Geeta Darshan #1

Man is a dilemma, a duality. Man does not have a single-layered personality; whatever he has is split, conflicted. As if light and darkness are yoked together within him. The animal and the divine are both present in man side by side. Man is like a ladder—one end in hell, the other in heaven; and the journey can go either way. It is in everyone’s hands: where the journey will go, how it will go, what the final outcome will be.

The direction of the journey can be changed at any moment, because it is only a question of turning around, of changing direction. The same energy that takes you to hell becomes the very cause of your ascent to heaven. The labor required to be bad is the very labor through which goodness ripens. To become a devil is just as easy or difficult as to become a saint.

Understand this well: it is one energy traveling in two directions. Do not think the bad man practices no austerity. The bad man too practices; he too exerts mightily—perhaps his discipline is even harsher than that of the good, for along the path both suffer. The good man receives bliss in the end, which the bad man never does. The paths run side by side; the good arrives somewhere, the bad never quite arrives anywhere.

In one sense the bad man’s sadhana is more arduous. The greater the evil, the greater the sorrow.

One energy, the same length of journey, the same expenditure of time and life—then what is the difference? Only direction. To come here you chose one route; returning, you will take the very same route. The distance is the same; only your direction will have changed. Coming here your face was toward me; going away your back will be toward me. That’s all. The journey is the same.

What we call auspicious is the journey that moves with the face toward the divine. What we call inauspicious is the journey that moves with one’s back toward the divine. The same feet walk, the same breath moves; there is not the slightest difference in the journey.

And these two paths of the journey—if they were outside you, it would be easy. But both paths are within you. The traveler is you; the road you walk is you; and the destination you reach is you.

Within you the one who crafts the statue, the stone that becomes the statue, the chisel that refines it—all are you. Therefore the responsibility is profound. And there is no one else to blame. Whatever the fruit, only you are responsible for it.

Before we enter Krishna’s aphorism, keep a few points in mind.

First, the hells mentioned in the scriptures and the heavens spoken of are not two geographical locations; they are states of mind. Hell is a symbol; heaven is a symbol.

In the scriptures the talk of God and the devil refers only to your two poles. Neither will you find the devil anywhere if you search, nor will you find God anywhere outside. Had God been other than you, he could be found by seeking; had the devil been other than you, he too could be found by seeking. Both are your possibilities. If you wish, you can become a devil—nothing hinders you; if you wish, you can become divine—nothing hinders you. And the day you become a devil, you will not meet some external devil; you will meet yourself. The day you become divine, there will be no vision of some other God; you yourself will have become the divine.

Devil and God are your possibilities. And in the worst of men the possibility of God is as alive as in the best of men the possibility of becoming a devil. The supreme saint can become supremely un-saintly in a single moment. The reverse is also true—a supreme sinner can be transformed in an instant. For both are not far; they are within us.

As we have two hands and two eyes, so we have two paths of travel. And between them we stretch.

Second, remember when approaching scripture that it is not science; scripture is poetry. There is no mathematics there; there are symbols and metaphors. If you take scripture the way you take math, you will fall into confusion and wander. Try to understand it as poetry.

That is why this book is called the Srimad Bhagavad Gita—the Song of the Blessed One; it is poetry. The commentators, treating it as science, have written commentaries accordingly.

Poetry and science are fundamentally different. Science talks about facts; words are not important, the fact behind the word is. Poetry does not talk about facts; poetry speaks of experiences. Experiences cannot be grasped in the hand, cannot be weighed on a scale, cannot be tested on a touchstone.

Scientific facts can be caught in a laboratory. If someone says, “Fire burns,” you can test by putting your hand in it. But “prayer reaches the divine”—what will you do? How will you catch that? There is no way to hold prayer in your hand, to test it, no touchstone.

And yet there is prayer. Prayer is a truth of poetry, a truth of experience. Regarding the truths of experience, a few things must be understood.

One: until you experience, the words will hover in the air; no matter how much someone batters his head to explain, you will not understand. Only when taste is had does anything happen; and taste is not a matter of mere intellect. For taste you must plunge with the heart, indeed with your totality. Until one dissolves so utterly that not a hair’s breadth remains between the experience and oneself; until you become prayer itself, prayer will not be understood.

Prayer is not an act you do and are done with. Prayer is a style of living. Once one enters prayer, one has entered; there is no path back. One can go deeper and deeper; there is no facility for return.

And the day prayer is complete, the day devotion is perfect, that day you will not be a devotee; you will be devotion. That day you will not be one who prays; you will be prayer. That day you will not be a meditator; you will have become meditation. That day there is no point in calling you a yogi, because yoga is not a doing; you will have become yoga. Yoga is an experience—so total that the experiencer disappears in oneness.

The Gita is poetry. So each word must be approached as we approach poetry—not with hardness, not with cutting and chopping, but with great reverence and deep sympathy. Not as an enemy, but as a lover. Only then will the secrets open, and only then will you be able to become one with them.

