Geeta Darshan #7

Whether it is Krishna’s words, or Buddha’s, or Christ’s—no one ever becomes sated while listening to them. On the surface it seems the words are so endearing, so nectar-like, so sweet, that no matter how much you listen, satiety never comes. That is a very superficial understanding. Seen deeply, these words are such that, on hearing them, one can never be satisfied; rather, unsatisfiedness will increase. Far from satisfaction, unsatedness will grow, restlessness will grow, thirst will grow. For of that which these words bring news, as that news grows, so grows the thirst to attain it.

And that reservoir which is, in these words there is only its shadow. That source of fulfillment which is, in these words there is only a pointing toward it. If someone seeks to be satisfied by words alone, he will never be satisfied. One will have to move toward that which these words indicate, gesture toward. Where they wish to take you—only if one reaches there, will there be fulfillment.

Yet these words are indeed very endearing, nectar-like. And someone may remain lingering even just to keep hearing them. Then there will never be fulfillment; on the contrary these words may begin to function like an intoxicant.

Ananda was with Buddha for forty years. Forty years is a long time. And he was among Buddha’s closest disciples. In those forty years, whatever Buddha spoke—even a single word—Ananda heard all those words, yet he was not sated. And when Buddha’s death drew near, Ananda began to beat his chest and weep. Buddha said, What is the point of weeping? If you have understood what I have said, then death does not occur. If you have attained what I have said, then there is no reason to weep; stop these tears.

But Buddha’s words did not even reach Ananda. He is in deep sorrow. He is beating his chest and crying. He is saying: As your death approaches, my very life is breaking. When will your ambrosial words be heard again? Now when, after how many births, will there be a vision of someone like you? Now when and where? After how long a journey will I be able to sit in your cool shade? I am not yet sated, and you are ready to depart!

So Buddha said to Ananda: Your satiety—continuously for forty years you have been hearing me—if you were to go on hearing for forty lifetimes, still it would not come. Because fulfillment will come by walking, by journeying, by arriving. I have been speaking of the goal; that talk seems endearing. In it a future becomes visible. A feeling arises that one’s own possibilities may become actual. There is a sense, a glimpse. But that glimpse cannot give fulfillment.

However much we listen to talk about water—even if Krishna or Buddha themselves speak—it still cannot quench thirst. Rather, talk of water will increase thirst; what was asleep will be awakened; what was hidden will be revealed. And the discourse and praise of water will give our very life a longing; a fire will begin to burn within.

So there is a superficial sense. As ordinarily someone reads the Gita, that alone will appear. That meaning is: the words are so sweet that hearing them does not satiate, Arjuna wants to hear more. But however much he listens, that satiety will never occur.

And there is a delightful point: of those very words which never satiate on being heard, this in itself means they are pointing to a place where, only upon arriving, satiation is possible. And of those words by hearing which one does become sated—from them will arise weariness and boredom. Those words which make you sated will eventually bore you.

It is a very amusing thing that on this earth all kinds of words, when heard enough, begin to bore—except those which, by hearing alone, give nothing but thirst.

Perhaps this is, in my view, the very definition of scripture. I call that scripture dharmashastra which, when read and understood, does not give fulfillment but increases unsatedness. That which, when read, gives satisfaction will be literature, not scripture. That which, when read, gives pleasure may be a great work of literature, a work of art—but not scripture. Scripture will give thirst, will give burning, will give fire; your whole being will begin to blaze. And you will become unsated.

Ordinarily we hear that religious people are very contented. That statement is incomplete and, in one sense, untrue. They appear contented to us with respect to those things regarding which we are discontented. And we do not see their discontent, because they are discontented regarding those things toward which our mind has no craving. But the religious person is supremely discontented. To attain Paramatma, to attain liberation, to attain truth—his very life becomes a flame of discontent.

Yes, in gaining wealth he has no discontent. In obtaining fame he has no discontent. With whatever he has, he appears contented. But the reason is very deep: all his discontent is fastened onto Paramatma. For these small things, he has no discontent left to give. But to us he seems content. Because the things which trouble us—if we lose a single coin, we are discontented; even if he loses everything, he appears not discontented. So we say, what a contented man! But we have no inkling of the inner fire. That outer contentment is a result of that inner discontent.

Here one distinction should be kept in mind.

Some people keep themselves contented by persuasion and self-consolation. Their contentment is entirely false. Until a supreme discontent has awakened within your life, your outer contentment will be untrue. Until all your energy of discontent is directed toward Paramatma, your talk of contentment toward the world will be mere deception. A person can persuade himself into a semblance of contentment. The fearful person trembles. The anxious person is troubled. The tense person feels pain. Because of all these pains, anxieties, and fears, someone may coax himself into being contented. But that contentment is false.

Real contentment is born out of a deep inner discontent. When, in a new dimension, your whole fire of discontent begins to run, then you become utterly contented toward the outside. Not because you have adopted contentment, but because outer things become irrelevant and futile. They have no value left. They become valueless. They no longer create restlessness. Such a great restlessness has arisen that small restlessnesses have become meaningless.

But by reading scripture you will not receive satisfaction. You will receive unsatedness—a new unsatedness. A new longing for search will arise.

So I call that scripture dharmashastra which collects your entire discontent and directs it toward Paramatma. Which pulls all your cravings and immerses them in a single longing. Which gathers all your desires, concentrates them, and lets them flow in a single dimension. Which gathers the scattered rays of your life and becomes a flame—and that flame sets forth on the pilgrimage to the Lord, the journey to the Supreme Truth.

