My beloved Atman! Yoga’s eighth sutra. In the seventh sutra I told you: conscious life has two forms — self-conscious and self-unconscious. The eighth sutra is: Yoga begins with self-awareness, and ends in the dissolution of the self. To be self-aware is the path; to be free of the self is the goal. To be filled with alertness toward oneself is sadhana; and finally only alertness remains, the self is lost — that is siddhi. Those who do not know themselves remain backward; and those who get stuck in themselves also remain behind. Like someone who climbs a ladder and then stops on the ladder — the climbing becomes futile. The ladder must be climbed, and it must also be left. One walks on the path, but if one stops on the path, the destination is never reached. One must walk the path, and one must also leave the path — only then is the goal attained. The path can take you to the goal, but only if you are ready to leave the path. The path itself becomes a hindrance to the goal if you cling to it. To be filled with awareness toward oneself is a helper for the dissolution of the self. But if you grasp the self, then what was a helper becomes an obstacle. To understand this sutra is very — perhaps supremely — important. Our intense longing is to attain the self, but to lose the self is hard. That is why many seekers come up to the seventh sutra, but cannot enter the eighth. Up to the seventh, the ego meets with no obstruction. Up to the seventh, the journey is ego-centric. Therefore, up to the seventh sutra, if you tell the seeker: renounce wealth — he will renounce wealth. Renounce family — he will renounce family. Renounce fame, ambition, the throne — he will renounce everything. But behind all renunciation, the I goes on becoming stronger. He will be eager even in sadhana so that this I may be refined. He will practice so that “I” may become something. He will even seek Paramatma lest “I” be left without God. To reach the seventh is not really difficult. The real difficulty begins after the seventh — in understanding the eighth — because the eighth sutra is the sutra of losing the self, of dissolving the self. Up to the seventh, siddhis may come, powers may come. Up to the seventh, immense energy, vast power will be born. But union with Paramatma does not happen. Up to the seventh there is only meeting with oneself. Meeting oneself is no small thing; it is great — great from the perspective of the previous six sutras, but not great from the vision of the eighth. To find the self is difficult indeed. To fully know oneself is difficult indeed. But more difficult still is to lose oneself and dissolve. If a man is imprisoned, then the first condition for being free of the prison is to know that he is imprisoned. If he does not even know he is in prison, there is no way to get out. The first condition of freedom is to know: I am in prison. The second condition is to recognize the prison accurately: What is the prison? Where is the wall? Where is the door? Where is the passage? Where are the windows? Where are the bars? Where is the weak spot? From where can one get out? Where do the guards stand? The second sutra will be: to be fully acquainted with the prison, to be wholly conscious toward it. Only then can one be freed from it. In the profound personality of man, the self itself is the prison; the self, the I, the ego is the prison. It is no small prison — it is vast. It is filled with great energies, great treasures lie sunk within — but it is a prison. Beyond it is the boundless expanse of the Vast, where there is freedom, where there is liberation. At first we have no measure of our own self — how big it is, what it is. That discovery completes itself by the seventh sutra. And when its full measure is known, a danger arises — let me tell you that danger. He who passes beyond it will understand the eighth. As soon as one comes to know, “I am the owner of such wealth, of such jewels and treasures,” the prison no longer appears a prison; it seems a palace of an emperor. If even a convict discovers that the prison has buried treasures — so much gold, so much wealth — he may refuse to accept that this is a prison. “This is the palace of a king!” And perhaps those treasures alone may prevent him from leaving the prison. The guards might not have been able to stop him so much, nor the chains, nor the whole prison arrangement — but the treasures found within could stop him. The day we come to know our entire inner wealth, our entire bliss, our entire power, on that day there is danger that we forget: this self is a very small tract — a tiny piece of an infinite land. It is like someone filling a clay pot with water and letting it float in the ocean. The water inside the clay pot is oceanic, yes — but what comparison with the ocean outside! We too are clay pots. Much is within — and it is of the ocean, of Paramatma. But what of the outside? What comparison? One day this clay pot must be broken. This self, this I, this sense of “I am,” this ego — it encircles us. But the day we know the full glory of the self, that day the clay pot turns into a pot of gold. To break it then becomes very difficult. Thus very often the seeker gives birth to a strange kind of ego. The last barrier that stops one on the path of sadhana is precisely that spot where the I turns to gold, where one feels, “I am the owner of infinite vigor, infinite knowledge, infinite power.” This proclamation becomes the deep declaration of the inner I. Those who stop here stop at the seventh sutra. And stopping here is like a man who comes close to his destination and then stands at the door — the whole road traversed, and he halts outside the temple. It happens too. A man can walk thousands of miles, and when he comes near the goal, each step becomes difficult. While the goal was far, he ran; as he nears it, fatigue catches him. Often it has happened that people reached outside the temples and went off to rest. Many seekers get stuck at the seventh sutra. The eighth is a leap — a great leap. To attain oneself is not the great thing; to lose oneself is the great thing. Then the mind raises a question: Why lose oneself? If the self will not be, whatever remains — what is the use, what meaning will it have? If the self is not, what will be Moksha? What will be Paramatma? What will be Yoga? What will be Dharma? One can renounce for the sake of the self; but to be free from the self is very hard. Freedom for the self is easy; the mind desires, “May I be free, may I be liberated.” But freedom from the self — there the last blockage arises. The mind recoils before that final leap. But Yoga has ways by which even that ultimate leap can be completed. After the seventh sutra, when entering the eighth, the greatest inquiry begins: Who am I? This search begins. What am I — this much becomes known by the seventh. How far do I extend — that too is known by the seventh. But who am I — this does not become known by the seventh. Its very search becomes the eighth sutra — “Who am I?” And the deeper we search, the more we discover: even here there is no end to me; even here I am not — and yet I am, beyond and beyond. The quest goes on and all boundaries break; and finally it is known: whatever is — all of it is I. The day it is known that whatever is, is I — that day the “I” does not remain, for then there is no “you” outside anymore. If all is I, no “you” remains. During the uprising of 1857, a sannyasi was killed by British soldiers. He had been silent for thirty years. People had asked him, “Why this silence? Why be mute?” He said, “What I want to say cannot be said — words are incapable; and what I can say, I do not want to say — it would be futile. Hence I have become silent.” For thirty years he was naked, quiet, wandering. One night he was passing by a British camp; they seized him, thinking he was a spy. They asked much, “Who are you?” But whenever they asked, “Who are you?” he would laugh. He was vowed to silence; he could not answer. And who has ever answered the question “Who am I?” When the answer comes, the “I” is already lost; and as long as the “I” is there, the answer does not come. The riddle cannot be solved — it never will be. When the seeker ends, the answer is. Then the answer has no meaning. And while the seeker remains, the answer never comes — it cannot be given, for it is not found. He laughed, a peal of laughter. The more he laughed, the more the soldiers grew angry. In the end they thrust a bayonet into his chest. They thought he was deceiving them. As he died he spoke two words — he broke his thirty-year silence at death. The breaking of that silence was strange indeed, and what he said was stranger yet. For when asked, “Who are you?” he did not answer that. Opening his eyes as he died, he laughed again and used a Mahavakya of the Upanishads, saying to the soldiers who stabbed him, “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu! You too are That, Shvetaketu — you too are That!” They had asked, “Who are you?” At death he answered, “You too are That!” He did not say who he was — he said, “You too are That.” The rest was left understood: “That am I” — left unsaid. For who is there now to say, “I am That”? The one who could say is no more. Therefore the answer was given in a roundabout way: “You too are That — That art thou.” Who knows if the soldiers understood. It is unlikely they did. The search “Who am I?” finally becomes the dissolution of the I. This search is possible only after the seventh sutra; before that it is very difficult. After the seventh it is simple, for now we are awake, filled with light — we can ask, “Who am I?” And this question is the only religious question. Its answer never comes in words. It is not that you receive the answer, “You are Paramatma.” If such an answer appears, know that memory is answering. Scriptures you have read are speaking. Words you have heard are speaking. Doctrines you learned are speaking. This eighth sutra will not be resolved by scriptures, nor by