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The Sanskrit word for doubt is samśaya. A mind given to chronic doubt
and uncertainly is an impediment to self-growth. Perhaps at the
beginning of the quest to understand the truth of oneself, one can have
doubt about how to proceed. This is natural. While one may be acutely
aware of a niggling sense of dis-ease with your life choices, one may not
exactly aware of what one really wants. To compound matters, there is a
plethora of choices presented in the spiritual marketplace, replete with
leaders and saviours of all kinds, each touting their own brand of
redemption. At this point, the doubting mind is a shield that protects one
from getting carried away, from making a choice that is not conducive to
one’s quest.
In the same manner, one explores various modalities and tries out
different paths to ascertain which one would provide most suitable
suitable resolution for what one is seeking. After a period of exploration,
when the buddhi, the decisive faculty in the mind, has chosen a way
forward, there is a sense of commitment, and the mind settles down. If
this does not happen, it could mean that one is plagued by chronic
doubt, which, in effect, holds one back from living life fully, and from
progressing spiritually. When one constantly second-guesses oneself, the
doubting mind stands in the way of self knowledge, even destroying the
quest itself.
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vi to naś, vi + naś, it means totally. The doubter perishes. We are not
talking of the person perishing, but the doubting mind. The doubting
one is an upalakṣaṇa, an indicator for the place where the doubt resides,
the mind, the antaḥkaraṇa. So ‘the doubting one perishes’ means the
place where the doubt resides, that kind of mind, perishes. ‘Perishes’
does not mean that there is dementia and one cannot recall anything —
perhaps that would be a blessing in some ways — but when we say the
mind ’perishes’ it means the mind, the antaḥkaraṇa, is no longer available
for the purpose for which it was made.
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Mumukṣutva: The word mokṣa means freedom, and mumukṣutva, the
desire for freedom, is the second of the three ‘Ms’. A mumukṣu is a
person endowed with a strong desire to be free of infinitely pursuing the
finite. The one who is has desire for freedom is known as a mumukṣu.
When you add the suffix 'tvam' to the word mumukṣu, it transforms it into
an abstract noun, mumukṣu—hood, or mumukṣu—ness. Mumukṣutva is
durlabha, difficult to gain. Instead of going about reproducing the
pernicious cycle of saṃsāra life after life in the same way and meeting
dead-end upon dead-end, the jaded-faded-jīva, the individual, stuck at
the crossroads of many dead-ends, becomes deadened. One is
deadened to the possibility of mokṣa, deadened to the possibility of this
freedom. I am not talking of that kind of a person who suffers from
apathy, who keeps on going through the motions and thinking, "ok,
somehow I have to just get through this day, through this life." I speak of
one who is acutely aware that something is wrong in the scheme of
things, and has to do something different, because whatever one is doing
seems to exacerbate this problem of feeling bound and infinitely
reproducing the finite.
Numerous ‘finites’ do not the infinite make. Finite plus finite is just doubly
finite. The person who knows this is a mumukṣu. This ability to see that
there is something wrong in the way one is seeking is very difficult to
gain. The seventh chapter of the Bhagavad Gita presents a sobering
statistic: manuṣyāṇāṁ sahasreṣu kaścidyatati siddhaye, yatatām api
siddhānāṁ kaścin mām vetti tattvataḥ. Lord Krishna says “among
thousands of people, one person seeks this freedom, and out of the
many seekers of freedom, one alone knows comes to know me as the
truth of his or her self.”
The three Ms, therefore are very crucial to the seeker of self-knowledge.
We do not have a say over manuṣyatva, the human birth. Perhaps in this
life one can pack for the next life. If, in this life, one has a strong desire for
Vedanta, the next life will definitely be a human life. But the other two are
in our hands. The mumukṣutva, discriminating and deciding that
something is terribly wrong, and mahā-puruṣa-saṁśraya, doing
something about it. Saṁśraya — that is why it is not just aśraya, it is
saṁśraya — a committed time with the knowledge, with the teachings,
with the teacher — you cannot be a kādācitkaḥ, which means a ‘kabhi-
kabhi-wallah’, or a drop-in Vedāntin. If one is serious about liberation, the
drop-in Vedāntin had better drop the whole concept of dalliance.
