Geeta Darshan #5

Duality is all around. Wherever you look in the world, you will never see the One; the opposite will always be present. The very way the world exists is impossible without the opposite. Understand this one thing well. Just as a mason builds an arched doorway by fitting opposite bricks together—if the bricks are laid all in one direction, the arch will collapse. Opposing bricks, by working against each other, become the very support that holds the doorway up.

The whole universe is made of opposing bricks. There is light only because there is also darkness; and darkness can be only so long as there is light. Light and darkness are opposite bricks, for two reasons. First, all the bricks are of the same substance, so we can set them in opposition. Darkness and light are two forms of the same reality. The bricks are alike, yet they are placed opposite to each other.

Birth and death are the two ends of one life. The day birth does not happen, death will cease. And death too will not be the day birth stops. The tension created by the opposition of birth and death—that tension is the world.

The world is a state of unrest. And unrest can be only when polarity, duality, exists. If you were only soul, you would not remain in the world. If you were only body, you would no longer be you—you would become dust. Within you too there is a duality of body and soul. In the tension between those opposing bricks lies your very existence. Wherever you search, you will find opposition.

There is no way for Rama to be alone. Ravana’s being is absolutely necessary. However disagreeable Ravana may seem, however much we may wish he not be, we do not realize that without Ravana there is no way for Rama to be. Think a little: remove Ravana from the story of Rama, and the very moment you remove Ravana, whatever is significant in Rama collapses. It is because of the opposite brick called Ravana that Rama’s radiance stands out. Remove Rama, and Ravana becomes pointless.

The entire cycle of life is based on duality. The day this duality falls silent, that day we are outside the world. The moment this duality is quieted, that very moment there is entry into non-duality. But non-duality is not life; non-duality is Brahman. Non-duality is not life precisely because there is no death there. Where there is no death, life has no meaning. Where defeat is possible, victory has value. Where there can be annihilation, there being has meaning.

All our words belong to the world. Therefore whatever we say in language will have its opposite. However much we try to forget the opposite, there is no way to forget it. However much we try to hide it, it will not hide. Keep this first point in mind: the world’s existence is dual, dialectical. And all the world’s movement happens through duality.

The German thinker Hegel introduced dialectics into Western thought. For the first time in the West he presented the idea that the whole movement of life is through duality. Where there is duality, there will be movement. And where there is movement, there will be duality. Where there is no movement, duality will have ended. Or, if duality ceases, movement will end.

Karl Marx reshaped Hegel’s idea and gave birth to communism. Hegel had said: when a thesis arises, an antithesis immediately arises; thesis, antithesis; and the two together become a synthesis, a coordination. But the synthesis then becomes a thesis again, and then comes its antithesis. And thus development proceeds.

On the basis of this very idea Marx interpreted society. He said there is a duality of poor and rich. From this duality, beyond this duality, socialism will be born.

But Marx could not carry his own thought far enough. If it is true that development happens through duality, then the very moment socialism is born, a current opposed to socialism will immediately arise.

But Marx did not have the courage to say that there would also arise a current opposed to socialism. He saw duality in the past history, but he wished that in the future there would be no duality, and that communism would remain forever, with no opposition—because of excessive attachment to his own idea. Just as a mother does not want her son to die, even knowing that all die and her son will also die, so too thinkers become overly attached to their ideas.

In this world, nothing can be born that has no opposition. There will be opposition. Opposition is movement; it is the very life-breath of this world. Here, nothing can be without opposition.

Both statements are the same. Where dualities meet, they cut each other off. As when debit and credit are brought together, both are canceled. Where the two opposites meet, their energies negate one another and duality becomes zero. That very zero-ness is the going-beyond; that is transcendence; that is where one crosses over.

So long as you are attached to life, there will be fear of death. If attachment to life drops, the fear of death drops in the same instant. Where there is no clinging to life and no fear of death, you have crossed. You have reached the place where there is no duality.

Yet even when we speak of God, the duality of our language intrudes. We say, “God is light.” We hesitate to say, “God is darkness,” because our craving manufactures our words. We want God to be light, so we discard the dark. We say, “God is amrit, the nectar of life, the supreme life.” We cannot gather the courage to say, “God is the supreme death, the great death.” Even in choosing words, our attachment persists. We want there to be no death anywhere, so we use “nectar” for God.

We say, “God is sat-chit-ananda.” That too is our attachment. We cannot say, “God is the supreme sorrow;” we say, “the supreme bliss.” We pick one from the pair. There the mistake happens. God is the meeting of both pleasure and pain. And when pleasure and pain meet, they cancel each other out. Whatever name we give that moment, it cannot be “pleasure.”