Whatever is said there, they are mere symbols. Behind those symbols lie long, long mysteries of experience. You can memorize the symbols; you can have the Gita by heart. But what is on the tongue has no value, because the tongue is part of the body. Until it becomes self-seated, until it happens that you are no longer a student of the Gita, that the Gita is no longer Krishna’s word but your own; until it feels that Krishna has become you, and what is being spoken is the sound of your inner-knowing—that it is you, your very expanse—the Gita will remain alien, distance will remain, duality will remain. And whatever understanding you have of the Gita will be intellectual. From that you can become a pundit, but not wise.

Now try to understand this sutra.

Then Sri Krishna spoke again: Arjuna, I shall tell you separately the signs of those endowed with divine wealth and those endowed with demoniac wealth.

The marks of one endowed with divine wealth are: fearlessness, thorough purity of the inner being, unwavering stability in the yoga of knowledge; generosity and restraint of the senses; sacrifice, self-study and austerity; and simplicity of heart together with purity of body and senses.

Krishna speaks of two kinds of wealth; two kinds of riches man possesses. Wealth means power. Wealth is what we can put to use, with which we can buy, with which we can attain. Wealth is a medium of exchange.

There is a note in your pocket. A note is a symbol. You cannot eat it, you cannot drink it. But through the note exchange can happen. You can buy food, buy drink. The note can become nourishment; the note can become poison. Something can be purchased with it. The note is an energy of exchange.

Krishna says man has two kinds of wealth, two media of exchange. With one a man can buy—and become a devil. With the other a man can buy—and become divine.

And unless we understand these two wealths rightly, great confusion remains. Oftentimes what can buy only the devil we take to the marketplace to buy the divine—and we are deceived. Whatever we come home with will be the devil.

For example: with the same money with which we buy and sell everything in the world, we set out to buy religion. Someone thinks, “Build a big temple, a dharmashala, donate—religion will be obtained.”

But what buys the world cannot buy the spiritual. The paths are different, the markets are different. The currency that circulates in the world does not circulate in the beyond; it bears no relation to that realm.

Krishna says there are two wealths. One he calls demoniac wealth (asuri sampada); the other he calls divine wealth (daivi sampada). Divine wealth means the currency with which divinity can be purchased.

So it is essential to recognize clearly: is the wealth I am using capable of buying divinity? Otherwise I will labor, I will wander, time will be spent—and I will arrive nowhere.

This division is very necessary. Many times you set out to buy divinity with demoniac wealth. And not only you—those who watch you may also be deceived.

My experience is that if a person is angry, that very anger can be used quickly in practice. The angry man becomes a seeker swiftly. For the nature of anger is to destroy, to break, to possess, to assert ownership. Anger explodes on the other, and it can explode on oneself too—it makes no difference. You can break another’s head; you can also bang your own head against the wall. The angry person starts torturing himself—and thinks that is sadhana.

So there are people sleeping on thorns, standing in the sun, fasting themselves to death. And you too will feel, “Great austerity is happening.” Austerity is certainly happening—but it is necessary to know which wealth stands behind it. Otherwise you know of Durvasa and rishis of that type—their austerity was great, yet the fundamental wealth behind their tapas must have been demoniac. The fire behind their austerity was demoniac; hence their austerity turned into a curse, into violence.

Often you will see a certain arrogance in the ascetic’s eyes. A stiffness in the ascetic, an unwillingness to bow, a tendency to think himself something. Austerity should make one humble; it should efface you; it should burn away all stiffness. But if an ascetic’s stiffness grows, then certainly demoniac wealth is being used.

A man hoards money—madly, as if life were only for hoarding. Then it may happen that one day this greedy man gets the idea of renunciation. The only meaning of such an idea is that he is seized by the greed for renunciation. He reads in some scripture, hears from some guru, that without leaving wealth there is no heaven. So he can strike a bargain: he can give up wealth—but he will give it up out of greed.

He may kick away all his money and stand naked on the road like a beggar, but if he has left wealth to gain heaven, the wealth he is using is demoniac. Demoniac wealth has nothing to do with heaven.

Understand this well. For behind your best practices demoniac wealth may be hiding—and then everything will be distorted. You will build a palace, but its foundation will be sand. And that palace will fall, and in falling it will bury you.

My continual experience is that the wrong kind of person can very quickly start doing the right kind of things. The madness that was engaged in wrong can be put to work in the right. But his fundamental wealth does not change. His anger, his greed, his pride do not change; only a new arrangement is made. The basic tone remains the old.

Therefore, before the seeker sets out, it is necessary to recognize clearly what is demoniac and what is divine. If the inner division is clear, the journey becomes easy. With wrong means there is no way to reach the right end. Your mere will is not enough, desire is not enough, prayer is not enough; only the right means brings you to the right goal. And the right means is the use of divine wealth.

Both wealths are with everyone. You do not have to earn them; you are born with them. At birth we carry both—and in equal measure. In that sense there is complete equality, communism—no difference at all. Poorest or richest, intelligent or dull—we are born equal. Nature gives equally. If in this world such differences appear, it depends on how we use what we have.

If a saint appears and a villain appears, nature has made neither. The divine gives you a blank cheque; no numbers are written. You write on it—and what you write, you become.

