Nirvan Upanishad #14

What does a sannyasin do? The householder builds the world, constructs dreams, overlays it with thoughts, with maya, with attachment, with possessiveness. What then does a sannyasin do? To the householder it appears that the sannyasin does nothing, that he is a runaway, an escapist. For all that a householder does, the sannyasin does not. Yet the sannyasin too is engaged in doing.
In this sutra the Rishi says: He spends his time in the search of his nature free of the three gunas, and in the breaking of delusion.
The journey of the sannyasin is the exact reverse of the householder. The householder remains submerged in the expanse of the three gunas—now in rajas, now in tamas, now in sattva; now in what we call good, now in what we call bad, now in sloth. The sannyasin engages himself in the effort to move beyond all three—into the fourth.
Here one thing must be understood. Sattva—what we call the auspicious—the sannyasin seeks to go beyond that too. What we call inauspicious, he goes beyond that of course; but what we call auspicious—he endeavors to go beyond that as well. This may seem a little difficult to grasp.
That we go beyond the inauspicious—yes; that we renounce evil—yes. But the sannyasin renounces even goodness. For the Rishi’s vision is: until even the good is dropped, the bad never drops totally—because good and bad are two faces of the same coin. The Rishi’s vision is: if a good man still remembers that “I am a good man,” then evil remains suppressed within him. Truly the good man is he who no longer even knows that he is good. Even goodness drops. This does not mean he stops doing good. It means that good does not arise from his personal will; whatever flows from him is good. To go beyond sattva as well—that is sannyas.
This is a very original revolution. Many kinds of thought arose in the world, but a thought that takes one beyond sattva arose only on this soil. The thoughts birthed elsewhere aspire to take man up to sattva—that he become good. But the Indian seer understands: for man to become good is not the end. The end is that he go beyond goodness. Because even the memory “I am good, I am doing good” is asmita, ahankar, ego.
And remember: no matter how purified a poison becomes—do not imagine it ceases to be poison. In truth—the truth is the reverse—the purer the poison, the more poisonous it becomes.
The evil man too has ego—impure. The evil man is troubled by his ego; he often sees his ego as evil; at times he even repents; at times he tries to go beyond it. But the so-called good man does not even see his ego as wrong. Repentance does not arise at all. His ego is pious.
Krishnamurti uses a phrase—it is apt: pious egoist. The two words seem contradictory—pious egoist. How can the egoist be pious? And the pious, how can he be egoistic? But it happens. Those who fall into the illusion of being good—they are pious egoists.
But remember, when ego becomes pious, it becomes refined poison—pure poison. The evil man feels a little pain—like a thorn—that “I am evil.” Hence he cannot erect his ego in all its purity; there remains a crack in his swagger; within, a voice keeps whispering, “You are an evil man.” On that foundation evil cannot sustain a vast ego—there is a flaw in the very cornerstone. But “I am a good man”—then the ego has full opportunity to expand; then the ego spreads like a canopy; it stands upon a very solid base.
The ego of the good man—the sannyasin cannot allow even that. But society uses it—because society knows to take man beyond ego is extremely difficult. So it has only one device: to use man’s ego in the service of goodness. Thus we say: Don’t do this—what will people say! We don’t say the act is bad; the father tells his son, “Don’t lie; if you are caught, it will be a great disgrace. Don’t lie—what will people say! Don’t lie, don’t steal. In our lineage no one has ever stolen.”
This is all an incitement of ego. One illness is being suppressed by raising another. But society has its difficulty. It has not yet found the keys by which goodness may be born without ego. Hence we use ego and yoke it to goodness. But the result is not that ego becomes good by joining goodness. The result is that goodness, joined to ego, turns bad. Poison has this quality—a single drop is enough to make all poisonous.
We attach ego to goodness because we see no other way. If one must be made to build a temple, one must carve his name on the stone. No one agrees to build a temple on which his name will not appear. He will ask: Then what is the point! No one has relish for the temple, for the deity within; the relish is for the name-plate outside. It is not that temples are built and then a plaque is affixed; rather, plaques are made and temples are built for them. The plaque comes first. If we want a temple built, we must put up the stone—or the temple will not be built at all.
Even if we build a temple, we build it for the ego. The difficulty is: a temple built for ego is no temple. Hence the whole world over, temples and mosques have become causes of strife. Wherever ego is—only strife can arise. It should have been otherwise—that temples and mosques shower love upon the world, open gates of nectar—but they have opened doors of poison. The burden of sin on the atheists is not as heavy as upon the so-called believers.
Voltaire said somewhere: O God, if You exist somewhere, at least have the temples and mosques demolished. Your existence causes us no trouble—but Your temples and mosques create great difficulties.
He is right. If even a drop of ego falls into goodness, goodness becomes badness. And the only trick society knows is to persuade your ego to make you good. One must tell you how great you are, how divine—then a relish arises within you. That relish is born in the same ego.
Thus psychologists say a very unique thing. Those we call criminals and those we call the so-called good people—there is no fundamental difference. Both seek attention. They live yearning for society’s gaze. One walks the street as a good man so people may look at him. Another sees no way to be good—he becomes bad.
A recent case in Belgium: a man committed four murders—of complete strangers. He had never seen them before. He told the court he wanted to see his name in the main headlines of the newspaper. He found no other way.
