Shiv Sutra #3

Understand this a little.
The dictionary says: vismaya means wonder. But there is a fundamental difference between astonishment and wonder. If this difference is not grasped, different journeys begin. Astonishment is the preface of science; wonder is the ground of Yoga. Astonishment is outward-bound; wonder is inward-bound. Astonishment arises in relation to the other; wonder arises in relation to oneself—first point.
That which we cannot comprehend; which leaves us speechless; which slips the grasp of our intellect; which proves larger than us; before which we are spontaneously nonplussed; which effaces us—out of that, wonder is born. But if this inner state of wonder—standing before the unreasoned, the unthinkable—if its stream turns outward, science is born. One begins to think about matter; one begins to contemplate the world; one begins to investigate the mystery that surrounds us—and science is born. Science is astonishment: astonishment means wonder has set out on a journey toward the outside.
There is another difference: toward whatever we feel astonished, today or tomorrow that very astonishment will start to trouble us; astonishment creates tension. Hence the effort to eliminate astonishment. Science is born of astonishment, then annihilates it—seeks explanations, theories, formulas, keys. It does not rest until the mystery is erased; until knowledge is in hand; until science can say, “We have understood,” there is no peace.
Science is engaged in erasing astonishment from the world. If science succeeds, nothing will remain in the world about which man cannot say, “We know.” Which would mean, no God would remain in the world; for God means precisely this: even if we know, we still cannot claim that we know; even after knowing, something remains to be known; knowing and knowing, we cannot exhaust it; whose wonder admits of no ending.
There are things we have known—call them the known; there are things we do not yet know but will know—call them the unknown; and there is also something in this world that we have not known and will never be able to know—call it the unknowable. God is the unknowable—that third element. Therefore science does not accept God; because science says: there is nothing that cannot be known. Perhaps we have not yet known it, our efforts are weak; but today or tomorrow—only a matter of time—we shall know. A day will come when the whole world is completely known; nothing un-known will remain. Science is born of astonishment and then sets about murdering astonishment. That is why I call science patricidal: it kills the very source from which it is born.
Religion is exactly the opposite. Religion too arises from a sense of astonishment; Shiv-Sutra calls that sense wonder—vismaya. The difference is only this: when the religious seeker becomes filled with astonishment, he does not journey outward, he journeys within. Whenever a mystery surrounds him, he thinks: I must know who I am. Let the mystery turn inward; let the journey, the search, begin within; not toward matter but toward the Self; let my quest first be to know who I am—then it is wonder.
A second point to understand: wonder never gets exhausted; the more we know, the more it grows. Hence wonder is a paradox; for by knowing, wonder ought to end. But the wonder of Buddha or Krishna or Shiva or Jesus does not end. The very day they attain supreme knowledge, their wonder is supreme. That day they do not say, “We have known everything”; that day they say, “Even after knowing all, all remains to be known.”
The Upanishads say: even if the Full is taken from the Full, the Full still remains. Even if all is known, all remains to be known.
Hence religious knowing does not beget ego; scientific knowing will beget ego. In religious knowing you never become the knower; you remain forever humble. And the more you know, the more you will realize: I know nothing. In the moment of supreme knowing you will be able to say: I have no knowledge at all. In the moment of supreme knowledge, this entire existence becomes pure wonder.
If science succeeds, the whole world will become known; if religion succeeds, the whole world will become unknowable. If science succeeds, you—the knower—will be filled with selfhood, and the world will become ordinary. Where there is no wonder, everything becomes ordinary; where there is no mystery, the soul is lost; where there is no way of mystery left, the journey ahead is closed; curiosity is over, inquiry finished. If science wins, a boredom will arise in the world such as has never arisen before.
Therefore if people in the West are more filled with boredom, the fundamental reason is science; people’s capacity for wonder is being cut away. They are no longer amazed by anything; they have forgotten how to be amazed. Even if you place before them some question that is baffling, they will still say: it will be solved. For in the scientific outlook there is fundamentally nothing that will remain forever unknown; we shall lift the veils.
But religion’s journey is quite the reverse. The more veils we lift, the more the mystery thickens; the nearer we come, the more we find that to know is difficult. And the day we enter the very center of God, that day everything becomes mysterious.
For Buddha not only are the stars of the sky mysterious; pebbles lying on the ground become wondrous. For Buddha not only the vastness is mysterious; the slightest incident becomes mystery. A seed sprouting from the earth is as mysterious as the birth of this whole creation.
As wonder deepens, your eyes become like those of a small child; for to a small child everything is wonder. Watch a child walking—the road is full of surprises. A colored stone appears to him as the Kohinoor diamond. You laugh, for you are the knowledgeable; you know it is only a colored stone. “Don’t be crazy, it’s not the Kohinoor!” But the child wants to put that stone in his pocket. You say, “Don’t carry this weight! And it’s dirty, lying in the mud—throw it away!” But the child clutches it. Because you do not understand the child: for him it is wonder; this colored stone is no less precious than the Kohinoor. The value lies in wonder; stones have no value. A butterfly can bewitch him so much that even if God Himself were to appear before you, He would not bewitch you so. He begins to run after the butterfly.
The pristine state of a small child—at the ultimate height of such wonder, in Buddhahood, that state becomes any person’s. Therefore Jesus said: only those who are simple like little children shall enter my Father’s kingdom. Jesus has said exactly what Shiva is saying in this sutra.
‘Vismayo yogabhumikah.’
Wonder is the first ground of Yoga. Then many points must be kept in mind.
The more knowledge you carry, the more difficult becomes the ground for Yoga. The more vanity you have that “I know,” the less you can become a yogi. The more scriptures weigh on your mind, the more your wonder has been destroyed. Ask a pundit about God, he answers as if God were some question to be answered; as if any answer were possible. Ask a pundit—he has ready-made answers. You had not even asked, and his answers were prepared. Even God does not render him speechless. He has fixed formulas and explains at once.
