In plain words
If we reflect, none of this perceiving, this hearing, speech or sight can be Satya. ‘Manayeva manuṣyāṇāṃ kāraṇaṃ bandha-mokṣayoḥ.’ The Manas is nothing but the senses taking certain sights as their support. When the Manas is wandering somewhere else, nothing that stands in front of us is seen. That is no fault of the eyes. The eyes are the bulb, the Manas the cells, the body itself the torch, and concentration the switch. So this is only the evidence of the senses, not direct evidence. This is Asatya. Sweet, hot, sour: such are the qualities of things. When health is spoilt by malaria or some other fever, everything turns bitter. Because of a fault in the senses everything tastes the same, but that is no fault in the things. While such a fault is there, even pure things offered taste unpleasant.
What our people have now is the disease of Ajñāna. To cure that disease we give spiritual substances. It is only natural for disease to come. We must try to keep disease from coming; once it has come, to grieve that it has come is useless. ‘Bhayāntakaḥ Bhārata,’ they said. See how we are using such a Bhārata today: we look on God as something to laugh at. We praise the help of other religions, but we have no respect for our own. If we reflect, other religion and one's own religion are not different. To think so is Ajñāna itself. You will have heard this. Seven blind men came to an elephant: one took hold of its tail and said the elephant was like a snake, another took hold of a leg and said it was like a pillar, another touched the ears and said it was like a winnowing fan, so the story goes. The story is very simple, but its inner meaning is very deep. Only when we look at the inner meaning do we know the truth of the thing. The Ātma-tattva teaches oneness alone. Only then can we know that elephant of Dharma. Without that, if we say, “The Dharma of this religion is just this much; the Dharma of this religion is just this much; the Dharma of this religion is just this much,” the elephant comes to be only when all the religions' Dharmas come together. Now look: in English they call nīḷḷu ‘water’. In Sanskrit they call it ‘vāri’. In Tamil they call it ‘taṇṇi’. In Urdu they call it ‘pānī’. One thing has so many names. Our Bhārata, the home of so many languages and so many religions, is a lovely stage. See how it has been guarded: on three sides the sea, welcoming with cool blue waves! In the north stands the Himālaya with its great peak, like a lion-gate. If some are devouring such a Bhārata, it is we who are devouring ourselves, not others. Among ourselves we wage invasions without weapons, and think it is others. We must first put an end to invasions such as envy, anger and pride. We must give up the inner invasions we wage within our hearts in the name of house, village, district, state and country, first set that right, and take the vow to end them.
When there are so many invasions in the Manas itself, lust, anger, pride and envy, is it possible to hold off others? He who has conquered kingdoms may become a king. He who has conquered the senses is an emperor. We must strive for the sādhana of mastering the senses. People say, “I know everything.” What is known becomes worthwhile only when it is put to use; otherwise it is wasted. Where have we come from? Where are we going? If we try to settle this, it becomes worthwhile.
King Janaka, together with many great ṛṣis, used to inquire into the Ātma and would attain nirvikalpa samādhi in Rāja-yoga. At such a time, one evening, while he was with his queen, her companion and the rest of his household, he fell asleep just as he was, in the middle of talking. In that sleep a dream came. It was as if his whole kingdom were gone; as if he had gone mad and were wandering all over the forest begging; as if then, while some servants who had eaten were washing the vessels, he, unable to bear the pangs of hunger, ran there and begged; as if they then scraped together the rice burnt at the bottom of the vessels and dropped it into his hand. As if, at the very moment he went to put it in his mouth, a kite struck it away; as if all that rice fell to the ground; as if he cried out in pain, ‘Ayyō!’, that even this had not come to him: such was the dream that came. When he cried ‘Ayyō!’ loudly once, the cry, a delusion inside the dream, was heard here in the physical world itself. Hearing it, the queen was frightened and had the king woken.
When he woke and looked, he was still the king. He was Emperor Janaka. A second before, he had been a beggar. Which is true? Is this true? Is that true? He questioned himself. However much the queen and all of them asked, ‘It is nothing; is this true? Is that true?’ This alone he kept saying. Frightened, they sent word to the ministers. All came and gathered. Aṣṭāvakra, the guru, also came there. The moment he saw the king, Aṣṭāvakra understood what the matter was: ‘Rājā! This is not true, and that is not true. You alone, who stand through both of these, are the truth,’ he said.
Now see how we are: having spent the whole day at home, in the evening you gather here, listen to Swami's words and are happy. How long is this true? It is true until you go back home, have your meal, lie down on the bed and sleep. That is, this waking is true up to the dream.