To become a saint would take a very long time; and even then it is uncertain. And no matter how great a saint one becomes, all people never accept him as a saint. And then saints too are crucified—so it is not a safe way either. When Jesus is crucified and Socrates is given hemlock—he said, that path does not look very safe; it takes too much time; severe hardship. Often a man labors all his life and is called a saint only after his death. Because to call a living person a saint pricks the ego of the speaker as well as the listener. When a man dies, you can call the corpse whatever you please—no one is troubled by it.
Nasruddin used to say: Seeing the cemeteries, it seems no one must have gone to hell yet. For the inscriptions on the graves, the praises carved there, tell that all must have gone to heaven. The moment a man dies, he becomes good. The moment he is born, he becomes bad.
Voltaire had a lifelong enemy—disagreeing in everything. He died. Naturally, his friends came to Voltaire and said, “You had ties with him all your life—some statement from you would be good. Granted there was enmity.” Voltaire wrote a note: “He was a great man, a very rare genius—but provided he is really dead.” A great man—very gifted—but only if he is dead. If he is alive, I cannot make this statement.
If a man dies, he becomes good. This is the world’s misery: the dead are good, the living are bad. This whole net of goodness we have woven nourishes only the ego. If we are to educate a child, we must make him first in class, give him a gold medal. To educate, we must gratify his ego, grant him specialness. Then disturbances arise. Yet society has not found a better way. And it is a very poor way.
The Rishi says: the sannyasin goes beyond the auspicious too. He goes beyond the inauspicious, and beyond the auspicious. In English there are three words—immoral, moral, amoral. The sannyasin is not immoral, nor even merely moral; he is amoral—beyond morality. To reach this third step one must leave immorality for morality, and then leave morality for that which is beyond morality.
Therefore the Rishi proceeds inch by inch. If you keep the earlier things in view, then these coming sutras will be understood; otherwise they will not. These sutras are not separate—they are strung to the whole chain behind.
The Rishi says: he is engaged in two tasks—first, a constant effort to go beyond the three gunas; second, he spends time in breaking delusion. These two are limbs of the same process.
We all spend our lives in manufacturing delusions. Nietzsche said, Man cannot live without illusions. Illusions are necessary—by them man lives; without them he cannot live. Nietzsche is right—so far as we are concerned, he is a hundred percent right: man cannot live without delusions. He needs a thousand kinds of illusions around him; only amidst them can he live.
So Nietzsche said, illusions are necessary—lies too are useful. He went further: truth has no intrinsic meaning; whatever untruth works—that is truth. And untruths do work—twenty-four hours they work. Let us see how they work.
We have no knowledge that the Atman is immortal. But to remain alive, we carry in our mind the thought that the Atman is immortal—otherwise living would become difficult. We have no certainty that love is eternal. Look around and you see it is momentary; it is not eternal—everything scatters in moments. But if we must live, we must proceed believing that love is eternal. Poetry is very necessary around man—for living. Through it he keeps himself deluded.
There is no certainty that tomorrow will be. Yet we make arrangements for tomorrow before sleeping. Otherwise even sleeping will become difficult tonight. It is not so much a question of tomorrow’s arrangements as of getting sleep tonight. We make arrangements and hold the belief that tomorrow will certainly be; then sleep comes more easily. If it became certain that tomorrow morning will not be—that tomorrow morning is death—then whether death will come or not is not the big question; tonight’s sleep will be spoiled. Then one cannot sleep tonight.
To sleep, the illusion of tomorrow must be maintained. To pass through life’s miseries, the hope of future must be kept alive—that no matter, happiness will come. If not in this house, then in another. If not with this person, then with another. If not today, then tomorrow. A future orientation—hopes running toward the future—is necessary.
Psychologists say a very precious thing—a new discovery in a sense; earlier no one had considered it. At night you dream; you think dreams disturb sleep. It has always been thought so. People come to me too—“At night many dreams come; sleep is not proper.” Everyone thinks so.
But psychologists, with more exact observation, say: If there were no dreams, you would not be able to sleep at all. They say the reverse: Dreams are not obstructions to sleep; they are its aid. Sleep would break if dreams were not there. Dreams work to keep sleep going. If you understand, it will be clear.
You are very thirsty in sleep; you begin a dream that you are drinking water—there is a spring flowing; you sit by the stream and drink. If this dream did not come, your thirst would break sleep; you would have to get up and drink. The dream creates an illusion: No need to go; there is no question of waking—the stream is here; drink. If you are hungry, you get invited to a royal feast. Otherwise hunger would break sleep.
A dream is a substitute—a device to maintain sleep. In exactly the same way, in life delusion is a device to maintain wakefulness—what we call wakefulness. Around it, delusion is needed—otherwise we will be in trouble.
Mulla Nasruddin fell in love with a woman—the emperor’s wife. He was taking leave at four in the morning. He said to her, “I have never seen a woman as beautiful as you in my life, nor can I imagine that there could be one. You are unique—an extraordinary creation of God.” She swelled—as all women do. Her feet left the ground. But Mulla was Mulla. Seeing her so puffed up, he said, “But one more thing—just for your information—I have said this to other women before, and I cannot promise that I will not say it to others in the future.”
That woman, who had become an idol of bliss, turned ugly in an instant. Love seemed suddenly withered. All was destroyed. The castles of dream collapsed into ruins. Mulla stated a truth. All lovers say the same—but when they say it, they say it with such emotion that even they forget they have said it before.
