Geeta Darshan #8

Now, the sutra:
O Arjuna, that threefold austerity which is practiced with supreme faith by those yogis who do not desire the fruit is called sattvic.
And the austerity which is performed for the sake of honor, respect, and worship, or merely out of hypocrisy, is unstable and short-lived in fruit; it is called rajasic.
And the austerity which is performed foolishly, with obstinacy, causing pain to oneself in mind, speech and body, or for the purpose of harming another, is called tamasic.

Not desiring the fruit—this is the purest mark of sattva. Whatever you do in life you do out of desire for results—otherwise why would you do it?

People come to me and ask: How is it even possible not to desire the fruit? If we don’t desire, why would we act at all? If I say, “Meditate, but don’t think of the result,” they say, “Then why should we come to you? We came because we want peace. You say meditation gives peace, so we meditate—for the sake of peace.”

Then a great tangle arises. Because so long as you want something, meditation will not happen. That meditation gives peace—there’s no doubt. All meditators across the world agree on this. And they agree on a strange condition as well: as long as you desire, peace does not come—because desire itself is disturbance.

In desiring is all your turmoil. Because of desire you are tense, restless inside. How will you meditate?

Meditation means simply to be. With desire you can never simply be; something pulls you ahead. Meditation means being here, now. Desire drags you into the future—tomorrow.

Filled with desire, you don’t meditate—you stand on the bank watching meditation: “When will peace come? It hasn’t come yet. An hour is nearly over and no sign of peace.”

Then meditation will make you even more restless. You were restless anyway: you wanted wealth and didn’t get it; you wanted a beautiful woman and didn’t get her. Even when you do get these, nothing much changes: once gotten, the beautiful woman is no longer so beautiful; however much money you get, it never feels enough. Whether you get or not—no difference. You wanted success—didn’t get it; a position—didn’t get it. You never get it, because whatever position you get turns out to be small. The ambition is vast, without end.

Wherever there is desire, you will find obstacles arise. As long as there is desire, obstacles will continue.

You wandered and got tired of the world, and came to me. Now you say you want peace. You are making peace into another desire. You didn’t get money, you became distressed; you didn’t get position, you became distressed; now you say you want peace—you haven’t understood; you haven’t awakened.

It was not the desire for money per se that created disturbance; desire itself creates disturbance. Your preachers tell you: drop desire for wealth and your unrest will vanish. They are mistaken. It is dropping desire that ends unrest; the object of desire is irrelevant. Desire for liberation will bring the same unrest.

Desire is unrest. The content doesn’t matter—whether you desire liberation, wealth, God, peace—desire brings disturbance. Don’t desire, and peace is present. Disturbance follows desire like a shadow. And where desire ceases, peace does not come from outside; you suddenly find it was always there—you were missing it because of desire.

Peace is your nature; it is not to be asked or wanted. It is not outside. You have never lost it. It is your inner way of being. But because of running and chasing, you overlook the within.

So if I tell them, “Peace will come—that is certain. But please, do not desire it.”

I also understand their difficulty; their arithmetic is simple. They say, “If we don’t desire, why would we come to you? We came because we desired.” I say, “To come to me—let that much desire be enough. Now please just meditate—do not desire anything.” I explain; half-heartedly they nod, as if they somewhat understand. If they truly understood, meditation would not be needed—the matter would be finished. To see that desire itself makes me restless—that is the crux.

Just think for a moment: if you had no desire at all, how could you be restless? Is there any way to be disturbed without desire? Do you have any method? Jump, dance, do what you like—you won’t be able to be restless without desire.

If there is no desire, the very root of restlessness is gone; even meditation is not needed.

But half-heartedly the idea appeals to their intellect: “Perhaps it is so. And since you say so, it must be so. We will try. We’ll drop desire.” But deep down they drop desire only so that they will get peace.

Three days later they return: “It’s been three days since we dropped desire—peace hasn’t come yet.”

