Nirvan Upanishad #10

If bliss is not forever, it is not bliss. Sorrow comes and goes; pleasure too comes and goes. That which never comes and never goes—its very name is bliss. That which already is within us, which is our nature, our very being. Whatever comes and goes is alien; it is not our nature. It is not us. Whatever arrives upon us and departs again—that is not who we are. We are that upon which sorrow comes, upon which pleasure comes—we are other than both. That upon which pleasure and pain arrive is of the nature of bliss.

But we never come to know that nature. We remain entangled in that which comes and goes. Zen masters say: ‘the host is lost in the guests.’ The host is lost among the guests; the master of the house, the one who is the hospitable presence, serving the guests has altogether forgotten: I too am—other than the guests, different, separate.

So too, serving the guests we have forgotten who we are. The dwelling into which sorrow enters, into which pleasure enters—who is that? Who is it that experiences ‘I am unhappy’? Who is it that experiences ‘I am happy’?

Surely, the experiencer is separate from pleasure and pain—because the knower must be other than the known. The experiencer is distinct. If I look at this tree, I am separate from the tree. If I look at you, I am separate from you. If I look at my own body, I am separate from my body. The seer is apart from the seen—must be, otherwise there can be no seeing. If the seer is not distinct from the seen, how can seeing happen? For seeing, space is needed—distance is needed.

So from whatever we can see, we become different. This is why we cannot ‘see’ Paramatma—because we are not different from That. We are non-different from That. Who will see? Who will be seen? With That we are one. Whatever we can touch, from that we are other; whatever we can hear, from that we are other. From whatever the senses know, we are other. From whatever the mind recognizes, we are other.

We know pleasure too. When pleasure comes, you know well that pleasure has come. Sorrow comes—you know clearly sorrow has come. It goes—you know too that sorrow is going. This knower—this is separate, this is distinct. This very knower is one’s nature.

By yoga they become established in this nature—and experience unceasing bliss.

And whoever becomes established in this inner nature, attains to playfulness within, becomes healthy in oneself, centered in oneself—such a person, says the Rishi of the Upanishads, remains ever immersed in bliss. Do sorrows then stop coming to him? Does disease no longer come? Does old age no longer come? Does death no longer visit?

No—death still comes, but now it does not come upon him. He remains beyond, distant, untouched—untouched like a lotus leaf. Sorrows still come, diseases still come, thorns still pierce the feet, old age still comes; but now they do not befall him. He stands afar, untouched, like the lotus leaf. A drop of water falls upon it—yet does not wet it. The leaf is immersed in water—yet remains apart. Between the leaf and the water there is a subtle interval.

When Jesus is crucified, the body dies—but Jesus stands afar. When Mansoor is cut to pieces, the body is torn apart—but Mansoor keeps laughing. And when someone in the crowd asks, ‘Mansoor, nothing here seems worthy of laughter—your hands and feet are being severed!’ Mansoor says, ‘If that which you are cutting were me, surely I would neither laugh nor be able to laugh. I laugh because that which you take to be me—is not me. And that which I am—you will not be able to cut.’

One who has known one’s nature—bliss—may be surrounded by sorrow, yet he does not fall into identity with sorrow. Darkness may encircle him, yet he himself never becomes darkness. The only difference between us and him is this: whatever surrounds us, we take ourselves to be one with it. We do not say, ‘Sorrow has come upon me’; we say, ‘I have become sorrowful.’ We forge an identity.

Gurdjieff’s entire sadhana was one single emphasis. He said: non-identification—the breaking of identity—this alone is sadhana. We get attached to things—so attached that it begins to seem, ‘this is me.’ As if an image forms in a mirror and the mirror were to assume, ‘this image is me.’ As if the moon is reflected in the lake and the lake were to say, ‘I am the moon.’ So do we become.

Sorrow overflows within, the shadow of sorrow forms—and I become sorrow. Pleasure comes—and I become pleasure. Restlessness comes—and I become restlessness. Peace comes—and I become peace. I cannot keep myself beyond, at a distance, to know: that which is coming cannot be me—for I was present even before it came. When there was no sorrow, I was; and when sorrow will have gone, I shall still be—so my being cannot be one with sorrow. However great the sorrow that surrounds me, on some level I remain standing afar.

The realization of this distance, the breaking of this identification—non-identification—is yoga.

And the Rishi says: by yoga they abide ever in their bliss-nature; by yoga, they behold bliss forever.

Not for a single instant does bliss then slip. Not for a single instant is the connection with bliss broken. In truth, it has not been broken even now—only the remembrance is missing. Identification destroys the remembrance, not the state.

Vivekananda loved to tell a tale—the ancient lore of the Indian seers. A lioness leapt from a mountain rim; in mid-leap she gave birth to a cub—she was pregnant. Below, a flock of sheep was passing; the cub fell among them. The sheep raised him. He lived among sheep; drank sheep’s milk; the sheep were his mother, father, companions, friends. That lion never came to know he was a lion—how could he? There was no way to know. He grew up believing himself a sheep. Although his believing made no difference—he remained a lion—yet a difference did occur: he began to behave like a sheep. He was not a sheep—could never be—yet sheep-like behavior possessed him.

