Geeta Darshan #2

Certainly, Duryodhana was there, and other warriors were there too. Why did they not fall into despondency? They too were people full of attachment; they too were full of violence. They did not—there is a reason. Violence can be blind, thoughtless. Attachment can be blind, thoughtless. Violence can also have eyes—be thoughtful. Attachment too can have eyes and be thoughtful.

This morning I said: Arjuna’s difficulty is precisely that he is not thoughtless; he has thought. And thought creates dilemma. Thought threw him into a split. Duryodhana too can see, but his violence is so blind that he will not be able to see that through this violence he will kill all those without whom even his violence becomes meaningless. In blindness that will not be visible. Arjuna is not that blind. Therefore Arjuna is special on that field of war. Special in the sense that his preparation for life is the same as Duryodhana’s, but the preparation of his mind is different. In his mind there is thinking, there is doubt; he can ask, he can raise questions; he has with him the basic thread of inquiry.

And the greatest questions are not the ones we raise about the world. The greatest questions are not, “Who created the world?” The greatest questions are not, “Is there a God or not?” The greatest questions are those born out of the conflicts and dualities within our own mind. But to be able to see the conflicts of one’s own mind one needs thought, reflection, contemplation.

Arjuna is able to think, able to see that in the violence he is about to commit, those very people will die for whose sake that violence could have any meaning. He is not blind. And this not being blind is both his pain and his blessing.

Understand this well: his not being blind is his pain. Duryodhana is not in pain; for Duryodhana war is a relish. For Arjuna war has become a crisis and a suffering. And it is also his blessing: if he passes through this pain, he can arrive at no-mind. If he passes through this pain, he can arrive at surrender to the divine. If he passes through this pain, he can arrive at dropping attachment. If he cannot pass through this pain, then certainly this war will be a terrible crisis for him in which he will become schizophrenic, in which his personality will split in two. Either he will run away, or he will fight half-heartedly and he will lose.

A fight fought half-heartedly is bound to be lost, because to fight half-heartedly means half the mind is running away and half the mind is fighting. And a man who moves within in opposite directions is destined to be defeated. Then Duryodhana will win. He is fighting with his whole mind. Even if he falls into a well, he falls with his whole being; even if he goes into darkness, he goes with his whole being.

In fact, only two kinds of people can go into darkness with their whole being: one, who is blind—because for him there is no difference between darkness and light; and the other, who has inner light—because then his very being, his very light, dispels darkness.

Arjuna must either become like Duryodhana—fall downward from thought into thoughtlessness—and then he will go to war; or he must become like Krishna—move from thought into no-thought, become so full of inner light that he can see who dies and who kills, that he can see that all this that is happening is nothing more than a dream. Either he should be able to see such a great truth, and then he can go to war; or he should be able to see such a great untruth—that by killing them we shall attain happiness, those very ones for whose sake we are making the effort to kill! Either he should descend into Duryodhana’s untruth, and Arjuna will be carefree; or he should reach Krishna’s truth, and Arjuna will be carefree.

Arjuna is a tension.

Nietzsche has said somewhere that man is a bridge, a bridge joining two opposite shores. Man is a tension. Either become an animal and attain pleasure, or become God and attain bliss. But so long as one is man, one can attain neither pleasure nor bliss; one can only be stretched between the two—only anxiety and tension.

That is why in life we do both kinds of things. By drinking we become animal; a little pleasure is gained. In sex a little pleasure is gained—we slip back into the animal from thought; we fall downward, and a little pleasure is felt.

There is no other reason for alcohol to be so attractive in the world: alcohol becomes a convenience that returns us to the animal; by getting intoxicated we become as all animals are. Then we are carefree like animals, because an animal has no worry. No animal goes mad; only circus animals go mad, because a circus animal comes almost to the condition of man. Man is almost in the condition of a circus animal. No animal goes mad; and for an animal there are no such diseases as derangement, worry, insomnia. No animal commits suicide, because for suicide a great heap of worry is necessary.

It is a great amusement that no animal experiences boredom; it never gets bored. A buffalo is there; it grazes the same grass every day and will go on grazing; it never gets bored. For boredom, thought is needed. For boredom, for ennui, thought is needed. Therefore, among human beings, the more thoughtful one is, the more one will be bored. Among human beings, the more thoughtful one is, the more one will be filled with worry. Among human beings, the more thoughtful one is, the more he can go mad, the more he can become deranged. But this is only one side.

The other side is: the one who goes beyond the state of derangement can be freed. The one who goes beyond worry can attain the alert joy of carefreeness. The one who goes beyond tension can attain that experience of relaxation which becomes available only by resting in God.

Arjuna is a symbol of man; Duryodhana is a symbol of the animal; Krishna is a symbol of the divine. There are three symbols on that field of war. Arjuna is wavering. He wavers between Duryodhana and Krishna. He can be at ease if he becomes Duryodhana; he can be at ease if he becomes Krishna. Remaining Arjuna there is no ease. Remaining Arjuna there is tension. Remaining Arjuna there is difficulty. His difficulty is precisely this: he cannot become Duryodhana; becoming Krishna is beyond his comprehension; and where he is, he cannot remain—because he is only an in-between wave; there one cannot stay. No bridge is for building a house.

