Geeta Darshan #1

Life is a mystery. Not like a mathematical puzzle that yields to effort and calculation. Mystery is not some accidental trait of life; mystery is the very nature of life. Life is mystery itself.

Much is unknown—unknown in the sense that it can be known: if not today, then tomorrow; what is not known today may be known tomorrow. That which can at any time be known does not deserve the name mystery.

By mystery is meant that which can never be known, that which is unknowable. There is a deep longing to know it; life runs toward it; there is a thirst to meet it—and yet all our labors, all our desires, all our aspirations and thirsts prove vain. We come near; we touch it; and still we do not know it.

By the unknowable I mean that which, even when somehow recognized, cannot be claimed as “I have known it.” About such unknown, such unknowable, Krishna says there are utterances he calls supreme utterances. The precious word here is supreme utterance. Let us understand it a little.

Krishna says, O mighty-armed, even so, listen to my supreme utterance, which I will speak for your welfare, out of great love for you.

Ordinarily, when we read the phrase supreme utterance, nothing special stirs in the mind; hence its special significance is missed. There is an utterance we call a true statement; there is an utterance we call a false statement. What then is a supreme utterance? If we consult a lexicon, it will say a supreme utterance is a true statement. But that is not accurate. A true statement is one that can have a false counter-statement.

A supreme utterance is one for which no opposing statement is possible, one to which there can be no counter-claim. First point.

What seems true today may be false tomorrow. What seems false today may, through inquiry, be found true tomorrow. That is why science, which today proclaims something as true, is often compelled to call it false later. What was truth for Newton was not truth for Einstein; and what is truth for Einstein will not be the truth of the coming century. No scientist today can say that the truths we announce will remain true forever.

Truths can become false. Falsehoods, when discovered and verified, can turn into truths.

A supreme utterance is one we can neither call true nor call false. Because what we can call true may well become false tomorrow—because of us. A supreme utterance lies beyond our categories of true and false; we will never be able to pronounce decisively upon it.

Those familiar with modern thought will know that Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein, A. J. Ayer, and others in the West have called precisely those utterances that Krishna names supreme—nonsense, meaningless utterances. Ayer worked hard to establish that some statements are meaningless, nonsensical.

He calls meaningless those statements that can be proved neither true nor false; for which no evidence can be given, either pro or con. If someone says, “God exists,” Ayer, Wittgenstein, and Russell will say this statement is meaningless. For it has not been proved that God exists, nor has it been proved that he does not. And man has no means to test the truth or falsity of this claim—no method of verification.

A statement for which there is no method of verification can be called neither true nor false. Falsehood means it has been tested and found wanting; truth means it has been tested and found valid.

But for the statement “God exists,” no decisive evidence has been gathered either way. The theist keeps declaring, “God is”; the atheist keeps declaring, “God is not.” The theists’ arguments do not affect the atheists, nor the atheists’ arguments the theists. Sometimes the theist becomes an atheist and the atheist a theist—but the statements stand where they stood.

Kahlil Gibran wrote a small story. In a village there lived a great theist and a great atheist. The whole village was harassed because the theist would persuade people that God is, and the atheist would persuade them that he is not. Finally the village asked them to reach a decision, so their trouble might end.

On a full-moon night the village organized a debate. The atheist and the theist offered powerful arguments. The theist argued so forcefully that it was hard to refute him. The atheist refuted so effectively that the very legs of theism began to wobble. All night the debate went on, and it was very consequential: the theist’s proofs proved so persuasive that by dawn the atheist had become a theist; and the atheist’s logic proved so compelling that by dawn the theist had become an atheist. The village’s trouble continued! The village still had a great theist and a great atheist.

To this day nothing has been established by the statements of theists and atheists. It is not proved that God is; it is not proved that God is not. And there is no touchstone by which we can test who is right. Therefore Ayer and his fellow philosophers say such statements are nonsense—they yield no meaning; they are meaningless. So Ayer says: neither “God is” is a true statement, nor is it a false statement. It is neither. It is a futile utterance.

Krishna calls precisely this a supreme utterance. We must understand Krishna’s intent. If Ayer and Wittgenstein are right, Krishna’s word is a meaningless word. But Krishna calls it supreme. And he says to Arjuna: out of love for you and for your welfare I will speak some supreme utterances—listen.

Let us divide it thus. A true statement is one for which evidence from reality can be supplied. If I say, fire burns the hand, that is a true statement. You can put your hand in fire and you will get evidence whether fire burns or not. If I say, fire is cool, you can put your hand in it and see that the statement is false. Because fire is not cool; verification, apart from the statement, is available.

Ayer says there is a third kind of statement; all religious and metaphysical statements, by his reckoning, are futile because no evidence for them can be found. By Krishna’s reckoning those utterances are supreme, for although no evidence is available within the world of ordinary experience, if one is ready to enter another dimension, evidence is found. They are not unverifiable in principle.

