Geeta Darshan #17

The human mind has its own chains. The mind has its laws of ascent and descent. The mind has its own science. Here Krishna lays out, step by step, how the human mind declines—how it descends one stair at a time on the path of fall.

The beginning is the subtlest; the end becomes the grossest. A ripple rises from the very depths of the mind, spreads, and then engulfs not only the whole mind but our entire behavior, our whole personality. Whoever recognizes the full process by which this subtle ripple turns gross can save himself from it, can even go beyond it.

Where does the fall of the mind begin? Where does the mind become world-oriented? Where does it start losing itself?

Krishna says: with the contemplation of objects, with thoughts of desire. The first circle you can catch is the circle of thought—the most subtle point where we can get a hold. Desire for the object, thought of the object, the wish to enjoy arises in the mind. The urge to be in contact with the object is born. That is the first ripple from which everything starts. The seed-state of lust is the thought of the object. The craving for contact arises, the longing for enjoyment arises.

You see a car racing down the road. It flashes past your eyes. You see a beautiful woman; you see a handsome, strong man; there’s a flash in the eyes—and the person is gone. In that moment, as that beautiful woman or handsome man or shiny car or gorgeous building appears—immediately look within: as it appeared, did you only see, just see, or along with seeing did a desire also take birth in some corner of the mind? Did you only see—or did you also want? A beautiful woman appears: did you merely see, or did another tremor arise within—of wanting, of demanding, of possessing?

If you only saw, the matter came and went. Only the outer senses took part. The eyes saw; the mind reported; someone is passing. But if you also desired, then what was seen did not end there. Circles began within the mind; waves started rolling. The affair didn’t end with seeing; within, desire was born, a demand arose.

You may say, no, I didn’t demand, didn’t desire; I just thought in my mind, “She is beautiful.” This needs to be understood rightly.

Even that much—“She is beautiful”—means desire has already begun to sprout. For “beautiful” means nothing else but “worthy of desire.” That is all “beautiful” means. And “ugly” means “not worthy of desire.”

“Beautiful”—in that statement desire isn’t visible; it seems innocent, a mere statement of fact. It is not just a statement of fact. You are already involved in it. Things in themselves are neither beautiful nor ugly; things simply are. You impose interpretation.

A woman passes by; she simply is. “Beautiful” and “ugly” are the viewer’s interpretations. Nothing in her is beautiful or ugly. Interpretations change, and so does beauty. In China a flat nose can be beautiful; in India it cannot. In China high cheekbones are beautiful; in India they are not. In Africa wide lips are beautiful, and women hang stones from their lips to make them wider. Elsewhere in the world, wide lips are nowhere beautiful; thin lips are. These are our interpretations—cultural interpretations. It depends on what a society has adopted as its reading. Fashions change, and beauty changes. Facts remain the same.

A woman who could drive men mad in Africa might attract only the mad in India. What happened? The woman is the same; the fact is the same; the interpreters are different. The moment we say, “Beautiful,” we are already involved; the fact is no longer just a fact.

Buddha is resting under a tree on a full-moon night. Some rakes from the village have brought a courtesan to celebrate. They strip her naked, snatch away her clothes, get drunk, and start dancing. When they are unconscious, the courtesan runs away.

When they come to, they see the one they were dancing for is gone. They set out to search. It’s a forest—who to ask? Midnight. They come to the tree where Buddha is sitting. They say, “This monk is sitting right by the path; there hasn’t even been a fork yet. That woman must have passed here.” They ask Buddha, “Listen, monk, did a naked, beautiful young woman run past here? Did you see her?”

Buddha says, “Someone passed, yes, but whether it was a young woman or a young man is hard to say. Because I have no wish to interpret. Someone did pass, yes; beautiful or ugly—it’s hard to say. When there is no desire within, whom would I call beautiful and whom ugly?”

Beauty is a choice, a decision. The moment you say “beautiful,” somewhere in the mind the feeling begins to form—“let me have it.” Beauty is the beginning of preference. It is not merely a statement of fact; it is a statement of passion. Passion covers the fact and says, “Beautiful!”

Ordinarily we say, “No, saying ‘beautiful’ doesn’t mean anything.” Yet the mind’s first movement toward objects is exceedingly subtle. It begins just like this: “beautiful/ugly,” “pleasant/unpleasant,” “I like it/I don’t like it.” When desire first arises, it shows itself as like and dislike, then it grows. It is still a seed; very difficult to recognize. Now only a Krishna, a Buddha can recognize it. We notice only when it has become a tree.

