Nirvan Upanishad #5

I have heard that a blind man once said to a fakir, Show me the paths of this village so that I do not wander astray. Give me a method so that I do not collide with anyone. Suggest some device so that, in the world of those with eyes, I may still succeed in living as a blind man. The fakir said, I will give you no method, no device, and no path.
Naturally, the blind man was hurt and distressed. He had not imagined that a fakir—whose very nature is compassion—would behave so. He said, Do you feel no compassion for me?
The fakir said, Compassion I do feel; that is precisely why I will tell you neither a path, nor a device, nor some method by which you could live blind among those with eyes. I will give you only one device—how to open your eyes. And then the fakir said, Even if you learn the paths of this village, villages change every day. Even if you learn to live among these people with eyes, tomorrow you will have to live among different people with eyes. You may learn methods, but methods work only within limited conditions—not forever. I will give you the device to open your eyes.
The rishi of the Upanishad says: Discernment is protection.
A sannyasin has nothing but his discernment. That alone is his protection. No fixed morality, no rigid rule, no imposed boundary, no fear, no threat of hell’s punishment, no craving for heaven’s lure. Only one protection remains to a sannyasin—his discernment, his awareness, his eyes. Understand this.
Discernment is protection.
In these two small words much is hidden—the very essence of all sadhana. One way to live is by arrangement. We decide beforehand what is to be done. We fix the route and the manner of going beforehand—because we have no trust in our own consciousness. So we go on brooding over the future—and so we go on repeating the past. Because what we did yesterday is easiest to do today; we know it, it is familiar, recognized.
But a sannyasin lives in the moment—here and now. He does not repeat the past, for only the dead repeat the past. He does not plan the future, for only the blind plan the future. Whatever his consciousness whispers to him in this moment, that becomes his act. He lives in spontaneous accord with the present. This is dangerous.
Hence the Upanishad says, discernment alone is his protection.
He lives wakefully—that is all his protection. He has no other device. He lives awake. He does not pre-decide, I swear I will not be angry.
Whoever swears so is certainly full of anger. One thing is sure—he is angry. Also sure: he knows he can erupt in anger. He also knows that if he does not raise some covering of vows, the stream of anger can burst forth any time. So he arranges against himself—he swears, I will not be angry. Then tomorrow someone abuses him—the anger erupts. Then he swears deeper vows, ties stricter rules, devises austerities—but cannot be free of anger. Because the very mind that had taken the vow and set the limit is not the whole of the mind; mind is bigger—much bigger.
So when the mind decides, We will not be angry, the moment abuse is hurled, other parts of the mind come out to rage. That small portion which had taken the vow is thrown behind. A little later, when anger has subsided, that portion—the one which had vowed—comes again to the door of the mind. It repents, feels remorse, says, Very bad! I had sworn—how did I fall into anger again! But in the moment of anger, there was no trace of this part.
A very small fragment of the mind is awake; the rest is asleep. Anger comes from the sleeping part; the vow is taken by the waking part. The waking mind has no news of the sleeping mind. In the evening you decide, I will get up at four in the morning. At four you turn over and say, What harm if I don’t get up today? I’ll start from tomorrow. At six you get up and lament, But I had decided four—why didn’t I get up? Surely if there were only one mind within you, such a dilemma would not arise.
It seems there are many minds. Man is multi-psychic. You can even say: one person is not one person; many persons at once—a crowd. Inside, one man takes a vow to rise at four; the rest of the crowd doesn’t even come to know. In the morning, whoever from that crowd is near says, Go to sleep; why get into such nonsense! Thus our life is wasted.
The person who lives bound by rules cannot, ever, take a step toward the life of the Supreme Truth. I am not saying: live breaking rules. I am not saying: abandon decorum. The fakir also did not say to the blind man that until your eyes are healed, throw away your staff. I also do not say so. You will have to keep the staff as long as the eyes are unlit; but to take the staff to be the eyes is foolishness. And to insist that even when the eyes open we will keep clinging to the staff—that is madness.
A sannyasin is one who is intent on awakening himself. He awakens all his sleeping limbs within, stirs all his fragments and makes them one. That unbroken consciousness is called discernment—integrated consciousness. When the mind is no longer in pieces, when it gathers, and only a single person is within—yes means yes and no means no. The consciousness bound into one tone is called discernment. The awakened consciousness is discernment. Consciousness filled with awareness is discernment.
