Om, may we both be protected.
May we both be nourished.
May we both strive together with strength.
May our study be radiant.
May we not hate one another.
Om, peace, peace, peace.
Om, O Supreme Self,
protect us both (teacher and student) together.
Sustain us both.
Let us both exert ourselves together.
May our learning be luminous.
Let us not bear enmity toward anyone.
Om, peace, peace, peace.
Saravsar Upanishad #1
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
ॐ सहनाववतु।
सह नौ भुनक्तु।
सह वीर्यं करवावहै।
तेजस्विनावधीतमस्तु।
मा विव्दिषावहै।
ॐ शांतिः शांतिः शांतिः।
सह नौ भुनक्तु।
सह वीर्यं करवावहै।
तेजस्विनावधीतमस्तु।
मा विव्दिषावहै।
ॐ शांतिः शांतिः शांतिः।
Transliteration:
oṃ sahanāvavatu|
saha nau bhunaktu|
saha vīryaṃ karavāvahai|
tejasvināvadhītamastu|
mā vivdiṣāvahai|
oṃ śāṃtiḥ śāṃtiḥ śāṃtiḥ|
oṃ sahanāvavatu|
saha nau bhunaktu|
saha vīryaṃ karavāvahai|
tejasvināvadhītamastu|
mā vivdiṣāvahai|
oṃ śāṃtiḥ śāṃtiḥ śāṃtiḥ|
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
One day someone came and asked Buddha: “You have ten thousand monks with you. For years you have been explaining, teaching, and leading them on the path of practice. How many among them have become like you? How many have become Buddhas?”
By its very nature the question is perfectly valid; it is, in fact, an examination of Buddha: how many people did he make into Buddhas?
Buddha said, “Many among them have become Buddhas.” The man asked, “Not a single one is visible!” Buddha replied, “Because they are not masters.”
To awaken is one thing; to awaken another is something else entirely. It is not necessary that one who is awakened will be able to awaken others. Even the awakened, if he wants to awaken someone else, has to descend and stand exactly where the other stands… in those same dark valleys, close to those who are lost, taking their hand in his. Often he must even walk a little way with them on a path where there is nothing but hell. Only if I hold your hand and walk a little way with you does enough trust arise that tomorrow, if I start leading you on my path, you will be able to come with me.
The master must walk with the disciple, so that the disciple can walk with the master. And very often the master has to tread a path he need not have trodden for himself. To transform someone, you have to go to where he is.
Hence the master says, “Let us both strive together, exert together. Let us both do sadhana together.”
There is one sadhana of knowing truth, and there is a totally different sadhana of transmitting truth—distinct, utterly distinct.
The Jains have drawn this distinction. They call the one who has attained supreme knowledge a kevali; the one who has attained supreme knowledge and is also a teacher, a master, they call a tirthankara. There is no other difference between a kevali and a tirthankara. The kevali has attained knowledge—the ultimate knowledge—but he is not a master. He cannot transfer it; he cannot give it to another. He simply does not see how to give it.
Understand it like this.
Very few people exist whose lives never give birth to a poem—sooner or later, a fragment of song begins to stir within. But true poets are rare. Many can hum a tune, but that doesn’t make one a musician. Even if music arises within you, it is not necessary that you can sing it out. Many times you feel, on seeing someone’s poem, “Ah, I could have written this!” A song seems just like one you might have sung; a melody exactly like one that often resounded within but you could not bring it out. Looking at a painter’s work, you feel, “This is the very painting I wanted to make—someone else has made it.” In truth, when you like someone’s painting, your liking means nothing other than this: if you could have painted it, you would have—your own echo. But you couldn’t.
Often truth dawns—knowledge arises, is born—but how to carry it to the other? How to communicate it?
A master is something very different. And only one is a master who is ready to do sadhana again with the disciple—again! A master is one who is willing to begin from the very first step with the disciple, to start again from the ABC; to take the disciple’s hand and begin from the point where he himself no longer needs to begin. The one who stands on the summit, and from that summit musters the courage to take the very first step again with the disciple—only he becomes a master.
That is why the master says, “Let us both exert together. May our learning be radiant.” “May our learning”—he keeps saying—“may our learning be radiant.”
A curious thing: Many times it happens that while explaining to a disciple, the master himself understands certain things for the very first time. Very often, explaining to someone becomes the easiest way to understand. Many times, when the experience of truth happens within, the experience does happen, but the experiencer himself does not fully comprehend what has happened. The thing has happened, the explosion has happened, but even the person is not able to grasp its totality. What has happened?
Buddha remained silent for seven days after his enlightenment. Why? One of the reasons, among many, is this: for seven days he tried to comprehend, “What has happened?” The event occurred. For seven days Buddha pondered, “What has happened?” One becomes dumbstruck, standing before truth for the first time. Everything is seen, yet nothing seems understood—everything is understood, yet still nothing is understood; nothing can be grasped—what has happened? What was there yesterday is no more; what was never there now is. What was taken as reality turns out to be a dream; what was never even known in a dream stands today as truth. The one who went out searching is lost; and the one to whom truth has happened—who is he? That too is not clear.
When Meister Eckhart first experienced samadhi, he asked two questions. One: “What is happening?” And two: “To whom is it happening?” A disciple near him said, “At least one thing I can tell you: it is happening to you. Why ask who it is happening to?” Eckhart said, “You do not understand. The one who set out to seek has been lost somewhere in this happening; and the one to whom this has happened is as unfamiliar to me as the happening itself.”
Very often only when one goes to explain to another does it become clear what has happened.
Therefore the master says: May our learning be radiant; may our knowing grow ever keener. May the edge of our knowing be sharpened; may the lamp of our knowledge shine more and more.
There is no moment that can say to the Divine, “Enough now.” No moment ever comes when someone can say to God, “All right, now let my intelligence rust.” No, such a moment never comes. Knowledge is a sword on which one can place edge upon edge. Infinite edges—and still, still something remains to glow. This is infinity, this is boundlessness.
Hence the master still says: “May our learning be radiant.” In truth the master is saying there is no reason to assume, “I have become a knower.” Knowledge is still needed; ignorance is still there.
Perhaps the more one knows, the more ignorance he sees—more than the ignorant can see. It is still there. Do not think it necessary that ignorance must remain. Do not think it necessary that this person actually needs more radiance of learning. This prayer is loving and symbolic. It declares that genius is always humble; genius does not hesitate to pray. Only the weak fear prayer. The weak cannot summon the courage even to ask. Even before the One from whom all can be received, they stand as if they already possess everything. Even at His door they keep their pride intact and turn back—the begging bowl hidden behind their back so it won’t be seen.
But the one who knows, knows also that knowing is not static, not a fixed event; not like a closed pond—knowing is a flowing river—no end… no end—like the current of a river, it goes on and on and on. This is its grandeur: knowledge has no end. If knowledge came to an end, it would be dead. The flower of knowing keeps blossoming—understand it so: it goes on blossoming—more petals, and more petals… and no moment ever comes when we can say, “The flower is complete.” It forever remains a bud—no matter how much it blossoms, still a bud.
“Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
In this journey of knowing, why is it needed that we not hate anyone? It seems irrelevant, out of tune—suddenly, as if the talk was going one way and reached somewhere else! The search for truth, the journey into the unknown—fine; we need radiance of intellect, wakeful awareness—fine; master and disciple striving together—fine—but suddenly, “Let us not hate anyone”—what is its relevance? Why this talk of hatred toward others?
Understand this.
