Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #14

Before we enter the dialogue between Yajnavalkya and his wife Maitreyi, a few preliminaries are necessary.

First: Yajnavalkya had two wives—Maitreyi and Katyayani. In the Upanishads this is a profound symbol. The mind always wants two; it is never content with nonduality. It longs for duality, for division. Two wives is the mind’s archetype of split desire. Nothing creates a deeper inner tug-of-war than “two.”

I’ve heard: A thief was on trial. The judge, kindly, said, “Your crime is proven and you’ve confessed. Now tell me the punishment you choose, and I’ll grant it.” The thief replied, “Give me any punishment—except the punishment of marrying two wives.” The judge was startled. The thief continued, “I was caught stealing in a house where the husband had two wives—one upstairs, one downstairs. All night one pulled one leg, the other pulled the other leg. He could neither go up nor down. In the commotion I couldn’t escape. He was trapped—and I, a poor thief, suffered for it. Whatever you do, don’t sentence me to two wives!”

All of life’s anguish is the anguish of “two.” The mind chooses opposites simultaneously: wealth and the beggar’s peace, palaces and the sleep of one under a tree. Two wives means two boats pulled in opposite directions; two oxen yoked to a cart facing opposite ways. Life becomes contradiction, restlessness your fate. Even one “wife”—that is, even one crystallized desire—can hurt. Double it, and pain multiplies.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son once asked, “Why does the law forbid a man to marry two wives?” Nasruddin said, “Son, when you grow up you’ll understand—laws protect those who cannot protect themselves. If there were no law, people would marry twice and land in trouble!”

Deep down, the mind craves opposites at once. What you desire, you also resist. The same mind that wants the world also longs for liberation. Of the two inner pulls, that which draws you toward freedom is your friend; the pull toward the world is your foe. One “wife” within is your friend—Maitreyi. Use that friendship—up to a point. You can’t drop the mind at once, because even the desire to drop it is the mind’s desire. Use the friendly mind to overcome the worldly mind—like using one thorn to remove another. But remember, after removing the first thorn, throw both away. Otherwise the second thorn will begin to prick too. Ultimately, mind as such must be relinquished.

Third: Yajnavalkya had great wealth and fame. Emperors sat at his feet. He was a celebrated scholar. Once King Janaka announced a contest: whoever proved himself the greatest knower would receive a thousand cows—with gold-plated horns, gem-studded garlands, backs draped in precious cloth—each cow worth a fortune. Pundits gathered from far and wide. Note well: no true knower came—wisdom doesn’t compete. The scholar Yajnavalkya entered the arena with his disciples. He said, “The cows are getting tired in the sun. I’ll send my disciples to herd them to my ashram; the debate can happen later.” Janaka was taken aback. The disciples led the cows away. Yajnavalkya said, “Don’t worry, I’ll quiet the scholars; I am certain.” And he did—and left victorious.

He had wealth, prestige, mastery of scripture—yet none of it delivered. One day even this supremely confident scholar realized, “I am ignorant.” Learning had yielded nothing. He knew he had to turn to the forest—the path from word to the wordless, from society to solitude. Society is language; without speech there can be no society. In a train you sit beside a stranger and immediately someone asks, “Where are you going?” Speech constructs society; silence dissolves it.

I’ve heard: A monk riding a train gazed silently out the window. Another passenger, disturbed by the silence, tried to start a conversation—no response. The monk’s towel fluttered out the window; the man offered, “Swamiji, your towel is flapping outside.” No reaction. Irritated, he shouted, “Are you listening? Your towel is outside!” The monk, eyes still outside, said, “Let it flap. Your cigarette is burning your coat; I said nothing. My towel is my concern—why are you upset?” Silent ones are hard to relate to. Language is curiosity about the other; silence turns you toward yourself. That’s why religions praise silence—it leads you out of the social net. Most of your troubles would vanish if you spoke less—ninety percent of your problems are born of speech.

Yajnavalkya, after endless disputation, reputation, and riches, found it all hollow. He told his friend-wife Maitreyi, “I wish to renounce.” Even one praised by the Upanishads must finally leave—how much more so for us! One day he said to Maitreyi, the friend within, “I do not want to remain in the householder’s state. I want to rise higher. Come, let me settle matters between you and Katyayani.” Household life is a halt, not the destination—like a resthouse: rest and move on. To skip it is to miss certain necessary experiences that ripen the heart. Pain purifies, like fire refines gold. Hindus do not preach escapism; they accept everything, but with the remembrance to go beyond.

Hindu life is structured in four steps: brahmacharya (celibate student), grihastha (householder), vanaprastha (turning toward the forest), sannyasa (renunciation). The order is scientific. First gather energy—without stored vitality the experience of union remains shallow. If one truly lived celibacy for twenty-five years, one single complete act of love could be enough to reveal its whole secret—and to become the first step beyond it. Lived fully, even a single total experience liberates. But people live in dribbles, and then craving returns again and again.

After twenty-five years of brahmacharya, twenty-five of householder life; then twenty-five of vanaprastha—body in the world, eyes on the forest; then sannyasa. Brahmacharya and sannyasa are two ends of the same purity, but the latter is innocence bathed in awareness—not childish, but childlike.

