Monday, July 19, 2010

Seven Reprimands


Read something beautiful this morning from Kahlil Gibran’s writings.


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I reprimanded my soul seven times!



The first time: when I attempted to exalt myself by exploiting the weak.

The second time: when I feigned a limp before those who were crippled.

The third time: when, given a choice, I elected the easy rather than the difficult.

The fourth time: when I made a mistake I consoled myself with the mistakes of others.

The fifth time: when I was docile because of fear and then claimed to be strong in patience.

The sixth time: when I held my garments upraised to avoid the mud of Life.

The seventh time: when I stood in hymnal to God and considered the singing a virtue.

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Sunday, July 18, 2010

Devapi: Leadership, Power, Responsibility

The Brihad Devata tells us the story of Devapi. According to the story, Devapi was the elder son of emperor Rishishena. Shantanu, the Kuru-Bharata emperor of the Mahabharata fame and the father of Bhishma, was his younger brother. Devapi was brave, skilled, competent, learned, generous and filled with every imaginable quality desirable in a great leader of men. When Rishishena died, people wanted Devapi to become king. They loved him dearly and were sure he would make a great king. In fact, it appears that the people made him king – for the Brihad Devata tells us: rajyena chhandayamasuh prajaah svargam gate gurau , meaning, they crowned him king at the death of his father. The statement could, though, mean that they chose him for their king.

In ancient India, the traditional relation between even a hereditary king and his subjects was not that of an autocrat and his helpless victims. The people had a lot of say in the choice of the king. In the Ramayana we see Dasharatha calling for a meeting of all important citizens and seeking their approval for the appointment of Rama as the crown prince. The Mahabharata says: “The PEOPLE MAKE such a person their king who is liberal, who shares all objects of enjoyment with others, who is possessed of a mild disposition, who is of pure behaviour, and who will never abandon his subjects,” which suggests that the decision, at least in part, depended on the people. The Mahabharata also says that “That king who acts according to the counsels of a vicious and sinful minister becomes a destroyer of righteousness and deserves TO BE SLAIN BY HIS SUBJECTS WITH ALL HIS FAMILY.”

There is a possibility that later when Krishna was battling to establish dharma among the kings of India, he was trying the root out the autocratic tendencies that were spreading among the rulers like Kamsa, Jarasandha, Kalayavana and so on.

Though people chose him for their king, Devapi refused the position. He pointed out to them that he had a serious skin disease and for that reason he would not be able to show total commitment to his duties. He felt the kingdom should go to his younger brother Shantanu. He told his subjects: na rajyam aham arhami, nripatir vo’stu shantanuh – “I do not deserve the kingdom; let Shantanu be your king.”

When Devapi thus refused kingship and stuck to his refusal, the people made Shantanu their king.

Was Devapi unfit to be king according to the ancient Indian tradition? Is that the reason why he refused the crown? It appears no. His refusal to accept the position was really on ethical grounds and not because the tradition said so. It was a voluntary decision on his part to step down – perhaps he felt that because of his severe skin condition, he may not be able to devote as much time and energy to his job as it deserves. He saw kingship as a responsibility and not as a source of power or privilege. And, besides, Shantanu had every quality that would make for a great king.

The Brihad Devata story itself tells that he was not disqualified by the tradition. In fact, the story tells us that after Shantanu became king, for several years no rains came to the kingdom, though Shantanu was a virtuous ruler and ruled competently, spending all his energy for the good of his people. Kings and people alike in those days believed that if something wrong happened in a kingdom, it was the king who was responsible. If the king was virtuous, nothing could wrong – there would be no deceases in the kingdom, no untimely deaths, the harvests shall not fail, seasons would not err, there would be no crime and so on. Shantanu was sure he must have done something wrong, though he had no idea what it could be, in spite of all his reflection on the matter. He could not recall a single occasion when he had taken a wrong step, not even in words or thoughts. How could the rains have failed then? He consulted the wise men of the kingdom and they told him he had indeed committed a grave sin: he had sat on the throne while his elder brother was alive and in every way qualified.

Shantanu asked the wise man what he could do now to rectify things. And they told him he should give the kingdom back to his elder brother.

Shantanu had no problem with this. He was not greedy for power or position. The years he had ruled hadn’t gone to his head. Power hadn’t corrupted him. And to him too, as the noble kshatriya code he lived by taught him, leadership was not a privilege, leadership was not a power game, but a responsibility. A leader lived not for himself, but for his people.

Shantanu happily agreed to step down if that would be good for the kingdom and people. His only interest was the good of the people.

The Indian tradition considers that a man has five mothers: svamata, patnimata, bhratripatni, gurupatni, rajapatni – one’s own mother, one’s wife’s mother, one’s [elder] brother’s wife, one’s guru’s wife and the king’s wife. The king’s wife was considered a mother because the king was considered one’s father. And that precisely was the attitude of the king to his people – that of a father to his children. It is said about Rama, who in many ways set the highest standards for public leadership in India, that he invariably enquired “about the well-being of the citizens, as well as their children, wives, sacrifices, servants and students, as if they were his own relatives, as a father would about his own sons” every time he came back to Ayodhya after being away from there. “When people are in difficulty he becomes sorely distressed and he delights in all their celebrations as if he were their father,” says the Ramayana about him.

To Shantanu, his people were his children and their interest was his greatest interest.

Devapi had been living in the jungles near Hastinapura ever since he left the crown. He had been devoting all his time to meditation and other religious practices. Shantanu went to his elder brother, accompanied by his ministers and men of learning and wisdom who served the kingdom. The king placed his crown at the feet of his elder brother and begged him to take over.

Devapi’s decision to abandon the crown was not a rash decision, taken in a moment of sentimentality. He truly believed that because of his disease he will not be able to do full justice to the job and the kingdom and the people deserved a king who will devote all his time and energy to their welfare. And that is what Devapi told Shantanu, the ministers and the brahmanas. He told them: na rajyam arhami, tvagroga-upahatah - “I am not fit to sit on the throne, because of this terrible skin disease that is killing me.”

Shantanu could not agree with his elder brother. “The very elements want you to be king,” he told Devapi. “They cry out for you. The earth and the skies cry out for you. That is why the rains do not come. All your subjects cry out to you too. You have no choice but to listen to them.”

According to the Indian tradition, the greatest leader is one whom the very elements cry out for, whom Earth itself seeks as her ruler. The Ramayana tells us that Rama was such a leader. Dasharatha had suggested to his people that they should now have Rama as the crown prince. When the people agreed delightedly, he asked them why they wanted Rama as the crown prince. One of the several reasons given by them was that “the Earth desired him as her Lord.”

