The Knower of Truth

Ashtavakra spoke with the authority of direct seeing.

"The knower of truth sees what others miss. Where the ordinary person sees many objects, the sage sees one awareness appearing as many. This is not a belief—it is direct perception."

Janaka listened intently. "How does this change one's experience?"

"Completely. When you know that the wave is water, you stop fearing the wave. When you know that all forms are awareness, you stop being troubled by forms. The diversity remains—trees, rivers, people, stars—but it is seen as the play of one reality, not a collection of separate things."

"Does this not make the world less interesting?"

"The opposite. A painter who understands color sees more beauty in a sunset, not less. The sage who knows unity appreciates diversity more deeply because he sees it as the creative expression of what he is. Every form is himself, celebrating himself."

"But practically speaking, does the knower of truth still distinguish between things?"

"The body-mind continues to distinguish. It knows the difference between food and poison, friend and stranger. But the one who witnesses through the body-mind knows these distinctions are functional, not ultimate. They are useful for navigation, not true in themselves."

"Then there is a level of perception beyond ordinary seeing?"

"Not beyond—beneath. The ordinary seeing remains; it is not replaced. But underneath it, there is a knowing that all seeing happens in awareness, by awareness, as awareness. This is not a higher state to achieve but the natural condition to recognize."

"I have glimpsed this," Janaka said. "Moments when everything appears as one presence. But it fades."

"What fades is the recognition, not the reality. The truth does not come and go. Only your attention to it wavers. As attention stabilizes, the recognition becomes more constant—until finally, it becomes impossible to see things as truly separate."

"Is there effort involved in this stabilization?"

"In the beginning, there may be a turning of attention, a remembering of what is true. But ultimately, no effort can produce what is already the case. Effort implies a doer and a goal. The knower of truth has dissolved the doer. He rests in what is, making no effort to be what he already is."

"And what of scripture? Of philosophy?"

"Useful pointers, nothing more. The map is not the territory. Once you see the truth directly, you need no map. You may still read, still contemplate, but now it is play, not seeking. You recognize your own understanding reflected in the words of sages."

"What if I meet someone who claims to know but seems confused?"

"True knowing is quiet. It does not need to proclaim itself. It does not argue or defend. The one who truly sees has nothing to prove. He may speak, if asked, but he is equally content in silence. The need to convince others of one's realization is itself a sign of doubt."

"And doubt? Does the knower still experience doubt?"

"Thoughts of doubt may arise—the mind continues its habits. But the knower is not troubled by these thoughts. He watches them as he watches clouds. They do not shake his certainty any more than a shadow can shake a mountain."

Janaka nodded slowly. "The knower knows himself. And in knowing himself, he knows all."

"Because all is himself. This is the secret hidden in plain sight. You are not a fragment of reality seeking to understand the whole. You are the whole, temporarily appearing as a fragment. See through the appearance, and you see what has always been true."

"I see," Janaka said simply.

"Then there is nothing more to teach. You are the knower of truth."