Geeta Darshan #10

To live moment-to-moment means to live free of the past and free of the future—as if there never was a past, as if there is no future. Only this moment is all. Let the mind neither run backward from this moment nor forward beyond it; wake up and live in this very moment. Nothing is more than this moment—this moment is the whole sky, this moment the whole of life. Then certainly the awareness of interdependence arises. Because where the past is not, the ego has no footing.

The patchwork of the past is the ego—it breaks you, it tells you that you are separate. And where there is no future, no desire, no ambition—no race, no hankering—even in a dream you cannot raise the ego there.

The ego stands on two props, it has two legs. One is the past: what you were, what you did, what happened. The accumulation of all that is your memory—one leg. The other is what you want to be, your plan for becoming, your wish for what should happen—future, fantasy, dream—the ego’s second leg.

In the present the ego has no place to stand. The present is so full of life that the ego cannot find where to plant a foot! The present is so bright with life that it is hard to find a spot for the ego’s darkness.

And the lane of the present is so narrow—just a moment! Even the hundred-thousandth fraction of a moment falls into your hand; when that slips away, the next fraction arrives. If you learn the art of living in that moment—this is exactly what all religions teach. Hence non-desiring. Krishna says: do not desire, do not ask—because desire and asking create the future. Hence non-doership—because what you did in the past, what you identify with, again breeds the ego. This is precisely how you slip from this moment that is present in its vastness.

The moment ego disappears you come to know you are not separate and apart—you are joined; life is a single, unified happening. However different the other may appear, he is a wave of the same ocean of which you are a wave. Whether you are a small wave or a great wave, whether the other is small or great, whether you move east and the other west—what difference does it make? It is all the play of one ocean.

To one who is awake in the present moment, I do not appear, you do not appear—only the Vast appears, the One. That One we call Brahman.

Brahman means that which is vast, expanded, pervading all—the one that extends from stone and mountain to the event of supreme consciousness. Present in the minute and in the immense—in everything.

When that One is seen, the ego dissolves. Then who is independent and who dependent? A unique experience dawns: interdependence.

Even this word is not quite right, because we have to coin it out of two terms that themselves have gone wrong. Still, it gives a slight feel of the meaning.

Interdependence simply means everything is joined; it is not fragmented, it is one continuum. Not two, not many—One. Name and form differ, but in truth there is no difference. There is differentiation at the circumference; at the center within, no difference—indifference.

Does this mean your individuality will be erased? Here lies the greatest paradox of religion.

So long as you are filled with ego, your individuality does not even arise. When the ego becomes zero, then your individuality is born. But that individuality is not egoity. It is a very unique individuality: in it there is no sense of “I am.” Only the One is—but it is present in me in one unique mode, in you in another, in the tree in another, and in the sky in yet another. All the modes are His. The modes differ, and every mode is unrepeatable, incomparable.

Brahman knows no repetition. He has never hummed again the same line of song that he once hummed. He does not create two identical faces; he does not make two identical leaves or two identical pebbles.

Everything is matchless; every thing is unique. Individuality means this uniqueness. But this uniqueness is not yours—if it is “yours,” it is ego. This uniqueness belongs to Brahman; it is His. Then what have you to do in it?

Understand this: individuality is not yours. The word individuality sounds as if it were yours—as if it were arising from you, as if this song were being played on your flute. But the song is not yours. Yet it is true that no other flute can sing this song. Therefore there is something of you in it—the flute’s manner.

This reed of bamboo—this is yours. But the song within it is His. Hence there is no use for ego. Let Him stop the song and the flute is finished—a mere hollow reed will remain. It is only a flute while the song flows.

It is He who is flowing through you. The One is the singer; throats are many. Flutes are many—yet all lie upon Krishna’s lips. One singer, but the songs take infinitely differing forms. Each song has its intimacy, its grace, its uniqueness—but even that uniqueness praises only Him.

By individuality we are remembering His glory, not yours. If your own glory comes to mind, you are cut off—the link with the song is broken; you are left a hollow reed. If you develop the conceit that since no other flute can play this song it is therefore “my” song, then you are astray.

