Geeta Darshan #12

Let us understand these symbols a little.

In this world, the wind is the freest. And freedom is purity. The wind is bound nowhere, it abides nowhere; it clings to nothing, is attached to nothing. The wind is a ceaseless movement.

So first, wherever attachment is, impurity begins. Wherever there is clinging, wherever the mind wants to stop—wherever the halting place turns into the destination—impurity begins.

All the stench of life, all its ugliness, is born wherever we stop and get entangled. Wherever life loses its flow, its movement—wherever it halts, it becomes inert, dead.

Like a river that flows—there is purity. A stagnant pool does not flow—it grows impure. The same water that runs in a river sits in a pool, but in the river there is current, movement, life. The pool is dead, corpse-like, without motion. It decays, it stinks, it disintegrates. Naturally, it becomes impure.

Krishna says: Among purifiers, I am the wind.

First thing: purity abides where flow is unbroken. Purity abides where no attachment, no obstruction, no stoppage appears. Purity abides where there is no fixation, no arresting of the life-breath. One whose very life is like the wind—never stuck, never halted, never bound, never manufacturing attachments—only such a one can attain purity.

Since ancient times, sannyasins have been told to live in flow—to go on like a river. Mahavira instructed his sannyasins not to stay anywhere longer than three days. Leave before the third day. Think a bit about this. How did Mahavira stumble upon the secret of three days? Hard to say.

Modern psychology says a person’s mind generally takes a little more than three days to settle into any new place. If you sleep in a new room, for three nights there will be a faint restlessness; the fourth night you sleep well. It takes at least three days to make a new situation feel old. At least; sometimes longer.

Mahavira told his sannyasin not to stay more than three days. Before anything begins to feel “mine,” move on. The moment something feels “mine,” a chain is forged. And when chains fall upon your life-breath, ugliness, stench, rot set in—the life turns into a stagnant pool.

A sannyasin means one who does not allow himself to become a stagnant pool. A householder means one who arranges meticulously to become a stagnant pool. A householder could remain flowing too, but it will be more difficult. Only with great alertness can he avoid becoming a pool; otherwise everything congeals, gets frozen, and within that he too freezes.

But all of us strive to settle as quickly as possible. In settling there is convenience, safety, comfort. In not-settling, there is inconvenience, insecurity. To face the new each day, you need fresh intelligence each day. We all want to settle. The settled man can go on with old intelligence; nothing new is needed.

We are all frightened of the new. Anything new stirs worry—because we know how to handle the old; with the new, we must learn again. The old becomes dead, mechanical. We do the old like a robot—no intelligence, no consciousness, no awareness required. We simply go through the motions.

When you come to your home, you don’t need to think: turn left, turn right. You just turn. The body does it. No awareness needed. Even a drunkard, drunk, reaches his home; his hands and feet may wobble, still he knocks on his own door. It is mechanical. No thinking required.

The more we settle, the more we are freed from thinking. Thinking is painful, so nobody wants to think; everyone wants to avoid it. This is why our flow ends.

Krishna says: Among purifiers, I am the wind.

The first quality of the wind is that it never stops. It arrives and it is already gone. It barely comes, it is already leaving. It does not become a guest anywhere; it touches and goes.

A sannyasin should be like the wind—never stagnant. It is not necessary that he keep changing houses; changing houses alone does nothing. You can keep changing houses and still settle. There are many arrangements for settling. A man could change his house daily, but if he doesn’t change himself, he will root right there.

A sannyasin leaves his home, but whatever he learned in that house he carries with him. A strange thing happens in this world: sannyasins are Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian. These are signs of being stuck. A sannyasin should only be a sannyasin.

To be Hindu means there is still a bondage to the house where one grew up, was nurtured, educated. To be Jain means a bondage to the house where that religion was poured into the mind. The ideas were planted there—and there is still attachment. The house is left, but the soul of that house still haunts; the ghost of that home still follows. It will follow.

A sannyasin is one who has no home and no religion. A sannyasin is one whose ownness is to none. He does not say, “Jesus is mine; Buddha is mine; Mahavira is mine; Krishna is mine.” Either everything is his, or nothing is his—there is no third way. Then he becomes like the wind.

So the wind’s first mark: it never stops.

The second mark: it is invisible—yet present. Deeper still. It is there, it is felt, but not seen. You can sense it, experience it, but you cannot grasp it. Precisely because it cannot be grasped, it cannot be bound, cannot be stopped, cannot be enslaved.

Krishna says: Among purifiers, I am like the wind.

The greater the purity, the greater the transparency. The greater the purity, the more you can see through. If you have seen a truly pure piece of glass—absolutely clean—you don’t see the glass at all; you see right through, with no obstruction. The purity of the wind is its transparency.

There is an ancient Egyptian proverb: when a person becomes supremely pure, he casts no shadow. He walks in the sun and no shadow falls.

This is only a pointer. Of course Mahavira’s shadow, Krishna’s, Buddha’s—all cast a shadow. But the old Egyptian saying points this way: when someone becomes so pure that no impurity remains within, you can see right through him. And when you can see through, there will be no shadow. “No shadow” is a symbol.