The seers’ words are never irrelevant—even if they seem utterly so. It may look as if the seer has leapt from one place to another with no bridge in between—so it seems. And in the Upanishads many such moments will come, when it appears that the discourse has jumped somewhere else, with no rhyme or link. Even then, don’t be hasty. The seer knows inner linkages we do not see; he has found bridges that are invisible to us. He understands inner harmonies our intellect has not yet entered.
“Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
In truth, whenever a person sets out in search of anything, he often sets out because of hatred of the other, because of jealousy toward the other. Even the search for truth can be entered out of jealousy. The longing for knowledge too can be out of envy and competition.
A friend came to me just eight days ago. He said, “I am very restless, very uneasy. How can God be found?” I asked, “What is the cause of this restlessness—is there a thirst for God within, hence the unrest? Is there an inner anguish that He alone is life’s value and meaning, and without Him all is futile? Have you ever tasted something of the divine, and the memory of that taste haunts you, pulls you again and again? Have you ever had a glimpse through some window—even a little, even from afar—so that now it is difficult to forget? Do you think again and again of that same window, wondering how to reach it?”
He said, “None of this. If you can get Him, why can’t I? If Ramakrishna could get Him, why not I? And if Raman attained, what is my fault? Listening to all you people has made me restless. I have no taste, no thirst; I don’t even feel sure He exists.”
You may not notice it, but the seer’s prayer is precise. He is saying: “Let us not hate anyone”—let us not come to Your search merely because others have searched for You; lest we be left behind.
We are all engaged in competition—with houses and furniture, and even with God. If, from the history of humankind, a hundred names were removed, we might altogether forget the very idea of God. Those hundred people provoke enormous envy in us. One Buddha is born and our very life is thrown into crisis—if this man has attained, how can I remain behind?
First we try every trick to prove he has not attained—that is our self-defense. First we do all we can to show he has not attained, so we can be spared the trouble of jealousy and competition. “One day I saw this man angry; one day I saw him relishing delicious food; one day I saw a trace of ego in him.” We try to convince ourselves he has not attained, so we can avoid envy. But people like Buddha don’t oblige us; they pay no attention to our opinions. They go on living their way. Slowly, unease grows in us: it seems he really has attained. We tried everything; he remains unconcerned—looks like he’s found something. We test by stoning, by poisoning, by crucifying—we do all that; then our suspicion grows, and one day we feel: indeed, he has attained. Then our race begins immediately—how can I attain?
It may be difficult to accept, but people go toward the search for truth out of hatred too. Even there, there is envy. We cannot bear to see another wealthy; we cannot bear to see another wise. We cannot bear anyone else attaining.
Therefore the seer says: “Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
This is not irrelevant; it is profoundly relevant. For one who sets toward God out of hatred may reach many other places through hatred, but never God. Through hatred one can reach wealth. In fact, without hatred and competition you can hardly reach worldly goals. The more poison there is in your competition, the more likely your worldly success. The deeper your envy, the greater the power in your legs to run. But not toward God… because one who still sees “the other” as other will not be able to see God. And one who does not rejoice in another’s knowledge has not yet even felt the thirst for knowledge.
There is another kind of person who, going to a Buddha, does not worry whether he has attained or not; he does not think, “If he has attained, I must too.” No—he is delighted by Buddha’s fragrance; he is moved by Buddha’s music; he becomes reassured on seeing Buddha—not filled with envy. Seeing Buddha, he is reassured. He says, “Good. The thirst that was within me has reached the ocean in this man. I can follow my own thirst with trust.” Seeing Buddha, he attains to a faith—the faith that the impossible is possible; that what is very far is also very near. Buddhahood is far, but Buddha is very near; his feet can be held in our hands. And if Buddha’s feet can be held, then if not today, tomorrow Buddhahood also can come near—this faith.
Then there is no hatred, only gratitude and grace. When someone’s flower blossoms, he feels blessed, because it reminds him of his own bud; he remembers himself; he becomes mindful. Then his journey is not a journey of hatred. It is a journey of great joy, of great love, a journey unrelated to others.
Hence the seer says: “Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
If there is no hatred toward others and only one’s own thirst, then man reaches very simply to that place where he can say, “Om shanti”—where he can say all has become quiet; everything has come to rest; all is bliss. This is the Upanishadic sutra…
Now let me give you a few announcements for tomorrow morning, and our night’s meeting will be complete.
First, for the whole camp: In the coming seven days you are to live in such a way that your life-energy is expended as little as possible—minimally. We have come here to explore in a direction that requires so much energy that if you waste it, you will not have the strength to enter that search. If the oil of your lamp is burned elsewhere, the flame for which you have gathered will not be kindled; the oil of your lamp must be saved.
So for these seven days, conserve as much energy as you possibly can. For this conservation, close the doors of your senses as much as you can, for they are the mechanisms that dissipate your energy. Keep your eyes closed as much as possible.
You will receive eye bandages tomorrow morning, or perhaps even now. Wear them twenty-four hours. When you need to walk, slide the bandage a little and see only as much as is needed—four steps, not even the fifth. Just see the ground for four steps and walk there. As soon as you reach, close your eyes again, slide the bandage down. Your eyes should remain bandaged throughout the day. The eyes consume the maximum power; gather it within. And it is especially necessary to collect the power of the eyes because what we are going to see requires the inner eye. The same energy that works through the outer eye must be used for the inner eye.
That is why the seer is called a drashta, a “seer.” That is why we call that realization darshan, “seeing.” The inner eye must receive the energy that the outer eye is getting; hence close the eyes. For seven days let all the energy of the eyes flow inward. Keep the eyes closed, and throughout the day remember that the power of both eyes is flowing toward the third eye, between the eyebrows, in the forehead. Whenever you remember—your eyes are closed and you are sitting idle—feel that the energy of both eyes is streaming inward toward the third eye, between the two brows, flowing there; from both sides it is entering the third eye. Then your meditation will gain unprecedented momentum—this is the first.
As much as possible, keep the ears closed; do not listen. One who has to hear the inner sounds needs to rest from outer listening, otherwise the inner sounds are very subtle and the outer noise is heavy; the subtle sounds cannot be heard. Some tuning is necessary.
So close the ears from outside; put in cotton or anything; keep the ears closed during all the hours you do not need them—and you will hardly need them for more than a few minutes. Apart from when you are with me, do not use the ears; keep them closed—and keep remembering all the time: Is something happening within that can be heard? Just a remembering. Then the energy of the ears will begin to flow inward; you will hear the inner sounds in meditation, and inner visions will appear.
The ears, the eyes—and your lips. Third: keep the lips closed; speak as little as possible. Better still, do not speak at all—remain silent. With the eyes and ears, I can tell you you are free: if you wish, you can keep them open—the loss will be yours. But with the lips, you harm others. There you trespass. So do not speak at all. Seeing and hearing is your choice; anyone can do as he likes. If you have come to meditate, keep them closed. If you have come by mistake, that is your choice. But even if you have come by mistake, you are not permitted to talk, because speaking harms others—you damage others when you speak. So please, absolutely no talking.
Some have perhaps come here precisely because they cannot find enough people in their village to talk to, or enough victims to hunt—they imagine they will find them here. There will be no conversation here. The campus must be utterly quiet and silent—wherever you are, your room must be silent—no singing, no songs, no talk, nothing. Seven days of silence.
You have talked your whole life—what have you gained? You can talk again for the rest of your life. Or, if you plan to live much longer, talk even more. But for seven days, listen to me and stop talking. Perhaps what cannot be known by talking may glimmer in the unspoken. If energy is gathered, we can go deeper into meditation. These three must be kept absolutely closed—and fourth:
We shall work hard in meditation here; therefore reduce physical exertion outside as much as possible. Do not go sightseeing—this spot, that spot. You will return tired and then come to me saying, “Nothing happened in meditation.” Return here completely fresh, because we will work hard. Do not go anywhere; avoid walking about.
