Saravsar Upanishad #17

Gyan, as far as it extends, its expansion is called Veda. Veda means knowledge; to know. The root from which the word Veda arises is the same for ‘vidvan’—the learned one. Knowledge is Veda.
But there is also such a dimension of life, and such a secret state of existence, where even the Veda does not enter, where knowledge too does not reach; where even knowledge has to be left outside before entry is granted. Hence India coined a unique word—you have heard it much, perhaps rarely understood; the word is ‘Vedanta.’ Vedanta means: where even the Veda comes to an end; where the reach of Veda is no more; where one has to go beyond Veda; where Veda becomes futile; where there is no movement for Veda. Veda means the totality of knowledge—as far as it can be taken; and all of that is of no use—the known is of no use, what has been experienced is of no use, whatever has been accumulated as the known is of no use—from there Vedanta begins.
Where Veda ends, from there Vedanta begins; where the boundary of Veda arrives, there is the commencement of Vedanta. If we render Vedanta rightly into English it would mean: no-knowledge.
Let us understand its three steps. One is knowledge; below it is a step, ignorance; and above it is a step, the beyond-knowledge. Ignorance—when we do not know; knowledge—when we know, that is, we have gone beyond not-knowing; and beyond-knowledge—when we have gone beyond knowing itself.
Ignorance binds—and knowledge too binds. Freedom is only when even knowledge becomes a zero. Ignorance must certainly become zero, but that is not enough. Many traditions arose on the earth to erase ignorance, innumerable streams the world over that tried to dispel ignorance; but perhaps the precious few in the East brought forth a new stream and said: a boundary comes where knowledge too has to be erased; that too becomes a bondage. Not-knowing is bondage, knowing also becomes bondage—because knowing has a limit. However much one may know, knowing cannot be infinite. And if the Infinite is to be ‘known’, then all knowing has to be dropped.
Therefore, in a deep sense, the supreme knower becomes like an ignoramus—in one sense like the ignorant; because knowledge too is not with him. In another sense he is utterly opposite to the ignorant; for the ignorant is ignorant because knowledge is not with him, and the knower—this supreme knower—is ‘ignorant’ because he has discarded knowledge.
Let us see it this way.
One man is born as a beggar and grows up begging on the road. Then one day, suddenly, Gautama the Buddha descends from his palace and stands on the road begging. The same path, the same begging bowl in both hands—the beggar and the Buddha walk together asking for alms. What is the difference? Both are out asking; both hold a bowl; both will stand at doors holding out the bowl. Both are beggars—but are they certainly alike?
From the outside no difference appears; within, the difference is vast. The beggar is only a beggar. He has nothing, and he has never known his being either; hence in his not-having there is great pain. He has no wealth; and the Buddha too has no wealth now—but he had known wealth. Therefore, the absence of wealth is for him a crater, a bleeding wound; the soul is a begging bowl—not only in the hand but within. But this Buddha standing nearby—he too is a beggar, yet he has known wealth. He does not suffer the absence of wealth; he knew abundance, he knew plenty, and it became futile. He has left it, having known it. Wealth has become meaningless for him; for the beggar, wealth is still meaningful. Both are beggars, but in the Buddha’s beggarhood there is the bearing of a great emperor. In the Buddha’s beggarhood there is such grace that emperors would feel ashamed. In this beggarhood of the Buddha there is great lordliness. Wealth has become futile, has been dropped; no meaning remains in it. The other too is a beggar, but utterly a beggar—wealth is supremely meaningful, and the demand for wealth continues.
Exactly such an event occurs between the ignorant and the supreme knower. The supreme knower too leaves knowledge—just as a Buddha leaves wealth—having known, recognized, possessed. He sees that knowledge does not go beyond the boundary; all Vedas halt; the meeting with the Infinite does not occur. He leaves; he sets even knowledge on fire; he casts the Veda into the flames—swaha. He becomes like the ignorant, yet he is not ignorant. The ignorant is still seeking knowledge; for him the journey of knowledge lies ahead; for this one, the journey has been completed and he has gone beyond.
Therefore the rishi says:
“I am that Brahman which is known through all Vedanta.”
