Geeta Darshan #2

Just as space envelops everything, just as the energy of life pervades all, so too every particle, whether of matter or of consciousness, is nothing but the expression of the Divine. In this aphorism Krishna is telling Arjuna: apart from Me, there is nothing else. First understand this fundamental premise; then the sutra becomes clear.

As we look, all things seem separate. We do not perceive a single element that links all. When we look, we see only the beads of the necklace; the thread that runs within, that holds them in unity, remains hidden from our eyes. Our seeing divides; it does not taste the indivisible.

Until the indivisible is tasted, there can be no sense of the Divine. So we say we believe in God, we offer flowers of devotion at a temple, remember Him in a mosque, sing His praises in a church. Yet the very God before whom we bow our heads does not enter our hearts.

It is a strange irony: we go to temple, mosque, and gurudwara in search of the Whole, and yet those very places join hands in fragmenting us. We cannot see the One between temple and mosque. Even in the houses of worship of Hindu, Muslim, and Christian, we see walls of distance and screens of hostility. If temples are so divided, how will life as a whole be one?

Temples are not the problem; our way of seeing is—our vision can only register fragments, not the indivisible. Wherever we take such a vision, we see pieces; the Whole that encircles all remains unseen.

This is Arjuna’s trouble too. He has no taste of the indivisible. He sees: I am; my friends, my loved ones, my enemies are. He sees what is pleasure, what is pain; what is sin, what is virtue. He sees everything—except the One hidden within all. Hence the dialogue between Krishna and Arjuna is a dialogue between two ways of seeing.

Arjuna symbolizes fragmented vision; Krishna, unfragmented. Krishna speaks of the Whole; Arjuna speaks of parts. Perhaps that is why, though words pass between them, no solution seems to happen—their very modes of seeing life are different.

In this sutra Krishna lists for Arjuna, one by one, where I am. It would have been enough to say: I am everywhere; all is Me. But that won’t be clear to Arjuna. He must be shown in fragments where I am—perhaps through the fragments a glimpse of the One will flash, the fragments will fall away, and the indivisible be realized.

So Krishna says, Arjuna, the power to decide, the knowing of essence, and non-delusion—

These three words are precious. The power to decide!

As the mind currently is, if we understand it rightly, we could say the mind is the power to not decide. The mind’s chief work is to keep us from ever being definitive. Whatever the mind does, it does in indecision. Even when it takes a step, it never takes it wholly—some part of the mind opposes.

If you love someone, the mind never loves wholly; a part of it is already filled with aversion for the very person you love. That is why any day love can turn to hate. Hatred is present in the mind already. Toward the same person you can be full of rage any moment. In an instant the coolness of love becomes the fire of anger, because the mind is loaded with anger.

We neither love with the whole mind, nor are we completely serene, nor entirely truthful. There is no such thing in us as a whole mind. This is a bit hard to grasp.

Where the mind becomes whole, it ends. As long as it is partial, it is mind. Understand this: incompleteness is the nature of mind. Being divided within is the nature of mind. Quarreling within is the nature of mind. Duality, conflict, fragmentation—this is the mind’s fate and fabric.

You have made many decisions in life—every day you must—but no decision is ever taken with the whole mind. People come to me and say: I want to take sannyas, but only seventy percent of my mind is ready; thirty percent is not. Another says: ninety percent is ready, ten percent not. When my whole mind is ready, I’ll jump. I tell them: has your whole mind ever been ready for anything?

The whole mind never gets ready. And when someone is wholly ready, the mind empties—instantly it departs. The incomplete person has a mind; the complete person has none. Buddhas, Rams, Krishnas—they have no mind. And where mind is not, there the soul is seen, there the Divine begins to glimmer.

In ordinary matters the mind hesitates. Left road or right? Half says left, half says right. Even when we do move, the decision is democratic, parliamentary. Whichever side has sixty percent, we go there; we ignore the forty. We follow the majority.

But today’s majority may not be tomorrow’s—just as in parliament. The turncoats are not only out there; they are within the mind.