Apart from these three meetings, spend your time lying under the trees, quietly at rest. Maximum rest, maximum restraint of the senses.
Eat as little as possible; much energy is expended in digestion. And most of what you eat produces nothing but illness. Take little food; keep the stomach light, so energy can move upward. The heavier the stomach, the more energy flows downward to the belly. After eating, sleep comes because the brain has to give its energy to the stomach; the brain becomes dull and sleeps. If you are hungry or fasting, sleep does not come; simply because energy flows upward and the brain cells remain awake, filled with energy. If more energy flows toward the belly, it becomes difficult to work toward awareness; therefore eat less. Nothing will be lost by eating less for seven days; there can be many benefits—even for the body. Eat little, eat light. As if you had eaten nothing—just that much. I am not saying eat nothing, because if you eat nothing, you will think of food the whole day. Eat—eat less.
A curious fact: those who are heavy eaters find it very difficult to eat less; tell them to eat nothing, and they agree easily. It’s because moving from one extreme to another is always easier; stopping in the middle is hard. Tell someone not to eat sweets at all, and he will say, “All right, I will not even look.” But put sweets on the plate and tell him to take only two spoonfuls—then the real difficulty begins. That’s the limit—because the temptation is right there.
Eat less. This is the general arrangement for the seven days.
In the morning there will be fifteen minutes of kirtan to start with. Everyone will stand and dance in joy. The eyes will be bandaged even during kirtan; spread out with space between you, keep the bandages on, and dance—sing joyfully. For fifteen minutes flow in joy and kirtan; I will explain the details in the morning.
Then for fifteen minutes only the melody will continue; the kirtan will stop, and you will dance freely, alone. After that, lie down like a corpse for thirty minutes in deep rest. That will be the morning meditation.
I will explain the afternoon and night meditations tomorrow morning.
There is one special experiment to be added in this camp—for when you go to bed at night. I will explain it now, because it starts tonight and is essential. If you do it, you will awaken enough energy for us to use tomorrow.
First I told you to save energy—not to waste it needlessly; that was one thing. Now I will tell you a way to awaken energy—how to create it. I told you how to avoid spending what you have so that it remains saved; now I will tell you how to produce it within.
All the energy man has is usually consumed in ordinary daily activities; if some remains, that surplus gathers at your sex center. That surplus provokes sexual desire.
That is why for many people it becomes easier to practice celibacy if they eat little; less energy is produced, so the sex center receives no excess. But that is a deception of celibacy; there is little substance in it. It happens only because one lives below the necessary level of energy. Fast for thirty days and, if you are a man, your interest in women will wane; if you are a woman, your interest in men will wane. But it is not because you have transformed; it is only because the energy that fuels that interest is no longer being produced. After thirty days, give yourself three days of food, and what thirty days of fasting achieved three days of eating will undo; you will stand where you were.
Your surplus energy gathers at the sex center—one point. The second: the sex center is the dynamo that generates energy in all beings. The sex center is the mechanism within us that can produce power. If you choose, you can produce more energy from that mechanism. We generally use it only to waste energy, not to generate it. If the energy generated at the sex center is made to flow upward, it becomes kundalini.
The night experiment is a kundalini experiment. If you do it, these seven days will become unprecedented; you will never be able to forget them.
Tonight, when you go to bed—and every night—once you have finished everything and are ready for sleep, if possible remove all clothes, cover yourself with a sheet or blanket, and lie down inside. If it is easier, lie on your back; if on your belly is easier, do that—you will decide by trying for a day or two. Let the whole body relax, close your eyes, and take your attention to the sex center. Feel the sex center becoming active within and energy circulating there. As you have seen whirlpools in water, the wave swirling strongly—feel a vortex like that at the sex center. If you throw a flower into a whirlpool, it circles and sinks at the center—feel just like that within: at your sex center energy is whirling strongly. In three minutes of such feeling, vibrations will begin within.
These vibrations will at first be just like those during intercourse; the body will begin to tremble. When the body starts trembling, allow it to tremble fully—cooperate with it. Imagine as if you are entering the act of intercourse and the whole body is shaking. Let the whole body tremble. The whole body will grow warm.
As soon as you feel the body trembling and the energy whirling rapidly at the sex center, immediately relax and hold a single thought: from the sex center the energy has begun to rise upward. Like a flame moving upward from below. Bring that energy to the very center in the brain, between the eyebrows—the third-eye center—lift it from below to above. The energy will begin to flow upward. Feel only this: it has gathered between the eyebrows and is now whirling there.
Then forget the sex center completely and, keeping attention at this eye center, drift into sleep. In the morning, when you wake, let your first remembrance be of this center between the eyebrows; you will find a sensation there, a rapid movement—clear activity will be felt there.
Do this every night—for all seven days. Then your surplus energy, which otherwise flows into sexuality, will be sent upward; and the sex center will generate energy as well. All that energy will be received by your third eye. On that third eye we will work in the morning experiment. Therefore doing this night experiment is essential.
That is the instruction for today.
Now we will do five to seven minutes of kirtan. Everyone will stand and dance, sing, and then we will take leave.
Buddha said, “Many among them have become Buddhas.” The man asked, “Not a single one is visible!” Buddha replied, “Because they are not masters.”
To awaken is one thing; to awaken another is something else entirely. It is not necessary that one who is awakened will be able to awaken others. Even the awakened, if he wants to awaken someone else, has to descend and stand exactly where the other stands… in those same dark valleys, close to those who are lost, taking their hand in his. Often he must even walk a little way with them on a path where there is nothing but hell. Only if I hold your hand and walk a little way with you does enough trust arise that tomorrow, if I start leading you on my path, you will be able to come with me.
The master must walk with the disciple, so that the disciple can walk with the master. And very often the master has to tread a path he need not have trodden for himself. To transform someone, you have to go to where he is.
Hence the master says, “Let us both strive together, exert together. Let us both do sadhana together.”
There is one sadhana of knowing truth, and there is a totally different sadhana of transmitting truth—distinct, utterly distinct.
The Jains have drawn this distinction. They call the one who has attained supreme knowledge a kevali; the one who has attained supreme knowledge and is also a teacher, a master, they call a tirthankara. There is no other difference between a kevali and a tirthankara. The kevali has attained knowledge—the ultimate knowledge—but he is not a master. He cannot transfer it; he cannot give it to another. He simply does not see how to give it.
Understand it like this.
Very few people exist whose lives never give birth to a poem—sooner or later, a fragment of song begins to stir within. But true poets are rare. Many can hum a tune, but that doesn’t make one a musician. Even if music arises within you, it is not necessary that you can sing it out. Many times you feel, on seeing someone’s poem, “Ah, I could have written this!” A song seems just like one you might have sung; a melody exactly like one that often resounded within but you could not bring it out. Looking at a painter’s work, you feel, “This is the very painting I wanted to make—someone else has made it.” In truth, when you like someone’s painting, your liking means nothing other than this: if you could have painted it, you would have—your own echo. But you couldn’t.
Often truth dawns—knowledge arises, is born—but how to carry it to the other? How to communicate it?
A master is something very different. And only one is a master who is ready to do sadhana again with the disciple—again! A master is one who is willing to begin from the very first step with the disciple, to start again from the ABC; to take the disciple’s hand and begin from the point where he himself no longer needs to begin. The one who stands on the summit, and from that summit musters the courage to take the very first step again with the disciple—only he becomes a master.
That is why the master says, “Let us both exert together. May our learning be radiant.” “May our learning”—he keeps saying—“may our learning be radiant.”
