Geeta Darshan #7

If you keep a few things in mind, it will become clear. To begin with, there are personalities like Buddha, Mahavira, Mohammed and Jesus. These beings chose one single quality as the medium of their expression. Mohammed and Jesus—rajas is their medium of expression. Buddha and Mahavira—sattva is their medium. Lao Tzu and Ramana—tamas is their medium. Krishna uses all three qualities together for expression.

There is yet another possibility, which I have used. Not all three together, but one quality at a time, separately. In my view that is the most scientific approach; therefore I chose it.

All three qualities are present in every person. No person can be formed out of just two, and with only one there is no possibility of a person’s existence at all. The sum of all three gives you body and mind. Just as no triangle can be drawn without three lines, no personality can be formed without the three gunas. If even one is missing, the personality will fall apart.

Even if someone is greatly sattva-dominant, it only means sattva is prominent; the other two are hidden beneath it, suppressed. But those two are present, and their shadow will keep falling over sattva. They are not dominant; they are secondary. Whenever any one guna is manifest in you, the other two are still there.

Krishna used all three together—as if the three sides of the triangle are of equal length. Krishna’s personality is the combined sum of all three. That is why understanding Krishna is perplexing.

A one-guna person is very easy to understand. Where two gunas are held down, the personality has a harmony, a consistency. The kind of inner consistency that is in Lao Tzu is not in Krishna. The taste you find in one sentence of Lao Tzu is the same in all his sentences. There is a deep consistency in Buddha’s words. Buddha has said: just as the ocean tastes salty wherever you taste it, so wherever you taste me, my taste is one. Jesus or Mohammed—their tastes are one.

But in Krishna you can taste many flavors—certainly three; and because they are blended, many new flavors are born of that mixture. Hence Krishna’s form is multicolored. No one can love Krishna totally; one will choose. What one likes, one will keep; what one dislikes, one will cut away.

Therefore all the commentaries on Krishna so far have been selective commentaries. Neither Shankara accepts Krishna in his entirety, nor Ramanuja, nor Nimbarka, nor Vallabhacharya, nor Tilak, nor Gandhi, nor Aurobindo—no one accepts the whole of Krishna. Parts have to be cut off—those that seem incongruous, contradictory, as if they cancel each other.

For instance Gandhi. Gandhi gives such supreme value to nonviolence. Then Krishna inciting Arjuna to violence becomes a stumbling block for him. Gandhi gives truth the highest value; Krishna can even tell a lie—this is beyond Gandhi’s comprehension. Krishna can even deceive—Gandhi’s mind will not accept it. And if Krishna can do so, then for Gandhi Krishna will cease to be worthy of worship.

The only way out is for Gandhi to somehow explain that Krishna did not actually do these things. Either it is a story, or it is symbolic. This war of the Mahabharata is not a real war, in Gandhi’s view. These Kauravas and Pandavas are not real, living human beings; they are mere symbols of evil and good; the war is between dharma and adharma, not between men. The whole narrative is a parable—then Gandhi has no difficulty. He has no difficulty killing evil; he has difficulty killing an evil man. If only evil is to be cut, there is no harm.

But if it were only evil to be cut, Arjuna would have had no reason to raise a question. The question arose because a bad man had to be cut. The question arose because those bad men on the other side are his own, his relatives. There is affection toward them, attachment to them; without them the world will be incomplete, meaningless.

Krishna’s personality will be inconsistent—inevitably. Three gunas together will create inconsistency.

There is another possibility, which I have used. There too there will be inconsistency, but not of the kind found in Krishna.

All three gunas are in a person, and a personality is complete only when all three are used in expression, with none suppressed. Krishna is not in favor of repression, nor am I. Whatever is in the personality should find creative use.

My process has been not to choose all three together for expression, but to choose one guna at a time in three distinct periods. First I chose tamas, because it is foundational, the base.

When a child is born from the mother’s womb, for nine months in the womb the child is in tamas, in deep darkness. There is no activity—utter inertia. Even the act of breathing is not done by the child; the mother breathes for him. Food—if blood flows in the child, that too is the mother’s blood transformed. The child does nothing on his own.

Such a state of non-doing is perfect tamas. The child is, there is breath, there is life, but that life performs no action. In the womb there is complete non-action.