One day an unusual event occurred. A lion attacked that flock. He was amazed to see that among the sheep, moving with them, taller than all, was a lion—slipping and sliding just like the sheep. The sheep did not run from him—nor did that lion. Seeing this, the attacking lion was stunned: what has happened to this lion!

Identification has happened. Living among sheep, the form of sheep impressed upon the mind—the mirror concluded, ‘I am a sheep.’

The attacking lion left the sheep aside and tried to catch this other lion. He could barely manage—because though he was a lion, he ran like a lion. His speed was that of a lion—his belief that of a sheep. Any other sheep would have been easy to catch; this one he caught after hours of effort. As soon as he was caught, the lion began to bleat like a sheep.

He had no notion of roaring. The roar was still lying somewhere in the corner of his heart—still a seed, still unsprouted. He had no experience of the lion’s roar. He could have roared—the capacity was there—but the ability was not. The difference between capability and ability. He was capable—nothing prevented him; he could roar any time. But the ability was absent—identity had destroyed it. It wasn’t even in his thought.

When the other lion caught him, he began to fold his hands, to lay his head at the other’s feet, to bleat. Tears flowed from his eyes: ‘Forgive me. Let me go.’ The other lion said, ‘What has happened to you? You are not a sheep!’ He said, ‘No, I am a sheep. I am only a sheep. You are mistaken.’ The lion tried to explain, but who ever understands by explanation? The more he explained, the more frightened the captive became: ‘Only let me go. I need no knowledge. Let me go to my friends. Without them I am very afraid.’

A sheep cannot live without the crowd; only a lion can live alone. A sheep can live only in the herd—because there she feels secure: all around are her own—family, loved ones, friends, wife, children. Amid the crowd the sheep feels safe—no fear. One who has no trust in oneself always seeks trust in the crowd—the crowd is his support. A lion can live alone—but only if he knows he is a lion. A lion cannot be kept in a herd.

Seeing no other way, the lion dragged him. He dragged—because he was a sheep. Yet he was young and the other old; still the young lion was dragged by the old—because the old one was a lion. The young one, though young, was a sheep. He dragged him to the riverbank and said, ‘Look into the water—see if there is any difference between your face and mine.’ He peered in—and instantly a roar burst forth. The seed that lay within sprouted. He saw—both faces were the same. A thrill must have run through him; his hairs stood on end. He forgot he was a sheep—the roar burst from within.

The work of the Master is to explain less, to show more—to show in some mirror that ‘the face that is mine is the very face that is yours; that which is hidden in me is hidden in you too.’ Any moment the roar can arise—because it is your inner nature.

The Rishi says: one can experience that bliss forever—but by yoga. Yoga means the processes by which you will recognize your real face—your original state.

The identifications are immense. That lion had but one difficulty—his single identity: ‘I am a sheep.’ Our identities are without number—thousands upon thousands. ‘I am Hindu, I am Muslim; I am woman, I am man; I am body, I am mind; I am this, I am that.’ How many! ‘I am rich, I am poor; I am beautiful, I am ugly; I am weak, I am strong’—how many! That lion’s trouble was small; therefore for the Guru it was easy—he only had to show a face in the river. You have so many faces that you have no certainty which is the real one. Even if you were bent over the river, the mask you happen to be wearing at that moment would be reflected there too. And we have so many masks—we are a collection of faces.

Only when all identities are broken does one come upon one’s nature. Only when all masks are taken off does one recognize one’s nature.

Yoga is the process of breaking, tearing all our faces—whatever faces can be removed, remove them. That which cannot be removed—that is our original face. That which cannot be cut—not by any yoga, not by any sword, not by any method—after all efforts to remove have been exhausted, that which forever remains, for which there is no way to erase it—that is my nature.

So, whatsoever you can remove—know it is a face. You say, ‘I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Christian.’ Is there any difficulty removing this? Is it hard for a Christian to become a Hindu? Hard for a Hindu to become a Muslim? Cut off a tuft, go to a mosque—you are Muslim. Begin offering namaz; yesterday you were reciting prayer. Where changing faces is so convenient—that cannot be the original face. A mask it is—just now you had the Hindu mask on, now the Muslim mask. Is it hard for a rich man to become poor? A little cleverness in theft and a poor man can become rich; is it hard for the rich to become poor?

A beggar once stood at Mulla Nasruddin’s door, asking for alms. Mulla said, ‘How did you come to this condition? You look healthy—how did this happen?’ Tears began flowing down the beggar’s cheeks: ‘Don’t ask about my state—complete ruin. Quickly, Mulla took out a hundred-rupee note and gave it to him. Wiping his tears, the beggar pocketed the note and said, ‘This is exactly how I too became poor—by doing just this. Beware! Distributing like this, I got trapped.’

With a little simplicity, is it hard for the rich to become poor? With a little dishonesty, is it hard for the poor to become rich? Where it is so easy to change face—that face cannot be our original one. It cannot be our nature. So keep one thing in mind: whatever can be changed is not our nature.

And some things we presume cannot be changed—‘I am a man’—you are mistaken. Harder than a poor man becoming rich, harder than a Hindu becoming Muslim—your becoming a woman is very easy. One injection can do it; a single gland removed can do it. And soon—those who are still on this side of thirty-five will see in their lifetime—man will have the convenience of alternatives: tired of being a man, he can become a woman; tired of being a woman, she can become a man. Everyone gets tired. Women think, ‘Who knows what bliss men enjoy’; men think, ‘Who knows what bliss women enjoy.’ The change will soon be available.

