Saravsar Upanishad #8

Between bodies there is that void which is surrounded; between the layers of bodies there is that imprisoned being—if we are to reach it, it is essential to understand pleasure and pain; for by pleasure and pain alone is one bound.
The body does not bind, the body cannot bind; but the notion that pleasure can be had through the body—that alone binds. And if one believes even a prison can yield pleasure, then the prison too will become binding.
Here one thing must be understood: in a prison someone else confines you. In the prison under discussion here, no one else binds you—you yourself bind yourself. Therefore breaking the bondage is both very difficult and very easy! Difficult—because since you yourself have bound yourself, you must be finding some relish in it; otherwise why bind at all? If someone else had tied you, there would be no savor in it. Since you tied yourself, you tied it as something dear; that is why breaking it is hard. Easy—because you yourself tied it; so the very moment you decide, in that very moment it can fall away. If someone else had tied you, your mere wish for freedom would not suffice; you would have to struggle to break the bond—and even then the outcome would depend on who is stronger. If the binder is stronger, release is not guaranteed.
We ourselves have bound ourselves, so surely some savor is in the bondage; bondage cannot be savorless. Even if the savor is delusive! Even if it only appears as savor and is not in fact, still it will be there—if only dreamlike. A mirage appears in the desert; there is no water there, but it appears. And for the thirsty, the very appearance is enough. And the thirsty man does not have the luxury to decide whether the water he sees at a distance is real or not—he will run.
This entire running is around pleasure and pain. Therefore it is necessary to enter within the very element of pleasure and pain. Perhaps the very possibility of pleasure and pain is the cause of bondage.
What is pleasure? And what is pain? From the surface they seem great opposites; enemies of each other. It is not so. Pleasure and pain are two faces of the same coin. Hence a curious thing happens, though we do not take note: what we call pleasure today becomes pain tomorrow; what we call pain today can be pleasure tomorrow. Tomorrow is far off—even what we call pleasure now can turn into pain in the next moment. It may even be that while we are saying, “this is pleasure,” in that very moment it has become pain.
Those who search deeply into the human mind say that when a person declares, “this is pleasure,” it has already turned into pain. For so long as it is pleasure, there is not even the leisure to name it as pleasure; only when it begins to wane does that become possible.
The first thing to understand about pleasure and pain is that they are not opposites; they keep transforming into each other like waves—now this shore, now that. We all know this; we have seen our pleasures turn into pains. Yet even after seeing, we do not draw conclusions. Perhaps we do not give our mind the opportunity to conclude. When one pleasure turns into pain, we immediately set out in search of the next pleasure. We do not pause; we do not stop to see that what was known as pleasure yesterday has become pain today—might it not be that whatever we take as pleasure will again become pain? The mind says: this turned into pain—no matter—some mistake occurred; it must have been pain only, we mistakenly took it for pleasure.
So another curious law: the very thing you take as a greater pleasure will, when it changes, yield a greater pain. What you do not value much as pleasure cannot turn into great pain. The proportion will be the same. For example: if someone’s marriage has been arranged by his parents, there is no great expectation of bliss in it, so the pain that follows is not so great.
Love marriages bring more suffering than arranged marriages ever can, because an arranged marriage never carried such a vast hope of happiness. What is there to break? What is there to shatter? What is there to scatter? The greater the expectation, the greater the pain that can flower.
Hence the West imagined, during the last fifty–hundred years, that love marriage would bring great happiness. They thought rightly—but they did not know the other side: love marriage will also bring great suffering. And the proportion will always remain equal. The higher the pleasure in expectation, when the transformation comes, the deeper the pain.
The people of the East were shrewd in one sense; they made another experiment… they tried to reduce the very expectation of pleasure so that when change comes—and it must—there will not be too much pain.
An arranged marriage can give neither too much pleasure nor too much pain. Therefore an arranged marriage can last; a love marriage cannot. For when such a towering hope of happiness turns into an abyss of sorrow—one desired a peak and a chasm appears—then the break is certain.
