Govinda Quotes

And here is a doctrine at which you will laugh. It seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most important thing in the world.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect or confined at a point somewhere along a gradual pathway toward perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment.

I am very weak, Govinda'. 'No, you are not. Strength will come to you only through a struggle with weakness. ", said Krishna.

The only way to speak of death is flippantly. Death is what makes life ironical – it eludes you when you want it the most, and seeks you out when you desire it the least. Perhaps, if we manage to perfect our longing for death, we may even become immortal ...’ - Govinda Shauri in Govinda: The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 1

The opposite of every truth is just as true! That's like this: any truth can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with words, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings of the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deception and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.

When you don't know what moves a man, you can't foresee his actions

The world, Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly evolving along a long path to perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment; every sin already carries grace within it, all small children are potential old men, all sucklings have death within them, all dying people -- eternal life. It is not possible for one person to see how far another is on the way; the Buddha exists in the robber and dice player; the robber exists in the Brahmin.

Every day you face two important decisions: what effect you want your speech and actions to have on the world around you, and what impressions and vibrations you want to be receptive to.

Sometimes a glance, a few casual words, fragments of a melody floating through the quiet air of a summer evening, a book that accidentally comes into hands, a poem or memory-laden fragrance may bring about the impulse which changes and determines our whole life.

Govinda said: "But what you call thing, is it something real, something intrinsic? Is it not only the illusion of Maya, only image and appearance? Your stone, your tree, are they real?" "This also does not trouble me much," said Siddhartha. "If they are illusion, then I also am illusion, and so they are always of the same nature as myself. It is that which makes them so lovable and venerable. That is why I can Love them. And here is a doctrine at which you will laugh. It seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most imortant thing in the world. It may be important tp great thinkers to examine the world, to explain an despise it. But I think it is only important to love the world, not to despise it, not for uus to hate each other, but to be able to regard the world and ourselves and all beings with love, admiration and respect.

… the greatest mystery, the greatest wonder of creation is that we are capable of both relentless reason and boundless love ... It is not about what we are, but what we can become. – Govinda Shauri

But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.

... to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.—These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind.

Remember, my dear Govinda, the world of appearances is transitory, the style of our clothes and hair is extremely transitory. Our hair and our bodies are themselves transitory.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself.

What is meditation? What is leaving one's body? What is fasting? What is holding one's breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Then he won't feel his self any more, then he won't feel the pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he'll find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self.

And here now is a bit of doctrine that will make you laugh: Love, O Govinda, appears to me more important than all other matters. To see through the world, to explain it, to scorn it--this may be the business of great thinkers. But what interests me is being able to love the world, not to scorn it, not to hate it and hate myself, but to look at it and myself and all beings with love and admiration and reverence.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible for any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is the possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I see whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to ever harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sin very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.

The wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda.

Just as a white summer cloud, in harmony with heaven and earth freely floats in the blue sky from horizon to horizon following the breath of the atmosphere – in the same way the pilgrim abandons himself to the breath of the greater life that… leads him beyond the farthest horizons to an aim which is already present within him, though yet hidden from his sight.

Let the things be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion, and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so dear and worthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can love them. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. To thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may be the thing great thinkers do. But I'm only interested in being able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great respect.

When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He pondered about this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowly walking along. He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turn into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside of them.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life.

And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. To thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may be the thing great thinkers do. But I’m only interested in being able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great respect.

No one person is the cause for or consequence of all that happens. I am just the tenth man, the threshold, the turn in the tide. I stand here on the shoulders of humanity, a mere instrument of Time. – Govinda Shauri

Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness." "Are you kidding?" asked Govinda. "I'm not kidding. I'm telling you what I've found. Knowledge can be conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it is possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it cannot be expressed in words and taught.

Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.

I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it. These, Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind.

In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me? At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast.

Men like you and I make myths, we weave stories to sanctify the life that has been given to us. But not Govinda. Men like him don’t make myths; they make destiny. – Kshatta Vidur

Jim was cricket practice; Govinda's the real match. Match. Get it?

Mira, Govinda, ésta es una de las cuestiones que he descubierto: la sabiduría no es comunicable. La sabiduría que un erudito intenta comunicar, siempre suena a simpleza.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect or on a slow path towards perfection; no, it is perfect every moment.

