Geeta Darshan #1

Amid the most tangled riddles of spirituality, these sutras begin with a riddle: the Divine is not found without effort. And yet when the Divine is found, the one who finds realizes, “This is not the fruit of my effort; it is the grace of the Divine.” The one who attains knows that whatever he did has no value, and what he has received is beyond all value. The one who attains understands: this is prasad, grace, anugraha. But the one who has not attained—if he concludes, “It comes by grace; I need do nothing”—such a man will never receive grace.

Man must exert himself; by exertion God is not attained; yet man becomes worthy to receive the shower of grace. A lake or a hollow does not produce rain. But when it rains, the hollow fills, and the lake becomes available. Rain falls on the mountain as well, but the mountaintop remains dry. The same rain falls on the hollow, and it fills to the brim. The hollow does not make the rain happen, yet the hollow must “work” at least this much—that it become a hollow.

No one can attain truth by effort. Truth is so vast, our effort so small, we cannot reach it by effort. And remember: whatever can be obtained by our effort will be smaller than us, never greater. What my hands can shape can never be greater than my hands. What my mind can grasp can never be greater than my mind. Whatever I can “get” becomes smaller than me.

Therefore, by effort no one has ever attained truth, nor God, nor liberation. And yet also remember: without effort, no one has ever attained either. This is the riddle. By effort we become capable of opening the door. Through the open door the sun enters. An open door cannot seize the sun and drag it in. But when the sun comes, the open door does not obstruct it. Man’s entire effort is to break the obstructions.

Keep this in mind, and this sutra will become clear.

Thus, hearing Krishna’s words on the Yoga of Divine Splendor, Arjuna said: To show me grace, you have spoken to me the most secret truths of the spirit, by which my ignorance is destroyed.

The first word to understand here is anugraha—grace. Its meaning is: that which we receive without having done anything to deserve it. What we receive because of our doing is a bargain. There is no compassion in a bargain. What we obtain by virtue of our acquired merits is a reward for effort; there is no “prasad” in it.

Arjuna says, “What you have said to me is by your grace! I had no qualification, no effort, no practice. I possess no earned wealth that would justify a claim. Still, by your grace you have spoken to me!”

Do not take this to mean Krishna played favorites with Arjuna. You may complain: “We too have no effort, no practice—why did Krishna go to Arjuna and not to our door?” It may look like partiality.

Remember this: only the truly worthy feel, “I have no worth.” The unworthy always feel, “I am very worthy.” The true vessel is humble; the unfit are arrogant. The unfit insist, “I am worthy; if I have not received, destiny, fate, or God is at fault. I deserve in every way; if I don’t get it, injustice is being done.”

The worthy says, “I am unworthy. If I have not received, the fault is mine. And if I do receive, it is the Lord’s compassion, his grace.” The first mark of worthiness is the sense of unworthiness. The first mark of unworthiness is the pride of worthiness, the ego of merit.

So those who believe they are worthy—let them know none are more unworthy. And those who feel they have no worth—know that their worthiness has begun.

Arjuna was worthy. Hence he could simply say, “I have no worth; it is your grace.”

Grace cannot fall on the unfit. Even if rain falls upon an upturned pot, it will not fill. The pot turned upside down is unfit. Why do I say “upturned pot”? To show that worthiness lies within, but inverted. Straighten the pot, and it becomes a vessel.

Worthiness is not to be acquired elsewhere; we are born with it. There is no human being, no consciousness, born without the capacity to receive the Divine. And yet we do not receive. We do not hear his voice; his song does not touch our heart; his touch is not felt; his embrace does not come. We are vessels, but turned upside down. The simplest way we keep ourselves inverted is conceit, ego. The bigger the “I,” the more inverted the vessel.

Arjuna said, “It is your grace.”

Hard to say—harder still for Arjuna. If Krishna were to meet you, being overwhelmed by Krishna would not be difficult. But for Arjuna, Krishna is friend, companion. Arjuna has walked with his arm around Krishna’s neck, sat, joked, gossiped. To see grace in Krishna—the friend standing beside you! And today not even beside—Arjuna sat higher, and Krishna, his charioteer, below. In that very moment Arjuna can still call it grace—that demands an utterly egoless mind. Such humility as can see itself lower even when seated above. One who can place his friend in the place of God.

Even if God appeared to us, we would try to place him as a friend, as an equal, a companion. Arjuna places the friend in the place of the Divine. Only one who can see God so close can truly see him. To bow before a God seated in the distant sky is easy. To bow before the God hidden in your neighbor is difficult. To bow before the God hidden in your wife, your husband, your son, your brother—very difficult.

