Geeta Darshan #9

We say, “The soul is neither born nor does it die; it has no beginning and no end”—but put like that, a slight error creeps in. It is closer to the truth to say it this way: that which is not born, which does not die, which has no beginning and no end—such a mode of being is what we call the soul.

Surely, being must be free of beginning and end. That which is—that which is—cannot have a beginning. A beginning would mean it descended from nothingness. And even a beginning needs preparation before it begins. A beginning cannot be accidental. Every beginning is bound to prior preparation, to prior causes—bound by causality.

A child is born; it can happen because the two bodies of the parents prepare for it. Every beginning presupposes something prior to itself. Hence no beginning is fundamentally a beginning. A thing may begin, but there is no pure beginning. Likewise, a thing may end, but being does not end. When anything ceases, that which was to be—the being within it—remains.

So when we say the soul has no birth and no death, understand it from the other side: that whatever has no birth and no death, we are calling that the soul. Soul means being.

Our confusion begins where we take the soul to be the “I.” The “I” has a beginning and an end. But the being in which the “I” arises and in which it dissolves has no end.

Clouds form and disperse in the sky. The sky in which their forming and dispersing occur has no beginning and no end. Take the soul to be sky—inner space. And in the sky you cannot divide inside from outside. The outer sky is called God; the inner sky is called the soul. Do not take this soul to be a person, an individual. The individual will have a beginning and an end. Take this inner sky to be impersonal. Do not take this inner sky to be limited; whatever has a boundary will have a beginning and an end.

That is why Krishna says that fire cannot burn it.
Why can fire not burn it? Why can water not drown it? If the soul were any kind of thing, fire could burn it. If this fire could not, we would invent another—an atomic furnace—that could. If the soul were a thing, why could water not drown it? If a little water could not, we would drown it in the vast Pacific Ocean.

When he says the soul can neither be burned nor drowned nor destroyed, he is saying the soul is not a thing; it has no thing-ness. The soul is only a name for being. Not an existent thing, but existence itself. Things have existence; the soul is existence itself. Therefore fire cannot burn it, because fire too is existence. Water cannot drown it, because water too is existence.

See it this way: fire is also a form of the soul, water too is a form of the soul, the sword too is a form of the soul; therefore soul cannot burn soul. Fire can burn that which is other than itself. The soul is other than nothing. The soul is non-different from existence; it is existence.

If we set aside the word “soul” and contemplate the word “existence,” the difficulty will lessen. Because the word “soul” makes us feel “I.” We go on taking soul and ego—ahamkar—as synonymous. That creates great complication. The soul is a name for existence. The wave that rises in that existence is called “I.” That wave will rise and fall; it will form and it will disperse. That “I” can be burned; it can be drowned. A fire can be found to burn the “I.” A water can be found to drown the “I.” A sword can be found to cut the “I.” So drop the “I.” The soul has nothing whatsoever to do with the “I”—not even a distant connection.

Whatever remains behind when the “I” is dropped—that is the soul. But apart from the “I” we have never seen anything within. Whenever anything is seen, the “I” is present. Whenever anything is thought, the “I” is present. Within, the “I” is everywhere. We live so densely around the “I” that the ocean standing behind it never becomes visible to us.

And we even feel elated hearing Krishna. When we hear, “The soul cannot be burned,” our spine straightens. We think, “I cannot be burned.” When we hear, “The soul will not die,” we feel reassured inside that “I will not die.” That is why, as a person grows old, he starts reading the Gita more. As death comes closer, the desire to understand Krishna’s words arises. When death begins to shake the mind, the mind wants to understand, wants to believe that there is something within me that will not die—so that I can refute death.

That is why you do not see the young in temples, mosques, and gurdwaras—because death still seems a little far. There is not so much fear yet; the legs do not tremble yet. You see the elderly there. All over the world there is one reason old people gather around religion: when the “I” comes near death, the “I” wants some assurance, some support, some trust, some promise—that yes, we will be able to belie death too, we will be saved beyond death. Let someone say, “You will not die”—some authority, some authoritative word, some scripture!

Therefore, when Krishna says this, understand one thing very clearly: do not fall into the delusion that you will not be burned. This is not hard to test. Go home and put your hand in the fire and Krishna will seem utterly wrong—the statement will seem completely false. Read the Gita and then put your hand in the fire to see whether you burn or not! Read the Gita and then jump into water to see whether you drown or not!

But Krishna is not wrong. The one who drowns in water—Krishna is not talking about him. The one who burns in fire—Krishna is not talking about him. But do you know of even a single element within you that does not burn in fire, that does not drown in water? If you do not know it, do not be in a hurry to believe Krishna. Search, and you will find the principle of which he speaks.

This too has to be understood on two levels. Cooperation in this world is of two kinds. One is what science calls catalytic cooperation—what scientists call a catalytic agent; it’s good to understand this. One kind of cooperation makes us participants; we have to be partakers in it. Another kind of cooperation is where mere presence is enough—just presence.

Morning: the sun rises. A flower in your garden blossoms. The sun doesn’t even know it has made this flower bloom. The sun did not rise in order to open this flower. Had the flower not existed, it would not have obstructed the sun from rising. If it weren’t there, the sun wouldn’t have said, “There is no flower, so why should I rise?” The flower has bloomed; for this, the sun’s mere presence—its presence—has been enough. Without the sun’s presence it could not have bloomed; that’s certain. But that the sun’s presence is there to make it bloom—that is equally untrue. In the sun’s presence, it has bloomed.

