Abiding equally in all beings, the Supreme Lord.
Within the perishing, the Imperishable—he who sees this, he truly sees. || 27 ||
Seeing everywhere the Lord, equal, evenly abiding.
He does not injure the Self by the self; therefore he attains the supreme goal. || 28 ||
By Nature alone are all actions wrought in every way.
He who thus sees the Self as the non-doer—he truly sees. || 29 ||
When he beholds the manifold forms of beings standing in the One,
and their unfolding from That alone—then he attains Brahman. || 30 ||
Geeta Darshan #10
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
समं सर्वेषु भूतेषु तिष्ठन्तं परमेश्वरम्।
विनश्यत्स्वविनश्यन्तं यः पश्यति स पश्यति।। 27।।
समं पश्यन्हि सर्वत्र समवस्थितमीश्वरम्।
न हिनस्त्यात्मनात्मानं ततो याति परां गतिम्।। 28।।
प्रकृत्यैव च कर्माणि क्रियमाणानि सर्वशः।
यः पश्यति तथात्मानमकर्तारं स पश्यति।। 29।।
यदा भूतपृथग्भावमेकस्थमनुपश्यति।
तत एव च विस्तारं ब्रह्म सम्पद्यते तदा।। 30।।
विनश्यत्स्वविनश्यन्तं यः पश्यति स पश्यति।। 27।।
समं पश्यन्हि सर्वत्र समवस्थितमीश्वरम्।
न हिनस्त्यात्मनात्मानं ततो याति परां गतिम्।। 28।।
प्रकृत्यैव च कर्माणि क्रियमाणानि सर्वशः।
यः पश्यति तथात्मानमकर्तारं स पश्यति।। 29।।
यदा भूतपृथग्भावमेकस्थमनुपश्यति।
तत एव च विस्तारं ब्रह्म सम्पद्यते तदा।। 30।।
Transliteration:
samaṃ sarveṣu bhūteṣu tiṣṭhantaṃ parameśvaram|
vinaśyatsvavinaśyantaṃ yaḥ paśyati sa paśyati|| 27||
samaṃ paśyanhi sarvatra samavasthitamīśvaram|
na hinastyātmanātmānaṃ tato yāti parāṃ gatim|| 28||
prakṛtyaiva ca karmāṇi kriyamāṇāni sarvaśaḥ|
yaḥ paśyati tathātmānamakartāraṃ sa paśyati|| 29||
yadā bhūtapṛthagbhāvamekasthamanupaśyati|
tata eva ca vistāraṃ brahma sampadyate tadā|| 30||
samaṃ sarveṣu bhūteṣu tiṣṭhantaṃ parameśvaram|
vinaśyatsvavinaśyantaṃ yaḥ paśyati sa paśyati|| 27||
samaṃ paśyanhi sarvatra samavasthitamīśvaram|
na hinastyātmanātmānaṃ tato yāti parāṃ gatim|| 28||
prakṛtyaiva ca karmāṇi kriyamāṇāni sarvaśaḥ|
yaḥ paśyati tathātmānamakartāraṃ sa paśyati|| 29||
yadā bhūtapṛthagbhāvamekasthamanupaśyati|
tata eva ca vistāraṃ brahma sampadyate tadā|| 30||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
A friend has asked: Osho, people often think that only those who are mentally disordered, overly emotional, or tormented by life's difficulties turn toward yoga or spirituality. Madness or frenzy is often assumed to be the starting point of spiritual practice!
Those who think so are right—up to a point. Their mistake is not in seeing that people troubled and tormented by the mind are drawn toward meditation, yoga, and spirituality; that much is true. But those who believe themselves to be mentally untroubled are just as afflicted—and they, too, should bow toward it.
To be human is to be afflicted. The very way man is constituted carries pain. Human existence is sorrowful. So the truly foolish one is the person who imagines they will attain bliss without turning toward the spiritual. There is no other way to bliss. And the sooner one bows, the better.
It is true that those who incline toward spirituality are mentally troubled. But note the other side: the very moment they bow, their mental pain begins to dissolve. With that bowing, the frenzy begins to disappear. Passing through the process of spirituality, they become healthy, quiet, and blissful.
Look to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Krishna. Gold emerges purified after passing through the fire. But those who refuse to bow remain mad.
Do not imagine that if you are not turning toward spirituality you are healthy. No one can be healthy without passing through it. Health means to be established in oneself. Without being established in oneself, one cannot be healthy; the running, the restlessness, the worry, the tension will persist.
So, yes—those who bow are mad. Those who do not bow are even more mad. For without bowing there is no way out of madness. Don't flatter yourself that you are so intelligent. Your cleverness has no value. If within you there is anxiety, pain, sorrow, then no matter how much you know, no matter how intelligent you appear, it will be of no use. The madness within is accumulating.
And I said: to be human is itself a kind of madness. There are reasons. Man is only a seed—a mere possibility of becoming something. Until he becomes, the trouble remains. Until the inner flower fully blossoms, the seed is filled with tension. Only when the seed breaks, sprouts, and becomes a flower does bliss happen.
In the language of the spirit, suffering has only one meaning: that you are not becoming what you can be. And bliss has only one meaning: that you have become what you can be. Bliss means no possibility within remains; you have become truth. Whatever you could be, you have touched the ultimate peak. You have reached your wholeness. And until that wholeness is realized, restlessness remains.
As a river runs toward the ocean—restless, searching—so does man run. Meeting the ocean, there is peace. But a river could think, “These rivers rushing to the ocean are mad.” If a river stops running to the sea, it becomes a pond. A river merges in the ocean and becomes vast. A pond only stagnates; it reaches nowhere.
Spirituality is movement—beyond man, above man—toward that which is ultimate, final. Do not soothe yourself with the thought that only lunatics lean this way: “I am a wise man. Why should I bow?”
It is not a question of your cleverness. If bliss has dawned upon you, then there is no question of bowing. But if you have no taste of bliss, if your heart is not dancing, if you have not attained the most secret mystery of samadhi, of utter peace, then do not avoid the spiritual out of fear that someone might call you mad. Otherwise you will avoid the supreme quest of life itself.
Yes, the mad turn toward spirituality—true. But they are fortunate madmen, for they at least have the sense to bow toward the cure. What can be said of those madmen who are mad and yet do not bow? Who are ill and yet do not seek the physician or the medicine? Their sickness is double. They take their illness to be health.
Every day people come to me armed with great theories. They have studied heavy scriptures. They have gathered secondhand wisdom. I tell them I have no curiosity about what you know. My interest is in what you are. If bliss has happened to you, then your words carry weight for me. Otherwise all your talk is only a way to cover your sorrow.
So tell me the basic thing: have you found bliss? If so, I will accept whatever you say as true. And if not, then whatever you say I will take as false, no matter how right it may appear. For that which does not blossom the flower of life has no basis to be called truth. And that which keeps life’s flower shut, pressed down under the junk of borrowed knowledge, making its opening even harder, has nothing to do with truth.
In my reckoning, whatsoever leads toward bliss is truth; whatsoever leads toward sorrow is untruth. If you are moving toward bliss, whatever you are doing is right. If you are not moving toward bliss, then whatever you do is wrong. The final touchstone is only this: have you experienced the supreme bliss of life or not?
So this friend is right: the deranged seem to be inclined. But everyone is deranged.
Ask a psychiatrist: who is healthy? Do not mistake the one you call “normal” to be healthy. He is only normally mad, nothing special. Mad in the same way the rest of the crowd is mad. That is why he doesn’t look mad. Let him go just a little further, and it begins to show.
