This threefold gate to hell is the ruin of the self:
lust, anger, and greed; therefore, let this triad be forsaken। ।। 21।।
Freed from these three doors of darkness, O Kaunteya, one
acts for the self’s true good; then attains the supreme goal। ।। 22।।
Who, casting aside the rule of scripture, acts as desire dictates—
gains no perfection, no happiness, no supreme goal। ।। 23।।
Therefore, let scripture be your authority in discerning what should be done and what should not be done।
Knowing what the ordinance of scripture enjoins, you ought to act here। ।। 24।।
Geeta Darshan #8
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
त्रिविधं नरकस्येदं द्वारं नाशनमात्मनः।
कामः क्रोधस्तथा लोभस्तस्मादेतत्त्रयं त्यजेत्।। 21।।
एतैर्विमुक्तः कौन्तेय तमोद्वारैस्त्रिभिर्नरः।
आचरत्यात्मनः श्रेयस्ततो याति परां गतिम्।। 22।।
यः शास्त्रविधिमुत्सृज्य वर्तते कामकारतः।
न स सिद्धिमवाप्नोति न सुखं न परां गतिम्।। 23।।
तस्माच्छात्रं प्रमाणं ते कार्याकार्यव्यवस्थितौ।
ज्ञात्वा शास्त्रविधानोक्तं कर्म कर्तुमिहार्हसि।। 24।।
कामः क्रोधस्तथा लोभस्तस्मादेतत्त्रयं त्यजेत्।। 21।।
एतैर्विमुक्तः कौन्तेय तमोद्वारैस्त्रिभिर्नरः।
आचरत्यात्मनः श्रेयस्ततो याति परां गतिम्।। 22।।
यः शास्त्रविधिमुत्सृज्य वर्तते कामकारतः।
न स सिद्धिमवाप्नोति न सुखं न परां गतिम्।। 23।।
तस्माच्छात्रं प्रमाणं ते कार्याकार्यव्यवस्थितौ।
ज्ञात्वा शास्त्रविधानोक्तं कर्म कर्तुमिहार्हसि।। 24।।
Transliteration:
trividhaṃ narakasyedaṃ dvāraṃ nāśanamātmanaḥ|
kāmaḥ krodhastathā lobhastasmādetattrayaṃ tyajet|| 21||
etairvimuktaḥ kaunteya tamodvāraistribhirnaraḥ|
ācaratyātmanaḥ śreyastato yāti parāṃ gatim|| 22||
yaḥ śāstravidhimutsṛjya vartate kāmakārataḥ|
na sa siddhimavāpnoti na sukhaṃ na parāṃ gatim|| 23||
tasmācchātraṃ pramāṇaṃ te kāryākāryavyavasthitau|
jñātvā śāstravidhānoktaṃ karma kartumihārhasi|| 24||
trividhaṃ narakasyedaṃ dvāraṃ nāśanamātmanaḥ|
kāmaḥ krodhastathā lobhastasmādetattrayaṃ tyajet|| 21||
etairvimuktaḥ kaunteya tamodvāraistribhirnaraḥ|
ācaratyātmanaḥ śreyastato yāti parāṃ gatim|| 22||
yaḥ śāstravidhimutsṛjya vartate kāmakārataḥ|
na sa siddhimavāpnoti na sukhaṃ na parāṃ gatim|| 23||
tasmācchātraṃ pramāṇaṃ te kāryākāryavyavasthitau|
jñātvā śāstravidhānoktaṃ karma kartumihārhasi|| 24||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, if God and religion are but names for the Supreme Law, nothing else, then prayer, devotion, worship—all become futile. Then religion becomes synonymous with science, and religion remains only the quest for that Supreme Law. Please shed more light on this.
Osho, if God and religion are but names for the Supreme Law, nothing else, then prayer, devotion, worship—all become futile. Then religion becomes synonymous with science, and religion remains only the quest for that Supreme Law. Please shed more light on this.
Such a question is bound to arise. If religion is merely law, then naturally religion becomes science. Then what prayer? To whom? What worship—and of whom? Ritual, devotion—everything seems pointless.
Because we have so far understood that prayer is possible only if a personal God exists. We have heard and believed that worship is meaningful only if there is someone to receive it, that adoration and devotion make sense only if there is a Lord—someone like a person who can accept or reject, who is pleased by praise and offended by blame, who responds. Only then, we think, does the call of our love have meaning—if someone answers. We have understood it that way; hence the question arises.
But our understanding is mistaken; there is an error at its very base.
The relevance of prayer has nothing to do with God. The whole science of prayer pertains to the one who prays. Whether God exists or not, whether some person sits in the sky managing life or not, devotion has nothing to do with that. Devotion is the devotee’s inner state.
It is hard for a devotee to be devotional without God, so all religions have nourished the idea of God—only to support the devotee. But if there is understanding, devotion is complete in itself; it requires no God. Prayer is complete in itself; whether anyone hears it or not is inessential. Adoration is sufficient in itself; the adored is not at all necessary.
When I say this, you may wonder what I mean—because it sounds difficult. Worship, for us, makes sense only when there is a worship-worthy one; adoration only when there is an adored. But I want to tell you: worship is a state of consciousness.
Buddha does not believe in a God, and yet there is not an ounce less adoration in him. He carries no image of any Supreme Being in his mind, yet will you find a heart more prayerful than Buddha’s? H. G. Wells wrote that it is hard to find a man so godless and so God-like.
If we turn a little inward, we can understand this.
Can you be loving without there being a beloved? Can being loving be your way and style of living? Can being loving be your feeling-state?
Then you will rise in love, sit in love, eat in love, go to sleep in love. There may be no beloved, yet you will be loving. Then whoever crosses your path will look like the beloved. A bird flies through your courtyard, and if your heart is loving, even the bird becomes a beloved. No one may be there—only an empty sky over your courtyard—and if your heart is loving, even the empty sky takes on a presence.
A person is not needed. If the heart is loving, wherever its light falls, a presence is created. There may be no God—there is the devotee. And wherever the devotee’s heart looks, God manifests there.
This needs a little understanding.
It is the creative art of the devotee’s heart: wherever he casts his eyes, God is born. He looks at a tree, and God appears in the tree. It depends on your eyes what you bring forth. God is the devotee’s creation.
Religion is law. Religion is not a person; it is power. That is why the word “God” is not quite right—“godliness” is. Not deity, but divinity! There isn’t a person sitting up there running things—but things are running. Movement is happening; there is no mover. This vast orchestration of movement, this great energy, this power—if there is devotion in the heart, that very power becomes God. If there is no devotion in the heart, that very power appears as nature.
Nature and God are two interpretations arising from two kinds of hearts. The heart without devotion sees nature, matter, all around. The heart with devotion sees the Divine, the Lord, everywhere. “God” and “nature” are two descriptions of the same vast happening—and your heart determines which description you give. You see what has already dawned within your heart.
Prayer, worship, adoration are not because of God. But because of prayer, worship, adoration, the world begins to appear God-like. It is not that God is—and therefore we pray. We pray—and therefore God happens.
People say, “God created you,” and I say, “Your devotion creates God.” Where your devotion flowers, there God manifests. Where your devotion departs, there God departs. God is your way of seeing.
Religion is law. But to enter that law, you must change yourself—only then is it possible.
Prayer is to change you. Ordinarily we pray to change God. You are ill, so you pray, “Make me well.” Our prayer is an attempt to change God’s intention. If you are ill and truly a devotee, you would accept, “God wills that I be ill; that is why I am ill.”
We try to change God’s view: “Make me healthy; I am poor—make me rich. I am unhappy—make me happy. Change your outlook.” We try to attract His attention: “Change things; the way things are is not right; I’m not pleased.”
And we flatter Him. Because in life we have learned that people can be influenced by flattery, we think God too will be influenced the same way. So we praise, we sing His glories: “You are so great.” But what is hidden in all this? What is the mind’s desire?
Only this: “What you are doing is not right.” In our praise there is a kind of threat: “If you don’t stop this, we will stop praising; the prayer will end; then who will worship you? If you want worship to continue, then do a little something according to our wish.”
Our prayers are demands; we ask for something. And our fundamental demand is: “We are right, and you are wrong.”
A great thinker, Aldous Huxley, wrote: whenever we pray to God, we want two and two not to make four.
That is the shape of our prayers: that two and two should not be four. We have sinned, and therefore we suffer—two and two make four. We want not to suffer. We sinned—please forgive.