Devapi had no doubts he had taken the right decision. And yet the rains had failed. The people for whose sake he had given up the crown was now suffering. He closed his eyes and meditated upon the matter. And then he said, “The solution is that a yajna be performed to please the elements.”

Devapi does the Vedic sacrifice and everything ends wonderfully for all.

Perhaps the gods are appeased by the knowledge that Shantanu has no power hunger and it is not because of hunger for power that he sat on the throne on which his elder brother should sit.

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It is a beautiful story that illustrates ancient Indian ethos in leadership. India said repeatedly and categorically: leadership is not a privilege, it is a responsibility. A responsibility that requires total commitment. In much later days, in the fourth century BC, Chanakya would say that the king need not perform any other religious ritual than performing his duty to his people with total commitment. That was his yajna, and that was enough.

Devapi gives up position because he will not be able to perform the duties involved with total commitment. But two generations later, we have Dhritarashtra whose story tells us what happens when leaders take power as a privilege rather than as a responsibility. He too had a disability, but in his case it was not his decision to give up power. Perhaps he did not have the magnanimity to do it. Instead he had to be told by others that he was not fit to sit on the throne, because he was blind and a blind king cannot fulfil his duties to his people effectively. There is no reason to believe that Dhritarashtra was happy about this. And the moment he gets an opportunity later, he takes over power. He not only takes over power, but he wants it to go to his son after him, even though he is not fit to rule on ethical grounds. The whole tragedy of the Mahabharata happens because he refuses to part with power and hand it over to someone who can do full justice to it.

Interestingly, in a too late attempt to persuade his son Duryodhana to part with power evilly acquired, Dhritarashtra himself tells him the story of Devapi. And the story he tells is very different from the story the Brihad Devata tells us. In his version of the story, found in the Mahabharata, what happens to Devapi is what happened to him. Like him, Devapi too was deprived of power by others.

Here is Dhritarashtra’s version of the story, in Ganguli’s translation. In this story, the father of Shantanu and Devapi is Pratipa, which could have been another name for Rishishena.

“Even the eldest son may be passed over and deprived of the kingdom, and younger sons may, in consequence of their respectful behaviour to the aged, obtain the kingdom. So also, conversant with every virtue there was my father’s grandfather, king Pratipa, who was celebrated over the three worlds. Unto him, were born three sons, Of them, Devapi was the eldest, Bahlika the next and Santanu of great intelligence, who was my grandfather, was the youngest. Devapi, endued with great energy, was virtuous, truthful in speech, and ever engaged in waiting upon his father.

“But that best of kings had a skin-disease. Popular with both the citizens and the subjects of the provinces, respected by the good, and dearly loved by the young and the old, Devapi was liberal, firmly adhering to truth, engaged in the good of all creatures, and obedient to the instructions of his father as also of the Brahmanas. He was dearly loved by his brother Bahlika as also the high-souled Shantanu. Great, indeed, was the brotherly love that prevailed between him and his high-souled brothers.

“In course of time, the old and best of kings, Pratipa, caused all preparations to be made according to the scriptures for the installation of Devapi (on the throne). Indeed, the lord Pratipa caused every auspicious preparation. The installation of Devapi, however, was forbidden by the Brahmanas and all aged persons amongst the citizens and the inhabitants of the provinces. Hearing that the installation of his son was forbidden, the voice of the old king became choked with tears and he began to grieve for his son.

“Thus, though Devapi was liberal, virtuous, devoted to truth, and loved by the subjects, yet in consequence of his skin-disease, he was excluded from his inheritance. The gods do not approve of a king that is defective of a limb. Thinking of this, those bulls among Brahmanas forbade king Pratipa to install his eldest son. Devapi then, who was defective of one limb, beholding the king (his father) prevented (from installing him on the throne) and filled with sorrow on his account, retired into the woods. As regards Bahlika, abandoning his (paternal) kingdom he dwelt with his maternal uncle. Abandoning his father and brother, he obtained the highly wealthy kingdom of his maternal grandfather. With Bahlika’s permission, Shantanu of worldwide fame, on the death of his father (Pratipa), became king of Kuru Kingdom.”

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One of the highest examples in leadership comes to us from the Ramayana. Bharata, though the kingdom was his according to a promise given by Dasharatha to his maternal grandfather at the time of Dasharatha’s marriage to Bharata’s mother Kaikeyi, refuses to accept it even when it is forced upon him by his mother, considering Rama the rightful and more competent ruler. Eventually he agrees to look after the kingdom on Rama’s behalf until he returns from forest after fourteen years. And Bharata, without enjoying any of the privileges that comes with power, rules the kingdom for fourteen years. It is said that Rama on his return found the kingdom nine times richer than when he had left it. Bharata was not an incompetent ruler by any standards!

The Indian perception of leadership as a responsibility rather than a privilege is an invaluable insight that the world filled with power greed desperately needs today. Corruption begins the moment a leader considers leadership as a privilege, and corruption ends when leaders treat leadership as a sacred responsibility. This lesson has great relevance in today’s political world. It has equal relevance in today’s business and industry too, where greed for power is unfortunately universal, causing great damage to the organizations as well as to the society and the nation at large.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Leadership Tales: The King Monkey


Ancient Indian leadership ethos say that living for his people is what makes one a great leader. Living for them, and if necessary, being ready to die for them.

Once upon a time there lived a large troop of monkeys in a forest. The leader of the troop was Mahakapi, a large monkey, strong and wise, and under his leadership the monkeys lived in great prosperity and security. The leader was well known for his love for his monkeys and care for them. He constantly thought of their welfare and how to safeguard them from dangers that might be waiting for them unawares.

The troop of monkeys had made a huge tree next to a towering mountain cliff their home. Beneath the tree that looked like another mighty mountain flowed a brook that that sang as it rushed downstream and, beyond the mountain and the forest, became a quiet river of crystal water.

As spring came, blossoms appeared on the mighty tree and soon the blossoms turned into young fruits. The whole forest was filled with the fragrance of the blossoms and as the monkeys breathed in the air scented with the perfume of fresh blossoms, it intoxicated them.

Soon the fruits were edible and the monkeys began to pluck them and eat them with relish. They were delicious even when they were green and how delicious they would be when they turned ripe! “What a wonderful feast this would make to my troop then,” thought Mahakapi, watching the monkeys eating the fruits.

He was sitting quietly and watching the monkeys enjoying themselves on a huge branch of the tree that hung over the river. They were jumping from one small branch to another, swinging from twigs, and doing all kind of things that monkeys loved to do. Some were leaping down into the river, some swimming back to climb back to the tree. Monkeys chased monkeys everywhere, shrieking in wild glee. Life was pleasant. Everything was wonderful.