Psychologists say the search for moksha, the longing for heaven, the quest for nirvana, arises because every person has known a moment in the womb filled with non-action, an experience so suffused with emptiness. That memory hangs within; deep inside you lies the experience of those nine months. It was so blissful, because when there is nothing to do—no duty, no responsibility, no burden, no worry, no work—there was just being, just being only. What we call moksha, a nearly similar state existed in the mother’s womb. That very taste lies hidden within you.

Hence you never find bliss anywhere in life, and everywhere you feel something is missing. Psychologists say this can only be if in your experience there has been some great bliss by which you compare.

Everyone says life is suffering. If you had no experience of bliss, how would you recognize suffering? And everyone says we must seek happiness. Which happiness are you seeking? How will you seek something you have never tasted? How will you be curious about something you have no acquaintance with?

Surely in our unconscious there is a ray of experience, a seed hidden—some joy we have known, some heaven we have lived, some music we have heard. However forgotten, in every fiber the thirst remains, and the news remains; we are searching for just that.

Psychology says the search for moksha is a search for a vast womb. Until this whole existence becomes our womb, the search will continue.

This is a valuable, meaningful point. But first understand in this connection: for nine months the child lies in the mother’s womb exactly in tamas. There is no question of being rajasic or sattvic—he lies in deep darkness, deep inertia. Just sleeping—sleeping twenty-four hours. A long sleep of nine months.

Then as soon as the child is born, he will sleep twenty-two hours, then twenty, then eighteen; slowly he will awaken. Years will pass, and he will come to rest at eight hours of sleep. And births will pass before sleep is reduced to zero, and he becomes perfectly aware—even in sleep he remains awake. Krishna calls this the state where, when all sleep, the yogi is awake. There will be a journey of many lives for this.

Tamas is the foundation and sattva the peak. In the building we call life, tamas is the base, rajas is the middle structure, and sattva is the temple-spire.

This is how I see the arrangement of life. Therefore I made the first segment of my life a sadhana of tamas. My early years passed exactly in the flavor of Lao Tzu. My affinity with Lao Tzu is basic, foundational. In every way I was in laziness, and laziness itself was my sadhana. Do as little as possible. If doing is unavoidable, do only the minimum that is absolutely necessary. Do not move a hand or a foot without cause.

At home the situation became such that I would be sitting, and my mother sitting right in front of me would say, “There is no one in sight; someone has to be sent to the market for vegetables!” I could hear her; I was sitting right there. And I knew that even if the house caught fire, she would say the same: “No one is in sight; the house is on fire—who will put it out!”

But silently I would just watch my inactivity, remain simply a witness, filled with attention. A couple of incidents will give you the feel.

In my final year at the university there was a professor of philosophy. As philosophers often are, he was eccentric—ex-centric. His quirk was that he did not look at women. Unfortunately, in his subject there were only two students—myself and a young woman. So he had to lecture with his eyes closed. For me this was a blessing, because he lectured and I slept. He could not open his eyes because a young woman was present.

Yet he was very pleased with me; he thought perhaps I held the same principle—I too did not look at women. At least in the university there was one more person like him who kept his eyes closed toward women. He was very happy about that. He even told me several times, whenever we met alone: “You alone can understand me.”

But one day everything was spoiled.

Another habit of his was that he did not keep to the one-hour rule. So the university would only give him the last period to teach. After forty minutes he would say, “It is in my power to begin; it is not in my power to end.” So whether it finished in sixty minutes or eighty made no difference. “The bell will not end my talk; I will end it when I am done.” So he would speak for eighty or ninety minutes; I would sleep. I had arranged with the young woman that when the hour was about to end, she would signal to me. Kindly, she would do so; I would get up.

One day she had to leave in the middle—some urgent call. I kept sleeping, and he kept speaking. The hour finished. He opened his eyes; I was asleep. He shook me awake: “Fell asleep?” I said, “Now that you have discovered it, I’ll tell you the truth: I sleep every day. I have nothing against women. And this is very pleasant—you speak for an hour and a half; I sleep.”

I had made sleeping almost a meditation. I slept as much as I could.

There is an interesting thing: if you sleep more than you need, wakefulness begins to be created within sleep. If you sleep less than you need, sleep will be stupefaction. If you sleep more than you need, you cannot actually sleep—your body’s need gets fulfilled. Gradually the body has no need for sleep while you are still lying in it; then inside someone begins to wake and watch.

