Nirvan Upanishad #11

It is useful to understand this very matter in relation to the inner sky. This question always arises in a seeker’s mind: If my very nature is pure, from where does impurity arrive? If by nature I am immortal nectar, how does death happen? If within, since forever, the abode is of the attributeless and formless—no stain at all—how do clouds of corruption gather? From where are they born? Where is their origin? How do they sprout? To grasp this, we have to go a little deep.

First, understand this: wherever there is consciousness, among its freedoms is also this freedom—to become unconscious. Remember, “unconscious” does not mean inert. Unconscious means conscious that has fallen asleep, that has hidden itself. It is the capacity of consciousness itself to become unconscious; the inert has no such capacity. You cannot tell a stone it is unconscious. That which can never be conscious can never be unconscious either. That which cannot wake cannot sleep—and remember, that which cannot sleep, how will it ever awaken!

So consciousness has one capacity: it can become unconscious. Unconsciousness does not mean the destruction of consciousness; it means consciousness has become dormant, hidden, unmanifest. It is the prerogative of consciousness to manifest or, if it so chooses, to remain unmanifest. This is its sovereignty—its freedom. If consciousness were not free to become unconscious, it would be dependent; the soul would have no freedom.

See it this way: if you did not have the freedom to be bad, what meaning would your goodness have? If you did not have the freedom to be dishonest, what would your honesty mean? Whenever we say someone is honest, it is implied that he could have been dishonest if he wished—but he did not choose it. If dishonesty were impossible for him, honesty would be worth two pennies. The worth of honesty is hidden in the capacity and possibility to be dishonest. Our worth in touching life’s peaks lies in our capacity to descend into life’s dark valleys too. Reaching heaven is possible precisely because we can also climb the staircase to hell. We long for light precisely because we can be in darkness.

Note well: if the soul had no way to be bad, then its goodness would be impotent. The availability of the opposite must be there; if consciousness has no access to its opposite, then it is enslaved—and what would an enslaved consciousness mean? Better to be inert than to have a consciousness that is a slave.

This God hidden within us is absolutely free—absolute freedom. Hence even the possibility to be a devil exists, just as the possibility to be divine. From one extreme to the other, we can be anywhere—and wherever we are, it is not compulsion, it is our own decision. If it were compulsion, the matter ends. If I am a sinner and being a sinner is my compulsion, if God made me a sinner; or if I am virtuous because God made me thus—then I have become like a stone; there is no consciousness left in me. I am a manufactured thing; then none of my actions carry any responsibility on me.

A Muslim friend came to meet me some days back, an intelligent elderly man. He said, “I have met many people, gone to many sadhus and sannyasins, but no Hindu ever could explain to me why man fell into sin. Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist—the three religions born on this soil—say it is because of one’s own actions.” His question was absolutely apt. He said, “If one fell because of one’s own actions, then in the very first birth when the beginning happened, there were no prior actions. In the first birth, consciousness emerged innocent and pure; there were no past deeds. In this life we say someone is bad because of bad deeds in the previous life; and in that previous life, because of deeds before that. But we must admit some first birth. Before that, there were no bad deeds—so how did the bad deeds arise?”

I told him, “This is entirely logical. But have you considered the answers Islam and Christianity give?” He said, “Those seem more correct—that God created man as He wished.” I said, “Understand a little more. The religions born here do not wish to dump responsibility on God; they place it on man. That is an acceptance of human dignity. Responsibility is on man, not on God.

“Remember: dignity exists only where responsibility exists. If even responsibility is not ours—if I am bad because God made me so, or good because God made me so—then all responsibility is God’s. And then an even greater tangle arises: what relish could God have in making a bad man? And if God Himself makes a man bad, then our efforts to make him good stand against God. Then God makes man bad and so-called saints try to make him good—what a strange mess!”

Gurdjieff used to say, “All the great saints seem to be against God—His enemies. He makes man as He makes him; who are you to improve him!”

The doctrine of karma says the responsibility is on the person. But responsibility can be on a person only if the person is free. Freedom implies responsibility. If there is no freedom, there is no responsibility; if there is freedom, there is responsibility. And freedom is always two-directional; freedom is freedom only when it opens both ways.

When Mulla Nasruddin’s son grew up, Mulla said to him, “Son, the safe is yours; only the key will remain with me. You may spend as much as you like—just don’t open the lock.” Full freedom seems to be given—and not a drop has been given!