What dropping was that! To drop means: don’t pick it up again, don’t even raise the topic. The topic is finished. And then after three days you say, “We dropped desire; it’s been three days; still no peace.” You remained on the bank watching; you didn’t meditate. Your attention clung to desire; meditation could not happen; the asking remained. Perhaps you shoved it a little deeper into the dark, turned your back on it a bit. But you know it is still standing there. And so long as it stands, sattva cannot arise.

Hence Krishna says the first maxim of sattvic practice: do not desire the fruit.

This is the nishkama—desireless—state. In desire, your taste is always for the result, not for the act. In desirelessness, your taste is for the act, not for the result.

In the morning you go out walking. The sun rises. Birds sing. Spring has come—blossoms everywhere. You hum as you walk. If someone asks, “Where are you going?” What will you say? “Just out walking—going nowhere.”

Come noon, you go to the office or the shop; now the humming is gone. Everything is the same—you too are the same—the breeze is the same, nothing has changed; spring hasn’t left; flowers still bloom, birds still sing. But now you hear nothing. The sun no longer seems to give light, only heat. The birds’ songs merely add to the market’s noise. The green of trees and their flowers don’t give joy; rather they pain you because you must go to work. Everything is the same; but if someone asks now, “Where are you going?”—you’re going to the office. Your face has changed—tight with tension. There is a goal now; a fruit—none in the morning.

A sannyasin’s life is like a morning walk. A householder’s life is like going to the office at noon. That’s all the difference. No mountain to run to. Go to the office as you went for a stroll. Sit in your shop as if you’ve come to chat with friends. Work as if it were play. That’s how desirelessness happens.

Arjuna wants to flee the war. He says, “This is not worthy. There will be great violence. I’ll incur sin—rot in hell for lives—and gain nothing. Even if I get the kingdom, after so much bloodshed, after taking the lives of my own people—on that side my kin, on this side too—whoever dies, my own will die, my relatives. Friends and loved ones stand divided. No, this does not seem right.”

What is Krishna’s insistence? “Why do you think of the fruit!” If Arjuna had leapt down from the chariot and said, “I’m going,” the matter would be over; Krishna wouldn’t have been able to stop him—nor necessary. Krishna would have rejoiced: “I was waiting for this moment. Good!”

But Arjuna doesn’t say, “I am going.” He talks about fruit: “What will be the outcome? What is the essence?” He is willing—even to be violent—if only his people were not on both sides. He would have cut them like grass—he had always done that. He is a warrior. How has renunciation suddenly arisen? It’s not renunciation; it’s infatuation. And suddenly he starts speaking of hell and sin and stain for lives to come. This is the shadow of the future arising out of delusion, not knowledge. Knowledge is always in the present; delusion always in the future, in ignorance. He is thinking of fruit.

And he also sees that even if he gets wealth—why has he come to war if he doesn’t want wealth? This wisdom should have come earlier. He could have thought before: so many will die—what will I gain?

“Even if I sit on the throne,” Arjuna thinks, “what’s the point? Those for whose sake one sits on a throne—my children—will be in their graves. Friends who would have brought gifts—‘Arjuna, you are emperor at last’—will be dead. Loved ones who would have celebrated—gone. I will sit upon a throne placed in the cremation ground.”

Sitting on such a throne has no taste. Not that renunciation has come; this is calculation: the bargain is expensive—too much to pay for too little return. That is desire, not renunciation.

Krishna’s entire effort is: fight, don’t fight—that is not the big question. Become desireless. Fight or not is secondary—drop the longing for fruit.

The moment you drop the desire for fruits, a wondrous thing happens: you become a tool of the Divine. Then what He makes you do, you do. If He doesn’t, you don’t.

If the Divine does not want the war, it will not happen; Arjuna will sit laughing; Krishna can go on speaking the Gita; he will say, “Enough—stop. There is nothing to discuss. It is not happening. Existence is not making me a tool.” If He makes me a tool, I am ready to fight; if not—what can I do? But doership is no longer mine. If He makes me fight, He fights; not I. If He makes me flee, He flees; not I. Renunciation is His, householding His—nothing is mine.