For a blind man, “There is light” will be an unverifiable statement, because no proof can be mustered before him that light is or is not. The blind man will agree with Ayer and say, “This utterance is futile, for you can give no proof either for or against it.” He is ready—if light exists—to touch it with his hands, hear it with his ears, taste it with his tongue. He is ready to examine with whatever senses he has, if only proof can be had through them.

But hands cannot touch light, yet light is. Ears cannot hear light, yet light is. The tongue cannot taste light, yet light is. The nostrils cannot smell light, yet light is. With these four senses the blind man can obtain no proof; how will he agree that the statement is not futile? That proof cannot be gathered within the blind man’s limits does not make the thing false. It may simply mean the blind man’s limits are very narrow. Those limits can be widened. His eyes can be healed. Once the eyes are healed, proof of light is immediate.

Our difficulty is that by nature we are all blind. The eye with which the supreme truth of life can be experienced is present in all, but closed. When even a single person’s inner eye opens, the proof is proof only for him; it is not proof for the rest.

We have seen Meera dancing; but Meera looks mad to us. For we only see Meera’s dance; we do not see that at which she is gazing as she dances. We have heard Kabir singing; but we only hear Kabir’s songs, not the one whose touch gave birth to song within him. We have seen Buddha become silent, utterly still—such stillness as rarely descends upon the earth. But what did he see that stilled him, what arrested his mind into silence—we have no inkling.

Thus, when an eye opens within someone among us, he begins to appear blind among the blind—because we have mistaken our blindness for sight. Whoever is different from us appears blind to us.

In Krishna’s vision, supreme utterances are those that cannot be verified in our present state, but whose verification is possible if we are willing to change our state. A supreme utterance means: if we insist on remaining as we are and still demand proof, none will be forthcoming; if we consent to transform, proof will be given.

Two things must be kept in mind here.

Science does not consider it necessary to change the man. Science assumes that as man is, truth can be found. Science changes things, breaks things down, analyzes them. To discover the atom took two thousand years. From Heraclitus to Einstein, for two millennia the contemplation, research, and fission of the atom went on—and only then did we come to know the atom’s truth. Two thousand years we labored with the object.

Science labors upon the object; religion labors upon the person. Science says: bring the object into a condition where truth will be disclosed. Religion says: bring the person into a condition where he becomes capable of seeing truth.

All of science’s effort is with the object; all of religion’s effort is with the subject. Change the person, and truth will be known. Science says: understand the object, and truth will be known. Naturally, science is the search for matter; religion is the search for consciousness.

Krishna says: these are supreme utterances. Supreme means, Arjuna, if you change, you will know their proof. First point. Whether these utterances are true or false will be decided by Arjuna’s transformation. As he is now, he can say nothing decisive about them.

Therefore religion has made faith foundational. For there is no other way but to proceed by accepting these supreme utterances.

A Sufi parable comes to mind. A small river set out to meet the ocean. Rivers may be small or great, but the thirst to meet the ocean is the same in both. Even a little spring is as eager to unite with the sea as the mighty Ganga. The very meaning of a river’s existence is union with the ocean.

The river was running toward the sea, but it lost its way in a desert, a vast wilderness. Reaching the ocean began to seem vain, and the river’s life was imperiled. The sand started drinking the river. It would move a few steps and vanish, leaving only damp sand behind.

The river was terrified. What would become of the dream of reaching the sea? Crying out, it asked the desert sand, “Will I never be able to reach the ocean? This desert seems endless, and before I move even a few steps, the sand swallows my water, my life dries up! Will I reach the sea or not?”

The sand said, “There is a way. Look up—the whirlwinds are racing across the sky. If you too become like the winds, you will reach the ocean. But if you try to reach as a river, the desert is vast; it will drink you up. After thousands of years of effort, you will be nothing more than a swamp. To reach the ocean will be very difficult. Take to the journey of the wind.”

The river said, “Are you mad, O sand? I am a river; I cannot fly in the sky!” The sand said, “If you consent to vanish, there is a way to fly. If you evaporate, become vapor, the winds will carry you; they will become your vehicle and bring you to the sea.”

The river said, “Vanish? I want to meet the ocean while remaining myself—not by disappearing. What joy is there in merging by dying? If I vanish and yet reach the sea, what is the point? I wish to reach the sea while remaining, while surviving.”

Hearing this, the sand said, “Then there is no way. All who have ever reached the ocean have not done so without vanishing. Whoever tried to save himself was lost in the desert. I have seen rivers lost in the sands—and I have seen some ascend into the sky and reach the sea. Consent to vanish. You do not yet know that only by vanishing will you truly become the ocean.”

But how could the river trust? It said, “This is not my experience. I cannot muster the courage to vanish. And even if I vanish and meet the ocean—will ‘I’ remain in the ocean? Will I survive? What guarantee is there? How can I have faith? How can I accept what I have not experienced?”