In many ways, the idea of dalliance sounds wonderful. It sounds nice to
be able to drop-in once in a while, and then go away before things get
difficult. But things do not really get difficult if one is committed to to
grow in readiness — tatparatā. Suppose if one were to say that one does
not want to grow spiritually, the śāstra, has a wonderful response. First it
shows the results of emotional maturity and spiritual growth, and then it
also demonstrates the lot of the people who do not make this
choice. There are two scenarios are given, and the choices are clearly
presented. But what choice exists, really speaking, when one craves for
wholeness and oneness with every fibre of one’s being? It is a choice-less
choice because the cost of not choosing to know yourself is very steep.
The Bhagavad Gita explains the first scenario thus:
śraddhāvān labhate jñānaṁ tatparaḥ saṁyatendriyaḥ
jñānaṁ labdhvā parāṁ śāntim acireṇādhigacchati (B.G. 4.39)
the one endowed with devotion and commitment (to the guru and
to the words of the śāstra), and mastery over the sense-organs gains
the knowledge of the self. Gaining this knowledge, one immediately
gains absolute peace.
The second scenario, by contrast, is quite dire:
ajñāśca aśraddadhānaśca saṁśayātmā vinaśyati.
nāyaṁloko'sti na paraḥ na sukhaṁ saṁśayātmanaḥ(B.G. 4.40)
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One who has no discrimination, and who has no trust (in the śastra
and the teacher), and one who has a doubting mind perishes.
For the one with a doubting mind, this world is not there,
nor the world beyond, nor happiness.
In the above, the Bhagavad Gita appears to have an answer ready for the
hypothetical individual, a jaded jīva, who might ask "What happens I do
not cultivate trust, śraddhā?.
Śraddhāvān labhate jñānaṁ: As the verse points out, all that is needed
for the knowledge to take place is śraddhā. Śraddhā is the opposite of
doubt. It is trust pending understanding —having an open mind that says,
”I am willing to try this.” Śraddhā is a devotional readiness to be led,
pending the understanding of oneself as the whole, as non-separate
from the Lord, Īśvara. The faith in the teacher and the texts expounding
the knowledge of the self, where one thinks “if my teacher has
understood this, then so can I” is śraddhā. Śraddhāvān, the one who is
endowed with śraddhā gains self-knowledge. Any other kind of
knowledge can only take you so far, and the pursuit of all other branches
of knowledge, although essential, still fall within saṁsāra, the infinite
pursuit of the finite. Self-knowledge is gained by the one who has
śraddhā. This is a very oft-quoted, and a very important verse in the
Bhagavad Gita; it has made life easy for a number of mumukṣus, and
jijñāsus — seekers of knowledge. How? As the verse points out, all that is
needed for the knowledge to take place is śraddhā! Among all the
qualifications of an ideal student mentioned in the texts, the cultivation of
śraddhā is of paramount importance. Although the cultivation of
characteristics such as viveka (discrimination), vairāgya (letting go of all
the ends that are dead ends), śama (a resolved mind), dama (the ability to
have a say over the organs of action), titikṣa (forbearance), uparati (the
ability to let go), śraddhā (the ability to trust), samādhana (focus), and
finally mumukṣutva (the desire to be free) are very important for the one
who is seeking self-knowledge, śraddhā has a special place, because
śraddhā is like a master key. When you gain this, all other qualifications
are a shoo-in —they come of their own accord. This is the promise of the
śāstra.
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his commentary to this verse translates the word ajña as anātmajñāḥ eva
ajñāḥ —the one who does not know the ātman, the self, is indeed the one
who is ignorant —ātmānam na jānāti iti anātmajñāḥ. This is a wonderful
translation. From the point of view of the Sanskrit language, we would
translate the word ajñāḥ as ‘na jānāti,’ the one who does not know. But
Adi Shankara takes it a step further and says, that the one who is ignorant
is the one who knows only anātman. The one who does not know the self
is the one who knows everything but the self; such a person is fixated on
everything in the universe to the detriment of oneself.
Loss of Trust: Once, as the story goes, a man ate a tub of ice cream, He
followed that up with a lot of spicy things that he knew were bad for him,
and would cause havoc on his digestive system. He ate fried snacks like
samosas and pakoras with a spicy sauce made of hot
chillies. Unsurprisingly, he had burning sensations in the chest and
stomach, leaving him writhing in discomfort. He kept saying, "Come on,
where are you, O ice cream! Please come and cool this tummy off
because I ate you first. Why are only the hot and spicy things talking in
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there right now" The cultivation of śraddhā is somewhat like that. Like
the ice cream that was eaten before the spicy things, the śraddhā was as
though lost because of the process of growing up in a complicated
world. This process of losing trust is a natural part of the emotional
growth cycle of the human being. In other words, to be disappointed is
natural. If you are not disappointed, you are not a human being.
