Neti Neti Satya Ki Khoj #2

My beloved Atman!

One expanse lies outside a man — the eyes look out, the hands touch what is outside, the ears listen outward. There is an expanse outside. There is an expanse within as well, but there the eyes do not see, the hands do not touch, the ears do not hear. Perhaps that is why what is within remains unknown and unfamiliar. Or perhaps because it is so close that it does not come into view. What is far away becomes visible; what is near hides.

Even to see, distance is needed, a gap is needed. You are visible to me because you are at a distance from me. I myself will not be visible to myself, because there is not even a trace of distance there. The eye sees everything — except itself. The eye cannot see itself. That which sees all cannot see itself!

We who know everyone else do not know ourselves. And in the search for truth, one who does not know himself — what else can he possibly know?

The first experience of truth is within oneself.

Because that is the nearest. That is where we have entry. Everyone else we can only know from the outside; we cannot enter within. There is only one point of existence where we can enter within — the point of the self. Therefore the first door of the temple of truth is there — within oneself.

But it is a strange riddle that a whole lifetime passes and we catch no fragrance of ourselves, no news of ourselves. Life passes in utter unfamiliarity with oneself.

There was a thinker, Schopenhauer. One night he went for a walk in a garden. It must have been around three. Dawn was still far off. He had been unable to sleep all night, tangled in some question, and he reached the garden very early. The gardener saw that someone had entered the garden in the middle of the night. He took his lantern and his spear and went to see. From a distance he tried to see who it was, and then he also suspected that the man who had intruded looked mad. For Schopenhauer was standing under a tree, talking to himself. There was no one else — and he was speaking loudly. So the gardener thought, “He is mad.” He struck his spear hard on the ground to make a sound and shouted, “Who are you? And how did you come in here? And from where have you come?”

Schopenhauer began to laugh heartily and said, “This is a great problem — it is exactly what I have been asking myself all my life: Who am I? From where have I come? And how have I come? And now you too ask the same! I wish I had the answer!”

No doubt the gardener took him to be mad — a man who does not even know who he is, from where he came, and why he came! But do we know?

We can laugh at Schopenhauer. But his state is our state. We too do not know who we are, from where we have come, why we have come, and toward where this journey moves.

No essential element of life is familiar to us — all is unfamiliar. And the greatest wonder is that we are unfamiliar with our very selves — with the question, “Who am I?” And one who does not even know who he is — how can he know the other facets of truth?

To know oneself is an indispensable step in the direction of knowing truth. Without it, no one can move toward truth.

How many among us ask, “Is there Ishvara?” How many ask, “Is there Moksha?” Countless people ask countless questions. Perhaps one question hardly anyone asks: “Who am I? If I am, who am I?”

The most fundamental question of religion is not Ishvara. The most fundamental question of religion is the being of oneself.

The journey to truth is not outward. The journey to truth is inward.

The journey that runs outward, the search that runs outward, never attains truth. At most, workable information is gained. The attainment of truth can only happen by moving inward.

I have heard: In a capital city a beggar died. Someone dies every day. In that town too the beggar died — nothing surprising. But a great surprise occurred, and the whole town gathered where the beggar’s corpse lay. For thirty–thirty-five years that beggar had sat at that crossroads and begged; then he died. People burned his rags, threw away his broken pots, and were lifting his body to carry it away when some said, “This beggar has soiled the ground where he sat for thirty years. Let us dig out a little of the soil to clean the spot.”

As soon as they dug, they were all astonished. The whole city gathered there. Even the emperor came. As they dug the ground, they were amazed — beneath the place where the beggar had sat, great wealth was buried, many treasures were hidden.

But that beggar had stretched his hands in all directions and never once dug the place where he sat. And then all the townspeople began to laugh, “This beggar was utterly mad.”

Yet not one person in that town thought that perhaps the same is happening to him — that where he stands, the treasures may be buried, and he has spent his life stretching his hands outward, begging.

Where we stand, where our existence is, our very being — there the treasures of truth are buried.

And we will search in the scriptures, clutch at the feet of gurus, search in words and in doctrines — and never where we are! Someone will seek truth in the Gita, someone in the Quran, someone in the Bible; someone will go to Mahavira, someone to Buddha — but never will anyone care for the place where he himself is.

