Geeta Darshan #14

The foundational aphorism of karma yoga: Your right is in action, not in the fruits; you have freedom to do, not to get. Because doing issues from the individual, while the fruit issues from the Whole. What I do flows out of me; but whatever happens bears the hand of the totality. The stream of doing belongs to the person, but the essence of the fruit belongs to the collective Whole. That is why Krishna says: you have the right to action; the craving for results is unauthorized.

But we go in reverse—first the craving for results, then action. We harness the ox-cart to the cart and tie the oxen behind. Krishna says, action first, the fruit comes after—it is not brought. There is no power in man to bring the result; the power he has is to act. Why? Because I am not alone; the Vast is.

I think, tomorrow morning I will get up and meet you. But will the sun rise tomorrow? Will there be a tomorrow morning? It is not necessary that there will be. It’s not in my hands that the sun must rise tomorrow. A day is sure to come when the sun will set and not rise again. That day could be tomorrow.

Scientists say this sun will not last more than four thousand years now. Its life is spent. It, too, has grown old. Its rays have been scattering—who knows for how many billions of years! Now its inner furnace is running out, its fuel is exhausted. Four thousand years look vast to us; to the sun, they are nothing. In those four thousand years the sun will cool—any day. The day it cools, it won’t rise; there will be no morning. On that first night, people too will have given their word: “See you in the morning”—for sure.

But let it be! Suppose the sun sets and does not rise four thousand years from now. What surety do we have that we ourselves will rise tomorrow morning? The morning may come, but will we be there? Not necessary. And even if morning comes, the sun rises, and we are there—will the urge to fulfill our word still be there? Not necessary. Let me tell you a small tale.

I have heard that in China an emperor sentenced his chief minister to death by hanging. There was some displeasure. But the law of that realm required that a day before the hanging the emperor himself meet the condemned and fulfill any last wish—except saving his life. That one wish was forbidden.

The emperor arrived—execution tomorrow morning—this evening he came and asked his minister, “What is your wish? I will fulfill it. Tomorrow is your last day.” The minister stared toward the doorway and began to weep. The emperor said, “You—and you weep? I could never have imagined your eyes brimming with tears!”

He was a very brave man. However displeased the emperor might be, his courage had never been in doubt. “You weep! Are you afraid of death?” The minister said, “Death? I do not weep for death; I weep for something else.” The emperor said, “Speak. I will fulfill it.” The minister said, “No, it cannot be fulfilled; let it go.” The emperor insisted, “Why not? I must fulfill your last wish.”

So the minister said, “If you won’t relent, then listen: I weep on seeing the horse you rode in on.” The emperor said, “Have you gone mad? What is there about that horse to weep over?” The minister said, “I learned an art; I spent thirty years mastering it. The art is that horses can be taught to fly—but only a particular breed. I searched for it, never found it. Tomorrow morning I will die, and the horse standing before me is precisely that breed you rode here upon.”

Greed gripped the emperor’s mind. If a horse could fly in the sky, the emperor’s fame would know no end upon the earth. He said, “Forget death! How many days will it take to teach the horse to fly? How long?” The minister said, “One year.” The emperor said, “Not too long. If the horse flies, good; otherwise, the gallows a year from now. We can hang you after a year if the horse doesn’t fly. If it flies, you’ll be spared—and I’ll gift you half my kingdom.”

The minister rode the horse home. Wife and children were wailing, sobbing. It was supposed to be the last night. Seeing him return, all were astonished. “How have you come?” The minister told the story. The wife cried louder. “Have you gone crazy? I know well you know no art to make a horse fly. You lied to no purpose. Now this year will be worse than death—and if you had to ask for time, why be so miserly? You could have asked for twenty, twenty-five, thirty years! A year will pass in no time—spent in tears.”

The minister said, “Don’t worry; a year is a very long time.” Perhaps he knew the basic axiom of wisdom. And so it happened. The year began—and stretched long. The wife said, “How long? It will be gone in no time.” The minister said, “What guarantee is there I shall survive the year? What guarantee the horse will? What guarantee the king will? Many conditions must be met for the year to complete.” And so it happened: neither the minister survived, nor the horse, nor the king. All three died before the year was up.

No expectation about tomorrow can be certain. The fruit is always tomorrow; the fruit is always in the future. Action is always now, here. Action can be done. Action is present; fruit is future. Therefore to bind hope to the future is to bind oneself to despair. Action can be done now; that is our right. We are in the present. That we will be in the future is not even assured. What will be in the future—nothing is fixed. Let us do what is ours to do; that is enough. Let us not demand, not expect, not wait for results; let us act and leave the fruit to the Divine—this is the deepest axiom of wisdom.

