Geeta Darshan #1

The last chapter of Krishna’s Gita has arrived. Whatever begins must also end. Even the words of a rare being like Krishna come to an end. The words that pass through his lips turn out to be lines traced on water. Krishna too cannot utter that which never ends. That which never ends never comes into speech.

Whatever is spoken will have a beginning and an end; it will have a morning and an evening; a birth and a death. All scriptures are born and all scriptures die. But truth is that which is never born and never dies. Truth is eternal; words are momentary.

It is enough if truth reflects for a moment on the fleeting bubbles of words. Your words are bubbles; Krishna’s words are bubbles. Both will vanish. Both are transient. The only difference is that your words bear no reflection of truth, whereas his do. Like the sun flashing on a bubble of water—an arc of rainbow around it, all seven colors aglow. Your bubble is just a bubble—empty. Krishna’s bubble too is still a bubble, but with the shadow of truth upon it.

There is no reflection of the moon in your lake. In Krishna’s lake, the moon is reflected. Yet do not mistake the moon in the lake for the moon itself. Don’t start looking for it in the lake. If you search there, you will search long and find nothing. The moon is not in the lake; it only appears there. Learn the indication from the lake. See from it where the reflection comes from. Find the source. Then turn your back to the lake and begin the journey toward the moon.

Do not get entangled in what Krishna has said in the Gita. Who knows how many have lost themselves in that wilderness and gone astray! How many commentaries there are on the Gita! I am not writing a commentary.

A whole jungle has grown up around Krishna’s words. Who knows how many spend their lives wandering in it! They become pundits of the Gita and remain deprived of Krishna.

The Gita is not the essence; it is the moon’s reflection in a lake. Understand the indication—and then leave the lake behind. The journey is altogether different. If you leap into the lake and start diving to find the moon, you will only go on reading commentaries. Then you will get tangled in Krishna’s words. There is nothing essential in words.

Do not wade into the lake at all. The lake points away from itself. The reflection appears within the lake, but the moon is above it—exactly the opposite.

Having heard the word, set out on the journey to the wordless. It is a journey in the opposite direction. Having heard Krishna, do not get caught in the Gita; set out in search of Krishna.

The consciousness from which the Gita arises—that is Krishna. The Gita is words—very precious words, but words all the same. A diamond is a precious stone, yet still a stone. And that is why the Gita comes to an end; Krishna does not.

That which truly is has no end. Dreams alone arise and pass away. The Gita is a very lovely dream.

Even among dreams there are two kinds. One kind is sheer fantasy, with no connection to reality. The other is a dream with a slight hint of the real. It is still a dream, but there is a faint whisper of reality in it. Leave the dream, catch the hint. There is a tiny anklet of reality tinkling softly—catch it amidst the noise of the dream, so you don’t get lost in the clamor.

Krishna did not speak the Gita because truth can be expressed by speaking. Who would know better than Krishna that truth cannot be said by saying! And yet he spoke—out of compassion.

No enlightened one has spoken because by speaking he could make you understand. They speak so that they can show you the reflection. Reflection it may be, but it brings some news of the moon! Perhaps love for the reflection will arise, and you will begin to seek the real, search for the real, inquire into the real.

But often it has happened that the words of the wise are so important, so precious, so richly meaningful that people get entangled in them. Centuries pass; people go on increasing the burden of the scriptures! And the whole point gets turned upside down. They spoke for one reason, and it was taken for another. They did not speak to encourage saying, but to point toward not-saying. With words they try to awaken the wordless in you. By speaking they want you to learn the art of not-speaking.

So first, if even Krishna’s Gita comes to an end, then what to say of your songs! They too will end. And if it ends anyway, why get entangled in it! The more you get entangled, the more time you waste, the more life is squandered. Seek that which has no end.

Truth is eternal. Even those who know truth cannot bring it into time as it is. The moment they bring it into the current of time, it becomes a reflection. Time is a mirror. The eternal can be caught in it only as reflection. Understand this a little.

That is why I say the Gita is a historical event; Krishna is not a historical event. Krishna is a mythic, timeless man. The Gita happened once; does Krishna happen? Krishna is forever.

That flower of the Gita blossomed one day; it opened in the morning, rose into the sky, spread fragrance, withered at evening and fell. Now only the foolish cling to that fallen flower. They have written commentaries on that flower, woven nets of doctrines around it. They have forgotten—the flower itself was not the real thing. It was an effort for the eternal to enter the stream of time—so that a call could reach you.

It was a voice, a call from the infinite: listen, and set out. It was not a matter of building a house and settling down. It was an invocation, a summons.

But to honor this summons and go, great courage is needed. Even a warrior like Arjuna could barely muster it. He would gather himself and fall apart, compose himself and miss. He tried to run away from every side.

But having met Krishna, has anyone ever managed to run away from him? There is no way to escape. So Arjuna could not run, though he tried every effort, brought every argument.

In the history of humankind, all the arguments one can raise about the ultimate mystery—Arjuna raised them all. And all the answers that can come from one immersed in the eternal—Krishna gave them all. That is why the Gita is unique. It is an essence-collection. It is the cream of all human inquiry, search and attainment. Arjuna is the essence of all seekers; Krishna is the essence of all finders.