Whatever we are undergoing is the sum of our actions. But we ask you to alter it. Two and two make four, but we want you to make it five—or three—just not four. Our prayers are meant to shake arithmetic, to break the law. Otherwise, what purpose do our prayers serve?
If this is your idea of prayer, then yes—without God prayer becomes futile. If the throne is empty, you can go on banging your head, it’s useless. You can bang your head only so long as you believe that someone sits on the throne who might change because of it.
And when change happens by coincidence, we fool our minds. No change ever happens because of our prayers, nor is there a God who changes. But amid infinite coincidences, sometimes our prayer aligns with events; something changes, and we say, “Thank you.” If nothing changes, we express annoyance.
People come to me and say, “We were on the verge of giving up—this religion and all that seemed futile. But the prayer was answered; since then our faith has grown.” Others come and say, “We got tired of praying—never any fruit; our faith has collapsed.”
In truth, no one has faith. If a prayer is fulfilled, faith settles in; if it is not, faith is uprooted.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin used to pray loudly every morning. Whether God heard or not, the neighbors surely did: “Less than a hundred I will not take; even if you give ninety-nine, I will not take it. Whenever you give, give a full hundred!”
Finally the neighbors got fed up. One decided to test him: “Let’s see what happens if we give him ninety-nine.” One morning, as Mulla was praying, a pouch of ninety-nine coins was tossed into his courtyard.
The first thing Mulla did was count. His prayer was left half-said; he couldn’t complete the namaz. He quickly counted—ninety-nine. Then he said, “Bravo, O God! You’ve deducted one rupee as the bag’s fee!” And he accepted the ninety-nine.
This is our self-made prayer; our prayer—and we keep accounts. Whether someone is there or not matters little. Therefore, if you become certain there is no God, your prayer will break—I know that. So the question is pertinent.
But the kind of prayer that collapses if God is not, was never prayer at all. Prayer has nothing to do with changing God; prayer is the alchemy to change you. When you pray, it is not some God in the sky who is transformed. When you pray, you are transformed in the very act of praying.
Prayer is a practical experiment by which you break the ego and learn to bend. There is no one sitting there before whom you bow. The result comes from the very happening of bowing. You bow. It is hard to bow without a God—so no harm, you may believe in God. But the real happening is born of your bowing.
You learn to bend, to surrender before something. Somewhere your head comes down; what was always stiff finds a place to bow. Somewhere you go to your knees like a small child; somewhere tears flow and you become light. And the thought “I can do it” breaks down through prayer. “You will do it” is not the point; rather, “I can do it” collapses. We pray only when we see, “I cannot do it. It cannot be done by me.”
In its deepest sense: wherever you understand that you are not the doer, prayer begins. Prayer is the device to lose doership. That sense “I am the doer,” that ego, that ‘I-ness’ that claims “I do”—the breaking of it is prayer.
When you kneel and bow your head and say, “Nothing will happen through me; now you do it. It is beyond me. You lift me; I cannot walk further; you carry me”—this has nothing to do with a listener out there; there may be no one hearing. But the heart that says it is dissolving its ego. And the joy that comes through prayer is not given by someone else; it arises from your dropping the ego.
Religion is a law. Whoever bends grows richer; whoever stiffens breaks. The more rigid one becomes, the more dead one is. The more one bends, becomes supple, flexible, the more alive one is.
That is the difference between a child and an old man. The old man’s bones are stiff—he cannot bend. The child is supple.
Prayer gives you suppleness, flexibility; it teaches you to bend. One who does not pray grows stiff—prematurely old, prematurely dead; dead while alive. One who knows how to pray—death cannot erase him. Even in the moment of dying, he remains supple; even then, he is as vibrantly alive as a child.
One who learns the art of prayer need have no concern with God. God is merely a pretext so that prayer can happen. God is only a peg on which to hang the coat of prayer. The real thing is the happening of prayer.
That is why great knowers like Buddha and Mahavira outright denied God. But they could not deny prayer—prayer continued. They could not deny worship—worship continued. They could not deny surrender—surrender continued. Hence Jainism could not reach the masses easily, because people find it hard to understand: if there is no God, then what adoration? If there is no God, whom do we worship?
So the Jaina view appealed to only a few; not many could walk with it. And those few who came at first were the truly understanding ones. Later, their descendants follow only out of blindness: because their parents were Jain, they are Jain. Even they do not truly understand.
So they found new devices. Without God, worship would not happen—so they seated Mahavira in God’s place, and worship resumed! Now there is no difference between Jain and Hindu. The Hindu prays to Rama, to Krishna; the Jain prays to Mahavira, to Rishabh, to Neminath. It makes no difference.
Without God, praying is very difficult; but for one who can, flowers shower in his life. If you cannot, begin with God—no harm. God is only a toy; let the real thing—prayer—happen. The day prayer happens, you yourself will see that the question of God’s being or not being is irrelevant.
Religion is law—that is why I said it. And whatever happens in life happens through an ultimate law. Nothing happens because of your prayers. Nothing happens because of your worship. Yes—if your worship, your prayer, changes you, you begin to flow in tune with the law. Flowing with the law, events happen.
In life we almost always repeat the same mistakes. In your past life you made the same mistakes; in the life before that, the same; today, the same. And the fear is: perhaps in the future, in lives to come, you will repeat them again. Every generation repeats them; every person repeats them.
The greatest of mistakes is this: even our inner feelings we cannot accept without objectifying them, without turning them into an outer object. The feeling is inner, but to manage even that feeling we need an outer prop. This is among the fundamental errors.
If you are happy and someone asks, “Why are you happy?” you cannot say, “I am just happy. What is the question of why?” Instead you will give a reason: “I am happy because a friend came home; because I got money; because I won the lottery.” You will supply some cause. You don’t have the courage to say, “I am happy because there is joy in being happy.”
And the foolish are those who search for causes—because one who seeks causes can never be very happy. How many causes will you find? Causes cannot be found every day. Today a cause may arise, a moment later it is gone. The lottery comes, there is a jolt of joy—and then? A friend arrives today; tomorrow some other event happens. If joy comes only from causes, then very little joy will ever come.
That is why there is so little happiness and so much misery in people’s lives. Because we accept sorrow causelessly, but for joy we look for a cause.
And if you are happy without cause, people will think you are mad. Happy without reason! There must be a reason. If you are smiling, dancing for no reason—no lottery, the wife has not gone to her mother’s house—no reason for joy, and yet you are happy—people will think you are mad.
This is the secret of those we have called sages: they have found the way to be happy without cause. This is the difference between a worldly man and a saint. The worldly man first seeks causes; only when all proofs are in will he be happy. The saint is happy—he seeks no proofs. What is the difference?
The saint lives in inner feeling; he does not look for outer objectification, external proof in the form of objects. So the saint says: prayer is enough—whether God is or is not. If He is, fine; if He is not, equally fine. It makes no difference to the saint’s prayer.
The saint loves and does not seek a beloved. There is so much joy in love that there is no need to take on the burden of a beloved. The saint meditates, but seeks no object for meditation.
Freedom from objects, freedom from thing-ness, and delighting in inner feeling—then life’s supreme samadhi happens by itself.
But we want something from the outside in every case. If nothing is available outside, we are utterly empty—because we have never cared for the within. We have not searched for the inner roots from which all the flowers of life can bloom without any outside support. Until that is understood, take outer support; but remember, it is only support—there is no one there. What does this mean? Am I saying there is no God?
No. I am only saying: the God you think of is not. The God you have manufactured is not. God means only this: the total existence, the totality, the wholeness. These trees, plants, stones, the earth, sun, moon, stars, human beings, animals, birds—this vast spread, this Brahman, this expanse—this all is God. And the day you learn the art of bending within, when your head can bow, your being becomes supple, your heart rejoices and blossoms, the tones of prayer resonate within, the rhythm of adoration moves your feet, the feeling of the devotee fills you—then you will find: all this is God. Then you will see: life moves by law. And religion is also science. In truth, religion is the supreme science.
There is a second part to your question that is worth understanding: Then religion becomes synonymous with science, and religion remains only the quest for that Supreme Law.
Certainly—setting out in search of the Supreme Law is religion. But if you seek that Supreme Law outside, you become a scientist. If you seek that Supreme Law within, you become religious.
The scientist too is seeking religion—but in matter, outside. And if you seek religion in temples and mosques, you too are seeking outside. There is not much difference between you and the scientist.
The religious seeks that same law within. Because the religious person recognizes: what I cannot find within, how will I find outside? The within is my closest; if my hand cannot reach within, where will it reach outside? The hand is very small.
