Geeta Darshan #18

Does a mind free of distraction ripen into a pure inner being? Or does the pure inner being become a mind without distraction? What Krishna is saying is the very opposite of our ordinary understanding of spiritual practice. Ordinarily we think: remove the distractions first, and then the inner being will be pure. Krishna says: let the inner being be pure, and the distractions fall away by themselves.

If this is not understood rightly, it can breed great confusions and trap you in futile circles for lifetimes. To see clearly cause and effect—what is cause and what is result—is the very heart of science. In the outer world and in the inner as well. The one who does not understand the order of causation, who takes effects to be causes and causes to be effects, wrongs himself with his own hands—disorders himself with his own hands.

A farmer sows wheat and a crop comes. With wheat comes chaff. But if you sow chaff, wheat does not come with it. Such a farmer might think: since chaff comes with wheat, why not the reverse? If we sow chaff, wheat should come along—why shouldn’t it be vice versa? But sow chaff and only the chaff will rot; wheat will not grow, and you will lose even the chaff in your hand. Chaff comes along with wheat; wheat does not come along with chaff.

If the inner being is pure, the mind’s distractions are lost—its distractedness is gone. But if someone sets out to eliminate the mind’s distractedness, the inner being does not become pure; rather the distractedness increases.

A man who is restless—if he makes efforts to be peaceful—only doubles his restlessness. He was already restless; now the restlessness of not being able to be peaceful torments him too. But then, how is the inner being to become pure? One may ask: how will the inner being become pure? As long as thoughts arise, distractions arise, agitations and distortions arise, how can the inner being become pure? Krishna puts purity of the inner being first—but how will it happen?

Here it is essential to remind you of the deepest sutra of Sankhya. Sankhya’s deepest sutra is: the inner being is already pure. Whoever asks, “How will it become pure?”—it is precisely he who has no taste of the inner being. He who asks, “How will it be purified?” has already assumed that the inner being is impure.

Have you ever known the inner being? Without knowing, you’ve assumed it is impure and you’ve set out to purify it. If the inner being is not impure, then your whole effort to purify it is futile. And the more this effort fails—and it cannot succeed, because that which is pure cannot be made pure; it already is—but the effort to purify the pure must fail; and failure brings sorrow, failure brings despondency, failure brings a sense of inferiority and defeat, frustration. Failing again and again you will conclude: the inner being does not become pure—the impurity is too deep. The conclusion you draw will be utterly upside down.

A house is dark. We enter with swords, trying to drive the darkness out—slashing and beating it. The darkness does not leave. We will tire, we will despair, we may waste our life, but the darkness will not leave. Why? Perhaps after all this exertion we will sit and think: darkness must be very powerful, that’s why it won’t go.

Logic often leads to such wrong conclusions that appear correct; that is their danger. It appears so right: so much effort and the darkness didn’t go—clearly our effort is insufficient and the darkness is very powerful. The truth is the reverse. If darkness were powerful, there might be some way to drive it out with greater power. You could invent a bigger force to expel a force.

Darkness is not. That is its power. It is not; therefore you cannot remove it by force. It is non-existential; it has no being. And that which has no being cannot be cut by a sword nor shoved out by force. In truth, darkness is only absence of something; darkness has nothing of its own. It is simply the absence of light—period.

Therefore you can do nothing directly with darkness. If you wish to do anything about darkness, you must do something with light. Light a lamp and darkness is not. Extinguish the lamp and darkness appears. You can do nothing directly with darkness because darkness is not. And whoever engages directly with what is not, tangles his life in knots with no way out. He falls into absurdity.

If the inner being is pure, then all efforts to purify it are dangerous—like trying to drive out darkness. How will you remove impurity that isn’t there? Sankhya says: the inner being is not impure. And if even the inner being can be impure, then there is no possibility of purification anywhere in existence. Who will purify? For that which could purify has itself become impure.

The inner being is not impure. Properly seen, the inner being is purity itself—the very purification, the very purity. The inner being is pure. But we have no taste of what the inner being is. What do you take to be the inner being?

In English there is a word: conscience. And those who have translated the Gita have rendered antahkaran as conscience. No translation could be more mistaken. Conscience is not antahkaran. Conscience is an impostor of the inner being. This must be understood, because a very deep-rooted fallacy grips the whole world.

Wherever the Gita is read, antahkaran is taken to mean conscience. We too, by antahkaran, usually mean what? You are going to steal; inside, a voice says, “Don’t steal; stealing is bad.” You say, “My inner voice speaks.” This is conscience, not the inner being. It is only a social implant, not the inner being. If society were of thieves, it would not be so. There are such societies.

Among Jats, a boy’s marriage does not take place until he has done a few thefts. When a Jat boy goes to steal, it never occurs to him he is doing wrong. He too has an inner being—not just you. But the socially built-in conditioning you carry, he doesn’t.

A friend of mine traveled in the Pashtun areas. In Peshawar, friends told him: “You’re going into Pashtun territory—be careful. Take the jeep, but be cautious.” He asked, “What’s the danger? I have nothing worth looting.” They said, “That’s not it. The danger is that Pashtun boys often practice marksmanship by shooting people along the road—not enemies, just for practice! From the roadside they fire at a passing car to check their aim.” My friend was terrified. “What do you mean—practice! Have they no conscience?”