A curious thing: Many times it happens that while explaining to a disciple, the master himself understands certain things for the very first time. Very often, explaining to someone becomes the easiest way to understand. Many times, when the experience of truth happens within, the experience does happen, but the experiencer himself does not fully comprehend what has happened. The thing has happened, the explosion has happened, but even the person is not able to grasp its totality. What has happened?
Buddha remained silent for seven days after his enlightenment. Why? One of the reasons, among many, is this: for seven days he tried to comprehend, “What has happened?” The event occurred. For seven days Buddha pondered, “What has happened?” One becomes dumbstruck, standing before truth for the first time. Everything is seen, yet nothing seems understood—everything is understood, yet still nothing is understood; nothing can be grasped—what has happened? What was there yesterday is no more; what was never there now is. What was taken as reality turns out to be a dream; what was never even known in a dream stands today as truth. The one who went out searching is lost; and the one to whom truth has happened—who is he? That too is not clear.
When Meister Eckhart first experienced samadhi, he asked two questions. One: “What is happening?” And two: “To whom is it happening?” A disciple near him said, “At least one thing I can tell you: it is happening to you. Why ask who it is happening to?” Eckhart said, “You do not understand. The one who set out to seek has been lost somewhere in this happening; and the one to whom this has happened is as unfamiliar to me as the happening itself.”
Very often only when one goes to explain to another does it become clear what has happened.
Therefore the master says: May our learning be radiant; may our knowing grow ever keener. May the edge of our knowing be sharpened; may the lamp of our knowledge shine more and more.
There is no moment that can say to the Divine, “Enough now.” No moment ever comes when someone can say to God, “All right, now let my intelligence rust.” No, such a moment never comes. Knowledge is a sword on which one can place edge upon edge. Infinite edges—and still, still something remains to glow. This is infinity, this is boundlessness.
Hence the master still says: “May our learning be radiant.” In truth the master is saying there is no reason to assume, “I have become a knower.” Knowledge is still needed; ignorance is still there.
Perhaps the more one knows, the more ignorance he sees—more than the ignorant can see. It is still there. Do not think it necessary that ignorance must remain. Do not think it necessary that this person actually needs more radiance of learning. This prayer is loving and symbolic. It declares that genius is always humble; genius does not hesitate to pray. Only the weak fear prayer. The weak cannot summon the courage even to ask. Even before the One from whom all can be received, they stand as if they already possess everything. Even at His door they keep their pride intact and turn back—the begging bowl hidden behind their back so it won’t be seen.
But the one who knows, knows also that knowing is not static, not a fixed event; not like a closed pond—knowing is a flowing river—no end… no end—like the current of a river, it goes on and on and on. This is its grandeur: knowledge has no end. If knowledge came to an end, it would be dead. The flower of knowing keeps blossoming—understand it so: it goes on blossoming—more petals, and more petals… and no moment ever comes when we can say, “The flower is complete.” It forever remains a bud—no matter how much it blossoms, still a bud.
“Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
In this journey of knowing, why is it needed that we not hate anyone? It seems irrelevant, out of tune—suddenly, as if the talk was going one way and reached somewhere else! The search for truth, the journey into the unknown—fine; we need radiance of intellect, wakeful awareness—fine; master and disciple striving together—fine—but suddenly, “Let us not hate anyone”—what is its relevance? Why this talk of hatred toward others?
Understand this.
The seers’ words are never irrelevant—even if they seem utterly so. It may look as if the seer has leapt from one place to another with no bridge in between—so it seems. And in the Upanishads many such moments will come, when it appears that the discourse has jumped somewhere else, with no rhyme or link. Even then, don’t be hasty. The seer knows inner linkages we do not see; he has found bridges that are invisible to us. He understands inner harmonies our intellect has not yet entered.
“Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
In truth, whenever a person sets out in search of anything, he often sets out because of hatred of the other, because of jealousy toward the other. Even the search for truth can be entered out of jealousy. The longing for knowledge too can be out of envy and competition.
A friend came to me just eight days ago. He said, “I am very restless, very uneasy. How can God be found?” I asked, “What is the cause of this restlessness—is there a thirst for God within, hence the unrest? Is there an inner anguish that He alone is life’s value and meaning, and without Him all is futile? Have you ever tasted something of the divine, and the memory of that taste haunts you, pulls you again and again? Have you ever had a glimpse through some window—even a little, even from afar—so that now it is difficult to forget? Do you think again and again of that same window, wondering how to reach it?”
He said, “None of this. If you can get Him, why can’t I? If Ramakrishna could get Him, why not I? And if Raman attained, what is my fault? Listening to all you people has made me restless. I have no taste, no thirst; I don’t even feel sure He exists.”
You may not notice it, but the seer’s prayer is precise. He is saying: “Let us not hate anyone”—let us not come to Your search merely because others have searched for You; lest we be left behind.
We are all engaged in competition—with houses and furniture, and even with God. If, from the history of humankind, a hundred names were removed, we might altogether forget the very idea of God. Those hundred people provoke enormous envy in us. One Buddha is born and our very life is thrown into crisis—if this man has attained, how can I remain behind?
First we try every trick to prove he has not attained—that is our self-defense. First we do all we can to show he has not attained, so we can be spared the trouble of jealousy and competition. “One day I saw this man angry; one day I saw him relishing delicious food; one day I saw a trace of ego in him.” We try to convince ourselves he has not attained, so we can avoid envy. But people like Buddha don’t oblige us; they pay no attention to our opinions. They go on living their way. Slowly, unease grows in us: it seems he really has attained. We tried everything; he remains unconcerned—looks like he’s found something. We test by stoning, by poisoning, by crucifying—we do all that; then our suspicion grows, and one day we feel: indeed, he has attained. Then our race begins immediately—how can I attain?
It may be difficult to accept, but people go toward the search for truth out of hatred too. Even there, there is envy. We cannot bear to see another wealthy; we cannot bear to see another wise. We cannot bear anyone else attaining.
Therefore the seer says: “Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
This is not irrelevant; it is profoundly relevant. For one who sets toward God out of hatred may reach many other places through hatred, but never God. Through hatred one can reach wealth. In fact, without hatred and competition you can hardly reach worldly goals. The more poison there is in your competition, the more likely your worldly success. The deeper your envy, the greater the power in your legs to run. But not toward God… because one who still sees “the other” as other will not be able to see God. And one who does not rejoice in another’s knowledge has not yet even felt the thirst for knowledge.
There is another kind of person who, going to a Buddha, does not worry whether he has attained or not; he does not think, “If he has attained, I must too.” No—he is delighted by Buddha’s fragrance; he is moved by Buddha’s music; he becomes reassured on seeing Buddha—not filled with envy. Seeing Buddha, he is reassured. He says, “Good. The thirst that was within me has reached the ocean in this man. I can follow my own thirst with trust.” Seeing Buddha, he attains to a faith—the faith that the impossible is possible; that what is very far is also very near. Buddhahood is far, but Buddha is very near; his feet can be held in our hands. And if Buddha’s feet can be held, then if not today, tomorrow Buddhahood also can come near—this faith.
Then there is no hatred, only gratitude and grace. When someone’s flower blossoms, he feels blessed, because it reminds him of his own bud; he remembers himself; he becomes mindful. Then his journey is not a journey of hatred. It is a journey of great joy, of great love, a journey unrelated to others.
Hence the seer says: “Let us not harbor hatred toward anyone.”
If there is no hatred toward others and only one’s own thirst, then man reaches very simply to that place where he can say, “Om shanti”—where he can say all has become quiet; everything has come to rest; all is bliss. This is the Upanishadic sutra…
Now let me give you a few announcements for tomorrow morning, and our night’s meeting will be complete.