Naturally, the closer someone is, the greater the clash and rivalry with our ego. Hence the Jews say: no prophet is ever worshiped in his own village. There is a reason—he is too close to the village. “How can you be above us?” Impossible! In his village the prophet will be stoned; worship is rare.

Arjuna could say to Krishna, “It is your grace, I have no merit.” That is proof of his worthiness. It is the first qualification of one entering the religious realm.

“To show me grace, you spoke the most secret spiritual truths—by which my ignorance is destroyed.”

Second point: “most secret spiritual truths.”

Spirituality is more secret than love. Understand this. In love, the beloved longs for solitude. The presence of a third person disturbs. Two lovers want no one else there; they want to be alone. Why this thirst for the private? What is the relish in aloneness? What obstacle is the presence of another?

First, in deep love we long to dissolve into the beloved and to absorb the beloved into ourselves. In deep love we want to break duality and become one. But the third, with whom we have no love, prevents that nonduality.

Hence lovers seek privacy, solitude. The third person’s presence becomes a barrier; duality remains. Without that presence, two can merge into one. Therefore love is secret, private, not public.

Spirituality is even more secret. In love at most bodies meet; in spirituality the souls of master and disciple meet. Until that meeting occurs—until master and disciple become one at the level of soul like lovers—spiritual transmission, spiritual teaching, spiritual gifting is not possible. Therefore spirituality is secret.

When even bodies need privacy, how much more when souls meet! Hence spirituality has been given in hiding, silently, in silence. Without such silence, hush, aloneness, that inner meeting, that dialogue of two becoming one, is impossible.

Arjuna says, “That you revealed such secrecy to me—what could that be but grace!”

And there is yet another wonder in this revelation: it happens on a battlefield. A vast crowd is all around—not a trivial crowd but one eager for war. In that assembly ready for battle, this secrecy happens; this meeting; Krishna’s discourse is heard by Arjuna; Krishna can shower grace.

So another point: when bodies are to meet, physical solitude is needed. But when souls are to meet, they can meet even in a crowd. Physical solitude is no longer relevant. Amid the crowd, the souls of two can unite—for the crowd pertains to bodies.

Many who have studied the Gita deeply have always been puzzled: on a battlefield, among a crowd armed for war—where did Krishna find the space to deliver the Gita’s message? But it seems very well thought out.

Spirituality can find solitude even in the crowd of bodies. In the marketplace it can be alone. Spiritual union can occur even in the moment of war. For war, the marketplace, the crowd of bodies—these are outside. If within there is readiness, worthiness, the capacity to receive, to dissolve, to be humble, to fall at the feet—then spirituality can happen anywhere—even in war.

No other scripture has given this to the world as uniquely as the Gita. That is why the Gita so captivates.

The Upanishads are dialogues in forest seclusion, in silence, peace, between master and disciple, in moments of great meditation. The Bible too speaks in solitude to chosen disciples. But the Gita delivers its message in the dense midst of the world. And what is denser than war? Even there spirituality can happen, if the vessel is upright. And that which is supremely secret, not to be spoken before all, can be said there too—if the vessel is quiet, silent, ready to receive.

Then physical aloneness means: no one else is present. Spiritual aloneness means: you are not present.

Understand this well.

Physical crowd means: many are present. Spiritual solitude means: the disciple is not.

The master is a name for non-presence; of him let us not speak. The very meaning of guru is: one who has become absent, who is no longer present—who is visible yet empty within.

When the disciple too becomes absent—so dissolved that he forgets himself—then spiritual solitude happens. Only in that solitude can the secret sutras be given; there is no other way to give them.

So Arjuna says: That which is supremely secret, you spoke to me in grace; by that my ignorance is destroyed.

Consider this: the destruction of ignorance here is not the birth of knowledge. Knowledge is experience. Ignorance can be destroyed by the master’s words—but that is negative. Arjuna says, “My ignorance is destroyed.”

He is saying: “What I believed till now is broken. The way I used to think—I can no longer think. What you spoke has changed my mind. You have transformed me; my ignorance shattered. But knowledge has not yet happened. The disease is removed, but health is not yet born. The obstacles have broken negatively; but positively I have not yet arisen.”

This is precious. Many mistake the removal of ignorance for knowledge. People collect scriptures, wise sayings, the words of true masters, and think they have known—because the Gita is memorized, the Vedas remembered, the Upanishads on the lips—so knowledge is attained.

