Geeta Darshan #1

The search for truth is as old as man. Perhaps older still. As I see it, the search for truth is older than man. Naturally, a question will arise: how can this search be older than man? Who would be searching?

When I say the search for truth is older than man, I mean that it is from the very longing to seek truth that man has been born. Man is man because he seeks truth. From among the animals, that consciousness which has refined itself into man has done so because of some unknown quest for truth.

Not all animals have become human; not all plants have become human. There are infinite souls, and of them only a very small fraction has become human. How did this becoming human happen? Why has the whole of existence not become human? A tiny stream of consciousness rose upward. What lifted it? An unseen search for truth lifted it.

This is the difference between man and animals. Animals are content; they live. But there is no urge to know what life is. No curiosity to know whence life comes. In animals there is life, but not the emergence of consciousness; meditation has not awakened; the aspiration for samadhi has not arisen; the thirst to know truth has not surged. Hence I say, the search for truth is older than man.

It is not that you search for truth because you are human; you are human because you search for truth. But becoming human does not complete the search for truth; it only begins it. What was unconscious now becomes conscious; what was unknown becomes familiar; what you once groped for in darkness, you now seek with a lamp lit.

Therefore, even among humans, only a few truly become human; the rest, though human, miss. Not all humans seem to be seekers of truth. Among them too, only a very small fraction sets out on the quest. The journey is arduous; the path is steep; there are infinite possibilities of slipping and falling, and very few of arriving.

But those who arrive are blessed indeed. They attain the summit of life. They not only find truth, they become truth. They do not merely know the divine; they become the divine.

Arjuna is the symbol of a humanity that is seeking. Arjuna is asking. And this asking is not a philosopher’s questioning. It is not the kind of asking that happens while sitting at home, relaxing and chatting. This questioning is not mere curiosity; life is at stake. He stands on a battlefield. On a battlefield, very few ask. That is why the Gita is a unique book.

There are the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bible, the Koran—many remarkable books in the world; but the Gita is unparalleled. The Upanishads were born in the solitary huts of seers, in groves, in forests. Disciples sat near their sages in the wild. Upanishad means “to sit near.” It is an intimate conversation with disciples seated close by—a dialogue between two awakened consciousnesses. But it is suffused with deep repose. It is natural that the Upanishads carry an epic grandeur. They were born in serene, profound, silent solitude.
But the Gita is unique; it was born on the battlefield. No disciple asked a master in a secluded hut; no seeker sat in a guru’s hermitage to inquire. In that dense hour of war, with life and death at stake, Arjuna asked Krishna. The stake is immense. And unless, like Arjuna, your life too is on the line, you will not receive Krishna’s answer.
Only Arjuna can receive Krishna’s answer. That is why many read the Gita, yet Krishna’s answer does not reach them—because to receive Krishna’s answer, one needs Arjuna’s consciousness.

That is why I do not want my sannyasins to flee to the mountains. Stand in the battle of life itself, where everything is at stake; show no escapism, no flight; do not turn your back on life; stand face to face. Let inquiry arise right in that struggle of living. Then, some day, Krishna’s answer may dawn on you. But you will need Arjuna’s consciousness; you will need the battle all around.

And there is a battle. Wherever you are—in the marketplace, the shop, the office, the home—there is a battle. Every moment a battle is happening, and it is with your own. That is why the story is so sweet: on the other side too, those standing against Arjuna are his own people—brothers, cousins, friends, classmates, relations.

It is a war among one’s own. There is no one here who is “other.” Whomever you fight is also your own; some tie binds you, near or far. All of life is relations. This whole life is one family, and the family is divided and is fighting. The war is not between enemies; the war is among one’s own. In war you will not kill someone else; you will kill your own. In war you will not be killed by others; you will be killed by your own.

Had they been strangers, there would be no difficulty; had they been enemies, there would be no difficulty. Arjuna’s mind is torn because all are his own. And what will I gain by killing them? What will be achieved?

Arjuna wants to run away. He thinks of going to some sage’s hut; to dwell in the forest; to sit in peace; to drown in meditation. A great dispassion has arisen in him. But Krishna pulls him back; he does not let him flee. Dispassion has arisen in him; he wants the forest. Krishna holds him on the battlefield.

What is Krishna’s intent? Why does he say, “Stay; do not run”? Because one who runs away from the situation can never rise above it. One who turns his back on circumstance has lost. A deserter is a defeated man. Life has given you an opportunity to go beyond, to transcend. If you run away, you will lose the opportunity.

Do not run—wake up. Do not flee—stand still. Become more aware, more conscious; more alive; more energetic; let more discernment, more inner intelligence arise. Let your intelligence be so high that problems fall below you.

By running away from problems you will remain smaller than problems. Rise by wrestling them. Make them steps. Those stones you think are strewn on the path—do not think they are only stones; they can become steps. Place your feet on them and you will reach heights.

Krishna wants Arjuna to be tempered and rise through battle. Arjuna wants to escape.

Krishna did not let Arjuna run, and gave the world the first precise message of sannyas. Such a message did not come even from Buddha, nor from Mahavira; for both accepted those who fled. Krishna’s arrangement is complex, but supremely valuable.

And that is why I agreed to speak on the Gita—because the future of man is hidden in the Gita. Now neither Mahavira’s sannyasin can survive in this world, nor Buddha’s sannyasin. That world is gone; there is no longer any provision for escapees. Only Krishna’s sannyasin can survive now: one who does not run, one who plants his feet, who uses every circumstance, even adverse circumstance; one who attains meditation in the midst of battle.

That is the art. What art is there in becoming peaceful by running away? Sitting in the Himalayas, anyone will be peaceful—anyone. What is your uniqueness then? But that peace belongs to the Himalayas, not to you. And when you return, you will find you are as restless as when you had gone. The intervening time was wasted. Return after thirty years and you will find the same attachment, the same anger, the same greed, the same delusion, all sitting there. In the Himalayas, they had no chance to manifest, so they slept. Return to society, to groups, to the crowd—opportunity will appear; they will awaken.

