Sadhana Sutra #5

With these sutras, the journey deepens. The language of dharma is a little inscrutable. It must be so, for dharma has less to do with fact than with mystery.
A fact is that which comes within understanding. A mystery is that which both comes and does not come within understanding. Only this much is understood—that it will not be understood. A fact lies beneath the intellect. A mystery is that beneath which the intellect itself lies. The intellect can measure the depth of a fact; but when it sets out to sound the depth of the mystery, it gets lost itself.

Ramakrishna used to say: if a doll made of salt goes to measure the depth of the ocean, it will never be able to report back. It will begin, yes, but the journey will have no end. Because it is a doll of salt: the deeper it descends into the ocean, the more it will melt and dissolve. By the time it reaches the depths, it will have vanished. There will be no one left to bring back the news and say how deep the ocean is.

Yet only a salt doll can know the ocean’s depth. Throw in a stone: it may reach the bottom, but it will remain untouched by the ocean’s life-breath. That which does not melt—how will it ever touch the living heart of the sea? That which does not dissolve, which is not absorbed, how will it ever measure the ocean’s true depth?

There is one kind of depth to the sea that can be measured in yards. And there is a depth to the sea’s very being, for which there is no yardstick. Only a salt doll will measure that—because it is willing to melt, to drown, to be lost. It will become one with the ocean, it will be absorbed into the ocean. In that absorption alone will it know. But then there will be no way to return and tell.

Mystery means: you will set out to seek it, but the day you find it, there will be no trace of you. We keep facts in our fist; the mystery will keep us in its fist.

Now the sutras grow deep; now the river will run deeper. Only if you listen with a little more attention will you be able to understand.

The seventh sutra: 'Desire only that which is within you.'

It is utterly paradoxical. In two ways it is reversed. First, we always desire only that which is not within us. Desire, by its very meaning, is for what is absent. Desire means: I do not have it now—perhaps tomorrow I may. The longing for tomorrow is desire.

This sutra says, 'Desire only that which is within you.'

So first: do not desire what is not within you. And all our desires are for what is not within. We ask only for what we do not have. And it even seems logical: we should ask for what we do not possess; what sense is there in asking for what is already with us? Hence, first, desire never arises for what is within. That is why the sutra is so contrary.

Second, it is profound and contrary because in life you receive only that which was already yours. What was never within you, you will never truly receive. Whatever you obtain will remain outside. And if it remains outside, in what sense has it become yours? It can be snatched away. However much wealth one amasses, it can be stolen, plundered. Even if it is neither stolen nor plundered, even if no socialist state arises—still death will snatch it away. In the moment of death, whatsoever you gathered by desiring will slip from your hands. It was with you, but it never became yours. Had it become yours, no one could have taken it away.

Therefore, in the vision of religion, wealth means that which cannot be taken from you. What can be snatched away is misfortune. For you must guard it—suffer its burden. You must snatch it from others—suffer that burden. And having done all that, you must live in fear, trembling day and night lest it be taken away. And in the end it will be taken. Religion says: to call this 'wealth' is foolishness; it is calamity.

Wealth is that which cannot be taken from you. Only then is it yours; only then does the word 'mine' carry meaning. But what kind of wealth is it that no one can take from you? If such wealth exists, it must be present within you—only then.

Whatever we import from the outside can be taken back. Only what is given with our very nature cannot be taken. What resides in our very soul cannot be taken. That which cannot be snatched from you—its very name is Atman.

Many people have no Atman. When I say this, you will be startled, for we assume that everyone has an Atman. It is true: everyone may have it, in that sense. But not everyone has it—actually. If you make an account of what is with you, and see whether there is anything that cannot be taken away—you will know whether you have the Atman or not.

Make a list of your 'wealth,' whatever is with you. Then take a pen with red ink and mark whatever can be taken away. You will find the whole list turns red. Not a single thing will remain that cannot be taken. Then you do not have the Atman. If there is something in your experience which is with you, and which no one can ever take from you—not even death—only then understand: the Atman is with you.

