Nirvan Upanishad #9

All who have known have either called the Divine the Purna, the Full, or the Shunya, the Void. There are only these two ways. Concerning Paramatma there are only these two gestures: either we say He is the All, or we say He is Nothingness.

They seem opposite. What could be more contrary than Fullness and Emptiness? Therefore those who do not know—if they accept the Full—they oppose the Void. And the unknowing—if they accept Shunya as the nature of the Divine—oppose the Full.

But Shunya and Purna are simply two ways of saying something about That. Either say: He is everything. Or say: He is nothing at all—empty of all. Either negate all that is known to us and say, This too is not That, this too is not That, this too is not That. Whatever remains after this total negation, that is. This is the path of Shunya. Or say: this too is That, that too is That—everything is That. This is the path of Purna.

It depends on the person which path feels intimate. If a glass is half filled, one may say, half full; another may say, half empty. The statements are contrary. Those who have not seen the glass can even argue that they are opposed. You say: half empty; we say: half full. Certainly full and empty are opposite truths. But those who have seen will say: these are two ways of speaking about a half-filled glass.

And when we try to say anything about the Ultimate, we must speak only in extremes, at the far edge, at the limit. Either we must deny all that we know—this world, dreamlike—and say: none of this is there. We will have to say, there, nothing of this exists.

Someone asked Buddha, What is truth like? Buddha would say: Whatever you know, it is not even a little like that. Whatever you recognize will not be of use. Whatever you have heard, understood, experienced—none of that will work there. And as truth is, there is no way to say it, for however we say it, we must employ the words you have heard and understood. So Buddha would say: let me be silent; do not force me to say anything about it. And if someone insisted too much, he would say: it is Shunya. First he would refuse to make any statement—allow me silence. If one would not relent and kept pressing, Buddha would say: it is Shunya.

But when we hear someone say, Paramatma is Shunya, it seems he is saying God does not exist. Yet if the intent were to say "does not exist," there was no need to use the word Shunya. One could directly say, does not exist. What does not exist can be stated as such—there is no impediment. What is, perhaps cannot be expressed; but what is not, surely can be stated as not.

Buddha says, it is Shunya. He does not deny the "is." It is, certainly, but it is Shunya. And the reason to say Shunya is this: so that we drop our mental holdings—our categories of intellect, our conceptual frames—and move toward That leaving ourselves aside. Move toward That leaving the self behind.

To call Paramatma Shunya means: only those will know Him who show readiness to become shunya. When they become utterly empty, they will know. For then both share the same taste. A harmony, an affinity arises; a communion begins. To say Shunya means: there are no words there, no sound there, no flavor there. Of all that the senses know and recognize, none of it is there. Still, It is.

There is another reason to say Shunya. It is very profound. Keep it in heart, for we have set out on a deep journey. If someone says the Divine is Purna, one may still think, it could be more full. However full, what is the difficulty in being a little fuller? One can always imagine fuller-than-full. But there is no "more empty" than empty. When one says, the Divine is Shunya, the last word is spoken. Two zeros cannot be smaller or greater: zero is zero. There is no one there to be more or less.

If I am present in a room, my presence can be of different kinds. As I am today, tomorrow I may be otherwise. But my absence in a room—absence—cannot be different. It will remain the same. How can absence differ? Shunya will always be still. Purna too would be still, but Shunya is more logically unassailable. With Fullness we can imagine fuller and fuller; with Emptiness we cannot imagine further emptinesses. Shunya means utterly empty. How will it be "more empty"? Thus Buddha employed Shunya.

The Rishi of the Upanishad also says: shunyam na sanketah.

He says that when we say, Paramatma is Shunya, do not think we are merely indicating. It is a statement of great courage. The Rishi says: do not think we merely point by "shunya" toward a God who is not shunya. No, we say: the very being of the Divine is Shunya. Shunya itself is the essence of the Divine.

Essences may be of two sorts—positive, affirmative; and negative, negational. But wherever there is negation, there is affirmation. Electricity glows through the polarity of negative and positive. Remove either and the light goes out. Both poles are needed to complete the circuit. There is woman and there is man. One is negative, one positive. Remove either and the journey of life ceases.

In whatever has existence in the world, the affirmative and the negative parts are joined, like two wheels of an ox-cart, or like two legs of a man. Whatever has being has two legs: negation and affirmation.