But you can be freed at the seed; being freed of the tree is exceedingly difficult. The deeper desire grows, the more it spreads its roots, the harder it becomes to be free. When desire is only a seed—no roots yet, it hasn’t gripped the soil of consciousness—it is very easy. Seeds can be thrown away; trees must be cut and uprooted.

And the irony is, trees don’t necessarily fall by cutting. Often cutting only prunes. A branch is cut and four sprout. Even if you cut down to the roots, the roots send up new shoots; one tree becomes many. And uprooting is very difficult, because roots spread into the unconscious wombs of the mind. Even reaching them becomes difficult.

Therefore Krishna’s formula is worth deep understanding for the seeker. In it is hidden the entire causality of transformation of the mind, the key to the cause.

A fact remains a fact only until you interpret it. Buddha said, “Someone did pass”—that’s not interpretation. “Whether it was a girl or a boy, hard to say.” Because—as Buddha said—“So long as my inner maleness was eager, my search outside kept running—‘who is woman, who is man?’”

Even “woman” and “man,” while factual, become facts only through our interpretation. This is quite amusing. In life we forget everything. I meet a man today; ten years later I forget his name, his caste, religion, what his face was like, his eyes, how educated he was—everything. One thing I do not forget: whether it was a woman or a man.

Curious, isn’t it? Have you ever forgotten, about someone you met, “I can’t remember for sure—was it a woman or a man?” We forget name, face, caste, religion; sometimes we even doubt whether we met at all. But we do not forget whether it was a woman or a man. Some deep mind in you must have registered that mark—from where forgetting does not occur.

If a spacecraft crashed in your village and you pulled the pilot out, the first curiosity would be: is it female or male? First curiosity: woman or man? Only later would other questions arise.

Certainly, male and female are biological facts. There are bodily differences. But that they appear so intensely—that compulsion isn’t in biology; it is in the mind’s desire.

You pass down a road lined with trees. You have probably never noticed that they are not all the same green. Even in greenness there are a thousand greens. Green is not a single color; green too has a thousand shades. You don’t see it. A painter would see it: ten trees here, ten different greens. For you it doesn’t appear. That these trees have ten different greens is a natural fact; but you must have an inner painter to see it. Only when something within is searching will it be seen; otherwise it won’t. The painter sees colors everywhere; even green has many greens.

Male and female are biological facts. But that they stand out to you so intensely is not a biological fact, it is a psychological fact. You have started adding something to it. You have begun to put something into it. You have entered into it a little; then thought begins.

This is how it happens: on the road a woman appears, a man appears. Then you say, “Beautiful,” and your inner journey begins; now thinking starts. If beautiful, desire follows. With desire, enjoyment—within the mind, in imagination—images begin to form.

If someday we could build a window into a man’s skull—we can; surgeons say it is not very difficult now; psychologists say it is not very difficult—if we could make a little glass window in a man’s skull—and we shall—then you’d know the trouble. If from outside one could peer into your skull to see what all is going on inside!

A woman passes, and immediately much begins to happen inside your mind. No one else can tell; only you can. And on many occasions, even you don’t know. Often it is so unconscious that even you don’t notice. Others don’t know—and you miss it too. It keeps running inside while you walk elsewhere. But how does it begin?

The world is facts; there are no fictions out there—facts. Man injects the fantasies. “Beautiful”—the journey begins. If beautiful, then desire. If desire, then enjoyment. Now thinking begins. Passion becomes thinking. Thinking becomes imaginary union. When imaginary union is formed, action follows—lust turns into deed. And Krishna says: from lust comes anger. Why should anger come after lust?

Truly, one who is not lustful cannot be angry. Anger is just a higher step of lust. Anger arises only when lust is obstructed; otherwise anger never arises. Whenever someone blocks your desire—whatever you want—anger comes. If what you want goes on happening, anger will never come.

Imagine you’re sitting under a wish-fulfilling tree; there, anger cannot arise—if the tree is genuine. If it is true, no anger can come, because where would anger arise? You wanted a beautiful woman—she came. You wanted this house—you got it. You wanted money—you got it. You wanted a throne—you got it. If wanting and not getting never happens, where is anger?

Anger comes from the gap between “I wanted” and “I didn’t get.” The name of that gap—that interval—is anger. You wanted and didn’t get; the desire got stuck, halted; a hindered desire, a stone lodged in the stream—anger’s circle is created.

A river runs toward the ocean; a rock appears in the way, and everything becomes turbulent. There is sound. Without rocks, the river makes no sound. The river does not speak; colliding with rocks it sounds.