But go to Buddha and ask about God—Buddha remains silent. You may go away thinking—many pundits went away from Buddha thinking the same—that this man fell silent, therefore he does not know. And he fell silent because wonder is the door. Had you been a little intelligent you would have stayed with this man who did not answer. You would have tried to understand him; you would have peered into his eyes; you would have remained in his company, in his presence—for he has tasted something so vast that words cannot say it; he has seen a vision that cannot be turned into an answer.
Questions and answers are for school children. Your very question is absurd. No one can ask a question about God. How ask a question about the Vast? In regard to the Vast, question and answer both drop. Your question is petty. Therefore Buddha fell silent. But you will perhaps think: had he known, he would have answered; he did not answer, he does not know. You recognize the pundit, because your head too is stuffed with words. You will not recognize the sage; for the sage is filled with wonder, and your wonder is dead.
The greatest calamity in the world is the death of wonder. The day your wonder dies, the means of your liberation become difficult. The day your wonder dies, your child-heart dies, becomes inert; you have grown old.
Do you still get startled? Does life still become a question to you? Do the birds’ songs, the roar of waterfalls, the winds passing through trees fill you with a thrill? Do you become delighted? Do you look around and fall silent before life?
No—because you “know” this is birds’ song, this is the noise of wind in trees—you have ready answers for everything. Answers have killed you. You have become a knower before knowing.
‘Vismayo yogabhumikah.’
And for one who wants to enter Yoga, wonder is the door. Bring your childhood back. Ask again! Be curious again! Awaken inquiry again! Then wherever the sources of life have dried within you, they will turn green; wherever stones have blocked the way, there a spring will appear again. Open your eyes again and look all around. All answers are false—for all your answers are borrowed. You yourself have known nothing. But you are so filled with borrowed knowledge that you feel, “I have known.”
Awaken wonder. Your asanas and pranayama will do nothing until wonder awakens. For asana and pranayama belong to the body. Good—they will purify the body, the body will be healthy; but purity and health of the body will not unite you with God.
Wonder is the purification of the mind. Wonder means—the mind has become free of all answers. Wonder means—you have cleared away the garbage of answers; your question is again new and fresh, and you have understood your ignorance. Wonder means—I do not know. Panditry means—I know. The more you “know,” the more you are wrong. When you simply say, “I know nothing at all; this whole world is unknown; even that which I think I know is only provisional; I have not yet known anything”—the deeper such a realization settles in your heart, you have taken the first step of Yoga. Then the next steps are easy. But if the first step misses, no matter how long you travel, nothing is solved. If the first step is wrong, you will not reach the goal. If the first step is right, half the journey is complete. And wonder is the first step.
Look a little carefully. Do you have knowledge? If you look a little carefully you will understand—there is no knowledge; it is all junk. You have collected it—from scriptures, from gurus, from saints; and you are hoarding it as if it were a precious treasure. It has given you nothing—only murdered your wonder. Your wonder is writhing, lying dead; now nothing startles you. Nothing startles you anymore.
There was a Christian mystic—Meister Eckhart. He said a unique thing: a saint is one whom everything startles. Everything—little incidents startle him. A stone drops in water, a sound arises, ripples spread—this startles the saint. How wondrous! How mysterious! The saint breathes, lives—this too is astonishing enough.
Every morning in his prayer Eckhart used to say to God: “Today again morning has come. Today again the sun has risen. Your Lila is boundless! Had it not risen, what would we do? What could be done? Man is helpless.”
Eckhart would say: “Today breath comes; tomorrow it may not—what shall I do then?”
You cannot even breathe on your own. Breath is not in your control. It is so close—yet you are not its master. It goes out and if it does not return, it will not return. Of that which is so near, we are not even the knowers or the masters. And yet we fancy that we know everything.
Your knowing has killed you. Drop this junk and become light. Instantly, when your eyes are not filled with knowledge, they will be filled with mystery. The inward journey of that mystery is called wonder; its outward journey is called astonishment.
If you pour that sense of mystery onto objects, you become a scientist. If you pour that sense of mystery onto your own being, you become a great yogi. And the outcomes will be different. For astonishment is violent; wonder is non-violent. Wherever astonishment is directed, it begins to break, to analyze; for in astonishment there is a restlessness. In wonder there is a savor.
Understand this difference also well. It is not written in the dictionary; it cannot be written—for the maker of the dictionary knows nothing of wonder.
Astonishment is violent, aggressive. Toward that which fills you with astonishment a tension arises. That tension has to be resolved. Until that curiosity is fulfilled, until you have known, a restlessness sits upon your head. That scientist who works in his laboratory for eighteen hours—why is he at it? There is an agitation, as if a ghost has possessed him. Until he resolves it, he will remain at it.
But wonder is not aggressive, and wonder is not an unrest; rather wonder is a rest. When someone becomes filled with wonder, suddenly he is filled with restfulness. Wonder is not to be eliminated, wonder is to be drunk. Wonder is to be tasted. One is to be absorbed in wonder—become one with it. Astonishment sets out to eradicate; wonder sets out to live. Wonder is a style of living; astonishment is a violent form of the human mind.
Therefore science thinks in the language of conquest—break, burst, conquer. Religion thinks in the language of surrender—lose yourself. When wonder enters within you, it dissolves into you like when you drop a lump of salt into water and all the water becomes salty. The day you are filled with wonder, you will be salted with wonder. Every fiber will be saturated with wonder. Rising—wonder; sitting—wonder. You will always be amazed. Everything will become mysterious. The smallest will become a part of the vast; for when wonder joins even the small, the small becomes vast. Then nothing is known; on all sides the mystery encircles you. Each moment is new, and each moment extends a new invitation. Wonder is an invitation.
Mulla Nasruddin stood for an election and went door to door asking for votes. He came to the priest of the village church as well. Even as he sought the vote, his breath smelt of liquor. The priest was a good man. To say it outright would be impolite. So he said to Nasruddin, “I want to ask you just one thing. If your answer is satisfactory, my vote is yours. Do you ever drink?” There was nothing to ask—he was already drunk. Nasruddin was startled and said, “Before I answer, I have one question—Is this an inquiry, or an invitation?”