Mulla loved a woman but kept postponing marriage. Finally she said, “A final decision is needed today—last word. Will you marry or not? No more postponing.” Mulla said, “Had the illusions been very fresh then, marriage might have happened. Now the illusions have gone stale. Now we are in the state that had marriage happened, we would be arranging a divorce.” She said, “Get out of my door.” Mulla said, “I am going—but return my love letters.” She said, “What do you mean—what will you do with them?” Mulla said, “I will need them again. Why take the trouble to write anew? And besides, I had them written by a professional writer—I paid money!”
The same illusions must be erected again and again. Living is difficult. A single step is hard. Thus call him the householder who cannot live without illusions. If we are to give a precise psychological definition: a householder is the one who cannot live without illusions. He must build houses of delusion; at every step he must construct stairways of illusion.
A sannyasin is one who has become ready to live without illusion. Who says: We will live only with truth—even if truth shatters us to pieces, breaks us, crushes us, annihilates us—still we will stay with truth as it is. We will no longer erect illusions.
Hence a sannyasin engages himself in breaking delusions, breaking illusions. Wherever he sees delusion being erected, he breaks it. He is alert toward the mind—where the mind is setting up delusions. He watches around himself—whether he is weaving any dreams in waking or in sleep. He will live without dreams.
To live without dreams is a great audacity. Not ordinary courage—audacity; for without dreams it is difficult to move an inch. Without dreams, not even an inch; not a step will rise. If dreams are snatched away from you, you will fall right there—become a heap of dust.
The sannyasin still walks, sits, rises—breaking all delusions. And the moment he breaks them through, his movement in Truth begins. To know the untrue as untrue is the only way towards Truth. To recognize illusion as illusion is the door to the experience of Truth. Therefore, primarily, the sannyasin must break illusions.
Thus, if anyone lives near a sannyasin, he falls into great difficulty. The sannyasin has his own kind of hardship—but that is all right; one who stays near him is in great trouble—because the sannyasin does not wish to nourish delusions, and whoever is near him wants to nourish them. If the sannyasin lives directly with truth, whoever is near begins to be obstructed—because the sannyasin will speak in such ways, live in such ways, that you will not be able to feed your delusions. Hence a great mishap has been happening on this soil: those who have sought Truth here—their near ones have never been able to love them or understand them.
Even Socrates’ wife, who was closest, could not understand—for Socrates would not support any delusion. So quarrel between Socrates and his wife became inevitable; for the wife asks for delusions twenty-four hours a day, and Socrates cannot give any. Somewhere she longs that Socrates say, “You are beautiful.” Socrates says, “Beauty is a mood of the mind; it has nothing to do with the body; it is a notion—has no meaning.” The wife is in great difficulty. She wants Socrates to say sometime, “Without you I cannot live.” Socrates says, “Everyone can live without everyone.” In fact, if you asked Socrates truthfully, he would say, “Without you I can live more easily.” But this will hurt the wife’s heart—very painful; very difficult, for no dreams can be erected, and she is not prepared for breaking.
Thus, when Jesus said to his mother, “No one is my mother, no one is my father,” we can understand the pain that must have struck her. If her son were a thief or a cheat and declared, “No one is my mother,” the mother would have been pleased—the trouble would be gone; the bad name not fall upon her. But the son has become a prophet; thousands hold him the Son of God. The mother must have come anxiously, hoping he would say before the crowd, “She is my mother.” And Jesus said, “No. Who is whose mother! Who is whose son! No one is anyone’s.” We can understand what a shock to the mother’s delusion.
When Buddha said to his father, “You do not know who I am; you do not recognize me,” Buddha’s father was inflamed with anger: “I do not recognize you? I gave you birth! These bones, this blood, this flesh are mine. The strength in your veins is mine. And I do not recognize you! Before you were, I was.” Buddha said, “All that is fine. That blood is yours, those bones yours, that body yours—but I have nothing to do with it; I am altogether other.” The father said, “You were born of me!” Buddha said, “That too is fine. But you were only a crossroad from where I passed; my journey had begun long before I met you. You were a passageway through which I came, that is true; but if a door begins to say that because one passed through it, it knows him—then delusion arises.” The father blazed: “You teach me?” All fathers will blaze: “You teach me?” Buddha speaks truth—that is where the difficulty is; the father still wants to live amid delusions.
Buddha’s wife said to her son, “Rahul, ask your father for your inheritance. Here stands your father.” The sarcasm was deep. Buddha had nothing material to give. But the wife was resentful—this man had left and fled. The son saw Buddha for the first time consciously; he had been a day old when Buddha left home. He returned after twelve years. Placing Rahul before him, the wife said, “Here is your father who gave you birth. He fled after begetting you. Now that he has come—do not miss the chance. He will run again. Ask him for your bequest—what he gives you in this world. You birthed me—so what is there?”
The wife’s sarcasm belongs to the world of delusions. Buddha said, “Come near; I have a great treasure—I give it to you.” And what he gave was a begging bowl. He told Ananda, “Initiate Rahul into sannyas.” The wife trembled and began to weep—but Rahul had already been ordained. Buddha said, “What I have that is excellent, that I give. What I left behind was misfortune—now I have brought treasure. That I give.”
Buddha’s father wept: “You will ruin us! You were my only son. Your going caused such trouble. Now your son is heir to the whole kingdom—and you make him a sannyasin!” Buddha said, “You too consent—what did this kingdom give you? What was lost when I left? And if my son keeps grinding in the same mill—what will he gain? I give him wealth.”
All felt Buddha was committing great injustice. The whole town was distressed—“To initiate a boy of twelve! The limit of injustice!” But where Buddha lives there is no world of delusion. A sannyasin spends twenty-four hours breaking delusions. And as delusions are broken, only then does the journey beyond the three gunas begin.