When Akbar built Fatehpur Sikri, he had a sentence engraved on a bridge there: a bridge is to be crossed; a bridge is not for residence.

Exactly right. Whoever builds a residence on a bridge will get into trouble. Return to either side—become an animal or become God—being man is not a destiny. To be man is a crisis. Man is not the end. If we understand rightly, man is neither animal nor God. He can no longer be an animal, because he has surpassed the animal. Nor is he yet God, because he has to reach God. Man is only an existence oscillating between animal and God.

In the span of twenty-four hours we reach both ends many times. In anger the same man comes near the animal; in peace the same man comes near God. Many times in the day we travel to hell and heaven—many times. In one moment we are in heaven; in the next we descend into hell. In hell we repent; then we begin to strive for heaven. We cannot plant our feet in heaven; then we begin arriving in hell again.

And tension has a law: tension always creates an attraction for the opposite. Like the pendulum of a clock. It goes to the left. When it goes to the left, it seems to us that it is going to the left; but those who understand the science of the clock also know that while going to the left it is gathering the power to go to the right, gathering momentum. The farther it goes to the left, the more strength it gathers to go to the right. In fact it goes to the left precisely in order to be able to go to the right; and while going to the right, it is going in order to be able to go to the left.

Man all the time swings like a pendulum between the animal and God. Arjuna is a symbol of man. And even more so of modern man. Today’s man’s consciousness is exactly Arjuna’s consciousness. Therefore, in the world both things are together: on the one hand man is eager to take his consciousness to samadhi, and on the other hand he is eager to take it toward the animal through LSD, mescaline, marijuana, alcohol, sex.

And often it will happen that the same person will be doing both. The same person will come to India, and the same person will go on taking LSD in America. He is doing both together.

If man becomes unconscious, he can become an animal. But one cannot remain unconscious for long. Even the pleasures of unconsciousness are experienced only in awareness. In unconsciousness even the pleasure of unconsciousness is not experienced. The fun of alcohol—when a man is drunk he does not know it; he knows it only when the intoxication has worn off. When you are in sleep you do not know any joy of sleep; when you wake in the morning you know that there was blissful sleep. For the pleasures of unconsciousness, coming into consciousness is necessary. And in consciousness no pleasure is felt, so then one has to descend again into unconsciousness.

Arjuna is man’s consciousness; therefore it is extraordinary. The Gita is extraordinary for this very reason: it is based on man’s very inner mental state. In man’s inner state, the whole time there is that struggle between Krishna and Arjuna—the dialogue or debate between Krishna and Arjuna; Krishna’s effort to pull Arjuna again and again toward God, and Arjuna, becoming limp of limb, sits down again; he wants to fall back into the animal. This struggle is for Arjuna, not for Duryodhana. Duryodhana is carefree. If Arjuna were like him, he too could be carefree; but he is not like that.

Among us too, those who are like Duryodhana are carefree; they are building houses; they are ascending the thrones of capitals; they are accumulating wealth. Among us too, those who are like Arjuna are restless and troubled. They are restless because the place where they are does not seem fit for building a home. Where they have come from, they have gone beyond; to return is not possible. Where they have not reached—there is no knowing where the path is, where that temple is.

A religious man is by nature crisis-ridden; he is in crisis. An irreligious man is not in crisis. Therefore the man sitting in temples will appear more anxious than the man sitting in prisons. The man sitting in prison does not seem so anxious; he is at ease. He is on one bank; he is not on the bridge. In one sense he may seem fortunate, even enviable—how carefree he is! But his good fortune hides a very deep curse: he will remain on this shore. In him not even the first ray of humanness has yet been born.

With man the trouble begins; with man the suffering begins, because with man the possibility—the potentiality—of becoming God opens.

That Arjuna does not want to be an animal; his situation is of being an animal; he does not know how to be God. In the very depths of the unknown, his longing is only to be God; hence he is asking; hence questions arise; hence inquiry is awakened. In whose life there are questions, in whose life there is inquiry, in whose life there is discontent—into his life religion can enter. In whose life there is no worry, no question, no doubt, no inquiry, no discontent—into his life there is no opening for religion to come.

The seed that will break to sprout will fall into anxiety. A seed is a very strong thing; the sprout is very weak. The seed is very carefree; the sprout falls into great worry. The sprout emerges breaking the stones. Something as weak as a sprout breaks stones, cuts through the soil, and comes out into an unknown, unfamiliar world, where there is no introduction and no recognition. Some child will break it; some animal will graze it; it may be crushed under someone’s feet—what will happen, what will not happen? If the seed remains within, it is very carefree. It will not be crushed under any child’s foot; there are no dangers of the unknown; it is closed within itself.

Duryodhana is like a person closed within the seed—carefree. Arjuna has sprouted; the sprout is anxious, the sprout is restless. What will happen? Will flowers come or not? He has ceased being a seed; now will flowers come or not? He is eager for flowers, eager to grow. That very eagerness keeps making him ask Krishna again and again. Therefore there is worry in Arjuna’s mind, there are questions; there is not in Duryodhana’s.

