Geeta Darshan #4

Now let us take the aphorism.

And the absence of attachment to son, wife, house, wealth, etc., and the lack of possessiveness, and the mind remaining the same in the face of pleasant and unpleasant—meaning that when things favorable or unfavorable occur, there is no disturbance like joy or sorrow.

Keep one thing in mind here: equanimity. Whether there is pain or pleasure, whether what is dear happens or what is disagreeable, success or failure, fame or defame—both have equal value. To not consider even a bit of either as desirable or undesirable is the sign of the wise. Equanimity is the cornerstone of the wise.

But how will this happen? When success comes it feels pleasing. We don’t decide, “When success comes I will be happy.” We find ourselves happy. No effort is needed, no decision of ours.

When a loved one returns home, we become glad—again, no effort. And when someone insults us, we are hurt—no thinking required. Where is the chance to choose? Things happen, and only then we know. When we are already sad, we come to know we are sad.

Krishna says, equanimity. How is it to arise? There is a process—remember it.

Whatever experience arises within, do not let it arise unconsciously. Bring awareness into it. If someone abuses you, before anger comes, become absolutely still for five moments. Say to anger, “Wait five moments.” Say to sorrow, “Wait five moments.” This interval is essential—to create perspective. After five moments ask, “Do I want to be sad or not?” Make sorrow a choice; don’t let it be a swoon. Otherwise you can do nothing.

Gurdjieff wrote that his father gave him a mantra at the moment of death, which changed his life. Dying—Gurdjieff was only nine—his father said, “I have nothing material to give you. But I have one treasure, through which I have known supreme joy. I give you this key. Now you may not understand; just remember it. One day you will.”

Gurdjieff’s father said: “Keep only this in mind—do not let any impression, whether of sorrow or joy, happen instantly. Leave a little space. If someone abuses you, tell him you will reply in twenty-four hours, and then reply precisely after twenty-four hours. If you feel like stabbing, stab after twenty-four hours. But keep the interval.”

Gurdjieff wrote: this changed my whole life. Because it was his dying father’s word; after that the father died, the command was engraved in the mind. If someone abused him, he would say, “Forgive me. I have given a pledge to my father—I will reply after twenty-four hours.” And after twenty-four hours it no longer seemed worth replying; the abuse had no value—the matter had become meaningless. He would go and say, “You abused me—thank you. I have nothing to reply.”

An abuse can be answered only instantly. Remember: the mechanism of abuse is such that its answer can only be immediate. Delay—and you have missed it.

Dale Carnegie wrote in his memoirs that a woman wrote him a letter. He had spoken on Lincoln on the radio, on Lincoln’s birthday, and had made some factual errors. The woman wrote, “When you know nothing about Lincoln, at least don’t dare to lecture—on radio! The whole nation heard, people must have laughed. Correct your mistake and apologize.” It was a very angry letter.

Dale Carnegie drafted an equally venomous reply at once. But it was late; he thought he would mail it in the morning, and left it on the table. In the morning, before posting, he reread it and felt, “This is a bit much—no need for so much anger.” The heat had cooled. He wrote a second letter—still with a slight edge. Then he thought, “If twelve hours make such a difference, I’ll wait another twelve. What’s the hurry?” After twelve more hours he read it and felt even that was too much. He wrote a third. Then he decided: “I will read and revise morning and evening for seven days, and on the seventh day I’ll write the final.” On the seventh day he wrote a loving, apologetic letter: “You pointed out my mistake; I am deeply obliged. In future, if you notice any other error, please inform me.” The woman came to meet him—and a lifelong friendship was born.

What happened? Distance. We act in haste; whatever happens, we do in a swoon. If you want equanimity, learn the art of creating a gap. But we are clever; we can cheat even with the gap.

I’ve heard: a father saw his son pinning a neighbor’s child on the lawn, sitting on his chest. He shouted, “Munna, how many times have I told you: before fighting or hitting anyone, count to a hundred!” The boy said, “That’s exactly what I’m doing—counting to a hundred. But so he doesn’t run away while I count, I’m holding him down. As soon as I reach a hundred, I’ll fix him.”