A curious thing in this connection: the more people crave results, the less they act. In fact, so much energy gets poured into craving the fruits that none remains fit for action. The mind gets so entangled in desire for results, so embarked on a journey into the future, that it is no longer present in the present. In that craving, consciousness gets so drenched in the juice of the future that action turns insipid, juiceless.

So hear another delightful axiom: the more a mind is filled with outcome-craving, the more actionless it becomes. And the freer a mind is from outcome-craving, the more complete its action. Because then only action remains—there is no fruit to divide one’s consciousness. One’s whole awareness, whole mind, whole energy focuses in this very moment, on this very act.

Naturally, when everything is poured into action, the possibility of the fruit increases. Naturally, when everything is not poured into action, the possibility of the fruit decreases.

Hence a third axiom: the more one is filled with craving for fruits, the less the chance that fruits will come. And the more one has dropped craving, the greater the chance that fruit arrives. This world is very upside-down. And God’s arithmetic is no ordinary arithmetic; it is very extraordinary.

Jesus has said: Whoever hoards will have it taken away; whoever gives will be given all. He said, Whoever saves himself loses himself in vain—for he knows not the arithmetic of God. Whoever loses himself, finds the whole of God.

So when Krishna says your right is action and craving for fruit is futile, do not take it to mean that the fruit never comes; do not take it to mean there is no path to the fruit. Action is the path to fruit; craving is not. Therefore what Krishna says creates the maximum, optimum possibility of fruit. What we do—starting from craving—creates the maximum probability of losing the fruit and the minimum of gaining it.

Whoever drops all concern for fruit—in the language of religion we say—God takes care of his fruit. In truth, the trust involved in letting go is so great, the resolve to relinquish is so great, the faith is so great that if even such great faith finds no response in the Divine, then there can be no Divine. For such great faith—that one acts and never even speaks of the fruit; acts and goes to sleep without even dreaming of results—if such a faith-filled heart does not receive the fruit, then there is no reason to posit God. Around a heart so full of trust, all the energies of existence run to its aid.

And when you crave results, know it—you are being faithless! Perhaps you’ve never considered that craving for fruit is irreverence, the deepest distrust, the most thoroughgoing atheism. When you say, “May the fruit also come,” you are saying: Action alone does not ensure the fruit; I must also crave it. You are saying: I add two and two to make four—may they please add up to four! Which means you have no faith in the law that two and two make four. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t!

The less faith there is in the heart, the more feverishly it hungers for results. The more the heart is filled with trust, the more it throws the fruit away—let the Whole decide, let the cosmos, let universal consciousness decide. My work is done; the rest is His.

Only one who is so filled with trust in himself and his action can drop the craving for fruit. And naturally, when one is filled with such trust, one’s action becomes total—a total act. And when action is total, the fruit is assured. But when consciousness is divided—some for fruit, some for action—then to the extent craving grows, to that extent the result of action grows uncertain.

This morning a friend came. He raised a very good question. I had left by then. Perhaps the day before yesterday I said somewhere that a great war—Mahabharata—was born out of a small joke. A little jibe of Draupadi’s gave birth to the war. That little barb pierced Duryodhana like an arrow, and Draupadi was stripped naked—I said that. I left. A storm must have arisen in that friend’s mind. Our minds are like tiny teacups; a little gust of air and a tempest arises—no bigger than a teacup storm! I had left; he must have climbed the stage. He said, “Taddan khoti baat chhe—utterly false; Draupadi was never stripped naked.”

Draupadi was stripped; she did not become naked—that is another matter. They tried to strip her completely; she did not become naked—that is another matter. Those who sought to strip her left nothing undone. They exerted their entire strength. But the fruit did not come in accord with the deed—that is another matter.

Indeed, those who wanted to strip Draupadi—what did they hold back? Nothing. Yet the Unknown descends between all doers; no one can foresee it. The story of Krishna in that scene is the story of the Unknown descending. The Unknown also has hands we cannot see.

We are not alone on this earth. I am not alone. Mine is not the only desire; there are infinite desires. The Infinite, too, has desire. And at the end it is that arithmetic of all that decides what happens. Not only Duryodhana exists as the stripper; there is also Draupadi, who is being stripped. She, too, has consciousness; she, too, has existence. And it would be unjust to use her as an object. She, too, has awareness and personhood; she, too, has will. Draupadi is no ordinary woman.

In truth, there is not another woman in world history to match Draupadi. That may sound difficult, because we remember Sita, we remember Savitri—and many more. Even so, I say, there is no match for Draupadi. Draupadi is utterly unique. She has Sita’s sweetness, and Cleopatra’s salt. She has Cleopatra’s beauty, and Gargi’s logic. In fact, the axle of the whole Mahabharata is Draupadi. The entire war revolves around her.