The desert sand replied, “There are only two ways. Either you have the experience, and then acceptance comes of itself; or you accept, and the journey to experience begins. Experience you do not have—and without first accepting that by vanishing you will still remain, you will never have the experience. Accept it now, in faith.”

A supreme utterance is that which we have not experienced, yet for which we thirst. We are unacquainted with it, yet our heart yearns for it. We have not known it, yet we must seek it. For that which we deeply desire, at some moment we must take a step into the unknown, into the unknowable.

Arjuna is like a river. He knows nothing yet. He is filled with the urge to know an unknown truth for which he has no experience. He is seeking the supreme secret, asking, inquiring—without any inner proof. Hence Krishna says to him: I speak to you supreme utterances.

A second meaning of supreme utterance: Arjuna, for now you must accept by faith. As you are, your intellect will not suffice. If you accept in faith and set out on the journey of transformation, you too will know. What I am saying is true—but that truth will be experienced only by your transformed consciousness. As you are, you can have no relation with it. So a supreme utterance must be accepted in faith.

And a third meaning—if we take this in, the aphorism will become easy to grasp.

The third, ultimate meaning of supreme utterance is: that utterance which does not change with time, which is unaltered by temporal conditions. All our truths are temporal; when time changes, they must change. Our truths are bound by the conditions of time. But is there a truth unbound by time? No matter how much time changes, no matter how much life transforms, it remains untouched.

You have seen an ox-cart moving on the road. The wheel turns and turns; its very task is to turn every moment. But at the center of that wheel there is a peg, a pin, which stands still, which does not move. The wheel may go on for miles; the pin remains where it is. The pin is still—and the wonder is that the wheel’s very turning depends on that stillness. If the pin too starts turning, the wheel will collapse and stop at once. The wheel turns because the pin is still. There is a deep pact between the pin and the wheel: the wheel’s motion is founded upon the pin’s immobility.

Life changes entirely, like the wheel; hence we have called it samsara. Samsara means the wheel—turning. Life is like a wheel. But is there also a pin in this wheel of the world?

The Indian sages experienced that wherever there is change, at its base there must be something changeless. Wherever there is motion, at the center there must be something still. Wherever there is storm, there must be some single point within where there is supreme peace. For life is impossible without opposites. If there is birth, there will be death. If there is motion, there will be something unmoving. If there is a wheel, there will be a pin.

The opposite is indispensable. Whether it is visible or not, whether we understand it or not—the opposite is indispensable. Without it, life’s play has no way to be.

A supreme utterance is that which remains when all truths change—when philosophies and religions change, doctrines change, currents of thought change—yet it remains unmoved, unaffected. Such utterances Krishna wishes to speak to Arjuna.

There is another precious thing in this aphorism: I shall speak to you, who love me exceedingly, out of a wish for your welfare.

Supreme truths can be spoken only to those who are filled with great love. A deep sympathy, an intimate resonance is needed. For petty matters, no sympathy is required. The deeper the matter to be spoken, the deeper the relationship must be. Between two people, the deeper the bond, the deeper the truths that can be communicated. Truth-telling does not depend only on the one who speaks; it depends just as much on the one who listens.

Krishna could speak these truths to Arjuna because there was a profound friendship and deep love between them. These very truths cannot be told to just anyone. When truth is spoken, speaker and listener must both be in a harmony where truth can be said—and heard. Love is the door through which deep things can be shared.

Only the East has understood this secret. In the West there are teachers; the guru is the East’s own flowering. A guru is not merely a teacher. Here lies the difference between guru and teacher. A teacher is not concerned whether there is any relationship with the student or not. He will say what he has to say; it is one-way traffic.

The teacher teaches in school or university. Whether the student listens with sympathy, with reverence; whether he listens or not—these things are immaterial. The teacher speaks as if to a wall. It is a professional, commercial utterance. He has no concern with the other; he is concerned with speaking. He will say what he has to say.

This is the difference between a guru and a teacher. A guru can speak only when the listener is ready—open, unguarded, with the doors of the heart not shut. When the listener is not merely hearing, but is filled with the aspiration, the hunger to be transformed. When the listener has come not only in search of truth, but also drawn by the love of the person.

Remember: where there is no love, no inner relationship, no intimacy, truths cannot be spoken.

A young man once came to Mahavira, wanting to know what truth is. Mahavira said, “Live with me for some days. Before I speak to you, it is necessary that you become linked with me.”
A year passed, and the young man again asked, “When will you tell me that Truth?” Mahavira said, “I am continually trying to tell it, but there is no bridge between me and you. Forget your question—and forget yourself. Try to connect with me. And remember, the day you are connected, that day you will not need to ask what Truth is—I will tell you.”
Many more years went by. The young man was transformed. A fragrance of another world entered his life. Flowers of a different kind bloomed in his soul. One day Mahavira asked him, “You have stopped asking about Truth for many years now?” The young man said, “There is no longer any need to ask. When I was connected, I heard.” Then Mahavira said to his disciples, “There was a time he asked and I could not say. And now a time has come when I have not said, yet he has heard!”

