Geeta Darshan #1

This chapter opens upon a journey beyond argument.

There is, first, the world the human intellect can grasp—simple enough. Mathematics and logic work there. It can be understood, it fits the rules of understanding, it can be debated and conclusions can be reached—that is one world. And there is another world that shatters the rules of logic. When the intellect tries to enter, it finds the doors closed. Only the heart can pass. There, to be blind is the only way to see; and there, to be “foolish” is true intelligence.

Into such a dimension beyond reason one enters with bhakti-yoga, the path of devotion. Much effort will be needed; for that which does not yield to thinking demands great striving. To understand what lies beyond understanding, one must stake oneself wholly. And one must have the courage to accept that where we fail, truth need not fail; where our limits are reached, existence’s limits may not be.

Only if you dare to go beyond yourself can devotion be understood. Those who cling to themselves will never grasp bhakti. Those who take their intellect to be the final measure will find that devotion’s truth does not fit their measure.

First, understand this. A few essential points must be kept in mind.

What appears logical and reasonable, what pleases the intellect in every way—need not, under deeper inquiry, prove true.

If truth lay within what we already know, we would have found it. If the divine could be realized at the level of our present understanding, we would already have realized it. If, as we are now, we could enter that ultimate mystery, we would have entered.

One thing is clear: as we are, we do not connect with the ultimate. Perhaps it is precisely the structure and habits of our mind, as it is today, that keep life’s mystery from opening; the door remains shut.

Have you ever observed? The Sufis have said it again and again. The Sufi fakir Bayazid used to tell: once I was sitting in a mosque. A bird flew in through the window. The room was closed; only one window was open. The bird tried hard—banged into the walls, the shut doors, the roof. The more it collided, the more it panicked; the more it panicked, the more frantically it tried to get out.

Bayazid sat in meditation, astonished. Except for that open window—the very one by which the bird had come in—the bird tried everything!

He grew pensive: how to explain to this bird that since it has come in, a way out certainly exists? The way that brought it in is the same way that will take it out. Only the direction changes; the door remains the same. If it could come in, it can go out; otherwise there would have been no way to enter at all.

But the bird kept crashing everywhere except at the open window. Not that the bird had no intelligence—some intelligence it surely had. But perhaps the bird thought: how can the same window through which I entered and got trapped take me out? The window that brought me in and trapped me—how can that be the door out? That would have been its logic. The very thing that got me into trouble—how can it get me out? So the bird tried everything but the window.

Bayazid tried to help. But the more he tried, the more agitated the bird became. It felt Bayazid too was trying to ensnare it, tie it, enslave it, imprison it. It panicked even more.

Bayazid wrote: that day I understood—having entered the world, we too are entangled like this; and we seek every door except the one by which we entered life. Until we return to that very door through which we came into life, we will not find our way out.

It is not because of intellect that you are entangled in the world. Not because of thought. The door of your arrival in the world is love. The door of your being, your life, is love. And when love turns back on itself, it becomes devotion. When love reverses its direction, it becomes bhakti.

As long as your eyes cling to what lies before them, as long as you are attached, enamored of what is seen, you keep descending into the world. When you close your eyes to what appears before them and join your attachment, your love, to that which lies hidden behind the eyes, devotion is born. The door is the same. It cannot be another.

By that which brought us in, by that we must go out. The path by which you came here—when you return home, you will go by that very path. Only one difference: coming here, your face was turned this way; your eyes looked this way. Returning, your back will be this way. The eyes will be the same; only the direction will change. You will be the same, the path the same; the direction will change.

The reversal of love’s direction is called devotion. And by love we enter this world; by love alone we can go beyond it. But a few marks of love must be understood.

Love’s first mark is its blindness. And whoever is not in love will judge the lover blind and mad. He will. For the lover does not calculate; he does not argue; he does not weigh outcomes; he is unconcerned with results. He simply leaps. Love is such an immense happening that he drowns in it and becomes one.

Those standing around will think a mistake is being made. They will say: even in love there should be thought, prudence. One should foresee so that no wrong step is taken.

To the “wise,” love will appear blind. But love has its own eyes. And whoever gains those eyes begins to consider the eyes of intellect blind. For one who tastes love’s nectar, all logic becomes useless. One who dances to that music, who has felt that melody, can drop all your cleverness like a couple of worthless coins. A diamond has come into his hand; for its sake he cannot go on hoarding your pebbles.

