Geeta Darshan #1

In Greece there was a thinker—Pyrrho. As a thinker ought to be, filled with doubt, Pyrrho was filled with doubt.

One evening Pyrrho stepped outside his house. It was the rainy season. By the roadside, his old master had fallen into a pit and was stuck, sunk in mud up to his neck. Pyrrho stood on the edge thinking, “Shall I pull him out or not?” For Pyrrho held that no action should be undertaken until its outcome is completely, conclusively known. And until it is clear whether the result will be auspicious or inauspicious, to enter action is delusion.

Would saving the master be good or bad? Whatever the master does after being saved—will that be good or bad? Until this is clear, Pyrrho is not prepared to pull him out of the mud. For any deed, he says, is to be done only when its final fruit is explicit.

It was fortunate that others arrived and rescued the sinking master. Pyrrho remained standing at the edge. And you’ll be surprised to know—when the other disciples saved the master, the master said they were not true thinkers; the true thinker was Pyrrho. Therefore, he alone is worthy of my seat. For how can you do an action whose fruit is not clear to you?

Pyrrho is the progenitor of skepticism in the West. But if the fruit of action must be completely clear, then no action can ever be done. Because no action’s fruit is clear—and cannot be. Action is in the present; fruit lies in the future. And any action can lead to many possible outcomes; the outcomes are alternatives. So if someone resolves, “Until the outcome is decisively certain, I won’t lay my hand to action,” such a person cannot do anything at all.

Pyrrho stands there—think it through once more. If I were to meet him, I’d say: it’s necessary to consider whether standing still will yield the right fruit or rescuing will. Standing is also an act. You are making a decision. Saving the master is not the only decision. “Shall I stand here or step in to save?”—that too is a decision. “Shall I think now or act?”—that too is a decision.

There is no way to avoid decision. Whether I do something or don’t, a decision must be taken. And doing has a fruit; not doing has a fruit as well. By not doing, the master might have died.

So don’t assume that non-doing has no consequence. Even non-doing bears fruit. Action has a fruit; laziness has a fruit.

Whether we act or not, a decision has to be made. Decision is a compulsion. Therefore, one who thinks he is avoiding decision is being dishonest—because avoidance itself is, ultimately, a decision, and it too will bear fruit.

Arjuna is in just such a dilemma. Should he enter action or refrain? Should he enter the war or not? What will be the outcome? Will it be auspicious or inauspicious? Before taking a step, he wants to see the future—which is impossible, has never been possible, and never will be. For the very meaning of “future” is that which cannot be seen; which is not yet; which is still in the womb; which will be.

The present can be seen. Decisions can be made with reference to the present. The future is in darkness, hidden in the unknown. Arjuna wants that decided too before he steps into battle.

And note, there isn’t much difference between Pyrrho’s state and Arjuna’s. Arjuna’s is even worse. There it was a matter of one man drowning and dying; here it is about the death and survival of multitudes. In the final hour of war, doubt has seized his mind.

In truth, whenever you have to decide upon any action, you arrive at Arjuna’s state. That’s why most people avoid deciding. Let someone else decide for them. A father tells his son, “Do this.” A master tells his disciple, “Do that.” This is why you obey. The fundamental basis of obedience is to evade deciding for oneself.

People say the world should be free, but people cannot be free; they will obey. Because there’s a trick in obedience: someone else takes the decision; you avoid the confusion, the pain, the difficulty of deciding. So people look for gurus, for leaders. They want to follow someone.

There’s a convenience in following—whoever goes ahead will decide. The one behind need not decide. Though this too is an illusion. For the decision to follow someone already lays all responsibility on you. You did the choosing—but you have the convenience of deceiving yourself.

Everyone will face Arjuna’s difficulty. That’s why the Gita’s message is timeless. For every human life contains the same difficulty. At every step, moment to moment, even to lift one foot, a decision is needed. Because every step has consequences, and life will be different. Change one step and life changes.

Today you came here to listen to me. Your life can no longer be what it would have been had you not come. It simply cannot. There is no way back now. This is a big decision. Because in this time you would have done something—fallen in love with someone; gotten married. Quarreled with someone; made an enemy. You would have done something that would have taken your life somewhere.

Now you are listening to me. That too is doing something. That too will carry your life somewhere—each word will alter you. You cannot be the same. Whether you agree with what I say or not makes no difference. Even if you don’t agree, you won’t be the same—because the decision not to agree will take you elsewhere. Agree or don’t agree—either way!

Even a single blink, and we are changing. And the span of a blink can prove a vast distance—thousands of miles of difference in destination.

If we understand Arjuna’s mental state properly, then we can understand what Krishna is trying to do.

Arjuna stands in a dilemma that is the dilemma of every mind. And as long as mind remains, the dilemma will remain. Because the mind says, “You are about to do something, but you do not know its outcome. And until you know the outcome, how can you enter action?” The mind raises the question and there is no answer.

Arjuna stands as a question mark. He seeks an answer. That answer can also be borrowed. Someone might speak and take the responsibility upon himself. Someone might say, “The future is like this.” If someone gives a decisive verdict regarding the future and assumes all the burden, then Arjuna might leap into war or refrain. Arjuna can adopt any conclusion—but then the decision will be borrowed, dependent on another.

