Saravsar Upanishad #15

I can be spoken of only when the I is effaced; only then can there be talk of the I that truly I am.
There is one I—ours—the one we are familiar with. That I is nothing but a heap of delusions. That I is our own construction. We ourselves made it, we nurse it, feed it, enrich it, make it powerful. And because it is false—our fabrication—we suffer from it: pain, torment, anxiety; for whatever is not intrinsic nature becomes a burden.
Scientists say that on this earth, until some ten thousand years ago, there was the dominion of gigantic animals. Elephants are nothing compared to them. Beasts ten times the size of elephants roamed the earth. The great difficulty that evolutionary researchers faced was this: how did such animals vanish all of a sudden? No cause appears in the earth’s record to indicate so colossal a catastrophe that not a trace of their species remained. Even if there were earthquakes, or volcanoes spread across the globe, total annihilation would be unlikely.
What happened? Only in the last fifty years a new clue has dawned: those animals enlarged their bodies so much that they were crushed under the very weight of their bodies. No outer cause seems intelligible for their death. The very body—which is a means to live—if it crosses its limit becomes the cause of death. The burden became impossible to drag; and to feed that burden became impossible too, for along with the growing body its hunger grew, and kept growing each day. Thus the body is protection, the vehicle of life—but only up to a point. Beyond the limit it turns deadly.
I say this so a sense can arise in you: ego—our I—is also an indispensable part of life’s arrangement. But it grows so large that we forget that what we chose as a vehicle—we ourselves become its vehicle; what we intended to use—begins to use us; what we constructed for our protection—we end up spending our lives protecting it. And to know when the limit is crossed is very difficult: when the master becomes the servant’s servant is hard to detect; when the leader becomes a follower of his own followers is hard to detect. But it does happen—because the seed of this happening lies hidden in the inner mechanics of the process itself.
As I said, when does the leader become a follower of his followers? Hard to notice; for in the effort to be a leader he must appease the followers. In appeasing, he must walk behind them—to walk in front, he has to walk behind. Those very followers you wish to lead—if you do not follow them from behind—they will never agree to acknowledge you as leader. A very amusing thing happens: to become a leader, you must walk behind. In the very process of becoming a leader, the leader is lost.
Whom we rule over—we must satisfy. And slowly, while satisfying, when do we become their slaves—the line is not noticed at all.
So with the I. It is needed. As I said earlier, for the functioning of life, I is needed—functional; conventional. Conventional! But the I has no inherent existence; it is makeshift. By makeshift I mean… it is a symbol, a pointer.
Like our names—one is named Ram, another Krishna. No one is born with a name; a name is sheer fiction. Yet to live without a name is very difficult. On this vast earth with three billion people, if we all tried to live nameless, life would become impossible—it would be hard even to tell who is who! So labels have to be attached. The labels are false, functional.
When I say “conventional,” it means a convenience is created… we know this man is Krishna, that man is Ram—though neither is Krishna nor Ram; the names are utterly false. We are born without a name, and when we die, we die without a name. We take a name on earth, and we leave the name behind when we depart; but in between it is useful.
If its utility is remembered, there is no harm. But you know how you forget that the name is only utility. Man becomes ready to die for the sake of a name—then trouble begins. He says: it is a question of my name; I will give up my life but not my name. Then you will see that utility is no longer utility. You have become useful for the name; if the name is saved you are saved, if the name is lost you are gone.
Ram was in America—Swami Ramatirtha. One evening he returned laughing. Friends asked, what happened? Why are you laughing? He said: some people on the road abused Ram a lot! I laughed heartily, because they were in the illusion that I am Ram. Those people, unfamiliar and new, said: what are you saying? Are you not Ram? You are Ram indeed. And if they abused, they abused you.
Ramatirtha said: if the name is not my identity but only a utility, if I do not become the name, then the abuse touches the name, not me. Then I need not collide with the abuse. I know well that name is a utility. And if tomorrow, instead of Ram I am called Krishna, it makes no difference to me—only the name changes; I remain the same. I can have a thousand names. The name is superficial. An abuse hurled at the name is not hurled at me. I am more than the name, and other than the name.
If such remembrance comes in relation to the I, then I too is only a utility.