In the evening you resolve: I will get up at four a.m., no force can stop me. At four the alarm rings; you roll over: what’s the big deal—cold morning—what harm in another half hour? At seven you wake, remorseful: how did this happen? I had resolved to rise at four, whatever happens—why didn’t I? And you suffer.

The same person does all three: decides in the evening, cancels at four, regrets at seven—because the majority shifts. The evening’s ninety percent forgot that after six hours of sleep the forces of lethargy will grow; the part of mind that was weak at night will gain weight in sleep and become the morning majority. Then, at seven, as awareness brightens with the sun, the evening intelligence returns to majority and regret starts. Evening resolves again; night reneges again; morning regrets again. This is our life.

The mind cannot take a whole decision.

I have heard of a devotee in Bengal. He never went to a temple. His father was very religious and naturally worried. But the son was a great scholar—a famed pundit of logic and Nyaya, celebrated far and wide. When the son reached sixty, the father at eighty said: enough; you are old now—go to the temple!

The son replied: many times I thought to go, but I have never found my whole mind ready. If I go with a partial mind, how will I truly arrive there? Half will remain outside, half will go in—so the going won’t happen. And I have watched you going daily for at least forty years—yet I see no change in your life. So I conclude you have not yet reached the temple either. You go and return, but the whole temple and your whole mind never meet. Seeing you, my courage fails. I will go one day—but only when the whole mind is with me.

Ten years passed. The father was near death, still waiting. On the son’s seventieth birthday, he touched his father’s feet in the morning and said: I am going to the temple.

He went. An hour, two, three—he did not return. The father grew anxious and sent a man. A crowd had gathered by the temple. The priest said: we don’t know what he did—he came, uttered the name of Ram once, and fell!

He had left a letter at home: I will take the name of Ram once, with my whole mind. If something happens, good; if nothing happens, I will never take it again—what point in repeating it?

He took the Name once, whole—and was free of the body! But we cannot do anything with the whole mind. Whole mind means the end of mind itself.

So Krishna begins: the power to decide, that is Me.

The day you, Arjuna, can decide wholly, you will know who I am, what I speak of. Until you can decide so totally, you will not understand Me.

We have never decided wholly—about anything. Decide for just five minutes that you will not blink, and you will have a glimpse of the Divine. But in five minutes you will blink twenty-five times. Decide to stand without moving for five minutes, and the Divine will flash—but you will stir twenty-five times. The very mind with which you decide is vibration. Whole decision happens only when one rises beyond mind.

All meditative processes are devices to go beyond mind. Mind means wavering consciousness. Meditation means unwavering consciousness. Meditation means the death of mind.

Hence Zen calls meditation no-mind. Kabir too called it the state of a-mani—a state of no mind. Meditation is where mind is not; no alternatives, no duality.

If for even a single moment I find this inner equipoise—no inner conflict, no opposing currents, no clash—if this harmony descends even for an instant, I am in decision.

In that instant the Divine is available; a glimpse comes—the thread glimpsed within the beads.

Sufi fakirs developed a practice; in the West, George Gurdjieff popularized it in this century. The Sufis called it the Exercise of Halt; Gurdjieff called it the Stop Exercise—the experiment of stopping.

Gurdjieff told his disciples: when I say “Stop!” freeze exactly as you are. If your left foot is raised to step, let it hang there. If your lips are parted to speak, stop them there. If your eyes are open, keep them open. Don’t change a thing.

The Sufis say: if someone can stop with totality even for a single instant, in that instant of total stilling, in that motionless pause, he will taste decision.

Gurdjieff was doing this experiment near a canal in Tiflis, a small town in Russia. He sat in a tent in the morning; the canal beside was dry. Suddenly he shouted from inside: Stop!

Three disciples were crossing the dry canal; they froze. Those above on the bank froze. Just then someone opened the sluice; water rushed in.