And then a sudden thought flashed through the mind of the leader monkey. In a flash Mahakapi saw a terrifying picture. In the picture, hundreds of his monkeys were lying dead, bathed in blood. Dead bodies were floating in their dozens down the river. Terrorized monkeys were running everywhere, screaming in agony.

The future! The fruits on the branch overhanging the river were going to be the death of his troop! No, he couldn’t allow that.

There was deep concern in Mahakapi’s mind, but he was not one to show his worries to his followers. He knew any sign of the slightest fear in him would send rings of alarm through the whole troop and they would go crazy with terror. There is nothing that a troop of terror-stricken monkeys wouldn’t do. Monkeys are wild by nature and always it was only a thin line that separated them from insanity. Aggression was in their very nature. And in terror every monkey became concerned with only one thing: self-preservation. And once that urge took over, they could do anything, including tear one another apart.

In any case the danger was not immediate.

The leader asked his monkeys to eat up all the fruits on the overhanging branch. “Eat as many of them as you can. But make sure not one fruit falls into the brook. And destroy every remaining one, taking care again that none falls into the brook. A single fruit left on that branch could be our death. A single fruit falling into the stream could spell our death.”

The monkeys could make no sense of what he was saying. Destroy all these delicious fruits! And what would happen if a fruit fell into the river? How could it be their death?

But they trusted their leader. He had proved himself wiser than all of them put together. They knew he could see into the future, whereas they missed even what was happening before their eyes. And his love for them and commitment to their welfare were beyond questioning.

The monkeys ate from the branch as many of the fruits as they could. The remaining ones were destroyed as ordered by Mahakapi, taking care none fell into the brook.

Unknown to them, though, a single fruit escaped the destruction. It was hidden inside a nest of ants and the monkeys missed it. When it was tiny, ants had made a nest around it and protected by the nest, the fruit had grown inside it.

And then what the leader feared happened. Exactly as he had feared it would happen.

Over time, the fruit ripened and one day when a light wind blew it fell into the river.

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Beyond the jungle began the outskirts of a city through the heart of which flowed the river. The little brook under the mighty tree in the jungle had become a river by the time it left the mountains and the jungles and reached the plains that made the city. The city was the capital of the kingdom that included the mountains and the forest and vast areas beyond them. The palace of the king was close to the river.

The king and the queens were bathing and sporting in the river when the fruit came floating down. Such was the fragrance of the fruit that it intoxicated the queens instantly. The queens left their sports and there was a race towards the fruit. One of them caught the fruit. She presented it to the king, who took it to the palace with him when their sports and bath were over and they went back.

The fruit was cut and the whole palace was filled with its mouthwatering scent. The king and the queens enjoyed the fruit and they felt the royal meals they had every day was no match to it. They had eaten nothing that tasted so good, nor smelt anything so wonderful. Where could the fruit have come from?

The king decided to go and find out. He was fond of adventures and this would be a new adventure. Such a divine fruit grew in his kingdom and he had no idea of it! No, that had to be rectified. He would locate the tree and when he found it, he was going to declare this fruit a national treasure. Such a wonderful fruit deserved to be a national treasure.

The king took a team of soldiers with him and began the exploration. Crossing the city bounds he entered the jungle and travelled for many days across the thick jungle inhabited by all kinds of wild animals. As he faced the challenges of the jungle and encountered its threats, the king felt he was growing younger. Perhaps the fruit was an omen – an omen of something wonderful going to happen to him. The king felt charged now. Lions, tigers, bears, wolves, nothing scared him anymore. Nor did the sharp thorns and thick vines of the impenetrable forest trouble him.

The river kept growing smaller and eventually became a brook as they began approaching the mountain.

The king smelt the tree long before he came to it. The whole area for miles was filled with the intoxication that was the fragrance of its fruits.

As the king came near, sounds of wild celebrations filled him and his team of soldiers.

And then they saw the tree. A huge tree, as tall as the mountain, its leaves dark green, dominating everything in the surroundings, excepting the mountain. In size and majesty it seemed to vie with the mountain. And the wonderful fruits hung everywhere on the tree – hundreds and hundreds of delicious fruits.

The noise came from the monkeys! There seemed to be a hundred of them on the tree. Maybe, several hundreds! They were swinging from the branches with their tails, chasing one antoher, shrieking and attacking one another in mock fury, only to retreat at the last moment.

Beneath the tree were fruits fallen from the tree. Ripe, golden fruits. Many of them whole and complete, others half eaten by the monkeys.

All on a sudden, a fury filled the king. Such wonderful fruits and monkeys were eating them. Not only eating them, spoiling them too. A national treasure – that is what the fruits were, and the monkeys seemed to have no regard for them. They were treating them like any other fruit.

“Shoot the monkeys down!” ordered the angry king. “Shoot them all down, every one of them!”

Arrows fled everywhere. The king’s soldiers were good. Their arrows never missed. Monkeys started falling down dead everywhere. Many on land, many in the river.

The vision Mahakapi had seen was unfolding before his eyes with terrifying reality. So suddenly that even he did not get time to save his monkeys.

Mahakapi looked around. Soldiers had surrounded the tree and there was no escape.

He had failed his people!

His entire troop was going to be wiped out!

It took a moment for him to make up his mind. A plan took shape in his mind. Then he leapt from the tall branch on which he was sitting. Leapt as no other monkey could leap.
And landed on a bunch of bamboos far away, beyond the clearing around the mighty tree.

There was no escape for the monkeys through the ground. Soldiers stood everywhere, shooting down every monkey in sight. But if they could reach the bamboo bush there was a chance that they might escape to the mountain beyond. The bamboo bush was beyond their reach, true, none of them could leap as far as that, but . . . if only . . .

With all his might, Mahakapi started swaying the bamboo on which he had landed. It was the tallest bamboo in the bush, taller than all others, and stood closest to the tree.

He wanted to make this bamboo a bridge between the fruit tree and the bamboo bush. But no! It was not long enough to reach the tree!

Mahakapi climbed to the tip of the bamboo, as far as he could climb, and began swaying the bamboo wildly. The soldiers noticed what was happening and puzzled, stopped shooting. The king too stood watching it all.

As the bamboo came near the tree, Mahakapi held on to it with his feet as tightly as he could and stretched out his arms. There! He had caught hold of a small branch of three. He shrieked his instructions to the other monkeys and they understood. The whole horde of them ran in his direction from wherever they were on the tree. A bridge had been formed. Part by the bamboo and part by Mahakapi’s body. Monkeys rushed across his body onto the bamboo and away.

Scores of monkeys! Hundreds of monkeys! All in breathless desperation to escape death.

And the bamboo was pulling him away from the tree as it tried to straighten up again.

