One evening, standing by the shore, I watched the manifold play of nature and pondered. The roar of the ocean's restless waves, stretching into infinity, carried me in mere moments to a realm of incomparable grace. I saw, I thought, I was enchanted! I saw that nature, though finite, mirrors the infinite like polished glass—or perhaps what is infinite constrains itself within limits and dazzles my eyes, much as the vast ocean, for all its expanse, reveals a boundary. Like the boundless sky, the sea sprawls immeasurably, yet I could perceive only a fraction of it. I reflected that the ocean's form and my own small consciousness—both testified to one supreme awareness.
I was struck with wonder—that nature, wrought from the union of matter and consciousness, bearing infinite diversity at the Creator's hand, is itself merely the essence of that boundless, impenetrable, primordial Brahman. That day was marked in the chronicle of my life; yet what I beheld and contemplated I lack the strength to express fully to the world.
The learned tell us that this varied nature comprises the five elements—earth, water, fire, air, and ether—and is informed by the three qualities: sattvic purity, rajasic passion, and tamasic inertia. Various Western philosophers, through translation and interpretation, have explained nature in manifold terms as the combination of these elements and qualities. We, standing between East and West, ancient and modern—between matter and illusion, soul and body, theism and atheism—declare that all existence known to human understanding testifies to one great, boundless, infinite power. What is infinite appears before us in limited form, rendered comprehensible to human faculty. All that seems small, all that I perceive as finite, appears to me as merely the shadow of the infinite.
At a gross level of sight, all objects in nature seem bounded. The very word 'creation' suggests finitude. The understanding and perception of finite man are trivial; they reach a point and advance no further. Just as the eye cannot follow the sea beyond a certain horizon, so too, I suspect, man cannot grasp the infinite and therefore mistakes nature for the finite; bound by limits, by smallness, he comes to love them. Let us try to discern whether glimpses of the infinite can be found within the small and bounded realm of nature.
Let us begin with matter itself. What is matter? Western men of science have discovered that matter is an aggregate of imperishable atoms. When matter is analyzed, it yields only atoms. But what is this atom?—It is the smallest particle of matter, one that cannot be divided further; in other words, a part of matter that no human has ever beheld, or can only be conceived through the aid of imagination. No one has ever seen an atom, nor can they see one—it is something whose depths the eye cannot penetrate, something infinite. From the multitude of atoms arise mountains, kingdoms and cities, this water-blessed and fruit-laden nature clad in grain. When atoms accumulate and harden into vast mountains or strata of earth, man proves incapable even of comprehending them. Seeing a portion of a mountain or a layer of soil, he imagines the rest; never can he perceive the whole. What he has not seen, he conjures through indirect knowledge.
At the beginning of the atom lies imagination, and in its culmination and aggregate, imagination still—so limited is man's knowledge and faculty of conception. A single humble atom of nature is so vast that mankind, struggling and gasping, spins countless fanciful dreams merely to grasp and comprehend it! No one knows how many atoms exist in nature; no one knows where atoms end; nor can man accurately say how many mountains and oceans have arisen from the aggregate of atoms. What a wondrous junction between the finite and the infinite!
Drop by drop, water vapors rise from the warmth of the sun into the sky. These vapor particles condense into clouds. The gathered clouds grow heavy and shower down as rain, as cascading torrents that cool the earth. The waters of rain and stream mingle to create rivers. The rivers converge into great seas. From the assembly of tiny water droplets arise the vast oceans. Gaze upon the sea with unwinking eyes—what you perceive is but trifling, yet infinite expanses stretch behind it. Waves of infinity, rolling endlessly through time, seem thus to quench the thirst of human sight. Who knows the measure of the waters in earth's oceans, the count of their waves? None can fathom it. How marvelous the hint of infinity within the finite!
Consider time. Contemplate a single moment. Before you lies a moment—it has no breadth, no expanse—it is merely a speck. Yet this very moment is the span of life—the birth and death—of countless tiny creatures. Within this moment, infinite streams of thought flow from countless minds. This moment causes someone's birth or someone's death. A moment makes a traveler of the road into a beggar, or sets a beggar upon a throne. In a moment, devotion draws forth the name of the beloved from a worshipper's soul, shaking heaven and earth. Contemplating the glory of a moment, man loses himself. And yet a moment is the humblest of things. These moments accumulate into hours, hours into day and night, day and night into weeks—then months, then years, then ages, then centuries. Century upon century brings forth philosophy and science, poetry and history.