But if Paramatma were the negation, who then would be the affirmation? Then we would have to imagine another God. And thus some religions have imagined, along with God, the Devil. He is the second God, the bad God. But he is, and cannot be eliminated, because they have felt that being is split. If God is good, there must be a corresponding being of the bad; hence the Devil had to be posited.

Only India is a land where we have not created a power opposite to the Divine. Christianity thinks in terms of Satan; Islam too thinks of Shaitan; Jews think of the Devil; Zoroastrians too. Only here have some accepted the possibility of God without Devil. If we accept God without Devil—and to accept Him with a Devil is not truly to accept Him, because then there is a constant conflict with no end. God and Devil could never conclude; the opposition would continue forever.

I have heard: the day Mulla Nasruddin died, a maulvi came to get him to repent. He said, Repent, ask forgiveness from God, and at the time of death deny the Devil. Mulla remained silent. He opened his eyes, looked, and closed them again. The maulvi said, Did you not hear? There is little time, the last hour has come. Breath is only for a moment or two. Accept God and deny the Devil. Mulla said, In the last hour I do not want to offend anyone—who knows what direction the journey ahead will take! I will remain silent. Whichever side I go, I will praise that one. For now nothing is certain. At such a delicate moment, Mulla said, do not insist. It is not yet certain whether I shall go toward the Devil or toward God—and to offend anyone is not wise. Life was another matter; now this is the last moment—let me die in silence!

If God and Devil coexist as two, existence would be eternally dual, and to go beyond duality impossible. Therefore the Rishi does not say existence is dual. He says the world is dual—the world that appears to us. But That which is, is beyond duality.

How to express the non-dual? Should we call it affirmative, positive? Or negational, negative? Then trouble will arise; duality will be introduced. Only two ways remain to indicate it: either say both at once—namely Purna—or say neither—namely Shunya. These are the two ways. Either say the Divine is Purna; which means, whatever is in this world is all God.

Here Western thinkers, especially Christian, face great difficulty. They ask: then what about evil? Evil exists, disease exists, death exists, suffering exists—what of these? Are these too God?

Who says Purna also accepts that what we call evil is also God. The thief is also God. The thief is God—indeed, God alone.

Christianity found it very difficult to comprehend this. For if the thief is God, and if Rama and Ravana are both That, what choice remains for man? What is one to choose? What is bad?

In this world there is no evil. If all is God, then there is no evil. There is famine, there is flood, people die, there is war. Only the Hindus had the courage to say: that too is God.

This courage is extraordinary. It is even beyond easy understanding. Our mind too says: deny that; attach goodness to God and separate evil. But the Rishi asks: where will you place evil then? You will have to create Satan. Where will you keep evil? Evil too is God.

In truth, if evil too is God, then ultimately evil cannot remain evil. It will be only our mis-seeing, our partial perspective—not seeing the whole. An incident happens—a thorn pierces the foot—you say, this is straight-out evil: there is pain.

The Sufi fakir Hasan was passing along a path. A stone struck his foot, and blood began to flow. He folded his hands to the sky and thanked the Divine: Your great grace! His disciples were amazed. They said, This is grace? Then what would be ungrace? A stone has hurt your foot, blood is flowing; if this is grace, give us leave. We are seeking the grace of God; that is why we follow you. If this is grace, we shall return.

Hasan said, He who cannot see grace in this will never find grace. And let me tell you: today I was to be hanged; but His grace, it is only a stone to the foot and I am saved. Such were my karmas that hanging was certain today. Fate had written the gallows for me. But His grace...

And do not think that had Hasan been hanged, he would not have said: Your great grace. He would have said the same. For there can be situations worse than hanging. Even worse gallows can be.

Mulla Nasruddin had married four wives at once. The law where he lived considered it worthy of hanging. He had to appear in court. The magistrate said, Your crime is severe. The penalty is the gallows. But Mulla, we will not hang you. We forgive you, and give you this punishment: go and live with all four wives. Mulla said, That is worse than hanging. Better hang me—that would be great grace!

There can be states worse than gallows. If Hasan had been hanged, he would have said: Your great grace. No—the question is not what happens; the question is of the heart that sees the Divine everywhere.