I heard a joke that when Ford first made cars in America, he manufactured them in only one color: black. And he had a sign at the factory gate: “You can choose any color, provided it is black.” You can choose any color—as long as it is black. There was only black—no other cars existed—but freedom was complete: choose any color; it must be black! That one condition was attached behind.

If God were to say to man, “You are free, provided you are good,” then freedom is worth two pennies.

Freedom means precisely that we are free to be bad too. And with freedom comes responsibility. If I am bad, I am responsible; if I am good, I am responsible. The responsibility falls on me.

India also says: God is not outside us. He is hidden within. Therefore our freedom is ultimately His freedom. Understand this a little more: if God were sitting outside us and said, “I give you freedom,” even then it would be dependence, for freedom granted by another is never real freedom—because he could cancel it any day. He could say any day, “Enough. Stop. I’ve changed my mind; no more freedom.” Then what will we do?

No—freedom is ultimate because the giver and receiver are not two. The consciousness seated within us is absolutely free because it itself is God. That inner sky is God. And if even God did not have the facility to be bad, what else would that declare but God’s dependence! Therefore mind can arise. It is created by us; it is created by God—since that inner divinity is who we are.

One more point: for the profound experience of life, it is essential to descend into the opposite. For maturity, one must enter the contrary. He who has not known sorrow never truly knows joy; he who has not known restlessness never truly knows peace. He who has not known the world cannot know God—even though he is himself God. To recognize God, the journey through the world is indispensable—inescapable. And the deeper one descends into the world, the more deeply one can experience the divine nature. That descent, too, has a purpose.

Anything we have had since forever—we do not recognize it until it is lost. Only upon losing do we know. We learn we possessed something only when it is missing. Losing is part of the process of finding—an essential limb of finding. To experience what is hidden within us accurately, we must also set out on the journey of losing it.

People say, “Until one goes abroad, one cannot recognize one’s own land.” They are right. They also say, “Until one becomes acquainted with others, one cannot become acquainted with oneself.” Even the way to oneself passes through the Other—Jean-Paul Sartre’s famous saying. Why?

Because unless the opposite is experienced… As a teacher writes with white chalk on a blackboard. He could write on a white wall too, but then it will not be seen. Even if he writes, it won’t be read. And what is the point of a writing that cannot be read?

I heard that early one morning a man came to Mulla Nasruddin’s door—Nasruddin was the only “educated” man in the village, and where there is only one educated man, understand how educated he is! The man said, “Write a letter for me, Mulla.” Nasruddin said, “My leg hurts a lot; I cannot write.” The man said, “That’s too much! I’ve never heard of anyone writing letters with his foot. Write with your hand; let the leg hurt.” Nasruddin said, “This is a bit of a secret; better not ask. I cannot write; my leg pains.” The man said, “Just tell me the secret; I don’t understand.” Nasruddin said, “The thing is, no one can read the letters I write except me. And right now I’m in no shape to travel to the next village—my leg is hurting badly. And what is the use of writing what cannot be read? So the hand is free, but who will read?”

We can write on a white wall—but it will not be read. And writing that cannot be read is meaningless. Hence we write on a blackboard—there it stands out. When black clouds fill the sky, lightning is seen flashing.

To experience the God hidden within, descending into the density of matter is essential. There is no path even to know sannyas without having been a householder. To know truth, one must pass through the paths of untruth. And when one understands this necessity, gratitude arises even toward the untruth through which one passed—because without it, one could not have reached the truth. Passing through sin to reach virtue, one feels compassion even for sin within—because without it, virtue’s peak could not have been reached.

Bodhidharma—one among the handful on earth who have known the deepest truth—said on his deathbed: “World, my gratitude to you; without you there was no way to know nirvana. Body, my thanks to you; without you, how would the opportunity to recognize the soul have arisen? All sins—your grace upon me; passing through you I reached the summit of virtue. You were the steps.”

Then life, though opposite, no longer remains opposite; even contraries dissolve into a single harmony and music. Music arises from different notes—and if a particular note is to be emphasized, softer notes precede it; then the music emerges.

All expression is with the opposite; hence consciousness creates the mind. Consciousness itself goes outward. Only after wandering outside does it discover there is nothing there; then it returns inward. And note well: the riches—the depth—of a consciousness that wandered outside and returned is very different from one that never went out.