A beautiful woman will be seen, and lust asleep for years will arise. Wealth will be seen, and greed asleep for years will uncoil like a serpent. Someone will slightly insult you, and anger lying lifeless for years will spring to life in a single jerk.

No—no one ever wins by running away. Running away is acceptance of defeat. You have conceded that you cannot win.

Krishna says to Arjuna: Stay. Hence the message is unique.

Arjuna’s inquiry too is unique. Life and death are at stake. If your life and death too are at stake, then what I say to you will become the Bhagavad Gita. If your life and death are not at stake, if you have come casually, as you would to play cards—some friend invited you; it’s the rainy season; there was free time; you played a few hands. Nothing is at stake.

No—this won’t do. Even in playing cards, if you have staked your whole life, if you are a gambler, the matter changes. If you have put everything on the line, then what I say to you will become the Bhagavad Gita for you. My saying alone will not do. You need Arjuna’s consciousness.

Man’s quest is older than man; that very quest has brought you here. Do not run away. Because this is the very place where the final revelation of truth will happen—in the world, in the crowd, in the depths, in the marketplace, in the tumult, in the war. This is the Kurukshetra where one day the Pandavas and the Kauravas gathered for battle.

And remember: those with whom you contend are your own. And remember: the one you must ask is not outside you somewhere; he is the charioteer of your own consciousness.

The symbol is very sweet. It may seem indecorous to think that Arjuna was seated in the chariot and Krishna was the charioteer! But the entire story has been shaped by ancient rules. Within you is your charioteer. You have never asked him anything; you have never even paid attention to him. Does anyone pay attention to charioteers? Arjuna must have been unique. For he sat above, in the chariot; ostensibly he was the master. A charioteer is only a charioteer. He tends the horses—fine; he drives the chariot—fine.

If curiosity arises in you, do you go and ask the coachman? But Arjuna asked the charioteer.

You must find who the charioteer within you is. The chariot is clear enough: it is the body. You also think you know the owner: your ego. Who is the charioteer? All the wise say: your discrimination, your awareness, your witnessing is the charioteer. You must ask him. From your charioteer will arise that voice by which the light of the Gita will become clear for you and the path of the Gita will become clear. What the Gita says you will not understand until you have found your charioteer.

You have the chariot; you sit as the owner; the horses of the senses run on. In the midst of all this the charioteer seems lost—find him. All the practices of meditation are to find the charioteer.

There is a sweet tale in the Mahabharata: before the war, Arjuna and Duryodhana went to all their friends and relations to request them to join their side. It was a civil war; everyone was related, connected. Arjuna also went to Krishna; Duryodhana too went. Both arrived at the same time.

In you too, both always arrive together. Your evil and your good are always side by side. Your false form and your true form stand together. Both draw energy from you; you are the power of both; both ask of you—and always together.

Whenever you go to steal, the non-thief within says, “Don’t.” When you lie, that voice remains within which says, “No—this is not right.” When you speak truth, someone within says, “There will be no gain; there will be loss. What harm is there in a small lie? In life a little bit goes on; such total renunciation and you will be looted.” When you do not steal, the mind still says, “What are you doing? You are missing out. Take it! No one is watching. And theft is theft only when caught. Here there is no chance of being caught; no one is around; take it.” The thief and the non-thief are together; falsehood and truth are together.

Arjuna and Duryodhana reached Krishna together. But naturally there was a fundamental difference in how they came. That difference proved decisive.

Duryodhana sat near the head. Krishna was asleep; it must have been noon; he rested. It is not proper to disturb one at rest. Duryodhana went and sat at the head; Arjuna sat at the feet.

The decision was made there. In that moment the entire Gita was decided. In that moment the whole Mahabharata was won and lost. What followed was only expansion. The seed had sprouted. Arjuna’s sitting at the feet was the seed.

If you want to find your witness, you will have to be humble. If you want to find your charioteer, you will have to be humble. For it is ego that creates smoke and does not let you see. Ego obstructs, tangles. Ego becomes a hard curtain.

How can Duryodhana sit at the feet? Duryodhana! Even the thought of sitting at the feet would not arise in his mind. Naturally he went and sat at the head.

Ego is always at the head. And where ego is, the miss happens. Then you do not meet your charioteer. Then you may meet everything else—except the charioteer.

Arjuna sat at the feet. That is a humble supplication; that is egolessness. The witness is bound to be found.

Krishna’s eyes opened. The story says: naturally his eyes fell on Arjuna first.

The witness’s gaze falls on the humble; it does not fall on the egoist. The egoist is so stiff in himself; he sits behind the head. He sits as an emperor; he sits bigger than Krishna; he sits above Krishna.

Your ego rides in the chariot. And it has climbed so far above the charioteer that even if the charioteer wishes to look, you will not be seen. And you are blind; that is why you sit at the head. If you had even a little sight, you would have held the feet; you would have sat at the feet.

The war was won there. The decision was in that instant. The rest is detail; it can be left out. For those who know, the story ended there.

Krishna’s eyes fell on Arjuna, so naturally he asked him first, “How have you come?” To the one on whom the eye fell, he spoke first. Immediately Duryodhana spoke up, “I too have come with him. Do not forget me; I too am here.”

Ego has to announce, “I am present.” The humble—one can see he is present. And when one must announce it, the grace is gone.

Krishna said, “Fine, both of you have come. But my eye fell on Arjuna first, so naturally I shall ask him first—how have you come? What do you seek?”

Duryodhana trembled, became afraid. A mistake had been made. Not because he had not shown humility; rather, because a moment of advantage had been lost.