Mahakapi felt his body being pulled apart. All his ligaments were breaking. And there was blood everywhere, caused by the sharp toenails of the monkeys as they ran across his body frantically.

The soldiers took aim at Mahakapi. Shoot him down and the escape route will be closed. That would be the death of the monkeys.

“Stop!” shouted the king. “Don’t shoot!”

The soldiers lowered their bows and loosened their grip on the bowstrings.

The king stood watching the miracle unfolding before him. He had never seen such a sight. The leader monkey was sacrificing his life to save his people! He held on tightly to the bamboo with his feet and to the fruit tree with his hands, while blood oozed from every part of his body. What a wonderful sight!

Sudden tears welled up in the eyes of the king. He too was a leader of his people. But would he have done what the monkey king was doing?

The king ordered the soldiers to hold a net under the king monkey. Then he ordered his men to cut down with arrows both the branch of the tree which Mahakapi was holding on to and the bamboo. “Cut down both in the same instant,” he ordered.

Mahakapi fell into the net unconscious.

When he came to, he was surrounded by the king and his solders. Other monkeys were watching them from the safety of the bamboos. The solders had applied balms to his broken body and slowly life was returning to him.

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When Mahakapi recovered somewhat, the king asked him, “Why did you do it? Why did you risk your own life to save the other monkeys?”

“I am their leader,” answered Mahakapi. “Putreshu iva eteshu avabaddha-haardah.” “I am bound to them in my heart as though they are my own sons.”

“But it is the duty of the ministers and others to serve the king, and not the other way round. He is the master, not they. Isn’t that so?”

Adhipaartham amaatyaadi, na tadartham maheepatih.

Mahakapi’s answer to this is an important lesson to every leader at all times. He said: “That is what the science of politics ordinarily says. But that is not my way. I cannot do that.”

“As for me,” says Mahakapi, “even death in serving my people is a pleasure. They have served me all their life, and now when I serve them, I am doing no more than paying a debt back to them and becoming free of that debt [poorvopakaara-anrnataa].

“Yugyam balam jaanapadaan amaatyaan
Pauraan anaathaan shramanaan dvijaateen
Sarvaan sukhena prayateta yoktum
Hitaanukoolena piteva raajaa.”


“It is the duty of a king to work constantly to make his horses, army, citizens, ministers, common subjects, orphans, bhikshus, brahmanas, and all others happy as a father tries to make his children happy.”

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This has been the Indian leadership ideal throughout time. The king looks upon his subjects as a father looks upon his children. The leader looks after his people as a father looks after his children. And does everything he can to protect them, to make their lives meaningful and happy. And, if it calls for that, sacrifices himself in the call of his duty.

Another role model Indian culture sets up before the leader is that of a pregnant woman. Just as she lives day and night for the baby in her womb, forgetting all her self-interests, so should a leader look after the interests of his people forgetting his own self-interests, says the Mahabharata, speaking of the leadership ideal.

Yatha hi garbhinee hitvaa svam priyam manaso’nugam
Garbhasya hitam aadhatte tathaa rajnaapyasamshayam
Vartitavyam kurushreshtha sadaa dharmaanuvartinaa
Svam priyam tu parityajya yat lokahitam bhavet.


It is for this reason that Chanakya says in the Arthashastra: “To a king, the religious vow is his readiness to action; satisfactory discharge of duties is his performance of sacrifice; equal attention to all is the offer of fees. In the happiness of his subjects lies his happiness; in their welfare his welfare; whatever pleases himself he shall not consider as good, but whatever pleases his subjects he shall consider as good.”

Performance of his duty to his people is the highest religion of a leader. He does not need any other religious practice.

The Indian word for duty and religion are one: dharma.

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Note: This story is a retelling of the Mahakapi Jataka, one of the hundreds of Jataka tales, all dealing with the previous lifetimes of the Buddha, in each of which he sacrifices himself for others. It is these sacrifices lifetime after lifetime that eventually gives him birth as Gautama Siddhartha who becomes the Buddha. The Sanskrit quotations are from the text of Bodhisattva-Avadhana-Mala of Aryasura. My translations/free renderings into English.

Humility, Power and the Mystic Experience


What does one feel in the moment of the highest experience – a sense of humility or a sense of power?

Let’s look at how some people express their experience. Here is one such experience.

“The world was infinitely beautiful, full of light as if from an inner radiance. Everything was alive and God was present in all things; in fact, the earth, all plants, and animals and people seemed to be made of God. All things were one, and I was one with all creation and held safe within a deep love. I was filled with peace and joy and with deep humility, and could only bow down in the holiness of the presence of God . . . if anyone had brought news that any member of my family had died, I should have laughed and said, “There is no death’. It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes and I saw the world as it truly was. How had I lived for thirty-three years and been so blind? This was the secret of the world, yet it all seemed so obvious and natural that I had no idea that I should not always see it so. I felt like going round and telling everyone that all things were one and that knowledge of this would cure all ills . . .” [From the Religious Experiences Research Unit of Oxford]

It is deep humility that the person feels during the experience. “I was filled with peace and joy and with deep humility, and could only bow down in the holiness of the presence of God,” says he.

But is it always this humility that a person feels in his moment of peak experience?

Let us listen to the words of the ancient Vedic seer Vak Ambhrini, one of the oldest mystic women to give expression to her experiences in words, and also one of the world’s oldest female poets. Her hymn, called by different names such as the Vak Sukta and the Atma Sukta, is one of the most powerful expressions of the nature of the Self in world literature. It shakes us with its awesome energy and vigour. Vak Ambhrini says:

I move with the Rudras and also with the Vasus. I wander with the Adityas and the Vishwadevas. I hold aloft both Mitra and Varuna, and also Indra and Agni and the twin Ashvins.[all Vedic gods]

I uphold Soma the exuberant; I uphold Tvasta, Pushan, and Bhaga. [Vedic Gods] I endow with wealth the offerer of oblation, the worshipper and the pious presser of the Soma.

I am the ruling Queen, the amasser of treasures, full of wisdom, first of those who are worthy of worship. That me the Gods have installed in all places, with many homes for me to enter and dwell in.

Through me alone all eat the food that helps them see, breathe and hear the spoken word. He is not aware of me, yet he dwells in me alone. Listen, you who know! For, the words I speak to you deserve your trust.

It is I who announces the tidings that the gods and men alike rejoice to hear. The man I love, I make mighty in strength. I make him a priest, a sage, or a learned scholar, as I please.

I bend the bow for Rudra that his arrow may slay the hater of the words of sacred wisdom. I rouse the people, and make them strive. I have entered the Earth and Heaven, filling everything.