Yet even this isn’t quite right, because the sun’s rays do something, whether the sun knows it or not. The rays open the buds; they also strike them. The impact may be ever so fine and subtle, but there is impact. Sunlight, too, has weight; it enters. The rays that fall on one square mile would weigh about an ounce or so, scientists estimate. Even if that’s so, the sun still does “something” to the petals; so even the sun is not merely a catalytic agent but an indirect participant.

But scientists mean something else again by catalytic agent. For example, hydrogen and oxygen combine to make water. Lock hydrogen and oxygen together in a room and even then water won’t form. Everything is present, yet no water. Run an electric current through the room, and instantly hydrogen and oxygen begin to combine into water. After thorough investigation it’s found that the electric current “does” nothing: it touches neither hydrogen nor oxygen; it neither contacts nor acts on them. Its mere presence—just its being—is enough. Without its presence the reaction will not occur. One could say its presence alone “does” something; electricity itself does nothing.

In this aphorism Krishna is saying: the soul is inactive, non-active.

If the soul is inactive, does not act, then who undertakes this whole journey—this birth and death, the dropping of one body, the taking of new garments, the casting off of the worn-out? Without the soul’s presence none of it can happen—that’s certain. But the soul’s presence does not function as an active element; it functions as a passive presence.

Consider: a children’s class is in session. The teacher is absent. They are shouting, clamoring, dancing. Then the teacher enters the room. Silence descends; quietness falls. They sit in their places and begin to read their books. The teacher has not yet spoken a word, has not done anything—not even said, “Be quiet,” or “You are wrong.” He has only entered. But his presence—and something has changed. In that moment the teacher is a catalytic agent; he is doing nothing.

None of these examples is exactly right—I offer them just to give you a feel. One might still ask: even to be present involves a decision, doesn’t it? The teacher came into the room—he might not have come. He decided to come; that too is not a small thing. He came. At least the soul must be deciding to be present in life; otherwise how would life begin? Why then does the soul decide upon the beginning of life? What need is there even to be present? What purpose?

Here we must go a little deeper. Understand one thing: freedom is always double-edged. It is never single. Freedom means the one who is free can also do the opposite.

Suppose in a village we beat a drum and announce: “Everyone is free to do good deeds, but may not do bad.” Then in that village even the freedom to do good vanishes. The freedom to do good implies—contains within it—the freedom to do evil. And of one who cannot possibly do evil, it is meaningless to say he has done good.

Freedom is twofold on all planes. The soul is free; existence is free. There is no dependency upon anything else, and there is none other who could enslave it. Existence is freedom. And in freedom there are always two options. The soul may choose either journey—into the world, into the body, into bondage; or outside bondage, outside the world, outside the body. Both possibilities exist. And experience of the world is the essential foundation for rising beyond the world. Rest is impossible without the experience of tension. Liberation is impossible without having been unliberated.

I often tell a little story. A rich man, a millionaire, nearing the end of life after amassing all wealth, became anxious: “Joy has not come!” All his life he had thought: money, money, money—money will be the means and bliss the end. The means are complete, but bliss is nowhere to be found. The arrangements are made, the house is ready, but no guest of joy appears, no footstep is heard. Anxiety is natural.

A poor man can never become anxious in this way—this is his misfortune. If he is anxious at all, it is about means: how to get money, a house. In a rich man’s life, for the first time, anxiety about the end arises; the means are complete and he asks, “Where is that for which I gathered them?”

So until the thought of the end arises in one’s life, one is poor—no matter how much wealth one has. One becomes truly rich the day one is ready to ask: “Everything is here from which joy should come—so where is the joy? The means are complete—where is the end? The house is built—where is the guest?” But very few rich men become rich in this sense.

That rich man was rich; anxiety seized him. He told his household, “I have waited long enough; I am going in search. I had thought that when I made all arrangements, the guest of joy would arrive. The arrangements are complete; there is no trace of the guest. Now I set out to seek.” He took many jewels with him. From village to village he asked, “Where will bliss be found?” People said, “We ourselves are searching. We have come this far in the same search.” On the roads he asked travelers, “Where can bliss be found?” They replied, “We are fellow travelers; we too are in search. If you learn anything, let us know.” Everyone said the same.

He grew tired and distraught; death seemed near. No news of bliss.

Passing a village at dusk he saw a man sitting under a tree. Though darkness was falling, a certain unearthly light seemed around him. Night was descending, but his face had the glow of morning. The rich man fell at his feet, threw down his bag of jewels, and said, “Here are jewels worth millions—give me bliss!”

The fakir lifted his eyes and asked, “Truly, you want it? You have never tasted bliss?” “Never,” said the man. “Has some little melody ever played within?” “No melody at all.” “Have you ever tasted even a little savor?” The man said, “Don’t waste time in talk. You are the first who hasn’t said, ‘I too am searching.’ Tell me!” “No acquaintance at all?” asked the fakir. “None,” the man said.

No sooner had he said this than the fakir snatched up the bag and ran. The rich man had not imagined this. He ran after him, shouting, “I am robbed! What kind of man are you?” The village knew the fakir; the rich man was unknown. The fakir wove through alleys; the whole village gathered and ran behind. The rich man wailed, beat his chest, tears streaming: “I am ruined, I am dead! This is my life’s earnings. With this I was seeking bliss. Now what will happen? My grief has no end. Save me from this man; get my wealth back.” After circling the village, the fakir returned to the same tree where the rich man’s horse stood. He threw the bag down where he had picked it up and sat again under the tree.

