On the first day we had contemplated the first sutra—on wonder, on being awestruck. Yesterday we spoke of the second sutra—on being suffused with bliss. And today, the third sutra: Abheda, or Advaita.
For the one whose inner ground begins in wonder, and who passes through the realm of joy, entry into the world of nonduality happens naturally. But one who has paid no heed to the first two sutras may find this third difficult to understand.
A man once caught a bird—an old bird—in a forest. The old bird said: "I am of no use to you. This body is worn and withered, my life is nearing its end. I can no longer sing, there is no sweetness left in my voice. What will you do by holding me captive? But if you are willing to release me, I can give you three sutras for life."
The man said: "What guarantee is there that if I release you, you will tell me those sutras?"
The bird said: "The first sutra I will tell you right here, while still in your hand. If you find it a fair bargain, then release me. The second sutra I will tell you seated on that tree. And the third sutra, only when I am flying high in the sky."
It was indeed an old bird. Truly, there was no sweetness left in its voice; it could not be sold in the marketplace. Its days too were almost over—there was no need to keep it.
The hunter said to the bird: "All right. I accept your condition. Give me the first counsel, the first advice, the first sutra."
The bird said: "In life I have seen those people suffer who do not forget the past. And I have seen those filled with joy who let the past go and live in what is present. This is the first sutra."
The point was of value and substance. The man released the bird. It sat upon a tree. The man asked: "And the second sutra?"
The bird said: "The second is this: Never believe what is against reason, against thought, against the rules of common sense. To believe the irrational is to go astray."
The bird took flight into the sky. While flying it said: "Let me tell you something in passing. This is not the third sutra—just a piece of news for you. You have made a great mistake in letting me go; there were two precious diamonds in my body. Had you killed me, you would have been a multimillionaire today."
The man at once fell into gloom. He became anxious. But the bird had flown far. With a downcast, defeated, agitated mind he said: "Well, no matter. At least give me the third counsel."
The bird said: "There is no need now to give the third counsel; you did not act upon the first two. I had told you: the one who forgets what is past is joyful. Yet you remember that you had caught me and let me go—what is over is over, and you grieve over it. I had told you the second sutra: never accept what is against reason. You accepted that diamonds could be in a bird’s body, and you grieve for it. Forgive me, I am not willing to give you the third. For when the first two have not been considered or practiced, the third too will fall into unworthy hands; it will be of no use."
Therefore my first word is this: only if the previous two sutras have been pondered, if they have found a place somewhere in the breath of your being, can the third be understood. Otherwise the third sutra will seem utterly impenetrable. I cannot be harsh like that bird and refuse to tell it. I will tell the third. But whether it will reach you or not—I do not know. It may reach you if the first two have reached; it unfolds gently along their path. And if two steps are missing, the third step becomes very puzzling; to grasp and to recognize it becomes difficult; it begins to appear mysterious.
The third sutra is: Advaita—Abheda.
What is the meaning of Abheda? Of Advaita? It is the last step in the attainment of the Lord. So it must be understood very subtly, with great delicacy of attention.
What is the meaning of Advaita?
In 1857, in the days of the uprising, a sannyasi was caught at night in a British cantonment. They supposed he was a spy come to reconnoiter in the dark. When he was asked, "Who are you?" he said nothing. Then it was taken as certain: he must be a spy trying to conceal himself. But that sannyasi had been silent for fifteen years. He was no one’s spy; he had nothing to do with anyone. He did not speak—not because he would not—but because he had been silent for fifteen years. The British commandant thought he was trying to deceive, to play tricks. He gave the order that a spear be thrust into his chest at once.
A soldier plunged a spear into his chest; fountains of blood burst forth. The sannyasi began to laugh and said: "Tat tvam asi! Thou art That!"
People asked: "What are you saying? And why were you silent for so long?"
He said: "I have been silent for fifteen years, and I had resolved that I would speak only on that day when I see no difference between myself and the other. Today that hour has come. I used to think: if in the moment of death difference appears, there can be no test of nondifference. When this soldier thrust the spear into my chest, I watched closely: do I see myself within this soldier or not? If I do, life is fulfilled; if I do not, I have failed. And when the spear was plunged into me, I was astonished! I saw that I am the one who is being killed—and I am the one who is killing. So now the final word: Tat tvam asi! Thou art That! You too are That! I too am That!" Saying this, he died.
Advaita means: no boundary remains between me and the Whole, no wall remains. Where I end and where that which is other-than-me begins—no trace remains. Let me end nowhere, and let no "other" begin anywhere. Let there be only an expanse—and the whole expanse be interrelated with the breath of my being. Let the circumference of the universe be upon the point of my life. If I am the center, then let the whole cosmos be my expansion. Between all that is—and my own being—let there be no interval, no gap, no emptiness. That tuning, that accord, that harmony, that music—where my note and the notes of life have become one—the name of that state is Advaita; the name of that feeling-state is Abheda. And that is the third sutra.
How is the remembrance of this to arise? How do we enter this direction? For this is the truth. Difference is untrue, imagined; duality is thought, supposed. There is no duality as a known fact in existence. Duality is only assumed. Multiplicity and difference are only imagination. But how is it to be seen that this whole life, this whole existence, is one composition, an integrated whole, a unified consciousness? How is this to be recognized? How is this fact to surface as remembrance—that all is one and there is no difference here?
A man goes to the edge of a lake and throws a stone into it. A small circle rises, a little ripple quivers; then it grows and grows and begins to travel outward toward distant, endless shores. One, two, three—and then millions of ripples are born and keep expanding. When that ripple reaches the far shore of the vast ocean, how much time will have passed since the stone fell that raised the first ripple? And who will be able to think that that ripple is related to that very stone? Who could remember? Who could bring to mind that the same circle, the same tremble that once was for a moment—who knows in what moment of eternity—has journeyed to that distant edge? We do not take it into account. We do not remember.
We too are ripples risen upon the lake of the infinite. And the ripple before us, and before that, and before that—we are interwoven and interconnected with all of them.
A seed is born, then becomes a tree, and then the tree bears thousands of seeds. Those thousands fall upon the earth; sprouts emerge; trees arise; again thousands of seeds appear. Who will say that the tree born a thousand years later is related to that first seed? Who will remember? They are not separate; they are the same seed’s journey into the infinite. That seed, lost far back in the past—no trace of it left, who knows into what soil it submerged, whither its particles scattered. Yet the tree at your door is a segment of that same seed’s endless pilgrimage. This tree will fall tomorrow and dissolve; then some seeds will take hold—and the journey will continue.
