Geeta Darshan #3

Vishada-yoga! Yoga has many meanings. And there are meanings that are the very opposite of our usual notion of yoga. It is a fair question: how can despondency be yoga? Bliss can be yoga; how can despondency be yoga?

But despondency can be yoga because it is bliss doing a headstand—it is bliss standing on its head. Whether you stand on your feet or on your head, you are still a human being. What we call going against one’s nature is nature standing upside down—an inversion. What we call derangement is nature distorted—a perversion. But it is nature all the same.

If clay gets mixed into gold, we still have to call it impure gold. One might ask, if it is impure, why call it gold at all? Yet we must, for even impure, it is gold. And we must also call it gold because the impurity can be burnt away and the gold can return to being gold.

We say “vishada-yoga” because there is despondency, the despondency can be burnt away, and yoga can remain. The journey toward bliss can begin. No one has sunk so deep in sorrow that he cannot return to his own essence. Even in the deepest despondency, the footpath back to one’s true nature remains. The word yoga is used to keep that path in remembrance.

And that despondency is happening for this very reason. Why does despondency arise? A stone does not become despondent—because it cannot know bliss either. Despondency happens as, in a deeper sense, a remembrance of bliss. It is a reminder: somewhere deep down, consciousness knows that what I could be, I am not becoming; what I could attain, I am not attaining. What is possible is not becoming actual—that is why despondency arises.

Therefore, the more gifted the person, the deeper he will descend into despondency. Only the dull-witted are not visited by it, because they have no means of comparison; they have no inkling of what they could be. One who senses what he could be, who knows bliss is possible—his despondency grows darker. To one who knows of dawn, the night looks very dark. To one who has no idea of morning, even night can pass for morning; and night may seem quite all right.

Arjuna’s state of despondency is called yoga because this very awareness of despondency appears only in contrast to one’s essence; otherwise it would not be seen. On that battlefield no one else is undergoing such vishada-yoga—not Duryodhana.

Yesterday, on the way, a friend asked, “You spoke about Duryodhana; what about Yudhishthira? If Duryodhana does not feel it—granted, he is not a good man. But Yudhishthira is a good man, Dharmaraj; why does it not happen to him?”

This too deserves some reflection. We might expect it to happen to Yudhishthira; but it does not. Yudhishthira is a so-called religious man. And even a bad man is better than a so-called religious man. Because for a bad man, if not today then tomorrow, the pain of his badness, the thorn of his badness, will begin to prick. But the so-called religious man does not even feel that pain, because he moves around convinced that he is religious. How can despondency arise? Yudhishthira is assured of his religiosity. The assurance is false, but he is assured. In truth Yudhishthira is the image of the orthodox, tradition-bound religious man.

There are two kinds of religious men. One are the borrowed religious, whose religion comes on loan from the past. The other are those whose religion arises from an inner revolution.

Arjuna is a man standing at the door of inner revolution. He is not yet religious, but he stands at the threshold. He is passing through the anguish from which true religion can be born. Yudhishthira is content; he is satisfied with the religion received from the past. Therefore he can be religious and still gamble, and no doubt arises in his mind. He can be religious and still go to war for a kingdom, and still no doubt arises. He is “religious,” and around that so-called religion, all irreligion goes on undisturbed; it causes him no pain.

Ordinarily, the one who goes to temple, mosque, gurdwara, church keeps company with Yudhishthira. He is satisfied. He reads the Gita daily—he is a religious man; matter closed. He has memorized the Gita—he is a solid religious man; matter closed. He knows everything that is worth knowing—matter closed. Such a man is like a spent cartridge; there is nothing left to fire. He is an empty shell; there is no gunpowder in it. An empty shell even looks nice, because it poses little danger.

Yudhishthira is Dharmaraj in this sense. He is the heir to the religion inherited from the past. From the past, tradition, convention—what was received as religion—he is their symbol, their statue-man. He encounters no inner obstruction. The so-called religious man is compromising; he is a deal-maker. In every situation he finds a compromise between dharma and adharma.

The so-called religious man is a hypocrite. He has two faces. One is his religious face, which he keeps for display. The other is his real face, which he keeps for getting things done. And between these two never arises a conflict. This is the formula, the secret, of hypocrisy. Between them never comes a duality; he never feels, “I am two.” He is very liquid, very fluid. He shifts from here to there with great ease. He has no difficulty. He is like an actor. The actor changes roles without hindrance. Yesterday he played Rama; today dress him as Ravana and he has no difficulty. He dons Ravana’s costume and starts speaking Ravana’s language.

This so-called religious man, I say, is worse than the irreligious. I say so because the irreligious man cannot endure his pain for long; if not today then tomorrow, the thorn will prick. But the man who has made compromises can endure his pain for eternity.

Therefore Yudhishthira feels no pain. Yudhishthira is perfectly at ease. And here is the great irony: the irreligious man is perfectly at ease with that war; the “religious” man is perfectly at ease with that war; and this Arjuna—who is neither at ease with irreligion nor yet at ease with so-called religion—he is anxious.

Arjuna is a very authentic, genuine human being. His authenticity lies in the fact that he is troubled. His authenticity lies in the fact that he has questions. His authenticity lies in the fact that he cannot consent to the given situation. This very restlessness, this very pain, becomes his growth.

It is called vishada-yoga for this very reason: Arjuna has come to despondency. Blessed are those who come to despondency, because those who are visited by despondency are compelled to seek a path. Unfortunate are those who are denied even despondency; they will never know bliss. Blessed are those who come to longing, for longing is the aspiration for union. Therefore separation too is yoga; it is the thirst for union. It is the path seeking union. Yoga is union; but separation too is yoga, because separation is the call and the thirst for union. Despondency too is yoga. Yoga is bliss; but despondency too is yoga, because despondency is the process by which bliss is born. Hence it is called vishada-yoga.

