Geeta Darshan #7

Hypnosis is a very ancient process. It is beneficial, and it is dangerous. In fact, anything that can benefit you can also endanger you. Danger arises precisely from that which has the power to help. Wherever there is the power to heal, there is also the power to harm.

So hypnosis is not some homeopathic remedy that only helps and never hurts.

There are many misconceptions about hypnosis. In the West those misconceptions are breaking down; in the East they are still strong. The irony is that the East was the first to discover hypnosis, but we gave it another name. We called it yoga-tandra, yogic trance. Our name sounds finer; just hearing the name makes a difference.

Hypnosis too means trance; it comes from the Greek word hypnos, which means sleep.

Two kinds of sleep are possible. One is the sleep that comes when your body is tired at night—natural sleep. The other is a sleep that can be brought in by effort, induced sleep. Yoga-tandra, or hypnosis, is that second kind.

At night when you sleep, your conscious mind slowly, slowly becomes quiet, and the unconscious becomes active. You descend into deeper layers of the mind. Hypnosis does the same deliberately: the upper layer of mind that is active every day is put to sleep, and the inner mind becomes active.

The inner mind is truer. Society has not been able to distort it. It is more authentic, still moving in accordance with nature. In the inner mind there is no pretense, no deceit, no doubt or suspicion. It is utterly innocent—like the mind of a newborn child. The dust has gathered only on the outer layers; as you go within, the mind is found pure.

Through hypnosis one can establish contact with this pure mind. Naturally, benefit is possible—and danger too.

If someone wants to harm, he can. That inner mind does not doubt; it believes whatever is said. It is supremely trusting.

If a man is hypnotized and told, “You are not a man, you are a woman,” he will accept, “I am a woman.” If he is told, “Now get up and walk; you will walk like a woman,” he will begin to walk like a woman, though he has never done so. If he is told, “There is a cow standing before you”—when there is none—“now start milking,” he will sit down and start milking.

The unconscious mind is supremely trusting. It does not raise questions; it accepts. That is what faith means. It does not say, “Where is the cow?” It does not say, “I am a man, not a woman.” Doubt belongs to the upper layer of mind that has learned to argue.

Hence both benefit and danger are possible. That utterly trusting mind can also be made to accept something harmful to the person—even unto death. If a hypnotized person is convinced, “You are dying,” he will believe, “I am dying.”

In 1952 an Anti-Hypnotic Act was passed in America—the first law against hypnosis anywhere in the world. Four boys in a university dormitory were reading a book on hypnosis and experimenting. They told a boy they had put under, “You are dead.” They were only joking, but the boy actually died. The message went so deep—there is no doubting there—that when death was suggested, he accepted death; the connection between body and soul broke instantly. A law against hypnosis had to be made.

If death itself can be believed, then anything can be.

Great benefit is also possible. In the West there was a great hypnotist, Coué. Coué healed hundreds of thousands of patients through hypnosis alone. No physician in the world, by any medical system, has healed as many patients as Coué did with hypnosis—curing even so-called incurable illnesses. He instilled a conviction within that the illness simply is not; with that conviction the body begins to change.

Coué freed thousands from alcohol, cigarettes, and various addictions in moments—because he created conviction. When trust sinks deep into the mind, even the body begins to reflect the result.

So benefit is possible. If your meditation does not happen easily, a suggestion under hypnosis can make it deeper from the very next day. You pray but stray thoughts come; if under hypnosis it is said, “During prayer no thoughts will arise,” your prayer will become utterly quiet and blissful, unobstructed by thought. Your practice can be supported.

For centuries yoga masters have used hypnosis. But it was never done publicly; it was private, between guru and disciple. Only when the guru found a disciple worthy to have his unconscious entered, would he work. And only when a disciple found a guru worthy of complete surrender at his feet, would a guru enter within and use hypnosis.

There are street hypnotists and stage hypnotists. You have no bond of reverence with them. If you have any tie with them, it is commercial—you pay five rupees, he hypnotizes you. But someone eager to hypnotize you for five rupees can harm you.

Such incidents are recorded in police stations around the world: someone hypnotized a person and said, “Tonight you will forget to lock the safe,” or, “Leave your house door open.” Post-hypnotic suggestion! You can be put under now and given an instruction for later: “Forty-eight hours from now do this.” You will do it in forty-eight hours without knowing why. Or you will invent a rationalization: “I did it because...”

I was experimenting with post-hypnotic suggestion on a young man. I put him under and said, “Six hours from now you will pick up my book with such-and-such title and sign your name on page fifteen.” Then he woke up. Six hours is a long time. He went about his work. I put the book in the cupboard and locked it.

Exactly six hours later he came and said, “I want to read your such-and-such book.” I asked, “Why suddenly?” He said, “No, I’ve been thinking of reading it for many days. I have the time now, so I want to read.” I gave him the key; he opened the cupboard; when I entered the room, he wasn’t reading—he was signing page number fifteen.

When I caught him signing, he was very flustered and said, “It’s beyond me, but I was feeling very restless, like I had to do something. I couldn’t figure out what. And the moment I signed, I felt light, as if a weight had lifted. But I don’t know why I signed.”