doctrines. Therefore if, at this eighth, your mind answers, “Brahman,” or if, having just heard me say “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu,” you ask yourself “Who am I?” and the mind replies, “You are That!” — nothing is solved. As long as you can answer, the answer has not come, for you have no answer — only words. “Who am I?” must become so deep a question that no answer rises within; only the question remains — a mute question, a silent questioning. Breath upon breath begins to ask, “Who am I?” Every hair, every pore begins to ask, “Who am I?” Beat by beat the heart asks, “Who am I?” Standing, sitting, moving — whether asking or not — the question resounds within: “Who am I?” and there is no answer. There is no answer. If you had an answer, what need to ask? But all of us have answers ready. Hence at the eighth sutra, all scriptures become obstacles, all knowledge becomes an obstacle — what we call knowledge, what we have learned, understood, memorized. Even the noblest utterances become hindrances — the Gita, the Quran, the Bible — all become obstacles. Whatever we have read, whatever we have learned, begins to obstruct at the eighth, for memory answers, “This I am, this I am.” These answers must be shattered. They are not our answers. Those who gave them knew — but they are not ours. The answer is not mine; the knowing is not mine. It is borrowed, secondhand, stale. Before the eighth sutra, man will have to drop all knowledge and become ignorant again. And those who can become ignorant… this ignorance is of a very different kind. Socrates made a small but beautiful distinction. Of those who reached near the eighth sutra, Socrates is one. Some villagers came to Socrates and said, “The oracle at Delphi has declared that none is wiser than Socrates.” They asked, “What do you say?” Socrates said, “Surely there is some mistake, for I tell you: none is more ignorant than Socrates.” They said, “This is difficult. If we accept the oracle that Socrates is wise, we must accept Socrates; and Socrates says none is more ignorant than Socrates. If we accept Socrates — that none is more ignorant — what of the oracle?” They said, “You have put us in a bind.” Socrates replied, “Our work is to put you in a bind. We ourselves were caught in great difficulty before we came this far.” They asked, “What should we understand?” Socrates said, “Go back and ask the oracle again.” They returned and asked the oracle, “Socrates says none is more ignorant than he, and you say none is wiser!” The oracle replied, “Precisely for this reason! I say none is wiser, because the one who has recognized his ignorance stands at the door of wisdom.” They came back and told Socrates, “The goddess says ‘for this reason.’” Socrates said, “Did you notice? When you told me earlier I also wondered how the oracle could be so mistaken — but her words were meaningful. She did not say ‘Socrates is supremely wise.’ She said, ‘None is wiser than Socrates.’ It was negative; she did not say…” Socrates continued, “While you went back to the oracle, I went into the village to see if anyone was wiser than me. I asked every wise man. They had answers to all questions — but not to one: ‘Who are you?’ They had no answer to ‘Who am I?’ So I asked them: How are you wise? If you do not even know who you are, what meaning is there to all that you know? He who still does not know who he is — what else could he know?” Socrates returned and said, “The goddess is very intelligent. Saying ‘none is wiser than Socrates’ means only this: in this village all are ignorant; only Socrates has enough knowledge to know that he is ignorant. Nothing more. Even this much is not with anyone else.” Only he who experiences his ignorance will cross beyond the seventh; who knows, “I know nothing; not even who I am.” When this is known deeply, intensely, its pain is wondrous. It spreads through every pore — “Who am I?” Then it is no more a question; it is no intellectual inquiry, no academic puzzle with a ready answer. It becomes a restlessness of the life-breath, a thirst of being; a constant tuning of the life-force — the very prana trembles with one longing: “Who am I?” And when no answer is found anywhere — and there is none; whoever gets an answer from somewhere is deceiving himself — when no answer is found and the question keeps burning, driving one mad within; when only the question remains, and even the hope of an answer is gone, even the possibility, even the expectation; when only the question is — rather, when the questioner and the question become one — in that instant the question too is lost. No answer appears; the question falls. In that questionless moment, man steps from the seventh sutra into the eighth. In that instant he no longer says, “Who am I?” In that instant he says, “Tell me what I am not.” In that instant he asks, “Where am I not?” Nanak went and slept outside the shrine in Mecca. His feet were toward the sacred stone. The priests came and said, “Move your feet! Fool, do you not even know you must not stretch your feet toward the holy stone? You point your feet toward God!” Nanak said, “I too am in difficulty. Turn my feet to where God is not. Take hold of my feet and place them where He is not.” Those mullahs, those pundits, were confounded. They did not dare move Nanak’s feet anywhere, for God is everywhere. The day the question “Who am I?” falls, that day the question remains no more. If anyone asks, we would ask instead, “What am I not?” I am all. That day the wall in between — the wall of the self — dissolves, falls. It was but a dream-wall, a wall of thought, of memories, of beliefs — we had assumed “I am this,” therefore the wall. It falls. And with its fall one becomes one with the Infinite. The self-centric, the self-center, dissolves. It is not that you are annihilated. You are — more fully than ever. But you are no longer an “I”; you are the Whole. You are no longer a wave; you are the ocean. You are no longer a drop; you are the Vast. You disappear as “you,” and you are as Paramatma. Therefore, by losing the I, one loses nothing. Just as waking from the night’s dream you lose nothing, so waking from the dream of I you lose nothing. From the dream of night, you gain awakening; from the dream of I, you gain the life of Paramatma. The petty wall falls. The little enclosure breaks. The Lakshman-rekha of the I is erased. It is no longer needed. Up to now it was. Up to the seventh step, up to the seventh sutra, it is needed. By the support of that I the journey has come so far. Without it, so long a journey would not be possible. Even falsehood assists in the journey — illusions too. They cannot take you to the goal; they cannot go with you into the goal. A Christian fakir was imprisoned twenty years in Russian jails. He wrote a marvelous little book: In God’s Underground. A lovely man. He called that underground, that dark cell, “God’s Underground” — God’s hidden house beneath the earth. For twenty years he had no glimpse of light. Bread was thrown once a day. No human voice was heard. After five or seven days, suddenly someone began tapping on the wall next to him. He tried to listen, but what could be understood from taps? Yet one thing became clear: there was a fellow prisoner. For twenty years they lived side by side with a wall between. Across that wall someone was there. By tapping, slowly they invented a language — one knock for A, two for B, three for C. Little by little they devised a code. Then they learned each other’s names. Then they began to send messages. They greeted each other at dawn; they said goodnight at night. Their communication gained speed; the code developed. If these two men were freed from prison, would they still talk by knocking on walls? No. That sign-language was needed only because of the wall. Man’s I is also a code language. We are all enclosed in our own walls, and we must knock to speak to each other. So we give names — one we call Ram, one Krishna, someone something else. All names are false. No child brings a name with him. But without names, speaking across walls would be difficult. So “Krishna” means two knocks; “Ram” means three. We create acquaintance by tapping — “When we knock thrice, know we are calling you. You are Ram. You are Krishna.” We paste names upon people. It is a code language to speak across the walls. I too have a name. But if I call my own name, confusion will arise — am I calling someone else or myself? Therefore the code is two-sided: to call oneself we say “I,” to call the other we use the name. When you call yourself, you say “I”; when you call another, you use the name. Swami Ram went to America. He referred to himself as “Ram.” He stopped saying “I.” Naturally, if you break the code, trouble follows. He called himself “Ram.” If someone laughed at him on the street, or someone abused him, he would return and say, “Today Ram got into great difficulty. Some people met and began to abuse.” Those unfamiliar in America would ask, “What do you mean? Who is Ram?” He would say, “This Ram — he was in trouble.” Gradually people understood the code: this man calls himself Ram. But whether we say “Ram” or “I,” whether we use a name or a pronoun — neither do we bring the I with us when we are born, nor do we bring a name. Children first become thou-conscious; later they become I-conscious. Children first become aware of the other; only later does the I take shape. When the thou is well established, then the I arises. Hence small children often say, “This is hungry.” A child will say, “This is hungry.” The I has not yet developed; it will develop later. In the business of life, in communication, where we are all shut in our own enclosures, we must develop a code. “I” is a pointer, an indication — toward that about which I myself do not know who it is. “Krishna,” “Ram” — pointers toward that about which I too do not know. We all stand across our walls, like those prisoners who keep tapping. But such is our life; we do not recognize it