Now the means have been found; there is no great difficulty—only a slight difference of hormones, nothing else. Hormones are not much—enough to fit in a syringe. Inject them and a man can become woman, a woman can become man. This face too is not original. To be woman or man is not of great significance—very superficial, of clothing. Till now we did not know how to change the clothing—another matter. Now we know.

But the Rishis said long ago—even when woman could not be made into man—that you are neither woman nor man. You are the one within who knows ‘I am woman, I am man.’ You are the knower.

We must enter within to where no cover remains—where only that remains which is the capacity to know. Knowing—a pure suchness with which we cannot separate ourselves, which is not an identification but our very nature. The day one attains to the pure capacity to know, that very day one is filled with bliss—and that day one is filled with amrit.

Hence the Rishis named that state: Sat-Chit-Ananda. Sat—That which forever is, the eternal, the eternally true. Sat means that which is never otherwise. Chit—consciousness, knowing, bodha—that which is forever full of awareness, whose awareness never slips. And Ananda—bliss: forever beyond pleasure and pain, drowned in a supreme mystery, in bliss, in ecstasy—an ecstasy not coming from the outside, whose source is within. That nature is called Sat-Chit-Ananda.

The Rishi of the Upanishad says: they live only on the alms of bliss—they are beggars for bliss.

Their food is bliss alone. One thing alone they ask for in alms: bliss—and nothing else. One desire alone, one single longing—bliss. One food alone, one sustenance—bliss.

Understand it in two ways. We too ask—but we never ask for bliss. We ask for those objects by which bliss might be obtained. There is a difference. We ask for those things by which we imagine bliss will come. We never ask directly for bliss.

Therefore there have been thinkers who say the very statement ‘man wants bliss’ is false. In the West, David Hume says: ‘No one wants bliss. I have not seen a man who wants bliss. One wants a car, one a house, one a wife, one a son, one health—I have not seen anyone wanting bliss.’

He is right—because to meet a Rishi of the Upanishad is difficult; it is us he meets. He encounters us everywhere. So Hume is right: ask anyone and someone says ‘land’, someone ‘wealth’, someone ‘position’—no one asks for bliss. No one is found who says, ‘I want bliss.’ Why? Why a car? Why a house? Why wealth? Why position? What is the reason?

The notion is: through these, bliss will be had. The car comes—but bliss does not. The house comes—but bliss does not. Wealth comes—but bliss does not. Means are obtained; the end for which we thought the means would work—does not come. In truth, bliss has no means. Understand this a little.

Bliss has no means. Means are for that which is distant from us. If I want to reach the mountain peak, means will be needed—to climb, to go, to arrive—a path, a method, a guide, a vehicle, a horse, feet—some means will be needed to cross over. But if I have to go within myself—no means are needed. If I have to reach the other—the alien—then a bridge is needed. But if I have to reach my own self—no bridge is needed. If I must go far—walking is needed; if I must come to myself—no walking is needed. If I walk, I will wander. If I walk, I will go far. He who walks to find himself will go farther away—not nearer.

Bliss can be desired directly; it has no means—because it is our nature. It is already given. That which is already given need not be achieved—only recognized.

But a house is not already given; land is not already given; wealth is not already given. They must be procured, brought, sought, built, created, earned. And all that can be earned can never be bliss. Bliss is unearned—already given.

No, it is not to be acquired—it already is. Only arriving at that layer and seeing is enough. Let the eyes turn within—that is enough. The treasure is buried in the house—we search outside. We run around the house, circle the whole land. It is not found—and will not be. The more we go in circles, the more the possibility of finding wanes—because the circle has its own logic.

When a man runs in search of that which is within him—and does not find it by running (for by running he cannot find it; by stopping he can)—when he runs and does not find it, then the logic of running says: you are running too slowly—that is why you do not find it. He runs faster—puts in all his strength.

There is a second logic of running too. When he puts in all his strength and still does not find, running says: you are on the wrong path—change the path.

He changes the path and keeps running—recognizes many paths—yet running has one final logic. Even then bliss does not come—and it cannot come—then the logic of running says: bliss does not exist—that is why it is not found.

These are the three logics of running. First: ‘Run fast and you will get it; by moving slowly can one ever get it? See—your neighbors run so fast. See—so-and-so has arrived in Delhi—he got bliss; you too run fast and you will get it.’ So run fast.

Then, if you run fast and even reach Delhi and do not find it—then it must be that the path is wrong: change the path. You will change paths birth after birth, for there are infinite paths that lead nowhere—lead nowhere, at least not to bliss. For bliss no path is needed. It is within—you are standing there. Only your gaze has wandered away onto distant roads—far from yourself.

Finally, exhausted, the logic says: bliss must not exist—therefore it is not found. If it existed, after such a search we would have found it. We have searched all roads, used all means, combed all capitals, lived in all palaces—bliss is not.

Nietzsche said: bliss is not. That which you are seeking does not exist—hence how will you find it? Bliss is only a hope, said Nietzsche—only imagination. But a necessary imagination—because without it man will find it hard to live—‘a necessary untruth.’ Nietzsche’s phrase: a necessary lie. There is no bliss anywhere. But if it is known there is no bliss anywhere, man will fall right here and become a heap of dust. How will he walk? How will he rise? How will he run? Man does not live by truth, he lives by untruth—untruths are necessary; otherwise he cannot live. By their support he lives.