But since men write the stories, male characters loom large in them. In truth, no great epic in the world moves without the axis of a woman. All epics unfold upon a woman’s axis. The great Ramayana unfolded on Sita’s axis; she is its center. Rama and Ravana are the two ends of a triangle; Sita is the pivot.

These Kauravas and Pandavas and the entire Mahabharata—this whole war—unfolded on Draupadi’s axis. She is the most beautiful woman of that age—and of all ages. No wonder Duryodhana desired her. Indeed, what man of that age would not? Her very presence evoked desire. Duryodhana desired her, and then she went to Arjuna.

And it is most curious that Draupadi had to be shared among five brothers. The story is simple; the event cannot have been so simple. The story says merely: Arjuna returned saying, “Mother, look what we have brought!” And the mother said, “Whatever you have brought, share it among the five of you.” But the event cannot have been so simple. For later the mother too must have learned that this was not an object, but a woman. How could she be divided! What difficulty was there for Kunti to say, “I made a mistake. How was I to know you had brought a wife!”

No, I know that the struggle which would have taken place between Duryodhana and Arjuna could have unfolded among the five brothers themselves. Draupadi was such that even the five might have fought to the death for her. To divide her was the most convenient politics. The home could have been torn apart. The great war that later took place between Kauravas and Pandavas could have erupted among the Pandavas themselves.

So, for me, the story is not that simple. It is deeply symbolic. It tells us this: she was such that even five brothers would fight. She was so endowed, not ordinary—extraordinary. To strip her was no easy matter; it was playing with fire. Duryodhana alone could not strip her; there was Draupadi too.

And note well—there are many things here worth keeping in mind. Until a woman herself wishes to be naked, in this world no man can make her naked; he cannot. Even if he strips off her clothes, he cannot make her naked. Nakedness is a great event, wholly other than being disrobed. Disrobing is not so difficult; anyone can do it. But making naked is very different. A woman becomes naked only when she opens herself to someone, of her own accord. Otherwise she remains veiled. Her clothes can be torn away, but tearing away clothes is not making a woman naked. This too.

And this as well: Duryodhana did not obtain a woman like Draupadi. Her taunts pierced him sharply. He is greatly defeated. Defeated men—like a cat in rage scratching a post—begin to do such things. And whenever a man is defeated before a woman—and there is no greater defeat for a man—man may fight man: wins and losses happen. But when a man is defeated by a woman at any moment, there is no greater defeat.

So the elaborate arrangement Duryodhana made that day to strip her naked—this whole arrangement is the mind of a defeated man. And the woman standing there, laughing, is no ordinary woman. She too has her will, her power, her faith, her being. In her faith—the story says—Krishna kept lengthening her sari. The meaning is simply this: one whose will is rooted in her own being is immediately supported by the whole will of the Divine. If the Divine lends her his hands, it is no wonder.

So I said, and I say again: Draupadi was stripped, but she did not become naked. To strip is easy; for her to be made naked is something else. The Unknown intervened. Unknown causes entered between deed and result. Duryodhana’s desire did not happen. He had the right to act; he had no right to the fruit.

This Draupadi is most remarkable. The war is over. Bhishma lies on a bed of arrows, and Krishna says to the Pandavas, “Ask him the kingly secret of Dharma.” And Draupadi laughs. Her laughter shadows the whole Mahabharata. She laughs: “From him you ask the secret of Dharma! When I was being stripped, he sat with head bowed.” Her sarcasm is deep. She is an extraordinary woman.

If only the women of India had made Draupadi, not Sita, their ideal, the dignity of Indian womanhood would have been something else.

But no, Draupadi has been lost. No trace of her remains. Lost. Partly because she is wife to five husbands, which offends our minds. But even being wife to one husband—how difficult that is; we do not know. And the one who could live with five is not ordinary; she is extraordinary, superhuman. Sita too is beyond human—but in the sense of being “too human.” Draupadi is beyond human in the sense of being superhuman.

In the entire history of India only one man praised Draupadi—and from the most unexpected quarter. Except for Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia, no one in five thousand years has honored her. It is astonishing. I began to love Lohia for this alone: that in five millennia one man was ready to place Draupadi above Sita.

What I said earlier: when a man acts from over-craving for results, he neither acts well nor receives the fruit; only despair and disappointment fall into his hands. Krishna’s axiom is precious. Keep it in the innermost chamber of your heart.

Do action—that is in your hand; it is here, now. Drop the fruit. Show the courage to let it go. Resolve to act, courage to relinquish the fruit—and then action surely brings the fruit. But don’t bring the fruit—the fruit follows action like a shadow. And the one who lets go in trust—his letting go itself, his trust itself—draws to his aid the energy of the whole.