If an egoist ever wants to be humble, it is out of greed. Humility is not his basis. If an egoist ever wants to be without anger, the cause is not egolessness or non-anger; the cause is something else—greed, position, prestige, lust, ambition.

Afraid, he thought, “This will be difficult.” Arjuna said, “I have come for the same thing as Duryodhana. We have come to ask your support. The war cannot be avoided; it will be. We have come to pray that you be with us.”

Krishna said, “Since both of you have come, there is only one way: let one of you ask for my armies, and let the other ask for me.”

Duryodhana must have shaken, thinking Arjuna would certainly ask for the armies. What will one do with Krishna? What will he eat or drink with this one man? What is the value of this single person? He has vast armies! And the first chance has gone to Arjuna; I am finished. The game is lost. It would have been good if I had sat at the feet—if I had held the feet.

Duryodhana must have been startled when Arjuna chose. Arjuna said, “If this is the choice, then I ask for you.” Duryodhana’s chest must have swelled. He thought, “These Pandavas remain fools.”

To the egoist, the humble always appear foolish. To the ignorant, the wise appear mad. To the unintelligent, the intelligent appear unintelligent. To the sick, the healthy seem afflicted by some great disease. To a jaundiced patient, everything appears yellow. After a high fever, even the tastiest food seems bitter; no sweetness is perceived even in sweets.

Duryodhana must have laughed and rejoiced: “The game that had come into my hands this fool Arjuna has again lost! This is how they always lose. This is how they lost when Shakuni cast the dice. Again they have lost. There they lost by my cunning; here they have lost by their own lack of intelligence. They are made to lose; there is no way they can win. Such a fortunate moment has been squandered! He could have asked for the armies; what will he do with Krishna? One Krishna—what is his worth?”

But the decision was made right there. If one Krishna stands on one side and the whole world on the other, one should still choose Krishna. Choose the One. “If the One is held, all is held; if all is held, all is lost.” By holding the One, Arjuna won.

But note well: he did not hold the One in order to win; otherwise you will err. Then there would be no difference between Duryodhana’s and Arjuna’s arithmetic. He did not hold the One to win. That he won by holding the One is another matter. Had he asked his intellect, it too would have said: choose the armies—there lies power. But the truly wise do not choose power; they choose peace.

By choosing Krishna, Arjuna chose peace, witnessing, awareness, Buddhahood. That alone proved useful at the right time. In choosing blind armies, blind energy, what did Duryodhana gain? He gathered servants; he lost the master.

You too, take care in life, because ninety-nine times out of a hundred I see you thinking with Duryodhana’s arithmetic. You choose armies and paraphernalia. You leave the One. The same event happens every day. That One is your hidden discrimination within, and you leave it. You choose money, the house, position, prestige—thousands of things—the armies. And you leave the One.

You even think, what is there in that One? The world is so vast—let me gain it. With such a vast empire, what will you do with that One? Yes, there will be the soul, a state of discrimination, of meditation, samadhi—but it is just One. And such a vast world remains to be conquered; let me do this first. Then I will see to that One.

If the question were put to you: choose either God alone or the whole world—what would you do? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you will do what Duryodhana did—and you will be pleased. You have been doing exactly that. It is wrong to say, you will do; you are doing it now.

Arjuna was blessed. Having attained Krishna, he attained all. He found the master. What account is there of servants? What are horses and chariots worth? At the moment of crisis, only the One helps. At the hour of need, it is always the One.

In the dense field of battle, when Arjuna’s life trembled, his awareness was failing, the Gandiva shook, the ground slipped from under his feet, nothing was clear, darkness on every side—everything was to begin in a moment, the warriors were ready, conches were sounding, they waited for Arjuna—“Why the delay?” And his limbs went slack, his Gandiva went limp, as if his energy had been lost somewhere. Suddenly he found himself helpless. And in that moment, light came only from that One. In that one moment, only the charioteer proved of use.

Search within: who is the charioteer? The search of meditation is the search for the charioteer. Who actually moves you? That is the charioteer. And who seems the master? Ego. Then you are Duryodhana sitting at the head. Discrimination? Then you are Arjuna sitting at the feet. That is what will help in the dense war of life.

Become Arjuna, and Krishna’s Gita is always ready to be born in you. Give it a little womb; give it a little space. Then, as a Gita arose for Arjuna, so it can arise for you.

Arjuna said: O Krishna, those who abandon the injunctions of the scriptures and, possessed only of faith, worship the gods and others—what is their state? Sattvic, rajasic, or tamasic?

Before we enter this sutra, it is necessary and useful to understand the mathematics of life.

All who have known—at any time in eternity those who have awakened and become Buddhas, attained godliness—have agreed on a few points, set their signature-seal on them. These are very few. On many points they differ; not only differ, they even oppose each other. They spoke to different people, hence the differences. They spoke in different times, hence the variations. And they spoke from different standpoints, hence the oppositions. Truth is vast; vision is very small. Oppositions do not fit within a single vision; they fit within truth.

So what Krishna said to Arjuna is one thing; the situation is different. What Mahavira said to Gautama is another thing; the situation is different. Gautama is as different from Arjuna as Mahavira is from Krishna.

And the whole setting is different. In the solitude of the forest, in the morning birdsong, Gautama asks Mahavira and Mahavira speaks. In the shade of a tree Ananda asks the Buddha and Buddha speaks. Jesus spoke, Mohammed spoke; the circumstances differed, hence many things differ. But the fundamental truths cannot differ.

Among those few fundamental truths is the mathematics of three. Jesus calls it the Trinity, that arithmetic of three. He says God is three. Hindus say Trimurti—the same Trinity: God becomes three. The Christians have different names: God the Father, the Son Jesus, and between them the Holy Ghost—three faces. But hidden within the three is the One.