He does not say: through all Vedas; he does not say: I am the Brahman known by the Vedas—because the Brahman that the Vedas know is not what I am; it is limited; it too gets bound in the concepts of knowledge.
“I am the Brahman known through Vedanta.”
That which even the Veda cannot know, and which only one who dares to drop the Veda can know—that is what I am.
Understand it within, and it will become easy. With knowledge we can know everything—except ourselves; for everything stands before knowledge, but we are even behind knowledge. With knowledge everything can be known because knowledge is an instrument of mine.
See it thus.
With the eye we can see everything—but not our own eye. And if you see it in a mirror, you do not see your eye, you see only its reflection. The reflection is another thing. The eye sees all—and the great complication is, why can it not see itself? Because to see anything, distance is necessary; you must place it at a remove, face to face. How will the eye be face to face with itself? It cannot be. Hence the eye sees everything, but not the eye.
Our knowledge too will know everything in this world, except that Brahman hidden within—the very one we are; for knowledge is the eye of that Brahman; by it everything can be known. And the sum of all that has been known and collected by that knowing is called Veda. What Brahman has known is Veda; and that by which Brahman is known is Vedanta.
Now by what will this Brahman be known? Who will know it? In truth, the very language of ‘knowing’ has to be dropped, because knowing is always of the other. What would it mean to ‘know’ oneself? How will you know that which you are? Who will know it? From which angle? From what direction? Therefore, whatever we ‘know’ regarding the self becomes alien by the very act of knowing. In truth, the being of the self is beyond the grasp of knowledge.
One way is this: if we take off all knowledge as garments and put them aside; as one becomes naked having dropped one’s clothes, so we become naked of knowledge—then the shimmering that happens is not knowledge, it is a stirring; the inner thrill that arises—the knowing that happens without knowing—its name is Vedanta.
The mind made naked of knowledge enters Vedanta.
But man is very clever. He has bound even Vedanta into scripture. He has made Vedas out of Vedanta too. And so the pandits go on explaining that Vedanta is not the end of the Vedas; it is their essence. The pandits go on explaining that Vedanta is a part of the Veda. This is sheer falsehood; sheerly wrong.
The whole endeavor of the supreme knowers has been that somehow you be freed of words, doctrines, knowledge—so that you may be established in That, wherein no door opens through knowing. The door opens through being, not through knowing. Not through knowing, but through being. And knowledge is an obstacle to being; for knowledge is an expansion, a spread outward from oneself. Being is to sink into oneself, to settle within, to stop at the original point.
So the meaning of Vedanta is: the day you are ready to drop all knowledge the way a Buddha becomes ready to drop wealth. Knowledge too is wealth, an inner treasure, accumulated within.
And it is a strange thing: just as wealth is not really ours, we are only one link in a chain of ownership—the father’s wealth comes to the son, the son’s wealth to his son. No one is born taking wealth along; one thing is certain. From wherever it comes, however it comes, no one is born with wealth—whether the state gives it, or tradition, or lineage, or society; whether it is earned by labor, or stolen—one thing is fixed: no one is born with wealth and no one dies carrying it. Wealth is a middle event, outside of us.
Knowledge is just the same; we receive knowledge from others. Knowledge too is society’s accumulated capital. That is why animals do not become knowledgeable—the only reason is they lack language to store knowledge. Therefore when a father dies he cannot pass on his experience to the son; there is no way. The son has to begin from exactly where the father began. Hence animals do not progress.
Peoples without the means of writing also cannot progress; for how much can the father recite by memory? Much is lost; then the sons must begin again—from A, B, C.
The development of language created vaults for knowledge. And the day we discovered script and writing, the fear of losing knowledge ended. For the first time man underwent a new event—whereas animals forever start where the father started, end where the father ended; their sons again start there—so no development is possible, because no son can stand upon the father’s shoulders. All of human development is that every son stands upon the father’s shoulders. The height goes on growing, the treasury of knowledge accumulates. Every generation collects knowledge and hands it over. Therefore the societies that gather more knowledge become more intelligent. Knowledge is a collection.
