Nirvan Upanishad #1

Even if a drop were to wish that, without remembering the ocean, it would set out to find the ocean—its search would not succeed. And if a small lamp thinks it will discover the sun without holding the sun in remembrance, it is foolishness. Even if the Atman sets out in search of Paramatma, if it walks relying only upon itself, it will not arrive. Trust in oneself is not enough. Remembrance of Paramatma is essential—the remembrance of That of which we have no trace at all. This is the difficulty.
The Paramatma of whom we have no inkling—how to remember That? It seems almost impossible. And if we insist, “Only when we know, then we will remember,” that too brings difficulty. Because once it is known, remembrance is no longer needed. Those who know have no need even to take the name of the Lord. For those who recognize, prayer is meaningless. And for those who do not know—how shall they pray? How shall they call? How shall they remember? They have no news of Him—toward whom shall they fold their hands, before whom shall they bow?
The drop has no information whatsoever about the ocean, and yet the drop cannot be content until it becomes the ocean. And what would a small lamp burning in a dark night know—that without the sun it cannot burn? Still, however far the sun may be, the little light of the lamp glowing in the darkness is but the sun’s light. And the tiny spring flowing near your village, near your house—what does it know, that it is connected to distant seas! If the oceans were to dry up and become empty, that spring too would instantly dry and end. Looking at the spring, it does not occur to you that it is related to the seas.
Man is in exactly the same situation. He too is a small stream of consciousness. And if consciousness has become manifest in him, it is only because somewhere, close by, there is a vast ocean of consciousness—joined, linked—known or unknown.
Thus the Rishi sets out upon a journey with this sutra. But the sutra is most wondrous, most strange—absurd, seemingly meaningless. For he prays to that very One whom he is setting out to seek. To That of which he has as yet no clue, to That he places his head at the feet. How can such a thing be possible? Understand this well, for whoever would enter the world of sadhana must make this impossible possible.
One thing is certain: the drop has no knowledge of the ocean. Another is equally certain: the drop longs to be the ocean. We must bow down before that which we yearn to become—“we,” as we are. What we are must pray to that which we can become. As a seed might pray before the possible flower it can become.
This prayer does not benefit Paramatma. But through this prayer great strength arises in our feet. The prayer is not for Paramatma—it is toward Paramatma, but for our own sake.
If the drop can rightly pray to the ocean, then somewhere in its life-breath a contact with the ocean begins. When the drop calls to the ocean, by some unknown path the capacity and the receptivity to become the ocean begins to arise. And when the drop says to the ocean, “Help me so that I may reach you,” half the journey is complete. For the drop that can say—with trust, with faith, with devotion—“Paramatma, help me,” that very trust, faith, devotion shatters the narrowness of the drop and joins it to the Vast.
In the moment of prayer, the one who prays is no longer the same as he was before he prayed. As if a door opens that was closed. As if a window is unshuttered that was covered. A new dimension, a new journey, a glimpse of a new sky begins. Not that you have reached that sky—you are still standing within your own house—yet a door opens and the far, infinite sky becomes visible. You remain where you were. You have not become someone else.
A man stands in the dark in his own house and then opens his door. The same man, the same house, the same place—nothing outwardly has changed, yet now a far-off sky is seen. And if the path is not visible far ahead, walking is difficult. If the destination does not begin to be visible from where we stand, the journey is impossible.
The Rishi begins this Nirvana Upanishad with such a prayer, in which the search is for Nirvana—the Supreme Truth where the individual dissolves and only the vast void remains; where the flame is lost in the Infinite; where limits fall into the Limitless; where “I” is lost and only the Lord remains.
This word Nirvana is very wondrous. Buddha even abandoned the words Paramatma and Atman. Buddha said these words have passed through so many lips they have become stale, defiled. Yet even he could not leave the word Nirvana. Buddha centered his entire search on the truth of Nirvana. Perhaps you do not even know what Nirvana means. Nirvana means: the lamp going out. As if someone blows out a lamp—where does the flame go?
Whatever exists in this universe cannot go outside existence. Scientists now say the same: that which is, cannot be destroyed; that which is not, cannot be created. There is only transformation, change. Nothing is annihilated, nothing is created.
You blow out a lamp and the flame is gone—where has it gone? It cannot be destroyed; there is no way to destroy it. Even if you wish, there is no way. Only that can be destroyed which never was, which only appeared. That which is cannot be destroyed. That which is, remains—it will remain in some form, some shape, somewhere. There is no possibility of its annihilation.
It is a strange matter: only that can be destroyed which never was. That which is cannot be destroyed. It will remain, in any form, somewhere or other.
The flame of the lamp is extinguished—it is not destroyed. It disappears from our sight—it does not end. Our losing is somewhere else a meeting. The flame had come from some vastness and then merges in the vastness. It comes from the infinite and returns to the infinite. The drops that rain upon your house, your fields, your gardens—they come from the ocean and merge back into the ocean.
Keep in mind this eternal sutra: that where something dissolves is the very place of its arising. Origin and end are always one. Where something is born, there it completes, there it dissolves, there it takes leave. The door of coming and the door of going are one. Birth and death are names of that same door. The flame disappears wherefrom it came.
