Geeta Darshan #14

It may surprise you to hear Krishna say: among tricksters I am gambling.

Perhaps everything in life is a trick. And nowhere does life’s trick-nature reveal itself as nakedly as it does in gambling. Life is a gamble, and in gambling life’s magical, illusory face—its very deception—achieves its purest expression. If we understand this a little, much becomes easier. And it is precious.

All life long we try to get what we desire—and we never truly get it. It seems it will come; it seems it has come; it seems now at last there is no delay. And each time the mark is missed. In the moment of death a person sees that nothing he wanted has been attained. Only the ashes of his passions remain in his hands.

The pain at the time of dying is not the pain of death; it is the pain of a life wasted. Those who have found life’s meaning, life’s bliss, are not seen suffering at death. To them, death appears like a rest. But most are seen tormented by death.

We all assume they are grieving because of death. That is mistaken. They grieve because the life they had—brimming with plans, with longings, with distant dreams—has slipped away; bright stars they hoped to reach remained out of reach. In the whole race, without arriving anywhere, a man dies by the roadside. He doesn’t even reach a wayside halt—the destination is very far indeed.

The sting of death, the pain, comes from the futility of life.

That is why we do not see the Buddha sorrowing at his last breath. Nor Socrates. Nor Mahavira. Death comes to them like a friend. To us it comes as an enemy. Why? Because our cravings are unfulfilled; we still need more time. Our desires are incomplete. We still want more future.

Remember, without future our desires have no space to spread. Future is needed—only then can the branches of desire extend. There is no desire in the present; desire is always in the future. The net of passions is always in the future; in the present there is no net of passion. If someone resides purely in the present, here and now, no passion remains in his mind.

Desire cannot exist in the present. It is always for tomorrow, for the coming moment. Desire’s very relationship is with the future. Those who inquire deeply even say: the mind creates the future only so that it has a canvas on which to spread its desires. The future is the canvas on which the dreams of passion are painted.

Therefore, if you want freedom from passion, there is only one process: drop the future and live in the present. Do not go beyond the present. Live the moment in your hand; do not think of the next. When it arrives, we will live that too.

One who begins to live moment to moment, from instant to instant, leaves no room in his consciousness for passion. Passion needs the vastness of the future.

Death hurts because with death, for the first time, we discover there is no future. Death shuts the door of the future; only the present remains. And in the present there are only the ruins of broken desires—ashes, heaps of failure, melancholy, anguish. No way appears for desire to be fulfilled—only a little more future is needed.

In the Mahabharata there is the story of Yayati. Yayati reached a hundred years. He was a great emperor—he had a hundred sons, many wives, a vast kingdom. When he was one hundred and death came to his door, Yayati said, “Wait a moment. Nothing of mine has yet been accomplished. I am standing exactly where I stood on the day of my birth. Is this any time to come? Not a single dream has become true. All the seeds are still only seeds; none has sprouted. I need time.”

Death, jesting, said, “If any son of yours gives you his life, I will take him and leave you.” Yayati told his hundred sons, “Give me your lives. Mine is unfinished. I gave you birth; I spent my life on you. For you I have been exhausted. Give me your lives; death agrees to spare me.”

But the sons had their own passions—more unfinished than his. They needed even more time. Yet one young son agreed. The elder sons were wise, experienced; none of them agreed. They said, “Do you feel no shame saying such a thing? You yourself are unwilling to die! You have lived a hundred years—we have not. And you ask us to die!”

But the youngest son agreed. Yayati asked, “Why are you agreeing?” He said, “Because if after a hundred years your cravings are still not satisfied, I will not enter this mad race. If I must die after a hundred years anyway, my life will go waste. At least now it can serve some purpose—you can live a little longer.”

Still Yayati did not understand. When our own life is in difficulty, we can sacrifice anyone’s life. We may go on saying a father lives for the son, brother for brother, friend for friend—but those are only words. When death stands before us, everything changes.

The son agreed. He died; Yayati lived another hundred years. They passed without his knowing. When death again came to the door, Yayati said, “So soon! Have a hundred years already gone? My passions are as incomplete as ever—there is not even a shred of difference.”

By then Yayati had more sons as well. Death said, “Ask again—if any son agrees.”

The tale is amazing: this happened ten times; Yayati lived a thousand years. And after a thousand years, when death came, Yayati still said, “So soon! I still need time.”

Death told him: “Yayati, however much time you get, your passions will never be fulfilled. Time falls short. Time—though infinite—falls short of passion.” Whenever death came to his door, Yayati trembled.

We are all in the same condition. The story of Yayati may seem mythical, but if you look closely, we too have taken many births and lived thousands of years. This is not our first life. In every life we have done the same: asked for more time, were given birth again; each time passion remained incomplete. And each time death came, we were as unfinished as before. Nothing ever fills.

Death frightens because the future ends. Then life’s futility becomes visible—but then there is no use; no meaning. Life appears to have been a gamble—and we have lost.

Gambling has one specialty—that’s why I’m speaking of it at length. In gambling no one ever wins; that is its trick. And yet everyone appears to be winning; that too is its trick. Everyone throws the dice in the hope of winning—and everyone feels certain of victory. But in gambling, no one ever truly wins. Those who seem to win are only preparing for greater losses.