A man can walk on level ground, where there are no great valleys and no great peaks. Where one has to fall from peaks into chasms, one cannot walk there for long. Thus within a mere century of experiment the West, after love marriage, is moving toward non-marriage. For five thousand years the East managed marriage without love marriage; the terrain was level—no great chasms, no great peaks. But the West has not been able to sustain the notion of love marriage even for a hundred years. Now thoughtful people there say: better to abandon marriage itself; there is no need to keep it. If you want more pleasure, drop marriage.
And again the same mistake. They had thought: if more pleasure is desired, drop arranged marriage; love marriage will give more pleasure. Love marriage did give greater pleasure—for a moment—and left a vast gorge behind. And compared to that brief delight, the gorge appears enormous.
Again the same error is being made by the Western mind: if you want even more pleasure, drop marriage altogether. They do not know that such “more pleasure” will leave an even greater suffering behind. But the mistake is natural, because we take pleasure and pain to be opposites, not convertible—while in truth they change into each other; they keep changing. The change does not stop even for a moment.
From this understanding, the East made another experiment: when pleasure turns into pain, can pain not be turned into pleasure?
The secret of tapas was born from this understanding. A most unique key… born from the insight that if pleasure changes into pain, what prevents pain from changing into pleasure? And we have also seen pain changed into pleasure. If you consent to remain in pain, pain is ready to become pleasure. If you consent to remain in pleasure, pleasure is ready to become pain.
By your consent change happens. By your consent change happens—whichever state you consent to stay in becomes eager to change. In fact, the very instant you consent, the change begins. The moment you say, “Enough, I have attained pleasure; now I wish to remain in this, I do not wish it to change”… know that the change has begun. If even in pain you can say, “Pain has come, I consent; I do not wish to change it”—this is the formula of tapas: pain has come, I consent, I do not wish to change it.
And the delightful thing is: pain turns into pleasure. And if one must choose between the two arts, the art of turning pain into pleasure is wiser than the art of turning pleasure into pain. Why? Because one who can turn pain into pleasure—one who can turn even pain into pleasure—his pleasure can no longer turn into pain. The reason is: one who can turn pain into pleasure has dropped the craving for pleasure; only then can he transform it. And when there is no craving for pleasure, pleasure loses the power to change into pain.
Craving creates capacity. Try this sometime and you will be amazed. This is among the deep alchemical sutras of transformation within man. When pain comes upon you, accept it. It is by refusal that it is pain, by rejection that it is pain; accept it with your whole being—consent to it, embrace it and say, “Now I have no wish to leave you; I will remain with you.” And you will suddenly find that all has changed: what you had perceived as pain has become pleasure.
Pleasure can become pain, pain can become pleasure—why? Because they are two faces of the same coin. And why do they change?… why do they change—what is the cause of this changing?
In truth, when a man lives in pleasure, he becomes bored even with pleasure. With whatever is incessantly received, boredom arises—it is natural. Pleasure too begins to bore.
The one you love, with whom you wished to be twenty–four hours a day—and if you are granted twenty–four hours together—the mind begins to feel: let there be some leisure! let there be some aloneness! let there be a little escape! This will be entirely natural. With whom pleasure was desired once, today a little distance will give pleasure. Boredom arises; the mind grows weary. In truth, whatever you fully come to know makes the chitta weary; the mind, having known fully, becomes bored. The mind sets out in search of the new; what was interesting becomes uninteresting. The food you enjoyed today—do not, by mistake, repeat it tomorrow, or the day after, or your taste will turn.
Thus the rishi says:
“Desiring the appealing is pleasure; imagining the unappealing is pain.”
To conceive of a thing as appealing is pleasure; to conceive of a thing as unappealing is pain. And taste turns into distaste, distaste into taste.
