Nirvan Upanishad #2

The seeker travels on two feet. The last part of this Shanti invocation hints at those two feet. One foot is sankalpa—resolve. The other foot is samarpan—surrender.
Without my resolve no journey can begin. Not even God can move me an inch. I will remain where I am. God does not assault my choice, my freedom. So even if I wish to go to hell, no hindrance will come from God.
My resolve is primary. Where I want to go, what I want to become—my life-breath must be ready for it. Yet, that too is not enough, not enough. Even if my resolve is total, it is not sufficient. Without my resolve not an inch will be traversed, but by resolve alone the journey cannot happen. I must also seek the support of the Supreme Power. The individual’s strength is so meager—almost nothing—that without the grace of the Ultimate, the journey will not be.
Hence, in this part the Rishi says: I will speak Rta. I will speak Truth.
This is resolve.
The Rishi declares: I will speak Rta.
Rta is a wondrous word. Rta means the natural, the intrinsic—suchness—as it is. I will say only what is, as it is. Yet, even so, it will be I who speak. And whatever appears to me will appear to me—there may be error in it. I will speak truth, but it will be I who speak—as I am. What I take to be true I will utter—but it might be untrue. What seems true to me need not be truth. What seems false to me need not be false. I can err. My eyes will intrude; my very seeing distorts.
If you wear blue-tinted glasses and all appears blue, you are absolutely truthful in saying everything is blue—and yet you speak untruth. We all wear many kinds of spectacles. We all have our own ideas. Even when we speak truth, it is we who decide what truth is. And we are so liable to error—how can our decision be right?
Still, the Rishi resolves: I will speak Rta. I will say only what is, as it is; I will not speak otherwise. I will speak truth. What appears to me as truth—I will speak that. Yet, protect me. He says to the Lord: still, protect me.
This is very precious. If a liar prays to God, Protect me—it is understandable. If a truthful man prays, Protect me—it seems puzzling. Truth should suffice; truth should protect itself.
But the Rishi knows well: man’s truth need not be God’s truth. Man is so weak, so filled with distortion, so engulfed in darkness, that what he sees may seem true to him and yet be utterly untrue. Therefore, I will speak truth—still, protect me. I will walk according to the natural—yet, protect me. For what I take as natural—how will I decide whether it is natural? To desire protection even while speaking truth is surrender. To walk by Rta and yet seek protection—that too is surrender.
The Rishi is saying: Even if I do everything, I can still be wrong. Your protection will always be needed. There is a double statement here. A proclamation from my side—That I will speak truth—and also the confession that what assurance have I that my truth is Truth?
I have heard: In a town, a Christian priest and a Jewish rabbi were neighbors. Sometimes they talked. One day the Christian said, We both do God’s work. Then why quarrel? Why conflict? I work for truth, you work for truth—what is the dispute? The Jew said, True, we both work for truth. But you work for the truth as it appears to you; I work for the truth as it appears to God. Hence the dispute.
Who will decide which truth is God’s truth? If we decide, it will again be our decision.
Thus a man like Mahavira, who made truth the first virtue and sought to rest his whole life upon it, ceased calling anyone untrue. Even if someone told a flat falsehood—brazen falsehood—as if the sun is shining and someone says it is midnight—Mahavira would say, there is some truth even in your statement. For Mahavira said: Granted it is not midnight now, yet this very sun will soon usher in midnight. Hidden in this blazing noon is midnight. There is some truth in what you say.
Even if someone points to a living man and says, He is dead—Mahavira would say, There is some truth in your words. For the one we call living will die very soon. And if he will surely die, what is the point of arguing whether he is dead now or not? If death is certain, he is already dead. There is truth even in that.
Mahavira’s vision did not become very influential, for a doctrine needs dogmatists—people who insist, This alone is truth. Who listens to a man who says, You are right, he is right, all are right! Without insistence, it is very hard to build a sect. Almost impossible.
No sect was ever built upon the Upanishads. The Upanishads are utterly non-sectarian. And the reason is: the Rishis strive to speak truth—and yet with the awareness that our truth will be our truth, man’s truth will be man’s truth. And can man, while remaining man, touch that vast Truth?
Thus the Rishi says: Lord, protect me. I will speak truth—according to my capacity; I will seek truth—according to my capacity. But I know my capacity. You, protect me.
