Geeta Darshan #13

With fresh symbols and new directions, Krishna keeps trying to tell Arjuna the same thing again and again. Truth is one, but it can be explained in many ways. Those who can understand, understand even without ways. Those who cannot, even endless ways do not help. Yet a being like Krishna goes on trying—if not visible from one door, then from another; if not from the second, then from the third. The labor of a Krishna is tireless, his patience infinite.

In this sutra Krishna says: I am imperishable time.

In existence everything is momentary and everything wears away. Everything changes. Nothing seems eternal—except change. Everything changes, except change. Everything is altered; only alteration is the stable fact. Whatever is, is no longer the same the next moment. If we understand this a little, the imperishability of time, its deathless nature, will begin to dawn on us.

Whatever is, is not the same the next moment.

There was a thinker in Greece, Heraclitus. He said: You cannot step twice into the same river. How could you step twice into the same river? By the time you step in again, the river has flowed on. The water you touched the first time will never be touched again.

But Heraclitus did not exaggerate. It is not an overstatement; it is an understatement. What he said is less than should be said. The truth is: you cannot step even once into the same river. Because when your foot touches the surface, the lower water has already flowed away; and by the time your foot goes a step deeper, the upper water has gone. A river is flow; that’s what we mean by “river.” Its current is continuous.

The river of life is the same—continuous flow. In life too it is impossible to stand in the same place twice. It is impossible to see again exactly what was seen. We are deluded, though; we think the same sun rises every day.

The same sun cannot rise every day. The sun is transforming every instant. The sun is a burning fire; as flames change moment to moment, as a lamp’s flame changes every instant, so the sun too is changing every instant.

In the evening you light a lamp; in the morning you think you are extinguishing the same lamp. You are mistaken. The lamp you lit at dusk has gone out countless times. The flame is ceaselessly dissolving into the sky; a new flame is arising in its place. It happens so swiftly, the stream of flame is so rapid, that you cannot see the gaps between two flames. So you think the same flame burned all night, and in the morning you are putting out that same lamp.

If it were the same flame you were extinguishing, where did the oil that burned all night go? The oil kept burning and the flame kept changing. In the morning you extinguish another flame entirely—not the one you lit at dusk. Certainly, it is of the same lineage, the offspring of the same flame, but not the very same flame.

The sun is changing in just this way. A tiny lamp changes so fast. That immense sun changes even faster. It is not the same sun that rises each morning. And if you think the same earth is visible each morning, you err. If you think you pass by the same trees each day, you err. Everything is changing. The change is so swift you do not see it.

When an electric fan spins very fast, its blades are invisible. Scientists say a fan can be made to spin so fast that even if you fire a bullet at it, the bullet will not pass through the gaps; it will hit a blade. They say it can be made so fast that you could sit on it and not know it is moving.

Everything is moving that fast. The ground beneath you is racing; every particle of the wall’s bricks is in intense motion. Nothing is still. All things are moving. The speed is so great you cannot see it.

And even if only everything else were changing, it would be one thing; but you too are changing. The sun each morning is different, the ground different, the trees different, the sky different, and you different. The one who fell asleep at night is not the same who wakes in the morning. Your stream of life is flowing, flowing every instant. Everything within you changes as well.

Have you ever noticed: the first day in your mother’s womb, the cell that was formed—the one that has become you—if it were placed before you today, you could not see it with your naked eyes. A powerful microscope would be needed. And even then there would be no way to recognize, “Once I must have been this.” Yet once you were exactly that.

And one day you will be burned, and only a heap of ash will remain. If that heap were placed before you today, you would refuse to believe, “This will be me.” You would not trust that this and I are one. Yet you will be that. And when I say you will be, do not think it is something for tomorrow—you are becoming that now.

Language leads us into many errors, because language gives a sense of fixation—that things are fixed. We say, “The tree is.” We should say, “The tree is happening.” We say, “The river is.” We should say, “The river is happening.” We say, “The child is.” We should say, “The child is happening.” We say, “Death will come.” We should say, “Death is coming.”

Everything is happening. Every “thing” is an event, not a thing. No thing is a thing; it is an event. Event means process. This world is processes, not things. Happenings, not objects. Everything is happening—flow. If there is one thing imperishable amidst this flow, it is time.

It is quite a marvel. If there is something still within all this change, it is change itself. This will seem upside down, but the deep truths of life are paradoxical. Put it this way: if there is anything in this world that does not die, it is death. Everything else dies. And the one thing imperishable in this world, the one thing that does not wear down, is time. Everything keeps changing.

But remember: the process of change occurs in time. Without time there can be no change. You came from your home to here; it took an hour. If there were no time, you could not arrive. An hour is needed to arrive. If time were to end, you could not even move from here, because moving takes time. You could not even breathe, because breathing requires time.

Whatever is happening in this world requires time. Everything happens within time. In the being of all, time is hidden. Existence is one with time. Everything changes, and the changing happens within time. Time alone does not change, because in what would time change? To change time, another time would be needed.