Seeing the water, one thought: Gurdjieff is in the tent—he has no idea where we are stuck. If I remain, my life is in danger. He stayed until the water reached his throat, then leapt out. The second thought: I’ll wait a little; maybe the command to release will come. When the water covered his nose, he thought: this is madness—we came to learn meditation, not to die. He too leapt out. The third thought: once resolved, no change now. The water flowed over his head.

Gurdjieff ran out, jumped in, and pulled him out unconscious. They drained the water from his body; as he came to, he placed his head at Gurdjieff’s feet and said: now there is nothing left to learn; I have known. Gurdjieff said: tell the others too what you have known.

He said: the moment I was ready to lose my life, I knew the mind was gone. As long as there was even a flicker of “should I stay or flee?” there was mind—movement within, thoughts, oscillation. But the instant I decided: life may remain or not, but I will not budge—the thoughts vanished. Water filled my body, but for the first time I was empty of thoughts. Outwardly my breath was in peril, but for the first time I saw That on which no peril can ever fall. Had I died then, it would not have mattered—I had glimpsed the deathless.

Decision means a state where there is no ripple in the mind.

So Krishna says: In decision I am; in essential knowing I am.

Tattvajnana—knowing of essence—does not mean philosophy. It does not mean systems of thought. A great mistake has happened. In the West a stream arose called philosophy. In that sense, India never developed philosophy; what developed here was tattvajnana.

A German thinker, Hermann Hesse, coined another word for tattvajnana: philosia. That is appropriate. Philosophy is not a translation. Philosophy means thinking, reflection. Tattvajnana means seeing, realization, experience. If a blind man thinks about light—that is philosophy. If the blind man’s eyes open and he sees light—that is tattvajnana.

Tattvajnana is experiential; philosophy is mental. Tattvajnana is real; philosophy is conjectured. Tattvajnana is known; philosophy is thought. Thinking is easy; knowing is hard. For thinking you need not change; for knowing, you must. You yourself must be transformed.

India’s emphasis is on knowing, not on cogitation. Think as much as you like—you arrive nowhere. Think and you end up with a heap of ash of concepts. Words accumulate, but there is no recognition. One must know face-to-face; one must meet. Thinking won’t do.

Someone may think endlessly about love; he will not know love until he drowns in it. Drowning in love is altogether different. It may be that one who has loved deeply has never thought about love—and often those who think too much about love become incapable of loving. Thinking satisfies them; they take thinking as a substitute.

Many think about God and take that thinking as experience. Thinking is not experience. It can prepare, it can be useful, but it is not experience. No one has ever arrived by thinking alone. One must know. Krishna says: Knowing I am—not thinking.

Thinking means: about what I do not know, I construct notions from what I do know; I build an image, a conceptual idol out of words. But words? Words are heaps of sound. No one burns by the fire of a word, nor smells fragrance from the word “flower.” From the word “God” there is no experience of God.

The word God is not God. You may repeat it endlessly—you will reach nowhere. Worse, repetition may trap you in the illusion that you know. Many are ensnared—this is the pundit’s mistake.

Hence the scholar often strays further than the ignorant. He is rich in words, a knower of scriptures, with a powerful memory. Repeating his memory, he falls into the delusion that what he tells others he himself knows. Hypnotized by his own words, he slips into a deep trance and feels: I know.

Knowing is wholly different. Knowing involves less the intellect and more the whole being; less thinking, more silence. Less words—more wordlessness, emptiness, stillness.

When one is silent, one becomes a mirror. What flashes in that mirror—that is knowing. A mind full of the smoke of words reflects nothing.

The scholar wanders in his own words, tangled in questions he himself asks and answers. Philosophy—in the Western sense—is one’s own questions, one’s own answers.

Tattvajnana: the question is mine, the answer is His. The seeker asks and falls silent, empty—like a lake gone still, all ripples stilled, and the moon of the sky begins to reflect. If there are waves, the moon still reflects, but the waves shatter it into a thousand fragments.