Therefore we chose the word “ananda.” “Ananda” has no opposite. “Sukha” (pleasure) has “duhkha” (pain) as its opposite; “ananda” has none. However, whenever you speak of “ananda,” you usually mean pleasure—and that is not right. Or you mean “great pleasure”—that too is not right. In your notion of ananda, pleasure is included and pain excluded; that is not right.

The true sense of ananda is the state where pleasure and pain, meeting, become zero—each negating the other—so that neither remains.

For this reason Buddha did not use the word “ananda,” because our flavor of pleasure peeks through it. Buddha said “peace,” the supreme peace. Everything becomes quiet; the dualities fall silent. Whether we say the two have merged, or we say we have gone beyond the two—it is the same thing.

Wherever you see duality in life, do not choose. The one who chooses is a householder; the one who does not choose is a sannyasin. Understand this a little.

There is pain and there is pleasure; instantly our mind chooses: we want pleasure and not pain. There is birth and there is death; instantly our mind says birth is fine, death is not. There are friends and enemies; our mind says let there be only friends, no enemies. This is choice. And where there is choice, there is the world—because you have chosen one of the two. But if you choose both together, they will cancel each other.

If you accept that there will be friends and there will be enemies, and in your mind there is not a trace of preference that only friends should remain and no enemies; if in your mind there is no choice that only life should remain and not death; if you consent to both—whatever is, let your entire tathata, suchness, acceptance be there—then you are a sannyasin. Then whether you are in a house, a shop, the marketplace, or in the Himalayas, it makes no difference. Let no choosing arise within you—choicelessness.

Krishnamurti continually speaks of choicelessness. That choicelessness is just this: do not choose between the two.

The moment you stop choosing between the two, both drop. Why? Because they stand only by your choosing. And the complexity is that when you choose one, unknowingly you have also chosen the other. When I say, “I want only pleasure,” I have already invited pain. The one who demands pleasure will be miserable; in that very demand is misery. If he doesn’t get pleasure, he will suffer; if he does get it, he will still suffer—because pleasure once attained turns futile, and the pleasure not attained keeps burning as a wound.

The moment we choose one, the other enters by the back door. And we want the other not to enter—that is precisely why we choose. We want fame but not infamy, praise but no insult. But the one who desires praise has already invited insult. Insult will come. The only one who does not receive insult is the one who has not chosen honor. The one who has chosen honor will receive insult.

It is not necessary that if you do not choose honor, no one will abuse you. They may. But abuse can no longer reach you as abuse. It depends on the other whether he throws a flower or a stone. But now neither the stone can reach you nor the flower. Formerly, because I wanted the flower, the stone could reach me. Because I wanted only flowers, the stone too was invited. The moment you drop choosing, even in the midst of the world you are outside the world.

This choicelessness is the esoteric discipline of sannyas, the inner practice. Sannyas is the path for going beyond the two; the world is the doorway for going within the two.

So the more you choose, the more you get entangled. The more you demand, the more you will be troubled. The more you say, “Let this happen, and not that,” the more agitated your mind-state becomes. To the extent that you thin out choosing and say, “As it is, I consent. Whatever happens, I consent. However it is happening, I have no demand for the opposite.” If life comes—fine; if death comes—fine. “I will relate to both in the same way. I will make no distinction.” As the inner scales settle into balance, duality will wither, and you will enter nonduality—the state free of opposites.

Arjuna is standing in just such a moment, where the world within him has dissolved. He has become choiceless.

There are many ways to become choiceless. One is the way of the seeker, the yogi: through effort he drops choosing. Another is the way of the devotee, the lover: he does not drop it by effort; he accepts destiny, accepts fate; he consents.

This Arjuna standing before Krishna stands as a devotee, a surrendered consciousness.

The state Arjuna is in before Krishna is not that of a seeker; he is not doing any practice, he is not pursuing any yoga. But in love for Krishna he has surrendered. It is a deep mood of surrender. He has left everything to Krishna. To let go means: now I have no choice of my own. Surrender means: now I will not choose; now your will alone will be my life. Whatever you wish, whatever your feeling is, I am ready to flow with it. I will no longer swim.

One person swims in the river; he says, I must reach that bank, that spot. Another person lets himself be carried by the river; he says, I have nowhere to reach. Wherever the river takes me, that is my destination. If the river drowns me in the middle, that too is my shore. I have nowhere to reach; wherever the river brings me, that is my goal. This is the mark of the surrendered devotee.

Arjuna is in such a state. He is saying: I have let go; now I will not swim. I have tried swimming—thinking, reflecting—I have tried it. Now I let go; now I will flow. Now, Krishna, wherever your river takes me. Whatever the outcome, whatever the destination, or even if there is none—wherever I arrive, wherever you bring me, I am willing.