Persons come into being and pass away. The seed that is essential travels on. Yesterday I was not; today I am; tomorrow I shall not be. But the seed within me—the potential, the essential, the quintessence—was before me, is within me. When I depart, it will remain; its journey will go on. There is a continuity, a seamlessness, a flow. And this continuity has no beginning behind and no end ahead. No origin, no termination. Yet what appears to us is: I am! This "I am" is sheer delusion. I am not; even when I was not, That which is essential within me was. When I will not be, That will remain which is essential within me. I have been upon the edges of the beginningless; I shall be upon the edges of the infinite. This continuity, this continuum, this unbroken flow—this must be seen.
The first understanding of Advaita: the awareness and remembrance of continuity.
Do you remember that within you live your father, within your father his father, and within him his father—and all those distant ones with whom no relation seems visible, no thread seems left upon us—are all alive within us? All are accumulated within. The entire past, all that has gone by, is gathered in this moment, present here. And all that is to come, all that is to happen—the entire future—is present in this moment. It will manifest, blossom, become visible, enter the field of vision—but it is present now. The seed in your palm—does it not already contain the tree that will appear tomorrow? If it does not already exist, from where could it come? The difference can only be this much: today it is not visible, tomorrow it will be seen. But there is no difference in presence. The whole past is present in the moment; the whole future is present in the moment. Neither past nor future has any boundary. In this endless torrent we are a part, a single wave.
First remembrance: of continuity. In time—of time’s continuity, of time’s infinitude. This first glimpse lifts one toward Advaita. Otherwise not. Merely sitting and repeating "I am Brahman, I am Brahman" will not lift you. Repetition has nothing to do with it. What is needed is a living remembrance: this continuity is. In this continuity I am as well; when I was not, it was; when I will not be, it will be. For nothing is destroyed, nothing is born, nothing truly new is made, nothing truly old decays. There is Life—and the infinite transformations of Being.
From the perspective of time, the awareness of continuity—this is one dimension of Advaita.
From the perspective of space, the awareness of expanse—this is the second dimension of Advaita.
Time stretches behind and ahead—one direction. Space—field, expanse—spreads to all sides, and keeps expanding and expanding. It has no boundary. We too are a part of this expanding vastness; I am not separate from this expanse. But it is difficult to see that I am related even to that star millions upon millions of miles away. It is hard to conceive that the star unknown to me is a part of my breath. Yet consider: morning comes, the sun rises, and a bud in your garden opens—can you say there is no relation between that bud and the sun? Are they not parts of one greater Whole, one grand unity? The sun rises—and the small bud in your garden bursts into blossom. The sun is so far away. Light from the sun takes ten minutes to reach the earth. And a sunbeam travels at 186,000 miles in a second. In ten minutes it arrives.
That distant sun—its beams, its very being—are interrelated with the being of the small flower in your garden. They are not separate facts. The flower could not be if the sun were not. And who knows—if this flower were not, the sun too could not be. Who can say? For if the flower depends upon the sun, it is impossible that the sun does not in some way depend upon the flower. Where there is dependence, there is always mutual dependence. Two things cannot be such that one depends and the other does not. Impossible. That blade of grass standing there—by its being the sun is; by the sun’s being the grass is. Through both of their being, all else is.
We understand the sun; it is close enough; the flower seems related. But there are infinite suns in infinite vastness—surely they are related to us. There is no reason, no possibility that they are not. For whatever in this existence is unconnected—cannot be. But from the surface we do not see. Our eyes are dull; they do not see deep. So we fail to see our connectedness.
What do scientists say? They say that two billion years ago a great sun passed close to this sun. Its passing so near stirred such a tumult in the life of our sun, caused such upheaval and explosion, that drawn by the other’s pull, bits of this sun broke off and scattered. One of those fragments became the earth. Had that great sun not passed near our sun two billion years ago, you could not be in Rajkot—and I too could not be here—because the earth would not have been.
That sun which passed by then—because of its presence, fragments of this one were torn away. Earth took shape, oceans formed, grass arose upon the land, birds and beasts came, human beings appeared, Rajkot was settled, you are here, I have come. I have a link with that sun of two billion years ago—and so do you. If it had not passed, none of this would be.
Life is linked with the infinite. Today we do not know—tomorrow another great sun may pass by this one, and our sun may shatter; in that instant we all are finished. We will be nowhere.
Scientists say that within four thousand years the sun will gradually cool. Day by day it is losing heat, cooling. After four thousand years, suddenly it will be cold. No more light will issue, no more radiance will be born. Then the flower in your garden will not blossom. Then there will be no morning in your village. No morning—and you will not awaken. For without the sun there is no life. We are linked to the sun.
Where do I begin, where do I end? This body I call mine—every particle of it has been part of countless bodies. How can I call it mine? A piece of my body was, only yesterday, part of a blade of grass. A cow ate it; it became the cow’s blood and milk. Today it is part of my body. Tomorrow it will leave me. Who can say I am not linked to the cow? Who can say I am not linked to the grass? How? How can we say we are not integrated? Where are we separate? A small change—and the whole world is affected. A slight shift, a single event—and the entire story of the world becomes different. So connected are we.
Perhaps this very morning you sneezed in your hut—and the history of the world is now other than it would have been had you not sneezed. You ask: what connection could there be? A poor man sneezes in his hut—what has the world to do with it? Yet that event is as great as a great sun passing by. No event is small, none great. Small seems so because we cannot see the implications, the vast ripples. Great seems so because those ripples are visible to us.
Napoleon, as a child, six months old, lay in his cradle; a wild cat climbed upon his chest. The maid came running and drove the cat away. But in the breath of that six-month-old, a fear of cats entered forever. Later Napoleon became so brave—he could fight lions, grapple with death. But at the sight of a cat, his limbs would go limp. In the battle in which Napoleon lost—perhaps you do not know—his enemy Nelson tied seventy cats on the battlefield. Napoleon saw the cats; his hands and feet lost their strength. It was his first defeat; he was defeated that day. At night he told his friends: "Nelson is mistaken; he thinks I was defeated because of him. I lost because of the cats! Their presence scattered my senses. Over them I have no control." Napoleon lost; history became different. Had he won, history would be otherwise. Had that cat not climbed onto his chest, the world would be different.
A tiny difference—and the whole world changes; because all is joined.
A man drives hurriedly; the car before him breaks down at a crossing and he is delayed five minutes. He reaches where he was going five minutes late. The world is now different; it cannot be what it would have been had he arrived five minutes earlier. What might happen? Perhaps he reaches the building, steps into the lift, meets a girl; he falls in love; they marry; children are born; among them a Mahavira is born, a Buddha is born—and the world is different. Had he not been delayed by traffic, he would not have met her in that lift; the world would be other.
Every small particle, every tiny event, is joined across the whole vastness. The awareness of this joining, of this integrity; in time the awareness of continuity; in space the awareness of interrelatedness—this is the second step toward Advaita.
