Saravsar Upanishad #10

Eastern insight does not regard man-as-he-is as anything more than a cluster of diseases — man as he is; it does not regard him as anything more than illness. But this is not a despairing attitude toward life. This perspective is not hopeless, not pessimist. It calls man diseased as he is only because, if his disease is mistaken for health itself, that man who could be, never comes to be.
Man’s possibility is infinite. If a diamond lies among pebbles and stones and takes itself to be a pebble-stone, the door of possibility closes; there remains no scope for inner growth, no way to become something more. If what we are we take to be our full being, then there is no way of growth. Growth is possible only in one sense: that what we are, we do not take ourselves to be. In whatever direction movement happens, in that very direction we must not take our present state to be complete.
An unprecedented event has happened in human history: the West did not take external circumstances as final, as they were. And so the West succeeded in transforming outer conditions to a very great extent. There was poverty — it refused to accept it; there was disease — it refused to accept it; there were hovels — it refused to accept them; the road was rough — it refused to accept it; man’s speed was small — it refused to accept it. The West would not agree to accept outer circumstances as they were; therefore the West has radically altered the outer scene.
But the East made an even deeper experiment: man-as-he-is within, the East refused to accept. This very refusal is the indication when we say we consider man-as-he-is to be ill; he is transformable; he must be transformed; only if he changes will he come to his own nature, only if he changes will he arrive at that state where he can be quiet and contented and blissful.
Our restlessness is the restlessness of a seed. If the seed does not become a tree, restlessness will remain. And if any seed assumes that to remain a seed is its perfection, then there remains no way for the sprout to break forth.
Therefore the Rishi has analyzed these five clusters of disease. We spoke of three last night, and the fourth...
The fourth is: ‘Sattva.’ And the fifth is: ‘Punya.’
The third was: ‘desire’ — thirst, craving. Desire means: desire for something else — I want wealth, I want fame — wealth and fame are outside me. There is an even subtler desire, which we do not understand; that the Rishi calls ‘Sattva.’
A man may not want wealth, may not want fame; but a man wants to be a good man; a man wants to be a sadhu; a man wants to be a sannyasi — this too is desire... though nothing outside is getting added; this too is craving — not for wealth, but for dharma. If desires are diseases, then this desire too is a malady: I want to become something — even if within.
A friend came yesterday; he said: I want sannyas, but internal, not external. Because the outer seems like desire — even external sannyas — but the inner sannyas does not seem like desire, it is very subtle desire. Desire it still is. Whenever I want to be something, craving will be there.
The Rishi is saying: if you bind yourself even to the craving for Sattva, it will become an illness... even the desire for Sattva. To purify and perfect the within...
Now this is very interesting: all these diseases are understood so that that which is perfect within may manifest. Another point also must be held in mind: I said to you, like a seed — but the analogy goes only a little way; no analogy goes far. To drag it beyond its limit creates mischief. If a seed takes itself to be a seed, it will never become a tree — this is true. But the man who is within himself already is, is already that. If he takes himself to be something else, he will not know — but he remains that. That which he is within is not some future, evolving state; it is present now.
Like a beggar with the key to a treasure in his pocket. The treasure already exists, the key already exists, but the beggar has forgotten the key, he cannot remember it, and he keeps begging... from morning till night he begs, and is so busy begging that he never gets a chance to put his hand in his pocket; his hands are always stretched out toward another. And hands stretched before others — how will they go into one’s own pocket? Ever busy in asking, the mind remains eager toward the other; there is no leisure for one’s own search. Even if some little leisure comes at night, it too is lost in counting and accounting for what was received from others. In the morning again the race begins. In the evening again the accounts. It is not only millionaires who keep accounts; beggars also tally their records. And therefore the difference between a beggar and a millionaire is not qualitative; it is consequential, a difference only of quantity. Their ledger is a little small; the millionaire’s ledger is a little large — but beggarhood does not differ.
In this accounting, life is spent. And if something was within, it never gets the chance. And one thing becomes fixed for the beggar: that I do not have... and others have, from whom I must receive. Begging and begging, it becomes steady that whatever is worth receiving is with the other; it is not with me.