The difference between a madman and you is one of degree, not of kind. Just a few degrees. You are at ninety-nine degrees; the madman boiled over at a hundred. That one degree can be added to you any moment. A small incident—and you can go mad.
Insult the wisest man just a little and he goes mad. He was already poised on the edge; a small insult becomes the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Your cleverness can be shaken in an instant; it has no value. Somehow you are merely holding yourself together.
There is no essence in just holding yourself together. One must be freed from derangement. Yoga is the means to be free of derangement. It is good to recognize your own derangement.
Remember, recognizing illness is good—because then there can be a remedy, a cure. Denying illness is dangerous. Denial doesn’t erase it; it goes on growing within.
Many sick people, out of fear that their illness might be exposed, keep it hidden. They cover their wounds with flowers, with fine clothes, with pretty words, and they distract themselves. But they deceive no one else. They deceive only themselves. The wounds keep spreading within. Madness will not be erased like this; it will deepen. And if not today, then tomorrow, it will erupt.
Eagerness for the spiritual is eagerness for healing. Recognize rightly: if you are unhappy, there is a cause for it. That cause can be removed. There are remedies. If those remedies are applied, the mind becomes healthy.
Take care of yourself; don’t worry so much about what others say. Attend to the fact that inside you there is restlessness, torment, affliction, sorrow, melancholy; that you are boiling within with fire and there is no shade anywhere in life, no place of rest! Then do not be afraid. Spirituality can become shade in your life, and yoga can shower peace upon you.
If you are thirsty, there is a lake in that direction. If you are thirsty, go toward the lake. Only people like Buddha or Krishna need not go toward yoga, because they have already passed through it. You do need to go. You must go. You can deny it for one lifetime; in another you will have to go. You can deny it for many lifetimes, but there is no way without going. And until one experiences the innermost, ultimate center, and dissolves into life’s supreme source, derangement remains.
Two words. One is vikshiptata (derangement) and one is vimuktata (liberation). To have a mind is itself derangement. It is not that some minds are mad; the very nature of mind is madness. Mind means madness. And when one is free of mind, one is healthy—liberated.
Ordinarily we think some minds are bad and some are good. You’ll be surprised: from the yogic perspective, the very existence of mind is bad. There is no “good mind.” Mind itself is the disease. There is no “good disease;” disease is bad.
Suppose I say: there was a storm at sea, and now the storm is calm. You might ask, “Where is the calm storm?” I will say: the phrase “calm storm” only means the storm is no more. There is no such thing as a calm storm. Whenever there is a storm, it is restless.
In exactly the same way, if you ask, “What is a calm mind?” I will tell you: there is no such thing. Whenever mind is there, it is restless.
A calm mind means the mind is no more. Mind and restlessness are synonymous. They mean the same thing. Not in the dictionary; there, “mind” and “restlessness” have different meanings. But in the living lexicon, “mind” and “restlessness” are two names for one thing. And “peace” and “no-mind” are two names for one thing: no-mind, aman.
As long as you have a mind, you will remain deranged. Within, it moves like a madman. If you don’t believe it, try a small experiment.
Sit down with your family or friends. Close the door for an hour. Gather your five or ten closest people and try a small experiment: Whatever is going on inside you, speak it out loud. Whatever is moving within—what you call mind—voice it, honestly, without editing. Don’t worry what people will think. It’s a little game. Use it.
You will feel great fear: “This quiet whispering inside—should I say it aloud? What will my wife think? My son? My friends?” But if you have real courage, it is worth doing.
Then take turns; each person for fifteen minutes. Whatever is within, speak it aloud. After an hour, the whole room will feel: we are all mad.
Try it. If you fear others, first try it alone some day. You will discover who is mad. And there will be great relief. If you can find the courage to do it with friends, this “game” becomes a deep meditation; it brings much relief. A lot of inner junk will come out, a lightness will descend, and for the first time you will see your real condition. “I thought myself intelligent, successful, high in position, rich, respected—and inside sits this madman!” Getting free of this madman is what spirituality is.
In 1936 Meher Baba was in America. Someone was brought to him—a man with the knack of reading others’ thoughts. He had read the thoughts of many. He would sit with eyes closed before anyone and begin to speak what that person was thinking within.
Meher Baba had been silent for years. His devotees grew curious: “He who has been silent for so long must at least be thinking inside! Let’s bring this man, since Baba does not speak.”
The man was brought. He sat before Meher Baba with eyes closed and tried hard. He sweated and sweated. Then he said, “There is a big problem. This man doesn’t think at all. What can I tell? What can I say? I close my eyes and it’s as if I’m facing a wall—there are no thoughts.”
This thoughtless state is called liberation. As long as thought moves within, it is madness. Imagine you are sitting and keep moving your legs. Your neighbor will say, “Stop moving your legs! Are you in your senses? Why are you moving them?” There is a need to move legs when you are walking on a road. Why move them while sitting?
The mind is needed when a question is before you, when there is something to solve—then let the mind move. But when there is no question, nothing before you, you sit—and the mind’s legs keep moving. That is derangement; that is madness.
Your mind goes on. Even if you want to stop it, it doesn’t stop. Try it. The more you try, the more it runs. It proves to you, “You are not the master; I am.” Try to stop some small thing, and that very thing will keep returning to the mind.
People sit to remember Rama. They try to remember Rama—but he does not come; other things keep coming.
A woman came to me and said, “I am a devotee of Rama. I chant a lot, but the name keeps slipping, and other things come!”
I said, “Do one thing. Swear that you will never take Rama’s name. Then watch.” She said, “What are you saying?” I said, “Swear—and in every way try not to let the name of Rama enter within.”
She came back on the third day. “You will drive me mad! For twenty-four hours nothing but Rama is coming. I am trying my best not to let his name arise—and only Rama arises!”
The mind always proves you are not the master; it is. As long as the mind is the master, you are mad. The day you are the master, that day you are healthy, established in yourself.
No one becomes healthy without passing through spirituality.
To be human is to be afflicted. The very way man is constituted carries pain. Human existence is sorrowful. So the truly foolish one is the person who imagines they will attain bliss without turning toward the spiritual. There is no other way to bliss. And the sooner one bows, the better.
It is true that those who incline toward spirituality are mentally troubled. But note the other side: the very moment they bow, their mental pain begins to dissolve. With that bowing, the frenzy begins to disappear. Passing through the process of spirituality, they become healthy, quiet, and blissful.
Look to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Krishna. Gold emerges purified after passing through the fire. But those who refuse to bow remain mad.
Do not imagine that if you are not turning toward spirituality you are healthy. No one can be healthy without passing through it. Health means to be established in oneself. Without being established in oneself, one cannot be healthy; the running, the restlessness, the worry, the tension will persist.
So, yes—those who bow are mad. Those who do not bow are even more mad. For without bowing there is no way out of madness. Don't flatter yourself that you are so intelligent. Your cleverness has no value. If within you there is anxiety, pain, sorrow, then no matter how much you know, no matter how intelligent you appear, it will be of no use. The madness within is accumulating.
And I said: to be human is itself a kind of madness. There are reasons. Man is only a seed—a mere possibility of becoming something. Until he becomes, the trouble remains. Until the inner flower fully blossoms, the seed is filled with tension. Only when the seed breaks, sprouts, and becomes a flower does bliss happen.
In the language of the spirit, suffering has only one meaning: that you are not becoming what you can be. And bliss has only one meaning: that you have become what you can be. Bliss means no possibility within remains; you have become truth. Whatever you could be, you have touched the ultimate peak. You have reached your wholeness. And until that wholeness is realized, restlessness remains.
