Geeta Darshan #8

That which cannot be said is still hinted at through symbols. And the unknown, which cannot be directly told, can still be pointed to through what we do know. Before we approach this sutra, it is essential to grasp this point clearly.

God is unknown. No—of him we have no definite knowledge. But on the basis of what we do know, can we make any meaningful gestures toward that unknown? When you teach a small child language, language is unknown to him. Yet you must begin somewhere. You must start from what is known to him.

For small children we must choose symbols. Look at any children’s book: words are few, pictures are many. The picture is primary, the word is secondary. The word is explained through the picture. Because a child’s mind can understand a picture; it cannot yet grasp a word. The word is still unknown; the picture he can see.

The human mind first thinks in images; only later does the language of words develop. Even now, when you dream at night, you dream in images—because in dreams you forget your education. The languages of symbols, signs, arithmetic, grammar—you forget them all. In dreams you become primitive again; you return to those ancient states where you can think in pictures.

The world’s most ancient languages are pictorial. Chinese, for instance, is a language of pictures—still without an alphabet. It’s difficult, because everything requires a picture—a very long process. To read Chinese takes at least ten years, and even then your knowledge remains basic. You need at least a hundred thousand word-pictures just for ordinary literacy. Every object has its picture. The older the language, the more pictorial it will be.

A child’s mind is the most ancient mind; it understands through pictures. So we say, “G is for Ganesh.” There is no intrinsic relation between the letter g and Ganesh, because g is equally for gadha—donkey. But if we draw the picture of Ganesh or a donkey, it becomes easier to teach the letter g. In old primers there used to be Ganesh; in new primers there’s a donkey—hence my remark. The government is secular; the state is religion-neutral. You cannot draw Ganesh! So once it was “G for Ganesh,” now it is “G for gadha.”

To introduce g, one brings in Ganesh. Later, when the child understands, Ganesh can be dropped and g remains. If you keep saying “G for Ganesh” forever, reading becomes impossible. Ganesh must be forgotten and g retained. But at first, Ganesh can be used—and is used—to help remember g. No pedagogy has yet been invented that can impart words to children without the use of pictures.

Krishna has stated something fundamental: “I am the soul in all souls. I am the center of all souls, the heart of all hearts. Everything is my expansion—the beginning, the middle, and the end.”

But that is a very deep feeling, and even Arjuna may not grasp it. So Krishna now uses pictures, pointing through images toward that feeling. He uses images Arjuna can understand.

Krishna said, “And, O Arjuna, among Aditi’s sons I am Vishnu.”

Let us understand this symbol.

We are continually familiar with three names: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. In Hindu thought, Brahma symbolizes creation, Mahesh (Shiva) dissolution—the end, destruction—and Vishnu the middle, the expansion, the sustenance. Vishnu maintains existence. The power that sustains is called Vishnu. The power that gives birth, that creates, is Brahma. The power that destroys, that dissolves, is Shiva or Mahesh.

Hindus have given these three words a very original value. Thousands of years ago Hindu insight intuited that if we divide existence broadly, it splits into three parts. There must be a creative energy in the cosmos; otherwise the world could not be. But if only creative energy existed, there could be no rest; therefore an equally valuable destructive energy must also be present, so that the two balance.

And if only these two forces existed, existence would have no chance to continue in between. A third force is needed, one that preserves existence—between birth and death, between creation and dissolution.

These are the three fundamental energies. Their symbolic word-pictures are Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh.

This Hindu insight proved so comprehensive and valuable that wherever the idea reached, the acceptance of three forces followed. Christianity too accepts three: God the Father, God the Son, and, between them, a third force—the Holy Ghost. Names can vary; name-choice is personal. But Christianity accepts this Trimurti—this Trinity. It acknowledges that existence cannot be without these three energies.

Modern science, analyzing matter, discovered—astonished—that the analysis leaves three fundamental entities: electron, proton, neutron. And interestingly, their functional roles mirror Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh: one is constructive, one destructive, and one neutral; one creates, one ends, one sustains.

Approach from the direction of religion, and the terms we choose are personal, because religion thinks in images. So we made Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh; we fashioned the Trimurti—one body with three faces—to indicate that what appears three outwardly is one within.

Among these three, Krishna says, “I am Vishnu.”

Understand this a little. He says it twice: among the three, I am Vishnu. Creation happens in a moment, and dissolution too happens in a moment. Time’s long span is in Vishnu’s hands. Creation happens—finished; the creator’s function is complete. Destruction’s function comes at the end, at the great dissolution. The vastest energy in continual use is in the middle—Vishnu.

Krishna says, among these three I am Vishnu.

All Hindu incarnations are incarnations of Vishnu. Hindus hold that whenever God manifests, it is as Vishnu’s avatar. Let us understand the meaning and purpose of this. What does it imply?

Before creation there are no humans; the idea of incarnation would be meaningless. After dissolution, too, there is no purpose for incarnation. Avatar is relevant only between creation and end—when the world is in process, alive.