Mathematicians consider it like this: if Time A is to change, then Time B is required. If Time B is to change, then Time C is required. To change time one, time two is needed; to change time two, time three. This becomes a foolish infinite regress. However far you stretch it, you must admit one time that does not change. Consider it another way and it becomes easier.

You are sitting on the ground. To sit you need space. Without space you cannot sit. For your being, space is needed—room, extension. Then a question arises, which philosophers have asked: does space need another space to be? Does space require a mega-space? But then this is infinite regress without end. That mega-space would need another.

So scientists say: space is needed for everything—except space itself. Space needs no place. Space is place. Space is required for all things; nothing is required for space.

Exactly so, time is required for all change—except for the change of time. Better said: as space is place, so change is time. And time requires nothing else.

Modern physics—especially Einstein—joined space and time into a new conception. He proposed something new. For India it is very old; in the West it proved precious. Modern science has been built around it: time and space are not two, but one. He said time is also a dimension of space.

This is a somewhat difficult mathematical idea.

Einstein spoke of three dimensions of space: length, breadth, depth. For anything to be, these three are necessary. Then he said the fourth dimension is time, the direction of change. Length, breadth, depth, and if a thing is, then a process of transformation—time.

Thus Einstein said: time is the fourth dimension of space. He coined one word: spacetime. A single existence of time-space, because for anything to be, transformation is necessary. Existence is nothing but a flow of change.

Krishna says: I am imperishable time. I am the time that never runs out.

All things run out; time never runs out. Suns run out and are extinguished. Earths run out, grow old, and die. Great stars scatter. If we search this vast existence, things are forever forming and dissolving. Only time remains present in both forming and dissolving; present in birth and in death. Time alone remains present imperishably. Its presence is eternal.

That is why Mahavira named the soul “time.” He named the soul itself time. He said: soul means time; existence means time.

So if you have heard the Jains’ word samayik, they call meditation samayik. Prayer they call samayik—entering time, drowning in the soul. To be in the eternal time, to be one with the infinite time. This word samayik is even more valuable than “meditation,” because the one who becomes one with that eternal time becomes one with the divine.

Krishna says: I am imperishable time.

We all think ourselves separate from time. We imagine time is something we pass through—or that passes by us. That is our common notion.

A man says sitting idly, “I am passing time, I am killing time.” He does not know he is not cutting time, he is cutting himself. How will you cut time? There is no knife that can cut time. Time can cut you; you cannot cut time. Yet people say it. They sit playing cards and say, “We are killing time!” They do not know that by playing cards, time is killing them.

You cannot even touch time, let alone cut it. You have no experience of time as such, much less the ability to slice it. You can only slice yourself. Time is imperishable; it will not be cut—certainly not by you. No one has ever cut it. All cutters vanish; they come and are lost. Time remains, eternally in its place.

This eternity of time—this eternity—Krishna says, is what I am.

If in this world we are to take any symbol for the imperishable, it is time. Everything else perishes. All that is in time perishes—except time. Death has no effect on time.

Thus, especially in India, we have considered time and death as one. We call death “kala,” and we call time “kala.”

Only time has no death. If time were different from death, then time too would die. Time is one with death. How can death die? That is why we have named death “kala.”

Mahavira named the soul “kala,” we called time “kala,” and we called death “kala.” There are reasons.

Death too has a kind of eternity. Look closely: death is only a word. We are cut by time. When we are completely cut through, that event we call death. Nothing more. Death is nothing else.

As a river flows and erodes the bank, so our existence is eroded in the current of time. One day we find we have been carried away in particles. The day we are wholly carried away, we say, “Death happened.” But time carries us off every instant. We are flowing every instant.

We cannot stop. There is no way. This is the manner of being, the destiny. Resist and you will break sooner. Try to dam the current and you will be destroyed even faster. It is like trying to swim upstream in a raging river—you will tire quickly and the current will take you away.

To become one with time is to become one with the divine. Becoming one with time means the capacity to accept change: whatsoever happens, the knack of consenting. Whatever occurs, a complete oneness with it—no inner resistance. Whatever time brings, total accord: if illness, illness; if old age, old age; if death begins to come, death. No resistance anywhere within. Only then will you know what time is.

But we are all fighting. We try to step aside from time. We cannot; yet our effort is that.

I have heard: people caught Mulla Nasruddin outside his house and asked, “What are you doing here?” He was sitting under a tree, lost in thought. They said, “Your wife has fallen into the swift river. The current is strong; the rains are on. Soon she will reach the sea. Run!”

Mulla ran, threw off his clothes, jumped in—and began to swim hard against the current. People shouted, “What are you doing? If your wife is being swept away, she’ll go downstream. You’re going the other way!”

Mulla said, “I know my wife better than you. Going against is her habit. I have lived with her thirty years. If the whole world, falling into a river, goes toward the sea, my wife cannot—she’ll be going upstream!”

But we are all like that. If we look at the current of life, we see ourselves trying to swim upstream. There is a thrill in it; that’s why we do it. Swimming against the current creates ego. If I can make a few strokes against the flow, it seems I am somebody. If I flow with the current, I am nobody.