Go to a lake on a full-moon night. The moon above is one; in the ripples below it’s scattered in a thousand pieces. The moon has not broken; the mirror of the lake is broken. When the lake is so still it becomes a mirror, the one moon above appears as one below. And when the lake is utterly still, you cannot tell there is a lake—only a mirror remains.

Exactly so: when thoughts ripple in the mind, waves arise. Whoever decides by thinking sees the moon in fragments.

Krishna says: Essential knowing, tattvajnana, is Me.

When one is utterly still, one knows the essence—the That-Which-Is. Essence—tattva—means that which is. Whatever is, reflects in the still one. And the knowing that arises then—that is Me. In that moment the indivisible is tasted. As long as the mind is fragmented, whatever you know will be fragmented. When the mind is unfragmented, whatever you know will be whole.

The third word Krishna uses is amoodhta—non-delusion, de-hypnosis.

This word is very useful for seekers. Moodhta—delusion—does not mean stupidity. A pundit can be deluded; so can the so-called wise and the ignorant. Moodhta is a kind of sleep—sleepwalking.

Stand by the roadside and watch people pass. Look keenly: people are walking in sleep. Someone walks along talking—alone—gesturing with his hands, lips moving, facial expressions changing. Awake or asleep? He is dreaming. He is not on this road at all—he is on some other road, with someone else. Who is he speaking to? Who is he signaling? He is with someone in a dream.

We all walk in dreams. Whatever we do, a web of dreams runs within. Remember: dreams run only if there is sleep. Without sleep, no dream. Our dreams run twenty-four hours a day. Close your eyes and the dream begins to appear. Do not imagine that when your eyes are open no dreaming happens—dreaming goes on; but occupied by the outer, you are unaware. Close the eyes and it shows. Open them, you forget—but inside the inner cinema runs nonstop. Dreams are the sign we are asleep.

When someone came to Buddha, he asked: have your dreams stopped? If they have, little is left to do. If they have not, much remains. To break the dream is the greatest battle. We see they are dreams, yet when we try to break them, we discover how hard it is. So weak a thing—and we cannot break it! Because we are weaker still.

Moodhta is sleep. Krishna says: amoodhta is Me.

Amoodhta is awakening—buddhahood.

Buddha’s name was Siddhartha Gautama, but when he awoke he was named Gautama the Buddha—the Awakened One. What happened when enlightenment dawned? Sleep ended. No unconsciousness remained. He was awake within. Even in sleep, only the body slept; within, awareness was unbroken.

Ananda, his disciple, was with him for years. One day he said: I am amazed—however you lie down in the evening, placing your right leg, your left, one hand under your head—you remain exactly so throughout the night. You don’t even turn. What is this? Do you sleep carefully?

Buddha said: there is no need to be careful. Only the body sleeps; I do not. I remain awake. If I turn, it is by my decision. The body cannot turn on its own. I am not unconscious; I am fully aware.

When one is awake even in sleep, yoga is attained. Krishna has said: the one who is awake even while others sleep—that is the yogi. Invert the aphorism: the one who sleeps even while awake—that is the bhogi, the indulgent.

What is this awakening? Have you ever tasted a moment of it?

It is difficult—but sometimes it happens suddenly. If two men catch you on a lonely road and one presses a knife to your chest—will there be thoughts in that instant? Suddenly, there will be no thought; the dreams drop. For an instant you are totally awake—as a buddha.

But that depends on circumstance. If the knife is withdrawn or you see it’s a friend joking, the dreams rush back. If it is not withdrawn, the first shock broke the flow; then you begin to think: what do I do—how escape—what answer?

In danger, a natural awareness sometimes arises. But we have arranged life to remove all danger—so the moments of awakening are fewer.

A Zen fakir, Bokuju, taught his disciples to climb trees—for meditation. A young prince came to learn. Bokuju said: climb that tall tree. The prince faltered: I don’t know how. If I fall, my limbs will shatter. Bokuju said: I have sometimes seen those who know fall; those who don’t, I have never seen fall. Climb. Those who don’t know are so filled with danger that awareness stays—they place each step with care. Those who think they know sometimes fall, because they feel no need to be aware.

