Geeta Darshan #8

If you rightly understand what we are calling destiny, the mind will become quiet. There is no other way to quiet the mind. All other ways are superficial; they may give a little relief, but the mind cannot become truly quiet through them.

But the matter of destiny is a bit difficult; it is not easily grasped. The mind is restless; the vision of destiny will say: accept that restlessness. Do not try to become calm in opposition to it. The mind is sad; the vision of destiny will say: accept the sadness, do not strive to become cheerful. Because real unrest is not caused by unrest; it is born from the thought of pushing unrest away.

Real sadness is not caused by sadness; it arises from the idea, the notion, the longing of “How can I become cheerful?” Accept sadness, and you will soon find that sadness has dissolved. In its acceptance lies its end.

Do not ask, “How do I not be unhappy?” If you are unhappy, accept the unhappiness. That is fate. That is destiny. It is. Do not fight it. Drop all struggle with it. Drop even the aspiration to go beyond it. Drop the demand for its opposite. Accept: “This is my destiny, my fate. I am unhappy.” The matter ends there.

Consent to sorrow, and then see how sorrow can remain. Accept unrest, and you will become peaceful. Our unrest is not unrest; our unrest is born from the desire for peace. Therefore, those who become very ambitious for peace—no one is more restless than they are.

Every day I see countless people tangled in this very confusion. From the day you get the idea “How to be peaceful,” from that very day your unrest will increase. Because there already is unrest; now a new unrest begins: “How to become peaceful!”

And how can a restless man be peaceful? If a restless man worships, his worship will carry the stamp of his restlessness. If a restless man meditates, his meditation will arise out of his restlessness. If a restless man goes to the temple, he will take his agitation along. If a restless man reads the Gita, what will he do? From unrest, only unrest can come. Whatever you do—who will be doing it? The restless person himself.

Remember a deeply psychological, fundamental rule: if you are restless, whatever you do will increase restlessness. Who will do it? The restless person will do it. He will double it, triple it.

Consider: a madman tries now to cure himself—by himself. What will he do? He may become a little more mad; he can do nothing else. His effort too will arise from madness. Leave aside “madman,” perhaps the mind balks at that word. Take a greedy man trying to renounce greed. What will he do? Even his attempt to renounce greed will come out of greed. The man is greedy. If someone convinces him that by giving this much in charity he will get a house in heaven right next to God’s, and if that is guaranteed, he can donate. But that donation will spring from greed. A guaranteed seat in heaven—that is greed! He can then give. But that charity is not the opposite of greed; it is a part of greed.

So when you see people giving in charity, do not assume they are free of greed. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is simply their new greed. Their greed is not ending on this earth; it is extending into the hereafter. They don’t just want to arrange things here; even after death their greed spreads; they want to arrange things there too.

What will a greedy man do? Whatever he does, he will do it because of greed. What will an angry man do? Whatever he does, he will do it because of anger.

As long as you are what you are, whatever you do will arise out of you. And if a leaf sprouts from a neem tree, it will be bitter. Whatever leaf sprouts from you will carry your very flavor.

The vision of destiny says: do not do anything. You cannot do anything; simply consent. Try this experiment. Restlessness has come many times, and you have tried to become calm—and you have not managed it so far. Try the second experiment. When restlessness comes, accept: “I am restless. I am such a person that restlessness will come to me. I must have done such actions that restlessness is coming to me. In my destiny I am a vessel fit for restlessness.” Accept this. Do not struggle even a hair’s breadth against this restlessness.

What will happen? The moment you accept, restlessness begins to vanish. Because the feeling of acceptance becomes its death. The sorrow we consent to—where does that sorrow remain? We are such that we cannot even consent to happiness; consenting to sorrow is far more difficult. But the very thing to which we consent…

Just a few days ago a woman came to me. Her husband had died. Naturally, she was sorrowful. She is young, about thirty or thirty-two. Married only two or four years. Capable, educated, refined, a professor at a university. Because of her “good sense,” she did not cry. She explained it away to herself, restrained herself, controlled herself. People praised her greatly. Whoever saw her patience and firmness praised her. Three months have passed since her husband died. Now she has begun to have hysterical fits; she gets dizzy and faints.

I looked into the whole matter. I said to her, “You did not cry when your husband died; that is exactly the trouble. You knew the joy of your husband’s presence—then who will know the pain? And if you were delighted in your husband’s love, who else will be sorrowful in his separation? It is a part of destiny. With the one with whom we found joy, in his absence who else will find sorrow? You must. This cannot be divided: that I will take the joy but not take the sorrow. You chose it the day you rejoiced with your husband; on that very day this sorrow was determined. Who will bear this sorrow? You must. Cry. Beat your chest.”

She said, “You give such advice! Everyone intelligent I met praised me.” I said, “Those so-called intelligent people you met—they are the very progenitors of your hysteria! When you were happy with your husband, did these intelligent ones tell you not to be happy? Had you stopped happiness then, there would be no sorrow now. But having taken one step, the second must be taken. Be sorrowful—otherwise you will go mad.”