This is Arjuna’s question too. And ordinarily man tries to solve it exactly the way Arjuna also wants to. Conflict is the nature of man—not of the soul, not of the body—man’s nature is conflict. If you try to settle it in haste, the road leads back toward the animal. Hurry, and you will fall back: it’s a familiar road; you can return there. To pass through conflict is tapascharya—spiritual austerity; to endure conflict with patience is tapascharya. Only by enduring conflict does one go beyond it. So if someone quickly makes a decision just to get rid of conflict, his decision is useless; he will fall lower; he is already falling back.

Animals are very decisive; there is no doubt in them. They live in great certainty; they look like great believers, great theists! But their theism is not theism. For what is the worth of a theism that has never known atheism? One who has not known the pain of saying “no” cannot attain the joy of saying “yes.” One who has never doubted has a faith worth two pennies. But the one who has doubted, who has lived his doubt and gone beyond it—his faith has strength, his faith has authenticity.

One path is to decide in a hurry. And man grabs many means to do that. Catch hold of a scripture, and you will have your decision. Scripture speaks the language of certainties: do this, believe that. But one who clings to scripture to decide has denied his humanity. He was given an opportunity to grow; he wasted it. Cling to a guru! If you have clung to a guru, you have missed the opportunity. There was a crisis through which existence had left you unsupported, so you could pass through it; you dodged that crisis. You remained without passing through the fire. Had you gone through the fire, the gold would have been refined. You never entered the fire; you hid behind the guru—then the gold will not be refined.

I am not telling you to make a decision. How will you decide? One who is in conflict—his decision too will be full of conflict. When you are in conflict, how will you decide? A mind full of conflict cannot decide; it should not decide.

Live the conflict; burn in it; die in it and be consumed; taste it; do not run from the fire of conflict. For it is in that very fire that the dross will burn and the gold will remain. Go through conflict; take conflict as destiny. It is man’s destiny; it is his fate. One has to pass through it. Live it. Do not be in a hurry. Do not decide hastily.

Yes, go through conflict—and decision will come. Go through conflict—and trust will come; you won’t have to bring it. Imported trust has no value. For if trust has to be brought in, it means the mind is not yet ready to receive it; it has been rushed in. If trust has had to be manufactured, it means a conflict-ridden mind lies behind it. It will remain alive within; only a veneer of trust will form above it. It may work on the surface; it will fail when the moment tests it.

When a hard time comes, when death stands before you—until yesterday you were certain the soul is immortal: when you read the Gita each day, you were sure; when you went to the temple each morning, you were sure. But when the doctor stands by your bed, his face looks grave, the family runs about in panic, the pulse begins to drop—suddenly you find you do not know whether the soul is immortal or not!

However many times the Gitas proclaim it, by their saying the soul cannot be made immortal. The soul is immortal—that’s why they say so; that is another matter. But their saying so cannot make it immortal. And your believing someone achieves nothing. Yes—go through conflict; endure the pain. That is the opportunity; do not try to evade it.

Arjuna too is trying to evade it. But Krishna is not trying to rescue him; Krishna draws out the whole conflict. Otherwise Krishna could have said, “Don’t worry, I know everything. Stop this useless talk. Have faith in me and jump!” He could have said that. There would have been no need for such a long Gita.

The long Gita is a great respect paid to Arjuna’s conflict. And the wonder is, Arjuna keeps asking the same thing again and again. And Krishna never says, “But you asked this already!” Again he asks; again he asks. All of Arjuna’s questions are not different; only the wording differs. He is asking the same thing. His conflict keeps returning. Krishna does not say, “Silence! You are faithless! Silence! You doubt!” Arjuna repeats himself over and over; his conflict keeps taking new forms.

Krishna is not eager to make him believe; Krishna is eager to bring him to trust. And there is a great difference between belief and trust. Belief is what we paste on top without resolving doubt. Trust is what flowers when doubt has fallen. Trust is the destination reached by traveling through doubt. Beliefs are blind props seized out of fear of doubt.

So I say: live the conflict; live it intensely—with intensity. If you live it lukewarmly, it will take a long time. Put the gold on a lukewarm flame, and its refinement may take lifetimes. Live it with intensity.

Conflict is man’s necessary test, by which his qualification to reach the divine is decided. Live it; do not run. Do not escape, do not look for consolations, do not manufacture comforts. Know this is destiny: conflict. Fight; enter this conflict with intensity. What will be its result?

There will be two results. The moment a person agrees to enter wholly into the conflict of his own consciousness, a third point arises within him; besides the two, a third force is born. The instant one consents to live his conflict, two do not remain; three begin. The third force: the one who decides, “I will live the conflict,” is outside the conflict; he is not inside it.

I have heard: Saint Teresa, a Christian mystic, once had three coins. One morning she announced in the village, “I want to build a great church. I have enough money now.” People were astonished, for only yesterday they had seen her begging. They asked, “Where did you suddenly get enough money to build a great church?” She showed her begging bowl—there were three coins in it. They said, “Teresa, have you gone mad? We already thought your head was a little off!” In fact, those who move toward God look a little off to those who don’t.