As a river runs toward the ocean—restless, searching—so does man run. Meeting the ocean, there is peace. But a river could think, “These rivers rushing to the ocean are mad.” If a river stops running to the sea, it becomes a pond. A river merges in the ocean and becomes vast. A pond only stagnates; it reaches nowhere.
Spirituality is movement—beyond man, above man—toward that which is ultimate, final. Do not soothe yourself with the thought that only lunatics lean this way: “I am a wise man. Why should I bow?”
It is not a question of your cleverness. If bliss has dawned upon you, then there is no question of bowing. But if you have no taste of bliss, if your heart is not dancing, if you have not attained the most secret mystery of samadhi, of utter peace, then do not avoid the spiritual out of fear that someone might call you mad. Otherwise you will avoid the supreme quest of life itself.
Yes, the mad turn toward spirituality—true. But they are fortunate madmen, for they at least have the sense to bow toward the cure. What can be said of those madmen who are mad and yet do not bow? Who are ill and yet do not seek the physician or the medicine? Their sickness is double. They take their illness to be health.
Every day people come to me armed with great theories. They have studied heavy scriptures. They have gathered secondhand wisdom. I tell them I have no curiosity about what you know. My interest is in what you are. If bliss has happened to you, then your words carry weight for me. Otherwise all your talk is only a way to cover your sorrow.
So tell me the basic thing: have you found bliss? If so, I will accept whatever you say as true. And if not, then whatever you say I will take as false, no matter how right it may appear. For that which does not blossom the flower of life has no basis to be called truth. And that which keeps life’s flower shut, pressed down under the junk of borrowed knowledge, making its opening even harder, has nothing to do with truth.
In my reckoning, whatsoever leads toward bliss is truth; whatsoever leads toward sorrow is untruth. If you are moving toward bliss, whatever you are doing is right. If you are not moving toward bliss, then whatever you do is wrong. The final touchstone is only this: have you experienced the supreme bliss of life or not?
So this friend is right: the deranged seem to be inclined. But everyone is deranged.
Ask a psychiatrist: who is healthy? Do not mistake the one you call “normal” to be healthy. He is only normally mad, nothing special. Mad in the same way the rest of the crowd is mad. That is why he doesn’t look mad. Let him go just a little further, and it begins to show.
The difference between a madman and you is one of degree, not of kind. Just a few degrees. You are at ninety-nine degrees; the madman boiled over at a hundred. That one degree can be added to you any moment. A small incident—and you can go mad.
Insult the wisest man just a little and he goes mad. He was already poised on the edge; a small insult becomes the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Your cleverness can be shaken in an instant; it has no value. Somehow you are merely holding yourself together.
There is no essence in just holding yourself together. One must be freed from derangement. Yoga is the means to be free of derangement. It is good to recognize your own derangement.
Remember, recognizing illness is good—because then there can be a remedy, a cure. Denying illness is dangerous. Denial doesn’t erase it; it goes on growing within.
Many sick people, out of fear that their illness might be exposed, keep it hidden. They cover their wounds with flowers, with fine clothes, with pretty words, and they distract themselves. But they deceive no one else. They deceive only themselves. The wounds keep spreading within. Madness will not be erased like this; it will deepen. And if not today, then tomorrow, it will erupt.
Eagerness for the spiritual is eagerness for healing. Recognize rightly: if you are unhappy, there is a cause for it. That cause can be removed. There are remedies. If those remedies are applied, the mind becomes healthy.
Take care of yourself; don’t worry so much about what others say. Attend to the fact that inside you there is restlessness, torment, affliction, sorrow, melancholy; that you are boiling within with fire and there is no shade anywhere in life, no place of rest! Then do not be afraid. Spirituality can become shade in your life, and yoga can shower peace upon you.
If you are thirsty, there is a lake in that direction. If you are thirsty, go toward the lake. Only people like Buddha or Krishna need not go toward yoga, because they have already passed through it. You do need to go. You must go. You can deny it for one lifetime; in another you will have to go. You can deny it for many lifetimes, but there is no way without going. And until one experiences the innermost, ultimate center, and dissolves into life’s supreme source, derangement remains.
Two words. One is vikshiptata (derangement) and one is vimuktata (liberation). To have a mind is itself derangement. It is not that some minds are mad; the very nature of mind is madness. Mind means madness. And when one is free of mind, one is healthy—liberated.
Ordinarily we think some minds are bad and some are good. You’ll be surprised: from the yogic perspective, the very existence of mind is bad. There is no “good mind.” Mind itself is the disease. There is no “good disease;” disease is bad.
Suppose I say: there was a storm at sea, and now the storm is calm. You might ask, “Where is the calm storm?” I will say: the phrase “calm storm” only means the storm is no more. There is no such thing as a calm storm. Whenever there is a storm, it is restless.
In exactly the same way, if you ask, “What is a calm mind?” I will tell you: there is no such thing. Whenever mind is there, it is restless.
A calm mind means the mind is no more. Mind and restlessness are synonymous. They mean the same thing. Not in the dictionary; there, “mind” and “restlessness” have different meanings. But in the living lexicon, “mind” and “restlessness” are two names for one thing. And “peace” and “no-mind” are two names for one thing: no-mind, aman.
As long as you have a mind, you will remain deranged. Within, it moves like a madman. If you don’t believe it, try a small experiment.
Sit down with your family or friends. Close the door for an hour. Gather your five or ten closest people and try a small experiment: Whatever is going on inside you, speak it out loud. Whatever is moving within—what you call mind—voice it, honestly, without editing. Don’t worry what people will think. It’s a little game. Use it.
You will feel great fear: “This quiet whispering inside—should I say it aloud? What will my wife think? My son? My friends?” But if you have real courage, it is worth doing.
Then take turns; each person for fifteen minutes. Whatever is within, speak it aloud. After an hour, the whole room will feel: we are all mad.
Try it. If you fear others, first try it alone some day. You will discover who is mad. And there will be great relief. If you can find the courage to do it with friends, this “game” becomes a deep meditation; it brings much relief. A lot of inner junk will come out, a lightness will descend, and for the first time you will see your real condition. “I thought myself intelligent, successful, high in position, rich, respected—and inside sits this madman!” Getting free of this madman is what spirituality is.
In 1936 Meher Baba was in America. Someone was brought to him—a man with the knack of reading others’ thoughts. He had read the thoughts of many. He would sit with eyes closed before anyone and begin to speak what that person was thinking within.
Meher Baba had been silent for years. His devotees grew curious: “He who has been silent for so long must at least be thinking inside! Let’s bring this man, since Baba does not speak.”
The man was brought. He sat before Meher Baba with eyes closed and tried hard. He sweated and sweated. Then he said, “There is a big problem. This man doesn’t think at all. What can I tell? What can I say? I close my eyes and it’s as if I’m facing a wall—there are no thoughts.”
This thoughtless state is called liberation. As long as thought moves within, it is madness. Imagine you are sitting and keep moving your legs. Your neighbor will say, “Stop moving your legs! Are you in your senses? Why are you moving them?” There is a need to move legs when you are walking on a road. Why move them while sitting?
The mind is needed when a question is before you, when there is something to solve—then let the mind move. But when there is no question, nothing before you, you sit—and the mind’s legs keep moving. That is derangement; that is madness.
Your mind goes on. Even if you want to stop it, it doesn’t stop. Try it. The more you try, the more it runs. It proves to you, “You are not the master; I am.” Try to stop some small thing, and that very thing will keep returning to the mind.
People sit to remember Rama. They try to remember Rama—but he does not come; other things keep coming.
A woman came to me and said, “I am a devotee of Rama. I chant a lot, but the name keeps slipping, and other things come!”
