Geeta Darshan #11

The night before last, while speaking on Shiva, I told you that he is the very symbol of death, the power of dissolution. And yet, love and eros are just as deep in his being.

A friend must have been hurt by this; he wrote me a letter: “You did not do well. You linked our revered Lord, Mahadeva, with love and desire.” His letter reached me yesterday. I kept silent yesterday because today this sutra was to come. He also wrote: “But Shankar, Shiva, burned Kama to ashes! How can you speak of desire in him?” Let me answer him briefly, and then turn to today’s sutra.

Desire can be burned only if desire exists; otherwise, what is there to burn? We can reduce to ash only what is present. And here’s the strange thing: only the one in whom desire is so intense that it becomes fire can burn it. A man with a weak, petty craving cannot burn desire. Even desire needs a flame.

And this notion—that the presence of desire demeans a deity—rests on one’s own misunderstanding. For Krishna says in this very sutra: as the origin of life, I am Kama, the god of love. That friend will be in deep trouble now. Then it must have been Krishna whom Shiva burned! And he will be even more pained that Krishna himself declares, “I am Kama.”

But to understand truth, one must be willing to be hurt. If you don’t have the courage to face truth, then better close your eyes to it. Don’t even venture in that direction.

Let me say a few fundamental things, then this sutra will become clear to you. It will seem difficult—not because it is difficult, but because our intelligence is crammed with so many useless notions, so many condemnations, so many deranged ideas.

All arising in life is through kama. The creation of the world is through kama. The formula of creation is kama. Even if Brahma created the world, the scriptures say: a longing arose. Kama was born in Brahma, and only then could creation happen. Whenever anything is born in this world, the seed is kama.

And it’s not only when children are born that this power of kama functions. Something else is born too—a poem is born, a painting is born, a sculpture is shaped. Wherever anyone creates anything, the energy, the power that comes into play is kama. All origination is kama. All creativity is kama.

So those who, without understanding this truth, set themselves against kama end up with a life that is inert, barren, a long slow death. Everything arises out of kama.

But that does not mean everything ends in kama. One can go beyond kama—but one goes beyond by passing through kama; that higher creation too proceeds along the very path of kama, transformed.

What is kamavasana—sexual craving—and what is the meaning of Kama Deva?

Perhaps among all the religions of the earth, Hinduism alone has had the courage to include kama in its vision of life. That takes great daring. Ordinarily, religions are hostile to sex. We cannot even imagine a Christian supreme being saying, “I am Kama Deva.” We cannot imagine any Jain doctrine permitting God to say, “I am Kama Deva.” It is impossible—impossible even to think. But Krishna says it with natural ease. It is an act of great courage.

Courage—because we know only one form of sexual desire. So whenever the thought of sex arises, the image that appears is drawn from our own experience. We know nothing of the other form.

There is only one energy in a human being—call it by any name. If it flows downward, it becomes kamavasana, sex. If the same energy begins to flow upward, it becomes spirituality, kundalini—call it what you will. It is the same energy; only its dimension, its direction changes.

Falling downward, that very energy is lust; rising upward, that very energy is soul. Falling downward, it gives birth to others; rising upward, it gives birth to oneself. Flowing downward, it must rely on another; flowing upward, it stands on its own ground. Flowing down, sexual energy merges into nature through the genital gate; flowing up, it merges into the Absolute through the sahasrar.

Sex-energy dissolves at two points: either through the genitals—the first chakra—or through the sahasrar—the last chakra. These are the two poles of your being. Through the sex-center you are linked to nature; through the crown you are linked to the Divine. But the power is one.

Our condition is like a man who knows fire only as the force that burned his house down—he cannot imagine that fire also bakes bread; he cannot imagine that in the night fire gives light; he cannot imagine that for one dying of cold, fire becomes life. If the only experience you have of fire is destruction, you will know nothing of its other faces.

We know only one form of sex—the form through which our life-energy seems to be drained. We know only the form that breeds turmoil and disruption. We know only the form that builds the world around us, and from which anger, greed, fear, envy, hostility are born. We know the descending face of desire.

So if someone says that Krishna too is Kama Deva, we panic. Because the face of kama we know is itself frightening to recall. We want Krishna to be far above and far away from sex—untouched. That is merely our experience speaking.

But when Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva,” he is including the other face of sex as well. We have no vision of that other face, hence the difficulty. Just as sexual energy can flow outward, downward, toward other bodies—this is one mode of flow—

Remember, there is no flow in the world that cannot also run the other way. If I can walk to you, I can also walk away. There is no path that goes only one way. The same road by which you came will take you home. There is no door through which you can come out and not go in. Every door, every path, every current has two directions. You can turn back.