I give birth to the creator in the heavens atop the world and my own origin is deep in the ocean, in the cosmic waters. From there I permeate all existing worlds, and even touch yonder heavens with my forehead.

It is my breath that blows as the mighty wind, while I hold together all the worlds.
Beyond the heavens and above the earth I tower, such am I in my might and splendour.

[My translation, with heavy borrowings from Griffith and from another old translation whose author I do not know; aided by the Hindi translation of the Rig Veda by Dr Ganga Sahay Sharma and a brief commentary on the Sukta by Swami Akhandananda Saraswati]

As we can see, there is no humility here. What Vak Ambhrini feels is not humbleness but power – awesome, unbelievable, amazing power. “I am the ruling Queen [of the universe],” she says. “I am full of wisdom” she adds, and “first of those who are worthy of worship.” Vak Ambhrini sees herself as the one who holds together all the worlds, towering beyond the heavens and the earth. She says she gives birth to the creator in the heavens atop the world. To her, such is her might and her splendour.
We find this same sense of power rather than humility in words of Trishanku after he has had his spiritual experience in the Taittiriya Upanishad: aham vrikshasya reriva, keertih prshtham gireriva . . . I am the nourisher of the vegetable kingdom, my fame is spread like the wide base of a mountain . . .

Nehru, in his Discovery of India, notes this lack of humility in the words of the ancient mystics of India. He says, “There is no humility about all this quest, the humility before an all-powerful deity, so often associated with religion. It is the triumph of mind over the environment. “My body will be reduced to ashes and my breath will join the restless and deathless air, but not I and my deeds. O mind, remember this always, remember this.” In the morning prayer, the sun is addressed thus, “O sun of refulgent glory, I am the same person as makes thee what you art!” What superb confidence!”

That is how the ancient seers of India felt in their moments of highest experience. The Shambhala tradition of Tibet speaks about the path of the four dignities for a sadhaka to tread, one of which is that of meekness or humility. And the symbol, the analogy, for humility in the Shambhala tradition is the Himalayan tiger! A tiger in its prime, who moves slowly and heedfully through the jungle, mindfully, relaxed, liking his body and his bounciness and sense of rhythm, explains the tradition. How can a tiger be the symbol for humility? That too, a tiger in the prime of his youth, moving heedlessly and majestically through the Himalayan forest?

“Meekness is not being feeble, but resting in a state of simplicity, being uncomplicated and approachable. It is being true and genuine, being completely comfortable with yourself and at ease in the world,” explains the Shambhala tradition.

The same experience fills one with humility and another with power. Perhaps the experience is the same, and only its expression varies.

For while experiencing it, one is at a dimension beyond the mind and all that the mind has learnt from society, from culture and so on. But while expressing it, one comes down to the level of the mind, and then the culture and so on interfere.

And cultures differ in their attitude towards the divine. Certain cultures teacher humility before the divine, others identity with it, and the sense of power that arises from that identity.

The Indian culture teaches us the truth in such words as aham brahmasmi – I am Brahman. And experiencing this identity with the All is expressed by the Indian mind in terms of power while many other cultures express it as humility.

Krishna repeatedly speaks of himself in the Gita as the power behind the universe. A mystic of recent times, Nisargadatta Maharaj, put it this way: The world is my garden and God is my gardener.

Perhaps the right way to look at is that the moment one climbs down from the experience, differences begin.

In any case, one must not forget that this is not a matter for discussion, but for experiencing. Certain things are not meant for theorising, but for exploring and experiencing.

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The Mystic Experience and Spontaneity


















In my blog posting Yatra Yatra Mano Yati: Sri Ramakrishna, Krishnamurti and Samadhi, I wrote about the mystic experiences of both Sri Ramakrishna and J Krishnamurti. Here is one of the experiences of Krishnamurti that I had quoted in the article from his Notebooks:

“She was carrying a large basket on her head, holding it in place with one hand; it must have been quite heavy, but the swing of her walk was not altered by the weight. She was beautifully poised, her walk easy and rhythmical. On her arm were large metal bangles which made a slight tinkling sound, and on her feet were old, worn-out sandals. Her sari was torn and dirty with long use. She generally had several companions with her, all of them carrying baskets, but that morning she was alone on the rough road. The sun wasn't too hot yet and high up in the blue sky some vultures were moving in wide circles without a flutter of their wings. The river ran silently by the road.


“It was a very peaceful morning, and that solitary woman with the large basket on her head seemed to be the focus of beauty and grace; all things seemed to be pointing to her and accepting her as part of their own being. She was not a separate entity but part of you and me, and of that tamarind tree. She wasn't walking in front of me, but I was walking with that basket on my head. It wasn't an illusion, a thought-out, wished-for, and cultivated identification, which would be ugly beyond measure, but an experience that was natural and immediate. The few steps that separated us had vanished; time, memory, and the wide distance that thought breeds, had totally disappeared. There was only that woman, not I looking at her.”

I was today amazed to read another mystic experience that closely parallels the experience of Krishnamurti. This is taken from the annals of RERU, Religious Experience Research Unit of Oxford. The experience of an unnamed person and it happened spontaneously.

“I was sitting on a low wall on the outskirts of the town of Chittagong. Across the road was a wayside teashop stall, with the proprietor in full view serving two customers. The branches of two small trees next to the stall waved in the moderately strong breeze and the sun shone with some glare on the white dusty road, along which came some fishermen with baskets of fish on their heads. From the second storey of a nearby building I could hear a nautch tune. Then, as the fishermen came abreast of me, one fish still alive, flapped up and seemed to stand on its tail and bow. I felt great compassion for the fish.

“Suddenly everything was transformed, transfigured, translated, transcended. All was fused into one. I was the fish. The sun sang and road sang. The music shone. The hands of the stall-keeper danced. All in time with the same music. They were the music and I was the music and I was the fish, the fisherman, the hands of the stall-keeper, the trees, the branches, the road, the sun, the music; all one and nothing separate. Not parts of the one, but the one itself.”

I find it difficult to believe this is not an experience of Krishnamurti. It is so close to his experiences, repeatedly recounted in his Notebooks.

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Incidentally, it is not necessary that these experiences happen after long preparations and years of meditations. They can happen spontaneously, as in the case of the person who has this experience in the outskirts of Chittagong. The mystic experience happens as frequently as a spontaneous experience as in the ripeness of preparation. For, what it requires is the right kind of mind. If that mind is there spontaneously, then it can happen spontaneously.

As I wrote in another short article called “The Great Way of the Heart”, spirituality is something to be cultivated through the silence of the heart, through stillness, through joy and celebration, through the awe one feels for existence, through trust, through love and through waiting.