Remember, each person is born with equal wealth, and with both wealths equally. Hence children appear so innocent. The secret of a child’s innocence is that he is born with both wealths in balance. Because they are equal he is neither saint nor sinner. Both are balanced; hence the child is innocent.

But there is a great difference between the child’s innocence and the saint’s. The child’s innocence is filled with ignorance; the saint’s innocence is packed with knowing. The saint’s innocence is the full use of divine wealth. The child’s innocence is non-use; the slate is still blank. Both letters can be written; he is born with the capacity for both.

That is why the eyes of the supreme sage become childlike. A rebirth happens. Everything becomes simple again. But this simplicity is deep; the child’s simplicity is shallow.

The child’s simplicity is the balance of two opposing forces; both are present in equal measure, and the journey has not yet begun. Soon the journey will begin, and the child will start leaning to one side. As he leans, complexity will grow. As he leans, inner conflict will naturally arise; two parts will develop. Then whatever the child does, there will be two voices. He will steal—and two voices will be there. He will give—and two voices will be there. Both wealths will call.

At every moment, whenever you decide anything, both forces call, “This way!” You go to steal—something inside says, “It is bad; don’t do it.” You go to pray—something inside says, “Why waste time! In this time you could earn something.” Do good—inside a voice says, “Stop.” Do bad—inside a voice says, “Stop.” There are two voices within.

In a child, both voices are still quiet. He has not chosen yet. Hence the child is innocent. But this innocence will not last; it must break. Sooner or later he will enter the world, options will arise, choices must be made. Therefore the child will go astray.

A saint—supreme saint—means one who has crossed all distortions and come to balance again. This balance is not due to ignorance; it is achieved in total awareness and understanding.

A child is innocent without any personal cause; it is no attainment. Hence all children are innocent. It is surprising that there is no ugly child—whatever the child, he looks lovable.

But then where do all these lovely children go? Hardly anyone remains beautiful later. All children are born beautiful; seeing them, beauty stirs in all hearts. But these very children grow, and great ugliness appears. Rarely does anyone remain beautiful later. Where do all those things disappear?

The child’s beauty too was due to that balance. Once choice begins, beauty begins to fade.

Then the supreme sage attains a beauty that cannot be lost—because it is attained; it is one’s own earning, not nature’s gift. And only what you have earned is truly yours; what was given is not yours.

These two wealths are equally present in everyone.

Then Krishna spoke: Arjuna, I will tell you separately the signs of those who have divine wealth and those who have demoniac wealth.

Signs—so that you can recognize, so that Arjuna can recognize. And this recognition is absolutely fundamental.

The first mark of divine wealth: abhaya, fearlessness.

Hearing the word abhaya, we think of “being unafraid.” But abhaya is not the same as mere “bravery,” because those with demoniac wealth are often unafraid—sometimes more so. Criminals are fearless; otherwise crime would be difficult. And once they return from prison they are not frightened; they re-enter crime with greater preparation.

Psychologists say no criminal is ever reformed by prison, because his fearlessness increases. He has seen prison; he has passed through it; it was not too unbearable. That too can be endured.

Hence one who goes to prison once tends to go again and again. The more prisons we build, the more criminals multiply. The harsher the punishment, the more fearless the criminal becomes. This needs some understanding.

Many are not criminals simply because they lack nerve; there is no other reason. They too want to commit the crime but are afraid. You too want to steal, but fear seizes you. The fear of the consequences—prison, defamation, loss of status, getting caught—outweighs the greed for the theft. Fear is stronger than greed; it restrains you. You too want to kill—many times you think it, dream it; many times you have killed someone in your mind. It is hard to find a person who has not murdered someone at least a few times in imagination.

Psychologists say in a long life, if one lives to a hundred, on average every person contemplates suicide at least ten times. You do not do it—not because you don’t want to, but because you cannot muster that much fearlessness. Fear holds you.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was very angry with his wife. The quarrel intensified; past midnight he got up and said, “Enough! As much as I could bear, I have borne. Everything has a limit—and it has come. I’m going right now to drown myself in the lake.” He opened the door to go out; his wife said, “But Nasruddin, you don’t even know how to swim!” He came back, sat sadly, and said, “Then I will have to think of some other method.”

He was going to drown—yet if he cannot swim, he must think of another method!

You too want to do what the criminal does; perhaps the difference is in fearlessness.

Krishna lists abhaya as the first mark of divine wealth. And not only Krishna—Mahavira makes fearlessness fundamental; so does Buddha. Mahavira says no one can be non-violent without fearlessness, because violence arises out of fear.

But note well: the violent can be fearless—and are. The soldier going into battle is fearless, yet violent. Mahavira says the ultimate outcome of fearlessness is non-violence. So we must understand the difference between mere daring and abhaya.

“Brave” means fear is present inside, but you do not succumb to it; you stand despite it. A coward too has fear, but he accepts it and runs. The difference between coward and brave is not fear—both have it. The brave stands in spite of fear; the coward runs at its first touch. Fear is within both; the coward accepts it; the brave refuses it. Yet fear remains within.