So there are police reports: a hypnotist suggested, “As you leave, leave your money purse here; leave your checkbook here.” The person left it when going. So dangers exist.

The unconscious mind is very powerful. Your conscious mind has almost no strength. That is why you resolve, “I will not smoke; I will quit,” and the resolve does not last an hour—because the mind that resolves is very weak. If the same resolve reaches the inner mind, it becomes immensely powerful; then breaking it is impossible.

Through hypnosis a person’s structure can be discovered. But be hypnotized only by someone for whom you have supreme trust. Do not submit to a professional hypnotist. His interest in you is merely professional; there is no inner, spiritual connection. And until such a connection exists, letting someone enter so deep within you is dangerous.

That is why gurus have used it, but always as a private process—not public. It is a personal matter between two people. Sometimes the process can only be completed when the relationship is very close and profound.

For example, on a stage, however hypnotized you may be, a part of you remains un-hypnotized—because a fear remains: who knows what this man may make me do! So if he says, “Milk a cow,” you will do it; if he says, “Walk like a woman,” you will do it. But if he says something that goes against your conscience, is unsuitable for you, or is utterly against your moral sense, you will immediately wake up and refuse.

If a Jain who has been a lifelong vegetarian is told under hypnosis, “Eat meat,” he will wake up at once; the hypnosis will break right there.

If a chaste woman, who has never felt any feeling for anyone other than her husband, is told under hypnosis, “Kiss this man,” she will wake up immediately; the hypnosis will break. But if a woman’s mind has wandered toward other men, the hypnosis will not break, because nothing fundamentally opposes it; perhaps her repressed desire is being fulfilled.

So when someone hypnotizes professionally, a part of you stays alert; very deep entry is not possible. But in the guru–disciple relationship, hypnosis becomes a very inner entry; the person lets go completely. That is the value of surrender, the value of trust.

Through hypnosis one can certainly ascertain a person’s type. Through hypnosis one can enter past lives. Through hypnosis one can discover the causes within that keep a person troubled and tangled. And through hypnosis many things can be resolved; catharsis can happen; many things can be uprooted and thrown out of the mind.

Whatever we do on the surface is like cutting the branches of a tree. By cutting branches, the tree is not cut; new shoots sprout. The tree thinks you are pruning it. Until the roots are pulled out, no real change happens; the tree becomes lush again.

Whatever pruning you do on the surface of the mind is dangerous; it does not help. New shoots appear; the same illnesses return thicker. To uproot the roots, it is necessary to go deep into the unconscious.

But hypnosis is not the only path. If you meditate, you can go just as deep within yourself. Through hypnosis, another enters deeply within you and can help; through meditation, you yourself go deep within and transform yourself.

Those who find meditation very difficult should take the help of hypnosis—but only with a very close relationship to a guru. Those who can go straight into meditation should not bother about hypnosis at all; there is no need.

And even when you take the help of hypnosis, take it only to go deeper into meditation—that’s all. Do not take its help for anything else, because everything else can be done by going deep into meditation. Only if meditation itself does not happen, you can take hypnosis as a support for that.

Hypnosis is a deep process, very scientific, and it can prove greatly beneficial to human beings. But naturally, whatever can be beneficial can also be dangerous.

No one is telling you to strive. Your energy is flowing downward; from it comes sorrow, from it comes suffering; because of it your life becomes wasted and hollow. So it is you who feel the pain, the distress, the sense that life is going to waste—then you feel it should be taken upward. No one is asking you to take it upward. And on anyone’s say-so, you will never take it upward either.

But the experience of the downward is in itself painful. Energy flowing downward means misery; energy flowing upward means bliss. If the downward-flowing energy gave only misery, everyone would stop. But the downward flow dangles the lure of pleasure and, in the end, delivers pain. That is why so many are swept along by it.

The energy flowing down raises the hope that pleasure will come. The hope remains; what comes is suffering. But we are so unintelligent that we never connect the first with the last. A thousand times we suffer, and yet when a new temptation appears, we behave like the fish that has been hooked many times while snapping at the dough—still, when the fisherman dangles the dough again, the fish grabs it again.

The fish cannot connect the dough with the hook. We too fail to connect that wherever we place hope in pleasure, there we meet pain—not pleasure. We do not make the connection.

Wherever you find suffering, think a little: there you had desired pleasure. If pleasure had not been desired, pain could not have come. Pain comes only when we have desired pleasure. Only if a fish bites the dough can it be caught by the hook. But once the fish is snagged, it still does not think, “Because of this dough I got caught on the hook.” You too do not see that when you get entangled in suffering, you have been trapped by some hope of pleasure.

The downward-flowing energy first promises pleasure and then drops you into pain. The upward-rising energy brings, first, hardship—tapas, sadhana, which is difficult; at the very gate of the upward path you meet discomfort—but in the end, bliss is attained.