This is choicelessness. Choice has ended. Choosing has ended. Because choosing has ended, Arjuna could be free of duality, and he could have a glimpse of nonduality.

The Gita is indeed sufficient in itself. But you are utterly deaf. The Gita is more than sufficient. No commentary is needed. Yet you will not be able to hear it, you will not be able to read it; it will not be able to enter you.

Buddha had the habit of saying a thing three times—three times! Even small, ordinary things he would repeat thrice. One day Ananda asked Buddha, “Why do you say everything three times? Why repeat even little things three times? We’ve heard it!” Buddha said, “You are under the illusion that you have heard. Even when I say it three times, it’s not certain that you have heard—because listening is a very difficult thing.”

Only one who is not thinking inside can truly listen. When you are thinking within, what you hear is not what has been said. Your thoughts break it, change it, give it a new shape, a new mode; a new meaning is born.

So when I say something, do not fall into the delusion that you hear exactly what I am saying. You hear what you can hear, what you want to hear. And what you hear becomes your interpretation.

Therefore, the Gita is sufficient. But for you it is necessary to find such an occasion when the Gita can be hammered into you—pounded on your head like a hammer. Hence such a long commentary has to be made. Even then there is no surety that you will be able to hear it.

There is another reason. The man of the day the Gita was composed and the man of today differ as much as earth and sky. The difference grows by the day. Words grow old—just as clothes grow old, just as bodies grow old, words too grow old. And old words lose their grip on us. Hearing them again and again, we become deaf to them. Then, in every age, there is a need to pull the meaning out and give it new words.

Truth never becomes stale; words always do. The soul never grows old; bodies do. When you grow old, your body will be worn out; then your soul will have to take a new body.

The Gita has become very old. In every age it needs a new body, new words, new form. In this land we made a profound effort in this direction—and it bore fruit. If we look at other countries, the point becomes clear.

Socrates said much that is precious. But afterwards there was no long tradition of commentary upon him; what he said is collected, that’s all. In this land we made a unique experiment: Krishna spoke the Gita and Arjuna listened; then again and again, Shankara came, Ramanuja came, Nimbarka came, Vallabha came—and offered fresh commentaries.

What is Shankara doing? He is removing the words that have grown old and placing new words there. He is letting the soul enter new words so that the ears of Shankara’s age can hear and the mind of Shankara’s age can understand. But now even Shankara has grown old. And things will always grow old; words will always age. What I am saying today will be old after a few days. It will be necessary again to free the meaning from the words.

Commentary means the attempt to liberate the meaning, the soul, from the prison of words—to remove the word that has seized it and give it a fresh, living word, so that you can hear anew. The mind changes every day; with the mind’s change, its ways of grasping and understanding also change.

Understand this a little.

Five thousand years ago, the mind’s basis was shraddha—faith, trust, confidence. Today the mind’s basis is not faith. Today its basis is exactly the opposite: doubt. There is a reason: the whole enterprise of science stands on doubt. Science proceeds by doubting; it inquires by doubting; one who cannot doubt cannot be a scientist.

Therefore, whoever would be a scientist must learn the art of doubt. We are giving scientific education to the whole world. Every child is being initiated into science; thus doubt is entering every child’s mind—and necessarily so. Scientific education cannot happen without doubt. Science is based on doubt. Think. Ask. Do not accept until proof is found. Wait. Do not be in a hurry to believe.

Religion is based on the exact opposite. Religion’s basis is: quietly, simply, accept. Do not ask. Asking itself becomes an obstacle. Five thousand years ago there was no scientific education. Man’s mind was religious; what the Gita said entered straight within.

Today man’s mind is not religious at all; it is scientific. I am not saying science is bad or religion good. I am only saying: doubt is indispensable to be scientific, and faith is indispensable to be religious. Their paths are utterly different, opposite.

So the mind of the whole world today is moving toward science. Therefore, religious talk finds no resonance with today’s mind—no harmony, no consonance, no connection. Man is going toward science; his back is toward faith. What is heard from behind does not make sense.

There are only two ways: either turn a person around to face faith—which has become exceedingly difficult; exceedingly difficult, for one’s consciousness cannot be turned in a day. Scientists now say that whatever education a child receives in the first seven years pursues him for life; changing it later is very hard. They say a child’s intelligence becomes almost mature by fourteen; after that there is little further development. So whatever enters by the age of fourteen becomes the foundation; whatever happens later is built upon it.

Therefore, a person cannot be turned around at once. His doubt cannot be made into faith. And if you try to force it, doubt will remain inside and faith will sit on top—hollow, false, dead, without life.

