In all wombs, O son of Kunti, whatever forms come to be।
For them the great Brahman is the womb; I am the seed-bestowing Father।। 4।।
Sattva, rajas, and tamas: the qualities born of Nature।
Bind, O mighty-armed, the imperishable indweller in the body।। 5।।
Of these, sattva—by its purity—is luminous and free from affliction।
It binds, O sinless one, by attachment to happiness, and to knowledge as well।। 6।।
Geeta Darshan #2
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
सर्वयोनिषु कौन्तेय मूर्तयः सम्भवन्ति याः।
तासां ब्रह्म महद्योनिरहं बीजप्रदः पिता।। 4।।
सत्त्वं रजस्तम इति गुणाः प्रकृतिसंभवाः।
निबध्नन्ति महाबाहो देहे देहिनमव्ययम्।। 5।।
तत्र सत्त्वं निर्मलत्वात्प्रकाशकमनामयम्।
सुखसङ्गेन बध्नाति ज्ञानसङ्गेन चानघ।। 6।।
तासां ब्रह्म महद्योनिरहं बीजप्रदः पिता।। 4।।
सत्त्वं रजस्तम इति गुणाः प्रकृतिसंभवाः।
निबध्नन्ति महाबाहो देहे देहिनमव्ययम्।। 5।।
तत्र सत्त्वं निर्मलत्वात्प्रकाशकमनामयम्।
सुखसङ्गेन बध्नाति ज्ञानसङ्गेन चानघ।। 6।।
Transliteration:
sarvayoniṣu kaunteya mūrtayaḥ sambhavanti yāḥ|
tāsāṃ brahma mahadyonirahaṃ bījapradaḥ pitā|| 4||
sattvaṃ rajastama iti guṇāḥ prakṛtisaṃbhavāḥ|
nibadhnanti mahābāho dehe dehinamavyayam|| 5||
tatra sattvaṃ nirmalatvātprakāśakamanāmayam|
sukhasaṅgena badhnāti jñānasaṅgena cānagha|| 6||
sarvayoniṣu kaunteya mūrtayaḥ sambhavanti yāḥ|
tāsāṃ brahma mahadyonirahaṃ bījapradaḥ pitā|| 4||
sattvaṃ rajastama iti guṇāḥ prakṛtisaṃbhavāḥ|
nibadhnanti mahābāho dehe dehinamavyayam|| 5||
tatra sattvaṃ nirmalatvātprakāśakamanāmayam|
sukhasaṅgena badhnāti jñānasaṅgena cānagha|| 6||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, among the Pandavas the eldest, Yudhishthira, is called Dharmaraj—the king of righteousness. Yet Krishna spoke the Gita to Arjuna, not to Dharmaraj. Why? Was Dharmaraj not a worthy recipient?
Osho, among the Pandavas the eldest, Yudhishthira, is called Dharmaraj—the king of righteousness. Yet Krishna spoke the Gita to Arjuna, not to Dharmaraj. Why? Was Dharmaraj not a worthy recipient?
There are many things to understand here. First: to know dharma through scripture and tradition is one thing; to know dharma through life is quite another. And only those can know through life who are not burdened by scriptures and tradition.
Those who carry the burden of scripture never have an original inquiry. Even their curiosity is secondhand. When they ask questions, they ask because of the scriptures; the questions are not their own. Their questions are theoretical, not alive. They discuss the essence the way a thinker does; they do not search for the essence the way a seeker does. For them, philosophizing is an intellectual luxury, not a life-and-death matter.
Dharmaraj is religious by tradition. He knows what the scriptures say. His being, however, is not religious. He has not searched for dharma existentially. You can see clear signs of this in his life.
The traditionally religious man has no individuality of consciousness. He does not think for himself. He follows rules. If the rule is wrong, he follows wrongly; if the rule is right, he follows rightly. Whatever society calls right, he obeys—even if it is wrong.
In those days of the Mahabharata, gambling was not considered immoral; it was not regarded as irreligious. It was only a game—like someone playing football or volleyball today. There was no moral stigma attached. So Yudhishthira could gamble. There was not even a ripple of disturbance in him. Being Dharmaraj did not make gambling problematic for him in the least. And not only could he gamble; he could stake his wife as well. Because in that society a woman was a man’s property—stri-dhan. The collective consciousness had not yet reached the point of seeing a woman as an independent person. She was considered the husband’s possession. If I can stake my wealth, I can stake my wife—because she is my possession.
Yudhishthira could put Draupadi on the table, and his consciousness felt no sting. It never occurred to him, “What am I doing? How can a person be someone’s property?” In truth, not even a thing can ultimately be owned; how then can a person be owned? No one can have proprietorship over a person, nor can persons be wagered in a game. But the tradition of that time regarded woman as property; a man could stake her in gambling.
So Yudhishthira has no personal awareness, no independent thought, no inquiry of his own. He is religious by convention. The Gita cannot be addressed to him.
A consciousness like Krishna’s cannot make contact with traditionalism. Only the one who is not bound by scripture, whose inquiry is inward and personal, can understand Krishna.
Arjuna’s inquiry is of a different order. For Arjuna this is a life-and-death crisis. In the very moment of battle he is not raising a scholastic debate. In this moment, a pain has arisen within his awareness—an inner conflict: “What I am about to do—should it be done?”
In fact, the scriptures say that a kshatriya’s dharma is to fight. For a kshatriya, there is no sin in battle. Killing in war is part of being a kshatriya. But Arjuna is facing an existential question: “Even if I kill them all and become master of this kingdom, is that kingdom worth the price of so many lives? Do I have the right to destroy so many lives—just to enjoy the pleasure of being emperor? Does being emperor mean that much? Is it worth such a cost? Is there any justification for such destruction?”
Arjuna’s question rises from his own intimacy with himself. It does not come from scripture. Had Arjuna been a scriptural man, the Gita would never have arisen. Yudhishthira did not ask this question—he did not ask it when he gambled; he did not ask it when he staked his wife. Why would he ask it on the battlefield? Since time immemorial a kshatriya has fought—for his defense, his property, his borders, his state; it is his duty. The question does not arise. But it arose for Arjuna.
In one sense, Arjuna is a very modern consciousness. Such a crisis can arise only in one who is not bound by tradition, who is young, alive, living life, confronting its problems and wanting to resolve them.
That is why there is no other scripture in the world as alive as the Gita—because no other scripture was born out of so living a situation.
War is an extreme crisis. Where death is near, life burns at its brightest. The denser the darkness of death, the more fiercely life’s lightning flashes. It is at the edge of death that the question of life truly arises: What is life?
The Quran, the Bible, Mahavira’s sayings, Buddha’s words—they are all immensely precious. But the situations in which they were spoken were not this alive. Not in such density of life, with death standing all around, and with a decision of such consequence that the lives of millions hung upon it. If Arjuna runs, or Arjuna fights—Arjuna’s decision will determine the destiny of multitudes.
When someone went to Mahavira with a question, it could determine that individual’s life, a private matter. But Arjuna’s question is profound; with it millions of lives will be extinguished or illumined. What he asks is timeless.
The Gita can be spoken only to Arjuna, not to Dharmaraj Yudhishthira.
And remember: Arjuna is not a religious man—and precisely for that reason the question could arise. If he were religious in the conventional Hindu sense, he would fight, because the dharma of a kshatriya is to fight. No Hindu scripture says a kshatriya should not fight. Fighting is inherent in his role.
If Arjuna had been born a Jain, the question of fighting would not even arise—fighting is sin. The occasion of war would never come. He would have become a renunciate long ago, gone to the forest. If Arjuna were Jain or Buddhist, he would already have left. If conventionally Hindu, he would have fought—no question.
Arjuna is not religious, therefore his inquiry is original. He is not bound by any scripture or code. He is not moving by borrowed beliefs. Life has raised the question, and he is seeking his own answer. Only through such seeking can Krishna relate to him.
Persons like Krishna can relate only to those who are not tied to a beaten track, not fixed to any line—those who are free, whose questions are their own.
Jains come to me. They ask, “What is nigod?” No one except Jains has ever asked me that, because no other scripture mentions nigod. It is a technical term in Jainism. The question cannot even occur to your mind; the word is meaningless for you. But it arises in the mind of a Jain—not because it is his life’s problem, but because he has read it in a book. He read it; therefore the question appears.
A Buddhist never asks, “Where is God?” because his scriptures say there is no God. A Hindu asks, “Where is God? What is his form? Why did he create the world?” A Jain never asks, “Why did God create the world?” because the Jain does not believe the world was created. He holds that even the word “creation” is wrong. Existence has always been. It is uncreated. There has never been a creation—so the question of a creator does not arise.