Love seems blind because it does not possess the same eyes as reason. It has other eyes. It sees with the heart. And since it is through love that we enter this world—through our parents’ love and our own—our body is formed, we come into being. This same love must be turned around.

This same blind love, when it shifts from the world and turns toward the inner consciousness, is called shraddha—faith. Shraddha is blind love returned to the source. Flowing toward the world, that love becomes passion; returning to the Divine, it becomes faith and devotion.

As love is blind, so too is devotion. Therefore for the very clever, the path of devotion will not appear a path at all. Those who think too much, who argue much, who want to reach God through cleverness—the path of devotion is not for them.

There are other paths for them. But in this sutra Krishna will say: none of those paths is higher than bhakti. Why? Because however much the intellect thinks, it is very difficult to go beyond ego. Love leaps and lands beyond ego. However hard the intellect tries, it cannot get outside the ego. For whenever I think, I remain. When I calculate, I remain. Whatever I do—worship, meditation, yoga—still I remain.

Devotion crosses the “I” in the very first instant. Because devotion means surrender. It means: now I am not primary; you are. I will drop, dissolve my I, so that I may find you. My disappearing will become the way to find you. As long as I am, distance remains. The stronger the I, the greater the distance, the wider the gulf. The more I melt, the more I dissolve, the more I vanish, the more the distance vanishes.

Krishna calls bhakti the supreme yoga for another reason as well.

Only when there are two, and yet one is experienced between them, is there yoga. Where there is only one and one is experienced, there is no question of yoga.

If one believes that only the Divine is and nothing else, there is no question of union; when there is only one, there is neither a seeker to unite, nor an other with whom to unite. Meeting can happen only where there are two.

But mark a condition: there must be two, and yet between the two the one must be experienced—that is meeting. Union is a wondrous event: there are two, yet they are not two. They appear two, yet duality has melted. Two shores seem to be, yet between them flows only a single current. Two banks stand, but the river running between is one. When the one is felt between two—yoga.

Thus Krishna calls devotion the highest yoga.

What fun is there if there is only one? Then meeting has no meaning. And if there are two and they remain two, there is no way to meet. Two must be, and the sense of oneness arise; two-ness remain on the surface, oneness become the inner experience. When the one is felt between two, Krishna calls that yoga. That is union; that is the ultimate samadhi.

In this meeting the Divine has always been ready. We are the obstacle. We usually think we are searching for God and God is not found. No greater delusion is possible. The truth is quite otherwise: the Divine has been seeking us continuously. But we are so stuck on ourselves that we do not let even him succeed.

I have heard: an emperor, angry with his son, banished him from the palace. Being a father, he softened after six months and sent word: come back. But the son was stubborn: “Once you expelled me, now it is not proper for me to return. I will not move from here.” He sat just outside the borders of the kingdom.

The emperor sent his minister: “Move a little—just one step. If you take one step, I’ll take all the others. Your father says: you take one step, I’ll take the rest. But your one step is necessary. Of course I could come all the way. If I can come so far, I can take one more step. But that would be futile, because you are not willing to meet. Your one step will be the sign you are ready. I’ll do the rest.”

Your one step is all that’s needed; the Divine has taken all the others. But without your willingness, there can be no “assault” upon you.

The Divine is non-aggressive; he will wait. And he is in no hurry. It need not be today. He can wait till eternity. Time is scarce for us, not for him. Our time is running out; our energies are being spent. But if one step is taken from our side, all the steps from the Divine side are already taken.

Devotion takes that one step in a single leap. Knowledge must take a thousand steps just to arrive at that one step. For however many steps knowledge takes, in the end it must take the step that devotion takes first: the dissolution of ego.

However great the knower becomes, one day he must drop even the identity of being a knower. Hence Socrates said: the final stage of knowledge is the realization that “I do not know.” The consummation of knowledge is the recognition that no one is more ignorant than I.

If the fulfillment of knowledge is this realization—I am ignorant—what does it mean? It means the devotee takes first the step the knower takes last. The devotee becomes “blind” at the very first step; the knower becomes “blind” at the last. After long wandering he comes to the same door where one loses oneself.

But the knower takes many detours! Great scriptures, grand theories, big ideologies; he wanders among them. He roams among big thoughts. Until he is fed up; until he is harassed by his own thoughts; until he understands that his thoughts are like cobwebs binding him; that his ideas are his handcuffs; that with his own ideas he has built his prison—until then he must pass through a long drift.

