Geeta Darshan #7

What is truth, what is untruth—recognizing their distinction is wisdom, is prajna. To draw the line between what deserves to be called “is” and what deserves to be called “is not”—that is life’s greatest attainment. To discern what is dream and what is reality is the path of liberation. Krishna says in this verse: that which is, and is forever, and whose non-being is impossible—there is no way, no possibility for it not to be—that alone is sat, the real. That which is, but once was not and will not be again, that which can cease to be—that is asat, the unreal.

There is something subtle to understand here. Ordinarily we call unreal that which is not. But what is not—there is no meaning even in calling it unreal. What is not cannot be named at all. Even to say “it is not” is wrong, because we still use the word “is.” When we say “is not,” we are still invoking “is.” For what is not, even “is not” is mistaken. What is not, simply is not—any talk about it is meaningless.

Therefore asat does not mean the non-existent. Asat means: what is not, yet is; what is not, yet gives the illusion of being; what is not, yet seems as if it is. You dreamt in the night—you cannot say it was not. If it was not, how did you see it? If it was not, a dream could not have happened. You saw it, you lived through it, you passed through it—yet on waking you say, “It was a dream.”

This that you call a dream in the morning cannot be called sheer non-existence. It certainly was. You saw, you went through it. Nor was it without effects. When you were frightened in the dream at night, you trembled. The real body trembled, the life-force trembled, the hairs stood on end. Even if sleep broke because of the dream, your chest kept pounding. You woke and saw it was a dream, yet the heart went on racing, the hands and feet kept shaking.

If that dream were absolutely not, it could have no consequences. It was—but not in the sense that that which appears in waking is. In which category shall we place it—non-being or being? Where shall we put it? It certainly was, and yet it is not!

The category of asat, the unreal, is not that of non-existence. The category of the unreal lies between existence and non-existence: a seeming sat, that looks like being, yet is not.

But how shall we know this? For in the dream it is not evident that what we see is not. In the dream it seems utterly real. And it is not as if this happens only the first time we dream. We may dream all our lives, wake up every morning and know it was not—yet tonight when a dream comes again, in the dream it will seem completely real. It seems entirely “is”; it appears wholly “is”; and yet in the morning we find it is not.

This appearance, this seeming, this looking-as-if, this deception of being—that is what is called asat. When the world is called asat, it does not mean the world is not. It only means that there is also a state of consciousness in which we wake up from our so-called waking. Now we wake from dream and see the dream is not. But when we awaken even from waking, we discover that what we had taken as reality in waking—this too is not. Waking beyond waking is called samadhi. What we now call waking—when we wake from that as well, we see that what we had seen is also not.

Krishna says: that which has non-being on either side, with a span of being in between—that is asat. That which at one time was not, and at another time will not be again; the happening in between, the being between two non-beings—its name is asat, the unreal.

But that whose non-being is not at all, which is being behind, in the middle, and ahead—on all three planes; whether we sleep it is, whether we wake it is, whether we awaken beyond waking it is; in sleep, in waking, in samadhi—it is; that which is in every state of consciousness—its name is sat. And such sat is eternal, beginningless, endless.

Those who recognize such sat are neither elated nor depressed by the whirl and waves of asat that arise in between. For they know that what was not a moment ago will not be a moment hence. On both sides there is the abyss of non-being; in the middle, the peak of seeming being. Then it is a dream; it is asat. Where the expanse is of being on both sides without end, there, what is— is sat.

Krishna places a precious touchstone in our hands by which sat can be tested. Happiness is now—it was not a moment before, and a moment later it is gone. Sorrow is now—it was not a moment before, and a moment later it is not. Life is now—it was not yesterday, and tomorrow it will not be. Whatever occurs in the middle and is absent at both ends can only give the illusion of being. For that which is not at either end cannot truly be in the middle either; it only seems, only appears.

Everything in life can be tried on this touchstone. This is what Krishna tells Arjuna: test and see. Do not fall into the delusion of the present being of that which was not in the past and will not be in the future. Even now it is not in truth; it is only appearing; it is only deceiving by the look of being. And before you awaken from the deception, it will be gone. Attend to that which was before, is now, and will be after. It may not even be visible to you—but that alone is. Seek that; search for that.

The search for truth in life begins with the examination of the false. To know the false as the false, to recognize mithya as mithya, to see asat as asat—this is the foundation of the quest for truth. We have no other basis for seeking truth. How shall we begin to look for what sat is, what truth is? We can begin only by inquiring what untruth is.

Often a great confusion arises: we can say, until we know the truth, how will we know what is untruth? Only if truth is known can we recognize the false—and we do not know the truth.