First, for the whole camp: In the coming seven days you are to live in such a way that your life-energy is expended as little as possible—minimally. We have come here to explore in a direction that requires so much energy that if you waste it, you will not have the strength to enter that search. If the oil of your lamp is burned elsewhere, the flame for which you have gathered will not be kindled; the oil of your lamp must be saved.
So for these seven days, conserve as much energy as you possibly can. For this conservation, close the doors of your senses as much as you can, for they are the mechanisms that dissipate your energy. Keep your eyes closed as much as possible.
You will receive eye bandages tomorrow morning, or perhaps even now. Wear them twenty-four hours. When you need to walk, slide the bandage a little and see only as much as is needed—four steps, not even the fifth. Just see the ground for four steps and walk there. As soon as you reach, close your eyes again, slide the bandage down. Your eyes should remain bandaged throughout the day. The eyes consume the maximum power; gather it within. And it is especially necessary to collect the power of the eyes because what we are going to see requires the inner eye. The same energy that works through the outer eye must be used for the inner eye.
That is why the seer is called a drashta, a “seer.” That is why we call that realization darshan, “seeing.” The inner eye must receive the energy that the outer eye is getting; hence close the eyes. For seven days let all the energy of the eyes flow inward. Keep the eyes closed, and throughout the day remember that the power of both eyes is flowing toward the third eye, between the eyebrows, in the forehead. Whenever you remember—your eyes are closed and you are sitting idle—feel that the energy of both eyes is streaming inward toward the third eye, between the two brows, flowing there; from both sides it is entering the third eye. Then your meditation will gain unprecedented momentum—this is the first.
As much as possible, keep the ears closed; do not listen. One who has to hear the inner sounds needs to rest from outer listening, otherwise the inner sounds are very subtle and the outer noise is heavy; the subtle sounds cannot be heard. Some tuning is necessary.
So close the ears from outside; put in cotton or anything; keep the ears closed during all the hours you do not need them—and you will hardly need them for more than a few minutes. Apart from when you are with me, do not use the ears; keep them closed—and keep remembering all the time: Is something happening within that can be heard? Just a remembering. Then the energy of the ears will begin to flow inward; you will hear the inner sounds in meditation, and inner visions will appear.
The ears, the eyes—and your lips. Third: keep the lips closed; speak as little as possible. Better still, do not speak at all—remain silent. With the eyes and ears, I can tell you you are free: if you wish, you can keep them open—the loss will be yours. But with the lips, you harm others. There you trespass. So do not speak at all. Seeing and hearing is your choice; anyone can do as he likes. If you have come to meditate, keep them closed. If you have come by mistake, that is your choice. But even if you have come by mistake, you are not permitted to talk, because speaking harms others—you damage others when you speak. So please, absolutely no talking.
Some have perhaps come here precisely because they cannot find enough people in their village to talk to, or enough victims to hunt—they imagine they will find them here. There will be no conversation here. The campus must be utterly quiet and silent—wherever you are, your room must be silent—no singing, no songs, no talk, nothing. Seven days of silence.
You have talked your whole life—what have you gained? You can talk again for the rest of your life. Or, if you plan to live much longer, talk even more. But for seven days, listen to me and stop talking. Perhaps what cannot be known by talking may glimmer in the unspoken. If energy is gathered, we can go deeper into meditation. These three must be kept absolutely closed—and fourth:
We shall work hard in meditation here; therefore reduce physical exertion outside as much as possible. Do not go sightseeing—this spot, that spot. You will return tired and then come to me saying, “Nothing happened in meditation.” Return here completely fresh, because we will work hard. Do not go anywhere; avoid walking about.
Apart from these three meetings, spend your time lying under the trees, quietly at rest. Maximum rest, maximum restraint of the senses.
Eat as little as possible; much energy is expended in digestion. And most of what you eat produces nothing but illness. Take little food; keep the stomach light, so energy can move upward. The heavier the stomach, the more energy flows downward to the belly. After eating, sleep comes because the brain has to give its energy to the stomach; the brain becomes dull and sleeps. If you are hungry or fasting, sleep does not come; simply because energy flows upward and the brain cells remain awake, filled with energy. If more energy flows toward the belly, it becomes difficult to work toward awareness; therefore eat less. Nothing will be lost by eating less for seven days; there can be many benefits—even for the body. Eat little, eat light. As if you had eaten nothing—just that much. I am not saying eat nothing, because if you eat nothing, you will think of food the whole day. Eat—eat less.
A curious fact: those who are heavy eaters find it very difficult to eat less; tell them to eat nothing, and they agree easily. It’s because moving from one extreme to another is always easier; stopping in the middle is hard. Tell someone not to eat sweets at all, and he will say, “All right, I will not even look.” But put sweets on the plate and tell him to take only two spoonfuls—then the real difficulty begins. That’s the limit—because the temptation is right there.
Eat less. This is the general arrangement for the seven days.
In the morning there will be fifteen minutes of kirtan to start with. Everyone will stand and dance in joy. The eyes will be bandaged even during kirtan; spread out with space between you, keep the bandages on, and dance—sing joyfully. For fifteen minutes flow in joy and kirtan; I will explain the details in the morning.
Then for fifteen minutes only the melody will continue; the kirtan will stop, and you will dance freely, alone. After that, lie down like a corpse for thirty minutes in deep rest. That will be the morning meditation.
I will explain the afternoon and night meditations tomorrow morning.
There is one special experiment to be added in this camp—for when you go to bed at night. I will explain it now, because it starts tonight and is essential. If you do it, you will awaken enough energy for us to use tomorrow.
First I told you to save energy—not to waste it needlessly; that was one thing. Now I will tell you a way to awaken energy—how to create it. I told you how to avoid spending what you have so that it remains saved; now I will tell you how to produce it within.
All the energy man has is usually consumed in ordinary daily activities; if some remains, that surplus gathers at your sex center. That surplus provokes sexual desire.
That is why for many people it becomes easier to practice celibacy if they eat little; less energy is produced, so the sex center receives no excess. But that is a deception of celibacy; there is little substance in it. It happens only because one lives below the necessary level of energy. Fast for thirty days and, if you are a man, your interest in women will wane; if you are a woman, your interest in men will wane. But it is not because you have transformed; it is only because the energy that fuels that interest is no longer being produced. After thirty days, give yourself three days of food, and what thirty days of fasting achieved three days of eating will undo; you will stand where you were.
Your surplus energy gathers at the sex center—one point. The second: the sex center is the dynamo that generates energy in all beings. The sex center is the mechanism within us that can produce power. If you choose, you can produce more energy from that mechanism. We generally use it only to waste energy, not to generate it. If the energy generated at the sex center is made to flow upward, it becomes kundalini.
The night experiment is a kundalini experiment. If you do it, these seven days will become unprecedented; you will never be able to forget them.
Tonight, when you go to bed—and every night—once you have finished everything and are ready for sleep, if possible remove all clothes, cover yourself with a sheet or blanket, and lie down inside. If it is easier, lie on your back; if on your belly is easier, do that—you will decide by trying for a day or two. Let the whole body relax, close your eyes, and take your attention to the sex center. Feel the sex center becoming active within and energy circulating there. As you have seen whirlpools in water, the wave swirling strongly—feel a vortex like that at the sex center. If you throw a flower into a whirlpool, it circles and sinks at the center—feel just like that within: at your sex center energy is whirling strongly. In three minutes of such feeling, vibrations will begin within.
These vibrations will at first be just like those during intercourse; the body will begin to tremble. When the body starts trembling, allow it to tremble fully—cooperate with it. Imagine as if you are entering the act of intercourse and the whole body is shaking. Let the whole body tremble. The whole body will grow warm.
