Geeta Darshan #7

To encounter God, to accept Him wholly, one must be prepared to lose oneself completely. The experience of the Divine is the experience of one’s total death. Only the one who is willing to be effaced can accept Him in full. If there is even the slightest hesitation about dissolving, rejection begins—and with it, fear.

There is only one fear: that I may be annihilated. And that fear is the final obstacle. Hence those who have known, like Jesus, have said: Whoever tries to save himself will lose; whoever is ready to lose himself will find the Lord. To save oneself is the sin on the path. The effort to preserve oneself is the one and only hindrance.

So Arjuna stands before the threshold; the doors to the Cosmic are open. But though he does not say it in words, he is haunted by, “What if I am wiped out?” He says, “In Your teeth I see Drona crushed, Bhishma, Karna crushed. Your mouth has become death, Mahakal. Flames leap from Your mouth and the play of destruction is on. I see even the greatest warriors rushing into that mouth of annihilation, like moths rushing into a flame, into their own death.” Yet nowhere does he speak of himself.

But remember: whenever someone else dies, it brings us news of our own dying. Whenever death happens anywhere, it strikes us too in a certain way: I too will die.

As Arjuna sees all dissolving into Krishna’s mouth, it is impossible that a shadow has not surrounded him from all sides: I too will be dissolved; I too will die like this. I too am rushing, like a moth, toward some flame to be burned—just like this entire world. I am not separate from this world. He speaks of others, but deep within he includes himself. Fear seizes him.

Buddha used to tell his seekers: Before you set out to know the ultimate truth, become as if you were already dead—dead while living. If you have not become dead while alive, you will not be able to bear the ultimate truth. The one who has died while living has no fear left. Standing before God, he is already prepared to be effaced. Without this preparation there will be a snag.

And those who set out to find God mostly go in search of life, not of death. Those still thirsty for life will not find Him. Those ready to be annihilated will find Him; supreme life will be given to them. But supreme life comes only through the full acceptance of death.

The one who is ready to erase himself—no one in this world can erase him thereafter. And the one mad to preserve himself will be erased anyway. For that in us which trembles, “May I not be annihilated,” is the ego. It will certainly perish—it is fabricated. Whatever is fabricated perishes.

That within us which not even death can erase is the soul. And as long as we fear death, it means we have no inkling of the soul. We only know our ego, our asmitā, the sense of I-ness. Within us, mortal is the ego; immortal is the soul. We all know our “I,” but we have no taste of the soul.

We carry this “I” even to God’s door. It cannot enter within. It must be dropped—left right there at the threshold.

Arjuna’s fear is the fear of all seekers who arrive at the last brink, where the question arises: Am I now ready to lose myself?

We even want to obtain God as an addition to ourselves—mind you. Let Him also become our property, within our fist. Let Him be entered into our bank balance: this man has found God! Let Him be in our hands so that our ego is strengthened by His being: I have attained God. That is why we seek Him.

Religion is a great reversal. Religion says: As long as you are, you cannot find Him.

Kabir said: So long as I was, I searched and searched, wore myself out, yet found Him not. And when I was no more, I saw Him standing right in front! He was never far. I was—therefore He seemed far. My being is the one and only hindrance, obstacle, barrier.

Arjuna too stands at that same final edge. The wise have said: Ego is the last barrier. Everything else can be dropped. Wealth is easy to drop. Family is easy to drop. Even the body is easy to drop. The hardest to drop is the ego—the sense that “I am.” And as long as I am, I am the center. Even if God stands before me, He will be number two. As long as I am, He remains number two; number one is I. Until there is readiness to place God as number one, the obstacle remains. The moment I can say, “Now only You are; I am no more,” the barrier falls.

George Gurdjieff spoke of four stages of a man’s sadhana. He said the first condition is: many I’s—multi I’s. You do not have a single “I” yet; you have many.

You may not even realize that you are not one person. Many egos, many I’s exist within you. Hence morning you are one thing; by noon, something else; by evening, yet another. In the morning you give your word, by noon you forget it. In the evening you decide one thing; by morning it is gone. Today you vowed not to be angry—and anger happened.

Gurdjieff says: The “I” that vowed not to be angry was one “I”; the “I” that became angry was another. There’s a crowd within you; there is not one “I.” Therefore your word cannot be relied upon.

Someone would come to Gurdjieff and say, “I have come for sadhana.” Gurdjieff would ask, “Can I rely on your word? You have come to practice today; will you be as ready tomorrow morning? Are you sure that when you vowed not to be angry, you indeed did not get angry?” The man would stagger: “I vowed many times not to be angry, but it doesn’t happen.”

A very eminent elder in Calcutta once told me—highly respected in the country—“I have taken the vow of celibacy four times in my life!”

Now a vow of celibacy can be taken only once. What could it mean to take it four times? The gentlemen with me were very impressed; it did not even occur to them what it means to take a vow of celibacy four times!

I asked that elder, “Then why didn’t you take it a fifth time?” He said, “I failed four times, and then I gave up taking vows!”

You take vows, but your vow cannot hold.

