MAYA AND FREEDOM
Swami vivekanandha
(Delivered
in London, 22nd October 1896)
Part-1
"Trailing
clouds of glory we come," says the poet. Not all of us come as trailing
clouds of glory however; some of us come as trailing black fogs; there can be
no question about that. But every one of us comes into this world to fight, as
on a battlefield. We come here weeping to fight our way, as well as we can, and
to make a path for ourselves through this infinite ocean of life; forward we
go, having long ages behind us and an immense expanse beyond. So on
we go, till death comes and takes us off the field — victorious or defeated, we
do not know. And this is Mâyâ.
Hope
is dominant in the heart of childhood. The whole world is a golden vision to
the opening eyes of the child; he thinks his will is supreme. As he moves
onward, at every step nature stands as an adamantine wall, barring his future
progress. He may hurl himself against it again and again, striving to break
through. The further he goes, the further recedes the ideal, till death comes,
and there is release, perhaps. And this is Maya.
A man
of science rises, he is thirsting after knowledge. No sacrifice is too great,
no struggle too hopeless for him. He moves onward discovering secret after
secret of nature, searching out the secrets from her innermost heart, and what
for? What is it all for? Why should we give him glory? Why should he acquire
fame? Does not nature do infinitely more than any human being can do? — and
nature is dull, insentient. Why should it be glory to imitate the dull, the
insentient? Nature can hurl a thunderbolt of any magnitude to any distance. If
a man can do one small part as much, we praise him and laud him to the
skies. Why? Why should we praise him for imitating nature, imitating death,
imitating dullness imitating insentience? The force of gravitation can pull to
pieces the biggest mass that ever existed; yet it is insentient. What glory is
there in imitating the insentient? Yet we are all struggling after that. And
this is maya.
The
senses drag the human soul out. Man is seeking for pleasure and for happiness
where it can never be found. For countless ages we are all taught that this is
futile and vain, there is no happiness here. But we cannot learn; it is
impossible for us to do so, except through our own experiences. We try them,
and a blow comes. Do we learn then? Not even then. Like moths hurling
themselves against the flame, we are hurling ourselves again and again into
sense-pleasures, hoping to find satisfaction there. We return again and again
with freshened energy; thus we go on, till crippled and cheated we die. And
this is Maya.
So
with our intellect. In our desire to solve the mysteries of the universe, we
cannot stop our questioning, we feel we must know and cannot believe that no
knowledge is to be gained. A few steps, and there arises the wall of
beginningless and endless time which we cannot surmount. A few steps, and there
appears a wall of boundless space which cannot be surmounted, and the whole is
irrevocably bound in by the walls of cause and effect. We cannot go beyond
them. Yet we struggle, and still have to struggle. And this is Maya.
With
every breath, with every pulsation of the heart with every one of our
movements, we think we are free, and the very same moment we are shown that we
are not. Bound slaves, nature's bond-slaves, in body, in mind, in all our
thoughts, in all our feelings. And this is Maya.
There
was never a mother who did not think her child was a born genius, the most
extraordinary child that was ever born; she dotes upon her child. Her
whole soul is in the child. The child grows up, perhaps becomes a drunkard, a
brute, ill-treats the mother, and the more he ill-treats her, the more her love
increases. The world lauds it as the unselfish love of the mother, little
dreaming that the mother is a born slave, she cannot help it. She would a
thousand times rather throw off the burden, but she cannot. So she covers it
with a mass of flowers, which she calls wonderful love. And this is Maya.
We are
all like this in the world. A legend tells how once Nârada said to Krishna,
"Lord, show me Maya." A few days passed away, and Krishna asked
Narada to make a trip with him towards a desert, and after walking for several
miles, Krishna said, "Narada, I am thirsty; can you fetch some water for
me?" "I will go at once, sir, and get you water." So Narada
went. At a little distance there was a village; he entered the village in
search of water and knocked at a door, which was opened by a most beautiful young
girl. At the sight of her he immediately forgot that his Master was waiting for
water, perhaps dying for the want of it. He forgot everything and began to talk
with the girl. All that day he did not return to his Master. The next day, he
was again at the house, talking to the girl. That talk ripened into love; he
asked the father for the daughter, and they were married and lived there and
had children. Thus twelve years passed. His father-in-law died, he inherited
his property. He lived, as he seemed to think, a very happy life with his wife
and children, his fields and his cattle. and so forth. Then came a flood. One
night the river rose until it overflowed its banks and flooded the whole
village. Houses fell, men and animals were swept away and drowned, and
everything was floating in the rush of the stream. Narada had to escape. With
one hand be held his wife, and with the other two of his children; another
child was on his shoulders, and he was trying to ford this tremendous
flood. After a few steps he found the current was too strong, and the child on
his shoulders fell and was borne away. A cry of despair came from Narada. In
trying to save that child, he lost his grasp upon one of the others, and it
also was lost. At last his wife, whom he clasped with all his might, was torn
away by the current, and he was thrown on the bank, weeping and wailing in
bitter lamentation. Behind him there came a gentle voice, "My child, where
is the water? You went to fetch a pitcher of water, and I am waiting for you;
you have been gone for quite half an hour." "Half an hour! "
Narada exclaimed. Twelve whole years had passed through his mind, and all these
scenes had happened in half an hour! And this is Maya...