Who knows the age of the earth! Where does time begin—who can say? Where does time end—who can measure that? Tiny moments—bound in an endless chain from start to finish. Tiny moments—shadows of infinity. There is no instrument quite like time for revealing the infinite. To think on these things is to be astonished.
Imagine creation in its first beginning; imagine, however we must, that once there was only a single tree. What dazzling flowers adorned it, what fruits hung in its boughs. Those flowers fell in time; that tree withered and died. Yet behind it remained so many shoots. How many mature fruits, laden with seeds, fell to the earth—and from them, in time, how many trees were born. The first tree vanished somewhere into the distance, yet from that single origin forests and groves and woodlands came to cover the earth. Those forests, fulfilling their purpose in creation's design, fade away, and new forests grow again. Even if we need not imagine a single tree at the start, we understand this: one tree is the root of multitudes—from one tree the earth could become dense with forest. No one knows how many trees cover the earth, how many jungles exist. Yet even within the finite, we glimpse the infinite.
A soft breeze stirs. It refreshes our bodies; we draw in oxygen and sustain our lives. When this gentle wind becomes a violent, furious storm, we are seized with fear, and our courage flies from us. Such a storm raises endless waves upon the sea, shatters ships, crushes houses, uproots trees and mountains. Where does this mass of wind come from, where does it go? No one knows. How long ago was the air created? How much air exists upon the earth? None can fathom it. Think deeper still, and you will perceive an immense, boundless ocean of wind stretched in all directions around us.
The finite is what can be measured and bounded. The infinite is what cannot be defined or delimited. Who can determine the beginning and end of air? When we take hold of any finite substance, and reflect but a moment, we see that behind it lies an immense and infinite expanse, inseparably joined to it.
Leaving these domains of nature, let us enter the realm of consciousness. The human being is a wondrous creation of the Creator. In the human body dwell both matter and consciousness. The body is composed of five elements; the vital force and mind are endowed with three qualities. When we analyze the human being, we find in it three powers: the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. Is it possible that within this small human being, too, within these three forces, we glimpse the shadow of the infinite? Let us reflect upon this.
Evolution has taught the world that the great can emerge from the humble, and consciousness can be born from lifeless matter. Though it may strain belief that countless millions of people have descended from a single drop of blood shed by primordial man and woman, yet even one who accepts the doctrine of evolution can concede that from the blood of one woman and one man, an infinite multitude might spring forth. One person dies, and ten or twenty children survive him; those ten or twenty pass away; yet from them come hundreds, from hundreds come thousands, from thousands come millions upon millions of human beings born into the world.
Had cod not been caught in the Mediterranean Sea, within fifteen or twenty years the sea would have been filled entirely with cod. Population growth follows the same pattern. To witness the multiplication of Manu's children is to be seized with wonder. How many kinfolk have descended from a single ancestor—this becomes known only when one gathers the complete history of ancient lineages. Different clans have taken their names from the ancient sages. In each clan today there are so many people that they cannot be numbered. In the single drop of a human being's power, what an extraordinary and infinite phenomenon appears.
The power of humanity in the collective is so vast that one cannot even fathom it; and what of that power when it dwells in the individual—can one comprehend that either? In the collective, mankind, through physical force alone, shakes the earth with its oceans and continents—kingdoms rise and fall, dynasties perish and new ones emerge. Yet in the individual, is man truly insignificant? A single great soul can transform the entire world from its roots. No one can say how a person thinks, what a person does. Within each individual, what a ceaseless play of multifarious thoughts and currents ripples! No one knows. No one can master another's heart. Where does the limit of human power lie? Since time immemorial, how many people and lineages have vanished, how many have come into being, and even now, how many souls inhabit the earth—who can count them?
What power lies dormant in a single human body, no one can measure. Nature renews itself moment by moment; humanity renews itself moment by moment. Even in the heart of the most ordinary person, there seems to dwell the shadow of something extraordinary and infinite—what strength, what vigor, what thought, what knowledge, what love, what virtue—one cannot even grasp their measure. Through human thought, knowledge, and vigor, this earth with its oceans has been filled with wealth, abundance, and beauty. Land after land, city after city, kingdom after kingdom—today humanity's invincible power proclaims itself. By the labors of the human brain, how much poetry, how much philosophy, how much science has been discovered—who can tell? Through ages-long, centuries-long striving, humanity has won dominion over creation itself.