So there is only one way: interpret religion in such a manner that it attracts the skeptical mind too. Do not deny doubt; accept it. Do not force faith; bring faith by the very path of doubt—which is exceedingly difficult, but now there is no other way.

If humankind is to become religious again, a new, unique experiment will be needed: to use your doubt itself to bring you to faith; to use your thought, your reasoning, your understanding to destroy understanding; to use your logic to cut down your logic.

This is possible. When a thorn pricks the foot, we remove it with another thorn. No one says, “How can a thorn remove a thorn?” When a person is sick and poison has spread in the body, we administer antibiotics—another kind of poison—to destroy the poison. The entire principle of vaccination rests on the fact that the very germs of disease are introduced into you in greater measure.

So now religion will be vaccination. Now you cannot be told, “Have faith.” This is no child’s game. It is very difficult now.

Even telling a small child today, “Quietly accept,” is futile. The child will say, “What are you saying! Should I not ask? Not think? Not reason?” So your declaration that faith is the first requirement shuts the door of your religion for the child. It means you are talking nonsense. That in which no question can be asked and no doubt can be raised cannot be truth; it is blind belief. You have closed the door.

To tell anyone today, “Have faith,” is unwise. There is only one way now: cut his doubt by the very path of doubt. Bring him to a moment when the mind that doubts becomes incapable of doubting—exhausted by doubting.

One way is to bind you and make you sit, “Be quiet!” Parents do this to small children at home. The child sits, but observe him: he will move his hands and feet, wag his head, do something. The running that was outside now runs within. You have forced him to sit; nothing will be resolved. It is more scientific to say, “Go run ten laps around the house!” Let him run ten laps—perhaps he won’t even complete ten; after three, four, or five he will be tired and say, “I can’t.” Tell him, “Complete five more.” Then sit him in a corner and watch: now there will be no movement within; now he will be quiet, sitting like a statue of Buddha.

For you now, only the second way remains. You cannot be made to sit directly. So I have to make you run ten laps! With one who can sit directly, I have nothing to say—but I do not see a single person now who can sit directly. You will have to run ten laps. Hence such a long commentary is needed—those are the laps. And I have to run them with you, keeping watch that you don’t stop midway—until you are tired, exhausted! There is now no way to bring you to faith except by tiring out your intellect.

Now let us take the sutra:
“And, O mighty-armed, seeing your great form—many-mouthed and many-eyed, with many arms, thighs, and feet, with many bellies, and with many fearsome fangs—all people are distraught, and I too am distressed.”

Arjuna beheld the terrible form—the very visage in which the Divine has become the mouth of death. He says, O mighty-armed! What I am seeing makes all the worlds tremble; I too am shaken. My heart pounds, and dread has entered every pore. Is this also You?

This disquiet is natural, because we have known only one form of God. We have worshiped only one aspect, praised only one face, and assumed that God is only that—and no other. So when the whole of God is revealed, anxiety is only natural.

This anxiety is not because of the Divine’s form, it is because of our identification with a fragment. We have identified with one slice. We thought, God must be beauty. We made all the images of God beautiful. A few courageous tantrics also fashioned grotesque images, but they have slowly faded away; our minds feel no appeal in them.

If you look at the formidable Kali—dagger in hand, a severed head, a garland of skulls, standing upon a chest, tongue red, blood dripping—you may bow out of fear, but the feeling does not arise within that this is a form of the Divine. By convention you may say, “All right,” but inwardly it doesn’t ring as God’s form.

And woman—motherhood, tenderness—whom we call Mother! We call Kali “Mother.” If the mother herself stands in so terrible a form, the mind grows very uneasy. But those who discovered this fierce image were attempting to bring a duality together.

There is no heart on earth more brimming with love than a mother’s. So they stood the Mother at the other pole—as death. The mother is birth. They stood the mother as though she were death. Two opposites—birth and death—were brought together in Kali. On the one hand she is the birth-giver; on the other, death happens by her hand. A garland of bones and skulls is around her neck.

Have you ever looked at your own mother in that way? You would be terrified. And if you cannot regard your own mother so, how will you call Kali “Mother”? Impossible.

But those tantrics who thought to conjoin the opposites were extraordinary people. There is a symbol here: birth and death stand together; love and death stand together; the mother’s heart and the hands of death stand together. Gradually, that form was lost. If today you ever see it, it is only traditional; the living sense has been lost, our connection with its heart has been severed.

We have preserved only the gentle, beautiful form—Krishna standing, flute in hand. That seems divine. Peacock plume on his head, a smile on his lips—that seems divine. From him we get assurance, relief, consolation. We are already so afflicted—why create more disturbance by looking at Kali?

