Maha Geeta #33

Everywhere life is restless. The tale of the thirsting wasteland has grown old in the world— yet the ocean’s heart thirsts just as unyieldingly. Everywhere life is restless.

The solitary lover weeps, watching the carnival of bodies’ unions; but in this world the hope of two hearts meeting— again and again—fails. Everywhere life is restless.

Those who have lived will tell it— do not hide it from me in vain: within the honey of the beloved’s lips how much poison is found! Everywhere life is restless.

Look closely at man and you will find only deserts upon deserts. Look inside anyone’s life and you will find thirst and more thirst—only dissatisfaction.

Do not be deceived by looking from above. On the surface there is laughter, smiles, flowers arranged—within, life is deeply restless. In truth, it is because of the inner restlessness that flowers get arranged without; because there are tears within, we organize smiles without.

Friedrich Nietzsche has said: I laugh—and people think I am happy. I laugh so that I may not begin to weep. If I do not laugh, I will start crying. Laughing and laughing I hide the tears that are on their way.

Outwardly we display one thing, inwardly we are something else. Hence a great deception arises. If only each person would open the story of his life before you, you would be amazed: so much sorrow—sorrow upon sorrow; happiness is only a hope! A hope that someday it will arrive—if not today then tomorrow; if not tomorrow then the day after; if not in this birth then in the next; if not on earth then in heaven—only hope! In hand there is only ash. In the breath there is only extinction. Whoever wakes to this truth—only in his life does revolution happen.

What happens is this: deceiving others, we end up deceiving ourselves. We laugh so that others may not notice our tears. The other sees us laughing, trusts that we are happy; slowly, on the strength of his trust, we too begin to trust that we must be happy—after all, people trust us! Such deception is very deep.

They asked the man who opened the first bank in America—when he had become quite successful—how did you start a bank?

He said: I had read in books about the banks in Europe. I too put a board on my door—Bank. An hour later a man came and deposited two hundred dollars. In the evening another came and deposited a hundred and fifty. By the third day my courage had risen so much that I too deposited the twenty dollars I had with me in my own bank.

Thus trust is born.

You see your image in another’s eyes—there is no other way. You come to know yourself through the medium of the other—there is no other way. The other’s eyes function as a mirror. Now if you stand before the mirror with a smile upon your lips, what can the mirror do? It will report a smile on the lips. Seeing the smile in the mirror you gain confidence that surely I must be happy. Repeating this again and again, falsehoods too begin to appear true. Then we fear lest the truth be discovered; and so we stop looking within, and keep looking outside.

Ask people, Who are you? The answers they will give are answers learned from the outside. Strange—astonishing: you ask your address from someone else! Who am I?—you ask someone else! He does not know himself; how will he ever tell you?

You will have to ask your address from yourself—close your eyes and look. But people do not close their eyes; if they close them, they fall asleep. That is why sometimes, when you close your eyes and sleep does not come, it feels so troublesome. The trouble is not because sleep has not come. The trouble is that when the eyes are open, others keep appearing; when the eyes close and sleep does not come, the inner turmoil begins to appear—the rubbish, the hell, layer after layer begins to open; and panic arises.

The panic is not because sleep does not come. If sleep does not come for an hour—what will be lost? But we know only two devices: with eyes open we keep entangled somewhere; with eyes closed we sink into sleep. To keep the eyes closed and remain awake is difficult. For with eyes closed our real picture begins to appear; and that real picture is not very beautiful. Whatever the Self-knowers may say, we do not trust them. They say the Supreme Paramatma abides within. But whenever we look within, we find darkness, hell, sorrow, pain—the ruins of broken dreams from the past; nothing ever comes into our hands—rows upon rows of dissatisfaction—those alone come to hand.

The wise say: within is great light! But when we go within we meet only darkness upon darkness; a great panic sets in; it feels like the night of no moon. Full moon is far away—even a sliver, the second-day moon, is not there—no trace of light anywhere. We begin to sink into a chasm of darkness. Panic arises.

Asking others we have constructed a false self-introduction. The wise speak truly: within is Paramatma and light—but this dark valley must be crossed. Passing through the dark valley is the price. Otherwise life will remain restless.

I awoke—very late.

I grew wholly bored, worked hard—and drowned; I had to row the ocean— yet I kept hoeing the peaks. I awoke—very late.

My wit was blighted, my delusion heavy; above, the sky was dust-laden, below, whirlpools wound me round. I awoke—very late.

Whose voice is this— within, without— who, in hours of despair and frustration, keeps taking thought of me? I awoke—very late.

Do not regret, friend— keep hoeing, keep rowing; he who awakens in the final moment has awakened a hundredfold. I awoke—very late.

But there are those who do not awaken even to the end. If awareness dawns in the final moment—if alertness arrives, if the capacity and courage to assess one’s own life comes—even then one has awakened.

He who awakens in the final moment has awakened a hundredfold— he too has become enlightened.

Yet it is difficult. If all life long we have lived in deception, awakening in the final moment is hard. For awareness does not descend from the sky—it is the essence extracted from one’s entire life.

Many keep this hope too: we are still young; when old age comes we will do meditation, we will do religion. They come to me and say, we are young as yet. The old also come to me—and even they are not quite sure that they have grown old. They too say: There are still many entanglements! And anyway, people are not exactly dying, are they! There is still time—we will do it. They go on postponing. And then, when death is upon them, breath faltering, others chanting Ram-Ram into their ears, others pouring Ganga-water into their mouth... When you were young, there was energy—then you should have taken the dip in Ganga, then you would have swum, would have been carried by her flow—and reached the ocean. Now, dying, it does not go down the throat...