And when I say this, it is the state of mind of us all. Whenever anything appears desirable to us, it is with the other. Always with the other lies the means of gratifying our lust — always with the other. Hence we go on begging — begging, begging, ceaselessly creating a deep habit — and then no way remains to look within.
So the Rishi is saying: even those who are engaged in making themselves superior — not in terms of wealth, not in terms of fame, with very auspicious intention, with very religious desire, with very good-intention, with very sattvic feeling, seeking Sattva... Seeking Sattva means seeking the sattvic... which no one in the world would call bad. If a man accumulates wealth, people will say, What are you doing? But if a man accumulates knowledge, no one will say, What are you doing? Yet both are fulfilling the lust to accumulate; both are feeding the same passion for hoarding. The man who gathers wealth will be told, Why are you caught in trash? But the one who gathers knowledge will be praised: he has embarked upon a very auspicious pilgrimage, a journey into Sattva. But the shards of knowledge are acquired from outside just as coins of money are.
And knowledge too has its coins. A man commits the scriptures to memory and becomes a knowledgeable one. The scripture is as outside as money is. He does not keep it in a vault; he keeps it in memory — memory is a vault. And in a sense this man is more clever, a subtler merchant; for outer vaults can be cracked and opened, can be stolen from; the vault of memory is a little difficult to steal from — unless someone like Mao is in power. It can be stolen there too. Now the effort is on that even your memory not be spared, that you not remain master of it. The methods of brain-wash have been developed — to wash the brain clean. Your skull can be cleaned out.
After the Korean war, China conducted deep experiments in brain-washing on American prisoners they held, the POWs. And a very strange but valuable discovery was made: out of a hundred men only five prove difficult to brain-wash; there is no trouble in washing the brains of ninety-five percent, because ninety-five percent have no mastery over their own memory. It can be washed very easily. With very simple techniques memory gets rinsed out. And when the man whose memory has been washed comes out, he himself cannot recall what he believed yesterday, where his trust lay yesterday, what his faith was yesterday.
Stalin and Mao both conducted highly significant experiments — dangerous and opposed to human freedom, but significant because they revealed something. A man who has not committed murder can be induced to admit that he has, and he will come to the court and testify that he has killed. And the real wonder was this: later the man was actually caught who had committed the murder. And this man had confessed too; he was even hanged; and he had acknowledged the crime. And he had not acknowledged under any beating or coercion — the new feature is this: he was not forced by torture to confess; his memory was washed and he confessed. Once memory is washed, then to insert anything into him by another technique... is not difficult.
If a man is kept awake seven days, not allowed to sleep, a disarray arises within. Then it is not clear to him whether he is dreaming at this moment or is actually awake or asleep or what he is doing. Keep him from sleeping for seven days, keep him from dreaming, and he will begin to dream with open eyes. Then he is not sure whether the wall before him is there or is only appearing. As soon as confusion arises between his sense of dream and reality, he becomes vulnerable; now anything inside and outside can be done to his brain. In such a moment records will be played over him, he will be lectured, coaxed; and whatever you insert into his mind... now he is suggestible; now he will accept. That thing will descend into the deep unconscious. The man can say in court tomorrow, ‘I have murdered,’ because that idea has been put into his mind. And now it is beyond him to deny it. He himself believes that he has murdered; his memory has been altered.
Even so, thieves had not yet attacked the vault of memory... so the learned wrote — not the wise, one should not call them wise; the pundits wrote: that money can be stolen, knowledge cannot be stolen. Now it can; because it too is accumulation. And the tendency to accumulate is one and the same; it makes no difference what is collected. Whether a man collects postal stamps or rupees or knowledge — what he collects makes no difference. The relish of collecting is outside oneself.
This is why Aparigraha is of such value. Aparigraha does not mean that you must leave what is outside. The meaning and value of Aparigraha is that the tendency to accumulate must be left. Then the inner journey becomes possible.