because we carry our cells, our walls, with us. Those prisoners are confined in one place — their walls are fixed. We carry our prison from birth, so we never notice that we carry the walls with us. A husband and wife spend their whole life talking across two walls, in code — sometimes understood, often not. Father and son speak across walls; friends speak across walls. One taps something; the other understands something else. The other taps; we understand something else. One thing we forget: both “I” and “you” are utilitarian words — makeshift — not Truth. They are useful, not true. Therefore, as soon as we set out in search of the I, we find — the I is nowhere to be found. As the man named Krishna, if he searches within for Krishna, will he find “Krishna” anywhere? The label is pasted outside the container. If you search inside, nowhere will you find it. The “I” too is nowhere inside. These are makeshift words, inventions of language. Yet they are necessary. And up to the seventh sutra the seeker is not hindered by them; he is helped. For up to the seventh he comes in search of the I — power for the I, peace for the I, liberation for the I, God for the I. Up to the seventh the I is useful — but not true. After the seventh, the I begins to be the obstacle; its usefulness is exhausted. At the eighth, the code must be broken. At the eighth, breaking it hurts, for we have lived, died, and taken countless births for the sake of this I. A fakir from India went to China — Bodhidharma. The Chinese emperor came to welcome him. At the gateway he saw his chance and said, “I am greatly restless. Show me a way.” Bodhidharma said, “Come at three in the morning, and I will make you peaceful.” The emperor had asked many sages and had been given many methods. But this man was unusual: “Come at three, and I will make you peaceful.” He doubted — it could not be so easy. All life he had been restless; he had tried all means, and peace had not come. He said again, “Perhaps you do not know my complexity. I have all the wealth I wanted, but peace eludes me. I have fasted as told; I have built temples by the hundreds of thousands; I have earned twice the merit prescribed — but peace does not come.” The fakir said, “No more talk. Come at three, I will make you peaceful.” The emperor was even more surprised. He thought, “Let us see at three.” He even wondered whether to go at all. As he descended the steps of the monastery where Bodhidharma was staying, he had reached the last step when Bodhidharma shouted, “Listen! Bring your I with you; otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?” The emperor said, “More madness! When I come, the I will be with me.” Bodhidharma said, “Be careful to bring it — don’t forget it at home.” In the night he thought many times whether to go. But then he thought, “Never have I met so courageous a man who says, ‘I will make you peaceful.’” At three he gathered courage and came. He had not even climbed all the steps when Bodhidharma asked, “Did you bring your I with you?” Emperor Wu said, “Why do you joke? If I am here, how could my I not be?” Bodhidharma said, “I ask knowingly. I am here; you see me, yet my I is no longer with me. Hence I asked, ‘Did you bring it?’ Otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?” The emperor could not understand. Still Bodhidharma said, “Now you are here; you say you brought it — sit. Close your eyes and catch hold of this I — where is it? Catch it and give it to me; I will silence it.” The emperor said, “I suspected in the night I should not come. What are you saying? Is the I some thing I can catch and hand over?” Bodhidharma said, “If you cannot give it to me, at least hold it within yourself.” The emperor said, “I have never tried.” Bodhidharma said, “Try.” The emperor sat with eyes closed. Bodhidharma sat before him with a big staff. The emperor was also afraid. It was night, dark; he had come alone, trusting this monk. Who knew what he would do! From time to time Bodhidharma nudged his head with the staff and said, “Search! Don’t leave a single corner! Wherever you find it — catch it!” Half an hour passed, then three quarters, then an hour, two hours — and the emperor lost himself in the search. The sun began to rise. Bodhidharma said, “Shall I go for my bath? Still not found?” The emperor opened his eyes and fell at Bodhidharma’s feet. He said, “I had never considered that there is no such thing as the I inside. When I went to search, I found it nowhere. I looked in every nook and corner. The I is nowhere.” Bodhidharma said, “Whom shall I silence now? I have sat here three hours with a stick!” The emperor said, “Now silence has happened by itself, for where there is no I, what unrest can be? These three hours were hours of peace. As I searched and found it not, peace descended. I can now say: it was wrong to say, ‘I am restless.’ I was not restless — I was the unrest.” Bodhidharma said, “Go — and beware of the I. Don’t catch it again.” On his tomb Emperor Wu had carved: “I heard millions of monks and sages, I read thousands of scriptures — nothing was grasped. Then, on the word of a strange fakir, I looked within — and all secrets opened. There was no I to be silenced, none to be purified, none to be fought and won, none for whom Moksha or God was to be sought. There was no I.” The eighth sutra is the sutra of the search for the I and the losing of the I. As soon as the I is lost, everything is found. The I means we have gripped a point against the All — a point of resistance. The I is held against everything else, antagonistic to all, excluding all. This I is like national borders — India, Pakistan. Wherever you go to find them, there is no line where India ends and Pakistan begins; none where India ends and China begins. Except in the minds of politicians these boundaries do not exist — and if politicians had minds, that too would be good! Except on political maps, nowhere are there borders. Rise above — from the sky look down — there is no India, no Pakistan, no China, no Japan. No lines. If someone is on Mars looking at earth, would he see borders? When Yuri Gagarin went into space for the first time, his countrymen hoped he would shout from there “Long live Soviet Russia!” But the first words from his lips are worth understanding. It is an ancient yogic experience of rising into another sky. From Gagarin’s mouth did not come “My Russia.” He said, “My world, my earth!” From that height, no country remained. From that height, the whole earth became one. “My earth! My world!” When he returned they asked in Moscow, “Why didn’t you say ‘my Russia’?” He said, “There was no Russia there. All borders disappeared.” Similarly, when one rises into the inner sky, the borders of I and you vanish. They too are makeshift lines drawn on a map. My house creates a false boundary; my I creates a boundary just as false. My nation creates a false boundary; my I creates one just as false. My religion creates a false boundary; my I creates one just as false. These falsehoods will do up to the seventh; beyond the seventh they cannot. On the ground, moving horizontal, Russia and India and Pakistan remain; but if you take the vertical flight into the sky, Russia and India disappear. Whoever rises in the inner sky — his I and you disappear. And when I and you are lost, what remains — the Remaining — that is Paramatma. This is the eighth sutra. And the ninth sutra is brief — I will say it and complete my talk. The first sutra I gave was: Life is energy. The ninth sutra of Yoga is: Death too is energy. Death is too energy. It is not that only life is energy; death also is energy. It is not that only life is life; death too is life. It is not that only life is desirable; death too is very lovely. It is not that only life is to be welcomed; the door must be open for death as well. Whoever is not ready for death will be deprived of life; whoever is ready for death becomes entitled to the Supreme Life. Death too is energy; death too is Paramatma; death too is the Lord. This is Yoga’s supreme sutra, the final sutra. Whoever can see death as life itself — and it is so; it is only a matter of seeing — and after the eighth sutra, this seeing becomes possible. The day it is known there is no “I,” that very day it is known: Whose is death? What death? Who will die? Who can die? As long as people say, “I will not die; I am immortal; my Atman is immortal,” know that all this is secondhand talk. When someone says, “I am not — and That which is, is the deathless,” then know something real has happened. I want to be immortal — but I am not. He who wants to be immortal is not; and That which is immortal, we do not know. Ramakrishna died. Three days before, it was evident he was departing. His wife, Sharda, was anxious, weeping. Ramakrishna said, “Why do you weep? That which is — will not die. And whom did you love — that which is?” Sharda said, “I loved That which is.” Ramakrishna said, “Then drop the worry. When that which is not dies, do not break your bangles.” In India there was only one widow — Sharda — who did not break her bangles. Ramakrishna died. All wept, but Sharda would not break her bangles. She remained as she was. People said, “What are you doing? Ramakrishna is dead.” She said, “What died, was never. What is — is. These bangles are in remembrance of That.” After Ramakrishna’s death, Sharda remained as a married woman. Never did she speak, “He died.” If anyone asked, she would say, “The body had grown worn — he changed garments.” Only garments change, only coverings. The day it is known — it is known at the eighth — “I am not,” then who dies? What death? No means remains to die. If someone cuts with a sword — whom will he cut? He can cut the I — whom else? When the I is not, there is no one to be cut. What Krishna told Arjuna — “No one kills, no one is killed” — what does it mean? It means simply: there is no one. What appear are shadows — shrinking and lengthening with the rising and setting of the sun. They are not; they