least. He entered; the owner said, “Don’t be afraid, sit, rest.” But the owner was sitting absolutely bare! He had no sense of cold at all. While this man had his teeth chattering so much he could hardly speak. When the owner went to sleep he brought a thin blanket and said, “Perhaps the night might get a little cold, so you can cover yourself.” Perhaps! If at night it gets cold! Sometimes it gets chilly at night.

So what is cold and what is hot? It is relative. What seems hot to you may seem cold to someone else. What seems cold to someone may seem hot to you. Sometimes you can fill a bucket with water, keep one hand on a block of ice, warm the other hand over a stove, then dip both hands together into the bucket. One hand will say the water is hot; the other will say it is cold. You will have both experiences at once—water cold and water hot. Relative. The hand kept on the ice will say the water is warm because the water is warmer than that hand. The hand warmed on the stove will say the water is very cold because it is colder than that hand. Both your hands… the water is exactly the same in one bucket. Relative.

What is near, what is far!

Use words with attention. That is why all the religious scriptures and their authors have used opposite words together—just to tell you to beware: do not get entangled in the duality of words. So we make the two fight; by making them fight both fall, both drop. What remains is the truth.

“Where is form in the Self?”
Now this becomes a baffling statement, an inversion.
“Where is form in the Self?”
The very word “self-form” suggests a form, and then he adds, “Where is form?” So the matter is finished. Janaka is saying exactly this: that in your innermost core there is no form, no shape, no figure. In truth even saying “your innermost core” is not right, because there, there is neither inner nor outer. Your real being is the same for all. There all are one. There is no separate anyone.

Svarūpasya kva rūpitā.
And in such utterly formlessness, what knowledge, what ignorance? Knowledge means what we learn. All learning remains in the mind, it does not go within. Hence if your mind gets injured you will forget your learning.

A friend of mine is a doctor. He fell from a train and hurt his head. There was no wound outside, but inside his memory was lost. He grew up with me from childhood; we studied, played together. When I heard and went to his village to see him, he could not recognize me. He just looked at me; no recollection arose in his eyes. No recognition formed. I asked his father and he began to weep. He said he recognizes no one—neither his father, nor his mother, nor his wife, nor his son. No one.

They are a poor family. With great difficulty they educated him to become a doctor; all his medical learning washed away. He doesn’t recognize people! What he knew, what he had learned—the knowledge he studied—he was a capable doctor—all gone. Nothing comes to mind that he ever read or wrote anything. For three years he remained like that. Then slowly, as a small child learns, he relearned everything. Now he has become barely functional. But no one goes to him for treatment. Who would? People are doubtful now; he is not reliable. Some memory has returned, but it is broken and fragmented.

What we call knowledge is learned material. It can be taken away. Now there are many methods of brainwashing in the world. In Russia, if someone is anti-communist, they no longer kill him. Killing is a very old, primitive method. They just pass electric currents through his brain so strong that his memory is destroyed. When memory is destroyed, where is opposition? What communism? What anti-communism! The man becomes blank; his slate is wiped clean. Then teach him whatever you want. If you want to teach communism, teach communism.

Dangerous tools have fallen into human hands. Governments have acquired very dangerous powers. There is no need even to kill opponents—this is worse than killing. If they killed him, at least he would die with dignity. Now his brain is wiped.

Only one kind of person can escape this brain-wiping: the one who has attained meditation. Wipe his brain—nothing will be affected, because he already knows he is not the brain. If you wipe Ashtavakra’s brain, it won’t touch him. Wipe it—nothing will change. Ashtavakra’s dignity will not be diminished in the least.

That is why I say, the sutras of meditation should be spread in the world as quickly as possible, because governments hold dangerous instruments. Human freedom has never been so threatened as now. Any person’s brain can be wiped easily. If you have the key of meditation and can be a witness, no government will be able to destroy you. But witnesses are very few; people remain doers and enjoyers. People have taken the mind to be all.

“Where is form in the Self, where is knowledge?”
Find within yourself a plane where you are beyond, above, greater than your information. Where you are not your information, but the knower. Someone asks you, “Who are you?” You say, “Engineer.” Or you say, “Doctor.” But that is not your being; that is your knowledge, your learning. Being an engineer is not your existence, nor is being a doctor. You have identified with your learning; you have made an identity. You have made a wrong knot, and it can be costly. Be a witness.

“What knowledge and what ignorance?”
Therefore remember: to be a witness requires no great scholarship or punditry. Wherever you are, you can be a witness. People ask me, “Without study of scriptures, without mastering them, how can one attain meditation? Isn’t it very difficult?”