And whenever the heart is ready, it happens. It can happen to us while we are overpowered by the glory of a sunset, the silence of a night, the beauty of the moon, or the splendour of a mountain or the power of the ocean. It can happen to us on a leisurely evening walk. Or while sitting quietly under a tree. Or in our own room.

As the Katha Upanishad says, it is not something we make happen to ourselves, but something that happens by itself. We never choose it, we are chosen by it: yam eva esha vrnute tena labhyah, tasya esha aatmaa vivrnute tanum svaam:

That choice – swayamvara – is made by the Self. And the Self chooses only the one who has silence in his heart, stillness, joy and celebration; only the one whose heart is filled with awe, with trust, with love and with waiting. Into such hearts, the Self descends. In such hearts, the Self reveals itself.

The unknown author of the following passage was in his room when it happened to him. He had been passing through a dark period and then one day a feeling of surrender overcame him – born of helplessness. He said to himself. “I can do no more. Let nature, or whatever is behind the universe, look after me now.” And let go of himself and then it happened.

“The world was infinitely beautiful, full of light as if from an inner radiance. Everything was alive and God was present in all things; in fact, the earth, all plants, and animals and people seemed to be made of God. All things were one, and I was one with all creation and held safe within a deep love. I was filled with peace and joy and with deep humility, and could only bow down in the holiness of the presence of God. . . if anyone had brought news that any member of my family had died, I should have laughed and said “There is no death’. It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes and I saw the world as it truly was. How had I lived for thirty-three years and been so blind? This was the secret of the world, yet it all seemed so obvious and natural that I had no idea that I should not always see it so. I felt like going round and telling everyone that all things were one and that knowledge of this would cure all ills . . .”

Ishaavaasyam idam sarvam, says the Ishavasya Upanishad: Everything, is enveloped in God, all this is nothing but God. And that precisely is what the person narrating his experience experiences spontaneously in his moment of letting go.

Surrendering of the human will is the final suicidal act of the ego, the limited self. When that happens, miracles begin happening. Then the true nature of the world and of the self is revealed for the first time.

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Sunday, July 11, 2010

The Great Way of the Heart


I read something tremendously beautiful this morning in Osho’s The Discipline of Transcendence, Vol. 1. The book is published in four volumes and is a commentary given by Osho in Pune in 1976 on forty-two sutras by the Buddha. The original book is called The Sutra of Forty-two Chapters and, unlike most other books on the teachings of the Buddha, this has never existed in India – neither in Sanskrit, nor in Pali or any other language. Tradition tells us that in response to a request from Emperor Ming of the Han dynasty in AD 67, a small group of Buddhist monks went to China and there made a short anthology of Buddha’s sayings as a first introduction of the great master’s teachings to the Chinese people.

Buddhism is commonly understood as a religion of the head as against the religion of the heart or faith. However, the sutra that is commented upon below tells us how wrong the notion is. As the Upanishads say, spirituality is not for the head at all. Naayam aatmaa pravachanena labhyah, na medhaya, na bahuna shrutena: “This Self cannot be attained through discourses, not through the intellect, nor by lots of learning.”

Spirituality is something to be cultivated through the silence of the heart, through stillness, through joy and celebration, through the awe one feels for existence, through trust, through love and through waiting.

The Katha Upanishad mantra which says naayam aatmaa pravachanena labhyah, also says later in the same mantra: yam eva esha vrnute tena labhyah, tasya esha aatmaa vivrnute tanum svaam: It is to be attained only by the one whom it chooses. To him this Self reveals its body.

That choice – swayamvara – is made by the Self. And the Self chooses only the one who has silence in his heart, stillness, joy and celebration; only the one whose heart is filled with awe, with trust, with love and with waiting. Into such hearts, the Self descends. In such hearts, the Self reveals itself.

Here is the sutra along with very short excerpts from Osho’s detailed commentary on it.

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“IF YOU ENDEAVOUR TO EMBRACE THE WAY THROUGH MUCH LEARNING, THE WAY WILL NOT BE UNDERSTOOD. IF YOU OBSERVE THE WAY WITH SIMPLICITY OF HEART, GREAT INDEED IS THIS WAY.”

Life is very simple. Just sometimes put your head away, sometimes behead yourself, sometimes look with no clouds in the eyes—just look. Sometimes sit by the side of a tree—just feel. By the side of a waterfall—listen. Lie down on the beach and listen to the roar of the ocean, feel the sand, the coolness of it, or look at the stars, and let that silence penetrate you. Or look at the dark night and let that velvety darkness surround you, envelop you, dissolve you. This is the way of the simple heart.

If you approach life through this simplicity you will become wise. You may not know the Veda, you may not know the Bible, you may not know the Gita, but you will come to know the real song of life—and that is where the real Gita is, the real song is. You may not know the Veda, but you will come to know the real Veda—that which is written by God himself.

This life is his book, this life is his Bible, this life is his Koran. Recite it! Recite this life. Sing it, dance it, be in love with it—and by and by you will know what the Way is, because by and by you will become more and more happy. The more happy you become, the more you are acquainted with the Way, the right Way. And whenever a step goes out of line, immediately you feel pain.

Pain is an indication that you have missed the Law, and happiness is an indication that you have been in harmony. Happiness is a by-product. If you go in accordance with the Law you are happy. Unhappiness is an accident. It simply shows you have gone far away from the Law.

Make happiness and unhappiness your criterion. The path is: become simple, trust more, doubt a little less. If you really want to doubt, doubt doubt, that’s all. Doubt doubt; trust trust—and you will never miss.

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Saturday, July 10, 2010

Personality, Individuality, Ego and Self


Given below are excerpts from Osho’s spontaneous response to a question one of his disciples asked him about Personality, Individuality, Ego and Self.

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Q. JESUS AND BUDDHA WERE CERTAINLY INDIVIDUALS. CANNOT THEIR INDIVIDUALITY AND ITS EXPRESSION BE CALLED PERSONALITY? YOU TOO, IT COULD BE SAID, HAVE A PERSONALITY, YET NOT AN EGO. PLEASE CLARIFY THE CONCEPTS OF PERSONALITY, EGO, INDIVIDUALITY, AND SELF.

OSHO:

THE FIRST THING to be understood is about the words ‘individuality’ and ‘personality’. ‘Individuality’ means one who is indivisible, one who has become a unity, one who is no more divided. It is a beautiful word. In this sense, Buddha, Jesus, Zarathustra, can be called individuals—in this root meaning of the word, not the way you use it.

Your use of ‘individuality’ is almost a synonym for ‘personality’. ‘Personality’ has different orientations. It comes from Greek drama. In Greek drama the actors used to have ‘personas’, masks. They would be hiding behind the mask. You could not have seen their faces, you could have only heard their voice. ‘Sona’ means sound. ‘Persona’ means you can have a contact only with their sounds, not with their faces. They are hiding somewhere. From that comes the word ‘personality’.