lengthen and shorten by the sun’s shadow. They are shadows. Gibran tells a story: A fox set out at dawn to find food. The sun was rising behind her, and her shadow was huge, like a distant tree. The fox thought, “Today I will need a lot to eat — such a large body!” A fox has no mirror to see her body; she has only her shadow — and in a mirror too, only a shadow appears. Even that which stands before the mirror, those who know say, is also shadow. She saw a long shadow like a tree and thought, “This is difficult — today I must find something big to eat; at least a camel will do.” She kept searching. Noon came, the sun rose overhead, the shadow shrank. She looked down and said, “I am very hungry; something small will do now.” The shadow had shrunk — become small. But the fox took the shadow to be her being. What we call the body, at a very deep dimension, is nothing more than a shadow — a shadow materialized; a shadow that has taken form; a shadow that appears due to the dense gyration of energy-particles. That shadow comes and goes. But as long as the I is there, there is identification with the shadow. The ninth sutra is: Death is also life, death is also energy, death is also Paramatma. He who knows death as Paramatma attains Nirvana. Nirvana means: the death of a person for whom there is no death. Nirvana means: a dying where there is no dying. These nine sutras of Yoga I have told you. They can be told in twelve dimensions, from twelve angles. I have spoken only from one angle. Nine sutras can be told from twelve angles. And when you multiply twelve by nine, you have one hundred and eight. The malas you have seen around a sannyasi’s neck — those one hundred and eight beads indicate nothing but the nine sutras of Yoga said from twelve modes. And below those one hundred and eight beads there is a one hundred and ninth rudraksha hanging; by any of these one hundred and eight approaches, from wherever one starts, one comes to the One. I have said these nine sutras to you only in one dimension. They can be said in twelve ways. In that way, one hundred and eight methods of meditation arise. From each sutra a method of meditation can be developed. But whoever approaches from anywhere — arrives there. And if one does not approach from anywhere, then one remains where one stands — only one does not know where one stands. I have heard of a fakir who lay by the path of a pilgrimage. Pilgrims would climb the mountain and say to him, “You lie here! You lie here! Won’t you go up on pilgrimage?” He would say, “Where you are going, I am there.” When they returned, someone would ask, “Will you keep lying here? Will you never go up?” The fakir would say, “From where you are returning, I am there.” Whether those pilgrims understood or not, they went on their way. The day it is known after the journey — great laughter arises. Zen fakirs say that when it is known, there is great laughter. A saying among Zen masters goes: when awakening happens, nothing remains but to sip a cup of tea — and laugh. When someone asked Rinzai, “What is this? We have heard that when Nirvana is attained, nothing remains but tea and laughter.” Rinzai said, “Truly, nothing remains. For when it is known, it is known that I have always been This. What I have found, was always found. What I searched, was never lost. And yet, such a long journey had to be made.” One little story, and I will finish. I have heard: A billionaire discovered before dying that he had not found happiness. Fortunate man — some discover this only after death. He realized before death, “I have not found joy.” Death was near; astrologers said, “There is little time. Hurry.” He said, “I have always hurried — but where is joy? Now I have the means to buy it. Whatever the price, I am ready.” The astrologers said, “We do not know about that. We can only tell you: hurry, for death is near. If you find it, inform us too — we must hurry as well.” He asked, “Where should I search?” They said, “We do not know. Anywhere — search anywhere.” He mounted his fast horse. He piled crores worth of jewels on the saddle and rode village to village crying, “Whoever shows me even a glimpse of happiness — I will give all this.” He came to a village where a wondrous Sufi, Nasruddin, lived. People said, “You have come to the right place. In matters upside-down like this, there is a man here.” He said, “Upside-down matters!” The villagers said, “Living in his company, we too have learned some upside-down truths. One we have learned is that this is an upside-down matter indeed — happiness cannot be bought with wealth, not even a glimpse. But since you have come — you have come right.” They brought him. Nasruddin was sitting under a bush at dusk. The villagers said, “Here is the man.” The billionaire threw down his bag of gold and gems and said, “This — all of it — I am ready to give. Give me a glimpse of joy.” Nasruddin looked him up and down. “A sure glimpse?” “A sure glimpse.” He had barely said it when Nasruddin snatched the bag and ran. For a moment the rich man stood stunned — then he screamed, “I’ve been robbed! I am ruined!” By then in the dark the dervish had gone far. The villagers knew he would do something upside-down. They said, “We told you — only this man can answer such crooked questions.” The rich man cried, “Is this an answer? Catch him!” They ran; the rich man ran. Nasruddin knew the village lanes — he roused the whole town, ran through the alleys, and finally came back to the very bush where the horse stood. He threw the bag where it had been and hid behind the bush. Panting, sweating, the rich man arrived, saw the bag, grabbed it, pressed it to his chest, and cried, “O Lord, thank you!” From behind the bush the fakir said, “Got a glimpse?” The rich man said, “Absolutely — what bliss!” The fakir said, “Good. Now mount your horse and go.” That which we already own — until we lose it, we do not taste joy. The whole pilgrimage of the world is the journey of losing what is to be found. What is already given — unless we lose it once, we cannot know it. We have lost it — now we must seek. The day we find, nothing remains but to drink tea and laugh. In China, when three fakirs attained, they roamed village to village laughing. Whenever anyone asked anything, they laughed. One laughed, then the second, then the third; then the laughter spread through the village; at the crossroads people gathered and laughed. When asked, “Why do you laugh?” they would look at each other and laugh, and a fountain of laughter would burst. They became famous throughout China — the Three Laughing Saints. Before they died they left a note: “We laughed at ourselves because what we sought was with us; and we laugh at you because what you seek is with you.” These nine sutras I have told you in four days — not so that your intellectual understanding increases a little; not so that you become a little more knowledgeable. You are already knowledgeable — everyone is. Adding a little more to this knowledge will do nothing; you have enough — knowledge of many births. I have not spoken these sutras to increase your knowledge. I have spoken them to steal your knowledge away. I have not said these things so that you get a few doctrines to hold on to as supports. You already have many doctrines, many scriptures; if they could save you, you would have been saved by now. Do not turn these few words of mine into another support — they will not save you. All doctrines, all scriptures, all words become loads upon the head and drown you. I have not spoken to become your support. I have spoken so that you may come to know your supportlessness. Nor do I believe that by my explaining you will understand — I have no such naiveté. If understanding could come by explanation, it would be easy — one man would understand and explain to all, and by now the whole world would be wise. But Buddhas tire and die, Krishnas tire and die, Jesuses tire and die, Mahavirs tire and die — the world’s foolishness does not shift even an inch. So I do not believe that something will happen through understanding alone. Why then did I speak? I spoke so that a little doubt may arise about your cleverness — that is enough. If a suspicion arises about your understanding, it is enough. I spoke so that you might someday come to see that understanding is not sufficient. Something must be done. Merely understanding will not do. Unawareness will be covered but will remain — it will not be destroyed. To know is not enough. One must do. In truth, without doing, true knowing never arises. What comes without doing is only the deception of understanding. Counterfeit coins deceive real ones. I have spoken so that you may set out on the journey of doing. To walk one inch is better than to think a thousand inches. To do a grain’s worth is better than a mountain of knowledge. A mountain of knowledge cannot save, but a grain of doing is enough. What is done — known by doing — becomes a boat. What is heard, read, mentally grasped — that too becomes a boat, but a paper boat. A paper boat, if you do not sit in it, may perhaps drift across the river; but if you sit in it, certainly it will not cross — it will drown you. We are all sitting in paper boats. Paper boats have different names — one calls his paper “Quran,” one “Bible,” one “Veda,” one something else. But all are paper boats — nothing more than black letters written on paper. To seek Paramatma one must descend into the energy of life itself. There one finds the Gita that is not on paper, the Quran that is not on paper, the Veda that is not of paper — that is of Paramatma. I have said all this with the hope that perhaps you will feel a little push — and set out on a journey. You have listened to my words with such love and peace — I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated in everyone’s heart. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Yoga’s eighth sutra. In the seventh sutra I told you: conscious life has two forms — self-conscious and self-unconscious.