Hence a delightful point, which we ordinarily miss: we call the other by his name; if we were to call ourselves also by our name, it would create inconvenience; because if I call out my own name, it will seem perhaps I am calling someone else. Therefore, for calling oneself there is a universal name—“I.” For the other we use a name; for oneself we use “I.” So one “I” suffices for all, to call oneself. And whenever you use “I,” we know you are pointing to yourself; when you use a name, you are pointing to the other.
That is why people around Ram got a little perplexed: Ramatirtha, whenever he spoke, did not use “I.” He would say, Ram was going down a lane, some people began to abuse. He would say, Ram went to speak in a village; he would not say: I went to speak. Hearing him, it would seem he was talking about someone else.
There is no harm in I; to use it is not sin or crime—it is conventional, convenient. If only it be remembered that the “I” is a convenience, not truth—then what difficulty is there in letting it go? The trouble begins when the label becomes our soul; as long as labels remain only on the surface, what difficulty is there?
But we cling to labels so much that we paste them all around—every side, nothing but labels remain. In the end it becomes hard to locate the man—where is he? Only labels upon labels. Utilities, at times, turn into dangers instead.
I have heard: Nasruddin worked in a large office. Some glassware had to be shipped. The boss said: paste a label on the crate—this side up, do not invert… put the label on. He pasted the label, the crate was sent. Later the boss asked: you didn’t forget to put the label? Nasruddin said: Forget? I put them on all sides—wherever anyone looks, he will see it.
We are like that. The label could have been useful had it been on one side—this side up, handle with care. Nasruddin put them on all sides so it would be visible from anywhere—no nuisance at all. Now the crate cannot be handled at all, because all sides are “up.”
Around us too, utilities become suicidal; they could have functioned, but then only names remain… and what was named is lost. And if it were only others in illusion, it would be fine; the illusion happens to oneself. And not merely on the surface—it penetrates deep.
We all sit here; if we all sleep here tonight, and someone nearby shouts “Ram,” no one will wake except the person whose name is Ram. Which means: even in sleep he remembers “I am Ram.” The rest keep sleeping; they do not even notice they are being called. But this man—even in deep sleep, sunk in dreams, perhaps with no dream at all, in profound slumber—still knows “I am Ram.”
So deep it goes! Like an arrow into the chest—name penetrates so; position penetrates so; wealth penetrates so.
The shape we fabricate—its total is what we call ego. Name, wealth, position, prestige—add them up, that sum is our ego. The Rishi first spoke of dissolving this ego, of breaking this maya. And there is a very playful formula—suddenly… from “I” leap to “Thou,” from “Thou” leap to “He,” from “He” leap into pure Being—Brahman, beyond maya… and then the aphorism comes:
“I am not born; I am not the ten senses, not the intellect, not the mind; and not even the so‑called eternal ego.”
A journey had begun… which started from “I,” crossed “Thou,” reached “He,” and then came sheer Being. Now, again, this I that is being spoken of is not the same I; that is gone, finished. Now we come to the unveiling of a new I. This is the I that is seen only when the I we know is dissolved.
This I means Atman. This I does not mean ego; this I means Atman. This I is not our fabrication—our fame, status, wealth, samskaras, civilization, education; this I means our existence, our being.
Remember: the I we dropped, the I we were to transcend, the I from which we leapt—was our doing; this is our being. That was our doing; this is our being. If we grasp the slight difference between doing and being, a glimpse of this second I becomes clear.
There is something we do—if we do not do, it will not be. If I do not take education, I will not be educated. If I do not learn a language, I will not know it. If I strive to become a scientist, I can become a scientist; if I strive to become a blacksmith, I become a blacksmith—if I do, I can become. But there is something within me that, even if I do nothing, I am—at least my being is outside my doing; my being is not my act. Before all my acts, I am; otherwise who will act?
A child is conceived in the mother’s womb. There he does not even have to breathe; not even that much doing. The heart does not beat by his doing; not even that much doing. But note a delightful point: the child is—without breath, without heartbeat—yet he is. His being is there; his existence is there; Atman is entirely present.
Physiologists have kept asking: from when shall we count the beginning of life? If we think life breaks when breathing breaks, then life begins when breathing begins. When the child is born, the first cry—and the first breath. The cry is simply the jerk by which the heartbeat and the breath begin—the mechanism starts. The first breath—the first act; the first cry—the first act.
But the question is: before this cry, was the child or not? If he was not, who cried? If he was not, who took the first breath? He was—otherwise even this could not happen. That being before the first breath is being; that is our essence, our Atman.