So understand one thing clearly: if pain comes first and later joy, know that the energy is moving upward. If pleasure seems to come first and later pain lands in your hands, the energy is moving downward. This is the sign of when your power is descending and when it is ascending.

No one is telling you to raise your life energy. But if you want bliss, then you will have to raise it.

All religion is a methodology for lifting the life energy upward. All of yoga, all of tantra—everything is one and the same effort: how to turn the energy that falls downward so that it moves upward. And once it begins to rise, another world begins.

You have seen: water flows downward. But heat the water, and when it becomes steam it starts to soar upward. It is the same water. Yet at one hundred degrees it becomes steam, and a revolutionary change occurs. The dimension changes; the direction changes. Earlier, wherever water was, it would look for a hollow; now it seeks the sky.

The life within you, the energy, also—passing through a certain process—begins to rise upward. That upward-rising energy we have called Kundalini.

Ordinarily, as man is born from nature, his energy flows downward. The earth’s gravitation pulls it down; the earth’s attraction drags it downward. You are being pulled down twenty-four hours a day. Life is a downhill. The child is pure; the old man is no longer so pure. It is a strange thing!

The child’s innocence does not remain in old age. It should have been the reverse, because life ought to be a development. This is a fall.

If we could open the mind of an old man, we would find it has become dirty, utterly filthy. All the lust remains, and all the strength is lost. Desire keeps circling in the mind. As one grows old, bodily power declines and craving besieges the chitta, because the chitta never grows old; it remains young. So a great filth gathers.

Between the child and the old, we do not see development; we see degeneration. The sole reason is that the child’s energy has not yet begun to flow downward. As he grows, it begins to flow down. And unless certain experiments—practices—are undertaken, the energy will not flow upward.

Nature is below—and above. When steam rises toward the sky, it is still following natural laws; and when water flows downward, it too is following natural laws.

The laws that carry you upward are natural. The laws that carry you downward are natural. The choice is yours. And man is free to choose—this is his dignity. Man’s singular excellence over the animals is just this: the animal is not free to choose. It has no choice. Its energy will flow downward. It cannot choose to flow upward—even if it wanted to, it could not; in fact it cannot even want it.

The animal is bound; it will flow downward. Man has a possibility. If he does nothing, he will flow downward; if he does something, he can also flow upward. Man has the means.

And the man who does not choose remains an animal; he never becomes truly human. For then there is no difference between him and the beast. The only beginning of difference is that we can choose. If we want, we can flow upward.

Here is a striking point: because we can flow upward, we can also fall below the animals. If a man decides to be animal, he outdoes all animals. Gather all the wild beasts of the world—it still won’t match Hitler, or Genghis Khan. No animal in the world can be an animal the way man can be, if man chooses to be animal. Because as far as you can rise, in the same proportion you can fall. The possibility of a great peak is bound to the possibility of a great abyss. Peak and precipice move together. Decline and growth go together.

But no animal can fall very low. Walk into a jungle—you cannot even tell which lion is “more animal.” All lions are animal in the same way. They get hungry, they tear apart and eat. But you cannot distinguish that one lion has fallen and another has risen.

If man wants to rise, then Buddhas and Krishnas and Christs are born within him. If he wants to fall, then Genghis and Nadir and Hitler and Stalin are born. There is no hindrance. And if he does nothing, he remains an ordinary sort of animal.

To go upward you will have to labor. But do not conclude from the labor that it is unnatural. Man walks on land. In a boat he moves upon water. In an airplane he moves in the air. Now we have spacecraft that travel beyond the air into space. Nothing is unnatural—because the unnatural simply cannot happen.

When a man flies in an airplane, he is still using the laws of nature. And when man did not fly, it did not mean the laws were absent. They were there; we did not know them.

So when you arrive at brahmacharya (celibacy/continence), you are still operating through nature’s laws. And when you fall into lust, that too is the working of nature’s laws.

When an airplane is aloft, nature’s laws are at work; and when something goes wrong and it plummets to the ground, nature’s laws are still at work.

To the extent that you use the laws of nature in harmony with yourself, joy flowers in your life. To the extent that you fail to use them to your benefit—or fail to bring yourself into alignment with them—suffering arises.

The upward journey is natural too—not unnatural—but it belongs to a higher nature. The downward journey is natural too, but it is lower. And the lower brings sorrow; it becomes hell. The higher is noble, exalted; it becomes heaven, and the doors of bliss begin to open.

But no one is telling you that you must do this. And even if someone told you, you wouldn’t do it.

So I am only saying: recognize. If you are in misery, recognize that you are going downward. And if you wish to remain in misery, then go downward skillfully—but do not hope for happiness there; that hope is false. And if you feel that life must change from misery and become a pilgrimage toward bliss, then begin to rise. At first there will be hardship; we have called that tapas—austerity.

Whenever one climbs a mountain, there will be difficulty; while descending, none. All ascents are effortful and painful. But at the end of every ascent there is rest. And the rest that follows toil has a taste, a value, all its own.

