Geeta Darshan #1

Doubt has continually arisen about Sanjaya; naturally so. Sitting very far away, Sanjaya reports to Dhritarashtra what is happening on the field of Kurukshetra. Yoga has always maintained that the eyes we ordinarily see with are not the only eyes. Man has another eye that can look beyond the limits of time and space. But just because yoga says so doesn’t automatically make what it says true. The mind wonders: from such a distance how could Sanjaya see? Was he omniscient?

No. First, understand that clairvoyance—remote-seeing—is not a very great power. It has nothing to do with omniscience. It is a rather small power. And anyone who wishes can develop it with a little effort. Sometimes it even happens that due to a slip on nature’s part the power gets activated in someone spontaneously.

There is a man alive in America today, named Ted Serios. If I mention two points about him, understanding Sanjaya will become easier. Because Sanjaya is far away from us in time, and at some unfortunate moment we began to take all our ancient scriptures as mere fantasy. So leave Sanjaya aside for a moment. There is a living man in America, Ted Serios, who is capable of seeing anything thousands of miles away; not only seeing it, but his eye can also capture the image.

If we are sitting here having this discussion and Ted Serios in New York is asked, “What is happening in this ground in Ahmedabad?” he will sit with closed eyes for five minutes, then open them—and in his eye others can see the picture of all of you sitting here. And a camera can even photograph the image forming in his eye. Thousands of photos have been taken, thousands of images captured, and Ted Serios’s eye is capable of catching images at any distance—not only of seeing, but of actually capturing the picture.

The case of Ted Serios has clarified two things. First, Sanjaya need not be omniscient, because Ted Serios is a very ordinary man; he is not self-realized. Ted Serios has no knowledge of the soul. There is not even a trace of saintliness in his life, but he has one power—the power to see at a distance. It is a special power.

A while ago in Scandinavia a man fell from a car in an accident and hit his head. When he regained consciousness in the hospital, he was in great difficulty. It was as if someone were singing in his ear. He wondered, “Have I gone mad?” But within a day or two everything became clear. It turned out that his ear had begun to pick up a radio station within a radius of ten miles. Then his ear was thoroughly examined, and it was found that there was nothing anatomically special about it—but the blow had activated some latent power in the ear. An operation had to be performed, because there was no way to switch this “on” and “off.” If one is forced to hear a station twenty-four hours a day, a person will go mad.

Two years ago in England a woman began to see the stars in the sky during the day. That too happened due to an accident—she fell from a roof, and then began to see the stars in broad daylight. The stars are there in the day as well; they don’t go anywhere. They are merely veiled by sunlight and reappear when the light recedes at night. But if the eyes can look beyond the glare of the sun, they can see the stars in the daytime too. In her case as well, surgery had to be done on the eye.

I mention this to say that there are latent powers in the eye that could see the daytime stars; there are latent powers in the ear that could pick up distant radio transmissions; and there are latent powers in the eye that can see beyond the boundaries of time and space. But they do not have much to do with spirituality.

So it is not that Sanjaya was a very spiritual person; Sanjaya was certainly a distinctive person. He could see what was happening far away on the battlefield. And it is not that because of this power he attained God or truth. The greater likelihood is that Sanjaya may have ended his journey with this very power.

This happens often. Special powers lead a person badly astray. Therefore yoga continually says: whether they are ordinary bodily powers or the special psychic powers—whoever gets entangled in powers does not reach truth.

But, it is possible. And in the last hundred years, the West’s psychic research has done a great deal of work. Now there is no reason, even on scientific grounds, to doubt Sanjaya. And it is not just happening in a country like America that accepts religion; psychologists in Russia also are continually acknowledging the infinite powers latent in man.

