Geeta Darshan #8

Now, let us take the sutra.

“He by whom no being is agitated, and who himself is not agitated by any being, who is free from delight and resentment, fear and agitation—such a devotee is dear to me. And the man who is free of craving, pure within and without, skillful—who has fulfilled what he came for—impartial, released from sorrow, and a renouncer of all undertakings—such a devotee is dear to me.”

Krishna gives further marks of the one who is dear to the divine—meaning, one who is drawing near, becoming intimate. These qualities bring you close; they orient you toward the divine.

“He by whom no being is agitated...”
This is a bit subtle. One by whom no disturbance is created in anyone. But it needs understanding—because you’ll find people saying, “We are disturbed by Krishna.” Others will say, “We feel disturbed by Buddha.”

And there were such people. They wanted to kill Buddha. Whoever wants to kill Buddha is certainly disturbed. Those who crucified Jesus were disturbed. Then what—was Jesus not dear to God? Even Krishna would be in trouble, because people were disturbed by him too; they tried their best to destroy him.

But the sutra says, “He by whom no being is agitated.” Understand its meaning.

It’s not necessary that you won’t be agitated around Buddha. It need not be because of Buddha; it can be because of you. The only condition is: Buddha, from his side, does not agitate you. But you may still be agitated. If you are agitated from your side, Buddha bears no responsibility. Buddha neither tries to agitate you nor has any taste for it—he does not become the cause from his side.

You must be careful not to become the cause of anyone’s agitation. Still, someone may be agitated—because in agitation you are not the only participant; the one who gets agitated participates equally.

An acquaintance of mine was always troubled by his son. I told the son, “Do as your father wishes. He doesn’t want anything special—do it; you won’t lose anything. He’ll find some peace.”

The boy said, “You don’t know. It makes no difference what I do. If I do exactly what he says, he still gets agitated.

“For example, if I wear very clean clothes, which I like, he will say in front of people, ‘Look at him! I broke my bones to earn money; he’s a prince—living off it. Enjoy, enjoy! The day I die, you’ll starve.’

“And if I don’t wear clean clothes, he still stands up before people and says, ‘Oh! So am I already dead? Dress like this after I’m gone. For now, enjoy—this state will come soon enough. But don’t go around with that face in front of me.’

“The trouble,” the boy said, “is that even if I obey, it doesn’t reduce his agitation.”

Meaning, if someone wants to be agitated, he will find any excuse. Notice this in yourself: when you get upset, it is not necessary that the other has provided the cause; you may be doing it to yourself.

I’ve heard: A friend told Mulla Nasruddin, “I’m in real trouble—I’ve got such a wife that if I utter a single word, I’m trapped; she spins out endless talk from that one word!”

Nasruddin said, “That’s nothing. Mine is a self-starter. You at least have to speak a word. My wife—no need to say anything; she starts on her own. Keeping quiet is dangerous too: ‘Why are you silent? There must be some meaning!’”

Understand—it’s not necessary the other is providing the cause. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times you are searching for a cause. There are reasons.

You’re at the office; the boss says something. You can’t show it there—it’s costly; your job could be at stake. You swallow it. But what you swallow—where will it go? It must come out somewhere.

You come home and unconsciously look for an opening: let the wife bring a burned chapati, or slightly cold tea. You don’t even know you’re looking; it’s not deliberate thinking; it’s unconscious. But a certain quota of anger is standing up within you, seeking a channel. It couldn’t flow toward the boss—that was uphill; it can flow toward the wife—that’s downhill.

You’re looking for someone to flow toward. You’ll find some pretext. Then the wife is startled—she served the same kind of roti yesterday and you weren’t angry. And she’s been serving that very tea all her life. Today! It’s beyond her understanding.

That’s why no one ever understands anyone’s anger—because anger is beyond understanding. It’s not necessary that the apparent cause is the cause. The causes may be elsewhere—God knows where. Thousands of other causes have been accumulating, and all erupt together.

She cannot understand. But husbands have taught wives for thousands of years that the husband is God. This is the husband’s self-protection. Having been beaten by the world, if he is not God at home, life is going to waste. He needs someplace to swagger and say, “I am God.” Many people strut on that.

So the wife becomes a release—a convenience. But women are raising a storm around the world now. They say, “We won’t accept this.” In this country it still goes on.

Then the wife too accumulates. She cannot show it to the husband; she looks for the son to return from school. He comes happy, playing—unaware of the eruption waiting at home.

The moment he enters, the mother pounces. Any excuse will do—unconscious excuses. “How did this cloth tear? How did your slate break? How did your book rip?”