Consider this. As long as there is desire for fruit, you stand rigid. As soon as desire for fruit drops, you step aside. You are the desire for fruit. Ego is the desire for fruit. If ego is to be removed, the longing for fruit must be dropped. Then the act is enough.

And what of tomorrow’s certainty? Who knows if there will be a tomorrow? Why does Arjuna think they will die and he won’t? That he will surely gain the throne?

Mulla Nasruddin went to France with his wife. To go to Paris with one’s wife is a complication. Paris and wife don’t go together. With a wife, go to Kashi or Mecca—pilgrimage! But his wife insisted, so he took her to Paris. He saw the beautiful women—restless. The wife tagging along—burdensome. Whether she came or not, it was the same.

So Mulla stopped in the middle of the street and said, “If anything happens to either of us, I will stay on in Paris.”

Understand? If anything happens to either of us, I will stay in Paris.

What is Arjuna saying to Krishna? Is tomorrow’s throne certain? Will those enemies die and you not? Will you survive? Will only their corpses lie and you sit on the throne? What assurance is there? The armies are evenly matched; who will win, who lose—there is only a fine line between. What gives Arjuna such certainty?

Every ego thinks with itself at the center. The fruit-seeker thinks with himself at the center.

Krishna says, the mark of sattva is the dropping of the desire for fruit. Become nishkama. Do today what is to be done now; don’t think of tomorrow. Leave the fruit of duty to God; it is not in our hands.

You know this too: many times you do good and bad happens; many times you intend bad and good happens.

In China it happened that from one man arose the entire science of acupuncture. He had a limp from childhood. An enemy shot an arrow to kill him. The arrow struck such a point that his limp was cured. From that arose acupuncture—the understanding that there are points in the body where a sharp instrument alters the flow of energy. The limp was due to misdirected current; the arrow shock straightened the flow; the leg straightened. The would-be murderer never imagined that his arrow would not kill the man but cure his limp, and on that basis a science would arise to help millions for millennia.

So: do evil—good may result; intend good—evil may result. Who can say?

Suppose Hitler, as a child, fell into a well—would you not save him? You would run to save a child. You could not know what venomous snake he would become. You would save him. Later he kills ten million people. Do you not have some hand in that violence? Had you not saved him, the world would say you sinned. But since you saved him, the world says you did great merit. The matter is not so simple. Those millions he killed—you had a hand in it. If you hadn’t saved him… It’s a tangled affair.

You have in your hand only the doing, says Krishna. What will happen—leave it to the Whole. Don’t insist; don’t even think what will be. Think only this: how can I do what is happening as totally, as dutifully as possible?

O Arjuna, that threefold austerity performed with supreme faith by those who do not desire the fruit is called sattvic.

The three forms of tapas we spoke of yesterday are sattvic if done in a desireless spirit. Nothing asked. One becomes merely an instrument. And they are done with supreme faith.

Naturally, a desireless spirit is possible only when your faith is supreme. Why do you hanker after the fruit? Because you are not certain the fruit will come. Otherwise, why hanker?

You sow seeds—then do you sit and desire sprouts? If you are utterly new to farming or gardening, you’ll worry, lose sleep, go again and again to see whether the sprouts have come.

Children plant mango pits; in my village we did. As a child I also planted one in the courtyard. But how much patience does a child have? After a while he will dig it up to check if it has sprouted. Elders would say, “Not like that, it will never sprout,” but curiosity does not listen. He can’t sleep—dreams of the pit sprouting, perhaps fruits already. He gets up at night to check—still nothing.

This worry arises because the child knows nothing. A gardener also plants mango pits—but does not worry. He knows they will sprout. He has done the act—manured, watered, arranged what was needed. The matter is finished. The fruit is not in our hands. Faith says, it will come.

One who knows has faith. The ignorant are faithless; the wise are full of trust. And the converse is also true: the more trustful you become, the more knowing you become. Trust and knowing are two sides of one coin; distrust and ignorance likewise.