Don’t get caught up in whether Krishna appeared at such-and-such time. Beings like that are eternal. Sometimes their ray descends; somewhere a meeting happens. Arjuna became that meeting. Only a loving heart can become the meeting-point.

Arjuna is not merely a disciple. In truth he was not a disciple at all. A kshatriya and a disciple—hard to come by! He knows only one language: friend or foe. He knows no other. Either you are his friend or his enemy. His arithmetic is simple: whoever is not friend is enemy.

His primary bond with Krishna is of friendship. As a disciple he got caught. To be a disciple was not his intent; he stumbled into it unawares. He began as one would question a friend.

This is worth understanding a little.

On the path of truth, a deep sense of friendship is needed. The stance of a disciple is beyond your present capacity. The disciple births the master. How can your ego be a disciple at the outset! If it consents even to be a friend, that is already much. Even that much opening is great.

Arjuna began as a friend; by the end he had become a disciple. As he asked, he got into trouble. As he asked, Krishna’s vastness began to reveal itself. The one he had always known as just a friend—of whose depths he had no inkling, into whom he had never peered—whom he had simply accepted as his friend...

This too, understand a little.

Those whom you have taken merely as friends—there too the vast is hidden. If you grant even a little space to friendship, from there you will find the vast; from there Krishna’s ray will descend.

So religion begins in deep friendship. Prayer begins in love. In love are sown the seeds that one day become God.

Understand this too: only in deep sympathy can understanding be born. From a mind set on dispute, no understanding can arise.

Arjuna did raise every argument, but his heart was dialogic. His arguments were not attempts to prove Krishna wrong; they were expressions of his own doubts.

When you raise arguments, you can do it in two ways. One is to try to prove the other wrong; then you have created enmity. Dialogue breaks. The Gita cannot be born.

Where can song arise if dialogue itself cannot be born? The tone of dialogue is song. When dialogue becomes harmonized, it is song. When two persons bind themselves in a resonance of meditation, of music—that is where song is born.

The Bhagavad Gita was born; Arjuna’s hand is as much in it as Krishna’s. It could not happen with Krishna alone, nor with Arjuna alone. Their equal hands met, and the song was born.

If the stance is disputatious, inquiry loses beauty and becomes ugly. Inquiry ceases to be inquiry; it turns into a kind of hostility. You ask only to disprove. You ask assuming you already know.

A friend too can ask. Even if the words of the question are similar, there is no danger. When a friend asks, he does not ask because you are wrong. He asks because there is doubt in his own mind. “You must be right; it is I who am likely wrong. But what do I do with this doubt within me?”

Yesterday a sannyasin came to me. Tears welled up in his eyes and he said, “Sometimes opposing thoughts about you arise in me.” But because there were tears—pain—the opposing thought was full of love.

I said, “Then let them arise. No worry. Let the opposing thought come. It will not be able to surround you; you will overcome it. Because you yourself are not in opposition, no opposing thought can really change anything. But if you are in opposition, then whether an opposing thought is present or not, what difference does it make! The dispute already stands.”

Arjuna’s mind had deep doubts. He had no conviction that Krishna was a guru. How could he have?

An old Tibetan saying goes: the disciple cannot find the master; the master finds the disciple.

It sounds right—even if it seems unreasonable. Unreasonable, because why would the master go looking for a disciple? What need?

There is a need. Like a cloud, once filled with water, longs to rain—seeks a thirsty earth.

Like a flower, once filled with fragrance, waits for nostrils. It mounts the wings of the wind, traveling in search of a nose. Like a lamp, brimming with light, pours out its glow and shares itself.

Muhammad said, “If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad will go to the mountain.” The cloud heavy with water seeks the parched heart.

Unreasonable, because we think, why should a guru be concerned! And unreasonable also because if it is the disciple who is desired, then the disciple should do the seeking. And yet the proverb is right.

How will the disciple search? What criterion does he have? What touchstone? How will he test? What scale can he use to accept, “This is the guru”? At whose feet should he bow? On what basis will he bow? What measure does he possess? He does not know the guru, does not recognize him. On this unknown path, how will he decide, “Here I will surrender, at these feet I will pour myself out. Now there is no further destination; I have come home”? How will such a certainty arise in him?

The guru lives in another realm. He appears here, but he is not here. His body is here; his being is very far. He is like a tree whose roots are sunk in the earth and whose branches touch the sky. Only his feet are here. That is why we touch the guru’s feet—because that is all we can recognize.

Touching the guru’s feet is deeply symbolic. We are saying: only your feet are available to us in this world; beyond them, we will not find you here. Beyond these feet you belong to another world. If we can at least grope and find your feet, we have found the path, the way. Then we will find you. We have a support. A thread is in our hand; however far you may be, however long the journey, we can now walk by the trust of this thread.

But how will you recognize the feet? How will you sense the guru’s presence? So, though it sounds unreasonable, the saying is true: the guru finds you.

Before you choose the guru, the guru has chosen you. Before you begin to move toward him, his call has already begun to pull your heart. Before you become aware that you’ve been summoned, you have already arrived.

Arjuna has no idea how the whole play has happened—how he chose Krishna as his charioteer. How Krishna, as charioteer, mounted his chariot and entered this war of the Mahabharata. How, having no one else at hand, he began to ask Krishna! There was no one else to ask. It was a compulsion—as if he were speaking to himself. The charioteer was present, so he asked the charioteer. And an endless journey began. Unknowingly, in the dark, it began—like a seed sprouting in the darkness of the earth. It does not know where it is going.