And here is a delightful point: if an airplane drops you on Everest, you will never have the joy that Hillary and Tenzing had in reaching by climbing. You may stand on the very spot where Hillary and Tenzing stood, yet you will not receive the joy they received—because joy is not only in the destination; it is in the journey as well. If the journey is separated from the destination, the destination becomes empty, insipid, without juice.

Therefore do not be preoccupied with finding shortcuts. The more shortcuts you take, the more the flavor of the goal dries up. The journey has its own delight—and that delight gathers and becomes available at the destination. Those who try to avoid the journey may even arrive once, but that arrival will be without savor—without savor.

Those who used to go to Badri and Kedar on foot had a different joy. Now you can go by bus—the same feel is no longer there. Tomorrow you will fly there—no juice will remain. Because journey and destination are not two. The destination is the final step of the journey. The one who cuts away the journey has, in a sense, cut away the destination itself.

Do not be afraid of the hardships of the journey, for their contribution is included in the happiness of the destination.

There is a little sense in his question.
Religion actually says that the world is beginningless; no one created it. The talk of a creator is only to explain things to children. On this point science also agrees. Science, too, says that existence is without a beginning.
The quarrel was with Christianity. And the reason for the quarrel was that Christianity had fixed a specific date for the creation of the world. One Christian priest even worked out the date and day exactly: four thousand and four years before Jesus, on such-and-such day, at such-and-such o’clock in the morning, the world was created!
The conflict of science began with Christianity. There is no conflict between science and religion. There certainly was conflict between science and Christianity because many of Christianity’s notions were childish. And science said, “This is simply wrong—that the earth or the world was made four thousand years before Jesus.” Because the earth holds evidence that is hundreds of thousands, millions of years old.
But man is quite dishonest. Man accepts as right whatever suits him, and he finds tricks to make it right. The bishop who had proved that the earth was created four thousand and four years before Jesus issued a statement: “We agree that on earth we find things that are millions of years old.”
Now this is very difficult. If things are found on earth that are millions of years old, then how could the earth have been created four or six thousand years ago?
That bishop said, “Everything is possible for God. He created the earth four thousand years ago and placed within it things that seem millions of years old—to test people’s devotion! If people are truly faithful, they will say, ‘We have faith. God is testing us.’”
Such are the ways of man’s dishonesty that he drags even God into his deceit. Yes, God created things only four thousand years ago—but what is impossible for the Almighty? He made them in such a way that scientists get deceived, thinking they are millions of years old—only to sort out the true believers from the fake: the true will remain content, and the fake will become atheists. That was his contrivance.
But Krishna’s view is very scientific. He says that Prakriti and Purusha have no beginning. Yet this does not mean that this particular cosmos has no beginning.
Understand the difference.
Prakriti has no beginning; Purusha has no beginning. Your body has no beginning; your soul has no beginning. But you have a beginning. Your soul is beginningless and your body is beginningless—because what in your body was not there before you? Everything was already there. The earth was there; the bones and flesh—everything that is in you—was there, in some form.
If everything in your body were extracted, scientists say you would yield materials worth four to four-and-a-half rupees—aluminum, copper, brass—all in very small quantities. In the old, cheaper days it was four-and-a-half rupees; now it would be a little more expensive. But all of it was already there.
So your body, too, is beginningless. And the soul hidden within you is also beginningless. But you are not beginningless. You were born; there is a record in the municipal office—the date you were born, where you were born, how you were born—everything is there.
You were born; you are a composite. You are not an element; you are a compound. A compound is born; a compound dissolves and is destroyed. But an element is not destroyed. When you die, the body returns to its own world of earth and stone, and your consciousness returns to the world of consciousness. Both were there before.
You? You are a conjunction of two. You are born and you end.
Indian insight says that neither Prakriti has a beginning or an end, nor Purusha has a beginning or an end. But the world has a beginning and an end.
The world is like your personality arising from the meeting of your body and soul. Likewise, from the meeting of countless Purushas and Prakriti, the manifest world arises; it has a beginning and it has an end.
The world we live in was not always there. Scientists say that our sun will become cold in about four thousand years. For billions of years it has been giving heat; its heat is being used up. Four thousand more years and it will grow cold. As it grows cold, the earth will also grow cold. Then no plant will sprout here; no children will be born; breath will no longer move here; life will become zero here.
Not only man dies; earths also die. Our earth is still alive, but it too is approaching old age. Many earths are already dead. Many earths are near birth. Many are young. Many are in childhood.
Scientists say that there is life on at least fifty thousand planets—at least fifty thousand earths on which life exists. Among them some are like infants—moss has just begun to appear, grass is emerging, greater life has not come yet. Some are very old and withered; everything has dried up: humans have gone, creatures have gone, the last moss is drying out. Some are barren, dead. Some are still in the womb, still preparing. Soon the sprout of life will burst forth upon them.