The loser thinks, “This time I lost; luck didn’t favor me. Next time victory is certain.” And he keeps losing. Sometimes there is a glimpse of victory. That glimpse arranges for even larger defeats. From that glimpse it seems victory is possible.

And the one who wins thinks, “Once I win, I will stop.” But if he wins once, stopping becomes impossible. The taste of victory stimulates the mind; the craving to win grows strong. That very craving leads to defeat. The loser thinks, “Next time I’ll win.” The winner thinks, “Winning is in my destiny; I will win every time.” And in the end the gambling just goes on—and all are proved losers.

Therefore Krishna says: among deceits I am gambling.

It is the purest deceit. No one ever wins—ultimately, no one. At the end the hands remain empty. The game runs long—many losses, many wins. Someone loses, someone gains; someone builds up, someone is ruined; huge transactions occur—money shifts from this one to that. And ultimately no one wins. Only all who are racing between win and loss break down, scatter, are defeated, destroyed.

So gambling is the symbol of life. The whole of life is a gamble.

Do not think only those at the gaming table gamble. There are many ways to gamble. Some play big stakes, some small. Some gamble with courage, some with timidity. Some wager all at once, some in bits and pieces. Some win and lose moment to moment; for others, the reckoning of win and loss is totaled at the moment of death. But we are all gambling. And until a person turns inward, he remains in the game.

Understand it this way: whoever is interested in the other is gambling. Whether that interest is for love, wealth, fame, position, prestige—makes no difference. As long as you depend on the other, you are playing a deep gamble. And if you find others also interested in you, know for sure that you both are partners in a profound gambling.

Until one is free of interest in the other and dissolved in the interest that arises from oneself, one remains inside the game.

Gambling cannot be played alone; it requires the other. That is why only the one who reaches the solitude of meditation—the aloneness—steps outside life’s gamble.

Any work that requires the other—know that it is gambling. Any work that cannot be completed without another—know that it is gambling. Wherever the other is indispensable, there is a stake. The moment you are ready to be utterly alone—when the other becomes wholly meaningless—know that you are stepping out of the game.

There is no way out of the gamble except meditation. All other “ways out” are ways of gambling in disguise. One person prefers one game, another prefers another—that is only preference. But at life’s end, if there is one thing you can truly know you have attained, it will be only your own self. Whatever else you accumulate, death will snatch it away.

I have heard that when Alexander died, the whole town was astonished. When his bier was carried out, both his hands hung outside! Hundreds of thousands came to see. They asked one another, “We have never seen such a bier, with the hands dangling out. What is this custom?”

By evening they learned this was no mistake. It could not be—this was no ordinary man; this was Alexander. It came to light that Alexander had instructed: “After my death, let my hands hang out of the bier, so people may see that I too am going empty-handed. There is nothing in my hands. The race was futile. It turned out to be a gamble.”

And this is the same man who, ten years before he died, met the Greek mystic Diogenes. Diogenes had asked Alexander, “Have you ever thought—if you conquer the whole world, what will you do then?” Hearing this, Alexander grew sad. He said, “This disturbs me deeply, because there is no other world. If I conquer this one, what then will I do? I haven’t yet conquered it—but merely thinking of having conquered it, truly, Diogenes, you depress me—what will I do then? There is no second world to set out to conquer!”

This man died having “won” very much. He was a great gambler—he staked everything. He amassed huge piles of victories. But at death his message—“Let people see my hands are empty”—is worth pondering.

Emperors die here like beggars. Sometimes a beggar dies here like an emperor. The Buddha’s hands are full; Alexander’s hands are empty. What is the secret? With what are Alexander’s hands empty—and with what are the Buddha’s hands full? The Buddha tried to attain himself—hence his hands are full. Alexander tried to attain everything except himself—hence his hands are empty.

It does not matter what you are trying to attain—your life is a gamble if you are trying to get anything other than yourself. In the end your hands will be empty; in the end you will depart defeated.

Krishna says: among deceivers I am gambling.

Gambling is deception in its purest form. We denounce the gambler—but we are all gamblers. Perhaps our denunciation is so strong because we are small gamblers; and seeing a gambler, our own gambling is exposed, stripped naked. When a gambler places a bet, we say, “Madman!” Yet we live our whole lives betting—and never consider that we are mad. One’s own game appears right; everyone else’s appears wrong.

It’s a strange phenomenon on this earth: everyone considers himself right and the rest mad. A religious revolution does not happen in life until a person begins to know himself as mad. The very day you see that the life you have called “my life” so far has been a long madness—on that day the revolution begins. As long as you laugh at others, know your laughter is wasted. The day you can laugh at yourself, know the path has changed; your journey has become something else.

What are you doing? You waste your life so that people will call you good. You waste your life so someone will call your house grand. You waste your life so someone, seeing your safe, will have their eyes dazzled. You are gambling with the eyes of others.

Those eyes are made of water just as yours are. Tomorrow they will flow away like water; in the sands of this world there will be no trace of them. Others’ words are bubbles in the air—just like yours. They will burst and vanish. Their praise, their blame—like bubbles, they will break and be lost. They will have no value. And you will have squandered your life.