Astonishment is an inquiry; wonder is an invitation. Wonder is an inner calling. And the deeper you go within, the more you are drowned. A day will arrive when you will not remain, only wonder will remain. That day supreme knowledge has happened. If you choose astonishment, a day will come when only you remain and astonishment is gone. This is the outcome of science: ego remains, astonishment is destroyed. If you travel the path of wonder, you will be destroyed; wonder will remain; each pore will be filled with that flavor. Your very being will be wonder-full.
Shiva has called this the ground of Yoga. Remove knowledge. Fill with wonder. At first it will seem difficult, for you are under the impression that you know everything.
D. H. Lawrence, a valuable thinker, was once walking in a garden with a small child. The child asked, “Why are the trees green?” Only small children can ask such fresh questions! You cannot even conceive such a question. You say: “Trees are green—what is there to ask? Is that a question? The child is foolish.” But think again—why are trees green? Do you truly know the answer?
Perhaps a student of science among you would say: “Because of chlorophyll.” But that does not answer the child’s question. The child will ask: “Why is there chlorophyll in trees? What need is there for chlorophyll in trees? Why not in man? And how does chlorophyll keep finding trees?” No “why” is ever answered by chlorophyll.
Whatever answers science gives are all like this. The question only retreats a step or two back, that’s all. If you are a bit alert you can raise the question again. Science has no answer to “why.” Therefore science cannot destroy wonder; it only creates the illusion of having destroyed it.
But D. H. Lawrence was no scientist—he was a poet, a novelist. He had a sensibility for beauty. He stood still, began to think. He said to the child, “Give me time—because I myself do not know.”
Your child, too, will have asked you such questions. Have you ever said, “I don’t know”? It hurts the ego. Every father thinks he knows. The child asks, the father answers. Because of these answers, the father later loses prestige; for one day the child discovers that you knew nothing at all. You kept on answering for nothing. As ignorant as I am, so are you. Your age was greater—your ignorance a little older. That was all. But you go on giving answers. The child believes. He accepts: all right, it must be so. But how long will he go on accepting?
Lawrence stopped. He said, “I shall think. And if you insist on an answer right now, I can only say this: trees are green because they are green. There is no other answer. I myself am filled with the same mystery.”
If you remove the veil of a little knowledge from your eyes, you will find mystery standing everywhere. That trees are green is mysterious. That red flowers bloom on green trees is mysterious. That such huge trees are hidden in such small seeds is mysterious. Preserve a seed, sow it after hundreds or thousands of years, a tree appears. Life seems eternal. Every moment is filled with mystery.
But you have closed your eyes. You have become complacent. Your complacency is your inertia. You do not even hesitate. There are reasons for this: the ego receives assurance—“I know.” If I know, I am safe. If I do not know, all safety is lost. In truth you know nothing. But the feeling “I know nothing” pains; so you clutch at something. A drowning man clutches even a straw, takes support from straws. What you clutch is not even a straw. A straw might save someone; but what you hold is not even a straw—it is only a dream, mere words.
One man sits convinced that he knows God. It is absurd that someone should say, “I know for sure.” “For sure” means you have fathomed God’s mystery! “For sure” means you have measured Him, weighed Him on your scales, tested Him in your laboratory! What does “for sure” mean?
Another man is equally sure that God does not exist. Both are foolish, and both suffer the same disease. One calls himself theist, one atheist; but there is not the slightest difference between them. Deep down they share the same illness: both believe, “We know.” And thus argument arises between them.
Argument is born of knowledge; dialogue is born of wonder. When you are filled with wonder, a dialogue enters your life. If someone went to Mahavira and said, “God is,” he would say, “He is.” If an atheist went and said, “God is not,” he would say, “He is not.” If an agnostic arrived who accepted neither, Mahavira would say to him, “He both is and is not.”
It becomes difficult. We want answers that are clear, straight—even if wrong, they must be clear. Note: this world is so complex that clear answers will be wrong. Only an answer that includes its own opposite can be right; for existence includes its opposite within itself. Here there is birth and death. Here there is no clean-cut road. Here darkness is and light is. Here auspicious and inauspicious are. Both live together. Here the sinner and the saint are not separate; they live together—two sides of the same coin. God holds both within Himself. Existence is vast. It is not sliced by the knife of logic—it is un-logicable. There the opposites melt into one another.
It happened that Junnaid prayed one night to God: “I wish to know whether there is any person in this village who is a great sinner; for by seeing him, by understanding him, I will strive to be saved from sin. I shall have a measuring rod—this one is the great sinner; I must escape this life.”
A voice said, “Your neighbor!”
Junnaid was astonished. He had never imagined that his neighbor could be a great sinner. He was an ordinary man, working at his trade, running a shop—Junnaid had never thought “great sinner.” His imagination was that a great sinner would be a Ravana, some arch-villain, a devil. “This man runs a shop, keeps a family.” He was greatly puzzled: no one would call him a great sinner.
The next night he prayed again: “All right—what you say is fine—but now give me another measuring rod: tell me who in this village is the greatest saint, the most virtuous.”
God said, “The same man—your neighbor.”
Junnaid said, “You are putting me in trouble. I already am enough troubled. All day I watched the man—I saw no great sin. And now a further complication—you say he is the saint too!”
The voice said, “In my world the two are joined.”
Only intellect separates and slices. Here, even behind the greatest saint, a shadow falls. Here, on the face of the greatest sinner, there is also light. That is why the sinner can become a saint if he chooses; the saint, if he chooses, can become a sinner. This easy switch is possible because both are contained in one.
Darkness and light are not separate; night and day are joined. Logic cuts and makes neat roads. Logic is like a small trimmed garden; life is like a forest—nothing is neat. Everything is entangled with everything.