Those who drink know: in the beginning the taste of alcohol is distasteful; they say the taste has to be developed. One who knows says: it has to be perverted; the very intelligence of taste has to be destroyed. If a man begins to drink coffee, coffee does not seem appealing at first; but the drinkers say, “Don’t worry; with practice it will become appealing; taste has to be developed.”
And man can develop any taste. When a man begins to smoke, the first day there is nothing but discomfort; yet imagination paints it as appealing: “So many people are smoking; they must be deriving some bliss—so many cannot be fools.” And when the novice sees that even those who say smoking is bad also smoke—“compulsion,” they say, “but you should not smoke”—then he feels there is surely some deep secret; some hidden thing; some pleasure must be there from which I am being prevented. His first experience is painful; the first cannot be pleasant. The taste is bitter; he is pushing smoke into the body—how could it be pleasurable? There will be coughing, restlessness, the head will heat up—yet in the hope of the appealing, in the hope of pleasure, he goes on. Gradually this pain becomes pleasure. Gradually this pain becomes pleasure!
By practice pain becomes pleasure; by practice pleasure becomes pain.
If one keeps enduring pain, sensitivity diminishes and it becomes a habit; there are habits of pain as well. And if one has to bear pleasure—if someone must endure pleasure—then boredom arises from it too; restlessness and the desire to be free from it appear.
Understand what is appealing and what is unappealing, then it will be clear how pleasure and pain keep transforming and are two aspects of one thing.
What is appealing? What do you call appealing?
The rishi has said: whatever is congenial to the senses, that is appealing. Not to “you,” but to the senses—what is favorable to the senses is appealing; what is unfavorable to the senses is unappealing.
Music is playing—it is appealing to the ear; for the impact of that music is agreeable to the ear. It does not create disturbance; rather, the inner turmoil is eased, is soothed. But this is not necessary. If a person is very quiet within, even music is unappealing; then music too is a disturbance, a nuisance.
A great musician of the West, Schubert, used to say—about music; he himself was a great musician—he used to say that music is a group of the least unappealing sounds—the least unappealing! There is still disturbance in it; for after all it is the impact of tones. Therefore the supreme music is shunya; but one who has known shunya will find even music unappealing—to his ear.
In China there was a great musician, Hui Hai. As his music deepened, his instrument grew quieter. Then one day he lifted the instrument and flung it away. His fame had spread far and wide; people traveled thousands of miles to hear him. The next morning when new travelers came to listen and saw him sitting under a tree without an instrument, they asked, “Where is your instrument?” Hui Hai said, “Now the instrument itself has become a hindrance to music.” And Hui Hai said, “When music becomes complete, the vina must be broken.”
Understand it rightly: the sounds that please the ear please only because within us there are unpleasing noises; there is inner disturbance, anarchy. In that anarchy this seems like a sedative. It feels pleasant, consoling; it gives birth to a kind of peace. It is appealing.
But if the music is disorderly, mere noise of sounds, it becomes unappealing because it pains the ear—because such sounds only agitate, they do not soothe. All our senses are like this—the senses are receptors; they are the doors through which the outer happenings are taken within. What feels appealing to the senses is that which quietens them; what feels unappealing is that which unsettles them. No further meaning is needed. But what soothes the senses today may disturb them tomorrow; for the senses themselves are streams, continually changing.
For example, a man is newly posted to the railways; he sleeps at the station—no sleep comes—the noise of trains, engines, shunting, all sorts of disturbance—the ears are troubled. But sleep is essential. Today or tomorrow, putting that restlessness aside, sleep begins to come. Soon a time arrives when he cannot sleep at home; these disturbances have become an indispensable part of his sleep. Only if they are present can he sleep; if they are absent, he cannot. They have become part of his ritual. He needs that much disturbance.
Many come to me and say, “Great trouble, great restlessness, great unrest.” I know well that if all their restlessness and all their unrest were taken away, they would at once pray to God, “Give us back our restlessness, give us back our unrest.” They do not know it is their ritual; they can live only within it. If they are sent into solitude, within two–four days they say, “We must go back; it feels so empty here; there is no substance here.” The “substance” is where the whole commotion is. Why?