Yogis speak of Trikuti—where the three meet, there the One is experienced. Tantrics speak of Triputi—where the three dissolve as three and a single harmony arises, there the Supreme appears.

Hindus, Jains, Buddhists, Christians, Muslims—all have spoken of the three. And among them, those who have discussed the three most deeply are the Sankhya philosophers. Their very name became Sankhya because they first discovered the numbers of life’s mathematics. Sankhya means “number.” They were the first to set up the arithmetic. It is the most ancient. They first revealed the secret of three. Hence they have been called Sankhya. They grasped the entire mathematics of life correctly.

They said: from the One arise the three; from the three arise the nine; and from the nine, countless. And on the return journey: the countless shrink to nine; the nine shrink to three; the three shrink to One. The entire universe is the expansion of number: from One to three, three to nine, nine to eighty-one, then eighty-one times eighty-one, and beyond, and beyond. And just so one must return.

Night before last, an Italian sannyasin was returning to Naples. I had given her the name Krishna-Radha. She had never asked what it meant. As she was leaving, I asked if she had any question. She said, “Nothing else—I go contented, peaceful. Only one thing I missed asking on the first day: what is the meaning of Krishna-Radha? Why have you called me Radha?” What I told her, I would like to say to you too, for these sutras are deeply connected to it.

I told her: in the ancient scriptures there is no mention of Radha. There are gopis, companions—sixteen thousand of them. Krishna dances with them; his flute plays; the whole forest province resounds with bliss; the rasa-lila unfolds. But there is no name, “Radha,” in the old scriptures. Only here and there is it said that among all the sakhis, all the gopis, there is one who is very close to Krishna, like his shadow. But she has no name.

This is appropriate; because near Krishna, if a name remains, you cannot come near. So the old scriptures gave no name. She is like a shadow, close to Krishna.

From her side she is close to Krishna; naturally, from Krishna’s side there is closeness too. For as close as the devotee comes to God, so close God comes to the devotee. It depends on the devotee how close he wants God to come. As you wish God to be toward you, be that toward God—this is the sutra.

So the scriptures say: she is close, very close, like a shadow. But no name is mentioned. Good. For name and form must be lost—that is how one comes close to Krishna. Why name her? So for thousands of years she had no name.

Some seven hundred years ago, suddenly the name Radha appeared. Songs began to be sung; great poets created supreme works; Jayadeva sang the Gita Govinda; Radha manifested. The word “Radha” became precious. So precious that if you say “Krishna” alone, it feels incomplete. “Radha-Krishna” feels complete. And not only did it become important—it overshadowed Krishna; Radha came to the fore. No one says, “Krishna-Radha.” People say, “Radha-Krishna.”

This too is significant. When the devotee comes so close that he becomes one in the Divine, first he is the shadow of God; then God becomes his shadow. Radha moved to the front.

How was the name discovered when the scriptures had none? The discovery of the name is a different matter; behind it is a profound arithmetic—the Sankhya’s. The word “Radha” is formed by reversing the word “dhara” (current).

Yogis discovered that dhara means outflow. As at Gangotri the current of the Ganges springs and goes ever farther from its source. The state of moving away from the source is “dhara” (current). And “Radha” is the reverse of dhara; it means the one who returns toward the source. When from One come three, from three nine, from nine eighty-one—that is dhara. When from eighty-one come nine, from nine three, from three One—that is Radha.

“Radha” arose from the experience of yogis and the Sankhya seers. They knew that life’s current is outward-going, moving away, away from the source, away from the fount—its back turned to the spring, its eyes fixed on the endless horizon—that is the state of dhara. When one returns to the original spring, toward the source, when the Ganges begins to turn back toward Gangotri, the reverse journey begins—upstream. Now the current no longer goes outward; it comes inward. The extroversion ceases; introversion begins; only then does Radha come near Krishna. Gradually, gradually, the Ganges falls into Gangotri, dissolves; the One remains.

That companion who moved like a shadow received no name for thousands of years. Some seven hundred years ago, the name suddenly manifested. Those who gave that name must have been extraordinary. Those who gave no name were extraordinary; those who gave the name were no less extraordinary—because they gave such a deep name that the whole scripture is contained in it.

The symbol I have chosen for the ashram signifies this One-to-three, three-to-nine. It contains both creation and dissolution. If you move like dhara, then from One to three, three to nine, and the infinite expansion. If you begin to return home, then nine to three, three to One.

In this the agreement of all the wise is that the mode of existence, the mode of creation, is from One to many. Three is the first station. Then dissolution—when creation contracts and the journey ends, merges; when the night of creation comes; when Brahma’s day is done—again there is a station, the last station: three. The first station is three; the last station is three. Hence three is supremely important—Trinity, Trimurti, Trikuti, Triputi.

Mahavira’s three jewels, Buddha’s three refuges, Lao Tzu’s three treasures—all their emphasis on three is because it is the first station and the final station. From there you begin; there you end. For in One only God remains. Until the One, you have not begun; when again there is One, you are no more. With three, ego begins; with three, ego ends.

The three formulas the Sankhyas discovered are sattva, rajas, tamas. From these three, the Sankhyas say, the whole existence is made. These three gunas—this entire play is theirs. He who knows these three holds the key; if he wishes he can return and merge into the One.

Let us understand the nature of these three a little.

Tamas means inertia. Tamas means stopping. Tamas means to be held. Tamas is the binding force. Without tamas, things would keep moving and never stop. You throw a stone; if there were no tamas in the world, no restraining force, no obstruction, the stone would go on, on—how would it stop? Tamas is the obstructing energy.

When you throw the stone, you give it the force of rajas. Hence your arm aches; energy left your hand. You lost something in throwing. And to the extent you gave energy, to that extent the stone goes far. As the energy ends, tamas pulls it down.