But Nietzsche died mad—he had to, because this is the last logic of running, the ultimate. And Nietzsche was a very thoughtful man—highly thoughtful, extremely. In these hundred years no one of such sharp reasoning, such deep penetration, has appeared. But he lived in great anguish—became deranged. In these hundred years, no one spoke more penetratingly. But what of the fruit? He was at the ultimate logic. He had the genius to make the logic crystal clear: ‘That which is not found after so much search—is not. How will it be found?’

The Rishis say: it is not found—and yet it is. It is not found because you search, because you run. It can be found—stop. Be still. Do not run, do not go anywhere. Do not let the gaze wander—hold it; let it sink within. It is found—but not by searching; because it is already found. This is the meaning of nature: that which is already so.

Hence one should ask only for bliss, not for means. He who asks for means will keep running—will remain entangled in the logic of running. For infinite births this running can continue—there is no end to it. And if there is intelligence, the running can drop this very instant—and one can enter within in the same instant. It can happen in a single moment—and may not happen in an eternity. If you set out in the wrong direction, then even walking for eternity you will not arrive; and by taking a single right step—you arrive. The goal is not far—it is utterly within.

This alone is the trouble: if the goal were far, we would climb mountains—we would scale Everest. If it were buried beneath the Pacific, we would dive. If it were on the moon, we would reach. The trouble is: the goal is within. The destination is within the seeker—that is the difficulty.

Therefore the Rishi does not ask for means. He does not say, ‘O Lord, give me wealth so that I can be blissful; give me a great mansion so that I may be joyous.’ He says, ‘Not mansion, not wealth—give me bliss itself. Give me bliss directly.’ And whenever bliss comes through means, it is not bliss—it is pleasure.

Remember: whatever comes by means is pleasure. And pleasure cannot be steady—what comes goes. Therefore whatever is gained by means creates sorrow, because pleasure will come—and when it goes it leaves sorrow behind. That which is received without means is bliss.

So do not take meditation to be a means. Meditation is not a method. We say so—because words have their difficulties, there is no other way to say it. We say: we are doing sadhana. Sadhana means: using means. We say meditation is a means. But meditation is an un-means—a no-method.

Meditation is not truly a means or a technique. Meditation is the name of dropping all techniques and sinking within. Hence as long as the method is functioning, meditation does not happen. The method is only a jumping-board. A man stands upon the springboard over the river—he is still bouncing. He has not yet reached the river—he is still on the board. Then the board flings him—he dives into the river. Yet note the fun: the board helps you to leap into the river; but if you keep bouncing upon the board—even for unending lives—you will not reach the river. A method can be used only to jump into the no-method. One uses method in order to plunge into methodlessness.

Therefore, in the meditation we do, the first three stages are only the jumping-board. The fourth is meditation. The first three are mere preparation—to spring, to gather such energy that one dares and leaps, and arrives into the water. Where meditation is, no means are—and as long as means are, meditation is not. Yet for meditation one must use the means. But meditation itself is not a means—it is a state of mind.

The Rishi says: they beg only for bliss. That alone is their food, their sustenance, their life. They do not ask for means. He who asks for means is a householder; he who asks for the end is a sannyasin. He who asks for roads—will never reach the destination; he who asks for the destination—the destination is here.

But if someone tells you that bliss is had directly, ‘do not ask for house, do not ask for car’—close your eyes for a moment and look within; the mind will say, ‘Forget such a bliss as comes without a car! We want bliss with car, with house, with palace, with woman, with man. Leave such bliss—what taste will there be in such bliss? What will you do with it? Will you marry such bliss? Will you live with such bliss? What will you do with bliss that comes without anything? Something is needed—a container is needed—even if it is empty. No one cares for the content.’

The sannyasin asks only for the soul—Atman—not for the body. Not for means—only for the end. Not for objects—for Being.

Even in the great cremation ground they wander as if in a forest of bliss.

Even in the cremation ground they live as if in a palace. In truth, the distance between cremation ground and palace exists only for those who desire palaces. Remember: there is no distance between palace and cremation ground. The distance is of our longing. We want the palace—do not want the cremation ground. Hence the gap—otherwise what distance is there? Where palaces stand, cremation grounds have stood many times; where cremation grounds were, palaces have risen and fallen many times. All palaces end as cremation grounds; and upon all cremation grounds palaces arise. What difference? What distance?

The distance is in our desire. We want palaces; we do not want cremation grounds. So we build palaces in the midst of the town; cremation grounds we make outside the village—so they are not even seen, so we need not pass by them. We choose a place where no path passes further—ends at the cremation ground. And to the cremation ground we always go to carry others—always. Carrying others gives a strange pleasure. To carry oneself—no occasion comes; that work others will do. We have served them so much—surely they will serve us a little.

A neighbor’s wife died—Mulla Nasruddin’s friend. She was the third; two had died earlier. Such good wives are rare. Mulla had accompanied his friend twice to the cremation ground. The third one died. All was ready for the procession. Mulla’s wife noticed that Mulla just sat there. She said, ‘You are not going? People are all ready—the band is playing.’ Mulla said, ‘I keep going—and I have never yet given him a single opportunity. It does not look good—I feel embarrassed. I have carried his wives twice—and never given him even one chance. Better not to go again until I repay a little—at least once I should give him the chance.’ I am quite indebted.