Buddha said: this disappearance of the flame I call the lamp’s Nirvana. Some day, when the ego in exactly the same way disappears into the Great Vast, the Mahat, then I call that the Nirvana of the person.
The name of this Upanishad is the Nirvana Upanishad. It is worth pondering, for the voice of the Upanishads is far older than Buddha. What Buddha said is exactly what lies hidden in the Upanishads. Whoever goes deep will know that Buddha is the living exegesis of the Upanishads.
Yet how strange: the man who lived the Upanishads most deeply made the Brahmins of India feel he was their enemy. Gautam Buddha, who expressed the nectar-stream of the Upanishads in a thousand ways through his life, appeared an adversary to the pundits who had made themselves lords of the Upanishads. The pundits labored tirelessly to banish Buddha’s vision from India. And Buddha was saying only what the Upanishads had said. But so it happens.
It happens because when the Rishi of the Upanishad speaks—he is no pundit, no priest, no officiant. He has known something. And not all can endure the fire of knowing. All can handle the ash of scripture; few can bear the fire of knowledge. When the fire of knowing dies and ash remains, scriptures are formed. In the hands of pundits there is no knowing, there are scriptures. Surely what is ash today was once a live ember. Because it was once fire, we go on preserving the ash—but know this also: what is ash now is no longer fire.
By Buddha’s time the Upanishads had become ash, not embers. Indeed, whenever knowledge falls into the hands of those who do not know but are deluded that they do, it becomes ash. If you want to have knowledge murdered, there is no easier way than to hand it over to pundits. Pundits are supremely skillful in killing knowing.
You can be master of ash. To play with fire is dangerous. You can worship ash; to wrestle with fire is dangerous. You can change ash; fire will change you—it will efface you.
The Rishis of the Upanishads played with fire. By Buddha’s time only ash remained. When Buddha again spoke of fire, naturally those who were guarding ash and calling it fire found in Buddha an enemy. Naturally. For when fire is reignited, the custodians of ash are in great trouble.
Jesus said what the knowers among the Jews had said—yet it was the Jewish pundits who nailed him to the cross.
It is surprising to note: till this day, those who oppose religion are not irreligious. It is always the so-called religious who oppose religion. The irreligious do not oppose religion; the so-called religious oppose it. It was not India’s atheists who opposed Buddha—it was India’s so-called theists.
When shall we understand this? Hard to say. When will it dawn on us that Truth is ever one—its expressions are many, but the life of Truth is one?
In this Nirvana Upanishad, which “has nothing to do with Buddha,” is contained the very essence of all that Buddha said.
A friend of mine has just returned from China. I had been speaking on Lao Tzu recently. He came and told me, “You are speaking on Lao Tzu. I went to China and asked a Chinese pundit, ‘What do you think about Lao Tzu?’ He said, ‘He was corrupted by your Upanishads.’ Your Upanishads spoiled our Lao Tzu.”
This is very meaningful. Truly, in the sense he says “spoiled,” we are all “good” people. Whenever anyone on this earth has been “spoiled,” the Upanishads have had a hand in it—spoiled in the very sense that Buddha is spoiled, Mahavira is spoiled, Socrates is spoiled, Jesus is spoiled. Whenever a man on this earth has been spoiled, he was corrupted by the Upanishads.
I told my friend: “Lao Tzu is not alone—then you are mistaken. In the known five thousand years of history, whenever anyone on this earth has been spoiled, it is the Upanishads that were the reason.”
The Upanishads have expressed the eternal with such depth that often it seems: can anything at all be said apart from them, an inch here or there? Can the Upanishads be in any way refined? Can they be improved? One doubts—it seems almost impossible, questionable. No way seems possible. And this became a heavy cause for India’s trouble.
The Upanishads spoke Truth in such utterly pure language that refining it further became difficult. Therefore, intellectual development in India after the Upanishads became difficult, because development demands some room. In the Upanishads such ultimate things were said that beyond them there seemed nothing to say. The supreme proclamations of Truth are in the Upanishads.
And Nirvana—this is a very wondrous Upanishad. We begin our journey here, and it will be a twofold journey. On one side I shall keep explaining the Upanishad to you; on the other side I shall help you to do the Upanishad. Because by explanations nothing is ever understood—only by doing does anything become clear. Only by doing will you understand. In this life, whatever is essential demands taste, not meaning. Taste is needed, not commentary. Direct seeing is needed. It will not suffice to be told what fire is—fire must be kindled, you must pass through it, burn in it and be extinguished; then there will be a glimpse of what Nirvana is. And this is not difficult.
To build the ego is difficult; to dissolve it is not. For ego in truth is not; it can vanish with ease. In fact, our whole life we must labor to prop it up, to support it from all sides, to keep it standing. To bring it down is not hard at all. If, in these seven days, even for a single instant your ego falls, you will have a taste of what Nirvana is.
So we will understand—only so that we can do. What I say, do not turn it into your information; make it your realization. Whatever I say, bring it into experience—only then! Otherwise, in five thousand years, many commentaries have been written on the Upanishads, and nothing has come of it. Words, and words, and piles of words. In the end you have many words and no knowing. And the day knowing dawns, you find that within, everything has become wordless, silent. This is the Rishi’s prayer.
The Rishi has called it the Shanti Path—the Peace Chant.