The moment we demand “Let it be thus,” we stand against the energies of the cosmos, we become its enemy. The moment we say, “As You will; what we had to do, we have done—now may Your will be done,” we become filled with friendship toward the cosmic energy. And between us and the world, between life-energy and us, between God and us, a harmony, a music comes to fruition. The moment we say, “No—since I have done it, what I want must also happen,” we stand opposed to the universe. And standing opposed to the universe, nothing comes to hand except despair and failure. Therefore for the karmayogi, only action is a right. The fruit—fruit is God’s grace.

योगस्थः कुरु कर्माणि संगं त्यक्त्वा धनंजय।
सिद्ध्यसिद्ध्योः समो भूत्वा समत्वं योग उच्यते।। 48।।

O Dhananjaya, established in the state of Brahman, abandoning attachment, and being equal in success and failure, perform your actions; for equanimity itself is called yoga.

Equanimity is yoga—equilibrium, balance, music. Not a choice between two, but equality between two; not choosing between opposites, but non-opposition; not preference or aversion between the two poles, the two extremities, but witnessing. It is essential to understand the meaning of equanimity, because Krishna says that alone is yoga.

Equanimity is very difficult. Choice is always easy. The mind says, choose this—and drop the opposite. Krishna says: do not choose. Know both as equal. And when both are equal, how will you choose? Choice is possible only while things appear unequal. If one seems superior and one inferior; if one seems success and the other failure; one auspicious and the other inauspicious—only if there is some basis for comparison is choice possible. If both are equal—where is choice?

You stand at a crossroads. If all roads are equal, where will you go? How will you move? You will stand still. But if one way is right and one wrong, you will go—there will be movement. Wherever inequality appears, the mind at once sets out on a journey—the very moment. You learn “that is right,” and without knowing it, the mind has gone. You learn “that is wrong,” and without knowing it, the mind returns. Pleasant—unpleasant; beneficial—harmful: as soon as the mind sees these, it moves. Equanimity comes to one who stands in the middle.

Have you seen a tightrope walker? He could choose—to fall either way. Fall, and the trouble is over. But between the two falls he holds himself. Even if he seems to lean, it is only to steady himself—not to fall. And you—even when you seem steady, it is only in order to lean. Even if for a moment you stand at a crossroads, it is to choose: which road shall I take? If for a moment you consider, it is to choose: what is right? What to do, what not to do; what is good, what is bad; what will bring success, what will bring failure; what will profit, what will be loss—whenever you think, it is for choice.

Watch the rope-walker. He seems to lean, but not in order to fall. When he leans left, have you noticed—he leans left only when the fear of falling right arises. He leans right when fear of falling left arises. He balances the danger on the right by leaning to the left. Between left and right he is constantly equalizing himself.

Certainly, this equanimity is not inert, like a stone lying still. In life, equanimity is not inert either. The equanimity of life is like that of the rope-walker—alive each instant, conscious, dynamic.

There can be two kinds of equanimity. One man lies in deep sleep—he also has a kind of equanimity, for there is no choosing there either. But sleep is not yoga. A drunken man lies in the street—he too sees no difference between success and failure. But getting drunk is not equanimity, nor is it yoga—though many mistake intoxication for yoga.

So there are “yogis” who smoke ganja and charas. Not only today—since ancient times. And now their influence is growing in the West. Communities have sprung up in America where people smoke charas; mescaline, LSD, marijuana—everything is on. They too imagine that in intoxication equanimity happens—because choice disappears.

Krishna is not telling Arjuna to become unconscious. In unconsciousness, choice disappears—because the chooser disappears. But when the chooser is not, what is the point of the absence of choice? What meaning? What attainment?

No—the chooser is; he could choose if he wanted; he does not choose. And when, while capable of choosing, one does not; when, knowing, one saves oneself from both opposites, stands in the middle—then one attains yoga, one attains samadhi.

Sleep and samadhi are very similar. We could define sleep as unconscious samadhi; and samadhi as wakeful sleep. Great similarity. In sleep, one attains nature’s equanimity; in samadhi, a person attains God’s equanimity.

That is why intoxication holds such attraction in the world—its fundamental cause is religious longing. The allure of wine has a religious root.

You will say: Are you saying a religious person should drink? No—I am saying a religious person should not drink, because wine can substitute for religion. Intoxication can become a counterfeit of religion, since there too a kind of inert equanimity is available.

The equanimity Krishna speaks of is conscious equanimity. In a moment of war, one must be very conscious, no? In war one cannot be unconscious—cannot take marijuana or LSD or charas. In war, one must be fully awake.

Have you noticed or not— the greater the danger, the more awake you are.

If we lay here on the ground a wooden plank, one foot wide and a hundred feet long, and ask you to walk—would anyone fall? No one. Children will cross, old people will cross, the sick will cross; no one falls. But place this plank between the roof of this building and the roof across. The same plank—one foot wide, neither wider nor narrower; just as long. Then try walking it—how many will agree?