We do not know what may happen when. I am speaking here; what one word of mine might do within your being—nothing can be said. If one word enters your ear, you are no longer the same person; I am related to you; at some level we have become one; at some center our breaths have established a new communion.
Every moment we are linked with ever greater wholes, exchanging with them—whether we know it or not.
I was once a teacher at a university. Before the great building stood about twenty gulmohar saplings. Nineteen were dried, I never saw leaves upon them. One was green, with foliage; I would park my car beneath it and go in to teach. I parked there because it was green, offered shade. Gradually a rumor spread in the university that the tree was green because I parked my car there. The principal said to me: "There is a great wonder—do you know? People say your parking keeps that tree green." I said: "They must be joking. I park there because it is green, offers shade. Since I began, that space remains empty for me; others do not park there, keeping it for me. Slowly it became my spot; I formed a bond with that tree. But to say it is green because I park there is difficult to accept. That it is green is why I park."
Then I left that university. Three months later I returned for a talk. The principal said: "Come with me." He took me outside. I saw—the tree had dried up. He said: "Now tell me—what happened? Since you stopped parking there, it began to wither."
I could not grasp it. I said: "So far I had thought I park because the tree is green. This other side does not fit my mind—that the tree is green because I park. It must be coincidence." Yet tears did come to my eyes. Who knows—life is so mysterious—that the tree might indeed have withered for that reason? For the first time it dawned upon me that the tree could be a part of me. It may have been coincidence.
In America there was a scientist, Luther Burbank. He worked for seven years on a desert plant, the cactus, whose branches and leaves are nothing but thorns. News spread all over America that Burbank had gone mad. He was a Nobel laureate—his brain must have turned. Day and night he labored with one plant—labor that could hardly succeed. Even his wife told him she suspected his mind was failing.
He persisted for seven years. He said: "Because the plant has life—and I too have life—there must be some subtle way my life is related to the plant’s life. If related, then some communication, some conversation, must be possible."
If a mystic or a poet said this, fine. But that a Nobel laureate scientist of Burbank’s stature should say it—hard to accept. Can one be related to a plant?
Every morning and evening Burbank would say to the plant: "Beloved plant, give me once a single proof that my message reaches you—let there arise in you one branch without thorns." But such a branch had never existed; could not exist. Seven years of effort. Burbank must have been a singular man; he continued—and one morning his hope was fulfilled. From that thorn-filled plant a branch emerged without thorns.
To call it coincidence is hard. Did the plant hear Burbank’s word? Did the message reach the life of the plant—that I must answer this man who for seven years has stood at my door with love and prayer? That I must respond? From the plant a branch appeared. Millions came to see it. It was a miracle. Yet perhaps there was no miracle—only that we do not yet know how we are related.
Life is related—interrelated—integrated. The stone upon the path, the bird in the sky, the distant star, and I, and you—within us all runs an inner current of life, an electricity of being that flows through and connects us all. We are all its parts. This awareness, this remembrance, is the essential groundwork for Advaita. Reading scriptures will do nothing; repeating learned formulas will do nothing. One must search out these truths of life, these meanings. One must lift the veils upon life’s miracles. Then perhaps you will see: all is joined; for without joining, how could anything be?
A leaf upon a tree trembles in the sky; beneath it hundreds of leaves on the same tree tremble. But does that leaf know that the other leaves are connected to it? No. It sways in its own delight; the others sway in theirs. They seem utterly separate. It has its own personality; they theirs. Where is the connection? Who could accept they are linked? One leaf dries and falls; another remains green. How can the green leaf accept that it was connected to the one that fell? It is fresh and young. How can it accept that when the wind blows sometimes it sways while another does not? If we were connected, we would move together. If we were connected, we would die together. That leaf will argue: How are we connected? How can we accept such illogic, such unreason, that we are linked? The leaf will not agree.
But we know well: one leaf is young, another old; one is just unfolding; one is near to withering; one grows on the topmost branch in full light; another is hidden below. Yet we know they are connected; they belong to one tree. Behind them are branches, behind branches the trunk, behind the trunk the roots within the earth. All are connected, joined. But the leaves do not know. The leaves live in duality. If they come to know, they will enter Advaita.
Man too lives in duality: How can I accept that I and you are one? I am dark, you are fair; I am Hindu, you are Muslim; I am a child or old, you are young—how can we be joined? I will die, you will live—how can we be connected? The leaf’s reasoning is ours. Because we appear different, how can we be one?
To be different, it is not necessary to be unconnected. We can be connected and still be distinct. Connection does not destroy our personality; in myriad ways it nourishes it. And if we admit that leaves on one tree are connected—fine. We may accept that. But the leaves on another tree—are they not separate? Go a little deeper—you will find they too are joined. For the roots of this tree are connected to the earth; the roots of that tree are also in the earth; both draw from the same ground. How then can they be utterly separate? How can there be absolute difference?
Where does our inquiry lead—toward separateness or toward Abheda? Ordinarily we move toward separateness; we live in it. And on what center does this separateness stand? Its center is called ego—ahamkar.
To enter Abheda, the ego must be dissolved; without that, no one can enter. Our proclamation "I am" is so intense that we cannot sense how we are joined to all. If I come to know I am joined to all, there will be nowhere left for my "I" to stand. My "I" will have to vanish, to break, to scatter. So I keep my eyes closed lest I see the joins—and my ego remain safe. We all have an ego.
One morning a mosquito, humming his song around an elephant, entered the elephant’s ear. The place seemed very clean and well kept—like a large mansion. He thought: I have lived needlessly in huts; I shall dwell here. But out of courtesy he felt he must inform the elephant. With the loudest voice he could muster he cried: "Listen, sir! I, a former minister of the mosquito kingdom, lived twenty years in Delhi, and now I wish to reside in this mansion—just to inform you! I must let you know. In the last election I lost, so I took sannyas. My name now is Swami Machchharananda—Jagadguru! And now I lead the Cow Movement. You must have seen my picture in the papers; the whole world knows me well. It is your good fortune that I have chosen your ear as my residence."
But the elephant heard nothing. He did not even know a mosquito had spoken, or that a mosquito had taken up residence in his ear. The mosquito had a few disciples. They said: "This elephant is dull-witted; he hears nothing. And not only elephants—everyone is dull-witted except mosquitoes. I even went to the cow for whom you went to jail and for whom you are leading such a movement; that very cow laughed and said: There must be some political stunt in this, some manipulative trick; what have mosquitoes to do with cows? She cares nothing for us—while we are ready to die for her. And you shout to this elephant—he hears nothing."