“We already thought something was loose in your head. With three coins you will build a church?” Teresa said, “There is me, there are three coins, and there is God. Teresa + three coins + God.” They asked, “Where is that God?” Teresa said, “He is the third force, the third power; you will not see him because you have not yet found the third power within yourselves.”

One who finds the third power within becomes immediately capable of seeing the third power in the whole existence. You are only seeing the conflict, but you do not notice that the one who is seeing and understanding the conflict cannot be inside it; he must be outside. If two are fighting within you, surely you are outside both; otherwise how would you see? If you were identified with one of them, then you would be one with it and separate from the other.

You say, “There is conflict; my left and right hands are fighting.” Your left and right hands can fight only because behind them I am a third force. If I am the left hand, what inner conflict do I have with the right? That would be other. If I am not the right hand but the left, then the right becomes other—where is inner conflict then?

Inner conflict exists only because there is a third who is seeing. The one who says, “There is great conflict in my mind. The mind says now this, now that”—who is this who speaks about the mind’s conflict?

Enter the conflict and keep recognizing this third. As you enter the conflict, this third—the sakshi, the witness—will begin to be seen. And the day this third is seen, from that very day conflicts begin to bid farewell. Because the third is not seen, there is conflict. When the third is seen, integration begins.

But do not run from conflict. The process of conflict is indispensable. Only by passing through it does one attain that which is beyond conflict, the transcendental.

The whole Gita is an effort to draw Arjuna to that third point; throughout, Krishna’s endeavor is that he recognize the third. To recognize the third—that is the whole labor. That third is within everyone—and also beyond everyone. But unless it is seen within, it cannot be seen without. When it is seen within, the same is seen everywhere without.

What Sartre says is exactly right for Arjuna. Arjuna’s crisis was existential. Sartre, Camus, Unamuno, Jaspers, Heidegger—whoever the existential thinkers are in the West—they are precisely in Arjuna’s state of mind. Therefore be alert: in the West a Krishna may be born. Because wherever Arjuna’s state of mind arises, there the possibility of Krishna’s birth appears. The whole West is in an existential crisis. For the entire West the angst of man has stood up as the only truth. What to do and what not to do? Either-or, this or that? What to choose and what not to choose? Which value is worthy of choice and which is not—everything has become doubtful.

And note this too: in the West this existential reflection arose between two wars. Sartre, Camus, Unamuno are the outcome of the last two world wars. Those wars created in the Western psyche the same situation that had arisen in Arjuna’s mind in the face of the Mahabharata. They shook the West’s entire system of values. Now the question is: to fight or not to fight? What will fighting do? And the situation is exactly such that if our own all die, what meaning is there in fighting! When a war of such dire proportions stands up, then rules made in peacetime becoming doubtful is no surprise. It is a valid question.

Sartre is exactly in Arjuna’s state of mind. The danger is a different one. There is no danger in Sartre’s state of mind as such. He is in Arjuna’s state, but he believes himself to be in Krishna’s. The danger lies there. He is in Arjuna’s state—questioning is fine, asking is fine—but he is giving answers. There is the danger. The danger is that Sartre is not inquiring; he is not asking what is right. He is asserting that nothing is right. He is declaring that there are no values. Existence is meaningless.

He is asserting that there is no God, no soul, nothing survives after death; the whole of existence is a disorder, an anarchy, a fortuitous accident; there is no essence anywhere. He is asserting. There lies the danger.

Arjuna too could have asserted; but Arjuna only inquires. If Arjuna had asserted, dangers would have arisen. But he inquires. And I say: if it truly appears to someone—as it appears to Sartre—that there are no values, there is valuelessness; that there is no meaning, no purpose—if it truly appears so, then there is no point in saying anything at all. One should fall silent. In such a state, only silence seems meaningful. All talk is vain.

But Sartre is not silent. He is eager to speak, to explain, to convince others of what he is saying. Then one fears that Sartre himself is not inwardly certain that what he is saying is true. Perhaps by persuading others and seeing agreement on their faces, he hopes to assure himself: if they find it right, it must be right; then I too will accept it as right.

If Sartre inquires, so far so good. But in the West the existentialist thinkers are turning inquiry into conclusion. And when inquiry itself becomes the answer, when the disciple becomes the master, when asking itself becomes telling, then a crisis of values arises—and that has arisen in the West. Everything is topsy-turvy. In that chaos no path can be seen. It cannot be seen—not because there is no path, the path is ever there. But if we decide in advance that there is no path and make that our answer, then seeing the path becomes impossible.

Arjuna does not assume so. Arjuna inquires greatly: there must be a way. I will search, I will ask; you tell me. He is saying to Krishna: you tell me, you explain to me. I am ignorant; I know nothing. He is humble. Arjuna’s ignorance is humble; Sartre’s ignorance is not. Sartre’s ignorance is very assertive. That is the danger. When ignorance becomes assertive, when ignorance grows vocal, no other thing is so dangerous. Yet often it is ignorance that grows vocal.

Arjuna is asking: I do not know; I have fallen into doubt; I am drowning in crisis—show me a way. But that there can be a way—his search for it is alive.