The prince climbed a hundred feet, reached the top; the master sat below with eyes closed. The prince peered down for guidance—none came. He had been told: on reaching the top, begin to descend. When he was ten feet from the ground on the way down, the master suddenly sprang up and shouted: now be careful! The prince said: you must be crazy! When I needed warning, you sat with eyes closed; now, with no danger, you warn me?

When he reached the ground, the master said: precisely—I warned you when you became carefree. When you felt the ground near, your inner dreams began—that is when you could slip. At the summit, sleep had no chance—you were awake; my help was unnecessary. I warned when I sensed the nearness of earth and the nearness of sleep. Tell me—did my shout make any difference within you?

Then the prince remembered—so asleep are we we don’t even remember our inner states—he remembered: at the peak there was such freshness, such alertness—like sunrise, like fresh-blossomed flowers, like a lamp lit within. The moment you shouted “Careful!” the freshness was lost, inner doors closed, the lamp went out, the sun set—darkness gathered, and dreams began.

If a little awareness comes in danger, we quickly trick even that and slide back into sleep.

I once visited a friend whose family had lost someone. Death in the house is a great danger—not for the one who died (he is beyond danger), but for the living. If they have a little intelligence, death can transform their life, for one’s death is the news of everyone’s death. Whenever I see someone die, the message arrives: I too will die.

In that home they were wailing. The widow asked me: you believe in the immortality of the soul, don’t you? My husband’s soul will remain? I said: you are weaving new dreams. The body has died; don’t squander this moment. Your body will die too. If this arrow enters you now, your sleep can break. But you are clever—you are not thinking of yourself; you are thinking of his soul’s immortality. In a little while this danger will pass, the corpse will be carried away, the wound will begin to heal; in six months it will be old news. In this dangerous moment, when your closest has died, turn the arrow towards yourself—perhaps meditation will happen. She said: what are you saying? My husband has died and you talk of meditation! Can you think of anything else? And she beat her chest.

Beating the chest is a way to avoid the fact of death. She began to weep; memories surged of their wedding day, the bands playing, her arrival at this home with so many dreams—memory as opiate—and the factual moment that could pierce consciousness like an arrow was lost. We trick ourselves thus.

Amoodhta is Me, says Krishna. That means: awareness is Me. Whenever anyone awakens within, I am available. Whoever awakens becomes a part of Me.

Hold these three words: the power to decide, essential knowing, non-delusion—that is Me.

Forgiveness, truth, mastery of the senses—dama; and restraint of the mind—shama; and pleasure-pain, creation-dissolution, fear and fearlessness—I am these too.

Let us look a little into these.

Forgiveness—kshama. This is subtle, because the meaning we give forgiveness is not Krishna’s meaning. Our language and Krishna’s cannot be the same. When we translate Krishna into our language—not Sanskrit into Hindi, but Krishna’s language into our mind’s idiom—fundamental errors arise. Ask yourself: what is forgiveness? Naturally we say: when anger arises toward someone, we forgive them.

In Krishna’s language forgiveness does not mean that. It means: anger does not arise. Our meaning is: anger arises, then we forgive. Krishna’s meaning: the absence of anger. Our meaning: whitewashing anger.

You make me angry; later I repent and ask pardon. I wipe the error caused by anger, cross out a wrong line. But anger happened. And this forgiveness only wipes the mark—it is negative. Such forgiveness is of little use; we practice it and life goes on. If the Divine were realized by such forgiveness, all of us would be enlightened.

Krishna’s forgiveness is where anger is never born—where the situation for anger exists but there is no reaction.

Buddha passes through a village; people hurl abuse. He says: if you are finished, may I go? Someone asks: are you mad? We haven’t been talking—we’ve been abusing! Buddha replies: if you’re not finished, then when I return I will stay longer, but I must reach the next village now.

They speak two languages. The villagers understand abuse, and the retaliatory abuse. They can understand even: “I forgive you.” But Buddha says: if you are done, may I go? No anger, no forgiveness either—as if no abuse was given; or if given, at least not received.