Counting to a hundred was prescribed to create a gap. Don’t do this kind of cleverness; otherwise there is no point. The gap is to bring equanimity. With distance, sorrow doesn’t hurt, and pleasure doesn’t intoxicate. Pleasure and pain are swoons—instant, mechanical.

Like a light switch—inside you the button gets pressed: you are happy, you are sad. When a switch is pressed, electricity cannot say, “I won’t flow.” It is a machine. But you are not a machine.

If someone abuses you and you get angry at once, you are behaving like a machine—like a switch. Pause. He abused you—true. But you are your own master. Do not hurry to pick up the abuse. If someone honors you, that is his affair; if someone flatters you, that is his affair. Do not melt at once. Wait; give a little time. Stand at a small distance and watch what is happening.

You will find that the more distance you create, the more pleasure and pain equalize. The closer you are, the greater the gap between them; the further you stand, the smaller it becomes. When one can look from afar, pleasure and pain become one—two sides of the same coin. That day equanimity is attained.

Krishna says: equanimity is the sign of the wise. And “by the steady practice of meditation-yoga, established in oneness with Me the Supreme, unwavering devotion; fondness for solitude and pure places; and a disinclination toward the company of sense-attached people.”

“And established in one-ness with Me the Supreme.” A very proud-sounding statement—“with Me the Supreme!” Krishna keeps saying: establish such a relationship with Me, the Divine.

The egotist will stumble. Arjuna, because of deep intimacy and nearness, did not once ask, “Why this refrain—‘in Me the Divine’?” He did not even ask, “Why do you keep calling yourself God, and saying it with your own mouth?” He was so intimate that he knew: this declaration is not of ego; it is only a device to invite Arjuna into surrender.

“By the steady meditation-yoga, unwavering devotion…”

Unwavering devotion—understand this a bit. Vyabhichar means attachment to the many. We call a woman vyabhicharini who shows love to her husband and also to her lovers—love as play. Whoever she meets in private for a moment, with him too love begins. There is no place in the mind for one.

Vyabhichar means the mind has no place for one—it is fragmented. Many lovers, many husbands—that is vyabhichar. When the one remains, the mind becomes avyabhichari—undivided.

And the interesting thing is: this emphasis on the “one beloved” is not for the beloved’s sake. If the lover can love one person wholly, all the fragments of his mind begin to gather, and he attains a sense of oneness. The more your loves, the more your fragments—the more pieces your heart will have. If you have ten or five loves, you will have that many voices within. You cannot be one man if you have ten loves—you will be ten men. A crowd will be inside.

The insistence on unwavering devotion—“if there is one, let only one remain”—means: as the sense of one deepens, inner unity intensifies; integration ripens within. Hence the lover attains yoga, and the yogi becomes a lover.

If someone can love one person with his whole being, oneness happens through that love. Inside, integration happens; fragments join. Many voices cease; one tone, one mood remains. Through that one tone one can enter the infinite. Leaving the many for the one—and then even the one drops, and the infinite is attained.

Krishna says, unwavering devotion!

Devote yourself exclusively to Me alone. Let not even the thought remain that there might be someone else to whom surrender is due. If even that much thought lingers, surrender cannot be complete.

Many come to me and say, “We went to this guru, then that one, then another.” They keep moving among gurus. Their adulterous mental state never lets them arrive. I tell them: “Stay with one guru.” They ask, “How can we be sure he is the right one unless we go to many?” I say, “Even if he is wrong, stay with one. Whether he is right or wrong is not so important; your staying with one will be revolutionary for you. Whether he is right or wrong—that’s his matter. Don’t worry about it.”

Many times it happens that with a wrong guru too, a true disciple realizes truth. It sounds upside down. But we know the tale of Ekalavya. There the question of a wrong guru does not even arise—there was no guru at all, only an idol of Dronacharya. And yet through that idol he attained the consummate skill of concentration.

How? An idol cannot teach. Even Dronacharya himself could not teach Arjuna as much as his stone image taught Ekalavya. Dronacharya had no hand in it. If anyone did, it was only Ekalavya’s feeling and devotion. He stayed by that stone idol with such unity of feeling, such unwavering devotion, that near a stone idol he encountered a living guru.