Puffing, the rich man arrived with the crowd. He grabbed the bag, hugged it to his chest, lifted his hands to the heavens, and cried, “O God, my supreme thanks to you!” The fakir asked, “Did you get a little bliss?” The rich man said, “A little? I got so much! Never in my life was there such joy.” The fakir said, “Before joy, sorrow is necessary; before gaining, losing is necessary; before being, non-being is necessary; before liberation, bondage is necessary; before knowledge, ignorance is necessary; before light, darkness is necessary.”

Therefore the soul sets out on a journey—of “losing” its treasure. What we have never lost, we can never experience as gained. That is why, when the realized ones—like Krishna, like Buddha—were asked, “What did you attain?” Buddha said, “I attained nothing. I simply came to know what was already there.” But in between, the losing is necessary. To experience health, illness is an indispensable process. This is a fact of life, a facticity.

So when you ask, “What need is there for the soul to enter the world?” I say, for the experience of liberation. The soul is free even before entering the world, but of that freedom there can be no awareness, no recognition, no felt sense. Without losing, feeling is impossible.

Hence the world is a testing, an experiment in losing oneself. It is nothing more. It is the soul’s own choice to lose and to find. God, entering the world, loses himself and finds himself; he will go on losing and finding—descending into darkness and awakening in the light that there is light.

So if we ask Krishna, he will say it is lila—play—of hiding oneself from oneself, seeking oneself by oneself, finding oneself by oneself. It is not a very serious affair. There is no need to be solemn. That is why it’s hard to find anyone more non-serious than Krishna. Those who are serious are confessing they do not yet know the whole secret of life. The secret is simply this: what we are searching for is what we have hidden; what we are seeking is what we have concealed; toward which we are going is where we have come from.

It is so. If you ask, “Why is it so?” there is no answer. There must be at least one “why” in life for which there is no answer. Where we catch that “why” is another matter, but the ultimate why can have no answer. Therefore philosophy wanders in a futile maze: it seeks the why.

Understand a little more. Philosophy seeks why—why is it so? It finds one cause; then it asks, why is that cause? Then another cause—again, why? An infinite regress begins, an endless chain. Every answer gives birth to a new question. Whatever cause we find, we can still ask, why? Can there be any cause about which it would be meaningless to ask why? No. That is why philosophy is a blind alley.

Science does not ask why; it asks what. Therefore science is not a blind alley. Religion also does not ask why; it asks what. Understand this.

Science and religion are very close. If science has an enemy, it is philosophy. If religion has an enemy, it is philosophy. People generally think religion itself is a philosophy. It is not. Religion is a science. Religion asks, what?—not why. Because religion knows existence can answer the what; it cannot answer the why. Science too asks, what? Science asks, “What is water?” Hydrogen and oxygen. If you ask, “Why do hydrogen and oxygen combine?” the scientist will say, ask a philosopher. In our laboratory we discover what and we can show how. Why—please don’t ask us; ask madmen or philosophers.

A scientist says, however far we investigate, we can know the what. And once the what is known, we can discover the how. Water is composed of hydrogen and oxygen—what. Now we can discover how they combine. So science seeks the what and finds the how in the laboratory.

Religion too seeks the what of existence and, in yoga, discovers the processes of how. The ancillary limb of religion is yoga; the ancillary limb of science is experiment. Religion has no relation with why, because one thing is certain: we will not be able to ask the why of existence. Existence is—and that is where the matter ends.

Thus Krishna says: it is so—the soul is not subject to death. “Why?” There is no why. It is so; things are thus. The soul cannot be burned, is not born, does not die. “Why?” Krishna will say, it is so. If you ask, “How shall we know the soul?” then the path can be shown—to that which does not die, does not take birth. But if you ask, “Why does it not die?” there is no way. At this point all ways end; here one becomes utterly helpless; here the intellect tires and falls.

But the intellect keeps asking why; its taste is in why. If you keep asking why, the intellect will never have to fall silent, never tire, never die; it will go on asking and asking.

In childhood I heard a story—you must have too. A grandmother was besieged by children for stories. She was tired; her stock was exhausted. But the children insisted every night. So she invented a story—just like God’s story. She said, “On a tree sit infinite birds.” The children were thrilled—there could be an endless tale! “There is a hunter with infinite arrows. He shot an arrow. As it struck, one bird flew off.” The children asked, “Then?” “Then the hunter shot another arrow; another bird flew.” “Then?” “Then the hunter shot another arrow; another bird flew—whoosh.” “Then?” And so it went. The children tired and asked, “Won’t anything else happen?” The old woman said, “I am tired now; this one story will suffice. Ask me every day: ‘Then?’ The hunter shoots an arrow—arrows without end, birds without end.”

Our world of why is just like those children, always asking, “Then why?” The question why is childish, though very clever people ask it. In truth, it’s hard to find minds more childlike than the “clever.” The why-question is utterly childish—but it looks precious, because those we call intelligent have asked it, whether Greek philosophers, Indian, or Chinese. They have asked why and sought its answers. No answer has satisfied anyone; nothing is resolved. After every answer, the questioner asks, “Why?”—another arrow, another bird flies—and nothing changes.

That is why I have kept saying: this book is not metaphysical. Krishna’s message to Arjuna is not philosophy or metaphysics; it is a psychology of consciousness. Hence he says, “It is so.” And when a soul undertakes a journey, how does it journey? I have told you. Of the journey, the what—that much is known, that much can be known; the rest will remain unknown.

Before the full experience of freedom, the experience of bondage is necessary. Before flying in the whole sky of liberation, it is useful to stay for a while in some prison, some cage. It has its utility. Therefore the soul journeys. And until the soul sinks very deep into sin, darkness, evil, imprisonment, it does not return.