Arjuna’s despondency, if it gets satisfied in despondency itself and closes, is irreligious; if it becomes closed, it is irreligious. But if despondency becomes a journey, becomes a Gangotri—the source—and from it the Ganga flows and reaches the ocean of bliss, then it is religious. Despondency in itself is neither irreligious nor religious. If despondency shuts down the personality, it becomes suicidal. If despondency gives the personality a flow, it becomes self-transformative.

What Paul Tillich says—“Despair in itself is religious”—that despair, that sorrow, is in itself religious—this is a half-truth. Paul Tillich is not telling the whole truth. It is incomplete, a partial truth. Despondency can become religious. It has that possibility, that potential to become religious—if despondency becomes a current, a flow.

But if despondency becomes circular, begins to revolve within itself, then it can only be self-destructive; it cannot be religious. It is quite striking that the self-destructive personality reaches a point from where either self-transformation has to happen, or self-destruction. One thing is certain: the old self will not do. In that sense we could also say, “Suicide in itself is religious.” But that too would be a half-truth—just like what Paul Tillich says.

Yes, the person who has reached the point of suicide faces two alternatives: either he kills himself—which is utterly irreligious; or he changes himself—which is an even deeper alchemy than killing; then it becomes religious.

Buddha arrives at that place where either suicide must occur or self-transformation. Mahavira comes to that same place: either suicide or self-transformation. Arjuna too stands at that point: either he will erase himself, die, finish himself; or he will change himself and take his consciousness to new planes.

Paul Tillich’s statement is incomplete. And there is a reason for that incompleteness: the basic truth of Christianity, as it has been held, is incomplete. Hence Christianity has clung to despair—and Paul Tillich is a major interpreter of Christianity in the modern age. He has a sharp vision, but a sharp vision need not be a whole vision.

The image of Jesus that Christianity has seized is an image of despair. It has not held any other image. Christianity has no laughing Jesus. Christianity has no vision of a dancing, joyous Jesus. It has no conception, no icon of Jesus proclaiming sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. The image it preserves is of Jesus hanging on the cross: head fallen on the shoulder, eyes sad, the hour of death. And the cross has therefore become the symbol of Christianity. This despair and this cross are not religious in themselves. They may become religious—or they may not.

And Tillich is entirely wrong if he says that people like Bertrand Russell are self-deceptive. Russell is an atheist, he has no faith in God. So if someone asks Tillich: Russell has no faith in God, yet he does not taste meaninglessness, emptiness, as Sartre does, or Camus, or others—why does Russell not feel it? If he is an atheist, he ought to experience emptiness. Not necessary.

Because in my view atheism too comes in two kinds: closed in upon itself, and flowing outward. The atheist who becomes closed in himself—just as despondency can close in—will become empty. Whoever builds his life on “no” will become empty. If a man says “no” is the foundation of my life, how can he be anything but empty? No seed of “no” ever sprouts; no flower blooms from the seed of “no.” No life grows from it. If there is no “yes” somewhere in life, life will go empty. But atheism need not be built upon “no.” Atheism too can rest upon “yes.”

Bertrand Russell’s atheism is founded on a “yes.” He denies God, but he does not deny love. And one who does not deny love can be called an atheist only by naive theists. Because whoever does not deny love is, at a very deep level, affirming the divine. His affirmation is not formal. He does not keep a god’s idol and ring a bell in a temple. And those who do—there is no reason to assume they are theists. What has ringing a bell to do with theism? Where the note of love sounds in a life, prayer is not far away. Where the note of love sounds, the divine is not far away. Love is not a formula of denial, it is a formula of affirmation—a deep “yes” to the whole of existence.

So I call Bertrand Russell an atheist only in the formal sense—just as many people are theists only in the formal sense. But Russell’s atheism is flowing toward theism; it has a current; it is opening. He can take delight even in flowers.

Our so-called theist goes to the temple and offers flowers, but he cannot take delight in the flower itself. While plucking the flower he does not feel as though he is plucking God. For a stone idol he plucks a living flower and offers it. Such a man is, deep down, an atheist. He has no sense of acceptance toward existence, no glimpse of the divine in existence. Break his stone idol and he is ready to commit murder—yet he destroys living idols. There is no connection in him to true theism. His theism is self-deception.

And Bertrand Russell’s atheism is not self-deception, because I see him as a sincere, honest man. An honest man cannot become a theist quickly. Only a dishonest man can become a theist quickly. For who could be more dishonest than the person who says yes to God without any search? Who could be more self-deceptive than one who has accepted so great a reality as God just from reading about it in a book?

God is not a child’s game. God is not a lesson learned from books. What have the doctrines taught by your parents to do with the divine? God is a great, living search and pain—a great anguish. He becomes available only through great despondency, great labor, great tapas—through much denial, through great suffering, great emptiness—only with great difficulty, perhaps after a journey of lifetimes, births upon births of seeking and wandering and failing—then, after all that birth-pain, perhaps that experience dawns which gives the personality true theism.

And I take it that Bertrand Russell is on such a journey. Hence he is not empty. Sartre is empty; his atheism is closed—encircled within itself, revolving inside. If you revolve within yourself, you become empty. And if your foundation is nothingness, how will flowers bloom? You have tried to sow life in a desert—flowers cannot bloom there.

There is no desert greater than “no.” In the deserts on earth there are oases. But in the desert of “no” there is no oasis. No greenness blooms there. Greenness blooms only in “yes.” Only a theist can be wholly green, wholly full, available to flowers—not an atheist.