Hearing me, she broke down right there. Tears began to flow. She began to weep. When she came, a mountain’s weight was on her mind; when she returned, she had become light. She asked me, “Then I may weep my heart out?”

“You must weep. Weep your heart out. And do not fight. Sorrow has come; accept it. Be thoroughly sorrowful, so that sorrow is spent.”

I have just had news that she has become lighter. The fits have stopped. She cried; she sorrowed to her heart’s content. She accepted: “Sorrow is my destiny.”

Whatever we accept, we go beyond. If you are restless, accept restlessness. Do not fight. Then see what happens. Acceptance is a revolutionary element. And the very thing we accept—our release from it begins that very moment.

Our mischief is this: we clutch at pleasure and we do not clutch at pain. We want to avoid pain. We try to ensure pleasure does not slip away. And we do not know that pleasure and pain are the two faces of one coin. So when we clutch pleasure, we have already clutched pain—its hidden face. We are working at cross purposes: wanting to hold pleasure and remove pain. This will not be. Either drop both, or consent to both. In either case, a revolution will occur in your life.

Pleasure and pain we can understand. But when someone says “peace and unrest,” it seems like a different matter. It is the same matter—the same coin; only the names have changed.

You want peace. Because you want peace, you will have to accept restlessness. Who will take the other half? If you obtain peace, who will take unrest? Where will the other half go? And the two faces of the coin cannot be separated.

So be willing for unrest too, if you want peace. Consent to both. In consenting to both, a revolution happens. Because ordinarily the mind consents to one and not to the other. The mind’s trick is: grasp half, drop half. That is its conflict; that is its suffering. When you consent to both, you go beyond mind. Either drop both, or take both—both amount to the same thing.

Therefore, in the world there are two ways, two methods, of attaining the supreme realization. One: drop both—this is the path of the renunciate. Two: take both—this is the path of the householder. Both have the same result. Because the mind’s trick is to hold one and drop the other. If you drop both, the mind is dropped. If you hold both, the mind is dropped. Because the mind can live only with the half.

These are the two methods. Either drop both—pleasure and pain; peace and unrest—and then no one can make you restless. Or take both. To take both is sahaj-yoga. Where you are…

First thing: don’t try to attain peace—accept unrest. You will become peaceful. Then no one in this world can disturb you.
If I am willing for disturbance, who can disturb me? If I am willing to be abused, who can insult me? It is because I am not willing for abuse that someone can insult me. It is because I am not willing for disturbance that anyone can disturb me. And the more we try to be peaceful, the more touchy we become.
You see, this often happens in homes. If, by some accident, one “religious” man appears in a house, the whole house is thrown into turmoil. Because if he is praying, no disturbance may arise; children cannot play; no one can make a racket. At the slightest clatter he will raise an uproar. He is sitting there to become silent! Sitting there to worship, to pray, to meditate!
But it is very strange—why is the meditator so troubled? The non-meditators are not so troubled! He is trying to grab peace too anxiously. The more eagerly he demands peace, the more unrest grows. Then even a little child cannot move. If a pot falls and there is a sound, an uproar begins. Let one person in a house become “religious,” and he will make the whole house restless.
What is the difficulty? He does not understand what he is asking for. What he is asking is impossible.
If we properly understand the process of the mind, life changes through that understanding. The process is that the mind always splits things in two—honor/insult, pleasure/pain, peace/unrest, world/liberation. And it says: one is not wanted, distasteful; the other is wanted, attractive. This is the mind’s game.
There are two ways to be free of this mind. Either be willing for both, and the mind dies. Or drop both, and the mind dies all the same. Do whichever feels fitting to you. Otherwise there is no way for you to become peaceful.
As long as you want to be peaceful, you will not be peaceful. As long as you want to be happy, misery will be your lot. And as long as you are mad for liberation, samsara will keep circling you.
Be willing for both. Drop the demand. Say, “Whatever happens, I consent.”
Lao Tzu has said: the winds carry a dry leaf toward the east, and the leaf goes east. The winds change and blow to the west, and the dry leaf goes west. The winds fall silent, and the leaf drops to the ground. The winds raise a storm, and the leaf rises into the sky. Lao Tzu has said, “I became peaceful the day I became like a dry leaf. I said to the world, ‘Wherever you take me, I am willing—like a dry leaf. Take me into sorrow, I will go. Take me into hell, I will go.’”
If you are willing to go to hell, then for you there can be no hell. Then wherever you are, there is heaven. And the one who is crazy for heaven—even if he reaches heaven—will live in hell.
The grip of the mind is that craving, that desire: “I want this.” The moment we say, “I want this,” we stand against the world. And when we say, “Whatever comes...”
Understand it this way: the sign of an unhappy person is that he says, “If this happens, then I will be happy.” He has conditions. The unhappy person is conditional. He says, “If these conditions are fulfilled, I will be happy.” The happy person is unconditional. He says, “Whatever happens, I will remain happy. I do not insist that it be a certain way; whatever happens, I will love it.” Understand this difference.
One way is: “I want it to be like this”—that is the recipe for misery. The other is: “Whatever happens, that is my desire; whatever happens, that I will desire.” If the divine is giving sorrow, then that is my desire; that is what I asked for; that is what I have received; I agree.
Try a small experiment—twenty-four hours, no more. You have been experimenting with fighting for thousands of lives. Decide for one day that from six this morning to six tomorrow morning, whatever happens, I will accept it. I will not raise even the slightest opposition or inner conflict.
Just see: within twenty-four hours a new breeze will enter your life—as if a window suddenly opened and fresh air began to flow in. Then those twenty-four hours will never end. Once you have the taste of it, you will begin to go deeper into it.
There is no technique to become peaceful; peace is a vision of life. There is no method that by repeating “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram” you become peaceful. You will not. Even “Ram-Ram” will be your unrest—you will chant it with an unquiet mind. That too will be evidence of your restlessness and fever, nothing else.
Become peaceful. How? Accept unrest. Accept suffering. Accept death—and then for you there is no death. Whatever we accept, we go beyond.