The tradition of Mahavira says that he did not proclaim his deepest truths through speech; he did not say them in words. Those who could hear, heard; Mahavira did not utter them.

This is very strange. The converse is also true: those who cannot hear—no matter how much Mahavira speaks—they still cannot hear. Listening is a great art.

That is why Krishna says, “I will tell you, because you are overflowing with love—excessive love!” Not ordinary love. Excessive love—so much love that one goes mad in love.

Without that divine madness, the event we call inner communion does not happen. If love remains clever, it never happens. If love calculates like mathematics, it never happens. When love happens, it is excessive.

A curious thing: in love there is no middle state; there are only extremes. Either there is no love at all—one extreme—or, if there is love, it is utterly mad—the other extreme. In love there is no middle. Hence so-called wise men are often deprived of love. No midpoint exists there.

Confucius said, “I call that man wise who abides in the middle.” Confucius once entered a village. On the road he met a villager. Confucius asked, “Who is the wisest person in your village?” The man named someone. “Why do you consider him wise?” asked Confucius. The villager replied, “Because before he takes one step, he thinks three times. So the village calls him wise.” Confucius said, “I would not call him wise. He who thinks only once is less wise; he who thinks three times has gone to the other extreme. Twice is enough—stop in the middle.”

A wise man should stop in the middle. But in love there is no middle; therefore the so-called wise miss love. In love there is excess. Confucius himself cannot love. In love there is no middle: either this shore, or the other.

So Krishna says, “Your love for me is excessive; therefore I will tell you.” Excessive—to the extreme, to the final limit where it becomes excess.

When love is excessive, thinking stops. And where thinking stops, inner dialogues become possible. As long as thinking continues, doubt operates.

If Krishna is to speak the supreme word, Arjuna needs a state in which thinking ceases—where Arjuna surely hears, but does not think; where Arjuna is open, but the clouds of thought are not within; where Arjuna is eager, but has no fixed notions; where he has no personal doctrines, no private understanding left.

One becomes a disciple only when one realizes that one’s own understanding will not suffice. Only then surrender happens—surrender happens in that excessive moment.

Krishna says, “Because of your excessive love I will tell you the supreme word. And I will say it for your welfare.” Understand this a little.

There are truths that can be spoken which do not benefit anyone. There are truths that can harm. There are truths that can be discovered which are unwholesome. Science is discovering many such truths that bring harm and are bringing harm. Thoughtful scientists in the West have begun to consider that not all truths are beneficial. Therefore, that something is true is not sufficient.

And Friedrich Nietzsche said a very unique thing: often untruths can be beneficial. If not all truths are beneficial, the converse may also be true: untruths may sometimes be beneficial. Nietzsche also said: the present grotesque state of modern man’s mind is due to our blind pursuit of truth without discerning what is wholesome and what is unwholesome. Truth is not valuable in itself. Truth too is a device, a means—an instrument to reach somewhere.

Krishna says: “I will tell you that truth from which man’s supreme well-being flowers—for your welfare.”

This is worth pondering. We usually assume that truth is beneficial in itself. Many of us use truth in ways that harm others. That is not enough. Auspiciousness must be kept in view. Therefore Krishna will speak only that truth which is auspicious for Arjuna, which can transform his life.

The ultimate criterion of truth is bliss. Understand this carefully. One criterion of truth is logic—that which can be demonstrated by reason. The supreme criterion is bliss—that from which bliss arises is truth.

Buddha said: that which carries you to the ultimate state is truth. We know no other criterion. “We call it a boat if it can carry us to the other shore. We know no other criterion.” It may be that what seems right by logic binds you to this shore. Will what seems right by reason be able to carry you across? And it may be that what seems wrong to this-shore logic becomes the boat to the other.

Buddha said: the question is not what you believe; the question is what you become by believing it. The question is not your path; the question is what destination you reach by it. Path in itself is meaningless—destination! Logic in itself is meaningless—realization! And truth in itself is not meaningful—bliss!

Krishna says, “Out of concern for your welfare, out of the wish for your good, I will speak.” My purpose is not to say truth for its own sake, nor to prove it. I will speak from the vision that your welfare, your benediction, your bliss may flower.

Here religion and ordinary thinking part ways. A man asks, “Is there God—is it true?” Another asks, “Is there liberation—is it true?” That is not the question. The question is: look at the faces and into the eyes of those who spoke of liberation. Look at the fragrance and the radiance of those who said “God is.” And look at the darkness that descends around those who said “There is no God.”

Whether God’s existence is true or not is not so important. He who lives from the vision “God is” carries a different fragrance; another kind of world appears around him; wings grow; he begins to fly in another sky.