I was a guest in a house; a man was dying. His sons were trying to give him Ganga-water—it would not pass his throat. He was already gone. Whom were they deceiving! The pundit was reciting mantras. But he had no consciousness; he lay senseless, his last breath staggering; even the capacity to swallow water had gone—now swallowing Ram will be very difficult!

Do not sit waiting like this. If awareness is to be—let it be now. He who awakens now—he alone awakens. He who says tomorrow—he slept, and he lost. Never bring up tomorrow. Tomorrow has no guarantee. Tomorrow is death—today is life. Life is only now; now, or never.

Only he who remembers the condition of life with such intensity will be able to stake everything. And religion is a gambler’s stake. It is not free; only when you pay in full do you attain it. Lose all—and only then it is found. Do not seek cheap religion. There is no cheap religion. Religion is a costly affair. That is why only a few fortunate ones attain that treasure. If it were cheap, if it were distributed free, if given away in charity, then all would have got it. It is the result of tireless labor and tireless striving. Although when it comes, it comes as grace; but only he who first makes the effort is entitled to grace.

Today’s sutras are supremely revolutionary. Only if you keep a keen witness-consciousness will you understand; otherwise you will miss. Perhaps you have never heard such sutras. More revolutionary than this cannot be.

Therefore I say again and again: it is impossible to improve upon Ashtavakra’s Gita. The last word—in the ultimate way—has been spoken. Five thousand years have passed, but in these five thousand years no statement more precious could be given. Sometimes it happens: a certain utterance becomes ultimate. Then improvement is impossible. It is complete. There is no way to refine it. Not even to adorn it.

Have you seen? If an ugly woman wears ornaments and fine garments she begins to look good; but if a supremely beautiful woman begins to wear ornaments, she turns awkward. The very meaning of beauty is this: that no ornament can now enhance beauty—only diminish it. Hence whenever a society becomes beautiful, ornaments begin to depart from there. The more ugly a society, the more ornaments, the more clothes, the more cosmetics, the more lies. When someone is beautiful, beauty is enough. Ornaments even distort beauty.

These are direct words—and yet they are most beautiful. If they reach your heart—blessedness.

Janaka said: First I became one who does not sustain bodily actions, then I became one who does not sustain the extended acts of speech, and thereafter one who does not sustain thought. Thus am I established.

Janaka is saying:

कायकृत्यासहः पूर्वं ततो वाग्विस्तरासहः। अथ चिंतासहस्तस्मादेवमेवाहमास्थितः।।

The meaning of this sutra is: the body moves—by its own causes; the mind moves—by its own causes; speech moves—by its own causes. You, needlessly, attach yourself to them. Because of that attachment, delusion arises.

I have heard: a king used to travel seated on his horse. People on the way bowed again and again. The horse stiffened up. It stopped and refused to move. It is an old tale—from the time when horses used to speak. The emperor said, What has happened to you? Have you gone mad? Why stop? Why balk?

The horse said: Get down! I had not known until now who I am! So many are bowing to me!

The bowing is to the emperor; the horse thought it was for him!

I have heard: in a palace there dwelt a lizard—the palace lizard! Not an ordinary lizard! When there was some gathering among lizards in the villages, they would invite her for inaugurations as they invite a president or a prime minister. But she would not go; she would send her deputies—the vice-president! The lizards asked, Goddess, why don’t you come? She said: If I come, this palace will collapse. Who will hold up the roof?

The lizard is holding up the roof! Do not laugh! If a lizard has such delusion, it is no wonder; man lives precisely in such delusion.

The body moves of itself, but you fall into the delusion that I am moving it. The mind moves of itself, and you fall into the delusion that I am moving it.

This first sutra is saying: first of all I came to know that the body has no need of my support; it moves on its own support. So first I became one who does not sustain the body’s acts; I dropped this delusion that I move it.

Even at night, while you sleep, the body goes on working—food is being digested; you are not needed at all.

If you have ever seen anyone lying in a coma for months—still the blood flows, the heart keeps beating, breath continues. You are not needed. Without you, everything goes on just fine. In fact, physicians say it is because of you that obstruction arises. If a patient cannot sleep it is difficult for the disease to heal—because he obstructs. If he sleeps, the obstruction ceases; the body brings itself back on the track—this middle disturbance, this interference, is removed.

Hence sleep is the medicine of a thousand medicines. For in sleep you are lost; whatever the body has to do it does freely—you do not come in between.

Janaka says: The body moves by itself; until now I was deluded that I was moving it.

Understand this well. If you can catch the glimpse that the body moves by itself, then while living in the body you are free of the body. The body has not bound you; the delusion that you move the body has bound you. The body’s action is natural; the same is the action of mind, the same of speech.

Buddha said to his bhikkhus: watch thoughts moving in the mind just as someone sitting on the roadside watches the road—people come and go; the road keeps flowing. In the same way, watch the thoughts moving in your mind. Do not think that you are moving them, or that you can stop them. One who has this delusion—that I am moving thoughts—will one day inevitably have a second delusion: that if I wish, I can stop them. Try and see.

