The world exists in two dimensions: outer and inner. One is the parlor, the other the chamber; one is gross, the other subtle; one conceals, the other is concealed; one adorns, the other is adorned—such is the law of the world, such is its beauty. The world loves the veil dearly, for in the veil lies its origin, and in the veil's destruction lies its own. One might say the veil is everything in the world. Without the ornament of covering, the world's tarnished visage would stand exposed; stripped of its glittering surface, the rubble of its depths would scatter in all directions.
The thirsty deer flees toward the mirage on water; the child's heart is enchanted by the glistening false fruit—none of them look within. No one is willing to expend such effort and time. So too is our relation to this world.
We are mad for the covering, not the thing itself. We would chew upon the outer skin of the fruit and abandon its true substance within—what a terrible delusion! "I love you"—how hollow these words ring. The sweetness of some quality in you, the ripple of some emotion, the radiance of some beauty—together they have woven such an enchanted veil around you, adorned you so completely, that I have forgotten the real you and fallen in love instead with that very veil!
It is not you I love, but your shadow. My mind's eye first beheld your manifold covering before anything else. That beyond this veil exists yet another, deeper you—a surplus of being—my mind knows nothing of it, holds no acquaintance with it. How then should the mind love you, when you remain unknown and strange? To truly know you, to grow acquainted with you, one must endure such burning anguish. Who but pure gold could ever claim to possess you!
To know the true you, one must first forget this bewitching portrait of your body, this sweet, tender, smiling face. One must even bid farewell to that inner sanctum—tender with compassion and love, the mine of your affection. Nor is that all; one must entertain the very opposite thoughts. This body of yours is nothing but a mass of blood, flesh, fat, and marrow. This mind of yours is the rope of your enchantment, a terrible pull dragging you toward the world. Everything about you that appears real to crude sight is merely the consequence of matter, mere efflorescence of distortion.
Impermanence stains every atom and particle of these things. Your true self stands beyond them all. Only through such labor, only by passing through all these layers, can the inner you be known. You must imagine the beautiful as ugly, the nectar as poison, must thrust away the beloved conjured by the heart's longing, and only then reach the true you. Difficult is this work! Impossible the task!
This lies beyond the compass of my heart. And so I could not love you truly—only your surface enchanted me. Your surface is fleeting, and so too my love is fleeting. But the love of the self-realized yogi is eternal, for he has learned to see past the veil and love the thing itself. He beholds a moth with the same eye as he beholds a man, though man stands far higher in creation. He knows that though mothness and humanity differ, the soul of the moth and the soul of man are one and the same.
The garment changes, but the substance remains unchanged. The name differs, but what names bear is still one. To our eyes, the moth is nothing—a lowly creature, nothing more. Yet to the inward gaze of the yogi, it is the living form of consciousness itself, pure and luminous and free. To our eyes, the beauty of a woman's flesh blooms with such grace and charm. But to the yogi's eye, it is nothing but the organized form of fat and muscle, bone and blood. A fool's coarse glance might deem an ancient, yellowed palm-leaf manuscript fit only for burning. Yet to the scholar's eye, it is a treasure beyond price, worthy of reverence. Had the manuscripts of Nalanda University not escaped the hands of ignorant men, countless priceless texts would surely have been reduced to ash.
How much sweetness the word "beloved" pours into the heart of a lover burning with faith; how he becomes entranced at the very utterance of those syllables! We dull creatures cannot fathom such rapture. We see only the letters 'h' and 'i'—nothing more. Our religious nature has grown so buried beneath grime and corruption, the full moon of our faith has grown so pallid with eclipse, and the clear mirror of our understanding has gathered such dust and filth that the true reflection of scriptural truth no longer falls upon it.
When we read scripture now, that awakening of pure and noble understanding which should stir us to contemplate Brahman—it does not come. Instead, by some perverse fate, we become the darkest sort of atheist, no longer knowing ourselves for what we are. He who knows not himself—he is the true atheist.