Earths come and disappear. Worlds are formed and destroyed. But the two fundamental elements remain—Prakriti and Purusha; Prakriti and the Supreme, matter and consciousness—both are beginningless.
Then a question will arise in the mind: when we say Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—Brahma creates, Vishnu sustains, Mahesh (Shiva) dissolves—what does that mean?
They also create, sustain, and dissolve worlds, not existence itself. They create a world. That is why the Buddhists accepted many Brahmas—because as many worlds as there are, so many Brahmas. The power that creates each world is called Brahma; Brahma is not a person. The power that sustains is called Vishnu; Vishnu is not a person. The principle of dissolution is called Shiva; Shiva is not a person.
Wherever life exists—wherever there is the unfolding of life, and wherever there is its end—these three forces keep functioning. But all their work pertains to worlds.
Hence a very amusing episode in Buddhist lore: when Buddha became enlightened, the first being to come with a question was Brahma himself. He bowed at Buddha’s feet and said, “Grant me knowledge.” That caused quite a stir—because Brahma, the creator of the world, came to Buddha’s feet asking for knowledge!
Brahma may be the creator of a world, but he creates precisely because he harbors the desire to create. Buddha became free of desire; therefore Buddha rose above Brahma. Buddha became the pure Purusha. Brahma remained below him, because Brahma, too, creates—and creation implies desire. Where there is no desire, there can be no creation. That is why we do not consider Brahma liberated; we regard him as still in bondage, because the itch to create remains.
Naturally, you run even a small shop—what a hassle it is! If we consider Brahma, who runs so many worlds, we can imagine his troubles; we can guess the tangle and the web that must be behind it all. For one to run such a vast existence, there must be a deep craving, an endless desire—and with it the inevitable turmoil.
In that sweet tale Brahma says to Buddha, “Grant me some knowledge too; I am still entangled; my mind is not at peace. From where you have arrived, a little nectar for me as well!”
But Buddha remains silent. When enlightenment happened to him, he felt: What need is there to speak? What has been known cannot be said. And those who will listen cannot understand. So why waste the effort?
So Brahma keeps placing his head at Buddha’s feet and pleading, “Please speak to people, because we wait for thousands upon thousands of years for a Buddha to appear—so that we might receive some knowledge, so that we, too, might know something of what is.”
Brahma’s asking is delightful—he, too, doesn’t know. He is living in his own craving.
We are all tiny Brahmas when we create. We are all tiny Vishnus when we maintain. We are all tiny Shivas when we dissolve. Enlarge this, and you will get the sense of the whole world.
Krishna says: But the two fundamental principles, Prakriti and Purusha, are beginningless. And know that likes and dislikes, the afflictions, and the entire realm of the three gunas have all arisen from Prakriti.
Whatever you see arising in this world—attractions and aversions, afflictions, the three gunas, this entire field of matter—know them as forms of Prakriti. They are born of Prakriti.
There are only two principles: Prakriti and Purusha. All the rest that spreads out is connected to one or the other. So Krishna says: all this expanse of maya, of the three gunas—the myriad substances, the countless forms, colors, changes—know that they arise from Prakriti. They arise in Prakriti and subside into Prakriti. That from which they arise and into which they dissolve—that is called Prakriti.
This word prakriti of ours is wondrous. There is no word like it in any language of the world. In English we often translate prakriti as nature or creation—both are wrong. The meaning of prakriti is “prior to kṛti (creation)”—pre-creation. It is a very unique word. Prakriti means that which was before any creation—that which was there even when nothing had yet been made—pre-creation. That which was even prior to the act of creating—that is Prakriti.
Therefore it cannot be translated as creation. Nor can it be rendered as nature—because “nature” is what is visible to us.
Prakriti is a remarkable term from the Sankhyas. It means: when all that is visible now was not, that into which it was then concealed—that is Prakriti. And when all that is visible will be no more, that into which it will subside, from which it emerged—that is Prakriti.
So Prakriti is that from which everything emerges and into which everything is absorbed. Prakriti is the primal source of all forms.
For producing effects and causes, Prakriti is said to be the cause. And Purusha is said to be the cause in the experiencing of pleasure and pain—that is, in the act of enjoyment.
These two points must be understood very carefully. They are very useful for those with a meditative vision.
For producing effects and causes, Prakriti is said to be the cause. And Purusha is said to be the cause in the experiencing of pleasure and pain—that is, in enjoyment.
Events occur in Prakriti; the notions of enjoyment and liberation occur in Purusha.
A flower blossoms. The blossoming of the flower occurs in Prakriti. And if there were no human being on earth, the flower would be neither beautiful nor ugly. Would it? In a world with no person at all, a flower blooms on a mountainside—would it be beautiful or ugly? Pleasing or painful? Would it delight anyone or afflict anyone? There is no Purusha.
Only the flower will bloom. It will be neither beautiful nor unbeautiful; neither pleasing nor displeasing; no one will praise it and no one will condemn it. But the flower will bloom—perfectly, in itself.