Remember, Arjuna says: ignorance is destroyed. My belief soaked in ignorance has broken. But knowledge is not yet, for knowledge is only when I experience.

What Krishna said—trust has arisen in that. And such men as Krishna are worthy of trust. Their very being creates trust. Their own joy, their silence, their peace, their emptiness envelop you. Their eyes, their presence, like a magnet, draw your life-breath—faith arises.

But faith is not knowledge. Faith is useful to shatter false notions. Yet the shattering of false notions is not the arrival of truth.

The scholar is not the knower. The scholar is not ignorant, but he is not a knower either. He stands between. The ignorant knows nothing. The scholar knows everything. And the knower is one in whom knowing and experience are undivided—what he knows is his own. He does not know by borrowing. Not “someone said”; he knows himself.

Arjuna’s present “knowing” has come because Krishna has spoken. Krishna says so, and Arjuna trusts Krishna; so Arjuna says, “My ignorance is destroyed.” But he has not yet known—Krishna has said, not he.

Therefore, if Krishna were to step aside, Arjuna’s doubts would return. If Krishna were to disappear, Arjuna would soon land where he was at the start of the Gita. If he is honest, it will happen sooner; if dishonest, it may take longer—he will keep repeating words, convincing himself: “I know, I know.”

But Arjuna is honest.

And the greatest honesty in this world is honesty toward oneself. Deceiving others does not change much—wrong, but not devastating. But the deceit you practice upon yourself—your whole life turns to dust. And we do deceive ourselves. The greatest self-deceit is to believe we have known without knowing.

If someone asks you, “Does God exist?” you will not remain silent. You will say yes or no. You will not say, “I don’t know.” If you can say, “I don’t know,” you are honest. If you say, “Yes,” ready to fight over it without any experience—you are dishonest. If you say, “No,” and argue without experience—you are dishonest.

Those we call theist and atheist are two forms of dishonesty. The honest person says, “I do not know. How can I say yes or no?” One says yes, another says no. If the person is strong, trust arises. If someone like Buddha stands beside you, he will convince you there is no God. Because of Buddha. If Mahavira stands by you, he will convince you the talk of God is nonsense. If Krishna stands by you, faith will come that God is. If Jesus stands by you, faith will come that God is. But none of this is your experience.

Even the glimpse that comes because of Krishna is borrowed. The glimpse that comes because of Buddha is borrowed. Borrowed glimpses dissolve ignorance, but knowledge arises only from your own glimpse.

Therefore Arjuna says: “What you told me has destroyed my ignorance. For, O Lotus-Eyed, I have heard from you in detail of the origin and dissolution of beings, and your imperishable power. O Supreme Lord, you are as you say you are—this I have also sensed; this I have understood; such is my faith.”

“But, O Purushottama…”

And this “but” is worth pondering. Otherwise the matter would end. Arjuna says, “You are as you say; my faith is born.” The matter should end. When faith has arisen, what place is there for but and however? Now be silent. The Gita should end here.

Had it been us, the Gita would end here. We stop at this point. Faith arrives; we worship at the temple, bow to the scripture, offer flowers at the master’s feet. The matter ends. We know the words, the doctrines; the scriptures have settled on our mind. What remains?

Nothing has begun. The boat has not even left the shore.

Hence Arjuna says: “But, O Purushottama, I want to see directly your form endowed with knowledge, opulence, power, strength, valor and radiance. Until now what my ears have heard is what your eyes have seen. Now I want to see with my own eyes—directly. Until I see, you are trustworthy; I trust. But until I see, knowledge is not born.”

Do not stop at words; whoever stops at words goes astray. The whole world has stopped at words. Some on the words of the Quran—calling themselves Muslims. Some on the words of the Gita—calling themselves Hindus. Some on the words of the Bible—calling themselves Christians. These are people stopped by words.

All sects in the world are sects of words. Religion can have no sect. Because religion is not words; it is experience. And experience is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. Experience is pure and one—like the single sky.

Arjuna asks Krishna very skillfully. “My trust is complete in what you say; I believe you speak truly. There is no scope left to say you are wrong. You have explained well. Things are as you say. But now I want to see with my own eyes.”

And the disciple who does not ask his master, “I want to see with my own eyes,” is no disciple. The one who sits swallowing the master’s words and dies with them is no disciple. And the master who keeps his disciple busy swallowing words is no master.

Krishna must have been waiting for this question. Until now the dialogue was intellectual. Arjuna’s questions were of the mind, of thought; Krishna refuted them by reason and logic. He must have been waiting for the moment when Arjuna would say, “Now I want to see.”