If one is to pray to Paramatma, one might think something else should be said. Of what use is a peace chant to Paramatma? Paramatma is peace itself. Yet it is called the Shanti Path—consciously, thoughtfully. Because though we pray to Paramatma, we do so for ourselves. And we are restless—and while restless, no journey is possible. Wherever we go in restlessness will be opposite to Paramatma. Restlessness means: walking with our back toward Paramatma.
In truth, the more restless the mind, the farther from Paramatma. Restlessness is the distance. The more restless you are, the greater the gap. If you are wholly still, there is no gap; then there is no distance. Then, even to say you are near Paramatma is not right, because nearness still suggests a distance. No—then you are in Paramatma; only Paramatma is. Perhaps even that is not right—for “in Paramatma” still implies two. Then say only this: you are Paramatma. Either you are—or Paramatma is. There are not two—for wherever two are, at some level distance persists.
Therefore the Rishi begins with the Shanti Path. The words of the Peace Chant are to be pondered—so that they can be done.
The Rishi says: “Om.”
Om is the symbol of all that cannot be said. The word Om has no meaning. It is meaningless. If someone tells you its meaning, tell him: do not make nonsense of it. Om has no meaning—it is pure sound.
Remember, wherever there is meaning, there is limitation. Meaning itself means limitation. Once there is meaning, the opposite is also possible. For every word, a contrary word can exist. Tell me the opposite of Om? If there is life, there is death; if there is darkness, there is light; if there is nonduality, there is duality; if there is moksha, there is samsara. But have you ever heard the opposite of Om? If there were meaning, its opposite would be formed. Om has no meaning—that is its magnificence. It will seem strange, because our mind wants plenty of meanings explained. But in Om there is not even a trace of meaning—just a sound. Yet deeply significant—significant while having no meaning. Significant—pregnant.
Om is the symbol only of that which cannot be spoken. We can speak everything except Paramatma—and whenever we speak, difficulties begin. Had the theists not spoken of God, atheists would never have been born on this earth. You know, an atheist can never be born before a theist. If there is no theist, the atheist cannot arise—the atheist is only a reaction, a mere opposition, a counter-move to the theist.
So if you want to erase atheists from the world, the theist must first make some transformation within himself. Otherwise, atheists cannot be erased. The true theist does not even claim to be a theist—because the claim gives birth to atheists.
Buddha is such a theist who does not claim theism. Mahavira is such a theist who does not assert theism. The supreme theist will not even say “God is,” because in saying so he gives others the chance to say “God is not.” Then who is responsible? The moment we say something “is,” we invite the “is not.” The supreme theist—if someone says “God is not”—will even say yes to that. He will not create a quarrel.
I have heard: in his last days, people of his village made Mulla Nasruddin the judge, the kazi, thinking him old and experienced. On the very first day, after hearing the plaintiff, Mulla said, “Right—perfectly right.” The court clerk got nervous. The lawyers were worried—the other side had not even been heard. But it is not proper to interrupt the judge. He called the other party, listened calmly, and said, “Right—perfectly right.” Now the lawyers were in trouble. The clerk leaned over and whispered, “Mulla, perhaps you don’t realize—if both are perfectly right, then who is right?” Mulla said, “Right—perfectly right. You too are absolutely right.” Then Mulla stood up and said, “This court is of no use, because we will not say anything that can be opposed. We will not utter anything that can be contradicted. Then a court is of no use.”
The theist will not even say the atheist is wrong. He will not insist, “God is, and I am right,” for that is an invitation to be called wrong. The more vigorously people try to prove God, the more vehemently others try to disprove Him.
Om is without meaning. Nothing is being said here. Nor does Om mean “God.” Om has no meaning. It is a symbolic sound for That which cannot be said. For whatever we say must be broken into fragments. Yet there is Something in existence that does not fragment—the undivided, the unbroken. That undivided existence—that is the only One. Om is said for That. With this the Rishi’s prayer begins. Not even to “God” is this prayer addressed—it is addressed to Existence.
Remember, when you pray to God, you create many distinctions.
A gentleman recently wrote me a letter: “I bow to whatever divine element there is in you.” He thought, if he bows to the whole man and there is some non-divine element, his bow may be wasted! But when the Rishi says Om, even the stone lying before you is included in Om. The stars spread in the sky are part of Om. Om is all-devouring, all-inclusive. There is no choice in this prostration—no selection of what to bow to. The entire existence—whatever is—is included.
And if even a Peace Chant makes a choice, it will become a Chant of Restlessness. But we choose even more narrowly: “Whatever divine part there is in you.” We choose even beyond that: “Which God? The Hindu God?” Still, I think the man who wrote was broad-hearted—he did not say, “Whatever Hindu divine element there is in you,” or “Whatever Muslim divine element.” Still, comparatively broad! We choose even there. Gradually, what remains in our hand is only ourselves.
I have heard: a man’s dog died. He loved it very much. Love between humans has become difficult, so we seek other routes. He was a rich man. He thought the dog should be given the respect due to a human. He forgot that man himself does not get as much respect as a dog. He went to the village’s grand Catholic church and told the priest, “My dog has died. I want to give him the same honor as a human.” The priest said, “Are you mad? A dog! And human honor! I am not a priest of dogs—get out.” Then he added, “But I give you advice: go down to the Protestant church. Few people go there. Being Protestant, perhaps he will agree.”