If you understand that the beauty lies in the specific shape of the reed, but that reed too is His making, that reed too is His—and the singer is He—then who am I in between? The day you step out from between yourself and the Divine, individuality manifests; you become utterly unique.

Where will you find a man like Buddha? Where will you find a Mahavira? Where will you find a Krishna? There is no comparison—absolutely unparalleled. There is no way to find another of their kind. That is why we cannot forget them for centuries: had another Krishna appeared, we would have forgotten the first—we would keep the new edition and forget the old. But no second edition appears. The first is also the last. No repetition—that is individuality.

That you will not be repeated—that is individuality; but it is not yours, it is the individuality of Brahman. The difference lies only in emphasis. If you say “mine”—you miss. If you say “His”—you attain.

And such individuality is full of freedom. So remember: when I say interdependence, do not mistake it for bondage or subservience. Interdependence drops only license, not freedom. In truth you become more free—for the closer you come to the law, the more freedom manifests.

The more your life is disciplined by the Vast, the more you find yourself liberated. That is why we call the knower of Brahman “liberated.” Why do we say so? Has the knower become free—no law remaining over him?

No—the reverse happens. He becomes so one with the law that there is no difference between the law and himself. Who will make him dependent?

You experience dependency because you go against the law. You walk on the road drunk, staggering, out of balance; you fall and break your leg. Then you say, “This law of gravitation, the earth’s pull, broke my leg. Had there been no gravity, I wouldn’t have fallen.”

All right: if you fall on the moon your leg will not break so badly; if eight fractures happen on earth, on the moon only one—because gravity there is roughly one-eighth. But remember: there you will also jump eight times higher.

So whether the fool is on earth or on the moon—he will still manage eight fractures, because drunk as he is he will make eight-times-higher hops. On the moon you can leap right over someone’s house—being smaller, the moon’s pull is weak.

On earth, when you fall, there is some truth in saying gravity broke the leg. Yet how many walk without drink, and gravity does not break their legs? Those who move carefully and consciously—their legs never break. They never feel the earth as an enemy.

One who becomes one with the law—his dependency ends. You felt dependent only because you wanted to go against the law; there the obstacle arose, there the limit appeared. You felt, “This is bondage.”

The wise become one with the law of life; then no bondage remains. He himself becomes the law—nothing opposite remains. He becomes perfectly free.

This will sound paradoxical to you: only the disciplined one is free. The greater the discipline in life, the greater the freedom. The more licentious a person is, the more dependent he becomes—because he keeps trying to break the law.

The law is vast—greater than you. It existed before you and will exist after you. You are only a wave of it; by it you are. How will you break the law? You will break only yourself. Whenever you butt your head against the mountain, the mountain won’t break—you will.

But what was the need to butt your head? You collide and then conclude, “This is bondage; man is not free—because we knock our head on the mountain and it breaks.”

Man is absolutely free. Seek freedom in the right place. Freedom lies here: you can choose to bang your head—or choose not to. There is your freedom. If you do not, the head will not break. The mountain cannot rush toward you. Keep this in mind.

The law never comes and collides with you. You yourself go against it and collide. The law is not your enemy. When you become hostile to it, you have to suffer the fruit.

The entire doctrine of karma stands on this small thing: do not go against the law; otherwise you will have to bear the fruit—and you cannot escape. Those who do not go against the law—their web of karma dissolves. They move according to the law.

Now, think a little further. When I say “they move according to the law,” the mind thinks: “Isn’t this bondage? To move according to some law sounds like having to obey someone, to carry a burden—where then is freedom?”

The difficulty is in your ego. You do not understand that you yourself are an arrangement of the law. The law is not other than you. By it you were born; by it you breathe; by it you live, your heart beats; by it you think; you hear me by it; I speak by it; by it you will meditate, be silent, know samadhi.

You are the law—you are one mode of the law. If the law were other than you, dependency could be; but you are the law. This is precisely the meaning when we say “You are Brahman.” Nothing else is meant.

Therefore Buddha avoided the word Brahman. He found no need—he used the word Dhamma instead. Dhamma means law. Lao Tzu did not use “dharma” either; he used Tao. Tao means the law—the same which the Vedas called Rta. That is the sweetest name for the Divine, because no human notion enters into it—Rta!