Gurdjieff says: There are many I’s within you; not one. Multipsychic, polysychic. Mahavira used the precise term: bahuchittavān—multi-minded. Many minds reside within one man. Modern psychology has now begun to acknowledge this: multipsychic—the human being has many minds, not just one.

This is the first state: a crowd. Such a man cannot be relied upon. There is no question of trusting him. There is no point in taking his promise; it will not be fulfilled.

The second state, says Gurdjieff, is one I. The person who destroys this whole crowd and creates a single tone within; whose word has weight; who will fulfill what he says; who stands by his promise, his vow—he has one “I.” Morning or evening makes no difference. If he has loved, he will love; he will not be able to hate.

Your love cannot be relied upon. Now there is love; in a moment, hatred. Then hatred turns back into love. Now there is anger; then peace. Then anger again. Your word cannot be trusted. You are not to blame; there isn’t one person within you—there are many. It is as if a house had many owners and none could be relied upon. How could it be otherwise?

Gurdjieff says the second state is of a unitary I—one tone remains. Sadhana cuts through your crowd and builds the one. But that is the second state. The third, he says, is no-I. When the “I” is no more. The experience arises: I am not. This is the third state.

Only the person of the second state can attain the third. The one who firmly has an “I” is the one who can dare to lose it. How will you renounce what you do not possess? You can drop only what you have. You do not even have an ego yet that is complete, strong, one—that you could renounce. And who will renounce? One “I” would renounce, another would cling—what then can you do! You are a crowd.

Gurdjieff says: The one who attains the second state—one I—can then leap into the third. He can say, “I drop it.” Then he attains the sense of no-I: I am not.

And beyond this third, Gurdjieff says, is the fourth state: when even the awareness “I am not” does not arise. Because even that awareness is a subtle trace of “I.” If “I am not,” still it feels as though “I” am. Who is saying “I am not”? Who knows “I am not”? Who is it that speaks “I am not”? That is. So the fourth state is the dissolution of even this.

First, there is a crowd of I’s; then the birth of one I; then the renunciation of that one I—no-I is born; then even no-I dissolves. The person who stands in this void-state can accept God in His entirety. Before this, God cannot be accepted in full; we will make choices even there. We still fear dissolution. As long as I am, I fear. This is Arjuna’s difficulty; this is the difficulty of all seekers.

Prepare to die, prepare to be erased, prepare to be not. Begin to live as if “I am not.” You can do it. That is the deepest of all sadhanas.

But on every side we practice only one thing: strengthening the “I.” Even if you go to the temple, you look around to see whether people are noticing that you are going. Even when you fold your hands in prayer, there is less attention on God and more on whether those around are seeing it properly. Did a photographer come? Will a newspaper print that today I was praying, that I was absorbed?

The mind is busy: someone should see that I am praying; someone should know that I am a praying person, that I go to the temple every day, that I am religious. There is less concern for being religious and more concern that people know I am religious. Why? Because even from the temple the ego is being filled. From that too I gather the pleasure that I am something—not a sinner but a virtuous man; not irreligious but religious.

A man fasts, but not silently. It should be done silently. Why is there any need to tell anyone that you have fasted? Yet the drums and cymbals must be beaten to announce we are on a fast. And when it is completed, a procession must be taken out—ten days, eighteen days! Why all this noise about fasting? It was your private affair. Between you and God, that was notification enough. And he will get the message; your band and brass are unnecessary.

Kabir has said: Is your God deaf that you make such a racket?

But truly, no one has any real business with God. And there is no certainty that he even is. Nor is it certain whether he is pleased or distressed by your fast, or even aware of it. But at least people should know! The man who writhed eighteen days in fasting takes his relish from the procession people take out for him.

A person does a little tapas, a little practice, and he becomes eager that others should hear of it. We are like little children. We have no relation with the experience; our relation is with the news. Our whole world lives on publicity.

You believe that so-and-so is a great saint. Why do you believe it? Because that person managed to get the news to you properly. If someone is hidden, unknown, you will never come to know. Even if Krishna himself were to stand before you, and you had not been properly primed with the news beforehand, you would not recognize him. You might think some actor has arrived. What is this man with peacock plume and flute! You might even inform the police that a suspicious character has appeared—take him away.

You live by words, by news, by promotion. So if even the religious man lives by publicity—how much juice he gets from austerity; not from austerity, but from the publicity of austerity; how much admiration shines in people’s eyes—then only the ego is being fed.

We stuff our ego in every way. There are bad egos too. If you go to a prison, the big murderer is held in greater esteem among the inmates. One who has been in jail five or ten times has more prestige; he is the leader. The newcomer is told he’s still a novice. “What did you do?” He says, “Picked a pocket.” They say, “Hush! Does that even count? Has it any value? Learn first.”

I have heard that in one prison it happened so. One man was already in a cell. Another man arrived and was put in the same cell. The second asked, “How long is your sentence?” He said, “Forty years.” He said, “Only forty! Then lay your bedding by the door. I got seventy. You will have to leave first. Keep your bedding near the door; you’ll get the first chance to go out.” The other has seventy! Seventy years has its own thrill; he is well settled inside.