If someone swims upstream all the way to the source of the Ganga, all the papers will print his photo. If someone flows from the source down to the sea, no paper will print him. If we win a few strokes against, it feels like victory.

But remember: no one can swim against the current of time. In a river one can manage a few strokes; in time, no. Because time leaves no “behind” in which to swim. A river still exists behind you; time dissolves. You get only one moment; the past has vanished. There is no past to go back into. Only the future remains. You can go forward; there is no way back.

Yet the mind keeps trying to run backward. That contrary racing creates ego, but we are deprived of the deep experience of becoming one with time.

Flow with the current; put up no obstruction. Become one with the river’s flow. Whatever life brings, receive it with supreme joy. Let there be not even a trace of refusal or rejection. Let there be no complaint. Such a person is truly religious—the one whose mind harbors no complaint toward life.

A temple-goer is not necessarily religious; he may be going only to complain. Most people go to temples to complain. Their prayers declare: “God, we understand better than you. What you are doing is wrong. Do what we want.” Our prayers, our temples, our rituals, our mosques are houses of complaint.

But one who goes to the temple with a complaint cannot enter a temple at all. There is only one doorway to the temple: to be without complaint. When there is supreme rejoicing in what life has given, in what life is, when acceptance becomes celebration—then you flow. The conflict between you and time dissolves. You become one with time. In that oneness you will know the imperishable nature of time—what this eternal time is.

The time you know now is clock-time; it has nothing to do with the imperishable. Clock-time is your construct. We divided the day into twenty-four hours, the hour into sixty minutes, the minute into sixty seconds—our arrangement, for convenience. It has no relation to fundamental time. If you take that as time, you err.

You will know time the day you attain tathata—total acceptance. Then, what Krishna calls the imperishable form of time will enter your experience.

Try, for twenty-four hours, to let yourself be carried—don’t swim. The religious man does not swim; the irreligious man swims. The religious man flows. Even saying “flows” may be too much—because “flows” still suggests a doer. No, the religious one becomes one with the current. Wherever the current takes him, he goes.

Lao Tzu said: I saw a dry leaf. For years I meditated, prayed, searched—but I found no clue. One day I was sitting; it was autumn, dry leaves were falling and drifting. In that silent noon I watched those dry leaves, and that day I found the secret.

If the wind took the leaf left, it went left; if right, right; if up, it lifted to the sky; if it flung it to the ground, it rested on the earth. The dry leaf had no will of its own, no desire, no thought of “Where shall I go?” Wherever the winds carried it, it consented. The dry leaf had lost its separate existence.

Our desires are our “existence.” The sum of our cravings is our so-called being. The dry leaf had become one with the winds. When the winds lifted it to the sky, it sat on the throne and rejoiced; when they dropped it in the dust, it rested there and rejoiced.

Lao Tzu said: From that day I became a dry leaf. And since that day I have known neither sorrow nor agitation. Since that day I have not had to search for truth; truth was already there, and it entered my experience.

When the imperishability of time is experienced, the deepest form of the divine begins to be remembered.

O Arjuna, I am death, the destroyer of all, and the cause of the arising of those to come. I am death and I am birth.

Let us understand this a little.

Strangely, we never notice that your birth “happens”—you do nothing about it. How could you? Only after birth can you be. No one asks you beforehand whether you choose to be born. Before birth you have no choice. How could you? Before birth you are not. Birth is given to you. It is a gift, a benediction. Existence gives you birth. Birth is not in your hands. About birth you can do nothing; your decision has no place. Whenever you are, it is already after birth. Surely, birth cannot be yours.

Death is not yours either. Just as birth does not occur at your hand, neither does death. Death, too, is the hand of the vast; birth, too, is the hand of the vast. The one who gives you birth is the one who draws you into death.

For this reason all religions have opposed suicide. If they have called it the greatest sin, there is reason. You cannot take birth, but you can kill yourself. When you do a work that belongs only to the divine, a great sin happens. You cannot choose birth; but you can choose death. Yet when you cannot choose birth, you have no right to choose death.

Buddha said the same thing from another angle. Passing a village, people warned: “Don’t go that way. A man has gone mad. He has vowed to cut off the heads of all who pass and string their fingers into a garland. He has killed nine hundred ninety-nine. He says he will not stop until he reaches a thousand. His name is Angulimala—he wears garlands of fingers. Take another road; that path has been deserted for months.”

Buddha said, “If I hadn’t known, perhaps I’d have taken another path. But now that I know, I must go. Angulimala must be in trouble. He needs one more, and no one goes! Think of him. If I don’t go, who will?”

So Buddha set out on that path. Disciples who had proclaimed to share life and death began to lag behind. Poetry is fine; when death becomes an actuality, life-and-death companions are the first to fall away.

Angulimala saw Buddha from afar and even he felt pity. He was not one to pity. He thought: “This monk must have wandered here by mistake. The villagers surely warned him. He must be mad—madder than I am!”

He was sharpening his axe. Buddha climbed the path toward him, those innocent eyes, that childlike presence, that simplicity. Angulimala glanced up from his sharpening. “This man surely has come wrong.”