Burning the tendencies of lust and the like—kamadi vritti dahanam.
This word dahan—burning—is extraordinary. Not suppression (daman), but burning—reducing to ash. A seed—if you press it down, it is not destroyed; you know it sprouts by being pressed; do not press it, it remains a seed; press it into the earth—it becomes a sprout. And when it sprouts, from one seed a thousand seeds may come. As long as it remains a seed—it is one; when it sprouts, it can become a thousand. Do not make the mistake of suppressing the seed—else one seed will become a thousand.
A sannyasin does not suppress—not in suppression. Freud in this century said: suppression is sickness. The Rishis have always said: suppression is sickness. Nothing will happen through suppression. What we press goes inward—deeper—gets clutched in the unconscious; what we press grips our throat more tightly.
A guest was to dine at Mulla Nasruddin’s house—a big man, a politician, a former minister. Another specialty: his nose was so big that his mouth could not be seen—it disappeared behind the nose. The wife warned Mulla, “See—do not start any talk of his nose. Don’t bring it up. Swear. Otherwise you will blunder.” Mulla said, “Why would I bring it up? I will restrain myself; I will be silent.” But the nose was so big that Mulla was in great difficulty. If he looked—he saw the nose; if he closed his eyes—he saw the nose. The mouth could not be seen—only the nose. Whether he looked at the guest or not—he saw the nose. Great trouble. And suppression—he kept pressing, pressing.
Finally the guest asked, “Nasruddin, you don’t speak at all?” Nasruddin said, “It is best that I do not speak.” “Why—what is it?” The wife was amazed—he had kept such restraint. The meal was nearly over. She gestured—he could speak a little. Nasruddin wondered what to say. He picked up a little sweet and offered it. The guest said, “No.” Nasruddin said, “Shall I put it in your nose then?”—for the mouth could not be seen. The slip happened. Inside it was all nose, nose; the mouth was invisible; it seemed the gentleman ate with his nose.
What we suppress does not go. Nothing leaves by suppression—it only accumulates and then explodes.
The Rishis say: kamadi vritti dahanam.
If one burns a seed, it will never sprout; bury it, it will sprout; burn it, scorch it—then it will never sprout. So the sannyasin engages in burning the tendency of lust. In what fire will this tendency burn? Understand: what waters nourish lust? Do the opposite—and it will burn.
Have you noticed—when lust seizes the mind, consciousness becomes swooned, unconscious; it grips from within as if one were intoxicated. Physiologists say there are inner glands near the body that hold toxic substances—poisons; and latest discoveries say there are glands that hold hypnotic juices—drugs. When a woman appears beautiful to you, or a man appears beautiful, your body releases new chemical substances that create hallucination—that create the illusion of beauty. When you are filled with lust, you are not in awareness; you are almost unconscious—intoxicated. In intoxication anything can happen. With awareness, repentance arises.
It is hard to find a man who does not repent after satisfying lust—who does not feel: What did I do! What madness! What foolishness! And after a few hours he is again seized by lust; again the juices start; again the hallucinogens gather in the body; again the illusion will be created; again the same swoon.
Swoon is water for lust. Hence the lustful man quickly seeks alcohol. The Rishis opposed alcohol and drugs not because alcohol is bad in itself, but because alcohol is sought by the man who wants to irrigate his lust. Those whose lust has weakened, whose bodies have become slack—drink to arouse their lust.
Swoon—unconsciousness, stupor—waters lust; therefore awareness, awakening, discrimination, dhyan—these burn lust. In the moment you are fully aware, lust cannot remain. The day the full fire of awareness burns within, lust is burnt. See it from another side too.
In the animal world many secrets lie hidden—and to understand man, one must understand animals, for much of man remains animal.
In Africa there is an insect. Whenever the male mates with the female, as soon as mating begins, the female starts eating the male’s body. He can perform only one mating—he mates while the female keeps eating him. Scientists, studying this, were amazed—does the male not know he is being eaten, destroyed? After mating, he falls dead. The female eats the corpse. The other males watch—but when their mating urge awakens, they forget they are entering death. Physiologists found such deep toxicity in that insect’s body that when lust seizes him, he has no awareness left even that he is being cut, eaten, killed. He forgets it.
It is astonishing. But if we understand ourselves, it is not. He is an insect—what difference does it make? The state is the same for man. He knows; he recognizes well; yet lust seizes him again. After lust, there is the sense of futility—no meaning. But that sense of futility is of no use—until unconsciousness breaks, it will return; what was called futile will again appear meaningful.
Thus the Rishi does not say suppress it. He says: awaken so much—kindle so much the fire of awareness, the fire of awakening—that all is burnt in it. And when lust is burnt, the remaining desires are burnt by themselves. This is not some new discovery of Freud—that lust is the center of all desires. The Rishis have always known. Whoever has explored the inner being has known that all other desires arise out of lust.
Mulla Nasruddin died and reached heaven’s gate. Saint Peter, the gatekeeper, asked, “You were on earth long”—for he died at one hundred ten. “In that long time—did you ever steal, cheat?” Nasruddin said, “Never.” “Did you drink, use drugs?” “Always kept away.” “Did you run after women?” “What are you saying!” Saint Peter said, “Then what were you doing there for such a long time? How did you get by if you did not even chase women?”
It is true. What we call life is just such a chase: women after men, men after women. Not only humans—trees, plants, animals, birds—the same. But yes, man can be filled with awareness—that is his chance.