The mosquito made his home in that mansion. Years passed; his countless progeny were born and went off to explore the world. Three years later the season changed; exile from Delhi ended; his time incognito was over. The mosquito got an opportunity to return to Delhi. He said to the elephant: "Listen, you son of an elephant! We are leaving this house now." He beat upon the ear as loudly as he could, called ten or twenty-five mosquitoes to make a racket. With such commotion, the elephant faintly sensed some disturbance. He asked: "What is it, brother? Speak a little louder." The mosquito said: "We are vacating this house. Three years ago we moved in; three years we lived here. Your great good fortune that I, Machchharananda—ex-MP, ex-minister—resided here! I must inform you. What do you think? I am leaving now."
The elephant said: "Sir, go in peace. You are as interesting and significant to me in your going as you were when you came. I had no idea when you came; I will have no idea when you go. Go peacefully, great one."
What madness is this mosquito’s? And what madness is man’s? We keep proclaiming our ego: I, I am so-and-so! Do you know who I am!
Neither moon and stars hear, nor the sky; neither animals and birds, nor plants; neither butterflies nor stones upon the way—no one hears. And we keep shouting: Do you know who I am? No one in the whole universe hears; there is no meaning, no purpose. Whom do we convince? For whom do we cry out?
All of man’s juice is in one thing: that he may proclaim who he is. I am this! I am that! Shouting himself hoarse, growing miserable, troubled, he carves his name upon stone so that if he perishes, at least his name may remain. Little children sign their names upon sand; returning in the morning they see the wind has moved the sand, the water has washed it away; all names wiped clean. Old people laugh at children: "Fools! You sign upon sand—how will it remain? One should carve upon hard rock. One should place a stone in a temple." So say the elders. The only difference between children and elders is this much. But the elders do not know that what they call rock was once sand—and will become sand again.
Children work upon a softer medium; elders upon a harder one. But there is no difference in wisdom—no real distinction. Children play with cheap toys; elders with expensive toys. But in childishness there is no difference.
Whoever is full of ego—his intelligence is childish, immature. He has no sense of life—that the names written here have no abiding place; that the proclamations shouted here are heard by no one. This earth remains the same whether you come or go. The moon and stars remain the same—who stayed, who became a guest, who built a house, who did not build—no echo will resound anywhere in this vast universe, no mark will remain. Yet our whole endeavor revolves around one center—to prove my "I." We try to prove what is not, and refuse to see what is. Ego is untrue because it declares you a separate entity. Separateness is utterly untrue; nothing in this world is separate. Ego is untrue because it breaks you from what actually joins you; in truth you are joined, not broken.
What is your name? Look within and ask—is there any name? Have you ever searched whether you truly have a name? Each person is born nameless. Names are human inventions. No one truly has a name. Yet around these inventions we spend our whole life—we spend our breath, our energy; we lose joy, bliss, everything—in the race that our name be inscribed on stone, that even if we die the name should remain. We do not even ask: if I never truly had a name, what will there be to preserve?
A chakravarti emperor—one who has conquered the whole earth—is given a special privilege: to enter heaven and sign his name upon Mount Sumeru. Sumeru is the hardest medium in the universe, the firmest stone. Eons pass; it does not change. So men desire to become chakravartin for this privilege. One such man conquered the earth, came with band and fanfare to the gates of heaven, and ordered the guards: "Make way! I have become a chakravarti; now I will sign my name."
The guard laughed: "Man is truly mad! He runs his whole life to sign his name upon Sumeru—for this alone! Still, welcome. I am here for this. But you must go in alone. The bands and the army must remain outside."
The emperor was disappointed. There is no joy in signing alone; the joy is in doing it before all. The bigger the crowd, the more the delight. Alone, the life of the ego ebbs away—because it is utterly false. Go alone to look—it cannot be found. It is public opinion, a rumor; nothing more.
The emperor felt dejected. The guard said: "Do not be disheartened. When you return, you will understand how wise my counsel was—to leave the crowd outside. For now, please go in." The king went in alone with chisel and hammer. A vast mountain—its ranges without discernible beginning or end. As he approached, the guard said: "Sir, a request. The mountain is full; there is no space to sign. You must first erase some names, then sign. Many have become chakravartis and signed; the mountain is completely filled. There is no blank space where you can simply inscribe your signature. So first wipe away a few names, then write."
The emperor said: "What are you saying? I thought I had done something unique. Has this endless mountain already filled with signatures? So many chakravartis? No space left?"
The guard said: "My father was a guard here, and his father, and his father; I have always heard the same: whenever a chakravarti comes, space must be cleared. It has never been empty. It is not that it has just now filled; it has always been full. Such an endless time has passed—no wonder it is full. Erase, for that is the only way."
The emperor said: "Then signing is useless. I thought I was unique. If I must erase another’s name—and who knows if tomorrow someone will erase mine and write his—what is the point? Who reads these signatures?"
The guard said: "Sir, the truth is that a man himself reads his own signature—no one else reads it. Read it yourself and savor the joy. Another has no relish for your signature. So write, read, and go happy—for there is no other way."
The emperor returned without writing. On the way out, he thanked the guard: "Good that you kept my crowd outside. Had they seen this state, my whole prestige would have collapsed." The guard said: "For this very reason God made the rule—come alone; do not bring the crowd. If the crowd were to know, it would be a great disgrace."
Yet we are all engaged in this very attempt. What is the essence of our life’s effort? To write my name. This effort of name, this ego—how will it allow movement toward Advaita?
So I have told you three things. Two are these: first, the awareness of continuity; second, the awareness of the unity, the togetherness, the interrelatedness of all. And third, bid farewell to the ego—fold your hands to it and say: Forgive me, have compassion on me. You are utterly false, without substance. I do not wish to waste my life around you—forgive me.
In the life and consciousness of one for whom these three become clear—Advaita becomes available. This third sutra is such that where its door opens, the person becomes what we call Brahman. There he discovers: Aham Brahmasmi. There he knows: I am Brahman; all is Brahman; all is one; nowhere any difference, nowhere any division.
Life is an endless continuity, a connectedness. And the taste of this life is the taste of Amrit. Persons die; the connected life is deathless. Individuals vanish; the interrelated life has no way to vanish. Drops appear and disperse; the ocean remains. Existence is eternal. Lines are drawn and wiped away. Trees grow and fall; the seed is immortal. Therefore Brahman is immortal, the Self is immortal. Ego is mortal; Atman is immortal.
Do not even by mistake think that you are immortal. So long as you are, there is death; the day you are not, there is Amrit. Advaita is the attainment of Amrit—of eternal life—of Brahman.
If anything arises to ask regarding this sutra, in the evening we will speak of it.
