Sadhana Sutra #17

The pilgrimage to the Lord’s temple is as arduous as Truth itself; to say it is hard. The experiences that happen upon that path turn false the moment they are cast into words. For words are very small, the experience is vast. As if one tried to fill the sky into one’s fist and failed—so it is when one tries to pour Truth into language. From emptiness it can be intimated, not from words. In silence it may even find a voice, but in speech it is blocked. This is about the path of the journey. Yet when the seeker stands at the very gate of the temple, then words throw him into utter difficulty. For the gate of the temple means: the end of duality!

And our entire language is made of duality. In our language the opposite is indispensable. If we understand the meaning of darkness, it is only because there is light; otherwise darkness loses its meaning. If someone asks for a definition of darkness, what will you say? You will say: the absence of light. Even to define darkness you must bring in light—what a helplessness! And an even greater helplessness is revealed when someone asks: then what is light? You will have to say: the absence of darkness. This is a net indeed. To define darkness you must bring in light; to define light, darkness. The two seem to depend upon each other. They cannot exist apart, not even as definitions.

Language is filled with duality, because it was forged for a world of duality. Here, the meaning of birth is hidden in death. In death, which appears the opposite, the entire meaning of birth is concealed. Here, even the meaning of love is hidden within hate. And if hate were erased from the world, love would vanish.

At the threshold of the temple, duality ceases.

Then the language of duality will no longer serve. What can be said? If we call the Divine light, the definition must be made by darkness. And what kind of Divine is that, whose definition requires the bringing in of darkness? If we call the Divine love, we must define it with hate. If we call the Divine eternal, we must explain it through the changeable. If we call the Divine the Creator, we must relate Him to creation; and if His being depends upon creation, how will He be the Creator?

When the opposite falls at the gate, nothing remains to be said about what lies within.

Hence this sutra begins: “It is written, that for one who has reached the gate of Divinity, no rule can be made, nor can any guide be of use. Still, to make it intelligible for the disciple, the description of this final battle can be given thus.”

For one who has reached the gate of Divinity, no rule can be made. Because all rules are of the world. Outside the temple they have consequence and effect; inside, they have no purpose. What is right and what is wrong belongs to the world of duality; those too depend upon definitions. At this gate, right and wrong also fall away. Here auspicious and inauspicious do not remain. Here dharma and adharma do not remain; ethics and non-ethics do not remain. Whatever we learned in the world of two must be left at the gate. In this temple that is without duality, Advaita—what rule can there be for the inside?

Therefore we have called the Paramahansa rule-transcendent. We cannot make any rule for him. What he should do or not do—nothing can be said. Whatever he does is right; whatever he does not do is wrong. For us, the matter is inverted: what is wrong we must not do; what is right we must do. For the Paramahansa it is said: whatever he does is right, whatever he does not do is wrong. And there is no rule above him. He who has entered the temple has gone beyond rule.

Rules exist at the periphery; at the center there are no rules. As long as we remain on the periphery, rules apply. The moment we arrive at the center, rules do not apply.

Yet the Paramahansa may also walk as if under rules—that is his play. He may walk breaking all rules—that too is his play. And he has no duty, no accountability. For there is now no one before whom he is answerable. He stands where there is nothing beyond.

So the sutra says: there are no rules. No rule can be made, nor can there be any guidance. Nor can he be told, “Now how shall you enter the temple?” Only this much can be said: whatever you have been till now—learned from duality—leave it at the gate. At the gate of the temple only negation can be arranged. Thus the Upanishads say, Neti-neti. This is the statement spoken at the last step before the temple. Beyond this there is no statement.

Neti-neti means: not this, not that. Whatever you say, it is not so. Your task is to deny everything. Let nothing of your own remain. Whatever you had learned from the world, from experience, all that is becoming useless. Leave it at the gate. Do not carry anything of it within, otherwise you will not reach the inside at all.

So a rule of negation can be made: whatever has been learned, leave it at the gate. Enter utterly unlearned, innocent, like a blank page—as if you never went into the world at all; as if you knew nothing; as if you had lived nothing; as if you are utterly virgin, upon whom no line of experience has been drawn. In such virginity, enter the temple. This virginity can only be defined through negation: wipe off whatsoever you have learned, for that which is learned in duality cannot be carried within. If even a trace is retained, you will not reach the inner sanctum; you will not find the gate.

No rules can be made, nor can any guidance be given. No map can be placed in your hand to say that inside the Lord’s temple—within the Lord—this map will assist you, these roads, these paths will take you within.

This needs a little understanding.

The sky of consciousness is in one sense just like this sky. On the ground, when someone walks, footprints appear. In the sky, birds fly—no footprints remain. On the ground there are roads; in the sky none are made. Those who went before you leave no marks by which you may imitate. In that temple of the Divine, that final happening of experience, awakening, consciousness—there are no footprints. Buddha has walked there, Jesus has walked there, but no footprints were left behind.

