Nirvan Upanishad #15

What shall we call wealth? That which we call wealth can be snatched away from us. That which we call ours—death, without doubt, separates us from it. And whatever we call wealth seems to bring us nothing but misfortunes. The rishis too call something ‘wealth’. They call wealth that which cannot be taken from us. Only that is true property; only that are we the masters of, which cannot be taken away. To claim ownership over that which can be snatched away is the claim of unawareness. Yet all the ‘properties’ we know can be taken from us. Do we know of any wealth that cannot be robbed from us?

There is an ancient Upanishadic story: Yajnavalkya wished to renounce, handing over all his estate to his two wives. One consented—half of that estate was much indeed. But the other asked, “What is it you are giving me?” Yajnavalkya said, “Wealth.” She said, “If this is wealth, why are you leaving it? And if you are leaving, then what are you going in search of?” The husband said, “I have understood this is not wealth. I go in search of the real wealth.” She said, “Then take me with you in search of the real wealth. Why leave this trash for me? And if you have come to see that this is not wealth, why even speak of giving it to me?”

Those who possess what the world calls wealth come to know well that nothing truly valuable is gained by it. Whatever can be bought by property has, in truth, no value that is eternal, abiding, lasting. But we stuff our empty minds with it.

The rishi says: What is the wealth of the sannyasin? He calls this his wealth: first, Brahmacharya. His conduct will be as though the very Paramatman were seated within and acting through him.

This word Brahmacharya is immensely precious. The so‑called moralists have badly twisted it, corrupted it. For whenever someone says Brahmacharya, we immediately think: sex control, control of lust. Brahmacharya is a far vaster word; and the control of lust is a very petty, commonplace matter. Brahmacharya is a great word. Its meaning is: conduct like Brahman—living in such a way that it is as if the Divine itself is living. Brahmacharya is vast, immeasurable; and sex‑control is a tiny fragment. But we have so mangled this vast word that when they translate it in the West, in English, they render it ‘celibacy’—yet its meaning is quite otherwise.

If there is any mode of conduct of the Divine, the sannyasin’s conduct is of that very mode. In truth, the sannyasin rises with the awareness, “The Divine has risen within me”; he walks with the awareness, “The Divine has walked within me”; he speaks with the awareness, “The Divine has spoken within me”; he lives with the awareness, “The Divine has lived within me.” The sannyasin bids farewell to himself and enthrones the Divine. Whatever is his is all the Divine’s.

He who has thus installed the Divine within himself, who has become a temple of the Divine—his conduct is called Brahmacharya. Certainly, in that conduct the mastering of sex arises by itself; there is no need even to speak of it. But Brahmacharya is not merely sex‑control; sex‑control is a small limb—Brahmacharya is something vast.

The rishi says: Brahmacharya is wealth. For one who has experienced, “The Divine is within me,” nothing can be taken from him any more. Only one thing is such that it cannot be taken: the very Being that is our own nature. That which there is no way to separate from us is only the Divine. Everything else can be separated: friend, wife, son—all can be taken away. Even this body will not remain with us; even this mind will not remain with us. Only one truth, one existence of the Divine, cannot be taken away. That which is our very being—there is no way to separate it. This the rishi calls wealth.

Conduct like Brahman! But conduct is outward. Conduct means the outside. ‘Charitra’ means in relation to others. There is no such thing as conduct in aloneness. Conduct is in relationship to someone.

Once Mulla Nasruddin was caught gambling. In a capital city a grand council of religious leaders was being held. A Jewish rabbi, a Christian priest, a Hindu monk, and Mulla Nasruddin were lodged in the same hotel. But at night all four were caught gambling. When, in the morning, they were presented before the court, the magistrate felt a little embarrassed. Only yesterday evening he had heard their sermons and had been deeply impressed. But the police had brought them in; the case had to run. Still he thought, best to wind it up quickly—not drag it out.

He asked the Christian priest, “Were you gambling?” The priest said, “Forgive me—it depends on how you define gambling. It depends on many things—on your definition. In that sense, the whole of life is a gamble.” The magistrate wanted to let them off quickly. He saw, this will become a long matter in theology. He said, “Speak plainly—were you not gambling?” The priest said, “Where the whole of life itself is a gamble, how can one avoid gambling?” Even so, the judge said, “I understand—you were not gambling; you are acquitted.” The priest went out.

He asked the Jewish rabbi, “Were you gambling? There was money on the table before you, and cards were being shuffled.” The rabbi said, “Forgive me—intention is not an offense. We had not begun yet; there was only intention. We were about to start for sure, but had not started. And what has not begun stands outside the law.” The judge said, “Granted. You are acquitted; intention alone cannot be prosecuted. You may go.”