Because of the moon-landing, psychologists in Russia and America have been given a new task. It is this: instruments cannot be relied upon too much. When we send earth’s inhabitants on journeys into space, we send them into grave danger. If instruments malfunction even a little, our connection with them could be cut off forever; then we may never find out where those travelers were lost—whether they are alive or not, into what infinity they wandered—we would have no way of knowing. Therefore, as a substitute, a complementary arrangement, both Russia and America’s scientific laboratories are extremely eager to find a way to see and hear from afar without instruments and to send and receive messages. And it will not be long before Russia and America both have their Sanjayas. We will not.

Sanjaya is not a very spiritual person. But Sanjaya has a special power—one we all also have—which can be developed.

संजय उवाच
दृष्ट्‌वा तु पाण्डवानीकं व्यूढं दुर्योधनस्तदा।
आचार्यमुपसंगम्य राजा वचनमब्रवीत्‌।। 2।।

Sanjaya said: Seeing the Pandavas’ army arrayed in formation for battle, Duryodhana approached Dronacharya and spoke these words.

पश्यैतां पाण्डुपुत्राणामाचार्य महतीं चमूम्‌।
व्यूढां द्रुपदपुत्रेण तव शिष्येण धीमता।। 3।।
अत्र शूरा महेष्वासा भीमार्जुनसमा युधि।
युयुधानो विराटश्च द्रुपदश्च महारथः।। 4।।

Behold, O Acharya, this vast army of the sons of Pandu, arranged in formation by your own keen-witted disciple, Dhrishtadyumna. In the Pandava army all the warriors are valiant, great bowmen, equal in prowess to Bhima and Arjuna. Among them are Satyaki, Virata, and the great chariot-warrior Drupada.

धृष्टकेतुश्चेकितानः काशिराजश्च वीर्यवान्‌।
पुरुजित्कुन्तिभोजश्च शैब्यश्च नरपुंगवः।। 5।।
युधामन्युश्च विक्रांत उत्तमौजाश्च वीर्यवान्‌।
सौभद्रो द्रौपदेयाश्च सर्व एव महारथाः।। 6।।
अस्माकं तु विशिष्टा ये तान्निबोध द्विजोत्तम।
नायका मम सैन्यस्य संज्ञार्थं तान्ब्रवीमि ते।। 7।।

There are the mighty Dhrishtaketu, Chekitana, and the valiant king of Kashi; and the foremost of men—Purujit, Kuntibhoja, and Shaibya. There are the powerful Yudhamanyu, the heroic Uttamaujas, Subhadra’s son Abhimanyu, and the five sons of Draupadi—each and every one a great chariot-warrior. But among us too, O best of twice-born, there are those who are outstanding; for your understanding I shall tell you the leaders of my army.

When the human mind is afflicted with an inferiority complex—when inwardly it feels itself inferior—it always begins by talking about its own superiority. But when one is not afflicted with inferiority, one always begins by speaking of the other’s excellence. Here Duryodhana is telling Dronacharya who the great warriors and mighty heroes are in the Pandavas’ army—that is where he begins. This is very symbolic. Ordinarily, one does not begin by praising the enemy; ordinarily, one starts with criticizing the enemy, and with praising oneself in contrast. Duryodhana is beginning by listing the great heroes gathered in the enemy ranks.

Whatever else Duryodhana may be, he is not a man afflicted with an inferiority complex. And note well: a good person who is afflicted with inferiority is worse than a bad person who is not afflicted with it. Only one who is utterly assured within himself can begin with the praise of the other.

This is a fundamental difference that has arisen over the centuries. There were bad people before; there were good people before. It is not that today the bad have increased and the good have decreased. Even today there are as many bad people and as many good people. So what has changed?

Those who are constantly occupied with religion keep proclaiming that people were good before and now people have become bad. In my view their basic assumption is wrong. Bad people have always been; good people have always been. The difference is not so superficial; it is very deep. In the past, even a bad person was not afflicted with an inferiority complex. Today, even a good person is afflicted with it. This is the inner shift.

Even the best of people today are good only on the outside; inwardly they are not assured. And remember: the goodness of one who lacks inner assurance cannot endure. It will be only skin-deep. Scratch a little and his evil will surface. And a bad person who, despite his badness, is assured within—his badness can one day be transformed, because a very deep goodness stands as the foundation: self-assurance.