Therefore no map can be drawn. You cannot be told, “Keep the map, and according to it, you too can walk within.” Your map will also be left behind. For the realm in which maps work is a material realm; this is not the realm of matter. On matter, impressions form; upon the Divine, none. On matter, lines can be drawn; upon the Atman, no lines can be drawn. Hence there is no path there, no signposts; therefore no guidance is possible.

Only those dare to descend into the Unknown who have the courage—and only they enter. Those who ask for maps must halt outside the temple. Those who say, “What will happen ahead? Until we know, we will not go forward,” cannot go forward. Only the daring enter there—those who say, “No concern with what will happen ahead. No worry for security. Even if death occurs, we consent. If we are lost forever and nothing is gained, even then we consent.”

At the temple’s gate, only the one who dares so much—dares to lose himself—enters.

Any knowledge brought from outside cannot help, because no knowledge can touch that Supreme experience. And therefore whoever reaches there arrives in an original vision. Thousands of Buddhas have reached there, yet still the experience is original, still untouched. Whenever anyone reaches that temple anew, he discovers that nothing is stale. Were maps given, and scriptural experts and guides, and you entered according to them, the experience would turn false.

In America psychologists say that today the American traveler, wherever he goes, feels that whatever he sees is already stale. The irony is that today America has the greatest facility for touring the world. Of the vast number of tourists roaming the globe, eighty percent are Americans. They reach every corner of the world. Yet a strange phenomenon has occurred: wherever they arrive, they feel everything is already stale.

Because they have already seen the Taj Mahal a thousand times—in pictures, on television, in films. When they reach the Taj Mahal, it is the thousand-times-seen Taj; it is stale. They come with great expectations to behold it, but when they see it, they feel, “This we have seen a thousand times.” And in truth, through photography, television, films, the Taj can appear more beautiful than to the bare eyes. Therefore the real Taj appears pale. What they saw in films looked more colorful, more precious. Having seen that, and thinking the original must be even more valuable, they come to see it. But the original appears faded. And having seen it so many times, there is no originality left to it. So the American traveler roams much, but arrives nowhere, gains no experience. For whatever is, is already seen, already stale—everything becomes wearisome.

It is good that the Divine temple has no map. Otherwise you would beat your head there as well—“The same as what was read in the Gita; the same that Buddha already explained!” You would become bored even there. But no map can be made of it—nor will it ever be. And whatever news has been given about it—none of it works inside the temple; it leads only to the gate. Thus the temple remains ever untouched and virginal. Whenever you arrive there, the experience is unique, incomparable. And even after the experience you will not be able to tell anyone. You will suddenly find that whatever can be said has no relation with it. And what has been seen cannot be related to speech at all.

Therefore the sutra says: neither rules nor guide can be for him. Still, to make it intelligible to the disciple, the description of this final battle can be given thus.

This final event—the last happening of life—leaving all at the gate and entering within; the happening of leaving at the temple’s door—that much can be described. That too is only an attempt; it never fully succeeds, but an indication can be made. The indication is difficult.

The thirteenth sutra: “Take support of that which is neither with form nor formless.”

The complexity is of duality—take refuge in that which is neither with form nor formless.

We know what form is, what matter is, what the manifest is. We know matter. Of the formless, we know nothing. Therefore people say Atman is formless, beyond matter. Matter has form and qualities; the Atman has neither form nor qualities—nirguna, nirakara. Thus we use matter to define the Atman: matter is with form, Atman is formless. We know only the with-form; of the formless we know nothing.

But this sutra says: if you would enter the ultimate Truth, you must drop the with-form and also the formless; you must drop form and also the formlessness.

Why? It is a bit difficult; hence these sutras are written with such hesitation.

Form must be dropped—and the formless too. Because even the formless contains form; it is defined only by form. If someone asks, “What is the formless?” you will say, “Where form is not.” The formless is bound to form. It does not get free of form, because it cannot be explained without it. The quarrel goes on: there are formists and formless-advocates; saguna-advocates and nirguna-advocates. They dispute greatly whether the Divine is nirguna or saguna. The dispute has continued for thousands of years.

But this sutra says the Divine is neither saguna nor nirguna. It says: if even nirguna must be defined through guna, how much substance can there be in your nirguna? If truly the Divine is nirguna, then even calling Him nirguna is not possible. Because it is only a negation of guna, only a denial. If without guna you cannot say anything even about the Divine, then at least admit this much—that whether or not there are qualities in Him, His definition cannot be without qualities. And that which cannot be defined without qualities—how will you call it nirguna?