But atheism too can be of two kinds—and theism too. Atheism becomes dangerous when it closes upon itself. Theism becomes dangerous when it is second-hand, borrowed. The danger for the theist is in borrowing; the danger for the atheist is in closing. Most theists on earth are borrowed. They lack even the honesty to be atheists; then how can the vast step of theism be possible?

I hold that atheism is the first step toward theism. Atheism is schooling—the practice of saying “no,” the preparation for saying “yes.” What strength will there be in your “yes” if you have never said “no”? What life, what soul will there be in your “yes” if you have never gathered the courage to say “no”?

Bertrand Russell, I see, is passing through that phase of atheism which searches. And he cannot say “yes” without searching. Rightly so; that is religious. I call Russell an atheist—but religious, a religious atheist. And the so-called theists I call theists—but irreligious, irreligious theists. The words may sound reversed, but they are not.

Arjuna’s despondency is deeply religious; it has movement. Having someone as precious as Krishna beside him, he could have said, “Master, whatever you say—we fight!” He does not. He wrestles with Krishna. To have the courage to wrestle with a Krishna is no small thing. In the presence of such a personality, the mind tends to say yes; to say no hurts; even to question causes pain. Yet Arjuna keeps asking, keeps asking. He sets aside Krishna’s personality; he does not drop his question. He does not fear being called irreverent, doubting, lacking faith. If you find a person like Krishna, accept—then theism becomes borrowed. No—Arjuna is seeking authentic theism.

Hence the Gita became such a long journey. He keeps asking, asking, asking.

Krishna is wondrous too. He could have used the force of his glory. If there had been even a little attachment to gurudom, he surely would have. But the truly theistic man has no craving to be a guru. When there is God, there is no need to be anyone’s guru. And one who trusts in God does not look at questions with suspicion or condemnation. He knows: God is. And this person who asks is on a journey—he will arrive. Let him arrive in his own spontaneity.

If the Ganga has begun to flow, it will reach the ocean. She may not yet know that the ocean exists—but if she is flowing, rest easy: she will arrive. He does not say, “Stop and believe.” And if the Ganga stops and believes that there is an ocean, she will never know the ocean. She will stagnate, become a fetid pool—and then take that to be the ocean.

Arjuna is not that kind of theist. Properly understood, there is some kinship between Arjuna and Bertrand Russell. As I said yesterday, there is also some kinship between Arjuna and Sartre: both are anxious—but there the kinship ends. Sartre turns his anxiety into a doctrine; Arjuna makes his anxiety a question. Here he resembles Bertrand Russell.

Bertrand Russell is agnostic—asking till the last moment of life. It is another matter that he did not find a Krishna. No harm—one will be found later. No harm. But the asking is there; the journey continues. In my understanding, between Paul Tillich and Bertrand Russell—who lived side by side on this earth—Russell advanced farther toward theism; Tillich did not. He remained a theologian.

And it is a very telling thing: the greatest enemy of religion in this world is not irreligion; it is theology—scripturalism. Religion’s greatest foe is scholasticism. Those who live in scholasticism never become religious. Why? Because religion is above the intellect, while scripture is always below the intellect. Scripture does not go above the intellect—and the intellect does not reach religion.

Paul Tillich lives only in intellect. Not that Russell denies the intellect; he too lives fully with the intellect. But he does not absolutize it. Russell doubts the intellect as well; he is a skeptic regarding the intellect. He senses that the intellect has limits.

In Arjuna there is a deep synthesis—Russell and Sartre come together. His despondency is religious because it is leading toward reverence.

Yesham arthe kankshitam no rajyam bhogah sukhani cha,
te ime’vasthita yuddhe pranan styaktva dhanani cha. (33)

“For whose sake we desire kingdom, enjoyments and happiness—lo, they are arrayed for battle, having renounced their lives and wealth.”

At every step Arjuna’s delusions are entwined. He says: “For fathers, sons, and others for whom we desire kingdom, enjoyment and happiness—these very ones stand ready for war, having given up their lives and wealth.” He is speaking untruth. No one desires for others; we desire for ourselves. And if one desires for father or son, it is only because they are “my” father, “my” son. Only insofar as they are mine—no more.

Yes, it is true that without them even pleasure will turn insipid. Because pleasure comes little; the showing of pleasure to others is what mostly happens. Pleasure itself is almost nil; even if the greatest kingdom is obtained, the real joy is not in getting the kingdom but in proving before one’s own people that I have obtained it.

Human craving has limits. If a queen passes by, decked in gold and jewels, the village sweeper-woman feels no jealousy, because the queen lies outside her range. She is beyond that woman’s scale of thinking. But if the neighbor sweeper-woman goes by wearing even a fake glass trinket, a dart pierces the heart. She is within range. Our envies and ambitions constantly function within a certain circle.

If you seek fame, strangers will not give you much thrill. It is before your own people, the familiar ones, that it tastes sweet. There is no joy for the ego in proving before strangers. It is the near ones you want to defeat; it is before them you want to show: see what I have become—and you have not.

Jesus said a prophet is never honored in his own village. He would like to be honored there—but it cannot happen. If Jesus goes to his village, people say: is he not the carpenter Joseph’s son? Yesterday he cut wood; today he has found wisdom? They laugh. That laughter hides the difficulty of accepting the carpenter’s son on such a height. He is within range. It is very difficult. No prophet is worshiped in his own village, because he lies within the village’s circle of envy.