Krishna consoles us: yes, in this life there is sorrow; yes, there is death. But sooner or later a place will come where only the flute plays, where there is only bliss, only peace, only music, and nothing bad remains. Hope is kindled, trust is bolstered, the mind is soothed. What we lack in life, what is absent—we complete it in Krishna.

Have you noticed? We have never painted or sculpted Krishna, Rama, Buddha, Mahavira in old age. There are no images of old age. It isn’t that they didn’t grow old. They had to. On this earth, its laws apply to all; there are no exemptions. If exemptions existed, the cosmos would be a dishonest arrangement. Even Krishna must grow old, Rama must, Buddha must, Mahavira must.

But we did not depict them old. That doesn’t mean they did not grow old; it only shows how frightened we are of old age. If we saw Rama with broken teeth, leaning on a stick, how hard it would be to accept him as God. Beautiful, youthful—that is how we hold them. Their youth is frozen, never moving on.

Imagine Krishna old—wheezing, coughing, on a cot, admitted to a hospital. It would fall outside our trust, beyond our faith. Our reverence would collapse; we would feel: at least being God, this should not happen.

Thus we forge God out of our desires. We sculpt the deity from our cravings; it relates less to fact and more to our feelings.

You see, neither Rama nor Krishna nor Buddha nor Mahavira grows a beard or moustache—ever. A bit awkward. Sometimes a man doesn’t grow facial hair because of a hormonal deficiency; he is not hormonally complete. But that is rare. Yet all our incarnations we have rendered beardless! It is something to ponder.

The Jains have twenty-four Tirthankaras. None is shown with beard or moustache. Hard to believe they made such a “discovery”—that whenever a Tirthankara appears, he is a man with deficient hormones.

That’s not the case. They did have facial hair. But our minds don’t want it. Why? Because facial hair implies age will come; youth cannot be held still. With beard and moustache they become too much like us. And we don’t want them like us. We are weary of ourselves, tormented by ourselves; we don’t want them like us.

So in our avatars, prophets, Tirthankaras, we have added everything we wish we had but don’t. Morning and evening we shave—how we wish we didn’t have to! And someday science will surely devise a way for men to be rid of facial hair.

Even this eagerness to be rid of beard and moustache is curious, thought-provoking, psychological—somewhat pathological, a bit sickly.

A man’s notion of beauty is patterned on the woman; the female face seems beautiful, and it has no facial hair. He concludes that the sign of beauty is the absence of beard and moustache. But ask women: would a hairless male face truly look beautiful to them?

It shouldn’t. And if it does, it means men have corrupted their minds too. Naturally, a woman should find a bearded, moustachioed face beautiful, just as a man finds the hairless face beautiful. Think for a moment—your wife sporting a beard and moustache! When you stand hairless-faced, the same reversal is in effect.

But because men have been dominant and have molded women’s minds into their own cast over millennia, women cannot even protest: “What are you doing? Why are you becoming like women?” Women too accept that this is beautiful, because their very definition of beauty we have destroyed. We have erased the woman’s own standpoint. What a man calls beautiful, she also calls beautiful.

Thus we have thrust our idea of beauty upon Rama, Krishna, Buddha. But these are our wishes, not facts. Fact is: life is bound up with death. We are frightened of death; we want to escape.

Most of us believe the soul is immortal only because we see no other way out. They know nothing of the soul’s immortality, nothing even of whether soul exists; yet they go on believing the soul is immortal. Why? Fear of death.

The body will go; that is certain—do what you will. Only one escape seems left: that the soul is immortal. That is why, as one grows old, one begins to trust in the soul. A young man says, “Who knows? It may be; it may not be.” He is not speaking from understanding; youth’s intoxication is speaking. Let the limbs loosen a bit; trust begins. Let death approach, teeth fall out; trust begins. Why?

Not because some experience is happening. No one becomes experienced just by becoming old. If age brought wisdom, the world would be full of it, for we’ve all grown old countless times. There is no experience gained; only fear increases, death feels nearer, strength seems less; argument no longer feels so easy. Now one thinks, perhaps those so-called superstitious are right—let it be so! Let there be a soul! It is our wish-fulfillment, and we begin to believe.

Go to mosque, temple, church—you will find old people; and even more old women than men. Because even when old, a man holds on to a little male pride, a certain stiffness. Women get frightened sooner and head for the temple.

Out of fear and panic one accepts the soul’s immortality—not out of experience. Experience is another matter—and it comes only to one who drops fear of death and craving for life.

We, out of fear of death, accept that the soul is immortal; we never truly know whether soul is. Only that one will know who neither fears death nor clings to life.

Who is such a one? The person who sees life and death as one—experiences them as one. For this you need not go to scripture, nor sit at the feet of some great sage. Life itself is education enough.