The rishi says: discernment alone is protection—no other protection. And what an extraordinary protection! When discernment is aflame, mistake simply does not happen. Not that one has to refrain from mistake. Not that one has to block it. Not even that one must fight it. It is simply that mistake does not happen. When the eyes are open, one does not collide with the wall—one passes through the door. So too, when the inner eye of discernment is awake, one does not choose the wrong; the right naturally becomes one’s path.
Discernment is protection.
To be awake is the only protection in this world. To be asleep is to invite a thousand disturbances, a thousand illnesses. A thousand enemies will enter and destroy life, puncture it hole by hole, fragment it piece by piece. Awakening is the sole key.
Sannyasin means: one who lives continuously awake, lives consciously. Even when he lifts a foot, he knows a foot is being lifted. When he breathes in, he knows breath is entering; when it goes out, he knows it has gone out. A thought arises—he knows it has arisen; it falls—he knows it has fallen. The mind is empty—he knows it is empty. The mind is full—he knows it is full. One thing is certain: a continuous stream of knowing flows within. Whatever else happens, the thread of knowing continues within.
This is protection, for one who knows cannot do wrong. All wrong is ignorance—or a swoon of unconsciousness. If some day...
As of now, rarely, someone wakes—sometimes a Buddha—Buddha means the awakened; sometimes a Mahavira—Jina means the conquered, one who has conquered himself; sometimes a Christ—now and then a solitary one wakes in our world of sleepers. We become very annoyed with him. Where many sleep, the waking of one disturbs their sleep. And the awakened one becomes eager to awaken the sleepers. The sleepers become angry—very angry. Their dreams are shattered by his words. So we sleepers finish the awakened one. When he is gone, then we worship him. Worship can be done in sleep; friendship with the living awakened cannot.
To live with one who is awake demands only two alternatives: either he agrees with you and goes back to sleep, or you agree with him and wake up. The first is not possible. One who has awakened cannot consent to sleep. One whose hands hold diamonds cannot agree to keep pebbles. One who has seen the nectar—you ask him to drink from a puddle? Difficult—impossible. You will have to wake up with him.
This was the meaning of satsang—being near one who is awake. By being near the awakened, perhaps your sleep too will break. Perhaps a particle of sleep will fall away, perhaps when you turn over a little, an eye may open, and the face of the awakened may be seen—then perhaps the longing, the thirst, may arise, the yearning be born—and you too set out on the journey to awaken.
If ever it happens that many wake—and a society of the awakened forms—then surely on that day we will say: throughout our history those we branded as culprits, as criminals—that was our mistake. They were sleepers. Sleepers will commit crime.
Courts forgive if the offender is a minor; they say, He does not yet have understanding. But does the adult have understanding? Courts forgive, or lessen, punishment if a crime was done in intoxication; they say, He was not in his senses—how can he be held responsible? But are we in our senses?
The truth is, our entire history is the history of the deeds of sleeping men. That is why in three thousand years we have nothing but wars. War and war. In three thousand years, fourteen thousand seven hundred wars on the earth! Apart from fighting... And these are the great wars history records. The small skirmishes we fight all day long—against strangers and our own—there is no accounting for those. Our entire life—what is it but quarrel! And what do we gain but sorrow! This is the inevitable outcome of sleep.
The rishi says: for the sannyasin discernment alone is protection.
They were courageous men, very daring, who said this. They did not say, Protection lies in morality, in rule. They did not say, Protection lies in propriety, scripture, or even in the guru. They said, Protection lies in discernment, in awareness. Other than awareness, there can be no protection. Otherwise, mistakes will happen.
Compassion alone is their play—Karunaiva KeliH.
They have but one game—the awakened—compassion. Say it this way: only one taste remains to them; only one thing is left worth doing—compassion.
Buddha attained enlightenment. He lived forty more years. We may ask: once enlightenment happened, what was the reason to remain forty years? Compassion. Mahavira too attained; afterward he lived for nearly the same time. Once the supreme realization has dawned, what need is there to lug this body anymore? Compassion. Whoever knows—together with knowing, lust dissolves and compassion is born. The very energy that previously ran as desire, transformed, becomes compassion.
We live in desire. Desire is our life. Desire means: we live to get. When desire transforms and becomes compassion, it turns around: compassion means—we live to give.
But our world is upside-down, full of contradictions and deep paradoxes. Those full of desire we call emperors! Those full of compassion we call beggars! Those who only give—we call them mendicants! And those who only take—we call them emperors!