By mathematics and science, nothing has changed. The plank is the same; you are the same. What is the danger? What is fear? When you walked below you didn’t fall—what is the chance you will fall now?

But you will say, “Now I cannot.” Why? Because on the ground there was no need to be awake; you could walk half-asleep. Now you must walk awake—danger yawns below. You do not trust yourself to remain that awake for a hundred feet. For a few feet you will walk, then you will lose awareness. Some film song will intrude; something else—and you will be on the ground. A dog barking below will end all equanimity. So you say, “No—not now.” Why? Because a new requirement—wakefulness amid danger.

Psychologists say war’s attraction is the attraction of danger. Have you noticed, when war breaks out in the world, the radiance on people’s faces increases, not decreases? A man who never woke before eight now rises at five and switches on the radio. From five he asks, “Where’s the paper?” A thrill arrives in life! How so—such a thrill in war?

War’s danger slightly reduces our sleep; we wake a little. Wakefulness has its own flavor. That is why every ten or fifteen years somnolent humanity creates a war—no other way to awaken. When war arises, radiance spreads. Life tastes of zest, of thrill, of movement.

In such a moment of war, Krishna cannot possibly advocate unconsciousness; it is forbidden—no question of it. Then what equanimity, what yoga is he speaking of? It is to be free of duality between the two—to be choiceless amidst the conflict. How will this happen? If you choose even to be choiceless between the two, that too is a choice.

Understand this—it is a bit subtle.

If you choose to be free of duality, that too is a choice. You cannot become free of duality that way. You create a new duality—between remaining in duality and remaining nondual. Now this is a conflict, a pair. If you choose, “I shall be nondual; I will not fall into duality,” that, too, is choice. Now the matter has become finer, more delicate. Nonduality cannot be chosen. Nonduality flowers in non-choice; it is not your choice. In non-choice the flower of nonduality blossoms; you cannot choose it. So do not choose between duality and nonduality.

After reading this Gita verse many come to me asking, “How can we be equanimous?” Meaning, how to choose equanimity? Krishna says equanimity is yoga; so how to attain it?

They are preparing to choose equanimity. Krishna says: Choose—and you lose equanimity. You have created the pair—inequanimity versus equanimity. You want to drop the one and choose the other. What difference does it make what pair you construct—emperor and slave, or begum and emperor? You cannot live without creating dualities. And whoever creates duality does not attain equanimity. Then how? What is the way?

Only this: awaken to the duality; do nothing—just be aware. See: one path here, one path there, and here am I—three are present. Here is success, here is failure, and here am I. Awaken to this third—the third force, the third element: I am neither success nor failure. Failure happens to me; success happens to me. Success passes; failure passes. Morning comes, the sun shines, light spreads; I stand in the light. Evening comes, darkness descends; darkness envelops me. But I am neither light nor darkness. I am neither day nor night—because day passes over me, and I remain; night passes over me, and I remain. Surely, I am other than day and night—separate, distinct.

This realization—that I am other than the dualities—drops duality instantly, and the flower of nonduality blossoms. That flower of equanimity is yoga. And for one who attains equanimity, nothing remains to be attained.

Therefore Krishna says, Arjuna, attain equanimity. Drop concern for success and failure, for violence and nonviolence, for Dharma and adharma, for “what will be, what won’t be.” Drop “either-or.” Stand in yourself. Wake up. See the duality with awareness. Enter equanimity. For equanimity alone is yoga.

दूरेण ह्यवरं कर्म बुद्धियोगाद्धनंजय।
बुद्धौ शरणमन्विच्छ कृपणाः फलहेतवः।। 49।।

O Dhananjaya, action is far inferior to buddhi-yoga; therefore seek refuge in intelligence. Those who hanker after fruits are petty and base.

Krishna says, Dhananjaya, seek buddhi-yoga. What I just said—drop dualities, seek the Self—that is what Krishna calls seeking intelligence. Because the first acquaintance with the Self is buddhi, intelligence. The first doorway to the Self is intelligence. Without entering through this door no one becomes self-possessed or wise. But we never look at the door of intelligence, because we always employ intelligence to choose between actions.

Intelligence has two uses—like every door has two uses. Through any door you can go out and come in. But we have used only one function of the door of intelligence—going out. We have used it as exit, not entrance. The day one uses intelligence as an entrance—on that day, revolution flowers in life.

Arjuna is using intelligence. Not that he isn’t—indeed, he is overusing it. So much that he has put even Krishna in difficulty. He is using his brain well. He is not brainless; his intelligence is abundant—that is precisely what entangles him. The brainless are many there; they are not troubled.