Krishna does not want to give Arjuna any borrowed statement. Hence the Gita is a profound churning of the mind. In a single word Krishna could have said, “I know the future. Fight.” But Krishna’s compassion is precisely this: by not giving an answer, he seeks to bring down Arjuna’s mind—to erase the very source from which doubt arises; not to press doubt down under a stone of faith and belief.

There is no attempt to persuade Arjuna somehow. The effort is to transform him. Arjuna must become new; he must arrive where the mind falls away. Where the mind falls, doubt falls—who will doubt then? Where the mind falls, the future falls—who will think of the future?

When the mind falls, only the present remains. When the mind falls, a person acts—but is not a doer. For there remains no ego behind to say “I.” It is the mind that says “I.”

Then action becomes effortless and simple. Whether that action is to go to war or to step away from it—there will be no doer behind it. There will be no conclusion reached by thinking, calculation, logic. Action will be spontaneous. Whatever existence wants in that moment will happen through Arjuna. In Krishna’s language, whatever the divine wills will happen through Arjuna. Arjuna will become an instrument.

Right now Arjuna is trying to be the doer. He wants whatever he does to be his responsibility. He wants to bear its burden, its duty—good or bad—upon himself. “I am doing it.”

And if you are the one doing, great anxiety will seize you. The stronger the sense of “I,” the greater the anxiety in life. The weaker the sense of “I,” the thinner the anxiety becomes. And one who wants to be utterly free of anxiety will have to be free of “I.” The “I” itself is anxiety.

People come to me and ask, “How can we become carefree?” I tell them, as long as you are, you cannot be carefree—because you are the source of worry. As sprouts come from a seed, so sprouts of worry come from you. You are nourishing them. You are the base. Then you get troubled: “How can I be carefree?” Being carefree becomes a new worry. Then the effort to be at peace becomes a new disturbance.

Hence the ordinary person is not as anxious as the religious, “extraordinary” person appears to be. The criminal is not as anxious as the saint often seems.

The more we try to escape anxiety, the more new anxieties seize us. One new anxiety is: “How do I get rid of anxiety?” And when no way appears, the mind is crushed under a heavy burden—no escape, no path visible. No door seems open to get out of this prison. No source, no key how to go out. Not even a ray of light appears.

The one who is living merrily in that darkness has the worries of the prison within; the one who wants to get out of the prison gathers new worries—how to get out! That’s why the religious man sinks into deep anxiety. It’s natural. The “I” is the center of worry.

Krishna’s whole effort is for Arjuna to dissolve. The guru’s only device has always been how the disciple might disappear.

Here is a subtle complexity. The disciple does not come to disappear; he comes to be. He comes to become a disciple, to gain something—success, peace, attainment, liberation, prosperity, health—something to get. So there is an inner struggle between guru and disciple. Their longings are utterly opposite. The disciple comes to gain; the guru tries to take away. The disciple wants to become something; the guru tries to efface him. The disciple is eager to arrive somewhere; the guru is eager to halt him right here.

The entire Gita is the story of this struggle. Arjuna keeps circling back to the very thing every disciple wants. Krishna keeps circling back to do what every guru wants. Through one door Krishna seems to lose—ignorance is deep—so he tries another; if there too he seems to lose, he enters through a third.

Remember, the disciple wins many times. The guru wins only once. The guru often “loses” to the disciple—but none of his losses is final. And none of the disciple’s wins is final. Though he wins many times, ultimately the disciple will lose; for his victories cannot take him anywhere. His victory will keep him in the puddle of his suffering. Until the guru wins, he cannot come out of that puddle. But there will be struggle—a most endearing struggle, a very sweet fight.

The disciple’s obstacle is that he wants something else. Between these two, there is no straightforward reconciliation. Hence the Gita stretches so long. Krishna tries one door; Arjuna “wins” there—meaning, he doesn’t break, he doesn’t dissolve, he misses the opportunity. His win is his loss. For the day he truly loses, that day he will win. His losing will become surrender.

So Krishna moves to another door; battle begins on another front. Each chapter is a different front. And in these different chapters are all the doors through which any guru has ever tried to dissolve a disciple. Only if Arjuna dissolves will there be resolution. Without dissolving, there is no solution.

Only in the death of the disciple is there resolution. There all his illnesses fall; there his problems fall; there his questions fall. From there, within him arises that which has no problems at all. That consciousness is hidden within—and it must be set free. Until this ordinary mind dies, the prison doesn’t break, the chains don’t fall, the light hidden within is not released.

Light is locked in you; it must be freed. And none other than you is placing obstacles. You will try every way to save what you take to be yourself—your ego. You think you are performing self-defense. Arjuna too is engaged in self-defense.

But in the end, the guru wins. There is no way for him to lose. He may “lose” many times—his losses are unreal. The disciple may win many times—his victories are unreal. In the end he will have to lose.

Now let us enter this aphorism.

Krishna said: O Arjuna, among all knowings, the supremely excellent, the ultimate knowledge I shall again speak to you—knowing which the sages, becoming free of this world, have attained the supreme perfection.

Among all gnoses, the supremely excellent, ultimate knowledge I will again speak to you. He has said it many times already. He says, “I will say it again for you.” The guru does not tire. He will keep speaking until you truly hear.