I consider it significant that a “bad” man like Duryodhana begins the discourse in a most auspicious way. He first mentions the virtues of the opponent, and only then does he speak of the leaders of his own army.

भवान्भीष्मश्च कर्णश्च कृपश्च समितिंजयः।
अश्वत्थामा विकर्णश्च सौमदत्तिस्थैव च।। 8।।
अन्ये च बहवः शूरा मदर्थे त्यक्तजीविताः।
नानाशस्त्र प्रहरणाः सर्वे युद्धविशारदाः।। 9।।

You, Bhishma Pitamaha, Karna, the unconquerable in battle Kripacharya, Ashwatthama, Vikarna, and Somadatta’s son Bhurishrava; Vangida, Bhavadatta, Kritavarma, and many other heroes besides—who have resolved to lay down their lives for my sake—each skilled in warfare and armed with many kinds of weapons.

अपर्याप्तं तदस्माकं बलं भीष्माभिरक्षितम्‌।
पर्याप्तं त्विदमेतेषां बलं भीमाभिरक्षितम्‌।। 10।।
अयनेषु च सर्वेषु यथाभागमवस्थिताः।
भीष्ममेवाभिरक्षन्तु भवन्तः सर्व एव हि।। 11।।

Though our army may be inadequate for war, it has Bhishma Pitamaha as its protector; therefore it is adequate for victory. The army of the Pandavas, though adequate for war, being protected by Bhima is, in fact, inadequate. Since our victory rests upon Bhishma, all of you should, each at your own post on every front, make it your prime task to protect Bhishma.

This point is worth considering. The whole war revolves around Arjuna, but that is a thought arrived at in hindsight—after the war, in the light of its outcome. Those who know the fruit of the war will say it turned on Arjuna. But those who stood at the beginning could not think that way. For Duryodhana, the entire possibility of war arose from Bhima. He had his reasons. Even Duryodhana could not rely on a virtuous man like Arjuna for war. In Duryodhana’s mind there is the possibility that Arjuna will waver. There is a deep, unconscious sense in him that Arjuna might flee the battle. If the war is to stand, it will stand on Bhima. For war one can rely on people like Bhima—less given to intellect, but endowed with greater strength.

Arjuna is intelligent. And where there is intelligence, there is doubt. And where there is doubt, there is duality. Arjuna is reflective. And where reflectiveness is, there is the capacity to see the whole perspective; in a terrible situation like war, it is hard to plunge in with eyes closed. For the sake of war, Duryodhana can trust Bhima.

There is a deep harmony between Bhima and Duryodhana. Bhima and Duryodhana are, deep down, of the same nature, the same way of thinking, the same type of person. So if Duryodhana saw that Bhima is the center on the other side, he did not see wrongly; he saw rightly. And the Gita later proves that Arjuna became as if ready to run. Arjuna appeared escapist; he looked like an escapist. That is the likelihood with a person like Arjuna. For Arjuna this war was a heavy burden. To enter the war became possible for Arjuna only by transforming himself. Only upon reaching a new plane could Arjuna consent to fight.

As Bhima was, on that very plane he was ready for war. For Bhima war is natural, just as it is natural for Duryodhana. Therefore, if Duryodhana sees Bhima at the center, it is not accidental. But this pertains to the beginning of the war. What the outcome would be, what the end would be—Duryodhana did not know. We know.

And remember, often life does not end as it begins. The end is always undecided, always invisible. Often what we set out thinking will happen, does not happen. Often what we assume will be, is not what becomes. Life is an unknown journey. Therefore in the initial moments of life—in the initial moments of any event—what is thought does not become the final outcome. And we may be engaged in the attempt to construct destiny, but we do not become the deciders of destiny; the result turns out to be something else.

Duryodhana’s idea was precisely this—that Bhima would remain at the center. And if Bhima had remained at the center, perhaps what Duryodhana says—that we will be victorious—might have happened. But Duryodhana’s vision did not prove right. An element of the unexpected descended in between. That too is worth thinking about.

