Maha Geeta #9

Religion is experience, not thought. Thought cannot even become its shadow. And those who get entangled in thought remain far from religion forever. No one is farther from religion than the thinker!

As love is an experience, so too is Paramatma an experience. And if there is to be experiencing, it is only possible in wholeness.

The process of thinking is a small part of man — and even that part is very superficial, not deep. It does not belong to the inner sanctum; it is not the center, it is the periphery; even if it were not there, a man could still live. And now that thinking machines have been created, things have become very clear: even a machine can think; nothing especially dignified about man there!

Aristotle and others like him called man a rational animal. That definition should now be changed, because the computer can think — and with more efficiency and accuracy than man; man makes mistakes, the computer has hardly any chance to err.

Man’s dignity does not lie in his thinking. Man’s dignity lies in his experiencing.

When you taste something, taste is not just thought. A monsoon cloud! It floods every pore of you. You are overwhelmed by taste.

Drink wine, and the result is not confined to your thoughts; your hands and feet begin to sway. Have you seen a drunkard walk? The wine has reached into every pore! It shows in his gait, it flickers in his eyes, it tinges his rising and sitting, it colors his thoughts — yet it envelops his whole being.

Religion is like wine — only the one who drinks will know; only the one who is drunk will experience.

These utterances of Janaka were spoken in that very intoxicated moment. If you try to understand them without tasting, the likelihood of error is great. Their meaning will seem to be something else altogether. You will read into them meanings that are yours.

As Krishna says in the Gita: Sarva dharmān parityajya, mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja — Abandon all, Arjuna, and come to my shelter!

When you read it, it will appear to be a proclamation of great ego: “Abandon all and come to my refuge! To my refuge!”

But the ‘my’ you will infer is yours, not Krishna’s. In Krishna there is no ‘I’ left. It is only a way of speaking. It is symbolic. You have exaggerated the symbol. In your delusion the symbol has become the truth. For Krishna it is purely pragmatic, not ultimate.

You have seen it: if someone spits on the national flag, there is outrage, violence, even war may erupt — “He spat on the national flag!” But have you ever reflected that the flag is the nation’s symbol, and upon the nation itself you spit every day, yet no quarrel arises! Spit on the earth, no quarrel arises. When you spit anywhere, you are spitting upon the nation — wherever you spit. Yet no quarrel arises for spitting on the nation. The symbol of the nation — merely a sign, a piece of cloth — if someone spits on it, wars can happen.

Man gives vast value to symbols — far more than they contain. In his blindness man begins to live in symbols.

When Krishna uses the word ‘I’, it is only for practicality; he has to speak, so he speaks; he has to say, so he says. But after the saying and the speaking, there is no ‘I’ there. If you look straight into Krishna’s eyes, you will not find any ‘I’ there. There is a vast hush, a void. The I has been dissolved there. That is precisely why Krishna can so effortlessly say, “Come, come into my refuge!” When he says “Come, come into my refuge,” it seems to us a proclamation of great ego. Because the meaning of ‘I’ that we know — we will impose the same.

Janaka’s utterances will amaze you even more. There are no other utterances like these upon the earth. Krishna at least said, “Come, into my refuge”; these words of Janaka are such you would not believe them.

In these words Janaka says: “Ah! Ah, my nature! Ah, my light! Wonder! Who am I! I go to my own refuge! Salutations to me!” You will be stunned.

In these utterances Janaka bows to himself. Here even the other is no more. Again and again he says, “I am wonder! Salutations to me!”

Aho ahaṁ namo mahyaṁ, vināśo yasya nāsti me —

“I am so full of wonder; I am myself wonder. I bow to myself. For though all may be destroyed, I remain. From Brahma down to the speck of dust, all will pass away — still I remain. Salutations to me! Who is as skillful as I! I am in the world — and unstained! Like the lotus in water! Salutations to me!”

Humanity has never heard such a proclamation: “Salutations to oneself!” You will say, this is egotism at its extreme. Even if he had said it to another, that might be alright — but to touch one’s own feet...!

It is written in the life of Ramakrishna that a painter made his portrait. When he brought it, the devotees were embarrassed, because Ramakrishna kept touching the painting’s feet. It was his own portrait. He lifted it to his head. A devotee said, “Paramhansadev, have you gone mad? This is your picture.”

Ramakrishna said, “Thank you for reminding me! I saw only the Samadhi in the picture. It must have been painted while I was in Samadhi. Thank you for reminding me; otherwise people would call me mad. I was bowing to Samadhi. This painting is of Samadhi, not of me.”

But those who saw it must have thought, “The man has gone mad — touching his own picture’s feet! Lifting his own portrait to his head! What greater madness can there be? This is egotism’s last word; beyond this there can be no peak of ego.”

Janaka is speaking in ecstasy in these utterances. A taste has arisen! He is intoxicated! Had he been able to dance like Meera, he would have danced. Had he been able to sing like Chaitanya, he would have sung. Had he been able to play the flute like Krishna, he would have played the flute.

Each person has a different possibility of expression. Janaka was an emperor — cultured, educated, tremendously intelligent, the cream of intelligence — so the words he spoke are worthy of being written in letters of gold in human history. To understand these words, you will have to set aside your own meanings in between.