Reading the shastras gives everyone the illusion that the Atman is. Certainly! But of what use is 'is' when you have no knowing of it? And if you have no experience of it, even if it is—what will you do with it? Like a diamond buried somewhere in your house of which you have no idea—whether it is there or not, what price will it fetch in the marketplace? And you say, 'A diamond is buried in my house; I don’t know where—therefore I am an emperor!' Yet you will still have to beg. For such a diamond is of no use. Until it is unearthed, even saying 'it is buried in my house' is meaningless. Will you say, 'It is written in the shastras, therefore!' But what reliance on the shastras? You know nothing. You have no map, no idea of its shape, its look, its name, its whereabouts—only that you have heard, 'There is an Atman.' Such an Atman—whether it is or isn’t—has no meaning.

This sutra says, 'Desire only that which is within you.'

Why squander time and life-energy on desiring this and that? Because even if you obtain it, it will be lost. The whole effort goes in vain, like lines drawn on water. We have not even finished drawing them and they have already vanished. Exactly like this is our wealth. We do not even fully obtain it before it starts leaving our hands.

If desire must be, then desire that which will not prove a line drawn on water. And that wealth is within you. Every person is born carrying that wealth. In this existence no one is born poor. Existence gives birth to all as emperors. We become poor by our own hands. Poverty is acquired—we earn it with great effort. We are born with wealth. Empire is inscribed in our very destiny. It is hidden within us.

But that which is hidden within must still be attained—because it is forgotten; because we retain no memory of it. Knowingly, we have taken our mind down paths where it is forgotten. Our attention has gone outward. And we have forgotten the way to bring attention back within.

And there is a reason for the outward movement. It is not because of some sin that attention goes outward. There is a natural reason: for life’s survival, attention must go outward. If a child were born with attention turned inward, he would not survive. The child’s attention must go outward—for the body, for existence, for defense, for safety he must be alert. When hunger comes, food will not be found within; food will be found outside. So when hunger arises, the child’s attention goes outward—to where food will be found.

That is why—whether you are aware of it or not—the female breast remains attractive to men, even when they have become old. It is the first experience of childhood that does not leave. The child’s first relationship with the world is through the breast. The first foundation of life’s safety is found at the breast. The breast was the child’s first world. And the first contact with the outer world, the most delightful touch—through which life grew, unfolded, survived—was the breast. Therefore even when a man grows old, his attachment to a woman’s breasts does not disappear. In films, in paintings, in statues, man shapes the female breast with great attention. It is the memory of childhood that does not let go. And the day it does let go, know that you are free of the world. That was your first world; from there the world began. That is the first foundation of the world.

So when the child is hungry, attention goes out. When thirsty, attention goes out. Needs are met from outside. The Atman is not a need. Nor is it to be asked for from outside—it is within. Because there is no need for it, its remembrance is lost. What is needed remains in memory.

You too may have noticed: if a thorn pierces the foot, you become aware that there is a foot. When the head aches, the head is known. And when there is no ache in the head, do you know that you have a head? If you do, know that there is pain. Without pain, the head is not noticed. The body is known to a sick man; a healthy man does not know it.

This is the very definition of health: bodilessness—the state where the body is not felt. Only then are you healthy. If the body is felt, it means the body is diseased. Only in disease is it felt. For in disease a need arises, and attention must go there. When there is a thorn in the foot, all other bodily needs fall aside; removing the thorn becomes the first need. So all attention goes to the thorn—only then will it be removed. If attention does not go, the thorn will remain, it will become poison. When the head aches, all attention goes to the head.

Thus the science of medicine has devised ways so that even if you have a headache, a pill can be given that does not remove the pain, but breaks the arrangement by which attention reaches it. Then you do not feel the pain. The pill does not end the pain; it only deceives. It breaks the process by which attention reaches the pain—loosens the nerves in between—so that no message can arrive. In surgery, your leg can be cut off and you will not know it. An injection is given—this does not stop pain; pain will be there—but it does not allow attention to reach it. Therefore no pain is felt. Your whole body could be cut and you would not know. The only way to know is for attention to go there. And attention will go wherever there is pain.