The Rishi says: the Divine is either Purna—He alone is everything, from the most minute to the vastest—or the other path: none of this is He. The Rishi of the Nirvana Upanishad says, He is Shunya. And there is reason to insist on this. My own leaning too is that God not be called Purna, but Shunya—though knowing well He may also be called Full. Yet my inclination is to call Him Shunya. Why? Let me tell you.

Because the moment we call the Divine Purna, it becomes difficult to dissolve the ego into Him; instead the ego grows. It begins to feel, upon attaining God we shall become full. But when it is said, God is Shunya, it means that to attain Him we must efface ourselves and become empty.

Therefore, from the seeker’s standpoint, to call the Divine Shunya is appropriate. From the philosopher’s standpoint, one may as well call Him Purna; but for the seeker it is dangerous to call Him Full. The seeker is very delicate. The issue is only this: if the ego dissolves, he attains the Divine—whether He be Full or Void. But with the idea of a Full God, the thought of self-dissolution does not arise; rather, the dream of becoming grander arises. It seems that upon attaining God we shall be stronger, vaster, immortal, beyond sorrow; but we shall remain. I shall remain.

Then our ego can say, aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman. And so it often happens that those who proclaim aham brahmasmi become afflicted with extreme ego. Ego gets written on every pore. The reason is this: if one accepts the Divine as Full, then to join oneself to that Fullness makes emptiness difficult.

Therefore, keeping the seeker in view, the Rishi says: His nature is Shunya. And unless you become shunya, you will not attain Him. Those who have attained may later say He is also Full—it makes no difference. But for those who have not attained, if one cares for their side, it is right to call Him Shunya. Because the Divine should be indicated in that very way which we ourselves must become. Any indication of God that obstructs our dissolution is dangerous. One must vanish, become empty—only then can He fill us. So to name the Divine as that which we have to become is right.

Hence Shunya is preferable, worthy of choice. And the Rishi has chosen Shunya and said: do not think "shunya" is only a pointer to a God who is actually Full. He says: He is Shunya itself; not even a pointer. His nature is Shunya. This nature of Shunya should be understood in a few more directions.

In truth, all existence arises out of Shunya and dissolves into Shunya. There is a seed of a tree—break it and search where the tree is hidden; you will not find it anywhere. Pound it—the tree will be nowhere. Yet from this very seed the tree arises. This seed breaks, scatters in the soil, a sprout emerges, and a tree is born. But searching within the seed, the tree was nowhere to be seen.

From where does the tree come? From Shunya. In the seed there is only the blueprint of the tree, not the tree itself. The seed carries only the outline of what the tree shall be—a built-in program. As an architect carries a plan of a house; do not attempt to live in the plan. The plan is merely a blueprint—a sketch of how the house can be built. The seed does not contain the tree; it contains only the outline. The tree comes from Shunya; the seed gives the plan and the tree manifests.

When you are born, you are not born from your father and mother—just a blueprint is given. The mother and father give only the blueprint: how the nose will be, how the eyes will be, what color the hair, how long the life—an outline. But the life that comes, comes from Shunya.

All existence issues from Shunya and all existence returns to Shunya. When a tree falls and decays, the leaves merge back into soil. They had come from earth. The outline is lost, the built-in program ends. Seventy years were allotted to the tree—finished. Earth draws back its earth, water takes back its water, space claims back its space, the sun withdraws its rays, the winds take back their winds. But where is the tree? The life that drew earth together, bound air, pulled water, borrowed rays from the sun—that organizing principle, where is it? It came from Shunya and returned to Shunya.

There is reason to call the Divine Shunya. Whatever appears is matter. Whatever can be grasped is matter. Beyond all this visible and graspable, there must be a primal source of life. What shall we call it? Any name we give will make it seem material. The only word we have that does not suggest matter is Shunya.

Therefore the Divine is called Shunya. Hence He is called nirakar—formless—only Shunya can be formless. He is called nirguna—without qualities—only Shunya can be without attributes. He is called sanatan—ever the same—only Shunya can remain ever the same. The moment form arrives, change comes in. The moment qualities appear, transformation begins. With form, birth and death arrive. Only Shunya can be unborn, immortal.

