Maha Geeta #91

He is the center of the Kaaba,
He is the path to the house of idols—
where two mad lovers meet
and speak of the Beloved.

We have listened to the talk of two mad lovers, Ashtavakra and Janaka. Their dialogue created an unparalleled pilgrimage-place. We took many plunges in it. If we were washed, if we became clean, all the virtue is the Ganga’s. If we were not washed, if we remained unclean as before, the whole fault is ours. If you listen as a deaf man listens, and look as a blind man looks, then even upon reaching the banks of the Ganga you will remain impure. You may arrive at the pilgrimage—and still not arrive at the pilgrimage.

This was a rare journey. From one angle, very long—month after month we took dips in it. From another angle, very short—by hearing alone. If even a single word struck your ear, it was enough to awaken. In so many ways Ashtavakra and Janaka said the same thing again and again—perhaps if you miss once, the second time it may happen; if you miss the second, the third may do. They did not say new things—only perhaps in new ways. The one essential thing was: somehow go beyond the pairs, become dvandvatita, and then the rain of great bliss descends. The rain of great bliss is already descending—you are deprived of it because of duality. Bliss is raining; your pitcher is cracked, so you cannot fill. You say, bliss is momentary. If the pot is cracked, water stays only a moment. The fault is not the water’s; the fault is the pitcher’s. If the pitcher were unbroken, the water would remain forever. Amrit is pouring—its stream does not pause even for a moment; its flow is unbroken. But tangled in duality, we miss.

On one side a throbbing mourning, on the other a festival;
Only in this game of Destiny is this clay helpless.
On one side desolation sobs, on the other mango groves;
On one side a bier is lifted, on the other shehnais sound;
On one side bangles fall away, on the other adornment gleams—
Only in this game of Destiny is this clay helpless.

Sometimes pollen is plundered by the wind; somewhere, the ashes of the pyre.
Somewhere a magical ray stands; elsewhere, a scorched iron bar.
On one side a bed of flowers; on the other, embers—
Only in this game of Destiny is this clay helpless.

Our very existence is on loan; age is going away in interest.
The hour draws near when all accounts must be given.
Alas, body and breath—everything is borrowed—
Only in this game of Destiny is this clay helpless.

Sorrow upon sorrow is more in the world; moments of joy are few.
For a hundred tears, one smile—this is Destiny’s resolve.
That unknown Player’s sport is so merciless—
Only in this game of Destiny is this clay helpless.

Do not shift this being divided into two onto Fate. Your singers, your thinkers, those who console you, put it on Fate—this is God’s play. It is not God’s play. Understand! It is the net you yourself have woven. No one is dividing you; you have decided to be divided. You alone are responsible—no one else. That is why Ashtavakra says: shravanamatreṇa—by mere hearing.

Understand.

If someone else had broken your life into fragments, you would not be able to make it whole. When another breaks it, it will be whole only when that same one makes it whole—what can your doing do? Someone abuses you, and you say, I am unhappy because he abused me. Then you are no longer the master of your suffering. When he stops abusing, perhaps you will not be unhappy. But whether he stops is not in your hands. Yet someone abused you and you did not become unhappy—or if you did become unhappy, you knew: becoming unhappy is my decision. Let abuse come and go, and I can remain without becoming unhappy—untouched. Then you have become the master. The key to your life is no longer in another’s hands.

No—do not put it on Fate. True, life appears split in two; but it is you who have split it, not some destiny. Recognize the trick of division, and you will become undivided. And if you become undivided—that is the very goal of all yoga, the longing of all spirituality. Become one, advaya. Let not two remain—night and day, life and death, pleasure and pain. Let equanimity arise between the two; let the capacity awaken to see the One in both.

This is possible. It is a matter of becoming a little of a witness. Look at pleasure too, and in the very moment of looking, be only the one who looks. Do not get entangled; do not identify. Do not say, I am happy. Say only: happiness happens—and I am seeing, I am seeing, I am seeing. Let your seeing stand untouched—neither doer nor enjoyer. Pain comes—see that too: there is pain, and I am seeing. Whether thorns prick or flowers arrive, keep watching. Slowly, make yourself steady in the seer. Slowly, stand upon your center. Let anything come—let your inner flame not tremble. Become unmoving. In that unmovingness, what is experienced—that is truth. Some call it Brahman, some Nirvana, some Moksha. But in that unshaken state, what is known—that alone is worthy of knowing, that is Satchidananda.

In this long pilgrimage, because of Janaka’s inquiry, his mumuksha—his longing for liberation—and because of Ashtavakra’s compassion, grace flowed in abundance. One poured nectar upon the other. If you were even a little alert, a few drops must surely have fallen into your hands.