Therefore when a sinner becomes virtuous, the depth of his virtue is not the depth of the ordinary man’s virtue who was never a sinner. The sinner reaches virtue having known much.

Psychologists say the “good man” has no story. Ask playwrights, novelists, screenwriters—they’ll tell you: you cannot base a plot on a perfectly good man. If a man is entirely good, he is blank, flat. In the Ramayana, leaving out Rama would not be so difficult; but leave out Ravana and the story collapses. It might run without Rama, not without Ravana. However much you say Rama is the hero, those who know storytelling will say Ravana is the hero, because the whole narrative revolves around him. And if Rama too shines, it is with Ravana’s support, on Ravana’s shoulders. Without Ravana, Rama would be a white line drawn upon a white wall. The blackboard is Ravana.

But when the teacher writes on a blackboard, the children do not oppose the blackboard; they know the white line stands out upon it. When Rama emerges upon Ravana’s blackboard, however, in our foolishness we object: “There should be no Ravana. Erase Ravana from the world.” The day you erase Ravana, Rama will disappear; you will not find him anywhere.

Life is a harmony among opposites. Consciousness itself creates the mind; it creates thought in order to know thoughtlessness. God creates the world in order to experience Himself. This is the journey of self-exploration. In it, wandering is necessary.

I often tell a story. Outside a village, a man dismounted from his horse in front of Nasruddin who sat beneath a bush. He flung down a bag and said, “Millions in diamonds and jewels lie in this bag. I go village to village with it. Whoever gives me a pinch of happiness, I’ll hand him all these jewels. But till now no one has given me even a pinch.”

Nasruddin said, “You are very unhappy?” “More than anyone,” the man said. “Otherwise, why would I be ready to give away millions for a pinch of happiness?” Nasruddin said, “You’ve come to the right place. Sit.”

As he sat, Nasruddin grabbed his bag and ran. Naturally, the man chased him, “I’m ruined! I’m dead! This man is a robber, a bandit! Who called him a fakir? Who called him wise?” But the village lanes were familiar to Nasruddin. He led him on a grand chase. The whole village woke; everyone ran—millions were at stake. Nasruddin ahead, the rich man behind, beating his chest, wailing, “My life’s savings! I had set out to find happiness, and this wretch has given me more misery!”

Running, Nasruddin returned to the very bush where the rich man’s horse stood, put the bag beside it, and hid behind the bush. Two moments later the rich man reached there, the whole village behind. He saw the bag, snatched it up, hugged it to his chest, and cried, “O God, thank you so much!” From behind the bush Nasruddin asked, “Did you get some happiness?” “Some? Not some—so much! I’ve never known so much happiness!” Nasruddin said, “Now go. If I give you more than this, it could be trouble for you. Leave at once.”

Often, losing is very necessary. The real question is not why we lost ourselves. The real question is either we did not lose ourselves wholly, or we have become so habituated to losing that all paths of return seem broken. The real question is not why we lost. Losing is inevitable. The real question is: how long will we remain lost?

Therefore, if someone asked Buddha, “Why did man fall into darkness?” Buddha would say, “Do not indulge in useless talk. If you must ask, ask how to get out of darkness. That is a relevant question. The other is irrelevant. Do not drag me into idle debates about why man fell into darkness. Find that out later. For now, ask me how light can be attained.”

Buddha said, “You’re like a man with a poisoned arrow in his chest. As I begin to pull it out, he says, ‘Wait! First tell me who shot this arrow? From east or west? Is it poisoned or ordinary?’ I would say, ‘Find that out later; first let me pull the arrow out.’ But the man insists on full information before any action.”

So do not worry about how mind arose. Worry about how mind can be dissolved. And remember: without dissolving it, you will never know how you created it. There are causes.

There are causes—and the creation happened eons ago. To seek that memory today will not be easy. There is a way: if you move back through your past lives—back and back—human births end, then animal births; those end, then insect births; those end, then plant births; then stone. Go back to the point where your consciousness first became active and the construction of mind started.

But that is a very long and extremely difficult journey. Do not enter it. There is a simpler way: dissolve this mind now. You can witness dissolution now. And when you see dissolution, you will know that the process of dissolution, reversed, is the process of creation.