In the West there has been much research on the words of the Buddha. They were astonished—and rightly so. Buddha lived eighty years. He was enlightened around the age of forty. Deduct those forty years—forty remain. Of those forty, a third must have gone in sleep. Daily hours would have gone into alms and food. Daily hours into travel. If we count eight hours of sleep, four hours of travel, two hours for bathing, food, alms—then of forty years, nearly thirty are spent. Ten remain.

But Western research says Buddha’s extant words are so vast that even if he had spoken day and night for a full hundred years from the day of birth to the day of death—without sleeping, without getting up or sitting down—the scriptures still seem larger. A person speaking continuously for a hundred years, uninterrupted, from birth to the last moment—without sleep or anything else—could speak as much as what is available as Buddha’s words.

Naturally, researchers conclude: these are interpolated; words of others have slipped in. A single person can’t speak so much. In ten years you can’t speak what would take a hundred years of continuous speaking! Meaning, if Buddha had lived ten times longer, he could have spoken that much—or if there had been ten Buddhas, they could have.

I take a different meaning. To me it only means this: what appears so long appears long because of the struggle with disciples. With Arjuna there is just Krishna’s struggle with one disciple. Buddha had ten thousand disciples. The struggle is vast, immense. Hence so many words—as if Buddha were speaking with ten mouths at once. He left no corner from which he did not attack, did not launch an assault on the disciple.

The guru does not tire.

“Again I will say it for you! Among knowings, the supremely excellent, the ultimate knowledge I will again speak to you—knowing which the sages, free of this world, have attained the supreme perfection.”

Ignorance is not the absence of information. Ignorance is wrong information. Absence of information can be childlike. Ignorance is complex, not innocence. The ignorant are skilled, clever, cunning. It is not that the ignorant do not know; they know wrongly. Understand this well.

It is not “not knowing” that tangles us; our tangle is of wrong knowing. How can one get tangled in not knowing? One gets tangled by wrong knowing. Even to get tangled, you must “know” something.

Suppose in Arjuna’s place there were a truly simple man who knew nothing—he would have entered the war. What obstacle was there? No one other than Arjuna raised questions.

Bhima has no obstacle. He stands ready with his mace. Whenever the war starts, he will leap in. He too is ignorant—but his ignorance is of another kind: mere lack of information. Questions don’t even arise in him about good or bad, sin or merit. He is like a child.

Arjuna is learned. Arjuna “knows.” He knows this is bad, that is good; this should be done, that should not be. He is mindful of dharma and adharma. His “knowing” is his tangle.

If ignorance were only lack of information, a man would be simple, guileless, childlike—no tangle. He wouldn’t be free yet—he wouldn’t be out of the prison—but he would be cheerful within it. He wouldn’t even know it was a prison. Information comes—and the trouble begins.

Arjuna’s difficulty is that he knows what is wrong. But merely knowing what’s wrong does not dissolve passion. The passions move on their own track, and the intellect moves on another—dilemma arises. The whole nature of the body asks for one thing, and the mind stands above and starts thinking. The person is split in two. This splitting—this fragmentation, this “split personality,” this two-voicedness—creates the dilemma. Then no decision can be taken.

Arjuna does want to fight. Truth is, he brought this situation about. Who asked for war? There was no need to come to this hour. Passions have brought it to this moment of war. At the root of this whole war, Arjuna is hidden.

We should grasp this a little—then the meaning of the Gita will be clearer.

It all begins with Draupadi. Arjuna brought Draupadi. Duryodhana also wanted to bring her. She must have been a supremely beautiful woman—not only beautiful, but sharp, keen. Beauty, when sharp, is even more tempting. Draupadi is a woman of very keen edge. She must have attracted everyone. Duryodhana too wanted to make her his wife. It was a struggle of passions. Arjuna brought her.

The struggle must have been intense. Arjuna’s four brothers also wanted to bring her. And she must have been such a woman that the five brothers might have broken and been destroyed over her. So they divided her among themselves. The story is merely a cover.

The story goes that the mother said, “Share what you’ve brought,” because she knew nothing. Arjuna had said from the door, “Mother, look what I’ve brought!” From inside she said, “Divide it among you five.” That’s just a cover. The real point is: all five had their eyes on Draupadi, and if she were not divided, the five would be divided.

From this Draupadi the whole thing—if understood rightly, from desire, from lust—the whole thread begins. Then the disturbances keep multiplying. But at the root is the craving to possess Draupadi. Slowly, event by event, the war arrived.

Till today, Arjuna never thought of it; only at the last stage he remembers. He climbed many steps to get here—every step could have signaled the truth.

Whenever you desire something, you enter war. Because you are not the only one who desires; millions desire too. Desire means competition; desire means war. The moment I desire, I enter struggle.

Hence the wise have said that only one with no desire stands outside of struggle—no competition, no enmity with anyone.

But this thought never came to Arjuna. Until now he lived identified with one part of the body. Today everything stands in its monstrous totality.

Understand this a little.

Sexual desire is synonymous with birth; war is synonymous with death. And all sexual desire finally leads to death. It must be so. Hence the wise have said: one who wishes to go beyond death must go beyond sexual desire. In sex lies our birth—and in sex our death.

This war is merely the last moment when death has become manifest. But its seed was sown the day desire was thrown at Draupadi. The seed was sown that day.

Duryodhana wanted her; Arjuna’s own brothers wanted her. And everyone’s desire is the same. There is nothing “right” or “wrong” in desire. Arjuna could get Draupadi because he was skilled in archery; if possession depends on skill, then Duryodhana tried to show skill at dice and wanted to snatch her. That too is a skill. It’s a struggle of skills.