The Pashtun too has an inner being. The inner being is no one’s private property. But what you call the social sense of violence and nonviolence has not been instilled in him since childhood.

Tell a Hindu to marry his cousin and his inner voice refuses; a Muslim’s does not. Not because the Muslim lacks an inner being, but because the social doctrine around cousin marriage differs. That doctrine comes from society; it is not antahkaran.

Society has made arrangements: an external court, and an internal court. Strong arrangements: outwardly it says stealing is bad—there is police, there are courts. But that’s not enough, because the outer policeman can be fooled. So there must be an inner policeman to keep saying all the time that stealing is bad. If the outer policeman is bypassed, the inner may still restrain you.

Conscience—this English word—we should call it inner conditioning, not antahkaran. Sankhya’s antahkaran is something else entirely. If antahkaran had to be translated into English, conscience would not do. There is no exact English word. Antahkaran means the innermost instrument—the inmost, as far as one can go within; the last inner instrument. Which means: not the soul.

This is the surprising part: antahkaran does not mean the soul. The soul is that which is neither inside nor outside; it is beyond both. Antahkaran is the instrument nearest to the soul through which we connect with the outer.

Imagine the soul has a mirror in which it is reflected: that mirror is antahkaran, the nearest. Antahkaran is the last rung to the soul. And because it is so near the soul, it cannot be impure. Its very nearness to the soul is its purity.

This antahkaran is not the conscience which, when you walk on the road and go right instead of left, whispers, “Don’t go right; go left.” That is not antahkaran. That is only society’s inner arrangement—inner conditioning—for order and discipline.

Societies differ, so the arrangements differ. In America you don’t need to keep left. There what you call conscience tells you to keep right, not left, because the rule is to keep right. The internalized social rules are not the inner being.

So in fact we have no taste of antahkaran at all. What we take to be antahkaran is entirely mistaken. Antahkaran is not moral precept; it is not morality. Morality comes in a thousand kinds; antahkaran is one. Hindu morality differs from Muslim, Jain, Christian, African, Chinese morality; there are countless moralities, but the inner being is one.

The inner being is pure. Nothing that dwells so near to the soul can be impure. The farther anything is from the soul, the greater the possibility of impurity. Properly seen, the more the distance, the more the impurity. A lamp burns here; closest to the flame there is a circle of light, the purest. A little further, dust and air begin to mix and the light is less pure; farther still, more impure; a little more, and it is darkness. Step by step, light moves outward and drowns in darkness.

By the time you arrive at the body, all things are impure; as you move toward the soul, all becomes pure. Nearest the body are the senses. Near the senses, the inner senses. Near the inner senses, memory. Near memory, the practical intellect—applied intelligence. Near the applied intellect, the theoretical intellect. Beneath the theoretical intellect, antahkaran. Beneath the antahkaran, the soul. Beneath the soul, the Supreme.

If this picture settles in, Sankhya says: the antahkaran is pure. It has never been impure. But we have not known it, hence people ask, “How can we purify the inner being?” The inner being cannot be purified. Who will do it? And how could you purify what is already pure? But it can be known as pure. How?

There is only one way: withdraw, withdraw—draw your consciousness in, as a turtle withdraws its limbs. Forget the body, forget the senses. Leave the outer circumference, walk within. Drop the inner senses, walk within. Drop memory, walk within. Inside there is remembrance, words, thoughts, memory—drop them; say, “This too I am not.” Say, “Neti, neti—this too I am not.” And indeed they are not, because that which is seeing the thought arising from memory is other, separate, distinct. Know: this is not me. You are visible to me; surely you are not me—for who would be the seer? The seer and the seen are different.

This is Sankhya’s fundamental practice: the seen and the seer are distinct. The whole of Sankhya’s sadhana descends into this distinction. Whatever becomes an object to you, know: I am other than this. Look within: the body is seen—you are other. Deeper: the heartbeat is heard—you are other. Deeper still: thoughts are seen—you are other. Deeper still: social imprints, layers upon the mind—all are seen. Go on descending. Finally you reach the place of antahkaran, the utmost purity. Yet—even that purest is other; distinct. That is why it is not called the soul but antahkaran: because the soul is beyond even the purest. How will the purest be experienced? Just as you experience the most impure?

Someone asks me, “How will I experience the pure?” I say: go toward the garden. The garden is not yet here, but the cool breeze begins to be felt. How do you know you are going right? Because the coolness is felt. Go closer, fragrance begins; you know the garden is nearer. Still you may not yet see it. Go further, greenness begins to show. Nearer still. At last you stand at the gate: coolness, fragrance, greenery, a hush all around, a sense of well-being surrounds you.

Likewise, as one goes inward, the nearer one comes to the soul, the more silent, the more still, the more joyous and bright and cool one becomes. Step by step, moving within, saying “not this, not this,” recognizing again and again—“this too is not me.” Whatever becomes an object is not me. I will go to where only the seer remains. When only the seer remains, what is just before that is antahkaran. Antahkaran is the last station of the inner journey. The last station—not the destination. The destination lies beyond.

This antahkaran is pure—therefore Sankhya’s teaching is difficult. Tell us how to purify—we understand that. Sankhya says: you are pure already. You have never gone to the place where purity is. You circle around the house; you never enter. In the womb of the house dwells the supreme purity. Between that supreme purity and the soul—and beyond the soul, the Supreme. But we never go there. We circle outside the house, where the filth is.