In the Atman there is no pain; therefore there is no way for attention to go there. In the Atman there is always bliss; therefore there is no need to call attention there.

In the body there is constant turmoil—somewhere some trouble. The body is a great mechanism—very complex. On earth we have not yet made a mechanism more complex than the body. Scientists say that what is happening in an ordinary human body—if we had to reproduce that much activity—we would need a factory of at least ten square miles. And in that factory there would be such uproar and noise, while within a man everything is happening silently!

A human being is a vast happening. In a single human body there are some seven billion living cells. Your body is a crowd of seven billion organisms, a society, a system. And their order is astonishing. We have not yet created any state as orderly as those seven billion organisms within. You have no idea of their work. If you understand the whole process of the body’s functioning, you will be amazed. A slight wound—and work begins. You put a little food into the stomach—and work begins. Even when you do nothing, the great inner machine is at work. It is necessary that wherever a little complication appears in this complex mechanism, attention immediately goes there. If attention does not go, you will die.

So if a child is born inwardly absorbed, he cannot survive. That is why we say: those who attain supreme attention—Param-dhyana—cannot be born again. There is a reason. Birth cannot happen, for when supreme attention is attained, the immersion is within. With immersion within, no connection is formed with a new body. Even if some connection were formed, the child could not live—he would not be able to meet the outer demands, the challenges.

For the body, for life, attention must go outward. And the body has so many pains, so many complexities, that the call of attention there continues unbroken. Thus we know the body, we know the senses, we know the world—but we do not know the one thing: that which we are! For there is no pain there—never has been. Nor can there ever be pain there.

From this understand why man forgets the Self: self-forgetfulness arises because there seems no need for self-remembering. Those to whom the need of self-remembering is felt—they attain it at once.

To whom is this need felt? Consider this a little. In whose life does the need for self-remembering arise? The need to remember the body is in everyone’s life. But there are only a few in whose life the need to remember the Self arises. When does it arise?

It arises when, after passing through all bodily experiences, it becomes clear that whatever arrangement you make, suffering remains in the body. Whatever you do outside, there is no facility for attaining bliss. However much you arrange outwardly, no ray, no note of any true joy is heard. When such a realization dawns on someone and the whole of life outside becomes nothing but suffering...

Remember, one suffering will not make a difference, for the hope of another pleasure will remain. Even if there are ten sufferings, the hope of ten pleasures will stand alongside. We continue to run outside. We drop one pleasure because it turns into pain and start seeking another. But when the entire outer life is seen as suffering—that is why Buddha says: life is dukkha—when the whole of life appears suffering, then suddenly the thought arises: outside all is suffering, so let me search within to see what is there. When the outer becomes utterly futile, a person turns within. A child is born turned outward. Sometimes, passing through deep experiences of life, a person turns inward. This sutra is for that inward turning.

'Only desire that which is within you.'

Only then is there the possibility of supreme bliss, of supreme liberation. Desire that which is within you. But even when we desire the within, it is only nominally within—it remains outward.

People come to me and ask: If we meditate, will our wealth increase? In their meditation is the ambition for wealth. People come and ask: If we meditate, will we gain success in the world? They have no idea what they are saying!

Meditation means: the world has failed. The very perception that there is no success there is the beginning of meditation. The beginning of meditation is only when it is seen that there is no wealth outside at all. The question of obtaining or not obtaining does not even arise—there is no wealth there, only the illusion of wealth. When someone’s illusion breaks, the question of meditation arises.

But the illusion has not broken. He has tried everything outside and did not get wealth—but he is certain that wealth is outside. Now he thinks perhaps through meditation he will get outer wealth. So let us meditate. But he has no interest in meditation; the interest is in wealth.