And it is worth entering each Mahabharata character, for they are symbols of life.

After Draupadi’s wedding, the Pandavas built a palace for celebration. They invited Duryodhana and his brothers. They had arranged the finest engineering of the day: where there were no doors, doors appeared—by arrangements of glass and mirrors. Where there was a wall, a door seemed to be; where there was a door, a wall seemed to be—an illusion by mirrors.

When Duryodhana banged into those “doors” which were actually walls, Draupadi laughed and said, “The blind man’s son!” That sarcasm proved costly. The Pandavas laughed; they enjoyed it. The Kauravas were indeed the sons of a blind father, but no one wants to hear his father called blind—even if he is. No one wants to see himself as bad.

And remember, an abuse can be forgiven; sarcasm cannot. Abuse does not wound as deeply—sarcasm is the subtlest abuse. Laughter at someone is the deepest wound. So remember: you never hurt as much by abuse as you do when you make someone a joke.

Mahavira said in his teachings that a monk should not mock anyone—he called it violence, the worst violence.

But that day Arjuna did not question: “We are committing a great violence.” No—the game of desire went on. This is its final culmination. This war is the net of all that. Only here does he see, looking around, what they have done—and where they have found themselves.

Remember, whenever you take a step in delusion, no one sees it at the first step. If it was seen at the first step, there would be no delusions in the world. It is only at the last step that one sees—when turning back is difficult.

When anger first arises, in its first ripple, you don’t notice. When you are about to plunge a knife into someone’s chest—when it has become impossible to stop your own hand—when the hand has gone so far that it cannot be recalled—the momentum is such that even if you want to, the hand cannot return. The knife will enter the chest. There remains only one option: either turn the blade toward the other’s chest or toward your own. But the hand has moved. Either murder will happen or suicide.

In life, only at the first step can something be done. It’s necessary to understand a mechanical arrangement in the human interior.

In a person there are two kinds of mechanisms. One runs by will—when we wish, it runs. The other is non-volitional—automatic—where our will does nothing. When we function with the first, there comes a limit beyond which the work slips from the first mechanism to the second.

Suppose you are filled with sexual desire. There is a boundary—until then you can stop if you wish. Beyond it, the body’s automatic mechanism seizes the desire; even if you want to stop, you cannot. Stopping becomes impossible.

All passions work in a dual way. First we move them by will; then the will heats them like fire to a hundred degrees—then they turn to steam. Then they slip beyond the hand of will—then events happen mechanically within you.

Hence Buddha said: wake up before anger arises. Before the passion surges, rise and be filled with awareness. If the first step is taken, you will be compelled to take the last. Stopping midway is impossible—once the wheel turns.

Mahavira has a famous saying: he who has walked halfway has already reached the destination—because returning from the middle is difficult.

The reason is our dual mechanisms. Observe any of your tendencies and you’ll see: up to a point you can turn back; it’s within your hand. You’ll recognize that line within. If you catch that line where desires escape the hand, you can be your own master.

Arjuna, at the very last hour—when all is done and only the final consequence remains—is shaken.

Remember, everyone gets shaken there. Because only when things fully manifest do we wake up. Earlier, things flow hidden, in many streams, in tiny rills; when these rills merge into a huge river, we notice; then we feel, “What have I done!” Then we want to run—but now the event is bigger than us. There is no way to run. There is no way to turn back.

Arjuna is speaking at that point where things have become automatic—where the war has become an existential event. Understand: there is no way now to turn back from war—war will happen. The water has reached a hundred degrees. Even if you pull out the coals, steam will still form. The formation of steam is now a natural act. It is at this moment that one panics—but that panic is futile. One had to stop earlier.

This last-moment shakiness of Arjuna—everyone feels it. The rule is: either wake up at the first moment and do not set out on the journey of desire—or, if a desire has reached its final moment, do not panic. Become an instrument and let it be completed. Become an instrument and let it complete itself.

In the first moment you can be the master—no need to be an instrument. Here lies the difference between Krishna’s and Mahavira’s paths; hence people feel they are opposite.

A Jaina cannot really revere the Gita, for the approaches are opposite. The Gita is practice at the last moment of desire. Mahavira’s entire discipline is aimed at the first moment. Hence Mahavira says, “Be your master.” Because if one becomes an instrument at the first moment, one will be carried away in desire. In the first moment, you can be a master.

As long as everything is under the sway of will, you can renounce it. There is no need to become an instrument at the first moment. And one who becomes a master at the first moment will never need to be an instrument. The final moment will not come.

Hence Mahavira’s and Krishna’s disciplines seem completely opposed. Those who do not understand and merely read scriptures will think they are antagonists. They are not.

It’s like someone just lit the fire under water to heat it; we say, “Pull out the embers now; it can still be stopped.” The water hasn’t even warmed; steam is far away. Mahavira says, “Stop at the first moment; after halfway, stopping is hard; things will slip outside your capacity.”

And certainly, one who cannot stop at the first moment—how will he stop halfway? When it was weak at first, you couldn’t stop; halfway it has grown strong—how will you stop? And when the water is at ninety-nine degrees—how will you stop?

If Arjuna had asked Mahavira, he’d have said: “The day you went to Draupadi’s swayamvara—that day you should have turned back.” That was the first moment. But who could imagine that the great Mahabharata war would begin at Draupadi’s swayamvara!

