Saravsar Upanishad #13

Those who are bound to “I” find it arduous even to reach “Thou.” Surrounded as they are by themselves, how will they arrive at the feet of “Thou”? Surrender is difficult.
Hence the Rishi first said: make “I” the periphery, and “Thou” the center. And he said: that which is pure, conscious being—that is of the nature of “tvam,” of “Thou.” It is a great leap from “I” to “Thou.” Perhaps there is no greater leap. To drop oneself is so hard—it is not like taking off clothes, it is like flaying the skin. And to step out of “I,” to move away from “I,” is supremely difficult also because, in the very effort to remove it, the “I” stands up again and again.
Who will remove the “I”? Whoever tries becomes the “I” once more.
How will you remove the “I”? Whatever method you employ, that very method falls into the hands of the “I.”
But what looks impossible, if there is courage, becomes possible. Understand a little of this courage, and then this second leap will also be understood.
Whoever set out to annihilate the “I” fell into trouble, for annihilation is an act, and every act fortifies the doer. Whoever tried to escape from the “I” got into trouble, because that from which we flee we first concede to be; and what we flee we also concede to be powerful. It is only that which frightens us that we run from.
We can neither annihilate the “I,” for annihilation is action; nor can we escape from the “I,” for where will we escape to? And that from which we flee becomes our eternal shadow.
Then what shall we do with the “I,” so that the leap to “tvam,” to “Thou,” may happen? There is only one way: do not run, do not set about to destroy it, do not devise a means to be rid of it; rather, see it, recognize it, know it—become acquainted with it.
There is only one way to end a shadow. Will a sword cut a shadow? Can it? The sword will break, the shadow will not be cut; for if it truly were, it could be cut—there is no such entity there, it only appears. Will you be saved by running from your shadow? The faster you run, the faster it will run with you; for the shadow is yours—where will you go by running, where will you be saved?
There is only one remedy for freedom from the shadow: to know that it is a shadow. In that very knowing, one is free—then there is nothing to cut, nothing to flee; for the moment we know that the shadow is only a shadow, there remains no fear, no purpose, no question of destroying it... for in knowing the shadow as shadow we know it is not—it only appears.
There is only one way to be free of the “I”: know the “I” so deeply that it is seen as a shadow; in that very instant the release happens. Therefore those who cultivate humility never arrive at “tvam.”
Humility is the cultured form of ego. And the more cultured it is, the more dangerous and subtle it becomes. Hence the so-called humble person shows, moment to moment, the ego rising within, flashing and slipping through. Humility too is an ornament of ego—the loveliest ornament the ego can drape itself in; and the loveliest face, the most perfect mask the ego can put on, is humility.
Humility is never simple. Compared to it, ego is far more simple, more straightforward; because there are no masks. The wicked are far more plain and simple than the virtuous; for the wicked are directly egotistic, while the virtuous are obliquely egotistic. Their ego has many layers and refinements—polished, sparkling. Like a diamond—the straightforward person’s ego is like an unhewn stone; the so-called virtuous man is crooked. He too has ego, but on that ego many chisels have refined and polished it. It shines; but the shine of ego is poison.
Polish the ego, hide it, run from it, cut at it—there is no freedom. Know the ego. Go within and recognize what ego is. Do not be in haste; do not decide.
Our common mistake in life is that decision precedes experience—we begin with conclusions. We are like children doing mathematics who flip to the back of the book to look at the answer—and they start from there. Such children will never learn the method—for if the answer is already in hand, what method will they ever learn? And what need remains to learn it?
But the answer seen by turning the book is borrowed; it is not your answer; it will not transform life. Whoever has not known the method and has not arrived at his own answer lives always on borrowed coin. All our conclusions are borrowed.
We read in the scriptures: ego is bad. This conclusion is the scriptures’, not yours. You are not even acquainted with what ego is; the judgments “good” or “bad” are later—first there must be a direct acquaintance: what is it? As yet there has not been a pure glimpse of what it is; whether it will prove bad or good is secondary.