You can see through Mahavira. He is like an open doorway. We are like a wall—nothing can be seen through us. We cannot see ourselves; how then could another see us? We are a solid stone wall; even to find ourselves inside is difficult. Nothing is visible.

That wall begins to dissolve in the measure the mind becomes pure. And the day the mind becomes like the wind—no impurity remains, it becomes transparent—one can see right through. The wind is there and yet unseen; saintliness is like that. It is, but it is not visible.

I have heard about a Muslim fakir. When he attained supreme knowledge, angels descended and said, “God has sent us. Ask for a boon—anything. The Lord is pleased with you.” The fakir said, “But now? Now there is no desire. You are late. When there were so many desires, no one came to ask. Now when no desire remains, you arrive?”

The angels said, “Precisely for that we have come. Only when desires have vanished are you pure enough to be asked, ‘Do you want anything?’ Desire itself was the door shut between us. Now desire has fallen; the door is open. Ask.”

The fakir said, “What can I ask now?” The more he refused to ask, the more the angels insisted he must ask.

Life runs upside down like this. The more people insist, “I must have this,” the more they miss. Those who run to get, lose. Those who drop the very idea of acquiring—everything begins to run after them.

The angels clasped his feet and said, “God will ask us, ‘Even this much you could not persuade him?’ Go back. Ask for something.” The fakir said, “Then you give what you think is right.” The angels said, “We grant you this: whomever you touch—if he is sick, he will be cured; if he is dead, he will revive. If you touch a dry plant, shoots will sprout.”

The fakir said, “You have shown such grace—show a little more. Let it not happen by my touch; let it happen by the touch of my shadow. Let my shadow fall on a withered tree and it turns green—but I should not come to know of it. If it happens by my touch, my ego may be recreated. Let me not know. Otherwise your boon will become a curse to me. Let me not know my power. Let me not know my saintliness. Let me not know my secret. Let this miracle the Lord is giving me—let me not know.”

He would walk through a village; his shadow would fall on withered trees and they would turn green. His shadow would fall on a sick man and he would be healed. But neither the fakir knew, nor the sick man—because it happened through the shadow.

It is a story, but the Sufis say: whenever a saint is born, neither he himself knows he is a saint, nor do others know.

To know is to become solid. Not knowing is to remain fluid, rare, airy. Even those we have called divine—Buddha, Mahavira—they themselves know nothing about being saints. They are like innocent children.

Purity is like the wind: unselfconscious. Not unconscious—unselfconscious. Not without awareness; without even a trace of ego-awareness. And to be unseen: whatever becomes visible is matter. Visibility is the attribute of matter. Consciousness’ attribute is to be—not to be seen.

Hence we see bodies; we do not see the soul. We see stones; we do not see love. Whatever we see is matter. What cannot be seen—that is the divine.

The wind is not seen, yet it is. If we had to prove wind to someone, we could not use his eyes. If he demanded, “Show it to me,” we would be in difficulty. Yet the one who says, “Show me the wind,” cannot live a single moment without it. Stop a breath and life is gone. Wind is his very life. Still, you cannot place it before him, present it visibly. We can experience it. But if someone’s body is paralyzed and he has no sensation of touch, the winds will blow and he will not know. He will breathe, live by it, and not know.

It is said fish do not know the ocean. They must not. They are born in it, live in it, die in it. They cannot know it, because what is so close and always close escapes notice.

The wind is always near, surrounding us. It is our ocean in which we live—but it is unseen. The divine is exactly like this, surrounding us on all sides. Without it we cannot live even for a moment. Without air we can still live a little, but without that we cannot live for a moment. It is closer than air—the life of our life. Yet we do not notice it.

Krishna says: Among purifiers I am the wind. And among the wielders of weapons, I am Rama.

A very sweet symbol.

A weapon in Rama’s hand is very contradictory. A man like Rama should not be holding weapons. Picture Rama a little. Think of his body, his eyes, his being. There is no link to weapons.

Rama with weapons feels utterly incongruous. In Rama there is no violence, no competitiveness, no jealousy. He does not wish to hurt anyone or give pain to anyone. Then why weapons in his hand? A lotus in his hand would fit. Weapons do not fit at all.

Whenever I see a picture of Rama, and the bow slung over his shoulder, the quiver on his back, there seems to be no connection with his body. His body is a poet’s body, a poem, an image out of poetry. His eyes are eyes of love. Even when he places his foot, he places it so as not to hurt. His whole being is flower-like. And on the shoulder those arrows, in the hand the bow—this does not make sense! No harmony, no accord.

In the hands of a demon, in Ravana’s hands, weapons seem meaningful—there the arithmetic fits. In Mahavira’s hand, the absence of sword and arrow also fits. The math works there too. Mahavira or Buddha—empty hands, no weapons. Ravana’s hands full of weapons—everything covered in arms—this too fits.

Rama is unique. The man is like Buddha; the weapons are like Ravana’s. Very paradoxical. And Krishna chooses exactly this symbol: among those who bear arms, I am Rama. Many have borne arms—no shortage. Why choose Rama? Chosen knowingly, with much thought, with exact accounting.

A weapon in Ravana’s hand is dangerous. Understand this. It is subtle and may feel difficult.