If the river of lust flows and no obstacle arises, anger will never be born. But the river of lust flows, and rocks stand everywhere. They’re simply there. They aren’t standing to block you; they were already there. Your river chose to run through them.

A woman looks beautiful to me; I begin to desire her. Now there are a thousand rocks. The woman’s husband—a rock. Her father—a rock. Her brother—a rock. The law, the courts, the police—rocks. And if none of these were there, at least the woman herself is there. Just because I desire, must she desire? My desire is not her rule or law. She is there. Even if she agrees, it’s not as if no rocks remain.

We must go a little deeper here.

Suppose we do as sociologists and socialists think—remove all the rocks; as hippies and beatniks and provos think—take away law and police, remove every rock that creates “needless” anger and suffering. Even then, what is the remedy for twenty-five men desiring one woman, twenty-five women desiring one man?

In fact, we had to create law and order because disorder would be worse than this. This is bad enough, but disorder would be worse still. It is a relative choice. It is bad enough that disturbances stand everywhere in the path of desire, but if you remove all disturbances, a great disaster will arise. Right now she has only one husband guarding her. Remove that system, and what will stop a thousand husbands? Right now only one wife guards that husband. Remove her, and what guarantee is there a thousand wives won’t guard him?

And even if we imagine all outer obstacles gone, inner obstacles remain—and they are greater. The woman you desire, the woman who desires you—no outer obstacle—yet you are two, and twoness itself is a major obstacle. Anger will be born daily—over trifles.

You want to rise at five; your woman wants to rise at six. That much is enough. No police, court, law, or state is needed for anger; such a small obstacle is ample. Tiny obstructions arise in desire and become hindrances. The other person is also a person, not a machine. He too has his own thinking, his own style. And two thinkings never run exactly parallel; they cannot. Only two machines can be parallel; two persons never can.

In truth, two persons living together is a disturbance. Not living together is also a disturbance—because desire is there. Apart, it cannot be fulfilled. Together, it still cannot be fulfilled.

All such obstacles become stones in the stream of lust and give birth to anger. The lustful becomes angry.

If Krishna says the man of steady wisdom has no anger, it is because he has no lust; he is desireless. These are necessary steps, inevitable stairs, each bringing the next. Invite the first and the second enters like a shadow. I invite you and your shadow comes into my house. I never invited the shadow, but it enters with you.

After lust comes anger. If there is anger in consciousness, a little inner search will reveal somewhere lust is there. Bottled-up lust is anger. Halted lust is anger. Obstructed lust is anger. The serpent of anger hisses and flares its hood only when a barrier arises and a doorway is denied. When someone blocks, someone stymies.

And we are not alone in this world. The world is vast. Everyone’s desires criss-cross everyone else’s; there are blockages everywhere. I want something, but there are three and a half billion others on Earth who also want. Then the unseen God, unseen beings and creatures, unseen deities, trees, animals, birds—all have their wants. If we could see from above, we’d realize the whole sky is criss-crossed with infinite desires. Infinite desires cut one another. On each desire, millions of other desires cut across. That cutting breeds anger—it must. Wherever passion is cut there is pain, as if someone slit a vein and blood flows. When the vein of desire is cut, the blood of anger flows.

Krishna says: from lust arises anger.

Anger—very deep. In human existence, as man is, its foundational stones lie deep. What is anger in itself? Power, energy! Energy that was to flow toward fulfillment through lust, finding the path blocked, becomes agitated. You wanted something; the life-energy was to flow along that trail; a rock appeared; all jammed. Energy turned back upon itself. Inside everything grew inflamed. Lust—energy set to travel along the path of desire—blocked, fills with rebellion, goes deranged, insane. That is anger.

As anger grows, moha—infatuation/attachment—grows. Why? What we want and cannot get, we become more infatuated with. If we get it, infatuation lessens. Not getting breeds infatuation. Moha is for what is not obtained; what is obtained drops its spell. Anger gives birth to moha. What is moha?

I have heard Nadir Shah once devised a very deep joke—deep indeed. Sometimes the intelligence of those steeped in sin becomes as deep as that of those steeped in virtue—reversed, but deep.

Nadir Shah lusted after a woman who was utterly indifferent to him, but who was crazy for one of Nadir’s soldiers. Naturally, Nadir couldn’t bear it. He had them both seized. He asked his ministers, “Find a new punishment—one never given before.”

Is there any punishment never before given? All punishments are exhausted. The ministers were in a fix. They kept bringing novel punishments, but Nadir would say, “This has been done; we ourselves have given it; others have given it. I want new!” And truly, an old minister found a new one. You couldn’t guess what it was.

