Geeta Darshan #5

Sanjaya has described Arjuna as filled with daya, tears of pity standing in his eyes. It is necessary to understand a little about daya. Sanjaya did not say he was filled with karuna; he said daya.

Ordinarily, dictionaries treat daya and karuna as synonyms. Ordinarily, we too use both words interchangeably. That creates a great confusion. Daya is situational; karuna is a state of being. There is a fundamental difference.

Karuna means: the heart in which karuna abides. It has nothing to do with outer circumstances. A compassionate person, even sitting alone, will have compassion flowing from his heart—just as the fragrance of a flower will drift even in a deserted place. Whether a passerby happens along or not is irrelevant to the flower’s fragrance. If no one passes, still its fragrance spreads into the solitude; if someone does pass, he partakes of the fragrance—that is another matter. The flower is not fragrant for his sake.

Karuna is the spring of a person’s inner consciousness. From there, like fragrance, compassion rises. That is why it is wrong to call a Buddha or a Mahavira “dayavan”; they are “karunavan,” great beings of boundless compassion.

Sanjaya says of Arjuna: filled with daya. Daya arises only in those who lack karuna. Daya sprouts under the pressure of circumstances; karuna blossoms from the growth of the heart. What arises in you upon seeing a beggar on the road is pity—daya; it is not compassion—karuna.

And understand one thing more: pity nourishes the ego, while compassion dissolves it. Compassion can arise only in one who has no ego. Pity becomes a means to further the ego. It is a respectable means, a gentleman’s means—but a means to feed the ego all the same.

When you give alms, the taste you feel within—the savor of being the giver, of occupying the superior place—when pity arises upon seeing a beggar: in that very moment, if you look inside, the note of ego is also playing. The compassionate person will wish that no beggar remain upon the earth; the pitiful person will, secretly, wish that beggars remain—otherwise he will be in great difficulty. Societies founded on pity never eradicate beggary; they nourish it. A society founded on compassion will be unable to tolerate beggary. It should not be.

What has arisen in Arjuna is pity. Had it been compassion, there would have been revolution. It is crucial to grasp this, because Krishna’s immediate response is worth noting. What he says to Arjuna speaks directly to his ego. He says this is unworthy of the noble. This is Krishna’s second clue that he has caught the thread.

The ego’s tone is sounding in Arjuna’s words. He says, “I feel pity. How can I perform such an act? Not that the act is bad, but how can I do it? Am I that bad?” He even tells Krishna it would be better if Dhritarashtra’s sons were to kill him. Better that, than that he prepare himself for such a sinful deed.

The ego can even offer itself in sacrifice. The last act the ego can perform is martyrdom—it can become a martyr. And often the ego is martyred, but it only grows stronger through martyrdom.

Arjuna says, “Better that I die. I, Arjuna, cannot commit such a deed in such a situation. I feel pity: what is all this that people have gathered to do! I am astonished.”

From his words it sounds as if he had no part in the making of this war at all. As if he did not co‑opt it. As if the war has suddenly stood up before him. As if he had no inkling of it. In this situation he speaks as though he were not a participant, not a partner. Standing at a distance, he says, “I feel pity.” Tears fill his eyes. “No, I cannot do this. Better that I die; that would be preferable.”

Krishna has caught this tone. That is why I say Krishna is the first psychologist on this earth. For his second aphorism only fawns upon Arjuna’s ego to dissolve it.

In the second aphorism he says, “How is it you speak like the ignoble?” “Arya” means the noble; “anarya” means the ignoble. “Arya” means the superior, “anarya” the base. “Arya” means the egoically exalted, “anarya” the meek and lowly. “How do you speak like the ignoble!”

Now think: speaking of pity—does that sound ignoble? Tears filled with pity—are those ignoble? And yet Krishna says, “It will bring you infamy on this earth and be unwholesome for you hereafter.” Pity!

It may never have occurred to you that Sanjaya says, “Arjuna, filled with pity, with tears in his eyes,” while Krishna’s words do not seem to match. We have never understood pity correctly: pity too is an ornament of the ego. Pity too is an ego‑act—of a “good” man. Cruelty is the ego‑act of a “bad” man.