Yesterday someone asked: By merely hearing Ashtavakra, Janaka attained knowledge—and now Ashtavakra’s Mahagita is nearing completion; how many here have attained?

One thing is certain: the one who asked—he has not. And for him it will be difficult, because his eyes are fixed on others. If you ask me, How many have attained? If you ask from my side, I will say: there is no ignorant one here—there never has been an ignorant one. This is Ashtavakra’s very message. You have assumed yourself to be ignorant—you are not. In the effort to become a knower, your ignorance alone remains preserved. Do not strive to become a knower; simply know this truth: knowledge is your nature, consciousness is your nature. You are the knower. There is no method, no way to be ignorant. To be ignorant is impossible—do whatever you may, you cannot be ignorant. Within you the ember of knowing burns—searing. However much ash covers it, it does not go out. And what is that ash? Blow once, and it flies away—shravanamatreṇa.

This is the Sadguru’s only work—to blow once, your ash is gone. But if you have made a stubborn vow not to accept the ember—then your wish! Against your will no one can awaken you. And if you want to awaken, then from the deepest of sleeps you can awaken.

Psychologists say: even in sleep you decide when to wake and when not. You will be surprised to know—your decision functions even in sleep. A mother—her small child sleeps beside her—let there be a slight rasp in the child’s breath, just a little, and her sleep opens. Let thunder roll in the sky—and her sleep does not open. What is the matter? Perhaps even in sleep there is an arrangement of what to hear and what not to hear. Within, you are deciding—what to hear, what not to hear.

Here so many of you sit—suppose you all sleep here tonight, and someone comes and calls loudly, "Ram! Where is Ram?" All will keep sleeping; no one will hear. But the one whose name is Ram—he will hear. He will say, Who is it, brother, waking me in the middle of the night?

All were asleep—no one should have heard—or everyone should have heard. Yet Ram heard. Ram has kept a decision within: if someone utters "Ram," that is my name, I will hear; if someone utters another’s name, I will not hear. What have I to do with another’s name? Even in sleep someone is deciding—Shall I wake or not? Is this a matter worth waking for, or not?

So against your decision, no one can wake you. If inwardly you really do not wish to rise at five in the morning—great cold—and yet your wife is after you: We must go to the temple, early. You set the alarm, unwillingly—while setting it you know the wish to rise is not there. In the morning you will not hear the alarm. The alarm will ring—you will hear that the temple bells are ringing, and you have reached the temple—you will dream. You will make the alarm’s bell into the temple’s bells, and you will sink into a dream, and you will say, Good that we came; look, we reached the temple—my wife’s desire fulfilled—and you kept sleeping. It even happens that in sleep the hand rises and switches off the alarm, and in the morning you say, What happened! I was to get up—why didn’t the clock ring?

Even in sleep your decision operates. What you call your life—seen by the wise—is a spiritual sleep. If you wish to wake, any excuse is enough. A dry leaf falling from the tree is enough. It will remind you of your own death. It will be enough to awaken. And if you have decided not to wake, then even if Ashtavakra beats a war-drum at your door—nothing will happen. You will hear—and let it pass.
The friend has asked: Now that the final day of the journey has come, how many people here have attained knowledge? First of all, to ask about another is itself proof of ignorance. Besides, how could you ever know whether someone else has attained?
The questioner has also said, “If we could find out how many have attained, then we would gain trust.” Ashtavakra attained—did that give you trust? Krishna attained—did that give you trust? Buddha attained—did that give you trust? Rama, Kabir, Nanak, Muhammad, Farid—none of these gave you trust; and if Chuhadmal-Fuhadmal were to attain, would you then be convinced?

You kept asking Krishna, you kept asking Buddha, “How are we to believe that you have attained?” And I am not saying your asking is baseless. In truth, how would another’s enlightenment be visible to you? Tell me, how will a blind man understand that someone else’s eyes have healed? The blind man will say, “Until I can see, how will I even see that the other’s eyes are fine?” How will the deaf know that another has begun to hear? Only if hearing arises will hearing be heard; only if seeing arises will seeing be seen.