They stripped both naked, tied them together face-to-face to a single pole. Who would have thought! One day, two days—the stench from each other’s bodies; urine and feces. Three days—no wish even to look at each other’s faces. Four days—deep disgust. Five days—no sleep, filth; chained together—exactly what they had wanted! By fifteen days they were mad to cut each other’s throats.

Nadir would come daily: “Well, lovers, desire fulfilled, yes? I have united you such that you cannot part.” After fifteen days, when they were released, the tale goes, they never looked at or spoke to each other again for the rest of their lives. They fled one another and never turned back.

What happened? There was no scope for moha; non-moha arose. Marriage is nearly Nadir Shah’s experiment on a small scale—very small. Some very clever person invented something deep. Marriage doesn’t let moha set; it kills moha. Moha is born for what is not obtained.

So Krishna’s insight is deep. He says, Arjuna, from anger comes moha. Because anger itself means what was desired could not be obtained, hence anger. Not obtained—hence a stronger craving to get it. Not obtained—hence a greater madness to possess. Not obtained—so the mind grows more and more deranged and demanding.

In Japan there is a class of courtesans—geisha girls. In their training—indeed in every courtesan’s training—there is a core teaching. Courtesans are shrewder than wives. Geisha are taught: never give so much of yourself that disillusion sets in. Keep the play going between nearness and farness. Call someone close, then move away. Let one approach, then slip aside. Invite—don’t actually grant fully; if you grant fully, moha is destroyed. Courtesans too know Krishna’s secret.

This is amusing. Women were once veiled on Earth, hidden in the dark. Even the husband couldn’t see his wife in sunlight. Couldn’t speak openly; even with his wife, talk was stolen in the night, whispered—because the whole joint family was around, lest anyone hear! The lure was deep; moha lasted a lifetime.

The veil lifted—the ghunghat went—good for women, very good—sunlight came in. But with it moha thinned. Today women and men are less moha-struck. A woman today is not as alluring as she always was. In Europe and America she has become still less alluring; not only the face but the whole body is exposed. On the beaches of Europe and America a woman is nearly naked; a passerby doesn’t even stop to look.

Have you noticed? When a woman passes in a burqa, the whole street turns curious. The covered draws attraction—because in covering there is a barrier. Where there is a barrier, there is moha. Where there is none, there is no moha.

The attraction between woman and man is less sexual than social, less from lust than from cultural barriers placed around lust.

I believe that if not today then within fifty years, the veil may return worldwide. Hard to say today, but I predict: within fifty years veiling will return. Because man and woman cannot live in such a state of un-attraction. They will want to recreate attraction. In the coming decades women’s clothing will grow larger; the body will be covered again.

Bertrand Russell wrote that when he was a child, the Victorian age was ending, and even to glimpse a woman’s toe was difficult. The skirt touched the ground. He wrote that if a woman’s toe showed, a lightning flashed in the mind. “Now there is nothing left to imagine. The woman is fully visible and no lightning flashes.”

A naked woman is not that attractive; a naked man is not that attractive. Women are wiser than men; no woman ever takes interest in a naked man. In the deepest moments of love women close their eyes—so the man isn’t seen. Women are wiser—instinctively closer to nature and familiar with its secrets.

Krishna says: from anger arises moha—because anger means barrier. Wherever there is a barrier, attraction arises.

It’s amusing that those who set up the barriers are the ones responsible for the attraction. Christianity made sin so attractive by creating so many barriers to it. Religions have made sex very attractive by establishing many obstacles.

People commonly think films, nude images, obscene pictures are making people lustful. Krishna would not say they are making people lustful; he would say they will ruin people’s moha. Familiarity makes a thing un-attractive. Where there is no barrier, attraction dies.

If we ask Krishna for the truth of psychology: if you want to increase the attraction between men and women, ban nude pictures, ban obscene images; don’t strip the woman. Cover; create barriers; don’t make it too easy for men and women to meet; create inconveniences—if you want moha.

If we ask Krishna, he won’t give the answer that India’s sadhus give. They say kisses in films should be banned; if kisses appear, people will become lustful. They are wrong; they know nothing of psychology. Krishna knows more. He would say: if there is no barrier, moha falls completely. If things are completely clear, they lose their charm. There is invitation in prohibition. Where things are covered, there is a mind to uncover—where there is a barrier!