But he knows only one use—thinking: “Shall I do this or that? If this happens, what then? If that happens, what then?” He uses intelligence for the outer world, for results, for tomorrow and the day after, for lineage, for clan-destruction—what will happen, what won’t. He is using intelligence entirely—but not for one thing: entry within.

Krishna tells him, Dhananjaya, to keep thinking only about action is a low use of intelligence—its basest use! Not worthy of intelligence. Even without intelligence that can be done; machines do it better than men.

In truth, man is losing to machines day by day. Slowly, men will be pushed out of factories and offices; machines will take their place—because man cannot perform as well as machines. For one reason: machines have no intelligence at all. Even to err, intelligence is needed. Machines do not err; they just do what they do.

By seventeen or eighteen we too become mechanical. The brain learns what to do and keeps doing it.

There is another great use—buddhi-yoga—not mere cleverness or intellectualism. What does Krishna mean by buddhi-yoga? The day we use the door of intelligence not to go outward, but to know ourselves—on that day one needs a hundred percent of intelligence. For self-entry, all intelligence is summoned.

Ask a biologist—he will tell you: half the brain lies unused; entire regions do nothing. It’s a great puzzle for biology: why is it there? If we could cut it out and nothing would change—why is it present? Nature does nothing in vain. Either once man used the whole brain and something slipped—half the doors shut—or else there is a future potential: seeds yet to sprout.

Both are partially true. Such people have lived—Buddha, Krishna, Kapila, Kanada—who used the whole of intelligence. And such will live again. But for outer work, a little intelligence suffices—the minimal, the basest.

Krishna says to Arjuna: Dhananjaya, attain buddhi-yoga. Use intelligence to go within, to know the one who chooses among all choices, the doer behind all doings, the witness behind all happenings, the distant seer behind them all—seek That. The moment you find That, you attain equanimity. Then these outer worries—this is right, that is wrong—will not torment you. You can live untroubled. And that untroubledness will come from your equanimity, not from unconsciousness.

बुद्धियुक्तो जहातीह उभे सुकृतदुष्कृते।
तस्माद्योगाय युज्यस्व योगः कर्मसु कौशलम्‌।। 50।।

In this world, one endowed with Sankhya-buddhi abandons both merit and demerit. Therefore be steadfast in yoga—this yoga of equanimity is skill in action, the way to freedom from the bondage of karma.

One who attains Sankhya-buddhi goes beyond virtue and sin. One who attains Sankhya-buddhi attains skill in action. And this skill in action, Krishna says, is yoga.

There are many strands here. First, Sankhya-buddhi. Earlier I said: use thought for entry, not for outward wandering. The day one uses thought for inner journey, one attains Sankhya. The day one arrives within, and stands in oneself—standing in oneself—when there is not a hair’s breadth between oneself and one’s standing; when one is where one should wholly be; when one is exactly what one is; when one stands united with the flame of one’s very life-breath—Krishna calls this Sankhya-buddhi.

I said before: Sankhya is the supreme doctrine. Hubert Benoit wrote a book called The Supreme Doctrine. He did not know Sankhya; he wrote on Zen. But what he wrote—is Sankhya. What is the supreme doctrine? Krishna calls Sankhya the supreme knowledge—why? Why is it the highest of knowings?

There are two knowings. One by which we know the known—the object. The other by which we know the knower—the subject. The first becomes science—objective knowledge. The second becomes Sankhya—subjective knowledge.

I know you—that too is a knowing. But however much I know you, I will never know you completely. My knowledge will be roundabout; I can circle you, cannot enter within. Even if I dissect your body, I am outside. Even if I cut your brain into pieces, I remain outside. I cannot go within as you are within. It is impossible.

Your foot aches—I can understand something of it. My foot has ached; or at least my head has ached. I infer. Even if I have felt nothing, from your face I can guess—some pain is there. But truly, what you feel I can only know from the outside—it is inference. But the way you know your pain—there is no way for me to know it from outside.

Leibniz, a great mathematician and thinker, called a person a monad: a windowless cell—no door, no window through which I could enter and know from inside.

You are filled with love—how shall I, from outside, know your love? No means. At most, I can gain acquaintance—acquaintance, not knowledge.

So Bertrand Russell distinguished knowledge and acquaintance. Of another we can have acquaintance at best; not knowledge. And even that acquaintance is mediated by so many factors that there is no certainty.

You sit twenty yards away. I have never “seen” your face—though I “see” it now. Even now I do not see your face. Light rays carrying your face enter my eyes. They agitate the optic nerves. Those nerves trigger something in some chemical of the brain—scientists still say “something”; they do not know what. Because of that “something,” you appear to me. Are you really there? Dreams show me people who are not there; morning reveals emptiness. Even now—are you there? Who can say this is not a dream!