What Newton called gravitation is a local application, a form of tamas. Tamas has many forms; gravitation is one. Tamas is the force that draws downward. By which you fall into hell—that is tamas. When you steal, tamas; when you lie, tamas. Wherever you go downward, there is tamas. Tamas is a laziness, a slumber.

Physical gravitation is one form of tamas; spiritual blindness is another. Those who have known samadhi say they became light, as if wings had grown, they could fly into the sky. When your meditation grows deeper, one day you will suddenly feel while sitting, as if the body has lifted off the ground. You will open your eyes and find the body sitting on the ground. You will think: “An illusion; imagination.” Close your eyes again; after a while you will feel the body rising. The body is not rising; the force of tamas is lessening. Hence within there is the sense of rising, of becoming light.

The more tamas, the more the burden. Watch people walking: as if carrying loads on their heads. The load is invisible; it is the load of tamas. You cannot weigh it on any scale. It is a psychic burden: worries, vices, wrong habits, wrong conditionings, wrong relationships, wrong decisions—all that weight is there. All this is the spread of tamas.

Tamas means what stops; tamas means what hinders; tamas means what becomes the obstacle. If your feet are sunk in the earth, that is tamas. If your consciousness cannot rise in state, the weight of tamas is heavy.

Tamas is necessary, remember—without tamas life would not be. But it must be in measure. As salt is necessary in food, but do not sit to eat only salt. Granted, without salt food is tasteless; but do not draw the arithmetic that only salt will give you much taste. The logic is simple: without salt the food is tasteless, therefore taste is in salt; so eat only salt, you will have only taste!

Tamas is necessary, indispensable—but in a definite proportion. The day a person recognizes that definite proportion, even tamas begins to be used. Then tamas no longer stops you. Then stones become steps; then you even use tamas to go upward. For you must plant your foot even on a stone!

On one step you lift one foot, but you plant the other firmly. And when you lift one foot, you must fix the other well. That is the use of tamas. Then you plant the second on the higher step; then lift the first. That too is the use of tamas.

Tamas can bring you down if excessive. And tamas can become ascent if used intelligently. A yogi does not cut off tamas; he learns its right use. Excess kills; right use is always a friend, a companion.

Scientists too say that without tamas existence could not be. In exploring matter, scientists have distinguished electron, neutron, and positron. They say one binds; otherwise the atom would explode. A restraining element is needed, to hold like a rope.

The second element is rajas. Rajas is energy, motion, speed, acceleration. When you throw a stone, you throw by rajas. That is your energy. The stars revolve in the sky; the earth orbits the sun; you get up in the morning—that is rajas. If there were only tamas, once you slept you would never rise. Who would get up?

Hence one who delays rising in the morning we call tamasic. Tamas is catching him. He slept all night, yet cannot leave the bed. Even if he rises, he is full of complaint. There is no welcome of the day in his mind. No delight at sunrise. He does not hear birdsong. He knows only one pleasure: to remain pressed under his quilt and keep drinking his own stale breath. He knows only one pleasure: to lie like a corpse.

Such a man is suicidal. For then what is the meaning of life? Life is energy; awakening. Life is movement. In death, tamas engulfs the whole.

Understand this: in death, tamas becomes so excessive that rajas and sattva both get drowned—then a man dies.

One who finds it difficult to rise in the morning is a little dead—not truly alive. You will see flies buzzing over his face all day. On his face a sadness; dust of sleep settled. His eyes are not fresh; there is no sparkle of crystal gems. Smoke has gathered on his eyes. He drags himself along; he waits for evening when he can fall into bed again.

Such a man will drink alcohol; alcohol increases tamas. Such a man will smoke; in smoke is hidden nicotine, and nicotine increases tamas. If you observe his lifestyle, you will find where tamas is.

One form of tamas is nicotine; it is hidden in tobacco and cigarettes. Such a man will keep chewing tobacco. And there are limits! If such men wrote scriptures, then they wrote that Lord Vishnu in Vaikuntha chews betel!

You may need nicotine; if Vishnu does, then his Vishnu-hood is doubtful. The scriptures were written in old times; otherwise who knows—perhaps they would have had Vishnu smoking cigarettes or gurgling a hookah!

Watch the lifestyle of a tamasic man. He will overeat, for overeating brings sleep, increases tamas. He will stuff himself so that all energy goes to the stomach and the brain is empty of energy—then he can sleep. That is why sleep comes after a full meal. Fast, and at night sleep does not come. Excessive eating increases tamas.

Observe the habits of such a man and you will find: if he gets a chance to sleep, he will not sit. If he must sit, he will not stand. If he must stand, he will not walk. In short: if he gets a chance to die, he would prefer to die rather than live. Such people commit suicide. If they do not, it is only because of laziness—suicide too requires effort; who will go and buy poison!

Mulla Nasruddin was a servant in a big house. Many servants; royal style; tremendous laziness among them. It was not clear who did what. Work was chaotic. The owner was worried. He tried everything; there was no improvement. He called an efficiency expert for advice.

The expert said, “Call all the servants.” They were lined up. He said, “Whoever among you is the most lazy—step forward. I will give him work that requires the least effort. One rotten fish spoils the whole river. I suspect there is one supreme lazy man who is spoiling everyone. Let him step out. We will not punish him or fire him; assured. We will post him where there is little to do. Like a watchman—sleeping on a stool. Or the master’s clothing shop—many shops—we will seat him where pajamas and night-dresses are sold; he can sleep there. We will hang a placard: ‘Our clothes bring such deep sleep.’ We will find a way. Step forward, the laziest man!”

Everyone stepped forward—except Mulla Nasruddin. The expert asked, “Nasruddin, your master suspects and I suspect that you are the culprit. Why did you not step out?” He said, “Master, where I am, I am in great bliss. Why walk two steps!”

If a lazy man does not commit suicide, it is only because even that requires doing something. Otherwise he lives like a suicide.