There is a deep irony in Buddha calling himself a bhikkhu, a beggar. And we all also agree: Right—Buddha comes asking two loaves of bread from us; so he has become a beggar.
Can any price be fixed for what Buddha gives us? And yet he also tries that we not even come to know that he gives to us. So he takes two loaves from us and becomes a beggar—lest we feel he is doing us a favor by giving. Compassion does not want even that much.
And we are such fools that if we were to know Buddha is giving us something, our ego would be hurt; perhaps we would close the door to receiving. So Buddha takes two loaves from us—our ego is delighted. But we do not know that we are playing a losing game. Buddha takes two loaves, and what he gives we do not even come to know. Those two loaves bring him nothing; but what he gives will completely reduce our ego to ashes. It will burn away the very sense of I within us.
Compassion means: to live in order to give. Desire means: to live in order to take. Desire is the beggar; compassion is the emperor. But who can give? Only one who has. And only that can be given which one possesses; what one does not have cannot be given. Only what is truly one’s own can be offered.
We live by asking our whole life long. We have nothing. We ask for love—let someone give. We ask for wealth—let someone give. We ask for fame—let someone give. Even the greatest politician is a beggar—for he lives by asking from you. You give, and he gets fame; you withdraw, and it is gone. If his name is not printed for two days in the newspapers—the matter is finished. People forget—Where did he go? Who was he? Was he even there?
In 1917 when Lenin came to power in Russia, the prime minister before him—Kerensky—lived till 1960. Only when he died did people come to know he had been alive till then. He had been running a grocery shop in America. People had forgotten; the story was over. Only when he died did it become known that this man was alive. Once, he had been the most powerful man in Russia before Lenin. Then he became a nothing.
The politician too lives by asking from us. Whoever lives by asking from us is not a sannyasin. A sannyasin is one who lives by giving to us—and never even speaks of giving, never says, I have given you something. He contrives in such a way that it seems to you that you have given to him.
Compassion is his play.
Just one—and even that is play. This is very delightful. It is not said: compassion is his work. It is not a work, but a play. Compassion is not a job; it is a sport, a lila.
What is the difference between play and work? There are basic differences. First: work is not valuable in itself; play is valuable in itself.
If you go for a morning walk and someone asks, For what are you walking? you will say, There is joy in it—no other reason. You have not set out to reach somewhere. There is no destination, no goal. Then you go by the same road to your office. Someone says, You seem to be strolling happily! You say, I’m not strolling—I’m going to the office. And have you observed? The path is the same; you are the same. In the morning, when you go to walk, the joy in the legs is different; when you go to the office, there is a stone on the chest. The path is the same, the feet the same, the walking the same, you the same—everything the same. Only one thing has changed: then the walking was play; now the walking is work.
The unintelligent turn even their play into work; the intelligent turn even their work into play.
The rishi says: compassion is their play.
That too is not work. Not a burden. It is not that Buddha has decided beforehand that he will bring so many to nirvana, and if it does not happen he will be very sad, greatly pained, deeply repentant. Buddha has not fixed anything—that he will surely break your ignorance, and if it does not break, he will beat his chest and weep. It is play. There is joy in your awakening. If you do not awaken—that is your choice; the matter is over. The play is complete.
So, even if not a single person awakens through Buddha’s efforts, Buddha will depart roaming with the same joy. There will be no difference in that joy. Buddha’s joy was in sharing. If you do not receive—that is your responsibility. There is no reason for him to be pained.
Hence it is called play. When it is play, there is joy; when it becomes work, it is a load. Then Buddha, while dying, would keep accounts: I told so many people; did any receive? I explained to so many; did any understand? Otherwise my labor went in vain.
Remember: if work is not fulfilled, if it bears no fruit, the labor goes waste. But the labor of play never goes waste—it is fulfilled in the very play. There is no question of fruit. And also, only play can be free of longing for results. Work can never be free of fruit-desire.
Krishna in the Gita spoke of action without longing for fruits. This rishi uses an even more precise word than Krishna. For if there is karma—then there will be longing for fruit; or else the meaning of karma must be turned into play.
Therefore this rishi does not say that compassion is their action. He says: compassion is their keli, their play. There is no desire to be satisfied by it; no wish has set out on a journey to be fulfilled in the future; no arrow of lust is placed upon the bowstring; there is no target to be pierced. No—this is sheer joy. Bliss has brimmed within, it wants to spill outward, to be squandered.