This very discontent is what Arjuna too is experiencing. But perhaps it is not clear to him. Perhaps, when he speaks these words, his intent is simply this: your words are so sweet, so endearing; hearing them again and again, the mind is not filled—please go on saying them.

But whether Arjuna knows it or not, even if he were to go on listening to Krishna’s words for births upon births, still by hearing alone there will be no contentment. He will have to be transformed in harmony with them; Arjuna will have to change in tune with them. And if Arjuna changes in harmony with them, Arjuna himself will become Krishna. Only becoming Krishna will he be satisfied. Before that there is no satisfaction. Before that, unsatedness will go on increasing.

Therefore he says: O Janardana, tell me again in detail of your Yogic power, your opulence, your manifestations.

Just now Krishna has spoken—of opulence, of yoga, of vibhuti, of the supreme power of the Divine, of its supreme expanse. But Arjuna says, say it more extensively. While listening to your ambrosial words I am not sated. And note one thing: Arjuna says, speak in detail.

We all carry the notion that if something is not understood, perhaps explaining it in detail will make it understood. This is a delusion. There are two kinds of things in this world. Some things, if told in detail, will indeed be understood. And some things, if told in detail, will rob you even of the little understanding you had!

As I told you yesterday: there are two types of knowing—acquaintance and knowing. Those things of acquaintance, if told at length, become understandable. Because it is a matter of familiarity; a little more detail and it comes to mind. But that which I called knowing, direct knowing—no matter how much it is told in detail, it will not be understood. Rather, the more detailed you hear it, the more you will see: less and less is really understood.

Maulunkaputta, a very intelligent and scholarly man, went to Buddha. Learned—filled with the pride of knowledge. He knew the scriptures, and he also knew that he was a knower. He came to Buddha and said: Give me some words of knowledge. I have come with a begging bowl; give me some knowledge.

Buddha said: Your begging bowl is already too full; and knowledge you have in excess. The truth is, because of knowledge you have indigestion. If I wish to bless you, first I must take your knowledge away from you. And if I can succeed in making you childlike, unknowing again, perhaps some event may occur in your life where the lamp of knowing is lit.

Maulunkaputta was very surprised. He went to masters so he could know more in detail; to fill in what was missing in the ‘details’. If some points had been missed, he could become acquainted with those too. If some doctrines had remained unclear, hazy, he could get them clarified.

Buddha said: I will not tell you yet more detail. I wish to take away even the detail you already carry. Empty yourself, then perhaps someday the happening of knowing may occur in your life.

Detail means factuality—gathering more around a thing by circling it. The value of detail is not ultimate; it yields acquaintance, extension, spread. Knowing does not come by extension, it comes by depth.

Knowing is intensive, not extensive. In knowing, one must go deep into a single point; in extension, one travels around many points. If I wish to know more about a flower, I can read all the books written about flowers. But if I wish to know the flower, I must drown in the flower, sink, be absorbed; leave extension aside.

Acquaintance takes extension; knowing takes depth. Acquaintance is like someone swimming upon the surface of a river, covering distance. Knowing is like someone who dives into the river. The diver must go down at one spot; the one who spreads must keep striking water far and wide upon the surface.

Those who think knowing is extension will miss knowing. Those who understand knowing as depth, intensity—such people attain knowing. By wholly dissolving into a small point, knowing is attained. By wandering far and wide, extension is attained. You can know many things and yet remain deprived of knowing.

Socrates said before dying: When I was a child, I thought I knew everything. When I became young, I saw there is much I do not know. And now, in old age, I can declare clearly: I know nothing at all. As a child I thought I knew all.

All children think thus. And if an old man too thinks he knows all, understand that his mental age is not much—it is like a child’s. A youth begins to suspect. The child is firm; whatever he ‘knows’, he knows for sure. He has no doubt about himself. He has no idea of his ignorance.

Children are ignorant, but they do not know it. Their ignorance is, for them, knowledge. Hence children seem to be so free of tension—no restlessness appears. They are settled in their ignorance; reveling in it. There is no trouble for them to know anything; they know everything.

By and by, in youth, a person begins to see the limits of his knowing. He also begins to see that the ground under childhood beliefs has slipped away. He begins to notice that what was certain has become uncertain. That which I took as solid is not solid. The youth becomes restless. He finds some things he knows, and many things he does not know.

If an old person develops rightly, he comes to see: I know nothing.

About Socrates, a Greek goddess announced that Socrates is supremely wise; there is no greater knower on earth. The people of his town heard this and came to Socrates: Blessed are we that you were born in our town, for the goddess has announced you as the greatest wise man on earth.

Socrates said: Go tell the goddess she is late. When I was foolish and unwise, I thought so too. Had she declared it then, I would have rejoiced. But now I know I know nothing. Only one knowing remains with me—that I am utterly ignorant. I have nothing. So tell the goddess she delayed; hearing this brings me no joy.

The townsfolk were puzzled. On one side they were pleased that the citizen of Athens, Socrates of their town, was proclaimed supremely wise. But within they felt pain that they themselves remained ignorant, while this Socrates of our own town became supremely wise! Outwardly joy, inwardly hurt.

Hearing Socrates, the joy vanished and the hurt surfaced; they became very happy. Happy that we already suspected the goddess erred. Socrates, supremely wise! Surely some mistake. Our own townsman—we know him well—what does he know!

