Geeta Darshan #6

However complicated Arjuna’s mind may be, however many layers of inner conflict he may have, Arjuna is a simple man. There is much complexity, yes, but he harbors no delusion about his complexity. And he is clear and honest enough to reveal even his complexity. Perhaps it is precisely this that made him worthy of receiving Krishna’s message.

Even when we fall ill, we often refuse to admit it. We hide even our sickness. And one who won’t acknowledge his disease has little chance of becoming healthy. For what needs to be uprooted must first be accepted. And what needs to be uprooted must also be recognized rightly. You cannot be free of what you do not know.

There are two kinds of honesty. One is the honesty we practice toward others. That honesty is not very great; it is serviceable, superficial. The other is a deeper honesty that one holds toward oneself. That honesty is very hard to find. Even the first honesty is difficult; the second, all the more so.

To be honest with oneself is tremendously difficult, because we have all built up certain notions, certain images about ourselves. And if we are honest with ourselves, those very images we have created will be shattered by our own hands. What we take ourselves to be, we are not. What we believe ourselves to be bears hardly any relation to our actuality. And what we in fact are is so painful that we do not muster the courage even to look at it. We lack the daring to stare straight into our reality, our facticity.

Religious life begins only for the one who is honest with himself, who musters the courage to know his factual reality. Who can unveil himself as he is—howsoever distorted, howsoever dark, howsoever diseased within, howsoever disordered—and yet is ready to look at it all with a calm heart and to accept: “This is what I am.” Self-honesty is the first step of the religious man.

Arjuna is complex, entangled—as any human being is complex and entangled. Such complexity is unavoidable with being human. But Arjuna is not eager to hide it. Nor does he try to forget it after seeing it. Unconscious complexity is there; but once he sees it, he is eager to be free of it. He may not fully realize it, yet toward himself he is humble. And whatever is happening within, he goes on telling it to Krishna.

In this sutra he has said some things of great value—worth understanding from the seeker’s side, precious for those who set out to find the Divine.

At times Krishna’s word may not be as immediately valuable—for Krishna’s word is ultimate, final; when we arrive, we will know it. Often Arjuna’s statements can be more precious for us than Krishna’s—more precious for our stage. They are not Truth to the extent that Krishna’s are, nor an ultimate realization; but where Arjuna stands is where we all stand. So to understand Arjuna, to understand his utterances, is very valuable for understanding ourselves. And he who understands himself may one day understand Krishna too.

In this sutra two or three points are important; let us consider them in turn.

Arjuna said, “O Source of beings, O Lord of beings, O God of gods, O Lord of the world, O Supreme Person, you know yourself by yourself alone.”

Just before this Arjuna said, “Whatever you say, I accept as true.” Had Arjuna said, “I know it to be true,” that would have been dishonest. He said, “I accept it as true.” This is an honest statement. He did not say, “I know.” He said only: “What you say, I accept as true. It is my effort, my aspiration, my feeling. May it be true; it should be true—such is my yearning. I want what you say to be true. I hold it to be true.”

But even as he says it, perhaps Arjuna senses a deeper layer within that says, “I do not know.” Hence he speaks something very profound: “You know yourself by yourself alone. Even if I want to know, how can I know? If I say ‘I know,’ that would be untrue. You know yourself by yourself.”

This statement has many dimensions.

There are two kinds of things in the world. One, those that are other-illuminated. We are sitting here. If the electric light goes out, I will not be visible to you, nor you to me. You are visible to me not merely because you exist. Your being is necessary but not sufficient. Light is needed; only then do you become visible. If you are there but there is no light, you will not be seen. For you to be seen, your presence is necessary, and light is necessary; only then do you become visible, illuminated by light. Likewise, I will not be visible to you if there is no light. If deep darkness descends, no one will see anyone. The other is other-illuminated: to see the other, to know the other, some additional light is needed.

But however deep the darkness, you still know yourself. Could there be such darkness that I would say, “Now I cannot find myself—the darkness is too much”? You may not discover me; I may not discover you. But I will still be aware of myself; you will still be aware of yourself. This self-apprehension of your own being needs no other light; your being is enough.

There is a famous episode in the life of the Sufi Hasan. He came to his master with two friends who had set out on the search for Truth. They asked, “We want to know—what is the soul?” The master was feeding pigeons. He caught a pigeon for each and said, “Go to a place where no one sees you and wring the bird’s neck. Kill it. Then we shall proceed to the next lesson. This is the first.”

One youth went down the steps, entered a nearby alley, saw that no one was there, twisted the pigeon’s neck and returned. The second searched for a solitary spot, but thought, “It is still light. If I wring it now, someone might peek from a window or come suddenly. I’ll wait till night.” After darkness fell, he went into a lane, wrung the pigeon’s neck, and at night laid it at the master’s feet.

But Hasan, the third, disappeared for three days. The two friends waited; the master waited. On the third day the master sent them to find Hasan.

Hasan had tried everything. He looked in alleys—someone might see. He went into deep darkness—yet the pigeon’s eyes! Whenever he went to twist the neck, the pigeon’s eyes shone even in the dark. So he tied a cloth over his own eyes and over the pigeon’s eyes, and descended into a cellar where darkness was complete. But when his hand touched the pigeon’s neck it struck him: “Even if no one else sees, I am seeing. I am knowing.”