Remember, the ego stuffs itself with virtues as well as with vices. And often, when the ego finds no opportunity to feed on virtues, only then does it feed on vices.

That is why the basic difference between the “good” and the “bad” person is not very fundamental, not original. The good and the wicked stand on the same axis of ego. The only difference is this: the wicked man, to nourish his ego, can injure others; the good man, to nourish his ego, can injure himself. There is no real difference in the injuring.

Arjuna says, “Better than killing them is that I die.” The wicked man—in psychological language—is a sadist. And when the “good” man feeds the ego, he becomes a masochist. There was even a man named Masoch who tortured himself.

Those who torment themselves can quickly become respectable. If I starve you, I become wicked; the law and the courts will catch me. But if I fast myself, no law or court will catch me; you yourselves will carry me in procession.

But if starving you is bad, how is starving myself good? Only because this body happens to fall under my responsibility, and that body falls under yours? If I flog your body, strip you naked, and lay you on thorns, it is a crime; but if I strip myself and lie on thorns, it becomes austerity! By merely reversing the direction of the arrow—turn it from there to here—and it becomes religion!

Arjuna says, “Rather than kill them, I will die.” He is saying the same thing—about killing and dying. There is no great difference—only the arrow’s direction changes.

And remember: there is never as much gratification of the ego in killing another as in killing oneself. For the other, even as he dies, can spit in your face. But when a man kills himself, he dies utterly unarmed, with no reply. Killing another is never complete; the other, even in death, eludes you. His eyes say, “Yes, you killed me—but I did not lose!” But in killing oneself, there is no way out; the pleasure of conquest is total.

Arjuna talks of pity, and Krishna says to him, “Arjuna, such words do not befit you; they will spread infamy”—he is merely cajoling his ego, persuading it.

Krishna’s second aphorism shows he has found the nerve. He is touching exactly the right spot. For to explain to Arjuna now that pity is not right is futile. To tell him that dayā and karuṇā are far apart is also futile. For the thread vibrating in him at this moment is ego. His ego is moving from sadism to masochism—turning from readiness to hurt the other toward readiness to hurt himself.

In this state, Krishna says in his second aphorism, “What are you saying! Being an Arya—cultured, civilized, of noble lineage—why do you speak like the ignoble? Will you flee the battle? Has cowardice seized your mind?” He is striking his ego.

Very often, readers of the Gita make a fundamental mistake at such delicate, nuanced places. Are Krishna’s words telling Arjuna to be egotistical? No. Krishna merely sees that if this pity is arising out of ego, then by inflating the ego it will vanish at once.

Hence he says, “You speak of faintheartedness! Of cowardice!” He will use the strongest words.

Throughout, Krishna speaks to Arjuna in a way that provokes a reaction, because he wants to see what arises. Psychoanalysis begins. Krishna takes Arjuna onto the couch. Arjuna lies down, as it were, and Krishna begins. Whatever he asks, he will awaken and watch him completely—where is he, how deep is the water he is in?

From here onward, Krishna is a psychoanalyst. And Arjuna is merely the patient, the sick one. It is necessary to provoke him from every side, to awaken him. The first blow he lands on his ego.

And naturally, the deepest and the first disease in man is the ego. Where ego is, pity is false. Where ego is, nonviolence is false. Where ego is, peace is false. Where ego is, talk of welfare, blessedness, the good of all is false. For where ego is, all these things are nothing but ornaments for the ego.

Arjuna uvacha:
katham bhishmam aham sankhye dronam cha madhusudana
ishubhih pratiyotsyami pujarhav ari-sudana (2.4)

Arjuna said: O Madhusudana, how shall I fight with arrows in battle against Bhishma and Drona? O destroyer of foes, they are worthy of my worship.

But Arjuna does not catch on. He repeats the same thing from another angle. He says, “How can I fight Drona and Bhishma? They are my revered elders.” Again he speaks the language of humility.