The man went. The Protestant priest was offended: “You insult us! For a dog? Impossible. But nearby is a mosque—go there. The mullah, Nasruddin, is a bit eccentric; one cannot predict—he might agree.” The man went and told Nasruddin. Mulla got angry: “What do you think? We bestow honor even upon humans by selection—and you bring a dog? Get out!” The man thought perhaps he would direct him elsewhere, but no advice came. So he said, “All right, I am leaving. But allow me to say, I had thought of donating fifty thousand rupees to whichever priest would give my dog a human burial.” Nasruddin said, “Wait a minute—was the dog a Muslim? Then we shall consider.” The man said, “No, he wasn’t.” As he turned to go, Nasruddin said, “Wait once more—was the dog religious?” The man said, “No occasion arose to ask.” “Then wait a last minute,” said Nasruddin. “Was he, at least, a dog? In that case, we are ready.”
Mulla is not wrong. We have no feeling for undivided existence. We divide, and divide, and divide. Om is undivided existence.
So the Rishi says: “Om—may my speech be established in my mind. May my speech be established in my mind. May my mind be established in my speech.”
Our sickness, our restlessness, our words, our thoughts, our speech—the tension of our life—is bound ninety-nine percent to our speech.
There was an American president, Coolidge. He spoke so little that it is said no politician in the world received as few abuses as Coolidge—because there was no way to abuse him; one could not contradict. When he first became president, at a press conference a journalist asked, “Will you tell us your future plans?” He said, “No.” “Your answer on this issue?” “I have none.” “Which political thinker has most influenced you?” “No answer.” He said nothing but “no.” As all were leaving he said, “Wait—don’t take this on record. Whatever I have said, do not report it. It was all unofficial—just friendly conversation. I have said nothing.” And indeed, he had said nothing.
As he lay dying someone asked, “Why do you speak so little?” He said, “Whenever I spoke, I got entangled. Then I saw that by not speaking, no trouble ever comes.” At a great banquet, a very rich, beautiful lady sat by him and said, “President Coolidge, I have a bet that I will get at least three words out of you in this next hour.” Coolidge said, “You lose.” Two words only—then he kept silent for an hour and only moved his hand.
The Rishi says, “May my speech be established in my mind.”
First he says, may my speech be settled in my mind. Have you noticed—you say many things you never wished to say. Strange indeed. You say even what you never wanted to say—and it is you who says it. Later you say, “I did not want to say that—despite myself it happened.” Is this speech yours? You speak, yet something else is at work.
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred others make you speak; you do not speak. A wife knows well which question to ask today so that a certain answer will come. The husband also knows: if he says this, the wife will say that. Everything goes on mechanically.
Our mind—meaning our capacity to reflect, to contemplate—has no connection with our speech. Our speech has become mechanical. We go on speaking as a machine would. Perhaps you have not uttered even one word that was one with your mind. Often the exact opposite runs within, and the opposite appears in speech. You tell someone, “I love you very much,” while plotting to pick his pocket—or cut his throat. I said “pick his pocket” so as not to exaggerate. Hatred is in the mind, anger is there, and you speak of love. You talk of friendship while animosity churns within. Such a man can never know himself. He is not deceiving others in the end—he is deceiving himself.
Mulla Nasruddin was passing on a road. A bitterly cold night, snow falling. Thin clothes. He fell, numbed by cold. He thought, “Now I will die.” Once he had asked his wife what happens at death. She had said, “Hands and feet grow cold.” He looked—his hands and feet were cold. “I am dying.” Four men came, lifted him, deciding to carry him to the cremation ground. They were strangers and did not know the village road, so at the crossroads they stood, thinking which way to go. The night deepened, snow increased. They pondered. Mulla thought, “I know the way—but do the dead speak? I didn’t ask my wife whether the dead can speak.” When long time passed he thought, “Rule or no rule, lest these men too freeze and die…” So he said, “Brothers, if you don’t mind, and if hearing a dead man’s voice is not against the rules, I can tell you: when I was alive, the road to my village was the one to the left.” They said, “What kind of man are you? You are perfectly alive, speaking—why were you lying with eyes closed and limbs stiff?” He said, “My wife had explained that when a man dies, hands and feet become cold. They surely were cold—but I could also tell that in some way I must be alive. They said, ‘When you knew, why didn’t you tell yourself you are alive and get up?’ He said, ‘There is a reason—I am such a liar that I cannot trust even my own words. Had I told myself I am alive, I would have needed two witnesses.’”
What we speak in all directions slowly becomes our personality. You too cannot be sure without witnesses whether what you say is true or false.
The Rishi says, let my speech be established in my mind; let my speech accord with my mind; let nothing remain in my speech that is otherwise than my mind. Let what is in my mind be in my speech. Let my speech become my expression. As I am—good or bad—let that appear in my speech. Let my picture be my own picture, none else’s. Let my face be my own face, none else’s. Let me become authentic. Let my words become symbols of my mind.
A very difficult thing. All our life we strive to hide ourselves, not to reveal. And when we speak, it is not necessary that we speak to say something—very often we speak to hide something. Because by remaining silent many things would be revealed. If you sit by someone and anger arises toward him, if you remain silent it will show. If you begin to ask, “How is the weather?” he will get engaged, and you will slip inside. Sitting silently, your real face cannot remain hidden for long. But while conversing, you can deceive. Conversation becomes a great curtain. When we become skillful in talk, in deceiving others, in the end we succeed in deceiving ourselves.