I hold that Arjuna is braver than Sartre. For to seek a way even in such deep despair is great courage. Sartre is not as brave; his pronouncements may sound brave, but he is not. In truth, often when a person walks down a dark alley, he whistles. The whistle sounds brave to the neighbors asleep. But a whistle proves no courage; it only shows that the man is afraid. That whistle is not evidence of courage; it is an attempt to hide fear.

The chaos, the anarchy the two world wars revealed before the West—the whirlwind that rose from below, the ground that split open, the volcano that opened its mouth before the West—there is an effort to deny that volcano.

“There is no meaning in life—then why fear the meaningless? There are no values—then why worry about the search for them? There is no God—then what use is prayer? There is no hope—then in despair too, why be troubled?”

The attempt to find ease in despair only indicates that the heart is very weak and courage is scarce. In fact, when hope falls into intense despair, then it is known whether it exists or not. When in dense darkness one strives to seek the light, then it is known whether the longing for light is linked with deep courage, deep devotion, and deep resolve.

Western, Sartrean reflection is of the kind that accepts despair. And through this the West will not be redeemed. Hence existentialism and such thinkers are no more than a fashion. The fashion has begun to die; it is dying. Existentialism is no longer a very living notion. The young in the West are rejecting it; it has become old-fashioned. “Drop this nonsense too!”

But the despair Sartre’s generation bequeathed has had ill effects on the generation to come. That generation says: “Fine—we’ll dance naked in the streets; you yourselves said there is no meaning, then what meaning is there in wearing clothes! We will form any sort of sexual relations; you said there is no meaning, then what meaning is there in the family! We will give respect to no one; you said there is no God, then what meaning is there in respect! And we will not worry about tomorrow.”

Today in America and Europe boys are emptying the universities and running away. Their parents say, “Study,” and they reply, “What guarantee is there of tomorrow? You yourselves said everything is uncertain—so what will study do?” And those boys ask, “In Hiroshima too there were boys studying in college; then the atom fell and all was finished. We too will study, you are preparing the atom; who knows which day you will drop it. Let us live the few moments we have.”

Thus the West’s sense of life as a journey spread through time has been abruptly shattered. It has shrunk to the moment: live now; the next moment is not assured. And what trust can there be in the next moment? In the end there is only death; the next moment is death. Time has become synonymous with death in the West; time and death have become one. Only the now is; there is no other value.

Recently a man committed multiple murders. When the court asked him, he said, “What harm is there? Since everyone has to die, I merely helped them die. They would have died anyway; by killing them I felt a little pleasure—what is the harm in taking it? When there is no value, then it is fine.”

Sartre’s generation has filled the West with a hollowness, a hollowness because they had no answers—only questions. And they made the questions themselves the answers.

If Arjuna had won, this land too would have been filled with hollowness. But Arjuna did not win—Krishna won. There was a great struggle between Arjuna and Krishna. Had Arjuna been gripped by doubt and by a craze to be the master; had he turned his questions into answers, his ignorance into knowledge—then the same condition would have arisen here which has arisen in the West due to existentialist thought. The situation is the same—but the West still has no Krishna. Yet in this situation a Krishna may be born in the West.

This is why it is no surprise that movements like Krishna Consciousness are taking hold of the Western mind. No surprise that boys and girls in the West beat drums and sing the praises of Krishna in the streets. This is no surprise; it is not accidental. Nothing in this world is accidental. Even a flower that blooms has long causes behind it. If someone is roaming London’s streets beating a drum and singing Hare Krishna, it is not accidental; it shows a deep pain in the Western psyche.

Arjuna has appeared—but where is Krishna? The question has arisen—where is the answer? There is a search for an answer; the search has been born. So the question you raised was apt.

I do call Arjuna the symbol of man. And the affection that seized him is also man’s humanity. But let me tell you a line of Nietzsche’s: “Accursed will be the day when man ceases to aspire to transcend man. Accursed will be the day when there is no arrow on man’s bowstring aimed beyond man. Accursed will be the day when man is satisfied with being man.” Man is not the goal; he is a halt along the way. He has to be surpassed. Arjuna is not the destination; he is a stop.

It is natural for a man to love his own. It is natural for a man to fear killing his own. It is natural for a man to be trapped in either-or—this or that, to do or not to do—and to grow anxious. But what is natural for man is not the end of life. And what is natural for man is only natural for man—and in that nature are bound up anxiety, pain, tension; restlessness, sorrow, and derangement.

If we consider man as natural, then that “naturalness” is as “natural” as cancer is natural, as tuberculosis is natural. But with the nature of TB, pain is also bound up. Similarly, if we view man from the side of the animal, man is an evolution, a development; but if we view him from the side of God, he is a disease. From the animal’s side, man is an evolution; from God’s side, man is a disease.

The English word disease is very fine. It is made of two parts: dis and ease. It simply means not at ease. Man, seen from the side of the divine, is a dis-ease, a restlessness.

And if animals were to think about us, they would not think we are their evolution; they would think some among them have gone wrong, have become deranged; their brains have gotten spoiled—only trouble. When an animal sees a man going to a psychiatrist’s office, to a psychologist for examination of his mind; when they see men building asylums; when they see man living in worry day and night—then the animals must be thinking sometimes. Perhaps their council meets and they say, “We explained so much to them—don’t become human! They didn’t listen, and now they are eating the fruit of it!” As fathers often think about sons.