How would the sprout know where it is going! It has never seen the sky before. It has never felt the rush of the winds. It has never dozed in the morning sun. It has never been awake, never come out—it was imprisoned in the seed.

This is the very first journey. It breaks through layers of soil. A tender, delicate sprout breaks the hard earth and comes forth. As if some unknown call were pulling it—as if the sun itself were drawing it out of the ground: “Come!” As if the winds were inviting it—and it cannot resist. Helplessly drawn, it comes. Slowly, things become clear. Slowly, it rises into the sky and grows assured.

Arjuna does not know why he began to ask! He does not know why he made Krishna the charioteer! Why he is questioning the charioteer! This has all happened. On Arjuna’s side, it is all dark; on Krishna’s side, crystal clear.

Arjuna thinks he has chosen Krishna; in truth Krishna has chosen him. Arjuna thinks he has raised the questions; Krishna has incited him. Arjuna thinks he is inquiring; Krishna has made him discontented.

If you understand me, it could well be that, had there been some other charioteer in place of Krishna, these questions would not have arisen in Arjuna at all, this inquiry would not have ignited. This sprout is erupting in Krishna’s presence. The potential was within—otherwise the sun cannot crack a stone, it can only crack a seed. The potential was there, so Krishna’s call could be heard. But Arjuna’s first steps are utterly in the unknown.

You too have come to me; your first steps are utterly in the dark. Many who come to me say, “We do not know why we have come. Why are we here? Why have we stayed with you? We don’t know!” Sometimes they get frightened: “What are we doing here!”

Someone has come from far-off Sweden, from Denmark. He could never have dreamed of Poona. He had nothing to do with Poona—whether it even exists! And then suddenly one day, here too, he is caught by this question: “What am I doing here! Six months have passed. Home is calling—come back. There is a wife, children; a father, mother. What am I doing here?”

People often come to me and say, “Tell us, what are we doing here? Why are we here?”

They are right. The initial moments are dark for them. I know why they are here; they do not. The guru finds you.

Jesus said: just as a fisherman casts his net in the water and catches fish.

There is such a net too—utterly invisible—which is cast in the ocean of consciousness. And when a fish like Arjuna gets caught, the Gita is born.

Arjuna is no small fish. He is a truly precious being, with immense possibilities, a great future. One by one, each of Krishna’s answers brought forth many more questions within him. But this is dialogue; he is not arguing. He does not want to prove Krishna wrong. Deep down he wants Krishna to be right and himself to be wrong. But what to do—compulsion! Questions arise; there are doubts; there is skepticism—what else can he do besides speak!

He is in great dilemma. The heart wants to love; the mind raises doubt. The heart wants to sweep aside all doubt and plunge into this deep friendship; but the mind keeps throwing up doubts.

The mind’s doubts must be resolved. The mind must be silenced. The mind’s questions must be cut. But Arjuna’s heart is not standing with the mind—therefore a solution is possible. If Arjuna’s heart also stood with the mind, there would be no solution. Then you do not want a solution.

Recognize this within yourself. For what have I to do with Krishna and Arjuna! The issue is about you and me. They are just pretexts through which I speak to you. Look closely within.

If you find that you want to prove me wrong—that this sits in your heart—then you are only wasting your time. If, on the contrary, you want me ultimately to be proved right and you to be wrong, even though your mind is raising doubts, there will be no obstruction. Then raise them all; every doubt can be cut.

But if your heart is attached to those doubts, then opposite to you I will not be able to free you. If you want freedom, however many obstacles there are, they will all be cut. No obstacle can remain an obstacle. But if you do not want to be free, then there is no way. Even my remedies will become new chains. You will bind yourself with them, not be freed.

Now comes the last chapter of Arjuna’s inquiry and Krishna’s answers. Its title is Moksha–Sannyas–Yoga.

For India, moksha is the final word. It is the eighteenth chapter. Beyond it there is nothing.

Nowhere else in the world is moksha the last word. The consciousness of man has not been explored with such depth elsewhere. India has spoken of four purusharthas: artha, dharma, kama, moksha. Most cultures, at their best, reach as far as dharma.

And here is the marvel: moksha is beyond dharma. One is truly free only when even dharma is gone. Dharma is the last bond—sweet, pleasing, but still a bond. If you are a Hindu, moksha is still far. If you are a Muslim, moksha is far. You may reach dharma. We have called it the third milestone, not the destination.

Moksha is when dharma too is dropped, the scriptures are dropped, the words are dropped. You no longer know who you are. No identity, no self-image remains. Someone asks you and you will only laugh; you will not be able to say—Hindu? Muslim? Jain? Buddhist?

And in a deeper sense you have become all. The temple is yours, the mosque is yours, the gurudwara is yours; and for you there is no gurudwara, no mosque, nothing. The Quran is gone, the Gita is gone, the Vedas gone, the Bible gone. And in another sense everything has come home: the Vedas are yours, the Bible is yours, the Gita is yours. You are no longer bound. You have gone beyond—there is a transcendence.

Moksha is a unique vision of the East. No other people have gone that high. At most, some have reached dharma. Those who could not even go that far reached kama—artha and kama.