Shiva’s avatar would be the avatar of destruction; it has no place in the middle. Brahma’s avatar would be of creation; it too is not needed in the middle. Life lies in the middle; beginning and end are only two poles.

We can say Brahma and Mahesh are useful at the boundaries, but the whole expanse of life is Vishnu’s province. Therefore, in this middle period—the period of life—every conception of God is a conception of Vishnu. The power that sustains life is the one that incarnates.

Curiously, you will scarcely find a temple of Brahma. His worship is hardly seen. Creation is done; Brahma can be forgotten. That event is over; Brahma has no immediate touch with life. His task is complete. Vishnu is worshiped—in the form of Rama, in the form of Krishna, in the form of Buddha too—for Hindus consider Buddha an avatar of Vishnu. In many forms Vishnu is worshiped because life’s every moment is related to him.

Shiva too has many temples and many devotees. That event is still to happen; it belongs to the future. Death, dissolution—that lies ahead. Shiva remains meaningful, and there is purpose in his worship.

A person worships with a purpose; thus Brahma’s worship does not continue—there is no living link. He will be needed at the birth of a new creation; even then there will be no worshipers, for none yet exist. When worshipers appear, Brahma’s work is already finished. Hence a devotee of Brahma is hard to find, because we have no living connection—of our desire, fear, self-interest, or welfare—with him.

Thus it has happened that, though all three are principal deities of creation, Brahma is completely neglected and will remain so. Vishnu will be worshiped most, for our day-to-day, moment-to-moment relationship is with him. And all the manifestations of the Divine, Hindus say, are forms of Vishnu—how could they not be? The one sustaining energy will repeatedly enter this long expanse of life.

Shiva’s function is final; it is also our future. And human concern turns to the future—perhaps more than to the present. Human fear and greed depend more on tomorrow. Everything seems to hang on the coming day. So Shiva’s worship too will continue.

But Krishna says, I am Vishnu—the central sustaining element in life, that am I.

Understand: this is instruction through images and symbols, to give Arjuna a felt sense. Krishna has said deep things that perhaps Arjuna could not hold; he says, “Tell me in more detail.” The very need for detail means what was said did not become clear. So Krishna now treats Arjuna like a child. He tells him, I am Vishnu.

This Arjuna can understand. It is easier. It belongs to the language of our world. About the Divine—approached in one way—no matter how high we reach, our hands are too short; no matter how we lift our eyes, he remains far.

Through Vishnu, Krishna says, I am very near. I sustain life from moment to moment. I am in the breath coming in and in the breath going out; in the coursing of blood; in the blossoming of the tree. I am the very ground that holds life.

Vishnu means the foundation of life—the one who sustains every moment, every instant. This Arjuna can grasp.

I am Vishnu—and among the lights I am the sun with its rays.

Just as physicists take the atom to be matter’s ultimate unit, if we hold the vast whole of existence in view, the sun is its basic unit. As the atom is the last unit found by breaking matter down, so, if we look for a unit of the cosmic vastness, the sun is the primary unit.

At night you see the sky strewn with stars; it may not occur to you that these are not “stars”—they are all suns. Many are far larger than our sun. Our sun is middling, middle class. From our perspective it is enormous—sixty thousand times larger than the earth. Yet there are great suns before which it is nothing.

Those stars we see at night are all suns; they appear small only because the distance is immense. Consider those distances to see why the sun can be regarded as a unit.

From earth, if we journey toward the sun at the speed of sunlight, it would take about nine and a half minutes to arrive. But only if we could travel at light-speed! With our greatest speeds, we could travel our whole life and never reach the sun. A ray of sunlight travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second—per second! Multiply by sixty for a minute, by sixty again for an hour.

But the sun is relatively close—nine and a half, ten minutes away at light-speed. If we journey toward the stars, the nearest star after the sun would take four years to reach—traveling at the speed of light.

Scientists say we will never be able to move at that speed, because anything that attains it becomes light. Whatever vehicle we use—no matter the metal—at that speed it would become a ray of light, and its passengers too. The heat generated would turn everything to fire.

So there is no present hope of travel at light-speed. One hypothetical possibility—pure imagination for now—is that a person might become a ray of light at a special temperature and travel as light, then, upon arriving at another sun, be reconverted into a human. Perhaps millennia hence.

Four years to the nearest sun; beyond it are farther suns. So far, scientists have accounted for some three billion suns. Even that is not an end—only the limit of our search, not the limit of existence.

Among these billions there are suns whose light takes billions of years to reach us—even at one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second. Some are such that a ray that set out when our earth came into being—about four billion years ago—has arrived only now!

And scientists say there are suns whose rays began before earth formed; we will have lived for billions and trillions of years and be gone, and only then will their light pass this way.

That ray will never know that in the meantime an earth formed here, that millions lived on it, that for billions of years there was war and strife, greed and fear, creation and destruction. When it began, earth was not; when it passes, earth will be empty. For that ray, nothing ever happened here. Our entire history, however long, will not even register during its journey. And even that is not the last sun. Scientists now say this expanse has no end.