It is the mind that always divides like this. The same mind that says, “Make the effort to build the future,” will not consent to whatever result comes. And the mind that can consent to any result will not be restless to construct the future.

Only when you think, “I can construct the future,” do you become the doer. Then, whatever the result, how will you agree to it? If the result doesn’t suit you, you will think, “I didn’t do it right; I failed to do what should have been done; what should have happened didn’t happen—or the world is against me, enemies are after me.” You will not be able to accept the result easily.

The very effort you make to gain something carries within it the seed that won’t let you accept the outcome. And if you truly have the capacity to accept the outcome, why would you make the effort? You would be content with what God makes happen.

No; there is no compromise. In the realm of truth there are no compromises. All compromises are false—tricks of the mind. The mind wants “laddus in both hands”—that is what compromise means to it.

It means: if we leave it to destiny, we can be at peace—yet we must be the ones to be peaceful. And if we leave it to destiny, then constructing the future is no longer in our hands—but we want to be the ones to build it, to enjoy the thrill of building; and we want to enjoy being peaceful too. So we say, a trick can be found: keep action in our hands, and when the result comes, we’ll say, “All right—God’s will!”

Half of it will be you, and half God? Either it is God entirely, or you entirely. Half-and-half will not do. You cannot ride in two boats, because they are sailing in opposite directions. You will get badly caught—become a Trishanku: one foot in one boat, one in the other—while both move apart. The vision of destiny says, “All is his.” Therefore nothing is in my hands. Whatever he makes me do, I will do; whatever he gives, I will take; what he does not give, will not be. He is all—doer, giver, receiver. Only then can you be at peace.

You think, “No, let me try a little on my own—if I get something by my doing, I’ll take that too; and if I don’t, I’ll accept that as his will.” These two won’t go together. The very tendency to do will bring restlessness. There is no compromise.

The friend says: by doing what is possible, something will be created, and we’ll also be saved from madness!

No. In the same measure that something is constructed, in that very measure you will go insane. The measure will be the same: some construction, some craziness.

And what will we really accomplish? What do we ever accomplish? Before us, how many have lived on this earth—billions upon billions! Scientists say that wherever you are sitting—on the amount of space enough for one person to stand—at least ten graves have been there. Right where you sit, ten people are buried. There is not one inch of earth where a grave has not been dug. All dust has circulated through bodies; all dust has become bodies.

Those bodies also had all kinds of intentions to do. What came of their plans? What meaning do they have today? What they did disappears like sand castles children make on the shore—before they even finish, the waves erase them. Our houses take a little longer to wash away; that delay creates an illusion. But everything is wiped out.

What will you do? What will you make? Even if you make something, so what? The vision of destiny says: even if man does, what will come of it? In the doing, he loses his energy, his time, his life, his opportunity.

This does not mean a person does nothing. One cannot live without doing; one will act. But do not act by holding yourself as the doer. Leave it to him. Let what he makes you do, be done. Then take what he gives.

Only when we leave action to him will the fruit also be left to him. If we keep the action in our own hands but leave the fruit to him—that is where dishonesty starts. We begin to deceive even God. This does not mean your actions are being taken away. Only the doer is being taken away, not the deed.

And the marvel is: when the sense of doership is quiet, one can do far more than you could ever do, because you have to carry the burden of the doer too. In him, only action remains; his pure energy becomes action. You have to haul the ego, the doer, the “I”—most of your power is spent on that load. Action will happen through you—but you will not be the doer.

Rivers flow. If a river starts thinking, “I must fall into such-and-such sea,” the river will go mad. Rivers flow without any worry—whether they’ll fall to the east or west; into the Arabian Sea or the Bay of Bengal; into the Indian Ocean or the Pacific. The river has no concern. It moves by its own nature; mountains come, it cuts through; obstacles arise, it erodes an edge and passes. One day it merges into the ocean. The river is not anxious. The journey is long, but there is no restlessness.

One who leaves everything to God travels just like that. A great deal of action happens through him, but there is no doer. Wherever the ocean draws him to fall, he consents. He has no insistence. Insistence is needed for striving; without insistence, striving disappears—action remains, without a doer. There is no forcing, no pushing, no compulsion.