Thus the Rishi says: Shunya is not our pointer; Shunya is His very being. The vast world is born of That and dissolves into That. Shunya is the Divine’s way of being. Therefore He is not seen. Therefore "Darshan of God" is not the right phrase. With the eyes He cannot be seen. One must say so because language compels us. Whatever words we use will belong to the senses. With the Divine there is pratit—intimation; anubhuti—direct experiencing; but not vision through the eyes. Words fail. He is Shunya—therefore, though present, He seems absent. Being everywhere, He seems nowhere.

Swami Rama used to say: There was an absolute atheist who had written upon a wall, God is nowhere. His small child was growing, had begun to learn at school. He could not yet read long words. Nowhere is a long word. He read the writing on the wall: God is now here. He broke the word. Nowhere he split into now here. The father was shocked. He had written God is nowhere; the reader read God is now here. From that day the father was in difficulty. Whenever he saw the wall, even he began to read: God is now here.

Once a thought enters, it becomes difficult to forget. Nowhere can be now here. That which is nowhere can be everywhere. That which is nowhere can be here and now. But His presence is like absence. His presence is just like absence.

In truth, if the Divine’s presence were like our ordinary presence, it would be too violent, too intrusive. It must be such that we do not even notice it—otherwise we would be in great trouble. You can imagine:

I have heard of a Christian nun who, reading the Bible, came upon the statement: God is everywhere and sees all. She was greatly troubled. She thought, He must also be in the bathroom. She began to bathe with clothes on—lest He see her naked. Other nuns heard and said, What madness! You bathe clothed? There is no one there. She said, No—since I have read in the Bible that His eye is everywhere, I bathe clothed.

But that poor one did not know: He who can see inside the bathroom can see inside clothes as well. What difficulty would that be? Nothing is impossible for Him. If He can pass through walls, what obstacle are clothes? And if He can pass through clothes, what obstacle would skin and bone be? And He who is everywhere—would He not also be within? Within your very life-breath? But His presence is utterly non-violent, utterly non-intrusive.

Remember, ordinary presence creates tension. When the father is sitting, the son’s gait changes as he enters the room—because the father’s presence is intrusive. If God were present in that way, life would be impossible. To live would be difficult, to sit and stand difficult, to do anything difficult.

No—man’s freedom is possible because His presence is like absence. He begins to be seen only by those upon whom His presence has no violence. He begins to be experienced only by those who have become so without vikalpa, without disturbance, that they can be naked and revealed. He appears only near those who have nothing left to hide. Therefore the Rishi says: He is Shunya. This is no mere indication; it is His very being.

Satya-siddha-yogo mathah—the true and realized Yoga is the monastic’s monastery. The monastery of a sannyasin is the Yoga that has been realized—the only temple, the only abode. Realized Yoga! The Rishi must have been very alert. He does not merely say, Yoga is his temple. Yoga can remain at the level of talk, discussion, doctrine. That Yoga is meaningless.

Yoga can even enter museums—I learned today. A friend sent an invitation from the Brahma Kumaris: a museum of Raja-Yoga. He requested that I come and see. They have made a full museum of Raja-Yoga.

Yoga has not died so much that it must be put in a museum. Museums are for dead things.

Someone wanted to write a thesis on Bertrand Russell. Russell said: at least let me die. Research should begin after death; I am still alive. How will you write a thesis now? A living man may say anything tomorrow—your thesis may be upset. Wait a little. Do not be so restless—I too shall die. Then write your thesis.

But what sense is there in a museum of Raja-Yoga? Is Yoga a museum-piece? And yet, it has almost become so.

Therefore the Rishi does not say, Yoga is his monastery. For Yoga may be in doctrine, in discussion, in museums, in thought, in philosophy.

The Rishi says: Yoga that is realized—only that is his monastery. Realized Yoga. When it becomes one’s own experiencing, only then. It is written in Patanjali’s scripture; you may carry that scripture upon your head—no solution happens. Memorize it—still nothing happens. Write great commentaries—still nothing. Become such a great knower that even Patanjali would be intimidated—still nothing. It must be siddha—realized—Yoga. For Yoga is not a thought; it is an experience.

Only realized Yoga is the monastery.

But the Rishi adds another condition: true and realized—satya and siddha. This is an even more difficult condition. It means false Yoga too can be realized. Therefore he adds: true and realized. False Yoga can also be accomplished. There is nothing in this world that cannot assume a false form. Every real thing has false versions. And because recognizing the true is arduous, the false is more easily chosen.