He asked the Hindu holy man, “Were you involved too?” The Hindu said, “This world is Maya. What appears is not as it appears—it just appears. What gambling? Which cards? Who was caught? Who caught whom?” The magistrate said, “I understand. You may go. When the world itself is unreal, what gambling?” Quite right indeed.

But Mulla was in deep trouble, for he had been caught with the cards in his very hands, and a heap of money lay before him. The magistrate said, “It was easy to let those three go—Nasruddin, what shall I do with you? Were you gambling?” Nasruddin asked, “May I inquire—with whom? Because those three have already gone, acquitted.” Nasruddin said, “If it is possible to gamble alone, then surely I was gambling.”

All our conduct is in relation to the other. In aloneness, conduct has no meaning. We speak truth to someone, lie to someone, steal from someone, refrain from stealing in relation to someone. All our conduct is relational. Therefore the rishi first said: Brahmacharya is the sannyasin’s wealth—relating with the other as God relates.

And the second thing he said: Shanti—peace. Within! Conduct is outer. Within, the supreme silence, stillness, peace; where not even a ripple arises, not even a wave; where the energy of life, consciousness itself, does not tremble. Such unwavering silent peace, where not even a breeze stirs—this he calls the inner wealth.

Conduct like the Divine; within, Nirvana—void, quiet, silent. The rishi says: this is the wealth that cannot be stolen. Those who take anything else to be wealth are pitiable indeed, impoverished. However much they try to hide their poverty, it peeks out from many places. Money may be with them, yet they themselves do not become rich—because money can be taken from them at any moment. And even if money is not taken, money is only the illusion of being rich. Inner poverty does not disappear until tension disappears. Until restlessness dissolves, inner abundance does not arise. Until the Divine within becomes so dense that its rays begin to spread in all directions, one is no emperor. Until then one remains a slave in a thousand ways. The sannyasin is the emperor.

Swami Ram used to say: A poor fakir once announced, “I am near death. People have offered much to me; it has piled up. I want to give it to the poorest of the poor.”

The entire village of poor people gathered. There was no shortage of poor! Those who were not poor left their turbans at home and came as well. The fakir was astonished; among them were those who had made offerings to him—now hidden in the crowd. Everyone imagined the fakir must have a lot of money; people had been offering throughout his life. Indeed, there was much—a big bag, filled with coins, with diamonds, with pearls, with gold.

But he said, “Go away from here! I feel like giving it to the most poor.” A beggar said, “Who could be poorer than I? I have no food even for tomorrow.” The fakir said, “I will have to make an examination; then I will decide.”

Just then the emperor’s procession passed by; the emperor on an elephant. The fakir shouted, “Stop!” He threw the bag up onto the emperor’s elephant before the crowd of beggars. The emperor said, “What joke is this? I heard you intended to give to the most poor.” The fakir said, “Who is poorer than you? Those standing here have small hopes and small desires. You possess a vast empire, and yet your desire has no end; it runs on and on. You are the greatest beggar; your begging bowl will never be full. You are the poorest of the poor. I give it to you.”

Who is poor? One whose desires are insatiable. Who is rich? One who has no desire. Who is poor? One whose asking has no end. Who is rich? One who says, “There is nothing left to ask.”

When Ram went to America he called himself an emperor. He had only a loincloth, yet he said, “Emperor Ram.” He wrote a book called The Six Edicts of Emperor Ram. One loincloth—and edicts of an emperor!

The President of America came to meet Ram. All else seemed fine, but one thing troubled him. He said, “Everything is good—but you call yourself, with your own mouth, Emperor Ram.” Because Ram would say, “Emperor Ram went there yesterday.” He asked, “What is this emperorship you speak of? What do you have, of which you are the emperor?” Ram said, “As long as anything was with me, I was a slave; for whatever was with me became my master. Now I am utterly an emperor, for no slavery remains. As long as something was with me, my demand continued; now I have no demand. Pile up heaps of diamonds before me, and I can walk over them as over dust. Lodge me in palaces, and I can stay as if sleeping in a hut. Make me emperor of the world, and it will not feel as if something has been added; it will not feel new. It was there already—you just did not know. When I sit on a throne, you come to know.”

The sannyasin has always called that wealth which is born of perfect contentment, of total fulfillment.

The rishi says: In Brahmacharya Ashram, then in Vanaprastha, through study and ripening, the fruit is total renunciation—that is sannyas.