One who sets out to understand life needs the capacity to avoid neat, cut-and-dried answers. In clutching them there is safety; for you feel assured: “All right, I know.” As soon as you feel, “I know,” courage comes; you gain confidence to walk in life. Therefore you fear letting go of knowledge. It hurts deeply. If someone takes away your wealth, it is not such misery—one can earn again; and wealth was dust—you knew that. If someone takes away your position, not much to worry—you yourself could renounce it. But knowledge!
Thus I see a strange event: a man leaves society, the village, the home, wife and family; but if he was a Jain, he remains a Jain even on the Himalayas; if a Hindu, he remains a Hindu; if a Muslim, he remains a Muslim. The very society he ran away from had given him this identity—“you are a Muslim”—and this knowledge that “the Quran is the true book, all others false.” He left everything, but he brings knowledge safely even to the Himalayas. Nothing has changed in his life; for this faith in knowledge remains.
Drop knowledge, and wherever you stand, the Himalayas will arrive there. Himalaya simply means where everything is mysterious—lofty peaks you cannot touch, bottomless valleys you cannot descend into, that which is bigger than all our measures.
Wonder means: where your intellect becomes futile; where your ego becomes incapable; where you become utterly helpless: you can cry there, you can laugh there, but you cannot speak.
It is said that when Moses went up Mount Sinai, he wept and he laughed, but he did not speak. When he returned, his disciples asked, “What happened? God Himself was present! God said to you, ‘Moses, take off your shoes; for this is holy ground.’ You removed your shoes. You wept, you laughed—why did you not speak? Why did you miss such a chance? Whatever there was to ask—you should have asked. At least ask for a master key by which all locks open.”
Moses said, “When He was before me, intellect disappeared; only heart remained. In joy I wept, in joy I laughed.”
And this is life’s wonder—that in joy one can weep and one can laugh. So do not think that one cries only in sorrow—that is logic’s reckoning. Life does not obey logic; life’s river breaks all logical banks and flows like a flood. A man can weep in joy; then the very nature of tears changes—there is the glimmer of bliss in them. One can laugh too. Opposites can reveal the One. This is the mystery of life.
Moses said, “Only heart remained; my head was lost. Where I left my shoes, it seems my head too was left there.”
And do not leave only your shoes outside the temple; leave your head there too. Only one who leaves his head outside along with his shoes, enters the temple. Shoes and head have a deep connection. That is why when you get angry you strike a man on the head with your shoe. A sadhu strikes his own head with his shoe. These are the two extremes, the two poles—on one side the shoe, on the other the head, and you are in between. That midpoint in you where all opposites meet—there your feet and your head meet—that is the heart.
Moses said, “I wept and I laughed; for I was filled with wonder—I fell speechless. Now I can no longer sleep; what I have seen I cannot unsee; what has happened cannot be undone. The Moses who was before is no more. I am another man. This is a new birth.”
The Hindus call this dwija—when a man has such a second birth. Not all Brahmins are dwija. Rarely does a Brahmin become dwija. Dwija does not mean putting on a sacred thread. Dwija means: one who is born again. Moses said, “Now I am dwija—twice-born. I am another man; that man has died.”
If you pass through wonder, the old in you will die and the new will be born. And if you abide in wonder, each moment the new is born and the old dissolves; moment to moment the old goes, the new arrives. Then your stream is eternal; then you never grow stale and decrepit; then you have found the pulse of eternal life.
Therefore Shiva says: “Wonder is the ground of Yoga.”
The second sutra: ‘Svapadam shaktih—abiding in the Self is power.’
Wonder is the ground. Wonder means: the journey turns inward; the inner search for the question “Who am I?” Going outward—astonishment; going outward—logic; going outward—science. Coming inward—wonder, meditation, prayer. The whole method changes. Wonder will bring you inward. When the entire world appears mysterious, only one question remains essential: Who am I? The very foundation of wonder is: Who am I? Until I know this “I,” the journey to know anything else cannot begin. How will I know trees, how will I know you, how will I know the other—when I myself am unknown and in ignorance; when I do not even know myself?
Therefore, “Who am I?”—this is the great mantra. Do not hurry to answer; because you have answers ready. “Who am I?”—from within you say, “I am Atman.” This answer will not work. You know it already. It has not changed your life. Knowledge is fire—it will burn you. When you ask “Who am I?” and a voice comes from within, it is not the inner voice. It is your head speaking; scriptures lodged in the head are speaking; memory is speaking. When you say, “I am Atman,” it is worth two pennies; it has no value. Because it has not changed you; it is not fire—it is ash. Perhaps once there was a live ember—for some rishi—but for you it is only ash. For whom it was a live ember has gone from this world; you carry the ash.
Keep asking, “Who am I?”—and do not give borrowed answers. Whenever a borrowed answer comes, say: “This is not mine; not my knowing—how can it be mine! Only what I have known can be mine. Only what I earn by my own effort is my wealth.” In knowledge, neither theft works nor begging works. You can neither beg nor steal here; robbery will not do. Here you must create yourself by your own labor.
The second sutra: ‘Svapadam shaktih.’
As soon as wonder is born, start moving inward, sinking, and endeavor to abide in the Self. Because when you ask “Who am I?”—when will the answer arrive? If you want its answer, you will have to rest in the Self. That is what we have called health—resting in oneself. When someone rests in himself, only then can he see. How will you see while running? Your condition is like riding in a fast car. A flower appears through the window; before you can even ask what it is, you have shot past. Your speed is too great. And no vehicle in the world is faster than desire. To reach the moon, a rocket takes time; your desire needs no time—you reach in this very instant. Desire is the fastest speed. One who is filled with desires is not resting; he is running. You are running so madly that even if you ask “Who am I?” how will the answer come?
This running will have to cease. One will have to abide in the Self. For a while, all desires, all running, all journeying will have to stop. But before one desire ends you give birth to twenty-five more; before one journey finishes, twenty-five new roads open, and again you start running. You do not know how to sit. You have not stopped for lifetimes.
I have heard: a king appointed a very intelligent man as his minister. But the minister was dishonest, and soon he siphoned off millions from the royal treasury. The day the king learned of it, he summoned him and said, “I will say little. What you have done is not right. You have broken trust. Do not show me your face again. Leave this kingdom. And so that useless talk does not spread, I shall say nothing to anyone. You too need say nothing.”