A weapon in Ravana’s hand is dangerous because within Ravana there is nothing but violence. Weapons in the hands of violence are like pouring petrol on fire. That we can understand. The world’s suffering is precisely this: power is in the wrong hands. And the wrong man is more eager to gain power.

Bacon said, “Power corrupts, and corrupts absolutely.” Power makes people immoral, absolutely immoral. The statement is correct. But Bacon’s reason is not correct. He thinks: whoever attains power becomes corrupt because of power. That is wrong. They do become corrupt—that is a fact; but not because of power. For we have seen power in Rama’s hands, and we did not see corruption, not a trace of perversion.

Then the matter is different. It is true: we see those who come to power become immoral. But the cause is not power. The root cause is that the immoral are attracted to power. The weak cannot manifest their immorality; when power comes to hand, it manifests. Power does not create immorality; it reveals it.

You are weak but full of violence; the other is strong, you cannot act violently. Place a gun in your hands—now the other is weak, you are strong; now violence will erupt.

The real test of character is when power is near. If one has no power, his character is not trustworthy. It may be only weakness.

Hence among all the “men of character” you see in the world, ninety-nine percent are “moral” due to weakness. That is why you see so many “moral” people, so much talk of morality—and the world sinks deeper into immorality.

Give a weak man strength and his character will melt away. The first casualty will be character. Give him any kind of power—wealth, office, political authority—and his character dissolves.

We know this well in this country. Those whom we thought moral before independence—overnight after independence their character evaporated. Those who seemed simple as servants, as soon as they wielded power, proved themselves successors of Genghis and Tamerlane. What happens overnight? Does power destroy people?

No. They were “moral” due to weakness. Power comes to hand and the “character” is lost. The examination comes only after power.

Naturally, weak people are most eager for power. Psychologists say: those with inferiority complex are drawn toward high positions. If you want to see the inferiority complex at work, visit any nation’s capital—you will find them gathered there.

Those who inwardly feel, “I am small, I am nothing,” wish to sit on some seat and prove to themselves and others that they are something. Nobody wants to be a nobody. Each has a notion: I am something. But to whom can I say it? How? Until power is in hand. If I have power, I can say, “I am something.”

Only those can avoid the race for power who, without declaring anything, have become free of the inferiority complex within. When the sense of being inferior has vanished, only then does the attempt to be superior over others stop.

It is a great irony: in this world, only the truly superior do not try to be superior. The inferior are the ones striving to be superior.

Weapons in Rama’s hand are in the wrong man’s hand—in the sense that in Ravana’s hands they fit; in Rama’s they do not. Between Ravana’s soul and weapons there is a bridge, a harmony, a music. Between Rama and weapons, no bridge—there is a gulf, an unbridgeable gap. That is exactly Rama’s beauty. Weapons exist and Rama exists—and between them no bridge. In Ravana’s hands weapons seem proper, but are dangerous—for when violence is inside and weapons are in hand, violence will be multiplied.

In the last Great War, when France was attacked, an entire hill was destroyed. After the war, during excavation of that hill, something astonishing was found: modern bomb shells lodged in a cave within the rock—and in the same cave, stone tools twenty-five thousand years old. Both were found side by side—the ancient stone tool and the shell of a modern bomb.

Twenty-five thousand years ago, man killed with stone. Twenty-five thousand years later, he kills with bombs. Man is the same. Man has not evolved—but the tools have, from stone to atom! Man remains the same.

So when people say humanity is evolving—it is doubtful. Weapons are evolving—that is certain. Humanity does not seem to evolve. Evolution is happening to things.

The man who killed with a stone twenty-five thousand years ago and the man who killed with a bomb—only the scale of killing has grown. With a stone you could kill one or two; with an atom bomb, you can kill hundreds of thousands at once. A single hydrogen bomb can kill ten million people at once. And fifty thousand hydrogen bombs already lie on the earth.

Scientists say the preparations exceed the need. We have more bombs than people to kill. If we had to kill each person seven times, we have the means—though a person dies once! But politicians calculate: if someone survives once, we kill him twice, thrice—we can kill one man seven times. We have the capacity to kill twenty-one billion people; the population is three, three-and-a-half billion. The capacity is for twenty-one billion—and it increases daily. Man does not seem to have evolved; only power has evolved.

If violence, hostility, competition, enmity boil within, weapons are fatal. That we can understand. On one side Ravana—well-matched with weapons, dangerous. On the other side Buddha and Mahavira—equations clear like formulas: as the man is, so is what he holds; they carry no weapons. There is love within; no sword in hand.

Such men are dangerous neither to themselves nor to anyone. But in a negative sense they can be dangerous for society—negatively—because it means power remains in the hands of the bad while the good renounce it. Not that Buddha or Mahavira wish the bad to become strong; but their renunciation of arms will certainly strengthen the bad. The good will leave the field; the bad will hold power.

The evils of the world are not only at the hands of the wicked; the good share as well. Understand this—it sounds difficult. The good do not help directly, but indirectly. The good withdraw. They leave the field of struggle. Where conflict is, they move away. Only the wicked remain—and reach power, and then make the whole society wicked.

Therefore Krishna’s choice of Rama is deeply considered. Rama is double: a man like Buddha, and power like Ravana’s.