A man wanders outside the house; the street is filthy. Seeing the filth he says, “Inside my house must also be filthy—how will I clean it?” We tell him: this filth is outside. Go inside; there is no filth. Don’t become obsessed with this filth; it is because you are outside. The stream of purity cannot reach here—it is distorted by many mediums. Go in, go within; go back, return.

So Krishna says: the day it is known that the inner being is pure, that very day all the mind’s distractions and derangements are lost—you don’t have to lose them.

Understand it like this: we live in a damp, dark valley on a mountain’s edge. Clouds circle the mountain, covering the valley. Because of them, the sun above is not seen. Their dark shadows swing through the gorge and feel ominous.

A man stands on the summit and says, “Climb.” We shout from below, “But how will we get rid of these clouds? They blanket the whole valley; how can we be free of them?” The man says, “Forget them; climb. Come to where you will see the clouds remain below and you are above. The day you see the clouds below and you above, that day they cast no shadow upon you.”

Clouds cast shadows only on those who are beneath them. They do not shadow those above them. If you ever flew in a plane, you know: the clouds no longer cast shadows on you; their canopy is below, you are above. But on the earth, clouds cast many shadows.

The mind’s distractions, derangements, impurities are like clouds. They shadow us because we live in valleys.

Krishna says: take the journey to the purity of the inner being. When you reach the inner being, you will laugh: the clouds that tormented me so much—now they are left below. They no longer even cross my mind; they cast no shade. There is no connection with them. The sun is face to face. No cloud-canopy, no mesh in between.

Thoughts are like clouds hanging over valleys. One who reaches the inner being reaches the summit. There the sun’s light is manifest. This is a journey; it is not purification. It is a journey—purity is the discovery. You find that it is pure.

Krishna says: the inner being is pure; there, the mind has no distraction.

नास्ति बुद्धिरयुक्तस्य न चायुक्तस्य भावना।
न चाभावयतः शान्तिरशान्तस्य कुतः सुखम्।। 66।।
For the unintegrated man there is no true intelligence, nor for the unintegrated any feeling; and for one devoid of feeling there is no peace—how can the peaceless know joy?

The unintegrated knows no peace; the integrated knows peace. Who is unintegrated? Who is integrated? The unintegrated has no real feeling, no peace, no bliss. What do these words mean?

Unintegrated means: fallen apart from oneself, distant from one’s own being, outside of oneself, cut off—split.

But how can one be cut off from oneself? It seems impossible. If I were cut off from myself, there would be two “selves”—one I am cut off from, and one I am as the cut-off part. You cannot truly be cut from yourself.

Then what does it mean to be integrated with oneself, when in fact you cannot be cut? Where is the issue?

In truth, no one is cut off from himself, but one can think so, imagine so, be hypnotized with such a notion: “I am separate from myself.”

You sleep at night. You dream you are not in Ahmedabad but in Calcutta. You haven’t gone to Calcutta; there is no method yet to go to Calcutta while lying in your bed. You are on your cot in Ahmedabad, but you dream you have reached Calcutta. In the morning you have urgent work in Ahmedabad. Now the mind is anxious: “I’m in Calcutta! Work is in Ahmedabad. I must get back!” In the dream you ask people: “How do I go to Ahmedabad? Train, plane, ox-cart?” You must reach quickly; the night wears on.

Your anxiety seems justified: work is in Ahmedabad, you in Calcutta; the distance is great; dawn approaches; you look for transport. But will you need transport to reach Ahmedabad? You haven’t left it for even a moment, not an inch. Whether transport is found or not, as soon as the sleep breaks you find yourself “back.” To say “back” isn’t even right—you never went; you were under the illusion of going.

So when Krishna speaks of the unintegrated and the integrated, there is no real difference. No one is actually unintegrated; he is only under the illusion of being so, dreaming. It is just a dream-creation that “I have become separate from myself.” The integrated is the one who has awakened from this dream and sees: I was never separate from myself.

In the unintegrated there is no real feeling. Why? Do not confuse this with your sentimentalism, because we are all unintegrated and we think we feel a lot. So Krishna cannot be speaking of the sentimentality we have.

A man says he is very feeling: his wife dies, he weeps; his son is ill, tears fall. This is not feeling; it is sentimentality. What is the difference? If this is not feeling but a counterfeit, what distinguishes it?

A man is sobbing by his sick son. The doctors say he will not survive. He beats his chest: “My child!” A gust of wind blows a paper off the table onto the floor near his feet. He picks it up idly and reads: it is a love-letter addressed to his wife. From it he comes to know the child is not his. All his “feeling” vanishes. He removes the medicines and puts the poisons in their place. At night he strangles the child in secret. The same man who begged to save him now kills him.

Where did the feeling go? What kind of feeling was that? It was not feeling—it was only “my”-feeling, a false glamour of “mine.” When it is not mine, the matter ends.

Tolstoy wrote a story. A man’s son had left home long ago, angry at his father. The father grew old and repentant. He sent notices in the paper, messengers everywhere. A letter came from the son: “You called me; I am coming, on such-and-such day by such-and-such train.”

The station was far; the father, a landlord, took his carriage. On arriving, he found the train had already come—he thought it was due at four; it arrived at two. He lodged in a dharmshala and began to search for his son.