Krishna’s statement is worth holding close: among deceits I am gambling. If you want to see deception in its purity, it is there in gambling—one hundred percent pure. In life you see it mixed; in gambling it is pure.

I have heard Confucius once told a disciple: “Before you meditate, go to two places. First, sit in a gambling house and watch what people do there—observe. Sit and see what they do all night. Don’t do anything—only observe. For three months sit in a gambling house and watch; then come and tell me.”

Three months later the disciple returned: “People are mad.”

Confucius said, “Then here is the second instruction: go sit for three months in a cremation ground and watch people burn.”

After three months the disciple came back and said, “I have seen: the whole of life is a gamble—and the whole of life ends in the cremation ground.”

Confucius said, “Now you can begin the inner journey.”

Whoever understands gambling and death can set out within.

I am the influence of the influential, the victory of victors, the resolve of the resolute, the purity of the sattvic. And among the Vrishnis I am Vasudeva—my very self; among the Pandavas, Dhananjaya—meaning you; among the sages, Vyasa; among poets, Shukra—I am that.

Krishna takes even himself as a symbol—and Arjuna too. He says, “Among the Vrishnis, if you want to see me—if you wish to see the Divine—I stand before you.”

Surely no one in that lineage rose higher than Krishna. In fact, we know the clan because of Krishna. Without Krishna there would be no reason to remember them. A flower blossomed on that tree—the Krishna-flower—and because of that flower we remember even the tree. He is the supreme attainment of that line—the butter, the very essence.

Krishna is explaining to Arjuna: wherever the flower of excellence opens, you will be able to see me. So if you want to see me in my clan, I am right here.

And often, when the final flower has bloomed, the lineage disappears—its purpose is complete. With Krishna, Krishna’s line also dissolves. Such height cannot be surpassed. The highest is also the end of a line. When the last flower opens, it also means the tree’s death has come. Perfection is also completion.

With Krishna, Krishna’s lineage ends. Its inherent purpose is fulfilled—the destiny reached, the final leap made—the wave has risen as high into the sky as it could.

“So,” he says, “if you want to see me in my clan—I am here, where the Divine can be seen.”

And he says something even more delightful: “And among the Pandavas, Dhananjaya—meaning you!”

Among the Pandavas, Arjuna is the butter, the essence. This whole Mahabharata turns around Arjuna; the whole story revolves around him.

Dhananjaya, if you want to see the Divine among the Pandavas, see in yourself.

All these symbols Krishna has used were distant, “other.” Slowly he brings Arjuna to the symbol where he can see in himself. He has reminded him: among seasons I am spring; among gods I am Kamadeva. All this long journey—if understood rightly—was for this deep symbol: that the time might come when Krishna can say, “Dhananjaya—among the Pandavas, I am you.”

To be reminded of your own excellence, you often have to travel through others’ excellence. Sometimes, before arriving at your own door, you must knock at many others. Our self-ignorance is so deep that even to reach ourselves, we must be guided by another. If we need directions to our own address, we must ask someone else. Our unconsciousness is so deep—we have no clue to ourselves; we know only others!

What can a guru do for a disciple? When a disciple bows and asks at the master’s feet, what does he really ask? And what can the master ultimately tell him? Only this: what you are seeking is you. What you are in search of hides within the seeker. What you run toward is not outside—it is within the runner. The fragrance that attracts you, the musk that pulls you, is hidden in your own navel.

Krishna could have said this directly—but it would have been futile. He could have said, “Arjuna, I am within you,” but it would not have been meaningful. This journey was needed. If Arjuna could glimpse a little here and there, perhaps he could glimpse within.

All the methods religions have devised are necessary—yet not indispensable. They can bring you, but you can arrive even without them. They were made for one purpose only: that one day you may discover the one you seek is you.

It is a strange search—because the moment one begins to seek oneself, seeking becomes impossible. How can you find yourself? Wherever you go to search, your eyes fall upon the other.

I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin, mounted on his donkey, was galloping through the bazaar. People shouted, “Mulla, where are you rushing?” He said, “Don’t stop me! My donkey is lost.” He was in such haste that when villagers shouted, “Nasruddin—you are riding your donkey!” he could not hear.

At dusk, exhausted, he returned. When the donkey too was tired and stopped, Nasruddin came to his senses: “How mad I am! I was riding what I was looking for.”

He told the townspeople, “You fools—why didn’t you say so? I was in too much of a hurry to look down. But you weren’t in a hurry!” They said, “We shouted—but you were going so fast that if you couldn’t see your own donkey, how could you hear us?”

We can laugh at Nasruddin—but his joke has depth.

What are we all seeking? Whom are we searching for? What do we want to find? Ourselves. “Who am I? What am I? Why am I?”—that is our search. Yet we run fast—and we are riding what we seek. The runner himself is what we are searching for. Until this race stops, until we are weary and halt, we will not realize.

All the religious devices were invented to tire you out thoroughly—so that one day you stand still. The day you stand still, you meet yourself; you recognize yourself. Only in stillness can we know who we are. While running, we cannot know.

Our speed is so great, and increasing daily. Once we walked; then came carts; then cars; then airplanes; now spacecraft. Our racing speed increases day by day.

Have you noticed? As man’s speed increases, his self-knowledge decreases!