Sattva too is a kind of hoarding. A man says: I have fasted for three months. He has not accumulated anything; for food is what gets accumulated in the body; he has not accumulated even that. In three months his weight has fallen; he has only lost, accumulated nothing. But the three-month fast — this sattvata he has accumulated... he is accumulating this too. He wants to declare: I fasted for three months. This is the spirit of hoarding.
A man says: I gave so much in charity. In charity nothing is hoarded; from the hand it goes. Money goes — but the feeling of charity gets hoarded... ‘I gave so much!’
A friend came to meet me. His wife was with him. She knew me; she had brought her husband to introduce him. While introducing she said, My husband has given one lakh rupees in charity till now. The husband said, No, no — one lakh ten thousand!
He has given — but the feeling of giving too is hoarded. We do not only keep count of what we collect; we keep count of what we leave too. But the counting goes on.
We hoard Sattva too. If we do something good, we keep that in memory as well. In fact, the amusing thing is, if one does something bad one does not keep it in memory. So the bad man does not have much hoard of badness. Others say, You are bad; he says, Where am I? But the good man has a collection of goodness. Therefore a very unprecedented phenomenon sometimes happens: the bad man leaps within more quickly, sometimes the good man cannot leap so quickly. The reason is that the bad man is in a sense empty, because he does not keep accounts of what he has done; keeping account is not pleasant. Whatever he has done, he himself does not want to have done; he does not keep tally.
But the good man... keeps count of all he has done. Perhaps he keeps more account than he has actually done. He also inflates it a little. Much of it he has only thought, not done, and he adds that too. This very hoarding becomes the obstacle. Hence it has often happened that some Valmiki, some Angulimala — in a single instant — men who were sheer criminals — in a single instant have become available to knowing. The reason... the reason is, more than the crime the hoard becomes the obstacle. For what will a criminal hoard? He knows: I am nothing at all. A certain egolessness becomes possible. But with the sattvic, ego is tied to it.
The Rishi says: Sattva too is a disease.
This is a courageous statement. No religion outside India has been able to say that Sattva is also a disease. Evil has been called disease, sin has been called disease — but Sattva, the auspicious, has not been called a disease. Surely any religion born outside India could not rise beyond moral thinking... could not become truly religious in the precise sense.
Therefore when the utterances of the Eastern mind first went to the West, they were very shocked, because these did not seem like religious statements — they seemed very anarchic. If you even tell man that collecting Sattva is also illness, then you will lead him astray.
But that is a misunderstanding of their exposition. Those who can say that collecting Sattva is an illness, do say — and that goes without saying — that collecting Asattva is a great illness. If collecting is disease, then when even Sattva is collected it turns into disease; then Asattva is disease of course. There is no point in even talking about that — it is granted; one should not even raise the topic. To have to say to anyone that stealing is a sin is proof that society is so low that one still has to say that stealing is a sin. But to say that the pride of being non-thief is also sin... this can be said only when society has gone beyond that stage where the sinfulness of theft is simply accepted. One should not even have to bring it up.
So when Christians first read the Upanishads they were astonished, because there is nothing like the Ten Commandments in the Upanishads — no ‘Do not steal,’ no ‘Do not look upon another’s woman,’ ‘Do not commit adultery.’ They asked, Where are the Ten Commandments? Where are religion’s ten injunctions? Where is the basic foundation?
They did not know that those who wrote here knew that talking of the ten commandments is childish. Those are matters for a very primitive society. To whom one still has to say, Do not commit adultery; Do not look upon another’s wife — this is very bad. This only means the primer is still being read. The time has not come when it can be said: ‘That I have not looked at another’s wife — if I take this to be my virtue, this too is sin.’ Even the consciousness of virtue is sin, because it condenses ego.
Sattva too is disease... a good disease, one should say regal disease — it happens to good people — but it happens. And often, because of this disease, the good can turn out sometimes worse than the bad — because the stiffness of being good creates a deep authoritarianism, the stiffness of goodness imposes a very dangerous kind of bondage upon others.
To be the son of a good father is not an easy matter, because a good father weighs so heavily upon the son that this very burden can become the reason for the son turning bad. The clamour of goodness-goodness becomes an attraction toward evil. And if the father is so good that the son cannot surpass him in goodness, then the only way left is to surpass him in badness.