Siddhartha, the handsome son of the Brahmin, the young falcon, grew up together with his friend Govinda, the Brahmin’s son, in

Some people, Govinda, must change greatly, must wear all kinds of clothes; and I am one of those people, dear friend.

He empleado mucho tiempo en aprender, Govinda —y aún lo sigo haciendo—, que no se puede aprender nada. Creo que, en realidad, aquello que llamamos «aprender» no existe.

what is one man's treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to another person." Govinda

And have you come to set me free finally, Govinda?” he asked. “Have I paid sufficiently for my theft?

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment

Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness.

Smiling, Siddhartha felt happiness at the friendship and friendliness of the ferryman. He is like Govinda, he thought, smiling. All the people I meet upon my way are like Govinda. All of them are grateful, though they themselves have cause to expect gratitude. All of them are deferential, all are eager to be a friend, to obey and think little. People are children.

Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness." "Are

Look, my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness.” “Are

During childhood one is attached to play, during youth one is attached to women. In old age one is attached to anxiety… yet, no one is attached to supreme Brahman. (Seek Govinda, seek Govinda).

wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness." "Are you kidding?" asked Govinda. "I'm not kidding. I'm telling you what I've found.

Quoth Siddhartha: "What should I possibly have to tell you, oh venerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in all that searching, you don't find the time for finding?" "How come?" asked Govinda. "When someone is searching," said Siddhartha, "then it might easily happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searches for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind, because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searching means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many things you don't see, which are directly in front of your eyes.

he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official in charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not a decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many.

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes—he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying—he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person—he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword—he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love—he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void— he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds—he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni—he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face—and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling.

The more we prepare for war, the more we make it a reality. Yet, it would seem, to prepare for war may also be the best and possibly the only way to avoid it.’ – Govinda Shauri, The Aryavarta Chronicles - Kurukshetra

Time is not real, Govinda; I have experienced this many times over. And if time is not real, then the divide which seems to separate the world from eternity, suffering from bliss, and evil from good, is also a deception.

Perhaps this, that you are seeking all too much? That all your seeking is making you unable to find?” “How is this?” Govinda asked. “When a person seeks,” Siddhartha said, “it can easily happen that his eye sees only the thing he is seeking; he is incapable of finding anything, of allowing anything to enter into him, because he is always thinking only of what he is looking for, because he has a goal, because he is possessed by his goal. Seeking means having a goal. Finding means being free, being open, having no goal. You, Venerable One, are perhaps indeed a seeker, for, striving to reach your goal, you overlook many things that lie close before your eyes.

For too long now divinity and destiny have legitimized what reason and compassion would not. An individual for a family, a family for the kingdom, a kingdom for an empire... And now – an empire for humanity. – Govinda Shauri

Dünya, dostum Govinda, mükemmellikten yoksun ya da mükemmellik yolunda ağır ağır ilerliyor değildir; hayır, her an mükemmeldir o, tüm günahlar bağışlanmayı, tüm küçük çocuklar yaşlıyı, tüm bebekler ölümü, tüm ölenler sonsuz yaşamı kendi içinde taşır.

Disse Siddharta: "Che dovrei mai dirti, io, o venerabile? Forse questo, che tu cerchi troppo? Che tu non pervieni a trovare per il troppo cercare?" "Come dunque?" chiese Govinda. "Quando qualcuno cerca," rispose Siddharta "allora accade facilmente che il suo occhio perda la capacità di vedere ogni altra cosa, fuori di quella che cerca, e che egli non riesca a trovar nulla, non possa assorbir nulla in sé, perché pensa sempre unicamente a ciò che cerca, perché ha uno scopo, perché è posseduto dal suo scopo. Cercare significa: avere uno scopo. Ma trovare significa: esser libero, restare aperto, non avere scopo. Tu, venerabile, sei forse di fatto uno che cerca, poiché, perseguendo il tuo scopo, non vedi tante cose che ti stanno davanti agli occhi".