The devotee drops himself at the very first step. And the moment one drops oneself, the Divine lifts him up. The devotee’s courage is astonishing. Courage has but one meaning: to step into the unknown. Courage has but one meaning: to enter the unfamiliar.

The knower moves knowing; he steps after thinking. He keeps accounts. The devotee leaps like a madman. Therefore, to the knowers, devotees have always seemed crazy. And those crazy devotees have always seen the knowers as entangled in futile fuss.

These sutras of devotion we will discuss in this chapter require these points to be kept in mind.

They are sutras of love and “madness.” You will have to melt a little from the seat of your intellect. Let the heart move a little, let a few ripples arise there; then a connection with these sutras will form. Your head won’t be needed much; your heart will. If you slip a bit downward—from your skull a little toward your heart; not thinking, but nearer the heartbeat—then you will be able to relate and converse with these sutras.

And it is not that once your heart understands, these sutras will fail the test of your intellect. They will pass! But let the heart understand first; once a small stream of their juice flows in your heart, then the intellect will also understand. If you try directly with the intellect, the intellect will become a barrier.

As I said, often it seems the intellect is entirely right. Since we have no measure for “right,” we take whatever the intellect says to be right.

I have heard: a great logician was asleep at night. His wife woke him: “Get up. It is very cold outside and I am going to the lane. Close the window.” She said, “There is too much cold outside. Get up and close the window.” The logician replied, “What nonsense! If I close the window, will it become warm outside? If I close the window, will the cold go away?”

Logically, he is entirely correct. His wife had said, “It is very cold outside; close the window.” He answered, “Will closing the window make it warm outside?” It won’t. So the husband went back to sleep! In the logic book you would struggle to find the flaw—because what the wife said was answered.

The arguments we raise about the unknown are almost always like this. They can be answered, and yet the answers are useless. For in matters we are answering, being logically right is not enough.

And logic has another inconvenience: logic can prove anything—and disprove anything. Logic is like a courtesan; she has no husband. Any man with enough coin can act as her husband. Therefore logic is no boat to trust.

To this day no argument has been given in the world that cannot be refuted. And the fun is: the same logic that proves a thing can also disprove it.

I heard of a great logician sitting in his garden for breakfast. As often happens, logicians are pessimists. For logic reveals no ray of hope; hope springs from love, which is beyond logic. From logic comes only gloom. It shows what is futile in life; where the thorns are—that is what one experiences. Flowers require the heart; thorns the intellect is enough to understand.

The logician, pessimistic, was drinking tea and buttering his toast. He said, “There is so much sorrow in the world, so much wrong, that if this piece of bread falls from my hand, I can wager anything—because the world is so perverse it will fall exactly on the buttered side, so it gathers dust and is spoiled.”

His wife said, “That’s not necessary. It could fall on the other side.” The logician said, “Then you don’t know what the wise have always said: the world is sorrow.”

The matter escalated; a bet was made. He tossed the bread. By chance, it did not fall butter-side down; the buttered side remained up. The wife said, “See, I have won!”

The logician said, “Neither have you won, nor am I wrong. It only proves I buttered the wrong side! The piece fell as it ought to have; I had applied the butter to the other side.”

There is no trusting logic. Yet we live by it and weave our life into its net. It makes us feel very clever. And often, within this cleverness, we lose all that life could have given.

Devotion is inaccessible to logic; it lies beyond the boundaries of thought. The clever have no business there. The simple enter there. So be a little prepared to be simple.

Now let us take these sutras.

Hearing the Lord’s words, Arjuna said: O Krishna, those single-hearted lovers and devotees who, as described, ceaselessly worship and meditate on you, the Supreme with form and attributes, with the highest reverence—and those who adore the imperishable, formless, truth-conscious-bliss absolute—which of these two types of devotees is the superior knower of yoga?

Arjuna asks: I see two kinds—two types of seekers, two kinds of searchers. Those who see you as formless—no shape, no attribute, no limit, no outline; no incarnation; you cannot be seen or touched. They hold you invisible, vast, infinite, attribute-less—pure power. Such seekers, such yogis, exist. And there are those who adore you with exclusive love, who meditate upon your form, upon your embodied descent. Of the two, which is superior?