There is a Tibetan tale: a youth was seeking religion. He went to a master. He served for years, massaging the master’s feet—and asked only one thing: give me some great mantra so that I may gain siddhi, gain power. At last the master grew tired and said: Then take it! There is one difficulty—I must tell it. Because of that, I too could not attain siddhi. My master gave it to me only after thirty years of service; I am giving it to you in three—you are fortunate! But I too did not succeed, for there is one very awkward condition attached.

The youth said: Tell me! I will do anything. I will give my whole life.

The master said: Here is the mantra, a small mantra. Repeat it—but only five times—no hard labor. Yet for the duration that you repeat it, do not let the thought of a monkey arise.

He said: This is too much! Never in my life has a monkey occurred to me—why should it arise now? Give me the mantra quickly!

Tibetan mantras are very simple. He gave it. The youth had hardly descended the temple steps when he grew greatly disturbed. He had not even finished the stairs before monkeys began peeping into his mind. From this side, from that side monkeys making faces. He was startled—what is this? What kind of mantra is this? He reached home only to find crowds of monkeys had reached with him—all inside the mind! He bathed and sat to chant—but great difficulty! While bathing the monkeys were giggling, showing their tongues, contorting their mouths. He thought: this is a strange mantra; but it seems powerful, for obstacles have started to appear. He sat through the night many times, again and again sat—and got up again and again. For he has to say it only five times; if once he could find the right mood to say it five times and no monkey appear—but it could not happen. Between every word of the mantra a monkey stood.

Morning, exhausted, he came and said: Here—take back your mantra! Neither you succeeded, nor will I; no one can ever succeed. The monkey is too much of an obstruction. If this was the condition, great man, why did you tell me? If you had not, perhaps the mantra would have worked.

The master said: What could I do? The condition had to be told.

Experiment with your mind. What you try to forget is remembered all the more. What you try to remove stands more stubbornly. Yet still you do not get the hint—that you are not the mover of the mind. The very attempt to move it is delusion.

So first I looked at the body and understood—I found that I am not its sustainer.

पूर्वं कायकृत्यासहः...

First I knew my cooperation is not required. I was unnecessarily cooperating. The body has no need of my cooperation. First I cooperate—and when troubled, I begin to non-cooperate. But the delusion in both is the same. I have nothing to do with it—neither cooperation nor non-cooperation. I should simply be a witness.

ततः वाग्विस्तरासहः—

And then I knew: this spread of speech, the expansion of words, these waves of sound—over them too I have no control. I am beyond them too.

अथ चिंतासहः—

And then I knew: thought and reflection—these are not mine either. I am beyond them as well.

तस्मात् एवं अहं आस्थितः—

And since then I am established in myself.

To be established in oneself, nothing more is to be done—only this much is enough: that I am not the doer; let doership fall.

The river does not stop, however much you may try to dam it; wrapped in weeds, it will still keep flowing. Even a light touch of sun is enough to break the ice-silence of the waves. This is not golden sand— it is pure water; who can halt it upon the riverbed?

The wind does not die— however much you bend and break it; with fragrances it will keep moving. The conduct of storms, or the dense quake of fog— when has it ever severed the green head of life? Field or courtyard— wherever holy tulsi grows she gives only the blessing of release.

The flame does not go out— however much blind wings try to snuff it; under the shelter of veils it will keep on burning.

The river does not stop— however much you try to dam it; wrapped in weeds— it will keep on flowing.

The current of life flows on—you are neither to stop it nor to support it. If you try to stop it, you become entangled. If you try to support it, you become entangled. Sit on the bank—become tatastha.

In Sanskrit there are two words—tatastha and kootastha. Both are wondrous! Tatastha is the process of becoming kootastha. First, sit on the bank. Let the river’s current flow; keep neither liking nor disliking, neither for nor against. Not only drop attachment—drop detachment too; for you have nothing to do with it. Even when you were not, life flowed; flowers bloomed, the cuckoo sang; the waves rose on the ocean’s breast, storms and winds came. One day you will not be—and all will go on just the same. Sit on the bank—be tatastha.

Tatastha is the means. If you sit on the bank, allow the river’s current to flow, keep no bias at all—do not even hold a judgment in the mind as to whether this river is good or bad... What have you to do with it? Whose it is—let them see. What this life is—auspicious or inauspicious, sin or virtue—think nothing at all. What have you to do with it? You came now; tomorrow you will go. It is an inn for an hour. You stopped for the night in a caravanserai—now whether the inn is good or bad, what is that to you? In the morning you will fold your tents; let the owner worry. If you sit on the bank thus, become tatastha, soon another event will happen—you will become kootastha.

Kootastha means: ashtitah—established! Understand this word, for Janaka will repeat it again and again:

I am established in myself! Now within me there is no movement at all. Now let storms rage outside—not a ripple arises within.

A ripple came only so long as you maintained connections with the outside—cooperation or non-cooperation, friend or enemy, attachment or detachment—some bond you had made. All bonds dropped...

We have three words: raga, viraga, vitaraga. These sutras are of vitaragata. The attached (ragi) creates one kind of relationship; the detached (viragi) creates another kind.

If you love someone, you have a relationship. If you hate someone, you also have a relationship. There is not only a relationship with the friend—there is a relationship with the enemy as well. To some you are bound by attraction; to some you are bound by repulsion—but bound, surely. If your friend dies, something is lost; if your enemy dies, something is lost. Without your enemy you too become lonely and incomplete.

