Geeta Darshan #8

No one dies and no one kills; that which truly is has no possibility of destruction. Then should we take this to mean there is nothing wrong in committing violence? Should we conclude that what General Dyer did, or the great violence at Auschwitz in Germany, or at Hiroshima, is not condemnable—indeed, acceptable?

No. Krishna does not mean that. It is essential to understand this. Saying “violence does not happen” does not mean the urge to commit violence is not bad. Violence does not happen at the plane of being—but the desire to commit violence does happen, the intention happens, the violent state of mind does happen.

One who harbors the wish to be violent, who takes delight in killing another, who feels pleased by another’s death and thinks, “I have killed”—no one truly dies, yes—but this person’s belief “I killed,” his relish in killing, his desire that killing is possible—this is sin.

Sin does not lie in violence “happening,” it lies in the doing of violence. Its happening is impossible; your doing, your intent, is possible. When a person is committing violence, there are two planes involved. The event of violence, Krishna says, is impossible at the plane of existence; but the inner mood of violence is entirely possible.

Now consider the reverse: Does this make Mahavira’s and Buddha’s ahimsa meaningless? If the violence at Hiroshima and the killings in Auschwitz have no meaning, then does Buddha’s and Mahavira’s nonviolence also become meaningless? If you think nonviolence only has meaning when we can save someone who is actually dying and perishing, then no, it would have no meaning.

No—Mahavira’s and Buddha’s ahimsa has a different meaning: the aspiration to protect, the longing not to kill! The state of not taking delight in killing, but taking delight in saving! When Mahavira carefully steps aside to save an ant, it is not that the ant survives because Mahavira saved it. That in the ant which is to be saved will be saved anyway; and that which is not to be saved will not be saved even if Mahavira tries. But Mahavira’s inner attitude—to save—this is immensely precious. That attitude does not profit or harm the ant; it transforms Mahavira.

At great depth the question is of attitude, not of event. At great depth the question is: what is the person thinking? Because a person lives encompassed by thoughts and feelings. Events transpire in reality; the person lives in mind, in feeling.

Violence is bad—even after Krishna says “violence does not happen.” And Krishna is not wrong. In truth, Krishna is speaking from the vantage of existence itself; he is investigating within existence.

When Hitler is killing people, he is not in Krishna’s state of consciousness. Hitler finds relish and joy in killing—in erasing, in destroying. Whether destruction “happens” or does not happen is another matter. But Hitler delights in destruction. That relish is violence.

Rightly understood, the relish for destruction is violence; the desire to kill is violence. Whether dying “happens” or not is another matter. And this relish in Hitler is the taste of a diseased, sick psyche.

Understand: whenever you feel a taste for destruction, the person is disturbed within. The more peaceful and blissful one is inside, the more impossible it becomes to enjoy destruction. The more blissful one is, the more one delights in creation, in creativity.

Mahavira’s ahimsa is a creative feeling, a generative attitude toward existence. Hitler’s violence is a destructive attitude toward existence. This attitude is what matters. Where we live—in the human realm—what “happens” in existence is not what carries moral value; what you are within does.

Let me try to explain with a small incident.

Many devotees would come to Kabir’s home—songs, bhajans… And when they would leave, Kabir would say, “Eat before you go.” Kabir’s wife and son became troubled. One day the son said, “This is beyond endurance. How long shall we keep borrowing? Where will we get food to feed them? Please stop saying this.”

Kabir said, “I simply forget; when a guest comes home, it doesn’t occur to me that there is nothing at home. And when a guest is here, how can one think of scarcity? So it slips out of my mouth: ‘Eat and go.’” The son said, in sarcasm and anger, “Then shall we start stealing?” Kabir said, “Ah! Why did you not think of this earlier!” The son was stunned; he hadn’t expected Kabir to say such a thing. He said, “Then shall I go stealing today?” He was no ordinary son—he was Kabir’s son. “Shall I go tonight?” Kabir said, “Certainly.” To test further, the son said, “Will you come with me?” Kabir said, “I will come.”

Night fell; the son said, “Let’s go.” He wanted to press the point to the last limit—was Kabir truly agreeing to theft? Kabir—agreeing to theft! As strange as it is for Arjuna to find Krishna agreeing to battle.