The minister said, “Listen! I will leave. It is true I have stolen millions. Yet, as your minister, let me offer one advice: now I have everything. I have mansions, bungalows on hills, villas by the sea—everything. For generations, neither I nor my children need earn anything. If you appoint another man as minister, he will have to start from ABC.”
The king was intelligent; he understood.
Such a moment never comes in your life when you can say, “Now everything is with me.” The day such a moment arrives, running will cease. Otherwise you are always starting from ABC. Each moment a new desire catches hold; a new thief arrives, a new robber begins to break into your treasury. Nor is there only one robber; there are many desires. You run in many directions at once. You try to get many things at once. You have never even sat and seen that many of those things are contrary—you cannot have them, for if you gain one the other will be lost; if you gain the second, the first will be gone.
Mulla Nasruddin, as he was dying, said to his son, “Let me impart to you two things before I die. Remember them. Two things: one—honesty. And the second—wisdom. You will manage the shop, the work. On the signboard it is written: ‘Honesty is the best policy.’ Follow it. Never deceive anyone. Never break your word. Keep your promises.”
The son said, “Fine. And what is the second—wisdom?”
Nasruddin said, “Never promise anything to anyone.”
Such is the split life: honesty and wisdom—trying to hold both. Fulfilling promises is the aim of honesty; never promising is the aim of wisdom. On one side you want people to worship you as a saint; on the other you want to enjoy like a sinner. Great difficulty. On one side you want your character to be praised like Rama’s; on the other you are eager like Ravana to abduct others’ women. You want to make the impossible possible. You want to live like Ravana but have the prestige of Rama. Then you are in trouble. Then your journey runs in opposite directions. You set infinite goals; you are torn into pieces. At the end of life you will find that you have lost even what you brought.
There was a great gambler. His wife, family, friends advised him much; he did not listen—slowly everything was lost. One day only a single rupee remained in the house. The wife said, “Now awaken! At least now be careful.” The husband said, “When so much has gone and only one rupee remains, give me one last chance. Who knows, luck may open with this one.”
A gambler always thinks so. He added, “When millions have gone and only one is left, why cry over one! It will go anyway—let me place one more bet.”
The wife too thought: everything has gone; one will not last till evening—“All right, go fulfill your last wish.”
He went to the den. To his amazement, he began winning every round. One became a thousand, a thousand became ten thousand, ten thousand became fifty thousand, fifty thousand became a hundred thousand; and he kept staking the whole pile. Then he staked the hundred thousand too, saying, “Now this is the final solution.” And he lost it all. He came home. The wife asked, “What happened?” He said, “The one rupee is gone.”
You can only lose what you brought. Why talk of the hundred thousand! He said, “The one rupee is gone—no worry. That bet went bad.” He did not say the hundred thousand had happened. Rightly so; for what is not yours, how can it be lost?
At the time of death you will find that the very Self with which you came, you are losing. Only that one will be lost! The rest you lost or gained has no ultimate accounting; it has no value in the final reckoning. Even if you have won millions, at the moment of death they will all fall away; the account will remain one—the Self. If you have abided in that One, you have won. If you have come into that One, lived in that One…
For that Shiva says: ‘Svapadam shaktih.’
You are weak, poor, miserable—not because you lack money, house, wealth. You are poor and miserable because you are not in yourself. To be in oneself is the source of energy. As soon as you settle there, great energy floods you.
Someone asked Jesus, “What should I do? I am very poor and miserable.” Jesus said, “Do nothing else; first seek the kingdom of God, and all else will follow of itself.”
Find the One, and the rest follows. Lose the One, and all is lost. That One is you. That alone is your treasure; for that alone you brought with you. And the final account will ask: what you brought, did you save it—or lose it too?
‘Svapadam shaktih.’
To abide in oneself is to become supremely powerful. You are supremely powerful; but you are like a bucket with a thousand holes, and someone is drawing water from the well. Every time the bucket in the water looks full; as soon as it is lifted out, water begins to pour from a thousand ways. By the time the bucket reaches the top, nothing remains.
A thousand desires are your thousand holes. Through them your energy leaks. As long as you dream, the bucket is full; as long as you desire, the bucket is full. As soon as you bring desire into act, as soon as you begin to pull the bucket from the well, as soon as you try to make the dream real, energy begins to drain. By the time the bucket is in hand, what you have is only the thousand holes; not a drop of water—thirst remains as it was. Each time you pull, there is a great uproar in the well, and you feel water is coming, a storm is coming—but you get nothing in hand. Every time you return empty-handed. Desire is very strange.
A passerby asked a fisherman, “How many fish have you caught?” It was near evening; he had sat with his line since morning. The passerby had passed that way several times and seen him. At last he could not help asking, “How many?”
The fisherman said, “The one I am just trying to catch—this one—and if I catch two more, they will be three.” At present he had caught none—“This one I am trying to catch, and two more—then they will be three.”
You are always in the fisherman’s state—this one you are trying to catch, and two are in the dream. And even this one is not yet real. The count is of three, and you are already pleased.
Whenever the bucket is in hand, you find it empty again. Note too: the more you dip it in the well, the bigger the holes become. That is why children look cheerful; old people are utterly desolate—their bucket has become all holes. How many times they have dipped and pulled! All holes have enlarged. Yet the old hope does not die—someday it will come up filled. It does look filled! Then you see water pouring out again.
You have God’s power; but your mind is like a holed bucket.
‘Svapadam shaktih’ means: when you do not run after desires. One desire drops, one hole closes. When desires drop, all holes are sealed. Then you need not lower your bucket into any other well—you yourself are the well. Great energy is with you! If only you stop wasting it, you are born with immense energy. You have nothing to get; whatever is worth getting is with you—only protect it from being lost. God is not to be attained—only saved from being lost. He is already given to you. How you go on losing Him—that is the greatest mystery in the world.