In this perspective, the sun is the unit, the measure of this vastness. Each sun has its own solar family—earth, moon, Mars, Jupiter—fragments of a sun, scientists say. When a sun dies, its entire family perishes with it; when a sun is born, a whole family arises. The day our sun dies, our solar family will be extinguished.

This is no rare occurrence. Daily, hundreds of solar families die and hundreds are born. When a sun dies somewhere, another sun arises elsewhere, as its radiations regroup and ignite anew.

The sun too is continually exhausting itself. For about four billion years it has illuminated our earth; its light diminishes day by day. Scientists say in about four thousand years more its fuel will be spent; it will cool and go out. With it, all will go out—our entire solar family will be dark.

But by then its radiations will have gathered in another corner of the vastness to give birth to a new sun; a new solar family will form. As a man dies and leaves a child, so suns keep dying and birthing new suns. In this cosmic arrangement the sun is a very small thing.

Therefore Krishna says, among lights I am the sun with rays.

From the cosmic perspective the sun is tiny; but in our experience—and for Arjuna—the sun is the greatest of things. It is the most vast phenomenon that enters our experience. From the standpoint of existence, the sun is a small thing; if Krishna speaks from his vantage, Arjuna will not understand. So Krishna now speaks from Arjuna’s side. He names what is smallest to himself but greatest for Arjuna.

Remember, all such statements are relative. Whenever we say small or great, we say so in comparison. In Arjuna’s view the sun is the greatest event. What larger can there be? In Krishna’s view the sun is among the smallest units.

Bertrand Russell wrote a very lovely story—he wrote few stories; he wasn’t a storyteller. But sometimes things that cannot be said in the language of philosophy can be told in the language of story. He titled it A Theologian’s Nightmare.

A theologian slept and dreamt he had died. He felt delighted, for in life he had never sinned—no fear of hell; he had never lied, never cheated, never hurt anyone. Heaven was assured. Day and night he had praised God. Naturally he hoped that at heaven’s gate God himself would welcome him with band and trumpet.

But when he reached heaven’s gate, he was in trouble. The gate was so vast he could see neither end. He pounded it with all his strength, but realized his feeble knocking could never reach within. He grew despondent. He had imagined God himself would stand there. No one was there. Years seemed to pass. He shouted, cried, beat his chest, pounded the door.

At last a window opened and a face looked out—with a thousand eyes, each eye like a sun! Terrified, he crouched down and cried, “Step back a little! O Supreme Father, O God, I cannot bear your light. Please step back!”

But the being said, “Forgive me—you are mistaken. I am merely the gatekeeper. I am no God. I have never seen God. Between God and me is a vast distance; I have no access there.”

The theologian was aghast. Like an insect, he shrank and sat on the ground. “Still,” he said, “if you could get word to God—tell him I have come from Earth, that I am the foremost leader of such-and-such religion. Hundreds of thousands worship me, fall at my feet. I am here—please announce me. My name is such-and-such.”

The gatekeeper replied, “Forgive me; to find your name would be very difficult. To find your sect as well. Tell me at least which Earth you come from—its index number.” The theologian said, “Which earth? There is only one—our earth!” The guard said, “Your ignorance is deep. There are infinite earths in this vast cosmos. From which earth do you come? Speak its index number!”

The theologian was in great difficulty; no scripture had provided any such index—because all scriptures were born on this earth, assuming it is all that exists.

Seeing his distress, the gatekeeper said, “If you don’t know your earth’s number, at least tell me the index of your sun’s family. From which sun’s family do you come? Then perhaps we can begin to search; otherwise it is very difficult.”

The theologian panicked. He thought God would know of him—he was a great leader, with thousands of followers, temples and churches. But here, they didn’t even know of his earth; even his sun required a number. “Even then,” the gatekeeper added, “it may take many years to search out where you are from.”

In terror he awoke, drenched in sweat. It had been a dream.

Out of ignorance man takes himself to be the center. He thinks he is fundamental. Existence is vast beyond measure.

That vastness will not fit Arjuna’s comprehension. So Krishna says: among all lights, among all radiance, I am the sun.

A symbol must be made for God that Arjuna can grasp in his language. This is why all religions forged symbols. The sun has been a symbol of the divine in many faiths—for the simple reason that in our experience it is the most radiant and the center of our life-force; the entire basis of our life.

Thus, even in the most primitive societies, people joined their hands and bowed to the sun. Across the earth the sun became a symbol of the divine, and from that symbol we made smaller symbols. Fire too became a symbol of God, being a fragment of the sun.

Heraclitus in Greece said: fire is the basis of all life. Fire is life; life appears and dissolves through various orders of fire.

We may not fully understand Heraclitus, but scientists now say electricity is life. Electricity is a new word; electricity is fire. And if Hindus said the sun is life, though ancient in language, the meaning is the same. Call it sun, call it fire, call it electricity—life in some form is linked to sparks of fire.

Krishna says, I am the sun among all lights.

He is hinting to Arjuna: do not stop at the sun. “Among lights I am the sun”—just a comparison, a pointer among luminous things. If Arjuna’s eyes can rise to the sun, he can be led beyond the sun. Precisely here many confusions occurred.