If I cannot touch Him who is closer than my own heart, how will I touch Him in the sky? If I cannot hear Him who is nearer than my breath, how will I hear Him in the rumble of clouds? Clouds are very far. If I do not meet the light burning within, I will not recognize Him in the light of sun, moon, and stars.
When truth is so near and we miss it there, all our distant journeys are futile. If I see Him within, I will recognize Him everywhere. When the near is known, the far too begins to appear—because what we call “far” is only the extension of the near. But the first event, the first revolution, happens within.
A scientific outlook means: always outside. A religious outlook means: always within.
The scientist starts from the distant and tries to come near. This can never truly happen, because the distance is infinite and life too short. Countless births may pass, and the distance will remain.
The religious starts from the within and then moves outward. One who has touched it within has caught the wave, found the boat; now there is no hurry. Even if the other shore is never reached, nothing is lost. Even if it is reached in the infinite, there is no special purpose. There is no fear of losing either. If it is found, fine; if not, fine. But you are on the right boat.
One who has recognized within—whether his journey ever reaches a destination or not—has arrived. Even if he drowns midstream, there is no worry. Now there is no way for him to be lost. Now the middle of the river is also a shore for him.
The religious person expands from the within to the without. And all expansion of life is from within outward. You throw a stone into water: a tiny ripple rises at the point of impact and then spreads. The ripple born within spreads outward. Have you ever seen the reverse—ripples born at the edges and then contracting inward?
You sow a seed; it begins to expand, it spreads, a vast tree is born. In that vast tree there are millions of seeds in place of one. They fall, sprout, spread.
Life’s movement is never from outside to within; it is from within to without. Here, a drop becomes the ocean; here, a seed becomes a tree. Religion recognizes this principle. Recognition must begin where the ripple rises—at the heart. And only one who begins there, recognizes.
But, as I said, we habitually repeat fixed mistakes. Man is very unoriginal—even in his errors. We don’t make original mistakes; we keep making the same old ones.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was angry with him. The quarrel escalated; she flung the key-ring at him and said, “I’m going. Enough is enough; I can’t bear it anymore. I’m going to my mother’s—and I will never return.”
Nasruddin looked at her carefully and said, “Since you’re going anyway, hear a piece of good news before you leave. Just yesterday your mother fought with your father and went to her mother’s. And as far as I can tell, she’s hardly likely to find her mother there.”
There is a circle of errors; it goes round and round. A fixed groove in which we keep revolving. Every generation makes the same mistakes, every person, every life. The mistakes are few and limited.
From the perspective of the search for religion, the basic mistake is that we begin from the outside toward the within. Because this is the reverse current of life, success cannot come here. Success can come only to one who understands life’s true current and proceeds from the within to the without.
Because we have so far understood that prayer is possible only if a personal God exists. We have heard and believed that worship is meaningful only if there is someone to receive it, that adoration and devotion make sense only if there is a Lord—someone like a person who can accept or reject, who is pleased by praise and offended by blame, who responds. Only then, we think, does the call of our love have meaning—if someone answers. We have understood it that way; hence the question arises.
But our understanding is mistaken; there is an error at its very base.
The relevance of prayer has nothing to do with God. The whole science of prayer pertains to the one who prays. Whether God exists or not, whether some person sits in the sky managing life or not, devotion has nothing to do with that. Devotion is the devotee’s inner state.
It is hard for a devotee to be devotional without God, so all religions have nourished the idea of God—only to support the devotee. But if there is understanding, devotion is complete in itself; it requires no God. Prayer is complete in itself; whether anyone hears it or not is inessential. Adoration is sufficient in itself; the adored is not at all necessary.
When I say this, you may wonder what I mean—because it sounds difficult. Worship, for us, makes sense only when there is a worship-worthy one; adoration only when there is an adored. But I want to tell you: worship is a state of consciousness.
Buddha does not believe in a God, and yet there is not an ounce less adoration in him. He carries no image of any Supreme Being in his mind, yet will you find a heart more prayerful than Buddha’s? H. G. Wells wrote that it is hard to find a man so godless and so God-like.
If we turn a little inward, we can understand this.
Can you be loving without there being a beloved? Can being loving be your way and style of living? Can being loving be your feeling-state?
Then you will rise in love, sit in love, eat in love, go to sleep in love. There may be no beloved, yet you will be loving. Then whoever crosses your path will look like the beloved. A bird flies through your courtyard, and if your heart is loving, even the bird becomes a beloved. No one may be there—only an empty sky over your courtyard—and if your heart is loving, even the empty sky takes on a presence.
A person is not needed. If the heart is loving, wherever its light falls, a presence is created. There may be no God—there is the devotee. And wherever the devotee’s heart looks, God manifests there.
This needs a little understanding.
It is the creative art of the devotee’s heart: wherever he casts his eyes, God is born. He looks at a tree, and God appears in the tree. It depends on your eyes what you bring forth. God is the devotee’s creation.
Religion is law. Religion is not a person; it is power. That is why the word “God” is not quite right—“godliness” is. Not deity, but divinity! There isn’t a person sitting up there running things—but things are running. Movement is happening; there is no mover. This vast orchestration of movement, this great energy, this power—if there is devotion in the heart, that very power becomes God. If there is no devotion in the heart, that very power appears as nature.
Nature and God are two interpretations arising from two kinds of hearts. The heart without devotion sees nature, matter, all around. The heart with devotion sees the Divine, the Lord, everywhere. “God” and “nature” are two descriptions of the same vast happening—and your heart determines which description you give. You see what has already dawned within your heart.
Prayer, worship, adoration are not because of God. But because of prayer, worship, adoration, the world begins to appear God-like. It is not that God is—and therefore we pray. We pray—and therefore God happens.
People say, “God created you,” and I say, “Your devotion creates God.” Where your devotion flowers, there God manifests. Where your devotion departs, there God departs. God is your way of seeing.
Religion is law. But to enter that law, you must change yourself—only then is it possible.
Prayer is to change you. Ordinarily we pray to change God. You are ill, so you pray, “Make me well.” Our prayer is an attempt to change God’s intention. If you are ill and truly a devotee, you would accept, “God wills that I be ill; that is why I am ill.”
We try to change God’s view: “Make me healthy; I am poor—make me rich. I am unhappy—make me happy. Change your outlook.” We try to attract His attention: “Change things; the way things are is not right; I’m not pleased.”
And we flatter Him. Because in life we have learned that people can be influenced by flattery, we think God too will be influenced the same way. So we praise, we sing His glories: “You are so great.” But what is hidden in all this? What is the mind’s desire?
Only this: “What you are doing is not right.” In our praise there is a kind of threat: “If you don’t stop this, we will stop praising; the prayer will end; then who will worship you? If you want worship to continue, then do a little something according to our wish.”
Our prayers are demands; we ask for something. And our fundamental demand is: “We are right, and you are wrong.”
A great thinker, Aldous Huxley, wrote: whenever we pray to God, we want two and two not to make four.
That is the shape of our prayers: that two and two should not be four. We have sinned, and therefore we suffer—two and two make four. We want not to suffer. We sinned—please forgive.
Whatever we are undergoing is the sum of our actions. But we ask you to alter it. Two and two make four, but we want you to make it five—or three—just not four. Our prayers are meant to shake arithmetic, to break the law. Otherwise, what purpose do our prayers serve?
If this is your idea of prayer, then yes—without God prayer becomes futile. If the throne is empty, you can go on banging your head, it’s useless. You can bang your head only so long as you believe that someone sits on the throne who might change because of it.
And when change happens by coincidence, we fool our minds. No change ever happens because of our prayers, nor is there a God who changes. But amid infinite coincidences, sometimes our prayer aligns with events; something changes, and we say, “Thank you.” If nothing changes, we express annoyance.
People come to me and say, “We were on the verge of giving up—this religion and all that seemed futile. But the prayer was answered; since then our faith has grown.” Others come and say, “We got tired of praying—never any fruit; our faith has collapsed.”
In truth, no one has faith. If a prayer is fulfilled, faith settles in; if it is not, faith is uprooted.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin used to pray loudly every morning. Whether God heard or not, the neighbors surely did: “Less than a hundred I will not take; even if you give ninety-nine, I will not take it. Whenever you give, give a full hundred!”
Finally the neighbors got fed up. One decided to test him: “Let’s see what happens if we give him ninety-nine.” One morning, as Mulla was praying, a pouch of ninety-nine coins was tossed into his courtyard.