Yajnavalkya said, “Time has come. I will not remain only a householder. Let me divide the wealth between you and Katyayani.” Maitreyi did not weep, lament, or protest. She asked only, “Master, if this entire earth filled with riches were mine, would I become immortal by it?” Yajnavalkya said, “No. With wealth one can live comfortably, but not attain immortality. With or without wealth, one still goes to the grave—on foot or in a golden chariot, what difference?” Maitreyi said, “Then what shall I do with that which cannot make me immortal? Teach me the secret of immortality.”

Yajnavalkya rejoiced: “You are dear to me, and you speak what is dear.” Katyayani is not mentioned further—she likely rejoiced at the wealth. Usually it is so: one in a hundred is a Maitreyi; the rest are Katyayani.

Within you too are these two: the pull outward and the pull inward. Learn to recognize them. When you begin to turn inward, the friend-mind supports; the downward-pulling mind resists. Use the friend as a ladder; then drop even the ladder.

Yajnavalkya said, “Come, sit. As I speak, listen attentively.” Each word here is precious. First: “Come, sit.” The mind is restless motion. To hear the nectar, the mind must sit. In Japan, they call it zazen—just sitting. Learn to simply sit—no inner or outer movement.

There are three ways to listen:
1) Absentmindedly—ears hear, mind wanders.
2) With concentration—through fear or greed: tense, forced, worldly.
3) With attention—relaxed, unforced, open, savoring the act of listening itself. This is dhyan—attention.

I’ve heard: The saint Eknath took a thief along on pilgrimage on the condition he would not steal for three months. Belongings began “disappearing” and reappearing in others’ bundles. Eknath caught the man transferring items. The thief said, “I swore not to steal, but let me keep up my practice—just rehearsal!” Forced virtue is only postponed habit.

Another tale: A fakir, Junaid, stood in the mosque on a great festival day. As the imam led the prayer, Junaid began loudly mooing like a buffalo. The imam, furious, accused him of ruining the prayer. Junaid said, “I warned you: if you pray, I join; if not, I create a disturbance. You were thinking about buffalo—so I accompanied you.” The imam confessed he’d been calculating how to buy a buffalo with the day’s donations. Similarly, Guru Nanak once refused to bow in a mosque where the nawab’s eyes kept checking whether Nanak was bowing; the nawab’s mind was on Nanak, not on God.

You too think and ponder—but about the market, enemies, friends. Turn the mind inward; find the friend within; use it as a step.

Now the heart of the Upanishad. Yajnavalkya said:
“Not for the sake of the husband is the husband dear; for the sake of the Self the husband is dear.
Not for the sake of the wife is the wife dear; for the sake of the Self the wife is dear.
Not for the sake of the son is the son dear; for the sake of the Self the son is dear.”
And so with gods and the world: everything is dear not for its own sake, but for the Self.

We desire everything for the joy we experience—our own joy. Even sacrifice is ultimately for the satisfaction of the Self. Immanuel Kant noted: you risk your life to save a drowning man. People call it altruism, but stand on the shore and watch—his drowning becomes your suffering; to end your own anguish, you jump. And having saved him, you feel pleased—in part at discovering you could risk your life. The center remains the Self. No other center is possible.

Why does Yajnavalkya stress this? Because if all ends rest in you, first know who you are. Without knowing the one for whom all is desired, all doing goes astray. Even God is dear for the sake of the Self; thus the Upanishads call Atman the supreme truth—more central even than “God,” which can remain a circumference, while you are the center. “Who am I—for whom the sun and stars rise?” Until this is known, all steps are in the dark; we seek the goal outside, while it is the seeker himself.

Yajnavalkya repeats so Maitreyi will grasp it from every side: all is loved for the Self—not for itself. The center of the whole is within you; to seek it outside is to wander indefinitely on the periphery. The sought hides in the seeker, the seer, the toucher—not in the seen. The day your attention shifts from objects to the subject, you become a vanaprasthi—turned toward the inner forest.

He concluded: “Maitreyi, this Self is to be seen, heard, reflected upon, and meditated upon. Seeing, hearing, reflecting on and realizing this Self, all is known.” The One known, the many are included; chase the many, and even the One is lost.

Therefore, close the senses to be free for the inner. Sight, sound, taste, touch—withdrawn from outer objects—begin to reveal the inner resonance, the primordial Om that is not a chanted mantra but the subtle hum of your very being. Empty the ear of the market’s noise, the eyes of forms, the tongue of tastes, the skin of outer touch—then, for the first time, you sense the center. And its taste is sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss.

Religion grips the root; science proliferates in branches. Science knows much and remains ignorant; religion knows the One and becomes wise. A wise one may not know that water is hydrogen and oxygen; but he knows the owner for whom all knowledge is sought.

I’ve heard: A victorious emperor wrote to his many queens from abroad: “Ask, and I’ll bring you what you want.” Lists came—gems, silks, perfumes. One queen sent a blank page with a note: “Come yourself; I want nothing else.” His ship sank; all gifts were lost; only the emperor swam ashore. Those who asked for things received nothing; she who asked for the master received everything.

In death all boats sink—only you reach the shore. If you never sought the owner, you die impoverished. Seek the One; then whether boats sink or not, nothing essential is lost.

Yajnavalkya spoke from experience; he was leaving the loaded ship for the center. It is said Maitreyi too joined him in that journey and realized what he realized. Where Katyayani wandered, no one knows.

Do not be a Katyayani; give birth to the Maitreyi within. Then one day you will find That—without which all else is futile, and having which, even if all else is lost, nothing is lost.

Enough for today.