The third sutra: ‘Vitarka—namely, through viveka, Self-knowledge arises.’
Each sutra is like a key. First: wonder. Wonder turns you toward the Self. Second: rest in the Self, so that you become available to immense energy, your life becomes the supreme life. But how to rest in the Self? The key is in the third sutra: viveka—vitarka—Self-knowledge.
This word vitarka is to be understood. We know tarka—logic. Logic is the sword in science’s hand; it is the sword that cuts astonishment. Logic cuts, analyzes. It goes outward. Vitarka goes inward. It does not cut; it joins. Tarka is analysis. Vitarka is synthesis.
There was a fakir, Farid. A devotee brought him golden scissors—very precious, studded with gems. He said, “They have come down in my family for centuries. They are worth millions. What shall I do with them? I place them at your feet.”
Farid said, “Take them back. If you must make an offering, bring a needle and thread. For we are not cutters; we are joiners. Scissors cut. If you must offer, bring a needle and thread.”
Logic is like scissors; it cuts. Among the Hindus, Ganesh is the god of logic; therefore he rides a mouse. Mouse means scissors. It cuts. A mouse is a living pair of scissors; it keeps cutting. Ganesh rides on it. He is the god of logic. And the Hindus have made great fun of Ganesh. If you do not feel like laughing on seeing him, that is surprising—you do not laugh because you have become assured that he is as he is. Otherwise he is laughable.
Look at Ganesh’s body: it is misshapen in every way. Even his head is not his own—it is borrowed. A logician’s head is borrowed. It is very big, an elephant’s; but not his own. Even an elephant’s borrowed head is of no use; it will only make you ugly. The body is heavy, bulky. He rides a mouse. The body is only for show; the mount is the mouse. However big the pundit, his mount is a mouse—those scissors, logic!
Farid was right: if you must offer, bring a needle and thread—for we join.
Vitarka is the art of joining. Vitarka means “special logic.” Ordinary logic cuts; special logic joins. Buddha, Mahavira, Shiva, Lao Tzu—they too argue, but their argument is vitarka.
There is a third kind of logic we call kutarka—perverse logic. There are three possibilities. Tarka cuts and analyzes; but its aim is not evil—its aim is to resolve astonishment. It does not delight in cutting; cutting is the process; the aim is to arrive at some principle by which astonishment ceases, things become clear. The aim of logic is creative.
But when logic has no aim at all and cutting becomes the aim; when one begins to take pleasure in destroying—then it becomes kutarka, perverse logic. It is logic gone mad; deranged. Then it destroys; there is no other aim—destruction itself becomes delightful.
Vitarka is the inward journey of logic. You came here from your home; your gaze, your direction, was this way—toward me. Your back was to your home. When you return, the road will be the same; only the direction will change—your back toward me, your face toward home.
The road is the same for tarka and vitarka; hence it is called “special logic”—vitarka. The road is the same, only the direction changes. Before, logic was going toward the other—toward matter; now it turns toward one’s own home. And by that turn, the whole quality changes. Going toward the other, one can only go by cutting; to enter the other one must cut—there is no other way.
Go to a medical college, you will find students cutting—dissecting a frog; for they want to know what is inside. There is no other way; to know the inside of the frog you must cut. But to know your own inside there is no need to cut; for you are already within. To know the other, one must cut, even kill; there is no other way to enter. To know oneself there is no question of cutting or killing; you are there already. To know oneself it is enough to close one’s eyes. To withdraw attention from the outside and let it move within—that turning of tarka into vitarka is meditation. Vitarka’s other name is viveka—awareness.
And this viveka or vitarka is a process of synthesis. As you come within, you gather together. Think of a circle with a vast circumference. At its center is a point. If you mark two points on the circumference, they are far apart. Draw two lines from those points toward the center: as they approach the center, they come closer—closer, closer. At the center they become one line; they meet. If you extend those same lines outward beyond the circumference, they go farther—farther and farther—into infinite separation.
When from within you go outward, things recede from each other—the distances increase. Hence a thousand sciences have arisen—they must, for the distances multiply. New sciences are born daily; as we proceed, the distances grow. Scientists themselves are troubled: they say the language of one science is not intelligible to another. There is not a single person on earth today who understands all the sciences or can synthesize them all. It has become so difficult. To know even one science is almost impossible. So the world has much knowledge, but synthesis is lost. Religion is one, though it may bear many names; for as soon as a person comes inward, the distances diminish. At the center, all things join. The center is the ultimate synthesis.
‘Vitarka—namely, through viveka arises Self-knowledge.’
Do not cut! Do not go outward! Do not keep your attention on the other! Bring the attention within! Join! Slide slowly toward the center; reach the place which is the midpoint of your life-breaths. Rest there; immense energy will arise.
That light we see in Buddha and Mahavira, that bliss we see in Krishna, in Mira, in Chaitanya—what is that bliss, that light? They have reached the place where the source of infinite energy is. They are no longer poor. They are no longer beggars. They ask from no one. They have become emperors.
Their emperorship is your possibility too. But one must move one step at a time.
Wonder; the resolve to abide in the Self; vitarka—the way to reach the Self; and the fourth sutra: ‘Lokānandaḥ samādhisukham—tasting the bliss of existence is the joy of Samadhi.’
When you have reached and rested in yourself, you come to the densest state of existence. There existence is at its most condensed—for from there everything is born. Your center is not only your center; it is the center of all. Only on the circumference are we different. The distance between “I” and “you” is the distance of the bodies. As soon as we drop the body and move within, the distances begin to shrink. The day you know the Atman, that day you have known Paramatman. The day you know your soul, that day you have known the soul of the All; for at the center there is no distance. On the circumference we differ—there are distinctions. At the center there is no distinction; there we are one existence.
Shiva says: finding that existence within oneself, the bliss of Samadhi is attained.