Therefore good people seldom have good sons — the reason is very deep. Because goodness, day after day, becomes distasteful. And one defect of goodness is that the other person cannot even say you are wrong. So your stiffness gets no challenge.
I have heard of a fakir — of the Zen fakir Rinzai — that he used to do a few things here and there which were not good, and yet he was a man of Buddha’s stature. Those who knew him knew it well; they many times asked him, Why do you sometimes do small things which bring great disrepute and dishonour? Rinzai would say, So that I remain human among humans; just to be human among humans; otherwise I would turn inhuman... If I become so good that there is no evil in me at all, I become utterly unhuman, I fall like a stone upon people’s chests. If my disciples sometimes criticize me a little, a lightness comes; and if my disciples laugh about me behind my back, I am saved from making them enemies.
This is very surprising. The man must have been very strange. But he has a very deep feel for the human soul.
A good teacher in school knows well that children must have a chance to laugh behind his back. It is the outlet for the anger that collects while they are forced to sit for five or six hours before him.
Thus good people become very heavy — but they become heavy only when Sattva is their disease, not their nature.
When the Rishi says Sattva too is disease, he is not saying that to be sattvic is disease. He is saying: the accumulation of Sattva, and the joining of ego with Sattva, is disease. The awareness ‘I am good’ is the disease; being good is not disease. And the one who is good is so good that he is always able to forgive evil too.
Bayazid set out on a pilgrimage — a Sufi fakir — going on a sacred journey. It was the month of Ramadan, the fast was on. A hundred sannyasi disciples accompanied Bayazid. It was the very first day of fasting, and they entered the first village. And as soon as Bayazid entered, the villagers said: the man who loves you — he is a tanner, a poor tanner — he has sold his house and everything to make arrangements for your food. And today he has invited the whole village to eat, saying, ‘My master is entering our village; let the entire village dine today.’ He has sold everything. He said, ‘We will think about tomorrow tomorrow.’
Bayazid agreed... he went; he sat to eat. The disciples felt great restlessness... great restlessness! And they got their chance: Alas, behind what kind of master are we wasting our lives! A resolve had been made for fasting — it seems he fell into greed for good food. And while Bayazid ate with great joy, they ate with great difficulty, compelled by his presence.
At night, when people departed, the disciples fell upon the master. They said: This is too much; we had not expected this! Did you forget? Was it oblivion? Or did you become so greedy for a little food?
Bayazid said: It is not a question of food. We will extend the fast one day further. But announcing our saintliness so loudly would have weighed too heavily upon that poor man who sold everything to cook the meal; it would have hurt him; it would have been a sin. To raise the issue was needless; we will fast one more day — what harm is there? But to proclaim saintliness so loudly... And remember, this is the very moment when a man would want to display saintliness. It is very delicate. The opportunity was splendid: the whole village could have learned that Bayazid is something rare. But he missed the opportunity as if he had forgotten; he never even brought up that we were fasting.
This I call being good, being sattvic. If even Sattva must be announced, and Sattva must be advertised, and for Sattva one waits for someone’s respect, then Sattva becomes disease.
The fifth illness the Rishi has named is: ‘Punya.’ Sin is a disease everywhere in the world; Punya only in India. Punya too is sin, Punya too is an illness; because the notion ‘I have done good’ creates a very subtle individuality, and the notion ‘I can do the good’ gives birth to the doer.
As we have known: nothing else in this world is sin; ego alone is sin. Therefore wherever ego gets manufactured, there begins sin.
Bodhidharma went from India to China. Before him many Buddhist bhikshus had already reached China... thousands of monks had gone. Emperor Wu had spent millions getting Buddhist texts translated, had built hundreds of monasteries and viharas. Then word reached that the supremely wise Bodhidharma was coming; the emperor himself came to the border of his realm to welcome him. As soon as he had welcomed him and given him rest, Emperor Wu asked Bodhidharma the very first thing: I have built so many thousands of monasteries and viharas; I have spent so many millions for the translations of the Buddhist scriptures; I feed hundreds of thousands of monks every day. What fruit will I gain from all this Punya of mine?
Bodhidharma said: You will go straight to hell. Direct to hell.
Wu said: What are you saying?... Hell? Are you joking?