We must spend a few days
looking at the world —
for a human life
is a window of vision.
What is this ‘intellect’
that has kept the heart of colors
from every act,
and has poked its nose
into every matter?
The adornment of meaning
is the poet’s imagining —
to get tangled in words
is the craft of the rhymester.
What is this ‘intellect’
that has kept the heart of colors
from every act,
and has poked its nose
into every matter!

Whenever a wave arises in the heart, the intellect stops it at once. Whenever some feeling deepens, the intellect immediately interferes.

What is this ‘intellect’
that has kept the heart of colors
from every act,
and has poked its nose
into every matter!

Put this intellect a little aside — if only for a while, for a single moment. In those moments the clouds will clear, and the sun will be seen. If you cannot lay this intellect aside, it goes on interrupting. Interference is its habit. Interference is its nature. Meddling is its delight.

And religion is related to the heart; its wave will be ruined. The dye of the intellect will overlay that wave, and the thing will be lost. You will understand something else altogether.

The adornment of meaning
is the poet’s imagining.

The real poet, the seer, the rishi, pays attention to meaning.

The adornment of meaning
is the poet’s imagining.

In his imagination, flowers of meaning bloom, the fragrance of meaning arises.

To get tangled in words
is the craft of the rhymester.

But the rhymester gets lost in mere words. He is not a poet. The rhymester just keeps matching words with words. The rhymester has no concern with meaning; that words rhyme — that is enough.

The intellect is a rhymester. The mystery of meaning, the secret of meaning, is hidden in the heart. So lay the intellect aside and listen; only then will you be able to hear.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin went to a cloth merchant. Pointing to a fabric he asked, “Brother, what is the price of this cloth?”

The shopkeeper said, “Mulla, five rupees a meter.”

Mulla said, “Will you give it for four and a half?”

The shopkeeper said, “Elder brother, four and a half is what it costs me at home.”

Mulla said, “Fine then — we’ll take it from home.”

A man keeps pouring his own meanings in.

A patient asked a dentist, “Can you extract a tooth without pain?”

The dentist said, “Not always. Just yesterday, while wrenching someone’s tooth, my wrist got dislocated.”

The doctor’s pain is his own. The one who has come to have his tooth pulled — his concern is another; his pain his own.

Mulla Nasruddin was hired at a place. The boss said, “When you were hired, you said you never get tired — and just now you were sleeping with your feet up on the desk.”

Mulla said, “Sir, that is the very secret of my never getting tired.”

We keep pouring our own meanings. And until we stop pouring our own meanings, the meanings of the shastras do not reveal themselves. To read scripture a special art is needed; to read scripture, a mind free of notions, empty of presuppositions, is needed. To read scripture there must be no haste to interpret; there must be the capacity to listen, to taste, to savor patiently and contentedly.

Listen to these sutras —

“Light is my nature. I am not separate from it; when the world is illumined, it is illumined by my light.”

Prakāśo me nijaṁ rūpaṁ, nātirikto’smy ahaṁ tataḥ —

“This entire world is illumined by my light,” says Janaka.

Certainly this light cannot be the light of an ‘I’ as we ordinarily know it, of which Janaka speaks. This is the light of ‘I-lessness’ itself. So do not be led by language; do not become a rhymester; do not let the intellect interfere. The meaning is simple and straight; do not twist it.

“Light is my very nature.”

So it has to be said like this, because language belongs to the ignorant. The enlightened have no language. Therefore when two enlightened ones meet, they fall silent — what is there to speak? Neither is there a language, nor is there anything to be said. No subject to speak of, and no language in which to say it.

It is said Farid and Kabir once met. They sat silently for two days. They would take each other’s hand, embrace, tears would flow, they would sway in ecstasy —

The disciples became anxious. Their longing was great that if both spoke, it would be a shower upon us. If they would say something, we would hear. Even if we could catch a single word, life would be fulfilled.

But they did not speak. Two days passed. Those two days became very long. The disciples waited, and Kabir and Farid sat silent. At last, when the visit ended and Kabir had seen Farid off, Farid’s disciples asked, “What happened? Did you not speak? You always speak. Whatever we ask, you answer. And in that hope we brought you to Kabir — that something would transpire between you two, some nectar would flow, and we unfortunate ones would drink a little of it. We brought two banks together — the Ganges would flow, and we too would bathe; but the Ganges did not flow. What happened?”

Farid said, “Between Kabir and me there was nothing to say, and no language to say it. There was nothing to ask, and nothing to answer. There was much — the current flowed, the Ganges did flow — but not of words, of silence.”

Kabir’s disciples asked him the same: “What happened? Why did you become silent? You became as if you had always been mute!”

Kabir said, “Fools! If I had spoken in front of Farid, I would have proven myself ignorant. Whoever spoke would have proven himself ignorant. Where work proceeds without words, what is the point of words? Where a needle suffices, only madmen lift a sword. Here it went without speaking. Did you not see how the tears flowed, what ecstasy there was!”

Between two enlightened ones, words are not needed. Between two unenlightened ones, there are only words — no meaning at all. Between two enlightened ones, there is only meaning — no words at all. Between the unenlightened and the enlightened, there are both words and meaning. For conversation, one enlightened and one unenlightened are needed.

If there are two unenlightened, there is dispute. Conversation cannot be; dialogue cannot be; there will be head-breaking. If there are two enlightened, dialogue does not occur through words; meeting happens on a more profound plane where centers meet. Union happens; what need of dialogue? Without speaking, the message reaches; without telling, the vision happens. Between the unenlightened and the enlightened, dialogue is possible — if the enlightened is willing to speak, and the unenlightened is willing to listen.