But these are scriptural questions. You read them somewhere; they arise in your mind from reading. They are borrowed. You have not searched them out in life. Words have entered you, and from words new words are born—offspring of words.
But when a Hindu comes to me, he asks, “How can I be free of anger?” A Jain comes and asks the same: “How can I be free of anger?” A Buddhist comes and asks the same. This question does not come from scripture; it comes from life. The scriptural questions of the three differ; the life-question is one.
Whenever a person begins to ask from life, questions become one—because the difficulty of every human being is one. Scriptures are many; man is one. Scriptures differ; human nature is one.
That is why the Gita is a unique scripture. And that is why it can be useful to a Hindu, to a Muslim, to a Jain—because the problem from which it arises is everyone’s problem. You may be surprised when I say “everyone’s,” because you are not standing on the field of the Mahabharata. Think again, and you will find you are standing right there.
Every human being stands in battle. Every moment is a war. You are fighting someone or other. And when you fight, someone’s life and death are in your hands. Whether you are erasing someone inch by inch or all at once, you are erasing someone—or wanting to. You want to finish someone, to take their place. Wherever there is struggle, competition, war, there the question is: Is this worth it?
A politician never asks, “I run so hard, I pull so many people down to get ahead—does it truly have any value, to create such turmoil?”
The one racing after wealth never thinks, “How many will become poor because of my pursuit? Is wealth so valuable that so many must be left suffering and deprived? My vaults will fill, but how many stomachs will be emptied? Is there such meaningfulness in filling a vault?”
Put anything on the scale, and you will have to ask: “Should this be done? Is the goal worth the consequences it creates all around? Shall I travel so far only to arrive nowhere?”
Each person stands in the Mahabharata. And each faces this: “Shall I erase another in order to be?”
Arjuna’s question is: “To save myself, shall I erase all these?” Before him stand friends and relatives. His own guru stands in the opposing ranks—the very one from whom he learned everything he knows. “Shall I use what I learned from him to destroy him?” There are dear ones and kin. It is a householder’s quarrel, a family war.
Remember, all wars are family wars, because humanity is a family. Whomever you fight, you fight your own brother. How far back the connection goes is another matter. Go back and you will find your father and his father meet somewhere in one.
Christians say all humanity came from one man, Adam, and one woman, Eve. The story is apt. However far apart we are today, the branches of a tree extend far from one another. The sub-branches may not even recognize each other. But below, at the root, they are one tree.
All humanity is one tree. All conflict is familial. Whenever you erase someone, you erase your own. However unfamiliar he seems, wherever there is a human being, he is connected to me. By being human we belong to one family.
Arjuna’s problem is your problem; it is everyone’s problem. And when you fight, those you take to be enemies—look a little more closely and you will find blood-relations stand on that side too. It cannot be otherwise.
Therefore I say, think rightly and you will find every person is on the field of the Mahabharata. With a little awareness you too will ask what Arjuna is asking. With a little awareness you too will seek Krishna, as Arjuna did. And the Gita can be meaningful for you as well.
Dharmaraj is not of great value; Arjuna is valuable. And this is how it always is. Today too there are pundits, religious leaders, popes, shankaracharyas, abbots, traditional sadhus and sannyasins—yet they have nothing to do with dharma. They are all Dharmarajs. Their search is not real. For them, religion is a track, a convenience. To live with it gives them comfort and consolation. This is how it goes.
On one side is Jesus, hanging on the cross; on the other side is the Pope of the Vatican. What relationship is there? Only this: Jesus hangs upon a cross; the Pope hangs a golden cross upon his neck. What connection is there? On crosses, necks are hung; crosses are not hung around necks! And what is the meaning of a golden cross? These are Dharmarajs.
You cannot call the Pope irreligious. He lives by the rules. He prays on time. He reads the Bible on time. He has bound his life in conduct. He is not a thief, not dishonest, not licentious. The Ten Commandments—perhaps he follows them fully. And yet he is not religious. The light that shines in Jesus’ life is absent.
Jesus’ search is his own. He has risked his life to seek. The Pope’s search is not his own; it is a traditional arrangement. The pope is an office; Jesus is not an office. To be Jesus is arduous; to be pope is convenient. Every priest would like to be pope. Among the Christians, all priests compete for that chair. Out of millions, one arrives. There are twelve lakh Catholic priests in the world—a great empire. From these twelve lakh, one becomes pope. There are elections, there are ladders to climb; after thirty or forty years, someone reaches. Jesus died at thirty-three. By the time one becomes pope, he is over fifty or sixty. Only an old man can be pope, because the hierarchy has many rungs. If Jesus were there, he could never be pope—no one becomes pope at thirty-three. There is a structure. And no tradition can trust a thirty-three-year-old with the papacy. A thirty-three-year-old is dangerous.
In America, hippie youth had a slogan: “Don’t trust anyone over thirty,” because after thirty it is hard to remain honest; experience begins to make a man dishonest, and as he becomes experienced, his revolution wanes.
Conversely, I was just reading an essay by an old man who wrote: “Don’t trust anyone under thirty.” He too has his reasons. He says, “Before thirty a man has no experience; how can you trust what he says? He has no sense of human history. The mistakes that have been made a thousand times, the young repeat—because they have no experience. The old never repeat mistakes—but the old never do anything new; there is no reason to repeat mistakes. Mistakes are made only by those who attempt something new.”
Jesus cannot be pope. If Adi Shankara were born today, he could not become a shankaracharya of a math. He was gone by thirty-two or thirty-three.
There are reasons. The traditional thrones can be reached only by the utterly dead. Otherwise you will not pass through the stages; you will be weeded out along the way. If there is the slightest sign of rebellion, the slightest way of thinking for oneself, you will be cut off long before. Only the one who toes the line completely, who for twenty-five years has proven, “I do not think, I do not reflect; I only repeat. I am a gramophone record,” only that man can reach the papacy. He will be a Dharmaraj. But the Gita cannot be spoken to him.
Therefore Arjuna is the vessel, and Dharmaraj is not.
Those who carry the burden of scripture never have an original inquiry. Even their curiosity is secondhand. When they ask questions, they ask because of the scriptures; the questions are not their own. Their questions are theoretical, not alive. They discuss the essence the way a thinker does; they do not search for the essence the way a seeker does. For them, philosophizing is an intellectual luxury, not a life-and-death matter.
Dharmaraj is religious by tradition. He knows what the scriptures say. His being, however, is not religious. He has not searched for dharma existentially. You can see clear signs of this in his life.
The traditionally religious man has no individuality of consciousness. He does not think for himself. He follows rules. If the rule is wrong, he follows wrongly; if the rule is right, he follows rightly. Whatever society calls right, he obeys—even if it is wrong.
In those days of the Mahabharata, gambling was not considered immoral; it was not regarded as irreligious. It was only a game—like someone playing football or volleyball today. There was no moral stigma attached. So Yudhishthira could gamble. There was not even a ripple of disturbance in him. Being Dharmaraj did not make gambling problematic for him in the least. And not only could he gamble; he could stake his wife as well. Because in that society a woman was a man’s property—stri-dhan. The collective consciousness had not yet reached the point of seeing a woman as an independent person. She was considered the husband’s possession. If I can stake my wealth, I can stake my wife—because she is my possession.
Yudhishthira could put Draupadi on the table, and his consciousness felt no sting. It never occurred to him, “What am I doing? How can a person be someone’s property?” In truth, not even a thing can ultimately be owned; how then can a person be owned? No one can have proprietorship over a person, nor can persons be wagered in a game. But the tradition of that time regarded woman as property; a man could stake her in gambling.
So Yudhishthira has no personal awareness, no independent thought, no inquiry of his own. He is religious by convention. The Gita cannot be addressed to him.
A consciousness like Krishna’s cannot make contact with traditionalism. Only the one who is not bound by scripture, whose inquiry is inward and personal, can understand Krishna.
Arjuna’s inquiry is of a different order. For Arjuna this is a life-and-death crisis. In the very moment of battle he is not raising a scholastic debate. In this moment, a pain has arisen within his awareness—an inner conflict: “What I am about to do—should it be done?”
In fact, the scriptures say that a kshatriya’s dharma is to fight. For a kshatriya, there is no sin in battle. Killing in war is part of being a kshatriya. But Arjuna is facing an existential question: “Even if I kill them all and become master of this kingdom, is that kingdom worth the price of so many lives? Do I have the right to destroy so many lives—just to enjoy the pleasure of being emperor? Does being emperor mean that much? Is it worth such a cost? Is there any justification for such destruction?”
Arjuna’s question rises from his own intimacy with himself. It does not come from scripture. Had Arjuna been a scriptural man, the Gita would never have arisen. Yudhishthira did not ask this question—he did not ask it when he gambled; he did not ask it when he staked his wife. Why would he ask it on the battlefield? Since time immemorial a kshatriya has fought—for his defense, his property, his borders, his state; it is his duty. The question does not arise. But it arose for Arjuna.