Three days later they brought him. He placed the pigeon at the master’s feet and said, “Forgive me—this task is impossible. Wherever I go, I go on seeing. And even if I were not to see, the pigeon would still be there. I could tie a rope around its neck, hang it in the cellar, go far away and pull the rope to strangle it; but at least the pigeon would still be a witness. I could not find a place where there is no witness at all. Forgive me. I have failed the first lesson.”

The master said, “You alone have succeeded. Your two friends have failed. Now your second lesson begins; I bid your companions farewell.” The master said, “The first lesson on the way to self-knowledge is this: self-knowledge is self-luminous. Do what you will, you cannot obliterate the knowing of yourself. One remains—the knower remains. And you have understood this.”

The soul is self-illuminating. Matter is other-illuminating; consciousness is self-illuminating. These are the two existences we encounter. Consciousness requires no other to know it; consciousness knows itself.

Consider a lamp burning. The lamp illumines the whole room. Extinguish it, and the room is not seen. But when the lamp is lit, it illuminates itself as well. No second lamp is needed to know the first lamp. Consciousness knows and experiences itself. Everything else needs something else to be known.

This is why no “science” of the soul can quite be made—understand this a little.

This is why scientific thinkers hesitate to accept the soul. They say, “Until we observe, inspect, experiment, how can we accept that there is a soul?” But whenever we inspect something, that something is matter. The one who inspects is the soul. And there is no way to inspect the inspector.

Hence scientists are unwilling to accept the soul. Their difficulty is inevitable. The definition of science they have adopted has set the boundary: only that which can be observed counts as scientific fact. Then the observer can never be a scientific fact; the definition itself has excluded it.

They say, “Only what we can experiment upon we will accept as fact.” But what are we to do with the experimenter? Surely when an experiment is happening, someone is experimenting; when observation is happening, there is an observer. Yet science says, “Unless we can place it on the table, conclude, analyze, we cannot speak.”

If this remains the definition of science, we will never be able to construct a science of the soul, and science will never announce the truth of the soul. Either we must widen the definition of science and include not only what is known, but also the knower—that it too has existence.

Arjuna is telling Krishna: “You alone know yourself.”

Krishna means pure consciousness, consciousness at its most refined. Arjuna says, “Even if I try, how can I know you? You cannot be known by my knowing. You are self-luminous; you are your own knower. How can I know you? And if I do ‘know’ you, it is your body that I can know; what is material about you is what appears. I hear your words; that which speaks is not seen. I see your eyes; that which sees through the eyes is not seen. I can take your hand in mine—but the hand is matter. I cannot grasp the life within the hand. I may recognize you from every side, but this recognition is external. However much I go on ‘knowing’ you, that knowing is around you; you slip through. I cannot reach you. You remain beyond my grasp. You know yourself by yourself. How can I know you?”

Therefore the sages and lovers of God have said: the Divine cannot be known until you yourself become divine. Only by being the Divine is the Divine known.

Let this bring to mind another point.

There are two kinds of knowledge. One, what Bertrand Russell called acquaintance; and the other, knowledge. Acquaintance and knowledge. When we look at an object from the outside, it is acquaintance—not knowledge.

You look at a flower: what do you do? You see it from without; you take in its fragrance, its form, its shape. If you are a poet, you will love it. If you are a singer, you will sing of its beauty. If you are connoisseur, you will be delighted and dance. But all this remains from the outside.

If you are a scientist, you will pluck the flower and analyze it, separate its chemicals, bottle them, label them: so much sap, so much water, so many minerals, so much iron. All this too is from the outside. You did not enter the interior. The flower remained an object; you, the knower, remained outside.

If you know like a poet, you come nearer; still you remain apart. Nearness is also a name for distance. However near, distance remains. These two hands may come as near as possible, yet there remains space, a gap. If no gap remained, the two hands would be one and not two. Two means: however small the space, it is there—and it is not small, it is immense. Scientists say that even between atoms the distance is proportionally as vast as between the stars. The ratio is the same. The sun is roughly ninety million miles from the earth; that seems a huge gap. If you enter the atom, the distance between the nucleus and the electron, if you magnify the nucleus to the size of the earth, is proportionally like the distance between the earth and sun. Two atoms that seem in contact are not truly touching.

Even when our hands touch, a vast gap remains; and the gap never ends. Between two, distance always remains. Nearness is the minimum of distance; distance is the minimum of nearness.

However close we come to a thing, it is still only acquaintance, not knowledge. Knowledge has but one way: to be one with the thing, to merge, to become one.

This is difficult—indeed seems impossible. Lovers do not succeed in becoming one with their beloved. The poet, the painter, do not succeed in becoming one with the flower.

Therefore everything other than religion is acquaintance. Only religion is the doorway to knowledge—because religion has discovered a process—call it meditation, yoga, samadhi—in which one flame of consciousness dissolves into another flame of consciousness.

By nature, two bodies cannot become one, because they have boundaries. But two souls can become one, because the soul has no boundary.