If you lie sleeping for thirty-six hours, you will get a small glimpse of what Krishna says, “When others sleep, the self-restrained one is awake.” Because the body will no longer need sleep, and if you let the body remain in the posture of sleep, from within the sound of wakefulness will begin.

In those days, by sleeping and sleeping, I came to know that one can be awake in sleep. I slept at night, in the morning, in the afternoon—whenever there was a chance. The family, my loved ones, all thought I was utterly lazy; nothing could come of me in life. In one sense they were right. For me, sleep was sadhana.

Another professor of mine—my teacher and my friend—was as lazy as I was. He lived alone; I also lived alone. He said, “Better we live together.” I said, “There may be a problem—your sleep may be disturbed by me, mine by you. Still, if you wish…” But if we lived together we had to make some arrangements, and both of us were lazy. He still is; he has not given up that quality. He never made it a sadhana; otherwise it would have dropped.

Remember: whatever element you turn into sadhana, in a little while you go beyond it. Sadhana means transcendence. And whatever you live totally, you cannot remain within it. If you live even laziness totally, you will suddenly find laziness has departed. To be free of something, you must live it through completely.

Therefore I decided first to live tamas completely.

We moved in together; on the very first night we had to decide our routine from the next day. Until then, living apart, there had been no need. He said, “Whoever wakes up first in the morning will go to get the milk.” I said, “Perfectly acceptable.” I was happy; he was happy. Both were in delusion. I thought, “What need is there to wake up early!” He thought the same.

Around nine my sleep opened; I saw he was asleep, so I slept again. Around ten his sleep must have opened; he saw I was asleep. He also wanted to sleep, but there was a difficulty: he had to reach the university at eleven—he was employed. I was a student; there was no need for me to go. In any case I rarely went.

Finally, out of compulsion he had to get up and go for milk. By the time he returned I was sitting up. He said, “This friendship cannot continue, because this is a daily matter. I have to reach the university at eleven. At the most I can wait until ten. You can wait all day. That means I will have to bring the milk every day; this friendship cannot continue.”

I tried to avoid whatever could be avoided in the initial phase. For two years at the university I never swept my room. I kept my bed against the door, so I could enter straight from the doorway onto the bed and leave straight out. Why wander into the room at all! If I did not enter it, there was no question of cleaning it. That had its own pleasure.

And let things remain as they are; the less rearranging, the better—because rearranging means you have to do something. Let them be as they are. This too brought unique experiences. However much junk and dirt there was, living among it came to feel the same as living among great cleanliness.

The university buildings had not yet been built. It was a new university; military barracks were being used as hostels in an open forest. Snakes often came. I would lie on my bed and watch them. They would come, sit, rest in the room. They never did anything to me; I never did anything to them.

If the sense of doing is absent, many things are easily accepted. And if the sense of doing is absent, discontent in life begins to drop sharply. In those days there was no cause for discontent. When you do nothing, you have no demands. When you do nothing, there is no question of results. When you do nothing, whatever comes…

Sometimes some friend, out of kindness, would clean the room; I would be very grateful. My department head himself would come early at seven with a car during exams to take me to the hall for eight or ten days, so that I would not remain asleep.

Everyone’s kindness and compassion came unasked, because everyone knew I would avoid anything I could avoid doing. Strange events happened. I say this so you may sense how mysterious life is.

Professors, before the exams, would come and tell me, “Do look at this question.” I never went to ask anyone. Even as they told me, they had no faith I would look. They would look at me as if to say, “Understood? Do look at this one; it is certain to come.” As they left they would say, “I set this paper; do make sure to look at it. There is no doubt; it will come.” Even so, I could never convince them that I would look.

I am saying this: if you go into the world to grab and snatch, you will meet resistance everywhere. If you are in a state of non-doing, all doors open to give.

In those days I would lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling—vacant, empty. Much later I learned that Meher Baba’s sadhana was the same. For me it happened on its own. For lying on a bed, what else to do? If sleep had gone, I’d lie there and watch the ceiling. If you remain quiet without blinking— and not blinking was not a discipline; blinking too felt like a doing—why blink! I would just lie there. It was also a part of laziness: why even blink! I would lie there. It was not an act of suppression. As far as possible, do nothing.

If you lie gazing at your ceiling for an hour or two, you will find consciousness becoming as blank as the sky, empty.