Disappointed and dejected is how one grows up. One cannot just grow
up all starry-eyed, bushy-tailed, jumping around like a permanent Easter
Bunny; it is not realistic. Really speaking, there is an inextricable
connection between the growth of the person and the loss of śraddhā.
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Śraddhā has to be recalled because before all the pas hurtful life
experiences, it was there. Just like story of the man who said, "Come on
ice cream, where are you? Take care of this acidity." In the same manner,
the acidic, acerbic experience is of just growing up and being constantly
disappointed by life, by karma has to be taken care of and integrated by
recalling śraddhā the ability to trust again. Although one is born with
complete trust, losing that trust is not difficult. All it takes is for the young
mother to accidentally drop her baby, which can sometimes happen.
Being dropped as a baby, and other such incidents are enough for the
śraddhā to recede. Even though the child may be outwardly smiling,
inside it has developed a wall. Then the child goes to school — more
śraddhā gets dropped because the friends it trusts will abandon it and
the teachers that it trusts may have no time for it. Like this, the śraddhā is
constantly dropped, dropped, dropped. Even before school, let's not
forget, there are siblings, who pull your hair and who snatch your toys.
Śraddhā drops, drops, drops. You then go to middle school — śraddhā
drops. You go to high school — śraddhā —if anything was remaining at
this time— definitely drops some more. Then you go to college, and
śraddhā drops even further. Then, if there is the last drop of śraddhā left
to drop, all you need to do is to get married. Definitely then all the
śraddhā will definitely drop! The scales will fall from the eyes. "What did
I think you were? And what did you turn out to be?” each spouse
wonders about the other. Śraddhā drops, drops, drops. And if there is
anything more left, when the children come, the śraddhā drops even
further. The parents wonder, “How can you be like this? How could we
have given birth to something like this?" Theśraddhā drops further and
further. And if you have a job, śraddhā drops. If you do not have a job,
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śraddhā drops even more. If you have an active social life, śraddhā drops.
If you do not have a social life, śraddhā drops. The dropping of śraddhā
is not a topic for a Ph.D. thesis; it is a universal life-experience, and the
story of one’s survival.
The Search for the Infallible: If one attempts to rekindle the lost trust by
continuing to fixate on things fallible, it is bound to have the same
outcome of increasing frustration and disappointment. A jaded and
disappointed person is not a śraddhāvān. Such a person is best
described as a mūḍhamati —a deluded person, who is lacking in
discrimination. The rebuilding of śraddhā has to happen while keeping in
view the innate human quest for the infallible. Is there something that is
infallible? If so, where is it located? If there is something infallible, the
Upanishads reveal that it cannot be outside of you. The infallible is the
limitless saccidānanda, which is the truth of your nature.
I love Vedanta for this reason —it brings it all back to you. There is no
magic feather with which the teacher can touch you on the head after
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which you suddenly have self-knowledge. Maybe it can help, but it
cannot replace self-knowledge. It can help you wake up — that is why it is
called śakti-pāt, the transmission of śakti, power, and the opening of
something. It is like a physicalised version of what is already happening
to a sincere disciple in the teacher’s presence. But it cannot replace the
work that one has to do. You have to regain śraddhā by daring to trust
again Bhagavan again, Bhagavan is the form of the infallible which cannot
disappoint me. That is the daunting task one has to accomplish to regain
this śraddhā.
The second step involves directing the trust towards the infallible. You
trust that which is infallible, because it cannot disappoint, because it is in
the form of universal laws. A law simply is what it is —it is not out to get
you; therefore you cannot take it personally. You discover trust by
making the infallible the recipient of your trust. One learns to allow all
grievances to rest at the altar of the infallible. This is because there is no
place else to take them, where they will be received without censure or
retaliation. If you try airing out all your grudges with the ‘significant-other,’
soon, the word “significant” will soon drop from the compound, and
significantly ‘other’ your loved ones from you. The longer the grievances
and hurts are left unprocessed, the more they fester and vitiate the
present. Therefore, it is best to take grievances, karmic and otherwise
back to the source from whence they came.