So we cannot condemn animals as lustful—they have no way yet to go beyond lust. From where their consciousness stands, there is no path beyond. But man can be found guilty—and is guilty—because he can go beyond. And until he does, no contentment, no peace, no bliss is available.
The Rishi says: What does the sannyasin do? Kamadi vritti dahanam.
He keeps burning, scorching the tendency of lust. For lust is the root source of the world’s expansion.
Firmness in all difficulties is their kaupeen.
Their only protection, their only garment is—firmness amidst all difficulties. In all difficulties! And difficulties will certainly come; they will even increase. For the householder arranges many protections—safe deposits, bank balances, houses, friends, dear ones, relations—so many arrangements. The sannyasin has no one—nothing. Apart from his inner firmness, he has no other means. When difficulties come, the householder fights them by outer arrangements. The sannyasin has only inner energy and strength. When difficulties come, he can fight them only by firming his inner energy. There is no other means. The sannyasin is alone.
Yet there is a delightful thing: the more you use inner strength amidst difficulties, the more you become firm. A day comes when difficulties do not appear as difficulties—they become simplicities, eases. For it is comparative—when within you become solid like a rock, the outer difficulties lose their value.
Thus an odd phenomenon occurs: the householder makes many arrangements to fight difficulties—difficulties increase, because within he grows weaker; his resistance declines.
If you never sit in the sun, if you always sit in the shade—then a little sun will trouble you, because resistance will be low. Another man digs pits in the sun—he has no chance to sit in shade. He digs all day in the sun—yet the sun cannot harm him. Why? His resistance, inner force, has built up.
Thus the more medicines man gets, the more diseases increase—because resistance breaks. The more comforts, the more discomforts increase. The more outer arrangements, the more one finds oneself in trouble—because all arrangements are outward, and the inner arrangement that could have been made is broken; when it is never needed, it atrophies.
Bayazid was roaming naked in the desert—a Sufi fakir. Some travelers saw him and said, “In this burning sun, in the fiery desert—you roam naked? And at night when the desert is icy, you lie naked too? What is the secret?” Bayazid said, “Ask your face. The same skin is on your face as on your hand, foot, chest. But the face is not troubled in the sun, nor in the cold. Why? Because the face has always been exposed; its resistance is higher. The rest of the body is covered; its resistance is low. I made my entire body like the face—since then sun and cold do not register.”
When the sannyasin has no outer arrangements, the arrangement is within.
In this direction understand one more thing—the basic difference between East and West. The West arranged everything outside; thus within it became utterly weak and impotent. They made excellent outer arrangements—air-conditioning even in the desert; medicines at once to fight illness; if one kind of germs take hold, inject opposite germs to kill them; all arrangements. But inner strength grows poorer day by day.
The East did another experiment—refused outer help in fighting, chose to fight with inner strength. The advantage: the East grew rich within; the disadvantage: it became poor without—outwardly impoverished. Outer poverty is visible; inner richness is not. Thus when someone comes from the West, he sees the poverty outside and says, “What a wretched condition!” The inner is not seen—it cannot be seen.
The East did an experiment—to strengthen the individual’s consciousness such that in all circumstances he is himself so firm he can pass beyond. The West did an experiment—to make outer circumstances such that the individual need not fight at all. But he who does not fight loses the capacity to fight. To keep fighting capacity alive, one must go on fighting.
It depends on which strength you wish to awaken. If it is inner strength, the Rishi is right: firmness in all difficulties. Unprotected, insecure, without arrangements—enduring all difficulties—by that, inner resistance grows so much that difficulties remain below and consciousness passes beyond.
Their abiding place is always in struggle—chirajinivasa.
Struggle is their home—their dwelling. Understand this a little.
Struggle is their dwelling. One kind of struggle is with others—the alien; that is violence. Another is with oneself—the own; that struggle is not violence. One struggle is to conquer others; that is sin. The other is to make oneself unconquerable; that is virtue.
The Rishi says: struggle is their dwelling.
They are in struggle twenty-four hours—not with anyone else. They are unsecured; they have no arrangements; they step into the unknown future without a plan. They know morning is there only when they awaken—and pass through it. Night comes—then they know what it brings—and pass through it. Living moment to moment—one moment at a time. Surely there will be struggle. Whoever lives moment to moment will have struggle.
We live by arranging the future. Arrangement means reducing struggle. We arrange what to do tomorrow, how to do it—then tomorrow’s struggle will be less. To step into the unknown, the unfamiliar—like entering a sea whose depth is unknown, whose shores are unknown, whose storms are unknown—without any arrangement!
The sannyasin walks thus in life—without arrangements. Why? What is the need of this struggle? Because the sannyasin knows: refinement comes only through struggle. Through this daily, moment-to-moment struggle, the edge is honed; the shine comes to the being. This struggle is not with someone else—it is with the simple flow of life. And in this struggle there is no sorrow, no pain.
Thus the Rishi says: struggle is their home. There is no enmity toward struggle. It is their dwelling—their shelter, their shade; under it they rest.
Note—calling struggle a home seems reversed. Struggle as their shade, their rest, their bed—this means there is no hostility toward struggle. They do not even take it as struggle; they take it as the natural order of life. They know it will be so.