Don’t worry that if others become enlightened you will gain trust. Trust will arise only when it happens to you. So I say to you: do not wait for trust, thinking, “First trust will come, then I’ll move toward knowledge.” Then you will never go. One who goes into knowing, only he finds trust—trust comes from experience; there is no other way. And what you call trust is a sham, hollow. It is belief, not trust. It is credulity, not reverence. You merely assume, “It must have happened! Who wants the hassle of doubt and debate?” Or you assume because there is a craving within: “Someday may it happen to me; so let me assume it happens to others too.” But real trust cannot arise that way. How would it? One who has not tasted honey—let a thousand people say, “It is very sweet, most delicious”—how will trust arise? And the one who went to get honey, but instead of honey he failed and the bees tore him to pieces—will you convince him honey is sweet? He’ll say, “Forgive me, don’t entangle me again. Once I got into that trouble; my whole body was swollen, I lay in bed for days. My only experience is: it’s very bitter.” He has tasted not the flavor of honey but the sting of bees.

Let someone tell you a thousand times, “I am seeing God,” and you will say, “We see stones and pebbles, trees and such—God is not seen.” You will only see as much as you can see. Don’t worry about another at all. Worry about yourself: has it happened to you or not? Perhaps something else is going on—you are saying one thing, but something else is pricking within: “It has not happened to me. If it could be settled that it has not happened to anyone, I would be at ease—then I’m not the only one missing; everyone is missing.”

Mulla Nasruddin’s house caught fire. The whole neighborhood burned down. I said to him, “Nasruddin, that’s terrible.” He said, “Not so terrible.” I asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “What of mine burned? Look at the neighbors! What did I have anyway? A hut—it burned. The neighbors’ palaces burned! Today, for once, I enjoyed having only a hut. I always felt the pain that they had palaces and I had a hut; today I felt joy that I had a hut and they had palaces. Only when they burned did I discover what fun it was! Great grace of God.”

Man consoles himself by comparison with others. If you find out that no one is attaining, you are reassured. Every day you read the newspaper: how many robberies, how many killings, how many wars, how many thefts, how many ran off with someone’s wife—you say, “We’re good people. We do a little here and there, but not that much!” The mind finds great peace, a soothing consolation.

You say you want to know whether others have attained so that faith will arise. No—you want to know that no one has attained, lest by some mistake someone might have! If no one has attained, then you can pull the sheet over your head and sleep undisturbed: “We’re not the only ones wandering off; the whole world is astray.” No obstacle remains.

If you ask me, I say: everyone has attained—everyone always had it—and by “everyone” I don’t mean just those here, I mean wherever anyone is. Godhood is everyone’s given wealth. Whether you recognize it or not; whether you use it or not—that depends on you. A diamond lies within you; whether you grope for it or not—even if for many lifetimes you fail to grope and perhaps even forget—still, it makes no difference.

Let me tell you a small story:
A king, pleased with his court jester, awarded him a horse. The horse was scrawny and weak. Whether it could walk at all was doubtful. The jester, being a jester, said nothing to the emperor; he leapt onto the horse and tried to get it moving. The king called out, “Where are you off to, good sir?” He said, “Your Majesty, I’m going to attend Friday prayers.” The emperor said, “But today is Monday.” He replied, “If this horse reaches the mosque by Friday, that itself will be much! We have to set out now to get there in time. And the mosque is two steps away. Horses differ from horses.”

Forget who reached, who didn’t. Horses differ from horses. The mosque was two steps away; I say to you, it isn’t even two steps. Ashtavakra says it is within you. And it’s not that you’ll arrive tomorrow, or an hour later—instantaneously, this very moment, like lightning—such is the revolution. Close your eyes and look within: you have arrived already, this very moment. There is no question of postponing till tomorrow. It happened to Janaka; it can happen to you—because you are not one whit less than Janaka. It happened to me; it can happen to you—because you are not one whit less than me. And if it isn’t happening, remember: deep down you have decided not to let it happen yet. Perhaps you have a vested interest in the non-happening. Perhaps you still think, “Let me savor a little more; let me probe a little further—maybe there is something in the world; this I can do anytime.”

People come to me and say, “Life is still ahead. We must certainly meditate, but we’ll do it at the end. We aren’t old yet; when we’re old, we’ll do it.” But the old man is never old. Ask the oldest and he thinks, “There’s still time.” Until the last breath man thinks, “There’s time; we’ll do it.” He keeps postponing God and gets everything else done. He does what is not worth doing and keeps postponing what is worth doing. This is your decision. You are the master. If you want to attain, you can attain right now; if you do not want it, no one can give it to you.