But the reverse can also be said; sophists have always argued the other way: until we know what is false, how shall we understand what is true? This circular logic is like the chicken-and-egg. Which came first? If we say the hen came first, we get into trouble, because a hen cannot be without an egg. If we say the egg came first, the same difficulty arises, because an egg cannot be without a hen laying it. Yet somewhere we must begin; otherwise there is no beginning to that vicious circle.

If we look rightly, the hen and the egg are not two. That is why the vicious circle appears. The egg is the hen in the making; the hen is the egg becoming. They are not two; they are two phases of the same process, two parts of the same wave. Hence the question “Which first?” is meaningless. Neither is first. They are simultaneous, together—the egg is the hen, the hen is the egg.

This is almost the same with sat and asat. What we call asat also rests upon sat. For even the unreal appears only by borrowing being from the real; it too appears. A rope lies there and, in the dark, looks like a snake. The sight of the snake is entirely asat. As you go near you find there is no snake, but you do find the rope. The rope could lend the appearance of a snake because the rope was there within. The rope’s being is sat. The snake that was seen for a moment and then vanished was asat. Yet even that asat had sat at its base—in substance, somewhere deep down. From the glimmer of sat, from its reflection, the asat could appear.

Behind the wave is the ocean; behind the mortal is the immortal; behind the body is the soul; behind matter is the Supreme. If matter also shines forth, it is by the reflection of the Divine; otherwise it could not even appear.

You stand on the riverbank, and below, your reflection forms. Certainly that reflection is not you; but without you it is not either. Surely the reflection is not sat—it is only an image on the water. Yet where it comes from, there is sat.

Asat is a momentary glimpse of sat. For a moment sat takes on a shape; if we clutch at that shape, we grasp the unreal. But if through that fleeting shape we recognize That which is formless, attributeless, which flashed for a moment in the form, then we catch hold of sat.

But where we stand is a world of forms. Where we stand, only reflections are visible. Our eyes are tilted in such a way that the one standing on the bank is not seen; only the reflection in the river is seen. We have to begin from there; we have to begin with the unreal. If we are in a dream, we must begin with the dream. If we keep recognizing the dream rightly, the dream will keep dissolving.

This is great fun—worth experimenting with. Every night, while going to sleep, fall asleep with a remembrance: when dreams come, let me remain alert that it is a dream. It will be very difficult, but it becomes possible. As sleep deepens, keep this single remembrance: the moment a dream comes, I shall know it is a dream. In a few days it becomes possible; this memory enters even into sleep; it descends into the unconscious. And as soon as the dream arises, at once you know: this is a dream.

But here is a fascinating phenomenon: the moment you know it is a dream, the dream collapses—instantly. No sooner the knowing, than the dream breaks and scatters. To recognize a dream as a dream is to kill it. It can live only so long as it seems true. Its very life depends on the feeling of its truth.

This experiment is worth doing.

After this experiment, Krishna’s aphorism becomes very clear—why he insists so much that one who recognizes the line between asat and sat attains to knowledge. Begin with the dreams of the night; later, look with wakefulness at the day’s dreams as well, and there too keep the remembrance that what is—between two “not’s”—is a dream. Then suddenly you will find something within you is being transformed. Where yesterday the mind used to clutch, today the fist does not close. Where yesterday the mind wanted to hold on to some state, today there is a smile and you pass by. For to grasp what is not on both sides is like trying to tie air in your fist: the harder you hold, the more it slips out of your hand. Do not grasp, and it remains; grasp, and it is lost.

As soon as it becomes visible that what is in-between, what merely seems to be, is a dream, the grip of the unreal begins to fall from your life; the dreams begin to scatter. What then remains—the remaining—is truth. That which you cannot erase even by total wakefulness, that which you cannot wipe out even by total remembrance, what remains in spite of you—that is truth. It is eternal; it has no beginning, no end. One should say: it is timeless.

This too needs to be understood a little.

The unreal is always in time. For that which was not yesterday, is today, and will not be tomorrow, is divided into the three tenses—past, present, and future. But that which was yesterday, is today, and will be tomorrow cannot be divided into three. What will be its past? What its present? What its future? It simply is. Therefore with truth there is no time-sense, no notion of time. Sat is beyond time; asat is within time.

As I said, you stand on the riverbank and your reflection forms in the river. You can be outside the river, but the reflection can only be inside the river. The medium of water is necessary. Any medium that can function like a mirror, any medium that can reflect, is needed. For your being, no medium of reflection is required; but for your image to arise, a medium of reflection is needed.

Time is the medium of reflection. Sat stands on the shore; in time asat is born. In the stream of time, on the mirror of time, the reflection that appears is the unreal. And in time nothing can be steady—just as in water nothing can be steady, because water is unsteady. However steady the reflection, it still quivers. Water is vibration.