Man stuffs his ego even with sin; there are small and big sinners. Man stuffs his ego even with virtue; there are small and big virtuous men. If you go to sadhus and mahatmas, even there whether they say, “Please sit,” or say nothing, depends on how much prestige you have in their eyes—whether you have donated, fasted, done austerities.

I was listening to a mahatma’s discourse. I was amazed. He would say a few words—barely two sentences—and then ask, “Seth Kalidas, did you understand?” Many people were sitting there. Who is Seth Kalidas? Seth Kalidas was a man with the face of a complete fool, sitting in front. He would nod, “Yes, Maharaj!” Then he would ask, “Seth Maniklal, did you understand?” Another seth with a turban sat there too; he would also nod, “Understood.”

Later I asked, “What is this? Are these the only two in so many people who can understand? And what is this calling them by name?” It turned out both had donated a lot. So the one who has donated—only he can have understanding! And what bliss Kalidas gets when the mahatma keeps asking, “Kalidas, did you understand!” Among so many people it appears that only one Kalidas is the intelligent one!

Our whole way revolves around the ego, lives by it. So there are good sinners and bad sinners: bad sinners are those who fill the ego through evil; good sinners are those who fill it through goodness. Ego is sin. In the deep vision of religion, ego is sin.

The seeker has only one task: to live as if he is not. What to do? Wherever he feels, “my I is rising,” become a witness right there and give it no support. Walk the road, rise, sit, pass by, as the wind comes and goes. Do not allow anywhere inside the chance that an “I” is being manufactured, built up, strengthened.

If this state of wakefulness remains continuous, then a moment comes when the “I” dissolves and the seeker becomes a zero. In that very emptiness the descent happens. In that nothingness, when all is empty everywhere, the seeker becomes a guesthouse for the Lord’s dwelling. Then the Lord can descend.

Once the Lord has descended, then there is no further need to keep watch. Then even watching becomes an obstacle. Then there is no need to worry even about whether “I am” or “I am not.” He has descended; after that, let him manage it. But until he has descended, until then the seeker needs to live with utmost alertness that nowhere within is the “I” being strengthened.

Let only this one thing be kept in mind, and keep reducing yourself to a cipher, to a void. A moment will arrive when no feeling of “I” arises within. In that very moment the union will happen. In that instant you are not—and the Divine is.

Remember: wherever there is play, great care has to be taken about rules. A game endures only by virtue of its rules. There is nowhere else for it to stand; only the rules are there.

Two people are playing cards. There are rules by which they must proceed, because in a game there is nothing else—everything rests on rules. If the two card players do not accept even a single rule, the game stops. A game survives only on rules.

So keep in mind: if you cheat in your business, people will not condemn you as much. But if you cheat while playing cards and violate the rules, everyone will condemn you. To cheat in a game is much despised, because you are pulling out the very ground on which the game stands. The basis of the game is the rules.

There is so much lawfulness in this world precisely because it is the play of the Divine. And since it is his play, he himself has to keep the rules. He can stop his play whenever he wishes; if he does not follow the rules, the play stops immediately.

But besides him there is no one else; they are his own rules, and it is he himself who abides by them. That is why there is such lawfulness. This lawfulness is not because there is some purpose in the world. Where there is purpose, things can proceed even without rules, because the purpose itself will get the work done. But where there is no purpose, then rules are everything—because there is no future to gain, nothing ahead to attain; rules are the sole ground.

Even little children, when they play, make up rules. Every game stands on rules. Without rules, play is impossible. All these games we see all around stand on rules. That is why science can discover rules. Understand this a little.

Science itself stands upon rules. If there were no rules in existence, science could not stand at all. Science discovers that at one hundred degrees water becomes steam—this is the discovery of a rule. If sometimes it became steam at ninety-nine, sometimes at one hundred and fifty, and sometimes not at all, then science could not stand.

Science has found the rules; but ask the scientist, “What is the purpose?” and he will say, “No purpose is found.” Science says: we have no knowledge of purpose. We can only tell you that it is so. Why is it so? For what is it so? There is no answer. Do not ask us Why; ask us only What.

We can tell you: at one hundred degrees water boils. But why at one hundred? What obstacle was there at ninety-nine? And had it been ninety-nine, what harm would have come to the world? Or had it been one hundred and one, what distortion was going to arise? And that it is precisely one hundred—what goal does that serve? Here too science says: we cannot say anything. No goal is visible, no purpose is visible. What appears is a recurrent lawfulness—the rule repeats.

Religion says: there is no purpose. This makes us very nervous, because then everything seems futile. If there is no purpose, everything appears meaningless. But understand a little.

It appears meaningless to you because until now you have lived by purpose. Because of the notion of purpose, things look futile. If there is no purpose at all, then nothing is useless either. Where there is purpose, something can be called useless—measured against the purpose. If there is no purpose in existence, then nothing is useless and nothing is meaningful. Things simply are.

Whoever accepts this finds that all causes of inner disturbance leave his life. Whoever recognizes it, to whom it becomes a deep realization, finds no restlessness remains. There is no scope for restlessness. The way to descend into supreme peace and supreme rest is to come to this experience: all is play.