You cannot see the tree in the seed. One who does is blessed. He will stop there; he will not sow the seed—then the fruits of the tree will never arise.

But Krishna faces a different situation. It is the final moment; the event will occur. Things have reached a point from which they cannot be returned. They have taken on their own momentum; they have become automatic. Now war is inevitable—destiny; it is fate. In this moment, what to do?

In this moment Krishna says, “Become an instrument. Do not think as a doer now. Don’t decide—leave the decision in the hands of existence. Be only a tool; let what is happening happen through you. Remain a witness and a vehicle.”

One who stops at the first moment will never need to become an instrument. Thus, in Mahavira’s discipline there is no use of the word “instrument,” no talk of being a tool. But one who, at the last stage of a desire, becomes a witness and an instrument—he will never take the first step of another desire. One who stops at the first step will have no reason to reach the last. One who becomes an instrument at the last, in that witnessing he will see things so transparently that no other desire, as a seed, will be able to deceive him.

If Arjuna passes through this war as an instrument, then no other “Draupadi” will ever lure him. No seed of passion—from which the mischief begins—will seize him. His vision will become transparent.

At the last moment—be an instrument; at the first—be a master. These are the sutras of practice. One of the two is enough—then the other will not be needed.

Among all knowings, the supremely excellent, ultimate knowledge I will again speak to you—knowing which the sages, becoming free of this world, attain the supreme perfection.

Becoming free of this world…

It is necessary to understand “world.” The world is not what spreads visibly around you. The world is what you have woven around your mind. If you have any relation with the outer world, it is because of the weave of the inner mind.

To abolish, abandon, flee from the outer world has no meaning. It is about removing the roots of the inner mind, the net of mind through which you see—because of which the divine appears as “world” to you—removing these veils or lenses of desire.

Otherwise, how would ultimate knowledge free you from the world? The world remains even for the knower. There is a world for Krishna, for Buddha, and for you. The world is there for the knower—but the knower has no mind; hence he can see this very world in another way. Then this world appears as Brahman. Then he does not see the turmoil, the war, the conflict we see. This entire web of illusion we see is the division created by our mind.

Think of a prism. As a ray of sunlight passes through a prism, it splits into seven colors; the rainbow is born. The rainbow forms this way—suspended droplets act as prisms; as sunlight passes through them, it splits. The sun’s ray has no color; split, it becomes seven colors. Colorless light becomes a rainbow.

In existence, there is no difference, no kinds, no color. But seen through the prism of mind, it becomes very colorful—like a rainbow. The world is Brahman seen through mind. And when existence is viewed through mind, the “world” is created—the rainbow broken into fragments. Remove the prism and the rainbow vanishes; only the pure, colorless, invisible ray remains.

World means mind. The word has caused much confusion. The wise have continually said, “Go beyond the world,” and the ignorant have kept thinking it means to flee the outside world—go to the Himalayas, find a height beyond the world. Move far away from it.

But who is more foolish than one who runs from a rainbow! What is needed is a way of seeing by which the rainbow is not seen. This sight is an inner happening.

Therefore Krishna can say: “Among all knowings, the supremely excellent, ultimate knowledge I will again tell you—knowing which the sages, free of the world, attained the supreme perfection.”

To be free of the world means to be free of mind. One who is free of mind attains the supreme perfection—because perfection is hidden within. That natural state, that ultimate nirvana or liberation, lies within.

The moment there is no mind, we come to know our own being. Because of the mind, we see neither the reality of existence nor our own. This prism is double—it splits the outer into “world,” and it splits the inner into thoughts. Within, we see nothing but thoughts, desires.

Hume said: whenever I go within, I find nothing but passions, thoughts, desires, imaginings, dreams. People say, “Go within—you’ll find the soul.” Hume said, from experience I tell you, I have gone within many times—never have I found a soul. I have found a thousand other things.

If you experiment, you will agree with Hume. You imagine that the soul lies within because you never go within. Only when you go will you know what you find there. As long as you are not free of mind, you will find a rainbow within—seven colors—not the original ray.

This prism is double. It splits the outer—existence becomes the world. It splits the inner—existence becomes thoughts. Within, thoughts move every moment.

The word samsara is worth reflecting on. Samsara means “wheel.” It means what keeps turning like a cartwheel.

Have you noticed your mind? It spins exactly like a wheel. The same thoughts circle back again and again. Keep a diary for one day. Write from waking to evening. You’ll be astonished at your poverty—the poverty of thought. The same thought returns after a few minutes.

If you keep an honest diary for two to four months, you’ll find a sequence among these thoughts like the spokes in a wheel. The same spoke comes round, again and again—recurrence within.

A great scientist studied this and was surprised. If we assume one thought takes one second—thoughts are brief—you have at least sixty thoughts per minute. Multiply by sixty—so many per hour; by twenty-four—so many per day—hundreds of thousands! Even the greatest thinker cannot claim hundreds of thousands of thoughts per day.

You’ll find great poverty within. The same thoughts! You’ll laugh—“What am I doing?” What I’ve thought a thousand times, I’m thinking again—the same words, the same feelings, the same inner poses—repeating mechanically.

Outside, too, the world is revolving. Rains come; winter comes; summer comes—seasons turn. The sun rises, sets; the moon waxes, wanes. Circles everywhere—outside and inside. Wheels within wheels—smaller wheels turning within larger ones.