You haven’t—because no apparent relation is seen. But the faster we go, the more our connection to ourselves breaks. We become adept at reaching others—and inept at reaching ourselves. One day, our speed may reach distant stars—but reaching ourselves will become very difficult.

Nasruddin was on a donkey; by evening he tired. When will our spacecraft tire? If someday we ride the speed of light, perhaps endless aeons will pass—and in that speed, self-knowledge may never dawn.

It is a curious fact: the more speedy a society is, the more irreligious it becomes. The slower a society, the more religious. In slower societies, the possibility of reaching inward remains; in speedy societies, the possibilities to go outward increase—those to come inward diminish.

Today people roam the globe. An old story comes to mind.

I have heard: God created the whole universe. Then he created man. He was delighted—everything was beautiful. Then he made man—and from that day he became anxious. Man began to make trouble. With man, trouble was born.

He called all the gods and said, “A great difficulty has arisen. It seems a mistake to have made man. Daily crowds gather at my door—this complaint, that complaint; this lack, that flaw. I want to hide from man. Where should I go?”

One god said, “Sit on Mount Everest.” God said, “You don’t know—soon Hillary and Tenzing will climb Everest; my trouble will start again.” Another said, “Then go sit on the moon.” God said, “How long will that take? Soon man will land on the moon. Tell me a place where man cannot reach.”

Then an old god whispered in his ear. God said, “Perfect—that will do.” The other gods asked, “What did he say?” God said, “Don’t ask. If it leaks and reaches man, it will be dangerous.”

The old one had whispered, “Hide inside man himself. He will never reach there. He will climb Everest, land on the moon—but inside himself, never.” God said, “That will do.”

And the story says: since then, God has been hiding inside man. And since then, man cannot find him—to complain, to pray, to praise.

To go within—for that Krishna has been leading Arjuna step by step, by many hints, to the final place where he can say, “Arjuna, O Dhananjaya, among the Pandavas I am you. Look within yourself. Don’t ask where to imagine me. Don’t ask where to search. If you truly wish to seek—I am present within you. See there, search there.”

We too do not believe that the Divine is within. We might believe it if someone says the devil is within—because our acquaintance with ourselves matches that. But if someone says God is within, we think some metaphysical, lofty philosophy is being peddled—nothing substantial.

God—within me? We can accept him within anyone—but it is very difficult to accept him within ourselves. Because within, we know what is there: we know the thief, the cheat, the adulterer. How can we accept that God is within?

It only means one thing: you do not know the within. What you call “within” is your mind; in truth, it is not the inner—it is not real innerness. What you call “mind” is not your innermost core. It is only a shadow of the outside gathered within—reactions shaped by the outer accumulated in you.

Understand it this way: what you call mind is a sum of impressions that have come from outside. It is not the within. Even the mind is outside you—because you can see it. If I look at you, there is a world outside me. Then I close my eyes: inside, there is a world of thoughts. That too is outside me—because I can see it within. Thoughts appear to me; anger, lust appear to me. Just as I see you, I see the crowd of thoughts within. They too are outside me—inside the body, but outside me.

You are outside me. When I close my eyes and your image appears within, that too is outside me—and it is your image. Have you ever seen within a single image that did not come from outside? A single thought that did not come from outside? Anything within that is not a reflection of the outside?

Search again. Investigate within and you will find it is all clippings of the outside, trash of the outside, an accumulation of the outside. This is not the within—this is the outside’s hand reaching in. If you want to know the inner sanctum, you must go a little further back.

That is what Krishna is pointing to: Dhananjaya, among the Pandavas I am within you—right now.

But the inner is not known by the mind; it is known by the witness—by the knower, the seer. One who becomes capable of watching his own mind attains the inner experience. And one who attains the inner no longer needs to go to spring to see him, or to Kamadhenu, or to the Gayatri meter. Then everywhere is his meter; everywhere is his spring.

Keep one thing in mind. Until we see the Divine within, we will try to see him outside. And however authentic the attempt, it will remain incomplete; it cannot be total. One who has not known him within—in the nearest—cannot know him far away. He is nearer than near—closer than the beating of your own heart. Mohammed has said: the life-pulse in your throat is farther—God is closer than that. One who has not known him so near—how will he know him far?

Yet we all lift our blind eyes to the sky and try to find him. One who cannot see him with eyes closed within tries to see him with eyes open in the vast heavens! That attempt will never succeed.

Yes, one thing can happen—you may begin to believe you are seeing. If you believe with great fervor, your life will become morally sound—but not religious. Your life will be filled with good tendencies—but not with truth. Your life will be auspicious—but auspiciousness too will be a dream. For the God you see will be your imagination, your projection. One who has not seen him within cannot see him anywhere. Our difficulty is that our gaze runs outward.

So Krishna starts from the outside: “Look here, look there, look there.” Then he brings him closer and closer. Finally he brings him very near: “Look at me. In my clan, I am here before you.” Krishna and Arjuna are very close—yet still there is distance. Then he takes him even more within: “Look in yourself. You too are my home. I dwell within you.”

Once someone glimpses him within, his glow spreads everywhere. Then he is not seen only in spring—spring is for the blind. He is seen even in autumn. Not only in the excellent—he is seen in the lowly too. Then nothing appears that is not him. Why?