If one makes laziness a sadhana, the experience of emptiness comes very easily.

In those days I did not believe in God or in the soul. The only reason for not believing was that believing would mean having to do something. For a lazy person, atheism is consistent—because if God exists, work begins; then something will have to be done. If the soul exists, something will have to be done.

But while not doing anything, without believing in God or soul, simply lying there silently, the glimpses of all that we call soul and God began to appear. And I did not leave tamas until tamas left me. I had decided to carry on just like that, doing nothing.

My understanding is that if you live tamas rightly, then rajas arises on its own—because it is the second guna, hidden in your second story. When the first story is complete and you climb the stairs, rajas begins. An upsurge of activity will arise in you.

But this activity will be very unusual. It will not be the politician’s frenzy. If you have made laziness your sadhana and it has become your doorway into emptiness, this activity cannot be of craving; it can only be of compassion. This activity will now be a process of sharing.

So I lived that activity fully too. It is not my tendency to interrupt in between. Whatever is happening, let it happen. If one allows in this way, one will very quickly go beyond the gunas—because then the doer is not there; only the gunas are doing. It was the guna of laziness that completed itself.

Then came rajas. I ran across the country. The travel I did in ten or fifteen years, one person could not do in two or three lifetimes. The speaking I did in those ten or fifteen years would take ten or fifteen lifetimes. From morning till night I was moving, speaking, traveling.

Needed or not, I was also creating disputes and disturbances—because the more controversies arose, the easier it was for my rajas to be expended. So I took up criticizing Gandhi, or I took up criticizing socialism. I had nothing to do with them. I have no interest in politics—not a grain of relish for it.

But when a whole country is caught in a frenzy, the whole of humanity, and if you too have to run among that humanity, then—even just for play—you should create some disturbances around you, raise some controversies. In that rajasic journey many controversies arose, and I enjoyed them well.

Had they arisen from the frenzy of action, they would have brought suffering. But they were simply expressions, outlets for rajas, so they were play and flavor. Those controversies were nothing more than a performance.

In Punjab there was a great Vedantin, Harigiri Ji Maharaj. I had a big debate with him on Vedanta. For me it was a play; for him it was seriousness—his doctrine was at stake. He would become almost deranged.

With the Shankaracharya of Puri there was a debate in Patna. For me, play; for him, his entire business was at stake. He became so unhinged, so angry, he nearly fell from the stage; his whole body trembled.

But it is necessary to let rajas be exhausted completely. Many friends tried to stop me, but of my own I did not want to stop. Only when rajas had drained away, only when it had run its course, would I stop.

Three weeks of every month I was in trains. In the morning I would be in Bombay; at night in Calcutta; the next day in Amritsar; on the fourth day in Ludhiana, in Delhi. The whole country was like a field for wandering. And disturbances were natural, because when you act, disturbances are natural. Action gives rise to reaction.

In the days of laziness I did not speak, or hardly spoke. If someone pressed me much, I would say a little. In the days of rajas, even if no one asked, I spoke. I would seek people out and speak; and there was a fire in the speaking. People still come to me and say, “Now you do not speak as you did—when hearts would tremble. There was a fervor, an ember.”

That ember was not mine. It belonged to the guna we are discussing. The only way to burn out rajas was to let it blaze. Let it become a full ember, and it will quickly turn to ash. The slower it burns, the longer it takes. If it burns all at once, totally, it will be ash quickly.

Now it has burned out. And now, as the sun gathers its rays in the evening, as the fisherman draws in his net in the evening, so I will draw everything in. “I will draw in” is not right—everything will draw in of its own accord. Because the third element begins.

Therefore you can see I am slowly withdrawing my hands from everything. In your place fifty thousand could listen, but I am content if fifty listen. From fifty I will be content with five. From speaking I will be content with not speaking.

As rajas is completely thrown out and the process of sattva begins, all activities will again become zero.

In tamas too all activities are zero—but that zero is like sleep. In sattva too all activities become zero—but that zero is like wakefulness. Tamas and sattva have a similarity: both are zero. Tamas has the form of sleep; sattva has the form of awakening.