In one sense, Arjuna is a very modern consciousness. Such a crisis can arise only in one who is not bound by tradition, who is young, alive, living life, confronting its problems and wanting to resolve them.
That is why there is no other scripture in the world as alive as the Gita—because no other scripture was born out of so living a situation.
War is an extreme crisis. Where death is near, life burns at its brightest. The denser the darkness of death, the more fiercely life’s lightning flashes. It is at the edge of death that the question of life truly arises: What is life?
The Quran, the Bible, Mahavira’s sayings, Buddha’s words—they are all immensely precious. But the situations in which they were spoken were not this alive. Not in such density of life, with death standing all around, and with a decision of such consequence that the lives of millions hung upon it. If Arjuna runs, or Arjuna fights—Arjuna’s decision will determine the destiny of multitudes.
When someone went to Mahavira with a question, it could determine that individual’s life, a private matter. But Arjuna’s question is profound; with it millions of lives will be extinguished or illumined. What he asks is timeless.
The Gita can be spoken only to Arjuna, not to Dharmaraj Yudhishthira.
And remember: Arjuna is not a religious man—and precisely for that reason the question could arise. If he were religious in the conventional Hindu sense, he would fight, because the dharma of a kshatriya is to fight. No Hindu scripture says a kshatriya should not fight. Fighting is inherent in his role.
If Arjuna had been born a Jain, the question of fighting would not even arise—fighting is sin. The occasion of war would never come. He would have become a renunciate long ago, gone to the forest. If Arjuna were Jain or Buddhist, he would already have left. If conventionally Hindu, he would have fought—no question.
Arjuna is not religious, therefore his inquiry is original. He is not bound by any scripture or code. He is not moving by borrowed beliefs. Life has raised the question, and he is seeking his own answer. Only through such seeking can Krishna relate to him.
Persons like Krishna can relate only to those who are not tied to a beaten track, not fixed to any line—those who are free, whose questions are their own.
Jains come to me. They ask, “What is nigod?” No one except Jains has ever asked me that, because no other scripture mentions nigod. It is a technical term in Jainism. The question cannot even occur to your mind; the word is meaningless for you. But it arises in the mind of a Jain—not because it is his life’s problem, but because he has read it in a book. He read it; therefore the question appears.
A Buddhist never asks, “Where is God?” because his scriptures say there is no God. A Hindu asks, “Where is God? What is his form? Why did he create the world?” A Jain never asks, “Why did God create the world?” because the Jain does not believe the world was created. He holds that even the word “creation” is wrong. Existence has always been. It is uncreated. There has never been a creation—so the question of a creator does not arise.
But these are scriptural questions. You read them somewhere; they arise in your mind from reading. They are borrowed. You have not searched them out in life. Words have entered you, and from words new words are born—offspring of words.
But when a Hindu comes to me, he asks, “How can I be free of anger?” A Jain comes and asks the same: “How can I be free of anger?” A Buddhist comes and asks the same. This question does not come from scripture; it comes from life. The scriptural questions of the three differ; the life-question is one.
Whenever a person begins to ask from life, questions become one—because the difficulty of every human being is one. Scriptures are many; man is one. Scriptures differ; human nature is one.
That is why the Gita is a unique scripture. And that is why it can be useful to a Hindu, to a Muslim, to a Jain—because the problem from which it arises is everyone’s problem. You may be surprised when I say “everyone’s,” because you are not standing on the field of the Mahabharata. Think again, and you will find you are standing right there.
Every human being stands in battle. Every moment is a war. You are fighting someone or other. And when you fight, someone’s life and death are in your hands. Whether you are erasing someone inch by inch or all at once, you are erasing someone—or wanting to. You want to finish someone, to take their place. Wherever there is struggle, competition, war, there the question is: Is this worth it?
A politician never asks, “I run so hard, I pull so many people down to get ahead—does it truly have any value, to create such turmoil?”
The one racing after wealth never thinks, “How many will become poor because of my pursuit? Is wealth so valuable that so many must be left suffering and deprived? My vaults will fill, but how many stomachs will be emptied? Is there such meaningfulness in filling a vault?”
Put anything on the scale, and you will have to ask: “Should this be done? Is the goal worth the consequences it creates all around? Shall I travel so far only to arrive nowhere?”
Each person stands in the Mahabharata. And each faces this: “Shall I erase another in order to be?”
Arjuna’s question is: “To save myself, shall I erase all these?” Before him stand friends and relatives. His own guru stands in the opposing ranks—the very one from whom he learned everything he knows. “Shall I use what I learned from him to destroy him?” There are dear ones and kin. It is a householder’s quarrel, a family war.
Remember, all wars are family wars, because humanity is a family. Whomever you fight, you fight your own brother. How far back the connection goes is another matter. Go back and you will find your father and his father meet somewhere in one.
Christians say all humanity came from one man, Adam, and one woman, Eve. The story is apt. However far apart we are today, the branches of a tree extend far from one another. The sub-branches may not even recognize each other. But below, at the root, they are one tree.
All humanity is one tree. All conflict is familial. Whenever you erase someone, you erase your own. However unfamiliar he seems, wherever there is a human being, he is connected to me. By being human we belong to one family.
Arjuna’s problem is your problem; it is everyone’s problem. And when you fight, those you take to be enemies—look a little more closely and you will find blood-relations stand on that side too. It cannot be otherwise.
Therefore I say, think rightly and you will find every person is on the field of the Mahabharata. With a little awareness you too will ask what Arjuna is asking. With a little awareness you too will seek Krishna, as Arjuna did. And the Gita can be meaningful for you as well.
Dharmaraj is not of great value; Arjuna is valuable. And this is how it always is. Today too there are pundits, religious leaders, popes, shankaracharyas, abbots, traditional sadhus and sannyasins—yet they have nothing to do with dharma. They are all Dharmarajs. Their search is not real. For them, religion is a track, a convenience. To live with it gives them comfort and consolation. This is how it goes.
On one side is Jesus, hanging on the cross; on the other side is the Pope of the Vatican. What relationship is there? Only this: Jesus hangs upon a cross; the Pope hangs a golden cross upon his neck. What connection is there? On crosses, necks are hung; crosses are not hung around necks! And what is the meaning of a golden cross? These are Dharmarajs.
You cannot call the Pope irreligious. He lives by the rules. He prays on time. He reads the Bible on time. He has bound his life in conduct. He is not a thief, not dishonest, not licentious. The Ten Commandments—perhaps he follows them fully. And yet he is not religious. The light that shines in Jesus’ life is absent.
Jesus’ search is his own. He has risked his life to seek. The Pope’s search is not his own; it is a traditional arrangement. The pope is an office; Jesus is not an office. To be Jesus is arduous; to be pope is convenient. Every priest would like to be pope. Among the Christians, all priests compete for that chair. Out of millions, one arrives. There are twelve lakh Catholic priests in the world—a great empire. From these twelve lakh, one becomes pope. There are elections, there are ladders to climb; after thirty or forty years, someone reaches. Jesus died at thirty-three. By the time one becomes pope, he is over fifty or sixty. Only an old man can be pope, because the hierarchy has many rungs. If Jesus were there, he could never be pope—no one becomes pope at thirty-three. There is a structure. And no tradition can trust a thirty-three-year-old with the papacy. A thirty-three-year-old is dangerous.
In America, hippie youth had a slogan: “Don’t trust anyone over thirty,” because after thirty it is hard to remain honest; experience begins to make a man dishonest, and as he becomes experienced, his revolution wanes.
Conversely, I was just reading an essay by an old man who wrote: “Don’t trust anyone under thirty.” He too has his reasons. He says, “Before thirty a man has no experience; how can you trust what he says? He has no sense of human history. The mistakes that have been made a thousand times, the young repeat—because they have no experience. The old never repeat mistakes—but the old never do anything new; there is no reason to repeat mistakes. Mistakes are made only by those who attempt something new.”
Jesus cannot be pope. If Adi Shankara were born today, he could not become a shankaracharya of a math. He was gone by thirty-two or thirty-three.
There are reasons. The traditional thrones can be reached only by the utterly dead. Otherwise you will not pass through the stages; you will be weeded out along the way. If there is the slightest sign of rebellion, the slightest way of thinking for oneself, you will be cut off long before. Only the one who toes the line completely, who for twenty-five years has proven, “I do not think, I do not reflect; I only repeat. I am a gramophone record,” only that man can reach the papacy. He will be a Dharmaraj. But the Gita cannot be spoken to him.
Therefore Arjuna is the vessel, and Dharmaraj is not.
