Saravsar Upanishad #4

Within is the abode of consciousness; without is the vast expanse of the Virat. There are two ways to relate to this vastness. This which spreads without and this which dwells within—there are two journeys toward their meeting. One journey is indirect—through the doors of the indriyas. The other is direct, immediate, mediumless—through an extrasensory, atīndriya state.
If we are to know the world outside, there are two gates. One gate: I employ the body and come to know. The other: I drop all media and know.
Ordinarily, if there is light outside, without the eyes we cannot know it; if there is sound outside, without the ears we cannot know it; if there are colors outside, the indriyas must be used. Through the indriyas we know what is outside; the indriyas are our media of knowing.
By nature, knowledge received through the indriyas is like this: somewhere an event occurs, and someone comes and reports it to me—I am not directly present there, there is a messenger in between. Certainly, the report will not be exactly as it happened, because the messenger’s interpretation will also be included.
When my eye reports to me, "A flower has blossomed on the tree—very beautiful, very lovely," the report concerns the flower on the tree, yes, but it also concerns the eye’s own tendencies; the eye has added its interpretation. And the colors that seem to appear in the blossom—while they are in the flower, the eye has added much that is not there on the flower.
It may surprise you to know that five thousand years ago man could see only three colors. Hence in texts five thousand years old you do not find names of more than three colors. As man’s eyes grew more sensitive, he came to see seven colors.
Colin Wilson, in a remarkable book of his, has declared that soon—in two, three, five centuries—man will be able to see colors we cannot even imagine today; the eyes will continue to evolve.
When the eye evolves, colors appear. If there are no eyes, colors do not appear; the world becomes colorless. One born blind has no sense of color; one born deaf has no world of sound—the world is void of sound for him.
Our knowing is through the media of the indriyas. And then we are compelled to accept what the indriyas report, because we have no other way to get news. But in the indriyas’ news their interpretation is mixed.
You look at a face and it appears beautiful. Then you look at the same face through a microscope; you will be quite disturbed. The face is very uneven, full of pits... hills and lakes begin to appear; pores become great craters. Is the microscope wrong? No—the microscope is giving its interpretation; it can see deeper than your naked eye.
Then you look at the same face through an X-ray machine; the skin vanishes and the skeleton remains within. Is the X-ray wrong? No—the X-ray is giving its interpretation. Then which is true: the face seen by the naked eye, the one seen through the microscope, or the one seen via X-ray? All are reports of the same face. All are true—and yet each interpretation is partial, and dependent on the medium through which it is obtained.
But might it be possible to see the world without any medium at all? Only when we see without a medium will truth be revealed. Hence the rishis’ profound discovery: as long as we know the world through the indriyas, that which we know is a projection imposed by the indriyas upon the world; that is what is called Maya. What you have seen is not only the scene; the seer is mixed up with it.
When Majnu says someone is very beautiful—Laila—he is not speaking only about Laila, he is also speaking about himself. In fact, it is Majnu’s eyes that see Laila as beautiful. It is not necessary that Laila appear beautiful to everyone. Those for whom she does not appear beautiful are also offering an interpretation concerning Laila; and those for whom she does appear beautiful, they too are interpreting—both are talking of the same person, but the medium through which they have sought Laila—mind and indriyas—has entered their interpretation.
So when someone gives you news that a certain man is very good, he is not only reporting about that man; he is reporting about himself too. And when someone says a certain man is very bad, again he is not only reporting about that man; he is reporting about himself. Perhaps his news about the other may be wrong—but his news about himself cannot be wrong.
Our indriyas mingle interpretation. They are not mere passive doors; they are also active projectors.
So one path is through the doors of the indriyas—to know the spread of truth. But those who have seen beyond the indriyas say: the knowledge that comes this way is illusory, Maya. When a man like Shankar says, "This world is Maya," do not think he is saying the world is not. Shankar could not say such madness—that the world is not. The world absolutely is; but it is not as it appears to you. Its appearing thus is your viewpoint; that very viewpoint renders this world Maya. As the world appears to you—it is your interpretation.
Hence it is more accurate to say: there is not one Maya in this world; there are as many mayas as there are knowers of the world. Each person lives enclosed in his own constructed world; each lives surrounded by a world. You live encircled by your world, your neighbor lives encircled by his; these two worlds never truly coincide. And whenever two such worlds are bound together, there is quarrel—collision. The struggle between husband and wife is a struggle of two worlds; the conflict between father and son is a conflict of two worlds. The son is constructing his own world; the father’s world is already constructed. Conflict is inevitable. We live enclosed in our own interpretation.