At night you see a dream. Someone is stealing your possessions. Someone has murdered your wife. You become very agitated, very distressed. You weep in the dream. In panic your sleep breaks. You find tears on your cheeks, your chest pounding, your blood pressure raised.

But as soon as you wake you begin to laugh—because you see that what was, was a dream. Then you no longer ask, “Why did that man kill my wife?” You no longer ask, “That thief who ran off—did he commit a sin?” You do not ask those questions at all.

Knowing only that it was a dream, a play of the mind, you become peaceful. Your heartbeat returns to normal. The blood flows right. The sweat stops. The tears dry. You slip back into rest, into sleep.

What was the trouble in the dream? Because then the dream felt real, you panicked. The moment you know it is a dream, the panic disappears and you are calm.

So long as you see purpose in the world, you will remain troubled. The instant it occurs to you that the world is lila—dreamlike, a play, without purpose—in that very instant you step out of the dream.

This is the deepest ground by which a person can allow the vastness to descend within. As long as you feel there is hard reality all around; as long as you insist, “It must be so—without this life will be wasted,” you will remain anxious and troubled, and you will waste your life—for your energy will be consumed in anxiety and restlessness. If that energy settles and becomes still, then from that quiet energy a lake of silence forms, without ripples. In that lake a contact happens with the infinite, with the vast, with the Divine.

Then let it engulf the world. What trouble does that cause you? Do you know what harm the lazy have done to the world? Hitler was no lazy man, Genghis Khan was no lazy man, Tamerlane was no lazy man. All the troublemakers of the world—none of them are lazy. Can you name even one lazy person who has harmed the world? Even to cause harm, laziness won’t do, will it!

In the entire history of the world there isn’t a single person we can blame who was lazy and harmed anyone. A lazy person cannot be a thief, nor a politician. Neither a thug nor a murderer.

What problem do you have with the lazy? What faults do they have? All the faults lie with the industrious. The whole web of mischief rests on the doers. A little less doing in the world would not hurt.

Besides, realize this: one who can be lazy will be lazy; one who cannot, there is no way to make him so. Destiny means that only what can be, will be. One who can be industrious will remain industrious. Even if you lock him in a cell, he will still do something or other—he cannot escape it.

Tilak, Lokmanya Tilak, was imprisoned. There were no writing materials, so he wrote on the wall with coal. He began his Gita Rahasya writing with coal. Even if someone sets before you all the pens and paper, an air‑conditioned office, it’s not necessary you will write. One who can write will write with coal even in prison. One who cannot, even with every implement at hand, will feel perfectly at ease just looking at the supplies—he will not be able to write a thing.

You do what you can do. Let me tell you a story.

A Japanese king had a whim. He was a great lover of the lazy. He used to say, “The lazy man is a most unusual person. And besides, the lazy are not at fault. If God created someone lazy, what is his fault!” The king himself was lazy, a great admirer of the lazy. He had a proclamation sounded throughout Japan: all who are lazy will receive a government pension. Because God made them lazy—what else can they do? And why should they suffer because of God!

His ministers were alarmed: “This will cause a great disturbance. The whole country will become lazy, and the treasury will be emptied. Treasuries aren’t filled by the lazy; the industrious fill them. And if the lazy start getting a free pension, everyone will turn lazy.” But it was the king’s order, so they devised a stratagem.

They said to the king, “Fine. But how will we know who is truly lazy?” The king said, “Is that even something to figure out? It will be obvious. Announce that all who are eager to receive the pension should gather at the palace.”

Some ten thousand people gathered from the capital. The king had thatched huts built for all and lodged them. At night he said, “Set the huts on fire. Those who do not run out of their huts—we will give them the pension.”

Four men did not run. When the huts caught fire, they pulled their blankets over themselves. Their neighbors said, “The hut is on fire!” They replied, “If someone carries us out, let him carry us. Otherwise, it’s not within our power.”

One who is lazy—where do you ever manage to make him industrious! And one who is industrious—there is no way to make him lazy. In life each person is as he is: this is the understanding of destiny. So do not be troubled that people will become lazy.
The friend who has asked seems to be the lazy type. “People will become lazy”—what is there to fear in that? The fear is his own. He must be lazy. After much self-persuasion he must have gotten into doing. The father, the wife—someone or other must be pushing him, “Get to work.” So he must be working by talking himself into it. On hearing this he must have panicked: “This is going to mess things up. The world will become lazy!” The world will not become lazy.
But if you can be lazy, then don’t delay—be lazy. Don’t listen to anyone; quietly be so. Because that is your nature, your own dharma. Then don’t be afraid. Remember, what does this mean? It means that you must then be ready to bear whatever consequences laziness brings. The wife will berate you. The father will stand there with a stick. The neighbors will criticize. You’ll get a bad name everywhere. Listen to all this peacefully: they are bound to slander; they are slandering. I am lazy, I am lazy.

If you can even do this much, your laziness itself will become your sadhana. Action becomes sadhana if we accept it. Laziness too becomes sadhana if we accept it. One who accepts his nature and lives with integrity—the divine is not far from him, whatever that nature may be.