Arjuna wants to know: which path should I walk? Which way should I choose? Should I touch you from the side of the formless or the formed? Should I fall in love with you, go crazy, become mad? Or should I, with deliberation, meditate on your formlessness? Should I choose devotion—prayer, worship, love—or meditation—silence, thoughtlessness, emptiness?

For one who goes toward the formless must move in thoughtlessness. All thoughts are shaped; and as long as thoughts remain, form remains. All thinking is “with attributes.” One cannot reach the attribute-less by thought. So drop all thought. Become empty within, so your emptiness can taste the formless.

And remember: whatever one wants to experience, one must become like that. Only the similar can know the similar. Until I become emptiness, the formless cannot be experienced. Until I become love itself, the formed cannot be known. Whatever I seek to experience, I must become.

Thus if Buddha says there is no God, there is a reason. Buddha’s emphasis is: become empty. Even the idea of God will be a hindrance. If you think “there is a God,” that too is a thought, a cloud in your inner sky. You will be covered by it. Leave no such residue. Become pure empty sky with no cloud of thought—not even the thought of God.

Buddha says, there is no moksha either. For that idea, too, will remain in your mind—a desire, a craving; it too will cover you. Become utterly empty. Form no doctrine, no thought.

Thus Buddha denies God, moksha, even the soul. Not because there is no God; not because there is no soul; not because there is no liberation. But so that you can become empty. And the day you are empty, you will know for yourself whether liberation is or is not, whether God is or is not. Hence Buddha saw no need to discuss it.

For this reason people called Buddha an atheist. In truth, one who affirms the formless will always look like an atheist—because all forms must be denied, every idol smashed and removed from the mind; all temples and mosques dismissed; nothing left within—only emptiness. In that emptiness the formless can be touched. For only what I become can I know.

Buddha denies, so that you can be empty.

Arjuna asks: such people exist—seekers, practitioners, the accomplished. Are they the higher ones? Or those who seek you through love and exclusive devotion?

Love’s grip is of an entirely different kind. To be thoughtless is to be emptied. Moving toward the formless requires emptiness—utter emptiness. The path of devotion is the reverse. Devotion says: be filled—completely—with that One alone, with the Divine. Let him throb in your heart; let him be in your breath; let him be in your thoughts. Don’t throw anything out; transform everything into him. Let your blood be him; your bones and marrow be him. Let every hair within be his. Breathe in him; eat in him; rise and sit in him. Let nothing of “you” remain. Become dyed in his color and form. Be so filled with him that not a speck of space remains empty inside you.

Note: the seeker of the formless says, let not even a speck inside be filled; let all be empty. The day you are wholly empty, the event will happen which you seek.

The path of devotion says: let not even a speck of space inside remain empty. Fill so completely that only he remains; you do not. For in that empty space, you can survive; in that empty space, you can hide. Let your thoughts, your feelings, your heartbeat—all become his. That is the meaning of exclusive devotion. As the lover is filled with the beloved, and the beloved with the lover, so that nothing else remains.

If you are in love, the whole world falls away; only your beloved remains. You eat, but while eating, the beloved is within. You walk the road, go to the market, sit at the shop, work—everything happens; but within, the same tune plays day and night. The beloved is present. In rising, sitting, walking, sleeping, dreaming—he pervades. Even an ordinary lover!

To fall in love with the Divine is extraordinary love. The devotee should not remain—so full should he become.

Arjuna asks: there are two paths, seeming opposite. On one side is the formless—become thoughtless. On the other is you in form; and be filled wholly, in every way, with devotion to you—leave not a drop empty. Which is superior?

Several things are hidden in this question.

First: it is not necessary that if anyone other than Arjuna had asked, Krishna would have given the same answer. Keep this in mind. Were it someone else, Krishna’s answer might have been different. If it were a Buddha-like person, Krishna would never say the path of devotion is supreme. The answer would differ.

Arjuna stands before him. The answer is personal, a person-to-person communication. As Krishna speaks to him, Arjuna is included in the answer. This causes difficulty. Hence hundreds of commentaries on the Gita, debates over why Krishna says what he says.

If Shankara writes a commentary, he will be troubled by “bhakti-yoga is supreme.” It will be hard; things will be forced and twisted. Words will be put in Krishna’s mouth that were not his intent. There is no need for such contortions.

In my view, whenever two people converse, not only the speaker but the listener is equally important. Because the one addressed is included. When Krishna says the path of devotion is supreme, first of all he is saying: for Arjuna, the path of devotion is supreme.