The rishi says: "The condition of knowing this world through the indriyas is jagrat. The state of knowing the world through the indriyas is called waking."
A few more things must be remembered here.
The rishi has said: "The Sun and the other devatas."
The Sun is the center. If we search for the center of all that we see around us, the Sun is the center. If the Sun were to go out, our world would turn to ash right now. Life is the Sun. Whether green leaves on the tree dance in delight, or clouds drift in the sky, or someone sings upon the earth and plays a flute, or a sprout breaks forth in the seed, or waterfalls descend from the mountain towards the ocean—the Sun is the foundation of all this. If the Sun goes out, all life will go out. Hence "the Sun and the other devatas"—the rest are secondary; the Sun is principal. The Sun means life.
Your breath is moving within you, warmth flows in the blood, the heart beats... the Sun’s hand is upon you. If the Sun were extinguished, we would not even know when it happened, because with its extinction we would be extinguished too. No historian would remain to write that on such and such a date the Sun went out; for with the Sun’s going out, we would all go out instantaneously.
Therefore the Sun has always been accepted at the center—but why call it "devata"? Science does not call it a devata. The scientist is troubled—this is pantheism; what need to see God in everything? The Sun is the Sun—what need to see a devata in it? But the Indian mind thinks differently.
Its mode of thinking is this: toward that from which we receive anything whatsoever, to be grateful is essential—for without gratitude, what is highest in us does not blossom. Whatever is highest in man unfolds through the feeling of gratitude. The more gratitude there is within, the more the Atman evolves.
So, when we say, "The Sun is only the Sun," it is correct—but no relationship of gratitude is formed. It does not feel that something has come to us from the Sun; it does not feel that we are the Sun’s outspread rays; it does not feel that our heartbeat has any connection with the Sun; it does not feel that we are the Sun’s extended hands—hundreds of millions of miles away, yet we are the Sun’s rays. It is He who throbs within; it is He who lives; His warmth, His heat.
Thus no relationship is created. But this is great unawareness; for if there is no feeling of gratitude toward that from which our life itself flows, the highest within us cannot develop.
The feeling of gratitude is the fundamental mark of a religious heart. Upon that feeling descends the grace of the Divine. Hence those who bowed to the Sun did not do so merely impressed that it is a great orb of fire. Those who bowed knew well this truth: the bowing gives nothing to the Sun, but the one who bows receives much. The sensitivity of gratitude begins to arise—that gratitude! And in it simplicity is born, the heart becomes innocent.
Nor is it only a matter of the Sun; the matter is vast. Therefore those who bowed to the Sun bowed to the rivers as well, and to the trees too.
Sometimes very delightful happenings come to light. For twenty-five centuries Buddhists have worshipped the Bodhi tree. Anyone might say: foolishness. A mere coincidence that Buddha sat beneath that tree—what is there to worship? He might have sat elsewhere! But in the last twenty years science has made certain discoveries that reveal a surprising fact. In the human brain—what in yoga has been called the third eye, the Shiva-netra—science and materialist thinkers had laughed that there is nothing like a third eye; mere imagination. But in the last fifty years, science has found a gland between the two eyes which is the most important in the body. Whatever manifestation of consciousness arises within man, it arises from the secretions of this gland. And that gland is precisely what the seers of the East have always called the third eye. The rasa that arises from this gland—and without which consciousness does not awaken and intelligence does not bloom—amazingly, that rasa is available in the banyan family in the greatest measure among all plants.
Colin Wilson, in his book "The Occult", has written: it would not be surprising if Buddha’s sitting beneath that tree, and his attaining Bodhi there, had something of the tree’s own hand in it! The tree’s hand—this tree is not merely coincidental; the tree may have contributed.
The peepal tree—of the banyan family—has been worshipped in India since ancient times. The peepal is unique among the earth’s flora. At night to sleep beneath trees—or even to sit—is dangerous, except beneath the peepal. Trees release oxygen by day; to be near them is healthy. At night trees release carbon dioxide; to be near them is dangerous, harmful to life. Only the peepal releases oxygen twenty-four hours a day. Be near it at any time, it is life-giving.