“Anger is bad”—a conclusion borrowed from scripture. So we know what is bad and what is good, and yet we go on remaining what we are—and we know everything!
People come to me and say, “We know it all—what is it that we do not know?—yet why is there no transformation?” And transformation becomes even harder, because they “know” everything. This borrowed knowledge—everything is “known.” Now there is no way to learn, and yet no transformation happens.
So keep a single thing as a sutra: any knowledge that does not itself become transformation is borrowed; the outcome is not yours; the conclusion is not yours; you have not known. The experience is not yours. It is stale and dead, decayed.
Know ego; do not decide whether it is good or bad—have a direct seeing of it. And whoever cannot have the darshan of ego—remember—whoever cannot see the aham, he will not be able to have the darshan of “tvam”; for “Thou!”... ego is the outermost layer, and “Thou” is the center. He who has not even known the ego—what will he know of “Thou,” of “tvam”?
First know this “I”... and in the knowing the “I” disintegrates. The fire of knowing reduces it to ash; it flies away like smoke... it seems as if it never was—vanishes like a shadow. And the very moment it vanishes, the seeker stands before “tvam.” But this “tvam,” the Rishi says, is not ultimate either; for to call it “tvam” is still from the memory of that “I” which once was; on the basis of that memory we say “Thou.”
The state dissolves, but the memory does not at once dissolve; memory takes time to fade. The state dissolves, but the memory does not; memory takes time to fade! The memory of “I” is of so many births that even if today it becomes a shadow, our language will not change at once; our language has been formed around the “I.” We will still speak the same language. Though it has been shown wrong, though it has fallen from the center and proved a shadow, our entire language was built near that shadow; today a new language will not suddenly arise. We had learned to look always from that side.
Even if a blind man’s eyes are cured, the stick does not drop at once from his hand. Though his eyes are restored, for some days he still gropes with the stick. He has walked so long with the stick that even when sight returns, his faith in the stick cannot drop at once. It has become useless, but time will be needed until firm trust is established that the eyes suffice—then the stick will slip from his hand.
Even when the “I” falls, language and old memories remain near the “I.” Therefore the first darshan of the Divine happens in the language of “Thou”—in the language of “tvam.” And hence the first experience of the Divine carries a profound flavor of love. There are reasons for this too.
We have always, always longed for love—and not found it; we have sought a beloved—and not found one. For births upon births we have searched and repented. So when for the first time the Divine opens within, when that supreme consciousness manifests, it feels as if the lover has been found; the one we sought has come to the temple; the door we sought stands before us.
Thus the first language is the language of “I” and love. The devotee has always spoken this language. But the Rishi says: this is not the final language; for when the blind man throws away even his stick, and when the memory of “I” also dissolves, how then will you say “Thou”? Who will call it “Thou”? And what meaning remains in “Thou”? When there is no “I,” then “Thou” becomes utterly meaningless; no meaning can be retained in it.
Therefore a second leap happens—from “Thou” to “That,” from the “Thou” to the “Tat.” And then even “Thou” dissolves and the Divine appears in the form of “That”—as “tat.” Now we can neither say “I” nor say “Thou”; now we say “That.” In this “That” not even a trace of “I” remains. Not even so faint a trace remains that we could say “Thou.” “I” is wholly lost, as a line drawn on water disappears. With it, “Thou” is lost too, for “Thou” was its counterpart. Only “That” remains.
“That” is the purest declaration. Now nothing of our past, no samskara of our memory, is operating. The word “That” is utterly untouched and neutral.
“Truth, knowledge, the infinite and bliss”... of which we spoke this morning... “are its marks.”
Even these, the Rishi calls lakshana—marks. Lakshana means: that by which “That” is recognized. It means that this is how we recognize it. There are two matters here.
If the Rishi were to say, “Truth, knowledge, the infinite and bliss are ‘That,’” then a boundary would be created for it. If he were to say that Paramatma is infinite, then even calling it infinite makes it finited.