Perhaps the world cannot become good until such a connection is established between the goodness of the good and the power of the bad. Until then it may not be possible. The good will always be pacifists, withdraw; the bad will always attack, ready to fight. The good will go on praying; the bad will go on increasing power. The good will sit in a corner; the bad will trample the world.

Consider: a man like Rama is rare on the earth. A unique dimension. Christ, Buddha, Mahavira can be found; Ravana, or Hitler, or Napoleon, or Alexander can be found. Rama is a rare combination—the man is like Buddha, the power in his hand like Ravana’s.

Krishna says: Among those who bear arms, I am Rama.

In evil there isn’t only evil; and in good there isn’t only good. In evil, its power is good; in good, the lack of power is bad. The good too should be powerful. Evil will diminish only when the good are powerful. Only then—when the good build power. If the good run away from power, they are unknowingly providing the bad convenience, a pathway. They become allies—unknowingly, unwillingly.

Therefore Krishna says: Among weapon-bearers, I am Rama.

I am good like Buddha, and I can also be “bad” like Ravana—meaning, I can meet the bad on his own plane. I can wrestle at his very spot. I can use his very instruments.

But note this: only a man like Rama can use Ravana’s weapons. If anyone else uses them, whether he wins or loses, Ravana will have won. If someone else fights Ravana with Ravana’s weapons, whether Ravana wins or he wins, whoever wins, Ravana wins—because in that battle the other gradually becomes like Ravana.

Ravana’s real defeat is that he could not make Rama like himself. That is the real defeat. Rama remained Rama. Not a single bud of his inner flower withered. The sword in his hand, the weapons he bore—none of it altered his humanity even a little. That is Ravana’s defeat. If Rama too became like Ravana, even if he won, it would not matter. No difference.

We saw this in the Second World War. Those who fought Hitler became, during the war, exactly like him—indeed one step further. Hitler hesitated to build and use nuclear weapons. America could do it.

People thought that after Hitler’s defeat, after fascism’s defeat, great peace would descend. It did not. Wars continued. And the allies who had fought together against Hitler stood as enemies the moment Hitler fell.

Hitler lost, but he covered the world with his shadow. His defeat is not real. He lost, but he spread fascism in the world—poisoned every soul with its seed. So Hitler can revive any day, no obstacle—the seed is in each life. His defeat could not happen—because those who fought him were not different in their inner structure.

Ravana lost because the one who defeated him was not of his plane. Hence Ravana rejoices that his death came through Rama. A strange thing: he rejoices that Rama killed him. What obstruction can remain to liberation now? If Rama himself came to slay me, to bid me farewell from the body, what hurdle is left to my freedom?

There is no enmity with Rama; there is opposition, conflict. But Ravana recognizes Rama’s height, his difference.

Krishna says: Among weapon-bearers, I am Rama.

I can take up weapons, yet I do not change. Weapons cannot change me—that is his point. Whatever I do, it does not alter my soul—this is his meaning.

Remember, whatever we do—the sum of it is our soul. Whatever Rama does—the sum is not his soul. Rama’s doing is on one plane; his soul on quite another. From Rama’s acts you cannot know Rama’s soul. If you know his soul, then you can understand his acts.

From our acts, our so-called soul is known—and we have no other soul. If all you have done were put aside, you would be a mere zero. If all that Rama did were put aside, Rama would not be diminished. Rama’s doing, rightly understood, is purely outer. Nothing happens within. Nothing happens within. Hence there is a unique incident in Rama’s life that people have found hard to understand.

Sita was abducted; Rama went to war with Ravana. Naturally, we think there must have been great attachment to Sita; otherwise Rama could have found other Sitas—what shortage of beautiful women for him? Only with heavy attachment would he enter such a war, such trouble. Until he brought Sita back, we think he must have been sleepless, restless, tormented.

But then another incident confounds: a washerman’s stray remark—reported secondhand! A washerman tells his wife: “I am not Rama, to take you back after you have been absent for months and years!” His wife must have stayed out a single night. “I am no Rama!” This reaches Rama, and he has Sita sent away to the forest.

It feels inconsistent. The man who fought a great war for Sita, who risked his life for her—on a washerman’s gossip sends her away!

From this man’s actions we cannot know him. What he does will not reveal his soul. Otherwise how to reconcile the two? Who he is—if we know that, then his deeds can be interpreted.

Sita’s abduction is not the cause of war; only the pretext. The war was not for Sita. The deeper understanding is: perhaps the arrangement for Sita’s abduction was made for the war to be. It looks so. Rama chases a golden deer. You would not be deceived by such a thing—gold attracts, but if you saw a golden deer you would sense deception. How could a golden deer deceive Rama?

This going is organized, deliberate. Sita must be given the chance to be abducted. Only when the wrong is enabled to do wrong does its wrongness become manifest. Only when evil gets the full opportunity do we see it. By abducting Sita Ravana fell into trouble. His evil reached its peak; his pot of sin filled to the brim. Then he could be destroyed.

You may not know a certain idea. The Indian mind is very unique, and is often hard to grasp in the West. The story says Valmiki wrote the Ramayana first; Rama came later. It seems absurd. But the Indian mind has other understandings.