I said, “Do one thing. Swear that you will never take Rama’s name. Then watch.” She said, “What are you saying?” I said, “Swear—and in every way try not to let the name of Rama enter within.”
She came back on the third day. “You will drive me mad! For twenty-four hours nothing but Rama is coming. I am trying my best not to let his name arise—and only Rama arises!”
The mind always proves you are not the master; it is. As long as the mind is the master, you are mad. The day you are the master, that day you are healthy, established in yourself.
No one becomes healthy without passing through spirituality.
A friend has asked: Osho, it is said that not even a leaf moves without God’s will. If that is true, then our whole life runs according to His will. Then the good and bad thoughts that arise in us, the good and bad actions that happen—are they also according to His will?! Then what is the purpose of sadhana? What meaning is there in changing oneself?
If this point truly lands, then sadhana has no further purpose. Sadhana has begun. If only this much occurs to you—that whatever is being done, God is doing it—then my sense of doership is finished.
All of sadhana is only this: that my ego dissolve. Then He is doing the good, He is doing the bad. Then there is no question of good and bad at all. He is doing it—both are His doing. He gives suffering; He gives joy. Birth is His, death is His. Bondage His, liberation His. Then there is no question of me. There is no need for me to come in between. Then there is no need for sadhana—because sadhana has happened; it has begun.
This very understanding becomes the supreme sadhana. This very insight cuts the root of life’s disease. For the whole disease is the ego, the notion that “I am doing.” This is the ultimate sutra of surrender.
People mistake it for fatalism. It is not fatalism. Very few have truly understood this Indian insight. It is not an “-ism.” It is a process of sadhana. It is a method, not a doctrine, to say, “God is doing everything.” It is a discipline, a process, a method.
If someone accepts that whatsoever is being done, the Divine is doing it, then he disappears; in that very instant he becomes empty, a zero. And the moment you are empty, the bad will stop happening. You will not have to stop the bad.
This is a bit subtle. The bad will stop happening. Suffering will come to an end, because the bad happens only under the pressure of ego. And suffering befalls only the ego. If the wound of ego has healed, blows no longer land. Then no one can give him suffering.
This means that if someone accepts that the Divine does everything, then nothing remains to be done. The bad will cease by itself, and sufferings will drop to zero on their own. In the measure that this insight deepens, in that very measure evil dissolves. For evil requires your presence. Without you, evil cannot be.
Goodness can be without you. For goodness, your presence is not needed. In truth, your presence is an obstacle to goodness. As long as you are, goodness cannot be. Even if outwardly it appears good, inside it will be bad. The one sitting inside as “you” can only do evil. The moment you are gone, the very foundation of evil is lost. Then whatever happens through you is good; you will not have to do good.
But to soak oneself completely in this understanding, to be utterly drowned in it, is very difficult. Because we use it very cunningly. As long as something can be managed by us, we think we are doing it. When nothing can be managed and we fail, then to hide our failure we say that the Divine is doing it.
We are great deceivers. And we do not hesitate in the least to deceive even God.
Whenever you succeed, you think you are doing it. And when you fail, you say, “It is fate; without His will not even a leaf moves.”
Napoleon Bonaparte once wrote to his wife—he wrote something very precious. He said: “I do not rely on fate. I am a man of effort. But one cannot do without acknowledging fate either. For if you do not accept fate, how will you explain the success of your enemies? What will be its explanation? Otherwise the mind remains deeply hurt.”
We explain our own success by effort. The enemy’s success by destiny—“It was his luck; otherwise how could he have won!” The successes of our neighbors come because of God; and your success comes because of you. Otherwise the mind will be in great trouble.
We do not want to accept our defeat. We certainly want to accept our success. One who, with a defeated mind, accepts a doctrine like “without His command not even a leaf moves” will attain nothing. For him the doctrine is useless.
This is not the dictum of a defeated mind. This is a sutra of sadhana. It is a way of looking at life from which the doer is removed, and all doership is left to the Divine.
All of sadhana is only this: that my ego dissolve. Then He is doing the good, He is doing the bad. Then there is no question of good and bad at all. He is doing it—both are His doing. He gives suffering; He gives joy. Birth is His, death is His. Bondage His, liberation His. Then there is no question of me. There is no need for me to come in between. Then there is no need for sadhana—because sadhana has happened; it has begun.
This very understanding becomes the supreme sadhana. This very insight cuts the root of life’s disease. For the whole disease is the ego, the notion that “I am doing.” This is the ultimate sutra of surrender.
People mistake it for fatalism. It is not fatalism. Very few have truly understood this Indian insight. It is not an “-ism.” It is a process of sadhana. It is a method, not a doctrine, to say, “God is doing everything.” It is a discipline, a process, a method.
If someone accepts that whatsoever is being done, the Divine is doing it, then he disappears; in that very instant he becomes empty, a zero. And the moment you are empty, the bad will stop happening. You will not have to stop the bad.
This is a bit subtle. The bad will stop happening. Suffering will come to an end, because the bad happens only under the pressure of ego. And suffering befalls only the ego. If the wound of ego has healed, blows no longer land. Then no one can give him suffering.
This means that if someone accepts that the Divine does everything, then nothing remains to be done. The bad will cease by itself, and sufferings will drop to zero on their own. In the measure that this insight deepens, in that very measure evil dissolves. For evil requires your presence. Without you, evil cannot be.
Goodness can be without you. For goodness, your presence is not needed. In truth, your presence is an obstacle to goodness. As long as you are, goodness cannot be. Even if outwardly it appears good, inside it will be bad. The one sitting inside as “you” can only do evil. The moment you are gone, the very foundation of evil is lost. Then whatever happens through you is good; you will not have to do good.
But to soak oneself completely in this understanding, to be utterly drowned in it, is very difficult. Because we use it very cunningly. As long as something can be managed by us, we think we are doing it. When nothing can be managed and we fail, then to hide our failure we say that the Divine is doing it.
We are great deceivers. And we do not hesitate in the least to deceive even God.
Whenever you succeed, you think you are doing it. And when you fail, you say, “It is fate; without His will not even a leaf moves.”
Napoleon Bonaparte once wrote to his wife—he wrote something very precious. He said: “I do not rely on fate. I am a man of effort. But one cannot do without acknowledging fate either. For if you do not accept fate, how will you explain the success of your enemies? What will be its explanation? Otherwise the mind remains deeply hurt.”
We explain our own success by effort. The enemy’s success by destiny—“It was his luck; otherwise how could he have won!” The successes of our neighbors come because of God; and your success comes because of you. Otherwise the mind will be in great trouble.
We do not want to accept our defeat. We certainly want to accept our success. One who, with a defeated mind, accepts a doctrine like “without His command not even a leaf moves” will attain nothing. For him the doctrine is useless.
This is not the dictum of a defeated mind. This is a sutra of sadhana. It is a way of looking at life from which the doer is removed, and all doership is left to the Divine.
Another friend has asked a question. For two or three days they have been asking about this very matter. They have asked: You put a lot of emphasis on fatalism.
I do not insist on fatalism at all. Fatalism is one among thousands of methods to transform life, to put a noose around the ego.
That friend has said, “If fatalism alone is true, then why do you speak?”
They have not understood their own point. If fatalism alone is true, then the question of “why” does not arise; it is God who speaks through me. “Why do you speak?” is no question at all.
That friend has said, “If fatalism alone is true, then why do you speak?”
They have not understood their own point. If fatalism alone is true, then the question of “why” does not arise; it is God who speaks through me. “Why do you speak?” is no question at all.
That friend has asked: If destiny alone is true, why do you tell people to do sadhana?
It is my destiny to tell them, “Do sadhana.” I am not doing anything. It is my fate. And it is your fate to listen—and absolutely not do it.