There is no difficulty in it. Whether you are very intelligent and learned in scriptures—it makes no difference. Or you are completely unlearned, you don’t even know a language—it still makes no difference. To be a witness means: whatever you do, do not bind yourself to it.

Understand. A man farms the field. While farming he can be a witness. Just keep in mind: this plowing that is happening is not me; I am only the watcher. The body is plowing, the mind is making plans—I am the watcher. Or if you are reading the Vedas—it is the same. Or you are making shoes, you are a cobbler; or you are sculpting an idol, you are a sculptor—it makes no difference. What you do is irrelevant. If you awaken to whatever you do and become a witness, you will enter the supreme realm of witnessing. That is why Gora the potter attained knowledge while making pots, and the scholars of Kashi are not willing to accept it. The scholars of Kashi say: “Gora the potter attained knowledge making pots? Kabir weaving cloth? This Kabir, a weaver, and he attained knowledge? We will not accept it.” Ravidas, a cobbler, attained knowledge while making shoes—the scholars cannot digest this. The scholar thinks that until one attains scholarship and degrees, how can one attain knowledge?

Swami Ram Tirtha returned to India from America. In America he became greatly renowned. In this respect America is simple. It may be the only country in human history where a scholar has little value; a practical man has value. In America you will find professors without any degree, teaching in universities. In India such a thing is impossible. Here you cannot find a professor without a degree. A degree must be there—even if the donkey has a degree he will become a professor.

You will be amazed: there are professors who teach Kabir; if Kabir himself came, he would not get a professorship. They teach Kabir in universities, theses are written on Kabir; those who write theses on Kabir become doctors and professors, but if Kabir himself came, the university commission would ask, “Where is your degree?” Only in America could Kabir get a professorship. America’s grip is practical. Many poets there are professors without degrees. But what will you do with a degree? The man who can give birth to poetry, whose poetry will engage professors for hundreds of years—can you not give him a professorship? Can you not give him a chance to explain his own poetry?

There are engineers with no degrees—but they have experience. In this way America is unique; its grip is practical, being a business-oriented country. A businessman’s grip is practical: which method brings results?

Ram Tirtha was honored in America, because the fact was obvious. There was no need to ask Ram Tirtha, “How many scriptures have you studied? Do you know the Vedas?” Ram Tirtha’s very presence was the presence of the Veda. This voice was the Veda’s voice. The ocean surged in these eyes. Ram Tirtha’s ecstasy was proof enough.

But this would not work in Kashi. When Ram Tirtha returned, he went to Kashi—and was astonished. As he began to speak there, a pandit stood up and said, “Stop! Do you know Sanskrit?” Ram Tirtha did not know Sanskrit; he was a Persian scholar. He studied in Lahore, was born nearby, knew Urdu and Persian; he was a professor of mathematics. He had nothing to do with Sanskrit. Ram Tirtha was taken aback. The man said, “Sir, first study Sanskrit! You don’t know the Vedas, and you proclaim Brahma-knowledge! This Brahma-knowledge is of no use. It is all talk until it is supported by scripture.”

They could not see Ram Tirtha! He sat there before them. In these last hundred years, no one more intoxicated than he appeared in India. No one more Sufi-like, more original, more intimate with the divine. But no, the scholars could not see it. The assembly dispersed, people got up and left, saying, “Let it be, what is there! He doesn’t even know Sanskrit!” A curtain fell over their eyes.

There is no need to know Sanskrit. To be a Muslim it is not necessary to know Arabic. Nor is it necessary to know Sanskrit to grasp the essence of Hindu dharma. Nor to know Hebrew to be a Jew. What is necessary is to know the truth. And truth is within. Only awakening is necessary. What is within must be seen with open eyes, that’s all.

“Where is knowledge, where ignorance; where am I, or where is this, where is mine; where is bondage, and where is liberation?”
Bondage and liberation too are parts of the dual world.

Svarūpasya kva rūpitā?
Here, there is no bondage, no liberation, no form arises, no figure forms. A liberated one will not even say, “I am liberated.” Because neither the “I” remains, nor liberation.

Consider this: A man is released from prison. For twenty years he was bound in chains. Today he is freed; at the moment of release there is the feel of freedom. You do not feel freedom! You are walking on the same road where he steps out of the prison gate, the jailer bids him farewell, “Fortunate that you got out alive. Twenty years is a long time. May God protect you—do not come back!” The man stands stunned in the open air, in sunlight, birds flying, people passing—he was locked for twenty years, in dark cells, behind bars, the only sound those of guards’ boots; today suddenly, after twenty years, the colors and forms of life again—this seven-colored life, these flowers, these birds—he stands amazed. There is the experience of supreme freedom. But you walk on that same road and you feel nothing.