The eighth sutra is: Yoga begins with self-awareness, and ends in the dissolution of the self. To be self-aware is the path; to be free of the self is the goal. To be filled with alertness toward oneself is sadhana; and finally only alertness remains, the self is lost — that is siddhi.
Those who do not know themselves remain backward; and those who get stuck in themselves also remain behind. Like someone who climbs a ladder and then stops on the ladder — the climbing becomes futile. The ladder must be climbed, and it must also be left. One walks on the path, but if one stops on the path, the destination is never reached. One must walk the path, and one must also leave the path — only then is the goal attained. The path can take you to the goal, but only if you are ready to leave the path. The path itself becomes a hindrance to the goal if you cling to it.
To be filled with awareness toward oneself is a helper for the dissolution of the self. But if you grasp the self, then what was a helper becomes an obstacle.
To understand this sutra is very — perhaps supremely — important. Our intense longing is to attain the self, but to lose the self is hard. That is why many seekers come up to the seventh sutra, but cannot enter the eighth. Up to the seventh, the ego meets with no obstruction. Up to the seventh, the journey is ego-centric. Therefore, up to the seventh sutra, if you tell the seeker: renounce wealth — he will renounce wealth. Renounce family — he will renounce family. Renounce fame, ambition, the throne — he will renounce everything. But behind all renunciation, the I goes on becoming stronger. He will be eager even in sadhana so that this I may be refined. He will practice so that “I” may become something. He will even seek Paramatma lest “I” be left without God.
To reach the seventh is not really difficult. The real difficulty begins after the seventh — in understanding the eighth — because the eighth sutra is the sutra of losing the self, of dissolving the self. Up to the seventh, siddhis may come, powers may come. Up to the seventh, immense energy, vast power will be born. But union with Paramatma does not happen. Up to the seventh there is only meeting with oneself.
Meeting oneself is no small thing; it is great — great from the perspective of the previous six sutras, but not great from the vision of the eighth. To find the self is difficult indeed. To fully know oneself is difficult indeed. But more difficult still is to lose oneself and dissolve.
If a man is imprisoned, then the first condition for being free of the prison is to know that he is imprisoned. If he does not even know he is in prison, there is no way to get out. The first condition of freedom is to know: I am in prison. The second condition is to recognize the prison accurately: What is the prison? Where is the wall? Where is the door? Where is the passage? Where are the windows? Where are the bars? Where is the weak spot? From where can one get out? Where do the guards stand? The second sutra will be: to be fully acquainted with the prison, to be wholly conscious toward it. Only then can one be freed from it.
In the profound personality of man, the self itself is the prison; the self, the I, the ego is the prison. It is no small prison — it is vast. It is filled with great energies, great treasures lie sunk within — but it is a prison. Beyond it is the boundless expanse of the Vast, where there is freedom, where there is liberation.
At first we have no measure of our own self — how big it is, what it is. That discovery completes itself by the seventh sutra. And when its full measure is known, a danger arises — let me tell you that danger. He who passes beyond it will understand the eighth. As soon as one comes to know, “I am the owner of such wealth, of such jewels and treasures,” the prison no longer appears a prison; it seems a palace of an emperor.
If even a convict discovers that the prison has buried treasures — so much gold, so much wealth — he may refuse to accept that this is a prison. “This is the palace of a king!” And perhaps those treasures alone may prevent him from leaving the prison. The guards might not have been able to stop him so much, nor the chains, nor the whole prison arrangement — but the treasures found within could stop him.
The day we come to know our entire inner wealth, our entire bliss, our entire power, on that day there is danger that we forget: this self is a very small tract — a tiny piece of an infinite land. It is like someone filling a clay pot with water and letting it float in the ocean. The water inside the clay pot is oceanic, yes — but what comparison with the ocean outside!
We too are clay pots. Much is within — and it is of the ocean, of Paramatma. But what of the outside? What comparison? One day this clay pot must be broken. This self, this I, this sense of “I am,” this ego — it encircles us. But the day we know the full glory of the self, that day the clay pot turns into a pot of gold. To break it then becomes very difficult.
Thus very often the seeker gives birth to a strange kind of ego. The last barrier that stops one on the path of sadhana is precisely that spot where the I turns to gold, where one feels, “I am the owner of infinite vigor, infinite knowledge, infinite power.” This proclamation becomes the deep declaration of the inner I. Those who stop here stop at the seventh sutra. And stopping here is like a man who comes close to his destination and then stands at the door — the whole road traversed, and he halts outside the temple.
It happens too. A man can walk thousands of miles, and when he comes near the goal, each step becomes difficult. While the goal was far, he ran; as he nears it, fatigue catches him. Often it has happened that people reached outside the temples and went off to rest.
Many seekers get stuck at the seventh sutra. The eighth is a leap — a great leap. To attain oneself is not the great thing; to lose oneself is the great thing.
Then the mind raises a question: Why lose oneself? If the self will not be, whatever remains — what is the use, what meaning will it have? If the self is not, what will be Moksha? What will be Paramatma? What will be Yoga? What will be Dharma? One can renounce for the sake of the self; but to be free from the self is very hard. Freedom for the self is easy; the mind desires, “May I be free, may I be liberated.” But freedom from the self — there the last blockage arises. The mind recoils before that final leap.
But Yoga has ways by which even that ultimate leap can be completed.
After the seventh sutra, when entering the eighth, the greatest inquiry begins: Who am I? This search begins. What am I — this much becomes known by the seventh. How far do I extend — that too is known by the seventh. But who am I — this does not become known by the seventh. Its very search becomes the eighth sutra — “Who am I?” And the deeper we search, the more we discover: even here there is no end to me; even here I am not — and yet I am, beyond and beyond. The quest goes on and all boundaries break; and finally it is known: whatever is — all of it is I. The day it is known that whatever is, is I — that day the “I” does not remain, for then there is no “you” outside anymore. If all is I, no “you” remains.
During the uprising of 1857, a sannyasi was killed by British soldiers. He had been silent for thirty years. People had asked him, “Why this silence? Why be mute?” He said, “What I want to say cannot be said — words are incapable; and what I can say, I do not want to say — it would be futile. Hence I have become silent.”
For thirty years he was naked, quiet, wandering. One night he was passing by a British camp; they seized him, thinking he was a spy. They asked much, “Who are you?” But whenever they asked, “Who are you?” he would laugh.
He was vowed to silence; he could not answer. And who has ever answered the question “Who am I?” When the answer comes, the “I” is already lost; and as long as the “I” is there, the answer does not come. The riddle cannot be solved — it never will be. When the seeker ends, the answer is. Then the answer has no meaning. And while the seeker remains, the answer never comes — it cannot be given, for it is not found.
He laughed, a peal of laughter. The more he laughed, the more the soldiers grew angry. In the end they thrust a bayonet into his chest. They thought he was deceiving them. As he died he spoke two words — he broke his thirty-year silence at death. The breaking of that silence was strange indeed, and what he said was stranger yet. For when asked, “Who are you?” he did not answer that. Opening his eyes as he died, he laughed again and used a Mahavakya of the Upanishads, saying to the soldiers who stabbed him, “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu! You too are That, Shvetaketu — you too are That!”
They had asked, “Who are you?” At death he answered, “You too are That!” He did not say who he was — he said, “You too are That.” The rest was left understood: “That am I” — left unsaid. For who is there now to say, “I am That”? The one who could say is no more. Therefore the answer was given in a roundabout way: “You too are That — That art thou.”
Who knows if the soldiers understood. It is unlikely they did.
The search “Who am I?” finally becomes the dissolution of the I. This search is possible only after the seventh sutra; before that it is very difficult. After the seventh it is simple, for now we are awake, filled with light — we can ask, “Who am I?” And this question is the only religious question. Its answer never comes in words. It is not that you receive the answer, “You are Paramatma.” If such an answer appears, know that memory is answering. Scriptures you have read are speaking. Words you have heard are speaking. Doctrines you learned are speaking.