In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.

is a flight from the Self, it is a temporary escape from the torment of Self. It is a temporary palliative against the pain and folly of life. The driver of oxen makes this same flight, takes this temporary drug when he drinks a few bowls of rice wine or coconut milk in the inn. He then no longer feels his Self, no longer feels the pain of life; he then experiences temporary escape. Falling asleep over his bowl of rice wine, he finds what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape from their bodies by long exercises and dwell in the non-Self.

I shall never forget the peace of his hermitage amidst the eternal snows and the lesson he taught me: that we cannot face the Great Void before we have the strength and greatness to fill it with our entire being. Then the Void is not the negation merely of our limited personality, but the Plenum-Void which includes, embraces and nourishes it, like the womb of space in which the light moves eternally without ever being lost.

Siddhartha had started to cultivate the seed of discontent within himself. He had started to feel like his father's love, his mother's love, and the love of his friend Govinda wouldn't make him happy forever, woudn't bring him peace, satisfy him, and be sufficient for all time. He had started to suspect that his illustrious father, his other teachers, and the wise Brahmins had shared the majority and the best of their wisdom with him, that they had already poured their all into his ready vessel without filling the vessel: the mind wasn't satisfied, the soul wasn't quiet, the heart wasn't stilled.

Govinda spoke: “You’re saying: you’re on a pilgrimage, and I believe in you. But, forgive me, oh Siddhartha, you do not look like a pilgrim. You’re wearing a rich man’s garments, you’re wearing the shoes of a distinguished gentleman, and your hair, with the fragrance of perfume, is not a pilgrim’s hair, not the hair of a Samana.

Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish.” “Are you jesting?” asked Govinda. “No, I am telling you what I have discovered. Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.

E ora vedi: questo "un giorno" è illusione, è soltanto un modo di dire! Il peccatore non è in cammino per diventare Buddha, non è coinvolto in un processo di sviluppo, sebbene il nostro pensiero non sappia rappresentarsi le cose diversamente. No, nel peccatore è, già ora, oggi stesso, il futuro Buddha, il suo avvenire è già tutto presente, tu devi venerare in lui, in te, in ognuno il Buddha potenziale, il Buddha in divenire, il Buddha nascosto. Il mondo, caro Govinda, non è imperfetto, o impegnato in una lunga via verso la perfezione: no, è perfetto in ogni istante, ogni peccato porta già in sé la grazia, tutti i bambini portano già in sé la vecchiaia, tutti i lattanti la morte, tutti i morenti la vita eterna.

Try Love But Don't Try Sirious Love....It Hurts You Much

To preserve one notion of goodness and righteousness you destroy another. To uphold one principle you sacrifice another.

What is meditative absorption? What is leaving the body? What is fasting? What is holding the breath? These are a flight from the ego, a brief escape from the torment of being an ego, a short-term deadening of the pain and absurdity of life. This same escape, this same momentary deadening, is achieved by the ox driver in an inn when he drinks a bowl of rice wine or fermented coconut milk. Then he no longer feels his self, then he no longer feels the pains of life—he achieves momentary numbness. Falling asleep over his bowl of rice wine, he reaches the same result Siddhartha and Govinda reach when, through long practice sessions, they escape their bodies and dwell in nonego. That is the way it is, Govinda.” Govinda

It seems to me, Govinda, that love is the most important thing in the world. It may be important to great thinkers to examine the world, to explore it and despise it. But I think it is only important to love the world, not despise it; not for us to hate each other, but to be able to regard the world and ourselves and all beings with love, admiration, and respect.

Podemos partilhar conhecimentos, mas não a sabedoria. Podemos encontrá-la, podemos vivê-la, podemos ganhar importância com ela, podemos fazer maravilhas com ela, mas não podemos comunicá-la e ensiná-la. (...) Descobri uma ideia, Govinda, que tu tomarás por troça ou por loucura, mas que é a minha melhor ideia. É assim: para cada verdade, o contrário é igualmente verdade!

That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth in those days after Gotama’s sermon, after he had separated from Govinda—that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without lessons and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart—had slowly become a fleeting memory.

Here now is a bit of doctrine that will make you laugh: Love, O Govinda, appears to me more important than all other matters. To see through the world, to explain it, to scorn it—this may be the business of great thinkers. But what interests me is being able to love the world, not scorn it, not to hate it and hate myself, but to look at it and myself and all beings with love and admiration and reverence.