Kabir’s son Kamal took Kabir along. He broke through a wall, glancing again and again to see if Kabir would stop him. Kabir said, “Why are you trembling so much?” The son broke the wall, then asked, “Shall I go inside?” Kabir said, “Of course.” He dragged out a sack of wheat. The son thought: surely now he will stop me, surely now—this is the limit. But Kabir had the sack brought out. Then Kabir said, “Go back inside; the people of the house must be asleep—wake them and tell them their house has been robbed; we are taking a sack.” The son said, “What kind of theft is this? Who announces a theft?” Kabir said, “The theft that cannot be announced—then it becomes sin. Inform them.” The son said, “I was troubled all this while: how can you abet theft?” Kabir said, “I had forgotten, because once it is seen that all are one, nothing remains ‘mine’ or ‘yours.’ As long as something belongs to another, theft is sin. But I had forgotten; you reminded me well. Why didn’t you remind me earlier!”

Kabir is saying: as long as something is ‘another’s,’ theft is sin. But if nothing belongs to ‘another,’ if all is of the One—if the breath moving there is also mine, and the breath moving here is also mine—then at that plane theft cannot be sin. But this is the plane of existence; this is the talk of one established in Brahman.

Kabir said, “If you cannot wake them, then return it—because if we are afraid to inform our own Self, then the thing is not ours. Return it. From whom are we sneaking it away?”

So this is talk of two planes, two existences. Keep it clearly in mind. One is the plane of existence, where all belongs to the Divine; there theft cannot occur. Kabir lives there. Another is the plane of mental attitudes, where the other is other, I am I; my thing is mine, the other’s thing is the other’s. There theft happens—can happen, is happening.

As long as the other’s thing is the other’s, theft is sin. In existence, theft does not “happen”; things are merely shifted from here to there. What “theft-event” can occur on this ground? Tomorrow neither I will be here, nor you. My things won’t remain mine, your things won’t remain yours. Things will lie here—whether in this house or that—what difference does it make!

On the plane of existence, theft does not occur; on the plane of feeling, it does. If Hitler were to claim, “There is no such thing as dying,” then he wouldn’t need to guard himself with sentries. If he kills in Auschwitz, we would have no objection. But the one so eager to protect himself and so keen to kill another—he knows, he believes, that violence happens. He who is busy safeguarding himself believes it.

If Krishna were to tell Arjuna, “These will not die, kill carefree—but you can die, so protect yourself,” then it would be dishonesty. But Krishna says: neither does anyone die nor is anyone killed. If they kill you, nothing dies; if you kill them, nothing dies. He is speaking from the depth of existence. Keep this in mind.

Violence happened in Hiroshima because those who dropped the bomb dropped it to kill. Hitler committed violence, because he proceeded believing he was killing others. Whether anyone actually dies is another matter; that is not Hitler’s concern. As long as I am eager to protect myself, I cannot make a doctrine of killing another. As long as I say, “This thing is mine; let no one steal it,” if I go to steal in another’s house, then that theft cannot be Kabir’s kind of “theft.” Kabir’s “theft” is no theft at all. Krishna’s “violence” is no violence at all.

Your question is valid. If someone, after “understanding” Krishna and the Gita, concludes that killing another is not killing—fine; but only on one condition: that his own being killed is also not being killed. Then there is no harm. But if he protects himself while killing another—and we kill others precisely to protect ourselves—then let him forget Krishna.

There is danger. This land recognized very profound truths of life; that is precisely why it fell into a deep degeneration. Profound truths, in the hands of dishonest men, become worse than falsehoods. We recognized truths so deep that unless we rise to their plane, we cannot “use” even half of them.

We came to know: the world of dealings is māyā, a dream. Then we cleverly said: what is wrong in dishonesty! If, after five thousand years of continuous philosophizing, we have become the most dishonest, there is a reason. If after so much lofty talk our lives prove the very opposite, there is a reason: we drag those truths down to our own plane instead of rising to theirs.

If Arjuna rises to Krishna’s plane, fine. But if Arjuna drags Krishna down to his own plane, there will be danger. And that is what generally happens: we cannot rise to Krishna’s altitude, so we pull Krishna down to ours. Then we are at ease, comfortable. We say, “Everything is māyā; everything is māyā,” and commit dishonesty saying, “Māyā.” Now tell me: can the person to whom all is māyā be so eager, so titillated by dishonesty?

A friend came and said, “Since I began meditation, my mind has become simple. A man deceived me and took my bag. After all, everything is māyā,” he kept repeating, “but he tricked me and took my bag. Should I continue meditation or not? After all, everything is māyā.” I said, “If everything is māyā, why are you so upset about the bag? And if everything is māyā, who deceived whom? Whose bag was taken by whom?”

He said, “Everything is māyā, yes—but I ask: if I become simple through meditation and everyone starts cheating me?”