Second: for all those like Arjuna, the path of devotion is supreme. And people like Arjuna are many—very many—ninety-nine in a hundred. To become thoughtless is extremely arduous. But to be filled with love is not so hard. Love is an innate uprising. And to become thoughtless, you must think much about why to be thoughtless! But to be filled with love, you need not think much. Love is a natural hunger.

Who wants to be thoughtless? Rarely will you meet such a person. But who does not want to be filled with love? Rarely will you meet one who does not.

For the one who has no interest at all in love, the formless is his way. But if you have even a little yearning for love, the formed is your way. Because it is easiest to walk by the path that already exists in you; easiest to transform what you already contain; right to make what is within you now into your ladder.

There is a deep hunger for love. A person might live without food; without love it is very hard. Those who live without love fail to become truly human.

Modern psychologists have done much research. They say: it was not known till now that without love a human being cannot live, cannot grow, cannot be.

Children not raised with the mother, kept in a love-empty arrangement, fail to thrive and die quickly. Even if food is adequate, medical care complete—if they do not get the mother’s warmth, the heat of love, they wither. Even if some other warmth is given, some other care, something remains missing, and it dogs them all their lives.

Psychologists say: until we can bring forth better mothers on this earth, we cannot improve the world. Until we raise loving mothers, wars cannot be stopped, hatred cannot be ended, enmity cannot cease. Because something fundamental in a person remains undeveloped for want of love. And that undeveloped element becomes the source of life’s disorders—hatred, violence, anger, murder, destruction—all arise from it.

If within you there is a natural hunger for love—and there is—you want to be loved, and you want to love. There is a deep longing that someone love you. For the moment someone loves you, your life gains value. It feels you are worthwhile; the world wants you. At least one person wants you. At least for one person you are indispensable. At least someone will feel your absence; without you will be incomplete—if not in the world, then in a heart.

As soon as someone loves you, you become valuable. If no one loves you, you feel worthless. Whatever your position, however much wealth you accumulate, however big your safe grows—you will feel valueless. For aside from love, no other value is felt.

But it is not enough that someone love you. Even more necessary is that someone receive your love. Just as you inhale and exhale: if you only inhale, you will die. You must exhale as well. Take in, give out—then you are alive and fresh; your breath is new and vibrant. Love must be received and given. One who only takes love also dies—he only inhaled, he did not exhale.

In this world there are two kinds of corpses: those who died for want of inhaling, and those who died for want of exhaling. The living person inhales with as much delight as he exhales. Only then can he live.

Love is a deep breath. Without it, the hidden inner life-breath does not come alive. There is a hunger. Without love, you will feel ill at ease.

This hunger for love can be transformed into spirituality. If it is turned back to the source—if it is turned from matter to the Divine; from the changing world to the eternal—then it becomes devotion.

Therefore, when Krishna says the path of love, of devotion, is supreme—there are reasons: one is Arjuna, the other is the whole of humankind. For it is very hard to find a person for whom love has no value at all.

For one in whom love has no value, thoughtlessness will be his practice; he can make himself a zero. For one whose love longs to blossom, it is better to seek truth, the Divine, through the door of bhakti.

Arjuna’s question is for himself. But we rarely put ourselves into our questions. He does not say, “Which path is best for me?” He asks, “Which path is best?” But his deeper desire is for himself. Our questions are always for ourselves.

Whenever you ask, your questioning is not impersonal; it cannot be. However impersonal you try to make it, you stand inside it; your question betrays you. Whatever you ask tells on you.

Arjuna’s query—Which path is best?—arises because he wants to know which path he should walk, by which he can enter, by which he can reach. Krishna’s answer considers Arjuna.

Thus, when Arjuna asked, Krishna said: O Arjuna, those devotees who, with their minds gathered in me, ceaselessly engaged in my worship and meditation, endowed with supreme faith, adore me as the Supreme with attributes—among yogis, such ones I hold to be the very best.

“With their minds gathered in me…”

Have you noticed? Concentration flowers naturally on the soil of love. Where there is the soil of love, concentration sprouts by itself. In truth, you cannot concentrate your mind because you do not love the object you are trying to concentrate upon.