Animals are our fathers; we come along that journey. Surely they think, “We explained so much, but this generation has gone bad, this lineage has gone astray.” They do not know that through this going astray, possibilities have opened. Through this wandering, a great journey has opened.

Naturally, one who sits at home is not so troubled. One who sets out on a journey becomes troubled. There is the dust of the road, the potholes, the missteps, the wanderings. The road is unknown; there is no map. It is uncharted; it has to be discovered while walking; one must walk and make the road. But those who walk, err, wander, fall, suffer—they alone arrive.

Arjuna is natural for man. But Arjuna himself is filled with pain. He too does not wish to remain merely human; he says, “Either let me be Duryodhana; or let someone explain that whatever is happening is all right; or lift me above being Arjuna.” That is his anxiety, his grief, his anguish.

gandivam sramsate hastat tvak caiva paridahyate.
na ca saknomy avasthatum bhramativ ca me manah. 1.30.

My Gandiva is slipping from my hand; my skin burns; my mind is not under my control; I do not even have the strength to remain seated in the chariot.

Arjuna’s limbs have gone slack. The mind has withdrawn its support. His bow has slipped. He feels so weak he says, “I don’t even know if I can sit in the chariot.” A few points here are important.

First: the body is only a reflection of our consciousness. What happens deep in the mind plays out to the very pores of the body. How did this mighty Arjuna suddenly become so feeble that even sitting in the chariot seems hard! A moment ago it wasn’t so. In this single moment he has not fallen ill; no weakness has entered his body; he has not grown old. What has happened?

Only one thing: his mind has withered; grown weak; been split into self-opposing fragments. Where the mind divides into opposing parts, the body instantly becomes sickly and poor. Where the mind unites in a harmonious tone, the body at once becomes healthy and undivided. His bow falling, his hands and feet trembling, his hair standing on end—all signal this, that the body is nothing more than the shadow of our mind.

Earlier, it was not thought so. Scientists have long said our mind is nothing more than the shadow of the body. Those who believed that erroneous thought have said the same. Brihaspati would say so; Epicurus would say so; Karl Marx and Engels would say so: that consciousness is only a by-product; the inner mind is only the body’s by-product, merely its shadow.

In America there were two psychologists, James and Lange. They propounded a very remarkable theory that was accepted for years—the James–Lange theory. They said something amusing. They tried to prove that we have always thought a man runs because he is afraid; they said, no, that is wrong. If the body is primary and the mind merely a by-product, the truth should be the reverse: man feels fear because he runs.

We have always thought: a man gets angry, hence fists clench; he gets angry, hence teeth tighten; he gets angry, hence blood rushes to the eyes; he gets angry, hence breath quickens and the body prepares to strike.

James–Lange said this is wrong. Since the body is primary, the event must first occur in the body; the mind will only mirror it. The mind is only a mirror, nothing more. Therefore they said, no—the order is reversed: because the man clenches his fists, grits his teeth, blood speeds through his body, breath grows rapid—therefore anger arises.

Arjuna is natural for man. But Arjuna himself is filled with pain. He too does not wish to remain merely human; he says, “Either let me be Duryodhana; or let someone explain that whatever is happening is all right; or lift me above being Arjuna.” That is his anxiety, his grief, his anguish.

gandivam sramsate hastat tvak caiva paridahyate.
na ca saknomy avasthatum bhramativ ca me manah. 1.30.

My Gandiva is slipping from my hand; my skin burns; my mind is not under my control; I do not even have the strength to remain seated in the chariot.

Arjuna’s limbs have gone slack. The mind has withdrawn its support. His bow has slipped. He feels so weak he says, “I don’t even know if I can sit in the chariot.” A few points here are important.

First: the body is only a reflection of our consciousness. What happens deep in the mind plays out to the very pores of the body. How did this mighty Arjuna suddenly become so feeble that even sitting in the chariot seems hard! A moment ago it wasn’t so. In this single moment he has not fallen ill; no weakness has entered his body; he has not grown old. What has happened?

Only one thing: his mind has withered; grown weak; been split into self-opposing fragments. Where the mind divides into opposing parts, the body instantly becomes sickly and poor. Where the mind unites in a harmonious tone, the body at once becomes healthy and undivided. His bow falling, his hands and feet trembling, his hair standing on end—all signal this, that the body is nothing more than the shadow of our mind.

Earlier, it was not thought so. Scientists have long said our mind is nothing more than the shadow of the body. Those who believed that erroneous thought have said the same. Brihaspati would say so; Epicurus would say so; Karl Marx and Engels would say so: that consciousness is only a by-product; the inner mind is only the body’s by-product, merely its shadow.

In America there were two psychologists, James and Lange. They propounded a very remarkable theory that was accepted for years—the James–Lange theory. They said something amusing. They tried to prove that we have always thought a man runs because he is afraid; they said, no, that is wrong. If the body is primary and the mind merely a by-product, the truth should be the reverse: man feels fear because he runs.