In India the Hindus revered the sun as a supreme deity. The Jains and Buddhists opposed this. Their opposition is valid; so is the Hindu reverence. The opposition is from a higher standpoint—“How can the sun be God? God is vast; the sun is petty.”

It is like saying, “Why do you say G is for Ganesh? G stands for countless things—why confine it to Ganesh?”

But at the primary stage “G for Ganesh” is useful; and at the primary stage, even if the sun becomes God, it is useful.

The truth is: any symbol, however small, if it becomes God in someone’s vision, lifts that person upward. The symbol itself is not the point; what matters is the feeling of taking something as divine. If that feeling arises, ascent begins.

Better to take anything as God than to take nothing as God. Whether that thing is truly God is not the issue; the believer, in believing, sets out on a journey. Someone may worship the sun, another a tree, another a river. Such devotions seem primitive—but compared with the unbeliever, even these people move faster inwardly. Anywhere there is a place to lay one’s head at someone’s feet; anywhere the ego can be dissolved; anywhere one can accept something greater than oneself—there a path opens beyond oneself.

To go on continually beyond oneself—that is sadhana. To rise steadily above oneself—that is the process. To rise beyond oneself until no trace of “I-ness” remains—when that is gone, know that the final destination has arrived.

Krishna says: among lights I am the sun; among wind-gods I am Marichi, the swiftest and most excellent; among the constellations I am the moon, lord of the stars.

These are all symbols. Krishna points to whatever is supreme.

And among the Vedas I am the Sama Veda; among the gods I am Indra; among the senses I am the mind; among living beings I am consciousness—knowledge itself.

This last sutra needs special understanding.

“Among the Vedas I am the Sama Veda.” This sounds surprising. You might think he would say “Among the Vedas I am the Rig Veda,” considered the first and most revered. Why, then, did Krishna choose the Sama Veda? The rest seems straightforward—among lights the sun; among wind-gods Marichi; among Aditi’s sons, Vishnu—no difficulty there. But this last statement has puzzled pundits greatly: placing the Sama Veda above the Rig Veda. Why would Krishna prefer it?

Again, it is not a matter of Rig Veda versus Sama Veda; again, it is a matter of Arjuna. Krishna is speaking with Arjuna in view. And it is also a matter of Krishna’s own personality. In Krishna’s being, the Sama Veda is clearly supreme. He cannot identify with the Rig Veda; he resonates with the Sama Veda.

The Sama Veda is the Veda of music and song—not of scholarship and doctrine, but of melody and chant. Krishna’s personality is not a mathematical theorem; it is a string of song. He is less pure thought, pure concept—and more pure dance.

We cannot conceive of Krishna without the flute. Take away the flute and everything is taken from Krishna. Put a flute in Buddha’s hands and it will look utterly incongruent, irrelevant. Place one in Mahavira’s hands and you couldn’t even imagine it is a flute.

I once heard of an English thinker visiting India. He went to see a Shiva temple. Outside it was blazing hot, so he wore a hat. Inside it was cool and shaded; he took off his hat and placed it near the Shiva lingam, then strolled about. At the door, looking back, he asked his Indian friend, “What is that thing placed near the Shiva lingam?”

What has a hat to do beside Shiva’s emblem! His friend thought someone must have inverted the bell. Associations happen. What does a hat have to do with Shiva?

We do not just see; we interpret. If you put a flute in Mahavira’s hand, we cannot even think it is a flute. Mahavira has nothing to do with song or poetry. But in Krishna’s hand, the flute becomes the symbol of his inner being.

Thus, when Krishna says to Arjuna, “Among the Vedas I am the Sama Veda,” it is apt. He is saying: I am not words, doctrines, scriptures. I am song, music, rhythm, and dance. And life’s supreme mystery is not resolved by theories—because theory keeps a distance. The supreme mystery is fulfilled in absorption.

The Sama Veda is the scripture of absorption. That is why Krishna does not say Rig Veda; he says Sama Veda. It reflects his own being, and it will make sense to Arjuna as well. Why to Arjuna?

Arjuna is no logician; he is a warrior. At first glance a warrior seems to have little to do with song and music. Opposites, apparently: where the sword, and where the flute!

But those who study life deeply say a warrior, when utterly absorbed in battle, is immersed just as a musician is in his music, just as a dancer is in his dance. When a warrior wields a sword, he becomes one with it—there is only the sword; the warrior is gone. Battle has its own music, its own poetry, its own rhythm.

In Japan there are the samurai, the warrior class—Japan’s counterpart to India’s kshatriya, but their discipline went even deeper. A samurai is taught swordsmanship, dance, and meditation. Until he is skilled in all three, he is not considered a true warrior.

Because dance means every limb is alive; the body is no longer led by the head alone; every fiber is conscious. A dancer might still have some inert part, but on the battlefield where life is at stake, not a single limb may be dull. Every part must be alert; every hair awake; the body must become fluid so it can flow with the sword.