Janaka could attain because he placed no obstacle. He became available directly. Ashtavakra spoke, and he heard. Between Ashtavakra’s speaking and Janaka’s hearing, he made no interpretations. He did not think, “We’ll do it tomorrow.” He didn’t think, “Who knows if this is right?” He didn’t even think, “Is this possible?” Janaka must have had a unique love; within him a rare feeling must have arisen for Ashtavakra. The master’s presence was sufficient proof. He asked for no proof. That is the meaning of being a disciple: the master’s very presence is the proof, and no other proof is sought. If you ask for any other proof, you are not a disciple—you may be a student. “Disciple” means only this much: you are the proof. It has happened to you, arrived in you. You say, “It is done.” You listen utterly; you do not waver even a hair’s breadth.

But something is said, and you hear only something. You hear what you want to hear.

It happened: In a road accident, Chandulal received fatal injuries. A car driver put him in his car, then dropped him at a deserted spot nearby and drove on. Already mortally wounded, he had felt a little hope when the driver took him in; then, left alone in a desolate place, he was shocked. He scarcely had the strength to speak; life-energy was ebbing, blood was flowing. In court, during the inquiry, that driver was called—it was Mulla Nasruddin. The magistrate asked, “Good sir, if you didn’t have the time to take the injured man to a hospital, what was the point of dragging him to a deserted place?” Nasruddin said, “Your Honor, the reason is this: I glanced at the signboard at the accident site—it read, ‘Keep death off the road.’ So I thought, one should do what one can. The man was about to die, and death would have occurred on the road—so I kept death off the road. I left him in a lonely place and went home. It took an hour, Your Honor! Such are the boards posted on our roads!”

A person reads only what he wants to read. He reads himself; he hears himself; he draws his own interpretation. While you are “listening,” where are you listening? A thousand other things are going on. Who knows how many thoughts are churning in the mind. Through the waves of those thoughts, will what I’m saying reach you? You don’t let it reach. You have raised a thousand curtains in between; by the time anything filters through, it is so altered it is useless—no revolution results. The medicine is diluted in so much water its effect is lost. Hearing means—when Ashtavakra says “by mere hearing”—he means: listen as if there is not a single curtain within, listen with the heart flung open. As the thirsty drinks water, drink the master. Then the happening happens. And then what happened to Janaka happens.

Today is Janaka’s final sutra. In this last sutra he takes the ultimate height—the farthest point a disciple can reach, where the disciple ceases to be and dissolves into the master. Whatever he says is what Ashtavakra had said; yet it is no mere repetition. He says the same, but he has re-enlivened it with his own life. What belongs to the master, he gives back to the master—not something new, but not as a corpse; he returns it made living.

Consider it like this: A lover impregnates his beloved. From the lover to the beloved goes the sprout of new life. After nine months the beloved returns that same sprout, filled with new life, new glory. The lover could scarcely recognize it as the same seed he had given. The seed was so small; it was not very alive—left on its own it would die in an hour or two; a sperm cannot live more than two hours. A very brief span of life, a very slight energy. That tiny energy, the beloved protected; it became vast energy. A new child, a new guest, arrived. When the lover sees his child, he can hardly believe that once this child had gone out of him as a seed. It is the same—and yet not the same. The same, become much. The same, become vast. The beloved has not just returned the same.

An emperor wished to decide which of his sons should inherit the kingdom. He gave each son a sack of flower seeds and said, “Take care of these. I am going on pilgrimage—one year, two years perhaps. When I return, I want these seeds back. Guard them well; your fate depends on it. Whoever returns them properly will be heir to my throne.”

The three sons pondered and calculated. One thought, “What if they get lost or stolen? I might lose the kingdom.” He locked the seeds in a strong safe, put on big locks, kept the keys carefully. He showed “cleverness,” but often cleverness is great foolishness. Seeds are not meant to be locked in safes. By the time the father returned, the seeds had rotted. When he opened the safe, a stench came out—not seeds, a heap of ash. What might have become flowers became stench; what might have been fragrance became foul odor. In one sense the boy had “kept” them, but without understanding.

The second thought, “It’s troublesome to keep seeds at home; who knows when father will return? Sell them and keep the money. When father comes, I’ll buy seeds from the market and return them.” A little more intelligent than the first, but still not wise. He sold the seeds and kept the money. Keeping money is always easier—that’s why people keep money so carefully. They sell everything else and keep the money, because in money everything is stored as possibility; when the occasion comes, you can buy.

A single rupee in your pocket contains many things. If you want, a man can come and massage your head—that too is in your pocket. If you want, a glass of milk can come—that too is in your pocket. A thousand things can be done with one rupee—all options are present. If you carried around all those things physically, it would be difficult—keeping a masseur in your pocket, a milk bottle here—life would become impossible. A rupee holds countless possibilities—great freedom.