Keep this in mind. It is one of the most subtle, delicate points in philosophy. When someone says that God cannot be defined, he has defined him. The statement appears inverted... it is not. For you have at least said this much, that he cannot be defined. You have accepted this much definition. To say “indefinable” is already a definition; you have said something—and not a little. If this is true, the definition is complete. If it is the truth that he cannot be defined, then that is the definition. What else is a definition?
What does definition mean? To speak some truth about a thing. So if we say even this much—“He cannot be defined”—a definition has been given; and if we say that truth is his mark, that truth is his definition, still we bind him—even though we bind him with truth, we do bind him. To say even that he is truth is to draw a line; we say, “Here he is,” and we exclude the untrue—we cut the untrue away and include the true; we have created a boundary. The untrue is outside him, the true within.
The Rishi says: this too is not right; for if the untrue also is, it will be only within him—nothing can be outside him. To say he is only truth is to set a great limit.
Therefore some have said nothing at all about him—only so that no mistake be made in saying anything. If we say, “He is knowledge,” we again draw a line. If we say, “He is infinite,” though the word infinite signifies “without limit,” if we have come to know that he is infinite, then a limit has been set.
A man says, “The ocean has no bottom; it is unfathomable.” What does this mean? Either he has gone to the bottom—sounded the whole ocean—and found no bottom... which is impossible; for if there is no bottom, how did he find out that there is none? Has he reached the very farthest where the ocean extends? If he has gone that far, then there is a bottom; and if he has not gone so far, he should only say—so far as I have gone there was no bottom. He should not say “unfathomable.”
Hence the Rishi says: lakshana—marks. Lakshana means: so far as I have gone, I have found the ocean unfathomable. This is my experience; how can I assert the ocean’s state? It could be that just an inch further there is a bottom. So far as I have gone, there was none; an inch further there may be—why is that impossible? And so far as I have searched, there was no boundary; but how can I say there will be none ahead?
What I have known was knowledge—but how can I say there will be nothing other than knowledge beyond?
Therefore, “marks.” That is to say: thus we recognize it. So far as we have known, we have known it as truth, as knowledge, as infinite, as bliss. Thus we have known.
The Rishis have always taken care that if there be error, let it fall on the man, on us. The Rishi has consciously accepted that error may be mine... but there is no point in imposing my error upon That.
Our minds work contrariwise. The moment we reach a conclusion we impose it upon the other—immediately. We do not remember to keep a small condition. A man appears beautiful to us, so we say, “He is beautiful.” We should only say, “He appears beautiful to me.” That is enough. And if a man seems ugly, we should not say, “He is ugly”—it suffices to say, “He appears ugly to me.” This is my perception; to someone else he may be beautiful. If a man seems to me a saint, I should only say, “He seems to me a saint.” To another he may not at all be a saint.
And what he himself is—how shall we know? Standing outside, whatever we know are our perceptions; our likings and dislikings. We are present in them. But we immediately erase ourselves and impose the conclusion on the other. Then difficulties arise.
The Rishi says: these are marks. Even bliss, he says, is a mark. Because we have lived in so much misery for births upon births that perhaps it appears to us as bliss. Like a man who has been hungry long, and then gets dry, coarse bread; he says, “Today... a meal like today’s—so satisfying, so delicious—this is the ultimate food; what food could be beyond this!” He is speaking about himself. He is saying he was hungry a long time.
In truth, whatever taste there is in food is more due to hunger than to the food. Hence a knower would say: I am very hungry, therefore the food tastes very delicious.
Lakshana means: this is our perception. A time comes when we are wholly effaced, the “I” is effaced, the “Thou” is effaced, and our perceptions are also effaced—what shall we say then? Will we call it infinite? We called it infinite because everything we had known before was limited; compared to that experience it was infinite. What we had known was suffering; compared to that, it was bliss. What we had known was ignorance; compared to that, it was knowledge. What we had known was untruth; compared to that, it was truth. When we are wholly lost—what will That be then?