Just imagine: if for twenty years all universities, all schools, all colleges are shut, all libraries burned, and for twenty years every means of education withdrawn—the father stops instructing the son, the guru stops instructing the disciple—do you know what will happen? In twenty years you will arrive where you were two million years ago. All will be lost.
Knowledge is a collection. And the collection must be transferred daily; hence schools exist. What do schools, colleges, universities do? They hand over what the father’s generation has gathered to the sons’ generation—nothing more. The teacher serves as the conduit. His whole business is only this: to pass on what the old generation gathered to the new—the link in between.
This knowledge too is a wealth, and it also comes to us from others. The sum of all this is called Veda. Hence we have called the Veda a Samhita. Samhita means: collected—the collected, the accumulated. Whatever has been known, gathered. Therefore by Veda I do not mean only those four Samhitas. Whatever knowledge has been collected anywhere in the world—that too is Veda; knowledge-as-such is Veda. And knowledge-as-such is Samhita—because it is all collected; a store.
Hence the rishi very carefully, very attentively, says—not casually—‘known through Vedanta,’ not through Veda; because what is known through accumulated knowledge is not true knowing. The knowledge of Brahman is not accumulated; it is already within us; we need not bring it from outside.
Therefore, it may happen that if universities are shut down, the arrangement of education collapses—and if, as in the new youth movements across the world—hippies and others—if they gain strength and win, universities will not be able to function; libraries will be burned; soon all will be gone. Yet Brahma-jnana will not be harmed.
Let all Vedas burn, all Bibles, all Korans be destroyed—Brahma-jnana will suffer no wound, for it has never been obtained from them. They are irrelevant. There is no connection. Whenever Brahma-jnana has been obtained, it has arisen from within. It may have been expressed outside, but it has never been received from outside.
The Vedas may have tried to say what Brahma-jnana is, but Brahma-jnana has never been obtained from the Vedas. Expression happens; one who has known tries to speak, and from that the Vedas are born—but whoever has known has not known by the Veda; he has known by Vedanta. And when I say Vedanta, I mean: he has known by the ending of knowledge; when even knowledge has been brought to an end, when knowledge too has been dropped.
He said: All has been known—but whatever was known came from outside. Now we leave all that and seek to know that which is within, which has never come from without. Now we wish to recognize only That. Now we move in search of the purest, which is forever unavailable from outside and forever present within.
Therefore the rishi says: ‘by all Vedanta’…and this too is worth considering…that if the rishi had said only ‘that which Vedanta has known,’ there would have been a slight…slight error. Hence the rishi says: “I am the Brahman known through all Vedanta.” Because Vedanta is not born only in this land. Wherever Vedanta has happened—‘all Vedanta’—anywhere.
If Jesus knows, it is through Vedanta—though he has no acquaintance with the Upanishads; nor is it needed. If Lao Tzu knows, it is through Vedanta; if Eckhart knows, it is through Vedanta. Whenever anyone in the world knows, he knows through Vedanta—by cessation of knowledge. Such is the vast meaning of Vedanta.
But as man is, and as man’s mind is, we even meet people who say: we are Vedantins. No one can be a Vedantin. This is sheer stupidity. No one can be a Vedantin, because Vedanta is not a doctrine. If it becomes a doctrine, it becomes a scripture—a Veda. So if someone says, ‘we believe in Vedanta,’ he says something gravely mistaken; where belief exists, how could knowledge have ended? Belief belongs to knowledge. Therefore there is no ‘Vedantin’—when I say this I mean: no one can make Vedanta into an -ism. Whoever does has missed the point; the essential has been missed. Vedanta means: no doctrine, no scripture, no knowledge; then how will you become a Vedantin?