Protect the speaker. Protect me.
Why bring in the speaker? Protect me would have included it. Yet the Rishi specially says twice: Protect the speaker.
This is quite delightful. When truth is realized by someone, truth is immense. But when the same man goes to speak it, it is no longer so immense—it shrinks further.
First, Truth is vast and man very small. When a small puddle reflects the moon, the reflection is small. When a small man beholds truth, truth shrinks to his proportion. But a second calamity happens when he goes to speak. That is an even greater calamity. Then not even as much remains as he saw.
How vast is God’s truth—who knows? Even what man knows, speech cannot convey. It shrinks further.
Hence the Rishi says: Protect me—so that when I know truth, I do not think it is complete. Let me know that the beyond remains, the beyond remains—journey is unfinished. Let me know I have touched the ocean, but not attained to it. I may be standing in the ocean, yet its shores are not within my fist. Let me remember this. And when I go to speak—protect me even more. For nothing distorts truth as badly as words. There is a reason for this.
All words are utilitarian. When we try to express truth in utilitarian words—and there are no other words—the stench and dust of the marketplace cling to truth. Those words, worn down on our lips like coins rubbed smooth by use—we must speak truth in them—and truth too gets worn.
Experience is always deep; words are invariably shallow. Forget great experiences—take small ones. A thorn pierces your foot—you are in pain. When you tell someone, My foot hurts—do you really communicate the pain? And when you say, My foot hurts—does the other understand what kind of pain it is?
Yes—if a thorn is lodged in his foot too. Otherwise, nothing is grasped. One who has never loved cannot understand talk of love. One who has never tasted the music of life, in whose life the poetry of existence has never entered—nothing reaches him.
Ramakrishna’s life records that his first Samadhi came at the age of six. He was walking along a field embankment near a hill. Green fields spread out. Morning sun had risen; behind, a line of dark clouds. As he stepped along the ridge, a flock of egrets, startled by the sound of his feet, took flight. A winding white line of birds against the backdrop of black clouds—below the lush green and the newborn sun—Ramakrishna closed his eyes and went into Samadhi, right there. Later, when people asked him, he would say: Even after much prayer and worship, it seems hard to reach the depth that that flight of egrets gave me that day.
You may ask: Can Samadhi happen through a flight of egrets? We too have seen egrets, dark clouds, hills. But one who has not known the poetry of existence will not understand Ramakrishna’s experience.
We understand only what we have experienced. Words only indicate. The deeper the experience, the harder words become. And the experience of Truth is ultimate—final, absolute. The taste of Rta is the very peak. When I go to speak that, the Rishi prays: Protect me, Lord.
One may say: Then why speak at all? Don’t go to speak! But there is a difficulty. The deeper the experience, the fiercer the urge to express. There are reasons.
When truth is experienced, the heart blossoms with joy. And the nature of joy is to share. Joy longs to be shared. In sorrow you shrink, you close up. You wish to meet no one, to hide in a room, to die. In joy, you run to find someone to share with.
Mahavira and Buddha went to the forests when they were in sorrow. When they were filled with joy, they returned to the villages.
It is very telling: one in sorrow goes to the forest; one brimming with joy returns to the marketplace to share. One must return. Joy wants to be shared. Someone to partake—let someone take a little. Why? Because the more joy is shared, the more it grows. Pour out your whole heart’s joy, and instantly you will find it refilled a thousandfold.
Kabir has said: Pour out with both hands. Pour! For you have come close to the infinite source. Pour as much as you like—it will not be exhausted. Joy is joy—its sharing is supreme joy.
Thus the Rishi says: Protect me. For when truth is tasted, when I live in Rta, I will want to speak what I have known. And words destroy. Protect me.
This longing for protection—may the Divine surround you like a shadow on all sides, walking with you! And when you speak truth, know that it is your truth, and until God lends His support, it has no value. When you go to speak, know that what you speak is limited—and unless the limitless stands behind it, it has no worth. Therefore the Rishi prays in this Shanti invocation: Protect me.
Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.