Bravery means fear is inside, but we oppose it; we stand against it. Abhaya means fear is not there at all. Therefore one who has attained abhaya is neither coward nor brave; he cannot be either, for both require fear. If fear is, you can be coward or brave. If fear is not, you have attained fearlessness.

Krishna calls fearlessness the first mark of divine wealth. Why? If fearlessness is the first mark of divine wealth, then fear is the first mark of demoniac wealth.

What is this fear? And when you display courage, courage against what? Think a little and you will see: it is the fear of death. The pretext may be anything, the surface may be anything; beneath it is fear of death: “I may not be destroyed, I may not end.” Even where death is not apparent, deep down it is there.

If someone takes your wealth, fear grips you. If your house burns, fear seizes you. If your position is lost, fear arises. But that fear too is due to death—because position made living easier; it was a support. Wealth gave security; without it, insecurity. A house was shelter; burned, you stand under the open sky.

Whatever, when taken away, causes fear—those very things, when taken, make death feel nearer. And whatever you cling to are the very things that veil death from your eyes. Piles of wealth before your eyes, and death is hidden beyond.

With prestige and position, power is in your hands—you can fight. If illness or death approaches, something can be done. If nothing is in hand, you are delivered helpless into death’s hands.

Fear is of death; all fears spring from death. That is why we call him “brave” who stands even before death. Someone stands with a gun to your chest; if you turn and run, people call you a coward: “He showed his back!”

In the West there is a youth movement—the hippies. The very word is meaningful: the one who shows his hip, his back; the one who runs. The youth called hippies have a philosophy. They say, “Fighting is useless. And for what? And what do you get by fighting?” So they show their backs consciously.

These “brave” and “coward” share the same problem. The coward shows his back and runs. The brave does not show his back; he stands—even if he perishes. But both contain fear.

We will call fearless the person whose inside is free of fear. That can be only when the problem of death has been solved. When in some way the realization arises that death is not. When through some experience one tastes the nectar within, that one is not mortal.

When the sense of the Self awakens, fearlessness is born. Fearlessness is the very name of the Self. Whoever recognizes the Self even a little finds fearlessness arising in life.

Krishna makes this the first foundation. Why? On the journey to truth, to the absolute, in the ascent toward the divine, why is fearlessness first?

The possibility of fearlessness arises when there is a glimpse of the deathless. If there is such a glimpse, one can take the leap into the absolute; otherwise one cannot. If inside lurks the fear, “I might be annihilated,” then the absolute is more frightening than death—because in death perhaps only the body dies and the soul survives. In the absolute, even the soul does not remain—supreme death. In the vastness I will be lost as a drop dissolves into the ocean—no name, no form remains.

What we call death is half-death. The soul survives, takes a new body, sets out on new journeys. But one who attains knowledge of Brahman has no further journey—he is lost in the great void. Hence we say the supremely enlightened does not return.

People repeatedly asked Buddha, “What happens to one who attains buddhahood after death?” Buddha said, “If someone blows out a lamp, do you ask where the flame goes?” In that way the enlightened disappears—like a flame blown out.

So buddhahood is supreme death. Our little flame will somehow remain, to burn in a new lamp; it will seek a new house, a new body. But Buddha’s flame? The lamp is gone; the flame has vanished.

Krishna therefore places fearlessness first among the divine wealth. For whoever would enter divinity needs the courage to efface himself utterly. Who can efface himself utterly? Only one who trusts completely that there is no way to be annihilated. This sounds paradoxical.

Only he can erase himself who knows he cannot be erased. He can leap easily. He can enter the fire because he knows fire will not burn him. He can be pierced by weapons because he knows weapons cannot cut him. On this faith fearlessness grows.

Fearlessness; thorough purification of the heart.

Much confusion clings to the heart. Society has made great use of “conscience.” Society’s whole strategy rests on exploiting it. From childhood society teaches each child what is proper and what is not. It establishes this so forcibly, repeats it so often, that conditioning, a fixed pattern, sets in. Then whenever you move in the opposite direction, the conscience that society taught immediately raises opposition.

Hence every society possesses a different conscience. If you were born in a vegetarian family, that family gave you a vegetarian conscience. If meat comes before you, you will feel only disgust; your mouth will not water but your stomach will turn; you may even vomit.

The same meat, for one born in a non-vegetarian home, will awaken taste. Seeing it his dormant appetite may stir; even without hunger, hunger may arise. While for one born in a vegetarian home, seeing the same meat tremendous revulsion will arise.

Certainly, this conscience is not your real conscience. It is taught, trained. It is society’s tool. The question is not right or wrong. Society has understood one thing—that if individuals are to be kept under control, in order, then before their real conscience begins to speak, we should fill them with whatever notions we want.

Psychologists say that by seven years of age half your brain is formed—fifty percent in seven years. The remaining fifty percent is formed in the rest of life. And that first fifty percent is the base. It is hard to go against it. It is easy to shape your whole life in line with it. If you go against it, life will pass in great confusion and conflict.