And whenever truth is found, it is found there where we are. If Buddha finds it — he does not find it with someone else; he finds it within. If Mahavira finds it — he finds it within himself. If Christ finds it — he finds it within himself.

Whenever truth has been found, it has been found within. And whoever will ever find it will find it within. We all end up exhausted searching outside — hence we fail to attain it.

Therefore the first thing to understand in the second sutra is this: if truth is, it is within oneself.

Therefore it will not be obtained by asking from another. No alms of truth can be received. Truth cannot be borrowed. Truth cannot be learned from somewhere, for whatever we learn, we learn from outside. Whatever we ask, we ask from outside. Truth cannot be known by reading either, for whatever we read, we read from outside.

Truth is within us — it is neither to be read, nor begged for, nor learned from anyone — it is to be dug out. We must dig the ground where we stand. Then those treasures will become available — the treasures of truth.

Another small story comes to mind.

It is said that when God made the world and made man, He at once became very troubled. He called all the gods and said, “Having made man, I am in great difficulty. It seems this man will stand at my door twenty-four hours a day making complaints. I will neither be able to sleep nor sit in peace. It is very necessary that I save myself from this man. Where shall I hide so that man cannot find me?”

The gods proposed many places. One god said, “Sit upon Gaurishankar — Everest.”

God said, “You do not know — very soon people named Tenzing and Hillary will reach there, and my trouble will begin.”

Another said, “Hide five miles deep in the Pacific Ocean.”

God said, “You do not know — soon scientists will reach there.”

Someone said, “Sit upon the moon and the stars.”

God said, “You do not know — hardly a moment will pass and scientists will step there too. Tell me a place where man cannot reach.”

Then an old god whispered in God’s ear, “Hide within man himself. There he will never go.” And God accepted the advice and sat within man. And indeed man never goes there.

To every place but one man goes. One place is missed — there he does not go. The dimension of being within oneself, the direction of being within oneself — our feet never tread there.

Perhaps we do not even know that there is a path within. Perhaps we do not know there is a door within. Perhaps we do not know there is anything within. We have no remembrance of it; hence we miss this one place. And one who misses that place misses truth itself.

If someone asks, “Where is the temple of truth?” If someone asks, “Where is the abode of truth?” If someone asks, “Where is truth?” — there is only one answer: that which is within, that innerness, that inner being — that is the temple, that is the abode, that is the place where truth sits.

We sow a seed in the earth. A sprout appears, leaves come, the plant begins to grow. Have you ever wondered from where this plant, this great tree under whose shade thousands may rest — from where has such a vast tree come? Where is the soul of this tree? It is in that small seed. Break the seed open — you will not find a tree anywhere inside. And yet it is hidden there. This vast tree that has manifested was hidden in the life of that tiny seed.

This vast expanse of the whole cosmos is also hidden in that seed of inner being. From there everything spreads — becoming vast. We too are hidden somewhere within, in some corner, as a seed. From there we manifest, we spread. Then we contract and then we dissolve.

The whole movement of life is from within to without. Everything expands and evolves from within to without. The reverse does not happen — nothing moves from without to within. All arises from within and moves out. This inner being — this being, this Atman — attention can go to it only when we become free from the outer. When our gaze is freed from the outer, it can turn inward. A gaze wandering outward cannot go inward. Naturally, as long as we keep looking outside, how can we look within?

And we are all looking outside. We look outside because we imagine that whatever is to be obtained will be obtained outside. Whatever is to be achieved can be achieved outside. The attainment is outside — hence we look outside.

We can look within only when it becomes clear that outside no one has ever obtained anything. Those who looked outside looked in vain. Those who ran outward ran in vain — they never reached anywhere.

Perhaps you have heard: On the day Alexander died, when his bier passed through the capital, people were astonished to see that both his hands hung out of the bier. People began to ask, “Why do Alexander’s hands hang out? Never have we seen hands hanging outside a bier. Has some mistake been made with this bier?”

But this was not a beggar’s bier that mistakes would be made — this was Alexander’s bier. Thousands of emperors had come, great generals had come. Great kings were bearing the bier on their shoulders. Someone would have noticed why the hands were hanging out. Everyone began to ask.