If you keep feeding the senses with unappealing fare, in a few days they consent—because it is a compulsion. And once they consent, that very thing becomes appealing which earlier felt unappealing. If you keep giving appealing fare repeatedly, the sense of taste dies; by the same thing, every day, sensitivity is blunted; that very thing begins to feel unappealing.
A great poet once visited me. While we were talking, a musician arrived. He requested the poet to recite a poem. The poet said, “Forgive me. I am so utterly bored with poetry—something else… anything else will do; not poetry.” A great poet—bored with poetry. He will be bored.
Thus a strange phenomenon often occurs: a man, several times in life, makes leaps. Very intelligent people sometimes get involved in very unintelligent acts; it is only the need for change, for alteration; they are bored. So sometimes you see a simple villager—no worth, no experience, no depth—but the chief justice of a high court is sitting at his feet. What has happened to the chief justice? He is bored with intelligence. He has endured enough intelligence. If he does not do something unintelligent, he cannot get free even of himself. And seeing this, how many fools begin to follow him, because they take him to be wise—“If this wise man is going somewhere, now the way is open for the foolish too.” They do not know he is going only because he is utterly bored with intellect—utterly bored!
What is appealing does not remain appealing forever. There are other reasons too; you are developing all the time. A child finds toys appealing; but an age comes when toys no longer appeal, because the child is no longer a child. Toys must be thrown. These are the very toys for whose breaking the child would have felt as if a dear one had died. These same toys he will cast aside one day; because his consciousness is developing.
What was appealing yesterday is no longer appealing today. Today he will seek new toys—though he will not realize they are also toys. Yesterday he decked a doll; today he will deck a wife. The decoration will be the same, the method the same. Yesterday he wanted praise for his doll; today he will want praise for his wife. But the doll was a doll, so when it was thrown away, it was not too hard. Now throwing away the wife will not be so easy. And today or tomorrow the mind will move beyond this too; then inquietude will arise; then past promises and assurances will become fetters. Then a man finds himself bound by himself—“It was I who said it; now to go back is difficult.” And the joy is gone, the ornamentation is gone; there is no savor left.
Thus we are changing every day—changing every day. As a youth, a temple did not feel appealing; passing by its doors he thought only madmen go in. A brothel felt more pleasing and appealing. The temple looked like a gathering of fools. But today or tomorrow, the temple will become meaningful.
Carl Gustav Jung writes in his memoirs: of the thousands who came to me for treatment of the mind, most were over forty, and their single ailment was that they had forgotten the door of the temple, and there was no other obstacle. Their sole sickness was that they had no idea that there is a temple—and after forty the temple’s door begins to have meaning. But that too is a toy.
There are toys for the child, toys for the young, and toys for the old. And one day one is bored with those as well. Until one becomes free of toys altogether, the turmoil only changes form; it does not end.
So, a man bored with decorating his wife now decorates Rama! He takes out a procession—shobhayatra. But he cannot see: how long this ornamentation? How long will this continue? Is it only a matter of changing dolls? It does not occur to him that what is pleasant today will tomorrow… will tomorrow become unappealing.
What is to be done? Understand clearly what are taste and distaste. What today, in this very moment, feels agreeable to my senses—harmonious, suitable—that I call “pleasure.” What in this same moment strikes the opposite, that I call “pain.” I want pleasure; I do not want pain. I desire to receive pleasure in full and not receive pain at all—this is my longing. This very longing becomes the cause of bondage to the body; for in the body are the doors of the senses—through them pleasure is obtained, and through them pain can be kept off. Therefore consciousness, mingling with the body, becomes bound. Until one rightly understands both pleasure and pain and goes beyond them, one cannot go beyond the body.