When we read the Vedas now, where is that sense of Vedic consciousness that should make us call life blessed? Instead, this philosophy-seeker finds the Vedas become to me the senseless song of a laborer! What did people of that age understand from the Vedas, I cannot say—but I, I can understand nothing of such. Just as a dark cloud before the sun removes it from sight, so some impenetrable veil before the eye of my mind has shut all the doors of Vedic insight. Blessed, thrice blessed is he who pierces the veil of scripture and grasps its true essence, its real import. He is wise, he is happy. But he who cannot do this, though versed in all the scriptures, is still a fool. And he who can do this, though he has read no scriptures at all, is a true scholar. All is a matter of understanding.
Let me give you an example. There is an incident from when Chaitanya Deva was at Nilgiri.
One day Chaitanya was walking along a path when from a nearby house the sound of the Bhagavad Gita being recited—though with imperfect pronunciation—reached his ears. Following the sound, he discovered a Brahmin boy absorbed in the most earnest study of the sacred text. Tears of devotion streamed down his cheeks. His voice faltered with the intensity of his feeling. An almost celestial radiance seemed to emanate from his person. His face shone with a light like moonlight flooding the entire room. Chaitanya stood transfixed. He asked the boy, "My child, do you understand the full meaning of the verses you are reciting from the Gita? If you do understand them, why is your pronunciation so flawed? From whom did you learn the Gita? What is your guru's name?"
The Brahmin boy replied, "I have not studied the Gita with anyone. I do not understand its meaning. I only recite it as my guru has instructed." Chaitanya was even more astonished and asked, "You understand nothing of the Gita's meaning, yet what overwhelms you so that you weep in this manner?" The boy answered, "When I open the Gita and begin to recite a verse, suddenly there appears before me that blue-bodied Lord Krishna, bedecked in yellow, full of divine play and tender grace, sitting as the charioteer beside Arjuna on the great chariot, smiling at me. At the sight of my beloved Lord, I am utterly enchanted. That is why I weep and sing."
Chaitanya, amazed, touched the boy's head and said, "Child, your study of the Gita is truly fulfilled. You alone have entered the heart of the Gita, you alone have dived into its ocean. All the rest of these scholars merely bear the burden of heaps of dead words, carry the Gita in their memory like a mere task, recite it like actors playing a role. You are divine. I must bow and touch the dust of your feet!"
We too would echo Chaitanya's words. In truth, one is deeply unfortunate if, upon reading sacred texts, one does not turn one's gaze toward what those texts are meant to reveal. To look past the illusions of the veil toward the thing itself—this is the purpose of human life. To let the divine radiance within burst forth from beneath the outer covering—this is the mark of true progress. To distinguish the subtle from the gross, to determine the various realities that lie veiled within dream and matter—this is the chief endeavor of life. Yet those who would destroy the gross entirely, abandon it, and rush toward the subtle without the aid of the gross—they stumble at every step. They are the deluded. Those alone are worthy of praise who use the gross as an instrument for perceiving the subtle.
Without first awakening to the grossness of the gross, one cannot awaken to the subtlety of the subtle. Without first understanding well the relative grossness of the physical body and the subtle body, one cannot realize one's true self without their aid. The seeker gradually unveils layer upon layer, sheath after sheath, until he enters the spiritual realm. First the sheath of food, then the vital sheath, then the mental sheath, then the intellectual sheath, then the sheath of bliss—thus does the seeker pierce through ever-grosser veils until he reaches the supremely subtle Self. When he becomes absorbed in seedful meditation, the consciousness of objects begins to cease. Then does he behold the luminous form of the Divine within his own being and is filled with infinite joy.
Yet even then he cannot see him with fullness of soul. Not all the movements of his mind have ceased. And so he cannot yet wholly possess the Self. Unable to possess completely what he desires, his heart grows restless and torn. He becomes increasingly impatient in his anguish. Then he thinks…
I grasp and grasp at him in my mind, Yet grasping, I cannot hold.
I call him mine, I call him mine, Yet mine he will not be.
Looking, looking at that man, I am turning mad as I return; Fire burns within my core, And will not die.
(Gagan Harkara)
When at last his restlessness reached its uttermost pitch, he arrived at the state of unconscious cessation-absorption. All that had remained unimpeded in the state of conscious absorption now dissolved entirely in cessation-absorption. Then he stood revealed as the unveiled, indivisible, whole Brahman. This is the absolute, unsurpassable limit of subtlety.