It is not a question whether what Buddha said is logically right or wrong. Buddha’s being is sufficient proof. It is not a question whether Nietzsche’s statements are right or wrong. Nietzsche’s being is sufficient proof.

Nietzsche said many logical things; yet his life ended in a madhouse. Perhaps in human history it is hard to find someone more ruthlessly logical in his search for truth than Nietzsche. Yet his end was an asylum; his life a long saga of sorrow, sadness, pain—nothing but anguish. Shall we look at Nietzsche’s logic, or shall we look at Nietzsche?

Shall we examine whether what Krishna said is logical, or shall we look at Krishna—and Krishna’s flute? Only by looking at Nietzsche and Krishna together does it become clear that even truth is purposive. All doctrines are purposive: do they serve man’s good, man’s benediction, or not?

So Krishna says, “I will speak this supreme word for your welfare.”

O Arjuna, neither gods nor great seers know my origin—my manifestation through lila with my powers—because I am in all ways the primal cause of gods and seers as well.

Neither the gods know my origin, nor the seers know my powers, my truth!

A very astonishing statement. It can be understood only with supreme reverence. Not even the gods know—and those whom we call knowers, the great rishis, they too do not know my origin. Why not? Three points.

First: whatever is the fundamental ground of this world—no one can know that ground, because it is prior to everyone else’s being. Before the gods, it was; before the seers, it was.

With my eyes I can see everything—but not my own eyes. With this fist I can grasp everything—but not this fist itself.

What is primordial, the source from which even gods and seers arise; from which all arise and into which all subside—its birth, its being, its root cause no one can see. There is no way. Its own statement is the only statement; and there is no way to accept that statement except through trust.

We call one a rishi who knows. But the meaning of Krishna’s aphorism is: even those who know do not know. Then the term rishi must take on a more secret meaning. Those who think they are knowers are not rishis. Only those who come to the experience “I know nothing”—some Socrates, some seer of the Upanishads who says “I know nothing”—perhaps only he has known a little.

No one can know, because we are all parts of That. The ocean can know the drop; but how will the drop know the ocean? The leaves are bound to the roots, but how will they know the roots? If the leaves want to know the seed from which the tree arose—how will they know it? That from which all has come will remain unknown, unknowable.

Neither gods nor seers know my origin, because I am the primal cause of gods and seers too.

All divinity is my form, and all knowledge is my knowledge. My knowledge cannot turn back and know me—just as my eye cannot turn back and see my eye. The eye can do one thing: it can see itself in a mirror. Yet what appears in the mirror is not the eye—only a reflection. What the seers have known is a reflection of the Divine, not the Divine. What the gods worship is the Divine’s reflection, not the Divine.

The day even reflections fall away, the day the knower forgets himself—the day the knower is no more—on that day! But on that day the seer is no longer a seer; the god is no longer a god; the wave is lost in the ocean and becomes the ocean.

Krishna is not a rishi—and this is why. He is not a knower; nor is Krishna a god in himself. Krishna has set himself aside in the Supreme; the Supreme is expressing through him.

Let me tell you, in this context, a very curious thing—which has caused much controversy in the world.

Hindus consider the Vedas the word of God. Islam holds the Quran is ilham, revelation—directly revealed. Christians too hold the Bible to be a divine, spiritual book. But they cannot properly establish what this claim really means. Those who try to prove it collect childish arguments, which are not hard to refute.

Those who say the Vedas are God’s book are not hard to refute, because the things in the Vedas are thoroughly human—human utterances. The Quran too contains statements that feel human—deeply intelligent, yet still human. So with the Bible. There is not a single statement that a human being could not utter. Any statement a human could utter. None compels us to conclude it is divine.

They are the statements of supremely intelligent people, supreme talents—but there appears no reason to call them divine. Therefore critics can easily argue against them. Yet the reason to call them divine is of another kind—and it lies in this aphorism.

Any statement about the fundamental ground of this world must come from the world’s very ground itself; it cannot be given by another. If another gives it, that statement will be false.

Existence itself is the statement about itself. Only if God himself speaks is it meaningful. If a mighty wave speaks about the ocean, its statement will be partial—and it will belong to the wave.

What is the reason behind the insistence that the Vedas, the Bible, the Quran are divine? This: those who journey by living these words one day have their wave-hood erased—and only the ocean remains. Those who travel by trusting these utterances are themselves erased, and only God remains.

Those who called them divine meant only this: if one lives these words, one ultimately goes beyond the limits of man and human-ness. And when the final hour of these words is attained, the person is no longer present; the drop is lost, only the ocean remains. The statements through which the drop ultimately disappears and only the ocean remains—those statements cannot be the drop’s. They must be the ocean’s—because how could the drop know?