So among all trees, to choose the peepal for worship... must have arisen from the feeling of gratitude. And Buddha’s choosing to sit beneath this tree to attain Bodhi is not mere coincidence; it is also a choice. To meditate under this tree is part of a scientific process.
Those who sought rays of grace in this world found them falling from every particle. Wherever the bond of gratitude is joined, we have called that place "devata."
Devata means: that which has only given to us and taken nothing. Devata means: from which we have received, always received; even without asking, we have been given; even without thanking, we have been given. Its giving is unconditional. Therefore we called it devata. And we can give nothing back—yet we can at least give thanks.
This spread of the Divine all around, and the fact that our every fiber is connected with it—when this connectedness is felt by consciousness through the indriyas, it is called waking, jagrat.
To call this state "waking" is only symbolic; because we have not known a greater awakening, we call this waking. It is relative; for we know three states: relating to the world through the indriyas; second, we know dream; third, we know deep sleep, sushupti. We have no idea of the fourth. The day the fourth becomes known, we also know that what we had called waking is but another state of dream and sleep.
Sri Aurobindo has said: when I awakened, I came to know that until then I had been asleep; and when I knew real life, I came to know that what I had called life was death. Naturally, what we do not know we cannot compare; we have no sense of it.
So we call this waking in comparison to your other two states. We are familiar with three—svapna, sushupti, jagrat. Among these three, this can be called waking. The day we become familiar with the fourth, then these three become states of sleep. Then we will have to speak differently—then we will have to say: deep sleep, less deep sleep, and least deep sleep. What we presently call waking is the least deep sleep; what we call dream is deeper sleep; and what we call sushupti is complete deep sleep. These three are all states of sleep; yet for now we shall call this waking.
The second state is: svapna, dream.
"Even when gross objects like sound are not present, due to the residual vasanā of the waking state the mind through the indriyas receives vasanā-made objects of sound and so on; that state is called the dream state."
Sometimes it is very surprising. We say the world has become a global village. Marshall McLuhan says: a global village. Yet the matter does not seem to go very deep. We seem closer because means of travel have increased; but consciousness still does not seem very close.
Thousands of years ago this Upanishad defined dream thus, and the West even in the last fifty years has not completed this definition—still fumbling. It is surprising that even when civilizations discover certain truths, they remain local, and do not spread to the whole of human consciousness.
This Upanishad says thousands of years ago: we call it dream—when the indriyas are closed, the eyes are shut, yet inner visions can be seen. We sleep, the ears grow slack, outside sounds are not heard, yet inner sounds can be heard. The hands lie limp like a dead man’s, they touch nothing, yet inside touch can be known.
So the rishi says: what remained incomplete in waking, what was not fulfilled, the dream completes it.
Dream is the supplement to waking.
Much remains incomplete during the day. You pass along the road, a beautiful woman appears, but you cannot stare—improper. The vasanā of seeing remains. In the night you see her in dream. You sit to eat, you do not finish your meal—there is hurry, a thousand tasks, inhibition, etiquette. Night’s dream completes the meal. What remained incomplete in waking, unfulfilled—the dream takes that track and completes it.
Therefore the man who lives his day totally, his dreams disappear. One who lives his day totally—whatsoever he does, he does totally; he does not live half-heartedly; he lives each moment in its fullness—his dreams vanish.
One like Buddha will not have dreams. There is reason: nothing remains incomplete that must be carried into the night.
The rishi says: when the indriyas are closed, and yet consciousness goes on seeing the very forms of the indriyas again and again—that is called dream.
There is one difference between dream and waking: in waking the object is outside and the form is within; in dream the object is not outside, yet the form is within. Dream is pure form—no object there. The person you are seeing in dream is not present outside, yet his form is present within. This form too is produced by the indriyas. Remember, this form too is produced by the indriyas; it too is indriya-born.
How do the indriyas produce it?
Each indriya stores its experience. All the colors you have ever seen, as many times as you have seen them, all your memories of seeing color are stored behind the eyes. In dream that store is used; the eye opens those colors within once more. All the touches you have ever felt are stored. Within this little skull of man is stored the vast of the world. Within this small head there are some seven hundred million cells. And each cell stores a whole world.
And this store is not only of this birth; it is the store of countless births. Hence you can see such forms in dream as you have not seen in this life; you can see faces you have never met, of which you have no memory; you can see scenes that have nothing to do with the memories of this life. Therefore dream can bewilder you; it can put you in deep confusion; nothing seems to make sense—what is this dream? What kind is this? Impressions of birth upon birth are gathered—all you have ever known is collected. The mind opens it again; it is recorded.