They went back to the goddess and said: Forgive us, you made a mistake. We have asked Socrates himself. He said there is no greater ignoramus on this earth than he. So please change your statement.

The goddess said: Precisely for this I called Socrates wise—because the one who knows his own supreme ignorance, none is wiser than he. This is the reason to call Socrates great-knower.

Children are ignorant; they don’t know it. The supreme knower becomes childlike ignorant—but he knows it. That same innocence returns to his life, as if he knows nothing—innocence.

But our common mistake remains: if we know a little more, perhaps we shall know. All life we collect thus. We take knowledge to be accumulation. Hence the old man thinks he knows more, for surely he has more collection.

In the last great war, while recruiting in America, the mental age of millions was tested. The psychologists were astonished. One may suspect people’s mental age is low—but so low? Testing millions showed the average mental age is not above thirteen.

The body’s age goes on increasing. One becomes seventy. But the mental age, on average, stops at thirteen. The intelligence a thirteen-year-old has is what a seventy-year-old also has. The collection differs, not the intelligence. The collection is greater—seventy years of experience. But the intelligence that collects is the same as at thirteen. The capacity of the intelligence in which the collection accumulates is that of thirteen.

It is sad. But a seventy-year-old will not accept it. He will say: I know. Because he has more extension. He can list more facts, more experiences. His memory is larger; seventy years have been etched into it.

But by extension no one attains knowing. In fact, extension may even weaken the possibility of knowing. Thus you will be surprised: in all the great happenings of supreme knowing in this world, there is scarcely any instance of one occurring in deep old age.

It is very surprising. Whether Buddha, or Mahavira, or Jesus, or Shankaracharya, or Nagarjuna, or Vasubandhu, or Lao Tzu—none attained supreme knowing in deep old age. These events occur around thirty-five, or before thirty-five, commonly around thirty-five. After thirty-five, a person begins to grow old. If the span is seventy, then thirty-five is the peak; after that the descent begins.

So far, in the descending life very few have attained knowing. Surprising. It should be the opposite—if knowing grew by extension, then Buddha, Mahavira, Shankara, Vivekananda should have attained it after fifty or sixty. But it has not happened. The great events occur in the middle or before.

This has meaning. Sometimes extension becomes so great that it covers the mind like a smoke, and then descending into depth becomes difficult. One knows so much that nowhere does he have the ease to concentrate on one side. His mind is divided among countless facts; it wanders in so many places that to stand at one spot and enter becomes difficult. Extension can become a hindrance too.

Two points then: extension is not knowing; it is acquaintance, and acquaintance is superficial. Second, excessive extension can become obstruction. If one becomes very skillful at swimming, he can swim even upon the Pacific Ocean where below is a depth of five miles. But being so skilled at swimming, the thought of diving may not even occur to him.

Sometimes it happens that one who cannot swim is forced into a dive by sheer necessity. But the swimmer’s dive is difficult, unless he himself dives. Sometimes, by accident, the non-swimmer dives too.

Therefore another amusing fact: in history, mentions of scholars attaining supreme knowing are nearly nonexistent. Sometimes the unlearned attain, but the scholars do not! Kabir is unlettered. Mohammed is unlettered. Jesus is unlettered. Nanak is unlettered. These unlettered ones sometimes make the dive.

Kabir dived—and the pundits of Kashi, who knew so much, who lived around Kabir and took him for an uncouth weaver—could not dive. They could not. They knew so much that perhaps they forgot the real depth is yet unknown; all this is extension—of words, of scriptures, of doctrines. Arjuna too carries the same notion: perhaps if I know a little more, satiety will come.

Remember: when you know more, you remain the same, only your accumulation increases. But when you know deep, accumulation does not grow—you change. For deep knowing one must oneself become deep. To know more, no one needs to become deep.

Like money increasing in the strongbox—one’s thousand becomes ten thousand, ten thousand becomes a million. But do not think that as the vault fills the person becomes wealthy. Often the more the money, the poorer the person within. And often the rich have only one work: to guard their wealth. They end their lives guarding. Their life becomes nothing more than that of a watchman.

The rich man becomes miserly because he is inwardly poor. Sometimes even a poor man is not so miserly. And one who is not miserly—that one is rich. One who is miserly is poor.

The same happens with knowledge. Some keep filling the strongbox of knowledge and remain inwardly ignorant. How much you know has no relation to your knowing. How much you have changed, been transformed, dived deep—that determines your knowing.

And it can be that you say: I know nothing—and yet you attain supreme knowing. For the thought ‘I know nothing’—to whomsoever it truly occurs—the ego dissolves at once. ‘I know’ becomes bricks for the ego. If I have wealth, the ego strengthens. If I have knowledge, the ego strengthens. If I have nothing, not even knowledge—the ego dissolves. Where ego dissolves, there the dive happens.

Ego is our swimming. When ego drops, the hands and feet cease—and we dive.

Arjuna asks: tell me in detail. He thinks, perhaps I have not yet understood. If Krishna tells in more detail, I will understand. And Krishna will speak in detail. Not because he thinks Arjuna will then understand—but so that Arjuna may see: even when told in detail, it does not get understood. Understanding is something else.

For understanding it is not how much the other has told that matters; for understanding it is crucial how much I have changed, become new.

Arjuna likely thinks: if Krishna speaks many more words, I will be satisfied. But however much Krishna speaks, there will be no satisfaction. Because the words Krishna speaks are the supreme words of dharma.