As soon as you feel the body trembling and the energy whirling rapidly at the sex center, immediately relax and hold a single thought: from the sex center the energy has begun to rise upward. Like a flame moving upward from below. Bring that energy to the very center in the brain, between the eyebrows—the third-eye center—lift it from below to above. The energy will begin to flow upward. Feel only this: it has gathered between the eyebrows and is now whirling there.
Then forget the sex center completely and, keeping attention at this eye center, drift into sleep. In the morning, when you wake, let your first remembrance be of this center between the eyebrows; you will find a sensation there, a rapid movement—clear activity will be felt there.
Do this every night—for all seven days. Then your surplus energy, which otherwise flows into sexuality, will be sent upward; and the sex center will generate energy as well. All that energy will be received by your third eye. On that third eye we will work in the morning experiment. Therefore doing this night experiment is essential.
That is the instruction for today.
Now we will do five to seven minutes of kirtan. Everyone will stand and dance, sing, and then we will take leave.
Osho's Commentary
To draw the essential out of the non-essential is already difficult; to draw the essence out of the essence is supremely difficult. To discover what is meaningful within the meaningless is no easy task; but to choose the supremely meaningful out of what is already meaningful seems almost impossible. To find gold out of earth has its own trouble, its own hardship; but to draw the very essence of gold… the gold-of-gold out of gold itself—this is near impossible.
Sarvasar Upanishad means: of all that has so far been known as secret knowledge, esoteric knowing, that which is the very quintessence—the most foundational; that which is so basic that not a particle can be left out, that from which nothing non-essential remains to be dropped; where the body has been entirely set aside and only the pure Self has been drawn forth; where from gold the object has been separated—only gold—the goldness of gold has been pulled out. Such is this Upanishad.
By knowing this one Upanishad, the doors to all that the human genius has known at its deepest open wide. Hence its name: ‘Sarvasar’—the Secret of the Secrets; that which is secret even among the secret, essence even among essences.
It is dangerous as well; for the subtler the vidya becomes, the more it slips out of our grasp. The purer truth is, the farther it moves from our understanding. It is no fault of truth; our understanding is so impure that the purer the truth, the greater the distance between it and us. Our impurity is the only reason. Therefore the subtler the truth, the less it lends itself to our day-to-day living.
This is why, in this land, the ultimate knowledge of life was discovered, yet we have kept spending our time discussing it; the thought of bringing it into life does not even occur; and even if we wish to bring it down, no path appears; even if we decide, no direction suggests itself for the feet to lift. It is so profound, so subtle, that we abandon the very hope of embodying it. Then, to deceive ourselves, we discuss and persuade the mind.
So we have been discussing for centuries. And that of which we discuss is such that it cannot be understood by discussion; it can only be known if we live it; living is the only way to know it. Walk upon it, only then do we understand. Walking is understanding.
There are dimensions so deep where to know and to be are not different; where to know and to be are one and the same; where to be is the only way to know. Only by being do we know.
But being feels difficult, and knowing seems easy; because by ‘knowing’ we mean only to know a few words, a few doctrines—a bit of philosophy, some scriptures. The intellect fills up with words and theories, the heart remains empty. And a stuffed intellect with an empty heart—no state is more dangerous; because a filled intellect gives the illusion that I have attained, when nothing has been found. The stuffed intellect makes it seem I am full, while within everything is empty, bare, poor, and destitute—the soul like a beggar’s bowl inside, yet the intellect is deluded with the fantasy of being an emperor.
Thus, more people are deluded by intellect than by ignorance. And those seated in the boat of intellect drown more certainly than if they were to sit in a paper boat; because it seems as if they know, and yet they do not know at all. Hence I say, the subtle sutras of a text like the Sarvasar Upanishad are dangerous; the fear is that we will turn them into objects of thinking—ponder, analyze, and thereby be free of them. Let me say it to you at the outset: entering into an Upanishad is like playing with fire; without being transformed, the Upanishad cannot be understood.
Take it thus: there are knowledges such that, as we are, we may remain; even so, we can acquire them. A person may learn mathematics, or history, or something else; he need not change himself to learn these. He can remain who he is, and the learning will be accumulated. His soul need not pass through any transmutation. No inner revolution is required to be a historian, nor to be a mathematician, nor even to be a scientist.
But dharma is altogether different: there transformation precedes knowledge; unless the person changes, he cannot understand; only if he changes will he understand. There, unless the first process of inner change happens in the depths, accumulation in the intellect is useless—it becomes deception, self-fraud. Therefore it is better to remain ignorant than to fall into the fraud of knowledge; because the ignorant is still humble, the so-called knower becomes arrogant. The ignorant one still weeps within somewhere and is afflicted; the “knower” hardens with conceit; even his tears dry up; even his thirst seems quenched. False water too can seem to quench thirst.
We have all dreamt. We were seized by a great thirst, and in a dream we drank water and the thirst was gone, and the night’s sleep remained unbroken. Dreams come only to support sleep. You perhaps think dreams disturb sleep; then you know nothing of the science of dreams. You may think: if only there were no dreams, I would sleep very deep. You are in great error; if there were no dreams, you would not sleep at all.
Dreams are merely the allies of sleep. Whenever sleep is about to break, a dream deceives you and keeps sleep going. You are thirsty; if a dream does not come that you are drinking water by a river, sleep must break—thirst is so urgent. But a dream arises: you are at the riverbank, bathing in a lake, drinking to your fill—drink. The dream occurs, the thirst is quenched—no, not quenched; it seems quenched—and sleep continues. You are hungry, and in dream an invitation arrives from a royal palace; the dream is saved from breaking. Repressed sex surges; in dream, even a beggar is united with beauties… and sleep resumes its place, active again.
As we in dreams still our thirst with false water, so too what we call waking—this Upanishad will say ahead—is itself only a kind of dream. There too, with false accumulations of knowledge, with false memories of knowing, with false illuminations, we hide our ignorance… sleep is saved from breaking; the world goes on just as night-sleep goes on.
As one awakens from sleep and consciousness enters another dimension… so when someone awakens from the sleep of the world, sannyas happens, and consciousness enters another dimension.
This is all sannyas means: one is no longer willing to run the world like sleep; now he wants to live awake—just that.
If by discussing the Upanishad you become a ‘knower’, then I did wrong to speak; I became your enemy. Only if, through the Upanishad’s discourse, you set out upon self-revolution… only then was what I said beneficial, conducive to blessedness.
What I say can become poison… sheer poison, if you make it a topic of discussion, a food for the intellect, a support for your sleep. What I say can become nectar, if you do not turn it into an intellectual affair but let it give birth to power, strength, resolution in the heart to change.
It will depend on what you do with this Sarvasar Upanishad! If you learn a few little things here and go back, that is not good… better you had not come. If you return with a little more to know, a bit more knowledgeable, then your coming and going were in vain.
No, there is no purpose or desire here to add a little information to your knowledge. Go back a little changed, a little other—let your vision change, not your memory; let your prajna change, not your data; let you grow, not your intellect.
How may that which is our very nature grow—not knowing more, but how may my very being grow… therefore I said, this Upanishad is dangerous.
To grapple even a little with truth is no game, it is risk; because truth will not leave you as you are—it will change, break, erase, renew, and give you a new birth. Surely, there is the pain of new birth. Without the pangs of labor, where is new birth! And if even giving birth to another carries so much pain, then to give birth to oneself will bear even greater pain; for another the mother bears the child only for nine months, we have kept ourselves in the womb from beginningless births.
From birth to birth we have only been a womb, merely a seed; through infinite births we have held ourselves in our own belly; our birth has not yet happened—just as a butterfly closed in its shell for lifetimes; the shell not broken, the butterfly not flown; it has not opened its wings to the sky—so are we, closed within ourselves.
