All discourse, all truth, all scripture—their root is 'I'. From the unfurling of selfhood spring all utterances, all truths, all teachings. Without the expansion, development, and extension of selfhood, nothing whatsoever can be said to exist. If there were no 'I', how could there be any 'mine'? And then in my eyes, my mind, my thought—there would be nothing at all—only emptiness. Because I am, everything has existence for me.
What am I? Who am I? Where was I? Where shall I go? Many philosophies have ventured down many paths seeking to resolve these questions—yet none has found a solitary answer to sound the depths of the shoreless. Concerning the arising and vanishing of selfhood, none truly knows, none truly grasps—none has seen it, none has touched it, none has felt it. All the senses seem vanquished here. The moment a human child draws breath upon entering this world, and the moment that breath ceases at death—who came between, who went—these shall forever remain great mysteries. From where did man come, to where did he go—who can say with certainty?
So many commentaries, so many interpretations abound…but which interpretation is fitting? Which commentary rests upon direct truth? The depths of the shoreless shall not be sounded, cannot be sounded, need not be sounded. In the great seed of selfhood lies the infinite's vast whisper. Some declare all is finite, all is finite, yet in truth—from atom and molecule beginning, throughout the very root of this consciousness-pervaded human seed—everywhere resounds only the infinite's echo. All is infinite; nothing finite or measured exists.
Material science has shown matter indestructible; psychology has shown consciousness indestructible. Man is a union of matter and consciousness; therefore man too is indestructible. The five-elemental body dissolves into the five elements after death, but where does consciousness hide? From what unseen realm did the bird come, to where did it fly—none knows. Into what realm does indestructible consciousness depart? Setting aside speculation, none can say with certainty. A vast problem! A supreme riddle! If it could be solved, then ascending the steps of selfhood we would not glimpse the infinite's shadow. In finite man dwells forever the infinite's great union.
Just as the infinite's great union dwells in finite man, so too does the great exposition of duality and non-duality dwell in this finite man. I am a clay puppet, yet I am also a man of gold—when I wander the path of sin, indulge in sinful thought, sinful food, sinful drink, then I am clay-like, or lower and more vile than clay itself. What wickedness does man not commit? Seek man in the realm of sin, and you will find that even the brutishness of beasts seems comparatively virtuous. The realm of sin is wrapped in delusion's profound darkness; there the sun of being, consciousness, and bliss does not shine. There dwell only demons, evil spirits, men in the guise of Satan. When I am a man-shaped Satan, does the divine or conscience reveal itself to me? Sinking deeper and deeper, I have come to such a dark region that I can no longer encounter anything of the celestial realm—then I am severed, then I am hell, then I dwell in duality.
Even when I have heard the word from heaven, I do not heed it—for I am then consumed by ego. I speak, I walk, I act—then I am all in all. My every word carries poison, my every step leads to hell, my every deed is sin. In such a state, I hoist the banner of dominion over the realm of duality. Yet through some divine event, some process, some play, this selfhood of mine undergoes transformation now and again. He who was once steeped in murder of man turns one day to serve humanity; he who was drowning in the appetites of sense finds himself one day treading the path of restraint; he who was dying upon the road to hell one day seeks again the haven of heaven.
Death wanders continually through this world, tearing asunder the nets of delusion—as though forever rousing mankind to vigilance. A man may forget death for a day, ten days, a year, even twenty years, but he cannot forget it forever. He wishes to forget, yet cannot. Something keeps awakening him ceaselessly. After every fall, there must be a rising—no one can remain forever fallen. Such is the great manifestation of the non-dual within the realm of duality.
One cannot conceive of any human being in this world who has not undergone rebirth, who has not twice been born. Jagai and Madhai were brigands in the forest of Nabadwip, when suddenly, through the manifestation of the Non-dual, they were transformed into ascetics; Valmiki, who murdered men and spent his days in wilderness, became in an instant, by the appearance of the Non-dual, a great poet. The proud pandit Nimai of one age became in another the Lord Chaitanya, bowed in ecstatic love and devotion; he who was once the carpenter's son Jesus became in another age Christ, the savior of mankind. Chaitanya would sometimes say, "Muay sei!"—"I am That!"; Jesus would say, "I and my father are one." In what state did they speak thus? In the realm of duality, Chaitanya and Christ are the son of Shaci and the son of Mary; but in the realm of the Non-dual, both are lost in "something other," lost to themselves. I, I, I—a puppet of clay, a creature of sin; yet in another time this very I becomes a messenger of heaven, a golden moon. I am never merely myself; at times I am as a being of another realm. I am dual—upon the path of sin; I am non-dual—upon the path of virtue or heaven.