As long as the purpose is outside, as long as desire is outside, one cannot advance on the journey of the spirit. Therefore hold this sutra well in your heart.

'Only desire that which is within you. For within you is the light of the whole universe—the very light that can illumine the path of sadhana. If you cannot see it within yourself, searching for it elsewhere is futile.'

Whatever is worth attaining is within you. Call it light, call it bliss, call it Paramatman, call it liberation, call it Nirvana—whatever is worth attaining is within you. What the Buddhas, the Mahaviras, the Krishnas, the Christs attained—is within you.

And yet we seek it outside! What is within us, we search for outside! Our search runs only outward. We know only one way of seeking—outward. By the needs of life, that way has become ingrained. If you do not break this pattern, you will keep running outward.

And in the outward run, many times it will seem that happiness is near—near—almost there—now I have it, now I have it. And each time, when you reach there, you will find it disappears like a rainbow. Rainbows look very lovely, but their colors are only from a distance. If you approach them, they vanish. To see them, distance is needed. They are an illusion born of distance. Go near, and the illusion breaks.

All pleasures are rainbows—far away.

If you are begging on the streets, it appears to you that happiness resides in palaces, because the palace is very far. The one sitting in the palace has no taste of happiness at all. He may be more miserable than the beggar—because the beggar at least has the hope that there is happiness in the palace. Perhaps he will reach the palace someday; sustained by this hope he lives. But the one who has reached the palace—his hope has dissolved as well: he found no happiness there. Yet he, too, thinks that in some greater palace there must be happiness. Wherever we are not, there happiness appears to be.

And it is not only about palaces. It also happens that one bored of palaces thinks the hut-dwellers are very happy. City-dwellers think villagers are very happy. Villagers are running toward the city! Tell a villager, 'You dwell in supreme joy'—he will not believe you: What joy? Yet city-dwellers think joy showers in the villages! They write poems and books that villages are full of joy—though they do not go there; they, too, live in the city. If they go, they find deep misery. Those who go return at once.

It is a delightful game: wherever we are not, there happiness appears; wherever we are, there misery appears. But in all those places where we are not, someone else is. We do not even bother to ask him what he has found there. He, too, is not fulfilled.

We seek outside, and outside it will never be found—because it is not there. And what we seek, we have lost within. And we lost it within due to the necessities of life: attention went outward; it remains engaged outward twenty-four hours. Within, we have become inattentive, unconscious; all consciousness has gone outward. If this is understood, we can bring consciousness back within.

Therefore, in the last stage of meditation, I tell you: as you are, become like a corpse. Whatever may be happening, be like a corpse. Otherwise, even the energy of attention that has arisen—you will carry it outward at once; immediately it will go out. If you are allowed to keep your eyes open, that awakened energy of attention will instantly begin to wander outward through the eyes. You will waste it on something futile. Some woman standing nearby will catch your eye; or some man dancing will be seen; or someone will appear a little crazy. You do not know what you are doing. But your eyes are fresh now; attention has arisen within—you are losing it in a single instant. What is born in hours can be lost in a moment.

Hence I say: keep the eyes bound. So that the attention that has arisen does not flow out through the eyes. I say: leave the body like a corpse—do not move at all. Because you have no idea of your own betrayals. Somewhere it will seem the leg is aching; somewhere it will seem, 'Let me adjust my hand'; somewhere it will seem there is an itch in the head. Even if there is an itch—what will go wrong in ten minutes? Life is long—scratch later. And if there is a little pain in the leg for ten minutes, what is the harm? You will not die. And if an ant begins to climb your leg—what can it do? At most it can bite. It is not a snake—it is only an ant! Yet a single ant makes you restless. The ant is not making you restless—the ant is an excuse. The energy of attention that has arisen within you wants to flow outward on any excuse. You brush the ant away with your hand—you do not know that in that tiny movement of the hand you have sent attention outside.