We know only one door of sex, one mode—flowing toward the other. And understand: whenever we flow toward the other, we become dependent. Hence, sex is a deep enslavement for us. Those who desire freedom, liberation, begin their struggle with sex.

The deepest slavery in this world is the slavery of sex. One must depend on another. The other becomes more important than oneself. You circle around the other, perform circumambulations. It is a deep bondage.

So it is no surprise that those who set out toward liberation become filled with disgust for sex; it is logical, natural. But filling with hostility will achieve nothing. Fighting will not help.

Here’s the irony: if a woman attracts me, or a man attracts me, the fighter will run away from the one who attracts him. But wherever I run, that in me which is attracted will run with me.

I can run away from a particular woman or a particular man, but the stream within me that was flowing downward will come along. If I drop A, it will be drawn to B; drop B, it will seek C. And I may leave everyone and sit alone in the jungle, and then my imagination will manufacture those very figures that become points of attraction.

No one becomes free of women by running away from women. Sometimes one may become free by remaining among them; by running, it becomes even harder. What we flee pursues us in imagination.

And remember, no woman in reality is as beautiful as she becomes in imagination. No man is as beautiful as he becomes in imagination. Imagination is never frustrated; in imagination there is no moment of disenchantment. In factual existence, we are all disenchanted.

The body that looked very beautiful yesterday will seem ordinary in two days. In four days it will begin to irritate. In fifteen days you may want to run. But in imagination, that moment never comes. Imagination is supremely fragrant. Imaginary bodies do not sweat. They have no odor. They do not quarrel or fight. Imaginary bodies are your own make; they never hurt you. Real bodies will hurt. Among real people there will be conflict and strife.

So the one who fights will flee. The one who understands will change the direction of his stream; he won’t run. There is no point in running from the other. The question is: can the very power that flows toward the other begin to flow toward oneself?

When the energy of kama begins to flow toward oneself, toward the Self and not toward the other, then the real meaning and purpose of desire are revealed. Then what we took to be poison turns into nectar. Then what we took to be bondage becomes our freedom. Then what we took to be the gate of hell becomes the door of our liberation.

When Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva,” this entire vision stands behind it.

Kama is simply the name of our power. Whatever we are is a condensation of kama-energy. If our energy keeps flowing out, it scatters, diffuses farther and farther. If the same energy starts flowing inward, it begins to gather, to integrate, to crystallize, to center. Slowly, as all the outward-flowing energy turns back and collects upon itself, the crystallization, the centering, the nucleus that arises within us is the experience of the soul.

The person whose sexual desire wanders outward experiences the world, not the soul. The person whose energy gathers inward, organizes, and eventually becomes a point like a diamond that cannot be shattered—at that moment we first enter the realm of the soul, or the realm of the Absolute. That too is creation—self-creation. That too is birth—self-birth.

When a monk came to Buddha, he would ask, “How old are you?” A monk came; Buddha asked, “How old are you?” He said, “Only four days.”

He looked about seventy. Buddha was startled, others too. Buddha asked again, “Perhaps we misheard—how old are you?” He said, “I repeat: I am four days old.” Buddha said, “Are you being sarcastic? Joking?”

He replied, “No. Only four days ago, on hearing you, for the first time I knew I am. That is my birth. Before that I was not. The world was; I was not. I became only four days ago. I am still very weak, like a newborn. I need your support, your shade. I might scatter. I am very tender. But my birth was four days ago.”

Then Buddha said, “Monks, from today this will be our way of counting a monk’s age. Drop the age when you were not. Count only from when you became. The day you know yourself—that day is your birth. What your parents gave birth to is not you.”

Parents give birth to a body. To give birth to oneself—one must give it oneself. This birth happens when sexual energy begins to flow inward.

The whole world today is neurotic. The psychologists—Freud, Jung, Adler—say that ninety-nine percent of this neurosis stems from sexual desire. They are right. Their diagnosis is exact; their cure is not. The diagnosis is perfect; the medicine is wrong.

They think humanity is so tormented because of excessive sexuality. If we probe all this strife, jealousy, conflict, greed, we will indeed find sexual desire at the center. So Freud says: if there is no proper way to satisfy sex, man will become increasingly deranged; therefore there must be proper means for satisfaction.

This is partially true. But however many means you create, man will never find peace through sexual gratification. He cannot. Without transforming the sex-energy, man cannot know peace. A transformation is needed.

This outward-racing sexual desire—no matter how much you satisfy it—you will not be satisfied. In the West, embracing Freud has led to a new danger. Fifty years ago, before Freud, people believed: if sex is satisfied, people will become calm and content. Since unrest comes from frustration, satisfying it will bring peace.