Because one who has seen him within—his eyes are filled with him; his breath with him; every pore throbs with him. Wherever he looks, that color spreads; wherever he looks, that light diffuses. It is as if you walk with a lamp—wherever you go, there is light. Enter darkness—the darkness shines.

The day he begins to appear within, a lamp is lit in you. Wherever you go, wherever your light falls—there he appears. Go into darkness—he is there. Into light—he is there. Morning—he; evening—he. In birth—he; in death—he. But only once he appears within. For that, Krishna needed so many symbols.

And among sages I am Vyasa; among poets, Shukra; among discipliners, the rod; among would-be victors, policy; among secrets—silence; among the wise—I am essence-knowledge.

Two symbols are very precious; let us understand them.

Among secrets—silence.

This seems upside down, because we keep secrets of “something.” Does anyone keep silence a secret? We hide thoughts; who hides no-thought? We hide when there is something to conceal. Silence means there is nothing to hide. When there is nothing to hide, what is there to conceal? This is a difficult aphorism—one of those deep sutras on which religion’s foundation stands.

“Among what is to be kept secret, I am silence.”

Hide nothing—but hide your silence. That is the meaning. Let no one know that silence is growing within you. Let no one know you are entering meditation. Let no one know you are becoming quiet. Let no one know you are becoming empty—because the urge to tell another destroys it within.

If a man says, “I live in silence,” the very relish of saying it, of telling another, will not let silence happen.

A man says, “Meditation is happening to me.” But when he says it to another—he says it to impress. We hide whatever might impress another in the wrong way; and we tell only what will impress well. We show others our good face so they will be impressed.

One who is eager to impress another cannot enter meditation—because the relish of impressing the other means you still value the other more than yourself. If I think, “If that person is impressed with me…”—whoever I wish to impress, I value more than myself; that is why I want to impress him. If he honors me, I rise in my own eyes. He is more valuable than I. If he accepts me, I rise in my own sight. Even to rise in my own eyes, I need to impress others.

When someone speaks of meditation—or says “I have known God”—and speaks of it to others to impress them, it means he has not found God yet; he is not even on the way. Those on that path are the ones who leave others completely behind—who no longer even remember that others exist.

There was a Sufi, Bayazid. When he went to his master, he was astonished. One day the local ruler came to the master and said, “Grant me initiation into the supreme silence you abide in.” The master—who otherwise was always quiet and would rarely answer even after months—started babbling nonsense. The ruler left, bewildered. Bayazid asked, “I have never seen you thus. He asked for initiation into your silence.” The master said, “Exactly—so that he would not know I am established in silence, I babbled and sent him away.”

Bayazid asked, “Why hide your silence?” The master said, “If anything is worth hiding in this world, it is silence—because it is the innermost treasure; so delicate that the slightest urge to impress shatters and loses it.”

Another Sufi was Ibrahim. He was king of Balkh. When he renounced and went to his master, the master said, “First do one thing—become naked.” Ibrahim removed his clothes. Those who had escorted him were shocked. One whispered, “At least ask why.” Ibrahim said, “Having surrendered, there is no room for questions.” The master gave him a sandal and said, “Go into the marketplace—yesterday it was your capital—walk naked, striking your head with this sandal, and circle the market once.”

Ibrahim went. He struck himself with the sandal; crowds gathered; people jeered: “Ibrahim has gone mad!” He completed the round and returned. The master said, “Your test is complete.”

His companions asked the master, “May we ask—because Ibrahim says there is no room for asking—what was its purpose?” The master replied, “To see whether any concern remained within about what others say. One who still thinks, plans, worries about others’ opinions cannot enter silence.”

The greatest obstacle to silence is the presence of the other in your mind—always present. Even when you sit silent, you are not silent; you keep talking to imagined others. We talk in two ways: to real people and to imaginary ones. The conversation goes on. Even in imagination, if those you are talking to are not impressed, you feel hurt. Leave aside real people—if in a daydream someone says, “Nonsense—stop your blabber,” the mind is hurt and depressed. Even in dreams the urge to win the other remains.

One midnight Mulla Nasruddin woke up in tears, causing an uproar. His wife asked, “What happened?” He said, “Be quiet. A great loss has happened. I dreamt a god was giving me rupees. I counted: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I said, ‘Make it ten to complete it.’ And in that moment the dream broke! I’ve been lying here with eyes closed saying, ‘All right, fine, we agree to nine.’ But there’s no trace of him. All right, even eight—seven—anything! But there’s no sign!”

Even those we see in dreams are realities to us; we start relationships even with them. If you watch your mind, you’ll find most of your life passes in dreams and fantasies; very little passes outside. And even outside, much that you say slips out by mistake—you later realize you had been saying it inside and it leaked outside. Many times you say what you did not intend—because it was running within. You say, “It was by mistake.” But it cannot be without a cause; only what was running inside can slip off your tongue.

Inside there is a continuous dialogue, a continual discussion with your own fantasies. When you sit to be silent, this will break your silence.

Silence means that not a single thought remains—no vibration of thought; like a lake gone still, without a ripple.

Yet Krishna says, “Among secrets, I am silence.”

And this is the most secret—tell it to no one. The moment you tell, it is destroyed. Often your mind will be eager to tell. Whenever something happens within, you want to tell someone. The mind insists: go—say it!