If you read a poem every day, you will soon be bored. You will never again taste that poem. This is exactly what happens in schools and universities. The world’s greatest poems, since they are put into courses, become tasteless. Shakespeare and Kalidasa begin to seem like enemies. And one who has returned from university after reading Shakespeare or Kalidasa or Bhavabhuti will never read them again. A great loss. They could have led you on a journey of great beauty, but repetition—reading them again and again—created boredom. Even the finest poem, repeated, will create weariness.

But we do path of scripture. Path means: we repeat daily. If even a little consciously you are doing path, the scripture will daily awaken your thirst. I call this the criterion.

If you read the Gita daily, and reading it you begin to feel bored, to yawn, your eyes droop—understand the Gita is not scripture for you. If reading the Gita day after day, you still receive new inspiration, new thirst awakens, a new quest begins, and it feels that satiety has not come—then understand that the Gita is scripture for you.

By placing the Gita on your head it is not known whether it is scripture. By bowing to it, it is not known. If the Gita does not bore you, does not create weariness—and the more you read it, the more your taste increases, the more unsated you feel—then know the relation between you and the Gita is that of scripture. Therefore the rule was: scripture is not read, it is recited.

There is a difference between reading and reciting. Reading means: read once, the matter is finished. Path means: done daily. And if after years of reciting the Gita you can still say—and feel—that you do not get bored, that your taste only keeps growing, that the Gita appears new every day—then know the relation between you and the Gita is that of scripture. But if you begin to feel bored, if the Gita becomes memorized, and mechanically you repeat it each day—

I see reciters of the Gita; they do not even care which page is before them. They have it by heart. Whatever page, they go on repeating. Even if the book is upside down, it makes no difference.

Mulla Nasruddin one morning is sitting reading the Koran—holding it upside down! In the village, no one is literate, so no one knows whether he reads it upside down or straight. A stranger passing through the village sees a small crowd near Mulla and comes over. His restlessness grows when he notices the book is upside down, yet Mulla keeps reading. Finally he cannot bear it. He stands and says: Everything else is fine. What you are saying is fine. But you are reading with the book upside down!

Mulla Nasruddin says: I am not an ordinary reader. However the book may be—upside down or straight; whether it be there or not. This book is not kept for me; it is kept for these people sitting here. The Koran is by heart. Let those who do not know the Koran carry the burden of reading! Nasruddin says, I know the Koran. There is no need to read.

This mechanical ‘knowing’—like a machine—through this no one can receive unsatedness from a scripture; he will receive boredom, he will be harassed. Out of fear or greed he will keep reading—hoping perhaps something will come; or in fear that if I don’t read, some harm may befall. But no heartful relation will be established. By doing path of scripture one discovers: only if you do not get bored are you relating to dharma. Your thirst should arise every day.

Arjuna says: if I know in detail—and while hearing your ambrosial words I am not sated. He thinks, if I hear more, I will be satisfied!

But you know: after every satisfaction, boredom is inevitable. Every satiety turns into weariness. Have you known any satisfaction that does not become boredom?

A poor man never becomes bored of wealth. He cannot—because to get bored, one must have it. The truly rich man, if he really becomes rich, gets bored of wealth. For whatever is attained breeds boredom.

When Buddha was born, astrologers said: this boy will either be a universal emperor, or he will become a sannyasin. The father was very worried. A son in old age—born late; the only son. And the astrologers say: he will become a sannyasin or a universal emperor! The father asked: what arrangement can I make so that my son does not become a sannyasin?

It is amusing. Buddha’s father too would go to touch the feet of sannyasins. Yet he is worried lest his own son become a sannyasin! If a sannyasin comes to your neighborhood, you will go touch his feet. If your son begins to become one, you will stand at the door with a stick!

It is amusing. This respect for sannyas is false. Otherwise your wish would be that if your son is to be anything, first let him be a sannyasin. But it is not so. This respect is false—completely.

Buddha’s father was worried and asked: what shall I do? How to prevent him from becoming a sannyasin? One astrologer advised: never let sorrow be experienced in his life. He should never see a dead man. No old man should be brought before him. No such suffering should occur before him that his mind becomes distressed with life, repelled, and he becomes dispassionate.

So the father arranged everything. Palaces were built where no old person could enter, where no sick person could come. Even flowers were plucked from the trees before they withered—lest Buddha see a withered flower and ask: if the flower withers, will I not wither? Leaves were removed before they dried—lest he ask: leaves dry, will life also dry? May news of death not reach him, may he have no sense of life’s pain.

The arrangement was strong. The most beautiful women of the kingdom were gathered around Buddha. The most beautiful maidens were kept in his service. Everything was beautiful. Everything fresh. In his youth.

And precisely for this reason Buddha had to become a sannyasin. For this reason—the astrologer’s kindness who had given that advice. Because Buddha became utterly bored of it all—utterly! The most beautiful women were available, thus no craving for women remained. All pleasures were available, thus no desire for any pleasure remained. No hardship existed, thus all conveniences became suffocating, repetitive, recurring daily. Buddha fled. The root cause of his flight lay in the astrologer’s advice.

If everything is obtained, boredom arises. Therefore today in America there is more boredom than in any nation. Ask America’s psychologists—they say: America’s disease at this time is boredom. And all means are being used to break it—but it does not break. Everyone seems bored.

If you become sated with any thing, you will become bored. In this world there is nothing—nothing—which, upon obtaining, will not bore you. Yes, taste remains only so long as it is not obtained. So long as it is far, while the hand is stretched and that thing has not come into it—only then can you be full of juice. As soon as it is gotten, boredom arises. In this world, all things, if tasted daily, provoke anxiety.