Why such fear for the world? Is the world running because of you? Fear is always one’s own.

If a murderer hears that there is destiny; that God has already done everything; that—as Krishna tells Arjuna—those whom you are to slay, I have already slain; the murderer will think, “Perfect. Whoever I have to kill has already been killed by God. I am only the instrument.” That fear belongs to the murderer within.

But good—if reflecting on destiny brings your inner reality to the surface, it is priceless for self-observation. If accepting destiny makes the first thought arise, “All right then—let me clean out the neighbor’s safe and vanish,” it becomes very useful for self-inquiry. What is hidden in you gets revealed.

You may have been taking yourself to be a saint—yet you are a thief. The thought of destiny has exposed you, laid you bare before yourself. You may have thought, “I am a great pacifist,” and now you find yourself thinking, “What’s the harm in killing a couple of people? Krishna has already killed them; I am only Arjuna, a mere instrument. Shall I do it then?” You will discover that all your saintliness was shallow and showy; inside, the real killer was hiding.

So, first: even the idea of destiny becomes a cause for self-observation. And second: it is necessary to understand the whole chain of the idea of destiny. You think, “I will crack open someone’s skull—after all, it’s destiny.” But when he returns the favor and cracks your skull—then? Then too, take it as destiny. Don’t get angry. Don’t get anxious. When you take someone’s safe, that’s fine; but when someone carries off your safe—or four men waylay you on the road and snatch your strongbox—then?

I have heard of a thief who was on trial—for the third time. The magistrate asked, “You’ve been caught three times. Twice we found no eyewitness; no one saw you stealing. Now you’re caught a third time, but still no witness. Do you steal alone? Don’t you keep a partner?” The thief said, “The world has become so dishonest that it’s not wise to partner with anyone.”

Even thieves wish to partner only with the honest—yet say the world has become so dishonest that partnership doesn’t work. Better to work alone; no one is trustworthy. Even a thief wants someone reliable.

Remember: destiny is not only when you crack someone’s skull. When he returns and cracks your skull, that too is destiny. If there is acceptance on both sides, then go—crack the skull; don’t delay. If there is acceptance both when you rob someone and when someone strips you of everything—fine. Destiny doesn’t mean that only what favors you is destiny. Destiny has both aspects.

Bear in mind: one who accepts destiny becomes so calm, so silent, that only if the Divine itself wills it will a theft happen through him. Understand this well.

He becomes so silent and peaceful through acceptance that only if the Divine itself wills it will a killing happen through him. As you are, even if the Divine does not will a killing, you still commit it. Even if the Divine does not will a theft, you still do it. You are living by your own reckoning, running your own little world apart from the vast plan of existence, racing on your own private tracks.

To accept destiny means: whatever is, is accepted in totality—whatever the outcome. He will not say, “This was bad for me.” If tomorrow you are caught stealing and the court sentences you, what will you say then? Will you say, “A wrong has been done to me; I was only serving destiny”? The magistrate, too, is serving destiny. And the policeman handcuffing you is also serving destiny. Acceptance of destiny means: I have no complaint against anyone in this world.

Understand this well.

Acceptance of destiny means: no complaint in this world. Whatever happens, is according to That Will. Then I tell you: if you have that much courage—to accept everything—then I grant you the right to steal, to kill, to do whatever you will. But first let that acceptance happen.

So far, that has not happened. When such acceptance comes, a person drops himself. You kill because you live in ego. Someone gives you a little prick and you think, “I’ll wipe him out!” Someone hurls a small insult and you are on fire. That fire comes from ego.

One who accepts destiny—his ego has dissolved. He says, “I am not.” Now whatever happens, its responsibility is God’s, not yours.

And this world—people fear it might get spoiled. As if the world is in such good shape now—and could it get any worse!

People keep coming to me, worried that the world will be ruined! As if there remains anything still to be ruined! What’s left to lose? We are like a naked man worrying, “Where will I dry my clothes if I bathe?” First have some clothes! He won’t bathe for fear of where to dry them.

How much worse can the world become than it already is? And why is it in such a bad state? Not because we have accepted destiny. It is in such a state precisely because we are all busy trying to improve it. We have not accepted it. We are all trying to remake it—each in our own way, by our own intentions. Everyone has carved out their little world and is “improving” it.

Even a thief—why does he steal? So he can educate his children; so his wife can have a diamond necklace; so he can have a little house, a garden, a car. He too is beautifying his corner—setting it with diamonds and planting a garden.

Whatever we do in this world, we are trying to make something “good” from our own point of view. And to do that good, we think, “If we have to do a little bad, what harm? Let’s do it!” We imagine that the good we’ll produce will excuse the small evil.

Destiny means: we are not busy trying to create or improve the world. We leave the world as it is, and live quietly where we are. We do not even touch the world to “make it better.” If such a possibility were to increase, the world would become a thousand times better.

Those who set out to “improve” the world have created more mischief than anyone. They are mischief-makers. Their words suggest they are making everything better, but they keep distorting things. Why? Because they snatch the instrument from the hands of God, from the hands of destiny, and take it into their own hands—becoming doers themselves.