Alexander was returning from India. He wished to take a sannyasin to Greece. With naked swords they surrounded a sannyasin and said, “You must come to Greece.” The sannyasin said, “From the day I took sannyas, I stopped obeying anyone.” Alexander said, “See these naked swords—they will cut you to pieces.” The sannyasin said, “The day I took sannyas, I severed my connection with that which can be cut. You will certainly cut—but not me. You will cut what I myself have cut away from me.”
Those who wrote Alexander’s history record: for the first time Alexander’s hand and sword trembled. He raised his hand, then stopped. Before him stood a laughing man. Alexander asked the sannyasin—his name was Dandami—“Does it not come to your mind that misfortune has fallen upon you?” The sannyasin said, “We do not expect good fortune. Whatever comes—we consent.”
Struggle is their dwelling. Only when there is no opposition to struggle can struggle become a dwelling. If there is opposition, it cannot. There is acceptance of struggle—then it becomes a dwelling. No enmity—because the sannyasin takes life as a school wherein struggle is the method of teaching. Whoever saves himself from struggle saves himself from being educated.
I have heard: A millionaire lady arrived at a seaside resort. Her car stopped before the hotel. She said to all the porters, “Come—all of you!” The porters were surprised—there couldn’t be that much luggage. She handed each a single item. A small boy was left—the lady’s fat son, sitting comfortably in the car. She said to a porter boy, “Lift him on your shoulder.” The boy asked, “Are his legs bad?” The old lady said, “Thank God his legs are all right—but thank God he will never have to use them. Lift him.”
If even legs need never be used, they will lose their strength. Slowly the strength goes. Only by walking do legs keep their strength; if not used, the strength disappears. What we use becomes active.
The sannyasin uses his entire consciousness in life’s struggle—hiding nowhere, seeking no cover.
Nasruddin enlisted in the army. A fierce war was on. All young men were drafted; Nasruddin too. The general was impressed by Nasruddin—for whatever the situation, Nasruddin always stood behind the general. No matter how fierce—bombs falling, swords clashing, arrows flying, fire everywhere—Nasruddin never left the general’s back. After the war, the general said, “Nasruddin—you are very brave. I have never seen such bravery. In every circumstance you stayed with me.” Nasruddin said, “Shall I tell the truth? When I left home my wife said, ‘Always remain behind the general—for generals are never killed.’ For that reason I stayed behind you despite all trouble.”
He returned home—but had not learned even to hold a sword, for all his time had been behind cover. The village heard Nasruddin had returned from war. In the coffee-house a crowd gathered—“Tell us something.” What could he tell! He had done only one thing. Still, he had to say something. A soldier there said, “You say nothing? Such a terrible war—and I alone cut hundreds of heads. And you, Nasruddin—you returned with a general’s medal—you brave man!” Nasruddin said, “Heads? It happened once that I cut three or four men’s legs.” The soldier said, “We have never heard of such bravery—one cuts heads!” Nasruddin said, “The heads had already been cut by someone else—no opportunity. So I picked up the sword and cut four or six legs apace.”
This much bravery—and he returned. Naturally. Cover upon cover—life becomes flabby. The inner substance falls.
Struggle is their dwelling. They do not live behind cover. Open—vulnerable—whatever happens, they consent. Storms come, tempests, grief, pain, death—vulnerable—always open.
Their mantra is Anahat; their establishment is Akriya. Anahat mantram.
What is the mantra of these sannyasins? What is their sadhana? The Rishi says: the Anahat mantra. This must be known within.
Within the human body are seven chakras. Among them is the Anahat. From each chakra sadhana is possible; hence each has a distinct sadhana—and a distinct mantra. By the mantra one strikes the chakra; when it is activated, the energy hidden there begins the upward journey.
The Rishi says: the sannyasin’s mantra is Anahat. He strikes the Anahat chakra. That strike has its own sounds by which Anahat is struck—like Soham, a sound-formula for Anahat.
You may not have noticed—whenever you utter a word, its stroke falls on different parts of your body. If within you say Om, it will not go below the heart; its main resonance will be in the head. If here you pronounce Hoo, Hoo goes exactly to the sex center. Thus many friends tell me that by using Hoo their sex rises. It will—because its stroke goes to the sex center.
Every sound has a depth within you. Every utterance enters different depths. Hence mantras were given by the Guru; not without reason. When the Guru gives a mantra, often the receiver feels: “But I knew this already!” One goes to the Guru; privately, close to the ear, he says, “Say Ram—Ram.” One thinks: Is this a mantra! Who does not know Ram-Ram! What special thing has the Guru done? There are reasons. You know “Ram-Ram,” but whether it is of your use—you do not know.
Often people use wrong mantras—which they should not. Because it may be that the stroke of those mantras places them in difficulty. I insist on Hoo because I hold this age to be sex-obsessed. The sex center is the most significant today. Most diseases, anxieties, troubles of our time are linked to the sex center. If any transformation is to be attempted, a sound must be used that awakens sex-energy and directs it toward kundalini.
The sannyasin’s mantra is Anahat—because the sannyasin is one whose sex-energy has begun to move toward kundalini. He need not strike there anymore; now he strikes Anahat—Soham.
Anahat means: that which arises without striking—without being beaten. If we clap both hands, the sound is ahata—struck. Any sound born of striking is ahata. It will not reach the Anahat chakra. Only one sound can reach Anahat—the one born without striking.
Zen masters in Japan tell their disciples: Go and find the sound produced by a single hand. A single hand produces no sound. Yet there is a sound that is Anahat—like Soham. Soham you need not produce. If you sit silently and simply watch your breath going in and coming out—soon the intoning of Soham begins by itself. The movement of the breath itself produces the intoning of Soham. In breath itself the sound of Soham is hidden. Hence Soham is neither Sanskrit nor any other language; Soham is nature’s sound—arising within from breath.