Open your watch—look inside—and you’ll see the condition of your mind. Wheels, many wheels; one turning another, the second a third—all turning. But a few fixed thoughts keep racing round and round.

Therefore India has said—outside there is samsara; inside there is samsara—circular motion. Until you are free of these wheels, you will not be “accomplished.”

Siddha means one who has gone beyond the revolving.

At fairs there are merry-go-rounds for children—horses, elephants, lions. The children sit and the ride spins; the faster it goes, the more they enjoy; it feels like they’re reaching somewhere. Much “journey”—arriving nowhere. It revolves in place. The thrill of horses, elephants; the speed; the feeling of arriving gives a delicious flavor.

Almost all of us are like those children. Our ride is bigger—and there too are horses and elephants.

You see now—there’s a petrol shortage, so Indira rides a tonga… In this country, sense will never come. Atal Bihari Vajpayee rides a bullock cart. Piloo Mody said he would arrive on an elephant. And I kept thinking someone surely on a donkey—because that’s our national animal. It is a symbol of our character.

Our arrangements in life are childish—little posts and big posts; wealth, palaces, prestige; Padma Bhushans, Bharat Ratnas—everyone seated, one on a horse, one on an elephant; the ride spins—until someone pulls you off. Children make a fuss when you try to take them off. Until some “parent” pulls them off these horses, they don’t get down on their own.

This whole thing…and arriving nowhere. Much journey. Great speed. The feeling that you are going somewhere is intoxicating.

Siddhi means that place from which no urge to go anywhere else arises. As long as that urge arises, there is samsara. Siddhi means where you are is the ultimate place—no urge to go elsewhere. Even if someone puts liberation in front of you, you close your eyes: “I am already seated in liberation.”

There is a story about Nan-in—a Zen mystic. At the foot of a mountain, atop which was a pilgrimage shrine toward which thousands walked each year, Nan-in lay under a tree. Many monks went on pilgrimage too. The ignorant have no special link with householders—monks and renunciates are equally ignorant. They also go up the mountain—as if there were something there! Nan-in lay under the tree.

One day some monks saw him. They had stopped to rest under the tree. They said, “Nan-in, we come every year on pilgrimage. How long will you lie under this tree? Won’t you travel? We’ve never seen you at the temple on the peak!”

Nan-in said, “You go. I am where the shrine is. I arrived long ago at the very place you seek on the mountain. I am in the shrine. Wherever Nan-in is, there is the shrine.”

They thought, “This man must be a thoroughgoing atheist—arrogant too.” Because Nan-in said, “Where Nan-in is, there is the shrine. The shrine moves with us. The shrine is our air. We do not go to the shrine.”

But Nan-in speaks rightly—the words of an accomplished one.

The day nothing remains to go to—when will that be? Only when no desire remains. As long as there is desire, the mind is making plans to go somewhere. The man of desire is always going somewhere. If he can’t go in fact, he goes in imagination. One thing is certain: you won’t find a man of desire where he is—never at home. He is always a guest somewhere else.

A siddha is one who has come home; who is now where he is; with no movement to be otherwise, nowhere else to go, no otherness to desire. He is content as he is, where he is—contentment complete.

“This knowledge—by taking refuge in it—the wise, becoming free of this world, attain the supreme perfection.” I will tell it again for you. O Arjuna, taking refuge in this knowledge—by embodying it—those who have realized my essence are not born again at the dawn of creation, nor are they agitated at the time of dissolution.

Taking refuge in this knowledge, embodying it, those who have realized my essence are not born again at creation’s beginning, nor are they disturbed in dissolution.

One who is established in his own nature, established in knowing—who has nothing left to know and nowhere left to reach—who has attained rest, who is accomplished—Krishna says such a one neither truly takes birth nor truly dies. Creations may arise, but the net of creation will not again draw him into its wheel. The wheels of creation will turn, but no spoke of creation will attract him—for one who has no desire to go anywhere will not go into creation.

We enter creation because we have somewhere to go. Our birth is also a vehicle. This body is a vehicle of journey. We have chosen it because of certain desires—we want to do something that cannot be done without a body.

Those who study spirits say that spirits suffer in one way: they have the same desires you do, but no instrument to fulfill them. They feel anger, but cannot slap—there are no hands. Lust arises, but they have no apparatus with which to have sex.

Therefore, say the spiritologists, such beings continually try to become “guests” in some house, guests in some body. And if you are a bit weak in resolve…

A man without resolve is shrunken—empty within. A man of resolve is expansive—no empty space. Truly, he lives even beyond his body; inner goes without saying. In such a person, spirits cannot enter.

But one who lives contracted—afraid. Afraid means contracted—hiding in one corner of his own house, leaving the rest empty; whose body is largely empty—into him some spirit will enter, for the spirit is trying to obtain a body through which desires can be fulfilled.

You too entered a body for this very reason, entered a womb because some desires were incomplete. In the last moments of the previous life, there were desires left unfulfilled—they dragged you. Whatever desire a man holds at the moment of death becomes the cause of his new birth. Or the distilled essence of a lifetime of cravings at the last moment pushes him into a new womb.

Krishna says: an accomplished one will not be caught in ordinary birth and death at all; he will not enter an ordinary womb. One who has nowhere to go—why would he board a train? Why buy a ticket, stand in line, jostle? There is no reason. He has nowhere to go.