If one is to enter Vedanta, in truth, all doctrines, all scriptures, all theories must be dropped. Even the Veda must be left. Such a one we may call Vedanta-pervaded—but not a Vedantin. We can say: this person has entered Vedanta; but that person cannot return and say: I am a Vedantin. That would be a contradiction; the word would lose its meaning.
“I am the Brahman known through all Vedanta.”
‘I am That’ which the knowers have known when all knowledge becomes zero. What the rishi is declaring here is the declaration of the Supreme. Someone may think it is great ego—that I am That which all Vedantas have known. No, not an iota of selfhood is here. He is only saying: Now I speak of That, the Supreme Element, where even knowledge cannot reach; where knowledge is impotent—there I dwell; where only being has power; where only pure existence can enter—where even knowing is destroyed, where knowing itself becomes a hindrance, where knowing breeds dissonance; where even by knowing restlessness arises; where the wave of knowing is not.
We have heard much that when thought falls silent, meditation happens. Now understand a deeper thing: when knowledge too falls silent, Brahman happens. If thought becomes still, meditation happens—but in meditation knowing remains. If knowing also ceases, if even the ripple of knowing is lost, if knowledge is lost—then Brahman happens.
“I am not form, not name, not action; I am only the Sachchidananda-svarupa Brahman. I am not the objects that seem like sky, air, and so on.”
“I am not the body”—this last utterance is supremely precious—“I am not the body; then how can birth and death be for me? I am not prana; then how can hunger and thirst be for me? I am not the mind; then of what should grief and delusion be for me?”
And the final statement is the answer to the very first inquiry with which the Upanishad began. After such a long journey, the answer is astonishing. The answer is: “I am not the doer; then how can there be bondage or liberation for me?”
The inquiry began with: What is bondage, what is liberation? This was the first question. The rishi discussed at length, entered the deep essence of life—and you could never have imagined that in the end, if the rishi had to say only this, it could have been said at the outset!
The rishi is saying: There is no bondage at all—so what liberation? For the one who could be bound, I am not; I cannot be bound. Freedom is my nature—who will bind me? How shall I be bound? Upon what will bonds fasten? I am not even so much that I could be bound. Where is that much form that a prison could be built around me? Where are limits? Having brought down all boundaries, having freed from all form—perhaps by now even the inquirer has forgotten that he had asked: What is bondage, what is liberation? The talk had gone so far—so deep…so deep—but the rishi says: ‘I am not the doer—then why should there be bondage and liberation for me?’ And when bondage cannot be for me, what meaning can liberation have? If a bond cannot be forged upon me, where is the question of moksha?
This Upanishad began with a question and it ends upon a question. The rishi says: Why bondage? Why liberation? As I am, there is no possibility of bondage or liberation. If this was all, he could have said it before.
A Sufi incident comes to mind. The fakir Hasan set out in search of a master. He had gone just outside his own village. Right at the outskirts, near a rock, an old fakir sat. Hasan said: I am setting out on a quest. I have no hope that truth will be found in this village—no one has that hope for one’s own village—and I am sure that those whom I know cannot possibly have any truth. So I am leaving this place. Will you give me some direction—where should I go, where should I search?
That fakir said: It is very difficult—most arduous. Yet since you have asked, I will tell you. The day you meet a man of this description, do not lose his trail. Such a face, such eyes, such a turban, such a kurta, sitting in such a manner, on such a stone, beneath such a tree—I will describe it all. The day you find such a man, do not leave him.
He searched and searched. They say Hasan combed every town and village—neither that tree was found, nor that rock, nor that man. Thirty years he wandered the earth; he wandered and wandered—grew tired, bored, harassed; became somewhat worn and withered. No glimpse of truth appeared; the thirst that had driven him was now almost extinguished, covered in dust. A doubt arose whether truth exists at all. He became angry with that old man: that fool sent me into such a…since I left the village I have fallen into trouble. He gave me such a description! Had he not given it, perhaps I would have found somewhere; I was ruined in searching for this! Neither that place was found, nor that man!