Thus the Shanti path is complete. Before declaring the Nirvana Upanishad, this prayer: Protect me in what I speak—is of great significance, for now the Rishi will speak. He will speak—only in words can he speak. Not that it cannot be said in silence, but one must also find a listener for silence—and that is hard. Therefore, compelled, one speaks in words. Even to prepare people for silence, one must lead them through words into wordlessness. Difficult, it seems contrary, yet it is possible.
Pluck a single string on the veena. Sound arises—keep listening, listening, listening. Slowly, the sound fades, and soundlessness begins to reveal itself. Listen on. As sound weakens, proportionately, the soundless becomes intense. As sound disappears, the silent is born. When sound is lost—what remains?
If you have ever followed sound to its end, you will know—sound leads to soundlessness. Words lead to the wordless. The world leads to Moksha. Even restlessness becomes a bridge into peace. Illness becomes a stairway to the temple of health. Use the opposite. Before he proclaims the Upanishad—because the Rishi is going to make a great proclamation—
Whatever depths life has touched, whatever heights it has beheld, whatever golden chalices of truth life has seen—the Rishi will declare them in the words to come.
He says to God: Protect me.
I can err. Words may say what I did not intend. Listeners may hear what I did not say. Understanders may take what was never meant. Protect me.
Lest I go to speak truth and end up speaking untruth. Lest I try to reveal truth and end up handing out falsity. Lest I wish to share joy, and sorrow should reach their begging bowls. Protect me.
The first sutra of the Nirvana Upanishad:
Now we begin the commentary on the Nirvana Upanishad.
The Rishi says: Now we discuss that which is difficult to discuss. Now we enter to expound the unexpoundable. That which cannot be said—now we go to say it. That which can only be known and lived—still, we will give it words.
When people came to Buddha with certain questions, he would answer: Avyakhya—unexpoundable—and fall silent. He would say, No, this cannot be explained. He had fixed a series of questions—when asked, he would only say, Avyakhya. People asked, Why not? For people believe that if a question can be framed, there must be an answer. They think: since we have made the question, there must be an answer.
Your making a question does not guarantee an answer. In truth, wherever there is no answer, know this—something went wrong in the very framing of the question. But language can create such illusions that the question seems quite relevant, quite proper.
One may ask: What is the taste of a sunbeam? What is wrong with the question? It seems fine. One may ask: What is the sound of love? The question seems proper. But love has no sound. It is irrelevant. Love has nothing to do with sound or silence. A sunbeam has no taste, nor is it tasteless. Irrelevant—taste has nothing to do with it.
Metaphysics asks many futile questions. Therefore philosophy resolves none. Yet in language the questions seem perfectly okay. Someone asks: Who created this world? Seems proper. What’s wrong? And yet—totally wrong.
Why wrong? Because to raise the issue of a maker is to ask a question that no answer can ever resolve. If we say, God created it—the question stands right behind: Who created God? If we posited another—God number two—then who created him? This question will rise behind every answer. There is no answer that will end it. Then the answer has no meaning.
So if you ask Buddha, Who created the world? he will say, Avyakhya—this cannot be explained. Not because Buddha does not know the explanation, but because you are asking a wrong question. And any answer to a wrong question will be as wrong as the question. We ask many wrong questions—and among us are more wrong answerers than askers. They are ready: You ask, they will answer. The earth is weighed down and tormented by wrong answers.
The Rishi says: Now we enter the commentary on the Nirvana Upanishad.
It is an impossible task to take up. One must place one’s feet as if on burning coals—inch by inch. Each word must be weighed. Therefore the Nirvana Upanishad is very wondrous—each word is weighed, hewn, honed. A very small Upanishad. It tries to say everything in the fewest words. Because the fewer the words, the fewer the chances of error.
The Sufis have a book—the Book of the Books. Nothing is written in it. It is empty. No publisher would agree to print it. What will you print? Who will buy such madness? And who will purchase it? Whoever looks inside will find nothing there.
Recently a publisher dared—only because a descendant of Mohammed agreed to write a brief note on that zero of a book. Idries Shah wrote a short introduction. He wrote ten or twenty pages explaining why the book is empty; then two hundred blank pages follow. Now it has been printed.