The words of the shastras are, in a sense, always paradoxical — because the shastra speaks what cannot be spoken, and yet tries to speak the unsayable. It is compassion that some Buddhas have tried to speak the unsayable — to turn our eyes in the direction where we have forgotten to look. They have given us a glimpse of the sky. We crawl on the earth; we have stopped lifting our heads.

It is said that when Mansoor was hanged upon the gallows, he began to laugh. There was a crowd of perhaps a hundred thousand. Someone asked, “Mansoor, why do you laugh?”

Mansoor said, “I laugh because this is good — that I have been hanged; at least you have lifted your eyes a little upward!”

Hanging from the gallows, people had to look up. So Mansoor said, “At least — even if by this excuse — you have raised your eyes towards the sky. For this I am glad this crucifixion happened. Perhaps, looking at me, you may glimpse that which is hidden within me. Perhaps in this hour of death, under the shock of death, your thought-process may stop, and for a moment the sky may open — and you may have the vision of what I am!”

Prakāśo me nijaṁ rūpaṁ —

Light is my nature.

Nātrikto’smy ahaṁ tataḥ —

I am not separate from it, not separate from light.

This inner source of light becomes available only when the ‘I’ disappears. But say — how to say it? When it has to be said, the ‘I’ must be brought back.

“When the world is illumined, it is illumined by my light.”

Surely Janaka is not speaking of a person called Janaka. The person has dissolved, the wave of personality is gone — the ocean remains! And this ocean is of all of us. This proclamation of Janaka is not about him alone — it is about you as well; about all who have ever been, and all who ever will be. It is a proclamation about the whole of existence.

Learn to efface yourself a little, and the taste will begin. And when the taste begins, such proclamations will arise in you too. It is difficult to hold them back.

Mansoor knew that if he said, “Anal Haq,” “Ahaṁ Brahmāsmi,” “I am the Divine,” he would be crucified; the crowd of the faithful would not tolerate it; the crowd of the blind would not be able to see. Even so, he proclaimed it. His friends warned him not to say such things, they would be dangerous. Mansoor knew too that such proclamation could be dangerous — but the proclamation could not be stopped. When a flower blooms, fragrance spreads. When a lamp is lit, light radiates. Come what may.

Rahim has said:

Charity, blood, cough, joy, enmity, love, and drunkenness —
Rahim says, these cannot be suppressed; the whole world knows.

There are things that cannot be pressed down. Drink ordinary wine and how will you hide it? Often it happens, the more the drunkard tries to conceal, the more it shows. Have you noticed? The drunkard tries hard that no one should know! He speaks carefully — that very care betrays him. He walks carefully — in that very care he wobbles. He tries to be smart so that no one knows.

One night Mulla Nasruddin came home drunk. He thought: today I will not let the wife know. What should I do? He thought, “I’ll read the Quran. Who has heard of a drunkard reading the Quran! If I read the Quran, it will be clear I haven’t been drinking. Drunkards don’t read the Quran!”

He reached home, lit the lamp, sat, and began to read. Finally the wife came, shook him and said, “Stop this nonsense! Why are you sitting there with the suitcase open?”

How would a drunkard find the Quran! He had found the suitcase, opened it, and was reading there!

So you cannot hide it. And if ordinary wine cannot be hidden, how will the wine of the Divine be hidden? Ecstasy begins to shimmer from the eyes. The eyes become intoxicated. The words are tinged with the colors of another world. Words become rainbow-hued. Prose turns into poetry. When you speak, it sounds like song. When you walk, it looks like dance. No, it does not hide!

Charity, blood, cough, joy, enmity, love, and drunkenness —
Rahim says, these cannot be suppressed; the whole world knows.

Proclamation happens inevitably.

Truth is by nature proclamatory. As soon as the event of truth happens within, unconsciously the proclamation begins.

Janaka did not speak these words by thinking and calculating; if he had, he would have become hesitant. He has just brought Ashtavakra; Ashtavakra has just spoken a little — and the event has happened in Janaka! Had he calculated, had he reckoned with the intellect, he would have said, “What will Ashtavakra think — I am ignorant, and I speak thus! These are fit only for the utterly enlightened. Can such an event happen so quickly? Just heard — and it happened? Has it ever been so! It takes time, births upon births, a very arduous journey; one has to walk upon the edge of a sword.” All these would have come to mind; thinking, he would have held back from such a far-reaching proclamation.

But the proclamation is happening of itself — that is what I wish to remind you. Janaka is speaking is not quite right; it is being spoken through Janaka — that is right.

“Wonder! The imagined world appears in me through ignorance — like silver in the nacre, a snake in the rope, water in the sun’s rays.”

Aho vikalpitaṁ viśvam ajñānān mayi bhāsate,
rūpyaṁ śuktau phaṇī rajjau vāri sūryakare yathā.

As silver is imagined in the mother-of-pearl, a snake is imagined in the rope in the dark, and water is imagined in the shimmering of the sun in the desert — so is this world imagined.

Wonder! The event has descended so suddenly, with such intensity; the insight has come so swiftly that Janaka cannot contain himself! He is filled with astonishment — like a small child who has entered a fairyland and everything is alluring, everything beyond belief.

Tertullian has said: Until the vision of God happens, there is disbelief; and when the vision happens, disbelief remains.

His disciples asked, “We do not understand. We have heard that when the vision of God happens, faith arises.”