The inn had no vacant room. The landlord said to the manager, “Vacate any room.” He was a big man. The manager said, “Only a beggar-like fellow has just taken this one. Shall we throw him out?” “Yes, throw him out,” said the landlord—not knowing it was his son. They threw him out; the landlord rested. He sent men to search the town.

The son sat on the steps outside. Night grew cold; snow began to fall. The poor boy repeatedly pleaded, “Let me come in; I have severe stomach pain.” The manager said, “Don’t create trouble here; go away; don’t disturb our sleep.” In pain, the boy began to scream in the night. They had the servants carry him to the road and dump him there.

By morning the boy was dead. When the landlord arose, the body lay outside; a crowd had gathered. People searched his pockets and found letters. They said, “Why, this is the very boy the landlord is looking for! Letters to the landlord, newspaper cuttings—this is his son.”

The landlord was sitting smoking his hookah. As soon as he heard it was his son, “feeling” suddenly arrived. He beat his chest, he wept. He took the dead boy inside. The living boy he didn’t take in at night; the dead he took in by day. He bathed the corpse, dressed it in new clothes—he is the landlord’s son! Now preparations are made to take him home. And last night, when the boy begged to be let in, they had him tossed onto the road. Is this feeling?

No, it is a counterfeit. Feeling is not tied to mine-and-thine; feeling is an inner, spontaneous flowering. If feeling had been there, it would have been impossible to throw him out. If feeling had been there, on that freezing night with a child in pain, it would have been impossible to keep him outside. It is not a question of who he is; the question is whether feeling is within.

Remember, feeling is the self’s own effulgence. The other—who he is—is irrelevant. A man is dying and you have him flung away by servants!

When Tolstoy wrote this story, he noted in his memoirs: this story is in one sense autobiographical. Tolstoy himself belonged to the nobility.

He wrote: I used to think my mother was very sensitive. Later it was revealed that there was no such thing as feeling in her. Why did I think she had feeling? Because at the theatre she would soak handkerchief after handkerchief with tears. During the tragedies, she wept torrents and servants stood by with handkerchiefs—she was a princess—they had to keep replacing them: four, six, eight handkerchiefs in a single play. Tolstoy wrote: I sat beside her and thought how sensitive my mother was.

But when I grew up, I learned her carriage stood outside the theatre, six horses harnessed, and the coachman was ordered never to leave the box, because whenever she wished to go, it shouldn’t happen that she had to wait even a moment. In the snow, frequently one or two coachmen died sitting there while she watched the play. They were thrown away, another coachman seated, and the carriage drove off. She would come out and see a dead coachman being removed and a living one sitting up; then she would weep for the tragedy in the theatre. So Tolstoy wrote: in a sense this story is autobiographical—something I have seen with my own eyes. Then I understood feeling must be something else; this is not feeling.

What we call feeling, Krishna is not calling feeling. Feeling arises only in one who is joined to himself, who is integrated within. Integrated means available to yoga, joined, united. Unintegrated means disunited—disconnected from oneself. The unintegrated is always connected to others; the integrated is always connected to himself.

The unintegrated is always connected to others. All his links are with others: he is someone’s father, someone’s husband, someone’s friend, someone’s enemy, someone’s son or brother or sister or wife. But who he himself is—he has no idea. All the information he has about himself is information about others: “I am a father”—meaning, some relationship to a son; “I am a husband”—meaning, some relationship to a wife. Everything he knows about himself is only that he is related to others.

If you ask him, “No, not a father, not a brother, not a friend—who are you? Who are you?” he will say, “What a foolish question! I am a father, I am a husband, I am a clerk, I am an owner.” But these are functions; these are connections with others.

The unintegrated is connected outwardly. In such a person, real feeling never arises—first. Second: one who is connected elsewhere is always restless, because peace means nothing but to be joined to the inner stream of harmony flowing within.

Peace means inner harmony; peace means I am fulfilled within, contented. Even if everything else dissolves—the moon and stars vanish, the sky falls, the earth disappears, the body drops, the mind is no more—still I am enough, more than enough.

In Pompeii, when the volcano erupted, the whole town fled. It was midnight. A fakir lived there too. People ran carrying whatever they could—gold chests, bags of coins, furniture. The fakir also went with the crowd—but walked, he did not run.

To run, you must either have something behind you you are running from, or something ahead you are running to. The whole town was running; the fakir walked. People shoved him and said, “Is this a time to walk? Run!” He said, “From what should I run, and for what? Behind me is nothing, ahead of me is nothing.” They said, “You have gone mad! This is not a time for a stroll!”

He said, “But from what shall I run? I possess nothing; I have never saved anything; therefore there is nothing to lose. I alone am enough.”

Some wept, “My chest of gold is left!” Some, “My this is left, my that is left.” In that whole frantic crowd, only one man was laughing. People asked him, “Why are you laughing? Didn’t you lose anything?” He said, “Whatever I was, I am here also. Nothing of mine is lost.”

Amid the restless crowd, only the one who had nothing possessed peace. All others had saved something, yet were anxious. He saved nothing, yet was at peace. How so?

The integrated man becomes peaceful; the unintegrated, restless. The knower, being integrated, attains peace.