Second question: Osho, against the backdrop of war, the moment of death proved instrumental in Arjuna’s transformation. Could Arjuna not have transformed elsewhere? And is a situation akin to the moment of death also indispensable for our own transformation?
Certainly. Until a person has a precise awareness of death—until death’s arrow pierces your heart with an exact sting—you do not even begin to think about life.
Death is what raises the question: What is life? If there were no death, no questions about life would arise. If there were no death, there would be no way for religion to be born.
Death shakes you. Death awakens you. Death poses the question: the life you are living—if it is to be erased tomorrow—what is its value? What meaning does it have? That for which you are so restless today will vanish tomorrow like a line drawn on water; then why such eagerness to draw it? The signatures you carve with so much pain so that life may remember them are signatures in the sand. You will not even complete them before a gust of wind wipes them away. Then the relish you take in life begins to feel futile.
Only death will tell you that what you take to be life is not life. And death alone will push you to search for that life which death cannot efface. For that alone is life—the deathless—where there is no death and no ending.
If there is no such life, then what we call life is sheer stupidity—utterly incoherent, a sorrowful dream, a nightmare. Only if there is a life that has no end can this life have any meaning, for then we can make this life the condition for entering that life. We can turn this life into the practice of entering that life. We can use this life as a doorway, as a schooling, and step into the supreme life.
This life has only one true use: that it becomes a means to a greater life.
Death tells you that this is not the end. The end must be sought elsewhere. Death tells you this is a roadway, not the destination; the destination must be found elsewhere.
It is not only Arjuna—death awakens anyone. If one is intelligent, like Arjuna, then even another’s death becomes an awakening. If one is foolish, another’s death has no connection with him.
Heinrich Heine, a German poet, wrote of a village custom: whenever someone died, the church bell would toll so the whole village would know, and people would send someone to ask who had died. Heine wrote in his diary: Don’t send anybody to ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee! Do not send anyone to ask for whom the church bell is ringing—it is ringing for you. Whoever dies, it is a sign of your death.
Every death is the news that you too will die. Every death is, in some measure, your death. Whenever anyone dies, a part of you dies, and for a moment your own death encircles you.
For Arjuna, even others’ deaths were becoming a symbol. He is not merely asking, “Why should I kill them?” He is asking, “If killing is all there is, what is the value of life? If life is to be gained through this death, I renounce such a life.” He is saying, “If life comes through the medium of death, I renounce such life. Better I flee to the forest; better I die than kill.”
When you witness another’s death, if you are even a little reflective you will at once become aware that your own death is near. You are standing in the same queue in which this man has fallen—perhaps a few steps behind. He was number one; his time came. But with his going, you too have moved one number forward. In the queue you have come a little nearer to the point where death happens. Every person who falls in the line brings you closer. Every corpse passing along the road brings your death nearer. Every corpse is a step that will carry you to death.
The awareness of death led Buddha into a renunciate life. The awareness of death has, at one time or another, inspired every human being to become religious. Death is the supreme benediction. It is because there is death that you think.
No animal is religious; and the sole reason is that no animal can think about its own death. Death never becomes a matter for consideration; the animal mind cannot project that far into the future. And even if one dies, an animal does not think, “I will die.” It is merely an accident—no reflection arises. If animals were to become aware that their death is near, they too would fashion their religion.
Religion, in truth, is the device for going beyond death. Therefore, anyone who would undergo a truly religious transformation must become intensely aware of his own death.
To be conscious of death does not mean to be frightened of death. In fact, those who are not conscious are the ones who are afraid. Those who become conscious begin to find a way beyond it; their fear of death disappears.
We need an awareness of death—a consciousness that death is, and that we must not avert our eyes. Nor will we be saved by averting them. This eye-aversion is ostrich-logic. Seeing an enemy, the ostrich hides its head in the sand; eyes closed, neck buried, it thinks: what is not seen does not exist. This is ostrich reasoning. We use the same logic: we refuse to look at what we fear, and think that by not seeing it we shall be spared.
In truth, whatever you fear, fix your gaze upon it—that is the only remedy, for then something can be done.
Attention to death is essential. We cannot run from it; wherever we run, we will arrive at it. All our running about will lead us into death. There is no way to escape it—except one: see death, understand it, and discover within yourself that element which cannot die. Then death becomes futile. Then one can laugh; then one can play with death.
Krishna too is pointing to this. He is trying to make Arjuna understand that death is not real—because that which is hidden within never dies. We cannot burn it; we cannot drown or dissolve it; no weapon can pierce it; fire cannot burn it. Even when someone is slain, that does not die.
Arjuna has become conscious of death; Krishna is trying to make him conscious of the deathless. But remember: only the one who has looked correctly into death can lift his eyes toward the immortal, for beyond death is the deathless nectar.
First, one must look into death. And the eyes must be so deep that they pass right through death and discover the hidden deathless.
He who avoids death will also miss the soul. He who averts his eyes from death will not be able to be related to the deathless. It may sound upside-down, paradoxical: the one who tries to escape death is the one who dies; the one who directly encounters death knows no death.
Religion is the process of coming face-to-face with death.
Death is what raises the question: What is life? If there were no death, no questions about life would arise. If there were no death, there would be no way for religion to be born.
Death shakes you. Death awakens you. Death poses the question: the life you are living—if it is to be erased tomorrow—what is its value? What meaning does it have? That for which you are so restless today will vanish tomorrow like a line drawn on water; then why such eagerness to draw it? The signatures you carve with so much pain so that life may remember them are signatures in the sand. You will not even complete them before a gust of wind wipes them away. Then the relish you take in life begins to feel futile.
Only death will tell you that what you take to be life is not life. And death alone will push you to search for that life which death cannot efface. For that alone is life—the deathless—where there is no death and no ending.
If there is no such life, then what we call life is sheer stupidity—utterly incoherent, a sorrowful dream, a nightmare. Only if there is a life that has no end can this life have any meaning, for then we can make this life the condition for entering that life. We can turn this life into the practice of entering that life. We can use this life as a doorway, as a schooling, and step into the supreme life.
This life has only one true use: that it becomes a means to a greater life.
Death tells you that this is not the end. The end must be sought elsewhere. Death tells you this is a roadway, not the destination; the destination must be found elsewhere.
It is not only Arjuna—death awakens anyone. If one is intelligent, like Arjuna, then even another’s death becomes an awakening. If one is foolish, another’s death has no connection with him.
Heinrich Heine, a German poet, wrote of a village custom: whenever someone died, the church bell would toll so the whole village would know, and people would send someone to ask who had died. Heine wrote in his diary: Don’t send anybody to ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee! Do not send anyone to ask for whom the church bell is ringing—it is ringing for you. Whoever dies, it is a sign of your death.
Every death is the news that you too will die. Every death is, in some measure, your death. Whenever anyone dies, a part of you dies, and for a moment your own death encircles you.
For Arjuna, even others’ deaths were becoming a symbol. He is not merely asking, “Why should I kill them?” He is asking, “If killing is all there is, what is the value of life? If life is to be gained through this death, I renounce such a life.” He is saying, “If life comes through the medium of death, I renounce such life. Better I flee to the forest; better I die than kill.”
When you witness another’s death, if you are even a little reflective you will at once become aware that your own death is near. You are standing in the same queue in which this man has fallen—perhaps a few steps behind. He was number one; his time came. But with his going, you too have moved one number forward. In the queue you have come a little nearer to the point where death happens. Every person who falls in the line brings you closer. Every corpse passing along the road brings your death nearer. Every corpse is a step that will carry you to death.
The awareness of death led Buddha into a renunciate life. The awareness of death has, at one time or another, inspired every human being to become religious. Death is the supreme benediction. It is because there is death that you think.
No animal is religious; and the sole reason is that no animal can think about its own death. Death never becomes a matter for consideration; the animal mind cannot project that far into the future. And even if one dies, an animal does not think, “I will die.” It is merely an accident—no reflection arises. If animals were to become aware that their death is near, they too would fashion their religion.
Religion, in truth, is the device for going beyond death. Therefore, anyone who would undergo a truly religious transformation must become intensely aware of his own death.
To be conscious of death does not mean to be frightened of death. In fact, those who are not conscious are the ones who are afraid. Those who become conscious begin to find a way beyond it; their fear of death disappears.
We need an awareness of death—a consciousness that death is, and that we must not avert our eyes. Nor will we be saved by averting them. This eye-aversion is ostrich-logic. Seeing an enemy, the ostrich hides its head in the sand; eyes closed, neck buried, it thinks: what is not seen does not exist. This is ostrich reasoning. We use the same logic: we refuse to look at what we fear, and think that by not seeing it we shall be spared.
In truth, whatever you fear, fix your gaze upon it—that is the only remedy, for then something can be done.