Many buy it by mistake—they see the introduction first. Who scans the whole book! When they reach the book—there is nothing. In the introduction he tries to explain why it is empty. Yet I feel Idries Shah did an injustice. For five or seven centuries brave ones had kept it empty; he put in a little something. And when the authors of the book themselves kept it empty, no introduction was needed. It should have remained empty. But no one would publish it. No one would read it either; so poor Idries Shah had to commit this mischief.
In one sense the Rishi is going to do a wrong thing—therefore he asks God’s protection. Wrong because he will put into words what cannot be worded. If the Rishi had his way, he would leave the book empty. But then it would not be of use to you. Reading an empty book is very arduous. And one who can read an empty book—then he needs no other book in the world.
The Rishi says: We begin the commentary—the exposition—of the Nirvana Upanishad.
There is another point hidden here: the Rishi is not writing the Nirvana Upanishad; he is only commenting on it. This is marvelous. It means the Nirvana Upanishad is eternal—it has always been. The Rishis only comment. What we now call the Nirvana Upanishad is spoken by this Rishi, yet he says: I only comment upon that which always is. Thus no Rishi ever called himself the author of an Upanishad—only an expositor.
Truth is eternal. We comment on it. Our commentary can be wrong—it does not make Truth wrong. Our exposition can be full of slips—Truth is not tainted by that. Hence we pray to God: We are entering a troublesome work—protect us.
Whoever is so humble—where there is such humility—his very first sutra is astonishing.
He says: I am a Paramhansa. Paramhansa: so'ham.
One so humble that even in speaking truth he prays, Protect me. One so humble that, composing this Upanishad, he says, We are only commenting upon that which eternally is—he declares in the very first breath: I am a Paramhansa.
It seems contradictory. But remember: only the truly humble can make such clear declarations. Only humility, in its depths, can say, I am the Divine—nothing else can. Ego can never muster the courage to say, I am God. This is very surprising.
Ego can never dare say, I am God. Ego is very weak. Very feeble. It has not that courage. It can make small claims: I am the chief minister, the prime minister, the president—these it can say. But never: I am God. Why not? Because if one becomes president, the ego is magnified; but if one becomes God, the ego becomes zero. To say I am God means: I am not. It means the slaying of the I.
The most seemingly egoistic declarations on earth—seemingly—were made by those utterly humble, in whom asmitā had vanished. Krishna can say to Arjuna: Sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekam sharanam vraja—Abandon all, and come to my feet. No egoist can say it. The egoist tries the same thing—Abandon all and come to me—but he cannot say it. Ego is clever; it knows that if it wants to thicken itself, it must hide, protect itself. If you want to enlarge your ego, do not hurt the other’s ego—persuade it, flatter it. Only one as egoless as Krishna can say: Leave all and come to my feet.
The Rishi of this Upanishad says: I am a Paramhansa. This is the first declaration of the Nirvana Upanishad.
What does it mean to be a Paramhansa? It is a technical term. There is a myth with the hansa—the swan: that it can separate milk from water. Whether true or not is irrelevant. The word hansa signifies one who can separate milk and water. Paramhansa is one who can separate the essential from the nonessential, truth from untruth.
Thus the Rishi says: I am a Paramhansa. I am one who can separate essence from non-essence. Such a first declaration! It is apt, for what follows is an effort to separate essence and non-essence. The Rishi, with great humility, says: I can discriminate between the essential and the inessential. One meaning.
Second: When the Rishi says, I am a Paramhansa, he is not speaking only for himself. Whoever can say “I am”—can be a Paramhansa. Wherever there is an I, there a Paramhansa is hidden. Whether you utilize it or not is your choice. Whether you separate essence from non-essence is your choice.
But have you ever noticed—when you speak untruth, something within knows it is untruth; when you speak truth, something within knows it is truth? Notice: at some innermost point you always know the difference between things. It is another matter that you deceive yourself; another that you persuade yourself; another that you make a habit of illusion. However deep the habit, a lamp burns within, telling where light is and where darkness is.
That lamp’s name is Paramhansa. It is in everyone. It is as much in the worst of men as in the best. There is no difference of degree. It is as much in the sinner as in the saint. The difference is not in that inner light, not in the Paramhansa, but in denying it, in contradicting it. If we wish, we can keep deceiving ourselves. The day we wish, we can break deception. However much we deceive, we cannot distort the nature of the Paramhansa.