Tertullian said, “Until the vision, disbelief remains — how can God be? Impossible! Without experience, how to trust? And when God is experienced, trust still balks — how can there be such bliss! Such light! Such nectar! Even then it seems impossible. Before it happens, it seems impossible; when it happens, it seems even more impossible.”

Janaka is exactly in that state.

Wonder! All is imagined. I alone am truth; the mere witness is truth — all else is appearance, all else is maya.

“From me this world has arisen; into me it will dissolve, just as a pot dissolves into clay, a wave into water, an ornament into gold.”

See the difference? Janaka’s human form is dissolving; the divine form is manifesting.

Swami Ram Tirtha went to America. He was a man of ecstasy. Someone asked, “Who made the world?” He must have been in the mood, in a moment of Samadhi. He said, “I did!” In America, who will believe such a thing? In India such talk passes. Quite a sensation spread: people asked, “Are you in your senses? The moon and stars — you made them?” He said, “I made them; I set them in motion, and since then they have been moving.”

It is difficult to understand this proclamation. And if his American listeners could not understand, do not be surprised. It is natural. This proclamation is not of Ram the person; or if it is, it is of the true Ram — not of Ram Tirtha. In that moment Ram Tirtha was not speaking as a wave, but as the ocean; speaking as the Eternal, the Timeless — not as the temporal; not as a man defined and limited by body and mind — but as the indefinable, beyond body and mind, the Unknowable. Through Ram, Ram alone spoke — not Ram Tirtha. This proclamation is of the Divine!

But it is very difficult, very hard to decide.

Later Ram returned to India... he used to go on pilgrimage to Gangotri. He was bathing in the Ganga. He leapt from the mountain. He wrote a small note and left it: “Now Ram goes to meet his real nature. The call has come; I will not be able to remain in this body. The Vast has called.”

The newspapers reported it as suicide. In a sense, the newspapers are also right. He jumped into the river — it is suicide. Ask Ram, and he would say, “You are sitting committing suicide and you call mine suicide? I only broke the barrier and connected with the Vast. I only removed the obstacle in between. I did not die. I was the dead one; now I am alive, now connected with the Vast. That small stream of life — now it is the ocean. I left the limit — how is that the death of the Self! The Self I have now found by dropping the limit.”

Keep this forever in mind: whenever Samadhi thickens within you, when the clouds of Samadhi gather within, the rain that falls is not of your ego, your I-am-ness. That rain comes from beyond you, from beyond your past.

In this moment Janaka’s personality is receding.

“From me this world has arisen; into me it will dissolve, just as a pot dissolves into clay, a wave into water, an ornament into gold.”

When there was nothing, there was Khuda;
Even if there were nothing, there would be Khuda.
It is my very being that drowned me —
Had I not been, what would I have been?

“It is my very being that drowned me!” We will say Ram Tirtha committed suicide. Ram Tirtha would say, “My being drowned me! In drowning in the Ganga I was for the first time. Until I was, I was drowned.”

When there was nothing, there was Khuda;
Even if there were nothing, there would be Khuda.
It is my very being that drowned me —
Had I not been, what would I have been?

I would have been Khuda! I would have been the Divine!

This limit of being — when someone drops it like a garment, the vision of truth happens. As a snake slips out of its old skin, so the event has happened to Janaka. Ashtavakra must have functioned like a catalytic agent.

Scientists speak of catalytic agents. They say there are elements that do not actively participate in a reaction, yet without their presence the reaction does not occur.

You have seen lightning flash in the rains. Scientists say water is formed by the union of oxygen and hydrogen — but hydrogen and oxygen combine only when electricity is present. If electricity is not present, they do not unite. Though electricity takes no part in the union of hydrogen and oxygen — merely its presence...! Such presence scientists have named the catalytic agent.

The guru is a catalytic agent. He does nothing, yet without his presence nothing happens. In his presence, something happens. Though he does nothing, merely his presence! Understand it. Only his energy surrounds you. In the enclosure of that energy strength arises in you — the strength is yours. Songs begin to flow — the songs are yours. Proclamations begin to happen — the proclamations are yours! But without the guru’s presence, they perhaps would not happen.

Ashtavakra’s presence worked as a catalytic agent. Seeing that gentle, silent, supreme state, Janaka must have remembered his long-forgotten home; glancing into those eyes and seeing the boundless expanse, his own forgotten possibilities must have stirred; hearing Ashtavakra’s words — steeped in truth, soaked in experience — the taste must have been aroused.

It is said a man had raised a lion. It was a small cub, eyes not yet open, when he brought it home. That lion had never eaten meat; he had no taste of blood. He was a vegetarian lion — ate vegetables, ate bread. He did not know; there was no reason to know. One day the man sat on his chair; his leg was hurt, a little blood oozed. The lion was sitting nearby. Absentmindedly he licked that blood. That was enough! In a single instant, a transformation. The lion growled. In that growl was violence. Until then he had been Jain; suddenly he became a lion. Until then vegetarian — the kind of sound that can come from eating pure vegetables used to come. Though he had not eaten any meat, he had only tasted a little blood — but memory returned. Pore by pore, the sleeping, forgotten leonine capacity awoke. Someone had stirred; someone had stretched. The sleeper opened his eyes. He rose with a growl. Then he began to attack. He could no longer be kept at home; he had to be released into the forest. So long he had slept; today, for the first time, he remembered who he was.