In that sense Buddha, Jesus, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu, have no personalities. They are just there in front of you, not hiding anything. They are naked, confronting you in their absolute purity. There is nothing to hide. You can see them through and through, they are transparent beings.

So you cannot say rightly that they have personalities or that they are persons. They are individuals, but remember the meaning of the word—they cannot be divided. They don’t have fragments. They are not a crowd. They are not polypsychic. They don’t have many minds. Their manyness has disappeared and they have become one, and their oneness is such that there is no way to divide it. No sword can cut them in two. Their indivisibility is ultimate.

In that sense you can call them individuals. But it is dangerous. Because this oneness comes only when the many is lost. When the many is lost how can you say even that one is one? Because one can be called meaningfully one only when the possibility for many exists. But the very possibility has disappeared.

That’s why in India we call God advaita, non-dual. We could have called him one, but we have resisted that temptation. We have never called him one, because the moment that you call something one, the two has entered—because one cannot exist without the two, the three, the four. One is meaningful only in a series. One is meaningful only in a hierarchy.

If really one has become one, how can you call him one? The word loses meaning. You can call him only not-many; you can call him non-dual, advaita, not two. But you cannot call him one. Not-two is beautiful. It simply says that the twoness, the manyness, has disappeared. It does not say what has appeared, it simply says what has disappeared. It is a negative term.

Anything that can be said about the ultimate truth has to be negative. We can say what god is not, we cannot say what he is. Because to say what he is, we define him. Every definition is a limitation. Once god is defined he is no more infinite, he becomes finite.

So in a way you can call Buddha an individual, but it will be better to resist the temptation. He is certainly not a person, he has no personality, but to call him individual is also not right—better than calling him a person, but still not perfect. He is not a person, he is not an individual—because he is not.

The very idea of his being has disappeared. He is just a vast emptiness. He is space. He has no boundaries now.

Somebody becomes an individual only when he has become infinite. It will look paradoxical, but let me say it: somebody becomes individual only when he has become universal, when he is one with the whole. Then somebody is an individual. But then to call him an individual will be stretching the meaning of the word too far. It will be a little too outlandish. It is better to call Buddha a nobody—neither a person nor an individual. All those things have been left far behind. He has transcended all limitations.

The question is from Prem Divya. She asks, PLEASE CLARIFY THE CONCEPTS OF PERSONALITY, EGO, INDIVIDUALITY AND SELF.

Personality and ego are two aspects of the same coin, just as individuality and self are two aspects of the same coin. The personality has a center—that center is called the ego. Because personality itself is false, the center is also false, because a false circumference cannot have a real center and a real center cannot have a false circumference.

Personality is unreal. Personality is that which you pretend to be, but you are not. Personality is that which you show, but you are not. Personality is your exhibition, not your reality. Personality is that which you create around yourself a fiction to deceive—but you are not. This personality has a false center, as false as it is itself. That false center is the ego. When you drop personality, ego disappears. Or you drop the ego and the personality collapses to the ground, to the dust.

Remember not to pretend that which you are not, otherwise you will never be able to drop the ego. Then you go on feeding the ego. Never try to look in any way different than you are. Whatsoever the cost, be true to yourself. Don’t try to decorate it, to clothe it in manners, etiquettes, a thousand and one falsities. Be naked as you are. Let people feel your real pulse, and you will not be at loss.

In the beginning you may see that you are getting into trouble, but soon you will find that you are never at a loss. With reality nobody ever loses. With unreality you only think you are gaining, you go on losing. That’s how many people destroy their whole life—by being unreal—and then they say that they are not happy. How can an unreal person be happy?

It is as if you have put stones in the soil instead of seeds and you are waiting, you are waiting for them to sprout and bloom and fill your life with flowers and fruits. It is impossible—those stones cannot grow. Those stones are not seeds of something, they don’t have any potentiality. They may look like seeds, you may have coloured them in such a way, you may have painted them in such a way that they look like seeds, but they are not seeds, they cannot grow.

The ego cannot grow. It is dead, a false entity. It is not alive. You can go on and on living with it, but your whole life will become like a desert... empty. No fulfillment, no contentment, no bliss will ever knock at your door.

You can wait for eternity, nobody will ever come. Because in the very beginning you missed something—something very essential and basic. Only you can grow, not the pretensions.

I told you the word ‘personality’ comes from ‘persona’. If you have a mask, the mask will not grow. You will grow. You may have put the mask on your face when you were a child, now you may be a young man—but the mask will remain the same... a dirty old thing, rotten. It will simply rot, it cannot grow. You will be growing behind it, and it will give you many pains because it will be a confinement. It cannot grow and you are growing. It is as if you are still wearing your childhood clothes. You are growing and those clothes are not growing, so they have become a bondage. They don’t give you freedom, they confine you, they crush you. You feel continuously a pressure, a tension, an anguish.

You can try it. You can wear shoes which are smaller than for your feet, and walk—and you will know what is happening to millions of people. Their personalities are too small and their being is growing. Try to walk with shoes two sizes too small....

Look at the faces of people—their agony and anguish is written so clear. They are broadcasting nothing else but their agony and their anguish. And the problem is they are wearing a dead mask, a personality, which cannot grow with them. Of course it is always lagging behind. It cannot grow. They are growing continuously and it becomes a dead weight.

Remember, with the false you will be crushed. Never keep company with the false. If you really want to grow into a blooming being, if you really want to give freedom to your being, never keep company with the false. Be true, whatsoever the cost. I repeat again: in the beginning it may seem that these pretensions are very good. They are not. Your mind is deceiving you.

And if you try to keep company with the true, ego will disappear on its own accord. Otherwise it goes on finding new ways, new methods to feed itself.

People go on keeping their etiquette, their mannerisms, their falsities, their pretensions, even in such situations where it is unimaginable.

I know one man whose house was on fire, but the first thing that he did running out of the house was to tie his tie. The house is on fire and he could not run out of it without his tie. The personality becomes so clinging to you and you become so clinging to it.

I have heard about a great professor who was so polite that even when he was angry he would be polite—even in the expression of his anger. One day he was so angry with a student that he was boiling hot, and he said, ‘Please go to hell!’... Please go to hell?

Just watch yourself. Personality is the father of the ego. If you drop personality you will find the ego has died on its own accord.

The ego is the child of the personality. Many people would like to drop the ego, but they don’t understand the inner connection. They would like to drop the ego because it gives so much misery. It continuously hurts, it is like a wound. It never allows you any rest, it always keeps you restless. It is a disease. Many people by and by start feeling that it is better if they can get rid of the ego, but they never think that this is the child of the personality. If you want to get rid of the ego, you will have to drop your personality.