The first thing Mulla did was count. His prayer was left half-said; he couldn’t complete the namaz. He quickly counted—ninety-nine. Then he said, “Bravo, O God! You’ve deducted one rupee as the bag’s fee!” And he accepted the ninety-nine.
This is our self-made prayer; our prayer—and we keep accounts. Whether someone is there or not matters little. Therefore, if you become certain there is no God, your prayer will break—I know that. So the question is pertinent.
But the kind of prayer that collapses if God is not, was never prayer at all. Prayer has nothing to do with changing God; prayer is the alchemy to change you. When you pray, it is not some God in the sky who is transformed. When you pray, you are transformed in the very act of praying.
Prayer is a practical experiment by which you break the ego and learn to bend. There is no one sitting there before whom you bow. The result comes from the very happening of bowing. You bow. It is hard to bow without a God—so no harm, you may believe in God. But the real happening is born of your bowing.
You learn to bend, to surrender before something. Somewhere your head comes down; what was always stiff finds a place to bow. Somewhere you go to your knees like a small child; somewhere tears flow and you become light. And the thought “I can do it” breaks down through prayer. “You will do it” is not the point; rather, “I can do it” collapses. We pray only when we see, “I cannot do it. It cannot be done by me.”
In its deepest sense: wherever you understand that you are not the doer, prayer begins. Prayer is the device to lose doership. That sense “I am the doer,” that ego, that ‘I-ness’ that claims “I do”—the breaking of it is prayer.
When you kneel and bow your head and say, “Nothing will happen through me; now you do it. It is beyond me. You lift me; I cannot walk further; you carry me”—this has nothing to do with a listener out there; there may be no one hearing. But the heart that says it is dissolving its ego. And the joy that comes through prayer is not given by someone else; it arises from your dropping the ego.
Religion is a law. Whoever bends grows richer; whoever stiffens breaks. The more rigid one becomes, the more dead one is. The more one bends, becomes supple, flexible, the more alive one is.
That is the difference between a child and an old man. The old man’s bones are stiff—he cannot bend. The child is supple.
Prayer gives you suppleness, flexibility; it teaches you to bend. One who does not pray grows stiff—prematurely old, prematurely dead; dead while alive. One who knows how to pray—death cannot erase him. Even in the moment of dying, he remains supple; even then, he is as vibrantly alive as a child.
One who learns the art of prayer need have no concern with God. God is merely a pretext so that prayer can happen. God is only a peg on which to hang the coat of prayer. The real thing is the happening of prayer.
That is why great knowers like Buddha and Mahavira outright denied God. But they could not deny prayer—prayer continued. They could not deny worship—worship continued. They could not deny surrender—surrender continued. Hence Jainism could not reach the masses easily, because people find it hard to understand: if there is no God, then what adoration? If there is no God, whom do we worship?
So the Jaina view appealed to only a few; not many could walk with it. And those few who came at first were the truly understanding ones. Later, their descendants follow only out of blindness: because their parents were Jain, they are Jain. Even they do not truly understand.
So they found new devices. Without God, worship would not happen—so they seated Mahavira in God’s place, and worship resumed! Now there is no difference between Jain and Hindu. The Hindu prays to Rama, to Krishna; the Jain prays to Mahavira, to Rishabh, to Neminath. It makes no difference.
Without God, praying is very difficult; but for one who can, flowers shower in his life. If you cannot, begin with God—no harm. God is only a toy; let the real thing—prayer—happen. The day prayer happens, you yourself will see that the question of God’s being or not being is irrelevant.
Religion is law—that is why I said it. And whatever happens in life happens through an ultimate law. Nothing happens because of your prayers. Nothing happens because of your worship. Yes—if your worship, your prayer, changes you, you begin to flow in tune with the law. Flowing with the law, events happen.
In life we almost always repeat the same mistakes. In your past life you made the same mistakes; in the life before that, the same; today, the same. And the fear is: perhaps in the future, in lives to come, you will repeat them again. Every generation repeats them; every person repeats them.
The greatest of mistakes is this: even our inner feelings we cannot accept without objectifying them, without turning them into an outer object. The feeling is inner, but to manage even that feeling we need an outer prop. This is among the fundamental errors.
If you are happy and someone asks, “Why are you happy?” you cannot say, “I am just happy. What is the question of why?” Instead you will give a reason: “I am happy because a friend came home; because I got money; because I won the lottery.” You will supply some cause. You don’t have the courage to say, “I am happy because there is joy in being happy.”
And the foolish are those who search for causes—because one who seeks causes can never be very happy. How many causes will you find? Causes cannot be found every day. Today a cause may arise, a moment later it is gone. The lottery comes, there is a jolt of joy—and then? A friend arrives today; tomorrow some other event happens. If joy comes only from causes, then very little joy will ever come.
That is why there is so little happiness and so much misery in people’s lives. Because we accept sorrow causelessly, but for joy we look for a cause.
And if you are happy without cause, people will think you are mad. Happy without reason! There must be a reason. If you are smiling, dancing for no reason—no lottery, the wife has not gone to her mother’s house—no reason for joy, and yet you are happy—people will think you are mad.
This is the secret of those we have called sages: they have found the way to be happy without cause. This is the difference between a worldly man and a saint. The worldly man first seeks causes; only when all proofs are in will he be happy. The saint is happy—he seeks no proofs. What is the difference?
The saint lives in inner feeling; he does not look for outer objectification, external proof in the form of objects. So the saint says: prayer is enough—whether God is or is not. If He is, fine; if He is not, equally fine. It makes no difference to the saint’s prayer.
The saint loves and does not seek a beloved. There is so much joy in love that there is no need to take on the burden of a beloved. The saint meditates, but seeks no object for meditation.
Freedom from objects, freedom from thing-ness, and delighting in inner feeling—then life’s supreme samadhi happens by itself.
But we want something from the outside in every case. If nothing is available outside, we are utterly empty—because we have never cared for the within. We have not searched for the inner roots from which all the flowers of life can bloom without any outside support. Until that is understood, take outer support; but remember, it is only support—there is no one there. What does this mean? Am I saying there is no God?
No. I am only saying: the God you think of is not. The God you have manufactured is not. God means only this: the total existence, the totality, the wholeness. These trees, plants, stones, the earth, sun, moon, stars, human beings, animals, birds—this vast spread, this Brahman, this expanse—this all is God. And the day you learn the art of bending within, when your head can bow, your being becomes supple, your heart rejoices and blossoms, the tones of prayer resonate within, the rhythm of adoration moves your feet, the feeling of the devotee fills you—then you will find: all this is God. Then you will see: life moves by law. And religion is also science. In truth, religion is the supreme science.
There is a second part to your question that is worth understanding: Then religion becomes synonymous with science, and religion remains only the quest for that Supreme Law.
Certainly—setting out in search of the Supreme Law is religion. But if you seek that Supreme Law outside, you become a scientist. If you seek that Supreme Law within, you become religious.
The scientist too is seeking religion—but in matter, outside. And if you seek religion in temples and mosques, you too are seeking outside. There is not much difference between you and the scientist.
The religious seeks that same law within. Because the religious person recognizes: what I cannot find within, how will I find outside? The within is my closest; if my hand cannot reach within, where will it reach outside? The hand is very small.
If I cannot touch Him who is closer than my own heart, how will I touch Him in the sky? If I cannot hear Him who is nearer than my breath, how will I hear Him in the rumble of clouds? Clouds are very far. If I do not meet the light burning within, I will not recognize Him in the light of sun, moon, and stars.
When truth is so near and we miss it there, all our distant journeys are futile. If I see Him within, I will recognize Him everywhere. When the near is known, the far too begins to appear—because what we call “far” is only the extension of the near. But the first event, the first revolution, happens within.
A scientific outlook means: always outside. A religious outlook means: always within.
The scientist starts from the distant and tries to come near. This can never truly happen, because the distance is infinite and life too short. Countless births may pass, and the distance will remain.
The religious starts from the within and then moves outward. One who has touched it within has caught the wave, found the boat; now there is no hurry. Even if the other shore is never reached, nothing is lost. Even if it is reached in the infinite, there is no special purpose. There is no fear of losing either. If it is found, fine; if not, fine. But you are on the right boat.
One who has recognized within—whether his journey ever reaches a destination or not—has arrived. Even if he drowns midstream, there is no worry. Now there is no way for him to be lost. Now the middle of the river is also a shore for him.
The religious person expands from the within to the without. And all expansion of life is from within outward. You throw a stone into water: a tiny ripple rises at the point of impact and then spreads. The ripple born within spreads outward. Have you ever seen the reverse—ripples born at the edges and then contracting inward?