The samurai is taught meditation too. In Japan they say: one who cannot descend into meditation cannot be a great warrior. If even a few thoughts move in the mind, they will come between the sword and you; the warrior cannot descend wholly. Thoughts must fall silent so he can enter totally.

A strange thing has often happened in Japan: when two great samurai face each other, victory cannot be decided—both enter battle so meditatively. As attention deepens, the sword ceases to be wielded; it moves by itself. Before the attack has formed, the sword is already defending.

The samurai say: when the enemy attacks, the time is so short that his blade will cut your neck—unless the very idea of his attack is reflected in your mind before he strikes and your sword rises to guard your throat in advance.

The samurai scripture says: whoever fights with thought will be defeated. Whoever fights with meditation—another’s thoughts begin to be reflected in his awareness. The still mind mirrors the other’s intention. Before the idea “strike the neck” arises fully in the opponent, defense has happened. Thus, when two samurai fight, victory is undecidable—it becomes impossible.

Arjuna can understand this; the body required for such battle is like a dancer’s—supple, flexible. Arjuna can understand song, music, dance. He knows the dance of battle; he knows its music. He senses immediately when rhythm breaks. He has experienced life’s deep poetry.

It seems difficult, but the life a warrior experiences those at home never do. Perhaps life reveals its full intensity only on the battlefield, where death surrounds you on all sides and any instant may be your last—then you live with total intensity. Perhaps this is the strange allure of war.

But dropping bombs from planes has nothing to do with it. Aerial bombing destroys the music of battle. All the ugliness of war remains; its beauty is lost. Even the rifle separates man from man, and the dignity of battle is lost. But two hands with swords facing each other—two lives meeting, both still, both filled with dance—at that moment they taste the very secret of samadhi.

This is why, in this land, we never told the kshatriya to flee to the forest for samadhi.

Krishna is telling Arjuna the same: your nature, your destiny is that of a warrior. Even if you are to attain life’s supreme fulfillment, you will attain it through battle. If you flee, you will rust; you will be wasted. You are seeking another’s dharma; you cannot reach your destiny that way. Your path is through war.

Surely a man like Arjuna will find truth in the intense moment of battle—when death stands on all sides, and amid death, without fear, he remains engaged; when continual struggle invites anxiety yet he is thought-free, silent, meditative, fearless and unafraid—absorbed in the fight. In that depth he will know samadhi. Forest samadhi is not for him.

It is hard to find anyone in the world more insightful than Krishna in recognizing human types and their nature with such depth. Humanity has not yet developed a true science of types. Many attempts have been made; none have succeeded deeply.

Only recently Carl Gustav Jung worked hard and divided people into four types. But Hindus have been speaking of four types for millennia. While half-baked educated people here busy themselves demolishing old systems in the name of revolution, in the West thinking has returned: people are divided; there are types. And only one’s own type can become one’s path to bliss; any other path will bring suffering.

If today there is deep suffering on earth, its greatest cause is not poverty—it has always existed, and in greater measure than now. Nor disease—disease is least now; it was far more before. Nor illiteracy—it is minimal today. The deepest cause is that a person does not know his type. Without that knowledge, he seeks a destination.

I search for a goal that can never be mine; if I fail I suffer, and if I succeed I still suffer—because it is not my goal. If I die moving toward my own destination—my destiny, my nature—there is still contentment. One step toward it brings fulfillment. But if I reach someone else’s destination, there will be no contentment. Contentment relates less to the goal and more to you. When you and the goal are in harmony, when a rhythm arises between you, contentment happens.

For Arjuna, war is the path to his destination.

Arjuna will understand Krishna’s statement; therefore he says, “Among the Vedas I am the Sama Veda.” By Sama Veda he is saying: I am the rhythm in all sound, the music in all sound, the music in every word—wherever there is music in a word, I am present.

Among the gods I am Indra, and among the senses I am the mind.

“Among the gods I am Indra”—this we can understand: the highest of gods, the king of gods. “Among the senses I am the mind”—this needs a little reflection.

Ordinarily, we think the senses are separate from the mind. That is why we speak of five senses. If we include the mind as a sense, we should speak of six. We all say man has five senses. By Krishna’s account, man has six; the mind is also a sense—subtlest, supreme, yet still a sense.

Let us understand this.

The eyes see. The ears hear. The hands touch. The nose smells. The tongue tastes. These senses gather data. The mind is the name of what gathers from them all. The mind is the collection-point of the senses. The eyes see you; the ears hear a voice. The mind decides that the one seen is the one heard—because the eyes cannot make that connection. They only see. The eye will not know the person it sees is the one speaking. The ear will not know the one it hears is the one the eyes see. There is no bridge, no communication between eye and ear. The ear cannot see; the eye cannot hear. How then is the decision made that the one the eyes saw is the one the ears heard? There is no intercourse between them.

All five senses are separate. If they remained entirely separate, you would collapse at once; no knowing would happen within. The feet would go somewhere, the eyes would see something else, the ears would hear something else. Who would synthesize this? Who would gather it? Who would focus it?

The mind is the joint—the meeting place of the senses. All the senses pour their experience into the mind; the mind collects and unifies them, interprets and organizes them. The mind is therefore also a sense—the central sense of the five.