My understanding is that the old human culture generated more attraction between men and women. Divorce was difficult; attraction was great. When could you meet your own wife! How many barriers there were! The joint family worked as a huge barrier. Attraction stretched a lifetime. Not only a lifetime—men and women wished that after death they might find the same partner again. They didn’t want even birth to bring divorce. The charm was to have the same one for births on end. The secret? Barriers were many.

Anger is the biggest barrier. In fact, anger is a mind-disturbance born of barrier. Thus moha is born. And where moha is born, memory—smriti—becomes corrupted. Why does moha corrupt memory?

Usually we think it should be sex that corrupts memory. It does not—because sex is a natural fact. One might think anger corrupts memory. It does not—because anger arises only from obstacles on lust’s path. Anger is not projective; remember this. Anger has no hypnosis. Anger is only reaction, not projection. Anger is retaliation; an effort to remove a barrier. Remove the barrier and anger disappears.

Moha is stronger than anger. Moha is projective; moha blinds. Anger makes one mad; moha makes one blind. Moha says, “Whatever it takes!” Forget all obstacles—moha, crazed to possess, rushes after its object. Anger tries to remove obstacles—quite realistic; anger is very factual. Moha says, “Obstacles? There are none. We will leap over, run through.”

Moha blinds. And when consciousness is blinded, memory weakens. Yes, to reach moha, lust and anger are necessary. But moha is the culmination. It is the mind’s hundred-degree state—where water turns to steam. Up to ninety-nine degrees, water doesn’t become steam; it is only hot. The beauty of being hot is that if, even now, you remove the fuel, it can cool. But at one hundred degrees it becomes steam. Whether you remove fuel afterwards or not, steam will not cool merely because the fuel is taken away. Water has attained a new state.

Up to anger, the mind is only heated; at moha it becomes steam. A new state begins—a qualitative change. Up to anger, the change is quantitative. Hence returning from anger is easier; returning from moha becomes very difficult.

Thus Krishna says moha destroys memory. Because the mind has turned to steam; return is very hard; cooling now is difficult. Removing the fuel won’t suffice. And if we understand the element of moha rightly, we’ll see why moha ruins memory.

The function of memory in man’s mind is the exact opposite of moha. Memory is factual. Memory means: to retain what was known as it was known. Right memory means we add nothing of our own; we retain what is. No addition from us.

Moha, one might say, is creative. It does not see what is; it projects what it wants to be. Moha is dream-making. Moha is hypnotic. It spreads its own web of hypnosis. Blindly, it only sees what it wants to see.

Hence we say: when someone is moha-struck, mad in “love,” facts do not appear to him. He can walk through fire; he can leap from mountains. He sees nothing. He isn’t realistic; he becomes a somnambulist—walking in sleep. His movement is a sleepwalk.

Thus mankind has always called the lover mad—and love blind. To be precise, we should use “moha” where we usually say “love.” The right word is moha. Moha is blind. Love is another matter entirely.

By conflating love with moha we have suffered a deep loss. Love is very different. Love happens only in the life of one who has no moha. We call moha love, and love moha.

Love happens in the life of a Buddha or a Krishna. In our lives there is no love. Where there is moha, there cannot be love. Moha asks; love gives. Completely different states. We can speak of love later. As a key to moha, this is useful.

Love blossoms in a mind where no desire remains, where no lust remains. For only one who does not ask can give. Lust asks. Lust says, “I must have this, I must have that.” Love says, “I have no demands; I am no beggar.” Lust is begging; love is kingship. Love says, “Take what I have. Take what I have; I need nothing now. Whatever you want, take it.” Love is a gift; lust is begging, demanding.

Hence in lust there is conflict; in love there is none. “If you take, fine; if you don’t, fine.” But a demander cannot say, “Give or don’t give, both are fine.” The giver can say, “Take or don’t take—fine either way.” Because in giving there is no disturbance; if you don’t take, don’t take. In asking there is disturbance; if you don’t give, life writhes—because something within will remain incomplete.

Moha is born at the last rung of desire; love is born at the last rung of desirelessness. As moha destroys memory, love strengthens memory—we shall speak of that separately.

Moha is the lower step on the staircase—where man is close to madness. Love is the upper step—where man is close to liberation. After moha lies derangement; after love, freedom.

Moha destroys memory. Why? Because memory can no longer record what is. Memory’s function is simply to record—that it registers the fact as it is. But in moha the fact is not seen. In moha we project our own web.

You’ve seen a projector. In a cinema there is a screen on which images appear. But behind your back, beyond the wall, a machine is hidden that throws those images onto the screen. The images reside in the machine, not on the screen. On the screen there is only the appearance. The images are hidden in the projector—the thrower—and from there they are cast, appearing on the screen. They are in the projector; they appear on the screen.