But today, in America, there are more facilities for sexual satisfaction than perhaps anywhere ever. A permissive society, all kinds of freedom. And yet a strange thing has happened. The old frustration remains—and a new frustration has arisen: the sense of the futility of sex. At least the old frustration carried a hope that perhaps, somewhere, someday, if sex is fulfilled, the mind will be at peace. Now even that hope is gone. The old discontent stands where it was, and a new one, deeper: sex itself is utterly futile. Nothing comes of it.

Today the Western man is in a restlessness we cannot even imagine. It will persist because Freud’s statement is incomplete. Freud must be joined with Buddha, Krishna, and Mahavira. Freud’s diagnosis is absolutely correct; his treatment is not.

Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira offer the method of transforming sexual desire. When sex is transformed, we cease to call it sexual desire; we call it Kama Deva.

Understand this distinction.

So long as desire flows downward, it is like a demon—a rakshasa. It sucks a man dry, drinks him up, drains his powers, renders him sickly, poor, hollow. His essence is bled out; he becomes like a spent cartridge—dead before dying.

The old feel an inner emptiness—as if nothing remains within. That emptiness is nothing but sex having absorbed all the energies. The young feel a fullness—that fullness too is nothing but the bulge of sex. The difference between the young and the old is only that between a loaded cartridge and a fired one. Neither is the young truly full, nor the old truly empty; the illusion comes from energy’s state. Truly full are only those whose sex-energy has begun to flow upward. Only for them is there fulfillment.

The day desire flows upward, it becomes Kama Deva. Perhaps we are the only people on earth who have dared to grant even sexual desire the status of a deity. But it is transformed—risen up. The link to the other has been severed. The power now streams within, on an inner journey.

Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva; the root of all creation is in me.”

And why invoke Kama Deva specifically? He could have named some other god. There is a purpose to choosing Kama Deva among the gods. Because the one who rises beyond Kama Deva—

Let us use terms I proposed: kama as demon—the downward flow; Kama Deva—the upward flow. Whoever rises even above Kama Deva goes beyond the gods.

Outward-flowing energy: the demon of lust. Inward-flowing energy: Kama Deva. Neither outward nor inward—completely still; energy loses all movement, becomes steady like a lamp-flame in windless air—then a man goes beyond Kama Deva as well.

Thus, for the seeker, the first trouble is the other who pulls. The last trouble is one’s own pull. Crossing even that, one goes beyond duality.

The one who goes beyond Kama Deva goes beyond the gods. Hence, when Buddha became enlightened, the stories say all the gods came to lay their heads at his feet. What had happened that gods should bow? Because gods—however high—are not beyond Kama Deva. But when someone attains Buddhahood, he goes beyond the final form of kama; then even the gods are below. They come to worship him.

For Buddha, for Mahavira, for Jesus, the last struggle, the final crossing, is always kama. The one who crosses kama crosses godhood and enters divinity itself.

There are three categories. Call human the one whose desire flows downward. Call god the one whose desire flows upward, inward. Call God the one in whom desire does not flow—neither out nor in, neither down nor up. These three categories.

Hence we call Buddha “Bhagavan”—because he has gone beyond the gods.

Krishna says, “Among the gods I am Kama Deva. If you must seek me among the gods, find me in kama. For kama is the fundamental base of creation. Whatever in this world is beautiful, auspicious, true, reflects kama-energy—whether a song arises, a painting appears, or a beautiful personality is formed—it is all the unfoldment of sex-energy. Whatever is beautiful and auspicious here are waves of kama-energy.”

We alone, on this earth, built temples like Khajuraho and Konark—where the deity is installed within, and on the walls are carved extraordinary images of sexual union. It seems incongruous. Enter Khajuraho and there is a tremor: a temple wherein the Lord resides, and on its walls are sculptures of intercourse! No one on earth has made such sculptures. A father feels awkward to enter with his daughter. Brothers feel fear to go together. A son hesitates to enter with his mother. Because of this fear we may say these temples are not right, were wrongly built.

Purushottam Das Tandon, a devotee of Gandhi, once suggested to Gandhi that these temples should be covered over with clay and buried. The idea appealed to Gandhi too—cover them up; they seem to distort Indian culture.

Only those who know nothing of India’s culture would feel so. But it could not be done, because Khajuraho is world-famous; India’s tourism trade depends much on temples like Khajuraho and Konark. If foreign tourists did not come to see them, and if the temples were not renowned, we would certainly have buried them.

Why do we feel so afraid? Why is a mother fearful to take her son into such a temple? Because we do not accept the facts of life. We deny them; we are dishonest toward the straightforward truths of life. Otherwise, what is the issue? A mother becomes a mother only through sex-energy. A father becomes a father only through sex-energy.

But we have constructed such screens of concealment around sex that we will not allow even a word to be spoken. We hide what is fundamental as though it never happens. Because of this panic these temples scare us at the threshold.