Therefore, in the truest sense, no man can ever become a sinner. However much sin he commits, within him a sinless layer remains. Hence often it happens: the great sinner leaps into the sinless in a single instant. Because one who has much experience of sin also experiences the innermost sinless point—by contrast. A white line on a black wall, or a black line on white—the contrast is stark. The sinner sees the sinless point more clearly. It stands out.
That is why those we call mediocre—neither sinners nor saints, very balanced types—commit a little sin, a little virtue, keeping accounts even—such people rarely undergo revolution. There is no contrast. Neither sin nor sinlessness is felt intensely. Both become dull. Both lose flavor.
Peer into the eyes of a deep sinner—you will glimpse a child’s eyes there. But in the eyes of the ordinary calculating man—who wants to sin but persuades himself, who sins a little and balances with virtue—there you will always find cunning, not a child’s innocence.
The Paramhansa within is in all. It is never destroyed. Any moment you can find it and leap. For that leap the Rishi first declares: I am a Paramhansa. This is a declaration on behalf of all. Not only the Rishi’s “I.” Whosoever can say “I am”—on their behalf. If you would develop this Paramhansa, awaken it, illumine it—use it.
What we use becomes strong, sharp, radiant. Sit without walking—your legs lose the capacity to walk. Keep your eyes closed for days—soon they cease to see. You must use.
I have heard a story, about two hundred years ahead—in the twenty-second century. As other things are sold, so too human brains come to be sold—spare parts. If you feel your brain is not okay, you can go and have what is inside your skull replaced.
A man went to a shop where brains were sold. Many kinds. The shopkeeper showed him: Here is a scientist’s brain—five thousand rupees. The man said, That is too much. Anything better? The shopkeeper said, Here is a religious man’s brain—ten thousand. Too expensive, the man said. Anything superior? The shopkeeper said, The best is this—twenty-five thousand. Whose brain is this? The man was surprised—the scientist’s is five, the religious man’s ten—whose is this? The shopkeeper said: A politician’s. The man said, A politician’s—and so costly? The shopkeeper replied: Because it has been never used. A politician has no need to use a brain. It is fresh—unused. Not even a mile on it. Brand new. Hence the price.
If ever brains are sold, politicians’ will fetch the highest price. Whatever is not used, shuts down. A clock guaranteed to run ten years—if you never run it, it may last a hundred. That is—if you never run it. Whatever we don’t use gathers a sheath of disuse.
We hardly use our Paramhansa-nature. We never discriminate between essential and inessential. Slowly we forget that within us sits one who can separate nectar from poison.
Remember: we can choose poison only because the discerner lies almost inactive. Otherwise, no one could choose poison. If you really see what is essential and what is not, will you choose the inessential? Will you abandon the essential? Once seen, the matter is finished.
Therefore Socrates said: Knowledge itself is revolution. Knowledge itself is conduct. If you see it is stone, not diamond—how will you carry it? If you know this is counterfeit and not a genuine coin—how will you lock it in your safe? You guard it only so long as you believe it to be real.
All the wrong of life—the sleeping Paramhansa within is the cause. Once it manifests, the false drops without effort. To know false as false—is the dropping of the false. To know the true as true—is the holding of the true. No one can hold on to the false; it is impossible. To hold on to the false, one must create the illusion of truth. And to create that illusion, the Paramhansa must be asleep.
Thus the Rishi says: I am a Paramhansa.
He begins with this declaration. Certainly this should be the first sutra—the first axiom of spiritual geometry: I am a Paramhansa. Then essence and non-essence can be discerned.
In the second sutra the Rishi says: Sannyasins bear the final marks.
I am a Paramhansa. Who is a sannyasin? One who bears the final signs of the Paramhansa. What are those final signs? The first sign is discrimination of essence and non-essence. The final sign—no discrimination, only living. The first sign is practice of distinguishing; the final—no practice at all.
Ordinary seekers, when they begin, try to do what is right, and to drop what is not. But when the seeker is established, we cannot say: the Siddha does not do the wrong and does the right. Siddha means—what he does is right, and what he does not do is wrong. Final sign. Initial sign: We will do what is right, we will not do what is wrong. Final sign: Whatever we do is right; whatever we do not do is wrong.
Sannyasins bear the final signs of the Paramhansa. They can only do what is right; only that becomes their nature.