The experience of freedom means only this: it is the experience of chains. If there were chains, freedom is felt. When someone is first freed, for a moment perhaps freedom is felt; but then it becomes clear—what freedom, what bondage? Both are gone. With bondage, freedom also goes—so it should. With sorrow, happiness goes—so it should. With restlessness, peace goes—so it should. Now what remains is gatadvandvasya me sadā—only that which is beyond duality.

“Free of righteousness and unrighteousness, where in me are prārabdha karmas? Or where is jīvanmukti? And where is that bodiless aloneness?”
kva prārabdhāni karmāṇi jīvanmuktir api kva vā.
kva tad videha kaivalyaṁ nirviśeṣasya sarvadā..
“I am without attributes…”
nirviśeṣasya sarvadā!
Janaka says: No predicate applies to me now.

nirviśeṣasya sarvadā.
Not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian; not Brahmin, not Shudra; not woman, not man; not knower, not ignorant; not bound, not free—no attribute applies to me. Now I just am. Pure being is beyond boundaries—beyond definition. No definition applies to me now.

nirviśeṣasya sarvadā.
Understand this word nirviśeṣa; it has two meanings. One: devoid of predicates, that no adjective is meaningful anymore. That is enough, says Janaka: no predicate applies to me—neither small nor great; neither rich nor poor; neither renunciate nor indulgent; neither doer nor non-doer. And a second meaning: I am not special in any way now. Take that in too. I am not a special person. I am not exceptional at all.

The craving to be special is the craving of ego. The wish in all our minds is one: that I be special, something extraordinary. We employ a thousand ways to prove we are special. Someone proves it by amassing wealth—Rockefeller, Morgan, Andrew Carnegie—“See how much I have! What do you have?” Someone proves it by becoming a great scholar—“I know the four Vedas; what do you know?” Someone proves it by great renunciation—“See, I have left wealth and property, home and family; see me standing naked in the street—supremely renounced—what have you left?”

These are our races toward specialness. The urge to be special means only one thing: we still know nothing of ourselves. We are still hunting for predicates. We are still trying to show the world who we are. Whoever knows himself, all his effort to show “who I am” ceases. He knows the whole existence is special; to race for specialness here is madness. Everything here is extraordinary, because everything is filled with God.

Janaka says, “And where is that videha aloneness?” About Janaka, a predicate is used—that he attained videha kaivalya. We say, King Janaka was videha. Videha means that while living in the body he knew what is beyond the body. Videha means that while living in the world he attained liberation.

But Janaka says, “And where is that videha aloneness?” That which people say Janaka attained—videha kaivalya—where is that too! Now there is nothing. There is the Great Void. When even voidness does not remain, its name is the Great Void.

“Ever without nature, where in me is doership and where enjoyership? Or where is non-action and where spontaneity? Or where is direct knowledge and where its fruit?”
kva kartā kva ca vā bhoktā niṣkriyaṁ sphuraṇaṁ kva vā.
kvāparokṣaṁ phalaṁ vā kva niḥsvabhāvasya me sadā..
Understand.

“Ever without nature, where in me is doership?”
kva niḥsvabhāvasya me sadā.
Again the paradox. Svabhāva—nature—and then the negation: niḥsvabhāva—without nature. When you know yourself you will know a strange thing: there is nothing like a “self” there. Knowing the self, you will find the “self” has gone. The self existed only in relation to the “other.” When you are utterly alone, you will not even be alone, because aloneness was defined relative to the crowd.

Understand. You are in the market, in a crowd. Then you go sit on a Himalayan peak. You say, “What bliss—sitting alone, no crowd.” But your definition of aloneness comes from the crowd.

I was with some friends in Kashmir, staying on a houseboat. The owner slowly fell in love with me. When we were to depart, he began to cry. I asked, “What is it?” He said, “Baba, just once show me Bombay.” I said, “What will you do seeing Bombay? All these friends with me are from Bombay. They flee Bombay and come here.” He said, “No, Baba, a whole life dying on this Dal Lake—just once show me Bombay.” To him, to live on Dal Lake felt the most useless of occupations. He could not comprehend that the guests on his boat were mostly from Bombay. The man frightened by Bombay runs to Kashmir. The man bored in Kashmir longs for Bombay. You feel peace on Dal Lake; the man living there feels emptiness and tedium.