In this land we divided a man’s life into ashramas. Perhaps in the history of mankind our experiment was unique—we divided life into segments with great scientific precision. If we take one hundred years as the average span, we broke it into four quarters of twenty‑five each. The first quarter we called Brahmacharya Ashram. In these twenty‑five years the aim was to awaken and gather all one’s energy—so that when he becomes a householder, he will have enough energy to know the full range of life’s enjoyments.

The seers of India were courageous, not escapists. Those twenty‑five years of Brahmacharya were so that a person would enter the life of enjoyment with such potency that he could touch it to the ultimate edge—to the optimum. The rishis had known a truth: that whatever we know in its totality, from that we become free. If you want freedom even from sin, you must know it totally. He who has known only half will retain an attraction: who knows what that remaining half might hold?

Mulla Nasruddin is dying. The priest has come to see him off. He says, “Repent—repent for the sins you have committed.” Nasruddin opens his eyes and says, “I am repenting—already there is repentance in me. But there is a small difference between you and me: I am repenting for the sins I could not commit. A great pain remains in the heart: had I done those too, who knows what I might have found! From what I did, I gained nothing. But is it necessary that from what I did not do, I would also have gained nothing? Who will assure me, at this moment of death, that treasures were not hidden in what I did not do? I repent.”

When Nasruddin turned a hundred, they celebrated his centenary. Journalists came and asked, “If you were given life again, would you repeat the same mistakes you made this time?” Nasruddin said, “I would make those for sure—and those I could not make, I would make too. I would differ in one matter: I started my mistakes too late this time. Next time I will begin earlier.”

They asked, “What is the secret of your long life—one hundred years?” Nasruddin said, “I never touched wine, I never smoked, I never touched a girl—until I turned ten. Beyond that I know of no secret.” Until I turned ten! And he says, “If I get life again, those mistakes I began late, I will begin early.”

Man repents the sins he did not commit. You do not remember the sins you did; the mind is haunted by those you did not do.

The Indian seers were deeply intelligent. They said: for twenty‑five years, gather energy—do not let a single drop spill. So that when you plunge into the world of enjoyment, the arrows of energy may carry you to the very bottom of desire. See all that the world can show, so that when you turn your back on it, not even once does the urge arise to look back. This was the meaning of Brahmacharya Ashram. It did not mean to make people monks. It meant that one’s experience of enjoyment should become so clear that enjoyment becomes futile. Only then does saintliness arise.

Therefore, after twenty‑five years of Brahmacharya, we sent one into Grihastha—household life. Strange indeed: twenty‑five years we kept him far from the world of passion, and after twenty‑five years, with band and drum, we led him into it. The designers were brilliant. They thought: energy must first be collected!

Today, whether in the West or the East, if no one is fulfilled—even sexually—though never has there been such propaganda and such provision for satisfying sex as in our age, still no one seems fulfilled—the reason is: energy begins to be dissipated before it is gathered. Before the fruit ripens, the roots begin losing sap back into the soil. The fruit never ripens. And an unripe fruit cannot let go of the tree; unripe fruits do not drop. Ripe fruits fall—silently they fall; the tree does not even know when. But ripening needs energy; the ripening of life’s experience also needs energy.

So for twenty‑five years we created every means to generate, gather, and conserve energy. We made each person a reservoir—he would come into the world vibrant with power, energy‑rich.

Remember, the stronger a person, the sooner he becomes free of passions. The weaker he is, the longer it takes. The weak never truly experience enjoyment; and how shall he be free of what he has never known? How will he know it is futile without knowing it wholly?

Therefore, until the world once again accepts this Indian vision of the segmented life of man, we will not be able to free humanity from passions.

The rishi says: Twenty‑five years in the dwelling of Brahmacharya, twenty‑five in the household... up to fifty one remains a householder. At around fifty, his sons will be returning from the gurukul; they will be nearing twenty‑five.

The rishis of India said: When the son enters the home with his wife, and the father continues to beget children—there is nothing more absurd. It is indeed absurd. When the son steps into enjoyment and the father continues, it is incongruous. There is no wisdom in it. And still the father expects respect—this is foolishness. There is no reason. It seems the son should put his hand on the father’s shoulder and twist: both are equally qualified. The son is doing the same; the father is doing the same. Both stand in the cinema queue. Then if reverence, respect, devotion disappear, whose fault is it?

No—the rule was: the day the son comes home married, that day the father becomes a Vanaprasthin; that day the mother too. That very day—it is finished. When the sons have entered the world of enjoyment, the father must enter the world of renunciation. Otherwise, where is the distance, the difference, the distinction?