The more fluid the boundary, the easier the union. Two stones placed together cannot become one—their boundaries are rigid. Two drops of water placed together become one—their boundaries are fluid. Perhaps even “water” is not a precise metaphor—better to say steam. Two clouds of vapor drift together and are one; there is no hindrance.

Light two lamps in one room—their lights become one. There is no clash. Light a thousand lamps—the room knows no competition: no lamp will complain, “Enough! Stop now. This room cannot contain more light. There is already one lamp here; how can another enter?” Let another lamp come—its light becomes one with the first. A third comes, it too merges; a fourth likewise. The lamps remain separate; their light is one.

In meditation bodies remain separate; souls become one. If twenty people are meditating in one room, there are twenty bodies; there is one soul—if they are meditating. If they are thinking, there are twenty bodies and a thousand souls. In thinking, within each person many selves proliferate, many fragments. In meditation, all becomes empty, one.

In the life of Buddha it is recorded that he halted near a great city. Ten thousand monks were with him. The king of that land, Ajatashatru—his very name means “one whose enemy is unborn”—a brave man, though those whose bravery depends on the sword are inwardly weak, however outwardly bold.

His ministers told him, “Buddha has come. Please go for his darshan.” Ajatashatru said, “I will go; but my army will go with me.” The ministers said, “That would be inappropriate. Why go to Buddha with an army? Go alone; a few companions or family may accompany you.” Yet Ajatashatru felt uneasy: who knew if some conspiracy lurked? He made inquiries: Buddha had arrived; ten thousand monks were encamped in the mango grove outside the village.

One evening he went. He left his chariot on the road and advanced with his ministers. They said, “Just beyond that row of trees is the encampment of the ten thousand.” As they approached, Ajatashatru, startled, drew his sword: “I suspect deception! Where ten thousand people are camped there must be noise; here there is none!” The ministers said, “Sheathe your sword—or keep it out if you must. Come a little further. Ten thousand are indeed encamped—but these are different sorts of people.”

When Ajatashatru came to Buddha he was astonished. Ten thousand sat beneath the trees, silent, eyes closed. He asked Buddha, “Why are these ten thousand so silent?” Buddha said, “Because at this time they are not ten thousand. They are in meditation.”

Meditation means: when the soul becomes still, it spreads fluidly all around, unites, becomes one.

If by knowledge we mean knowing a thing from its center, not its circumference—from within, into its life—then apart from religion there is no other source of knowledge. Religion is the art that breaks your boundaries and gives you the chance, the clue, the possibility of becoming one with the boundless.

Arjuna says to Krishna: “You know yourself by yourself. How can I know you? I am far, outside, other. You are Krishna; I am Arjuna. There is a distance; at best I can admit it.”

Mind this—this is what I call his honesty. When you start calling belief “knowing,” dishonesty begins. If you say, “I believe in God, I do not know,” I will say you are an honest man, and you can someday be religious.

But we do not speak of belief; we say, “I know that God is!” Not only this—we are ready to fight, to kill for the God we merely believe in but do not know. People burn temples, mosques, churches. Their “knowing” is so certain that others must be wrong—and if murder is needed, they do not hesitate.

Believers, who in fact know nothing, can be so arrogant for one reason only: they mistake belief for knowledge. They are dishonest with themselves.

One must clearly discern: what do I believe, and what do I know? What is my belief, my faith—and what is my knowledge, my experience? The gap must be utterly clear.

Thus Arjuna says, “I accept that what you say is true—that you are God, the Source of all beings, the Lord of all beings, the God of gods, the Lord of the world, the Supreme Person. But these are my beliefs. For you know yourself by yourself. Even what I say is not my knowing; it is my feeling, not my knowledge. It is my reverence, my trust—not my realization.”

A seeker must keep this fine distinction clear; then the second happening becomes possible. He who recognizes rightly what is belief will no longer be satisfied with belief. Belief will begin to make him restless. His mind will become uneasy. He will begin to yearn: “How shall I know?” And he will set out on the journey.

He who takes belief to be knowing has ended the journey before it starts. He reaches the goal without moving! He becomes accomplished without the discipline. He “attains” without the practice—he has merely assumed.

Most people stop for this reason—because there remains nothing further to do. If you “know” without knowing, what is left to travel for? A man says, “I know God”—the matter is finished. There is nowhere left to go.

Keep the gap. Understand clearly: this is my belief, not my knowledge. Knowing remains; I must still walk; struggle remains; a long road is ahead; only then will I reach knowing.

But we close our eyes and sit by the roadside. The halt becomes the destination. If someone says, “This is a halt, not the goal. Don’t pitch your tent here—rise!” we get angry. He disturbs our sleep; he breaks our rest. We have accepted and settled; we are comfortable. Peaceful. The trouble is over. Now nothing remains to be done. Now we can relax. And this man says, “No—this is not the destination. Only the roadside. Get up!” We become enraged.

Therefore whenever someone has said to us, “Where you are stuck is not the goal,” we have been annoyed. Be it Jesus, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Nanak, Kabir—whoever said, “Why are you sitting by the roadside?” appeared to us as an enemy. Because he is destroying our house. We had built our dwelling. We were comfortable.