A jaundiced man sees everything yellow. One in ten is color-blind—perhaps even here—most never know. Bernard Shaw was blind to green—he discovered it at sixty. Until then he did not know that green did not exist for him. He saw green and yellow as the same.

So what I see—does it exist as it appears? Nothing is certain. What we see is only an assumption. We may proceed as if it is.

A joke: A scientist married a very beautiful woman. He told his colleagues. They asked, “Have you looked properly? Did you use a microscope?” He laughed. They insisted. They put a big microscope between him and his wife and asked him to look. He screamed—on that side were only pits and craters! With a microscope, even a man’s face looks like gorges and mountains. What is truth—what the naked eye sees, or what the microscope shows? If anything, the microscope is more “true,” crafted with care.

What we see is only acquaintance—utilitarian, not truth. Therefore of the other we can be acquainted; do not mistake it for knowledge.

Thus Krishna tells Arjuna: the supreme knowledge is Sankhya—know not the other, but the one you are. You alone can know that intimately, from within. You can enter it, drown, merge.

Therefore in this land we call only self-knowledge “knowledge.” All else is acquaintance. Science is not “knowledge” in this sense. In English, science means knowledge—to know. But we don’t call it jnana; we call it vijnana—specialized knowing. Not knowledge but specific knowledge—useful for living. Our word is more apt; it adds “vi”—indicating: not knowledge itself, a kind of knowledge. True knowledge is one: to know the knower of all.

Keep this also in mind: when I do not know the one who knows all—how will I know anyone else? When I do not know who I am—how will I know who you are? When I have not known the nearest, the most intimate—without an inch of distance—then you are infinitely distant. Sit as close as you like—knee to knee, chest to chest—the distance is infinite. For within cannot be entered; the gap is vast.

This is every lover’s suffering. The pain of love is this: you want to take the beloved near and cannot; the heart aches that nearness was not attained. And if you do come near, the heart aches more, discovering that even in nearness you do not truly come close. Those who remain apart suffer; those who come close suffer more—because at least distance allowed the hope: if we could come close, bliss would arrive. Nearness disillusions. You cannot come near.

Every person is a monad—an island, sealed. The closer you live, the more you see: unacquainted, unknown. Recognition never happens—till death. Whoever sets out to know another without knowing himself has chosen a false journey—never to succeed.

Sankhya is knowledge of oneself. Therefore I call it the supreme science. And Krishna says: Dhananjaya, if you attain this supreme knowledge, yoga is accomplished; nothing else remains. All is attained by one who knows himself. All is gained by one who finds himself. All opens to one who opens himself. Therefore he says: for the one in whom Sankhya-buddhi blossoms, all yogas blossom. And yoga becomes skill in action.

Why is yoga skill in action? Why? We see yogis fleeing from action. Krishna speaks a contrary truth. To speak it requires courage like Krishna’s. People speak straight talk; straight talk is often wrong—because everyone agrees to what is convenient, not to what is true.

Krishna says the yogi attains skill in action. Yoga itself is skill in action.

But we see yogis only escaping. One skill only—flight. One efficiency only: he vanishes without a trace—rafu. A darning that leaves no mark. Sannyasins know just this one mastery—disappearing. No other skill is visible in them.

Then what is Krishna saying? Of which yogi does he speak? Surely, the yogi he speaks of was never born. The yogi who was born listens to Arjuna, not to Krishna. Arjuna too longs to disappear. He says, “Help me rafu, Lord! Show me a way out; I will slip away. Let me never look back. You have entangled me in great trouble. What am I seeing! Show me the exit.”

Krishna shows not an exit, but a doorway further in. He does not lead him out of this war. Arjuna wants out of this war. Krishna keeps him standing in it and says the opposite: “Go further in—beyond the war, into yourself.” And if you go within, there is no need to run. Whatever you do will be skillful—whatever you do.

For the one who is silent within, whose inner lamp is lit, whose interior is luminous, in whom death is no more, in whom ego is no more, whose imbalance is gone, who is in equanimity, in whom all is still—if his action is not skillful, whose will be?

If the heart is restless, how can action be skillful? If the mind trembles and sways, the hand trembles. If consciousness wobbles, action wobbles—everything is distorted. Because within, everything is wavering—nothing stable. Like a drunkard’s legs—so is the inner tremor; and outside, all shakes; skill is lost.

When within all is quiet, all is silent—whence will unskillfulness arise? Unskillfulness comes from inner restlessness, inner tension, anxiety, worry; from the thorns embedded within—pain, sorrow—these make you tremble. The sighs rising from them make everything unskillful outside. But if within the veena of silence and equanimity begins to play, how can unskillfulness arrive? Outside everything becomes skillful. Then whatever such a one touches—he becomes like Midas.