Samskara means: that which is stored. Samskara means: what has accumulated in the cells, the chambers of your brain.
Now scientists have found means by which, by inserting electrodes into your head, any inner store can be activated—without your permission. However much you may say, "I do not wish to see colors," you will not succeed. If an electrode touches the store of colors with electricity, within you only colors will spread. However much you say, "I do not want to see this," it is beyond your control—because the store has been touched. And another curious fact: whenever that store is touched, there will be a repetition of those very colors; for it is only recorded.
As with a gramophone record: play it as many times as you like, it will sing the same song. Exactly so, each cell of your brain is a record; whenever it is touched with electricity—as if the needle were placed upon the record—it will play the same again and again. Do it a thousand times; the cell will repeat what is recorded in it. Hence one thing is now certain even in scientific terms: your brain is stored samskara, a conditioning. In dream you keep searching and re-seeing things from this store—it is cud-chewing. The buffalo grazes grass in the day; there is no leisure to chew, because while she chews, some other might graze away the grass. She first grazes and later, at leisure, chews the cud—brings it up again and chews it.
We collect all day long—throughout a life, through lives; then in dream the cud-chewing goes on. Wherever the mind was not fulfilled, we open that again—open that record once more; spread that samskara again upon the inner screen.
Understand it thus: dream is our arrangement to re-project our samskaras—without the help of indriyas, without the help of the world. This is our private property. Within, we spread another world. You can construct a whole world. Therefore within the dream one never knows that one is dreaming. Within the dream it seems that what I am seeing is true. Only upon awakening from the dream does one know that it was a dream. Within the dream you do not know it is a dream.
If within the dream you come to know that it is a dream, know well—the dream has broken. For the very one who knows has appeared; with his presence, the records retreat back into their caves. This man has awakened; awakening has begun; the dream state is broken.
The dream state means: the indriyas have stored within; even without the world’s assistance we can create a world of film inside us—and we do it daily. This is the second state of our chitta. It is deeper; because in waking we must choose—society, civilization, culture impose a thousand restraints. In dream we are free. So far we have been; who knows whether in the future we shall remain free—for slowly scientists are acquiring the capacity to enter even man’s dreams.
Just as in the last two centuries political leaders cried everywhere for freedom of thought, it would not be surprising if after this century revolutions arose and people demanded, "Freedom of dream—do not tamper with our dreams." For today or tomorrow governments may have the power to show you only what dreams they wish you to see, and obstruct those they do not wish you to see.
More dangerous than the atom bomb is this: psychologists are devising methods by which even your inner mind can be controlled from the outside. The atom bomb can destroy the body, but these methods are more dangerous because they can create a deep slavery of the mind. And one day it will not be surprising if you are summoned to a police office and asked, "Why did you see this dream last night? The government is totally against it. This dream is anti-national; you appear to be a traitor." Dreams can be examined. And it would not be surprising if tyrannical governments began to use such means.
Even one’s dreams can be made to move in a certain direction. A little adjustment you too can do, if you know the small trick. No large instruments are needed. A man is sleeping; you place a few pieces of ice near his feet, a little distance away—coolness begins in his feet. Within, a dream will start that he is walking in a river. Or something similar will begin—that it is raining heavily and his feet are getting wet. The dream will start. The coolness given to the feet outside will activate within the brain the stores of coolness.
Often—whenever there is a nightmare, a very distressing dream—the only cause is that your hand is lying upon your chest; there is no other reason. When the hand lies upon the chest, the dream inside is that someone has climbed onto the chest. Then the dream begins. Place a pillow on someone’s chest and you can manage his dream a little—just a little! You can give a direction.
This is very ordinary. But instruments have now been devised that can give much deeper direction—because the brain’s cells can be touched directly, and something can be elicited from them.
Without the indriyas, without relating to the vast outer, upon the basis of past relations man builds a world within—that state is called dream.
These two states—waking and dream.
To understand dream and to go beyond it is essential; to be free of dream is essential—only then in waking can our eyes become innocent, impartial, clear, smokeless.
In the eyes of animals an innocence is visible that is not visible in man’s eyes. The only reason is that animals dream little—almost not at all. Animals that live near man begin to dream—dogs and cats begin to dream. Living near man, man’s diseases reach the animals too.