Kurrë nuk është një njeri tërësisht i shenjtë apo tërësisht mëkatar. Ne na duket kështu, sepse i jemi nënshtruar mashtrimit, sipas të cilit koha është diçka e vërtetë. Koha nuk është e vërtetë, Govinda; unë e kam ndier e mësuar këtë shumë shpesh. Dhe nëse koha nuk është e vërtetë, atëherë edhe largësia që duket se ekziston mes botës dhe përjetësisë, mes vuajtjes dhe lumturisë, mes të keqes dhe të mirës nuk është e vërtetë.

Govinda rose. The evening had come, it was time to perform the evening’s ablution. He called Siddhartha’s name. Siddhartha did not answer. Siddhartha sat there lost in thought, his eyes were rigidly focused towards a very distant target, the tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth, he seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, wrapped up in contemplation, thinking Om, his soul sent after the Brahman as an arrow.

I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.—These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind.

The sinner, which I am and which you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha—and now see: these 'times to come' are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on his way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though our capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these things. No, within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life

-- Não brinco, não. Digo apenas o que percebi. Os conhecimentos podem ser transmitidos, mas nunca a sabedoria. Podemos achá-la; podemos vivê-la; podemos consentir em que ela nos norteie; podemos fazer milagres através dela. Mas não nos é dado pronunciá-la e ensiná-la. (...) Uma percepção me veio, ó Govinda, que talvez te afigure novamente como uma brincadeira ou uma bobagem. Reza ela: "O oposto de cada verdade é igualmente verdade". Isso significa: uma verdade só poderá ser comunicada e formulada por meio de palavras, quando for unilateral. Ora, unilateral é tudo quanto possamos apanhar pelo pensamento e exprimir pela palavra. Tudo aquilo é apenas um lado das coisas, não passa de parte, carece de totalidade, está incompleto, não tem unidade. Sempre que o augusto Gautama nas suas aulas nos falava do mundo, era preciso que o subdividisse em Sansara e Nirvana, em ilusão e verdade, em sofrimento e redenção. Não se pode proceder de outra forma. Não há outro caminho para quem quiser ensinar. Mas o próprio mundo, o ser que nos rodeia e existe no nosso íntimo, não é nunca unilateral. Nenhuma criatura humana, nenhuma ação é inteiramente Sansara nem inteiramente Nirvana. Homem algum é totalmente santo ou totalmente pecador. Uma vez que facilmente nos equivocamos, temos a impressão de que o tempo seja algo real. Não, Govinda, o tempo não é real, como verifiquei em muitas ocasiões. E se o tempo não é real, não passa tampouco de ilusão aquele lapso que nos parece estender-se entre o mundo e a eternidade, entre o tormento e a bem-aventurança, entre o Bem e o Mal.

How is that?” Govinda asked. “When someone seeks,” Siddhartha said, “it is all too easy for his eyes to see nothing but the thing he seeks, so that he is unable to find anything or absorb anything because he is always thinking exclusively about what he seeks, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by that goal. Seeking means having a goal. But finding means being free, remaining accessible, having no goal. You, venerable one, are perhaps really one who seeks, because, pressing after your goal, you fail to see many a thing that is right before your eyes.

Einen Stein kann ich lieben, Govinda, und auch einen Baum oder ein Stück Rinde. Das sind Dinge, und Dinge kann man lieben. Worte aber kann ich nicht lieben. Darum sind Lehren nichts für mich, sie haben keine Härte, keine Weiche, keine Farben, keine Kanten, keinen Geruch, keinen Geschmack, sie haben nichts als Worte. Vielleicht ist es dies, was dich hindert, den Frieden zu finden, vielleicht sind es die vielen Worte. Denn auch Erlösung und Tugend, auch Sansara und Nirwana sind bloße Worte, Govinda. Es gibt kein Ding, das Nirwana wäre; es gibt nur das Wort Nirwana.« Sprach Govinda: »Nicht nur ein Wort, Freund, ist Nirwana. Es ist ein Gedanke.«

What is meditation? What is leaving one's body? What is fasting? What is holding one's breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Then he won't feel his self any more, then he won't feel the pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he'll find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda.