This is a natural tendency. Until another acknowledges what happened to you, you cannot fully trust that it is real.

I’ve heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin was walking down a dark lane when some boys began pelting stones at him. In the dark, with no way out, he called them close and said, “What are you doing here? Don’t you know the king has invited the whole village to a feast today? All who go will be fed—and what dishes!…” He began describing the sweets. The boys grew excited. Seeing their excitement, he grew excited. As he warmed to the menu, their mouths watered—and so did his! As the heat of the talk rose, the boys ran off: “Leave the Mulla—let’s get to the palace!” Seeing them running into the dark, Mulla thought, “What if it is true!” He also ran. Maybe, who knows!

When another is impressed by something we say, we too are impressed. It becomes mutual—an exchange. And where these influences carry us is hard to measure.

Two people fall in love. Every man who falls in love tells a woman, “There is no woman on earth more beautiful than you.” And every woman wants to believe it—and does. And simply hearing it, a woman becomes beautiful. Confidence arises. And if someone believes you so beautiful, he too appears beautiful. She says, “There is no man on earth more splendid than you.” Then the mutual race of imagination begins; both lift each other to the peak. The higher the peak, the deeper the fall tomorrow—because the peak belonged to imagination.

Hence beware: no marriage fails as badly as a love-marriage. Not because love-marriage is bad—but because it is built on mutual fantasy.

In India marriage has been a successful institution because we have cut love out of it entirely. No imagination—people walk on the ground. Here there are husbands and wives—not lovers. They never soar into the sky; hence there is no question of falling into pits. They remain on level ground.

In America marriage is becoming thoroughly chaotic—because the foundation is two people intoxicating each other. How long can that intoxication last? It fades quickly. After such huge dreams, when they return to earth they feel cheated, deceived. All those poems turn to smoke.

This is how we all live; that’s why flattery delights us. Even if someone tells you an outright lie—“There is no one as intelligent as you”—a voice within may say, “Don’t get into this—this is false.” You know your intelligence well. Yet you don’t feel like denying; you feel like believing. If ten people say it together, refusing becomes impossible. Gather a crowd of a thousand or two—and there is no question. They can lift you into the sky.

One who looks into the eyes of others will fall into delusion—certainly. For the seeker it is essential to step out of this mutual exchange of fantasies—completely. Be content with yourself. Do not look into the other. Do not tell the other what is happening within.

There is another reason not to tell: as soon as you say it, your movement within is obstructed—because saying it gratifies you; you feel satisfied. When I say to someone, “Great peace has come within,” it means I am satisfied—movement stops.

If you want the inward movement to grow and not stop—don’t speak. Don’t speak—don’t tell anyone. Let it be your secret, your private treasure. Let no one know. Let it remain between you and your God.

This is why religions have built so much secrecy. There is no other reason behind that secrecy; it supports inner growth.

Krishna says, “Among feelings—among what should be kept secret—I am silence. If you would seek me in feeling, seek me in silence.” Arjuna has asked: “In what mood shall I seek you?” Krishna says, “Seek me in silence. If you become utterly silent, you will find me.”

Between us and truth there is a wall of words. You pass by a rose. A rose has blossomed—but before the flower, the word “rose” appears; the word “beautiful” appears. You don’t even see the flower; you say, “Beautiful.” That “beautiful” is a habit. You know roses are called beautiful; you have heard, read—and it has settled in the mind. You don’t see this flower at all; its petals do not touch your heart; its fragrance does not descend into your breath. You say, “A rose—beautiful.” Finished. Your connection is broken.

If you wish to relate to this rose, try a small experiment. Look at the rose—but do not allow a word to arise. Sit with it; do not allow the word “rose.” Do not allow “beautiful.” Do not allow “fragrant,” “good.” No judgment. No statement. Tell words, “Be quiet. My eyes are here. Let me see.”

One morning Lao Tzu went for a walk. He went every morning; a friend accompanied him. The friend knew that to utter even a single word was dangerous. But the friend had a guest at home—and took him along. Lao Tzu was silent; the friend was silent; so the guest too kept quiet. After two hours, when the sun rose, birds sang, flowers opened, the guest could not help himself and said, “What a beautiful morning.”

When they returned, Lao Tzu told his friend, “Why did you bring this babbling fellow?” The friend said, “What a limit! He only said, ‘What a beautiful morning.’” Lao Tzu said, “Even that becomes a wall. The sun was there, the morning was there, we were there—what need was there to say anything? Are we blind? Do we not know morning—beauty? Those words shattered the morning’s silence. Don’t bring him again.”

Lao Tzu is right: the moment you say “beautiful,” a wall of words is between you and the sun. Remove words. Be empty. Let the sun rise there—let yourself be here—between the two let nothing intervene. For the first time you will be touched by the sun, be one with it. For the first time a bridge will be built between you and the sun. Between the rose and your heart, a music will arise.

If such silence becomes your approach to the whole existence, then a relationship with the Divine is born. The day words cease—fall away—and only existence and you remain, a relationship is formed. Existence is all around; we are here; between us is a wall of words.