For no monk had ever told him this... All the monks used to say, ‘You are a great meritorious soul.’ They must have been beggars — not bhikshus. ‘You are a great man of Punya. You have given so much as no one ever did; in heaven your plaque is to be inscribed in golden letters; just next to God your residence is being readied.’ ... All this had been said. Bodhidharma said, ‘You will go straight to hell.’
Bodhidharma’s words did not appeal to Wu. To anyone doing Punya it will not appeal that Punya too is sin. Wu said: I cannot accept this.
Bodhidharma said: Then I refuse to enter your sinful kingdom; I am going back; I will remain outside your borders. The day you understand that Punya too is sin, that day I will enter.
The matter came and went. Wu turned against Bodhidharma. And the monks also turned against him... that we had such hopes from this man... had he come, larger work would have been done; the emperor was eager — and he spoiled everything.
Ten years later Emperor Wu lay on his deathbed; death began to surround him; fear began to seize the mind; and then he remembered Bodhidharma again. He began to see plainly: so much Punya done, but death is coming in just the same way it comes to the non-virtuous; so much Punya done, I have become just as worn-out as a sinner becomes; so much Punya done, but there is no peace felt in dying — so what peace will there be beyond! The mind is very restless.
He sent word: If Bodhidharma can be found anywhere, call him; I wasted ten years. Today it seems to me too that I am going straight to hell. But Bodhidharma had already died. Yet on his grave... he had said to inscribe one sentence... ‘Today or tomorrow Emperor Wu will remember me at the time of death.’ Because deceiving a man in life is easy — then he is in a wave, in the delusion of living. When death comes near, then he will know. He will remember me. So he had said, ‘Write one sentence on my tomb; it is my message for Emperor Wu.’ And the message was this: ‘All your life you did Punya; if at the moment of death you renounce even Punya, the gate of heaven is near.’
Renounce Punya! You sacrificed much for Punya; now you renounce even Punya.
It is very difficult. Iron chains are easy to drop; to renounce sin is easy; if bracelets of gold are on the wrists, it is very hard to leave them — they look like ornaments. And Punya!... what is more golden than Punya! Pure gold; the courage to drop it does not arise. But the knower knows: whether chains are iron or gold, it makes no difference — chains are chains. And whether the prison walls are decorated like a palace or not, it makes no difference.
The prison is ego... therefore the Rishi has spoken of five illnesses.
And until one knows the nature of these five classes, there is no release from them. Not until one enters precisely into the nature of all five can one be free of them.
In truth, apart from knowing there is no means of release from anything. Knowing itself is release; knowing itself is liberation. And as soon as we know something in its completeness, we become free of it.
Ignorance is bondage. Not knowing is bondage. The moment one knows, release happens. Anger binds as long as we do not know what anger is. The day we know, enter deeply, peel layer after layer, see anger naked, that day is release.
It is not that after knowing one has to do something further for release; this is another deep point of Eastern wisdom to understand. It is not that first one knows ‘this is anger’ and then has to do some method to drop it. No. The Eastern consciousness says: knowing is dropping; after knowing nothing remains to be done. If, after knowing, something still remains to be done, it means the knowing is not complete — it is partial.
The diseases of consciousness are not such that first diagnosis and then treatment. In diseases of consciousness, the diagnosis is the treatment. Why? Because it is out of not-knowing that the diseases of consciousness arise. They have no other cause. Understand by a metaphor: there is darkness, and in darkness there are snakes and scorpions. You light a lamp; two things happen — snakes and scorpions become visible but do not vanish; for the cause of their being was not darkness; darkness was only the cause of their not being seen. Now there is no darkness, so snakes and scorpions will be seen, but no one can say the lamp was lit and the snakes and scorpions disappeared. They will now have to be removed. So knowledge is not enough — something will also have to be done.
But another event is also happening there. You light the lamp — now must darkness also be removed? The lamp is lit, fine — now how shall we remove darkness? No. The sole cause of darkness was the absence of light.
So the diseases of the body... bodily diseases need both diagnosis and treatment. But the diseases of consciousness are such that diagnosis is treatment... the lamp is lit and darkness is gone.
Thus the Rishi says: ‘Only by becoming aware of the nature of these five classes can the jivatman, without knowledge, not be free of them.’