These are two planes. He has heard “everything is māyā” from Krishna; but the stolen bag is where he stands. That truth is spoken from a peak; where we stand, it is not so.

In the decline of this country, in the corrosion of character, in the darkness and filth that has filled our lives, the cause is our interpretations of our loftiest principles.

Your question is right.

Krishna is not telling you, “Carefree, commit violence.” Krishna says: if it truly dawns on you that no one dies and no one is killed—then, then whatever happens, let it happen. But this is a double-edged arrow. It is not: “If the other dies, kill—because no one dies; but when your turn comes, scream, ‘Don’t kill me!’” Yet this is exactly what has happened.

We, more than anyone, profess that the soul is immortal—and yet we fear death the most. Even those we call atheists, who deny God and soul, do not fear death as much. They say, “If the occasion comes, we’ll stake our lives.” But we endured a thousand years of slavery because we lacked the courage to stake our lives. Yes, sitting at home we declare the soul is immortal. If the soul were really realized as immortal, this land could not have been enslaved for even a second.

The soul is indeed immortal; but we are dishonest. We hear from Krishna that the soul is immortal; and we know very well we are going to die. We keep saving ourselves. In fact we repeat “the soul is immortal” daily precisely to reassure ourselves that we won’t die—at least I won’t. Understand this distance between the plane where Krishna stands and where we stand.

Krishna’s words are meaningful only when you rise to Krishna’s plane. Please don’t drag Krishna down to yours. That is easier, of course—Krishna can’t resist you. You can take the Gita to whatever level you like—into your shop, your warehouse, your hell. Krishna can do nothing.

Please do not carry life’s supreme truths into the dark caves of life. Those supreme truths were known on the peaks. Climb those peaks; only then will you understand them. They are invitations, challenges: Come to this height, where there is only light, only soul, only nectar.

But in the narrow, dark alleys we live in, where no ray seems to reach—hearing that “there is only light, no darkness,” do not blow out the small lamp you hold—“If there is only light, what need of this lamp? Puff it out.” If you extinguish it, the lane will grow even darker. Where man lives, there is a difference between violence and nonviolence—there is darkness. Where man lives, there is a difference between stealing and not stealing—there is darkness. Hearing Krishna, do not blow out this small lamp of discernment. Otherwise only darkness will thicken.

Yes, listening to Krishna, understand this much: there is a summit of consciousness where there is no darkness, where lighting a lamp is madness. But that summit is reached by a journey. We will climb gradually—how to reach that place where life is nectar and where talk of violence and nonviolence is childish. But not here, not where we are—here they are deeply meaningful.

न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचिन्
नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूयः।
अजो नित्यः शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो
न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे।। 20।।

This soul is never born, nor does it ever die; it never comes into being, and never ceases to be. It is unborn, eternal, everlasting, ancient; it is not slain, though the body is slain.

Where we are, what we think we are—there everything is born. In all we are familiar with, there is nothing unborn. Everything we have seen, recognized, is born and dies. But for birth and death to occur at all, behind this whole chain—like beads in a mala—a thread is needed, though unseen, that strings them together. Otherwise the beads would scatter; they could not hold together or relate. You see a garland of beads, but it is only because a hidden thread runs through all. Likewise, behind the flow of birth and death, of coming and going, of change, there must be an unborn, undying thread—amrit, deathless—not born, not dying. That is existence, that is the soul, that is God. Behind all forms and transformations, the formless must be; without the formless, forms cannot abide.

In a cinema hall, pictures race every moment. In the images nothing much “happens”—it’s a play of light and shadow. But a screen is needed behind. As long as the movie runs, the screen is not seen; it should not be seen, or the film would vanish. If you remove the screen, no image can appear. Through all pictures, one unmoving screen remains; because of it, the images have continuity and relation. That relation arises from the unmoving screen.

All life is a spread of images. Birth is an image; death is an image—youth, old age, joy, sorrow, beauty, ugliness, success, failure—all a stream of pictures. To sustain this stream, something unseen is needed. That background screen is existence. Krishna calls it unborn, never born, never dying. But never make the mistake of thinking this is said about the “you” you know. You are born and you die. And of the “you” about which this is said, you have no idea. The “you” you know has a date of birth and will have a date of death. On your tombstone both dates will be engraved. People celebrated when you were born; they will mourn when you die. The “you” you know is only a heap of images.

It is useful to see this scientifically: is what you know of yourself really just images?