The child cannot understand—these things break and tear daily. He feels injustice—yet where will he declare it? Where can he revolt? The only way: if the mother scolds or beats him, he tears the book more, breaks the slate further, or goes to his room and rips his doll apart.

What was born in the office—the doll gets caught in it. What did the doll have to do with what the boss said to you? But this is happening twenty-four hours a day.

So the sutra doesn’t mean that if you become peaceful, no one will be disturbed because of you. It means: don’t be the cause. Be aware that “I shall not become the cause.”

And something delightful happens: if you are not the cause, then when someone forcibly tries to make you the cause, you don’t get angry—because you know he’s just releasing. Understand the difference.

When you are not the cause of anyone’s agitation—consciously not the cause—and yet someone becomes agitated, you can laugh. And if you still feel anger, know that somewhere you were a cause. This is the only test.

If you come home and your wife lashes out, and truly you are not the cause even a little, you will be able to laugh. You won’t react; you won’t counter with a bigger eruption and start breaking things. If you do, then no matter how much you say, “I’m not the cause,” you are the cause.

If you are not the cause, you will remain outside and laugh: “How mad she is—out of her senses!” Compassion will arise, not anger. “Poor thing—some difficulty, someone troubled her, or the day’s silly chores—washing utensils, cooking—daily boredom has worn her out.” But you won’t get angry.

When the causes to agitate others are finished within you, you become free of reaction. That is the sign.

“He by whom no being is agitated, and who himself is not agitated by any being...”
The second happens only when the first has happened. If you don’t become a cause for anyone, then even if the other wants to make you a cause, he cannot. And if someone can still become a cause for you, know the first hasn’t happened yet. The second is its natural result.

When you are not the cause of anyone’s suffering, then even if someone wants to hurt you, he cannot.

When Jesus was hanging on the cross, he prayed to God, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” They are not in their senses; they are unconscious. Don’t consider them sinners—forgive them.

Only a man for whom even a crucifixion cannot produce anger can pray like this. When such a thing happens, you begin to draw close to the divine.

Krishna says, such a one is dear to me. “And who is free from delight and resentment, fear and agitation—such a devotee is dear to me.”

Free from delight and resentment, fear and agitation...
Let’s understand. It’s subtle.

When someone is unhappy, you become unhappy. Someone dies; you shed tears. Someone’s house burns; you go to console them. But have you ever asked whether this sorrow is true or false?

If it’s true, there is one test: when someone’s house expands, you should feel happy. Only then can you truly feel sorrow when it burns. When someone wins, you should feel delighted; only then can their loss cause you pain.

When a poor man becomes rich—do you feel joy? Or pain? If you feel pain, then the second thing is doubtful—that you feel sorrow when a rich man becomes poor. It cannot be. Life has its mathematics—clear, straight lines without error.

That’s why psychologists say: when you say you share in another’s sorrow, deep down you feel a little pleasure. It’s complex and seems paradoxical. We feel, “No, when someone’s house burns, we truly feel sad.”

But the psychologists say, deep down there’s a little joy: “My house didn’t burn—that’s one. His did. It had to—ill-gotten gains!” All this is inside. “He was strutting—now he’s on the ground. Justice may be delayed, but it isn’t denied.” This is running within. And on the surface you display sympathy. Even in that sympathy there’s a kind of pleasure: “Today he’s in a state where I can show sympathy.” God forbid that I’m ever in a state where someone has to show sympathy to me.

You know when someone comes to console you, you don’t like it. It pricks: “Well, it’s fate. Someday I’ll get a chance to come console you. This won’t always be our lot—everyone’s turn comes.”

If you don’t like being consoled, then surely the one consoling you is liking it. Because he’s liking it, you don’t like it. And because you don’t like it, he likes it more. It’s all connected.

You don’t rejoice in another’s joy. Your sorrow at another’s sorrow is also false—unless you can truly rejoice in another’s joy. And you can rejoice in another’s joy only when you have so dissolved that the “other” no longer feels other. Otherwise you cannot. As long as “I” am, how can I rejoice in another’s joy? He got it, I didn’t!

Even in politics, two candidates contest an election; the loser goes to congratulate the winner. How much meaning is there in that congratulations! How much pain behind the smile! But the rules of the game must be observed. On the surface order is maintained; underneath, poison flows; on the surface, smiles; underneath, knives.

As long as the other is other, you cannot sorrow in his sorrow, nor rejoice in his joy. And the other is no longer other only when—when you are no longer within; when that inner I-ness, ego, is gone.

But there’s a further subtlety. When the ego is gone, there is no happiness even in one’s own happiness, and no sorrow in one’s own sorrow. The egoless person goes beyond elation and depression—neither his own nor another’s.