It was Mulla Nasruddin’s wife’s birthday. He brought a diamond necklace. The wife went mad with joy. It looked worth lakhs. She said, I never knew you loved me so much. Mulla said, Without a diamond necklace, how could you know love? Now it is certain—see the necklace. The wife said, You must have spent lakhs. Mulla said, I have. She said, If you had to spend so much, better you had bought a Rolls-Royce. Mulla said, If imitation cars were sold, I would have bought one. This is an imitation necklace. It looks like lakhs; it is not. But imitation cars are not available anywhere!

Whatever can be in this world can be imitated. Imitations come cheap. Man is eager to buy the cheap; it is easily acquired. Cheap Yogas exist too, imitation Yogas. Therefore the Rishi says: true and realized.

What is imitation Yoga? Understand a little.

All Yogas based on hypnosis are imitation. For example, in France there was a master of hypnosis, Emile Coué. He treated people solely through hypnotic suggestion. A man has a headache—Coué gave no medicine. He simply made him lie down and said: relax, and think in the mind, there is no pain. And he repeated, there is no pain. He said from outside: there is no pain; pain is false. The patient repeated inside: there is no pain, no pain. If this feeling entered deeply, the pain disappeared.

There are two reasons. First, in ninety-nine cases the pain is not there; there is only the idea. In ninety-nine cases the pain is only an idea; so by idea it disappears. In one case where pain is there, the opposite idea covers it. Emile Coué did not meet a man like Mulla Nasruddin.

I have heard: another hypnotist met Mulla. Mulla said, I am in great trouble. Sitting at home, I catch a chill. The sun is shining, everything is fine; suddenly I catch a cold. The hypnotist said: No worry. Sitting at home, with eyes closed, think that strong sunrays are falling on your head. The head is becoming hot. Mulla said, Fine. After seven days his wife phoned: Sir, what have you done! Sitting at home he got sunstroke.

Of course. The cold was mind-play; the heatstroke too is mind-play. He who can induce cold can induce heat. What difficulty is there? The trick is the same.

Through hypnosis one can achieve false Yogas. By repeatedly inducing moods in the mind, one can do much. They are not true Yogas. Hypnosis can be used on the true path too—and is used—but very differently. The diseases created by hypnosis can be removed by de-hypnotizing. Those illnesses that are born of hypnotic conditioning should be cut by hypnotic methods; but one should not create health through hypnosis, or it will be false. Understand the difference.

If the disease is mental, created by suggestion, it can be removed by suggestion. But if one thinks by suggestion, I am healthy, I am healthy, then that health too will be mental—a thought, not true health. Hence, hypnosis has a negative use—only to cut the old hypnotic bindings. In Yoga it is used negatively, never to create a new hypnosis.

In false Yogas a new hypnosis is created. If you sit and keep hypnotizing yourself that a stone idol is God, then the idol will begin to appear divine. You may even converse with it, discuss with it—though no one else will hear; only you will. But if you stop the practice for a few days, the conversation ends; the idol again seems a stone. That hypnosis was your projection.

No—God can be discovered even in stone, but there are two ways. One way: I assume God in stone and superimpose. Through constant superimposition God will begin to appear in stone—but that God is my imagined God, not true Yoga. The other: do not assume God in stone. Simply empty the inner mind of thoughts, empty it, empty it, until the moment comes when the mind becomes a mirror-like emptiness. The stone will be in front. God will reveal through it.

But this God will not be my imagined God, because the mind that imagines, the thought that projects, has been dropped. Now there is only the stone there, and here, my pure awareness. When consciousness and stone meet, the stone becomes God. But without the meeting of consciousness, if I persist only with the mind, contemplating and practicing that "this idol is God," repeating it, one day I will create the illusion that the idol is God.

God reveals through stone—but to the one whose mind has fallen. Whoever reveals God through the mind is in false Yoga.

Thus the Rishi says: true and realized Yoga.

It must be experienced, established in experience, known—and even then, not necessarily true, because experience too can be imagined, experience can be false, like a dream. Therefore one more condition: true. True means this—there are two possibilities for us. If we move toward truth through the mind, whatever happens will be false. If we move leaving the mind, whatever happens will be true. True Yoga means: not attained by mind, attained by the dissolution of mind. False Yoga means: attained by the mind; beyond mind, nothing is known.