The comfort is that we have attained; and these people come and shake us, push us out the door, saying, “The road is long yet. The house you think is home is like the ostrich who, frightened by the enemy, buries his head in the sand. Since the head is buried, the eyes are closed, the enemy is no longer seen—so he thinks what is not seen does not exist.” This is the ostrich’s logic.

We also say, “What is not seen is not.” People say, “God is not seen; therefore he is not.” The ostrich says the same. He buries his head in the sand; the enemy is not seen, therefore does not exist. He relaxes.

We all bury our heads in our beliefs. The sand of beliefs blinds the eyes. Then we sit pretending to be what we are not. The irreligious thinks himself religious. The unethical thinks himself moral. One who knows nothing of yoga masters a few postures and takes himself for a yogi. One who knows nothing of meditation sits with closed eyes for two minutes and thinks he has meditated. One who knows nothing of remembrance of the Divine repeats a name—Ram, Krishna—for a while and imagines remembrance has happened. Thus we hide our heads in the sand, cheat our intelligence, and stop—mistaking belief for knowledge.

Whenever a Kabir, a Krishna, a Christ will nudge us and shout, “Ostrich! Take your head out!” we will be angry—he is spoiling our sleep. Because then we must travel again. What we had “found” will be lost. He will snatch it away.

But remember: whatever can be snatched from you—understand well—you never had it. This statement will seem paradoxical. Only that which you do not have can be taken away; that which you truly have cannot be taken by any means.

Jesus used this saying: “To him who has, more shall be given; from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” It sounds upside down—contrary to economics. Our socialism says: take from those who have; give to those who have not. But these spiritual people have some strange anti-socialism! Jesus says: “He who has not—what he thinks he has will be taken. And he who has—more will be given.” This belongs to another dimension.

If you fear that your God can be taken away, know that you do not have him. If you fear your liberation can be lost, know you do not have it. If you fear your soul, your knowledge, your faith can be taken, it is not yours.

A friend wrote to me after three days of listening: “I will not come again. Before I came, I was assured I knew. Meeting you, I have lost. Now I doubt whether I know at all. Earlier I was comfortable; now my comfort is disturbed.” I sent word: whether you come or not, this disturbance will not disappear. Once an illusion breaks you cannot go back.

Life’s law is: what is known cannot be unknown. There is no way to undo knowing. Even the knowledge, “What I knew was wrong”—you cannot go back from that. You must go forward. Life knows only forward; there is no backward. Evolution never returns. Try as you will, you cannot go back even an inch.

So I told him: come or not, what you had will not return. You must go forward to regain—truly this time.

But he will try. He will build another shelter by some other bush or roadside. Let the old break—no matter—he will build another and hide again.

We want cheap bargains. Hence shortcuts become so popular. Someone says, “No problem—just turn a rosary once a day; all will be well.” Someone says, “Why worry? At the time of death, take the name of Ram; all will be well.” People are so “wise” that they think, “We may not be able to do it ourselves—at death we won’t even know we are dying; we will have died before we know”—so they hire priests to chant Ram’s name for them, to pour Ganga water into their mouth, to whisper mantras into their ear.

Even in attaining God we resort to trickery! Deceit knows no limit. The jaw is locked, eyes do not move, the man cannot speak, yet the family beats drums, shouting God’s name into his ears, hoping it might work!

Deceptions may work here; they will not work beyond. If, per chance, a man in panic utters “Ram” at the end—will it help? A life not filled with Ram cannot bring a true word from the heart at the last. It will only be on the lips, false, calculated, fear-driven. And even God’s name, when taken with a motive, is rendered useless.

A great religious leader lay dying. He was trained, competent, a teacher of religion; but being a teacher is easy—knowing is hard. He had spent life explaining to others; never occurred to him to ask: “Do I know what I teach?” Death neared; his legs trembled; he forgot all he had explained. He realized: “I do not know.” There was no one else in the village; he sent for Mulla Nasruddin. He had never considered Mulla wise; but on his deathbed he thought, “There is no one else; this man sometimes says something that pierces like an arrow.”

Mulla came. The leader said, “Sometimes your words carry a mystical ring. I am dying. Give me one or two sutras to fulfill as I die. My life has gone in explaining to others; I have been deprived of understanding. What shall I do?” Mulla whispered in his ear: “Do one thing. I give you a short mantra: ‘O God, save me. O Satan, save me.’” The man said, “What are you saying?” Mulla said, “No time to lose. We cannot take chances! Who knows which of the two will be useful? Pray to both. Wherever you go, say the other name was taken by mistake. At least show this much cleverness!”

This is the kind of dishonesty people practice when dying. We try to trick existence. But how will you trick yourself? One who, from afar, has taken belief for knowledge will fall into such frauds.

Arjuna is clear. He says what is his belief. And now he says he wants to know. He is eager to travel. “You know yourself by yourself. I cannot know. What I say—who knows if it is right or wrong? I speak from feeling, from the heart; my intelligence has not touched it. I have not known. I have had no event that I could witness.” Therefore he invokes other witnesses: “Such and such seers said so.” “I cannot say so. I cannot testify yet.” This is simplicity, honesty.