Extend the argument to the other side. A physiologist may agree with me here—it is sound: if existence were not present beforehand, who would take the first breath? But on the other side he will be in trouble. I say: when the breath stops, that which was there before breath—remains. What has breath to do with it? Without breath it was fully there. So without breath, it can fully be.
The first argument is easy to grasp—who would breathe if not already present? The second is equally important—who drops the last breath if nothing other than breath is present within? But the second is not grasped so easily. Yet if the first is clear, there is no obstacle to the second.
Let us make clear the division within us: some things are what we have done; therefore the more a man does, the more ego he accumulates. Then it could even be said: blessed are the supremely lazy, for they have little to do from which to fashion an ego. But mind is cunning; they may take their laziness itself as their doing—“We are resting.”
Whatever we do strengthens our I. One sum is the sum of our doings—a running total. Hence the ego grows daily. Children are simple, elders become complex. Not due to age as such; the elder surely has a bigger ego. Therefore elders turn irritable, quarrelsome, malicious. It happens easily; it is not that today’s children will not be so tomorrow—they will.
The reason: it is not about age; it is about accumulation of doing. The elder has done so much that the account is endless. Hence the elder always speaks of his doings: I did this… I did that… I did… What shall a child speak of doing? He has done nothing yet! He simply is… breathes, waves his limbs; nothing from which a big ego can be built. Children appear simple because ego has not had a chance to develop.
Thus the wise say: when an old man becomes like a child—that is supreme evolution. But the trend is reversed: children become like old men; old men do not become like children… If the old becomes childlike, that is supreme growth; if children become old-like, that is supreme decline. Yet this is happening.
We all try to make the child catch hold of ego quickly; the child also tries to catch it quickly. Sometimes he does things that on the surface seem puzzling, but if you look deep, you understand.
One day I was passing a post office and saw a little boy smoking a cigarette. Very small! He had also stuck on a two-anna moustache. Dawn had barely broken; only we two were on the road. Seeing me, he quickly hid behind a tree. I went and spoke to him… he hurriedly peeled off his moustache and extinguished the cigarette. I met his father and saw the matter was exact: the father had a moustache and smoked. The poor boy was tasting the joy of being grown up. His gait with that moustache and cigarette—worth seeing!
Fathers tell sons: do not smoke. But they do not see that a cigarette brings not only smoke—it brings ego; because a cigarette has become a symbol of age—grown-ups smoke. Symbolic—only elders can; if a young one smokes, people say: not yet your age—grow up, then smoke if you wish. The child thinks: if a cigarette makes me grown-up, what difficulty is there? A little cough, some tears in the eyes—we will bear it; a little practice and it will be fine.
Children are absorbed in the effort to be big; the ego is manifesting; it will grow, it will spread.
Our doing is our ego; our being is our Atman. Being means: that which we already are; which need not be fabricated; for which we did nothing; which cannot be made—because it is before all our doing!
Now begins the talk of that I whose meaning is being. Therefore the talk will be via negation, for otherwise we will not understand. We know only the I that says, this house is mine, this shop is mine, this position is mine. The more the mine, the larger the I. One who can say, this nation is mine, this religion is mine—his I becomes even bigger.
If you own a small plot, how will you make a large I out of it? Another owns a vast tract, the land of a whole country—surely his I grows with it.
The expansion of “mine” is the expansion of possession; with it the I grows. Therefore when your wealth is snatched, not only wealth is lost—you too feel lost. In the feeling “I am looted,” not only money is looted—you are looted; for your mine thins, the mine is cut, the I dies with it.
So the false I lives in the kingdom of “mine.” If there is oil of “mine,” the wick of “I” burns; if the oil of “mine” is exhausted, the wick of “I” is extinguished.
Naturally, the discussion of this second I begins with denial.
“I am not the ten senses…”
Leave aside wealth—too external; leave aside fame—too external; the senses are deeper and inner. “I am not the ten senses”… the senses are still somewhat outer—“I am not even buddhi”… buddhi is subtler—“I am not even mind”… I am something that is never produced. I am neither birth nor life. And the last word—“I am not even the so‑called eternal ego.”
There is one ego we have just discussed—impermanent: it is made and unmade. But this latter phrase is even more wondrous. That one is impermanent, momentary, it perishes. But very often we wish to drop the momentary ego so that we may gain the eternal ego.