Krishna was not in his reckoning—that if Arjuna began to run away, Krishna could set him to action in war. We too do not take this into account. As we walk in life, it never occurs to us that something will also come in from the side of the unknown divine. All our calculations are of the visible. That the invisible will also interpenetrate, that the invisible will also descend in between—this does not occur to us.

In the form of Krishna the invisible descended in the middle, and the whole story changed. What would have happened did not happen; and what seemed unlikely to happen did happen. And when the Unknown descends it cannot be predicted; there can be no forecast of it. So when Krishna began pushing the fleeing Arjuna into battle, whoever reads this story for the first time cannot help but be shocked; he is jolted.

When Emerson read it the first time, he closed the book; he was disturbed. Because what Arjuna was saying would seem right to all so-called religious people. He was giving precisely the argument of the so-called religious man. When Henry Thoreau came to this point and saw that Krishna advises him to go to war, he too was upset. Henry Thoreau has written that he had no confidence, no idea, that the story would take such a turn—that Krishna would advise going to war! Gandhi too had trouble there; his pain was there.

But life does not move according to any set of principles. Life is very unique. Life does not run on railway tracks; it flows like the current of the Ganges; its pathways are not decided beforehand. And when God comes in between, he disturbs everything; whatever was prepared, whatever man had constructed, whatever man’s intellect had conceived—everything is overturned.

Therefore, that God too would descend into this war—Duryodhana could never have imagined. So what he is saying is an initial statement, like the statements we all make at the outset of life. The Unknown keeps descending in between and the whole story keeps changing. If we look back at life, we will say: whatever we had thought turned out wrong; where we expected success, failure came; what we wished to attain could not be attained; that which we thought would bring happiness, when it came it brought misery; and that which we had never even desired—its glimpse came and fountains of joy burst forth. Everything turns upside down.

But there are very few in this world so intelligent as to take the outcome into account first. We all attend first to the beginning. If only we could attend to the end first, the story of life could be altogether different. But if Duryodhana were to take the end into account first, the war could not happen. Duryodhana cannot take the end into account; he proceeds assuming that it will be as he imagines. Therefore he keeps saying again and again that although the armies on that side are mighty, the victory will still be ours. My warriors are eager to give their lives to bring me victory.

But even if we put in our entire strength, untruth cannot win. Even if we put in our entire life, untruth cannot win; of this outcome Duryodhana can have no awareness. And truth—which may appear to be losing—wins in the end. Untruth appears to be winning at the beginning; in the end it loses. Truth appears to be losing at the beginning; in the end it wins. But from the beginning, how can one see the end! Whoever can see it becomes religious. Whoever cannot see it goes on descending into blind war like Duryodhana.

You ask, how can a person know what the Unknown desires? A person never knows. Yes—if the person drops himself, effaces himself, he knows instantly; he becomes one with the Unknown. A drop cannot know what the ocean is until the drop dissolves into the ocean. A person cannot know what God’s will is. As long as he maintains himself as a person, he cannot know. If he loses himself, then only God’s will remains—because no personal will is left. Then there is no question of knowing at all. Then one lives just as the Unknown makes him live. Then there is no personal longing, no craving for results, no private urge, no tendency to impose one’s own wish upon the aspiration of the Whole—because the person is no more.

As long as the person is there, what the Unknown wants cannot be known. And when the person is no more, there is no need to know; whatever happens, it is the Unknown that is doing it. Then the person becomes an instrument, a mere tool.

Throughout the Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna only this: drop yourself into the hands of the Unknown; surrender. Those whom you think will be killed are already slain by the Unknown. Those for whose deaths you think you will be responsible—you will not be responsible at all. If he protects his “I,” he becomes responsible. If, dropping himself, he can fight as an instrument, as a witness, then no responsibility remains.