I am deeply obliged by the love and silence with which you have listened. Lastly, I bow to the Paramatman seated in all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
On the first day we had contemplated the first sutra—on wonder, on being awestruck. Yesterday we spoke of the second sutra—on being suffused with bliss. And today, the third sutra: Abheda, or Advaita.
For the one whose inner ground begins in wonder, and who passes through the realm of joy, entry into the world of nonduality happens naturally. But one who has paid no heed to the first two sutras may find this third difficult to understand.
A man once caught a bird—an old bird—in a forest. The old bird said: "I am of no use to you. This body is worn and withered, my life is nearing its end. I can no longer sing, there is no sweetness left in my voice. What will you do by holding me captive? But if you are willing to release me, I can give you three sutras for life."
The man said: "What guarantee is there that if I release you, you will tell me those sutras?"
The bird said: "The first sutra I will tell you right here, while still in your hand. If you find it a fair bargain, then release me. The second sutra I will tell you seated on that tree. And the third sutra, only when I am flying high in the sky."
It was indeed an old bird. Truly, there was no sweetness left in its voice; it could not be sold in the marketplace. Its days too were almost over—there was no need to keep it.
The hunter said to the bird: "All right. I accept your condition. Give me the first counsel, the first advice, the first sutra."
The bird said: "In life I have seen those people suffer who do not forget the past. And I have seen those filled with joy who let the past go and live in what is present. This is the first sutra."
The point was of value and substance. The man released the bird. It sat upon a tree. The man asked: "And the second sutra?"
The bird said: "The second is this: Never believe what is against reason, against thought, against the rules of common sense. To believe the irrational is to go astray."
The bird took flight into the sky. While flying it said: "Let me tell you something in passing. This is not the third sutra—just a piece of news for you. You have made a great mistake in letting me go; there were two precious diamonds in my body. Had you killed me, you would have been a multimillionaire today."
The man at once fell into gloom. He became anxious. But the bird had flown far. With a downcast, defeated, agitated mind he said: "Well, no matter. At least give me the third counsel."
The bird said: "There is no need now to give the third counsel; you did not act upon the first two. I had told you: the one who forgets what is past is joyful. Yet you remember that you had caught me and let me go—what is over is over, and you grieve over it. I had told you the second sutra: never accept what is against reason. You accepted that diamonds could be in a bird’s body, and you grieve for it. Forgive me, I am not willing to give you the third. For when the first two have not been considered or practiced, the third too will fall into unworthy hands; it will be of no use."
Therefore my first word is this: only if the previous two sutras have been pondered, if they have found a place somewhere in the breath of your being, can the third be understood. Otherwise the third sutra will seem utterly impenetrable. I cannot be harsh like that bird and refuse to tell it. I will tell the third. But whether it will reach you or not—I do not know. It may reach you if the first two have reached; it unfolds gently along their path. And if two steps are missing, the third step becomes very puzzling; to grasp and to recognize it becomes difficult; it begins to appear mysterious.
The third sutra is: Advaita—Abheda.
What is the meaning of Abheda? Of Advaita? It is the last step in the attainment of the Lord. So it must be understood very subtly, with great delicacy of attention.
What is the meaning of Advaita?
In 1857, in the days of the uprising, a sannyasi was caught at night in a British cantonment. They supposed he was a spy come to reconnoiter in the dark. When he was asked, "Who are you?" he said nothing. Then it was taken as certain: he must be a spy trying to conceal himself. But that sannyasi had been silent for fifteen years. He was no one’s spy; he had nothing to do with anyone. He did not speak—not because he would not—but because he had been silent for fifteen years. The British commandant thought he was trying to deceive, to play tricks. He gave the order that a spear be thrust into his chest at once.
A soldier plunged a spear into his chest; fountains of blood burst forth. The sannyasi began to laugh and said: "Tat tvam asi! Thou art That!"
People asked: "What are you saying? And why were you silent for so long?"
He said: "I have been silent for fifteen years, and I had resolved that I would speak only on that day when I see no difference between myself and the other. Today that hour has come. I used to think: if in the moment of death difference appears, there can be no test of nondifference. When this soldier thrust the spear into my chest, I watched closely: do I see myself within this soldier or not? If I do, life is fulfilled; if I do not, I have failed. And when the spear was plunged into me, I was astonished! I saw that I am the one who is being killed—and I am the one who is killing. So now the final word: Tat tvam asi! Thou art That! You too are That! I too am That!" Saying this, he died.
Advaita means: no boundary remains between me and the Whole, no wall remains. Where I end and where that which is other-than-me begins—no trace remains. Let me end nowhere, and let no "other" begin anywhere. Let there be only an expanse—and the whole expanse be interrelated with the breath of my being. Let the circumference of the universe be upon the point of my life. If I am the center, then let the whole cosmos be my expansion. Between all that is—and my own being—let there be no interval, no gap, no emptiness. That tuning, that accord, that harmony, that music—where my note and the notes of life have become one—the name of that state is Advaita; the name of that feeling-state is Abheda. And that is the third sutra.
How is the remembrance of this to arise? How do we enter this direction? For this is the truth. Difference is untrue, imagined; duality is thought, supposed. There is no duality as a known fact in existence. Duality is only assumed. Multiplicity and difference are only imagination. But how is it to be seen that this whole life, this whole existence, is one composition, an integrated whole, a unified consciousness? How is this to be recognized? How is this fact to surface as remembrance—that all is one and there is no difference here?
A man goes to the edge of a lake and throws a stone into it. A small circle rises, a little ripple quivers; then it grows and grows and begins to travel outward toward distant, endless shores. One, two, three—and then millions of ripples are born and keep expanding. When that ripple reaches the far shore of the vast ocean, how much time will have passed since the stone fell that raised the first ripple? And who will be able to think that that ripple is related to that very stone? Who could remember? Who could bring to mind that the same circle, the same tremble that once was for a moment—who knows in what moment of eternity—has journeyed to that distant edge? We do not take it into account. We do not remember.
We too are ripples risen upon the lake of the infinite. And the ripple before us, and before that, and before that—we are interwoven and interconnected with all of them.
A seed is born, then becomes a tree, and then the tree bears thousands of seeds. Those thousands fall upon the earth; sprouts emerge; trees arise; again thousands of seeds appear. Who will say that the tree born a thousand years later is related to that first seed? Who will remember? They are not separate; they are the same seed’s journey into the infinite. That seed, lost far back in the past—no trace of it left, who knows into what soil it submerged, whither its particles scattered. Yet the tree at your door is a segment of that same seed’s endless pilgrimage. This tree will fall tomorrow and dissolve; then some seeds will take hold—and the journey will continue.