Vivekananda was honored in America as he never was in Calcutta. After two or four or ten days of welcome ceremonies on returning to Calcutta, it was over. Then people say: oh, that Kayastha’s boy—how much wisdom can he have! Ram Tirtha was greatly honored in America, not in Kashi. In Kashi a pundit stood and said: you don’t know even the ABC of Sanskrit and you talk of Brahman-knowledge? Learn Sanskrit first! And poor Ram Tirtha went to learn Sanskrit.

There is a range, a circle. Perhaps Ram Tirtha did not get as much joy from the honor in New York as he would have had in Kashi. That is why he was never upset in America; in Kashi he became sad, anxious. He spoke continually of Brahman-knowledge, yet in Kashi he could not muster the courage to say: what has Brahman-knowledge to do with Sanskrit? To hell with your Sanskrit! He could not. He hired a tutor and began to learn Sanskrit. Do you see that pain?

What Arjuna keeps saying is sheer untruth. He does not know it. The deepest untruths are those mixed into our blood. The lies we can see are not deep. Those we do not even notice—those have become our bone and marrow. Arjuna speaks that kind of untruth—the same as we all do.

A husband tells his wife: I do everything for you. The wife tells her husband: I do everything for you. No one is doing anything for anyone. We all live ego-centered lives. Those who seem “ours” within the ego’s boundary—we do for them only as much as our own is fulfilled by it. Only to the extent they are part of my ego do we act for them. Let that wife no longer remain “my wife,” let divorce be contemplated—and everything stops. For the friend for whom we were ready to give our life, tomorrow we may take his life. All is forgotten. Why? As long as he strengthened my “I,” he was mine; when he no longer strengthens it, he is no longer mine.

No—Arjuna is speaking falsely. He doesn’t know it yet. If he knew, it would be different. He will come to know gradually. He should not say, “For whose sake we desire the kingdom…” He should say: “Without those in whose eyes I would relish the kingdom, I will find no relish in desiring it.” We desire for ourselves; but if the eyes I want to dazzle are not there, then what will I do with the kingdom among strangers? What joy is there for the ego among those who do not even know who you are? The joy is among the ones who know you—only then will touching the sky be felt as “look!”

Remember, we are not competing only with our enemies; our competition with our friends is even deeper. We have no real rivalry with strangers; our real rivalry is with the familiar. That is why two strangers never become such great enemies as two brothers can. Our competition is with them; we want to prove before them that we are something.

Arjuna is speaking falsely—but unconsciously. The lies we tell knowingly are superficial. The lies that speak through us unknowingly—those are deep. Over many births we have assimilated them with our blood. Such a lie Arjuna is speaking: “For whose sake we desire the kingdom—if they are gone, what will I do with it?” No. What is right is: “I desire the kingdom for myself; but the eyes I want to bedazzle—if those eyes are not there, then even for myself what will I do with it?”

If he could say even that much, in many places the Krishna of the Gita would be ready to fall silent. But whatever Arjuna says shows he is saying things reversed.

If even once he were to speak straight and true, if even one assertion of his were authentic, the Krishna of the Gita would immediately fall silent and say: it is finished; let us turn the chariot back. But it does not finish, because Arjuna speaks double statements all along. He says one thing and wants another. He is something else and says something else. His dilemma lies elsewhere in depth; he voices it elsewhere on the surface.

We must understand this; only then can we understand Krishna’s answers. Until we grasp the tangle and ambiguity in Arjuna’s questions, it is difficult to understand the depth and the resolving power in Krishna’s replies.

Where Arjuna is, only a connection with material pleasure is possible. It is not that a theist has no connection with material pleasure. A theist does have a connection with material pleasure; but the more he seeks, the more he finds that material pleasure is an impossibility. When the search for material pleasure proves impossible, only then does the search for spiritual joy begin. So material pleasure also has an important contribution to the quest for spiritual bliss—its very significant gift. The most important gift of material pleasure is precisely this: it inevitably leads to melancholy and frustration.

Now, here is a strange paradox: in life, it is not those very steps that are joined to the temple of the Divine that take us to the temple. Even the steps that are not joined to the temple lead us to the steps of the temple. This will sound very topsy-turvy. To reach heaven, the ladder that is attached to heaven is not the one that helps; even more—and before that—the ladder that is attached to hell helps. In fact, until the journey toward hell proves utterly futile, no journey toward heaven begins. Until it becomes very clear, crystal clear, that “this and this” is the road to hell, it does not become clear what the road to heaven is.

Material pleasures function as a prohibitive, negative warning on the way to spiritual bliss. Again and again we seek material pleasure—and again and again we fail. Again and again we desire—and again and again we do not obtain. Again and again we aspire—and again and again we fall back.

There is the Greek tale of Sisyphus. Camus wrote a book on it, The Myth of Sisyphus. The gods punished Sisyphus to haul a stone up to the peak of a mountain. And the second part of the punishment is this: the moment he reaches the summit—sweat-drenched, panting, exhausted, dragging the stone—the stone slips from his hands and tumbles back into the ravine. Then he must go down again, drag the stone up again, reach the peak again. And the same thing happens again—and again and again it will go on. This is the punishment, and it will go on for eternity—without end.

Yet Sisyphus goes back into the ravine and lifts the stone once more. When he lifts it, it is with the hope that this time he will succeed. This time he will surely place it on the summit—he will prove the gods were mistaken: “Look, Sisyphus has set the stone on the peak.” He drags it again. Months of tireless labor; somehow, shattered, dying, he reaches the summit—and before he can set it, the stone slips from his hands and falls back into the ravine. Again Sisyphus descends.