As flowers bloom upon a tree and their fragrance falls upon the road—this is play. The tree is not worried who passes beneath. Whether the passer-by is a VIP or not, whether a person of prestige passes or a poor laborer; whether a man passes or a donkey—the tree has no concern. Even to a donkey the tree gives its fragrance just as it would to a political leader—no discrimination. And if no one passes, the road is deserted, still the fragrance falls—because fragrance is the tree’s inner joy; it is not addressed to anyone. It is not addressed. No name is written upon the scent that it must reach so-and-so. Unaddressed, it belongs to no one. It is the inner blossoming of the flower. The perfume that has risen in its life-breaths, it is pouring out. The winds will carry it. It will fall upon empty fields, be squandered on deserted paths. Joy is in the squandering.
I have heard of a most wondrous incident. Wilhelm Reich, a great psychotherapist—one of the few precious men in the West in this half-century. And, as happens with precious men—Wilhelm Reich had to spend two years in prison. The man who was the least insane—the society and law of America declared him insane and finally put him in an asylum. Our ways do not change. Thousands of years pass—we do the same.
Wilhelm Reich was treating a patient—mentally ill—psychoanalyzing him. He had given him a time of three o’clock. The patient did not come. It was three-fifteen—Reich looked at the clock. Exactly at three-fifteen the patient rushed in and said, Forgive me, I am a little late. Wilhelm Reich said, You came just in time—otherwise I was about to begin my work.
The patient said, But if I hadn’t come, how would you begin the work? It’s my psychoanalysis! That a flower pours fragrance into a deserted place we can understand; but that Wilhelm Reich would begin psychoanalysis without a patient—we too would say, He’s mad. Wilhelm Reich said, You are only a pretext. Suppose you didn’t come, still I would begin. It is my joy.
This is hard to understand. It is easy to understand the flower, because we do not think a flower is insane. It is hard to understand a man. Yet it has happened that like a flower, even in solitude the voices of awakened ones have resounded.
I have heard of Lao Tzu that many times he would be sitting beneath a tree and speaking. A passer-by would stop in surprise: there is no listener. Coming near, travelers would ask, No one is seen here to listen—whom are you talking to? Lao Tzu would say, This is an inner overflow. Something has been born within; I am pouring it out. The listener is not present now—perhaps someday someone will listen. Today the saying has arisen; let me say it. Let it not happen that tomorrow a listener be there and the speaker be gone. So I am leaving the words behind. The winds will keep them, the sky will remember; whenever someone is ready to listen, he will hear.
Hard to grasp for us—but this is how it is. Such people no longer live by work; they live by play. To them life is not a burden—it is a dance.
The rishi says: bliss is their garland.
Bliss is their garland. They wear nothing else; they wear only the garland of bliss. Its beads are of bliss, its thread is of bliss. They live each moment in wonder—each instant. There is no circumstance that can cast them into sorrow.
We are made happy by circumstance, made unhappy by circumstance. There is a cause to our sorrow and a cause to our happiness.
Remember: so long as there is a cause to our happiness and sorrow, we have no inkling of bliss—for bliss is causeless. Causes are outside; therefore happiness is outside, sorrow is outside. The causeless is within; therefore bliss is within.
And remember: whoever lives dependent on circumstances is a slave. He will be a slave, because circumstances can change any time and his joy can turn into sorrow—and his sorrow into joy. Circumstance is not in his hands; circumstance is not in mine.
Bliss is their garland.
Those who have gone deep into sannyas do not live dependent on circumstances. There is no outer cause for their joy or sorrow. They are simply blissful without cause. Then no circumstance can do anything. Set them on fire—still they are in the same bliss. Shower flowers upon them—still they are in the same bliss. Within, not a hair’s breadth of difference occurs. When within nothing at all is changed by outer circumstances, understand: only then are we free of the outer, of matter—not before.
This does not mean that if you thrust a knife into Buddha’s chest his life will not depart. It will depart—perhaps more quickly than yours. Nor does it mean that if a thorn pricks Buddha’s foot, blood will not flow—it will flow, perhaps more than yours, for Buddha cannot become hard even against a thorn. And if a knife enters his chest, Buddha will cooperate with it; it will go even deeper within. Give poison to Buddha—he will die. Yet even so, within, nothing changes. Buddha died by poison—given by mistake, not knowingly.