इंद्रियाणां हि चरतां यन्मनोऽनु विधीयते।
तदस्य हरति प्रज्ञां वायुर्नावमिवाम्भसि।। 67।।
तस्माद्यस्य महाबाहो निगृहीतानि सर्वशः।
इन्द्रियाणीन्द्रियार्थेभ्यस्तस्य प्रज्ञा प्रतिष्ठिता।। 68।।
If the wandering senses carry away the mind in pursuit of their objects, then—as the wind sweeps a boat on the waters—so that mind snatches away his wisdom. Therefore, O mighty-armed, he whose senses are restrained from their objects—his wisdom is established.

As a boat sails, gusts of storm-tossed wind make it pitch and roll; if the gales are strong, the boat may sink. Krishna says: Arjuna, when the mind’s energies scatter toward objects as passions, the mind becomes a storm; in that storm the boat of peace, of samadhi, of the self, capsizes. If there is no wind, the boat does not rock. If there are no winds at all, the boat cannot sink.

Exactly so: the more the mind is filled with hurricanes of desire, the more its energy rushes toward objects, the more the boat of life pitches and begins to sink.

Seeing and recognizing this, the wise do not drive the hurricanes of craving. Do they restrain them? If the winds are restrained, they remain winds still—and winds that are repressed may be more destructive than winds that run. So do the wise restrain, repress? If you repress, they remain storms; the vehemence of repressed winds may increase. Then what do the wise do?

Here is something delightful and worth understanding: storms don’t need to be stopped; they need simply to be unfed. Not stopped—just not run. If you don’t run them, they stop. Because the winds are not coming from outside; they come with your cooperation.

I am moving this hand. To stop it, I do not have to “stop” it; I just cease moving it. If some outer force were moving it, then I would have to stop it. But I myself am moving it—what does “stop” mean then? The very word “stop” as an act creates confusion. In reality, you don’t have to stop it; you simply don’t move it—and it is still.

A Zen master, Rinzai, was approached by a man who asked, “How do I stop?” Rinzai said, “You are asking the wrong question.” He kept a staff by his side. It’s a weak world where a master has no stick! Krishna doesn’t speak with a small stick either.

A friend told me yesterday, “My condition is like Arjuna’s. Save me!” I felt like saying, “If I speak to you even once like Krishna—‘Supreme idiot!’—you will never come again.” To be an Arjuna is not easy. Krishna keeps striking him with blows of the staff; he doesn’t run. He doubts, but there is no lack of trust. He questions, yet he doesn’t flee.

Rinzai said, “See this stick? Ask false questions and I’ll smash your head.” The man said, “What are you saying! My head is already broken by passions. Teach me a technique to stop.” Rinzai said, “No technique to stop—tell me by what technique you run your passions. Since you run them, only then would a technique be needed to stop.”

A man is running and asks, “How do I stop?” Stopping is not to be done; only not-running is needed. Stopping is not required; just don’t run.

If someone is dragging him by a rope around his neck, there is a question. If someone is pushing him from behind, there is a question. But no one drags him; no one pushes him. He is running, and asks how to stop. We must tell him: you are asking the wrong question. You are the one running; you are also asking how to stop. Surely, you don’t want to stop—hence the question.

Those who do not want to stop keep asking, “How to stop?” They waste their time asking, “How to do it?” They don’t want to do it. Strikingly, you never went to anyone to ask how to run your passions—you manage quite well.

So Krishna says: the one who does not feed these winds—not “restrains” them, simply does not feed them.

Passion demands your cooperation. Have you ever seen a passion that moves an inch without your support? The next time a passion arises, stand and say, “No cooperation; now move on your own.” You will see it collapses right there. It cannot move an inch. Your cooperation is required.

A friend of mine has a hot temper. He recites mantras, prays, goes to temples—and returns more irritable. The anger won’t go. This is his only trouble: anger. I asked him, “Do you get angry, or does someone else?” He said, “I do—but it won’t leave. How can it?” I said, “Leave all this. Keep this paper in your pocket.” I wrote in big letters: “Now I am getting angry.” “Keep it in your pocket. Whenever anger comes, take it out, read it, put it back. Do nothing else.” He said, “What will that do? I’ve tried big talismans!” “Forget talismans,” I said. “Do this. Come back in fifteen days.”

He came back in five: “What magic is this? The moment I read, ‘Now I am getting angry,’ something happens inside—it’s gone!” The cooperation fails. If for even one second the cooperation falters—gone.

Soon he said, “Now I don’t even have to reach for the pocket. As my hand moves, the words appear: ‘Now anger is coming’—and suddenly something inside flops, collapses.”

Passion demands your energy; dispassion needs only non-cooperation. For dispassion, nothing is to be done; only what you do for passion is to be undone.

Rinzai clenched his fist and said, “See, my fist is closed. I want to open it. What should I do?” The man said, “Don’t be absurd—just don’t clench it and it will be open.” Don’t clench! Clenching is an act; opening isn’t. Energy is spent in clenching; no energy is needed to open. Don’t clench, and the hand remains open; clench, and it closes.

Passion demands energy; give it none, and dispassion flowers by itself.

A mind freed from storms becomes established in itself. Krishna says: O mighty-armed, one who becomes established in himself attains all.

या निशा सर्वभूतानां तस्यां जागर्ति संयमी।
यस्यां जाग्रति भूतानि सा निशा पश्यतो मुनेः।। 69।।
What is night for all beings—that is the awakening of the self-restrained sage. And that in which beings keep awake—the man of vision knows it as night.