What do we do? We become one with them; we take on their qualities. Doing Punya, we become doers of Punya; practising Sattva, we become sattvic; doing sin, we become sinners — we become one with what we do.
This becoming one is ignorance. If knowing is to happen, it is essential to stand a little apart. For knowing, a little distance, a little space is needed. In truth, we can know only that from which we stand apart as observers; otherwise we cannot know. Whatever we wish to know must be placed before the eye; we must become its observer.
If anger is to be known, it cannot be known by being angry. If anger is to be known, anger must be made something apart from oneself; one must stand beyond anger and witness it with detachment. Just as we examine anything else... as a scientist examines something in his laboratory — that very distance.
Yoga too is the science of that distance. To stand apart and observe all the diseases of one’s own mind, and to enter into all their knots completely, becomes liberation.
Whenever a man’s mind... ‘in these five diseases falls into the delusion of identification, that delusion is called the Linga Sharira’... that very delusion.
‘...and that is the knot of the heart.’ That is the primary disease of the heart.
There is one sickness in which we are trapped. These five together create that one sickness; and that sickness is identification — we become one with what we are doing. In stealing we become thieves; in practising, we become sadhus — whatever we do, that we become; we do not stand apart.
And properly understood, this is the meaning of sannyas: that whatever we do, in doing we do not become the doer; we remain only the seer. The fundamental meaning of sannyas is just this. Let us do by all means — but let there be no more involvement than that of an actor. Let us be Rama indeed — but the Rama of the Ramlila; and as soon as we step down from the stage, let us step down from Rama too. The actor steps down. He does not lie on the bed at night thinking: What must be happening to Sita in Ashok Vana! Though sometimes such delusion does arise.
I have heard that in one Ramlila a difficulty arose. The man who used to play Ravana... every year he played Ravana in the village; every year when the Ramlila happened, he was Ravana. And the woman who played Sita also played Sita every year. Every year he became Ravana; every year he kidnapped Sita and kept her in Ashok Vatika — all this drama went on. The man fell in love with the woman.
Again the Ramlila came. The swayamvara took place. Ravana too came to the swayamvara. Then his messengers came and reported that Lanka had caught fire. Ravana said: Let it burn this time; this time I will go only after the swayamvara. He lifted Shiva’s bow and broke it. Janaka was in great trouble; all hell broke loose. The public was astonished: What sort of Ramlila is this now! What will happen now? Will Sita marry Ravana?
But Janaka was a wise old man; he had long been playing Janaka. He cried in a loud voice, ‘Servants! From where did you bring this toy bow of children? Bring Shankarji’s bow!’ The curtain fell, Ravana was removed and another Ravana installed... because he was screaming, ‘This time I will go only after the swayamvara!’... And only then could the Ramlila resume.
Now this particular Ravana would not be able to sleep easily. Here, with Sita, the matter ceased to be acting; it became deep and real.
Sannyas means: we dissolve that Linga Sharira.
Linga Sharira means: the state we have made for ourselves by identifying with our diseases, by which we appear to be what we are — we dissolve that.
‘And the consciousness within it is called Kshetrajna.’
And within this Linga Sharira sits the one who knows — the knower — that is called Kshetrajna. But we have no glimpse of it; the knower is lost in all that which we know. To find that which knows is the science of religion.
The Rishi is asked: ‘Who is the Sakshi? Who is Kootastha? Who is Antaryami?’
These three are definitions of the Atman in three different situations. As at home you are a father in relation to your son, a husband in relation to your wife, a son in relation to your father. Outside the home, in relation to a friend, you are none of these. In the office, you are not even a friend. Yet you are one and the same.
Sakshi, Kootastha, and Antaryami are situational definitions of the Atman. All three are the Atman, but these three words are used in three different contexts. Understand the context clearly.
‘That which knows the arising and dissolution of the knower, knowing, and the known, and yet is itself free of arising and dissolution, is called the Sakshi.’
Enter within yourself and remember this sutra: whatever we can know, we cannot be; because we are always the knower.
So whatever we come to know, it means we are standing behind it; otherwise we could not know it. Whatever is knowable, that I cannot be.
The fundamental, seed-mantra of Yoga is this: whatever we can know, we cannot be.
With eyes closed I can clearly know that the body is all around me. I can know that a thorn pricks the foot and there is pain; I can know that the heart is beating; I also know that when I am anxious the heartbeat becomes fast; and when I am untroubled the heartbeat becomes calm.