Therefore I say: when the energy of attention awakens, stop on all sides. Become like a stone. In these ten minutes let there be no world outside. Only then, someday, in some instant, the moment will come when attention will push—finding no outlet, it will push—and a glimpse within will be had. Once a glimpse is had, you will have the taste, the flavor. Then you can move inward.

But you are ready to lose yourself in trivial things—utterly petty things. If you reflect, you will also feel: what a paltry matter it was—what was there to lose? You were standing and got tired—what obstacle was there? Yet I see how you deceive yourselves: you sit down quickly. I say, 'Stay where you are.' You sit down quickly! I say, 'Remain as you are, just as you are.' You quickly sit and fix your posture! You do not know what you are doing. Whom are you deceiving? Me? What is the point of deceiving me? You yourself have taken so much trouble for thirty minutes—and you lose it in one second, because you send attention outward.

Powers leak out through the tiniest hole. Do not think: there is only one hole in the boat, what does it matter—we will reach the far shore anyway. It is not a question of one hole. A single hole is enough to sink the boat. These betrayals become such holes.

'Only desire that which is within you.'

And if you cannot find it within, searching outside is futile, for it is not outside.

The eighth sutra: 'Desire only that which is beyond you.'

This, too, is worthy of deep reflection: 'Desire only that which is beyond you.'

We always desire what is within our grasp. We desire only that in which we are sure we will succeed. We desire that for which we feel confident in our skill. This means you will never become greater than you are—you will remain as you are. Always desire that which lies beyond yourself—only then is there movement, only then growth. For in attaining that which lies beyond, you become greater.

But what is beyond you? In the world, there is nothing beyond man. Everything can be attained by man; you, too, can attain it. Granted that Alexander attains a lot; perhaps you are a smaller Alexander, and cannot attain as much. If he builds a vast empire, you build a small one—but nothing is impossible. If you are as mad and obstinate as Alexander—if the intoxication of ambition seizes you—you will also attain. One thing is certain: whatever Alexander attains, any man can attain. There is nothing in it beyond man. Perhaps a Carnegie, a Rockefeller, piles up billions—then you too can, there is nothing beyond. If you can earn a single penny, you can earn billions—because the difference between a penny and a billion is one of quantity, not of quality.

He who can earn one penny—why not two? And one penny plus one penny plus one penny—piled up—becomes a billion. The difference is not qualitative, only quantitative. So if I have earned a single penny, I have earned the whole wealth of the world—I could earn it, because the fundamental step is in my hand. Now whether I earn a billion or two is irrelevant. In earning one penny, the way is clear. It is not beyond me.

This sutra says, 'Desire only that which is beyond you.'

What is beyond you? You yourself. That treasure hidden within you—that alone is beyond you. Everything else is within your reach, however difficult it may seem—easy. All else is trivial. Only the treasure hidden within you appears beyond. No method seems available to go there, no path appears. You cannot stretch your hand in that direction—hands go outward. You cannot open your eyes in that direction—eyes open outward. You cannot lend your ears there—ears hear outward. All the senses move outward, and the search is to be made within. The mind goes outward, and the search is to be made within. That is beyond you.

Beyond you—your very being. This means you are of two kinds. One is your outward-going form—your senses, your body, your mind, your ego. The sum of all these is called ego. This goes outward. Beyond this ego is your real nature—your Atman.

If you must desire, desire only that which is beyond you.

'It is beyond you, because when you attain it, your ego has been annihilated.'

It is beyond you because, in attaining it, you will be annihilated. Understand this sutra well.

Whatever you can attain without being annihilated is not beyond you. That for which you need not pay with your ego is not beyond you. That for which the price is your very self—that alone is beyond you. And the day a person attains the Atman, on that day the old form that set out on the journey has dropped away—like a snake’s sloughed skin. The day one finds oneself, great astonishment arises: the 'I' that had set out is not saved at all.