So we carry others—happily. We display great sorrow—yet inside there is a subtle joy: I am still alive. Always it is the other who dies. We are alive. Today A died, tomorrow B, the day after C—but we? We live. A subtle savor arises: again someone else died. One never knows one’s own death, for when you die—how will you know? So no one ever takes himself to the cremation ground.

But the sannyasin is one who takes himself to the cremation ground—who says: the cremation ground is now my dwelling too. For him there remains no distinction between palace and cremation ground. Even the cremation ground becomes a garden of bliss. There too he lives as if at home.

Only when the difference between life and death drops can the difference between palace and cremation ground drop. When that which we call life begins to be recognized as death, then that which we call cremation ground can become a dwelling. When the gap between what we call sorrow and what we call pleasure collapses—and sorrow appears as pleasure and pleasure as sorrow, and both as two faces of the same coin—then the cremation ground can become a forest of bliss. Before that, no. So this is only an indication: to a sannyasin even the great cremation ground feels like a dwelling, a playground of bliss—no difference remains.

Aloneness is their monastery.

Aloneness has two meanings. One is to be lonely; the other is to be alone. There is a great difference. Here when the Rishi says, ‘aloneness is their monastery,’ it means to be alone—not loneliness.

Remember, when we feel lonely, the desire for the other is present—therefore loneliness arises. Someone says, ‘I feel very lonely.’ Yesterday I was told that a meditator—let me call her a meditator, though by herself she cannot be—was found weeping because her companions had gone silent and quiet. She said, ‘If no one speaks, how will seven days pass here? Seven days without speaking—I will feel lonely, alone.’ It will feel difficult—because we keep ourselves entangled in the other. No one wants to be alone.

It is a strange fact—you do not like your own company. You do not like yourself enough to enjoy your own presence. To be delighted in one’s own company is possible only if I love myself, if I approve of myself. We all despise ourselves. People say otherwise, but they all despise themselves. Therefore no one wants to be alone—for alone, only oneself remains.

Mulla Nasruddin preferred to speak little. People were surprised—because sometimes he would speak a lot when alone. Friends worried—perhaps his mind is going. When people were present, he kept quiet; when alone, he spoke. One day the friends gathered and asked, ‘Tell us the secret. When we come, you fall silent. When we leave, we have peeped through the window and seen you talking alone.’ Mulla said, ‘I want to talk with a wise man—and I want to hear a wise man also. So I speak with myself.’

But we do not want to be with ourselves. And one who is with himself appears mad to us. Mulla Nasruddin appeared mad to his friends. To enjoy one’s own company—what is this? Pleasure is always with another. To enjoy with oneself—the mind seems off.

But the sannyasin is one who has become capable of enjoying his own company. No need remains for the other. Alone is enough. This is aloneness. Alone is enough—and there is no trace anywhere of loneliness. The very sense ‘I am lonely’ arises only when the desire for the other slides into the mind—‘the other should have been here and is not.’ The absence of the other creates loneliness; the presence of oneself creates aloneness. When the other is absent, it pinches—so loneliness arises. When I am present, totally present—the joy wells up—aloneness.

In the dictionary, loneliness and aloneness may be one; in the lexicon of life they are not. Life’s dictionary holds many inverted meanings. If someone says, ‘I feel lonely,’ know he has never tasted aloneness. And if someone says, ‘I am in aloneness—the other never comes to mind—my own being is enough,’ then such aloneness is the monastery of the sannyasin. That is his temple, his dwelling.

For light their striving is ceaseless—ever fresh.

They are continuously, ceaselessly—daily, every moment—aflame only for light.

This the Rishi has said most beautifully: ever fresh. This is a little hard to grasp—because whatever we do we connect with yesterday, and thus it becomes old. ‘Yesterday I meditated; today I am meditating’—so yesterday’s meditation becomes a memory of the past—and we connect today’s with it.

A friend came to ask: ‘Are we to do this very meditation all seven days—or will there be something else?’

If you connect with the past, everything becomes old. If you do not connect with the past and live moment to moment—everything is new. How can the meditation of yesterday be done today? Today the sky is not that sky, the rays are not those rays, you are not that you—everything has changed. How can what was done yesterday be done today? In this world, where is the way to do the old again?

Hence the sannyasin’s effort is ever fresh. None of his efforts grow old. When effort grows old, boredom arises—‘how long the same, the same!’ He knows that all here is flux—everything flowing. And that which is not flow—we do not yet know; we are seeking that. The world is change, and whatever is done in the world is also changeful. All efforts are changing; the same cannot be done again.

Buddha used to say—when someone came and bowed, and later took leave—Buddha would say: ‘Remember—the one who bowed is not the one who is taking leave.’ In an hour, much water has flowed in the river. A sannyasin is one who lives moment to moment—each moment enough. He does not connect with the moment behind nor with the one ahead; then every effort is new. When he rises in the morning and folds his hands before the divine—utterly new, fresh. Nothing old, no dust of yesterday. Who remembers that yesterday also he had folded hands? Who keeps account? But we keep a big account.