This sutra says: there is neither the reach of saguna nor of nirguna; there, neither form remains nor the formless; neither the with-form nor the without-form; neither matter remains nor Atman.

Complex, difficult it will seem. For first, to rise from matter to Atman is hard; and then to rise beyond Atman becomes even harder. Matter and Atman are also part of duality; matter and Atman are two opposites. Consciousness and matter are two contraries. Matter has to be left, and consciousness too. This does not mean you will become unconscious there; but whatever you have known as consciousness will be found useless. Something utterly new occurs that goes beyond consciousness—the para-chaitanya, that which transcends even consciousness.

“Take support of that which is neither with form nor formless.”

Leave this at the gate itself. Let us understand the journey in stages. First: leave the with-form, leave every shape, so that you may enter the inner formless. This is the first arrangement. The day your inner entry is complete—you had left the outer to go in—when the outer has been utterly dropped, then drop the inner too, for inner is also a part of the outer. Matter was dropped to become the Self; when matter is wholly gone, drop this self-hood as well.

Therefore Buddha declared there is no Atman. Buddha was not understood, for it was a statement of supreme knowing. He said: Atman too is not—anatta. He meant: the Atman by which matter was left behind is also to be left. After that, what remains—Buddha did not use any word for it. He said: whatever word I use will increase complexity; whatever I say will create boundaries; whatever I say will generate an opposite. Therefore I will say nothing.

People asked Buddha all his life: what happens in that supreme moment? Buddha said: as a lamp goes out—so it happens. You are extinguished. As the flame of a lamp is extinguished; then no one asks, “Where did the flame go?” In the same way you too are extinguished. To ask where the flame went is meaningless. Hence Buddha did not use the word Moksha; he used Nirvana. Nirvana means the going out of the lamp. Moksha seems to say that you remain, liberated—yet you remain. Buddha says: you do not remain at all, because you are of duality. This does not mean that nothing remains. All remains that is to remain. But for that, Buddha says, I will give no word—because all words are made of opposites, and opposites belong to the world.

“Take support of that which is neither with form nor formless.”

The fourteenth sutra: “Listen only to the soundless Word.”

Whatever speech we hear is born of impact—of the clash of two things—born of duality. Strike cymbals, and sound arises. Clap two hands, and a clap resounds. Winds pass through trees, and a rustle is born. If I speak, my throat strikes, and speech is born. Whatever speech we know is sound born of conflict, from the collision of two.

But in that temple, the two do not remain. Hence there can be no speech, no word. There can be no collision of two. Where there is no duality, what can collide? It is empty sky. Where there is no other, what speech can be? No sound born of impact can arise there.

Thus there are two ways to say it: either call it the soundless Word—the tone that is not born of collision, not born of the impact of two—or the saints have chosen another precious term: Anahata Nada. Anahata means: not produced by striking, not produced by collision. Is there such a sound that is Anahata? Is there a sound born without striking?

If there is such a sound, that alone is the fundamental note of life. Several points need to be understood. Whatever is produced by collision will perish. For collision generates a quantity of energy, but how long will that energy last? I clap my hands; the impact of my hands releases a limited force. How long will it resound? Whatever has been produced will be destroyed. Whatever is made will be unmade.

Buddha said: that which is compounded cannot be eternal, cannot be Sanatana. How could it be? That which was not, and now has arisen, cannot be forever. A stick that has one end must have another also. That which has the end called “birth” has the end called “death.” Only that can be eternal which has never been born—ajam, anadi—the beginningless alone can be endless. Is there such a tone, such a sound, such a music that we may call the music of life, which was never born and will never die? Until we know it, we have not known the ultimate ordinance of life.

“Listen only to the soundless Word.”

That alone will be the energy. Listen only to the soundless tone; that is the supreme music. But how to hear it?

The science of mantra has devised a way. Begin the intoning of a mantra. First, utter it aloud—begin with Om; Om will be heard, it will vibrate in the air. When this intoning is trained, when Om resounds so that no other word, no other thought remains within you, only then is your Om pure. Otherwise, if any thought is moving inside, its shadow will be present within the echo of your Om. Understand this a little.

If you are saying Om and within your mind is running, “Let me go to the market and buy some things,” your Om becomes impure. For behind it, subtler, is joined this tone of “Go to the market, buy the goods.” It distorts Om. Your Om becomes pure when only the resonance of Om remains and no other thought is within—nothing present to distort it. The day your Om’s humming is pure, close your lips and now let Om hum only within. Now do not speak aloud; let it hum inside. Keep the lips closed—save it from the clash with air—and the inner humming of Om will continue. When the inner humming goes on, then be watchful: even on deeper layers of your mind is there any thought? Any desire, any craving, any feeling? If some feeling, craving, or thought is moving on a deeper layer, it is distorting—let that too be dissolved. And when within only Om’s resonance remains, then attempt the third experiment: Do not produce Om—simply close your eyes and listen, as if Om is resounding within and you are not doing it.