That which is dark night to everyone is the hour of wakefulness to the enlightened, the self-restrained. What is sleep for all is awakening for the knower. This is a mahavakya—a great utterance. It has many dimensions. Two or three must be understood.

First, the literal meaning is also intended. Commentators on the Gita usually avoid the literal meaning—wrongly. They turn it into metaphor. It is not only metaphor. When it is said: what is sleep for all is awakening for the knower—the first meaning is factual. When you sleep at night, the self-restrained does not sleep.

Understand this first because no one has dared to say it plainly. They always talk of “sleep of delusion” and such. The first meaning is literal.

When you sleep at night, the enlightened does not sleep. Does that mean he doesn’t lie on a bed? Doesn’t close his eyes? Doesn’t rest? No—he does all that, and yet he does not sleep. Two or three examples.

Buddha initiated Ananda, his cousin and elder. At initiation Ananda said, “Once I am your disciple, I cannot command you—you will be the master, I the disciple. Right now, as your elder brother, I can give you three orders which you must obey. One: I shall be with you twenty-four hours; I will sleep wherever you sleep. Two: whenever I ask a question, you must reply immediately—you cannot postpone. Three: even at midnight, if I bring someone to you, you must meet him—no refusal.” Buddha agreed.

Ananda slept in the same room and within a few days was puzzled: Buddha never moved in sleep. The posture of his hand, his legs—he did not shift even an inch. Not even once did he turn over. Ananda watched several nights and finally asked, “Do you sleep at night, or what?” Buddha said, “Since ignorance fell, only the body sleeps; I do not. So if a turn is to occur, I must make it happen. There is no need. One posture suffices. A fakir should not be bothered with more than what’s necessary. The hand lies where it lies. The hand sleeps; I don’t.”

Krishna says: what is dark sleep to others is wakefulness to the knower.

Even you do not sleep totally; some corner of awareness remains. If, in a hall full of sleeping people, someone shouts “Ram!” all will hear, but not all will respond. The one named Ram will say, “Who’s calling?” All have ears, all sleep; “Ram” resounds and all hear. But Ram says, “Who is calling? Who disturbs the night?” What happened? Some corner of his consciousness remains awake, on guard—recognizing his name.

A mother sleeps through storms—thunder, lightning, rain do not wake her. But if her baby stirs faintly, she puts a hand on him at once. Some part of her remains awake to watch over the child. The child’s disturbance is so faint that some part of the mother must stay awake. Lightning flashes, thunder roars, rain pours—she does not stir. But the baby’s slightest sound, his tiny turn, a soft whimper—and she wakes. A part of her is awake—one part. It is an emergency measure. Ordinarily, our whole consciousness is drowned in darkness.

Krishna says: the knower remains awake even in sleep. First dimension: literal—awake even in sleep.

And I tell you, this is not difficult. One who lives fully awake for twelve hours in the day will sleep awake at night. Walk awake. Eat awake. Speak awake. Listen awake. Don’t live drowsily. Everything “just going on”—no.

A man eats. You think: how can he eat in sleep? Psychologists say: everyone eats in sleep. Emerson was reading in the morning. The maid left his breakfast without disturbing him. A friend arrived, saw him absorbed in a book, and ate the breakfast, leaving the empty plate. Emerson looked up, saw the friend and the empty plate and said, “Ah, you came a bit late—I’ve already breakfasted.” Did this man ever eat awake? We too have not. There is a routine we can perform even in sleep. A man rides a bicycle; the legs pedal, and inside he moves something else—he goes on, asleep.

Stand by a road and watch people walking. Someone’s lips move, conversing with someone absent. Someone gestures, scolding an invisible opponent. You will be puzzled: with whom? Sleepwalkers. Since we sleep while awake, how could we be awake in sleep?

Therefore those who commented on this mahavakya and gave only metaphorical meanings had no personal experience—otherwise they could not have missed this first, primary meaning. It would be clear: one can remain awake while the body sleeps. But drowsing people cannot even conceive it; so they make it a metaphor. That is not right.

One who lives awake in the day—walking, standing, sitting—will sleep awake at night.

Mahavira said an astonishing thing: “Monks, walk awake, rise awake, sit awake.” All right. But finally he said, “Sleep awake.” Madness! Then why sleep at all? “Sleep awake”—keep watching and see when sleep comes.

You have slept countless times; have you ever seen sleep come? A man of sixty has slept twenty years of his life—eight hours a day. Yet do you know when sleep arrives? What it is? How it descends? As dusk descends upon the day, what descends within in sleep?

You will say you don’t know. As long as you are awake, sleep is not; when sleep comes, before that you are gone.

Every morning you wake. Have you seen the breaking of sleep—a phenomenon? How does it break? What happens in the breaking?

You say you don’t know. Before it breaks, you are not; when it breaks, it already has. You have no idea.

Krishna says: the knower sleeps awake.

And only one who has watched his sleep arrive can watch his death arrive; otherwise, he cannot. Hence I call this a mahavakya.

Death will come tomorrow; sleep comes tonight. Try watching your sleep. Tonight, tomorrow, a month, two, three—every night, let one prayer, one resolve be in your heart: may I see it. Stay awake, keep watching. You will miss today, tomorrow, day after; a month, two, three—suddenly, one day, you will see sleep descending and you watching. The day you see sleep descend, this mahavakya will become clear; before that, it cannot. That is the real meaning.