Someone says: we won’t let you go like this. Are you mad or are we? We abuse—you must answer! Buddha says: had you come ten years ago, I would have answered. But the one who could do that is dead. You abuse—that is your work. But I stopped taking such things long ago. Giving is your responsibility; whether I receive is my freedom. And now I do not take useless things. So—if you are done, may I go?

Their sleep is disturbed; they cannot go home at peace. If Buddha had abused, or forgiven with a lecture, they would have gone home comfortably. Now they are left in midair. They threw a rope-bridge from their bank; there was no other shore. They shot an arrow; whether it hit or missed, at least it should land—this one never lands. When an arrow flies endlessly without hitting, it torments the archer.

Seeing their torment, Buddha says: you seem distressed. Let me offer an illustration. In the last village people brought me a platter of sweets, but my stomach was full and I asked them to take it back. They did. I ask you: what did they do with it? Someone said: they must have distributed it in the village. Buddha said: then you do the same. You have brought a platter of abuses; I do not take them. Distribute them in your village so you can sleep in peace.

Forgiveness means a state of mind in which anger becomes irrelevant. A state where anger is not born.

It is delightful to understand: people do not create anger in us—anger is already within. When someone abuses you, don’t fall into the delusion that he made you angry. Anger was present; his abuse merely brought it up.

Like lowering a bucket into a well and drawing up water—the man did not fill the well; he drew out what was there. If the well were dry, the bucket would rattle and return empty.

When someone lowers abuse into Buddha, he lowers it into a dry well—the bucket comes up empty. With us, the bucket returns brimming, overflowing. And we think: because he abused me, I became angry. No—anger was within; his “kindness” revealed it to you.

If anger were caused by abuse, it would arise in Buddha too. Anger is an inner state; occasions merely help express it. And if occasions are absent and anger is within, we will create occasions.

You know this: if for a few days you find no chance to be angry, a restlessness grows more intense than anger itself. Psychologists conclude: if one is not given occasions, one seeks them; one manufactures them out of nothing. He sends feelers all around looking for a chance to erupt.

Shut such a person alone for three months—he will fight walls, bash his head, hurl abuse into empty space, even harm himself. Anger will turn upon himself.

Anger is your energy. If it were merely a reaction produced by others, forgiveness would be impossible. But if you change yourself, forgiveness can become your state—and then when anyone lowers a bucket into you, it rises brimming with forgiveness.

Jesus is nailed to the cross. He is offered a last prayer. He prays: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Not abuse, but crucifixion—and he says forgive them, they know not what they do. If forgiveness fills you, forgiveness will flow; if anger fills you, anger will flow.

Write this as a fundamental sutra in your heart: whatever is within you is what comes out. So whenever something comes out, do not blame the other; it is your own treasure you had hidden inside.

Thus Kabir says: keep your critic close, give him a hut in your courtyard. Let the one who condemns you stay near, so he can show you your inner rubbish, again and again; so someday you may be free of it.

But we like to keep flatterers close—those who tell us what is not within us, hiding what is. We call them friends—our foolishness is bottomless. And those who show us what is within, we call enemies.

If someone abuses you and anger arises, thank him—he created a situation in which your anger became visible. If you can even thank the abuser, one day the power of forgiveness will be born in you. That forgiveness is positive—not repentance after anger, not an apology for it.

I am not saying: if you get angry, do not apologize. Do apologize—but do not mistake that for Krishna’s forgiveness. That is the marketplace lubricant of life.

You abuse me; if you do not apologize, the wheel between you and me will jam. A little oil is needed; life is a mesh of wheels within wheels. Without apologies and pardons, everything will grind to a halt. With a little oil, the wheels move again. That is the use of our forgiveness. It is useful, yes—but the Divine does not dawn in it.

Krishna’s forgiveness is of another order. When forgiveness becomes your very nature; when anger is impossible; when even in sleep, if someone stirs you, forgiveness flows out; when blessings stream from every pore, your every cell filled with goodwill—that is forgiveness.