Today we can brainwash. Science has ways to wipe your memory. A man of fifty knows he has four sons, a wife, a house, a name, a lineage, a career—fifty years of story. All that can be erased. He will still be—yet he won’t be able to tell his own name or how many children he has.

A doctor friend fell from a train; the shock wiped out his memory. He and I were childhood friends. I went to see him; he looked at me as if he hadn’t seen me. “Don’t you recognize me?” I asked. He said, “Who are you?” His father said, “Since he fell, all memory has gone.”

This man has no past. The pictures are lost. Yesterday he said, “I am so-and-so.” Now those pictures are gone; the film is washed clean, a blank page. Now new writing begins. When I visited again later, he said, “You must know, three years ago I fell and was injured.” A new three-year memory had formed. Before that—finished. People say, “You were a doctor,” he says, “You say so; I have no idea.”

Today in China and Russia brainwashing is a political tool. In future, there will be no need to kill political opponents; the biggest killing is to wash the brain clean. Catch the opponent and erase his memory with electric shocks, chemicals, psychological methods—finished. If you wash Marx’s brain, Capital is gone. His identity vanishes.

So the “I” we speak of—the one born, someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s husband—is just an album of pictures. Each of us holds an album and keeps turning its pages, showing it to others: “This is my album.” But that is not you.

If you think Krishna is calling this album unborn—don’t fall into that mistake. This is born and will die. Birth is one end; death is the other. You will die.

If this is understood rightly, perhaps you will search for the you who will not die. But we cling to the “I” that is born. This “I”—this is not me; it is only the collection of images that have accumulated on my deeper “I” as I passed through life.

That is why, in Japan, when a seeker comes to a Zen master and asks, “What should I practice?” the master says, “Practice this: find your original face, the face you had before you were born.”

A face before birth! Or someone might say, “Bring me the face you will have after death.” The Zen masters are right; they say what Krishna says: discover that within you which was before birth. If you can find a thread that was there before you were born, trust that it will be there after death. What was before birth cannot be erased by death. What has come after birth will accompany you only till death.

When Krishna says there is something unborn, not born, not dying, which no weapon can pierce…

You and I can be pierced—so remember, Krishna is not speaking of that. He says: what cannot be cut by weapons, burned by fire, drowned by water…

We can be cut and burned and drowned easily. So this discussion is not about that which surgery can operate on, that which doctors treat. What science tackles is mortal. If a scientist thinks that on the lab table one day he will capture Krishna’s unborn, deathless—he is mistaken. His instruments can only grasp what is pierceable. But that which is unpierceable can be seen—yes, it can be seen.

Alexander came to India. As he was returning, his friends reminded him: “When we left Greece, the philosophers said, ‘Bring back a sannyasin from India.’”

In truth, sannyas is India’s unique gift to the world—and it is enough. Even if all other gifts were heaped together, if we gave the world a true sannyasin we balanced the ledger. Perhaps when all the world’s other gifts prove useless, this one will be of meaning.

Alexander thought, “As I have taken other things, why not a sannyasin?” He sent soldiers to fetch one. Villagers said, “There is a sannyasin, but your way of coming does not suit a sannyasin—swords in hand, looking mad. Still, on the riverbank there is a naked man who has lived thirty years; by our knowing he is a sannyasin. But you won’t be able to catch him.” The soldiers said, “We have swords and chains.” The villagers said, “Go and deal with him.”

They said to the sannyasin, “By order of the great Alexander, come with us. We will honor you, give you royal care.” The sannyasin laughed, “If I wanted honor, welcome, comfort—how would I be a sannyasin? Don’t speak of dreams; speak plainly.”

They said, “If you don’t come, we will take you by force.” He said, “Whom you can take by force is not a sannyasin. A sannyasin is absolutely free; no one can carry him off.” They said, “We will kill you.” He said, “That you can do. But I tell you: you will kill—and remain deluded—because what you kill will not be me. Bring your Alexander; perhaps he will understand.”

The soldiers brought Alexander. “Strange man,” they said. “He says even if we kill him, what we kill is not he.” Alexander said, “I have never seen such a man. How can anyone remain after being killed? I speak from experience,” he said; he had killed thousands. “I have never seen anyone remain after death.”

Sword in hand, he said to the sannyasin, “You must come, or this sword will separate your head from your body.” The sannyasin burst into laughter: “What you speak of separating—head and body—long ago I have known they are separate. You cannot separate them any further. They are so separate that there is enough gap for your sword to pass through.” Could Alexander understand? He lifted his sword: “Enough philosophy. One stroke and the head falls.” The sannyasin said, “Strike. As you will see the head fall, so will I.”