Without the Self-nature, there is no immortal state. And that which comes through true and realized Yoga—the experience that arises thereby—amarpadam na tat svarupam—without knowing That, without attaining That, there is no realm of immortality. Without that, there is no attainment of amrit; death will persist. Which means, wherever mind is, there will be death. The boundary of mind is the boundary of death. Mind and death are two names of one fact. Beyond mind is amrit; beyond the frontier of mind is the deathless.

And without knowing the deathless, there can be no ease—birth after birth, for millions of lives, there can be no rest. Because when death is following continuously, how can there be ease? When death stands with arms around the neck, how can there be rest? There can be brief forgetfulness, but again and again it returns. Death encircles again and again. Without tasting amrit there can be no deep ease. As long as I feel I will vanish, I can vanish, the breath will tremble.

In the West there was a precious thinker—Søren Kierkegaard. He wrote a book in which he says: Man is a trembling. But why is man a trembling? Because of death. Death stands before him twenty-four hours a day—how will he not tremble? Without attaining the deathless, the trembling will not cease. Without the cessation of trembling, the natural ease and innocence of being remains unavailable.

The Rishi says: without that Self-form there is no immortal state.

That Self-state must be known. That Self-nature must be known. That which is must be known. The mind must be left—mind which deludes, distracts, creates illusions, gives birth to dreams.

Adi-brahma sva-samvit.

That Brahman, that consciousness hidden within us, the primordial awareness, is sva-samvit—self-conscious, self-illuminated. This is a very precious intuition of the Upanishads—sva-samvit, self-luminous.

We sit here. If the light goes out, we will not see each other—because seeing one another is not self-illumined; it is other-illumined. It depends on a second light. When electricity flows, I see you. When it is extinguished, I cannot see you. The path is visible while the sun is; when it sets, the path is no longer seen—because the path is not self-luminous.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting in his room. It was a new moon night. A friend came to visit. He had arrived at dusk, when the sun was setting. Then everything was visible. They chatted long; night grew dark. The friend said, I had seen at evening a lamp placed to your left. Why not light it? Mulla said: Are you mad? In the dark how will I know which is my left hand and which is my right?

And if in the dark we still know which is left and which is right, then within there is a power that is self-sensing, self-lit. Even if nothing else is known, this much is known: I am. In darkness nothing is known—this at least is known, I am. I am known even in darkness. This means: within our being there must be a light by which I see myself; some consciousness must be there. It is certain that my being is not known through something else, but through itself.

Yet we never go within to see that there is a self-luminous, self-radiant element present. And if ever we do look, we try such inverted methods that there is no end to the folly.

One night Mulla was caught outside his own house. It was two o’clock. A policeman slowly crept up and grabbed him by the waist. Mulla was peeping through a window. It was his own house, but how would the policeman know? When he was grabbed, Mulla said, Softly, softly—do not make noise! She may wake up. Who? asked the policeman. You seem to be Mulla yourself! He said, I am, but hush! What are you doing? I have watched you for long—I thought you were a thief. You circle about, peep through this window, that door...

Mulla said, Do not babble. Do not speak loudly. Come in the morning—I will tell you. The policeman said, I cannot leave you. What is the matter? Mulla said, If you won’t relent, then listen. People say I walk in my sleep. So I am just checking—whether they are right or not. I am peeping to see if Mulla is walking. But no one is walking. No one is on the bed either—no one is sleeping, so walking does not arise. Half the night is gone. I have not yet seen myself walk. People say, I walk in my sleep—I am just checking!

Sometimes when we go to search for ourselves, we do the same—peeping through doors and windows of ourselves. You will not find anyone there, because the one you are seeking stands outside.

Sva-samvit means: that which cannot be known from the outside. It must be known only from within. It is that which we are already knowing from within, but have forgotten—amnesia has happened.

Mulla is galloping on his donkey with great haste. The whole village is alarmed; people clear the road. They shout: Mulla, where are you going? Mulla says, My donkey is lost! People say, Wait—you are riding the donkey. He says, Good you told me. I was in such a hurry, I would have searched the whole earth and not known that I was sitting on the donkey. I was in too much hurry. You did well to remind me; otherwise the mistake would have been great. Returning would have been hard, because who has time to look downward? My eyes were fixed ahead—where is the donkey? I looked in all directions; and the chance to look down—certainly would not have come. For one who looks all around, how will he look below?