Persons come into being and pass away. The seed that is essential travels on. Yesterday I was not; today I am; tomorrow I shall not be. But the seed within me—the potential, the essential, the quintessence—was before me, is within me. When I depart, it will remain; its journey will go on. There is a continuity, a seamlessness, a flow. And this continuity has no beginning behind and no end ahead. No origin, no termination. Yet what appears to us is: I am! This "I am" is sheer delusion. I am not; even when I was not, That which is essential within me was. When I will not be, That will remain which is essential within me. I have been upon the edges of the beginningless; I shall be upon the edges of the infinite. This continuity, this continuum, this unbroken flow—this must be seen.
The first understanding of Advaita: the awareness and remembrance of continuity.
Do you remember that within you live your father, within your father his father, and within him his father—and all those distant ones with whom no relation seems visible, no thread seems left upon us—are all alive within us? All are accumulated within. The entire past, all that has gone by, is gathered in this moment, present here. And all that is to come, all that is to happen—the entire future—is present in this moment. It will manifest, blossom, become visible, enter the field of vision—but it is present now. The seed in your palm—does it not already contain the tree that will appear tomorrow? If it does not already exist, from where could it come? The difference can only be this much: today it is not visible, tomorrow it will be seen. But there is no difference in presence. The whole past is present in the moment; the whole future is present in the moment. Neither past nor future has any boundary. In this endless torrent we are a part, a single wave.
First remembrance: of continuity. In time—of time’s continuity, of time’s infinitude. This first glimpse lifts one toward Advaita. Otherwise not. Merely sitting and repeating "I am Brahman, I am Brahman" will not lift you. Repetition has nothing to do with it. What is needed is a living remembrance: this continuity is. In this continuity I am as well; when I was not, it was; when I will not be, it will be. For nothing is destroyed, nothing is born, nothing truly new is made, nothing truly old decays. There is Life—and the infinite transformations of Being.
From the perspective of time, the awareness of continuity—this is one dimension of Advaita.
From the perspective of space, the awareness of expanse—this is the second dimension of Advaita.
Time stretches behind and ahead—one direction. Space—field, expanse—spreads to all sides, and keeps expanding and expanding. It has no boundary. We too are a part of this expanding vastness; I am not separate from this expanse. But it is difficult to see that I am related even to that star millions upon millions of miles away. It is hard to conceive that the star unknown to me is a part of my breath. Yet consider: morning comes, the sun rises, and a bud in your garden opens—can you say there is no relation between that bud and the sun? Are they not parts of one greater Whole, one grand unity? The sun rises—and the small bud in your garden bursts into blossom. The sun is so far away. Light from the sun takes ten minutes to reach the earth. And a sunbeam travels at 186,000 miles in a second. In ten minutes it arrives.
That distant sun—its beams, its very being—are interrelated with the being of the small flower in your garden. They are not separate facts. The flower could not be if the sun were not. And who knows—if this flower were not, the sun too could not be. Who can say? For if the flower depends upon the sun, it is impossible that the sun does not in some way depend upon the flower. Where there is dependence, there is always mutual dependence. Two things cannot be such that one depends and the other does not. Impossible. That blade of grass standing there—by its being the sun is; by the sun’s being the grass is. Through both of their being, all else is.
We understand the sun; it is close enough; the flower seems related. But there are infinite suns in infinite vastness—surely they are related to us. There is no reason, no possibility that they are not. For whatever in this existence is unconnected—cannot be. But from the surface we do not see. Our eyes are dull; they do not see deep. So we fail to see our connectedness.
What do scientists say? They say that two billion years ago a great sun passed close to this sun. Its passing so near stirred such a tumult in the life of our sun, caused such upheaval and explosion, that drawn by the other’s pull, bits of this sun broke off and scattered. One of those fragments became the earth. Had that great sun not passed near our sun two billion years ago, you could not be in Rajkot—and I too could not be here—because the earth would not have been.
That sun which passed by then—because of its presence, fragments of this one were torn away. Earth took shape, oceans formed, grass arose upon the land, birds and beasts came, human beings appeared, Rajkot was settled, you are here, I have come. I have a link with that sun of two billion years ago—and so do you. If it had not passed, none of this would be.
Life is linked with the infinite. Today we do not know—tomorrow another great sun may pass by this one, and our sun may shatter; in that instant we all are finished. We will be nowhere.
Scientists say that within four thousand years the sun will gradually cool. Day by day it is losing heat, cooling. After four thousand years, suddenly it will be cold. No more light will issue, no more radiance will be born. Then the flower in your garden will not blossom. Then there will be no morning in your village. No morning—and you will not awaken. For without the sun there is no life. We are linked to the sun.
Where do I begin, where do I end? This body I call mine—every particle of it has been part of countless bodies. How can I call it mine? A piece of my body was, only yesterday, part of a blade of grass. A cow ate it; it became the cow’s blood and milk. Today it is part of my body. Tomorrow it will leave me. Who can say I am not linked to the cow? Who can say I am not linked to the grass? How? How can we say we are not integrated? Where are we separate? A small change—and the whole world is affected. A slight shift, a single event—and the entire story of the world becomes different. So connected are we.
Perhaps this very morning you sneezed in your hut—and the history of the world is now other than it would have been had you not sneezed. You ask: what connection could there be? A poor man sneezes in his hut—what has the world to do with it? Yet that event is as great as a great sun passing by. No event is small, none great. Small seems so because we cannot see the implications, the vast ripples. Great seems so because those ripples are visible to us.
Napoleon, as a child, six months old, lay in his cradle; a wild cat climbed upon his chest. The maid came running and drove the cat away. But in the breath of that six-month-old, a fear of cats entered forever. Later Napoleon became so brave—he could fight lions, grapple with death. But at the sight of a cat, his limbs would go limp. In the battle in which Napoleon lost—perhaps you do not know—his enemy Nelson tied seventy cats on the battlefield. Napoleon saw the cats; his hands and feet lost their strength. It was his first defeat; he was defeated that day. At night he told his friends: "Nelson is mistaken; he thinks I was defeated because of him. I lost because of the cats! Their presence scattered my senses. Over them I have no control." Napoleon lost; history became different. Had he won, history would be otherwise. Had that cat not climbed onto his chest, the world would be different.
A tiny difference—and the whole world changes; because all is joined.
A man drives hurriedly; the car before him breaks down at a crossing and he is delayed five minutes. He reaches where he was going five minutes late. The world is now different; it cannot be what it would have been had he arrived five minutes earlier. What might happen? Perhaps he reaches the building, steps into the lift, meets a girl; he falls in love; they marry; children are born; among them a Mahavira is born, a Buddha is born—and the world is different. Had he not been delayed by traffic, he would not have met her in that lift; the world would be other.
Every small particle, every tiny event, is joined across the whole vastness. The awareness of this joining, of this integrity; in time the awareness of continuity; in space the awareness of interrelatedness—this is the second step toward Advaita.