You sow a seed; it begins to expand, it spreads, a vast tree is born. In that vast tree there are millions of seeds in place of one. They fall, sprout, spread.
Life’s movement is never from outside to within; it is from within to without. Here, a drop becomes the ocean; here, a seed becomes a tree. Religion recognizes this principle. Recognition must begin where the ripple rises—at the heart. And only one who begins there, recognizes.
But, as I said, we habitually repeat fixed mistakes. Man is very unoriginal—even in his errors. We don’t make original mistakes; we keep making the same old ones.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was angry with him. The quarrel escalated; she flung the key-ring at him and said, “I’m going. Enough is enough; I can’t bear it anymore. I’m going to my mother’s—and I will never return.”
Nasruddin looked at her carefully and said, “Since you’re going anyway, hear a piece of good news before you leave. Just yesterday your mother fought with your father and went to her mother’s. And as far as I can tell, she’s hardly likely to find her mother there.”
There is a circle of errors; it goes round and round. A fixed groove in which we keep revolving. Every generation makes the same mistakes, every person, every life. The mistakes are few and limited.
From the perspective of the search for religion, the basic mistake is that we begin from the outside toward the within. Because this is the reverse current of life, success cannot come here. Success can come only to one who understands life’s true current and proceeds from the within to the without.
Second question:
Osho, you say that to rise above all dualities and attain the ultimate liberation, the nirjara—the total shedding—of the lust for life is indispensable. In tune with the times, please tell a right method of death-meditation.
Osho, you say that to rise above all dualities and attain the ultimate liberation, the nirjara—the total shedding—of the lust for life is indispensable. In tune with the times, please tell a right method of death-meditation.
First, understand precisely what jeeveshna—the lust for life—means.
We want to live. But this urge to live is utterly blind. If someone asks you, “Why do you want to live?” there is no answer. And in this blind race we are no different from plants, birds, animals. Plants too want to live; they too seek life.
In my village, about four hundred steps from my house there is a tree. That’s quite a distance. One day the iron water pipe that brought water into the house burst, so we dug to find what had happened. The roots of that tree, four hundred steps away, had tracked the pipe down and entered it in search of water.
Scientists say trees extend their roots with great discrimination—where will water be? Four hundred steps is a long way. Inside an iron pipe water is flowing—and yet the tree somehow sensed it. It sent its roots that far, and those very roots did their work: tightening and tightening, they cracked the iron pipe, entered within, and were drinking from it—perhaps for years.
The tree doesn’t know why it wants to live. In Africa, trees grow very tall. Plant those same trees here and they won’t grow as tall. There is no need. In Africa the forests are so dense that, scientists say, a tree that wants to survive has to grow up, else it won’t get sunlight; remain short and it will die. So the same species may reach three hundred feet in Africa and stop at a hundred feet in India. The struggle of jeeveshna there is more intense.
Scientists say the zebra, the camel—their long necks emerged because of the desert. The taller the neck, the better the chances of survival, because the animal can browse higher leaves. Wherever life is in danger, structures evolve to save it.
All around, life is busy saving itself. The tiny ant is busy saving itself; the largest elephant is busy saving itself. We too are in that race.
And here begins the difference between humans and animals: the question arises in us—why do we want to live? What exactly do we get from life for which we want to live?
The moment you ask what you are getting, your hands feel empty. You are getting nothing. Hence any thoughtful person becomes sad—nothing is being gained.
Every day you get up, you work, you eat, you drink, you sleep. Morning comes again. Fifty years went like this; fifty more will pass. Even a hundred years—only the same routine. If nothing has come yet, why expect tomorrow to be different?
And there doesn’t even seem to be anything to gain. Wealth—what will it give? Position—what will it give? Life remains empty.
First, understand: jeeveshna is blind. Therefore the first experiment to rise above jeeveshna is to open your eyes—look into your life: what are you receiving? If it becomes clear that you are receiving nothing, jeeveshna will begin to wither.
“I want to live because I hope to get something.” If it becomes clear that nothing is going to come, nothing is coming, then freedom from the desire to live starts—the nirjara happens.
First, open your eyes, be alert to what life is giving.
Second, see that even though nothing is being gained, every day life is descending into death. If not today, then tomorrow, I will die.
Though no one likes to hear this. We all think only others die; I never die. Whenever someone dies, it is always someone else; I never die. So the illusion persists that I will not die.
There was a great Chinese storyteller, Lu Hsun. He wrote a short story: a young man was learning astrology. One day he told his master, “If I tell people the truth reading their palms, I get beaten up. If I lie, I don’t want to—but when I do, they are delighted.
“In one house a child was born; they called me. I lied: ‘He will be supremely famous; extraordinarily gifted; blessed are you!’ They were thrilled, garlanded me, fed me, paid me.
“But the lie hurt me. Next house, a baby again. I told the truth: ‘I can’t say anything else for sure, but this much is certain: one day he will die.’ They beat me up, saying, ‘You’re not only no astrologer— you lack basic manners!’
“Please give me a way. I don’t want to lie, and I also don’t want to be thrashed. I’ve taken up this profession.”
The master said, “I’ll give you the essence of my lifelong practice. If such a situation arises, say: ‘Wonderful, what a child! Hee-hee-hee.’ Don’t make any statement. You’ll avoid lying and avoid a beating.”
All clever astrologers do just that.
If a little attention turns toward jeeveshna, if a little awareness grows, a second clarity arises: this life is going nowhere except into death. Like all rivers flow into the ocean, all lives flow into death.
Then the second understanding is clear: that which unavoidably leads into death, in which death is inherent and inescapable, is not worthy of aspiration, not worthy of desire or pursuit.
If these two insights deepen in you, jeeveshna withers. And the day one is free of the hankering to live, that very day the door to life opens. Because as long as we are full of the desire for life, we are so entangled in living that the door of life cannot open for us.
We are so busy in staying alive that we have neither time nor space to know what life is. The door to that temple remains jammed shut.
Those who dropped jeeveshna knew the secret of life. They alone attained supreme buddhahood. Those who dropped jeeveshna found the nectar—amrit. Those who clung to jeeveshna reached death.
This much is certain: whoever runs with jeeveshna reaches death. The reverse is also true—but only when it becomes your experience: whoever drops jeeveshna reaches amrit. This is a rule without exception. As far as this world has seen, all who raced under the goad of jeeveshna reached death; a rare few who dropped it reached the deathless.
The Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, the Bible, the Dhammapada are declarations of those who dropped jeeveshna and attained the immortal.
If you would go beyond death, you must drop the desire for life. It sounds inverted. Life is complex indeed—paradoxical.
It means: the one who clutches life attains death. The one who lets life go attains the Great Life. It appears contradictory, but it is so. This paradox is life’s deepest form.
Test it. Cling to wealth—you remain poor. However much you have, you remain poor. Let wealth go—even if you become a beggar, emperors look pale before you. Clutch the body—only suffering will you harvest. Dis-identify from the body—suddenly you find the very clinging was your bondage to the limited; now you are the limitless.
Here, the one who grabs, loses; the one who gives, none can despoil. To resolve this paradox, this riddle of life—that is sadhana.
Do two things. Keep assessing: what has life given? What can it give? You will find your hands empty. Even hope that tomorrow something might come will snap—because what never happened in the past will not happen in the future. Then see: all lives pour into the ocean of death. Today or tomorrow— we are all standing in a queue. So life culminating in death means that what we call life is simply a hidden form of death. For in the end only that is revealed which was hidden from the first. Drop jeeveshna and this death drops; then the experience of that life begins which never dies.
Call that life God, call it moksha, call it the Self—whatever name you like.
We want to live. But this urge to live is utterly blind. If someone asks you, “Why do you want to live?” there is no answer. And in this blind race we are no different from plants, birds, animals. Plants too want to live; they too seek life.
In my village, about four hundred steps from my house there is a tree. That’s quite a distance. One day the iron water pipe that brought water into the house burst, so we dug to find what had happened. The roots of that tree, four hundred steps away, had tracked the pipe down and entered it in search of water.
Scientists say trees extend their roots with great discrimination—where will water be? Four hundred steps is a long way. Inside an iron pipe water is flowing—and yet the tree somehow sensed it. It sent its roots that far, and those very roots did their work: tightening and tightening, they cracked the iron pipe, entered within, and were drinking from it—perhaps for years.