I have heard: the emperor of Mulla Nasruddin’s land, to enjoy his jokes and wit, kept him near. On the first day the emperor sat to dine and seated Nasruddin with him. A certain vegetable pleased the emperor very much. Nasruddin said: Of course you like it; this is not a vegetable—it is nectar. He praised its qualities so glowingly that the emperor ordered the cook to make that vegetable daily.

The second day it was cooked—but the savor was not like before. Third day also. Fourth day also. And Nasruddin each day kept praising it: this is nectar. Nothing can compare. Unique in the world. Its taste relates to heaven, not earth.

On the seventh day, the emperor flung the plate: Nasruddin, stop this nonsense! This vegetable will kill me. Nasruddin said: My lord, this is poison. It relates to hell! The emperor said: Nasruddin, what kind of man are you? Till yesterday you called it heaven, today it has become hell! Nasruddin said: Sir, I am your servant, not the vegetable’s. My pay comes from you, not from the vegetable.

But in seven days what seemed nectar-like becomes like poison.

There is nothing in this world that we will not tire of. And if in this world you find something of which you do not tire, know that you have come upon the path of dharma. If in this world you get a glimpse of something through which boredom does not arise, know that the Lord is very near—you are close.

In my knowing, until you get a glimpse of meditation, you will not find anything in this world whose experience does not become boredom.

Buddha attained knowing; for forty years thereafter he lived in peace, in silence, in meditation. Someone asked Buddha: for forty years you have remained in meditation—does boredom not arise?

A man as intelligent as Bertrand Russell has raised a question. In his memoirs he wrote somewhere: I am frightened by the Hindu idea of Moksha, because there is no return from there—no way back. Even if we accept that, as Hindus say, there is supreme peace and supreme bliss—no sorrow, no pain, no tension—Russell says: for how long can that be endured? No restlessness, only happiness, only peace—but in endless time, even that will become suffocating. And one cannot return—this too is a bother.

Russell says: then this world is better. Here there is change, some possibility of variation. Even hell is better—at least one can come back from it! But this Moksha? It will become the ultimate prison. Suppose bliss remains—but how long will bliss remain enjoyable? Bliss and bliss and bliss—eventually boredom will arise and life will writhe.

Russell has no taste of ananda, therefore he raises this question. He has no taste of it, so the question is apt for him. His question is quite reasonable—for he has no experience that by ananda we mean precisely that state in which no boredom is possible. By ‘pleasure’ we mean that state which inevitably becomes boredom. By ‘pain’ we mean that state which, the moment it arrives, we are agitated. Pleasure is that which we invite, call, and then, having invited it, get trapped and agitated. And ‘ananda’ is that state where there is neither pleasure nor pain—and no way to become bored. Pleasure becomes stale—hence boredom. Ananda never becomes old; it remains fresh each day. Therefore there is no way to get bored with it.

If somewhere in life you find an aperture where boredom does not arise, know that you are on the right path—move on upon it. And whatever breeds boredom, know it is part of the world—whatever it may be.

Arjuna thinks: if I go on hearing these nectar-like words more and more, perhaps I will be sated. This satiety will not happen. Because these words are pointing toward that ananda which cannot be understood by listening—it can be understood only by attaining and living it.

Yet Krishna said—thus asked by Arjuna, Krishna said: O best of the Kurus, now I shall tell you, giving primacy, of my divine manifestations.

My manifestations are countless. I will tell you those that are primary. Because there is no end to my extension. If you think I should speak of the whole expanse, the discussion will go on endlessly; it can never be concluded.

Recently, among Western geographers, a question arose. If we draw the map of India, should it be called India’s ‘map’ or not? Because it is never like India itself! How is a map like India? If we draw a map of Bombay, how is it like Bombay? Why should it be called Bombay’s map? If we call it Bombay’s map, it should be like Bombay.

Then we would have to make it as big as Bombay—exactly that large. And if as big as Bombay is made, its very purpose is lost. A map should fit in the pocket—that is its use. Who will carry such a huge map? If one can carry that big a map, one might as well carry Bombay itself. What need for a map?

If India’s map must be exactly equal to India, then we would call it a map only if it completely reproduces India’s face, not a hair’s breadth different—a parallel, a second India. But then it becomes meaningless. The use of a map is that without knowing the whole India, on a small piece of paper we can know where what is. But should we call it a map or not?

To call it a ‘map’ is not right linguistically. But it alone is the real map—because only it can be of use. And the use of the map is only to point to the real.

Arjuna asks Krishna: describe your glory, your opulence, in its totality.

If Krishna were to do its total expounding, it would be as long as existence itself. And if, with this entire existence present, Arjuna cannot understand it, how will he understand Krishna’s expounding of it? And if it is this expanse that must be understood, then this existence is enough—understand this. The tale would be infinite; it would have no end. If Krishna were to begin at the beginning and conclude at the end—there would be neither beginning nor end. And the tale would be so long as to be meaningless.

Therefore Krishna says: I shall tell you chosen, principal points. I will choose some, which can become indications and give you a glimpse. A map adequate for your work—I shall tell you that much. On the basis of which you may set out to attain the real.

But some people make the mistake of taking the map to be the real. Many of us have made this mistake. We take the map for the real. Words become, for us, reality. If someone here shouts loudly right now—Fire!—many will begin to run without even bothering to see whether there is fire or not. The word ‘fire’ is only a map, yet it can excite us as much as actual fire. And slowly we become such that if a fire actually burns and no one shouts ‘fire’, we may perhaps not be excited at all.