Hence all so-called religious sects are keen to exploit children quickly. A religion that does not give religious education to its children cannot hope later. Before seven, the notions must be inserted. If they embed deeply, the voice of real conscience is never heard; only the conscience given by society keeps speaking in between.

When Krishna says “thorough purification of the heart,” he means that unless the heart is freed from the notions society has given, your real soul cannot speak. A Hindu will speak within, a Muslim will speak, a Jain will speak, a Christian will speak, theist or atheist will speak—but what you were born with, the divine tone within you, will remain hidden. For it to be revealed, all the layers upon the heart must be peeled away.

Why is Krishna telling Arjuna this? Because the “wisdom” Arjuna is speaking is not coming from his heart; it is social conditioning. He says: “These are my teachers—how can I kill those whose feet I have touched? They are my own brothers, my kin, my friends, my beloveds. On the other side stand many who are related to my relations.” Bhishma Pitamah stands on that side—he is worthy of my reverence. “How can I fight them? They are mine, they are my kin.”

Who is “yours”?

Jesus stood in a crowd and spoke a very harsh sentence that has been criticized again and again—because such words were not expected from one like Jesus. Someone shouted from the crowd, “Jesus, your mother Mary has come to see you.” Jesus said, “I have no mother and no father.”

Harsh words. And from one so compassionate—unexpected. Certainly he had a different purpose.

Jesus is saying: Who is mother? Who is father? So far as pure conscience is concerned, there is no father, no mother, no brother, no kin. As far as the conscience given by society is concerned—there is mother, father, brother, kin. These are teachings, conditionings.

Arjuna says, “This is bad.” Krishna says, “This is not the voice of your heart. Whatever you have been told is bad—you are repeating that. It is not your own realization, not your inner wisdom, not your insight. It is not you speaking; society’s notions within you are speaking.”

And until we can set aside society’s notions, the pure conscience does not come into view. Purification of conscience does not mean the conscience of a “good man.” What we call a good man is simply one who follows society’s accepted norms. Bad we call one who does not.

But these norms change daily. In the time of Jesus, people called him bad because he did not accept the norms of the Jewish society into which he was born. So people saw Jesus as rowdy, subversive, criminal; therefore the Jews crucified him. While crucifying, they made sure he was hung between criminals—two thieves on either side—so society would understand they were punishing him like a criminal. “He opposed society’s notions—he is a bad man.”

But later a society of Jesus’ followers formed, and for them Jesus became the best of men—indeed, none better. Difficult! For the Jews he is bad, fit for the cross. For Christians he is good—the only begotten son, worthy of worship—the sole support of liberation; the way, the gate; apart from him there is no gate.

Such divergent appraisals!

It is not about conscience. The Jew weighs with one social measure; the Christian with another.

This has happened continuously in this land—and in every land. What looks bad today may look good tomorrow. If society’s notion changes, the measuring stick changes. What looks good today may look bad tomorrow. The notion shifts; the scale changes; the weighing changes.

Purification of conscience does not mean the conscience of a good person. It means pure conscience. Pure does not mean “good”—it means unadulterated.

Remember, even two pure things mixed produce impurity. Mix pure water with pure milk, you do not get double purity—both become impure. Impure means something alien has been mixed. Pure means nothing added—just as it is.

The conscience with which we are born, which no one gave us, which society did not construct—our inner wealth—if we polish that, Krishna says, if we strip away society’s dry leaves of notions and let the hidden stream of water show, that is the second mark of divine wealth. With the support of that conscience one can reach divinity.

What you now call good and bad is only social approval. In another society approvals change. There is no practice on earth that is not considered good somewhere; and none that is not considered bad somewhere. Everything is deemed good somewhere, bad somewhere.

There are societies where marriage between brother and sister is good. There are societies where, if the father dies, the elder son must marry the mother. There are societies where if the father becomes old, it is the elder son’s duty to cremate the living father. And each has its rationale, its historical base. If you listen with sympathy, their argument too seems sensible.

Those societies where brother-sister marriage is common—some African tribes—say only brother and sister can be true husband and wife. Because they share great nearness, similar natures. Marrying a woman from another family—raised in a different milieu—brings trouble and conflict. Between brother and sister there is already a natural love—let that love be transformed.

There is force in their argument. And there is force in the opposing argument: If brother and sister may marry, then how will early sexual relations between them be prevented? The family will get entangled in sexuality from the outset. If from childhood sexual relations are opened in this way, life will move toward indulgence at its base and a sacred form of love will not develop—love that is free of sex. If that sacred love does not grow between brother and sister, then where will it grow? Its line will be lost forever. There is force in this argument too.

I am saying: whichever society has accepted any notion, it has reasons for it, a base in its development; it accepted it for some cause. He who simply follows that notion may be called a good man or a bad man—but one with pure conscience cannot be produced by following notions.

This does not mean a man of pure conscience goes about breaking all norms, becomes society’s enemy. It does not mean he rebels and becomes licentious. A man of pure conscience will work to free his inner conscience from notions. He will bring it to the point where society has left no imprint—where his conscience is a mirror, pure, as it was at birth before society wrote anything on it: empty, void.