He shouted, “Monk, stop! Come no further. Perhaps you don’t know I am Angulimala!” Buddha said, “I know. Perhaps you don’t know who I am.” And he kept walking. Angulimala flashed his axe in the sun: “Foolish monk, I have sworn to kill, and you are the last. With you my vow will be fulfilled. I will not spare you. Even if my mother came, I would complete my vow of a thousand. Turn back! Not a step forward. Stop!” Buddha said, “I stopped long ago. Angulimala, I tell you—stop.” And he kept walking.

Angulimala thought, “He is madder than I. Sitting, he tells me to stop! He walks and says he long ago stopped!” Buddha came near. Angulimala felt like talking: “What do you mean, stopped? You walk and say you are stopped!”

Buddha said, “When the mind has stopped, whether the body moves or not, what difference? You seem to sit, but your mind is moving faster than your axe. Therefore I say to you: stop. I have stopped.”

Angulimala’s grip loosened, but then he remembered his vow. “Whatever my pity, I am bound by my vow. I will cut you.” Buddha said, “Before you cut, grant a dying man a small wish. From this tree pluck a leaf and give it to me.”

Angulimala thought, “He is completely mad. Is this a dying wish?” He swung his axe; not one but a thousand leaves fell. Buddha said, “Half my wish is fulfilled; now complete it. Attach them back.” Angulimala said, “I knew you were mad. Fallen leaves cannot be joined.”

Buddha said, “You cut with such pride—as if doing some great thing! This children can do. Join them—then I’ll be impressed. If you cannot, then cut my neck if you must, but think: one who cannot join a leaf—has he the right to sever a neck? Take up your axe and cut, but what you could not make, you have no right to destroy.”

Angulimala’s axe fell; his head fell at Buddha’s feet.

If violence and killing are called evil, the total reason is this: you cannot give yourself birth. If all religions have opposed suicide, the total reason is this: when you are not master of your birth, how can you be master of your death? To usurp that mastery is a great sin against the divine.

In this context let me mention a great Western thinker, Albert Camus. He begins a book with the sentence: the only truly serious philosophical problem before man is suicide. The only metaphysical problem before man is suicide.

Camus, Sartre, Kafka, Heidegger—the most modern Western minds—hold that man has only one freedom: to kill himself. No other freedom seems real. Therefore, they say, the right to suicide should exist. We cannot do much—we cannot create life, cannot will birth. One thing we can do: end it. That is our freedom. There should be a right to it.

Their argument seems logical, but it does not accord with the vast logic of life. What we cannot begin, we should leave to the one who began it.

Krishna says: I am death and I am birth. I am the cause of birth and I am the cause of death.

Now it becomes difficult. Arjuna can ask: “Then how can I kill these people? Why should I commit murder?” This question will arise immediately. When Buddha tells Angulimala, “If you cannot join, you have no right to cut,” Arjuna too can think: “If I cannot revive or give birth, how can I kill?” This is exactly Arjuna’s problem.

From the perspective Krishna is looking, he tells Arjuna: your notion that you are killing them is illusion—because it is I who kill. Do not cling to that illusion. You cannot kill.

This means: even one who commits suicide is only in the illusion, “I am killing myself.” In truth no one can kill himself unless death itself has arrived—unless the hand of the divine has come. Even the thought “I will die” is not yours; it comes from the same source as birth. You can be deluded. And that delusion can entangle you for long.

In this world, apart from delusions, nothing is in our hands. Truth is not in our hands; we are in the hands of truth. Only delusions and untruth can be in our hands. A man thinks, “I took my life.” He is deluded. We live with such delusions throughout life.

I have heard: one morning Mulla Nasruddin was sitting, deeply pensive. His wife asked, “What are you thinking so hard?” Mulla said, “I am thinking, when a man dies, how does he know it? How is he sure: I am dead? Suppose I die—how will I know I’ve died?” His wife said, “Stop talking nonsense. When you die, you’ll know immediately—your hands and feet will be cold like ice.”

Fifteen days later Mulla was in the forest cutting wood. He had tied his donkey to a bush. It was a cold morning; snow was falling. His hands and feet went cold. He thought, “Certainly death is near. My wife said it would be known: when hands and feet grow cold, you are dying.” Then he thought, “Dead men are never seen cutting wood—cutting wood now is improper.” He dropped his axe and lay on the ground. At once he grew colder; the snow fell harder. “Surely death has come!”

Seeing him lying as if dead, two wolves attacked his donkey tied behind him. Mulla thought, “No matter. If I were alive today, you could not take such liberty with my ass! But it’s all right—I am dead!”

Even if a man “commits suicide,” he is in just such a delusion: “I am doing it.” We carry the illusion of doing all life long; we can carry it into death. We think, “I am doing this; I am breathing; I am living.”

No. You are not breathing; you are not living. If you were breathing, death could never come. Death would knock, and you would say, “I will not stop breathing; I will keep breathing.” But the breath will go out and not return; you will not be able to draw it in. Life is not running by you, but from your deepest depth. From where life runs—that is the divine; from where death comes—that too is the divine. You are only a wave in between.