Rama’s personality is part of a vast design. The design is already conceived; the plan prepared. Rama is an actor in that plan. So Sita is stolen, and Rama goes to war. A washerman raises an objection—and Sita is sent to the forest. It is as if Rama is not “inside” these actions—he stands outside. As if these are acts performed on a stage; Rama has nothing personal at stake. What needs to be done is done. What ought to happen is happening. But he stands outside; his soul is untouched by any of it. Nothing touches him.

Krishna’s saying “Among bowmen, among bearers of arms, I am Rama” is to tell Arjuna: you cannot know me by what I do. My being is beyond my doing. My existence is far above my acts.

Our situation is the reverse. Our existence is even lower than our acts. Understand this, and Rama will become clear.

You walk a road; a beggar asks for money. If no one is around, you pass by without concern. But if four onlookers are there and your prestige is at stake, you give him a coin. You do not give to the beggar—you give to your prestige.

Hence beggars do not bother a man walking alone. If he is with two or three companions, they grasp his feet. Because through the eyes of those three, money will come; it is shameful not to give before them. Your act appears like compassion—but your “soul” is below your act. Your inner is lower than your doing. That is not charity.

Where ego is being gratified, there is no charity—be it small or great. Charity is not until the ego itself is given. If something is given for ego, it is not charity. It has no relation to the other. When you give to the beggar, it is not about the beggar; it is about yourself. You are dropping a coin into your ego to strengthen it. The beggar is only an excuse.

The beggar gets two coins. He does not care why you gave. He may think you were compassionate—though no beggar thinks so. When you go away, he laughs: “I fooled him nicely.” He too has his ego—not only you. He knows well what kind of people are easy to fool and in what situation. He laughs behind your back. To your face, he gives blessings; but he respects the man who gives nothing and walks away stiffly. He respects him—“I could not make a fool of him.”

Our act appears higher than our inner. You greet someone and say, “So happy to meet you.” Inside, there is no happiness—perhaps annoyance that this rascal’s face appeared first thing in the morning!

Your act looks bigger than your soul. What you say, what you do, is higher. What you are is lower.

Rama is the reverse. What he does is lower; what he is is far higher. Krishna says: Do not weigh me by what I do. Among those who bear arms, I am like Rama.

Among aquatic creatures I am the crocodile; among rivers, the Ganges. And, O Arjuna, of all beings I am the beginning, the end, and the middle.

The symbol of the Ganges is worth understanding. The Hindu mind is deeply wedded to the Ganges. Remove the Ganges from India—and it becomes hard to call India “India.” Leave everything else, but take away the Ganges—India is no longer India. Remove the Ganges—and Indian literature becomes incomplete. Remove the Ganges—and countless sages’ very names would be lost. Remove the Ganges—and our pilgrimage is lost, the very feeling of pilgrimage gone.

India’s life-breath has been committed to the Ganges since ancient days. As if the Ganges has become the symbol of our soul. If a nation has a soul and its symbols, the Ganges is ours. What made the Ganges so deep a symbol that thousands of years ago Krishna could say, “Among rivers I am the Ganges”?

The Ganges is not “greatest” among rivers in obvious ways. There are bigger rivers, longer rivers, more massive rivers on earth—Brahmaputra, the Amazon, the Huang He—before which Ganga pales.

But the Ganges has something no other river on earth has. For that “something,” the Indian mind harmonized with her. First, a curious fact: among all rivers of the earth, the Ganges is the most alive. If you bottle waters from all rivers, they will putrefy—Ganga water will not. Chemically the Ganges is unique. Its water does not deteriorate, does not rot—even for years. In a sealed bottle it keeps its purity, its clarity.

No other river has this. Others are weak in this sense; Ganga water is special—a unique chemical property.

We have floated countless corpses in the Ganges for millennia. And still, in the Ganges everything gets absorbed—even bone. No other river has this capacity. The very bone dissolves into its elements; it merges, flows on; the Ganges is not defiled. She assimilates all—even bone. Put a corpse into any other water—it rots the water. There the water is weak, the corpse strong. In the Ganges, the corpse disintegrates, merges into its elements. The Ganges flows untouched. No effect on her.

Extensive chemical studies have been done; now it is scientifically established that her water is extraordinary.

Why? Puzzling. The Ganges springs where many rivers spring; flows through the same mountains many rivers flow through. The minerals and elements present in Ganga’s waters are found elsewhere too. Moreover, the Ganges hardly carries only its own water; from Gangotri a small stream emerges; the great volume in the plains is waters of many other rivers.

Yet the strange thing: before joining the Ganges, a river’s water has certain properties; after merging, those same waters take on different properties! Why? Chemistry does not know. Science can say: there is a difference in minerals, in composition. But there is another difference which science will begin to notice—if not today, tomorrow: the Ganges has absorbed the spiritual culminations of millions.

Let me tell you: whenever an impure person simply sits near water—leave aside entering it—water is affected. It becomes imprinted by the person’s waves; it absorbs the person’s vibrational field.

Hence many religions have used water. Christianity has used water for baptism. John the Baptist gave baptism to Jesus in the Jordan—the Jordan for Jews being what the Ganges is for Hindus. John would immerse the seeker to the neck, stand immersed himself, place his hand on the head and pray for initiation.

Why in water? And why stand the other in water? Is the movement of one person’s inner state to another easier there?