Ramakrishna said: A man came to me in the morning. I asked him: I have heard your neighbor’s house fell in the night storm! He said: I don’t know—I haven’t seen the morning paper! The neighbor’s house collapsed in the storm at night! He said: Could be—I haven’t seen the paper! The fall of the neighbor’s house is less real—the headline printed in the newspaper is more real!

Maps become very important. Especially the maps of those things which do not appear to our eyes. We have no vision of Paramatma. We have no hint of truth. We have only maps. We have no taste of Moksha. No sense of the depth of existence. Only maps. People clutching maps sit and argue about whose map is correct. Under the weight of maps, the journey becomes impossible—difficult indeed.

Krishna’s saying is: there is no way to speak of my totality in full expanse. I shall say a few things in primacy. My glory is infinite; from it I shall select a few signs.

Krishna has chosen those signs—as we shall see ahead—suited to Arjuna’s understanding. Had there been some other person in Arjuna’s place, Krishna would have had to choose other signs. If Arjuna had been a painter, Krishna would have chosen differently. If Arjuna had been a poet, differently. If Arjuna had been a musician, differently.

This is also why great difficulty arises in scriptures. Because we forget to whom Mohammed is speaking. The Koran is with us. If we do not keep in mind to whom Krishna is speaking, great mistakes happen. Non-Muslims cannot understand Mohammed—the entire difficulty is simply that they do not know to whom he is talking. Many times obstacles arise—remarks become unintelligible: how could Mohammed say such a thing!

Mohammed says: if a man takes four wives, it is just. To us this seems very crude. We are not prepared to accept even two as fair. That Mohammed should say four—gives us great difficulty. But we forget to whom he is speaking—he is speaking to those who could keep twenty-five women.

If you work out the ratio, in a land where people could keep twenty-five women, to tell them four is very minimal—so very low that even four will seem too little to them, very difficult. And then we find it harder still that Mohammed himself married nine times! Harder still! In our land we cannot even conceive that Mahavira would marry nine times!

But Mohammed married nine times. And the delightful point: among those nine, only with one woman did he have a relation like a husband. And to have eight wives and not have a husband’s relation with them—this is no small sadhana. To run away from all women is much easier. Mohammed married any woman who was in difficulty.

His first marriage is astonishing: Mohammed was twenty-six; his first wife was forty. A twenty-six-year-old youth marrying a forty-year-old woman! No sensual attraction is at work in this marriage. But we find it difficult to understand. Until we place before us the people among whom Mohammed lived and those he sought to transform, we will find obstacles.

Whatever Krishna will say to Arjuna ahead, keep in mind: the discussion is with a Kshatriya, a warrior. The language a Kshatriya can understand—in that language the discussion will be. Krishna will choose precisely those qualities to tell Arjuna.

Because there is no end to my expanse, I will choose, and say a few things to you. O Arjuna, I am the Self of all beings, seated in the heart of all. And I alone am the beginning, the middle, and the end of all beings.

What he will say ahead, its preface is contained in these two lines. If we understand these two well, the rest will be easy.

‘I am the Self of all beings, seated in the heart.’

Whenever we look at someone, the periphery is seen, not the center. Circumference is seen, not center. You see me—the periphery is visible. The walls of my house are visible; I am not visible. I see you—your house is visible; you are not. Your body is visible; you are not. Your center is hidden within—secret, deep.

Krishna says: that hidden heart, that deep center within all—that am I.

This has many meanings. First: until some remembrance of our own inner center arises, we cannot understand Krishna’s being and existence. It is true when I see you, your body is visible, your center is not. The wonder is: even you do not see your own center! You too recognize yourself as in a mirror. Had you never seen a mirror, you would not even be able to recognize who you are. You recognize yourself as one recognizes another by seeing from the outside.

We use many kinds of mirrors. One is the mirror hung in our bathroom. In it we see our face. But that is no special mirror. There are subtler mirrors: in people’s eyes we see ourselves.

If someone says to you, you are very good, very beautiful—you instantly become good and beautiful. If someone says: look at your face in a mirror sometime! On seeing you, renunciation of the world arises! Immediately something within you falls and breaks.

By looking into others’ eyes you construct your image. You have no clue of your center. You collect the clippings of what others say about you and build your image. Therefore we are dependent on others.

People come to me and say: If we do this, what will people say?

What will people say! What people say is your soul. What people say—that is you. If people say good, you are good. If people say bad, you are bad. Are you anything by yourself? Or are you only the sum of what people say about you!

Everyone is afraid of people. There is no measure to how much we fear neighbors. We are nervous; we walk seeing them, we rise seeing them, we dress seeing them, we speak seeing them. Everyone’s neck is in the noose of neighbors. And it is not just that your neighbor’s noose is on you; you too have such a noose on your neighbor’s neck. Everyone is entangled with everyone. The worry remains that if someone changes their expression a little, all our life’s effort, all our earnings will be wasted! Why?

These too are mirrors. Seeing in them we think we have understood ourselves. We have no clue of our center. We have seen even ourselves only from the outside. If you were to sense your body from within, you would be startled.

Mahavira used to give his seekers a meditation—see the body from within. At first it may not be obvious what that means.

Stand outside your house and look at it from outside—you see the exterior wall, not the furniture inside, not the pictures on the inner walls. The inside is not seen—only the outside. Enter within—then the outer wall is no longer seen; now the inner wall appears; now the furniture within is visible.