Therefore: O Lord, you alone are fit to declare, in fullness, those divine manifestations by which, pervading all these worlds, you abide.

“I cannot say it. I may call you the Source of beings, the Lord of all beings, the God of gods, the Lord of the world, the Supreme Person—these are words on my lips. They are heartfelt, but words still. However sincerely I speak, my being is not touched. I do not know. So you alone can speak your divine glories in their completeness.”

“Let your being unveil itself—only you can open the doors of your temple so I may enter. I knock and knock, but my hands are weak. I am not even sure whether I knock on the wall or the door! However much I call you, I am not sure whether I face you or have my back toward you! However much I run, it is not clear whether I run toward you or away from you!”

Arjuna says, “From an ignorant one like me, what statement about you could be given? You speak. Only you can reveal your totality.”

Consider this: all statements about God are partial. Every single one. None can be total. Human language is weak. Saying has limits; being has none. His being has no end; speech has boundaries. It is like trying to clutch the sky in your fist; your fist will contain a bit of sky, yes—but only a part. Or closing your fist around the ocean; you hold some water, but only a fraction. However large the fist, it holds but a fragment. Thus every statement about God is partial; none can be total.

In Arjuna’s plea there is a deep anguish: “How shall I speak, what shall I say? Whatever I say will be incomplete. Your splendor, your glory is boundless. Your being, your expanse is infinite—without beginning or end, without any edge. Where could a boundary be drawn? On what basis could a limit be set? How can I say anything of you? You reveal your totality to me; perhaps then I may know.”

A few things are to be understood here.

Since all statements about God are incomplete, two statements may appear contradictory. They are not. Those who know God through love—whose discipline has been to melt in love, to dissolve in love—describe God as with attributes, saguna. Love sees qualities; love’s eye discovers and reveals them; with love, qualities shine, vivid.

Therefore devotees whose path is of the heart, with little burden of intellect, inevitably speak of the Divine as saguna.

On the other hand, those who have not trodden the heart’s path, but have gone directly by knowing, without the support of love or passion—living by pure discrimination—describe the Divine as nirguna, without qualities, and nirakara, for as thought attains its utmost refinement, the formless, the actionless, the void begins to appear.

If we look at both, their descriptions seem at odds. The devotee talks of attributes; the knower says the Divine is without attributes. The devotee fashions images; the knower says images are obstacles. The devotee gives forms; the knower says, “Break forms—how will you reach the formless through form?” The lover adorns the Beloved with garments, jewels, flowers; it is the language of love. The knower grows restless: “What madness is this? Like children at play! What place has love here? Seek truth. To seek truth, set aside love; love can be partial, can project what is not.”

Thus some say: God is, but is formless. Islam clung so strongly to this that breaking idols became a religious act. “Break the image, for it becomes an obstacle. He has no image.”

When Islam arose, Mecca, which later became its shrine, housed a temple of 365 idols—one for each day—a most remarkable temple. Those who made 365 forms did so with deep feeling: God has so many forms that even if we worship a different one each day, we will not exhaust them. But the lover cannot move toward the formless. The devotee even prays, “We do not want your liberation, your paradise, your nirvana—let your form remain in our eyes.” Hence the 365 idols.

But Islam’s other description too is right: what has form to do with Him? He is formless, one. Do not bind Him in any form; otherwise you will stop at form—how will you reach the formless? So break all forms. The idols were broken. No authentic portrait of Mohammed exists—lest even Mohammed’s image become a barrier. He did not let any picture remain.

This is the knower’s statement—absolutely right. And yet the lover’s—quite the opposite—is equally right. There are a thousand descriptions—descriptions depend on the describer.

Our condition is like a village where, for the first time, an elephant arrived. Evening fell, but curiosity was great; the village sent its five foremost men to see. Night had come; it was dark. They felt the elephant by touch. One grasped a leg: “Ah, I have it!” Another felt the ear: “I have it!” Another stroked the back: “I have it!” They returned with their descriptions. The village was thrown into turmoil—five mutually incompatible reports. One said, “An elephant is like a marble pillar from a palace.” He had touched the leg. Another: “It is like a farmer’s winnowing fan.” He had felt the ear. And so on.

The villagers said, “Either you five have gone mad—or you must have seen five different things.” “No, we saw one.” “Then you are mad. Where is the relation between pillar and fan?” Schisms formed. Others went at night, felt and returned, and five sects arose. Impatient, they could not wait for morning.

At dawn, when they saw the elephant and also saw pillars and fans together—and the living wholeness that included all—then they laughed at themselves. No one was at fault; the error was only this: they mistook a part for the whole and could not imagine that opposite parts could coexist in the whole.

But with God, the village’s difficulty is not so easily resolved, because there will never be such a “morning” when all see together. This dawn is individual; one by one we see, and each returns with a definition. As many as have gone toward God, so many definitions. Some are eloquent and skillful and hence could state their definitions; others, less articulate, accepted definitions close to their own experience.

If we ask Buddha, he does not match Mahavira. Ask Krishna—he does not match Mohammed. Ask Mohammed—he does not match Rama. Those who try to reconcile scriptures by quoting here and there produce only further confusion. To align “the same” in the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—no real harmony comes.