Where are life and death two? They are one. We have split them in our attachment. They are one. Do you know the day life ends and death begins? At what boundary does living cease and death arrive?

There is no division. No watertight compartments. Life and death seem two names for one thing—two words for one event. One end is life; the other end is death.

We fashion God’s form as charming, beautiful. We choose names that allure the mind. But we have cut away the other half.

Arjuna too is afraid—not because God’s form is terrifying, but because he had never imagined it. The idea that this dreadful form could also be God had never arisen. We picture Yama, the god of death, riding a buffalo, fierce-toothed, dark, horned. But we never see Yama as one with God. Yama is a separate department; we do not connect him with God—that death comes from the Divine.

These sutras of the Gita are precious; understand them a little.

Yama is nowhere else; he is in God’s very mouth. He is not coming riding some elephant or buffalo. God’s teeth—those are Yama.

Seeing this, Arjuna is shaken, and he says: “All the worlds are agitated; I too am agitated. O Vishnu! Touching the sky, blazing, with many forms, with wide-spread mouths and radiant vast eyes—seeing You, my frightened heart finds neither steadiness nor peace.”

He speaks rightly. He says, “I am not frightened because of You; I am frightened because my inner being is fear-stricken.” Not because of You. You are vast, great—Vishnu, Mahadeva, Param Ishvara. Not because of You, but because my heart is fearful.

Understand this a little.

We all carry a fearful inner conscience. This is subtle. And you don’t even know what your “inner voice”—your conscience—is.

You fear stealing; something within says, stealing is bad. You refrain from eloping with the neighbor’s wife; something within says, this is wrong. You tremble at killing; something within says, murder is sin, violence is bad. Who speaks within? That inner commentator is your conscience.

But this conscience is not real. True conscience does not live out of fear; it lives out of knowing. This conscience is a social product, manufactured by society. From birth society begins to implant conscience in the child—because society fears that if the child is left to himself, he will become animal-like.

And there is some truth here. If nothing is told to a child, he would become animal-like. So society begins to instruct: if you do this, you will be punished; if you do that, you will be rewarded; if you do this, mother and father will be pleased; if you do that, they will be hurt, angry, pained.

Gradually we build conscience in the child on the foundations of fear and greed. We say: do this, and everyone will praise you; do that, and they will condemn you. The child begins to understand what to fear. Whatever the parents frighten him about—he begins to fear it. Fear sinks deep and becomes conscience.

Therefore every society’s conscience is different—Hindu different, Muslim different, Christian different, Jain different. The soul is not different; the conscience is.

A Jain may not be able to eat meat. From childhood he has been told it is a great sin. If meat appears before him, his hands and feet begin to tremble—not because meat causes trembling, for a Muslim sitting beside him does not tremble. There is nothing in meat itself to induce shaking; the trembling is from the conditioned conscience.

If the same child had been raised in a meat-eating household, he too would not tremble. And if a meat-eating child were raised in a vegetarian home, he would tremble. This conscience built from childhood—this fear of doing wrong—is what shakes him. This is not authentic conscience; it is social conditioning.

Thus in one society marriage with a cousin is normal; in another, right next door, it is a great sin—unthinkable that you could love a “sister” and make her your wife. This is conscience.

As long as many societies and sects exist, there will be many consciences. Because of these consciences there is great trouble. The world cannot be one until we create a universal conscience. Until then, all talk of “Hindu-Muslim are brothers,” “Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai,” is superficial, hollow, a show. At the moment of crisis the veneer will crack and the enemy will appear—because the inner conscience is creating division.

Arjuna says, “I am frightened because of my conscience, not because of You.” He is right. His observation is accurate. Until today his conscience has only known God as gentle, beautiful, pleasing, blissful—sat-chit-ananda, a mass of bliss. He has never known or heard that death too is God.

So the childhood-built conscience holds one image, and that image is being shattered. Hence he is distressed. And not only I, he says, but all the worlds are distressed. This form is truly terrifying.

And O Lord! Seeing Your terrible jaws and mouths blazing like the fire of dissolution, I cannot find the directions, nor do I find any comfort.

His sense of direction is lost. He says: I no longer know where north is, south is, east is. My head is spinning. I cannot recognize the directions—what is what. Seeing this form of Yours, my path is obscured, my way filled with smoke. And I find not even a little joy. I see You—You are God! You are the Supreme Lord—yet seeing this form of Yours, I find no comfort at all—no support for happiness.

Therefore, O Lord of gods, O Abode of the universe, be gracious.

He is saying: have mercy, withdraw this form. Return to that smiling, blissful face; return to that.