And this I consider the right process of life: the first phase of life passes in tamas, the second in rajas, the third in sattva. In all three, keep trying to remain apart, and you are in sadhana. In all three know: I am not doing; the gunas are doing. This is not happening through me; I am only the watcher, only the witness. When there is laziness, and when there is action, and when there is sattva—I am only the seer, the mere drashta. If such a sense remains, the three gunas will exhaust themselves of their own accord, and you will abide in the beyond-the-gunas.

The arrival is in the fourth—beyond the three. Which is not rightly called “the fourth,” for there none of the three exist.

Krishna expressed all three together. I have used all three by dividing them into separate circles of time. Therefore you will find inconsistency in my words too. What I said and lived in the moments of tamas will not fit with my rajasic moments; and what I said in rajasic moments will be very opposed to what I will say in sattvic moments.

Therefore whoever sits to think over my entire thought will have to divide it into three parts—and there will be great contradictions among the three. There should be. Because the words have flowed through three different gunas; harmony among the three is impossible.

If you want to find consistency in my personality, you will find it in the fourth—in that which is beyond the gunas. In these three you will not find consistency. In the witnessing hidden behind the three, there alone can consistency be found.

There will be no difference in the fruits. The difference will be in the one who experiences them. The fruits will be the same. If the fruit of sattvic action is happiness, then happiness it will be—whether you are aware or not. If you are aware, you will know that happiness is apart from me, around me. I am not happiness; I am the one who sees happiness.

Even if the fruit of rajas is suffering, the fruit will be the same. The enlightened will have the same fruit, and the unenlightened will have the same fruit. But the unenlightened will think, “I am suffering,” while the enlightened will understand, “I am the witness of suffering.” There lies the difference.

So it is a very interesting point: the fruit of suffering will be identical, yet the enlightened will not be able to be miserable, and the unenlightened will be miserable. And both will have suffering. The one who connects himself with suffering, identifies with it, creates an identity with it—that one will be miserable.

For example, suppose someone snatches away your clothing. If you think the clothing is me, then with the garment your very soul is going. If you understand the clothing is only upon me—if someone takes it, he has only taken the garment; I have not gone anywhere—then in both cases the garment goes. But in one case you will be filled with deep pain; in the other you will go on laughing.

The body will leave both of them. But the one who has taken himself to be only the body will weep and beat his chest; and the one who has known, “I am the seer of the body, distinct and different from the body,” will watch the body departing, as if another garment has been snatched away—worn-out, dilapidated—and in search of a new garment the old has been discarded.

All three will bear fruits. But for the seeker who is cultivating awareness with regard to all three...

And awareness has to be cultivated by everyone, whichever guna you are in. Whether the chains on your hands are of iron, or of gold, or studded with diamonds—it makes no difference. The art of opening the chain is the same. Whether it is gold or iron makes no difference.

Whether suffering binds you or happiness surrounds you—it does not matter. The key to unlocking is one, and that key is witnessing. Whether there is suffering or there is happiness, you have to master the art of standing apart and watching. The practice is one: I am separate. Whatever is happening—whatever the event may be—I stand apart from it, watching. I am the witness.

No—dispassion is always natural. Understand what “natural” means.

Dispassion cannot be worn like a cloak; it cannot be imposed by force. Whenever dispassion happens, it is natural. And if it is not natural, then it is only on the surface; inside there will still be attachment. Its name will be dispassion, but it will simply be a new kind of attachment.

You can drop one thing in order to grab another—but that is not dispassion. Dispassion means letting go without grabbing anything else. It is simply to leave the fist open.

The so-called saints keep telling people: “Renounce here, and you will gain in the other world.” If, after hearing them, someone drops something here, he is not actually dropping it—he is only grabbing the afterlife. His dispassion is false, donned; attachment itself is functioning. And inwardly he is delighted: “I have given wealth here; I will receive a thousandfold in the next world.” He is bargaining, not renouncing. He is investing. He is arranging for the future, amassing wealth here for later as well.

And the saints preach: “What will you do collecting wealth? Accumulate merit. Wealth can be snatched away; merit never will.” The greedy will fall for this, because the greedy man seeks exactly such a wealth as cannot be taken away. This is the language of greed, not the language of renunciation.

Natural dispassion means you see that wealth is futile. You are not dropping it in order to get a bigger wealth. You are dropping the very clutching upon wealth. You do not want anything bigger either. You are not leaving this world in order to secure the other. You no longer want to get anything. The very pursuit of getting has been seen as foolish. You realize that the longing to obtain is itself suffering—whether the obtaining be here or in the hereafter. Now you do not want to obtain anything. You are content to be exactly what you are—here and now. That is dispassion.