We do not know what may happen when. I am speaking here; what one word of mine might do within your being—nothing can be said. If one word enters your ear, you are no longer the same person; I am related to you; at some level we have become one; at some center our breaths have established a new communion.
Every moment we are linked with ever greater wholes, exchanging with them—whether we know it or not.
I was once a teacher at a university. Before the great building stood about twenty gulmohar saplings. Nineteen were dried, I never saw leaves upon them. One was green, with foliage; I would park my car beneath it and go in to teach. I parked there because it was green, offered shade. Gradually a rumor spread in the university that the tree was green because I parked my car there. The principal said to me: "There is a great wonder—do you know? People say your parking keeps that tree green." I said: "They must be joking. I park there because it is green, offers shade. Since I began, that space remains empty for me; others do not park there, keeping it for me. Slowly it became my spot; I formed a bond with that tree. But to say it is green because I park there is difficult to accept. That it is green is why I park."
Then I left that university. Three months later I returned for a talk. The principal said: "Come with me." He took me outside. I saw—the tree had dried up. He said: "Now tell me—what happened? Since you stopped parking there, it began to wither."
I could not grasp it. I said: "So far I had thought I park because the tree is green. This other side does not fit my mind—that the tree is green because I park. It must be coincidence." Yet tears did come to my eyes. Who knows—life is so mysterious—that the tree might indeed have withered for that reason? For the first time it dawned upon me that the tree could be a part of me. It may have been coincidence.
In America there was a scientist, Luther Burbank. He worked for seven years on a desert plant, the cactus, whose branches and leaves are nothing but thorns. News spread all over America that Burbank had gone mad. He was a Nobel laureate—his brain must have turned. Day and night he labored with one plant—labor that could hardly succeed. Even his wife told him she suspected his mind was failing.
He persisted for seven years. He said: "Because the plant has life—and I too have life—there must be some subtle way my life is related to the plant’s life. If related, then some communication, some conversation, must be possible."
If a mystic or a poet said this, fine. But that a Nobel laureate scientist of Burbank’s stature should say it—hard to accept. Can one be related to a plant?
Every morning and evening Burbank would say to the plant: "Beloved plant, give me once a single proof that my message reaches you—let there arise in you one branch without thorns." But such a branch had never existed; could not exist. Seven years of effort. Burbank must have been a singular man; he continued—and one morning his hope was fulfilled. From that thorn-filled plant a branch emerged without thorns.
To call it coincidence is hard. Did the plant hear Burbank’s word? Did the message reach the life of the plant—that I must answer this man who for seven years has stood at my door with love and prayer? That I must respond? From the plant a branch appeared. Millions came to see it. It was a miracle. Yet perhaps there was no miracle—only that we do not yet know how we are related.
Life is related—interrelated—integrated. The stone upon the path, the bird in the sky, the distant star, and I, and you—within us all runs an inner current of life, an electricity of being that flows through and connects us all. We are all its parts. This awareness, this remembrance, is the essential groundwork for Advaita. Reading scriptures will do nothing; repeating learned formulas will do nothing. One must search out these truths of life, these meanings. One must lift the veils upon life’s miracles. Then perhaps you will see: all is joined; for without joining, how could anything be?
A leaf upon a tree trembles in the sky; beneath it hundreds of leaves on the same tree tremble. But does that leaf know that the other leaves are connected to it? No. It sways in its own delight; the others sway in theirs. They seem utterly separate. It has its own personality; they theirs. Where is the connection? Who could accept they are linked? One leaf dries and falls; another remains green. How can the green leaf accept that it was connected to the one that fell? It is fresh and young. How can it accept that when the wind blows sometimes it sways while another does not? If we were connected, we would move together. If we were connected, we would die together. That leaf will argue: How are we connected? How can we accept such illogic, such unreason, that we are linked? The leaf will not agree.
But we know well: one leaf is young, another old; one is just unfolding; one is near to withering; one grows on the topmost branch in full light; another is hidden below. Yet we know they are connected; they belong to one tree. Behind them are branches, behind branches the trunk, behind the trunk the roots within the earth. All are connected, joined. But the leaves do not know. The leaves live in duality. If they come to know, they will enter Advaita.
Man too lives in duality: How can I accept that I and you are one? I am dark, you are fair; I am Hindu, you are Muslim; I am a child or old, you are young—how can we be joined? I will die, you will live—how can we be connected? The leaf’s reasoning is ours. Because we appear different, how can we be one?
To be different, it is not necessary to be unconnected. We can be connected and still be distinct. Connection does not destroy our personality; in myriad ways it nourishes it. And if we admit that leaves on one tree are connected—fine. We may accept that. But the leaves on another tree—are they not separate? Go a little deeper—you will find they too are joined. For the roots of this tree are connected to the earth; the roots of that tree are also in the earth; both draw from the same ground. How then can they be utterly separate? How can there be absolute difference?
Where does our inquiry lead—toward separateness or toward Abheda? Ordinarily we move toward separateness; we live in it. And on what center does this separateness stand? Its center is called ego—ahamkar.
To enter Abheda, the ego must be dissolved; without that, no one can enter. Our proclamation "I am" is so intense that we cannot sense how we are joined to all. If I come to know I am joined to all, there will be nowhere left for my "I" to stand. My "I" will have to vanish, to break, to scatter. So I keep my eyes closed lest I see the joins—and my ego remain safe. We all have an ego.
One morning a mosquito, humming his song around an elephant, entered the elephant’s ear. The place seemed very clean and well kept—like a large mansion. He thought: I have lived needlessly in huts; I shall dwell here. But out of courtesy he felt he must inform the elephant. With the loudest voice he could muster he cried: "Listen, sir! I, a former minister of the mosquito kingdom, lived twenty years in Delhi, and now I wish to reside in this mansion—just to inform you! I must let you know. In the last election I lost, so I took sannyas. My name now is Swami Machchharananda—Jagadguru! And now I lead the Cow Movement. You must have seen my picture in the papers; the whole world knows me well. It is your good fortune that I have chosen your ear as my residence."
But the elephant heard nothing. He did not even know a mosquito had spoken, or that a mosquito had taken up residence in his ear. The mosquito had a few disciples. They said: "This elephant is dull-witted; he hears nothing. And not only elephants—everyone is dull-witted except mosquitoes. I even went to the cow for whom you went to jail and for whom you are leading such a movement; that very cow laughed and said: There must be some political stunt in this, some manipulative trick; what have mosquitoes to do with cows? She cares nothing for us—while we are ready to die for her. And you shout to this elephant—he hears nothing."