At fifty, one becomes Vanaprastha—his face turned toward the forest. He has not yet gone; he does not yet run to the woods, for the sons have just returned from the gurukul and there is a responsibility to pass on to them the living wisdom of one’s life. If he fled now, the transmission between generations would not happen. The sons come back with knowledge, with words, with scriptures, with power; they are dazzled by life, full of youth’s energy—now the father must pass on what he has known in twenty‑five years of living.

For twenty‑five years the mother and father are Vanaprasthins—going toward the forest. Their faces turn to the jungle; their backs to the home. They remain as trustees that long—to hand over to the son what they have known.

When they are seventy‑five, the sons’ sons will be returning from the gurukul. Then there is no need to remain; their sons are now experienced fathers—fifty years old. They can hand over knowledge and experience. Now is the moment of sannyas; now they leave and go to the forest.

We had created a wondrous circle. Those seventy‑five‑year‑old elders who go to the forest become gurus for the children who are arriving. This was our circle.

Remember, we never accepted that less than a fifty‑year distance between student and guru is fitting. Fifty years were necessary. For only the elders whose passions have grown thin, who have transcended passions through experience, can initiate children into Brahmacharya—none else. How otherwise? If the guru himself reads the Kama Shastra hidden within the Gita, then of course the children will recognize it. Recognition does not take long. And the same guru speaks of Brahmacharya—so they listen, but know these are mere words.

Today, in the university, it often happens—I was in a university for ten years—that the professor is infatuated with the same girl the students are; a heavy competition ensues. Then talk of Brahmacharya neither fits nor is needed. We had held that the distance must be fifty years; such distance is necessary in many senses.

Old age has its own beauty, its own dignity. If one has truly aged rightly—aging rightly means that the inner youth does not keep sliding on—otherwise the body grows old while the mind remains young; then nothing is more ugly on this earth—the most ugly—than an old body with a mind restless like a youth’s, mad, diseased, desire‑ridden.

It is a curious matter: children are still beautiful, the young are still beautiful, but the old are no longer beautiful. Rarely does one see a beautiful elder. Rabindranath said: When one truly ripens through life’s experience and attains the beauty of age, then the white hair upon the head appears like the pure snow on Gaurishankar—touching the tranquil peak, touching the sky, before which even clouds bow and drift below. Such elders we called guru.

Without such distance, the reverence that should arise between guru and disciple cannot be born. And only those who have known can give. Today almost those who have known nothing—who know words, exam papers, certificates, without any relation to experience—are teaching those who are almost in the same state as they. There is no difference. If a student is a bit sharp, he can know more than his teacher. Earlier, this was impossible. And often some students will be sharper—and a little more than the teacher. Because the class that goes into teaching is the least sharp in society. There are reasons: teachers have neither decent pay nor respect. People say, “Ah, you became a master? Meaning—a failure!” One hesitates to admit, “I am a teacher.” Even a constable says it and his spine stiffens. But to say “I am a teacher”—it sounds as though one has been beaten by life, wasted it in teaching. Thus a mediocre class goes in. And if a student is slightly intelligent, the teacher falls behind.

But the Indian vision was: in no condition should the teacher fall behind the student. This is possible only when such a long experience of life stands between them.

The rishi says: Those who have known Brahmacharya, who have known householding, who have known Vanaprastha—through this very knowing they arrive at renunciation. This very knowing leads to sannyas. He who thus knows life from so many facets does not cling to it. He sees: what is the point in holding the non‑essential? He loosens his grip.

And finally all bodies are dissolved, and one is established in the undivided form of Brahman.

Man has seven bodies. One body is visible—this one. Within it, further and further, are layers—seven bodies. One is gross, physical; the subtle bodies are not seen. But when one enters yoga, they begin to be seen. Each person is surrounded by seven layers.

Until these seven fall away, the undivided Brahman‑state does not happen. If even one remains, the journey continues. If all seven are there, birth occurs in one way; if only one remains, birth occurs in another way. The physical body may not be formed, yet the journey of birth continues. Births end only on the day no body remains within us.

When does this happen—that no body remains? Only when no vasana remains within. Vasana crystallizes the bodies; it gathers them. And because there are seven levels of vasana, there are seven bodies. When a person renounces life through knowing, those seven bodies are reduced to ash. Then one’s being becomes one with the undivided Brahman. There is no way for birth—where would he be born, where would he go? The facility for coming and going is gone. He is established in that which is simple, spread like the sky in all directions—one with That.