But here is our difficulty. If we read the Quran, the Bible, or the Vedas, we read them as we are—without any inner journey. We can read the Vedas sitting in an armchair. Without undergoing transformation, without any alchemy, without turning our rough stone into a diamond, we read as we are—and those statements appear merely human. Because we can only read what our capacity allows; what lies beyond our capacity falls outside our horizon.

In Sufi literature there are books where each text has seven meanings. When a Sufi guide initiates a seeker, he has him read a short book called The Book of the Book. He tells the seeker, “Write down its meaning—whatever you understand.” Then six months of practice pass. The same little book is read again, and the seeker is asked to write its meaning now. Previous meanings are not shown. But because he has traveled through inner states, he writes differently. This is done seven times—seven stages of meditation, and seven readings, seven meanings. When all seven are complete, the seeker is given his seven meanings and asked, “Can you believe these are all yours?” He himself cannot believe it. Yet the same man drew seven meanings from the same book!

We extract less than we project. When we read the Vedas, we do not read the Vedas—we read ourselves through them. The meaning that appears is what we are. When we change and then read, another meaning appears. When we reach that place where the ego dissolves and only the Divine remains, then the meaning is altogether different.

Those who have completed the seven steps of meditation have known: the statements in the Quran are not Mohammed’s. The statements in the Vedas are not the rishis’. The statements in the Bible have no origin in man. They are from beyond the human. But something comes from beyond only when man consents to dissolve and become a door.

So Krishna says, “Neither rishis know me nor gods, for I am their primal cause, older than they.” And whoever knows me as unborn, beginningless, the great Lord of the worlds—he, among men, the wise, becomes free from all sins.

Then what is to be done? If even the great sages do not know, the knowers do not know, the divine ones do not know—what is to be done? How to know the Supreme?

Krishna says: “He who knows me as unborn…”

Now the difficult thing begins. Faith is tested where the difficult begins—utterly difficult, even impossible.

The Christian mystic Tertullian said, “I believe in God because He is impossible.” His devotees asked, “Are you sane?” Tertullian replied, “If God were possible, there would be no need to believe. I do not ‘believe’ the sun—because the sun is possible. I do not ‘believe’ the sky—because it is. I believe in God because His being is an impossibility to the intellect.” When the intellect accepts the impossible, the intellect breaks and becomes a void. Colliding with the impossible, thought is destroyed. With the acceptance of the impossible, the ego has no place to stand. Here begins the impossible. You have often read this in the Gita, yet perhaps it never occurred to you it is impossible.

“And he who knows me as unborn,” Krishna says—unborn, never born; beginningless, without any start—he who thus knows me in essence, that God—such a man among men, the wise, becomes free of all sins.

This is extremely difficult. Let us understand it a little.

Religious people commonly argue: “God exists—because if He didn’t, who made the world?” Theists think they are offering a deep argument. It is childish. “If God does not exist, who made the world? Even to make a small pot, a potter is needed; if there is a pot, there must be a potter. Without making, a pot cannot come into being. And such a vast, orderly world cannot arise without a maker.” Perhaps they argue thus because their mind is unwilling to accept that the world could be unmade. But one step further, trouble begins. The atheist asks, “If the world cannot be without being made, then who made your God?” And the ground slips from under the theist. Often he becomes angry—because the theist is weak. He says, “No one made God.” But then his own logic dies. The atheist replies, “If you accept that something can be without a maker, why not the world? If you must stop somewhere, why not stop at the world, and not insert a God in between?” This will trouble you.

Krishna says: only he will be freed from ignorance who knows me as unborn. He who accepts of me that I have no birth—and yet I am; that I have no beginning—and yet I am.

Therefore the naive theist will stumble, because his entire logical framework is: if something is, it must have a maker. We have even coined words: God as “Creator”—which are wrong.

God is not a maker; God is existence. He is That which is. Apart from Him, nothing is. What we see is not separate from God; it is His expression, His part, His portion. A wave is a portion of the ocean. After a while it will again be the ocean—and again a wave. The wave is not separate from the ocean.

This “creation”… our very word brings difficulty. We have come to call it “creation,” “made.” What appears around us as nature is a part of the Divine. It is as unborn as the Divine is unborn.

But can something be without being made? Can something be without beginning? We know ourselves as having a beginning—birth—and an end—death. In our experience, everything begins and ends. Do you know any experience that has no beginning and no end? None in our ordinary experience. Hence the intellect finds this aphorism hard to accept.

Unborn, beginningless—he who thus knows me, he among men is wise and becomes free of all sins.

This is a different kind of knowing. The more we think, the more it appears that everything begins somewhere and ends somewhere. We look within and find no proof that we were before birth, or that we will be after death.

Zen masters in Japan tell seekers: “Meditate—and find the face you had before you were born—the original face. Search in meditation: before you were born, what was your form? When you die, what will you be?”

Only when a seeker finds within that thread which was before birth and remains after death can he understand this aphorism.