This is the one of whom Krishna speaks—unpierced by piercing, uncut by cutting. Therefore, as long as you can be cut and pierced, know that you do not yet know your being. When piercing pierces the body and something within remains unpierced; when the body is cut and something within remains uncut; when the body falls ill and something within stands outside illness; when sorrow fills the body and within someone stands beyond sorrow—then know: the “you” of whom Krishna speaks had not been known to you till now.

Arjuna speaks as Alexander spoke. Their type is the same—body-bound. And that is our type too.

Keep seeking constantly! A thorn pricks your foot—look: does someone within remain unpricked? Illness comes—look inside: someone beyond the illness remains? Grief comes—seek the one who remains beyond.

Slowly, with seeking, it begins to be seen. And once seen, you realize the “I” you took yourself to be was only a shadow. You mistook the shadow to be yourself and never knew the one casting the shadow. The shadow is a sum of memories, the album of images from birth to death.

वेदाविनाशिनं नित्यं य एनमजमव्ययम्।
कथं स पुरुषः पार्थ कं घातयति हन्ति कम्।। 21।।

O Partha, he who knows this soul as indestructible, eternal, unborn, and immutable—how can such a person cause anyone to be killed, or kill anyone?

“Knows”—Krishna says, “He who knows like this.” He does not say, “He who believes like this.” If he had said “believes,” it would be easy—for belief requires nothing. Knowing is difficult—it requires a total inner revolution.

What is knowing? It can be of two kinds. One learns from scripture; one learns by experience. Are these the same? Scriptural knowing is easy: read what is written. It needs only literacy, memory—not religiosity. Such knowing is not knowing; it is information. Information breeds delusion: read “unborn, immortal,” repeat it; by repetition you forget that you don’t know—you merely repeat. After much repetition, you forget it is not your own seeing.

A man may read the entire science of swimming, speak and write on it, even earn a PhD—but don’t push him into the river; his PhD won’t float him. In fact, its weight will sink him quicker.

To know about truth is not to know truth. “To know about” equals not knowing. But not exactly equal—there is a danger. Not knowing truth may become a path toward truth; believing you know without knowing becomes a barrier.

Grasp this word “knowing” well; around it authentic religion is born. Around belief, inauthentic religion. What arises from knowing is shraddha—trust; what arises from belief is mere belief. Believers are not religious—they accept without seeing.

We have a word Veda—its meaning is “knowing.” But we take it to mean the book. We say “the Veda is apauruṣeya”—not man-made; knowing is apauruṣeya. But we take it to mean the book is written by God.

Veda is not a book; Veda is living knowing. But turning knowing into believing is easy; turning life into scripture is easy; relying on books is easy—then nothing much is required, only memory. Many people memorize the Gita!

I visited a village where they built a Gita temple. I asked, “Such a big temple for a small book?” They said, “Even this space is not enough.” “What do you do here?” “We have handwritten one hundred thousand Gitas and stored them; space is ending. Thousands across India are copying the Gita.” I said, “And what happens by this?” “Some have copied ten times, some fifty, some a hundred—by writing, knowledge will come.”

I said, “Then printing presses must be the most enlightened. We should prostrate to typesetters—they have printed so many Gitas! We should seek saints in the presses.”

Why does this madness arise? Because it seems knowledge will come from scripture. Scriptures can give information, pointers—not knowledge. Knowledge comes only through lived experience. Until, through your own experience, you find the unborn within—don’t stop; no matter how much Krishna says, don’t just believe. Let Krishna’s assurance challenge you: this man has seen and lived something. Let me also see, know, live. If only scripture became a pointer and we set out on the journey! But scripture becomes a temple, and we take rest.

Remember this word “knowing,” because Krishna will press it deeper and deeper.

वासांसि जीर्णानि यथा विहाय
नवानि गृह्णाति नरोऽपराणि।
तथा शरीराणि विहाय जीर्णा-
न्यन्यानि संयाति नवानि देही।। 22।।

As a man casts off worn-out garments and takes up new ones, so the embodied casts off worn-out bodies and takes others new.

Like garments—does the soul drop the body as worn clothes and take up new bodies. But “like garments”! Have you ever experienced your body as a garment—something you wear, outer to you, with you inside it? We experience ourselves as the body. Hunger arises—we don’t feel “hunger is happening—I am aware”; we feel, “I am hungry.” When the head hurts, we don’t feel “there is pain in the head—I am aware”; we feel, “I have a headache.” Identity is deep; we don’t feel two—we feel we are the body.