This will seem upside down to us because our entire thinking is built on “Do something, achieve something.” Fathers keep telling sons, “Do something, show something—now that you’re in the world.”

It would be enough if the world never even noticed you were here. You can do nothing greater than that. Live in such a way that no one knows you were. When you go, let there be no noise, not even a leaf stirred. Then you have lived as the Divine wants.

But “do something and show it” means: display the ego. This habit of ours—action-orientation—is contrary to destiny. Yet it does not mean that one who accepts destiny will do nothing. It does not mean he will be inert.

Our arguments are odd. One friend says, “He will do nothing.” Another says, “He will murder and steal.” Either he will do nothing, or if he does something, it will be bad. These are our two notions.

No. One who accepts destiny will no longer be the doer. Whatever the Divine makes happen, will happen through him. He will not add any doing from his side. He will flow; he will not swim. He will drift in the current.

And bad? We do the bad precisely when ego is thick in us. The root of all evil is “I.” Where there is no “I,” nothing bad will happen through that one. And if something looks bad to us, the Divine must have some purpose—some good arising from that apparent bad.

Now let us take the verse.

Thus, on Arjuna’s asking, Krishna said: “O Arjuna! I am the great Time-Spirit, the destroyer of worlds. At this moment I am engaged in annihilating these worlds. Therefore, even without you, the warriors stationed in the hostile armies will not remain. So rise, win glory, conquer your enemies, and enjoy a prosperous kingdom. These mighty warriors have already been slain by Me.

“O Savyasāchin (ambidextrous archer)! Be only an instrument. Slay Drona and Bhishma, Jayadratha and Karna, and many other valiant heroes already killed by Me. Do not fear. Without doubt you shall conquer your foes in battle; therefore, fight.”

This sutra is the full exposition of the doctrine of destiny.

“O Arjuna! This terrifying, dreadful form of mine that you behold—this death in my mouth, these tongues of fire, the warriors rushing into death, into my mouth—this has a cause. I am the great Time-Spirit, the destroyer of worlds. In this moment I have appeared for a great destruction. A vast annihilation is at hand, and for that my mouth has become death. I am Time. This is my aspect of dissolution. One of my forms is creation; another is destruction. Right now I am present for destruction. These heroes eager for battle before you—I have come to take them. It is not merely that they are running toward me; I have invited them. Soon they will all enter my mouth. You have peered into the future and seen it. What you see in my mouth now is what will occur shortly.”

Let us understand a little about time.

The future is that which we do not yet see. Because we do not see it, we think it is not. What we see, we call “is”; what we do not see, we call “is not.” We don’t see the future; therefore we think it does not exist.

But if it does not exist, how will it ever come to be? How will something spring from nothing? That which, in a deeper sense, has not already arrived—how will it arrive?

A great scientist in the Delabar laboratory at Oxford was photographing flowers. One day he was astonished. On a very sensitive newly developed film he photographed a rosebud. But the image came out as a flower. He was alarmed—how could this be? He waited. When the bud blossomed, it was exactly the flower that had appeared in the photograph.

Delabar is a unique laboratory. There they experiment with this: if a bud is going to blossom shortly, then on some subtle plane the petals must already have opened. At that time—some ten years ago—scientists had no explanation for how a photograph of a flower could appear when, outwardly, there was only a bud.

Then, in Russia, another researcher working deeply on photography for thirty years found the key. He took thousands of photographs of the future—of moments just ahead. His basis was this: before the bud’s petals open, the light-aura around the bud—the luminous field, the rays streaming from the petals-to-be—open first. They pave the way for the physical petals to open; the light opens first so the path is ready. Then, based on that luminous pattern, the petals bloom.

So the hazy image that appeared was of those light-petals that blossom before the petals our eyes can see.

This Russian scientist says that soon we will be able to photograph a person’s death. Because before one dies physically, in the world of light his death has already happened. For a long time we have maintained that six months prior to death a person’s aura dims; the rays that were fanning outward begin to fall back in upon themselves, like petals closing.

He says we can photograph this. Another uncanny thing happened to him. While photographing flowers, he took a picture while holding a flower. The image of his hand was strange—unlike ever before. He had photographed his hand many times with flowers, but this time the hand looked disordered; the rays seemed to be fighting each other. Yet physically his hand seemed fine—no pain, no ailment.

Three months later he fell ill; boils and eruptions appeared on his hand; a skin disease spread. When he then photographed his hand, he realized that what had flashed three months earlier had now deepened—the same pattern. He photographed healthy hands: those rays are harmonious, in rhythm. In disease, the rhythm breaks.

He says: if an illness is on its way to the hand, three months earlier the rhythm of its rays breaks. He adds: very soon hospitals will be able to warn people before they fall ill—“You will suffer from such-and-such disease in so many months; begin treatment now and prevent it.”

The future simply means: we do not yet see it. Imagine I sit beneath a very tall tree; you sit atop it. A bullock cart is coming down the road. I cannot see it—the path is long; it’s beyond my sight. For me the cart “is not yet”—it is in the future. From the treetop you can see it. You say, “A cart is approaching.” I say, “Nonsense—there is no cart on the road.” You say, “In a little while you’ll see. For you it’s future; for me it’s present, because I can see farther.”