So Krishna tells Arjuna: you can neither give birth nor give death. Understand this, and you will see you are only a vehicle. If death occurs through you, it is through me; if birth occurs through you, it is through me. Ultimately, I am. You are merely an instrument.

Strangely, the Gita looks as if it leads to violence, and yet it is hard to find a vision more nonviolent. But that nonviolence will not match Mahavira’s, nor even Buddha’s. In my view Krishna’s nonviolence goes deeper, because it breaks the very root of violence—the ego.

When a man thinks, “I practice nonviolence,” there is still violence—because whether I kill or I save, the “I” grows. If I have the notion “I saved,” the same ego remains. Sometimes the language differs but the inner content is the same.

Mulla Nasruddin once came to India and stayed at a yogi’s ashram. Tired, he hoped to rest. It was a grand place, with disciples. A Muslim fakir—impressive—sat nearby. The yogi was delighted: “Now even Muslims come to me.” Mulla listened as the yogi spoke to disciples about compassion for all living beings, saying: all life is one family; compassion is religion. When he finished, Mulla stood and said, “You speak rightly. Once a fish saved my life.”

The yogi immediately bowed at his feet: “Blessed! I have practiced for twenty years, but never have I received such a reply—that an animal saved my life. I have saved animals, but no animal saved me. You are blessed! Your story proves my doctrine. Stay; rest here.”

For three days they honored Mulla. He heard much. On the fourth day the yogi said, “Now relate the secret—how a fish saved your life.” Mulla said, “After hearing so much, I think it’s best not to stir that topic now.” The yogi prostrated: “Master, you cannot escape. Tell me the secret of how a fish saved you. Do you not deem me worthy?” Mulla said, “If you insist, I’ll say it: I was very hungry—and by eating a fish, my life was saved. A fish saved my life.”

Words may be the same—do not be deceived. Very different truths can be hidden in identical phrases; and sometimes different words conceal the same truth. Peel off the shell of words and always seek the truth.

Mahavira and Buddha’s nonviolence stops at “Do not kill another.” Good, deep, religious, useful for the seeker. But Krishna goes one step further: the very belief that you can kill is violence. The belief that you can kill or save is violence. The supreme nonviolence is knowing: whether killing or saving happens, it is the divine that does; I am no more than an instrument.

O Arjuna, I am death, the destroyer of all, and the cause of the arising of those to come. And among women I am fame, shri, speech, memory, intelligence, steadfastness, and forgiveness.

For the first time in these symbols Krishna has included the symbol of woman. If one were to seek the divine in women, where would one look? If one were to glimpse the divine in women, where would that glimpse be found? In kirti—fame or honor. What has honor to do with woman? And what is this honor?

When we look at women—especially in our time—we do not see the woman; we see only desire. We see her as an object of lust, a thing to be enjoyed, without her own meaning or being.

And the woman herself lives with a single orientation—to be an object to be enjoyed. Her walk, her bearing, her dress—everything seems chosen to excite male desire. She may not be conscious of it—that the clothes she wears invite the shove. She may be angered by the shove, she may cry out, she may express rage; but she will not think that the shove has as much of her hand in it as the hand that pushed. Her attire, her manner, the arrangement of adornments does not seem for herself, but for someone else.

Thus the same woman at home, before her husband—he may feel detachment. The same woman on the beach, in a crowd—men feel attachment. Husbands grow dispassionate. Neighboring women remain attractive; their own do not. Because women too, taken for granted, and because when a woman goes out among the crowd, her whole attitude is as a sexual object. And the men take her as such.

Kirti means: a woman without such an aura. Honor, izzat—the inward quality of a woman who does not live as an object of desire; from whose being no jangling of lust rings. Then a unique beauty arises. That beauty is her fame, her glory. Today such a woman is very rare—hard to find.

Kirti is an inward quality, an inner beauty: the beauty before which lust quiets rather than rises.

This is a bit subtle. But we can understand one thing: if a woman can provoke lust, why can she not soothe it? Whoever can excite can also pacify. If a woman, by her ways, ignites desire, by her ways she can quench it.

That beauty which calms—so that even a lustful, deranged man approaching finds, in the woman’s eyes and aura, a coolness that pours water on his fire and extinguishes it—this is kirti.

But when we speak of a woman “losing her honor,” people think only the taker is responsible. He is at least fifty percent responsible—but only fifty. There is also a readiness to lose it. And the truth is: a woman whose honor no one is keen to steal becomes restless, perturbed—feels she does not exist, has no being.

The mind is double-bound. We pull and we push; we invite and we repel. On one side we want people to be attracted; on the other we want them not to take us as points of lust.

In America today, women’s liberation movements are trying to ensure women are not treated as objects of desire. Their movement will run—and their persona, bearing, and lives will, in every way, strive to become exactly that.

Kirti is the name of that quality within a woman by which lust is doused. Kirti means: beside such a woman, your lust dissolves. That is why we gave such value to the mother. Because of kirti we valued motherhood so highly.

The old rishis blessed new brides with strange blessings: “May you have ten sons, and may your husband become your eleventh son. Until your husband too becomes your son, know you have not attained the supreme dignity of womanhood.”