They say that after Mahatma Gandhi’s death, Mohammed Ali Jinnah remained sad. The day Gandhi was killed, Jinnah was sitting on the lawn outside. Until then, though he was Governor-General of Pakistan, he had insisted there be no security arrangements for him. It is a Muslim country; I lived for them, did everything for them—why would any of them kill me? So despite many requests he had made no security arrangements. But as soon as his secretary came and reported that Gandhi had been shot, Jinnah immediately rose from the garden and went inside. And the second thing he said to his secretary was: make security arrangements. If Hindus can kill Gandhi, now nothing is certain. Now no one can be trusted. So Muslims can also kill Jinnah. After that the joy on Jinnah’s face never returned. The enemy had died. With Gandhi’s death, something in Jinnah also died. Something was lost.

Your enemy too is your bond. With the friend you lose, and with the enemy you lose.

So one is the bond of attachment to the world, and then there is the bond of detachment. Someone is mad after wealth; someone is frightened of wealth and runs away from it. In someone’s mind only silver coins keep floating; and someone else is so scared that if you show him money he begins to tremble. There are sannyasis who will not touch money.

I was a guest with one such sannyasi—he would not touch money. I asked him, You do not touch money? He said, It is dust! I said, But you touch dust. If it is really dust, why not touch money? I have seen no objection in you toward dust!

He grew a little uneasy. His disciples were sitting there. He was in a quandary—what to say? For without touching dust how will you live? I said, Speak! If truly it is dust... But I suspect that money has not yet become dust for you. Only the place of raga has become viraga. The relationship earlier was of friendship—now of enmity. You have stood on your head—but you are the same man.

Once I was a guest of another sannyasi. He sat on a high platform. Beside him was a smaller platform on which another sannyasi sat. He said to me: Do you know who sits on that smaller seat?

I said, I do not. I have come here for the first time at your invitation.

He said: He was Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court. But he is a very humble man! See—he will not sit upon the same dais with me. He had a smaller dais made.

I said to him: Why do you need to remember that he was Chief Justice? And as far as I can see, he is waiting for you to tumble down so he can climb up. Granted he made a smaller seat than yours, but see—under him too there are others; he made it a little higher than theirs. And the way he is sitting, it is clear he is watching for an opening. He has placed the ladder halfway. The rest of your disciples are behind. As soon as you roll off, he will sit above. And you too—why remember that he was Chief Justice? What is the value of Chief Justice? Raga has gone—but not like this; it leaves subtle, smoky lines. You say he is humble, but if he truly were, why this smaller dais at all? And if humility is to be shown by the dais, then tell him to dig a pit and sit in it.

This humility is but a form of ego. Hollow and false—saying one thing, being another. The attached becomes detached—speaks the opposite language.

If you go to temples, to the satsangs of sadhus and sannyasis—sannyasis whom I call satyanashi—you will certainly notice one thing: they denounce precisely those things in which you have a taste. If you have a taste for wealth, they denounce wealth. If you have a taste for sex-desire, they denounce sex-desire. If you have a taste for woman, they try to paint as hideous a picture of woman as they can. But all this effort tells only one thing: the taste has only turned opposite; it has not changed. Raga has become viraga—it has not gone.

Vitaraga means: where both raga and viraga have disappeared. Vitaraga means: where you know this much—neither do I enmity with anyone, nor do I friendship with anyone—I am alone, unattached, untouched, virgin.

तस्मात् एवम् अहं आस्थितः।

And therefore I am in myself—and thus I am established.

This dialogue between Janaka and Ashtavakra is a wondrous communion. Ashtavakra spoke some priceless things; Janaka echoes the same. Janaka says: True—absolutely true; this is exactly what I too am experiencing; I am expressing my experience. There are no questions and answers here. The master and the disciple are both saying the same thing. Each hums the same song in his own way. Between them there is a deep communion. Dialogue—not debate.

Between Krishna and Arjuna there is debate. Arjuna doubts; new doubts he keeps raising. He may not say openly that you are wrong, but implicitly he keeps saying: my doubt has not yet gone. He says it in a gentlemanly way: my doubt is not yet dissolved; what you have said has not yet settled in me.

If someone is a troublemaker he says outright: you are wrong. If someone is cultured, gentle, noble, he says: It has not yet convinced me. Only that much difference—yet debate it is.

In this Gita of Janaka and Ashtavakra there is not an iota of debate. As if two mirrors were set before each other, and in each mirror the image of the other mirror is formed.

A woman went to a shop. She had twin boys; she was buying clothes for both—Christmas was near. She bought identical clothes. They looked very beautiful. The shopkeeper said: Go behind—there is a mirror—stand and have a look. The woman said: No need. They will look at each other and know the matter is settled. What need for a mirror? They are twins; they look alike; they wear alike. They never look in the mirror; they look at each other—enough.

Something like this is happening between Janaka and Ashtavakra—mirror facing mirror. Like twins born of the same egg. Their source is the witness of understanding. Their understanding is one. The language may differ slightly, but the seeing is one. In different meters, in different ragas, both hum the same song. That is why I have called it the Mahagita. There is not a trace of debate in it.

Krishna had to persuade Arjuna—again and again—drag him, pull him—and with great difficulty he was convinced. Here there is no effort. Ashtavakra has no need to explain anything. Ashtavakra speaks—and over there Janaka’s head begins to nod in assent. A deep, intimate friendship exists between them. The master has hardly spoken, and the disciple has understood.