But our mind is such that, ordinarily, it runs only on two methods. You’ve seen on the road: a man drives animals by hitting them from behind with a stick. One way is: if someone pushes us from behind, we move. Another way, if someone is clever, is to walk ahead with a bundle of grass—the animal follows, because there is hope of grass.

So either we walk by the hope of a future result ahead, or by the shove of circumstance behind. These are the two ways the doer moves. If you have no hope of a result, the mind doesn’t feel like acting: “If there is no bundle of grass ahead, why move?” And if there isn’t the shove from behind—wife, children, circumstances pressing—then too it doesn’t feel like moving: “What’s the point? For whom should I toil?”

People have children, then they run around a lot—because they are living for the children. They don’t know the children are pushing them from behind: “Get going; now you can’t stop.” They feel they have a reason to live now—something must be done; a duty.

These are the two methods we ordinarily see. The ego is animal; it understands the language of animals.

There is another way of living, above ego—that is spiritual life. There, neither the future result is a question, nor the shove from behind. You are alive—simply alive. Like a flower in bloom from which fragrance is falling—not because someone will pass by, not for some connoisseur of fragrance. Even if no one passes, the flower releases perfume, because a flower means fragrance.

The meaning of life is action. No craving behind, no question ahead. You are alive; to be alive is to act. This acting is not coming from ahead or behind; it arises from within. When it arises from within, it comes from the divine. When it comes from behind, it comes from the world’s shove; when it comes from ahead, it comes from the mind’s desire. When it comes from within—simple, here and now—like the river flowing, the flower blooming and fragrance showering, just like that, when it starts arising from within…

Destiny means: the way to live life from within, in this moment. To drop yourself and, in the infinite that is here now as God, to bloom into that infinity—here, now. No question of before or after.

Much action happens through such a person, but there is no burden of action upon him. Such a person does much, but never accumulates the identity “I am doing.” He knows: “Whatever the Lord made happen, happened; what he did not, did not. His will”—this remains the final feeling.

There is no compromise. In the realm of truth there is never any compromise. In the realm of mind, everything is compromise. The mind always tries to juggle and save everything. But by holding to the One, all else is fulfilled; by trying to hold all, not even the One is attained.

One more question, and then I will take up the sutra. I have been holding this question back; it has been asked every day. I had thought: the day it isn’t asked, that day I’ll answer. Today it hasn’t been asked.

A gentleman keeps asking daily: “Are you God? Give a clear answer.”

For me, there is nothing other than God. So, if someone says, “I am not God,” he is speaking untruth, as far as I am concerned. I am God—just as much as you are God. There is no other way than being God—whether you know it or not.

They haven’t written their name; otherwise I would tell my disciples to call them God as well.

My effort is to make you understand that you are God. Their effort is to make me understand that I am not God!

The entire endeavor of religion is that you come to realize that you are God. Until this dawns, life will be trouble, sorrow, suffering. Nothing less will do; nothing less will satisfy; before this there is no destination—only disturbance. This is the homecoming.

But we feel troubled. Why? Because we have made certain notions about God.

Those friends write again and again: “God created the universe—did you create the universe?”

Naturally, our notion of God is: the creator of the universe. But it doesn’t occur to us that even the universe God would create would be out of himself, from within himself. There is nothing outside him to bring and build with. Other than God there is nothing—not even any material from which to make a world. If he creates, it will be like a spider spinning its web from itself; the web is as much a part of the spider.

The universe is not separate from God. There is nothing apart from him on which he could base it. The universe is an expansion from within him. The creation is a part of the creator. Even a stone lying by the roadside is God as much as the creator is God. What is made is God; the maker is God. Our words “maker” and “made” are our linguistic mistake.

That is why I keep saying: never think of God as a potter making a pot. The pot remains even if the potter dies; the pot is separate from the potter. But if God were not, the world would vanish this instant. So the metaphor of potter and pot is not right—childish, fit for those with little understanding. Here, the maker is immanent in what is made, not separate.

Therefore I say: God is like a dancer—Nataraja. A man is dancing: there is the dance and the dancer—but not separate. If the dancer goes, the dance does not remain; it goes with him. You cannot separate the dance from the dancer.

Hence we made the image of the divine as Nataraja—full of meaning. The potter-and-pot is childish. Nataraja means: this vast dance is not other than him; this entire dance is the dancer himself.

So I say to you: in the making of this universe, my share is exactly as much as yours, as much as a bird’s, a plant’s, as much as Rama’s, Krishna’s, Buddha’s. We are parts of this Vast just like any other.

You are the creator and the creation. You are the dancer and the dance. As long as you take yourself to be only the dance and not the dancer, you are in error—because there can be no dance without the dancer. There can be no creation without the creator present within it. He is present within you too. You are unaware; therefore you are troubled.

Those friends ask: we call Rama God, Krishna God, Buddha, Mahavira God—but they never called themselves God. And here it seems you are getting people to call you God!