Rajas is energy, speed, force. If rajas becomes excessive, a man becomes a politician—ever running, ambition! Or he runs after money or position; he cannot stop. You will always find him in a hurry. He may not know where he is going, but one thing is certain—he is going fast. Do not ask him where. He doesn’t have the time. He does not even have time to pause and think. Speed!

In the East there is more tamas; hence people are poor, beggarly, dull. In the West there is more rajas; hence people are ambitious, tense, troubled, insane. They have created wealth, tall skyscrapers, immense scientific tools—and daily they increase speed. Ask them, “Where are you going? Whether you go on foot or by jet, where?” They say, “There is no question of where—but we are going fast. What is the question of destination? There is fun in going.” The West is mad.

If rajas is excessive, it drives one insane. You know a rajasic person—he cannot sit idle. If he must sit, he turns over twenty-five times. He cannot sleep at night; he tosses and turns. Even in sleep, rajas is active. He needs something to do—any busywork even if it has no result. He cannot sit still; he does not know the art of sitting. Tamas is a little less; rajas a little more.

Such people create the world’s mischief. Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah, Hitler, Mussolini, Mao Tse-tung, Indira, Jayaprakash—all are high in rajas. Now old Jayaprakash cannot sit idle: “Total revolution!” Has anyone ever done “total revolution”? Can there be a “total revolution”? If there were, what would remain? Total revolution is only possible at dissolution. They want to create an uproar.

Mischief-makers, social reformers, social servers arise. They massage your legs even if they do not ache. You tell them, but out of courtesy you cannot refuse outright; they insist, “We must serve.”

The world’s mischief and disturbances are the result of those afflicted by excessive rajas, fevered people. They want busyness; some work is needed. Without work they cannot sit still; they feel restless. Their energy drives them, chases them. Then there is no purpose: where they run or why. Running gives them relief. Such people earn much wealth. Then they are in a dilemma: what to do with it? With that wealth they make more wealth. Then they stand and think: what to do with it? They make more wealth. They know no other way.

At first those who accumulate wealth think that when wealth comes, they will rest. But they cannot—restful people do not accumulate wealth; they are already resting. One who thinks, “After wealth I will rest: there will be a palace, conveniences, servants—then rest”—does not know that what he is doing increases his rajasic nature. A time will come when he has everything, and he will find he cannot rest. He has forgotten how. There will be no rest.

Excess rajas leads to derangement; excess tamas to self-destruction. The East is suicidal; the West is deranged.

But a measure of rajas is needed—enough to balance life. Buddha too has that much; otherwise who would do tapas? That much rajas is there; otherwise who would meditate? That much rajas is there; otherwise who would search for the witness? Only that much. There is enough tamas for rest; enough rajas for necessary labor.

And he who has attained the balanced measure of both rajas and tamas—within him the third element arises: sattva. Sattva means balance. Balance is the supreme purity. Sattva means all inner derangements have subsided; laziness has subsided; there is no excess. Kabir called it nirti—no excess. When no excess remains, surati arises.

That surati is sattva. Then a sattvic mood is born within you, a virginity. You become sweet like music. Your tamas too becomes part of that music, and your rajas too becomes part; upon the strings of both your sattvic melody arises. Sattva means harmony, rhythm—nothing too much, nothing too little.

Hence sattva brings contentment; sattva gives fulfillment; and sattva makes you capable of going beyond the three. Draw a triangle: its two base corners are tamas and rajas; the apex is sattva.

Sattva is not the end; it is only the state of balance. So that person is sattvic in whose life there is no excess: who is neither excessively worldly nor excessively renunciate; neither excessively attached to wealth nor excessively to renunciation; neither excessively indulgent nor excessively opposed to indulgence; neither excessively attached nor excessively detached. In whose life there is a deep peace; in whom rhythm has been attained; who has found harmony in his inner oppositions; who has yoked his tamas and rajas to the chariot of life—both bulls now pull together, not in enmity, but in deep cooperation.

Where tamas and rajas cooperate, there the third is born. Where they cooperate, sattva is born. Sattva is Everest’s peak. It is not the end, but it is the last place from which to leap. From there the jump is into the One; one goes beyond the three.

You can understand the One as the point at the center of this triangle. From it the three corners are equally distant. Thus one can go toward it even from tamas, though the journey will be very difficult.

A Valmiki goes straight from tamas; chanting “mara, mara,” he attains Rama. He must have been firmly lazy, filled with tamas and darkness. He did not even bother to check whether “mara, mara” is the right mantra. A bandit, robber, murderer—deep tamas, downward flow. Yet he journeyed; he attained directly. An Angulimala attains directly.

That One—the original source—is the point at the center of the triangles, equally distant from sattva, rajas, tamas.

But the journey from tamas is very hard, because one does not even feel like journeying. Who will travel?

Journeying from rajas is also difficult; not as much as from tamas, but still difficult. One must travel, but one cannot stop. And in the Supreme, one must stop. The tamasic sits as if already at the goal; the rajasic passes even by the goal and takes it for the road—because he is obsessed with movement; he cannot stop.

You have heard the story: a forest caught fire. There was a blind man who could walk but could not see; and a lame man who could see but could not walk.

The lame is the symbol of tamas; the blind of rajas. The blind can walk, run, but cannot see. He will run past the goal, even through the goal. He can move, but he cannot see. If he cannot see, how will he stop?

And the lame man can see—the goal is visible; golden spires of God in the distant sky—but he is lame; he will sit under his tree; he cannot move.

That story is the Sankhyas’ story. They need a combination. The Sankhyas made the combination. It is not a children’s story. Do not think it is for kids. It is found in children’s books, but for the old. Both were useless; harmony was needed, the two to cooperate.

They understood. The blind said: “I can walk, run; my legs are fully healthy. But where to go? Where to run? How to exit this fire? Where is the path? Where is such a place where there are no flames so I can go out? I don’t know. So though I can run much, in running I will burn; it is dangerous.”