By evening it became known that Alexander had told his friends before dying, “When my bier is taken out, let my hands hang outside.” His friends asked, “What madness is this? Have you ever seen hands hanging out of a bier?”

Alexander said, “But I want my hands to hang out.”

They asked, “Why do you want this?”

Alexander said, “So that all may see that even Alexander’s hands are empty. A whole life of running — searching outside — and not even the hands could be filled; they remain empty.”

Alexander’s hands remain empty. Our hands too will remain empty. No one has ever gained anything outside. Hope arises that something will be found outside; life is missed, and hope turns into despair.

Not a single person has ever said on this earth, “I searched and found it outside.” And of those who searched within, not one has said, “I searched within and did not find.”

Therefore I call religion the supreme science. Because science means a domain where there are no exceptions. In the domain we call science, exceptions do appear. In the domain of religion, to this day there has not been a single exception: those who sought outside invariably found nothing; those who sought within invariably found.

Hence I wish to emphasize in this second sutra: not outside is the wealth of truth. The truth of life is within. If this becomes crystal clear in the mind, the inward journey can begin. But somewhere in our minds remains the notion: no, it is outside. Outside everything seems to be; everything appears outside. The world outside appears so vast that it seems: what can be within? Everything is outside — what can be within?

The inner seems so small — what can be within me, within you? All that is appears in this infinite expanse outside. Everything appears outside, spread without end. Nothing appears within. By the very vastness of the outer, an illusion arises that within, in so small a space, what can there be?

But the question is not of small or big. And because we have not gone within, it appears small. The day you go, you will know that the infinite outer can be contained in that so-called small — it is that big! Only by going will there be remembrance, will there be awareness. Only by experiencing will there be any idea. The outer has a boundary; the inner has no boundary. But without experience there is no way.

There are things that can only be known through experience. If there is pain in my hand, I cannot make another understand what that pain is like. Try as I may, I cannot. Nor can I take the pain out and show it, “Here — this is the pain.” Even if I cut and beat my hand, I cannot take out the pain to see it myself, “This is it.”

Thoughts move within us all; and if the head were cut open and examined, you would find nerves, tissues — but nowhere thoughts. To this day not a single thought has been taken out and seen. If we insist on seeing, we will have to conclude that thoughts do not exist. Yet we all know thoughts exist.

We all know that love also arises within. But a scientist says, “We dissect the heart much, we examine it; there is nothing like love to be found there.” And I cannot take out my inner love and show it to anyone — “Here it is.” Leave another aside — I cannot see it myself as an object. Still we know that within there is love, there are thoughts, there are experiences — pain and anguish. But these are matters of experience.

And that small love within — when it manifests in someone’s life, it does not remain small. When love manifests within, the whole world becomes small and love becomes vast. When there is anguish within, the anguish is not small — the whole world becomes small and anguish becomes vast. When bliss is born within, the bliss is not small — all the joys of the world become small and that bliss becomes vast. Small and big can be known only when we experience what is within.

And the inner truth of which we speak — the day it is experienced, that day it is so great, so immense, that not even endless worlds such as the one we know can touch its vastness. But we have no inkling of it. We have not taken a single step in that direction.

We are like a blind man to whom there is no inkling of light, and however much you try to explain to him, he cannot understand what light is. Place great treatises on light before him — still he will not understand. Perhaps our scriptures may create non-understanding rather than understanding.

Ramakrishna used to say: A blind man was a guest in his friends’ home. They welcomed him greatly, honored him, prepared delicious sweets. Then that blind friend began to ask, “This which I am eating, so delicious — from what is it made? What is it?”

The friends said, “It is made of milk.”

The blind man said, “Explain to me about milk — what is it like?”

The friends said, “Milk? Have you seen a crane? Milk is white like a crane — pure white, like the crane’s feathers.”

The blind man said, “Do not tangle me in riddles. I do not know what milk is, and now you say it is like the crane’s feathers — white! I do not know what a crane’s feathers are. I do not know what white is. You have created more difficulties. My first difficulty remains — what is milk? The second difficulty has arisen — what is a crane? The third — what is white? Now explain to me what a crane is.”

His friends said, “This is very difficult. The man is blind — how can colors be explained to him?”

The blind man said, “Find some trick so that I may understand what a crane is.”