You will say, “He is mad. Why doesn’t he sit down in the ravine?” If you can see just this much, the beginning of religion will happen in your life. Because we are all Sisyphus. The stories will differ, the mountains will differ, the stones will differ—but Sisyphus is all of us. We keep doing the same thing again and again; again and again the stone slips from the summit and falls into the ravine. But the human mind is so amusing—it convinces itself again and again: “Some mistake must have happened this time. Next time we will set everything right.” And he starts again. And if such mistakes happened for only one or two births, it would still be all right. Those who know will say that across infinite births it has been like this—like this—like this.

The desire for material pleasure is an indispensable part of the spiritual quest, because its failure—its total failure—is the first step in the search for spiritual bliss. Therefore, I do not call the one who seeks material pleasure irreligious. He too is seeking religion, only from the wrong direction. He too is seeking bliss—where bliss cannot be found. But first it must be known that it cannot be found there; only then will he search in another direction.

Someone asked Lao Tzu: “You say nothing can be gained from the scriptures, yet we have heard you studied them!” Lao Tzu said, “No, I received a great deal from the scriptures. The greatest thing I received by studying the scriptures is this: nothing can be gained from the scriptures. Is that a small gain? Nothing can be gained—but without reading, this would not have become clear. I read a lot, searched a lot; I came to know it cannot be found there. That is no small price. It is negative, therefore we do not count it.”

But once it truly occurs to us that it cannot be had from words, from scriptures, then perhaps we set out to seek in existence, in life. If bliss cannot be found in pleasure, perhaps we will set out to seek in peace. If it cannot be found outside, perhaps we will seek within. If it cannot be found in matter, perhaps we will seek in God. But that second search begins only from the failure of the first.

So what Arjuna is speaking right now is about material pleasure: “What will be gained by a kingdom? If my loved ones are not there, what will be gained? What will be gained by happiness?” But the first step of the spiritual search is being taken. Therefore I will call him a religious person—not that he has attained religion, but that he is eager to attain it.

I will call the Gita a psychology. And by “mind” I do not mean soul. By mind I mean precisely mind. Some will find this difficult; they will say I am lowering the Gita, that one should call it a “spiritual science.” But let me tell you: spirituality has no science. At most, a science can be of the mind. Yes, a science of the mind can bring you to the point from where spirituality begins—no more than that. A “science of spirituality” does not exist; it cannot. Spirituality is a way of living, not a science. At the most, words can make you capable of touching the last heights and depths of the mind.

So I will not waste the Gita by calling it a spiritual science; there is no such science. And those scriptures that claim to be spiritual—really, their followers make the claim—render their own scriptures useless, outside the field of human utility.

Spirituality is experience: the ineffable, the indescribable, what is beyond explanation and beyond words—and those very scriptures keep shouting that it will not be found through the mind but beyond the mind. What lies beyond the mind cannot be written in words. Therefore the furthest reach of any scripture is manas—the mind. If a scripture brings you that far, it is supreme. Beyond that, where the jump happens, spirituality begins.

I call the Gita a science of the mind because it contains sutras that can lead you right up to the point from which the jump can be made. But there is no spiritual science. Yes, there can be spiritual utterances, as in the Upanishads. The Upanishads are spiritual utterances. But there is no science in them. Therefore they are not of much practical use to people. The Gita is of great use.

A statement says: “Brahman is.” Fine. It is a statement: “Brahman is.” Fine. We do not know. The one who knows says, “It is.” The one who does not know says, “Perhaps.” These are bare statements. The Upanishad can come into use when you have the spiritual experience; then you can read the Upanishad and say, “Yes—this is exactly what I too have known.” So the Upanishad can serve as testimony, as witness—but only after you know.

And the irony is that when you do know, you do not need the Upanishad’s testimony. You know—and what you say becomes the Upanishad.

So the Upanishad, at most, can be a witness for the siddha, the realized one—and the realized one needs no witness. The Gita can be useful for the seeker. For the siddha the Gita is of no use. But the real concern is with the seeker. And the seeker’s real question is not spiritual.

Arjuna’s real question is not spiritual. His real question is mental, psychological. His problem is mental. So if one says his problem is mental and Krishna is giving a spiritual solution, then there can be no communication between them. The solution must be where the problem is; only then is it meaningful. Arjuna’s problem is mental; his entanglement is mental.

Now, it is a very revealing truth: there is no such thing as a spiritual problem. Where spirituality is, there are no problems; and wherever there is a problem, there is no spirituality. It is exactly like this: there is darkness in my house and I tell you, “There is darkness.” You say, “I will bring a lamp and see where it is!” You bring a lamp and I cannot point out the darkness. You ask, “Show me—where is it?” Now I am in difficulty. I say, “Please leave the lamp outside and come.” You say, “If I leave the lamp outside, how will I see the darkness? One needs light to see!” Then I can only say one thing: darkness cannot be seen, because where there is light, there is no darkness; and where there is darkness, there is no light. There is no communication between the two.

There is no such thing as a spiritual problem. All problems are of the mind. Spirituality is not a problem; it is the solution. Where spirituality is, there are no problems. And where there are no problems, what need is there of any solution?

Spirituality itself is solution. That is why we have named the gateway of spirituality samadhi.

Samadhi means: from here, solutions begin; from here, there will be no more problems. Samadhi means: from here on, there are solutions, not problems; beyond this, questions will not arise; beyond this, there is no device for questioning. We have named the door “samadhi.” It means you have come to the threshold; beyond it lies the realm of solutions. There, only solutions exist; there are no problems. But up to the door of samadhi there are many problems—and they are all mental.

Properly understood, it means: the mind is the problem. The day the mind is not, there is no problem. And spirituality means the experience where the mind is not.

Therefore, when I call the Gita a science of the mind, I am saying the maximum that can be said about any scripture—no more can be said. Those who will make it “spiritual” will get it beaten and thrown away, because no one’s problem is spiritual; everyone’s problem is of the mind.