Samādhisukham—this word must be understood. You have known many pleasures—sometimes the pleasure of food, sometimes of health; sometimes the thirst slaked by water; sometimes the pleasure of the body, sexual pleasure—you have known many pleasures. But understand one thing about them: pain is bound to them. If you do not feel thirst, there will be no pleasure in drinking water. If you are ready to bear the pain of thirst, then drinking water gives joy. Pain is first, pain is long, and pleasure is a moment; as soon as water passes the throat, the slaking is done; then again pain, again thirst! If you do not feel hunger, there is no pleasure in eating.
Thus a strange calamity in the world: those who have hunger lack food; they could enjoy food, for they suffer hunger. Those who have no hunger have food; they cannot enjoy food, on the contrary they get suffering from it.
As long as you feel thirst, only then there is satisfaction in water. But you can live in such a way that thirst does not arise—do not go out in the sun, do not labor, rest at home—thirst will not arise. Then you may think: “I will drink leisurely and enjoy,” but you will find there is no pleasure in drinking. Only one who has labored all day knows the joy of sleep at night. And here is the difficulty: if you want the joy of sleep at night, the day must be the life of a laborer. But you want a day like an emperor’s—and a night’s sleep like a laborer’s. That cannot be.
In the outer world pleasure and pain are joined. The day the palace becomes yours, that very day sleep is lost. The day you arrange a luxurious bed, that very day you find there is no remedy except tossing and turning. Look at the laborer sleeping under a tree—he knows not the stones. Mosquitoes bite—he knows not. Heat is there, sweat flows—he knows not. All that is minor. He has borne so much pain in the day that he has earned the joy of the night.
In the world you must pay the price of pain to gain pleasure. Man is entangled in a compulsion: he wants pleasure to remain and pain to be cut away. It will not happen. For thousands of years we have tried to cut pain and keep pleasure; it does not work. Pain can certainly be reduced, but pleasure is reduced in the same measure. We do not want pain, we want pleasure—thus the tangle.
What does samadhi-bliss mean? That with which pain is not connected at all. Samadhi-bliss is not the slaking of a thirst. Samadhi-bliss is not food taken in hunger. Samadhi-bliss is not sleep after a day’s labor. Samadhi-bliss has nothing to do with pain. This is the difference between worldly pleasure and spiritual bliss. Samadhi-bliss is simply the joy of being. It has no thirst, no craving, no pain connected to it. It is the joy of being—purely.
Therefore Shiva says: Lokānandaḥ—It is the bliss of existence. You are—this alone is blissful. It has no link with craving and pain.
Remember: the soul has neither thirst nor hunger. Therefore there cannot be the pleasure born of hunger and thirst. All hungers and thirsts belong to the body—hence bodily pleasures will remain tied to pain. Whoever wants bodily pleasures must be ready for pains. And in proportion to his readiness for pain he can enjoy bodily pleasure. The soul’s joy is the purest joy; pain has no access there.
But it happens at the center; on the circumference you are the body. The body is the circumference, the wall of your house—it is not you. It is your outer circle. At the center you are the soul. There a new joy arises—the joy of only being. There are no valleys of pain, no peaks of pleasure. There are no heights and lows. There is no gaining and losing. There is no day and night. There is no labor and rest. You simply are. There is eternal being. The flavor of that eternal being is immensely sweet, never interrupted. Therefore the saints call it eternal, everlasting—nitya. There is never any hindrance in that juice.
Kabir has said: there, the nectar flows always—one and the same, of one taste.
Here too there is rain; but for rain, heat is necessary. When you are scorched by heat, the earth cracks, trees begin to cry out, on all sides there is distress—then rain comes.
You may ask: why such a silly rule? Why cannot rain happen without distress? But then you have to understand the whole arrangement, the mathematics: only if distress arises, clouds can form. When fierce sun blazes, water evaporates. Without evaporation there can be no rain. When water vapor rises, clouds condense; and when they are so condensed that they must pour, then rain happens. Before rain, intense heat is necessary.
In the realm of the soul there is no opposition; there is no duality. Therefore we call it beyond duality, advaita—non-dual. There is One, not two. But then it will be very difficult for you to understand what kind of joy is there; for you know no joy that is not tied to pain.
Someone asked Sigmund Freud: “What is the definition of insanity, and how do people become insane?” Freud gave a unique answer: insanity and success have the same definition; the method of reaching success is the same as the method of reaching insanity. For when you want to succeed, you tense up. You fight. Your days and nights fill with anxiety. Every moment you are afraid—will I win, will I not? You are not alone; there are millions of rivals. Then day and night the anxiety, the pain, tension—you tremble: what will happen? And this is the path to madness as well.
Those whom you call successful—if you watch them closely—you will find them in the very same tension and restlessness in which you find the insane.
It happened when Khrushchev was Prime Minister of Russia: he visited a lunatic asylum. He remembered some urgent matter and wanted to phone his secretary. But there was a difficulty—the operator-girl paid no attention. There was a reason, as later became clear. Khrushchev said again and again, “Quickly connect the number,” the girl didn’t bother. Then Khrushchev said, “Girl, do you know who I am?” This is the inner refrain of every successful, powerful man—day and night he says within, whether he speaks or not: “Do you know who I am?” For this he has lost everything—to make others know “who I am.” He couldn’t restrain himself and said, “Girl, do you know who I am? I am Khrushchev—the Prime Minister!”
The girl said, “I don’t know who you are, but I know where you are calling from—from the asylum!”
But all prime ministers call from there. There is no other place from which they can call.
Khrushchev once came to London. Someone had gifted him a precious cloth—so valuable he wanted the world’s best tailor to sew it. In Moscow he inquired among the best tailors. He wanted a coat, a vest, and trousers. But the tailor said, “Difficult—three pieces are difficult; any two can be made.” The cloth was so valuable, he wanted a full suit. He brought it to London. The London tailor examined it and said, “Fine—one pair of trousers, one coat, one vest can be made, and some cloth will still be left. A suit for your child can also be made.” Khrushchev was astonished: “What! In Moscow my tailor said only two pieces could be made! That scoundrel!”