This event occurs if both earlier experiments have been purified. You hummed Om and thoughts vanished from the conscious mind. Then you closed your lips and hummed within. Now the unconscious mind will create hindrance; hum so deeply that even your unconscious is saturated in it and no thoughts remain within—then your unconscious has become silent. Two layers of your mind have become quiet. Now stop the humming of Om. When the mind becomes silent, the humming which is naturally resounding in the innermost core of your heart—resounding always, out of which you are made, your very primal nature—that may now be heard. It could not be heard because of your thoughts. Now it can be heard.

So the earlier chanting of Om is not the real mantra—it is only a device to get free of thoughts. Now become silent and listen. Do not speak. Until now you were speaking. First you spoke Om aloud; then you spoke it softly, within. Now do not speak—listen. Only listen within: is Om resounding there? You will be amazed—the humming of Om is arising from your very life-force, spreading through every pore of your body. As this realization becomes clear, you will find that Om is your life-note.

The tone that will be heard is Anahata—for it is not born from any collision. Kabir and Nanak call it Ajapa—for it is not produced by any japa. This sutra calls it the soundless Word.

“Listen only to the soundless Word.”

The fifteenth sutra: “Behold only that which is invisible from both outer and inner extremes.”

We have seen the world—one dimension of the senses. We have seen what is outside. Then we opened another dimension of the senses and saw what is within. The eyes saw the outer—world, matter. Then the eyes turned within and saw the Atman.

This sutra says: now close both the outer and inner eyes. Now behold That which cannot be seen by the eyes at all. Now behold That which cannot be touched by the senses. Now be free of both the outer and the inner, and behold the Supreme which is neither outside nor inside—or which is in both, both outside and inside.

This third—which is neither outside nor inside, or which is both outside and inside—this is the One. To discover this One, you must let go of both kinds of sensory experiments.

Understand it thus. Through the outer senses we see the world, matter. Through the inner senses we see the Atman, consciousness. And leaving both, what we behold is Paramatman.

Or understand it this way. Through the outer senses, what we see is thought. Through the inner senses, what we see is meditation. Leaving both outer and inner senses, what we see is Samadhi.

What is seen outside is half. What is seen inside is also half. Only when both outside and inside are left and we see, is it whole, complete. And until the complete is seen, there is no liberation. The incomplete binds; the complete frees.

“May peace be attained by you.”

Supreme peace is attained in the very instant you are not. As long as you are, you will remain unquiet.

Therefore the last point must be understood: you will never be peaceful, for in your very being there is unrest. Your very being is turmoil. Only when you are not, will you be at peace.

Thus when it is said, “May peace be attained by you,” it has many meanings. It means: become not—be finished—so that only peace remains. You are the disturbance.

A storm rises in the ocean; then it subsides. We say, the storm has become quiet. What does it mean? Is a quiet storm still present there? The very meaning of a quiet storm is that the storm is no more. A man falls ill, then recovers. We say, the illness is cured. What does it mean? Is the cured illness still present there? The meaning is that the illness is no more. It was; now it isn’t.

What you are now is a sum total of illness. You can never be peaceful until this “you” itself becomes peaceful—until this “you” is lost.

“May peace be attained by you” has only one meaning: reach that place where you are not. As long as you are, you will drag the tone of unrest along. Therefore religion is the great death. In it you die completely; you do not remain. What remains is your innermost, your center. But you do not yet know it. It is peace—it is peace even now. If you become still even now—if you are not—then even now you can hear that peace. You are noise, crowd, tumult, derangement. Because of you, the inner silent Anahata Nada, the soundless Word, the zero-tone is not heard.

If even for a single instant you are not, its vision happens. And once that vision happens, you will never be able to return. For then you will know there is no purpose in calling this illness back.

But still we go on trying. We try to become peaceful without considering that “I” itself is the unrest. We try to be free without considering that “I” itself is non-freedom.

Therefore I say to you: not your liberation—but liberation from you. There will never be your liberation; there will be liberation from you. The day you can drop yourself, as a snake drops its slough, that day you will suddenly find that you were never unfree. But you were gripping garments too tightly; you were gripping the skin too tightly; you were gripping the body too tightly; you were gripping the coverings so tightly that you forgot they can be released from the hand.

All processes of meditation are devices to slip these coverings off you—even if only for a moment. Once a glimpse happens, then there is no need of meditation. That glimpse itself will begin to draw you. That glimpse itself will become the magnet. That glimpse will call you and lead you upon the path where this sutra can be fulfilled: “May peace be attained by you.”