Kama means desire, sex. Most people go only as far as kama. Those below even that—there are many—for whom artha, wealth, is everything.

Think about it: one whose whole life is wealth is in a lower state of consciousness than one consumed by sex. For wealth is dead. Sex, at least, is natural, alive. Wealth does not join, it divides. Wealth is exploitation; wealth is violence. Love, at least, connects you. To anyone—it may be a woman, a man, a family—but a bridge arises. In sex there is at least some bridge! In wealth there is none.

That is why the money-addict does not connect with anyone. There is no space around him where you can form a relationship. He is afraid of relationships. Because with relationship comes trouble. Someone may ask for his money! With relationship comes expense. With relationship he must take you near; nearness is dangerous, for you come near the safe. Your hand is reaching his pocket. He will not allow anyone so near.

The lowest level of consciousness is the one whose goal is artha—money, house, objects. A culture that completes itself at artha is the lowest.

Above that is kama. At least there is some possibility of connection; a door opens. Not a great door; a petty one, but a door nonetheless. Not a vast door; it is narrow—coming and going through it is painful. And through it you both connect and do not connect. With whomever your connection is of sex, a deep bond does not arise.

It is a strange thing: if you are a husband and your only bond with your wife is sex, then there is no bond at all. It is only in name. Neither knows the other’s heart. Neither has touched the other in depth; neither has called the other’s depths. Just a little meeting at the surface of the body. And even that meeting is momentary. Then distance again; then meeting; then distance. Meeting and parting, meeting and parting. Parting is there twenty-four hours a day; meeting is for a moment. So there is no great relationship.

And with whomever your bond is sexual, a struggle will continue—conflict, tension, opposition—because deep within you feel dependent, dependent on the gratification of your desire.

So husbands will keep fighting with wives, wives with husbands. Until sex disappears between them, struggle will continue. Only when they reach the place where the third step arises—dharma—will peace begin. Until then, there can be no reign of peace between them. What kind of relationship is it that is only a relationship of quarrel!

If you ask me to compare, between money and sex, I would say: sex. At least you come a little out. Not very beautifully perhaps—but you do come! Not through the main gate, but slinking through a hole in the wall—you still come! All right, so be it. You will connect. The connection will not be deep; it will be peripheral. Hearts will remain apart. But it is a beginning.

Cultures that end at artha and kama are irreligious cultures.

Then comes the third door—dharma. Dharma opens you. It raises you above the body, saying: you are not the body. It makes you conscious. It gives you the first fragrance, the first taste of consciousness. When you connect with dharma, something else happens. When husband and wife reach that place where their bond is not of desire or sex but of dharma, then love is born.

Love is the shadow of dharma. Around a religious person, love showers. You can see the difference. Around one filled with lust, you will sense a kind of stink. Around one filled with dharma, you will feel a fragrance, a freshness—the freshness of the morning dew, the scent of new flowers.

When a religious person looks into your eyes, trust is born in you, not fear. When a lustful person looks into your eyes, you are frightened, you tremble. He is after your body; he has no use for you. Whether you are or are not hardly matters. His juice is in your body. His depth does not go beyond the body.

Dharma leads to love. And dharma does not connect you with one; it connects you with many. Sex binds you to one and separates you from many. Sex breeds jealousy, enmity, competition.

Your wife is afraid day and night that you might be looking at another woman! Your husband is always anxious that his wife may be interested in another man! It is very narrow and petty; in such confinement the lotus of the heart cannot blossom.

Then there is the world of dharma. Here, competition falls, jealousy falls, possessiveness falls. Slowly, you become eager for peace, for silence. Your journey toward the temple begins.

In the realm of dharma, temples, mosques, gurudwaras, places of worship become important. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible become important. Satsang, listening to the truth, the company of the virtuous begins to taste sweet. A new veena starts humming. For the first time you sense that matter is not just matter; God is hidden in it. In every particle, you begin to get a little glimpse of him. Sometimes suddenly a window opens and you find that people are not ordinary; they are extraordinary. In everything—however ordinary—a great dignity is hidden. Everything is haloed. The world no longer feels alien; it is your home. Opposition drops, conflict fades, cooperation begins.

The tone of a religious person’s life is cooperation. His language is no longer of conflict.

Some cultures reach up to dharma. But the East does not stop there. It says: one step more—and that is moksha. Moksha means: now be free even of this.

Moksha is extraordinary, because even cooperation implies that somewhere the tune of conflict still exists—otherwise, cooperation with whom? About what? Friendship implies some enmity remains—otherwise, why the need for friendship? Love implies hatred lurks somewhere—otherwise, what of love? And when you see God in every particle, it means particle and God are still two—not one. The particle remains, and in it God appears.

A fakir visited me some five years ago. He said, “I see God in every particle.” I asked, “Do you see both—the particle and God? Both?” He was startled. “Yes, I see both.” “Then,” I said, “God is not yet complete; otherwise the particle would be lost.”

In moksha, only God is. It is not that God is seen in the tree. The tree is no longer—the Divine alone is. The tree is a form of the Divine. The Divine is not hidden—he is manifest.

In the world of dharma, the Divine is hidden, unmanifest. There are glimpses. A little sense comes. Consciousness is awakening.