The Rishi says: “Let my speech be anchored in my mind.”
As I am, let that alone be in my speech—nothing otherwise. The sadhana will be difficult. That is why he prays—he knows this sadhana is difficult. If Paramatma supports, perhaps it will happen. If Existence supports, perhaps it will happen. If all the powers help, perhaps it will happen—otherwise it is difficult.
Then he says another thing: “Let my speech be established in my mind; and let my mind be established in my speech.”
This is harder still. The mind’s being established in speech means: when I speak, only then should the mind be present. And when I do not speak, the mind should not be. This is right. When you walk, only then do you have legs. You will say, “No, when I am not walking, I still have legs.” To call them legs then is only a manner of speaking. Legs are legs only when they walk. Eyes are eyes only when they see. Ears are ears only when they hear. When we say “blind eyes,” it is a wrong phrase. “Blind” means: no eyes. Eyes means vision; blind means no eyes. When your eyes are closed—even if you are not using them—you are blind. Names are functional, linked to their function.
A fan lies still—we still call it a fan. We should not. It is a fan only when it moves air. Otherwise it is only potentially a fan—meaning that if we wish, we can move air with it. If you wave a cardboard sheet to create breeze, the sheet becomes a fan. If you wave a book, the book becomes a fan. If I throw the book at your head, the book becomes a stone. Names are functional. If we went on naming this way, it would be difficult—so we fix stable names.
The mind should be present only when speech is needed; at other times not. But we are such that seated on a chair we keep shaking our legs. “What are you doing?” someone asks, and we stop. “What were you doing?” Were you trying to walk while seated—or have your legs gone mad? Just so, we keep speaking. When speech is not needed outside, speech goes on inside. If not with another, then we go on talking to ourselves.
The Rishi says, “Let my mind also be anchored in speech.”
This is more difficult. It means, when I speak, only then should there be mind. When I do not speak, mind should vanish, fall silent. As when I sit, legs do not walk; when I sleep, the body does not stand—so when I fall still, the mind should also be silent and empty.
You must begin with the first. Whoever has not done the first cannot do the second. First anchor speech in the mind. Allow only that much speech as accords with your mind and nature—let the rest drop. Let all lies fall away.
Very little speech will remain. If you anchor speech in the mind, ninety percent of speech will dissolve and depart. Ninety percent is useless—and how much trouble that useless part creates, how it entangles life—hard to measure. Ten percent will remain—telegraphic, concise.
A man writes a letter and it becomes long. The same man goes to send a telegram—he writes in ten words, even eight now—and says more in eight than he could in the whole letter. Hence a telegram has impact which a letter does not. In truth, those who write long letters do not know how to write; those who speak at length do not know how to speak.
Someone asked Lincoln, “If you speak for an hour, how much preparation do you need?” Lincoln said, “None at all. If I am to speak for an hour, why prepare?” “And if you are to speak ten minutes?” Lincoln said, “Then I must work hard, think.” “And if only two minutes?” “Then I cannot sleep the whole night—because I must remove the trash and choose the diamonds.”
When speech is anchored in the mind, it becomes telegraphic—concise. The Upanishads were written by such people—hence so brief, condensed, the very essence. Whatever is unnecessary is dropped. This must be done first, if you would do the second. First cut away the useless in speech. When only meaningful speech remains, there is no need for the mind to remain uselessly. When needed—you speak.
Then why do you think so much? You think because you have no trust that there is harmony between speech and mind. You prepare beforehand: what to say, what not to say. You rehearse. For even small matters—going to the office to ask for leave—you rehearse ten times in the head: what I will say; what he will say; then what I will reply. You do not trust yourself to respond. And when you cannot respond, you yourself rehearse both sides—funny indeed. The danger is…
I have heard: in a theater, rehearsals were going on. The organizer was worried: sometimes the actor was missing, sometimes the actress, sometimes the musician—someone always absent. One person came regularly—the curtain-man. At the final grand rehearsal, the organizer said, “Today I must thank the curtain-man. Every other person has failed to be regular—only this man.” The curtain-man said, “Forgive me before thanking me. I had to come to rehearsals because when the actual play happens, I will not be able to come. At least I could be present for rehearsals so that nothing remains to be said.”
The roles you rehearse—be careful. At the actual moment those roles will fail you, they will not be found. If they could be found then, there would have been no need to rehearse. And if I myself must speak, what is the need of preparation? If I am the preparer and I am the speaker, then all right, I will speak. Preparation is due to lack of trust.
There is no union between mind and speech. Who knows—I think something, say something, and something else slips out. Nothing is certain. So we prepare everything and impose order upon speech—for fear that the pure, the true mind may appear amid the speech and upset everything.
The Rishi says, let speech be sifted—only so much remains as is in tune with my mind. True, authentic. And then, O Lord, let my mind too be anchored in my speech. Let me use the mind only when speech is needed; let me lift the brush only when a painting is to be made; let me pluck the veena’s string only when a song is to be sung. Let me use the mind only when something is to be expressed.