Who looks outside—how will he look inside?

Sva-samvit means: within us is that original consciousness which has been forgotten, because we are riding upon it and seeking it. Keep seeking. The Rishi shouts: Wait a little—whom have you set out to find? Pause—listen! The one you seek—are you not riding upon it? Are you not yourself that which you seek?

Those who know say: the seeker is the sought. The one who is searching is the very one being searched—hence the failure.

Zen masters say: Don’t seek, if you want to seek. Stop. Because to seek you must run. Be still. Once, just see—who are you? Whom have you set out to find? Is it not within you already?

Sva-samvit means: that which needs no other light to be known, and for which you need not ask anyone. In whose very being, its knowing is hidden; in whose very being, its light is present—self-luminous. No other light is needed.

Ajapa Gayatri. Liberation from vikaras is its aim.

We all know Gayatri. But the Rishi says: Ajapa Gayatri. The Gayatri we know is japa—chanted. But he says: ajapa-gayatri vikaradando dhyeyah—the Gayatri that cannot be chanted, to abide in That is Gayatri. That which has no name—how will you chant it? That which has no word—how chant it? That which has no form—how chant it? To drop all—even japa—and arrive where japa too is no more, that is Gayatri. That is the mantra where even mantra is not. Where even the Name of the Lord is no more—there the name is attained: Ajapa.

If we look within, we speak words. Before we speak, there is a layer beneath—the layer of thought. The word has not yet been spoken, only thought. It has appeared within but not yet outside. But even before the word appears as thought, it exists.

Many times you must have felt a name is lost. It is on the tip of the tongue—and still does not come. Strange people—if it is on the tip of the tongue, what is the difficulty? Yet I understand their difficulty. It is truly on the tongue—they are sure they remember, and yet it does not come. Both are happening at once. It means: they remember. Where is this remembrance? It is below the level of thought; it does not reach the thought-layer.

And if you try too hard—in too much hurry—become mounted upon the search, it will not come. You will fret, be disturbed, beat your head. Then you forget it. Let it go. You sip tea—and suddenly what would not come appears. From where? Where was it? It certainly was not in thought—otherwise you would have caught it earlier. It was on a level below thought—in the unconscious.

There are three levels: expression in speech; expression in thought; and beneath thought in the unconscious. The Rishi says: beneath that too is a level. Even in the unconscious there is outline and form. Beneath that is a level—the super-unconscious—where there is neither outline nor form; it is arupa. Like a cloud drifting in the sky before rain—on some unknown inner plane a potential thought is hovering. It will sprout in the unconscious, manifest in the conscious, and express in speech. There are thus four planes.

Gayatri is to be used on the first, the deepest plane. At that plane, entry is ajapa.

The rule of japa is this: if you begin any mantra—say Rama-Rama, or Om, or Allah—first begin with the tongue. Say Rama, Rama—aloud. When it becomes so natural that you need not do it, it happens on its own—no effort, as breath goes on—then close the lips. Let it go on within. Do not utter Rama, Rama; let Rama, Rama sound inside.

When practice has become so effortless even there, then drop it from that plane too—it will sink deeper. Rama, Rama will begin in the unconscious—you will not even know it and it will go on. Then there are methods to drop it from there too—and it falls into the ajapa. Then there is not even Rama, Rama. Only the flavor of Rama remains—just cloudy. As if a cloud settles on a mountain; a mist spreads. So deep within, an arupa spreads.

This the Rishi calls Ajapa. And when any mantra descends into ajapa, it becomes Gayatri. Otherwise it is not Gayatri.

And what is the use of Ajapa? What is attained by it? Through it comes liberation from vikaras, from the taints. Vikara-dando dhyeyah—Ajapa’s aim is freedom from the distortions.

This is an amazing alchemy. Mantra-shastra has its own chemistry. It says: if any mantra is used down to ajapa, your mind will be cleansed of kama, of lust, and the vikaras will fall. For one who can reach the innermost unconscious, nothing can defile him—because all vikaras are on the surface. Within sits the stainless. Not knowing this, we remain entangled on the surface.