The world of dharma is like early morning: you are still in bed; you want to rise; sleep has broken a little and not broken—a languor. The milkman on the street calls; you hear him. Your wife is up and washing utensils; you hear the clatter. The child doesn’t want to go to school, and cries; a faint sense comes: the world has awakened—rise!

Dharma is a drowsy state. You are neither asleep nor yet awake; you are in-between. Moksha is the name of fully awakened consciousness. Moksha means freedom, where no bondage remains.

Understand this well. Those who searched deeply in the East said: as long as the other is, bondage remains. The very presence of the other is bondage. As long as there are two, there will be obstruction. Nonduality is needed; only then can you be free. Only when the Self alone remains and nothing else—only then.

Have you noticed: when you are alone in your bathroom, there is a kind of freedom. You smile, sing, hum. Tell such a person to hum before others and he cannot, yet in the bathroom he sings so sweetly.

In the presence of another there is dependence. If someone is present, you shrink. If you learn someone is peeking through the keyhole, you shrink even there, you become afraid; your freedom is stolen. You are enslaved by the other’s gaze.

On the road, alone, your gait is one; if someone appears suddenly, your gait changes at once. You are not aware, so you do not notice—but everything changes. Alone you are one person; before others you become someone else; your face becomes false.

Those who searched discovered that until we are alone, utterly alone, complete freedom cannot be attained.

Moksha means: you dissolve into the Whole and the Whole dissolves into you. The drop falls into the ocean and the ocean falls into the drop. No other remains; duality is gone. It is not that God is seen somewhere; now God alone is—the seer and the seen.

That is why some knowers denied even God—because the word betrays duality. Mahavira said: what God? Which God? The soul itself is the Supreme Soul.

Understand this rightly. This is the word of supreme knowing. The uncomprehending think Mahavira is an atheist. Buddha denied not only God, but even the soul—“Who?” For whenever you utter any word, every word creates the presence of the other.

If you say “soul is,” how will you distinguish it? There will also be the not-soul. When you say “light is,” you have accepted darkness. When you say “God is,” you have accepted the world. When you say “moksha is,” you have accepted bondage.

So Buddha said: there is no soul, no God, no moksha. This is the supreme moksha; the ultimate freedom—nirvana. And this is the goal.

Rightly is the eighteenth chapter Moksha–Sannyas–Yoga. Moksha is the ultimate goal. Sannyas is the path to attain it. Moksha is attained through sannyas. There is no other means. One must become utterly alone—so alone that all dissolves in you; the departure point of that journey is sannyas.

The East has only two fundamental discoveries: moksha—the destination; sannyas—the path.

Alexander was a disciple of Plato. Plato’s vision reaches up to dharma, but even he does not grasp moksha. When Alexander was coming to India, Plato said, “When you return you will bring back many things plundered; bring one thing for me—a sannyasin. I want to see what sannyas is!”

This unique flower has blossomed only in India. It could not have bloomed in other cultures, for without the concept of moksha, where is the question of sannyas! When moksha stands as the destination, the science of sannyas arises.

Arjuna is asking the final question. Beyond it there are no questions. He is asking about sannyas and moksha. Understand.

Arjuna said: O mighty-armed, O Hrishikesha, O Vasudeva, I wish to know separately the principle of sannyas and of tyaga. Make it clear to me—what is sannyas and what is moksha!

This is the last question; beyond it there can be none. What had to be asked has been asked. Now the final thing is at hand.

Explain to me one by one...

Because the conceptions of sannyas, moksha, and tyaga are very subtle, very delicate. And the wise have given many kinds of statements; there is much confusion even there.

First he says, “O mighty-armed, O Hrishikesha, O Vasudeva...”

He is only voicing his heart. The heart does not tire of calling the beloved. He repeats thrice! He is saying, “The heart is assured that whatever you say will be right; the intellect is not assured.” He first places his heart before him.

The old tradition was: when you go to the guru, first touch his feet, then ask. It simply meant: I bow at your feet; whatever you say will be right; there is no question of it being wrong. But I am unintelligent; my mind is still full of thoughts...

So bowing at the feet is a symbol: the dialogue is prepared, I am ready to listen, I have come to be a listener, not with a zeal to argue. Then the disciple asks.

“O mighty-armed, O Hrishikesha, O Vasudeva, I want to know separately the principle of sannyas and of tyaga.”

Krishna said: O Arjuna, many learned ones take the renunciation of desireful actions to be sannyas. And others, men of refined discernment, say that renunciation is the abandonment of the fruits of all actions. And some sages say that all actions are tainted and therefore to be abandoned, while other scholars say that acts of yajna, dana, and tapas are not to be abandoned.

The word pundit meant one thing then and a different thing today. In those days, pundit meant a wise man who has known. Today pundit means a man of the book who knows the scriptures. There is a great difference. Today pundit is a term of ridicule. To call someone a pundit is to say he knows nothing—he is a mere pundit! Full of words, empty of experience.

In those days pundit meant one who has attained wisdom, who has lit the inner lamp.

Krishna says: O Arjuna, many pundits, many men of wisdom, take the renunciation of desireful actions to be sannyas...

What are desireful actions? If you read the commentaries, you will find that the commentators generally say that kamya karma are those acts enjoined by the Vedas, acts that must be done.