That’s why Buddha left the palace—because it was impossible to drop the personality and still be a prince. Mahavira became naked, he dropped even his clothes—he was one of the most courageous men the world has ever known—because he came to realize that even clothes are not for the body; they are just part of a social mannerism, just part of a social etiquette. Of course he suffered for it. He was chased out of towns—people used to throw stones at him. They thought he had gone crazy. He suffered for it, but his achievement was tremendous out of it.

Mahavira for twelve years completely dropped everything. He was the perfect dropout. Language, clothes, society, security, everything he dropped. Then by and by his innocence surfaced; all the layers of personality dropped, ego disappeared.

Remember, ego is very tricky. It is very subtle, its ways are very subtle. You drop it from one side, it comes from another. Unless you become very, very alert how it arises, how it feeds....

The ego can find food from anywhere. Whatsoever the game, I am the top. Whatsoever the game—the name of the game may be humbleness, but I am the topmost humble man. The names can be different. Always remember that whenever you start feeling that you are the topmost—maybe it is humbleness, it makes no difference; maybe it is egolessness, it makes no difference—if you think that you are the most egoless person in the world you are again in the same trap.

The ego lives on claims. The ego is competitive and personality goes on feeding it through subtle ways. Personality is the circumference of your pretensions, of your exhibitions, of your deceptions, and ego is the center. They go together, they remain together.

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Now the second couple: individuality and self. Individuality is the circumference, self is the center. They are more real than personality and ego, they are more real than the first couple, but still not ultimately real.

When personality is dropped, you become individual. When you become individual then a sense of self arises—‘I am.’ It has no claim, it is not competitive. Self is not competitive: it does not say that I am better or worse, that I am ahead or far behind. It does not compare, it is not comparative. It simply says ‘I am’. It is not relative to others. Individuality is a simple expression of whosoever you are, and a deep sense of ‘I am’.

But Buddha or Jesus cannot be even called individuals because they go a little further, where even the sense of self disappears.

The ego is comparative, very ill; the self is a little healthy, not so ill—it has no comparison with anybody—but still the very idea that ‘I am’ divides, separates from the total unity. The way of Jesus is: ‘My father and I are one.’ That is his way of saying, ‘I am not a self, my father is myself.’ You can translate it better if you say that the center of the whole is my center; then the language becomes more scientific.

Buddha is even more keen. He says simply, ‘I am not.’ Because the danger is—saying that I am god, or god is my center—the danger is that the ‘I’ may enter again from the backdoor. Buddha says, ‘I am not.’ He simply goes on dissecting the very phenomenon of ‘I’, and comes to a point where nothing is left. Just as matter disappears in the hands of the physicist, self disappears in the hands of Buddha.

I have heard:

One day an elephant went walking through the jungle. He was feeling in the pink, ready to challenge the whole world. As he walked along he met a poor little mouse with a runny nose and pink eyes.

‘Why are you not as big as I am?’ he roared.

The mouse looked up at him and said, ‘I have been very sick lately.’

Everybody, even a mouse, has his own ego. Everybody, even a religious man, has his own ego. Even while declaring, ‘I am just dust underneath your feet,’ you are gathering ego.

The ego and the personality have to be dropped, then you will find individuality arising... a feeling of uniqueness. Yes, you are unique. Everybody else is also unique. In this world only unique people exist, so comparison is just stupid, because you alone are like yourself. There is nobody like you, so how to compare?

Comparison is possible if there are many people alike, similar to each other, but this existence is so tremendously creative, so originally creative, it never repeats. It does not believe in carbon copies. It makes everybody an individual, unique. When personality is dropped you suddenly feel you are unique—but remember, you also feel everybody else is also unique. Uniqueness is a common quality of all, there is nothing to brag about. It is the universal quality of every being.

With the individuality you have a subtle center of a feeling—‘I am’. Buddha goes far beyond it. Mahavira, Krishna, Jesus, they don’t say anything beyond this. But Buddha goes to the very end of his logic. He says personality has been dropped, now drop this individuality also. The ego has been dropped, now drop this ‘I-amness’ also, this self-hood also.

Then nothing is left, then only nothing is left, and in that emptiness you become virgin, uncorrupted. Emptiness cannot be corrupted. Being is, but there is no feeling of ‘I am’.

Have you not ever come to some moments when you are, tremendously you are, but still there is no feeling of ‘I am’? Those are the moments of grandeur, grace. They happen to everybody. You may not have noticed, you may not have accepted them, you may not remember them, you may have rejected them because they seem so outlandish. They don’t fit with your life—with your life of the ego and personality. They don’t fit. They are not consistent with your routine way of life, so you drop them, you forget them. You think that they may be just the imagination, a dream.

But to everybody those moments come. I have not come across a single human being who has not in some way or other, in some moment or other, felt himself tremendously there and yet with no sense of ‘I’. Those are the moments when you feel beauty, when you feel love, when you feel wonder.

Looking at the stars in the night suddenly something disappears, suddenly an emptiness arises in you... virgin, uncorrupted, unpolluted by society, culture, civilization, religion, scripture, tradition. Again you are pure, innocent. You are. In fact, for the first time you are very substantial but with no ‘I’ anywhere. There is empty sky and the stars shining, and here you are—empty—and the stars reflecting. Two skies, both empty, meeting.

These are the religious moments—moments of prayer, beauty, wonder, awe. They come to everybody.

But remember, whenever you are a doer you are missing, because the doer carries his ego. The doer is the ego.

Whenever you are a non-doer there is a possibility you may fall into line with the whole, you may fall into harmony with the whole—what Buddha calls the way, the dhamma. You will become one with the dhamma, and suddenly a rush of bliss—it rains all around, your whole being becomes saturated with a new benediction that you have not known before.

Personality has to go. With personality goes the ego. Then individuality has also to go, and with individuality goes the self. Then nothing is left and you are at home. Gone—you have arrived.

One of Buddha’s names is tathagata. It means ‘who has gone very skilfully, disappeared very skilfully’. Gata means gone. Another of Buddha’s names is sugata—well gone, who has gone so well that you cannot find a trace behind... nothing is left, just pure innocence. Become a sugata, become a tathagata. Allow yourself to evaporate and disappear. Only then will you find who you are.

You are not you. Your very sense of ‘I’ is a confinement, a bondage, an imprisonment, a cage. When the cage disappears the whole sky is yours.

Even the sky is not your limit. You contain the sky in your inner being. You are vaster than the sky, bigger than the space.

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Courtesy: The Discipline of Transcendence, Vol. 1

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