In Ashtavakra’s shadow, Janaka remembered who he is. And these words — had Janaka spoken them by thinking, he could not have said them; hesitation would have seized him. Is it easy to say such a thing?

“From me this world has arisen; into me it will dissolve, just as a pot into clay, a wave into water, an ornament into gold.”

Ashtavakra’s shadow, Ashtavakra’s presence, awakened him. The lion, asleep through births upon births, began to roar! He remembered his nature — self-remembrance happened! That is the meaning of satsang.

In the East, satsang has been given immense value; in the languages of the West there is no exact word for satsang, for the West never understood its value.

Satsang means this much: to sit near one who has known, and the taste becomes contagious. To drown in the waves of one who has known, and your forgotten, sleeping waves begin to stir; a trembling begins. Satsang does not mean so much hearing the guru’s words, as drinking the guru’s presence, letting the guru enter within, falling into a shared rhythm with the guru.

The guru lives in a particular vibration. When you are close to the guru, his vibrations create the same in you. For a little while at least, you enter another realm; the gestalt changes. The structure of your seeing changes. For a short while you begin to see with the guru’s eyes, hear with the guru’s ears.

I want to tell you that when Janaka spoke these words, they are also Ashtavakra’s words. The scripture says “Janaka uvācha,” but I wish to remind you it is “Ashtavakra uvācha.” What Ashtavakra had said, and what Ashtavakra’s presence was — that has become so condensed that Janaka has been washed away in the flood; no trace remains of the house — someone else has begun to speak!

“From me this world has arisen; into me it will dissolve, just as a pot into clay, a wave into water, an ornament into gold.”

I am that lost-and-bewildered traveler — and I am my own destination.
What can existence give me — I am existence’s very fruit.

I am that lost-and-bewildered traveler —
a wandering, forgotten wayfarer — and I am my own destination.

The destination is not outside. I am lost because I have not looked within; otherwise, there is no reason to wander. I am lost because I have not closed my eyes to look. I am lost because I made no effort to recognize myself — and I search for the destination where it can never be.

I am that lost-and-bewildered traveler — and I am my own destination.

This is the cause of wandering: the destination is within, we search without. The lamp burns within. The light falls without. Seeing the light falling outside, we run outward thinking the source must also be outside. The light falling outside is ours. The fragrance that comes from without is given by us — it is reflection, it is echo. We run after the echo.

There is a Greek tale of Narcissus. A very beautiful youth! He fell into grave difficulty. He sat by a lake — calm, beautiful, without ripples. He saw his reflection there. He fell in love with his own image. He became so mad that he would not move from there. He forgot hunger and thirst. He became Majnun, and his own reflection became his Laila. The shadow was beautiful; again and again he would descend into the lake to catch it — but as soon as he entered, the lake would tremble, ripples would arise, the image would vanish. He would sit on the bank again; when the lake stilled, it appeared again. It is said he went mad; in that very manner he died.

You have seen the flower called narcissus — it grows by the water’s edge, named in his memory. It stands on the riverbank, gazing at its own reflection.

But every man is a Narcissus. That which we seek is within; where we seek, there are only reflections, only echoes. Certainly, there is no way to find echoes unless we come to the original source.

I am that lost-and-bewildered traveler — and I am my own destination.
What can existence give me —
I am existence’s very fruit.

What have I to gain from life?
I am myself life’s essence.

I have nothing to extract from life. Through life I do not have to search for meaning — I myself am life’s meaning; I am life’s conclusion, its ultimate flower, its final step, its highest peak.

But the one who searches for meaning in life, experiences meaninglessness. That is what has happened in the modern age: meaning is lost. People say, “Where is meaning in life?” Such a calamity never happened before. It is not as if there were no intelligent men before — there have been very great intelligences, beyond comparison. Buddha has been; Zarathustra has been; Lao Tzu has been; Ashtavakra has been. What peaks beyond these? What sharper genius? But never did any of them say life has no meaning.

The intelligent of the modern age — Sartre, Camus, Kafka — all say that life has no meaning; it is meaningless, “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” No meaning, no value — empty babble — such is life!

What happened? Why did life suddenly seem meaningless? Is it not that we are searching for meaning in the wrong direction? For Krishna says life is supremely meaningful. For Krishna says life is full of ultimate significance and splendor. For Buddha says supreme peace and supreme bliss are hidden in life. Ashtavakra says life itself is the Divine. Somewhere we are erring. We are searching in the wrong direction.

What can existence give me — I am existence’s very fruit.

When we search outside, life seems meaningless. When we search within, life brims with meaning — because we ourselves are the meaning of life.

“I am wonder! Salutations to me. From Brahma to blade of grass, even if the universe is destroyed, I am not destroyed. I am eternal.”

Such a wondrous statement has never been made before nor after. See its wonder: “Salutations to me!” Surely this is not Janaka’s personal statement. The supreme event has occurred — this is that event’s statement. This is the voice of Samadhi. This is the music of Samadhi!

Aho ahaṁ namo mahyaṁ, vināśo yasya nāsti me.

“All will be erased; I will not be erased! All is born and dies — I am neither born nor do I die! I am wonder! I am myself wonder! My salutations to me! From the tiniest blade to Brahma — they arise and pass; their time comes and goes. They are all events within time — waves. I am the witness! I see them arising and dissolving. They are the play, the drama, the acting unfolding before my eyes. In the light of my eyes they shine and they fade.”