The power of such a mountain is so great and yet so subtle that, without compulsion, people are drawn to it from near and far, as if by the force of some invisible magnet…this worshipful or religious attitude is not impressed by scientific facts, like figures of altitude, which are foremost in the mind of modern man. Nor is it motivated by the urge to ‘conquer’ the mountain.

No comparto tu opinión, amigo mío. Lo que hasta hoy he aprendido de los samanas, Govinda, hubiera podido aprenderlo con mayor facilidad y rapidez en cualquier taberna de un barrio de prostitutas, o entre arrieros y jugadores. - ¿Qué es el ensimismamiento? ¿Qué significa abandonar el cuerpo? ¿Qué es el ayuno? ¿Para qué se contiene la respiración? Tan sólo para huir del Yo. Para escapar brevemente al dolor de ser un Yo: Para insensibilizarse por breves instantes contra el dolor y lo absurdo de la vida. Pues esa misma huida, esa misma insensibilización pasajera la encuentra el boyero cuando, en el albergue, se bebe unas cuantas copas de aguardiente de arroz o leche de coco fermentada. Porque luego deja de sentir su Yo y los dolores de la vida, insensibilizándose por breves instantes.

And Siddhartha said quietly, as if he was talking to himself: “What is meditation? What is leaving one’s body? What is fasting? What is holding one’s breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Then he won’t feel his self any more, then he won’t feel the pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he’ll find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda.

IN THE SHADE OF THE house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling,

Listen, my friend! [Siddhartha speaking] I am a sinner and you are a sinner, but someday the sinner will be Brahma again, will someday attain Nirvana, will someday become a Buddha. Now this ‘someday’ is illusion; it is only a comparison. The sinner is not on the way to a Buddha-like state; he is not evolving, although our thinking cannot conceive things otherwise. No, the potential Buddha already exists in the sinner; his future is already there. The potential hidden Buddha must be recognized in him, in you, in everybody. The world, Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly evolving along a long path to perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment; every sin already carries grace within it, all small children are potential old men, all sucklings have death within them, all dying people—eternal life. It is not possible for one person to see how far another is on the way; the Buddha exists in the robber and dice player; the robber exists in the Brahmin. During deep meditation it is possible to dispel time, to see simultaneously all the past, present and future, and then everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, it seems to me that everything that exists is good, death as well as life, sin as well as holiness, wisdom as well as folly. Everything is necessary, everything needs only my agreement, my assent, my loving understanding; then all is well with me and nothing can harm me. I learned through my body and soul that it was necessary for me to sin, that I needed lust, that I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary world, some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it….

and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking, wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling

Hiçbir gerçek yoktur ki, karşıtı da gerçek olmasın! Yani şöyle: Bir gerçek ancak tek taraflıysa, dile getirilip sözcüklere dökülebilir. Düşüncelerle düşünülüp sözcüklerle söylenebilen ne varsa tek taraflıdır, hepsi tek taraflı, hepsi yarım, hepsi bütünlükten mükemmellikten ve birlikten yoksun.Ulu Gotama öğrencilerine dünyadan söz açarken, çile ve esenlik diye ikiye ayırdı. Başka türlüsü olanaksızdır, öğretmek isteyen birinin izleyeceği başka yol yoktur. Ancak dünyanın kendisi, gerek çevremizdeki, gerek içimizdeki varlık asla tek taraflı değildir. Asla bir insan ya da bir eylem tümüyle Sansara, tümüyle Nirvana değildir, asla bir insan tümüyle kutsal ya da tümüyle günahkar olamaz. Böyle gibi görünmesi yanılmamızdan, zamana gerçek bir nesne gibi bakmamamızdandır. Zaman gerçek değildir, Govinda, ben sık sık yaşadım bunu. Zaman da gerçek değilse, dünya ile sonsuzluk, acı ile mutluluk, kötü ile iyi arasında var gibi görünen çizgi de bir yanılgıdan başka şey değildir.

The opposite of every truth is just as true! That’s like this: any truth can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with words, it’s all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his teachings of the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana, into deception and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never one-sided. . A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.

Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and which you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha—and now see: these "times to come" are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on his way to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though our capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these things. No, within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible for any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is the possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I see whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to ever harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I needed sin very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.—These, oh Govinda, are some of the thoughts which have come into my mind.

Se trata sólo de huir del yo. Es un breve escaparse del dolor de ser yo, una breve narcosis contra el dolor y lo absurdo de la vida. La misma huida, la misma breve narcosis encuentra el arriero en el albergue cuando bebe algunas copas de aguardiente de arroz o de leche de coco fermentada. Entonces ya no siente su yo, ya no experimenta los dolores de la vida; en aquel momento ha encontrado una breve narcosis. Dormido sobre su copa de aguardiente de arroz alcanza lo mismo que Siddharta y Govinda después de largos ejercicios: escapar de su cuerpo y permanecer en el no-yo.

When you don’t know what moves a man, you can’t foresee his actions …

Bollywood’s Govinda was gyrating his hips in front of a Swiss Alpine landscape.

Without love, we would not comprehend compassion. - Govinda Shauri

resembling a stylized lotus. Inside the circle, in proportions

The life of human beings is suspended between the poles of heaven and earth. Let us retain within us the width of heaven, but let us not forget the earth that bears us. Earth and heaven are the symbols of the finite and the infinite, in which we share equally. It is not our task to choose between these two poles of our existence or to give up the one for the sake of the other, but to recognize their mutual interdependence and to integrate them into our very being.

A real Guru's initiation is beyond the divisions of sects and creeds: it is the awakening to our own inner reality which, once glimpsed, determines our further course of development and our actions in life without the enforcement of outer rules.

Gujarat's temple of Somnath [...] had been fortified in 1216 to protect it from attacks by Hindu rulers in neighbouring Malwa. Recorded instances of Indian kings attacking the temples of their political rivals date from at least the eighth century, when Bengali troops destroyed what they thought was the image of Vishnu Vaikuntha, Kahsmir's state deity under King Lalitaditya (r. 724-60). In the early ninth century Govinda III, a king of the Deccan's Rashtrakuta dynasty (753-982), invaded and occupied Kanchipuram in the Tamil country. Intimidated by this action, the king of nearby Sri Lanka sent Govinda several (probably Buddhist) images that the Rashtrakuta king then installed in Śiva temple in his capital. At about the same time the Pandya King Śrimara Śrivallabha (r. 815-62) also invaded Sri Lanka and took back to his capital at Madurai, in India's extreme south, a golden Buddha image -- a symbol of the integrity of the Sinhalese state -- that had been installed in the island kingdom's Jewel Palace. In the early tenth century, King Herambapala of north India's Pratihara dynasty (c.750-1036) seized a solid-gold image of Vishnu Vaikuntha when he defeated the king of Kangra, in the Himalayan foothills. By mid-century the same image had been seized from the Pratiharas by the Chandela King Yasovarman (r. 925-45), who installed it in the Lakshmana Temple of Khajuraho, the Chandelas' capital in north-central India. In the mid eleventh century the Chola King Rajadhiraja (r. 1044-52), Rajendra's son, defeated the Chalukyas and raided their capital, Kalyana, in the central Deccan plateau, taking a large black stone door guardian to his capital in Tanjavur, where it was displayed as a trophy of war. In the late eleventh century, the Kashmiri King Harsha (r. 1089-1111) raised the plundering of enemy temples to an institutionalized activity. In the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, kings of the Paramara dynasty (800-1327) attacked and plundered Jain temples in Gujarat. Although the dominant pattern here was one of looting and carrying off images of state deities, we also hear of Hindu kings destroying their enemies' temples. In the early tenth century, the Rashtrakuta monarch Indra III (r. 914-29) not only demolished the temple of Kalapriya (at Kalpi near the Jammu river), patronized by the Rashtrakutas' deadly enemies the Pratiharas, but took special delight in recording the fact.

Siddhartha had begun to feel the seeds of discontent within him. He had begun to feel that the love of his father and mother, and also the love of his friend Govinda, would not always make him happy, give him peace, satisfy and suffice him. He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmins, had already pass on to him the bulk and best of their wisdom, that they had already poured the sum total of their knowledge into his waiting vessel; and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not satistifed, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still.