The metaphorical meaning I will also give. It is there, but secondary. The sleep of delusion, of objects and passions—that has been discussed enough. For that, this sentence need not have been said; elsewhere it has been said. Krishna never wastes a word. He never repeats. If you see repetition, it is your misunderstanding. They never repeat. There is no need to.

Only those repeat who lack self-confidence. One who has said a thing with full knowing—finished.

So the common interpretation—that where the lustful man sleeps in passions and delusion, the self-restrained stays awake—did not need this sentence. Still, it is not wrong. But understand the first meaning first.

Yes, there is a second meaning: a hypnoptic aura surrounds our personality—a circle of drowsiness moves with you. Around an awakened one, a circle of wakefulness moves. The halo we draw around the faces of Nanak, Kabir, Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira is not a photographic trick nor myth. Around an awakened person there moves a luminous circle of light.

Those who can see their inner light can also see another’s aura. When you begin to see your inner light, you can at once see the luminous circle around the master’s face. You do not see it because you have no experience of such subtle light.

Just as there is a bright circle around the faces of the awakened, around our faces there is a circle of darkness—a circle of sleep. You don’t see that either; you will only become aware of it after you have seen light. Only then you will realize there was a dark circle hovering around you all your life. We are so close to it, so habituated, that we don’t notice it.

I see two men walking; the circles around them differ—shades differ; between darkness and white there are many greys. But ordinarily, around ninety-nine out of a hundred there is a drowsy circle. Wherever he goes, his sleep goes with him. Whatever he touches, he touches in sleep. Whatever he does, he does in sleep. Whatever he speaks, he speaks in sleep.

Have you noticed how often you regret your own words? And yet were you even aware you were speaking—fully conscious?

A husband comes home; the wife utters one word and a quarrel erupts. She knows it could have been withheld. That word has been uttered twenty-five times, causing twenty-five similar quarrels. Why today again? She uttered it in sleep—and will do so tomorrow, and the day after. The sleep will continue. She will say the same and the same will happen. The husband too will answer the same.

Watch a couple for seven days, and you could write the story of their past and future—you will be right. It will all repeat.

This is sleep—the second sense of Krishna. The awakened one’s conduct is not like the sleepwalker’s.

What difference? He hints: the drowsy man lives centered around “I,” the ego. Everything is saturated with ego.

Have you noticed, before the mirror, whether you are preparing yourself or your ego? For whom is the preparation? For the ego. Step out and dust yourself off, straighten your spine, sharpen your eyes; you are either guarding or attacking. The sleepy one leaves home—mischief is imminent. He will do “something.” And everyone is stepping out to do “something.”

In America, surveys show seventy-five percent of car accidents are not physical but mental events. Sounds crazy: car accidents—mental? Cars have no mind! Not cars—the drivers, the inner charioteers.

When you are angry, you press the accelerator hard—in sleep, not in consciousness. You don’t need to reach anywhere quickly. But the mind is full of anger; it wants to press something. It doesn’t matter what—it presses the accelerator. The accelerator is innocent, but in anger you press it and the danger is certain—because you are doing it in sleep. You don’t know why you press it, where, how much traffic there is. You don’t know.

You are not pressing the accelerator; you are pressing your wife’s head, or your son’s, your father’s, your boss’s. Who knows what the accelerator stands for at that moment? You press. And can such a person see the road?

He is like the man driving in a downpour without turning on the wipers. His wife says, as wives usually guide the driver, “Turn on the wipers.” He says, “No use—I left my glasses at home. I can’t see anything anyway; whether water is falling or not, what difference does it make?”

The man pressing the accelerator in anger is also blind to what is outside. Seventy-five percent of accidents are mental. This is sleep.

And in this sleep we also act inversely—that’s the third dimension.

In sleep you have no sense of what you are doing and what is happening. What you do produces what happens—but when it happens, you are shocked, “How did this happen? I never did this.”

A woman is dressing before the mirror. She thinks she is only dressing. Dressed up, she walks the street in tight, provocative clothes. Unaware, she invites a shove. When someone shoves her, she says, “It’s too much; it’s injustice.” But she prepared it herself—in sleep, with no sense of cause and effect, that these tight, bizarre clothes and adornment invite such a thing.

The irony: if no one shoves or even looks, she goes home sad—wasted effort! If no one notices, gives her no attention, she is more unhappy. If someone shoves, she is unhappy; if no one shoves, still unhappy. What’s going on?

A child tells his father, “I killed five flies.” “Really?” “Three males and two females.” “How did you know?” “Two kept sitting before the mirror—I understood they must be female!”

In this sleep, we ourselves are the cause; when the result comes, we exclaim, “I did not do this!” If we were not asleep, we would see instantly: this is my doing; this shove is my invitation. Nothing in this world is accidental. We arrange everything—and when the arrangement is complete, we repent, “What has happened?”

This too is sleep. The self-restrained, the knower, never sleeps thus; he remains awake. Naturally, his conduct is unlike that of the sleeper. The “I” is never at his center. “I” is always the center of sleep. Understand: the center of sleep is the “I.” The center of wakefulness is no-I—egolessness.