Even if that could be made to fit—it could be made to fit, because the wise always want to lead you beyond scripture and Veda—

But to me this does not sound right. In my view, the renunciation of desireful actions cannot mean the renunciation of Veda-enjoined acts.

Kamya karma can have only one clear meaning: actions are of two kinds—those that are necessary, and those that are born of desire. Necessary actions are like this: when you are hungry, you must find food. How you find it makes no difference. Even a Buddha has to find it. He too goes into the village for alms.

This is need, this is necessity. When you are thirsty, the body must have water. If you don’t give it, it is suicide. In the rains you will seek a roof. In glaring sun, even a Buddha sits under a shady tree. These are not desireful actions; these are inevitable. No wise man asks you to renounce them.

Desireful actions are those born of craving. For example: you want a big house. The need may not be there; it is your ego’s ambition. Because in a small house the ego looks small; in a big house it looks big. Perhaps for sleep you will occupy the same space in a small house as in a large. But you want a large house.

People want a big house not only while alive—they want it after death too. Emperors get their tombs built in advance. Who knows if later people will make them grand! So they raise big tombs beforehand. Huge tombs have been made. And when a man dies, he takes as much space as the poor take, no more.

If in life desireful actions fall away, your needs are the same as the poor man’s. The rich and the poor—the needs are the same. Thirst needs water; hunger needs food.

Tyaga—renunciation—will mean: only the needed remains; the unnecessary goes. Whatever is unnecessary, born of some craving, born of some madness—let it go. If you understand this rightly, you’ll find life becomes very simple. How little is needed!

Very little is needed to be happy; a lot is needed to be miserable. Misery is never small; misery requires a vast arrangement. If you wish to be at ease, very little suffices. If you wish to be anxious, little won’t do—you must become an Alexander.

So the more you accumulate, the more you will find you grow unhappy and anxious. Still, the arithmetic does not enter your head. You think perhaps if you gain a little more, you will be happy. You gain more and become more unhappy. The same mind that brought you this far whispers, “Now just a little more, and you will be perfectly happy.” Thus it keeps dragging you. If you look closely you will see: when you had less, you were happier.

Everyone feels that childhood was happy; the only reason is that in childhood you had nothing—no possessions. The reason is simply that your needs were just needs. You were hungry and ate. Thirsty and drank, then ran out to play. Tired and slept. You possessed nothing.

Look closely at small children. Colored pebbles delight them as jewels cannot delight you. They collect butterfly wings and come home like emperors. Put your hand in their pockets—pebbles, shells, who knows what! At night, even when asked to empty them, they don’t want to; “Let them be.” That is their treasure; you do not know—you are taking away their wealth. They are simple; a tiny bit is everything; enough and complete.

Then, as things begin to come to you... The day the voice of possession arises in the child’s mind, that very day anxiety begins; childhood has ended; the child has died. Something else has entered. Now this race will run until death. And all your life, again and again, you will remember: childhood was happy.

The wise say: live like a child. What is needed is needed—certainly. No one calls for renouncing what is needed. But let go of whatever useless craving has produced and the actions done to satisfy it.

People tell me they have no time for meditation. What are you doing all day? A whole web of tasks. Meditation is the only thing that is ultimately useful; everything else proves futile. One who has tasted even a few moments of meditation—that alone is saved. All else flows down the drain; it comes to nothing. Yet we are busy with the useless; for the essential we have no time!

Krishna says: many pundits call the renunciation of desireful acts sannyas...

This is one vision, one pathway toward sannyas.

And others, the wise in discernment, say renunciation is the abandonment of the fruits of action...

But Krishna says, there are also such discriminating ones...

Life is beautiful because there are many different ways. If only roses existed, how bored we would be. There are thousands of flowers.

So Krishna says: those who say—wise men—that you should drop desireful acts, they are right; but there are also very discerning ones who say there is no need to drop anything—only drop the fruit.

He calls them “rare.” They have attained a unique vision. Their vision is unusual, not ordinarily comprehensible.

The first type is readily understood; there is no difficulty. Do what is necessary; drop what is unnecessary. Straight arithmetic. Therefore the first type has had a great influence. Mahavira, Buddha—all belong to the first type.

The second type are Krishna and Janaka. They are rare. They say: no need to drop anything. What is this leaving and grasping? Only drop the fruit. They say: let there be no craving for results. Then even if you build a kingdom, build it. No harm. But have no hunger for outcome. No thought of getting.

Very difficult though. This second teaching will appeal to you—not because it is right, but because it seems to provide a way to save your craving. You will think, “Then there is no harm. If Janaka attained while living in a palace, we will too.”

But then you miss. If your attraction to the second is driven by desire, you are mistaken. The second is harder than the first.

If the desire for a certain act has vanished, not doing it is easy; but to drop only the fruit is very difficult. It means half-renunciation and half-continuation. It means: do the work just as worldly people do, but in a totally different inner way. Run the shop, but have no thought of profit. Easier to leave the shop and flee to the mountains. There the matter is clean. If you want a shop, keep it; if you want the mountains, go.

But those rare ones say: sit in the shop as you would sit on the mountain.

This is subtle, more delicate. There is danger here. The danger is that you might sit in the shop as others do, and hold the illusion that you are on the mountain. “We have no desire for fruits! We act only out of duty.” While within, the hunger for fruit remains.