For a husband to become a son—this is kirti.

Krishna says: Among women, I am kirti.

It is a rare quality, hard to find. In the world of actors and actresses it is almost impossible. And those on the stage are less actors than the vast society imitating them, acting on streets and squares.

Of all beings in this century, woman has suffered most, because we have lost any sense of which of her qualities are truly valuable. Kirti hardly even occurs to us. You may be a father; you may have a daughter at home. Have you ever wished for the birth of kirti in her life? You helped a girl be born; if you do not help kirti be born in her, you are not a father—only a machine of reproduction.

Kirti is difficult; it comes only through deep sadhana. When lust disappears in a man, brahmacharya blossoms. When lust disappears in a woman, kirti blossoms. Kirti is the counterpart. In a woman kirti blooms as brahmacharya blooms in a man.

The same brahmacharya does not bear fruit in a woman as in a man—there are reasons. In a man, if he attains celibacy, his seminal energy is absorbed inwardly. But a woman’s sexual energy is involuntarily discharged in her menstruation; it is mechanical. Thus her sexual energy cannot be sublimated in the same way.

When a man’s sexual energy is sublimated, a radiance—tejas—arises. That radiance is brahmacharya. A woman’s bodily arrangement is otherwise; biologically different. Menstruation is not under her will.

Understand this a little.

A man’s seed-energy depends on his will; a woman’s sexual energy does not. She can do nothing by will; it is part of her body. Therefore, a woman’s approach to celibacy must differ from a man’s. In the man’s, semen is raised upward; his energy is positive, aggressive, will-based—thus it can be sublimated. A woman’s sexual energy is not sublimated that way, being not will-based.

Hence Mahavira said women cannot attain liberation, for his entire emphasis was on the practice of brahmacharya as for men. He said a woman must take a male birth and then be free. Directly, in a woman’s body, she cannot be liberated. The reason: his whole process was for male brahmacharya.

But the sadhana of kirti is different, akin to brahmacharya. If a woman attains kirti, the male body is not needed. From the woman’s body itself, liberation is possible. But the process is entirely other.

Kirti means: the feeling of motherhood grows intense in her mind. Her sadhana is the sadhana of the mother. She becomes the mother of the whole world. Only one wave moves within her—motherhood. The sense of being a woman drops; the sense of being a wife drops; only the sense of being a mother deepens. The day motherhood deepens so much that even if a lustful man comes and clings to her heart, she remembers only her son. She can place her hand on his head as if her son has come. No fear, no worry, no flutter arises within; she presses him to her heart as a son.

And it is a wondrous fact: if any woman embraces a man as a son, his lust will dissolve then and there. Because the inviting form of woman is gone; the man instantly becomes calm.

This quality is kirti. When it develops, a radiance comes to a woman—an extraordinary beauty, unrelated to physical beauty.

In the most homely woman, if kirti blossoms, from within her very ugliness an aura of beauty begins to shine. People cannot see her homeliness; the inner beauty prevails. And the most beautiful woman, without kirti, has beauty only on the skin. Soon the vast ugliness within begins to show.

That is why in the West today the relations between men and women break so easily. Two days; a few months are a long time. Two years—a great event. The reason: beauty is skin-deep.

Krishna says: Among women I am kirti, shri, vak, smriti…

Shri too is a feminine quality, like kirti. Kirti is a sadhana. When it flowers—when it becomes dense, when it is no longer merely motherhood but the very sense of “I am a woman” dissolves—then the flower of shri opens. A beauty arrives we can call unearthly. It appears in a Meera sometimes, in a Mary sometimes—rarely.

Shri—Krishna says—among women, that shri I am.

When this flower opens—rarely—woman is no longer woman; even the idea of man as man falls away. In lands where this shri was attained, God was envisioned as female—as Mother. Where women reached this inner shri, the divine was not imagined as male.

Understand this a little.

Germany calls its land the Fatherland; we call ours the Motherland. Germany never saw a phenomenon like shri; it saw the great development of male qualities. Thus Fatherland is fitting. Woman is secondary. In the West male qualities developed profoundly. The East cultivated the feminine.

And the marvel is: when male qualities develop, the end is war—because male qualities are of the warrior. The supreme glory of man appears in the soldier.

Nietzsche said: when I see soldiers marching in step, boots thudding in one rhythm, sunlight glinting on bayonets, then I experience beauty—such beauty I have not seen elsewhere. If male qualities develop, they are like this.

Now Western psychologists say we must develop feminine qualities alongside masculine; otherwise balance is lost.

The East deeply tested and grew feminine qualities. And I hold: if one must choose, develop the feminine, because all men must be born of women. If women are undeveloped, men never develop. And men must grow up with women—mother, wife, sister, daughter—woman at the center, man circling the circumference. If feminine qualities do not develop, society becomes impoverished.

Shri is the supreme flowering of woman—the soul of woman. When even the sense of womanhood dissolves, she becomes divine. Krishna says: that I am.