A poor man had invited Buddha to a meal. People tried hard to prevent it. Even the king of that village invited him—but it was a little late. Buddha said, It is late; I have already accepted the poor man’s invitation. He had cooked mushrooms. In Bihar people gather the mushrooms that sprout in the rains—on moist places, on wood—dry them, and they serve as vegetable all year. But sometimes they are poisonous. If they grow in the wrong place, they may become toxic.
The poor man had cooked mushrooms. He had nothing else—bread, salt, and mushrooms. They were poisonous—bitter poison. Yet Buddha ate them and praised his dish, saying, With what love you have cooked! With what joy! I have eaten many places, at emperors’ palaces too—but I found no love such as yours.
But on returning to the place where he was staying, it became clear the poison had begun to spread. Physicians were called—but it was late. Buddha died of that poison.
Before dying, Buddha called Ananda close and whispered in his ear: Ananda, go through the village beating the drum and announce that the one at whose house I ate my last meal is most blessed. For blessed was my mother, with whom I had my first meal—and equal in value to that mother is this man, with whom I took my last meal. Therefore, the one at whose place the Buddha took his last meal is supremely fortunate—announce it in the village.
Ananda said, What are you saying! Our hearts are boiling against that man. Buddha said, That is precisely why I say—beat the drum. Otherwise after my death that poor man may fall into trouble. People may pounce upon him: You caused the death with your food.
Death will happen by poison—but within! Within is the same compassion, the same bliss—that the man not fall into trouble. Dying, Buddha’s concern is that his name not become associated with blame; that history not write in a way that the poor man is branded a sinner who murdered. Within, there is no difference. Bliss is their garland—bliss is their very being.
The secret inner solitude is their seat—Ekasana Guhayam.
There are two words here to understand: secret, and solitude. If you truly wish to find solitude, without seeking within yourself you will not find it. Go anywhere—to the mountains, to Kailash, to the forests, to caves—go anywhere; solitude will not be found. Whoever seeks outer solitude will never attain it. Wherever you go, the other will be present. If not men, then animals and birds. If not animals and birds, then plants, trees, rocks. The other will be present. There is no outer way to be free of the other. Only one place: the inner cave. Within there is a secret space where none exists except oneself. There alone is solitude.
The rishi says: Ekasana Guhayam.
To enter the inner cave of that solitude—that is their asana. This is the posture they seek.
We know asanas—yogic postures. Someone stands on his head—sirshasana; someone sits in siddhasana. But the rishi says: these asanas are not their asanas. These too are outer acts—useful, beneficial, they bring gain—but they are not the asana of one who wants to enter the ultimate. His asana is only one: to remain alone in one’s own cave, where nothing exists except me.
And note well a very delightful thing: where nothing remains but me—there even I do not remain. For ‘I’ needs the other to exist. I am the other’s opposite pole. If you are not, there is no way for ‘I’ to be. Seeing ‘you’ the ‘I’ is born.
That is why you seek crowds. Everyone seeks the crowd; for in the crowd the sense of I seems strong. Alone—it scatters. When a large crowd keeps eyes upon you, your I becomes organized, crystallized, strong. This is the intoxication of leadership—that millions of eyes are upon me; then my I becomes strong. When there is no one to see, no ‘you’—there is no way for ‘I’ to continue.
‘I’ is a reaction, an echo before the ‘you’. So when I reach within to aloneness—absolute solitude—none remains; the other is not; duality does not appear; the second drops and is forgotten—then note: there too ‘I’ does not remain.
As the other falls, the I too falls. Only secret solitude remains. There is no ‘you’, no ‘I’. No mine, no thine. Even selfhood is not there. The ego is not there.
Such secret solitude the rishi calls the asana. This is the true posture—sit in it, drown in it, live in it, become one with it.
Liberated bliss is their joyous gathering—Mukt ananda is their satsang.
Liberated bliss is their talk, their teaching, their conduct. Liberated bliss is possible only when I become so alone that even I is not left. If the other is present, bondage continues. If I am present, bondage continues. When neither you remain nor I remain—consciousness is free, beyond all bonds. That liberated bliss, says the rishi, that alone is their gathering. That is their satsang. Their discourse is with bliss; their wandering is with bliss; their living is in that bliss—becoming so alone that even I is not left.