“By the absence of fondness toward words and other sense-objects, and by the invisibility of the Atman, the mind—free of disturbances—became one-pointed; thus am I established.”

प्रीत्यभावेन शब्दादेरदृश्यत्वेन चात्मनः। विक्षेपैकाग्रहृदय एवमेवाहमास्थितः।।

शब्दादेः प्रीत्यभावेन—

My fondness, my love for words and the rest—has gone.

There is great relish in words—their own music, their own beauty. From the beauty of words, poetry is born. The flowing nectar of words strung into a garland becomes verse. Hum a word—there are sweet words and bitter words; beautiful words and unbeautiful. Someone abuses you—using letters from the very same alphabet. Someone says, I love you very much; someone says thank you. The same alphabet in all—whether he abuses you or praises you. And yet some words shower nectar on the heart; some words prick like thorns; some leave wounds.

Words have a great hold, a great grip on the human mind. We live by words.

Attend closely: someone says, I love you very much—and how delighted you become! Someone says something with contempt, insults you—and how miserable you become!

Word is only a ripple; it ought not be so important—yet it is immensely important. Someone abused you twenty years ago—still it is not forgotten; it hurt, it settled inside; the urge to take revenge is still alive. Someone praised your intelligence fifty years ago—still you keep the certificate. He who called you intelligent may himself no longer be intelligent—but who cares! We collect words; we live by words.

Janaka says: by the absence of fondness for words—my attachment to words has gone. For I have seen: I am beyond words. I stand behind them. Words are like gusts of wind that raise ripples upon water. Words are only waves—neither good nor bad.

That is why if someone in another language says something to you—there is no effect—even if he is abusing you.

Kahlil Gibran tells a story: a man went abroad. He stood before a grand hotel; people were going in and out; waiters were welcoming guests—he thought there must be a royal dinner. He too went in. He too was welcomed and seated. A plate was served, he ate.

He said, What a marvelous city! Such hospitality! Then a waiter brought him his bill on a tray. But he took it to be a written thank-you: You were kind enough to come! He bowed again and again. He said, I am very happy. The waiter could not understand why he was bowing—what was going on! He called the manager.

The man thought: Amazing—the owner himself is coming! He bowed again and again, and praised him; but neither could understand the other’s words. The manager thought: either he is mad or a first-class crook. He handed him over to the police. The man thought: now perhaps they are taking me to the emperor. He was taken to court; the magistrate sat there; he thought: the emperor...

The magistrate tried to understand the matter—but there was no way; language was unknown on both sides. In the end he punished him: seat him on a donkey, hang a placard round his neck saying he is a cheat and a deceiver—let the town be warned—and parade him through the bazaar. When they seated him on the donkey, tears flowed from his eyes—in joy. He said: This is the limit—now they are taking me out in a procession! I am a simple man; I am not a leader—yet they are taking me in a procession. I am utterly poor—this befits leaders—what are you doing!

But no one listened. As he rode the donkey through the town, a crowd naturally gathered. Children trailed, shouting. His happiness knew no bounds. Never in life had such an opportunity come. Only one thorn pricked him: would that someone from my own country were here to see! If I go and tell them, who will believe!

He peered intently at the crowd. When the procession reached the main square, he saw a man in the crowd—one from his country. He shouted: Brother, look what is happening! But that man had begun to understand the language of that country; he had lived there many years. He bowed his head and slipped away so that no one would see their connection. But the leader upon the donkey thought: This is too much—even jealousy must have a limit!

When language is not understood, everything becomes invented. So long as it is understood—then good word, bad word. When it is not understood—all words are equal—meaningless.

There is no meaning in words—meaning is imputed. Words are mere sounds—meaningless. The day you see this—that words are only sounds without meaning—an unprecedented event happens in life. Free of words, you are free of society. For society means words. Without words there is no society.

Hence animals have no society; humans have society. For society, language is needed. To connect two, language is needed. If there is no language between two, no connection arises. Language builds society. Language is the foundation.

So the one who truly wishes to be a sannyasi has no need to flee society; only become free of the raga–viraga toward language—that is enough. Know only this much: words are mere sounds—meaningless, valueless—neither good nor bad. Knowing thus, suddenly you will find you are free—free of society. Now no one can make you miserable by abuse, nor can anyone please you by flattery. The day you pass beyond people’s capacity to give you pain or pleasure—that day you have crossed over.

“By the absence of fondness toward words and other sense-objects, and by the invisibility of the Atman, the mind—free of disturbances—became one-pointed; thus am I established.”

The Atman is invisible. All else is visible; Atman is invisible—so it must be. If the Atman too were visible—to whom would it be visible? Atman is the seer. You see everything by the Atman—you never see the Atman. That is why people forget the Atman. With the eyes all is seen—except the eyes. With the hand you can grasp everything—but this very hand cannot grasp itself.

The Atman is the seer. Look at the green trees outside; at the gathered crowd; at your own body; close the eyes and look at your thoughts; go deeper—look at the subtle ripples of feeling—but you are always the one who sees. You never become the seen.

The Atman is invisible. The Atman never becomes an object—avishaya. It keeps receding, receding. Whatever you see—know that you are not that. You are only the seer.

That is why the phrase “self-vision” is false. The Atman is never seen—by whom would it be seen? For usage it is fine, workably so, but not very meaningful. There is never a vision of the Atman.