One friend was very clever. He came near and placed his hand in the blind man’s hand. He said, “Stroke my hand. The way my hand bends in a graceful curve, so is the crane’s neck.”

The blind man felt the hand and then began to dance with joy, saying, “Now I have understood what milk is like! I have understood, absolutely understood — milk is like a bent hand.”

His friends beat their hands on their heads, “This is a great trouble — we set out to explain, and non-understanding arose.”

To tell a blind man what color is like is very difficult. What he does not know from within cannot be conveyed to him from without. If the blind man knew color from within, then it could be indicated from without. Then even indication would not be needed.

This is the tangle — the greatest tangle of life: those who know, to them there is no need to tell. And those who do not know — there is no way to tell them. Tell those who do not know — and more confusion is created. Those who know — there is no question of telling, no need.

But knowing can happen from within, and telling always happens from without. Therefore truth can never be told; it can be known. To know means that within, some grasp and recognition must arise. To tell means those who have the grasp and recognition should tell us.

In a village the Buddha was a guest. Some people brought a blind man to him and said, “We explain to this friend that there is light. He denies it — says there is no light. We know there is light, but we cannot prove there is light. He says, ‘I want to touch your light. Where is it? Bring it — I will touch and see.’”

Now light cannot be touched. But the blind man knows things only by touch. His way of recognition is touch. For him, the proof of being is touch. He says, “I want to touch light and see.” He is not wrong — he knows things by touch. Whatever he can touch, he accepts as existing. What he cannot touch, he considers nonexistent. Touch is the evidence of being. Then the blind man laughs and says, “You cannot bring your light — why talk nonsense? Why dream? There must be no light.”

The friends said to Buddha, “You have come to our village — we thought perhaps you would be able to explain. So we brought this friend. He says, ‘I can touch, taste. Strike your light so I can hear its sound. If your light has fragrance, let me smell it.’ But when we say light can neither be touched, nor smelled, nor heard — it can be seen — the blind man says, ‘What is this seeing?’ Because if a blind man knew seeing, he would not be blind. Then he laughs and says, ‘Why do you try to prove me blind by talking of light? You too cannot see it; no one can see it. What is not, how can it be seen?’”

Buddha said, “I will not explain to him — to explain in this direction would be to create non-understanding. I will tell you to take him not to a thinker, but to a physician. He does not need instruction; he needs treatment. Cure his eyes so that he can see. The day he can see from within, he will know — before that, no matter how many Buddhas explain, no difference can be made.”

They took the blind man to a physician. There was a membrane over his eyes which, after six months of treatment, was cut away. The man came dancing to Buddha, fell at his feet and said, “There is light!” But Buddha said, “Show me by touching — where is it? I want to touch and see.”

The man laughed and said, “No, it cannot be known by touch.” Buddha said, “I want to taste it.” The man said, “Do not joke — it cannot be tasted.” Buddha said, “Strike it so I can hear its sound.” The man said, “Leave the old talk. Now I too can see — light can be seen. I am seeing it — it is.”

Buddha said, “Earlier too we explained — you did not understand.”

The man said, “It was not my fault. The fault was theirs who explained. How can a blind man be made to understand? And if I had believed them, I would have gone wrong. Not believing them made them treat me. If I had believed, perhaps there would have been no need for treatment. I would have believed — and the matter would be over. I would have remained blind and never known.”

Truth can be known — it cannot be believed.

It cannot be learned, nor taught. There is no schooling for truth. Hence there can be no school where truth is taught and people learn.

But therapy is possible. The eyes can be treated. How can the eye be treated? About that we will speak tomorrow morning as the third sutra.

For now, in the second sutra it is essential to understand that truth can be known — but knowing always comes from within. And what we call knowledge always comes from without. Knowing arises from within; knowledge comes from without. Knowledge about light can be found in books written on light. But the knowing of light cannot be found in any book — it comes from within. Understand the difference between knowing and knowledge. Knowing and knowledge differ. Knowing arises from within; knowledge comes from outside.

Knowledge can make a man a pundit, not a knower. A knower is born of knowing — of knowing himself.