Lose yourself into the Whole, surrender yourself; drop the ego, and only the will of Brahman comes to fruition. Even now, it is that will alone which is unfolding. It is not that we can bring about anything different from it. But we fight to bring about something different—and in fighting we will be battered, broken, destroyed.

I often tell a small story. A river is in great flood and two little straws are being carried by it. One straw has wedged itself crosswise and is trying to hold back the flood. It keeps shouting, “We will not let the river advance!”—although the river is advancing. It shouts, “We will stop it!”—though it cannot. It screams, “At any cost I will stop this river, even if I live or die!” And yet it is being swept away. The river neither hears its voice nor notices its struggle. A tiny straw! The river has no inkling of it, no concern at all. But the straw is terribly affected. Its life becomes a great misery; it is being swept away. Whether it fights or not, it will reach wherever the river takes it. But the in-between time—this interval—becomes a period of sorrow, pain, conflict, and anxiety.

Beside it, another straw has let go. It has not lain crosswise in the river; it lies aligned in the direction of the flow, and it thinks, “I am helping the river to flow.” The river too has no notion of it. It thinks, “I will see the river to the ocean; with me along, it will surely reach.” The river has no idea of its help either.

The river is unaffected; those two straws are deeply affected. The one that is flowing along with the river is in great joy, dancing in delight; the one fighting the river is in great pain. His dance is no dance; it is a nightmare of suffering. His dance is the breaking of his limbs; he is in torment, losing. And the one “helping” the river is winning.

A person never does anything other than the will of Brahman; yet he can fight—that much freedom he has. And by fighting he can make himself anxious—that much freedom he has.

Sartre has a precious statement: Humanity is condemned to be free—man is compelled, condemned, to be free.

But man can use his freedom in two ways. He can turn his freedom into a struggle against the will of Brahman; then his life will be one of sorrow, pain, anguish, suffering—and the final fruit will be defeat. Or he can make his freedom a surrender to Brahman; then life will be one of joy, bliss, dance, song—and the end? In the end there is no possibility but victory. The straw that thinks it is flowing with the river will surely be victorious; there is no way it can be defeated. And the straw trying to stop the river is surely going to be defeated; there is no way it can win.

Brahman’s will cannot be known—but one can become one with Brahman. Then one’s own will disappears; only His will remains.

Ordinarily it appears that in scientific discovery a person’s own will is at work; from the surface it looks that way. But if you look from deeper within, it does not. If we look at the world’s greatest scientists, we will be astonished. Their experiences are very different from the notions manufactured in colleges and universities.

Madame Curie wrote that a certain question had been tormenting her for days. She would try to solve it and fail. Tired and harassed, she finally gave up. One night around two o’clock, leaving her papers unfinished on the table, she went to sleep, deciding to drop the problem altogether.

Exhausted. But in the morning she found that the problem she had left halfway was now complete. No one had entered the room; the door was locked. And even if someone had come in, who could have solved what Madame Curie herself could not? She was a Nobel Prize winner. There were only domestic servants at home—hardly the candidates for such a miracle! Yet it was solved. Half left, half completed. She was utterly perplexed. She checked every door and window. She could not believe that “God” had descended either. Nor had any deity come floating down from above.

Looking closely, she saw the remaining lines were in her own handwriting. Then a memory stirred: in a dream she had gotten up in the night. She recalled dreaming that she was solving the problem. She had indeed risen in her sleep and completed it. Thereafter it became her method: whenever a problem would not yield, she would tuck it under her pillow and go to sleep; at night she would rise and solve it.

By day, Madame Curie was an individual. In the night, in sleep, the ego dissolves—the drop merges with the ocean. What the conscious mind could not discover, the unconscious, which is linked deep down with the Divine, can find.

Archimedes, too, was working on a problem that defied solution. He was in great difficulty. The emperor had commanded, “Solve it and bring me the answer.” Archimedes’ entire prestige hung on it. But he grew exhausted. Every day came the royal message: “How long will you take?”