Ordinarily, masters become afraid when you say, “I want to see.” Then they say, “Have faith; don’t doubt.” But the true master speaks only so that one day you gather the courage to say, “Now I want to see. Words will not do. Concepts are not enough. Until my very life becomes one with it, until I have direct encounter, I will have no rest.”

So Arjuna said, “O Lotus-Eyed, O Lord, now I want to behold your vastness directly.”

This question is of utmost audacity—perhaps there is no greater boldness in life. For to see the vast with the eyes invites great upheaval. Our eyes are made to see limits. Whatever we see has form, shape. Our eyes have never seen the formless; they are not capable of seeing the formless. They are built to see form. These eyes will not work to see the Vast.

In truth, regarding these eyes, one must become blind—set them aside. Close them. The energy flowing outward through them must be redirected into another dimension where a new eye becomes available.

We do not see “with” the eye; we see through the eye. We stand behind the eye; the eye is our window. Through this window the Vast cannot be seen, for the window imposes a frame. You look at the sky through your window—the sky seems the size of the window.

Through these eyes the Vast cannot be seen. Hence great courage is needed—to become blind to these eyes, to draw back their light and let it flow towards a dimension where there is no window, only open sky. Then the Vast can be seen. That event is what we call the third eye, the Shiva-eye, the divine eye. Without it the direct form of God cannot be seen.

Otherwise, whatever we see is indirect—seen through many veils. Our instruments themselves make it indirect. Leaving these instruments, these senses, these eyes—another way of seeing becomes possible.

First audacity, then: to go blind to these eyes. If their light does not recede, light will not reach the third eye.

Second audacity: seeing the Vast is dangerous. Like peering into a deep abyss—your limbs tremble; your head spins. Have you ever gone to the edge of a high peak and looked down? The fear that seizes you—death looms in that abyss.

But that abyss is nothing. God is an infinite abyss—the vast void where all forms vanish, where there is no ground or boundary. Vision travels and never finds a place to rest. Panic seizes. A supreme terror grips you: “I am dissolving, dying, gone.” To befriend the Vast is to erase yourself.

So first, become blind to these eyes so that the other opens. Second, prepare to die so that that life may touch you.

Hence Kierkegaard, a Christian mystic, has said: to seek God is to seek the greatest danger—the most dangerous thing. It is the greatest gamble—staking your life. Like a drop going to seek the ocean—it goes to its own dissolution. Where it finds the ocean, it disappears; return becomes difficult. The finite seeks the Infinite; the limited seeks the Limitless; the formed seeks the Formless—this is a quest for death.

That is why Buddha did not use the name “God.” He said: it is the Great Void. Do not name it God—for the word God creates images. We made images of God. So Buddha said, don’t talk of God—speak of the Great Emptiness. When asked, “Is there supreme life there?” Buddha said, do not speak of life; it is supreme death, nirvana—the extinction of all.

Even in this great spiritual land, people fled from Buddha. His feet could not root here—for a reason: going to Buddha was dangerous. By him too stood the abyss. To look into Buddha was to befriend the Great Void. He would not talk of form; he spoke of disappearing, ending. Do not speak of finding the ocean, he said. If the drop is ready to vanish, the ocean is here.

Arjuna asks Krishna the supremely dangerous question: “I want to see you with my own eyes—directly.” Dangerous—and so Arjuna adds a condition: “Therefore, O Lord, if you deem it possible that this form be seen by me, then, O Lord of Yoga, grant me the vision of your imperishable form.”

Fear must have seized him. What he asks is perilous. What he wants to see is the ultimate longing of man—an impossible desire.

And man becomes fully human the day this impossible desire seizes him. Till then we are insects. Our desires are no different than animals’.

Animals hoard; we hoard—only a little more. They hoard for a season; we for a lifetime. They seek sex; we do too. Where is the difference?

Our passions are the same as the animals’—except one: the passion for the Divine, the longing for the Vast. No animal seeks the Vast. Until you seek the Vast, know that you have not crossed the animal’s boundary.

Man is the search for the Vast—the longing for the impossible.

All animals try to save themselves; none wants to die. Only among humans do a few appear who stake themselves, dare to efface themselves, to know the Supreme. Only man wagers even his life.

The courage to stake your life is the longing for the impossible.

The desire to see the Vast with your eyes—this yearning. Arjuna must have wondered: “Do I have the capacity? Is it possible? Am I at the point to ask such a question? Have I asked beyond my limits? If Krishna grants this, will I be in trouble?”