Who am I? When sin seethes within me, when I am restless under the impulse of the senses and their tyranny, then I am a fallen demon, stripped of heaven and divinity—then I am separate, distinct. But when within me virtue dawns, when the whip of restraint has severed the binding rope of attachment and delusion, when I become still and calm—when I am absorbed in selfless service through compassion, love, merit, knowledge and devotion, then who am I? Then I am part of Consciousness itself; not merely a part, but my selfhood is then dissolved into the luminous nature of pure being—then the waves surge upon the ocean of the Non-dual Power; then the dual demon of the earth has been destroyed.
Time ceaselessly weighs upon the human mind with a thousand burdens. Where it comes from, where it goes—no one knows. Yet all know this: time grants something to every soul. Because time bestows, humans inherit the accumulated wisdom and virtue of ages past. Generation after generation, knowledge upon knowledge, feeling upon feeling, teaching upon teaching, experience upon experience—all press down upon the human mind. The struggle with time is a terrible, unrelenting struggle. Even if a person wishes to lose themselves in delusion and remain entangled there, time will not permit it. Time—bringing youth after childhood, middle age after youth, old age after middle years. Without effort or intention, time burdens the mind with education and experience. Under time's weight, human knowledge grows, virtue accumulates, feeling deepens, experience broadens—yet simultaneously the body fades, the senses dull, the brain slackens, memory diminishes. Slowly one loses vigor and vitality, power and beauty, intellect and worldly attachment—becoming, day by day, strangely transformed.
Human desires and longings are many, yet alas, before those longings can be fulfilled, before those desires can be satisfied, the heart grows dull, the senses slack, the limbs fade. Slowly one's passions diminish, one's cravings wane, one's attachments loosen, one's sinful yearnings—who knows why?—gradually subside. The unfulfilled thirst, somehow, naturally begins to recede. Once one quarreled so fiercely with words; now though provocation arises a thousand times over, one has no desire to speak a single phrase. There was once such delight in slandering others; now though there be a thousand causes, one has no wish to condemn anyone. Once one could bear no goodness in another soul, eaten away by envy and hatred; now when one sees another's advancement, what joy fills the heart. Once one was driven by lust, anger, and greed to commit such deeds—yet now all tempests seem to subside, day by day growing more detached, more free from craving, more stripped of desire—for some invisible reason, somehow transformed into a being of another realm entirely!
Heap a thousand curses upon one, and they turn not to answer; inflict great injury, and they do not even glance. Day by day, somehow, one becomes transformed. Angel of time—pressing humanity through circumstance, through condition, through sorrow and suffering—until finally one arrives at a state where the person one was seems to vanish entirely. Search for the person you once were; you will not find them in this world again. The child is gone by youth; the youth has perished in old age. Death in one state, rebirth in another—this is the eternal rhythm of existence. Acquiring new life after new life, until finally in old age the uniqueness of the self dissolves—individual will merges with universal will—consumed entirely by one vast, all-encompassing consciousness. The separate self has died; in the realm of consciousness, non-duality has dawned.
What, truly, is age? Age is that entity which, like cool irrigation, extinguishes the fire of sorrow, grief, and attachment in the furnace of becoming. This world is as a great schoolhouse. By binding us to labor, exhausting us, some vast illusion seems to draw mankind ever toward the path of liberation. Ceaseless work, nothing but work. Man toils without respite, rushes, finds no pause. Such exertion to earn bread, such effort for home and family, such self-surrender for comfort's sake. Worn by toil, man continues still—the labor never ceases. In this state of duality, the bondage of action is a great bondage—unless freed from this, the cord of attachment is not severed. In this unfree state, thus—I loved a little, found no fulfillment…loved more, yet fulfillment would not come. I pursued knowledge somewhat, found no fulfillment; pursued it further still, yet satisfaction eluded me utterly.
Onward I walked, rushed, and toiled—as if upon an endless path of endless labor. Walking thus, toiling thus—at last, at the very end, alas, to what truth have I arrived? Walking the path of love for mother and father, wife and son, brother and friend—at last I have come to a kingdom of infinite love. Through the pursuit of knowledge, at last I have reached an ocean of boundless wisdom. Walking the path of humanity, at last man attains divinity. With the maturity of age comes the ripeness of knowledge, love, and virtue. Incompleteness—sin, delusion, turbidity—these dissolve away, and at the end, the soul ventures toward wholeness. In this state, man loses the stamp of duality. Does the distinctness of child and elder vanish?—in consciousness itself lies all the soul's distinctness—all the passions, all the senses extinguished, now they sleep within non-duality.