Mulla Nasruddin invited a guest for a meal. The meal was well underway; still Mulla insisted, ‘Take one more puri.’ The guest said, ‘I have taken five or seven already—that is enough.’ Mulla said, ‘Not five or seven—twenty-two. But who is calculating! Who is keeping account? They are twenty-two—eat happily.’

But within, the account goes on. ‘Three days I have been meditating—nothing yet.’ Who is calculating? But three days have gone. The calculation continues. Mind is cunning and calculating—the mind keeps accounts.

The sannyasin connects nothing. He does not say to God, ‘Fifteen days I have prayed—where are you?’ He keeps striving ever fresh. He drops yesterday—no question of yesterday. This moment is enough. And the question is not that something be obtained from meditation—meditation itself is enough. Not even the question of fruits—meditation is the fruit. Therefore he keeps making new efforts day after day; his effort never grows stale. He can wait for lifetimes—keep striving—and never say, ‘How much I have done—yet no vision—this is injustice. So many fasts, so much meditation, so much prayer—and still nothing.’

No—whoever thinks so is a householder, not a sannyasin. He is keeping accounts—the shop’s ledger—balancing profit and loss, how much given, how much taken. He is lost in bookkeeping.

No—the sannyasin lives having dropped all accounts. There is no accounting. And if one day the divine meets him, he says, ‘How did you come? I did nothing at all!’

Hence those who have known God say: He is received as prasada—just as a grace. There is no relation to our doing. What we did bears no connection. It is His compassion; therefore it is received. But only one who has kept no accounts can say this—otherwise the value of his doing looms large.

Their striving is for light—

—for a state where no darkness remains. Because all our wandering is due to darkness. In darkness we grope. In darkness we cannot know where we stand and why; where we go, whence we come. Because of darkness are all the perversions of life. Because of darkness all the tangles and all the turmoil, all the disease and derangement.

Light means a state of consciousness where everything is crystal clear—seen as it is. All clean, pure, illumined. Where we are going is seen; whence we are coming is seen; where we stand is seen; who we are is seen; what is around is seen. The longing for light is essentially the longing for the vision of truth—because seeing cannot happen without light.

When there is light outside, things are seen; when there is light within, Paramatma is seen. When darkness falls outside, matter is not seen; when darkness fills within, Paramatma is not seen.

So the longing for light is the longing to see that which is hidden within. And one who has seen within oneself—what is hidden—then begins to see the hidden within all. For we can see within the other only as deep as we have seen within ourselves. We can never look deeper into the other than the depth to which we have peered into ourselves. Since we know ourselves as body, the other appears as body. As we know ourselves, so we see in others. The day we see Paramatma within ourselves, that day not a single particle of this existence remains empty of Paramatma—He appears in the interiority of all.

But within, light is needed. For that light, their longing, their call, their thirst—their striving is ever fresh. They do not tire—untiring. No day comes when they despair and say, ‘Enough—so much. If it hasn’t happened till now, what will happen further?’ No—they do not tire.

When the Sufi fakir Hasan was dying, his friends and disciples asked, ‘Hasan, you never told us—who was your Master? We long to know—who was the Master of one so illumined as you?’ Hasan said, ‘The reason I did not tell was not to hide the Master, but that there were so many Masters it is hard to tell. And they were such that I feel a little hesitant to say.’ They said, ‘We understand the first—but not the second. If there are many, it is hard to name them all. But why hesitation?’

Hasan said, ‘There is. For example—I reached a village at midnight, lost the way. All were asleep; the innkeeper did not wake. Where to stay? Passing a house, I saw a thief digging a hole in the wall—the only man awake. I said, “Brother, I am in trouble—any place to stay?” He said, “Of course. You look a fakir. If you have the courage to stay in my house, stay in mine. I am a thief.”

‘But, Hasan said, I had not met a more honest man before—one who said: “I am a thief.” My mind too trembled—should I stay or not? What will the village say in the morning? But such loving invitation—and with the confession “I am a thief”—I could not refuse. I went to the thief’s house. He said, “You rest. I will return at dawn and be at your service.”

‘About five he came; I opened the door. I asked, “Found anything?” He said, “Not tonight. But life is long—and nights are not few.” I stayed a month at the thief’s house. Each morning he came; I asked, “Found anything?” He said, “No. But tomorrow I will. Life is long—and nights are many.” On the day I left, the same situation—he had found nothing.

‘And when I sought God, I used to tire again and again. I thought, ‘Till now—nothing.’ Then that thief would stand before me and say, “What shortage of nights? Life is long.” And I would be ashamed: if a thief does not tire—in pursuit of ordinary wealth—with such hope, so untiring—then I, seeking the Supreme Treasure—and so quickly! The day I realized the divine, I first closed my eyes and bowed—not to God—but to that thief. Whether he found or not, the rest is his affair—he is my Master. Hence the hesitation.’

Untiring—they do not tire; they remain ever engaged in the search for that light.

And in the no-mind they move—unmani gatih.

This is a most wondrous sutra—worthy of Einstein discovering the formula for energy. Even more precious—because without Einstein, nothing great would be missing; without the energy formula, man might have been better: Hiroshima would not have happened, Nagasaki would not have been.

But—their movement is in the no-mind—unmani gatih.

They have but one movement—towards where mind is not. One journey—towards where mind is not. Leaving the mind, leaving it again and again, they go on. A day comes when they are utterly naked of mind—mind falls away.