Moha is the projector. It happens within us; it appears out there. When I “fall in love” with a woman, the face I see is not hers; it is my projector’s. It exists within me and appears there. The woman is merely the screen. Those who are not moha-struck with her do not see the face I see. To me, even her sweat smells sweet; roses bloom in her sweat. To others, they do not. Some days later, neither to me—when moha falls, the projector shuts, and the screen appears. Then I say, “What happened? Where did the roses go?” They depart. They were never there. I had imposed them—projected them; it was my projection.

So with money—what the money-mad sees in money is not in money; it is projected. What can be in money! Yet have you seen the money-mad? How he clutches a coin with such affection, as if holding a living thing! How lovingly he handles it, as if it were his heart! How gently he opens his safe! How he gazes upon it as if his soul were locked there! Even in sleep his mind turns to the safe. His dreams are stacks of notes growing. We have no idea of the world he lives in—what he is projecting!

I heard of a very wealthy man in a village. Famine struck; people began dying. Villagers said, “You have so much wealth, so much grain—people are dying; in such an hour, don’t hoard—distribute.” He said, “If what you want me to distribute is distributed, I will die. People are dying, I agree, but I don’t wish to die! You should know that. And if people die, others will be born. But this wealth I have gathered—how can that come again?” People were stunned—they had never imagined!

They didn’t realize that to him people are shadows—unreal; money is soul—real. People don’t exist within his mental circumference. They are reflections—coming and going. Money is very real.

Then his wife fell ill. The village was sick; epidemics spread. They said, “At least call a physician for your wife!” He said, “A wife can still be found. But is there any assurance that money will be found again?”

We don’t understand the language of the money-mad. Just as Arjuna asks, “What is the language of the man of steady wisdom?”—so we cannot understand the language of the moha-struck. How the moha-struck rises or sits—we cannot grasp. Yes, by looking into our own mohas, we can catch a glimpse. Everyone has mohas. Another’s moha we do not understand; only our own.

His wife died. Then he too came near death; illness seized him. People said, “At least be kind to yourself now. You are near death!” He said, “Better to die than to live if the money doesn’t remain. That would be terrible, terrifying—that the money doesn’t remain and I do. I cannot imagine being without money. I can imagine my own non-existence—but not my existence without money.”

The moha-struck speaks this way. He says, “If I don’t get this woman, I will die. I cannot imagine being without her. I can imagine my own non-existence.” The same moha: “If I don’t become a minister, I will die. I cannot imagine being without the minister’s post. My non-existence I can imagine.” This is the language of the moha-struck.

People said, “But if you die, the money will lie behind. You saved it these many years—what then?” He said, “Do you think I will leave the money lying behind? I will take it with me.” They said, “We’ve never heard of anyone taking money along!” He said, “You will hear—when I take it.”

The moha-struck mind loses memory; it loses thinking; it loses simple discretion. “I will take the money along!” He says, “I won’t leave it; I will absorb it into my life-breath.” Each to his own moha.

I know a chief minister of a state. A year before he died, he said to me, “I have only one wish left—to die while I am chief minister.” Death loomed; he was very ill. “Just one wish—that I die a chief minister.” I said, “Not death itself, but the loss of office frightens more. Even while dying, at least the office should go along! To die as chief minister—take it along!”

That man said, “I will take it along.” And truly, one night he tried. The moha-struck can attempt anything. His memory fails; his discrimination vanishes. One night he felt morning might never come. At midnight he rose, gathered all his gems and jewels, everything valuable, tied it into a bag, and went to the river. He thought, “If I tie this bag to my waist and jump, I will take it along.” One last effort. But the river is deep; if he jumps from the bank, the corpse will lie near the bank; the bag of jewels will remain near the shore; someone might pick it up!

So he woke the boatmen. I say “boatmen”—one would have sufficed; but he couldn’t do anything without haggling; he had to go to midstream. He woke the oarsmen: “Who will take me for the lowest fare?” Lowest fare! And the man is going to die with all his wealth. “Who for the lowest coin?” He haggled. The one who agreed for the least coin took him out.

In midstream he said to the boatman, “Will you not fulfill a dying man’s last wish?” “What last wish?” “If you don’t take that coin, I will die in peace. Will you be so cruel as to deny a dying man’s last wish?”

The poor boatman fulfilled the last wish. The rich man jumped in peace. That is how we all jump into death, laden with our mohas. Moha destroys memory; it loosens thought and discrimination.