You can deceive the whole world, but how will you deceive yourself? And the real issue is your own self. If you look within, you will find clearly that you are deceiving yourself. For the desire for fruit will go on echoing inside.

In truth, those who sit in shops do not want to sit there; they are compelled to—because of the fruit. If they found someone to give them a talisman—say some Sathya Sai Baba—that without doing anything the fruit will be theirs, they too would head for the mountains. Who is foolishly enjoying sitting in a shop! But without the shop the fruit does not come. The big house will not happen. Sitting on the mountain it will not be built. So out of compulsion they work.

If you could be in the marketplace as if in solitude; if you could work as a profit-seeker works—without the seeking—then you have attained a rare vision. Then nothing needs to be left. Then it is enough to know: the fruit is in his hands; the action is in mine. I must act; whether he gives fruit or not is his will. Whatever he gives, you are content. If he does not give, you are content with that too. If he snatches away, you are content with the loss. Then no one can break your contentment.

Take this as a touchstone. If your contentment trembles—if profit in the shop makes your feet move more quickly, your face light up, you feel satisfied; if loss makes you dejected, humbled, your feet drag—then do not think you have renounced the fruit.

Buddha and Mahavira’s path is simple; Janaka and Krishna’s is very difficult. That is why he says: rare men! Once in a while, such a wonder—someone unique—masters this: sitting in a palace without knowing it is a palace; surrounded by jewels, and whether surrounded or not—no difference.

“O Arjuna, many pundits call the renunciation of desireful acts sannyas; and many rare ones say renunciation is the abandonment of all fruits. And some sages say all action is tainted and hence to be abandoned...”

There is also such a class of knowers who say: all action is fit to be abandoned. Action as such is faulty. Whatever you do will accrue fault. Even if you breathe, there is violence. If you drink water, microbes die. If you eat, there is violence. If you walk, your feet crush tiny organisms—killing happens.

So there are sages who say: whatever you do, fault will be incurred. Therefore attain non-action. Do not act. Slowly drop action. The final goal is where you reach a state in which no action happens at all. Only then will you be free.

They too speak rightly.

Krishna is a deep harmonizer. Whatever India had known till then, he included it in the Gita. He opposes no one. He finds the truth in each.

That is why the Gita is a scripture of essence. Forget the Vedas—no matter. Whatever is essential in the Vedas has come into the Gita. Forget Mahavira—no matter. The essence of Mahavira is in the Gita. If Sankhya is lost—no matter. What matters is brought into the Gita.

If all India’s scriptures were lost, the Gita would be enough. Any wise man could reconstruct all the scriptures from the Gita. The Gita contains all the seeds. It is the extract.

Not without cause has it become the garland of millions of hearts. Not without cause.

When the great German thinker Schopenhauer first read the Gita, he placed it on his head and began to dance. No one had ever seen Schopenhauer dance. He was a somber man; dancing didn’t suit him. His entire philosophy was gloomy, pessimistic. “There is no scope for laughter in this world,” he would say. He began to dance.

His friends said, “Have you gone mad, Schopenhauer? What are you doing?” He said, “I have never seen such a book—everything is included. I have never seen a book in which the opposing streams are harmonized, in which no one is refuted and everyone is accepted!”

Hindus have not called Krishna a complete incarnation for nothing. Mahavira seems a little incomplete, one-sided. And if everyone became Mahavira, the world would be badly shaken, much would be lost. Even the possibility of future Mahaviras would end.

No—the occasional Mahavira is fine, a sample is good. But if they stood everywhere, wherever you turned, it would be terrifying. Like salt—necessary; but you cannot make a meal of salt.

That is why I constantly say: Jains could never create a culture. They cannot—because where has a meal ever been made of salt!

The Jains remained merely an ideological group, a cluster of ideas. They have no culture. Tell the Jains— as I have, but no one answers—tell them: “You’re making a big noise about twenty-five hundred years of Mahavira—celebrations everywhere! Do just one thing: establish a purely Jain settlement; then we will accept that you have a culture.” They cannot—who will be the cobbler? Who will sweep? Who will farm?

So the Jains never became a society, nor a culture; they sat on the chest of the Hindus. They have no own ground. To call the Jain community separate has no meaning; it is an organ of the Hindus. Call it separate only if they can demonstrate even one experiment: “Here is a small town of a thousand people—all Jains.” If all together you cannot settle even one village, you are not whole—you are incomplete.

The whole meal cannot be made of salt. Salt is essential; without it, the food is tasteless.

The occasional Mahavira is delightful, but not a crowd of them. Otherwise they would take life away. So Mahavira is incomplete. Buddha is incomplete.

Though Buddhists have more capacity than Jains. They built societies; they sustained cultures. But they had to make compromises. If Buddha were to return, he would not call the people of Japan, China, Burma or Thailand Buddhists. They have made so many compromises that there is no counting. Buddha’s purity is lost.

Buddha himself said his dharma would not last more than five hundred years. Why? When you speak something very pure, it cannot last long in this impure world. If it remains for five hundred years, that is much—hopeful.

In my view, Buddhism lasts only as long as Buddha lives—no more. Because the message is so pure, it has no roots to enter the soil. It is a cloud hovering in the sky. It cannot remain long. Now and then it comes and goes.