Supreme faith means: I have done what was to be done; what is to happen will happen. If you have done the act rightly, the happening will follow. Why think about it?

If you meditate, peace will be—that is certain. So take care of meditation; don’t worry about peace. If you pray, you will be filled with light—don’t think about the light, just pray. If you live rightly, you will be liberated—don’t worry about liberation. Whoever has lived rightly has been free.

In life, fruits come if only the act is complete—because the fruit is hidden in the act. The act is the seed; the fruit is contained in it.

“Fruit” is a good word. The fruit is hidden in the seed. Outcome is called “fruit” because it is already latent in the seed.

Take care of the seed; the fruit comes of itself. No seed goes fruitless. If it does, it means only this: you failed in the act—something lacked in what was to be done; and you spent your time on what was to happen. You thought about the fruit and neglected the act. When the act is incomplete, the fruit is missed.

Therefore—with supreme faith.

Supreme faith means not a grain of doubt. If you look at life carefully, doubt disappears—there is no reason for it.

A gentleman came and said, “I do good—how can I trust? You say, ‘Trust!’ But when I do good to people they return evil. How can trust grow? It shrinks. I do virtue, and vice returns. How then can I trust? The wicked enjoy, the virtuous suffer. Saints rot, sinners sit on thrones. And Krishna says, ‘For the protection of the good and the destruction of the wicked, I come age after age.’ It seems the reverse is true—or he has changed his vow.”

I said to him: Are you absolutely certain that you did good? If you must doubt, begin there—at the beginning. What you did is the beginning; what the other did is the reaction—the end. Examine the start: did you truly want to do good?

Goodness can be a pretense. You can give a man five rupees—not to help his poverty, but so that he becomes dependent on you; so that he bows to you wherever he meets you; so that for five rupees you make him your slave. And the odd thing is—even to yourself this motive may not be clear. Life is complex: here you don’t get the result of what you do, but of the secret behind what you do.

You must have done something wrong—unawares—for wrong to return. Neem seeds yield neem fruit. You say you sowed mango and got neem. How can I believe this? Somewhere there is a mistake. Perhaps the packet was labeled “mango,” but inside were neem seeds. The only wise suspicion is toward yourself. That is the difference.

The religious person, if he doubts, doubts himself. The irreligious doubts the other—and eventually God. Doubting oneself, ego collapses; the self becomes questionable. One who has doubted himself begins to trust God. One who never doubted himself will doubt God.

Supreme faith means knowing from life’s experience: sow—and you will reap what you sow. So why worry about the reaping? Why even bring it up?

Remember, those who talk too much about results expend their energy in talk; that much energy is missing from the act, and the fruit becomes distorted. When the fruit distorts, a vicious circle begins: they panic more, and the fruit distorts further; by the third time their doubt is complete and fruits are destroyed.

No one ever reaped truth’s fruits through doubt—through faith they are reaped.

What is done with faith and desirelessness is sattvic tapas.

Hence the true ascetic asks for nothing. He does not say, “God, grant heaven, or liberation, or a house next door in paradise.” He asks nothing. He says, “Why raise that at all? That is Your concern. Why should I worry? You gave birth, You gave life, You give breath. Without our asking You have given so much. Why worry whether You will give more?”

Look carefully at what has been given—trust will appear. Fix your gaze on what you haven’t got—doubt will arise.

Action suffused with faith is sattvic.

And the austerity performed for honor, status, worship, or merely for show is rajasic and yields uncertain, fleeting fruits.

You can practice austerity solely for applause—waiting for the band to play, the procession to form. You can fast long—but you are hankering for the marching band. Childish. From that which could give the bliss of heaven you choose to hear the blare of brass. However clever you think you are, you miss. Had you not asked, so much could have rained upon you; ask—and you get the paltry.

Thus Krishna says: fleeting fruit.

For a moment there will be noise; people will talk; the wave will rise and vanish. You become president—what then? People come with bouquets—glad a day; the next day the same people throw stones. They garland you—so what? You sit on the throne—a chair set on your rooftop; you raise yourself higher and make the world low—what will you gain? Nothing.