He returned to his village. At the gate of the village, the same old man sat. Hasan was astonished. The tree seemed the very tree described; the rock the very rock! He came near—those eyes too were the same! He grasped the old man’s feet and cried: Are you mad? If you yourself are the one I was to catch hold of, why did you not say so before? Why did you make me wander for thirty years?
The old fakir said: I had told you that day itself; but thirty years of wandering were necessary, only then could you recognize me. I had told you everything that day—such a rock; but you did not even look at the rock on which I sat. Such a tree—you did not look at the tree! You were in haste; eager to set out on the quest. And you had already assumed that where you were going from, there truth could not be. I had described the eyes, and you did not even look into mine. I described the contours of the face. The trouble was not yours—rather, I was in trouble, for I have not been able to leave this rock for thirty years, not knowing when this simpleton would return. He would return surely—for the description I gave can be found nowhere else but beneath this tree, upon this rock. So I have been the one in inconvenience on your account. But it was necessary that you wander thirty years; it was necessary to pass through that pain. That anguish was your sadhana.
This rishi too could have answered—could have said: What bondage! Who will be bound? And if there is no bondage, what liberation? Freedom—of whom? But then the seeker’s journey could not have happened. The inquirer might have fallen silent, but he could not have gone away at peace. Perhaps his mouth would have been shut, perhaps he would have had nothing to say in reply—but no help, no resolution would have come to him.
So the rishi had to wait. It was a long journey. In this long journey he dissolved the inquirer inch by inch.
A delightful thing—he set aside the question entirely. What had been asked, he left aside; he set about dissolving the very one who had asked… and he went on saying: Not the body, not the senses, not the mind, not the intellect, not I, not you, not that, not the Veda, not knowledge—beyond that, and beyond, and beyond…he went on scattering him, melting him. And when the melting reached its limit—when the iceberg that had come had melted into water and merged with the ocean—then the rishi asked the seeker: Now I ask you—what bondage, and for whom? Who will be bound? For where are you, that you could be bound? And if you have never been bound, why do you seek liberation? Whom will you free? Who will attain moksha?
In this regard this Upanishad is wondrous. It begins with a question, ends with a question—but the form of the question, its arrangement, its quality, have changed. The question was asked by the disciple at the beginning; and the question is asked by the master at the end; and somewhere between the two, the answer is. Therefore both prayed: ‘Protect us; let us make effort together; let our exertion be joint; save us both; let us not drown midway.’
To give an answer is easy; to bring one to resolution is difficult. Anyone gives answers. By giving answers no one becomes a master—he may be a teacher, not a guru. This is the difference between guru and teacher. The guru gives resolution; the teacher gives answers. From the teacher you may ask what and how—he tells you. It is not necessary that the answer he gives be his own; someone else may have given it. It is also not necessary that the answer he gives has resolved anything in him. Not necessary. The answer is packaged. It is traditional; the teacher passes it on to the pupil.
But the guru does not give answers; the guru gives resolution. Resolution can be given only by giving Samadhi; there is no other way. In truth, only through Samadhi can there be resolution. The entire process told in this Upanishad is the process of Samadhi. If one proceeds step by step through this process, Samadhi will be attained. Samadhi is the solution.
And the day resolution happens, that day the guru asks him: Now I ask you. Because this whole inquiry was of such a kind—as I told you in the middle—like this: in the dimness of dusk you saw a rope and took it for a snake, and you came running to me and said: There is a snake—how shall we drive it away? How shall we remove it? With a stick? With a bullet? Or shall we stop using that path?
If I only tell you: There is no snake, you are in confusion, a projection of the mind, a mistake in seeing—you will hardly accept it. You may be silenced, but the snake is more real than my words. Words are only words; the snake is more real. No, I can give you an answer, but the answer will not help. Better that I light a lamp and walk with you—and say: Come, first let us see the snake—how big it is; then accordingly bring a sword, or a stick, or arrange according to the need for its destruction. First let us go and see the snake’s capacity.