Rinzai had a master in Japan. He asked his master: What is right and what is wrong? The master said: Carefully observe what I do. What I do is right; what I do not do is wrong. Rinzai asked: Do you never make a mistake? The master said: If I were there, I could err. But the man who could err is no more. I am not—who will err? And if you think God can err, then error itself is right.
Bold men. Rinzai’s master was so humble that the emperor of Japan wished to find a master. He summoned many sadhus and sannyasins—none pleased him. After much searching someone said: there is only one—Rinzai’s master.
Remember, Rinzai’s master had no name—so I keep saying, Rinzai’s master. He had no name; and he says: What I do is right; what I do not do is wrong.
They said: There is such a man, but he has no name. How to summon him? And there is no saying he will come to court. Sometimes he agrees to go to a hut; sometimes he refuses even a palace. He is like water and wind—unpredictable. You will have to go. The emperor said: Without a name, how shall I ask whom I seek? The advisors said: That is the difficulty. Go asking: I seek the one who is very hard to find. Perhaps someone will tell you. Perhaps you will happen upon him.
The emperor went. Outside a village, on a rock, a fakir sat. The emperor asked: I seek one who cannot be sought. Can you tell me anything? The fakir said: It is a long journey. Years will pass. You will find him—but years will pass. Seek. When will I find him? said the emperor. When the seeker himself disappears, said the fakir. The emperor thought: I have fallen into a madman’s snare. I must seek one who cannot be sought, and I will find him when I no longer exist! But the fakir’s eyes enchanted him. He agreed and set out. They say he searched thirty years. Every corner of Japan—wherever there were fakirs, sannyasins, sadhus, beggars—
After thirty years he returned to his village. On the same rock sat the same fakir. The emperor saw him and recognized: This is the one I have been seeking. He fell at his feet: What kind of man are you! If you were the one I met on the first day, why did you let me wander thirty years?
The fakir said: You could not have recognized me then—you were. Often, a man passes by God himself—because the question is of recognition. These thirty years of wandering were needed for you to arrive at what was just nearby—just outside your village.
Those without name can make such declarations. Those so humble that they have vanished can speak thus. The Rishi says: What is the final sign of the Paramhansa? The final sign is this: Whatever they do is right; whatever they do not do is wrong.
A very dangerous statement—too dangerous. That is why when the Upanishads were first translated in the West, Western thinkers said: Bringing these to the West is dangerous. They contain explosives—gunpowder. You will see that gunpowder soon enough.
In the third sutra the Rishi says: They are like sentinels restraining Kamadeva.
In restraining desire, in restraining lust, they are like guards. What does this mean?
Buddha used to say: If the master of the house is awake, thieves do not dare enter. If a lamp is lit and there is light, thieves avoid that house. If a guard sits at the gate, thieves do not come asking permission. Thieves enter where there are no guards, where the master sleeps, where darkness is.
The Rishi says: Those who awaken the Paramhansa within—there arises in them a constant vigilance. Desire does not enter them. Craving finds no path.
Understand it this way: only in a sleeping mind can passion enter; only in a darkened mind can lust enter. Where viveka—discriminative awareness—is absent, there desire enters. Just as darkness can only enter where there is no light.
So the one who has awakened the Paramhansa within—that alone is a sannyasin. In such a one, lust does not enter.
Note: The Rishi does not say: A sannyasin is one who has gained control over passion. To gain control, passion must be inside. If you are controlling lust, it is already within—only then can you control it. Nor does the Rishi say: A sannyasin is constrained by self-control. For what is the purpose of restraint? Restraint is needed only where the urge to be unrestrained exists.
The Rishi says only this: As when a guard sits at the door and thieves do not enter—so in that person, passions do not enter. Not that he pushes them out. They simply do not enter. When the Paramhansa is awake within—when the essential and inessential, the meaningful and meaningless are seen—then naturally, within that circle of light, nothing enters of that which torments us.
There are two ways. One is the moralist’s: Remove the wrong, bring in the right. The other is the religious way: Just awaken, become illumined. Break open the seed of light within. Uncover the veiled lamp. Then the bad does not come; whatever comes is good. Two paths—the moralist’s and the religious.