They know nothing. Krishna very clearly tells Arjuna: sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja—“Abandon all dharmas and take refuge in me alone.” Krishna says, “I am the supreme Brahman.” The Buddha said, “I have attained that which is final; I am no longer merely human—I am Buddha.” Mahavira said, “When the self is purified, that is called the Supreme Self—and I am fully purified.”

These friends think the followers of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna called them God; they themselves did not. If they were, what fear was there in saying it? And if they were not, or were shy of saying it, they won’t become God by their followers’ saying so. Their declarations are direct. And they did not only say they were God; they tried to make you understand that you are God. One who does not even have the courage to say, “I am God”—what will he say to you, “You are God!”

They have asked one more thing: if Krishna was God, he showed Arjuna the vision of the Vast. Can you do that?

I promise you, I can. But Arjuna’s preparation is required.

We never stop to think what we are asking!

From my side the promise is firm: whoever wants the vision of the Vast, I will facilitate it. But before coming, place your hand on your chest and ask: do you have Arjuna’s preparedness? Then there is no obstacle. Then it can happen without me too. I am not needed. If your readiness is like Arjuna’s, the divine will be available to you anywhere. Where Arjuna’s preparedness is, he is available everywhere. And where that preparedness is not, even if he stands before you, you will keep asking, “Are you God?”

Always think and ask from this angle: what will this question do for you? Whether I am God or not—what will that do for you? What will be the result? How will your life change by it? If one can keep even this much in mind, one’s inquiry becomes meaningful, purposeful, useful.

Do not ask without cause. At least keep in mind: what will this answer do for you? How will you use it? How will it transform your life? How can it become medicine for you? Ask only those questions that can become medicine; otherwise, questions are meaningless.