To the very end the human mind wants to impose itself upon God. Till the very end, it is not ready to accept God as He is.

This is the seeker’s greatest difficulty: he imposes himself even upon God. One is not fulfilled until one is ready to accept the Divine as whatever He may be.

Arjuna makes a polite plea: be pleased; remove this. Withdraw this blazing, cataclysmic form. Bring a little smile to Your lips; seeing Your laughter and joy will give me comfort.

Take note of this.

As long as you think God should be such-and-such—as long as you have any conception of God—you will not know God. Whatever you know will be only a veil. If you want to know the Divine, you must put aside all your conceptions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist, all must be dropped. You must stand naked, empty, ready to know the sheer Divine, like a zero. Your conscience, your beliefs, your viewpoints—all must be set aside. And as He may be—terrible, death, nectar, whatever—be ready for that.

When a person becomes ready in this way, both forms of God disappear—the fierce and the gentle. The day these two forms vanish, that experience we have called Brahman-experience. As long as forms remain, we call it experience of Ishvara (God-with-form). Understand the distinction.

So long as these two forms appear, it is God-experience. The day even these two do not appear—when there is no longer any choice between them—what remains is Brahman.

India has spoken courageously: it has called even God a part of maya. This may disturb you. India says: even God is within maya; even the experience of God is part of maya. Brahman-experience alone is beyond. Because in God there is still form; with God there is still our attachment—good/bad, “let it be so, not so.”

Devotees go on decorating God—not only in temples (there He is helpless; you can do what you like), but even standing before the very God, Arjuna is saying, “Be like this so I may be happy. Be pleased. Remove this form.”

What is he saying? He is saying, “The center is still me—my happiness. Be such that I feel comfort—not that I become such that You are delighted. I should be pleased—so You become like that.” This is the last attachment. It remains until we cross the final perimeter of maya—the God-idea.

Shankara has said that Ishvara is part of maya. Therefore do not take the experience of God to be final. Here difficulties arise. Christianity and Islam are disturbed by Shankara; even the ordinary Hindu mind is disturbed. For us, God seems the final. But for India’s keenest insight, even God is not final. Final is that state where not even so much remains to be said as “there is bliss” or “there is sorrow,” “there is death” or “there is life.” All distinctions fall, all lines are erased.

Arjuna says, O Abode of the universe, be pleased. And I see that all the sons of Dhritarashtra, the hosts of kings, along with Bhishma, Drona, Karna, and the foremost warriors on our side too—all are rushing into Your terrible mouths with fearful jaws, and many, with crushed heads, are caught between Your teeth.

And O Cosmic Form! As many streams of rivers rush toward and enter the sea, so these hosts of heroic men are entering Your blazing mouths.

He says their heads are crushed in Your teeth, as though You have eaten them and they remain stuck in Your molars. Those mighty ones whom Arjuna could scarcely imagine perishing: Bhishma, so powerful—he too will be ground to powder in the jaws of death. Dronacharya, his guru—so helpless, stuck in the teeth. Karna, the bravest on the opposite side—so pitiable! And not only Dhritarashtra’s sons; those on my side too are being crushed in Your teeth, pulverized. Not only that, those still outside are rushing headlong toward Your mouth—like rivers toward the ocean.

“It is terrifying,” Arjuna says. “It causes great anguish. Close Your mouth. Shut it.”

We are all rushing toward death as rivers rush to the sea. If this entire universe is the body, then surely, somewhere within its mouth we will all be crushed under its teeth. Whoever—Bhishma, Drona, Karna, or Arjuna—everyone will be ground. And those not yet crushed are still running—laboring mightily for some attainment!

We all imagine we will gain something in life; in the end we gain nothing but death. We think we will obtain something unknown, and we obtain only death—nothing else. Do what you will, man reaches nowhere but the grave. No other destination. Hoard as much as you like, accomplish as much as you like, plan as much as you like—in the end you arrive in the mouth of death—without planning. Even if you try to save yourself, you end up there—perhaps by the very effort to escape.

Arjuna sees the whole stream of life flowing toward death. He would not be so frightened if he saw death happening somewhere else—not in God’s mouth. Then at least God could be a refuge against death. If death were elsewhere—if some devil, some messenger of Yama, were bringing death—then God could be the savior. But now there is no way to be saved, because it is in God’s mouth that death is happening. Hence his fear.

If you too come to know that the cause of your suffering is God Himself, that the cause of your death is God Himself, fear will smite you even more. We invent many devices: we say suffering is caused by evil spirits; by Satan, Iblis, Beelzebub—we have found a thousand names. Or suffering is because of past karma. This death is not because of God; it is because the body is transient. We devise a thousand tricks to save God—so that in our hearts there remains some relief.