Where memory is destroyed, Krishna says, intelligence—buddhi—is destroyed.

Memory and intelligence are different. Memory is not intelligence; it is a faculty of intelligence—its treasury, its reservoir. Memory is the past of intelligence. Whatever intelligence has known is stored in memory. Memory is the past—not intelligence itself.

But first the past is corrupted, then the present, then the future. First the awareness of what was becomes dim; then the awareness of what is; then the awareness of what will be. Naturally—because the past is the clearest. What has happened is clearest. What is happening is still hazy. What has not happened is uncertain. Intelligence grasps the past most clearly.

What has happened is clear; its lines are complete; events are done; what was to be has taken form; it has shape. What is happening is still coming from formless into form. What will happen is still formless. The future is unmanifest; the present is in the process of manifesting; the past has manifested.

Hence the first attack is on memory—because it is the clearest. Once the clear is shaken, how long before the unclear is shaken? And when the unclear is shaken, the unformed—the future—will be utterly beyond our grasp. First the past is destroyed, then the present, then the future. First history distorts, then life, then possibility.

Krishna speaks step by step—scientifically. Memory is destroyed, Arjuna; then intelligence is ruined.

What is buddhi? And in what sense does Krishna use it? Krishna does not use it in the sense of “intellect” but “intelligence.” In a dictionary the two may seem the same. You might ask, what is the difference?

The portion of intelligence that has been actualized is intellect. The portion of buddhi that has become real through use—active—is intellect. The portion still dormant, not yet active, still in potential—seed, unformed, unrealized—that too belongs to buddhi, to intelligence. The actualized intelligence is intellect. And the yet-unactualized is also part of buddhi.

So your intellect is not the whole of your intelligence; your intelligence is bigger than your intellect. If your intellect were your whole intelligence, there would be no scope for growth. The circle of buddhi is larger; the circle of intellect sits within it. As the circle of intellect grows and one day touches the entire circle of intelligence, a person becomes sthitaprajna—steadfast in wisdom.

Krishna says: intelligence becomes distorted.

Intellect is distorted along with memory. Because intellect is memory; knowledge is memory. Knowing is intelligence—the capacity to know is buddhi. The portion of that capacity that has become active is intellect. What is known is intellect; the power to know within is intelligence. Intelligence is always greater than its actualization.

First memory is distorted—intellect is distorted. Then, Krishna says, the whirlpools begin to reach even that unmanifest intelligence. That hidden wisdom in the depths begins to tremble. Because when the foundation stones of memory fall, the unmanifest edifice above, its spires, begin to shake. That is the final fall. And when buddhi is destroyed, everything is lost.

Krishna says: Arjuna, when intelligence is destroyed, everything is lost. Nothing remains. That is man’s utter poverty—bankruptcy. There he becomes completely bankrupt—not losing money, but losing himself. Nothing remains with him. He becomes a zero. That is poverty—that is true destitution. In spiritual terms, such a state is spiritual poverty.

We are very afraid of material poverty; we fear not at all spiritual poverty. We fear losing a coin; we do not fear losing the soul. We are anxious not to lose the coat or shirt; but that the wearer of the coat and shirt may be lost—no concern. Save the coat and shirt—that’s enough. We save the objects and lose ourselves.

The process of losing, as Krishna describes it, is deeply psychological. Modern Western psychology has not yet gone so deep. It will; the first steps have begun—but not so deep yet. Western psychology still wanders around sex.

For now, whether Freud or anyone else, they hover around the first circle—sex. They do not know that after sex lies anger, after anger moha, after moha the ruin of memory, after the ruin of memory the bankruptcy of intelligence, and beyond that the total negation of the self.

rāga-dveṣa-viyuktais tu viṣayān indriyais caran
ātma-vaśyair vidheyātmā prasādam adhigacchati (2.64)

But the self-disciplined one, free of attachment and aversion, moving among objects with senses under his own control—he attains prasāda, the serenity, the inner gladness of the heart.

Exactly the reverse of the story of decline—the reverse: free of likes and dislikes, beyond craving, settled in oneself, self-governed. He had been losing himself; now he abides in himself. The story we just understood was the journey of losing oneself—how man empties and hollows himself out, moves farther and farther away from himself, loses himself and gets possessed by the “other.”

What I called spiritual bankruptcy means: possessed by the other. The whole journey began with being oriented toward the other. On the road you saw a woman, a building, a man, a glitter of gold, a diamond flashing in the sun—the Other. Somewhere, attracted to the other, the mind went out searching the other. It thought, it desired, met obstacles, grew angry, became moha-struck, lost memory, reached the ruin of intelligence—other-oriented. The word psychology would use is “other-oriented.”