Fate is not an “ism.” Fate is a way of looking at life and an alchemy for transforming it. It is not for the weak—who sit with folded hands and bent heads, muttering, “What to do? It isn’t in my fate.” It takes great courage and great strength to be able to say, “Everything is happening through the Divine—everything, unconditionally. Good or bad, success or failure—I step aside. I am not in between.”
To step aside is possible only for the powerful. The weak do not have the strength to remove themselves.
The moment you understand that destiny is a method, a technique—there are thousands of techniques, but destiny is a staggering technique—if you can use it, then use it for just twenty-four hours and see.
Decide that from tomorrow morning until the morning after, whatever happens, God is doing; I will not stand in the middle.
Within twenty-four hours you will have a taste of such contentment, such peace, such a glimpse of bliss as you have never known in your life. And those twenty-four hours will not end, because once the juice, the taste arrives, it grows. It will become your whole life.
Try the method of destiny for a single day, and then there is no tension. All tension arises from the notion that “I am doing.” Naturally, the West has more tension, more stress, more mental restlessness. The East did not have so much restlessness—it is growing now, and it will grow with Western education, because the whole foundation of Western education is self-effort, and the foundation of Eastern education is destiny. The two are opposite.
The East holds that all is being done by God. The West holds that all is being done by man. Naturally, if man is doing everything, then man must be responsible—then anxiety takes hold. See the slight difference.
Bertrand Russell is worried that a third world war might break out. His sleep is ruined. Einstein, up to his dying breath, was restless that he helped in the making of the atom bomb—what if the world is destroyed? A few days before his death he said, “If I am born again, I would prefer to be a plumber rather than a scientist. I made a mistake. The world may be destroyed.”
But there is a curious point: Einstein thought, “It will be destroyed because of me.” Bertrand Russell thought, “If I do not find the means to peace—if we do not do it—the world will be destroyed.” On the other side, Krishna’s vision is completely the opposite.
Krishna says to Arjuna, “Those whom you think you will kill, I have already killed. They are already dead. Destiny has decided everything. Everything has already happened. The story is already written. You are only a mere instrument.”
See the difference. In the West, it is thought that man is responsible. If man is responsible for everything, anxiety will seize him. Then whatever I do, I am responsible. My hands will tremble, my heart will tremble. Man is weak, and the world is vast—and if all responsibility is laid on man, immense panic is born. That is why the West appears so deranged; behind this derangement is the insistence on self-effort.
The East was very tranquil. Whatever was happening, no personal responsibility was laid on the individual; it was the responsibility of the Supreme Governor. Whether this is true or false is not the question. Whether self-effort is right or destiny is right is not the question.
For me, self-effort is a device to create anxiety. If someone wants to cultivate anxiety, self-effort is the easy means. If you enjoy anxiety, take all responsibility upon yourself. And if you do not relish anxiety but relish samadhi, leave all responsibility to God. Even if God does not exist, it makes no difference. The difference comes from your letting go.
Understand this. Even if there is no God anywhere, but you leave everything to God so that the load drops from you, the thought drops that “I am responsible; someone else is responsible”—the matter is finished. Your anxiety dissolves. The root of anxiety is asmita, ego, the “I.”
Understand it as a method and experiment with it, and you will be astonished: the notion of destiny can do such a miraculous work in transforming your life that there is no measure for it.
But you have to use it very alertly. Someone abuses you—accept that it is God’s will. Anger arises in you—accept that it is God’s will. There is a scuffle—accept that it is God’s will. He sits on your chest—accept that it is God’s will; or you sit on his chest—also accept that it is God’s will.
Remember, when he is sitting on your chest, it is very easy to accept that it is God’s will; when you are sitting on his chest, it becomes very difficult to accept it as God’s will—because you managed to get there with considerable effort. In that moment the mind insists, “This is the fruit of my self-effort—that I have managed to sit on his chest.”
To remember “God’s will” in moments of pleasure is sadhana. To remember “God’s will” in moments of success is sadhana. To remember “God’s will” in moments of victory is sadhana.
Then your life changes. Inevitably you become absolutely new. The very center of anxiety shatters.
Fate is not an “ism.” Fate is a way of looking at life and an alchemy for transforming it. It is not for the weak—who sit with folded hands and bent heads, muttering, “What to do? It isn’t in my fate.” It takes great courage and great strength to be able to say, “Everything is happening through the Divine—everything, unconditionally. Good or bad, success or failure—I step aside. I am not in between.”
To step aside is possible only for the powerful. The weak do not have the strength to remove themselves.
The moment you understand that destiny is a method, a technique—there are thousands of techniques, but destiny is a staggering technique—if you can use it, then use it for just twenty-four hours and see.
Decide that from tomorrow morning until the morning after, whatever happens, God is doing; I will not stand in the middle.
Within twenty-four hours you will have a taste of such contentment, such peace, such a glimpse of bliss as you have never known in your life. And those twenty-four hours will not end, because once the juice, the taste arrives, it grows. It will become your whole life.
Try the method of destiny for a single day, and then there is no tension. All tension arises from the notion that “I am doing.” Naturally, the West has more tension, more stress, more mental restlessness. The East did not have so much restlessness—it is growing now, and it will grow with Western education, because the whole foundation of Western education is self-effort, and the foundation of Eastern education is destiny. The two are opposite.
The East holds that all is being done by God. The West holds that all is being done by man. Naturally, if man is doing everything, then man must be responsible—then anxiety takes hold. See the slight difference.
Bertrand Russell is worried that a third world war might break out. His sleep is ruined. Einstein, up to his dying breath, was restless that he helped in the making of the atom bomb—what if the world is destroyed? A few days before his death he said, “If I am born again, I would prefer to be a plumber rather than a scientist. I made a mistake. The world may be destroyed.”
But there is a curious point: Einstein thought, “It will be destroyed because of me.” Bertrand Russell thought, “If I do not find the means to peace—if we do not do it—the world will be destroyed.” On the other side, Krishna’s vision is completely the opposite.
Krishna says to Arjuna, “Those whom you think you will kill, I have already killed. They are already dead. Destiny has decided everything. Everything has already happened. The story is already written. You are only a mere instrument.”
See the difference. In the West, it is thought that man is responsible. If man is responsible for everything, anxiety will seize him. Then whatever I do, I am responsible. My hands will tremble, my heart will tremble. Man is weak, and the world is vast—and if all responsibility is laid on man, immense panic is born. That is why the West appears so deranged; behind this derangement is the insistence on self-effort.
The East was very tranquil. Whatever was happening, no personal responsibility was laid on the individual; it was the responsibility of the Supreme Governor. Whether this is true or false is not the question. Whether self-effort is right or destiny is right is not the question.
For me, self-effort is a device to create anxiety. If someone wants to cultivate anxiety, self-effort is the easy means. If you enjoy anxiety, take all responsibility upon yourself. And if you do not relish anxiety but relish samadhi, leave all responsibility to God. Even if God does not exist, it makes no difference. The difference comes from your letting go.
Understand this. Even if there is no God anywhere, but you leave everything to God so that the load drops from you, the thought drops that “I am responsible; someone else is responsible”—the matter is finished. Your anxiety dissolves. The root of anxiety is asmita, ego, the “I.”
Understand it as a method and experiment with it, and you will be astonished: the notion of destiny can do such a miraculous work in transforming your life that there is no measure for it.
But you have to use it very alertly. Someone abuses you—accept that it is God’s will. Anger arises in you—accept that it is God’s will. There is a scuffle—accept that it is God’s will. He sits on your chest—accept that it is God’s will; or you sit on his chest—also accept that it is God’s will.