Science is seeking exactly that—the law. And as science discovers, man becomes free from the limitations. It is a great wonder.

For thousands of years man wished to fly in the sky—he could not. Great dependency must have been felt: we want to fly and cannot.

Who among you has not dreamed of flying? The oldest of dreams—humans everywhere have dreamt of having wings, floating in the sky. It expresses the longing for freedom.

Man could not fly. When did he fly? When we understood the law. Now we fly—airplanes cross the skies, spacecraft reach the moon. Now we feel, “We are free to fly.”

But how has this freedom come? By knowing the law and moving according to it. Never fall into the notion that we have conquered nature. Scientists keep saying, “We have conquered nature”—wrong. We have only come to know nature’s law and begun to follow it. In truth, nature has conquered us. How will you conquer it? We have only learned what the law is. Not knowing, we could not fly; knowing, we follow nature’s law—and now we can; no obstacle remains.

There is even a possibility—so far told only in science fiction—that one day vehicles may not be needed. We may discover in the human body some arrangement by which a person can fly individually—his hands may work like wings, or we may find an inner process that cancels earth’s gravitation.

It is possible. Yogis have always said that at times they experience rising above the ground. There are now scientific indications that some people, in certain meditative states, rise off the floor.

In Europe there is a woman upon whom thousands of experiments have been conducted who rises four feet in meditation. It has become a scientifically established fact that sometimes such a tranquil state of feeling arises in which the body becomes virtually weightless.

If four feet is possible, then four hundred feet is also possible, four thousand is possible—then it is only a question of mathematics. The need is to research precisely what state of feeling renders gravity inoperative and allows another attraction to function.

Just as the earth pulls, perhaps there is another law by which the sky pulls. There must be—for a law never stands alone; an opposite law also exists. Only then is there harmony—otherwise harmony would break.

A river flows between two banks. If one bank is known, be sure the other exists—even if hidden in mist. How could there be a river with only one bank?

One bank is known—gravitation pulls downward. There is also the other bank. You yourself feel it: when you swim you become lighter—surely some law akin to the sky is working upon water.

That is why in water a person heavier than you can be saved by you—the weight lessens. Hence a teacher can teach even the fattest person to float—as easily as the thinnest—because weight decreases.

Perhaps water is infused with some law of the sky—the sky pulls upward, the earth downward. On land your weight increases, in water it decreases. That is why you feel light in water, why swimming is so pleasurable. That joy is akin to meditation—there is a lightness, as if you could fly.

Surely there is a law of the sky that pulls upward. In some moments of meditation that law works; when, in a precise tuning, your attention comes to a state where the needle aligns with the law of the sky.

Certainly the law of the sky must be greater than the law of the earth—because the earth is very small, the sky is vast. If you find that formula, you go beyond the earth.

Someday man will fly personally too. After all, birds fly—great birds whose weight equals a man’s. You have seen eagles gliding in the sky without flapping their wings, simply floating—some law is being followed.

Science does not conquer nature; it only knows and then follows. All its power lies in following. This following is what yoga is; this following is discipline, sadhana.

Sadhana will not take you beyond the law; it will clear the law to you, align you with it. Enmity with the law breaks; then you are master, free for the first time.

Hence I say this seemingly inverted statement is very important: only when you become perfectly aligned with the law do you become perfectly free; your individuality is born. Beating your own drum, you will only become more enslaved day by day. In striving for license you will become dependent. Surrender brings freedom.

Therefore the greatest freedom known to the wise is surrender. Lay yourself at the feet of the One to whom all belongs. Do not carry yourself around. Suddenly all burden drops. In a single instant the revolution happens.

Live awake in the moment and you will experience the awareness of interdependence. Boundaries will melt, dissolve. The notion of where you begin and where you end will vanish.

You do not begin anywhere, you do not end anywhere. Your beginning is where the whole of existence begins; your end too is where the whole of existence ends. Your limits and the limits of existence are the same—if there are any limits. Otherwise you are as boundless as existence itself.