A man may read books on swimming — thousands of books — and become a pundit about swimming. He may know all that has ever been written or said about swimming. He may even write a book himself, give lectures, earn a PhD on swimming. But do not push that man into water, even by mistake. He may do everything else — he cannot swim. Knowing about swimming is not knowing how to swim. Knowing how to swim is a totally different matter. Knowing about swimming is altogether different.

And remember — it may also be that one who knows how to swim cannot say anything about swimming. He will say, “One can simply swim. We jump and we swim — you too jump and swim.” But if you ask him to give a lecture about swimming, he will say, “How to give a lecture? If there is water, I can jump in and show you by swimming. But what lecture can there be about swimming? Knowing about swimming is one thing.”

In the matter of truth, one can know about, but that is not the knowing of truth. Long rows of pundits who know about truth exist in the world; but those who know truth are very few — rarely.

And those who know truth will often become the enemies of those who know about truth. It will often happen that enmity arises between the knower of truth and the knower about truth. For the knower of truth will say that all that is known about truth is foolishness, of no value. For one who knows how to swim will say, “What is the point of knowing about swimming? What is the use of knowledge that does not teach you to swim?”

You must have heard the story. There was a fakir, Mulla Nasruddin. In a small village he ferried people across a river — charging two coins. One day the village’s great pundit was crossing in his boat. Midstream he asked Mulla, “Mulla, do you know mathematics?”

Mulla said, “Mathematics? What is that?”

The pundit said, “Fool! You ask what mathematics is? You do not even know mathematics? Half your life is wasted — completely wasted. For one who does not know mathematics — what else can he know?”

Mulla said, “If you say so, then so it is — wasted.”

A little further the pundit asked, “Do you know astrology?”

Mulla said, “Astrology? What kind of trouble is that?” The pundit smacked his forehead, “Another quarter of your life is wasted! One who does not know astrology — what else will he know? Three-quarters of your life is wasted.”

Just then a violent storm came. Winds gathered, clouds darkened, the boat began to rock. Mulla said, “Punditji, do you know how to swim?”

The pundit said, “Not at all.”

Mulla said, “Then your whole life is wasted. I am going to jump. I do not know mathematics or astrology, but I know how to swim. I am going — and the boat is about to sink. Now your whole life is ruined.”

In life, that which is knowing about — that has little value. To stand face to face with truth has meaning; knowing about truth has none.

But whatever we know from outside is always about — we never know truth itself. We cannot know it that way — this should become clear, so that our journey in that direction stops. Someone may come and tell you, “Truth is like this, truth is like that.” What will you learn from that? Someone may say, “Ishvara is like this, Ishvara is like that.” What will you know from that? Apart from words you will know nothing.

And in words alone there is nothing. In ordinary life we do not make such a mistake. In life we do not commit such folly: because the word “horse” is written in a dictionary, we do not sit upon it as if it were a horse. The horse is tied in the stable — we ride that. In the dictionary too the word “horse” is written — but we do not ride it. Nor do we take the word to be the horse. In the ordinary accounting of life we never take words to be reality. But in the search for truth we have accepted words as truth. A book has the word “Ishvara” written in it — we bow to the book, because “Ishvara” is written there, as if someone were riding the word “horse.” If one’s foot touches a book wherein “Ishvara” is written, we panic that a foot has touched Ishvara.

A foot touching a word is not a foot touching Ishvara. Words are nothing — at most, lines drawn on blank paper.

Yet someone says, “We carry scriptures upon our heads with great reverence.” No scripture is a scripture of religion. A scripture of religion would be that in which truth is. In any scripture there cannot be truth — only words are there. We never take the word “horse” to be a horse — but the word “Ishvara” we readily take as Ishvara. The worship of words goes on. We memorize words, we go on repeating them, and we imagine that by repeating we know.

If a man memorizes the Gita, he is taken to be a knower. How will one become a knower by memorizing the Gita? To memorize is the sign of a stupid mind, not of an intelligent one. The sign of intelligence is not memorization.

But if someone memorizes the Gita, or the Quran, and can recite its verses completely, we consider him a knower. What does he have? A recording of words, a jumble of words. Take away the words — nothing remains. He has as much Ishvara as someone who has memorized “horse” has a horse. As much horse exists for the memorizer of the word, just so much Ishvara exists for the memorizer of “Ishvara.”