We have always thought: a man gets angry, hence fists clench; he gets angry, hence teeth tighten; he gets angry, hence blood rushes to the eyes; he gets angry, hence breath quickens and the body prepares to strike.

James–Lange said this is wrong. Since the body is primary, the event must first occur in the body; the mind will only mirror it. The mind is only a mirror, nothing more. Therefore they said, no—the order is reversed: because the man clenches his fists, grits his teeth, blood speeds through his body, breath grows rapid—therefore anger arises.

Then, to prove it—and here logic is an entertaining affair; it sometimes leads one astray—they said, “I say: let a man, without running and without any bodily effect of running, demonstrate fear. Or let a man, without reddening the eyes, clenching the fists, gritting the teeth, demonstrate anger.”

It is difficult! How will you demonstrate anger then? So they said, “Fine—if without these there cannot be anger, then anger is merely their aggregate; nothing more.”

But one wonders why no one said the reverse to James–Lange: an actor can demonstrate anger—redden the eyes, clench teeth and fists—and yet no anger arises within him. An actor can demonstrate love—and perhaps better than anyone else—and yet no love exists within.

What is happening with Arjuna is exactly the reverse of James–Lange; the exact opposite. James–Lange would refuse to accept it; they would say he is speaking upside-down. He should say: since my bow is falling, since my hair is standing, since my body is slack and limbs enervated, therefore, O Keshava, anxiety is arising in my mind.

But he does not say so. Anxiety has arisen first. For there is no other cause for his body’s slackness and hair standing on end—no external cause. In one instant nothing outside has changed; outside all is the same. Inside, everything has changed.

In Tibet, at Lhasa University, in the students’ curriculum some yoga was compulsory. One regular practice there was heat-yoga: the process of producing heat in the body from within by the mind. Strange—by mind alone! Snow falls outside; a man stands naked; sweat drips from his body.

And even that did not satisfy them. When Western doctors examined it, they were amazed. At exam time, in the open field by the snowy lake at night, the students were made to stand naked. Around them clothes—coats, shirts—were kept soaked in water. The highest marks would go to the boy who, through generating heat from within, dried the greatest number of garments by wearing them through the night! The more he dried, the higher his marks!

A team of doctors from the West saw this and was stunned. They said, “What becomes of the James–Lange theory?” Outside, snow is falling; the doctors, even under layers of overcoats, are shivering inside; and these naked boys—what are they doing? What should be happening to their bodies is happening—but the mind is refusing. The mind is asserting: there is no snow; there is blazing sun; heat is intense; fire is burning in the body. Therefore the body must release sweat.

What happened to Arjuna is the body-level result of a vortex born in his mind. In our lives, very few vortices travel from body to mind; mostly, vortices travel from mind to body. Yet all our lives we worry only about the body.

Had Krishna possessed even a little of what is called so-called scientific intelligence, he would have said to Arjuna, “It seems you have the flu!” Had he read Marx he might have said, “It seems some hormone deficiency has occurred in your body. Come, get admitted to a general hospital.” But he said nothing of the sort. Seeing Arjuna’s enervated limbs, he set about explaining something else; he addressed his mind; he tried to change his mind.

There are only two processes in the world: either changing man’s body, or changing man’s consciousness. Science attends to changing the body; religion attends to changing consciousness. That is the distinction. Therefore I say: religion is a deeper science than science, a greater science—the supreme science—because it starts from the center. A blow delivered at the periphery may not reach the center; a blow at the center must reach the periphery.

Damage to a leaf will not necessarily reach the roots—most often it will not, nor need it. But damage to the roots will certainly reach the leaves; it must; it has no other way.

Therefore, seeing Arjuna’s state, from where does Krishna catch hold? If he had caught hold at the body, the Gita would have been a book of physiology, of physics. He takes hold at consciousness; therefore the Gita becomes a psychology. From the very beginning, though the incident is bodily, Krishna pays no attention to the body—he doesn’t take the pulse or apply a thermometer. He concerns himself with what is happening to the consciousness. This is worth pondering.

As I said, even today mankind is almost seized by Arjuna’s state of consciousness. Similar effects appear in the body. But the treatments we undertake begin with the body. Hence all the treatments are done, and the patient remains a patient. No treatment begins from consciousness.

Arjuna says, “My mind is deserting me. I am utterly enervated, powerless.”

What is strength? One strength is that of the muscles. In those, nothing has changed. Yet at this moment a small child could push Arjuna and he would fall. At this moment his muscles will avail nothing. The muscular power appears meaningless. There is another strength, born of resolve, of will. In truth, that alone is strength. That strength born of resolve has been utterly lost. For whence will resolve arise? When the mind falls into dilemma, resolve disintegrates. When the mind is focused, resolve organizes. When the mind falls into duality, into conflict, resolve disappears. We too are weak; we lack resolve. That resolve is gone. What should I do, what not do? What would be right, what not? All ground has slipped from beneath the feet. Arjuna hangs suspended, like Trishanku.

This is the state of every man. And therefore, while there are extraordinary truths in the Quran, in the Bible, in the Zend-Avesta, in the Tao Te Ching, and in many scriptures of the world, still the Gita is unique, and simply because it is less a theology and more a psychology. It contains no bare statements—“God is,” “the soul is”—no philosophical pronouncements or arguments. The Gita is the first psychology of mankind. Hence its value is of a different order.