Siempre he tenido sed de conocimientos, siempre he estado lleno de interrogaciones. He preguntado a los brahmanes, año tras año, y he preguntado a los Vedas, año tras año. Quizá, ¡oh Govinda!, hubiera sido tan bueno, tan prudente, tan sano, haber preguntado al rinoceronte o al chimpancé. He empleado mucho tiempo y todavía no he llegado al fin para aprender esto, ¡oh Govinda!: ¡qué nada se puede aprender! Yo creo que no hay esa cosa que nosotros llamamos "aprender".

Śrīla Guru Mahārāj once gave a lecture in the library of Dhanbad before a gathering of many highly qualified paṇḍits and wealthy persons. He started his lecture with this verse. He explained that people think religion is found in books and that those books are written in particular languages, but that religion does not actually come from books or languages: religion is communicated through the transcendental language of heart transaction. All religion presented in scriptures is first revealed in the hearts of ṛṣis, munis, and sādhus. After it appears in their hearts it is transmitted forward from heart to heart, and it later may take the form of books. So what can we say about religion? How much can we understand it? It is a matter of the heart. How can we feel the beauty and understand the glory of religion if our hearts are presently as filthy as a dustbin? Because our hearts are impure we must try to understand religion from a clean-hearted sādhu. (p. 42)

Śrīla Guru Mahārāj once gave a lecture in the library of Dhanbad before a gathering of many highly qualified paṇḍits and wealthy persons. He started his lecture with this verse. He explained that people think religion is found in books and that those books are written in particular languages, but that religion does not actually come from books or languages: religion is communicated through the transcendental language of heart transaction. All religion presented in scriptures is first revealed in the hearts of ṛṣis, munis, and sādhus. After it appears in their hearts it is transmitted forward from heart to heart, and it later may take the form of books. So what can we say about religion? How much can we understand it? It is a matter of the heart. How can we feel the beauty and understand the glory of religion if our hearts are presently as filthy as a dustbin? Because our hearts are impure we must try to understand religion from a cleanhearted sādhu. […] One who has no desire for selfish enjoyment, who wants to give rather than take, who is always engaged twenty-four hours a day in serving the desires of the divine Lord, he is a sādhu. He alone is a truly peaceful, perfect gentleman. Real religion is the beauty that appears within the heart of such a sādhu, the transcendental feeling revealed in such a sādhu’s heart through his life of service. Whatever advice and instruction such a sādhu expresses is true religious instruction and can never be harmful to anyone. If we will receive a heart transmission from that type of sādhu and follow his guidance, we must feel the benefit of a truly religious life and come to understand the universal religion of all souls (jaiva-dharma).

Govinda zei: "Maar is dat, wat jij 'ding' noemt dan iets wat werkelijk bestaat, iets wat wezenlijk is? Is dat niet alleen begoocheling van de Maya, alleen maar verbeeldsel en schijn? Jouw steen, jouw boom, jouw stroom - zijn dat nu dingen die waarachtig bestaan?' 'Ook daarom,' zei Siddhartha, 'bekommer ik mij niet zo erg, Of die dingen nu schijn zijn of niet, als zij schijn zijn, dan ben ik dat ook, en op die manier zijn ze toch altijd gelijk aan mij. Dat is het juist waardoor ze mij zo lief en zo eerbiedwaardig worden: zij zijn zoals ik. Dat is de reden waarom ik van ze houden kan En dit is nu weer zo'n leer, waarom je wel zult lachen: de liefde, Govinda, schijnt mij het belangrijkst van alles te zijn. De wereld te doorgronden, haar verklaren, haar verachten, dat laat ik graag aan grote denkers over. Voor mij is het alleen van belang dat ik van die wereld kan houden, haar niet hoef te verachten, haar en mijzelf niet hoef te haten, haar en mijzelf, en alles wat bestaat, met liefde, bewondering, en eerbied beschouwen kan.

You can have your cake and eat it too! This is the bestselling formula that had Govinda marching in place for fifteen years; the promise that one can soar majestically as an eagle without actually leaving the nest. Virtual reality, I guess. Virtual spirituality. Virtual life.