Language is very useful in the world; it is a great barrier in God. Where you have to relate to the other, language is necessary. Where you have to relate to yourself, language is dangerous. To meet the other, how without language? But to meet yourself, what is language needed for?

We have so habituated ourselves to language by meeting others that when we go to meet ourselves, we carry the burden of language along. If you want to meet God, language has no use; there, silence is the language. There, to be quiet is to speak. There, to be silent is the dialogue.

Krishna says, “If you want to seek me in feeling—I am silence.” And “I am the essence-knowledge of the wise.”

This is the last symbol in this dimension.

“I am the essence-knowledge of the wise.”

I spoke a little about essence-knowledge. It does not mean scholarly information. Essence-knowledge means the direct, personal experience of truth—your own.

Ouspensky, a great Russian thinker and mathematician, went to the mystic Gurdjieff. He said, “I have come to ask you something.” Gurdjieff handed him a paper: “First write down what you actually know. Then ask me what you don’t know. If you already know, what is the need to ask? Write first what you know—we will not discuss that at all.”

Ouspensky was a prolific author. Before meeting Gurdjieff he had written a remarkable book—one of the three great books of the world. In the West it is hard to find its equal.

He had written Tertium Organum. And sincerely, without ego, he had written there that two great books had been written before: Aristotle’s Organon—the first principle; Bacon’s Novum Organum—the new principle; and I write the third—Tertium Organum. Very humbly, without arrogance, he had said: even before the first principle existed in the world, this third principle existed—which I am writing.

It is a priceless book—astonishing. Sometimes one wonders how a mind without realization can write such vast things. He had no self-knowledge; yet the book is such you would think the man is supremely enlightened.

Gurdjieff said, “I know who you are, Ouspensky. I have seen your Tertium Organum. I know about you. Write first what you know—we will not touch that. Or if you claim you know what you wrote there, then our talk is unnecessary. Namaste!”

Ouspensky had never met a man like this. Gurdjieff said, “Go into the next room. You will feel embarrassed before me. Take the paper—write.”

Ouspensky writes: “Whenever I sit to write, my hand flows. That day my hand froze. What shall I write that I know? Whatever I try to write, a voice within says, ‘Where do you know this? You have read, heard, understood. The intellect knows; you do not.’ God? No experience. Self? No experience. Meditation? No experience.”

He brought back a blank sheet—tears in his eyes. “Forgive me. I know nothing. Take this blank paper.”

Gurdjieff said, “Then you can go further—because one who mistakes so-called knowledge for knowledge cannot move on. You can become an essence-knower. Till now you were a ‘knower’; now you can be an essence-knower. When the knower realizes, ‘I do not know,’ the journey into essence-knowledge begins.”

Note well: ignorance does not mislead as much as borrowed knowledge does. The ignorant are humble; they know they do not know. But the so-called learned, whose minds echo only scriptures, never think they do not know; they are certain they know. That certainty becomes their barrier.

Essence-knowledge means personal experience.

Krishna may know; you may memorize the Gita—it will not give you knowledge. Buddha may know; you may memorize the Dhammapada—it will not do. It is borrowed. And borrowed knowledge is not knowledge. Only your own knowing is knowledge. Whatever another knows—even if he gives it all—what comes to you are only words. You accumulate them; they sit in memory. Then you mistake memory for knowing.

Memory is not knowledge. Knowledge means experience. Only when your own heart knows, lives, throbs in it—is there essence-knowledge.

Krishna says: “Of the wise, I am essence-knowledge. I am the experience.”

And it is a great wonder that in that essence-knowledge— that private experience—what is known is precisely the Divine. What is known in personal experience is God. Personal experience itself is the Divine.

Knowing about God is not knowing God. To know about God is not to know God. ‘About’ is false. Not about him—know him. That is essence-knowledge. When does this happen? Our natural state is ignorance. Then we cloak ignorance with knowledge—and delusion arises; we feel we know.

The Upanishads have said a priceless sutra—perhaps the most revolutionary utterance on earth. And people read the Upanishads and memorize them! It’s strange.

The Upanishad says: the ignorant wander in darkness; the learned wander in a greater darkness!

For which “learned” is this said—that they wander in greater darkness? And the marvel is that people memorize this very sutra—and repeat daily: “The ignorant wander in darkness; the learned in great darkness.” They memorize even this—and think by memorizing they have become wise. It is for such learned that the sutra was spoken.

Man is strange. He is supremely skilled at deceiving himself. And when he deceives himself, there remains no way to break the deception. If you deceive another, he tries to escape. But if you deceive yourself, there is no remedy.

If a man sleeps, he can be awakened. If a man is awake and pretends to sleep—how wake him? If he is actually awake yet feigns sleep, waking him is impossible. Breaking real sleep is easy; breaking fake sleep is very hard.

It is not so difficult to guide an ignorant person toward essence-knowledge; it is far harder to guide a pundit, a “knower,” for he says, “I already know.”

Just the day before yesterday a sannyasi came. For twenty years he has wandered, searching. “There is not a single sage in India I have not visited; not a single scripture I have not read; not a single method I have not practiced,” he said.

I asked, “You have attended all the satsangs, read all the scriptures, practiced all the methods—now what are your plans? If you are sure you have not found, then all these scriptures, satsangs, methods were useless. Drop them. If you have found—don’t waste my time. Say it straight. If you have found—good, finished. If you have not—stop carrying this burden. For an hour you recited your list of books read, saints met, techniques tried. If they gave it to you—fine. If not—stop hauling this load.”