That is why I was deferring this question all these days, and had decided that the day the friend does not ask it, that day I would answer. Why had I decided to answer when it wasn’t asked? In the hope that perhaps, after so many days of listening, a little understanding would dawn and they would not ask. And if even that much understanding does not arise, then the answer will not be understood either. So I had waited.
Today they haven’t asked—so I assume; the fear, of course, is that perhaps they didn’t even come—but I take it they’ve gained a little understanding that there’s no point in asking such questions.
What has it to do with you who is God and who is not! Find out one thing: whether you are God or not. Just apply yourself to that concern.
And the day you come to know that you are God, don’t be afraid, don’t hide it—spread the news. Perhaps your news will whisper into someone’s ear and they too will begin to wonder, “If this person can be God, what obstacle is there in me? Let me also make a little effort.” Perhaps hearing your song, someone else will feel like singing. Perhaps seeing you dance, someone else’s feet will begin to tingle, and they too will start dancing.
Now let us take the sutra.
Thereafter Sanjaya said, “O King! Hearing this word of Lord Keshava, the crown-bearing Arjuna, with folded hands, trembling, bowing again and again yet fearful, addressed Lord Krishna in a choked voice.”
Arjuna is trembling. What he has seen has made every hair of his body tremble. A glimpse of the future can be very dangerous. Perhaps that’s why nature makes us blind toward the future. Otherwise living would become very difficult.
You see, a horse harnessed to a carriage moves with blinkers on either side of its eyes. If those blinkers weren’t there, the horse couldn’t walk straight. With them off it sees on both sides, which creates hindrance; then it can’t keep to a straight course. So we blind its vision on both sides; it sees only a couple of steps ahead and keeps moving in a straight line.
We too are blind men. We cannot see the future. If we could, we would be in great difficulty. You are loving a woman and telling her, “Without you I cannot live.” And suppose you could also see that two days later she will die—not only will you live, you will marry again. If you could see that as well, with what face could you say, “I cannot live without you”? It would become difficult. When you see that two days later this woman will die and I will live—and not only live, I will marry another woman—and to that woman I will say the very same words: “Without you I can never live.”
You do not see the future. If a child were born and could see his entire future, what a difficulty it would be! Living would become impossible; every single step would be hard to take. Because you do not know, you stride along with the pride of a blind man. What are you doing—no concern. What is happening—no concern. What will be the result—no concern.
The past keeps being forgotten, the future remains unseen; that’s why you can live. If the past could not be forgotten and the future became visible, you would be stuck right here. There would be no way to move an inch. If you could see that you are going to die, even if seventy years from now—could see clearly the precise date—then those intervening seventy years would be wasted. You wouldn’t be able to live.
With what intention would you build a house now? For someone else to live in? With what intention would you accumulate money in the bank? For someone else’s enjoyment? With what intention would you fight with anyone?
No intention would remain. Death would cut all intentions off at the root. And yet you would have to live—even if you knew you must live seventy years; that death will be exactly as it will be; that there is no possibility of committing suicide in the meantime; that the future is this: to die on a cot. Then your hands and feet would keep trembling. Throughout life you would tremble. This is the cause of the trembling of very thoughtful people.
Søren Kierkegaard, a Danish thinker, wrote: From the day awareness dawned in me, I have been trembling. Since then my trembling does not stop. I cannot sleep at night, because I know that tomorrow there is death. And I am amazed that the whole world keeps going so merrily! Perhaps they do not know that tomorrow there is death.
Because the future is not visible, we are very carefree. If it became visible, it would be a great hindrance. Arjuna has seen it—he has just seen. He has had a glimpse. He is trembling; he is afraid.
Sanjaya says: trembling, with folded hands, he bows, fearfully paying obeisance. He is also choked with emotion.
His condition is a great dilemma. What he has seen is his victory—so he is delighted as well. What he has seen is a glimpse of the Vast. This is good fortune. This is grace. This is prasad. He is overwhelmed. And what he has seen is also death—so he is afraid.
And in another sense he is even more afraid. Because when victory is certain, even then the fun goes out of it. If you are playing a game with someone in which your win is guaranteed, the fun is gone. The joy of play lies precisely in the uncertainty of victory—you may win, you may lose. When you must win, when there is no possibility of losing, the game is over; it becomes a bondage.
Understand this a little; it is subtle.
If you are absolutely sure—and there is no way in the world that you can lose, you will win in any case—then the relish of victory is gone. And victory itself will generate fear. This victory will feel forced. The ego will find no juice in it.
Arjuna has seen that he will win. The warriors standing opposite him are dissolving into death. His victory is certain—destiny, fate.
If victory is destiny, the ego can derive no nourishment from it. Then it is not “I” who win; because it had to be won, it is won. Then Duryodhana does not lose either; because he had to lose, the poor fellow loses. Then there is no savor in one’s own ego, nor any savor in Duryodhana’s defeat. Then we are instruments—playthings. We are like dolls dancing; some inner string is being pulled. Someone is made to win, he wins; someone is made to lose, he loses. Whose glory? Whose disgrace?
If it is true that my victory is certain, then Arjuna would tremble because of this too—because then the fun is gone. With what face will he say, “I defeated Duryodhana; the Kauravas were defeated by the Pandavas”? It has no meaning then. The Kauravas lost because fate decreed their loss. The Pandavas won because fate made them win. And fate lies beyond both their hands. This too is very frightening. The fun is gone!
On the one hand he has seen death—he trembles. On the other he has seen assured victory—this too frightens him. Arjuna was a warrior. Now the fight is not fair. Now the war is not just. Now the losers will lose and the winner will win. And Krishna says, “I have already cut them down; you are only the instrument.” This too will unnerve him. The kshatriya’s whole thrill is gone. Now this war—whether it happens or not—is all the same. A false war remains: pseudo, illusory, deceptive. When all things are decided in advance, what is the essence?
In one sense he is overwhelmed—Krishna has given the chance of the experience, opened a door to the infinite. And in another sense he is fearful. Both things at once!
Sanjaya says that, fearful and yet overflowing, bowing down, Arjuna began to speak, “O Indweller! It is indeed fitting that at the chanting of your name and glory the world is exceedingly gladdened and filled with devotion; while the demons, terrified, flee in all directions, and all the hosts of the siddhas bow in reverence.”
It is fitting. Both things are fitting: that someone is delighted at your name, and someone is frightened at your name. Both are right. Because for the one who is going to be erased on seeing you, for whom you become annihilation, it is natural to be afraid; and the one who, on seeing you, is going to attain bliss, the supreme state, within whom a new creation is stirring—for him to be delighted is also right.
But Arjuna is experiencing both. And you too will experience both. Because on this ground it is very difficult to find the divine and the demonic as separate. They are mixed. They are in every person. They are the two facets of man. Mind exists only in twoness.
Therefore you cannot find such a godly man in whom there is not a single demonic part; nor can you find such a demon in whom there is not a single godly streak. In Ravana too there will be a corner of Rama; and in Rama too there will be a corner of Ravana. Otherwise there would be no way for them to be in the world.
In this world the means of manifestation is mind. And mind is duality. Hence even in the best of men a small smear of soot is stuck somewhere. Even in the worst of men a shining line is present. That alone makes both human; otherwise they would cease to be human. Without it there would be no way for their being human. Here every person is both.
Therefore when the door of the supreme experience opens, both things happen together. The demon within you begins to be frightened, and the divine within you begins to rejoice. Before God both things happen simultaneously. I have broken it up so that it can be understood.
Arjuna says: People become devoted, are gladdened, hearing your kirtan, your name. And there are also those who run off in the ten directions. And I see even the assemblies of siddhas, knees bent, bowing to you. This is as it should be, O Indweller!
Today Arjuna sensed why it is so. Why is it that someone, upon hearing the name of God, becomes afflicted and miserable, and another, upon hearing the name of God, becomes joyous and exuberant?
When you become sad on hearing the name of God, you are giving the news that, for you, God is connected somewhere with death. You are doing something which, in God’s nearness, will break and be destroyed. You are doing something that runs against the current, is contrary to nature. And when, on hearing the name of God, you become joyful, it means that within you there is a current flowing with God; so at the mere sound of the name you blossom.
In the presence of Ramakrishna, if anyone uttered even the name of God, he would immediately go into samadhi. It became difficult even to take the Name—because then he would remain in samadhi for six, twelve hours. While passing along the street, his devotees had to support him lest someone should call out, “Jai Ram!” Otherwise he would begin dancing right there, and fall on the road, losing outer consciousness. Many times it took several days for him to return to ordinary awareness. He became so ecstatic that this world dissolved; he became absorbed in himself.
They had to escort him carefully lest someone take the Name at an untimely moment, casually, without cause. Then they would have to give him water and milk for days, because he would lose all awareness of the body. And when awareness returned, he would beat his chest and weep, “Are you angry with me, that you sent me back so soon? Are you angry that you separated me from yourself so quickly? Call me back.” Tears flowed from his eyes: “Call me back—just let someone take the Name!”
What was it? Ramakrishna’s body was of the purest sensitivity—as if every pore so pure that even the name of God was enough for every hair to tremble and be absorbed within. The body was so sensitive.
Ramakrishna was a priest at the Dakshineshwar temple. When he went to perform worship, the platter would slip from his hands. Seeing the image of Mahakali, the very sight made the platter fall, the lamps go out; he would fall down. The worship could not be performed.
Even for worship a very steady mind is needed. For worship one needs at least that much mind to remain composed. Ramakrishna could not perform the worship; the platter would drop from his hands. He would see Kali in his eyes and lose all awareness. In later days they stopped taking him into the temple. Someone else would perform the puja, because going into the temple had become dangerous.
And the day Ramakrishna attained the experience, he climbed onto the roof of Dakshineshwar and shouted loudly, “What I was seeking, I have found. Now whoever wants it, come quickly! Where are those to whom I may give? Come quickly from far and wide. Whoever longs for it, come soon—because what I needed, I have found.”
What had he found? A harmony, a music, a rhythm—a tuning of notes between that Ultimate and himself. As soon as that tuning settles, Ramakrishna ceases to be Ramakrishna; he becomes God, becomes the Divine.
Kirtan means only this much: that a note and rhythm are set; and the awareness of being a human being is lost, and the awareness of being the Divine arises. This “unconsciousness” of Ramakrishna is one-sided only—from the side of man. On the other, inner side there is supreme consciousness.
So Ramakrishna would say, “You think I become unconscious! You think the reverse. When I come to consciousness in front of you, that is when I become unconscious. What I was seeing within no longer appears to me then. What you call unconsciousness is awareness for me; and what you call awareness is unconsciousness. When my eyes fill with awareness toward the world, I forget there; and when the curtain falls here, I am there.”
In spirituality, kirtan means only this: that with the help of a Name, a word, a song, a melody, the cadence of a dance, the awareness of being human is being lost; and the awareness of being the Divine is being approached.