Mind is a medium of expression. When you are not speaking, not expressing, there is no need of mind. But our habit! Sitting, lying—the mind keeps going. A mad mind lives within us.
Someone sent Mahatma Gandhi three little monkey figurines from Japan. Gandhi never understood their meaning in his lifetime—or what he understood was wrong. Perhaps you have seen them: one monkey covers his eyes, one his ears, one his mouth. Gandhi’s interpretation was just what Gandhi could make: do not hear evil—so one covers his ears; do not speak evil—one covers his mouth; do not see evil—one covers his eyes.
No interpretation could be more mistaken. Because the one who thinks “do not see evil” must first see what is evil—otherwise how would he know not to see it? By the time you recognize, you have already seen. And evil has this defect: if the eyes see a little and then close, it continues to be seen within. The monkey will be in great trouble. “Do not hear evil”—you will hear, only then know it is evil; then you close the ears—now it cannot go out; now it will revolve within.
No—the meaning is: do not see at all unless there is an inward necessity to see. Do not hear unless there is an inner compulsion to hear. Do not speak unless it has become inwardly unavoidable. It has nothing to do with the outside—but with the inside. People like Gandhi understand everything from the outside. This is inner.
If I must pause to avoid hearing a bad word—this depends on the other, when he will speak. He may begin with music and then abuse. What will you do? Often, if someone wants to abuse you, it is convenient to begin with music. By the time the music stops, the abuse has reached. It is a great weakness to be so frightened of hearing a bad word. If hearing evil makes you evil, then without hearing you are already solidly evil. This is no protection.
Do not think the monkeys are for monkeys. In Japan, those monkey figures are traditional because it is said: man’s mind is a monkey. Those who understand the mind have always known it to be a monkey. Darwin came much later and said man evolved from monkeys. Those who knew the mind always knew that man’s mind is exactly a monkey.
Have you seen a monkey jumping, restlessly leaping? Your mind is more restless than that, ceaselessly hopping. If some arrangement could be made to put windows in your skull so people could look in, they would be amazed: we used to think he sits in padmasana, silent; inside he is making great journeys, taking great leaps—from this branch to that. Inside, the mind-monkey is at work.
The meaning of those figures will be useful for these seven days: do not look at what is not essential to look at. How strangely we behave—we walk down the road and even read an advertisement for toothpaste, a cigarette ad, a soap ad—as if we had learned reading and writing for this.
A very thoughtful American was crossing a square, full of neon signs. He said, “O God, if only I were illiterate, I could enjoy these colors.” If illiterate, he could rejoice in the colors—so much colorfulness! But being literate, the skull is tormented: the burning ads—Lux Toilet Soap, Panama Cigarettes, everything is being read—any scrap is thrown into the head.
You are not even the master of your own eyes enough to prevent garbage from entering. If it is essential, see it—your eyes’ magic will increase, your way of seeing will change; power will arise. If it is essential, hear it—then you will be able to hear.
I have heard about Freud. In psychoanalysis, the patient talks for hours and the analyst sits behind and listens. Freud grew old. A young psychologist was training with him. In three hours a patient would exhaust the young man—yet Freud would listen from morning till midnight, ten hours, and come out fresh. One day on the steps they met. The young disciple said, “I am amazed. One patient flattens me. Three hours listening to lunatics—the skull is cooked. But you listen all day at your age and come out fresh.” Freud said, “Who listens? They talk. We only lend our ear… Who listens? Otherwise you would be tired.” The disciple said, “If you don’t listen, why make them babble?” “Because babbling relieves them—they empty their trash. Now you must seek professional listeners. Traditional listeners are gone: neither wife, nor husband, nor son, nor father is ready to listen. No one is ready to hear your nonsense. So professionals arise—psychologists. Their business is only this: they listen to your babble and take money. You feel relieved and think therapy has happened. After two-three years you tire of babbling, become quiet. That is all the peace you get. But if for three years you get a chance to unload your trash and someone listens sympathetically—this desire is strong. So we keep catching hold of each other; whoever we meet, we begin to pour out our sorrows—as if others have fewer.”
A seventy-year-old Rajasthani woman told me, “In the whole India there is none more miserable than me.” Seeing me startled, she said, “If you don’t agree, at least in the whole Rajasthan there is none more miserable than me.”
Everyone thinks none is more miserable than he. Hence, eagerness to tell whoever we catch hold of. This hearing, this speaking, this seeing—this is all waste of energy.
Hence the Rishi says: “Let my mind be anchored in my speech. And O Self-effulgent Atman, reveal yourself before me.”
O Self-luminous Atman, reveal yourself before me—but only when my speech has fallen silent and my mind is in silence. Because before that, even if Paramatma were to appear before you, you would not recognize Him. And know that Paramatma stands revealed before you twenty-four hours a day—you simply do not recognize. Only when you become like a pure mirror, calm and clear, when mind is silent and speech is void, will you suddenly find: Paramatma was always present; it was I who was not present to see, to recognize, to experience. He was everywhere.
Therefore the Rishi says: when it is so, only then do you reveal yourself—for even if you reveal yourself now, I am not here. That revelation would be meaningless. We are upside-down people. Weigh yourself against this Rishi.