Vak—speech. We see women talking much; perhaps talking is their profession. But vak does not mean chatter. Chatter is a distortion of a feminine gift. Women silent—that is a miracle.

I have heard: in London a contest was held for the greatest lie. First prize went to the man who said, “I saw two women sit for an hour on a park bench without speaking.” He won! It cannot happen. Women are busy talking.

But vak is not chatter. Vak appears when a woman attains utter silence in her being. When she is utterly silent, her words become precious—hymns. A woman who cannot be silent will never attain vak.

Therefore her true quality is quietness—so quiet it seems she has no voice. Everything is becoming in a woman—except her chatter; that is utterly tiresome. The most beautiful woman becomes unbearable if she keeps chattering.

Silence has a dignity. Words are a kind of aggression—an assault on the other; silence is non-aggression.

I have heard: Vachaspati married and came home—but he was a man of the fire. For twelve years he forgot there was a wife at home. The tale is sweet. He was writing a commentary on the Brahma-Sutras—morning to night, night to midnight. He brought a wife home because his father wished it. The wife entered the house; Vachaspati returned to his writing. Twelve years! He forgot the marriage and the wife at home.

He had decided: the day I finish the commentary, I will renounce the house. Twelve years later, at midnight, the work was done. Suddenly his eyes, for the first time, left the manuscript. He saw a beautiful hand lifting the lamp’s flame higher from behind—gold bangles on the wrist.

Startled, he said, “A woman here at midnight! Who are you?” She said, “Blessed am I that you asked. Twelve years ago you brought me as your wife; since then I have waited, knowing you would one day ask, ‘Who are you?’” “But where have you been?” “I came daily. When the lamp’s flame dimmed, I raised it; I lit it at dusk and removed it at dawn. Never did I come before you lest I disturb your work.”

Tears came to Vachaspati’s eyes. “It is too late. I had decided: the moment the commentary is complete, I leave for sannyas. Now what can I do for you? You waited twelve years—and tonight I depart!” His eyes were wet.

Her name was Bhamati. He named his commentary Bhamati—not for any textual reason, but to honor her. A wondrous commentary.

Vachaspati was a wondrous man. He said, “In your memory I name this Bhamati, and I go.” “I will not be unhappy,” she said. “None more blessed than I. Is it not enough that your eyes filled with tears for me? My life is fulfilled.”

Only so much was spoken—after twelve years of silence. Those few words we can call vak. When something emerges from a woman’s supreme silence! But supreme silence is difficult.

Krishna says: I am vak, I am smriti, I am medha, I am dhriti, I am kshama.

Smriti—memory. Men have one kind of memory; women another. Psychologists may disagree; they might say memory is one.

It is not. Nothing is the same between men and women. A man’s memory is mental; a woman’s is existential, total.

If a man loves a woman, what remains in memory is “I loved”—a mental record. If a woman loves, this memory saturates every pore; it pervades her entire being. When she remembers love given or received, it is not a mental note; her whole being is present.

Thus men can love many women; for women, to love many men is intrinsically difficult.

For men, events are in the mind—a part. For women, events are in the whole person. Her entire skin is involved.

Even physiologists admit: male sexuality is localized; a woman’s is spread throughout her body. Her whole body is erotic. Likewise her memory is whole. It is not merely mental.

Such a memory changes in quality—its dimension and meaning are different.

Krishna says: among women I am smriti—integrated, total memory. A woman remembers not with mind and thought, but with her total being.

Hence there is a father and there is a mother. The father seems a formal institution—dispensable, as among animals. The mother is not formal. The relationship of mother and child is not a mere mental memory; it is an exchange of whole beings. For a mother, her son is her own fragment, her extended hand.

If a son is killed and the mother does not even know, her life is shaken. Now many experiments confirm this. A soldier dies in war; his mother, thousands of miles away, is agitated. The father is unaffected. The father has no existential bond. “My son”—a mental memory. And if a letter arrives revealing he is not the biological father, his link dissolves. It was arithmetic, not deep and inner.

Thus if a man is never a father, it makes little difference; no lack in his personality. Men are more interested in being husbands than fathers. If a woman too is more interested in being a wife, she does not know the secret of being a woman.

A woman’s primal longing is to be a mother. If she accepts a husband, it is on the path to motherhood. If a man accepts fatherhood, it is under compulsion of being a husband. Men have little intrinsic desire to be fathers. And where it exists, ulterior motives abound—property, inheritance, rituals. All arithmetic; purposive.

A mother’s relationship is non-purposive. It is her own being’s extension. If the son is harmed, her heart is pained.

Not only in humans; in Russia experiments were done: a rabbit is cut, and miles away the mother’s heart shows effects—rate increases, body trembles, tears come. Instruments have verified: even in animals some unknown link operates. A profound memory—biological, not merely psychological—pervades every fiber.

Krishna says: among women I am smriti.

He says it for a reason: only with such total remembrance toward the divine does attainment happen. Merely chanting in the skull does nothing. When every hair, every heartbeat resonates—when saying is no longer needed because being itself remembers—then the divine is realized.

Medha, dhriti, kshama.