So he thought, “We can buy seeds anytime; what’s the problem? I’ll keep the rupees safe.” But when the father came, the son ran to the market. The father said, “No—I want exactly the seeds I gave you. That was the condition: what I gave, you return. There was no question of selling and buying. You did not safeguard my trust.”

The third son thought, “A seed is not a ‘thing’; a seed is a process.” Understand: a seed is not an object; it is a journey of becoming a flower, a pilgrimage, a process. A pebble is a thing—because it does not grow or become anything more; what was to be has already been. The pebble is dead; the seed is alive, a process of life. He thought, “You cannot lock living processes in safes—otherwise they die. And you do not sell life. Selling it is heartless. What should be done?”

He went and sowed the seeds in the garden. When the father returned after three years, there were not one sack but thousands of sacks of seeds. He took the father to see and said, “Here are your seeds.” The father said, “I am pleased. Because if seeds are given, the very meaning is to return them multiplied. A seed means: return it grown. You will be the owner of my kingdom. In your hands the kingdom will grow and spread. In the first son’s hands it will be locked in a safe and die. In the second son’s hands it will be sold. In your hands it will expand and prosper. You understood the process.”

The seeds Ashtavakra gave to Janaka, Janaka brought to birth. The seeds were unique, and what was born of them was unique.

Notice how strange you are: you carefully preserve useless seeds and let the meaningful ones slip away. A man hurls an insult at you in passing—you preserve that insult as though it were a great mantra. You will keep it for years. Even after twenty years you will keep it fresh and green. After twenty years, if you see that man, the insult will be alive again—you’ll feel like killing or being killed. You won’t allow the wound to heal; you keep picking at it. Pus keeps forming; the wound putrefies; it becomes a fistula.

Insults you preserve so carefully—but if someone like Ashtavakra gives you a word, first you don’t even listen; even if you do, you forget. Don’t ask about twenty years—two hours later you cannot repeat what was said. But an insult you can repeat verbatim after twenty years—that is your skill. And what you preserve is what gives birth to you; you become that. So if by the end of life you become ugly, misshapen, futile—there is nothing to be surprised about.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin got married, but they had no child. The doctors said, “Let’s do an operation and graft a monkey gland.” Mulla said, “Do whatever it takes; we must have a child.” The monkey gland was implanted. He was thrilled and distributed sweets, for his wife had conceived. There were bands playing. Nine months passed; the wife was admitted to the hospital. Mulla stood at the door, anxiously waiting, his heart pounding. The doctor came out. Mulla asked, “Doctor, is it a boy or a girl?” The doctor said, “Wait a bit! Whatever it is has leapt up and clung to the ceiling fan. Once it comes down we’ll find out whether it’s a boy or a girl.” If you implant a monkey gland, you can’t expect much else!

If in your life only disease comes into your hands, if only stench and sorrow come—there is nothing surprising. It is simple arithmetic. You’re collecting the wrong seeds. You gather weeds and destroy flowers. Janaka preserved the flowers; an incomparable fragrance arose. Today’s final sutras are of that fragrance.

The first sutra:
“Where is the knower, and where the means of knowing? Where is the known, and where knowledge? Where is something, and where nothing—for me who is ever immaculate?”

“Pramata” means the knower; “pramana” means the means of knowing, that by which knowledge arises; “prameya” means the known, the object; “prama” means knowledge. Janaka is saying: now there is no such thing as knowledge, no knower remains within me, no known remains, and no means of knowledge. All these distinctions belong to ignorance.

Understand—this is a revolutionary statement.

Ask the scholars and they will say these distinctions belong to knowledge: pramata, pramana, prameya, prama. “Prama” means true knowledge; that which establishes prama is “pramana.” The one in whom it is established is the “pramata.” That about which it is established is the “prameya.” This is the division of knowledge; the whole of this is called epistemology—jnan-mimansa. But Janaka says: none of this remains. There is no one to know, and nothing to be known. When the two are gone, what subject and what object? What knower and what known? What seer and what seen? These arise only if there are two. When only the One remains—who will know, what will be known, how will it be known, and what will be known? In the ultimate moment of knowing, knowledge itself comes to an end—that is the essence of this sutra.

That is why Socrates said, at the final moment, “I know nothing.” The Upanishads say: he who says “I know,” know that he does not know. And he who says “I do not know,” hold on to him—there is something there; something has happened to him. Lao Tzu said, “I will not say the truth, because the moment it is said it is missed. Said, it becomes untrue—because in saying, the claim arises; the ‘sayer’ appears. I will not say the truth; I will remain silent. Understand from my silence, if you can.”