This eighth sutra will not be resolved by scriptures, nor by doctrines. Therefore if, at this eighth, your mind answers, “Brahman,” or if, having just heard me say “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu,” you ask yourself “Who am I?” and the mind replies, “You are That!” — nothing is solved. As long as you can answer, the answer has not come, for you have no answer — only words. “Who am I?” must become so deep a question that no answer rises within; only the question remains — a mute question, a silent questioning. Breath upon breath begins to ask, “Who am I?” Every hair, every pore begins to ask, “Who am I?” Beat by beat the heart asks, “Who am I?” Standing, sitting, moving — whether asking or not — the question resounds within: “Who am I?” and there is no answer. There is no answer. If you had an answer, what need to ask?
But all of us have answers ready. Hence at the eighth sutra, all scriptures become obstacles, all knowledge becomes an obstacle — what we call knowledge, what we have learned, understood, memorized. Even the noblest utterances become hindrances — the Gita, the Quran, the Bible — all become obstacles. Whatever we have read, whatever we have learned, begins to obstruct at the eighth, for memory answers, “This I am, this I am.” These answers must be shattered. They are not our answers. Those who gave them knew — but they are not ours. The answer is not mine; the knowing is not mine. It is borrowed, secondhand, stale.
Before the eighth sutra, man will have to drop all knowledge and become ignorant again. And those who can become ignorant… this ignorance is of a very different kind. Socrates made a small but beautiful distinction. Of those who reached near the eighth sutra, Socrates is one.
Some villagers came to Socrates and said, “The oracle at Delphi has declared that none is wiser than Socrates.” They asked, “What do you say?” Socrates said, “Surely there is some mistake, for I tell you: none is more ignorant than Socrates.” They said, “This is difficult. If we accept the oracle that Socrates is wise, we must accept Socrates; and Socrates says none is more ignorant than Socrates. If we accept Socrates — that none is more ignorant — what of the oracle?” They said, “You have put us in a bind.” Socrates replied, “Our work is to put you in a bind. We ourselves were caught in great difficulty before we came this far.” They asked, “What should we understand?” Socrates said, “Go back and ask the oracle again.”
They returned and asked the oracle, “Socrates says none is more ignorant than he, and you say none is wiser!” The oracle replied, “Precisely for this reason! I say none is wiser, because the one who has recognized his ignorance stands at the door of wisdom.” They came back and told Socrates, “The goddess says ‘for this reason.’” Socrates said, “Did you notice? When you told me earlier I also wondered how the oracle could be so mistaken — but her words were meaningful. She did not say ‘Socrates is supremely wise.’ She said, ‘None is wiser than Socrates.’ It was negative; she did not say…”
Socrates continued, “While you went back to the oracle, I went into the village to see if anyone was wiser than me. I asked every wise man. They had answers to all questions — but not to one: ‘Who are you?’ They had no answer to ‘Who am I?’ So I asked them: How are you wise? If you do not even know who you are, what meaning is there to all that you know? He who still does not know who he is — what else could he know?”
Socrates returned and said, “The goddess is very intelligent. Saying ‘none is wiser than Socrates’ means only this: in this village all are ignorant; only Socrates has enough knowledge to know that he is ignorant. Nothing more. Even this much is not with anyone else.”
Only he who experiences his ignorance will cross beyond the seventh; who knows, “I know nothing; not even who I am.” When this is known deeply, intensely, its pain is wondrous. It spreads through every pore — “Who am I?” Then it is no more a question; it is no intellectual inquiry, no academic puzzle with a ready answer. It becomes a restlessness of the life-breath, a thirst of being; a constant tuning of the life-force — the very prana trembles with one longing: “Who am I?” And when no answer is found anywhere — and there is none; whoever gets an answer from somewhere is deceiving himself — when no answer is found and the question keeps burning, driving one mad within; when only the question remains, and even the hope of an answer is gone, even the possibility, even the expectation; when only the question is — rather, when the questioner and the question become one — in that instant the question too is lost. No answer appears; the question falls. In that questionless moment, man steps from the seventh sutra into the eighth. In that instant he no longer says, “Who am I?” In that instant he says, “Tell me what I am not.” In that instant he asks, “Where am I not?”
Nanak went and slept outside the shrine in Mecca. His feet were toward the sacred stone. The priests came and said, “Move your feet! Fool, do you not even know you must not stretch your feet toward the holy stone? You point your feet toward God!”
Nanak said, “I too am in difficulty. Turn my feet to where God is not. Take hold of my feet and place them where He is not.”
Those mullahs, those pundits, were confounded. They did not dare move Nanak’s feet anywhere, for God is everywhere.
The day the question “Who am I?” falls, that day the question remains no more. If anyone asks, we would ask instead, “What am I not?” I am all. That day the wall in between — the wall of the self — dissolves, falls. It was but a dream-wall, a wall of thought, of memories, of beliefs — we had assumed “I am this,” therefore the wall. It falls. And with its fall one becomes one with the Infinite. The self-centric, the self-center, dissolves.
It is not that you are annihilated. You are — more fully than ever. But you are no longer an “I”; you are the Whole. You are no longer a wave; you are the ocean. You are no longer a drop; you are the Vast. You disappear as “you,” and you are as Paramatma.
Therefore, by losing the I, one loses nothing. Just as waking from the night’s dream you lose nothing, so waking from the dream of I you lose nothing. From the dream of night, you gain awakening; from the dream of I, you gain the life of Paramatma. The petty wall falls. The little enclosure breaks. The Lakshman-rekha of the I is erased. It is no longer needed.
Up to now it was. Up to the seventh step, up to the seventh sutra, it is needed. By the support of that I the journey has come so far. Without it, so long a journey would not be possible. Even falsehood assists in the journey — illusions too. They cannot take you to the goal; they cannot go with you into the goal.
A Christian fakir was imprisoned twenty years in Russian jails. He wrote a marvelous little book: In God’s Underground. A lovely man. He called that underground, that dark cell, “God’s Underground” — God’s hidden house beneath the earth. For twenty years he had no glimpse of light. Bread was thrown once a day. No human voice was heard.
After five or seven days, suddenly someone began tapping on the wall next to him. He tried to listen, but what could be understood from taps? Yet one thing became clear: there was a fellow prisoner. For twenty years they lived side by side with a wall between. Across that wall someone was there. By tapping, slowly they invented a language — one knock for A, two for B, three for C. Little by little they devised a code. Then they learned each other’s names. Then they began to send messages. They greeted each other at dawn; they said goodnight at night. Their communication gained speed; the code developed.
If these two men were freed from prison, would they still talk by knocking on walls? No. That sign-language was needed only because of the wall.
Man’s I is also a code language. We are all enclosed in our own walls, and we must knock to speak to each other. So we give names — one we call Ram, one Krishna, someone something else. All names are false. No child brings a name with him. But without names, speaking across walls would be difficult. So “Krishna” means two knocks; “Ram” means three. We create acquaintance by tapping — “When we knock thrice, know we are calling you. You are Ram. You are Krishna.” We paste names upon people. It is a code language to speak across the walls. I too have a name. But if I call my own name, confusion will arise — am I calling someone else or myself? Therefore the code is two-sided: to call oneself we say “I,” to call the other we use the name. When you call yourself, you say “I”; when you call another, you use the name.
Swami Ram went to America. He referred to himself as “Ram.” He stopped saying “I.” Naturally, if you break the code, trouble follows. He called himself “Ram.” If someone laughed at him on the street, or someone abused him, he would return and say, “Today Ram got into great difficulty. Some people met and began to abuse.”
Those unfamiliar in America would ask, “What do you mean? Who is Ram?”
He would say, “This Ram — he was in trouble.”
Gradually people understood the code: this man calls himself Ram.
But whether we say “Ram” or “I,” whether we use a name or a pronoun — neither do we bring the I with us when we are born, nor do we bring a name. Children first become thou-conscious; later they become I-conscious. Children first become aware of the other; only later does the I take shape. When the thou is well established, then the I arises. Hence small children often say, “This is hungry.” A child will say, “This is hungry.” The I has not yet developed; it will develop later.
In the business of life, in communication, where we are all shut in our own enclosures, we must develop a code. “I” is a pointer, an indication — toward that about which I myself do not know who it is. “Krishna,” “Ram” — pointers toward that about which I too do not know. We all stand across our walls, like those prisoners who keep tapping.
But such is our life; we do not recognize it because we carry our cells, our walls, with us. Those prisoners are confined in one place — their walls are fixed. We carry our prison from birth, so we never notice that we carry the walls with us.