Religious teachers say: drop this ego—it is momentary. Very amusing—drop it, for it is transient; gain the Atman that never perishes. Our mind becomes greedy: if so, fine—then I shall get the eternal ego. Drop this small, passing thing; leave this and get that.
Whoever’s greed is thus aroused will never rise above ego. Hence the Rishi speaks a most revolutionary aphorism: This I—I am not even the eternal ego. Do not assume this is an I that will abide forever. Ego is by nature impermanent; there is no eternal I. I dissolves, becomes zero; no eternal ego remains.
But our usual greed‑stricken, ego‑ridden mind sees even Atman as the purest state of ego. When we say “Atman,” we mean an eternal ego; all these small egos will drop, but the real inner my‑I will never drop. The Rishi says: no such inner I exists. When you know this, only then will you know the inner.
“Not even the eternal ego am I.”
This aphorism is equivalent to Buddha’s anatta. Buddha said: there is no Atman—anatta. For this very reason Buddha had great difficulty taking root in this land. His vision could not penetrate very deep, because he never titillated greed.
Hearing Mahavira, greed can arise—even if Mahavira does not intend it. Mahavira says: in moksha you will abide—in the state of pure, awakened consciousness. The listener thinks: good, I will abide! Between Mahavira and him, a mis‑meeting happens. Mahavira says: pure, awakened, eternal—you will be. The “you” of which he speaks—this one has no clue of that “you”; he thinks, very good, then I will remain; I will be saved! And this I is only the sum of all he has gathered. He says: then no worry; if this house is lost, no harm; if this wealth goes, no harm; if this body falls, no harm—but I will remain. And this I is that very sum.
Buddha said: you will not remain at all… whatever remains, you will not remain. The greedy mind dislikes this utterly: what sort of talk is this? Lose all and get nothing! You say this pleasure is momentary; we ask: if there is eternal pleasure, we shall stake our all. But you say: there is no eternal pleasure either… then this momentary one we will enjoy.
We ask: this ego is bad, granted; it brings suffering, granted. But if we drop it, what will we get? If something greater is to be gained, our merchant‑mind agrees—good, investment is sound; leave a little, gain more; drop the momentary, gain the infinite; lose a drop, gain the ocean. What harm? Greed says: the arithmetic is straight; we can place the bet.
But Buddha says: no—anatta; there is no Atman. Within you there is no Atman etc., you are only ego. And ego is suffering—so drop it. And do not ask me what you will get—nothing will be got. Man thinks: then cling hard to what is. Buddha could not be understood, because he did not speak the language of our greed. Perhaps Buddha alone on this earth never spoke in the tongue of man’s greed. This Rishi says the same: “I am not even the eternal ego.” I am not even so much that I could say “I am.” This is a straight denial, thorough denial.
“I am not the ten senses.”
But do you know what it means to say, “I am not the ten senses”? Do you have a single experience outside the senses? Whatever you have known, you have known through these ten senses. If you ponder that “I am not the ten senses,” it means all your experiences are gone; your palm will be empty—nothing left in hand. The love you have known, the honor, the insult, the flowers and beauty you saw through the eyes; music you heard with the ears; fragrances—all will vanish; the touch—all will vanish. What will remain with you?
When the Rishi says, “I am not the ten senses,” he means: whatever the ten senses have collected—that I am not. We shall become utterly impoverished; only the begging bowl remains—and even the bowl will be empty; because everything has been poured in by the ten senses.
As if the Ganga were to say—the streams and rivers that have joined me, I am not that; the water that has flowed into me, I am not that—then into what misery she would fall. For what is Ganga but the sum of springs, rills, rivers? If Ganga says: all that flowed into me is not me—what will remain? A dry desert.
We too are the sum of those rivers that the senses poured into us. Each sense has poured a current within us. The eyes poured vision, ears poured hearing, the tongue poured taste—we are the sum of all that. Cut away one sense after another—the journeys of the feet, the attainments of the hands, the words spoken and heard—all is lost. What remains within? And yet the Rishi says: I am not the ten senses. Still the mind may think: suppose nothing remains—at least enough intellect will remain to know that nothing remains.
The Rishi says:
“I am not even the intellect.”
Why? It is astonishing—“I am not even buddhi.” To deny all else is understandable. To deny the senses seems not so hard, for senses are part of the body; but buddhi, thought, mind—these are inner, beyond!