Yesterday at noon someone asked me, “How is it that great sinners like Valmiki attain to knowledge?” I said, they are the ones who can. The mediocre, those in the middle, have not gone deeply enough into sin to begin the journey toward virtue. They remain in-between. But for Valmiki, the road ahead ends; a cul-de-sac appears; there is no way further. What more sin can Valmiki do? The journey has reached its end; another journey begins.

Thus it often happens that a deep sinner becomes a deep saint. A common sinner lives as a common gentleman. The deeper the journey into darkness, the more intensely is born the longing to be free of darkness—and with that intensity, the reverse journey proceeds.

Therefore, though the soul is inactive, it still desires the journey. Desire too can be inactive. You may do nothing and only desire. But on the plane of the soul, the very desire becomes the act. There, merely desiring is the deed; no other action is needed.

Hence the scriptures say: God desired, and the world was created. The Bible says: God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. Between “Let there be light” and light’s being, there is no other act—only desire. The soul’s desire to know darkness—and the journey begins. The soul’s desire to be free—and the journey begins. The soul’s desire to know the supreme truth—and the journey begins.

And if you find you must act, it is because the desire is not complete. In truth, action merely tries to make up for the deficiency of desire—and still cannot. If desire is complete, the act is instantaneous. If right this moment you could desire with your whole being to know God, not even a second would pass before God is known.

If obstacles arise, they do not arise from lack of action; they arise because within, the mind is not wholly saying yes. One part says, “Know”; another says, “Leave it—what’s the hurry?” One part says, “Is there even a God? Who knows?” Desire is not whole.

Therefore when Krishna says the soul is inactive, understand it rightly: for the soul there is no necessity to act. For the soul, desire alone is sufficient action. If this is understood, you will also understand why Krishna goes on explaining to Arjuna in the hope that if understanding becomes complete, the matter is complete—nothing remains to be done. It is not that when understanding is complete, you must then do headstands, asanas, exercise, ring bells in temples, perform worship, or offer prayers. If understanding is complete, nothing remains to be done. Because it does not become complete, we are driven to all this bustle. All ritual is a substitute; every rite merely tries to make up for lack of understanding—and even then it does not complete it; it only creates the illusion that it is being completed. If understanding becomes complete, the happening is instantaneous.

Eddington, in his memoirs, wrote: “When I began my inquiry into the world, I thought otherwise. I thought the world was a collection of things. Now, having pursued the inquiry as far as I could and standing at the hour of farewell, I want to say: the world is less like a thing and more like a thought.” When a Nobel Prize–winning scientist says this, it is worth pondering. He says the world is less like a thing and more like a thought.

If the world is more like a thought, then action is of little value; resolve is valuable. Action is the deficiency of resolve. That is why we feel that only if we do something will it be completed.

Resolve alone is enough. The soul is utterly inactive; its resolve is its only activity. If there is resolve to enter the world, we come. The day there is resolve to rise and return, that very day we return. But the experience of the world is necessary for the resolve to return.

As I said, the ordinary person, the common person, who is neither very bad nor very good. There are four kinds of people. The ordinary, in whom good and bad are mixed. The extraordinary, who are either pure evil to the maximum or pure goodness to the maximum. Third, those who are neither bad nor good—neither of the two. What name to give them is hard to say. Fourth, those who are absolutely equal in badness and goodness, balanced. These third and fourth kinds are such that their journey of birth will come to a halt. We will talk about them later. The first and second kinds are those whose journey of birth will continue.

Those of the first kind—mixed; good and bad both together; sometimes bad, sometimes good; good even within their bad, bad even within their good; a sum of everything; not decisive, indecisive; swaying from here to there—for such people, ordinarily a womb is found immediately after death, because there are many wombs available for them. The whole earth is manufacturing for them. For them the factory is everywhere. Their demand is nothing very exceptional. The kind of personality they seek is very ordinary, which can be found anywhere. Such people do not become ghosts. Such people take a new body immediately.

But very good people and very bad people—both get stuck for a long time. For them it becomes difficult to find a womb worthy of them. As I said, for a Hitler or a Genghis or a Stalin, or for a Gandhi or an Albert Schweitzer—people of this kind—birth after a death takes quite some time, until a suitable womb becomes available. So the bad souls and the good souls, the extremists—those who had taken up the contract to be bad in life; such souls; those who had taken up the contract to be good, such souls—they have to wait.

Among these, the bad souls are what we call bhutas and pretas—ghosts. And among these, the good souls are what we have called devas, divine beings. They remain for a considerable time; sometimes they remain for a very long time. On our earth, thousands of years may pass while they remain.

They can. The more resolute a person’s soul is, the less empty space there is in the body. The greater the will-power of the soul, the less empty space remains in the body into which any other soul could enter. The more irresolute the soul, the more the empty space.

This needs a little understanding. When you are filled with resolve, you expand. Resolve is an expanding force. And when your resolve is weak, you contract. When you are full of inferiority, you shrink. This phenomenon of shrinking and expanding happens within.

So when you are weak, frightened, scared, filled with self-guilt, with self-distrust, with irreverence toward yourself, with despair toward yourself, then your subtle body shrinks. And then in your physical body there is enough space for any soul to enter. You can provide a door.

Generally, good souls do not enter. There is a reason: a good soul spends its whole life striving to be free of sensory pleasures—in a sense, striving to be free of the body itself. But all the experiences of an evil soul’s life are experiences of bodily pleasure. And when such a bad soul, being out of a body, does not get a new birth, then its restlessness becomes intense; its suffering becomes great. It cannot obtain its own body; a womb is not available; but riding on someone else’s body it tries to taste sensual pleasures. So if there is any person of weak resolve...