A husband and wife spend their whole life talking across two walls, in code — sometimes understood, often not. Father and son speak across walls; friends speak across walls. One taps something; the other understands something else. The other taps; we understand something else. One thing we forget: both “I” and “you” are utilitarian words — makeshift — not Truth. They are useful, not true.
Therefore, as soon as we set out in search of the I, we find — the I is nowhere to be found. As the man named Krishna, if he searches within for Krishna, will he find “Krishna” anywhere? The label is pasted outside the container. If you search inside, nowhere will you find it. The “I” too is nowhere inside. These are makeshift words, inventions of language. Yet they are necessary. And up to the seventh sutra the seeker is not hindered by them; he is helped. For up to the seventh he comes in search of the I — power for the I, peace for the I, liberation for the I, God for the I. Up to the seventh the I is useful — but not true. After the seventh, the I begins to be the obstacle; its usefulness is exhausted. At the eighth, the code must be broken. At the eighth, breaking it hurts, for we have lived, died, and taken countless births for the sake of this I.
A fakir from India went to China — Bodhidharma. The Chinese emperor came to welcome him. At the gateway he saw his chance and said, “I am greatly restless. Show me a way.” Bodhidharma said, “Come at three in the morning, and I will make you peaceful.”
The emperor had asked many sages and had been given many methods. But this man was unusual: “Come at three, and I will make you peaceful.” He doubted — it could not be so easy. All life he had been restless; he had tried all means, and peace had not come. He said again, “Perhaps you do not know my complexity. I have all the wealth I wanted, but peace eludes me. I have fasted as told; I have built temples by the hundreds of thousands; I have earned twice the merit prescribed — but peace does not come.”
The fakir said, “No more talk. Come at three, I will make you peaceful.”
The emperor was even more surprised. He thought, “Let us see at three.” He even wondered whether to go at all. As he descended the steps of the monastery where Bodhidharma was staying, he had reached the last step when Bodhidharma shouted, “Listen! Bring your I with you; otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?”
The emperor said, “More madness! When I come, the I will be with me.”
Bodhidharma said, “Be careful to bring it — don’t forget it at home.”
In the night he thought many times whether to go. But then he thought, “Never have I met so courageous a man who says, ‘I will make you peaceful.’”
At three he gathered courage and came. He had not even climbed all the steps when Bodhidharma asked, “Did you bring your I with you?”
Emperor Wu said, “Why do you joke? If I am here, how could my I not be?”
Bodhidharma said, “I ask knowingly. I am here; you see me, yet my I is no longer with me. Hence I asked, ‘Did you bring it?’ Otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?”
The emperor could not understand. Still Bodhidharma said, “Now you are here; you say you brought it — sit. Close your eyes and catch hold of this I — where is it? Catch it and give it to me; I will silence it.”
The emperor said, “I suspected in the night I should not come. What are you saying? Is the I some thing I can catch and hand over?”
Bodhidharma said, “If you cannot give it to me, at least hold it within yourself.”
The emperor said, “I have never tried.”
Bodhidharma said, “Try.”
The emperor sat with eyes closed. Bodhidharma sat before him with a big staff. The emperor was also afraid. It was night, dark; he had come alone, trusting this monk. Who knew what he would do! From time to time Bodhidharma nudged his head with the staff and said, “Search! Don’t leave a single corner! Wherever you find it — catch it!”
Half an hour passed, then three quarters, then an hour, two hours — and the emperor lost himself in the search. The sun began to rise. Bodhidharma said, “Shall I go for my bath? Still not found?”
The emperor opened his eyes and fell at Bodhidharma’s feet. He said, “I had never considered that there is no such thing as the I inside. When I went to search, I found it nowhere. I looked in every nook and corner. The I is nowhere.”
Bodhidharma said, “Whom shall I silence now? I have sat here three hours with a stick!”
The emperor said, “Now silence has happened by itself, for where there is no I, what unrest can be? These three hours were hours of peace. As I searched and found it not, peace descended. I can now say: it was wrong to say, ‘I am restless.’ I was not restless — I was the unrest.”
Bodhidharma said, “Go — and beware of the I. Don’t catch it again.”
On his tomb Emperor Wu had carved: “I heard millions of monks and sages, I read thousands of scriptures — nothing was grasped. Then, on the word of a strange fakir, I looked within — and all secrets opened. There was no I to be silenced, none to be purified, none to be fought and won, none for whom Moksha or God was to be sought. There was no I.”
The eighth sutra is the sutra of the search for the I and the losing of the I. As soon as the I is lost, everything is found. The I means we have gripped a point against the All — a point of resistance. The I is held against everything else, antagonistic to all, excluding all.
This I is like national borders — India, Pakistan. Wherever you go to find them, there is no line where India ends and Pakistan begins; none where India ends and China begins. Except in the minds of politicians these boundaries do not exist — and if politicians had minds, that too would be good! Except on political maps, nowhere are there borders. Rise above — from the sky look down — there is no India, no Pakistan, no China, no Japan. No lines. If someone is on Mars looking at earth, would he see borders?
When Yuri Gagarin went into space for the first time, his countrymen hoped he would shout from there “Long live Soviet Russia!” But the first words from his lips are worth understanding. It is an ancient yogic experience of rising into another sky. From Gagarin’s mouth did not come “My Russia.” He said, “My world, my earth!” From that height, no country remained. From that height, the whole earth became one. “My earth! My world!”
When he returned they asked in Moscow, “Why didn’t you say ‘my Russia’?”
He said, “There was no Russia there. All borders disappeared.”
Similarly, when one rises into the inner sky, the borders of I and you vanish. They too are makeshift lines drawn on a map. My house creates a false boundary; my I creates a boundary just as false. My nation creates a false boundary; my I creates one just as false. My religion creates a false boundary; my I creates one just as false.
These falsehoods will do up to the seventh; beyond the seventh they cannot. On the ground, moving horizontal, Russia and India and Pakistan remain; but if you take the vertical flight into the sky, Russia and India disappear. Whoever rises in the inner sky — his I and you disappear. And when I and you are lost, what remains — the Remaining — that is Paramatma. This is the eighth sutra.
And the ninth sutra is brief — I will say it and complete my talk.
The first sutra I gave was: Life is energy.
The ninth sutra of Yoga is: Death too is energy. Death is too energy.
It is not that only life is energy; death also is energy. It is not that only life is life; death too is life. It is not that only life is desirable; death too is very lovely. It is not that only life is to be welcomed; the door must be open for death as well. Whoever is not ready for death will be deprived of life; whoever is ready for death becomes entitled to the Supreme Life.
Death too is energy; death too is Paramatma; death too is the Lord. This is Yoga’s supreme sutra, the final sutra. Whoever can see death as life itself — and it is so; it is only a matter of seeing — and after the eighth sutra, this seeing becomes possible. The day it is known there is no “I,” that very day it is known: Whose is death? What death? Who will die? Who can die?
As long as people say, “I will not die; I am immortal; my Atman is immortal,” know that all this is secondhand talk. When someone says, “I am not — and That which is, is the deathless,” then know something real has happened. I want to be immortal — but I am not. He who wants to be immortal is not; and That which is immortal, we do not know.
Ramakrishna died. Three days before, it was evident he was departing. His wife, Sharda, was anxious, weeping. Ramakrishna said, “Why do you weep? That which is — will not die. And whom did you love — that which is?” Sharda said, “I loved That which is.” Ramakrishna said, “Then drop the worry. When that which is not dies, do not break your bangles.”
In India there was only one widow — Sharda — who did not break her bangles. Ramakrishna died. All wept, but Sharda would not break her bangles. She remained as she was. People said, “What are you doing? Ramakrishna is dead.” She said, “What died, was never. What is — is. These bangles are in remembrance of That.” After Ramakrishna’s death, Sharda remained as a married woman. Never did she speak, “He died.” If anyone asked, she would say, “The body had grown worn — he changed garments.”
Only garments change, only coverings. The day it is known — it is known at the eighth — “I am not,” then who dies? What death? No means remains to die. If someone cuts with a sword — whom will he cut? He can cut the I — whom else? When the I is not, there is no one to be cut.