The reason is clear: try as you will, to reconcile “the elephant is a fan” with “the elephant is a pillar” by textual juggling will prove only the juggling; confusion will increase.

Hence Arjuna tells Krishna: “Whatever I say or believe, I cannot express your totality. You speak your totality.”

But here is the rub: even Krishna, when he speaks, cannot say totality. For speech can only handle parts, not the whole. The whole is so vast that to speak one must begin with a fragment.

You are all present here together. Yet if tomorrow I must tell who was here, I will say, “Ram was there, Vishnu was there, Narayan was there.” I will have to line you up, speak linearly—one, two, three. You are here without any sequence. And not only you—birds, beasts, sky, stars, earth, the infinite are present—this very moment, the whole existence. If we set out to speak of it, we cannot. Krishna too cannot, if it is speech.

Therefore Arjuna’s wording is significant: “Therefore, O Lord, you alone are worthy to declare in fullness those divine glories by which you pervade and abide in all these worlds. O Master of Yoga, how may I contemplate you constantly and come to know you? And, O Blessed One, in what attitudes am I to meditate upon you?”

He says, “You can speak.” But immediately he adds what is crucial: “How am I to contemplate you constantly and know you?” More important than you speaking is this: even if you speak, will I understand? Even if you speak, will I hear? Jesus said, “You have ears, but you do not hear. You have eyes, but you do not see. Let those who have ears to hear, hear; those who have eyes to see, see.”

Hearing with the ears is one thing; sounds will strike the ear, but Arjuna asks: “How shall I contemplate you constantly and know you?” Even if you speak, it may not resolve. How shall I know? Tell me the method by which what you say becomes my knowing. Show me the path. And, O Lord, in which moods, in what inner flavors, am I to meditate upon you? Understand my capacity, my receptivity, my possibility—through which attitudes may I contemplate you so that I may come to know?

There is much here.

God can be found through any mood; but not everyone can use every mood. Though all moods are gates to Him, you cannot be adept at all. You must find your own mood—your own personal flavor—the seed that lies hidden within you, that matches your aptitude. Only through that mood will you be able to find.

Often we search through others’ moods, and then we do not find. No one can see with another’s eyes, touch with another’s hands, know with another’s mind. It is necessary to find and know the state of feeling in you that resonates with existence.

Our greatest accident in life is precisely this: we do not know with what aptitude we were born. If there is some great calamity in the world, it is that no one knows what he is meant to become, what he can be—his possibility, the seed he carries. Is it a seed of jasmine or of champa? Which flower will he become to be offered at the feet of the Divine?

If a jasmine tries to become a champa, the feet of God remain far off—for becoming champa is impossible. If a rose tries to be jasmine, it will never reach. How shall I be offered? I must find my way of being.

Each person has a unique way—this is the meaning of individuality. No second like him exists. Yet we all live borrowed lives, imitative. We foist our borrowings on each other. If devotion pleases me, I will impose devotion on my son—without caring whether it is his mood. If devotion does not appeal to me, I will impose opposition to it—without caring whether it is his path. We keep imposing; it becomes suffocating.

I heard of a small boy. The inspector asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” He said, “What I want, I don’t know. One thing is certain: I will go mad.” “How so?” “My mother wants me to be an engineer, my father a doctor, my brother a painter, my sister something else, my aunt something else, my uncle something else. All are trying to make me something. No one has asked me, and I do not know. One thing is certain: if they succeed, I will go mad!” He will—if they succeed, or even if they fail, the scars remain.

This happens in ordinary life; and on the extraordinary journey it leaves deep marks. I see people born in a Hindu family, a Muslim family—but what has birth to do with religion? Nothing. If one is born in a communist’s home, it does not compel him to be a communist—at least not yet. Blood belongs to no ideology. No doctor can look at blood and say it is Hindu’s, Muslim’s. Not even bone or marrow tells.

Children are not born with any religion, ideology, sect. They are born with a possibility to become something. But we impose. A man born in a Muslim home—perhaps his heart would find its mood in Krishna’s temple. He will face obstacles. How will he dance before an image?

A Muslim once told me, and it struck me: “My heart longs to dance like Meera with Krishna—but I am Muslim! This is kufr—idol worship—impossible!” He is in a dilemma. I know Hindus for whom the mosque would suit better than the temple; Christians who would be better elsewhere. But birth becomes a shackle. Then you do not find your feeling. You do not find your door by which you could meet the Divine.

We are not concerned that anyone find God; we are concerned that he find “our” God—Hindu’s God, Muslim’s God. If you, a Muslim, find the Hindu’s God, perhaps better not to find God and remain Muslim—or not find God and remain Hindu—than to ruin your life by finding the “other’s” God.

We have no use for God; we want our God. But God cannot be “ours” or “theirs.” There are not two Gods. This structure of our mind has stunted the blossoming of religion, prevented countless from becoming truly religious. Religion is a matter of mood, not of birth.