In every word spoken by a human, infinite knowledge is revealed; in every deed done, infinite power unfolds. To even contemplate a single ordinary person is to fill heart and mind with wonder. All that humans love, all that they think, all that they do—in each one of these, the infinite seems to shine forth. Great deeds, great words, small deeds, small words—all are imperishable, all are necessary. Without the smallest thing, creation's purpose remains unfulfilled. The most trivial matters, the most humble thoughts and fancies—when one dwells upon them, astonishment takes hold. The small human being is as if but a reflection of the vast infinite.
What does man think, and what does he do? However trivial the subject of his thought or the nature of his work, all of it aims toward the infinite. No one who has begun to think has ever reached the shore of thought; no one who has labored has ever completed his labor. Through love, virtue, knowledge, and faith, no one has ever stilled desire. Man is mad with love's allure—his affection began with father, mother, wife, and child, yet now he finds no satisfaction in them—he wants more, always more. Love has not quenched the thirst in his breast. He sought to gain knowledge, virtue, and wealth, but the more he gained, the more his desire burned like fire. The thirst for knowledge, the thirst for wealth, the thirst for virtue—whatever thirsts a man can conceive, none find satisfaction until death. His body cries out, his mind cries out, his senses cry out, his instincts cry out, his passions cry out; all are mad with their "Give, give, give!" When a lost man rushes toward sin, he will sink into infinite sin; when he strives toward virtue, he will chase after virtue infinitely. Day and night he is restless. Day and night he reels in terrible thirst. His want has never ceased. His thirst has never been quenched! Man is made in God's image. When I think of the thirst of man's noble nature and of his physical, mental, and spiritual radiance and power, I am overwhelmed with wonder, and it occurs to me that man is indeed made in God's image. To call man the king of creation does not fully express his nature. It seems more fitting to say that the infinite God has bound himself within man's frail form. Yet at other times, when I think of man's demonic capacities, this feeling vanishes; and I wonder, "Why do we worship him?" And whatever the truth may be, I am astounded still by man's infiniteness. In creation, darkness stands beside light, sin beside virtue—whether made by the Creator, I do not know, but this I know: if light is infinite, then darkness is infinite; if virtue is infinite, then sin is infinite. In all things lies a vast glimpse of the infinite. Billions upon billions of atoms have gathered to fashion this earth, surrounded by seas and graced with continents; billions upon billions of atoms have woven that infinite starry cosmos. On a moonlit night of crystalline beauty, standing upon the sandy shores of Purushottama, looking out at the boundless desert of sand—I saw that all is infinite. Infinite waves upon the sea, and in the sky the moon and sun have raced without ceasing, century after century, day and night unbroken. All that I contemplate is infinite. The sea has no shore, the sky has no shore, the fathomless sand upon the beach has no end, nor do the stars of heaven. I thought: the human family has no end, human society has no bounds. I thought: there is no end to a single tree, no end to a single star, no end to a blade of grass, no end to a grain of sand, no end to a single human being. All that I contemplate—all seems infinite. All boundaries seem to rush toward the infinite, or dissolve within it; what was finite has become infinite. I thought, I sank deep, and in wonder, I bowed a billion times to the infinite.
You love the boundaries of the five-element world, and see nothing infinite? After all this talk, why not think once about limits themselves! What has a shore, what has an end? Everything you see is infinite! You don't know the age of the earth. You don't know how many rivers and streams flow through it, how many trees and vines grow upon it, how many mountains and ranges rise from it. You don't know how many atoms exist in the world, how many living creatures, how many have died. Look toward the evening sky—of that infinite host of stars, you know nothing at all.
Then what do you know? Tell me, how much is your knowledge? Think of a single atom, and you'll drown in boundless wonder. What do you know, that you boast so? Think of one ordinary human being, and you'll be amazed. How many Vedas and Puranas have appeared on earth, how many yogis and sages have lived or do live—you know nothing of any of this. You don't even know yourself—what dwells in your own body, in your own mind, you don't know that either. Where you came from, you don't know; where you're going, that too you don't know. What your aim is, you don't know; what your purpose is, you don't know. Why you came into this world, you don't know; what you're doing, that too you don't know. What your fate will be tomorrow, that too you don't know.