This is Anahat sound. Its stroke falls upon the Anahat chakra—deep, subtle, delicate. And in the Anahat is hidden the entire power that becomes the means for upward flight.
The sannyasin’s mantra is Anahat. He does not use a mantra spoken by the lips—for what is spoken by the lips does not go deep. He does not use a mantra spoken by the throat—for it remains confined to the throat. He does not use a mantra spoken by the mind—for what is spoken by the mind cannot take you beyond the mind.
The Rishis discovered a mantra that is Anahat—spoken neither by throat nor by lips—not spoken at all: abola, ajapa—its japa is not done; its japa is always on; only we have not heard it. In a dark night when stillness reigns—you are gossiping; you do not hear. When the gossip ends and you sit alone, suddenly the sound of silence begins to resound. It was resounding even while you spoke—but it was submerged in your noise.
Mulla Nasruddin went to hear a musician—with his wife. The musician was taking a deep alap—classical. Nasruddin grew restless; the wife was delighted. She asked afterwards, “How did you find the music—wonderful?” “Wonderful,” she said. “How did you find it?” Nasruddin said, “Speak a little louder—because of this wretch I can’t hear a thing you are saying. He is creating such a hullabaloo.” She said, “But you were swaying; I thought you were in ecstasy.” Nasruddin said, “I was restless. At home our goat died—he too died in this condition, taking just such an alap. I was watching whether this man would die now or now; he is in his last throes. Save him it is impossible. We could not save the goat either. I am moving to see if some remedy is possible so he may be saved. If this wretch would stop speaking, I could hear what you say.” And she asks, “Is the music wonderful!”
When our inner classical music—the nonstop noise—falls silent, then we hear the Anahat Nada. It is going on all the time; it is biological—built-in. It is existential. When no other sound remains within, one sound still remains—not created by us—Anahat, arising of itself. The name of that sound is Anahat; where it strikes is the Anahat chakra.
And the sound of Anahat is the sannyasin’s mantra—because the sannyasin seeks that which is unmade, uncreated. The worldly seeks what is made, fabricated. The sannyasin seeks what is unmade—Brahman. If the Unmade is to be sought, the means too must be unmade.
His mantra is Anahat; his establishment is Akriya.
He does not live in doing; he remains established in non-doing, even while doing. Hence, it is said: Akriya is his establishment. It is not said he does no action. Nor that he becomes inert. Akriya is his establishment—he walks, but while walking he is established in that which never walks. He speaks, but while speaking he is established in that which is silence. He eats, but while eating he is established in that which has no need of food.
Akriya is his establishment.
Action the sannyasin too will do—walk, rise, sit, sleep, eat, grow tired, rest. Action is unavoidable in this world. If someone thinks he will become actionless and thus become a sannyasin—he errs. Actionlessness happens only with death. In life, action is inevitable—life is the name of actions. Then what does the sannyasin do? The householder acts, the sannyasin acts—what is the difference? The householder walks, the sannyasin walks—what is the difference? The difference is of establishment.
While walking, the householder becomes established in walking; while speaking, established in speaking; while eating, established in eating. The sannyasin stands aside and watches. His establishment remains in Akriya. He moves but remains in the Immovable. He travels the whole earth and still says, “We are where we were. We have not moved.”
Regarding Buddha, Buddhist monks—only in Japan—keep a joke alive: Buddha never happened. And they worship daily. They are courageous; when a religion loses courage, it also loses the courage to laugh at its own master. They say: Buddha never happened.
Linchi, a great fakir, every morning offered flowers to Buddha’s image—and every evening discoursed that Buddha never happened. One man said, “This is intolerable. Every morning we see you offering flowers; every evening we hear your discourse—a great contradiction. What kind of man are you! In the morning you worship him; in the evening you say he never was.”
Linchi said, “Certainly—because I too never offered flowers. Our establishment is in Akriya. Those flowers I offer in the morning—my establishment is not in that. I stand aside watching Linchi offer flowers. Just so Buddha stood aside watching—Buddha was born, walked, spoke, died. But establishment was in Akriya.” The sannyasin’s establishment is Akriya.
To remain at rest in non-doing while doing—that is sannyas. Not running away from doing—because one cannot run from action. You can only replace one action with another—nothing more. If you cannot run from action, then why replace one with another? Hence I make even the householder a sannyasin. Change the establishment! What will changing work do? You will not run a shop—you will run an ashram—what difference? Customers will not come—disciples will come—what difference? They too are customers.
Thus quarrels arise among gurus—if someone’s customer moves to another, great trouble—our customer was stolen. It all becomes business.
If you must live among customers—what harm? If you sit at a shop and sell goods—what harm? Only the establishment must change. Selling at the shop, do not remain a shopkeeper—only that. Acting, do not remain the doer. If establishment is in Akriya—that is sannyas.
To keep such a spontaneous self-nature—this alone is Moksha.
This statement is unique—incomparable. In the literature of mankind, in any literature, such a statement is impossible to find.
Svechchhachar-sva-svabhavo mokshah.
Those whose nature is spontaneity—self-willed flow! It is difficult. Svechchhachar is a very bad word in our eyes. When we wish to condemn someone, we say he is a freewheeler—self-willed. Meaning: gone astray; listens to no one; no rules, no restraint, no decorum—self-willed. For us it is an abuse. And the Rishi says: Svechchhachar-sva-svabhavo mokshah. He whose nature is spontaneous freeflow—he is liberated.