Remember, when he is sitting on your chest, it is very easy to accept that it is God’s will; when you are sitting on his chest, it becomes very difficult to accept it as God’s will—because you managed to get there with considerable effort. In that moment the mind insists, “This is the fruit of my self-effort—that I have managed to sit on his chest.”
To remember “God’s will” in moments of pleasure is sadhana. To remember “God’s will” in moments of success is sadhana. To remember “God’s will” in moments of victory is sadhana.
Then your life changes. Inevitably you become absolutely new. The very center of anxiety shatters.
Osho's Commentary
He who, knowing thus, sees the imperishable God equally present in all perishing, moving and unmoving beings—he alone truly sees.
Who sees? Who knows? Who has vision, real sight? This is the definition. Whose knowing is the right knowing? Who has the true eye? Who sees?
He who, knowing thus, sees the imperishable God equally present in all perishing, moving and unmoving beings—he alone truly sees.
We all see this world. Here everything appears to be perishing. Everything appears to be changing. Everything appears wave-like, momentary. To see this does not require very deep eyes; the eyes we have are enough; even with these, it is visible.
Yet there is a great difficulty. With these very eyes it is visible that everything here is momentary—and still many of us are utterly blind even with eyes. Even this does not become visible—that all here is momentary. We cling to momentary things so tightly that it shows we believe things can be grasped and held back.
A young man came to me and said, “I am in love with a young woman. But sometimes the mind feels full of love, and sometimes it is filled with hatred. At times I feel I cannot live without her; and sometimes I feel it is difficult to live with her. What should I do?”
I asked him, “What do you want?” He said, “I want only this—that my love for her remain constant.” I told him, “You will land in trouble. Because in this world everything is momentary—even love. Your desire is like a man saying, ‘May I never feel hungry; may my stomach remain full forever.’ Hunger arises; that is why the idea of filling the stomach arises. Hunger is necessary, only then will there be the effort to fill the belly. And the moment the belly is full, hunger disappears—but immediately a new hunger begins to arise. It is a circle.
“There is night and there is day. In the same way, there is love and there is hate; attraction and repulsion; respect and disrespect.”
All our trouble is that if we have respect for someone, we try to maintain it continuously. It cannot remain—because with respect, the night of disrespect is bound to be linked; and with love, the night of hate is linked.
Everything is flowing—flux. Nothing here is static. Whenever you try to make anything static, you fall into trouble. But you try because you believe perhaps things can be made static.
The young try to remain young. The beautiful try to remain beautiful. One who holds office tries to remain in office. One who has wealth tries to remain wealthy. We are all busy trying.
If we sum up the whole endeavor of our life in one phrase, it is this: life is changing, and we are trying to find something eternal here. Something eternal. In this flowing stream of change we want to find a piece of ground to set our feet on that does not change. Because change creates great fear. There is no guarantee about tomorrow—what will happen, what will not happen—everything seems unknown, and in the dark we are carried along. Hence we all desire some solid ground, some support on which we can stand—secure. To gain security—that is our striving. That striving shows we do not see transience.
Everything here is only for a moment. This we do not see. Krishna says: and only he truly sees who sees the eternal within the ephemeral.
But we do not even see the ephemeral—first thing. Not seeing the ephemeral, we start manufacturing our own eternity in the mind. It proves to be false. It all falls.
Our love, our faith, our respect—our every feeling is erased, reduced to dust. All our buildings fall. However strong the stones, our edifices become ruins. Whatever we build in this life, life wipes it out. Nothing remains. All becomes ash. Yet we continue trying to make the static, and continue failing. This is the sorrow of our lives.
We want relationships to become fixed—but they do not. How much we have tried to make the love of husband and wife permanent—it cannot be. There is great sorrow, great suffering, great pain—nothing becomes fixed. May friendship become permanent, eternal—this happens in stories; not in life.
Stories are our psychological wish-fulfillments. As we want life to be, so we write in stories. But it does not happen thus. Every story, every film ends with the marriage of two lovers—and then, “Thereafter they lived happily ever after.” It ends there. No real life ends there.
The story continues only until the marriage and the shehnai begins to play. The moment the shehnai plays—“and the two lovers lived forever in peace and happiness”—the story ends. But go and look at people’s real lives.
When the shehnai plays, only then does the real uproar begin. Before that there may have been a little peace and happiness—afterwards it disappears. But we cover it up; we drop the curtain there. The story ends there. That is our wishfulness—that it should be so. But it is not so.
What we write in our stories is mostly what never happens in life. We lift characters up to the sky that cannot exist in real life.
Life is utterly momentary. Nothing there becomes fixed; nothing can remain. Remaining is not possible there.
Understand this well: the world all around is transient. Frightened of this, we try to build an eternal world of the mind. It cannot last. How can what we make last? We ourselves are transient. The mind that builds is transient. What can it build? And the material with which it builds is transient too.
But if we succeed in looking deeply into transience, if we do not try to manufacture an eternal world opposed to transience, but rather sharpen our eyes within transience itself, then right behind the transient, behind the flux, that which is imperishable, that which is the Eternal—the Divine—will begin to be seen.
There are two kinds of people in the world. One, seeing the transient, open a home-industry to manufacture eternity. The others, seeing the transient, do not open any industry to manufacture eternity; instead, they enter deeply into the transient. They concentrate their vision and pierce the layers of transience. Beneath the transient waves they access the ocean of the Eternal.
Krishna says: He who, knowing thus, sees the imperishable God equally present in all perishing, moving and unmoving beings—he alone truly sees.
Only he has eyes, only he is the one with vision, the wise one, who behind this whole stream of change sees the changeless, poised in equanimity.
A child is born. You see—life has arrived. The child grows, becomes old, and then you accompany him to the cremation ground; you see—death has arrived.
Have you ever glimpsed something that remains equally present behind both birth and death? Birth is seen; death is seen. But the Life hidden within both birth and death, we never see. For before birth there was Life, and after death there will be Life.
Birth and death are only two events in the vast order of Life. Birth is a wave rising, and death is the falling of the wave. But the ocean from which the wave arose was there before birth and will be there after death. That we do not see.
At birth we beat drums—life has come, there is celebration. At death we weep—life has gone, celebration has ended; death has happened. But in both situations we miss seeing that which is neither born nor destroyed. Our eyes cannot see it.
If we can see the Supreme Life within birth and death, Krishna says, then you have eyes.
So, one definition of eyes: to see the eternal in the changing. Where everything is changing, to see that which never changes—that one has eyes.
That is why in this land we have called philosophy darshan—seeing. Darshan means to see the eternal in the changing. It is not to manufacture; it will not be manufactured by us—it already is. Change is only the upper layer, a curtain. Within it is hidden the eternal. We need only to succeed in removing the curtain.
When will we fail to succeed? So long as we run our home-industry and keep trying to make our own eternal. As long as we try to oppose change by making our own everlasting, so long we will not see the eternal hidden in change.
The spiritual meaning of a householder is: one who is engaged in making his own eternal. The spiritual meaning of a renunciate is: one who does not manufacture his own eternal, but is engaged in discovering the eternal within change.
Grihastha means a house-builder. Sannyasin means a house-seeker. The renunciate seeks the house that is eternal, which no one has built. That is God; that is the real home. Until that is found, we remain homeless wanderers.
A householder is one who does not care for God; he builds his own house with strong stone walls amid the changing all around, and thinks, “This is my house, my abode.”
Householder means: whose house is self-made. Renunciate means: one who searches for the house that is not self-made, which already is.
There are two kinds of “eternals”: one we fabricate—those are bound to be false. What eternal can we manufacture? The eternal is that from which we ourselves are made. Whatever man makes will break, will scatter. Until man discovers that from which he is made, there is no experience of the Eternal, the Beginningless, the Endless.