Get the difference. Your definition of peace comes from Bombay’s crowds. When a man from Bombay sits by the lake he says, “Ah!” But he is still in Bombay, because this “ah” arises by comparison with Bombay; otherwise there is no such “ah.” Next to him the boatman fishes or rows; he has no “ah” at all. No such feeling arises in him. He just gets by, swatting flies. He says, “What to do—nowhere else to go; Bombay is not in my fate, I’ll spend my life here,” swatting flies! To him, Dal Lake is just fly-swatting.

Whenever you run from a crowd, you feel aloneness. Aloneness is the echo of the crowd. The day you truly become alone, neither crowd nor aloneness remains. What aloneness, what crowd—both gone. They were two sides of the same coin; now the whole coin is gone. The day you come upon the self, you will not even find the self—neither self nor other.

“Ever without nature in me—niḥsvabhāvasya me sadā—where is doership, where enjoyership, where non-action, where spontaneity?”
Then a thread I mentioned earlier: Ashtavakra left out some points, to be completed by Janaka—only then understand that Janaka has understood. One sutra was turiya. Ashtavakra did not say anywhere that you will go beyond turiya; Janaka said, “I have gone beyond turiya.” If he were only repeating, he would say only as much as Ashtavakra said. One step Ashtavakra left. If there is experience, that step will be seen too.

The second sutra: sphuraṇa. Ashtavakra’s sutra was: self-sphuraṇa, swacchhanda—one who lives from his own spontaneous glow. He alone attains truth—one who does not live on borrowed orders, who does not imitate others blindly, who draws energy from within and lives in spontaneity. Janaka says, “Where is spontaneity?”

kva kartā kva ca vā bhoktā niṣkriyaṁ sphuraṇaṁ kva vā.
What spontaneity—what talk is this! Here nothing is “spontaneously happening.” When all desires are gone, all thirst gone, all longings gone—what spontaneity? When all action is gone—what spontaneity? When other-dependence is gone—what then is freedom? Both go, both together go.

Gatadvandvasya me sadā.
I dwell beyond dualities. This spontaneity too is gone.

Ashtavakra must have felt profound joy when his disciple said, “Spontaneity is also gone; freedom too is gone.” These are also languages of dependence.

“Or where is direct knowledge?”
Ashtavakra emphasized: you must have your own knowledge. Scriptural knowledge is indirect. Whether it happened to Buddha—you don’t know—was it true, was it false, was he deceiving, was it imagination, was he self-deceived—who knows? It did not happen to you. I say something happened to me—did it or not? How will you decide? You will grope in the dark until you have direct knowledge, until you know yourself. So Ashtavakra said; so all true masters say: know directly, with your own eyes, your own experience.

Janaka says, “Where is direct knowledge and where its fruit? Nothing at all.”
Ashtavakra rejoiced; this is the truth. Where the indirect is gone, there the direct is gone too. These are all dual pairs; they are tied together.

“In my own nondual nature, where is the world, where is the seeker of liberation; where is the yogi, where the knower; where the bound and where the free?”
kva lokaḥ kva mumukṣur vā kva yogī jñānavān kva vā.
kva baddhaḥ kva ca vā muktaḥ svasvarūpe’hamadvaye..
“In my own nondual nature.”
Take note: our sages have always used “nondual” (advaya), not “one.” When they want to say “one,” they use the word “nondual,” very carefully. Advaya means “not two.” They could have said it straight—why take such a long way around? “I, the one.” But they do not say “I, the one,” because with one, the sense of two arises; one exists only because two exist.

In the West, many mathematicians tried various schemes. Ordinarily mathematics uses ten digits—one to ten. On those ten, the whole expanse of mathematics is built. Then comes repetition: eleven, twelve, thirteen—up to crores, arabs, kharabs—still repetition. But the root digits are ten. Their birth is unscientific; they arose because humans have ten fingers. Counting began on fingers; even now villagers count on fingers. Because all humans have ten fingers, all world mathematics is based on ten digits.

But that isn’t a deep mathematical truth; it is a coincidence. So mathematicians tried to get by with fewer digits. Leibniz, a great philosopher and mathematician, tried three digits—one, two, three. After three, four does not come; ten comes. He chose three, inspired by the Christian Trinity. Hindus also speak of the Trimurti. Even science speaks of three: electron, proton, neutron—three constituents of matter. So he thought three should suffice. When the world expands out of three, mathematics should too. So 1, 2, 3, then 10; then 11, 12, 13; after 13, 20—like that. He managed with three.