Dream is a continuous restlessness within you—a continuous unease, a tension; it affects your eyes. Look into a cow’s eyes—utterly smokeless. Eyes like a still blue lake, where even the stones at the bottom are seen. Enter the cow’s eye; however deep you go, it is empty; there is no layer. But man’s eye!... there are thick layers. All those layers are formed by dreams.
Therefore the more ambitious a man, the more shallow the eye will become—because the more ambitious, the more he will dream. For I have said: from what remains incomplete arises dream. Ambition is never fulfilled; it is always incomplete. That unfulfilled ambition fills the man with dreams. The dreams can become so deep that it becomes difficult to awaken that man.
With a man like Hitler—whom we call "waking"—perhaps even such waking does not exist; perhaps that state is not there. Near the end of the second world war it was experienced by psychologists: the man we were fighting seemed to be asleep, not awake. Bombs fell on Berlin, fighting raged in its streets, Hitler was defeated everywhere with no way to be saved, bullets rained on the bunker where he hid, and Hitler announced on the radio: we are victorious in Moscow.
This man must have been in a dream! He could not be hearing the bullets raining on his door. Otherwise this makes no sense—he says, "We are winning!" When a general brought him the news that they were losing, he said, "Shoot him; he has gone mad. We cannot lose. It is out of the question. Within an hour or two, Moscow will have surrendered." He was defeated everywhere—but in a dream; not an awakened man.
The ambitious perhaps live in dream. The greater the ambition, the deeper the dream. Therefore, if you wish to see the shallowest eyes, you will find them with politicians. If you wish to see the deepest eyes, you will find them with a sannyasin; for a sannyasin means: no more ambition, no more dream. If any last dream remains, it is only this—to go beyond dreaming. To step out of dream. If any last ambition remains, it is only this—to be free of ambition. That’s all.
Scatter the dream and waking becomes alert. Or make waking alert and the dream begins to scatter. Live wakefully—dreams will lessen; lessen the dreams and awakening will grow. These are interconnected happenings.
And only when dreams lessen and waking deepens will you, for the first time, know what sushupti is; otherwise you will not know deep sleep. We do sleep, certainly, but we do not know sushupti. One who is asleep even while waking—how will he be awake while sleeping? He who cannot be awake in waking—how will he be awake in sleep? So in the morning we only say, "I slept very well," yet we have no idea what that sleep was.
You have been sleeping all your life, but you have never met your sleep. Have you ever seen sleep descending? As evening descends, the sun sets, and darkness layer by layer enfolds the earth—have you ever seen sleep descending upon your consciousness? No. For when sleep descends, you are not present; and while you are present, sleep does not descend.
We sleep every night, yet we have no acquaintance with sleep. And one who is not acquainted even with his sleep—how will he be acquainted with himself? When such a vast darkness reigns within, such a great continent of sleep—eight hours each day, and you lose all awareness—how will that man reach that depth where awareness is never lost? He will not reach.
Dream must be broken. The process of sadhana is: break the dreams, scatter them, so that waking becomes more awake; until a moment comes when waking is so awake that dreams dissolve. The day waking becomes so awake that dreams dissolve, that very day for the first time sushupti is experienced—there is a vision of sushupti—then we sleep and we know that we are asleep.
And the day one knows even in sleep "I am sleeping," then there is no way to put this man to sleep; he cannot be made unconscious. Anger becomes impossible. He cannot commit murder; he cannot steal; he cannot lie. All that becomes impossible; for the very source of sleep in which unconsciousness used to take hold, that poison in which stupor and trance arose—that source is finished.
Only when one is awake in sushupti does one become available to Turiya—the fourth state. The one who wakes while sleeping reaches Turiya.
Now prepare for the morning meditation. Understand two or three points.
One: with half-hearted effort nothing happens; total effort is needed. Dreams are strong—of many births. If we are to break them, the blow must be deep.
A blindfold will remain on the eyes, and for ten minutes fast breathing—rapid breathing. Fast... like a blacksmith’s bellows. This blow is to be given to the inner Kundalini—that it may awaken. For ten minutes breathe like a madman. Dancing and jumping will begin on their own, for with such fierce breathing energy will be aroused. Then in the second stage, for ten minutes dance, jump, shout, laugh—whatever happens, do it with your total strength; do not stand idle—do something, anything that comes to mind, do it. And then in the third stage give the hunkar of "HOO"... and strike with "HOO." And in the fourth stage we shall rest.