Only through that conscience can divine wealth be found; divinity can be found. For the tones that arise in that conscience are the tones of the divine. What you now call conscience speaks with society’s voice.

Unwavering stability in the yoga of knowing.

Unwavering stability in the yoga of knowing! On the one hand there is our ordinary life, which we can call a fixed stance in unconsciousness. Whatever we do, we do in sleep. We do not really know why we did what we did—why anger, why love, why we lived as we did—nothing is clear.

Like a drunk walking in the dark—he reaches anywhere; he knows neither path nor direction; perhaps he just circles round and thinks he has traveled far. That is our state. Our “firmness” is in stupor.

Stability in the yoga of knowing means stability in awareness, in wakefulness. Whether I rise, sit, walk—whatever the conduct, it happens in total consciousness. My lamp of knowing remains lit. I know fully why I act as I do. Nothing comes out of me without clear, direct awareness.

What Krishnamurti calls awareness, what Mahavira called samyak jnana, what Buddha called right mindfulness, what Kabir, Nanak, Dadu call surati-yoga—that is stability in the yoga of knowing. Do not act in stupor; do not let unconscious forces make you act. Let your action be conscious.

Someone shoves you. The moment he shoves, a flame of anger leaps up. That anger flaring is like pressing a switch and the bulb lighting. The bulb does not think, “Shall I light or not? I am not someone’s slave.” It lights mechanically. If anger arises in you that way when someone shoves, you too are mechanical. The one who shoved has become your operator; he is your owner now—he made anger arise within you.

But you have taken vows many times not to be angry; you have resolved again and again that anger brings sorrow; you remember the scriptural words—anger is fire, poison. You remember all that. But when someone shoves, that all disappears. Anger surges up. This anger is in stupor.

If someone shoves Buddha, anger does not leap; it does not arise at all. Buddha sees the shove—and then looks within to see what is happening—and chooses what to do. Your shove is not decisive. Even after your shove, Buddha remains decisive; he decides what to do.

When you are angry, the decision is not yours. Another decides for you. A flatterer comes, praises you, and gets work done. You know he is a flatterer; you know praise is not right. But someone praises, and you forget; some inner bulbs light up; inner machinery starts operating, driven by the other.

One who is not living moment to moment by his own decision, one whom others push and pull, manipulate, one who is directed by others—such a person is firmly fixed in stupor.

The sign of one fixed in awareness is that he walks by himself, rises by himself; and whatever he does is his own decision, taken consciously. No unconscious forces have made the decision for him.

In you, twenty-four hours a day, the larger part is unconscious—Freud tried to analyze it. He says: like an iceberg floating in water—nine parts submerged, one above—so only one-tenth of your mind is conscious; nine-tenths are submerged; you know nothing of them. And those nine parts make you work all day. You have to do their bidding. Even if you resolve otherwise, it doesn’t matter—because the deciding part is only one; the nine parts beneath do not listen.

You decide—say after hearing a discourse on celibacy, reading a book, the idea pleases the intellect (the one part floating above water), you decide. But the nine parts beneath know nothing of your book, of celibacy; they never heard any such thing; they follow their own patterns. They have been collected through births upon births, through countless impressions as plant, as animal; they are what they are. They go their way. Their strength is ninefold.

Whenever desire seizes the mind, that one part proves impotent. The ninefold powerful parts prove stronger and compel you. So strong is their compulsion they will even provide arguments to your one part; it will rationalize: “Never mind, there is nothing substantial in this celibacy business. Celibacy is for later—life is long.”

A thousand arguments. The nine will push and persuade the one. When the nine have achieved their work, the one again starts thinking noble thoughts—celibacy returns. But against the nine it is always weaker.

This is every man’s difficulty. Whoever tries to change his life finds that he resolves—but cannot fulfill.

Krishna says divine wealth becomes active only when one is unwaveringly established in the yoga of knowing.

So trained in awareness that—like an iceberg melting, more and more rises above the water—as awareness is exercised, the unconscious shrinks and the conscious grows. And there is a state of total awareness, of perfect wisdom, when your whole mind is illumined, filled with wakefulness.

In that state, whatever decisions are taken meet no opposition; whatever you decide happens, for there is no contrary voice within. In that life there is no repentance. In that life all is bliss, all is non-dual.

All practices of sadhana are means to unwavering establishment in the yoga of knowing. All meditations, all prayers, all methods—how to live more and more in awareness; to break stupor, to lessen unawareness.

And generosity and restraint of the senses; sacrifice, self-study and austerity; and simplicity of heart along with purity of body and senses.

Dana—giving—is very fundamental. The demoniac wealth is the impulse to take, to snatch: what another has, how can it be mine? How can everything be mine, possession—how can I be owner of the whole world? Divine wealth is the impulse to give: whatever I have, let it be shared; whatever I am, let me share it; may others partake of what I have; may it become theirs.

Krishna does not specify what to give—money, property, land—that is not the question. Only this: giving—the feeling.

Mahavira shares his knowing; Buddha shares his compassion; Jesus his service. The question is not what. Deep down, whatever I am, let it not remain mine; let it become everyone’s. Let me scatter, flow into all; let nothing of “mine” remain. The natural results are profound.