Attention to death is essential. We cannot run from it; wherever we run, we will arrive at it. All our running about will lead us into death. There is no way to escape it—except one: see death, understand it, and discover within yourself that element which cannot die. Then death becomes futile. Then one can laugh; then one can play with death.
Krishna too is pointing to this. He is trying to make Arjuna understand that death is not real—because that which is hidden within never dies. We cannot burn it; we cannot drown or dissolve it; no weapon can pierce it; fire cannot burn it. Even when someone is slain, that does not die.
Arjuna has become conscious of death; Krishna is trying to make him conscious of the deathless. But remember: only the one who has looked correctly into death can lift his eyes toward the immortal, for beyond death is the deathless nectar.
First, one must look into death. And the eyes must be so deep that they pass right through death and discover the hidden deathless.
He who avoids death will also miss the soul. He who averts his eyes from death will not be able to be related to the deathless. It may sound upside-down, paradoxical: the one who tries to escape death is the one who dies; the one who directly encounters death knows no death.
Religion is the process of coming face-to-face with death.
The third question:
Osho, Krishna said, “Among knowledges too there is the supremely excellent, the supreme knowledge.” Is there a hierarchy within knowledge?
Osho, Krishna said, “Among knowledges too there is the supremely excellent, the supreme knowledge.” Is there a hierarchy within knowledge?
In knowledge itself there is no hierarchy. But people are different, so one kind of knowing may be supreme for you, and another may not be.
By “supreme knowledge” is meant the knowledge through which your liberation happens. The method of practice by which you are fulfilled—that is supreme for you.
There are a thousand methods of practice. Among them there is no ranking; they are all excellent. But they are not all excellent for you. Through some other method, someone else may arrive.
Individuals are different. All paths can lead there. The path that brings you to the goal is supreme—for you. The path that brings me to the goal is supreme—for me. Your path is worth two cowries to me; my path is worth two cowries to you. It has no value for the other.
This word “supreme” as Krishna uses it is not for weighing two paths against each other. There are a thousand paths, but a particular person will be taken by only one. To discover your own path is to discover the supreme.
Understand this well. This is not a comparison meant to declare some paths lower and others higher. That is why Krishna is often difficult to understand. When he speaks of devotion, he says “supreme.” When he speaks of knowledge, he says “supreme.” Hence so many commentaries on the Gita were possible. And even when the commentators go wrong, it doesn’t seem to them that they are wrong—because Krishna has, somewhere, also spoken what was in their minds. They lift that up.
For example, Ramanuja is a devotee and holds that devotion alone is the path. Krishna has statements where he says devotion is supreme; the devotee is the most exalted. Ramanuja will choose that, make it the point, the foundation, and on that basis interpret the whole Gita. That is mistaken—because elsewhere Krishna also calls knowledge supreme; he says the knower is supremely excellent. Then Ramanuja will interpret those places so that devotion still remains supreme and knowledge becomes second-rate. How does he do it? One can play with words. The play is: he says the supreme knower is the one who has the knowledge of devotion. The obstacle is removed.
Shankara considers knowledge supreme. There are statements in the Gita—this very one—“I tell you the supreme knowledge.” So what will Shankara do where devotion is praised as highest? He will say: devotion too is a path leading to knowledge—but knowledge alone is the end. Devotion is a path towards knowledge, but it is for the weak. Those who are strong take the direct path of knowledge. Those who are emotional, sentimental, “feminine,” will take the path of devotion. That too is a path; it can be tolerated.
Elsewhere Krishna calls action the highest; he says the karma-yogi is supreme. Then Tilak seizes that and interprets the whole Gita as Karma Yoga. Then knowledge has value only when it descends into action, and devotion has value only when it becomes your action and service. Following Tilak, Gandhi and Vinoba go on expanding karma.
A thousand commentaries are possible on the Gita. A thousand have been written. The reason is that Krishna is not sectarian. He is not speaking for any single creed. He is speaking from all standpoints. And whenever he speaks from a standpoint, he draws forth what is best in it, lifting it to the top. And when he is speaking from that standpoint, he becomes one with it, identical with it. He forgets that there are other standpoints too. Only then is a thorough, deep analysis possible.
Krishna does not stand at a distance and analyze. When he speaks of devotion to Arjuna, he becomes a devotee. And then he sings its praise as much as can be sung. He is not stingy in that praise. In that praise he keeps no account of what he has said before—because that is only the clever man’s bookkeeping: what did I say earlier? Nor does he keep account of what he will say tomorrow—because he is no shopkeeper. Tomorrow can be seen tomorrow.
When he praises the rose, he forgets all other flowers. When he praises the lotus, he forgets all other flowers. Then the lotus becomes the essence of all flowers.
But this vision is hard to understand, because then Krishna appears inconsistent. And sectarians then draw out their own meanings.
Therefore everyone has done violence to Krishna. They almost must, because his heart is so vast! A heart like Krishna’s—where all can be contained—is very rare.
Nasruddin became the village judge. The very first case came to his court. The plaintiff’s lawyer spoke, presented his statement. Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.” The court clerk, sitting just below him, got a bit nervous. A judge shouldn’t deliver a verdict like that; he hadn’t even heard the other side. He leaned over and told Nasruddin, “Perhaps you don’t know the rules of court. Keep quiet. The decision comes at the end. If you already say ‘absolutely right,’ what chance is there for the other side to speak?” Nasruddin said to the clerk, “Absolutely right.”
Then he heard the defendant’s side. And when the defendant had finished his full statement, Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.” The clerk bent toward him and said, “Now this is too much. The plaintiff is right; I objected, and that was right; and now the defendant is right! What do you mean? They can’t all be right!” Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.”
This mood-state is a little hard to grasp. It can exist either in a fool, or in a supreme knower. Either a fool can behave so foolishly as to call everyone right—or a supreme knower can speak from a knowing that calls everyone right. In the middle we will always feel that some things are right and some wrong. If one side is right, the opposing side must be wrong.
We all live by Aristotle’s logic, where two opposite statements cannot both be true. Both may be false, but they cannot both be true. Only one can be true.
But a person like Krishna does not live by Aristotle’s logic. A person like Krishna is vast; everything is contained in him. And whenever he discusses any one thing, he becomes wholly absorbed in it. Because of that absorption, here and there he will call devotion supreme, elsewhere knowledge supreme, elsewhere action supreme.
What are you to do? You will get confused. If he had declared one to be supreme, you could move with eyes closed. But perhaps it is just as it should be that he does not give you the chance to close your eyes. He is telling you: I call them all supreme, but what is supreme for you you must discover. What comes into harmony with you, what creates a resonance in your heart, with what your heartbeat begins to dance, with what you find attunement—that is supreme for you.
Keep this in mind; otherwise Krishna will seem very inconsistent. All great ones are inconsistent; only petty personalities are not. Because the opposite is contained within them—they include within themselves even that which is different from themselves.
By “supreme knowledge” is meant the knowledge through which your liberation happens. The method of practice by which you are fulfilled—that is supreme for you.
There are a thousand methods of practice. Among them there is no ranking; they are all excellent. But they are not all excellent for you. Through some other method, someone else may arrive.
Individuals are different. All paths can lead there. The path that brings you to the goal is supreme—for you. The path that brings me to the goal is supreme—for me. Your path is worth two cowries to me; my path is worth two cowries to you. It has no value for the other.
This word “supreme” as Krishna uses it is not for weighing two paths against each other. There are a thousand paths, but a particular person will be taken by only one. To discover your own path is to discover the supreme.
Understand this well. This is not a comparison meant to declare some paths lower and others higher. That is why Krishna is often difficult to understand. When he speaks of devotion, he says “supreme.” When he speaks of knowledge, he says “supreme.” Hence so many commentaries on the Gita were possible. And even when the commentators go wrong, it doesn’t seem to them that they are wrong—because Krishna has, somewhere, also spoken what was in their minds. They lift that up.
For example, Ramanuja is a devotee and holds that devotion alone is the path. Krishna has statements where he says devotion is supreme; the devotee is the most exalted. Ramanuja will choose that, make it the point, the foundation, and on that basis interpret the whole Gita. That is mistaken—because elsewhere Krishna also calls knowledge supreme; he says the knower is supremely excellent. Then Ramanuja will interpret those places so that devotion still remains supreme and knowledge becomes second-rate. How does he do it? One can play with words. The play is: he says the supreme knower is the one who has the knowledge of devotion. The obstacle is removed.
Shankara considers knowledge supreme. There are statements in the Gita—this very one—“I tell you the supreme knowledge.” So what will Shankara do where devotion is praised as highest? He will say: devotion too is a path leading to knowledge—but knowledge alone is the end. Devotion is a path towards knowledge, but it is for the weak. Those who are strong take the direct path of knowledge. Those who are emotional, sentimental, “feminine,” will take the path of devotion. That too is a path; it can be tolerated.