Someone had gifted the emperor a very precious gold ornament. The emperor suspected fraud—that another metal had been mixed in. But it had to be discovered without destroying the ornament: was there any other metal in it? In those days there was no known method. And it was large; if something were embedded inside, the weight would increase.

Archimedes was worn out, distressed. One morning he lay back in his tub—simply soaking. And suddenly, naked as he was, the solution flashed. He ran! Had he been “Archimedes,” he would never have forgotten he was naked—but he forgot! He hit the street shouting, “Eureka! Eureka! I’ve found it!” and raced toward the palace. People grabbed him: “What are you doing? You’ll appear before the king like this?” He said, “I didn’t even notice!” and returned home.

The man who reached the street naked was not “Archimedes.” Archimedes, as a person, could not have done that. It was not the individual. And the solution did not occur in personal consciousness; it happened in impersonal consciousness. He was in his tub—relaxed, loose. Attention dropped; he turned inward—and the problem was solved. Did the tub solve it? Will a tub solve your equations? What could not be solved clothed, was it solved by being naked? Does lying in water increase intelligence?

No—something else occurred. For a while he ceased to be a somebody; he became impersonal. For a few moments he was lost in the Source of Brahman.

If we read the accounts of the world’s great scientists—Einstein, Max Planck, Eddington, Edison—we find the same report: whatever we came to know, we did not know it; again and again it happened that when knowing happened, we were not. This is what the seers of the Upanishads say, what the Rishis of the Vedas say, what Mohammed says, what Jesus says.

When we say the Vedas are apauruṣeya—“not of human authorship”—it means nothing more than this. It does not mean God descended and wrote a book. There is no need for such madness. It simply means: the person upon whom it happened was not present at that moment; the “I” was absent. When the utterance of the Upanishads descended on someone, when the Qur’an descended on Mohammed, when the sayings of the Bible descended on Jesus, they were not there as egos.

The experiences of religion and of science are not different; they cannot be. If truth descends in science, it descends by the same route as in religion. There is only one doorway for truth to enter: when the person is not, truth descends from the Divine. An inner space falls empty, and into that emptiness truth enters.

In every field—whether musician, painter, poet, scientist, religious seeker, mystic—whoever has caught even a ray of truth has done so only when they themselves were not. Religion realized this long ago; its experience is ten thousand years old. Over those millennia, the mystic, the saint, the yogi saw: this is not “me.”

It is a delicate matter. The first time something descends from the Divine, it is very hard to distinguish: is it yours, or the Divine’s? The mind wavers; the ego would like to claim it. But gradually, as both sides become clearer and you see there is no real harmony between you and this truth, a distance appears, the separation becomes evident.

Science is young—only two or three hundred years old. Fifty years ago scientists would say, “We discovered.” Today they do not. Today they say, “Everything seems beyond our power.” Today’s scientist speaks as much in the language of mysticism, of mystery, as the saints once did.

So do not be in a hurry! Give it another hundred years, and the scientist will speak exactly the language of the Upanishads. He will have to. He will speak the language of the Buddha, of Augustine and Francis—he will have to. Because the deeper the experience of truth, the more the experience of the person fades. The more truth manifests, the more ego dissolves. One day it is seen: whatever has been known is prasad—grace; it descended; there is no “me” in it. And whatever I have not known, that is my responsibility—because I was too strong, too dense, for truth to descend. Truth enters an empty mind, a void mind. If you want to bring down untruth, then the presence of the “I” is necessary.

Scientific inquiry will not be hindered by this. Whatever discoveries have been made have come through relation with the Unknown—through surrender. And whatever discoveries are to come will also come through surrender. Other than the door of surrender, truth has never entered by any door, nor can it.

Freud indeed holds the view that our unconscious mind is connected not only with God but also with the devil. In truth, “God” and “devil” are our words. When we dislike something, we say it is connected with the devil; when we like something, we say it is connected with God. But I am simply saying it is connected with the Unknown. And for me, the Unknown is God. And in God, for me, the devil is included, not separate.