Krishna says: forgiveness is Me, truth is Me, mastery of the senses is Me, restraint of the mind is Me.

A word on mind-restraint and sense-restraint.

We commonly harbor a wrong notion. When we think of restraining the senses, we imagine conflict, inner war; when we think of restraining the mind, we imagine coercion, repression.

These are grave errors. Whoever treats his senses as enemies and tries to subdue them will get into trouble. He will never become master—he may become neurotic. Whoever tries to hammer his mind into obedience will make it rebellious; it will drag him precisely to the places he wants to avoid. The more he forces, the more sensual he becomes.

That is why one who imposes celibacy by force is often tormented by sexuality more fiercely than any libertine.

You know: fast for a day and you will think of food constantly. On ordinary days you eat and forget. Walk the street—do you ever think “I am wearing clothes”? Walk naked one day and you will think of nothing but clothes.

Whatever is forcefully suppressed engraves itself deep in memory; it returns with greater force.

Sense-restraint and mind-restraint are not acts of violence; they are scientific methods. Not a matter of fighting, but of understanding. Whoever fights the mind will never be its master. Whoever understands it becomes its master instantly. Understanding is the key, not repression.

Yet we keep fighting. A man feels anger; he suppresses it—scripture and teacher say anger is bad. It sinks deeper, spreads through nerve and fiber, finds new outlets, becomes a poison in the system.

Observe the one who prides himself on having conquered anger—you will see anger in every pore. One who thinks his ego is gone and he is humble—watch his eyes, his face; you’ll find ego stamped everywhere. One who says “I have renounced the world”—watch closely; he is entangled in the world in a worse way. Even a loincloth can become an empire.

Whatever is suppressed poisons us.

Krishna is not speaking of repression. Whoever represses goes farther from the Divine. Krishna’s intent is transformation—through knowing. A revolution possible only through awareness.

If you want to go beyond anger, you must understand it. Anger is energy—like lightning in the sky. Once we feared and trembled before it, thinking God was angry. Today that lightning lights our cities. We have harnessed it. Yet the lightnings inside man are still unharnessed.

Anger is power. A child born without anger would not live; he would be impotent, strengthless. But power can be misused or well used. The angry life is the misuse of power; the forgiving life is the well use. When Krishna says: I am in sense-restraint and mind-restraint—he means the one who, by understanding, goes beyond the senses; who, by awareness, rises above mind—he begins to glimpse Me.

Not by suppression, but by transformation. Not by fighting, but by knowing.

This is subtle. What does it mean to “know” anger? You say: I know it well—I know it daily. Yet I tell you: you have never known it—because when anger is there, you are not. Your knowing is gone; you are mad. Anger is temporary insanity. In that moment there is no awareness. It is not even right to say “you do anger”—rather, “it happens through you.” Because afterward you repent: despite myself, it happened. I never thought I would throw this child out the window—but it happened. Who did it? The chemicals of anger flooded you; your consciousness was lost.

Harun al-Rashid, the caliph of Baghdad, once rode through the city. A man, standing on his roof, showered him with vile abuse. The caliph said: bring him to court tomorrow. He was seized that night and brought next morning.

The caliph asked: why did you abuse me? The man said: forgive me; the one who abused is not the one standing here. The caliph said: not you? I recognize your face. The soldiers said: it’s the same man. He replied: the face is the same, and in one sense the man too—but yesterday I was drunk. This morning, when I came to my senses, I thought: what have I done! The caliph set him free.

Know that when you are angry, your bloodstream is full of intoxication. Science tells us the glands release poisons in anger; chemically you become unconscious.

So you have never met anger. When anger is present, you are absent; when you return, anger is gone. You haven’t met. The only way to know anger—or any passion—is: when it is present, close your eyes and attend to it. What is it? How does it arise? From where? Where does it go? What is it as energy? What does it want?