Whenever anyone asked Buddha, he would fall silent; or he would say, “Ask something else.” Wherever he went, he had it announced: do not ask me these eleven questions. One of those eleven was the definition of Brahman. Many came to Buddha and said, “Is it because you do not know that you do not answer?” Surely then we begin to think from our side! If Buddha does not answer, he must not know.
So they carried away the conclusion that Buddha knew nothing; the experience had not yet happened, therefore he kept silent. They should have said, “We take it this way: those who speak, know; those who do not, do not know; therefore we say Buddha is silent—he must not know.” But no—they said, “He does not know, therefore he is silent. He does not know—how will he tell?” Some went away thinking, “The matter is so profound; perhaps we are not yet worthy, therefore he does not tell. When we are worthy, he will.” Some thought, “Perhaps these things do not exist, and Buddha does not wish to distress us; therefore he neither denies nor affirms—he remains silent.”
But only rarely did anyone carry away the understanding that Buddha remains silent because he has gone beyond both “I” and “Thou.” From the place where the seer of marks has disappeared—there nothing at all can be said of Brahman.
So the Rishi says: these are marks... as it appears to us.
“And even when causes such as place, time, and object exist, in which no change occurs.”
In this world there are only two kinds of change. One change happens in space, and one change happens in time. Time and space—within these two all change occurs.
You came from your village to here, and two kinds of change occurred. Leaving the village you changed place. And in the journey time passed—you changed time. You set out in the morning and arrived by evening; you left point “A” and reached point “B.” The change was twofold—place changed and time changed.
Space and time are the bases of change. But in Paramatma, neither space brings change nor time brings change. Why? For one reason: we live in time and space, while time and space live in Paramatma. For Paramatma there is no way to leave one place and go to another, for all places are in him. For Paramatma there is no way to move from this year into another, for all years are within him.
Hence we say of Paramatma: kalātīta, kshetrātīta—beyond time and space. For time and space too, in order to be, need “place” within Paramatma. For we have defined Paramatma as: that which is, is-ness, existence, what is. If time also is, then its being can only be within Paramatma—whatever can be, can only be within him.
Therefore time and space bring no difference to him. For us, present, past, future are the three divisions of time; for him, time is always the present. For us, “here” and “there” are two differences; for him, everything is here. For us, “yesterday” and “tomorrow” are distances of time; for him, all is now—here and now. And not only now—it has always been so.
So, in his language, “here” and “now”—nothing else can be said in terms of time and space; for by Paramatma we mean existence. And existence we shall call “tat”... “That.” In it “I” and “Thou” both are included; in it “I” is born, in it “I” is dissolved.
That in which no change occurs—such a substance is called “tat.” These two—“tvam” and “tat,” “Thou and That”—are also upadhis. The Rishi peels away one layer after another. First he says: “I” is an upadhi; “Thou” is its real nature. Then he says: “Thou” too is an upadhi; “That” is its real nature. Now he says: even “That” is an upadhi.
“These two—‘tvam’ and ‘tat’—beyond the distinctions born of upadhis, subtle like space and whose nature is sheer being, sattamātra—that is Parabrahman.”
Sattamātra—just existence; that alone is Parabrahman. That alone is truly Brahman. That is. From “I” the leap to “Thou,” from “Thou” the leap to “That,” and from “That” the leap to the supreme Existence—where even the distance implied by saying “That” does not remain; for when we say “That,” even then distance is there—the one who says is there, the finger that points and says “That” is there. We are still somewhere separate—there may be no “I,” yet we are somewhere apart. We may have known that “I” is gone, “Thou” is gone, yet the one who says still remains.
Even that much distance... even that much distance does not please the mystics; even that little gap is intolerable. Even that cannot be borne. One more leap—and in that leap even “That” is not.