Hence he says: “If it is possible for that form to be seen, if I have the capacity, the worth—if you deem it so! For what use is my own judgment? How can we know whether we are worthy of what we have never known? Without doing, there is no measure of capacity. What we haven’t done—how can we know whether we can?”

Therefore the disciple asks—but does not insist upon an answer. The disciple who insists, “I must receive the answer,” is childish.

The question may be asked, but the answer must be left to the master. Who knows if the time has come? Whether the fruit is ripe? Whether the hour is ripe? Whether I am at the place where the third eye can open? And even if it opens, will I be able to sustain the Vast?

To see the Vast, to endure it, to assimilate it, is to play with fire. Will I manage it? Keep this in mind.

Arjuna speaks with great understanding: “If you deem it so, then grant me direct vision. Otherwise I can wait. I will not hurry; I can be patient; I will wait until you judge me ready…”

Many times disciples have had to wait for years—not because the master did not know the answer; not because the master enjoyed being served. Only because the disciple must become able to peer into the infinite abyss, the dimensionless expanse. Otherwise, if Arjuna is at all unripe, he will return mad, deranged.

Many seekers become deranged—by haste. And a common madman can be treated. But if a seeker goes mad, no psychiatrist can help. His illness is not of the body or even of the mind; it arises from contact with what is beyond mind. There is no cure.

You have heard of those fakirs whom Sufis call “mast.” Mast means simply this: the man was still a bit unripe and leapt. He did see—but everything became disordered. Gazing into the chaos, he too became chaotic. Returning is difficult. And even if he returns, he cannot forget what he saw. It will haunt him. It has penetrated every pore. There is no release; it will not let him live in peace; it will trouble him.

Derangement happens if the seeker hastens. And all seekers are in a hurry. A thirsty one wants water quickly. But water obtained too quickly may be poison. Haste is poison.

Perhaps the thirst was not yet deep—and an ocean crashes over you—trouble. We are not used to drinking ocean water. Even if the ocean comes, we will die thirsty. We drink from wells, little pits; there is our rhythm. Sudden contact with the Vast disorganizes—chaos!

Nietzsche experienced this. He was a consciousness of the caliber of Buddha or Mahavira—yet he went mad. For one reason: he insisted excessively on plunging into the infinite—breaking all boundaries—of thought, word, scripture, doctrine, society—without a master.

Sometimes someone like Buddha has returned without a master—but perhaps with a background of infinite past practice. Nietzsche seems utterly unprepared, standing face to face with the Vast.

He said: “I am standing thousands of miles above time.” It is senseless, for what is the relation between time and miles? But the meaning is: outside time—standing beyond—beholding the vast chaos.

After that, Nietzsche was never again healthy. What he wrote afterward contains diamonds—rare—but all diamonds appear deranged, as if dipped in poison. In his voice there is a glimpse of Buddha and alongside it madness. Here and there infinity peeks through, and all around is insanity.

What happened? He saw something—but he should not have seen yet. He saw before the time. Nietzsche died mad.

Arjuna must have feared: “I shall leave it to Krishna. If you deem it possible, if you think this form can be seen, then reveal your imperishable form to me. Now do not tell me; show me. I want to taste. Not to hear—to be. Experience! That I too may know what you know; that I may know what you are.”

Thus, on Arjuna’s prayer, Krishna said: “O Partha, behold my hundreds and thousands of supernal forms of many kinds, colors, and shapes.”

Arjuna was perfectly ready. His readiness to wait is a sign. Impatience is the sign of a diseased mind. One who says, “I can wait, I will be patient; when you deem me worthy, I will keep watch,”—he becomes worthy this very moment. Such patience is worthiness. The one who demands, “Show me now; do it now, quickly…”

People come to me and ask, “How many days must we meditate to experience God?” How many days! If they asked how many births, it would be more fitting. “How many days?” I ask, “Will you do it twenty-four hours?” They say, “No. Half an hour, fifteen minutes a day.” “Will you be truly silent for fifteen minutes?” “Perhaps a moment or two in those fifteen minutes, nothing certain. But how many days?” If I say, “A year, two years,” it seems beyond them. They look for someone to promise, “Ten or fifteen days,” and they believe.

With such impatience, you can get only what comes in ten or fifteen days. Not what takes lifetimes. Plant seasonal saplings then—those that flower in days—but their charm is only for a season. Abandon hopes of trees that take centuries. With impatience roots cannot go deep. The deeper the roots, the higher the tree. Seasonal plants have no roots; they last as long as they bloom.

