Geeta Darshan #5

What Krishna has said to Arjuna is not something the intellect can agree to; reason will oppose it, thought will suspect it. The ego will want to reject it all. For what Krishna declares, nothing could be harder for the ego to accept.

Krishna too is made of bone, flesh, and marrow—just as Arjuna is made of bone, flesh, and marrow. Krishna feels hunger as Arjuna does. Krishna also tires and rests, as Arjuna tires and rests. Arjuna can easily take Krishna to be a great human being, but to take him as God is very difficult. If we rightly understand what it means to take someone as God, the difficulty becomes clear.

When we regard a person as a great human being, the difference we see between him and ourselves is of quantity, of degree, of measure, of order. He is like us, in our same dimension—only a little more. But the moment we take a person to be God, all connection with him breaks. The distance between us and him is no longer quantitative—it becomes qualitative. Then it is a difference of kind, not of amount or magnitude. Then there is no bridge, no relationship left between us and him. He is an existence of another realm altogether. Between us and him yawns an unbridgeable abyss.

Therefore, there is no real difficulty in calling someone a great man or a saint. Our relatedness does not break. On the same path we walk, someone is two steps ahead, someone ten steps ahead. The ego suffers even in this—“Why should I accept someone as ahead of me?”—yet even so, the ego is not destroyed by it. We can still accept someone as ahead of us.

Sometimes, even in accepting another as ahead, the ego finds a subtle satisfaction. That very acceptance links us to him. By acknowledging him, we feel we “recognize” him. And in that acknowledgment, the ego secretly nourishes the hope that someday, in our future, we too might become like him.

But to take someone as God shatters our whole structure of logic; it disarranges our inner system. To accept someone as God means he is utterly different from us—so different that we cannot even comprehend what he is.

What Krishna has said is impossible—impossible for the intellect. Arjuna’s reply to it needs a deep look. Its meaning is not what it appears on the surface. And whatever meaning you may have been seeing, go a little deeper and you will find the very opposite.

Hearing Krishna say, “I am the Supreme Self; I pervade all; all is sustained by me; in all the rishis my own moods are manifest; I am the basis and seed of all excellences and all powers; wherever in life a fragrance touches height, whenever any summit becomes a Kailash, the flower that opens at the very apex of that excellence—that is me. I am the nobility of life, the very flavor of life, the breath of life, the center of life”—hearing such things, which are nearly impossible for any intellect to accept—Arjuna’s response is worth pondering.

Thus, after listening to Krishna’s words, Arjuna said, “O Bhagavan, you are the Supreme Brahman, the Supreme Abode, the Supreme Purifier. All the rishis call you the eternal divine Person, the primal god of the gods, unborn and all-pervading. So too do the devarishi Narada, and the rishis Asita and Devala, and the great sage Vyasa; and you yourself declare this to me as well. And, O Keshava, whatever you say to me, all of it I accept as truth. O Bhagavan, neither demons nor gods know your lila-like form.”

At first glance it will seem Arjuna has accepted everything. If only Arjuna had truly accepted, the Gita would end right here; beyond this, the Gita would be without purpose. Nothing would remain to be said, nothing left to be explained. The final word would be complete. The ultimate, the supreme happening that should occur within Arjuna, would have happened. But the Gita does not end, and Krishna has to labor further. Why? Because this statement is not what it appears to be. Three things here are worth noting.

First, Arjuna says you are the Supreme Brahman, the Supreme Abode, the Supreme Purifier—because this is what the rishis and maharishis have said.

Arjuna still does not have a direct seeing. He still needs witnesses, testimony, a “witness stand.” Arjuna believes because all the rishis accept you as the eternal divine Person, the primal god of the gods, unborn and all-pervading. Devarishi Narada—big names, the big names of that age—Asita and Devala and Maharishi Vyasa; and not only that, you yourself say this to me.

Remember, whenever we need witnesses, it means the truth has not been seen directly. Arjuna does not say, “This is what I am experiencing.” He says, “Those whose word can be trusted say the same.” He says, “What you are saying seems authentic, because all who are thoughtful, all who have known, have said likewise.” This is not immediate, not a direct knowing. If it so happened that Maharishi Vyasa did not say this, and Devala and Asita denied it, and Narada declared, “No, this Krishna is not God,” what would become of Arjuna then? He would totter and sway.

His truth is not his own; it is the truth of witnesses. He is fixing his belief on the testimony of others. The list of witnesses is formidable.

This is the ordinary mind’s condition. It has no truth of its own. Someone else says it, and it believes. Tomorrow, if that someone changes, it will change too.

But how will Arjuna know that what Maharishi Vyasa says is true? Here is the amusing point. Arjuna will then look for which other rishis recognize Vyasa as a great sage! He will again rely on someone’s testimony.

This is infinite regress; there can be no way out of it. You accept A because B says so. You accept B because C says so. You accept C because D says so. You are dependent on others. And a belief dependent on others can never be deep. For when Krishna is standing right in front of you and you cannot accept directly, how will you deeply accept the words of Maharishi Vyasa?