Understand this also like mathematics. There are two kinds of mathematics in the world. One is the ordinary mathematics we learn in school; it works in this world. The other is extraordinary—a higher mathematics—which either very advanced mathematicians taste, or the knowers of Brahman intuit. In people like Einstein its hint begins to arise; in Ouspensky its theorems become visible. And the knowers of Brahman have always spoken of that very mathematics, though their language may not be mathematical.

The Upanishads declare: Even if we take the whole out of the Whole, the Whole remains. This is a formula of that supreme mathematics. In ordinary math this does not fit: if you remove something from a thing, the remainder becomes less. But the Upanishad says: if we take even the whole out of the Whole, the Whole still remains—not a little less, but as it was.

This is talk of another mathematics—the mathematics of the Infinite, not of the finite.

First, you cannot take the whole out of the Whole. Where would you take it? Where would you put it? There is nowhere else.

Suppose you could: the Whole means the infinite. From the infinite, whatever you remove, the infinite cannot become finite—that is not its nature. Hence it cannot be diminished.

From the ocean, if you remove a drop, it diminishes—because the ocean has a boundary. But from the Divine, whatever you take, it cannot diminish—because He has no boundary.

This existence has no boundary. In truth you cannot take anything out—where would you take it? Where would you keep it? Where is a place outside the Divine? Yet even if you could, the Upanishad says, take out the whole, still the whole remains—because what remains is the Infinite.

Ouspensky offers another aphorism in his precious book Tertium Organum: ordinarily, if we remove a part from a thing, the part is smaller than the whole—of course. If you cut off my hand, it cannot be larger than me. A handful of water taken from the ocean is less than the ocean.

But in that higher mathematics, the part is equal to the whole. Scoop a handful from the sea—it is equal to the entire sea.

Strange, beyond logic—yet understandable.

If existence is infinite, then no part of it can be finite. Because if a part were finite, by adding however many finite parts, you could never reach the infinite. Add billions of bricks—each with a boundary—and the building, however tall, remains finite. Boundaries grow, but infinity is never reached.

If existence is infinite, then every part must also be infinite—otherwise there is no way for the whole to be infinite. It means the ocean is hidden in the drop; the immense is hidden in the atom; and the Divine is hidden in you—just as fully as He pervades the whole, not a whit less. If this seamless whole is infinite, then each part must be infinite—there is no other possibility.

Therefore your boundary is the same as the Divine’s—if He has any boundary at all.

Hence we regard the realization of interdependence as the profoundest discovery—there is none greater. For that discovery, only two sutras are essential: awareness and silence. If you are aware, you will experience what is here and now; and only if you are silent can you remain aware—otherwise thoughts will carry you either into the past or into the future.

There is an ancient tale—you may have read it; even if you have, you may not have understood, because it is told in such a way that the ignorant take it as entertainment, while the wise see in it the supreme secret of life.

You have heard of Baital Pachisi (the Vetala tales). You would never suppose it could be a teaching for the wise—yet this land has made unique experiments. It has produced books that can be read on many levels, with layer upon layer of meaning—two, three, four, five meanings running parallel like five roads side by side.

Thus whoever you are, there is a way. A small child enjoys it; the supreme knower enjoys it. The seeker finds the path; the arrived recognizes the destination. For one who is neither, it is a diversion—that too is something, a little entertainment.

The first story goes like this. Emperor Vikramaditya was in court when a fakir arrived. As custom had it, people came in the morning to offer gifts. The fakir offered a wild-looking fruit. The emperor smiled—why come so far to offer a jungle fruit? But a fakir has nothing else, so he accepted it. He would pass all gifts to his minister; he did the same.

This went on for ten years. Every morning that fakir would come with the same kind of wild fruit. Ten years! Each day the emperor handed it to the minister. He never asked—mornings were crowded with offerings; there was no time. And a fakir bearing a fruit did not seem worth asking about.

One day the emperor’s pet monkey happened to be sitting nearby. Instead of giving the fruit to the minister, the emperor tossed it to the monkey. The monkey bit into it and from its mouth fell an enormous diamond hidden in the fruit. The emperor was startled—he had never seen such a diamond. He asked the minister, “Where are the rest of the fruits?”