Imagine five roads meeting and the mind being the junction where they converge. You could say the mind sees through the eye, hears through the ear, touches through the hand. Or, say: hands touch, ears hear, eyes see, and these sensations arrive at the mind; the mind joins them. But as long as mind is connected to the senses, it cannot be more than they. If the mind only coordinates the senses, it cannot go beyond them; it remains a part of the sensory system.

Thus, if you lose your sight, your mind is weakened—it is impoverished. A blind person’s mind is poorer; it lacks the eye’s experience. A deaf person’s mind is narrower, more meager. If you lose the capacity of touch—if paralysis comes—the mind is further impoverished. If all five senses are cut off, the mind dies instantly. The mind cannot live without the senses; nor the senses without the mind. If the mind is unconscious, all senses cease to function. Alcohol does not separately affect each sense; it affects the mind. When the central node is dulled, all senses become useless. The ear still hears, but the mind does not catch it. The eye still sees, but the mind does not receive it.

So you see a drunkard walking—one foot here, the other there. The legs still move, but the coordinator is stupefied; the system falls into disarray. He sees something, hears something, says something—things he did not intend to say. He wanders where he did not mean to go; does what he did not intend.

The mind is the essence of the senses, their subtlest distillate. Krishna calls it a sense too.

Why does Krishna need to explain through the senses at all? He has already said, “I am the soul; I am the heart of hearts.” And now he says, “Among the senses I am the mind.” He is having to speak very much lower. His first statement: “I am the heart in hearts, the soul in all souls.” And now: “Among the senses I am the mind.”

Perhaps Arjuna did not understand the language of the soul. Perhaps he does not know what “soul” is. He heard the word; its meaning did not strike. Krishna must have seen no response in his eyes—no resonance, no inner music, no string struck. Nothing happened; silence remained.

We hear words like soul and God—the ears receive them—yet nothing happens inside. But if I say, “Notice—there’s a diamond worth a million in your pocket,” something happens at once. Your hand leaps to your pocket. A diamond you understand; it becomes concrete immediately. No confusion.

Arjuna likely did not understand the dimension of soul; hence Krishna says, “Among the senses I am the mind—the highest sense.”

But this is a symbol chosen to teach a child. From the side of the senses it is true to call Krishna the mind. Step back a bit and it is no longer true: Krishna is not the mind; he is that which knows even the mind—the witness behind it. Step back still further and even “witness” is not accurate, because witness implies object—some trace of duality remains. Beyond that is only pure consciousness—the sheer capacity to know.

Mahavira said: keval-gyan—just knowing. Ultimately only knowing remains—not even the knower. But the deeper we speak, the harder it is to understand. So Krishna begins from the steps.

Imagine a temple. In its innermost sanctum the deity is enshrined. You are speaking with someone who has never entered a temple and stands outside. Krishna tells him: “These ten steps—you see them? I am the tenth step.” From outside, the steps are visible. He says: “Of these ten steps, the tenth is me.”

Even that is no small thing—if the nine below are left and one reaches the tenth, then perhaps you can be told, “Of these doorways, the tenth doorway is me.” Then leave nine doors and reach the tenth. And thus, step by step, finally you can be led to the very place where Krishna truly abides.

The steps are part of the temple, to be sure—and they are connected to the deity enshrined within. The first step is connected; the tenth step is connected. But the steps are not the deity.

Arjuna stands outside the temple. The language of the inner sanctum is beyond him. You must speak the language of outside. From speaking thus, great mishaps have happened. People read these scriptures and settle on them literally. They say, “Krishna said, ‘Among the senses I am the mind.’ Very well.” And they clutch the mind. They begin to worship the tenth step.

It is said so that the nine below may be dropped—not so that the tenth be grasped. Mind this: it is said so that the nine be left. And when they are left, the tenth too can be let go.

But we are amusing creatures. Reaching the tenth is far away; leaving the nine is far away. We clutch the tenth so hard that by it we clutch the nine as well. We get stuck on the tenth in such a way that we must build our house on the other nine too.

Whenever the supreme truth is spoken in human language, risk is taken. You might leave the language and reach the truth—or you might drop the truth and grab the language.

I point to the moon with my finger. You might catch my finger and say, “This is the moon,” because I said, “There it is!” The finger has no relation to the moon. With a finger one can indicate the moon—that’s all. If you forget the finger and look, the moon can be seen. But if you clutch the finger, the moon will never be seen. People seize upon the pointer and miss what is pointed to.

This too is a pointer when Krishna says, “Among the senses I am the mind.”

It is no small thing to rise above the senses—at least to climb from the five to the sixth. From the outer senses to the inner sense—that is a first entry within. Even a little entry opens the possibility to go further in; new doors can open.

But remember the danger. What we understand, we tend to clutch.

In matters of religion, whatever you fully understand—make sure not to grasp it. Whatever you readily understand, do not cling to it—because very great truths cannot be readily understood. What comes to you comes according to your present understanding. If you wish to enlarge your understanding, slowly let go of what you do understand, and try to grasp what you do not yet understand.