He did not like that. It is his life’s treasure. It has yielded nothing—yet to see that it yielded nothing is to accept that twenty years went waste. The mind does not like that. You didn’t get it; and you cannot drop what you have clutched.

This is the trouble of the so-called learned. They have no own knowing—yet the borrowed knowledge on their head is heavy; they cannot put it down. It has become property; it has given them stiffness; it has built ego; it makes them feel, “I know.” Without knowing, they feel they know.

In such a state, essence-knowledge cannot fructify.

Krishna says, “Of the learned, I am essence-knowledge.” He does not say, “I am their information.” The learned have ample information. He says, “I am their essence-knowledge—their private realization, their self-realization, their seeing, their experiencing—not their information.”

This experience is a unique event. One little story, and I will finish.

I have heard—and Tolstoy wrote a tale about it—that on the shore of a Russian lake there were three ascetics whose fame became widespread. Crowds in the thousands began to go for their darshan. They were utterly simple—illiterate. They knew nothing of religion. News reached the arch-priest of Russia, the highest Christian prelate. He was astonished. The Church declares saints legally; only then are they saints.

It is a strange thing: the Church declares, “So-and-so is a saint.” Only when the Pope guarantees a person is a saint is he accepted as such. Hence in Christianity a bizarre event occurs: sometimes two or three hundred years pass after a person’s death before the Church declares him a saint. The living they even burned—Joan of Arc was burned while alive. Centuries later, they declared her a saint: “We erred—she was a saint.”

“How have these become saints?” The arch-priest was troubled. Hearing that thousands were going, he said, “This is too much—it will harm the Church. Who are these men? We must test them.”

He took a motorboat across the lake. The three sat under a tree. Seeing them, he thought, “They are rustic peasants.” When he stood before them, they bowed and touched his feet. He thought, “They are absolute simpletons. What status can they have?”

He scolded them sharply: “Why do you gather crowds?” “We don’t,” they said. “People come. Please explain it to them.” “Who told you that you are saints?” “People say so—we don’t know.” “What is your prayer? Do you read the Bible?” “We are illiterate.” “What prayer do you recite?” The Church has set prayers. They said, “We don’t know any prayers. The three of us made one up.” “Who are you to make a prayer? Prayers are authorized by the Pope. The bishops assemble—each word is decided. Who are you to make a prayer? You made a private prayer! To reach God you must use fixed roads. What is your prayer?”

They trembled, simple souls. “We made a small prayer. Forgive us—we will tell you. It’s not long; very short.

“Christianity holds that God is a Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. ‘You are Three; we are three; have mercy on us.’ That is our prayer.”

The priest said, “Fools! Stop this nonsense. Is that a prayer? Ever heard such a thing? And you mock God—‘You are three, we are three’?”

They said, “We do not mock. We are three—and we heard he is three. We do not know about him. We are three; we know nothing more.” He said, “This prayer will not do. If you recite it, you will go to hell. I will teach you the authorized prayer.”

He taught them—and made them repeat it. They said, “Once more—lest we forget.” Then again. “Once more—lest we forget.” “What kind of men are you? Are you saints?” “No—we will try to remember; please repeat once more.” He repeated.

He set off home. In mid-lake he saw the three running on the water toward the boat. His heart failed. “What is this?” The boatman said, trembling, “My limbs are shaking—what is happening?” The three came alongside. “Please wait,” they called. “We forgot the prayer. Tell us once more!” The priest said, “Continue your own prayer. We have prayed our whole lives—but cannot walk on water. Your prayer is right—continue with it.” The three folded hands: “No—that prayer is not right. But the one you taught is long, with difficult words. We forgot. We are unlettered people.”

This is Tolstoy’s tale. These three are not pundits; they are humble, simple. But something private has happened. For personal experience, no authorized prayer is needed. No licensed scripture is needed. No one has a monopoly on personal experience. Every person is entitled—by birth—to know the Divine. The fact that “I am” is enough to relate to God. Nothing else is necessary. Everything else is nonessential.

But the information we accumulate becomes a burden on the head; the inner simplicity is lost. Pundits can attain it too—but only after laying punditry aside.

“And I am essence-knowledge.” Not knowledge, not information, not data, not scripture—inner experience. And surely, in that inner experience where not a single word remains—only the person and existence, and all walls have fallen—what happens there is God.

Say it like this: there is no “experience of God”; there is an experience whose name is God. There is no object “God” standing before you; otherwise distance would remain. There is an experience in which the drop dissolves into the ocean. When the drop dissolves, what the drop experiences—when the person dissolves into the whole, what the person experiences—the name of that experience is God.

God is an experience, not a thing. God is an experience, not a person. God is an experience, an event. And whoever is prepared for that event—for that explosion—it happens in him. And for preparation it is necessary to drop not only your ignorance, but your knowledge as well. Ignorance must be dropped; knowledge must also be dropped. The day both are gone—what happens on that day is called God.

That is all for today.

But sit five minutes more. If someone gets up in between, others are disturbed. Sit five more minutes. Leave after the kirtan.