These temples are deeply true—nakedly true. They were built with deliberate thought. On the outer walls are scenes of sexual passion. And the temple is a symbol: as long as your mind is absorbed in the images on the outer wall, you cannot enter within. The day the deeply erotic carvings on the outer wall no longer attract you, that day you may enter; that day you can step into the temple of the Divine.

The world is the circumference of those carvings on the outer wall. As long as a person sways with sexual desire, he cannot enter the shrine. And there are two ways of swaying with sex: either you are drawn toward it, or you are frightened, repelled, and flutter around it in fear.

The person who stands there and stares with fixed eyes is entangled; and the one who, on seeing these images, drops his gaze and slips in timidly is also entangled. Only the one who passes by as though there were nothing there is fit to enter the temple. Without going beyond sex, one cannot enter.

But no one has ever gone beyond by opposing sex. In this world there is no way beyond except understanding. Fools fight; the wise know. And knowing is power. Knowledge is power, as Bacon said—true in every sense. Where there is knowing, there is power. Over what we know, we can be master; what we do not know will frighten and defeat us, enslave us, send us fleeing—we can never master it.

Lightning flashes in the sky—today we have mastered it. In the same way, sex is an even greater, living electricity; there is a way to master it. But only those can be master who approach it with goodwill.

When Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva,” goodwill becomes possible. Then there is no question of condemnation. Then this too is God’s power, and we can work toward making the utmost use of it—how it may become auspicious for life, how it may not cause our death but become a door into supreme life.

Only India gave birth to a science called Tantra—a complete science by which sexual energy becomes upward-moving. In its final experiments sex-energy becomes still, its flow ceases.

Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva.”

But that does not mean one should wallow in lust. Kama must be divinized—only then will Krishna’s statement be understood. We must give it divinity.

Our kama often falls below even animality—divinity is far away. Even in animals there is a certain cleanliness, simplicity, innocence in sex. In humans, even that innocence is missing. Human sex seems to fall below the animals. Why?

Because animal sex is purely physiological. Human sex is less bodily and more mental. Being mental, it is distorted—cerebral, it becomes perverse. A man entering into lovemaking may be innocent; a man sitting and brooding on sex is perverse, sick.

There are three possibilities. Kama can be prakrit—natural. If it falls below, it becomes vikrit—unnatural, perverse. If it rises above, it becomes sanskrit—transfigured, super-natural. Natural sex is visible in animals and birds. Hence a naked bird does not disturb us. Some people are so sick that even naked animals disturb them.

I’ve heard that in London a club of elderly ladies posted a notice: it should be forbidden to take naked dogs into the streets.

What objection can elderly ladies have to naked dogs? The objection relates less to dogs and more to the ladies. There is some deep disturbance within; it is projected.

A naked child does not trouble us. But a naked man or woman does—why? That trouble is a sickness; it is not in the naked person, it is in us.

Among tribals, women are half-naked, almost naked, yet no one seems to be disturbed. Our women are covered to excess—indeed covered in a way that wherever we cover we also contrive to reveal. Our covering is a strategy of exposure. We cover, but with disease; hence whatever we cover, we also want to show. By covering, we arrange to show.

Even our covered woman seems pathological. A naked tribal woman does not. She is natural, like the animals.

There is another nakedness. Animals have one nakedness; we have another—clothed nakedness. And there is the nakedness of Mahavira. Mahavira stands naked. Yet his nakedness does not agitate anyone; if it does, the responsibility lies with the onlooker. Mahavira’s nakedness has become like that of a child—innocent. He has gone beyond the need to cover. There is nothing left to cover. If we asked him, “Why do you stand naked?” he would say, “When there is nothing to hide, what is there to hide?”

What are we hiding? Not the body. Look closely: we are hiding the mind. We fear the body might betray the mind, so we cover the body. When there is no fear—no possibility of the body reporting the mind because the mind holds nothing to report—then Mahavira has the right to be naked.

If sex becomes perverse, as it has today—completely distorted, surrounding us on all sides—whether you watch a film, read a newspaper, a book, a story—and leave aside all that—even if you listen to the sermons of saints, sex keeps appearing in its negative form.

It is a curious fact. I have seen many books by writers of pornography who discuss the naked parts of men and women. I have also seen books by sadhus who discuss the same parts in order to condemn. Strangely, no pornographer writes with as much relish as the saints do. Such relish! No obscene writer lingers with such juice.

This is perverted relish. Inside there is repression; what is suppressed forces its way out from the back.

A Zen story: Two monks, one old and one young, come to a river. The elder walks ahead. A young woman stands on the bank and says, “I need to cross, I am afraid.” The elder feels like offering his hand, but the moment he thinks to touch her, desire rears up within; he panics—not at her, but at himself. He lowers his eyes and crosses alone.