Then a Purusha appears, stands near the flower. The flower is blooming in Prakriti. In the mind and feeling of the Purusha, a parallel imagining begins to bloom alongside the flower.
The Purusha says, “It is beautiful.” This flower of “beauty” is blooming within the Purusha. The flower is blooming outside; the sense of beauty is blooming inside. And if the Purusha says, “Beautiful,” he experiences pleasure. If he says, “Unbeautiful,” he experiences pain.
And it is not as if beauty and ugliness are fixed—they depend upon notions. A hundred years ago no one could have imagined keeping a cactus plant in the house. If someone had done so a hundred years ago, we would have had him treated in a mental asylum. Villagers used cactus as fencing around their fields. No one ever thought it was beautiful.
Now the situation is such that those with a refined sense of aesthetics are throwing out roses from their homes and installing cactus! The avant-garde, the very elite with an elevated sense of beauty, the ones far ahead of their time—they are collecting all sorts of twisted, thorny plants in their homes. Some of them have thorns such that if they prick you, poison can enter the blood—but that doesn’t matter. The plant is so beautiful that even death can be risked.
No one could have thought a hundred years ago that cactus could be beautiful. Now it is. It won’t last long—it’s fashion. To speak of the beauty of roses now seems orthodox, old-fashioned, reactionary. If someone says, “What a beautiful rose!” people reply, “What nonsense are you talking! How many people have already said that? It’s all borrowed. The whole world is worn out praising roses. Now remove the rose—out of date, obsolete. Let’s talk cactus.”
Picasso wrote in his diary: “I have fallen in love with a woman. She is not beautiful. But she has an edge. Not beautiful. But what is ‘beauty,’ after all? A very old cliché. She has an edge—like a blade that can cut. In that sharpness there is flavor for me.”
This is the love of cactus extending to a woman—the edge, the cut! Even beauty feels dead and stale, old. If it were the beauty of Kalidasa’s poems, Picasso would not fancy it at all. The beauty that Kalidasa praises—the body like refined gold—would not appeal to Picasso.
I have heard that in a village a matchmaker who arranged marriages praised a woman to a young man with such exaggeration that it seemed impossible to find such beauty upon the earth. The young man became eager and excited, ready to spend anything for the marriage. The broker had recited so much poetry, quoted so many scriptures, described every feature in such detail that the youth was aflame to behold her quickly.
But when he saw her, his arms and legs went limp. He whispered in the broker’s ear, “Is this the woman you extolled? You call her beautiful? Her eyes are so frightening they look haunted. I’ve never seen such a long nose. Her teeth are all disordered. She could be useful to scare a child. And you call her beautiful?”
The broker replied, “It seems you are old-fashioned. If you don’t like a Picasso, that is not my fault. Picasso has painted faces like this! He said, ‘I’m like Picasso—a Nobel Prize laureate’—and if you cannot see beauty in his paintings, it’s no fault of mine. This woman is a symbol of that. This is a modern sensibility. What antiquated notions are you carrying! Do you read Kalidasa or what?”
Within man, the consciousness manufactures feeling. The enjoyer then enjoys through that feeling.
Remember: if you enjoy through feeling, you will also suffer through feeling—you will get both. And the irony is that the flower is outside—neither beautiful nor ugly. The feeling is yours.
So Krishna says: In producing effects and causes, Prakriti is the cause; and in the experiencing of pleasure and pain, Purusha is the cause.
You produce pleasure and pain; Prakriti does not. Prakriti is neutral. One should say: Prakriti does not even know that you are needlessly enjoying and suffering.
Does a flower know that you are delighted, or that you are distressed? The flower knows nothing, has nothing to do with you. It blooms for itself. It is not blooming for you. It has no relationship with you. You are unrelated. But you are creating a feeling, and through that feeling you are being tossed about. That feeling is within you.
A friend of mine was sitting with me on the bank of the Ganges. Suddenly he became very excited. I asked, “What happened?” He pointed to a beautiful back of a woman at a distant ghat and said, “I can’t sit here any longer. What proportion in that body! Look at that hair! Look at that curve! I must go and see her face.” I said, “Go.”
He went. I watched him. He walked with great delight, his feet almost dancing, as if a magnet were drawing him. But when he reached the figure, the glow vanished. It was a holy man taking a bath.
He returned dejected; all his joy looted. He sat with his head in his hands. I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “It would have been better if I had remained seated here. It was a sadhu. The hair deceived me. There was no woman.”
But till then he had enjoyed the pleasure of a woman who wasn’t there. That pleasure was within him. Had he left without going, he might have written poems; he might have remembered that proportion, that curve, those rounded arms, that fair skin, all his life—it might have haunted him. By chance he was saved—he saw, and was freed. But both feelings had arisen within; the sadhu knew nothing of what was happening around him. Both feelings arose within my friend.
This is Sankhya’s view—which Krishna is stating—that whatever you are enjoying is rising within you. Outside, Prakriti is impartial. It has nothing to do with you. Whether you enjoy or suffer, you alone are responsible.
And if this strikes you—that I alone am responsible—liberation is not difficult. Then fine: if I am responsible, and Prakriti produces neither pleasure nor pain, then I am the one superimposing them. Pleasure and pain are my projections upon Prakriti; they are my own dreams that I spread—and then suffer. With my own hand I spread them, and I myself get trapped and suffer. If this begins to be understood, an extraordinary revolution can occur.