Elsewhere Krishna calls action the highest; he says the karma-yogi is supreme. Then Tilak seizes that and interprets the whole Gita as Karma Yoga. Then knowledge has value only when it descends into action, and devotion has value only when it becomes your action and service. Following Tilak, Gandhi and Vinoba go on expanding karma.
A thousand commentaries are possible on the Gita. A thousand have been written. The reason is that Krishna is not sectarian. He is not speaking for any single creed. He is speaking from all standpoints. And whenever he speaks from a standpoint, he draws forth what is best in it, lifting it to the top. And when he is speaking from that standpoint, he becomes one with it, identical with it. He forgets that there are other standpoints too. Only then is a thorough, deep analysis possible.
Krishna does not stand at a distance and analyze. When he speaks of devotion to Arjuna, he becomes a devotee. And then he sings its praise as much as can be sung. He is not stingy in that praise. In that praise he keeps no account of what he has said before—because that is only the clever man’s bookkeeping: what did I say earlier? Nor does he keep account of what he will say tomorrow—because he is no shopkeeper. Tomorrow can be seen tomorrow.
When he praises the rose, he forgets all other flowers. When he praises the lotus, he forgets all other flowers. Then the lotus becomes the essence of all flowers.
But this vision is hard to understand, because then Krishna appears inconsistent. And sectarians then draw out their own meanings.
Therefore everyone has done violence to Krishna. They almost must, because his heart is so vast! A heart like Krishna’s—where all can be contained—is very rare.
Nasruddin became the village judge. The very first case came to his court. The plaintiff’s lawyer spoke, presented his statement. Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.” The court clerk, sitting just below him, got a bit nervous. A judge shouldn’t deliver a verdict like that; he hadn’t even heard the other side. He leaned over and told Nasruddin, “Perhaps you don’t know the rules of court. Keep quiet. The decision comes at the end. If you already say ‘absolutely right,’ what chance is there for the other side to speak?” Nasruddin said to the clerk, “Absolutely right.”
Then he heard the defendant’s side. And when the defendant had finished his full statement, Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.” The clerk bent toward him and said, “Now this is too much. The plaintiff is right; I objected, and that was right; and now the defendant is right! What do you mean? They can’t all be right!” Nasruddin said, “Absolutely right.”
This mood-state is a little hard to grasp. It can exist either in a fool, or in a supreme knower. Either a fool can behave so foolishly as to call everyone right—or a supreme knower can speak from a knowing that calls everyone right. In the middle we will always feel that some things are right and some wrong. If one side is right, the opposing side must be wrong.
We all live by Aristotle’s logic, where two opposite statements cannot both be true. Both may be false, but they cannot both be true. Only one can be true.
But a person like Krishna does not live by Aristotle’s logic. A person like Krishna is vast; everything is contained in him. And whenever he discusses any one thing, he becomes wholly absorbed in it. Because of that absorption, here and there he will call devotion supreme, elsewhere knowledge supreme, elsewhere action supreme.
What are you to do? You will get confused. If he had declared one to be supreme, you could move with eyes closed. But perhaps it is just as it should be that he does not give you the chance to close your eyes. He is telling you: I call them all supreme, but what is supreme for you you must discover. What comes into harmony with you, what creates a resonance in your heart, with what your heartbeat begins to dance, with what you find attunement—that is supreme for you.
Keep this in mind; otherwise Krishna will seem very inconsistent. All great ones are inconsistent; only petty personalities are not. Because the opposite is contained within them—they include within themselves even that which is different from themselves.
Fourth question: Osho, Krishna, Buddha, and Mahavira know that the world is maya, a dream. Even so, why do they labor so much with their disciples? Isn’t their labor too—the disciples’ practices—also within the realm of maya?
Certainly it is within maya. Imagine someone asleep, dreaming that his house is on fire. He’s writhing, thrashing about in sleep, crying out, “Fire! Fire!” You are sitting there awake, and you know there is no fire. You know he is dreaming. The sweat on his forehead is born of the dream-fire. The cries—“Fire! We’re dying! We’re ruined!”—are coming from the dream-fire. You will still try to wake him: “Wake up.” You’ll shake him; you’ll tell him, “It’s a dream.”
Why break the dream? A dream is just a dream. Why trouble yourself to break it? If it’s only a dream, why be so concerned? Let him cry, weep, scream—it’s only a dream. And yet you will try. Granted, what is being seen is a dream; but the one who is undergoing it, the suffering itself, is real.
Understand this difference well.
That which is seen—the fire—is a dream; but the suffering, the pain being experienced, is real. There is no difference in the pain. If a house actually catches fire, the pain is of the same intensity; and if the fire is in a dream, the pain is of the same intensity. Is there any difference?
The pain is real. The world is unreal, but the sorrow experienced in the world is real. Whether the world is true or false does not matter; what matters is that you are suffering. And Buddha, Mahavira, and Krishna know that your sorrow arises from the false; but that you are suffering is certain.
Merely telling you, “It’s all maya, a dream—drop it, there’s nothing in it,” will not end your sorrow. You have to be awakened.
The meaning of a path of practice is: some arrangement to wake you up. And this sleep is very deep; it is no ordinary sleep. In ordinary sleep someone else can shake you awake. This sleep is so deep that unless you begin to shake yourself, no Krishna, no Buddha can wake you.
Therefore Krishna, Buddha, and Mahavira can only do this much: give you methods through which you begin to shake yourself and, one day, awaken. When you awaken you too will find it was a dream. You too will find that what you were seeing was not real. And yet you will place your head at the Buddha’s feet in gratitude—because what you were undergoing felt real enough.
From false things, true suffering can be suffered. A man on a dark road sees a rope and takes it to be a snake; he runs. Will his chest pound any less because there is a rope and not a snake? Would it pound more if there were a real snake?
For this man there is a snake. He is running. His panic is real. His suffering is real. His heart could fail. And you cannot say to him, “You are wrong to have a heart attack, because what you saw was a rope, not a snake. Go back.” That is not right, nor is it fair.
And by your saying so, no one is going to turn back. Who is asking about fair or unfair? A real heart can stop at the sight of a false snake!
You are suffering. The arrangement to come out of this suffering is sadhana.
And as for the toil of Mahavira, Buddha, and Krishna: it looks like toil to you. At times it may even look like madness to you. For there seems to be no reward in it. When a person toils, he toils to gain something. What do they gain? Sometimes a Jesus gains a cross and nothing else. Sometimes a Socrates gains a cup of poison and nothing else. Is this the reward?
What do they get? You see only labor. Why are they laboring? It appears like labor to you; to them it is effortless joy. For them there is no “effort.” To share what they have known is a joy. What they have attained—when another attains it too—there is a great joy in that.
This labor is not to gain some reward. This labor is itself the reward. Beyond it there is nothing to gain. This labor is an expression of love. It is compassion.
Why break the dream? A dream is just a dream. Why trouble yourself to break it? If it’s only a dream, why be so concerned? Let him cry, weep, scream—it’s only a dream. And yet you will try. Granted, what is being seen is a dream; but the one who is undergoing it, the suffering itself, is real.
Understand this difference well.
That which is seen—the fire—is a dream; but the suffering, the pain being experienced, is real. There is no difference in the pain. If a house actually catches fire, the pain is of the same intensity; and if the fire is in a dream, the pain is of the same intensity. Is there any difference?
The pain is real. The world is unreal, but the sorrow experienced in the world is real. Whether the world is true or false does not matter; what matters is that you are suffering. And Buddha, Mahavira, and Krishna know that your sorrow arises from the false; but that you are suffering is certain.
Merely telling you, “It’s all maya, a dream—drop it, there’s nothing in it,” will not end your sorrow. You have to be awakened.
The meaning of a path of practice is: some arrangement to wake you up. And this sleep is very deep; it is no ordinary sleep. In ordinary sleep someone else can shake you awake. This sleep is so deep that unless you begin to shake yourself, no Krishna, no Buddha can wake you.
Therefore Krishna, Buddha, and Mahavira can only do this much: give you methods through which you begin to shake yourself and, one day, awaken. When you awaken you too will find it was a dream. You too will find that what you were seeing was not real. And yet you will place your head at the Buddha’s feet in gratitude—because what you were undergoing felt real enough.
From false things, true suffering can be suffered. A man on a dark road sees a rope and takes it to be a snake; he runs. Will his chest pound any less because there is a rope and not a snake? Would it pound more if there were a real snake?
For this man there is a snake. He is running. His panic is real. His suffering is real. His heart could fail. And you cannot say to him, “You are wrong to have a heart attack, because what you saw was a rope, not a snake. Go back.” That is not right, nor is it fair.