Think calmly about yourself, and you'll be struck with wonder. There is no limit to thought, no end to work. You cannot say that if you've finished thinking this much, all thought is done; you cannot say that if you've completed this much work, the task is finished. Rather, you'll understand that nothing has an end—everything seems infinite. Apart from the infinite, you'll find nothing else. Follow knowledge, and you'll find no end; walk the path of love, and you'll find no end. What is finite—look there—it is dead; in this realm now only the infinite seems to spring forth. Forget everything, forget even the soul itself, and plunge once into the infinite—then you'll know what joy dwells there.
The tyranny of this single "I" has laid waste to the world. "My knowledge, my devotion, my power, my wealth, my liberation." "I do, I speak."—such clamor echoes everywhere! When the "I" remains bound within limits, everything in the world seems limited, for from within the boundary, the infinite cannot be seen. When this "I-ness" is surrendered, all boundaries vanish—the narrow gaze then rushes forth into infinity.
Who is this "I" then, friend? What is man? Where is the finite? Where is the "I-ness"? When all submerges in the infinite, then "I-ness" too dissolves. Whose "I-ness" dissolved? Yours? Mine? No. When the great souls immersed themselves in infinity, they cried out: "I and my father are one." When this consciousness became unconsciousness and plunged into the infinite, it declared—I am That, I am That. When Shakyamuni attained Nirvana, infinite knowledge bloomed on the banks of the Nirañjana. But such is the world's condition: people don't heed these examples; they love to remain within the limits of ego. They plunge, yes, but turn around again and find themselves back within the walls of "I." Again and again they journey to the palace of the infinite, yet return to the house of the finite. This is maya, this is ignorance, this is darkness, this is the finite.
Here is where community arises, here temptation and sin, here the illusion of fame and honor, here discord and strife. Here factional warfare and bloodshed, here the dominion of the demon of vice, here narrowness, lovelessness and ignorance, here worldly attachment. That sin called ego—which drags mankind from the path of the infinite toward the finite—makes its home here. It convinces man there is nothing else, only "you exist!" "In all three worlds, none equals you."—such is ego's teaching. The slaves and handmaids of ego's kingdom, sitting at ego's feet, drink the poison of vice and deny God. The finite is the beginning, the finite is the end of the five-elemental nature—this sin teaches man such falsity.
Those who have freed themselves from this sin's grip see that the mist of illusion and ignorance has lifted—a vast, boundless realm stretches on all sides—no community, no nation, no boundary, no time; all is the unfolding of one imperishable, infinite power. Then they perceive, within the most common imperishable atom of matter, an incarnate, imperishable, infinite consciousness suffused with bliss. Here only universal feeling reigns, generosity upon generosity—a kingdom of supreme magnanimity stretches forth. Whatever is seen speaks only of the infinite. Whatever one gazes upon whispers the presence of an immeasurable infinity. The flower smiles, the bird sings, the river flows, the spring murmurs—all proclaim that infinite reality.
When the finite physical nature has taken the form of the infinite—when all division has vanished—then the worship of the infinite begins. Then man sees the moon and sun proclaiming the glory of the infinite in the infinite sky; the infinite constellation of stars broadcasts the infinite's renown, and this earthly realm with its oceans declares the infinite's truth. When man stands upon this high ground, he feels within the root of his own being only the infinite power, and thereby attains divinity. Then Vishvamitra's martial strength is defeated, Vasishtha's intellectual might is humbled, Valmiki's righteousness and character possess such force that they establish brotherhood throughout heaven and earth, founding an infinite family. Or Christ, sacrificing the "I" upon the cross for the world's salvation, becomes instrumental in building the infinite family, or the Shakya sage attains nirvana through severe austerity and upholds the infinite's glory eternally in the world. Their gaze was fixed on the infinite; all their deeds belonged to the infinite. Such deeds endure forever.