One morning Buddha came to speak to his monks holding a silk handkerchief. Sitting down, he tied five knots in it. The monks were puzzled—Buddha never brought objects in his hands. Why a handkerchief? And instead of speaking, why tie knots? Curiosity grew: is he going to show a magic trick? Magicians bring handkerchiefs.

In deep silence Buddha tied five knots and then said, “Monks, this handkerchief has knots. I want to ask you two questions. First: is there any difference in essence between the handkerchief before the knots and the handkerchief now?”

A monk said, “In essence, none at all. The handkerchief is exactly the same; not an inch has changed. But you’re trying to trap us—there is a difference too: earlier there were no knots, now there are. But the difference is superficial; knots do not attach to the nature of the handkerchief, only to its body.

“The difference between samsara and nirvana is just that. In nirvana too the essence is the same as in samsara—only in samsara the handkerchief has five knots.”

Buddha said, “Monks, this knotted handkerchief is what you are. Between you and me there is not much difference; the essence is the same. Only you have some knots.”

Buddha said, “I want to open these knots.” He took the handkerchief and pulled. Naturally, the knots tightened. A monk said, “What you’re doing won’t open them—will make it harder.” Buddha said, “So that means until one understands the knots properly, pulling is dangerous. We all pull at our knots without understanding how they were tied.”

Buddha asked, “Then what should I do?” The monk said, “We must know how the knots were tied; only then can we open them. The way of tying and the way of untying are opposites.” Buddha said, “These knots were tied just now, so you imagine you know how. But if they had been tied long ago, how would you find out?” The monk said, “Then we would find out by untying; the method of untying, inverted, will reveal the method of tying.”

So do not fret over how the mind was created; concern yourself with how it can go. The moment it goes, in that same moment you will know how it was created. The one who dissolves it is the one who created it. The process of dissolution, reversed, is the process of creation.

The rishi says: “The pure Paramatman alone is their sky.” This is the great principle.

This inner sky—cloudless, thoughtless, mindless—can be known only then. When clouds gather in the sky, we notice the clouds, not the sky. The sky does not disappear—it always stands behind the clouds; and clouds too are in the sky and cannot be without it. But when the sky is overcast, we see the clouds, not the sky. Surrounded by thoughts and mind, the inner sky too is not noticed.

David Hume said that, hearing such talk that there is someone within, he often went in to search; but whenever he went in, he found no soul, no God—sometimes a thought, sometimes a desire, sometimes a tendency, sometimes an attachment; but never the soul. He is right—if you fly your airplane toward the sky and meet clouds, and if you turn back after investigating the clouds without passing through them, you too will say, “There was no sky—only clouds and smoke.” Within, we go only up to the clouds and return; we do not enter beyond. Until we pass through—just as when flying you rise above the clouds and they are left below—so too in meditation there is a flight where thoughts are left below and you are above. Then the open sky is found—the inner sky. The rishi calls this the great principle, because everything depends on it.

He says: “In practicing the divine powers like shama and dama, the wise follow the field and the fitness.” To conduct the divine powers—tranquility, self-restraint, and the rest—wisdom is to take account of time, place, and person.

Man has powers. But though he has powers, understanding is not awakened in all; therefore powers are misused. Power without understanding is dangerous. Understanding without power is not dangerous. Yet what happens is that, with understanding, power is often absent; and with the foolish, power is often present. This is the world’s misfortune: the foolish seek power; the wise stop seeking power.

Friedrich Nietzsche wrote the quintessence of his life in a book titled “The Will to Power.” The lust, longing, drive for power. Nietzsche says: In this world, the only thing worth having is power. No one truly seeks happiness; all seek power. When power comes, happiness is a by-product. And man is ready to endure endless suffering to gain power.

As far as ordinary people are concerned, Nietzsche is a hundred percent right. Whenever you have felt happy, it was a moment you felt powerful. If the necks of four people are in your fist, you feel a great happiness.

What happiness do presidents and prime ministers get? How many necks in their fist! When a prime minister steps down, he becomes like cloth with the crease gone—limp. The life goes out; the spine breaks; he becomes like a creature who moves without a backbone—spineless. Pick him up, drop him—he falls like a sack. This very man used to look so upright on the throne! But that spine was not his; it was the bone behind the throne.

What does wealth give? And to one who has so much that there is nothing left to buy—what does he really have? Power. Money is potential power. A rupee in my pocket contains many things at once. If I wish, I can have someone press my feet all night. If I wish, I can have someone say “Sir, sir” all night. Much is hidden in a rupee—the seed of much power. So with money in my pocket, I feel a soul inside: “I, too, exist.” Because I can get things done. If there is no money, the soul slips away; matters reverse: whoever has money will get things done by me.