On the other side he remembers, “I managed because I am old and have some control, but the young monk behind me—what if he makes the mistake I almost made?” He turns—and his heart sinks. The young monk is carrying the girl on his shoulders across the river!

On the far bank the young monk sets her down. They walk toward the monastery—about a mile—the elder says nothing, fire burning within. At the gate he stops the youth: “Remember, I will have to report your sin to the Master.”

“What sin?” asks the youth.

“Carrying that girl on your shoulders.”

The young monk laughs. “I set her down on the other bank. You are still carrying her. You are still carrying her.”

Whether you go to the cinema—that is one shape of lust—or you go to a temple to hear a sermon—that is lust in the form of “carrying.” Sex surrounds us everywhere. It seems a pathological condition—fallen below the animal.

We can rise above. But the first thing to remember: whoever starts fighting sex will not rise. What you fight gains your juice. You can forget a friend; forgetting an enemy is not easy. Friends are forgotten by time; enemies linger.

What you fight, you must fight twenty-four hours. And there is a great inner alchemy: fight long enough and you become like your enemy. Try it. If your enmity lasts a few years, you will find you have become like him.

Two friends are never as alike as two enemies eventually become. To fight, you must adopt his methods, his language, his company. He occupies your consciousness constantly.

Thus those who fight sex become mentally promiscuous. Inner debauchery begins; their dreams turn perverse.

If we observed the dreams of sadhus, we would be frightened. Even prisoners do not see such dreams. Good men see bad dreams. Bad men do not see such bad dreams—there is no need; they do their badness by day. The good man represses by day—if you have ever fasted, at night you will certainly receive an invitation to dine at a royal feast. What you held back by day, the mind will fulfill by night.

Don’t think: it’s only a dream, what does it matter? The dream is yours. It arises from you. As actions arise from you, so do dreams. If I kill someone by day, I am as responsible as if I dream of killing by night. The court won’t prosecute me for the dream, but that is another matter. The dream is born in me just as the deed is. The deed is mine; the dream is mine.

And note: a deed I can have someone else do; a dream I cannot outsource. I could hire someone to kill, but no one can dream my dream. No servant can be hired. Thus the dream has a deeper link to me than the deed. For the dream I am utterly responsible.

This sickness in our psyche is repression, struggle, hostility, ignorance.

Sexual desire becomes Kama Deva if, with silence, love, and friendliness, we try to understand the energy that has become lust within us. Then there is a science to lift it upward—an inch-by-inch scripture for transformation. Begin to change it.

Try a few small experiments; you will be astonished. Whenever sexual desire arises, immediately bring your attention to the sahasrar. Close your eyes, draw your awareness upward toward the space above the eyes, and feel your consciousness touch the inner roof of the skull. One second—and you will suddenly find the desire has vanished. Whenever lust arises, take your awareness to the skull-cap, and you will see it dissolve. However intense, in a single moment it disappears—because desire needs the cooperation of your awareness to move.

Those who begin to live this way—whose awareness slowly, steadily flows upward—find that desire stops arising. Eventually, holding the thread of awareness, the energy of desire climbs upward. And the day it rises, the bliss that floods your life is such as thousands of orgasms cannot give. Every orgasm is a loss of power; every samadhi is a gain.

To move down is to lower the plane of consciousness. To move up is to raise it. The higher we rise and the lighter we become, the deeper the bliss.

The day someone can take his awareness beyond the skull itself, he attains infinite bliss.

Understand it this way: when a person lets energy fall from the sex-center downward, he tastes pleasure; when he lets sex-energy dissolve into the sky through the sahasrar, he experiences bliss.

Therefore Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva. All birth, all creativity is through me. I alone am.”

This is an astonishing sutra of life-affirmation.

Albert Schweitzer—one of the few thoughtful men of this century—wrote perhaps the deepest criticism of Hinduism. His thought has weight, and his critique deserves consideration. He said Hinduism is life-negative—denies life, is hostile to life.

Certainly Schweitzer erred—and he had reasons. He takes Gandhi as the symbol of Hinduism; he takes Mahavira and Buddha as symbols. If he wishes to understand Hinduism, he should read Krishna. Not Mahavira, not Buddha, not Gandhi—these are not the symbols of Hinduism. Reading them, one may get the illusion that Hinduism is life-denying. Reading Krishna, one discovers that nowhere else is life accepted so totally.

Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva.”

Where kama is accepted, life is accepted. Where kama is rejected, life is rejected.

It is amusing—Schweitzer is a Christian. Christianity is far more life-denying. In Christianity, sex is sin—the original sin, the great sin. Sexual desire is the cause of the Fall. So turn away from sex—meaning deep repression.

Over two thousand years, Christianity repressed sex in the West so fiercely that now the backlash has arrived. What is suppressed strongly rebounds. What Christianity pressed down with fanatic insistence has exploded. Today’s sexual license in the West is less the doing of contemporary people than of those who for two millennia demanded total repression.