But in truth buddhi is born of the friction between the inner consciousness and the external world’s vastness. Buddhi is a product of struggle. If there is no challenge in your life, buddhi will not be born. Thus the sons of the wealthy remain unintelligent—not without cause; the challenge is less, so buddhi has no chance to awaken, to manifest, to be formed.
Suppose whatever you need is given instantly… suppose someday we grow a kalpavriksha on earth—and we are trying—if we could, then what buddhi would a man have sitting under it? Whatever he desires is fulfilled—no struggle, no challenge. Buddhi is like the edge we put on a sword—born of rubbing, of friction. If the sword has never been ground, where will the edge come from?
So buddhi is inner, but born of outer friction. When the age is one of struggle, intelligent people arise; when struggle ends, intelligence wanes. The more challenge in life, the sharper the edge; with no challenge, the edge is lost.
If today American boys and girls are leaving schools, colleges, universities, the total cause is: there is no need. All the convenience for which boys scraped along, studied hungry, read under lampposts by the roadside—those proved fools. The American boy has all available; he says: what is the need to go? to study? If in the coming fifty years America’s best universities become empty day by day—do not be surprised. It is a strange human trait. The challenge is gone; struggle is gone.
Today America has the most means to develop intelligence, yet the intelligence of Americans themselves is not developing. And the intelligent people America has are mostly borrowed—from other lands. America can buy intelligence—but for how long? Trouble has begun for other countries; many European nations have decided they will not send their intelligent people to America—a brain drainage is happening. Wherever intelligence arises, within days it slips to America. For no country can afford such facilities, such pay, such prestige, such laboratories—so the drain flows from all the world; intelligence slips away along unknown paths.
Once wealth flowed to London; now intelligence flows to New York. And to exploit wealth is easy; not a great matter. But if intelligence keeps flowing away… how long can America live on borrowed brains? The man whom America calls from India, from England—his children will refuse to go to university. With no struggle, intelligence does not develop.
Thus the Rishi says: “I am not buddhi.” For buddhi too is externally born; that edge born of outside friction—that I am not.
“Nor am I mind.”
What is our manan? Manan too happens only when some outer object acquires value. Then we contemplate, ponder, think.
By buddhi we mean the method—the logical apparatus—by which an edge is created in the person and he becomes skillful in the world’s struggle; by mind we mean the capacity for manan, for contemplation, to enter the abstract, the formless.
Understand it this way.
If you have learned or watched the game of chess, the one who is skillful is he who can foresee at least five moves ahead: if I move this, that reply will come; to that reply I will respond thus; then that will come; then this… In this ladder, he who can manan further becomes more skillful. The move is not yet made, but will be. The reply is not yet given; perhaps it has not even arisen on the other side. But the capacity for pre‑vision—that is manan. Yet that too is external; it is still a calculation of outer moves; it has nothing to do with the inner.
When a child is born, he has neither buddhi nor mind; only potential. Potential becomes actual. Depending on circumstances, it becomes such and such.
I am none of these. Then what am I? What is the meaning of my being? This is all negation—this not… this not… neither this… nor this…
“I am always, without prana and without mind, of pure nature; the witness beyond intellect, and ever Chit‑svarupa; of this there is no doubt.”
Not born; always without prana and without mind… I just told you: prana begins when the child takes the first breath. Yoga therefore discovered methods to regulate prana—to be without breath and yet be. If a child can be without breath—as indeed he is—why should we not be able to be without breath?
Thus yoga worked on prana—gradually, gradually, letting breath fall away, taking it to that equanimity… where you arrive at the child’s state before the first breath, or as he will be after the last.
In the South there was a yogi, Brahmayogi. Around 1930 his name suddenly spread across the world, because he would give up breath for ten minutes. When he first demonstrated in Calcutta University, ten doctors stood around him—the finest minds stood around. Brahmayogi said: when I perform the experiment, if I die, all ten of you sign a certificate that this man is dead—if you find that I am dead. And when his breath stopped, the ten doctors signed a certificate that Brahmayogi had died; for the medical signs of death were complete.
But ten minutes later the man returned. When Brahmayogi folded the certificate and slipped it into his pocket, the ten doctors pleaded: please return that paper—do you want to file a lawsuit? We are trapped.
Ten men signed that the man had died. Breath returned.
Brahmayogi said: I take prana to that place where the child is at the first instant before birth. Sinking, sinking—the breath becomes silent; with breath silent, heartbeat and pulse vanish.