If a student comes and says, “I study—medicine, engineering—but my mind does not settle; it won’t concentrate,” the first thing I ask is: do you love what you study? If there is no love, concentration is impossible. Where there is love, concentration cannot but be. The same young man says, “When I read a novel, the mind concentrates; when I watch a film, I am absorbed.”

Wherever there is love, concentration happens. Wherever there is attachment, concentration happens. So whenever you find you cannot concentrate, do not try to concentrate; first try to understand whether you love what you are doing. For love, there is no question of concentration.

When Einstein works a mathematical problem, he does not have to concentrate. Mathematics is his love. Even if his beloved were sitting there, he would forget her and not the mathematics.

Dr. Rammanohar Lohia went to meet Einstein; he had to wait six hours. Einstein was in his bathroom and would not come out. His wife repeatedly told Lohia, “You may go if you like; it has been a long time, I am sorry. But there is no remedy. Most likely he is sitting in the bathtub solving a problem.”

Six hours later Einstein emerged, very pleased—a riddle had been solved. He would forget food, forget his wife—but not the mathematical puzzle.

Where there is love, concentration follows like a shadow. Even if you want, you cannot break it. That is why when you are in love and want to forget, it becomes very difficult. It is as hard to remember someone you don’t love as it is to forget someone you do.

How will you forget one you love? There is no way. The effort to forget becomes an effort to remember. In trying to forget, only remembrance grows, is repeated.

So Krishna says: with the mind gathered in me.

Concentration means: plunging your love wholly into me; placing your heart wholly in me—or placing me wholly in your heart. Love means: losing yourself, giving yourself. Let only me remain; let every fiber of your being remember me.

“Engaged in my worship and meditation.”

Let my song, my dance, your rising and sitting—every act of life—become my remembrance. Wherever you look, see me.

If ever you have loved someone—if, I say, because the event of love grows rare—love is talked of much, sung about, filmed; precisely because it has vanished. They are substitutes.

The hungry speak of food. One who has enough does not talk of it. The naked talk of clothing. When a man talks much of clothes, know he is inwardly naked, however draped—because what we cannot fulfill in life, we try to fulfill by talk.

Today love is so talked of across the earth, so many songs, so many books—for the sole reason that love is drying up. Now we must watch films and read romances to console ourselves.

So I say, if you have ever loved, you will have noticed: wherever you look, you sense a hint of your beloved. To a lover, the stars become his beloved’s eyes; the moon, the beloved; ocean waves, the beloved’s presence. Flowers opening, some song, a veena’s note, birds singing at dawn, the sun rising—whatever happens, it makes no difference; from every side the same message comes, the same remembrance is touched, the same tune plays in the heart.

When one leans toward the Divine in this way—so that in the flower one sees him; in the bird flight across the sky one sees him; in the morning dew on the grass one sees him—know then, worship is complete.

Worship means: the One shines everywhere. Repeating “Ram, Ram” with the lips is not worship; that too is a substitute. When existence is not experienced, man fulfills by the mouth.

A man says “Ram, Ram” all morning. In the flower beside him he does not see Ram. The sun rises in the sky—he does not see Ram. Only his lips chant. It is not bad—better than chanting something worse. The lips will do something. Better than nothing. But it is not worship. Worship is when whatever is happening all around becomes full of him, and he is seen in all.

As long as you see God only in a temple, know you have not found the temple of God. If he appears only in a fixed idol, know you have not found him. Otherwise every form is his. The unhewn rock is his image; the roadside boulder is his idol. For to a heart full of worship, he is heard everywhere.

This world is an echo. What is in our heart is what we hear.

I have heard: a patient came to Sigmund Freud—there was some mental trouble, his family distressed. Freud would first inquire whether there was any sexual knot, some tangle in the sex-energy—because in a hundred mental diseases, ninety are born of sexual knots; somewhere the sex energy is entangled, and illness ensues. So Freud first probed there.

A horseman rode past the window. Freud asked the patient:

A part of Freud’s method was free association—the free flow of thought—to reveal what is moving within.

He suddenly asked: “Look, a man on horseback. What comes to your mind at once? Not by thinking—tell me immediately.” The man said, “A woman. I see a woman.”

Freud returned to conversation. A bird perched on the window and began to chirp. Freud broke off again: “Hearing this bird, what comes to mind?” “A woman,” he said.

Freud grew a bit uneasy—though the man was behaving entirely according to theory. Freud dropped the pencil in his hand onto the floor: “Seeing this pencil fall, what comes to mind?” “A woman,” the man said.