It is. Water becomes charged very quickly. It is easily imbued with personality. It holds the imprint.

For thousands of years Indian seekers have sat on the Ganga’s banks seeking the divine. Whenever someone attained on those banks, the Ganges was not deprived of that attainment; she too was covered in its fragrance. Her banks, her sands, her waters—all, over millennia, have become especially spiritually charged, vibrant.

Hence we built pilgrimage places along the Ganges. Hence people traveled to the Ganges. Hence the belief: sins will be washed away. Not that sin is washed by the Ganges—but because the milieu, the atmosphere, the shadow of millennia—under that shadow, if you open your heart, you can return a different person. The Ganges is a spiritual journey too, not just a river.

Many such experiments exist.

Twenty-two of the Jain Tirthankaras attained nirvana on the Parshvanath hills. On one small mountain-top, twenty-two of the twenty-four attained—this cannot be accidental. Thousands of years apart—yet these twenty-two reached the same little hill at the moment of death.

It is prearranged. The Tirthankaras sought to charge the entire mountain. When a Tirthankara leaves the body, the event is greater than the explosion of an atom. We have recognized the atom’s explosion; this other event we have not yet recognized.

Scientists say: from one atomic explosion enough energy is released to set the earth aflame. In Hiroshima, one hundred twenty thousand people turned to ash in five seconds. An atom is invisible to the eye, so small—and the “explosion” means: the atom composed of electron, proton, neutron—separate them, and the binding energy is released. That energy turns one hundred twenty thousand people into ash in five seconds.

If you stacked a hundred thousand atoms, they would equal the thickness of a hair. Such a tiny thing—and such destruction.

When a Tirthankara’s soul leaves the body, the energy that had bound body and soul is released for the first time. For millions of lives the soul was tied to the body; now it leaves forever. The binding force is released—and it suffuses that mountain.

Twenty-two Tirthankaras electrified that hill. It became magnetic. For centuries pilgrims have gone there hoping that magnetism might touch their life-breath too.

Just as the Jains experimented on Parshvanath, Hindus experimented along the Ganges.

In Arabia there is a village, Kufa. In fourteen hundred years, no one except a Muslim has been allowed to enter—save one man in history. Not even an ordinary Muslim can enter; only one who is truly Muslim—heart transformed, surrendered to God, who has known there is only Allah—only such a one can enter.

Only one non-Muslim—an English explorer, Burton—ever entered. But to call him non-Muslim is not right. For twenty years he practiced Muslim discipline simply to earn entry. When he became Muslim in truth—only a skin of Englishness remained—then he was admitted.

For fourteen hundred years Muslims have used that village as an experiment to charge a place—so that entry itself transforms. Only those deeply immersed in prayer may enter. The whole atmosphere is affected; each particle absorbs it.

Krishna says: Among rivers, I am the Ganges.

The Ganges is not an ordinary river; she is a spiritual journey, a spiritual experiment. Millions attained liberation, God-realization, self-realization on her banks—and left their life-energy upon her waters and sands.

Therefore Krishna says: Among rivers I am the Ganges.

And O Arjuna, I am the beginning, the end, and the middle of all beings. And of knowledge, I am adhyatma-vidya, Brahmavidya; and among disputants, I am the debate, the dialectic that decides truth, the Nyaya.

These two are immensely precious. Among knowledge—adhyatma-vidya. There are endless sciences, but the spiritual science is qualitatively different.

If one knows physics, chemistry, mathematics, astrology, music—however accomplished—he himself stands in darkness. He may be a great musician, yet unfamiliar with his own inner notes. He can master all outer sounds, but the inner veena remains unplayed. He may be a great mathematician, able to handle the infinite—but the one number that is himself remains uncounted.

You must have heard: ten blind men crossed a flooded river. They reached the other side and wondered if any had been swept away. They counted. The trouble that overtakes all: they counted nine. Each counter left himself out—counted from one to nine. And all ten, having counted, concluded there were nine—so one had been lost.

We all decide this way. Democratic decisions happen like this. When all ten say, “We are nine,” what else can you do? They beat their chests and cried that one companion was lost.

A passerby asked why they were weeping. They said, “We were ten; one is lost. We are nine.” He looked—there were ten. He said, “Let me see—perhaps you miscount.” They counted—he saw the error. The same error all men make: each forgets to count himself.

He said, “I’ll use a trick; a miracle will happen and the tenth will appear. I will slap each of you, hard. When I slap, say your number. First one says ‘one,’ second ‘two’… thus the tenth will appear.” He slapped all ten. They were uselessly beaten, but were overjoyed. All ten danced and thanked him: “By your grace, you made the tenth appear!”

All practices are nothing more than such slaps—to make you aware of the “one” you have left out. And all masters do nothing but slap you in some fashion—so that the one you have lost sight of may come into your awareness. He is not lost; he is present.

All sciences count the others, leaving oneself out. Therefore deep ignorance hides in all sciences. A man becomes a great mathematician, but in life remains as foolish as any fool. A man becomes a great scientist—even a great psychologist—knows everything about mind, yet regarding his own mind is as poor and weak as anyone.

Freud, who studied sex and all its pathologies his entire life, wrote: “At fifty, walking down the street, I suddenly felt like pinching a passing woman.” He is honest. In our country no one would confess such a thing. But he wrote: “Strange! At fifty, such an impulse!”