Even with oneself there is company. Have you noticed? When there is no one to talk to, you talk to yourself. Have you seen? People even play cards alone—making both sides’ moves. If no one is available, what will you do? One lays out the cards and plays from both sides—alone.
You too are doing such moves twenty-four hours a day. A constant dialogue goes on within. There are not two inside, yet there is dialogue; the other should be there to talk—yet you keep talking with yourself. You become the thief and the magistrate too. A great drama goes on within. You play almost everyone’s role. You say what you want to say—and you also answer from the side of the one to whom you want to say it.
Mulla Nasruddin was traveling on a train. Now and then he burst into laughter for no reason; then quiet. The people around grew alert—strange fellow. No reason seemed visible. Sitting empty, eyes closed—suddenly he would laugh; then fall silent. At last curiosity grew. Someone shook him: Sir! What’s the matter—you suddenly burst out laughing? Nasruddin said, Don’t disturb me. I am telling jokes to myself.
He closed his eyes again—and again, now and then, laughed. Sometimes he would not laugh but scold—hey! Finally someone asked: Sir, laughing we could understand—but what is this scolding? He said, Same old joke—heard many times, told many times, and it barges in again.
This is what goes on in us the whole time. We are not alone even when alone. We split ourselves; by dividing there is fun—talk keeps going. Watch this inner chatter. The rishi—he becomes so alone, so alone—that not even talk with oneself is possible. Then only bliss remains as the dialogue. Bliss alone pulsates within. None remains. Bliss alone remains—dancing. That is their gathering.
Unpremeditated alms-eating—Akalpit Bhikshashi.
This is very essential—worth understanding.
Akalpit Bhikshashi.
The sannyasin lives surrendered to the Divine. He does not live by planning. His life is unplanned, unpremeditated. In the morning he rises; if hunger arises, he sets out for alms. He does not know if alms will be found. He does not know what will be found. He does not know who will give. Unpremeditated—he does not even imagine. If he imagines, it is no longer the alms of a sannyasin. If he even thinks from morning: today I wish to get such-and-such to eat—it is no longer sannyasin’s alms; it has become a beggar’s charity.
Unpremeditated...
When hunger comes, he sets out. He stands at someone’s door. If something is given—fine; if not, he moves on. Whatever comes, he receives—accepts. No imagination, no plan. He does not send word in advance: Tomorrow I will come to eat at your house. For if he sends word, it becomes arranged. He lives unarranged. The trust is: if Existence wishes to sustain this body, it will sustain it. Who are we on our own!
Mohammed, by evening, would distribute whatever came to him during the day as offerings. By night he became a beggar again. He slept a beggar. In the morning again someone would bring something.
When Mohammed was ill, his wife thought: by night he may need medicine, a doctor may have to be called; so she hid five dinars—five rupees.
At midnight Mohammed began to toss. He said, Listen—I feel that in this dying moment I am not a beggar.
The wife was startled: How did you know?
Mohammed said, A lifelong beggar, I have always slept without anything. The habit is ruined. It seems something remains in the house today. Bring it out—distribute it. Otherwise how shall I answer God at the last moment—that I lost trust on the last day! He who gave all life long—could he not send a physician at night? He who gave food all life long—could he not send medicine at night? Do not place me in difficulty at the end. When I go now to face Him—what face shall I show? He will ask: Leaving Me, you relied on five rupees? Did I seem to you weak, and five rupees stronger? When there was no need you felt Me your helper, but when need arose, the rupee became your helper! Bring it.
The wife, alarmed, brought out the coins. Mohammed said, Go—look outside.
The wife was amazed: a beggar was standing at the door. He said, I was thinking—there is great need; my companion is ill and medicine is needed—but who will give at midnight? On its own the door opened, and you are giving these five rupees! Mohammed said to his wife, See—His ways are unique. He who needed received; and from whose hands they had been saved—went from those hands.
And as soon as those coins were given, Mohammed pulled the sheet over himself and said to his wife, Now I can die in peace. He drew the sheet over—and immediately his breath left him. Those who know say: that breath was stuck only because of those five rupees. They were very heavy—too weighty.
Akalpit Bhikshashi.
A sannyasin does not imagine—not about alms, not about anything. He makes no plan. There is no question of, Let this come to me. Whatever comes—thanks. Whatever does not come—thanks all the same. Meaning: he does not live from himself; he lives surrendered to the Divine. Wherever God takes, there he goes. Into sorrow if sorrow, into joy if joy. In palaces if palaces—and in huts if huts. Wherever God takes him—he leaves himself in His hands.