Krishna is standing before him—what an odd situation! It is as if a blind man were standing before the sun and saying, “Yes, I accept that you are the sun and that you shine, because A has said so, B has said so, C has said so! The great knowers also say the sun is full of light; and you too tell me that you are luminous!”

But the blind man himself does not see. If he could see, there would be no need for witnesses.

Truth needs no witness. Only untruth requires testimony. Truth is its own witness. And if truth cannot testify to itself, who else can testify for it?

Arjuna has no direct vision yet. He is overwhelmed, impressed—but by the big names of the witnesses, not directly by Krishna. If he learned that Maharishi Vyasa had not said this, all his supports would wobble and his whole edifice of faith would collapse.

Whoever lives dependent on others’ testimony is very poor; he has no eyes to see directly. That is the first point.

The second point: Arjuna certainly loves Krishna. And because of that love, Arjuna has chosen the witnesses who call Krishna God. If Arjuna did not love Krishna, he would have chosen different witnesses—those who do not call Krishna God. And it is not that such witnesses do not exist.

Krishna’s cousin Neminath is a Tirthankara of the Jains. He took Jain initiation and became a Jain monk, and later attained a place among the twenty-four Tirthankaras. But you will be surprised to know that the Jains hold Krishna to have committed and caused so much sin that he is rotting in the seventh hell! Hard to digest.

From the Jain standpoint there is a certain sharpness, a thought-provoking logic. The Jains say: Arjuna was fleeing, he wanted to be nonviolent. He said, “I will not fight. What is the point of slaughtering my own? And even if I gain wealth, what will I gain? Even if the kingdom comes, what will it be?” Dispassion was arising in him. He was renouncing, he was stepping away from war. He was entering sannyas, renunciation, withdrawal. But Krishna persuaded him to stand and fight.

Surely, if there is any sin in the Mahabharata, it must go to Krishna’s account, not to Arjuna’s—if sin there be. Arjuna was trying to run away. The entire Gita is Krishna’s effort to convince Arjuna to stand in battle and not flee. If there is any merit, it will go to Krishna; if there is any sin, it will go to Krishna. It then depends on us whether we call it merit or sin.

For the Jains, since nonviolence is the criterion of sin and virtue, and since there was immense violence, therefore sin occurred. Krishna is responsible. The Jains have shown great boldness. It takes courage to consign a person like Krishna to hell. But the pen is in our hands, for we write the books, and the hells are ours. Whether Krishna is actually in hell, who can verify? Yet in the Jain view he must be in hell, so they have placed him in the seventh hell.

Even so, the Jains must have felt a wound within, because the man himself was incomparable; their principle did not fit him. The man was astonishing, his genius unique. The principle did not fit, so they put him in the seventh hell. But guilt must have gnawed at their hearts: this is not a man to be thrown into hell, he is one to be seated in heaven. So they devised a trick. The human mind is clever, it does great arithmetic.

They made a rule: in this age Krishna is in the seventh hell, but in the coming kalpa he will be the first Tirthankara of the Jains! A balance, a compensation. The best they could do was to say: when this creation dissolves and is made anew, the first Tirthankara of the Jains will be the very soul of Krishna.

Because he got entangled in the violence of the Mahabharata, a man of Tirthankara stature had to be consigned to the seventh hell. But after suffering this pain and passing through this experience, Krishna will not repeat such a mistake. The man is extraordinary—he won’t repeat it. So he can be the first Tirthankara.

Surely, if Arjuna had no love for Krishna, he would have chosen other testimonies. The three or four witnesses he names are not the only ones; there are others too—those who have put Krishna in hell.

We choose our witnesses according to our love. Arjuna has love, attachment, for Krishna. He has picked the names of those who approve of Krishna. But this love is not trust; it is the love of a friend. This attachment is on the same plane. Arjuna says, “I accept; whatever you say, I accept as truth.” But this acceptance is not direct—understand this well.

If only this acceptance were direct, the Gita would have ended in that moment. The matter would be complete. Then there would be nothing left but to obey Krishna’s command. But even now, the command cannot be obeyed. Arjuna says you are God, yet he will continue to doubt. And when Krishna cuts and trims his reasoning from every side and his intellect finds no way out, he will say, “Still I am not satisfied. Show me your vast, cosmic form—then perhaps!”

No, his own consenting has not yet happened. He is gathering witnesses to persuade himself. Throughout this verse there are signs of it.

“The rishis say you are the Supreme Brahman; and not only that, you yourself say so to me.” He is lining up Krishna too in the row of witnesses. He would not accept even Krishna’s word—but it is awkward. Krishna himself says, “I am God.” So Arjuna says, “And you too say so to me.” He cannot quite muster the courage to raise a doubt directly. But the doubt is inside him.

Where there is no doubt within, witnesses are not collected. We gather witnesses only because we have no other way to silence the inner doubt. The bigger the doubt within, the bigger the witnesses we seek.

If some passerby on the road were to tell Arjuna, “Krishna is God,” he would not accept it; his doubt is too big. Until Maharishi Vyasa himself sits on the scales and declares, “Yes, he is God,” Arjuna will not accept.

The larger the doubt, the larger the testimony required. It may seem upside down, but it is so. The greater the witnesses we seek, the greater the doubt we reveal. If there were absolutely no doubt, there would be no need of any witness at all. If doubt were zero, even if the whole world testified to the contrary, it would make no difference.