Mahavira said: see yourself from within—bones, flesh, marrow will be seen. From outside you see only the skin. Skin is only the outer wall. Within—there is much furniture. But we have never seen ourselves from within. Mahavira said: close your eyes and feel yourself from within, as if you stand in the middle—what is there?

If one doing Mahavira’s meditation becomes instantly dispassionate, loses attraction toward the body, attachment slips—do not be surprised. No effort is needed then.

Even Mahavira’s follower today struggles—fighting his body so that lust may drop. He does not know that lust will not drop by fighting from outside. If the body is seen from within, lust slips away. Because within, nothing is visible except filth and refuse. Then the surprise arises: this garbage, this filth—this I took to be my being!

And one who can see his body from within—that one will also be able to see his center. For center means: now go further within. Now leave the body entirely; know that which sees all. Now know that which knows all. Now stand at that point which is the witness—which looks at the bones, flesh, marrow. Now recognize this—this is the center.

Krishna says: I am the Self seated in the hearts of all.

This is a precious statement containing the entire matter of the existence of the Divine. But it will not occur to us. And if it does, we might think: this heart that throbs—he is speaking of that heart.

It is not about that heart. Scientists are not prepared to call this ‘heart’ a heart—and they are right. They say it is a lung. They are right. It is only a pumping station where your blood is cleansed, twenty-four hours. Breath comes, blood comes, cleansing goes on. It is only an arrangement for pumping. It is not the heart. It is a lung. Mechanical. Therefore a plastic lung can be fitted and nothing will change in you.

Remember, do not think that if your heart is removed and replaced with plastic you will be unable to love. You will love just as well. No difference. Because this is not your heart. The heart is the name of that center—this lung runs our body; heart is the name of that center from which our existence throbs. Heart is the name of the Atman.

Thus in yoga there are processes by which a yogi can, by a little effort, stop the heartbeat. The heartbeat can cease, yet the yogi does not die. Death has no deep relation with the heartbeat. We die because we do not know how to restart it. But by effort it can be stopped and again set going.

Brahmayogi, in 1930, in Oxford, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in many universities, performed experiments of stopping his heartbeat. He would stop it for ten minutes. In Calcutta University, ten doctors examined and wrote—because Brahmayogi had said: when my heart stops, you write whether I am alive or dead, and sign it. Ten doctors signed his death certificate: this man is dead; all signs of death are complete.

After ten minutes Brahmayogi returned. The heart began again, breath returned, the pulse ran. When he folded that certificate and put it into his pocket, the doctors said: Please return this certificate; we too may get into trouble! We have written that you are dead. Brahmayogi said: Then it means what you call death is not death.

Certainly, what doctors call death is not death. As far as we are concerned, it is death—because we know ourselves from outside, from the lung, not from the heart. We know from body, not from Atman. From periphery, not from center. The periphery dies. Doctors call that death. And we have no clue of the center’s existence; so we too take it as death.

It is only a belief. If we come to know our center, there is no death. No death at all. There is no greater lie in this world than death. Yet no greater truth seems to us than death. Death appears the deepest truth. Where we live—outside—there death is everything. If we can go within, life is everything.

Outside is death; inside is life. Of that life Krishna gives news: wherever life is, there I am. That is one point. Another is hidden in this aphorism: Krishna says, I am in the hearts of all, in the Atman of all.

This means: we are separate only by body; within we are not separate. The distinction, our differences, are of the body; within there is no difference. If not, Krishna could not be within all. Then the Divine could not be within all. Hence: our peripheries are different; our center is one. Our circumferences differ; our center is one.

This will be difficult for mathematics. Because it seems if the periphery is different, the center must be different. Therefore we all think our souls are separate. Those who think their souls are different have no glimpse of Atman yet. They still infer from bodily separateness that soul too must be separate.

The day one knows his center, he realizes bodies alone are different; the Atman is one expanse.

Almost like this: many light bulbs are burning here. They burn separately. No one can say the bulbs are one. Certainly they are separate. If I break one bulb, others won’t break. Thus it is proved the bulb was separate. I die, you do not die. Clearly I am separate, you separate.

But the electricity flowing in them is one. The bulbs are different; the energy in them is one. If the energy is cut, all bulbs will go out at once. If a bulb is broken, it alone breaks—the others go on burning. But if the energy is switched off, all will go dark together.

We are like the bulbs. Our body is a bulb. The energy flowing within is one. That energy Krishna calls the all-pervading Atman—I am that. In the Atman of all, in the heart of all, I am.

Hence a second point: outside there is difference; inside, non-difference. Outside, multiplicity; inside, oneness—Advaita.

One who lives only from the outside can never experience that when he hurts another, he is hurting himself. One who lives from the outside can never think that when he harms another, he harms himself. But one who lives from within begins to see instantly: whether I harm someone, the harm is mine; whether I benefit someone, the benefit is mine—because there is no other than me. I alone am.

If in Mahavira or Buddha such compassion and love arose, the only reason is: it began to be seen—there is none other than me.

So Krishna says: I alone am the Self in the hearts of all beings; and I alone am the beginning, the middle, and the end of all beings. This is the second point. Their origin is I, their middle is I, and their end is I.

Let us understand this from a few angles. This is India’s perhaps unique vision, difficult to find elsewhere.

When we say: beginning, middle, and end—all three are Paramatma—we gather all things into Paramatma. We leave nothing out. We do not leave evil outside, nor good. We take darkness within, and light too. For we accept the entire existence, in all its dimensions, as Paramatma—at the beginning, in the middle, at the end, all three.