Ask Freud about anger—he knows everything. Insult him and he would rage like a madman.

It’s amusing: you can know psychology—but only of others. About oneself, it does not help. One remains a stranger to oneself.

Adhyatma-vidya is that knowledge by which we know ourselves. And it can be that a knower of the self knows nothing else.

Ramakrishna studied to the second grade. He couldn’t read scriptures properly. His talk was rustic. But he knew that knowledge with which Krishna identifies. Kabir was a weaver. Nanak was not formally educated. Muhammad could not read or write—even his signature he could not do. But Krishna says: Among knowledge, I am Brahmavidya.

For if one knows everything else but not himself, what use is that knowing? And if one knows nothing else but knows himself, he has known all. Ultimately the supreme joy of life comes by knowing oneself. Ultimately the nectar-thread that passes beyond death comes by knowing oneself. All else that we know is alien; it will be left behind. What will travel with us is only the knowing of oneself.

What cannot be carried beyond death—we do not call knowledge. Knowledge is that which, even when the body is consumed in flames, does not burn; fire cannot scorch it, death cannot destroy it. Otherwise it has no ultimate value.

We may know everything; it is superficial—useful perhaps, but not ultimate. Finally it becomes futile. Hence we see even the greatest scholars become as pitiable at death as anyone. Death reveals whether you have known or not. Death tells.

When Alexander was returning from India, his teacher Aristotle told him: “On your way back, bring a sannyasin.”

Aristotle was supremely learned—a scholar, father of logic. The father of all Western sciences. He laid the foundation stones. No single man has ever birthed so many sciences. Astonishing Aristotle.

Yet he told Alexander: “You will plunder much; bring a sannyasin. I want to see one. I want to see a man who has known himself.”

Aristotle, father of Western logic for two thousand years—yet he knew nothing of himself. So his state: he was a slave to Alexander. Though a teacher—such tales are told that Alexander would say, “Become a horse; let me ride you,” and Aristotle would carry him like a horse.

Alexander thought: if I can ride Aristotle like a horse, I will bring not one but ten sannyasins. When he was returning from India, he remembered. He sent his men to fetch a sannyasin. The villagers said, “Whoever can be captured, know he is not worth taking.” The soldiers were perplexed. “Then who is worth taking?” The villagers said, “There is one—but even a thousand Alexanders cannot take him!” “Where is he?” “On the riverbank, a naked sannyasin.”

The soldiers went: “Great Alexander commands you to come with us. You will be escorted with royal honor to Greece. All your needs met. You will be a royal guest. You will stay in the palace.”

The fakir laughed, “Command? We stopped obeying anyone’s commands the day we became sannyasins. As long as we obeyed commands, we were householders. Tell Alexander: wrong address.” The soldiers said, “You don’t know—Alexander is dangerous, quick to anger. He can cut off your head.” The fakir said, “Bring him. It will be great fun!”

Alexander came with naked sword. This is the most precious incident of his Indian journey. He said, “I am a hard man. I want yes or no. Come with me—good. Otherwise I cut off your head.” The fakir said, “Cut it. As far as I’m concerned, I left this head the day I took sannyas. For me, it is already cut. And when it falls, you will see it falling—and I will also see it falling, because I am separate from it. Don’t delay. Don’t waste time. I too am a straightforward man. Draw the sword and cut. You go your way; I go mine.”

Alexander sheathed his sword and said to his soldiers: “There is no point killing this man. We can only kill one who fears death. Only he can be killed who fears. There is no meaning here. We will only regret—and lose sleep. This man will not lose sleep. It will rob me of peace; his falling head will haunt me.”

Brahmavidya, the supreme science, is that by which we know that which we are—that which knows everything else. To know that which has no death, no birth.

Shvetaketu returned home after studying all scriptures—knowing all that could be known. Naturally, he swaggered with knowledge. As he entered the village, his father saw from the house: Shvetaketu walking stiff with the scholar’s pride. The father said, “It seems you have learned everything.” Shvetaketu said, “Everything that is to be known. All the sciences.”

The father said, “I have only one question. Have you known that by knowing which everything is known?” Shvetaketu said, “I never heard of such a knowledge. My guru never spoke of it.” The father said, “Go back. Know that—without which all knowing is useless, and by knowing which everything else is known.” Shvetaketu went back.

Brahmavidya means: to know that by which you know—your consciousness. To know the very knower. To know the source of knowing. To directly know the center within from which I know you, from which I see you—and to see that which sees. Recognition, re-cognition.

Krishna says: Among knowledge I am Brahmavidya.

That is why India did not care much for other sciences. The fundamental reason for India’s lag in other fields is this. We cared for Brahmavidya.

But there was a hitch: only one among millions desires Brahmavidya. The whole country does not crave it. India’s highest minds were enchanted by Brahmavidya; the common folk were not. Their interests lay elsewhere. But the common man cannot develop sciences. The truly great minds do—and they were interested only in the supreme science.

So India produced Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Patanjali, Kapila, Nagarjuna, Vasubandhu, Shankara. Any one of them could have been an Einstein or a Planck. Any one could have entered any science. But the best minds turned toward the ultimate science. The common man had no interest in it; his interest was in other fields—but he cannot develop them; only the highest minds can.