Imagine a dark valley—damp, stinking, full of wild beasts, and snakes. A man lives there, distressed—how to be safe from snakes? Lions may devour him; attacks may come; it is dark; there is stench; there is sickness. Then he begins to climb the mountain. He rises a little; sunlight reaches him. There is no darkness there. Snakes do not crawl there—though in the valley they still crawl. He moves higher and reaches a sun-bright peak—no fear there. Still, in the valley snakes crawl.

Just so, whoever brings any sound down to ajapa reaches within to that depth where vikaras do not operate; they operate at the surface—above. We fight there and remain troubled.

Mantra-shastra says: Do not fight there. Move away. There is far greater space within you. There are deeper depths and higher peaks. Move there—do not fight.

Once you have moved and known your peaks, even if you return to the same place, you will not be the same. You will have returned knowing such glory within that petty vikaras cannot defeat you. You will have returned acquainted with such power that darkness cannot frighten you. You will have seen your own nature—and now no temptation can lure you. But go there once.

So Ajapa is used for liberation from vikaras. And for each vikara there are specific mantras. If someone is afflicted by anger, a particular sound-mantra is given. If he carries it down to ajapa, he will step out of anger. Afflicted by lust—another. By fear—a third. There are clusters of sounds that target and dissolve your vikaras.

There are Maha-dhvanis—great sounds—remedies that work upon all vikaras. Like the sound we are using now—hunkar—the great roar. It is a Maha-dhvani. Its strike is so deep that one need not fight separately with different vikaras. If that one strike reaches ajapa, all vikaras are dissolved.

We all know the word Allah. In the word Allah too the hunkar—the Hu—is used. And when a seeker uses Allah, it naturally becomes: Allahu, Allahu, Allahu. Then Allah drops and only lahu, lahu, lahu remains. Then even la drops and only Hu, Hu, Hu. In the end Hu sinks and becomes ajapa. When Hu becomes ajapa, all vikaras vanish.

There is a Tibetan mantra, a great mantra—Om Mani Padme Hum. That "Hum" is a form of Hu. Om too can work like Hu—but perhaps not now. For very simple people Om also works like Hu. For complex people it does not—because Om’s strike is very mild. Om is a mild dose. It was used for those who were not very ill—simple hearts, innocent, not cunning, not deceitful, not dishonest—simple. Om was enough. A small homeopathic dose cured them. Now it cannot be without allopathy. Hu is allopathic. Om is homeopathic. Hu’s blow is tremendous—goes to the deepest. If it descends to ajapa, Hu becomes Gayatri and the vikaras are dissolved. Any mantra becomes Gayatri when it becomes Ajapa. This is the meaning of the sutra: ajapa-gayatri vikaradando dhyeyah.

Mano-nirodha is their alms-bowl.

Those who are sannyasins carry one thing upon their shoulder twenty-four hours a day—cessation of mind, release from mind, going beyond mind. It hangs on their shoulder always.

You have heard the word khanabadosh—nomad. A beautiful word. It means the one whose house is upon his shoulder—khana means house (as in dawakhana), badosh means upon the shoulder. Those who carry their house upon the shoulder are khanabadosh—wanderers with no fixed home; the house is on the shoulder.

The sannyasin too carries only one thing upon his shoulder all day—mano-nirodha, the cessation of mind. That is his constant current with every breath: how to go beyond mind? Because the truth is beyond mind. How to cross mind? Because amrit is beyond mind. How to go beyond mind? Because the Divine is beyond mind.

It can be gone beyond. Dhyana is the path.

Enough for today.

Now let us move into meditation. Let us pass beyond mind.

For five minutes we shall breathe intensely so that energy awakens. Spread out—make space. Those who work fast come closer; those who need to go slowly, move back. Those sitting far in the dark, come forward so I can see you; keep your gaze on me.

When you come to your full power, I will begin to move my hands—raise your force with mine. And when I take my hands upward, pour your total energy. And when I feel you are at your peak, and the atmosphere is ready where the Divine can be invited, I will turn my hands over from above and bring them down—then go utterly mad.

Many friends experienced Shaktipat yesterday. None will be deprived. If you bring your total energy, the experience is certain.

First, five minutes of deep breathing—then we begin!