Chapter 1: The Greatest Luxury
The calculative mind is a desert-like phenomenon, and the non-calculative mind is a garden. Birds sing there and flowers bloom. It is a totally different world.
Pythagoras was the first man to try the impossible, and he succeeded. In him, East and West became one. In him, yin and yang became one. In him, male and female became one. He was an ardhanarishwar, a total unity of the polar opposites. Shiva and Shakti together: intellect of the highest caliber and intuition of the deepest caliber. Pythagoras was a peak, a sunlit peak, and a deep, dark valley too. It is a very rare combination.
But stupid people, mediocre masses, destroyed his whole life’s effort. These few verses are the only contribution left. These verses can be written on one postcard and this is all that is left of that great man’s effort, endeavor. And this too is not written by his own hand, it seems all that he had written was destroyed.
The day Pythagoras died, thousands of his disciples were massacred and burnt. Only one disciple escaped from the school; his name was Lysis. And he escaped, not to save his life; he escaped just to save something of the master’s teachings. These Golden Verses Of Pythagoras were written by Lysis, the only disciple who survived.
The whole school was burnt, and thousands of disciples were simply murdered and butchered. And all that Pythagoras had accumulated on his journeys - great treasures, great scriptures from China, India, Tibet, Egypt, years and years of work - all was burnt.
Lysis wrote these few verses. And, as it has been the ancient tradition that a real disciple knows no other name than his master’s, these verses are not called Lysis’ Verses - they are called The Golden Verses Of Pythagoras. Lysis has not written his name on them.
This has been happening again and again. It happened with Vyasa in India, a great master. In his name there are so many scriptures that it is impossible that one man could write so many scriptures. It is humanly impossible. Even if one thousand persons wrote their whole lives continuously, then too, so many scriptures could not be written. Then what happened? Vyasa authored them all, but they were not all written by Vyasa, but by his disciples. But the real disciple knows no other name than his master’s. He has disappeared into the master, so whatsoever he writes, he writes in the name of the master. So many theories have been evolved: by linguists, by scholars, by professors; they think there have been so many Vyasas, many people of the same name. That is all nonsense. There has been only one Vyasa. But down the centuries many people loved him so deeply that when they wrote something, they felt it was the master writing through them; they signed the master’s name because they were only vehicles, just instruments, mediums.