Freud asked, “Why do you think of a woman in everything?” The man replied, “Nothing else comes to mind. All these things you are doing—horse, bird, pencil—are useless. Nothing else comes to me.”

A person full of lust will be like this: filled within, he sees the world as woman; the world echoes him. If greed fills you, you see everywhere only extensions of your greed—money.

Try this: fast one day and then walk the street. You will see nothing but restaurant signs. On the road you travel daily, signs you never noticed will gleam. Today, hunger burns within; food becomes supremely important. You will see only food.

Heinrich Heine wrote: once I lost my way in a forest and did not eat for three days. Whenever the full moon rose, I used to see my beloved’s face in it. That night, too, the moon rose—but I felt a white loaf of bread was floating in the sky. No beloved appeared—only a white loaf!

What is within begins to echo all around. This world is your echo. Mirrors are hung on every side, and you see only your own picture.

Worship means: when love for the Divine deepens within, his echo is heard everywhere. Then whatever you do becomes worship.

Kabir said: Sitting, rising, walking—all is your worship. There is no need to do something separate.

“Those who, with their minds gathered in me, are ceaselessly engaged in my worship and meditation, endowed with the highest shraddha…”

What is the highest shraddha? There is a kind of faith that rests on logic—that is not the highest. Its real support is the intellect; the leap is not yet taken. People have offered proofs for the existence of God. Those who believe on the strength of those proofs possess a low-grade faith.

In the East and West many philosophers have offered arguments for God’s existence. Some say: since the world exists, there must be a maker. As the pot implies a potter, so the world implies a creator.

Others say: purpose is visible in the world. It does not look accidental; there is a system, an order—so there must be an organizer. Consciousness appears in the world—mind, thought, awareness. Awareness cannot arise from dead matter; there must be a conscious hand behind the world.

Thousands of such arguments have been offered. If you believe in God because of them, your faith is inferior—because these arguments are weak and can be demolished. There is no argument that cannot be refuted. And the very logic that proves God can also disprove him.

The theist says: every thing that exists must have a maker. Charvaka replies: Then who made your God? The same logic. The theist is upset. His faith stands on that logic: there must be a creator. Without a creator, how would this be?

The atheist says: I accept your logic—but who created God? The theist is disturbed and calls it sophistry.

If that is sophistry, how can the first be sound? The atheist continues: If God can be uncreated, then why cannot the world be uncreated as well? If you must accept an uncreated, why not accept the obvious world as uncreated? Why bring in a hidden, mysterious entity?

No argument exists that the atheist cannot shatter. Hence theists fear atheists—not because they are true theists, but because they are inferior theists. Their faith rests on arguments; these can be broken. The atheist breaks them—so there is fear.

And the atheism visible on earth today is not because the world has become atheist; but because inferior theism has gotten into trouble. The world has become more logical, more thoughtful. Using the same logic with which you “proved” God, people now disprove him.

The world has become more reasoning, more intellectual. You can no longer deceive. You must carry logic to its end—and then it becomes an obstacle.

What is the highest shraddha? That which stands not on argument but on experience. Not on thought, but on direct seeing. Which does not say, “Therefore God must be,” but “He is.” Not “must be”—he is.

Someone asked Aurobindo, “Do you believe in God?” Aurobindo said, “No.” The questioner was shocked. He had come from far, thinking at least Aurobindo would strengthen his belief. Hearing “No,” he was distressed.

He asked, “What are you saying? There is no God? You have no faith?” Aurobindo replied, “No—God is. But I have no need of belief—because I know. And this is not belief; I know he is.”

Consider this. We “believe” only in what we do not know. You do not “believe” in the sun; or in the earth; or that I am sitting here. You know it. You believe in God because you do not know whether God is or is not. Where there is no knowing, belief appears.

This will seem paradoxical—because we take belief to mean trust. When someone says, “I have full faith in you,” know that he does not. Otherwise why the assertion? Knowing does not use the word “belief.” And when someone insists, “No, I truly believe,” watch your pockets! Don’t host him at home; that much belief is dangerous. He is trying to reassure you precisely because he does not believe.

When a lover keeps saying, “I love you so much,” know love is running out. When love is, there is no need to say; it is felt. Its waves are sensed, its fragrance known. When love is, words feel trashy. When love ends…

Thus lovers rarely tell each other, “I love you so much”; husbands and wives do—daily reassuring themselves and each other, because it isn’t there. They must persuade themselves and the other.