This seems difficult—but it is the path of all growth: gradually let go of what you know; step toward what is dimly seen. Then you will move forward.

A person stands on the first step. To climb to the second, he must leave the first. He must lift his foot from where it rests and set it upon the unfamiliar step where he has never stood. When one foot is on the new step, he must also remove the other foot from the first.

If we seek the ultimate, we must keep leaving what we have and move on. Those who are frightened of the unknown—“How can I go where I don’t understand?”—become imprisoned in their own understanding. Their little intelligence becomes not a vehicle but a prison.

We are all confined inside our own minds. We are our own prisoners. No jailer is needed—we are our own jailers, our own prison, and we ourselves guard the prison lest the captive escape!

This situation arises out of fear. What we know feels secure. The unknown is frightening: “What if I miss and put my foot down wrong!”

But remember: even a misstep is better than standing still. Even a mistake is better than safe stagnation. Whoever grows makes mistakes—and will make many. If someone says, “I never make mistakes,” know he has never grown and never will. Those who grow err often.

Yes, one thing: they do not repeat the same mistake. Many mistakes—never the same one twice. And any mistake is better than being stuck—because mistakes teach and move you forward.

It is better to move in the dark. Those who remain circled by their small lamp of intellect—always staying within its ring of light—will miss truth. Supreme blessedness will never descend upon them. Grace pours only on those who dare break the circle of light and move into darkness.

As you move in darkness, it slowly becomes light. As your eyes grow acquainted with it, you begin to see even in the dark.

And once you gain the capacity to see in darkness, there is no darkness in this world. Once you learn the art of turning darkness into light—which the courageous traveler learns—then everywhere is light. There is no darkness anywhere.

Consciousness must be developing; symbols are dangerous if we clutch them.

I heard of a household where the children were small and their father died. The mother had died earlier. The children grew up. They remembered little of the father, but a few things remained. They thought to preserve his memory—what to keep?

They remembered that he used to feed them, doing the mother’s work too, and afterwards he would eat. They remembered he kept a small stick of wood on a shelf in the kitchen to clean his teeth. They didn’t quite know what it was, but the stick still lay there. They thought, “To honor father’s memory, this little stick is too trivial—let’s make something proper.” So they had a large sandalwood piece carved and set in the niche.

They grew older. They would bow there daily, because they had seen their father go to that shelf after meals. They too would go after eating and offer a few flowers.

Later, they built a larger house and demolished the old one. “Why a mere niche now? Let’s make a small temple.” So they made a marble shrine where the shelf had been. Then they thought, “A stick of wood? Now we can afford more.” They installed a sandalwood image and regularly worshiped it after meals.

I am told the worship continues to this day. The stick was for cleaning teeth—now it has become a temple idol.

If we search our lives, we will find ninety-nine out of a hundred things are like this: no relation to understanding or growth—only blind clutching. When one clutches blindly in the realm of religion, the price is heavy: one’s whole journey halts.

Krishna says, “Among the senses I am the mind.”

He is saying: at least move from the five senses inward to mind. It is no small thing to know that you are not the ear—rather, you are that which hears through the ear. It is no small thing to know you are not the eye—you are the mind that sees through the eye, that looks out through it. If you know this much, then tomorrow you can understand: you are not even the mind. You are that which knows the mind, that which looks at the mind as a witness—you are the knower of the mind.

Hence, in the next sutra he says: “Among beings I am consciousness—consciousness itself, the power of knowing.”

At once—“Among the senses I am the mind,” and immediately after: “Beyond the mind I am consciousness—the capacity to know.” He states it at once, because the first statement can be dangerous: someone might take himself to be mind.

There are four kinds of people in this world. First, those who take themselves to be the body. They never even climb the steps—only wander around the house outside. Second, those who take themselves to be the mind. They climb a few steps but remain stuck at the door. Third, those who take themselves to be the soul. They go deeper but still circle around the image in the sanctum. Fourth, those who know themselves as God—they become one with the deity.

Most people take themselves to be the body. Even those who say “I am the soul” still live as the body. Look at their conduct and you will see it. Put them in difficulty and you will see it.

The man who says, “I am the soul; the soul is immortal”—place a knife at his shoulder and seize him in the dark—he will cry out, “Why are you killing me?” He who said “the soul is immortal” will, upon seeing the knife, cry, “Don’t kill me!” A knife cannot kill the soul; it can only cut the body. But he does not say, “Why cut my body?” He says, “Why kill me?”

Epictetus was summoned by the emperor of Greece, who had heard, “You say the soul is immortal. I will not discuss theory; I will test it. I believe nothing exists but the body.”

Epictetus said, “Then test. Words are unnecessary; a test will declare the truth. Since you do not believe there is anything but the body, whom should I argue with? Begin.”

The emperor ordered two men, “Bend and break his leg.” Epictetus extended his leg and told them, “Twist it to the left; it will break faster.” The emperor said, “I am not joking; your leg will really be broken.” Epictetus replied, “You cannot joke; I can—because I am separate from the leg. Go ahead.”