There is the experience of the Atman. When all objects have disappeared and nothing remains to be seen—only the seer alone remains—then it is not that you see the Atman, for then again there would be division. Then the Atman would be half—the half that sees—and what appears would be anatman. Anatman means: that which we can see—the other, the object. And that which we can never see—that which cannot be made into an object—that alone is Atman.

This sutra is the peak of dhyana. The Atman is invisible. Therefore all the ways of seeing the Atman are futile. Chanting, austerity—all futile. He who understands that the Atman cannot be seen, for the Atman is always the seer—for him no means remains.

आत्मनः अदृश्यत्वेन—

Knowing—experiencing—the invisibility of the Atman—

विक्षेपैकाग्रहृदय—

all disturbances dropped from the heart; it became one-pointed.

Now there is no tension. No seeking. Not even the urge to seek the Atman. Not even the desire to know the Atman—because the Atman cannot be known. The Atman is the source of all knowing.

एवं अहं आस्थितः—

And therefore I am established in myself—because now nothing remains to be done.

The world is running by itself. The mind’s current flows by itself—there is nothing to do there. Someone might say: Fine, the world runs by itself, the mind’s current flows by itself—there is nothing to do; God is the doer of these—yet seek yourself! But that seeking will create a new tension, a new desire! A new world.

Janaka says: that too is no longer a question—what is there to seek? I am the seeker—so what is there to seek? Knowing myself as pure, conscious—chinmatra—I stand established. In the very knowing, establishment has come. Because of this knowing, all unsteadiness has gone—steadiness has become.

This earth is reared in darkness wherein even by day night is spread— my body may belong to earth—so what? My Atman is sky-bound!

The body may be on earth; the Atman is sky-bound. The Atman is sky—like the sky—without limit!

Janaka says: In this very knowing I am established.

Though life be spent in the company of the venomous— the color of bad company cannot climb upon the noble. Poison could not seep into this tree— though serpents forever coiled around the sandal.

Serpents coil upon the sandalwood tree—still the sandal does not become poisonous.

Go chandan ke girdi hamesha lipte rahe bhujang—

There is no difference. The Atman is invisible; the body is visible, the mind too visible. The visible cannot touch the invisible. Let the serpents coil—Atman is not stained by them. The Atman cannot be stained. The very being of the Atman is pure-knowing. However many sins you may have done—your delusion is that you did them. And because of sins you have not become a sinner. However many sins—you cannot be a sinner, for there is no possibility of becoming one. Your innermost core is forever pure.

As if you bring a murderer before a mirror—the mirror does not become a murderer. Even if the murder is committed before the mirror—the mirror does not become a murderer. Even if blood spills before the mirror—no crime of murder attaches to the mirror. Whatever has happened has happened in body and mind. Beyond both, your being transcends. No ripple ever reached there—nor can it.

Knowing thus, I am established!

We have become entangled with the visible—and forgotten the seer.

One night Mulla Nasruddin went to buy shoes. One gentleman was buying shoes—Mulla sat beside him. Many shoes were brought. The gentleman bought and left; another came—he too bought and left; a third came... Mulla tried dozens of pairs but none fit his feet. The shopkeeper grew tired; it was time to close. No shoe would fit. At that moment the electricity went out. Pune, as you know—electricity goes! And Mulla shouted loudly: Ah! Got it! It fits! The shopkeeper too was happy—he had lost hope this man would ever buy. When the light returned, they saw Mulla had placed his foot into a shoe-box.

When the light comes, you too will see where you have placed your foot! The invisible is bound with the visible—Atman bound with body; Atman bound with the mind’s waves without waves. When the light comes—you will awaken and know.

How will the light come? These sutras are for light.

“When disturbed by superimposition and such, one uses Samadhi as a practical device. Seeing this rule, I am established without Samadhi.”

That is why I said, these are very revolutionary sutras.

Janaka says: I am established without Samadhi.

Janaka is saying: When there is disease, medicine is needed. When the mind is disturbed, meditation is needed.

In English, the word for dhyana—meditation—comes from the same root as the word medicine. Both mean remedy. Medicine is a remedy for the body; meditation, for the soul.

But Janaka says: the soul was never ill—therefore no remedy is needed there. Up to the mind, a remedy can work. But if you think you are one with the mind, then to break that identification a remedy is needed.

If you awaken and see that I am separate from the mind—I was never joined—then the matter finishes; no remedy is needed.

Even because of doing meditation upon the Atman, bondage remains—because some activity continues. You say, We are meditating—then something is being done. But meditation is the state of non-doing. You say, We have entered Samadhi—then Janaka will ask: Was there ever a time when you were not in Samadhi? Samadhi is your nature. The Samadhi you impose from the outside, arrange somehow—it will remain in the mind; it will not go beyond the mind.

Thus often it happens: the mind grows quiet, winds stop, and there are no ripples upon the water—then you feel, Samadhi has come; great bliss! But then winds will come again; will you control the wind? Ripples will rise again; the calm will be lost again.

Janaka says: there is Samadhi only when you have gone beyond Samadhi too. Then nothing can disturb you.

समाध्यासादिविक्षिप्तौ व्यवहारः समाधये—

Samadhi is a practical device. If the mind is disturbed, Samadhi is needed.

एवं विलोक्य नियम—एवमेवाहमास्थितः—

Seeing thus the rule, I became established in myself—beyond Samadhi.