And when I say Krishna is the first herald of psychology, again I am saying the utmost that can be said. Yes—psychosynthesis; there is no synthesis of the soul. The whole game is of the mind. All the turmoil is of the mind; beyond the mind there is neither turmoil nor problem. Therefore, beyond the mind there is no scripture. All guru–disciple relationships hold only up to the mind; beyond the mind there is no guru and no disciple. Beyond the mind there is neither Arjuna nor Krishna. What is beyond the mind has no name. All of this is within the mind—and therefore the Gita is very special.

There are many spiritual utterances—precious, yes—but they are utterances, bare statements. A man says, “It is so.” But that solves nothing. Our problems are on another plane; our troubles are on another plane. The discourse must happen on that plane. Krishna speaks exactly on the plane where Arjuna is. If Krishna were to speak from his own plane, the Gita would be a “science of spirituality.” But then Arjuna could not be persuaded. Arjuna would say, “Forgive me—maybe—but it has nothing to do with me.” Then there could be no dialogue between them: one man in the sky and one in the netherworld. The words would pass over Arjuna’s head; nothing would come into his grasp.

But Krishna takes Arjuna by the hand exactly where he is, and from there he begins to resolve all his problems. Therefore the Gita is a very psychic, very dynamic system of the mind. Each time Arjuna steps up, the Gita rises; when Arjuna falls, the Gita descends. When Arjuna falls to the ground, Krishna bends down; when Arjuna stands, Krishna stands. Throughout, Arjuna is at the center—not Krishna. In the Upanishads the rishi is at the center: he gives his utterances, “What I have known, I declare.” It has nothing to do with you. Therefore I call the Gita the words spoken by a teacher.

If Krishna speaks only as a knower of Brahman, there is no connection with Arjuna. He stoops low to stand with Arjuna and speak. And slowly, as Arjuna rises, so he rises. And he leaves the Gita at those final sutras where the mind ends and spirituality begins. After that, discussion stops; beyond that, discussion has no meaning.

Therefore—very knowingly, considered—I have said: the Gita is a psychology. I do not say such things casually.

And the future belongs only to those scriptures that are psychology; not to those that are metaphysics. Metaphysics is dead; it has no place now. Now man says, “We have problems—solve them.” Whoever solves them will have a place. Now it is the world of Freud, Jung, Adler, Fromm, and Sullivan; it is not the world of Kapila and Kanada. And in the coming future, only if Krishna dares to stand in the line of Freud, Jung, and Adler will the Gita have a future; otherwise, none.

I have said this after much thought, with full awareness. I cannot call the Bible a science of the mind—no. There are statements in it that are psychological, but deep down it is spiritual. Spiritual means: what Jesus has known, he is uttering. That is where the difficulty arose. Jesus is speaking of the sky; the listeners understand the earth. Therefore he was crucified. There is a reason—and much of the reason lies with Jesus.

Jesus says, “The Kingdom of God—I will make you heirs to the kingdom of God.” People understand that he is going to make them rulers of an earthly kingdom. The Jews reported him: “This man is dangerous, rebellious; he is trying to seize the kingdom.” And when Pilate asked him, “Are you trying to seize the kingdom?” he said, “We are attacking the kingdom!” But he was speaking of another kingdom—the Kingdom of God. That kingdom was unknown to them. They said, “This man is dangerous. He should be crucified.”

From where Jesus is speaking, there are no listeners. At the place from which he speaks, not a single person is able to hear him. Hence there is no attunement between Jesus and his listeners.

Krishna is a marvelous teacher. He takes Arjuna from primary school right up to the last gate of the university. It is a very long journey, a very subtle journey. And I would wish that we too travel in the same way.

Life is an endless repetition; it has its utility; it brings maturity. It also carries a danger; it can bring rigidity. Passing through the same thing again opens two possibilities. Either, passing through it again, you will know it more; or it is also possible that, passing through it again, you will not even know as much as you had known the first time. Both are possible.

The tree standing in front of your house you hardly ever see, because you have seen it so many times that there seems no need to look. Husband and wife hardly see each other. They have lived together for thirty years. They saw each other long ago, when they got married; after that there has been no occasion to look. In fact, there has been no need to look. A strange woman passes on the street and she is noticed.

It is the unfamiliar that is seen; toward the familiar we become blind; it becomes a blind spot. There seems no need to look at it. Close your eyes someday and try to recall your mother’s face, and you will be in great difficulty. You may recall the face of a film actress; but if you try to see your mother’s face with your eyes closed, it will begin to dissolve at once. In a moment the features will be all mixed up. The mother’s face does not come into your grasp! You have seen it so much, from so close, that you have never really looked attentively. Closeness becomes unfamiliarity. Closeness becomes unfamiliarity.

So, in endless life, passing repeatedly through the same experience opens two possibilities. And the choice is yours—what you will do is up to you; the freedom is yours.

You can also become totally dull, mechanical, as most of us have become—going round and round like a machine, doing the same thing every day. You were angry yesterday, the day before yesterday you were angry, before that too, last year too, the year before that too. If you keep accounts for this life alone, it is enough. If you have lived fifty years, how many times have you been angry! And how many times, after anger, have you repented! And each time, after repenting, you were angry again, and again you repented! Slowly, a routine, a pattern has formed.

And by looking at a person you can say: right now he is angry; in a little while he will repent. You can even tell what he is saying in anger; if you have seen him angry a few times, you can tell what he will say. And later you can predict what he will say in repentance after anger. He will swear that he will never be angry again. Though he has taken such oaths before too, and they mean nothing. It has become a fixed, dead arrangement.