Dispassion means: where I am, as I am, what I am—I accept. There is no discontent with that. Attachment (raga) means: whatever I am, I am dissatisfied; if I become something else, then perhaps I shall be content.

Attachment’s contentment lies in the future; dispassion’s contentment is here and now. Therefore dispassion is always natural—one.

Whatever the path of practice, the fruit is always dispassion. Whether practice be of tamas, or of rajas, or of sattva, the fruit is always dispassion. The fruit of practice is dispassion. The fruit of meditation is dispassion. The fruit of knowledge is dispassion.

If you are running, acting—as Krishna tells Arjuna: Do your action; do not be afraid. But in action, be neither enjoyer nor doer; be a witness.

Krishna is telling Arjuna: Practice through rajas. Because Krishna knows well that Arjuna’s constitution is that of a kshatriya. Rajas is his nature; it predominates in him. All his life he has cultivated rajas, suppressing tamas, suppressing sattva, and promoting rajas. For if a kshatriya promotes sattva, he ceases to be a kshatriya and becomes a brahmin; and if a brahmin promotes rajas, he remains a brahmin only in name—he becomes a kshatriya.

There is the brahmin Parashurama, axe in hand. Legend says he emptied the earth of kshatriyas many times. He is a great kshatriya in spirit. Therefore, in Parashurama sattva cannot be predominant; rajas will predominate. Parashurama’s friendship could not fit with Buddha; it could fit with Mohammed. Wherever activity is predominant, rajas will be on top.

Krishna knows Arjuna thoroughly. His whole personality, his whole structure, is rajas. So he says: Don’t talk of running away. That is not your nature; that is not your swadharma. You will not be able to flee. Even if you escape to the forest, you will not be able to sit quietly under a tree. There in the forest you will start hunting. You will raise some quarrel there. You will not so easily free yourself of being a kshatriya. Enter practice by the very guna that constitutes your personality—that is Krishna’s entire message.

Hence he says: Fight. But with one condition: fight, wage the war, but do not think yourself the warrior, the doer. Know yourself to be only an instrument in the hands of the Divine—a tool, a means.

Even if practice is of sattva—if one is bringing noble qualities into life, cultivating truth, compassion, nonviolence, purifying and sanctifying one’s conduct—even there the sense of doership can catch hold. There it can also arise: “Look—there is no saint like me! Where is a purity like mine!”

Then a mistake has occurred; then even sattva becomes a chain. There too you have to know: this goodness that is happening is also the outcome, the transformation, of the sattva that nature has placed in me. I am only the watcher. I see that my sattva is becoming active, that compassion is flowing from me, nonviolence is flowing. I am not nonviolent.

I am witnessing just as the Himalayas might witness the Ganga flowing. Water falls from the sky, Gangotri fills, and from Gangotri the Ganga flows. The Himalayas do not say, “I am making the Ganga flow.” The Himalayas simply see that the Ganga is flowing from them. In the same way, sattvic actions flow from me. Showers fall from the sky; nature provides them; I am only the witness.

If you stand like the Himalayas, as a witness, then sattva will not become a bondage; otherwise even sattva will bind. And if you can be a witness, then even tamas will not bind. You can then see that laziness is not “mine,” that I am not lazy; this too is a process of the gunas within.

Science gives significant information here: whatever is happening within you depends on the hormones of your body; it does not depend on “you.” “Hormone” may be a new word, but its meaning is very close to what is meant by gunas.

One person is female, another male. You think, “I am a woman,” “I am a man.” You are mistaken. Inject male hormones into a woman and her body will transform; she will become male-like. Inject female hormones into a man and he will transform; even his sexual organs will feminize. Then you will be shocked: “Who am I?” If an injection can turn a woman into a man and a man into a woman, then who are you—woman or man?

This is our constant inquiry. And I say science provides new foundations for ancient truths. It means your being “man” or “woman” is by nature; you are beyond both. If your nature, your body, is changed, you may appear as woman or man.

You will be surprised. A man is angry; with hormones his anger can be lulled. He may never be angry again. There are glands within you; if they are operated on and removed, then try as you may, you will not be able to get angry. Someone may beat you, abuse you, humiliate you; you may try your best to raise anger, but anger will not arise—because the gland is not there from which anger can arise.