The more I think of grabbing, the more ego swells. Hence the more wealth, resources, facilities I have, the more ego. The more I share, the more I melt. The more I participate, the more my being dissolves into others, the more my ego becomes zero.

With divine wealth, I-ness does not remain; with demoniac, only I-ness remains. Ego is the devil’s final achievement; egolessness is the divine state.

So dana means: give; cultivate the habit of giving; and long for the day when nothing remains to give. This does not mean you will have nothing. The more you give, the more there will be. The more you share, the more it grows. The more you empty yourself, pour yourself out, the larger your kingdom becomes. Giving does not mean nothing will remain—but that nothing should be hoarded for “me.”

Dana is the essence of love. Snatching is the ground of hate. If in love you want to take from the other, it is not love—it is exploitation under the name of love. Where there is demand, love cannot be. Love is sheer giving, unconditional. It does not arise from the desire to receive; giving itself is joy. And one feels grace toward the one who receives.

Generosity and restraint of the senses.

Krishna places giving and restraint together. This needs reflection. For the more you give, the more the senses subside on their own. The more you take and accumulate, the stronger the senses become. The senses want to snatch; one who is ready to give finds his senses slowly falling silent. Restraint does not come by fighting the senses; it comes by distributing the self totally. One who keeps nothing for himself—the senses quiet down of themselves.

This peace of the senses that blossoms from giving or love is utterly different from suppressing the senses—indeed the opposite. If someone forcefully suppresses the senses, unrest will be produced, not peace.

Try suppressing any sense—and you will see the unrest caused by it. A sense wants to go out into enjoyment; it wants to lead you somewhere.

One who suppresses will become more agitated. But one who is ready to share himself finds his senses quieting naturally.

Understand this difference. Fast for a day. What will you do? You will suppress hunger. Hunger comes daily; today too it will come—you will push it down. Pushed down, hunger will pervade every pore; for twenty-four hours, food will be all you remember.

But suppose a guest comes home. There is only enough food for you or for the guest. You are happy he has come; so you feed him. This is a higher kind of fasting. In this fasting there is joy, a brightness. Hunger is still there; but you did not suppress hunger—you shared the food; you gave.

Thus a mother, if her child is hungry, will feed him and go to bed hungry herself. The joy of that fasting is of another kind—one no ordinary ascetic can know. He merely suppresses hunger; she has not suppressed hunger; she has shared food. Here is a fundamental difference. Here another’s hunger is fulfilled—one whom she loves.

If giving pervades all aspects of life, all the senses become quiet by themselves. And only when restraint arises out of giving is there a celebration in it. Restraint without giving—restraint can arise from greed too—then there is distortion and ugliness.

The difference is subtle. You will know it only by experiment. To deprive yourself so that someone else may have—there is a joy in that deprivation. To deprive yourself without the thought of giving—there is no relish, no joy—only pain.

You can go hungry and put the saved money in the bank. In that hunger there is only hunger.

Do not make going hungry primary; make filling someone’s stomach primary. If hunger must follow from that, accept it.

All senses can be transformed through giving. You can stand naked in the street—that is one thing. That nakedness is incomplete, and full of ego. But if someone stands naked and you give him your garment, the flavor of that nakedness is different—no ego, no ascetic pride. Its purity and completeness are of another kind.

But what has often happened is that religions born to transform life through giving forgot the giving; the inner half of giving remained inside, the outer expression was lost. That inner half has no meaning alone.

You can fast much—but your fasting should go to fill someone’s belly. You can become utterly poor—but that has no value. Your poverty should become a means to enrich someone; then the circle is complete. And then the tumult of the senses quiets as it never can through mere suppression.

Sacrifice, self-study, austerity, and simplicity of heart along with purity of body and senses.

Yajna (sacrifice) is the name of a scientific process. We know its outer form; but the outer is symbolic. Through outer symbol something inner is being conveyed. Yajna is a technique, a method—how to kindle the inner fire and how to burn myself to ashes in that fire.

Life is a play of fire. You too are a form of fire. Food is digested, blood formed, blood runs, the heart beats, breath moves—fire’s play. If the body loses fire, everything is lost. When you grow cold, death has arrived. Death is always cold; life is always warm. Life is a warmth. The Hindus have made deep experiments with this warmth; their name is yajna.

This life-warmth, through which ordinary functions proceed—food is digested—you cannot imagine, science has not yet fully opened the secret. Inside this small body, vast work goes on. You eat; it is digested; blood and marrow are produced.

Scientists say that if we were to perform the work the human body performs—put a piece of bread into a machine and get blood, flesh, marrow—we have not yet found such an arrangement. They think someday it may be possible—who knows when. If it is, then to do what one human body does would require a mechanical installation of at least four square miles. A factory spread over four square miles—to perform the body’s work. Astonishing work, done silently.

Within, as the Yogis say, there is a flame ablaze; fire does all the work. Breath we take—this too is fire. A lamp burns—this too is fire. Scientists call it oxidation.