Vivekananda once went to Ramakrishna to ask, “Does God exist?” Ramakrishna might have said, “Such-and-such maharishis say yes; the Upanishads say yes; the Vedas say yes.” That is what any scholar would have said—indeed, Vivekananda did go to such scholars. He went to the father of Rabindranath.

Maharshi Debendranath was a great knower, a great scholar. Vivekananda went to him before meeting Ramakrishna. It was midnight—Debendranath lived on a barge on the Ganga. Vivekananda climbed aboard in the dark of night, opened the door. It was the middle of the night; the maharshi sat with eyes closed in meditation. Vivekananda caught him by the collar, shook his throat, and said, “I have come to ask: does God exist?”

The maharshi could explain, but he could not tell. He could give arguments, but had no experience of his own. So he said, “Young man, sit down. I will explain to you according to the scriptures.” But Vivekananda leapt back into the Ganga. The maharshi called after him, “Come back, I will explain everything to you.” Vivekananda said, “I have not come to understand. If you know, say yes or say no. If you know, speak—otherwise, keep quiet. I can read the scriptures myself.” Debendranath did not have the courage to say, “Yes, I know.”

Later Vivekananda would say, “Debendranath’s hesitation said everything. He knew much, but all of it was known through others; there was no direct seeing.”
Then that same youth went to Ramakrishna—just as stiff, just as forceful. He even took Ramakrishna by the hand and asked, “Is there a God?” But the situation changed completely. Just as Devendranath had trembled at hearing his question in the middle of the night, when Ramakrishna lifted his eyes and looked toward Vivekananda, it was Vivekananda who trembled. Ramakrishna said, “Leave aside whether he is or is not. If you want to know, say so. And do you want to know right now?” Vivekananda’s hands and feet began to shake. He said, “Let me come after I’ve thought about it a little. I didn’t come prepared for this!” Ramakrishna said, “Whether he is or is not—that question is useless. If you want to know, I can make you know.”
Ramakrishna caught hold of Vivekananda’s hand. In that conversation, the hand Vivekananda had grasped slipped free, but Ramakrishna seized his hand and said, “I will not let you go like this. Since you have come, it will be good if you go only after knowing!” Vivekananda has said that after that he never again had the courage to ask Ramakrishna anything—because here, to ask was to play with fire—directly.

Ramakrishna did not say, “The Upanishads say, the Vedas say, Buddha says, Krishna says.” Those are useless words. If Ramakrishna himself knows, then whether there are testimonies or not is irrelevant; and if Ramakrishna himself does not know, then even if everyone in the world has said it, the sum total of all their testimonies cannot make it truth. No amount of testimony can produce truth; and if the whole world were to testify against even a tiny truth, they could not make it untrue.

But what Arjuna is saying needs to be understood rightly, because the entire understanding ahead depends on it. Arjuna’s trust is not the least bit deep; it is only on the surface. He is attached. He wants to believe that Krishna is God; he cannot manage to believe it. He also wants to persuade himself. This effort is real, it is sincere. He wants to accept that Krishna is Bhagavan; therefore he gathers testimonies. But even so, testimonies remain on the surface. And then he adds, “And you yourself say the same concerning yourself.”

And O Keshava, whatever you tell me about yourself, I accept all of it as truth.

Such acceptance is not knowing. In fact this acceptance is not even acceptance, because the moment such a great truth is accepted, life is transformed. If Arjuna truly accepted, it would be a rebirth the very instant. But Arjuna remains the same even after saying he accepts.

Any religion that, upon being accepted, does not change your life—understand that you have not accepted it. If you put your hand in fire and the hand is not burned, understand that the fire is false—a dream, an imagination, something on paper. It isn’t. It’s a painted picture of fire into which you are putting your hand.

If Arjuna were to truly know that Krishna is Bhagavan, Arjuna would be lost just as a drop is lost in the ocean—lost this very moment.

But even his acceptance is only an intellectual effort. It is still an effort, a labor, a try. And effort never goes deep; it remains superficial, while within the opposite state persists. Within, the contrary state persists. That contrary state is present within Arjuna as well. Though he feels a certain pleasure in declaring, “I accept all this as truth.”

“O Bhagavan, neither the demons nor even the gods know your lila-filled, sportive form.”

This also gives his ego some pleasure: “But I know.” The gods do not know, the demons do not know. No one knows your lila-filled form, but I, Arjuna, know. His entire acceptance nourishes his deep ego. “I know!” That is why he is accepting.

One point here deserves attention: very often we accept because acceptance gratifies the ego. You will be surprised to see that if you are dropped among atheists, you will become an atheist; if you are dropped among theists, you will become a theist. Because it pains the ego to go against the crowd.

Russia, before 1917, was as theistic as India is today. And India’s condition now is almost exactly like Russia’s before 1917. Russia was supremely theistic. Churches were crowded. People listened to sermons, read the Bible, prayed in mosques—very devout people!