Understand it well: religion is of feeling, not of birth. When Krishna says swabhava is dharma—your own nature is religion; to abandon one’s own dharma for another’s is dreadful—people think he means remain Hindu if born Hindu, Muslim if born Muslim. No—swadharma means: find your own nature, your mood that unites you with God. It is a personal tuning. Each person must find his frequency, his wavelength, on which his heart can resonate with the Divine.

Arjuna’s question—O Master of Yoga, how may I contemplate you constantly and know you? And in which moods may I meditate upon you?—is invaluable. “In which moods, suitable for me?” Through which will it be easy that what I believe today becomes my knowledge tomorrow; what I accept from outside today I taste within tomorrow; what I merely hear today I will one day savor; when I seek other witnesses today, when will the moment come when I myself am the witness of what I say?

Two things. One: by what method, through constant contemplation, shall I know you? This is about the methods of knowing. And second: in which moods? That is the path of devotion.

In truth there are two great types of human beings: head-centered and heart-centered—symbolically, masculine and feminine. By “masculine/feminine” I do not mean male/female, but types. The feminine personality is heart-centered—whether man or woman. The masculine personality is mind-centered—whether woman or man. Their paths are entirely different.

Arjuna is so simple he does not even know which he is—hence his simplicity. He asks both: How shall I contemplate you—if the gate is thought, then how? Or if my path is feeling, through what mood shall I glimpse you?

These are the two great streams. There are many minor branches, but these are essential. Those who have attained the Supreme have done so either by the utmost refinement of thought, or of feeling. On one side are Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu, Christ; on the other, Meera, Chaitanya, Kabir, Teresa, Rabia. Those who have attained through feeling have an entirely different, opposite discipline than those through knowing.

For the thinker, meditation in the sense of awareness is the base. He must purify thought so much that a moment arrives when thought, purified and purified, dissolves. Whatever becomes utterly pure begins to evaporate. When thought becomes so pure that only thinking-as-such remains, words end; thoughts are gone; the capacity to be aware remains. Clouds disperse; the sky remains. Clouds are like thoughts; when they clear, the inner sky, the witness, remains—call it awareness, witnessing, consciousness. Pure knowing without thought. Buddha is the foremost symbol of this tradition.

Arjuna asks: if this is my possibility, then how shall I contemplate to know you? Tell me, so I may know you. If not this, then how shall I feel, so I may know you?

Feeling—merging. Thought—meditation. Feeling—dissolving, surrender, losing oneself.

Buddha cannot dance; dancing to him would seem absurd. A Sufi can dance—he says by dancing he gets lost.

Watch children at home. They love to spin on one spot. Adults stop them, afraid they will fall, faint, hurt their head. But the child, spinning like a nail in the floor, cannot say what happens; the old assume he will fall. Yet as the child whirls, he begins to feel body and soul as separate, and a great joy arises that the old cannot comprehend.

Sufi dervishes dance just so—whirling dervishes. Standing like tops, they spin and spin for hours, until the body keeps turning and consciousness stands still. The body is absorbed into the vast, disappears. Meera dances, Chaitanya dances—they drown themselves. But if you ask Mohammed about dancing and music, he says, “Wrong! Do not bring music to the mosque.” Because he says, “In music one gets lost; the task is to awaken.”

If you tell Meera, “Drop music,” the bridge between Krishna and Meera snaps. Tell Chaitanya to throw away the tambura, stop dancing, singing; Chaitanya will lose everything. Music works for those who seek to drown, to lose themselves.

The wonder is these are opposite paths. In meditation one preserves oneself completely—everything drops, I remain. In devotion one forgets oneself completely—everything remains, I do not. Yet both reach the same place. Whether I remain and all else is gone—or all else remains and I am gone—one remains; duality dissolves.

Arjuna asks, “What is my state? What is my capacity? Tell me. Perhaps my capacity will be revealed; my possibility become my reality; my seed sprout and bloom. Then what you say I will understand, I will know. Perhaps I may become one with you—then your totality may be revealed to me.”

Totality is revealed only when one becomes one. Before that, it does not. Even those who have become one cannot say the totality. Hence the saints have spoken of gur (jaggery) in a mute man’s mouth. Saints are not mute; none have spoken more than they. Yet when it comes to God they say, “We become dumb.” So vast is He that to speak is to err. The very saying distorts.

I have heard of a mystical poet who went to the seashore at dawn. The sun rose, its net of light spread over the waves. Fragrant breezes, the scent of flowers, the shade of trees. He sat watching the play of light and water; the breezes touched his nostrils; every hair thrilled. He remembered his beloved, bedridden in a far hospital. “If only she could come into this morning—for a moment—she would be healed!” But bringing her was difficult.

He thought, “Another way: I will trap a little of this atmosphere in a box and send it to the hospital.” He brought a strong chest, sealed every pore with wax, locked it, trapping the air, the sunshine, the fragrance, a piece of sky. With a precious letter he sent it: “It is unique here, wondrous, enchanting. If only you were here! Since that is impossible, I send a small sample of this sky, this morning, these sunrays in this box.”

The letter arrived, the box arrived, the key arrived; they opened it—inside, nothing. When he sealed it, everything was there—the dancing atmosphere over the box—but when opened, nothing. It cannot be otherwise. Skies cannot be boxed. The very act of sealing changes everything. Experiences cannot be bottled in words; saying changes them. Speak—and truth slips away.