Knowing full well there is no snake, the one who takes the lamp and goes with you is not a teacher. The teacher will give the answer. He may even explain how a man mistakes a rope for a snake; he will explain everything. But if you say to him: Come then, walk that path—he will say: This answer too I have heard; I will not get into trouble. Perhaps there is a snake. It is not my concern; the answer is scriptural. I know it; my teacher told me; his teacher told him; I know it completely. I can tell you everything, but I will not go from here.
But the guru will go with you—knowing there is no snake. Yet this understanding must become your experience: there is no snake. He will take the lamp. This whole Upanishad proceeds with a lamp in hand. And inch by inch the path becomes illumined; darkness is cut away; and at last he stands before the rope. You still see a snake; but he says: Look—where is the snake? This is not a tail, this is a rope; this is not a trunk, this is a rope; this is not a hood, this is a rope.
All this is nothing but this: I am not this, I am not this, I am not this—the snake is being cut away. When the ‘I’ is utterly cut, the rope remains. Then the guru asks: Now I ask you—how shall we kill the snake? Which snake shall we kill? And if there is no snake, what will the sword cut? And if there is no snake, what advice shall I give you to save yourself? Now you tell me!
And upon this question the Upanishad is complete.
“And thus this Upanishad ends.”
And there is not even a single answer from the disciple now. The disciple should at least say something! At least thank you! At least express gratitude! At least say: Blessings upon you, Master! Something…something should be said. But the disciple is utterly silent. He is silent because, in one sense, the disciple is gone; not even capable of speaking. Not only the snake is cut; in that cutting the disciple is cut. The one who came asking is no more. The mind that came questioning is no more. The ego that had questions and sought answers is no more.
In truth, the one who came is not; and the one who is now never was. Who will offer thanks? To whom will thanks be given? What answer?
Zen master Linchi used to say to his disciples: If you do not answer my question, this staff will fall upon your head—and if you do answer, it will fall upon your head all the same. Certainly it becomes difficult, for no way remains.
Linchi used to ask questions of his disciples. His custom was: You may ask me a question only when you have answered mine. The guru said to the disciple: First you answer my question, then I will answer yours. And he held a staff in his hand. He would say: If you answer, I will strike you; if you do not answer, I will strike you. Often people ran away; but those who knew would remain.
When Bokuju came to him the first time, Bokuju said: Do this—the questions and answers can come later; first strike me with the staff—let us get this done. Otherwise this will interfere and needlessly entangle us. Let us settle this first; it is the simple part; questions and answers are most difficult. First strike—here is my head. Linchi said: The man has arrived; now I will not question you—you may question me.
If asking is mere curiosity, it is one thing—not of much value. If asking is real inquiry, then it is a wager—and great is the stake. For to ask such questions as: What is bondage and what is liberation?—these are questions that stake one’s life.
So when, in the end, the Master asks after erasing everything—wiping the slate completely, not letting even a single letter remain—even knowledge must not be left; in the end that too is wiped, and it is said that even the Vedas do not reach there. Everything is erased on every side, burned to ash, the seed utterly roasted. And now the Master asks: What bondage? Who is bound? What liberation? If no one was ever bound, what kind of freedom can there be? If at that point the disciple so much as says “Thank you,” the Upanishad would have to be started all over again; because that would mean: well, the snake may have been destroyed, but the disciple has not yet disappeared—he can still speak; he can still say at least this much: “Great is your compassion; you have explained everything; I have understood it all; I have attained to knowledge.”
A Master from whom you return as a “knower” was a wasted visit; a Master at whose feet you dissolve and never return—only that visit is meaningful.