The cart arrives and I say, “Your prediction was true.” It was no prophecy—you simply saw farther. The cart rolls past and soon I can’t see it again. I say, “It’s gone.” From the top you say, “It hasn’t gone; it’s still on the road—I still see it.”

As sitting on the ground shows one view and sitting in the tree shows a wider view, so it is with the states of consciousness—from where we stand.

I have spoken of four states. First: where there is a crowd of “I”s—there, nothing is seen until it comes right up to our eyes. Second: when one “I” remains—vision expands; we have risen above the crowd, like sitting on a high tree, seeing farther—things become visible before they arrive. Third: a higher plane where one knows “I am not.” At this height, things very far off—what will be someday—become visible. And a fourth, still higher: where even “I am not” does not remain. This is the last height—there is no higher. From here all is seen. One in this state we call omniscient; for him, nothing remains future—everything is present.

What Arjuna saw in Krishna—the warriors merging into his mouth—frightened him; he asked, and Krishna said, “Do not fear, Arjuna. I have come to end these warriors assembled for battle. You have had a preview of what is just about to happen.”

Therefore, “Rise, win glory, conquer the enemy. These heroic warriors have already been slain by Me. Do not be anxious that you are the killer. Do not consider yourself the cause. You are not the cause; you are the instrument.”

We must understand the difference between cause and instrument. Cause means: without it, the event cannot happen. Instrument means: even without it, the event can happen.

You heat water. Fire is the cause—without heat the water cannot be warmed. But the vessel in which you heat it is not the cause; it is an instrument. If not this pot, another will do. If not a stove, a brazier, a gas range, an electric heater—some means will appear. Heat is the cause; the rest are instruments.

Even your act of heating is an instrument—someone else could do it: a man, a woman, a child, an old person. If you are not there, it does not mean the water won’t be heated. One thing is needed—heat, the cause. The rest are instruments; instruments can be exchanged; the cause cannot.

Krishna says, “I am the cause; you are the instrument. If you will not kill, someone else will. Their death is going to happen. In one sense, it has already happened. I have already slain them, Arjuna. You are being employed merely to finish off the dead.”

I recall a story of Mulla Nasruddin. A warrior came to his village, boasting in a café of his bravery. “Today the battle was fierce. I cut off countless heads. I chopped men down like grass.”

Nasruddin, listening, could not resist. “That’s nothing. Once I went to war, too. I didn’t count, but by estimate, I cut off at least fifty legs, like mowing grass.”

The warrior said, “Legs? I’ve never heard of cutting legs in battle! You should cut off heads.” Nasruddin said, “Someone else had already cut off the heads. I missed that chance. I arrived and saw the heads were already off; why waste an opportunity? I cut off the legs. Countless.”

Krishna is telling Arjuna the same: Don’t be troubled. Those whom you think you will kill—I have already cut off their heads. You only have the job of cutting the legs. And for cutting these legs, you will unjustly receive glory, wealth, a kingdom—free, merely for being the instrument. Those whom you fear killing—they are already dead. You are simply giving the corpses a final nudge—like placing the last straw on the camel to make it kneel. The camel is already at the point of sitting; you are placing the last straw. If you don’t, someone else will. This leg-cutting can be done by another, because the real neck-cutting has been done by destiny.

What does this mean? It means: where Duryodhana stands, where his allies stand, the army of his friends—by what they have already done, their pitcher is filled and about to break. You will get glory for free. Don’t miss the chance. And remember you are only the instrument—don’t try to build ego: “I won; I slew them.”

Two strands are here. First, Krishna says: accept destiny; let what is happening, happen. Second, more important: if you win—and you will, because I tell you the victory is certain—you will win not because of what you do, but because of what you are.

Seeing Rama and Ravana ready for battle, one can say Rama will win. One who knows life’s depths, who can read the sutras, can say Rama has already won. Because whatever Ravana is doing are the very measures of defeat; evil is the method of losing. Rama does nothing evil—he keeps winning. Doing the good is the method of winning. So even before the defeat, one can say Ravana will lose.

So too, one can say Duryodhana and his side will lose. Whatever they have done is sinful, wrong. Their greatest wrong? They have severed themselves from the power of the whole and become sheer ego. They have cut themselves off from the current.

Imagine. It is hard because we do not see it. Drop two small pieces of wood into a river. Suppose one tries to float upstream. It won’t—wood isn’t as foolish as humans! But imagine these pieces have caught a human infection; they begin to behave like us—one tries to go against the current.

We humans relish going against the current. Floating with it—what’s there? Anyone can do that. Do something contrary. Stand on your head at the crossroads—a crowd will gather. Stand on your feet—no one notices. Why? The one standing on his head is doing something inverted; inversion attracts.

Man is eager for the inverted. Why? Because inversion validates the ego. The straight does not satisfy the ego. If someone is stumbling on the road and you steady him, no newspaper will report it. Push someone down, and tomorrow it’s news. Do good—no one will know. Do bad—everyone knows at once.

Open the paper—from first line to last, it is about people doing the inverted. A riot here, a strike there, theft, dacoity, a train overturned—mischief makes news.