The London tailor said, “Do not be angry with him. In Moscow you are a very big man—more cloth is needed. In London you are nobody.”
All the pleasures for which man pursues success and ambition demand that he be prepared for corresponding pains. Those pains break him. Before you are successful, you are almost ruined. In the world, no one is ever successful—because the price of success is such deep derangement and madness that by the time success comes to hand, it is not worth having.
Samadhi’s bliss is altogether different; there is no price to pay. For that which you set out to gain is already here—this very moment. It is not some future for which you must travel, move, toil. It is present—now. It is already yours. It is your intrinsic wealth. And in its price there is no pain. But then what is its taste like?
From none of the pleasures you have known can its taste be known; for all of them are mixed with pain. Whatever nectar you have tasted has poison mixed in it—because with the body this will be so. In the body are both birth and death; nectar and poison are both present. From the body, whatever pleasure you know will contain pain. But the soul is pure nectar. It has no death. It is eternal—pure life only.
Therefore, take the bitterness out of all the pleasures you have tasted—remove completely the tinge of pain—and perhaps you may get a faint idea. From whatever pleasures you have known, remove their opposite—the share of pain—and in imagination you may get a slight glimpse. But even that glimpse will not be a sure report; for on the circumference there are only glimpses. However much you think, you cannot form a true idea of what you have not tasted—you will have to walk.
These sutras are of immense value: fill yourself with wonder. Turn toward the Self. Abide in yourself so that immense energy becomes available; let your life become the supreme life. Through viveka, attain Self-knowledge—through awakeness, supreme awakeness; break sleep. Then you will taste the bliss of existence. Samadhi-bliss is yours. A few more points about Samadhi-bliss.
One: in life, whatever pleasure you enjoy depends on many things—your talent or lack of it, education or illiteracy, strength, family connections. You are not alone there. If born in a poor home, you will spend a lifetime to get the same pleasure; if in a rich home, you arrive soon. If clever, sharp, you arrive soon; if dull, you wander much—arriving is doubtful. If the body is sick, difficult; if healthy, sooner. It is contingent—dependent on a thousand things.
But Samadhi-bliss depends on nothing—it is unconditional. Not on your intellect, not on your body, not on your capability or lack, not on your education or family, not on beauty or ugliness, not on being man or woman; not on caste or creed; not on youth or age—on nothing. It is unconditioned bliss. For it is your own treasure. You were born with it. You only did not attend to it—that’s all. You forgot it; you did not lose it. Just turn your eyes, turn back, and see yourself.
It is not that the intelligent will gain more Samadhi-bliss and the fools will be deprived. Nothing like that. The unlettered arrive there too. Kabir arrives there—utterly uneducated. Buddha arrives too. And when both arrive, there is not the slightest difference.
Samadhi-bliss is life’s own flavor. Whether your outer circumference is dark or fair; healthy or beautiful; sick or sound; whether your head is stuffed with words or scarce; whether you know many scriptures or few—none of this matters. Your being is enough. You are—that is sufficient.
Therefore the whole of meditation is a search for purity—where you will forget body and mind; there the bliss of the soul, the bliss of existence, begins to be available. Do only this in some way: for a little while, even for a moment, forget the body and forget the mind. As soon as the body and mind are forgotten, the soul is remembered. As long as body and mind are remembered, the soul is not. Because body and mind are outside; the soul is inside. You cannot look both ways at once—you can look only one way at a time.
In this Samadhi camp, if you have done even this much—that for a little while, even for a single moment, body and mind were forgotten—you will taste Samadhi-bliss. And once you taste it, it is enough. Your life has changed. The first taste is the difficult thing. Once the neck turns, you have learned the knack—it is in your hands. Then wherever you turn your neck, you will see. The first turn takes all the effort. Once you have the key, you are the master. Then whenever you wish—then you can roam the world at ease—no one can steal your Samadhi-bliss. Sit in your shop, you will remain in Samadhi-bliss. Be in the marketplace, you will remain in Samadhi-bliss.
One thing will begin to happen: your outer race after pleasures will gradually slacken. For when the great bliss is in hand, who worries about the small? When diamonds and jewels are in hand, a man throws away pebbles of himself—there is no need to renounce them.
Therefore I say continually: the wise renounce nothing; the worthless falls away of itself. The ignorant try to renounce—renunciation is painful for them. They have no taste of the essential and try to drop the trivial. The mind clings: “You are dropping what is in hand! And what is not in hand—who knows? Perhaps it is not—it is doubtful.”
So I do not ask you to renounce anything; I ask you only to taste That. That taste will become the great renunciation in your life. After that taste you will yourself see what is worthless. And no one clings to the worthless. People drop it of themselves.
I have heard: in Bengal there was a saint—Yukteswar Giri. A wealthy man came to him and said, “You are a great renunciate!” Giri laughed out loud and said to his disciples, “Look—this man himself is a great renunciate and calls me a renunciate. Don’t trap me!”
The man was startled—he had meant to praise him. The disciples were startled too; for Giri was indeed a renunciate. They said, “We don’t understand. The man speaks rightly.”
Giri said, “Understand it this way: a diamond lies here and a stone lies there. This man clutches the stone, and I hold the diamond. He calls me the renunciate!
Who is the renunciate? Mahavira or you? Buddha or you?
You are the renunciate—you cling to garbage. You abandon Samadhi-bliss and hold on to vain, petty, peripheral happenings—where nothing is pure, everything is mixed, stale, leftover—you cling to that.
Worldly people are the great renunciates; but worldly people take sannyasins to be renunciates. To them the sannyasin seems the renunciate. In truth they pity him: “Poor fellow—everything slipped away! He left everything, enjoyed nothing!” They respect him—and deep inside pity him: “Foolish—left everything without tasting it. He should have enjoyed a little!”
They do not know to whom they speak. The sannyasin has attained the great enjoyment—existence has invited him to the great feast.
I do not ask you to leave anything; I ask you to know, to taste. That very taste will slowly cut off the worthless in your life. The worthless drops; it need not be dropped.
Enough for today.