The feet of the Īśvara, invoked in any name, form, or gender, are the
burial ground for mouldy grievances, the cemetery for old grudges and
hurts past their prime. You are allowed to have headstones for each of
them; there is no problem in that. You can even visit them sometimes,
but it is good to remember that they are no longer alive, and they do
have the power to haunt you even on Halloween. Such is the power of
the altar of surrender. How is one able to bury these grievances once
and for all? One sees the larger picture here in the form of one’s own
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karma and makes peace with karma as it is. It is after all, a law, which is
infallible. When old grudges and grievances, starting with hurts from
early childhood to the present day, are ceremonially buried, then space
arises for śraddhā to spontaneously emerge and for one to become a
śraddhāvān. This is what it entails to regain the trust. In order to regain
that trusting temperament, which is one's own nature, one has to bury the
grievances, make peace with the grievances of the past.
One graduates in one’s spiritual journey to direct the trust one has
cultivated towards the guru, towards the pramāṇa, the sacred texts, which
are the means of knowing the truth of oneself. This can only happen
when one is able to resolve, or at least have the ability to put aside, the
painful experiences of the past. Otherwise unresolved past experiences
vitiate the teaching atmosphere and interfere in the assimilation of the
knowledge. The guru becomes a sitting-duck, a target for unresolved
hurts and authority issues that are continuously projected on to the
teacher by the student. That is why in the tradition, we have the prayer,
tvameva mātā ca pitā tvameva. We revere the guru and say "you alone
are the mother, you alone are the father.” One learns to let go, The pains
connected to one’s parentage is seen as part of one’s karmic trajectory, in
which there are no accidents, only incidents that are perhaps difficult to
understand.
The king, along with a large retinue, then set forth in search of Raikva.
They found him living under a broken-down chariot. Raikva’s body was
full of pus-filled sores and scabs that he was busy scratching even as he
talked with the king. We have to applaud Janashruti's śraddhā because
he was able to see past all that, and ask for self-knowledge. Through this
story we learn that focussing solely on the physical or mental qualities of
the teacher is a disservice to oneself. The physical attributes of the
teacher are there for the sake of vyavahāra, interaction, for the purpose of
being able to relate to the teacher. One relates through names and
forms. The challenge, here, is to understand oneself as ultimately
formless, even as one relates to the form of the teacher. This is where
śraddhā plays a salient role, because śraddhā helps you overlook things
that do not really matter, and process the triggers that might come in the
way of interacting with the teacher.
If one has śraddhā, but is not particularly committed to the teaching. Then
what happens? Such a person might simply adore the guru and wish to
sit gawking in front of the teacher all day long, without really being
interested in what the guru has to offer. In this scenario, even if the
student does not get bored, the guru will get bored! It is not very
different from the popular concept of heaven, where you supposedly go
after death, and sit in front of God. After a while, even God will tell the
person, "Enough! get up please, and for heaven’s sake go do something
else.” One cannot be sitting in front of the teacher and guru-gazing all
the time. After all, one has a human mind. It naturally wanders; it judges
and critiques everything, including the teacher. In this scenario, without
commitment, śraddhā is in the danger of getting dissipated.
That is why the verse emphasises the need for one’s evolution from guru-
gazing to grazing in the fields of the Upanishad, and nibbling at the
grasses of oneness, which the guru has revealed. That is how one
practices commitment. The commitment is not to the physical persona of
the guru, for the form is just a medium for the transmission of knowledge.
The commitment is to the pramāṇa, the pedagogy of unfoldment of the
teaching, that the guru carries and operates.
Parā śānti, absolute peace is not a state of mind. Rather, it is the discovery
of the nature of the self, as totally free of all agitation. Absolute peace is
gained through the understanding of the self as Brahman, the source of
everything. Knowing oneself as whole and limitless, one is free. Despite
being confronted by disturbance from within or without, one is
unaffected by it. Absolute peace is not dependent upon maintaining a
particular mental condition. It is unopposed to both cacophony and
silence, for it transcends all dichotomies. Being the very nature of the self,
absolute peace is not temporal tranquility generated by music or
meditation, but the very nature of the limitless awareness, which one
inhabits as oneself. A person enjoying relative peace can gain absolute
śānti through the blessing of self-knowledge.
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