When a feeling of pleasure rises within you, startle yourself into awareness and look: Prakriti is doing nothing; I am producing a feeling. The moment you are startled into awareness, the feeling will fall. As soon as you come to your senses, the feeling will fall. Prakriti will remain there, free of pleasure and pain; within, Purusha will remain, free of pleasure and pain.
When Purusha rushes toward Prakriti and superimposes, pleasure and pain are born. One who is caught in that pleasure-pain is in duality and in ignorance.
Beyond pleasure and pain lies bliss. Bliss is the nature of Purusha; pleasure and pain are superimpositions upon Prakriti. Pleasure and pain arise when the Purusha looks at himself in Prakriti, using Prakriti as a mirror, and seeing his own shadow, becomes happy or unhappy.
Sometimes you, too, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror, become happy or unhappy. No one else is there—only the mirror, your own face. Seeing that image you begin to hum a tune, even those who have no voice at all cannot help humming in the bathroom. If you ever find someone who does not hum in the bathroom, know that he is a yogi.
People do hum in the bathroom. At whom do they look and start humming? What image gives them such delight? Their own. They start having fun with themselves.
Almost all the plays we are playing with Prakriti are games played with a mirror. Sometimes we are unhappy, sometimes happy—but it is our own play, our own drama.
Begin to bring this into awareness. Events occur in Prakriti; emotions occur within. And it is because of emotions that we are troubled, not because of events. The great joke is that even when we wish to be free of this trouble, we run away from events, not from emotions.
A man is unhappy at home, in family life. He takes sannyas and goes to the Himalayas. But he does not know that he was not unhappy because there was a wife, a child, a shop. They were not the cause of his unhappiness. They are events in Prakriti. He was unhappy because of his emotions. Those emotions will accompany him to the Himalayas, and there, too, he will project them.
I have heard of a man who went to the forest in search of peace. He was troubled by the noise and chaos of the marketplace. No sooner had he stood beneath a tree than a crow dropped its droppings on his head. He said, “All is useless—even in the forest there is no peace!”
Even in the forest, crows will do what crows do. And the crow is not looking at your skull to aim. Nor in the marketplace is anyone acting with your skull in mind. No one anywhere is concerned with you. Events are occurring. You, obsessed with emotion, grab the events and become bound.
So far from real events binding you, people even cry in a cinema. Look at people’s handkerchiefs as they exit the theater—wet with tears. They wipe their eyes! The darkness in the cinema is a great convenience; everyone’s eyes are on the screen, so the neighbor does not see. People glance around to make sure no one is watching, and wipe away their tears.
What is happening on the screen? Nothing. Only a play of light and shadow. And you are so distressed! Even the play of light and shadow disturbs you! If a robber is chasing someone along a cliff, your breath stops; you sit upright, your spine stiffens, breath halts—as if you were being chased or were chasing. But you are doing nothing—just sitting in a chair. In a moment the lights will come on.
Sankhya has used this as an example: just as a dancer dances and the relish you take in it is within you, similarly the dancer dances because of the greed that, if you relish it, you will give something. If your relish disappears, the dancer will stop the dance and go away.
Sankhya says: the day Purusha stops relishing, Prakriti ends—for him. Prakriti withdraws from the stage. She is no longer needed.
Pleasure and pain are my projections. I have superimposed them upon stainless Prakriti. Prakriti is not at fault. Events in Prakriti keep happening—they will continue even when I am not, and they were happening before I was. They go on, unrelated to me. But I—the Purusha within...
This word Purusha also must be understood correctly. It is as unique a word as Prakriti. Both belong to the Sankhyas. And Sankhya’s grasp is very scientific.
Prakriti means “that which is before kṛti (creation).” And Purusha comes from the same root as “pur” in Nagpur or Kanpur—Purusha means “the one who resides at the center of the city (pur).” The whole of Prakriti is a city (pur); the one who dwells in the middle is the Purusha.
All events are happening in the city. And the one who dwells in the midst—if he remains aware—nothing touches him, nothing even grazes him. He comes as a celibate and goes as a celibate. He is ever virgin. Even when you become entangled, he remains virgin—because nothing can touch him. Innocence is his nature.
Therefore no sin touches the Purusha; it is only your delusion that it does. No merit touches the Purusha; it is only delusion that it does. No pleasure or pain touches him. Purusha is by nature immaculate.
The day this dawns, that very day you awaken into watchfulness and find that the whole chain of pleasure and pain has snapped. You remain within yet are outside. You have become Purusha—separate from the city while at its center.
Do not take the vision of Prakriti and Purusha merely as a doctrine. Recognize it in life—discern where Prakriti is and where Purusha is. And when Purusha starts getting superimposed upon Prakriti, startle yourself and do not allow the superimposition.
There will be a little difficulty at first; obstacles will arise. It is an old habit—habit of many births. You don’t even notice before the superimposition happens. The flower is not fully seen and already you say, “Beautiful! Such delight!” You haven’t even looked properly; you haven’t even discerned whether it is beautiful or not—yet you declare it so.
Pause a little. Do not let the Purusha be superimposed. Superimposition is bondage; freedom from superimposition is liberation.
For five minutes no one should get up. Join in the kirtan, and then leave.