What is lacking we try to make up with belief. Aurobindo was right: I know he is. No argument is needed. What is needed is experience.

What is that experience? And if it does not happen to you, what is the obstruction?

Imagine standing on the ocean shore; waves rise. Each wave can suppose “I am.” But the wave is not; only the ocean is. Now the wave is, now it is not. It was not, now it is, soon it will be gone. The wave’s being is momentary. But within the wave, the ocean—the eternal—is.

You were not, now you are, and soon you will not be. You are only a wave in the ocean of being, of existence. But the wave takes itself to be “I.” When it thinks “I am,” it forgets the ocean. To take itself as the I is to forget the Divine. For a wave that holds itself, how can it remember the ocean?

Understand this: if the wave knows the ocean is, it will see the ocean within itself and will not be able to remain separate. To preserve its ego, the wave must deny the ocean: “Ocean? That’s just talk; who has seen it?”

And indeed you too have not seen the ocean. What is visible are always waves. The ocean hides beneath; it is never seen. Whenever seen, a wave is seen.

So the wave says, “Who has seen the ocean? It is only talk. What appears is the wave. I am; the ocean is a fancy.”

But if the wave turns within, it will enter the ocean. For within it there is nothing but ocean. The wave is one mode of the ocean’s being—one ripple, one form. As a wave, it is still ocean, only a little difference of shape, of form.

When someone rightly understands his being—himself—then the wave disappears and the ocean is revealed. Or even in seeing another rightly, the wave vanishes and the ocean shows.

If you are in deep love, in the very moment love deepens, the person’s wave disappears and you glimpse the ocean. Hence, if lovers have seen God in their beloveds, it is no surprise; it should be so. Love without the wave dissolving and the ocean being felt is not love.

It can appear in another; it can appear in oneself; wherever attention deepens, it can appear. When this directly felt experience of the ocean arises, the faith born of it is not belief. That is not a belief; it is experience. Then if all the arguments in the world say “There is no God,” you will only smile. After hearing them all, you will say: these are charming, amusing, entertaining—but God is, and arguments neither prove nor disprove him.

Remember: arguments neither establish him nor refute him. Those who think he is proven by argument will always be in trouble—because then you must admit he can be disproven by argument. What is proved by logic must be ready to be broken by logic. And what depends on your proof will be lost when your proof is withdrawn.

The Divine needs none of your proofs. His being is not your decision, nor the conclusion of your arithmetic. He is prior to your being. And even now, in this very moment, his being hides within your being as the ocean hides within the wave.

When you were not, what was? When you were not, where was that which is now within you? For what is, is never destroyed; there is no way to annihilate. Destruction is impossible.

Science too admits: nothing in the universe is destroyed. If destroyed, where would it go? A drop of water cannot be annihilated. It can become vapor, but remains. Vapor can be split into hydrogen and oxygen, but remains. You cannot destroy. If even a drop of water is indestructible, where were you yesterday when you “were not”?

In Zen they give students a riddle—a koan: Find where you were before you were born. Meditate on what your face was before you were born. Look into where you will go when you die. For unless you find where you were before birth, and where you will be after death, you cannot know where you are this very moment.

You do not know even now. You cannot. You know only the measure of the wave—which was not, is, and will not be. Of the ocean—there before the wave, here now, and after the wave is gone—you know nothing. In this world only forms perish; being does not.

We are forms. The being hidden within these forms is the Divine.

The highest shraddha is the faith born of this direct recognition, this seeing. It will not come from reading scriptures or taking another’s word. It must become a part of your lived experience. You must see.

If God is not your private experience, your theism is hollow. It has no worth. It is a paper boat—do not try to cross the ocean of existence in it; you will drown badly. Better to remain on the shore than trust that. Only the boat of experience is real.

“Those who, with their minds gathered in me, ceaselessly engaged in my worship and meditation, endowed with the highest shraddha, adore me as the Supreme with attributes—among yogis, such ones I hold to be the very best.”

Love is the supreme yoga. There is no experience higher than love. And thus bhakti becomes the highest path, because it is love transformed.

We will pause five minutes. We will sing kirtan and then go.

Let no one get up in between. And until the kirtan ends, until the melody falls silent, remain seated. Join in. Who knows—some tune may catch your heart, and devotion be born.