Then came the revolution, and for the first time in history the communists built a nation opposed to theism. Within ten years the theists vanished! The theism of thousands of years melted in a decade; they could no longer be found. The society became atheistic. Those who yesterday worshiped Jesus became atheists and laid their heads at Lenin’s feet. Those who yesterday bowed toward Jerusalem or Mecca and Medina now bowed toward the red star of the Kremlin. The whole country became atheist.

Astonishing! So cheap a thing—that a whole country turns from theistic to atheistic in ten or fifteen years! Atheism became easy, theism became difficult.

Right now your theism, our theism, is just like this. Because it is easy to be a theist, we are theists; if atheism were to become easy, we would become atheists. Whatever is convenient. Our religion is a kind of convenience, a kind of facility. We keep doing what is convenient. If going to the temple is convenient, we keep doing it.

A friend came to me some days ago. He said, “I have no trust at all—neither in temples nor in God. But I have to get my daughter married, so I have to go to the temple. And I can’t tell anyone that I have no faith in God, because I have small children. I must raise them.”

It is a social ritual, a social convenience. And then there is ego. Wherever ego finds satisfaction, it agrees to accept.

Arjuna feels a pleasure: the gods don’t know, the demons don’t know; no one knows who Krishna is, what his mystery is—but I accept.

Two things to keep in mind in this sutra. First, Arjuna does not truly accept; deep within there is rejection. He tries to bridge that rejection with testimony. We always find testimonies that suit us.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin set out on a pilgrimage. He was alone. On the way a Maulvi joined him. Then a yogi joined as well. The three of them stopped in a village. The Maulvi said, “It’s time for my namaz,” and the yogi said, “I will do my asanas and practice now.” They told Nasruddin, “You go and collect a little alms from the village!”

Nasruddin gathered some coins and brought back halva. As soon as he came he said, “Better we divide this halva quickly. Naturally the first share should be mine, because I procured the means to bring it.”

But the Maulvi said, “I’m not hungry yet,” and the yogi said, “I eat only once in three days, before sunset. I’ll eat in the evening. So keep it now; we will travel and see at dusk.”

Evening came, but the serious question arose: how to divide the halva! The Maulvi said, “I am an initiated priest of religion; the first and larger right is mine.” The yogi said, “You may be an initiated priest, but you have no spiritual wealth like mine. I have attained samadhi; the first right is mine.” And Nasruddin said, “However far you two have advanced, it was I who procured the halva.”

The quarrel grew so heated that the sun set. The yogi said, “Now something can be done only in the morning; the sun has set. I can eat only when the sun rises.” It was decided they would all sleep, and whoever saw the best, the most excellent dream, in the morning would narrate it; the one with the highest dream would own the halva and give to the others as he wished. They went to sleep.

At brahma-muhurta, before dawn, they woke. The Maulvi said, “I saw the founder of my faith standing in my dream with his hand upon my head, blessing me and telling me that he has no disciple superior to me.”

The yogi said, “That is nothing. I saw that I entered ultimate liberation in my dream and there was an unending shower of flowers upon me, a peace such as only a Buddha might know. I returned from that vision.”

Both asked Mulla Nasruddin, “And you?” He said, “My dream was very simple. My master, the Sufi guide Khizr, appeared. He said, ‘Mulla Nasruddin, get up. You are my disciple; obey my command. Get up this very moment and eat the halva.’ There was no choice but to obey the master’s command. I got up at midnight and ate the halva.”

A person seeks everything to suit himself. His dreams are made to suit him, his truths are made to suit him. His imaginings, his doctrines—everything is born of his convenience. Man is very complex—very complex indeed.

Keep Arjuna’s complexity in view. The complexity is that he both does not want to accept that Krishna is Bhagavan and he does want to accept it—either-or. Both stand before him. And both likewise always stand before all of us.

Arjuna is a symbol of us all. Within all of us is such a conflict. We want to accept and we do not want to accept. We want to do and we do not want to do. We want to live and we do not want to live. We want to be silent and we do not want to be silent. Both opposites stand together within us. And we keep doing this all life long: as if you had a coin, sometimes you turn it over and sometimes you turn it face up. The other side is pressed down but it remains present. Then you tire of one side and bring the other up. Our lives sway between these opposites.

Our minds want opposites at once. We want faith, and our disbelief is deep. This is the complexity. Without understanding this complexity, whoever proceeds will never get outside it. Whoever understands it can go beyond it.

Arjuna himself does not know. This is very unconscious. If we told Arjuna, “You are gathering these testimonies because you doubt,” he would be startled: “What are you saying! I accept God.” And if Krishna were to insist, “No, you do not accept,” he would insist all the more, “I do accept.”

But his insistence itself would reveal it. We insist most on those things against which a voice within us speaks. Stubborn people are those gripped by inner conflict. When inner conflict dissolves, stubbornness disappears.

I have heard: In his old age Mulla Nasruddin was made an honorary magistrate in his village. The very first case came up; one side presented its story. Mulla was so impressed that he said, “Absolutely right, absolutely true!” The court clerk whispered, “What are you doing! You have not yet heard the other side! Only one man has spoken; his opponent is present. And such declarations are not proper for a magistrate.” Mulla said, “Let’s hear the other too.”