He says not to ask him about the Gita—because he must have already understood the Gita! Then why he comes here, who knows. There is no purpose in coming here. If he has understood the Gita, what is the purpose of coming! He should climb some temple and shout, “Come, whoever wishes to attain. I have attained!” His trouble is with kirtan.

Have you ever done kirtan? If you have, there cannot be an objection. And if you haven’t, you shouldn’t be raising the question. We must not ask about what we haven’t tasted. The discomfort, of course, will be: “What is this—people start dancing, they lose their senses!” Or: “Men and women are dancing together!”

If you can’t be so “unmindful” as to even forget man and woman, then what on earth will you forget! If you’re still keeping the alertness that “I am a man, and the one next to me is a woman,” and you think you’re doing kirtan—if even that much awareness doesn’t drop, what kind of kirtan will that be?

Kirtan is the path of the mad—of those ready to forget the outside. Then what happens is not a matter of doing at all. Kirtan is not something you do. Kirtan is to let yourself be carried by the stream—then whatever happens, happens. But the onlooker will be troubled; the onlooker is always troubled, because the onlooker stands outside.

Do it and see. For a little while, lose your head and see. For a little while, enter another world—and taste another kind of awareness. For a little while, flow away from the outside and move within. And let what is happening happen—leave it to the Divine. Perhaps you can’t leave it for twenty‑four hours; you think, “I run my shop.” You think, “If I’m not there, what will happen to the world! Without me nothing will work!” So perhaps you can’t leave it all the time—for an hour, half an hour…

Kirtan is simply an arrangement by which, for a little while, we let go. We stop running ourselves; we simply let go—a let‑go. We loosen ourselves upon the rhythm. And slowly, within, wherever it wants to take you, it begins to take you. Then the feet begin to throb. The hands and feet form mudras. The eyes close. One enters another realm. Then drop the worry about who is standing outside. Why care for them? If you care for them, you cannot go within.

The art of kirtan is lost because we have become ultra‑intelligent. This is not the work of the intelligent. This is not the work of the intelligent. The friend who has asked is an intelligent man. This is not the work of the intelligent. Hence he says, “Don’t ask anything about the Gita,” because the Gita can be grasped by cleverness itself. But kirtan troubles him.

This is not the work of the intelligent. The work of intelligence is the world. Here, one enters by putting the intellect aside, by throwing it away. And all that I am saying to you about the intellect—I am saying only in the hope that someday you will get bored with it; that you will try to leave it, take it off, and step outside it.

If intelligence understands at least this much—that intellect is not enough—then its work is done. If intelligence helps you understand that you must set it aside and go beyond—far beyond its bonds and limits—then intelligence has done its job. We call that person intelligent who also has the capacity to drop intelligence.