So this knower has become different from the beating of this heart and from the pain in this foot and from the shape of this body; because for knowing, duality is necessary. For knowing, distance is necessary. Through that distance alone is knowing; otherwise it is not.
Therefore if you are looking at your face in the mirror, it is essential to stand at a certain distance. If you move too close to the mirror and then press your head right against it, the face will become hard to see. Still a little will be seen, because there is still some distance. Remove the distance, and it will be seen even less. Remove the distance further, and it will vanish. If no distance remains between your eye and the mirror, then nothing at all will be seen.
A certain distance is necessary for knowledge, for vision, for knowing.
The Rishi says: there is one within who knows all these things that arise, are made, and are dissolved.
In the evening when sleep begins to descend, you know sleep is coming. One thing is certain — you are not sleep; otherwise who would know? That upon whom sleep is coming must be other.
In the morning you sit at your door; the sun has risen; light spreads all around; you know light has come. Then the sun’s heat intensifies, warmth increases; then you see the sun is overhead — it is noon. You are not noon; you are not morning either. Then in the evening the sun begins to set; darkness begins to descend; you know darkness has come — you are not darkness either.
Morning happens, noon happens, evening comes; you know the sun rising, climbing, setting, disappearing. You... you cannot be one with the sun; you are different.
Whatever happens in life, there is one within who knows its happening. And it is a very delightful thing that you will never be able to catch hold of this knower.
Understand. There is pain in my foot. I know there is pain in my foot. The knower is separate from the pain of the foot. Now I can also know that I know there is pain in the foot; now I have gone behind this knowing too.
Understand this well.
There is pain in my foot; I know there is pain in my foot, so my knowing has become distinct from the pain in the foot. But I also know that I know there is pain in the foot; then this second knowing has gone behind the first knowing too. I can know this as well; that will be a third knowing. I can know that too — a fourth knowing. One thing is certain: whatever I know, from there I retreat; no knowing can catch me — I remain always the knower, never the known. This supreme knower-ness, this supreme witnessing, that whatever I do I slip behind — this is a great mystery. It is very mysterious indeed.
Perhaps the deepest mystery of life is this: by no device can we make ourselves into an object, a seen thing, a thing — we remain always the one who knows.
Therefore a man like Mahavira — who searched the ultimate witness to its very depths — said that in the supreme state it is pointless even to say ‘there is a knower’; there is only knowing. Because if we even say there is a knower, we have known that knower — then we have slipped behind. It is enough to say: there is only knowing. Therefore Mahavira called the ultimate state of knowledge ‘Keval Gyan’: just knowing; not even the knower, not the known; just knowing; pure knowing. And this pure knowing keeps receding.
He who knows this mystery... the experience of this mystery is called Sakshi. The Atman is Sakshi... because knower, knowing, and the known — the knower too, the knowing too, the known too — all three arise out of it, arise before it, dissolve before it, dissolve into it; and it always remains standing behind.
There is an English word: ecstasy — a very precious word. To understand this sutra, Sakshi, it is very precious. Ecstasy in its root means ‘standing out.’ Ecstasy means: always standing outside; do whatsoever — you cannot remain within, you remain outside. Wherever you stand, you stand outside of that.
Therefore Western mystics have given this name, ecstasy, for Samadhi.
Ecstasy means: Sakshi. Ecstasy does not mean Samadhi; ecstasy means witnessing. Do whatsoever — you can never turn the witness into anything else; he remains the witness.
This is a situational definition of the Atman. This too is situational — all definitions are situational. Therefore no definition can reveal the complete nature of the Atman; and hence so many disagreements arose among religions. There is no fundamental cause for that disagreement. One religion gave a situational account of the Atman, and another religion gave another situational account; and the two accounts appear different. In this regard the Upanishads are free of sectarianism, because they accept all definitions. This definition of Sakshi is the definition of Jain philosophy and the Jain religion.
What is kutastha in the second definition? The rishi says:
“That which dwells in the intelligence of all beings—from Brahma down to the ant—and which remains even when their gross, subtle, and other bodies are destroyed...”