The lame said, “I can help you. I can see where the path is, where the goal is. I have no legs. Take me on your shoulders.” The blind lifted the lame. Harmony was made.

The day rajas takes tamas on its shoulders, that day harmony is made. That day music is born. Now there is no difficulty in finding the way. Together they set out on the journey to sattva; sattva is not far.

You can travel even from tamas, and some have; but it is extremely hard. A blind man can grope his way out; still very difficult. A lame man can drag himself out; still very difficult. Those who travel straight from tamas drag themselves; those who travel from rajas grope like the blind. By chance they may get out; otherwise the fire will consume them. The wise bring the two together. From their union music is born—that is sattva.

Sattva too is not the final, but from that music the journey to the center becomes easy—as if one strolls out. I say “strolling”—playfully, one goes out; no strain. From sattva the leap is very easy. For there you have legs and energy and eyes; and in a bound harmony everything is clear—like a lake gone still, no ripples, the lake a mirror.

Arjuna asked Krishna…

This is the Yoga of the Division of Threefold Faith (Shraddha-traya-vibhaga-yoga). For if there are three, then faiths too will be three. The tamasic will have his faith; the lazy too have faith. The rajasic will have his faith; and the one who has attained sattva will have his faith.

So Arjuna said: O Krishna, those who abandon the prescriptions of scripture and, possessed only of faith, worship gods and others—what is their state? Sattvic, rajasic, or tamasic?

Krishna said: The faith that arises in people according to their nature is of three kinds—sattvic, rajasic, and tamasic.

This will surprise you, because you must have thought faith is always sattvic. But faith too is of three kinds.

What is the faith of one filled with tamas? If a tamasic person prays, it will be in order not to have to do anything. If he puts his trust in God, it is to save himself from action. He will say, “He does everything.” He will speak lofty wisdom: “He does all, he gives all. What will doing or moving bring? I believe in fate. What is to happen happens. Without His command even a leaf does not stir. He feeds birds and beasts—will He not feed us?”

The lazy too speak great wisdom—but they hide tamas. He is saying: “We do not want to do anything.” He is not truly saying, “God does all”; he is saying, “We do not want to act.” He hides tamas behind God.

In this country, millions have tamasic faith. They will do nothing. But there is no supreme music singing in their lives. Life looks dull, weary. They speak high things: “Without His will what will happen? We have left everything to Him.” They have left nothing; they cannot do anything; they lack courage and energy; and they have made tamas into a taste, a relish. So they speak lofty words.

If another earns wealth, he says, “What will you do with it? If He wills, the lame will climb mountains, the blind will study, the deaf will hear. If He does not will, run as you like—what will happen?” He convinces himself. He says, “I am content.” Inside, all cravings burn; ambitions rise; dreams surge. But those dreams require risk; he has no courage. He says, “I am satisfied. What has been given is fine, enough, sufficient. I do not ask for more.” He acts the sage.

You can see such a man; there will be no difficulty recognizing him. For he whose contentment is sattvic—you will find the story of his contentment written on his eyes, his face, his life. You will find him exhilarated, creatively joyous. You will see flowers blooming in him; in every pore you will feel some flute playing. Sitting near him, you will feel blessed—as if bathed. His purity will touch you.

But if his “contentment” is merely a rationalization to cover laziness—he says it so he need not act—then you will find layers of sadness on his face. In his eyes you will find fog, not a clear light. Sitting near him, you will yawn and grow sleepy—not bathed. You will feel tired—because the tamasic sucks others’ energy. Whenever you meet a tamasic person, you will find you return having lost something.

A rajasic person gives you his energy. Sit with him, and you will find lamps of ambition lighting in you too. He will infect you with his disease. He will say, “What are you doing sitting? Stand in this election! Fools become ministers—why stand back? If nothing else, at least fast for three days! At least your name will appear in the papers. Go on an ‘indefinite fast’; we will arrange to break it. Make a name—otherwise you’ll die for nothing!” He will suggest some mischief.

If you sit with a rajasic person, sit with care. He is full of mischief; he spreads it; he gives it. You will return with mischief. From a politician’s rally, you will feel like picking up a stone and smashing a bus window. There is no reason—but the politician has given you the disease.

Politicians say, “We are completely non-violent. We do not teach violence.” But all of them teach violence. Their very way of being is violent.

Jayaprakash may say, “I am not responsible for the disturbances in Bihar.” No one else is. He may say, “I speak of non-violence; if people throw stones at buses and burn police stations, what can I do?” He speaks wrongly. On the surface you speak of non-violence, but your life-energy is rajasic. You inflame people; you incite them. First you set the fire, then you say, “Be peaceful; observe non-violence.” First you set it ablaze, then you sprinkle water. First ignite, then try to extinguish!

Inflame people; awaken the rajas within them, and they rush out to make trouble. Then it is beyond your hands. Perhaps you did not think they would set houses and shops on fire. Your thinking is irrelevant. The energy you gave is incendiary.

The tamasic person sucks your energy—he is full of inertia. When you go to him, he exploits you; you return tired, sad, defeated. You too will want to sleep.

The rajasic inflames you. He fills you with haste, with fever, to “do something.” His words cause disturbances in the world. Those who come from him get into trouble.

A friend came to me the day before yesterday. He is a companion of Jayaprakash. He said, “I am in great trouble, a dilemma. Because of reading you, a tangle has arisen. Now, Jayaprakash or you—which?” I said, “Try to harmonize; you will go mad. It cannot be harmonized. Two different people, different dimensions.

“There Jayaprakash inflames; here I try to calm. How will you reconcile? They say ‘Total revolution’; I say ‘Total peace.’ How will you harmonize? They say they will change the world; I say, change yourself—it is enough. There can be no harmony.”