Have you seen a little child? Holding his father’s hand as he walks on the road—he worries not at all: where is he going? Where is he being taken? When his hand is in the father’s hand—the matter is finished.
Akalpit Bhikshashi.
Once all is left in God’s hands—the matter is finished. Whatever He makes happen is right. The mind is content with His will, in acceptance of it.
His conduct is like the swan—Hamsacharah.
The conduct of the swan—this has two qualities to note; they are the sannyasin’s qualities of conduct.
One I have mentioned: the swan’s imagined capacity—if not scientific—poetic: it can separate milk from water. It separates the essential from the non-essential. The sannyasin’s discernment is like a sword that cuts the non-essential and the essential apart—just like a sword—into two pieces.
The swan has a second capacity—also poetic: it takes no food other than pearls. It would rather die, but chooses pearls alone. So the sannyasin too—rather than choose matter—chooses the Divine in every condition. His choice, always, is of pearls—not of pebbles. He will consent to die, but not to pebbles and stones. His choice is of the highest—of the auspicious, the beautiful, the true. This capacity of the swan—this is the sannyasin’s conduct.
And lastly: the One Atman dwelling within all beings—that alone is the Hamsa—they proclaim this.
By life, by word, by speech, by conduct—they proclaim only one thing: that which abides in all is this very Paramahansa. In all is the dwelling of the same Atman. In all the same stream of consciousness is flowing—within those who know and those who do not. Within those who keep their eyes closed—He is the same; within those who keep the doors shut—He is the same; within those who open their eyes and see—He is the same. The difference is not of the inner Divine; the difference is of being acquainted or unacquainted with the inner Divine.
Between the supremely knowing and the supremely unknowing the difference is not of nature—it is only of bodh, of awareness.
I am, with diamonds in my pocket—and I do not know. You are—with diamonds in your pocket—and you do know. As far as wealth is concerned, there is no difference between us. Yet I will remain poor because I do not know of my wealth; and you will remain rich because you do. And even so, the treasure in me is as much as in you.
What is the value of wealth of which we have no knowledge! What is the value of a safe we do not even know exists! What will you do with a diamond you have thrown in a corner as a stone! Yet it makes no difference—the treasure is ours.
This is what the rishis teach. Night and day, in all forms, in all ways, they go on making only one thing understood—that what is within them is within you too. And within all is the same. If this trust arises once—this trust that within me too is the same—perhaps I will become ready to leap.
Perhaps if the remembrance comes once that He is within me too, I may set out in search. I may be ready to dig. If someone says the treasure is buried beneath my house—perhaps I will pick up a spade. I am a lazy man, lying about in sleep—but if someone reminds me of the treasure, perhaps even I, lazy, lying, sleepy, will get up. I will take a few strokes—and perhaps the sound of jars buried below will be heard. A little further, perhaps I will find the jars. Break them—and perhaps I will find the treasure.
So the rishis keep saying. Their every breath becomes only this—to remind people that the Paramahansa is hidden within all.
Enough for today.
Now we shall set out in search of that treasure. Let us seek a little for that Paramahansa—is He truly hidden, or not?
Keep three things in mind—then we will rise. Understand three points.
Last night’s experiment went well, but there were two or three small mistakes; today let them not happen. First: whoever feels he will have to remain standing—who feels he will not be able to jump—though it should not feel so; wield the spade a little, jump a little, exert a little—still, if you feel you will remain standing, then do not stand in front of me. Because due to you those around you have their pace weakened. Move to the back. Whoever feels that no matter what we do, we will not be able to dance—stand at the back.
In front of me—and all around me—behind me and on both sides—let those be who will jump with their whole energy. Their jumping should become contagious, turn into waves, so that those standing behind may perhaps gather courage, may catch the infection, and perhaps their race may begin too.
But in front of me let no one stand idle. Because due to such an idle one an obstruction is created. If one person stands unmoving, he spoils a circle of four or five around him. Those who must stand—go to the back. If you must stand, better stand behind. Here, in front, stand those whose longing to go mad is total.
Second: for thirty minutes, keep your eyes on me without blinking. Do not blink at all. Along with it, jump, shout, rejoice, and make the sound Hoo—for the full thirty minutes. First, for two minutes, breathe deeply so that energy is aroused. First breathe strongly—then we shall begin the experiment.