No—the existence has no beginning and no end. It cannot. Scientists accept that we cannot destroy even a grain of sand. We can break it, transform it, change its form—but annihilation is impossible. Nor can we create even a new grain of sand. The quantitative state of the universe remains exactly what it is; it never truly increases or decreases. To increase would mean something emerges from nothing; to decrease would mean something falls back into nothing. But outside the universe there is no state, no space, no means.

“God” means the Totality. The religious name of the whole existence is God. What science calls existence, nature—religion calls the Divine.

Krishna says: he who becomes capable of knowing me as unborn, beginningless, goes beyond all sin.

But why? If you come to know that God has no beginning and no end, how are you freed from sin? Strange. I am a thief, a cheat, a killer. Even if I realize that God has no birth and no end, why should I be beyond sin? What is the connection between this knowing and the dissolution of sin? More intricate, but very significant.

As soon as I know that God has no beginning and no end, I also come to know that I have no beginning and no end. I also come to know that you have no beginning and no end. Then the murders I have committed—or those committed upon me; the sins I have done—or those done to me—become valueless. In an eternal world their status is no more than a play. They are no more than performance, drama.

If I remain after death, and I was before birth, then those things we value so much become valueless. Life is then like a stage drama. On stage the Ramayana plays: on stage Sita is lost, and Rama beats his chest, asking the trees, “Where is Sita?” Behind the curtain, the actors chat and forget Sita and the tears. Why?

If the stage were all—and there were no Rama before the stage, and no Rama after—then life would become terribly real. But there is Rama before the stage, and Rama after the stage. Being Rama on stage is a role, a lila; and Rama’s true continuity, his inner being, is beginningless and endless. How many plays will there be—how many Sitas will be lost—how many wars fought! But their value is no more than drama.

Hence we called the whole game Ramleela. We called it leela—play—very knowingly. Krishna’s life we called Krishnaleela. Leela means: its value is no more than play.

A wave rises in the ocean, in the winds—leaping, dancing, racing to meet the sun; then it falls and disappears. Many times it has risen before; many times it will rise again. If the wave knows, “When I had not arisen, I still was—and when I fall, I still will be,” then the wave’s being becomes a play. The weight, the heaviness, the burden dissolves. To disappear is a joy; to be is a joy; to not-be is also a joy—because even in not-being we are not lost, and in being we are not new. There is a continuity—a continuum.

This is a scientific word—Einstein used it: continuum, continuity. Things eternally are. Therefore the forms that appear today lose ultimate value. Then sin has no value, and virtue has no value. What I do has no value; what I am—that alone has value. What is done to me has no value. Being—being is precious; doing is not.

Therefore Krishna says: he who knows this continuity—who knows my unborn, beginningless, endlessness—he goes beyond all sin.

But don’t fall into the mistake: “I want to be free of sin, so let me believe that Krishna is beginningless, unborn, God is eternal.” Mere belief will not destroy sin. If you know, sin vanishes. If you adopt the belief to get rid of sin, sin will not vanish.

We all want to destroy sin—but without the light of knowledge in which darkness falls. We want to end sin, but we do not want to kindle the lamp of knowing. So we sit believing: “Yes, there is the light of knowledge; yes, God is unborn.” But everything we do proves we know neither God nor His unborn nature.

Arjuna’s trouble before Krishna is exactly this. Arjuna says: “These are my friends, my loved ones, my kinsmen—how can I cut them down in war? To fight them is great sin. Better I renounce; I abandon all this; I flee, I refrain.”

Krishna says: “Until you see that within these waves there is one ocean—before these waves were, that ocean was; when these waves fall tomorrow, that ocean remains—until you see the unborn, beginningless, your notions of sin and virtue will dissolve the instant you see.”

For the truly wise there is neither sin nor virtue. This does not mean he commits sin—he cannot. Nor does it mean he avoids virtue—he can only be virtuous. The very definition of sin and merit changes in the life of the knower.

Now we call sin that which we should not do—yet we do. And we call virtue what we should do—yet we don’t. When a person experiences the continuity of God, the meanings change. Then what he does is called virtue; what he cannot do is called sin. And what he cannot do—he cannot do even if he tries. And what happens through him—he cannot avoid, even if he tries.

Virtue is inevitability in knowledge. Sin is inevitability in ignorance. Try as you will, in ignorance you cannot escape sin—sin will happen. Try as you will, in knowledge you cannot escape virtue—virtue will happen. What happens in knowledge is called virtue; what happens in ignorance is called sin. Therefore, many things we do in ignorance thinking they are virtuous—are not.

An ignorant man builds a temple to God and thinks he is doing merit. But he neither accounts for the money he extracts nor the methods by which he gets it—exploitation builds the temple, and he thinks, “I am doing good!” And the “virtue” for which you must commit sin—how virtuous can it be?

He builds the temple in God’s name, but fixes his own nameplate. God is secondary; the stone with his name is primary. The temple is built for that stone; an idol is installed inside in honor of that plaque. Where the ego is enthroned, how much virtue can there be?