Krishna is complete. Krishna is the entire staircase. Buddha and Mahavira are only the last flights of the staircase, hanging in midair. The lower flights are not grounded. They are pure and frightened of impurity. Krishna includes all—even impurity.

And to me, only that purity is real which can include impurity too. Otherwise, what purity! If it cannot swallow impurity, what is it? That nectar is not nectar if it cannot drink poison. If poison destroys the nectar, then nectar is weaker than poison—what is its worth! Nectar must drink poison and turn it into nectar.

Krishna has included all visions—and without any friction.

Those who say that renunciation of desireful acts is sannyas—they too are pundits, knowers. But their knowing is one vision, one limb, one way—also incomplete. Then those rare ones who say renunciation is the abandonment of fruits—they too speak rightly. Then those sages who say all action is tainted—

Mahavira says the same: action as such is tainted, therefore to be abandoned. He too speaks rightly. He is a sage; he has known greatly; he has not spoken casually.

And there is another class, a fourth—also of the wise, not of fools. They say three kinds of actions are not to be abandoned: yajna, dana, and tapas.

Tapas are those actions done to counteract the wrongs you have done. When a thorn has gone in, you need another thorn to remove it—otherwise how will you extract the embedded one? You have done wrong deeds; to remove them you must do good deeds. They are actions too—but necessary, for you have already done the wrong.

You insulted someone—you must ask forgiveness, to bring balance. The insult created an imbalance; asking forgiveness is also an act—same mouth, same speech. But you must ask, to restore balance.

Tapas means actions that bring balance; that harmonize life. You have committed many offenses—then serve. You have sucked and exploited—then give. You have snatched—then share.

Otherwise it may happen that all this time you snatched, looted, hurt, and now suddenly you understand a philosophy that all action is to be renounced. Now you do nothing, you sit. Then the thorns remain embedded; the wounds remain. Remove them; take them out. For them—tapas.

Where you have taken, return there. Let it go back. So balance comes.

And yajna...

Yajna means action not done for yourself but for the whole. You act not for yourself, but for all. Yajna is that vast action in which there is no personal craving. Whatever is done out of self-interest is not yajna. You do it for all.

Suppose you build a hospital—that becomes a yajna. Not only you will be treated there; everyone may benefit. You build a school. Not only your children will study there; everyone’s children will.

All actions not done solely for self are yajna. You have done many for self; now do a few for others.

Krishna says: there are also such vidvans who say yajna, dana, and tapas are not to be abandoned. The rest of the actions are fit to be dropped.

These are four visions. All four are right, and all four will fit different people. So do not worry too much about which is right; be more concerned with which harmonizes with you.

The Gita is like a chemist’s shop. It has a hundred thousand medicines—all useful, that’s why they are there. Don’t just grab any one! Take your prescription—the one the doctor has written. There will be a medicine suited to you; not every medicine will suit you.

The Gita is a collection of all the remedies discovered in India. From it, choose what fits; what tastes true to you. All are true, but choose what feels true to you—assimilate that. Travel with it. All paths lead to the same place.

The destination is one; the paths are many. With clear vision, from any path one arrives. Go by bullock cart—you will take longer. Go by train—you’ll arrive sooner. The train has advantages; the cart has advantages; both have drawbacks.

By cart, there is no speed, but there is more experience. The pace is slow, but hills and rivers and streams you will see and savor. By train, you arrive quickly, but it rushes so fast you get only glimpses—of mountain, river, stream.

By airplane, not even a glimpse. You are seated and it’s time to land. At most, you drink tea. And now faster and faster crafts are coming—you will barely fasten your belt and unfasten it—and arrive. You will be deprived of experience.

The road too has great joy.

A friend of mine always travels by passenger train. He is rich—but very wise. From where he lives he could reach Delhi in an hour by plane. But he goes by train—and by passenger! Changes many times. Takes three days to reach Delhi.

Once he took me along. I asked, “What is this about? Let me come too!” Of course, he enjoys the road. He knows the bustle of each station. Where the best rasgullas are, where the best fritters! He savors the journey. He never suffers in passengers. At every station he gets down, meets the station master, knows the porters. All his life he has traveled that route many times for three days. He says, “This is my own... What’s the rush? Where am I going?”

He too is right. The road has its own joy. And roads are different. The destination is one.

Know your own taste, your own temperament—and choose your road.

Krishna lays out all the roads. Then he will also tell you his own flavor, his own vision. In fact he has already hinted. The moment he said “some rare men,” he already revealed his taste. When he said “rare, unique,” he made his choice. The others he called pundits, knowers, wise, scholars; but one he called “rare—the ones with an unusual vision.” There he shows his leaning.

Krishna himself is of that rare vision. If his way appeals to you, it is very unique—because nothing need be dropped and everything drops; nothing need be done and all is done.

In essence that rare vision says: you become an instrument of the Divine—merely a channel. He makes it happen—you do it. He gives—you receive. He takes away—you let it be taken. You step out from the middle.

You say, “Thy will be done. If you keep me in the marketplace, I will remain there; there too it is your joy—you have placed me there. I am not wiser than you. If you send me to the mountains, I will go. Wherever you send me, I will go. That I am going by your cause—that is my gladness. That I am going for your work—that is my joy. That you are using me—that is my blessing.”

Enough for today.