In fact, whatever we do not like, the mind feels the devil must have done. Whatever is right, harmonious, we say God has done. We have imagined ourselves at the center of life, and whatever suits us is God’s doing—God is serving us. Whatever does not suit us is the devil’s doing—the devil is hostile to us. This is man’s ego, which has pressed even the devil and God into its service.

There is nothing other than God. What we call the devil is only our rejection. What we call evil is only our disapproval. And if we could look deeply even into the evil, we would immediately find the good hidden within it. If we could look deeply into suffering, we would find joy hidden within it. If we could look deeply into a curse, we would find a blessing hidden within it. In truth, good and evil are two faces of the same coin. The God who stands opposed to the devil is not what I call the Unknown; I call Unknown that which is the ground of all our lives, the very basis of existence. From that ground of existence both Ravana arises and Rama arises; from that existence both darkness arises and light arises.

We feel afraid in darkness, so the mind concludes the devil must create darkness. We like light, so the mind concludes God must create light. But there is nothing evil in darkness, nothing inherently good in light. One who loves existence will find the Divine in darkness as well as in light.

The truth is, because of fear we never come to know darkness—its beauty—we never taste its flavor, its mystery. Our fear is man-made. We have come out of caves, we have passed through the wild caverns. Darkness was very dangerous. Wild animals would attack; the night was frightening. Therefore, when fire appeared for the first time, we made it a god. The night became secure; lighting the fire, we became fearless. Darkness in our experience has been tied to fear; light in our hearts has been tied to fearlessness.

But darkness has its own mystery, and light has its own mystery. And in this life, whatever is truly significant happens through the cooperation of both darkness and light. We bury a seed in darkness; the flower comes in light. We bury the seed in darkness, in the earth; the roots spread in darkness, in the earth. The flowers blossom in the sky, in the light. Put a seed in the light and the flower will never come. Bury a flower in the dark and seeds will never be born. A child is conceived in the deep darkness of the mother’s womb, where not a single ray of light enters. Then as he grows, he comes into the light. Darkness and light are both foundations for the same life-energy. The divisions, the oppositions, the polarities—these belong to man.

As for Freud’s saying it is connected with the devil—Freud was linked to Jewish thinking. Freud was born in a Jewish household. From childhood he had heard of the opposition between the devil and God. The Jews have split things into two—one is the devil, one is God. They are two parts of man’s own mind. So Freud felt that wherever bad things arise from the unconscious, those bad things must be being put there by the devil.

No, there is no devil. And if the devil appears to us, then somewhere there is our fundamental mistake. A religious person is incapable of seeing the devil; there is only the Divine. And the unconscious—from which the scientist finds truth or the religious seeker finds truth—is the door of the Divine. As we go deeper into it, then…the idea can certainly arise.

तस्य संजनयन्हर्षं कुरुवृद्धः पितामहः।
सिंहनादं विनद्योच्चैः शंखं दध्मौ प्रतापवान्‌।। 12।।
ततः शंखाश्च भेर्यश्च पणवानकगोमुखाः।
सहसैवाभ्यहन्यन्त स शब्दस्तुमुलोऽभवत्‌।। 13।।
Then the valiant Kuru elder, grandsire Bhishma, to gladden Duryodhana, roared like a lion and loudly blew his noble conch. After the commander blew his conch, conches, kettledrums, tabors, drums, and various instruments were suddenly sounded. That tumultuous sound made the hearts of the warriors tremble.

ततः श्वेतैर्हयैर्युक्ते महति स्यन्दने स्थितौ।
माधवः पाण्डवश्चैव दिव्यौ शंखौ प्रदध्मतुः।। 14।।
पाञ्चजन्यं हृषीकेशो देवदत्तं धनंजयः।
पौण्ड्रं दध्मौ महाशंखं भीमकर्मा वृकोदरः।। 15।।
अनन्तविजयं राजा कुन्तीपुत्रो युधिष्ठिरः।
नकुलः सहदेवश्च सुघोषमणिपुष्पकौ।। 16।।
Then, seated in a great chariot yoked with white horses, Madhava, Lord Krishna, and the Pandava Arjuna blew their divine conches. Hrishikesha, Lord Krishna, blew the Panchajanya, and Dhananjaya, Arjuna, blew the Devadatta; Vrikodara, Bhima of mighty deeds, blew the great conch named Paundra. King Yudhishthira, son of Kunti, blew the Anantavijaya; Nakula and Sahadeva blew the conches named Sughosha and Manipushpaka.