The minister had thought them wild fruits too; yet thinking one must be careful with kings, he had been throwing them into a vault—what use are such fruits? Sour, unpalatable, seemingly inedible.

They opened the vault—a terrible stench, the fruits had rotted. But among the rot, diamonds were shining—such diamonds the emperor had never seen.

He summoned the fakir: “What is this secret? What do you want? For ten years you have brought these offerings—and how ignorant I that I never even looked! I thought they were wild fruits.” The fakir said, “Without awareness life slips by just like this.”

A parallel stream of meaning begins.

The fakir said, “Every day life brings gifts, and you keep throwing them away as wild fruits—while within each fruit lies a diamond such as you have never seen. Well, what has happened has happened—do not look backward, otherwise you will miss again; and do not run ahead either—I see dreams racing, because so many diamonds! You have become the greatest emperor in the world. Do not go forward, do not go backward. I want to tell you something—listen.”

The emperor sat alert—this man was no ordinary man. So far he had taken him to be a fakir.

Life is not ordinary. What life gives you is utterly extraordinary—but you have no awareness. You smile that this man remained unconscious for ten years; you have remained so for many births. You too are King Vikramaditya—sitting for thousands of years while life brings its fruit every moment, each containing the hidden diamond of life.

This was no ordinary man. The king gathered himself. “Speak—every word of yours is worth hearing.” The fakir said, “I have been coming for ten years waiting for the day you awaken. I need someone who is brave—that you are.

“Hence ‘Veer’ Vikramaditya—only two in India have been called ‘Veer’: one Mahavira, and one Vikramaditya. Surely you are brave—but that is not enough. I wanted you to awaken to the present; then you could be of use to my great tantric work. I need a man utterly brave, whom nothing can frighten, and utterly conscious. If you are ready, tonight is new moon. Meet me at dusk at the cremation grounds. I will meet you there.”

The fakir left. The emperor wavered—should he get into this mess or not? But to refuse would be cowardice. And this man is such that one should go a little way with him—who knows, just as we kept throwing away wild fruits, perhaps at the cremation ground a gate of heaven or liberation may open!

He persuaded himself—there was fear too. Even the bravest are afraid; do not think only cowards feel fear. The difference is: the brave act despite fear; the coward runs away. Both feel fear. One who feels no fear is not brave—he is wood or stone. Fear is natural. The brave puts it aside and goes in; the frightened wears it on his head and flees.

At midnight Vikramaditya reached the cremation ground. Terrifying—the night seemed not ordinary. He had never come to a cremation ground—always in palaces; “cremation ground” was only a word.

Go yourself at midnight on a moonless night and you will know the meaning of the word; it is not written in dictionaries.

The cremation ground is a strange event: mystery all around, danger, ghosts, shrieks. The tantric fakir sat naked within his ritual circle, skulls around, a living corpse before him—which he was cutting. He had arranged all he needed.

He said to the emperor, “You have come—good. There, on that far tree, hangs a corpse. You must bring it down and carry it to me. But remember: be alert and silent—for any slip and you are on a razor’s edge. If you miss, you are gone. I will not be able to help you.”

With pounding heart Vikramaditya approached the tree. Fear grew—no one around, utterly alone. Twenty-five corpses hung from the banyan; foul stench.

Somehow he climbed, limbs shaking. He cut the noose of one—the body thudded to the ground, and burst into peals of laughter! The king’s life must have left him—he had thought it a corpse; it seemed alive, and alive in a strange way. He scrambled down and asked, “Why did you laugh? What is this?”

He had scarcely spoken when the corpse flew back and hung itself from the tree. It said, “Be still—only then can you carry me to the fakir. You spoke, you missed.”

He cut it down again. It was very hard to remain silent—when afraid, one wants to speak; even humming gives relief; a mantra, a Ram-naam—some support. But no speaking, and be silent—terrible stillness, death all around.

Perhaps this is why we think of the past and future—because we are afraid. In the present there is both life and death—because in the present you live, and in the present you will die. No one dies in the future; no one lives there either.

Can you die in the future? When you die, it will be now and here, in the present moment. You die today. No one ever dies tomorrow. How will you live tomorrow? Tomorrow never comes. Only the now-and-here exists. If you speak, you miss; if you think, you miss.