These quivering reflections on the mirror of time were there yesterday, are now, will not be tomorrow. Tomorrow is a big word; they were there a moment ago, are not now, will be gone the next moment. That which changes moment to moment, which is momentary—that is the unreal. That which is beyond the moment, which is always—that alone is sat. One who recognizes this line of demarcation, Krishna says, attains knowledge.

“Know that to be indestructible by which all this is pervaded. No one can bring about the destruction of this imperishable.” 17

That which pervades this entire universe is the subtlest imperishable. But that by which this whole universe is filled is gross and perishable. Understand it like this: there is a room, empty, with no furniture. The emptiness of the room pervades it entirely. Truly, even when there was no room, that emptiness was. We have merely raised walls and enclosed that emptiness from four sides. When there was no room, the emptiness still was. When the room will not be, the emptiness will still be. When the room is, the emptiness is. The room is made and will be undone; once it was not, and someday it will not be. But the emptiness—the space, the vastness, the sky—was, is, and will be.

For that, words like “was” and “is” are not appropriate. Because what has never been “not”—for that, to say “is” is not right. “Is” is proper only for that which can also be “is not.” It is right to say “the tree is,” “the man is”; but to say “God is” is not right. With God to say “God is” is a redundancy, a repetition. “God” already means “that which is.” There is no need to add that God “is.” It only ends up saying, “What is, is.” Nothing else is said. For that which cannot be “not,” to say “is” is meaningless.

That is why a Buddha—supremely theistic—never used the phrase “God is.” The uncomprehending have thought him an atheist. But to Buddha it seemed a terribly mistaken expression to say “God is,” for “is” should be used only for that which also becomes “is not.” It is fine to say “man is”—the “is” is an event upon him; tomorrow it will be lost. But to say “God is” is not right. “God is”—to say that is wrong, because “God” already means is-ness. To say “God is” is to use a very weak word; it is the wrong word; it is repetition.

Empty space simply is. Before the room, it was; after the room, it will be; while the room exists, it is. Then we bring in furniture, we hang pictures, we come and sit. The room gets decorated, filled. Now in this room there are two things: first, the emptiness that has always been; second, the fullness that has not always been. But the strange thing is: the emptiness of the room never appears to us; only the fullness is seen. In a room we see what is filled; we do not see what is empty. In any room you enter, only what is there is noticed; that which has always been there is not seen. It is invisible. If we get any sense of emptiness, it is only in reference to fullness.

This chair is placed here; because of it we notice the empty space around it. We notice empty space around the chair; we don’t perceive the chair as being in the middle of emptiness. The reality is: the chair is placed in emptiness. The chair can be removed; emptiness cannot be removed. It can be filled up; it cannot be taken away.

You can take a chair out of a room, because the chair is not part of the room’s being. But you cannot take the emptiness out of the room. At most you can cram the room with things and compress the sense of emptiness. If everything is removed from the room, you will say, “There is nothing here.” And if everything is removed, you will see only the walls. If the walls too are removed, you will say, “There is no room here.”

But walls are not the room. The room is the empty space between the walls. The English word “room” is very good—it means empty space. But that empty space is neither seen nor even thought of, because we have no remembrance of emptiness. In fact, emptiness has been so eternally present that we have never needed to notice it.

Exactly so is this vast sky, this infinite space—this empty expanse stretching to infinity, with no beginning and no end, starting nowhere and ending nowhere.

Remember: the empty can never begin or end; only the filled can begin and end. Emptiness has no beginning and no end. What beginning and end can there be to the emptiness of a room? Yes, walls have a beginning and end, furniture has a beginning and end—but the room does not. Space has no boundaries; “sky” means the boundless. This boundless expanse is sat. And within this infinity many things arise, are made, are built, and then scatter—that is asat.

Trees arise—the emptiness turns green for a while. Flowers blossom—the emptiness is scented for a while. Then the flowers fall, the tree falls; emptiness remains as it was. And when the tree stood and the flowers bloomed, even then there was no change in the emptiness; it was just the same.

Things are made and unmade. What is made and unmade is gross; it can be seen. What is not made and does not perish is subtle; it is invisible. Even “subtle” is not quite right; but out of compulsion Krishna uses the word “subtle.” It is not adequate, but there is no other way. In fact, when we say subtle we usually mean some fraction of the gross. When we say small, we mean a part of the large. When we say very subtle, we mean very little gross. Our language ties the subtle to the gross. However much we say “subtlest of the subtle,” it still stays linked to the gross. Human language is built of dualities; it speaks in pairs.

But what Krishna calls subtle is not a fraction of the gross. He uses “subtle” to indicate that which is not gross at all. It is a necessity of speech; we have no word for it. So the nearest, least-wrong word is “subtle.” For that, whatever we say will be off the mark. The words we have made are amusing: even if we use the reverse of the reverse, nothing changes, because the reverse too remains linked to the old word. If we say “infinite,” we still have to make the word out of “finite.”