Certainly, psychologists like Slater entertain exactly this idea—that samadhi too can be produced by instruments. Not only do they think so, such instruments have already been built. And not only built, thousands upon thousands of people in the West are using them. There is a device costing about a thousand rupees. You connect leads to the brain, switch on the device, and it begins to report the waves inside your brain.

There is a particular wave which in the West they call “alpha.” In the alpha wave a person reaches a state akin to meditation. The device reports when alpha arises in you. The moment alpha appears, the device makes a sound and you understand that the alpha wave has appeared—now you have to remain in just this wave.

With the device’s help you learn to remain there in a few days. It isn’t very difficult. In two to four days you learn to remain, because you get a feel for it—the device tells you, “This exactly is alpha.” It makes a sound and you recognize that alpha is arising within; now you simply stay in that wave. With two to four days of practice…

I have that device. Recently I have experimented with it. In two to four days of practice you begin to experience meditation—great peace and relaxation. If people who meditate are hooked up to the device while they are in meditation, it immediately begins to give the alpha signal.

So now in the West they have even succeeded in checking who is in meditation and who is not. You can no longer make a false claim, because the device will report whether you are in meditation. You cannot simply say, “I’m meditating,” because the device cannot be deceived. If you try to cheat, alpha will vanish at once—because even the idea of cheating is an obstacle. Let a slight thought arise and the device will fall silent. As soon as thoughts stop, the device begins to sound again.

A lot of work is underway on this device. But what it produces is also a destination without a journey. And so a very amusing thought has begun to arise there: the device can produce alpha, and meditators also produce alpha. But the meditator says, “I attain supreme bliss.” While the person whose alpha is produced by the device says, “I feel a little peace.” There is a fundamental difference in their statements.

The meditator says, “I attain supreme bliss.” And yet the device gives the same report for both: alpha! In the device there is no difference—whether about one who has reached through the experiment of samadhi, or one who has merely synchronized with a machine. The device gives the same report. But the one who learned through the machine says, “I feel a little peace,” while the one who came through meditation says, “I feel bliss.” Then there is a great difficulty.

Thinkers are now beginning to suspect that what is produced by the device may be outwardly the same, but inwardly it differs. For the man who has meditated thirty years says, “I am experiencing the supreme bliss, the supreme Brahman.” And with this machine the same state that came to Buddha over years—years is not even accurate, over births—will arise in three months. But those in whom this device brought about that condition in three months do not become Buddhas. There is no transformation in their lives—no truth, no exuberance, no celebration appears. The fragrance that is visible in the life of a Buddha is not visible in theirs.

So there must be some fundamental inner difference. What is that difference? For the device says the same waves arise in both. The difference is the difference of the journey. The difference between a real flower and a flower bought in the marketplace—the difference between a flower grown in your own garden and one you have purchased, already cut.

What is produced by the device is outwardly contrived and imposed. The mind learns the practice and adjusts to the device. With the adjustment, peace will be felt. For those who are troubled by restlessness, the device is useful. But the fulfillment of meditation will not happen. The fulfillment of meditation is impossible that way.

Understand it like this. The experiment of Slater that I mentioned—he produced sexual orgasm in a rat by a device, and the rat kept on pressing the lever. The same difference applies here.

If you love a woman—which is a rather difficult matter. Generally people think everyone loves. Love is as rare as a great scientist is sometimes born; as a poet is sometimes born; as a philosopher is sometimes born; as a painter is sometimes born—so, only sometimes a lover is born. Not everyone becomes a lover.

If truly a man loves a woman, the bliss that becomes available in union with that woman cannot be produced by Slater’s device. Yes, if you have no love for a woman and you go to a prostitute to have sex, the momentary feeling you have in sex—of release, of emptiness, of a burden dropping—that can be produced by Slater’s device.

By an instrument you can also produce the kind of sex you have with a person for whom you have no deep love. But if there is love, then the device cannot produce that union.

If all you want is a little peace of mind—which a tranquilizer can also produce—then the same peace will be produced by a device that generates alpha waves.

But if meditation is your inner pilgrimage—like the quest of Buddha, the quest of Mahavira; if it is a search to which your whole life is dedicated; it is not a search for peace but for truth; not merely a matter of reducing sorrow and burden, but of being established in bliss; not an arrangement for keeping a makeshift life running a little better through some calm, but a quest to experience ultimate freedom—then this joy, this samadhi, this meditation will not be available through a device.

But this does not mean I am opposing instruments. I am only saying that using an instrument is also good. At the very least you will get peace. And the thought will also arise that if so much peace is possible through a device, how much more might be possible through meditation—and through samadhi, how much…!

You will get a glimpse from it, and that glimpse is not bad in itself. But if someone thinks devices will take the place of yoga, he is mistaken. If someone thinks devices will take the place of love, he is mistaken.

That which is inner—no device can take its place. But if your life is only outer, then devices can take its place.