The body is a vehicle of journey. And at the gate of the womb there is the same queue as at any vehicle. There too there is as much jostling, as much struggle to enter.

Do you know—in a single intercourse, around a hundred million sperm cells enter the womb. From among them, one—sometimes—manages to take a body. Biologists say the race begins right there at intercourse. As soon as the male semen enters the female, at least a hundred million—at most one billion—sperm begin to race toward the hidden egg.

The distance is long—relative to them—because the sperm cell is tiny, invisible to the naked eye. For so small a being, a few inches are huge—if brought to your scale, it is like two miles. In proportion, the sperm has to travel about two miles to reach the egg. Six hours the tiny being must run—and what a fierce struggle—because a hundred million others are racing. Your road’s traffic jam is nothing. All strive to reach the egg—for in that egg lies the body wherein a person will be born and the instrument obtained.

Biologists say the competition we see in the world is nothing. What the market calls cut-throat competition is nothing—for from a hundred million, one reaches the egg. The first to reach enters. The egg is such that the moment one enters, its door closes; none other can enter.

Hence occasionally twins are born—if two reach at the exact same instant, both can enter. But that is rare—the timing must be perfectly simultaneous—no gap of even a thousandth of a second—then two; sometimes three; sometimes four.

A person has perhaps four thousand acts of intercourse in a lifetime. If someone of the old Indian style, at most twenty children can be born. Out of four thousand, there are only about twenty chances; at each act, one to ten hundred million sperm set out.

As many people as now live on Earth—around four billion—inside each person are four billion sperm. One person could populate an entire Earth. But in fact there will be ten, twenty children at most—two or four commonly.

Such fierce competition. Such a battle. There too is a queue. So many souls run to seize a body—desire must be enormous.

Biologists are amazed that a tiny sperm runs with such zeal, such urgency, such speed—using every trick to edge others out. It tells us how intensely souls strive to seize a body—how immense the inner desire pushes!

Ordinarily, the accomplished one is free of entering a womb, of taking birth, of dying.

But just as every person dies, every thing dies—so the entire cosmos dies. For if the entire cosmos has a beginning, it must have an end. At the beginning and end of the whole, when everything is born anew—made fresh again—even then the accomplished one does not waver. For even there, there is nothing to gain.

The whole cosmos is being remade—life stirring again—suns and moons and stars being born—earths inhabited—the play expanding again. Before this vast pageantry, he stands apart, content in his place. This vast spectacle cannot call him; its invitation is futile. No one can shake him now.

And when the whole cosmos is destroyed—dissolution—and there is terrible agony—for if one man’s death seems such pain and grief, when the entire cosmos is absorbed in the final moment of dissolution—what an outcry! We cannot imagine a greater wail. Sorrow at its peak. Even at that moment, Krishna says, the accomplished one is not agitated.

One without desire has no pain. He may feel compassion at another’s pain—but not agitation. Understand the difference.

If you are dying before the Buddha, the Buddha is not agitated. Compassion may arise—compassion for your foolishness. Because your suffering is self-created. Like a child crying because the doll’s leg has broken. The tears are real—even if it’s a doll’s leg, or a wife’s leg. Whether the leg is real or fake is another matter—but the child’s tears are not fake.

A child’s doll’s leg breaks; the child cries. Do you become sorrowful—or do you fill with compassion? You feel pity: poor thing! He doesn’t know the doll was dead to begin with—nothing has truly broken. The leg was broken already.

You feed the child, laugh him out of it, rock him, give him another doll. But you are not serious. It was a game which the child took too seriously—hence the grief. The child is not crying because of the doll—but because of his seriousness and foolishness.

When the Buddha sees your pain, he knows it too is childish.

Someone’s house burned—theirs? In this world, whose is anything? Someone’s wife died—who can belong to whom? Someone’s husband is lost—who was ever yours, that he could be lost? Someone’s wealth was stolen. Here, no ownership is real—how can there be theft? Here the owners are false; the thieves are false; thieves exist because owners exist. One lie gives birth to the other.

So the Buddha can be compassionate. If you wail too much, he may console you; but that consolation is out of compassion, not agitation.

Even if the whole cosmos is annihilated, Krishna says, the siddha is not agitated. While Arjuna is agitated by a trivial war. Compared to the cosmos, it is nothing—a play of dolls. He is terribly disturbed.

Krishna says, “I shall tell you that knowledge, again, by which even at the time of dissolution, the accomplished are not agitated. This war is mere play.”

O Arjuna, my vast Nature, the great Brahman—Maya woven of the three gunas—is the womb of all beings, the place of impregnation. And I implant the seed of consciousness in that womb. From the union of the inert and the aware, all beings are born.

Maya woven of the three gunas is the womb of all beings…

Krishna says the whole world arises from a deep dream. The world we see is less real, more dreamlike. It is made less of matter, more of desire. It is built of condensed desires.

India chose a word—Maya. It is a marvelous word; you won’t find its equivalent easily in other languages, for no other culture has probed this way. The Western word “matter” comes from the same Sanskrit root as Maya—matr—but the West’s science said the world is made of matter. Yet, as the probe of matter deepened, they discovered matter is not—matter is Maya. When they arrived at electrons, they found no “thing”—only seeming. The fundamental element is electricity—unseen; no one has ever “seen” it, nor can they. Whether it “is” is hard to say. Matter appears—and yet it is not; its atomic form is invisible—that is “real.”