What Krishna told Arjuna — “No one kills, no one is killed” — what does it mean? It means simply: there is no one. What appear are shadows — shrinking and lengthening with the rising and setting of the sun. They are not; they lengthen and shorten by the sun’s shadow. They are shadows.
Gibran tells a story: A fox set out at dawn to find food. The sun was rising behind her, and her shadow was huge, like a distant tree. The fox thought, “Today I will need a lot to eat — such a large body!” A fox has no mirror to see her body; she has only her shadow — and in a mirror too, only a shadow appears. Even that which stands before the mirror, those who know say, is also shadow.
She saw a long shadow like a tree and thought, “This is difficult — today I must find something big to eat; at least a camel will do.” She kept searching. Noon came, the sun rose overhead, the shadow shrank. She looked down and said, “I am very hungry; something small will do now.”
The shadow had shrunk — become small. But the fox took the shadow to be her being.
What we call the body, at a very deep dimension, is nothing more than a shadow — a shadow materialized; a shadow that has taken form; a shadow that appears due to the dense gyration of energy-particles. That shadow comes and goes. But as long as the I is there, there is identification with the shadow.
The ninth sutra is: Death is also life, death is also energy, death is also Paramatma.
He who knows death as Paramatma attains Nirvana. Nirvana means: the death of a person for whom there is no death. Nirvana means: a dying where there is no dying.
These nine sutras of Yoga I have told you. They can be told in twelve dimensions, from twelve angles. I have spoken only from one angle. Nine sutras can be told from twelve angles. And when you multiply twelve by nine, you have one hundred and eight. The malas you have seen around a sannyasi’s neck — those one hundred and eight beads indicate nothing but the nine sutras of Yoga said from twelve modes. And below those one hundred and eight beads there is a one hundred and ninth rudraksha hanging; by any of these one hundred and eight approaches, from wherever one starts, one comes to the One.
I have said these nine sutras to you only in one dimension. They can be said in twelve ways. In that way, one hundred and eight methods of meditation arise. From each sutra a method of meditation can be developed. But whoever approaches from anywhere — arrives there. And if one does not approach from anywhere, then one remains where one stands — only one does not know where one stands.
I have heard of a fakir who lay by the path of a pilgrimage. Pilgrims would climb the mountain and say to him, “You lie here! You lie here! Won’t you go up on pilgrimage?” He would say, “Where you are going, I am there.”
When they returned, someone would ask, “Will you keep lying here? Will you never go up?” The fakir would say, “From where you are returning, I am there.”
Whether those pilgrims understood or not, they went on their way.
The day it is known after the journey — great laughter arises. Zen fakirs say that when it is known, there is great laughter. A saying among Zen masters goes: when awakening happens, nothing remains but to sip a cup of tea — and laugh.
When someone asked Rinzai, “What is this? We have heard that when Nirvana is attained, nothing remains but tea and laughter.” Rinzai said, “Truly, nothing remains. For when it is known, it is known that I have always been This. What I have found, was always found. What I searched, was never lost. And yet, such a long journey had to be made.”
One little story, and I will finish.
I have heard: A billionaire discovered before dying that he had not found happiness. Fortunate man — some discover this only after death. He realized before death, “I have not found joy.” Death was near; astrologers said, “There is little time. Hurry.” He said, “I have always hurried — but where is joy? Now I have the means to buy it. Whatever the price, I am ready.” The astrologers said, “We do not know about that. We can only tell you: hurry, for death is near. If you find it, inform us too — we must hurry as well.” He asked, “Where should I search?” They said, “We do not know. Anywhere — search anywhere.”
He mounted his fast horse. He piled crores worth of jewels on the saddle and rode village to village crying, “Whoever shows me even a glimpse of happiness — I will give all this.” He came to a village where a wondrous Sufi, Nasruddin, lived. People said, “You have come to the right place. In matters upside-down like this, there is a man here.”
He said, “Upside-down matters!” The villagers said, “Living in his company, we too have learned some upside-down truths. One we have learned is that this is an upside-down matter indeed — happiness cannot be bought with wealth, not even a glimpse. But since you have come — you have come right.”
They brought him. Nasruddin was sitting under a bush at dusk. The villagers said, “Here is the man.” The billionaire threw down his bag of gold and gems and said, “This — all of it — I am ready to give. Give me a glimpse of joy.”
Nasruddin looked him up and down. “A sure glimpse?”
“A sure glimpse.” He had barely said it when Nasruddin snatched the bag and ran. For a moment the rich man stood stunned — then he screamed, “I’ve been robbed! I am ruined!” By then in the dark the dervish had gone far. The villagers knew he would do something upside-down. They said, “We told you — only this man can answer such crooked questions.”
The rich man cried, “Is this an answer? Catch him!” They ran; the rich man ran. Nasruddin knew the village lanes — he roused the whole town, ran through the alleys, and finally came back to the very bush where the horse stood. He threw the bag where it had been and hid behind the bush.
Panting, sweating, the rich man arrived, saw the bag, grabbed it, pressed it to his chest, and cried, “O Lord, thank you!”
From behind the bush the fakir said, “Got a glimpse?”
The rich man said, “Absolutely — what bliss!”
The fakir said, “Good. Now mount your horse and go.”
That which we already own — until we lose it, we do not taste joy. The whole pilgrimage of the world is the journey of losing what is to be found. What is already given — unless we lose it once, we cannot know it. We have lost it — now we must seek. The day we find, nothing remains but to drink tea and laugh.
In China, when three fakirs attained, they roamed village to village laughing. Whenever anyone asked anything, they laughed. One laughed, then the second, then the third; then the laughter spread through the village; at the crossroads people gathered and laughed. When asked, “Why do you laugh?” they would look at each other and laugh, and a fountain of laughter would burst. They became famous throughout China — the Three Laughing Saints. Before they died they left a note: “We laughed at ourselves because what we sought was with us; and we laugh at you because what you seek is with you.”
These nine sutras I have told you in four days — not so that your intellectual understanding increases a little; not so that you become a little more knowledgeable. You are already knowledgeable — everyone is. Adding a little more to this knowledge will do nothing; you have enough — knowledge of many births. I have not spoken these sutras to increase your knowledge. I have spoken them to steal your knowledge away. I have not said these things so that you get a few doctrines to hold on to as supports. You already have many doctrines, many scriptures; if they could save you, you would have been saved by now. Do not turn these few words of mine into another support — they will not save you.
All doctrines, all scriptures, all words become loads upon the head and drown you.
I have not spoken to become your support. I have spoken so that you may come to know your supportlessness. Nor do I believe that by my explaining you will understand — I have no such naiveté. If understanding could come by explanation, it would be easy — one man would understand and explain to all, and by now the whole world would be wise. But Buddhas tire and die, Krishnas tire and die, Jesuses tire and die, Mahavirs tire and die — the world’s foolishness does not shift even an inch. So I do not believe that something will happen through understanding alone.
Why then did I speak?
I spoke so that a little doubt may arise about your cleverness — that is enough. If a suspicion arises about your understanding, it is enough. I spoke so that you might someday come to see that understanding is not sufficient. Something must be done. Merely understanding will not do. Unawareness will be covered but will remain — it will not be destroyed. To know is not enough. One must do. In truth, without doing, true knowing never arises. What comes without doing is only the deception of understanding. Counterfeit coins deceive real ones.
I have spoken so that you may set out on the journey of doing. To walk one inch is better than to think a thousand inches. To do a grain’s worth is better than a mountain of knowledge. A mountain of knowledge cannot save, but a grain of doing is enough. What is done — known by doing — becomes a boat. What is heard, read, mentally grasped — that too becomes a boat, but a paper boat. A paper boat, if you do not sit in it, may perhaps drift across the river; but if you sit in it, certainly it will not cross — it will drown you.
We are all sitting in paper boats. Paper boats have different names — one calls his paper “Quran,” one “Bible,” one “Veda,” one something else. But all are paper boats — nothing more than black letters written on paper.
To seek Paramatma one must descend into the energy of life itself. There one finds the Gita that is not on paper, the Quran that is not on paper, the Veda that is not of paper — that is of Paramatma.
I have said all this with the hope that perhaps you will feel a little push — and set out on a journey.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace — I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated in everyone’s heart. Please accept my pranam.