This Upanishad speaks of the science by which that egg can be broken, that womb erased, which we have so far called life; which is not even our birth.
Does a seed have a life? The seed is, indeed, but has the seed a life? Life is the tree’s. Has the seed a life? It is only a possibility, a mere hope, a mere future… the seed has no present. A capacity-to-be… not life. What we call life is only a capacity—a closed seed. Life is the tree’s; it spreads into the open sky; it touches the sun; its branches lift to reach the moon and stars; flowers bloom, birds make their nests—songs and storms, tempests, sun and rain, battles, and challenges with death. Moment to moment, life then is. Has the seed a life! The seed is only a womb.
We too are a womb… and there will be much pain; much pain. We all want bliss, but we want it without pain; that is why bliss never ripens. Who does not want bliss? Who is not hungry for it? Every fiber longs for bliss. Every breath aspires only for bliss. That alone… that alone is everyone’s desire, yet bliss does not bear fruit; because no one is ready to pay the price. We want to escape the pain. We are like a mother who wants to avoid the labor pains.
Perhaps today or tomorrow, the pains of mothers will end upon the earth; children will be born without the pangs of labor—they have begun to be. But a day can never come when a man enters the rebirth of his soul, gives a new birth to his soul, and it happens without labor pains.
There is another amusing point: if a mother gives birth without pain, then those who strive all over the world to free the mother from pain while she gives birth do not yet know one truth—they will soon come to know; and we often discover truths only when things have slipped out of our hands—then they will see that a mother who gives birth without any pain will be a little deprived of the depth of becoming a mother. If a child could be born just like that, without any pain, then the mother too will be spared from being born as a mother, deprived… she would not become a mother; because when a child is born in pain, that pain becomes an abyss, and upon the edge of that abyss stands the mother’s peak.
When we avoid abysses, we miss the peaks as well.
If we wish to smooth out all the ravines around the Himalayas, and yet keep the peaks—keep Gauri Shankar—we are mad; we know nothing of the logic of life. Peaks exist because there are abysses, chasms. In truth, peak and chasm are conjoined.
Man, however, repeats the same mistakes. Man thought: if we could erase all sorrow, there would be much happiness. But the curious thing is: when all sorrow is erased, we find no happiness remains; for they were conjoined. This is why it is often seen that the rich become more miserable than the poor; prosperous societies become more afflicted than poor societies.
This is the West’s trouble today: they have removed many of the sufferings—those very causes by which we are unhappy, they have removed them all—in the hope that the day sorrow ends, only happiness will remain. Sorrows ended, and it turned out that happiness ended along with them; ravines disappeared, peaks too vanished. Nights were abolished, and with them the days; we stripped the thorns from the rosebush, but occupied with removing thorns, when we raised our eyes, the flower had fallen; it was there along with the thorns. They were conjoined.
But it may be that children are born without pain; it can never be that man gains his new life without pain. That cannot be. The reason is this: whatever we have been so far… it must be broken, erased, removed—to make space for the new.
The mother’s pain in childbirth is not the pain of erasing herself; her pain is the shock of something new freeing itself from her. But when a person gives birth to himself, he is not birthing something other; he is doing a double work—erasing himself, finishing himself; and in the measure that he erases and ends himself, in that measure the new life appears.
Therefore I said the teaching of this Upanishad is dangerous—one must be ready for the pain of self-revolution. For fear of that pain, understand the rishi’s first sutra:
“ O Paramatman! Protect us both.”
Why this prayer? Why does the rishi, at the very beginning of this Upanishad, pray to the Paramatman for protection? Do you think his house lacked a roof? Do you think he had no bread, that he was starving, that he had no clothes? Protection—from what? For what is protection being sought? And right at the start! The very first sutra a prayer for protection!
The journey upon which the rishi is going ahead is death; because only after that is new life. And this is certainly known: that I will die; it is not certain that thereafter I will be born; that is the unknown. Protect me. He prays to the Paramatman: today I step into the unknown; danger is clear; death is visible…
To the seed, only death is visible; how can the tree be seen! Breaking—that much is seen… erasure; but the tree too will be, and those flowers that will one day bloom—how, how can a seed imagine them! The songs that will be born around that tree, the flutes that will sound around it, the gusts of wind that will rustle through its leaves—how could this seed know of them? What news has it of springs? Of the raindrops that will fall upon that tree—what news has this seed? It knows only this much: I will be erased; this is known; all else is unknown… hence the prayer.
“O Lord! Protect us both—guru and shishya.”
This is even more wondrous—that the prayer is for both—the guru as well as the shishya. If it were for the shishya, it would be easy to understand—but it is also for the guru! That seems a bit difficult to grasp. For the shishya it makes sense—he who is just learning, who is just lifting his foot, who is just about to leave the boat into the unknown—let him pray for protection, for safety. But why for the guru? Why ‘us both’?
There is something here. And it is this: the relation of guru and shishya is so intimate that if one drowns, the other will drown. To be saved would be difficult. Their relation is so intimate, so near, that in this world there is no other relation so near—not husband and wife; not mother and son; not brother and brother; not friend and friend.
So near is their relation… if one drowns, the other surely drowns. Therefore the rishi prays: ‘Protect us both’—the shishya and the guru—hold both of us.
There are deeper points still. The rishi is also saying that ‘guru’ does not mean someone who cannot drown. This is worth pondering. ‘Guru’ does not mean one who cannot go astray. In truth, if anyone were ever to be in such a state that he could no longer drown, no longer wander, no longer be lost in darkness, he would be nearly dead. Life always carries the possibility of being lost—always! That is what it means to be alive. Even Buddha’s foot could slip; that it does not is another matter; that it will not is another matter; that it never did is another matter—it could. I repeat: it does not; it did not. No record exists that Buddha’s step ever missed; but when Buddha stands in prayer before the Divine, he too would say: protect me. He could miss. And the wonder is: the one who prays thus never misses; and the one who does not pray certainly misses—for ego itself is the miss.
Hence: ‘Guru and shishya—protect us both.’
The shishya’s prayer is ordinary, but the guru’s inclusion is extraordinary. And the one we call guru is precisely the person who has no sense of being a guru. He alone is guru who has no ‘guru-hood’; and one who feels himself a guru is not even worthy yet to be a shishya.
This prayer says… this rishi does not even think: why would I need protection? I… I know; I have attained; I have arrived; I am leading others—why would I need protection?—he has no such thought at all; he says: protect us both.
And this unparalleled humility is the very secret of his being a guru. We can trust that this man will be able to speak deep truths; we can trust that if someone follows this man even with closed eyes, he will arrive—following this man… even with closed eyes, he will arrive. And as for the so-called gurus—follow them with eyes wide open and in great cleverness, and you will end up nowhere else but in a ditch.
A guru is one to whom even the thought that ‘I also am’ no longer remains. Such emptiness can only be filled with prayer; there is no other way, no other movement into otherwise.
“Protect us both. Nourish us both.”
Protection seems not enough, it seems. He speaks of nourishment. Does not nourishment come within protection? No—protection is entirely of the spiritual plane. In it the prayer is only toward this: we know nothing of the realm into which we have set out… the shishya does not know, and the guru too says: I also do not know.
They must have been wondrous ones; for to become a guru one must first claim: I know, else who will accept me as guru? Even to make a single disciple is difficult if the guru does not claim to know. This guru says: what, I too know nothing… protect us. We have set sail toward the unknown; we have launched our boat upon an ocean with no map in hand; that there is a farther shore too—we have seen only in dreams, in visions. It is aspiration only. Who knows if the other shore exists or not. We leave this shore that we know and go toward a shore about which we know nothing at all.