The other side presented its case, and Mulla was so impressed he said, “Absolutely right, absolutely true!” The clerk whispered, “Sir, what are you doing! Think a little. How can both be true at the same time? The first true, the second also true?” Mulla was so impressed by the clerk that he said to him, “What you are saying is absolutely true—how can both be true! You are exactly right.”

We will think this man a fool. But we are all like this; only we are not so obvious.

Mulla said all three were true. If it were us, we would be a bit more clever. We would call the first true. If the second also seemed right, we would hide it, because it would be inconsistent. Having called the first true, how could we now call the second true! So we would suppress the second. And we would not even say the third, for that would look insane. But our mind functions exactly like this. Exactly like this.

If someone argues that Krishna should be consigned to hell, even that may seem true to us. Otherwise why would some have consigned him! To them it seemed true. And if you do not insist and try to understand, and you forget the other side—that you already take Krishna as Bhagavan, that you are sitting with that belief—then even you will taste something plausible in the argument, a certain truth to it: “This man is responsible for all this violence, killing, disturbance.” Then consigning him to hell seems right. And if you do not consign even him, then why consign those committing minor murders!

But if you consider the side that Krishna is Bhagavan, that too seems equally forceful. There the mind will try to say yes: “Absolutely right.” And if someone asks, “Both right? How can both be right?” you will surely have to say, “You are absolutely right—how can both be right!”

This is how our mind works. For the sake of consistency we keep one side up and press the other down. What we press down will take revenge sooner or later. It will surface. And what we keep above today we will get bored with. One gets bored with everything—especially with what one holds consciously. So what you keep above, after a while the heart will change, the mind will tire, and the suppressed side will start to seem more meaningful. In this way the mind swings like the pendulum of a clock.

In this sutra Arjuna is saying both things. If you can see both, the Gita ahead will become easy to understand. Krishna sees both. Therefore the Gita could not end here; it had to continue. Krishna knows that what Arjuna is saying is still not his own truth.

And borrowed truths, the truths of others, are worse than untruth. Even untruth, if it is one’s own, has an authenticity, a sincerity. And truth, if it is someone else’s, is insincere, inauthentic. What meaning has another’s truth for me? My untruth at least becomes my experience; another’s truth can never become my experience.

What does it matter to Arjuna what Maharshi Vyasa says? And what reason has Arjuna to accept Vyasa? If one finds it hard to accept Krishna, how can he so easily accept Vyasa?

No—he is whitewashing the surface. He is convincing his mind. He is trying to accept that Krishna is Bhagavan. But inside, the powerful current of ego says, “How can this be accepted?”

Remember, the most developed part of a kshatriya is ego. That is his greatest weakness too—his violence, his quarrel. He cannot tolerate its being wounded. And Arjuna is, one must say, the very best among kshatriyas; his ego is the purest kshatriya ego. For him it is very difficult to accept that Krishna is Bhagavan. To lay his head at Krishna’s feet is extremely difficult.

But Krishna’s genius, Krishna’s aura, Krishna’s light also touch him. Krishna’s love, their compassion also touch him. The petals of his heart bloom in their nearness. Something echoes within. In their presence he knows he is near more than a mere man. At one level denial runs; at another, acceptance. Between these two opposites Arjuna is caught. This conflict is fully clear in this statement. But he wants to take one pleasure, and that is: “Whatever you say, that I accept as true. And what neither gods nor demons know—at least I accept it.”

It is useful to reflect a little on this word “accept.” Have you ever noticed what things you “accept”?

You accept only those things about which you harbor doubt. Do you ever declare, “I believe in the sun”? Do you ever declare, “I have firm faith in the earth”? Do you ever say, “I have great reverence for the body”?

No; you say, “I have great reverence for the soul. I have great faith in God. I accept that liberation exists.”

Have you ever noticed that you lean on belief only in regard to the things you do not know, the very things that seem impossible to accept—those are the ones you say you “accept.” And those that are easy to accept, evident—you never speak of accepting them.

You know the body; you believe in the soul. Understand the difference. You know matter; you believe in God. The day God also becomes knowing, the day the soul also becomes knowing, that very day a single voice is born within you. Otherwise the inner conflict and quarrel will remain.

And the weaker a person is in belief, the more he tries to complete that belief through obstinacy. Hence people with weak faith become dogmatic. The weaker the faith, the more bigoted—because they are afraid of themselves: if someone refutes their belief, they know inside they are ready to accept the refutation. Therefore: don’t listen to anyone, don’t hear the opposing view, don’t read the opposing scripture.

We call India a very tolerant country. But deep beneath there has also flowed an intolerant current. Our minds like to accept nice-sounding ideas, but it is dangerous—because ugly tendencies also flow within, and if we sit oblivious of them, they become ulcers, wounds, inner boils.

Hindu scriptures say—and so do Jain and Buddhist scriptures; the statements are almost the same—let me tell you. It is written in Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist texts alike: if there is a Jain temple, and a Hindu passing in front of it is attacked by a mad elephant, it is better to be crushed and die under the elephant’s feet than to take refuge in the Jain temple. Exactly the same is written in Jain scriptures: better to be crushed under the elephant’s feet than to take refuge in a Hindu temple. What fear! What dread!