But if a person has been angry with awareness, then every experience of anger will help to free him from anger. And if he has been angry in unawareness, then every experience of anger will push him deeper into the root-stupor of anger.

Life’s repetition opens both possibilities. How we use it depends on us. Life only gives possibilities. What transformation we give to those possibilities depends on us. A person, if he chooses, can become a deeper practitioner of anger by getting angry. And a person, if he chooses, by getting angry and seeing the stupidity of anger, its futility, the fire and derangement of anger, can become free of anger. The more a man becomes mechanical, the more irreligious he becomes; the more worldly he becomes. The more a man becomes conscious, the more religious he becomes; a revolution begins to happen in his life.

It depends on each one of us what we do with life.

Life is not dependent; life is an opportunity. What you do with it depends on you. This dependence on your decision is the proof that you are a being with a self. This dependence is the dignity of your being a soul. That you have a soul means you have the power to choose—what you will choose to do.

And the interesting thing is this: you may have circled a thousand times, yet if even today you decide, you can drop all those circles this very moment, break them this very moment. But the mind flows toward the path of least resistance. Spill a pot of water on the floor. It will flow and dry up, the water will evaporate; but a dry line will remain on the floor. There is not a drop of water left—nothing—only a dry line. And what does that dry line mean? It means nothing at all. Water flowed there once. That’s all; a line remains. If you spill water in that room again, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it will catch that same dry line and flow along it. Because that is the path of least resistance. There is less dust on that dry line. In other parts of the room there is more dust. There the way is a little easier to flow. The water will flow from there.

Wherever we have done something many times, dry lines have formed. Psychology calls these dry lines samskaras—our conditionings. Along those dry lines the same actions happen again, the same surge of energy, the same flow of water, least resistance—and we begin to flow from there again.

But the dry line does not say, “Flow from here.” The dry line does not bind you: “If you don’t flow from here, you will be taken to court.” The dry line does not say there is some law that you must flow here, that it is God’s command to flow here. The dry line is only an open opportunity; the choice is always yours. And if the water decides not to flow along the dry line, it can make a new line and flow. Then a new dry line will be formed. A new samskara will be formed.

Religion is decision and resolve; it is the effort to be otherwise than what has been happening; it is a resolute choice, out of understanding, that what happened till yesterday should not happen again. We can call this sadhana, yoga—whatever name you wish to give.

One last sutra, and then we will talk in the evening.

आचार्याः पितरः पुत्रास्तथैव च पितामहाः।
मातुलाः श्वशुराः पौत्राः श्यालाः संबन्धिनतथा।। 34।।
एतान्न हन्तुमिच्छामि घ्नतोऽपि मधुसूदन।
अपि त्रैलोक्यराज्यस्य हेतोः किं नु महीकृते।। 35।।

Among them are our teachers, our fathers, our grandsons, our grandfathers, our maternal uncles, our fathers-in-law, our brothers-in-law, and our relatives. O Madhusudana, even if they were to kill me, I do not wish to kill them—not even for the sovereignty of the three worlds; then what to say of the kingdom of the earth!

निहत्य धार्तराष्ट्रान्नः का प्रीतिः स्याज्जनार्दन।
पापमेवाश्रयेदस्मान्हत्वैतानाततायिनः।। 36।।

O Janardana! What joy would there be for us in killing our own kinsmen, the sons of Dhritarashtra? By killing these aggressors sin alone would befall us.

Again and again Arjuna says things that are worth deep consideration. Two or three points must be noted. He says that even if killing his own people brought him the sovereignty of the three worlds, he is not prepared to accept it; then what to say of the kingdom of this earth! At first sight it seems he is speaking of great renunciation. It is not so.

I once went to meet an elderly sannyasin. He read me a song he had written. In that song he said, “O emperors, you may be happy on your golden thrones; I am content in my dust. I kick your golden thrones. There is nothing in your golden thrones. I am delighted in my dust.” The whole song was like this. The listeners were enthralled. In our country it is easier to be enthralled than anything else. Heads began to nod.

I was very surprised. Seeing their nodding, the sannyasin became very pleased. He asked me, “What do you say?” I said, “You have put me in a difficulty. Please don’t ask me.” He said, “No, say something.” I said, “I always wonder why no emperor has ever written a song saying, ‘O sannyasins, remain happy in your dust; we kick your dust. We are happy on our thrones.’”

No emperor has ever written such a song. Sannyasins, for hundreds of years, have certainly written such songs. We must search for the reason. In truth, in the sannyasin’s mind, happiness appears to be in the golden throne. He is persuading himself. His talk is consolatory. He says, “You stay on your thrones; we are quite happy in our dust.” But who is asking you to let them stay on their thrones? If you are happy in your dust, be happy. Let the one on the throne envy your joy. But the one on the throne never writes a song saying, “If you are happy in your dust, then remain so.”

He needs no consolation. He is not envying your dust from his throne. But you, lying in the dust, are certainly envying his throne. The envy is deep.

Now Arjuna is persuading himself. His mind, in fact, desires the kingdom; but he says, “Even if by killing these people I were to gain the sovereignty of the three worlds”—though nothing is being offered, there is no one to give it—“even then it would be worthless.” By talking about such a great kingdom, he then draws another conclusion: that then the kingdom of the earth has no purpose at all! He produces a grand feeling in his mind that, “If I can renounce the three worlds, then surely I can renounce the earth.” But he has no wish to renounce the earth’s kingdom. And if, perchance, Krishna were to say to him, “Look, I grant you the sovereignty of the three worlds,” he would be in great embarrassment, in a real bind. He is talking to convince himself.