Dhriti—patience, steadfastness, stability. Man is very impatient—perhaps because his seed-energy is impatient. A woman is calm, steady, full of patience.

We used to think men are stronger. In one sense—muscularly—yes. In a fight, man is stronger. But that is one criterion. By other measures, woman is stronger.

In stability, endurance, forbearance—consider: a mother carries a child nine months. Let a man carry for nine days and see! If men had to carry pregnancies, abortion would be the rule. Then the mother raises the child. Try keeping a baby in your bed one night—you’ll go mad.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin took his son out in a stroller; the child cried. Mulla kept saying, “Nasruddin, be calm! Nasruddin, be calm!” An old woman, thinking the baby’s name must be Nasruddin, said, “Such a sweet boy. Is his name Nasruddin?” Mulla said, “No, his name isn’t Nasruddin. Nasruddin is me. And I’m saying to myself, ‘Be calm!’ My mind wants to wring his neck! Nasruddin, be calm—he is eating my head!”

A woman’s patience is, in a sense, limitless. Her capacity to endure is great. Where you could not stand, she remains.

You may not know: women’s average lifespan is five years longer than men’s. They fall ill less often; and when they do, more for mental than physical reasons. Medically it is proven that women’s resistance to disease is greater. Many illnesses cannot enter; men fall ill quickly. Men’s muscular strength is greater—but that era is passing. No one hunts lions or chops wood; machines do men’s work. Machines do the man’s jobs; none yet do the woman’s.

In the coming hundred years, woman will rise in stature. As automation advances, the male becomes dispensable. The female cannot be so easily dispensed with; her gifts are of another order.

Krishna says: dhriti I am; kshama I am.

In a woman’s personality, love and forgiveness are equal measures. The more love, the more forgiveness; the more patience, the more forgiveness; the more motherhood, the more forgiveness. Men must practice forgiveness; for a woman it happens naturally—her nature.

Until now, humankind has proceeded with man at the center. We say mankind—man’s world. We subsume woman under “man.”

That was a mistake. Woman has a personality quite different from man’s. Until the feminine qualities Krishna names are fully developed, the world will remain imbalanced. The male pan is heavy and has sunk; feminine qualities have not flowered.

Now a mishap is occurring: after long suffering, women are reacting by trying to become like men. That is the greatest calamity that could befall humankind. Women try to be like men—in dress, demeanor, business, speech. Whatever arrangements men have, they want the same.

This is a mistake, because the feminine personality is fundamentally different. She should have the right to develop herself—equal to the man’s right—but the right to develop like a man is a costly bargain. If women become like men, the world will lose its color. Some qualities—only women can embody—will be lost.

Today, in the West, kirti cannot be; shri cannot be; forgiveness cannot be; dhriti cannot be; the total memory I spoke of cannot be. Because in every matter she strives to do exactly as men do.

The loss will not be the man’s; it will be the woman’s. She can only become a second-rate man. She cannot be a man, only a number two man—ugly and distorted.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin stood in a cinema queue. He wanted to chat with the man ahead. “See what a bad time it has become! That boy near the window—dressed like a girl!” The neighbor said, “Excuse me, you are mistaken. That is not a boy—it’s a girl.” Mulla said, “What standard have you from so far? Looks like a boy to me!” “Pardon me. She is my girl.” “Forgive me. Then the clothes misled me. So—you are her father!” “You are mistaken again,” said the person. “I am her mother.”

If women dress like men, walk like men, work like men, smoke and swear like men—if equality means to mirror men—then what even male oppression did not erase, their own ignorance will erase. Feminine qualities are different.

Therefore Krishna rightly enumerated feminine qualities and said: if you want to see me in women, see me in kirti, in shri, in vak, in smriti, in medha, in dhriti, and in kshama.
Arjuna has asked: In what states of feeling should I behold you? Where should I seek you? Where will I have your darshan? If one is to see you among women, then seek you among them.
And among the chants fit to be sung, I am the Brihat-Saman; among metres, the Gayatri; among months, the month of Margashirsha; among seasons, I am the spring.
Lastly, let us take a word or two on spring.
Among the seasons, the one in full bloom, laden with flowers, the moment of festival—that is spring. Do not search for the Divine in dry, barren, dead, lifeless homes. Where life celebrates, where life blossoms like spring, where all seeds sprout and become flowers—in celebration, in spring—there I am.
God is available only to those who can gather the capacity to see him in life’s celebration, in the juice of life, in life’s rhythm, in its music. Sad, weeping, escapist people—those who have become dead—do not see him. It is very difficult to see him in autumn. He is present there too, of course. But those who cannot see him even in spring—how will they see him in autumn? Those who can see him in spring will see him even in autumn. Then autumn will not seem like autumn; it will be spring at rest. Then autumn will not even feel the opposite of spring; it will be the arrival or the departure of spring. But if you must begin to see, it is proper to see first in spring.
Perhaps on this earth, Hinduism stands alone as the religion that has tried to see the Lord in celebration—festive, dancing; in rhythm, in song, in music, and in the flower!
That is all for today.
Wait five minutes. Join the kirtan and then go.