In the West, other sciences developed because the highest minds turned toward them. Thus an odd event: the West developed all sciences, and now the West feels filled with self-ignorance. The East developed self-knowledge, and now the East feels there is no one as poor, deprived, hungry.

We overdid it—staked everything on the supreme science. They overdid it—staked everything on the rest. Strange: they suffer from self-ignorance; we suffer from material deprivation.

When the supreme science and all other sciences come into balance, a complete culture emerges. Neither East nor West has achieved it. Still, if one must choose, the supreme science is to be chosen; all else can be left—because having everything else, you have nothing.

Krishna says: Among all knowledge, I am the supreme knowledge.

But note: he does not deny the other sciences. He is only indicating the highest among them. He is not saying: “Seek only the spiritual and drop all else.”

Consider too: it can be the supreme science only when other sciences exist. Without them it would not remain supreme. If you build only a golden spire of a temple and no walls, that spire will lie on the ground to be kicked by feet. The spire rises into the sky because stone walls support it. The spire of adhyatma-vidya stands only when other sciences build the walls.

So far we have never built a temple anywhere. We made the spire; the West built the temple. Until our spire is placed upon their temple, a complete culture cannot be born.

And the final point.

Krishna says: “And among those who dispute, I am the debate, the reasoning, the Nyaya done for the sake of discerning truth.”

There are two kinds of argument. One is where we want to prove the other wrong. What he says does not matter; we only want to prove him wrong. One is where we are satisfying our ego.

Thus it often happens: even if the other says our very words, we cannot concede without proving him wrong. The other must always be wrong! You are always right. All your argument is for yourself—not out of love for truth, but to gratify the ego.

Such argument is corrupt—kutaraka. However developed, it transforms no one’s life.

There is another argument—done for the search of truth. Then the question is not “Is the other wrong?” The question is “What is right?” Who says it is not valuable; what is right is valuable. Whoever says the right, we bring in reason to test the right. Argument is a touchstone—as a goldsmith tests gold. Reasoning, decision, logic—an art—to test: how far is what is being said true?

But we do not test—because we think we already know the truth. Thus, if someone agrees with us, he is right; if not, he is wrong. We make ourselves the touchstone.

We cannot be the touchstone. Reason is the touchstone—completely impartial. Test yourself and the other equally upon it. And do not be double-minded: one rule for others, another for yourself.

I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin was sitting outside his house. The village mullah was returning from the mosque after prayers. Suddenly rain came; he ran. Nasruddin said, “Stop! Aren’t you ashamed? A religious man—and you run?” The mullah faltered: “What has being religious to do with running?” Nasruddin said, “God is showering water and you run, insulting God! Whose water is this?”

The mullah grew frightened. To save his honor and lest neighbors think he insulted God’s water, he walked slowly home, drenched. He caught a cold; fever; pneumonia.

Three days later, wrapped in a blanket at his window, he saw Nasruddin returning from the market. A few drops fell; Nasruddin ran. The mullah shouted, “Stop, Nasruddin! Are you insulting God?” Nasruddin said, “No—God’s water is falling; lest my foot fall upon it and insult it, I run home!”

This is the double-bind mind. There reason always serves oneself. It has nothing to do with truth.

Krishna says: I am not that kind of argument. I am the debate of those eager for truth—truthful ones for whom it does not matter which side wins or loses; only that truth be seen. The dialectic for truth—that is me.

Hence India treated reason very differently.

Greece developed argument as sophistry. There were schools of sophists, teaching argument for fees. Pay, and in six months, a year, two years, they teach you how to defeat anyone—anyone. Not “whom” to defeat; rather “how” to defeat. Tricks to trap anyone—he will lose.

A great sophist was Zeno. He declared: “If you want to defeat anyone, I will teach you.” So assured was he that he took only half the fee in advance; half to be paid after the student won his first debate.

A student came—Aristophanes—paid half, studied two years. Afterward Zeno waited for him to win someone and pay the rest. But Aristophanes never argued with anyone. If someone said in broad daylight, “It’s night,” he would say, “Yes,” because if he won he would have to pay the fee.

Zeno was in trouble. “The boy is too cunning!” Aristophanes said, “I will not pay until I win. And I will never win—I surrender always. No debate, no winning.”

But the master would not accept defeat. He sued him in court—seeking the remaining fee, claiming the education was complete. His trick: the court would say, “He need not pay—the condition has not been fulfilled; he has not yet won a debate.” Then Zeno would say, “The court has made you win—you have won your first argument; now pay.”

But Aristophanes was his disciple. He said, “If the court says I have won, I will not pay. I will appeal: this is contempt of court! And if I lose, then there is no question of paying—the first argument I have lost.” The court ruled: Aristophanes need not pay; he had not yet argued.

Outside, Zeno said, “Now pay—your first argument you won against me in court.” Aristophanes said, “Master, I am your disciple. I will never insult the court, even if it costs my life!”

This is sophistry—vitanda—where anything goes; both sides can argue endlessly.

Krishna says: not that kind of argument—but the dialectic used in the search for truth. I am that debate.

Enough for today.

Sit for five minutes. Take the Lord’s name, and then go.