And until that is experienced, there will be anxiety, pain, trouble in our lives. For where everything changes, how can one be untroubled? Where the ground is slipping from beneath the feet, how can one be at ease? Where the sand of life slips from the hand and moment by moment life empties and death approaches, how can one be serene? How can one rejoice where the house is on fire all around—how can there be celebration and dance?
Impossible. Then there seems only one device: within this burning house we build a small inner house to hide in and save our celebration. But it cannot be saved. The current of change will break whatever we build.
Buddha’s saying is very precious: “Remember—whatever can be made will perish.” Making is one end; perishing is the other. And as you cannot have a stick with only one end, the other end will be there. However much you hide it or forget it, the other end will remain. Or do you think there can be a stick with only one end? Impossible.
So Buddha says, “What is made will be unmade. What is constructed will fall apart.” Do not forget the other end—there is no escaping it. But our eyes are blind; layers have gathered on them beyond reckoning.
I was once a guest in a ruined city. It had once been very large. People say its population was seven hundred thousand—likely, the ruins testify to it. Only seven hundred years ago it was thriving. Now barely nine hundred people live there; the census board says so.
There are mosques so vast that ten thousand people could pray in them at once. Dharamshalas so spacious that if one hundred thousand guests arrived suddenly, there would be no problem. Today only nine hundred-odd live there. The whole city has become a ruin.
The friend with whom I stayed was planning a new house. He was so full of feeling for his new house—he showed me plans and models: “This is how we will build, like this, like that.” And all around him stretched ruins! He was about sixty then. Now he is no more—he has passed. He was planning to build.
After listening to all his plans I said, “But step outside and look at these ruins too.” Listening to me, he felt as if in the midst of his joy I had inserted a note of grief. He became very sad. He tried to brush me off: “No, I have seen the ruins.” Then again the same models, the same talk.
I said, “You have not seen them. Those who built these had thought far more than you. You will not be able to build such great palaces. Today neither the builders remain nor their palaces. All has turned to dust. Whatever you build will become dust too—keep that in mind as you build.” He said, “You say such things that the mind becomes sad. You make one sad for no reason.”
I am not making you sad. It is necessary to see the other end. Build with the other end in view. Knowing the other end: whatever is built will be erased.
What we fabricate cannot be eternal. We are not eternal. But within us—and within all change—there is something that is eternal. If we can see it…
It can be seen. One who begins to watch change with the attitude of a witness—very soon the veil of change parts and glimpses of the Eternal begin. One who does not fight change, but begins to watch it; one who does not set up anything opposed to change, but lives with it; one who does not run from change, but flows with it; no struggle, no quarrel, no counter-arrangement—one who becomes reconciled with change and simply, alertly watches—gradually…the veil of change is very thin. It must be. It cannot be thick, for if it were thick how would it change in a moment? Slowly the veil of change begins to feel like velvet—you lift it aside. Beyond it the Eternal begins to appear.
Krishna says: He who sees the imperishable God equally present in all beings, poised in equanimity—he alone truly sees. Because that person, seeing the Divine equally present and abiding in equanimity, does not destroy himself by himself; thereby he attains the supreme state.
Because that person, seeing the Divine equally present and abiding in equanimity, does not destroy himself by himself—understand this. Thereby he attains the supreme state.
We are engaged in destroying ourselves. Whatever we are doing, we are destroying ourselves in it. If I say to people, “Meditate, pray, enter worship,” they say, “Where is the time?” And the same people are playing cards. I ask them, “What are you doing?” They say, “Killing time.” If I say, “Meditate,” they say, “Where is the time?” They sit in hotels for hours, puffing cigarettes, drinking tea, chattering about nothing. I ask, “What are you doing?” They say, “Time doesn’t pass; we are killing time.”
Strange! Whenever it is something of worth, there is no time. And for what is worthless, we have so much time that we have to kill it. We have too much time!
How much life do you have? It seems a great deal—more than needed. You cannot find what to do with it. So you kill it playing cards, kill it smoking cigarettes, kill it drinking liquor, kill it sitting in the cinema. If still it doesn’t get killed, you read the morning paper again in the afternoon, and again in the evening.
Life will not be cut down; you feel you have too much; you are finding ways to cut it.
Western thinkers are very worried—because working hours keep decreasing, and man has more and more time; and the means to kill time are running short. So many forms of entertainment are being invented—and yet time doesn’t pass.
Hence Western thinkers are panicked: if the next fifty years go this way, the workday will shrink to an hour. Even that hour will be hard to provide for everyone—technology and machines will do almost everything. Man will be left idle.
The greatest danger facing the West is this: when man becomes idle and there is nothing with which to kill time, what will he do? He will create a great uproar. He will do anything—just to kill time. He cannot live without killing time.
You do not realize it. You say, “When will I be freed from life’s disturbances? When will I get off from the office? When will I be free from my job? When will I retire?” But look at those who retire. The moment they retire, life becomes worthless; time does not pass.
Psychologists say a man loses ten years of lifespan at retirement. Had he continued working, he would have lived ten years more—because now, where to cut? So he cuts himself. He destroys himself.
This sutra says: the one who sees the Eternal hidden within change—he no longer destroys himself.
Otherwise we will. What will we do? In this flux of the momentary, we too will become a stream of momentariness. And what will we do? In struggling with the flux, we will spend all our energies making arrangements, creating securities, building houses, hoarding wealth, trying to save ourselves—and all this will be swept away. We will not be saved. Whatever we did will be wasted.
Think a little—of all that you have done in life, how much will remain meaningful the day you die? If death comes today, you have done many things—your name appears in the newspaper, your photo is printed, you have a big house, a big car, money, lockers, bank balances, prestige—people greet you, honor you, fear you—wherever you go, people rise to welcome you—but death comes today—what of this will feel meaningful then? With death, all this becomes futile. You will depart empty-handed.
You earned nothing in life; you only squandered it. You cut and destroyed yourself. You sold yourself and bought useless things. You lost the soul and collected belongings.
Jesus has said again and again: What profit is it if you gain the whole world and lose yourself? What will you have if you become master of the whole world and are not master of yourself?
Mahavira has said many times: one who finds himself finds all; one who loses himself loses all.
We are all losing ourselves. Someone brings home furniture by selling his soul. But we do not realize we sold the soul—because we do not know the soul. We do not know when we sell it; when we lose it. Of that wealth we have no awareness—so we do not see it emptying.
For a few coins a man can be dishonest, lie, cheat. But he does not know that in dishonesty, lying, cheating, he is losing something. What he is losing he does not know. What he is gaining—a few coins—that he knows. Therefore we gather cowries and lose diamonds.
Krishna says: only the man who gains a slight sense of the Eternal can save himself from self-destruction. With that sense, the Eternal within is also sensed.
What we see outside, we see inside; what we see inside, we see outside. Outside and inside are not two; they are two faces of the same coin.
If I glimpse the ocean in the waves, then in the waves of my mind I will glimpse my soul. If in the birth of a child and the death of an old man I can recognize waves, and catch a glimpse of the life hidden within, then in my own old age, my own youth, my own birth and my own death, I will know the eternity of Life. The very name of this knowing is vision. And by this knowing one attains the supreme state.
And he who sees all actions in every way as done by nature, and the Self as the non-doer—he alone truly sees.
This is what I was saying: whether you hold that God does everything—then too you become a non-doer; or Sankhya says nature does everything—then too you become a non-doer.