Remember, dharma and morality are very different paths. By morality, immorality never ends. By dharma, there is no trace of immorality. But the moral man fears dharma—he fears that without control over immorality, what will happen? He does not know that there is a state of consciousness where control is not needed. There is a state so luminous that defilements do not dare approach. Such an awake presence that darkness cannot come near. No control needed.
Sannyas is the supreme longing of dharma. A sannyasin is not one under control. He is not one who has imposed restraint upon himself. He is one so awake that restraint is pointless—no control is needed.
Understand this well, for the sutras ahead are very revolutionary. Only if you understand this will you grasp them. Otherwise, what follows will be difficult. Therefore the Upanishads never talk of morality. Christians have Ten Commandments—and they can proudly say to the Upanishads: You have not even one commandment, not one order. They have ten formulas: do not steal, do not commit adultery, do not lie, and so on.
I have heard a joke. God descended and approached many people. He went first to a politician—thinking, if he agrees, many will agree. God said: I have come to give you a command—will you accept it? The politician asked: First let me see—what is the command? God said: Do not lie. The politician said: Then I am finished. If I do not lie, I am dead. Politics stands on lies. Forgive me—find someone else. I cannot accept this.
God went to the priest next—after politicians, priests are influential. God said: I have come to give you a command. The priest asked: Which command? God said: First—do not lie. The priest said: If we do not lie, all these temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras—will collapse. We ourselves do not know whether you exist, yet we keep telling people you do. We do not know if there is Moksha, yet we persuade people there is—go! We do not know if sin bears ill-fruit, yet we keep preaching it—and by the back door we keep sinning. No, this will not do—our whole profession will collapse. The priest’s trade stands upon lies. And the priest who can lie with greater bravery—his trade goes better. In our business, he said, the only difference between truth and lie is the courage with which you speak. Forgive me—we will go on worshiping you, but if we do this, there will be great trouble.
God wandered to many—the merchant, the lawyer—took much counsel—none agreed. At last he went to Moses, the Jewish prophet. About Jews I must give you a hint, then you will understand.
Jews think in buying and selling; they are traders—hard traders. Whoever God approached had asked, Which command? When God came to Moses, he said: I want to give you some commands. Moses asked: How much will they cost? God said: No cost—free. Then Moses said: Then I will take ten. If it is free, give ten! Why one? Thus God gave ten commandments.
But the Upanishads have no such commands—Do not steal, do not cheat, do not commit adultery—none. Amoral—beyond morality. Because the Upanishads are scriptures of dharma, not of morality.
The Upanishads say: Do not steal—that is something to say to thieves. Do not lie—that is for liars. We are seekers of the Supreme Truth, where lie cannot enter, where there is no news of stealing. Why discuss these things? We seek the Supreme Light, where the question of morality/immorality does not arise, where man goes beyond duality.
Therefore the Rishi says: I am a Paramhansa. And sannyas is to be firmly established in the Paramhansa-state. It is not a moral notion—it is a religious journey.
Enough for today.
Tomorrow we shall take more sutras.

Now we will prepare for meditation. A few points, which I could not complete last night—two or three sutras for you—then we will sit.
Last night I told you: for seven days—indriya-nigraha—restrain the senses. Use the senses as little as possible. If not at all—supremely beneficial. Keep the eyes closed as much as possible; lips closed as much as possible; ears closed as much as possible. Give these seven days wholly to meditation. Leave no other alternatives. Do not go roaming, do not go sightseeing—not even to temples, not to spots. Come again some other time for that madness. This madness is enough for now.
Do not let anything else stand in between. The mind is very clever at deceiving. It will say: At least visit the temple! No—not even that. Naturally, cinemas are out of the question—but also temples, no. Go nowhere. For these seven days go only within, and stop all outer journeys.
If you follow me, you will not need to ask, When will meditation happen to me? If you do not, the responsibility is yours. Do not come and say, Meditation does not happen to me. It will happen—it is a scientific law. If you add two and two, four will happen. But if you never add the twos and then complain that four does not happen—no one is at fault.
Maintain sensory restraint. Not an inch of wasteful dissipation of energy. In seven days so much energy will gather that we will use it. On that energy we will seat you, and send you on the inner journey.