Yesterday at the station as friends saw me off from Bombay, one friend held my hands and said with feeling, “We are bad, restless, troubled—but why does Paramatma not reveal Himself? What difficulty is there for Him? Granted that we are bad and nothing can be done by us—what would it cost Him to appear? Let Him reveal Himself as we are.”
It is hard to explain to such a friend that He is revealed. It is not that He should reveal Himself—He is revealed. Your statement is like that of a blind man—or one with eyes closed—who says, “I keep my eyes closed, granted. But what difficulty is there for light? Let light reveal itself. My eyes are closed; they may remain closed. What has light to do with my closed eyes? Why does light insist that only when I open my eyes will it be revealed?” Light insists nothing—it is revealed. The insistence is yours—you have closed your eyes. And light gives you such freedom it will not force your eyes open. Light can wait infinitely.
Paramatma is revealed; we are closed on all sides. Hence the Rishi does not say straightaway, “Lord, reveal yourself.” He first prays: my speech, my mind! And then even he says, “O Self-luminous—Paramatma is luminous—reveal yourself before me.” In that moment, such revealing has meaning. But even that revealing happens from our side, not His. When one opens his eyes, he will feel as if light has appeared—for him it has appeared. Light was always there; only the eyes were shut.
The Rishi continues: “O speech and mind!”
Ponder this—it is very practical. He has prayed to Paramatma, to Existence itself: lessen my speech—reduce it—settle it in the mind; and settle my mind in my speech. But let no harm come to speech or mind.
So the Rishi says: “O speech and mind! You are both the foundation of my knowing—therefore do not destroy my knowing. I spend day and night in the practice of this knowing.”
There is no hostility toward speech and mind—no enmity—no sense that they are enemies.
Those who have traveled deeply in truth have turned even that which becomes a hindrance on the path into a step. It depends upon us. As I walk, a stone lies on the road. I beat my chest and cry, “This is an obstacle!” But one who knows steps upon the stone and crosses over. And when he stands atop the stone, he sees what was never seen from below. The plane changes.
You will find many sadhus who abuse the mind. But, “O speech and mind!”—to address speech and mind with such reverence—you will rarely find such a Rishi. In village after village, many will tell you: “Mind—the devil, the enemy!” But the Rishi says, “O speech and mind!”
When Saint Francis died, people were surprised that at the last moment he did not pray to God. He opened his eyes—and disciples thought he would pray to the Lord. He who spent a lifetime in prayer—at the end he spoke to his body: “O my dear body, you have supported me fully. I neglected you many times and fought with you often, yet you did not leave me. When I did not know, I thought you were my enemy. When I came to know, I found you are my companion. You can take me to a tavern and also to a temple—and always it is I who decide where to go, and you always accompany.”
The Rishi says: “O my speech!”
In this world, everything is of Paramatma. Those who know right use turn everything into a means. Mind and speech too can become means.
Hence the Rishi says: “O speech and mind! You both are the foundation of my knowing.”
Note another point here. In the original, the word used is “Veda.” In Hindi it was translated as “basis of my Veda-knowledge.” But I can use only one of the two words. “Veda” means knowledge, and “knowledge” means Veda—so “Veda-knowledge” is a redundancy. “Veda-knowledge” repeats itself. Veda means knowledge, and knowledge is Veda. Veda comes from vid, as does “vidwan”—to know.
But those who write and translate scriptures know little of that knowing. By Veda they mean the collected scriptures, the Samhitas. Veda does not mean scripture. All scriptures arise from Veda—from knowing. I am not speaking of the Hindus’ Vedas. How can Veda belong to anyone? How can knowledge belong to anyone? All knowing springs from Veda. But no scripture can confine Veda—cannot confine knowing.
So I will not say “Veda-knowledge.” Knowledge is enough. And I avoid “Veda” because it immediately makes you think of those Samhitas we call the Vedas.
The Rishi says: “You both are the foundation of my knowing.”
Ordinary sannyasins tell people that mind is the basis of ignorance. But here mind is the basis of knowing! Certainly. But this does not mean that one who stops at the knowledge given by mind is a knower. Mind is only a jumping board, a base from which one must leap into no-mind. We shall speak later of no-mind. But to go to no-mind you must use mind as a base.
Here great mistakes are made. Mistakes like those of Krishnamurti relate to this sutra. Ask Krishnamurti, “Shall we do meditation?” He says, “Meditation? For what?” You say, “So that I may go beyond mind.” Krishnamurti asks, “With what will you meditate? With the mind? If you do it with the mind, how will you go beyond it? The mind will only grow stronger. So do not meditate. If you want to go beyond mind, do not do meditation.” Many foolish ones therefore do not meditate, thinking they want to go beyond mind—how can they meditate? They never consider: by not doing, did they go beyond mind? They do not go by not doing; and if they do, they are told they cannot go. Then a great difficulty is created.
Thus people have been listening to Krishnamurti for forty years. I wonder what they listen to now! He has been saying the same thing for forty years. In the last fifty years, if anyone has repeated one thing continuously, it is Krishnamurti. For forty years people sit and listen; they have grown old sitting. There are people with fixed places in his talks—by a certain pillar—and for forty years they sit by the same pillar.
A friend told me he sees an old man in a green cap—eighty years—whom he has been seeing for ten years sit in the same spot and then go away after hearing the same thing.