It’s strange but true: only the sleeper “is”; the awakened is not. Shocking! The sleeper exists as “I.” The awakened does not exist as “I.” Awakening is the dissolution of ego. Sleep is the consolidation, the concentration, the centering of ego.

आपूर्यमाणमचलप्रतिष्ठं
समुद्रमापः प्रविशन्ति यद्वत्।
तद्वत्कामा यं प्रविशन्ति सर्वे
स शान्तिमाप्नोति न कामकामी।। 70।।
विहाय कामान्यः सर्वान्पुमांश्चरति निःस्पृहः।
निर्ममो निरहंकारः स शान्तिमधिगच्छति।। 71।।
एषा ब्राह्मी स्थितिः पार्थ नैनां प्राप्य विमुह्यति।
स्थित्वास्यामन्तकालेऽपि ब्रह्मनिर्वाणमृच्छति।। 72।।
As rivers flow incessantly into the ocean which, ever full, remains unmoved, so into the sage’s vastness enter the streams of all experiences and pleasures—yet he remains unchanged. Only such a one attains peace; not the one who craves. He who, abandoning all cravings, moves without thirst—without “mine” and without ego—he attains supreme peace. This is the Brahmic state, O Partha; having attained it, one is not deluded. Abiding in it even at the final hour, one reaches the extinction in Brahman.

O Partha! As the ocean absorbs countless rivers without losing its dignity—without being altered even an inch—just as if nothing had entered it; as it is before thousands of rivers enter, so it is after—so is the one in whom all the experiences and enjoyments of life enter, and yet he remains as he was. As if not enjoyed at all—meaning, though experiencing, he remains non-experiencer; no change comes. As he was, he is; he does not become—though becoming, he is as he was. Such a person attains liberation—the Brahmic state.

Krishna says, O Partha!—your yearning for liberation… This is delightful, because Arjuna had not asked for liberation. He asked to avoid war. But Krishna says, O Partha! For your yearning for liberation—for your quest for moksha—I tell you this.

Arjuna did not ask for liberation, but whatever he did ask, Krishna has been transforming into the quest for liberation. In this whole journey, Krishna has transformed even Arjuna’s questions. Gradually, war became secondary; gradually, it disappeared. It has been long since war ended. It has been long since Arjuna became someone else.

Arjuna means “that which is not straight.” From riju comes arjuna. Riju means straight, simple. Arjuna means bent, crooked. A thinker is always crooked; only the no-mind is straight.

Krishna has transformed Arjuna’s curiosity—transformed it. And note: ordinarily man does not begin with a search for truth; he begins with worldly questions. But those questions can be transformed from worldliness toward liberation. Why? Not because Krishna can do it, but because the worldly seeker does not know what he is truly seeking. His deep, primal yearning is always for liberation.

When someone seeks wealth, deep down he wishes to remove inner poverty—he chooses the wrong means, but the urge is not to be impoverished, not to be bankrupt. When someone seeks position, inwardly he yearns to be free of inferiority—he looks in the wrong place. When one wants to flee war, deep down he wants to rise above anguish and anxiety—not the war itself. But he misses the right direction.

By saying this, Krishna indicates something profound: “Arjuna, for your yearning for liberation I have said all this. If you become like the ocean—everything comes and goes, but does not touch you—untouched, you remain as you were—then you attain the Brahmic state.” Brahmic state means: then you are not—only Brahman is.

Where I am not and only Brahman is—there is no worry, for all worries belong to the “I.” Where I am not and only Brahman is—there is no sorrow, for all sorrow is born of “I.” Where I am not and only Brahman is—there is no death, for the “I” is born and dies. Brahman has neither birth nor death. It is.

Thus, in this second chapter, which the Gita calls the Yoga of Sankhya—the first was the Yoga of Despair, the second is Sankhya—Krishna has carried us from despair to the peak of the Brahmic state filled with infinite bliss. One more point, and I will close.

Blessed are those who are visited by Arjuna’s despair—for out of such despair, the challenge to rise to the highest is born. Krishna seized Arjuna’s despair rightly.

Had Arjuna gone to a modern psychologist, what would he have done? Since I have said this whole scripture of Krishna is a psychology, let me add: a psychologist would have adjusted Arjuna—told him to accommodate. “This happens in war; everyone feels anxious. It’s normal. Don’t be abnormal; you’ll go neurotic. If you don’t settle, take electric shock; take insulin injections.”

But Krishna made creative use of his despair. He accepted it and said, “All right. Now let us ride this despair upward. We will not counsel you against it; we will use it to lift you above.”

True wisdom always turns curse into blessing. If it cannot, it is not wisdom. What was a curse to Arjuna, Krishna tries to turn into a blessing—using even his pain creatively.

That is why I say: the psychology of the future will not merely make the patient fit to live somehow among other patients; it will use his very restlessness for the total transformation of his being. It will be a creative psychology.

So Krishna’s psychology is not ordinary—it is alchemy. Here we try to make coal into diamond. As the alchemists said, “We transform base metals into gold.” Whether they did so or not, I do not know. But here Arjuna came into Krishna’s hands as a base metal—as coal—and Krishna tried mightily to make a diamond of that coal.

Blessed are those who attain Arjuna’s despair, for only they may also reach the Brahmic state.

You have listened with such love and joy—I am deeply obliged. In the end, I bow to the divine dwelling in all. Please accept my pranam.