Hence Lao Tzu said, “If I say it, it will be wrong. What can be said is not the true Tao. And what I want to say is truth; better I remain silent.” But even in silence it cannot be said. There have been those who kept silence; still it is not said. Man is restless. Yet by living it, a little news can be given.

If I could find that poet—I would tell him, “Do not box it. There is only one way: you drink this sky; breathe these breezes; let the sunrays dissolve in your eyes; let this fragrance permeate every pore; let this vast sky settle in your heart. Then you go dancing to the hospital—carry with you the living vibration, the ecstasy, the samadhi. Perhaps your intoxication will give your beloved a hint of where you have been—that it is a place worth going.”

Krishna’s saying may not make us know; Krishna’s being does. Buddha’s saying may not; his being does.

So Arjuna asks: “How shall I open my eyes toward you? How shall my ears become capable of hearing you? How shall my heart begin to feel your heartbeat? What contemplation shall I do? What feeling shall I cultivate? You tell me.”

Arjuna’s simplicity is clear. Had he mistaken belief for knowing, nothing would remain to ask. He knows he has not known, and he does not hide it; he says it plainly. Therefore the road can open.

Just a month ago a friend came. He has been listening to Krishnamurti for twenty years. He said, “Everything he says seems right—but nothing has happened. Twenty years of listening; my ears are worn; I can repeat his words. They are exactly right, I understand—but nothing happens!” I asked, “Think again. Do you really understand what he says? If you understand, it should happen—between understanding and happening there is no gap.” He said, “I understand fully—no lack in understanding—but nothing happens!” This is a great difficulty: the illusion of understanding. If I say, “I know where the door is, yet whenever I try to go out I bang into the wall—for twenty years”—what shall we say? That there is a mistake in your understanding. If you truly know where the door is, you would go out. He insists he understands; nothing happens. The mistake lies in the very “understanding,” but the ego will not admit it.

I said, “Leave this understanding; perhaps something may happen. This ‘understanding’ is proving costly. After twenty years, what more will you do? There is nothing left to understand.” He said, “That is why I have come to you—what Krishnamurti says yields nothing.” I said, “Then leave Krishnamurti completely and come. Do what I say.” He agreed. “Tomorrow morning begin meditation.” He said, “What will meditation do? Krishnamurti says meditation does nothing!” Such are the difficulties. What has not helped still sits on the head; you cannot do with it, you cannot drop it. The ghost of cleverness says, “I understand.”

I said, “What can I do? For twenty years you ‘know’ meditation is useless; this has yielded nothing. Now at least try a little meditation.” One says, “Bhakti does nothing”; I say, “You have discussed knowledge quite enough—if it worked, fine. If not, then try singing and dancing. Who knows where your heart will sprout? Do not be an obstacle. Go to temples, to mosques; look into the Quran, the Gita, the Bible. Sing, dance, meditate. You do not know through which gate it may open—search everywhere. If you find the door, then put aside your cleverness and step out. Otherwise our cleverness is so strong that even with the door in front we miss it.”

I have heard of Hujwiri, a Sufi. He would say: man contrives to lose opportunities with his own hands. A man said, “I cannot believe it. I have been seeking a chance all my life to gather a little money; never has opportunity come. Where is the question of losing it?” Hujwiri said, “We shall see.”

He told the man to meet him that evening across the river under a certain tree, and told his disciples to place a jar filled with gold coins in the middle of the bridge as the man approached, and watch from afar. The man came halfway across the bridge and, approaching the middle, he closed his eyes, crossing the central section with eyes shut, and passed by the jar. The disciples were astonished: “Impossible! Did Hujwiri work some magic—or is this man incredible—half the bridge with open eyes, and when the jar was near, he closed them!” They brought the jar to Hujwiri; the man arrived. “Did you see the jar I placed there?” “Which jar?” The disciples said, “How could he see? Before that point he shut his eyes.” Hujwiri asked, “Why did you close your eyes?” He said, “A fancy arose: let me cross the bridge once with eyes closed—just for fun.” Hujwiri said, “I had placed the jar for you. But as I think, you have been losing opportunities all your life. Surely your mind would find some trick to lose this one too. And so it did.”

Our mind is a sum of our habits; whatever we have done so far has become mechanical. If you fail on one path, you carry your habit of failure to the other. You will fail there too, proving no one can make you succeed. Even failure becomes your prestige.

Psychologists say those who fail continually begin to fear success, for their prestige is at stake. They keep saying, “Failure is my destiny; the world is against me; fate is against me; God is against me!” They have said it so often that they fear success—what then of their earlier proclamations? So even when success comes, they miss it and say, “See—fate! I am not to succeed.”

We live as our own enemies. The point is to live as our own friends.

In this sutra Arjuna shows his friendship toward himself very clearly. With folded hands he says, “I do not know. I believe—but I do not know. Tell me whatever means suits me—whatever aligns with me—so that I may know you and experience your totality.”

Enough for today. We will speak again tomorrow.

But do not rise yet. Join in kirtan for five minutes—then go. Even if your mind says, “Let’s go and see,” still, don’t. Sit for five minutes.