The shishya’s case is clear, but the guru too says: ‘Protect me as well.’ The guru should know the other shore.
It is a bit intricate. In truth, the name of the other shore is: the Unknown. The very meaning of the other shore is: that which is never known—however much you know, it remains unknown.
No, the unknown can be known; but the Unknowable—however much is known, it still feels unknown; however much is recognized, still no recognition is formed; the embrace happens, yet the touch does not; you touch, you grasp, yet nothing comes into grasp; a person knows, and yet no identity forms within that says, “I know.”
Therefore the guru says: ‘Protect me as well.’
But protection—granted… the journey is unknown, the path unseen, the other shore uncertain, the goal hazy… protect us. In the next sutra he says:
“Nourish us both as well.”
Why? Nourishment seems entirely of the bodily plane. But there is a reason for prayer. And the reason is: whoever sets out in search of the Supreme Truth also drops the ego that ‘I am the provider of my own nourishment’; for one who thinks, ‘I earn my bread, I build my house, my clothes are mine, I run this body, and if I do not worry, everything will collapse’—such a person is living in great stupidity; and such a person may travel comfortably in the world, but he cannot travel toward truth.
Therefore the rishi says: do Thou nourish us as well; for from now on we will no longer remain the doers; from now on we cannot even keep the sense that at least we are the ones who will provide for ourselves.
We are very amusing people! We do not provide even for ourselves, yet we provide for others too!
This rishi says: even our nourishment will no longer be ours; now You understand, now You know; now if You keep, so we will remain; if You save us, fine; if You erase us, fine; now Your will alone is our life. We drop even the sense of being doers.
Dropping this is precious, because it becomes an ally in the journey. Indeed, one who is bound to the sense of doer-ship will keep his boat tied to this shore; he cannot move toward the other shore. All pegs must be uprooted from this bank; even a single peg left driven in is dangerous. However the ego is built, it becomes a peg. Even as much as: I earn my own bread and eat by myself—is enough.
The rishi says: our nourishment also…!
“Nourish us both. May we both strive together.”
There is a kind of knowledge which the guru gives to the shishya; as in a university or a school. Knowledge is an accumulated stock; the guru knows, the student does not; the guru transfers it, gives it, hands it over—the guru gives, the shishya receives. This we well understand. Such knowledge is like a commodity, like wealth—what is in my hand I pass on. The father has money, he gives it to the son; the guru has knowledge, he gives it to the shishya—transfer. But there is a knowledge that is not transferable. There is a knowing the guru does not give—cannot give; there is no way to give it… yes, if both strive together, perhaps it gets transmitted to the disciple.
Understand this difference.
There is a knowledge we all know—what can be given; one receives it; someone hands it over. I know, you do not, I give it to you, you too know. Certainly such knowledge will be of the word; it will be superficial. What can be given through the word cannot be deeper than the word. Its weight will be only that of words. Its value too will be only that. And it is not necessary that what I give you I knew myself; someone gave it to me, I gave it to you, you will give it to someone else.
Thus, the ignorant do a great deal of dealing in knowledge; much indeed. And when such knowledge circulates with vigor, it seems society is becoming very knowledgeable. We live in such knowledge… in this century; because knowledge circulates vigorously. Those who understand economics will catch the meaning. If we have a thousand rupees here, and everyone keeps them in their pockets, there are only a thousand. But if a lot of exchange goes on—ten rupees I take from you, you from him, he gives to that one—then with one thousand rupees, work worth lakhs is done—circulation! Economists say: money must continue to circulate just like blood in the body. Otherwise it remains little. If money does not move, it seems small. The society that circulates money more seems richer.
Muslims remained poor because Islam early on seized a very precious point: that interest is sin. Now, when interest is sin, the circulation of money stops; the movement of wealth ceases. So Muslims remained poor on the earth because they fixed a screw that interest must not be taken. If you will not take interest, money will halt; for how will money move? It travels on the strength of interest; it journeys. From one pocket to another, from the second to the third… one rupee becomes a thousand by turning around.
America is the richest because money moves fastest—runs with force. If money circulates swiftly, the poor too seem rich; if money does not move, even the rich are poor. Many rich in our land are utterly poor; their money does not move. They have it buried in a safe, sitting on top of it. If you pull the safe away from under them, nothing changes in their wealth—provided they do not find out that the safe is gone; the idea is enough that the safe is beneath—they are rich.
Even a rich man can be poor if money does not move, and if money moves the poor may seem rich.
Knowledge is like that. It circulates vigorously. There is universal education. All over the world now there is schooling; knowledge circulates with speed—one gives to another, the second to a third—everyone keeps giving knowledge to each other. It seems there is a great deal of knowledge; yet there is none at all.
The knowledge the rishi speaks of is not the sort anyone can give you.
The guru says: may we both strive together—that alone is the grace we ask. We will live together, meditate together, pray together, worship together, rise and sit together… in silence, in words, in thought. We will be together—in yearning for Thee, in the endeavor for Thee, in the running toward Thy attainment. We will dream together, sing together, be silent together; together we will look at the sun, together at the stars of the night sky—we will be together.
This is what has been called satsang: we will be together. Perhaps in this togetherness, that which cannot be given directly, will be given; that which cannot be given hand to hand, will travel indirectly, from behind, quietly. What cannot be said in words may descend in silence. What cannot be given, perhaps through mere togetherness will be transmitted.
Bodhidharma went from India to China… fourteen hundred years ago; his disciple Huineng lived for years with Bodhidharma. Huineng asked many times: when will you give… when will you give that knowledge? When will the moment come when you will fill my bowl? I am circling behind you; time is slipping by; life has no guarantee. Bodhidharma would laugh and say nothing. Gradually Huineng even stopped asking. There was no point, the man only laughed. And then one day the event happened: at midnight Huineng rose and shook Bodhidharma… ‘At least, before giving, you could have said so! And what is this time you chose? In the middle of the night, in sleep!’ Bodhidharma still laughed; he said: quietly go to sleep. He laughed again—as he had always laughed before. Now Huineng kept asking: tell me something at least! How did you give it? How did this come to me? You could have said something! You could have told me! You filled me completely and gave no hint! Bodhidharma said: I myself did not know at what moment this event would happen! This transmission… when will it be? No one can say. But we endeavor together. We will walk together, rise and sit together—live together—and it will happen. If a snuffed lamp is placed near a lit lamp, who can say in which gust, in what ripple of wind the burning flame will lean toward the unlit—who can say when? And when the other lamp too will be aflame and will catch the light. It is exactly so… such events happen.
So the guru says only this, the rishi says only this: ‘May we both strive together.’
He does not say: let the shishya strive. That alone would have been proper. Would it not? That would have sufficed.
All gurus tell the disciple—labor, make effort; no guru says: let us both strive together. For, keep in mind, the disciple’s nearness is not enough; the guru’s becoming intimately available is even more essential. The unlit lamp may settle right beside the lit flame, but if the lit flame is stiff with pride and refuses to bend in the wind—closed, rigid—nothing will happen.
If the guru considers himself a guru, nothing will happen; for he is ready to give, but not ready to be together… and without togetherness, it cannot be given.
Hence the old seeker, when he went to search, the place where he lived with his guru was called: gurukul—the family of the Master. It was only the guru’s family; going there he would be included— a member of the family. Gathered in, become one. But this nearness is double; all nearnesses are double. Therefore the guru says: let us both strive together—let us be heroic, let us labor, let us do sadhana.
The guru too has great sadhana. Not all who know become gurus—understand this rightly. Many on this earth come to know, but cannot beget knowledge in others. Knowing is not that difficult…