Eat as little as possible. Digestion expends the maximum energy. Eat just enough that you do not even feel you have eaten. Only so much. After eating, do not feel you have eaten—that much.
Thus digestion does not steal your energy. Remember: when digestion works, the brain’s energy moves to the belly. That is why sleep comes after eating—energy descends. But here we are to experiment with meditation—energy must be led upward, toward the brain. From there the door opens. Therefore as little food as possible. Bear this in mind.
Third: Whatever energy you have—do not be miserly with even an inch of it. If you get stingy, it often happens that you give almost all and hold back a little—that little nullifies all that you gave. The question is not how much you give; the question is whether you give all.
Suppose a man has only ten units of energy and another has a hundred. If the one with a hundred uses ninety-nine, and the one with ten uses all ten, the one with ten will enter—and the ninety-nine will be left behind. Do not say, I gave ninety-nine and he only ten. That is not the question. The question is totality. However much you have—give it all. I do not ask how much—give it all. Keep this remembrance within: when you are pouring your strength into meditation, know that you have held back nothing—nothing!
Surely, you will have to become utterly mad. Without that there is no way. But there is a delight: when one becomes mad by one’s own will, it is the least madness. And when one goes mad by force, then it is the utmost. When you choose to become mad, your inner discrimination remains awake. If you refuse this voluntary madness, someday madness may seize you—but then it will be against your will, and out of your hands.
He who passes through the madness of meditation will never know worldly madness. He who lacks the courage to pass through meditation’s madness can go mad anytime. To some degree he already is—only a difference of measure.
So, third: pour your whole strength. Our morning meditation will have four stages—three active, one of rest.
First ten minutes: blindfold your eyes, plug cotton in your ears. For ten minutes, breathe. Breathe so intensely that the total energy of the body is hammered awake by the breath. Use breath like a hammer to strike within—like bhastrika. No fixed rhythm. Fast inhalations and exhalations. Ten minutes, rush with breath—inside, outside; inside, outside. In these ten minutes breath will strike and awaken the electricity sleeping in every cell.
When the electricity awakens, in the second stage the body will move. Someone will dance, someone will jump, someone will shout, someone will weep, someone will laugh. Do it intensely for ten minutes. Dance, sing, weep, scream—forget the whole world. If for ten minutes you dance, shout, cry, laugh with totality, you will find within ten minutes that the body is separate and you are separate. The Paramhansa within will begin to watch—the body dances, laughs, jumps—you will be apart.
Third stage—in our previous camp we used the inquiry Who am I? This time, only Hoo. Strike with Hoo—huṃkāra—Hoo, Hoo, Hoo—fierce blows. In Who am I? the mind begins to think a little, so drop it. Hoo is not a word; it is a pure sound, like Om—Hoo. The blow of Hoo will reach below the navel. If you strike rightly, it will penetrate just below the navel. From there a current of energy will rise and run toward the brain. Ten minutes of Hoo in the third stage. In all three stages, become utterly mad.
Fourth stage: As soon as I say, Be still—be utterly still. Do not delay even a moment. Even if the mind says continue, even if bliss is pouring—stop at once. Fall on the ground like a corpse—for ten minutes. Die for ten minutes. If for even a single instant in those ten minutes death enters you—the Divine will enter through the same door.
This is the morning experiment. At noon we will do kirtan here for thirty minutes—and then thirty minutes of utter silence. Night’s instructions I will give you at night.
Now take your places. Spread out—there will be standing work. Keep distance so that everyone can jump and dance fully. This is a large ground—move far apart so you can dance with joy.
Yes, spread out—otherwise you will obstruct one another. Someone may bump you. If anyone feels like dropping clothes, drop them—do not worry. If anyone wants to take them off beforehand, leave them aside. If later the thought arises, remove them at once—do not be concerned. At least make them minimal so clothes are no hindrance.
Now—blindfold your eyes. If you brought cotton, plug your ears; otherwise, procure it in the afternoon and from tomorrow morning plug the ears.
Good—be ready. If someone bumps you, don’t be disturbed—keep doing your work. People will be dancing, jumping, running—do not be bothered. Do your own, let others do theirs—forget others.
Good. I assume your eyes are covered. Those without blindfolds—keep the eyes closed. Do not open your eyes for forty minutes at all.
Begin!