Now this is the amusing thing: very often when we are persuading ourselves, we are not aware of the tricks by which we do it. Seeing a big house of the neighbor, we say, “What is there in a big house!” But when someone says, “What is there in a big house,” for that person a big house certainly has something in it—otherwise he would not even see it. He is consoling himself; he is giving his mind a soothing pat: “There is nothing in it, hence we do not try to have it. If there were something, we would get it at once. But there is nothing, so we do not try.”

This is what Arjuna is saying: “There is nothing even in the three worlds’ sovereignty; then in the earth’s kingdom there is nothing at all. And for such a small kingdom, to kill such dear ones!”

What feels most painful to him is not killing as such, but killing his dear ones. Killing dear ones feels painful.

Naturally so—the whole family is standing there to fight. Such a war seldom comes. This war is special. And the sharpness of the Mahabharata war lies precisely here: one single family stands divided. Even in that division not all are enemies. One should say—and this needs a little reflection—that the difference is less of enemy and friend; the difference is between less-friend and more-friend. The division is not that those over there are enemies and these over here are friends. If it were that clear—that those are outsiders and these are our own—the cut would be easy; Arjuna could strike cleanly.

But the division is very strange—and very meaningful. It is such that on this side, those who were a little more friendly have gathered; those who were a little less friendly have gathered on that side. They too are friends; they too are dear ones; the guru is on that side.

This is what I am saying is important. And such a situation is important because in life things are not divided into watertight compartments. In life things are not divided into black and white. Life is a spread of gray. At one end there is black; at the other end there is white; but across the great expanse of life black and white are mixed. Here we cannot divide as “this person is enemy and that person is friend.” The division is: this person is less friend, that person is more friend; this person is less enemy, that person is more enemy. Here life has no absolute terms. Nothing here is completely cut and dried. This is the entanglement. Here everything is divided by more-and-less.

We say, “This is hot and that is cold.” But what does cold mean? A little less hot. What does hot mean? A little less cold. Try this sometime: warm one hand on the stove and cool the other on ice; then put both hands into the same bucket of water—you will be in great difficulty, exactly in Arjuna’s condition. One hand will say, “The water is cold,” and the other will say, “The water is hot.” And it is the same water. It cannot be both at once—hot and cold!

In life everything is relative. Nothing here is absolute. Everything here is divided by more-and-less. This is Arjuna’s very trouble. And whoever looks at life rightly will have the same trouble. Everything here is divided by more-and-less—someone a little more one’s own, someone a little less; someone a little nearer, someone a bit farther. Someone is one’s own a hundred percent, someone ninety percent, someone eighty percent. And someone is alien ninety percent, eighty percent, seventy percent. But even in the alien there is a one-percent share of “one’s own.” And even in one’s own there is a percentage of the alien. Hence life is an entanglement. If it were cut cleanly into enemy-friend, good-bad, it would become very easy. It does not get that easy.

Even in Rama there is a little Ravana, and in Ravana there is a little Rama. That is why someone can love Ravana too; otherwise no one could love Ravana. Someone sees somewhere in Ravana a glimpse of Rama, and loves him. And someone can be hostile to Rama; that hostility to Rama contains, somewhere, a glimpse of Ravana. Here, in the greatest saint there is a little sinner, and in the greatest sinner there is a little saint. Life is only a relative division.

This is Arjuna’s pain: all who stand there are his own. It is one family, a line has been drawn through the middle. On that side are his own, on this side are his own. In every case it is his own who will die. This anguish is the anguish of all life. And this situation is the situation of all of life. Therefore, the question that arises for Arjuna is not a question born on a single battlefield; it is a question that arises on every field of life.

Now he is frightened. There stands Drona—he learned from him. Now he is to draw the bow against that very man. From him he learned archery. He is his most favored disciple; Drona did most for him in life. He had even had Ekalavya’s thumb cut off for the sake of this disciple. Today this very disciple stands ready to kill him! Into this disciple he poured his heart’s blood, his sweat, his whole art. Today, against this very disciple, he will draw bow and arrow. It is a marvelous war. One single family, with deep harmonies, deep ties, deep intimacies, has been split and stands opposed.

But if we look at life, look deeply, all of life’s wars are wars among our own people, because the earth is nothing but one family. If India fights Pakistan, one family fights. The children we taught, trained, raised yesterday—today they are there. The land we called our own yesterday is there. The Taj Mahal they called their own yesterday, for which they would have died—is here. Everything is interlinked.

If tomorrow we fight China—the greatest treasure of India, the Buddha, was preserved by China; no one else preserved him. Yet tomorrow we would stand to fight them.

The whole of life, the whole earth, if seen rightly, is one great family. All its wars are familial. And all of them produce the very situation that has arisen in Arjuna’s mind. His dilemma is utterly natural; his anxiety is utterly natural. He has begun to tremble—it is absolutely natural.

What is the way out of this dilemma? Either close your eyes and jump into the war; or close your eyes and run away. Only these two ways appear. Close your eyes and say, “So be it; whoever is not on our side is not ours. If they must die, let them.” Close your eyes and jump into the war—simple. Or close your eyes and run away—simple.

But the solution Krishna suggests is not simple. It is not the path of least resistance. Those two are the paths of least resistance. They are the dry lines. To go down either is very easy. Perhaps in countless births he has gone down one or the other. They are the easy options.

Krishna, however, suggests a third option, one he has never taken. That third option is the precious one. And whenever two options present themselves in life, before deciding, think about the third. Because the third is always the significant one; the two are always the ones you have chosen again and again—sometimes this, and when tired of it, the opposite; tired of the opposite, then this. You keep choosing those two. The Third—the third is the important one, the one that does not occur to you. That third is what Krishna will propose; we will talk about it in the evening.