These sutras are the ultimate sutras of Jnana. In them there is no place for doing. No method of yoga. Nothing is to be done—this is the fundamental sutra. Only awaken and see what you are; nothing is to be done.

“When disturbed by superimposition and such, one uses Samadhi as a practical device. Seeing this rule, I am established without Samadhi.”

Without Samadhi!

“O Lord, by the absence of what is to be rejected and what is to be adopted—and likewise by the absence of joy and sorrow—I am now established just as I am.”

Listen to these words. Taste them. Let them fall in you as seeds.

Now I am, just as I am, established.

This too is my entire teaching: as you are, so are you accepted by the Divine. Do not run about in vain. Do not say: first we will become virtuous and saintly, then God will accept us. As you are—rest! You are accepted.

Your mind has become addicted to running. First it runs after wealth; then, tired of wealth, it runs after meditation—but run it must. And so long as you run, you will not be available. Become ashtitah—stop!

Say this: In this world, without running nothing is obtained. Here, if you run, something is obtained. That is the world’s formula: here, by running, you get. But in the realm of the Divine, if you run—you lose. There, by not running, you obtain. The arithmetic of the world and the Divine is utterly different. Here, if you do not run—you lose; here, only by running do you earn. There, if you run—you have lost. There, if you stop, sit, rest—ashthitah, tatastha, kootastha—you have got it! It is because of your running, your fever of running, that you cannot find what is within you.

हेयोपादेयविरहादेवं हर्षविषाद्योः। अभावादद्य हे ब्रह्मन्नेवमेवाहमास्थितः।।

O Brahman! Janaka says to his master: O Brahman! O Lord!

हेयोपादेयविरहात्—

Now both the right and the wrong have gone. What to do, what not to do—both have gone, for the doer has gone. What is auspicious, what inauspicious—no longer a concern, for there is nothing to be done. I am non-doer!

हर्षविषाद्योः अभावत्—

And because of this, joy and sorrow are absent.

हे ब्रह्मन् अद्य अहं एवम् एव आस्थितः—

Therefore, now I am exactly as I am—established as such.

I have not become something new. I have not become a mahātma. I have not attained anything. Now, just as I am, I am established. And svabhava means only this: as you are—be thus established.

This is an unparalleled teaching. No teaching has ever reached higher. This is the last message. There cannot be a greater one—for this is the statement of total acceptance. As you are—at this very moment! Experience it, a little awake.

This very moment—if you are quiet, listening to me—if you are sitting established in yourself, no running, no movement—what is there to obtain? Do you not taste in this very moment what there is to obtain? Obtained—always already obtained!

When Buddha became enlightened, someone asked: What did you gain? Buddha said: Nothing at all; that which was always there—I came to know it. The treasure was in my own home; who knows where I wandered searching!

There is a sweet Jewish tale: a rabbi dreamt that in the capital, by the left end of the bridge, in front of the palace, a great treasure lay buried. One day he thought: Dreams are dreams. But the second day he dreamt again—very clearly—he even saw a policeman standing guard upon the bridge—just below where the policeman stood. On the second day a little tickle arose in him—why not go dig it up?—but he thought: Since when are treasures found in dreams! On the third day the dream came again—and a voice said: What are you doing lying here! Go find it—this chance will never come again! For generations your poverty will be erased.

He went. After several days he reached the capital. He could not quite believe—several times doubt arose: I am following a dream—what a fool! What bridge, what palace—will they exist? But now that he had come halfway, he said: Let me see. Even if I do not find the treasure, at least I will see the capital. When he arrived—he was astonished: there was the bridge—the very bridge! And the palace—exactly the palace he had seen in the dream, down to the last detail. And the policeman too—all three nights he had seen that face. Greatly surprised—but how to dig? The place was guarded day and night.

He wandered around the bridge, circling here and there.

The policeman watched him and began to wonder: what is this? He had been posted to prevent suicides—it was a place where people jumped. Does this man intend to kill himself? He looks simple and innocent enough.

After two or three days the policeman could not restrain himself. He said: Listen, brother—why do you keep hovering here? Are you waiting for someone? Are you looking for something? Have you lost something? What is the matter—some sorrow, some pain?

He said: Now, what shall I hide from you? It is strange—a dream: for three nights I dreamt that right here, beneath where you stand, a treasure is buried. The policeman roared with laughter: This is the limit! I too have dreamt that in such-and-such village—and he named the very village of the Jew—from such-and-such Jew’s house—and he spoke the very name of this Jew—beneath his cot where he sleeps and dreams—a treasure is buried. Do you think we are so mad as to be trapped in dreams? And how to search? There must be fifty Jews of that name in that village. Shall I break into their houses and dig? You too are a fine fool!

Hearing this, the Jew bowed: Thank you! He ran. He dug beneath his cot—and the treasure was there.

What we search for elsewhere is within us. We brought it with us. It is our svabhava.

Just as you are, this very moment—without losing a single moment—you can attain nirvana! If something had to be done, it would take time; effort would be needed. To become a mahātma takes time. To become Paramatma—no time at all.

Let me repeat: To become a mahātma will take much time—lifetimes; because mahātma means: cut away evil, preserve the good; do what is right, drop what is wrong. This dropping and that grasping will take long. And even then whether you will ever become a mahātma is doubtful. For no one can be a mahātma until the inner Paramatma is seen. Till then all is hollow, deceit, superficial—an outer wrapping.