I’ve heard that on a dark road four robbers attacked Nasruddin. He fought like a man can; he laid all four flat—broke their bones. Somehow the four overpowered him. They reached into his pocket and found only a half-rupee. They said, “Brother, if you’d had money in your pocket today, we wouldn’t be alive. You overdid it—for a half-rupee you created such a massacre! We endured your blows only because it seemed from your ferocity you must have a lot.” Nasruddin said, “It’s not about a lot. I cannot expose my financial condition to total strangers. It’s only a half-rupee—but now my credit is ruined! In front of you four strangers, my finances are exposed. Everything is spoiled. That’s why I fought. Had I had lakhs in my pocket, I wouldn’t have fought—I would have said, ‘Take it out.’”

Financial condition is a power symbol. We crave wealth—power; position—power. But Nietzsche does not know there are a few who do not seek power; they seek peace. They are a minority. Once in a while there is a rishi who seeks peace, not power. And the one who seeks peace gains understanding; the one who seeks power grows ever more foolish.

Therefore, in this world, it is hard to find anyone more stupid than the powerful—be he Hitler, Mao, or Nixon, it makes no difference. The search for power itself is stupidity. It enables one only to suppress others, not to find oneself. And however much I suppress another, what is resolved? The wise seek peace, not power—and in peace the flower of understanding blooms.

It is our misfortune that those with understanding lack power, and those with power lack understanding. This is history’s accident—and we suffer for it. The wise remain standing by the roadside; the fools climb the thrones; then turmoil is inevitable. And this turmoil cannot cease, because once power comes, even the unintelligent seem intelligent in the heat of power; they start talking like sages.

I heard that Nasruddin became a servant in an emperor’s palace. On the first day, seated for a meal, the emperor asked, “How is this vegetable?” Nasruddin said, “This vegetable—this is nectar.” The cook heard and made the same dish again the next day. The emperor was a bit restless, but Nasruddin went on praising it: “Pure ambrosia; whoever eats it never dies.” Somehow the emperor ate. The cook heard the praise and made it again on the third day. The emperor said, “Remove this nectar—it will kill me before I die,” and flung the plate down. Nasruddin said, “Your Majesty, it is pure poison—beware.” The emperor said, “What kind of man are you? Two days you called it nectar; now you call it poison!” Nasruddin said, “I am not the vegetable’s slave; I am yours. You pay me; the vegetable doesn’t. When you were eating, it was nectar; when you flung it, it became poison. What do we care—we neither eat nor fling!”

Around the one who wields power, such people gather who tell him, “You are God.”

Hitler had an actor from a theater troupe—who did comic roles—arrested and brought to him. When Hitler ruled Germany, “Heil Hitler” was the mantra—the Gayatri of Germany. This comedian would come on stage and say, “Heil…” and then, “What is the name of that fool?” He stopped there. Everyone understood that after “Heil” comes “Hitler”—no doubt. The hall roared with laughter.

Hitler called him and said, “Did you satirize me?” He replied, “I never took your name in my life. I only say, ‘Heil…what is the name of that fool?’ I never said more.” He was jailed—and rotted and died there. The powerful are blind to satire. Were there intelligence in Hitler, he would have laughed, been pleased, even rewarded the man. But the blow cut deep.

This lust for power is the search of a violent mind.

The rishi says: Using powers properly is wisdom.

All powers are divine. Whatever exists is divine. If today the atom bomb is in our hands, that too is divine. From it, immense good can flow—benedictions can shower. But wise use of divine powers is intelligence, wisdom. That wisdom becomes available only to one who can stand beyond his senses, desires, wants—who can stand apart from his mind. Then he is wise. Wise is the one who is dispassionate even toward himself. If there is too much attachment even to oneself, one cannot be dispassionate. To be dispassionate, one must not be attached even to one’s own mind.

The one who goes into the inner sky beyond the clouds of mind is the one who can use his powers properly, wisely. Powers we all have equally—be it Buddha or Hitler, Mahavira or Stalin, Muhammad or Mao—it makes no difference. But wise use is not visible in all. Most people are crushed by the misuse of their own powers and die ruined.