But even if a man memorizes the word “horse,” we never believe he has a horse. Yet if the word “Ishvara” is memorized, we begin to believe this man has Ishvara. In the matter of truth we have accepted words — behind which there is nothing. From outside, only words can come; from within, truth comes. If this becomes utterly clear, we can be free of the entanglement outside and undertake the inward journey. So long as the notion remains that it can be obtained from outside…

In Russia there was a most remarkable thinker, Ouspensky. In the Caucasus there was a fakir, Gurdjieff. Ouspensky went to meet him. By then several books by Ouspensky had been published. One book had brought him so much fame that people said there are only three comparable books in the world. One was written by the great Greek philosopher Aristotle — called the Organon — the first canon of truth. Then Francis Bacon wrote another — the Novum Organum — the second canon of truth. And the third was written by Ouspensky — Tertium Organum — the third canon of truth. People said these three were unique.

Ouspensky’s book was out, his renown spread. He went to see Gurdjieff — a village fakir. Ouspensky said, “I have come to ask you something.” He was a great pundit.

Gurdjieff handed him a blank paper and said, “First write on this — what you know and what you do not know. About what you know, I will not speak. You already know — case closed. Where you do not know, if I speak, you may benefit. Go sit in that corner and, regarding what you wish to ask — Ishvara, Atman, Moksha — write in what you know and what you do not.”

Ouspensky took the paper and was in great difficulty. He thought, “Do I know Ishvara?” The thought arose, “I know about Ishvara — Ishvara, I certainly do not know.” “Do I know the soul?” He thought, “I know about the soul — the soul I do not know at all.” For an hour he sat with pen and ink, paper in hand, yet did not have the courage to write even a word.

He returned the blank page to Gurdjieff and said, “Forgive me — such a thought never occurred to me till today. You have created a crisis. I believed I knew. But the way you asked — and seeing your eyes — I felt fear that this man will not let me escape. If I say I know, he will catch me. I have not the courage to write anything.”

Gurdjieff said, “Then the great books you have written — how did you write them? Your books are renowned. How did you write them?”

Ouspensky said, “Till now I believed I knew. But today, when the question stood straight before me — it had never stood so — I feel I know nothing. I have journeyed through words. I have learned many words — and took that as knowledge. As for knowing — I know nothing.”

Gurdjieff said, “Then now you can know — because you have known the first thing worth knowing: that you do not know. This first thing you have known.”

This is the first step of wisdom: to know that you do not know. It is a great courage — to understand, ‘I do not know.’ For the ego within insists, “How can it be that I do not know? For so many days I have read the Gita, the Upanishads; I have gone to the temple, attended satsang — how can it be that I do not know?”

Swords are drawn to defend one’s knowing: “My knowing is right,” says one; “No — mine is right,” says another. Precisely in matters about which we know nothing, we become claimants.

If up to now we have known nothing by learning words, then by learning words further we will know nothing. Not one life — for infinite lives we may go on learning words — we will still know nothing. The learner of words labors under the illusion of knowledge — wisdom never becomes available to him.

Then how can we know? What is the path of knowing?

Until now we have believed that study and contemplation are the path to knowing. Until now it has been said to us: read the books, do satsang, listen to the wise — and you will know. This is utterly false. Read as many books as you like, have as much satsang as you like — never, even by mistake, will you know anything.

To this day no one has known anything through satsang. To this day no one has known anything by reading scriptures. Yes — the illusion of knowing is certainly created. And the illusion of knowing is more dangerous than ignorance. The ignorant at least knows he does not know — so perhaps he will someday make a search to know. But one who is under the illusion of knowing faces a greater difficulty — he feels he knows, and nothing remains to be known.

This world is not troubled because of ignorance, but because of false knowledge — pseudo-knowledge. That we are so far from truth is not because of ignorance, but because of false, borrowed knowledge.

When Socrates grew old, he sent word throughout Athens: “Go tell everyone that no one should ever call me wise again.” He said, “When I was young, I was under the illusion that I knew. As my understanding grew…” — his words are worth pondering — “as my understanding grew, my knowledge evaporated. As understanding increased, knowledge vanished. And now that understanding is complete, I say it is hard to find a greater ignoramus than me — I know nothing.”

The elders of Athens rejoiced that day and said, “It seems Socrates has entered the temple of wisdom.”