Hence, immediately after speaking of the five bodies, the rishi has begun to speak of pleasure and pain. This discussion is meaningful because nothing will come of speaking about the five bodies until the very secret of our bondage to the body dawns: why do we get bound? Doing the opposite of this is tapas.
Do not crave pleasure, do not think of removing pain; do not ask for pleasure and do not chase pain away. He who asks for pleasure and avoids pain will remain bound to the body. He who does not ask for pleasure, and if pain comes consents to it—that person… that person will begin to be free of the body.
The craving for pleasure, the fear of pain—this carries one outside the body; absence of craving and fearlessness toward pain—this carries one within. This is the difference between bhoga and tapas.
If you demand pleasure you will have to struggle outside—guarding pleasure, avoiding pain; there will be deep conflict outside. Thus consciousness must ever wander outside the body—in houses, wealth, position, others.
Tapas means… no, no craving for pleasure, because many pleasures have been known and seen to change into pains. Now I do not want to know pleasure; and now I do not even wish to push away pain. For I have tried to push pain away, and where does it go? It goes on remaining. On the contrary, in trying to push it away, more pain is suffered… and it returns again and again. Neither do I remove pain nor do I ask for pleasure; I am now content with what is, as it is. The journey inward has begun; there is no longer any struggle outside. This inner pilgrimage alone can free one from the bodies.
The one who acts for pleasure and pain—the rishi calls him the doer; the doer is he who acts for pleasure and pain, who demands that pleasure come to me and pain not come. But one who says, “Whatever comes is fine; whatever does not come is fine”—who makes no distinction between the two—becomes a non-doer. And when the person is not the doer, the Divine becomes the doer. From this arose the precious notion of destiny.
Destiny does not mean the astrologer; the idea of destiny is profoundly spiritual. It has nothing to do with lines on the hands; it has no connection with the future, nor with the roadside astrologer. The idea of destiny arose thus: when I am not the doer, yet things are happening, events are occurring; I am no longer the doer, because I am the doer only so long as I strive for pleasure and avoid pain; as long as I struggle, I am the doer. Now I am no longer the doer; now whatever comes is fine, whatever does not come is fine; I have dropped my concern about coming and not coming. When pleasure comes I do not make a fuss about “pleasure,” when pain comes I do not make a fuss about “pain”—slowly the distinction falls away and it becomes difficult even to recognize what is pleasure and what is pain; one grows indifferent between the two.
In such indifference, the doer disappears—there is nothing left to do. What was there to do? Only one thing: how to get pleasure and how to avoid pain. Now there remains no device of action… yet things go on happening. When the person is not the doer, the Divine becomes the doer. And when the Divine is the doer, the feeling-state is called destiny, fate.
Cut such a person’s head off and he says, “It had to be cut.” He does not even blame the one who cut it; for now he holds that there is no individual doer. “It had to be cut”; the doer has dissolved. Give such a person poison—he says, “It had to be drunk, it had to happen.” And if one, while being given poison, knows “it had to be,” could anger arise even for a moment toward the one who gave the poison? For now he does not accept that anyone is the doer. Thus all blame ends; the idea that someone is responsible disappears—whatever is happening is supreme ordinance; the individual has nothing to do with it. If such a person attains supreme peace, supreme contentment—what wonder is there?
He who chooses between pleasure and pain can never attain contentment; he who discriminates between pleasure and pain can never be content. One who has dropped the very distinction between pleasure and pain is content. Hence people go on advising—sometimes priceless sayings become the basis of great foolishness.
People say: “In contentment alone is happiness.” They are mad; they do not know contentment; even now they are mixing pleasure with contentment! And they say it only to persuade you: if you want pleasure, cultivate contentment. But one who seeks pleasure cannot be content, for the desire for pleasure is the very formula of discontent. One who wants pleasure will avoid pain—otherwise he cannot want pleasure. How then can he be content? Pleasure is not contentment; contentment is not pleasure. Contentment is beyond pleasure and pain. Only the one who has abandoned their distinction is content. Contentment transcends both. Therefore if ever you take pleasure as contentment and feel satisfied, do not be deceived; your contentment is pure illusion.