But the Atman still is; else who returns? The man comes back. He later performed in Rangoon and Oxford. The doctors said: if you are right and we are not deceived, we must change the definition of death. Until now we said: if these signs are present, the man is dead; and all the certificates we have issued—who knows how many were dead and how many not! But now there is no method to know.
In truth, none of them were dead—if by death we mean complete annihilation. So far we can only say: the instrument that takes breath is no longer able to take breath. Brahmayogi does the opposite—the instrument is able, but breath is not taken. The dying man too is doing something similar: he wants to breathe, but the instrument is no longer able. If either of the two is absent, breath stops—either the instrument fails, or breath is withheld. For a moment we too can stop it—anyone can. If for a moment, then for ten moments—only a matter of practice.
“Without prana, without mind”…
Even when I do not think, I am; in deep sleep, thoughts disappear, dreams disappear, yet… I am.
Now scientists say: even if your brain is entirely removed, your existence does not cease—you still are.
Mind is not necessary for being. Truly, we must go into deep sleep each night because we are so tired of the mind that we must be freed of it for a while; otherwise we will become stale, rotten.
“…I am not mind; I am the witness beyond intellect.”
A man can attempt to be a witness through intellect. Whenever someone practices witnessing, he does so through buddhi. He says: I will be a witness; I will endeavor; I will make effort to be a witness. All effort is of buddhi. Therefore no one can be a witness through buddhi; only when buddhi is lost does witnessing happen.
For buddhi can never be a witness—remember well, because buddhi cannot remain without judging; and witnessing means, no judgment. I saw a flower—I only kept seeing—not a ripple arose that it is beautiful, or ugly; not that it is a rose or a champa; not that I should pluck it or leave it—nothing arose. The flower remained there, I here; between us no wave of thought; emptiness, shunyata, in between—there the flower, here I… then I am a witness of the flower.
If I stiffen and say: right now I am a witness of the flower—then I am related to this thought, not to the flower. And if even a glimmer arises—“it is beautiful”—no word is formed, only a glimmer—still buddhi has come in; for buddhi cannot be without decision.
In truth, buddhi is designed for decision; one must take sides—here or there; with buddhi you cannot be neutral. Witnessing is possible only when buddhi does nothing.
“I am the witness beyond intellect.”
I see, I do not think; I am, I form no viewpoints; consciousness is full, but no shadow of thought falls upon it.
“…and I am always Chit‑svarupa.”
Not that sometimes I am conscious and sometimes unconscious; I am always Chit‑svarupa.
By effort we can be conscious for a moment. Let a dagger touch your chest—you become conscious for a moment; the sleep of lifetimes is cut through by the blade. For a moment, shedding the five sheaths, the senses, the thoughts, the mind—only the witness remains—a single instant!
Hence in Japan there is a Zen lineage that teaches meditation by teaching the sword. They say: cheaper than this, meditation cannot be. Man is so sluggish, so asleep, that unless the sword’s edge is before him, meditation will not happen. Thus the training halls for swordsmanship are called meditation centers. At the door: Meditation Center. Inside, you will be shocked—swords clashing. You will never think meditation and sword are related.
Japan produced a very special kind of soldier—the samurai. Samurai means: a soldier who makes meditation and sword one. Nowhere on earth has there been a soldier like the samurai. Even the Rajputs of India are nothing beside them; for the essential teaching of the samurai is: when you take the sword in hand, buddhi must stop. Let the sword move—do not move it by buddhi.
Therefore if two samurai face each other, victory or defeat is very uncertain. The swords move—buddhi is absent. The samurai masters say: because buddhi comes in between, the mark is missed and error happens; for in that gap a blink occurs. With a sword in hand, a thought arises—“I left the tap open at home”—you are finished! Such thoughts arise not during swordplay only; they arise in the temple as you sit to pray. You miss. You are lost from here.
In that very gap, the master says, the other’s sword will enter you.
Let the sword move—let there be no thought within. Then who is within? The witness—only the witness. He will see the sword moving; and if the sword enters within, he will see it entering. But if there is only the witness, the sword will pierce the body, but cannot pierce the witness.
Therefore Krishna said: cut—yet I am not cut—nainam chindanti shastrani; weapons do not cleave me; fire does not burn me—burn me, I remain unburnt… untouched.
“…I am always Chit‑svarupa.”