Some may say: love even your enemies. But then the question follows—after this generous teaching, why do communities again and again arise in society? The tyranny of ignorance, illusion, and ego—that outlaw—remains unconquerable in this world, and so we still dwell in this realm. We do not understand; we cannot conceive the infinite. We are heedless. We are indifferent. Self-worship is the secret mantra of our lives. We lie eternally in the lap of the finite. Alas, we are committed to establishing brotherhood in this world through martial strength and intellectual might! Within us, the sage Vasishtha of wisdom, learning, and austerity believes he will establish fraternal feeling upon the earth, while within us, the sage Vishvamitra imagines—"Through martial strength I have conquered nearly all, soon I shall conquer the rest and make everyone brothers." But in this very moment, the sage Valmiki weeps inconsolably—through terrible remorse he has reduced everything in his heart to ash! Then whose victory? When Vasishtha and Vishvamitra shed their mortal forms, then—
When Brahma entreated Valmiki to ascend to heaven, the sage fell weeping at the Creator's feet. "Lord of the gods," he cried, "I am the vilest of sinners, the lowest of men. I have not kept faith with your words. The sins I have committed—their atonement is far from complete, O Master. Still, I harbor pride: 'I am a Brahmin, I am a warrior, I am the learned, I am the ignorant, I am the wealthy, I am the poor.' Where lies human happiness in this? When this pride departs, the entire world itself becomes heaven." Thus did Valmiki lament.
Then Brahma spoke: "Turn your gaze to the vault of heaven." Valmiki beheld—in the center of the solar orb, seated upon a lotus throne, adorned with golden armlets and earrings, crowned with a diadem, his body resplendent as burnished gold, bearing conch and discus—Lord Murari reposed in majesty. With devotion flooding his heart, Valmiki gazed, and as he gazed, Narayana assumed his cosmic form. The sage beheld countless arms, countless bellies, countless faces, countless eyes, and forms terrible with fangs beyond measure. He had no beginning, no end, no middle. His luminous countenance blazed with eyes like moon and sun; his radiant body illuminated the horizon. He filled all the space between earth and sky. Devas and demons, Yakshas and Rakshasas, Brahma himself, all creatures and all beings—all were entering into the mouth of that Cosmic Being. Within each pore of his body lay countless billions of universes dissolved. Thus Valmiki saw that before this infinite form, even the Lord of the gods appeared as an insect, and man—man was utterly, infinitely trivial. At this sight, Valmiki began to sing hymns of praise.
Then Brahma proclaimed: "Valmiki! See—all mankind is equal, all are brothers unto one another, and all are one. Go forth and sing throughout the world of this equality, this brotherhood, this unity. You shall be immortal: such is your victory." And from the mouth of the Infinite, there resounded a mighty voice: "Victory!"
Thus it may be said that the finite is nothing—merely a stairway to the infinite, a simple means by which ignorant humanity may be led toward infinity. The infinite, manifesting as the finite, draws man toward infinity—through form toward the formless, through the small toward the great. Standing on the shore of an ocean stretching to infinity, we can see but so far, and then our sight fails. Gazing toward an endless sky or boundless plain, the horizon itself arrests our vision, forbidding us to perceive all. Even the sky, even the plains—our eyes see only their limit! Yet where truly no limit exists, illusion makes us perceive one. Thus all substance, though infinite in essence, presents itself to man in bounded form. With patient contemplation, one comes to understand: nothing is finite, all is infinite. The appearance of finitude is merely the limitation of human sight and comprehension—or it is the very stairway by which man is led to the infinite.
Ego, illusion, ignorance—they seek to keep humanity imprisoned within a circle. Yet when divine knowledge is born, all things shimmer as infinite. Valmiki, that ancient sage, burned his ego in the fire of remorse, was cleansed of sin, and grasping infinite truth, proclaimed the victory of the Creator. We too shall not comprehend the infinite—shall not escape the circle, shall not taste the unclouded, causeless love and grace—until we reduce our ego to ash as he did, until we rise above illusion and ignorance. So long as man dwells in the kingdom of ego, he sees all things as finite, thinks all things as finite; but when he burns that ego, surrenders himself utterly, then he beholds the shadow of the infinite dwelling everywhere, and stands transfixed and rapt. When man glimpses the infinite, he consumes his sinful flesh and arrives at that noble, universal abode—that realm beyond illusion, that liberation purged of ignorance, that is the true Vaikuntha.