This very state, not understanding it, men call by the name of death. Alas, in ignorance, such weeping, such lamentation! And yet the dual man now is submerged in the ocean of non-duality. This is a great yoga, a great samadhi, a great union. Father and son were separate—the son fled his father's kingdom, his father's company, and wandered far astray—now he returns again to his father's feet. The father and son are united—one will, one knowledge, one truth, one dharma, merged into one. Now, even in such a state, whoever sees separation has not truly grasped the deep mystery of creation.
The sense of duality, the wager of life, the bubble of play, the illusion of the eye—none of these are real. Even after knowing sin, that I should wander the path of sin forever, die, and rot—I have no such claim. Someone stands behind me these ten years, these nineteen-twenty-thirty years, who unceasingly holds my reins. How can I, then, perpetually walk the path of death? My blood courses unendingly through my veins—I have no power to stop it; my eyelids fall with each blink—I have no power to prevent it; the food in my stomach digests—I have no power to control it; all my nerves carry lightning-like messages to the brain without ceasing—I have no power to restrain them. When I see another's suffering, tears come to my eyes; when I see danger, fear arises—I have no power to suppress these.
What can I do, what indeed am I doing! I set out to see one thing and glimpse another; I mean to do one thing and end up doing something else. Someone within my breast keeps setting a current in motion, and I cannot break free of it no matter what. The world tried to buy me, but I was never sold. Sin sought to dedicate me to eternal servitude, yet I remained undevoted. Brothers and friends, wife and son—they all tried to keep me down by pressing this and that upon me, but could I ever lose myself in those things? Someone keeps wanting to make me into one fixed form. Everyone, the whole world, wants to cast me in a single mold, while He wants to make me into something else.
Tell me, what should I do! Where can my power turn back? My selfhood is hollow, my mastery impotent. The One who has hold of me—has He forgotten you or him? No, that too is impossible. He brings you forth in your essence, me in mine, him in his. How many millions of years have men strived, yet could they even reconcile ten souls? Make them all alike? That was never the design! A single tree bears a thousand leaves of a thousand kinds; a family spreads into countless children, each of a different nature. Every thing and every life is filled with particularity—who should overlook whom? Had it been otherwise, no one would ever glimpse the infinite. Someone arranged it thus precisely to reveal the infinite. I am a child of the infinite—so I hold to the infinite's point, I walk the infinite's path by the infinite's command, and no one has had the power to bind me! You say, do this, do that—I tried to follow the path you laid out, yet could not, because my strength fails me, I am but a powerless lump of clay.
Why then do you reproach me in vain, brother? How many physicians walk this world, yet every day countless millions die—who can hold them back? Jesus in the murderer's hands, Sri Chaitanya falling into the sea—these are inevitable events. Kings die, subjects die, the immensely rich die; the utterly destitute dies too. Is the law different for each? One sun, one moon sheds light on all; one wind cools all alike; one water quenches the thirst of all—is the law different for each? Whether one drinks from a golden vessel or an earthen pot, both satisfy their thirst equally. The law is not two but one, the current is not many but a single flow; though light and water may appear different according to the vessels that hold them, it is one light, one water. Whoever is seduced by the magician's trick or the juggler's sleight, whoever swells with vain pride—he has not understood the nature of things at all.
The crux of it is this: I, you, he—we are all separate in one place, yet merged in another. Different in life, all the same in death; or rather, transformation at the threshold, oneness in the infinite. How many rivers descend from mountains and become known by many names, yet when they reach the ocean, all distinctions vanish. Where then is the difference, tell me? In the story of our lives too, we wear countless forms, countless natures—now we are demons, now gods; now robbers, now divinities. But as we slowly tread the path of death, as sin after sin finds its nirvana, as all the senses and passions grow dim—then, as lordship and selfhood crumble away, something—someone—seems to consume me utterly. One by one, as sins were offered up in sacrifice, from countless directions came the flowering of virtue in countless forms; and then one day the world watched in wonder as that conqueror of lands called 'ego'—that unconquerable demon—dissolved into some nirvanic void, and in its place blazed forth the divine play of a being radiant with merit. The world beheld it: in the war between gods and demons, one supreme power had triumphed. Then many began to proclaim the victory of that power alone. Alas, when will humanity forget self-praise and unite in proclaiming the victory of that supreme power, that non-dual force? What other power remains? One power, complete power—consuming all, devouring everything. With devotion, let all cry out now, shaking the very heavens—*Ekam eva advitīyam*. Dualistic knowledge is merely the wager of illusion—only the manifest play of non-duality! Forget all that instead; let this philosophy awaken—one power, one dharma, one knowledge—*Ekam eva advitīyam*—the one without a second!