This is the moment of supreme realization and supreme bliss: when there is no need to be born, because then there is no cause to die. When we do not assume bodies, we need not suffer the pains that arise from bodies. When the senses are not ours, the illusions produced by the senses do not arise. Then we become one with pure consciousness, pure truth, pure existence. The knowing of this oneness, the pointing toward this supreme unity—the rishi says—this is Nirvana Darshan.

And then—an astonishing statement at the end of this sutra: This secret is not to be taught to anyone other than one’s son or disciple.

It will feel strange. After such wondrous utterances, after pointing toward the supreme light—the rishi says this knowledge is such that it must not be spoken to anyone other than one’s son or disciple.

Upanishad means: the secret doctrine. Upanishad means: the esoteric secret. Upanishad means: that which is heard sitting at the master’s feet.

So secret is this mystery that it is not to be tossed on the roadside. So secret that it is not to be told to everyone. Great intimacy is needed, a deep inner bond. Where argument, debate, and dispute are running, it cannot be said. Where the undercurrent of love flows, only there can it be said. Where dialogue is possible, where communication is possible, where heart can speak to heart—only there. The rishi gives this instruction.

To say ‘son’ has a reason. It means: one so much your own that he feels your own flesh and marrow. Not necessarily born of your body—no. But such that if he were to die, some part of you would die; if he were lost, some limb of yours would be lost; if he were to drown, to be destroyed, some heartbeats of yours would perish—you would never again be as whole as you were with him. To such intimacy—speak; for this is an esoteric secret. Or speak to the shishya—one who is ready to learn.

Very few in this world are ready to learn—very few. The urge to teach is easy; the readiness to learn is arduous. To learn, one must bow.

The word ‘shishya’ reminds me: Five hundred years ago, from Nanak’s words, a religion was born in our land that we call Sikh. But Sikh is simply the Punjabi transformation of shishya. Sikh means: one who is ready to learn. It is not a sect, not a creed; whoever is ready to learn is a shishya.

The rishi says: If the readiness to learn is not there, do not speak. These matters are such that if you speak to the unready, they will not even enter his ears—and the danger is, he will misinterpret. Because this is a secret. It is not a matter for casual talk. Speak with discernment.

Indeed, we have gone through the whole scripture—it requires discernment. “Sannyas is svecchachara”—this must be said with care, to one who can understand, who is prepared. Otherwise he will take ‘svecchachara’ to mean license—now do anything; and if someone objects, say, “We are sannyasins—what do you understand? We will do as we please!”

We have traversed the whole Nirvana Upanishad. The things that have been said are such that the rishi must add this statement: Speak only to one so near that he cannot misunderstand, who will not go wrong. Speak to one who is so ready to learn that he does not add from his side—who understands only what is said; who can sit at the feet and bow; who is not merely questioning, not merely hungry for answers, but is in search of resolution, who longs for Samadhi—speak to him.

Nirvana Upanishad ends.

The rishi says only this one last thing: whenever you speak, speak with discernment. That is all I have to say—the rishi says. And the Nirvana Upanishad comes to a close.

The Nirvana Upanishad ends—but Nirvana is not attained because the Upanishad has ended. Where the Upanishad ends, the journey to Nirvana begins. The Upanishad is over.

I conclude with the hope that you will set out, will proceed, on the journey to Nirvana. I have spoken with the trust that you came ready to listen and to understand. If anyone has not come with a disciple’s heart, then because of him I must ask forgiveness of the rishi—for then, contrary to the rishi’s indication, speech has happened. If anyone has listened with an argumentative mind, I will request of him: please forget that I have said anything to you.

If, in what I have said, even a grain arises in you to add from your side, remember—that will be injustice, not only to me but to the rishi who spoke the Nirvana Upanishad.

I have moved with the trust that those gathered here are intimate—that communication is possible, that dialogue can happen.

Therefore I have not kept only discussion; I have joined with it the deep experiments of your meditation. For I see that even those who take words as luxury, as entertainment, become eager in discussion; but not in meditation. And when one must labor three times a day, tirelessly, for meditation—those who were eager for talk will have fled. They will flee. That is why meditation was necessarily joined. And when you listen to me, I do not worry for you; when you meditate, then I care for you.

Your effort in meditation has given me trust that those to whom I have spoken were worthy to be addressed.

Nirvana Upanishad—finished!

The journey to Nirvana—begins!!

Enough for today.

Now let us enter the last meditation of the night. This is the final meditation, therefore it is necessary to pour your total energy into it. Those who can go very fast should remain before me; the others, step back.

First, five minutes of intense breathing—to awaken the energy!