Schweitzer’s criticism is misplaced, though understandable. There have been Indians who were life-denying, but the main current of India is not. India accepts life in its wholeness, as it is—and then transforms it through acceptance.

Understand the difference well. You can fight something to change it; you can accept something to change it. Change through acceptance is deep; change through struggle is not. What you fight, you do not understand. Understanding requires friendship—even with sexual desire.

Krishna says, “I am Kama Deva.” He is saying: this entire play of life is my play. And it can all become divine. So he joins himself to it.

Among serpents, I am Vasuki; among nagas, Shesha; among aquatic beings, Varuna; among the ancestors, their lord; and among rulers, I am Yama.

This symbol is precious; as meaningful as Kama Deva is Yama. Let us understand it.

Among rulers, Yama—the lord of death! Of all rulers, Krishna did not think of anyone else? The earth has seen great rulers; heaven too knows rulers. Why does Krishna consider Yama supreme among rulers? There are reasons.

First, in this world, nothing is certain except death. If there is one absolutely certain fact, it is death. Everything else is uncertain. It may be or may not be. Death will be. It is unthinkable that it will not.

Everything else in life is a hazard, a gamble. Life is like a paper boat bobbing on the sea—it can go anywhere, east or west, on big waves or small. Everything is in the hands of the waves. One thing is certain: a paper boat will sink. That much is fixed. Death is the most certain fact.

Therefore Krishna says, “Among rulers I am Yama.” In his rule there is not a trace of slackness, no exception. In everything else there may be exceptions; in his rule, none. His rule is exceptionless; the law is complete—no variation by a hair.

Second, one person may be rich, another poor. One intelligent, another dull. One beautiful, another ugly. Even if we tried to divide all wealth equally, even then the happiness of two equally rich men will not be equal. If we even things economically, beauty will torment us; intelligence will torment us. One will be more intelligent, another less.

Equality in life is untrue—it does not exist. Socialism is a dream—pleasing to dream, never fulfilled. Life is inequality. Two persons are not alike at all. Only one socialism is certain: the socialism of death. Before death, all are equal.

In life all are unequal; before death all are equal. Poor and rich, wise and foolish, beautiful and ugly, successful and failed, woman and man, child and old, black and white, Negro and Englishman—death is the only socialist dictatorship found on earth. There, all are equal.

Death equalizes. Its rule knows no favoritism. The rich cannot say, “Wait a while, I am rich.” “Come later; my party is in power.” “No time now; I am a minister.” No. Beggar or emperor, loser or victor—death shows no partiality.

Thus Krishna says, “Among rulers I am Yama.” No favoritism, no uncertainty; no discrimination, no exception. Death is a unique phenomenon.

And I feel: if someday we truly succeeded in bringing absolute socialism—which we cannot—if somehow we equalized everything, the earth would feel like a cremation ground, not a living world. For if we equalized all, life would look like death. Only death can be equal; the way of life is inequality. We can contrive arrangements, but they will be false.

They will be like smearing blue paint on everyone’s face—then, in one sense, there is equality: everyone has a blue face. But behind the blue, the faces remain different. Behind the blue, one will be beautiful, another ugly, one old, one young. The blue is a veneer.

We can impose economic equality, but within, all will remain unequal. Equality is an imposition; individuals are neither born equal nor live equal—only die equal.

In this sense death’s rule is incomparable.

Krishna says, “Among rulers I am Yama.”

So do not expect favoritism from me. Those who ask God for partiality are mad. Those who pray that an exception be made for them are mistaken. There can be no exceptions.

We are all busy trying to get God to make an exception for us. Let him do as he likes with others—spare me. Let others be punished for their sins; forgive mine. We are in the business of bribing—bath in the Ganga, daily worship, counting beads. Bribes. We flatter him: be partial to me, make an exception. Do not apply the same rules to me.

No—none of that. Krishna says, “Among rulers I am Yama.” The law will be fulfilled, fully and impartially.

Mahavira went further: because law is so impersonal, there is no need for God; law is enough. He dispensed with God. Why introduce God? If God cannot change the law, his presence or absence is the same. If he can change it, life becomes meaningless—truthful men could go to hell if God is not on their side, liars to heaven if he is.

So Mahavira said: law is sufficient. He made law itself the divine.

Krishna says the same in his way: “Remember, Arjuna, among rulers I am Yama.” No exceptions, no bias, no concession. The law applies as surely as death. Its meaning is lost the moment favoritism enters.

Thus Krishna says, “I am Yama. My rule is as certain as death.”

And, O Arjuna, among daityas I am Prahlada; among those who count I am Time; among beasts the lion, among birds Garuda.

Two more small symbols to understand.