Even Brahma! Those you worship in temples — Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh — they come and go. Only one element in this cosmos neither comes nor goes — that is you. Beyond you — you! And when you are beyond yourself, you will find your head has bowed to your own feet! Then you will find the Supreme Lord enthroned within! Then you will find the one you sought has always been waiting within you! I am wonder! Salutations to me.

“I am wonder. Though embodied, I am nondual.”

I appear as two, yet I am nondual. The twoness is only on the surface. Like a tree with many branches — count the branches and they are many; but come down to the trunk and they are one. So too, this multiform world, at its source, is one. It is the spread of the One.

“I am wonder. Salutations to me. Though embodied, I am nondual. I neither go anywhere, nor come anywhere — and I encompass the world.”

Listen! Janaka says, I encompass the world; I have encircled the world! I am the very definition of the world! I am the boundless! The world is within me!

Ordinarily we see ourselves inside the world. This is a unique revolution — the gestalt has wholly changed. Janaka says, the world is inside me! As clouds arise in the sky and disintegrate, so do the ages arise in me and dissolve. I, formless, witness-like, mere seer, stand encompassing all!

Understand this. Once you were a child — then a certain form arose in your inner sky: childhood. Then you became young — that form vanished, a new cloud gathered. A new form you took, you became young. As a child you had no inkling of sexuality; even if someone had explained, you would not have understood. Then you became young — a new desire arose, donned new garments, new colors bloomed; your life took a new mold. Then you began to age. Youth passed; its tumult passed; that desire flowed away. Now you are astonished how you ever fell into such desires. You think in wonder, “How foolish I was; how ignorant I was!”

Every old person, if he has even a little succeeded in looking at life, is filled with wonder: after what all did I run — wealth, position, attachment, woman and man — what all did I run after! What did I search for! I myself searched for myself! It is hard to believe I could be such a dreamer!

There is a saying in Arabia: if a young man cannot weep, he is not young; and if an old man cannot laugh, he is not old. If a young man cannot weep, he is not young — because the one who cannot weep, whose tears cannot flow, his feeling is stunted, his life has no waves, no play. One who cannot be afflicted is not young — he is stony; his heart has not blossomed. And the old who cannot laugh — at his whole life and at himself, “What foolishness!” What a joke! — he is not old. The old is he who can laugh at all stupidity, his and everyone’s, and say, “What a comedy this is! People are madly running after things of no value.” He now sees — there is no value at all.

Once you are young, once old. Once the cloud takes one form, once another, once a third. But have you noticed that within, you are the same? The one who saw childhood has seen youth. The one who saw youth has seen old age. You are the seer. The one who stands behind seeing is exactly the same. At night you sleep — your seer sees dreams. When even dreams do not remain, only deep slumber exists — sushupti — then your seer sees deep sleep: “What profound rest!” That is why in the morning you sometimes say, “I slept very deeply.” Who saw? If you had slept totally and there was no one awake within, who saw? Who knew? Who received the news? Who says in the morning, “I slept deeply”? If you fully slept, who was there to know? Surely someone within remained awake; in a corner a lamp remained lit, watching: deep sleep — very restful, very delightful, very silent — no ripple of dream, no tension, no thought. Someone was watching. In the morning that watcher says, “It was deep sleep.” If the night was full of dreams, you say, “The night went in dreams — what nightmares I saw!” Surely the watcher was not lost in dreams; the watcher did not become the dream — the watcher stood apart.

Then in the day, with open eyes you see the world. In the shop you are a shopkeeper, with a friend you are a friend, with an enemy an enemy. At home — with a wife you are a husband, with a son a father, with a father a son. A thousand forms... you see all this. But beyond all you are the one who sees. Sometimes success, sometimes failure; sometimes illness, sometimes health; sometimes days of fortune, sometimes misfortune — but one thing is certain: these come and go; you do not come, you do not go.

“I am wonder. Salutations to me. Though embodied, I am nondual — neither going anywhere, nor coming anywhere...”

Na kvachit gantā, na kvachid āgantā —

Neither going anywhere, nor coming anywhere. Just am. This mere Being is the nature.

“...and I encompass the world.”

And I have encircled the world! This indeed is your world. This world is within you; you are not within this world. You are its master, not its slave. The moment you will, spread your wings and fly! If you are within it, you are within by your own will, not by anyone’s compulsion.

Keep just this in mind, and there is no hindrance. Then if you are in bondage by your own will, even bondage is not bondage. Then do as you will. But forget just one thing: you are not the doer — the doer is a form; you are not the enjoyer — the enjoyer is a form. You are the witness! That is your eternity.

In the East the supreme aim of our search has been to find that which is beyond time, beyond chronology. That which is formed and deformed in the river of time is merely reflection. The one who stands beyond time — witness-like — is the truth.

“I am wonder. Salutations to me. None is as skillful as I!”

Do you hear? Janaka says, none is as skillful as I.

“For without touching the body, I have forever sustained this universe.”

This is the art, the mastery!

Aho ahaṁ namo mahyaṁ, dakṣo nāstīha matsamaḥ —

“Who is as adept as I! I have not even touched the body!”

Never have I touched it. There is no way to touch, because your nature and the body’s nature are so utterly different that touching cannot happen. You are only the witness; you can only see. The body is the seen; it can only be seen. Your union with the body cannot happen. You may stand in the body, the body may stand in you — yet untouching, as if at an infinite distance. Their natures are so different that you cannot mix them.