Buddha calls it Shunya, because no one remains—neither I, nor Thou, nor That. The Upanishads call it Existence. Buddha calls it Shunya because all the things we knew have vanished; and the Upanishads call it Existence because what we knew never truly was, and what is—that alone remains... what is—that alone remains; all that was not has fallen away. All dreams have shed off; only that remains which is. And now there is no way to cut anything from it. Hence it is called Parabrahman—that which is beyond even Brahman.
For until now whatever definitions we made were of Brahman—they were definitions of Brahman. The Rishi calls this: Parabrahman. He says: leave even this Brahman now—now go beyond even that Brahman of which we were speaking. The one we probed and researched so much—leave even that now; we speak now of that which is beyond it—beyond even that.
Now what does this mean? All words are lost, all doctrines lost, the seeker lost, and that which was sought also lost. What remains?
The Rishi says: what remains is That—call it Shunya, call it Purna; remain silent, or speak of it for births upon births. This alone is the quest. Without finding this there is no rest. Without it there cannot be rest; for until we find it, we shall go on dying; death will go on happening; sorrow will go on coming. Until we reach that place where whatever could be lost has all been lost, the losing will continue. Upon attaining Parabrahman... then there is nectar—amrita.
Life and death do not happen to That which is; they happen to that which we have made.
Ego is our construct, our acquisition; that is what is born and that is what dies. Consciousness is not our construct; it is before us and after us; it neither dies nor is born.
There was a fakir, Bokuju. At dawn he offered flowers in the temple of Buddha—he was the fakir of that temple, its priest as well. Then some people came to listen to him; he entered the hall and said, “I say to you today, on oath, that this man named Buddha never was... never existed. This is sheer falsehood.”
People were startled. They thought Bokuju had gone mad. What madness is this? He is Buddha’s own bhikshu... and just now we saw him offering flowers and waving the lamp before the image! They asked, “Bokuju, have you lost your mind, or are you jesting? You have only just now worshiped.” He said, “I have just now worshiped—and in the evening I shall worship again. But I tell you, this man never was. And I say it because until now I had not understood this man—therefore I thought he was born, therefore I thought he died... but today I have understood.”
“And you think me mad; you have not yet heard the second thing... I tell you, I too have never been born, and I shall never die.” Now they were certain he was utterly mad. “Leave aside Buddha—whether he was or was not is twenty-five centuries ago, it may well be doubtful; he may not have been. But Bokuju says a second thing: I too was never born, I shall never die.”
Some people began to leave. “Give us leave to go now,” they said. “This has crossed all bounds.”
Bokuju said, “Listen to a third thing as you go: I tell you, you too were never born; you too will never die.”
If we are right, then Bokuju is mad; and if Bokuju is right, then we are all mad. There is no other way. And all the knowers who have walked this earth say: Bokuju is right.
That which is pure sat, pure being, pure existence, pure is-ness—upon that, birth and death are no more than gusts of wind that have blown through. But they seem so important to us because we... we do not know That. And what we do know—ego—is something we have made; at the slightest gust it trembles. A little wind, and the flame of our ego begins to waver... now gone, now gone.
And the law of life is very wondrous: a tiny lamp-flame is extinguished by a small breeze; but a great roaring fire—strong winds make it vaster still.
So when gusts strike the ego, death happens; and when gusts strike Existence, a glimpse of life appears. When the ego is nudged a little, death and more death seem to appear; but when even storms strike the Atman, the sap of life begins to flow.
A small wind-wave blows out the lamp, and makes the vast fire yet more vast.
Ego is very small; it is our making. We are very great, for we are not our own making. He by whom we are made is vast.
Therefore remember, you are always greater than yourself... you are always beyond yourself. All your smallness is the fruit of your own endeavor. All your pettiness is your own acquisition. All your poverty is your own achievement—your own prowess—that you have become a lamp’s flame, and tremble, “Now I shall die, now I shall die! This sorrow came, this trouble, this pain, this anxiety.”
Leap out of this madness of your own. That leap begins the very moment you leap out of ego.
Enough for today.
Now let us attempt a little toward the leap...