Kabir has said: 'Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir got lost.' In searching he lost himself—then union happened. Then union happened! But the one who set out to search did not remain—then union happened! Kabir has said something very sweet. I had set out to seek—thinking I would find Him. As long as He was not, I was. And when I found Him, I saw that the seeker had vanished. And he adds a delightful note: 'Then Hari began to run after me, calling—Kabir, Kabir!' When I was no more, then God Himself began to search for me, calling me by name—'Kabir, Kabir!' 'Hari lage pache phire, kahat Kabir Kabir.' As long as I was, shouting loudly, 'I am!'—there was no glimpse of Him. And now that I am lost, He follows me around asking, 'Kabir, Kabir!' The one who is gone—how greatly he is sought! And when he was, no one sought him at all!

You will receive your full honor the day you dissolve. Your full glory will bloom the day you are not. When the seed breaks, the plant is born. When the river vanishes, it becomes the ocean. This petty thing—the ego—beyond it is the vast, which is hidden within you.

The ninth sutra: 'Desire only that which is unattainable.'

Desire only that which is unattainable. What is the point of desiring what can be had? Why ask for what will, in any case, be had? If you must ask, if you must desire, desire that which cannot be had.

A strange statement. If it cannot be had, then what will desire accomplish? If it is certainly unattainable, what will desiring do? And if by desiring it can be had, what is the point of calling it unattainable? It was attainable—desire brought it.

This sutra must be understood. What is unattainable? That which can be had is not unattainable. Then what is? There is one such thing which is unattainable precisely because it is already yours—there is no question of attaining it. There is no question of obtaining it. One can only attain what was not there. Your inner being is already yours. It is not unattainable; it is indeed attainable—therefore it is called unattainable. There is no way to 'get' it; there is only a way to uncover it. There is no need to obtain it; there is only the need to recognize it. Pratibhijna—recognition—remembrance—this is enough. Nothing else is to be done to attain it—only a veil is to be drawn aside, and it is present. It has always been present in its full being within you.

When Buddha became enlightened, someone asked: What did you gain? Tell us! Buddha said: I gained nothing—but I lost much. I gained nothing—for what was gained was already present. We were ignorant—we did not know. Much was lost—my 'self' was lost, ignorance lost, all dreams, all desires—all were lost. But what was found cannot be said to be 'found'—for it already was. That which was always present, that alone was recognized.

Therefore the sutra says: unattainable!

'Only desire that which is unattainable. It is unattainable because as you approach, it keeps receding.'

In another sense also it is unattainable—because as you come near, it keeps moving farther away.

'You will enter the light, but you will never be able to touch the flame.'

In this sense too it is unattainable: you will never be able to close your fist around it. Because as you go within, you begin to dissolve. You will never get hold of it. Before it is 'obtained,' you will have vanished.

Hering and searching I was lost—before 'getting' it, you will have vanished. Therefore you will never get it. For 'you,' it is unattainable. You will enter its radiance, but you will never grasp its flame. Like a moth racing toward a lamp: it enters the circle of light—comes into the lamp’s glow. And as it comes closer, the moment of dissolution comes closer. When it comes right to the flame and touches it—then it dies. It never gets the flame. Before 'getting' the flame, it dies.

If we stretch this symbol a little, the moth’s body drops, and perhaps its soul unites with the flame. When we go within, our ego drops like the moth. Then our soul...

But we—as we know ourselves now, our present form, our name, address, identity—this present identification never attains it. This ego certainly enters the light; it ascends the steps of the temple; but it falls outside the very gate. And that which enters within is not the ego. As you leave your shoes outside a temple, so you, too, will be left outside the real temple. This, too, is a shell—your being as you currently know it: 'I am this, I am that'—this too is a shell. It will drop outside the temple. You will certainly enter the temple—but you will have no idea of that 'you.' And the 'you' of which you now have an idea will never enter the temple. The 'you' you know will fall outside. And that which you do not know—that will enter within. That will become one with the flame. For this reason too, the sutra says: it is unattainable.

'Desire only that which is unattainable.'