But very often the ego speaks the language of humility. Often the most humble people are the most deeply egotistical. In truth, humility is defensive egoism—ego in armor. Aggressive ego can get into trouble; defensive ego is already insured.

So when someone says, “I am nothing, only the dust beneath your feet,” look into his eyes. They will seem to be saying something else. His words will seem to be saying something else.

Krishna has put his hand on Arjuna’s nerve, but Arjuna cannot see it. He starts again from another corner. He says, “How shall I attack Drona, who is my guru; Bhishma, who is supremely honorable and worthy of worship?”

Note this: even here, Bhishma and Drona are secondary. Arjuna is saying, “How shall I attack?” I am not so bad that I would draw a bow on Drona! That I would pierce Bhishma’s chest! No, that I cannot do. Outwardly he says, “They are worthy of worship; how can I do this?” But if you look deeper, you will find he is saying, “Given my self‑image, the statue of myself I carry in my own eyes, this is impossible. Better, O Madhusudana, that I die. Better the image be saved and the body be lost; better the ego be saved and I be lost.” That self‑image of his...

Every person has a personal statue, an image. When you get angry at someone and later repent and ask forgiveness, do not fall into the illusion that you are repenting and asking forgiveness. In truth, you are reconstructing your self‑image. You have always thought of yourself as a good person. In anger you shattered your own statue. After the anger you discover: “Am I not that good person I believed myself to be?” The ego says, “No, I am indeed good. That anger—well, that was a slip, an accident. In spite of me, it happened. I did not do it; it happened, circumstantial.” You repent, you ask forgiveness.

If you had truly repented of anger, anger would never return in your life. But tomorrow anger returns.

No, the problem was not with anger. The problem was something else: you had never imagined you could get angry. When you repent, your good statue—your ego—resumes the throne. It says, “Look, I have apologized, I have asked forgiveness. I am a humble man. It was the time, the situation, the occasion—I was not in the mood, I was hungry, I returned from the office annoyed, I had failed, something had gone wrong—it was all circumstantial. The anger did not come from within me. As soon as I regained awareness, as soon as I came back to myself, I asked forgiveness.” You have once again dressed and adorned your statue and seated it on the throne. Before the anger, that statue sat on the throne; in anger, it tumbled down; now you have seated it again. You are back in your old place. Tomorrow you will be angry again. The place is the same as before. Before the anger you were there; after the anger you are back there. Repentance is merely the restoration of the statue.

But it appears that the one who asks forgiveness is very humble. Appearances are not truths. Truths lie very deep—and often they are the opposite. That person is not asking forgiveness of you; he has become defiled in his own eyes. He is dusting off that defilement, wiping and sweeping it clean. He stands once again bathed and pure.

When Arjuna says, “They are worthy of worship—how can I kill them?” the emphasis is not truly on their being worthy of worship. The emphasis is on Arjuna’s “I”: “How can I kill them? No, no—better that my statue remain intact than that people, in this world and the next, say I attacked my own guru, I killed those worthy of worship. Better, O Madhusudana, that I die. Let people say, ‘Arjuna died, but he did not raise his hand against those he revered. He perished, but did not lift his hand against his guru.’”

His “I” needs to be seized. He has not yet seized it; no one does. One whose “I” falls within his own grasp steps beyond the “I.” We live protecting our “I.” He will keep talking about other things, finding substitutes. Now this, now that—anything but the one point that is. Krishna tried to touch it, and Arjuna slipped away. He does not take up the talk of noble and ignoble. He does not take up the talk of faintheartedness. He does not take up the talk of infamy in the world and misfortune hereafter. He raises another issue—as though he never heard Krishna at all. His words show that what Krishna said in between, Arjuna did not hear.

Not everything that is spoken is heard by us. We hear only what we want to hear. Not everything that appears is seen by us. We see only what we want to see. Not everything we read is actually read; we read only what we want to read. Our seeing, hearing, reading are all selective; they are acts of choosing. All the time we are screening out what we do not want to see.