Close your eyes and see: the body is fifty years old—how old am I? The body has a face—what is my face? When the head aches, inquire: is this pain happening to me, or somewhere away from me?

In the last great war, a remarkable case occurred in a French hospital. A soldier’s leg was badly wounded; he screamed from unbearable pain in his big toe. The surgeons amputated his leg below the knee to save his life. Twenty-four hours later he woke and screamed, “My big toe hurts terribly!” The nurse laughed: “Think before you speak—your big toe?” He said, “Do you think I joke? It hurts terribly.” The nurse lifted the blanket—there was no toe, no lower leg. The man said, “I see that, and yet the pain is in the toe.”

Doctors came; for the first time they faced such a question. How can a non-existent toe hurt? They investigated and found: it can. Pain occurs in the toe, but is known elsewhere. Between the toe and the place of knowing is a gap. Where it is known is consciousness. Messages travel along nerves—like Morse code—passing through many stations to the brain, then to consciousness. The toe is gone, but the messenger nerves keep firing; messages continue, and the brain reports pain in the toe.

Could we remove a man’s entire body and keep only the brain? Now it is possible. If we preserved only the brain and asked, “How is your body?” he would say, “Everything is fine, no pain anywhere”—though there is no body!

Krishna says the body is like a garment. But a garment to which we have clung so tightly, birth after birth, that it has become our skin. The identification is so total that the body is “I.” Until distance arises between the body and me, this verse—“like worn clothes”—won’t be understood.

A few simple experiments will help. Truth is as Krishna says; what we hold is our belief. Believed falsities hide the living truth. From childhood, conditioning sinks in: “I am the body.” If the body is beautiful, I am beautiful. If the body is healthy, I am healthy. This identification deepens.

An elderly friend, seventy-five, slipped on the stairs and badly injured his leg. Doctors bound him to bed for three months. An active man, he felt three months an eternity. When I visited a week later, he wept. “Better to die than lie tied like this. Pray that God takes me.” I said, “Let’s try a small experiment. Close your eyes and first locate the exact point of pain.” He said, “My whole leg hurts.” I said, “Search carefully. We exaggerate; the mind is a magnifying glass.” He searched fifteen minutes, then said, amazed, “It is not spread so widely; it is just near the knee.” “How much area?” “About the size of a large ball.” “Search more.” He did, and his face began to change. After about seventy minutes he opened his eyes: “It shrank to a point like a needle prick. Then I thought: if it can shrink this much, it can vanish. Moments came when it wasn’t there; then it returned. Then another strange thing happened: as I saw it so closely, I felt the pain was far away, and I was far away—there was a great distance between us.” I said, “For three months, keep doing only this. Whenever there is pain, close your eyes and meditate.” Three months later he held my feet, again with tears—of joy. “God’s grace that I was tied down; otherwise I would never have sat with eyes closed. I am grateful for this one event. In dissolving the pain I discovered that the pain is like something on a wall of the house, and I am the owner within—utterly separate.”

We must know the body from the interior. We know it only from the outside—as someone standing in the street knows a house. See it from within: the inner lining, the inner seams. As this becomes clearer, you will feel: a lamp burns within, and around it is a glass. So far, looking through the glass, we mistook it for the light. When seen from within, the light is separate; the glass is only an outer sheath.

Once for even a moment you sense that the flame is one thing and the body another, then death becomes the changing of clothes, birth the donning of new garments. The soul, in its endless journey, takes and drops innumerable garments. Then birth and death are not birth and death, only change. Then there is no cause for sorrow.

But what Krishna says will not be understood by reading the Gita; it must be understood within. For religion, each person must become his own laboratory. Don’t think that because I explain, you have understood. At most, you receive a challenge. On your way home, experiment. Even as you walk, look: while the body moves, is there something motionless within? With the breath flowing, are you the breath—or is there one behind, seeing it? Then the breath will be seen—and the seer cannot be breath, because breath cannot see breath.

Then look at thoughts: are these thoughts me? The one to whom thoughts appear—how can it be a thought? No thought has ever seen another thought. The seer, the witness, is other. When body, thoughts, breath, walking, eating, hunger, thirst, pleasure, pain begin to be seen as distinct, then you will understand the meaning of Krishna’s words: like worn-out clothes the body is dropped, like new clothes another is taken. When this is seen, what sorrow, what joy? In death, no death; in birth, no birth. That which was, remains—the garments alone are changed.