Niyati, bhagya, vidhi—these are supremely spiritual words. The person is freed from ego—that is their purpose. There is no asmita now, no complaint now; there is supreme acceptance of whatever is happening—total acceptance. There is no cause at all for it to be otherwise. It could not have been otherwise. There is not even a wish for it to be otherwise. There is no dream that it should be otherwise.
Such tathata, such a mood of acceptance—if it quiets all waves within you—what wonder? If all the waves disappear—what wonder? And in the disappearance of waves you go within… and within… and within.
The senses are the very causes of pleasure and pain.
“Sound, touch, form, taste and smell—these alone are the causes of pleasure and pain.”
“When the Atman, following punya and papa, begins—though not truly united—to take the conjunction with the acquired body as its own self, then it is called the jiva afflicted by upadhi.”
I am in the body, but I am not the body. Being in the body is one thing; becoming the body is quite another. He who knows “I am in the body” is Atman; he who knows “I am the body” is jiva—fallen under upadhi, lost in delusion, in forgetfulness; not understanding what is, and taking what is not to be.
Why does “I am the body” arise? Because of pleasure and pain. From that which yields pleasure and pain—when craving for pleasure and the urge to avoid pain grow intense—we begin to feel one with that which provides them. The lover says to his beloved: “Between you and me, no difference remains; we have become one.” It can never be so. “We have become one”—why? Because with that which gives pleasure we seek unity; we do not wish to keep distance, for through distance pleasure may be missed. If there is even a little gap, how will pleasure pass across?—so we wish to break every crevice, erase all space, come utterly close. So close that no gap remains in between; otherwise the coming of pleasure will be obstructed.
Thus with that from which we get pleasure we “become one.” From that which gives pain we create distance; we avoid it; we do not even wish to see it; we do not wish to be near it; we want to be far away. Therefore, from that which gives pain we even conceive of killing; even its being alive feels like a proximity. Wherever it lives—on the Himalayas, in Tibet—but if it lives, it seems to be touching the very air we touch; under the same sky as ours. We do not wish to tolerate even that; we want to annihilate it—let it not be anywhere; only then will we be at ease. The distance must become as great as between the living and the dead.
From what gives pain we want to be far; from what gives pleasure we want to be near.
Now here is a curious thing: whenever we get pleasure, we believe it comes from our body; whenever we experience pain, we believe it comes from another’s body. This is most amusing. Whenever we get pleasure, we think it is coming from our body. For pleasure we never hold another responsible; for pleasure we always hold ourselves responsible. But for pain we always hold the other responsible.
If someone loves me, I think, “I am worthy of love; it should be so.” There is not even cause for gratitude; I am naturally worthy of love. But when someone gets angry at me, I think, “This person is wicked, irascible.” Then I do not think, “I am worthy of being angered.”
Both are together. This division is a trick, a deception. Either I am both, or I am neither. Choose either of the two and the way toward truth becomes easy. Choose either: either I am both—worthy of love and worthy of hate. If I choose both, they cancel each other, for how can I be both at once? Or I choose that I am neither—neither worthy of hatred nor of love; then too I remain empty.
But our trick is this: we take ourselves as entitled to all pleasures, and if pains come, they are by others’ grace; always the others are the cause.
Therefore no one asks, “Why is there pleasure in the world?” People come and ask me, “Why is there so much suffering?” I have yet to meet one who has asked, “Why is there so much happiness?” That is taken for granted. It should be so—that is how it is. “Why is there suffering?”—that is the question. No one asks me, “Why does man live?” People ask, “Why does man die? Why death?” Life should be there, of course—but why death? It seems life is within us; death comes from outside. How amusing. We always think death is far away—coming from outside to kill us: sometimes in the form of disease, sometimes germs, sometimes an enemy—but always outside. It comes and kills us—how to avoid it? We are life.