He braced himself—he was brave. The corpse fell again—terrible laughter. He descended, hoisted it on his shoulder, began to walk. The corpse said, “Listen—the road is long, the night is dark. To lighten your burden I will tell a story.” The first story:

“Three youths were Brahmins...”

Vikramaditya did not want to listen or get entangled—if you listen, you may blurt out; or at least you become involved and lose your grip—the miss can happen in a split second. But if he refused to hear, the corpse would fly back, he would have to climb again. So he remained quiet, and the corpse began.

“In a master’s ashram were three youths. All three fell in love with the master’s daughter...”

A love story—who does not get drawn in? The king began to get a little unmindful; he was holding himself, but curiosity was awake: what happened then?

All three were equal—worthy, gifted, brilliant. The master was in a quandary—whom to choose? The girl too—whom to choose? Seeing no way out, she committed suicide. She was caught between the three; each deserved to be chosen, and whom to leave? She knew the two left would live in lifelong regret. She could not marry all three.

A great fix—no solution. She killed herself. Her body was cremated.

One youth remained at the cremation ground near her ashes, tending a fire there.

A second was so grief-stricken he set out on pilgrimage to forget—he would wander the world, settle nowhere; the one with whom he had to settle was gone.

The third was filled with a hope—he had heard there are mantras that can reanimate bones. He gathered all her bones, taking them to the Ganges daily to wash, preserving and protecting them—perhaps he would meet a knower of the mantra.

Years passed. The wanderer found a man who knew the mantra. He learned it, got the scripture, and ran back—anxious: would the bones still remain? Surely they would have been thrown away. He arrived to find they had been preserved by his companion.

He recited the mantra; the girl revived—more beautiful than before, mantra-soaked, body fresh as gold, like a lotus just opened. Then arose a quarrel: to whom does she belong?

By now the emperor had forgotten what he was doing; he was completely absorbed—just as you are.

The corpse asked, “Emperor, listen carefully. A dispute arose—whose is the girl? What do you think? If the answer arises in you and you do not speak it, you will die this instant. If no answer arises, there is no harm.”

It is very hard not to have an answer arise; man has little mastery over his mind. Only a Buddha would have none—he has heard the question; no answer arises—no harm.

Vikramaditya was in great difficulty: the answer was arising. He was intelligent, logical, learned—his reasoning was clear. The corpse said, “Speak—if the answer arises, speak; otherwise you die.”

He said, “An answer is arising, so I must speak. He who revived her by the mantra is like a father—he gave her birth, he cannot marry her—he is out. He who preserved the bones and bathed them in the Ganges is like a son—duty and service, he cannot marry her. The lover is the one who sat by the ashes, smeared with ash, hungry and thirsty, who neither went nor came—she should wed him.”

The corpse slipped from his shoulder and flew back to the tree—because he spoke.

So twenty-five such stories unfold.

You miss life whenever unconsciousness grips you. Whenever you lose awareness, whenever you are not awake, you immediately drop the thread of life. Whenever you become a little restless and thought-waves arise, you drop the thread—because with a thought-wave you are out of the present. A wave arises here—there you move away.

Vikramaditya kept failing—twenty-five stories through the entire night. Each time he missed. Only on the twenty-fifth could he hold himself. With each story, courage grew; he sustained awareness longer; the thought-waves trembled less. By the twenty-fifth, the story went on, Vikramaditya listened, and within—nothing moved.

Life is a preparation. Here there is much to entangle you—a complete bazaar, a Meena Bazaar! Invitations from all sides—to curiosity, to inquisitiveness, to entertainment. Questions, the comfort of thinking, occasions for worry—all kinds of entanglements.

If you pass through this whole world the way Vikramaditya finally passed through the cremation ground on the twenty-fifth story—without speaking, silent and awake—only then will you attain the experience of the present moment. Otherwise you have never known the present.

You certainly pass through the present—there is nowhere else to pass—but you pass unconscious, asleep. Either lost in the past or drowned in the future. You have never harmonized with the present. You have not struck music with it. When your note aligns with the present, you will find: the One is—its forms are many. One is the ocean; many are the waves.