That is why, more than men, women are, in number, more often entered by spirits. Because we have not yet made women resolute. The responsibility is men’s, because men have continually tried to break women’s resolve. Whoever is to be enslaved cannot be made resolute. If you want to enslave someone, you must weaken their resolve. Therefore, over thousands of years, there has been an ongoing effort to diminish women’s resolve. Even spiritual cultures have made a terrible effort to diminish women’s resolve—to frighten them, to intimidate them—because men’s status would depend on their fear.

So entry happens more quickly in women—and in greater measure. Ten percent of men are afflicted by spirits; ninety percent of women are afflicted. There is no resolve; there is empty space; entry is easy.

The stronger the resolve, the deeper the trust in oneself, the more our soul completely envelops our body. If resolve becomes even greater, our subtle body forms a circle around us outside the body as well—outside too. That is why if you go near certain people whose resolve is very great, you will immediately find your own resolve changing. Because their resolve forms a circle beyond their physical body. If you enter that circle, you will feel your own resolve changing. The same applies near very bad people as well.

If you go to a prostitute, you will feel a difference; if you go to a saint, you will feel a difference. Because the circle of their resolve—the circle of their subtle body—extends beyond their gross body. This expansion can become very large. Within this expansion you will suddenly find that something starts happening within you which does not feel like your own. You were one kind of person, but something else is happening within.

So our resolve can become so small that it shrinks inside this body, and it can become so great that it expands beyond this body. It can become so great that it encompasses the whole universe. Those who said, Aham Brahmasmi—I am the Absolute—experienced this at that moment when the whole resolve encompassed the entire cosmos. Then the sun and the moon and the stars do not feel outside; they seem to be moving within. Then the whole existence seems contained within one’s own being. Resolve can also shrink so much that a man cannot be sure whether he is alive or dead. It can shrink that much.

In this condition of extreme contraction of resolve, the deep attack of atheism occurs. In the expansive state of resolve, the deep surge of theism arises. The more resolve expands, the more one experiences oneself as theist. Because existence becomes so vast that no reason remains to be an atheist. When resolve shrinks greatly, one experiences atheism. When one’s own feet are shaky, when one’s very existence feels as if it is not, at that moment theism cannot arise; a No toward life arises. Atheism and theism are psychological truths—psychological.

Simone Weil wrote that until the age of thirty she had terrible headaches—twenty-four hours a day. So she could never even think that God might exist. For someone whose head aches twenty-four hours a day, it is very difficult to believe that God could exist.

Now it is a great curiosity that something as small as a headache can keep God standing outside the door. She argued for God’s non-existence. It never even occurred to her that the deep reason for God’s non-existence might be medical. It never occurred to her that the reason for God’s non-existence was her headache—not argument and logic. From the mind of one with a headache, the feeling of No arises. From such a mind, the feeling of Yes does not arise. For the feeling of Yes, great inner exuberance is needed; then the Yes arises.

Later her headaches were cured. Then she realized that the sense of denial within her had diminished. Then she realized that, in some unknown moment, she had begun to move from atheist to theist.

If resolve is attenuated, spirits can enter—evil spirits, what we call ghosts, can enter, because they are eager. All the time they are eager: lacking a body of their own, they try to sip a little of the body’s juice from yours. And the juices of the body cannot be enjoyed without a body—that is the difficulty. The juices of the body can be enjoyed only through a body.

If there is a lustful soul, a sexual soul, and it has no body of its own, then the sexual drive remains, but the body is absent, the senses are absent. You can imagine its suffering. Its suffering becomes very difficult. The mind is sexual, and there is absolutely no means—there is no body at hand. It can enter anyone’s body and try to satisfy its lust.

Auspicious, noble souls generally do not enter unless they are invited. Uninvited, they do not enter. Because they have no desire for the body. But upon invitation, they can enter. Invitation means simply that if there is such a moment where they can be of use, where they can cooperate and offer service, they become immediately available. An evil soul always enters uninvited, through the back door; a good soul can enter when invited.

But the entry of good souls has steadily diminished because the methods of inviting have been lost. And the entry of evil souls has steadily increased. Why? Because resolve has become poor, mean, and negative. Therefore, today on earth to speak of gods is false; to speak of ghosts is not false. Spirits still exist; gods have become imagination.

But there were methods to call the gods, to invite them. The whole Veda is filled with those methods. It has its own secret methods of how to call them, how to attune with them, how to communicate, how to establish a relationship, how to link consciousness with them. And certainly, much has been known through them. And that is why man has had no proof for some of it.

Now you will be surprised to know that a seven-hundred-year-old map of the earth was found in Beirut. A map of the earth, seven hundred years old, found in Beirut. It is such a map that it could not have been made without an airplane. For that, the earth would have to be seen while flying at the height of an airplane. But seven hundred years ago there were no airplanes. So scientists have been in great difficulty upon finding that map. Many attempts were made to prove that the map is not seven hundred years old, but it has been difficult to prove otherwise. The paper is seven hundred years old. The ink is seven hundred years old. The language is seven hundred years old. The termite holes that ate the paper are five hundred years old. But the map could not be made without an airplane.