“I am Prahlada among the daityas.” Prahlada was born in a demon’s house—but birth in a house is nothing. A house is not a prison. Prahlada is born among demons and attains supreme devotion. Perhaps those not born among demons fail to reach such devotion. It is hard to find a devotee like Prahlada.

It is marvelous: a child born in a demon’s house becomes the supreme devotee; and the children of respectable, virtuous families cannot stand alongside him. What follows?

First, where you are born, in what circumstances, is irrelevant. Yet we all weep that circumstances are such—what can we do? “Circumstances compel me.” In this century, this complaint has become so intense that no one is responsible for anything.

A man steals—because circumstances made him. A man commits murder—psychologists say, “What could he do? His upbringing made it inevitable.” Everything depends on circumstance.

Marx said man does not shape society; society shapes man. Man does not create circumstances; circumstances create man.

Note: between religion and its opposing doctrines the divide is this. Religion says man creates everything—his circumstances and himself. Anti-religious thought says man creates nothing; circumstances create all, including the man.

Thus Marx says, change the circumstances, and man will change. Hence communism tries to change circumstances so man will change.

Religion says: no matter how much you change the circumstances, man won’t change. Change the man, and circumstances will change. Consciousness is the value; circumstances are inert. Man is the master.

So Krishna says: among demons I am Prahlada.

All circumstances were adverse—no scope to be a devotee—and yet Prahlada reached such depth.

Another point: when circumstances are adverse, if one knows how to use the adverse, it becomes favorable. The adverse turns into a challenge. If Prahlada had been born in a good man’s house, he might not have become such a great devotee. Often, children of good men go astray precisely because good men, by their goodness, pose the challenge of rebellion.

Gandhi’s elder son became a Muslim—because of Gandhi. Gandhi was good, utterly good. But his insistence on goodness was so suffocating that Haridas felt enslaved. “Don’t eat this, don’t drink that. Sleep at this time, rise at that time”—life shackled. He snapped the whole thing—like Prahlada fled his father, Haridas fled his, became Abdullah Gandhi; ate meat, drank wine; swore never to rise at brahmamuhurta even if he woke, and to sleep late each night. Whatever Gandhi imposed, he took the contrary path.

Beware: your excessive goodness may become a contrary challenge for your children. Hence good homes often fail to produce good children; bad homes often do. Good fathers prove unable to raise good sons.

The secret is only this: they impose goodness so forcefully that only a fool will comply—and the fool won’t go far. A slightly intelligent child becomes rebellious. He too has his ego, his identity. Press too hard and beyond a point he either breaks and is lost, or bolts and runs the other way.

Perhaps even for Prahlada, the father’s opposition proved helpful. What I mean is: never say “the circumstances are bad, that is why I cannot be good.” In truth, when circumstances are bad, the possibility of being good is greater—there is a challenge.

If someone tells me: circumstances are so good I cannot be good—I find it logical. Poor fellow—what can he do? Circumstances are so good—how could he be good!

But when someone says: circumstances are bad, so I cannot be good—he declares his impotence. It means he can never be anything. If, when challenged, you cannot stand up, you will never stand.

It means: the one with understanding can turn adversity to advantage; the one without understanding wastes even favorable conditions.

Krishna says, “I am Prahlada among the daityas.”

Where is there a flower more serene, silent, innocent than Prahlada? Yet among demons. But that is fitting. The lotus too blossoms in mud. It does not run around shouting, “How can I bloom in filth?” It draws nourishment from the very mud—fragrance and color—and rises beyond it, even beyond the water that sustains it, and blooms in the open sky.

We cannot imagine a father-son relation between lotus and mud—between their birth and origin. Place them together—they seem unrelated. Yet the mud is the lotus; from any mud, a lotus can be. Those who sit and weep for mud are simply seeking excuses for their laziness. Wherever there is mud, know a lotus can bloom. Any mud indicates the possibility of a lotus—it is an opportunity.

But we do not want to bloom—perhaps blooming feels like labor. We want to remain as we are. So we find arguments that let us remain as we are: “Circumstances are not right. There is opposition everywhere. No way to grow.” Otherwise we would be on the summit of Meru—but circumstances!

Circumstances will never be right. They never were. The one who cannot rise above circumstance will carry this lament forever.

Krishna says, “I am Prahlada among the daityas.”

Where even uttering God’s name was forbidden, Prahlada attained God through nothing but the name. Understand this, for we have no such ban. We can lounge on our chairs and chant God’s name every day.

It is amusing—Prahlada attained through the name; we chant plenty. People name their children after God—Ram, Narayan—so they can call the name all day long. The result is that Narayan gets slapped and abused. This is the result—nothing else.

Names were given so that the divine name would rise unbidden through the day. But the fruit is that Narayan gets beaten and cursed. And when the habit of cursing Narayan sets in, if the real Narayan appears, abuse will slip out. Habits.