We too move—but within the mind, and for more mind. Whatever we do nourishes the mind. We strengthen and fortify it—by our experiences, by our knowledge, by our collection. An old man says, ‘I have seventy years of experience’—meaning: a seventy-year-old fortified mind. As old wine is thought good, so people think an old mind is good. Wine and mind have kinship—both intoxicate. The older the mind, the more intoxicating. Consciousness does not change—it remains the same; but layers of mind surround it. The demands remain the same, the desires the same.

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said, ‘It has been forty years since our marriage. When we first married, you loved me so much you would bite my fingers, sometimes my lips would be wounded. Now you do not love like that. Tomorrow is my birthday—tonight love me at least a little like before.’ Mulla said, ‘Go to sleep—don’t spoil the night.’ She got angry: ‘Tomorrow is my birthday!’ Mulla said, ‘It’s very cold outside—not wise to get up.’ She said, ‘Why get up? I am right here—bite my fingers once as you did forty years ago.’ Mulla said, ‘Alright, you won’t relent.’ He got up. She said, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Let me bring the teeth from the bathroom.’

The years pass—but the passions remain. The teeth fall—but the urge to bite—and to be bitten—does not fall. The body withers, the craving stays green.

No—so-called worldly experience does nothing but feed the mind. The sannyasin walks towards no-mind; the householder walks towards mind.

All are born with mind—but blessed are they who die without it. All are born with mind—but unfortunate are they who die still carrying it—then life bore no fruit; the journey was wasted. If the mind is lost before death, death becomes Samadhi. If the mind is gone before death, there is no birth after death—for birth needs mind. Mind alone is born; mind alone, because of unfulfilled desires, longs again and again for birth. When mind is no more, birth is no more; death becomes complete.

We all die—but we die incomplete, because the longing for birth continues to live within. That longing takes a new body. When a sannyasin dies, he dies totally—total death. Not only the body dies—the mind dies. Within remains no desire to live further. And one who dies totally attains to that life which has no end.

But what is the path? The path is no-mind. Gradually melt the mind—let it dissolve, be shed, erased—so that within, consciousness remains, but not mind. Consciousness is different—it is our nature. Mind is our accumulation.

Therefore, the more educated and civilized the world becomes, the more difficult meditation becomes. For what does education and civilization mean? The training of the mind. The mind becomes more trained. Hence the more educated and civilized man becomes, the harder it is to drop the mind—because it is so well trained.

All our education, our systems, our disciplines are preparations for strengthening the mind—so it may succeed in the market, in trade, in struggle, in competition. We train it. But the Rishi says the opposite: dissolve the mind—disperse the mind.

This is right: if you have to move in the world, the mind should be trained. If you have to move into Paramatma, the mind should be dissolved. If you go to obtain matter, you need a highly educated, well-organized mind. But if you go into Paramatma, the mind is not needed—educated or uneducated, organized or disorganized—mind is not needed at all.

No-mind is their movement.

They are ever engaged in this one effort—that the mind go on decreasing.

How does the mind grow? Understand its manner of growth—then the manner of its decrease will be understood. How does it grow?

First, we support it—we cooperate with it. Walking down the road—there is no hunger at all; a restaurant sign appears. The mind says, ‘I am hungry.’ Your feet move toward the restaurant. Do you even ask within: ‘There was no hunger until this sign appeared—does hunger arise by seeing a board?’ This is the mind. The mind has nothing to do with hunger—it is a craving for taste. The mind cares not for the body—it craves taste.

There was no hunger—but seeing this, hunger arose. This hunger is false. If you now move toward the restaurant, you strengthen the mind.

Stop—a moment of awareness, ankusho margah—reign in by discrimination; pause a moment and search within: is there hunger? If you can halt even for a moment, you will not enter the restaurant—because however powerful the mind appears, it is weak before intelligence. But if intelligence is absent, the mind is very strong. As however dense the darkness, a small lamp is enough—if the lamp is there. If there is even a moment of discrimination, the feet will stop.

There was no movement of sexual energy in the body; a beautiful woman appears—or a handsome man—and a wave rises. This is the mind. Therefore, except for man, no creature on this Earth is afflicted by sexuality—by sexual obsession. Sex is there; sexuality is not. Hence, except for man, all animals are sexual periodically—for a season: one, two, three months in a year—and for the rest of the year empty of sex. Man is sexually obsessed twenty-four hours, three hundred sixty-five days—and is unhappy that there are only 365 days! He would like more—why such miserliness?

What has happened? Man alone lives sex through the mind, not through the body. The body lives sex—animals, plants, the whole of nature; man lives sex through the mind also. Sex is natural; sexuality is a distortion. To go beyond sex is the supreme revolution. But man has fallen below sex—into sexuality. Below sex—into sexual obsession. This is mind.

So when, upon seeing a beautiful woman or a handsome man, passion arises, stand still and ask: is this biological, a movement of vital energy—or is it the play of the mind?

It is the mind’s play. And wherever the mind’s play is seen—don’t cooperate. Non-cooperation will do. Simply stand still and say: this is of the mind. Immediately it will drop. Thus the mind will become thinner; if you cooperate, it will grow.