You might ask, “But then why does someone like Buddha try to remove others’ suffering?”

In Japan there was a mendicant, Nan-in. Someone asked him, “Buddha has gone beyond all suffering—but is he still touched by others’ suffering?” It’s worth pondering. He is engaged in relieving others’ suffering, after all.

Nan-in said, “Another’s suffering doesn’t touch him. Another’s suffering appears as a dream—a nightmare.”

Like this: I wake up at night; my own dream is over. I am awake. I see you nearby, froth at your mouth, chest heaving, body trembling, tears flowing, as if someone is sitting on your chest tormenting you. I don’t suffer over it. I could even smile—because it’s a dream. But this is my knowing; for you, it’s reality—you are in real pain. I may try to wake you.

My trying to wake you doesn’t mean I’m suffering from your suffering. It only means I know you’re troubled unnecessarily—and your trouble is false. But it is true for you now—because you’re asleep. Once you wake, it will be false for you too.

So Buddha’s or Krishna’s effort is not to remove your suffering—you are not truly suffering. Their effort is to remove your dream of suffering.

You are dreaming a great misery—tossing, turning. Your condition does not make Buddha suffer. He only feels that you are needlessly in pain, and that you can come out of it. And he tells you the way he came out—so you too can.

“Free from delight and resentment, fear and agitation...”
One who now feels neither elation nor resentment; whom nothing frightens—not even death. For death too is a dream. No one ever dies; it only appears that we die. One whose inner state becomes such that death does not happen to me; death comes near and passes, and I remain untouched—that person is dear to me.

Mahavira called fearlessness the first mark—only the fearless can attain the soul.

Krishna says, “He who has no fear is dear to me.”

But what is fear? At the root of all fear is one: that I might be annihilated; that death may end me. That’s the fear behind every fear—whether of illness or of sorrow; death is at the base.

As long as one doesn’t peek beyond the ego and the senses, death will appear—because in the world known by the senses, death is. In the world you see with the eyes, death is real there—more real than life; life is fleeting. A flower no sooner blooms than it begins to wither. A child no sooner is born than he begins to die. Everything is changing—change means death is happening every moment. In the sensory world, death is moment to moment. There, death is fact; life is the surprise. Life is suspicious there.

That’s why materialists say there is no life—everything is matter. Death is so pervasive—what life are you talking about? Life is only your dream; here everything is death.

In a way, they are right. In the outer world, life doesn’t show; even a glimpse, when it appears, seems only to reveal death—that life’s line flashes merely to make death known. All around is death.

Matter means mortality. And through the senses, nothing but matter can be known. Hence fear grips. The inner nectar—which never dies—also feels fear seeing death everywhere. Surrounded by death, a delusion arises that I too will die.

But the one who goes beyond the senses and looks within sees: the one sitting here never dies. He has never died; he cannot die. When the sense of the deathless arises, only then does fear cease. Understand the distinctions.

Those you call fearless are not the point here. We know two kinds of people: timid, cowardly; and fearless, brave. Abhaya—fearlessness—is a third thing. The one you call “brave” also feels fear but doesn’t run; the coward also feels fear and runs. The difference is: both feel fear; the coward flees, the brave stands firm.

Fearlessness means one who does not feel fear at all. You cannot call him brave—bravery doesn’t apply. When there is no fear, what is bravery? If someone never feels fear, what is the value of his “courage”? You cannot call Mahavira brave.

Abhaya—fearlessness—means both bravery and cowardice have disappeared. This person knows that death does not happen.

So Krishna says, that devotee is dear to me who has had some glimpse of the deathless—who is moving beyond fear.

“And the man who is without desire, who is pure within and without, skillful—meaning, who has completed what he came for—unbiased, freed from sorrows; a renouncer of all undertakings—such a devotee is dear to me.”

Without desire...
One who has understood the futility of cravings, who no longer asks, “I want this.” Whatever comes, he says, “This is precisely my wish.” What doesn’t come—no worry, no desire.

As for us, our attention remains on what we don’t have. What we have—we forget. Remember? What you have, you forget; what you don’t have, you remember. And only until you don’t have it do you remember it.

The car you want—until you buy it, it’s with you. The day you buy it and sit in it, it’s no longer with you—you forget. Now other cars catch your eye—the ones others have.

The house you live in—you don’t see it. Others see it—the ones sitting on the footpath. They think, “What a house! If only we were inside—what bliss we’d feel!” And they never see the state of the one inside—he’s not enjoying either. He is troubled in his own way. He doesn’t want to live in that house—he’s searching for another.