Thus many learn meditation like seasonal plants—two or four days of peace, then lost. For two or three days they say, “Great peace!” After that, they vanish. That peace was a seasonal flower—rootless. Impatience has no roots. Patience is needed.

And Arjuna’s “If it is possible…”—“I don’t know. I cannot know. How can I say I can gaze into the Infinite I have not yet seen? You decide.”

The disciple who can leave it to the master with such courage—this is surrender—becomes ready that very instant. Hence Krishna does not even discuss Arjuna’s worthiness. He immediately says, “Good—then behold my supernal forms.”

“And, O Arjuna of the Bharatas, behold in me the Adityas—the twelve sons of Aditi—the eight Vasus, the eleven Rudras, the Ashvins, the Maruts—and many other marvels never seen before. And now, within this one body of mine, behold the entire universe with all that moves and does not move—and whatever else you wish to see.”

A few things to grasp. First: Krishna no longer speaks of worthiness, possibility, eligibility, ripe hour. He simply says, “See.”

If Arjuna had asked this a little earlier, Krishna would not have agreed so easily. What has Arjuna acquired in the meantime? Note it—so that when you acquire it, the Divine will not delay even a moment—he will show you that very instant.

Do not think: “Arjuna had Krishna; I have no one.” Every Arjuna has his Krishna. When you arrive at Arjuna’s inner moment, you will find Krishna present. The one who drives you is Krishna. Your charioteer is Krishna. You have never asked him, never looked toward him, never listened.

If we take man as a chariot, your mind is Arjuna; within you the witnessing consciousness is Krishna. The one who even witnesses the mind—the witness—is Krishna.

But you—the mind—never look there. Even if a voice rises from there, you do not listen. The day your preparation is complete, you will find Krishna ever near. Leave that worry. That is Krishna’s concern, not yours.

What must happen in you so that you can say, “God, show me!” and God says, “See!”—without even a moment between? What has Arjuna earned meanwhile?

Let us start with what he lost. In spirituality, earning begins by losing. Arjuna has lost his doubts. He no longer questions. He says, “What you say is so—this is my faith.”

Till now he was asking, raising questions, doubting: “If I fight, so many will die; if they die, sin will accrue. So should I renounce? What should I do?” And for every answer Krishna gave, he raised ten more. Now he has no questions.

The day you have no questions within, know you have earned something. In one sense you have lost—for we think our questions are our wealth.

People come with a question; before I answer, they ask the next! They do not care for the answer; they care for asking. If I later ask what I said, they say, “We don’t recall.” They only want to ask. If you give them one answer, they use it to manufacture ten more questions. As if their life’s work is to collect questions!

What will questions do? Even a million questions do not yield a single answer. But one answer dissolves a million questions like smoke.

So one seeking an answer must first be ready to lose his questions. This sounds odd. “You ask us to drop the very things we seek answers to! If we drop them, what will the answer be for?”

When someone went to Buddha, he would say, “We will answer your questions. First, for a few days, leave your questions. The day you can say, ‘I have no questions,’ that day we will answer.”

A young man, Malunkyaputta, asked, “Why not answer now?” Buddha said, “You are so full of questions—who will listen? And your questions crowd you so that my answer cannot enter. And even if it does, your questions will attack it and splinter it into a thousand questions—nothing will happen.”

A throng of questions surrounds us; there is no space within for anything to enter. Whatever answer approaches is torn apart to make more questions and sent back: “Now ask these.” No answer reaches within. We die without answers because we live full of questions.

Arjuna has earned this: he has no questions. He is ready to say, “What you say, Krishna, is so. I have nothing to ask.”

Only when there is nothing to ask does the capacity to see arise. One who asks wants to hear. Understand the difference. Asking means: “Say something.” A question means: “Put something in my ears.”

But truth has never traveled through the ears—not yet, and it seems it never will. Truth always comes through the eye.

Hence we call the knower of truth a “seer,” not a hearer. Hence we call their knowing darshan—seeing—not hearing. Hence we seek the third eye, not a third ear. There is no third ear.

When you ask, you want someone to fill your ears. Truth does not come by that route. And note: hearing is always borrowed. Seeing can be your own. As long as there are questions, you will search for those who stuff your ears with debris. The day you have no questions, you will seek one who will make you see.

So Arjuna’s saying, “What you say is so,” signals his questions have fallen.

Second point. At first Arjuna’s journey began with life’s daily tangle—the question of war. For a kshatriya, it is routine: to kill or not; moral or immoral; what to do, what not; what is right. The inquiry was of life. That was his concern. Until now he was asking that.