People said, “He himself says there is no one more ignorant than him, and you say he has entered the temple of wisdom?”

The elders said, “Fools — you do not know. Only those enter the temple of wisdom whose illusion of knowledge has fallen away; who say, ‘We do not know.’ Those who become so simple as to say, ‘We do not know,’ the doors of the temple open for them. For when one understands, ‘I do not know,’ one’s eyes begin to turn from the outer to the inner. Freed from outward knowledge, a man begins to enter the direction of inner knowing.”

So long as the notion remains, “I know,” so long as the notion remains that knowing can come from outside, from scriptures and words — no one turns within. The turning does not happen.

Therefore, in the second sutra it is necessary to be free of the net of words. And we will be free of that net only when we know clearly that words are always untrue. Words are never truth. Words are always untrue — never can truth be said by words, nor can it be. By learning words, truth has never been known, nor can it be. When one becomes free of words… and becoming free of words means the beginning of going within. For words are outside; within there is emptiness, silence — no words.

This second point, this second sutra in the search for truth: be free of knowledge — knowledge that is learned, cultivated, borrowed from others. Be free of it; so that the unborrowed knowing can be sought — that which never comes from another, which is present within. So that that knowing may be found which is not written in any book, which is inscribed in one’s very life-breath. So that that knowing may be found for which no alms need be begged — which wells up from within and overflows life. Only that knowing is truth. For that knowing cannot be snatched away. What is borrowed from others can be taken away. What arises from oneself is truly one’s own and can never be stolen. Knowledge learned from others is dubious — always dubious. Faith can never arise on it. The knowing that arises from oneself is indubitable — no question of doubt arises there.

Vivekananda was in his search for truth. He went to Maharshi Devendranath. It was a dark night; the Maharshi lived upon a barge on the Ganges. Vivekananda jumped into the water and, at midnight, reached the barge. He pushed open the door and caught the Maharshi by the neck. The Maharshi was sitting in meditation. Startled, he opened his eyes. A young man, soaked in water, stood at the door at midnight. Vivekananda asked, “I want to know — is there Ishvara?”

Many questioners must have come to Maharshi Devendranath, but never one like this. Does one ask about Ishvara by catching someone by the neck? And at midnight, having swum across!

He must have hesitated a moment, and said, “Son, sit — then I will speak.” Vivekananda said, “The matter is finished — your hesitation has said all.” The man… Vivekananda jumped and swam back. The Maharshi kept calling, “Listen, sit!” He said, “The matter is finished.”

Two months later this same youth went to Ramakrishna. In the same manner he grabbed Ramakrishna and said, “Is there Ishvara?” Ramakrishna said, “There is — nothing but That. If you wish to know, say so.”

There was no hesitation there. And Ramakrishna did not say, “I will explain to you that He is.” Ramakrishna said, “If you wish to know, say so. Leave the worry whether He is or not. Tell me — do you want to know or not?”

Vivekananda has written, “For the first time I stood hesitant. Till then I would grab people and make them hesitant. I had not yet thought whether I was ready to know. With Ramakrishna there was something else. Those I had asked earlier had learned words — within them there was doubt. Ramakrishna had his own experience — not words. Experience has no hesitation. Experience is devoid of doubt — indubitable.”

But such knowing always arises from within — indubitable and liberating. For it to arise, first one must be free of the outer knowledge. One who takes outer knowledge as knowledge and stops there never turns within.

If a man has taken pebbles and stones to be diamonds and has locked them in his safe, can he search for diamonds? The first step in the search for diamonds is to know that what he holds are stones. Empty the safe and throw them away. The first thing in the search for diamonds is to know what is stone and what is jewel. To know that stones are not diamonds — only then can diamonds be sought.

In the search for knowing, first know what is not knowledge. Whatever is learned from outside is not knowledge. Whatever comes through words is not knowledge. Whatever comes from another is not knowledge. Let this be utterly clear — that such knowledge is false; then the search for that knowing which is truth can begin.

Therefore in this second sutra I say: be free of knowledge, so that real knowing can be available. Drop knowledge, so that knowing can be born. Be free of knowledge, so that you may enter the temple of knowing. Thinking over this second sutra, go a little and ask: Is whatever knowledge I have, mine? With this one question I conclude today’s talk.