Not sometimes. We sometimes become conscious—by accident, in an intense moment. And a strange thing: whenever we become conscious, only then do we taste a little bliss in life. Perhaps once or twice in life a common man gets a sudden glimpse that never returns. The reason is: somewhere within we become conscious—by any cause… any cause! When that consciousness blossoms, we never again find such a peak; then we search for it all our life.
It can happen anywhere. In the silence of night, a moment when only the cricket’s chirp remains and no thought within—then the joy that happens is unparalleled. At sunrise perhaps—seeing the sun rise, and within no thought remains—not even the word “sun” forms within; if even that does not form, then in that very moment the experience you have—Sun becomes a deity. That experience is unforgettable.
Sometimes it happens accidentally. To make it happen by method is meditation—that we remain awake. But then effort is there.
The Rishi says: when even effort is not there and awakening is effortless—that is my nature; that is what I am.
“…of this there is no doubt.”
No doubt at all. Why? Because this is not a doctrine. The Rishi says: there is no doubt, because I say it as known.
Vivekananda went to Ramakrishna. He asked: Is there God? Ramakrishna did not say yes or no, did not set out to explain, did not say sit, I will explain. He said: Shall we see—right now?
Vivekananda later said: I myself fell into doubt—right now or not? He did not fall into doubt—though I had asked the awkward question. I had asked: Is there God? He should have hesitated, for it is a difficult question. To say yes is not easy, nor to say no. Say yes—you must prove it. Who has proved God?
Perhaps many cannot believe in God because no one has proved Him. Otherwise atheists would have vanished long ago. The very persistence of atheism shows that God is such as cannot be proved. Otherwise—what need of atheists? So many supreme theists have been on earth—and atheism remains untouched. Gather all the theists—they cannot turn one atheist into a theist. Why? One reason: the atheist demands proof; and God is not of the nature of proof—our hands fall limp.
Vivekananda thought Ramakrishna would be in difficulty—rustic, uneducated, barely literate in Bengali, what would he know? Vivekananda was a consummate rationalist; keen intelligence; scholar of Aristotle and Nyaya. He asked a rustic, and that man put Vivekananda into doubt. He said: Shall we see now—this moment?
In that answer is a great beauty: he speaks as if God is here—say the word. So utterly undoubting! Doubt is absent only when there is experience.
Thus the Rishi says: “Of this there is no doubt.” He is saying: I say this as known; as this I, I speak; it is not a doctrine, not a dogma; not my thought, not a notion, not a belief—thus have I known; thus have I lived.
Before this, Vivekananda had also gone to Devendranath Tagore, father of Rabindranath—renowned as a Maharshi. Ramakrishna was nobody then. Devendranath was a great man—of honored lineage, the Tagores, called rajas; a prince’s son; revered as a seer; learned; a rishi‑like presence; lived mostly on a barge—on the river.
At midnight Vivekananda swam to the barge—soaked, dark night! He shoved the door; it was latched—for who comes at midnight to a barge? He burst in; Devendranath sat with eyes closed in meditation—shove… sound… the boat swaying… the door opening… and suddenly this youth grabbing Devendranath by the collar and shaking him: Is there God?
Devendranath said: Sit down, catch your breath; is this any time to ask? Any manner to come? What manners are these?
Vivekananda said: When the house is on fire, what manners? Answer my question; leave the rest; I need no niceties—is there God?
A hesitation ran through Devendranath—saying “yes” felt hard; “no” not even conceivable. But to such a one who says his house is on fire—who swims at midnight—soaked, face unseen, asking for God; is this how seekers behave?
He said: Sit, I will explain a little. But Vivekananda leapt—splash into the water. Devendranath cried: Wait, young man! Vivekananda said: Your hesitation has said all—nothing remains to be said.
Therefore the Rishi says: “Of this there is not even a trace of doubt.”
Hesitation too is enough to say it. Why so much as that… But at Ramakrishna’s feet the head bowed—before a rustic. Devendranath was the most learned; there was hesitation.
Thought always hesitates; experience alone is unhesitating.
However much you think, doubt remains; for how can thought be free of doubt? Think as much as you like, convince yourself God is—some voice inside will still say: But where is the knowing? Where is the meeting? Argument and evidence say He is—and inside the heart says: I am empty yet.
Thus the Rishi says: “There is not the least doubt.” I speak from experience.
Enough for today.