You can mix water into milk, but you cannot mix water into oil; their natures differ. Milk mixes with water because milk already is mostly water — more than ninety percent water. Oil and water you cannot mix; they will not mix; they cannot mix; their natures differ.

Even so, be warned — perhaps scientists may find some method to mix oil and water, because however different in nature, both are substances. But there is no way to mix consciousness and matter; matter is substance, consciousness is not. The seen and the seer cannot be mixed. The seer remains the seer; the seen remains the seen.

Therefore Janaka says, “I am filled with wonder; I have become wonder itself! What skill of mine — that so much has been done, yet I am unattached! So much has been enjoyed, yet no line of enjoyment marks me!”

As you keep writing upon water, and nothing is written — so too, acting and enjoying with the witness, nothing is inscribed; all dissolves like lines on water. You cannot write — it is erased.

“No one as skillful as I, for without touching the body, I have forever sustained this universe.”

He dwells in your heart,
not separate from your heart.
Though he seem a thousand miles away,
do not think him apart.

However much we take ourselves to be joined to the body, we cannot join. And however much we take ourselves to be separate from Paramatma, we cannot be separate. Both insights dawn together when they dawn. So long as you think you can join the body, there is another side to it — you will think you are cut off from Paramatma. The day you know you are joined to Paramatma, that day you will know: ah, wonder of wonders — I was never joined to the body!

He dwells in your heart,
not separate from your heart —
that Supreme truth has made his abode there.

He dwells in your heart,
not separate from your heart.
Though he seem a thousand miles away,
do not think him apart.

However much it seems to you he is separate, do not take him to be separate — because there is no way to be separate from Paramatma, and there is no way to become one with the world. Yet, what cannot be, this is what we have been trying to do for births. The day you awaken — and surely one day you will, because one who sleeps, how long can he sleep? Because the one who sleeps has in his very sleeping declared that he can awaken — that is why he has slept. One who cannot awaken — how can he sleep? Only one who can awaken can sleep.

One day you will awaken. And when you awaken, you too will feel:

“None is as skillful as I! Without touching the body I have forever sustained this universe.”

And I alone sustain this universe — no one else upholds it. I have not even touched it, yet I sustain it.

Zen masters say: cross the river, but keep watch that the water does not touch you. They are pointing to this very truth — that if you understand the witness, you will cross the river. The water will touch the body, but it will not touch you. You will remain the witness.

Learn to be a witness in this world. Try a little. Walking on the road, sometimes walk in such a way that you are not walking — only the body is walking. You remain the same — na kvachit gantā, na kvachid āgantā — never going anywhere, never coming anywhere. On the road, watch yourself walking, and be the seer. At the table, see the body eating; the hand forms the morsel, brings it to the mouth — you stand silently watching. Making love — see yourself; in anger — see yourself. In pleasure, in pain — see. Slowly, slowly, hold the witness steady. One day there will be proclamation within you too; a divine rain will fall; nectar will shower. It is your right — your nature’s inherent right. The day you wish, that day you can proclaim it.

“I am wonder. Salutations to me. Nothing is mine — or all that speech and mind can conceive is mine.”

Janaka says, in one sense nothing is mine — because I am not. If I am not, what of mine? In one sense nothing is mine — and in another sense all is mine. For as soon as I am not, Paramatma is — and all is his. This paradoxical happening occurs — you feel, nothing is mine, and all is mine.

Aho ahaṁ namo mahyaṁ yasya me nāsti kiñcana,
athavā yasya me sarvaṁ yadvāṅ-manasa-gocaram —

Whatever appears to the eyes, whatever the senses experience — none of it is mine, because I am the witness. But as soon as I am the witness, it is known that all is mine, because I am the center of this entire existence.

The witness is not your individual form. The witness is your universal form. As enjoyers, we are separate; as doers, we are separate — as witnesses, we are one. My witness and your witness are not two. My witness and your witness are one. Your witness and Ashtavakra’s witness are not two. Yours and Ashtavakra’s witness is one. Your witness and Buddha’s witness are not two.

The day you become the witness, that day you become Buddha, become Ashtavakra, become Krishna — become all. The day you are the witness, that day you are the center of the universe. On this side you are effaced; on that side you are fulfilled. The little drop of ‘me’ is lost, and the infinite ocean is found.

These sutras are sutras of self-worship. They say, you yourself are the devotee and you yourself are the Deity. They say, you yourself are the worshiped and you yourself are the worshiper. They say, within you both are present; let their union happen. They say something utterly unique: bow down at your own feet; dissolve within yourself; drown within yourself. Your devotee and your God are within you. Let their meeting happen there, let their union be fulfilled there; revolution will happen when within you your devotee and your God merge into one. Neither God remains nor devotee; someone remains formless, nirguna, beyond limits, beyond time, beyond space. Duality will not remain; nonduality will remain.

The first glimpses of these nondual moments are what we call meditation. When the glimpses of this nonduality begin to be steady, we call it savikalpa Samadhi. And when the glimpse of this nonduality becomes eternal, so steady that there remains no way to fall from it — then we call it nirvikalpa Samadhi.

It can happen in two ways. Either merely through awakened understanding, as it happened to Janaka — through mere seeing. But great prajna is needed — great sharpness, great urgency, a keen edge of awareness; then the happening can occur instantly. If you find it happens — good. If you find it does not, then do not keep repeating these sutras sitting around; by repetition it will not happen. These sutras are such that if, on hearing, it happens — it happens; if you miss at the moment of hearing, then repeat a thousand times, it will not happen; because it does not come by repetition. Repetition dulls the mind’s edge; it does not sharpen it.