But this sutra comes at the very end. Before it, everything else has been dissolved. The ego that could be self-willed is gone. The ego that would relish self-will has disappeared. Establishment is in Akriya; if there were relish in action, self-will could be dangerous.
Someone asked Napoleon, “How do you define the law?” Napoleon said, “Leave that task to ordinary folk. As far as I am concerned—I am the law. I am the law.” That is svechchha—self-will. But between Napoleon’s self-will and a sannyasin’s self-will lies the distance between hell and heaven.
When Napoleon is self-willed, it is only to shatter others’ wills—to break them—so that whatever ego says, whatever mind says, desires, impulses—he does that. Napoleon’s self-will becomes bestial—worse than animals. For an animal cannot fall as low as man can—nor rise as high as man can. The capacity to go up and to go down are proportional. The higher the tree rises, the deeper its roots go; if a tree rises a little, its roots go only a little. Seeing the height you can tell how deep the roots must be. Above and below are in proportion. Animals cannot go high—so they cannot go low. Only man can go both.
Thus, when man has desires, impulses, ego, attachment, maya—self-will is sin—hell. And when man is free of all these, then self-will is Moksha. Then no rules bind; no law is compulsory; no decorum remains. Whatever arises from within—spontaneous, sahaj—that becomes conduct. Then svabhava itself is conduct.
The sannyasin’s rising, sitting, speaking, acting are not calculated or pondered—they are spontaneous. As winds blow, as waters run to the ocean, as flames leap skyward—so the sannyasin abides in his nature. He becomes freeflowing.
But this freeflow is utterly other. The criminal too is self-willed; the sannyasin too is self-willed. The difference is only this: the criminal’s freewill is with desires; the sannyasin’s freewill is free of desires. He who exercises willfulness with desires sets out on the journey to hell. He who, free of desires, moves into freeflow attains Moksha.
The Rishi says: Svechchhachar-sva-svabhavo mokshah.
A more revolutionary mantra cannot be found.
Iti smriteh. And this is the end of memory.
Wonderful—this is all. Beyond this, memory is not needed. Beyond this, nothing remains to be remembered—because it is rules, norms, limits that must be remembered; disciplines remembered; arrangements remembered. He who attains freeflowing self-nature has no need of memory. As long as there is no knowing, memory is needed. Memory is a substitute for knowing. He who knows, needs no memory. He who does not know must rely on memory.
We have to remember what we keep forgetting. But what we have known—what need to remember? A thief must remember that stealing is not right. But the one in whom stealing has disappeared—must he remember that theft is sin? Thus sometimes very amusing events occur.
Many people came to Kabir’s house; Kabir said to all, “Eat before you go.” Kabir’s son Kamal was in difficulty. He said, “How much debt shall we take! I am tired. This cannot go on. Stop this.” Kabir said, “Good.”
Next morning—the same. People came; Kabir said, “Stay for food.” Kamal would bang his head—again the same. Iti smriteh—such a man does not live by memory; he lives in the instant—there and then—and forgets.
At last Kamal was very angry: “Not a moment more. Shall I begin to steal?” Kabir said, “Why did you not think of this earlier?”
An extraordinary event—so extraordinary that Kabirpanthis do not mention it, for it would create much trouble.
Kabir said, “Fool—why did you not think earlier? If some such means is possible—do it.” Kamal said, “What are you saying—stealing!” Kabir has no memory left that stealing is bad; stealing is sin. Iti smriteh. In such a place all memory is lost. Now someone must remind Kabir of that world which he left long ago—where theft was sin, and theft was rule; where people were warned not to steal—and theft went on; where the thief was a thief—and the magistrate was a thief. Kabir has no relation left with that world; that dimension has gone; he has moved on. He does not even know that theft is sin.
Kabir asked Kamal, “You seem distraught—is some mistake happening?” Kamal said, “This is the limit—you are advising theft! To bring another’s goods?” Kabir said, “I see no harm. Another—who is that? Only One remains. Whose goods? Who will bring?”
Kamal thought he must test. He was a remarkable boy. He said, “Not like this. Tonight I will go to steal—you must come with me.” Kabir rose and went along. Kamal was now afraid—“Will he actually make me steal? This is beyond bounds—are you in your senses or out!” But he was Kabir’s son. He said, “I will not leave him—till the last moment I will test.”
They dug a breach. Kabir stood by. Kamal entered the house, dragged out a sack of wheat. Kabir stood by. Kamal said, “Support me lifting it; I cannot lift it alone.” Kabir helped.
Kamal thought, “This is the limit—where to now? This theft is about to happen.” Kamal said, “Shall we take it home?” Kabir said, “Have you told the householders we are taking it? Go back—tell them. In the morning they will search needlessly, be troubled. Tell them we are stealing a sack of wheat.” Iti smriteh—at such a place all memory is gone.
Their conduct is to flow in the Supreme—Parabrahman.
Just floating in the Divine. Not even walking, not even swimming—simply floating in that divine God. This is their conduct.
Enough for today.
We will continue the remaining tonight.
Now let us flow—just floating.
Today do not tie bandages on the eyes—but keep the eyes closed. For in these seven days, if the eyes do not stay closed by themselves, it is not good. The support of the bandage must be dropped on the last day. No bandage—keep it aside.
Spread far apart. Today there will be much movement—so keep distance.
Begin!