Our constant trick: what is pleasing, what is delightful, we join to ourselves; what is unpleasing, painful, we attribute to someone else.
Hence religions had to imagine a Devil along with God. For the same reason this trouble arises: without a Devil, life seems hard to explain. God is compassionate—so far so good. But then a small child dies of cancer—now what will you do? The child has committed no sin, no theft, no murder—yet he dies of cancer! He is born already dying. If he was to be born dying, why did God create him at all? If he was to be born dying, at least God should have known as much—why then this folly of creation?
So we have to invent a second being—for we want to associate ourselves with God. If God also does such things—gives cancer to children, while the old want to die and cannot, keep dragging and rotting; millions are hungry; war erupts daily; millions die, are cut down—if God does all this, we will not be able to feel one with God. Therefore we must keep God absolutely good. Then where to put the bad? Who is doing it? For this we create a second god: the Devil. He is the god of evil; he is making it happen. The Devil—he does all this work.
Only Hindu dharma on the earth has had the courage to keep both within its God—only. Therefore I say: the Hindus have gone deeper into life’s truth than anyone. The one they called Mahadev, Shiva—they called him both at once—the creator and the destroyer… the same. Poison too is he; nectar too is he—the One. It takes great courage to say this. And to become one with such a God is a great revolution, because our whole logic collapses—the logic by which we attach the good to ourselves and push the bad elsewhere. If you steal, you say the Devil made you do it; if you pray, you are doing it! Very amusing! If you donate, you are giving; if you steal, “the powers of evil are making me steal.”
We want to join with the good, not with the bad. But the world is the sum of both. Either deny both, or accept both—in both cases you are freed of both.
Our bondage to this body is formed because we say: pleasure is obtained from this; others give pain. Pleasure is from this—therefore avoid others, or keep changing others, or remain with others so long as they seem to give pleasure, and when they seem to give pain, break away.
The whole system of marriage and divorce is not only between husband and wife; it is in all relationships… in all!
A friend used to visit me; he would always say, “How can my intelligence grow, how can discrimination awaken?” I would tell him, “It can awaken; there is a possibility; efforts should be made.” He would go away happy—with the possibility; not with any awakening—only possibility—but very happy. That much sufficed for his delight. Every month or fortnight he would come and hear this from me; it would give him fuel to go on for ten–fifteen days as usual—the assurance that there is a possibility. When his fuel was exhausted, he would return, ask again, and take away hope again. After quite some time I thought: in this way possibility will never become actuality. One day he came and I said, “There is no possibility.” He said, “What are you saying?” He could not grasp it at first. “No possibility?” I said, “None at all; there is no intelligence in you to be developed; and viveka is not such an easy thing. It is beyond your capacity; drop the idea.” The color drained from his face; he went away very sad. Now he turned against me: “This man is not right.” Until then I was a good man—so long as I said there is a possibility. He would return delighted—thrilled, choked with joy! Now I have become bad in his eyes—telling people, “Do not go near him.”
How amusing: I was good so long as I was pleasant; and while I was pleasant he was counting himself superior, because “there is possibility.” Now I became unpleasant by saying, “No, there is no way with you; your hell is assured.”
We want to join with that which seems to bring us pleasure; we begin to take ourselves as one with it. With that which brings pain, we want to sever ourselves. And since we think pleasure comes from our body, we become bound to the body.
When the Atman begins to take itself as the body—that is called upadhi, the disease—the very disease, the only disease, the wise have said. This alone is upadhi; this alone is disease. There is only one remedy—to see the whole truth that just as pleasure comes through the body, so does pain; then pleasure and pain cancel each other, negate each other—and you will feel moved to search for That from which neither pain arises nor pleasure, but ananda.
Ananda is neither pain nor pleasure; ananda is the absence of both. Let us set out in that search.
Enough for today.
Now let us… now let us try to step a little back from the body…