We think about what isn’t. What is—we forget. What isn’t—gives us sorrow. What is—gives no joy.

I’ve heard: a man was buying bananas at a vegetable shop. He asked the price. “One rupee a dozen,” said the seller. The man said, “What a robbery! The shop across sells the same bananas for eight annas a dozen.” The seller said, “Then please buy there.” The man replied, “But today his bananas are finished.” The seller said, “When mine are finished, I sell for four annas a dozen! When I have none, I sell at four annas. He’s robbing you—eight annas a dozen!”

In this world we haggle over what isn’t as well. We calculate over what isn’t. People stake their lives on what isn’t—while what is gets forgotten.

Desire means: seeking what isn’t. Desirelessness means: contentment with what is.

Pure within and without...
Who is pure within and without? The one who is the same inside and out. If inside is one thing and outside another, that is impurity.

What does “pure” mean? When do you call water pure? When there is nothing in it but water. When is milk pure? When there is only milk—nothing else. Even if you mix pure water with pure milk, both become impure.

It’s delightful: both were pure—shouldn’t they become doubly pure? But mix pure water with pure milk—both are impure now. Neither water is pure nor milk. Why? A foreign element—heterogeneous admixture—creates impurity. When milk was milk—just milk, one-flavored—only milk within and without, it was pure. When water was the same, it was pure. Now neither remains what it was; twoness has arisen—conflict is born.

When you are the same within and without—water-water, milk-milk—whatever you are, however you are—good or bad is not the issue—if you are the same inside and out, you are pure. When you are double—two persons within—both become impure. Harmony of inner and outer is purity.

Krishna says, one who is pure within and without—who is one—such a one is dear to me.

Because when the inner conflict ends, you are ready to receive the nondual. As you are, so will you unite. If you are in duality, you cannot unite with the nondual. Like unites with like. Hence inner-outer sameness!

If you are a thief, don’t worry—even a thief can realize the divine—but be the same within and without! That’s the difficulty—a thief cannot be the same inside and out, else theft won’t work. If he declares, “I am a thief,” theft ends immediately.

I’ve heard: A king visited his prison on his birthday to distribute sweets. Every prisoner said, “I’m innocent, Your Majesty! I was framed. The charge was false, witnesses were false. Great injustice—free me.” Everyone said the same.

The last prisoner—the king asked, “What about you? Are you also pure? Innocent?”

He said, “No, Majesty, I am a thief; I committed theft. My trial was fair. The witnesses testified correctly. The court’s verdict was just. The punishment fits my crime.”

The king told his men, “Throw this crook out of the jail immediately.”

All the prisoners cried, “What injustice! He himself says he’s a thief and deserving of punishment; and we shout we’re innocent, and you free the guilty one!”

The king said, “There’s a reason. If we don’t remove this devil, he’ll corrupt you innocent souls.”

When even a thief becomes this open and simply says it—inner equals outer—then to save you “innocent” souls, God immediately removes him from this world—otherwise he’ll corrupt you. Such a devil is not allowed to linger here.

What you are is not the question. If you become single-flavored and express yourself as you are, then there is no place for you in this world—your place is in God’s heart.

“Skillful—who has completed the work he came for...”
This is what I’ve been saying: each person has come to descend into desires and learn their futility; to crave and know it’s poison; to enter the world and see it is fire. If you cannot arrive at this understanding, you are not skillful. Whoever becomes skillful in this way is dear to the divine.

“Impartial, free from all sorrows, a renouncer of all undertakings—my devotee is dear to me.”
Undertaking means the very point where desire begins. If desire is to be dropped, it cannot be dropped in the middle or at the end; it must be dropped at the start.

You pass a house and it looks very beautiful. You are not yet aware that a desire is being born; you may think you’re an aesthete, appreciating beauty—this is the beginning. When a house appears beautiful, in a little while another line will arise: “When will it become mine?”

Beginnings are always hidden; you don’t notice. You say, “A woman is passing—how beautiful!” You think it’s because you are an artist, a connoisseur. But as soon as you say “How beautiful,” look closely—another desire is concealed: “How can she become available to me?”

This is the beginning. If you are not alert at the beginning, desire will grab you. Hence, “renouncer of all beginnings.” One who recognizes wherever the mischief starts and lets it go right there. If it’s not dropped there, it cannot be dropped in the middle. You cannot turn back midcourse.

Some things, once released, cannot be recalled—like an arrow. As long as the arrow is on the string, you can recall it.

Beginning means where the arrow leaves the bow.

He who renounces all beginnings is dear to the divine.

Let us pause for five minutes. Don’t get up midway. We’ll do kirtan and then disperse.