Pavlov performed many experiments on dogs. Ferocious dogs who would tear you in two if you hurt them even a little—he severed their glands, operated, removed the gland. The ferocious dogs became utterly lifeless. You could beat them and they would wag their tails; they would not even bark. To attack is another matter—they would not even bark. Because even barking depends on certain hormones; if that element is not present inside, you cannot even bark.

Krishna—and Sankhya—make a deep discovery: whatever is happening within you happens through nature, through the gunas; you are nothing more than the witness.

But a dog that is barking and attacking—can you explain to him: “This is happening due to a gland in your body”? He will say, “I am barking; who says it’s a gland?”

When you are filled with anger, can you think, “This is a play of certain chemical elements within my body”? You will say, “I am angry; I was insulted.”

You were not abused. Even if the abuse occurs, if the gland is not there, anger will not arise. The gland caught the insult; the gland is answering; you are only the victim. You are only under an illusion.

A beautiful woman appears and you start following her. You think it is you who are going after her. Krishna says: it is not you; only the gunas are going. The male hormones within you are pulling you towards the female hormones. You went; the matter is beyond your control. You say, “She is very beautiful.” This is all explained to you by hormones within: “She is very beautiful.” Even if you want to stop, how can you? But if your hormones are removed, the most beautiful woman may pass by and you will sit watching; nothing will stir within.

Spain had a great thinker, Delgado. He did deep experiments on the body, on hormones, on chemical elements, on electrical processes—valuable yet dangerous. The danger is this: Delgado says if you want to eliminate anything from the world, there is no need to bother with religions. Give science full authority; we will eliminate it.

If you think the country has become too lustful, mere preaching of celibacy is futile. We will implant a tiny device in each body. The child will be born, and in the hospital itself—he will never even know it happened.

You’ll be amazed to know there is no sensitivity inside your skull. Although all your experiences are processed through the brain, inside the skull there is no feeling. Your skull can be opened, a small stone placed inside, the skull closed—you would never know the stone is there. The stone can remain for a lifetime and you would never know it.

This was discovered during the First World War. Some men were shot in the head; due to oversight the bullets were not removed; their wounds healed and they recovered. Ten years later, for another reason, surgery was performed on a soldier’s head—and the bullet casing was found inside. He had never known for ten years. Then for the first time it was known that there is no sensitivity within.

So Delgado says: we can implant in every child, without them ever knowing, a tiny device—a radio receiver—inside the head. Put it in every child’s skull. Then you broadcast from Delhi, and the whole nation will behave accordingly.

There will be no need to tell anyone to practice celibacy. From Delhi simply transmit the right signal: “All become celibate.” The device inside you will instantly inform you. Suddenly you will find a great saintliness welling up. No taste is left!

Delgado’s experiment is valuable—but dangerous. It is not unlikely that ten, twenty, twenty-five years from now governments will begin to use it. Because it is very useful: if the whole country is to be sent to war, it can be done. If Hindus are to be incited to eliminate all Muslims in India, it could be done in a day. No great tumult is necessary; only the device inside them needs the signal.

Delgado performed famous experiments in Spain. He implanted a device in a bull’s head—a ferocious bull. Hundreds of thousands gathered to watch. Delgado held in his hand a device the size of a watch, connected wirelessly, by radio, to the bull’s brain.

He provoked the bull, waved a red flag. The bull charged at Delgado. The crowd looked on, tense; danger! The bull came very close—its horns a foot away. One second more and it would gore Delgado; he would be finished. Up to that point he watched.

Then people saw him press something on his watch. The bull froze, right there—only a foot away—utterly inert! Delgado walked fifty feet away, pressed the button, waved the flag—the bull charged again. He did this twenty times. A second before impact, he pressed the watch; the bull froze like stone.

This bull must have been reasoning to itself, if it could think at all: “Why am I stopping? Perhaps I feel pity—let him go; there is no need to kill.” But none of that was the case. An electrode inside was suppressing the anger mechanism; the rage subsided.

Sankhya’s ancient vision is that within you what you are is only the witness. All doership belongs to nature. Purusha, consciousness, has no doership. Whatever happens, happens through your gunas and body. If you know this truth, supreme attainment is yours.