Sexual desire is a power; it can become brahmacharya, but, squandered in debauchery, it ends. Whatever we have, if not used with awareness, becomes self-destructive. And we are free to use it—no one will say “Don’t do that.” We are free.

Mulla Nasruddin is sitting on a branch in Kalidasa’s pose—sawing the very branch he sits on—about to fall. A man passes below and says, “Listen, you will fall.” Nasruddin says, “Are you some astrologer? I haven’t even fallen yet and you predict the future—and for free, without being asked! Go on your way; I don’t believe in astrology.” Astrology had nothing to do with it—he sawed and fell. Picking himself up he said, “I accept it—the man was an astrologer.” He ran and caught up with the man two miles ahead, fell at his feet, “Look at my palm—tell me when I will die.” The man said, “I’m no astrologer.” Nasruddin said, “I won’t let go now. I’ve understood you can see the future. You must tell me.” The man said, “I have nothing to do with astrology—only ordinary eyes and a small intelligence. Anyone can say: if you saw the branch you sit on, you will fall.”

Nearly all of us are cutting the branch we sit on. All of us are in Kalidasa’s pose. That Kalidasa is a type—he reveals the type within us all. We all keep cutting and do not know it, because the branches are subtle; the cutting is subtle. If someone saws on an ordinary tree, we too can see he will fall. But we all are cutting; we neither know the branches we sit on nor the tools with which we cut, nor the depth below into which we will fall. And if someone passing below says, “Look, you’ll fall,” we say, “Are you an astrologer—predicting the future without being asked!”

What are we doing with our powers? Suicide—self-destruction. Reason is a divine power. It can take us to God—if we use it rightly. But we use reason to keep away from God, to evade Him. If we could use reason properly—as Socrates did… Socrates used reason greatly, and in the end he said: “By using reason I have reached the conclusion that reason can prove both sides; therefore its proving has no meaning.” It can prove “God exists” and prove it; and it can prove “God does not exist” and prove it. So it is.

A man challenged Nasruddin to a public debate: “You pose as a great knower. I shall refute you.” The day was set; a crowd gathered. Nasruddin came, said to the man, “Speak against me, say what you want.” The man tore down Nasruddin’s ideas—broke each one to pieces. Gloriously he looked at Nasruddin. Nasruddin said, “Amazing—skilled and talented. Now do one more thing. Now prove all the very things you have just refuted. Then we will know the full prowess of your logic.” The man, heated with zeal, failed to see the trick. He began to prove that Nasruddin was right. In an hour he had toppled him; in another hour he rebuilt him. Nasruddin said to the crowd, “Look, this man is mad. Which of his words will you trust—the first or the second?” They said, “We will never trust any of his words.” Nasruddin said, “Go—you have lost.” He gave not a single argument.

In fact, logic can do both. Logic is a two-edged sword; it works both ways equally.

A famous incident about Dr. Hari Singh Gaur, founder of Sagar University: he was arguing a case in the Privy Council. Perhaps there was no jurist like him then. He was likely the only Indian lawyer with three offices—Peking, London, and Delhi. He wandered year-round, earned crores, and all that became Sagar University. But he never gave a penny to a beggar. In Sagar they used to say: if a beggar walks toward his house, people know he is new to town, because no one ever got a coin there.

In a big case—some state’s case—some mix-up happened. He was in a hurry, worked late, couldn’t study the file. He thought he was counsel for party A, but he was counsel for B. In court, the statement he made caused his client to break into a sweat—he was speaking against him! The man almost died, because the other side would speak against him too; if one’s own is speaking against, there is no recourse. Crores were at stake; all were aghast. The judge was surprised; the opposing counsel was flustered. No one understood. But who would dare interrupt Dr. Gaur.

When he finished, as always he took a glass of water. While he drank, his assistant whispered, “A mistake—sir, you just spoke against your own client.” He said, “No worry.” He put the glass down and told the judge, “Just now I presented what my opponent would like to say. Now I begin the refutation.” And he won the case.

Logic is not of great value. Those who do not know logic value it highly. Those who know it understand nothing is more futile. But the one who understands logic then moves in the direction of experience—leaves logic behind. The one still arguing is childish, juvenile. And if such a wise one ever uses logic, he uses it only to take you toward the trans-logical; otherwise, he leaves it.