Go on asking: That which I know — do I know it? If I do not know it, it is of no use. If I do not know it, it is not knowing. It is stale, borrowed, dead stuff — information, not knowing. Notices, news, rumors…

And the amusing thing is: we accept rumors about people — and we accept rumors about truth as well!

Ask yourself: That which I know — do I know it? This question is very hard and very merciless. For it will hurt the ego — for till now the idea was, “I know.” This question will snatch that whole idea away. One by one the bricks of knowing will fall. Test all your knowing on this one touchstone: Only that which I know is knowing. That which I do not know — even if the whole world knows — makes no difference; it is not knowing for me.

If this becomes clear — that it is not knowing for me — then work on the third sutra can proceed. Before that, it cannot.

Only when one leaves one step can one place a foot on the new. If we do not leave the previous step, the foot cannot be placed on the new. To step on the new ground, the old must be left. If one insists, “We will keep our foot on the old ground and be told the way to walk,” then walking is not possible.

Let go of the knowledge you have clutched — that which is learned — then the unlearned, the untrained knowing can come. We will speak of that in the third sutra.

For now, after this sutra, we will sit for meditation for ten minutes.

At night, the crowd becomes very big, so it may not be so easy then. Now we are few — we will sit for ten minutes for meditation.

Meditation is a very simple matter. Understand two or three things.

First, sit at such a little distance that no one is touching anyone. If there is a great crowd where you are, get up and move outside, sit elsewhere. No one should be touching anyone.

Meditation means going within. We will try to understand that fully in the third sutra tomorrow. But before knowing about swimming, it is very good to know how to swim. So let us jump a little within and swim. There is a very simple way. And it is this: the more alert the mind is toward the outer, the more it slips within.

Understand this small sutra.

The more alert the mind is toward the outer, the deeper it goes within.

For ten minutes now we will do an experiment in awareness, in being alert, in wakefulness.

Here, winds move through the trees, there is sound in the leaves, the birds will call, there will be news on the morning breeze. All around there is a soft murmuring. There is sunlight, there are breezes, there are birds. For ten minutes we will close our eyes, and for ten minutes we will keep perfect awareness toward this outer world. Not even the voice of a single bird should pass without our hearing it. Not even the movement of a single leaf should pass without our knowing it. The web of sounds all around — we should go on knowing it, becoming aware, remaining alert. The more intensely you awaken toward this outer world, you will be amazed — the deeper the entry within will be. The deeper a peace will arise within, and a wondrous bliss.

So let us sit. For what I am saying can be known only by doing. Do it and know.

Sit, let the body be loose and at ease. Let there be no tension on the body. Close the eyes very gently. Without any strain upon them. Do not press them shut — just let the lids rest softly.

Close your eyes. Let the body be loose. Sit utterly at ease. Sit utterly still.

Listen… there are the birds’ voices, the sounds of the winds… in silence, in stillness, listen to whatever is happening outside… just listen, keep listening with total awareness.

Listen… experience whatever is happening outside; experience it wakefully — the winds will touch the body, there will be the sensation; the sun’s rays will spread across the face, there will be the sensation; the birds’ voices will resound, there will be the sensation. Become only a single point of experiencing — only an experiencer, a witness.

You are seeing, hearing, knowing — you are only a knowing. You are only knowing whatever is happening all around. For ten minutes, remain only a knowing. Listen… listen with total awareness… for ten minutes remain only listening, only knowing.

Keep listening… keep knowing… remain awake… with total awareness experience each thing: the winds, the sun’s rays, the birds’ song. And as you experience, the mind will become quiet… the mind will become quiet… slowly, the mind will become quiet… the mind will become utterly quiet…

The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet…

Listen… experience — the more intensely you experience, the more quiet the mind will become — the winds, the sun’s rays, the birds’ song — remain a witness.

The mind is becoming quiet… slowly, slowly the mind will become utterly quiet… listen… remain only a witness.

You are knowing everything — you are hearing the birds’ voices, you are feeling the touch of the winds… just a witness, silently knowing whatever is happening… the mind will go on becoming quiet… slowly, slowly the mind will become utterly quiet…

The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is settling into deep quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind has become quiet…