If one is to go beyond mind, Krishnamurti says, how can you go with the mind? With what will you meditate? With the mind? Then how beyond? Therefore do not meditate. Simply go beyond mind.
But the listener never asks: with what am I listening to Krishnamurti—if not with the mind? If you must listen with the mind, how will you go beyond mind by listening? Listen forty years—you will remain the same. Listening happens only with the mind; there is no other way. Then it is surprising that if by receiving words through the mind one can go beyond mind, why cannot one go by using experiments through the mind? If words can be used, why not methods?
Krishnamurti says, “If you meditate, the mind will become conditioned.” But if someone has listened to you for forty years, does his mind not become conditioned? He repeats what you repeat.
The truth is: as long as we stand in mind, to go beyond mind we must use mind. If I am in a room, I might think, “I walked into the room, therefore never walk in the room again if I want to get out.” But to get out, I must walk again in the room—exactly as much as I walked to get in. I must walk in the room, only the face will be in the other direction. When I came in, my back was to the door, my face to the wall. Now, while leaving, my face is to the door, my back to the wall. I must walk the same.
To go out of the mind, the mind must be used as much as we used it to come into mind. For those who use mind to come in, mind becomes the basis of ignorance. For those who use mind to go out, mind becomes the basis of knowing.
Hence the Rishi says: you both are the foundation of my knowing. Therefore, do not destroy my knowing.
Yet, when the habit of going inward is strong, the mind says, “Why go outward?” It is not the mind’s fault—we trained it that way. We ourselves. The mind only becomes mechanical.
We ourselves, daily, held a cigarette to our mouth and smoked. With great difficulty we trained the mind—on the first day, coughing, discomfort, bitterness in the mouth—poison. We trained it. Then the habit became strong. Now when we want to leave it, the mind says, “No. Now it is pleasurable.” We ourselves brought this pleasure. On the first day the mind said, “What are you doing?” We did not listen, we went on. Now when we say, “We will leave,” it says, “What are you doing? Now the juice has begun—do not leave.”
So the mind will obstruct. Therefore the Rishi also prays to it: do not destroy my knowing. This too is a prayer to the mind. It is very wondrous. You may never have done it—if you do, there will be wondrous experiences.
When your lips begin to demand a cigarette, make an experiment: pray to your own lips—“My lips, I pray to you, do not ask for a cigarette.” If the prayer is heartfelt, the lips will instantly become soft and the craving will cease. When lust arises, address the center of lust: “O center of my lust, do not demand. Help me.” Immediately you will be surprised—the center will relax.
But we never pray. To pray to your own body will hurt the ego: “I—and I pray to my own body!” Embarrassment will be felt. But there is never embarrassment in being a slave to the body! Never embarrassment in following the body into foolishness! To the body you have made your master—you can now persuade it only through prayer.
The mind has become the master. So the Rishi persuades it—coaxes it: “My mind, do not obstruct. Do not destroy my knowing. Day and night I practice this knowing—be with me.” Meaning: one who sets out in search of the Supreme Truth must, by prayer, create cooperation among all senses, mind, body. If that cooperation is created, they all become companions; otherwise, without reason, resistance arises and obstacles appear.
So much for this sutra. A few words about the morning meditation, because from tomorrow morning we set out on the journey. Three things I must tell you.
First, if you remember what I have said in connection with this sutra, these three will be immediately clear. One: sense-restraint. The less you see, the deeper will meditation go. The less you hear, the less you speak, the less you touch, the less you eat—keep this in mind for seven days. Those friends who have understanding should take a vow of complete silence for seven days. Those in whom foolishness is strong should at least take a vow to speak the absolute minimum. Only what is essential: not “I am thirsty,” but simply “Thirst.” Write on paper if needed. Become mute, deaf, blind—for seven days.
Eye bandages will be given in the morning; tie them on your eyes. Use them as much as possible. While walking on the road, slide them a little so you can see no more than four feet. That is enough for walking. Even in the town, go like that. People will laugh—that will do you much good.
We are all accustomed to laughing at others. We try to find someone to laugh at. Sometimes do the reverse—give others a chance to laugh at you. And remember: when you laugh at others you are completely unconscious; when others laugh at you and you remain silent in the middle, a great alertness and awareness arises.
Tie the bandage on the eyes. Cotton plugs will be given tomorrow; put them in your ears. When I speak here, do not use the bandage and plugs. In the morning meditation, keep the eye bandage and ear plugs.
In the afternoon from four to five there will be a session. For half an hour there will be kirtan—everyone must join. In that kirtan become utterly mad, dance and sing. Then half an hour of silence. After the kirtan, tie the bandage over your eyes, close your ears and sit in silence.
In that half hour of silence there will be no expression—no manifestation—nothing. No sound, no crying, no screaming, no laughter. Lie or sit like a corpse. The laughing, the crying, the singing, the shouting—throw it all out in the half-hour of kirtan. Whoever throws it out fully will be able to be silent in the half hour. If you save it, it will come out during the silence—then it is your responsibility.
In the half hour of kirtan do your catharsis completely—dance, jump, throw everything out. Then in the half hour be utterly like a corpse—sitting or lying as you wish. In that half hour no expression. No sound, no movement, no bodily trembling. Still everything—body, mind, speech—let all be silent.