In the West, matter now should mean Maya. The root is the same. But even the meaning of matter now has become Maya—what appears to be and is not. That which seems to exist in all ways—and yet is not.

Remember, Indian insight speaks of three: Truth—what is and is unseen. Call it Brahman, God, the Supreme—whatever name—the ultimate truth which is but is unseen. Second, the utterly false—what is not, which therefore can never appear. Between these two—Maya—what appears and is not.

These are the three planes. Maya is the middle. Maya appears as the real ought to appear—and Maya is not, as the unreal is not. Maya is in-between—mere appearance.

Your desires are appearances. They are not—only feelings, only dreams. As long as you take them as truth, they feel very true. The moment you awaken, they are false.

There is a little story by Gibran. A man came to a foreign country; he didn’t know the language. He saw people going in and out of a grand building; he went in. The doorkeepers bowed; he thought, “A grand feast!” It was a large hotel; people were eating, drinking. He sat at an empty table. A waiter brought a meal. He felt delighted—“What hospitality! I’m a stranger, and such welcome!”

When he finished, the waiter brought him the bill. He thought, “Remarkable people! Not only do they feed you, but they give you written thanks!” Trouble began when the waiter asked for payment and the man bowed in thanks. They couldn’t understand each other.

The waiter took him to the manager. He thought, “How fortunate—not only the servants, but the owner himself serves!” He bowed in gratitude. The manager said, “Either he’s mad or a consummate rogue. Take him to court.”

They put him in a carriage to the court. He thought, “They must be so pleased they are taking me to the emperor.” The court was a grand building; the magistrate sat in splendor. He bowed and thanked him profusely.

The magistrate said, “We can’t make sense of him. Say anything—he doesn’t listen. He’s babbling. We must ensure this doesn’t happen again.” The town had a custom: he was punished by being seated backward on a donkey with a placard on his chest: “This man is a cheat. Beware! Trust him not.”

When they sat him backward on a donkey and hung the placard, his joy knew no bounds. “Not only are they pleased, they want to parade me through town to show everyone what an honored guest has arrived!” He sat stiff with pride. His pride, his joy—there was no falsehood in them. He had no idea what was actually happening. But he had firm faith in what he imagined. He was very happy.

He had only one pain: if only someone from his village could witness his glory—if even one person saw and word reached home of this majestic celebration!

In the crowd he spotted someone from his village who had left long ago. Seeing him, his chest swelled: “Look, my brother…” But that man lowered his head and slipped away, understanding the language, having lived there. He saw what humiliation it was. The man on the donkey thought, “Amazing—there are limits to jealousy! Because his welcome wasn’t like mine, he slunk away.”

He went home elated and told everyone his story. As far as his inner thinking went, everything seemed right; as far as truth went, there was no relation.

The world you live in—Krishna calls it Maya. He says all birth arises from it. Maya—his trinity-woven Nature—is the womb of all beings, the place of gestation. From there all are born—in the dream, in desire, in the race to be and to get—a vast dream takes birth.

“I implant the seed of consciousness in that womb. From the union of the inert and the aware, all beings arise.”

Maya is inert; the world of desire is inert—matter. My portion enters it as consciousness—and life is born.

We will unfold this slowly.

Two points to hold: our body is a junction of two elements—Maya (matter), and consciousness (call it God). The human is a conjunction—of matter and the divine.

In death, matter and the divine separate. No one dies, no one is destroyed. Matter is dead already—how can it die? The divine is deathless—how can it die? Only the conjunction breaks.

Krishna says: through desire the conjunction of matter and consciousness forms—through Maya. Through knowledge, the conjunction is seen clearly as a conjunction. In death, the conjunction breaks. In birth, it forms; in death, it breaks. In ignorance one feels “I am the body;” in knowledge, “I am separate.”

As soon as it is clear that I am separate and the body is separate—that the conscious and the inert, Maya and Brahman, are distinct—the whole play of the world becomes mere appearance. The occurrence of wars, the births and deaths, the plagues—life or death—become parts of a great drama. For death is impossible. Only conjunctions break; nothing dies. Nothing can die.

Krishna is trying to awaken Arjuna to one thing: he is frightened seeing death. He thinks “death will happen.” Krishna says death is a falsehood; it is an appearance of Maya. Birth too is a falsehood—an appearance of Maya.

But as long as we are in Maya, it seems true—just like a dream at night appears utterly true while it lasts.

This world is a vast dream—say a dream unfolding in the mind of God. Our dreams are private; this dream is vast. Just as you wake in the morning from your dream and the dream is futile, so the knower wakes from this vast dream and it too becomes futile.

In the morning you don’t weep that “I murdered someone in my dream.” Nor do you beat the drum in the village that “I fed a hungry man in my dream.” In the morning you know it was a dream; neither the murder nor the charity was real. Neither sin nor merit arises then. Knowing the dream as dream, all feelings drop.

The knower awakens from this vast dream too. There is another awakening; its name is meditation, samadhi. In that awakening, he knows what he had seen—wars and peaces, love and hate, friends and enemies—have all dissolved like a dream.

Krishna says, “That knowledge I will tell you again—the supreme knowledge—knowing which a person attains supreme perfection.”

Enough for today.