The tree doesn’t know why it wants to live. In Africa, trees grow very tall. Plant those same trees here and they won’t grow as tall. There is no need. In Africa the forests are so dense that, scientists say, a tree that wants to survive has to grow up, else it won’t get sunlight; remain short and it will die. So the same species may reach three hundred feet in Africa and stop at a hundred feet in India. The struggle of jeeveshna there is more intense.
Scientists say the zebra, the camel—their long necks emerged because of the desert. The taller the neck, the better the chances of survival, because the animal can browse higher leaves. Wherever life is in danger, structures evolve to save it.
All around, life is busy saving itself. The tiny ant is busy saving itself; the largest elephant is busy saving itself. We too are in that race.
And here begins the difference between humans and animals: the question arises in us—why do we want to live? What exactly do we get from life for which we want to live?
The moment you ask what you are getting, your hands feel empty. You are getting nothing. Hence any thoughtful person becomes sad—nothing is being gained.
Every day you get up, you work, you eat, you drink, you sleep. Morning comes again. Fifty years went like this; fifty more will pass. Even a hundred years—only the same routine. If nothing has come yet, why expect tomorrow to be different?
And there doesn’t even seem to be anything to gain. Wealth—what will it give? Position—what will it give? Life remains empty.
First, understand: jeeveshna is blind. Therefore the first experiment to rise above jeeveshna is to open your eyes—look into your life: what are you receiving? If it becomes clear that you are receiving nothing, jeeveshna will begin to wither.
“I want to live because I hope to get something.” If it becomes clear that nothing is going to come, nothing is coming, then freedom from the desire to live starts—the nirjara happens.
First, open your eyes, be alert to what life is giving.
Second, see that even though nothing is being gained, every day life is descending into death. If not today, then tomorrow, I will die.
Though no one likes to hear this. We all think only others die; I never die. Whenever someone dies, it is always someone else; I never die. So the illusion persists that I will not die.
There was a great Chinese storyteller, Lu Hsun. He wrote a short story: a young man was learning astrology. One day he told his master, “If I tell people the truth reading their palms, I get beaten up. If I lie, I don’t want to—but when I do, they are delighted.
“In one house a child was born; they called me. I lied: ‘He will be supremely famous; extraordinarily gifted; blessed are you!’ They were thrilled, garlanded me, fed me, paid me.
“But the lie hurt me. Next house, a baby again. I told the truth: ‘I can’t say anything else for sure, but this much is certain: one day he will die.’ They beat me up, saying, ‘You’re not only no astrologer— you lack basic manners!’
“Please give me a way. I don’t want to lie, and I also don’t want to be thrashed. I’ve taken up this profession.”
The master said, “I’ll give you the essence of my lifelong practice. If such a situation arises, say: ‘Wonderful, what a child! Hee-hee-hee.’ Don’t make any statement. You’ll avoid lying and avoid a beating.”
All clever astrologers do just that.
If a little attention turns toward jeeveshna, if a little awareness grows, a second clarity arises: this life is going nowhere except into death. Like all rivers flow into the ocean, all lives flow into death.
Then the second understanding is clear: that which unavoidably leads into death, in which death is inherent and inescapable, is not worthy of aspiration, not worthy of desire or pursuit.
If these two insights deepen in you, jeeveshna withers. And the day one is free of the hankering to live, that very day the door to life opens. Because as long as we are full of the desire for life, we are so entangled in living that the door of life cannot open for us.
We are so busy in staying alive that we have neither time nor space to know what life is. The door to that temple remains jammed shut.
Those who dropped jeeveshna knew the secret of life. They alone attained supreme buddhahood. Those who dropped jeeveshna found the nectar—amrit. Those who clung to jeeveshna reached death.
This much is certain: whoever runs with jeeveshna reaches death. The reverse is also true—but only when it becomes your experience: whoever drops jeeveshna reaches amrit. This is a rule without exception. As far as this world has seen, all who raced under the goad of jeeveshna reached death; a rare few who dropped it reached the deathless.
The Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, the Bible, the Dhammapada are declarations of those who dropped jeeveshna and attained the immortal.
If you would go beyond death, you must drop the desire for life. It sounds inverted. Life is complex indeed—paradoxical.
It means: the one who clutches life attains death. The one who lets life go attains the Great Life. It appears contradictory, but it is so. This paradox is life’s deepest form.
Test it. Cling to wealth—you remain poor. However much you have, you remain poor. Let wealth go—even if you become a beggar, emperors look pale before you. Clutch the body—only suffering will you harvest. Dis-identify from the body—suddenly you find the very clinging was your bondage to the limited; now you are the limitless.
Here, the one who grabs, loses; the one who gives, none can despoil. To resolve this paradox, this riddle of life—that is sadhana.
Do two things. Keep assessing: what has life given? What can it give? You will find your hands empty. Even hope that tomorrow something might come will snap—because what never happened in the past will not happen in the future. Then see: all lives pour into the ocean of death. Today or tomorrow— we are all standing in a queue. So life culminating in death means that what we call life is simply a hidden form of death. For in the end only that is revealed which was hidden from the first. Drop jeeveshna and this death drops; then the experience of that life begins which never dies.
Call that life God, call it moksha, call it the Self—whatever name you like.
Osho's Commentary
“O Arjuna, kama, krodha and lobha—lust, anger and greed—are three gateways to hell, destructive of the soul. Therefore one should abandon these three.
“O Arjuna, the man who is freed from these three gates of hell acts for his own welfare and thus attains the supreme goal—he reaches Me.
“But he who, casting aside scriptural injunctions, acts according to his own whim, attains neither perfection, nor the supreme goal, nor happiness.
“Therefore, let the scriptures be your authority in determining what is duty and what is not. Knowing this, perform only those actions ordained by scripture.”
Understand each word. Krishna calls three words the gates of hell: kama, krodha, lobha. What I have called jeeveshna breaks into these three streams.
The root tone of jeeveshna is kama—sex desire. Biologists say two drives are the strongest in man: hunger and sex.
Hunger is primal because without it you would die. A newborn who does not feel hunger cannot survive. Hunger is the body’s message: “I cannot be sustained; give me something quickly; my strength is ebbing.”
Hunger preserves your body. But hunger alone would never have allowed you to be born, because hunger can save you but not your children. Hence the second hunger: sex.
By the hunger of the belly you survive; by the hunger of sex society survives. These are the two hungers. And as soon as the belly is full, the next thought is sex. The hungry may not think of sex; first he must save himself, only then posterity. If you yourself are not saved, how will your offspring be?
Religious people thought: fasting will free you from sex. It’s a direct biological trick. When a man is hungry, he thinks of saving himself; sex desire does not arise. If you fast long, sex seems to die.
It does not die; it only goes underground. When the belly is full again, sex returns. So the trick is deceptive; it solves nothing. As soon as a society becomes affluent, sex intensifies.
People think America is very sexual. Not so. America’s belly is full; yours is empty. Where the belly is full, the question of hunger ends; energy pours into sex. In you it flows into two channels—hunger and sex. If the belly is utterly empty, energy stops flowing into sex and flows only into hunger, because hunger is the first need. Save yourself first; only then children. Once the belly is full, the next thought is sex.
Jeeveshna runs on two tracks: the individual must survive and the species must survive. That’s why sex runs so deep. It is not as easy to be free of it as saints think. It needs a deep inner science; vows and rules don’t help; oaths change nothing. Unless life is transformed hair by hair, unless awareness becomes so deep that you see yourself utterly separate from the body, sex keeps its grip.
If you run with sex, what arises next is greed. Greed is the expansion of sex. One woman is not enough; a thousand are needed. Still, you won’t be satisfied.
Sartre has a character in a novel who says, “Until I have all the women on earth, I shall not be satisfied.”
You cannot possibly possess all women—but that’s not the point; the mind’s craving is that mad.
Until I have all the wealth in the world, I won’t be satisfied. People chase wealth because sex can be bought with wealth; comforts can be bought, which support sex.
Greed is the spread of sex. Hence the greedy are never free of sex. It may happen that a man gets so lost in greed he even drops sex. For years he may not remember women at all. But deep down he seeks wealth so that when he has it, he can summon women with a call; no obstacle then.
He may spend a lifetime never remembering—still, greed is rooted in sex.
All greed is the expansion of kama. And whoever obstructs that expansion evokes anger. Kama expands into lobha; when blocked, krodha erupts.
Kama, lobha, krodha are currents of the same river. Whenever someone obstructs what you want, fire blazes in you; you get angry. Whoever supports you, you feel affection for; whoever blocks you, you feel anger. Those who support your desires, you call friends; those who obstruct, enemies.