And Guru Dronacharya was not of such caliber as Ekalavya took him to be and gained. For Dronacharya deceived Ekalavya—he had his thumb cut off to preserve his wealthy pupil’s primacy.

Dronacharya was not as worthy as Ekalavya considered him—but that is secondary. Whether Dronacharya was worthy is not the point. The greatness was Ekalavya’s single-minded devotion. And when that guru asked for his thumb, Ekalavya must have understood—he surely did—that the moment the thumb is gone, he will not remain an archer. Dronacharya asked precisely because, seeing Ekalavya’s aim, absorption, and art, his legs trembled. He felt Arjuna would be eclipsed—indeed he was. Arjuna never had such devotion to Drona as Ekalavya had to Drona. And Drona was available to Arjuna, not even available to Ekalavya.

This tale is sweet and meaningful. Ekalavya cut off his thumb. I say his external archery was lost, but what yoga he attained within by cutting off that thumb! For Ekalavya, Krishna didn’t need to speak a Gita. In that moment of cutting the thumb he must have attained supreme unity. Not a shadow of doubt arose! In such undoubtingness, if the Divine is not attained, then never.

So drop this worry: “Is the guru right?” How will you know? Roaming among a thousand you will only be more confused and fragmented. Better learn to stay. There is virtue in staying. Better learn to surrender to one. There is the secret in surrender. To whom—that is not so important.

Often surrender to the “wrong” brings more precious results. Understand: surrender to the right is natural; no virtue of yours in it—he is right, so you are compelled. But if a man seems wrong and you can surrender, the virtue is certainly yours.

Thus many gurus create around themselves a “wrong” aura—this too is part of surrender. If everything around them looked good, there would be no challenge in surrender. They erect a web of misleading signs. If someone surrenders amidst that, then unwavering devotion is born.

Krishna says: fondness for solitude and pure places, and disinclination toward the company of those attached to sense-objects.

You always seek a crowd—and usually the wrong crowd. Because seeking crowds is itself a sign of a wrong mind. What do you do meeting others? A little slander, some neighborhood rumors—whose wife ran away, whose son cheated, who stole, who is dishonest. These are your topics. This juice does not come alone; you need two or four. Hence you seek crowds.

For one day, watch all your conversations: where you sit, why you sit, why you talk, what taste is there. If this taste persists, knowledge will never arise—it is all a device to protect ignorance.

Krishna says: a sign of the wise is the taste for solitude. The wise would rather be alone.

Why? Because only in aloneness can one encounter oneself; only in aloneness can one be free of the crowd’s influence and conditioning; only in aloneness can one become quiet and silent; only in aloneness can one slip within and open the door that is the Divine’s.

No one reaches the Divine while living in the crowd. Whether Buddha, Mahavira, or Muhammad—before arriving, they slipped into solitude. Mahavira was silent for twelve years. Buddha went to the forest for six. Muhammad remained on a mountain in utter solitude for thirty days. Jesus was crucified at thirty-three; Christians have only the last three years of his story—the previous thirty passed in silent practice.

This slipping into silence, this taste for solitude, is a sign of the wise. The taste for crowds, for groups, clubs, the hunt for friends—is dangerous.

Do not imagine only clubs are clubs. People go even to religious discourses for the same reason—especially women—to get a chance to discuss everything that they get no opportunity to elsewhere. All the ladies gather there; they get all the stories and ailments; they chat. The discourse is a pretext.

You can go to the temple too—not to meet God, but to gossip with those who come. You might even go to a guru for news of worldly intrigues, not for solitude.

Remember: only alone can you meet Truth; there is no way to take the crowd along. Even your closest friend will not enter samadhi with you. Your wife cannot enter meditation with you. Your son cannot enter the realm of devotion with you. There you will be alone. Therefore savor aloneness; whenever you find a moment, enjoy being alone.

But we panic. A little alone and we feel we’ll die; fear arises; “I’ll get bored—what will I do!”

A very interesting thing: you are so bored with yourself that you cannot abide with yourself even briefly. And when someone else gets bored with you, you think he’s a bad person. When you yourself are bored of yourself, others will surely be bored.