Powers are neutral; all powers are divine. Everything depends on how they are used. The rishi says: to use these powers according to the field and the fitness is wisdom—taking time, place, situation into account. Otherwise, power is often wasted, often turns against oneself, often becomes fatal. And time and place—because no rule in this world is absolute; all are relative. Somewhere poison becomes nectar—at a certain time and in a certain field. In some disease poison becomes medicine; in another disease, food becomes poison.

So if we follow principles blindly, that is not wisdom. But that is what we do. We all follow like the blind. We catch a principle like a line on the ground and then, whether the situation changes or time changes, we do not change; we cling to our principle. That is the sign of stupidity. No principle exists which does not change with time and situation. But we say, “Let everything change—we will not change our principle; it is fixed.” Such rigid principles are not the sign of wisdom.

A man like Krishna knows the fluidity of principles. Krishna knows nonviolence is precious, a supreme principle. Yet he urges Arjuna to violence because the time and field are utterly different. In this world, the question is not of nonviolence versus violence; the question before Krishna was that the violence done by Arjuna would be better than the violence done by Duryodhana.

This world does not present a simple choice between nonviolence and violence; the choice is always between lesser violence and greater violence. The choice is not between good and evil; it is always between lesser evil and greater evil. One must choose the lesser evil in this world of life’s expanse.

Therefore those who consider Krishna nonviolent are always seen in great confusion. The Jains have consigned him to hell—consideredly, after much thought. Gandhi too had great trouble with Krishna. He called the Gita his mother, but he dressed the mother in his own clothes—having little to do with the Gita.

It was a difficulty: to preach nonviolence and call the Gita “mother”—inconsistent. To call nonviolence the supreme religion and Krishna the supreme interpreter of violence who gave such strength to violence—there was no alignment. But alignment can be managed—logic is clever. Gandhi said, “The war never happened. It is a myth. The Kauravas and Pandavas never actually fought. Kauravas symbolize evil, Pandavas symbolize good. It is the inner battle between a man’s auspicious and inauspicious tendencies. This war never took place.” Use that trick—and there’s no problem: no harm in fighting evil; fighting evil is not violence. But this is false. The war did happen. And Krishna is not arranging a battle merely between good and evil symbols; it was very real.

To understand Krishna one must understand what this rishi is saying. Krishna too says nonviolence is a supreme principle—but he says that life never presents a direct choice between nonviolence and violence. The choice is always between lesser and greater violence. To choose the lesser is the mark of the nonviolent. Therefore he is ready to choose the lesser. And to run even from the lesser violence in the name of nonviolence is merely the mark of a coward.

So the rishi says: only he is wise who follows principles taking full account of time, field, and circumstance. Otherwise…

I have heard a famous Panchatantra tale. Four very learned pundits returned from Kashi after twelve years of study. Each was a specialist—and as specialists, dangerous: a specialist is one who knows more and more about less and less—which also means he knows less and less about more and more.

One was a botanist. The other three said, “You buy the vegetables when we camp.” He had never bought vegetables; but he had massive knowledge about them. He pondered and finally concluded: “Except neem leaves, nothing else is proper. Every other thing has some fault—one aggravates wind, another something else. Neem leaves alone are flawless.” He returned delighted with armfuls of neem leaves—his scriptures fully applied.

The second was a logician of Navya-Nyaya. In logic texts the stock example is: ghee is in a pot. The question arises: does the pot hold the ghee, or does the ghee hold the pot? Which holds which? He had read it in the book. They sent the logician to buy ghee. He had never held ghee or a pot. Returning with a pot of ghee he said, “Today I will see which holds which!” He inverted it. As you’d expect, the ghee fell; the pot remained empty. He returned delighted: “Proved—the pot alone holds.”

The third, a grammarian, was told to light the fire and put water to boil. He had read: one should neither hear nor tolerate “a-shabda,” non-words. The water began to bubble. “This bubbling—this is not a word,” he thought. “It must be a non-word. To hear it is dangerous; it goes against Panini.” He struck the pot to silence the non-word; the pot broke, the hearth collapsed, the fire went out.

The fourth, a sculptor, had been sent to bring firewood. Being a connoisseur of beauty, he did not know wet wood will not burn. He carefully selected the most beautiful, youthful, green branches in the forest. By evening he returned—after great difficulty choosing—the wood was all green, useless for burning.

That night all four slept hungry—each a specialist, each faithful to his principle; none erred—yet everything went wrong.