One possibility is that there were airplanes seven hundred years ago—which is not correct. That there were airplanes seven thousand years ago is possible; but seven hundred years ago, it is not. Because seven hundred years is not that long. That airplanes existed seven hundred years ago and bicycles did not—that cannot be. Airplanes do not just fall from the sky all at once. There is a journey—bicycle, car, rail, then the airplane can be made. It doesn’t simply drop from the sky. So one way is airplanes existed—but seven hundred years ago they did not.

A second possibility is that space travelers came—as a Russian scientist has tried to prove—that travelers from another planet came and gave this map. But that travelers from another planet came seven hundred years ago is also unlikely. That they came seven thousand years ago is possible. Because seven hundred years is within the circle of history. We have at least two thousand years of assured history. Before that, history is unclear. So that such a great event occurred seven hundred years ago—that travelers came from space—and not a single mention of it exists, when literature from seven hundred years ago is fully available—that is not possible.

I offer a third suggestion, which has not been offered so far. And my suggestion is that the news of that map was conveyed by some spirit that was invited into some person—that spoke through someone.

That the earth is round was discovered in the West only recently—not long ago, some three hundred years. But we have the word bhugol (geo-sphere) for thousands of years. Those who coined that word—bhugol—could they have been unaware that the earth is round? Otherwise how would they coin such a word? But the means to know that the earth is round seem difficult, except that the message came from somewhere.

There are many things in human knowledge for which there were no laboratories, for which there was no method. For example, the tales of Luqman. And now even scientists begin to suspect that those tales must be true.

The tales say that Luqman went to plants and asked them, “Tell me, for which disease can you be used?” Plants do not seem likely to speak. But the other alternative also seems difficult: with regard to millions of plants, the information Luqman gave is so accurate that either Luqman’s age must have been millions of years and Luqman must have had pharmacies more developed than ours today, so that he could test which plant works for which disease—or else how could he verify? But Luqman did not live millions of years. And we have no news of his laboratories. Luqman is seen wandering the forests with his bag, asking plants. Will plants be able to tell?

My own understanding is different. Plants cannot speak, but auspicious spirits can give news about plants. In between, as a mediator, some spirit is at work that can give information about plants—“This plant will serve this purpose.”

Now it is quite interesting that in our country much of Ayurveda is not deeply experimental; at a deep level it depends on communications given by deities. Therefore, an Ayurvedic medicine, even today, when tested in a laboratory proves to be correct. But we never had any large laboratories by which we ourselves proved it.

Take sarpagandha. Today we have learned that what was believed about sarpagandha—from Sushruta to now—has proved correct. In the West, serpentina—the form of sarpagandha—has become a highly useful substance; it has become essential for treating the insane. But how did the knowledge of sarpagandha arise? Because today the West has laboratories in which a chemical analysis of sarpagandha is possible. But there is no evidence that we had such laboratories. The knowledge of sarpagandha came as information from invited spirits. And it won’t be long before we will have to rediscover the use of invited spirits.

Therefore, today when you read the Vedas, it seems fanciful, seems false—what are they saying? “Indra, come; Varuna, come; so-and-so, come!” And they speak as if indeed they are coming. And then they offer oblations to Indra, they pray to Indra. And in such a great Veda you do not find even one place where anyone seems to be doubting—“What madness are you talking? To whom are you speaking?” In the Vedic age, the gods seem to be walking on the ground.

There was a method of invitation. All havan and yajna are, at a deep level, methods of invitation—invocations. We will speak of that elsewhere, sometime ahead.

But to what you have asked: it is the subtle body, free of the gross body, that appears as spirit and deity.

Atha chainam nityajātam nityaṁ vā manyase mṛtam.
Tathāpi tvaṁ mahābāho naivaṁ śocitum arhasi. 26.
Even if you believe that the soul is born again and again and also dies, even then, O mighty-armed, you ought not to grieve.

This utterance of Krishna is very wonderful. Here Krishna is not speaking from himself; he speaks seeing Arjuna’s helplessness. Krishna says: But how will you understand that the soul is immortal? How will you know, in this moment, that the soul is immortal? Let it be; assume what is easier for you—that the soul dies, that everything ends. But, O mighty-armed—Krishna says to Arjuna—if this is what you believe, even then grieving over death is useless. That which, in any case, will be annihilated—why such worry about annihilating it? That which will perish—you will not kill it and still it will perish—why be so troubled about killing it? And if it all ends, where is the violence?

When we break a machine, we do not say that violence has been committed. If we smash a watch by throwing it on a stone, we do not say violence happened, we do not say a great sin has occurred. Why? Because there is nothing in the watch that is imperishable.

So Krishna says: Those who are but like perishable instruments, in whom there is no eternal, deathless element—then destroy these instruments; what harm is there? Why worry? And tomorrow you too will perish; upon whom will the sin stick then? Who will be the sharer of sin? Who will suffer it? You are going on a journey where your responsibility is to kill them; you too will not remain. They will die, you will die; dust unto dust—dust will fall into dust. Why do you worry?

But note: Krishna is not speaking from himself. Saying so much, he must have looked into Arjuna’s eyes—there is no effect. An effect is not easy either. If I look into your eyes, I know nothing happens.

“The soul is immortal”—hearing it does nothing. Krishna must have seen Arjuna sitting there limp as before. These words pass over his head. He hears that the soul is immortal, but his worry does not diminish. So Krishna speaks this line out of compulsion, from Arjuna’s side. He says: Leave me aside, leave what I say; let it be. Let us accept what you say, what is easy for you. But note: he says, let us suppose—let us accept it. Let us accept what you say—that the soul dies. Then how are you worrying? Then there is no cause to worry. Then dust will fall into dust. Earth will merge with earth. Water will be lost in water. Fire will be absorbed in fire. Space will vanish into space. Then why worry?