Greed and anger can end only when sex ends. Whoever thinks he will drop greed and anger without dropping sex is ignorant of life’s mathematics. It never happens.
Hence the central search of all religions: how to become akama—desireless. That state we have called brahmacharya. Brahmacharya means: how to be free of the frantic race to reproduce life.
Krishna says these three are gates to hell.
But to us these three are life itself. What we call life, Krishna calls gates to hell.
Remove these three and you will feel nothing is left. Remove sex—the root is cut. Remove greed—what is left to do? Ambition is cut. Remove anger—no device remains even to make a fuss. Life’s bustle empties; all business ceases.
If there is no greed, you won’t make friends; if there is no anger, you won’t make enemies. Neither yours nor others remain; you are alone. You will feel such a life frightening; it will seem infernal. And Krishna calls these three hell’s gates! Yet we have taken these three to be life.
It doesn’t even occur to us that we are filled with sex twenty-four hours a day. Sitting, standing, waking, sleeping—our gaze is spread by sex.
If just now a plane crashed and you went to its wreckage, among the dead the first thing you would register is: who is woman, who is man.
You forget everything else. Someone you met ten years ago—you forgot the name, forgot the face, forgot everything. But you never forget whether that person was a woman or a man—never. Have you ever had the doubt, about someone you met twenty years ago, “Was that a woman or a man?” Impossible. What does this mean?
It means the deepest imprint upon you is male-female. His face—forgotten; name—forgotten; caste—forgotten; tall or short—forgotten. But his sex—you remember. This means your deepest memory holds this; your consciousness circles this most.
This kama is not a momentary grip; it surrounds you twenty-four hours. It is not even right to say it surrounds you; perhaps twenty-four hours you are kama. Wherever support appears, greed forms. In this river of kama, greed is a little whirlpool where support is found; anger is a whirlpool where obstruction is met. These two layers settle upon us.
In daily behavior—whether you notice it or not—your greed and anger are at work. You greet someone on the road only if some greed is linked—past, present, or future. Otherwise you won’t even raise your hands in salutation.
Your glance instantly spots friend and foe. Whoever might oppose you even slightly, compete with you, toward him your anger keeps smoldering, ready to flare at any chance.
You can grasp lust, greed, anger as concepts, but to recognize their working in your living is the real task. And we are so immersed in them that it is often hard to recognize them.
I have heard: a miser bought spectacles for his son. Next morning the boy sat outside with his books. From inside the father asked, “Son, are you reading?” “No.” “Writing?” “No.” “Then take off the glasses! Looks like you’ve acquired the habit of waste.”
Even wearing the glasses idly is waste!
We laugh, but that is the miser’s lens—saving everywhere. Often, under the name of thrift, we dress our meanness in good principles.
Freud said something striking: generally those keen on celibacy are greedy. Miserliness about semen makes them “brahmachari.”
It’s worth pondering. As I have seen many, often it is true. Not a hundred percent; one in a hundred moves toward brahmacharya from freedom from sex. Ninety-nine go out of greed—“don’t lose energy.”
You may never have looked from this angle. Often monks tell you: save your energy. A drop of semen lost equals so much blood—loss beyond measure. They are frightening you; they are stoking your greed: don’t lose power.
Hence nations that are stingy talk much of celibacy, and castes that are very stingy cling hardest to it.
Ninety-nine percent of such celibates suffer from constipation. As they hoard semen, they hoard everything. They even learn to hoard feces.
Modern science says: whoever is constipated is showing he won’t let even excrement go. His mind’s state is to hold everything.
Psychologists have reached strange conclusions that seekers should understand. They say many things are symbolic. A curious idea that seems odd but may be true: the color of feces—yellow—is the color of gold. Those who clutch gold become constipated; they cannot let go even of feces. Money is the filth of the hand, grime—nothing more. Yet they want to hold everything; they cannot release anything. Life becomes a great disease.
Lust brings derangement. Greed seeks others’ support to extend that derangement. Anger is ready to destroy whoever obstructs that frenzy.
These three are gates to hell. All the suffering we create is through them. Hell is not a place with signboards—kama, krodha, lobha: do not enter. Wherever these three are, there is hell; life there fills with pain and anguish. Life’s gladness withers; flowers do not bloom.
Have you ever seen a miser joyous? He cannot be. Even in joy he feels something is being spent. He withholds even laughter. He cannot laugh heartily; it is not his way. He cannot share anything.
Hence a miser can never love. In love he fears he will have to share, to partner.
A miser cannot share in anything. He lives isolated, sealed within himself. A prison rises around him. When you cannot share, cannot smile, cannot give—then…
All the joys of life are linked with sharing. The more one can give oneself, the more one blossoms.
If God is supreme bliss, it means only this: God has given Himself wholly to existence. He is spread everywhere. You cannot point a finger and say “There is God,” for if He were in one place He would be a miser, confined. He is everywhere.
Therefore wherever you point, He is there. And when you try to point, you find it’s impossible—He is everywhere. He has poured Himself out completely; nothing of His own remains—and therefore He is bliss, sat-chit-ananda.
I have heard: Nanak halted in a village of very good people—saints, gentle folk. They listened to every word, washed his feet and drank the water, worshiped him as God. When he departed, they followed him weeping and asked for a blessing. Nanak said, “My only blessing is: may you be scattered.”
Shock. The disciples were puzzled: “What is this!” But it was said; they kept quiet.
In the next village lived ruffians—rowdies. They insulted, abused, threw stones, nearly beat him; would not let him stay the night.
When Nanak left, they were not the asking type. Yet at the village boundary Nanak himself blessed them: “May you always remain settled here.”
The disciples had to ask: “This is too much. Some mistake has happened. The previous village was good—you said, ‘Be ruined and scattered!’ These goons you blessed, ‘Always remain here, prosper and stay!’”
Nanak said, “If good people scatter, they spread goodness wherever they go. May they spread over the earth. These bad ones—let them stay confined here; if they go, they will spread evil.”
But sharing is not the bad man’s nature—luckily. He shrinks. The good man shares. Giving is his way of being; partnership is his mode.
These three—lust, anger, greed—make you contract. A contracted man becomes hell.
They lead downward; they must be abandoned. Freed of these three, says Krishna, a man acts for his own welfare and attains the supreme goal—he reaches Me.
Only he who is freed of these three can act for welfare. Welfare means: that which brings benefit, auspiciousness; that which increases and spreads joy.
But the man full of lust, greed, anger cannot act for welfare. His conduct is ego-centered. He tries to erase everyone for his own sake. He spreads destruction. His deep desire is: all should vanish; I alone remain. For as long as the other is, whether I share or not, he shares in the world’s wealth. As long as the other is, he breathes—consumes oxygen I could monopolize; he absorbs sunlight that could be all mine; he smiles at the full moon—my joy is diminished.
His basis is: I alone should remain, all else should perish. He cannot manage it, but tries. A thousand times he experiments to wipe out all and be alone. Welfare cannot flow from him.
Welfare comes from the one who says: let all remain, even if I perish. Let flowers bloom more, the moon shine more, people be more joyful, the flute of life keep playing; whether I am or not does not matter. If I am a hindrance, I should step aside; only if I can be a support should I remain.
Only when these three gates are shut does the life of welfare begin.
This word welfare—mangal—must be understood. It means the happiness of the other. We don’t even consider the other. We don’t even think the other exists. That the other might have a possibility of joy, that he too should be happy—this never flashes in us.
Mahavira said: as you want to live, so does everyone. As you want happiness, so does everyone. What you want for yourself, want for all.
Jesus said: what you do not want others to do to you, do not do to them. And what you want others to do to you, do that to them. The hidden longing within you is the same within all. The life within you and within the other is the expansion of one consciousness.
Welfare means: what is within me and within you is one consciousness spread. If I wish your joy, I am laying the foundation of my joy. If I wish your sorrow, I am breaking my own limbs, for you are my extended form. If I make you suffer, I am arranging my own suffering; sooner or later it will find me. If I give you joy, sooner or later it will return to me.
Once a man understands we are not separate islands—we are one continent—and the apparent separation is only a wall of water between us; beneath, the ground is one. And water cannot be a wall! The wall between you and me is not even water—it is air. The very air that you and I breathe is one; we are joined. With the realization of this interconnectedness, the feeling of welfare arises.
But the man full of lust, anger, greed cannot feel this unity. For him all are enemies, competitors. He wants to snatch what others want to snatch. How can he wish others’ happiness? From him only curses flow, not blessings.