Austerity for honor, status, worship—or for hypocrisy.

Hypocrisy means you never wanted to do it; no inner urge, no faith that it has any substance. For the sake of appearances—so people think you religious—you visit temples, keep fasts, take vows. There are benefits to hypocrisy—that’s why it’s done. If you seem religious, your shop benefits: people think, “A holy man—he won’t lie, won’t pick my pocket.”

I have heard of a jewelry shop where the owner had trained his staff in a craft. As soon as someone entered, a man seated to assess would size him up: is there heat in his pocket—money? If there was, he would say under his breath, “Hari, Hari.” For them “Hari” was code: to be ‘haran’—plundered. The next clerk would say, “Keshav, Keshav,” another code; the cashier would say, “Ram, Ram”—meaning “He’s dead”—all code. The customer, impressed by the piety, would not bargain, would not check the accounts, would not see that the gems shown were replaced by stones. All day the names of God resounded—a perfect cover.

“Ram” on the lips, knife under the arm. If you have to hide the knife, “Ram” on the lips is useful.

So some do it for hypocrisy; some for honor and gain. They will get a little—but it’s no more than a line drawn on water. Such tapas Krishna calls rajasic.

And then there are those who, foolishly, with obstinacy, tormenting mind, speech, and body—or to harm others—practice austerity. This is tamasic.

There are such people—stubborn, rigid, vain. They want to show, “We can do what no one else can”—lying on thorns. At most spectators gather and leave. It is street-show value. But the foolish can also be great ascetics. In my experience, fools are stubborn; given something to do that has no substance but hooks their ego, they do it. I have found most ascetics belong to the third category.

A man fasts for two months. He never gained anything from it before; no new energy, no light, no inner melody. Nothing. Yet he does it again. He is obstinate, perverse—hurting no one else, he tortures himself.

There are two kinds of wicked: those who torture others, and those who torture themselves. The first are less dangerous—others can defend themselves. The second are very dangerous—there is no one to protect the victim. If you stab your own body with thorns—who can save you? Starve yourself—who can save you? Cut off limbs, gouge eyes—who can save you? But such self-tormentors become “great ascetics.” You will see no flame of intelligence in their lives—only dense darkness.

Go to the lanes of Kashi; in the pilgrim places you will find such fools. In their faces you will see a filthy darkness; no light in their eyes—brutality. Have you seen the naked Naga sadhus at the Kumbh? They are of the same breed as criminals—no difference. In their own akharas they wear clothes; for the procession they strip, taking spears and swords. In their eyes you will see sin, disgust, violence, stupidity—and danger. They are ready to brawl at a moment. Twenty years ago the Kumbh rioting—hundreds died—was due to them. They won’t let anyone bathe before them—ego’s race: “First we bathe.” When others tried to enter, bedlam.

Look carefully at “saints”—they are of three kinds. Ninety percent are merely stubborn; they can do anything—beware, a stubborn man can do anything. Nine percent are rajasic—after honor and fame. Once in a while, by rare chance, you will meet one who is sattvic—who fasts not to gain anything, whose fasting is bliss, a way of being near the Divine.

Understand the difference. A sattvic person’s upavasa—fast—means upa-vasa: to dwell near—near the self, near God. It has nothing directly to do with starving. Absorbed in the inner melody, hunger and thirst are forgotten. You too have known it: watching a great dancer, listening to a captivating song—you forget hunger and thirst for three hours. When the music stops, suddenly you feel your parched throat and empty stomach. Why didn’t you feel it before? Attention was merged.

A sattvic person’s fast is like that—so absorbed in God that hunger and thirst are forgotten. Returning from that absorption, hunger is felt. Hence upavasa—dwelling near the Divine.

A rajasic person does anshan—a hunger strike—not upavasa. There is an agenda. Morarji Desai’s was like that—not a true fast; calling it upavasa is a misuse of language. There is ambition behind it. How can Morarji fast in the sattvic sense? All efforts are political—life slipped away; he didn’t become prime minister. He began as a deputy collector and ended as deputy prime minister—“deputy” clinging to him. At death too—“deputy.” Not the chief. So he stakes himself on some petty issue. Whether elections in Gujarat are two months before or after—no meaning. But rajas is ambition; it must run.