So I told him, “Forget me. Do not get into this tangle. Throw my books away; forget me. Follow Jayaprakash.” He said, “Impossible now. Doubt has arisen.” I said, “If doubt has arisen, then leave Jayaprakash.” He said, “That too is very difficult.”

“Then die—die in dilemma. What can I do? What can anyone do? Yoke both bulls to your cart and go; drive both. Your bones will break; you will drag; you will reach nowhere.”

To me, Jayaprakash is sick—deranged mind; politicians are so. When I say this, I do not mean Indira is not deranged. Those in position hide their derangement. Those out of power show it. When Morarji is in office, he looks wise; when out of office, he becomes deranged.

Is the wisdom of office true wisdom? It is the wisdom of clinging to what one has—lest it be lost—so one fears disturbance. One who has nothing—what will you take from him? The naked—what will he wring? So he says “Total revolution!” He has nothing to lose; so he becomes incendiary.

Those in office are as mad as those out. Their fraternity is one; their language one; their world one.

From the rajasic you will return with disease.

The sattvic neither gives you anything nor takes anything. Sitting with the sattvic, you become yourself. This is something to be understood. He neither takes nor gives; he just gives you the occasion to be. In his shade you become what you are. You hear your own sattva. You get a taste of your inner music.

The sattvic gives nothing, takes nothing; merely his presence becomes a transformation within you. In his presence you quiet down. In his presence your inner conflicts begin to thin. In the light of his presence you attain an inner cooperation. He gives you harmony; he gives no thing, takes no thing. He gives you your remembrance; he gives you a hint of yourself; he wants to make you yourself.

He alone is sattvic who wants to make you you. Hence many of your “mahatmas” are not sattvic; many are rajasic. They give you speed: “Renounce this. Take this vow, that vow. Come, take the vow of celibacy.” You will return from them with some mischief. Such a mahatma is not sattvic; he should have been a politician; he got stuck in the wrong place.

Many times it happens: a man gets stuck in the wrong place. Some mahatmas get stuck in politics; some politicians in being mahatmas. Then great trouble arises.

The mahatma who tries to change you, to give you something—“be like this, be like that”—who gives you ideals, is not a mahatma; he is a politician.

The sattvic gives you no ideal; he gives you your ownness, your privacy. Be what you are—consent to that. As the music he found within, may the same music arise in you.

The sattvic is only a blessing—not an instruction; certainly not an order—only a blessing. Hence the old tradition: before saints we ask only for blessings, and nothing else. To ask for anything else is wrong. If you want to ask for other things, go to the rajasic or tamasic.

From the sattvic, there is only a blessing. But under his blessing’s shade, supreme transformations occur. Under his blessing’s shade, dark houses are illuminated, extinguished lamps are lit.

And one who attains sattva—sattva is the rock from which the leap into the One is made.

The tamasic person’s faith is of laziness. He makes his laziness his faith. The rajasic person’s faith is of rajas. He makes his rajasic-ness his faith. He will say: Karma Yoga. That is the rajasic person’s faith.

Lokmanya Tilak wrote the Gita Rahasya. It is a book written by a rajasic person. It had great impact—because in the Gita he proved that Karma Yoga is the central doctrine.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. In it, Tilak read himself into the Gita. He was a rajasic person, a politician. He could not sit idle. This Gita Rahasya too was written because he could not sit idle. In Mandalay prison—what to do? Nothing remained to do. He could not sit. A sattvic person would have meditated; Mandalay jail would have become a great samadhi. But what can a rajasic person do? No way.

So he began to write the first notes of Gita Rahasya on walls with pieces of coal; gradually on paper he wrote the commentary.

This commentary is of a rajasic person—a politician. It influenced Gandhi, it influenced Vinoba. And Gita Rahasya became the entire history of India for fifty years.

“Do karma,” Tilak said. And Gandhi said: Karma Yoga is the real yoga. Serve, reform society, build hospitals. Give houses to the poor, land to the landless. Do this, do that. Bhoodan came, Sarvodaya came. All that began from Gita Rahasya. But it was a rajasic interpretation. The sattvic interpretation is very different.

The sattvic interpretation is of peace, not of service. This does not mean the man of peace cannot serve. But for him service is not the goal; it flows from his peace. It does not mean he will do nothing. But there is no haste to do, no craving to do. He does what life has him do. He is not mad behind doing. It is not that he cannot sit idle, hence he acts. When needed, he acts; when not needed, he sits quiet. Karma for him is not a disease, not a neurosis. Karma is the play of life-energy.

And he lives always in his sattva, in his peace. No karma can disturb his peace. If there is a fire, he will put it out; he will not sit idle. But though fire is blazing, inside he will remain untouched; the inner peace will be unbroken. The fire will not burn the inner peace. He will not be restless. He will act; he will rest. He will live in many colors and forms. But the inner note will be musical; the rhythm will remain.

What is the sattvic person’s faith? It is to attain the supreme virgin state within—the purest state of consciousness. His vision of life is such that he too will speak of fate…

Now understand this a little.

The tamasic speaks of fate to save himself from action. The rajasic speaks of fate to throw himself into action. He says, “What is written in fate will happen. In fate it is written that I must be the prime minister. What can I do? It is written; it will be. How can one escape fate?” He saves his action by fate.

The sattvic too speaks of fate, but his fate involves no evasion. He says, “What will be, will be; what is to happen, happens.” Therefore he is neither restless to act, nor does he cling to non-acting. Wherever life takes him—if to the battlefield, he stands in the battlefield; if to a mountain cave, he sits silent in the cave. He accepts all. And you will recognize his acceptance because around him the sound ahó will be humming.

Shri Krishna said: The faith that is born of men’s own nature is of three kinds—sattvic, rajasic, and tamasic. Hear it from me.

Enough for today.