These at least are two different religions; but there are Ram-devotees who will put their fingers in their ears if someone utters the name of Krishna! And Krishna-devotees who plug their ears if someone utters the name of Ram!

I have heard of a Buddhist nun who had a golden statue of Buddha. Every day she worshiped it, lit incense, offered flowers. Once she had a chance to stay in China’s great temple of “Ten Thousand Buddhas,” which houses ten thousand Buddha images of all sizes. Buddha images in every corner, along every wall. When she set up her own Buddha and lit incense in the morning, she thought, “The smoke will drift and go into the noses of the other Buddhas. The incense meant for my Buddha entering other Buddhas’ noses!” So she fashioned a bamboo hood, placed it over the incense, and directed it to the nostrils of her Buddha. Buddha’s face became blackened—as it must! He got the soot, not the fragrance. And bigoted devotees have blackened the faces of all—whether Ram, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, or Mohammed. Even here fear possesses: another Buddha! Even another statue of Buddha is “another” Buddha!

I lived in a village where huge Ganesh idols are taken out for immersion at Ganesh festival. There is a fixed order: the Brahmins’ neighborhood idol goes in front; the tanners’ (chamars’) neighborhood idol follows behind.

One year there was a mistake. The Brahmins’ idol was delayed and the chamars’ idol arrived first and led the procession. When the Brahmins’ idol came, they said, “Move the chamars’ Ganesh to the rear!”

The chamars’ Ganesh! The Brahmins’ Ganesh is different, of course. The chamars and the Brahmins are one thing—but even Ganesh becomes “the chamars’” and “the Brahmins’!” The poor chamars’ Ganesh had to go behind. One’s own fate! If you are the chamars’ Ganesh, you must go behind!

Such bigotry, such narrowness, such intolerance arises. There is a fear within: what if the other is right? What if hearing the other, he turns out to be right? One has no truth of one’s own within; one depends on others. What if, hearing others, one is shaken? Therefore: do not listen, do not read, do not understand, do not know the other. Keep fighting the other, keep avoiding the other, and blindly believe only oneself and consider all others wrong.

The whole game is a psychological illness: I do not truly know what truth is. So as long as I keep proving others false, I can feel that I am true. If I begin to listen carefully to others, everything inside becomes shaky: Am I true or not? What is truth?

In the capital where Mulla Nasruddin lived, dishonesty increased greatly. And it will increase in capitals, because the dishonest gather there; all thieves and bandits assemble. Right now Jayaprakashji is arranging the surrender of small bandits in Chambal to the big bandits!

So it was a capital; bandits gathered. The emperor was worried how to deal with them. He asked the wise in the villages; no way out. Someone said, “Mulla Nasruddin is also a kind of wise man. Our intelligence is not working; perhaps his will.” He was called. The emperor asked, “What shall we do? People are becoming untruthful!”

Nasruddin said, “What difficulty is there? At least hang one liar a day at the city gate. Create a sensation. People will be frightened; then no one will tell lies.” The emperor said, “Absolutely right.” He ordered soldiers at the gate: anyone caught lying would be hung on the spot. Nasruddin said, “I’ll meet you at the gate in the morning.” The emperor thought he would come to witness his principle in action.

When the gates opened, Nasruddin entered on his donkey. The emperor and his executioners were present. The gallows had been erected. The emperor asked, “Nasruddin, where are you going so early on a donkey?” Nasruddin said, “To climb onto the gallows.” The emperor said, “You are lying!” Nasruddin said, “It was decided that whoever lies will be hanged. So hang me if I’m lying.” The emperor said, “This is a great quandary. If I hang you, then you spoke the truth. If I let you go, I have spared a liar.”

Nasruddin said, “That’s exactly what I wanted you to understand: who will decide what is truth and what is untruth! Hanging liars is very easy, but who will decide who is true and who is false! First try to find out for yourself whether you are true or false; only then decide for others.”

It is hard—hard because within there is no crystallization, no center. Inside we are empty, blank; filled with garbage, filled with what others have stuffed into us. Having no experience of our own, we have no ground under our feet. So we even fear looking down. We keep telling others, “You are wrong, you are false,” but we never worry whether we ourselves have any truth of our own.

And until a person sets out in search of his own truth, what the great seers have said, what Vyasa says—even what Krishna says—has little value. What Arjuna experiences—that has value. What Krishna says, for Arjuna, has no value. What Arjuna experiences has value. And as his experience appears in this sutra, it is neither deep nor single-voiced nor harmonious. Opposites are present together. He does not see them—that is the danger.

If a conflict is seen, we can go beyond it. If it is not seen, it is a great danger. Arjuna himself does not know what he is saying. Nor do we.

When you go to the temple and say, “Lord, I have faith in you and I surrender,” you too don’t really know what you are saying. Because what you are saying is revolutionary. If it is true, you will enter a world of nectar and joy. And if it is false, then the ordinary lies you tell in your shop will not harm you as much as this lie told in the temple—this is terrible.

Have you ever worried whether any of your statements of faith, devotion, surrender carry any deep imprint of your life’s breath? They do not. The truth is, we are so frightened by our disbelief that we paint faith on top of it. The atheist is hidden within; the theist is not deeper than our garments.