They broke his leg. Epictetus said, “Any other test? The leg is broken, and I remain as I was. I am not lame; the body is lame.”

Even those who profess the soul—peek into their lives and you will find it is the body that rules.

This first category—“the body is all”—is the one for whom Krishna’s words are apt. Arjuna is in this state: to him the body is everything. He says, “How can I cut my loved ones? How can I kill my own? How can I commit this murder? I cannot. Why take such sin upon myself?” He takes the body as life, for his sword can cut nothing else. He knows nothing of the one within whom the sword cannot pierce and fire cannot burn.

Therefore Krishna says to him, “Among the senses I am the mind.” The senses are the body; go within and you find the mind. But Krishna must have felt, lest Arjuna cling even here, so in the very next sutra he says, “And among all beings I am consciousness—awareness.”

Let us grasp the word “consciousness.” Consciousness means: I am seeing you; I am conscious of you. And whatever I am conscious of, I am separate from it. Consciousness requires separation.

I look at my hand—I am conscious of it. From within and without I see it—its bone, muscles. I am separate from it, because I can only be conscious of what I am not. Distance is needed; a gap is required for consciousness.

Close your eyes and you can be conscious of your thoughts. Thoughts are moving like clouds in the sky; like travelers on the road; like images on a film screen. You can watch the stream of thought. Then you are conscious of thought, and therefore separate from it.

You can be conscious of your mind. When you are full of anger, close your eyes and you will see: the mind is flooded with anger. When you are in love, meditate and you will see: the mind is filled with love. At times with greed, with lust, with fear. Close your eyes and you will know what fills the mind. The mind is now fear, now anger, now greed, now sex. Who knows this? Who is conscious? The knower is separate.

Consciousness is that by which you know and recognize; that by which you become aware. And of that itself you can never be conscious. You can be conscious of everything except your consciousness itself—because that which would be conscious of it is your very consciousness. You cannot turn it into an object; it is the subject, the knower. It can never be known as a thing.

This concept of consciousness is among yoga’s deepest insights. If we were to define yoga in one word: it is the effort to know that by which all is known, and which is never known by anything else. That by which we can know the whole world—except it. It cannot be known—because who then would know it? Knowing requires distance: the knower must be distinct from the known.

Everything in this world can be made into the known. I can make you into an object of knowing; my body too; my thoughts; my mind—everything. Only my consciousness—my alertness, my awareness—never becomes the known. It always slips behind, unreducible to an object.

Søren Kierkegaard said: consciousness means subjectivity—ultimate subjectivity, the final knower. Beyond it you cannot step back.

However far back you go, whatever retreats is your consciousness. You cannot step behind it. Because it cannot be gone behind, it is your nature. And Krishna says: consciousness—awareness, the power of knowing—that am I.

He began with the sun and with Vishnu—then drew nearer to the senses and the mind—then nearer still, giving Arjuna the final, fundamental sutra: I am consciousness.

Whoever knows, “I am consciousness,” knows all that is worth knowing. Whoever does not know this—even if he knows everything else—has missed all that is worth knowing. Our innermost core is consciousness.

Therefore we describe God’s qualities as sat-chit-ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. We place consciousness at the very center of the divine. Sat—truth—at the beginning; chit—consciousness—in the middle; ananda—bliss—at the end.

Seek truth and you will come upon consciousness; be established in consciousness and bliss will be your nature. How to realize this consciousness?

We live asleep, stupefied. We do what we do as if in sleep, staggering drunk. Anger comes—you say, “It came; I don’t know why!” You hurled an abuse—“It slipped out.” You were not in awareness; you were moving in stupor. You sway between unconsciousness and occasional flickers of awareness. Most of life passes in sleep.

In such a state that consciousness seems remote. But it is not as far as it seems. Only a little effort is needed—just a little.

Walk on the road with awareness. Know that walking is happening: my left foot rises, my right foot rises. Not as verbal repetition—“my right foot rose”—but as direct knowing: this left foot rises, this right foot rises. Keep that feel of awareness. You will suddenly be astonished: the body is walking; you are not. When you eat, bring awareness: I have made this morsel; I raise it to my mouth. Do it consciously.

Ordinarily people eat like machines—stuffing themselves. They may not even be at the table—they may already be at the office, or arguing a case in court, or who knows where.

Eat with awareness, and soon you will experience that food goes into the body—not into you. That very awareness is you. Then you see clearly: food goes into the body; you remain untouched, beyond—you are the watcher.

Then you won’t say, “I am hungry.” Your way of speaking and seeing changes. You will say, “The body is hungry.” Not “I am satisfied,” but “the body is satisfied.” “The body is thirsty.” Later: “The body is aging.”

One who knows in walking that he does not walk—the body walks; in eating that he does not eat—the body eats; in sleeping that he does not sleep—the body sleeps—such a one will be capable, at the moment of dying, of knowing: I do not die—the body dies. This ultimate experience comes by steadily increasing awareness.

Enough for today.

But sit for five minutes. Let no one get up. Join for five minutes in music and chanting—then go.