If I had my way, I would call Krishna the father of psychology. He is the first person who works to integrate a mind in conflict, a tormented mind, a will broken into fragments—who uses psycho-analysis. Not only psychoanalysis, but also a second thing: psycho-synthesis.

So Krishna is not only an analyst like Freud; he is also a synthesizer. He not only explores what fragments the mind has, he also explores how it can become whole—how individuation can be attained—how Arjuna becomes integrated.

And Arjuna’s state of mind is our state of mind. Only, perhaps, we are not in so acute a crisis. Our crisis is lukewarm; we endure it. Were the crisis so dramatic, so urgent, so intense, perhaps we too would grow eager to become whole.

I have heard: A psychologist put a frog into a bucket of boiling water. The frog instantly leapt out. The frog was in Arjuna’s situation—boiling water, how could the frog adjust! He leapt out. Then the psychologist put the same frog into another bucket and heated the water slowly, bringing it to a boil over twenty-four hours. He kept heating slowly. The frog, like us, kept adjusting. The water warmed a little; so did the frog. He said, “No need for any great leap; it will do.” He kept making adjustments, as we all do. In twenty-four hours he was fully adjusted. When the water boiled he remained adjusted, because he noticed no difference; it had increased grain by grain. There was no single moment that called for a leap. “If we agreed to this much, then a bit more will also do.” He died. The water kept boiling; he boiled in it and did not jump. A frog can jump—and nothing is more natural to a frog than leaping—yet even that could not happen.

Arjuna has fallen at once into boiling water; the situation is dramatic, extreme. The water is fully boiling. Therefore he has instantly dropped bow and arrows. We cannot drop even our weighing-scale, our yardstick, our pen, like that. And he has grown so weak he cannot even sit in the chariot! What happened? In such intensity, adjustment becomes hard.

I would say to you: do not keep adjusting. Not everyone gets a Mahabharata occasion in his life. And great is God’s grace—if every person had to face a Mahabharata, it would be very hard indeed.

But life is a Mahabharata—only spread over a long stretch. It lacks urgency, intensity, density; things happen slowly. Death arrives and we keep adjusting. And then revolution does not come in life.

In Arjuna’s life revolution is certain. One way or the other, he must pass through revolution. The water is boiling. He must do something. Either he will run away—as many do; that is simpler; the short-cut. It seems the nearest—run away.

Hence, most people draw from life’s crisis a renunciation that is escape. They flee to the jungle. They say, “Not Ahmedabad—we are going to Haridwar.” Arjuna too was in that state. Though they carry the Gita with them—strange!—they read the Gita in Haridwar. Arjuna too could have done so. He too wanted to go to Haridwar. But an awkward man met him—Krishna. He said, “Stop; do not run!”

Can fugitives reach God? Fugitives cannot. Those who flee from life’s truth cannot. Those who are incapable of encountering life cannot encounter God. For those who, merely on seeing life, become enervated; whose Gandiva slips from the hand, whose hair stands on end, whose very life trembles—merely on seeing life—no, they will not be able to stand before God.

Life is preparation—step-by-step preparation for the encounter with that vast truth. And Arjuna is running away from a tiny fact of life! Yet his preparation to run is complete.

Now note the irony: he cannot even climb back into the chariot. He says he lacks even that strength. But if you say, “Run to the forest,” he will find great strength and run immediately. He will run faster than ever before. The man who cannot muster the strength to struggle with life can muster strength to flee. There seems no shortage of power. If Krishna were to say, “Leave all,” he would be thrilled. But the thrill would not last. If Arjuna went to the forest, soon he would grow sad. Even if, in a renunciate’s garb, he sat beneath a tree, soon he would gather wood and fashion bow and arrows. The man remains the same.

For we cannot run away from ourselves. From everyone else we can flee; from ourselves, never. I will arrive with myself. Soon, seeing no one to watch, he will begin to hunt the animals and birds. Arjuna will be the one to flee—and animals and birds are not his own; they are not kith and kin; killing them will pose no difficulty; he will kill with relish.

Arjuna cannot be a sannyasin. One who cannot muster the courage to be worldly has no means to be a sannyasin. In truth, sannyas is not the name of fleeing from the world; it is the name of going beyond it.

Sannyas is the transcending of the world’s heat and fire. Only one who fully crosses it becomes qualified. Sannyas is not opposition to the world; it is the fruit of complete understanding and struggle.

He has arrived at the point of sannyas. If he turns escapist, a road does lie open before him. If he turns to struggle, difficulty awaits. The entire Gita is to dissolve his enervation; to restore resolve; to restore power, determination, personhood, selfhood.

Therefore, all my discussion will be in this light: that it may be of use to your mind too. If there is no Arjuna within you, do not come; it will not be of use to you, it will be meaningless. If there is no dilemma within you, no struggle, no restlessness, do not listen. If within you there is dilemma, unrest, tension; if it is hard for you to decide; if within you the man is in fragments and you too are broken within, disintegrated—only then will what is to come have meaning for you.

More tomorrow morning!