The soul neither comes nor goes. All talk of coming and going belongs to the body. Broadly, understand two bodies. One body is the one visible to us. This body is received from the parents; it is born. It has its own limits, its own capacity; it runs for a certain span and then ends. It is a mechanism. From the parents we receive only the mechanism. In the womb the parents only create the situation, the conditions, for the mechanism. This visible body begins with birth and ends with death. It comes and goes.

There is another body, an inner garment for the soul—call it an undergarment. This gross body is the outer garment; that one is the slightly inner garment. That body comes along from the previous birth. It is the subtle body. Subtle means only this: the visible body is very material, while the other is electronic. It is made of electrical particles. That second body, composed of electrical particles, comes with you from the previous birth. That is the one that travels. It too travels.

That body, the second—subtle body—enters into the gross body, enters the womb. Its entry is as automatic as water running down from the mountains through rivers into the sea. Just as water’s flowing downhill is natural, so too the subtle body’s flowing into a fitting, congenial body is a perfectly natural event.

Therefore when an ordinary person dies, a birth is found immediately, because twenty-four hours a day millions of wombs are available on the earth. When an extraordinary person dies, it takes time; a suitable womb is not found quickly. Whether the person is extraordinarily bad or extraordinarily good, both have a long wait. For both, a womb is not immediately available. Ready-made wombs exist only for the thoroughly middle-of-the-road people. For them, wombs are available daily. No sooner do they die here than a womb there calls out. No sooner do they die here than they are swept into the pit of a womb. It does not take long.

But for a very evil person—say, someone like Hitler—it becomes difficult. For Hitler, the wait for suitable parents takes considerable time. For someone like Gandhi too it takes a good while. A suitable womb cannot be available quickly for such people. By our reckoning it can sometimes take hundreds of years. I am not speaking from their standpoint; their time-scale is different. By our reckoning, it can sometimes take centuries. The moment a suitable womb is available, the corresponding subtle body enters it. The whole journey belongs to these bodies. Now, how is the soul related to all this?

In truth, the symbols we humans have are all about coming and going. Someone comes into the house and then goes. So man uses symbols. But symbols are never exact. Talk of coming and going is not at all precise in relation to the soul. With what symbol shall we speak of the soul? In Krishna’s time there were even fewer symbols—very crude—and we have to make do with them. Let me offer one or two examples; the idea will come across.

A man lives on a small island in the ocean. No flowers grow there—only stones, only sand. He travels and, on a continent, sees many flowers. He returns. The people on his island ask, “What new thing did you see?” He says, “Flowers.” They ask, “Flowers—what do you mean?” There are no flowers on that island—what can he do! He goes to the riverbank, picks up bright stones, colored stones, and says, “They are like this.” Certainly, no one on that island will object, because there is no basis to do so. But the poor fellow who has actually seen flowers is in trouble: no symbol is available by which to say what he saw.

We live in a world where “coming and going” is the symbol. We call birth an arrival and death a departure. But in truth the soul neither comes nor goes. For this, a symbol occurs to me that may be closer, one you can understand.

In the West they now think cars cannot be run much longer on petrol, for petrol has done great harm. A new ecological movement is running through Europe and America. The air has been made so foul by petrol that it is no longer fit for human life. So cars cannot be run on petrol; they will have to be run on electricity. Either by battery—which will be a little expensive—or by electricity supplied as they move. But how will the electricity be supplied to the car?

A suggestion by Russian scientists seems valuable: by the end of this century we will lay electrical cables beneath all roads. Beneath every road, cables will be laid. Any car running above the road will receive the electricity it needs from below as it moves.

As your trams run: there is a wire overhead from which electricity is supplied. The tram runs; electricity does not run. Electricity keeps being supplied from above; the tram races below. As far as it goes, power is supplied. The tram runs, not the electricity; but electricity is supplied every moment from above. The instant power is not supplied, the tram stops. It runs by electricity; but the electricity does not run—the tram does.

Exactly so, say the Russian scientists: we will lay cables under the roads; the car will run above. Merely by moving, it will draw current. The car’s meter will record how much electricity you took; you will pay accordingly. But electricity will not run; the car will.

Just like that, the soul is an all-pervading principle; it is everywhere. Only our subtle body changes, runs about. And wherever it goes, it receives life from the soul.

The day the subtle body disperses—when the tram breaks—the electricity remains where it is; the tram breaks. The subtle body is lost. And when the subtle body is lost, it is not that the soul then merges with the Supreme. The soul was always merged with the Paramatman; it only seemed separate because of the wall of the subtle body. Now it no longer seems separate.