But when you are angry your eyes are on the other—the one who “made” you angry. There you miss. When angry, keep your gaze on yourself. Forget the one who abused you; he will be available later. This anger will not; it will flow away. Do not miss the moment.

Gurdjieff wrote in his memoirs: my father, at the time of his death, gave me a single counsel that transformed my life. He said: I have nothing to give you except this one advice that turned my life to gold—whenever someone abuses you, answer after twenty-four hours. Tell him: I will respond, but give me a day. I will come tomorrow. Gurdjieff says: I never got the chance to reply—twenty-four hours is too long; the poison doesn’t last.

But we are cunning: when a good deed is asked, we say: I’ll think about it. When it is an evil impulse, we never say: I’ll think. We act instantly—because the chemical urges haste. The poison says: now, before it dissolves!

When anger arises, treat it as a moment for meditation. Close your eyes. Even in the middle of a street, step aside, sit, and watch what is happening within. People may think you mad; you are not. He who knows anger rises above all madness. When lust seizes you, stop—watch it. Recognize that energy that shoves you toward insanity.

Very soon you will gain the knowing through which sense-restraint and mind-restraint happen naturally. Krishna says: that too is Me.

He says: pleasure and pain, creation and dissolution, fear and fearlessness—these too are Me.

He places these three pairs together deliberately. We all think—again and again—that God is bliss. But have you ever thought that God is sorrow too? This is a dangerous sutra.

Krishna says: I am pleasure and I am pain.

We say: God is the abode of bliss; if you want supreme joy, turn to God. But Krishna says: bliss is Me and sorrow is Me! Does this contradict the Vedic, Upanishadic proclamation of sat-chit-ananda?

No—he does not contradict it. But only those who accept this sutra reach the place where the Divine is sheer bliss. Those who see Me in both pleasure and pain are the ones who attain supreme bliss.

We can see God in pleasure—can we see Him in pain? If not, we will not attain equanimity, nor peace. One who sees Him in pain too attains equanimity. If you see the Divine in sorrow, you will not want to run from it. Who runs from God? If He is seen in sorrow, you will not pray to be freed from sorrow. Who prays to be freed from the Divine?

For one who sees God even in sorrow, sorrow ceases to be sorrow. For sorrow has meaning only while we want to avoid it. The day one embraces sorrow and says: Beloved, you have come to my door—welcome!—from that day, sorrow is no more. And where sorrow is not, all is joy.

We live with the craving to avoid pain and grasp pleasure. The result? Life becomes mostly suffering; pleasure is rare.

Krishna says: I am pleasure and pain; creation and dissolution; birth and death. I am both in every duality—see Me in both. Whoever sees Me thus will find the further sutras easy.

And nonviolence, equanimity, contentment, austerity, charity, fame and infamy—these manifold qualities in beings arise from Me. And, Arjuna, the seven great seers, and the four even before them—the Sanaka brothers—and the fourteen Manus beginning with Svayambhu—all of them, imbued with My feeling, were born of My resolve; the entire human race descends from them.

The meaning: all who have known, in any age—who have realized this Truth—were My own resolve, My mood; not separate from Me. Whoever attained that supreme experience—whether the ancient rishis or the Manus—all were states of My feeling.

Krishna is saying: the most fragrant flowers that bloom in the garden of experience are all suffused with My perfume. Whenever anyone reaches his ultimate state, he attains Me.

But only those reach the ultimate who steady themselves in equanimity amidst duality—who do not choose between the two. Not: we want pleasure, not pain; not: birth and life are dear, not death—we want immortal life. No. Who says: death is Yours and birth is Yours—both are dear, because both are Thine.

Those who do not choose—who enter the art of choiceless living—whenever they arise, in whatever age, those seers attain Me, My resolve, My feeling. Say they are waves of Me—but such waves as also experience My ocean-ness.

Enough for today. We will speak again tomorrow.

But let us sit five minutes. No one should get up. Take prasad for five minutes—the prasad of the Name of Ram. Join the kirtan for five minutes. No one should rise in between. When the kirtan ends, then rise.