On this earth it is hard to find a true theist, though all appear to be theists. And it is hard to find anyone who is not an atheist, though the atheist is rarely obvious. This is the irony: the world is atheistic, but when you meet people one-by-one, each claims to be a theist. The sum total is atheism; and yet each separately claims to be a believer. Enter their lives and you will find nothing but atheism.

There is an account in the life of Sai of Shirdi. One devotee said, “Now I see God in everyone.” Sai Baba said, “If you had begun to see God in everyone, why have you come to bow to me in this blazing afternoon? You could have bowed anywhere. If I alone have begun to appear to you everywhere, what need was there to come so far? I would have met you there; I was there.”

That devotee brought food daily for Baba, and would not eat until Baba had eaten.

Sai Baba said, “From tomorrow, don’t bring food; I will come there. Recognize me, since you have begun to see!” The devotee was in difficulty. He set the plate at his threshold beneath a tree and waited. A dog began pestering him. Drawn by the aroma, it kept coming. He beat it away with a stick. Time passed and there was no sign of Sai Baba. He took the plate to the mosque where Baba lived.

He entered and saw tears in Sai Baba’s eyes. He asked, “You didn’t come? I waited.” Sai Baba said, “I came. Look at my back!” There were welts where he had struck the dog. “I came. You used to say you had begun to see me in all, so I thought I would come in any form and you would recognize me. I came as a dog.” The devotee said, “It was a small mistake. I have begun to see you in all, but I have not yet practiced seeing you in a dog. Come tomorrow; I will recognize you.”

The next day the same thing happened, but this time no dog came—a leper came. From a distance he shouted, “Stay away! Baba’s food is here; don’t defile it! Keep away, don’t let your shadow fall!” But the leper kept coming closer. The devotee grabbed the plate and ran, and the leper ran after him. He reached the mosque and saw that Baba was not there. Looking back, the leper had vanished—in his place stood Sai Baba. Baba said, “But you do not recognize me!” The devotee said, “You make me practice something new every day! Today I had firmly decided I would see you in a dog; and you came as a leper! Come tomorrow.”

Practice is not religion. If by effort something begins to be “seen,” it has no value. It must be seen.

Arjuna is making an effort. “Vyasa has said, Deval has said; this one has said, that one has said. And you also say—so I accept: whatever you say is true.” This is effort, practice—the attempt to accept that Krishna is Bhagavan. But inside a voice keeps ringing “No.” All these measures are to suppress that voice.

This double arrangement in man—the double bind—is very complex, a deep knot. Therefore, outwardly you say, “I love greatly,” and if you look within, there is no trace of love. Outwardly, “My faith is boundless,” and within, equally boundless is disbelief. One thing on the surface, another within! Every person is split in two.

And as long as a person is divided, recognizing the divine in any situation is impossible. When the sum of the two within ends and only one remains—when a single one is formed within—then it is not that you “recognize” divinity somewhere; rather, it becomes impossible not to recognize divinity anywhere. It is present everywhere—everywhere, everywhere. Then there is no need to “see” it, nor to seek testimonies.

Here is a curious point: if the past of science were to be lost, the entire edifice of science would collapse. If we removed Newton and Galileo, Einstein would fall to the ground; he could not stand on his own feet. Science is a tradition, a collective effort. Many hands are in it. Pull out one brick and the spire above will topple.

Yet we call religion “tradition,” and we do not call science a tradition. Science is tradition, a collective chain. If a link is lost, the next cannot be forged.

If the bicycle had not been invented, the airplane could not be. If there had been no bullock cart, there would be no way to reach the moon—though no one goes to the moon in a bullock cart. But had the bullock cart never been made, there would be no way at all to reach the moon. The one who made the bullock cart is as indispensable to the man who landed on the moon as the man who actually did.

But religion is different. Even if Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Ram had not been, nothing changes; if you wish, you can be religious without them. Because being religious is a personal realization of truth; it has nothing to do with inherited truth.

What Arjuna is saying is still talk of tradition. He has no personal realization yet.

God stands before him, and how pale Arjuna’s words are! In the face of Krishna, what is the value of Vyasa? In the face of Krishna, what is the value of Deval rishi or the devarshis? What is their relevance? It is as if the sun stood before you and someone, holding a lamp, offered testimonies: “Certainly, by the light of this lamp I can see that you are the sun.” Such are these testimonies.

But Arjuna does not realize. He thinks he is invoking big names—weighty ones. Weighty they are for Arjuna; before Krishna they are as useless as lamps before the sun. Lamps have value only when darkness is deep. When the sun stands before you, they are of no use.

Yet Arjuna brings their testimonies. Krishna must have found it very amusing! To this day, how have Krishna and Buddha felt—there are no statements. But Krishna must have been quite surprised: “I am standing here, and Arjuna says that Maharshi Vyasa also says you are Bhagavan. I too accept; others also accept”—as if Krishna’s divinity depended on his acceptance!

We all think that if we do not believe, if we do not give our vote, then God is finished. As though he depends on us. If we accept, he is God; if we do not, he is worth two pennies—finished.