There’s a Greek tale: whatever Midas touched turned to gold. Whatever he touched became gold. Poor Midas fell into great difficulty because of this—gold is fine only at a distance. If you touch water and it becomes gold—how will you drink? Food becomes gold—how will you eat? Wife runs away, children flee—every wife and child of the golden touch flees. If he embraces his wife in love, she’s dead—gold. Where gold’s touch comes, love dies; all becomes money. Midas suffered greatly—what he touched, though alive, became dead gold.

I am saying Krishna speaks of another kind of alchemy. If within there is equanimity, if within there is Sankhya, if within all is silent and still—then whatever the hands touch becomes skillful; whatever is done becomes skillful. Then all that happens is successful—and not merely “successful,” but fruitful.

Successful and fruitful are different. A thief too can be successful, but not fruitful. Successful means the job is done, a result obtained—but the fruit is bitter, poisonous. Fruitful means nectar ripens. When within all is right, without all becomes right. This Krishna calls skill in yoga.

This earth will remain full of poverty, pain, and sorrow so long as the unyogic strive for skill in action and the yogis strive to escape. As long as yogis flee and the unyogic stand firm, the world will remain in turmoil. Better the opposite: let the unyogic flee; let the yogi stand, accept the battle of life.

The issue is not outer battle; the battle is within—that is the pain. Duality is within—that is the pain. There, nonduality; there silence; there peace—and outside all becomes skillful.

One more verse.

कर्मजं बुद्धियुक्ता हि फलं त्यक्त्वा मनीषिणः।
जन्मबन्धविनिर्मुक्ताः पदं गच्छन्त्य नामयम्‌।। 51।।

Those steadfast in knowledge-yoga, the wise who renounce the fruits born of action, become free of birth-bondage and attain the sorrowless state.

Whoever attains such knowledge, such steadfastness, such faith—where duality is not—becomes free of the circle of birth and death and attains the supreme state.

This needs a bit of opening.

First: “becomes free of birth and death” does not mean he was actually bound and now is freed. He was never bound; he believed he was bound. Now he knows he is not. The “event” of freedom from birth and death is not a real event—for birth and death are not real. What occurs is the dissolution of an untruth, an ignorance.

Like doing bad arithmetic—adding two and two to make five. However much I add that way, two and two are not five. Even while I add five, they are four. My mis-adding does not make five chairs in a room of four chairs. The error is in addition, not in existence.

Sankhya says: the mistake is not in existence; it is in our knowing. It is not an existential error; it is an error of understanding. If existence were in error, mere knowing could not correct it.

So: life and death do not happen to the soul; they appear to. They are appearances—a miscount.

I said earlier—take it further. We watch others die and infer: I too will die. This is an imitative misunderstanding. We learn by imitation; we steal experiences. Even so great an experience as death we have stolen. We saw someone die; concluded, “I too will die.”

Have you ever seen yourself dying? You saw another die and imitated. Then daily someone dies—one, two, three—so the inference hardens: all must die. All before us have died. So the arithmetic seems certain.

“Death is” is not an experienced truth; it is inferential. We saw around us, therefore we conclude.

Did you see your birth? Strange: you were born and you don’t know your birth. Let death be; it’s future—how to be sure of the future? But birth is past—you were born. Yet you have no knowledge of your own birth! In truth, you do not know yourself—how will you know birth and such?

Such a great event—birth—occurred, and you do not know it. In truth, you have no deep experience of any deep event of life. You only know what was taught—school taught arithmetic; parents taught language; temple taught holy books; someone taught Hindu-Muslim; someone else taught something else. You stand full of learnings. But you have no deep experience—not even of birth.

So be aware: when you passed through birth without knowing, you will pass through death without knowing. It is as deep an event as birth—the same door. By birth you came; by death you return—the same door. You have no habit of looking at doors; you pass with eyes closed. You came with eyes closed; you will go with eyes closed.

Thus “birth and death”—birth was told to us; death we infer. But we have knowledge of neither. These conclusions are imitative.

Sankhya says: if only once you are born aware! If only once you die aware! Then you will never again say there is birth and death. And even without death—if you live aware—that too will suffice. Liberation means: the conclusion drawn by thought proves false.

So one who attains Sankhya-buddhi, Krishna says, becomes free of birth and death. It would be more accurate to say: free of the mistake called birth and death. He attains the supreme state.

Where is that supreme state? Whenever we think of it, we imagine somewhere high above in the sky. Our “states” rise above the ground; thrones mount upward. On that last throne in the sky we place “the supreme state.”

But the state Krishna speaks of is not “somewhere up”—it is “somewhere in.” That place beyond which there is no further inner—where interiority ends. The innermost core, the inmost sanctuary of consciousness—that is where the supreme state is. One who attains Sankhya enters that supreme shrine.

More tomorrow.