The notion of coming and going—of transmigration—is a very crude simile. It is very far from the truth, but there is no other way. What I am saying is this: the soul is present everywhere—within us and outside us.

Here, electric bulbs are glowing. One is a hundred-candlepower bulb, one fifty, one twenty, and one is barely five candlepower, like a firefly. In all of them the same electricity runs. Each, according to its candlepower, draws that much current. This microphone has no bulb in it; it draws electricity for its utility. A radio draws electricity for its utility, a fan for its own. There is no difference in the electricity—there is a difference in the apparatus of the fan, in the apparatus of the microphone, in the apparatus of the bulb.

The Paramatman is present everywhere. On all sides, only That is. We possess a subtle instrument—the subtle body. According to it we draw power and life from That. So if our subtle body is of five candlepower, we draw five candles’ worth of force. If it is fifty, we draw fifty. If Mahavira has a thousand, he draws a thousand. We are very poor; if our subtle body is of a single candle, we draw a single candle’s worth.

There is no stinginess in the Divine. We receive only as much as the size of the vessel we bring. If we wish to become a thousand-candle lamp, the same brilliance that shines from Mahavira can shine from us. And then a point comes when Mahavira says: a thousand will not do—we want infinite candlepower! Then he says: break the bulb, and you will become infinite in light. Because as long as the bulb remains, there will be a limit to candlepower—be it a thousand, two thousand, a lakh, or ten lakhs. But if you want infinite light, then break the bulb. Then Mahavira says: we break the bulb; we become free.

The whole meaning of liberation is simply this: we have used instruments enough, but we see that every instrument becomes a limit. And where there is a limit, there is suffering. So we break the instrument—and now we are one with the Whole.

It is only a fault of language that we say “we become one”; we were one. The instrument stood in between; therefore we received only a little. The instrument broke, and the Whole is.

The soul does not come and go; the subtle body comes and goes. The gross body comes and goes. The gross body is received from the parents; the subtle body is received from the previous birth. And the soul is since always.

Without the subtle body, the gross body cannot be assumed. If the subtle body breaks, it is impossible to assume a gross body. Therefore, the very moment the subtle body collapses, two events take place. On one side, as the subtle body falls, the journey through wombs comes to an end. On the other side, the limit that stood between us and the Paramatman dissolves. The fall of the subtle body is what sadhana is all about. The bridge in between—the connecting link—on one side to the body and on the other to the Paramatman—falls. Bringing it down is the whole of spiritual practice.

It is necessary to understand what the subtle body is made of. It is made of our desires, lusts, wants, aspirations, expectations; of our actions, of actions not done but desired; of our thoughts, of our doings; of all that we have been—what we have thought, contemplated, done, experienced, felt. From all these, from their electronic imprints, from their electrical effects, our subtle body is formed.

The dissolution of that subtle body brings just two results. Here, the journey toward the womb ends. When awakening happened, Buddha declared: “I announce, O my mind—you who until now have built so many houses for me—now you can attain to rest. You need build no more houses for me. I thank you and relieve you. There is no work left for you now, for I have no desires left. O mind, who built for me countless houses until now, there is no need to build any more.”

At the time of his passing, when people asked Buddha, “Now, when your soul merges in the Supreme, where will you be?” Buddha said, “If I am somewhere, how will I be merged in the Supreme? That which is somewhere cannot be everywhere; it cannot be at all places. So do not ask this. I will be nowhere, because I will be everywhere.” But devotees keep asking, “Still, tell us something—where will you be?”

You are asking the drop: after falling into the ocean, where will you be? The drop says, “I will become the ocean.” But other drops will still ask, “That is alright, but still—where will you be? We might come to meet you sometime!” Then the drop that is becoming the ocean says, “You just come into the ocean, and there will be meeting. But it will not be a meeting with the drop—it will be a meeting with the ocean.”

Whoever wishes to meet Buddha, to meet Krishna, Mahavira, Jesus, Mohammed—now a meeting with the drop is no longer possible. However much you keep a statue, a meeting with the drop cannot be. Precisely because the drop has gone into the ocean, we made an idol. That is the paradox: we made the idol because the drop went into the ocean. Now it became fit to be made into an image.

But now the image has no meaning. If you wish to meet, you must go into the ocean.

From the parents the drop receives its outer shape. From one’s own previous births the drop receives its inner arrangement. And from the Paramatman it receives the life-energy—that is our soul. But unless we rightly recognize this double sheath of the drop, we cannot recognize That which is beyond both.

That is all for today. We will talk again tomorrow morning.