So imagine a piece of wood trying to go upstream. We can say in advance, from the bank: it will lose—no great intelligence is required. It is struggling against the current; it will be defeated, Arjuna. Krishna can say this.

And the piece drifting with the current—there is no way to defeat it. How will you defeat one that never tries to win? It is already flowing with the river, in acceptance. It says, “The current is my life. Wherever it takes me, I go. There is nowhere else to go.”

Rama flows with the river; therefore we can say in advance he will win. Ravana will lose—he swims against the stream.

What Krishna tells Arjuna is not partiality—“I am on your side, my friend, therefore you will win.” The deeper reason is this: Krishna can see that the side Arjuna stands on has been flowing with the current; and those opposed have been flowing against it. Their defeat is certain.

So do not entangle yourself. Your entanglement is creating the possibility that you, too, may begin to swim against the current. You are a kshatriya; your natural current, your swadharma, is to fight. Fight—and be a mere instrument. Your talk of sannyas is inverted.

If Arjuna renounces and becomes a sannyasin, he will impress many—he is a figure of great influence. But he cannot be a sannyasin. Even if he sits in the forest to meditate, it won’t last long. A deer appears—his hands will search for bow and arrow. A crow drops its droppings from above—he’ll pick up a stone and settle the matter. His being—his swadharma—is that of a warrior; nowhere in him is there the setup to make him a renunciate.

So Krishna says, “You are trying to move upstream. If you think, ‘I’ll do this, not that; this is right, that is wrong…’—no. Just flow. Surrender into destiny. Be an instrument. Their defeat is certain. Those warriors arrayed against you are moving into my mouth—into death—this is definite. They are already slain. Drona, Bhishma, Jayadratha, Karna—mighty and valiant—do not fear them. Those they stand with are wrong; with them, they are already sunk.

“Bhishma is a good man—but he stands with the wrong people. Often good men are weak. Often they silently tolerate evil and stand with it. However good they may be, however great their power, they will not be cut down by your power, but by standing against the Vast. They are already cut.”

Understand this well.

“You will not be able to kill them.” Between Arjuna and Karna a direct contest could be had—and it would be hard to say who would win. They are sons of the same mother. Karna is not even a hair less—in fact, the fear is he may prove greater. But he will lose—not due to lack of strength, but because he stands against the Vast, against what the Whole wills. To stand against the Vast is dangerous—then even a small man can defeat you.

In Japan there is the art of jujutsu, judo. There a small child can defeat a wrestler; a woman can defeat a man. Today, in the West, because of the women’s liberation movement, women are learning jujutsu—if they must confront men, what is the way? Men are physically stronger. So schools of jujutsu are opening in cities across America; women are training. And be a little alert—sooner or later here too.

If one is well trained in jujutsu, the strongest man is defeated by a slender woman. What is the art? Exactly what Krishna is saying.

Jujutsu’s art is to stand with the Vast. Don’t worry about the individual in front of you; worry about the Vast. Do not fight him directly; cooperate with the Vast. Then this man cannot win. The whole training, the whole discipline, is how to cooperate with the Vast.

The first rule: a practitioner of jujutsu, when he stands, does not say, “I am fighting.” He first dedicates himself to the Vast—to God: “I surrender to You. If it be Your will, let whatever happens happen.” Then he fights. And in fighting, he does not attack; he only receives the attack. He says, “Strike me; I will endure—because the Vast is with me.”

You’ll be amazed to know: if someone stands utterly calm, willing to take the blow, and you punch him—and he offers not even the slightest resistance, not even unconscious resistance (and that is the discipline; ordinarily, when a blow comes, you harden in defense)—if your bones harden and he hits, they break not from his blow but from your stiffness. If you remain soft, offer no resistance, ready to absorb his blow—“We will drink your punch, for the Vast stands with us”—his hand will break; he will get a fracture.

This is scientific. See it another way: you and a drunk sit in a bullock cart. The cart overturns. You get fractured; the drunk does not. He falls on the road every day—at least learn this much from him: he doesn’t get hurt. Each morning, fresh—bathed and off again! And he falls daily—why no injury?

Because the drunk does not separate himself. When he drinks, he loses self-consciousness; he becomes part of nature. He has no awareness of “I am.” When he falls, he cannot harden. The cart overturns; you try to save yourself—your ego arrives: “I must protect myself.” The drunk has no ego—he just rolls with the cart. He offers no resistance; there is cooperation. He will not be hurt.

Little children fall and are not hurt. As they grow, they begin to be hurt. The day your child gets hurt, know that ego has formed. Until then, there is no ego. When he falls, he falls with the fall. He doesn’t stop himself—“Oh! I am falling.” There is not yet anyone there to stop himself. He falls; he rises; nothing happens.

Krishna’s statement that “You are already victorious” is for this reason: you stand with that side which is not aligned with evil. You are not moving against the current; you are moving with it. And they are already defeated—they are going upstream. This destiny is set, Arjuna. Do not worry in vain. Without doubt you will win; fight.

That’s enough for today.

Wait for five minutes; leave after the kirtan.