And by your saying so, no one is going to turn back. Who is asking about fair or unfair? A real heart can stop at the sight of a false snake!
You are suffering. The arrangement to come out of this suffering is sadhana.
And as for the toil of Mahavira, Buddha, and Krishna: it looks like toil to you. At times it may even look like madness to you. For there seems to be no reward in it. When a person toils, he toils to gain something. What do they gain? Sometimes a Jesus gains a cross and nothing else. Sometimes a Socrates gains a cup of poison and nothing else. Is this the reward?
What do they get? You see only labor. Why are they laboring? It appears like labor to you; to them it is effortless joy. For them there is no “effort.” To share what they have known is a joy. What they have attained—when another attains it too—there is a great joy in that.
This labor is not to gain some reward. This labor is itself the reward. Beyond it there is nothing to gain. This labor is an expression of love. It is compassion.
Osho's Commentary
“O Arjuna, of all the various wombs in which forms—bodies—are born, the threefold, guna-made maya is the mother that bears the womb, and I am the father who establishes the seed.
“O Arjuna, sattva, rajas, and tamas—these three qualities born of prakriti bind this imperishable soul to the body.
“O sinless one, among the three, the radiant, untainted sattva binds—because of its purity—by attachment to happiness, and by attachment to knowledge, that is, by the pride of knowledge.”
First, according to the Gita—and in fact according to Samkhya—nature (prakriti) is a confluence of three elements: sattva, rajas, and tamas.
It is astonishing that wherever life has been analyzed in depth, the final analysis always breaks into three. In symbols, in concepts, in theories, existence splits into three parts.
Christianity believes in the Trinity: God has three forms, and from them the whole world is created. Hindus believe in the Trimurti: the Supreme has three faces—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. From those three faces, those three personae, the world is created.
Samkhya is highly scientific. It does not speak of a Trinity or Trimurti—of three faces—but of three qualities, sattva, rajas, tamas. These three are the three gunas, and by their mingling the whole of existence is in motion.
Tamas is the stabilizer. Tamas means inertia, rest, a static state, resistance. You throw a stone. If you don’t throw it, the stone remains where it is. Remaining as it is—that is tamas. Until something external gives a push, everything will remain where it is. Tamas means remaining where one is, not budging. Even when you throw the stone, you have to exert force. That force is needed because the stone wants to remain where it is. You must struggle to displace it.
And even after you throw it, if there were no such thing as tamas, the stone would never stop; it would go on forever. But the stone struggles to stop. You have thrown it and imparted a bit of energy from your body. As soon as that energy is spent, the stone will drop back to the ground.
What science calls gravitation, Samkhya calls tamas: the tendency to stay, to resist, to halt—a persistence in state.
Without tamas, nothing would ever stay. It would be very difficult—everything would be in motion, and that motion would become so deranged there would be no way to make it stop. Motion alone is not enough; there must be, somewhere in nature, a deep principle of stillness.
Tamas is the element of staying, of resting; you could call it the element of death—for death arrests. After death there is no more motion. That is why we call a person “tamasic” who lives half-dead—whose tamas is so great that there is no movement in him, who will not walk, will not rise, in whom there is no revolution, no change, nothing new—no transformation; who lies like a stone.
We even measure evolution in nature by this. The more tamas, the more undeveloped a thing is considered. The less tamas, the more developed. Man is the most mobile; a stone the most immobile. Plants have a little movement. Animals more. Human beings, much.
A man moves in water, on land, in the air, even into the sky—to the moon and stars. There is no way to stop him; he runs everywhere. That is why man is the most developed: he has largely conquered tamas—his inner death. He can change.
So too with societies: the most progressive society is the one that has broken tamas. The Western societies have been quite successful at breaking tamas; development has become rapid. But within certain limits development has become so much that they are forgetting the art of stillness. They are frightened.
For if a man starts walking and cannot stop—if he forgets how to stop! He had set out to reach the goal, but on reaching he has to be able to stop; and if he forgets how to stop, and walking becomes such that even if he wishes to stop, he cannot—then even if the goal arrives, what can he do? The goal will pass him by. He will keep walking.
Tamas: that which stops and makes things stop. Rajas: that which gives movement, intensity—energy in flow, like a river, like electricity.
The whole world is dynamic. If things remained fixed, there could be no world. There must be movement, growth.
A child is born; he will grow. If death is tamas, then life is rajas; birth is rajas. In the moment of birth the child has more rajas, less tamas. In the old, tamas increases and rajas diminishes. The day rajas and tamas are equal, that day a person is young; on that day movement and stillness are equal. That day there is balance. That day there is a poise. Hence the beauty of youth.
In the child there is a certain rush, restlessness—because rajas is strong and tamas is weak. Tell him, “Sit quietly,” and he cannot sit quietly. The old are much irritated that children cannot sit still. They have a reason—because they themselves cannot be restless.
But they forget that children are not old; it is wrong to expect stillness from them. And if you want to make them still, there is only one way: make them run enough that they get tired—so that their rajas tires. When rajas tires, tamas increases; then they will sit. The only way to get them to rest is to let them run plenty.
For an old man to be able to run, there is only one way: let him rest enough; then he can run a little. Let his tamas get tired of resting, and rajas can move a bit.
Youth is a balance. And when the capacity to move and the capacity to rest are perfectly balanced, beauty appears—because these two opposites have met completely; no distinction remains; two tensions meet at one point. That tension is called youth—that point where both opposing forces are in equal measure.
Sattva is neither the element of movement nor of rest. Sattva is balance. Sattva appears where the two elements are balanced. Sattva is poise. Therefore, whenever you find balance in any dimension of life, sattva has appeared.
A sadhu is one who has come to balance—who has become sattvic.
Sattva is self-restraint—a harmony between opposites. The two opposites have been tuned to one another. From two opposing notes, a music is born. That music is sattva.
Rajas and tamas are the rules of energy—of running and stopping. When balance arises between the two, the element that appears is sattva. Nature is made of these three.
Wherever beauty appears in nature, understand that sattva has arisen. We carry flowers to the deity’s image in the temple. A flower is the symbol of sattva, the symbol of beauty. A flower blossoms on a tree only when a deep balance has come. We offer that balance at the feet of the Divine—it is a symbol. Let such balance, such a flower, blossom in our life and let us offer it at the temple—that is our aspiration, our feeling in that direction.
The balance we see in Buddha—that is sattva. Even in the greatest persons on earth, the most we can see is sattva.
Beyond these three there is also a state which Krishna will speak of later; he calls it gunatita—beyond the gunas. But that state cannot be seen. It arises in Buddha, in Krishna, but we cannot see it. Only when it arises within us can we experience it.
Even Buddha we can at most see in sattva, because the eyes can see sattva. The eyes belong to nature; they too are made of the three. They too have rajas, tamas, and sattva. Therefore we can recognize most what is hidden within our own eyes. And even that not everyone will recognize.
If a tamasic person goes to Buddha, he will not recognize him at all. He will think: “A fraud. Be careful—he might pick your pocket in the night!” Even at Buddha’s side he will keep his hand over his pocket: “Who knows? He looks simple, but simplicity is always dangerous. Who knows if he is pretending? There must be some trick. Why else would anyone sit so simple?”
If someone filled with rajas—running, restless—goes to Buddha, he will think Buddha is a dead man. “What kind of life is this? Is this life at all? He is an escapist. He ran away. Something is lacking. He could not fight. He is a coward, weak.”
People have said such things. The speaker has his reason—because he sees life in motion, in running; where energy dances, there he sees life.
Here, in Buddha, all is quiet—as if not even a ripple stirs. He will say, “Is this life? This is just a way of dying. This man is dead. Come to the marketplace of life—there you will be tested. You are a deserter.”
Only one in whom a little sattva has arisen will recognize Buddha—what a great occurrence has happened, what flower has blossomed within this person. Hence only such people gather around a Buddha—those who are sattvic, simple, balanced, self-restrained, who have found an inner harmony, a rhythmicness. Many pass by; of those many only a very few will be able to stop at Buddha’s feet.
Samkhya discovered these three elements. They are remarkable. On their basis the whole behavior of man and nature can be understood.
Modern science too has discovered three building blocks, and in the explosion into the atom they found that the atom is made of three: electron, proton, and neutron. And their characteristics are almost the same as those of sattva, rajas, and tamas. One holds, one moves, and one balances.
Surely, somewhere in depth, science is touching the same truth that the Samkhyas touched, that Krishna speaks of in these sutras. And these three are the ones which, in the Hindu myth, we have called Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh. Their traits are the same: Brahma creates—rajas. Vishnu sustains, gives balance—sattva. Shiva is tamas—he dissolves; all things return to quiet.