We too ask: “Shall I do this or not? What will be the result—virtue or sin? Eat meat or not? Gather wealth or not? If I do, some will become poor—am I doing sin or virtue?” These are our worries. This is not a spiritual inquiry.

Until now Arjuna asked moral questions, not spiritual. Now he raises another kind—the one beyond life. He says, “I want to see the Vast.” This is a different dimension.

As long as your questions concern the circumference of this life, philosophy cannot begin. The day you rise beyond these concerns and ask the ultimate inquiry—“What is the nature of life itself?”—that day philosophy begins.

People come to me and say, “My mind is very restless.” “Why?” “No job.” Someone else—no child. Someone’s business is poor—mind restless. None of their reasons are spiritual. They come hoping meditation will bring peace. If meditation brought jobs… Perhaps peace would come. If meditation could produce children… Perhaps peace. If children brought peace! Those who have them have none. They say children disturb their peace.

Some ask, “When will I be free of this job? It disturbs me. After retirement I’ll meditate peacefully.” The unemployed ask, “When will I get a job?” Those employed say, “When will I be free so I can have peace?”

Not one question is spiritual. They are entangled in daily life. Truth’s vision has nothing to do with these. Such questions are not religious.

Arjuna’s initial questions were moral, not religious. Now his inquiry is religious. He forgets he is on a battlefield.

Note it. In this moment Arjuna forgets he stands in war. He forgets his loved ones face him. The war vanishes. The warriors with weapons around him fade like a dream. They are not. Only two remain amid that crowd—Arjuna and Krishna—face to face. The crowd dissolves.

Not that the crowd has gone anywhere. It is where it is. But for Arjuna, it is as if it is not. He is not thinking of it now. The world recedes. He asks now: “What you spoke of—the infinite play, the immortal flow—I want to see it.” The world is lost. This is religious inquiry.

India’s unique Brahma Sutras begin with an amazing aphorism: Athato Brahma Jijnasa—Now, therefore, the inquiry into Brahman. From here begins inquiry; before this, nothing. Those who cling to texts think the first part is missing. “Now, therefore, inquiry into Brahman”—where is the earlier part? It seems the book is incomplete. It is not. It is complete.

Why does it seem incomplete? Because of a change of dimension in the one addressed and the one speaking. Until now, worldly chatter; then the master says, “Now, therefore, the inquiry into Brahman.” Enough of this. Or the disciple asks a question that changes the dimension. The world dissolves like a dream; Brahman becomes real. Hence, “from here begins the inquiry.”

For Arjuna, war vanishes, the world fades. He asks, “I want to see—what is existence?” Directly, face to face. “I do not even wish to keep you in between now.”

The day a disciple says to the master, “Now you too step aside; I want to see directly,” the master’s joy knows no bounds. As long as the disciple says, “I will cling to your feet; if you go to hell, I go to hell; I cannot leave you,” the master is troubled—for this is a new attachment, a new bondage, a new world.

What is Arjuna saying? Very diplomatically—he was a kshatriya, skillful, courteous—he is saying: “Step aside now. Let me see directly. Withdraw your form. Remove even your shape. You too be not. Let your door open and let me see the open sky.”

Athato Brahma Jijnasa—only in such a moment does inquiry into Brahman begin. Here the world is lost.

Hence Shankara insists: the world is maya, a dream. Not because the world is literally a dream—it is very real. If it were a dream, whom would Shankara explain it to? Would he waste himself arguing with dream figures? If the world were truly a dream, Shankara need not move. Who would he speak to upon awakening? Do you explain your night’s dream to its characters?

No. When Shankara says the world is dreamlike, it is a device. He says: if you can see the world as a dream—even for a while—your eyes can turn to what lies beyond. As long as the world seems so real that you spend your life in it—shopkeeping, hoarding pennies, building houses, raising children—you will not turn toward the real. If even for a moment the insight arises that this is a dream, the search begins: “What is truth?” So that search may begin, Shankara compassionately taught: the world is dreamlike.

But people are amusing—they debate whether it is a dream, what kind of dream, whose dream. If Brahman dreams, then it is real; if the soul dreams, where did it begin? They entangle themselves!

If Shankara were there, he would beat his head. He only meant: close your eyes to your fuss for a while. Calling it a dream was a device to free your eyes so they can turn elsewhere. When the gaze loosens here, a new journey begins.

And indeed, one who embarks on that new journey returns to find the world dreamlike—because what he has now known is so vastly more real that by comparison the world fades, lifeless, empty. Relatively speaking. Like one who has seen the sun and returns to find the earthen lamp “dark.” Not dark in itself; to one sitting at home the lamp is sunlike. But the one returning from the sun will not even perceive the lamp’s light; he says, “There is no lamp—you sit in darkness.”