Whatever the ignorant do—even if they build temples, go on pilgrimages to Mecca, Jerusalem, Kashi—whatever they do will be sin, because of ignorance. However much gilt of virtue they apply, beneath it, if you dig, you will find sin.

Conversely—and this is harder to grasp—the knower, whatever he does, it is virtue. That is why Krishna says: “Forget worrying about fighting; worry about knowledge. If knowledge happens, I tell you—cut down all those standing before you, and no sin will befall. Without knowledge, flee to the forest, do not kill even an ant, place your feet with care—and I tell you, sin alone will happen.”

This supreme knowing comes from experiencing one’s oneness with the continuum.

This aphorism is difficult. The whole chapter will explain it. Hold it in your heart: Krishna is about to speak a supreme word that cannot be understood by intellect or reached by logic. Yes—through love and trust, communion can happen. He speaks for Arjuna’s welfare. Not for the joy of speaking.

There are people who speak for the sake of speaking. They have no concern whether it benefits you. They speak as one scratches an itch. They have to say something—so they say it. You know people: they read the morning paper and then go out seeking someone to tell! Saying is their disease. If shut alone for four days, they will begin talking to the walls. It’s known.

In prison, after some days, inmates begin to talk to the walls. If a spider is up there, they converse with the spider; if a lizard—then with the lizard. If no one is there, they split themselves in two: from one side they pose a question; from the other, they answer.

We all do this. A listener is not always available. As days worsen, listeners are vanishing; no one agrees to listen. The husband wants to say something—wife will not listen. The mother wants to say something—the son will not. The father wants to say something—no one will listen! The listener is becoming rare. Yet one must talk! A disease.

Bertrand Russell wrote a tale of the twenty-first century: in big cities, boards are posted with a strange offer: “If you have anything to say, we are ready to listen. Listening fee: …”

And it is happening. In the West, what is called psychoanalysis is nothing but charging a fee to hear your babble. It goes on for years. Those with money go to a great psychologist three or four times a week, lie on a couch for an hour, and blurt whatever they want. The great psychologist listens quietly. After a year’s babbling the patients feel better—not because of treatment, but because the babble has been emptied—a catharsis. A prestigious, educated person listens devotedly—because you pay him. He listens as if you were revealing the ultimate truth.

In the West, the rich ask each other, “How many times did you undergo psychoanalysis? How long?” Among the wealthy—especially women—status is measured by how many years they spent with what famous psychologist.

And psychoanalysis means only this: the psychologist says, “Lie down on the couch and say whatever comes to mind—free association. Whatever comes!” People return feeling lighter.

There are those who speak because speaking is an illness; something is stuffed inside and must come out. But this never benefits the other.

Krishna says, “I will speak for your welfare.” It is not about the urge to say. Your hour of hearing has come—your heart is ripe—so I will tell you the supreme truth. And that supreme truth will ultimately be an exposition of this aphorism: life is unborn, beginningless. Existence has no beginning and no end. We are no more than small waves in this vastness. Seen against this expanse, our actions remain mere leela, mere play.

Leave out this vastness, and our actions acquire heavy grandeur and false importance. Our vision is so narrow that we fail to see the expanse.

Sit in your small room on your chair—you feel you are an emperor. Step outside. Look at the vast sky, the moon and stars—then your proportion will appear differently. The “emperor” of a tiny room will disappear.

Man is shut in tiny cages—flats, little cells—hence his conceit swells. Bring him under the open sky and he will know his measure.

The vast sky! And what you see is not all—your eye’s weakness sees only that much. The sky is far vaster. Look through a great telescope: the stars you see with the naked eye are nothing. You may think “countless,” but do not be mistaken. With the bare eye one sees no more than four thousand stars—even with excellent sight. You cannot count, so you think “innumerable.” Telescopes have revealed three billion stars so far—and even these are not the boundary. Beyond them, beyond them, beyond them… Scientists now say we will never determine the universe’s edge.

If you glimpse this infinite, how valuable will your room and your kingship in it seem? If you sense this endless expanse, how valuable will your court case over an inch of land with your neighbor seem? It will lose all relevance.

Look back: billions upon billions have lived on this earth. Scientists say that wherever you sit, at least ten people’s graves have been made there—everywhere. If we buried all the dead across the earth, under every inch ten corpses would lie. They too had quarrels, conceit, politics, big disputes over little things. All gone. Today, none of their disputes remain. Tomorrow, none of ours will.

If we experience this continuity, this vastness—where will sin stand? Where will ego stand? Where will “I” stand? All will vanish. And when they vanish, the person does not remain—only the Divine remains.

Enough for today.

But do not get up. Sit for five minutes. For five minutes, merge with our sannyasins’ kirtan; you too merge with them. Clap your hands. Participate in the kirtan. No one will get up. Consider it prasad—and take it with you.