There is a new psychology: Gestalt. Arjuna’s reply is a marvelous illustration of it. Gestalt psychologists say that when clouds mass in the sky, each person sees something different in them. A frightened man sees ghosts; a religious man sees the form of God; a movie‑minded man sees actors and actresses. It is the same cloud; the seeing is one’s own.

Every person lives in a world of his own making. Do not remain under the illusion that there is one world on this earth. There are as many worlds as there are people. If there are three and a half billion people, there are three and a half billion worlds. And do not imagine that even one person lives his whole life in the same world. His world changes every day.

Pearl Buck titled her autobiography “My Several Worlds.”

How can one person have several worlds? Because it changes daily. And each person sets fences, doors, sentries, guards around his world. He says: “Let these in; tell those, at the door itself, that I am not at home.” We do this not only with people; we do it with information.

Arjuna has simply not heard. He has not heard what Krishna said. His answer shows it is irrelevant; it has no connection.

We too do not listen. If two people are talking and you stand silently as a witness, you will be greatly surprised. But it is difficult to stand as a witness; before you know it, you too will become a third participant. If you can truly listen as a witness, you will be shocked to see whether they are talking to each other or each to himself. What one says often has no relation to what the other replies.

Jung has recorded a reminiscence: two insane professors were admitted to his asylum for treatment. Professors have a higher chance of going mad—or perhaps madmen are eager to become professors. They had gone mad—not ordinarily mad. Ordinary madmen are fearful, timid. These were professors: having gone mad, they became even more intellectual. Whenever they were awake, a profound discussion went on. Jung would listen from behind the window to hear what they talked about.

Their talk was astonishing, very deep. Both were informed; both had read and heard much. Their information was not small—perhaps that was the cause of their madness. If information is abundant and wisdom scant, a man can go mad. Wisdom we do not have; information accumulates—and then becomes a burden.

Jung was amazed at their knowledge. The subjects they discussed were delicate and deep. But what amazed him even more was that what one said had no relation to what the other said. But for madmen that is quite natural. What amazed him still more was that when one spoke, the other kept silent—and it seemed as if he was listening. Yet as soon as the first stopped, the second began—and listening to him, it was clear he had not heard a word. If one spoke of the sky, the other began with the netherworld. There was no connection.

Jung went in and asked, “Everything else I understand; you are discussing very deep matters. What I do not understand is: when one speaks, why does the other keep quiet?” The two burst out laughing and said, “Do you take us for madmen?”

In this world madmen never take themselves to be mad. One who thinks himself mad is already rising above madness.

“Do you think we are mad?” they asked. “No,” Jung said, “how could I make such a mistake! I do not consider you mad at all. But then why, when one speaks, does the other keep quiet?” They said, “Do you think we do not know the rules of conversation? We know that when one speaks, the other should remain silent.” Jung said, “If you know that much, then let me ask one thing more: what the second says has no relation to what the first said!” They laughed again. “Well,” they said, “we may be considered mad, but tell us—on this earth, when two people speak, is there ever any relation between their words?” Jung retreated in alarm. He wrote in his memoirs: From that day, when I spoke with anyone, I too began to wonder—Is there a relation?

We create a small relation. When you are speaking to me—if we are not mad, which is quite possible—then while you speak, I keep speaking within myself. As soon as you fall silent, I begin to speak. What I begin to say has relation to what I was saying within; it has no relation to you. At most there will be the relation of a hook and a coat: I will take some word of yours as a hook and hang on it what was going on within me. That is all.

This moment will recur again and again in Arjuna and Krishna’s dialogue; hence I wanted to say it clearly. Arjuna has not heard what Krishna said. It is as if Krishna had not spoken. Arjuna is only listening to what is going on within him. He is saying, “These revered ones—Drona, Bhishma…” This is what must be going on within him. Over here, what Krishna says remains outside the perimeter. Within him, this is what rolls on. He says to Krishna, “Madhusudana, these revered ones, these dear ones—can I kill them? I, Arjuna.” Take note. He has not heard Krishna.