Life is fluid, elastic. Principles are rigid and dead. Life is not rigid and dead. The man who cannot make principles elastic is not wise. The more fluid, elastic, dynamic, and flowing our principles, powers, and all that is in life, the more intelligent we are.

So whether it is shama or dama—whatever powers man has—they are all divine, and wise use of them is intelligence.

“Union with the Supreme Beyond is their liberating instruction.”

And the wisdom by which powers are used rightly, the rishi calls the teaching that saves: union with the Supreme Beyond. If you use all your powers—of shama and dama—skillfully, then today or tomorrow your union with the Supreme Brahman will happen.

When powers are misused, they flow against God. Used rightly, they flow toward God. Right use means the current of powers runs toward God; wrong use means the current runs away. Hence the more wrongly one uses powers, the more one becomes empty of God.

In the West today a word is very prevalent: “emptiness.” Among significant modern Western minds—Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Heidegger, Kafka—the word on everyone’s tongue is emptiness. Why is the West feeling such emptiness in the twentieth century? They say, “Within all is empty; there is nothing inside a man.”

All the sages of the East experienced fullness, fulfillment: they say, “Within is filled—infinitely filled.” Even when an Eastern sage uses the word “shunya,” the Void, he does not mean emptiness. Shunya is a great fullness; it is not absence. Shunya has its own presence, being, existence. Emptiness is merely the absence of something.

The reason Western thought has arrived with such force at the experience of emptiness in this century is in this rishi’s sutra. He says: if powers are not used rightly, man moves away from God and, as he does, he feels empty—hollow. One day it seems only an empty can remains; nothing within. The one who moves toward God fills up—until he says, “Within I am filled so much that there is no space left for anything more. I have attained the One beyond which there is no place to put anything more.”

Mahavira said: by attaining the One, all is attained. The reverse is also true: by losing the One, all is lost. That One is God. If our back is toward Him, then today or tomorrow emptiness will surround us. However much wealth, it won’t fill; however much fame or position or knowledge, it won’t fill—you will remain empty. And if your face is turned toward God, even if you have no knowledge, no renunciation, no position, no wealth—still all fills up. Just by lifting your eyes toward Him, all fills.

But the rishi says: only they lift their eyes toward Him who use their powers wisely.

“Nondual, ever-abiding bliss is their deity.”

And the One he counsels us to revere is advaita sadananda—the single, ever-abiding bliss.

“The restraint of the inner senses is their rule.”

The restraint of the inner senses is their rule. Understand this well.

The senses have two aspects. One is the outer sense—the eye. Even if the eye is removed, the urge to see does not go. The urge to see is the inner sense. The capacity to see is outer; the craving to see is inner. It is not because of the eye that you see; the eye is born because of the urge to see.

Even scientists accept this now. They say: if a blind man becomes filled with an intense urge to see, he can see with his fingertips, even with his toes—because the skin that became the eye is the same skin that covers the body. Qualitatively, there is no difference. For thousands and thousands of years the urge to see has worked behind the eye and made the skin transparent. The urge to hear has worked behind the ear and made the skin and bones capable of hearing. There is no qualitative difference—the bones of the ear are like the bones of the body. Many experiments have proved that a person can see with other parts of the body, hear with other parts—but he must direct an intense urge to that part. Then it becomes possible.

The rishi says: restrain the inner senses. The issue is not the outer senses. It is the inner sense of craving, the subtle sense—the restraint of that is their rule. They do not become blind; they do not gouge out their eyes. They make the urge to see zero. The eyes still see—but now there is no craving behind the seeing. Therefore the eye sees only what is necessary; the ear hears only what is necessary; the hand touches only what is necessary. The unnecessary falls away. The senses become mere handmaids.

Enough for today.

We will speak again tomorrow.

Now let us prepare for the night’s experiment. Keep three points in mind:

For five minutes, breathe intensely so that energy awakens. Those who can do it most intensely will stand closest to me; behind them, those of less intensity; and behind them, those of still less. But those at the back do not think that standing back means doing less—they too must put in full energy.

As soon as I signal, be ready. Remove the blindfold from the eyes and tie it on your head. The eyes should be open. Keep looking toward me—unblinking. Keep looking toward me; keep jumping and leaping. Keep looking toward me; keep jumping and leaping; keep sounding “Hoo,” keep striking with the “Hoo.”

Begin!