True revolution is not becoming a mahātma. True revolution is this proclamation: I am Paramatma! Aham Brahmasmi! And this can happen this very moment. If it does not, it is only that you have not understood the situation. Body you are not; mind you are not—let this much sink deep in your remembrance: you are the drashta—the seer.

Now I am, just as I am, established.

अद्य अहं एवं एव आस्थितः—

Hum it within. The more you drink this, the better. At times, sitting quietly, remember deeply: just as I am—I am established in myself, established in the Lord. Sometimes, in the dark night, sit up in bed and remember only this one thing intensely: just as I am... And I tell you: right now, here—you, just as you are... The only shift is that awareness moves from doer to witness. Just a small shift; like changing a gear in a car—shifting from doer to sakshi.

Many things can support this gear-change—but nothing is necessary for it. Meditation can support—but do not become a meditator. Sannyas can support—but do not take the stiffness of sannyas—do not become a sannyasi, or you will miss. Worship and prayer can support—but do not become a priest. These can support—none is the cause. No cause is needed.

Paramatma—you already are; otherwise there is no way to be.

Yet even as I say this, whether you will listen is uncertain. For if you truly hear—you will be it now. You do not want to hear. You still relish being the doer. You say: Not the doer?... But I am the doer–sustainer of my family! How proudly you stand before your wife: Husband—Master—touch my feet! And she says: I am your maid! And you say to your son: Look, I am raising you—do not forget! And when you earn money, you want everyone to say: Yes, you are courageous, you have struggled! And when you win an election and reach a post—you will find no joy in saying: I am a witness! Where will the juice be then? To defeat, to win, to push someone down—that is where the juice lies.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin lived in London for some years. His younger brother in Delhi spoke to him on the phone. After exchanging news, the younger said: Mother says—send five hundred rupees.

Mulla said: What? I cannot hear you.

Till then he heard everything. Suddenly: I cannot hear you. The younger shouted: Mother says—send five hundred rupees. Mulla gave the same reply. The younger shouted even louder; the elder, Mulla, still replied the same. The operator, listening in, said: Brother, how can you not hear? Your mother is saying: send five hundred rupees!

Mulla said: If you can hear—why don’t you send it!

Everyone can hear—but to send the five hundred...

I have heard: In a village there was a rich man—very miserly! He hardly ever gave in charity. Later he also became deaf. People suspected he became deaf only so that when people came to ask for donations he could put his hand to his ear and say: I cannot hear. But one man came, shouting at the top of his voice.

The rich man said: Speak in my left ear; I cannot hear anything in my right. He spoke, with great courage: A hundred rupees. He could have given a hundred thousand; but he was miserly, parsimonious. Hearing a hundred, the rich man said: No—my left ear does not hear well; speak in the right. On the way to the right, the visitor thought: He cannot hear anyway—not even the hundred—why not change it! He said: Two hundred rupees. The rich man said: Then the left-ear thing was better. What was heard on the left—that alone is fine.

You hear everything—pretending to be deaf! For if you hear, a revolution will happen in life. And for even this you are ready—if someone says: All right—something has to be done—you will agree. For by doing, revolution will not happen immediately. We will do—there is no hurry. Not today—tomorrow; the day after.

But you do not have the courage to hear Janaka. For Janaka says: Now it can happen. He gives you no chance to escape. No way to postpone. He leaves not even a little loophole for dishonesty.

That is why Ashtavakra’s Gita could not be influential. People ask me: Such a great scripture... Krishna’s Gita became so influential—why not Ashtavakra’s? The reason is clear. Ashtavakra says: Now it can happen. To stake so much—the courage is very rare! People do not even listen to words like these; they do not read such things. People read and listen only to that which keeps them comfortable.

“Ashram, non-ashram, meditation, and acceptance or rejection by the mind—seeing the alternatives born of these, I am established—free of all three.”

“Ashram...”

Hindus divide life into four ashramas; and into varnas—four varnas, four ashramas. But Janaka says: Ashram—non-ashram—these too are nets, disturbances. All divisions are disturbances. If you seek the indivisible, division will not work. Neither is a Brahmin a Brahmin, nor a Shudra a Shudra—these are trickery. Arrangements for exploitation by politicians. I will not allow myself to be divided, for consciousness is neither Shudra nor Brahmin. Consciousness is consciousness. The witness is only the witness.

Thus it happens—great knowers remain stuck in petty things. They say Shankaracharya, returning from his bath in Kashi, was touched by a Shudra—and he cried: Away, Shudra! But that Shudra was a fakir, a saint. He said: I have heard you preach Advaita—that there is only One! And in this One—whence came Shudra and Brahmin? And I ask you, great man: when I touched you—did I touch your body, or your Atman? If I touched your body—then bodies are Shudra for all, all are unclean; and if body touched body—why are you disturbed? And if I touched your Atman—Atman is neither Shudra nor Brahmin. This is what you yourself teach.

They say Shankaracharya, who had defeated great scholars, bowed before that fakir. He said: Forgive me; never has anyone given me such a seeing. He tried to find that man—whoever he was! It had happened in the early dawn—the Brahma-muhurt—no one could find who he was. But whoever he was, his experience was profound.

“Ashram—non-ashram...”

Janaka says: I am not ready to enter this net; therefore I am established in myself.

“Meditation—and acceptance and rejection by the mind...”

Take this, reject that! I dropped both—and became established in myself.