A lamp burns; a gust blows—you fear it may go out; you cover it with a glass. For a moment it continues, then it goes out. The storm might not have quenched it, but a covered jar will, for to burn each instant it needs oxygen. While there is oxygen inside it burns, then goes out.

We breathe twenty-four hours; oxygen goes in; that is fire, subtle fire. Breath stops: a man dies. If breath is improperly taken, life wanes.

Through yogic processes the subtle inner fire can be caused to blaze. That is yajna. And when it burns fiercely, not only is food digested and the body runs, not only daily routines proceed—when it blazes, our ego burns. Passing through that fire we taste for the first time the fullness of divinity. With the burning of ego, rubbish is consumed and gold emerges.

Swadhyaya means continual study of oneself. It does not primarily mean reading the Gita—that is secondary. Nor reading the Vedas—that too is secondary. Swadhyaya is ceaseless self-observation, watching oneself continually. Recognizing, examining each little movement. What am I doing, why, what hidden motives—investigate thoroughly. Turn yourself into a living process of study. Even when a dream arises, study why it happened.

No dream happens without cause. You dream of murdering someone—not without a reason. Something wants to happen; in the dream it finds expression. From dreams to deeds, study everything. Make yourself a scripture—and learn what is happening. And to live according to the conclusions drawn from that study is tapas, austerity.

Self-study and austerity.

Whatever conclusions come from self-study—living according to them is tapas. Tapas does not mean torturing yourself without cause; it is not self-inflicted pain. Tapas means: live according to the conclusions my observation yields.

It will be difficult; you will have to endure discomfort; you will need resolve—because old habits are easy. Even if they lead to sorrow, they are easy. To change them is arduous; suffering will be involved. But once they change, joy is attained. The results of honest self-observation must not be merely written down; live by them—that is tapas.

And simplicity of heart together with purity of body and senses.

In every aspect of life, give place to simplicity instead of complexity. Avoid whatever is complicated; establish whatever is simple.

Ordinarily we do the reverse. Whatever is complicated attracts us. If a puzzle is set before us that is very tangled, we drop twenty-five tasks to solve it. The complicated attracts. Why?

There is Everest. The mind wants to climb. Someone asked Edmund Hillary why he was so mad to climb Everest. He replied, “Because Everest is there; therefore it must be climbed—a challenge.”

So the more complicated a thing, the more we want to do it. There is no need to go to the moon—but we must go. No need to go to Mars—but we must—because it is there and our mind is restless. Although if you reach the moon or Mars, you will still be you. The mischief you commit here you will commit there. Mars cannot change you. If you are miserable here, you will be miserable there. Nothing will happen by arriving.

But complexity attracts because it is a challenge—and challenge nourishes ego. The harder the task, the more worth doing it seems. The simpler the task, the less—because simplicity does not feed the ego.

Krishna says: simplicity in all dimensions—of body, senses, and heart.

Choose what is simple. Slowly you will see your ego slipping away. Choose what is difficult—and you will see your ego swelling.

Man even creates difficulties for himself. After crossing them he can tell the world, “See how many difficulties I overcame!” Whom will you go to tell that you crossed simplicity? There was nothing to cross.

Make simplicity your rule of life. Whenever a choice appears, choose the simpler. This is very difficult—choosing the simple—because the ego gets no relish from it. Stand on your head in the street and fifty people gather. Stand on your feet and no one gathers. Stand on your head and the crowd gathers—because you’re doing something difficult. Although nothing is gained by standing on your head, the crowd gathers—and the crowd gives us a kick.

Kafka, the renowned storyteller, wrote a short tale. A man used to fast in public—displayed fasting. He could fast forty days. People were impressed. He went from village to village fasting for forty days. A circus came to a town where he was fasting; they liked the act and took him in. In the circus too, crowds gathered. But slowly—

If you stand on your head daily, crowds stop gathering: “He always does that.”

The fasting man kept fasting. At first people thought forty days—how difficult! Here it wouldn’t seem difficult; in Germany it did. But slowly people thought, “He simply does it; he is practiced.” They stopped buying tickets to his stall.

The circus owners thought, “People hardly buy tickets—why carry him?” They told him to go. He said, “Now I cannot go, because I cannot live without fasting. Let me stay.” So they put his cage at the back where the wild animals were.

People still came. One came to see the lion, one the elephant—they passed by his cage. He savored even that—he thought to himself, “They come to see me.” Though he felt that no one really came now.

When forty days had no effect, he announced he would fast forever. He lasted eighty days. Word of eighty days spread; people started coming. At about ninety days, a reporter put his ear to the bars—his voice had grown very faint—and asked, “Why are you doing this?” In a whisper he replied, “I want to break all records. Let me die—but the record must be broken. No one must ever have fasted more than I.”

There is a thrill in the complicated—the thrill of breaking records. Simplicity has no records; everyone has always been doing it.

Krishna says: whoever wishes to go toward the divine must choose simplicity in all aspects of life.

Whenever there is a choice—choose the simple, the simplest. Slowly you will find the ego has vanished. When ego is gone, the root of demoniac wealth is cut. When egolessness arrives, the door of divine wealth opens.

Enough for today.