Prahlada had no scope; God’s name was forbidden. Yet he lifted his life to such heights on that name alone. Why?

Because we do not understand the dynamics of life. If you are locked in a room and strictly forbidden to utter “Ram,” then from the depths of your heart the name will arise—your declaration of freedom. If you are seated and told, “Take the name”—as parents coerce their children—then it is taken under compulsion; no depth happens. Life’s dynamics are very contrary.

I’ve heard: from childhood Mulla Nasruddin was considered contrary-headed. If his mother had to say, “Eat your food,” she had to say, “Fast today.” If she wanted him not to play outside, she had to say, “Stay outside; don’t come in.” Whatever she wanted, she gave the reverse order.

Nasruddin grew up; the reversed orders continued. On his eighteenth birthday, he and his father were crossing a small bridge with their donkeys. Nasruddin’s donkey carried sugar; the sack was dangerously tilting to the left, about to fall. The father wanted to shift it to the right. To get him to move it right, he said, “Son, the sack is falling to the right; move it to the left.” Contrary-headed!

That day Nasruddin shifted it left; the sack fell, and with it the donkey. The father exclaimed, “What kind of reverse character is this? Today you did this?” Nasruddin said, “You don’t know—I’ve turned eighteen, I’m an adult. I’ve changed my childhood habits. Now I’ll not do the opposite of what you say; I’ll do the opposite of what you mean. You fooled me long enough. Now I’ll oppose your meaning. Think carefully before giving orders.”

Human dynamics move in polarities, in opposites. We tend to lean toward the forbidden.

Prahlada’s story is telling. Do not impose goodness on your children; they will veer toward evil. The matter is delicate. It does not mean you impose evil. It is delicate: do not force goodness; help it to blossom. Do not vilify evil so much that it gains flavor; condemnation gives it juice. Do not deny it so harshly that it becomes an invitation.

Write on a door: “Do not peek here,” and even a saint will not pass without peeking. If he manages to pass, he will return on some pretext. And if he fears devotees might see him peeking where it is banned, he will certainly go there in a dream at night. The injunction becomes an obsession.

Do not turn evil into an obsession. Do not force goodness so much that it breeds its opposite.

Thus raising a child is very delicate. Humanity has not yet succeeded. Our systems of education are still wrong—because the matter is subtle. The greatest difficulty is that we do not understand how movement arises within a person.

The movement that arose in Prahlada arose because of his father. Born among demons, he went the opposite way and surpassed all devotees.

Krishna says, “I am Prahlada among the daityas.”

And among those who count I am Time.

Take this last point to heart.

Time has certain features. First: you are never given more than one moment—ever. Only one moment is in your hand. When one moment passes, the next arrives. When the next passes, a third arrives. You never hold two moments at once.

Time is the supreme calculator. None counts as precisely as time. Each person receives only one moment at a time—no one can cheat it. However great a yogi, however wealthy, however wise or scientific—no one can deceive time to hand over two moments at once. Only one moment comes into your hand.

Have you seen an hourglass? The sand falls grain by grain. In that, errors can occur—grains vary. Two grains may fall together. But in time’s glass, never do two grains fall. Only one moment—measured exactly. And a whole life!

So Krishna says, “Among calculators I am Time.”

None counts more subtly. In the Hindu view, each person’s moments are counted. No one can live beyond his allotted span. The limit of life is fixed by past karma. What I did in past lives determines the time of this life—I have already fixed it.

Thus when Buddha attained enlightenment, he reached a state where there was no reason to live further. No reason. What was there for Buddha? Nothing to do, nothing to attain. He had attained all. Yet he lived forty more years.

Someone asked Buddha, “Why are you living now? You have nothing to do or gain. You are complete. What are you doing?”

Buddha said, “The age I accrued in past lives, I must complete. The forty years must be lived. Time neither adds nor subtracts a moment. I will live forty years.”

This living is like pedaling a bicycle and then stopping—the cycle still rolls on a bit. Momentum. The pedaling gave energy; even after you stop, it doesn’t halt instantly.

Buddha says: what I have accrued over lifetimes—forty years of momentum—will play out; this bodily mechanism will continue. Not a moment more or less.

Therefore Krishna says, “Among reckoners I am Time.” Not a moment more, not less. No one can gain two moments at once, nor recover one lost. Time’s arithmetic is exact.

Krishna says this to Arjuna for a reason. These symbols are not randomly chosen. Arjuna thinks, “I will kill these enemies.” Krishna says, “Among reckoners I am Time.” You cannot kill a moment earlier, nor extend a life by a moment. Those who will die—their time is up. Those who will live—their time remains. You are only an instrument, nothing more.

Enough for today.

Sit for five minutes. Join the kirtan, and then go.