Nothing depends on your believing. Nothing depends on anyone’s believing. Divinity is a truth. And whoever goes about in this roundabout way will keep wandering in circles instead of going straight. He circles the periphery around the center; he misses the center.

Arjuna is not seeing who stands before him. He is circling. He goes around and says, “All right; I circumambulate. People also say!” He gathers votes. But he misses the one standing right in front.

This is our condition too. God is always in front—always—because whatever is in front is he. Yet we ask, “Where is God?” We ask, “Which scripture should we open to find God? Which master should we ask to get news of him?” And he is present in front of us. We cannot see him without a master; we cannot lift our eyes toward him without reading scriptures!

One who cannot see his presence right in front—how will he see him in scriptures? One who cannot see him—how will he recognize the master: “Here is the master”?

But we revolve in circles—small and big, of our own liking. In temples, circumambulation happens—an image in the middle, people circling around. We spend lifetimes circling; we never connect with the image at the center. The central image is always present.

It is not only that Krishna is present before Arjuna; he is present before every Arjuna. And what this Arjuna does, every Arjuna does: he seeks indirect proofs.

The Christian thinker Anselm produced four proofs for God’s existence. Anselm, poor fellow, is not a true theist—though Christianity believes his arguments are precious and that Western theism rests upon them. But I say he is not a theist, because the arguments he gives are childish. And if God is to be proven by such arguments, those arguments can be refuted.

They can be refuted. There is no argument in the world that cannot be cut down. There is no such thing as an irrefutable argument. And any argument that gives testimony on one side can give testimony on the other. Arguments are not partisans; they are like prostitutes—professional. An argument stands with whomever. Arguments have no faith of their own; they are pulled wherever someone has the strength to pull them.

So if someone thinks to prove God by argument, like Anselm did, those arguments have been cut apart. A schoolboy who knows a little logic can cut them to pieces. God has nothing to do with argument, nothing to do with testimony.

A man came to Buddha and asked, “After death, does life still remain? If you testify, I will accept.” Buddha said, “If I testify, then you will need further testimonies—those that say Buddha is not a liar. Then you will need testimonies that those testimonies are not lying—no collusion with Buddha, no hidden dealings!”

An English thinker came to India to investigate miraculous claims about yogis and sadhus. He heard about a yogi whose age was nine hundred years. He was astonished—miracle! Nine hundred years—the claim must be false.

He went; there was a huge crowd, many devotees, a grand festival. He did not dare ask directly. He befriended a disciple, chatted, warmed up to him. Then asked, “May I ask—are you his disciple?” “Yes.” “May I ask how old he is? I heard nine hundred.” The disciple said, “I cannot say much. I have known him only for five hundred years.”

He slapped his forehead—now a real mess! Whom should he ask about the yogi’s age—and where would it end?

Whenever we go seeking indirect, secondhand testimony, we go into delusion.

It would have been better had Arjuna stood looking straight into Krishna’s eyes—leaving Vyasa, Deval, the rishis. Face Krishna directly. Arjuna would have known more in that directness than all the testimonies in the world could ever provide.

But perhaps he lacks the courage to look straight. Perhaps he fears that if he looks straight, he may really find out that Krishna is Bhagavan. That too is a fear, because then we can always say later that Vyasa may have been mistaken; what is our responsibility? Vyasa said it, so we accepted. But if we ourselves see, then the responsibility becomes direct; I become responsible. That too is fear.

These are all fears. They are everyone’s fears. Here I take Arjuna to be the epitome of the inner condition of all men—and he is. And I take Krishna to be the essence of whatever marks of divinity have manifested on this earth. Krishna is the extract of whatever “God-ness” has happened in this world. And Arjuna is the extract of all the wavering men that have ever been.

Therefore the Gita is not merely a dialogue between two individuals; it is a dialogue between two existences, two worlds, two dimensions running parallel. Hence there is no other book like the Gita in the world—because nowhere else is there such a direct dialogue.

The Ramayana is the long story of Ram’s life. The Bible is the many statements Jesus gave to many different people on many different occasions. The Koran is God’s message to mankind, conveyed through Mohammed. But none is a direct “you-and-I” dialogue.

The Gita is a direct dialogue. Two worlds stand face to face in the I–Thou. On one side, the wavering mind of all humanity stands in Arjuna; on the other, all divinity in its quintessence stands in Krishna. A direct confrontation between the two, a direct encounter. It is very unique. Therefore the Gita has taken on a unique meaning. It is not an ordinary religious book; we cannot weigh it against any other. It is unique.

But only if we enter its deeper dimension and peel Arjuna layer by layer will we understand.

So with Arjuna I will at times be unnecessarily harsh—only so that we can see the layers of man. When Arjuna is fully uncovered, only then can we fully uncover Krishna. And to the extent that Arjuna’s conflict is made clear, to that extent Krishna’s message and dialogue can also become clear.

Enough for today.

But stay for five minutes. And yesterday during the kirtan, you kept getting up and coming closer. That causes difficulty. Remain seated where you are for at least five minutes. Show at least this much soul—that you can sit for five minutes. Sit where you are. When the kirtan ends, then get up.