Religion is the art of vanishing; the science of extinguishing yourself with your own hands. As if someone blows upon a lamp and the flame is gone, in the same way our I-sense, our ego, should vanish—so vanished that you cannot find it anywhere; behind, only stark emptiness remains... vacant, hollow. And in that vacancy and hollowness there is the vision of that which is truly our being.

This is the final thing:
“Such is this mystery.”

Thus this mystery ends. Thus this Upanishad is complete.

Upanishad means: mystery. Upanishad means: mystery. And mystery means: even if we “understand” it, it does not come into understanding; and even if we have not understood it, it seems as though it is understood. This is what mystery means. Those who do not understand fall into the illusion that they have understood; and those who do understand come to know: where have we understood?—that is the meaning of mystery.

If something becomes clear simply by understanding, it is not a mystery. If something remains unclear simply because you do not understand, that too is not a mystery. Mystery means: those who do not know feel that they know, and those who do know feel, “Where do we know at all!”

Socrates said in the last days of his life: when I did not know, that was better—at least there was the illusion of knowing; now a greater trouble has arisen: since I have come to know, I am caught in the predicament that I do not know at all! This is called mystery.

The goddess of Delphi had declared that Socrates was the wisest in Greece. Those who heard the proclamation ran to Socrates and said, “Socrates, do you hear? The goddess of Delphi has declared that Socrates is supremely wise.” Socrates said, “The goddess is a little late; when I was—when there was time—when I was ‘wise,’ no one came to say it... when I was ‘wise,’ then no one proclaimed it; then I myself went about proclaiming it. And now... now that it has become clear I know nothing at all, now it occurs to the goddess! Surely there has been some mistake; go back and ask again.”

They went back, in one sense happy, because the claim that Socrates was wise had stung their hearts. Had Socrates said, “Yes, I am wise,” they would not have believed it so readily. But Socrates said, “I am utterly ignorant.” They thought, “This must be right—surely the goddess has made a mistake.” They returned to the goddess and said, “It seems some error has occurred.” The goddess replied, “I do not make errors.” They said, “There must have been one, because Socrates himself says he is completely ignorant.” The goddess said, “Precisely for that reason did I proclaim him supremely wise! Precisely! That is the very reason; so long as he was ‘wise,’ I could not proclaim it.” This is the meaning of mystery.

Upanishad means: mystery. More precisely, the word “Upanishad” means: that which is known by sitting near the Master—known by “sitting near” the Master; not by hearing the Master, but by sitting near. For in hearing, only words are received; by sitting near, something else is imparted.

But there is an art to sitting near; listening is very easy, sitting near is very difficult.

Upanishad means: what is received simply by sitting near the Master—in his nearness, his proximity, in surrender to him, in love for him—by dissolving near him, by forgetting oneself near him. Therefore, in truth, what the Master says is not important; what the Master is—that alone is important. For what he says is merely heard; what he is—one sits near that.

With Gurdjieff this happened again and again: a disciple would be sitting with him; Gurdjieff would glare at him with such anger that his chest would quake. Many disciples fled from Gurdjieff. And he was very skillful—so skillful that those who knew him closely say he could show anger with one half of his eyes to the man on this side, and with the other half show love to the man on that side. The two men would later argue about what kind of person he was. One would say, “So loving—love was pouring from his eyes.” The other would say, “You are crazy! I too was there, and I saw nothing in his eyes but wickedness.”

A very thoughtful man of the West, Alan Watts, even called Gurdjieff a “rascal saint.” But Gurdjieff was a marvelous man. To be an ordinary saint is very easy; to be an ordinary devil is also very easy. Those who knew him, who sat near him, would continually tell people: “Do not worry about what he does, what he says, what look he gives; concern yourself only with being near him. Do not worry about his expression—whether he curses, whether he shows anger, whether he shows love; do not bother about that—they are his devices. Through them he tests whether you have come to ‘listen’ or to ‘be near’—whether you have come into intimacy, or to listen-and-understand.”

If you have come to listen-and-understand, he sends you away; because, he says, the one who comes to listen-and-understand cannot go very far. Nearness is needed—a certain intimacy, a closeness. In that closeness, consciousness begins to pass through one another. In intimacy the inner doors open, and consciousness begins to flow from one to the other.

And the day this flow of consciousness begins within you, on that day the Upanishad happens—on that day! Not before that day.