The Remaining! Destroy anything—something remains behind... after total annihilation; that is called the kutastha Self. That which remains always. Do anything you will!

Even science concedes this about matter—that matter too has a kutastha aspect, because matter is indestructible. We cannot destroy it; whatever we do—distort one form, give it another—these are all transformations. But the kutastha state of matter remains.

The Upanishad says: consciousness too has a kutastha state; it always remains. You are a child, you become young, you grow old; you become a sinner, you become virtuous; you destroy sin, you drop virtue; you drop youth, you drop old age; you live in the body, you leave the body—do whatever you may; even after every destruction, that which remains indestructible behind it all is the second definition of the Self. That too is circumstantial—from the standpoint of destruction; it is called kutastha. From the standpoint of knowledge it is called the Witness; from the feeling of indestructibility it is called kutastha.

“In these distinctions such as kutastha—these upadhi-differences—the Self that, for the attainment of one’s true nature, appears strung through all bodies like the thread through a garland, is called the Inner Ruler (antaryami).”

These two definitions are a little far off; for, to be the Witness is supreme knowing, and to attain kutastha one must be fully prepared to die.

If you want to know the Witness, you must enter the supreme sadhana of knowledge—where no object remains and only the knower remains—nothing left to be known, only knowing itself. It is a difficult discipline of elimination—keep removing; whatever enters into knowledge, say, “This is not me”—drop it. Whatever can be known, throw it away.

It is a delightful paradox: you set out to know, yet whatever you come to know must be discarded—only then does supreme knowledge bear fruit. Whatever becomes an experience, say, “Enough, this is futile.” It is a rigorous austerity: whatever enters experience, declare it useless. Even if God becomes an experience, say, “I am outside God,” because whatever has become an experience is not me.

Therefore Mahavira or Buddha simply denied God; they said: whatever can be experienced, I am not that. And people say God can be experienced; they say, “I had the vision, the saksatkar, I saw God.” If you have seen God, one thing is certain: you have not yet seen yourself; because whatever you have seen has become an object, a thing; you have gone beyond it—you have gone beyond even God.

So, surely, what you have “known” is some imagination of the mind; it is not God. God is the eternal Witness. God is known on the day when experience—every experience—falls to zero. So to say “experience of God” is only the talk of the ignorant. It cannot be called an experience of God. To call it “experience” at all is pointless—it is the exhaustion of all experiences.

Hence a person like Buddha is not easily understood, because he speaks the ultimate. He says: there is no God, no liberation, no soul; because whatever is known is useless. And that which is not known—what words can we give it? Therefore Buddha remains silent.

Whenever someone asks him, “Leave all this; tell us about what truly is.” Buddha says: If I speak of what truly is, that too becomes an object; I will not speak of it. You keep dropping knowing, keep renouncing experience; one day you will reach where nothing at all remains.

This is very hard to understand, because we set out to gain something. And Buddha says, “Where nothing at all remains.” What does that mean? It does not mean that there is nothing there. When Buddha says, “Nothing remains,” it does not mean there is nothing. Nothing remains—because there is nothing to know, nothing to recognize. No recognition, no knowledge, no knower, no known—the entire triad of knowing breaks. But exactly there, that which is, is all.

Still, these two definitions are far. Therefore the third definition, which seems nearer, is this: while residing in all bodies—just as a thread is strung through the beads of a garland—so, immersed in these five bodies, sunk in these five diseases, entangled in this vast world—even then, the beads are of the world; the thread is always the Self. The beads are of the bodies, of the diseases; the thread is always the Self. And it’s a curious thing: in a garland the most important element is the thread. Without the thread there can be no garland—the beads will scatter—the connecting bridge is the thread. But the thread is not seen, while the beads are seen. So one who has never seen a garland being made, and suddenly a garland is placed before him, will not think of the thread at all; only the beads will occur to him—because the thread is invisible, hidden in the beads.

Our condition is the same: bodies are seen, the thread is not seen. Everything is seen; only the thread is not seen. And we keep leaping from one bead to another.

These bodies would not be possible without the Self, but it is not seen. One body is contiguous with another. From one bead we slide to the next, from the next we jump to the third... and the thread keeps being missed.

Amid all bodies, amid all adjuncts, whatever we are—there too the kutastha is the Self, the Witness is the Self, and it is also the Inner Ruler. The meaning of Inner Ruler is: it is here as well. It is there—when we reach the ultimate state; then we will call it the Witness. It is there—when we reach total destruction, when all is annihilated; then, because it remains, we will call it the supremely indestructible, the kutastha. But it is here too—where we stand, it is here as well. Only here it is unmanifest; here it is pressed under the beads. There it will be without beads—only the thread. Here the beads are in excess and it is buried among them, but here too it is. For that which is there must also be here; otherwise there would be no path to reach there. Therefore it is said:

“In these distinctions such as kutastha—these upadhi-differences—the Self that, for the attainment of one’s true nature, appears strung through all bodies like the thread through a garland, is called the Inner Ruler.”

Begin the journey with the Inner Ruler; make the Witness the mantra of your practice; kutastha will be the attainment.

Begin with the Inner Ruler, cultivate the Witness, attain Kutastha.

That’s enough for today.

Now set out on the journey...