I have heard: Kabir wrote a song—seeing the grinding mill, he was terrified, for the grains between its stones were crushed to powder. He felt the whole world is a grinding mill in which all are being ground.

Kabir’s son was Kamal. Kamal often contradicted Kabir—sons often do; without a little salt of opposition, what kind of son is he? And being Kabir’s son, he was spirited. Kabir himself had named him Kamal. He would write songs against Kabir.

When Kabir sang, “Between the two millstones I saw no one saved,” Kamal wrote: “True—but whoever holds on to the middle peg is saved.” That peg is God. His meaning was: whoever holds to Rama is saved; the rest are ground.

If poor Arjuna had read Kamal’s line—he did not, because Kamal came much later—he would be aghast: What is this? Death is in Your very mouth! We thought You were the center peg by which we would be saved. In Your mouth itself death is happening! The one we took as our own, whose support we thought would help us fight death—his very mouth is death. The savior appears as the devourer—one can imagine Arjuna’s panic.

That panic is natural—but only because we fashioned God’s form according to our preferences. It is not God’s form; it is the shape of our desires.

Both death and life happen in God. He is mother and he is death. Hence Kali’s image is deeply meaningful: from Her everything arises, and in Her everything dissolves. All rivers fall into the ocean, and from the ocean all rivers are born. They rise from the ocean with the help of the sun’s rays as vapor, become clouds, pour upon the mountains, become Ganga’s source, and again run toward the sea.

The river that sees herself falling into the ocean must be terrified—ending, death! But she doesn’t know that the ocean is both death and womb. Tomorrow she will rise again—fresh, new, young. She had grown old and stale; the earth had dirtied her; the ocean will cleanse all filth. Again pure, she will evaporate; again Ganga’s source; again the journey begins. It is a circle.

The ocean is the river’s end and birth. The Divine is creation and dissolution—being and non-being.

Arjuna is terrified; he says, take it back; don’t show this form. It does not please; I get no comfort from it. Yet he keeps saying, “Bhagavan, Param Ishvara, Mahadeva, Lord of lords!”

Understand his dilemma. He is experiencing that this too is God’s form, but the mind refuses to accept it. He says, remove it; be pleased. “I cannot bear this form.”

This is not only Arjuna’s quandary. Whoever comes near the ultimate, who attains God-experience, faces the same dilemma.

I have heard: the Sufi Junayd once prayed at night, “Lord, I want to know who in my village is the most holy, the most virtuous, that I may bow at his feet and receive his blessing.” That night he dreamed. He was shaken awake. In the dream the Divine said, “The man who lives next door to you—he is the most holy.”

He was an ordinary man. Junayd had never even glanced at him. Far from bowing, that man bowed to Junayd; whenever Junayd passed, he saluted him, considered him a saint. Junayd was troubled: I should touch his feet? What kind of joke is this? We asked for the holiest—surely I am holier; he himself touches my feet!

Often those whose feet are touched think themselves holier because people touch their feet; and it may be that the one touching is actually more pure—because to bow is itself a deep purity, a sign of an unblemished heart.

But God had commanded. Trouble or not, Junayd steadied himself and went out to touch the man’s feet—quickly, lest anyone in the village see Junayd bowing to him, for the whole village regarded Junayd as a great saint.

The man said, “You are touching my feet! Have I done something wrong? Are you angry with me? What sin have I committed that you should touch my feet? Please take it back. Are you out of your mind? A saint like you touching the feet of a sinner like me!” Junayd said nothing. Better not explain, he thought—the trouble that comes from asking God! He touched once and left it at that.

That night he prayed again: “Fulfill one more wish. You granted one; now tell me: who is the worst, the most sinful, most satanic man in this village? Let me know.”

Again God appeared in a dream and said, “The same man next door. And tomorrow morning get up and go touch his feet.”

Now it was worse. Yesterday touching his feet when told he was holy was hard enough; today, being told he is the worst sinner—touch his feet! Junayd protested: “What game is this, Lord! The same man holy and the same man sinful? The same man!” A voice replied: “The day you can see both together, that day you will be able to see Me—not before.”

What is bad and what is good; what is auspicious and inauspicious; pleasing and unpleasing—the day we can see both as one, that day we cross beyond duality.

Arjuna’s difficulty is this: he stands at the edge of going beyond duality. He says to Krishna, “Withdraw. Return to the way you were. Smile, laugh. This deathly form gives me no joy.” Though he is sensing that this too is His form.

If today he could consent to this form, he would cross beyond duality in this very moment. But Arjuna cannot consent yet; he insists on returning to duality.

Enough for today. The rest tomorrow.
Wait five minutes. Let us do a little kirtan, then go.