From Arjuna’s own argument, on Arjuna’s own side, Krishna attempts. This utterance tells us how much despair Krishna must have felt seeing Arjuna. This statement, given under great compulsion, tells that Arjuna must have sat there listening, and still the same questions remained in his eyes, the same worry, the same sadness. He must have heard—and heard nothing.

At this point I remember Jesus. Jesus said: You have ears, but you do not hear. You have eyes, but you do not see.

Krishna must have felt the same: He is not hearing, not hearing, not understanding. And this is not a matter that can be conveyed by hearing and understanding! It is not his fault either. This is existential, experiential. How can it be understood merely by listening?

No, Krishna will have to work harder. He will have to knock at his doors from other dimensions. Until now he had been speaking from the mountaintop. Now he uses the logic of a dark alley for the dark alley.

Jātasya hi dhruvo mṛtyur dhruvaṁ janma mṛtasya ca.
Tasmād aparihārye ’rthe na tvaṁ śocitum arhasi. 27.
Avyaktādīni bhūtāni vyakta-madhyāni bhārata.
Avyakta-nidhanāny eva tatra kā paridevanā. 28.
Death is certain for the born, and birth is certain for the dead; therefore you should not mourn over the inevitable. From the unmanifest, bodies are born; in the middle their form appears, and at the end they dissolve back into the unmanifest. Hence the wise have no occasion to grieve over them.

You may have noticed that when Krishna was speaking from his own plane, he even called Arjuna a fool. When he spoke from his own height, he had no difficulty calling Arjuna a dullard—“You are utterly foolish, utterly stupid.” But when he is speaking from Arjuna’s side, he calls him “O mighty-armed, O Bhārata”—giving him great honor, using formal words. When speaking from his own plane, he called him an outright fool, that you are totally ignorant, completely dull-witted. But now, the same dull-witted Arjuna he calls, “O mighty-armed!”

Now he has come down to Arjuna’s place. Now he is speaking with his hand on Arjuna’s shoulder. Now he speaks just like a friend. Because it has become clear that the peak he spoke of is perhaps not within Arjuna’s grasp. It has often happened like this.

Mohammed said: I am not such a well that if you do not come to drink water from me, I will not come to you. If you do not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will come to you. And if the thirsty does not come to the well, the well itself will go to the thirsty.

Krishna has come back to stand beside Arjuna. The physical body was standing there the whole time, but earlier he was speaking from great heights—from where the summit is illumined. There he could say, “You are foolish.” Now he says, “Your understanding is fine. Use your own understanding. Now I will speak using your understanding.”

But now what he says is only a matter of logic and argument. Because one who cannot grasp experience, then for him nothing remains but logic and argument—there is no other means. For one who can grasp only logic and argument, one can speak only logic and argument. But there is no life in that; there is no force in it. It cannot have that force, because Krishna knows he is now only arguing. Now he says: Let us accept you are right. But this body is made of material elements, of maya, it will dissolve back into that. The learned do not worry about this.

One should understand the difference between the learned (vidvān) and the knower (jñānī). Earlier Krishna has been saying all along that one who knows thus attains knowledge. But now he says—not jñānī—now he says “the learned” do not fall into worry. The learned do not stand on the level the knower stands on. The learned lives on the plane of logic and technique. The knower lives on the plane of experience. The knower knows; the learned thinks.

But be that so, Krishna says—if you are not ready to be a knower, at least be learned. Do not brood, do not worry. For it is a simple matter that everything is lost; at least you can think this much; it can be grasped by thought that everything is lost, everything perishes. Then do not worry—let it perish. How will you save it? How could you save it? That which is inevitable—that which is inevitable—what will be, will be: at most you are an instrument; consider yourself an instrument. Become learned; be free of worry.

But understand this: Even when Krishna called Arjuna a fool, there was not as much insult as there is now when he calls him learned. When he called him a fool, there was still trust in him. There was still hope that he could be pulled up to the peak. Seeing him now, that hope slips away. Now he offers him the temptation of being learned. He says: At least you are intelligent. And for the intelligent there is no reason to worry, because an intelligent person proceeds on the assumption that things are made and perish; nothing remains; the matter ends.

On the way here my driver said to me: “Krishna insults Arjuna a lot! Sometimes he calls him a fool, sometimes he calls him a eunuch; this is not right.”

Now he is giving him great respect. He says, “O mighty-armed, O Bhārata, the learned are free of sorrow. You too are learned.” But I tell you, the insult is now. When he called him a fool, it was said with great hope—that perhaps this spark, this shock—it was proper shock treatment, a big jolt. Krishna even makes him rather angry. But Arjuna does not even get angry. He doesn’t even hear what is being said; he goes on with his own litany. So now, in utter despair, Krishna speaks thus.

Such ups and downs will occur often in the Gita. Sometimes hope rises in Krishna; then he speaks high truths. Sometimes despair comes; then he comes down again. Therefore, many things Krishna says here are not said all on one plane. Krishna too speaks from many steps of consciousness. From anywhere at all—but he makes tireless effort that Arjuna, from anywhere at all, sets out on the journey that brings nectar and light into his experience.

Āścaryavat paśyati kaścid enam
āścaryavad vadati tathaiva cānyaḥ.
Āścaryavac cainam anyaḥ śṛṇoti
śrutvāpy enaṁ veda na caiva kaścit. 29.
Among millions of men, whoever knows this is a marvel; whoever hears of this soul is also a marvel; whoever expounds it is also a marvel. And many, even after hearing, do not know it at all.