“And he who, casting aside the injunctions of scripture, acts by his own wish, attains neither perfection, nor the supreme goal, nor happiness.”
Understand this well; it is deep.
He who casts aside the scriptural method…
What is scripture? Understand it.
Scripture means the distilled essence of those who have known over ages upon ages. Those upon whom the shower of life’s benediction has fallen—what they said, gathered together.
Today this is difficult. Not so when Krishna spoke. Then not everyone wrote scriptures. It was unthinkable to write without knowing; pointless besides. Scriptures bore no names; they were not someone’s property. Over endless time, what the knowers realized was refined. Scripture is the wealth of everyone’s experience.
The Vedas are not one man’s words. Countless seers’ realizations are gathered. The Upanishads are not the thoughts of a single person; they are the essence of countless realizations. Often it is hard to know who spoke; persons have disappeared—truth remains.
When Krishna said this, scripture meant the words of the awakened. He who discards these and acts by his whim does not attain perfection. For one person’s experience is very small; one person’s intelligence is small—like taking a tiny lamp to search in broad sunlight.
Relying only on your own experience, you will wander endlessly. With the support of the awakened ones’ words, you avoid needless wandering.
The path can be shorter if we have even a little map. Scripture is a map. Sitting with scriptures on your head won’t take you to the goal; but if you learn how to use the map, you can avoid much confusion. Mistakes others made need not be repeated.
Scriptures are not packaged answers; they are indications for finding the way. One who understands and follows these indications attains perfection. One who discards them attains neither perfection, nor the supreme goal, nor even happiness. He wanders.
Today it is harder because there are too many “scriptures.” Five thousand books a week get written. Who knows who is writing? Lunatics write; it relieves them—a catharsis onto paper. Other lunatics read; the writers are relieved, the readers’ heads get heavier. It is hard to decide; many criteria are lost.
First criterion lost: none should write without awakening; none should speak without knowing; none should advise another without enlightenment. In the old days it was impossible to think someone would advise without awakening.
Now it’s easy. However asleep you are, you can advise. The deeper asleep, the more eager the advice. Muttering in dreams, yet gathering followers! The louder one shouts, the more followers he gets.
Today, too, if you walk by your own blind groping, you will waste time—many lives. Even today you should seek scripture. But considering today’s difficulty I would say: more than scripture, seek the Sadguru.
When Krishna spoke, scripture itself did the work of the living Master, because only the awakened ones’ words were recorded. Today the printing press has opened the gates of the madhouse; anyone can publish. Scripture as such cannot help much; to recognize scripture too, you need a living master.
An old saying: in Satya Yuga, scripture; in Kali Yuga, guru. It has meaning. Because in Kali Yuga there will be too many scriptures; it will be hard to know what is scripture and what is not. Who will tell you? Only a personal, intimate connection with a living awakened one can become a path. Through him scripture too can be known—and in the presence of the living one, scripture is unnecessary.
Scripture means the words of those who have awakened—living or no longer in the body. If you want to avoid much obstruction and useless wandering, then understand the words of those who have known.
How will you recognize one who has known? There is one touchstone: when you see someone who has no longer any search, no questions, nothing left to gain; someone living as if all is attained; whose circle of fulfillment is closed—no leak anywhere—seek his company. For you he is scripture. Through him, the doors of Veda, Upanishad, Koran and Bible will open.
“Therefore, for you, in the ordering of duty and non-duty, scripture is the authority. Knowing this, perform only those actions ordained by scripture.”
Arjuna is a Kshatriya, a warrior. Krishna speaks of scripture because in those days society was divided into four types—an extraordinarily skillful division. Five thousand years have passed; countless thinkers have tried to classify human types. Even the very modern Carl Gustav Jung divides humans into four types. Again and again the number returns to four.
The ancient Hindu discovery: people are of four kinds; society was structured accordingly, and so deeply that even after death your soul would seek the same type—so the Brahmin’s continuity could be perfected through many births; and whatever scripture said for the Brahmin would remain his path.
Arjuna is a Kshatriya. Today it’s hard to tell who is a Kshatriya; the old structure has broken. Everything is disordered; in the name of social reform much mischief has been done by the ignorant. But when Krishna spoke, the situation was clear.
What is Arjuna doing? He is demanding the Brahmin’s role; raising Brahmin’s questions: “This will be violence; people will die; what use is a kingdom; for whom? Better to renounce and become a sannyasin.” These are Brahmin questions. If Arjuna were a Brahmin, Krishna would not have given the Gita.
Krishna had to speak because Arjuna’s inner type, his structure, was Kshatriya—across many births. It was in his very fibers.
Therefore even if he dons the sacred thread and tilak and sits like a Brahmin, it won’t suit him. His way is that of a warrior. He is not fit to be a Brahmin. Being a Brahmin is not a moment’s decision; countless samskaras must be dissolved.
Just as today you might decide to be a woman—your decision changes nothing. You can wear women’s clothes and learn a gait, but women will laugh; you remain a man. It’s a surface pretense.
Krishna says to Arjuna: look to scripture—what is laid down for a Kshatriya. Do not deviate; there lies your perfection. Only as a Kshatriya, by following the Kshatriya dharma, will your liberation happen.
What is the Kshatriya’s perfection? What is his way?
Krishna says: a Kshatriya does not think “someone dies”; he does not think of the future. He does not think. He knows how to fight. Fighting is his meditation. In battle he becomes meditative. He does not sway with thoughts of killing or being killed; he stands unafraid. Who dies is secondary. War for him is play, an act, not ultimate seriousness. He fights at noon, stops at dusk, does not chatter at night about what happened; sleeps well, undisturbed by the day’s carnage; in the morning goes again. War, for him, is a sport, an enactment.
Krishna says: take this whole war as a drama. Your training, initiation, samskara—what scripture says—follow it silently. Do your duty. Do not worry. This worry does not befit you. If you tangle in “this or that, yes or no, good or bad,” you will fall from your dharma; then it will take many births. Here, in this moment of war, you can be free—only drop the sense of doership.
A Kshatriya is one who is not the doer.
In Japan there is still a Kshatriya line—the samurai. For generations they are trained, because not everyone can be a samurai; only the son of a samurai.
As we cultivate fruit, choosing the best seed, the best fruit, and after many generations the fruit becomes large, delicious—so samurai were cultivated.
The samurai’s single aim: when I fight, let the fight happen, but let me not be. Let the sword move, but let there be no mover. Let it be as if the sword is in God’s hand; I am only an instrument.
Sayings go that if two samurai meet, it is hard to tell who will win—both have effaced themselves. Both swords move in God’s hand. Who will win, who lose?
The samurai-sutra is: the one who loses is the one who tires and returns to the ego. The moment the “I” returns, he loses. The one who patiently leaves it to the divine cannot be defeated.
Krishna says: in deciding duty and non-duty, scripture is the proof. Knowing this, act only as ordained.
This is Krishna’s exposition of karyakarya—what is to be done and what not; what to drop, what to keep; which are the gates to hell, and when they close, how the gate to moksha opens.
You have heard all this; it was said to Arjuna. Think over it. If your inner state is like Arjuna’s, these words will become a straight path. If not, and you find no connection between yourself and Arjuna, do not force these words upon yourself. That would be the same mistake Arjuna was making.
Understand these words while also understanding your own nature. Keep both parallel. If there is resonance, if the same tune sounds in both, these sutras can serve you.
In the Gita Krishna has spoken virtually all the sutras for all types of people. That’s why it is so long. Under Arjuna’s pretext, Krishna addressed all humanity.
So whether in this chapter or any other, there are words spoken for you as well. You must do a little work: understand yourself and recognize the words suited to you. It is only proper to do so. Pre-chewed food is suicidal. Chew and digest for yourself. Answers are not fixed here—they must be found.
I have heard: a murder trial was on. A villager was called as witness. The lawyer asked, “When Ramu attacked the priest with an axe, how far were you?” “Six feet and six and a half inches,” said the farmer. The lawyer, the court, the magistrate—all startled. “You speak as if you had measured beforehand!” The farmer said, “I knew some fool would ask me that here; so before coming I measured exactly.”
Such tied-up questions and answers you will not find in the Gita. All answers are there. But first you must recognize your question, then take it to the Gita and search. You will find the answer. Until you do, do not try to drape the Gita over yourself—it can be dangerous.
The Gita was spoken to one man, but in the name of one, to all. Therefore it has many answers—your answer is there too. If you know yourself, you can find it. Then that answer can become your sadhana.
That’s all for today.