No, it is simply a response—a resonance. And from the conch there is only a reply—not of war, not of fighting. The conch-blast is only an acceptance of the challenge: whatever the challenge brings, whatever it shows, wherever it leads—there is acceptance. It is useful to understand this acceptance a little.

Life is a challenge at every moment. Whoever does not accept it dies while still alive. Many people die while still alive. Bernard Shaw used to say people die much earlier, they are buried much later; often there is a gap of forty years between death and burial. From the very moment a person stops accepting life’s challenge, he dies. Life is the moment-to-moment acceptance of challenge.

But even the acceptance of challenge can be of two kinds. It can be anger-born; then it becomes reaction. Or it can be suffused with joy, with exuberance, with a festive heart; then it becomes response.

It is worth noting that when Bhishma blew his conch, the text says he did it with joy, gladdening the warriors. A thrill spread from his conch-blast; delight spread. That sound is an acceptance. Whatever life is showing—even war—that too is accepted. Wherever life is taking one—even into war—that too is accepted. Naturally, that deserves an answer; and then Krishna and the Pandavas sound their own conches.

Consider this too: the first conch-blast comes from the Kaurava side. The initiative for starting the war is the Kauravas’; Krishna is only answering. From the Pandava side it is response, resonance. If it is war, they are ready to answer it; there is no disposition to initiate war. The Pandavas also could have blown first—but they will not take upon themselves the responsibility of dragging the world into war; that responsibility the Kauravas will assume.

No, there is no devil. And if a devil appears to us, somewhere there is our fundamental mistake. A religious person is incapable of seeing the devil; there is only the Divine. And the unconscious—from where the scientist attains truth or the religious person attains truth—is the doorway to the Divine. Gradually, as we descend into its depths, realization can certainly arise.

tasya sañjanayan harṣaṁ kuru-vṛddhaḥ pitāmahaḥ.
siṁhanādaṁ vinadyoccaiḥ śaṅkhaṁ dadhmau pratāpavān. 12.
tataḥ śaṅkhāś ca bheryaś ca paṇavānaka-gomukhāḥ.
sahasāivābhyahanyanta sa śabdas tumulo ’bhavat. 13.

To cheer Duryodhana, the mighty grandsire of the Kurus, Bhishma roared like a lion and loudly blew his noble conch. After the commander’s blast, conches, kettledrums, tabors, drums, and horns suddenly resounded together; the tumultuous sound shook the hearts of warriors.

tataḥ śvetair hayair yukte mahati syandane sthitau.
mādhavaḥ pāṇḍavaś caiva divyau śaṅkhau pradadhmatuḥ. 14.
pāñcajanyaṁ hṛṣīkeśo devadattaṁ dhanañjayaḥ.
pauṇḍraṁ dadhmau mahāśaṅkhaṁ bhīmakarmā vṛkodaraḥ. 15.
anantavijayaṁ rājā kuntīputro yudhiṣṭhiraḥ.
nakulaḥ sahadevaś ca sughoṣa-maṇipuṣpakau. 16.

Thereupon, seated in their great chariot yoked with white horses, Lord Madhava (Sri Krishna) and the Pandava Arjuna blew their divine conches. Hrishikesha (Krishna) blew the Panchajanya, Dhananjaya (Arjuna) the Devadatta; and wolf-bellied Bhima, doer of formidable deeds, blew the great conch Paundra. King Yudhishthira, son of Kunti, blew the Anantavijaya; Nakula and Sahadeva blew the Sughosha and the Manipushpaka.