It is in comparison with the sun. All words are relative.

For Arjuna, as he is absorbed in Krishna, the world becomes dreamlike. He forgets where he stands.

Have you ever forgotten, even for a moment, where you are? Forgotten wife, child, home, shop, house? Has it ever happened that suddenly you are startled: “Who am I? Where am I? What is around me?”

If such a moment comes, know: after it—Athato Brahma Jijnasa—the Brahma Sutras begin. But that moment does not come. We know everything—name, address, home, bank balance. Who says we don’t?

In this moment Arjuna arrives where he knows nothing. He forgets war is about to begin, conches will soon blow. The petty questions of right-wrong, life-death, mine-thine—all gone. Only one thing matters: what is this existence? So he says to Krishna, “You too step aside. Let me see face to face.”

This is what he has attained by this moment in the Gita. When the petty no longer questions you, the Vast becomes your inquiry. When what encircles you here and now in time suddenly loses your attention, what lies beyond time envelops you. Forget the petty and the Vast is remembered.

All religious practices are methods to forget the petty—call them prayer, meditation, worship, japa—whatever you like. When the petty is forgotten, you stand at the shore where the boat can be launched into the Vast. Even a short forgetfulness—and something can happen: a new plane of being, a new vision, a new heart begins to beat within you. A new sound that has been sounding within eternally—but new to you, for you will hear it for the first time. When the outer noise and clamor cease even for a moment, that soft inner sound—the eternal sound—begins to be heard.

Arjuna has forgotten. The forgetting of world, of war, of circumstance becomes for him the inquiry into Brahman. And Krishna does not say a single extra word; he says, “See.”

This too is worth pondering: has Arjuna nothing more to do? Krishna says, “See,” and Arjuna begins to see! What happened? Subtle, very subtle—and to be understood by those who go deep in the spiritual, or who wish to—treasure it.

The third eye can be activated in two ways. One: the seeker, by deliberate effort, draws back the light of the two eyes—closing them. Years of practice to de-energize the eyes. Our consciousness that streams out through the eyes is withdrawn inward. Kabir calls it “turning the eyes inward”—the outward-flowing current becomes inward.

You have heard the name of Krishna’s beloved, Radha. You may not have noticed: Radha is the reverse of dhara—flow. In scriptures of Krishna’s time there is no mention of Radha. Much later, in later texts, the name appears. Those who introduced it were wise—they hid a great secret in a symbol. But people made Radha’s statues and staged dances as Krishna and Radha! The device was lost.

Radha is a yogic process. When the life-current that flows outward turns back, that reversed current is named Radha—simply by reversing the word.

When the life-current streaming out through the eyes turns within, it becomes Radha. Within us Krishna is hidden—the witness. When our life-current becomes his Radha—circling him, dancing around him, not going out but in—then the rasa begins. That rasa is spoken of—the supreme joy, the ecstasy, the dance within.

We stage farces on platforms. There are many ways to be noisy; man finds ways everywhere—and deceives himself, thinking the matter is finished.

Radha is the name of our life-current when it reverses, returning to the source. Now it flows outward; when it flows inward, the inner journey begins. Then the inner rasa happens—the supreme life’s ecstasy, the inner dance.

So one way is effort: yoga, tantra, method—drawing all life-consciousness inward. This is the way of the seeker, the yogi.

Another way is the way of the devotee, the surrendered one: surrender to one whose inner current already flows within.

Place an iron piece near a magnet—the magnetic field magnetizes the iron; it too becomes a magnet. So if someone wholly surrenders to one whose current flows inward, his current too turns inward instantly.

Arjuna has done no practice—not possible yet. There has only been this dialogue. Suddenly Arjuna says, “If you deem me worthy, if it is possible, by your will—show me.” And Krishna says, “See.”

Between these two words a happening has occurred: magnetization. Arjuna’s surrender—“What you say is true; I am ready; no more opposition; no more noncooperation; I am ready to cooperate; I wholly consent.” Krishna says, “See.”

Between these, the Gita says nothing; it cannot say anything—what could be said? The happening was this: with surrender, Krishna’s inward-flowing current drew Arjuna’s current inward. Krishna vanished—and Arjuna began to see.

We will speak of this seeing tomorrow.

But do not rise for five minutes. For five minutes, kirtan. That is my prasad. Then go. No one will get up. Sit where you are and clap. Sit where you are, join the kirtan, and then go.