In solitude, talk a little with yourself. Try an experiment. In Japan there is a method of meditation: they tell the seeker, whatever is going on within, speak it aloud. Don’t speak inside—speak loudly. Sit alone, and whatever comes, speak it out.

You will be shocked. In an hour you’ll say, “What a boring person I am!” Yet this is what you speak to others. When others get bored, you think they lack understanding: “I am saying very high things and they are bored!” But when everyone is bored with himself, remember he will bore others too.

Why do others listen? Not because your words have any charm—but because after you finish, they will speak. The most boring person is the one who doesn’t give you a chance; he keeps talking. You say, “He’s so boring”—it only means you alone are being bored; give me my turn too!

Man experiences so much pain with himself and still thinks he will give happiness to others. The husband wants to give heaven to the wife, the wife to the husband. She thinks she will make heaven for him, but she cannot remain alone even for an hour—she feels it is hell. If alone she feels hell, she will make only hell for her husband—how will she make heaven?

No one makes heaven for another because we are not willing to be with ourselves.

On this earth, a little breeze of heaven sometimes blows around those who know the art of being with themselves. Understand this: the one who knows how to be in solitude—you may receive a few drops of nectar near him. But the one who cannot stay with himself has had no contact with life.

Krishna says: the habit of living in a pure place, in solitude—in the purity of your inner space—and disinclination toward the company of sense-attached people.

If you must visit someone, visit one who will not pull you toward the world, but toward renunciation—who lifts you beyond objects, who points to the ultimate temple of life. Otherwise, avoid crowds and groups.

“And constant abiding in spiritual knowledge, and seeing the Supreme everywhere—this is knowledge; what is contrary is ignorance.” To see the Divine everywhere—that is knowledge; its opposite is ignorance.

It is very difficult to see the Divine everywhere. If you cannot see within yourself, how will you see outside? First see within that the Divine is present—even if distorted, entangled, bound in prison—He is the Divine nonetheless. In all your restlessness and troubles, it is still the Divine. Begin to see the Divine in yourself and around you. Gradually the God-sense should become such that only the Divine is seen, others only His forms. This mood can be cultivated, but it must begin with oneself.

Like throwing a stone into a pond—first a small ripple forms around it; then the circles spread to the far shore. The first stone of Divinity must be thrown into your own depths; then the ripples spread and reach all around.

As long as you see sin and hell in yourself and no God, you cannot see God in anyone. Even if you bang your head before an idol and Krishna and Rama themselves appear, you will not see God.

The washerman who spoke against Rama—because of whom Rama sent Sita away—lived in Rama’s own city; he didn’t see Rama in Rama, nor Sita in Sita. He saw in Sita an adulteress. He himself must have been adulterous. What is within us is what we see.

Even if Rama stands before you, you will see something wrong; you’ll feel, “Something is fishy.”

A friend wrote a thesis on Rama, trying to prove Shabari was not an old woman but a young one, and Rama’s relationship with her was of love, not devotion. I know this friend; he sometimes visited me. I asked him, “True or false—I don’t know, and I have no interest in peeping into anyone’s relationships. How did this idea occur to you? It may be true—I don’t know—and I am no inspector. This is between Rama and Shabari. But how did this thought arise? It must have come from your own experience and way of seeing. Many research Rama, but no one has researched this.”

These gentlemen have “discovered” that Sita’s banishment— the washerman was just a pretext; Rama wanted to banish her anyway. What was in Rama’s mind we cannot know. But the state of the mind that researches such things—one can think about that.

Until you can see the Divine in yourself, you will not see Him even in Rama. And the day you see Him in yourself, you will see Him even in Ravana. For when, amidst your pains, anxieties, and desires, you experience the inner flame, you know: however much sin surrounds it, the flame is the Divine’s. However much dust on the glass chimney, the flame within burns pure. Dust never settles on the flame; the flame is never impure. Yes, the glass can be dirty. Once you experience that flame within your dirtiest casing, immediately the whole world fills with the same flame.

The sign of the wise is the experience of the Divine everywhere.

We will pause for five minutes. Please do not get up in between. Leave only after the kirtan is complete.