How delightful that Krishna uses the opposite—“self-governed,” self-oriented. Other-possessed—living with the other as center. If we understand this word “purusha,” we can understand other-possessed and self-possessed.

Perhaps you never wondered what “purusha” means. It is a Sankhya word. A town we call pur—Nagpur, Kanpur. Sankhya says: that which dwells in the pur (city) is purusha—the indweller. The body is a pur. You’ll say, such a small body a city? It is vast, not small. How many live in Kanpur? Five, six, seven lakhs. How many live in the body? Seven crores—seven hundred million cells. It is no small pur; seven hundred million living cells. Nowhere on Earth is there a city as large. London one crore; Tokyo one and a quarter; Calcutta eighty lakhs; Bombay sixty.

No city has been built equal to the human body—seven hundred million. Does it matter they are small creatures? What is small, what is big? All is relative. Is man so big? Ask the camel, the elephant—he is small. And are they so big? Ask the Himalayas, the Earth.

You may think perhaps the Himalayas have no life. You think wrong. The Himalayas are still growing—still youthful. Satpura and Vindhyachal are old; they no longer grow; they only tire and bend. The Himalayas are still growing. They are the youngest. Vindhya is the oldest mountain range; the first born of Earth—ancient, its growth ceased; tiring, crumbling, stooping—its waist bent. There is a legend of Agastya: the sage went south and told Vindhya, “Remain bowed till I return,” and never returned. Karma is in man’s hands; fruit is not. He did not return; the poor mountain remained bowed. But it is a geological fact too, not only a puranic tale.

Ask the Himalayas about camel, elephant—they are tiny creatures; to see them, he needs a microscope. Ask the Earth about the Himalayas—many such Himalayas have come and gone; they are her sons, she absorbs them. But is the Earth so big? Ask the Sun—the Sun is sixty lakh times bigger. The Earth may not even be visible to it. But is the Sun so big? Don’t get stuck there; it’s a very mediocre star, middle-class. There are suns millions and billions of times bigger. The stars you see at night are suns—they look small because they are far. Distance makes them small. There are super-suns compared to which our sun is poor, small, insignificant, no VIP.

Are those super-suns big? Ask the universe. Scientists say we know of four billion suns—but it is no end; beyond and beyond—no end. Who is small, who big? All is relative.

In this body-city dwell seven hundred million beings. And you think these seven hundred million know you, or you know them? They don’t know you; you don’t know them. They have no idea you exist. When you no longer inhabit this body, many of them keep living—after your death. They don’t die with you. Some amoebae—tiny—do not die; their lifespans are immense. If we measure by lifespan, you are small, they are big.

Even in the grave, hair and nails keep growing—because the cells that make hair and nails don’t die with you; they go on working. They don’t even know you died. They go on lengthening hair and nails. When you die, the number of microbes does not lessen; it increases. Your death creates space and thousands enter. What you call decay—deterioration—is death for you; it is life for new microbes.

This city—the one who dwells in it is purusha. He can be other-possessed; he can be self-possessed. When he is desire-ridden, he starts revolving around the other—becomes a satellite.

Like the moon—it is a satellite; it revolves around the Earth. The Earth too is a satellite; it revolves around the Sun. The Sun too is a satellite; it revolves around a super-sun. All are other-oriented.

They can be forgiven; they lack consciousness to know what is other and what is self. Man cannot be forgiven; he knows. The husband is a satellite of the wife—revolving around her; sometimes a small orbit, sometimes large, but around her. The wife is a satellite of the husband. One revolves around money; another around lust; another around position—satellites, other-possessed. The other is the center; we merely circle the circumference—this is bankruptcy.

But when we ourselves are our own center, when we revolve around none—then man is self-governed. This is kingship. This is spiritual richness. What Jesus called the Kingdom of God—Krishna calls: the self-governed one attains supreme bliss. Because the other-possessed one attains supreme sorrow. Sorrow means: other-possessed. Bliss means: self-possessed.

From all directions Krishna keeps pointing Arjuna toward the samadhistha—the one established in samadhi. From many angles he points: who is such a one? Arjuna may have forgotten his own question by now. But Krishna keeps bringing the answer from all sides—so it may enter somewhere.

He says: the one who has become his own center, who has no other center—that man attains supreme knowledge, supreme peace, supreme bliss.

Enough for now. We will speak of the rest this evening.