So one way is that on hearing these sutras it happens. If it happens — it happens; you can do nothing about it. If it does not, then slowly-slowly — meditation; from meditation, savikalpa Samadhi; from savikalpa, nirvikalpa — you must journey. If a leap happens — good; if not, then descend the stairs. The leap may happen to someone. All wonders are possible, for you are the wonder of wonders.

Therefore nothing here is impossible. Listening here, someone can take the leap. If you do not come in between; if you set aside your intellect as you set aside shoes and clothing; if, pure, naked awareness, you stand before me — the leap can happen. As it happened to Janaka, it can happen to you. If it happens — good; there is no method. You cannot ask, “How can we arrange for it to happen?” If you ask for arrangements, it will not happen. Then the other way is there — Patanjali is your path; then Mahavira, then Buddha. Then Ashtavakra is not your path.

That is why Ashtavakra’s Gita has lain in the dark. Such urgency, such intensity, such brilliance — rarely found. It happens after many births of refining. Yet it happens. To one among a hundred perhaps — yet it happens. History holds many references where a small incident created revolution.

I have heard there was a clerk in a court in Bengal — a head-clerk. He retired. His name was Raja Babu; being Bengali, “Babu.” Past sixty, one morning he went for a walk. Brahma-muhurta — the sun not yet risen. A woman, inside her house, the door closed, was waking someone. Perhaps her son, perhaps her brother-in-law — she said, “Raja Babu, get up — it’s very late!” Raja Babu was passing outside, cane in hand, out for his morning walk. Suddenly, in that moment of Brahma-muhurta, the sun about to rise, redness spread across the sky, birds humming, all of nature filled with awakening — it happened! The woman was waking someone else; she said nothing to this Raja Babu; she didn’t even know he was passing. He was out walking; she said inside, “Raja Babu, get up — morning has come, it’s very late — get up now, how long will you sleep?” He heard — and the event happened. He did not return home. He went on walking. He reached the forest. The family came to know and searched for him. They found him in the forest. “What happened?” they asked. He laughed, “It happened — Raja Babu has awakened — now go!” They said, “What do you mean? What are you saying?” He said, “There is nothing to say — anyway it was very late. I understood. It was morning, nature was awake — in that very awakening I too awoke. Some woman was saying, ‘Get up, it’s too late!’ The jolt reached.”

The woman was no Ashtavakra, she herself had not awakened. So sometimes it has also happened that if your intelligence is mature, your fruit ripe, a gust of wind — or even without wind, a ripe fruit falls. If it happens — it happens. But if it does not, do not be disheartened, do not be sad. If the sudden does not happen, the gradual can. The sudden is occasional — exceptional. Ashtavakra’s Gita is exceptional. There is no method in it, no path.

In Japan, within the Zen tradition, there are two schools. One is the school of sudden enlightenment — what Ashtavakra says. The master does not teach anything. He comes and sits; if the mood takes him, he speaks. If it happens — it happens.

Such a master was invited to the emperor’s palace. He came, climbed the dais. The emperor waited with great eagerness, seated in the attitude of a disciple. The master sat upon the dais, looked here and there a little, banged his fist on the table, got up and left.

The emperor was startled — “What was this?” He asked his vizier. The vizier said, “I know him. He has never given a discourse more significant than this. Understand it if you can; if not, then not.”

The emperor said, “This a discourse? Three thumps on the table and gone — that is all?”

The vizier said, “He tried to wake you — wake up then. ‘Raja Babu, get up, morning has come.’ He rang the alarm and left.”

The vizier said, “I have heard many of his discourses, but never one more profound and awakening than this. But do not worry, for although I have heard many, I too have not yet awakened. You heard the first — keep listening, perhaps it will happen.”

This is a sudden happening; there is no cause-effect connection. Unprecedented — nothing to do with your past — if it happens, it happens. It is not a scientific event that at a hundred degrees water will boil and turn to vapor. This matter is such that sometimes vapor forms without heating. There is no scientific explanation for it.

Ashtavakra stands outside science. If your mind is scientific and you say, “How can it happen like this? Something must be done first,” then proceed with the scientific mind. Then ask Buddha — the eightfold path is there. Ask Patanjali — his yoga is there. There are procedures. This is not yoga; this is the pure statement of Sankhya.

Therefore Ashtavakra likely did not awaken many. Perhaps one Janaka awakened — that too is much; it was not necessary. Beyond that we have no news that anyone else awakened through Ashtavakra.

Buddha awakened many; Patanjali awakens even now. Ashtavakra awakened only one. Even saying Ashtavakra awakened him is difficult; Janaka was in the capacity to awaken — Ashtavakra was merely an occasion. Not the cause — the occasion.

So in the methods of sudden enlightenment the guru is only the occasion. He will make an effort — if it happens, it happens. There is no science to it. And if it does not happen, do not be disheartened. The guru does not proceed assuming that all will happen. It will happen to some. Those to whom it does not happen, at least in them the thirst to be will be kindled; they will seek the method, and through method it will happen.

The rule is: it happens through method. Without method it is exceptional — outside the rule.

So listen here attentively. If it happens — blessed; if it does not — do not be disheartened.

Hari Om Tat Sat!