Then Einstein thought even three aren’t necessary; two should suffice. The world is dual—duality: darkness and light, morning and evening, birth and death; male and female; negative and positive—the world is dual. So two should do. He managed with two, 1 and 2. Then repetition of 1 and 2; 3 does not come; after 1 and 2 comes 10. Many have tried to go lower—but you cannot go lower than two. With one alone, no mathematics can arise. Two are indispensable.

Indian sages always kept this in mind: where you say “one,” two will appear. One cannot be alone; for it to be, the second is necessary. Therefore they never say “me, the one”; they say “me, the nondual.” They say: where I am, there are not two. Now understand the hint. But it is only a hint—they do not plainly say “there is one.” They say only: there are not two; duality is ended; we have crossed beyond two; otherness has dissolved.

Svasvarūpe’hamadvaye.
“In my own nondual nature there is neither world nor seeker; neither yogi nor knower; where bound, where free?”
I am not bound, not unbound; not knower, not ignorant. All predicates are lost. Janaka is presenting before his master: you awakened me. From the awakening you gave me, this is what has happened. The disciple is opening his heart, reporting what has happened. And it happened by mere hearing. To Janaka, just by listening to Ashtavakra, this happened. Janaka is an incomparable vessel. There is no greater vessel than one who, by listening, experiences truth. And such experience that he could complete what the master had knowingly left incomplete; he could fill the gaps.

In the West there was a great painter—Doré. Hundreds of disciples came to learn painting from him. His way of testing was unique—just like Ashtavakra’s must have been. Doré would paint a picture and purposely leave some subtle flaw in it—one only a painter of his caliber could recognize. Others could not even see it. He would say to his students, “If you see any flaw, complete it.” Whoever completed it—sometimes it was just a brush’s tiniest stroke he had omitted—a mark so subtle that no one would notice. His paintings were perfectly beautiful; he was an unparalleled artist. Thousands learned from him, but only a few passed. Most would say, “There is no flaw,” after hours of looking. Sometimes, thinking the master said there must be a flaw, a student would find one where there wasn’t any, and in trying to fix it would ruin the painting. Sometimes a student would recognize the flaw; whoever recognized it, Doré would pass.

I think he had found the right way to test. Only a student in whom Doré’s very state of mind had arisen could see what Doré had left. No one else could. One who had become so united with the master that he was no longer a disciple—in truth, he had become the master. You will see this in the next sutra. Janaka says: “Now where is the master, where the disciple!” That is the last sutra. And Janaka is declaring his qualification for it. He has filled the fine gaps the master left—gaps very subtle. If one were imitating, one would fear to contradict the master: “Spontaneity is not; direct knowledge is not; there is no fruit of knowledge; there is no liberation, no moksha; neither bondage nor bonds; neither world nor nirvana.”

“In my own nondual nature, where creation and where dissolution, where the goal and where the means; where the seeker and where attainment?”
kva sṛṣṭiḥ kva ca saṁhāraḥ kva sādhyaṁ kva ca sādhanam.
kva sādhakaḥ kva siddhirvā svasvarūpe’hamadvaye..
I stand in my nondual nature and see—Janaka says, forgive me, but my submission is this: here, in this nondual state, I see neither creation nor dissolution. Nothing has ever been made and nothing is ever destroyed. What is, is. What is not, is not. There is no maker, for nothing has ever been made. If there is no creation, what Brahmā? If there is no creation, who preserves? If there is no destruction, who is Śiva? No one. What is, is—the nondual, the one. From there I say: there is nothing; all is dream—and it appears only until you awaken to yourself. All are things seen in sleep, thoughts dreamt in dreams.

“Where is the goal and where the means; where the seeker and where attainment?”
This seems the final word—“Where attainment?” Now understand: this is the very mark of attainment—that even attainment becomes useless. He who gets stuck in attainment missed while attaining. Patañjali wrote a whole chapter on siddhis in the Yoga Sutras just to warn: be alert—such happenings will occur; do not get entangled. Otherwise, you escape the world and get trapped in heaven. You escape the outer and get tangled within. The outer magic breaks and you grab the inner magic—but the magic continues; the sleep does not end. The one who is truly accomplished has no accomplishment remaining in him. He has become so simple. This is the state of supreme attainment. Such a person is a gust of wind, a stream of water, a ripple of the lake—just that simple. Simplicity is attainment. Emptiness is attainment. Going even beyond attainment is attainment.