Kirtan is precisely the move to leave the intellect.

Arjuna says, “Today I can understand that under your influence—under the kirtan of your presence—the world rejoices, is filled with love. But there are some who are frightened, who run away, who are terrified. And I see that even the hosts of the perfected ones tremble and bow to you.

“O Great Soul! How could they not bow to you, who are the primal source even of Brahmā, the greatest of all! For, O Infinite, O Lord of gods, O Abode of the universe, that which is sat, asat, and beyond both—the Imperishable, the compact essence of sat‑chit‑ananda—that you are.

“And, O Lord, you are the primal God, the eternal Person, the supreme shelter of this world, the Knower, the Known, and the supreme Abode. O you of infinite forms, by you this entire universe is pervaded and made complete. You are the wind, Yama, fire, Varuna, the moon, and the lord of beings, Brahmā—the father of Brahmā as well. A thousand times, a thousand times salutations to you. Again and again, salutations to you.

“O you of infinite power, salutations to you from the front, from behind, from every side. O Soul of all, salutations to you on all sides. For you, of infinite valor, pervade the world; therefore you are all forms.”

These are words filled with blessedness for the Divine—words of awe and wonder.

Arjuna is afraid, yes, but he is also blessed. He has received a rare, incomparable moment—a glimpse into the Vast, where all limits shatter, where the knower and the known become one, where creation and the Creator fall away—and one experiences the primal refuge, the supreme abode.

He has been blessed; he expresses his blessedness. His words will sound strange. He says, “Salutations, salutations, a thousand times salutations. Salutations from the front, salutations from behind.” It may sound absurd—one “salutation” should suffice. But his heart does not fill. He bows from every side, yet feels that the grace he has received—he may not even be able to acknowledge it; to be free of it is out of the question, he may not even be able to acknowledge it.

It is said: it is hard to be free of a father’s debt, hard to be free of a mother’s debt—but not impossible. But to be free of the guru’s debt is impossible. There is no way to be free of it. For the experience that comes through the guru—this that came to Arjuna through Krishna—what price can be paid? Nothing can be given for it. In truth, who is left to give now? What can one give? Whatever you give is small and futile. Only namaskar remains, only bowing remains.

The reverence we have kept for the guru is for no other reason. There is simply no other way. We cannot give him anything. Whatever we give will belong to the world, and he has taken us beyond the world. For that experience which carries us beyond the world, even if we give the whole world, it is meaningless. What can we do then? Only a feeling of gratitude remains.

That is why Arjuna says, “Salutations, salutations, a thousand times salutations!” He is finding many pretexts: “You are the God of gods, you are the Divine, you are the father of even Brahmā!”

He is saying anything and everything—like a child. All he is saying is one thing: from every side he is trying to bow to you.

Before the Vast, we have nothing but bowing—nothing but to bend.

It is a very delightful point: only India is the one land where there is this long, living stream of bowing at the guru’s feet. And wherever else this has gone, it has gone from India. Nowhere else in the world is there any notion of placing one’s head at the guru’s feet and surrendering oneself entirely.

Therefore when people come from the West, what troubles them most is this exclusive reverence for the guru. Such reverence appears to them as blindness. And they are not wrong to feel so. For to place your head at someone’s feet and surrender everything—it looks strange. It seems like the worship of a human being. From their point of view they are right, because what they see is merely a man.

But if a disciple has received even a ray of the Vast through someone, what then can he do? Where can he go? How can he lighten his burden?

He has only one way: to bow in every way. And this bowing is wondrous. It is wondrous in a double sense: by it, the gratitude for what has been received is expressed; and in that bowing, the possibility of receiving more becomes dense. The one who truly knows how to bow—everything will come to him. It is not a question of where he bows, but whether he knows the art of bowing.

Many are standing in the river, their feet in the water, yet they die of thirst because they cannot bend. If they would bend, make a cup of their hands, fill it with water, then their thirst could be quenched. They stand in the river, but they are stiff. They cannot bend. Even a pot that does not tilt when dipped in water cannot fill—it stays stiff.

We stand in the river; the Divine flows all around; yet we cannot bend. How to bend! It is the fear of bowing that blocks us.

The search of religion is the art of bowing. And the one who bows and fills a handful—he has learned the secret. Then he can bend completely and immerse himself. Then he knows: if I bow my head fully and take it under the water, I will be bathed entirely.

Arjuna says: what I have known is that you are everything.

That is why we have called the guru Brahmā, Vishnu, Mahesh—this and that! To us, it may sound: “What kind of people were they!” But those who said it, said it for a reason. If we repeat it without reason, of course it feels odd: “The guru is Brahmā, the guru is Vishnu, the guru is everything!”

That is precisely what Arjuna is saying: You alone are everything—you are the Supreme Brahman.

He saw. The guru became a window. Through him he peeped for the first time. All boundaries fell away; the Infinite stood before him. The shadow of that Infinity fell upon him. For the first time the dream broke and truth was revealed. His gratitude is natural.

That is all for today.

Wait for five minutes. Do kirtan, and then go.