The central point is to become a non-doer. Whoever you think is doing makes no difference. Krishna here proposes Sankhya’s view:
He who sees all actions as in every way done by nature, and the Self as the non-doer—he alone sees. And in that very moment when he sees the diverse dispositions of beings as grounded in the One’s resolve, and the expansion of all beings from that same resolve—then he attains the compact mass of Existence-Consciousness-Bliss.
Whatever is happening—every action—is happening through Prakriti (nature). And whatever feelings are arising are happening through the Divine, through Purusha (consciousness).
Purusha and Prakriti are two principles. All action is through Prakriti; all feeling, through Purusha. Seeing both thus, the most intimate point within you steps beyond both. It is neither enjoyer nor doer; it remains only the seer. On one side it sees the play of nature; on the other, the play of feeling, of Purusha. And it slips behind both. It becomes the third point—the real Person. Then, Krishna says, he attains Sat-Chit-Ananda.
Only one who sees thus, sees; the rest are blind.
Jesus says again and again: If you have eyes, then see. If you have ears, then hear.
Those he spoke to had eyes like yours. They were not deaf. He was not speaking to a crowd of the deaf and dumb. And yet he keeps saying, “If you have eyes, see. If you have ears, hear.” What does he mean?
He means: we certainly have eyes, but we have not yet seen; or what we have seen was not worth seeing. We certainly have ears, but we have not heard; and what we heard might as well not have been heard. Had we missed seeing and hearing what we did see and hear, nothing of value would have been missed—no harm done.
Sometimes calculate: of all that you have seen in life, had you not seen it—what would you have missed? Suppose you have seen the Taj Mahal. Had you not seen it, what would have been lost? Of all you have heard—had you not heard it, what would have been lost?
If there has been something you have seen of which you can say, “Had I not seen it, I surely would have missed something, and life would have remained incomplete;” and something you have heard such that had you not heard it your ears would have been in vain—if you have seen and heard something that even death cannot snatch, that remains your wealth at the moment of death—then you have used your eyes and your ears, and your life has been meaningful.
Krishna says: he alone sees who can do these things—who catches the Eternal in the changing, the unceasing in the stream, the glimpse of the unchanging amid the changing. He alone sees.
Doership belongs to nature. Enjoyership belongs to Purusha. And one who becomes a witness between the two—who separates himself from both and says, “I am neither the enjoyer nor the doer”…
Sankhya’s vision is very profound. Sometimes, it is necessary to take three weeks’ leave in a year.
We take vacations—but our vacations are worse than our daily routine. We return from holidays tired and worn. And on returning home we feel very pleased: “Good, the holiday is over; we are back.” There is no holiday at all. Our “holiday,” our off-time, is only another face of our market-world—no difference in it.
People go to the mountains, and take radios along. The radio was available at home; the subtle music playing on the mountain they do not even sense. There too they blast the radio. It brings them no peace, and it does fracture the peace of the mountain.
Man carries his whole uproar into the days of vacation—his whole uproar! If there is even a little less uproar, he does not like it; so he gathers it there too.
Hence all beautiful places are being ruined—because hotels must be built there too; and all the uproar you left behind has to be transported to where you go.
If this sutra of Krishna is understood, use it—take three weeks’ leave in a year. A leave means: go to a solitary place. And deepen this attitude: whatever action happens is happening in nature; whatever feeling arises, it arises in the mind. And I am the witness of both; I am only seeing. Just a watcher on the hills. Seated on a mountain, I am only a witness. The whole world of action and feeling remains below. All around me action and feeling are moving, and I stand in the midst and see. For three weeks I will only watch. I will not forget to watch. I will keep remembering—getting up, sitting down—even if I miss again and again, I will bring myself back and remember: I am only seeing; I am only the witness. I will take no decision about what is good or bad, what to do or not do. I will take no decision. I will only keep watching.
Experiment with this for three weeks, and Krishna’s sutra will be understood. Perhaps a little dust will fall from your eyes, and for the first time you will see life. A little dust will be removed and the eye will be fresh—and in the growing tree you will see that which is hidden within; in the flowing river, that which never flows; in the moving, whispering winds, that which is utterly silent. Everywhere, behind change, you may catch a little glimpse of that which is eternal.
But the dust on your eyes must be removed a little. The way to remove it is to abide in the feeling of the witness. If you take a holiday not from the market but from action and the doer—not from enjoyment but from the enjoyer…
To run away from enjoyment is not difficult. You can run from your wife into the forest; the wife can run from her husband into a temple. To run from enjoyment is easy—because enjoyment is outside. But the enjoyer is hidden inside—our mind. There too it will enjoy; there too it will construct worlds of enjoyment in the mind; there too it will savor.
Inside, “I am not the enjoyer; I am not the doer.” Behind both streams the witness is hidden. That witness must be dug out. If you unearth it, you will have eyes. And if there are eyes, there can be darshan—seeing. Reading scriptures will not bring darshan; only with vision can there be seeing. Hearing words will not give the experience of truth; only with eyes can truth be seen. For truth is like light. However much we explain light to a blind man, we cannot make him understand. The blind man’s eyes must be treated.
It happened that Buddha stayed in a village. People brought a blind man to him and said, “This blind friend of ours is very dear to us. But he is very logical. We five, though we have eyes, cannot persuade him that light exists. He laughs and demolishes our arguments, and says, ‘You are just inventing the theory of light in order to prove me blind.’
“This blind man says, ‘There is no such thing as light. You only want to prove me blind, so you have invented the theory of light. Prove it. If there is light, I want to touch it—because anything that exists can be touched. If you say it cannot be touched, then I will taste it. If you say it has no taste, then I will hear it—play it for me, my ears can hear. If you say it cannot be heard, then give me the fragrance of light so I can smell it.
“‘I have four senses—let any one of them meet light. And if you cannot make me meet it through any of these four, then do not talk nonsense. You have no eyes, nor do I—but you are clever and I am simple; you have concocted the theory of light to prove me blind.’”
The five friends said, “How can we explain to this blind man? We can neither make him taste it, nor touch it, nor can we make a sound of light. How to play light? So we have brought him to you. You are an enlightened one; you know the supreme truth. It will be enough if you explain to our blind friend about light.”
Buddha said, “You have come to the wrong man. I do not believe in explaining. Take this blind man to a physician. Have his eyes treated. What will explaining do? Are you crazy? You are trying to explain to a blind man. This proves your madness. Get him medical treatment. Take him to a doctor. If his eyes are cured, then without your arguments, without your explanations, he will know light. And if you deny the existence of light, he will prove that light is. Aside from eyes there is no proof.”
By good fortune, they took him to a physician. It had never occurred to them. They were all pundits, Brahmins, the learned. In every way they had tried to explain with arguments. It had not occurred to them that without eyes, how can light be explained? Light is not something to be explained, but to be experienced.
The physician said, “Why didn’t you bring him earlier? He is not blind—there is only a film over his eyes. With six months of treatment the film will be removed. He will be able to see. Where have you been all this time?”
They said, “We were entangled in argument. We had no real concern for his eyes. We were interested in explaining our theories. It is Buddha’s compassion that he said, ‘Take him to a physician.’”
After six months the man’s eyes were cured. By then, Buddha had gone far away. But the man went searching for Buddha until he reached the village where Buddha was, and fell at his feet. Buddha did not even remember who he was. Buddha asked, “Why are you so delighted? What is your joy? What is this celebration about? For what have you come to give thanks? Why are you shedding tears of such joy at my feet?” He said, “Out of your compassion. I have come to say: there is light.”
But there is light only if there are eyes.
Krishna is saying: I call that man “one with eyes” who sees the eternal in the changing.
Wait five minutes. Let no one get up in between. When the kirtan is complete, then go.