You sit idle; the mind spins useless thoughts that bear no relation to anything—and you cooperate. Stop and say: what is the need of all this? What am I doing? What madness am I running inside myself? Non-cooperation—and the mind slowly dissolves. And if this non-cooperation continues twenty-four hours—and alongside, meditation—your movement will be in the no-mind.

Their body is pure; supportless is their seat.

And when the mind is quiet—no-mind—the body becomes very pure. For all impurity in the body comes from the mind. Understand this—the body is utterly innocent. It carries no impurity. Whatever corruption enters the body comes from the mind. Yet we are very clever—we say: the body creates our corruption.

No—this is false. The body does not create corruption; the mind pours it into the body. Yes, the body cooperates—because it is your servant. Whatever you want... You say, ‘We will steal’—the feet move toward the treasury. You say, ‘We will pray’—the feet move toward the temple. The feet have no insistence—neither to steal nor to pray. If you become eager for lust, the glands prepare for lust; if you travel toward Brahman, those very glands prepare for that journey—for brahmacharya.

The body has no insistence. It is absolutely neutral. Whatever happens—happens through the mind.

Hence, after no-mind, the Rishi says: their body is pure. With no mind remaining—what sin will remain in the body? The body has never committed any sin—sins are of the mind. Nor has the body done any virtue—remember, all virtue is of the mind. The body has done neither auspicious nor inauspicious. Yet the body bears great punishments for no reason—and we hold it responsible.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was on trial for theft. His lawyer argued long—Mulla stood quietly. At last the lawyer said to the magistrate, ‘You must accept that my client is not wholly responsible for the theft—only his right hand is responsible. He was passing by a window—something lay there—his right hand stretched and took it. The feet did no wrong.’ The magistrate said, ‘This is logical.’ The lawyer said, ‘And to give the entire Mulla two years’ sentence is injustice—only the right hand should be punished.’ The magistrate, being shrewd, said, ‘Alright—we sentence only the right hand to two years. Mulla may stay with the right hand in jail—or not—up to him.’ Mulla immediately unscrewed his right wooden hand, placed it on the table, and walked out the door.

The mind does something—and our mind says it is not responsible—puts it on the body. Those who reach no-mind—their body becomes pure, like clear water. The body is very pure; the mind creates all corruption.

Their body is pure; supportless is their seat.

And when the mind remains no more, they have no support. They lean on nothing, live by nothing, make nothing a means. And only when one is utterly without support does the support of Paramatma come—not before. As long as we think, ‘We can stand by our own support,’ Paramatma waits. Rightly so—support can be given only when we are totally helpless; not before.

But the mind says, ‘Why become helpless? I give support. What do you need? Knowledge? Read the scriptures—knowledge will be had.’ The mind says, ‘Study the shastras—knowledge will come.’

It will not. What the mind gathers from scripture will be memory, not knowledge; recollection, not wisdom. It will not be self-experience—only another’s experience that the mind will deceive you to believe is yours.

The mind is ready to give all supports: ‘Why need anything else? I am here—I will do everything. Why go to pray to God?’

A boat was about to sink; all the passengers, hands folded, knees bent—praying. Only Mulla sat quietly. One said, ‘O Lord, save me—I will donate my house.’ Another said, ‘Save me—I will fast and live by vows, do no evil.’ Each said something. Finally Mulla shouted, ‘Stop—do not make promises beyond measure! Land is in sight.’ Prayers broke off; people rose and began packing their luggage—forgot their vows.

Once Mulla himself had been in such a fix—then he had made a promise. ‘From that experience,’ he said, ‘I stopped you. Once my boat too began to sink; I got trapped—“If I am saved, I will sell my house and give all the money to the poor.” The house was big—worth ten lakhs. I was saved—unfortunately. Trouble came upon me—I had to sell the house and distribute the money.’

But Mulla had a trick. When he auctioned the house and the whole town gathered, he tied a small cat with it and said, ‘Both will be sold together. The price of the house is one rupee; the price of the cat is ten lakhs.’ People said, ‘We came to buy a house.’ Mulla said, ‘We will sell both together.’ Seeing no harm, they paid ten lakhs for the cat and got the house for one rupee. Mulla sold the cat for ten lakhs, the house for one rupee—and distributed one rupee among the poor.

He said, ‘I too once got caught—big hassle. Do not promise beyond measure—land is in sight.’

The mind offers all kinds of supports. Only those free of mind become supportless. They say: now only Paramatma is. Now whatever He does is right. Now nothing remains to do on our own.

And as a sounding river of nectar flows—so do all the actions of their life happen.

Like the singing Ganga descending from the Himalayas—singing songs, dancing, drunk with bliss—as if going to meet her beloved, with bells tied to her feet, with songs in her breast—so is their whole life: blissful, with the ripples of nectar. Their rising, their sitting—everything is a meeting with the Beloved. Their walking, their speaking, their silence—everything is divine union. Their very being is a river of amrit—rippling, singing songs of joy—rushing toward the ocean.

Enough for today.

Now let us descend into meditation.

Spread far and wide! Spread far and wide! Spread far and wide—so that no one nudges another. Keep in mind beforehand—behind you is obstruction; only you are obstructed. Spread far and wide. We have to use the whole ground—spread far and wide. My voice will reach you—there is no need to be close.

Tie blindfolds upon the eyes. Tie the blindfolds—and spread far and wide. Find your space. Today the meditation will be very intense—so make ample space.

Begin!