Gandhi’s fasts too were not true upavasa; there is insistence behind them—an agenda—hence violence. Sometimes to bend Ambedkar—how can that be a fast? It is a threat: “I will die if you don’t comply.” To create an atmosphere of violence.

Where there is insistence—agraha—there cannot be satyagraha. The very word is wrong. Truth has no insistence. At most truth can request—not insist. Insistence says: “You must do this. If not, we are ready to die.” Some say, “If you don’t, we will kill you.” Others say, “If you don’t, we will kill ourselves.” But to kill—someone—remains the obsession.

A rajasic person can never truly fast. Gandhi understood this; he was honest. Louis Fischer wrote that Gandhi is a religious man trying all his life to be political. Gandhi replied: “Wrong. I am a political man trying all my life to be religious.” He knew his basic mode was rajas—politics; sattva—religion—was what he aspired to. What he did was not desireless; there was agenda—even for others’ good. But who are you to decide others’ good? And when you insist, saying, “For your own good we are ready to die,” you put a noose around the other’s neck. That noose is not right.

I have heard: a loafer staged a sit-in and a fast at a beautiful woman’s door, declaring, “Until you agree to marry me, I will fast to death!” Great trouble. The woman and her family were terrified. He spread his bedroll at the door; photographers and reporters arrived—“news!” Politicians and union leaders came; “We will make you chief minister of your home; hold strong!” Two days passed—commotion. The family sought a wise elder. He said, “Don’t panic. I have a way. Find an old prostitute no one looks at anymore; give her some money; have her stage a counter-fast: ‘Until you agree to marry me, I will fast to death.’ Spread her bedroll too.” The whole town was in an uproar. The loafer saw the mess and fled that night.

To break Morarji’s fast, an even deader old man could have been found to counter-fast: “If you don’t end your strike, we will die!” It was all nonsense. But the rajasic mind is eager to get something.

The tamasic mind, at most, seeks to harm others.

An old Panchatantra tale: A man’s devotion pleased a god, who said, “Ask—what you want.” The man said, “Grant me that whatever I ask, I shall get.” Clever—one boon becomes infinite. The god, seeing the trick, said, “Granted—but on one condition: whatever you receive, your neighbors will receive double.”

The man was in trouble—the tamasic mind’s dilemma. He does not care for his own good; even if he suffers, he is content so long as others do not get joy.

He asked for a palace; his was built, but the neighbors got two, bigger ones. He felt small again; a hut was better than this. He asked for wealth; neighbors got double. He said, “This god is cunning.” He asked, “Put out one of my eyes.” One of his was blinded; his neighbors lost both. He said, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” “Put a deep well at my door.” One well at his door; two at every neighbor’s. Now he was satisfied: the blind will fall into their wells. He was at peace.

The tamasic person has no taste in his own joy; his only joy is in causing others’ pain. Often you too have that voice within; you don’t care how much you get—you care how much the neighbor gets. If he gets less, you feel content even with little; if he gets more—even if you too get more—you are sour because he has more.

The tamasic finds joy in others’ suffering; the rajasic in his own pleasure; the sattvic in giving joy to others.

All your life’s activities fall under these three. Observe each of your activities closely—is it sattvic, rajasic, or tamasic? And strive to rise from tamas to rajas, from rajas to sattva.

If, with self-study, you keep examining your tendencies, your views, your notions, your moods, ladders will appear within. As you come nearer to sattva, you come nearer to trust. As you come nearer to sattva, you come nearer to godliness.

God is not far. He is only as far as your life is from sattva. Close that distance, and God showers.

Kabir has said: “Gagan ghata ghaharani, sadho—”
O seekers! The sky is thick with the monsoon of the Divine—because trust has been born, because sattva has been attained.

That is all for today.