Some thinkers, unable to muster this courage, find difficulty. They say: when a man is in sin, then there is no God. They say: when man is in ignorance, there is no God. When man is entangled in karma, drowned in sin and darkness—then there is no God. They may accept that in seed-form there is Divinity; when purified we will call it God. In impure state—it is not. Even granting this, they will say: what is impurity is not God; what is sin is not God; what is bad is not God. They will split existence in two: a good existence tied to God, and a bad existence cut off from God.

Therefore some religions had to invent Satan. Satan means: all that is bad in this world—leave that on Satan’s account. The good—take that on God’s account.

Such thinking is weak. Such a God too will be incomplete. For even to have evil, God’s support is needed. Evil too, if it can be at all, can be only by God’s support. Existence belongs to Him alone. If once we accept that evil has an independent existence, then evil can never be ended. For it would have its own existence. God could not destroy it.

If we suppose there is a struggle between God and Satan, who can decide whose final victory will be? And as far as daily life shows—it appears that on ninety-nine occasions Satan wins. On one occasion perhaps God wins by mistake. But ninety-nine times Satan wins! If we take history’s experience, we would have to accept that in the end Satan will win; God cannot. If we consider Satan as an independent existence, the struggle becomes eternal.

But Hindu thought does not accept any separate arrangement like Satan. Hence it becomes subtle and complex—the matter is not easy. It is very easy to call black black and white white, to separate darkness and light. But Hindu thought says: all is Paramatma. That is a bit difficult.

But it is scientific. Ask a scientist—he will say: darkness is but a form of light. Darkness means: minimum light. Light too is a form of darkness—light means: minimum darkness. Perhaps light and darkness are hard to grasp. Science says: heat and cold are two names of one thing—not two things.

Try this: cool one hand on ice and warm the other at a brazier—then dip both in the same bucket of water. You will be in the same difficulty the rishis were in upon experiencing existence. If I ask you: is the water cold or hot—you will be in trouble.

One hand will say cold, the other will say hot. For all experience is relative. If one hand is cooled, that water will feel warm to it; the heated hand will feel the same water cold. Both hands are yours. What statement will you make: is the water cold or hot? You’ll say: one hand says cold, one says hot. If two hands give two reports about the same thing, it means cold and heat are not two—they are one.

Evil and good are not two—they are one. The one we call the bad man means: minimum good. And the one we call the best of good—he too is minimum bad. Hence you can find goodness in the worst man, and evil in the best.

You cannot find such a good man in whom there is no evil. Nor such a bad man in whom there is no good. What does it mean? That good and evil are two extensions of one thing—one continuum. Both belong to the One—whom we have named Paramatma.

Therefore Krishna says: the beginning is I, the middle is I, the end is I. The world is I, Moksha is I, body is I, Atman is I. Whatever is in this world—I am that.

Understand it thus—it becomes easy:

For Hindu vision, existence and God are synonymous. Therefore when we say ‘God is’, in deep thought it becomes a tautology. To say ‘God is’ is redundant—for ‘is’ in Hindu thought already means God. Whatever is, is God. Being itself is God. If we break the sentence: when we say ‘God is’, it becomes ‘is is’—or ‘God God’. It is repetition.

Existence itself is Paramatma. For a seeker this has deep value. It means: when you see evil, do not forget the Divine. If even in the deepest evil you can keep remembering the Divine, evil will be transformed for you. If in the deepest darkness you can remember light, darkness will dissolve—the opposites will merge.

But our trouble is: we are surrounded by what we call evil. Troubled by it, we drop it and begin striving for its opposite—the good. Our goodness is a journey opposite to our evil. Therefore it seems to us that the good and bad are opposites. But one who stands beyond both sees they are the two ends of one thing.

Our life moves toward the opposite. Today we go left; frightened of going left, we begin going right. We think the right is opposite to the left. But right and left are dimensions of one sky. We go north; frightened, we go south—thinking south is the opposite of north. But north and south are both ends of one sky.

Mulla Nasruddin is dying—the last moment. His friends ask: In what manner would you like to be buried? Tell us so we may prepare accordingly. Nasruddin says: Bury me doing headstand; head down, feet up—upside down! The friends are amazed. They say: What are you saying? We never heard anyone buried so. Nasruddin says: I have lived long in this world feet-down, head-up—found nothing; now let me try the opposite. So for the next world, I want to be upside down. That other realm—I wish to be on my head. This one I have experienced; found it useless. Now let me reverse it.

But have you noticed—whether you stand on your head or on your feet, it is you who stand, the one who is the same. Stand head-down or feet-down—the body turns upside down, you do not turn upside down at all; the center remains exactly where it is.

In evil too the Divine stands—at most upside down. In good He stands straight. And ‘upside’ and ‘straight’ are matters of definition. What is upside, what is straight? It too depends on how you stand. If you stand in headstand, the whole world appears upside down. That depends on you; it is relative.

But Hindu contemplation holds a deep grip on this: existence is one. We do not say of anything that it is not God. We do not cut anything off from God, saying it is not God. Apart from God we accept no other. Our God envelopes all, surrounds from outside and inside.

For that One, Krishna says: O Arjuna, I am the Self in the hearts of all beings; and I alone am the beginning, the middle, and the end of all beings.

We will speak of the rest tomorrow.

But let no one get up. Receive five minutes of kirtan as prasad—and then go.