The mosquito made his home in that mansion. Years passed; his countless progeny were born and went off to explore the world. Three years later the season changed; exile from Delhi ended; his time incognito was over. The mosquito got an opportunity to return to Delhi. He said to the elephant: "Listen, you son of an elephant! We are leaving this house now." He beat upon the ear as loudly as he could, called ten or twenty-five mosquitoes to make a racket. With such commotion, the elephant faintly sensed some disturbance. He asked: "What is it, brother? Speak a little louder." The mosquito said: "We are vacating this house. Three years ago we moved in; three years we lived here. Your great good fortune that I, Machchharananda—ex-MP, ex-minister—resided here! I must inform you. What do you think? I am leaving now."
The elephant said: "Sir, go in peace. You are as interesting and significant to me in your going as you were when you came. I had no idea when you came; I will have no idea when you go. Go peacefully, great one."
What madness is this mosquito’s? And what madness is man’s? We keep proclaiming our ego: I, I am so-and-so! Do you know who I am!
Neither moon and stars hear, nor the sky; neither animals and birds, nor plants; neither butterflies nor stones upon the way—no one hears. And we keep shouting: Do you know who I am? No one in the whole universe hears; there is no meaning, no purpose. Whom do we convince? For whom do we cry out?
All of man’s juice is in one thing: that he may proclaim who he is. I am this! I am that! Shouting himself hoarse, growing miserable, troubled, he carves his name upon stone so that if he perishes, at least his name may remain. Little children sign their names upon sand; returning in the morning they see the wind has moved the sand, the water has washed it away; all names wiped clean. Old people laugh at children: "Fools! You sign upon sand—how will it remain? One should carve upon hard rock. One should place a stone in a temple." So say the elders. The only difference between children and elders is this much. But the elders do not know that what they call rock was once sand—and will become sand again.
Children work upon a softer medium; elders upon a harder one. But there is no difference in wisdom—no real distinction. Children play with cheap toys; elders with expensive toys. But in childishness there is no difference.
Whoever is full of ego—his intelligence is childish, immature. He has no sense of life—that the names written here have no abiding place; that the proclamations shouted here are heard by no one. This earth remains the same whether you come or go. The moon and stars remain the same—who stayed, who became a guest, who built a house, who did not build—no echo will resound anywhere in this vast universe, no mark will remain. Yet our whole endeavor revolves around one center—to prove my "I." We try to prove what is not, and refuse to see what is. Ego is untrue because it declares you a separate entity. Separateness is utterly untrue; nothing in this world is separate. Ego is untrue because it breaks you from what actually joins you; in truth you are joined, not broken.
What is your name? Look within and ask—is there any name? Have you ever searched whether you truly have a name? Each person is born nameless. Names are human inventions. No one truly has a name. Yet around these inventions we spend our whole life—we spend our breath, our energy; we lose joy, bliss, everything—in the race that our name be inscribed on stone, that even if we die the name should remain. We do not even ask: if I never truly had a name, what will there be to preserve?
A chakravarti emperor—one who has conquered the whole earth—is given a special privilege: to enter heaven and sign his name upon Mount Sumeru. Sumeru is the hardest medium in the universe, the firmest stone. Eons pass; it does not change. So men desire to become chakravartin for this privilege. One such man conquered the earth, came with band and fanfare to the gates of heaven, and ordered the guards: "Make way! I have become a chakravarti; now I will sign my name."
The guard laughed: "Man is truly mad! He runs his whole life to sign his name upon Sumeru—for this alone! Still, welcome. I am here for this. But you must go in alone. The bands and the army must remain outside."
The emperor was disappointed. There is no joy in signing alone; the joy is in doing it before all. The bigger the crowd, the more the delight. Alone, the life of the ego ebbs away—because it is utterly false. Go alone to look—it cannot be found. It is public opinion, a rumor; nothing more.
The emperor felt dejected. The guard said: "Do not be disheartened. When you return, you will understand how wise my counsel was—to leave the crowd outside. For now, please go in." The king went in alone with chisel and hammer. A vast mountain—its ranges without discernible beginning or end. As he approached, the guard said: "Sir, a request. The mountain is full; there is no space to sign. You must first erase some names, then sign. Many have become chakravartis and signed; the mountain is completely filled. There is no blank space where you can simply inscribe your signature. So first wipe away a few names, then write."
The emperor said: "What are you saying? I thought I had done something unique. Has this endless mountain already filled with signatures? So many chakravartis? No space left?"
The guard said: "My father was a guard here, and his father, and his father; I have always heard the same: whenever a chakravarti comes, space must be cleared. It has never been empty. It is not that it has just now filled; it has always been full. Such an endless time has passed—no wonder it is full. Erase, for that is the only way."
The emperor said: "Then signing is useless. I thought I was unique. If I must erase another’s name—and who knows if tomorrow someone will erase mine and write his—what is the point? Who reads these signatures?"
The guard said: "Sir, the truth is that a man himself reads his own signature—no one else reads it. Read it yourself and savor the joy. Another has no relish for your signature. So write, read, and go happy—for there is no other way."
The emperor returned without writing. On the way out, he thanked the guard: "Good that you kept my crowd outside. Had they seen this state, my whole prestige would have collapsed." The guard said: "For this very reason God made the rule—come alone; do not bring the crowd. If the crowd were to know, it would be a great disgrace."
Yet we are all engaged in this very attempt. What is the essence of our life’s effort? To write my name. This effort of name, this ego—how will it allow movement toward Advaita?
So I have told you three things. Two are these: first, the awareness of continuity; second, the awareness of the unity, the togetherness, the interrelatedness of all. And third, bid farewell to the ego—fold your hands to it and say: Forgive me, have compassion on me. You are utterly false, without substance. I do not wish to waste my life around you—forgive me.
In the life and consciousness of one for whom these three become clear—Advaita becomes available. This third sutra is such that where its door opens, the person becomes what we call Brahman. There he discovers: Aham Brahmasmi. There he knows: I am Brahman; all is Brahman; all is one; nowhere any difference, nowhere any division.
Life is an endless continuity, a connectedness. And the taste of this life is the taste of Amrit. Persons die; the connected life is deathless. Individuals vanish; the interrelated life has no way to vanish. Drops appear and disperse; the ocean remains. Existence is eternal. Lines are drawn and wiped away. Trees grow and fall; the seed is immortal. Therefore Brahman is immortal, the Self is immortal. Ego is mortal; Atman is immortal.
Do not even by mistake think that you are immortal. So long as you are, there is death; the day you are not, there is Amrit. Advaita is the attainment of Amrit—of eternal life—of Brahman.
If anything arises to ask regarding this sutra, in the evening we will speak of it.
I am deeply obliged by the love and silence with which you have listened. Lastly, I bow to the Paramatman seated in all. Please accept my pranam.