It is a very wonderful statement. First, Krishna says: Whoever moves in the direction of the soul by any path is a wonder—a miracle. In any direction, whoever turns toward the soul is a miracle. Because among millions upon millions, rarely does anyone ever lift his eyes to that height. Otherwise our eyes remain stuck in the earth; they never look toward the sky. They remain entangled in lowliness; our eyes never take flight toward the heights. We never spread our wings toward the sky. Among millions upon millions, rarely one person...

Perhaps the greatest wonder in this world is that someone becomes eager and thirsty to know himself. It should not be so—but it is so. “Who am I?”—no one even asks this. It should be the foundational question for everyone. One who has not yet asked, “Who am I?”, what meaning is there in asking anything else? And one who has not yet known who he is—he goes off to know other things? One whose own house is full of darkness and who has not lit a lamp there—there should be no one more surprising than him.

But Krishna makes a great jest; it is a very ironical statement. He says: Arjuna, it is a great wonder that among millions upon millions one person sets out to inquire about the soul. But then he adds something even more amusing:

He says: But the soul is not obtained by thinking, understanding, reflecting—not by ideas. One wonder is that rarely does anyone even think about it. But even the one who thinks does not find it. It is found only by one who, thinking and thinking, goes beyond thought. Who, thinking and thinking, arrives where thought itself says, “Enough—beyond this I cannot move.”

Among millions, one begins to think. And among those who think, rarely one goes beyond the limits of thought. And without going beyond thought, there is no experience. Because the being of the soul precedes thought. The soul is behind and beyond thought. Thought is waves, ripples rising on the surface of the soul. Thought is the gusts of wind running on the surface of the soul. The soul cannot be known by thought; thoughts can be known by the soul. Because thought is above; the soul is behind. Thought can be known from the soul; the soul cannot be known from thought. I can grasp this handkerchief with my hand, but I cannot grasp my hand with this handkerchief. The hand is behind; thought is very much on the surface.

There is a world outside, of objects; it is outer. Then there is a world within, of thoughts; but that too is outside. We are behind even that. Without us, it cannot be; without it, we can be. At night, when we are in very deep sleep—suṣupti—then no thought remains, but you remain. In the morning you say, “There was no dream, there was no thought; the sleep was very deep.” But you were. You can be without thought, but thought can never be without you. That which is behind can know thought, but thoughts cannot know that.

Yet we try to know by thought. First, we do not even try to know—we try to know objects. From objects, somehow one in millions becomes free, and then he gets entangled in thoughts. Because after objects, there is the world of thought. If someone becomes free of thought too, then he can know himself.

So Krishna says: By contemplation, reflection, study, discourse—it is not known. He adds another interesting thing: It is a wonder that someone explains and expounds about the soul.

It is a wonder first because who needs the soul? Who will listen to the discourse? No one’s necessity. In the marketplace only that which someone needs can be sold. No one needs the soul. Therefore whoever dares to preach about the soul is an utter madman. To sell something for which no customer is ready!

Krishna himself must be aware that Arjuna is not asking for it; he is supplying what is not demanded. The poor man is asking for something else. He asks for escape, for a way to flee, for consolation. He says, “Get me out of this tangle somehow.” He is not talking about the soul. No one needs that. Therefore it is a wonder that someone sets out to sell the soul!

But some are eccentric; they even explain the soul. That is one wonder—that no one is ready to understand...

I was reading the life of a Christian bishop, a precious man. There was a conference of Christian priests from all over Europe. In that conference he asked them: “I want to ask you: when you speak in church, people only look bored. Most seem asleep. No one seems to enjoy it. People keep looking at their watches. What is the reason?” Those bishops could not answer. Then the ascetic who had asked said himself: “I think the reason is that you are answering questions that no one is asking—questions that are no one’s questions.”

The first wonder is that someone dares to explain the soul—courageous indeed to open a shop for the soul when no customer should be expected. And the second wonder is that the soul is such a reality that it cannot be explained. There is no way to explain it.

Therefore, Krishna, Kabir, Buddha, Mohammed, Nanak—their trouble, their entanglement is very deep. They have known something which they would like everyone to know, which they would like to share with all, that the rain of bliss and the ocean of nectar that have descended into them may descend into all. But explaining is very difficult. Words are useless. That which is not known by thought—how will you express it by thought? And that which is known only when words are left behind—how will you reveal it in words? So it is a wonder also because it cannot be said—and yet it must be said, and it has been said.

Therefore another absurd, incongruent event has occurred in the world: Buddha says, “It cannot be said,” and yet no one speaks as much as Buddha speaks. And Krishna says, “It cannot be explained,” and yet he goes on explaining. And Mahavira says, “It is beyond speech, beyond words,” but even that has to be said by speech and words.

Wittgenstein wrote in his Tractatus: “That which cannot be said must not be said.” But if Krishna, Buddha, and Mahavira accepted Wittgenstein’s dictum, this world would be very poor—very mean and destitute.

So I would say: That which cannot be said must be said. It cannot be said—this is certain. But even in the pain of not being able to say it, something will be sensed, something will be communicated. Even in the trouble that it cannot be said, something outside the words, beyond the words, between the lines, will be conveyed. This is the effort ongoing.

Music is not only in the notes; music is also in the silence between two notes. Not only is that said which is said in words; that too is said which happens in the silence between two words, in the emptiness. Not only is that heard which is heard through words; that too can be heard which is outside the words, around them, left over nearby.

So Krishna says: It is a miracle, a wonder.

We will continue in the evening.