It is a strange thing: the finite has no conception of the infinite, but the infinite includes the finite. However much we imagine the infinite, at most we picture a very large finitude—“push the boundary farther, and farther…” But the notion that there may be no boundary at all—our thought cannot think it. It is inconceivable. The infinite cannot be conceived.

When we say there is emptiness in a room, our mind takes it to mean the room is filled with emptiness—we even use emptiness as if it were a “thing.” Whereas emptiness means precisely: not filled, where there is nothing. But even if we say “nothing,” we use it as a kind of thing. The English word “nothing” is made from “no-thing.” Even to say “no-thing,” the word “thing” has to be brought in. We cannot think without “things”; we cannot think without the gross.

Therefore take Krishna’s word “subtle” as a human compulsion. It does not mean some small portion of the gross, not even a very fine matter. “Subtle” here means: that which is not gross at all. And what is gross? That which can be seen is gross; that which can be touched is gross; that which can be heard is gross. In short, whatever comes within the grip of the senses is gross.

Nor is it that if tomorrow you invent a more powerful telescope or microscope and bring something within your reach, it will become subtle. No—whatever comes within reach is gross. The telescope does nothing but magnify the power of your eyes; your eye simply becomes a bigger eye. However great the instruments we develop, what comes within their range is still gross, for all instruments are extensions of our senses, added limbs to our senses.

A man looks through spectacles; what he could not see before he now can see—but he is not seeing something subtle. Scientists see things very far away—yet that too is gross. Whatever is seen, heard, touched—whatever comes within the limits of the senses—is gross. “Subtle” means: that which does not come into, cannot come into, cannot be brought into the scope of the senses. In fact, what thought itself cannot grasp—that alone is subtle.

Scientists say: until yesterday the atom was the subtlest; now the atom has been split and there are electrons, neutrons, protons. Now they say these are the most subtle, for they are beyond visibility; at best it is a matter of inference. But whatever comes even into inference is not subtle, because inference too is part of human thought.

Therefore what science calls the electron is not Krishna’s “subtle.” Beyond the electron—and always beyond; wherever you reach, beyond that again; and if you reach there, beyond that again—the transcendental. That which always surpasses the reach—that is the subtle; whose very quality is to be beyond. However far you can grasp, that which ever remains beyond—and will remain beyond—that.

It is good to be precise here: we have two words—unknown and unknowable. Ordinarily when we approach the subtle, we take it to be the unknown. No—Krishna does not call the unknown “subtle,” because the unknown can become known tomorrow. That is not subtle. Whatever can ever become known is not subtle.

Only the gross can be known—if not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, someday. But that which can be known at all is gross. That which cannot be known, which always lies outside knowledge, forever beyond the grip of knowing—the unknowable—that alone is subtle. Therefore “subtle” does not mean that with better instruments we will one day know it.

People ask: will science ever know God? Whatever science can know will not be God. For “God” means precisely: that which does not come into the grip of knowing. If some day the laboratory of science could catch God, He would have become matter. In fact, wherever the Divine comes into grasp, that part is called matter; where He never comes into grasp—that is God.

It is essential to take Krishna’s “subtle” rightly; for only the subtle is sat. Whatever comes into grasp is unreal: today it is, tomorrow it will not be. What does not come into grasp—that alone is sat.

You enter a room: there is a flower. In the morning it is fine; by evening it will wither. There is a Shiva-linga of stone beneath that flower; it was there in the morning, it will be there in the evening. But a hundred years, two hundred, three hundred, a thousand—it will crumble. The flower scattered in a day; the stone lasts centuries, then scatters. That does not make a difference. In the room only one thing will not scatter: the room’s room-ness, the emptiness. That emptiness will not wither or disperse. That is the subtle; that is sat. Whatever else is in the room will scatter.

I have read a story of a Taoist painter. A Tao master told his disciples: “Bring me a painting.” They asked for a theme. He said, “Bring me a painting of a cow grazing on grass.” They brought many fine paintings. But one monk brought something startling—he brought a blank sheet.

The master asked, “Couldn’t you paint?” He said, “No, the painting is there—look.” The master studied the paper; the disciples looked too; then they looked back at him and asked, “Where is the cow?” He said, “The cow has eaten the grass and gone.” They asked, “Where is the grass?” He said, “The cow has grazed it away.” They asked, “Then what remains in this?” He said, “What was there before the cow and before the grass, and what remains after the cow and after the grass—that is what I have brought.” They said, “But this is a blank paper!” He replied, “That blankness is what remains.”

Krishna calls this blankness the subtle—what remains after all the waves rise and fall. And that which always remains—that alone is sat.