That is why tamasic people often appear as devotees of Shiva. Shiva seems flavorful to them. Shiva is the destroyer, the symbol of death. Hence, if hashish, ganja, opium gather around Shiva, there is a reason—these are all elements of death, all destructive; they will annihilate you. The taste that can come in this annihilation appeals to the tamasic tendency.
In the West, LSD, mescaline, marijuana have moved at speed; and these Western devotees—devotees of marijuana, of LSD—have grown a great love for Shiva. The hippie comes and goes to Kashi—Shiva’s city—to have darshan of Shiva. He goes to Nepal, where there are ancient Shiva temples, old streams of Shaivite devotees. In America’s hippie colonies too you hear the cry: “Bam Bhole! Jai Bhole!”
Poison is the symbol of death. And poison cools things within you; it steals your motion. Hence the taste for intoxication. You live under such strain, in such a rush, that a little alcohol reduces the tension, the running; you drop into stupor—at least you stop.
All intoxicants create tamas. They halt your inner running. Therefore people who run too much cannot avoid alcohol—their running is so much they need some kind of stupor to stop it. Only when unconscious can they stop; otherwise they cannot. At night they keep running even in sleep.
In the West the value of alcohol has kept increasing, because the West is running; it has put its trust in rajas. If you trust rajas, you will have to bring tamas along too; otherwise rajas becomes deadly—you will go mad.
In the West more and more people are going mad—that is the result of rajas. Run too much and you will go deranged. Stopping is just as necessary. And the one who knows—like the Taoists have said—where to stop, never comes into danger.
Running is necessary; stopping is necessary. The one who brings balance between running and stopping attains sattva—he is a sadhu.
Sadhuhood means an inner rhythmicness arises. Neither running nor stupor. Stupor is tamas; running is madness. When the capacity to run and the capacity to stop meet and a third element arises—that is what Krishna and Samkhya call sattva.
This too is not the last. It is the best within this world. It does not free you, but through it freedom becomes possible.
Note well: no one becomes free merely by becoming sattvic. Even the sattvic remain part of the world. Therefore the sadhu is not liberated; we call the sant liberated, not the sadhu. But within the sadhu the capacity to become a sant appears. Sadhuhood is only a preface. Balance has arisen; now samadhi can come. But balance itself is not samadhi.
These three gunas belong to nature. Tamas leads to stupor. Rajas leads to motion, growth, haste. Sattva leads to peace. But all three are within the world.
One must go beyond sattva too. Then the state called gunatita arises—beyond the three gunas. And the one who goes beyond the three goes beyond nature—that is the Divine, the Purusha, the state of liberation.
Sattva becomes the doorway. But if you are unwise, sattva can also become the obstacle—because pride can arise in being sattvic: pride of goodness, of peace, of knowledge. Pride in being sattvic is very easy.
That is why you will not find anyone more egoistic than the sadhu. He has something to be egoistic about; and when there is something to be egoistic about, the difficulty is great. In the world there are people puffed up with pride who have nothing at all to be proud of—their pride is not even justified. They too are proud. But the sadhu’s pride can even seem justified; there is logic and basis behind it. He is peaceful; he abides in sattva; he enjoys a certain happiness.
Sattva gives a happiness whose final grade is heaven. The last station of sattva is Swarga—not Moksha. It has a great capacity for pleasure.
He has something; and when we, who have nothing, become proud, then if those who have something become proud, it is no surprise. That is the danger. To free them from ego is very difficult. It is easy to free a worldly man from ego; it is very hard to free a sadhu—because he feels there is some reason for his pride. That very reason becomes the obstacle.
Now let us look at the sutra again.
“O Arjuna, in the many kinds of wombs in which all forms, all bodies, all shapes arise, know the threefold, guna-woven maya to be the mother that carries the womb; and I am the father who establishes the seed.”
So body and form come from the three gunas. Mind, body, form—these come from the three. Consciousness comes from the Divine—from beyond the three. Consciousness comes from a realm other than these three, and it dwells within them.
But there is the danger of getting caught in one of the three: either entangled in laziness—in tamas; or in frenzy, restlessness, running—in rajas; or else in the pride of sattva. And if it connects with any one of the three, it cannot recognize its real nature—because its real nature comes from beyond the three.
This is the meaning: the three gunas are the mother, and I am the father who plants the seed. “I” means Brahman, the Supreme Consciousness of this world.
“O Arjuna, sattva, rajas, and tamas—these three qualities born of nature bind this imperishable jivatma to the body.”
These three create the bondage for the soul. Without them the soul cannot be in the body. Tamas is needed to give the power of staying; rajas is needed to give movement and life; sattva is needed to give balance, to give happiness. If even one of the three is lacking, you will not be able to remain.
If happiness were completely absent, you would commit suicide. Why live? You need at least a little glimmer of happiness. Even the non-sadhu needs at least a little glimmer—that today or tomorrow or the day after, somewhere happiness will be found. That tiny hope is enough to bind. If all bridges to happiness collapse—if it becomes clear there is no happiness—you will die this very moment. These three are necessary. They bind you to the body.
“O sinless one, among the three gunas, it is the radiant and untainted sattva that binds—because it is pure—by attachment to happiness and by attachment to knowledge, that is, by the pride of knowledge.”
Since sattva is pure, peaceful, and clean, it gives happiness and it gives knowledge—because a clarity comes into the eyes: a capacity to see, to recognize things through and through. It gives inner happiness and also an ability to enter into life—knowledge. But from both, pride arises.
Knowledge gives rise to the pride, “I know.” Happiness gives rise to the pride, “I am happy.” And the sense of “I” that arises from these two makes even sattva a cause for remaining in the world.
The day even these two are dropped—neither bound by happiness, nor bound by knowledge…
Let us understand this a little.
We are bound even to misery. We say, “my” misery, “my” headache, “my” illness. We attach “I” even to that. If we attach “I” to ignorance, then with knowledge we will attach it all the more; if with sorrow, then with happiness how will we refrain?
That is why, if the gods of heaven are deprived of liberation, the reason is this: they are bound by sattva. There is too much happiness. And where there is much happiness, the desire to break identification does not arise.
Misery at least gives rise to the desire to disidentify: “Let someone explain that misery is one thing and I am another. Let someone show that ignorance is one thing and I am another.” There is a little longing for this, because no one wants suffering or ignorance.
But when you are in happiness and someone tells you, “You are separate and happiness is separate,” you will not take him as a friend—you will take him as an enemy. “Go explain elsewhere,” you will say. If someone tells you, “Your knowledge is separate and you are separate; this knowledge is rubbish—you are not knowledge. This happiness is futile—you are not happiness, you are beyond,” you will not like it.
Hence the sages have said: misery is not a curse; it is a blessing—because in misery the desire arises to break from misery.
The Sufi fakir Junayd was often ill. His devotees said to him, “Pray once to God, and all your illnesses will go.”
Junayd laughed. “We do pray,” he said. They asked, “If you pray, why does the illness not go?” He said, “Our prayer is precisely that it remain—because I remember well: whenever the illness goes, I forget God. This is his great grace—when the illness remains, I keep remembering, ‘I am not the body—this illness is of the body; I am separate.’ And as soon as the illness disappears and happiness comes, I forget that I am not the body.”
Suffering too becomes sadhana. When suffering becomes sadhana, we call it tapas—austerity. Tapas means: through suffering we are separating ourselves from ourselves. Therefore a seeker not only breaks from ordinary pains, if needed he even creates special pains for himself by which he can separate.
You have seen or heard of a sadhu lying on a bed of thorns; of one who keeps fires burning around him day and night; in scorching heat he sits by the fires, dripping with sweat, the body drying. Among those who do this, some truly know the secret…
It is not necessary that all who do such things understand. There are all sorts among them. Many are merely pain-lovers who enjoy tormenting themselves. Many are exhibitionists who enjoy showing their suffering to others and being worshiped for lying on thorns.
But there are a few who do tapas. What is their tapas? The body is being pierced by thorns, and inwardly they fill themselves with the remembrance, “I am not the body. These thorns are not touching me—they are touching the body.” And they will lie on the thorns until the thorns are completely forgotten—until they touch only the body and do not prick them in the least. When consciousness becomes totally separate from the thorns, only then will they rise from the bed of thorns.
Thus a seeker can arrange suffering around himself as well, so that he may separate.
Attachment to happiness, and attachment to knowledge! Sattva binds by the pride of knowledge.
Tamas and rajas bind, and sattva binds too. The bad binds, and what we call good binds as well. The auspicious binds too. Here the chains are not only of iron; they are of gold as well. Some bind with iron chains; some bind with golden chains. But both bind. And so long as there is bondage, there is samsara.
He who rises beyond these three gunas experiences that supreme knowing, Krishna says, which I will tell you again.
For today, this much only.